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| At dawn, the sadhu is just a shadow — the man already burned away, only the witness remains |
Once, on Harishchandra Ghat in Varanasi, someone asked an aghori sadhu:
“Where is the mark of a true sadhu?”
The sadhu smiled, his face as lined as the river stones, and said:
“No one has ever heard the word ‘give’ from my mouth.
Everything I own is with me in my bag.”
Curious, the man asked what he carried.
The sadhu opened his worn canvas bag.
Inside were four things: a pack of cigarettes, a lighter, a kapāla,
and an “official certificate of sadhu,” signed long ago by Bhagavān Rām himself.
Still puzzled, the man pressed further:
“But surely this means you could starve?”
The sadhu’s answer came without hesitation:
“If I am a true sadhu — I will be fed.
If I am not fed — then I am not a true sadhu.”
There is something undeniably genuine in these words — the voice of a man who has entrusted himself completely to life, refusing to beg or bargain. It is the sound of a sincere sādhaka, one who lives his vow with all his strength.
And yet, this is still the path, not the goal.
The very sentence “if I am a true sadhu” reveals that there is still someone who holds on to the idea of being a sadhu, still someone who wishes to prove it true.
This is where we must pause and look deeper into the word sādhu itself — because in Sanskrit, its meaning runs far deeper than just “ascetic” or “holy man.”
What the Word Sādhu Really Means
The word sādhu comes from the Sanskrit root sādh — “to accomplish, to succeed, to bring to completion.”
In its highest sense, a sādhu is not merely one who has left home or donned ochre robes, but one who has completed the sādhana and reached the sādhya — the goal of human life.
This is why in classical Sanskrit, sādhu is also an exclamation meaning “right!” or “well done!” — because it implies alignment, completion, truth.
A sādhu is literally one who is “well-done,” who has ripened fully.
But language is generous — it stretches and softens.
In everyday India, sādhu now refers to almost anyone living a renunciant lifestyle — a yogi, a mendicant, a person wandering from town to town with a begging bowl.
And among these, there are all kinds: sincere sādhakas, street performers, charlatans, saints, madmen, and occasionally a siddha whose mere presence can shake the heart.
There is an Indian proverb that says:
“Of a thousand sadhus, only one is real.”
And we must be precise here:
this “one in a thousand” usually means not a jīvanmukta, but simply a genuine sādhaka — someone truly dedicated, not just playing the part.
And beyond that, among a thousand genuine sādhakas, perhaps one breaks through to the other shore and becomes a siddha.
Why the Word “Sadhu” Became Diluted
Part of the reason the word sādhu no longer means “one who has accomplished” is very simple:
in today’s India, taking up the life of a sadhu is not necessarily a terrifying leap into the unknown.
It is a social role, with its own safety net.
1. Food and Shelter Are Guaranteed
In almost every town there are mutts, temples, and ashrams where a sadhu can sleep and receive basic food.
This means that someone who doesn’t want to work, or who cannot support themselves, can survive indefinitely under the banner of “renunciation.”
It is a kind of welfare system — and as with any system, some use it sincerely, and others exploit it.
2. The Robe Gives Instant Respect
Putting on ochre still commands respect in many parts of India.
People will touch a sadhu’s feet, feed him, even offer money — often without asking whether he is living any real sādhana.
This makes it tempting for drifters, opportunists, and failed householders to take on the robe — because it is easier to gain honor as a “holy man” than as a laborer.
3. It Offers an Escape from Family and Social Burdens
For some, becoming a sadhu is not about burning longing for God but about avoiding obligations:
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Dodging marriage or debts.
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Escaping conflict or shame in the village.
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Finding a way to survive outside the pressures of ordinary society.
Again, some of these stories are tragic and understandable — but they do not automatically produce wisdom.
4. The Company Shapes the Man
When renunciation becomes a mass lifestyle, the bar naturally lowers.
Most sadhus keep the company of other sadhus who are at the same level — and so they reinforce one another’s habits.
Rarely do they meet someone whose presence burns away all compromise.
Thus the outer form is preserved, but the fire grows cold.
In short:
to become a sadhu today is not necessarily to leap off a cliff into the hands of God.
For many it is simply to change professions — from householder to wandering ascetic.
And this is why the word sādhu no longer guarantees that the person has touched the Truth.
5. A Convenient Refuge for Darkness
And sometimes, it is worse than mere escapism.
For certain asuric natures, the robe becomes a shield — a way to hide predatory behavior behind a sacred image.
I saw this side personally.
Once, in the Delhi airport, I met an Indian gentleman — owner of a large jewelry chain, traveling back from Milan.
In casual conversation, I mentioned I was heading to a certain dhāma.
He smiled and said he had just recently sould jewelry worth a fortune to one of the most prominent sadhus living there.
I was shocked.
Later, in that dhāma, I asked a friend who had lived there for many years if this could possibly be true.
He nodded grimly — and told me it was common knowledge that this group of “sedentary sadhus” essentially functioned as a mafia.
They controlled huge sums of money, exploited vulnerable widows, and would not hesitate to kill anyone who threatened to expose them.
He warned me very seriously never to speak about it while there.
That conversation never left me.
It showed me that the robe, for some, is not just a way to avoid work — it is a way to cloak darkness in saffron and keep it untouchable.
A Hundred Thousand Sadhus — Three Realized
Acharya Bijoy Krishna Goswami once attended the Kumbh Mela at Haridwar in 1890 (this is described in "Shree Shree Bijoykrishna - His Divine Life and Sermons").
Nearly one lakh sadhus had gathered — an ocean of ochre, a sea of chanting, the air thick with smoke from yajnas and chillums.
And yet, when he looked closely, he saw something that pierced his heart.
Later he said:
“Out of one lakh sadhus, only three had realised the Truth.
Everyone else was busy with attires, sectarianism, and opinions.”
He asked one of those three why so few reached the goal despite so much tapasya, so much pilgrimage, so much chanting of mantras.
The man replied with painful simplicity:
“Baba, I am a small insect — what can I say?
Nobody wants God these days.
People want respect, recognition, to be the head of a monastery —
and they get all these.”
These words strip away all romantic illusions about the saffron robe.
The problem is not just society, not just the distractions of the Kali Yuga — it is that most do not actually want God.
They want everything around God — status, identity, community, authority — but not the raw, shattering Reality itself.
This is why among a hundred thousand sadhus, only three may be siddhas.
And among a thousand sādhakas, one may truly finish the journey.
The Rare Fire of the True Sadhu
When you hear that out of one lakh sadhus only three had realized the Truth, something in the chest grows quiet.
Not with despair — but with awe.
Because what this means is that the true sādhu is not just rare — he is as rare as lightning in a dry sky, as rare as a flower blooming in a place no one sees.
A true sādhu is not merely someone who refuses to beg, who carries his life in a bag.
He is one in whom the beggar has died.
The hunger for status, the hunger for followers, the hunger even to be seen as holy — all of it has been burned in the smashan fire.
He has passed beyond the stage where he says “If I am true, I will be fed.”
Even starvation cannot shake him — because there is no “him” left to shake.
Whether life feeds him or life devours him, it is all the play of the same Beloved.
Kaula tradition calls this state samārasya — the great evenness, the melting where Śiva and Śakti, life and death, nectar and poison become one taste.
The true sādhu does not run from life, nor does he cling to it.
He can smoke a chillum or sit in silence, can beg or go hungry, can laugh or remain still as a stone — and in all of it, he remains free.
This is why such beings are terrifying.
They cannot be bought, cannot be threatened, cannot be flattered.
Their presence alone is a fire that shows everyone around them what is false.
That is why there are so few of them — the world itself cannot bear too many.
And perhaps this is the final mark of the true sādhu:
He leaves no argument, no sect, no system behind him.
Only a trail of people who were set ablaze,
and the strange, sacred silence that follows when a human being has disappeared into God.
This is why their number is small —
and why it is enough.
Because one such being outweighs a thousand ashrams,
one living fire outweighs a hundred thousand processions
If you are reading these words, perhaps you too feel that call.
Not to join a sect, not to wear a robe, not to escape your life —
but to let the fire in your own heart burn so completely
that nothing remains but what is true.
This is the path that turns the householder’s kitchen into a smashan,
that makes the office desk a place of tapas,
that makes even missiles, betrayals, and heartbreak into Gurus.
And when the burning is complete, there will be no need to ask whether you are a sadhu.
You will simply be —
and the world will recognize the fragrance of the ash.
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