The Appearance of Lord Ayyappa: A Devotional Reflection
A journey through the essence of dharma and devotion
I was there the night he came. My name is Kaliyan, a servant in the court of King Rajashekhara of Pandalam, a small kingdom nestled in the hills of Kerala, southern India. You won’t find my name in any scripture, but I saw with my own eyes what few dare to believe—the birth of one born from the union of Lord Shiva and the Goddess.
It began with a cry in the forest. Not one of fear, but of arrival. The king, a devout and childless man, had gone into the forest to meditate. Years of prayer to Lord Shiva and visions of divine light had led him here. The cry called to him like bhakti—the purest form of devotion. Under the light of the full moon, lying between the roots of a peepal tree, was a child. Holly-eyed. A bell tied around his neck. No mother. No father. Just the forest.
The king knew. This was no orphan. This was a gift from the devas. An avatar born of divine purpose. The child was named Manikandan—‘mani’ for the bell on his neck. We brought him back, and the palace changed that day. Joy flowed like the rivers of Bharat.
But not everyone celebrated. The queen, who’d once prayed for a son, feared losing her throne to a child not of her blood. Time passed. Manikandan grew wise beyond his years. He excelled in Vedas, combat, dharma. Kind, humble, unshakable. You couldn’t look at him without feeling you were in the presence of something more.
When he turned twelve, the queen feigned illness. The cure? Tiger’s milk, she claimed. A wild, impossible ask. “Let the boy fetch it,” she whispered. “He insists he’s divine.”
I watched the king hesitate. But Manikandan bowed. “If it is dharma, I will go.” He smiled as if he already knew the truth in all things.
None spoke against him. None could. He walked into the forest with his bow and silence.
It was weeks. The wind carried stories—how he crossed rivers, faced bandits, entered dense woods where even sages feared to tread. And then—nothing.
Until one evening, I remember, the earth trembled. Not from war. But from presence. Through the ridge, tigers returned—not wild, but calm. Walking like soldiers of the devas. And riding one of them—was Manikandan. Alive, glowing, fearless.
He had completed what was never meant to be completed. He brought the milk. He brought the truth. The king fell to his knees. Even the queen wept, shamed by her own illusion.
And then—he turned to us all. “I am ready,” he said.
“Ready for what?” the king asked.
“To leave. My karma is done.”
A hush fell. We had just begun to know him. And now he was going?
He led us to the forests of Sabarimala, into the high hills. “This shall be my temple,” he said. “Let it be a place for all—kings, commoners, even those cast aside. Let it be a path of devotion, austerity, truth.”
The king did not argue. None did.
Before our eyes, he disappeared—merged into divine light between the mountains. Lord Ayyappa. The dharma protector. The son of Lord Shiva and the Goddess Mohini—an incarnation of Lord Vishnu in his female form. Born for one purpose—to destroy evil, and show us the way of devotion without ego.
Since then, each winter, millions walk to his shrine barefoot. Black-robed, minds clean of desire, carrying the irumudi on their heads, singing, “Swamiye Saranam Ayyappa” — Lord Ayyappa, we surrender to you.
It’s not an easy journey. It’s not meant to be.
But those who take it know—they’re not walking alone.
They walk with surrender.
They walk with truth.
They walk with dharma.
And in those hills, if the night is loud enough, you can still hear the cry from that first forest evening.
The sound of God being born—not as a king, but as a reminder.
That even in darkness, the light of devotion will always find a way.
Swamiye Saranam Ayyappa.
The Appearance of Lord Ayyappa: A Devotional Reflection
A journey through the essence of dharma and devotion
I was there the night he came. My name is Kaliyan, a servant in the court of King Rajashekhara of Pandalam, a small kingdom nestled in the hills of Kerala, southern India. You won’t find my name in any scripture, but I saw with my own eyes what few dare to believe—the birth of one born from the union of Lord Shiva and the Goddess.
It began with a cry in the forest. Not one of fear, but of arrival. The king, a devout and childless man, had gone into the forest to meditate. Years of prayer to Lord Shiva and visions of divine light had led him here. The cry called to him like bhakti—the purest form of devotion. Under the light of the full moon, lying between the roots of a peepal tree, was a child. Holly-eyed. A bell tied around his neck. No mother. No father. Just the forest.
The king knew. This was no orphan. This was a gift from the devas. An avatar born of divine purpose. The child was named Manikandan—‘mani’ for the bell on his neck. We brought him back, and the palace changed that day. Joy flowed like the rivers of Bharat.
But not everyone celebrated. The queen, who’d once prayed for a son, feared losing her throne to a child not of her blood. Time passed. Manikandan grew wise beyond his years. He excelled in Vedas, combat, dharma. Kind, humble, unshakable. You couldn’t look at him without feeling you were in the presence of something more.
When he turned twelve, the queen feigned illness. The cure? Tiger’s milk, she claimed. A wild, impossible ask. “Let the boy fetch it,” she whispered. “He insists he’s divine.”
I watched the king hesitate. But Manikandan bowed. “If it is dharma, I will go.” He smiled as if he already knew the truth in all things.
None spoke against him. None could. He walked into the forest with his bow and silence.
It was weeks. The wind carried stories—how he crossed rivers, faced bandits, entered dense woods where even sages feared to tread. And then—nothing.
Until one evening, I remember, the earth trembled. Not from war. But from presence. Through the ridge, tigers returned—not wild, but calm. Walking like soldiers of the devas. And riding one of them—was Manikandan. Alive, glowing, fearless.
He had completed what was never meant to be completed. He brought the milk. He brought the truth. The king fell to his knees. Even the queen wept, shamed by her own illusion.
And then—he turned to us all. “I am ready,” he said.
“Ready for what?” the king asked.
“To leave. My karma is done.”
A hush fell. We had just begun to know him. And now he was going?
He led us to the forests of Sabarimala, into the high hills. “This shall be my temple,” he said. “Let it be a place for all—kings, commoners, even those cast aside. Let it be a path of devotion, austerity, truth.”
The king did not argue. None did.
Before our eyes, he disappeared—merged into divine light between the mountains. Lord Ayyappa. The dharma protector. The son of Lord Shiva and the Goddess Mohini—an incarnation of Lord Vishnu in his female form. Born for one purpose—to destroy evil, and show us the way of devotion without ego.
Since then, each winter, millions walk to his shrine barefoot. Black-robed, minds clean of desire, carrying the irumudi on their heads, singing, “Swamiye Saranam Ayyappa” — Lord Ayyappa, we surrender to you.
It’s not an easy journey. It’s not meant to be.
But those who take it know—they’re not walking alone.
They walk with surrender.
They walk with truth.
They walk with dharma.
And in those hills, if the night is loud enough, you can still hear the cry from that first forest evening.
The sound of God being born—not as a king, but as a reminder.
That even in darkness, the light of devotion will always find a way.
Swamiye Saranam Ayyappa.
