Living in the Presence of My Guru

A Life Woven with Mystical Threads

When I was just ten, I met my Guru. He was a man of Islam. There was a time when he would simply sit in certain spaces of Kanyakumari, untouched by the passage of time.

Many saw him in different places, but one name he would always repeat—Kanyakumari. It was there that he would slip into certain states, beyond the grasp of the ordinary mind. He did not seek anything, nor did he reject anything—he simply is. Days would pass, yet he remained unmoved, not by will but by the sheer intensity of what he had touched within himself.

People would whisper of a yogi, a man of a certain caliber—not one who spoke much, but one whose very presence could still the most restless minds. Some called him a mystic, some thought he was lost to the world. But those who truly saw him knew—he was not lost; he had simply gone beyond.

In certain moments, his breath would slow to an almost imperceptible rhythm, as if existence itself had ceased to be a burden upon him. At times, his eyes, open or closed, carried the vastness of the ocean that lay before him. And at other times, he would disappear—not in body, but in presence—like a breeze that was once there and now is not.

Few understood what he was. Fewer still could recognize the fragrance of what he carried within. But those who sat near him, even for a moment, walked away with something inexplicable—a stirring, a longing, an unsettling sweetness that would not leave them.

What was he doing in those spaces? Was he waiting? Was he dissolving? Or was he simply being? A question without an answer, because he was no longer seeking one. 

Nevertheless, One day, he met my father, and something shifted. He revealed that he had been following my father for nearly twenty years, waiting for the right time to speak. And that day, something unseen was exchanged between them—they became brothers.

When he saw me, he placed his hands over my head and said, "You will know everything when the time is right." I asked him, "What will I know?" But he just smiled and diverted the conversation to some television serial. He always did that—behaved as if he knew nothing of the mystical. He would talk of food, fishing, playfulness—everything except spirituality. And whenever I would question him about deeper things, he would say, "You do not have to know anything now. Just do what is being said. One day, Allah will give you something beyond anything you could ever expect."

He was not just a teacher—he was my beloved. I played with him, I questioned him, I tested him. Every mystical experience I had, I would run to him, expecting some profound answer. But he would simply say, "It’s just a dream." Yet, I now see—he never told me that the dream was real.

He used to say, "I will never die. Even after I leave this body, you can speak to me anytime. I will be with you always." And truly, he taught me how to do that. And rightly so—things happened.

For days, he would sit in deep Samadhi, untouched by the world. Back then, I had no understanding of what that meant. Now, after he has left his body, everything makes sense.

People spoke of miracles—some too strange for belief. They say he once transformed himself into a beautiful woman and stayed with a psychologically disturbed man in disguise for ten years, just to heal him. Back then, these stories seemed like fairy tales, but somewhere, deep inside, I knew—this world is not just what it seems.

The Lineage of the Unseen

My grandfather, too, would sit in Samadhi for days. People spoke of the miracles that happened around him, though he himself despised miracles. "If you do what you do not understand, you will bring misery upon yourself," he would say. He never gave away the technology to touch the peak of human intelligence—not even to those closest to him—unless they were truly willing. He knew that without the right foundation, touching the beyond could burn a person rather than liberate them.

My father—well, he is a different kind of being. He does not sit in meditation or Samadhi, yet he walks this land like a living legend. One moment, he speaks like a realized master; the next, he talks like an utter fool. But this, too, is a kind of wisdom—one that is beyond grasping with mere intellect.

When he was born, two white owls arrived at our home and never left. They became the guardians of our family. If anything harmful—be it a person or an animal—came near, these owls would drive them away. It was said that my father’s throat was home to Devi Saraswati herself. Many, including my own mother, have witnessed a white lady carrying earthen lamps, moving from room to room—a presence, a grace, something beyond comprehension.

In this house, the divine did not come through prayer or ritual—it simply was. It roamed freely, untouched by belief or disbelief.

A World Beyond the Senses

Looking back, all the missing pieces from my childhood, all the strange stories whispered from one person to another, now fall into place. What once seemed like riddles now stand as clear truths. The mystical was never something to be believed—it was something to be lived.

This existence, this life—it is not about what you think is real. It is about whether you have the eyes to see. Whether you have the ears to hear. And whether you have the heart to be touched by that which is beyond reason, yet more real than anything you have ever known.

Editor's Note:

This article is a personal account of profound mystical experiences, woven with the unseen threads of a living tradition. It offers a glimpse into a world that transcends logic, where the boundaries between the physical and the ethereal blur. The stories shared here are not meant to be analyzed but to be experienced. For those who seek, they may serve as a doorway. For those who do not, they remain mere words.

The journey of the mystic is not one of belief, but of direct perception. Whether you walk this path or simply observe, may these words stir something within you—an inquiry, a longing, or perhaps an unsettling sweetness that refuses to leave.