Paul Brunton - The Maharshi and His Message #5

[Guest guest]

The Maharshi and His Message

 

 

By Paul Brunton

 

 

 

The Hill of the Holy Beacon

 

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

 

 

 

 

Pin-drop silence prevails throughout the long hall. The Sage remains

perfectly still, motionless, quite undisturbed at our arrival. A

swarthy disciple sits on the floor at the other side of the divan. He

breaks into the quietude by beginning to pull at a rope which works a

punkah fan made of plaited khaki. The fan is fixed to a wooden beam

and suspended immediately above the Sage's head. I listen to its

rhythmic purring, the while I look full into the eyes of the seated

figure in the hope of catching his notice.

 

 

They are dark brown, medium sized and wide open.If he is aware of my

presence, he betrays no hint, gives no sign. His body is

supernaturally quiet, as steady as a statue. Not once does he catch

my gaze for his eyes continue to look into remote space, and

infinitely remote it seems. I find this scene strangely reminiscent.

Where have I seen its like? I rummage through the portrait gallery of

memory and find the picture of the Sage Who Never Speaks, that

recluse whom I visited in his isolated cottage near Madras,

that man whose body seemed cut from stone, so motionless it was.

 

There is a curious similarity in this unfamiliar stillness of body

which I now behold in the Maharshi. It is an ancient theory of mine

that one can take the inventory of a man's soul from his eyes. But

before those of the MaharshiI hesitate, puzzled and baffled. The

minutes creep by with unutterable slowness. First they mount up

to a half-hour by the hermitage clock which hangs on a wall; this too

passes by and becomes a whole hour. Yet no one dares to speak. I

reach a point of visual concentration where I have forgotten the

existence of all save this silent figure on the couch. My offering of

fruit remains unregarded on the small carved table which stands

before him. My guide has given me no warning that his Master will

receive me as I had been received by the Sage Who Never Speaks. It

has come upon me abruptly, this strange reception characterised by

complete indifference. The first thought which would come into the

mind of any European, " Is this man merely posing for the benefit of

his devotees? " crosses my mind once or twice, but I soon rule it out.

He is certainly in a trance condition, though my guide has

not informed me that his Master indulges in trances. The next thought

which occupies my mind, " Is this state of mystical contemplation

nothing more than meaningless vacancy? " has a longer sway, but I let

it go for the simple reason that I cannot answer it. There is

something in this man which holds my attention as steel filings are

held by a magnet. I cannot turn my gaze away from him. My initial

bewilderment, my perplexity at being totally ignored, slowly fade

away as this strange fascination begins to grip me more firmly.

 

But it is not till the second hour of the uncommon scene that I

become aware of a silent,resistless change which is taking place

within my mind. One by one, the questions which I prepared in the

train with such meticulous accuracy drop away. For it does not now

seem to matter whether they are asked or not, and it does not matter

whether I solve the problems which have hitherto troubled me. I know

only that a steady river of quietness seems to be flowing near me;

that a great peace is penetrating the inner reaches of my

being, and that my thought-tortured brain isbeginning to arrive at

some rest.How small seem those questions which I have asked myself

with such frequency? How petty grows the panorama of the last years!

I perceive with sudden clarity that intellect creates its own

problems and then makes itself miserable trying to solve them. This

is indeed a novel concept to enter the mind of one who has hitherto

placed such high value upon intellect. I surrender myself to the

steadily deepening sense of restfulness until two hours have passed.

 

 

The passage of time now provokes no irritation, because I feel that

the chains of mind-made problems are being broken and thrown away.

And then, little by little, a new question takes the field of

consciousness. " Does this man, the Maharshi, emanate the perfume of

spiritual peace as the flower emanates fragrance from its

petals? " I do not consider myself a competent person to apprehend

spirituality, but I have personal reactions to other people. The

dawning suspicion that the mysterious peace which has arisen within

me must be attributed to the geographical situation in which I am now

placed, is my reaction to the personality of the Maharshi. I begin to

wonder whether, by some radioactivity of the soul, some unknown

telepathic process, the stillness which invades the troubled waters

of my own soul really comes from him. Yet he remains completely

impassive completely unaware of my very existence, it seems.

 

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