I was eleven years old when my mother brought my grandmother and myself, newly arrived from England, into the presence of Bhagavan at Sri Ramanasramam. I saw him sitting there before us on a sofa in a long narrow hall. He was an elderly clean-shaven man, fair of complexion and with wonderful eyes. When he saw us he smiled sweetly as if to say "So you have reached safely." 

My grandmother, Jeanne, and myself had been living in England, where my father wanted me to be educated. But when war broke out and the Battle of Britain got under way, my mother, who was known in India as Sujata, urged us to come back to India. She herself had come to Tiruvannamalai in 1936 to visit Bhagavan and had stayed on ever since. Very worried about our safety in wartime, she had a dream in which she saw Bhagavan sitting on the threshold of our house in Brighton with one hand raised in the sign of protection.  I have been a little afraid of coming before the great Master my mother had described to us in her letters. But from the first I felt happy and safe in his presence, and even out of his presence when I mentally invoked him. There was a great power in him but also an unfailing responsiveness to those who raised their thoughts to him. 

There was an "isness" about him. Whatever he did, such as correcting proofs of a book, or suggesting the replies to letters, or feeding the squirrels who came to him for their nuts, or answering the questions put to him by visitors or devotees, or sitting in potent silence, there was no effort on his part to be this or that, nor to create an impression on others. Self-realized, Bhagavan just was because he lived in pure Being. The calm of that mind-state of non-duality , no conflict, was felt by the devotees. "The inner peace that is his is transmitted to us all," wrote a friend of ours, Pauline Noye, when she returned to America from Tiruvannamalai.  

In the hall the women sat on Bhagavan's left, and the men before him. Each one brought his or her little mat on which to sit on the floor of Cuddapah tiles. Whilst most people meditated, I just imagined myself to be the receptacle of the power he emanated. When I knew more about his teaching I started trying to concentrate my mind on the "I am" in the Heart which links us with the "I am" of all that is. After a time, the single thought "I am" becomes pure feeling. 

The atmosphere in the hall was relaxed. If there was a noise, say a child's cry before it was hushed by the parent, or the greeting exchanged between friends, there was no reprimand, no stern eye turned towards them. People were quiet out of respect for the Master whose supreme teaching was communicated by silence.  

There was a delightful little girl called Lalitha who was a bit naughty. Bhagavan was very fond of her, as he generally was of children. One day she was going around touching papers and other things, her embarrassed mother exclaimed, "Lalitha what are you doing?"  To which she replied, "I'm not doing anything." The Maharshi commented, "You see how the truth is uttered instinctively by children. I, in truth, does not do anything; it is the higher Self that acts." Thus Bhagavan gave a lesson on surrender which is the first step on the path to Self-realization.

For the next nine years I was to visit the ashram during my holidays from school in Bangalore and later from college in Madras. In all that time I never saw or heard anything to belie my first impression of Bhagavan's uniqueness and greatness. Nor was I ever bored at the ashram. No day was the same. People brought here their talent in writing or reciting scripture, or singing sacred songs. They brought their doubts, troubles, griefs, and also joys. I remember a middle-aged couple who proudly sat in the hall with their baby boy whom they had called Ramana. The way they looked with adoration and gratitude at Bhagavan indicated that they believed he had granted them the boon of a child when all hope had gone.

Bhagavan always denied that he performed miracles, but there were many accounts of how he had healed someone, even at a distance, and sometimes it seemed without the knowledge of Bhagavan himself. An old family friend, C. Seshadri, the Librarian at the Theosophical Society, Adyar, told me that two of his friends from Calcutta travelled South to visit Madurai. They regretted that they had come to hear of Bhagavan too late to plan a visit to him. As it happened at a junction they missed their train and in the morning they boarded a train which took them not to Madurai but to Tiruvannamalai. And when the Maharshi saw them he said, " Weren't you supposed to come yesterday? " Among the personal 'miracles' I experienced, I can speak of the times I asked for Bhagavan's help when there was a particular difficult time ahead. Not only would I feel his protection but it seemed to me that it lasted a little beyond the time in question. Years later I read of another devotee who had similar experiences of 'overlapping' protection. 

Then, I did not give it a thought, but now I talk to people who are surprised that there was no room other than the hall where Bhagavan could withdraw from the public gaze. He was always there for us. And this is linked to what was of paramount importance for him - the giving of darshan. He maintained the darshan even when he was very ill and in great pain. Traditionally, darshan, for a Jnani, means giving himself to be seen by others so that they might obtain contact with the Reality he embodies. Some devotees spoke of having glimpses of truth in Bhagavan's presence, for others there might be a slow maturation of understanding. 

Physical sight was not imperative. Once an old woman came up to Bhagavan and lamenting that she could not see properly asked Bhagavan to bless her so that she might see him in her mind. With compassion Bhagavan acquiesced. It is an incident that was a comfort to those whose sight impaired, and indeed is still to those who did not have the chance to physically see the Maharshi. And the devotees wanted not only to see Bhagavan but also to be seen by him. In response, Bhagavan bestowed on them the Master's look of awareness and grace. I was a child, but even when the hall was filled with people, Bhagavan would for a moment look at me directly, turning his radiant gaze on me as well.    

The first time that I came to the Ashram I wore a European style dress and did so on our daily visits to the Ashram until I was in my teens. One day I shyly appeared dressed in a saree.  Bhagavan, who never commented on anyone's attire, said most unexpectedly that I should always wear a saree.  This was not a banal remark, none of the Sage's remarks were. For I had come to India when I was already too old to learn any of its arts or pick up an Indian language properly. It seemed to me that in India I was a misfit. In effect Bhagavan was telling me to assume an Indian identity. Which I did. Indeed, when my mother took me straight to Bhagavan on our arrival from abroad, she led me to what was the most precious in the Indian heritage, the tradition of the ancient seers and their intuitive discrimination of Reality from falsehood. That tradition was inclusive for it excluded no-one from seeking the ultimate truth of himself or herself. The Maharshi's reply taught me how Self-enquiry was to begin for me, which was to first establish who I was in this world. The Maharshi's teaching was very lofty and sublime, yet just as a mountain rises from the ground, it never lost touch with the earthly reality, in which the individual lives, grows, and strives to reach the heights.   

Behind Bhagavan there was a window through which we could see the Hill Arunachala. It has long been worshipped as the Mark of Absolute Consciousness, the infinite and undying Self. There was a mystical union between the Hill and Bhagavan.  Since childhood Venkataraman had felt its influence, but it was after Self-realization, when he answered its summons and drew close, that he knew the Hill was essentially one with him. For years he represented its nature introducing us gently to the awesome mystery of Absolute Being. I know how immensely fortunate we were to have been there with Bhagavan, who made Eternal Life more accessible to us by his life on earth. Yet, limitations of time and place do not really exist, and Bhagavan is still there, as many have experienced. 

We lived very closely to the sacred Hill. My mother, Sujata (Suzanne Alexandre Sen nee Curtil) was an MD, DTM from the Sorbonne. She used her medical skills to treat the sick in Tiruvannamalai and in surrounding villages. Her town dispensary was situated at No. 58 Big Street, which was near to the road encircling the Hill. I got to know the Hill's different aspects. Early in the morning, as it towered above us, I saw it glow red. Aruna Achala, the Dawn Hill, is where the soul's darkness is dispelled and luminous Self-awareness shines forth. I saw the spectacular celebration of Shiva's legendary manifestation here as an Infinite Pillar of Fire, held on the last night of the Kartikhai festival when a huge beacon was lit on the Hill's summit. On some monsoon nights I saw it stand thrillingly tall, dark and mysterious behind a swirling mantle of white mist, evoking primordial Reality still unknown, awaiting the seers and sages who where to see and reveal it.  My first article published when I was fourteen was about Bhagavan, the Hill Arunachala and the temple town of Tiruvannamalai, reflecting how important they already were to me.

Bhagavan wrote in his own hand numerous verses glorifying Arunachala. He did so in notebooks, or on small slips of paper, especially if a translation or explanation had been requested of him. During the twenty-three years that he lived in the Hill's caves he wrote hundreds of notes, but sadly most were lost. Later on at the ashram the notes he wrote were much in demand among the devotees, but seeing that they vied for their possession Bhagavan practically stopped writing them. 

The devotees, though, continued to write notes to him. In 1942, my grandmother, who felt that she was losing her sense of purpose in life, wrote him a note asking him for guidance about her future. With extraordinary insight, he told her to return to her religion. She had never confided to anyone at the ashram that she had left it. She was to return to the Catholic faith and this would be the turning point in her life. During the twenty-three years left of her long pilgrimage on earth, she walked ever closer to Christ, her Lord. 

After I had passed the Intermediate Science examination, it was my turn to write a note to Bhagavan. In it I asked whether I should go on to study medicine. It was my father's wish for me but I felt I did not have an aptitude for this profession; on the other hand I did not want to give up what had been my ideal because of a crisis of confidence. Bhagavan read the note, smiled and said in Tamil to the attendant who translated for me. "Whatever she chooses will be the right decision." I made up my mind not to read medicine and I know now that that was the right choice. The Sage did not tell me what to do. I was to grow up, follow my own inclination and rely on my judgement, something as necessary to a successful career as it is to a fulfilling sadhana.    

One day in 1949, I was early and sitting alone in the newly constructed hall, when Bhagavan came in and took his place on the polished granite couch. He looked around at the beautiful, perhaps in his eyes ostentatious surroundings, with a expression of distaste. He had been happiest I thought in the plain old hall, and before that in the caves where his couch had been a platform made of earth and stone. But the look of distaste lasted only for an instant. I saw him gather his thoughts to a point within and complete serenity returned to his features. But the look of distaste lasted only for an instant. When I left the hall, I met Mr. Arthur Osborne, later editor of The Mountain Path, and told him what I had seen. He looked happy and thanked me. I was surprised because I had been a little troubled by the incident since I thought a Jnani was beyond likes and dislikes. I am afraid my thinking was somewhat on the lines of the person who asked Bhagavan whether a Jnani felt any pain. "Why not," Bhagavan replied, "does a Jnani not feel it when he is pricked with a pin?" A Jnani is not insentient, but what makes him different from others is that he does not associate himself with the pain or circumstance. He transcends it by immersing himself in the Self, as we must learn to do. 

The end of Bhagavan's life in this world of form was approaching. He was now in the terminal stage of sarcoma. After the celebration of his 70th birthday, on 5th January 1950, his condition deteriorated so rapidly that he was moved to a specially constructed one-room cottage where nursing was easier. In this starkly simple setting his Mahasamadhi would take place.

I visited Tiruvannamalai briefly in the middle of March 1950. On the morning of my return to Madras I came to take my leave of Bhagavan. It was to be for the last time. As he lay in the room of the cottage facing the open doorway, the devotees filed past to get his darshan. When it came to my turn to stand before the doorway I was startled- his face as he looked at me was transfigured with love. I had often seen him look tender or compassionate during the many years that I had known him, but I had never seen him look as he did now. In his poor spent body there was this supreme passionless love, burning like a flame. For me that sight was Bhagavan's last gift of grace to me and it is still with me, vivid and vital to this day. 

 

 

 The Mountain Path- Jayanti 2004

Reproduced with permission and with special thanks to Viorica Weissman
for sharing this  http://groups.yahoo.com/group/MillionPaths/

Return to index