Mrs. Merston - Impressions and Reminiscences

[Guest guest]

Mrs. Merston

IMPRESSIONS AND REMINISCENCES

 

Paris 1937-38. A small group of Ommenites meeting weekly

to discuss Krishnamurti’s and other teachings. All of us

had read Paul Brunton’s In Search of Secret India, so all knew

the Maharshi by name and we had discussed his teaching too,

but one of us, Pascaline Mallet had actually visited him in his

Ashram and been much impressed. One day, she received from

a friend whom she met there, a copy of his daily diary kept

while at the Ashram, and this she brought to read to us. A little

later, Pascaline asked me to help her to translate Who am I? into

French. All this made so deep an impression on me that upon

returning to India, and touring the South with a friend who

was equally curious to see the great man so eulogised by Brunton,

we decided to visit Tiruvannamalai to see him for ourselves.

That was in 1939, thus just twenty years ago, [written in

1959] Bhagavan drew me to Tiruvannamalai. All was new to

me. I had known Krishnamurti, and Ouspensky and Gurdjieff,

but never any Hindu Sage of the Advaitic tradition, yet, from

the first moment in his presence he made me feel at home, and

the peace of the little hall drew me as nothing had before. We

had planned to stay for two days and my friend left as arranged,

but still having two more days free before returning to the north,

I stayed on. When finally I had to leave, I knew that sometime

I should return.

The return came only about two years later, and from then

on, for five consecutive years, I visited the Ashram each summer

to sit in Bhagavan’s presence. Then in 1944, my work in the

north coming to an end, I came to live permanently near him.

 

In the early days of my visits, the entrance door to the

little hall, where Bhagavan lived day and night, was opposite to

his couch and diagonally to the exit doorway on the opposite

side. Later it was moved down the hall and is now directly

opposite the exit. In the early days, the women sat on either

side of the entrance, facing the couch, while the men sat down

on the other side at the foot of the couch. Every sort, and kind

of caste, creed and nationality came for darshan. To each and

everyone, from maharajah to sweeper, Bhagavan was the same

gentle, twinkling-eyed friend; no one, from the tiniest child,

seemed awed by him. Newcomers, including myself, would begin

by asking him questions, but soon found no necessity to voice

them; in one way or another, without asking, the questions

would be answered and the problems solved.

 

Once I had been mulling over a problem for three days

without finding the solution. The fourth day, sitting opposite

to Bhagavan, and still harassed by the problem, Bhagavan

suddenly turned his eyes upon me. After a moment, he asked

one of his attendants to find him a certain book of puranic

stories; he turned over the pages until, finding the passage he

wanted, he handed the book to one of the men who knew

English and told him to read the story aloud. That story gave

me the answer to my problem.

 

At other times, from the gaze of his eyes alone, one’s

question would be answered. Only on rare occasions would he

give advice audibly, and even then, mostly indirectly. Thus, in

the following case of a young devotee from Bombay:

This young devotee was in the habit of sitting day after

day in Bhagavan’s presence contorting himself, twisting and

turning and groaning aloud, obviously using yogic practices in

his endeavour to attain moksha. This had been going on for

some weeks, the young man was getting thin and was so clearly

in danger that meeting him one day just outside the hall, I

asked him why he took that path, that it was not Bhagavan’s

way, and that without a Guru it was very dangerous. The young

man replied that he did not care, even if he died doing the

practices, so long as he got moksha at the end. Whereupon we

entered the hall, prostrated before Bhagavan and sat down on

our respective sides of the gangway. The doorways of the little

hall had by this time been altered and we women sat on the exit

side at Bhagavan’s feet. I sat down just behind Mrs. T. Bhagavan

was reading his mail. The young man had started on his

contortions as usual, oblivious to everything around him.

Presently Bhagavan began to read aloud from a letter from Paris

in which the writer asked the value of asanas and yogic practices.

Addressing himself to Mrs. T., Bhagavan with a smile said: “She

asks the value of such practices,” and he nodded towards the

young man contorting, “Those sort of practices have absolutely

no value. At very best, the only thing that might happen is that,

perhaps, after some twenty five years of going on and on with

them, you might wake up sufficiently to realize the futility of

what you are doing!” The young man did not even hear the

advice given, and although Bhagavan’s words were repeated to

him later by several people, he paid no attention but continued

with his practices. As a result, he soon fell very ill and had to

leave Tiruvannamalai.

 

Sometimes one could feel Bhagavan communicating

voicelessly with someone in the hall; it was as though there were

a strong current or pulsation flowing from him to the person

down the hall. I had felt the like with Gurdjieff. But one special

occasion in the hall where the current was reciprocated, is an

unforgettable experience.

It was in the days when the door was still opposite

Bhagavan’s couch, and I was sitting to the right of the door

opposite to him. Suddenly a shadow fell through the doorway

and a fair, elderly sannyasi stepped over the threshold. Bhagavan,

who was reading, dropped his book immediately and looked

straight up at the man who took two strides forward and stood

near Bhagavan’s feet, returning his gaze.

In Bhagavan’s gaze was such love and joy that one could

almost hear him say: “So you have come at last, my beloved

brother!” The two went on gazing at each other, without a word

spoken aloud, but I could literally feel them speaking to each

other, the flow of the current going back and forth between

them. They talked thus voicelessly for some ten or fifteen

minutes, then suddenly the sannyasi dropped to the floor and

passed into samadhi for the next two hours. Bhagavan quietly

took up his book again and went on, remaining as though

nothing had happened, as doubtless indeed for him it had not.

But for us it was an unforgettable experience.

 

During the last years of Bhagavan’s life in the body, many

were the lessons we learned from him, but one, and perhaps the

chief one, he never ceased, especially during the last six months,

to hammer into us, namely, that he was not the body; the body

might go, but he would not go, for where should he go to? He

always was and always would be there, with us, as now. So true

did he make this for us that when I saw his sacred frame being

carried out into the big hall after his Maha Samadhi, I felt that

Bhagavan was still there. He was still present, ready to be

questioned and talked with as before. And so well had he

prepared us to realize this, that in all the crowd of some 1,500

people present, many of them devotees, I only saw three people

cry as we spent the night in vigil. We just knew that Bhagavan

had not gone, so what need to cry for him, or rather, to cry for

our nonexistent loss?

 

We who knew him in the body are not the only ones to

feel his presence, even after he left the body. People in England

who never knew him in the flesh, have told me that, after

reading about him, they have had experiences of his actual

presence near them, even of his touch, ready with his Grace to

help.

May we be worthy to receive that Grace, as he so freely

offers of it!

from

Surpassing Love and Grace