As I saw Him - Sri Ramana

[Guest guest]

THE MAHARSHI

March / April 1992 Vol. 2 - No. 2

Produced & Edited by Dennis Hartel Dr. Anil K.

Sharma

 

As I Saw Him - 7

 

 

 

Extracts from the works of Paul Brunton

 

 

When R. Raphael Hurst, a London journalist, first visited Sri Ramanasramam

in 1931, he was sincerely seeking a direct experience of Truth. Up till

then, all his travels, his meetings with holy men, yogis and occultists

failed to satisfy the inner yearnings of his soul. The record of his search,

culminating with an ecstatic glimpse of Reality while sitting in the

presence of the Maharshi, was published in England in 1934. It was a

sensation, an instant best seller enchanting thousands. A Search in Secret

India, written under the pen name of Paul Brunton (a name he later adopted

as his permanent name), did more at that time to propagate the spiritual

grandeur of the Maharshi than any other medium. Now the world came to sit at

the feet of the sage of Arunachala. Let us follow Mr. Brunton on his first

visit. "WE SHALL NOW GO in the hall of the Maharshi," announces the holy man

of the yellow robe, bidding me to follow him. I pause outside the uncovered

stone veranda and remove my shoes. I gather up the little pile of fruits

which I have brought as an offering, and pass into an open doorway. Twenty

brown-and-black faces flash their eyes upon us. Their owners are squatting

in half-circles on a red-tiled floor. They are grouped at a respectful

distance from the corner which lies farthest to the right hand of the door.

Apparently everyone has been facing this corner just prior to our entry. I

glance there for a moment and perceive a seated figure upon a long white

divan, but it suffices to tell me that here indeed is the Maharshi. The

divan is but a few paces away from a broad high window in the end wall. The

light falls clearly upon the Maharshi and I can take in every detail of his

profile, for he is seated gazing rigidly through the window in the precise

direction whence we have come this morning. His head does not move, so,

thinking to catch his eye and greet him as I offer the fruits, I move

quietly over to the window, place the gift before him, and retreat a pace or

two. A small brass brazier stands before his couch. It is filled with

burning charcoal, and a pleasant odour tells me that some aromatic powder

has been thrown on the glowing embers. Close by is an incense burner filled

with joss sticks. Threads of bluish grey smoke arise and float in the air. I

fold a thin cotton blanket upon the floor and sit down, gazing expectantly

at the silent figure in such a rigid attitude upon the couch. The Maharshi's

body is almost nude, except for a thin, narrow loin-cloth, but that is

common enough in these parts. His skin is slightly copper-coloured, yet

quite fair in comparison with that of the average South Indian. I judge him

to be a tall man; his age somewhere in the early fifties. His head, which is

covered with closely cropped grey hair, is well formed. The high and broad

expanse of forehead gives intellectual distinction to his personality. His

features are more European than Indian. Such is my first impression.

Pin-drop silence prevails throughout the long hall. The sage remains

perfectly still, motionless, quite undisturbed at our arrival. I look full

into the eyes of the seated figure in the hope of catching his notice. They

are dark brown, medium-sized and wide open. If he is aware of my presence,

he betrays no hint, gives no sign. His body is supernaturally quiet, as

steady as a statue. Not once does he catch my gaze, for his eyes continue to

look into remote space, and infinitely remote it seems. It is an ancient

theory of mine that one can take the inventory of a man's soul from his

eyes. But before those of the Maharshi I hesitate, puzzled and baffled. The

minutes creep by with unutterable slowness. First they mount up to a

half-hour by the hermitage clock which hangs on a wall; this too passes by

and becomes a whole hour. Yet no one in the hall seems to stir; certainly no

one dares to speak. I reach a point of visual concentration where I have

forgotten the existence of all save this silent figure on the couch. My

offering of fruits remains unregarded on the small carved table which stands

before him. There is something in this man that holds my attention as steel

filings are held by a magnet. I cannot turn my gaze away from him. My

initial bewilderment, my perplexity at being totally ignored, slowly fade

away as this strange fascination begins to grip me more firmly. But it is

not till the second hour of the uncommon scene that I become aware of a

silent, resistless change which is taking place within my mind. One by one,

the questions which I have prepared in the train with such meticulous

accuracy drop away. For it does not now seem to matter whether they are

asked or not, and it does not seem to matter whether I solve the problems

which have hitherto troubled me. I know only that a steady river of

quietness seems to be flowing near me, that a great peace is penetrating the

inner reaches of my being, and that my thought-tortured brain is beginning

to arrive at some rest. I surrender myself to the steadily deepening sense

of restfulness until two hours have passed. The passage of time now provokes

no irritation, because I feel that the chains of mind-made problems are

being broken and thrown away. Comes the first ripple. Someone approaches me

and whispers in my ear, "Did you not wish to question the Maharshi?" The

spell is broken. As if this infelicitous intrusion is a signal, figures rise

from the floor and begin to move about the hall, voices float up to my

hearing, and - wonder of wonders! - the dark brown eyes of the Maharshi

flicker once or twice. Then the head turns, the face moves slowly, very

slowly, and bends downward at an angle. A few more moments, and it has

brought me into the ambit of its vision. For the first time the sage's

mysterious gaze is directed upon me. It is plain that he has now awakened

from his long trance. The intruder, thinking perhaps that my lack of

response is a sign that I have not heard him, repeats his question aloud.

But in those lustrous eyes which are gently staring at me, I read another

question, albeit unspoken. "Can it be - is it possible - that you are still

tormented with distracting doubts when you have now glimpsed the deep mental

peace which you - and all men - may attain?" The peace overwhelms me. I turn

to the guide and answer: "No. There is nothing I care to ask now. Another

time." The midday meal is over. For once I am grateful that India is

favoured with a climate which does not foster activity, because most of the

people have disappeared into the shady groves to take a siesta. I can

therefore approach the Maharshi in the way I prefer, without undue notice or

fuss. I enter the large hall and sit down near him. The Maharshi holds a

folded manuscript book in his hands; he is writing something with extreme

slowness. A few minutes after my entry he puts the book aside and calls a

disciple. A few words pass between them in Tamil and the man tells me that

his master wishes to reiterate his regrets at my inability to partake of

their food. He explains that they live a simple life, and never having

catered for Europeans before do not know what the latter eat. I add that I

regard the question of diet as being far less important than the quest which

has brought me to his hermitage. The sage listens intently, his face calm,

imperturbable and non-committal. "It is a good object," he comments at

length. This encourages me to enlarge upon the same theme. "Master, I have

studied our Western philosophies and sciences, lived and worked among the

people of our crowded cities, tasted their pleasures and allowed myself to

be caught up into their ambitions. Yet I have also gone into solitary places

and wandered there amid the loneliness of deep thought. I have questioned

the sages of the West; now I have turned my face towards the East. I seek

more light." The Maharshi nods his head, as if to say, "Yes, I quite

understand.I have heard may opinions, listened to many theories.

Intellectual proofs of one belief or another lie piled up all around me. I

am tired of them, skeptical of anything which cannot be proved by personal

experience. Forgive me for saying so, but I am not religious. Is there

anything beyond man's material existence. If so, how can I realize it for

myself?" He makes no verbal reply but appears to have dropped into some

train of thought. Because there is nothing else to do and because my tongue

has now been loosened, I address him for the third time: "The wise men of

the West, our scientists, are greatly honoured for their cleverness. Yet

they have confessed that they can throw but little light upon the hidden

truth behind life. It is said that there are some in your land who can give

what our Western sages fail to reveal. Is this so? Can you assist me to

experience enlightenment? Or is the search itself a mere delusion?" I have

now reach my conversational objective and decide to await the Maharshi's

response. He continues to stare thoughtfully at me. Ten minutes pass in

silence. At last his lips open and he says gently: "You say I. 'I want to

know.' Tell me, who is that I?" What does he mean? He has now cut across the

services of the interpreter and speaks direct to me in English. Bewilderment

creeps across my brain. "I am afraid I do not understand your question," I

reply blankly. "Is it not clear? Think again!" I puzzle over his words once

more. An idea suddenly flashes into my head. I point a finger towards myself

and mention my name. "And do you know him?All my life!" I smile back at

him. "But that is only your body! Again I ask, 'Who are you'?" I cannot find

a ready answer to this extraordinary query. The Maharshi continues: "Know

first that I and then you shall know the truth." My mind hazes again. I am

deeply puzzled. This bewilderment finds verbal expression. But the Maharshi

has evidently reached the limit of his English, for he turns to the

interpreter and the answer is slowly translated to me: "There is only one

thing to be done. Look into your own self. Do this in the right way and you

shall find the answer to all your problems." It is a strange rejoinder. But

I ask him: "What must one do? What method can I pursue?Through deep

reflection on the nature of one's self, and through constant meditation, the

light can be found.I have frequently given myself up to meditation upon

the truth, but I see no signs of progress.How do you know that no

progress has been made? It is not easy to perceive one's progress in the

spiritual realm.Is the help of a master necessary?It might be."

"Can a

master help a man to look into his own self in the way you suggest?He can

give the man all that he needs for this quest. Such a thing can be perceived

through personal experience.How long will it take to get some

enlightenment with a master's help?It all depends on the maturity of the

seeker's mind. The gunpowder catches fire in an instant, while much time is

needed to set fire to coal.Will the Maharshi express an opinion about the

future of the world, for we are living in critical times?Why should you

trouble yourself about the future?" demands the sage. "You do not even

properly know about the present! Take care of the present; the future will

then take care of itself." There is an abrupt pause. An attendant approaches

and lights another incense stick. The Maharshi watches the blue smoke curl

its way upwards and then picks up his manuscript book. He unfolds its pages

and begins to work on it again, thus dismissing me from the field of his

attention. Feeling that our conversation is really at an end, I rise from

the tiled floor, place my hands together in farewell, and leave him. My

proposed weekend quickly passes and I extend it to a week. The week passes

and I extend it to a fortnight. Each day I sense the beautiful peace of the

sage's mental atmosphere, the serenity which pervades the very air around

him. The last day of my visit arrives and yet I am no closer to him. My stay

has been a tantalizing mixture of sublime moods and disappointing failures

to effect any worthwhile personal contact with the Maharshi. I go out to one

of his old disciples and tell him earnestly of my wish to have a final chat

with his master. I confess that I feel too shy to tackle the sage myself. He

leaves me and soon returns with the news that his master will be very

pleased to grant the interview. I hasten to the hall and sit down

conveniently near the divan. The Maharshi turns his face immediately, his

mouth relaxing into a pleasant greeting. Straightway, I feel at ease and

begin to question him. "The Yogis say that one must renounce this world and

go off into secluded jungles or mountains, if one wishes to find truth. Such

things can hardly be done in the West; our lives are so different. Do you

agree with the Yogis?The life of action need not be renounced. If you

will meditate for an hour or two every day, you can then carry on with your

duties. If you meditate in the right manner, then the current of mind

induced will continue to flow even in the midst of your work. It is as

though there were two ways of expressing the same idea; the same line which

you take in meditation will be expressed in your activities.What will be

the result of doing that?As you go on you will find that your attitude

towards people, events and objects will gradually change. Your actions will

tend to follow your meditations of their own accord.Then you do not agree

with the Yogis?" I try to pin him down. But the Maharshi eludes a direct

answer. "A man should surrender the personal selfishness which binds him to

this world. Giving up the false self is the true renunciation.How is it

possible to become selfless while leading a life of worldly activity ?"

"There is no conflict between work and wisdom.Do you mean that one can

continue all the old activities in one's profession, for instance, and at

the same time get enlightenment?Why not? But in that case one will not

think that it is the old personality which is doing the work, because one's

consciousness will gradually become transferred until it is centered in That

which is beyond the little self.If a person is engaged in work, there

will be little time left for him to meditate." The Maharshi seems quite

unperturbed at my poser. "Setting apart time for meditation is only for the

merest spiritual novices," he replies. "A man who is advancing will begin to

enjoy the deeper beatitude, whether he is at work or not. While his hands

are in society, he keeps his head cool in solitude.Then you do not teach

the way of Yoga?The Yogi tries to drive his mind to the goal, as a

cowherd drives a bull with a stick, but on this path the seeker coaxes the

bull by holding out a handful of grass!How is that done?You have to

ask yourself the question, Who am I? This investigation will lead in the end

to the discovery of something within you which is behind the mind. Solve

that great problem, and you will solve all other problems thereby." There is

a pause as I try to digest his answer. The Maharshi addresses me again:

"Will it be clearer if it is put in this way? All human beings are ever

wanting happiness, untainted with sorrow. They want to grasp a happiness

which will not come to an end. The instinct is a true one. But have you ever

been struck by the fact that they love their own selves most?Well ?Now

relate that to the fact that they are ever desirous of attaining happiness

through one means or another, through drink or through religion, and you are

provided with a clue to the real nature of man.I fail to see . . . . "

The tone of his voice becomes higher. "Man's real nature is happiness.

Happiness is inborn in the true self. His search for happiness is an

unconscious search for his true self. The true self is imperishable;

therefore, when a man finds it, he finds a happiness which does not come to

an end.But the world is so unhappy?Yes, but that is because the world

is ignorant of its true self. All men, without exception, are consciously or

unconsciously seeking for it." [Editor's note: After this conversation, one

by one, the hall empties. Paul Brunton sits alone facing the Maharshi.

Brunton receives a piercing steady glance and begins to lose body

consciousness; nevertheless, he breaks away and makes his departure. He

eventually travels to Bombay and purchases his sea-voyage ticket back to

England. But his two-week encounter with the Maharshi haunts him. He

abandons his travel plans and returns to the Maharshi. Once there he settles

in, builds a hut west of the Ashrama, and pursues the inner quest as taught

by the Maharshi. And one day, his departure imminent, his health on the

verge of collapse, he sits once again in the hall and attempts the inner

quest. This time his efforts are quickly rewarded as the Maharshi turns his

penetrating gaze on him.] Finally it happens. Thought is extinguished like a

snuffed candle. The intellect withdraws into its real ground, that is,

consciousness working unhindered by thoughts. I remain perfectly calm and

fully aware of who I am and what is occurring. Yet my sense of awareness has

been drawn out of the narrow confines of the separate personality; it has

turned into something sublimely all-embracing. Self still exists, but it is

a changed, radiant self. For something that is far superior to the

unimportant personality which was I, some deeper, diviner being rises into

consciousness and becomes me. I, the new I, rest in the lap of holy bliss.

My heart is remoulded in rapture. I return to this mundane sphere impelled

by a force which I cannot resist. I discover I am still sitting in the hall

of the Maharshi and that it is apparently deserted. My eyes catch sight of

the hermitage clock and I realize that the inmates must be in the

dining-room at their evening meal. And then I become aware of someone to my

left. It is the ex-stationmaster, who is squatting close beside me on the

floor. "You have been in a spiritual trance for nearly two hours," he

informs me. I endeavor to make some reply, but discover to my astonishment

that my power of speech has gone. Not for almost fifteen minutes do I

recover it. Meanwhile the old man supplements with the further statement:

"The Maharshi watched you closely all the time. I believe his thoughts

guided you." With the fall of dusk I take my farewells of everyone except

the Maharshi. I feel quietly content because my battle for spiritual

certitude has been won. Yet when the Maharshi comes to the courtyard with me

a little later, my contentment suddenly deserts me. This man has strangely

conquered me and it deeply affects my feelings to leave him. I raise my

palms and close them together in the customary salutation and then mutter a

brief goodbye. The sage smiles and looks at me fixedly, but says not a word.

One last look towards the Maharshi, one last glimpse by dim lantern light of

a tall copper-skinned figure with lustrous eyes, another farewell gesture on

my part, a slight wave of his right hand in response, and we part.