Amar Jawan Jyoti (“The Flame of the Immortal Soldier”), dedicated especially to the “unknown soldier,” has been burning under the arch of India Gate in New Delhi since 1971. On every Republic Day of India, the Prime Minister and the chiefs of the Armed Forces pay homage to the country’s soldiers—and thousands of tourists visit the memorial every day. Similar monuments exist in most countries around the world. While extraordinary instances of courage and leadership are honored with medals and get the recognition they richly deserve, the silent contribution made by thousands of unknown soldiers is no less significant.

That’s the image I hold in my heart when I think of the swamis whose lives have influenced my own. What have soldiers to do with swamis? Not much but, in a way, everything because Swami Vivekananda did speak of the monastic as “the soldier of God” (CW 4. 307). This essay is a small tribute to the unknown swamis but also, in general, to the unknown spiritual seekers, who—like the legendary squirrel in the Rāmāyaṇa who contributed a few grains of sand in the construction of the bridge to Lanka—have done their part and moved on, leaving behind a subtle influence that is easy to miss by those in a hurry.

Alongside the few major and obvious influences in our lives are innumerable subtle contributions of many others. Like the squirrel’s, their contributions may seem minor, but their influence is unforgettable. We do remember Rama’s squirrel even today, don’t we? The older I get, the more do I find that I have learnt, and still continue to learn, so much from so many earnest souls that the only natural response is to bow down my head with gratitude to all spiritual seekers of the past and the present, monastic or not.

One example from among many swamis who have left a lasting impression on me is that of Swami Pujyananda (1926–2007), who joined the Order at our Hardwar center in 1948, the year after India became free from the British colonial rule. He was a disciple of Swami Virajananda and was ordained into sannyasa in 1957. Before being head of our centers in Khetri and Jaipur for nearly three decades, he also served in our centers in Asansol, Vrindaban and Mumbai.

It was in Mumbai that I first met him in 1976. Within a few days of my joining the monastery he asked me casually one day to meet him in the afternoon. Thus began a daily hour-long “class” of sorts. I don’t think he was assigned the duty to mentor me, he probably just did it on his own. New to the monastery, I didn’t know what to expect. For me it just felt natural to be taught by an elderly monk. I was barely 20, so a 50-year old did feel like “elderly” to me. It no longer does, of course, now that I am much older than he was when I first met him.

The daily “class” had no definite structure or plan. Some days Swami Pujyananda would give me a Sanskrit verse, explain its meaning, and ask me to memorize it by the next day. Another day it would be a lesson in reading or writing Bengali. Some other days he would simply tell me stories and anecdotes he had heard from his seniors. Or he would ask me to read from a book (Swami Virajananda’s Toward the Goal Supreme was his favorite) and, whenever I paused with a questioning look on my face, he would smile and offer his interpretation. He moved effortlessly between English, Bengali, Hindi and Marathi, oftentimes in the same sentence, as if they were all one language. I soon got used to this hybridized form of communication.

Within a few months, unbeknownst to me I had memorized the pūjā mantras (it turned out that the Sanskrit verses he gave me were from the daily worship manual), learned how to speak, read and write Bengali (the language that Sri Ramakrishna spoke), and had read some of the basic texts vital for a young monastic. And all of this was done in such an easygoing manner that I didn’t even feel I was being “taught” something. When I look back now at those years, I smile to myself and feel fortunate and grateful for the opportunity.

Swami Pujyananda had a serious demeanor and a reserved personality. Unless you knew him well, you would never guess how joyful and playful he was. He had a vast stock of stories, jokes and anecdotes, many of which have stuck in my memory to this day. When young monastics engaged in heated debates about some scriptural passage, he would sit like an indulgent father and listen to the arguments with an amused expression. He did not write books and he did not sing. His classes and lectures were good but not memorable. What came across were his sincerity and holiness, not the brilliance of his ideas. All that said, his room had a different feel to it—that is where he read, prayed and meditated. Outside his room, few knew of the quiet, indrawn side of his personality. I found him participating in every activity in the monastery without drawing any attention to himself. It was easy to forget that he even existed. He stands out in my memory today as someone who had mastered the art of not standing out.

He left Mumbai in 1978 when he was appointed head of the Order’s Khetri center. Thereafter our paths crossed a few times in various places. I also got a chance to visit him in Khetri and Jaipur before I came to Boston. Sometime in late 2006 I heard that he had a heart-related condition and a bypass surgery was advised. He was opposed to the idea and everyone was trying to persuade him to have the procedure. I requested an opportunity to speak with him and was able to do so over the phone. I urged him to agree to the surgery and assured him that it was quite safe. His voice was kind but firm: “I don’t want my last moments to be with doctors and nurses around me. I want to be in the monastery.” No one could make him change his mind. He mused that he might even go to Hardwar to die, spending time on the bank of the sacred Ganga.

Some three or four months later he was gone. After dinner he chatted with the other monks one late evening in the monastery in Jaipur, then retired to his room and passed away peacefully in sleep. His going was as uneventful as pretty much everything else in his life.

Having known Swami Pujyananda and many others like him, I cannot but think that spiritual seekers who have the privilege of remaining mostly unknown make a significant but often unrecognized contribution to the greater good. As I write this, I see before my mind’s eye the monks I know who have spent almost the entirety of their lives working in the kitchen, in the garden or on a farm, in a hostel dorm or in a hospital ward, or doing daily worship in some of our remote monasteries. Hardly anyone knows them beyond the small circle of people they work with, but their service is as vital and consequential as the service of others with greater visibility and following.

I am thinking also of a considerably larger number of devotees, volunteers and lay members who serve and support their places of worship, quietly, with no expectations and as best they can, while working at their full-time jobs, raising their families, and taking care of a hundred other things. Spiritual life is a struggle—and the bravest among those who struggle are ones who do it silently and, in a phrase immortalized by Lincoln, “with malice toward none, with charity for all.”

Swamiji’s words come to mind: “As I grow older I find that I look more and more for greatness in little things.” He found true greatness in “the worm doing its duty silently, steadily, from moment to moment and from hour to hour” (CW 9. 418-19). There are many—a lot more than we are aware of—in our spiritual communities who fit that description. What else can we do other than bow down with reverence and gratitude to these unassuming, silent, steady soldiers on the spiritual path?