Sathpurusha -The Summit of Being

One day, the topic of Sathpurusha arose in the company of devotees who had come from Mangalore. They were native Konkani speakers, and so was Shree Padiyar Swami, who was not only fluent in Konkani but also in Kannada, Marathi, Hindi, and Malayalam. Naturally at ease in his mother tongue, he chose to speak to the group in Konkani.

Shree Swami spoke gently but with deep conviction:

“Bhagavan used to say, ‘Water comes to touch the feet of Sathpurushas who stay on top of mountains.’”

The devotees, curious, asked him why Bhagavan Nityananda had used such imagery. Swami smiled and began to explain with reverence and clarity.

He said that Sathpurushas—those rare, luminous souls who have attained Self-realization—naturally prefer solitude. Their hearts are turned away from the noise of the world and immersed in the stillness of the Self. They do not seek crowds, fame, or recognition. Their joy lies in inner absorption, in communion with the Divine. Just as sages of old retreated to forests, caves, and mountains, so too do Sathpurushas often dwell in places that are not easily accessible.

The mountain, he explained, is not merely a geographical height. It is a symbol—of spiritual elevation, of transcending ego, mind, and worldly dualities. A Sathpurusha resides on this ‘mountain’ because their awareness dwells at the summit of existence—in the Atman, the Self. From there, they look upon the world with compassion and detachment. They are unmoved by praise or blame, by pleasure or pain.

Those who truly seek such a being must climb—with devotion, sincerity, and surrender. Not everyone can or will make the effort. But the few who do, are blessed beyond measure.

Swami went on to reflect further:

“When Bhagavan said that water comes to touch the feet of the Sathpurusha, he was speaking symbolically. Water represents humility, purity, and devotion. It flows downward, always seeking the lowest point. But in the presence of a Sathpurusha, even water reverses course. It ascends—to touch his feet. Such is the magnetism of divine purity.”

In this light, water coming to the feet of a Sathpurusha is not just a poetic image—it is a statement of cosmic truth. It suggests that all that is pure in this world, all that is humble and truthful, is drawn upward toward the spiritually elevated. It is nature’s own reverence for the realized being.

Moreover, it implies that the blessings of a Sathpurusha do not need to be demanded. When the time is right, when the heart is pure, even without asking, grace flows—just as water finds its own way, silently, steadily, to the feet of the One who has conquered the inner mountain.

Essence of a Sathpurusha

A Sathpurusha is not merely a saint or a good person. They are Jnani, Tattva-darshi, Atma-nishta—one who knows, sees, and abides in the Self. Such a being:

  • Lives without ego, yet is a source of supreme strength.

  • Appears ordinary, yet is the abode of the Infinite.

  • Guides without words, uplifts without touch.

  • Is free from karma, yet serves all beings tirelessly.

  • Is beyond caste, creed, and religion, yet embraces all as one.

Their very presence is transformative. As Shree Padiyar Swami once described Bhagavan Nityananda, “He didn’t teach in words; he was the teaching.”

The Path to the Sathpurusha

To approach a Sathpurusha is not about physically climbing a mountain—it is about the inner ascent:

  • Through shraddha (faith),

  • Bhakti (devotion),

  • Vairagya (dispassion),

  • And Shuddha Bhavana (purified inner attitude).

Only those who are inwardly ready can recognise such a being, let alone draw close.

And so, when Bhagavan said, “Water comes to touch the feet of the Sathpurusha who stays on top of the mountain,” it was a veiled teaching for seekers—to strive, to purify, and to surrender.

For when one approaches with the simplicity of water and the strength of yearning, even the loftiest heights are made accessible.

Sathpurusha -The Elevated Yet Accessible One

Despite their exalted spiritual state, a Sathpurusha is never aloof, distant, or indifferent to the world. Like a mountain peak, majestic and towering, they remain rooted in the very earth that sustains all beings. Though they dwell in the rarefied air of Self-realisation, their compassion flows downward, touching the lives of seekers, often without a word, a gesture, or even a physical presence.

The mountain, again, is a beautiful metaphor. It does not walk among the villages, but neither does it reject those who come seeking its heights. Those who are earnest, who have the courage and commitment to climb, step by step, shedding the burdens of ego, doubt, and desire, do reach. And when they do, they find not austerity or cold indifference, but warmth, shelter, and vastness.

A Sathpurusha is not made great by powers or knowledge alone. What truly marks such a being is an immeasurable humility—the kind that embraces even the smallest creature, the kind that receives the most broken heart with unconditional love. Their greatness is quiet, not advertised. Their strength is gentle, not domineering. Their love is universal, not selective.

Even though they remain inwardly detached and fully absorbed in the Self, the Sathpurusha allows the water of devotion—devotion-the tears, prayers, and yearnings of seekers—to touch their feet. But there is a hidden truth in this gesture: the seeker must make the climb.

The path to the Sathpurusha is not paved with comforts. It demands devotion (bhakti), discipline (abhyasa), purity of heart (shuddha bhavana), and above all, earnestness (mumukshutva)—a burning desire to know the truth.

As Bhagavan Nityananda conveyed through his silence and presence:
“Grace is ever-flowing, but only those who are truly thirsty will find the spring.”

The feet of the Sathpurusha are not just physical—they represent the foundation of Truth, the threshold of the Infinite, the point where the finite (the seeker) meets the Eternal (the Self). To reach those feet is to have transcended the lower tendencies of the mind and arrived at a place of surrender.

Thus

  • A Sathpurusha is like a mountain: towering yet accessible, distant yet near to those who seek sincerely.

  • Though established in the Absolute, they remain compassionate, embracing all with equanimity.

  • Their humility is their true glory—welcoming the water of devotion to their feet.

  • But reaching them requires effort—a climb within, towards silence, simplicity, and surrender.

Leaves – A Meditation on Impermanence and Grace

Once, in a quiet satsang filled with tender remembrance and deep truths, Shree Padiyar Swamiji spoke softly of the ephemeral nature of the world. As he recalled his days with the Shenoy family and a miraculous moment involving Shri Sitaram Shenoy, emotion stirred in his voice. He said:

“When old leaves fall, the green leaves smile. But they too will fall shortly.”

The words carried the weight of wisdom—gently spoken, yet deeply piercing. They reflected both the law of nature and the teaching of the rishis: nothing in this world—no form, no youth, no strength, no relationship—is permanent. Everything that comes must go, and everything that lives must one day dissolve.

Swamiji was recounting the story of Shri Sitaram Shenoy, a beloved member of the family and a devotee of Bhagavan Nityananda. Sitaram had suffered a massive heart attack; his condition was deemed hopeless by doctors. But his faith remained unwavering—he insisted that he be taken to Ganeshpuri, to the lotus feet of his Sadguru, Bhagavan Nityananda.

An ambulance brought him to the Bhimeshwar temple. Bhagavan was seated outside, in his mysterious, silent way. Sitaram was carried on a stretcher and placed near Bhagavan. Seeing him, Bhagavan commanded:

“Get up!”

Sitaram tried, but his body would not obey. His brothers moved to assist, but Bhagavan stopped them—there was no need. The Guru’s grace alone would raise him. With a single, gentle touch on the hip, Bhagavan awakened life in that broken body. Sitaram stood, bowed in pranam, and at Bhagavan’s bidding, walked unaided around the sacred kund. He went on to live ten more years—a gift of time granted not by medicine, but by pure Guru Kripa.

As Swamiji recalled this divine moment, the memory of those early Bombay days—the bustling city, the closeness of the Shenoy family, the leelas of Bhagavan—brought a softness to his eyes. He looked at the younger generation and said again:

“When the old leaves fall, the green leaves smile. But they too will fall shortly.”

This simple, poetic image echoes the ancient wisdom of Sant Kabir, who said:

“Dekha jhadmali gulab ka, kaliyan todat mohi,
Agli baar hamar hai, kal hamro hai tohi.”
(“I saw the gardener pluck the rosebuds. Today he takes another; tomorrow it may be me.”)

It is a poignant reminder that life is a continuous unfolding, a chain of births and deaths, arrivals and departures. The falling leaf is not a tragedy—it is nature’s rhythm. The green leaf, full of life, may flutter in joy today—but must remember that its moment too shall pass.

The Inner Teaching

The metaphor carries a layered spiritual teaching:

  • The old leaves falling represent the natural ageing, passing, or transformation of those who have completed their karmic cycles.

  • The green leaves smiling show the innocence, vibrancy, and ignorance of youth or the untested.

  • But they too shall fall, reminding us that no one is exempt from the law of time (kala).

This vision is not to cause despair, but to awaken clarity and presence. It teaches:

  • Cherish the moment, for it is all we truly have.

  • Serve and love now, before the opportunity slips away.

  • Surrender to the Guru, for only grace can lift us when all else fails.

  • Live with detachment, not in cold indifference, but in quiet knowing.

The Guru’s touch on Sitaram’s hip was more than physical—it was the transmission of life from Eternity into time, from that which never changes into that which is always changing. It is that touch which saves, that grace which alone can grant the boon of extended life—or liberation.

Live Now, With Grace

“Time and tide wait for none. Whatever must be done, do it not ‘One day’ or ‘Someday’—do it ‘Here and Now’.”

Let every green leaf—every young heart, every seeker, every conscious being—recognize its moment in the sun and live it fully, humbly, gratefully. Let us seek the feet of the Sadguru while we still have the strength to walk, and the breath to call his name.

For just as leaves fall when their time is done, we too must return. What matters is whether we fall into the arms of forgetfulness or into the embrace of the Eternal.

Mangoes – On the Varying Pace of Grace

Thousands upon thousands came to Bhagavan Nityananda. They arrived from faraway lands and nearby towns—some drawn by curiosity, others by sorrow, a few by hunger for truth, and some simply by the silent pull of his divine presence. Day after day, people stood before him. Some received his words. Many did not. Some experienced miracles. Many returned unchanged. At times, it seemed as though nothing truly penetrated the layers of their conditioning.

With a heavy heart, I once shared my anguish with Shree Padiyar Swamiji.
I asked him plainly:

“So many from my family—five generations of Shenoys—have had the rarest fortune of Bhagavan’s darshan. Why then, have so few pursued his teachings? Why do most return to their worldly habits, untouched, unmoved?”

Swamiji listened with compassion. After a pause, he answered in a voice that carried both gentleness and depth:

“There are many mangoes on the tree. The crows peck and eat quickly. The ants also eat mangoes—but they take a long time. Both eventually partake of the fruit.”

It was a parable, simple in form, but rich in insight. He went on to explain:

“Everyone who came to Bhagavan has been blessed. No one left without receiving something. Even if it seemed invisible, the seed of transformation was sown. Bhagavan is not a Guru in the ordinary sense. He is Mahavatar—beyond time, beyond form. To be in his presence even once is to be marked by destiny. All who stood before him, even in silence, were placed irrevocably on the spiritual path. But their pace, their clarity, their yearning—these differ from soul to soul.”

The Crows and the Ants

Swamiji’s imagery is striking in its elegance. The crows, quick and decisive, represent those endowed with Viveka—the razor-sharp power of spiritual discrimination. They recognise the fruit when they see it, waste no time, and partake of it directly. Their inner fire is kindled. They seek. They burn. They awaken.

The ants, in contrast, are the slow seekers. They may lack the clear flame of discrimination, but they possess perseverance, faith, and steady devotion. Their path is longer, filled with trials, doubts, and diversions. Yet, step by step, they move toward the same goal. Where the crows dart, the ants crawl—but both are drawn by the same sweetness.

And this is the key teaching:

All are on the path. Some run, some walk, some crawl—but none are outside the field of grace.

The Tree of the Sadguru

Bhagavan Nityananda is like a cosmic mango tree, ever-bearing, ever-giving. His presence is the fruit—ripe, sweet, liberating. Whether one came knowingly or unknowingly, with faith or without, they came into the aura of a liberated being, and something within them shifted forever.

Some souls awakened instantly. Others carried that seed into the next phase of their lives—or into another life altogether. But the touch of the Mahavatar never fades.

Shree Padiyar Swamiji emphasised this point:

“They are all qualified for Moksha. They may not act like it now. They may resist, delay, forget—but the Guru has seen them, touched them. He has already charted their inner course. The rest is only time.”

Teaching in Patience and Faith

This metaphor is not only about others—it is also for ourselves. When we look at those around us, or even at our own inconsistencies, let us not judge the outer behaviour too harshly. Spiritual evolution does not follow one rhythm. What appears as slowness or failure may simply be a soul following the path of the ant—one that is subtle, inward, and deep.

Instead of lamenting others’ seeming indifference, we are taught to honour the grace that has already touched them, and to trust the Guru’s timing.

Even the ant, though small and slow, is moved by a deep inner instinct toward the divine. One day, it, too, will taste the fruit.

The Hidden Ripening

“Just because a mango hasn’t fallen doesn’t mean it isn’t ripening.”

This is the Sadguru’s way—he never forces. He waits. He watches. He blesses. And in his infinite compassion, he knows every soul’s hunger, whether loudly expressed or quietly buried beneath layers of worldly dust.

As for us, let us be crows if we can—sharp, aware, ready. But even if we are ants, let us take one true step a day, with faith that the fruit of the Guru will come to us when we are ready to receive it fully.

And above all, let us never forget:

To have seen Bhagavan Nityananda even once is to have been seen by eternity.

Knowledge

One day, I posed a heartfelt question to Shree Padiyar Swamiji:


“Why do so many saints and swamis—people who seem to have attained spiritual heights—eventually fall from their elevated states? When this happens, it is not just their journey that is affected, but the faith of countless followers that is shaken.”

Swamiji replied with clarity and calm. He said,


“Bhagavan used to say that if a Sanyasi or Swami truly seeks Atma Jnana (Self-Knowledge), he must renounce three things: ‘Ka’, ‘Kaa’, and ‘Ki’—that is, Kanaka (gold), Kantha (woman), and Kirthi (fame).”

Each of these represents a powerful source of attachment:

  • Kanaka (Gold): The allure of wealth, material possessions, and the comforts of the world.

  • Kantha (Woman/Man): Attachment to physical relationships and sensual gratification. This is not an indictment of gender but a pointer to the need for dispassion toward worldly ties and emotional dependence.

  • Kirthi (Fame): The most subtle and dangerous of the three—the craving for name, recognition, status, authority, and the ego’s desire to be adored and revered.

Swamiji continued:

“It is relatively easier to transcend the first two—Ka and Kaa—but Ki, the craving for fame and power, is the most difficult. Even advanced sadhaks, who have let go of wealth and attachments, succumb when ‘Ki’ sneaks in. Once fame and authority settle in, the sadhak slowly loses his awareness. He forgets that what flows through him is the Guru’s grace—not his own greatness.”

He narrated what often happens in such cases:

“In the early days of sadhana, the seeker is humble, focused, and earnest. Slowly, as his inner radiance grows, so do his followers. Recognition spreads. People offer him donations, land, titles, and build ashrams in his name. The Guru’s portrait in his ashram gets smaller and smaller, eventually replaced by his own. Pride replaces surrender. ‘I’ replaces ‘He’. Once ‘Ki’ takes hold, ‘Ka’ and ‘Kaa’ soon return from the backdoor. Like in the game of snakes and ladders, the sadhak slips and falls—right back to where he began.”

Swamiji also reminded me that Sant Dnyaneshwar, too, had warned about this peril. Even saints and seekers must remain alert—vigilant of the ego’s cunning nature.

Then, with a smile that held both wisdom and compassion, Swamiji added:

“You’re talking about saints falling. But those who fall were never truly saints. They were perhaps eloquent speakers, scholars, or charismatic leaders—but not Jnani-s. They read scriptures, quoted Gurus, and spoke of Truth—but without having realized it for themselves.

Bhagavan used to say: ‘Pusthaka Jnana (book knowledge) is like urine—it smells bad and must be washed away. But Masthaka Jnana (knowledge from the head, born of experience) is the real knowledge.’”

This is a profound distinction:

  • Pusthaka Jnana – Bookish knowledge. It may impress others, but it remains second-hand. It does not penetrate the Antahkarana—the inner instrument of heart, mind, intellect, and ego. It is easy to parrot the words of saints and scriptures, but without realization, those words are hollow.

  • Masthaka Jnana – Knowledge born of direct experience, deep introspection, silence, tapasya, and surrender. It becomes one’s very being. It transforms the seeker from within and guides every word, action, and thought.

Swamiji lamented that many aspirants today are eager to speak, to lead, to be seen as realised—but very few truly walk the path of silent absorption.
He said:

“In most cases, sadhaks do not live what they’ve learned. Learning must pass through four stages: it begins in the mind, then enters the intellect, from there to the inner being (Antahkarana), and only then becomes ‘the way of being’. But most let their knowledge escape through the mouth—before it reaches the heart. They become preachers, not practitioners.”

And then, speaking about Bhagavan Nityananda, his voice softened with reverence:

“Our Swami never gave lectures. He rarely spoke, and when He did, His words were cryptic—pregnant with silence. He didn’t preach Vedanta—He was Vedanta. He lived it. He needed no disciples, accepted no sect, stood for no institution. He was standalone—an eternal flame, untouched by fame, form, or name. A Janmasiddha Mahadnyani, a Mahavira who was his own cosmos. In Him resided all Upanishads, all Shastras. He was beyond comparison.nHe was The Fountainhead”

The Lesson

In the end, it’s not how much one knows or how many follow, but how deeply one has realised.
True knowledge is lived, not merely spoken.
True seekers renounce Ka, Kaa, and Ki not in word, but in being.
And true saints, like Bhagavan Nityananda, do not try to shine.
They simply are.
And in their silent presence, the Truth shines through.

To be continued…………………….