Paul Brunton - The Maharshi and His Message #19

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It begins to voice itself in my thoughts that the Maharshi is

not to be drawn into giving me a direct affirmative response,

and that the answer I seek must be found in some other way,

doubtless in the subtle, obscure manner at which he hints. So I

let the matter drop and our talk then turns to the outward and

material side of my visit.

 

I spend the afternoon making some arrangements for a

protracted stay.

 

The ensuing weeks absorb me into a strange, unwonted life.

My days are spent in the hall of the Maharshi, where I slowly

pick up the unrelated fragments of his wisdom and the faint

clues to the answer I seek; my nights continue as heretofore in

torturing sleeplessness, with my body stretched out on a blanket

laid on the hard earthen floor of a hastily built hut.

 

This humble abode stands about three hundred feet away from

the hermitage. Its thick walls are composed of thinly plastered

earth, but the roof is solidly tiled to withstand the monsoon rains.

 

The ground around it is virgin bush, somewhat thickly overgrown,

being in fact the fringe of the jungle which stretches away to the

 

west. The rugged landscape reveals Nature in all her own wild

uncultivated grandeur. Cactus hedges are scattered numerously

and irregularly around, the spines of these prickly plants looking

like coarse needles. Beyond them the jungle drops a curtain of

scrub bush and stunted trees upon the land. To the north rises the

gaunt figure of the mountain, a mass of metallic-tinted rocks and

brown soil. To the south lies a long pool, whose placid water has

attracted me to the spot, and whose banks are bordered with clumps

of trees holding families of grey and brown monkeys.

 

Each day is a duplicate of the one before. I rise early in the

morning and watch the jungle dawn turn from grey to green

and then to gold. Next comes a plunge into the water and a

swift swim up and down the pool, making as much noise as I

possibly can so as to scare away lurking snakes. Then, dressing,

shaving, and the only luxury I can secure in this place — three

cups of deliciously refreshing tea.

 

“Master, the pot of tea-water is ready,” says Rajoo, my hired

boy. From an initial total ignorance of the English language, he

has acquired that much, and more, under my occasional tuition.

 

As a servant he is a gem, for he will scour up and down the little

township with optimistic determination in quest of the strange

articles and foods for which his Western employer speculatively

sends him, or he will hover outside the Maharshi’s hall in discreet

silence during meditation hours, should he happen to come along

for orders at such times. But as a cook he is unable to comprehend

Western taste, which seems a queer distorted thing to him. After

a few painful experiments, I myself take charge of the more

serious culinary arrangements, reducing my labour by reducing

my solid meals to a single one each day. Tea, taken thrice daily,

becomes both my solitary earthly joy and the mainstay of my

energy. Rajoo stands in the sunshine and watches with

wonderment my addiction to the glorious brown brew. His body

shines in the hard yellow light like polished ebony, for he is a

true son of the black Dravidians, the primal inhabitants of India.

 

 

 

After breakfast comes my quiet lazy stroll to the hermitage, a

halt for a couple of minutes beside the sweet rose bushes in the

compound garden, which is fenced in by bamboo posts, or a

rest under the drooping fronds of palm trees whose heads are

heavy with coconuts. It is a beautiful experience to wander around

the hermitage garden before the sun has waxed in power and to

see and smell the variegated flowers.

 

And then I enter the hall, bow before the Maharshi and quietly

sit down on folded legs. I may read or write for a while, or engage

in conversation with one or two of the other men, or tackle the

Maharshi on some point, or plunge into meditation for an hour

along the lines which the Sage has indicated, although evening

usually constitutes the time specially assigned to meditation in

the hall. But whatever I am doing I never fail to become gradually

aware of the mysterious atmosphere of the place, of the benign

radiations which steadily percolate into my brain. I enjoy an

ineffable tranquility merely by sitting for a while in the

neighbourhood of the Maharshi. By careful observation and

frequent analysis I arrive in time at the complete certitude that

reciprocal inter-influence arises whenever our presences neighbour

each other. The thing is most subtle. But it is quite unmistakable.

At eleven I return to the hut for the midday meal and a rest

and then go back to the hall to repeat my programme of the

morning. I vary my meditations and conversations sometimes

by roaming the countryside or descending on the little township

to make further explorations of the colossal temple.

 

From time to time the Maharshi unexpectedly visits me at

the hut after finishing his own lunch. I seize the opportunity to

plague him with further questions, which he patiently answers

in terse epigrammatic phrases, clipped so short as rarely to

constitute complete sentences. But once, when I propound some

fresh problem, he makes no answer. Instead, he gazes out towards

the jungle covered hills which stretch to the horizon and remains

 

 

motionless. Many minutes pass but still his eyes are fixed, his

presence remote. I am quite unable to discern whether his

attention is being given to some invisible psychic being in the

distance or whether it is being turned on some inward

preoccupation. At first I wonder whether he has heard me, but

in the tense silence which ensues, and which I feel unable or

unwilling to break, a force greater than my rationalistic mind

commences to awe me until it ends by overwhelming me.

 

The realization forces itself through my wonderment that all

my questions are moves in an endless game, the play of thoughts

which possess no limit to their extent; that somewhere within

me there is a well of certitude which can provide me all the

waters of truth I require; and that it will be better to cease my

questioning and attempt to realize the tremendous potencies of

my own spiritual nature. So I remain silent and wait.

 

For almost half an hour the Maharshi’s eyes continue to stare

straight in front of him in a fixed, unmoving gaze. He appears

to have forgotten me, but I am perfectly aware that the sublime

realization which has suddenly fallen upon me is nothing else

than a spreading ripple of telepathic radiation from this

mysterious and imperturbable man.

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