Baba Performing the Thread Ceremony of Manglori’s Sons

The world of duality—where distinctions such as caste, creed, gender, race, or social hierarchy dominate perception—exists largely for the common person entrenched in ego and identity. However, for a realised being, a Sadguru like Bhagavan Nityananda, such a world of fragmentation is entirely nonexistent. Rooted in the experience of the Self, Bhagavan lived in a state of unbroken oneness (Advaita), where only the Divine Essence (Chaitanya) is perceived in all forms and beings. This vision obliterates all false distinctions; for such a master, no one is high or low, worthy or unworthy, sacred or profane. All are part of the same infinite, indivisible Self.

Hence, Bhagavan Nityananda’s way was not one of rejection or rebellion against social structures, but one of profound transcendence coupled with compassionate accommodation. He did not outwardly oppose rituals or traditions; instead, he integrated them with awareness, subtly transforming their application without disturbing the societal fabric. His was a silent revolution—not through criticism but through presence, participation, and inner guidance.

This balanced approach resonates deeply with the vision of Shree Dnyaneshwar Maharaj, whose concluding prayer, the Pasayadan, written over 800 years ago, seeks the inner transformation of even those who cause suffering or perpetuate ignorance. Dnyaneshwar Maharaj never vilified the prevailing societal beliefs. Instead, he sought to reinterpret and realign them so they could uplift rather than oppress, harmonise rather than divide. The Pasayadan calls for vishwache jeevan—a world where all beings live in mutual welfare, joy, and unity.

Similarly, Bhagavan Nityananda quietly steered people toward dharma and inner transformation without negating traditions outright. For instance, he instructed his devotee Shri Hingwala to perform the Navchandi Homa for nine consecutive years—an elaborate Vedic ritual traditionally invoking the Divine Feminine. Yet, Bhagavan himself never endorsed ritualistic sacrifice or superstition. He chose Shri Joglekar Guruji of Gokarna, a devout and capable priest, to conduct the ritual—emphasizing precision, devotion, and sanctity over blind faith or social prestige.

Another example is Bhagavan’s role in presiding over sacred Upanayanam (thread ceremony) rites, typically reserved for Brahmin boys. Bhagavan presided over the Upanayanam ceremonies of the son of Shri Madhav Hegde (Engineer Hegde) and also the sons of Mangalori.

Engineer Hegde with his family at the Upanayanam Ceremony of his son 

He personally placed the janau (sacred thread) and imparted the Kanmantra (whispered mantra) to the sons of Krishnabai and Shri Mangalori. Such acts would appear orthodox on the surface, but Bhagavan’s intention transcended convention. He saw the soul, not the caste; he acknowledged the seeker’s readiness, not their birth. By blessing these ceremonies, he subtly demonstrated that purity of heart and eligibility for spiritual knowledge are not determined by social category but by inner maturity and divine grace.

Thus, to label Bhagavan Nityananda as an Ajatwadi—a term often used to describe someone who is outside or dismissive of all caste and social identities—would be a misreading. Bhagavan was beyond all attributes (nirguna), but never in denial of the world’s ways. He accepted society as it was but uplifted it with compassion and wisdom. His being radiated the principle: “All are One; all are equal,” not as an ideology, but as a living truth.

In this light, Bhagavan’s engagement with rituals and traditions was never about upholding external forms for their own sake, nor was it about dismantling them. Rather, it was about using them as vehicles for awakening, tailored to the readiness of the people involved. His silent, subtle, and inclusive approach continues to be a living example of how a Mahatma can remain untouched by duality while still working for the harmonious evolution of society.

Krishna Bai and the Early Women Devotees of Bhagavan Nityananda

Krishna Bai was among the earliest and most devoted women to come under the transformative grace of Bhagavan Nityananda. Her meeting with Bhagavan likely took place in the coastal regions of Karnataka—perhaps in or near towns like Udupi, Karkala, or Mangalore—where Bhagavan frequently moved in the early stages of his manifestation. Along with Krishna Bai, a deeply devoted group of women—Bhagirathi Bai, Girija Bai, Saraswati Bai, and Sunanda (the daughter of Saraswati Bai), among others—formed a silent but powerful current of feminine devotion around Bhagavan.

These women, simple and deeply orthodox, belonged to the Gaud Saraswat Brahmin (G.S.B.) community. They spoke Konkani, followed traditional codes of conduct, and lived lives steeped in ritual purity and devotion. Many encountered Bhagavan either before their marriage or soon after, when he was a mysterious and wandering presence in the southern coastal belt. Their meetings with him often defied logic and societal norms but left indelible impressions, awakening a faith that transcended religious formality.

Later, as waves of migration brought them from Karnataka to Mumbai, these women carried their devotion with them like a sacred flame. In a city that could easily consume one in the pull of worldly life, they kept their inner connection to Bhagavan alive. Some even made regular trips to Ganeshpuri to serve at his Ashram. There, amidst the rustic yet charged spiritual atmosphere, they engaged in seva—offering food, cleaning, singing bhajans, and simply being present at the feet of their beloved Baba.

Among these women, three stand out as spiritual powerhouses who embraced the path of renunciation: Tulas Amma, Lalita Mauli, and Gulabi Mai. These were no ordinary renunciants—they were flames lit directly by the fire of Nityananda’s silence. Tulas Amma, in particular, emerged as a spiritual beacon for many devotees, including Krishna Bai. She lived not just as a servant of Bhagavan, but as one who merged in his consciousness and radiated his teachings with maternal strength and uncompromising clarity. For Krishna Bai and many others, Tulas Amma was more than a fellow devotee—she was a Guru Stree, a realised mother-guide.

Saraswati Bai, another remarkable figure in this constellation, was notable not only for her devotion but for her rigorous spiritual discipline. Under the personal guidance of Tulas Amma, she studied Raja Yoga and Pranayama, and delved deep into scriptures such as the Bhagavad Gita, Guru Gita, and Dasbodh. What is even more remarkable is that she internalised these teachings not as a scholar but as a sadhika—a practitioner who lived and breathed the essence of the scriptures. Her daughter, Sunanda, followed in her footsteps, continuing the family’s deep spiritual lineage.

Saraswati Bai also contributed to the preservation and dissemination of Bhagavan’s teachings by writing a simplified Kannada version of the Chidakasha Gita—an act of both devotion and service. Toward the end of her life, she dedicated herself fully to the Ananda Mutt in Mangalore, which had been established by Tulas Amma. In this quiet sanctuary, Saraswati Bai lived out her days absorbed in the remembrance of the formless Ananda Swarupa—the Bliss-Form of Bhagavan Nityananda.

Krishna Bai, though not a renunciant in the formal sense, was no less steadfast in her devotion. Her connection to Bhagavan was that of an unwavering disciple to her master—a bond rooted in simplicity, humility, and surrender. She served Bhagavan through the rhythm of her everyday life, embodying a sacred domesticity that was no less spiritual than the lives of those who had renounced the world.

It is from memory and fragments passed down through living testimony that I have chosen to write about these extraordinary women. While some of their stories appear in other parts of this book, mentioned in connection to specific miracles or teachings of Bhagavan, I felt it important to honour them here as a collective—an unsung lineage of feminine devotion and wisdom.

These women did not seek recognition. They did not write books, establish ashrams, or preach from stages. But they lived bhakti—living proof that a heart given wholly to the Guru becomes a shrine, and that the quiet hands that serve are often the hands of saints. Their lives were their offering. Their faith was their song. And through them, the grace of Bhagavan Nityananda flowed quietly, shaping generations.

Flew Like a Sparrow!

Years ago, I had the good fortune of meeting Mr. Manglori, the son of Krishna Bai, one of the earliest and most steadfast devotees of Bhagavan Nityananda. Our meeting was arranged through his own son, who had casually mentioned during a visit to our hotel that his grandmother, Krishna Bai, was a devotee of Baba. That small mention led us to Talmaki Wadi in Girgaon, a serene residential enclave with deep roots in the Gaud Saraswat Brahmin community, where the Manglori family had lived for decades.

Shri Manglori, son of Smt Krishnabai

By then, Mr. Manglori was quite aged, his physical frame frail, his voice softened by time. But the moment we spoke the name Bhagavan Nityananda, a sudden change came over him. His posture straightened, his eyes sparkled with childlike joy, and he seemed to draw from an invisible well of energy. It was clear that Baba’s name alone awakened something timeless in him. What followed was not just a conversation but a sacred recollection—one that had remained etched in his soul since childhood.

He recounted a miraculous incident from his boyhood, a time when he was somewhere between six and ten years old. The family then lived on the third floor of their apartment building. Like many spirited young boys, he was fond of playing and swinging from the horizontal wooden beam of the gallery door frame—an innocent pastime, perhaps even a daily ritual of mischief.

One day, while he was gleefully swinging, his hands slipped. In a flash, the boy plunged out of the open window, falling three stories down. His family members, who heard the scream and the commotion, rushed in panic down the stairs. In their minds, the fall was undoubtedly fatal. Their hearts pounded with dread, fearing the worst.

But what they saw upon reaching the ground stunned them into silence.

Young Manglori was not only alive—he was walking toward them calmly, without a single visible injury. His limbs were intact, his clothes barely ruffled, and he bore not even a scratch on his body. He looked almost confused by the concern on their faces. As they looked up toward the window and down again at the spot where he had landed, they noticed something else: several mattresses that had been stacked near the gallery window had, for reasons unknown, fallen out just moments before he did. These mattresses had landed in such a way that they broke his fall entirely, as if placed there by an unseen hand.

It was nothing short of a miracle. For the family, and for everyone who heard the story, there was no question—it was the grace of Bhagavan Nityananda that had protected the child. Krishna Bai’s unwavering devotion, her deep inner bond with Baba, had acted as an unspoken prayer that invoked his immediate and silent intervention.

Some weeks later, the family made a visit to Ganeshpuri. When Krishna Bai, her husband, and young Manglori came before Bhagavan, he looked at the child and burst into a knowing, mischievous chuckle. Then, without any prompting, he said:

Gurbanji

“So, you flew like a gurbanji, eh?”
(Gurbanji means sparrow in Konkani.)

No one had told Baba about the incident. Not a word had been spoken. Yet his comment was precise—filled with both affectionate teasing and unmistakable divine insight. For those present, it was clear: Baba knew. He had known all along. It was his Drishti—his protective gaze—and his silent command that had transformed what could have been a tragedy into a miracle of divine grace.

That simple sentence—“You flew like a sparrow!”—was not just a remark. It was a cosmic reassurance, a smile from the Infinite, showing how a true devotee is always under the wing of the Divine. The sparrow flew that day because the Guru had already spread his wings.

The Upanayanam Ceremony

Among the many treasured memories shared with me by Mr. Manglori—Krishna Bai’s son—was one that held deep personal and spiritual significance for his entire family: the Upanayanam (sacred thread ceremony) of his two sons, performed under the direct guidance and loving presence of Bhagavan Nityananda.

There is a remarkable, widely circulated photograph of Bhagavan from his early years—still youthful, his frame slender, clad in a long robe (kafni), his face glowing with a quiet, compassionate radiance. Sitting peacefully with a small boy on his lap, Bhagavan appears both majestic and intimate. That boy, as Mr. Manglori humbly told me, was none other than himself. The photograph was likely taken during Baba’s days in Mangalore, a period less documented but no less filled with divine leelas. The image has endured as a rare visual testament to Baba’s early connection with his devotees, especially families like Manglori’s who would remain bonded to him across generations.

Years later, when Mr. Manglori’s own sons came of age, he desired to perform their Upanayanam—a significant rite of passage in the Brahminical tradition. It marks the child’s formal initiation into spiritual life, when the sacred thread (janau) is donned and the Gayatri Mantra is imparted by the Guru or family priest. Traditionally, this ceremony is steeped in orthodoxy, carried out with strict ritual procedures and cultural norms.

Before proceeding with any arrangements, Mr. Manglori naturally sought Bhagavan’s blessings. When he broached the subject, Bhagavan listened quietly and then, in his characteristic way, insisted:

“The ceremony must be performed here, in Ganeshpuri.”

This was not a casual suggestion—it was a divine decree. Baba took complete responsibility for the event. He personally selected the priest, Narayan Bhat of Bhadrakali Temple, one of the respected ritualists from the region. Baba also arranged for the musicians, cooks, and even the necessary samagri (ritual materials). For a being like Bhagavan Nityananda—an avadhoota often perceived as beyond all rites and formalities—to take such careful interest in every detail of a Vedic ritual spoke volumes. It was not an endorsement of ritualism for its own sake, but a living example of how spiritual tradition, when rightly understood, could be upheld with dignity and love.

On the day of the Upanayanam, the atmosphere in Ganeshpuri was unlike any other. The ashram was vibrant, the air charged with both sacred mantras and the unmistakable presence of grace. Bhagavan presided over the ceremony—not as an onlooker, but as Guru, Father, and Divine Witness. At the appropriate moment, Baba took the sacred thread in his own hands and placed it upon the shoulders of the young boys. He also whispered the kanmantra—the secret mantra of initiation—into their ears. This was not merely symbolic; it was a spiritual transmission, a direct initiation from the Infinite to the finite.

What made the moment even more significant was the broader context: the Upanayanam is, traditionally, a Brahminical rite not extended to others. Yet for Bhagavan, such social classifications were nonexistent. He honoured tradition, not through exclusion but through elevation. He preserved the sanctity of the ritual while ensuring that it was infused with the highest spiritual energy, not bound by rigid dogma.

The entire event was remembered not just by Mr. Manglori, but by all who attended, as a rare confluence of form and formlessness—where the ancient Vedic tradition met the living presence of the Guru. It was a moment where devotion, culture, and divine love came together in perfect harmony.

In this, too, Bhagavan Nityananda revealed the deeper message:

Spiritual rituals, when performed with true bhava (feeling), guided by grace and stripped of ego, become channels for transformation—not merely social customs, but awakenings of the soul.