The saints I met

They roam, they contemplate, they persevere… Rahamath Tarikere describes his encounters with yogis

The Nath sadhus at Nashik.

Tarikere with Sadashivayogi in Hampi.

Meeting a sadhu on the way to Aurangabad.

With a Buddhist monk in Mundagod.

With the Kodekal seer.

When I turned from lecturer to researcher, I began to study India’s sacred traditions, and travelled widely to places hallowed by the presence of saints. That is how I got to meet many yogis and fakirs.

Stories about India’s holy people are replete with accounts of wandering. From the outside, wandering and meditating may appear contradictory, but like speech and silence, they are complementary. The Buddha walked all day, and meditated at dawn and in the evening. Gorakhnath is often portrayed as sitting cross-legged in meditation. But on Kadri Betta in Mangaluru, a statue shows him walking. Ramakrishna Paramahamsa talks of two kinds of seekers: ‘kutichaka’ and ‘bahudaka’. Kutichakas live in huts, immersed in meditation. Bahudakas roam the world in search of experience. True knowledge comes only from a meaningful combination of wandering and meditation.

In the Nath sect, wandering yogis are called ‘ramta’ sadhus. I heard about an unusual practice—those initiated into the sect started walking
along the bank of a river, continued on foot all the way to the source of the river, and then walked back on the other bank. The Nath guru who lives on Kadri Betta walks with a big team from Trimbakeshwar to Mangaluru every 12 years, covering 1,200 km. I got to walk with them for 30 km, from Trimbakeshwar to Nashik. As I started talking to the sadhus, I realised that a majority had travelled all over India. The British officer, Weston Briggs, who wrote a book about the Nath sect, says a sadhu he met had walked all the way to Russia, Turkey and Tibet.

Car? No, thank you

Once, when I was driving to Bababudangiri in Karnataka, I saw a fakir. It was mountainous forest terrain. I stopped and spoke to him. He had been walking all the way from Kashmir, visiting hundreds of dargahs along the way. He was planning to walk to Nagur in Tamil Nadu. He had a bowl in his hand. That was all the luggage he was carrying. I offered him a lift. He refused, preferring to climb the hill by foot. Another sadhu I met on the way to Aurangabad had no feet. He was touring all of India using a cycle with four wheels. I have met several such sadhus while trekking in the Himalayas. They accept food and money, but refuse transport. For them, walking is a means to mingle with people. It is
also a way to spread their wisdom.

Travelogue wisdom

The autobiography of Sadashivayogi of Hampi, ‘Satyada Hudukaata’ (Search for Truth) reads like a travelogue. ‘Yegdagella Aite’, Belagere Krishna Sastry’s book on the life of the holy man of Mukundur, Swami
Rama’s ‘Living with Himalayan Masters’, Sri M’s ‘Apprenticed to a Himalayan Master’ are all travel narratives. Sri M’s book is filled with unusual experiences and visionary insights. It tells the story of how Mumtaz Ali Khan, born in 1948 in Kerala, transformed into Sri M. As soon as I read his book, I got to know that he was walking from Kanyakumari to Kashmir. He called it the ‘Walk of Hope.’ When he came to Karnataka, my wife, Banu, and I joined him. I got to speak to him. He speaks many languages. I was awestruck by his knowledge of the Avadhuta, Kabir and Siddha traditions. His life is a good blend of kutichaka and bahudaka. He has studied the Quran and the Bible in depth. He said, “Know Arabic?” I didn’t. “Would have been good if you had learnt it. They are interpreting the Quran to resemble fundamentalism. It should be interpreted in a humane manner,” he said. In his view, one way to counter fundamentalism was to interpret our scriptures humanely. Sri M is a wonderful speaker. At the same time, he is aware of the limitations of the spoken word. “I am tired of satsangs. Speech blocks what you can get from silence and contemplation. Walking in the Himalayas, some sadhus just won’t stop speaking. They have no time to see the sparkling streams, hear the singing birds, and appreciate the beauty of blooming flowers,” he said.

Rational seekers

I interacted for a long time with Sadashivayogi of Hampi. He was a seeker with a scientific temper. A book he wrote is titled, ‘Bharatiyarige Bhagavantareshtu’ (How many Gods do Indians have?). He had invited Abraham Kovoor, the rationalist, to his ashram. At the door of the ashram is a sign, ‘No petty tradition of falling at the feet here.’ He hailed from the Tiptur region in Karnataka, and had travelled to Ujjain, Kashmir, Mumbai and the Himalayas. Profoundly learned, he retained a
childlike innocence. He preferred to discuss spirituality with common people rather than scholars. “That’s the way seekers clear their doubts,” he would say. When the pandemic broke out, he gradually reduced his eating, kept a vow of silence, and gave up his body. All India Radio once asked me to interview him for its archives. During the recording, I found it difficult to stop his eloquent flow of words and get him to move on to the next question.

Speech in metaphors

Foreigners and tabloids often portray the world of saints as mysterious and sensational. I have found nothing sensational in the way they live. But I must say they do maintain confidentiality about their mystical experiences. A majority of the saints I have met are careful not to share their experiences randomly. When they do share something, they use the language of metaphor.

The water at the KRS dam in Mysuru recedes in summer, and Edatore, a town submerged for the project, comes into view. Its temples, churches and mosques can be seen again. I once went visiting. It was a deserted stretch. I entered a mosque, and saw a fakir deep in meditation. I got a fright as I had expected the mosque to be empty. He beckoned me with a sign. I went closer, and blabbered some silly questions: “Where are you from? What do you do?” He suddenly placed a hand on my chest and said, “This heart here… I sit here to realise the love inside. And if you realise that, you won’t ask me such questions.” The touch had left me palpitating with anxiety. “Your friends must be looking for you,” he said, as I walked to the door. The thrill and the fear triggered by the touch remained with me for a long time.

Forgetting the past

Sadhus largely refuse to speak about their past. They conduct themselves as if they have unburdened themselves of whatever has transpired in their lives. I suspect a tragedy behind every life of renunciation. In Karnataka, sadhus gather at many jatres—in Chinchali, Tintini, Ambamatha, Kodekal, Nayakanahatti, Hubballi. Once, at Ambamatha, a sadhu was singing tatva padas, songs with philosophical messages. His rendering was melodious and intense. After his singing was done, I bought him tea and earned his confidence. “What is the reason for you to become a sadhu?” I said. He had been a bus conductor, and had lost both his legs in an accident. He must have lost his potency too. His wife threw him out. This group of sadhus had offered him refuge. He had grown his hair and beard. Taking up a dammadi drum, he had started singing and wandering.

A majority of sadhus are annoyed if you ask them about their turning point. Once, I visited the Handibadaganatha Matha, in Belagavi district, trekking 8 km in thick forests inhabited by tigers. The guru here is called ‘peer’, perhaps because the founder of the matha was a Sufi who had come down from Kabul. Hundreds of sadhus from the north camp at this place. I found one who spoke Kannada and asked him my question: ‘Why did you become a sanyasi?’ He was talking calmly, but suddenly became agitated. ‘What does it matter to you?’ he snapped. Many
sadhus refuse to talk if they learn you’re a researcher or journalist.

Beyond the intellect

I met a saint from Orissa called Shivanath when I was at the Kumbh Mela. He was erudite, and would often send me titles of books to read. I enjoyed the freedom of arguing with him. I also had the liberty to pick quarrels with Sadashivayogi of Hampi. Sri M never preaches one way. He invites people from the audience to ask questions. “I have done some sadhana in the midst of a routine life. You can too,” he says. It is likely he finds rational-minded questions from people like me too simplistic. He once told me: “Our conscious brain can comprehend the world only in 3D because we rely on the five senses. We don’t activate much of the potential in our brain. If that happens, you may perceive the world differently. You may experience it differently.” In his view, we must not assume that only that which we comprehend with our intellect is true.

Siddeshwara Swami of Vijayapura, also had the sagacity to listen to dissenting questions, even if he did not answer them. About 25 years ago, he inaugurated a seminar in Vijayapura. It was about tatva pada writers. “Our mind and our attitudes determine whether we are happy or sad in life. If we tame them, we can live in peace,” he said. I spoke after him, and said respectfully, “If we tell people how to live in peace in the system they find themselves in, how will society ever change? History tells us that change comes from resistance. The sharanas of the 12th century recognised what was evil in their time, and opposed it. That is why we find them relevant. Aminuddin Chisti, the Sufi from Vijayapura, was similarly a voice of dissent.” A disciple later walked up to me and said, “Go for a walk with him. You can discuss this freely.”

Solidarity with farmers

Thontadarya Siddalinga Swami of Gadag was a voracious reader. He was always surrounded by books. He spoke with eloquence and clarity of thought. He had read my book on the Sufis of Karnataka, and recommended it to his followers. When the government decided to hand over fertile land in Gadag to the Korean company POSCO, he threw his weight behind the protesting farmers. He had also taken part in the Gokak agitation, demanding primacy for Kannada in education, and in a movement against communalism. I was also participating in the agitation against POSCO. I spoke to farmers, and wrote about their
problems in ‘Prajavani.’ He was a living testimony of how a religious leader with a sense of place could speak out against the government.

Some householders attached to dargahs and Aaroodha ashrams are spiritually evolved. They don’t like being photographed, and don’t participate in public debates and discourses, but open up when they find like-minded people. An elderly man at the Nizamuddin dargah in Delhi spoke with profound insight about the Sufis. When I took out my camera for a picture, he turned his face away. I put the camera away. Once a year, hundreds of singers and seekers arrive from Akkalakota in Maharashtra for the Mirasalam urs in Hosapete, Karnataka. They ply small trades, and are tailors, sheep traders and artisans. They understand Sufism deeply, as is evident during the discussions. For them, mysticism is not just awareness, it is life. Ibrahim Sutar of Mahalingpur was one such enlightened mystic.

Women of strength

Not all saints are mendicants and wanderers. Many are active in the routine world. We once visited the Chimanageri matha in Aland to listen to tatva padas. People there told me the pontiff had picked up a pickaxe and dug the well himself. Some of us friends were touring the Mysuru region to study the Manteswamy sect. There were no eateries around. A bystander suggested we visit the matha nearby. When we walked up, we found the pontiff winnowing ragi. He welcomed us, and sat with us for lunch. We were served ragi mudde and avarekaal saaru. In some mathas, the pontiff minds the cattle, ploughs the land, and supervises all activities.

But greater than all of them are the women who never renounce the worldly life, but live like saints. They stand in stark contrast with holy men who cosy up to the establishment, and jockey for real estate and political favours. I once visited a village in Vijayapura to attend the punyatithi of a saint. I gathered that his wife was still around. She was past 100. I met her. She hadn’t forgotten the sadness and hardships she faced when her husband went away to be a sadhu. She single-handedly took care of the fields, ran the household, and raised their children. When the children asked for their father, she would hide her sobs and say, “He is away at Hubballi on business. He will be back.” If Akka Mahadevi gave up the worldly life to become a yogini, this woman became a yogini by taking on all the responsibilities of the worldly life.

Translated from Kannada by S R Ramakrishna.

(The author is a renowned writer. His biography of singer Amirbai Karnataki is regarded as a classic.)