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The following is from the new David Godman site:

 

Somerset Maugham and The Razor's Edge

 

(First published in The Mountain Path, 1988, pp. 239-45.)

 

In January 1938 Somerset Maugham, the British novelist, visited Sri

Ramanashram for a few hours. The brief contact he had with Bhagavan

inspired Maugham so much, he decided to use him as the model for a

fictional Guru in The Razor's Edge, a novel of his that was published

a few years later in 1944. Maugham also wrote a non-fiction account

of his visit in an essay entitled 'The Saint', which was published

twenty years after the event in 1958. The following account, which is

taken from this essay, records Maugham's impressions of this meeting

with Bhagavan.

 

 

In the course of my journey to India I went to Madras and there met

some people who seemed interested to know what I had been doing in

India. I told them about the holy men who had suffered me to visit

them, and they immediately proposed to take me to see a Swami who was

the most celebrated and the most revered then in India. They called

him the Maharshi.

 

I did not hesitate to fall in with the suggestion and, a few

days later, early one morning, we set out. After a dull hot drive

along a dusty, bumpy road, dusty because the heavy wheels of ox-drawn

wagons had left deep ruts in it, we reached the ashram. We were told

that the Maharshi would see us in a little while. We had brought a

basket of fruit to present to him, as I was informed that it was the

graceful custom, and sat down to the picnic luncheon we had been

sensible enough to put in the car. Suddenly, I fainted dead away. I

was carried into a hut and laid on a pallet bed. I do not know how

long I remained unconscious but presently I recovered. I felt,

however, too ill to move. The Maharshi was told what had happened,

and that I was not well enough to come into the hall in which he

ordinarily sat, so, after some time, followed by two or three

disciples, he came into the hut into which I had been taken.

 

What follows is what I wrote in my notebook on my return to

Madras. The Maharshi was of average height for an Indian, of a dark

honey colour with close-cropped white hair and a close-cropped white

beard. He was plump rather than stout. Though he wore nothing but an

exiguous loincloth he looked neat, very clean and almost dapper. He

had a slight limp, and he walked slowly, leant on a stick. His mouth

was somewhat large, with thickish lips and the whites of his eyes

were bloodshot. He bore himself with naturalness and at the same time

with dignity. His mien was cheerful smiling, polite; he did not give

the impression of a scholar, but rather of a sweet-natured old

peasant. He uttered a few words of cordial greeting and sat on the

ground not far from the pallet on which I lay.

 

After the first few minutes during which his eyes with a gentle

benignity rested on my face, he ceased to look at me, but, with a

sidelong stare of peculiar fixity, gazed, as it were, over my

shoulder. His body was absolutely still, but now and then one of his

feet tapped lightly on the earthen floor. He remained thus,

motionless, for perhaps a quarter of an hour; and they told me later

that he was concentrating in meditation upon me. Then he came to, if

I may so put it, and again looked at me. He asked me if I wished to

say anything to him, or ask any question. I was feeling weak and ill

and said so; whereupon he smiled and said, 'Silence is also

conversation'. He turned his head away slightly and resumed his

concentrated meditation, again looking, as it were, over my shoulder.

No one said a word; the other persons in the hut, standing by the

door, kept their eyes riveted upon him. After another quarter of an

hour, he got up bowed, smiled farewell, and slowly, leaning on his

stick, followed by his disciples, he limped out of the hut.

 

I do not know whether it was the consequence of the rest or of

the Swami's mediation, but I certainly felt much better and in a

little while I was well enough to go into the hall where he sat by

day and slept at night. It was a long, bare room, fifty feet long, it

seemed to me, and about half as broad. There were windows all around

it, but the overhanging roof dimmed the light. The Swami sat on a low

dais, on which was a tiger skin, and in front of him was a small

brazier in which incense burnt. Now and again a disciple stepped

forward and lit another stick. The scent was agreeable to the

nostrils. The faithful, inhabitants of the ashram or habitual

visitors, sat cross-legged on the floor. Some read, others meditated.

Presently, two strangers, Hindus, came in with a basket of fruit,

prostrated themselves and presented their offerings. The Swami

accepted it with a slight inclination of the head and motioned to a

disciple to take it away. He spoke to the strangers and then, with

another inclination of the head, signified to them that they were to

withdraw. They prostrated themselves once more and went to sit among

the other devotees. The Swami entered that blissful state of

meditation on the infinite which is called Samadhi. A little shiver

seemed to pass through those present. The silence was intense and

impressive. You felt that something strange was taking place that

made you inclined to hold your breath. After a while I tiptoed out of

the hall.

 

Later I heard that my fainting had given rise to fantastic

rumours. The news of it was carried throughout India. It was ascribed

to the awe that overcame me at the prospect of going into the

presence of the holy man. Some said that his influence, acting upon

me before I even saw him, had caused me to be rapt for a while in the

infinite. When Hindus asked about it, I was content to smile and

shrug my shoulders. In point of fact that was neither the first nor

the last time that I have fainted. Doctors tell me that it is owing

to an irritability of the solar plexus which pressed my diaphragm

against my heart.

 

…Since then, however, Indians come to see me now and then as the

man who by the special grace of the Maharshi was rapt in the

infinite, as his neighbours went to see Herman Melville as the man

who had lived among cannibals. I explain to them that this bad habit

of mine is merely a physical idiosyncrasy of no consequence, except

that it is a nuisance to other people; but they shake their head

incredulously. How do I know, they ask me, that I was not rapt in the

infinite? To that I do not know the answer, and the only thing I can

say, but refrain from saying for fear it will offend them, is that if

it was, the infinite is an absolute blank. The idea of theirs is not

so bizarre as at first glance it seems when one remembers their

belief that in deep, dreamless sleep consciousness remains and the

soul is then united with the infinite reality which is Brahman…

 

The interest aroused by this incident, unimportant to me, but

significant to Maharshi's devotees, has caused them to send me a mass

of material concerned with him, lives, accounts of his daily

activities, conversation with him, answers to the questions put to

him, expositions of his teachings and what not. I have read a great

deal of it. From it I have formed a vivid impression of the

extraordinary man he was..(1)

 

(you can read the rest of the article at)

 

http://davidgodman.org/rteach/smaugham.shtml

[Guest guest]

Hur,

 

Thank you for this link to Godman's site. His book " Be As You Are:

The Teachings of Sri Ramana Maharshi " is tremendous.

 

Shawn

 

 

Nisargadatta , " Hur Guler <hurg> "

<hurg> wrote:

 

>

> (you can read the rest of the article at)

>

> http://davidgodman.org/rteach/smaugham.shtml