The Crocodile, the Mother, and the Monk: A Story of Destiny

The child was extraordinary, full of wisdom and mature beyond his age. Villagers looked at him with awe and admiration. They were convinced that he had come to this earth with a divine purpose. They wondered how an eight-year-old child could recite the Vedas fluently.

The name of the child was Shankara, and the village where he was born was Kalady in Kerala. The river Periyar flowed quietly by the side of this village. Shankara was part of a poor household.

One day, the child was sitting in a corner of the hut, with an erect spine and closed eyes. His mother, Aryamba, looked at her son with fear in her heart.

She wondered, “What kind of child memorizes the Vedas before learning to play?

What kind of child speaks of illusion and truth when he should be asking for toys?”

Shankara, blessed with sharp intellect and wisdom, could read his mother’s mind and asked gently, “What ails your mind, Amma? Have no fear. This body is temporary, and so is fear.”

Aryamba looked at Shankara with sad eyes and lamented, “Fear is natural for a mother whose child is different from others. You speak like an old soul, and I am not ready to hear such truth.”

The mother was right, but Shankara could clearly hear the call of renunciation echoing in his heart. He waited for the right opportunity.

We are talking of events that happened more than 1200 years ago. Legend has it that one morning, both mother and son went to the river for a bath. Aryamba was reciting Vishnu shlokas when she heard the piercing cry of Shankara, “Amma…!”

A crocodile was dragging Shankara towards deeper waters. His mother cried helplessly and shouted for help. And then something unusual happened. Shankara folded his hands and sought his mother’s permission to become a sanyasi.

Aryamba was dumbfounded. How could a child ask for such permission in the face of death?

“Give me permission,” Shankara said softly, “and I shall be freed.”

Her mind said no, but her heart knew she had no option but to free her child. With tears rolling down her face, she cried, “Go, my son, go. I grant you permission.”

A miracle happened. The crocodile let Shankara go without any harm. The child emerged from the river waters with his body shining like gold in sunlight, his eyes glowing with spiritual light.

Aryamba had lost her child. The world had gained Adi Shankaracharya.

Shankara left home, shaved his head, and donned saffron robes. He walked barefoot across forests and mountains, carrying nothing but a begging bowl and the truth burning in his chest. He saw suffering—men clinging to wealth, scholars clinging to words, kings clinging to power.

“All is Maya,” he whispered. “And yet, how real it feels.”

At last, Shankara reached Varanasi and met Govinda Bhagavatpada, his guru. When Shankara bowed at his feet, the old sage opened his eyes and smiled, “You have come, Shankara. I have been waiting for you.”

Under his guru, Shankara learned all he could. At the age of twelve, Shankara was ready to write commentaries on major scriptural texts. He wrote commentaries elucidating the subtle meanings hidden in the teachings of the scriptures. At the age of sixteen, he dropped his pen, having completed writing all the major treatises.

One night, while meditating in the Himalayas, his native village, Kalady, came into his vision. He saw his mother lying on the floor, alone, her breath shallow, her eyes searching for a face she feared she would never see again.

Shankara rose at once. Defying distance, defying exhaustion, he traveled day and night, driven not by the world—but by love.

When he entered the hut, Aryamba smiled weakly.

“My Shankara,” she whispered, “I knew you would come.”

He held her frail hand, tears finally falling—tears he had held back for years.

“You taught me that Brahman is everywhere,” she said. “But today, I needed my son.”

When she breathed her last, Shankara felt a pain no philosophy could dissolve.

The villagers protested when he performed her funeral rites himself.

“A sanyasi cannot do this!” they cried.

Shankara lit the pyre anyway.

“If Advaita denies compassion,” he said softly, “then it is incomplete.”

From the age of sixteen to thirty-two, Shankaracharya went forth, traveling across the length and breadth of ancient India, bringing to the hearts of the masses the life-giving message of the Vedas.

“Brahman, Pure Consciousness, is the Absolute Reality. The world is unreal.”

ब्रह्म सत्यं जगन्मिथ्या जीवो ब्रह्मैव नापरः।अनेन वेद्यं सच्छास्त्रमिति वेदान्तडिण्डिमः॥ (ब्रह्मज्ञानावलीमाला)

In essence, the individual is not different from Brahman. Thus, by the statement “Brahma Satyam Jagan Mithya, Jeevo Brahmaiva Na Para,” he condensed the essence of the voluminous scriptures.

In those days, ancient India was sunk in a quagmire of superstitions and scriptural misinterpretations. Degraded ritualism flourished. The essence of Sanatana Dharma, with its all-embracing message of love, compassion, and the universality of humankind, was completely lost in the blind performance of rituals. Hinduism was slowly sinking into the background. Buddhism and Jainism, along with some other traditions, were flourishing under royal patronage.

Adi Shankaracharya established four maths, also known as Sharada Peethams, in the four corners of India—in Puri, Dwarka, Badrinath, and Sringeri. Each math was given the task of preserving and propagating one Veda. He appointed his senior-most disciples as the heads of each math.

The very fact that Hinduism is still a dynamic and all-encompassing religion stands as ample testimony to the deeds of Adi Shankaracharya. Apart from being the champion of Advaita philosophy, one of his invaluable contributions was the reordering and restructuring of the ancient Sannyasa order. These sannyasis helped the eternal code of life contained in the Vedas flow as a dynamic force unifying all humanity.

It seems I was destined to meet one of the Shankaracharyas. My wife Uma, daughter Shafina, and I had just returned home after a visit to Agarkhal in Uttarakhand in the first week of November last year. I met Priti Sharma, our next-door neighbour, and she looked excited.

“You know, Uncle,” she said, “Guruji from Sringeri may be visiting our house.”“Wow,” I replied, “it will be a blessing.”

“Sure, Uncle, if his visit is approved, we will invite all of you to receive his blessings.”

The Sringeri Sharada Peetham is presently headed by two Jagadgurus (pontiffs) who represent the unbroken Guru-Shishya tradition:

Jagadguru Shankaracharya Sri Sri Bharati Tirtha Mahaswamiji (36th Acharya)Jagadguru Sri Sri Vidhushekhara Bharati Sannidhanam (37th Acharya and successor-designate, appointed in 2015)

Sri Vidhushekhara Bharati Sannidhanam was in Delhi in November 2025, and he did visit our neighbour’s house. This provided us the opportunity to meet him and receive his blessings. I am 82, and my wife is 76 years old. It was a God-sent opportunity. There was no chance of our visiting Sringeri Sharada Peetham in Karnataka during our lifetime.

Adi Shankaracharya left this mortal world at the young age of 32. It is amazing how someone could achieve so much in such a short time. But then, what matters is the quality, not the quantity, of life you live.