Gautam Sachdeva

Guest Blog – A Cat, a Shrine, and a Quiet Grace by Sarthak Kaul

An excerpt from the book A Quiet Joy in the Life of a Day: Notes from the Silence

 

Certain moments on the spiritual path arrive without warning. They are not dramatic revelations or mystical visions, but seemingly ordinary encounters that quietly alter the way one experiences life. A visit to a sacred place, a chance meeting, a fleeting glance, or a moment of unexpected stillness can reveal more than years of seeking.

 

In this contemplative excerpt from A Quiet Joy in the Life of a Day: Notes from the Silence, Sarthak Kaul recounts a visit to the samadhi shrine of Siddharameshwar Maharaj in Mumbai, a revered master of the Navnath tradition and Guru of the renowned sage Nisargadatta Maharaj. The author travels to the shrine with no expectations beyond a desire to sit in its silence and absorb its atmosphere.

 

What unfolds is not an extraordinary spiritual spectacle but something far more intimate. Amid the peaceful surroundings of the samadhi, a chance encounter with a cat becomes a doorway into presence, stillness, and an inexplicable sense of grace. Through simple observations, gentle humour, and heartfelt reflection, the author explores how sacred spaces often work in subtle ways, dissolving mental noise and opening the heart to a deeper dimension of experience.

 

 

 

The Cat at the Shrine

 

“I have lived with several Zen masters—all of them cats.”

— Eckhart Tolle

 

A thin shaft of morning light slanted across the marble floor, and there, at the foot of the samadhi shrine, sat a cat—sleek, motionless, and entirely present. It studied me not with curiosity, but with a knowing calm, as if it held the secret of everything.

 

In that moment, I understood why the ancients revered cats—not for their elegance, but for their embodiment of pure, undistracted awareness. The cat was simply here, and in its presence, I was invited into a deeper stillness, echoing the “glorious presence” the quiet teacher once spoke of, pulsing in silence.

 

The quiet teacher often mentioned visiting a samadhi shrine in Mumbai and how peaceful and serene it was. This shrine belonged to Siddharameshwar Maharaj, alongside Ranjit Maharaj’s. The quiet teacher was linked to their lineage and had subtly suggested that those on the path visit it to seek grace and blessings.

 

Samadhi shrines are the burial grounds of realized masters, said to carry tremendous energy even after the body has dropped. They’re like charged generators still humming underground—and if you’re subtle and receptive, you might catch some of that vibrational field. But it’s not a guarantee, so don’t get any funny ideas. My dad, a traveling sales manager, was headed to Mumbai and graciously offered I come along. Perhaps he wanted to bond, since he’s always on the go. I said yes and accompanied him.

 

While he went off for meetings, I snuck out of the hotel to visit the samadhi the teacher had spoken of. I booked an Uber and we drove to Malabar Hills. The shrine was tucked deep in the burrows of a slummy area near an old stepwell called Banganga Tank. One local asked me where I was headed. I said I was looking for Siddharameshwar Maharaj’s samadhi. He asked if I was Marathi. I said no. Then he gave me directions, and I followed. Unlike Delhi, which is famous for its street dogs, Mumbai is home to stray cats. You’ll find them in every nook and cranny of every neighbourhood.

 

I like dogs, but I’m more of a cat person—mainly because they’re quiet. They’re not needy or clingy. They’re chill, independent. When I was in Canada, a lot of pet owners loaned me their cats—I guess I was somewhat of a cat whisperer. I remember a cat-neighbour lady once told me her cat had started making mating calls outside my door at night—which I found oddly thrilling, since cats are stingy with affection. Observing cats is a meditation I recommend—they’re so sharp, alert, and awake. Every movement is total, filled with agility and grace. Cats truly are the embodiment of living moment-to-moment. Back in Walkeshwar, Mumbai, I finally squeezed my way through the narrow bylanes and colourful locals and found the shrine.

 

It was actually a crematory—which I found fitting: the burning of karmic impurities of the mind-body. The quiet teacher hadn’t made any grand claims about the place, except that it was peaceful. And that promise held true. It was a simple, serene, beautiful marble enclosure. “Just take your glorious presence and relax into the space,” the teacher had said. So I sat there on a marble block with my “glorious presence,” waiting for some miracle—but nothing happened.

 

I kept waiting. I bowed in front of the shrine, maybe five or six times. Walked around. Fiddled with my fingers. Sat back down. My backpack felt heavy, and it felt odd just sitting there like a dummy. After an hour or so, I finally settled into the small square space, took off my backpack, and simply let myself be—awkward, human, and entirely present. There was a peace in the air, floating across the marble, and it touched something in me.

 

I felt positively giddy—joyful, giggly even. Then it happened. A cat arrived near the entrance and froze—still as a stone. It stared straight into my eyes for what felt like a long, long time. This might be my projection, but it felt like the cat was some kind of vanguard, a protector of the sacred space, sniffing me out to see if I was worthy.

 

That’s the regal way of cats—they have high standards, and they’re high-maintenance in every way. But then, the cat dropped its guard and vanished. There was another older man in the samadhi, seated cross-legged with eyes shut in deep meditation. Earlier, I’d seen him kiss the feet of the samadhi with such reverence—it really moved me. The guileless devotion in his heart. While sitting there, something in me exploded. A clearing happened that words can’t capture. It was an implosion, yet its effect was external.

 

My heart was on fire—relieved, unburdened. My mind felt like it had been swept by a cool breeze of peace. Birds chirped louder than I’d ever heard before. Eventually, my dad called to check in, and we decided to meet later that evening at Nariman Point. I didn’t feel like leaving—I could’ve stayed longer.

 

On my way out, I looked back at the two samadhis, still as celestial monoliths, and the pious man—eyes still shut, sighing a deep, tender sigh of peace. I didn’t see that cat again. I guess I wasn’t meant to. Once a moment passes, it becomes a fleeting frame in a movie— never to be seen again. But there’s a remembrance. Not memory— But that deep feeling. Of being seen by the feline creature. Seen as worthy. Seen as whole. Seen as complete.

 

 

This book is available globally through Amazon in kindle format. To order the book, please click here.

 

For any queries or feedback, the author can be contacted at sarthakkaul27@gmail.com

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