True Stories of Om Azad Muni

Om Azad Muni Baba, a saint so true, Walked barefoot, with heart anew. He passed by shops, with greetings kind, Returning smiles, leaving love behind. A shoe store owner, with gesture grand, Offered shoes, to Baba's bare feet land. But Baba declined, with gentle grace, Preferring simplicity's sacred space. A cloth shop owner, with words so bold, Claimed his shop, belonged to Baba to hold. But when Baba took him, at his word so true, He faltered, with intentions anew. Baba cut the cloth, into pieces so fine, Distributed them, with love divine. The Bhils rejoiced, with hearts so light, Baba's kindness, shone like a beacon bright. The cloth shop owner, with lesson learned so well, No longer boasted, with words that would swell. Baba's presence, with love so pure and true, Taught him the value, of heart and spirit anew.

When saints ride waves of silent grace, They lift from death’s enclosing space; Yet if they turn, unmoved, profound, Karma strikes—its echo resound. On Tekri high, Om Azad Muni stayed, An old mother wept and prayed; Her son condemned, the noose in sight, She begged for mercy, begged for light. A picture small He placed in hand, “Fix his mind—let it firmly stand; On Muni’s form let thought abide, In that still gaze, let fear subside.” The son, absorbed in Muni’s face, Forgot the court, dissolved in grace; His fate reversed, the verdict undone, From death’s dark claim, released her son. During the akhara’s rise, Someone spoke harsh words, to Baba’s surprise. His heart turned cold, He left the site, The man’s own Karma met its plight. “It is his fate,” Baba then said, “By his own deeds, the path is led.” At Mangalnath Temple’s sacred way, Baba turned from rites that day; Sevakram stood firm, in devotion true, “No other darshan—I see You.” Of hollow hearts, Baba spoke plain, Then walked back free, untouched by stain. A yogi’s will—still as the sea, Neither bound nor seeking to be; It neither blesses nor destroys— It mirrors truth, beyond all noise.

This tale reveals the might Of saints so true, who in their light, With power of yoga, pure and grand, Speak with the stone, by conscious hand. An elderly man walked, day after day, To Lord Hanuman, in earnest pray, But in his mind, no change had been, No glimpse of truth his eyes had seen. Om Azad Muni, with insight deep, Spoke words so sharp, they cut to reap, 'Years have passed, yet darshan’s vain, What holds you back, what still remains?' The old man stirred, his mind aflame, To temple went, with heart untame, And there he saw, as vision bright, Young Hanuman, a holy sight. Another tale, of a woman so old, Who Lord Govardhan’s form would behold, Each day she’d go, to temple fair, And then to Om Azad Muni, for His care. One day He said, 'Now lift your hand, Behold your Lord, at your command,' She looked and saw her God within, Her heart rejoiced, her joy did win. For saints so true, though power they hold, In simple guise, their truths unfold, With humble ways, their grace bestow, And guide us where true blessings flow.

Azad Muni speaks, serene and bold: 'Who come to Me with heart untold, Their every grief I take as Mine, Their pain I drink like sacred wine.' 'And one who gives himself to Me, I cut his cords, I make him free— From birth and death, from fear and fate, I open wide the timeless gate.' 'I leave no Karma, dark or bright; I burn the bad through public spite. The good I scatter, love-wise spent, Among the hearts most innocent.' 'When nothing’s left—no deed, no debt, What cause remains for birth’s reset? The seeds are ash, the winds are still, No Karma left to shape a will.' The mind went mad in joy’s own flame, The heart forgot both pride and name. The ego died, its throne was torn, The soul stood bare, anew, reborn. All was destroyed, all forms laid low— The Satguru wept a silent woe. In love, He sank the faithful one, And made him part of the Unborn Sun. He merged him deep, beyond all law, And whispered one last word: 'Swaha.' No self remained, no world, no cry— Just truth, where even saints must die.