From Grief to Grace

Since my first visit to Sri Siva Jyoti Mouna Sidda Swami at the end of January 2025, I made the decision to go every day for a month in February. I was seeking truth and it felt right to sit in his presence consistently. I liked Swami’s energy. I liked the absence of crowds and the quiet simplicity of the ashram. It felt honest. It felt real.

The ashram is open Tuesday to Sunday, 8am to 1pm. You can go for darshan, ask questions, or simply sit. Swami speaks Tamil and a little English, so if you want to ask something, it's best to have someone there who can translate. I had read somewhere that you could bring an offering. I had two packets of dog food sitting on my desk at home, Swami has two dogs so I decided to bring them.

When I arrived, Swami waved me over. I knelt and bowed something that had become natural now, I gave him the dog food, but he told me to keep it. I smiled. The ashram attendant brought tea for us. Swami poured a little on the ground for the dogs, but one didn’t get any. He motioned for me to feed the one who missed out, so I did.

While I was sitting there, I witnessed something I’ll never forget.

A man brought in his wife, she was unconscious, completely limp in his arms. He held her up as best he could, waiting in line with everyone else. What was he doing here, I wondered? She needed a hospital.

When it was their turn, he brought her before Swami. I couldn’t understand the words exchanged in Tamil, but I watched as Swami pressed his thumb into the centre of her forehead, then closed his eyes for thirty seconds. The attendant handed him a cup of water, and Swami dipped his hand into it and threw the water over her. He then wrapped a lime in ash and newspaper and gave it to the husband.

They left.

Thirty minutes later, I saw them again walking out of the ashram together like nothing had ever happened. I was stunned. Swami has the ability to miraculously heal the distressed. I witnessed it with my own eyes.

But for the next four days, Swami said nothing to me. Not a word. I would come, sit, bow, and leave. I didn’t ask questions, I didn’t feel the urge to but I did feel confused. Was this real? What was I doing here?

My mind began twisting. Doubt crept in. Maybe this isn’t real. Maybe this is all just theatre. I started spiralling.

Eventually, I decided to leave. I walked up to Swami and said goodbye. He looked at me and said nothing.

A few weeks later, my friend Olya messaged me from Sri Lanka. She wanted to come back to Tiruvannamalai to pick up some things she’d left with me and she asked if I’d go visit Swami with her. I agreed.

I picked her up on the scooter early in the morning, and we headed out to the ashram. The landscape changed as we turned off the main road, big boulders, green rice fields.

Then, it happened.

A huge truck sped past us, dangerously close. Just seconds later, we heard a scream.

A puppy.

The truck had run over her and kept driving.

Olya jumped off the scooter before I even stopped. We both ran to the puppy. She was screaming in so much pain.

Olya crouched beside her and immediately began soothing her. She became quiet almost instantly.

It was one of the most moving things I’ve ever seen. Olya had a deep, natural gift with animals. I was transfixed frozen in grief. She was acting. I was overwhelmed.

I had dog food in my bag and gave some to the puppy, but she could barely move.

A few villagers gathered. They didn’t like what we were doing and told us to leave. I refused. They told us again. I still refused. We moved the pup to the side of the road.

Olya suggested we go to the ashram and come back for her later, but I didn’t want to take the risk. I was worried the villagers might put her down if we left.

Eventually, we agreed to bring her with us. A villager gave us a bag, and we carried her in.

Outside the ashram, I told Olya to go in without me. I didn’t want to leave the pup. She agreed.

While I sat outside with the puppy, an ashram attendant noticed and approached. “Is this the injured puppy?” he asked. I nodded. “Please wait.”

Swami came out soon after. He saw the puppy and simply said:

“Take her to Tiruvannamalai Animal Hospital. I give you my blessing.”

That was all I needed.

We took the puppy straight to the hospital. Even though it was outside normal hours, they took her in. They said they’d take care of her. We left her in good hands.

That evening, I reflected deeply on what had happened.

When the puppy was hit, I was paralysed. My sensitivity the very thing I’ve often seen as a gift had shut me down. I didn’t want to feel the pain. I wanted to run from it.

But suffering is grace too.

The next time I visited Swami, I brought a friend named P. On the way there, I had a deep realisation:

This whole world is an illusion. The suffering is an illusion. And so am I.

To rest in truth, I had to begin seeing through the play.

The grief of the puppy wasn’t separate from grace. It was the same.

This whole world was a dream and Ramana was waking me up.

I walked into the ashram with this fresh understanding.

Swami saw me and beamed. He gave me the biggest smile I’d ever seen from him and said simply:

“Very happy.”

He saw. He knew. The storm had passed, and I had returned to the heart.

A month later, I visited the animal hospital again to ask about ways to support them through my new charity. I asked about the puppy.

“She’s doing well,” the vet said. “She was adopted by a family 10 kilometres from Tiruvannamalai.”

My eyes lit up. Grace had carried her home.