The monks continue working on “THE SEVEN MYSTIC GURUS,” the biographical stories of the Kailasa Paramparai. Today we share the story of how Tirumular walked out of the Himalayas as decreed by his guru, Maharishi Nandinatha. He went by foot to the deep south. Our story continues;

Entering the South of India
Once released by inner orders to depart, he proceeded on to Tiruvalankadu, from where he set out to Kanchipuram, in what is now Tamil Nadu, the land of the Tamil Dravidian people, one of the oldest Caucasian races on the planet. The first temple to be visited was a Siva sanctuary in Kanchipuram representing the earth element, where the healing powers of Lord Siva are pronounced, profound and famous. It was at the earth temple that he realized that it was among the Tamil people his mission was to take place. Yet, he was troubled by the fact that his physical body was of lighter complexion, taller than the Tamils, and that he was considered to be an outsider by all, and an intruder by some. Rishi Sundaranatha was dismayed and asked Lord Siva, at the temple of the earth element, how to find his way among the people that he was sent to bring his message to–the great Vedic-Agamic truths, the synthesis of Vedanta and Siddhanta, which was later to become the treatise of all times, loved and cherished by the Tamil people from then to now, in the twenty-first century, written in cryptic poetic outpourings.

Lord Siva said, “Wait. The solution shall be revealed.” Without a definite answer to his prayers, Sundaranatha trekked off to Chidambaram deeper in the South. At Chidambaram he stayed longer, having the darshans of God Siva’s anandatandavan dance. Here the young sannyasi’s heart and soul melted in love, and here, too, he moved daily with two other of his gurubhais, brother monks of Maharishi Nandinatha–sages Patanjali and Vyaghrapada. Patanjali, author of the Yoga Sutras, ultimate monist, and Vyaghrapada, foremost devotee and Siva bhaktar, deeply impressed Sundaranatha, who embraced his fellow disciples who had been sent South by Nandinatha several years before. Thereafter, Sundaranatha was to become the foremost spokesman of monistic theism, the Saiva path which radiates both Patanjali’s yogic attainment and Vyaghrapada’s yogic devotion of total theistic surrender.

His brother sannyasins soon availed him of the ins and outs of the local area and community. One day, walking about as he was wont to do, he entered a dense forest. There he stumbled upon an ancient Sivalinga and immediately fell to the ground in spontaneous surrender. It was a potent Linga, but small, about 50 centimeters high in its black granite bana. Sundaranatha’s worship, so perfectly unself-conscious, so oblivious of anything but the object of his homage which was inclusive of himself in some inexplicably joyous way, empowered that once-neglected Siva icon. He continued the worship, and today this Sivalinga is enshrined in a small shrine within the 35-acre Chidambaram Temple compound.

Sundaranatha Is Given a Cowherd’s Body
Leaving his brother monks in the sleepy village of Chidambaram, he crossed the Kaveri River and reached Tiruvavaduthurai, a Saiva center which has the honor of holding the samadhi shrine of this great Natha siddhar, though present-day managers of the sacred monastery say the disposition of his actual remains is not known. Lord Siva captured him here, and he was reluctant to leave.

Walking one day on the banks of the Kaveri, he came upon a herd of cows bellowing in distress, mourning the death of their cowherd, whose body lay lifeless nearby. Sundaranatha’s compassion proved overwhelming as he felt the pain of these berieved creatures. His soul reached out to assuage their distress. Rishi Sundaranatha wanted to bring solace to the cows. Being a great adept of siddha yoga, an accomplished raja yogi, he conceived a strategy to assume the herder’s body. He first looked for a place to hide his physical body and found a hollow log. Then crawling into the log, where his body would be safe, he entered a mesmeristic, cataleptic trance, stepped out in his astral body, walked over to the dead cowherd, whose name was Mular, lay down on top of the corpse, entered it and slowly brought it back to life. The first thing he saw upon reanimating Mular’s body was one of the most favored and intelligent cows, crying big tears from both eyes. These were tears of joy. All the cows now gathered round their beloved Mular, licking his face and body with their abrasive tongues and bellowing in bovine joy. After a time, being satisfied their cowherd was alive, they began to graze as usual, and the sight gladdened the heart of our Rishi. As evening fell, the cattle began walking back to the village, leading a newly embodied Mular behind them. Mular’s wife was waiting at the village gate for her husband, who was late. The woman was alone, with neither children nor relatives. She felt a strangeness in her husband and began to weep. Sundaranatha told her he had no connection with her whatsoever, and instead of entering the home, he went back to a monastery that he had passed on the way. Mular’s wife informed the villagers of her husband’s strange behavior, soliciting their aid. They approached the monastery, speaking with her supposed husband, whose deep knowledge and presence baffled them.

Returning to Mular’s wife, they told her that far from being in a state of mental instability, as she had described, he appeared to be a Siva yogi, whose greatness they could not fathom. Mular’s wife was sorely troubled, but she was also a chaste and modest woman and reconciled herself to the fact that her husband was somehow no longer the same person, and she prayed to Lord Ganesha for help. Soon the villagers began to call the transformed cowherd Tirumular, or “holy Mular.”

Eager now to be free of this unforeseen entanglement, Rishi Sundaranatha sought out the body he had left near the pasture. Returning to the hollow log, he looked inside and found that his body was not there. He searched for days and days, looking in every hollow log he could find, and even some logs that proved not to be hollow. Finally, in desperation, he sat in padmasana upon the hollow log where he had left his North Indian body. Entering deep yoga samadhi, he contacted his guru, Maharishi Nandinatha. They mentally communicated, and the explanation was that Lord Siva Himself, through His great power of dissolution, had dissolved the atomic structure of the North Indian body after he was well settled and adjusted to his Tamilian cowherder’s body, with the boon that he could now speak fluent Tamil. Tirumular then realized that this was the answer to the prayers he offered at Kanchipuram. He saw that now he could effectively give out to the world in the Tamil language the great truths of the Saiva Agamas and the precious Vedas, uniting Siddhanta with Vedanta for all time.

The gold leaf work is complete and how magnificent it is! Pilgrims this morning commented “Photos can never do justice to what they really look like!”

But we have a slideshow below that can help you visualize what the real temple looks like.

Here is the Vimanam.

Rajagopuram

This is a Chinna Gopuram before…

and after! We want to thank all the donors for their generous help to turn Iraivan into a shining manifestation of the Sivaloka here in the Bhuloka!

As the monks continue working on the biography of our Satgurus, “Seven Mystic Gurus,” many stories are manifesting. Today we share one, a miraculous and true story of Kadaitswami, the Tamil siddhar who lived from 1804 to 1891. Here is one of his many miracles. This story takes place in Northern Sri Lanka.

Kadaitswami lived life striding through the countryside and various townships, stopping and staying in patterns discernible to no one. As his reputation grew, everyone wanted blessings from him. With the passing years, he had a sizable contingent of devotees and anecdotes of his miracles were the devotional coin of the kingdom. We could imagine one such blessing, based on a true report, as follows.

Kadaitswami burst into the entrance of a bustling market one day, with shoppers vigorously negotiating for the slightest amounts of everything from flour to fish. Down the road to his right were fresh fruits and vegetables in lavish variety, each kind stacked in neat geometrical pyramids at open stalls tended by the farmer’s family. Bullock carts were still lumbering in from the farther fields, laden with the morning’s yield. Every region had its market, a giant version of the modern farmer’s market, with the growers engaging directly with the buyers in a frenzied melee. In those days, everyone was a locavore. Villagers had no refrigerators, not even ice, so visiting the market was an almost daily chore for every household, and food was always fresh. The age-old drama played out, with the merchants trying to maximize their take and villagers trying to minimize their expenditure.

A medley of prepared foods were on display in a separate sector. Pittu, a mixture of rice flour and shredded coconut steamed in cylindrical bamboo tubes, laid in steaming pots, fresh and ready to eat – the fast food of those days, but much healthier. Idiyappam (known as stringhoppers in English), that strangely wonderful spaghetti-pancake-looking treat made of a thick rice flour dough, were being steamed. Dosai and appam, made from a fermented batter of rice and dal, were being skillfully cooked on wood-heated iron griddles. Iddli, vadai, biryani, uthappam and uppama were all available.

This was not Thondan’s first exposure to Kadaitswami. The great missionary’s exploits were legendary, and Thondan was part of a circle of devotees dedicated to Kadaitswami and his teachings, but the two had never spoken. Suddenly, there the guru stood, an arm’s length away, his six-foot-four-inch frame towering above the crowd. Looking down at Thondan, Kadaitswami spoke in a deep, resonant voice, “I am coming to your home for lunch tomorrow.” It was not a request or a negotiation.

Looking up at the improbably tall swami, Thondan folded his hands together and paused for a moment in the hopes of saying something inviting, yet profound, grateful and reverent. All he could muster was a lame smile and a barely audible “Yes, Swami.” Swami turned around and left without a word. The rumor spread like wildfire. Thondan had been chosen by Swami. Down the line of stalls, people greeted the news with joy, curiosity and downright envy.

Each stall purveyed a plethora of curries, along with the obligatory triad of red, green and cream colored chutneys, stone ground from fresh coconut and herbs to compliment the main dish. Here, at a glance, one could see and enjoy 8,000 years of culinary evolution which has resulted in the most varied and healthful vegetarian palette on the planet. Saivites were so uniformly vegetarian in those days that the word for vegetarianism in Tamil is saiva. No wonder they mastered the veggie diet, having no fleshy distractions.

As he wandered home, Thondan’s mind wandered to food. He had not eaten a full meal in five days. His family had simply sustained themselves on a little dal, the milk of the family cow and a compassionate neighbor’s occasional offerings. Thondan was too proud to ask anyone for help. How then would he serve the swami?

Reaching home, he was struck by the oddly placed reminders of his old life: the tile floors, a luxury compared to the cow dung floors of neighboring huts; a finely carved chair with a silk cushion; a silver-plated chest with engraved artistry. He lost himself for a moment, remembering how, when times were better, they lived and had servants in a home five times this size.

Thondan realized there was not much time to receive Kadaitswami properly, and he had to do something. Snapping out of his reverie, he snatched the chest and bolted awkwardly out the door. An hour later, he returned to the questioning glance of his wife, Gowri, who knew something was amiss. Thondan announced, “Kadaitswami is coming tomorrow for lunch!” Gowri’s immediate reaction was enthusiastic, for a spiritual master was about to step foot in her home. But as fast as the smile came to her face, it left when she pondered how to receive him. Turning to her husband, she queried as diplomatically as possible, “How would you like to receive the swami?”

Her husband said nothing, but handed her a small pile of rupees. Gowri quickly discerned that he had liquidated the prized silver chest, and while shocked she said nothing. Their silent exchange was sufficient conversation. There was neither anger nor annoyance within her. The dutiful wife quickly appraised the handful of notes and, without actually counting, judged it more than enough for one fine meal. Gowri smiled, kissed her husband on the cheek and headed for the door, announcing, “I will go to the market and be back with the food for tomorrow.” Before she could leave though, Thondan cautioned, “This will never happen again in our lifetime, so make sure each item is the very best, and be sure to buy oranges.” Thondan went on to list a dozen more items, from sweets to nuts, all exotic and all expensive.

Gowri’s good cheer left the room. An experienced market-goer, she knew the money in her hand was woefully inadequate for the feast her husband was hoping for. At the same time, she saw his vulnerability in the moment. Like many proud men, he did not want to be told he had fallen short and might not earn the spiritual titan’s blessings.

Torn by her beloved’s anguished look, Gowri assured him, “We will make the best meal for Swami. Somehow we will do it.” Seeing her confidence, he grew happy.
Gowri instinctively clutched her thali, the solid gold pendant worn on a golden chain around the neck of all Hindu wives. Wives never remove this sacred symbol of marriage, and most faithfully worship their marital talisman each morning. To lose it is considered unthinkably inauspicious. They hugged as two people do when confronted with life’s trials, then began the business of preparing for Swami, he cleaning and preparing their entryway as she set out for the market with a surreptitious stop at the goldsmith’s shop.

The next day arrived almost immediately, or so it seemed since there was so much to do. The couple conscripted their two sons to help, and everyone was scrambling. By 11:45 am the last of the dishes was ready, but kept fresh in the kitchen to be served hot only after the swami had seated himself on the woven palm mat that served as the dining room. Their scurrying was interrupted by a thundering thump on the door, “Thondan, I have come!”

Gowri grabbed the camphor, Thondan the lamp and the two boys held the tray as their parents placed the camphor on the lamp and lit it. Thondan opened the door. Hands held in anjali mudra, he offered a reverent “Vanakkam, Swamiji.” But as they tried to offer the camphor flame in the traditional salute to holy men and women, Kadaitswami marched past and into the house. Obviously in good cheer, he gave Thondan a hearty thwack on the back, “Fine day, young fellow!” Swami sat on the mat prepared for him, indicating not so subtly that there had been enough niceties and he was ready to eat.

Taking an unadorned clay basin in one hand and a jug in the other, Gowri poured water over Swami’s right hand as he turned it over and flexed his fingers in a cleaning gesture that begins all Tamil meals. Thondan went to the kitchen where, one by one, his wife handed him the items to be served onto the banana leaf in an exacting order. Only men would serve a swami in those days, and the family ate only after their guest had finished.

True to her husband’s wishes, Gowri had and purchased an abundant supply of every savory staple and treat. But Kadaitswami was a big and active man with a matching appetite. As is customary when serving a guest in a Tamil home to this day, the host kept offering his guest more of each item as it disappeared, giving the sense that there was a never-ending supply. What the family didn’t expect was that Swami would keep eating and eating and eating, never extending his hand over the leaf to block the onslaught of sumptuous offerings, never saying, “Pothum,” enough. While pleased that their honored guest was so thoroughly enjoying their feast, the family grew anxious as Thondan was handed the last of the food, which was supposed to feed the four of them as well. He ate it, noticing their nervous watchfulness. “Fine meal!” Kadaitswami announced, folding the banana leaf that had been his plate in two, thus indicating that he was finished. He patted his stomach and pronounced, “Very full!” Relieved, Gowri relaxed. She literally had nothing more to serve him.

Turning to Thondan, Swamiji said, “I require one more thing before I go. You are a blacksmith now, is that right?” Thondan managed a muted, “Yes, Swami.” Not that he felt it was a lowly profession, but compared to his old business, his fortunes as a blacksmith were abysmal. He was the family provider, and he was ashamed not of his work but of his inability to care for them as he once had.
Kadaitswami instantly understood. “It is not what you do, young man, that is the key to fortune. Lakshmi can visit any profession. You must know how to call upon her.” Lakshmi, the Goddess of wealth and fortune, was then called forth as Swami quoted from the Tirukural, “Compassion, which is the child of love, requires for its care the bountiful nurse called wealth.” The whole family looked perplexed. “Do you have an iron rod in your shop? I require an iron rod before I go.” Confused and disappointed, everyone stared helplessly at Kadaitswami. Why would he ask for some worthless metal while talking about wealth?

Kadaitswami pressed, “Do you have an iron rod?” Thondan motioned to one of his sons. After a few moments, the boy returned carrying a rod a meter long and four centimeters thick, which he placed on a mat in front of Kadaitswami. Solemnly nodding in appreciation, Kadaitswami turned to Gowri, “Lakshmi is modest and changes in private. Do you have a clean sari?” Still confounded by it all, Gowri fetched a sari and handed it to her guest, who wrapped the iron rod with the cloth. Kadaitswami began to slowly chant, “Aum Namah Sivaya, Aum Namah Sivaya” Abruptly, he stood up and left. It was an odd departure, but Kadaitswami was nothing if not eccentric. A bit startled by it all, the family basked in the aftermath of Swami’s presence, so pure, so noble and mysterious.

Gowri went to put the sari and the rod away, only to be frozen by what she found: a solid gold rod. A miracle had happened in their home. Swami had transformed the iron into precious gold. Each one was transfixed by the marvel before them, and it would be days before they realized fully the value of the rod. The family never sold the rod. They didn’t need to. The blessing of Swami’s presence transformed more than the iron; it reinspired them to work harder than ever as a tight-knit team. In time, they prospered. Their afternoon with Kadaitswami was more valuable than gold, for it connected them to something inexplicable and supernal.

The swamis are working on the biography of our Kailasa Paramparai, a book that is tentatively titled “Seven Mystic Gurus.” Today we give TAKA Cybercadets a private glimpse into the chapter on the amazing siddhar Kadaitswami who lived from ca. 1804 to October 13, 1891. Here is the story as told for over 100 years in Jaffna, Sri Lanka.

One stormy evening Kadaitswami arrived shortly before dark at the house of a man who owned a fishing boat. The fisherman was not at home, so the wife was reluctant to let Kadaitswami through her compound gate. So forcefully did he insist that she relented. Entering the front yard, he went to a tree and sat down.

About two hours later, the wife, who was still waiting up for her husbandís return, noticed that the swami was holding a stout pole and sitting on the ground digging in the dirt beside him as if he were trying to push himself along with this makeshift oar. Yes, she thought, it looks as if he is pretending to row a boat, sitting in the dirt in the dark. She went out in the torrential rain and pleaded with Kadaitswami to stop, afraid of the weird goings on in here garden as much as what her husband would say when he came home to find the yard dug up. But Kadaitswami would not desist; in fact, amid the intensity of the storm and his work he seemed not even to hear her.

Three hours passed as the lanky sage performed this strange and strenuous drama. Unable to chase him away, she kept watch from the safety of her home. Finally the swami stopped, rose to his feet and disappeared into the darkened night.
The husband did not return until dawn, something that had never happened before.

Many local fishermenís wives had lost a husband to the turbulent sea. The wife was waiting anxiously at the gate when her husband approached, deeply relieved to see him but afraid of the scolding he might give her for allowing that man into their compound to dig trenches in the ground. She was mulling the most diplomatic way to explain what had happened when suddenly her husband prostrated full body at the spot where Kadaitswami had been sitting.

Dishevelled and exhausted, he went straaight to the open well to bathe. She brewed fresh coffee as he recounted that a severe storm had ravaged the sea just before dusk, capsizing his small boat. Struggling in the churning waters, he grew fatigued and felt death near, but wrestled with all his might to turn the boat aright. It was not working, and he grew weaker with every effort. Suddenly, one of the oars whacked him on the head, knocking him unconscious. He came to a few minutes later to find himself clinging to a plank, the boat right side up in a becalmed sea.

He told his disbelieving wife of a vision he had just when death seemed certain, a vision of Kadaitswami rowing the boat toward him, rescuing him from the sea. He had been saved, he said, by the grace of the guru. Hearing this, the wife found the courage to share her tale of the wild rowing episode witnessed in her own compound at just that hour.

Both marveled at the miraculous interconnectedness of their experiences. They knew they had been touched by something rare and beyond their understanding. For the rest of their lives, these two spoke of Kadaitswamiís supernatural efforts to save a drowning fisherman.

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