Bhagavan Nityananda’s Blessings Upon Our Family: A Legacy of the Saguna Suvarna Paduka and His Sacred Presence

The divine grace of Bhagavan Nityananda has flowed steadily through our family for generations, sanctifying our home with his unseen yet ever-potent presence. One of the most sacred legacies we have been blessed to inherit is that of the Saguna Suvarna Paduka—a physical embodiment of the Guru’s presence, energy, and infinite compassion.

This sacred journey began with Tulas Amma, a deeply devoted seeker and a radiant example of how spiritual commitment could thrive amidst worldly responsibilities. As a householder-turned-sannyasini, she became a beacon of inspiration for many women who, like her, aspired to balance Parmarth (spiritual aspiration) with Prapanch (worldly duty). Realizing the necessity of a dedicated space for spiritual gatherings, she approached Bhagavan Nityananda with a humble request—to establish a Math where women could engage in Satsang and inner practice away from societal distractions.

Bhagavan, with his characteristic wisdom, initially cautioned her. He cryptically likened the responsibility of running an ashram to “having lice in one’s head and scratching it with both hands”—a striking metaphor highlighting the restless burden such institutions can place on a renunciate. For a true sannyasin, he implied, external obligations could subtly undermine the inward journey.

Yet Tulas Amma, unwavering in her resolve and filled with deep concern for the spiritual welfare of other women, respectfully explained the need for a secluded and sacred space. Her pure intention moved Bhagavan. Perceiving her devotion and foresight, he finally relented and granted her permission to establish the Math in Managuuda, Mangalore.

As the Math began to take shape, Tulas Amma commissioned a skilled goldsmith to craft two exquisite sets of Suvarna Paduka (golden sandals representing the Guru’s feet), a golden throne, a silver throne, and a set of silver vessels for Pooja. Each item was crafted not merely as an offering, but as a vessel to receive and retain the living presence of the Guru. She placed the two sets of Paduka in separate metal bags and took them to Bhagavan, who at that time was residing in Brahmawar or Padubidri.

With utmost humility and reverence, she offered both bags at Bhagavan’s feet. Bhagavan, accepting her devotion, blessed the offerings and returned one of the bags to her with a quiet instruction: to install those Paduka in her Math. The act was simple, yet momentous—it marked the sanctification of her ashram and affirmed her role as its spiritual anchor.

Some time later, during one of his visits to Bhagavan, my father Raghunath Shenoy was unexpectedly entrusted with the second bag—the remaining Suvarna Paduka that Tulas Amma had originally offered. Bhagavan handed them to my father in complete silence, offering no explicit instruction regarding their use or installation. This occurred around 1938–39, in the shadow of the impending Second World War—a time of great uncertainty in the world, yet full of quiet grace in the sacred realm of our family.

Honouring Bhagavan’s silence, my father placed the Paduka in safe custody, understanding that the absence of words from a Master often carries the weight of unseen purpose. Our family preserved the sacred bag with reverence and care, waiting patiently for a sign, a moment, a word from within.

That moment arrived not through a command, but through inspiration. On a Deepawali morning—a time of inner and outer illumination—my grandmother felt a divine prompting within her heart. She opened the metal bag, beheld the golden Paduka, and, moved by grace, performed Pooja. From that day on, it became a cherished family tradition to worship the Saguna Suvarna Paduka every Deepawali, as a way of inviting Bhagavan’s presence and blessings into our home anew.

This practice accompanied us as our family moved from our ancestral home to Mumbai, adapting to the rhythms of city life while preserving the sanctity of our devotional heritage. My mother took it upon herself to continue the annual Deepawali Pooja with unwavering faith and devotion, ensuring that the presence of Bhagavan Nityananda was never absent from our household.

These Paduka are not mere golden relics. They are Saguna—tangible expressions of the form-filled aspect of the formless Guru. They embody Bhagavan’s infinite compassion, his quiet guidance, and his unfathomable ways. In silence, they continue to teach us surrender, steadiness, and the sanctity of tradition. Through them, Bhagavan Nityananda’s unseen hand continues to guide our family’s inner journey, lighting our path with his eternal presence.

Bhagavan Nityananda’s Divine Decision: The Photograph That Chose to Stay

In the year 1960, on the auspicious day of Ganesh Chaturthi, an extraordinary and divinely orchestrated event unfolded in our household—one that would forever alter the spiritual landscape of our family. Shri M.D. Suvarna, a devoted follower of Bhagavan Nityananda, arrived at our home carrying a life-size black-and-white photograph of Bhagavan. This was no ordinary image; it had been meticulously prepared for installation at Kanhangad Ashram, a sacred place deeply connected to our maternal lineage—my mother’s father hailed from Kanhangad, and our family often made pilgrimages there.

Before reaching us, however, Shri Suvarna had taken the photograph to Ganeshpuri to be blessed by Bhagavan himself. For several days, it stood in Bhagavan’s presence, silently absorbing his divine vibration. It is said that the eyes of a saint infuse life into mere objects, and this photograph, having basked in Bhagavan’s gaze, had become infused with his spiritual energy—Chaitanya.

Shri Suvarna, knowing our family’s deep connection to Kanhangad and our abiding devotion to Bhagavan, brought the photograph to our home, trusting that we would know how to care for it. Aware of the responsibility involved in housing such a sacred image, we initially placed it with respectful care in our drawing room.

Soon after, my father, filled with devotion and a sense of duty, sought Bhagavan’s permission to carry the photograph to its originally intended destination—Kanhangad. To his surprise, Bhagavan admonished him. Not only did he refuse permission, but he also dismissed every subsequent attempt to move the photograph. Four different devotees—including Swami Muktananda, a towering spiritual figure himself—volunteered to take the picture to Kanhangad. Yet, inexplicably, every attempt was thwarted. Practical obstacles arose, plans unravelled, and somehow, the photograph would not leave our home.

In hindsight, it became clear that this was no accident. Bhagavan Nityananda had made a choice. He had silently planted his presence in our home, and by denying all efforts to relocate the photograph, he was expressing his will—not through words, but through divine refusal. This was no longer a sacred object meant for distant installation. It had chosen to stay.

Recognising the significance of this moment, my mother, in an act of surrender and reverence, made a profound decision. She formally installed the photograph in our home, not as a mere image to be worshipped, but with a heartfelt plea that Bhagavan become a member of our family, not as a guest, but as one who belongs. From then on, the photograph was no longer relegated to a respectful corner; it was given a central, honoured place in our household, enshrined not only in our physical space but in our hearts..

Then came Deepawali, the festival of lights and renewal. That year, as the traditional Pooja began, something extraordinary was noticed. The life-size photograph of Bhagavan Nityananda and the Saguna Suvarna Paduka, gifted to our family decades earlier by Bhagavan himself, seemed to complement each other in an almost divine alignment. Their presence together radiated an aura of completeness—form and footprint, image and essence, united in one sacred space. It was as if Bhagavan himself had chosen this arrangement, completing a circle of grace.

From that moment onward, it became a sacred tradition in our family to worship both the Paduka and the photograph every Deepawali. This is not a public event. The Darshan of these sacred objects is a deeply private and devotional occasion, extended only by invitation to a few close Gurubandhus, who share in this legacy of love and reverence.

Thus, Bhagavan Nityananda came to stay—not in the abstract sense of philosophical omnipresence, but in a deeply personal and familial way. He entered our lineage, our lives, our living rooms—not just as a Guru, but as a silent, benevolent member of our household, ever watching, ever guiding, ever blessing.

Five generations of our family have now grown under the shelter of his invisible yet unmistakably real presence. His photograph does not merely look upon us—it lives with us. His Paduka are not just symbolic—they are anchored conduits of his Shakti, his living grace.

To this day, the Paduka and the photograph are worshipped with the same sincerity and sanctity, year after year, Deepawali after Deepawali. The flame lit before them each year is not just a ritual lamp—it is a rekindling of our unbroken bond with Bhagavan, a reminder that he did not merely bless our family. He chose to dwell among us.