Excerpts from
THE Scriptures tell us that it is as difficult to trace the
path a sage pursues, as it is to draw a line marking the course a bird takes in
the air while on its wings. Most humans must be content with a slow and
laborious journey towards the goal. But a few are born adepts, flying non-stop
to the common home of all beings: The Supreme Self. Mankind takes heart when
such a sage appears, and though unable to keep pace with him, feels uplifted by
his presence and has a foretaste of the felicity before which worldly pleasures
pale into nothing. Countless people who went to Tiruvannamalai during the
lifetime of Maharshi Sri Ramana had this experience. They saw in him a sage
without the least touch of worldliness, a saint of matchless purity, a witness
to the eternal truth of Vedanta. It is not often that a spiritual genius of Sri
Ramana.s magnitude visits this earth. But when such an event occurs, all
humanity benefits and a new era of hope opens before it.
About thirty miles south of Madurai is a village — Tiruchuli
by name — with an ancient Siva temple about which two great Tamil saints,
Sundaramurti and Manickavachakar, have sung. In this sacred village there lived
in the latter part of the nineteenth century an uncertified pleader, Sundaram
Aiyar with his wife Alagammal. Piety, devotion and charity characterised this
ideal couple. Sundaram Aiyar was generous even beyond his means. Alagammal was
an ideal Hindu wife. On the 30th of December 1879, to them was born
Venkataraman — who later came to be known to the world as Ramana Maharshi.
It was an auspicious day for Hindus, the Ardradarsanam
day. On this day every year the image of the Dancing Siva, Nataraja, is taken
out of the temples in procession to celebrate the divine grace of the Lord who
made His appearance before such saints as Gautama, Patanjali, Vyaghrapada, and
Manickavacakar. In the year 1879, on the Ardra day, the Nataraja Image of the
temple at Tiruchuli was taken out with all the attendant ceremonies — and just
as it was about to re-enter, Venkataraman was born.
Early Years
There was nothing markedly distinctive about Venkataraman.s
early life. He grew up just an average boy. He was sent to an elementary school
in Tiruchuli, and then for a year.s education to a school in Dindigul. His
father died when he was twelve years old. This necessitated moving to Madurai
with the family to live with his paternal uncle, Subbaiyar. There he was sent
to Scott.s Middle School and then to the American Mission High School. He was
not at all serious about his studies, an indifferent student. But as he was a
healthy and strong lad, his schoolmates and other companions were afraid of his
strength. Any time some of them had any grievance against him, they would dare
play pranks with him only when he was asleep. In this extremely deep sleep, he
was rather unusual: he would not know of anything that happened to him during
sleep. He would be carried away or even beaten without his waking up in the
process.
Arunachala
It was apparently by accident that Venkataraman heard about
Arunachala when he was sixteen years of age. One day an elderly relative called
on the family in Madurai. The boy asked him where he had come from. The
relative replied 'From Arunachala'. The very name 'Arunachala' acted as a magic
spell on Venkataraman, and with evident excitement he put his next question,
'What! From Arunachala! Where is it?' And he got the reply that Tiruvannamalai
was Arunachala.
Referring to this incident later, the Sage says in one of
his hymns to Arunachala:
'Oh,
great wonder! As an insentient hill it stands.
Its action is difficult for anyone to understand.
From my childhood it appeared to my intelligence that Arunachala was something very great.
But even when I came to know through another that it was the same as Tiruvannamalai I did not understand its meaning.
When, stilling my mind, it drew me up to it,
and I came close, I found that it was the Immovable.'
Its action is difficult for anyone to understand.
From my childhood it appeared to my intelligence that Arunachala was something very great.
But even when I came to know through another that it was the same as Tiruvannamalai I did not understand its meaning.
When, stilling my mind, it drew me up to it,
and I came close, I found that it was the Immovable.'
Quickly following the incident, which attracted
Venkataraman.s attention to Arunachala, there was another event that also
contributed to the turning of the boy's mind to the deeper values of
spirituality. He chanced to lay his hands on a copy of Sekkilar's Periyapuranam, which relates the lives of the
Saiva saints. He read the book and was enthralled by it. This was the first
piece of religious literature he read. The example of the saints fascinated
him; and in the inner recesses of his heart, something responded favourably.
Without any apparent preparation, a longing arose in him to emulate the spirit
of renunciation and devotion that constituted the essence of saintly life.
The spiritual experience for which Venkataraman was now
devoutly wishing came to him soon, and quite unexpectedly. It was about the
middle of the year 1896; Venkataraman was seventeen then. One day he was
sitting up alone on the first floor of his uncle's house. He was in his usual
health — there was nothing wrong with him. But a sudden and unmistakable fear
of death took hold — he felt he was going to die. Why this feeling should have
come to him he did not know. The feeling of impending death, however, did not
unnerve him. He calmly thought about what he should do. He said to himself,
"Now, death has come. What does it mean? What is it that is dying? This
body dies". Immediately thereafter he lay down, stretching his limbs out
and holding them stiff as though rigor mortis had set in. He held his breath
and kept his lips tightly closed, so that to all outward appearance his body
resembled a corpse. Now, what would happen? This was what he thought:
"Well, this body is now dead. It will be carried to the burning ground and
there burnt and reduced to ashes. But with the death, of this body am I dead?
Is the body I? This body is silent and inert. But I feel the full force of my
personality and even the voice of the 'I' within me, apart from it. So I am the
Spirit transcending the body. The body dies but the Spirit that transcends it
cannot be touched by death. That means I am the deathless Spirit". As
Bhagavan Sri Ramana narrated this experience later on for the benefit of his
devotees it seemed as though this was a process of reasoning. But he took care
to explain that this was not so. The realization came to him in a flash. He perceived
the truth directly. 'I' was something very real, the only real thing. Fear of
death vanished once and for all. From then on, 'I' continued like the
fundamental sruti note that underlies and blends with all the other notes. Thus
young Venkataraman found himself on the peak of spirituality without any
arduous or prolonged sadhana. The ego was lost in the flood of Self-awareness.
All of a sudden the boy that used to be called Venkataraman had flowered into a
sage and saint.
There was noticed a complete change in the young man's life.
The things that he had cared for earlier completely lost their value. The
spiritual values, which he had ignored till then, became the only objects of
attention. School-studies, friends, relations — none of these had now any
significance for him. He grew utterly indifferent to his surroundings.
Humility, meekness, non-resistance and other virtues became his adornment.
Avoiding company, he preferred to sit alone, all absorbed in concentration on
the Self. He went to the Minakshi temple every day and experienced exaltation
every time he stood before the images of the gods and saints. Tears flowed from
his eyes profusely. The new vision was constantly with him. His was the
transfigured life.
Leaving Home
Venkataraman.s elder brother observed the great change that
had come upon him. On several occasions he rebuked the boy for his indifferent
and yogi-like behaviour. About six weeks after the great experience came the
crisis. It was the 29th of August 1896. Venkataraman.s English teacher had
asked him, as a punishment for indifference in studies, to copy out a lesson
from Bain's Grammar three times. The boy copied it out twice, but stopped
there, realizing the utter futility of that task. Throwing aside the book and
the papers, he sat up, closed his eyes, and turned inward in meditation. The
elder brother who was watching Venkataraman's behaviour all the while went up
to him and said: "What use is all this to one who is like this?" This
was obviously meant as a rebuke for Venkataraman.s unworldly ways including
neglect of studies.
Venkataraman did not give any reply. He admitted to himself
that there was no use pretending to study and be his old self. He decided to
leave his home, and he remembered that there was a place to go to, viz.
Tiruvannamalai. But if he were to express his intention to his elders, they
would not let him go. So guile had to be used. He told his brother that he was
going to school to attend a special class that noon. The brother thereupon
asked him to take five rupees from the box below and pay it as his fee at the
college where he was studying. Venkataraman went downstairs; his aunt served
him a meal and gave him the five rupees. He took out an atlas, which was in the
house and noted that the nearest railway station to Tiruvannamalai mentioned
there was Tindivanam. Actually, however, a branch line had been laid to
Tiruvannamalai itself. The atlas was an old one. Calculating that three rupees
would be enough for the journey, Venkataraman took that much and left the
balance with a letter at a place in the house where his brother could easily
find them, and made his departure for Tiruvannamalai. This was what he wrote in
that letter:
"I
have set out in quest of my Father in accordance with his command. This
(meaning his person) has only embarked on a virtuous enterprise. Therefore, no
one need grieve over this act. And no money need be spent in search of this.
Your college fee has not been paid. Herewith rupees two..
The Journey
There was a curse on Venkataraman's family — in truth, it
was a blessing — that one out of every generation should turn out to be a mendicant.
This curse was administered by a wandering ascetic who, it is said, begged alms
at the house of one of Venkataraman's forbears, and was refused. A paternal
uncle of Sundaram Aiyar's became a sannyasin; so did Sundaram Aiyar's elder
brother. Now, it was the turn of Venkataraman, although no one could have
foreseen that the curse would work out in this manner. Dispassion found lodging
in Venkataraman's heart, and he became a parivrajaka.
It was an epic journey that Venkataraman made from Madurai
to Tiruvannamalai. About noon he left his uncle's house. He walked to the
railway station which was half a mile way. Fortunately the train was running
late that day; otherwise he would have missed it. He looked up the table of
fares and came to know that the third-class fare to Tindivanam was two rupees
and thirteen annas. He bought a ticket and kept with him the balance of three
annas. Had he known that there was a rail-track to Tiruvannamalai itself, and
had he consulted the table of fares, he would have found that the fare was
exactly three rupees. When the train arrived, he boarded it quietly and took
his seat. A Maulvi, also travelling, entered into conversation with
Venkataraman. From him Venkataraman learnt that there was train service to
Tiruvannamalai, and that one need not go to Tindivanam, but could change trains
at Viluppuram. This was a useful piece of information. It was dusk when the
train reached Tiruchirappalli. Venkataraman was hungry; he bought two country
pears for half an anna; and strangely enough even with the first bite his
hunger was appeased. About three o'clock in the morning the train arrived at
Viluppuram. Venkataraman got off the train there with the intention of
completing the rest of the journey to Tiruvannamalai on foot.
At daybreak, he went into the town and was looking out for
the signpost to Tiruvannamalai. He saw a signboard reading 'Mambalappattu' but
did not know then that Mambalappattu was a place en route to Tiruvannamalai.
Before making further efforts to find out which road he was to take, he wanted
to refresh himself, as he was tired and hungry. He went up to a hotel and asked
for food. He had to wait till noon for the food to be ready. After eating his
meal, he proffered two annas in payment. The hotel proprietor asked him how
much money he had. When told by Venkataraman that he had only two and a half
annas, he declined to accept payment. It was from him that Venkataraman came to
know that Mambalappattu was a place, on the way to Tiruvannamalai. Venkataraman
went back to Viluppuram station and bought a ticket to Mambalappattu for which
the money he had was just enough.
It was sometime in the afternoon when Venkataraman arrived
at Mambalappattu by train. From there he set out on foot for Tiruvannamalai.
About ten miles he walked, and it was late in the evening. There was the temple
of Arayaninallur nearby, built on a large rock. He went there waited for the
doors to be opened, entered and sat down in the pillared hall. He had a vision
there — a vision of brilliant light enveloping the entire place. It was no
physical light. It shone for some time and then disappeared. Venkataraman
continued sitting in a mood of deep meditation, till he was roused by the
temple priests who were wanting to lock the doors and go to another temple
three quarters of a mile away at Kilur for service. Venkataraman followed them,
and while inside the temple he got lost in samadhi again. After finishing their
duties the priests woke him up, but would not give him any food. The temple
drummer who had been watching the rude behaviour of the priests implored them
to hand over his share of the temple food to the strange youth. When
Venkataraman asked for some drinking water, he was directed to a Sastri.s
house, which was at some distance. While in that house he fainted and fell
down. A few minutes later he rallied round and saw a small crowd looking at him
curiously. He drank the water, ate some food, and lay down and slept.
Next morning he woke up. It was the 31st of August 1896, the
Gokulastami day, the day of Sri Krishna.s birth. Venkataraman resumed
his journey and walked for quite a while. He felt tired and hungry. So he
wished for some food first, and then he would go to Tiruvannamalai, by train if
that was possible. The thought occurred to him that he could dispose of the
pair of gold earrings he was wearing and raise the money that was required. But
how was this to be accomplished? He went and stood outside a house, which
happened to belong to one Muthukrishna Bhagavatar. He asked the Bhagavatar for
food and was directed to the housewife. The good lady was pleased to receive
the young sadhu and feed him on the auspicious day of Sri Krisna.s birth. After
the meal, Venkataraman went to the Bhagavatar again and told him that he wanted
to pledge his earrings for four rupees in order that he may complete his
pilgrimage. The rings were worth about twenty rupees, but Venkataraman had no
need for that much money. The Bhagavatar examined the ear-rings, gave
Venkataraman the money he had asked for, took down the youth.s address, wrote
out his own on a piece of paper for him, and told him that he could redeem the
rings at any time. Venkataraman had his lunch at the Bhagavatar's house. The
pious lady gave him a packet of sweets that she had prepared for Gokulastami.
Venkataraman took leave of the couple, tore up the address the Bhagavatar had
given him — for he had no intention of redeeming the earrings — and went to the
railway station. As there was no train till the next morning, he spent the
night there.
Advent At Arunachala
On the morning of the 1st of September, 1896, he boarded the
train to Tiruvannamalai. The travel took, only a short time. Alighting from the
train, he hastened to the great temple of Arunacalesvara. All the gates stood
open — even the doors of the inner shrine. The temple was then empty of all
people — even the priests. Venkataraman entered the sanctum sanctorum, and as
he stood before his Father Arunacalesvara he experienced great ecstasy and
unspeakable joy. The epic journey had ended. The ship had come safely to port.
The rest of what we regard as Ramana's life — this is how we
shall call him hereafter — was spent in Tiruvannamalai. Ramana was not formally
initiated into sannyasa. As he came out of the temple and was walking along the
streets of the town, someone called out and asked whether he wanted his tuft
removed. He consented readily, and was conducted to the Ayyankulam tank where a
barber shaved his head. Then he stood on the steps of the tank and threw away
into the water his remaining money. He also discarded the packet of sweets
given by the Bhagavatar's wife. The next to go was the sacred thread he was
wearing. As he was returning to the temple he was just wondering why he should
give his body the luxury of a bath, when there was a downpour which drenched
him.
Life in Tiruvannamalai
The first place of Ramana's residence in Tiruvannamalai was
the great temple. For a few weeks he remained in the thousand-pillared hall.
But he was troubled by urchins who pelted stones at him as he sat in
meditation. He shifted himself to obscure corners and even to an underground
vault known as Patala-lingam. Undisturbed he used to spend several days in deep
absorption. Without moving he sat in samadhi, not being aware of even the bites
of vermin and pests. But the mischievous boys soon discovered the retreat and
indulged in their pastime of throwing potsherds at the young Swami. There was
at the time in Tiruvannamalai a senior Swami by name Seshadri. Those who did
not know him took him for a madman. He sometimes stood guard over the young
Swami, and drove away the urchins. At long last he was removed from the pit by
devotees without his being aware of it and deposited in the vicinity of a
shrine of Subrahmanya. From then on there was some one or other to take care of
Ramana. The seat of residence had to be changed frequently. Gardens, groves,
shrines — these were chosen to keep the Swami. The Swami himself never spoke.
Not that he took any vow of silence; he had no inclination to talk. At times
the texts like Vasistham and Kaivalyanavanitam used to be read out to him.
A little less than six months after his arrival at
Tiruvannamalai Ramana shifted his residence to a shrine called Gurumurtam at
the earnest request of its keeper, a Tambiranswami. As days passed and as
Ramana's fame spread, increasing numbers of pilgrims and sight-seers came to
visit him. After about a year's stay at Gurumurtam, the Swami — locally he was
known as Brahmana-swami — moved to a neighbouring mango orchard. It was here
that one of his uncles, Nelliyappa Aiyar traced him out. Nelliyappa Aiyar was a
second-grade pleader at Manamadurai. Having learnt from a friend that
Venkataraman was then a revered Sadhu at Tiruvannamalai, he went there to see
him. He tried his best to take Ramana along with him to Manamadurai. But the
young sage would not respond. He did not show any sign of interest in the
visitor. So, Nelliyappa Aiyar went back disappointed to Manamadurai. However,
he conveyed the news to Alagammal, Ramana's mother.
Mother's Plea
The mother went to Tiruvannamalai accompanied by her eldest
son. Ramana was then living at Pavalakkunru, one of the eastern spurs of
Arunachala. With tears in her eyes Alagammal entreated Ramana to go back with
her. But, for the sage there was no going back. Nothing moved him — not even
the wailings and weepings of his mother. He kept silent giving no reply. A
devotee who had been observing the struggle of the mother for several days
requested Ramana to write out at least what he had to say. The sage wrote on a
piece of paper quite in an impersonal way thus : "In accordance with the
prarabdha of each, the One whose function it is to ordain makes each to act.
What will not happen will never happen, whatever effort one may put forth. And
what will happen will not fail to happen, however much one may seek to prevent
it. This is certain. The part of wisdom therefore is to stay quiet."
Disappointed and with a heavy heart, the mother went back to
Manamadurai. Sometime after this event Ramana went up the hill Arunachala, and
started living in a cave called Virupaksa after a saint who dwelt and was
buried there. Here also the crowds came, and among them were a few earnest
seekers. These latter used to put him questions regarding spiritual experience
or bring sacred books for having some points explained. Ramana sometimes wrote
out his answers and explanations. One of the books that was brought to him
during this period was Sankara's Vivekachudamani which later on he rendered
into Tamil prose. There were also some simple unlettered folk that came to him
for solace and spiritual guidance. One of them was Echammal who having lost her
husband, son, and daughter, was disconsolate till the Fates guided her to
Ramana's presence. She made it a point to visit the Swami every day and took
upon herself the task of bringing food for him as well as for those who lived
with him.
After her return to Manamadurai, Alagammal lost her eldest
son. Two years later, her youngest son, Nagasundaram paid a brief visit to
Tiruvannamalai. She herself went there once on her return from a pilgrimage to
Varanasi, and again during a visit to Tirupati. On this occasion she fell ill
and suffered for several weeks with symptoms of typhoid. Ramana showed great
solicitude in nursing her and restoring her to health. He even composed a hymn
in Tamil beseeching Lord Arunachala to cure her of her disease. The first verse
of the hymn runs as follows : 'Oh Medicine in the form of a Hill that arose to
cure the disease of all the births that come in succession like waves! Oh Lord!
It is Thy duty to save my mother who regards Thy feet alone as her refuge, by
curing her fever.' He also prayed that his mother should be granted the vision
divine and be weaned from worldliness. It is needless to say that both the
prayers were answered. Alagammal recovered, and went back to Manamadurai.
Mother's Return
But not long after she returned to Tiruvannamalai; a little
later followed her youngest son, Nagasundaram who had in the meanwhile lost his
wife leaving a son. It was in the beginning of 1916 that the mother came,
resolved to spend the rest of her life with Ramana. Soon after his mother's
arrival, Ramana moved from Virupaksa to Skandasramam, a little higher up the
hill. The mother received training in intense spiritual life. She donned the
ochre robe, and took charge of the Ashrama kitchen. Nagasundaram too became a
sannyasin, assuming the name Niranjanananda. Among Ramana's devotees he came to
be popularly known as Chinnaswami (the Younger Swami). In 1920 the mother grew
weak in health and ailments incidental to old age came to her. Ramana tended
her with care and affection, and spent even sleepless nights sitting up with
her. The end came on May 19, 1922, which
was the Bahulanawami day, in the month of Vaisakha. The mother's body was taken
down the hill to be interred. The spot chosen was at the southernmost point,
between Palitirtham Tank and the Daksinamurti Mantapam. While the ceremonies
were being performed, Ramana himself stood silently looking on. Niranjanananda
Swami took his residence near the tomb. Ramana who continued to remain at
Skandasramam visited the tomb every day. After about six months he came to stay
there, as he said later on, not out of his own volition but in obedience to the
Divine Will. Thus was founded the Ramanasramam. A temple was raised over the
tomb and was consecrated in 1949. As the years rolled by the Ashrama grew
steadily, and people not only from India but from every continent of the world
came to see the sage and receive help from him in their spiritual pursuits.
Early Disciples
In 1903 there came to Tiruvannamalai a great Samskrit
scholar and savant, Ganapati Sastri
known also as Ganapati Muni because of the austerities he had been observing.
He had the title Kavyakantha (one who had poetry at his throat), and his
disciples addressed him as nayana (father). He was a specialist in the worship
of the Divine Mother. He visited Ramana in the Virupaksa cave quite a few
times. Once in 1907 he was assailed by doubts regarding his own spiritual
practices. He went up the hill, saw Ramana sitting alone in the cave, and
expressed himself thus : "All that has to be read I have read; even
Vedanta sastra I have fully understood; I have done japa to my heart's content;
yet I have not up to this time understood what tapas is. Therefore I have
sought refuge at your feet. Pray enlighten me as to the nature of tapas."
Ramana replied, now speaking, "If one watches whence the notion 'I'
arises, the mind gets absorbed there; that is tapas. When a mantra is repeated,
if one watches whence that mantra sound arises, the mind gets absorbed there;
that is tapas." To the scholar this came as a revelation; he felt the
grace of the sage enveloping him. He it was that proclaimed Ramana to be
Maharshi and Bhagavan. He composed hymns in Samskrit in praise of the sage, and
also wrote the Ramana-Gita explaining his teachings.
Ramana's first Western devotee was F.H.Humphreys. He came to
India in 1911 to take up a post in the Police service at Vellore. Given to the
practice of occultism, he was in search of a Mahatma. He was introduced to
Ganapati Sastri by his Telugu tutor; and Sastri took him to Ramana. The
Englishman was greatly impressed. Writing about his first visit to the sage in
the International Psychic Gazette, he said : 'On reaching the cave we sat
before him, at his feet, and said nothing. We sat thus for a long time and I
felt lifted out of myself. For half an hour I looked into the Maharshi's eyes,
which never changed their expression of deep contemplation.... The Maharshi is
a man beyond description in his expression of dignity, gentleness, self-control
and calm strength of conviction.' Humphry's ideas of spirituality changed for
the better as a result of the contact with Ramana. He repeated his visits to
the sage. He recorded his impressions in his letters to a friend in England
which were published in the Gazette mentioned above. In one of them he wrote,
'You can imagine nothing more beautiful than his smile.' And again, 'It is
strange what a change it makes in one to have been in his Presence!'
Friend of Animals
It was not all good people that went to the Ashrama.
Sometimes bad ones turned up also — even bad sadhus. Twice in the year 1924
thieves broke into the Ashrama in quest of loot. On the second of these
occasions they even beat the Maharshi, finding that there was very little for
them to take. When one of the devotees sought the sage's permission to punish
the thieves, the sage forbade him, saying : "They have their dharma, we
have ours. It is for us to bear and forbear. Let us not interfere with
them." When one of the thieves gave him a blow on the left thigh, he told
him : "If you are not satisfied you can strike the other leg also."
After the thieves had left, a devotee enquired about the beating. The sage
remarked, "I also have received some puja," punning on the word which
means 'worship' but is also used to mean 'blows'.
The spirit of harmlessness that permeated the sage and his
environs made even animals and birds make friends with him. He showed them the
same consideration that he did to the humans that went to him. When he referred
to any of them, he used the form 'he' or 'she' and not 'it'. Birds and
squirrels built their nests around him. Cows, dogs and monkeys found asylum in
the Ashrama. All of them behaved intelligently — especially the cow Laksmi. He
knew their ways quite intimately. He would see to it that they were fed
properly and well. And, when any of them died, the body would be buried with
due ceremony.
Sri Ramanasramam
The life in the Ashrama flowed on smoothly. With the passage
of time more and more of visitors came — some of them for a short stay and
others for longer periods. The dimensions of the Ashrama increased, and new
features and departments were added — a home for the cattle, a school for the
study of the Vedas, a department for publication, and the Mother's temple with
regular worship, etc. Ramana sat most of the time in the hall that had been
constructed for the purpose as the witness to all that happened around him. It
was not that he was not active. He used to stitch leaf-plates, dress
vegetables, read proofs received from the press, look into newspapers and
books, suggest lines of reply to letters received, etc. yet it was quite
evident that he was apart from everything. There were numerous invitations for
him to undertake tours. But he never moved out of Tiruvannamalai, and in the
later years out of the Ashrama. Most of the time, every day, people sat before
him. They sat mostly in silence. Sometimes some of them asked questions; and
sometimes he answered them. It was a great experience to sit before him and to
look at his beaming eyes. Many did experience time coming to a stop and a
stillness and peace beyond description.
Last Days & Mahanirvana
The golden jubilee of Ramana's coming to stay at
Tiruvannamalai was celebrated in 1946. In 1947 his health began to fail. He was
not yet seventy, but looked much older. Towards the end of 1948 a small nodule
appeared below the elbow of his left arm. As it grew in size, the doctor in
charge of the Ashrama dispensary cut it out. But in a month's time it
reappeared. Surgeons from Madras were called, and they operated. The wound did
not heal, and the tumour came again. On further examination it was diagnosed that
the affection was a case of sarcoma. The doctors suggested amputating the arm
above the affected part. Ramana replied with a smile : "There is no need
for alarm. The body is itself a disease. Let it have its natural end. Why
mutilate it? Simple dressing of the affected part will do." Two more
operations had to be performed, but the tumour appeared again. Indigenous
systems of medicine were tried; and homeopathy too. The disease did not yield
itself to treatment. The sage was quite unconcerned, and was supremely
indifferent to suffering. He sat as a spectator watching the disease waste the
body. But his eyes shone as bright as ever; and his grace flowed towards all
beings. Crowds came in large numbers. Ramana insisted that they should be
allowed to have his darsana. Devotees profoundly wished that the sage should
cure his body through an exercise of supernormal powers. Some of them imagined
that they themselves had had the benefit of these powers which they attributed
to Ramana. Ramana had compassion for those who grieved over the suffering, and
he sought to comfort them by reminding them of the truth that Bhagavan was not
the body : "They take this body for Bhagavan and attribute suffering to
him. What a pity! They are despondent the Bhagavan is going to leave them and
go away — where can he go, and how?"
The end came on the 14th of April, 1950. That evening the
sage gave darsana to the devotees that came. All that were present in the
Ashrama knew that the end was nearing. They sat singing Ramana's hymn to Arunachala
with the refrain Arunachala-Siva. The sage asked his attendants to make him sit
up. He opened his luminous and gracious eyes for a brief while; there was a
smile; tear of bliss trickled down from the outer corner of his eyes; and at
8:47 the breathing stopped. There was no struggle, no spasm, none of the signs
of death. At that very moment, a comet moved slowly across the sky, reached the
summit, of the holy hill, Arunachala, and disappeared behind it.
Epilogue
Ramana Maharshi seldom wrote; and what little he did write
in prose or verse was written to meet the specific demands of his devotees. He
himself declared once : "Somehow, it never occurs to me to write a book or
compose poems. All the poems I have made were on the request of someone or
other in connection with some particular event." The most important of his
work is The Forty Verses on Existence. In the Upadesa Saram, which is also a
poem, the quintessence of Vedanta is set forth. The sage composed five hymns to
Arunachala. Some of the works of Sankara like Vivekacudamani and Atma-bodha
were rendered into Tamil by him. Most of what he wrote is in Tamil. But he
wrote also in Sanskrit, Telugu, and Malayalam.
The philosophy of Sri Ramana — which is the same as that of
Advaita-Vedanta — has for its aim Self-realization. The central path taught in
this philosophy is the inquiry into the nature of Self, the content of the
notion 'I'. Ordinarily the sphere of the 'I' varies and covers a multiplicity
of factors. But these factors are not really the 'I'. For instance, we speak of
the physical body as 'I'; we say, 'I am fat', 'I am lean' etc. It will not take
long to discover that this is a wrong usage. The body itself cannot say, 'I'
for it is inert. Even the most ignorant man understands the implication of the
expression 'my body'. It is not easy, however, to resolve the mistaken identity
of the 'I' with egoity (ahankara). That is because the inquiring mind is the
ego, and in order to remove the wrong identification it has to pass a sentence
of death, as it were, on itself. This is by no means a simple thing. The
offering of the ego in the fire of wisdom is the greatest form of sacrifice.
The discrimination of the Self from the ego, we said, is not
easy. But it is possible. All of us can have this discrimination if we ponder
over the implication of our sleep-experience. In sleep 'we are', though the ego
has made its exit. The ego does not function there. Still there is the 'I' that
witnesses the absence of the ego as well as of the objects. If the 'I' were not
there, one would not recall on waking from one's sleep-experience, and say;
"I slept happily. I did not know anything". We have, then, two 'I's'
— the 'pseudo-I' which is the ego and the true 'I' which is the Self. The
identification of the 'I' with the ego is so strong that we seldom see the ego
without its mask. Moreover, all our relative experience turns on the pivot of
the ego. With the rise of the ego on waking from sleep, the entire world rises
with it. The ego, therefore, looks so important and unassailable.
But this is really a fortress made of cards. Once the
process of inquiry starts, it will be found to crumble and dissolve. For
undertaking this inquiry, one must possess a sharp mind — much sharper than the
one required for unravelling the mysteries of matter. It is with the
one-pointed intellect that the truth is to be seen (drsyate tu agraya buddhya.
It is true that even the intellect will have to get resolved before the final
wisdom dawns. But up to that point it has to inquire — and inquire
relentlessly. Wisdom, surely, is not for the indolent!
The inquiry 'Who am I?' is not to be regarded as a mental
effort to understand the mind's nature. Its main purpose is 'to focus the
entire mind at its source'. The source of the 'pseudo-I' is the Self. What one
does in Self-inquiry is to run against the mental current instead of running
along with it, and finally transcend the sphere of mental modifications. When
the 'pseudo-I' is tracked down to its source, it vanishes. Then the Self shines
in all its splendour — which shining is called realization and release.
The cessation or non-cessation of the body has nothing to do
with release. The body may continue to exist and the world may continue to
appear, as in the case of the Maharshi. That makes no difference at all to the
Self that has been realized. In truth, there is neither the body nor the world
for him; there is only the Self, the eternal Existence (sat), the Intelligence
(cit), the unsurpassable bliss (ananda). Such an experience is not entirely
foreign to us. We have it in sleep, where we are conscious neither of the
external world of things nor of the inner world of dreams. But that experience
lies under the cover of ignorance. So it is that we come back to the phantasies
of dream and of the world of waking. Non-return to duality is possible only
when nescience has been removed. To make this possible is the aim of Vedanta.
To inspire even the lowliest of us with hope and help us out of the Slough of
Despond, is the supreme significance of such illustrious exemplars as the
Maharshi.
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