To Be Ceaselessly Connected

To Be Ceaselessly Connected to the Sadguru

Anusandan

Anusandān

To remain ceaselessly connected to the Sadguru is the essence of Anusandān—a quiet, inner remembrance that flows without effort. It is not a practice of the mind alone, nor a ritual performed at fixed hours. Rather, it is a state of being in which the presence of the Sadguru becomes the very background of one’s awareness. Just as breath continues without instruction, Anusandān is the natural, spontaneous turning of the heart towards the Guru.

What is Anusandhān?

अनुसंधान (Anusandhān) is a Sanskrit word composed of:

Anu — to follow, to remain aligned with
Sandhān — connection, linking, joining

Thus, Anusandhān means continuous inner connection — a state in which the mind, heart, and awareness remain inwardly linked to the Divine, the Guru, or the Self.

It is not merely remembrance, but living in uninterrupted awareness.

To be in Anusandhān means:

The body performs worldly duties, but the inner awareness remains connected to the Sadguru or God.

Outward activity continues; inward separation disappears.

Spiritually Anusandhan means

In the tradition of saints, Anusandhān is described as:

Silent remembrance without effort
Natural awareness of the Guru’s presence
Inner companionship with the Divine
Living under constant Guru-Kripa

It is deeper than chanting, prayer, or meditation because it continues even when one is not consciously practising.

I remember an Abhang written by Shree Dnyaneshwar Maharaj:

अवचिता परीमळू झुळकला अळुमाळू ।

मी म्हणे गोपाळू आलागे माये ।।

A sudden, natural fragrance began to flow all around.
I said, “Ah! Gopala must have come, O mother!”

The heart senses the presence of the Lord just as one senses a natural fragrance.

चाचरती चाचरती बाहेरी निघाले ।

ठकची मी ठेले काय करू ।।१।।

I rushed around anxiously and ran outside to look.
Then I froze in place — what could I do?

Overwhelmed by devotion, the devotee becomes motionless, stunned by His nearness.

मज करा का उपचारू अधिक ताप भारू ।

सखीये सारंगधरू भेटवा कां ।।(धृ.)

“Should I treat myself, or will this fever of longing only increase?
O my dear friend, will my Dark-blue Beloved come to meet me?”

The ‘fever’ is the burning longing (viraha-tapa) to see Krishna.

२. तो सावळा सुंदरू कासे पितांबरु ।

लावण्य मनोहरू देखीयेला ।।

That dark-complexioned, beautiful One, wearing His yellow garment…
Even a glimpse of His enchantingly handsome form steals away the mind.

The classic description of Vishnu-Krishna: Shyam-varna and Pitambar.

भरलीया दृष्टी जव डोळा न्याहली ।

तव कोठे वनमाळी गेलागे माये ।।२।।

As soon as I filled my eyes with His form, as my gaze lingered on Him —
Where did that forest-garlanded One suddenly disappear, O mother?

The Lord appears for a moment and vanishes, leaving the devotee in deeper longing.

३. बोधोनी ठेले मन तव जालें अने आन ।

सोकोनी घेतले प्राण माझेगे माये ।।

My mind was completely absorbed in Him and became full of His presence.
Then, pulling at my very life-breath, He stole my heart away, O mother!

The experience is total surrender; the devotee feels life itself is drawn toward Him.

बापरखुमादेवीवरू विठ्ठल सुखाचा ।

तेणे कायामने वाचा वेधीयेलें ।।३।।

“Vitthala, the consort of Rakhmadevi, brings me happiness. He has claimed me entirely. My body, mind and speech are all devoted entirely to Vitthala”

His divinity is beyond description; language fails before Him.

This abhang expresses:

The sudden inner awakening of Krishna’s presence (like an unexpected fragrance).
The devotee’s restless longing — running, searching, freezing in adoration.
The beauty of Krishna is so mesmerising that the heart naturally dissolves.
His mysterious play of appearing and disappearing.
Total surrender where the Lord takes over the devotee’s mind and life-breath.
The humility that Krishna’s nature is beyond speech.

This connection does not depend on physical proximity. One may be far from the Guru’s form, yet deeply immersed in His Presence. Every sight, every sound, every act becomes infused with Him. How, the rising sun, a gentle breeze, the fragrance of sandalwood, or the sight of Tulsi—anything can become a reminder, a subtle spark that awakens the feeling of “He is here”, is shared by me.

True Anusandān is not deliberate thinking; it is living with the Guru. It is letting His grace shape our responses, guide our actions, soften our ego, and align our lives with Dharma. It dissolves fear, quietens restlessness, and brings an inner warmth—the Shakti of the Sadguru—into every moment.

In this unbroken remembrance, the devotee gradually becomes like the Guru. As Bhagavan often said, “Apna Sarika Karito to Tatkal”—the Sadguru makes the disciple His very own. Anusandān is the inner thread through which this transformation quietly unfolds.

To remain ceaselessly connected to the Sadguru, therefore, is not an effort but a blessing—an intimate, living bond that becomes Sumiran, and finally, becomes one’s natural state.

I was in Kanhangad during a festival when my father was spending some days in the Ashram at the request of Swami Janananda. Devotees had gathered in large numbers, and I, too, had travelled to be part of the celebrations. My father told me firmly that the next morning I must rise early, sit in front of Swamiji’s room, and wait for him to emerge after his bath. “Even if you don’t get your own bath,” he cautioned, “don’t miss the moment. There is no fixed time when he comes out.”

In the morning, with so many devotees waiting for hot water to bathe, it was impossible to predict when my turn would come. But there was no question of ignoring my father’s instruction. The next morning, before dawn had properly settled into the Ashram courtyards, without waiting to get to bathe, I rose and took my place on the parapet directly before Swamiji’s room.

Most devotees were still busy with their morning chores, and those already ready had wandered off to the kitchen for their early tea. I simply sat as commanded and waited in silence. Usually, Swamiji came out between six and seven, making his slow walk to the bathroom at the far eastern end, near the kitchen.

Swamiji is coming out of his room

After some time, I saw him emerging from his room and finding his way to his bathroom. In those days, his bathroom was far at the other end in the East. I waited patiently for Swamiji to return from his bath.

The sun was still hidden behind the heavy December monsoon clouds, but its first rays were beginning to push their way into the sky. As the sun rose from the east, Swamiji too walked from that same direction — both rising into view together. He wore his ochre long gown, the Kafni, and the golden light of dawn merged with its colour so completely that for a moment, both the sun and Swamiji appeared as moving embodiments of the same hue. His gait had the slow, steady rhythm of an old saint — reminiscent of how Sai Baba is shown walking in some of the films made on him.

On his shoulder, he carried his wet Kafni, freshly washed with his own hands.

When he reached the Tulsi Vrindavan opposite the kitchen entrance, he removed the wet Kafni and, with both hand,s struck it sharply in the air to remove its excess water and straighten the crease. What happened then lasted only a few seconds, but it remains eternal in my memory.

As the Kafni was swung in the air, thousands of droplets flew into the air, and each drop caught the ochre rays of the rising sun. Suddenly, the air was filled with what looked like millions of tiny suns, shimmering, sparkling, and vanishing. In that instant, it felt as though a miniature cosmos had been created. Two suns — one in the sky, the other standing beside the Tulsi Vrindavan — seemed to preside over this celestial scattering.

Tulsi Vrindavan and the path to the bathroom. Tulsi Vihav Pooja during Diwali

The cuckoos and mynas burst into song in effortless harmony as the cool wind blew, as if greeting both suns. High above, cranes flew in a graceful ‘V’, their wings tinged with the same ochre glow of dawn.

Swamiji, tired from the hot bath, paused for a moment and leaned gently on the Tulsi Vrindavan, almost as though acknowledging Her sacred, ancient presence. Then he walked to the parapet leading into the kitchen and sat down on the parapet. His form glowed reddish-golden in the newborn sunlight. A divine radiance surrounded him, and the air was filled with a soft, sweet aroma of sandalwood — from the Mysore Sandal Soap he had used moments earlier.

I immediately prostrated at his Feet, offering holy Tulsi leaves upon them. His wet Feet were warm, alive with Shakti. It felt as though the very essence of the morning sun had poured itself into them.

Soon, Krishna Nair arrived too. But that day, by my father’s grace, I was the first to have this sacred Darshan. Swamiji looked deeply into my eyes, and I am certain he knew — unmistakably — that it was my father who had sent me there, who had ensured that I would not miss this moment.

Even today…
the rising sun,
the cranes against an ochre sky,
the Tulsi Vrindavan,
the warmth of those wet Feet,
the fragrance of sandalwood drifting through the air—

all of them return to me again and again, like a ceaseless whisper.
A reminder.
A presence.
A Sumiran that arises effortlessly.

A connection that never breaks.

How to Be in Anusandhān?