In the Shade of Siddhi Maa’s Gaze

नंगे पाँव कैंची के आँगन में

There are places in the world that feel like they’ve always known you, even before you were born. For me, that place has always been Kainchi Dham.

I didn’t grow up in an ashram in the traditional sense, but summers at Kainchi Dham made it feel like I did. Nestled between bending hills and singing rivers, the ashram wasn’t just a spiritual landmark, it was my playground, my classroom, my secret universe of trees, temple bells, and marble floors warmed by the afternoon sun.

When people ask me about Neem Karoli Baba, or Maharaj-ji, as we call him, I always hesitate. Not because I don’t know what to say, but because I don’t know where to begin. How do you explain someone who is everywhere and everything, but also a part of your most ordinary, mischievous memories?

Some of my earliest memories are of running through the courtyard, chasing after squirrels or tracing cracks in the stone with my toes. The air always smelled of incense and hot chai. I’d skip past devotees and birds behind pillars, knowing someone, maybe Ma Vimla or one of the dadi nanis would eventually find me and scoop me into a story or a scolding.

And then there was prasad. Oh, kala chana! It was my favorite. A simple handful of black chickpeas served in a donaa (leaf bowl), but somehow it tasted divine, warm, spiced, sacred. I can still taste it when I imagine it. For a child, that was magic: holy food that also felt like love.

Maharaj-ji had left his body long before I arrived, but his presence filled every corner, in the scent of sandalwood, in the chants that drifted through the air, in the stories passed from one bench to another. His photograph, always framed in orange and marigold, felt like part of the family.

I’d talk to him, secretly, like you do with a favorite uncle you’ve never met. I’d tell him what I was scared of, what I wanted, who had taken my ladoo. And somehow, I always felt heard. Not with words, but with glances, coincidences, the way the wind would suddenly move your dupatta or how someone would unknowingly answer the very question you’d asked in silence.

I didn’t grow up thinking Siddhi Maa was some distant, enlightened being. To me, she wasn’t different from my own dadi or nani. She loved me the same way, with a firm look, a soft hand on the head, and the kind of scolding that somehow made you feel even more loved.

She carried Maharaj-ji in her eyes, yes, but also in the way she watched over everyone, like a mountain watches its village. Strong, silent, present. She didn’t need to say much. Her silence was its own language. I didn’t always understand her words, but I understood her love, it was the same love that braided my hair, wrapped sweets in napkins for later, and made sure I had socks on when it got cold.

Looking back now, I realize that Kainchi Dham didn’t just give me memories, it gave me my shape. It taught me what it means to sit still, to show up, to give without asking. It gave me a childhood that was both sacred and silly, where I could pretend the courtyard was a racetrack one moment and kneel in prayer the next.

The floor still remembers my footsteps. The temple bell still echoes with my giggles. And every time I return, I feel the same small, safe, seen. The ashram has changed a lot but I still remember it as it was. There are things that haven’t changed. The trees still sway. The bells still ring. The river still flows behind the walls, carrying away wishes and bringing back peace.

And when I sit thousands of miles away and close my eyes I see myself sitting in the courtyard, eyes closed, head bowed, I know the child version of me is still there, barefoot, wide-eyed, and quietly believing that miracles don’t need fireworks. Sometimes, they just need marigolds and a place to call home.