Apologies to everyone for not adding anything new recently. I am working on several projects and hope to post something soon.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Apologies to everyone for not adding anything new recently. I am working on several projects and hope to post something soon.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
A few months ago his daughter, Mahalakshmi Suryanandan, found some of his old articles and writings and decided to publish them in a small book. Entitled K. S. Remembered, it was released a few weeks ago. It contains several interesting articles on Bhagavan and his teachings that have only previously appeared in obscure journals decades ago. The first extracts in this post are taken from the following two articles:
(a) ‘Sri Ramana Maharshi (a short biography and his teachings)’, published in the December 1958 issue of The March of India, a monthly magazine brought out by the Publications Division, Ministry of Information and Broadcasting, Government of India.
(b) ‘Sri Ramana’, published in Swarajya. No other information is given.
In the early 1980s I used to go to Prof. Swaminathan’s house in Chennai and read out articles that had been submitted to The Mountain Path. Having recently had cataract operations, he had been banned from reading for a while. While I was reading the submissions, he would periodically interrupt to correct the grammatical errors of the contributors. As a former professor of English who believed in upholding the virtues of correct English, he felt obliged to intervene at least once in every paragraph. Since a few grammatical errors seem to have crept into this new anthology, I have spared him a few posthumous blushes by taking the liberty of correcting them. I have also interspersed, in italics, a few supplementary comments and explanations of my own.
Was Sri Ramana a teacher? He delivered no sermon. He composed no treatise. Only some of his talks – his answers to questions – have been recorded and published. He also wrote a few poems (in Tamil, Telugu and Sanskrit) and did some translations (into Tamil, Telugu, Sanskrit and Malayalam). He taught not in words, but by being what he was. Prince and peasant, women, children and animals were drawn to him, and he treated them all with the loving kindness of a sensitive mother. J. C. Moloney, I.C.S., tells us how on one occasion his own dogs ran away from him and preferred to stay with the sage. Monkeys, cows and dogs, even squirrels and peacocks, moved on the friendliest terms with him.
[J. C. Moloney wrote: ‘After visiting the sage on the hill, when I reached my camp, one of my dogs was missing. In the evening the holy man arrived, leading the truant on a string. The sage said, “He came back to me and I should have liked to keep him. But why should I steal him from you?”’ Face to Face with Sri Ramana Maharshi, p. 120.
I can’t remember where I first came across this story, but I do recollect that Mr Moloney, a British Deputy Collector, was walking his dogs on the hill, unaware of who Bhagavan was. His dogs found the pool by the Skandashram spring and jumped into it to cool off. When Bhagavan emerged to see what was going on, Mr Moloney expected a lecture from the ‘holy man’ since his dog had contaminated his water source.
Instead, Bhagavan said, ‘Don’t worry about it. The stream will clean the water in about five minutes. Dogs need to cool down in this weather. It is too hot for dogs up here in summer, so I sent the ashram dogs away until it cools down.’
Mr Moloney went back to his camp, but on the way there one of his dogs escaped and returned to the cool of the pool at Skandashram As recorded in the quote above, Bhagavan put a lead on it and personally returned it that evening.]
He infected people with the joy of friendship and the love of freedom. He spread happiness as the sun spreads light.
What he did was to embody once again the eternal Indian idea of moksha, liberation. This freedom, the noblest fruit of life, can come only from jnana, knowledge, not from work or striving. These can only help purify the mind and prepare it for jnana. The jnani or seer is freed from the tyranny of the egotistic self and is conscious of the unity of All. By his mere being, he serves the world. What effect he produces, what influence he exerts, is not the result of effort put forth or will-power exercised by him; it is spontaneous.
Books such as the Upanishads, the Gita, the Yoga Vasishta, Vivekachudamani, and Jivanmukti-viveka describe in a hundred ways the ‘one liberated in life’. He lives in the world but is not changed by it. Like a burnt rope, which is all ashes, his action does not bind. He has nothing to attain, nothing to give up. Seeing him, hearing about him, and thinking about him, all beings are delighted. Him the world fears not; and he is afraid of nothing.
[Duncan] Greenlees writes: ‘I have taken all the descriptions of the jivanmukta I could find in any scripture – Hindu, Buddhist Confucian, Christian, Muslim, Jain, etc. I have watched Bhagavan under all kinds of circumstances and checked up what I have seen with those descriptions. He alone of all the men I have seen seems to dwell always in sahaja samadhi…
In insisting on right meditation leading to right action and right living, and in maintaining strict silence on irrelevant speculative issues, the sage resembled the Buddha. His main metaphysical position was that of Sri Sankara. D. S. Sarma (in his Hindu Standpoint) says that ‘historically, there has been no such emphasis on jnana since Sankara …Against the vast main current of bhakti flowing freely through eleven centuries stands the silent naked figure of Sri Ramana Maharshi like a rock.'
Savants and scholars such as Kavyakantha Ganapati Sastri and Swami Siddheswarananda, who know the tree and search eagerly for the good fruit among the thick foliage of Indian humanity, are satisfied, but not surprised, when they find it. But it is otherwise with untrained observers – such as Somerset Maugham – who come suddenly upon this unusual phenomenon and are struck by its strange goodness. Their testimony too has high value, as their experience was no less authentic because it was unexpected and inexplicable. But the two classes are never far apart. In the calm of the ashram the conservative Hindu Sastri, at home among the backward castes, and the unresting, up-to-the-minute American journalist felt at peace with themselves, and with each other. Neither judged the other. Followers of many religions and many schools of thought came to see the Maharshi and went back strengthened in spirit and more than ever loyal to their own gurus. Not even the do-nothing sadhu and the earnest satyagrahi quarreled there…
It was no accident that Paul Brunton was sent to the seer by the orthodox Jagadguru Sri Sankaracharya of Kanchipuram. A front-rank Congress leader, who later became Chief Minister of Madras, would, every time he went to jail, seek Bhagavan’s blessings, and could secure them only on an assurance of Gandhiji’s prior approval. Rajendra Prasad (now India’s President) was advised by Gandhi to spend a week in the ashram to gain peace of mind and took from there the message that shanti [peace] and shakti [power] were the inward and outward aspects of the one force of love.
There have been many fruits, big and ripe, on the Indian tree. Sri Ramana’s naturalness and truth-to-form only proves that he belongs to the tree and has grown on it. Dr C. G. Jung says: ‘Sri Ramana is a true son of the Indian earth. In India he is the whitest spot in a white space…. Sri Ramakrishna and Sri Ramana not only remind us of the thousands-of-years-old spiritual culture of India, they also directly embody it.’
[The quotation that Prof. Swaminathan is using here is taken from a poor-quality, abridged translation of a Jung piece that has been recycled many times in articles on Bhagavan. The original essay appeared as an introduction to a German book on Bhagavan that had been edited and translated by Heinrich Zimmer. Professor Zimmer had privately taken Jung to task for coming to South India in 1938 and not taking the time to meet Bhagavan. When Jung agreed to write the introduction to Zimmer’s book, he addressed the criticisms in the following way:
The carrier of mythological and philosophical wisdom in India has been since time immemorial the ‘holy man’ – a western title which does not quite render the essence and outward appearance of the parallel figure in the East. This figure is the embodiment of the spiritual India, and we meet him again and again in the literature. No wonder, then, that Zimmer was passionately interested in the latest and best incarnation of this type in the phenomenal personage of Shri Ramana. He saw in this yogi the true avatar of the figure of the rishi, seer and philosopher, which strides, as legendary as it is historical, down the centuries and the ages.These paragraphs, translated here fully and properly by R. F. C. Hull, appear in ‘The Holy Men of India’, a chapter in Jung’s Psychology and Religion: West and East. This book now appears as volume eleven of Jung’s ‘Collected Works’. If anyone is interested, the whole essay on Bhagavan can be found online at: http://www.scribd.com/doc/17676488/CGjung-Psychology-and-Religion-West-and-East-Collected-Works-Volume-11. The inaccurate version of this essay that has been widely distributed indicates that Jung felt that Bhagavan was a unique and exalted being, but it should be clear from this extract that his appreciation was far more nuanced and qualified. However, this did not prevent Jung from, later in the same essay, paying tribute to Bhagavan’s teachings in the following words:
Perhaps I should have visited Shri Ramana. Yet I fear that if I journeyed to India a second time to make up for my omission, it would fare with me just the same. I simply could not, despite the uniqueness of the occasion, bring myself to visit this undoubtedly distinguished man personally. For the fact is, I doubt his uniqueness; he is of a type which always was and will be. Therefore it was not necessary to seek him out. I saw him all over India, in the pictures of Ramakrishna, in Ramakrishna’s disciples, in Buddhist monks, in innumerable other figures of the daily Indian scene, and the words of his wisdom are the sous-entendu [concealed implication] of India’s spiritual life. Shri Ramana is, in a sense, a hominum homo, a true ‘son of man’ of the Indian earth. He is ‘genuine’, and on top of that he is a ‘phenomenon’ which, seen through European eyes, has claims to uniqueness. But in India he is merely the whitest spot on a white surface (whose whiteness is mentioned only because there are so many surfaces that are just as black). Altogether, one sees so much in India that in the end one only wishes one could see less. The enormous variety of countries and human beings creates a longing for complete simplicity. This simplicity is there too; it pervades the spiritual life of India like a pleasant fragrance or a melody. It is everywhere the same; never monotonous, unendingly varied. To get to know it, it is sufficient to read an Upanishad or any discourse of the Buddha. What is heard there is heard everywhere; it speaks out of a million eyes, it expresses itself in countless gestures, and there is no village or country road where that broad-branched tree cannot be found in whose shade the ego struggles for its own abolition, drowning the world of multiplicity in the All and All-Oneness of Universal Being. This note rang so insistently in my ears that soon I was no longer able to shake off its spell. I was then absolutely certain that no one could ever get beyond this, least of all the Indian holy man himself, and should Shri Ramana say anything that did not chime in with this melody, or claim to know anything that transcended it, his illumination would assuredly be false. The holy man is right when he intones India’s ancient chants, but wrong when he chants any other tune. The effortless drone of argumentation, so suited to the heat of Southern India, made me refrain, without regret, from a visit to Tiruvannamalai.
Shri Ramana’s thoughts are beautiful to read. What we find here is purest India, the breath of eternity, scorning and scorned by the world. It is the song of the ages, resounding like the shrilling of crickets on a summer’s night, from a million beings. The melody is built up on the one great theme, which, veiling its monotony under a thousand colourful reflections, tirelessly and everlastingly rejuvenates itself in the Indian spirit, whose youngest incarnation is Shri Ramana himself.Prof. Swaminathan continues:]
The Hindu view is that the state of freedom is natural; Tamil uses the same word (veedu) for home, heaven and freedom. The free man is happy here and now. The saint is normal; it is he who provides the norm for the rest of us. We love him because he is the outward image of our inmost Self; he prefigures the evolutionary possibilities of the race. He is already what all men will become one day. If the Maharshi’s personal attendants included harijans and his followers included foreigners, if in his ashram a shrine was raised to a woman and a widow, it was all accepted as ‘natural’. The distinctions between pariah and pandit, dog and man, vanished in his presence…
Apart from his spoken, acted and written teachings, the simple human friendliness of Bhagavan showed the utter soulabhya, the easy accessibility, of the ultimate Truth when it graciously chooses to embody itself in human form. Bhagavan was not merely a yogi or a teacher or a saint: he was a seer, a being comprehending and transcending all these lower categories, and he succeeded in being a friend of everyone – sinner or saint, prince or peasant, old or young, learned or ignorant, man or woman, cow, dog, monkey or peacock. Hundreds of quite ordinary human visitors to the ashram were treated like intimate friends by Maharshi, who took a most sympathetic interest in all their personal affairs: the train they came on, the food they ate, the marriages and deaths, the appointments and promotions that occurred in their families. No one felt that he was unimportant or unwanted. Women and harijans were no less welcome than learned brahmins to this charmed circle. To all he taught humility without humiliating any, as he taught self-surrender without loss of freedom.
If the good teacher is a friend who joins you where you are and leads you up from that point to the mountain top of truth, then Maharshi is the greatest teacher the world has seen because he refused to stretch us on a Procrustean bed of creed or conduct. He did not merely concede as a matter of formal politeness, but convinced every one of his devotees and disciples that there are as many distinct ways of reaching the goal as there are unique human individuals. His more than mother-like tenderness made no harsh choice between one friend and another among the thousands of his friends; and his steady, calm and unfailing cheerfulness and rock-like certainty sprang from his conviction that the world-process must end in the final release of all beings.
Bhagavan has said:
When the ego rises, the mind is separated from its source, the Self, and is restless, like a stone thrown up in the air, or like the waters of a river. When the stone or the river reaches its place of origin, the ground or the ocean, it comes to rest. So too the mind comes to rest and is happy when it returns to and rests in its source. As the stone and the river are sure to return to their starting place, so too the mind will inevitably – at some time – return to its source. Thus, all shall reach the goal. Happiness is your nature. It is not wrong to desire it. What is wrong is seeking it outside when it is inside.
[Prof. Swaminathan has not attributed this quote, but it seems to be a paraphrase of and commentary on Arunachala Ashtakam, verse eight. This is Prof. Swaminathan’s own translation of the verse, taken from his Five Hymns to Arunachala and Other Poems of Sri Ramana Maharshi:
The raindrops showered down by the clouds, risen from the sea, cannot rest until they reach, despite all hindrance, once again their ocean home. The embodied soul from You [Arunachala] proceeding may through various ways self-chosen wander aimless for a while but cannot rest till it joins You, the source. A bird may hover here and there and cannot in mid-heaven stay. It must come back the way it came to find at last on earth alone its resting place. Even so, the soul must turn to You, O Aruna Hill, and merge again in You alone, Ocean of Bliss.Prof. Swaminathan met Mahatma Gandhi in 1915, twenty-five years before he encountered Bhagavan. He was a lifelong Gandhian who, starting in 1960, spent more than a quarter of a century editing the more-than-ninety volumes that comprise Gandhi’s Collected Works. His allegiance to both Gandhi and Bhagavan compelled him to ponder the apparently competing claims of pro-active service to the nation and inner contemplation. He saw no conflict in Bhagavan’s own life, as the following two paragraphs (taken from the two articles that are the source of the earlier passages) demonstrate:]
Ramana Maharshi] chose to dwell like a tame bird in the cage of the ashram’s regulations. Not only did he sit in the centre of a great household; he read letters and newspapers; he corrected proofs and did a hundred odd jobs with scrupulous care. He stressed by precept as well as by example the primacy of dharma, right action. Many devotees who wished to escape from the duties of their station in life he ‘ordered back to their posts’.
To a question on the relation of karma yoga and karma sannyasa, he gave an answer in the manner of a Zen Master. Without uttering a word, he walked up the hill, cut off two sticks from a tree and fashioned them into walking sticks. One he gave to the questioner and the other to a passerby. Then he said, ‘The making of the walking sticks is karma yoga; the gift of them is sannyasa’.
[In his attempts to synthesise the ideas of Gandhi with the advaitic teachings of Bhagavan, Prof. Swaminathan often framed the discussion around the purusharthas, the traditional four goals or aims of human life for Hindus. Dharma is the performance of social duties in an ethical way; artha is the acquisition of wealth through righteous means; kama is the happiness derived from sensual enjoyments; moksha, liberation, is the natural state of abiding as the Self.
Mahalakshmi Suryanandan, Prof. Swaninathan’s daughter, mentioned in her introduction to this new book that some of the old articles she resurrected for this anthology were lying dog-eared and crumbling in a drawer. This struck a chord with me since I remember finding a Swaminathan piece in a similar state of disrepair in the early 1980s. It had been languishing in an ashram file for years, with no author’s name on it, but when I read it and discovered it to be an essay on dharma, artha, kama and moksha I immediately knew who the author was. Although he didn’t, on rereading it, think it had any particular merit, I persuaded him to let it be published in The Mountain Path.
Bhagavan’s position on the purusharthas was that moksha was the only real state, and that it is realised once one abandons the other three purusharthas to dwell in the mauna of the Self:
To abandon completely dharma, artha and kama is the good fortune of liberation, the excellent state of peace. Therefore, completely give up thoughts of all those other attainments and live a life in which you take as your sole target mauna, the experience that arises in a mind which dwells on Sivam, the supreme swarupa.I have given this long preamble on the purusharthas because this new Swaminathan anthology contains an interesting article, entitled ‘Dharma and Moksha’, that discusses, in an elegant way, the apparently conflicting demands of worldly action, and duties, sadhana, and other-worldly renunciation. No publication information is given, so I cannot say if it has ever been published before. What follows is an abridged version of what Prof. Swaminathan originally wrote:]
Calling even the attainments [of dharma, artha and kama], which suffer from the defect of appearing and disappearing in an illusory way, ‘everlasting’, is a polite attribution, a superimposition. The hard-to-attain liberation [the fourth purushartha, moksha], whose nature is the excellent and true Atma-jnana, which is the goal that should be attained by everyone, is alone the everlasting attainment. (Guru Vachaka Kovai, verses 1204, 230)
Everyone in the world wants to be happy – at all times, in all places and under all conditions. This quest for ananda is the universal desire and the goal of all human endeavour. There are, however, some persons who are happy at all times, in all places and under all conditions, and that too without any desire, and without any effort on their part. This strange paradox about happiness – that one who seeks it strenuously often misses it, while the one who is indifferent to it enjoys it – is explained by our failure to distinguish between pleasure or satisfaction on the one hand and happiness or ananda on the other. We mistake pleasure for happiness and, pursuing it as if it were happiness, end up in all kinds of misery.
In Who am I? and Talks Sri Bhagavan brings out clearly this distinction between happiness, which is our inherent and permanent nature, and the pleasure which we, from time to time, derive from the satisfaction of our desires, physical and mental, healthy or unhealthy.
Happiness is the very nature of the Self; happiness and the Self are not different. There is no happiness in any object of the world. We imagine through our ignorance that we derive happiness from objects. When the mind goes out, it experiences misery. In truth, when its desires are fulfilled, it returns to its own place and enjoys the happiness that is the Self. Similarly, in the states of sleep, samadhi and fainting, and when the object desired is obtained, or the object disliked is removed, the mind becomes inward-turned and enjoys pure Self-happiness. Thus the mind moves without rest, alternately going out of the Self and returning to it. Under the tree the shade is pleasant; out in the open the heat is scorching. A person who has been going about in the sun feels cool when he reaches the shade. Someone who keeps on going from the shade to the sun and then back to the shade is a fool. A wise man stays permanently in the shade. Similarly, the mind of the one who knows the truth does not leave Brahman. The mind of the ignorant one, on the contrary, revolves in the world, feeling miserable, and for a little time returns to Brahman to experience happiness. In fact, what is called the world is only thought. When the world disappears, i.e. when there is no thought, the mind experiences happiness; and when the world appears, it goes through misery.
Absolute and permanent happiness does not reside in objects but in the Atman. Such happiness is peace, free from pain and pleasure. In Talks it is said:
If a man thinks that his happiness is due to external causes and his possessions, it is reasonable to conclude that his happiness must increase with the increase of his possessions, and diminish in proportion to their diminution. Therefore, if he is devoid of possessions, his happiness would be nil. What is the real experience of man? Does it conform to this view?For the sadhaka no doubt the ultimate goal is the complete extinction of the ego, when the jiva and the world cease to be and only the brightness and bliss of pure awareness remains. This goal, gained in a matter of a few moments by Bhagavan, seems to most of us to be too remote and indeed inaccessible in this our present life. We are repeatedly told and we readily believe that spiritual progress has to be gradual and that moksha should wait until we have gone through the other purusharthas. Self-enquiry, the direct sovereign method taught by Bhagavan, gets continuously postponed while we are busy discovering and painfully practising our dharma, or worse still, we allow ourselves to be lulled into a spiritual sleep by sentimental bhakti and escape from the responsibility of our station in life.
In deep sleep the man is devoid of possessions, including his own body. Instead of being unhappy, he is quite happy. Everyone desires to sleep soundly. The conclusion is that happiness is inherent in man and is not due to external causes. One must realise one’s self in order to open the store of unalloyed happiness.
If moksha is bliss and if bliss is our real, permanent and inescapable nature, what is its relation to dharma? Dharma is not a normative or moralistic concept; it is well-being, health and growth, rooted in responsibility and freedom to play with the light and warmth of awareness. The tree does not distinguish between horizontal and vertical growth, between its loyalties to earth, water, air and to the sun. It follows its nature and grows unawares till seed becomes tree and matures into fruit. This also is the human destiny. We are seed sown in the soil and, eating matter and warmth, bound to become fruit. The eater ceases to eat and becomes food. The man of dharma ripens into the mukta. We however separate dharma, our empirical nature as prakriti, from moksha, our transcendental nature as Purusha. Instead of exposing ourselves to the sun wherever we are and drinking in its light and warmth, we make elaborate plans of travelling towards it at some future time.
The traditional view of dharma as that which binds man’s social existence to a moral order which holds, preserves and protects mankind can be illustrated by Kausalya’s words to Rama before he left for the forest.
She said, ‘May that dharma which you have nourished with determination and discipline protect you. This is the only blessing I can give.’
Here we have the popular idea of Rama as the fullest and clearest embodiment of dharma, the horizontal or interpersonal dimension of human growth. The mother rightly regards her son as a moral athlete who has, with determination and discipline, nourished dharma, which in turn is expected to protect him as the mother protects the child.
But Sri Ramana Maharshi prefers to dwell on the truer and more mature image of Sri Rama presented in the Yoga Vasishta. He cites with approval the preceptor’s adjuration to the pupil who, absorbed in the bliss of awareness, is disinclined to act in the world of time and space:
Holding firmly at heart to the truth of your being, play like a hero your part on the world stage, inwardly calm and detached, but assuming zeal and joy, stirrings and aversions, initiative and effort, and performing outward actions appropriate to your particular role in various situations.In other words, the quest for Self-realisation, serious mumukshutva, goes hand in hand with bold heroic action. The call to such action, addressed to Sri Rama, is meant really for us. In outward action, or the practice of dharma, there is no difference between the seeker and the realised person. The disinterested action which the seeker performs deliberately as a matter of discipline, which is for him a means of discovering his identity with fellow-beings, is for the jnani such as Sri Rama or Janaka the spontaneous expression of such identity….
In recommending and indeed prescribing the quest of the Self to all thoughtful persons in the adolescent and adult stages of life, Bhagavan makes a radical and necessary departure from the letter of the tradition in order to restore its spirit. In chapter three of Sri Ramana Gita the paramount task of man is declared to be ‘the discovery of our real human nature, which is the basis of all actions and their fruit’. This quest for our real nature, the withdrawing of thoughts from sense objects and steady self-enquiry, is not to be postponed. In chapter ten, ‘Sangha Vidya’, one’s duty to one’s circle and to humanity is clearly defined as an organic interdependence to be promoted both by shanti which purifies one’s own mind, and by shakti, which is required for the progress of society. The attenuation of the ego by steady self-enquiry and the acceptance in practice of normal and family responsibilities can alone lead to the brotherhood and equality, which is the supreme goal to be attained by mankind as a whole...
Loving the Lord God with all one’s heart and loving one’s neighbour as oneself are not two commandments but one. We cannot effectively love and serve our neighbour unless we have succeeded in some measure in loving the Father as Awareness...
Instead of complaining against one’s real circumstances, one derives inexhaustible strength from inner happiness (uran in Tamil) and says with Thoreau, ‘I love my fate to the very core and rind’. One’s present life is the fruit one has earned and must eat to the last bite.
As we climb the mountain path, the view widens; new responsibilities come to us and are cheerfully undertaken. We are no more inclined to off-shoulder our burden on others. We find fulfillment in mastering rather than evading svadharma [one’s own duties and obligations]. Such svadharma, disinterested action surrendered to the Lord (Upadesa Saram, verse three), purifies the mind and points the way to moksha. Through the practice of dharma we become progressively more eligible for the ultimate happiness of moksha…
In any case, at all times and places and under all conditions, dharma has to be practised, whether as duty and discipline or as the happy and spontaneous expression of awareness… It is only in and through dharma that the happiness of moksha can be reached or manifested...
As ends and means are inseparable, so are moksha and dharma. They reinforce each other in healthy individual and social life. They are, in fact, the empirical and transcendental modes of our being, whose basic nature is the bliss of awareness, stillness, shanti, broken occasionally by ripples of action, movement, shakti. It must be remembered [though] that dharma is bound by time, while moksha is the boundless bliss of awareness.
[I will make no comment on Prof. Swaminathan’s views about the relationship between dharma and moksha. Instead, I will conclude with a series of quotations from Bhagavan himself. These, I hope, will demonstrate that, so far as Bhagavan was concerned, true dharma is abiding in and as the Self:
Since the impartite, non-dual, true jnana alone abides and shines as the refuge for all dharma-observances, the jnani [alone] becomes the one who has observed all the dharmas. (Guru Vachaka Kovai, verse 705. The following paragraph is Muruganar’s explanatory note to this verse)
Since non-dual jnana alone shines as the refuge for all the dharmas, the jnani who is established in that state [automatically] becomes the one who has observed all dharmas impeccably. There is no greater dharma than getting firmly established in the Self. All the actions of that jnani who possesses motionless consciousness are actions of God.
Living as the Self is the essence of all dharmas. All other dharmas merge there. (Padamalai, p. 134, v. 44)
The supreme reality exists as the undivided space of true jnana. When we become different from it and rise as a false ‘I’ that frolics about and suffers, this constitutes the sin of destroying that non-duality by cleaving it into two, the ‘I’ [nan] and God [tan], thus bringing ruination upon the way of dharma. (Guru Vachaka Kovai, verse 777)
The state of abiding as swarupa, which is the pure and vast true consciousness, is an obligation that should be firmly observed by all the beings in the world.
Swadharma [one’s own duty] is abidance in the pure Self only. All other [perceived] duties are worthless. (Padamalai, p. 299, vv. 13, 16)
By becoming the source of all desires, the ego is the doorway to the sorrow of samsara. The extremely heroic and discriminating person first attains through dispassion the total renunciation of desires that arise in the form of ‘I want’. Subsequently, through the Selfward enquiry ‘Who am I?’, he renounces that ego, leaving no trace of it, and attains the bliss of peace, free from anxieties. This is the supreme benefit of dharma. (Guru Vachaka Kovai, verse, 850)]
Monday, June 29, 2009
Today’s post comprises extracts from Sages, Saints and Arunachala Ramana by Mrs Feroze Taleyarkhan. This book is a primarily a memoir of her time with Ramana Maharshi and Ananda Mayi Ma. It was published by Orient Longmans in 1970 and has never been reprinted.
The story begins in the mid-1930s when Mrs Taleyarkhan became involved in a charitable project called ‘The Home of Devotion’. It was intended to be a spiritual refuge for women in Bombay. Two of the people she was working with on this project suggested that she travel to Tiruvannamalai to obtain Bhagavan’s blessings on the scheme. She agreed and undertook the journey. It was her first trip to Arunachala. Since she knew her family would not approve of this visit, she had to keep the details from them:
I knew that my people would not approve of these ‘wild cat’ schemes of mine. Nor would they approve of my visiting sadhus. So, on the pretext of visiting Madras, I managed to slip out of Bombay and reached Tiruvannamalai on November 9th, 1937 – a memorable day in my life. The witty station master called for a bullock cart and put me in it, saying that it was ‘the taxi’. For a mere three annas it dropped me at the ashram. In those days there was the old hall, the dining hall, a cowshed and a few other huts. There were no rooms for guests such as you find today. At the ashram office I was received kindly by the sarvadhikari and then escorted to a small, cage-like room that had none of the conveniences I had been accustomed to. I was anxious to see the Maharshi immediately, so I asked to be taken to the bathroom since I wanted to bathe before having his darshan. It was a shock to be told that there wasn’t one. I made a makeshift one out of my saris, had my bath, dressed, and left for the old hall where the benign Maharshi, seated on a couch, beckoned me to sit down.
The lovely star-like, calm eyes greatly attracted me and looked at me with deep compassion. A little later I spoke to Bhagavan about the object of my visit, and I handed to Rajagopal [an attendant] the copy of the prospectus of the Home of Devotion I had brought with me for Bhagavan to read. He read it, re-read it, and then read it out to the people who were present in the old hall. Then he pointed me out as its sponsor in such a way that made me feel highly elated to think that even on the first day I had been able to get the blessings of the Maharshi. The lunch gong rang at 11 a.m. The few of us who were present trooped into the dining hall after Bhagavan. I was seated opposite him. Bhagavan was all solicitude for me. He paid great attention to what I was eating, and extended the same courtesy to the others who were eating there as well. As I sat there eating the lunch, I was touched by Bhagavan’s love and concern for me. This was the first occasion I felt that God can be love, only love, and nothing but love. The love that I subsequently came to feel for Bhagavan was prompted not because he was a jivanmukta, but because he represented to me the very embodiment of love in its finest, purest and noblest aspects.
After the midday rest I came back to the hall at 2.30 p.m. The sarvadhikari sent for me at 4 p.m. to inform me that since ladies were not allowed to stay in the ashram at night, I must pack and be ready to go to town after dinner. I was shocked to discover that there were no facilities for women to stay overnight. The ashram room I had been offered had been very primitive, and I shuddered to think what might await me if I had to leave and find a place in town. I was protesting about this unfair arrangement to the sarvadhikari in the office when Mr Bose walked in. He remembered me from an earlier meeting in Bombay, although at the time I have to say that I didn’t remember him. When he asked me how long I was planning to stay in the ashram, I had to tell him that I was leaving that minute because I was not allowed to stay there at night. Mr Bose offered to accommodate me in his own house, which in those days consisted of only one room, a bathroom and a veranda. He let me occupy his own room while he made himself as comfortable as possible on the veranda.
When I returned to the ashram, Bhagavan made kind enquiries about my accommodation. That evening, after I had been compelled to leave the ashram, Mr Bose spoke to me about his own experiences with Bhagavan. I spent three days with Bhagavan on this first visit and then returned to Bombay with a feeling of elation because I felt that my pet scheme, the Home of Devotion, would succeed. I gave the green signal to Shri Yogendra and Smt Sita Devi [the people who had suggested she seek Bhagavan’s blessings] to proceed with the scheme.
[The House of Devotion project failed to materialise since the government changed its mind about allocating a promised plot of land. Feroze Taleyarkhan decided that Bhagavan had misled her about the scheme and didn’t go back to Ramanasramam for two years. When she did return, she wanted to pick a fight with Bhagavan:]
It was in the year 1939 that I paid my second visit to Ramanashram. This time I came to fight with Maharshi. Between 1937 and 1939 I was at Bodh Gaya for some time, doing my sadhana. Later, during the same period, I went to Australia. On my return from Australia, I went to Tiruvannamalai, intending to take the swami to task for having failed me grievously over my project of a ‘Home of Devotion’ in Bombay. I was greatly upset over this failure, for I had thought to myself that I had secured the blessing of the Maharshi at Tiruvannamalai when I first came to see him in 1937.
On reaching the ashram on this second visit, I was met at the gate by Bhagavan’s attendant Shri Rajagopal, a lively and jolly person. Recognising me at once, he asked me immediately what had happened to the project for which I had sought the blessing of Bhagavan during my earlier visit in 1937. My anger knew no bounds. I told him what I thought of ‘that old humbug’ who had misled me into thinking that the project had had his blessings, only to find within a few months that it had collapsed altogether. I told Rajagopal that I had come to take Bhagavan to task for failing me so grievously.
My aggression somehow melted away when I found myself in Bhagavan’s presence again. Though I spent quite some time in the ashram in the presence of Bhagavan, it did not occur to me to raise the topic, let alone take the him to task.
Among those who were present in the hall during this visit was Uma Devi, a Polish lady, who was telling Bhagavan that she had collected a sum of Rs 15,000 and a number of boxes of clothes which were being sent to refugees from Poland who had assembled at a camp in India. Although Bhagavan seemed uninterested, she went on repeating her achievements with, in my opinion, a view to draw Bhagavan’s approval for the work she had done.
When Bhagavan had patiently heard the story for the third time, he slowly turned the revolving shelf near his couch and took out a copy of an issue of The Kalyana Kalpatura. He picked out a passage and asked that it be shown to Uma Devi. At this point I had been in Tiruvannamalai for some time, and although I had come with the purpose of complaining to Bhagavan, I had not yet found any opportunity to raise the subject. I was sitting next to Uma Devi, watching the interchange and thinking that it had nothing to do with me.
But then Bhagavan smiled, looked at me, and said, ‘That is for you too’.
I looked over Uma Devi’s shoulder to find out what message Bhagavan was sending to me.
The text that had been given to us both to read said: ‘A weak, frail woman who knows how to find God’s peace through prayers can to do more to save the nations of the world than all the intellectuals combined.’
The meaning of that passage was utterly clear and definite for me. From that day on I felt that my place was at the feet of this Master, who, without a word said, could understand the workings of the human mind and find the answer to its troubles. From that moment on, Bhagavan’s infinite patience and grace guided me, not directly, but no less decisively and infallibly. I realised that I, who was full of passions such as anger and jealousy, could hardly have carried out such a project [The House of Devotion] through to a successful conclusion.
One must first conquer oneself to be able to take on an onerous task such as the one I had planned. Had Bhagavan told me so in so many words, I am sure I would have flared up, even in his presence, and hurled, in a fit of temper, some words that I would in leisure regret.
How gently, yet firmly and forcefully, he acted, and how great was his thoughtfulness for the welfare of the people who came to seek his help. He had, with no words of his own, conquered me completely. From that day on, I knew no Master who could hold me as he did. To this day I remain bound to his feet faster than one can be with hooks of steel. I am bound with bonds of love to him who was and is the personification of love in all its plenitude, grace and majesty.
The decision to stay at Tiruvannamalai and certainly the decision to make it, and not Bombay, my home was not an easy one. During my second visit to the ashram I stayed for about three or four months and took up residence in the house of my friend, Mr Bose. Years earlier I had met him at Shri K. F. Nariman’s in Bombay, and Mr Bose had there sought my help in some of his ventures. During his frequent visits to Bombay he used to be my guest.
I would go to the old hall to sit in Bhagavan’s presence to enjoy the deep ineffable peace radiating from him. I noticed that his powerful, bright and shining body sometimes seemed to tremble a bit, and then become immobile and motionless, as if he were in deep samadhi. When he emerged from it the same trembling motion would be noticed. I felt that the greatest power on earth was not with its kings and statesmen but with this man here whose only earthly possessions were the bamboo staff and kamandalu, lying beside him on the floor, and his loin cloth. This man had plunged into his inmost depths to find and be the truth that we are, which men of giant intellect may try to explain in learned ways. His love and humility were heroic. Utterly unassuming, he never tolerated any fuss being made about him. Gentle yet firm, his calm could never be disturbed. Pure in heart and mind, having realised the Self of all, there was no Guru or sishya for him.
He had an equal regard for one and all. Sitting in the presence of such a man, thoughts of the fugitiveness and vanity of life as I had known, lived and suffered would pass across my mind. I felt that one and one thing alone was worth thirsting after in life: that was to know who was the ‘I’ we always refer to in all our thoughts, words and actions. To accomplish this it was my deep conviction that it was absolutely necessary to obtain the grace of the Guru. Wealth, relations and status did not count in the least.
My appetite to know more of Bhagavan was considerably whetted by Shri Naina, whom I met on my first visit. I established a great and life-long bond with him in almost the first moment that I saw him. He and Viswanatha Swamy would spend the evenings with me at Mr Bose’s place and regale me with stories from Bhagavan’s life and of their own experiences with him.
[‘Naina’ was Professor Munagala Venkataramiah, the compiler of Talks with Sri Ramana Maharshi.]
One such evening I saw on the Arunachala hill a vision of a blood-coloured heart and the planet Jupiter, both set against the background of the hill. It made me think of my birth-star, Jupiter. The vision was not visible to Naina. When I tried to call his attention to it, he tried to brush it off, saying that it was probably some fires lit by woodcutters on the hill. I could not believe that such brilliance, which was quite stationary and immobile, could proceed from any man-made fire. I watched fascinated by this vision from about 8 p.m. till 3 a.m. that night. Then, tired, I fell asleep and had a dream. The sky before me opened, and a flower-decked swing appeared out of it, with the Lord Siva seated on it. He had the tiger skin around his waist and the hooded cobra round his neck. Swinging three times, the Lord placed his feet on my forehead with each swing. On the third movement, when I asked who he was, he said he was Lord Siva.
The following morning, when I was sitting in the hall, I had the sensation that Bhagavan was looking at me curiously, obliquely, from out of the corner of his eye, as if to say he was aware of my experience the previous night. That night, maybe around 1 or 2 a.m., I was asleep in my room in Mr Bose’s house. I dreamt I was quite alone with Bhagavan in the old hall, with my eyes closed in meditation. Bhagavan was leaning on his couch against the side pillow, out of which appeared a brilliant star that threw a soft, heavenly light on me. The light disappeared and I saw Lord Buddha dressed like a king, with all the kingly regalia and jewellery. He had a tiara on his head and was seated in Bhagavan’s usual position. After a few seconds the figure disappeared and was replaced by the figure of Shri Ramana. This gave me the assurance I needed to make up my mind that I should make a home in Tiruvannamalai and spend a few winter months here every year.
[Feroze Taleyarkhan spent 1937-1939 in Bodh Gaya. She had formed a great attachment to the Buddha and his teachings during this period. Her vision convinced her that in Bhagavan she had found her own living Buddha. Initially, Feroze Taleyarkhan stayed in the Bose compound, but after a brief stay there Munagala Venkataramiah offered her a plot of land which he owned in Ramana Nagar. She built her own house there and lived in it for the rest of her life.]
It was said that Bhagavan would not permit a married woman to live away from her family and home and that he would not view with favour the idea of my building a residence for myself. I was very happy that day when he asked me as I entered the hall, ‘So, you are going to build yourself a house here’.
[Though there was no explicit approval in Bhagavan’s remark, had he not approved, I think he would have made his position clear. Generally, he did not approve of devotees who informed him that they were planning to leave their family to stay permanently with him in Tiruvannamalai. However, in a few cases, he did give his approval. Feroze Taleyarkhan had both a husband and a son when she made her decision to spend at least part of her time in Tiruvannamalai. It seems that she had already given up her life as a householder when she went off to do tapas in Bodh Gaya. Her family did not approve of that particular move, nor did they approve of her subsequent decision to move to Tiruvannamalai. The next stories feature the responses of various members of her family when they discovered that Feroze was planning to stay long-term in Tiruvannamalai.]
My way of life and attitude to it, along with the yearnings of my heart, were in dissonance with that of all my relations. Treading the path I did, I was quite alone in my family. All the other members of my family followed worldly ways and ridiculed me for what I had chosen to do. Although they just about tolerated me, I was once the recipient of a ‘stinker’ of a letter from one of my sisters who, so I thought at the time, might have had a greater appreciation for my chosen life. I took that letter to Bhagavan. He remarked that if one member of a family chose to tread the path of spirituality, by that very act the rest of the family would derive immense benefit and be protected from evil. I informed my sister that far from railing at me for my ways, my family had every reason to thank me as they were being protected from unknown and unseen dangers.
I was about this time oppressed with the thought of the lack of money for the ordinary comforts of life. My family, with a view to forcing me to return to their walk of life, had withheld from me all my personal property. I walked one day into the ashram, thinking I must tell Bhagavan of my dilemma. I felt it might, ultimately, oblige me to leave the ashram. I did not, however, want to tell Bhagavan in public. That day Bhagavan looked at me with such benign glances, I felt he knew my situation. As on the occasion with Uma Devi, Bhagavan offered me advice when he spoke to someone else in the hall.
A gentleman in the front row asked Bhagavan what he should do if he wanted seriously to lead a sadhu’s life, but had no money. Bhagavan’s reply was, ‘If your intentions are serious, then, for the sake of a little morsel of food, do not give up your good intentions. Go for bhiksha. That will be a rich and rewarding experience. First, the ego will subside. You can collect a lot more food than you can consume yourself, and then you can share it with others. That has been my experience too. One day ‘R’, whom I addressed as “father”, offered to go for bhiksha and bring food. We subsequently shared the food, and we were both happy. You can do that as well.’
After he had said these words Bhagavan asked that his reply be translated for my benefit. I knew immediately that Bhagavan had, in his inimitable way, offered the solution for the dilemma posed in my mind. I made up my mind that it would be quite a wonderful sadhana for me.
[She never had to resort to begging because when she mentioned the possibility to her son Sohrab, who visited her at Ramanasramam, the family was shamed into supporting her.]
Sohrab’s birthday was on the 25th of July. That day I gave a party for my friends at my residence. Major Chadwick, Mr McIver, and Shri Devaraja Mudaliar were among those present. It was an enjoyable party.
The next afternoon, on the 26th, as we were resting at home after lunch, Sohrab put me the question: ‘Mother, how do you manage?’
‘Manage what?’ I asked in reply.
‘For upkeep,’ said Sohrab.
‘Thanks to your father and you, I have nothing, so I intend to go about with a begging bowl.’
He was astounded, and asked if I was off my head. He could not understand how any member of his family, particularly his mother, could voluntarily decide to be a beggar. The Taleyarkhans are a great and influential family, and he was quite upset that one of them would choose this option.
On the day of his departure he asked if I would accompany him to Madras to see him off. With Bhagavan’s permission, I accompanied him. I was hoping that he would tell me of his reactions to the ashram and his impressions of Bhagavan. Up till the moment that the train was about to leave, he had not spoken a word.
At the last minute, though, he took hold of me, kissed me and said, ‘Mother, I am very happy. You are right!’
Without any further explanation he jumped on the train and returned home. Four days later a telegram arrived from my sister in Bombay, asking me for instructions for the disposal of my jewels and other valuables which had been handed over to her by my son. I asked for them to be sent to me through a friend to Madras. With Bhagavan’s permission, I went again to Madras, took charge of the valuables, sold a part of my jewellery for a few thousands and came back with the rest to the ashram. Thus did it please Bhagavan to put an end to my alarms on the material plane as well.
[In the late 1940s Feroze’s sister Rita, a convert to Christianity, came to see her, along with her Catholic husband. They were returning to Bombay after a trip to Ceylon. Feroze was worried how her sister and brother-in-law would relate to Bhagavan, but her fears were ungrounded.]
My brother-in-law, Mr D’Mello, had returned earlier than he had anticipated from Ceylon and came to Tiruvannamalai with Rita. Both husband and wife were anxious to have darshan of Bhagavan. Entering the nirvana room, the couple made a low bow to Bhagavan. Rita took off her finger the diamond-studded engagement ring given to her by her husband, and also the jewel-studded bracelet on her wrist that contained medallions of Jesus Christ and several other saints. She laid them both on Bhagavan’s lap. Bhagavan examined them all carefully. He was greatly interested by the medallions and praised all the saints who were featured there. He put the ring on his finger for some time and then returned all the items to Rita. Husband and wife then both prostrated to Bhagavan to seek his blessings.
Emotionally overcome in Bhagavan’s presence, my brother-in-law knelt down at Bhagavan’s feet and requested, ‘Bhagavan, won’t you cure yourself? The world needs you. I am sure you can easily cure yourself to bless the world.’
My fears for the behaviour of this ardent Catholic couple in Bhagavan’s presence were quite groundless. Such is the overpowering grace of Bhagavan. Though we all had family relations of our own, all the devotees seemed to feel that they were members of Bhagavan’s own family. A question that was often discussed in the ashram, among visitors and residents, was who constituted Bhagavan’s family: blood relations or others. To these questions Bhagavan never gave any answer. On one occasion, though, he made an exception to say that a jivanmukta’s family consists of those disciples who follow the jivanmukta’s tenets, practise them, and bring their sadhana to a successful conclusion, becoming themselves jivanmuktas. Not one of us can stand this test.
So vexed was I by this question I found occasion to discuss it with Shri Rajaji [Rajagopalachari] and Dr S. Radhakrishnan. They both confirmed that this view alone was right and that we would be pulling Bhagavan down from his high pedestal, besides doing him a great injustice, if we named anybody else a member of Bhagavan’s family.
One of the four Sankaracharyas to whom I paid my respects also confirmed this view, almost in the same terms. He told me that only such a one who has followed the precepts and practised the sadhana laid down by a jivanmukta of the high status of Bhagavan could ever claim to be a member of his family.
[In the late 1940s Feroze was taken to Bangalore for medical treatment. This is her story of what happened there.]
I am uncertain what year it was, perhaps 1947. I was having pains in my abdomen which did not respond to the homoeopathic remedies administered by my friend Mr Cohen. So, with Bhagavan’s permission, I went to Bangalore for examination and treatment at the Curzon hospital there. X-ray diagnosis revealed a big lump on the left side. My friends, Doctors Wanless and Vail, had warned me earlier that the disease was likely to recur and spread. The doctors at this hospital in Bangalore did not, however, take me into their confidence in the matter of their diagnosis, but were arranging amongst themselves privately to perform an operation for the removal of this growth. They spoke to my friend Shri Mizra Raza about this, but not to me.
Around that time a letter from Shri Rajaji, then Governor-General, was redirected to me from Tiruvannamalai. In my reply I informed him of my condition. So kind and solicitous of my welfare was Shri Rajaji that even when he occupied the highest position in India, he found time to write to the doctors in charge to bestow close attention on me as if he himself were the patient. The letter came to the notice of the Dewan of Mysore, Sir A. Ramaswami Mudaliar, who decided to visit me in the hospital. These factors made the doctors evince deep interest in my case. I was alone; none of my relatives were at my bedside. The operation would be the eighth of a series of operations I had undergone in my life. But the doctors encouraged me and made me feel quite at home in the hospital.
Suspecting that I might have to undergo this operation, I wrote to Bhagavan, praying to him to grant that I might close my eyes in peace [die] rather than undergo this eighth operation. When this letter reached Bhagavan, he read it as usual in the old hall, and there he made kind mention of me to the people present. Following Bhagavan’s directions, Mauni – bless his soul – wrote to ask me to come back to Tiruvannamalai, assuring me that things would be all right.
[Mauni Swami drafted all the letters which were sent out from Ramanasramam. They were shown to Bhagavan prior to being posted.]
The Dewan and the doctors all assured me that the operation that was scheduled to take place within the next two days would relieve me of my pain, and that I would go back fit and healthy. I told him that I had decided against the operation, and then showed them the photo of Bhagavan which was on my table near the bed. He, I said, was my doctor and in accordance with his instructions, I would be returning to Tiruvannamalai without undergoing the operation. Dear reader, believe me that I, who for ten days earlier, could not retain any food, that day enjoyed toast and scrambled eggs without pain or discomfort. That evening I attended a cinema show with the matron of the hospital.
When I approached the chief surgeon to take leave of him, he was pretty incredulous. He again had x-ray photos taken of me, but to his astonishment they did not show the growth where it had been previously located. Assuring the doctors that I would place myself at their disposal for treatment in case of the recurrence of the trouble, I returned to the ashram. Bhagavan’s gracious smile on the day I returned to the ashram is still a priceless treasure in my memory. Nearly two decades have passed since then, and I have not had any recurrence of this particular trouble so far. Miraculous cures like mine by Bhagavan, may I say in all humility, were not uncommon.
In the mid-1940s a few motion picture shots of Bhagavan’s life were made at my request by Shri Raja Reddy, a wealthy landlord of Hyderabad. I also desired to make a recording of the voice of Bhagavan, so sweet and moving, as though it came out from heaven, in its most gracious mood. I told Bhagavan that I intended to make a ‘talkie’ of him. He just smiled as if to tell me that he knew it would not be permitted by the ashram office.
[Bhagavan himself generally vetoed all attempts to record his voice. Though he was generally always happy to say ‘yes’ to someone who wanted to take his photo, or make a silent film of him, he always said ‘no’ when devotees asked if they could record his voice. There are no recordings of his voice in existence and, so far as I am aware, none were ever made.]
Bhagavan’s Golden Jubilee – the fiftieth year of his arrival in Tiruvannamalai – was proposed to be celebrated on a grand scale. [In the days leading up to this event] Devaraja Mudaliar recounted to Bhagavan the story of the Maharashtra saint Dnyaneshwar. He had seen a film of Dnyaneshwar’s life in Madras. In the film some pandits teased the saint over his lack of vedic knowledge. In response that saint made a buffalo recite the Vedas by merely touching it. Shri Devaraja Mudaliar’s lively account interested Bhagavan greatly. He asked several questions regarding this film, and this proved quite a lively discussion. Then it struck me, ‘Why not arrange for a film show or shows on this great occasion?’
My desire to make this happen was facilitated a short time later by a fortuitous meeting. Anantanarayanan, wife of Shri M. Anantanarayanan, who retired recently from the High Court of Madras, wanted me to go with her to a local travelling cinema to witness the life of a saint. The theatre was near my house. Some twenty-five of us went to see the film. During the interval Mr Mani, the manager of the theatre, introduced himself to me and asked to be allowed to meet me at my residence the next day. During his visit he told me that he would be obliged if I would put in a word for him with the district officials for an extension of his licence for three months to enable him to take advantage of the big crowds the great festival of Kartikai Deepam would be attracting to Tiruvannamalai. I agreed, but in return I asked him if he would help present the film shows in the ashram on the occasion of the Jubilee.
He was the manager, rather than the owner of the cinema, so his bosses had to be consulted. They came from Madras on a subsequent Sunday and agreed to lend their equipment, costing over a hundred thousand rupees. I took these gentlemen to Bhagavan and prayed to him to bestow his grace on them. I also told him of my plans for the Jubilee.
Bhagavan remarked sweetly, ‘Oh, so you are going to show films,’ and discussed the plans for them with us.
The task of setting up the machinery was a difficult one, and it took us a fortnight to rig up a theatre in the dining hall, which was hardly suited for that purpose. But somehow this was done and the hall was ready for a film show. The show was a grand success, thanks to the grace of Bhagavan. The first film shown was Ram Rajya. This was followed by a film about Tukaram, Dnyaneshwar, The Vatican, Charlie Chaplin and some others, making eight films in all.
The film Bhakta Chukka was shown one day. In this film a man used to go to a female singer, and everyone knew that his character was bad. Later, some miracle happened and he entirely changed and became a great saint. Some widowed women of the ashram watched the film. The next day they told Swami Niranjanananda that I was spoiling Bhagavan’s character by showing such films on the premises. Swami called me into the office the next day to tell me to stop the performances as all these women were complaining. I went straight to Bhagavan. I informed him that these women were saying that I was spoiling his character by showing such bad films. Immediately, Bhagavan sent for the life of the saint and started reading it, and showed them how human beings can change in a minute.
[Feroze was fortunate enough to receive several gifts from Bhagavan. Here she describes two such events:]
Hard coconut shells are generally used in households as fuel, and the ashes sometimes used for tooth powder. Bhagavan had other uses to put them to. He would take immense pains to clean off the strands of fibre from the shells, scrape and polish the surface inside and out, and make ladles out of them for use in the kitchen, and for other purposes as well. I saw Bhagavan at work with two shells, and a few days later found them turned into very beautiful cups. This type of work was almost a hobby, and a passionate one, with Bhagavan. One of these shells was big and the other somewhat smaller. He took three or four days to polish these cups to his satisfaction. As I was watching him, I was praying to have one. Sensing my desire to have it, he passed the smaller one on to me. I was thinking, however, of the other one too, and although I never gave expression to my wish, he called, ‘Ho, come here, take this,’ and gave me the other one as well. These are possessions which I am never tired of showing to all my friends as the handiwork of Bhagavan for whom no work was too small.
For him all work was sacred. Close attention to detail, absence of hurry, perfection in every task attempted, and maximum utilisation of every bit of an article characterised Bhagavan.
In the final year of Bhagavan’s life I made two long cushions for Bhagavan to rest the arm that was affected by the cancer. After one of the operations, the wound opened and the cushions became soaked with blood. On this occasion Bhagavan, in the presence of his attendants Shri Rangaswami and Shri Sathyananda, gave me those two cushions as his gift to me. I replaced them with fresh ones the next day. The original cushions I esteem as precious relics and today they are amongst my most prized possessions.
[Though Feroze Taleyarkhan had little money of her own, she knew many families who were extraordinarily wealthy. Starting in the 1940s, she tapped into this resource and collected donations for Ramanasramam which were primarily used to fund building projects. She was instrumental in the purchase of the two houses where Bhagavan was born and attained enlightenment, she personally supervised the renovation of the Patala Lingam Shrine where Bhagavan stayed briefly in the 1890s, and in the 1960s she briefly took charge of the construction of the mantapam that was being erected over Bhagavan’s samadhi. Here are a few of her recollections of these projects:]
In my travels around the world I have seen and I have also heard that places associated with the great men of the several countries I have visited have been preserved, in some cases as national memorials, and that these countries have honoured their great men in other ways as well. The thought of these spots dedicated to the memory of the great of the land came upon me one evening as I was sitting idly with Viswanatha Swami on the parapet wall of the well at Ramanasramam. After making some enquiries, I was told that Bhagavan had been born in the village of Tiruchuli in the Ramanathapuram District, but that no one nowadays knew who the owner was, or who was currently in possession of the house.
I felt it was a shame that none of Bhagavan’s devotees had ever thought of Bhagavan’s birthplace. My restless energy made me pursue these enquiries. I resolved that the birthplace should be purchased and preserved as a memorial to Bhagavan, as I considered him to be the greatest of the great. Negotiations were begun for the purchase of the house, but as soon as it became known that the house was to be purchased by a Bombay lady, the price, as usual, was increased. However, thanks to the indefatigable efforts of an old lawyer-devotee, Shri Ranganathan, the price was settled at a reasonable figure and the sale put through. My friends, Shri Pestonjee Mahaluxmiwalla and Shri Govindram Seksaria, both personally gave me gifts of Rs 2,500 as a contribution towards the purchase.
The house was in bad repair, but soon was made suitable for the purpose for which it was intended. The sarvadhikari was in a great hurry to perform the house-warming ceremony. He approached Bhagavan, who asked him if he was planning to perform the ceremony without me. I was then in Bombay. The sarvadhikari asked me to return to the ashram, since he was eager to complete the ceremonies. On my return, a party of about thirty of us left for Tiruchuli. On the way, I stayed at Madurai with Shri R. M. Mahadevan, then District Superintendent of Police there. He made all arrangements for our onward journey to and from Tiruchuli. The Dewan of Ramanathapuram was present with us on the occasion of the ceremony. It was performed in a fitting manner and was enjoyed greatly by everyone present.
Since our party was a large one, while we were in Madurai we were accommodated in several houses. During our visit we went to see the famous Shri Meenakshi Temple. On the way there the lawyer Shri Ranganathan pointed out to me the house in Chokkappa Naicker Street where Bhagavan had lived as a student and where he attained that illumination which turned the student Venkataraman into the latter-day Bhagavan Ramana. When I saw the house, I again felt the urge that this house too should be bought and preserved as a memorial to Bhagavan. Shri Ranganathan was again helpful in arranging for the purchase. The funds were provided at my request by Shri Raja Reddy, a wealthy zamindar who had been my guest at the ashram, and who had made a few motion-picture shots of Bhagavan. The house is known as ‘Shri Ramana Mandiram’ and the house at Tiruchuli as ‘Shri Sundara Mandiram’, in memory and in honour of Shri Sundaram Iyer, Bhagavan’s father.
Although I had seen on the person of Bhagavan the marks of insect bites suffered by him during a period before I came to the ashram, for quite a long while my curiosity had not been sufficiently excited to enquire how Bhagavan came by them. One day, in a reply to a question put by him, Bhagavan said that they were the legacy of the days he had spent at the Patala Lingam Shrine, very early in his life here.
Bhagavan desired me to see the place. Because I had not seen it before, one evening he asked Naina to take me to the Shri Arunachaleswarar Temple. During our visit Naina pointed to a part of the thousand-pillared mantapam as the place where the shrine referred to by Bhagavan was. We could hardly approach the place, so dirty it was. It was being used as a public lavatory rather than a shrine. This news saddened Bhagavan.
He remarked in a sad, soft and gentle voice: ‘Oh, they have no other place but this for that purpose. Do you know the place is a very sacred one, and is the samadhi of a very great saint?’
I felt that must be the reason for Bhagavan having chosen that spot for his austerities and something impelled me to say, ‘I will do up the shrine and see that the place is put to its proper purpose’.
Bhagavan asked me, ‘Oh, will you?’
I reaffirmed my intention, although I did not know then what I had undertaken.
I decided to approach Shri Kailoo Parekh, who was almost a son to me, and for this purpose left for Madras in the company of Shri Narayana Iyer, Sub-registrar. When I met Shri Kailoo Parekh, he asked me to be ready to accompany him that afternoon when he would take me to the right person to help me. I did not know whom or what he had in mind.
I soon found myself at the gate of a residence bearing the nameplate Shri Tarapore. I immediately wanted to leave as I did not want to meet any members of my [Parsi] community. However, it was too late for any protest as I soon found myself at the portico being welcomed by Mrs Tarapore – Dhanmai – and her beautiful daughter Dina Mai. They put me at ease at once, and I overcame the sense of uneasiness I had felt on entering their building. A sumptuous tea was laid out for us, after which Kailoo coolly asked me to hand over the plans to Shri Tarapore. I had had them prepared in Tiruvannamalai by the stapathi who was engaged in the construction of the Shri Mathrubhuteswara Temple in the ashram. I did not know at the time that Shri Tarapore was himself an architect of high repute, or that he was to play a great and important role in my life thereafter, providing me a home, love and care such as I have never enjoyed, or that it was a day of destiny for me. That is how it was to be, and I took it that it was so because of Bhagavan’s grace. Shri Tarapore took the plans and asked me to meet him at his office the next day when he put some questions. Then he simply told me to leave the whole thing to him, adding that whatever was required would be done. I wrote to Bhagavan a long letter, telling him of my good luck, saying that Shri Tarapore had undertaken the entire responsibility for the construction of the shrine of the Patala Lingam. Bhagavan expressed his satisfaction with what I had arranged.
Shri Tarapore and his engineers came a week later, inspected the place, and set to work on the construction of the temple. Removing the accumulated dirt itself was something of a problem. As was usual with him, Bhagavan evinced considerable interest. I reported daily to him on the progress of the scheme. Experts had been engaged by Shri Tarapore on the work, and he and his family would often come to Tiruvannamalai to inspect the progress of the work and to satisfy themselves that it was being executed properly. On all these occasions they never failed to pay their respects to Bhagavan. As the temple was nearing completion, I told Bhagavan that I was approaching Shri Rajaji, then Governor of Bengal, to perform the opening ceremony. With Bhagavan’s blessings I wrote and Shri Rajaji readily agreed to my request.
[Soon afterwards, Rajaji was appointed Governor-General of India. His staff felt that someone who was holding the highest position in the country should not preside over a function that was merely the renovation of a minor shrine in a temple. Attempts were made to dissuade him from coming, but he kept his promise and agreed to attend. The funds for the project appear to have been donated personally to Feroze Taleyarkhan by Ramnath Goenka, whom she met prior to her first meeting with the architect.]
I had undertaken the task of cleaning up the two big tanks in the temple premises, the waters of which were stinking from the accumulated moss and dirt. I may here be permitted to digress to an incident which happened a few years earlier.
At the time I was so much absorbed in my Lord Bhagavan, I had no other thought. Suddenly someone asked about the Arunachala Temple. I had never even been to the temple, so I asked Bhagavan about it.
‘You must go and see it,’ he replied, and he asked Naina to take me.
Hearing this, all the other devotees also wanted to accompany us. So, one night, all of us went. As we were entering a sepoy stopped Naina and started a discussion with him. Somehow, I felt that this was something about me, so I enquired what was happening. Dear Naina did not want to embarrass me, but he had to tell me that they were taking me to be a non-Hindu. At that time non-Hindus were not allowed into the temple. Immediately I went and saw the Executive Officer, who understood me and took us all inside.
When I went to Mother Parvati in the temple, I nearly cried and said, ‘O Ma, if you are a real mother, then see that today’s insult should give me the chance to serve you in such a way that one day my name will be in this temple’.
I was not aware of what I was saying, but lo and behold, five years later, I took up the Patala Lingam work, which I shall ever cherish as the great Mother’s answer to my prayer.
The task had expanded from renovating the shrine to a general spring clean of the whole temple. I brought pumps from Polur and Vellore and made sure that both the temple tanks received a long overdue spring cleaning. I saw to it that the entire premises of the temple were made spick and span for the function. The Executive Officer of the temple was of immense help to me during these activities.
The arrangements at Tiruvannamalai were vigorously pushed through. I saw to it personally that all the stations on the railway line from Madras to Tiruvannamalai received a long overdue coat of whitewash and that the houses lining the streets of the town of Tiruvannamalai along which Shri Rajaji was to pass were also whitewashed and gaily decorated. The town of Tiruvannamalai was also brilliantly lit up so that Shri Rajaji could have some idea of the reception planned for him from his special train itself.
On the day of the ceremony Shri Rajaji drove in an open car [from the station] to the well-decorated temple where he performed the opening of the newly renovated temple of Shri Patala Lingam. On entering, he asked Shri Tarapore to put up a plaque in English and Tamil to commemorate the occasion, which was done subsequently. He went down the steps and graciously prostrated to the lingam there.
[There is an account of the restoration and opening of the Patala Lingam Shrine in Letters from Sri Ramanasramam, 10th May 1949.
I suspect that Rajagopalachari’s decision to attend the function, despite the opposition of some of his staff, was because of his friendship with Mrs Taleyarkhan, not his devotion to Bhagavan. In Living by the Words of Bhagavan (pp. 96-98 2nd ed., and pp. 101-3 1st ed.) I gave some details of how Rajaji prevented Gandhi from carrying out his wish to come and see Bhagavan, and in the first edition account I cited some critical remarks that Rajaji had made about Bhagavan in the presence of Gandhi. However, in his speech, which is reprinted as an appendix to Mrs Taleyarkhan’s book, he made (p. 259) the following gracious remarks about Bhagavan:
Shri Ramana Maharshi has kept India’s spiritual glory alive in our generation. He had in his own way made the name of India respected by wise and enlightened men spread all over the world, even as Shri Ramakrishna Paramahamsa and other saints did in former times. Ramana Maharshi’s meditations took early shape in this temple. Let us tender our tribute of reverence and homage to the enlightened soul and may his prayers, on our behalf, bear fruit. Let us be worthy of him.
The sentiments expressed in the speech, however, were not enough to persuade Rajaji that he should go to the ashram and pay his respects to Bhagavan in person. Although almost everyone else in his party made a visit to Ramanasramam, Rajaji stayed in his special train and ate all his meals there. In the Letters from Sri Ramanasramam account he sent his apologies to the ashram, saying that he had ‘some urgent work’ to attend to.
Mrs Taleyarkhan’s wish that ‘one day my name will be in this temple’ came to fruition with this project. In addition to the plaque which Rajaji suggested, for many years there were painted murals on the wall, which included scenes from Bhagavan’s life, along with a captioned painting of Mrs Taleyarkhan at the opening ceremony. In the most recent renovation of the shrine these paintings (which had almost disintegrated with age) were painted over and not replaced. The original plaque, though, still remains. Mrs Taleyarkhan concludes her description of the event with the following story:]
That evening the A.I.R. [All-India Radio] broadcast a recording of the function at the temple which Bhagavan heard with rapt attention. When the broadcast was over, Bhagavan said, with a sigh of relief, that for three or four days he had been moving in dread lest I should pick him up and take him to the function. What an opportunity I had missed, I shouted, but Bhagavan motioned me kindly to resume my seat and said he was much relieved.
A little later someone informed Bhagavan that a fee was being levied for admission into the newly constructed temple. Bhagavan asked me if it was true, and pointed out the informant, who affirmed it. Immediately, I wrote a strong letter to the Executive Officer to stop that practice. Bhagavan said that no levy ought to be made for entry into the temple.
[The final section of this narrative deals with events that took place during and after Bhagavan’s final illness:]
Bhagavan bore his pain with exceptional patience. It must have been terrible. The doctors could do little to mitigate it. Mauni [Swami] and a few others prayed to Bhagavan himself to ask him if anything could be done.
Bhagavan said, ‘Oh, oh, now you come to ask me. [Before] you wanted to do whatever you liked with this body. Why come and ask now?’
The night before the fourth operation, while the ashram people were in dinner, I went to the new hall where Sathyananda and Rangaswami were massaging Bhagavan’s back.
With tears in my eyes I said to him, ‘O Bhagavan, do grant me but one request. I have never asked Bhagavan anything for myself. Transfer this disease to me and live for the sake of mankind. Without you I cannot live. I would be helpless.’
Bhagavan said, ‘Why do you attach so much of importance to this body?’
I replied, ‘Bhagavan has taught me to love it.’
Then Bhagavan told me: ‘Where am I going? I am always with you.’
At this I knelt down crying and placed my head on his knees. Bhagavan touched my head three times, saying these words each time he did. Then he gave me the Kashmir shawl he had about him – yet another precious relic of Bhagavan that is treasured by me.
On 12th April 1950 Rangaswami came to my place at 8 p.m., while Mr Cohen and I were having our dinner. He brought us bad news.
He told us, ‘Bhagavan will leave us now within three days. I was gently rubbing Bhagavan’s swollen hand. Then my tears fell on his hand. Watching this Bhagavan gently said, “You have worked hard for me. There are no adequate words in Tamil to express my thanks except ‘Rumba santosham’ [much happiness], but in English I can express it by saying, ‘Thank you very much’. This I say to you: in three days you will all be free. You will have neither trouble nor work. But then you will have another trouble. There will be the problem of your food, stay and comfort.”’
Every word of Bhagavan’s prediction came true. Three of the attendants, including Rangaswami, were asked to leave the ashram after Bhagavan passed away, even though they wanted to stay. Rangaswami died in his village a few months later. For over a week after mahanirvana, I was quite desolate at missing the physical presence of Bhagavan, and I did not know quite what to do. Between tears, thoughts of ending this life often came to my mind. My husband too was no more then, and Bombay held no fascination for me.
Then, one afternoon, as I lay asleep, I had a dream. I was standing on the verandah of my house. I saw Bhagavan come down the Arunachala hill with his walking stick and kamandalu and enter the verandah of my house by the side door. He came up to me and asked, ‘Why are you weeping?’ Tears welled up in my eyes. I said I missed Bhagavan too deeply for words. Bhagavan bade me wipe my tears, assuring me he was always with me here. He went out by the door opposite, crossing the bodies of three or four people who were soundly asleep on the floor, whose identity to this day escapes me. This dream is still vivid in my memory, and were I an artist I would have drawn a picture of the scene. Bhagavan almost seemed to tell me that my place was at his ashram and that my services in the interests of the ashram should continue.
[I have begun a new ‘Open Thread’ post underneath this one. If readers want to make comments on this post, please do so here. If you want to discuss any other matters, please use the new ‘Open Thread’ space as a forum.]
Monday, April 13, 2009
I apologise again for not contributing material in the last few months. Life led me in other directions. I do, though, have many unfinished posts that I hope to complete when I return to India.
I will not be taking a computer with me since I don't own a laptop. I will therefore only have access to the blog when I find myself with friends who will let me use their computers. Under such circumstances it is likely that I won't be able to moderate comments as often as I do when I am at home.
Please feel free to continue to post your comments here, and to continue with your discussions.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
There is a samadhi of one European devotee of Bhagavan near Vadippatti village, which is about 25 km from Madurai. His name is Ramana Giri. There is a Shiva Lingam installed over his samadhi and a small temple built around it. I used to visit this place on my way to Madurai, which is located in quiet spot, at the foot of a small mountain range. The manager of the place gave the following information about Sri Ramana Giri:
His original name was Per Westin. He belonged to the royal family in his native Sweden. He came to India to study Sanskrit at Banaras Hindu University. He met Bhagavan and did not return to his native place. Bhagavan gave him a small begging bowl made by Himself, out of coconut shell. In the following days, he could not get sufficient quantity of food as bhiksha, and complained to Bhagavan about it. Bhagavan told him that thereafter he need not go in search of food as it would come to him. From that time he did not have to bother about his food. He then moved to different places and settled at this place, which is near a jungle stream. The coconut shell begging bowl, made by Bhagavan, is kept safely in a jewel box, along with other belongings of Sri Ramana Giri. They gave it to me see it. It has been made by cutting the coconut vertically. Though small in size, it is in perfect oval shape, and nicely polished. Holding it in my hands, I was overwhelmed by emotion. As a souvenir, I was given an old visiting card of Sri Ramana Giri with his original name. The card has his old name and address as ‘Djursholm’. I have not come across Sri Ramana Giri in Bhagavan’s literature so far. If you have any info on him, kindly share with me.
A few hours before I received this email I had been going through one of my old trunks, looking for a document I hadn’t seen for years. As I was searching, I found an article on Swami Ramanagiri I had written many years ago. I put it to one side, thinking that I could post it here. I took the subsequent email on the same topic to be a sign that I should take up the work immediately.
In the last couple of days I have been doing some research on this article, and on Swami Ramanagiri in general, and I discovered that it was published in The Mountain Path in 1994 (pp. 144-8), although my name did not appear on it there. A little more research revealed that I had taken most of the information in the article from one that had been written by Prof. K. C. Sashi and published in The Mountain Path in 1986, pages 71-4. Prof. Sashi knew Swami Ramanagiri personally. His account has the most biographical details of any I have so far come across.
I decided to update and expand my original article by adding to it all the other information on Swami Ramanagiri that I have been able to locate elsewhere. In addition to the articles I have already cited, the following sources have been utilised:
(a) An article entitled ‘Guru’, written anonymously by ‘A Chela’, and published in The Mountain Path, 1980, p. 229. This was written by a disciple of Swami Ramanagiri.
(b) About twenty years ago I was given a seventeen-page manuscript about Swami Ramanagiri by Michael James, who had received it from a devotee of Swami Ramanagiri. Much of the material in this manuscript appears in the other sources I have cited, but there is an interesting section after the biographical details that contains Swami Ramanagiri’s thoughts on a variety of spiritual topics. It is entitled ‘Cold Fire’, which seems to be a reference to the way he perceived the Divine Mother’s grace working on him. In one of his notebook entries he wrote: ‘Your steps are so gentle, Your voice so sweet, and Your touch so tender. Mother’s nature is that of a cooling fire.’
(c) Dancing with the Void, by Sunyata. Bhagavan once described the Danish devotee Sunyata as a ‘natural born mystic’. In chapter ten (pp. 59-63) of this book he gives a brief description of his association with Swami Ramanagiri.
(d) I went to the Ramanasramam Archives two days ago to see what material might be available. I was pleasantly surprised to discover that John Maynard, who works there, had visited the samadhi shrine of Swami Ramanagiri and taken some photos. I have included a few of them in this post.
(e) There is a site about Swami Ramanagiri (http://sriramanagiriswamigal.com) that contains, almost verbatim, the 1994 article I wrote, with little extra information. However, it does have photos of Swami Ramanagiri and his samadhi shrine that do not appear in this post. There is also some information on how to reach the village that contains Swami Ramanagiri’s samadhi shrine, and how to contact the people who are in charge of it.
In his email Sri Kannadasan mentioned that he had not come across any information on Swami Ramanagiri in the Ramana literature. There have been a few articles in The Mountain Path, but Sri Kannadasan is right in suggesting that Swami Ramanagiri has been completely ignored by those who have written books on Bhagavan. You will find no mention of him in any of the biographies, nor will you find his story in any of the books about devotees. He failed to make the editorial cut for the 160 devotees who appeared in Face to Face with Bhagavan; his story did not appear in the eight volumes of Arunachala’s Ramana; I did not select him as a subject for the three volumes of The Power of the Presence; V. Ganesan didn’t mention him in Moments Remembered, his collection of devotees’ stories; and he didn’t even make an appearance in A. R. Natarajan’s book on western devotees. Cumulatively, these omissions seem to be perverse and inexplicable since Swami’s Ramanagiri’s story is astounding and unique: it is a great personal odyssey combined with a vivid demonstration of Bhagavan’s power and grace. I hope today’s post will go some way towards bringing a knowledge and an appreciation of Swami Ramanagiri to those devotees who have not so far encountered his story.
Swami Ramanagiri was born into an aristocratic Swedish family in June 1921. Though he was related to the king of Sweden, it was the ‘royal’ yoga of Patanjali that finally claimed him. In his youth he came across Swami Vivekananda’s Raja Yoga and found he had an immediate affinity with the subject matter, so much so that he began to develop yogic siddhis soon after beginning the practices.
He came to India in 1945 on a two-year scholarship to study philosophy at Banaras Hindu University, but the principal aim of his journey was to find a competent teacher who could help him to make progress with his yogic practices. The Danish devotee Sunyata recalls meeting him soon after his arrival:
It was on a sunny, winter day in holy Benares, in the 1940s, that I met Peer A. Wertin. He came gliding along by the shore where the washermen were busy splashing the dirty linen of respectable egojis [Sunyata’s affectionate name for all embodied jivas]. I was sharing my leftover food with donkey friends, as human friends would always give me too much to eat. Peer seemed touched by my donkey friendship. Birds of a feather and kindred asses flock together! Peer was in a body of some twenty-five summers – tall, dark and slim. He was studious looking, civilised, respectable and balanced. His upper lip had been slightly damaged by some explosion [he had received] during military duty. I detected a slight stoop… We went together to see some sadhus, gurus and learned pandits in the holy Benares. One Guru fastened on Peer the name ‘Sri Hanuman’. I was not much impressed by the competence of that guru nor with the name he gave to Peer. Since Peer had been in holy Bharat only a short while then, I felt he would eventually find his due path. ‘Step by step as thou goest, the Way will open unto three.’
The two soon became friends. When summer came Sunyata invited Peer to stay with him in Almora:
Peer came to my Himalayan retreat in the spring when the heat came upon the plains. He stayed in my upper Sunya cave on the hill’s crest. It had vast scenic views and a vaster expanse of silence. He imbibed the gracious solitude in the pure, Krishna-blue azure realm, while Paramahamsa wings grew and unfurled. He had the psychological urge towards stark openness and nudeness. It was the need of being natural, without the rags of ego deceit, artificial respectability or artistic hiding. In this purity, the mental fig leaves become positively indecent or a kind of vulgar prudery.
Peer felt right in that Himalayan setting with nature, with books and a rich inner life. In the outer play there was the ringing self-radiant Silence, the winds in the pines below, and the crescending of Aums. I left Peer alone except for an occasional service and chat. Sometimes we played naturally, nakedly together, raking pine needles, or cutting grass or wood – all part of our Himalayan contemplation.
Peer Wertin had been awarded a two-year scholarship in India to study religious and philosophical lore, but he renounced it all when he took to yoga and intensive self-enquiry. I later introduced him to Maharshi Ramana in Tiruvannamalai. In and through Maharshi, he eventually came to full ‘awakening’, conscious ‘Self-awareness’, or ‘advaita experiencing’. Hanuman, the name given to him in Varanasi dropped off and ‘Ramanagiri’, conferred on him by Ramana Maharshi, emerged. Comparisons are odious, yet Maharshi Ramana is Himalayan to many current molehills and tinpot, claptrap gurus.
Peer was blessed in Maharshi’s grace and sahaja recognition. When I met him first I asserted nothing. Himalaya and Sunyata have no need to assert. I could sense in him a certain Swedish occultism and an intense longing to realise the truth. Ramanagiri later came through an ancient road, a homeward way, frequented by the wholly awakened ones. Here all mental concepts and ideals vanish. Only awareness remains, bereft of all theories and ideal abstractions. It is the serene state of exalted calm in absolute Silence. It has been called nirvana, or turiya or sunya.
Ramanagiri was in this state of ‘advaita experiencing’. I did pranam to Ramanagiri in glad homage, in karuna love and in Himalayan ananda gratitude. Upon leaving my place he went on a pilgrimage. His Jiva Yatra [soul’s pilgrimage] was lived mostly in South India, by seashores, in jungles and at the grail-glowing holy mountain, Arunachala.
At some point, when he was still living in Benares, Peer took sannyasa via a formal initiation. I don’t know the name of his diksha guru; he is simply referred to as a ‘holy man of Benares’. On taking sannyasa Peer renounced both his academic studies and his personal fortune, which apparently amounted to over eight million dollars.
At the time of his initiation his diksha guru stipulated that he should never ask for anything, and only accept what was offered to him. On the day following his initiation he passed by a friend’s house, but his friend failed to recognise him because of his shaved head and orange robes.
When he saw the sannyasin, he shouted to his wife, ‘A mendicant is going by! Give him the rotten bananas!’ This was his first bhiksha.
On the following day he was walking in front of the palace of the Raja of Benares when a soldier accosted him and asked him to step inside.
‘Why?’ asked the swami.
The soldier replied that it was the practice of the raja to offer food daily to the first sannyasin he saw walking in front of the palace gates. So, on that day, he was taken in, accorded a royal reception, and given a feast, personally served by the raja himself.
When he later narrated both of these incidents to his diksha guru, he was told that both should be treated with equal indifference, as food is only for physical sustenance. For the rest of his brief life he never asked for anything and never handled money.
In early 1949 he came to Tiruvannamalai to meet Bhagavan for the first time. Though he had a natural inclination for raja yoga, having practised it for years, Swami Ramanagiri felt an immediate attraction to atma-vichara, the path of Sri Ramana. Since this was a departure from the practical teachings he had been taught by his diksha guru, Swami Ramanagiri felt that he should consult him about this change of direction. The diksha guru let him know that Bhagavan was his true Guru, and he encouraged him to follow the teachings he was being given at Ramanasramam.
Swami Ramanagiri did self-enquiry intensively for forty days in Bhagavan’s presence and was rewarded, on Sivaratri day 1949, with a direct experience of the Self. When asked later about what had happened on that momentous day, he would usually say, ‘On that day I became a fool’. For the rest of his life he referred to himself in the third person as ‘this fool’.
Speaking of the effect this experience had had on him, he wrote in one of his notebooks:
I don’t know anything,
and that ‘I’ which knows is nothing but an ignorant fool.
I think, when I don’t think,
that I have no end and no beginning.
That which thinks has to take thousands of births.
When there is ‘I’ He is not; when He is, I am not.
How did he practise atma vichara? Certainly not in the way prescribed by Bhagavan. It was his own idiosyncratic method, combining classical vichara, pranayama, a little neti-neti, and some imaginative visualisations. Some interesting insights into his method can be gleaned from the following long letter that he wrote to Prof. K. S. Sashi. He began by saying:
In the course of sadhana, maya first comes to the sincere soul in the form of worldly troubles; second in the form of desires, and third in the form of dear friends who keep him away from the quest.
He had had his own experiences of ‘dear friends’ who kept him away from the quest. In one of his notebooks he wrote: ‘Three years ago I found that letters from my previous family became an obstacle on the spiritual quest, so whenever any letter came, I never opened it or read it. I experienced that the divine was on my side in spite of my improper action.’
He continued with his spiritual advice with the following words:
Our own mind is the greatest cheater in the world. It will make thousands of different reasons to go its own way. There are three ways of handling this cheat, who is nothing but a bundle of thoughts creeping into the conscious mind.
First, to treat him as a friend and give him full satisfaction. This is a very long and tiresome way because he is never satisfied.
Second, to treat him as an enemy and with all force try to get rid of him. This is only possible by the grace of the divine because the mind has got two very powerful weapons – the discriminating intellect and the imaginative faculty. These two fellows can convince even God himself that black is white.
The third way is the way taught by Sri Ramana in the days of silence at the foot of sacred Arunachala. This way, which has been adopted by this fool, is to treat the mind as a patient, or rather several patients who are coming to a doctor to complain about their various ailments.
Just as a doctor sits in his room receiving different kinds of patients, this fool imagines himself sitting in the sacred cave of the Heart and receiving the different thought-patients. You know that a sick person likes to babble for hours about his complaint. In the same way a thought likes to multiply itself, but the doctor always cuts it short, saying, ‘Very good. Take this medicine. Thank you very much.’ And then he calls for another patient. This is how this fool decided to meditate.
First the fool slows down his breath as much as possible, but only to the point where there is no discomfort. To this fool, two breaths per minute is the proper speed, but that may not be possible for you because this fool has practised for a long time. You may be able to decrease your breathing to 8-10 per minute in the beginning. Don’t get to a level where you are uncomfortable, because that discomfort will give rise to thoughts.
This fool decided to receive twenty patients before closing the dispensary of the Heart. He calls out ‘Number one!’ and he waits for thought patient number one to come. The thought patient may say, ‘Smt such-and-such is not well. Sri so-and-so is worried.’
Then this foolish doctor says, ‘Oh, you are number one. Very good. The name of Lord Murugan will cure you. Thank you very much.’
Then he calls for number two, and he waits till the second patient is entering the room. ‘Mr so-and-so may get mukti this life,’ he says.
‘Very good. You are number two. The whole world is benefited if one soul gets liberated. Thank you very much.’
Numbers three, four, five, and so on are dealt with in the same way. When all the twenty thought patients have come and gone, the doctor closes the room to the Heart, and no one else is allowed to come inside. Now he is alone. Now there is time for atma-vichara.
He asks himself, ‘To whom have all these thoughts come?’
Three times he slowly repeats the same question, along with the outgoing breaths.
Then he, in that same slow manner, answers, ‘To me, to me, to me’.
‘Then who am I? Then who am I? Then who am I?’
All questions and answers are repeated three times, very slowly.
‘This “I” is not a thought. This “I” is not a thought. This “I” is not a thought.’
‘Then who is the receiver of the thought? Then who is the receiver of the thought? Then who is the receiver of the thought?’
‘”I” – “I” – “I”’ Now the mind is centralised in the source itself. ‘
‘Then who am I? Then who am I? Then who am I?’
Now the breath comes to an end and the attention is concentrated 100% on the sound caused by the palpitation of the heart, as if the sound would give the answer to our questions. This is nothing but the pranava itself. If, during this time, the sakti which was static is converted to movements or becomes dynamic, trance will occur. If the primal energy reaches the space between the eyebrows, savikalpa samadhi will occur. If the energy rises up to the top of the head, nirvikalpa samadhi will occur, which is nothing but the Self itself.
However, you should also know that even if the doctor has closed the dispensary door, some patients may come and peep in through the window to complain about their ailments. At the beginning of atma-vichara, the patients at the window are many. In the same way, although the door to the cave of the Heart is closed, some thoughts may occur at the time of dhyana.
For example, a thought may come: ‘Mr Iyer’s sushumna nadi has opened up.’
Since the patient has not come at the proper time, the doctor doesn’t attend to him.
Instead, he continues the quest: ‘To whom has the thought of Mr Iyer come?’ ‘To me, to me, to me.’
‘Then who am I? Then who am I? Then who am I?’
Dearest ‘S’. In all humility this fool has babbled something about how he tries to establish himself in the experience of ananda, which is no different from the Self itself.
With all my love to you.
Ramanagiri in Him
I don’t know how long Swami Ramanagiri stayed with Bhagavan. At some point he returned to Almora, for it was there, in March 1950 that he had a premonition that Bhagavan was about to pass away. The narrative is now taken up by an anonymous writer (the ‘A. Chela’ I referred to in my introduction) who later became a devotee of Swami Ramanagiri:
At the time Bhagavan Ramana’s nirvana was approaching, Swamiji was staying in Almora in the Himalayas. About two weeks before the event Swamiji had a psychic message from Bhagavan, his Guru, about his impending nirvana. Swamiji made haste to reach Tiruvannamalai and the ashram.
Swami Ramanagiri made it to Ramanasramam in time. On the black-and-white film that was taken around the time of Bhagavan’s passing away he can be seen paying his respects to the body of Bhagavan shortly before it was interred. There is a line of people filing past the body; he is the tall, thin foreigner with long hair.
A. Chela continues with his story:
After the Mahasamadhi of Bhagavan he [Swami Ramanagiri] wanted to go back to the Himalayas. En route he was persuaded by a friend to spend a few days at Madras with him.
One day, as he was walking along the beach, he had a vision of Bhagavan who, signalling with his hand, directed him to proceed further south and stay there. This led him to Tiruvanmiyur, then a fishing village, but nowadays [this was written in 1977] a part of the fast-growing city of Madras.
Here he sat on the beach immersed in samadhi. His host, not knowing where his revered guest had gone, grew anxious. A search was organised and Swamiji was at last located sitting on the beach under the scorching sun, deep in samadhi.
When he came back to the physical plane, he was requested to return to his host’s residence. However, Swamiji said that Bhagavan had directed him to stay there at the seaside, and so stay there he would. So, his host decided to put up a hut of coconut palm leaves for him on the beach. Arrangements were made by his host for food to be sent to him daily.
Often, when the fishermen would swarm around Swamiji, he would give the food meant for himself to them. On other occasions he would be in samadhi, totally unaware of the needs of his body. It was this continued neglect which brought on the tuberculosis which ultimately consumed his body. At first he refused treatment but was persuaded by his host, whom he treated as his father, to go back to the city for treatment.
During his time on the beach he began to attract devotees. He always refused to play the role of the Guru, saying that this was not a mission that Bhagavan had given to him, but nevertheless, he did attract disciples and he did end up advising them on spiritual matters. In the next story A. Chela describes how he ended up becoming a devotee:
At this time in 1950, I was stationed in Delhi. One day in September or October my immediate superior paid a visit to Delhi and stayed with me as my guest. On the first morning of his visit, he finished his ablutions early and took out from his bag a photograph of Swamiji, placed it on the table, lighted a few incense sticks and sat down for meditation. One look at the photograph and my heart seemed to stand still. I was absolutely captivated by the radiant personality in the photograph, and I wanted to know all about him.
My guest, after completing his meditation, told me the story of Swami Ramanagiri.
I then asked him eagerly: ‘Will you take me to him?’ To this, he replied: ‘Yes, when you next come to Madras.’
Most unexpectedly, and to my great good fortune, I was transferred to Madras in January, 1951. On reporting for duty there, almost the first thing I asked my superior was when he would take me to the Swamiji. He said he was going to him that very evening, and that I could come with him.
Hardly able to contain my excitement, I went through the work of the day and immediately rushed to the officer’s chamber. Imagine my consternation when I found it empty. And imagine too my feelings when the watchman told me that my superior officer had left early. Feeling sullen and angry, I waited around restlessly, not knowing what to do in this predicament. And then, slowly, a question formed in my mind. Why should I not go and see the Swamiji by myself? After all, to meet a sannyasi, no formal introduction is necessary. Having convinced myself of the rightness of my proposed action, I started off. Fortunately, my destination was within walking distance.
I came to know later that when my superior reached the Swamiji, the latter, who was observing a vow of silence at that time, wrote on a slate: ‘Someone wanted to come with you. Why did you not bring him?’
My superior, also an ardent devotee of the Swamiji, then realised that in his eagerness to meet Swamiji he had forgotten all about poor me.
He therefore offered to fetch me, but the Swamiji wrote on the slate: ‘Don’t worry. He will come by himself.’
A little later I walked in. When I saw Swamiji, I felt so thrilled that my head began to reel, and I became confused. ‘My God, I am in the presence of Christ!’ were the words that formed in my mind (Swamiji had a really remarkable resemblance to Jesus in all aspects). This lasted for some minutes. I do not remember if I even made a namaskar.
I saw Swamiji write on the slate: ‘This is the person’ and show it to my boss. I didn’t know what all this writing was about and, frankly, I was not even interested. I just sat there in awe and reverence for some time and, after a time, I made a pranam and left. It was only during the next few days that I realised I had said or done nothing during my first visit to the Swamiji. What had I achieved? Nothing. I had to speak to him and be accepted as a disciple. This was imperative. So, a few days later, I went to see Swamiji again. This time I found he was not observing silence and that I could talk to him. However, there were already two other people there, and he was talking to them. But, strangely I found I was not feeling impatient, only indescribably happy to be in his presence.
As time passed and it grew dark, a sudden fear assailed me. Would this meeting also prove fruitless? I looked towards the Swamiji. He had suddenly become serious and was looking out of the window. Then I saw him close his eyes. I also closed my eyes. Everything became very still. I had not known such deep silence and calm before. Then, abruptly, I felt jolted by what I can only call a shock in my heart which shook me and, simultaneously, a tremendous pull from Swamiji like that of a jet engine sucking air. My whole being seemed to go totally still but I felt no panic, only a great peace enveloping me. My Guru had pierced my heart and taken my mind in very deep into it.
Mentally I asked Swamiji: ‘Will you please take me as your disciple?’ The answer ‘Yes’ was also an unspoken one. But it was a very firm and unhesitating ‘Yes’.
After this experience, it seemed as if Swamiji and I both opened our eyes simultaneously and looked at each other. Swamiji bent towards me with a bewitching smile and peered into my eyes, as if enquiring if I had received his message, and if I was happy and satisfied with it. What joy and relief that look gave me! I knew I had been accepted as a disciple. That was enough. I offered a pranam and left.
How he led me from then on is, of course, another story!
At the beginning of his account A. Chela described how Bhagavan had somehow commanded Swami Ramanagiri to stay on the beach. This ‘command’ followed a major experience that took place in the Theosophical Society in southern Madras. Swami Ramanagiri described the experience and its aftermath in a letter he wrote to Sunyata:
In this letter I must tell you that I have sailed away. I have sailed to a far-off place, a place which cannot be described by words. To describe it is to pollute it. The steamer on which I sailed is a very powerful one, but it rolls hard in the sea if the weather is stormy. The place is called by many names, but still no name can cover its reality.
Some used to call the place nirvikalpa, others satchitananda or nirguna Brahman – some call it God or Self, others call it pure consciousness or the egoless state. To describe it, I have to put up a big wall before it.
The name of the steamer is ‘mind’. With the help of prana one reaches the place that for the jiva seems so far away; but really speaking, is nearer than one’s own breath. If the sense-weather is stormy, the steamer will roll badly on the samsaric ocean. By now, you must understand the art of my sailing, and why I have been so silent. Let me tell you what happened and why I have been so silent.
The same day as I was going back to North India I visited the Theosophical Library at Adyar. And while walking in the garden, Sri Bhagavan Ramana Maharshi appeared before me. He asked me to follow him. I went along the seacoast to a little place where I sat down for meditation. There Sri Bhagavan’s voice told me that my only duty (dharma) from now onwards was the Self. Further, he gave me some upadesa which I followed for some days.
One night, between 12 and 2, kundalini was aroused to sahasrara and the jiva merged into the Self. On account on the sound Om from the waves of the sea, I was brought back to body awareness; otherwise I would have left my body because in that state there is no one to come back, and no one to make any effort. After having regained body-consciousness, I discovered that I had lost all my memory. All events before the time of Sri Bhagavan’s appearance in the garden had gone out of my mind. Friends who had been very close to me looked like strangers. People whom I thought I had never met before came and told me that we had met in Madras only a few days before. Everyone and everything looked so new and strange and unreal.
Now I am getting back my memory, but mostly recollections connected with spiritual experiences and deep love. That is why I am writing to you, because those who are near my heart turn up again in this mind, which is so different from the previous one.
The village people have built a little hut for me, but there is no post office in this little fishing village, the name of which I do not even know, so I cannot give you any address yet. I don’t think any postman will take the trouble to come down to the sandy beach, but I shall let you know later.
With all my love
Ramanagiri in Him
The stay in Madras proved to be a short one. A few months later Swami Ramanagiri received another message from Bhagavan, telling him to go to Madurai. While he was there, wandering around in the countryside, Bhagavan appeared before him in a vision and directed him to go and stay in the Sirumulai Hills, about twenty miles from Madurai. He spent the rest of his short life there, continuing his practice of yoga and enquiry.
He frequently became absorbed in ecstatic or blissful states, so much so that he had little awareness of his body or its needs. Of one experience he wrote:
The whole night Nothing but fire, light, bliss and pranava.
O Father! O Father! What happiness!
No thought, only the enjoyment and the enjoyer
O Father! How near I was to losing myself completely in your embrace.
O Father, why do you turn me back to the state of the mind
where I suffer from thoughts and where I am tormented by an ego?
In a more sober and reflective mood he made the following assessment of the blissful states he was experiencing through his pranayama and atma-vichara:
Bliss is not a product of fantasy, but the most convincing experience we are capable of. If this experience would be a product of the imagination, the hair would not stand on end, nor would tears of happiness come in streams from the eyes, nor would the nose start flowing, nor would there be any shivering of the body, the skin would not turn red-hot, and there would be no levitation of the body. How many times have I found the body at another place in the room after having enjoyed Mother’s bliss. In padmasana the body is not capable of moving.
Swami Ramanagiri eventually contracted tuberculosis, a disease which claimed him at the young age of thirty-four, in 1955. He spent his final days in the Perunderai Sanitorium.
Though his body was lean and emaciated, his spirits were high.
‘It is the body which suffers,’ he told his visitors. ‘I am all right. Sakti is now stronger than ever before, and it is here [indicating a spot between the eyebrows].
It was summer and mangoes were just beginning to appear. Accepting some as an offering, he alluded to his forthcoming death by saying, ‘I will eat a nice mango now, but it will become garbage tomorrow morning’.
For more than an hour before his death he was completely withdrawn in a deep meditative state, with his hair standing on end. At his last moment he whispered ‘Let us go,’ and he left his body in true yogic fashion, through the fontanelle in the top of his head. Blood was seen to ooze out of a hole there.
His body was interred at the foot of the Sirumulai Hills, at a place he had named ‘Ramana Padam’, and a Siva lingam was installed over his samadhi. Twice a year there are gatherings at the shrine to commemorate the day of his great experience with Bhagavan, and the date of his final passing away. A poor feeding is conducted and crowds of over 2,000 assemble to pay homage to this foreign son of India.
During his stay in the Sirmulai Hills a devotee called Ramachandran persuaded Swami Ramanagiri to write down a few words every day. Though he had little interest in writing or in recording his thoughts and experiences, Swami Ramanagiri agreed. This is how he began his notebook, which he entitled ‘Cold Fire’:
Beloved Ramachandran has asked this fool, at least for his sake, to write a word every day, and my dearest Ramu is deluded by maya, so he has given this big book.
The ‘Cold Fire’ manuscript that I was given contains statements and advice that other devotees say was sent to them by Swami Ramanagiri in letters. It is probably a mixture of advice given out through the post and stray thoughts written down in the privacy of his room. Here are some of the comments:
His Name, taken once with wholehearted love and a one-pointed mind, is worth more than the knowledge collected from every book all over the world.
Learning is learned ignorance. Unlearning is learning.
What you speak about others doesn’t reveal anything about them, but about you.
The power of listening attracts more than the power of speaking.
Jnana and bhakti are not separate from each other. One cannot know Him without loving Him, and one cannot love Him without knowing Him.
Non-attachment does not mean indifference; love does not mean attachment; attachment is that which takes; love is that which gives.
Shut the doors and the door will be opened.
Religion is experience. It should be practised, not studied or discussed, and at the very least not preached. Those who preach don’t know; those who know don’t preach.
About your worldly troubles: you must do as you think best yourself, but it is good policy to keep away from other’s plates, however sweet and inviting they look. Both sugar and arsenic are white.
When a soul turns his mind towards the divine, the following two things will happen. First, he will get some joyful experience, which shows that he is on the right path, and that he is progressing. Second, when the asuric forces see that he is progressing, they will put every possible obstacle before the sadhaka in the form of worldly troubles, mental botherations and sex urges. I think you have reached that second stage and will get further troubles. But don’t mind. They are good in so far as they make us fed up with the world.
If the ego is allowed to play with our emotions, it is capable of causing havoc. Only by drawing the ego to its source can the saddest feeling be converted into ananda.
Perfection in any form is the manifestation of the divine. The greatest service to humanity is self-enquiry, and the greatest remedy for this world is Self-realisation, but that does not mean that we should not do anything for others. As long as we have not got the power to withdraw the mind from the objects of sense perceptions, we should do, and must do, whatever we can for others. Selfless activity will soon give the power of introversion, but when the mind has become introverted, we should not spoil what we have gained by outward activity.
The main thing with worship is not what we worship, but that we worship, and if we have got love, we can easily surrender the feeling of ‘I’ which is the wall between ourselves and God.
The disciple’s love for the Guru is more important than the Guru’s power.
The behaviour of a fool and a wise man is the same. The only difference is that a fool goes from life to lives while a wise man goes from lives to Life. One leaves the ocean behind; the other returns.
To speak or write about Him is pollution. The only truth which becomes falsehood when expressed is aham Brahmasmi or Sivoham.
The best weapon of defence is ahimsa. The best weapon of offence is love.
The ego will cry like a mad man when he sees that he is going to be killed.
The human body is the greatest hindrance in realising the Self, but it is also the only means.
O Mother! What a painful bliss you gave this child! Mother is always the same, but we are different, depending on the purity of the body, mind and heart. That is why Mother’s bliss sometimes gives extreme pain, sometimes extreme joy.
Renunciation of that which renounces is renunciation.
In my father’s lap, Mother, Father and I are one; or there is none; but IT is.
To become bliss is very different from enjoying it. Last evening I could not get to sleep on account of some noisy music going on nearby. So, I was lying and mentally repeating the pranava. Suddenly everything became so quiet, so quiet that it gave me a surprise that it could ever be so quiet. Then I found myself floating on a most beautiful silvery ocean. Then the body started to move backwards on the surface as if taken away by some stream. I did not do anything to or for as I enjoyed the effortless moving like a little leaf in a big, big river. Then I regained the waking consciousness on account of a terrible shaking as if an earthquake had broken out and Mother started to climb the dreadful back of Mount Meru. My first thought was: ‘I had better be in a sitting position if samadhi occurs.’ Along with that thought I contracted the anus so that Mother might not return. That made the upper portion of the body swing up like a spring without the help of any muscular effort except for the contraction of the anus. The result was that the whole body [rose] into the air… As long as I was contracting the anus, the body was hanging self-suspended in the air. When I released the contraction, the body came down again in the bed. I felt very sad, and was on the point of weeping, because Mother returned and I did not get samadhi. Again I felt I was a prey to these rubbish powers, which do not make a person more spiritual. On the contrary it gives ego, and that too a very bad and strong one, which is very, very difficult to overcome.
[While this is clearly a description of a levitation experience, the cryptic language makes it hard to make out whether it is something that he indulged in (by ‘closing the anus’ to keep Mother away) and later regretted, or something that just happened spontaneously.]
We are imprisoned within the walls of our thoughts.
Out of all human beings, 108 are chosen. Out of these 108, nine are selected. Out of these nine, seven go mad. One goes knowingly back to maya, and one goes to the Supreme.
O Father, why have you taken me to this place? It must be the hall. I suffer badly here. Even the worst torture loses its grip in sleep, but here there is no sleep. I weep without tears, and I have lost even the last power: the power to pray. I feel like a dog running after its own tail, without getting tired. After an endless time of darkness, a little squirrel came and sat before me. I asked the little squirrel, ‘Have you also come to run after your tail? Or are you a messenger from my father?’ The little squirrel smiled and ran away. The appearance of the squirrel caused a thrilling sensation of joy and two tears came into the right eye. The first tear gave me back my faith; the other gave me the strength to pray.
O Father, let every human being be happy. Let every creature have peace and blessings. Help the parents who once gave me a gross form to realise You. Help every dear and near one. Father, father, do not give me ego or mind. Make me simple and humble and let me always speak the truth. Father, may I always shun money, and do not give me any sexual thought, desire or dream… OM SHANTI OM SHANTI OM SHANTI.
After days and nights in prayer, the little squirrel again came and sat before me and asked: ‘Who is suffering? Who is praying?’
There are no secret doctrines, no secret masters, no secret teaching, and no secret India, only secret authors. Their secret is fame and money. What is the use of giving food if it is not to be eaten? Would you call food not offered ‘secret’?
One doesn’t take to sadhana out of miseries, but on account of happiness. Only a happy person can become a good yogi. Nor does one take to sannyasa because one has lost something, but because one has gained something.
It’s a play with toys, but not a play for children. It is a mad play, and when one doesn’t know it’s a play, one suffers badly. Meditation is for the strong, not the weak.
I feel a boiling pressure in the region of the navel and a kind of nervousness as if I was going to appear in an important examination. I cannot sleep any more. As soon as I lie down I get electric shocks in different parts of the body, and when it occurs in the head, I go mad. As long as we try to balance on the razor’s edge, we are bound to fall and cut ourselves to pieces, but we have to try till we give up trying. It is not a question of balancing, but balancing without effort.
By the help of the intellect we get discrimination; by experience we get knowledge.
Mother’s bliss is just like a thrilling screw of boundless joy inserted into every cell of the body.
Discrimination is our destiny.
Lord Ramana, Lord Subramania, Lord Siva, my Father and the Self are one and the same. Mother is His tool, Arunagiri their child, and Ramanagiri this fool.