Mohanji's Blog
September 4, 2025
The begging bowl
During his wandering days, Atmananda encountered another avadhoota. People called him Pagal Baba (mad Baba). Nobody knew his actual name.
He was living in the suburb of a city near a flour and oil mill. This belonged to the rich man of the town. The rich man or his people never bothered Baba nor helped him in any way. They just let him be. Baba had a small dilapidated hut as his abode. He remained there through the harsh seasons and times. Baba was living outside the mill in the hut for many years before Atmananda met him..
By the way, the mill staff members who were responsible for disposing of the mill waste always gave him a bit of the waste materials free of cost. He never wanted a lot, though.
He used to collect a small portion of the ground waste products from the mill and used to make dolls and some bowls. (Usually, the waste products are used as fodder for animals.) He makes these products using waste products, some water drawn from the neighbourhood water well, some plant colours and adhesives, mixing well with the waste products and drying them in the sun.
When he had sufficient materials to sell, he would take them to the Friday village market, which seldom happened and usually happened once or twice a month.
Rugged, torn clothes, rugged, partially matted, untrimmed hair, as well as a beard, were his appearance. He didn’t have many teeth. He always smiled and chanted some illegible words as if to himself. He used to go to the village market and display his products. He hardly spoke and always communicated figures with his fingers. Even though he had kept a specific price for each, he sometimes gave them for free to the curious village children who obviously couldn’t afford them.
He also could never survive bargaining with customers. So, if someone started bargaining, he would always agree with their chosen price, even if it was often too unreasonable, as well as too low for his effort. Due to his lack of smartness, he couldn’t earn much from his ‘business’. The other merchants never liked him because he also pulled their prices down, and people flocked to him as if it were a discount sale store. They tried talking to him not to reduce prices and to stick to the prices prevailing in the market. He could do none of these. Despite the anger of his fellow traders, he still continued his chores quite unaffected and oblivious to his surroundings.
While Atmananda was walking through the village, he and his companions chanced upon this Baba, who was sitting, drying his products in the midday summer sun. There was no shade. And it was scorchingly hot on the midsummer day. They saw this strange man sitting under the red, hot sun as if he were sitting on a park bench in cool weather.
Atmananda approached him. Usually, he didn’t have any visitors except for some stray animals or children playing in the fields who came to fetch a ball that had strayed. When the shadow of Atmananda fell on him, he looked up. Seeing the monk, with a smile of familiarity and recognition (they had never met in this life before, though), without asking or speaking, he took out a bowl that he had been drying and was ready to use for Atmananda, and said, “Atma pranaam.”
Atmananda smiled, received the bowl with both hands, and said, “Oh, brahman, thank you for your darsan.” Hearing that, he got up. Atmananda continued, “I know that I came to receive this celestial bowl, which was waiting for me. It is now accomplished. I never begged for food. I ate only the food that came to me with respect and reverence. Receiving this bowl would be my turning point. Begging would kill my remaining ego. I shall marry silence henceforth. The rest of my journey will happen as designed, in utmost silence.” Hearing this, Pagal Baba drew Atmananda close to him and gestured to him to walk with him. They moved to the shade of a tree and spoke. It went on for less than 30 minutes.
Soon, they parted. Atmananda bowed down briefly to Pagal Baba and walked towards his fellow travellers. When he reached them, he showed them the begging bowl that Pagal Baba had gifted. He said, “See this, supreme consciousness itself hiding in the cloak of a mad monk and making pots for the people who never knew or cared, to remind them that they are just perishable pots after all, and by the time they build up a life, death takes them away.”
People do not understand him, nor does he expect them to. He is soaked in bliss. He is bliss. He is ‘Mast’ or drunk with god. He doesn’t have to do anything as he has nothing to achieve or attain. He doesn’t eat or sleep. All the meagre earnings he gets from selling his products, he uses to feed stray animals or buy sweets for children. He hardly eats or drinks. If someone offered him food, out of love for them, he might consume a bit. Even though he never bathed or washed his clothes unless the seasonal rains did those chores, there is a celestial fragrance around him, which the gross world hardly notices.
Today, he gave me a begging bowl. I came this way to receive it. He took nothing from me for it. And he said, “Dissolve. Dissolve. Dissolve” to me three times. These words were to prepare me for the next phase in my existence. Each time he commanded “Dissolve”, I sank deeper and deeper into the inherent truth, which silence represents. I became silent, and you will feel that around me.
Henceforth, his presence dissolved whatever was left in me as my identity. His actions were just a confirmation. He has nothing to do with the products that he made. He has nothing to do with anything. We are all blessed to have witnessed him. Villagers do not understand him. They bargain with Him. He allows such ignorance and is the least affected. He is Shiva. The ultimate brahman.”
When the fellow travellers asked Atmananda to tell more about the conversation he had with the Baba, he said, “Well, not all of them are important to you, but it is important for me as I am entering the next phase of my life. When I told him that the villagers should know who the Baba is, he said, “No need. If they do, they won’t leave me to be myself. I am fine with my anonymity. I was not born to be worshipped. He might as well disappear any time, too, if his job with this body is done. Perhaps he was waiting to tell me what he told me today, to transition me to another phase of my life.”
One villager told one of the team members of Atmananda that the authorities had asked him to leave the temporary shelter he had made on a raw land next to the mill. He apparently spoke that day and told the people from the government, “How do you own this land? It’s only the Lord, my Father, that owns everything. Nobody else owns anything in this world, let alone in their lives.” When we heard that, we felt that they should know that the one who is amongst them is verily Shiva himself. He obviously objected to it when Atmananda suggested that.
Atmananda continued. He also told me, “You are unlike me. You will be recognised for your calibre. You have to wander. You have to silence chaos. You will be known, perhaps even after many generations. I won’t be. You will ‘live’ with relevance and silence. I won’t be.” All were in awe. All their minds were filled with the presence of this unassuming avadhoota. They stopped at the nearby river for replenishment and continued their journey.
Some thoughts not related to this story…
Everything has a reason, relevance and time. Nothing happens a day before or after. Waiting for the right time is the wrong thing. The right time doesn’t come. We have to make our time right, every time, by being available at all times and in all situations without resistance to the flowing and changing times.The passive is dangerous. Those who watch evil and injustice and turn the other way, the indifferent and the ignorant, are the real danger of the world. Those who commit evil and deliver intolerance, as well as those who turn a blind eye, are all evil alike.
August 29, 2025
The Last Promise
One day, while Atmananda and his entourage were walking past a small town, on its outskirts, they came across an old woman whose leg was chained to a cot under a shed. A couple of dogs sat nearby. An unclean plate with remnants of food lay beside her – likely shared alternately by the woman and the dogs. Her mobility was restricted by the chain.
When Atmananda saw her, he walked towards her. The dogs barked at first but soon began wagging their tails, accepting his presence. As he reached her space, he picked up the plate, carried it to a nearby well, drew water, and cleaned it thoroughly. Inspired by him, the others began cleaning the floor and the area around her cot. The woman, however, seemed to be in deep slumber, unaware of what was happening around her.
Atmananda returned with the cleaned plate, placed it upright near her cot to drain the excess water, and praised his companions for tidying up her space without being asked. Then, quite unexpectedly, he took out a few coins – something none of us had ever seen him carry, as he had no place to keep them in his simple loincloth. Handing the coins to Madhava, he asked him to bring some fresh, warm, vegetarian food. While Madhava went on the errand, we stood silently, watching over the sleeping old woman. The dogs, now calm and trusting, had settled down comfortably around us, sensing no threat.
Whispers of AcceptanceLooking at the sleeping old woman, there was a deep stillness around her, as though she was already dead. None of us could even feel her breath. Soon, Madhava returned with warm porridge in a container, graciously given by the owner of a nearby restaurant, knowing it was for Atmananda. Though Atmananda never stayed in one place for long, his reputation preceded him wherever he went.
Atmananda poured the porridge onto the woman’s plate, emptying the container completely. Handing it back to Madhava, he instructed him to wash it thoroughly and return it to the restaurant owner. Completion of work was very important to Atmananda – he never left a task unfinished.
He sat down near the cot and gently touched the woman’s shoulder, softly calling her “Maa” (mother) a couple of times. Slowly, the old woman opened her eyes and gazed at Atmananda with a blank, uncomprehending stare. For a few moments, she remained that way, trying to make sense of her surroundings. Then, Atmananda gently helped her sit up. As she rose, the chain on her leg pulled taut. Though it was secured with a lock – its key likely with those who had bound her there – Atmananda tapped lightly on the lock, and it sprang open. He removed the chain and gently massaged her legs to restore circulation. Once she seemed more comfortable, he began feeding her.
At first, she resisted the food. It was clear she had not eaten for days, nor had she drunk any water. She was actually dying. Atmananda asked one of us to fetch water from the well. He offered it to her, and she managed a few sips before gesturing faintly with her hand for him to stop. She was too weak to speak. With trembling fingers, she pointed at Atmananda and whispered, “Kaun?” (Who?).
Atmananda replied gently, “Beta” (son) – asking her to see him as her son. She looked at his face in silence, then glanced briefly at the rest of us before returning her gaze to him. At last, in a fragile whisper, she said, “No… God.”
Atmananda smiled softly. “Never mind, Maa. Have some food,” he said, offering it to her with his own hands. This time, she opened her mouth. He fed her a few morsels. After three or four, she gestured again to stop and indicated that she wanted to lie down. Atmananda wiped her lips with water, gave her another sip, and eased her back into bed.
Though her body was little more than skin and bone, a faint radiance appeared on her face after she ate. It seemed as though the food Atmananda had given her was not ordinary porridge but divine nectar – amrit. She almost smiled, or perhaps it was only how we perceived it.
Atmananda then asked, “What more do you want from me, Maa?” She stared at him for a long moment, and then, in a barely audible whisper, replied, “Acceptance… and patience.” Atmananda raised both hands above his head and uttered, “Thathāstu” (so be it). The mother closed her eyes and drifted into sleep.
Atmananda gave the rest of the food to the dogs, waited until they had finished eating, then washed the plate thoroughly and placed it upright near the cot. The mother slept deeply, unaware of all that had taken place.
Turning to us, Atmananda said, “All of you must be hungry. Let us go and eat something, and we shall return to this mother before leaving later this afternoon.”
We went to the nearby river, bathed, and then visited a nearby temple where we received offerings. Hungry as we were, we ate everything given to us. Atmananda ate only a single morsel, out of reverence, for he accepted only temple prasad, and even that, in very small measure.
Afterwards, we rested beneath a tree in front of the temple. When the sun grew less harsh, we got up, completed nature’s call, cleansed ourselves in the river, and then walked with Atmananda back toward the old woman’s shed, about an hour away.
The Promise and the CrossingWhen we arrived at the place where the old woman had been, we found a small crowd gathered. Policemen were there as well. We wondered anxiously what could have happened in just the five hours we had been away. Seeing everyone perplexed, Atmananda quietly whispered, “She is no more. The police are trying to figure out whether it was a natural death or a murder. Let them take their time – let us go.”
Without another word, we turned back and walked towards the main street to continue our journey.
Later that evening, Kripa Ram approached Atmananda, who was standing alone by the riverside, watching the boatmen ferry people across to the opposite shore. Troubled in his mind, Kripa Ram could not place the puzzle together. He asked softly, “Swami, may I ask you another question?”
Atmananda glanced at him, smiled, and nodded.
“Swamiji,” Kripa Ram began, “you said that you had granted her wish to merge with God. Why did it not happen in her previous life?”
Atmananda replied, “As I told you earlier, she was kind and respectful to saints and monks, but she was not so kind to her servants and her own relatives. That karma had to be balanced before her final liberation.”
Kripa Ram persisted, “Has it been balanced now?”
“Yes,” Atmananda said calmly. “She endured it all through her starvation, her isolation, and her abandonment. And I, too, completed my promise. I washed her plate and fed her with my own hands. She did not know me, nor did she remember her past lives, but there was no need to explain it. What matters is that no promise can remain unfulfilled. When I gave those morsels of food and water to her, I wiped away the last remnants of her karmic stains. She is now going where she longed to go.
“And remember – just last week Uttarayan began, when the sun turns towards the northern hemisphere. Like Bhishma of the Mahabharata, she waited for the right time for her departure, and for my arrival. The respect and devotion she had shown to monks and masters in her past lives have borne fruit. That earned her this eligibility. She will now ascend to Brahma Loka, where rebirth is no longer driven by karma – it will be her choice alone.”
Atmananda’s words fell like drops of truth into our hearts. A deep silence settled upon us. No one could shake off the weight of that day, nor the quiet majesty of the soul’s completion we had just witnessed.
