Shri Sharad Jaywant

Shri Sharad Jaywant was an engineer working for Indian Railways (Central Railway). He came into the lineage of Bhagavan Nityananda through Shree Baburao Khade. Above, the first picture was taken with Shree Karunakar Swami of Mahim Labor Camp and the other two taken on 9th February 2025.

Desire for the Saguna Padukas– A Journey of Faith, Surrender, and Grace

The yearning for the Saguna Padukas—the physical sandals worn by a realised master—often arises not out of ritualistic sentiment, but from deep spiritual longing. For devotees, these Padukas are not mere wooden objects but a tangible symbol of the Guru’s presence, radiating Guru Kripa (Guru’s grace), and carrying the vibrational imprint of the enlightened one. Such was the yearning that burned in the heart of Sharad Jayvant’s mother, whose wish was to consecrate her home with the presence of Shree Janananda Swamiji’s sacred Padukas.

Altar at Shri Sarad Jaywant’s home having Paduka

Moved by his mother’s wish and driven by his own devotion, Sharad took the initiative in February 1973 to lovingly procure a pair of wooden sandals and the traditional paraphernalia needed for a sacred Pada Puja—a ritual of washing and worshipping the Guru’s feet. He made his way to Kanhangad, carrying with him not just the physical items, but a heart full of reverence and a silent prayer for Swamiji’s blessings.

At that time, the ashram was quiet, and Sharad happened to be the only visitor. What an extraordinary opportunity—an intimate moment in which a devotee could offer his love to his Master without the distraction of a crowd. With full devotion, Sharad performed the Pada Puja to Swamiji, bathing his feet with the sanctifying elements of water, milk, coconut water, and rosewater, anointing them with sandal paste, ashtagandha, and heena perfume. He then reverently placed the sandals on Swamiji’s feet, completing the ritual with flowers, a garland, and a heartfelt arati. All through the process, his unspoken plea resonated inwardly: that Swamiji would accept the sandals, bless them, and allow him to carry them back home.

But what unfolded was not what Sharad had expected. As the worship concluded, instead of blessing him with the Padukas, Swamiji gently removed them and took them with him into his private quarters, closing the door behind him. For Sharad, this was not merely a denial of a material object—it was a moment of emotional and spiritual desolation. The symbolic offering had been rejected. The devotee’s heart, laden with hope, now brimmed with sorrow. He had journeyed with faith, performed the puja with love, but felt as if the grace he sought had slipped through his hands.

Yet, the ways of a realized Guru are never linear or easily understood. What appears as rejection is often a deeper purification, a testing of surrender, and a stripping away of possessiveness—even in the guise of devotion. The true Guru, like a master sculptor, chisels the ego delicately but firmly, until only pure surrender remains.

Swami Janananda, Shri Balkrishna Maskar (who wrote the aarti) and Md D Suvarna in the front row.

Two years passed.

In 1975, Sharad returned to Kanhangad, this time accompanied by his brothers and sisters. On one of the final days of their visit, Sharad was feeling unwell and withdrew from the day’s activities. However, an inner restlessness stirred him from his room, drawing him once more into the sanctified presence of Swamiji. The scene was serene and potent—Dr. Kamalakshi sat in deep meditation, Krishna Nair stood silently, and Swamiji was inwardly withdrawn in contemplative stillness. The temple bells from the upper caves of Shree Nityananda’s shrine rang through the air, adding a mystical rhythm to the unfolding moment.

Then, in a moment of spontaneous impulse, Sharad uttered the words he had held within his heart: “Baba, I want your Paduka.” The rawness and urgency of the request broke the quiet. What followed, however, was not the soft granting of a boon, but the fierce storm of the Guru’s wrath.

Swamiji’s eyes blazed with fire. “Do you want to break my legs? Are you planning to cut off my feet and take them with you?” he thundered, his voice echoing like a thunderclap in the hall. His words were terrifying, but behind them lay a spiritual truth. For the true disciple, the Guru is not just the physical form (Saguna), but the eternal presence (Nirguna)—unchanging, formless, beyond time. To seek the Guru’s form as possession, even in love, can be a subtle assertion of ego’s grasp. The fire of the Guru burns that impurity away.

Swamiji’s pacing, his fury, his roar—all of it left Sharad trembling, unsure if his innocent longing had transgressed a sacred boundary. And then, just as suddenly, the storm passed.

From the stillness of the inner room, Swamiji called out to Sharad.

Terrified and uncertain, he hesitated—only to see Swamiji emerge holding the very Padukas he had once denied. The anger had dissolved. Swamiji’s face had softened, transformed into a loving giver. In that moment, the Guru wasn’t punishing a devotee—he was bestowing a benediction. What Sharad had desired from devotion, and what he had almost despaired of receiving, was now placed directly into his hands.

Overcome, Sharad fell at Swamiji’s feet, tears of gratitude replacing the tears of sorrow he had once shed.

The Paduka

The Padukas had been received—not merely as an object of reverence, but as prasada, the fruit of purified longing, humility, and unwavering faith.

This was not the fulfilment of a desire—it was the completion of a soul’s test.

Swamiji was verily the living embodiment of Lord Dattatreya—a silent flame of the supreme Guru Tattva, beyond caste, creed, or form. In the tradition of Sanatana Dharma, the Paduka of Lord Dattatreya are not merely wooden sandals; they are held as sacred repositories of divine consciousness (Chaitanya), representing the formless, Nirguna aspect of the Supreme enshrined in visible form. At ancient pilgrimage sites such as Ganagapur, Narsobawadi, and Girnar, the Padukas of Dattatreya are worshipped as the tangible essence of the Infinite, accessible to the devotee’s heart and hands

In Swamiji, devotees witnessed both the awe-inspiring Rudra aspect—intense, fiery, and utterly detached—and the tender, affectionate grace of a divine mother, who nurtures and protects. This duality, fierce and compassionate, is the hallmark of the Datta Avatar, who defies all human categorisation and reveals the Truth according to the disciple’s readiness.

Today, those very Padukas, which once adorned the sacred feet of Shree Janananda Swamiji, are preserved with deep devotion in Sharad’s home. They are not lifeless objects; they are living symbols of Guru Krupa, charged with the potent energies of Shiva’s renunciation and Vishnu’s sustaining love. Every day, Sharad offers worship to them with reverence, recognising them as the very presence of his Guru.

On momentous occasions like Guru Purnima and Datta Jayanti, he performs elaborate Abhishekams, bathing the Padukas in water, milk, honey, and sacred herbs, followed by the offering of flowers, sandal paste, and Arati. These Saguna Padukas—sacred in form yet housing the formless—continue to radiate peace, strength, and divine blessings to all who come in their presence. Their silent presence sanctifies the household, serving as a constant reminder of the Guru’s grace, protection, and eternal companionship on the path of liberation

The Art of Chanting

During one of her visits to the ashram, Sharad’s cousin carried with her a simple sling bag, containing the humble essentials of a sadhak’s life—a small meditation mat, chanting beads, a few rupees, and some personal items. As she passed before Swamiji, he called her over with a characteristic glint of mischief in his eyes. With playful affection, Swamiji took the bag in his hands and began examining its contents, one item at a time, drawing a small crowd that watched with a blend of reverence and amusement.

When he found the japa mala—the chanting beads—he held them between his fingers and began to roll them exaggeratedly, mimicking the act of deep meditation. His eyes shut tightly, his lips silently moving, he enacted the appearance of a person lost in prayer. Then, opening his eyes, Swamiji smiled and offered a precious teaching.

“When you chant,” he said, “do it silently—repeat ‘Rama, Rama’ within your heart. If your chanting is deep and sincere, Lord Rama himself will come and place His ear to your chest to listen. But if you chant loudly and make a show of it, Rama will run away!”

This moment was not just humour; it was a lesson wrapped in lightness. Swamiji was emphasising the inward nature of real devotion. Japa is not a public performance but an intimate communion. The heart, not the voice, is the true altar of divine contact.

Task assigned to a devotee before Mahasamadhi

This remarkable story was shared with Sharad Jaywant many years ago by an old devotee of Baba—though his name has been lost to time. It was retold with reverence, as close to the original as memory allows.

Just four or five days before Shree Janananda Swamiji’s Mahasamadhi, this devotee arrived at Kanhangad, hoping for darshan. Due to Swamiji’s deteriorating health, the attendants at the ashram were not allowing visitors. However, a few days later, Baba called Krishna Nair and specifically asked for this devotee to be brought before him. No one had informed Baba of the visitor’s presence—yet he knew.

When the devotee finally stood before Swamiji, Baba gave him a mysterious yet precise task.

“Go immediately to Hejmadi,” Baba said—naming the small village in coastal Karnataka where he was born. “On the way to the village, you’ll come across a certain well. Draw water from it with your own hands and drink a glass. Near the well, you’ll find a large tree with a stone parapet—there will be snakes there. Offer water to each one and say: ‘This water is offered by Shinha.’” (Swamiji’s birth name was Shinha Swami.)

“Then,” he continued, “you’ll come upon a small house. On its veranda will be a pair of small sandals—bring them to me. After that, go further ahead to a cowshed. Stroke the cows gently and lovingly. Don’t worry about how to find these places—you will be guided.”

With complete faith, the devotee left for Hejmadi, accompanied by a few companions. Swamiji had not set foot in the village for over 80 years. They arrived around 9 p.m., under the cover of darkness, without electricity or signposts to guide them. Yet, as they stood in silence, two radiant orbs of light suddenly appeared, floating ahead of them. These mysterious lights led the way, weaving through narrow paths, until they came upon the very well Baba had described—its water shimmering with an ethereal glow.

They drank from the well. Near it stood the great tree with the parapet. As foretold, stone idols of Nagas encircled the base, and a live serpent was also seen. With reverence, the devotee offered water, repeating, “This water is offered by Shinha.”

Next, they came upon a modest house. On the veranda sat a small pair of sandals—those of a young boy. The devotee picked them up and placed them in his bag. They continued forward and soon found the cowshed, where he lovingly stroked the cows. As the final task was completed, the glowing orbs of light vanished, having fulfilled their silent purpose.

The next morning, the devotee returned to Kanhangad. When he presented the sandals before Swamiji and recounted all that had transpired, Baba listened quietly and acknowledged him with a gentle smile. The task had been fulfilled. A divine circle had been completed..

The Show Must Go On

One day, Swamiji, seated in stillness yet bubbling with divine energy, began to speak in a trance-like state. With childlike clarity and cosmic vision, he said:

“Atman, Prana—it is like air. It has no form, no colour, no shape.”

Sharad, ever eager to understand the mysteries of the spirit, asked, “Baba, if Atman is everywhere, why don’t all living beings attain liberation?”

Baba smiled, his gaze stretching beyond the finite.

“If all beings were liberated,” he replied, “how would Brahman carry on the play? The show must go on.”

In that single line, Baba revealed the secret of Lila—the cosmic play. The manifest world exists for the dance of consciousness. Liberation is not a mass event; it is an individual awakening within the dream. And until all roles are played out, the curtain will not fall.

You cannot capture Brahman

But the Guru sees all.

Swamiji turned toward the camera and said, with gentle firmness:

“If you take my photograph secretly, you will never capture the Brahman within me.”

In that single sentence, Baba laid bare the truth: the Self cannot be caught in a frame. The divine cannot be stored on film. What we long to preserve is not the outer image, but the inner presence—Chaitanya, which transcends the physical and lives in the heart of the true devotee.

Sharad at Guruvanam

In the year 1980, Sharad Jaywant, accompanied by a few close relatives and a dear friend named Kadri—a devout Muslim—undertook a pilgrimage to Kanhangad. The trip was made with reverence and enthusiasm, as the group longed for darshan of Shree Janananda Swamiji and the opportunity to visit sacred sites connected to Bhagavan Nityananda.

Early one morning, before dawn had fully broken over the horizon, Sharad and his family made their way to Guruvanam, the holy forest abode where the vibrations of Avadhoota Nityananda still linger like fragrant incense. They first bathed in the sanctified waters of the Papanashi Ganga, a stream revered for its purifying energy said to wash away lifetimes of karma. With hearts cleansed and spirits uplifted, they then offered puja and performed arati at the shrine where Bhagavan’s footprints rest beneath the open sky—Avadhoota Nityananda’s sacred seat.

Notably absent from the morning’s pilgrimage was Kadri.

Later that day, when they all assembled before Swamiji, Baba—who, though physically ailing, remained ever-omniscient—looked directly at Kadri and said with playful affection, “You didn’t go to Guruvanam.”

Kadri, with a gentle smile and eyes full of humility, replied, “Oh, all-knowing one! You are aware of what I was doing.”

Baba nodded in agreement but then immediately instructed, with unmistakable firmness, “In that case, you must go to Guruvanam now.”

He turned to Sharad and pointed, “Take him.”

Sharad hesitated. The sun had already begun to dip below the horizon, and nightfall was imminent. “Baba,” he reasoned, “if we go now, we’ll have to stay overnight. It’s getting dark, and we don’t even have a torch. It will be difficult to find the path through the forest.”

But Baba, in his characteristic tone that brooked no argument, interrupted: “Nothing doing. Go now. You will be guided.”

Recognizing that this was not a suggestion but a divine command, Sharad surrendered. He quickly gathered a few essentials—a bedsheet, a small bag with a bottle of water, and perhaps a packet of matchsticks. Kadri, without a second thought, agreed to go barefoot, carrying nothing with him. Together, they set off toward the dense and remote path that led to Guruvanam.

As twilight deepened into night and they reached a quiet village called Alampali, Kadri suggested they stop and buy a few bananas—perhaps the only food they might get till the next morning. As they made the purchase, an old man appeared out of nowhere. With a calm presence and a voice that seemed to know their purpose, he asked, “Are you going to Guruvanam?”

When they nodded, the man simply said, “Come, I will guide you.”

Holding a torch, the elderly figure walked ahead of them, leading the way through thick forest trails and across the river’s darkened banks. His steps were light, steady, and purposeful. Neither Sharad nor Kadri dared question how this man knew the exact way through a terrain that even locals found difficult to navigate at night.

As they reached the iron gate of Guruvanam, the man quietly vanished—just as suddenly and silently as he had appeared.

A stillness enveloped the forest.

Under a canopy of stars, the two men bathed in the Papanashi Ganga, its cool waters now lit only by moonlight. They stood at the same place where saints and sages had stood, and offered their prayers in silence. In that moment, time seemed to melt into eternity.

They proceeded to the Avadhoota’s shrine, lit a lamp, and performed puja, the flames dancing gently in the breeze. Kadri, though unfamiliar with the rituals, was visibly moved. As he sat to meditate, he entered into a profound state of inner stillness. Later, he would share with Sharad that he had vivid darshan—visions of Lord Shiva, Bhagavan Nityananda, and Shree Janananda Swamiji. The mystic forms appeared before his inner eye with clarity and radiance, dissolving all sense of separation between faiths and forms.

That night, beneath the open sky, the forest of Guruvanam was alive with divine presence, as if the very trees bore witness to the sacred moment unfolding.

The next morning, after performing the arati, they began the return journey to Kanhangad. With the first light of dawn guiding their steps and hearts overflowing with quiet joy, they retraced the path—this time without the old man or his torch.

Upon reaching the ashram, Baba was already seated, waiting. As they approached, he greeted them with a wide, knowing smile, as if he had seen everything from afar. There was no need for words. Baba’s eyes reflected a deep inner joy, as though Kadri had passed a silent test and had now been drawn further into the fold of grace.

Sharad often recounted this episode as one of the most unforgettable moments of his life—when faith, obedience, and divine guidance converged in the mystical forest of Guruvanam.

It Stopped Raining

It was the monsoon season of 1979, and the sacred soil of Kanhangad was soaked in rain and reverence. Just a few days after Guru Purnima, when the ashram had echoed with hymns and heartfelt devotion, two close friends of Sharad Jaywant arrived to seek blessings and soak in the spiritual atmosphere that lingered like incense in the air.

That afternoon, after a simple yet satisfying lunch served in the serene silence of the ashram, the group, five in all, all-approached Shree Janananda Swamiji with a request: “Baba, we would like to visit Guruvanam.”

Guruvanam, the sacred forest that once cradled Bhagavan Nityananda’s physical presence, beckoned to every devotee like a silent call from the Divine. The desire to walk that forest path, bathe in the Papanashi Ganga, and offer homage at the open-air shrine was as natural as breathing for anyone who came to Kanhangad with faith in their hearts

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But just as the request was made, heavy rain began to pour, as if the heavens themselves had their own opinion. The downpour was no ordinary drizzle—it was the kind of torrential monsoon rain that soaks you within seconds, and in those days, the winding forest paths to Guruvanam could become impassable.

Baba, ever compassionate and practical, gently advised, “Take umbrellas with you.”

Sharad smiled and responded, “Baba, we’re going to bathe at Guruvanam anyway. We’ll get wet there. We can just change when we return.”

Baba didn’t argue. Instead, he looked up at the sky for a brief moment—a look that felt like a silent communication with the elements themselves. Then, with a subtle nod, he granted them permission.

As the group stepped beyond the ashram threshold, an astonishing thing happened—the rain stopped completely. The sky, still grey and moody with thick clouds, held its breath. Not a single drop fell as they made their way through the lush, rain-drenched forest.

The entire trip unfolded like a benediction. They reached Guruvanam in dry comfort, bathed in the sacred waters of the Papanashi Ganga, performed their puja with peace, and sat in silent meditation under the trees where Bhagavan Nityananda once roamed.

The forest, usually soaked and slippery this time of year, felt mysteriously firm beneath their feet. Even the breeze was gentle, as if Nature herself was cooperating out of respect for Baba’s silent command.

As they returned to the ashram—content, purified, and filled with gratitude—the moment they crossed back through the gate, the skies opened up again, and rain resumed its rhythmic downpour, as though it had merely paused to let the devotees complete their sacred journey.

Baba was waiting. His face, adorned with a soft smile, gave no outward sign of surprise. But his eyes sparkled, betraying the quiet play of the Avadhoota’s will, which even Nature cannot resist.

The friends stood there, dumbfounded and drenched only by grace.

Delay in Seeking Alms

It was a well-known sight in Kanhangad Ashram—every morning, around 8:30 a.m., Swami Janananda would quietly walk down the ashram path and take his seat on a simple wooden chair near the large pond by the railway tracks. Surrounded by silence, with only the sound of birds and the occasional rumble of a passing train, Baba would sit there for hours—utterly still, immersed in a mysterious silence.

To onlookers, it may have appeared that Baba was merely gazing at the water, perhaps resting or lost in thought. But those who truly understood him knew that his silence was not emptiness but deep engagement, beyond the visible realm.

Sharad Jaywant and his close friends had long yearned for a private moment with Baba. Each carried in his heart a question, a burden, or a personal confusion—matters they dared not raise during public gatherings. They waited for the right moment to approach Baba alone, hoping for a quiet blessing, a word of guidance, or even a glance that could dissolve doubt.

One morning, as golden sunlight filtered through the trees and danced on the surface of the pond, Sharad noticed that Baba was sitting there alone. No devotees were nearby. The scene seemed ideal. The time had come.

With quiet excitement, the boys began making their way toward the pond. But just as they neared the path, they were intercepted by P.T., the ashram’s watchman—a man of few words but strict discipline. Surprisingly talkative that day, he stopped them with chatter, mundane questions, and even gossip. Every time they attempted to excuse themselves, PT found new ways to delay them.

It seemed unnatural—as if he had been deliberately placed there to keep them away.

Finally, after much persistence and manoeuvring, Sharad and his friends slipped past PT and hurried toward Baba, hoping their delay hadn’t been too long.

But the moment Baba saw them approaching, his face darkened with uncharacteristic fury. His voice thundered across the stillness:

“Why do you come to harass me like this? I’m getting late to collect alms! Go away! Leave at once!”

The boys were stunned. Their eager hearts sank. They had never seen Baba so agitated. His words struck them with the force of a thunderclap, and they retreated in silence, bewildered and sorrowful.

It was only much later, as they sat in reflection, that the truth slowly dawned on Sharad.

Baba was no ordinary monk sitting by a pond. As a manifestation of Lord Dattatreya, he was engaged in divine work beyond bodily confines. His physical form sat still, but his subtle body roamed the worlds, collecting alms from householders—not for food, but for their karmas, their burdens, their tendencies. He accepted their offerings, invisible to them, and in return burned away lifetimes of ignorance and pain.

The pond was not merely water—it was a portal to a subtler realm. His seated form was not idle—it was in cosmic motion.

And P.T., the seemingly simple watchman, had not acted out of stubbornness or pride. He had been following strict, sacred instructions—to protect the sanctity of that time and space from interruption. What had seemed like mere gossip had been a shield, a last effort to protect Baba’s sacred work from premature disruption.

With deep remorse and renewed reverence, Sharad understood: even a moment of the Guru’s time is not ordinary. What seems like silence or stillness is often divine action in disguise.

And the alms that Baba sought were not from others, but from us: our egos, our distractions, our impatience, our ignorance.

Below are copies of a few correspondences that Sharad had.

To be continued…………………………