Thanks and welcome

[Guest guest]

Thanks Sri Bruce-Ji and Sri Greg-Ji for your nice and kind comments and welcome.

We welcome the new members including Marcia. My apologies to Sri Bruce-Ji for my

lame humor about letting our hair down and being wild and crazy with the balding

sages being exceptions to the rule as they can be wild and crazy at any time.

Frankly, I think we should all do what the British Judges do. Wear those huge

identical wigs with white hair! Total equality and nonduality! Thanks all for

your presence.

 

Jessica had written how she appreciated the quotes from Sri Ramana that Gloria

had given. Ramana Maharshi is one of the greatest sages of India. He stands

above all others for me. His essential and direct teaching immediately made

sense when I encountered it as it had arisen spontaneously and unexpectedly in

me some years before that. Once in my youth, the great sage appeared in a dream

and initiated me. I was reminded of a living connection, the Heart connection.

What a dream! When someone at the Jain center started singing Aruanchala Shiva,

it was the first time in this life that

I had heard it and I was literally thunderstruck and all the hair on my body

stood up. I did not know there was such a song and what had happened to me.

After that I always begged the singers to sing it every time before starting the

program and make it a permanent part of the routine. I was a pitiful sight! When

Sri Ramana's body was dying and the devotees were worried, He said, "Where can I

go. I am Here." And indeed, for those who are open to it, He is Here as Presence

of the Self, as the Heart, as Consciousness!

 

Here is a selection from Paul Brunton's description of his first meeting with

the Sage of Arunachala, Sri Ramana Maharshi.

 

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

still, motionless, quite

undisturbed at our arrival. 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.

 

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 Maharshi I 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

in the hall seems to stir; certainly 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 fruits

remains unregarded on the small carved table which stands before him.

 

There is something in this man that 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 have 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 seem to 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

is beginning to

arrive at some rest.

 

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.

 

Comes the first ripple. Someone approaches me and whispers in my ear, "Did you

not wish to

question the Maharshi?" The spell is broken. As if this infelicitous intrusion

is a signal, figures rise

from the floor and begin to move about the hall, voices float up to my hearing,

and - wonder of

wonders! - the dark brown eyes of the Maharshi flicker once or twice. Then the

head turns, the face

moves slowly, very slowly, and bends downward at an angle. A few more moments,

and it has

brought me into the ambit of its vision. For the first time the sage's

mysterious gaze is directed

upon me. It is plain that he has now awakened from his long trance.

 

The intruder, thinking perhaps that my lack of response is a sign that I have

not heard him,

repeats his question aloud. But in those lustrous eyes which are gently staring

at me, I read

another question, albeit unspoken.

 

"Can it be - is it possible - that you are still tormented with distracting

doubts when you have now

glimpsed the deep mental peace which you - and all men - may attain?"

 

The peace overwhelms me. I turn to the guide and answer: "No. There is nothing

I care to ask now.

Another time."

 

The midday meal is over. For once I am grateful that India is favoured with a

climate which does not

foster activity, because most of the people have disappeared into the shady

groves to take a

siesta. I can therefore approach the Maharshi in the way I prefer, without

undue notice or fuss.

 

I enter the large hall and sit down near him. The Maharshi holds a folded

manuscript book in his

hands; he is writing something with extreme slowness. A few minutes after my

entry he puts the

book aside and calls a disciple. A few words pass between them in Tamil and the

man tells me that

his master wishes to reiterate his regrets at my inability to partake of their

food. He explains that

they live a simple life, and never having catered for Europeans before do not

know what the latter

eat. I add that I regard the question of diet as being far less important than

the quest which has

brought me to his hermitage.

 

The sage listens intently, his face calm, imperturbable and non-committal.

 

"It is a good object," he comments at length.

 

This encourages me to enlarge upon the same theme.

 

"Master, I have studied our Western philosophies and sciences, lived and worked

among the people

of our crowded cities, tasted their pleasures and allowed myself to be caught

up into their

ambitions. Yet I have also gone into solitary places and wandered there amid

the loneliness of deep

thought. I have questioned the sages of the West; now I have turned my face

towards the East. I

seek more light."

 

The Maharshi nods his head, as if to say, "Yes, I quite understand."

 

"I have heard may opinions, listened to many theories. Intellectual proofs of

one belief or another

lie piled up all around me. I am tired of them, skeptical of anything which

cannot be proved by

personal experience. Forgive me for saying so, but I am not religious. Is there

anything beyond

man's material existence. If so, how can I realize it for myself?"

 

He makes no verbal reply but appears to have dropped into some train of

thought. Because there

is nothing else to do and because my tongue has now been loosened, I address

him for the third

time:

 

"The wise men of the West, our scientists, are greatly honoured for their

cleverness. Yet they have

confessed that they can throw but little light upon the hidden truth behind

life. It is said that there

are some in your land who can give what our Western sages fail to reveal. Is

this so? Can you

assist me to experience enlightenment? Or is the search itself a mere

delusion?"

 

I have now reach my conversational objective and decide to await the Maharshi's

response. He

continues to stare thoughtfully at me. Ten minutes pass in silence.

 

At last his lips open and he says gently:

 

"You say I. 'I want to know.' Tell me, who is that I?"

 

What does he mean? He has now cut across the services of the interpreter and

speaks direct to me

in English. Bewilderment creeps across my brain. "I am afraid I do not

understand your question," I

reply blankly.

 

"Is it not clear? Think again!"

 

I puzzle over his words once more. An idea suddenly flashes into my head. I

point a finger towards

myself and mention my name.

 

"And do you know him?"

 

"All my life!" I smile back at him.

 

"But that is only your body! Again I ask, 'Who are you'?"

 

I cannot find a ready answer to this extraordinary query.

 

The Maharshi continues:

 

"Know first that I and then you shall know the truth."

 

My mind hazes again. I am deeply puzzled. This bewilderment finds verbal

expression. But the

Maharshi has evidently reached the limit of his English, for he turns to the

interpreter and the

answer is slowly translated to me:

 

"There is only one thing to be done. Look into your own self. Do this in the

right way and you shall

find the answer to all your problems."

 

It is a strange rejoinder. But I ask him:

 

"What must one do? What method can I pursue?"

 

"Through deep reflection on the nature of one's self, and through constant

meditation, the light

can be found."

 

"I have frequently given myself up to meditation upon the truth, but I see no

signs of progress."

 

"How do you know that no progress has been made? It is not easy to perceive

one's progress in

the spiritual realm."

 

"Is the help of a master necessary?"

 

"It might be."

 

"Can a master help a man to look into his own self in the way you suggest?"

 

"He can give the man all that he needs for this quest. Such a thing can be

perceived through

personal experience."

 

"How long will it take to get some enlightenment with a master's help?"

 

"It all depends on the maturity of the seeker's mind. The gunpowder catches

fire in an instant,

while much time is needed to set fire to coal."

 

"Will the Maharshi express an opinion about the future of the world, for we are

living in critical

times?"

 

"Why should you trouble yourself about the future?" demands the sage. "You do

not even properly

know about the present! Take care of the present; the future will then take

care of itself."

 

There is an abrupt pause. An attendant approaches and lights another incense

stick. The Maharshi

watches the blue smoke curl its way upwards and then picks up his manuscript

book. He unfolds its

pages and begins to work on it again, thus dismissing me from the field of his

attention.

 

Feeling that our conversation is really at an end, I rise from the tiled floor,

place my hands together

in farewell, and leave him.

 

My proposed weekend quickly passes and I extend it to a week. The week passes

and I extend it to

a fortnight. Each day I sense the beautiful peace of the sage's mental

atmosphere, the serenity

which pervades the very air around him.

 

The last day of my visit arrives and yet I am no closer to him. My stay has

been a tantalizing

mixture of sublime moods and disappointing failures to effect any worthwhile

personal contact with

the Maharshi. I go out to one of his old disciples and tell him earnestly of my

wish to have a final

chat with his master. I confess that I feel too shy to tackle the sage myself.

He leaves me and soon

returns with the news that his master will be very pleased to grant the

interview.

 

I hasten to the hall and sit down conveniently near the divan. The Maharshi

turns his face

immediately, his mouth relaxing into a pleasant greeting. Straightway, I feel

at ease and begin to

question him.

 

"The Yogis say that one must renounce this world and go off into secluded

jungles or mountains, if

one wishes to find truth. Such things can hardly be done in the West; our lives

are so different. Do

you agree with the Yogis?"

 

"The life of action need not be renounced. If you will meditate for an hour or

two every day, you

can then carry on with your duties. If you meditate in the right manner, then

the current of mind

induced will continue to flow even in the midst of your work. It is as though

there were two ways of

expressing the same idea; the same line which you take in meditation will be

expressed in your

activities."

 

"What will be the result of doing that?"

 

"As you go on you will find that your attitude towards people, events and

objects will gradually

change. Your actions will tend to follow your meditations of their own accord."

 

"Then you do not agree with the Yogis?" I try to pin him down.

 

But the Maharshi eludes a direct answer.

 

"A man should surrender the personal selfishness which binds him to this world.

Giving up the false

self is the true renunciation."

 

"How is it possible to become selfless while leading a life of worldly activity

?"

 

"There is no conflict between work and wisdom."

 

"Do you mean that one can continue all the old activities in one's profession,

for instance, and at

the same time get enlightenment?"

 

"Why not? But in that case one will not think that it is the old personality

which is doing the work,

because one's consciousness will gradually become transferred until it is

centered in That which is

beyond the little self."

 

"If a person is engaged in work, there will be little time left for him to

meditate."

 

The Maharshi seems quite unperturbed at my poser.

 

"Setting apart time for meditation is only for the merest spiritual novices,"

he replies. "A man who is

advancing will begin to enjoy the deeper beatitude, whether he is at work or

not. While his hands

are in society, he keeps his head cool in solitude."

 

"Then you do not teach the way of Yoga?"

 

"The Yogi tries to drive his mind to the goal, as a cowherd drives a bull with

a stick, but on this

path the seeker coaxes the bull by holding out a handful of grass!"

 

"How is that done?"

 

"You have to ask yourself the question, Who am I? This investigation will lead

in the end to the

discovery of something within you which is behind the mind. Solve that great

problem, and you will

solve all other problems thereby."

 

There is a pause as I try to digest his answer.

 

The Maharshi addresses me again:

 

"Will it be clearer if it is put in this way? All human beings are ever wanting

happiness, untainted

with sorrow. They want to grasp a happiness which will not come to an end. The

instinct is a true

one. But have you ever been struck by the fact that they love their own selves

most?"

 

"Well ?"

 

"Now relate that to the fact that they are ever desirous of attaining happiness

through one means

or another, through drink or through religion, and you are provided with a clue

to the real nature of

man."

 

"I fail to see . . . . "

 

The tone of his voice becomes higher.

 

"Man's real nature is happiness. Happiness is inborn in the true self. His

search for happiness is an

unconscious search for his true self. The true self is imperishable; therefore,

when a man finds it,

he finds a happiness which does not come to an end."

 

"But the world is so unhappy?"

 

"Yes, but that is because the world is ignorant of its true self. All men,

without exception, are

consciously or unconsciously seeking for it."

 

[Editor's note: After this conversation, one by one, the hall empties. Paul

Brunton sits alone facing

the Maharshi. Brunton receives a piercing steady glance and begins to lose body

consciousness;

nevertheless, he breaks away and makes his departure. He eventually travels to

Bombay and

purchases his sea-voyage ticket back to England. But his two-week encounter

with the Maharshi

haunts him. He abandons his travel plans and returns to the Maharshi.

 

Once there he settles in, builds a hut west of the Ashrama, and pursues the

inner quest as taught

by the Maharshi. And one day, his departure imminent, his health on the verge

of collapse, he sits

once again in the hall and attempts the inner quest. This time his efforts are

quickly rewarded as

the Maharshi turns his penetrating gaze on him.]

 

Finally it happens. Thought is extinguished like a snuffed candle. The

intellect withdraws into its real

ground, that is, consciousness working unhindered by thoughts. I remain

perfectly calm and fully

aware of who I am and what is occurring. Yet my sense of awareness has been

drawn out of the

narrow confines of the separate personality; it has turned into something

sublimely all-embracing.

Self still exists, but it is a changed, radiant self. For something that is far

superior to the

unimportant personality which was I, some deeper, diviner being rises into

consciousness and

becomes me. I, the new I, rest in the lap of holy bliss. My heart is remoulded

in rapture.

 

I return to this mundane sphere impelled by a force which I cannot resist. I

discover I am still sitting

in the hall of the Maharshi and that it is apparently deserted. My eyes catch

sight of the hermitage

clock and I realize that the inmates must be in the dining-room at their

evening meal. And then I

become aware of someone to my left. It is the ex-stationmaster, who is

squatting close beside me

on the floor.

 

"You have been in a spiritual trance for nearly two hours," he informs me.

 

I endeavor to make some reply, but discover to my astonishment that my power of

speech has

gone. Not for almost fifteen minutes do I recover it. Meanwhile the old man

supplements with the

further statement:

 

"The Maharshi watched you closely all the time. I believe his thoughts guided

you."

 

With the fall of dusk I take my farewells of everyone except the Maharshi. I

feel quietly content

because my battle for spiritual certitude has been won. Yet when the Maharshi

comes to the

courtyard with me a little later, my contentment suddenly deserts me. This man

has strangely

conquered me and it deeply affects my feelings to leave him.

 

I raise my palms and close them together in the customary salutation and then

mutter a brief

goodbye. The sage smiles and looks at me fixedly, but says not a word.

 

One last look towards the Maharshi, one last glimpse by dim lantern light of a

tall copper-skinned

figure with lustrous eyes, another farewell gesture on my part, a slight wave

of his right hand in

response, and we part.

 

Paul Brunton