The Dream of King Janaka: A Devotional Reflection
How this ancient tale still resonates with seekers today.
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I was a scribe in the court of King Janaka—not a minister or a warrior, just a man with an ink-stained robe and a quiet ear for stories.
King Janaka ruled Mithila, a kingdom in the ancient land of India. He was no ordinary king. Dharma—the path of righteousness—was his heartbeat. He spoke of detachment like monks did, yet he ruled without faltering. He attended every fire ritual, studied the Vedas, honored the Goddess, yet never claimed to own anything—not even his throne.
People whispered that he was a Rajarshi—a true king-sage. But one night changed everything.
It began with a dream.
In the dream, Janaka saw his kingdom engulfed in flames. Enemies stormed the gates. His jeweled crown was ripped from his head. Soldiers fell. The palace crumbled. He ran into the forest—toothless, starving, alone.
Then, just as he wept into a dirt-covered hand, he awoke. Sweat dripped down his brow. But his limbs were whole. The palace was silent. The birds were singing.
And then came the true terror—not of the dream, but of the question it left behind.
Which is real—what I dreamed, or what I woke to?
He turned to his advisors. “Is my life true, or was that the truth? Which part is illusion?”
No one could answer. Not even the sages.
Then, as the sun tilted west, the sage Ashtavakra arrived. He was young, crooked in body but not in spirit. He walked with calm fire in his eyes. The King welcomed him with folded palms.
Janaka told him everything.
Ashtavakra said nothing for a long time. Then he said, "O King, tell me, did the pain in the dream feel real?”
“Yes,” Janaka whispered. “I wept.”
“And now? Does this life not also grip you with joy and sorrow?”
“Yes,” he said. “But I rule a kingdom—”
Ashtavakra raised a hand. “You rule because your karma placed you here, not because you possess. All this,”—he gestured to the throne, the velvet drapes, the peacocks outside—“will pass. Just as the dream passed. That world vanished. So will this one.”
Silence fell around the court.
"The soul is like a watcher,” the sage continued. “It sees the rise and fall of lifetimes the way a lotus opens at dawn and closes at dusk. Lord Vishnu creates these worlds, sustains them, then dissolves them, again and again. Our sufferings come when we mistake the stage for the play—or worse, think we are the costume.”
Janaka bowed his head. He closed his eyes.
In that moment, something shifted. As if he had been holding his breath his whole life and now, at last, exhaled.
From then on, nothing changed—and everything did.
He still ruled. Still heard the cries of the poor, still honored the Goddess in the shrine, still taught his daughter Sita to walk with compassion and strength. But inside, he carried a deep stillness.
He no longer said “my kingdom.” He said, “this duty.”
He didn’t walk away from life. He walked deeper into it—without clinging.
Some sneered. “He’s detached. Cold.”
But they didn’t understand. You can only be truly compassionate when you expect nothing in return.
I saw it. In the way he listened to beggars, in how he walked barefoot to the temple on full moon nights. His Bhakti—his devotion—to Lord Krishna, to the Dharma, became quieter, but more real.
Years later, when the great sage Vishwamitra brought Rama—incarnation of Lord Vishnu—to Mithila, it was Janaka who recognized him. He saw not just a prince, but the divine hidden beneath human skin. That too came from the dream.
Because once you've seen everything fall away and still known peace, you begin to see differently.
I was only a scribe. But that dream changed me too.
I stopped chasing gold. Started listening to the sound of bells during sunset, to birds in the trees instead of the gossip of courtiers. I remembered Ashtavakra’s words: “Do not confuse yourself with the costume.”
In the dream, King Janaka lost all—and realized truth.
In waking, he gained everything—and let it go.
That is Bhakti. That is freedom.
And that dream? It still lives. Not in some dusty scroll, but in anyone ready to ask—with courage—what is real?
Because that question—that dream—is waiting in all of us.
---
Keywords: Goddess, Krishna, Bhakti, India, Dharma, Vishnu
Word Count: 599
The Dream of King Janaka: A Devotional Reflection
How this ancient tale still resonates with seekers today.
---
I was a scribe in the court of King Janaka—not a minister or a warrior, just a man with an ink-stained robe and a quiet ear for stories.
King Janaka ruled Mithila, a kingdom in the ancient land of India. He was no ordinary king. Dharma—the path of righteousness—was his heartbeat. He spoke of detachment like monks did, yet he ruled without faltering. He attended every fire ritual, studied the Vedas, honored the Goddess, yet never claimed to own anything—not even his throne.
People whispered that he was a Rajarshi—a true king-sage. But one night changed everything.
It began with a dream.
In the dream, Janaka saw his kingdom engulfed in flames. Enemies stormed the gates. His jeweled crown was ripped from his head. Soldiers fell. The palace crumbled. He ran into the forest—toothless, starving, alone.
Then, just as he wept into a dirt-covered hand, he awoke. Sweat dripped down his brow. But his limbs were whole. The palace was silent. The birds were singing.
And then came the true terror—not of the dream, but of the question it left behind.
Which is real—what I dreamed, or what I woke to?
He turned to his advisors. “Is my life true, or was that the truth? Which part is illusion?”
No one could answer. Not even the sages.
Then, as the sun tilted west, the sage Ashtavakra arrived. He was young, crooked in body but not in spirit. He walked with calm fire in his eyes. The King welcomed him with folded palms.
Janaka told him everything.
Ashtavakra said nothing for a long time. Then he said, "O King, tell me, did the pain in the dream feel real?”
“Yes,” Janaka whispered. “I wept.”
“And now? Does this life not also grip you with joy and sorrow?”
“Yes,” he said. “But I rule a kingdom—”
Ashtavakra raised a hand. “You rule because your karma placed you here, not because you possess. All this,”—he gestured to the throne, the velvet drapes, the peacocks outside—“will pass. Just as the dream passed. That world vanished. So will this one.”
Silence fell around the court.
"The soul is like a watcher,” the sage continued. “It sees the rise and fall of lifetimes the way a lotus opens at dawn and closes at dusk. Lord Vishnu creates these worlds, sustains them, then dissolves them, again and again. Our sufferings come when we mistake the stage for the play—or worse, think we are the costume.”
Janaka bowed his head. He closed his eyes.
In that moment, something shifted. As if he had been holding his breath his whole life and now, at last, exhaled.
From then on, nothing changed—and everything did.
He still ruled. Still heard the cries of the poor, still honored the Goddess in the shrine, still taught his daughter Sita to walk with compassion and strength. But inside, he carried a deep stillness.
He no longer said “my kingdom.” He said, “this duty.”
He didn’t walk away from life. He walked deeper into it—without clinging.
Some sneered. “He’s detached. Cold.”
But they didn’t understand. You can only be truly compassionate when you expect nothing in return.
I saw it. In the way he listened to beggars, in how he walked barefoot to the temple on full moon nights. His Bhakti—his devotion—to Lord Krishna, to the Dharma, became quieter, but more real.
Years later, when the great sage Vishwamitra brought Rama—incarnation of Lord Vishnu—to Mithila, it was Janaka who recognized him. He saw not just a prince, but the divine hidden beneath human skin. That too came from the dream.
Because once you've seen everything fall away and still known peace, you begin to see differently.
I was only a scribe. But that dream changed me too.
I stopped chasing gold. Started listening to the sound of bells during sunset, to birds in the trees instead of the gossip of courtiers. I remembered Ashtavakra’s words: “Do not confuse yourself with the costume.”
In the dream, King Janaka lost all—and realized truth.
In waking, he gained everything—and let it go.
That is Bhakti. That is freedom.
And that dream? It still lives. Not in some dusty scroll, but in anyone ready to ask—with courage—what is real?
Because that question—that dream—is waiting in all of us.
---
Keywords: Goddess, Krishna, Bhakti, India, Dharma, Vishnu
Word Count: 599
