Narada and Vishnu's Dream of the Maya

Narada was a wise and devoted sage, so learned that even the gods themselves were impressed by his knowledge. He spent his days in deep meditation, contemplating the mysteries of existence, and his devotion to Vishnu was unwavering.

One day, Narada approached Vishnu and said, “Lord, I have read all the scriptures, meditated for years, and listened to the teachings of the greatest sages. Yet, there is one thing I do not understand: the nature of Maya. They say it is your greatest power, that it ensnares the mind and binds the soul. But I do not understand how.”

Vishnu smiled, his eyes twinkling as though amused. “Ah, Narada,” he said. “If you wish to understand Maya, then fetch me a cup of water from the stream just beyond that hill.”

It was a simple request, and Narada, ever eager to serve, set off at once.

As he walked, the midday sun blazed overhead. The air shimmered with heat, and he found himself thirsting for the very water he had set out to collect. When he reached the stream, he bent down to cup the cool water in his hands—but just as his fingers touched the surface, a voice called out.

“Excuse me, sir,” came the gentle, lilting tone of a woman.

Narada looked up. There, on the other side of the stream, stood a woman of such beauty that it seemed as though the dawn itself had taken human form. Her dark eyes held the vastness of the cosmos, and her smile was warm as the morning sun.

Narada forgot the water. He forgot Vishnu. He forgot everything except the woman before him.

He stepped across the stream and spoke with her. Her name was Sundari, and she was kind, intelligent, and full of laughter. They spoke of the stars, the rivers, the changing of the seasons. The sun sank low in the sky, and Narada felt something strange and wonderful stirring in his heart.

He asked to meet her family. Her father was a simple farmer, wise and welcoming, and he saw in Narada the makings of a fine husband for his daughter.

Time passed like a dream. Narada married Sundari. They built a home together in the village, a modest dwelling where the breeze carried the scent of jasmine in the evening. He worked in the fields, side by side with his father-in-law, his hands becoming rough with labor. He learned the rhythms of the earth—the sowing, the reaping, the quiet patience of waiting for rain.

Years went by, and Sundari bore him children. Their firstborn, a boy with his mother’s warm smile and his father’s curious mind, clung to Narada’s leg whenever he tried to leave for work. A daughter came next, her laughter ringing through the house like temple bells.

Life was full. Life was good.

There were hardships, of course. The harvests were not always plentiful. Illness swept through the village one winter, and they prayed desperately for their children’s health. There were nights when Narada lay awake, worrying over debts, over his son’s future, over the aches in his own aging bones.

And yet, in all of it, there was love. There was warmth. There was meaning.

One year, after the monsoon had passed, the river swelled beyond its banks. A great flood came in the night, tearing through the village with the roar of a thousand voices. Narada awoke to the sound of screams, to water rushing into their home. He grabbed Sundari’s hand, held his children close, fought his way through the churning current.

But the flood was merciless.

The water took his home. It took the fields, the cattle, the temple in the village square.

It took his daughter.

It took his son.

It took Sundari.

Narada screamed. He searched for them, dove into the swirling depths again and again, but the river had swallowed them whole. His hands grasped at nothing. His cries were drowned by the storm.

And then—

Silence.

The river was gone. The village was gone. The sky was bright and clear.

Narada was kneeling beside the stream, his hands cupped to gather water.

Vishnu stood before him, smiling gently. “Where is my cup of water, Narada?”

Narada’s hands trembled. The memory of his wife’s laughter still rang in his ears. He could still feel his son’s small fingers curled around his own, the weight of his daughter sleeping on his chest.

It had been real. It had to be real.

Tears filled his eyes. “It was all a dream?” His voice was hollow. “A trick?”

Vishnu shook his head. “No, Narada. That was Maya.”

Narada fell silent, his heart breaking under the weight of realization. In the span of mere moments, he had forgotten his path. He had lost himself in an entire lifetime—loved, suffered, lived, and died—all within a single illusion.

And at last, he understood.