A friend, relative, and an Unparalleled Physician >>>>> Dr Aitharaju Venu Manohar Rao Reaches the Blissful Abode : Vanam Jwala Narasimha Rao (Houston Airport)

 A friend, relative, and an Unparalleled Physician

Dr Aitharaju Venu Manohar Rao 

Reaches the Blissful Abode

Vanam Jwala Narasimha Rao (Houston Airport)

CHILDREN'S DOCTOR WITH A CHILD HEART:{{Dr. Aitharaju Venu Manohar Rao (also known as Dr. A.V. Manohar Rao) was a respected pediatrician based in Hyderabad, India. Born on 21 June 1947, he earned his MBBS from Kakatiya Medical College (KMC) in Warangal. In the late 1960s and early 1970s he served as a house surgeon at KMC attached to MGM Hospital, where senior faculty—including surgeons and obstetrician-gynecologists—held him in high regard and frequently collaborated with him on complex family cases.He later pursued higher studies and professional opportunities in the United Kingdom before returning to India. In 1975 he settled in Hyderabad and joined government service as a pediatrician, remaining in public employment until his voluntary retirement in 2002. 

After leaving government service he established a private clinic on the ground floor of Arihant Apartments in Ashok Nagar. There he built a strong reputation as one of the city’s most trusted pediatric practitioners, valued for reliability, accessibility, and genuine patient care rather than commercial success.Although trained in pediatrics, colleagues and families routinely sought his counsel on a wide range of medical issues, from routine childhood illnesses to more complex adult and family health concerns. He actively supported public-health initiatives, including pulse-polio immunization campaigns. 

Even after formal retirement he continued clinical work and informal consultations for many years, remaining available to patients and relatives until shortly before his death on 7 September 2026. Throughout a career spanning government service and private practice, Dr. Manohar Rao was remembered for his clinical skill, broad medical guidance, and personal compassion}} - Editor Metro India Synoptic Intro to this article

Exactly 41 days after my arrival in Houston, Texas, with my wife and daughter for a holiday, the saddest news of our lives reached us. We were preparing for our return journey when we learned that my beloved brother-in-law, lifelong friend, and guide, Dr Aitharaju Venu Manohar Rao, had breathed his last and reached the blissful abode of Lord Vishnu. Perhaps it was coincidence, or simply fate, that when we met Manohar just two days before our departure, he casually asked, ‘Why now to USA?’ Within moments, however, he wished us a happy journey and safe travel. Little did I know that those would be our final words together.

Until barely three weeks before his passing, he continued to extend medical advice to us, even for minor ailments, particularly to his beloved sister, Bujji. Suddenly, the familiar voice that had guided and reassured us for decades fell silent. On September 7, 2026, it became as though he had simply said, ‘Please, No More. I have a call from the Almighty.’ And Manohar was no more. We both, and daughter Bunti (Prema) immediately confirmed our return journey to Hyderabad for one last glimpse of his departed soul. Kinnera and Aditya (My daughter and son residing in Houston) too were almost in tears along with us.

Our relationship began in the late 1950s, when we were both about ten years old. I joined Rikab-Bazar High School in Mamillagudem, Khammam, and that was when Manohar and I became friends. That friendship endured for nearly seven decades and deepened immeasurably when I married his sister, Bujji (Vijayalaxmi), in April 1969. I still vividly remember our wedding. Manohar, guided by his father, virtually steered the arrangements from the bride’s side. His eldest brother was away in the UK, and Manohar, though still very young, had already assumed the role of the ‘Young Head of the Family.’ His expressions, involvement, and responsibility at every stage remain fresh in my memory.

After completing my graduation in September 1968 and marrying in April 1969, I spent about three years in my village. My desire to pursue higher studies was rekindled, influenced by several relatives on my in-laws’ side who were pursuing advanced education, and especially by Manohar. At his suggestion, I decided to seek admission to Nagpur University. During my first visit to Nagpur, Manohar, then studying MBBS at KMC, Warangal, accompanied me. His encouragement eventually helped me secure a seat there.

While I was a student in Nagpur, I received a letter from him that remains one of the most significant letters of my life. It concerned Bujji’s health and revealed a maturity and sense of responsibility far beyond his years. In December 1968, Bujji developed fatigue followed by severe pain on the left side of her abdomen. An X-ray and clinical examination suggested a kidney stone requiring immediate treatment. Further investigations, all carefully pursued under Manohar’s guidance even though he was still a medical student, indicated that her left kidney was not functioning properly.

Manohar took her to Warangal to consult the eminent surgeon, Dr KR Prasad Rao. Considering her very young age, only 15, the doctor advised removal of the ureteric stone first and recommended waiting before deciding whether the non-functioning kidney itself needed removal. Accordingly, major surgery to remove the stone was performed on March 15, 1968. But for Manohar’s intervention, this might never have happened. Eight months after our marriage, an examination at MGM Hospital, Warangal, confirmed that the kidney remained non-functional.

My wife with her brother Dr Manohar Rao

Leaving it untreated could endanger the other kidney, and nephrectomy was therefore considered necessary. The difficult question was how to inform me, because by then I was not even aware of the earlier surgery. That was when Manohar wrote me a deeply moving letter—convincing, confident, yet respectful of my right to decide. With complete faith in him, I said ‘YES.’ What impressed me most was not merely his medical judgment, but the responsibility with which he exercised it. Although barely 22 years old, he did not impose his decision on me.

He offered another consultation if I wished and assured me that he and his brother would take Bujji anywhere in the world for treatment, regardless of cost. Before the final decision, he arranged another IVP test, confirmed the need for surgery, and gently explained the situation to my parents. On January 10, 1970, Dr Prasad Rao performed the nephrectomy at MGM Hospital. The surgery was successful. More than 56 years later, by God’s grace, all is well. I have often felt that Manohar was nothing less than God in human form in that chapter of our lives. His concern for his sister continued virtually until the day before his last breath.

When Bujji became pregnant for the first time, Manohar, then working as a house surgeon at KMC attached to MGM Hospital, arranged her consultation with Dr T Padma, Professor of Obstetrics and Gynecology. He was so highly regarded by his professors that Dr Padma generously provided accommodation for Bujji and her mother in her own home. Together with Dr Prasad Rao’s advice, every aspect of her care was attentively handled.

Our daughter, Bunti (Prema), was born on July 8, 1971. Her bond with her uncle remained so deep that she was literally rendered speechless on hearing of his untimely demise. Before she and Bujji returned from Warangal, the ever-courteous Manohar invited about 25 prominent friends and relatives, including Dr Prasad Rao and his family, Dr Padma and her family, and several medical colleagues, and hosted a dinner at his home.

Manohar was also the bridge through which some of my enduring friendships began. He introduced me to BVSS Sharma, son-in-law of Customs and Central Excise Officer Anjaneyulu. My acquaintance with BK Rao also came through him. Both had known Manohar since their Warangal days in the early 1970s. After going to the UK for higher studies and employment, Manohar returned to Hyderabad in 1975, a year after I joined BHEL Higher Secondary School as Librarian.

For a few days, before he could rent a small house in nearby Chickadpally, his family stayed with us. Those days remain precious memories of our growing families and enduring friendship. Later, when my family lived in Ashok Nagar, our son Aditya faced a serious health problem with infantile eczema (atopic dermatitis), affecting his entire body and causing him considerable discomfort. Manohar was once again our pillar of support. He accompanied my wife to dermatologists and remained closely involved in his care.

On another occasion, Aditya developed severe diarrhea. When the medicine initially prescribed did not help, Manohar advised us to move first to Chary Nursing Home and later to Niloufer Children’s Hospital, where his friend Dr Suresh was working. Once again, everything turned out well, and, as always, Manohar was with us throughout.

After opening his clinic in Ashok Nagar, Manohar soon became one of Hyderabad’s leading pediatric practitioners, not in terms of wealth, but in terms of trust, service, and affection. Though a pediatrician by profession, his knowledge and willingness to help extended far beyond pediatrics. From a simple cold or cough to cardiac problems, cancer, urinary infections, and countless other concerns, people turned to him because they trusted him. His medical practice was never merely a profession. It was an expression of his concern for people.

There was another quality of Manohar that I have always admired. On his return from the UK, he once told me that in Britain one should invariably begin a conversation with ‘Please’ and end it with ‘Thank you.’ He adopted those words so completely that they became part of his personality. In doing so, without preaching, he taught all of us the quiet power of courtesy and respect. Manohar leaves behind far more than memories.

He leaves behind an example, of how to shoulder family responsibility at a young age, how to serve without expecting recognition, how to combine professional excellence with human compassion, how to remain available to those in need, and how to make courtesy a way of life. For me, he was simultaneously a childhood friend, beloved brother-in-law, trusted adviser, family physician, and one of the finest human beings I have known. Our association began when we were children and continued almost until his final breath.

The pain of losing him is immeasurable. Yet gratitude is stronger than grief when I look back at the extraordinary life he shared with all of us. Manohar, my dear friend and brother-in-law, you served your family, your patients, your friends, and humanity with distinction. Your physical presence may have ended, but your kindness, wisdom, affection, and example will remain with us forever. May your soul rest in eternal peace at the blissful abode of Lord Vishnu.

My Book Valmiki Ramayana: Sundra Kanda Launch >>>>> By Yashwin, Ansh, Medha, Kanak, and Irah >>>>> Chief Guest: Attorney Asha Reddi, Bend County, Texas (USA) : Vanam Jwala Narasimha Rao (

 My Book Valmiki Ramayana 

Sundra Kanda Launch

By Yashwin, Ansh, Medha, Kanak, and Irah

Chief Guest: Attorney Asha Reddi 

Bend County, Texas (USA)

Vanam Jwala Narasimha Rao (September 6, 2026)

            ‘This book, Sundara Kanda, authored by Vanam Jwala Narasimha Rao, is more than a translation. It is a bridge between generations. A grandparent and a grandchild, perhaps born on opposite sides of the world, can read the same story, understand the same values, and find inspiration in the same Lord Hanuman. I look forward to reading this book with my daughters and with the author’s grandchildren. I hope that, when we read together, we will not only learn the story of Hanuman’s courage and devotion, but also carry those values into our lives,’ said Mrs Asha Reddi, Former Municipal Judge of Fort Bend County, Texas, on receiving the first copy of my book.

The occasion was the release of my book by my dearest grandchildren: Yashwin Koniki, Ansh Vanam, Medha Koniki, Kanak Vanam, and Irah Vanam, along with another beloved granddaughter Mihira Mandapaka, who, though away on a tour to Germany, was present with us in spirit. The book’s full title reflects its deep purpose: Simplified and Faithful Rendering of the Adi Kavya: Valmiki Ramayana: The Greatest Epic; A Treasure for All of Humanity: (Sundara Kanda); Devotional Effort to Bridge Languages, Generations, and Continents. Or, to put it simply: Valmiki Ramayana Sundara Kanda in English.

The attorney, who has spent much of her life dealing with the laws that govern society, noted with deep humility that despite this legal background, ‘our great epics remind us of the principles that govern our conscience and our character: Dharma, integrity, courage, compassion, duty, devotion, and service. Today, these principles transcend language, nationality, geography, and time.’ In her brief but zealous speech, delivered after the book release and following the remarks of other speakers, she began with invaluable observations on the Ramayana, Sundara Kanda, and Lord Hanuman.

Dovetailing her career as an attorney with the principles of the Ramayana, Asha Reddi said: ‘The Ramayana is much more than an ancient epic. It teaches us how to live with Dharma, courage, compassion, loyalty, sacrifice, faith, and service. And Sundara Kanda shows us Hanuman at his very best.’ She then described how Hanuman encountered vast obstacles during his search for Sita, overcoming them through intelligence, courage, sound judgment, and unwavering faith. ‘There is a lesson in that for all of us, she remarked.

Asha Reddi further noted: ‘By bringing the wisdom and beauty of the Valmiki Ramayana to an English-speaking audience, he [Jwala Narasimha Rao Vanam] is helping preserve our heritage for people like me, and especially for our children and grandchildren growing up outside India. Many in the next generation speak English far more comfortably than Telugu. Without translations such as this, some of the greatest treasures of our heritage could become inaccessible to the very generations we most want to preserve them for.’

Earlier, when my daughter Kinnera, who is settled in Houston, opened the event with her welcoming words: ‘Hello, Namaste, and welcome to each one of you here this afternoon’, the Sri Ashta Lakshmi Temple auditorium in Sugar Land, Texas, reverberated with cheers. Though intimate in size, the audience comprised well-known figures in the Telugu literary world settled across Texas, with some traveling from nearby towns to attend.

Manju and Krishna, Sai and Lalita Rachakonda, Chitten Raju, Kakani S Rao, Sonali with her aged parents, Sumana, Veena and Venkat, Maithili and Shekhar, Srujana and Anil, Sudhir Jalagam, Suguna and mani, Shilpa and Ravi, Namrata and Kishore, Namrata, Gita and Srinivas, Dr Sujata and Dr Murthy, Sitarama Ayyagari, Jaya Krishna, Usha and Ravi, Shailaja and Raju, Kamakshi, Savitha and Madhu, Vamshi, Menaka and Rammohan, Sharat, Sushma, and Pavan participated.

The Chief Guest, Mrs. Asha Reddi, has been a resident of Fort Bend County for nearly three decades (much like my daughter Kinnera, who has lived in the same county for nearly twenty years). She is highly respected across the United States for her 34 years of legal experience and 8 years of judicial experience, having built a career rooted in integrity, fairness, and public service that very few are blessed with. To illustrate her immense simplicity: driving herself to the venue, she stepped out of the car carrying a lightweight, portable lectern (reading stand) that she had brought from home.

When I introduced myself, my son, and the others, the first thing she mentioned was her long-standing desire to read a book on Sundara Kanda in English. She possesses immense faith in Lord Hanuman, and beautifully suggested that, perhaps to fulfill her wish, I had written this book with her specifically in mind! Speaking fluently in Telugu, she socialized warmly with everyone in the auditorium, though not before performing the duties of a true devotee by seeking the blessings of the Ashta Lakshmis and Lord Hanuman.

‘Born and raised as an Air Force officer’s daughter who traveled throughout India, I never learned to read or write Telugu,’ Asha Reddi shared. She explained how she eventually made America her home, leading her to stand in the Ashta Lakshmi Temple to participate in the release of this beautiful Sundara Kanda. A top-ranking graduate in Commerce and Law from Osmania University before migrating to the USA, Asha Reddi made history as one of the first Indo-American attorneys appointed to the municipal bench in Texas in 2002.

For more than three decades, Asha Reddi has practiced law and tried cases throughout Fort Bend County, Harris County, and surrounding jurisdictions, earning an outstanding reputation for professionalism, compassion, and dedication to justice. Reflecting her deep commitment to public service, she also served with great distinction as a Municipal Judge in Fort Bend County. Her career stands as a testament to the values of fairness and integrity that she brings to every aspect of her life.

Kinnera passionately introduced the full scope of the occasion. She comprehensively touched upon the book, my background, the Chief Guest, the audience, the temple premises, and the adjacent Statue of Union. Most importantly, she highlighted Teachers’ Day, which coincided with the book launch, drawing a parallel to the "Acharya Concept" by comparing India’s former President, Dr. Sarvepalli Radhakrishnan, as an ideal teacher, and Lord Hanuman as a divine Acharya.

‘The bond between Radhakrishnan’s vision of teachers and the character of Lord Hanuman highlights similarities in all aspects,’ Kinnera observed. As soon as Kinnera welcomed the Chief Guest, Asha Reddi, and me to the platform, my granddaughters, Kanak Vanam and Irah Vanam, stepped forward. They presented bouquets to both of us before delivering brief but lovely addresses to the audience. With Yashwin, Ansh, and Medha seated by my side, the grandchildren officially launched the book, followed by the presentation of the first copy to Asha Reddi.

Yashwin and Medha gave an enthralling speech, touching upon our family, their deep association with me, and the book's origins. Medha fondly took personal credit for the Telugu version of Sundara Kanda, noting it was written right when she was born in Cincinnati. Yashwin, as is his wont, proudly compared himself to his grandfather, highlighting their similarities and sharing how much I inspire him.

The grandchildren, especially Kanak, explained the catalyst for this English version: it was their direct loving demand to me to translate the Valmiki Ramayana with a "simplified and faithful rendering" to bridge languages, generations, and continents. Today, their wish stands beautifully fulfilled. Even Irah, the youngest, sweetly mentioned that her grandfather has an inspiring "zest for life." Amidst the celebration, there were incessant, curious mobile calls from Mihira, my other granddaughter currently in Germany, checking in with loving excitement.

Meanwhile, my son Aditya and daughter-in-law Parul uniquely used a question-and-answer format to share the context, genesis, and completion of the book. Ansh and Kishan, young men of few words, quietly showed their appreciation from the audience. Bunti (Prema) seamlessly managed the event's logistics, while my wife, Vijayalaxmi, was my usual anchor of silent support, sitting by my side with an occasional, warm smile.

Concluding her speech in the divine presence of Lord Hanuman: her favorite deity, Madam Asha Reddi celebrated this auspicious launch. May Lord Hanuman guide her success as Candidate for Judge, 240^th District Court, with our Telugu community’s fullest unflinching support.

Kshaya Masa and its profound Relevance: Vanam Jwala Narasimha Rao

 Kshaya Masa and its profound Relevance

 (A Comprehensive Analysis of Siddhanta

Astronomy, Vedic Foundations, and Dharmic Practices)

Vanam Jwala Narasimha Rao

The Hans India (September 6, 2026)

{While most of us are familiar with the ‘Adhika Masa (extra month)’ added to synchronize our lunar calendars, there exists an even rarer, highly intricate calendar adjustment known as the ‘Kshaya Masa’ (Dropped or skipped month). Based on contemporary research and classical astronomical texts, leading astrologers confirm that an exceptionally rare ‘Pushya Kshaya Masa’ is manifesting in the upcoming lunar Keelaka (2028-2029) year} – Editor’s Synoptic Note.

The traditional Indian system of timekeeping (Kala Gana) is far more than a secular table of dates and months. It is a precise, scientific bridge that connects the cosmic paths of the Sun and Moon, the seasonal rhythms of nature, and the daily dharmic life of human beings. The mathematics of the Indian almanac (Panchanga) plays a pivotal role in translating complex astronomical occurrences into structural guidelines for our daily and seasonal prayers.

While most of us are familiar with the ‘Adhika Masa (extra month)’ added to synchronize our lunar calendars, there exists an even rarer, highly intricate calendar adjustment known as the ‘Kshaya Masa’ (Dropped or skipped month). Based on contemporary research and classical astronomical texts, leading astrologers confirm that an exceptionally rare ‘Pushya Kshaya Masa’ is manifesting in the upcoming lunar Keelaka (2028-2029) year.

Tracing the Vedic Seeds, physical causes, and everyday religious rules surrounding this dropped month is quite interesting. The primary baseline for this comprehensive study is drawn from the research papers presented and discussed threadbare by premier calendar architects at the ‘Telangana Vidwat Sabha Conclave’ held recently in Hyderabad, under the leadership of Telangana Vidvat Sabha Secretary Divya Jnana Siddhaanti and Treasurer Darshanam Marumamula Venkataramana Sarma.

This erudite gathering brought together: Yayavaram Chandrasekhara Sharma, Shankaramanchi Ramakrishna Sastri, Shankaramanchi Siva Siddhanti, Akella Jayakrishna Sarma, Mokrala Lakshana Murthi Sarma, Ellikanti Lakshmi Ganapathi Sarma, Somayajula Sairama Sarma, Lanka Venkataramana Subrahmanya Sastri, Gadicherla Nageswara Rao, Thoomla Kamalakar Sarma, Chikili Venkateshwara Sharma, Shastrula Krishnamurti Sharma, Borbatla Bhaskaracharylu, Borbatla Raghavendracharylu, Uppala Prasada Sharma, Pendyala Hanumanth Rao, Gouribhatla Ramakrishna Sharma, Vadigecharla Venkataramana,  Cheruvu Rambabu, the facilitator etc.  

To understand a dropped month, one must understand how our calendar breathes. The Indian Panchanga relies on a combined Luni-Solar model. According to the foundational ‘Surya Siddhanta,’ a standard solar year spans 365.258756 days, while a standard twelve-month lunar year totals only 354.367055 days. This creates an annual deficit of roughly 10.891701 days between the Sun and the Moon. When this difference accumulates to equal about a full month (roughly every three years), a lunar month without a solar transit (Sankranti) is created and labeled an ‘Adhika Masa’ to reset the seasonal clock.

Conversely, when the sun moves so swiftly that it crosses two distinct zodiac boundaries within the span of a single lunar month (from one new moon to the next), it creates a Kshaya Masa or ‘Dvi-Sankranti Masa’ (Dual-Transit Month). Therefore, it is vital to know that a dropped month does not mean thirty days are physically wiped out from existence. It simply means that a particular lunar month name (in this case, Pushya) is denied its own exclusive, independent new-moon-to-new-moon slot, causing it to merge into the surrounding months.

The concept of a dropped month is not a modern astrological invention; it holds deep scriptural authority. The ancient scriptures say that honoring a thirteenth conditional month and its rightful place in sacred rituals is a routine matter. According to commentarial traditions, a special year that hosts a dropped month actually produces three unique monthly characteristics to balance the cosmos. They are classified as: Samsarpa, Amhaspati, and Adhika Masa.  

The concept of a dropped month is not a modern astrological invention. The ancient scriptures say that honouring a thirteenth conditional month and its rightful place in sacred rituals is a routine matter. According to commentarial traditions, a special year that hosts a dropped month produces three unique monthly characteristics to balance the cosmos. They are classified as: Samsarpa, Amhaspati, and Adhika Masa.  

In the Mahabharata (Virata Parva), the great patriarch Bhishma relies on this exact mathematical math when calculating whether the Pandavas successfully completed their thirteen-year exile. He declares that the movements of the Sun and Moon naturally generate two extra months every five years, verifying the dynamic nature of our calendar. The Shrimad Bhagavatam also supports this physical math by explaining the three distinct speeds of the Sun: Manda (slow), Shighra (fast), and Sama (mean).

Modern astronomy and Kepler's laws of planetary motion reveal a beautiful harmony with our ancient systems. The Earth travels around the Sun in an elliptical (oval) orbit, rather than a perfect circle. When the Earth makes its closest approach to the Sun, a position called ‘Perihelion’ (which occurs annually in early January), its orbital speed naturally increases. Because the Earth moves faster, the Sun appears to move through the winter zodiac signs of Sagittarius (Dhanus) and Capricorn (Makara) much quicker, making those solar months significantly shorter in days.

Siddhantis explained that a Kshaya Masa can only happen when three precise physical conditions match perfectly.

1.A short solar month: The sun traveling at peak speed near earth’s perihelion;

2.A long lunar month: The moon traveling near its farthest point from Earth (Apogee), which slows its speed and extends the days between two new moons;

3.Boundary proximity: The first new moon landing just fractions of a degree before a solar transit, and the next new moon landing just after the subsequent transit.

The consensus research of Siddhantis provides concrete mathematical proof for the 2028–2029 occurrence.

On December 16, 2028, the first new moon conjoins. This is a razor-thin fraction of a degree away from the 240° zodiac boundary. Moments after this new moon concludes, the Sun enters 240°, triggering Dhanus Sankranti. Before the next new moon can form, the sun rapidly crosses the 270° line, completing Makara Sankranti. The subsequent new moon alignment only catches up on January 14, 2029, when the Sun has already advanced.

Even though the Sun’s real travel between these new moons is just 30°+ it successfully bypasses two transits (Dhanus and Makara) within one lunar month. This creates a merged Marga Shira-Pushya environment, effectively dropping Pushya Masa from its solo title. Immediately following this phase, the calendar triggers a balancing correction by inserting an Adhika Chaitra Masa from March 15, 2029, to April 14, 2029. The Siddhanta Shiromani tracks the historical return of dropped months using a classical word-number system called Bhuta Sankhya.

Siddhantis note that terms like ‘Kuvedendu’ signify a 141-year gap, while ‘Goku’ represents a short 19-year gap. They remind that Pushya Kshaya Masas returned in just a tight 19-year interval during the years 1963 (Shobha Krut) and 1983 (Dundubhi). Long-term astronomical tables mark the Shaka years 1963, 1982, 2028, and 2047 as dropped-month years. Due to the constant gravitational tugs on planetary paths, there is no permanent, rigid cycle; each instance must be mapped fresh by the calendar makers.

It is perfectly normal for minor anxieties or misunderstandings to pop up across communities when a dropped month is announced. However, according to formal scriptural science, this is not an inauspicious omen or a curse; it is a magnificent mathematical self-correction of nature. As the texts remind us, if an individual’s personal natal chart is resilient, planetary alignments remain harmonious.

To keep things completely clear for day-to-day life, simple guidelines may be followed. This is in reference to the core dropped month and extra-month phases (spanning roughly between December 2028 and April 2029). Daily home prayers, lighting the family lamp, routine Saturday or monthly fasting, reading holy books, making charitable donations, and standard ancestral remembrance rites (Nitya Shradha) must continue as usual.

The occurrence of a Kshaya Masa is an example of, timeless brilliance of India's ancient astronomers and sages, who thousands of years ago, successfully calculated the subtle speed variations of the Sun and Moon.

A Wonderful Day of Milestones >>>>> With Family, and Community in and around Houston : Vanam Jwala Narasimha Rao

 A Wonderful Day of Milestones

With Family, and Community 

in and around Houston

Vanam Jwala Narasimha Rao (September 4, 2026)

They say home is where the heart is, but sometimes, a single day in a faraway city can make your heart expand to feel completely at home. Our recent visit to Houston, Texas, gave us exactly that: a beautiful reminder of how blessed we are with family milestones and the warmth of an incredible community.

What a wonderful day yesterday was! It was one of those rare, beautiful days where family milestones and deep community connections came together perfectly, leaving our hearts absolutely full. The celebrations actually kicked off right at midnight, ringing in the birthday of our grandson, Ansh Vanam.

Ansh had just arrived from Seattle the previous night. It was such a joy to celebrate this brilliant young man, who graduated in Computer Science from the University of Maryland, Baltimore County (UMBC), and is now making us proud working with Amazon. Cutting his birthday cake at midnight was the perfect, high-energy start to an unforgettable day.

The festive mood continued into the evening with a fantastic birthday get-together at Simply South, one of the finest Indian restaurants in Houston. Surrounded by good food and laughter, it was pure fun.

From there, my grandson drove my wife and me to our daughter Kinnera’s house in Sugar Land, a beautiful Houston suburb. Kinnera had organized a truly special gathering of like-minded families from the area. These are couples who have lived in the US for a long time, but what struck me most was their bond.

They don't just live near each other; they live as one large, tightly-knit family. They are a real team: standing together through thick and thin, and finding genuine joy in each other's smallest happy moments.

The main anchor for this gathering was my elder daughter, Prema (famously known as Prema the Journalist), who lives with us in Hyderabad. While our youngest son and second daughter are US citizens living right here in Houston, we actually crossed the ocean for this trip alongside Prema, who was a special invitee at the recently concluded ATA (American Telugu Association) conference.

Kinnera’s gathering was the perfect stage for the Houston Telugu community to connect with Prema and exchange ideas. For over three hours, the room was alive with a brilliant, stimulating Q&A session.

The conversation bounced effortlessly across every topic imaginable: from thrilling political debates and faction dynamics to academic insights, informative cultural talk, and inside stories from Tollywood. It was academic, probing, knowledgeable, and deeply engaging all at once.

To crown the night, we all shared a spectacular, tasty potluck dinner, which was an absolute highlight of the evening.

As the night came to a close, almost reaching today, my wife and I looked around the room and felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude. Seeing the sheer enthusiasm, warmth, and vibrant energy with which this Telugu community lives in Sugar Land was simply enthralling.

Distance may separate us geographically, but bonds like these prove that love, culture, and togetherness know no borders. It is the kind of energy that sustains your spirit, leaving us holding onto these memories tightly and wishing we could stay just a little bit longer.

Simplified and faithful rendering of the Adi Kavya-38>>>>> From Palace Splendour to Forest Silence >>> Rama’s Passage into Exile with Sita and Lakshmana : Vanam Jwala Narasimha Rao

 From Palace Splendour to Forest Silence

Simplified and faithful rendering 

of the Adi Kavya-38

Rama’s Passage into Exile with 

Sita and Lakshmana

Vanam Jwala Narasimha Rao

The preceding chapter of the Ayodhya Kanda closed with a scene of unbearable grief. Ayodhya, once radiant with expectation of Rama’s coronation, had fallen into profound sorrow. King Dasharatha lay shattered, the queens wept, and the citizens ran behind the departing chariot as though life itself were slipping away. Yet Rama did not turn back. He walked forward, not out of indifference, but out of unwavering commitment to dharma.

In this chapter of Ayodhya Kanda, the narrative gradually shifts from the emotional upheaval within the palace and city to the moral grandeur unfolding along the forest path. The physical journey toward exile becomes a spiritual journey for Ayodhya itself. What appears as separation is, in truth, the unfolding of a larger divine design. In times when personal loss overshadows collective responsibility, Rama’s example reminds modern readers that true leadership sometimes requires walking away from power to preserve principle.

Amidst the mourning city of Ayodhya, despite King Dasharatha collapsing in grief, Queen Kausalya and the other queens lamenting in anguish, Rama moved forward in serene resolve. Accompanied by his devoted wife Sita and his steadfast brother Lakshmana, he set out toward the forest exile, riding the chariot driven by the loyal minister Sumantra. Sage Valmiki, the Adikavi, now begins to shift the stage gradually from the royal grandeur of Ayodhya to the austere depths of the Dandaka forest, while intermittently returning to events within the grieving capital.

Every gesture of Rama, every word he uttered, and every encounter along this path symbolized the sacred purpose for which Lord Vishnu had incarnated in human form. For contemporary readers, this transition marks a powerful truth: life’s most defining chapters often begin not in comfort, but in courageous acceptance of responsibility. The devoted citizens of Ayodhya continued to follow Rama’s chariot, unwilling to part from him. Though King Dasharatha, overwhelmed and restrained by fate, could not physically pursue his son, the rest of the people steadfastly followed.

Rama, celebrated for his virtues and cherished by all, inspired such affection that no one could bear the thought of separation. Yet, determined to uphold his father’s vow above all else, he continued toward the forest. Turning with tender affection toward those trailing behind him, Rama gently urged them that the love and honor they had bestowed upon him should, for his own satisfaction, now be offered in even greater measure to Bharata.

In an age where loyalty often centers on personalities rather than principles, Rama redirects devotion toward rightful order, teaching that institutions must endure beyond individuals. Rama then spoke warmly of Bharata’s noble qualities. He described him as one who brought joy to Kaikeyi, who possessed exemplary conduct, and who would undoubtedly act in ways beneficial and pleasing to the people of Ayodhya. Though young in years, Bharata was mature in wisdom, and gentle in temperament, yet firm in strength and virtue.

Rama assured the citizens that Bharata would dispel their fears and govern them as a worthy master. Endowed with royal virtues and already designated by the king as prince, Bharata’s authority, Rama affirmed, must be honored by all. With deep earnestness, he pleaded: ‘If you truly desire to please me, ensure that the king does not suffer further agony when I have departed for the forest.’ Here Rama revealed a timeless lesson: true greatness lies not in securing one’s own legacy, but in safeguarding harmony even in one’s absence.

 The more Rama revealed his unwavering fidelity to duty, the stronger grew the people’s longing to have him as their sovereign. True authority, they realized, flowed not from power but from integrity. Among those who followed him were many Brahmins, their hearts overwhelmed with devotion. In their anguish, they even addressed the noble steeds that drew the chariot: ‘O swift and noble horses! Turn back! Do not carry Rama away from us. Be kind to your master. By taking him from us against our will, you do him no service. Return! Their cry was not merely emotional, rather, it was an appeal to nature itself to halt destiny.

Hearing those piercing words, Rama, moved by compassion, descended from the chariot along with Sita and Lakshmana and began to proceed on foot toward the forest. When righteousness walks away from comfort, even the elements seem implored to resist the departure. Yet destiny guided by dharma cannot be reversed by emotion alone. Rama, tender in disposition and luminous with compassion, could not bear the sight of the Brahmins walking behind him on weary feet. Observing that he still advanced toward the forest, the Brahmins became deeply distressed and perplexed.

With folded hands they addressed him, saying that their entire community, bound by reverence and devotion, was determined to follow him. They were carrying their sacred fires upon their shoulders, protected by canopies lest rain extinguish them. These very canopies, they added, could offer shade to Rama as well. In their minds, exile was not hardship if shared with him, and the preservation of sacred fire symbolized the preservation of sacred order, and they wished to carry both into the forest with their beloved prince. This episode gently reminds modern readers that when moral leadership is strong, even custodians of tradition are ready to walk into uncertainty rather than remain in compromised security.

The Brahmins continued their earnest plea: ‘We shall bear the Vedas in our hearts as our most precious treasure. Our wives shall remain at home, guarded by their virtue. We will not withdraw from this resolve. Our minds are firmly set on accompanying you.’ Thus, they spoke, their voices choked with tears, hoping to persuade Rama to return. Meanwhile, the sacred river Tamasa came into view. As twilight approached, Sumantra unharnessed the horses and allowed them to graze upon the lush grass near the riverbank.

The horses drank the cool waters and were refreshed, their bodies cleansed in the gentle current. The team halted there for the night, marking the first pause in Rama’s exile. In this quiet halt by the Tamasa, the narrative softens, teaching that even in moments of profound upheaval, nature offers brief intervals of rest, reminding us that endurance requires both resolve and renewal. As the evening deepened on the banks of the Tamasa, Rama gently consulted Sita and Lakshmana regarding their course ahead.

This was their very first night in the forest, and he spoke with reassuring calm: they had been sent here in obedience to duty, and therefore, there was no cause for anxiety, and all would unfold for their good. Observing the scene around them, Rama described how the animals and birds were returning to their nests and shelters, while the lonely woods seemed to echo with a sorrowful stillness, as though the forest itself shared in their exile. He reflected that the city of Ayodhya would surely be lamenting their departure.

Yet, Rama affirmed with fairness that the citizens’ affection was extended not only to himself and Lakshmana, but equally to Bharata and Satrughna, and certainly to the king, whose virtues had long guided the kingdom. In this moment, Rama demonstrated emotional balance, by acknowledging grief without allowing it to cloud fairness. Even in sorrow, he refused to divide hearts or diminish others.

Rama then turned his thoughts toward his aged father and sorrow-stricken mother. With tender concern, he wondered whether their incessant weeping might have impaired their sight. Yet he placed his trust in Bharata’s righteousness, confident that his virtuous brother would console their parents with gentle and wise words. Reflecting repeatedly upon Bharata’s kindness, Rama restrained his own grief for them. He warmly praised Lakshmana for choosing to accompany him, and without such loyal support, he would have needed to seek another protector for Sita in the forest’s uncertainties.

Declaring simplicity as his resolve, Rama chose to partake only of water that night, though fruits and roots were plentiful. Before resting, he instructed Sumantra to carefully tend the horses, ensuring their comfort and nourishment. Here, even in exile, Rama’s priorities revealed themselves: care for parents, trust in a worthy successor, gratitude toward loyal companionship, and concern even for animals under his charge. True nobility expresses itself in small attentions as much as in grand sacrifices.

As darkness fully enveloped the sky, Sumantra secured the horses, fed them well with abundant grass, and stood reverently near Rama. With Lakshmana’s help and assistance, he prepared a simple bed of leaves upon the bank of the Tamasa. Upon this humble resting place, Rama lay down beside Sita, who had willingly renounced palace comforts without hesitation. Watching his brother and sister-in-law asleep upon the forest floor, Lakshmana remained awake throughout the night.

In hushed tones, he spoke to Sumantra of Rama’s many virtues, such as, his truthfulness, compassion, valor, and steadfastness, as well as, recounting them with devotion. Thus, beneath the silent canopy of stars, the first night of exile passed, guarded not by palace sentries, but by love and unwavering loyalty. Leadership that inspires such wakeful devotion is not built by command, but by character. In every age, it is integrity, but not authority, that keeps others willingly vigilant. Meanwhile, as dawn broke and the sun slowly rose, Rama awoke from his bed of leaves.

Casting his gaze across the banks of the Tamasa, he beheld the citizens of Ayodhya lying asleep at a distance, clustered beneath trees and surrounded by their herds of cows. They had followed him in such deep attachment that they had forgotten even their own homes. Turning to Lakshmana, Rama spoke softly: ‘See how these citizens, filled with longing for us, lie resting at the roots of trees, unmindful of comfort or possession. Their resolve to take us back to Ayodhya is so firm that they may even lay down their lives rather than abandon it. Before they awaken from this deep sleep, let us quietly mount the chariot and proceed by another path.’

Sometimes compassion requires silent departure. When affection becomes attachment that obstructs duty, wisdom must gently intervene without humiliating love. Lakshmana immediately agreed and urged Rama to ascend the chariot without delay, along with Sita. Sumantra swiftly harnessed the noble horses and made the chariot ready in every respect. Rama, carrying his bow, armor, quiver, spade, basket, and other necessary implements of forest life, mounted the chariot with Sita.

They crossed the swiftly flowing Tamasa River and, upon reaching the opposite bank, entered a broad and unobstructed road, safe even for those troubled by fear. In order to prevent the citizens from tracing their path, Rama instructed Sumantra to drive the chariot northward, in the direction of Ayodhya, thereby confusing the tracks. Obedient to Rama’s command, Sumantra followed this strategy. Here Rama revealed another dimension of dharma, the foresight. Righteousness is not naïve, but it acts with intelligence to prevent greater emotional upheaval and to preserve larger responsibilities.

In this context, Andhra Valmiki, Vavilikolanu Subbarau (Vasudasa Swamy), in his faithful Telugu rendering of the Sanskrit Valmiki Ramayana, composed with the same number of verses as the original shlokas, offered a profound interpretive reflection on this episode. An objection may arise: How could Sri Rama deceive those devoted followers who, out of boundless love for him, were ready even to give up their lives and had abandoned their homes and households to accompany him?

To answer this, he offers an analogy. If a person develops a large and dangerous boil upon the body, and if it continues to grow more and more severe, a physician, judging it harmful, performs surgery to remove it. During the surgery, the patient undoubtedly experiences pain. Yet afterward comes relief and healing. Similarly, Sri Rama had spent many days among the citizens, and their joy in his presence had grown excessive.

Had that joy continued unchecked, it might have crossed the limits of emotional balance and turned into a kind of unhealthy obsession. The body can endure only so much and beyond that, harm begins. Therefore, it was Sri Rama’s resolve to reduce that overwhelming attachment at the proper moment and to grant them only that measure of joy which they could sustain. For this reason, he adopted this course.

What appeared outwardly as deception was, in truth, a thoughtful act performed for their ultimate welfare. Had he not acted in this way, if even one among them had awakened, he might not have been able to proceed with his exile. Moreover, in accordance with divine will, each person receives only the measure of merit destined for them, and no more and no less. Without such a strategy, Sri Rama himself might have been left blameworthy for failing to fulfill his ordained duty.

This interpretation offers a deeply relevant lesson: leadership sometimes requires painful separation to prevent unhealthy dependence. Love must elevate, not enslave. Even today, parents, teachers, and leaders must occasionally step back so that affection does not become attachment that weakens resilience.

At daybreak, when the citizens awoke from their exhausted sleep, they realized with sudden horror that Rama was no longer there. Bereft and bewildered, they stood motionless, as though life itself had paused within them. Tears streamed down their faces. Anguish distorted their expressions. They lamented bitterly, reproaching themselves for having succumbed to sleep and thereby losing the last sight of their beloved prince.

Overwhelmed with grief at Rama’s departure into exile, abandoning those who adored him, some even contemplated ending their lives then and there, by kindling a funeral pyre from the dry logs scattered nearby, or else resolving to march deep into the forest in desperate search of him. Such intensity of devotion reveals how deeply moral leadership binds a community. Yet it also warns that when identity becomes centered on one individual alone, emotional balance can collapse into despair.

They then pondered the painful prospect of returning to Ayodhya without Rama. ‘If we go back without him,’ they said, ‘that city which already plunged in sorrow, will sink into even deeper desolation among its women, children, and aged. Having left it with Rama, how can we now behold it again without him?’ Yet when they discovered that the tracks of the chariot had vanished, leaving no trace to follow, their hopes of pursuit faded.

With heavy hearts, the virtuous citizens retraced their steps toward Ayodhya. As they approached the once-glorious city, tears flowed unceasingly from their grief-stricken eyes, and their minds were weighed down by utter cheerlessness. When the path of righteousness disappears from sight, communities often feel directionless. The loss of visible guidance tests whether values will endure even in absence.

Each man returned to his home, where wives and children gathered around him in shared sorrow. Faces were hidden behind veils of tears. No one showed delight or animation. Merchants no longer displayed their wares. Their markets seemed lifeless and unattractive. Household duties were neglected. Cooking fires remained unlit. Even the recovery of lost wealth or the gain of fresh prosperity brought no joy.

Mothers did not rejoice at the birth of sons, blessings that would ordinarily fill a household with celebration. The rhythms of ordinary life had lost their meaning. Valmiki poignantly illustrates that prosperity without righteousness feels hollow. Material abundance cannot compensate for moral absence: a lesson that remains strikingly relevant in modern societies driven by wealth yet yearning for ethical anchorage.

Overcome with sorrow, the women of Ayodhya poured out their anguish upon their husbands as they returned home. Their words were sharp and piercing, like the goad that strikes an elephant. ‘With Rama gone to exile,’ they cried, ‘King Dasharatha cannot survive long. When he is gone, only endless regret will remain. If your merit is exhausted and ill-fortune has marked you, then drink poison and end this misery! Or else follow Rama into the forest.’

They further said: ‘Or at least go where even the name of Kaikeyi cannot be heard. Rama, along with Sita and Lakshmana, has been deceitfully sent away. And we are now handed over to Bharata like cattle delivered to a slaughterer!’ Their grief, mingled with anger, gave voice to the helplessness of a people who felt betrayed by destiny itself. In moments of collective shock, grief often seeks an object to blame. Valmiki captures how pain can sharpen speech, yet beneath harsh words lies wounded devotion.

Thus lamenting, the wives of Ayodhya wept as though a shadow of impending death had fallen upon every household. The sun set beneath the horizon, but darkness had already descended long before twilight. Sacred fires were no longer kindled. The chanting of the Vedas and the recitation of holy narratives ceased. The city that once resounded with spiritual vibrancy now seemed wrapped in a suffocating gloom.

Trade had come to a standstill. Joy had evaporated. Ayodhya appeared abandoned by its own spirit, like a sky stripped of its stars. When dharma appears eclipsed, even culture and economy lose vitality. Spiritual decline precedes social stagnation, a truth that societies across ages have rediscovered at great cost. The women, whose hearts ached as though their own sons or brothers had been driven into exile, wept uncontrollably in countless ways.

To many of them, Rama was dearer even than their own children. The city of Ayodhya, once alive with song, celebration, dance, and instrumental music, had fallen into utter silence. Shops were shuttered. Festive sounds had vanished. It resembled a vast ocean whose waters had dried up, leaving only a barren expanse where waves once danced in rhythm and joy. Valmiki’s imagery is striking: a civilization without its moral center becomes like a dried ocean. Structures remain, but vitality disappears. For modern readers, the message is unmistakable: cultural brilliance must rest upon ethical foundations, or it will inevitably wither.

Thus, ends this deeply moving phase of the Ayodhya Kanda, an episode not marked by battle or spectacle, but by the quiet heroism of renunciation. The city that once glittered with coronation hopes now lay subdued in grief. Citizens wept, markets fell silent, sacred chants faded, and even the rhythm of daily life seemed suspended. Rama’s departure was not merely the exile of a prince, but it was the temporary eclipse of Ayodhya’s visible source of moral assurance. Yet beneath this overwhelming sorrow, something greater had begun to unfold.

Rama, Sita, and Lakshmana, having crossed the Tamasa and withdrawn from the affectionate grasp of the citizens, now stepped into a life outwardly uneventful, yet inwardly transformative. The forest would not offer the structured grandeur of royal halls. Instead, it would offer solitude, austerity, discipline, and encounter with the unknown. What appears at first as a quiet interval in the epic is, in truth, a crucible. In that seeming stillness, character would deepen, devotion would mature, and destiny would gather strength.

Often in life, the most decisive chapters are not those filled with visible achievement, but those of patient endurance, silent growth, and unwavering adherence to principle. For the trio: Rama, Lakshmana, and Sita, the forest would become a sacred classroom. The prince would live as a hermit, the princess would embrace simplicity without regret, and the devoted brother would stand guard without fatigue. Their life in exile may appear externally uneventful, yet it is precisely this restraint and steadiness that prepares the stage for the monumental events yet to come.

Ayodhya mourned. The forest awaited. Grief had not ended. But dharma continued its course. As we move into the subsequent chapters, we shall witness how exile refined greatness, how adversity revealed inner divinity, and how what seemed like loss, gradually transformed into universal gain. The palace had receded behind them, but the purpose of the incarnation advanced steadily forward. In every age, when comfort gives way to challenge, the Ramayana reminds that, the path of righteousness may lead through forests before it restores kingdoms.

>>>Photographs courtesy Rama Bhakta Vijaya Raghava Dasu Disciple of Chilakapati  

{{From my Published Book ‘Simplified and Faithful Rendering of the Adi Kavya’

Valmiki Ramayana: The Greatest Epic (Bala and Ayodhya Kandas)}}

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