Meaning: Treat pleasure and pain, gain and loss, victory and defeat alike. Then, act without attachment—you will not incur sin.
This timeless verse reminds us that life’s highs and lows are transient. Fame, applause, and adulation are as fleeting as silence, obscurity, and indifference.
🎭 Amitabh Bachchan’s Bitter-Sweet Realization
In a candid conversation years ago, Amitabh Bachchan recalled the stark contrast between two phases of his career. During the peak of his “angry young man” era, his presence in New York caused mayhem—crowds surged, limousines had to be driven onto the stage, and escape routes were orchestrated underground. Stardom was overwhelming, almost suffocating.
Yet, years later, while promoting a film alongside Govinda and Raveena Tandon, he stepped out of a limousine into a theatre and found himself walking unnoticed, like any other member of the audience. The silence was deafening.
This moment crystallized the truth: fame is not permanent. The crowd’s gaze shifts, the applause fades, and the spotlight moves on.
🌟 The Rise of Govinda
The 1990s marked Govinda’s meteoric rise. With effortless comic timing, dazzling dance moves, and a magnetic screen presence, he captured the nation’s imagination. Bachchan’s comeback in Bade Miyan Chote Miyan (1998) alongside Govinda was a commercial success, but it also underscored the generational shift in stardom.
🪶 Lessons in Impermanence
Bachchan’s reflection is not just about cinema—it’s about life itself.
Fame is cyclical: Today’s icon may be tomorrow’s forgotten name.
Identity evolves: Reinvention is essential when the old image no longer resonates.
Humility in transition: Accepting obscurity with grace is as important as handling fame with dignity.
✨ Closing Thought
The Sanskrit verse reminds us that equanimity is the antidote to the volatility of life. Amitabh Bachchan’s journey—from being mobbed in New York to walking unnoticed—echoes the eternal truth: everything changes, and wisdom lies in embracing both applause and silence with equal serenity.
Some traditions carry management secrets hidden inside rituals. The Kanne Swami custom from the Ayyappa pilgrimage is one of them. A structure so human that even the best corporate handbooks can’t quite touch it.
Every first-time pilgrim, the Kanne Swami, walks under the care of a Guru Swamy. Someone who has done the journey before. Someone who remembers the fear, the fatigue, the feeling of not knowing what lies beyond the next hill. The Guru doesn’t instruct from a distance. He walks beside the novice. Watches. Corrects. Encourages.
It’s mentorship without bureaucracy. Discipline without coldness. And care that doesn’t require an app.
Now imagine a company doing that.
A workplace that feels like a pilgrimage
Picture a new hire on their first day. They’ve cleared interviews, signed forms, logged in, smiled through the icebreaker round. Then what? Usually, silence.
An inbox full of welcome messages that mean well but sound rehearsed. A manager too busy to explain what “ownership” really means. A team that helps politely but never deeply.
What if that person was treated as a Kanne Swami? Guided with sincerity, not policy. Paired with someone who feels responsible for their initiation, not just their output.
A Guru Swamy at work would not be another “buddy” from HR. He or she would be a custodian of learning. The person who ensures that the first 41 days of the new member’s journey feel grounded, ethical, and alive.
Every culture that survives more than a century has some version of this. The Japanese senpai–kohai system. The guild apprenticeships of Europe. And here in India, the Guru–Śiṣya bond. The Ayyappa tradition simply gave it ritual clarity.
The modern company can too.
What ancient India already understood about leadership
Our texts and customs weren’t management manuals, but they carried psychological precision. The Guru–Śiṣya paramparā wasn’t just about transferring knowledge. It was about transmitting restraint, intuition, and self-control. The mentor watched how the student moved through frustration. The real lesson wasn’t the mantra; it was how to stay still when the world tested you.
Sevā bhāva taught that service purifies ego. A true guide serves the learner’s growth, not his own reputation. Atithi Devo Bhava reminded communities that newcomers bring divine potential. Even the Gītā quietly handed managers a code: Karmanye vadhikaraste ma phaleshu kadachana. Do your duty, but let go of the reward.
That line, taken seriously, can clean entire boardrooms.
We keep calling this philosophy. It’s actually process design. A cultural operating system, written in poetry.
The science caught up later
Psychology took two thousand years to name what the sages practiced daily. Amy Edmondson called it psychological safety. Google made it famous through Project Aristotle. Every study since then says the same thing. Teams thrive when people can speak without fear.
Fear is what ruins most first-time experiences. The first code deployment. The first client call. The first on-air appearance. One mistake, and it haunts you. A Guru Swamy neutralizes that fear. Not by removing risk, but by standing nearby.
Even AI systems—predictive ones, at least—run on something similar: feedback loops and safety nets. A team that encourages early vulnerability behaves like a well-trained model that’s constantly improving through gentle correction.
Funny how science ends up rediscovering faith with spreadsheets.
Translating pilgrimage into management practice
Let’s turn this into structure. Every time someone in your company does something for the first time, they’re a Kanne Swami.
A new hire. A first-time team lead. A developer pushing production code. A salesperson pitching a global client. Even an executive leading their first crisis.
Each deserves a guide. Someone with enough scar tissue to teach through calm.
The company can formalize this with small rituals, not heavy frameworks.
The 41-Day Frame: The first six weeks are sacred. They include orientation, shadowing, and reflection. The Guru ensures rhythm, not just routine.
The Two-Pouch Method: Inspired by the Irumudi the pilgrim carries. One pouch for learning goals. The other for contributions made during the journey.
The Safety Phrase: A simple, pre-agreed sentence any member can use to pause action when things feel wrong. Something human like, “Hold. Let’s rethink.” It must be honored instantly.
Completion Rite: After 41 days, both the guide and the learner sit together to reflect. The learner thanks, but the guide doesn’t take credit. The circle closes quietly.
Small, human mechanics. Yet they carry deep order.
Rituals aren’t weakness
In fact, they create accountability without paperwork. Every religion, military, and school that works well has rituals because rituals bypass bureaucracy. They create shared meaning fast.
A prayer, a salute, a morning sync-up—all function the same way: alignment through rhythm. Corporate life tried to replace ritual with tools, but tools can’t carry reverence.
So when someone becomes a Guru Swamy inside an organization, give them that dignity. Not a badge. Not a slide deck. A quiet recognition that they are guardians of culture.
And culture, as Peter Drucker warned, still eats strategy for breakfast.
What movies already taught us about guidance
We’ve seen this pattern in cinema again and again.
In Chak De! India, the coach isn’t training hockey players. He’s rebuilding belief. He doesn’t reward obedience; he rewards trust. In 3 Idiots, learning flows sideways—friend to friend, not top-down. Humor becomes pedagogy. In Super 30, the teacher’s power lies in hunger shared with students, not distance. Even Guru (2007) hides mentorship in ambition. Behind the swagger of business growth stands a quiet influence, a voice that asks harder questions.
Movies get it because stories remember what systems forget: that transformation is personal before it becomes organizational.
Bringing AI into the circle
Now the modern twist. What happens when you bring AI into this human equation?
AI can’t bless you, but it can remember you. It can keep a record of learnings, patterns, hesitations, blind spots. It can nudge both the mentor and the learner gently: “You missed two check-ins.” or “You’ve asked fewer questions this week.”
AI can play the role of the silent observer—the third pilgrim. It never sleeps, never forgets, and can hold mirrors without judgment.
Think of it as the keeper of the pilgrimage diary. The Guru Swamy guides through emotion. The Kanne Swami learns through experience. AI preserves their journey for the next generation.
And when done right, it doesn’t replace the bond. It deepens it. Because now the wisdom stays even after both have moved on.
This is what intelligent mentorship could look like. A trinity of presence: Human, Learner, Machine. Each aware, each humble.
Where the system breaks (and how to keep it alive)
Of course, rituals decay fast in corporations. Titles creep in. Ego returns. Mentorship becomes KPI. The sacred becomes symbolic.
That’s where vigilance matters. A Guru Swamy cannot be the learner’s boss. He or she must hold space, not authority.
Feedback must travel both ways. If the guide talks too much, the system fails. If the learner flatters too much, it fails again. Honesty is the only incense worth burning.
And every six months, rotate roles. Let learners become guides. Let guides return to learning. The cycle keeps humility fresh.
Because once people start saying “I’m done learning,” decline has already started, even if numbers still look fine.
The invisible outcomes
Companies that design this consciously will notice strange results. Meetings get quieter, but deeper. Attrition drops, not because of perks, but because belonging becomes visible. People start describing their managers as “protective,” not “demanding.” Errors reduce. Reflection increases.
All this without new software, slogans, or all-hands pep talks. Just a reintroduction of old-world care into high-speed business.
The future might actually belong to organizations that treat onboarding as initiation, not information download.
The AI parallel, again
There’s another way to see this. Large Language Models, at their core, learn like disciples. They absorb examples, refine responses through correction, and evolve through fine-tuning. Their growth depends on human supervision, alignment, and calibration.
Isn’t that what mentorship really is? Fine-tuning a human through feedback until their internal model aligns with shared values.
Now imagine combining that principle consciously. Each Guru Swamy in a company could have an AI co-pilot that records learnings, tracks questions asked by past Kanne Swamis, and generates a “wisdom log” for new ones.
The AI doesn’t command. It curates. A digital archive of lessons from countless pilgrimages across projects, departments, and years.
That’s not science fiction. It’s good documentation with a soul.
The paradox of progress
Technology races forward. Human depth often lags.
In a rush to automate, we risk forgetting the warmth that makes structure meaningful. A Kanne Swami framework doesn’t slow progress. It gives progress roots. And roots are what stop speed from turning into chaos.
AI can predict, suggest, summarize. But it can’t bless effort, can’t feel another’s struggle, can’t see pride in someone’s first small win. For that, you still need the human beside you.
Progress without mentorship is noise. Progress with care becomes tradition.
What success looks like when done right
A few years into such a system, your company would look different. Not in its products, but in its posture.
You’d hear stories like: “She was my first Guru Swamy here.” Or, “He taught me how to pause before responding.”
You’d notice people quoting lessons instead of policies. Meetings would start later but end faster. Trust would feel less like a word on posters and more like an atmosphere in the hallway.
That’s the test. When behavior travels through imitation, not enforcement, you’ve created culture.
Returning to the mountain
In the end, the pilgrimage to Sabarimala is physical, emotional, communal. Everyone carries the Irumudi, walks barefoot, sings the same chant, and reaches the same temple. Yet every person’s journey is different.
Organizations could learn from that. Equality in rules. Diversity in experience. Shared rhythm. Personal meaning.
Because when a team walks together that way, success stops being a race. It becomes a yatra.
And maybe that’s the secret we’ve forgotten in the age of dashboards and deadlines. That a journey, whether to a temple or to market leadership, feels complete only when someone wiser walks beside you, reminding you to breathe, to focus, to keep faith.
The last vow
Treat every newcomer as sacred responsibility, not replaceable labor. Let AI hold the checklist. Let humans hold the promise.
Because true leadership isn’t measured by how far you go. It’s measured by how many you take with you.
Imagine a space as vast as a stadium, transformed into a celestial galaxy on Earth. A sea of humanity, their faces glowing with reverence, sit before a million flickering lamps. Each flame, a tiny prayer; together, a roaring testament to unwavering faith. This is the breathtaking spectacle of Bhakthi TV’s Kotideepotsavam, a divine celebration that immerses one in the profound spiritual energy of Lord Shiva.
But what does it truly mean to worship the Lord of the Universe? What can we, as mere mortals, offer to a being who is the source of all creation? This question has been explored for centuries by saints, poets, and sages. Two of the most powerful answers come from two very different, yet spiritually aligned poets: a profound philosopher of ancient India and a court poet who valued devotion above all earthly power.
The Philosopher’s Renunciation: A Lesson from Bhartṛhari
Long before the grand courts of medieval India, in the 5th century, lived a mind of immense intellectual and spiritual depth: Bhartṛhari. A master grammarian and one of the most important philosophers of language in Indian history, he authored the seminal text Vākyapadīya, which explores the deep connection between consciousness and language.
Yet, Bhartṛhari was not just a scholar of the abstract. Born in Ujjain and associated with the court of Valabhi, his life story is a powerful tale of inner conflict and ultimate spiritual victory. Legend paints him as a man who, despite possessing immense wealth and power, was repeatedly confronted with the bitter realities of human attachment and impermanence. After struggling to fully detach from worldly pleasures, he finally succeeded, renouncing his courtly life to live as a yogi in Ujjain until his death.
From this crucible of experience, he gifted the world the Śatakatraya—three brilliant collections of 100 verses on love, ethics, and, most powerfully, renunciation (Vairāgya). In his Vairāgya Śatakam, he crystallizes the ultimate goal of a devotee by describing the ideal ascetic, Lord Shiva:
Bhartṛhari describes the ultimate state of detachment, embodied by Lord Shiva. He who has:
Food from begging (bhiksha), and that too, tasteless and only once a day;
The bare earth as his bed;
Only his own body as his attendant;
The vast expanse of the sky as his clothing;
…what need does such a person have for any other worldly possession?
This verse powerfully illustrates that Lord Shiva embodies ultimate freedom from material wants. For a devotee, this poses a profound question: if the Lord I worship desires nothing, what can I possibly give Him?
The Poet’s Devotion: The Unwavering Cry of Dhurjati
Centuries later, in the glorious court of Sri Krishnadevaraya, lived the poet Dhurjati. Though a celebrated member of the royal court, his heart belonged only to Lord Shiva of Kalahasti. His magnum opus, Sri Kalahasti Mahatyam, is a testament to his profound and unshakeable devotion. In one of his most famous verses, he makes his priorities crystal clear:
The Verse:
రాజ్యాంగ భోగములు రమణీమణుల కౌగిలింతలున్,రాజ్యాంగమందు భోగ సౌఖ్యములు కోరను నేనునీ పాద సేవయును, నిత్యము నీ నామ స్మరణయునునాకు దయచేయుమయా శ్రీకాళహస్తీశ్వరా!
“I do not desire the pleasures of kingship, nor the embraces of beautiful women, nor any comforts that royalty can offer. All I ask for, O Lord of Sri Kalahasti, is the blessing to serve at your feet and the grace to chant your name eternally!”
Like Bhartṛhari, Dhurjati places divine service above all worldly treasures. He understands that the joy of devotion far surpasses the fleeting pleasures of the material world.
A Modern Echo: Kotideepotsavam and the Ultimate Offering
This timeless stream of devotion, flowing from ancient philosophers to medieval poets, found its vibrant, modern expression at the Kotideepotsavam. The event itself was a pilgrimage through the sacred geography of Shaivism. The audience was taken on a spiritual journey to the Panchabhuta Kshetras, the five holy sites where Lord Shiva is worshipped in the form of the five elements:
Water (Jala Lingam): Jambukeswaram
Sky (Akasha Lingam): Chidambaram
Earth (Prithvi Lingam): Kanchipuram
Wind (Vayu Lingam): Srikalahasti
Fire (Agni Lingam): Arunachalam (Tiruvannamalai)
The theme of the evening was centered around the magnificent Arunachalam, the abode of the Agni Lingam. The celestial wedding (Kalyanotsavam) of Lord Arunachaleswara and Goddess Apeethakuchambika Devi was performed, a sight that left the tens of thousands of devotees in a state of spiritual bliss.
The philosophical heart of the event was the profound discourse by the revered Padma Shri Dr. Garikapati Narasimha Rao. He eloquently answered the very question posed by our poets, titling his talk “Sivudiki Manaki Ram Ram”—a look at the unique relationship between the devotee and Lord Shiva.
He drew upon two powerful shlokas from Adi Shankaracharya’s Sivananda Lahari:
The Devotee’s Dilemma: Dr. Garikapati explained that a devotee is at a loss for what to offer Shiva. How can one offer wealth to Him when He holds the golden Mount Meru in His hand and His closest friend is Kubera, the treasurer of the gods? How can one offer precious gems when His very abode is adorned with Chintamani (the wish-granting jewel), or fine silks when He is served by Kalpavriksha (the wish-granting tree)? Realizing this, the devotee concludes that the only unique, personal thing he can offer—something the Lord doesn’t already possess—is his own mind.
Shiva’s “Offerings”: In return, what can the devotee ask for? Dr. Garikapati humorously pointed out that Shiva’s possessions are of little use to us. His food is deadly poison, His ornaments are slithering snakes, His clothes are animal hides, and His vehicle is an old bull. Therefore, the devotee does not ask for these. Instead, he makes a simple, profound request: “I have given you my mind. In return, please fill it with unwavering devotion (Bhakti) for your lotus feet.”
This beautiful exchange is the essence of true devotion. It is not a transaction of material goods but a surrender of the ego, the mind, in exchange for divine grace and love.
The Kotideepotsavam, with its million lights and massive gathering, is a physical manifestation of this very principle. Each lamp lit is a symbol of the devotee offering their inner light, their consciousness, to the Supreme. It’s a powerful reminder that beyond all rituals and grandeur, the greatest offering we can ever make is a heart full of pure, unshakeable devotion.
