The Man Called Ramana By Arthur Osborne

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"The Man Called Ramana"

 

~Arthur Osborne

 

It was the most majestic film I have ever seen, the most

awe-inspiring and yet without incident. There is a view of Arunachala

hill from the ashram drive, and then a tall, frail, light-

complexioned man with short, white hair descends the slope of the

hill with the aid of a staff. Then he comes out of the ashram hall,

stops to smile at a baby, walks across the grounds-just simple,

everyday actions, and yet the beauty of them was breathtaking. The

simplicity was so natural, the smile so spontaneous, the majesty so

inherent.

 

His complexion was pale, almost golden, his white hair and

beard always short, as the ashram authorities gave him a shave every

full-moon day in the manner of sannyasins. Emaciated, aged beyond his

years with the burden of our sorrows, stiff-kneed with rheumatism, he

leaned heavily on his staff as he walked, his eyes cast down. He had

an air of modesty, utter simplicity, and childlike defenselessness.

The mere sight of him walking across the ashram ground was enough to

grip the heart. People who seemed unconcerned with spiritual matters

would gaze at him with love in their eyes.

 

The story of Bhagavan Sri Ramana Maharshi is simplicity

itself. Born in a poor brahmin family in South India in 1879, he went

to a mission school where he learned a little English. He was a

normal, healthy boy, fonder of sport than study. At the age of

seventeen, when any adolescent might pass from boyhood to manhood,

the great change came over him. One day a sudden, intense fear of

death assailed him, a feeling of the immediate imminence of death.

There was no one to turn to, no one to give help. He felt that he

must face it alone. Lying in a rigid position upon his bed, he

tried to visualize, to dramatize death. He held his breath to make

the experience more vivid, thereby unconsciously practicing the

technique of pranayama, or breath control. He said,

 

Well then, now death is come. What does it mean? This body is dead.

It will be carried to the burning ghat and there burned and reduced

to ashes. But with the death of this body am "I" dead?

Is this body "I"?-Self-Realization, by B. V. Narasimha Swami

 

All this was no dull-thought. Vividly, the living truth

flashed before him that he was neither the inert body nor the

thoughts that pass and are gone. He was the eternal "I," the

deathless Spirit. In that moment, death was vanquished; he awoke into

Enlight-enment of the eternal Self. A lifetime of striving and

sadhana was, for him, compressed into that brief moment. He later

learned the theory of Enlightenment and recognized it, just as a

woman who had borne a child might read afterward about childbirth.

 

His whole manner of living changed. He lost all interest in

external things and would fall constantly into the bliss of the Self.

After his father died, his elder brother, who was designated by his

uncle to lead the family, resented the change and rebuked him one day

for behaving like a sadhu while enjoying the benefits of family life.

The young Ramana, recognizing the justice of the rebuke, secretly

left home in 1896 and went to the sacred hill of Arunachala, where he

remained for fifty-four years until, on April 14, 1950, he parted

from the body he had worn.

 

For some time after his arrival at Arunachala, he remained

immersed in the effulgence of bliss, barely conscious of his body,

not needing it, not speaking or moving, and scarcely eating, so that

to onlookers it appeared to be the most intense tapas.It was not

really tapas at all. He was simply ignoring the body that he had

ceased to need. He once indicated this by saying, "I did not eat, so

they said I was fasting; I did not speak, so they said I was

observing mouna."

 

He was already a jivanmukta, a liberated being. Living in

unwavering consciousness of his identity with the Self, he had no

karma left to wipe out, no sin to atone for, and no further goal to

attain.

For a while, he made his abode in the underground vault of the

great temple at Tiruvannamalai and, immersed in samadhi, took no heed

of the ants, mosquitoes, and vermin, though his back and thighs

became an open wound from them. Some sadhus took him a single cup of

thin gruel each day, which was all his food; finally, they carried

him out bodily while he was immersed in samadhi.

 

His body was so neglected that it might not have endured long,

and he might have effortlessly discarded it. So the story would have

ended. However, for us the story began when compassion for those who

gathered around, seeking his grace and guidance, drew him back to a

full bodily life. From then on, there was a motive for continuing in

bodily form-the motive of compassion.

 

One of the spiritual paradoxes is that one who lays down one's

life finds it; one who surrenders one's individuality becomes more

individual than anyone else. The jivanmukta has dissolved the ego,

which exploits and perverts one's individual characteristics, and

therefore these characteristics can grow to their true likeness,

neither stunted nor warped, shining forth more clearly than in other

people. In two masters, divine grace will be the same, but the

characteristics of the human vehicle will be quite different.

 

Bhagavan Sri Ramana was meticulously exact, closely observant,

practical, and humorous. His daily life was conducted with

punctiliousness that Indians today would have to call purely Western.

Everything had to be precise and orderly. The ashram hall was swept

out several times daily. The books were always in their places, and

the cloths covering the couch were scrupulously clean and beautifully

folded. The loincloth, which was all he wore, was gleaming white. The

two clocks in the hall were adjusted daily to radio time, and the

calendar was never allowed to fall behind the current date. The

routine of life flowed in a regular pattern.

 

Bhagavan was affable and courteous to all visitors. He

expressed no pontifical solemnity in his exposition. On the contrary,

his speech, whether on daily affairs or on doctrine, was vivacious

and full of laughter. So infectious was his laughter that even those

who did not know Tamil would spontaneously join in.

 

Right up to the end he joked, and yet his jokes also bore

instruction. When the doctors were alarmed to see a new tumor pushing

up during his final sickness, he said, laughing, "Why do you worry?

Its nature is to come up." When a woman beat her head against a post

outside his room in grief, despite his insistence that the body's

death was no cause for grief, he listened for a moment and then

said, "Oh, I thought somebody was trying to break a coconut." A

devotee asked why his prayers were not answered, and Bhagavan

replied, laughing, "If they were, you might stop praying."

 

His face was like the face of water, always changing and yet

always the same. He would be laughing and talking, then he would turn

graciously to a small child or hand a nut to a squirrel that hopped

onto 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. Then, in silence a moment later, his face would be rock-like,

eternal in its grandeur.

 

The love that shone in his eyes, the luminous understanding,

cannot be described. Someone came to the ashram broken down with the

hopeless grief of bereavement, and after hearing the story, Bhagavan

simply looked, no word spoken, and peace flooded the visitor's soul.

 

An old pandit, who knew Sri Ramana as a boy and who had

visited many yogis, decided to visit "Yogi" Ramana also and discuss

philosophy with him. However, standing before the couch, the pandit

felt his whole body electrified with awe, and before he knew what had

happened, he fell on his face before Bhagavan. Little children were

drawn to him and gladdened by his smile. A laborer picked up a blown

sheet of paper, and, seeing Ramana's

picture on it, he exclaimed, "Bhagavan!" and folded it reverently to

take away with him. Like people, animals were drawn to him. Once he

came back late from his afternoon walk on the hill, and while

devotees clustered in groups or sat waiting or followed him up the

hillside, a pair of monkeys came to the doorway of the hall and,

forgetting their fear of people, they came inside and gazed anxiously

at the vacant couch. A monkey that has been tended by humans is

ostracized by its fellows on its return to wildlife, but any that had

been tended by Bhagavan were gladly received. Having transcended the

ego, Maharshi transcended fear and antagonism, and animals sensed

this. A snake crept over his leg, and he did not move or shrink.

When a devotee asked him later what it felt like to have a snake pass

over one, he replied, laughing, "Cold and moist."

 

The consideration that Bhagavan showed to people and animals

extended even to inanimate objects. Every action had to be performed

intentionally and nothing was wasted. I have seen the meticulous care

with which a book was bound and cuttings pasted, and have heard an

attendant reproved for wanting to cut into a new sheet of paper when

one already started would suffice. Our exploitation of nature is

ruthless today; it is more a rape than a harvesting. Therefore

 

it was a chastening sight to see the divine embodiment so

careful in the use of things. He especially never wasted food. He

might distribute a gift of fruit to children who were present or to

monkeys who tried to steal it, but he never wasted anything. We

mistakenly think that economy goes with frugality and generosity with

extravagance, yet very often the frugal are wasteful and the generous

are careful. When Bhagavan had finished a meal, the banana leaf on

which he had eaten was as clean as though it had been washed. Not a

grain of rice was wasted. In former years, when his body was more

robust, he used to help in the kitchen, preparing meals, and he

insisted that even the parings of the vegetables should be used as

cattle feed and not thrown away.

 

Although all wished to obey him, Bhagavan's life was,

notwithstanding, a lesson in submission. Owing to his refusal to

express any wish or desire, the ashram authorities built up their own

structure of regulations, and Bhagavan obeyed them without

hesitation. If devotees found them irksome, they had before their

eyes the example of Bhagavan's own submission. If Bhagavan ever

resisted it was likely to be in the interests of the devotees. Even

so, he acted usually in silence and often in a manner

dictated by his shrewd sense of humor. An attendant once rebuked a

European woman for sitting with her legs stretched out. Bhagavan at

once sat up cross-legged and continued so, despite the pain caused by

the rheumatism in his knees. When the devotees protested, he replied

that the attendant's orders were for everyone. Only when the lesson

had been driven home did he consent to relax.

 

But it was not only Bhagavan's submission to regulations, but

his submission to all the conditions of life, including pain and

sickness, that taught us silently that pain cannot disturb the

equanimity of one who abides in the Self. Throughout the long and

painful sickness that finally killed his body, he submitted loyally,

one after another, to the doctors who were put in charge, never

complaining or asking for a change of treatment. If there was ever

any inclination to try a different treatment, it was only so that

those who recommended it should not be disappointed; and even then,

the treatment depended on the consent of the ashram authorities. If

there is a tendency to regard submission as spiritless, it is only

because we regard egoism as natural. Doubtless, it is more spirited

to fight for one's desires than to submit reluctantly to their

denial, but Bhagavan showed us the way to freedom from desire. Such

freedom is not the submission of the dejected, but the joy of unity,

for one does not submit to a stranger but to the Self.

 

Because Bhagavan sought to free us from psychic as well as

physical desires, he disapproved of all freakishness and eccentricity

and all interest in visions and desire for powers. He liked seekers

to behave in a normal and sane way. For he was guiding us towards the

ultimate Reality, where perceptions and powers which people

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

call "physical." A visitor once related how his guru died and was

buried, then three years later returned in tangible bodily form to

give instructions. Bhagavan sat unmoved-as though he had not

heard. The bell rang for lunch, and he rose to leave the hall. 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?" One of the

most delightful examples of his humor was when he was asked, "If

somebody who desired certain powers obtained moksha directly through

the force of sadhana, would he automatically acquire the desired

powers?" Bhagavan replied, "If he obtained moksha, it would not harm

him even if he did have power."

 

No one could be more simple and unostentatious. He called

nothing his own and never asked for anything. He accepted the food

and clothing that were necessary, but nothing more. The only outer

gifts that one could make were fruit and flowers, which were taken to

the dining hall and shared among all equally. Bhagavan refused to

have any special consideration shown to him. If those who were

sitting in the hall started to rise when he entered, he motioned to

them, almost impatiently, to remain seated. I have seen him refuse to

have an electric fan switched on because the devotees would not

benefit equally. Afterward, ceiling fans were installed and all

benefited alike. Once, when an attendant was placing a quarter mango

on each person's leaf and slipped a half mango on Bhagavan's, he

angrily put it back and took a small piece.

 

Being established immutably in the Reality beyond all forms,

he saw forms and events not with the inherent and graded importance

that they seemed to bear for us, but by compassionately witnessing

the importance that we gave them. Pandits were once sitting in the

hall with Sanskrit texts, which they occasionally took up to Bhagavan

to explain a particular point. A three-year-old, not to be outdone,

took up his book of nursery rhymes, and Bhagavan was no less gracious

and showed no less interest to him than to the others. However, the

book was tattered, so he took it and supervised its mending and

binding, then returned it to the child the next day, fully renovated.

 

Towards the end, Bhagavan aged far beyond 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, 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, they felt

themselves carefree and lightened. How many have come and sat there,

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

his eyes dissolved their pain until a wave of peace flood their

hearts? How many have come primed with questions, which seemed to

them all-important and which their thoughts and readings had failed

to solve? It might be in desperate hope or as a challenge that they

brought their questions, but as they sat there the questioning mind

itself experienced tranquility and the questions faded away, no

longer needing to be asked. Then, if they opened their hearts, a

deeper understanding was implanted there.

 

Even the way Ramana discarded his body was supremely

compassionate. Many of the devotees believed that they could not

endure or survive his physical death. When the sickness dragged on

month after month, after the doctors had found it incurable and had

declared that the pain must be intense (although Bhagavan did not

show it), the devotees became reconciled to the inevitable. Sometimes

one or another implored him to desire to be well, but in their hearts

they knew that he would use no powers that they themselves could not

use. Indeed, had he consented, it would have been a boon of a few

years only, whereas the boon he granted was for all time and

beyond time, for he said, "I am not going away. Where could I go?"

Where, indeed, for he is Bhagavan. For years, his body had been

tortured by rheumatism. The knees were swollen, and he walked stiff-

legged and with difficulty and had to give up his daily walks on the

sacred hill, Aruna-chala. More than a year before the end, a small

tumor appeared on the left elbow. Doctors cut it out but it returned

worse than before, eventually to be diagnosed as serious. Various

kinds of treatment were given, and Bhagavan submitted to whatever was

prescribed. Three more times it was removed, and after each operation

it returned worse and higher up. By December 1949, the doctors said

they could do no more. After four operations, the tumor had reached

the shoulder and had gone inward. The doctors said that the pain must

have been excruciating, though Bhagavan seldom gave any sign that he

was suffering. The whole system was poisoned, and the last months

were one long martyrdom. Yet, to the last, he insisted that all those

who came to him should receive darshana twice a day, walking past the

room where he lay. At the very end, when every touch was agony, he

ordered the attendants to raise him to a sitting posture and he died

sitting.

 

At the moment of death, people saw a large star trail slowly

across the sky to the peak of Aruna-chala as his Spirit returned to

the Father. That night, while the body he had now relinquished was

exposed to the view of the devotees in the great new hall of the

ashram, they spontaneously sang the Tamil verse he composed long

ago, "Arunachala-Ramana."

 

The spiritual power of Arunachala has become active again, as

it was long ago. Bhagavan said, "I am not going away; I am here." He

remains here in Tiruvannamalai as before, and at the same time he is

the spaceless Arunachala-Ramana, abiding in the heart of every

devotee who turns to him for guidance.

 

The grace of Bhagavan radiates from Arunachala and from his

shrine no less now than it did while he was in the body. People are

drawn there as they were to his physical presence and feel their

doubts and questions melt away and their appeals dissolve in love.

 

From For Those with Little Dust, by Arthur Osborne. Copyright

2001 by Sri Ramanasramam. Reprinted by arrangement with Inner

Directions Publishing, PO Box 130070, Carlsbad, California 92013.

www.InnerDirections.org.

 

 

LoveAlways,

 

Mazie