In the Shadow of the Endless One: A Life Blessed by Bhagavan Nityananda
By a Child of the Fourth Generation

I was a little over five years old when Bhagavan Nityananda took Mahasamadhi. Yet even in those tender years, my life had already been deeply soaked in His presence. Here you see me in a photograph with Kuttiram Swami—one of the many silent witnesses to the extraordinary days we lived under the gaze of the Supreme Being in human form.

For five generations, my family—the Shenoys—have received the direct darshan of Bhagavan Nityananda. I am the fourth in that sacred lineage. On my mother’s side too, the blessings were no less. Both lines, maternal and paternal, were graced to be among His earliest devotees. My childhood, in a way, was less about school and textbooks and more about the mud paths and divine play in Ganeshpuri.

I remember how He would care for me, not like a distant God, but as a tender guardian. He would hand me fruits, biscuits, and sweets. Mangoes and bananas were my weakness, and Bhagavan, knowing this, would feed me mangoes one after another. He watched with amusement as the juice covered my small body from chin to toes. By evening, my parents would pick me up, sticky and smiling, and lower me into the sacred Kunda for a bath, as if cleansing me in His waters of love.

The biscuits He gave us children were fondly known as Ramakada Biscuits. In those days—1950s India—they were a rare delight: arrowroot and vanilla flavoured, pressed into moulds shaped like animals and birds—elephants, tigers, sparrows. It wasn’t just a snack; it was joy in form. We kids would run around bartering duplicates, trying to get our favourite creature into our hands, all while Bhagavan smiled at our innocence.

He gave us toys too—simple, meaningful toys. A clay cow, a parrot, Radha-Krishna idols, and a wooden peacock on wheels whose neck bobbed as it rolled across the floor. Once, He placed a crêpe paper crown around my head, marking me perhaps in a way that I only understand today.

Another time, He gave my brother and me pieces of cloth—bright and new, but teasing erupted when people realised they were half-sarees meant for young girls! An attendant brought this to Bhagavan’s attention. Without a word, Bhagavan took them back and returned with a blue shirt for my brother and an ochre shirt for me. The shirt reached my ankles—I must have looked like a young monk! He smiled, and everyone around smiled too. It was always play in His divine presence.

And then came the pen.

One day, He handed me a blue fountain pen. I was too young to understand its meaning, but the gesture stayed with me. Decades later, long after His Mahasamadhi, when life had taken me far from Ganeshpuri, Govind Swami looked at me and asked, “Will you write on Chidakasha Geeta?” I hadn’t intended to. Every time I tried to read the Geeta, I would drift into sleep. But one day, it happened. The book opened. No—it revealed.

Between 2008 and 2018, I undertook a deep study of Chidakasha Geeta. Previously, whenever I attempted to read Chidakasha Geeta, it would put me to a deep sleep. What I began as casual reading unfolded into a profound inquiry.  The same verse would offer a different light depending on my state of being. It was alive. It was Bhagavan whispering in silence. The pen He had given me so many years ago had finally found its work.

Today, when I reflect on my life, I see that Bhagavan was always there—playing, guiding, gifting, shaping. Not in loud proclamations, but in mangoes and toy peacocks, in Ramakada biscuits and ochre shirts, in a blue pen and a book of silence. The vagaries of life, the pulls and pushes often veiled His presence, but He was always present with me in all circumstances, whether I was aware of Him or not

This is not just my story—it is the story of how the Infinite works through time, through generations, through seemingly small gestures, to awaken something vast within.

All glory to Bhagavan Nityananda—the Endless One.

Idless One.