Reminiscences from my sisters, Kusum and Lata

The Vaikuntha Ashram, where we spent the best times of our lives with Him

My Sisters

For us children in the Shenoy family, being with Bhagavan Nityananda was a divine bonus—an unearned gift that came through the deep devotion of our parents. Almost all of us, in one way or another, had the immense fortune of being in His presence during our early years. It wasn’t just proximity; it was communion. Several of us were even named by Him—my brother, my cousin brothers, and I all carry names given directly by Bhagavan, as if each syllable was a subtle imprint of His grace upon our lives.

What strikes me most now, especially when I speak with my sisters, is how natural and unpretentious His presence was. Bhagavan never declared Himself a God, an Avatar, or an Avadhoota. He never claimed to be a Kundalini Yogi, a Paramahansa, or one who had reached Purnatva—the state of supreme completeness. There was no display, no assertion, no spiritual branding. He was simply Himself. In that simplicity was a depth that only the heart could recognise.

My sisters saw Him for what He was—not through titles or doctrines, but through the unmistakable stillness and light of His being. Even today, when they come across individuals who carry elaborate titles and spiritual labels, they are quietly amused. They speak with fondness, not judgment, and reflect how rare and singular their experience was—to have been with someone so utterly beyond definition, and yet so deeply present.

To them, and to all of us, He remains a quiet, unfathomable mystery—a Presence that needed no name, no claim. We were not just fortunate; we were blessed beyond measure to have received Him as He truly was: silent, luminous, and absolutely unique.

I share what my sisters told me below.

Our Childhood Days

We were just young schoolgirls—barely eight years old—innocent, playful, and unaware of how truly blessed we were. Our lives were sheltered and joyful, but the real gift was our parents, whose devotion and vision led us into the presence of a rare Being—Bhagavan Nityananda, a Mahavatar. Today, as I look back at 81 years of life (in 2023), those moments shine like golden threads woven through the fabric of my childhood.

I often think of my father. A gentle, upright man, filled with silent strength. I remember how effortlessly he would slip into deep sleep—never slouched, never leaning against a wall, never needing a pillow or a moment to adjust. It always seemed mysterious. I now wonder, in hindsight: was he merely sleeping? Or was he entering some deep state of restfulness, drawn inward by the divine Shakti of Bhagavan, immersed in His subtle vibrations—His Spandana? Could it be that in Bhagavan’s presence, the mind had no need to dream, because it had merged into the Source?

We visited Ganeshpuri many times—sometimes with our parents, and at other times with Gulabi Mamuma, the mother-in-law of Ramakrishna, my youngest uncle. For us, Bhagavan was never a distant or imposing figure. He was like a member of our family, and in my heart, He still feels like a grandfather—stern in silence, but endlessly compassionate. I remember those tender moments—massaging His Feet with my tiny hands. Those Feet were unlike anything I had ever touched—so soft, like tufts of cotton, as though there were no bones in them. But despite all the love He showered, He never allowed me to place my head at His Feet in prostration. I still carry that slight ache, a quiet sadness within me. Perhaps He saw children as pure—already close to God, not needing to bow, but simply to be.

When Bhagavan went for His walks, He sometimes allowed us to hold His hand and run beside Him. That brief physical connection felt like being plugged into an eternal current. The village children would often follow Him all the way to the riverbanks and beyond, barefoot and fearless. But we city girls were gently left behind. Maybe He knew our feet were not yet meant for those earthy paths—our lives too softened by urban comfort to trace the rugged trails of His divine journey.

I remember so clearly how He would often sit on the steps of His room—quiet, watching, resting in stillness. His room always intrigued me. Once, when He wasn’t there, I peeked in. To my small eyes, the room appeared vast and shadowy, almost endless. It was as if the room itself held a secret.

Gangubai, my caretaker during our visits, was like another mother. She helped me with everything—washing dishes, tending the stove, and even helping me understand the rhythm of the ashram. There were no shops around Ganeshpuri in those days, so we carried even the smallest necessities with us. A matchbox was considered precious, and once, in our excitement, we forgot to bring one. I remember worrying—how would we cook for Bhagavan?

Just then, Bhagavan came out of His room, looked up at a ledge under the roof, and gestured toward it. “There,” He said. “Use a stick to bring it down.” I was puzzled, but I obeyed. I asked Gangubai for a stick, nudged the ledge—and down came a matchbox, as if it had been waiting there all along. I was thrilled, but more than that, I was filled with awe. How did He know? How did He always know?

These memories are fading gently with time, like old photographs worn at the edges, but the feeling of His presence remains undiminished. I can still hear the silence of those afternoons, still feel the vibration in the air when He was near. To have seen Him, to have been near Him, was not an achievement, but an act of grace—grace that flowed through our divine parents.

One picture especially comes to mind—Bhagavan sitting quietly, His head slightly tilted, eyes gazing sideways from the corner. It was such a familiar pose—intimate, watchful, as if He was seeing everything and everyone, without ever needing to speak.

He watched us as a mother watches her children—not possessively, but protectively. That gaze, full of knowing and tenderness, has stayed with me all these years. And it is in those memories that I live again, every time I close my eyes and whisper His name.

Tulas Amma

The Green Pillar and a Prophecy

Among the many memories etched in my heart from those sacred days in Ganeshpuri, one stands out in vivid color and quiet mystery—the green mosaic pillar. It was large, almost majestic, imperfectly round with faint fissures running down its surface like silent veins. It stood outside, unassuming to most, but for us children, it was a playground. We’d often gather around it, giggling and playing, encircling it with our little hands linked together. It took at least three of us to surround it fully, and we’d feel triumphant every time we managed it.

To us, it was just a curious structure—sturdy and strong, part of the ashram’s landscape. We didn’t think much beyond the joy it brought us in play. But one day, something changed.

Shree Tulas Amma, whose words carried a quiet force and a fragrance of knowing, stood gazing at the pillar. Her eyes softened, and pointing to it, she declared, almost in a whisper and yet with undeniable conviction:
“This is where His body will be placed.”

I was too young then to understand the full weight of her words. But something in the tone, in the stillness that followed, pierced through my innocence. A strange, inexplicable sadness rose in me. I didn’t know what “Samadhi” meant then, not in the way I do now. But I knew enough to sense that it meant He would not be with us in the same form anymore. From that moment on, I stopped playing around the pillar. It no longer felt fun. It felt sacred. It felt heavy. It had absorbed something beyond our understanding.

What remains etched in my mind even now is what happened soon after. Bhagavan came out—silent, radiant, and seemingly aware of everything, as always. He looked at Tulas Amma and sharply scolded her.
“What nonsense are you talking about? Do you have to make such a declaration?”
It wasn’t anger in the worldly sense—it felt like He was brushing away something that wasn’t meant to be spoken yet. He wanted things to unfold in silence, as they always had with Him.

But just a few days later, something astonishing happened. The very pillar we had played around—the one Tulas Amma had pointed to—was ordered to be taken down by Bhagavan Himself. Brick by brick, it was dismantled, as if to erase the trail of prophecy. At the time, we simply watched in silence. No one questioned Him. No one could.

Years later, when I stood before the Samadhi—the eternal resting place of Bhagavan Nityananda—I realized it had been constructed exactly where that green pillar once stood.

That moment returned to me in a wave—Tulas Amma’s quiet certainty, Bhagavan’s outward denial, and the quiet surrender of space to destiny. What she had seen was not imagination. It was knowing. And what Bhagavan had rejected was not the truth, but perhaps the telling of it before its time.

Today, when I look at that spot, no longer marked by a pillar but by the presence of timeless stillness, I realize how much was shown to us even when we were too small to comprehend it. I feel awe, gratitude, and the lingering echo of a child’s sadness transformed into reverence.

What once was a playground is now a pilgrimage.

Serving the One Who Served All

Bhagavan often disappeared from our sight—sometimes slipping quietly into His room, sometimes walking beyond the ashram grounds, leaving us momentarily bereft of His presence. But the moment we saw Him return, our hearts would leap. Without a second thought, we would rush toward the sacred Kund with a small bucket, draw steaming hot water, and pour it gently over His Feet as soon as He was seated.

It was a simple ritual, but sacred to us. He allowed us to wash His Feet—those Feet that had walked unknown paths for lifetimes, those Feet that had carried the weight of so many prayers and the grace of boundless compassion. As a child, I did not yet grasp the spiritual magnitude of such seva. But I felt in my little hands a sense of something holy—perhaps like how Sister Nivedita must have felt when she washed the hands of Swami Vivekananda after his meals. It was love, it was reverence, and something far beyond either.

We were always ready with His food. Whether breakfast or lunch, the plate was prepared with great care and devotion. Gulabi Mamuma, the wife of my uncle and a masterful cook, prepared each dish with a mother’s love and a devotee’s surrender. When Bhagavan was ready to eat, He never spoke aloud—He simply made subtle signs with His hands or eyes, and we would know.

It was my joy and privilege to bring Him the plate. I learned early on that He would never pick it up from the ground—it had to be offered, respectfully, into His hands. The plate itself was simple—brass, gleaming in the soft light of the ashram. On it were an assortment of dishes: some spicy, others tangy, sweet, or bland. And yet, with His own fingers, He would mix them all together until no single flavor remained distinct. It became one harmonious offering—just as He saw no separation in life, no division of joy and sorrow, bitter and sweet. Even when the food was hot—truly hot—He would mix it without hesitation. We’d hand Him puris fresh from the oil, still puffed and hot to the touch, and He’d take them directly in His hands. I used to wince, afraid they would burn Him. But He, the master of all elements, never flinched.

He ate with such naturalness, such utter lack of self-consciousness, that it never occurred to us to stare. We knew instinctively to move a little distance away. It was as if we were part of a sacred moment that required both closeness and respectful separation. Once He finished, He would glance in our direction or make a small motion, and I would know it was time to collect the plate.

On some days, my father would quietly eat the remaining food, prasada. I remember the way his eyes lit up, the quiet satisfaction on his face as he savoured every bite. I was curious—after all, Bhagavan had mixed everything into what, to my young mind, seemed like a chaotic mess. How could it taste good? But my father always said, “You have no idea. It’s not food—it’s a miracle.” He refused to share even a morsel with anyone, no matter how much we pleaded. For him, that prasada was divine nectar.

Visiting Ganeshpuri was always a delicate balance with our school routines. Living in Mahim, Mumbai, meant journeys had to be planned carefully. But when the whole family came together, those trips became joyous pilgrimages. We’d pack into trains, carry bundles of food and essentials, and arrive dusty but delighted. The nights in Ganeshpuri were unforgettable. The village would be silent, bathed in moonlight, and the stars would hang low, almost as if they were leaning in to hear Bhagavan speak.

Often, while we sat on the mud verandas, chopping vegetables or stirring pots over a wood fire, Bhagavan would walk up and sit with us—completely unannounced, completely unassuming. He’d speak about the world and beyond: astrology, numerology, the unfolding of time, stories from the Puranas, glimpses from the Vedas, bits of geography and history—all woven together in His simple, rhythmic voice. Much of it passed over my young head, but I remember the feeling. It was as if time itself had paused. Even the flames of the stove flickered more gently. The moon, high above, seemed to hold its breath.

Whenever I was lost in those discourses, my uncle Ramakrishna, the youngest of my father’s brothers, would gently lean toward me and explain Bhagavan’s words in simpler terms. He was like a translator of the divine, bringing Bhagavan’s vastness into the small cup of a child’s understanding.

Those moments—of serving, of listening, of simply being—shaped the very soul of my childhood. In those acts of care and devotion, I learned what it meant to love without asking, to serve without pride, and to sit in the presence of Truth without needing to understand it.

The Young Tailors

Among the many little adventures of our childhood, one shines particularly bright—stitched not just into fabric, but into the very tapestry of our hearts.

My sister Lata and I had just begun tailoring classes, full of enthusiasm and the thrill of learning something new. We were still young, and everything about sewing delighted us—the rhythm of the needle, the feel of fabric between our fingers, the satisfaction of turning a simple cloth into something meaningful. Seeing our excitement, our father, Raghunath, surprised us one day with a beautiful black Singer sewing machine. It was the kind that had a hand wheel and pedal—solid, shiny, and full of promise. To us, it was no less than a treasure chest.

One afternoon, as we played around with fabric scraps and stitching patterns, Lata turned to me with a sparkle in her eye and said, “Let’s stitch something for Swami!” She meant Bhagavan Nityananda, whom we always referred to as “Swami” in our home, though our father, with deep reverence, called Him ‘Deva’—the Divine One.

In those days, Swami wore nothing elaborate. His attire consisted of just two pieces of soft, white, hand-spun cotton cloth known as long cloth. One piece He tied around His waist like a dhoti, and the second He wrapped across, knotting it at the back. It was simplicity beyond simplicity—an expression of His natural detachment. Sometimes, my mother Sunita would make a garland out of the same white cloth, spacing tiny velvet roses along its length, and offer it as a decorative gesture of devotion. Swami never demanded such adornments, yet He allowed them with gentle acceptance—more for the love behind them than the offering itself.

Inspired by this tradition of loving service, Lata and I decided to stitch a kafni—a traditional robe worn by renunciates. We pooled our savings and bought a soft, light blue fabric—imported, and unusually refined compared to Swami’s usual wear. Our excitement was unmatched. This would be the first full garment we ever attempted! But soon we faced an unexpected challenge—how were we to take His measurements?

Swami was, of course, beyond the reach of ordinary formalities. We couldn’t possibly approach Him with a measuring tape and ask Him to stand still! But just then, we remembered: in our home hung a life-sized photograph of Swami. That picture had always been more than a photo—it was His living presence in our house. So, armed with a measuring tape, Lata and I climbed onto a sturdy table and began carefully measuring His arms, chest, neck, and shoulders—from the photo! We did it with the seriousness of tailors on a royal commission.

It took us several days, but finally, the kafni was complete. We ironed it neatly, folded it with care, and wrapped it lovingly. Our hearts were racing. Would He wear it? Would He even accept it?

My father, accompanied by my younger brother Gopalkrishna, took the kafni to Ganeshpuri. As per custom, one never directly approached Bhagavan. You waited, silently and patiently, until He called you. After some time, His voice rang out from within the ashram: “Where are you, Raghu?”

My father humbly stepped forward, bowed low, and stood before Swami, holding the package in his hands. Swami looked at him intently and asked, “What is it that you want to say?”

Gathering courage, my father said, “Deva, my daughters, Kusum and Lata, have been learning tailoring. They’ve stitched a dress for You.” He unwrapped the packet and placed the robe before Him.

A small crowd of devotees had gathered by then, curious to see what Swami would do. Everyone knew He wore nothing but His simple clothes. Would He accept something stitched and foreign to His custom?

To everyone’s astonishment, Bhagavan smiled and picked up the kafni. Then, to our father’s utter disbelief, He slipped it over His head and began to put it on!

The room burst into laughter—even Swami laughed heartily. Confused at first, my father looked up and then understood the cause of everyone’s amusement. The kafni, stitched with so much care and affection, was completely ill-fitting. The neckline plunged so deep that it reached Swami’s navel, and the sleeves were hilariously long, covering His hands and hanging past His fingers. It looked more like a child’s attempt at costume design than a robe for a saint.

But Swami—compassionate beyond measure—wore it with pride.

Without missing a beat, my father took a safety pin from his shirt pocket, gently fastened the wide, drooping neck closer to the collar, and rolled up the sleeves so that His hands were visible. Swami allowed all of it with great patience and amusement, as if He were enjoying a divine play.

Then, with the kafni still on, Swami began walking up and down the corridor, showing it off to everyone gathered there. His laughter echoed in the air, and so did everyone else’s. But behind the laughter was something far deeper—a recognition of His love. He did not need the kafni. He had never worn one before, and perhaps never did again. But in wearing it that day, He had worn our love.

It was His way of saying, “I accept your devotion. I honor your effort. And I delight in your innocence.”

For us, it was a moment beyond joy—a lesson in how love, however imperfect, becomes perfect when offered in surrender. And it was a memory that lived forever, stitched not in blue cloth, but in the ever-beating fabric of our hearts.

The picture of Him walking along the corridor in Kailash is shown below

Bhagavan and Sixty-four Yogini

Shree Narshima Saraswati and the temple of 64 Yogini

One night, while I was in Ganeshpuri with Gulabi Mamuma, something remarkable happened. She witnessed 64 Yoginis—celestial beings—bathing Bhagavan in the early hours of the morning! This was reminiscent of the 64 Yoginis serving Shree Narasimha Saraswati, the avatar of Lord Dattatreya.

In those days, clocks or wristwatches were a luxury. Only those few who could afford it were lucky to have one. In Ganeshpuri, the traditional bell was rung for each hour. There was a huge bell, and it was rung for each hour. If by chance you missed a beat, you had every chance of getting the hour wrong.

It was taboo to bathe or even be near the hot spring Kund between 3:00 and 4:30 in the morning. This was when Swami would go for His bath, and none of us dared to approach the Kund during that time. Once, Gulabi Mamuma and I were staying overnight in Ganeshpuri. It was her habit to bathe early so that she could prepare breakfast for Him. During our visits, we would make various Konkani delicacies for Bhagavan—breakfasts like Dodhak (a thick dosa seasoned with mustard seeds, red chillies, and curry leaves), Panpolla (a dosa with net-like pores), buns, puri bhaji, and more, always served with strong coffee. Lunch would feature typical Konkani dishes.

One morning, in her eagerness to be ready with breakfast, Gulabi Mamuma mistook the 3:00 bell for 4:00 and got up early. When she arrived at the Kund, she was astonished to see Bhagavan Nityananda sitting cross-legged on the water, while celestial beings—Yoginis—descended from the sky to bathe Him. They had come to perform His pooja, and as they descended, colourful sparks shot out around them like Deepawali fireworks. The scene was divine, beautiful, and otherworldly. Gulabi Mamuma stood there, mesmerised.

It took her a moment to realise she was at the Kund at the forbidden hour. When the realisation struck, fear gripped her, and she ran back to where I was still sleeping. Unable to contain herself, she shook me awake, and just as she was about to describe what she had witnessed, Bhagavan came roaring, “Keep your mouth shut! Don’t you know you shouldn’t be there at this time? Now go to sleep.” She shivered as she held me tightly, trembling from the encounter. It took her a while to compose herself.

Gulabi Mamuma was likely the only witness to this divine event, where Yoginis descended from the heavens to perform Bhagavan’s pooja. She later described it to me in detail. He was a Mahavatar, second to none, like Shree Narasimha Saraswati, the avatar of Lord Dattatreya. He was like Lord Vitthal, a God accessible to the common man. Yet, despite His greatness, we never fully understood Him. To us, He was one among us. We revered Him, had faith in Him, and believed He was God—yet we also took Him for granted, thinking He would always be at our beck and call.

Our family Altar with Saguna Suvarna Paduka

The Journey to Gangapur: In the Footsteps of Penance

Vishranti Sthan and Bhasma Hill at Gangapur

Bhagavan Nityananda, in His boundless wisdom, had once instructed Shree Swami Janananda to undertake a period of deep penance at the sacred sites of Nasik and Gangapur. These were no ordinary pilgrimages. For several years, Swamiji remained in intense tapasya there, in silent communion with the Divine. He was living out the command of his Sadguru, preparing himself through austerity, solitude, and ceaseless inner discipline.

Eventually, when his time of penance drew to a close and Swamiji returned to Ganeshpuri, the devotees who had come to love and revere him in Nasik and Gangapur were eager to have his darshan again. They pleaded with him to return, even if only for a short visit. When these requests reached Bhagavan Nityananda, He gave His gracious permission for the journey to take place. As always, nothing moved without His divine sanction.

It was then that a group of us from Mumbai were blessed with the opportunity to accompany Swamiji on this spiritually charged yatra. A private bus was arranged for the group, and by great fortune, I was included, along with my younger sister Lata and our father. We couldn’t have imagined then how unforgettable this journey would become.

As the bus rolled through the landscape, leaving behind the din of city life, there was a palpable shift in energy among us. The journey wasn’t merely geographical; it was inward, too. The presence of Swamiji, radiant and silent, infused the air with a kind of serenity that made idle chatter fall away. He didn’t speak much, but his stillness spoke volumes. For us children, it felt like travelling with a saint out of the pages of a Puranic story.

When we finally arrived at Gangapur, the land seemed to carry echoes of an ancient sanctity. This was no ordinary town—it was a tapobhoomi, a land sanctified by divine beings and the penance of saints. We visited Bhasma Hill, a sacred site revered in local lore. It is believed that Shree Parshuramai, the reincarnation of Lord Vishnu, had performed a great yagna there. The very hill had been formed from the accumulated ashes—bhasma—of that mighty sacrificial fire.

The place exuded a stark, primal power. Standing there, you could feel time folding in on itself—the yagna, the austerities, the presence of rishis and avatars—all somehow still alive, pulsing quietly beneath the ground.

Swami Janananda, ever humble, did not speak much about his years of penance there. But as he moved through the area, the locals treated him with deep reverence, clearly recognising the sacredness of his presence. At Bhasma Hill, in a deeply moving gesture, he distributed portions of the bhasma to each of us, young and old alike. He gave it reverently, like a sacred gift, placing it gently into our hands.

Even we children were included, and though we may not have fully grasped the spiritual magnitude of the moment then, something within us stirred. That ash was not just dust—it was the residue of aeons of prayer, austerity, and divine fire. Swamiji’s act of sharing it with us felt like a silent transmission, a blessing passed from guru to disciple, from one age to another.

To this day, a portion of that holy bhasma is preserved carefully by my brother, Gopalkrishna. We regard it not merely as a relic but as a living symbol of our Guru’s grace and the great heritage we were silently drawn into.

Gangapur Paduka

Looking back, the journey to Gangapur was more than a physical pilgrimage. It was a revelation. We saw firsthand how Swami Janananda had lived his Guru’s instructions with utter devotion. We visited the very soil that had received the footsteps of Lord Parshurama and felt the power of rituals performed millennia ago. And through it all, we were silently transformed, marked by the quiet grace of our Guru and the sacred lands that bore witness to his tapasya.

Swami Janananda

An Open Classroom Beneath the Stars: Lessons from Bhagavan

There are moments in life when the air around you feels charged, not with electricity, but with something far more subtle and divine: Presence. That day was one such moment.

We were gathered around Bhagavan, seated in that serene simplicity only His company could bring. My uncle, Ramakrishna, was there too, quietly attentive as always. The conversation had wandered through many topics, as it often did around Him, sometimes practical, sometimes mystical—when someone suddenly asked, “Bhagavan, can you speak to us about numerology?”

It was as though a silent key had been turned, unlocking a new stream of wisdom. Without pause, Bhagavan began to speak—not as someone who had studied books, but as one who embodied the knowledge itself. He spoke of numbers not as mathematical entities, but as spiritual archetypes, doorways to deeper realities.

I was too young then to grasp the full meaning, but the clarity and authority in His voice etched the moment in my memory. He explained:

  • Number 1: “This is Ekattva, the Supreme Oneness. Before duality, before thought—there is only One. The Absolute, Nirguna Brahman. This is the number of the source, the seed of all.”

  • Number 2: “Here begins dvaita, duality. The beginning of separation—of self and other, of light and shadow. But it also brings viveka, the discrimination between the Real and the unreal. Between the eternal and the perishable.”

  • Number 3: “This represents the Trinity—Brahma, Vishnu, Maheshwara—and also the Trigunas: Sattva, Rajas, and Tamas. All of creation is a play of these three. Even the stages of spiritual evolution—birth, sustenance, and dissolution—reside in this number.”

The words flowed effortlessly, not rehearsed but revealed. My uncle leaned toward me, trying to interpret these gems in simpler terms, but even then, I sensed that these truths were not just to be heard—they had to be lived into over time.

And then, as naturally as the moon follows the sun, Bhagavan shifted the conversation to Sadhana, the spiritual path.

“The Sun,” He said, gesturing to the sky, “is like Supreme Consciousness. It rises each day, shining equally on all—sinner and saint, rich and poor, man and beast. It doesn’t choose whom to bless. It gives light simply because that is its nature. In the same way, Chaitanya—Pure Consciousness—resides in everyone, untouched by what each being does. It is the eternal witness, silent and ever-present.”

He spoke of Bhagavad Gita, quoting and interpreting it as naturally as one might describe the weather. But unlike scholars who quote from memory, Bhagavan seemed to speak directly from the source, as if the Gita itself was alive within Him. His words reminded me of Shree Dnyaneshwar Maharaj’s Dnyaneshwari—where scripture is not recited, but lived, where language dances in service of spiritual Truth.

That day and many like it, He wove stories of the great saints—of Sai Baba, whose silence carried thunder; of Ramana Maharshi, the silent sage of Arunachala; of Shree Narasimha Saraswati, the divine incarnation of Dattatreya; and Swami Samartha, majestic and mysterious. He knew their lives as one might know their own—every detail not memorised, but felt.

And then night fell. The moon climbed quietly, and the stars glittered above us.

Bhagavan lifted His gaze and pointed skyward, and again, He taught. This time, it was astronomy, the celestial science. But even that, He infused with spiritual insight. He explained the movement of the planets, the role of each graha, their influence on human tendencies, and how these energies were observed by the Rishis of old, not merely through instruments, but through deep meditation.

We children sat there wide-eyed, not understanding everything, yet completely entranced. It felt like a cosmic classroom—under the open sky, no blackboard, no books—only His radiant presence as the guide. It didn’t matter whether we understood every word; we were bathing in something deeper than knowledge—we were being bathed in grace.

To live with Bhagavan was to live in a different dimension. Even the most mundane moment could dissolve into silence or erupt into laughter. He was unpredictable, yet perfectly in tune. For those of us fortunate enough to be with Him during those days, life had only one anchor—Bhagavan.

He wasn’t merely a Guru to us. He was everything—joy, love, silence, and thunder. He was the celebration itself, and in His absence, the world felt hollow. He became Nityananda—the eternal bliss—in our hearts.

Sometimes I would think of the Gopis and their love for Krishna. Their joy when He was near, their devastation when He left. But did He really leave? No. He remained in every leaf, every song, every breath. Just as Bhagavan remains in us.

Only one who has become sweet can understand what sugar truly is. Words fall short. Just as the stars above whisper truths in silence, Bhagavan’s teachings are not captured in language, but in the stillness He left behind in our hearts.