Paul Brunton - The Maharshi and His Message #17

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The Maharshi speaks again, his words breaking into my thoughts:

“Unless and until a man embarks upon this quest of the true

Self, doubt and uncertainty will follow his footsteps throughout

life. The greatest kings and statesmen try to rule others, when in

their heart of hearts they know that they cannot rule themselves.

Yet the greatest power is at the command of the man who has

penetrated to his inmost depth. There are men of giant intellects

who spend their lives gathering knowledge about many things.

Ask these men if they have solved the mystery of man, if they

have conquered themselves, and they will hang their heads in

shame. What is the use of knowing about everything else when

you do not yet know who you are? Men avoid this enquiry into

the true Self, but what else is there so worthy to be undertaken?”

 

“That is such a difficult, superhuman task,” I comment.

 

The Sage gives an almost imperceptible shrug of his shoulders.

 

“The question of its possibility is a matter of one’s own

experience. The difficulty is less real than you think.”

 

“For us, who are active, practical Westerners, such

introspections . . . . . ?” I begin doubtfully and leave my sentence

trailing in midair.

 

The Maharshi bends down to light a fresh joss stick, which

will replace one whose red spark is dying out.

 

“The realization of truth is the same for both Indians and

Europeans. Admittedly the way to it may be harder for those

who are engrossed in worldly life, but even then one can and

must conquer. The current induced during meditation can be

kept up by habit, by practising to do so. Then one can perform

his work and activities in that very current itself; there will be no

break. Thus, too there will be no difference between meditation

and external activities. If you meditate on this question, ‘Who

am I?’, if you begin to perceive that neither the body nor the

brain nor the desires are really you, then the very attitude of

 

 

enquiry will eventually draw the answer to you out of the depths

of your own being; it will come to you of its own accord as a

deep realization.”

 

Again I ponder his words.

 

“Know the real Self,” he continues, “and then the truth will

shine forth within your heart like sunshine. The mind will

become untroubled and real happiness will flood it; for happiness

and the true self are identical. You will have no more doubts

once you attain this Self-awareness.”

 

He turns his head and fixes his gaze at the far end of the hall.

I know then that he has reached his conversational limit. Thus

ends our last talk and I congratulate myself that I have drawn

him out of the shell of taciturnity before my departure.

 

 

I leave him and wander away to a quiet spot in the jungle,

where I spend most of the day among my notes and books.

When dusk falls I return to the hall, for within an hour or two a

pony-carriage or a bullock-cart will arrive to bear me away from

the hermitage.

 

Burning incense makes the air odorous. The Maharshi has

been half reclining under the waving punkah as I enter but he

soon sits up and assumes his favourite attitude. He sits with legs

crossed, the right foot placed on the left thigh and the left foot

merely folded beneath the right thigh. I remember being shown

a similar position by Brama, the yogi who lives near Madras,

who called it “The Comfortable Posture.” It is really a half-

Buddha posture and quite easy to do. The Maharshi, as is his

wont, holds his chin with his right hand and rests the elbow on

a knee; next he gazes attentively at me but remains quite silent.

On the floor beside him I notice his gourd-shell, water jug and

 

 

his bamboo staff. They are his sole earthly possessions, apart

from the strip of loin-cloth. What a mute commentary on our

Western spirit of acquisitiveness!

 

His eyes, always shining, steadily become more glazed and fixed;

his body sets into a rigid pose; his head trembles slightly and then

comes to rest. A few more minutes and I can plainly see that he has

re-entered the trance like condition in which he was when I first

met him. How strange that our parting shall repeat our meeting!

 

Someone brings his face close to mine and whispers in my ear,

“The Maharshi has gone into holy trance. It is useless now to talk.”

A hush falls upon the little company. The minutes slowly

pass but the silence only deepens. I am not religious but I can

no more resist the feeling of increasing awe which begins to grip

my mind than a bee can resist a flower in all its luscious bloom.

The hall is becoming pervaded with a subtle, intangible and

indefinable power which affects me deeply. I feel, without doubt

and without hesitation, that the centre of this mysterious power

is no other than the Maharshi himself.

 

His eyes shine with astonishing brilliance. Strange sensations

begin to arise in me. Those lustrous orbs seem to be peering into

the inmost recesses of my soul. In a peculiar way, I feel aware of

everything he can see in my heart. His mysterious glance penetrates

my thoughts, my emotions and my desires; I am helpless before

it. At first this disconcerting gaze troubles me; I become vaguely

uneasy. I feel that he has perceived pages that belong to a past

which I have forgotten. He knows it all, I am certain. I am powerless

to escape; somehow, I do not want to, either. Some curious

intimation of future benefit forces me to endure that pitiless gaze.

And so he continues to catch the feeble quality of my soul for

a while, to perceive my motley past, to sense the mixed emotions

which have drawn me this way and that. But I feel that he

understands also what mind-devastating quest has impelled me

to leave the common way and seek out such men as he.

 

 

 

There comes a perceptible change in the telepathic current

which plays between us, the while my eyes blink frequently but

his remain without the least tremor. I become aware that he is

definitely linking my own mind with his; that he is provoking

my heart into that state of starry calm which he seems perpetually

to enjoy. In this extraordinary peace, I find a sense of exaltation

and lightness. Time seems to stand still. My heart is released

from its burden of care. Never again, I feel, shall the bitterness

of anger and the melancholy of unsatisfied desire afflict me. I

realize deeply that the profound instinct which is innate in the

race, which bids man look up, which encourages him to hope

on, and which sustains him when life has darkened, is a true

instinct, for the essence of being is good. In this beautiful,

entranced silence, when the clock stands still and the sorrows

and errors of the past seem like trivialities, my mind is being

submerged in that of the Maharshi and wisdom is now at its

perihelion. What is this man’s gaze but a thaumaturgic wand,

which evokes a hidden world of unexpected splendour before

my profane eyes?

 

I have sometimes asked myself why these disciples have been

staying around the Sage for years, with few conversations, fewer

comforts and no external activities to attract them. Now I begin

to understand — not by thought but by lightning like

illumination — that through all those years they have been

receiving a deep and silent reward.

 

Hitherto, everyone in the hall has been hushed to a deathlike

stillness. At length, someone quietly rises and passes out. He is

followed by another, and then another, until all have gone.

 

I am alone with the Maharshi! Never before has this happened.

His eyes begin to change; they narrow down to pin-points. The

effect is curiously like the “stopping-down” in the focus of a camera

lens. There comes a tremendous increase in the intense gleam

which shines between the lids, now almost closed. Suddenly, my

body seems to disappear, and we are both out in space!

 

 

It is a crucial moment. I hesitate — and decide to break this

enchanter’s spell. Decision brings power and once again I am

back in the flesh, back in the hall.

No word passes from him to me. I collect my faculties, look

at the clock, and rise quietly. The hour of departure has arrived.

I bow my head in farewell. The Sage silently acknowledges

the gesture. I utter a few words of thanks. Again, he silently

nods his head.

I linger reluctantly at the threshold. Outside, I hear the tinkle

of a bell. The bullock cart has arrived. Once more I raise my

hands, palms touching.

 

And so we part.