Beyond the BellsRead

The Bells at His Ears

Sometimes we imagine that the stronger our devotion becomes, the fiercer our opposition must be. While loving our chosen deity, we nurture hatred for another name and mistake that hatred for loyalty. The story of Ghantakarna brings us face to face with this confusion. The bells tied at his ears were more than an unusual ornament. They gave a voice to an inward decision: I will not hear the name of the one I have chosen to regard as my opponent. Rejecting before listening had become the direction of his life.

Ghantakarna was a devotee of Shiva. He did not want even to hear Vishnu’s name. He tied bells at his ears so that their sound would keep that name from entering. What deserves consideration here is that he did not lack faith. He practised austerities, called upon his deity and sought his grace. Yet hostility remained in the same heart. Despite his spiritual practice, a knot persisted within his mind. That knot prevented him from encountering the truth towards which his practice needed to lead him.

As I read this story, I also look for those bells within myself. When we oppose something before understanding it, does a noise not arise within us too? We may be listening, yet accept only what agrees with our existing ideas. Ghantakarna gave this distance an outwardly visible form. Even if no such bells are visible within us, the question remains: do we wish to hear the truth, or only the echo of a conclusion we have already reached?

A sense of closeness to one’s chosen deity is natural in devotion. The difficulty begins when we rely on hatred to protect that closeness. Ghantakarna’s mistake was not his love for Shiva. It was adding hostility towards Vishnu to that love. By treating the two as separate, he drew a boundary that could not properly accommodate even his own deity’s guidance. Thus, the first change in the story appears in his willingness to listen, rather than in an outward victory. He had to turn towards the very name he had avoided.

His Deity Redirected Him

Ghantakarna worshipped Shiva and sought liberation. Pleased with him, Mahadeva directed him towards Vishnu. He instructed him to worship Janardana at the Nara-Narayana hermitage in Badrinath. This answer did not agree with his earlier feelings. Worship of the very one whose name he refused to hear was now placed before him. His test was whether he would follow his deity’s words or defend his own hostility. He could call upon Shiva, but could he also accept the direction Shiva showed him?

Here the difference between devotion and stubbornness becomes clear. If we accept from our deity only the answer we have already decided upon, what room have we left for his guidance? Ghantakarna followed Mahadeva’s words. Through this obedience, the door to change opened within him. He had not been told to abandon his spiritual practice; he was being brought face to face with the narrowness attached to it. Changing an assumption at the direction of the one we love is not defeat. It is trust arising within love, through which we begin to examine ourselves as well.

There is another beautiful correspondence in this episode. Krishna himself was travelling to Kailash to seek Shiva’s darshan. On the way, near Badrinath, he met Ghantakarna. On one side, a devotee of Shiva has been sent towards Vishnu; on the other, Krishna is going to see Shiva. The story dissolves the distance that Ghantakarna had maintained as an opposition within himself. The conduct of the deities does not uphold his wall of hostility. That wall had been built by his own divisive understanding, and he was the one who needed to recognise it.

We often give our insistence such importance that even worship begins to revolve around it. Ghantakarna’s change allows us to pause and ask: is my faith making me capable of listening? If guidance challenges the hatred within me, will I receive it? To move forward in this story, he did not have to prove someone else wrong. He had to step beyond his own earlier opposition. His trust in Mahadeva became clearer when he moved in the direction from which he had previously fled.

The Question of Inner Purity

On seeing Krishna, Ghantakarna wished to serve him. Recognising him, he offered his respects and expressed a desire for the purification of his mind. His prayer no longer concerned only his own strength or condition. He was beginning to understand that the mind entangles us in objects of desire and divisive thinking. The impurity of the very mind that had taught him to hate a name now became his concern. This change was not an outward mark placed upon him. He was recognising the inward process that had held him captive.

The meaning of his words is direct: what is gained by washing the body if the impurity of the mind remains unattended? This question does not oppose outward cleanliness. It reveals the incompleteness of preparing ourselves externally while leaving our inner hardness untouched. Ghantakarna was no longer looking only towards others to explain his condition. He had begun to look towards his own mind. The one who previously wanted to keep a name outside now wished to recognise the impurity within.

Here we also understand the difficulty of spiritual practice. The outward bells are easy to see; acknowledging the divisiveness within is harder. We can find many reasons for our opposition, but Ghantakarna’s prayer does not shelter behind them. He places his condition before Krishna. I see the sincerity of his change in this acknowledgement. As long as the mind regards its knot as a virtue, it will see no reason to untie it. Seeing the knot is not enough; recognising it as a knot is also necessary.

Ghantakarna prayed to be freed from that painful condition. He also wished that, should he be born again, the Lord would dwell within his heart. Earlier, his concern had been to keep a name from reaching his ears; now, his aspiration was for that very Lord to dwell within him. Consider the two ends of this change together. The presence that his bells had sought to exclude was now the presence he wanted as the refuge of his life. Devotion expands here through a change in the heart’s direction, rather than an increase in words. He was turning from opposition towards remembrance.

Recognising Feeling and Conduct

Ghantakarna’s offering in the story was not something that could readily be accepted. Following his pishacha nature and his understanding of food, he placed the body of a dead Brahmin before Krishna as a meal. We should not dismiss this episode with the suggestion that any conduct becomes proper if love is present. Krishna made the offering’s unsuitability clear. He did not describe it as something fit for him to consume. At the same time, he recognised the devotion awakening within Ghantakarna. The story holds both things together: the impropriety of the object and the surrender arising in the mind.

This distinction matters. Compassion does not mean declaring something improper to be proper. Krishna neither humiliated Ghantakarna and drove him away nor consumed his offering as food. He accepted the feeling of hospitality behind it. Ghantakarna thus received an answer containing both guidance and refuge. His ignorance was not concealed, yet he was not reduced to that ignorance alone. The change beginning within him was recognised. Such compassion gives a person an opportunity to move beyond a former condition.

We can understand the importance of feeling through this episode, but cannot conclude that feeling permits us to stop examining conduct. If that were so, why would Krishna have spoken of the offering’s unsuitability? His answer reveals the difference between the devotee’s heart and his understanding. Faith may be present in the heart while ignorance still remains in conduct. True guidance therefore does more than praise; it also identifies where correction is needed. For Ghantakarna, grace meant that his love found acceptance and his ignorance received direction.

Krishna touched him and bestowed a beautiful, radiant form upon him. In the story, grace was also extended to his brother, and the dead Brahmin was restored to life and respectfully sent on his way. While reading this ending, we should remember the hostility-filled mind with which the account began. The transformation was more than a change of appearance; his way of seeing had already changed. Ghantakarna was no longer searching for a way to avoid the Lord. Recognising his compassion, he wished to remember him. Before the outward transformation, the story leads us towards the inward change without which the meaning of this encounter would remain incomplete.

What Do We Hear Within Now?

Shabari’s devotion is also mentioned alongside this episode. Her berries held her love for Rama. The offerings in the two stories are not identical, and there is no need to present them as though they were. What deserves understanding is the heart that wishes to welcome its deity. Ghantakarna’s episode makes guidance and correction explicit; Shabari’s reveals the closeness of service and waiting. Feeling is recognised in both, but the distinct character of each event should be preserved. Only then do we receive from a story what it actually presents.

Ghantakarna’s journey has not come to us merely to point out someone else’s error. It offers an opportunity to look within. Do we call ourselves devotees while hating a name or form? Are we prepared to hear our deity’s guidance if it asks us to change an old insistence? Alongside outward preparations, do we examine the direction of our mind? These questions are not intended to leave us discouraged by a list of faults. They allow us to regard as possible the change that takes place within this story.

The one who had closed his ears began to listen; the one who had nurtured opposition began to bow. His former condition was brought before him, but his future was not confined to it. I find this assurance in the story deeply meaningful. Acknowledging the hardness of the mind is not the end. The way towards changing it may open at that very point. Ghantakarna did not preserve his hatred as the final expression of his devotion. Accepting his deity’s direction, he reached a place where remembrance replaced opposition and refuge replaced fear.

For this reason, I do not wish to see Ghantakarna’s bells only at his ears. I want to ask which insistence within me prevents me from listening. Have I closed a door in the name of the very devotion that should open my heart? Ghantakarna’s bow before Krishna signals the opening of that closed door. He appeared with his ignorance and was able to make room for change. The story asks this of us too: do not nurture hatred alongside love, do not flee from recognising your error, and give your deity’s guidance a greater place than your own stubbornness.