Ramana Maharshi/Arthur Osborne

[Guest guest]

Hope you enjoy the reading.

Harsha

AS I SAW HIM - 9

By Arthur Osborne

In December of 1941, Arthur Osborne, a university lecturer in Siam,

was imprisoned by the Japanese. After three and a half long years,

the Japanese were defeated and he was released. He then traveled to

India and settled near Sri Ramanasramam, where his wife and children

were waiting for him.

He had heard of Ramana Maharshi, read his teachings and seen pictures

of him, but doubts remained whether the Maharshi was an actual Guru

who actively guided seekers to salvation. It wasn't long before this

doubt was cleared. He ultimately founded the ashram journal, The

Mountain Path, and left a unparalleled legacy of literature on the

Maharshi and his teachings.

Let us follow him as he tells how his heart and mind were joined to

the silent Sage of the holy Arunachala Mountain.

I ENTERED THE ASHRAM hall on the morning of my arrival, before

Bhagavan had returned from his daily walk on the hill. I was a little

awed to find how small it was and how close to him I should be

sitting; I had expected something grander and less intimate. And then

he entered and, to my surprise, there was no great impression;

certainly far less than his photographs had made. Just a

white-haired, very gracious man, walking a little stiffly from

rheumatism and with a slight stoop. As soon as he had eased himself

on to the couch he smiled to me and then turned to those around and

to my young son and said: "So Adam's prayer has been answered; his

Daddy has come back safely." I felt his kindliness, but no more. I

appreciated that it was for my sake that he had spoken English, since

Adam knew Tamil.

During the weeks that followed he was constantly gracious to me and

the strain of nerves and mind gradually relaxed but there was still

no dynamic contact until the evening of Karthikai when, each year, a

beacon is lit on the summit of Arunachala.

There were huge crowds for the festival and we were sitting in the

courtyard outside the hall. Bhagavan was reclining on his couch and I

was sitting in the front row before it. He sat up, facing me, and his

narrowed eyes pierced into me penetrating, intimate, with an

intensity I cannot describe. It was as though they said: "You have

been told; why have you not realized?" And then quietness, a depth of

peace, an indescribable lightness and happiness.

Thereafter love for Bhagavan began to grow in my heart and I felt his

power and beauty. Next morning, for the first time, sitting before

him in the hall, I tried to follow his teaching by using the vichara,

'Who am I?'. I thought it was I who had decided. I did not at first

realize that it was the initiation by look that had vitalized me and

changed my attitude of mind. Indeed, I had heard only vaguely of this

initiation and paid little heed to what I had heard. Only later did I

learn that other devotees also had had such an experience and that

with them also it had marked the beginning of active sadhana under

Bhagavan's guidance.

My love and devotion to Bhagavan deepened. I became aware of the

enormous grace of his presence. Even outwardly he was gracious to me,

smiling when I entered the hall, signing to me to sit where he could

watch me in meditation. His face was like the face of water, always

changing and yet always the same. He would be laughing and talking,

and then he would turn graciously to a small child or hand a nut to a

squirrel that hopped on to his couch from the window, or his radiant,

wide-open eyes would shine with love upon some devotee who had just

arrived or was taking leave. And then, in silence, a moment later,

his face would be rock-like, eternal in its grandeur.

He was unperturbed whatever happened; the majesty of his countenance

was inexpressible; and yet it is no less true that he was swift and

spontaneous in response and that his face was the most human, the

most living, one had ever seen. He attained Realization without

learning and never displayed erudition, and yet he made himself

better versed in the scriptures than the pundits who came to him for

elucidations. He was all compassion, and yet his countenance might

appear immovable, like stone. He was all love, and yet for weeks

together he might not favor a devotee with a single look or smile. He

replied to all graciously, and yet many trembled and feared to speak

to him. His features were not good and yet the most beautiful face

looked trivial beside him. He often appeared scarcely to notice

devotees, and yet his guidance was as unremitting then as it is now.

One day a sudden vivid reminder awoke in me: "The link with Formless

Being? But he is the Formless Being!" And I began to apprehend the

meaning of his Jnana and to understand why devotees addressed him

simply as 'Bhagavan', which is a word meaning God. The vichara, the

constant 'Who am I?', began to evoke an awareness of the Self as

Bhagavan outwardly and also simultaneously of the Self within.

Bhagavan sought to free us from psychic as well as physical desires,

and he therefore disapproved of all freakishness and eccentricity and

of all interest in visions and desire for powers. He liked his

devotees to behave in a normal and sane way, for he was guiding us

towards the ultimate Reality where perceptions and powers which men

call "higher" or "miraculous" are as illusory as those they call

"physical". A visitor once related how his Guru died and was buried

and then, three years later, returned in tangible bodily form to give

instructions. Bhagavan sat unheeding. It was as though he had not

heard. The bell rang for lunch and he rose to leave the hall. Only at

the doorway he turned and quoted:

"Though a man can enter ever so many bodies, does it mean that he has found his true Home?"

I observed that he shunned theoretical explanations and kept turning

the questioner to practical considerations of sadhana, of the path to

be followed. He never encouraged any to give up life in the world. He

explained that it would only be exchanging the thought "I am a

householder" for the thought "I am a sannyasin." Whereas what is

necessary is to reject the thought "I am the doer" completely and

remember only "I am"; and this can be done by the means of the

vichara as well in the city as in the jungle. It is only inwardly

that a man can leave the world by leaving the ego-sense; it is only

inwardly that he can withdraw into solitude by abiding in the

universal solitude of the heart, which is solitude only because there

are no others, however many forms the Self may assume.

Daily I sat in the hall before him. I asked no questions for the

theory had long been understood. I spoke to him only very

occasionally, about some personal matter. But the silent guidance was

continuous, strong and subtle. It may seem strange to modern minds,

but the Guru taught in silence. This did not mean that he was

unwilling to explain when asked; indeed, he would answer sincere

questions fully; what it meant was that the real teaching was not the

explanation but the silent influence, the alchemy worked in the heart.

 

I strove constantly by way of the vichara according to his

instructions. Having a strong sense of duty or obligation, I still

continued, side by side with it, to use other forms of sadhana which

I had undertaken before coming to Bhagavan, even though I now found

them burdensome and unhelpful. Finally I told Bhagavan of my

predicament and asked whether I could abandon them. He assented,

explaining that all other methods only lead up to the vichara.

Early in 1948 constant physical proximity had ceased to be necessary

and professional work had become urgently necessary. Work was found

in Madras. Thereafter I went to Tiruvannamalai only for weekends and

holidays, and each visit was revitalizing.

I was there at the time of one of the operations that Bhagavan

suffered and had darshan immediately after it, and the graciousness

of his reception melted the heart and awoke remorse to think how

great was the reward for so little effort made.

Toward the end, Bhagavan was aged far more than his years. He looked

more like ninety than seventy. In one who had a strong constitution,

who had scarcely known sickness except for the rheumatism of his last

years, and who was impervious to grief of worry, anxiety, hope or

regret, this would appear incredible; but it was the burden of his

compassion. "He who taketh upon himself the sins of the world."

Devotees came and sat before him, burdened with sorrows, tormented

with doubts, darkened with impurities, and, as they sat, felt

themselves free and lightened. How many have come and sat there

weighed down with the grief of failure or bereavement, and the light

of his eyes has dissolved their pain until they have felt a wave of

peace flood their heart. How many have come primed with questions

which seemed to them all-important and which their thought and

reading has failed to solve; it might be in desperate hope or as a

challenge that they brought the questions, but as they sat there the

questioning mind itself was brought to tranquility and the questions

faded out, no longer needing to be asked. And then, if they opened

their hearts, a deeper understanding was implanted there. Those who

sought refuge in him felt the burden of their karma lifted; and it

was he who bore the burden.

I was there that fateful April night of the body's death and felt a

calm beneath the grief and a wonder at the fortitude Bhagavan had

implanted in his devotees to bear their loss. Gradually one after

another began to discover in his heart the truth that Bhagavan had

not gone away but, as he promised, is still here.

Since that day his presence in the heart has been more vital, the

outpouring of his Grace more abundant, his support more powerful. I

have been to Tiruvannamalai since then also, and the Grace that

emanates from the tomb is the Grace of the living Ramana.

I have not given a clear picture of the man who was Ramana, but how

can one portray the universal? What impressed one was his complete

unself-consciousness like that of a little child, his Divinity and

intense humanity.

We shall not see the Divine Grace in human form or the love shining in

his eyes, but in our hearts he is with us and will not leave us. His

Grace continues to be poured out, not only on those who knew the

miracle of his bodily form, but on all who turn to him in their

hearts, now as before.

>From Ramana-Arunachala by Arthur Osborne