Paul Brunton - The Maharshi and His Message #4

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The Maharshi and His Message

 

 

By Paul Brunton

 

 

 

The Hill of the Holy Beacon

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At length I learn that we are approaching the Maharshi’s

hermitage. We turn aside from the road and move down a rough

path which brings us to a thick grove of coconut and mango

trees. We cross this until the path suddenly comes to an abrupt

termination before an unlocked gate. The driver descends,

pushes the gate open, and then drives us into a large unpaved

courtyard. I stretch out my cramped limbs, descend to the

ground, and look around.

The cloistered domain of the Maharshi is hemmed in at the

front by closely growing trees and a thickly clustered garden; it

is screened at the back and side by hedgerows of shrub and cactus,

while away to the west stretches the scrub jungle and what appears

to be dense forest. It is most picturesquely placed on a lower

spur of the hill. Secluded and apart, it seems a fitting spot for

those who wish to pursue profound themes of meditation.

Two small buildings with thatched roofs occupy the left side

of the courtyard. Adjoining them stands a long, modern structure,

whose red-tiled roof comes sharply down into overhanging eaves.

A small verandah stretches across a part of the front.

 

 

The centre of the courtyard is marked by a large well. I watch

a boy, who is naked to the waist and dark-skinned to the point

of blackness, slowly draw a bucket of water to the surface with

the aid of a creaking hand windlass.

 

The sound of our entry brings a few men out of the buildings

into the courtyard. Their dress is extremely varied. One is garbed

in nothing but a ragged loin-cloth, but another is prosperously

attired in a white silk robe. They stare questioningly at us. My

guide grins hugely, evidently enjoying their astonishment. He

crosses to them and says something in Tamil. The expression on

their faces changes immediately, for they smile in unison and

beam at me with pleasure. I like their faces and their bearing.

“We shall now go into the hall of the Maharshi,” announces

the holy man of the yellow robe, bidding me follow him. I pause

outside the uncovered stone verandah 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 faces flash their eyes upon us. Their owners are squatting

in half-circles on a dark grey floor paved with Cuddapah slabs.

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.

My guide approaches the divan, prostrates himself prone on

the floor, and buries his eyes under folded hands.

 

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 theprecise 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 iron 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, but the pungent perfume is quite different.

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 is 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.

 

The couch is covered with white cushions and the Maharshi’s

feet rest upon a magnificently marked tiger skin.

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