Paul Brunton - The Maharshi and His Message #3

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The Maharshi and His Message

By Paul Brunton

 

 

 

The Hill of the Holy Beacon

AT THE MADRAS TERMINUS OF THE SOUTH

Indian Railway, Subramanya and I board a carriage on

the Ceylon boat train. For several hours we roll onwards through

the most variegated scenes. Green stretches of growing rice

alternate with gaunt red hills, shady plantations of stately coconut

trees are followed by scattered peasants toiling in the paddy fields.

As I sit at the window, the swift Indian dusk begins to blot out

the landscape and I turn my head to muse of other things.

 

I begin to wonder at the strange things which have happened since I have

worn the golden ring which Brama has given me. For my plans

have changed their face; a concatenation of unexpected

circumstances has arisen to drive me farther south, instead of going

further east as I have intended. Is it possible, I ask myself, that

these golden claws hold a stone which really possesses the

mysterious power which the yogi has claimed for it? Although I

endeavour to keep an open mind, it is difficult for any Westerner

of scientifically trained mind to credit the idea. I dismiss the

speculation from my mind, but do not succeed in driving away

the uncertainty which lurks at the back of my thoughts. Why is it

that my footsteps have been so strangely guided to the mountain

hermitage whither I am travelling? Why is it that two men, who

both wear the yellow robe, have been coupled as destiny’s agents

to the extent of directing my reluctant eyes towards the Maharshi?

I use this word destiny, not in its common sense, but because I am

at a loss for a better one. Past experience has taught me full well

that seemingly unimportant happenings sometimes play an

unexpected part in composing the picture of one’s life.

We leave the train, and with it the main line, forty miles

from Pondicherry, that pathetic little remnant of France’s

territorial possessions in India. We go over to a quiet, little used

branch railroad which runs into the interior, and wait for nearly

 

two hours in the semi-gloom of a bleak waiting-room. The holy

man paces along the bleaker platform outside, his tall figure

looking half-ghost, half-real in the starlight. At last the ill-timed

train, which puffs infrequently up and down the line, carries us

away. There are but few other passengers.

 

I fall into a fitful, dream-broken sleep which continues for

some hours until my companion awakens me. We descend at a

little wayside station and the train screeches and grinds away

into the silent darkness. Night’s life has not quite run out and so

we sit in a bare and comfortless little waiting-room, whose small

kerosene lamp we light ourselves.

 

We wait patiently while day fights with darkness for

supremacy. When a pale dawn emerges at last, creeping bit by

bit through a small barred window in the back of our room, I

peer out at such portion of our surroundings as becomes visible.

Out of the morning haze there rises the faint outline of a solitary

hill apparently some few miles distant. The base is of impressive

extent and the body of ample girth, but the head is not to be

seen, being yet thick-shrouded in the dawn mists.

 

My guide ventures outside, where he discovers a man loudly

snoring in his tiny bullock cart. A shout or two brings the driver

back to this mundane existence thus making him aware of business

waiting in the offing. When informed of our destination he seems

but too eager to transport us. I gaze somewhat dubiously at his

narrow conveyance — a bamboo canopy balanced on two wheels.

Anyway, we clamber aboard and the man bundles the luggage

after us. The holy man manages to compress himself into the

minimum space which a human being can possibly occupy; I

crouch under the low canopy with legs dangling out in space; the

driver squats upon the shaft between his bulls with his chin almost

touching his knees, and the problem of accommodation being

thus solved more or less satisfactorily, we bid him be off.

 

 

 

Our progress is anything but rapid, despite the best efforts of a

pair of strong, small, white bullocks. These charming creatures are

very useful as draught animals in the interior of India, because they

endure heat better than horses and are less fastidious in the matter

of diet. The customs of the quiet villages and small townships of the

interior have not changed very much in the course of centuries.

The bullock cart which transported the traveller from place to place

in BC 100, transports him still, two thousand years after.

Our driver, whose face is the colour of beaten bronze, has

taken much pride in his animals. Their long beautifully curved

horns are adorned with shapely gift ornaments; their thin legs

have tinkling brass bells tied to them. He guides them by means

of a rein threaded through their nostrils. While their feet merrily

jog away upon the dust laden road, I watch the quick tropic

dawn come on apace.

 

An attractive landscape shapes itself both on our right and

left. No drab flat plain this, for heights and hillocks are not long

absent from the eyes whenever one searches the horizon’s length.

The road traverses a district of red earth dotted with terrains of

scrubby thorn-bush and a few bright emerald paddy fields.

A peasant with toil-worn face passes us. No doubt he is going

out to his long day’s work in the fields. Soon we overtake a girl

with a brass water pitcher mounted upon her head. A single

vermilion robe is wrapped around her body, but her shoulders

are left bare. A blood coloured ruby ornaments one nostril, and

a pair of gold bracelets gleam on her arms in the pale morning

sunlight. The blackness of her skin reveals her as a Dravidian —

as indeed most of the inhabitants of these parts probably are,

save the brahmins and Muhammadans. These Dravidian girls

are usually gay and happy by nature. I find them more talkative

than their brown country women and more musical in voice.

The girl stares at us with unfeigned surprise and I guess that

Europeans rarely visit this part of the interior.

 

 

 

And so we ride on until the little township is reached. Its houses

are prosperous looking and arranged into streets which cluster

around three sides of an enormous temple. If I am not mistaken,

the latter is a quarter of a mile long. I gather a rough conception

of its architectural massiveness a while later when we reach one of

its spacious gateways. We halt for a minute or two and I peer

inside to register some fleeting glimpses of the place. Its strangeness

is as impressive as its size. Never before have I seen a structure like

this. A vast quadrangle surrounds the enormous interior, which

looks like a labyrinth. I perceive that the four high enclosing walls

have been scorched and coloured by hundreds of years of exposure

to the fierce tropical sunshine. Each wall is pierced by a single

gateway, above which rises a queer superstructure consisting of a

giant pagoda. The latter seems strangely like an ornate, sculptured

pyramid. Its lower part is built of stone, but the upper portion

seems to be thickly plastered brickwork. The pagoda is divided

into many storeys, but the entire surface is profusely decorated

with a variety of figures and carvings. In addition to these four

entrance towers, I count no less than five others which rise up

within the interior of the temple. How curiously they remind one

of Egyptian pyramids in the similarity of outline!

 

My last glimpse is of long-roofed cloisters, of serried ranks of

flat stone pillars in large numbers, of a great central enclosure,

of dim shrines and dark corridors and many little buildings. I

make a mental note to explore this interesting place before long.

The bullocks trot off and we emerge into open country again.

The scenes which we pass are quite pretty. The road is covered with

red dust; on either side there are low bushes and occasional clumps

of tall trees. There are many birds hidden among the branches, for

I hear the flutter of their wings, as well as the last notes of that

beautiful chorus which is their morning song all over the world.

Dotted along the route are a number of charming little

wayside shrines. The differences of architectural style surprise

me, until I conclude that they have been erected during changing

 

 

epochs. Some are highly ornate, over-decorated and elaborately

carved in the usual Hindu manner, but the larger ones are

supported by flat-surfaced pillars which I have seen nowhere

else but in the South. There are even two or three shrines whose

classical severity of outline is almost Grecian.

 

I judge that we have now travelled about five or six miles

(though we have done only two miles), when we reach the lower

slopes of the hill whose vague outline I had seen from the station.

It rises like a reddish brown giant in the clear morning sunlight.

The mists have now rolled away, revealing a broad skyline at the

top. It is an isolated upland of red soil and brown rock, barren

for the most part, with large tracts almost treeless, and with masses

of stone split into great boulders tossed about in chaotic disorder.

“Arunachala! The sacred red mountain!” exclaims my

companion, noticing the direction of my gaze. A fervent

expression of adoration passes across his face. He is momentarily

rapt in ecstasy like some medieval saint.

I ask him, “Does the name mean anything?”

“I have just given you the meaning,” he replies with a smile.

“The name is composed of two words ‘Aruna’ and ‘Achala’,

which means red mountain and since it is also the name of the

presiding deity of the temple, its full translation should be

‘sacred red mountain’.”

“Then where does the holy beacon come in?”

“Ah! Once a year the temple priests celebrate their central

festival. Immediately that occurs within the temple, a huge fire

blazes out on top of the mountain, its flame being fed with vast

quantities of melted butter (ghee) and camphor. It burns for many

days and can be seen for many miles around. Whoever sees it, at

once prostrates himself before it. It symbolises the fact that this

mountain is sacred ground, overshadowed by a great deity.”

 

 

 

The hill now towers over our heads. It is not without its rugged

grandeur, this lonely peak patterned with red, brown and grey

boulders, thrusting its flat head thousands of feet into the pearly

sky. Whether the holy man’s words have affected me or whether

for some unaccountable cause, I find a queer feeling of awe arising

in me as I meditate upon the picture of the sacred mountain, as

I gaze up wonderingly at the steep incline of Arunachala.

“Do you know,” whispers my companion, “that this mountain

is not only esteemed holy ground, but the local traditions dare

to assert that the gods placed it there to mark the spiritual centre

of the world!”

 

This little bit of legend forces me to smile. How naive it is!

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