śrī hayagrīva stotram

We meditate on Hayagriva — the bliss of wisdom incarnate, of pure crystal form, the foundation of all knowledge.

I praise Hayagriva — self-accomplished, brilliant as pure crystal, illuminating all three worlds with moonlike nectar-radiance, endlessly resounding with the recitation of Vedic ends, destroyer of all blemishes, glory beyond measure.

May the neighing sound of the horse-faced Hayagriva dispel the inner darkness — he who is the synthesis of the Sama, the very abode of the Rig, the dissolution of all obstacles, the wave-flow of the ocean of consciousness, the commotion of scholars arguing with pride.

May the horse-faced form of Vasudeva — that form called Vagisha (lord of speech), a unique beauty like the eastern dawn of wisdom's eye, the revealer of the Vedas — illumine me.

I take refuge in Hayagriva — of the form of pure concentrated wisdom, vowed to dispensing knowledge, an ocean of compassion, the refuge of all embodied beings.

Even with the range of divinely revealed (apaurusheya) words, I have not seen the shore of your glory. I, a mere fool attempting to praise you, deserve your compassionate grace, O lord.

Shiva's beautiful form, the Goddess on the lotus seat, Vyasa and other sages of authoritative speech — all these radiate by tiny sparks of your power.

Brahma, who had the privilege of learning from the treasury of speech, would have been dull-witted — had you not graciously taught him again the Vedas that were carried away by the demons.

Because you guide Brihaspati with your truth, never swaying in the realm of goodness — O Lord, hence the sovereignty of the lords of the three worlds remains forever undisturbed.

Seated in the body made of mantras upon the seven-fold sacrificial fire with flaming sacrificial post — by offerings of undivided essence oblations, you nourish the gods who dwell in the sky.

Those of pure sattva truly know you in essence — both as the root of such wondrous reality and as the imperishable, the syllable, the matrix of all letters (Aksharamatrika).

You manifested from the unmanifest — the names and forms of old; O Vagishvara (lord of speech), those whose speech was born from you proclaim your ultimate foundation.

The enlightened meditate in their hearts upon your form — your form which generates the bliss-nectar of joy, like the high-tide of the milk-ocean.

One who always sees you in the mind — you, the royal swan of the wise ones' hearts — for him, words come obediently to serve his purpose as fitting.

Those who contemplate you even for half a moment, bathing in your pure rays of radiance — they are capable of making the Mandakini (Ganga) itself flow slower with the flood of their eloquent words.

O Lord, those fortunate ones who receive the anointing of meditation-nectar from you bear thrills of joy — whose root is hidden somewhere deep and sprouting as bliss in their very limbs.

O Lord, those fortunate ones, with inward-turned hearts inwardly cause the ocean of bliss to overflow through their eyes, swelling like the rising moon of meditation on you.

O Lord, the learned — whose experiences are self-governed, whose inner power is enriched by your grace — cross over your maya, the playful veil of enchantment.

May my salutations — which are the wish-fulfilling gems of my earlier accumulated tapas, the foremost blessings of liberation — flourish at your lotus feet.

May the grace of your feet, O Lord, trodden upon by the gems in the crowns of Indra and others and bearing the pollen-dust of a waving lotus, be ever upon me.

We contemplate your pair of feet, adorned with gleaming anklets whose radiance dispels all darkness — like the dawn that causes the lotus of awakening to open.

We regard your beautiful anklet with its melodious tinkling as a jewel-casket of the Vedic hymns — fit to adorn your servants, cherished by you across aeons.

I meditate on your hand — which kindles the lamps of each tradition, like the pale shoots of the wish-granting tree of wisdom, sweet with the gesture of exposition (vyakhyana mudra).

O Lord, in my heart I envision your other hand — holding the glistening rosary — like a waterwheel (jala-yantra) for those eager to draw up the nectar of knowledge.

O Lord, I contemplate your left hand carrying the book — red as coral rising from the ocean of awakening, a boon to those who seek your right (protection).

I perceive you shining in the new lotus — like the moon in autumn clouds — delighting the chakora-birds of scholars with pure rays that pierce the darkness.

O Lord, may your sidelong glances — companions of waves of compassion — always grant to the ears of devotees the Saraswati that flows with nectar like a wish-fulfilling cow.

O Lord, in the assemblies of great scholars, in the battlefields of learned debate — as I seek to conquer the best of scholars and poets, may you take your seat at the tip of my tongue.

Merged in you, immersed in your being, glorifying you with the power of your own word — O Lord, may I flourish in learned assemblies, a hero bound to the vow of free debate.

I have no skill in any of the many arts, nor have I taken a dip at sacred tirthas — surely I am a perpetually fresh vessel for your compassion, O shelterless refuge.

By your grace may the true principles shine in my heart — unshakable even by the finest distinctions of reason, blazing with the removal of every doubt and blemish.

May the lord of speech, Hayagriva, appear in my mind — holding the gesture of exposition, a book, conch and discus in his lotus hands, seated on a pure shining lotus, flooding me with immortal white rays of faultless glory.

For the attainment of eloquence and true knowledge, recite with devotion this praise of Hayagriva composed by Vedanta Desika, the lion among scholars and poets.