Vena Amoris
(A Vaishnav Poem of Love, Viraha, and Grace)
— Dr. Madan Chandra Karan
Naked I came—
as the soul comes,
empty-handed,
wrapped only in destiny.
The earth received me
without question,
as Mother Earth receives
the poorest seed.
My parents were villagers—
rustic, silent devotees of labour.
Their poverty was deep,
yet their faith was deeper.
From cracked palms
they fed me rice and hope,
from torn clothes
they taught me dignity.
Education was not a road—
it was penance.
Bare feet crossed sharp days,
books outweighed hunger.
I studied beneath trembling lamps,
each page an offering,
each exam a prayer.
By grace, I rose—
Master’s crown upon my brow,
Doctorate like sacred ash on the forehead.
Still—
unemployed.
Life paused,
as if Krishna smiled and said,
“Wait.”
Perhaps a professor—
perhaps only a seeker.
So I walked into the countryside,
where rivers chant without script
and trees bow like monks.
There—
amid red soil and quiet hills—
I saw her.
A black diamond in tribal dust,
educated, radiant,
beautiful without ornament.
Not an object of desire,
but a presence—
as sudden and pure
as darshan.
It was one-sided love—
silent, disciplined,
like bhakti without demand.
Yet she loved too,
at first sight—
eyes confessing
what lips dared not.
Still, she refused marriage.
No fire ritual.
No shared surname.
Instead—
from her fourth finger
she slipped a ring,
the ancient path of vena amoris,
and placed it into my trembling palm.
No promise spoken.
Yet the heart heard everything.
I never forgot it.
How could I?
Rivers curve like that ring.
The moon returns in circles.
And memory—
moves only toward her.
There was pain—
but not despair.
For in refusal,
I learned vairāgya.
As Radha loved Krishna
without possession,
as the flute cries
without claiming the breath,
so love purified me
by not staying.
Now I know—
she was not merely a woman.
She was a lesson.
A messenger of Śyāma,
sent to loosen my grip on desire
and bind my heart to devotion.
The ring remains—
not on my finger,
but in my soul.
A circle without end,
where love becomes prayer,
memory becomes mantra,
and longing dissolves
into Krishna’s smile.
In that surrender,
I found joy—
not of union,
but of grace.
For some loves
are not meant to be lived—
they are meant to lead us
home.
—oooXXooo—
