In the hushed sanctum of spiritual inquiry, a disciple dared to voice the burning question that lingered in the minds of many: "Does God truly partake of the sustenance we offer?"
The Guru, wise and serene, absorbed the inquiry without haste. Instead, he chose the patient cadence of contemplation over hurried response.
With the day's lessons imparted, the Guru beckoned his disciples to gather, a hush descending like a silken veil upon the assembly. He unfurled a verse, its rhythmic syllables dancing through the air, and bid each disciple to commit it to memory.
Hours passed like fleeting whispers, and when the moment ripened, the Guru turned to his questioning disciple. With unwavering resolve, the disciple recited the verse, every nuance woven into the tapestry of his mind.
But the Guru's silence lingered, a tranquil lake refusing the ripple of confirmation.
Frustration pricked the disciple's spirit like thorns, compelling him to offer proof from the sacred text itself. Yet, the Guru's response was not of rebuke but illumination.
With a gentle gesture, he unveiled the book, where the verse rested in tangible ink and paper. "The verse dwells in the physical realm," the Guru mused, "yet it finds refuge in the recesses of your mind, in a subtle form beyond mortal ken."
"In this ethereal realm," he continued, "lies the essence of offerings to the Divine. Just as the verse persists in the book even as it resides within you, so too does the Supreme Soul accept our offerings in a form unseen, untouched by the passage of material time."
Thus, the disciple grasped the truth: that the food offered, though unchanged in form, undergoes a transformation, transcending the bounds of physicality to become Prasad, a sanctified communion between mortal and divine.