On day three we visited the nursery of Nadesh Krishnan who helps the Spiritual Park garden team in many ways (in blue shirt).
We visited his Murugan temple briefly. He is erecting a Murugan murti in the style of the 140′ tall Batu Caves statue, but three centimeters taller!
A morning with shishyas and students in the newly named Muruga Mandapam.
Swami takes all present through a guided meditation.
After a gathering with all of the sevaks (there are some 50 in all), lunch is served.
An amazing group of Sivathondars who guide the events and projects at the Spiritual Park, some for 40 years
Sadasivanathaswami and Tillainathaswami are in Mauritius the last few days as you saw earlier, spending more time than usual with members, both in groups and individually. As scripture says, nothing brings greater joy to a Sivabhaktar than being with other Sivabhaktars, and the devotees here are amazing. Amazing in their dedication, amazing in their service to others, amazing in their exemplary sadhanas and more than amazing in their rarified presence, a purity derived from decades of putting Gurudeva’s teachings into practice. They have done the work, and it shows. The last photo in the gallery captures the September 30 meeting of the kulapatis. Standing are the senior ones and seated are the newly installed younger leaders. The leadership has thus strengthened significantly, assuring the dynamic growth of the Spiritual Park continues long into the future.
In one of the talks, Paramacharya gave a Gurudeva quote that is worth repeating here: “The Natha Sampradaya has revealed the search for the innermost divine Self, balanced by temple worship, fueled by kundalini yoga, charted by monistic theism, illumined by a potent guru-shishya system, guided by soul-stirring scriptures and awakened by sadhana and tapas.”
As most of you know, we are working to have new portraits of eight of our Satgurus, so they are all represented in a euphonious way. Four days ago, we received the latest one from Baani Sekhon. It is of Rishi, who has no known name. Since he began his life in the Himalayas, we simply call him Rishi from the Himalayas.
We share Baani’s interpretation today. It depicts a part of his life—seven years of it—spent sitting in a tea shop in Bengaluru. Devotees eventually placed a brass railing around him to keep people from touching the silent and motionless saint. Baani shows how he became revered in the village. She subtly intimates how, at times, something magical happened around him: pieces of paper would fall from above, and on them would be written answers to the thoughts of those present. These became cherished remembrances of their time with him.
We include, for the brave, a long excerpt (not his whole chapter) from The Guru Chronicles, telling more of his amazing life.
More of the Story
Around 1850 Rishi began to frequent a small village near Bangalore, returning to beg from the houses often enough to become a familiar sight. He may have been drawn to the Natha mystics who lived in Karnataka state, and felt an affinity with their ways. Like them, he was not your everyday yogi. Always barefoot and empty-handed, he carried no bowl, no staff, no water pot or shawl. He ate once a day, from one house, and only what his two hands could hold. Many had thought of approaching him for blessings or asking him who he was, but Rishi came and went like the wind and did not brook intrusions or the curious. He appeared out of doorways and disappeared just as quickly. He stepped out of the crowd in the marketplace, and before you could catch him he walked around a corner or into a shop and was gone. Where Rishi came from, where he stayed, no one in the village knew. No one had been able to talk to him about such things.
He was described as a man of medium height with a thin, wiry build, intensely active and always in motion. He never strolled or ambled the roads; he marched wherever he was going, strong and straight despite his age. He wore a kavi dhoti (the rusty orange hand-spun, hand-woven, cotton garb of the Hindu saint) and two rudraksha malas, nothing more. His beard was silvery grey, his hair still quite dark, matted and piled in a crown above his head. His eyes, though, are what men remembered most about him—like two dark pools they were, large and round, black as coals and full of fire. They say he was an unusually quiet man, with an aura of unbridled power, like a river at its mouth, like the air before a storm. That heat, that current, was overwhelming, making it hard to be near him for long.
A man named Prasad owned a tea shop in the village, located right off the market square. It was a solid building with concrete walls and a timber-hatch roof, and he made a modest living serving tea, sweets and buttermilk there. Business was brisk, as it is in most Indian tea shops. The rishi walked into his place one morning and sat down on a wooden bench against the back wall. Prasad looked up to see an old sadhu leaning back against the cool wall, resting from the heat outside. Even as he watched, Rishi looked once around the room, pulled his legs up under him and closed his eyes in meditation. Prasad wasn’t sure what to make of it, so he let the holy man be. In this time and place, holy men were revered, and even the most eccentric among them were held in awe, their movements unrestrained by ordinary society.
When it came time to close the shop for the day, Rishi was still sitting there. He hadn’t moved. In fact, he didn’t seem to be breathing at all. Prasad came over. “Has he died?” he wondered. No, the body was warm. He sat by Rishi for over an hour, wondering what to do. Finally, he reluctantly locked the shop and went home, leaving Rishi inside.
The following morning, Prasad found Rishi still in samadhi, exactly as he left him. He hadn’t stirred at all. Word got around quickly, and villagers crowded in through the day to see—standing around, staring at him and talking it over. Despite the commotion, Rishi never moved. His face was radiant, but unmoving, like a mask.
That night Prasad again locked him inside the tea shop, and again the next morning Rishi was there, entranced, upright and unmoving. This went on for days, then weeks, then month after month. Word spread. People started coming from hundreds of kilometers away to see the silent saint. The tale grew more unbelievable each time it was told. In legends such things happened, in folk stories perhaps. Not in a little village in the hills. Not in modern times. And yet, there he was.
The rishi didn’t eat, didn’t drink, didn’t move, didn’t breathe, as far as anyone could tell. He was like a log of wood, like a corpse, but he wasn’t dead, they knew. He was absorbed in God, in samadhi, keeping only a tenuous hold on the physical plane.
Eventually Prasad closed his tea operation and cleared out all the rough-hewn tables and benches. He didn’t mind. His devotion filled him with the confidence that all his family’s needs would always be met, and they were. Once he made the decision to surrender himself to caring for the Rishi and managing the crowds that came every day for darshan, everything always seemed to flow smoothly.
They came from before dawn and stayed until after dark. Some were there for the mystery of it all, and others for the chance to be with philosophically astute comrades. Others were superstitious, and a few were there just to debunk the whole thing. The evenings were always busy, for there were few in the village who didn’t visit Rishi almost daily. Eventually, pilgrims from all corners of India made their way to Bangalore, to be part of history, to see something remarkable.
The crowds grew. It became difficult to keep them from crowding Rishi, as most wanted to touch him, to touch a bit of holiness. Prasad put up a brass railing to keep them back. It worked. Only he and his sons could go beyond it, and at least one of them was on duty whenever the shop was open.
The various offerings people brought were passed over the railing to the “priest” on duty, who spread them out on a low, copper-clad table in front of the bench where Rishi sat. Also within the railing was a row of brass oil lamps, a dozen of them, large and small, no two alike, donated by pilgrims. These were kept burning night and day. A shallow bronze pot was added later, out in front of the railing, where devotees burned great quantities of camphor. The soot from the fires soon blackened the room, especially after Prasad bricked in all the windows for security. The remaining door he bolstered with great iron hinges and bars, and he kept the key to the shop on his person at all times.
His business gone, Prasad maintained his family by taking what he needed each day from the piles of cooked food, fruits, flowers, incense and money the pilgrims brought as offerings. The rest he distributed back to the devotees as prasadam, as temples do after each puja, so little or nothing was left by nightfall. The rishi attracted an astonishing amount of wealth. No one came or went away empty-handed.
Things eventually settled down to a routine, for there was really very little to do or see. People came to be with Rishi, staying a few hours or a few days, and then going. No pujas were done; no one chanted, sang or talked. The room was always silent, the lamps were always lit, Rishi was always there, and this went on year after year after year.
Seven Years in Meditation
A visit to the tea shop was the experience of a lifetime, and many said once was more than enough. Stepping through the iron doorway was like stepping into another world, from the glaring heat of the Indian sun to the cool interior of a cave. One end of the room was illumined by sunlight streaming in through the open door. Only oil lamps lit the far end and the bench where Rishi sat.
You see Rishi first, like an apparition, a wraith against the wall beyond. If chiselled in stone, he would look the same. Ringed by oil lamps, no shadows approach, so his face reflects the ruddy color of fire. He is thin and old, his ribs show through, and he is covered with a film of vibhuti, holy ash, from head to toe. No one applies it, but it is always there, powdering down on the bench and floor, the only thing about him that changes from day to day. Looking at him, the thrill in his limbs is unmistakable; it can be seen. His face is an open expression of indrawn joy, radiant and shining, mingled with the fire glow.
On the table in front are heaps of bananas and mangoes, rice and pomegranates, clay jugs, brass pots, incense and coins all spread in profusion on a gorgeous cloth of red and green. The whole room is strewn with flowers. Everything looks polished and new—the railing, the lamps, the table—everything but the camphor bowl, blackened and bent. It must glow red on a busy day. New straw mats hide the earthen floor, and a few devotees are seated upon them. Prasad stands guard in the shadows, a portly figure in spotless white.
It is perfectly quiet, perfectly still. A ringing silence fills the air and can be heard by those inwardly attuned, a sound as of a thousand vinas playing in the distance, a sound divine, the sound, some say, of the workings of the subtle nervous system, or, others claim, the sound of consciousness itself coursing through the mind, the sound that binds guru to disciple through the ages. It is a sound that many visitors have never heard till now, and it fills them with an inexpressible and familiar joy.
The dim room smells of camphor and earth and the perfume of ripe mangoes piled on the table. It feels alive; it looks empty. Sitting on the mats with the other devotees, one suddenly feels the impact of Rishi’s presence. The skeptical mind is stunned, and it seeks a rational explanation: “He is an old man napping, nothing more. He is asleep or lost in a thought. Surely that’s all.” But for seven years? Seven years he has been here, they say, rapt in his soul, absorbed in God. Can it be believed? It boggles the imagination. The mind struggles and comes away baffled and yet changed by having been here, having been in Rishi’s scintillating presence.
Pilgrims from all over India reached the tea shop in Bangalore, on the 3,000-foot-high Mysore Plateau. Many said they had been called there, having seen Rishi in a dream or vision. Prasad knew a thousand such stories, and delighted in telling them to whomever would listen. The pilgrims came with problems more often than not, and always they were helped; none was denied. Few would claim that Rishi had answered their prayers himself, for no one felt that kind of personality in him. He wasn’t there in that sense. And yet, things happened around him that didn’t happen elsewhere.
In Rishi’s presence the mind was so clear for some pilgrims, so calm, that answers often became self-apparent. Even problems that had gone unsolved for years dissolved in minutes before him. The answers came from within the pilgrim. For others the answers were more elusive, coming after they left his presence, even days later. A visitor would pray or merely think over his life while sitting before Rishi and then be on his way. Whatever the question or problem or need, the answer soon came, clear as a bell—in a scrap of conversation overheard on the street, in a song sung by a child skipping to school, or simply from intuition, from the inner sky.
Sitting with Rishi opened the mind to its depths, and everything adjusted itself naturally. It wasn’t the answer itself but the way it hit the mind, the impact of it, that showed where it came from—it was straight to the point in a roundabout way, said but unsaid, seen but unseen, like Rishi himself. Always the answer hit the nail on the head, with stunning power, leaving no room for doubt. And that power did not diminish with time, as everyday thoughts do, but grew in certainty and clarity.
Then there were the notes. On rare occasions, a pilgrim would receive a note, a message out of thin air, answering problems he had brought, silently, before Rishi. These notes appeared in the room where he sat, written on a scrap of paper. A rustling sound as it hit the floor was all anyone knew of where the note came from. These messages were never personal, never addressed to anyone, and didn’t answer questions specifically. Rather, they spoke in general terms, talking around the subject and usually explaining the way things were done in the old days.
If a mother was worrying about the marriage of her daughter, the note might explain a bit about how marriage was looked at in the Vedas, what the ancients looked for in a family, why a man marries, why a woman marries, how to tell if the choice is good, and so on. Though brief, the notes were more than enough to show what was needed and why. Because they spoke to everyday problems, their content was seldom remarkable. Similar statements could be found in any Hindu scripture. Indeed, the notes occasionally quoted scripture, especially the Upanishads. But the way they were written, and the medium of the message, had a remarkable effect on the one who received it. The language of the notes was usually Kannada, though Telugu, Tamil, Hindi, Sanskrit—and even German, on one occasion—were also used.
A widowed businessman came from Tuticorin, deep in the South of India, after finishing his career and leaving the estate in his son’s hands. Bringing no plans, no problems, no needs, he simply came to see Rishi. A note appeared while he was there, referring to the four stages of life—brahmacharya, grihastha, vanaprastha and sannyasa (student, householder, elder advisor and renunciate)—which are the natural patterns of the soul’s earthly vitality and karma. The man captured the subtle direction and entered a life of service in a nearby ashram, visiting Rishi often.
Five years after Rishi had come to the tea shop, four young men, students at the University of Berlin, arrived in the village to see him. They were all in their early twenties, all Sanskrit scholars, three of them quite competent. Like many of their generation, they were enthralled by the Vedas and Upanishads. They had even founded an ashram in Germany to spread the lofty teachings they so admired.
These four had heard about Rishi from travelers in far away Berlin and decided to come to India to see him for themselves. If the reports were true, he was just the man they were looking for to guide them in practicing and realizing the ideals of the Upanishads. Two of them were wealthy enough to pay passage for four out of pocket, and so—their hearts aglow with dreams and plans, pinning their hopes on bringing Rishi back to the fatherland to head up their ashram—they shipped off to India.
Landing in Bombay, they proceeded south to Bangalore and the village where Rishi sat. Because they spoke only Sanskrit, of the Indian dialects, a brahmin man accompanied them as a guide and translator. The people of the village were impressed with their sincerity and a bit surprised by their knowledge of Hinduism. They were hosted and entertained by the best of families, treated like princes and practically adopted by everyone. They would gladly have stayed on forever, if not for their comrades in Berlin and the mission they had come East to fulfill.
Once they met Rishi, their world turned around him alone. They spent two days sitting in the tea shop, coming outside only to hear Prasad’s stories. After two weeks, each of them had their own stories to tell, of wonderful experiences, inner and outer. The rishi surpassed their wildest dreams. They were sure they had found their teacher. The future of Hinduism in Germany looked bright. They talked about it excitedly: Could Rishi be aroused? Would he even speak? Could he travel in his present state? Dare we disturb him? Most important, would he agree to go to Berlin? What if he refused? Then what?
A message materialized one day, the kind Prasad always talked about, written in German and obviously meant for them alone. That note convinced them utterly. They were walking on air for days afterward, reciting it to each other like a hymn, like a mantra. The note was in Rishi’s usual style, indirect, talking all around the question, yet plain enough:
“All things can be—according to karma and opportunity. A man’s karma is threefold: that which awaits a future birth, that which awaits an opportunity and that which is in motion now. Sadhana spares the least of men a thousand future lives.”
There were other foreign visitors to the little tea shop during the following two years, though no one ever again tried to disturb Rishi. Life went on as it always had, until one day Rishi opened his eyes and looked at everyone present. A few minutes later, he stood up, stepped out of the shop and walked down the road. He had taken great care during those years, through practice of pranayama, to maintain the flow of life through his body. So he was able to get up and move about with the merest instability, more like someone who had sat in one position for too many hours.
Sadasivanathaswami and Tillainathaswami fly off today on a 25-day mission to California, New York, London and Mauritius. As they pack to depart, the Songs of Tayumanavar book is taking shape, a work of some three years. You will hear more about it in the months ahead, but for now we share the graphic spreads that introduce the five cantos which are the organizational structure of the Tamil poet’s 1,454 songs. Amazingly, and not without climbing a steep learning curve, the five works of art were created by DALL•E, the AI partner of CHATgpt. Tayumanavar, we hear, is to be a major theme for the various satsangs, workshops, temple talks and seminars planned for the journey. Aum Namasivaya!
A family stands at a crossroad. To the left is a dark and rocky future which the deva in the clouds is advising against. To the right is a brighter path. A small decision here will have lifelong impact.
CONSIDER THE CONSEQUENCES: This well-to-do lady could easily afford the outfit in the department store. Yet, in a moment of weakness, she chose to steal it. The store’s security guard caught her, and soon she faces a day in court. Every choice we make plants a seed whose results inevitably return to us.
SEEK DIVINE GUIDANCE: Facing difficult karmas, this devotee turns to Lord Ganesha. By sincerely worshiping Him, we find that confusion gives way to simplicity, and tangled problems become manageable.
MITIGATE PAST KARMA: In a fit of anger, a father has beaten his son earlier in the day, forgetting his vow to his guru never to strike the child again. Now, filled with genuine remorse, he fasts at dinner in a self-imposed penance, seeking forgiveness and cleansing his heart of regret.
DON’T RETALIATE: The protest march led by Gandhi on May 21, 1930, is attacked by police. The injured protestors did not retaliate or defend themselves, but allowed the injustice of the attack against them recoil against the administration that ordered it. It helped to free India years later.
The monks are working on the final stages of editing and designing the next Educational Insight for Hinduism Today, a 14-page feature on how to handle karmas in our life. It has Satguru Bodhinatha Veylanswami’s deep insights into the art and science of dealing with karma, something we can all benefit from. Satguru gives ten basic precepts. We share here a few of them, along with the art that attends the precept.
“Treat everyone as you would like to be treated. Because karma is watching.” 21st-century proverb
A palm tree sheds its bark, looking like a super close up of violin strings or an electron micrograph of human hair and scalp
Lichen up close resembles dried coral or weathered bone
Intricate moss carpet, a miniature forest growing on a log
A chlorophyll oragami with folds trapping the Sun’s light resembling a drone shot of a farmer’s field
The amazing cordex of the South African Turtle Vine, its bark resembling cork or maybe an alien planet’s surface
Hundreds of palm flowers fallen to the ground, their work done as pollinating bees fly away to their next meal
A desert euphorbia, a visitor favorite that is a cabbage wannabe
Palm bark looking like woven hemp fabric. Does Siva use a loom for this work?
A tropical Calocasia, glossy with rain and hiding in the shade
Like succulent scrolls, each leaf of this densely crowded sanserveria folds and bends to make room for its neighbor
It’s called Black Coral, with shiny dark leaves that look wet even in the dryness of midday
A Shell Ginger leaf looking like like wet paint on a canvas
The Everglades Palm, reminding us of Cinnamon Bark and woven from the threads of years
A young Poincianna branch (a rare yellow-flowered variety) with its little leaf soldiers all lined up in parade formation.
The lungs of the jungle, facing the sky to make sugar from photons. Or is it a satellite photo of the Amazon jungle?
If a hundred and one visitors walk through Siva’s Sacred Gardens, they will have at least 102 differing experiences. There is the plant/stream/stone relationships to understand, there is the color pallet to admire, there is the contrast of massive and miniature, there is light and shadow everywhere, clusters of color and never-saw-that-before moments.
For today it is all about looking more closely than usual as we chronicle 15 botanical creatures from up close. Challenge: before reading the caption, try to guess what you are looking at.
Devotees parade Satguru through the Spiritual Park
Then welcomed at the Spiritual Park with a foot washing by the senior kulapatis.
A drone captures the spiritual park overlooking the river jusst before it merges with the sea.
Satguru blesses the future site of the bronze Gurudeva murti (seen middle left) with water from a kumbha.
Adding rice and flowers into the small pit.
Another aerial view. Ganesha is in the mandapam with the dark blue roof.
Pada puja is performed in the traditional manner.
The stairs down to the river.
Bodinatha addresses the members in one of the three new mandapams.
Last week this team planted new trees.
An amazingly productive Amala tree.
The annual Amala (Indian Gooseberry) harvest is underway.
Members package the health-giving fruits and sell them to visitors who appreciate the freshness.
Such a happy tree. Our Amala on Kauai gives few fruits, since they like a dry climate which we are not.
On August 22 Satguru Bodhinatha Veylanswami and Shanmuganathaswami arrived in Mauritius for a five-day visit with our members. He was greeted by devotees at the airport and later paraded by a large group through the Spiritual Park with drums and conch shells, and lots of melodious chanting. There were multiple events, initiations, ground-breaking, wedding blessings, upadeshas and gatherings.
Bodhinatha sent a note despite how busy he has been:
“Aloha, everyone! From 9 AM to noon Satsang at the Spiritual Park was arranged for members and a few devotees. Perhaps 150 attended. A Ganesha Arati fwas ollowed by a ground-breaking ceremony for the soon-to-be-built Gurudeva bronze shrine. Next was a full pada puja followed by my talk on how rising through the chakras is like climbing Mt. Everest. Next we had two Vishesha Dikshas and three Samaya Dikshas. The morning concluded with vibhuti blessings and lots of photos with individual families.”
