Reminiscences from my sisters Kusum and Lata

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

Our Childhood days

We were young schoolgirls, around eight years old, and incredibly fortunate to have wonderful parents who brought us into the presence of Bhagavan, a Mahavatar. Today, at 81 (in 2023), I think of my father often. I remember how effortlessly he would slip into deep sleep. I never saw him doze off, lose balance, or lean on anything or anyone for support. Now I wonder—was he truly falling asleep, or, when in Bhagavan’s presence, was he drawn into a deep state of union with Bhagavan’s Shakti, His divine energy, and spandana (vibration)?

Life blessed me with several opportunities to visit Ganeshpuri—sometimes with my parents, and sometimes with Gulabi Mamuma, the mother-in-law of Ramakrishna, the youngest of my father’s brothers. Bhagavan never felt like an outsider to us. He was more like a family member, almost like a grandfather. We would massage His Feet, though He never allowed me to place my head at His Feet in prostration. Even today, I feel a sense of sadness at having missed that chance. Perhaps He saw children as pure reflections of God? His Feet were incredibly soft, like cotton, almost as if there were no bones in them.

When He went for His walks, sometimes He allowed us to hold His hand and run alongside Him. While the village children got to follow Him up to the river and beyond, He never let us city girls accompany Him. Maybe it was because we weren’t accustomed to the rugged paths leading to the river?

Bhagavan would often sit on the steps of His room. I remember trying to peek inside when He wasn’t there. To a small girl like me, the room seemed dark and enormous. Gangubai, my caretaker, helped me with all sorts of tasks—washing dishes, cooking, lighting the kerosene stove. During our visits, we had to bring even the smallest essentials, like matchboxes, as there were no shops nearby, and matchboxes were a luxury for the locals.

One time, we forgot to bring one. I worried about how we’d cook for Bhagavan and ourselves. He came out, pointed to a ledge under the roof, and told me to get a stick to knock down a matchbox hidden there. I fetched a stick from Gangubai, nudged the matchbox down, and—happy cooking! I still marvel at how He knew I was looking for one.

There’s so much to share, though my memory is fading. But I can still live in those precious moments. To have been in Bhagavan’s presence was the greatest fortune, a blessing we received only because of our divine mother and father.

These images take me back to seeing Him seated, always watching over us like a mother keeping an eye on her children. There’s one picture where His head is tilted, and He’s gazing from the corner of His eyes—such a typical pose of His.

Tulas Amma

I remember a large green mosaic pillar. It wasn’t perfectly round and had some fissures. It was so big that it took three of us girls, holding hands, to encircle it. We used to play around that pillar. One day, Shree Tulas Amma pointed at it and declared, “This is where His body will be placed!” I was too young to fully grasp her words, but I felt a wave of sadness, and from that moment, I kept my distance from the pillar. It no longer felt fun to circle it. Now, when I see Swami’s Samadhi in the exact spot where that pillar once stood, I understand the truth of Tulas Amma’s prediction. I still recall how Bhagavan came out and scolded her, “What nonsense are you talking? Do you have to make such a declaration?” A few days later, He had the pillar demolished.

Serving Bhagavan as kids

He often went away for long periods—maybe to His room or outside. But as soon as He returned, we would run with a bucket of hot water from the Kund and pour it over His Feet. He allowed us to wash His Feet, just like Sister Nivedita washed the hands of Swami Vivekananda after meals.

We always kept His food ready—whether it was breakfast or lunch. When He was ready, He made certain signs that told us it was time to serve. I would bring His plate, filled with dishes prepared by Gulabi Mamuma, who was an excellent cook. He never picked up the plate from the ground—it had to be handed to Him. The plates were made of brass. He would mix everything—sour, spicy, and sweet—until the individual flavours merged completely. Even though the food was very hot, He would mix it with His fingers. When we gave Him freshly fried puris, still puffed and hot from the oil, He took them directly in His hand! I was afraid they would burn Him, but He never hesitated, even though there was a plate right there.

While He ate, we moved a respectful distance away, as it wasn’t proper etiquette to watch a saint eat. Once He finished, He would make a sign, and I’d rush to collect the plates. Sometimes my father ate the leftovers, and he always said they tasted amazing! I wondered how that could be—everything mixed should’ve tasted odd. But my father insisted it was extraordinary and wouldn’t share it with anyone, no matter the offer.

Balancing school and visits to Ganeshpuri was always tricky. We lived in Mahim, Mumbai, so sometimes the entire family gathered and travelled together. It was such fun! The nights were especially beautiful, with a sky full of stars and the moon attempting to define Him in the dark. When we sat together to cook dinner, He often came by and watched us, speaking about so many different things—astrology, numerology, history, geography, Puranas, the Vedas. As a young girl, I couldn’t understand much, but it felt as though even the stars and the moon stood still to listen to His words of wisdom. My uncle, Ramkrishna, would often interpret His teachings for me.

The young tailors

My sister, Lata, and I enrolled in tailoring classes where we learned the basics of stitching. Our father, Raghunath, gifted us a Singer sewing machine, which thrilled us at such a young age. One day, my sister suggested that we stitch a garment for Bhagavan Nityananda, whom we affectionately called Swami. Our father, however, would refer to Him as ‘Deva’.

Swami only wore a simple loincloth in those days. It was made of two strips of soft, white cotton fabric, called ‘long cloth’. Each strip was about a meter long. He would tie one strip around His waist and wrap the second one, securing it with a knot at the back. My mother, Sunita, would often make a beautiful garland from this long cloth, adorned with velvet roses spaced at intervals, creating a light and artistic decoration.

Inspired, Lata and I decided to stitch a kafni for Him—a traditional long robe worn by sannyasis. We purchased a light blue imported fabric and set about making the very first dress we had ever stitched. But soon we faced a dilemma—how were we to measure Him? It wasn’t possible! Then we had an idea. There was a life-size picture of Swami Nityananda in our house. So, we climbed onto a table and used our measuring tape to take His measurements from the picture—arms, neck, everything. With much excitement and nervousness, we finally completed the kafni.

Our father, along with my younger brother Gopalkrishna, took the finished dress to Ganeshpuri. As was the custom, they waited for Bhagavan to call. After some time, Bhagavan called out, “Where are you, Raghu?” My father presented himself before Him and prostrated at His Feet. After the initial pleasantries, Bhagavan asked what my father wanted to say. Hesitant to offer the kafni since Swami never wore such attire, my father nevertheless gathered courage and said, “My daughters, Kusum and Lata, have been learning tailoring. They’ve stitched a dress for You.”

He opened the packet and placed the kafni in front of Swami. Everyone gathered around, curious to see what would happen. To everyone’s surprise, Swami showed an interest in wearing the dress we had made. No sooner had He put it on than everyone, including Bhagavan Himself, burst into laughter.

Confused, my father looked up and saw the reason for the amusement—the kafni had a neckline so deep that it reached Swami’s navel, and the sleeves were so long that they extended far beyond His fingers! It was both a funny and humbling moment.

In an attempt to salvage the situation, my father quickly found a safety pin and fastened the deep ‘V’ of the neck, closing it properly at His collar. He rolled up the sleeves to a more appropriate length. With the adjustments made, my father looked at Bhagavan, who was smiling warmly, full of love.

Wearing the ill-fitted, but lovingly made kafni, Swami walked up and down the corridor, showing everyone that He cherished and respected the effort that the two young girls had put into making it for Him. It was a moment that touched all our hearts deeply—a testament to His grace and love.

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

Bhagavan and Sixty-four 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 luxury. Only those few who could afford 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, mesmerized.

It took her a moment to realize she was at the Kund at the forbidden hour. When the realization 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.

A Trip to Nasik and Gangapur

Our family Altar with Saguna Paduka

Bhagavan had instructed Shree Swami Janananda to perform penance at Nasik and Gangapur, where he spent several years before returning to Ganeshpuri. Later, the devotees from Nasik and Gangapur requested Swamiji to visit them. With Bhagavan’s permission, it was arranged for many of us from Mumbai to accompany him. A private bus was booked, and I, along with my younger sister Lata and my father, were fortunate to be part of the trip. It was a remarkable journey.

Gangapur Paduka

At Gangapur, we visited Bhasma Hill, the site where Lord Parshurama had performed a Yagna, and the hill was formed from the ashes of that sacred ritual. Swami Janananda gave each of us a portion of the holy Bhasma, including us children. Even today, some of it remains with my brother Gopalkrishna.

One day, we gathered around Bhagavan, with my uncle Ramakrishna present as well. Someone urged Bhagavan to speak on numerology, and once the topic was brought up, He shared His profound knowledge of it, explaining both the predictive and spiritual aspects. Although I was too young to fully comprehend it, I recall Him discussing the number 1, representing Supreme Consciousness; 2, symbolizing the dichotomy and the discrimination between the transient and permanent worlds; and 3, referring to the Trinity and the Trigunas. Bhagavan’s insights flowed effortlessly, and my uncle tried to explain them to me, though now I remember very little of it.

Bhagavan also spoke about Sadhana, using the Sun as an analogy for Supreme Consciousness. Just as the sun rises and gives light to the entire world without discrimination, Supreme Consciousness resides in every being, unaffected by what each individual does. He shared teachings from the Bhagavad Gita, drawing examples from daily life, reminding me of Shree Dnyaneshwar Maharaj’s discourses on the Dnyaneshwari. He spoke of various saints—their early lives, their spiritual journeys, and their teachings. Saints like Sai Baba, Ramana Maharshi, Narasimha Saraswati, and Swami Samartha—Bhagavan seemed to know the life stories and wisdom of each one intimately.

At night, under the open sky, Bhagavan pointed to the stars and shared His knowledge of astronomy. He spoke of the planets, celestial bodies, their positions, and their influence on human destiny. He explained how astrology had evolved and how the ancient Rishis had acquired such wisdom. It felt like an open classroom beneath the stars, though we children could barely grasp the depth of His teachings. Yet, the joy and wonder that radiated from Him made it all fun and exciting.

For those fortunate enough to be with Him, nothing else mattered in life. He became an inseparable part of our very being. We could not imagine life without Him. He was everything—joy, love, celebration—an endless flow of Nityananda. Without Him, life had no meaning. It made me think of the Gopis and the joy they experienced when Lord Krishna was with them, and the devastation they must have felt when He left. But did He truly leave? No, He remained with them, in every cell of their being. Only those who have become and tasted sugar can truly understand the essence of sweetness!