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AS I SAW HIM - 2

by S. S. Cohen

 

 

 

THE THIRD OF FEBRUARY 1936, early morning, saw my horsecart rolling on the

uneven two-and-a-half mile road from Tiruvannamalai railway station to

Ramanasramam. Two sleepless nights in the train from Bombay found me tired

in body and mind. My head was swimming and my senses confused. I had hoped

for some rest at the Ashrama, but when I arrived there at last there was not

a soul to be seen anywhere. Presently, a corpulent man with a giant, rugged

head and scarlet-red lips from perpetual chewing of betel nuts appeared. "Is

that Mr. Cohen? Follow me quickly before the Maharshi goes out for his

walk," he called out. I obeyed, extremely eager to see the great sage who

had haunted me night and day for three long months. I was led to a small

dining room, at the door of which I was asked to remove my shoes. As I was

trying to unlace them my eyes fell on a pleasant-looking middle-aged man

inside the room, wearing nothing but a koupin, with eyes as cool as

moonbeams, sitting on the floor before a leafplate nearly emptied and

beckoning me with the gentlest of nods and the sweetest smile imaginable.

It was then the Ashrama's custom to honour the newcomer by giving him his

first meal in a line directly opposite the Maharshi's seat and at hardly

four feet distance from it. I took no notice of the cakes, although my hand

fingered them, but directed my whole look at the peaceful countenance of Sri

Bhagavan. He had by then finished eating and was slowly rolling a betel leaf

for a chew, as if deliberately to give me a little more of his company, when

a man entered from the back door, which was the passage to the small

kitchen, and in a low voice said something in Tamil to him. Then Maharshi

rose, looked at me by way of farewell, and left the room. I hastily

swallowed half a cake, gulped the cup of tea and went out in search of my

room to which my luggage had been taken, when someone announced that Sri

Maharshi was coming to the Darshan Hall. I rushed straight to the Hall with

my hat and full suit on. Behind me calmly walked in the tall, impressive

figure of the Maharshi with leisurely though firm steps.

I was alone in the Hall with him. Joy and peace suffused my being - such a

delightful feeling of purity and well-being at the mere proximity of a man,

I never had before. My mind was already in deep contemplation of him - him

not as flesh, although that was exquisitely formed and featured, but as an

unsubstantial principle which could make itself so profoundly felt despite

the handicap of a heavy material vehicle. When after a while I became aware

of my environment, I saw him looking at me with large, penetrating eyes,

wreathed in smiles rendered divinely soothing by their childlike innocence.

Bhagavan was then enjoying the sound, robust health of middle age and could

very well afford to be available at almost all hours of the day to devotees.

The years 1936-1938 were very blissful indeed to us, when we could gather

round his couch and speak to him as intimately as to a beloved father, tell

him all our troubles and show him our letters without let or hindrance.

After 8:00 p.m. when the Hall contained only the local residents, we sat

round him for a 'family chat' till about ten o'clock.

Then he related to us stories from the Puranas or the lives of saints,

yielding to transports of emotion when he depicted scenes of great bhakti,

or great human tragedies to which he was sensitive to the extreme. Then he

shed tears which he vainly attempted to conceal.

On one occasion, Bhagavan recited from memory a poem of a Vaishnava saint in

which occurred the words, "Fold me in Thy embrace, O Lord," when the arms of

Bhagavan joined in a circle around the vacant air before him and his eyes

shone with devotional ardour, while his voice shook with stifled sobs which

did not escape our notice. It was fascinating to see him acting the parts he

related and be in such exhilarated moods as these.

Some disciples and his attendants used to sleep on the floor of the Hall at

night. Bhagavan's sleep was very light. He woke every now and then and

almost always he found an attendant nearby fully awake to say a few words

to, and then sleep again. Once or twice he would go out for a few minutes

and, by 5:00 a.m, when the Veda chanters came from the township, they found

him fully awake and chatting in a soft, subdued voice. Now the parayanam

would get started and go on for little less than an hour, during which

everybody abstained from talking and Bhagavan often sat cross-legged and

completely indrawn. Then he went out on the hill and returned at about 7:30,

when visitors and devotees began trickling in - men, women and children,

till they filled the Hall by about 9:00 a.m. This morning hour of the

parayanam was the best time of the day for meditation. The congregation was

small, women and children absent, the weather cool, and the mind had not yet

completely emerged to run its usual riot. Over and above this, Bhagavan then

shone in the stillness of his samadhi, which permeated the hall and the

meditation of his disciples.

Bhagavan went out at his usual hours. These were : 9:45, for a few minutes;

11 o'clock, for luncheon, followed by the midday stroll in Palakottu;

evening, 4:45 on the hill, preceding the evening Veda parayanam; and 7

o'clock for dinner.

The constant influx of visitors was of some help in that it afforded the

much-needed relaxation to an otherwise tense life. Secondly, the peculiar

problems which visitors brought with them were a useful study. Watching the

masterly ways Bhagavan tackled these problems was a sadhana in itself.

Rationality was the very essence of his arguments, while the ultimate answer

to all the questions was always the same, namely, "Find out who you are." He

first met every questioner on his own ground, and then slowly steered him

round to the source of all problems - the Self - the realisation of which he

held to be the universal panacea. When the audience shrank, he at times

became humorously autobiographical about his early school and home life or

about his many experiences on the hill with sadhus, devotees, etc. As time

passed and the Master's state of mind and ideas took firm root in me, I

ceased to ask questions, or to intercept him in his walks outside the Ashram

grounds, as I used to do in the first six months. The final conclusion to

which I came in the end of these six months I reported one day to Bhagavan.

He showed his gracious approval by a gesture of finality with his hand and

said: "So much lies in your power, the rest must be left entirely to the

Guru, who is the ocean of grace and mercy seated in the heart as the

seeker's own Self."

The builders had put the finishing touches to my small mud hut in Palakottu

garden on April 4, 1936. I completed my arrangements for the warming

ceremony, known here as griha pravesham, to take place the next day. The

invited devotees gathered in my hut, and about noon the Master himself

strolled in, on his way back from his usual walk and, refusing the special

chair I had ready for him, he squatted like the others on the mat covered

floor. After the ceremony, Bhagavan left. I followed him from a distance,

waited till the devotees cleared away and approached him. "Bhagavan," I

started, "you have given a home for my body, I now need your grace to grant

the eternal home for my soul, for which I broke all my human ties and came."

He stopped in the shade of a tree, gazed silently on the calm water of the

tank for a few seconds and replied: "Your firm conviction brought you here;

where is the room for doubt?Where is the room for doubt, indeed?" I

reflected.

Three years had passed since that griha-pravesham day. "Bhagavan," I said on

a day then near my hut, "I feel a strong urge to go on Yatra (pilgrimage). I

feel that I need a change for some months, which I intend spending in holy

places." He smiled approval and enquired about the date and time of my

starting and whether I had made arrangements for my stay in the various

places I was to visit. Extremely touched by his solicitude, I answered that

I was going as a sadhu, trusting to chance for accommodation.

For three months thereafter I lay on a mat in Cape Comorin, immensely

relieved of the mental tension which the Master's physical form had caused

me. In solitude I plunged into reflections on his blissful silence and calm

repose. The stillness of his mind haunted me everywhere I went - in the

beautiful, gem-like temple of the youthful virgin goddess, on the shores of

the vast blue ocean around me and the sand dunes, in the fishing villages

and endless stretches of coconut groves, which ran along the sea shore and

the interior of the Cape. I felt his influence in the depth of my soul and

cried: "Oh Bhagavan, how mighty you are and how sublime and all pervasive is

the immaculate purity of your mind! With what tender emotions do we, your

disciples, think of your incomparable qualities, your gentleness; your

serene, adorable countenance; your cool, refreshing smiles; the sweetness of

the words that come out of your mouth; the radiance of your all-embracing

love; your equal vision towards one and all, even towards diseased stray

animals."

Evening Shadows

The years 1948-50 saw the evening shadows gathering and closing on the

mortal coil of the Master. Advancing age brought a series of mishaps to it -

a fall, a nervous hiccup lasting many days, a clinging rheumatism, and,

lastly, a malignant tumor which inch by inch ate the flesh of his left arm,

poisoned his blood and finally rang down the curtain on an immaculate life.

22 February 1949

About a fortnight ago, the Ashrama doctor, Dr. Shankar Rao, assisted by Dr.

Srinivasa Rao, removed a very small growth from the left elbow of the

Maharshi, since when it has remained bandaged; but today the bandage has

been removed and it is left exposed - it is presumed to have healed.

27 March 1949

The lump which was removed from Maharshi's left elbow last month and which

was thought to be healing satisfactorily, subsequently started to grow

again, so that the eminent surgeon, Dr. Raghavachari, came today from Madras

with surgical instruments to remove it. The surgeon, we are told, performed

the operation skillfully by cutting deep and removing the last cell of

growth. He does not expect a recurrence of the growth.

4th December 1949

This is Deepam day, most holy to Hindus in the South. The holy beacon will

be lighted tonight on top of Arunachala. Tonight Sri Maharshi sat in the

north verandah of the Darshan Hall. All around him hundreds of devotees

squatted. This jubilation is not without a sting. Will the health of Sri

Maharshi favor us with another Deepam day and he be with us in the flesh, or

is this to be the last? As we see him seated fresh and bright as ever,

gazing expectantly at the top of his beloved Arunachala, we cannot help

being optimistic of his recovery. The body which is stricken by a most

malignant disease, hacked on many occasions by the surgeon's knife, burnt by

radium, and drugged by all sorts of powerful drugs, bears no trace of the

agonizing ordeal in the brilliance of its eyes or in the joyful expressions

of its face. What miracles are being performed in it! What are its

mysteries!

- The preceding was gathered from the pages of S.S. Cohen's book, GURU

RAMANA.

 

Meeting with S. S. Cohen

A Devotee's Diary

YESTERDAY, while waiting for Sri Kunju Swami and Sri K. Natesan to arrive to

continue the recordings of all the different parayanas, Bhagawat and I took

the opportunity to visit S. S. Cohen. He is now eighty-three years old, ill

and weak.

His hired Tamilian attendant had just helped him to walk out of his room and

sit in a chair under the shade of the banyan trees. We also grabbed two

chairs and sat facing him.

As his attendant helped him into the seat he told him something, which he

immediately translated to us with a twinkle in his eye and a smile on his

face: "I just told him, 'Observe me carefully, because thirty years hence

you are going to be in the same situation - old, feeble and sick.' "

This quip quickly put me at ease about his physical condition, and I cannot

remember ever seeing such an old, feeble man exude such lightness and cheer.

We presented to him our Ashrama brochure and began describing 'Sri

Bhagavan's Abodes' in New York City and Nova Scotia, Canada. I then offered

him one of our treasured six ounce cans of Dole Pineapple Juice. He drank it

with satisfaction.

Bhakta Bhagawat then began describing to him his life and how he experiences

Sri Bhagavan's Presence. While pouring out his heart to this senior disciple

of the Maharshi, he bent over and touched his feet several times and asked

for his blessings.

"You don't need my blessings," S.S. Cohen said. "Blessings are always

flowing to you."

Then Cohen continued, as if talking to himself: "I am old now. I have no

desire to do anything." He paused. "Do you know, indescribable peace crawls

over you slowly - one does not even notice it."

It is obvious that he is nearing death, but he is not sad; nor does he allow

anyone else to be sad on this account.

Later he said to me, with that same twinkle and same smile, "If you want to

take me to Canada, you will have to pay all the expenses; and I am not just

talking about the air fare - you will have to pay the cost of burying me in

the ground as well!" He laughed.

Later that evening, as I passed his room, the door was open and a dim light

shone from within. There he was sitting, alone, quiet, eyes closed and at

peace. Leaving the world behind, with the goal at hand, he sat, waiting.

What a lesson for a young aspirant like myself!

- By Dinesha Dayalu

 

The Maharshi shed his mortal frame on April 14, 1950 at 8:47 p.m. According

to the Indian (lunar) calendar, the event will be celebrated this year at

Sri Ramanasramam on May 12, 1991.

"To those who feared that the guidance might end with death he replied

curtly, 'You attach too much importance to the body.' Now, as then, he

guides whoever approaches him and whoever submits to him he supports. To all

who seek he is here."

 

- By Arthur Osborne

 

 

 

 

 

THE MAHARSHI

 

May/June 1991

 

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