Love was Yogi’s teaching. Love was Yogi’s very life. Yogi radiated love continuously, without pause. He was nothing less than the personification of love itself.

His love was not confined to human beings alone; it embraced the whole of creation. It is astonishing to observe the absolute impartiality of Yogi’s love. Neither caste nor gender, neither religion nor nationality could condition or limit it.

Yogi and his love reach everyone who remembers him. He rescues his devotees from the turbulence of worldly existence. Without interruption, he worked ceaselessly for harmonious perfection among all beings.

From time immemorial, great souls like Yogi have showered such unbiased love upon everything that exists. They guided eligible seekers toward God-realisation, while silently bearing the weight of the world.

Whatever happened in creation—good or bad—affected Yogi, because he was one with all. In mysterious ways, and with immeasurable compassion, he attended to disorders arising anywhere in the universe, restoring balance so that life on earth—and indeed throughout the cosmos—remained in harmony.

If the essence of the ancient saints and the modern great souls—right up to J. Krishnamurti—were moulded into a single form, that form would be Yogi Ramsuratkumar.

This unique, beggarly form radiated pure, divine, and luminous wisdom, overflowing with love and compassion that carried seekers directly toward God. Yogi’s central work was to help eligible seekers merge with God, removing every obstacle from their path.

Other saints and teachers showed methods—paths, disciplines, philosophies—by which one might live in tune with God. Yogi did not preach methods. He simply lived, and through that living, radiated a wisdom so intense that it awakened God-consciousness directly within the seeker.

This great holy philanthropist offered his very being to humanity by giving his divine name—YOGI RAMSURATKUMAR. Whoever remembers this holy name continuously finds that God-realisation arises naturally within them.

Once Yogi said:

“All other saints have done great works. Some built temples and ashrams. Some enriched literature and philosophy. Some taught the way to the Father and the way of life. But this beggar leaves behind only his name—‘YOGI RAMSURATKUMAR.’”

Indeed, Yogi gave himself entirely, allowing seekers to consume him, to make him part and parcel of their being. That oneness with Yogi enables the seeker to evolve toward God-realisation, the ultimate destiny of humankind.

By living, Yogi taught how one should love and how one should live. By dying, he taught how one should die.

The way Yogi consoled the sorrowful was always unique. He listened to their suffering with total attention and compassion. That very listening lifted the weight of their pain. He never philosophised about suffering; instead, he shared it. He wept with devotees. He spoke of the great devotees of the past who endured immense trials.

Then he poured his love so abundantly that those touched by it could never forget him.

He gently taught them his name and asked them to remember it whenever difficulties arose, assuring them:

“My Father will protect you. My Father will always be with you. Remember my Father, and He will take care of everything.”

He would touch them lovingly, look into their eyes, and through that contact, his energy flowed into them. Sorrows vanished mysteriously. Clarity dawned. Wisdom arose. Those blessed souls then resumed their lives with renewed faith, strength, and remembrance of the Father.

Yogi asked devotees to remember both his name and his form. He said that if one remembered even a single gesture of his form continuously, that itself was meditation—that itself was tapas.

He declared:

“If this beggar walks, it is a teaching. If he sits, it is a teaching. If he talks, it is a teaching. If he eats, it is a teaching. If he sleeps, it is a teaching. This whole frame is always blessing and teaching. People need not ask this beggar to bless them—this beggar is always doing that.”

He also said:

“This beggar died at the holy lotus feet of my Father Swami Ramdas in 1952. After that, only my Father exists—not this beggar. This name ‘Yogi Ramsuratkumar’ is not this beggar’s name; it is my Father’s name. My Father will shower His grace on all who remember this name.”

Whenever someone came with genuine aspiration for spiritual upliftment, Yogi would spend generous time with them. He enquired about their guru and their daily practice, and then emphatically urged them to maintain unshakeable faith in their Guru.

Yogi assured such seekers that their Guru would certainly guide them to God-realisation, provided their sincerity was true. His words filled them with enthusiasm, confidence, and renewed devotion. Through Yogi’s touch and presence, they discovered the true value of their Guru and returned to their path strengthened and illuminated.

Yogi would never disturb anyone’s faith. He used to say that if one truly loves God, God Himself comes in the form of the Guru, for God and Guru are not two—they are one and the same. Faith in the Guru inevitably leads one to God-consciousness.

Yogi gently influenced people to develop unshakable faith in their Guru and to live according to their Guru’s guidance. He would enquire about their well-being, and if they spoke of difficulties or obstacles that hindered their spiritual journey, Yogi would remove those hindrances mysteriously and silently, enabling them to move forward with renewed energy toward God-consciousness.

After removing such obstacles, Yogi would simply say: “Your Guru saved you.”

All Gurus are one. Love offered to one’s Guru is returned through another Guru. This mysterious and miraculous oneness among genuine Gurus is one of the greatest wonders in the spiritual realm.

Once a devotee asked Yogi to prescribe a simple method to see God. Yogi looked at him with great love and said:

“Love all and hate none. Serve all and take Nellikkai regularly. Remember this beggar’s name, Yogi Ramsuratkumar, all the time. My Father will ever be with you.”

This was the path Yogi prescribed—simple, complete, and natural.

In 1976, while sitting beneath the punnai tree, Yogi once asked those around him why he wanted them to chant his name. A young friend, Krishnasamy, replied that Yogi’s name was new, whereas all other mantras were ancient.

Yogi replied with great seriousness:

“Yes, that is true. All other mantras are powerful, but this name—YOGI RAMSURATKUMAR—is a fresh one created by my Father. My Father has invested Himself in this name. By remembering this name, transformation will happen instantly.”

He continued:

“For others, names like Rama, Krishna, Siva, or Muruga may help. But for the friends of this beggar, this name alone is enough. It will take them to my Father, the Supreme God. If they have faith in this beggar, they need not worry—this beggar will take care of their lives.”

The effect of a Guru-mantra and the Guru’s grace must reflect in one’s daily life. If no inner transformation occurs, then the flaw lies not in the Guru, but in one’s attitude or intention, which obstructs the flow of grace.

Guru’s grace should never be reduced to material benefits. Material desires have no end. Therefore, one must deeply contemplate the transient nature of the material world. When its impermanence is directly perceived, a natural longing for eternal peace arises.

At that moment, Guru’s grace begins its true work—eradicating desires and ambitions. In sincere devotees, a natural renunciation dawns at the right time. This renunciation allows the seeker to dissolve into the infinite immensity of God or Guru.

Such beings become the personification of Love and Wisdom. They are the living Gods.

Great masters arise predominantly in India, because India alone possesses the environment that gives birth to such beings. Without India and her Masters, no soul—regardless of continent—can ascend to God-consciousness.

Once, during a visit, a devotee commented on India’s lack of material development compared to other nations. Yogi replied firmly:

“Yes, developed nations can produce scientists, powerful weapons, wealth, and comforts. But remember—India alone produces masters like Buddha, Ramana, Aurobindo, Ramdas, J. Krishnamurti, and others like this beggar.”

He added:

“You may gain prosperity and power, but you will lose the Masters. Out of His immense compassion, Father has created an atmosphere only in India where Masters are born, live, teach the world how to live—and how to die. India is the playground of the Masters.”

Yes, India alone can produce Masters—the beloved children of God. There has never been a time when India was without a Master.

True Masters live incognito, in countless disguises: As beggars or wealthy persons. Well-groomed or unkempt, Scholars or school dropouts, in modern clothes or in rags, Naked or clad in ochre, in temples or crowded marketplaces, as responsible householders or wandering vagabonds.

India is the final destination for all wandering souls. The Masters of India draw seekers from every corner of the world.

The purpose of Masters like Yogi is singular—to lead humanity to God. When people move toward God, love spreads naturally. To love God is to love all. This movement from human to divine is true evolution, and it unfolds in every being—consciously or unconsciously.

Yogi’s Own People

Yogi chose a few people to work for him—nay, to work for his Father. Upon those privileged ones, Yogi placed his deepest attention. He spent long hours with them, watching, shaping, and refining them. In due course, these chosen children began to work—not for Yogi as a person, but for the will of the Father.

Though Yogi has withdrawn from the physical plane, he continues to choose his people even today, in subtle and mysterious ways, to accomplish his Father’s work.

The chosen ones are those who possess love, who have an intense longing to see God, who sacrifice themselves for the welfare of others, who are selfless, who carry genuine care and concern for all, who are not fanatically bound to any single religion, cult, or ideology, and who do not hate or harm people of other faiths.

Yogi chooses people irrespective of caste, religion, gender, or nationality. He initiates them with his sacred name—“Yogi Ramsuratkumar”—and showers them with his compassionate grace. That grace energizes them to remember his name constantly.

He penetrates the very core of their being and transforms them from within. Those who undergo this transformation naturally devote their entire lives to the remembrance of their Guru and to becoming one with God.

They live in joy. They radiate bliss. Their very presence transforms their surroundings.

Through constant remembrance of Yogi’s name, they radiate harmony, courage, love, and godliness. Such souls live with deep responsibility and compassion toward the entire creation.

Once Yogi declared:

“This Beggar Is Not for the Masses. This beggar needs only a few people to do my Father’s work. Let the masses go to other saints. This beggar is here to create a few individuals who can do my Father’s work.”

During his lifetime, Yogi transformed many individuals. They continue to perform the Father’s work silently, unnoticed, and without recognition.

Yogi explained this process beautifully:

“Just as one oil lamp lights another, and that lamp lights the next, the light must begin with one individual. Then it will spread throughout the world.”

Tiruvannamalai is both a spiritual and religious centre. Seekers, sadhakas, and devotees arrive there from across the world in search of God. From among them, Yogi would choose those fit to do his Father’s work.

At times, Yogi would create peculiar and challenging situations in the lives of true devotees—situations that would mysteriously draw them into his immediate presence.

These devotees often came from distant lands and varied spiritual traditions. Once they reached Yogi, he would work upon them deeply and transform them into perfect instruments of the Father’s will.

Initially, Yogi welcomed everyone—spiritual seekers, religious followers, and pious souls alike. Over time, he gently filtered them according to their aspirations. Finally, only a few remained—those through whom he now continues his work.

Yogi employed many methods to uplift devotees. He spoke about the teachings of ancient and contemporary saints and masters, observing carefully which teaching resonated with which devotee. He would then speak repeatedly about that particular master, slowly creating a taste and affinity in the devotee’s heart.

The devotee would study the works of that master and find them deeply beneficial for spiritual growth.

Only to a very few did Yogi reveal the saints and teachings through which he himself was transformed. Those who studied these teachings with seriousness and passion became very dear to Yogi. He showered them with grace and shaped them according to the needs of his divine work.

To such souls, Yogi gave his own name as initiation, bestowing upon them the spiritual energy needed to comprehend the deeper mysteries of divine life and the mission of the masters.

This does not mean that Yogi ignored others. He worked on every devotee who came to him and remembered him.

If someone came with a particular worldly problem, and Yogi felt that resolving it would help the person remember God and live with basic humanity—at least loving their family—he would solve the problem.

But if Yogi saw that wealth, power, or health were obstacles to a devotee’s spiritual growth, he would ruthlessly remove them, creating situations that forced the devotee to turn toward God.

Yogi’s sole concern was to push humanity steadily toward God.

Yogi attracted people through prominent figures—renowned authors, film personalities, politicians, judges, industrialists, and leaders from many fields.

Common people were drawn by articles written by famous authors. Others came because influential figures were devotees of Yogi. Many arrived out of curiosity or for material benefits.

Yet Yogi worked silently upon them all—often without their awareness—through his mystical spiritual power, sometimes offering nothing more than a sugar candy or a fruit as prasad, subtly shifting their inner orientation.

Once Yogi declared:

“As long as the name Yogi Ramsuratkumar exists in this world, the names of Murugesan, Parthasarathy, and Sivasankaran will also exist.”

Yogi has created many such souls who remain incognito. The torch continues to burn—one flame lighting another endlessly.

Yogi once said:

“Just as Lord Siva always comes with his Sivaganas, a Guru always comes with his own people. When the work is complete, the Guru and his people withdraw—one by one.”

Most of these holy beings remain unseen. Rarely does one or two appear publicly. When the world again requires guidance, the Guru returns in a new name and form, accompanied by his own people, to continue the evolution of humanity toward God.

Yogi declared that his own people are eternally with him.

Yogi’s people radiate love, harmony, and wisdom. They are also destined to pay a price. They endure suffering, loss, and pain—tasting the full bitterness of worldly life—so that wisdom may ripen within them.

Those who encounter such souls—by seeing their lives or listening to their words—can feel the vibrations of divinity. These vibrations heal, guide, and gently place seekers upon the path toward God.

The State of Yogi

The author was blessed to stay with Yogi for several days and nights—beneath the punnai tree, in the corridor of the vessel shop, in the Theradi Mandapam, and later in the sacred abode of the Sannathi Street house. During these intimate periods of nearness, the author was granted a rare opportunity to experience the totality of Yogi.

Yogi would sit in his place between the two pillars in the hall of the Sannathi Street house. He would ask the author to sit directly in front of him. Then Yogi would gaze intensely. Suddenly, thought ceased. There was no movement, no anxiety, and no expectation. Even the sense of existence dissolved. There was only silence—vast, profound, all-encompassing.

There was no “you,” no “me,” no “he” or “she.” There was emptiness, a void, where nothing existed—yet everything was present.

This was Yogi’s non-dual radiance, which he revealed only rarely, and only to select devotees. In that moment, Yogi absorbed the devotee completely. There was total oneness with him. The ordinary sense of being vanished. Though the state lasted only a few minutes, it felt timeless—beyond all measurement.

Yet Yogi would not allow the devotee to remain in that state. That is the tragedy—and the compassion.

As long as a seeker is unable to renounce the desire-laden self, the divine state cannot continue. Yogi offered only a glimpse, not the destination itself—so that the seeker would be inspired to erase the self through sincere effort.

The moment a devotee subtly assumes, “I have attained,” Yogi would smile. Instantly, fear and anxiety would arise in the heart. Silently the devotee would cry, “Swami, leave me… leave me.” This reaction arises from attachment to the self.

Seeing this limitation, Yogi would smile with compassion. He knew the devotee was not yet ready for the final leap. With immense patience, he would then speak of the importance of remembering the Guru’s name, form, and teachings, and of cultivating unwavering faith in the Guru.

He would spend long hours energizing the seeker, helping the self gradually wither away. But if the seeker still wished to retain the self, Yogi—out of boundless compassion—would shift into a dualistic mode, teaching surrender to the will of God.

Yogi would say:

“Whenever my Father wants this beggar to speak, this beggar speaks. Whenever my Father wants this beggar to remain silent, this beggar is silent. When my Father wants this beggar to laugh, he laughs; when my Father wants this beggar to weep, he weeps. Wherever my Father places this beggar, whatever my Father does with this beggar, this beggar submits completely.

This beggar knows that Father can never commit a mistake. Whatever He does, He does for the good of the entire cosmos. Nothing is wrong in this world. Nothing is a sin. Everything happens by the will of my Supreme Father. Therefore, everything is perfectly alright.”

These words would ignite the fire of surrender in the listener’s heart.

At times, Yogi would empower an eligible seeker to drop the self entirely—the “I,” the ego. Then comes the most beautiful moment in human life.

There is God—God alone. Everything else disappears. Only Peace, Vastness, Emptiness, and Void remain.

The seeker merges completely into the Supreme Being that Yogi embodied. In such moments, Yogi abides in a fully non-dual state, radiating oneness, wholeness, and absolute peace. Everything is absorbed. One becomes unmistakably aware that God alone exists.

To witness Yogi move effortlessly between dualistic compassion and non-dual absorption was itself a divine blessing.

Once, a European devotee who perceived both these states asked Yogi about his true state. Yogi smiled mischievously. After a long pause, he replied: “Somewhere in between.”

The devotee was left awestruck and bowed in reverence.

Yogi insisted that humaneness must never be lost. This was one of the most profound aspects of his teaching.

Through his own life, Yogi demonstrated how to live with purity, compassion, and selflessness. He encouraged suffering people to speak openly of their pain. He showed no interest in ritualistic discussions. As devotees poured out their anguish before him, awareness dawned within them. Through that awareness, they perceived the root of their suffering—and once the cause was seen, healing began naturally.

Yogi used simple, precise words that soothed wounded hearts. People felt safe in his presence. They walked away with clarity, courage, and confidence. He made life simple—even in a fast and chaotic world.

Yogi’s simplicity was radical. When asked about ghosts, evil forces, or ritualistic remedies, he would reply instantly: “This beggar doesn’t know.”

He refused to indulge in fear-based philosophies. Instead, he listened deeply, shared the burden of sorrow, and—when genuine fear arose—he taught the power of his Father’s name, “Yogi Ramsuratkumar.”

Through this, fear dissolved and faith was born.

When devotees were joyful, Yogi rejoiced with them. When they suffered, he shared their pain and guided them out of it.

To those who blamed Kaliyuga for the evils of the world, Yogi would say:

“Kaliyuga has gone. Now it is God Yuga. This beggar sees God everywhere— and Kali nowhere.”

Yogi was a perfect listener. He listened with total attention—to everyone and to everything.

He could hear and understand even the faint voices of birds and tiny creatures. He perceived the silent language of plants and flowers. He listened to the pains and longings of all beings—visible and invisible. Through this deep listening, he communicated without words and transmitted his divine energy to suffering souls.

When people approached him with simplicity, Yogi became one with them. Nothing could be concealed from him. No intention, desire, or thought could remain hidden. When Yogi looked at a person, he saw not merely the outer form but the entirety of that being, right up to the deepest core.

Yogi always encouraged people to become good human beings first. Only a good human, he said, could become a true seeker.

He taught that divinity is reached only through humanity, never at the cost of it. From his earliest days, Yogi lived as a profoundly humane being, and it was this very humanity that carried him to God-realisation.

Yogi was both a great human and God at once. When he worked for the upliftment of devotees, he functioned in a dualistic state. When he rested in his divine nature, he moved far beyond the grasp of the human mind. His true state was incomprehensible to intellect. He revealed that divine dimension only occasionally, and only to a very few who were ready. To the larger world, he remained a simple human being.

Yet both his humanity and his divinity were manifestations of the one Supreme Being.

Yogi once said: “We are here to do my Father’s work, Parthasarathy. To do my Father’s work, we must retain a little ego.”

Through this, Yogi taught that duality is necessary only to serve others. When the work is done, one may dissolve again into the non-dual state—by the grace of the Guru.

Moving from non-dual to dual, and from dual back to non-dual, is an intensely painful process. Yogi bore this pain silently, for the sake of humanity. His life was filled with suffering—not as a punishment, but as an offering. He was ordained to carry the pain of others, and he fulfilled that destiny with total surrender.

Throughout his life, Yogi performed no rituals.

Occasionally, the chief priest of the Arunachaleswara Temple would offer him vibhuti. Yogi would apply it fully on his forehead—not for any spiritual gain, but purely out of love and respect for the priest.

Yogi needed nothing.

At times, when he spoke with deep emotion about India, he would take the dusty soil beneath him and smear it on his forehead. For him, vibhuti and dust were the same—equally sacred.

Whenever Yogi visited the Arunachaleswara Temple, he would hide himself quietly in a corner and lie down there. Sometimes he would stand near Sambandha Vinayaka’s sannidhi, leaning against a pillar, silently blessing people.

Rarely, he would take a few close friends into the sanctum and observe the archana and aarti. Though he held deep respect for the temple priests, he seldom participated in rituals.

Often, he would sit among the beggars at the temple entrance. Whatever money he received from visitors, he would immediately distribute among the other beggars.

Outwardly, Yogi lived as a beggar. Inwardly, he lived as God.

Yogi’s life was filled with love, compassion, and the supreme wisdom of his Father. Whenever people came to him, he descended effortlessly to their level, enquired about their welfare, and quietly worked on them—guiding them towards God.

This rare simplicity drew not only humans but all beings to him—cows, dogs, monkeys, cats, mice, and even creatures feared by humans, such as snakes and scorpions.

Yogi belonged to all life. All life recognised him.

Yogi brought up a dog and named him Sai Baba. The way Yogi conversed with Sai Baba was extraordinary—gentle, intimate, and filled with silent understanding.

Sai Baba would communicate with Yogi through sounds and gestures. Yogi would understand instantly and reply with an appropriate response. Sai Baba, in turn, would understand Yogi and obey him completely. Their communication did not belong to the world of words—it arose from oneness.

Not only Sai Baba, but even the smallest creatures felt safe around Yogi. Mice would often play upon him in the Sannathi Street house. Beneath his mat, poisonous scorpions had made their homes. They remained there unharmed, and Yogi remained unharmed by them. In his presence, fear dissolved naturally.

In the mid-1980s, after the physical departure of Murugeshji, a female cat gave birth to three kittens in the right-side room of the Sannathi Street house.

The mother cat would go out in search of food, leaving her newborns behind. During her absence, Yogi himself became their guardian.

He would keep a long stick beside him. Whenever Sai Baba approached the kittens, Yogi would gently guide them back into the room using the stick—never with force, only care. When the kittens cried from hunger, Yogi would bring milk, pour it into a separate plate, and ensure they could drink easily.

At times, the kittens would sleep on the same mat as Yogi.

After several months, the mother cat and her kittens left the house quietly and never returned. They came, were nourished, protected, and then moved on—just as all beings do.

Yogi was deeply fond of Vedic chanting. Whenever Vedic scholars came to see him, he would request them to chant the mantras and would listen with full attention, reverence, and stillness.

Yet, Yogi would tell his devotees:

“To learn and understand all four Vedas takes thirty-two years. And after learning them, one finally understands the value of God’s Name.”

Still, Yogi encouraged Vedic scholars to preserve and uphold the Vedas, for they were the sacred revelations of the ancient rishis.

Once Yogi said: “All other mantras and religious rituals are for casual people. But for the friends of this beggar, this Name—Yogi Ramsuratkumar—is enough. This Name alone will take you to the Holy Lotus Feet of my Supreme Father.”

Yogi never discouraged ritualistic people.

If those devoted to rituals came to him and sought permission to conduct yajñas or ceremonies in the ashram, Yogi allowed them. He never interfered with anyone’s faith. Instead, he strengthened it.

If a devotee approached Yogi saying that they had taken a vow to offer something at a particular temple for worldly success but had failed to fulfill it, Yogi would insist firmly:

“Fulfil it first. One must keep one’s word.”

For Yogi, integrity was sacred.

But for his own people, Yogi taught something different. He did not want his devotees bargaining with the Father. All rituals and yajñas are result-oriented—performed with an expectation. Yogi wanted his people to love the Father, remember the Father, and demand nothing.

“Father knows what you need. Remember Him by chanting His Name—Yogi Ramsuratkumar—and Father will take care of your life.”

There was a devotee who complained endlessly about even the smallest misfortunes in his life. His dissatisfaction never ceased, and his demands kept growing. Each time he came to Yogi, he begged for grace so that all his problems would vanish.

One day, Yogi was speaking earnestly to the devotees seated before him about loving God and remembering God’s Name.

The man arrived and knocked at the door.

Yogi rose, opened the gate himself, brought the man inside, and asked him to sit. Yogi returned to his seat and looked at the man silently for a while.

Then he asked gently, “Do you want to say something?”

The man began, “A small problem, Swami…”

Yogi interrupted him abruptly:

“Can you put aside all your problems in a corner and remember my Father—at least for a few moments every day? Only then can this beggar do something for you.”

Yogi then got up and walked slowly back and forth across the hall. After a few tense moments, he picked up a banana near his seat, handed it to the devotee, and said:

“Now this beggar leaves you. You can go, my friend.”

The man left.

Yogi returned to his seat and continued speaking about the value of remembering God’s Name, as though nothing else had occurred.

Yogi’s Concern For Women

Yogi was deeply aware of the lives of women—their struggles, their silence, their unspoken endurance—both in India and across the world. He always paid special attention to women, not out of sentiment, but out of profound understanding of their condition and their inner strength.

In India, women live within tightly bound cultural frameworks. As children, they enjoy a certain freedom. But once they reach puberty, that freedom begins to shrink. Disciplines are imposed upon them, often harshly. Any deviation invites scolding, sometimes punishment.

After marriage, a woman’s entire attention is expected to shift toward her husband and his family. She is asked to serve, to adjust, to sacrifice, and to endure—often without complaint. Patience becomes her primary virtue. Her own desires and sufferings are expected to remain unspoken. In this culture, the husband is regarded as god, and the woman’s life becomes an offering.

This way of life, deeply ingrained in Indian society, naturally leads many women toward devotion and religiosity. Their suffering finds expression not in rebellion, but in surrender.

Yogi understood this fully.

Yogi also understood the cultures of other nations and the general condition of humanity everywhere. He never interfered with cultural norms or social structures. He did not attempt to reform society outwardly.

Instead, he showered his grace universally, without discrimination of caste, gender, religion, or nationality. His grace flowed naturally and silently, alleviating suffering at its roots. For Yogi, everything was already perfect, because everything was God.

Often, even parents could not understand the inner struggles of their daughters the way Yogi did. Women felt an extraordinary freedom in his presence. They would open their hearts and speak of their deepest, most suffocating pains—pains they could not express anywhere else.

Yogi would listen. He listened without judgment, without haste, and without intrusion. He gave them time—sometimes long hours—allowing the burden to dissolve through his attention alone.

Yogi would gently guide women toward devotion. He would ask them to remember God’s Name constantly. He would ask them to sing devotional songs. Slowly, without pressure, he would introduce the value of his own Name, encouraging them to chant “Yogi Ramsuratkumar.”

This remembrance energized their being.

Though Yogi listened to countless stories of suffering caused by husbands and in-laws, he never summoned those people, never threatened them, never used his spiritual power to intimidate or punish. He did not interfere externally.

Instead, he worked from within. He strengthened the women’s faith in God. Through this inner strength, their dignity, clarity, and spiritual stability increased. That very transformation subtly altered the attitudes of their husbands and families.

Yogi believed in transformation—not punishment.

Though the law of karma inevitably takes its course, Yogi taught that for a transformed individual, even karmic consequences become instruments of spiritual growth rather than sources of suffering.

Yogi paid special attention to the wives of sadhakas. He knew that if harmony was not preserved at home, spiritual progress would be obstructed. He worked quietly to ensure that women did not become barriers to their husbands’ spiritual paths, but companions in it.

At the same time, Yogi insisted that Indian women should be properly protected by their husbands and children. He never encouraged women to travel alone, even for short distances. This was not restriction—it was care rooted in the realities of society.

Yogi chose a few couples to walk together toward God. He infused them with confidence by assuring them of his eternal presence. He made them feel safe—so that fear would not hinder their journey.

He often narrated stories of ancient rishis and rishipatnis: how the husband performed tapas, how the wife supported him silently, and how both ultimately attained Godhood together.

He would not tolerate conflict between such couples. He instilled mutual trust, telling the women that their husbands would not harm them, and telling the men that their wives carried deep care and concern for them. These words healed.

With mutual trust and genuine love, such couples began living simple yet profound lives. Their harmony spread naturally—first within the family, then into the surrounding society.

Yogi often said: “Where women live in peace and bliss, there harmony and prosperity naturally prevail.”

This was not a theory for Yogi—it was lived truth.

The Mystical Ways of Yogi

From ancient times to the modern spiritual world, it is a glorious and unparalleled uniqueness that a Yogi assured God Realisation and divine protection through remembering his own Name—“Yogi Ramsuratkumar.”

This mantra stands apart in the history of spirituality. It has proved its divine potency by transforming several seekers and enabling them to become one with God. Yes, this sacred Name makes the evolution from human to God possible for every sincere and eligible seeker.

Yogi prescribed this holy mantra only to selected individuals, according to their inner preparedness. This mantra kindles prana—the vital spiritual energy—within one’s being, awakening dormant divine potential.

Murugesan, Yogi’s beloved devotee, burned with an intense aspiration for God Realisation. From the moment he met Yogi and received initiation, Murugeshji immersed himself completely in remembering the guru mantra “Yogi Ramsuratkumar.”

Murugesan believed firmly that remembrance of the Guru’s Name would grant unwavering focus and determination toward the ultimate goal—God Realisation. He believed that serious contemplation and meditation on God naturally culminate in Realisation.

This burning aspiration itself was an expression of prana—a powerful inner energy released from the very source of divinity.

When Yogi perceived Murugeshji’s inner temperature, he clearly recognized the intensity of his wisdom-filled vairāgya (detachment and determination). Yet, Yogi also sensed that Murugeshji’s system required love and surrender to reach the highest state.

So Yogi worked deeply on him, spending considerable time with him.

Through Yogi’s grace, Murugeshji attained guru bhakti—pure devotion to the Guru. He surrendered fully at the holy feet of Yogi Ramsuratkumar. The moment Yogi perceived this total surrender, he absorbed Murugeshji completely, liberating him from body-consciousness and all attachments.

Here, Yogi divinised the burning aspiration of a serious seeker.

In contrast, Yogi prescribed a different approach for those whose aspiration toward God was minimal. To such devotees, he advised them to keep themselves warm, so that the small spark of seriousness—emerging from prana—could be preserved and gradually nurtured toward further evolution.

Yogi always insisted that when devotees were with him, their entire attention must rest solely on him.

He would instruct an assistant or a particular devotee to bring coffee or food. Once brought, nothing was to be distributed without Yogi’s explicit permission. Most often, Yogi would touch the coffee or food first, energizing it, before asking that it be served. Occasionally, he himself would serve the devotees.

After the coffee was placed before a devotee, it was not to be touched until Yogi gave permission through a gesture. If someone drank it prematurely, Yogi would remark gently yet firmly: “Oh, you have disturbed Father’s work.”

He would then wait silently until the devotee finished drinking, and immediately say:

“Come on my friend, this beggar leaves you. You can go now.”

Yogi placed devotees into different compartments according to their spiritual wavelengths. He never allowed random interaction among devotees in his presence. If they attempted to speak among themselves, Yogi would say:

“You people are disturbing this beggar’s work. Now this beggar leaves you. You can go.”

He would then give them fruits and send them away.

However, devotees of similar spiritual wavelength were allowed—and even encouraged—to interact in his presence. Such devotees were permitted to discuss and debate the teachings of great masters. If discussions grew intense or heated, Yogi would intervene by chanting God’s Name softly and laughing. That laughter dissolved all tension.

Yogi encouraged such devotees to meet regularly in their own places and speak about him and his teachings. He declared that talking about Yogi is the true meditation. In such gatherings, devotees could feel Yogi’s subtle presence, receiving energy and bliss.

They would not feel hunger, fatigue, or the need for sleep—even after spending days together absorbed in remembrance of Yogi and his grace.

During Yogi’s physical presence, many devotees wished to live with him in Tiruvannamalai. But Yogi did not permit everyone.

He would say:

“There are many lazy people like this beggar in Tiruvannamalai. You have work at your place. Be there and remember this beggar. That is enough.”

Yogi understood the limitations of such devotees. He knew they might become dependent on his physical presence and would not learn to stand alone spiritually.

Therefore, he insisted that most devotees remain in their own places, fulfill their worldly duties sincerely, and remember his Name constantly. He assured them that remembrance alone would grant peace and bliss—wherever they were.

However, Yogi did ask a few selected individuals to live permanently in Tiruvannamalai. These were people capable of remembering God continuously, even in solitude. To them, Yogi granted spiritual strength and protection to move forward on the path.

Such devotees were always kept incognito.

Ashrams

Regarding ashrams, Yogi once declared with great clarity:

“The place where a Master dwells becomes an ashram, but no ashram can produce a Master.”

Ashrams are monuments of spiritual Masters, not factories for enlightenment. The very purpose of the Master’s life—and of the ashram that bears his name—is to remind humanity of the living presence of God.

The remembrance of the Guru leads one naturally toward God. Such remembrance dissolves one’s attachment to possessions, relationships, achievements, and finally even the sense of self, surrendering everything at the holy feet of the Master. In such surrendered hearts, selfless love blossoms effortlessly.

People may come and stay in ashrams for a few days or weeks, to remain in the remembrance of the Master in whose name the ashram functions. They may use that sacred atmosphere to understand the life and teachings of the Master, and to gain clarity regarding life, death, and God.

But after that, they must return to their own places. They must continue their lives by remembering the prescribed Guru Mantra, living in harmony with family, society, and their responsibilities. That alone ensures a balanced, meaningful, and awakened life.

If people choose to remain permanently in ashrams, a subtle danger arises. They may be trapped in an atmosphere where they are neither in tune with God nor living in freedom. Their lives may slowly reduce to the performance of mechanical, meaningless rituals. Frustration sets in, yet they cannot leave—bound by fear of losing identity, security, and social relevance.

The Guru’s teaching is about removing fear and restoring freedom. But ashrams that operate merely as institutions often cultivate fear and suppress freedom, especially for those who stay within them permanently.

Ashrams are not meant for those who wish to escape life’s challenges. Nor are they refugee centers for the emotionally weak or socially disoriented.

An ashram should be understood as a place of learning and inner reflection.

People must come to ashrams to contemplate their own pain, confusion, and suffering. In that atmosphere, clarity arises naturally. That clarity guides them to live an appropriate, responsible, and meaningful life in the world.

The divine vibrations of an authentic ashram purify the mind and emotions. One carries that harmony back into daily life. In such individuals, the gradual evolution from human to divine unfolds naturally.

At times, even the duplicity, falsehood, and hypocrisy of certain ashrams and their leaders become powerful teachers. They silently instruct seekers about what should not be done in life.

The Masters taught humanity to live in remembrance of God, transcending the transient world of illusion, falsehood, and ambition. Yet today, many so-called followers promote religious beliefs coupled with hollow rituals, promising bliss, prosperity, peace, and health—while subtly strengthening the ego and attachment to worldly identity.

Most ashrams today are entangled in ritualism, institutional pride, and duplicity, all in the pursuit of popularity and power. They lack humanity and lead seekers nowhere.

Sensitive and sincere devotees eventually perceive this truth. They learn their lessons, detach themselves from such institutions, and move on. They continue to remember the Master and his teachings, but they disassociate from the ashrams.

The Masters lived their lives to teach love, renunciation, freedom, sacrifice, gratitude, truth, and devotion to God. But their so-called followers often distract seekers from these very teachings—politely yet firmly steering them back into the pleasures and pains of worldly life, and charging for these so-called spiritual services.

This is the greatest irony.

The Master points beyond institutions. The institution clings to itself.

Yogi About Physical Ailments

Yogi never advocated yoga in any of its popular forms—such as pranayama, pranic healing, or bodily disciplines—as means either to cure physical ailments or to remember God. Even the medical camp later started in the ashram was against Yogi’s will. He did not accept that such activities should become the function of an ashram.

“Do not bother about the physical body. Remember my Father, and my Father will take care of you.”

These were Yogi’s clear words.

Yet, in spite of his objection, the management of the ashram initiated the medical camp—primarily to obtain certain government concessions for running the institution.

Yogi’s primary mission was never the treatment of physical illness. His work was the alleviation of psychological pain—the deep inner suffering that binds human beings to fear, confusion, and despair.

Still, out of compassion, Yogi paid serious attention to some of his ailing friends. When physical suffering became a hindrance to one’s journey toward God, Yogi would sometimes suggest simple natural remedies, diets, or basic care. In a few cases, he even advised modern medicine or surgery, if that was appropriate.

Otherwise, Yogi was essentially a naturalist.

Above all, he taught people to accept joyfully whatever came into their lives, for everything arises from God.

According to Yogi, so-called problems, miseries, and diseases arise by Father’s will, often to make one remember Father continuously.

Birth, growth, and death belong to the body, not to the Atma, which is beyond form.

If one concentrates on Father all the time, body-consciousness dissolves. If one remains preoccupied with physical comfort and convenience, one misses Father.

“Remembering Father is life. Forgetting Father is death.” Yogi said.

This teaching does not mean neglecting the physical body. When one abides in Father constantly, Father Himself takes care of the body.

Thoughts and actions rooted in God-consciousness bring peace and bliss to both mind and body—even in the presence of illness or terminal disease.

By chanting the Guru’s name, one fills the mind with divine awareness, which naturally supports both body and mind. Even physical disorders, when lived in remembrance, become vehicles for God-realisation.

Once, a cancer patient came to the ashram with his wife and daughter, hoping that Yogi would cure him. The author was present, sitting beside Yogi outside the Pradhan Mandir.

The doctors had declared the cancer to be in an advanced stage, allowing only a few months of life. The man was crying; his wife and daughter wept with him. He clasped Yogi’s feet and begged for his life.

Yogi sat like a rock, holding the author’s hand. He did not utter a word.

The man continued to cling to Yogi’s feet, searching Yogi’s face with desperate hope. After some time, Yogi asked him to sit on a chair. The man obeyed.

Yogi remained in deep silence, pouring his complete attention upon him.

It was the man’s first visit to Yogi. He was wealthy and had lived a misguided life earlier. Yogi silently showered compassion upon him. The patient spoke of unbearable pain and sleepless nights.

Still, Yogi remained silent.

After some time, Yogi spoke softly in English to the author and asked him to translate into Tamil:

“Ask him to chant ‘Rama, Rama, Rama’ all the time. The pain will gradually reduce, and one day everything will finish.”

The author was both thrilled and shaken.

He conveyed Yogi’s words exactly to the patient. The man imagined Yogi would cure the disease entirely. He prostrated again.

Yogi uttered “Rama.” The patient repeated, “Rama.” Yogi said it three times; the patient followed.

In that moment, Yogi initiated the man with the sacred mantra “Rama.” Here, the disease itself became the gateway to grace.

The patient returned home with his family in peace. He spent his remaining days chanting “Rama” constantly. Within months he slipped into a coma, and soon after, he left the body.

Yes—here, a deadly disease guided a man to the holy feet of a Guru, who initiated him into divinity at the very end of life.

God’s ways—and the Guru’s ways—are always mysterious.

Had the man been free of disease, he might never have sought the blessings of a Mahatma. The illness itself awakened his longing.

Thus, even death became a door to grace.

Yogi on Yoga

One day in 1977, a devotee asked Yogi, “What should I do to attain Father? Should I learn yoga?”

Yogi Ramsuratkumar replied calmly:

“All the tapas you do will take you only to the feet of your guru. Once you reach your guru, your sadhana ends there. After that, you must listen to your guru and have faith in him. Your guru will take the responsibility of carrying you to the abode of my Supreme Father. Once you reach the guru’s feet, you need not worry about your spiritual growth anymore. The guru will take care of you. All you need is faith—absolute faith—in your guru.”

Yogi paused for a moment. Then he continued, smiling:

“The guru is like a cobra, and you are like a frog. Once the frog is caught in the fangs of the cobra, it is finished. There is no escape.”

As he said this, Yogi’s whole being glittered with divine beauty.

It was a scorching summer day. Murugeshji was quietly practicing pranayama under the punnai tree, without Yogi’s knowledge. Yogi was resting at that time. After a while, Yogi came out and noticed Murugeshji.

Yogi asked him, “What are you doing?”

Murugeshji replied, “I was trying to do pranayama.”

Yogi immediately asked, with apparent anger, “Who asked you to do pranayama?”

Murugeshji answered that Swami Ram Tirtha had spoken about pranayama in his talks, which were published in the book In the Woods of God Realisation.

Yogi then explained firmly:

“Pranayama should be done only under the guidance of a guru, and only in a suitable atmosphere. If it is done wrongly, or in the wrong place, it will produce negative results.”

He added gently:

“For the friends of this beggar, it is enough to remember the name— ‘Yogi Ramsuratkumar.’ This alone will take you to the destination. Remembering this mantra will naturally regulate the breath, cleanse the system, and give the spiritual energy required to realise my Supreme Father.”

Then Yogi recited a Hindi couplet and translated it into English:

“Walking, walking, and walking…

The destination—the home—is eighteen miles away.

I am tired. My legs ache. I cannot move further.

Whom should I blame?”

After saying this, Yogi laughed loudly.

Everyone present understood the depth of his teaching. Without the grace of the guru, one can never reach the destination.

Human energy and intelligence are limited. They lead not to God, but to confusion, exhaustion, and pain.

People invent rituals and disciplines, imagining them to be devotion. In the end, they grow tired and disappointed. This disappointment turns into self-pity, which is always painful. Despite years of rituals, yoga, and effort, Realisation remains a dream.

Only the guru’s grace can carry one to God.

In truth, remembering God or the guru is real yoga. All other practices are merely physical exercises. Physical exercises may strengthen the body, but they also create fatigue and aggression. They do not prepare the heart to remember God.

Yogi would occasionally quote the Narada Bhakti Sutram, where Sage Narada declares:

It is very difficult to find a true guru. Even after finding one, it is harder to go near him. Even after going near him, it is still harder to receive his grace.

How many people in this world are truly blessed with a genuine guru?

One must be pure, selfless, and deeply human. One must possess an intense longing for the Eternal. Only such a person may be found by a true guru.

“Real yoga,” Yogi implied, “is to become a good human being first.”

What about others?

They must first recognise their erroneous ways of life and sincerely repent. From this repentance, a little wisdom dawns. Through that wisdom, they may begin to recognise a guru.

(In truth, no one ever finds a guru—it is always the guru who finds the disciple.)

Such people may not receive physical closeness to the guru, but they may receive the guru mantra. If that mantra is remembered with total faith, transformation begins.

Faith transforms. Transformation brings one close to the guru.

Sage Valmiki was once a dacoit. Sage Narada awakened him to his misdeeds. Valmiki realised the greatness of Narada and sought refuge at his feet.

Narada initiated him with the mantra “Rama.”

Valmiki could not even pronounce the mantra correctly. Yet his faith in Narada made him repeat it continuously. That faith transformed him completely. He attained the supreme state and later composed the Ramayana, a timeless epic for the upliftment of humanity.

Thus, whoever remembers God’s name with faith in the guru will surely transform and evolve toward God. This transformation is yoga.

Yogi did not attain God through conventional yogic methods. During his years of sadhana, he tried many traditional yogic practices. He gained certain mysterious powers, but they did not take him to God. Power was never his goal. Oneness with God was his only aim.

Finally, by the boundless compassion of his guru Swami Ramdas, Yogi abandoned all efforts. He surrendered his will completely, chanting the guru mantra incessantly.

That surrender was real yoga. And then—God absorbed him.

Thus was born the great Yogi, who later spread the fragrance of God to all, beyond caste, creed, and nationality.

Yogi always kept his body warm for reasons unknown to casual devotees. Even in peak summer, he covered himself with thick sheets. He never used an electric fan, even during the hottest days and nights.

He was the embodiment of prana (life force) and agni (fire).

Perhaps to conceal this inner fire from the unprepared, Yogi disguised himself in layers of clothing, appearing like a mad beggar. The casual and non-serious were naturally kept away and could not steal his precious time.

But when Yogi chose to bless a worthy devotee, no covering could restrain his grace. His energy would flow freely, penetrating everything.

To witness Yogi releasing this compassionate energy upon a deserving soul was a sight of incomparable beauty.

The Fences on the Way to Yogi

Yogi Ramsuratkumar revealed his spiritual brilliance only to a limited few—those who were honest, sincere, and intensely serious in their longing for God. Though he poured compassion upon countless aching souls and alleviated their sufferings, he did not reveal his magnificent state of oneness with the Supreme Father to everyone. He deliberately chose to remain incognito.

This concealment was not accidental. Yogi created filters—fences—around his real being.

His outer appearance was one such fence. The soiled clothes. The unwashed body, sometimes for years together. The habit of smoking. The absence of religious symbols. These were not weaknesses but thresholds—tests one had to cross to come near his true state.

Even the people who surrounded him often became filters.

Yogi used to say that becoming one with God is not easy. One must be prepared to pay the price, and that price is one’s self, one’s life. To shed the self for God is the greatest worth.

At times, Yogi would deliberately behave in ways that made people think he was eccentric or strange. He constantly hid his Godliness, his oneness with the Supreme Father. He would flatter people sitting around him. To the superficial observer, it appeared as approval.

But the sensitive understood.

Those who seemed “close” to Yogi often had to go much further—even to qualify for a true guru. This was Yogi’s unique method to prevent interference from arrogant, ego-driven, outwardly pious people.

Sometimes he would garland them. Sometimes he would touch their feet.

No one could ever know how much inner pain such acts caused him. Yet he never cared for his own suffering. His Father’s work had to be done. Obstacles had to be crossed. That was all that mattered.

Often Yogi was suffocated by the presence of insensitive, self-righteous devotees. Still, he bore everything silently and continued his Father’s work.

Yogi needed only those who possessed one-pointed attention toward God, toward the Guru. Such devotees should not be distracted by the so-called “special” or “privileged” devotees around him.

Many people flattered these inner-circle devotees, hoping that such behavior would please Yogi and earn his grace. Yogi was never moved by such acts.

He demanded total attention—direct, undivided—on him alone, irrespective of who sat near him.

Those who sought social security, recognition, or a respectable spiritual image were always weak. They leaned on intermediaries, performed petty rituals, and hoped to influence the guru indirectly. They did not realize the truth:

A real guru cannot be influenced by anyone or anything.

To go to Yogi required courage. One had to go directly—without craving status, security, or spiritual glamour. One had to be ready to lose oneself at the holy feet of Guru and God.

With such brave souls, Yogi spent immense time. He showered his grace upon them and ensured that they reached his Father without unnecessary suffering or struggle.

Yogi consciously used the so-called pious people as a protective fence around himself so that the non-serious would be filtered out. The genuine seekers, who understood this arrangement correctly, would ignore the fence and leap directly toward Yogi with one-pointed devotion.

To these brave ones, Yogi poured his grace. He absorbed them into his infinite, holistic vastness. He never forgot such seekers.

Most people who came to Yogi were entangled in worldly worries. They sought relief from pain, sorrow, and confusion. Yogi, out of compassion, removed their problems mysteriously.

Often, once relieved, they would leave—and forget Yogi.

But a few rare souls understood something deeper: the insignificance of a life driven by desires. These few sought not solutions, but freedom. They turned toward Yogi with total attention. They did not drift away, because Yogi himself held them.

In time, they won Yogi’s love. And finally, they merged with him.