Guruvanam in Rains

It was in the early 1980s when Andrew Sequeira, Sharad Jaywant, and we felt a deep inner call to spend a night at Guruvan, the sacred forest grove associated with Bhagavan Nityananda. Guruvan, then untouched and wild, was not the kind of place where city dwellers like us typically ventured, let alone spent a night. Yet, something within nudged us to experience its silence, its solitude, its mystery. The only thing standing between us and this aspiration was the need to seek Swamiji’s permission.

I was chosen—or perhaps gently cornered—into making the request. With both humility and hesitation, I approached Swamiji, fully expecting a firm but compassionate “No.” I began tentatively, asking if the three of us might visit Guruvan. To my utter surprise, he simply said, “Yes.” That one word felt like a door opening. Emboldened by this unexpected consent, I gathered my nerve and asked if we might walk there instead of taking a taxi, knowing that Swamiji usually advised taxis for the journey, especially since it involved crossing a river. Once again, he agreed without hesitation.

Now I stood at a threshold. The heart wanted more, but the mind cautioned against asking too much. Still, buoyed by his warmth, I dared to ask the unthinkable: “Swamiji, may we stay there overnight?” I knew this was asking a lot. We were from Bombay, born and bred in concrete landscapes, used to noise and neon lights, not jungle darkness and the rustle of unseen creatures. In the 1980s, Guruvan was completely wild—no electricity, no artificial comforts—only stars above, and nature in all her primal glory. I feared I had pushed my luck too far.

But then came the miracle—his third “Yes.” He agreed. I bowed deeply, overwhelmed by his trust in us. Without lingering another moment, I made a swift exit before he could reconsider or ask, “Are you sure?”

That night in Guruvan was unlike any other. Under a canopy of stars, in the hush of the forest, we sat in quietude. Not a single insect or reptile disturbed us, though we could hear their gentle symphony all around. The soft murmur of the Papnashini Ganga, flowing into a stone tub through a split bamboo spout, kept rhythm with the nocturnal sounds. It was as if the very elements respected our presence. We sat there in the dark present to the Solitude.

When dawn broke and it was time to return. We took a bath in the Papnashi Ganga and then took some time to wander in the Guruvan. There were jackfruit, mangoes, Jam, Jambul and many other trees. It was so beautiful with so many trees, creepers and birds around us. We suddenly realised that we must return to the main Ashram before noon. We started our descent from the Guruvan hill and reached the backwater. The villagers were wading through it very comfortably, which once again inspired us to take the return journey wading through it.  Suddenly, we found the skies brooding with clouds. As we cautiously waded across the river—an experience unfamiliar and unnerving for city folk like us—we remained alert to the threat of a sudden downpour.

As we neared the ashram, Swamiji was already waiting on the parapet. He sat there on the parapet overlooking the entrance gate, just like a mother watches the road for children returning from a first journey into the world. The sight of us emerging from the river brought visible relief to his face. The moment we stepped through the ashram gates, the heavens opened. Rain poured in torrents.

The watchman, whom we called PT, told us later that Swamiji was sitting for a long time at the entrance as if he were waiting for our return. No sooner had he seen us at the gate, he got up and went inside his room. It was as if he had held the clouds at bay with the quiet command of a yogi, ensuring our safety before allowing nature to resume her course. To this day, I wonder—was it his will that kept the skies still until his children returned home?

For those like us, unfamiliar with the moods of rivers and the wild, it was a lesson in trust. A lesson that when the Guru sends you, he watches over you. And when you return, he breathes again.