Winter in Ganeshpuri
It was hard to tell whether it was still night or the early stirrings of dawn—the sacred Brahmamurtha. For a young boy, it was the perfect hour to curl deeper under the warm rug and continue dreaming. But my father had other plans. To him, this was the finest part of the day—to be with Him, to make the most of the living silence.
He scooped me up, ignoring my sleepy protests, and we stepped out into the biting cold. The chill stung my skin, and my teeth chattered like a little machine gone mad—as if a tiny motor had been fastened to my jaw.
Lord Krishna
We passed the temple of Lord Krishna. There He stood, flute raised to His lips, His large, tender eyes gazing out through the grill of the sanctum door. I paused. Why would He be up so early, in this cold? Wouldn’t it be nicer to lie swaddled in the warmth of Mother Yashoda’s arms? But no—He stood there, smiling softly… watching me.
Further ahead, the great bull sat before the Bhimeshwar shrine—Nandi, serene and unmoving. What made him rise so early and take his seat with such calm devotion? Rain or shine, summer or winter—there he remained, day after day, gazing at his Lord, unshaken, undistracted, completely absorbed. He was just there. I wondered… What was it that made him so still, so content?
Soon, my father dipped into the steaming waters of the Kund, the sacred hot spring. The warmth enveloped me like a mother’s embrace. Looking up, I saw the three-faced Dattatreya—accompanied by the cow and the four dogs, holding a trident, a conch, and a lotus, His raised hand offering eternal benediction. The Eternal Jagaguru, Guru of all gurus!
In that moment, everything stilled.
The warmth of the water, the serenity of the gaze, the mystery of the dawn—it all made sense. It was worth waking up for. It was worth shivering for. It was worth being there.
Just to be—like that Nandi. Still. Watchful. Present.
Not striving. Not resisting. Not questioning.
Just being—a perfect expression of the eternal To Be.
Nandi
The One
In the winter of 2012, I took a group of friends, most of them devoted followers of Shree Swami Samartha of Akkalkot, to Ganeshpuri. There were about twelve of us. We arrived in the evening, the village wrapped in a quiet, crisp chill. After bathing in the sacred Kunda, we made our way to the 8 p.m. Aarthi at the Samadhi Mandir of Bhagavan Nityananda.
Though the air was thick with reverence and the glow of devotion, there lingered a subtle sense of otherness—a—gentle distance, perhaps born of unfamiliarity with the place or its deity. We had dinner afterwards and, feeling drawn once more, returned to the Samadhi shrine just as the Shej Aarthi (night offering) began.
In that hushed, sacred moment, my friend Prasad Pense, a steadfast devotee of Shree Swami Samartha, silently offered a heartfelt prayer:
“Swami, show me who is Nityananda.”
No sooner had that prayer risen from his heart than the priest, in an entirely unassuming act, placed a woolen cap-a—monkey cap—on Bhagavan Nityananda’s murti. At that very instant, as if responding to an invisible cue, the entire group spontaneously fell in full prostration before the murti, uttering in unison:
“Shree Swami Samartha!”
Swami Samartha, as many devotees know, often wore a cap just like the one now adorning Bhagavan Nityananda’s head. That simple, outward gesture became an inner recognition—a divine connection. In that moment, there was no separation, no difference between the two.
One in All.
One Guru Tattva.
One Awareness.
One Brahman.
The veils of name and form dissolved. The One revealed Himself through another. For those who seek earnestly, the Guru always answers—sometimes even with a woollen cap.
