Paul Brunton - The Maharshi and His Message #11

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Somewhere in the far end of the township I espy the gleaming

whiteness of a couple of minarets. So I leave the temple and

drive to the local mosque. Something inside me always thrills to

the graceful arches of a mosque and to the delicate beauty of

cupolas. Once again I remove my shoes and enter the charming

white building. How well it has been planned, for its vaulted

height inevitably elevates one’s mood! There are a few worshippers

present; they sit, kneel or prostrate themselves upon their small,

colourful prayer rugs. There are no mysterious shrines here, no

gaudy images, for the Prophet has written that nothing shall

come between a man and God, not even a priest! All worshippers

are equal before the face of Allah. There is neither priest nor

pundit, no hierarchy of superior beings to interpose themselves

in a man’s thoughts when he turns towards Mecca.

 

As we return through the main street I note the money-changers’

booths, the sweetmeat stalls, the cloth merchants’ shops and the

sellers of grain and rice — all existing for the benefit of pilgrims to

the ancient sanctuary which has called the place into being.

 

I am now eager to get back to the Maharshi and the driver

urges his pony to cover the distance which lies before us at a

rapid pace. I turn my head and take a final glimpse of the temple

of Arunachala. The nine sculptured towers rise like pylons into

the air. They speak to me of the patient toil in the name of God

which has gone into the making of the old temple, for it has

undoubtedly taken more than a man’s lifetime to construct.

 

And again that queer reminiscence of Egypt penetrates my mind.

Even the domestic architecture of the streets possesses an

Egyptian character in the low houses and thick walls.

Shall a day ever come when these temples will be abandoned

and left, silent and deserted, to crumble slowly into the red and

grey dust whence they have emerged? Or will man find new

gods and build new fanes wherein to worship them?

 

While our pony gallops along the road towards the hermitage

which lies on one of the slopes of yonder rock strewn hill, I

realise with a catch in my breath that Nature is unrolling an

 

entire pageant of beauty back before our eyes. How often have I

waited for this hour in the East, when the sun, with much

splendour, goes to rest upon its bed of night! An Oriental sunset

holds the heart with its lovely play of vivid colours. And yet the

whole event is over so quickly, an affair of less than half an hour.

 

Those lingering autumnal evenings of Europe are almost

unknown here. Out in the west a great flaming ball of fire begins

its visible descent into the jungle. It assumes the most striking

orange hue as a prelude to its rapid disappearance from the vault

of heaven. The sky around it takes on all the colours of the

spectrum, providing our eyes with an artistic feast which no

painter could ever provide. The field and groves around us have

entered into an entranced stillness. No more can the chirruping

of little birds be heard. The giant circle of red fire is quickly

fading into some other dimension. Evening’s curtain falls thicker

yet and soon the whole panorama of thrusting tongues of flame

and outspread colours sinks away into darkness.

 

The calmness sinks into my thoughts, the loveliness of it all

touches my heart. How can one forget these benign minutes

which the fates have portioned us, when they make us play with

the thought that, under the cruel face of life, a benevolent and

beautiful Power may yet be hiding? These minutes put our

commonplace hours to shame. Out of the dark void they come

like meteors, to light a transient trail of hope and then to pass

away from our ken.

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