|| Shri Swami Samarth ||
The monsoon's relentless downpour had transformed the Bhima River into a churning, formidable force. Swollen and turbulent, its currents now rendered the vital crossing near the sacred kshetra of Manur utterly impassable. Shri Samarth, serene amidst the rising waters, was accompanied by his circle of devoted attendants, among them the anxious Cholappa and the ever-faithful Shripad Bhat. It was the heart of Ashwin, a month steeped in the monsoon's embrace, and the land lay drenched, isolated.
"O Maharaj!" Cholappa's voice, usually steady, was laced with palpable distress. "There is no provision for sustenance here. What course of action shall we take?"
Shri Samarth's gaze drifted across the wild expanse of water. "We must reach the other bank," he stated, his voice a calming balm against the river's roar. "But the Bhima rages, and no vessel awaits us on this shore, though I discern several on the far side. Who among you possesses the fortitude to retrieve one?"
Cholappa's apprehension was stark. "We would gladly undertake such a task, Maharaj, but to plunge into this deluge… it would be an act of utter folly, a surrender to death itself!"
A gentle, knowing laugh escaped Shri Samarth's lips. "If my Lattheshwar Pandit embarks upon this task," he declared, a profound twinkle in his eyes, "he shall most assuredly return with the boat." He spoke of Shripad Bhat, his cherished disciple, whom he fondly called 'Latthya.'
Upon hearing his Guru's pronouncement, Shripad Bhat felt an immediate, unyielding surge of purpose. He understood these were not mere suggestions, but a direct, divine command from his spiritual master. Without a flicker of hesitation, he cast off his outer garments, invoked the sacred mantra of "Shri Swami Samarth," and plunged into the tumultuous, foam-flecked waters.
A collective gasp of horror rose from the onlookers. Fear contorted their faces as they watched Shripad Bhat battling the powerful, swirling currents.
"Maharaj, please, save him!" they pleaded, their voices choked with anguish and despair.
Shri Samarth remained perfectly composed, his visage an embodiment of unflappable certainty. "What force could possibly harm him?" he replied, his voice resonating with absolute conviction. "He will now return with the boat."
And so, against all rational expectations, it came to pass. Shripad Bhat, propelled by an unshakeable faith that defied the very laws of nature and sustained by the constant, whispered repetition of his Guru's name, swam with a strength born of devotion. Through the raging torrent, he miraculously reached the opposite bank, secured a boat, and navigated it back, delivering it safely to the waiting shore. A stunned silence, heavy with awe, gave way to an outpouring of fervent admiration. With Shri Swami Samarth leading the way, everyone boarded the retrieved vessel and crossed to Manur, now touched by a profound sense of wonder. The attendees were not merely relieved; they were deeply, irrevocably moved by the spectacle, their hearts swelling with praise for Shripad Bhat. His absolute faith and unwavering obedience to his Guru had triumphed, proving that true devotion could conquer the seemingly unconquerable.
Their journey eventually led them to the sacred Yellamma Temple, where Shri Maharaj and his retinue had taken up residence. However, a far more insidious shadow soon enveloped Manur. A virulent plague descended upon the village, a merciless scourge claiming between ten and fifteen lives each day. The very air seemed to thicken with grief, punctuated by the relentless lamentations of the bereaved.
One day, the village Patil, his face a mask of utter despair, prostrated himself before Shri Maharaj. "Maharaj," he pleaded, his voice a raw, broken whisper, "my son, Hanumant, lies on his deathbed, his breaths barely clinging to life. I implore you, Great Soul, restore him to us! Do not let him slip away!"
A wave of profound compassion softened Shri Samarth’s expression. Without a word, he rose and proceeded directly to the home of Appa Patil, seating himself within its walls. As his presence filled the space, the wailing intensified, for the boy's life force was visibly, agonizingly ebbing away. The mournful cries swelled, tearing at the very fabric of those assembled.
Cholappa, unable to bear the excruciating agony, approached Shri Maharaj. "Maharaj," he whispered, his voice trembling with a mixture of sorrow and desperation, "this suffering is unbearable. Please, let us return to the temple. The boy is dying; it is not fitting for us to remain."
Shri Samarth’s response was firm, his voice cutting through the lamentations like a clear bell. "Who has given him permission to leave?" he questioned, his gaze intense, piercing through the despair. Then, he issued a directive that defied all conventional understanding: "Cover him completely with neem leaves, grind the leaves with water, and administer the paste into his mouth."
Without a moment’s hesitation, the Patil, clinging to this slender thread of hope, immediately followed these precise, unconventional instructions.
What transpired next was nothing short of a divine intervention; it transcended mere medicine. The boy, who moments before had hovered on the precipice of death, stirred. His breathing steadied, the ragged gasps smoothing into a calm rhythm, and his eyelids, once heavy, fluttered open. Within moments, he began to improve dramatically, snatching life back from the jaws of extinction.
The very next day, by the boundless mercy and unfathomable power of Shri Swami Samarth, the plague that had ravaged Manur vanished completely from the village. The impossible had not merely been achieved; it had been effortlessly manifested. Is there truly anything beyond the reach of Samarth's will? He is the divine orchestrator, capable of creating and dissolving universes at His whim. Such is His supreme, boundless power.
The following day, Shri Maharaj and his attendees departed from Manur, returning to Akkalkot, leaving behind a village reborn and an indelible testament to His omnipotence.
|| Shri Swami Samarth ||