Paul Brunton - The Maharshi and His Message #1

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The Maharshi and His Message

By Paul Brunton

 

Introduction

to the three chapters taken from A Search in Secret India

 

 

Messrs. Rider & Co., of London brought out in 1934 a

remarkable book with the title A Search in Secret India. It has

passed through several impressions in a very short time and is

easily the latest bestseller on India. In view of its notable success,

the Editor of the London Forum invited the author Paul Brunton

to give an outline of the cause and motives which led up to his

pilgrimage to India. Mr. Brunton wrote a short interesting

autobiographical note which was published in the August

number of the Forum.

 

A Search in Secret India lucidly narrates the author’s

acquaintance with, impressions of, and relation to the Maharshi

who has so influenced him. The book is at present too expensive

to the ordinary Indian reader and therefore the three chapters

— IX, XVI and XVII — relating to the Maharshi, are reprinted

in the form of a booklet with the kind permission of the author,

in order to place this most important part of the work within

the reach of the reader. Of course, these chapters shine better in

their original setting and are best read from A Search in Secret

India by those who can afford it.

 

The author had an instinctive attraction for India and it is

graphically described by himself:

“The Geography master takes

a long, tapering pointer and moves over to the large, varnished

linen map which hangs before a half-bored class. He indicates a

triangular red patch which juts down to the Equator and then

makes a further attempt to stimulate the obviously lagging

interest of his pupils. He begins in a thin, drawling voice and

with the air of one about to make a hierophantic revelation,

‘India has been called the brightest jewel in the British Crown...... .’

At once a boy with moody brow, half wrapt in reverie, gives a

sudden start and draws his far-flung imagination back into the

stolid, brick-walled building which constitutes his school. The

sound of this word India falling on the tympanum of his ears, or

the sight of it caught up by the optic nerve of his eyes from a

printed page, carries thrilling and mysterious connotations of

the unknown. Some inexplicable current of thought brings it

repeatedly before him. Ever and anon he makes wild projects to

go there. He plans an expedition with a school-mate who is

discovered and the enterprise is reluctantly abandoned. The desire

to view India never leaves the promoter of that unfortunate

expedition.”

 

With the dawn of manhood, he turns to spiritualism, joins the

Theosophical Society and learns more of the East. His experiences

in spiritualism convince him of the survival of the spirit after the

death of the body. Then other interests and his own duties hold

him. He dropped his “mystic studies and concentrated upon

professional work in journalism and editing”. Some years pass “until

he meets unexpectedly with a man who gives a temporary but vivid

life to the old ambition. For the stranger’s face is dusky, his head is

turbaned and he comes from the sun-steeped land of Hindustan”.

He was tempted to go out and investigate the subject of yoga.

He arrived in India in 1930, and he later visited several remarkable

places but few remarkable men until some inscrutable, impelling

force, which he cannot understand, but which he blindly obeys,

hurries his pace so that sometimes he rushes onwards as though

he were a tourist. At last he is on the train to Madras.

 

In Madras, he accidentally met the “Anchorite of the Adyar

River” who took him later to the “Sage who never speaks”. In

the Sage’s hermitage, a stranger, Mr. Subramanya by name,

obtrudes on him and solicits his visit to his own Master Sri

Ramana Maharshi of Thiruvannamalai. The obtrusion of

Mr. Subramanya is amusing in its naivete and surprising in its

results. The graphic description of the scene of his meeting with

our author is cited here for the delectation of the reader:

Someone draws up to my side before we reach the end of the

road which is to take us into Madras. I turn my head. The

yellow-robed yogi — for it is he — rewards me with a majestic

grin. His mouth stretches almost from ear to ear, and his eyes

wrinkle into narrow slits.

“You wish to speak to me?” I enquire.

“I do, Sir,” he replies quickly and with a good accent to his

English. “May I ask you what you are doing in our country?”

I hesitate before this inquisitiveness, and decide to give a

vague reply.

“Oh! Just travelling around.”

“You are interested in our holy men, I believe?”

“Yes, a little.”

“I am a yogi, Sir,” he informs me.

He is the heftiest looking yogi I have ever seen.

“How long have you been one?”

“Three years, Sir.”

“Well, you look none the worse for it, if you will pardon me

saying so!”

He draws himself proudly together and stands at attention.

Since his feet are naked I take the click of his heels for granted.

“For seven years I was a soldier of His Majesty the King

Emperor!” he exclaims. “Yes Sir, I served with the ranks in

the Indian Army during the Mesopotamian campaign. After

the war I was put into the Military Accounts Department

because of my superior intelligence!”

I am compelled to smile at his unsolicited testimonial to

himself.

“I left the service on account of family trouble, and went

through a period of great distress. This induced me to take to

the spiritual path and become a yogi.”

I hand him a card.

“Shall we exchange names?” I suggest.

“My personal name is Subramanya; my caste name is Aiyer,”

he quickly announces.

“Well, Mr. Subramanya, I am waiting for an explanation of

your whispered remark in the house of the Silent Sage.”

“And I have been waiting all this time to give it to you! Take

your questions to my Master, for he is the wisest man in

India, wiser even than the yogis.”

“So? And have you travelled throughout all India? Have you

met all the great yogis, that you can make such a statement?”

“I have met several of them, for I know the country from

Cape Comorin to Himalayas.”

“Well?”

“Sir, I have never met anyone like him, he is a great soul And

I want you to meet him.”

“Why?”

“Because he has led me to you! It is his power which has

drawn you to India!”

This bombastic statement strikes me as being too exaggerated

and I begin to recoil from the man. I am always afraid of the

rhetorical exaggerations of emotional persons, and it is obvious

that the yellow robed yogi is highly emotional. His voice,

gesture, appearance and atmosphere plainly reveal it.

“I do not understand,” is my cold reply.

He falls into further explanations.

“Eight months ago I came into touch with him. For five months

I was permitted to stay with him and then I was sent forth on

my travels once more. I do not think you are likely to meet

with another such man as he. His spiritual gifts are so great

that he will answer your unspoken thoughts. You need only be

with him a short time to realise his high spiritual degree.”

“Are you sure he would welcome my visit?”

“Oh, Sir! Absolutely. It is his guidance which sent me to you.”

“Where does he live?”

“On Arunachala — the Hill of the Holy Beacon.”

“And where is that?”

“In the North Arcot territory, which lies farther south. I will

constitute myself your guide. Let me take you there. My

Master will solve your doubts and remove your problems,

because he knows the highest truth.”

“This sounds quite interesting,” I admit reluctantly, “but I

regret that the visit is impossible at present. My trunks are

packed and I shall be soon leaving for the northeast. There

are two important appointments to be fulfilled, you see.”

“But this is more important.”

“Sorry.We met too late. My arrangements are made and they

cannot be easily altered. I may be back in the South later, but

we must leave this journey for the present.”

The yogi is plainly disappointed.

“You are missing an opportunity, Sir, and ....”

I foresee a useless argument, so cut him short.

“I must leave you now. Thanks anyway.”

“I refuse to accept” he obstinately declares. “Tomorrow

evening I shall call upon you and I hope then to hear that

you have changed your mind.”

 

Our conversation abruptly finishes. I watch his strong well-

knit yellow robed figure start across the road.

When I reach home, I begin to feel that it is possible I have

made an error of judgement. If the Master is worth half the

disciple’s claims, then he is worth the troublesome journey into

the Southern tip of the peninsula. But I have grown somewhat

tired of enthusiastic devotees. They sing paeans of praise to

their Masters, who prove on investigation to fall lamentably

short of the more critical standards of the West. Furthermore

sleepless nights and sticky days have rendered my nerves less

serene than they should be; thus, the possibility that the journey

might prove a wild goose chase looms larger than it should.

Yet argument fails to displace feeling. A queer instinct warns me

that there may be some real basis for the yogi’s ardent insistence

on the distinctive claims of his Master. I cannot keep off a sense

of self-disappointment. (From A Search in Secret India)

Paul Brunton had several notes of introduction to Indian

gentlemen, one of which was to Mr. K. S. Venkataramani, the

well known author.

 

Mr. Venkataramani took his European friend to his own

Guru ‘the Head of South India’ (Sri Chandrasekharendra

Saraswati, Sankaracharya of Kamakoti Mutt) who was then

camping at Chingleput.

The Acharya referred the foreigner to Sri Ramana Maharshi

for advice and guidance on matters spiritual. Mr. Brunton

returned to his lodging in Madras where Mr. Subramanya was

waiting to guide him to Tiruvannamalai. Thus he was brought

in contact with his Master. The author records with satisfaction:

“It is a singular fact — and perhaps a significant one — that

before I can begin to try my luck in this strange quest, fortune

herself comes in quest of me.”

It is nearly midnight when I returned home...

Out of the darkness, a crouching figure rises and greets me.

“Subramanya!” I exclaim, startled. “What are you doing here?”

The ochre robed yogi indulges in one of his tremendous grins.

“Did I not promise to visit you, Sir?” He reminds me

reproachfully.

“Of course!”

In the large room, I fire a question at him.

“Your Master, is he called the Maharshi?”

It is now his turn to draw back, astonished.

“How do you know, Sir? Where could you have learnt this?”

“Never mind. Tomorrow we both start for his place. I shall

change my plans.”

“This is joyful news, Sir.”

The events of his stay are recorded in the first chapter of this

book. After a short stay there, he left the place, travelled north and

had some veryinteresting experiences. Again destiny came into play

and accidentally brought him face to face with the yogi, Chandi

Das, who advised him to return to Bombay and revisit the master

who was awaiting him. Hastily he returned to Bombay and there

he was taken ill. So he booked his passage home; nevertheless,

pondering over the pros and cons of his revisit to Maharshi, Brunton

finally decided to return to him and cancelled his passage home.

Just at the time, as if to confirm him in his resolve there came a

letter to him (which was following him from place to place) from

B. V.Narasimha Swami, the author of Self-Realisation

 

who invited him back to Maharshi. Subsequently Mr. Brunton returned to

Tiruvannamalai: the later two chapters speak for themselves.

 

What this book is expected to convey to the reader, may be

gathered from the following:

I journeyed Eastwards in search of the yogis and their hermetic

knowledge. I can only say that in India I found my faith

restored. Not so long ago I was among those who regard God

as a hallucination of human fancy, spiritual truth as a mere

nebula and providential justice as a confection of infantile

idealists. I, too, was somewhat impatient of those who

construct theological paradises and who then confidently

show you round with an air of being God’s estate agents. I

had nothing but contempt for what seemed to be the futile,

fanatical efforts of uncritical believers.

If, therefore, I have begun to think a little differently about these

matters, rest assured that good cause has been given me .........

I did arrive at a new acceptance of the divine. This may

seem quite an insignificant and personal thing to do, but as

a child of the modern generation which relies on hard facts

and cold reason, and which lacks enthusiasm for things

religious, I regard it as quite an achievement. This faith was

restored in the only way a sceptic would have it restored,

not by argument but by the witness of an overwhelming

experience. And it was a jungle Sage, an unassuming hermit

who had formerly lived for twenty years in a mountain cave,

who promoted this vital change in my thinking. It is quite

possible that he could not pass a matriculation examination

yet I am not ashamed to record in the closing chapters (XVI

and XVII) of this book my deep indebtedness to this man.

(from A Search in Secret India).

 

..............

to be continued