The Journey of Bhima the Potter
Long ago in the kingdom of Vaikunthapura, there lived a humble potter named Bhima, known for the beauty of his clay pots and the songs he sang to Lord Vishnu as he worked. Every pot he made began with a prayer, and every evening he lit a lamp in front of a simple stone with the name Narayana carved into it. Though poor and mocked by some for his devotion to “a rock,” Bhima never missed his daily offering of water and flowers.
One year, the kingdom was struck by war and famine. The king, desperate to save his people, sought divine help. His ministers suggested that only a true devotee of Vishnu could journey to Mount Gandhamadana, a sacred peak hidden in the clouds, to bring back the Chakra Fire, a holy flame said to burn away all suffering.
When no sage or priest dared to go—fearing the demons and trials along the way—Bhima stepped forward. “I will go,” he said softly. “Not because I am worthy, but because I have faith.”
The king laughed. “You’re a potter with no army, no knowledge of weapons.”
Bhima bowed. “I have Narayana. That is enough.”
His journey began through thick forests, haunted valleys, and steep mountain passes. On the first night, he was attacked by wolves, but he sang out,
“Narayana, shelter me as you sheltered Prahlada.”
The wolves fled.
On the second week, a massive storm struck, washing away the path. Lost and hungry, Bhima collapsed and wept. Just then, a stranger appeared—a forest woman with glowing eyes—who fed him roots and pointed the way forward. When he turned to thank her, she had vanished. In his heart, he knew: “My Lord walks with me.”
At the mountain’s base, Bhima faced his greatest trial: a demon guardian of flame. The demon roared, “Only the pure of heart may pass. What do you offer?”
Bhima held out a cracked clay pot. “I offer my hands, worn from shaping the earth. I offer my voice, worn from calling His name. I offer my breath, my doubt, my fear—everything I am, I give to Him.”
The demon laughed—and then bowed. “You have passed.”
At the summit, the Chakra Fire rose like a lotus of blue flame. Bhima approached, but it burned too bright to touch. He fell to his knees and sang:
“O Vishnu, Lord of my breath, if I am anything, it is because of You. Come, not to my hands—but to my heart.”
At once, the flame leapt into his chest—soft, cool, and golden. When Bhima returned to Vaikunthapura, carrying no torch but glowing from within, the famine lifted, rains returned, and peace settled on the land.
Years later, when Bhima passed away quietly in his hut, a strange thing happened. His simple stone marked “Narayana” burst with light, and the villagers heard a voice:
“Where there is faith like Bhima’s, there I live—not in temples or heavens, but in the heart of the devotee.”
This was someone else.. I shared.