This week I would like to retell the story of Trailanga (Telugu) Swami, who was said to be born in Andhra Pradesh in the 17th century and lived for over 280 years. This longevity is attributed to his extraordinary yogic powers. His story illuminates India’s porous cultural unity across regions.
Swami is a household name in Bengal and a popular Bengali film was made on him in 1960. Sri Ramakrishna Paramahamsa met him in Varanasi in the 19th century and described him as “the walking Shiva of Kashi”. Historian Sir Jadunath Sarkar wrote a book on Trailanga Swami’s ascetic order called A History of Dasnami Naga Sanyasis. Trailanga Swami is still a legend in Kashi, where he is said to have spent 150 years. He died on December 26, 1887—a Monday, sacred to Shiva. He is said to have defied the laws of gravity and drunk poison without any ill effects. But of special interest is his human journey from grief to emotional stability.
It is said that Narasimha and Vidyavati doted on their son Shivaram. Life was peaceful and pleasant in their little home deep in the Telugu country. One day, when Shivaram was barely five, his father took ill and died. Vidyavati bravely shouldered her responsibility alone. But little Shivaram went into deep shock. “I will never see Father again,” he brooded. Not knowing how to express his feelings, he turned dull and dispirited. “He has stopped playing,” thought Vidyavati sadly. “Let me try to divert him.”
Shivaram was sent to stay with and study under a local learned man. The teacher and his wife were kind to him but Shivaram learnt his lessons unenthusiastically. Many years went by but Shivaram did not recover from his depression. He remained a bereaved little boy at heart. He resented it that other boys had their families. His sullen air meant that he had no friends at all.
Vidyavati took ill one day and Shivaram rushed to her bedside. He had flatly refused to get married and was now almost forty. He had stayed on in his gurukul as an assistant to his teacher. He was competent but withdrawn, seeing neither beauty nor humour in life. As a last resort, Vidyavati told him her secret. “Son,” she said, “I will share my precious family legacy with you. My grandfather imparted it to me in secret. I will teach you the Kali mantra that he taught me to say. It has been the source of my strength.”
Shivaram memorised it indifferently, not really believing her.
When she died a few weeks later, Shivaram went into even deeper depression. One day, out of an unknown compulsion, he took to reciting the Kali mantra for an hour a day. Unnoticed at first, the mantra took effect on Shivaram’s mind and body. He fell in love with his breath. He went to sit by a cremation ground. In these stark surroundings he went into teevra sadhana or complete meditation.
One day, an elderly naked Naga sadhu happened to walk by. He stopped by Shivaram, who sensed his presence and opened his eyes. He made him a stiff Namaste, his elbows straining as he lifted his arms.
“You are not free yet, son,” observed the sadhu. “If you were, your joints would be supple and your forehead would not be creased. Tell me about yourself.”
Shivaram found his voice, hoarse with disuse, and briefly told the sadhu his story.
The sadhu looked at him keenly. “You are ready to take sanyas. I will initiate you, if you like, as a Dasnami sadhu.”
“Please tell me about them, sir,” said Shivaram politely, his interest stirred.
“Son, we go back to the 8th century, when Adi Shankara himself founded ten orders of ascetics. The ten orders are Aranya, Ashrama, Bharati, Giri, Parvata, Puri, Sarasvati, Sagara, Tirtha, and Vana. Each order is attached to one of four mathas or monasteries also established by Shankara, in the north, south, east and west of India. They are Jyoti or Joshimath, Sringeri Math, Goverdhana Math and Sharada Math.”
“Sir, which order do you belong to?”
“I am Bhagirathananda Sarasvati. I am a Naga sadhu.”
“Holy sir, please initiate me,” said Shivaram, deeply impressed by the sadhu’s serene face.
Shivaram took the sanyasi’s vow to never hurt another living creature. He was pleased with his own new monastic name of Ganapati Sarasvati. As he walked north with the sadhu, who was headed to Prayagraj, Shivaram looked at the world wagging by. Men, women and children in all their complexity, trouble and joy, now began to seem like actors in a play at the temple during epic week. He no longer judged them for leading normal lives, bound to the unswerving wheel of karma. His life as a sadhu was his chosen normal; that was all. He felt a sudden, great tenderness welling up in his heart for all people. He wished them luck and hoped that they would be touched only lightly with sorrow.
Part of his learning with the sadhu was deep yoga. Already entranced by the play of his breathing, Shivaram learnt how to master it completely. At Prayagraj, Shivaram found a place on the bank where he could see the Triveni or confluence. It was his chosen spot to meditate on the Kali mantra and he thanked his mother every day for it. Several years went by like this. One day, although he wore only a loin cloth now, he could not bear to wear even that. He tore it off in disgust. When he went back unclad to the ashram that he stayed in, the old sadhu made no remark. Next day, however, he said, “You are ready now to leave for Kashi. That will be your home.” Shivaram took leave of his kindly preceptor with a full heart. He went to the Triveni for a last look before he took the road to Kashi, invoking the Kali mantra to grace the next turn of the wheel. He was ready for anything now.
Renuka Narayanan