RAMANA Devotees

ARUNACHALA
RAMANA
ETERNAL OCEAN OF GRACE
DEVOTEES
BOOK 4
Sri Ramanasramam
Tiruvannamalai
INDIA
© Sri Ramanasramam
Tiruvannamalai
First Edition : 2018

1000 copies
CC No: 1102

ISBN: 978-81-8288-277-5
Published by:
V.S. Ramanan
President
SRI RAMANASRAMAM
Tiruvannamalai 606 603
Tamil Nadu, INDIA
Email : [email protected]
Web : www.sriramanamaharshi.org
Typeset at
Sri Ramanasramam
Printed by:
Sudarsan Graphics Pvt. Ltd.,
Chennai
Tamil Nadu, INDIA
Lord Siva’s glory will not be exhausted even if Goddess
Saraswati were to write for eternity using the black
mountain as ink, the ocean as the ink-pot, the branch of
wish-fulfilling tree as pen and the earth as the writing leaf.
— Siva Mahimna Stotram
*** *** ***
Familiar to Thine ears are the sweet songs of votaries who
melt to the very bones with love for Thee, yet let my poor
strains also be acceptable, O Arunachala!
— Akshara Mana Malai
*** *** ***
Hill of Patience, bear with my foolish words, (regarding

them) as hymns of joy or as Thou please, O Arunachala!”
— Akshara Mana Malai
Devi Stuti
adhunā vidhunoti yastamo
vibudhaprekṣitamārgarodhakam |
ramaṇākhyamaharṣiveṣabhṛtśritaśoṇācal
acārukandaraḥ ||22. 22||
(Uma Sahasram)
Who today, under the guise of the Maharshi
by name Ramana resorting to the charming cave of
Arunachala, dispels the darkness that obstructs the
path seen of the wise. ||22.22||
ālokate'pītakucāmayi tvā-
mālolacittāmaruṇācale yaḥ |
nirvedavān parvasudhāṁśuvaktre
sarve vaśe tasya bhavanti kāmāḥ ||25. 7||
(Uma Sahasram)
Oh Mother with a face as delightful as the full
moon! Even a suffering individual deep in trouble,
who takes a look at you, who resides here in the
form of Apitakuchamba, with your mind fixed on
Arunachaleshwara, your Lord, is sure to get all his
heartfelt desires fulfilled. ||25.7||
daurbhāgya tāpatraya karma moha santāpahantāramahaṃ
prapadye |
yathārthasaṅkalpamapetapāpamavāpta kāmaṃ viśucaṃ
prapadye || 7 ||
(Prapati Ashtakam)
vi
To the dispeller of fever caused by ill luck,

three-fold ills, delusion, and karma, I surrender; to
Him of true resolve, no taint, perfect contentment
and bliss, I surrender.
Introduction to Devotees
In this book we present the stories of “devotees”.
Bhagavan’s devotees come from all backgrounds and from all
walks of life. When he was in his body many came running
from the locality and many made tortuous journeys from near
and far away lands to seek him out. The old, the young, the
rich, the titled, the poor and the hungry, the intellectual and
the illiterate, the Hindu and Muslim, the high caste Brahmin
and the untouchable pariah. Such is his greatness that even
though he has left his body crowds continue to throng to his
shrine and many others who are not able to come worship
him and continue their search for the Self, as he directed, in
their far away homes.
Bhagavan once said, “People imagine that the devotees
crowding around a jnani get special favours from him. If
a Guru shows partiality, how can he be a jnani? Is he so
foolish as to be flattered by people’s attendance on him and
the service they do? Does distance matter? The Guru is only
pleased with he who gives himself up entirely, who abandons
his ego forever. Such a man is taken care of wherever he may
be. He need not pray. God looks after him unasked. The frog
lives [permanently] by the side of the fragrant lotus, but it is
the bee, [which comes from a long distance and stays only
briefly] that gets the honey.”
During his stay at Arunachala there were some who were
drawn to him who were themselves scholars and philosophers
and most of them are well known through their writings like
Kavyakantha Ganapati Muni.
At the other extreme, there were devotees like Keerai
Patti. When Bhagavan was asked about her, he said “Even
viii
when I was in Arunachaleswara Temple, she was staying

on the Hill and was visiting me now and then. But it was
only after I went to Virupaksha Cave she began coming to
see me frequently. She was living in the Guhai Namasivayar
Mantapam. She had no other articles than an earthen pot. She
first used to prepare hot water in it to bathe and then cooked
vegetables and rice in it. She used to wander about the Hill
and bring back some special leaves useful for cooking as
vegetables.”
There were many others who received his upadesa in
silence and faded away in silence and we may never know
their stories. For example, a kitchen worker described the
following:
“One morning a European man came in a horse carriage
to the ashram and went straight to Bhagavan. He wrote
something on a piece of paper and showed it to Bhagavan,
but Bhagavan made no reply. Instead, he gazed at the stranger
with unwinking eyes while the stranger gazed back at him.
His face was glowing with a strange light. It was only when
the clock struck twelve that Bhagavan opened his eyes. We all
noticed that they were glowing very brightly. The European
got into his carriage and went away. It was the last we ever
saw of him. We did not even get his name. Everybody was
wonder-struck at the great, good fortune of the man who
had received such an intense and immediate initiation from
Bhagavan.”
Some devotees who could never visit Bhagavan also
became His staunch devotees. Ms. Victoria Doe of England
is an example of such a devotee.
The stories that have been chosen reflect the diversity of
devotees and were primarily chosen because their connection
with Bhagavan brought about a transformation in them. This
list is by no means exhaustive.
Contents
Page
No.
Devi Stuti . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . v
Introduction to Devotees . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . vii
1. Gambhiram Seshayyar . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1
2. Sivaprakasam Pillai. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3
3. Swami Pranavananda (Sarvepalli Narasimham). . . . . . 15
4. Echammal. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21
5. Mudaliar Patti. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30
6. Manavasi Ramaswami Iyer. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37
7. Ramanatha Brahmachari . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42
8. Frank Henry Humphreys (F.H. Humphreys). . . . . . . . . . 52
Frank’s Version of the Mahatma’s Teachings . .. 57
9. Sadhu Natanananda. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 64
10. Jagadeesa Sastri. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 75
11. Muruganar . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 79
12. Yogi Ramiah. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 107
13. Kavyakantha Ganapati Muni. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .110
14. Tinnai Swami. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .125
15. Paul Brunton (Raphael Hurst) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .133
16. Chalam. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 156
17. Souris. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .167
18. Sadhu Om. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .172
19. Saab Jaan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .179
20. Raja Iyer . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 183
21. Viswanatha Swami . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .185
22. Rangan. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 193
23. Lakshmana Sarma (‘WHO?’) . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 213
x
Page
No.
24. Krishna Bhikshu (Oruganti Venkata Krishnayya) . . .217

25. Dr. Hafiz Syed . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .229
26. Munagala Venkataramiah. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .237
27. Maurice Frydman. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .242
28. Chhaganlal Yogi . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 246
29. Dr. T.N. Krishnaswami. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .263
30. Framji Dorabji . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 270
31. Ramaswami Pillai. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .275
32. T.P. Ramachandra Iyer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .286
33. Hari Chand Khanna . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .290
34. Hariwansh Lal Poonja. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 294
35. Narayana Iyer. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .301
36. Swami Abhishiktananda. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 309
37. Ethel Merston. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .318
38. Dr. T.M.P. Mahadevan. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 323
39. Hugo Maier (1929-2004) – A Life of
Devotion and Service . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .337
40. Dr. Anantanarayana Rao . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .339
41. Ella Maillart. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .342
42. Victoria Doe . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 347
43. Feroza Taleyarkhan. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .349
44. Lucia Osborne . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 352
45. Eleanor Pauline Noye . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 358
46. Arunachala Bhakta Bhagavat. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .365
47. Professor Tadashi Yanagida . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 372
48. Attendants of Bhagavan. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 375
(i) Pazhani Swami. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .378
(ii) Ayyaswami. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .379
(iii) Madhava Swami . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 381
(iv) Satyananda Swami. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 383
(v) Krishnaswami. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 384
xi
Page
No.
49. Grant Duff . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 386

50. Mouni Sadhu . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .389
51. Barber Natesan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .391
52. Sadhu Ekarasa (Dr. G.H. Mees) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .396
53. Lucy Cornelssen. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 398
54. Perumal Swami. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .401
55. Ravi Ramanan . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 411
56. Rajapalayam Ramani Ammal . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 415
57. Prof. K. Swaminathan . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 422
58. Akhilandamma . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .431
59. Mastan Swami . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 449
60. Janaki Mata. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .462
61. Kitchen Workers. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 464
(i) Natesa Iyer. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .469
(ii) Sampurnamma. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .472
(iii) Sundaram (Sadhu Trivenigiri). .. .. .. .. .. .. 482
(iv) Shantammal. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .493
(v) Subbalakshmi Ammal. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .509
(vi) Lokamma Patti. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 527
62. N.R. Krishnamurti Iyer. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .531
63. Wolter A. Keers. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .548
Index . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 575
DEVOTEES
1. Gambhiram Seshayyar*
G ambhiram Seshayyar was a Telugu Brahmin of Mulkinad

(Hyderabad) and descended from the renowned
Ministers, Akkanna and Maadanna. Gambhiram Seshayyar
was a Municipal Overseer at Tiruvannamalai, about 1900; and
from that time, he assiduously paid his respects to the Swami
(Bhagavan). He was a devout Ramabhakta (devotee of Rama)
constantly repeating the holy name of Rama. He was also
studying yoga, specially Vivekananda’s lectures (in English)
on Raja Yoga, Jnana Yoga, etc., and an English translation
of Rama Gita. Finding some difficulty in understanding
these and similar books he brought them to the Swami and
mentioned his difficulties. The Swami then went through
each of them and as requested, wrote out in easy Tamil prose
the gist of these works on bits of paper and answered similar
supplemental questions. Seshayyar had quite a sheaf of these
slips written by the Swami in 1900, 1901 and 1902; and he
copied them into a small notebook. When Seshayyar left this
world his notebook and some of the slips which had been
preserved were obtained through the kindness of his elder
brother, G. Krishna Iyer. From these slips the book, Vichara
Sangraha (Self Enquiry) was prepared, which may therefore
be regarded as the gist of the Swami’s earliest teachings.
However, there may be difficulty in separating from these
slips what the Swami gave as his own teaching based on his
* Sources: B.V. Narasimha Swami, Self-Realisation: The life and

Teachings of Bhagavan Sri Ramana Maharshi, 1st ed. 2003; Krishna
Bhikshu, Sri Ramana Leela: A Biography of Sri Ramana Maharshi,
Trans. Pingali Surya Sundaram, 1st Ed. 2004.
2 Arunachala Ramana – Eternal Ocean of Grace
own experience, and what he pointed out as the truth in other

scriptures.
One feature of the Swami’s dealing with such disciples
is noticeable. He would let them take their own course for a
while, giving them advice for pursuing the line of thought or
action already taken by them and only at a later stage would
he turn them into his own line of thought. This is especially
noticeable in Seshayyar’s case.
Seshayyar was deeply interested in Ashtanga Yoga and
attached great importance to breath-control (pranayama).
The Swami says repeatedly that he never cared to practise
pranayama, and that it is only one of the means employed
for subduing the mind for a while and fixing it on one
point within, and on the Self at last. In the Swami’s case,
the mind’s outgoing tendency was arrested in his own way,
and he attained samadhi without breath control. However,
as this pupil was anxious to know about pranayama, the
Swami studied the brochure of Vivekananda that Seshayyar
brought and wrote down brief notes. At each stage, when
the opportunity offers, he puts in a word about the need for
going deeper, and, most importantly, he interprets Ashtanga
Yoga in a spiritual way. The subject of realisation is gradually
broached after a few preliminary explanations of the mind,
of the centre termed “the Heart” and of the rudiments of the
epistemology and metaphysics of Indian thinkers as set out
in classic books. The Swami never made any critical study
of Indian philosophy. He had no interest in this. Instead, he
read the books preferred by a particular disciple and offered
him or her the opinion of the school embodied therein. He
never engaged in religious controversy, because it concerned
only the intellect. When the intellect gave place to intuition,
there was no difference in the ultimate realisation, whether
of a European, American or Indian, whether of an Advaitin,
Dvaitin or Visishtadvaitin, a saivite or sakta. However, all
the works Bhagavan translated into Tamil were works of the
advaitic school of philosphy.
Book 4 – Sixty-three Devotees 3
The earliest version of Self Enquiry (1931) published

under the title A Catechism of Enquiry is printed in the
section on Bhagavan’s teachings. This version was checked
by Bhagavan.
2. Sivaprakasam Pillai*
S ivaprakasam Pillai was born on 7th August 1875 in the

village of Idaiyanpaalchori, west of Chidambaram. He
was the son of Muthusami Pillai and his wife Swarnammal.
His parents were pious and orthodox Saivites belonging to
a farming community. Hoping that their son would not only
prosper in the material life, but also continue to uphold the
family tradition of piety, the foundation of which was rooted
in the rich soil of Tamil devotional literature, they gave him
a good education. Sivaprakasam studied both English and
Tamil at school.
He had an enquiring mind and an eagerness to understand
the truth underlying the appearance of our life in this world,
so at college he chose philosophy as his major subject. While
at college, the question ‘Who is this I who whirls about in
the world attached to this body?’ arose spontaneously in his
mind, but in spite of studying many books he could find no
satisfactory answer to his deeply-felt question, and hence he
began to feel a strong yearning to meet a great saint who
could give him the answer he was seeking.
After graduating from college he was married to a
girl named Parvati, and in the year 1900 he was employed
in the Revenue Department of the South Arcot District
Collectorate. In 1902 he happened to visit Tiruvannamalai
* Self-Realisation; Sri Ramana Leela; The Power of the Presence:

Transforming Encounters with Ramana Maharshi – Part 1. Ed.
David Godman, 1st ed. (Boulder, Colorado: Avadhuta Foundation,
2000).
on official duty, and there heard of the saintly and ascetic

young man on the Hill, whom people referred to with respect
as ‘Brahmana Swami’. Pillai at once climbed up the Hill
to Guhai Namasivaya temple, where the Brahmana Swami
was staying, and on seeing the divine lustre of the face of
the silent young ascetic, felt very strongly attracted to him,
like iron to a magnet. Immediately he asked Bhagavan the
question ‘Who am I?’ which had been haunting his mind for
so many years. Little did he know that the young Sage he
saw seated quietly before him was born into this world with
a divine mission, namely to teach the direct path of Self-
enquiry, through which alone the true answer to the question
‘Who am I?’ could be experienced very directly within the
Heart. Such was the working of divine Grace that the worthy
disciple, Sivaprakasam Pillai, had been drawn to the proper
Guru.
In those early days Bhagavan rarely spoke, except to
his faithful attendant Pazhani Swami. He answered Pillai’s
questions by writing in the sand in front of him. For a number
of days Pillai asked him a series of questions, all of which
he answered by writing either in the sand or on a slate. Many
of his answers were also later noted down by Pillai from
memory.
Sivaprakasam Pillai in his deposition to the court in
the 1930s gave details of his association with Bhagavan as
follows:
“I had Maharshi’s darshan for the first time in 1902.
I was then working as a clerk in the office of the Deputy
Collector of the Tirukoilur Division. When I went there for a
revenue settlement, I heard that there was a young brahmin
swami observing silence on the hill, so I went up to see him
and had his darshan. It is this ‘Brahmana Swami’ who is now
known by the name Ramana Maharshi. That year I stayed in
Tiruvannamalai for fifteen days – ten days for the revenue
settlement and five more days for examining the accounts of
the local Taluk Office.
I asked Brahmana Swami questions about Self-enquiry,

and he taught me the method of doing it. From then onwards,
till 1910, I had Brahmana Swami’s darshan once a year. In
the period 1910 to 1916 I went to visit him four times a year,
and every time I used to spend ten to fifteen days with him.
From 1917 to 1922, although I visited him four times a year,
I did not stay for more than three or four days each time.
“In the year 1910 I resigned my job. After submitting
my resignation, I went to Tiruvannamalai, stayed with the
Maharshi for two weeks and then returned home.
“From 1910 to 1916, whenever I stayed in Tiruvannamalai,
I used to have as my lunch prasad from the Arunachaleswara
Temple. In the evenings I took my food at Virupaksha Cave.
On my visits from 1917 to 1922 I took both my meals at
Skandasramam. In those days Muththammal, Mudaliar
Patti and Akhilandamma were bringing food for Brahmana
Swami. The Maharshi’s mother was also cooking for him
at Skandasramam. In 1922 and 1923, because of personal
troubles and anxieties, I did not go to Tiruvannamalai. I only
resumed my visits in the latter half of 1924. From then on, I
visited Maharshi twice a year.
“In 1902, when I had the Maharshi’s darshan for the
first time, he was living in Guhai Namasivaya Cave. On a
subsequent visit I met him at the residence of Jada Swami.
In those days only Pazhani Swami was serving him. From
1911 onwards Ayyaswami began to serve him as well, and
in 1913, Perumal Swami came and joined them. All three of
them were serving Maharshi with a sense of equality. Perumal
Swami used to go out with Ayyaswami in the evening and
return after collecting bhiksha from town. Perumal Swami
occasionally left on trips that lasted for a few months.
“In those days there was a small thatched building a
few hundred feet above Virupaksha Cave. A devotee called
Kandaswami used to live there. He had planted and grown
several mango, coconut, and banana trees near his hut. Nearby
was a rocky spring that the Maharshi occasionally used to bathe
in. Whenever Maharshi went to take his bath there, he would

stay (in this hut) for about two hours. It occurred to me that it
would be good to have at least a larger thatched shed there as
it would prove convenient for these brief stays of the Maharshi.
I told Kandaswami about my idea. He agreed to build it and
asked me for some financial assistance for the project. I gave
him Rs. 25. However, before he had a chance to complete the
building, he left Tiruvannamalai and never returned.”
Below are selections from poems composed by
Sivaprakasam Pillai on Sri Ramana Maharshi.
Anugraham [Grace]
Glory to the name Ramana Maharshi!
Glory to your joy-giving beautiful form!
Glory to your pleasing sweet words!
Even though the people who approach you with restless
and tired minds are sinners without devotion, like a mother
who comforts her suffering child, you melt with love and
comfort their disconsolate minds with eyes full of compassion.
Glory to he who abides as the embodiment of love! I take
courage from the fact that, like the loving parents who listen
with joy to the prattle of their young ones, you will not get
disgusted with the words uttered by me, an unlearned one,
merely because of the many defects in them.
When I was studying at the English College, in my
foolish mind arose the question, ‘Who is this “I” who is
wallowing in the world?’ Despite searching in various good
books and despite seeking you and asking you [this question],
because of the excessive impurity in the mind of this dog-like
one, I could not have a deep understanding of the answer to
this question. [At that time], instead of attaching myself to
the grace of the Lord, I was enjoying myself and wandering
in all sorts of [wrong] ways. Because of my past karma I
experienced many troubles and my mind was agitated. I [then]
approached you, thinking that I would obtain your grace and
redeem myself.
With kind words you said, ‘The meaning of the word “I”
is the one reality that exists as supreme bliss, as knowledge.
It is indestructible, and although it is within this fleshy body,
it is still different from it. If you desire to know this supreme
essence, you must first get rid of the attachment that takes the
body as “I” and then enquire “Who am I?”
‘An intrepid warrior intent on capturing a fort destroys his
enemies with a sword as they issue forth from the fort. Then
he throws the weapon away and enters the fort. Similarly,
while enquiring [“Who am I?”], even if innumerable vasanas
[mental tendencies] arise and obstruct the Self, without getting
frightened and without trying to fulfil the thoughts that arise,
one should question, “To whom is this thought?” The answer
will be “To me”. When you then question yourself “Who am
I?”, the thought that arose will be destroyed. As thoughts keep
rising, if they are destroyed in this fashion, the “I”-thought
will finally be destroyed and the incomparable, supreme and
exalted essence, “I”, will be revealed.
‘One who wants to get a pearl lying at the bottom of the
sea will repeatedly dive into the sea, like a devoted woman
who never gives up what she wants to get, and recover that
pearl even if he fails initially and is forced out of the water.
Similarly, while searching for the Self through the enquiry
“Who am I?”, foreign thoughts arise in crores to obstruct, pull
and force one out into the world. However, if one repeatedly
dives within [like the pearl diver searching for the pearl] one
can know oneself. This Self-knowledge is liberation.’
You implanted all this in my mind. Further, through your
power you subdued all my karanas [(mental ‘instruments’)
mind, intellect, senses, etc.] and graciously taught the method
of inquiry into myself, who am merged with this body in the
form of mere consciousness.
While I was trying to practise with love the method
given by you, a burning lust for beautiful women arose in
my mind and troubled me very much. When I could not bear
it any more, I wanted to get married [again]. As I did not
have sufficient money, I was confused and troubled and tried

to think of a way to get rid of my problem.
‘There must be a God,’ I thought. ‘I will tell my problems
to him.’
Thinking like this, I wrote [the following words]: ‘God,
the performer of all deeds, Siva, Lord, I have no refuge other
than you. Forgive my misdeeds and grant me your grace
either by writing the answer to the questions written on this
sheet of paper before dawn, or by appearing before me and
answering them. If you do this, I will act on your advice. If
you do not answer, the only alternative for me will be to seek
the help of Brahmana Swami of Arunachala.’
I placed my request in a Vinayaka temple. My questions
were:
What should I do in this world so that no suffering
approaches and bothers me?
Can I marry the girl of my choice?
If not, why not?
If yes, how am I to get the necessary financial resources?
As I did not get a reply in any form, I approached your feet
believing that you would help. I waited there [at Arunachala]
for a few days [but received no direct answer. Although you
were silent, I felt that you were instructing me]: ‘Not desiring
anything, making the expanding mind subside, enquiring into
the Self and abiding as the Self – this alone is the good path
to attain what is beneficial.’
You demonstrated this to me by abiding in that state.
Thinking that it would be wrong to ask you my questions,
such as how to get money, I was about to return home
without telling you of my difficulties. But then, my Father,
one day, while I was sitting with others before you, a golden
child issued forth from your head and then went back within
it. You granted me this vision two or three times. Having
convinced myself [by the vision] that there is a God, I wept
with uncontrollable joy and told the other devotees nearby
[what I had seen]’. They all ridiculed me in various ways

and said [that my vision] was due to the ganja [cannabis] I
had taken.
The next evening [on 5th May 1913] I had another vision
while sitting before you. Can this ignorant one describe it?
All around you I saw an incomparable effulgence like the
splendour of many full moons. Your divine body shone with
the light of the sun, belittling the lustre of shining gold. Your
beautiful eyes were shedding divine grace. In you was the
majesty of the Lord of Lords, along with the power of giving
bountifully. A little later I saw your whole body smeared with
white, bright, sacred ash. My stone-like heart melted and
became like water. I saw these visions, but those near me did
not see them. I did not ask you about them, nor did you speak
to me about them.
Two days later, while I was doing japa [verbal or mental
repetition] of ‘Om Subramaniam’ in your presence, your body
dazzled like a superb crystal. I felt blissful, but was afraid of
losing such bliss [away from your presence]. Subsequently,
you showed me your effulgent form many times in both the
waking and dream states.
Is it possible to describe your supreme grace? I am a
sinner who has committed all the sins that make all good
people shudder: lust, anger, drinking, eating meat and uttering
lies. In every way I deserve to be condemned and thrown
away. Please subdue me so that I do not fall into wrong ways
again. May I hold on to your beautiful feet and thus redeem
myself. Please grant me this blessing.
In the poem above Sivaprakasam Pillai gives an account
of how he met Bhagavan and received instruction from him.
He also describes some of the visions he had in Bhagavan’s
presence. As the poem is not subdivided into verses, it
has been translated as a continuous prose work, omitting
only one portion that contains some lengthy digressions on
philosophy.
Most of Sivaprakasam Pillai’s poems are autobiographical

and include lamentations about his spiritual failings. We give
a selection below, but the complete set is given in the section
on devotional works.
Sivaprakasam Pillai put one of Bhagavan’s quotations in
one of his unpublished poems: ‘”We have somehow become
embodied. Whatever good and bad has been ordained to
come, it will certainly come. It will not stay away without
coming. There is only one way to be free from suffering. That
is to turn the mind within.”
According to a note by Sivaprakasam Pillai, there was
a ‘pointed statement’ that convinced him that Bhagavan had
accepted him as his slave:
Ramanadeva, it is extremely difficult to remove my inner
dirt.
Ramanadeva! You gave me a small bag containing
Vibhuti and asked me to keep it all the time. You also told
me that giving up traditional disciplines is harmful. One day
when I appeared before you without a tuft of hair, you told
me that it would be good to grow it again.
When you knew that I was committing a sinful act, in
order to correct me, you looked at a dog that came to you with
human excreta in its mouth, and warned it either to give up
the habit or to stay away from your presence. Ramanadeva,
through that dog you implanted that command in me. [As
explained in another poem ‘the sinful act’ was his continuing
desire for women.]
At the time Pillai wrote this, many orthodox Hindu
men shaved off part of their hair, leaving only a tuft on the
top or back of the head. Shaving off this tuft was a sign of
physical renunciation. Bhagavan’s comment indicated that
Sivaprakasam Pillai should give up his idea of becoming a
sannyasin and instead remain as a householder.
The following two verses are from a poem called Irangal.
Sadhu Ramana made this poor man, who did not know
anything, pray only to his feet. Am I fit to receive this good
fortune granted by him? He told me to stick to the path of

those who had given up vain talk and disputation. Even if
others speak ill of you don’t get upset.
O mind, you keep proclaiming that Ramana is your ruler
and that you are his slave. Ramana always acts with humility
as though he is the slave of everyone. Although you have
seen this for yourself, without subsiding with humility, you
quarrel with everyone. Think that this amounts to quarrelling
with the great Ramana, who has destroyed anger [in himself].
In one of his notebooks Sivaprakasam Pillai gave a striking
example of Bhagavan himself exemplifying these teachings:
‘One Balananda Swami asked Bhagavan to order Pazhani
Swami out of Virupaksha Cave. When Bhagavan did not do
so, Balananda Swami spat on Bhagavan. Hearing about this
later, Kambali Swami asked Bhagavan, “What did you do at
that time?” Bhagavan replied, “I kept laughing. After all, this
is only a body that has been spat out many times.”’
Since Bhagavan had ‘spat out’ or severed the I-am-the-
body idea, he had no reason to get angry when the body was
abused in this way.
When Bhagavan spoke, he often used the plural pronoun
‘we’ instead of ‘I’.
In one of his unpublished versions of Who am I?
Sivaprakasam Pillai gives some of Bhagavan’s comments
on the state of equality that exists between the Guru and the
realised disciple:
‘The Guru will be waiting for the disciple to get mature.
When the disciple matures, the Guru will give him one glance.
At that time all others, other than the disciple, will disappear
as if burnt by fire. The Guru will keep such a matured disciple
with him as his equal.’
Sivaprakasam Pillai had a student called Manikkam
Pillai, who wrote a brief biography of his teacher inspired by
a dream in which Bhagavan himself had appeared to him and
encouraged him to undertake the work. This is his elaboration
of this incident:
‘One day, thinking of following [Bhagavan’s] advice of

obtaining food by begging, he had the idea that he should
take sannyasa. To indicate this desire, he shaved his head and
went and stood before Bhagavan.
‘Realising the intention behind this act, Bhagavan said,
“It is good to grow a tuft of hair.”
‘Sivaprakasam Pillai then knew that Bhagavan did not
approve of the move.
‘Bhagavan told him, “Stay at home and do Self-enquiry
in all the spare time you have.”’
Sivaprakasam Pillai had by this time already resigned
from his government job. Manikkam Pillai explains why:
‘Another important reason for this move of his was that
in Bhagavan’s presence he used to get into a state in which all
physical and mental movements were stilled completely. He
experienced the same state in his office. Objective awareness
would cease, his mind would automatically turn towards the
Self, and all physical and mental movements would stop. As a
result of all these events, he went to Arunachala and informed
Bhagavan of his resignation.’
Bhagavan wrote, quoting verse 341 of the Tirukkural:
‘To whichever objects a person has ceased to be attached, he
does not experience suffering from those objects.’
Sivaprakasam Pillai took this statement to be approval
of his decision. Freed from his obligations to work, he went
back to his home village. Manikkam Pillai describes what
happened next:
‘He stayed alone on the outskirts of his village in a
Vinayaka temple, or sometimes in the nearby woods. He
persevered in constant vichara [Self- enquiry]. During this
period his state suddenly changed. He started laughing for
no apparent reason, chanted Tiruvachakam and other hymns
loudly, did Namaste [formal obeisance] to all forms [of life].
He wore a long loincloth with a Vibhuti bag tucked into it,
smeared his entire body with Vibhuti, carried a staff, forgot all
caste restrictions and often frequented the cremation grounds
and the areas inhabited by outcasts. During this period he

visited the Murugan temple at Vayalur near Tiruchi, walking
all the way. When he saw the deity, the spear in the god’s hands
appeared to move. Marvelling at this, he sang praises to the
god with great devotion. Then, while returning, he accepted
gruel and sour food from anyone who gave it. Because he
had walked such a long distance, the cloth worn around his
waist appeared to be like the ochre cloth of a sannyasin. After
his return from Vayalur, he regained his normal state. He
resumed his vichara and began to observe mauna. From then
on he visited Bhagavan three to four times a year and stayed
for about ten to fifteen days on each occasion.’
A fellow villager, Mu. Manikkam Pillai, had become
attached to Sivaprakasam Pillai from the early days, and
attended on him as a devoted disciple for more than thirty
years. Such was the respect with which the local people
regarded Pillai that some years after his return from Vayalur
he received an honorary appointment as a juror in the
Manjakuppam Sessions Court. Saddened by this unexpected
turn of events, he composed four venbas in which he prayed
to Bhagavan and asked, “Do you think it justice to think of
sending me to a court of justice?” However, understanding
that such work came only according to prarabdha and was
to be experienced with a detached attitude free of likes and
dislikes, for some years he served as a juror whenever he was
called upon to do so.
In a similar manner, on another occasion he was called
upon to render honorary service in connection with the local
census. Since he was well known for his impartiality and
sense of justice, local people used to come to him for advice
and guidance in matters concerning court cases and disputes
about the ownership of land or houses, and he always gave his
help without expecting any return. Since his advice on such
matters and on other personal problems invariably turned out
to be correct, many people came to regard his words as daiva
vak or divine utterances. He also used to explain the meaning
of Tamil spiritual texts to all who came to him seeking

clarification.
Pillai continued to visit Tiruvannamalai up to the year
1947, though in his later years, due to his old age, he was
not able to visit as frequently as before. Once, while feeling
depressed at his inability to visit Bhagavan more frequently,
he consoled himself by composing a Tamil verse which
means: “Without understanding what Ramana-darsanam
really is, why are you disconsolate longing for Ramana-
darsanam? Ramana-swarupa is itself my own swarupa, (and
hence) Ramana-darsanam is only my knowing myself.”
Although Pillai must often have felt (like any other sincere
sadhaka) his inability to follow Bhagavan’s teachings, the fact
that he prayed so earnestly for Bhagavan’s Grace shows that
he was gaining the real fruit of his repeated efforts, which were
only seemingly unsuccessful. Moreover, when a devotee once
asked Bhagavan, “Sivaprakasam Pillai, who is such a good
man, such an ardent devotee and a long-standing disciple,
has written a poem saying that Bhagavan’s instructions could
not be carried out by him effectively in practice. What can
be the lot of others, then?” Bhagavan replied “Sri Acharya
(Sri Adi Sankara) also says similar things when he composes
songs in praise of any deity. How else can they praise God?”
That is, if one adopts the jiva bhava (the attitude of being an
individual soul) and praises God, one cannot but sing of the
limitation and shortcomings of one’s individual existence, as
can be seen even from the hymns sung by Bhagavan himself
in praise of Arunachala.
Moreover, the fact that Sivaprakasam Pillai finally
achieved the goal of Self-Realisation for which he so earnestly
strove and prayed, was subtly indicated by Bhagavan himself.
That is, after he passed away on Tuesday 12th January 1948,
a telegram was sent to Bhagavan conveying the news, and on
seeing the telegram Bhagavan said in Tamil, “Sivaprakasam
Sivaprakasamaanar” which means ‘Sivaprakasam has become
Siva-Prakasam, the light of Siva”!
3. Swami Pranavananda
(Sarvepalli Narasimham)*
S wami Pranavananda was one of the earliest devotees to

come to Bhagavan. He visited Bhagavan in 1910, in the
Virupaksha Cave. His integrity and strong spiritual aspirations
earned him an enviable place among Bhagavan’s devotees.
He was one of Bhagavan’s intimate companions. His love
for Bhagavan was so great that he surrendered himself
unconditionally at Bhagavan’s feet, relinquishing all worldly
attachments, and this filled his heart with joy and peace. He
was very modest and never spoke about himself. In fact, his
speech was restricted to the barest minimum.
Though he did not consider himself a teacher, his life
itself served as a valuable lesson in spirituality.
Pranavananda belonged to the Sarvepalli† family, which
was highly esteemed in the village of Venkatapuram, near
Tiruttani in South India. In fact, it was as ‘Narasimham’ that
he was known to the devotees of Bhagavan. He took the name
of Swami Pranavananda at the time of becoming a sannyasi
(renunciate).
The Sarvepalli family was not a wealthy one. Narasimham
was well versed in the three South Indian languages namely
Telugu, Tamil and Kannada. He was also a Sanskrit scholar.
Ironically enough, Narasimham did not get through the
Matriculation Examination, but his scholarship in English was
remarkable. In fact, Englishmen themselves used to marvel at
his mastery of the language!
Narasimham joined the Arcot Christian College as a
teacher. The authorities were so impressed by his scholarship
and his capacity as a teacher that they appointed him as a
* Smt. T.R. Kanakkamal, Cherished Memories. Trans. Lalitha

Krithivasan, 2nd ed. 2010.
† Pranavananda was the uncle of Sarvepalli Radhakrishnan, who
became the President of India (from 1962 to 1967).
Munshi (a teacher who trained foreigners in the use of local

languages) to teach Telugu and English to the members of the
mission and the managers of the institutions under their care.
Narasimham also trained some of the members of the
mission in the techniques of meditation. Some of his students,
like Paul Adiseshayya and Ida Scudder (who founded the
Christian Medical College Hospital in Vellore) were so
impressed by the clarity of thought obtained through meditation
that they were prepared to embrace Hinduism if Narasimham
advised them to do so. But Narasimham was not in favour of
this. He did not believe in religious conversions, and did not
think that only Hindus could benefit from meditation. In fact,
he declared that one could meditate on God even if one did
not profess any religion at all. He told his students that one
could serve mankind and live in peace even if one did not
belong to any recognised religion. Narasimham’s beliefs and
his teachings astonished the authorities of the mission.
Narasimham made several visits to the Vellore Central
Jail, to meet the prisoners and to talk to them about moral
values. He initiated the prisoners into the Ramataraka
mantram and persuaded them to give up their lawless ways.
Through his influence, Narasimham helped in reforming and
rehabilitating many of the convicts in the jail.
Narasimham left the Mission because of some difference
of opinion with the authorities, and took up the job of Munshi
in the Police Training College. Many of the Europeans who
came to Vellore during that period had the good fortune to
learn the local language from Narasimham. Those who were
spiritually inclined found an able guide in him, and his classes
became very popular satsangs (spiritual congregations). Very
soon, Narasimham gained the reputation of being a capable
teacher and a spiritual guide.
While Narasimham was serving as a Munshi in Vellore,
Kavyakantha Ganapati Muni was working as a Telugu
Teacher in the same town. In 1910 Narasimham and Ganapati
Muni went to Tiruvannamalai and met Bhagavan. At that
time Bhagavan was staying in the Virupaksha Cave. At that

very first meeting, Bhagavan’s look of grace entered deep
into Narasimham’s heart and destroyed all the doubts that
had been troubling him till then. From that moment onwards,
Narasimham’s heart was full of peace.
It was during this period that F.H. Humphreys came to
India as Assistant Superintendent of Police. While he was
teaching Telugu to the officials in the Police Department,
Narasimham used to translate several spiritual texts, including
the Ramayana, for the benefit of his students.
Though he was just a teacher of local languages,
Narasimham commanded the respect of a large number of
foreigners.
Though Narasimham had originally accepted Ganapati
Muni as his Guru, he was proud to declare himself a devotee
of Bhagavan Ramana.
Narasimham had no special feeling towards his
family deity, Lord Yoganarasimha. His whole focus was
on the Vichara Marga (path of Self-enquiry) as taught by
Bhagavan. In course of time, Narasimham renounced the
world and became a Sannyasi, assuming the name of Swami
Pranavananda. However, the ritual was a mere formality, as
Narasimham had always been a sannyasi at heart, living a
life of detachment and devoting his time to spiritual pursuits.
Pranavananda considered Bhagavan the very
personification of the Vedas and the Upanishads, and so he
had great love and reverence for Bhagavan. Bhagavan, too,
had a special regard and concern for Pranavananda. The
following anecdote serves as an illustration of Bhagavan’s
concern for Pranavananda:
Pranavananda used to bring out booklets containing
Bhagavan’s teachings. One of the devotees owned a printing
press, and he printed the booklets that were brought to him
by Pranavananda.
One hot summer afternoon, Pranavananda was returning
to Tiruvannamalai with a copy of one of the booklets. He had
just one rupee with him, and, not wanting to engage a bullock
cart, he decided to walk to Ramanasramam. He somehow
made it to the gate of the Ashram, but the terrible heat had
taken its toll; Pranavananda could not proceed any further. He
sat down in the shade of a tree for a short rest before entering
the Ashram. At that moment, Bhagavan happened to look out
of the window. Seeing Pranavananda’s exhausted attitude,
Bhagavan immediately came out to him. Sitting down beside
him, Bhagavan poured cool water over Pranavananda’s sore
feet and spoke to him in gentle, compassionate tones, saying,
“Why do you put yourself to such strain? Did I ever ask you
to go out in this heat?”
Krishna Bhikshu gives a slightly different account where
he writes that Bhagavan said: “You had a long way to walk,
Grandpa. Your legs must be paining you very much.” The old
swami protested in vain; Bhagavan had his way and massaged
the swami’s feet.
Pranavanada was instrumental in printing several
booklets of Bhagavan’s teachings. He priced these booklets
at half-anna or one anna and gave them to the Ashram. It
was his desire that Bhagavan’s teachings should be made
available to the maximum number of people at affordable
cost. It was Pranavananada who first translated Bhagavan’s
Who am I?, Vicharasangraham, Vivekachudamani and
Devikalottaram into Telugu. His style was very simple and
lucid. In addition to these translations, Pranavananda also
wrote several original books, including Ramana Maharshi
Charitramu, Advaitabhoda Dipika, Tatwamali Dhyanamu,
Sri Guru-Anugraha-avataramu, Dipamu Choodandi and Sri
Ramana Stutipaatalu.
Pranavananda considered Bhagavan to be a manifestation
of Lord Rama Himself. This can be illustrated by the following
account:
One day, Bhagavan was sitting on the verandah with
some devotees. Suddenly, a crow flew in at great speed and
fell at Bhagavan’s feet. Bhagavan picked it up and stroked its
feathers gently. He saw that the crow was mortally wounded,

and tried to revive it, but it died in Bhagavan’s lap. “Some
Siddha purusha has left his body today,” said Bhagavan, and
gave instructions for entombing the dead crow.
While this was going on, Pranavananda came to the
Ashram. Upon seeing him, Bhagavan said, “The entombment
of the crow is over.” All the other devotees seemed to be
impressed by the gravity of the moment, but Pranavananda
remained unmoved. In fact, he said to Bhagavan, “Why
should Bhagavan expect us to be impressed by this incident,
as though it is some great achievement? Is it really such a
wonderful thing to have happened?” Everyone was taken
aback by Pranavananda’s inexplicable reaction, but Bhagavan
remained grave and dignified. Suddenly, Pranavananda broke
into tears and said, “Why Bhagavan, is this really a great
deed that you have done now? Did you not grant liberation to
Jatayu* in the last yuga? Now you have done the same for a
crow! There is nothing strange about this...it is just a routine
affair for someone like you!” Hearing this, the devotees
were moved by Pranavananda’s devotion to Bhagavan, and
his unshakable faith in Bhagavan’s divine nature. Bhagavan
himself looked on silently, as though he accepted everything.
Once, Pranavananda asked his grandson Hariprasad
to attend Bhagavan’s Jayanti celebrations. He instructed
the boy to get up early in the morning, have his bath and
take his breakfast with Bhagavan, and to leave immediately
for giripradakshina. As the boy was about to leave,
Pranavananda slipped a letter into his pocket and told him to
give it to Bhagavan. Hariprasad followed his grandfather’s
instructions; he woke up early in the morning and had his
bath. Then he went and prostrated to Bhagavan. Bhagavan
made enquiries regarding the welfare of all the family
members and told Hariprasad to have the idlis and chutney
that had been prepared for that day’s breakfast. While he was
* Jatayu was an eagle who was given salvation by Rama.

eating, Hariprasad told Bhagavan that he wanted to set out

on giripradakshina immediately after breakfast. Bhagavan
said, “First of all, let me read the letter your grandfather has
written to me,” and he took the letter from the boy’s pocket.
Bhagavan asked for one more idli to be served to the boy and
read the letter while Hariprasad finished his breakfast. The
letter contained the information that the Maharaja of Mysore
was planning to visit Ramanasramam. Even though the boy
had forgotten his grandfather’s instructions, Bhagavan made
sure that the letter was handed over to him. Incidents like
this illustrate the fact that Bhagavan was always aware of his
devotees’ desires, even the unspoken ones.
Pranavananda had an Ashram in Gudivada, in the Guntur
District of Andhra Pradesh. However, he stayed in Vellore
most of the time. Kuzhumani Narayana Sastri, a devotee of
Bhagavan, also stayed in Vellore, and he was a close associate
of Swami Pranavananda. He was devoted to both Bhagavan
and Seshadri Swami.
One day, Pranavananda asked his grandson, Hariprasad,
to fetch Kuzhumani Sastri. As soon as Sastri reached their
house, Pranavananda asked him to recite Rudram, Namakam
and Chamakam along with him. At the end of this recitation,
Pranavananda closed his eyes and repeated ‘Hari Om’. With
the Lord’s Name on his lips, he merged with the divine. Thus
ended Pranavananda’s glorious life.
Pranavananda merged with Bhagavan in the year 1969,
and his mortal remains were entombed on the banks of the
River Palar, in Vellore. Though Pranavananda is no more
with us, his memory lives on, through the numerous books
he has written.
4. Echammal*
L akshmi Ammal, known to Bhagavan’s devotees as

Echammal, was a native of Mandakolathur, a village
about twenty miles from Arunachala. After her marriage, she
mostly lived in Kariyalur, in Nellore District, the place where
her husband worked. Several children were born, but none of
them lived for long. Three years after her first son died, two
more of her children, a son and a daughter, also passed away.
During this period she dreamt of a young boy who had a
clean-shaven head and who wore only a kaupina. She thought
he might be a sannyasi. In the dream he placed something
on her palm and then disappeared. When she informed her
husband about this, he sent for a man who could interpret
dreams. That man suggested the figure was Lord Subramanian,
but he could offer no further interpretation. Lord Subramanian
was the deity worshipped by her husband’s family. The family
had their own interpretation of the dream: they believed that
it meant they had received the grace of Lord Subramanian,
and that the grace would continue to manifest itself in future.
When her husband was transferred to Kandukur, the
same boy again appeared in her dream. This time he placed
something in her palm, a message written in Devanagari
script.† Echammal told him that she couldn’t read Devanagari.
The dream figure then told her to go and consult a famous
pandit called Paradesa Sastri, adding that he would be able to
tell her its significance. This pandit declared that she had the
grace of Subramanian, and he initiated her with a mantra that
contained his name.
* Self-Realisation; Suri Nagamma, Letters from Sri Ramanasramam,

Trans. D.S. Sastri, 1985; G.V. Subbaramayya, Ramana Reminiscences,
1967; Devaraja Mudaliar, Day by Day with Bhagavan, 1977; The
Power of the Presence – Part 3.
† Devanagari is the script that Sanskrit and several North Indian
languages, including Hindi, are written in.
From that day onwards a flood of misfortunes

overwhelmed her. In quick succession her son, a daughter and
her husband all died. These bereavements left her with only
one daughter. Having no reason to stay in the town where her
husband was formerly employed, she went back to her native
place with her surviving daughter.
Following the custom of those days, she arranged for her
daughter’s marriage while she was still only ten years old.
The lagna [most auspicious time] was calculated, but fate
again intervened. Twenty days before the ceremony was to
be celebrated, the daughter caught a fever. Two or three days
later the same mysterious figure again appeared to Echammal
in a dream. This time he had a cryptic message for her:
‘Your three lives are over. Viswanath [the Lord of
the World] is calling for you. Please return to the hill and
disappear.’
The only part of the dream she understood was about
lives being over. A short time later her last daughter died.
This final loss triggered an overwhelming and long-
lasting bout of sorrow and depression. She found herself
unable to dwell on any aspect of her life without succumbing
to the waves of grief that continually welled up inside her. The
consoling remarks of her relatives and the familiar landmarks
of her village continually reminded her of the family she had
lost. In an attempt to break out of her depression she obtained
her father’s permission to travel on a long pilgrimage to see
the saints and holy places of North India. She travelled all
over North India and lived for some time in Gokarna on the
shore of the Arabian Sea. During this extensive pilgrimage
she served several saints, one of whom initiated her into
the Ashtanga Yoga of Patanjali. Neither the saints nor her
spiritual practices succeeded in removing the black cloud of
sorrow that seemed to have settled permanently in her mind.
In fact, she felt that it was becoming worse and worse every
day.
In 1906 she returned to the place of her birth, having

failed to get the solace she had so earnestly sought. However
this sorrow had not made her unduly pessimistic. She had an
inner confidence that somewhere in India there was a Guru or
saint who could put an end to her sorrow. When she confided
her theory to her relatives, one of them suggested that she
visit the young swami in Tiruvannamalai.
This relative told her, “There is one Brahmana Swami
living on Arunachala. No doubt he is very young, about
twenty-six, but he is a man of extraordinary eminence. If you
like the idea, you may go and visit him.”
Other people also encouraged her to go.
One of them said, “Even though he is keeping mauna,
people who serve him with absolute devotion will derive
some grace and benefit from his proximity.”
Echammal accepted the advice and started for Arunachala.
Some of her relatives lived in Tiruvannamalai but she
didn’t want to go to their house in case her visit revived
unpleasant memories about her family. Instead, she
went directly to Virupaksha Cave with the lady who had
accompanied her from her village. As soon as she saw the
swami, she recognized that he was the mysterious figure who
had appeared in her dreams and who, in the last dream, had
invited her to come to the hill. She stayed there for an hour,
unable to speak. The swami said nothing to her, but in his
presence all her sorrows melted away. While she sat there
she had no thought of her house, or of leaving. Some force
seemed to keep her immobilized in front of the swami. After
an hour had passed in this fashion she made a great effort and
forced herself to leave the proximity of the cave. She was
not able to stay away for long. From that day on, the swami
attracted her like a magnet. She visited the cave repeatedly
and eventually began to take food offerings to Bhagavan.
Initially, her father supplied her funds. Later on her brother
also made some contributions.
Echammal converted these cash donations into food

for Bhagavan and his devotees. Once the cooking habit
developed, she made it part of her routine to serve Bhagavan
every day. Even when he went to the very top of the hill, she
would climb up there with her daily offering. In addition, she
made her house available to all devotees of Bhagavan.
The grace that she received from Bhagavan washed away
all her previous sorrow so completely that she was soon able
to talk about her deceased family members without feeling
any unhappiness. In the course of time she came to regard
Bhagavan as her mother, father, Guru and God.
After some time, and with Bhagavan’s permission,
Echammal adopted Chellammal, her brother’s daughter. The
little girl was well liked in the ashram and Bhagavan often
used to indulge her by playing with her. When she grew up,
she married, went to her husband’s village and had a son.
This son was named Ramana. Soon after his birth Echammal
unexpectedly received a telegram saying that Chellammal
had died. In her early years such a blow would have caused
her old grief and despair to reappear, but now she had found
Bhagavan, the one person who could take away her grief.
She took the telegram to Bhagavan and showed it to him.
Bhagavan shed tears when he read it, in his compassion he
appeared to share her grief.
When Echammal went to attend the funeral service of
Chellammal she collected child ‘Ramana’, brought him back
to Tiruvannamalai and put him in the arms of Bhagavan. It
was a symbolic gesture. She was signalling that both she and
the child were utterly dependent on the grace of Bhagavan.
Echammal had been initiated in the practices of Ashtanga
Yoga. After several years of strenuous effort, she became
something of an adept in these practices. She would sit with
her eyes fixed on the tip of her nose, concentrate on a light
that appeared there, and remain for hours absorbed in the
pleasure that this practice produced. Once, she performed
this practice so intensively that she lost consciousness. When
Echammal later came to tell Bhagavan about her experiences

of this state, he advised her to discontinue the practices that
produced it. He told her that the light that appeared was only
an appearance, not the Self. He also told her that she should
aim for the highest goal, Self-realisation, and not be distracted
by minor phenomena such as lights and trances. He advised
her to give up all her yogic practices and instead follow the
path of Self-enquiry.
Echammal had great devotion for Bhagavan but also a
high regard for other spiritual teachers. She had particular
respect for Seshadri Swami, and he in turn reciprocated her
affection. Normally, Seshadri Swami did not allow people to
approach him. If they tried, more often than not, he would greet
them with a shower of stones. With Echammal, however, he
behaved differently. Of his own accord he frequently visited
her house to eat with her. On several occasions, when she
was returning to her house after dusk, he would appear on the
way. Walking a few steps behind her, he would follow her to
her house to make sure that she reached home safely.
Seshadri Swami once visited her while a pandit was
explaining a passage from the Puranas to her.
The pandit looked scornfully at Seshadri Swami and
remarked, ‘Will such people attain jnana even after a thousand
lives?’
It hurt Echammal to hear this pandit abuse a realised soul
in such a way. A desire arose in her that Seshadri Swami
should give the pandit a lecture, merely to show him that
his arrogance was misplaced. Seshadri read her mind and
immediately began a long discourse on the final tatparya
[definitive meaning] of the mahavakyas. His speech lasted
several hours and he spoke so fluently that a large crowd
assembled to hear him speak. On another occasion, while she
was doing her puja, Seshadri Swami appeared and asked her
what she was doing. She replied that she was worshipping the
pictures of Bhagavan and himself. Seshadri Swami was not
impressed. ‘Why don’t you practise meditation?’ he asked.
Desiring to learn more about the subject from Seshadri,

Echammal asked him how it should be done. Immediately
Seshadri Swami sat rigidly in the lotus position, concentrated
on the tip of his nose and went into samadhi for a period of
four or five hours.
When he resumed normal consciousness, he asked her if
she understood by saying ‘Did you see, Echammal?’
Echammal’s faith in Bhagavan, and her devotion to him,
resulted in several seemingly miraculous occurrences.
One day, while she was walking up the steps to Virupaksha
Cave, bringing some food to Bhagavan, there was a heavy
downpour of rain that made it impossible for her to climb any
further. As she sat down to wait out the storm, she saw that
Bhagavan was sitting near her. She was surprised to see that
no rain was falling on him. A circular spot, four or five yards
in diameter, was completely untouched by the rain. Bhagavan
was sitting in the centre of it.
In the second incident a scholar from North India had
come to have Bhagavan’s darshan in Virupaksha Cave. While
he was talking to Bhagavan, Echammal arrived in a very
disturbed state. The light had gone from her face and she was
shivering. Bhagavan asked her what had happened.
Echammal replied, ‘As I was climbing the steps near
Sadguruswami Cave, I felt there were two people standing
beside the path. One of them was Bhagavan. I didn’t know
who the other man was. I didn’t stop. I continued climbing
the mountain. A few seconds later I heard a voice from behind
me: “We are all here. Why should you climb any further?” I
turned round and was shocked to see that the two figures had
completely disappeared.’
She had continued up the hill, frightened and shivering.
The scholar from the north accused Bhagavan of partiality.
‘Why did you appear to her there while you are talking
to me here? Why have you not shown me any such sign of
grace?’
Bhagavan defended himself by saying that Echammal had

seen the figure because all her thoughts were centred on him.
Another devotee recalls:
Echammal’s house was an open choultry for all Sri
Ramana’s devotees, whom she treated as her own kith and
kin. For me her heart always overflowed with affection.
She used to narrate countless anecdotes of old times which
brought Bhagavan much closer to my heart. I shall mention
one of them here. Once while Bhagavan was living on the
hill, Echammal, going up with the food basket, was met by
a party of pilgrims who were returning with a look of sad
disappointment. On enquiry they told her that, having come
from a distant place, they had searched and searched for the
Maharshi but could not find him anywhere. Promising to show
them Bhagavan, she took them with her. As they had darshan
of Bhagavan, they were utterly amazed and abashed. For they
had seen him before in a kaupina [loincloth], working alone
at raising a mud wall.
Mistaking him for a coolie, they had asked him, ‘Where
is the swami?’
Bhagavan, it seems, had replied, ‘I do not know’.
When Echammal, after their departure, remonstrated with
Bhagavan for having misled the poor pilgrims, Bhagavan
replied, ‘What am I to tell them? “Lo and behold! Here is
the swami!”’
Echammal continued to provide bhiksha when Bhagavan
moved to Sri Ramanasramam. However, her food was no
longer needed there because the ashram acquired enough
cooking facilities to prepare hundreds of meals every day.
Even so, both Echammal and Mudaliar Patti continued to
bring their daily offering. Bhagavan asked her himself on
several occasions to stop bringing food but she was a stubborn
woman who rarely listened to anyone.
‘If you force me to stop,’ she told Bhagavan, ‘I will
commit suicide. Then my death will be your responsibility.’
Bhagavan accepted defeat. ‘What can I do?’ he asked. ‘It

must be my destiny to eat this food.’
Another devotee says:
Echammal’s cooking was never very good. It would
not contain vegetables and spices in proper proportions. To
Bhagavan her devotion was more tasty than her preparations
and so he never complained, but some who could not relish
the food casually hinted at this now and then while Bhagavan
was cutting vegetables in the kitchen in the early morning
hours. After hearing their complaints repeatedly Bhagavan
said, ‘I don’t know. If you do not like the food you need not
eat it. I find it quite good and I shall continue to do so.’
Once Echammal visited the ashram while she was ill and
began to vomit near the platform that then existed in front
of the Mother’s shrine. Someone asked her why she did not
report the matter to Bhagavan.
In a highly agitated voice she replied, ‘Ha! Why should
I report this to him? Does he not already know it? And what
is he doing there?’
One of the devotees reported Echammal’s illness and her
comments to Bhagavan.
When the devotee took his message back to Echammal,
her vomiting had already receded.
At one time there was some misunderstanding between
the management and Echammal. They asked her to stop
bringing her food. In great sorrow Echammal took the meals
carrier into the presence of Bhagavan and reported that the
management had ordered her to stop bringing food.
‘I have grown old in your service. My head has turned
grey serving you. I have given everything in your service,
and this is the reward I get. You are just like your father
Arunachala. He has turned himself into a stone, and you too
have turned yourself into a stone. What can I do? I shall go
back to the town.’
When the bell rang as usual for food, Bhagavan refused
to move. His attendants asked him to go to the dining room,
but he ignored them. He had a faraway look that showed no

indication that he had even heard their words. The attendants
finally realised that he was acting this way because of
Echammal. They decided that she was the only person
who might be able to persuade him to move. A messenger
was dispatched to fetch her, but initially she was unwilling
to come. She only agreed when it was pointed out to her
that Bhagavan would continue to starve unless she put in
an appearance. Echammal had devoted most of her life to
feeding Bhagavan and the thought of him starving on her
account immediately persuaded her to change her mind. She
went back to the ashram and asked Bhagavan to go and take
his meal. Bhagavan immediately rose from his seat and went
to the dining room.
Though Bhagavan often encouraged her to stop sending
her food, he did not support anyone who tried to prevent her
from bringing or sending her daily contribution. In fact, he
would not eat if he noticed that Echammal’s contribution was
not on his plate.
Echammal had a desire to become a sannyasi but
Bhagavan would not agree. However, he permitted her to
wear the ochre robe.
Years later, in fact just a few years before his own
departure, for two or three evenings in a row Bhagavan kept a
great silence in the hall. There was a blaze of light all around
him that new visitors were astonished to see.
Someone asked whether this light was always there and
another devotee replied: ‘No, not always. This light usually
shines on three occasions. On Kartigai day, on Mahapuja
day and on Jayanti day. This is something special and a very
important event is about to happen.’
On the night of 28th December 1945 Echammal breathed
her last. She had been cooking her food when she suddenly fell
ill. After many years of faithful service, she quietly departed.
The next day Lokammal came to Bhagavan and asked for
permission to go to town to visit the house of the deceased.
She remarked, ‘Echammal seems to have gone.’

Bhagavan replied in a grave tone: ‘Yes, she has gone. I
too wish to go, but the time has not come. What am I to do?’
Echammal treated all the younger devotees of Bhagavan
as her own. Krishna Bhikshu’s mother also died the same
night, a little before Echammal. A telegram with the news of
the event went first to Bhagavan. Bhagavan sent for him and
told him what had happened.
Bhagavan remarked: ‘Krishnayya has lost two mothers
in the same night.’ That remark fully conveys the great love
Echammal bore towards the younger devotees of Bhagavan.
5. Mudaliar Patti*
M udaliar Patti was originally called Alankarathanni and

she came from a family of Saivas in Karaikal. She, her
son Subbiah Mudaliar and her daughter-in-law Kamakshi
Ammal were, in the early years of this (twentieth) century,
greatly devoted to a saint who lived near Karaikal. All of
them served him with great love.
When the saint was approaching his end, Alankarathanni
lamented to him, ‘So far we have had the good fortune of
serving you and thereby derived great peace of mind. From
where are we going to get it in the future, after you have left
us?’
The saint told her, ‘A much greater fortune is awaiting
you. You will get the darshan of a jnani who is in a much
greater state than I, and you will also get the great opportunity
of serving him.’
When he was asked where this great man could be found,
the saint replied that he lived in Tiruvannamalai under the
* Self-Realisation; Sri Ramana Leela; Kunju Swami, Reminiscences

of Kunju Swami, Trans. P. Ramasamy, 2017; Cherished Memories;
The Power of the Presence – Part 3.
name of ‘Brahmana Swami’. A few days later the saint passed

away.
A couple of months later Subbiah Mudaliar came to
Tiruvannamalai and had the darshan of Bhagavan, who was
then still known as ‘Brahmana Swami’. When he got up after
prostrating before Bhagavan, he experienced a peace and a
bliss that he had never had before. He thanked with all his
heart the saint of Karaikal who had informed them about the
great Jnani, Bhagavan. He returned to Karaikal, entrusted all
his lands to someone else, and left for Tiruvannamalai with
his mother and his wife. On their arrival, in 1909, they rented
a house in North Tower Street and stayed there for many
years. From that day on they started giving food to Bhagavan
every day. Subbiah Mudaliar also used to go to the big temple
every day and stay there till the noon puja was over. Before
returning home, he would invite two or three sadhus to his
home and feed them.
Alankarathanni and her daughter-in-law Kamakshi
Ammal would carry food daily to Bhagavan at Virupaksha
Cave, have Bhagavan’s darshan there, serve him food and
return.
When Bhagavan moved to Skandasramam, a picture of
him was installed there. Alankarathanni used to collect tumbai
flowers from the flower garden of Arunachaleswara Temple,
make them into intricate garlands, put them in a flower
basket, take them to Skandasramam, put them on Bhagavan’s
picture, wave lighted camphor before it and prostrate. In this
way she satisfied her desire to worship Bhagavan’s person by
worshipping his picture.
A few years passed. The income from Subbiah Mudaliar’s
land in Karaikal steadily declined because of lack of direct
supervision and because of the irresponsible behaviour of
those looking after the lands. As their income declined, it
became difficult to look after the family at Tiruvannamalai.
Subbiah Mudaliar, who did not want to stay in Tiruvannamalai
in this state, went to Tiruppanandal Mutt and joined them as
a tambiran [a Saiva sannyasi]. From that time on we called

him ‘Tambiran Swami’, while his mother, Alankarathanni,
became known as ‘Mudaliar Patti’.
After Subbiah Mudaliar left for Tiruppanandal Mutt, his
wife and mother used to buy sesame seeds, clean them and
extract oil from them. They used to make a living selling
sesame oil, homemade poppadums and a few other things. Out
of the income they derived from these sources they offered
bhiksha (alms food) to Bhagavan and also fed themselves.
A few years later [in 1938] Kamakshi Ammal passed
away, but even then Mudaliar Patti did not stop serving
food to Bhagavan. Seeing her suffer alone in poverty, some
devotees, along with the ashram manager, suggested to her
that she should stop trying to supply Bhagavan with food and
come to the ashram to take all her own meals there.
Mudaliar Patti had no money and no one to help her in
her domestic work in the house. Seeing her desolate condition,
and taking pity on her, Niranjanananda Swami, Kunju
Swami and others advised her, saying, ‘Now you are an old
woman. You can no longer worry yourself about this service
of offering food to Bhagavan. The ashram is giving shelter
to several people. Eat here and sit in peace in Bhagavan’s
presence with closed eyes. Or if you so desire, we will send
you food to your place. Eat and stay at home.’
She replied, ‘Whatever the difficulties, I will not give
up this holy task. If I do not have money, I will go to ten
houses, feeling my way with my stick, beg for food, offer
it to Bhagavan, and only then will I eat. I cannot ‘remain
inactive.’
So saying, and with tears in her eyes, she went away.
Rangaswami Gounder was staying at the ashram at that
time. Noting her strong sense of detachment and her lack of
financial support, he suggested to me that Patti (‘Grandma’)
could stay in a portion of his own house that was located very
near the ashram. He also offered to render whatever other
help might be necessary to her.
When Patti became weak in her old age, a woman called

Parvati Ammal looked after her. One or two other women
also helped her. Patti used to come to the ashram everyday
for Bhagavan’s darshan, bringing her food donation with her.
One day, on account of her poor eyesight, she accidentally
stepped on a leaf plate (on the floor) in the dining hall.
Noticing this Ramakrishna Swami and Niranjanananda
Swami told her, ‘Your eyesight is no good any more. Since
you cannot see Bhagavan when you come here, you can
send your food through someone else. You can stay at home,
thinking of Bhagavan there.’
Immediately she retorted, ‘What if I can’t see Bhagavan?
Bhagavan sees me, does he not? That is enough!’
Overhearing this exchange Bhagavan laughed and said,
‘What can you say to that?’
Eventually Patti lost her eyesight completely and became
so feeble that she was unable to walk the short distance to
the ashram. Nevertheless she still prepared food and sent it
each day to Bhagavan. By the time she died in 1949 she had
sent food continuously to Bhagavan, without missing a single
day, for forty years. And Bhagavan would always accept it.
Even when the ashram expanded to the point where hundreds
of meals could be cooked every day, she still contributed her
mite, and Bhagavan always insisted on having some of it on
his plate.
Whenever Bhagavan saw Mudaliar Patti approaching,
his face would break into a smile. Often, after she had
served him, he would ask her for more food. Sometimes
he would even call her back when she had finished serving
him and help himself to some of the food that remained
in her basket. This was very unusual. Bhagavan frequently
criticized the servers for putting too much food on his plate,
and except when Mudaliar Patti was there, he rarely asked
for second helpings. We all felt that it was Mudaliar Patti’s
love and devotion that elicited this gracious response from
Bhagavan.
Mudaliar Patti, who used to feed Bhagavan daily, always

tried to serve more cooked rice to him by making a ball of
rice and pressing it hard into a certain shape.
One day, Bhagavan, noticing her trick, commented,
‘She is very clever. She feels she could serve me more food
through making it appear less. I know her trick!’
Bhagavan made the gestures of her pressing the rice with
her hands.
Taking her cue, straight came Mudaliar Patti’s reply:
‘Bhagavan! What is more and what is less? There is nothing
that is either big or small. Everything is only our bhavana
[mental attitude].’ She made similar gestures to the ones made
by Bhagavan. Bhagavan enjoyed the joke and remarked, ‘See!
See! How well she is giving me back my own teaching!’
Bhagavan would always wait for her food to arrive, and
he could never be persuaded to eat before her offering had
arrived. In the early years, if Bhagavan went around the hill,
or even to the top of it, Mudaliar Patti would follow him
to ensure that her offering was accepted. Bhagavan had his
regular stopping places around the hill and Mudaliar Patti soon
learned them. Frequently Bhagavan would find her waiting
for him with a basket of food in some remote place on the
far side of the hill. Once, when she was approaching old age,
she climbed the mountain alone with two large tiffin carriers
and a basket of food because she had heard that Bhagavan
was climbing the hill with several devotees. She eventually
tracked him down at Seven Springs, which is at least two
thirds of the way to the summit. It seemed that nothing would
persuade her to stop her daily offering. Even when the whole
town was evacuated because of a plague epidemic, Mudaliar
Patti took shelter on the hill and still managed to find food to
take to Bhagavan.
In the early 1940s Bhagavan suffered from jaundice and
completely lost his appetite. For a few days he was mostly
subsisting on popcorn, which was the only thing he felt like
eating. Since he knew that Echammal and Mudaliar Patti had
both taken vows that they would not eat until he had eaten
some of their offering, he obliged them both by taking one or
two grains of rice from them each day and mixing them with
his popcorn.
Mudaliar Patti eventually lost her eyesight. Suri Nagamma
has described a visit she made to Bhagavan just before she
went completely blind:
For the last two or three years [1946-49] she had been
sending food through somebody and had given up serving it
to Bhagavan personally as her eyesight was failing. It seems
that someone told her that Bhagavan’s body had become very
much emaciated. She was therefore feeling that it was all due
to her ceasing to serve food personally. So, one day she came
to see Bhagavan.
She approached him and, shading her eyes with her
palm, said with a great feeling of sorrow, ‘Oh, how reduced
the body has become!’
‘Who told you, Granny? I am all right. What you have
heard is false,’ said Bhagavan.
The old woman came to the place in the hall where
women sit and sat down in the front row. After a while
Bhagavan rose from his seat to go out. When Bhagavan gets
up, as you know, all the rest of us also get up. She stood in
the doorway, leaning against the door.
When Bhagavan came near, he said with a laugh, ‘Granny,
have I become reduced? See how well I am. It is a pity you
are not able to see.’
So saying he went out.
Of late, she has not been able to see at all. Even so, when
about four months ago she expressed a wish to see Bhagavan,
a devotee led her to Bhagavan’s presence.
When a person near Bhagavan said, ‘Granny, you have
no eyesight to see Bhagavan. Why have you come?’ she
replied, ‘Though I cannot see Bhagavan’s body, my body
can be seen by Bhagavan, and that is more than enough for
me.’
The agony she experienced when she heard that an

operation was performed on Bhagavan’s arm for the tumour
is indescribable.
The old Mudaliar Patti who has been daily serving
Maharshi with rice cooked in her own house and at her
own expense for forty years, passed away at about midnight
on 24 September 1949. As soon as the news of her death
reached Sri Maharshi, he started talking about her and went
on the whole day telling her story from 1908 – one year after
Echammal came – when she first came to him in Virupaksha
Cave. He spoke of how she had stuck to him all these years
with unflagging devotion and wholehearted service. He
enquired about the place of her burial. When he was told that
it would be in the Hindu general burial ground, he rejected
this idea and said that it should be in the place where she died.
Bhagavan’s order had to be obeyed, and a pit was dug within
her compound, which was not far from the ashram. Her body
was made to sit cross-legged in padmasana, as is customarily
done with the bodies of sannyasis. It was then garlanded with
flowers, sprinkled with sacred ash and camphor, and finally
buried for final rest.
Had Bhagavan not intervened, Mudaliar Patti’s body
would have been cremated rather than buried. By insisting
on a burial in her own compound, with the full rites of a
sannyasi funeral, Bhagavan was making a very pointed and
public statement about her elevated spiritual status. The
former president of Ramanasramam, T.N. Venkataraman,
collected funds from various devotees and arranged for a
proper samadhi structure to be constructed over her grave.
There is no record of any other instance in which Bhagavan
intervened in this way when one of his devotees died.
There is a very strange postscript to this story. Several
years after Bhagavan had left his body the property on which
Mudaliar Patti had been buried was purchased by someone
who was not aware of the high esteem in which Bhagavan
had held her. He was advised (I don’t know by whom) that
having this samadhi on his property would be ‘inauspicious’.

He destroyed it, dug up Mudaliar Patti’s body, cut up its
remains and scattered them a long distance away from his
land. This extreme and brutish procedure was recommended
to him by the same people who had advised him to remove
the samadhi from his land. Several years later, as he was
returning to Tiruvannamalai, he was killed in a train crash.
The force of the crash was so severe that his own body was
cut into several pieces.
6. Manavasi Ramaswami Iyer*
M anavasi Ramaswami Iyer was the son of Venkatarama

Iyer. Native to Manavasi Village of Trichy District
in 1907, ‘Saranagati’ Ramaswami Iyer was transferred to
Villupuram just 60 kilometre from Tiruvannamalai. He was in
his late thirties at the time. Now that he was near Bhagavan,
he set off for Tiruvannamalai one day during the Kartigai
Deepam Festival with a view to meet Bhagavan for the first
time. Having for a long time suffered sleepless nights caused
by chronic dyspepsia and unable to digest normal food,
Ramaswami Iyer’s life had been ‘hell on earth with no peace
of mind’. So when at last he found Bhagavan at Virupaksha
Cave, the poor man cried out in desperation: “I am suffering
from a number of ills and diseases. Pray, have mercy on me!”
Bhagavan simply said, “I am neither a doctor nor a magician.
What can I do?” Then waving his hand in a casual manner,
Bhagavan said, “Go home with the courage that nothing can
affect you.”
Ramaswami Iyer saw in this gesture a ray of hope
and took Bhagavan’s words to heart. Deeply impressed by
* Self-Realisation; Sri Ramana Leela; Arthur Osborne, Ramana

Maharshi and the Path of Self-knowledge, 7th ed. 2012;
Reminiscences of Kunju Swami.
Arunachala, he made up his mind to shift to Tiruvannamalai.

For the time being, however, he would have to make short
journeys from Villupuram to Tiruvannamalai by train.
One day as he approached Tiruvannamalai Station, he
decided to seek out Seshadri Swami whom he had only
heard about. As he got down from the train, a feisty, brawny
beggar approached him for a coin but Iyer angrily refused
him saying that he could not encourage lazy, able-bodied
men who were perfectly capable of work to take up a life of
begging. He then set about the town searching for Seshadri
Swami. When somebody pointed him out, Ramaswami
Iyer was bewildered and deeply dismayed to see that
Seshadri Swami was none other than the very beggar on
whom he had hurled abuse just an hour earlier. Humbly,
he approached the Swami with apologies but immediately
found that the Swami was not bothered by such things.
After settling down in Tiruvannamalai, Seshadri showed
Ramaswami Iyer great kindness and regularly took him to
visit Bhagavan.
Once settled in Tiruvannamalai, Ramaswami Iyer visited
Bhagavan as often as possible. His physical ailments continued
unabated and Bhagavan, it seemed to him, was his only hope
of deliverance. One day Ramaswami Iyer found Bhagavan
sitting alone in front of the Virupaksha Cave: “Swami! Jesus
and other great souls had come down to earth to save sinners.
Have I any hope?’’ When Bhagavan heard this cry of distress
coming forth from the depths of the heart, it appeared as
though he too was moved. Bhagavan approached him and
said kindly and tenderly, “There is hope. Yes, there is hope.”
After this incident, though still in despair, Ramaswami Iyer
found himself composing a song, for the first time in his life.
It came of its own. Never having been a poet, when he sang
the song to Bhagavan, Bhagavan gave him advice on prosody.
And thus began Ramaswami’s song-writing which would last
until Bhagavan’s Maha Nirvana.
Ramaswami Iyer encountered personal problems many

times. But in every case an immediate solution was the result,
due to Bhagavan’s Grace.
One festival day Echammal had brought tiffin up to
Virupaksha. Ramaswami Iyer sat dejectedly as Bhagavan and
the others got ready to eat the special food that feast day. He
excused himself saying that the rich food would not suit his
weak stomach. But when he turned in Bhagavan’s direction,
the latter beckoned him to join them and Ramaswami Iyer
felt an irresistible pull. When he was served like the others,
Bhagavan ordered him, saying “Eat!” At that moment
Ramaswami Iyer lost all fear and ate his fill. He did not avoid
any of the dishes, even the richest. For someone who, until
then, would have had no hope of sleep after eating such rich
food, it was nothing short of a miracle that he slept soundly
that whole night at Virupaksha Cave. When he awoke at
daybreak, he felt ‘fresh like a flower in the dewy grass’. It
was then that he realised, beyond any doubt, that his lifelong
dyspepsia had left him, once for all.
Meanwhile Ramaswami Iyer’s supervisor at work
continually ridiculed him about his low monthly salary of Rs.
150 per month. “Why so much?” his supervisor would ask
tauntingly. When Bhagavan heard about this, he said, “How
would he feel if you got Rs. 200?” The next Government
gazette brought news of Ramaswami Iyer’s promotion and
his salary increase to Rs. 200.
Later when Ramaswami Iyer was transferred to Shiyali,
he left Tiruvannamalai weeping at the thought of being
separated from Bhagavan. The distance was intolerable to him
and Ramaswami Iyer therefore made up his mind to leave his
family and take sannyasa in order to be with Bhagavan. But
Bhagavan would hear nothing of this. Ramaswami Iyer had
to continue his trips to Tiruvannamalai to see Bhagavan.
Once, when he was at Skandasramam with his eldest
daughter, Bhagavan asked why he had not yet got her married.
He replied, “I would like to, but I don’t have the money

for a dowry, nor even enough for the marriage ceremony.”
Echammal happened to be there and hearing the discussion,
suggested Nilakantha, a school teacher known to her, as the
bridegroom. Bhagavan endorsed the idea. When Ramaswami
Iyer went down the hill to catch his evening train, he passed
Echammal’s house en route and found Nilakantha’s father
there. Even before Ramaswami Iyer could make his proposal,
the boy’s father asked if he could take the girl as his daughter-
in-law. Once back in Shiyali, as Ramaswami Iyer worried
about how to raise money for the marriage, a neighbour, who
lived just opposite him, came over, and said, “I hear your
daughter’s marriage is to take place. But where will you find
the money?”
When Ramaswami Iyer could give him no satisfactory
answer, his neighbour admonished him, “Could you not have
asked me? Would I not have given it to you cheerfully?” He
therefore gave Ramaswami Iyer a thousand rupees and the
marriage was duly performed.
One day years later after Ramaswami Iyer had been
transferred to Berhampore, Orissa, several boils appeared on
his leg. Besieged with pain, he could hardly walk but only
meditated on Arunachala. No treatment whatsoever proved of
any use. But then came a knock at the door. “Who’s there?”
he asked. “Arunachalam!” was the reply. Greatly surprised,
Ramaswami Iyer found two Brahmins standing at his door.
Paying respect, he fell at their feet. They said, “We are coming
from Arunachala on our pilgrimage to Kasi. Bhagavan asked
us to come here and meet you.” When the two ‘messengers of
Bhagavan’ saw his state, they rifled through their bags and took
out herbal medications made of tamarind and fragrant gum
powders. Once applied to the affected areas, within twenty
hours the boils were gone. It was then that Ramaswami Iyer
understood the fullness of Bhagavan’s grace; it was then that
he found that lyrics and music were pouring forth within him,
forming themselves into a glorious hymn of devotion that
would come to be sung by Bhagavan’s devotees everywhere;

it was then that he understood the meaning of true surrender
to Bhagavan, as he sang “Saranagati, Saranagati!”*
There is another incident concerning Ramaswami Iyer
which helps in understanding the magic that is Bhagavan’s
Grace and the beauty of Ramaswami’s total surrender. A few
days before Bhagavan’s Maha Nirvana, Ramaswami Iyer’s
wife Smt. Subbulakshmi was stung by a scorpion. Instead
of calling a doctor or rushing her to the hospital, as the
other members of the family were desperately wanting to,
Ramaswami Iyer ran to Ramanasramam. Bhagavan had to
be told first. At that time there happened to be no one with
Bhagavan except an attendant. Ramaswami Iyer went to the
western window of the tiny room and informed Bhagavan.
The most significant aspect of this incident is that Ramaswami
Iyer did not even bother to notice whether Bhagavan had
heard him or not. Bhagavan had been told, and He would take
care of everything. Without waiting for Bhagavan’s reaction,
Ramaswami Iyer went back home. His wife recovered within
a few hours, without recourse to doctors or medicines. Such
was the faith this devotee and his family had in Bhagavan.
Manavasi Ramaswami Iyer passed away in 1962 in
his nineties. It was through music that he served Bhagavan
and his teachings. From the year 1908 Ramaswami Iyer
composed about one hundred songs in praise of Bhagavan
and other deities. His compositions, full of devotion, speak
of Bhagavan’s teachings, his method of Self-Enquiry, his
unbounded love for devotees and his Guidance and Grace.
But more poignant is the fact that on the day Bhagavan
left the body, Ramaswami realised that he could never
compose again. The stream of musical songs that had flowed
uninterruptedly for 40 years dried on that day.
* ‘Saranagati’ means ‘surrender’. The refrain of the song says: “I

surrender unto you,/ Where else am I to surrender myself, tell me?”
7. Ramanatha Brahmachari*
R amanatha Brahmachari first came to Bhagavan in 1912,

when Bhagavan was staying in Virupaksha Cave. At
that time Ramanatha Brahmachari was a student in the Veda
Pathsala in Tiruvannamalai. He had a strong yearning for
God, so when he heard good reports about the swami who
was living on the hill, he went to Virupaksha Cave to see
him. It was a defining moment in the life of Ramanatha
Brahmachari because one look from Bhagavan stopped his
mind and captured his heart.
Ramanatha Brahmachari began to spend all his free time
with Bhagavan. Though he was extremely poor, he refused
the free meals that were available in the pathsala. Instead,
he would beg for his food in the streets of Tiruvannamalai
because this gave him the freedom to leave the pathsala as
soon as the lessons were over. He took advantage of this
arrangement by running up the hill to see Bhagavan whenever
school finished.
Around 1920 Ramanathan caught bubonic plague while
he was staying with Bhagavan at Skandasramam. Bhagavan
insisted on staying with him and looking after him. One
day he was in great pain because his plague boil had just
burst. Bhagavan asked Ramanatha Brahmachari to stay at
Skandasramam while he went around the hill with Perumal
Swami, Rangaswami Iyengar and a few others. On the way,
while they were resting for a short while at Pachaiamman
Temple, Perumal Swami and Rangaswami Iyengar informed
Bhagavan of a plan they had thought of earlier.
‘As Ramanatha Brahmachari is afflicted with a contagious
disease,’ they said, ‘we should all stay here at Pachaiamman
Temple. We can take him food and look after him from here.’
* The Power of the Presence – Part 3; Self-Realisation; Letters from

Sri Ramanasramam; Cherished Memories; Reminiscences of Kunju
Swami; Sri Ramana Leela.
Bhagavan, who was compassion incarnate, was upset by

their meanness.
With deep sarcasm, Bhagavan replied, ‘What a wonderful
suggestion! He came to me while he was still a young boy.
He is totally dependent on us. Is it proper for us to leave
him alone in this condition and come to stay here? If you
are afraid, you can all stay here. I will go and stay with him.
When you bring food for him, you can bring me some as
well.’
When the devotees heard this they remained silent,
fearing to pursue the matter further.
Bhagavan’s mother was very fond of Ramanathan. As
a Brahmin boy, it was he who was entrusted with cleaning
and washing the karchatti (stone-vessel) used by orthodox
Brahmins for cooking. Maybe Ramanathan was a little slow
in completing the work; or his devotion to Mother was such
that he wanted to do a thorough job. Anyhow, everyday
there was an inordinate delay when he washed the vessel.
Mother would call out: “Ramanatha! Ramanatha! Bring that
karchatti!” Ramanathan would reply: “Coming, coming!”
and would carry on washing the vessel. Mother would thus
call out to him many times and Ramanathan would answer
obediently every time. One day, when this duet began,
Bhagavan humorously remarked, “Amma won’t stop singing
this pallavi (refrain) and this fellow also will not give up!”
One morning Bhagavan noticed that Ramanatha
Brahmachari was not eating his idlis.
He asked him, ‘Why are you not eating today?’
He answered, ‘Today I have to perform the ceremonies
for my ancestors. On days such as these one should fast.’
Bhagavan responded, ‘Now you have come to me you
need not perform these ceremonies any longer. Eat your
breakfast. In fact, eat two extra idlis. You are not bound by
these rituals anymore.’
Rajagopala Iyer heard about this conversation and he too
began to ignore such anniversaries. One of his relatives came
to Bhagavan and complained that Rajagopala Iyer was no

longer willing to participate in family functions.
The next time Rajagopala Iyer visited the ashram,
Bhagavan asked him why he was not participating in these
family rituals.
‘Because you told Ramanatha Brahmachari that they
were no longer necessary,’ he replied.
‘His case is different,’ responded Bhagavan. ‘He has
given up everything to stay with me. What have you given
up?’
Ramanatha Brahmachari helped with the kitchen
work at Skandasramam, and when Bhagavan moved to
Ramanasramam, at the foot of the hill, Ramanathan continued
to make himself available to all devotees who required any
kind of assistance.
He would surprise everyone with the tireless energy that
lay in his tiny frame. Of his own accord he would clean the
premises and do all sorts of odd jobs for the ashram residents.
His self-appointed task was to wait for the arrival of the 8.30
evening train and keep the food warm after he and the others
had eaten their dinner. If any visitors arrived, he would feed
them lovingly, and then provide each with a small log to
serve as a pillow and a reed mat to sleep on. His dedication
to serving Bhagavan’s devotees had to be seen to be believed.
He would get up even in the midst of sound sleep if someone
nearby murmured a request for hot water at night…
He habitually uttered the word ‘Andavane’ [meaning
‘Lord’] while talking. He would often call others ‘Andavane’.
Thus people started addressing him as ‘Andavane’ too.
Ramanatha Brahmachari was a staunch Gandhian and
spun yarn on his charka [spinning wheel] regularly. Once
he took a dhoti he had woven from his yarn, met Mahatma
Gandhi and presented it to him. When he returned he related
all this with a broad smile to those in the ashram.
It was a strange sight to see ‘Andavane’ returning from
town every day. In his right hand he would clutch a tattered
umbrella, while his left hand would be holding a vessel

containing food. Sometimes he would also carry a thermos
flask containing hot coffee for Bhagavan. It was sent by an
ardent devotee in town. That was not all. As he was not in
the habit of using a bag, he would fold his dhoti at the knees
and stuff into its rear and sides vegetables bought at the
market. With his dhoti bulging and drooping at the knees, he
would waddle forward, slowly raising each foot. And with
each step taken by his slender feet would rise a relic of a
pair of sandals, gargantuan in thickness, with several layers
of patchwork. Andavane’s reluctance to part with his archaic
sandals often provoked teasing but he fondly clung to them.
When the calf Lakshmi was brought to Bhagavan in 1926,
along with her mother, by Arunachalam Pillai, Bhagavan tried
to dissuade Pillai from leaving the pair in the ashram as there
was no one to take care of them. At the crucial moment it
was Ramanatha Brahmachari who suddenly declared without
hesitation, ‘I will look after them!’ For three months he tended
to their needs, after which someone in the town came forward to
keep them on behalf of the ashram. Ramanatha therefore played
a crucial role in cow Lakshmi attaching herself to Bhagavan.
Annamalai Swami recounts the following about
Ramanatha Brahmachari:
One day, as he was bringing some food to Bhagavan,
he met his father on the hill. He found him sitting outside
Guhai Namasivaya Temple about halfway between the town
and Virupaksha Cave. His father said that he was very hungry
and asked for some of the food that his son had begged for
Bhagavan.
Ramanatha Brahmachari, feeling that it would be improper
and disrespectful to feed anyone, even his own father, before
Bhagavan had received his food, told his father, ‘Come with
me to Bhagavan. We can share the food there.’
His father, who had no interest at all in Bhagavan, refused
to come. He asked his son to give him some food there and
then, but Ramanatha Brahmachari refused.
Bhagavan had been observing all this from Virupaksha

Cave. When Ramanatha Brahmachari finally arrived there
Bhagavan told him, ‘I will not take any of your food unless
you first serve your father’.
Ramanatha Brahmachari went back to Guhai Namasivaya
Temple, but, instead of following Bhagavan’s instructions,
he again asked his father to come and eat with Bhagavan
at Virupaksha Cave. When his father, for the second time,
refused to come, Ramanatha Brahmachari went back to
Virupaksha Cave without giving him any food. Bhagavan
told him, this time more firmly, ‘I will only eat if you feed
your father first. Go and feed him!’
This time Ramanathan obeyed Bhagavan’s order, fed his
father and returned to Virupaksha Cave with the remaining
food. I mention this story only because it shows how great
his devotion to Bhagavan was and how little he cared about
anything else, including his own family.
Ramanatha Brahmachari used to feed Bhagavan with such
love and devotion that Bhagavan felt that he had been captured
by his love. That is why Bhagavan said on one occasion, ‘I
am afraid of only two devotees, Ramanatha Brahmachari and
Mudaliar Patti.’ It was not physical fear, it was more a feeling
of helplessness. If a devotee has a strong, burning love for
his Guru, the Guru is compelled to do anything that the
devotee asks. Bhagavan always felt apprehensive whenever
Ramanatha Brahmachari appeared because he knew he would
not be able to resist any requests from him.
A few years after the ashram moved to the foot of the hill,
Chinna Swami and Ramanatha Brahmachari had some sort
of quarrel. Ramanatha Brahmachari was banned by Chinna
Swami from eating or sleeping in the ashram. An advocate in
town, Neelakanta Sastri, came to his rescue by volunteering
to feed him.
He told Ramanatha Brahmachari, ‘Don’t worry about
your food. From now on you can come to my house every
day. I have photos of Bhagavan and Vinayaka. If you do a
daily puja to both of these pictures, I will give you breakfast

and lunch in my house. You can also take whatever is left
over from lunch in a tiffin carrier to eat as your evening meal.’
After his exclusion from the ashram Ramanatha
Brahmachari built himself a tiny hut in Palakkothu. He had
been attracted to some of Gandhi’s ideas even while Bhagavan
was still living on the hill. In addition to spinning cotton, a
must for all Gandhians in those days, he had a great attraction
to the idea of service. When he moved to Palakkothu he
performed seva [service] by cleaning the huts of all the
sadhus who lived there and by doing all their shopping for
them. Before he went to town he would ask all the sadhus
in Palakkothu if they needed anything. Invariably he would
return with whatever had been requested. Because of all these
activities Kunju Swami gave him the nickname ‘Palakkothu
Sarvadhikari’ [‘The Manager of Palakkothu’].
Ramanatha Brahmachari was willing to do anything for
the Palakkothu sadhus. Some people took advantage of this
by giving him trivial or unpleasant tasks to complete but he
never complained. I remember one occasion when somebody
in Palakkothu asked him to go to town and read all the
posters that had been pasted to the walls. He was supposed
to come back with a report on the details of each poster.
Ramanatha Brahmachari did this job in the same spirit that
he did all his other jobs: joyfully and with love. He wasn’t
in the least offended that his helpfulness and generosity were
being abused. Since he had no ego that could take offence, he
could carry out futile jobs such as these in a spirit of service,
without being irritated by the motives of the people who
were deliberately wasting his time. Because of his strange
appearance and because of his odd character and personality
traits, many people ridiculed him and teased him. Most of
these people were misled by his eccentric appearance and
idiosyncratic activities to such an extent that they could
not see the profound love that bound him to Bhagavan and
Bhagavan to him.
Bhagavan gave him his grace when Ramanathan was

still a teenaged boy, and Ramanatha Brahmachari repaid this
with lifelong service to both Bhagavan and his devotees. In
performing all his tasks with humility and joy, and in serving
Bhagavan with great love and devotion, he was an outstanding
example of what a good devotee ought to be.
When Mahatma Gandhi announced that he intended
to make and collect salt illegally (at Dandi), Ramanatha
Brahmachari decided that he should follow his example. At
the time, the colonial government had levied a new tax on
salt. Gandhi decided to take thousands of his followers to a
beach in western India where sea water was commercially
evaporated. The British government was informed in advance
of this mass civil disobedience, so there was a strong
possibility that the Dandi salt march would end violently.
Gandhians in other parts of India, who could not make the
long trip to Gujarat, were encouraged to organize their own
local protests. Ramanatha Brahmachari joined a South Indian
salt march.
When Ramanatha Brahmachari informed Bhagavan
that he wanted to go on this march, Bhagavan laughed and
remarked, ‘The police will be afraid of you. They will run
away when they see you!’
Ramanatha Brahmachari went on the march and managed
to avoid being arrested. In fact the police completely ignored
him. On his return he presented Bhagavan with some of the
salt he had made and collected.
When ashram workers left to go on trips such as these they
were expected to get permission from the ashram manager
(Chinna Swami). In this particular case Chinna Swami
refused to allow Ramanatha Brahmachari to join the protest.
Since Ramanathan was determined to be part of this protest
march, he therefore left without getting Chinna Swami’s
requisite permission. When he returned Chinna Swami
refused to allow him to resume his work in the ashram. This
meant that Ramanatha Brahmachari had to make alternative
arrangements for his food and accommodation because only

visiting devotees and full-time ashram workers were allowed
to eat and sleep in the ashram.
Ramanatha Brahmachari’s relationship with Chinna
Swami had already been strained by an incident that had
taken place a few years earlier. Chinna Swami had asked
Ramanatha Brahmachari to stop spinning thread, saying
that it would damage his already weak eyesight. Ramanatha
Brahmachari had refused. Somehow, this seemingly innocuous
conversation degenerated into a quarrel in which Chinna
Swami became violent and started rolling the diminutive
figure of Ramanatha Brahmachari along the ground. Kunju
Swami intervened when it looked as if Chinna Swami was
about to roll Ramanatha Brahmachari down some stone steps!
Chinna Swami, in an attempt to enforce his authority, at
this point shouted, ‘Do you know who I am?’
Ramanatha Brahmachari replied meekly, ‘If we knew
that, we wouldn’t be in this quarrel!’
When Ramanatha Brahmachari spun cotton thread,
some of his output was given to Mastan, a close-devotee of
Bhagavan who lived in Desur, a village about forty miles from
Tiruvannamalai. Mastan, who worked as a weaver would use
this thread to make the cloth used for Bhagavan’s kaupina
(loincloth), the only clothing he ever wore. Mastan also made
towels for Bhagavan out of Ramanathan’s thread.
The next account comes from Kunju Swami, who was
one of Ramanatha Brahmachari’s neighbours in Palakkothu
in the 1930s and 40s.
One of the devotees who joined us in Palakkothu was
Ramanatha Brahmachari. He was the boy, mentioned earlier,
whom Bhagavan had looked after when the former had had
bubonic plague. Ramanatha Brahmachari was a tireless
worker, and in addition to being a devotee of Bhagavan, he
was also a follower of Mahatma Gandhi.
Of his own accord he would clean all our huts in
Palakkothu. In the evening he would prepare the wicks, pour
oil and light the lamps. He was always looking for odd jobs
to do.
In those days we were all quite young and thought we
were great ascetics. We would not bother to sweep our rooms
in Palakkothu, or care about lighting the lamps. If there
was no fuel, we might even skip our meals. But Ramanatha
Brahmachari would take care of all these chores whether we
asked him to or not.
Once, when we were all sitting in front of Bhagavan,
a letter was received from Ekanatha Rao. He had made
enquiries about ‘the sarvadhikari of Palakkothu’.
When Bhagavan read this, he enquired, ‘Who is this? I
don’t know anything about this.’
I got up and nervously pointed to Ramanatha Brahmachari.
‘We call him the Sarvadhikari of Palakkothu. He buys our
things, cleans our lamps, and sweeps our floors. So we call
him the ‘Palakkothu Sarvadhikari’.’
Bhagavan said, ‘Why didn’t you tell me about this? With
a Sarvadhikari like this, everyone should be happy!’
Ramanatha Brahmachari got up very shyly and said,
‘I don’t know, Bhagavan. They gave me that name as a
joke.’
‘What is funny about it?’ asked Bhagavan. ‘It is a good
name.’
On another occasion Bhagavan said, ‘During my stay
in Virupaksha Cave, one full moon night we set out on a
giripradakshina. Chidambaram Subramaniya Iyer was here
at that time. The moonlight was bright and all were in high
spirits. The devotees decided to hold a symposium while on
the move and each person was to give a speech on a different
subject. Subramaniya Iyer was elected chairman of the
meeting. The first lecture was by Ramanatha Brahmachari.
The topic chosen by him was: “The similarity between the
Paramatman [Supreme Self] dwelling in the cave of the
human Heart, Lord Nataraja dwelling in Chidambaram, and
Sri Ramana in Virupaksha Cave.”
‘The chairman allowed him half an hour. There was no

end to the points of similarity brought out by him. When the
chairman declared that his time was up, Ramanatha said,
“Just half an hour more please.”
‘It was a meeting of people who were continuously
walking.
‘Saying, “A little more time, a little more time,” he went
on with his speech for three full hours before the chairman
finally put a stop to his further talking. You should have seen
the enthusiasm with which he spoke that day.’
Ramanatha Brahmachari was a simple man who had
no time for spiritual or philosophical abstractions. He was
content with his own experiences and with the service that he
offered Bhagavan and his devotees. This is brought out in the
following story.
Once, when Ramanatha Brahmachari was ill, T. S.
Rajagopala Iyer took him to Madras for treatment. They
stayed at the home of T. S. Rajagopala Iyer’s brother, who
was a great Sanskrit pandit and a professor of Sanskrit in
a well-known college. The professor gave them a lengthy
discourse on spiritual matters, quoting profusely from various
texts. Ramanatha Brahmachari initially listened calmly and
patiently to the lecture, even though he could tell that the
professor was saying many things that directly contradicted
Bhagavan’s teachings.
Finally, when there was a small pause in the discourse,
Ramanatha Brahmachari quoted part of verse thirty-five of
Bhagavan’s Ulladu Narpadu Anubandham as follows: ‘What
is all this learning for? What else are they but gramophones,
Lord of Arunachala? They learn and repeat words without
realising their meaning.’
After making this statement, he got up and left, and the
professor’s lecture came to an abrupt halt.
When Ramanatha Brahmachari passed away in 1946,
Suri Nagamma wrote an account of how Bhagavan reacted
to the news:
A telegram was received at about 9 a.m. today informing

us that Ramanatha Brahmachari, alias ‘Andavane’, expired in
Madras last night. Someone informed me about it as I was
entering the hall. Ramanatha Brahmachari joined the group of
Bhagavan’s disciples when quite young, when Bhagavan was
still in Virupaksha Cave. After that he never left Bhagavan
except for short intervals of about fifteen days in the year. This
staunch devotee and lifelong brahmachari went to Madras for
treatment and we heard the news of his demise within fifteen
days. In the afternoon at 3 p.m. Uma and Alamelu began to
sing the Tamil verses ‘Ramana Stotra Anubhuti’. Bhagavan
told me with some feeling, ‘Look! These are verses written
by Ramanathan himself.’
Ramanatha Brahmachari left only two written accounts
of the experiences he had with Bhagavan. These are Ramana
Stotra Anubhuti and the beautiful song Tiruchuzhi Nadanai
Kandene with the refrain Tiruchuzhi Nadanai kandene (‘I
beheld the Lord of Tiruchuzhi’). These songs are presented
in the section on devotional works.
8. Frank Henry Humphreys

(Francis Henry Humphreys)*
F rank Henry Humphreys was born in 1890 in London,

of High Anglican parents. His father was a struggling
physician; his mother was interested in the occult and
* Whatever Became of Frank H. Humphreys? Parts 1 & 2, ‘The

Maharshi’ newsletter, Jul/Aug 2017 & Sep/Oct 2017; T.M.P.
Mahadevan, Bhagavan Ramana; Sadhu Arunachala (Major
A.W. Chadwick), A Sadhu’s Reminscences of Ramana Maharshi;
Cherished Memories; Ramana Maharshi and the Path of Self-
Knowledge; Glimpses of the Life and Teachings of Bhagavan Sri
Ramana Maharshi as described by Frank H. Humphreys
practised fortune-telling, table-turning, second sight and later,

Spiritualism.
At King’s College London, at age 15, his plan to enter
the Diplomatic Corps as a Student Interpreter in China did
not materialize, and his mentors advised him to apply for the
Indian Police (India was then part of the British Empire). He
passed the Indian police examination, low on the list due to
ill health before and after. After nearly dying, he sailed for
India in December, 1910. On arrival in India, he went into
the Bombay Hospital with pleurisy and malaria and nearly
died again. These numerous health misfortunes plagued him
throughout his life: he had more than twenty-five serious
operations and spent over seven years in hospitals at different
times.
He learned Telugu, one of the local languages, from
S. Narasimhayya in Vellore. Narasimhayya was a disciple of
Kavyakantha Ganapati Muni and a devotee of Sri Ramana
Maharshi; it was they who brought Frank to Bhagavan.
Narasimhayya records in the Introduction to Glimpses
that Frank first asked him for an English book on astrology,
then asked if he knew any Mahatmas, which he denied. The
next morning Frank said, “I saw your Guru this morning
in my sleep!” and picked out Ganapati Sastri’s photo from
several that Narasimhayya showed him.
Frank again became ill and had to go to a hill-station
for recovery. His first letter to Narasimhayya described his
“meeting” with a strange man, poorly clad, well built, with
bright eyes, matted hair and a long beard. Narasimhayya
believed it must have been a siddha. His second letter was a
request to teach him breath-control. His third brought questions
about eating meat, and a fourth letter asked if he could join
a “mystic society”. He was then almost 21. Narasimhayya
answered as best he could but avoided his questions about
unusual practices.
One day after Frank returned from the hill-station in 1911
to resume his police work in Vellore, he “drew a picture of
a mountain cave with some sage standing at its entrance and

a stream gently flowing down the hill in front of the cave.
He said he saw this in his sleep, and asked what it could
be.” Was this Bhagavan’s call to Frank from the Virupaksha
Cave? What good deed had Frank done in a previous life
to merit the blessing of face-to-face visits with Bhagavan?
Narasimhayya and Ganapati Sastriar subsequently took Frank
to meet the young Swami at Virupaksha.
After the visits, Frank sent letters to The International
Psychic Gazette describing his experiences in Bhagavan’s
presence. Later Frank’s letters were brought out as a booklet
called Glimpses of the Life and Teachings of Bhagavan Sri
Ramana Maharshi. We quote here from that booklet which is
his first person narrative.
About three months ago, I met in my sleep a great man.
I spoke about it to the Telugu Munshi here. The Munshi
brought me some pictures. I picked out the man at once from
the others. Last Friday, this man was coming through Vellore
to go to a Theosophical Conference, at Tiruvannamalai. He
does not belong to the Theosophical Society. All Masters
work for the common good.
When the train came in, I recognised him at once. It is
impossible to describe what it is like to be in the presence of
a Master. I did not know he was a Master, but to sit in his
presence, though he hardly said a word, and does not know
English, was to feel oneself thrilling through and through
– to feel new impressions touching one mentally. It was an
extraordinary experience.
I learned later that he was the first (foremost) Sanskrit
scholar in India, and that is saying something out here where
Sanskrit is the language of the scriptures and every student of
wisdom learns it. He knows the sciences inside out, and many
languages. You remember how the Apostles suddenly “spoke
with tongues.” Well, there are people here, who have known
this man all his life, and they know that up till one day, he
did not speak a word of Tamil, a very difficult language.
Fifteen days afterwards, he was able to give a long lecture

in pure Tamil and to read it and write it as well as any of the
professors.
I asked him how he achieved this feat and he replied,
“By meditation.”
He said that if I would come to Tiruvannamalai, he
would take me up to see the Maharshi (a Mahatma or very
Great Master) who lives there, and who is supposed to be one
of the greatest Mahatmas in India.
Yesterday I got a day’s leave and went on with the
Munshi to meet Sastriar (the Master of whom I have been
writing). Sastriar and the Munshi are both chelas (disciples)
of the Maharshi. We heard Sastriar lecture for an hour and
a half in Tamil, to a huge crowd, and he appeared refreshed
by his efforts. At 2 p.m., he pointed to the cave where the
Maharshi lives, and we set off up the mountain to see Him.
When we reached the cave we sat before Him at His feet and
said nothing. We sat thus a long while, and I felt lifted out
of myself.
Then Sastriar told me to look the Maharshi in the eyes, and
not to turn my gaze. For half an hour I looked Him in the eyes
which never changed their expression of deep contemplation.
I began to realise somewhat that the body is the Temple of the
Holy Ghost – I could only feel His body was not the man, it
was the instrument of God, merely a sitting motionless corpse
from which God was radiating terrifically. My own sensations
were indescribable.
Sastriar then said I might speak. I asked for enlightenment
– for teaching and He spoke and we listened. In a few
sentences of broken English, and in Telugu, He conveyed
worlds of meaning, and taught me direct, which He seldom
does, and made me His chela – not, of course, such a one as
the Sastriar, His own very special chela, but as one of the
many that great Masters have.
The most touching sight was the number of tiny children,
up to about seven years of age, who climb the mountain, all
on their own, to come and sit near the Maharshi, even though
He may not speak a word or hardly look at them for days
together. They do not play, but just sit quietly there in perfect
contentment.
He is a man beyond description in His expression
of dignity, gentleness, self-control, and calm strength of
conviction.
On my second visit I went by motor and climbed up
to the cave. He smiled when He saw me but was not the
least surprised. Before He had sat down, He had asked me a
question private to myself, of which He knew, showing that
He recognised me. Everyone who comes to Him is as a book,
and a single glance suffices to reveal its contents.
“You have not yet had any food and are hungry.”
I admitted that it was so. He immediately called to a
chela to bring me food – rice, ghee, fruit, etc., eaten with the
fingers, as natives do not use spoons. Though I have practised
eating this way I lack dexterity. So He gave me a coconut
spoon to eat with, smiling and talking between whiles. You
can imagine nothing more beautiful than His smile. I had
coconut milk to drink, white like cow’s milk and delicious,
to which He had himself added sugar.
When I had finished I was still hungry, and He knew
it and ordered more. He knew everything, and when others
pressed me to eat fruit when I had had enough He stopped
them at once.
I had to apologise for my way of drinking. He only said:
“Never mind.” Natives are particular about this. They never
sip nor touch the vessel with their lips, but pour the liquid
straight in. Thus many can drink from the same cup without
fear of infection.
Whilst I was eating He was relating my past history to
the others, and accurately too. Yet He had seen me but once
before, and many hundreds in between. He simply turned
on clairvoyance as we would refer to an encyclopaedia. I
sat for about three hours listening to His teaching. (He had
been shown a book, printed from a Manuscript given to me

by Mrs. R.W.D. Nankivell, to get His opinion about it. He
praised it highly, and quoted from it.)
I heard that on one occasion, when a chela asked Him a
question, He picked up the book, pointed to a passage in it,
and said: “There is your answer.”
Later on I was thirsty, for it had been a hot ride, but I
would not have shown it for worlds. Yet He knew, and told a
chela to make me some lemonade.
At last I had to go, so bowed, as we do, and went outside
the cave to put on my boots. He came outside too, and said I
might come to see Him again.
It is strange what a change it makes in one, for the
moment, at any rate, to have been in His presence. I am used
to dogs, but still would feel disturbed if one set on me in
the ordinary course of events. Yet this happened there, and
I only looked at the dog and walked straight on, though it
tried to bite me three or four times. I felt no fear, nor was
I in any way upset. I heard startled exclamations but only
realised that there had been some danger when halfway down
the mountain.
A dog bite is no joke in this country, not only because of
the savageness of dogs and the “germy” state of their teeth,
due to the carrion they eat, but also on account of the bad way
wounds heal in the heat, and to the prevalence of hydrophobia.
Frank’s Version of the Mahatma’s Teachings
A master is one who has meditated solely on God, has flung

his whole personality into the sea of God, and drowned
and forgotten it there till he becomes simply the instrument
of God, and when his mouth opens it speaks God’s words
without effort or forethought, and when he raises a hand God
flows again through that to work a miracle.
Do not think too much of psychical phenomena and such
things. Their number is legion – utterly indefinite; and once
a faith in the psychical things is established in the heart of a

seeker, such phenomena have done their work. Clairvoyance,
clairaudience, and such things are not worth having when
such far greater illumination and peace are possible without
them than with them. The Masters take on these powers as a
form of self-sacrifice! I know the Masters, two of the greatest,
and I tell you that the idea that a Master is simply one who
has attained power over the various occult senses by long
practice and prayer or anything else is utterly and absolutely
false. No Master ever cared a rap for occult powers for he has
no need of them for his daily life.
The phenomena we see are curious and surprising – but
the most marvellous thing of it all we do not realise and that
is that one, and only one, illimitable force is responsible for:
(a) All the phenomena we see,
(b) The act of our seeing them.
Do not fix your attention on all these changing things of
life, death, and phenomena. Do not think of even the actual act
of seeing them or perceiving them but only of that which sees
all these things, That which is responsible for it all. This will
seem nearly impossible at first, but by degrees the result will
be felt. It takes years of steady, daily practice, but that is how
a Master is made. Give yourself a quarter of an hour a day.
Keep your eyes open, and try to keep the mind unshakenly
fixed on That Which Sees. It is inside yourself. Do not expect
to find that “That” is something definite on which the mind
can be fixed easily; it will not be so. Though it takes years
to find that “That” the results of this concentration will soon
show themselves – in four or five months’ time – in all sorts
of unconscious clairvoyance, in peace of mind, in power to
deal with troubles, in power all round – always unconscious
power. I have given you this teaching in the same words
as the Masters give it to their intimate chelas. From now
onwards let your whole thought in meditation be not on the
act of seeing nor on what you see, but immovably on That
Which Sees.
One gets no reward for Attainment. When one

understands the idea, one does not want a reward. As Krishna
said: “Ye have the right to work, but not the right to the fruit
thereof.” Perfect attainment is simply worship, and worship
is attainment.
If you sit down and realise that you only think by virtue
of the One Life, and that the mind, animated by the One Life
into the act of thinking, is a part of the whole which is GOD,
then you argue your mind out of existence as a separate entity,
and the result is that mind and body physically (so to speak)
disappear and the only thing that remains is Being, which is
at once existence and non-existence, and not explainable in
words or ideas.
A Master cannot help being perpetually in this state, with
only this difference, that in some. Ways, incomprehensible
to us, he can use his mind and body and intellect too,
without falling back into the delusion of having a separate
consciousness.
There is no explaining these things. As Vivekananda
said: “You do not help the world at all by wishing or trying
to do so, but only by helping yourself.”
It is useless to speculate, useless to try and take mental
or intellectual grasp and work from that. That is only religion
– a code for children and for social life – a guide to help
us to avoid shocks, so that the inside fire may burn up the
nonsense in us and teach us, a little sooner, commonsense –
i.e. a knowledge of the delusion of separateness.
Religion, whether it be Christianity, Buddhism, Hinduism,
Theosophy, Philosophy, or any other kind of “ism” or “sophy”
or system can only take us to the one point where all religions
meet and no further.
That one point where all religions meet is the realisation,
in no mystical sense, but in the most worldly and everyday
sense – and the more worldly, everyday and practical the better
– the fact that GOD IS EVERYTHING, AND EVERYTHING
IS GOD.
From this point the work of the practice of this mental

comprehension begins, and all it amounts to is the breaking
of a habit. One has to cease calling things “things,” and to
call them God; and instead of thinking them to be things, to
know them to be God; instead of imagining “existence” to be
the only thing possible, to realise that existence is only the
creation of the mind (for if there were not existence the mind
could not see anything) and that non-existence is a necessity
if you are going to postulate existence. The knowledge of
things only shows the existence of an organ to cognize. There
are no sounds to the deaf, nothing to see for the blind, and the
mind is merely an organ of conception or of appreciation of
certain sides of God.
God is infinite, and therefore existence and non-existence
are merely component parts. Not that I wish to say God
is made up of definite component parts. It is hard to be
comprehensible when talking of God. True knowledge comes
from within and not from without. And true knowledge is not
“knowing” but “seeing.”
Realisation is nothing but seeing God literally. You must
read all I write literally. Our greatest mistake is that we think
of God as acting symbolically and allegorically, instead of
practically and literally.
Take a piece of glass, paint colours and forms on it, put
it into a magic lantern, turn on a white light, and the colours
and forms painted on the glass are reproduced on the screen.
If that light were not turned on, you would not see the colours
of the slide on the screen.
How are colours formed? By breaking up white light
with a many-sided prism. So is it with a man’s character. It is
seen when the Light of Life (God) is shining through it, i.e.,
in a man’s actions. If the man is asleep or dead, you do not
see his character. Only when the Light of Life is animating
the character, and causing it to act in a thousand different
ways, in response to its contact with this many-sided world,
can you perceive a man’s character. If white light had not
been broken up and put into forms and shapes on our magic
lantern slide, we should never have known there was a piece
of glass in front of the light, for the light would have shown
clearly through. In a sense that white light was marred, and
had some of its clearness taken from it by having to shine
through the colours on the glass.
So is it with an ordinary man. His mind is like the
screen. On it shines the light, dulled and changed because
he has allowed the many-sided world to stand in the way of
the Light (God) and break it up. He sees only the effects of
the Light (God) instead of the Light (God) Himself, and his
mind reflects the effects he sees just as the screen reflects the
colours on the glass. Take away the prism and the colours
vanish, absorbed back into the white light from where they
came. Take away the colours from the slide and the light
shines clearly through. Take away from our sight the world
of effects we see, and let us look only into causes, and we
shall see the Light (God).
A Master in meditation, though the eyes and ears be
open, fixes his attention so firmly on “That which Sees,” that
he neither sees nor hears, nor has any physical consciousness
at all – nor mental either, but only spiritual.
We must take away the world, which causes our doubts,
which clouds our mind, and the light of God will shine clearly
through. How is the world taken away? When, for example,
instead of seeing a man you say, “This is God animating a
body,” which body answers, more or less perfectly, to the
direction of God, as a ship answers more or less perfectly to
her helm.
What are sins? Why, for example, does a man drink too
much? Because he hates the idea of being bound – bound by
the incapacity to drink as much as he wishes. He is striving
after liberty in every sin he commits. This striving after liberty
is the first instinctive action of God in a man’s mind. For God
knows that he is not bound. Drinking too much does not give
a man liberty but then the man does not know that he is really
seeking liberty. When he realises that, he sets about seeking

the best way to obtain liberty.
But the man only gains that liberty when he realises that
he was never bound. The I, I, I’s who feel so bound are really
the Illimitable Spirit. I am bound because I know of nothing
that I do not sense by one of the senses. Whereas I am all the
time that which senses in everybody, in every mind. These
bodies and minds are only the tools of the ‘I,’ the Illimitable
Spirit.
What do I want with tools who am the tools themselves,
as the colours are the White Light?
Jesus, the man, was utterly unconscious when he worked
His miracles, and spoke His wonderful words. It was the
White Light, the Life, Who is the cause and the effect, acting
in perfect concert. ‘My Father and I are One.’ Give up the
idea of ‘I’ and ‘Mine.’ Can the body possess anything? Can
the mind possess anything? Lifeless tools are both, unless the
Light of God be shining through. These things which we see
and sense are only the split-up colours of the One Illimitable
Spirit.
How can you best worship GOD? Why, by not trying to
worship Him but by giving up your whole self to Him, and
showing that every thought, every action, is only a working
of that One Life (GOD) – more or less perfect according as
it is unconscious or conscious.
God works perfectly in our unconscious virtuous
actions. A Master when instructing is far from any thought of
instructing; but to feel a doubt or a difficulty in his presence
is to call forth, at once, before you can express the doubt,
the wonderful words which will clear away that doubt. The
words never fail and the Master with his heart fixed on GOD,
realising perfectly that no action is a personal one, making no
claims to have either originated the thought or to have been
the means of destroying a doubt, saying never ‘I’ or ‘Mine,’
seeing only GOD in every thought and action, whether they
be yours or his, feels no surprise, no especial pleasure to
himself in having allayed your doubt. He never desires to

feel pleasure. He says:
Who is it that feels pleasure? Why, God.
What is pleasure? Why the appreciation – instinctive or
otherwise – of GOD.
Who is the so-called ‘I’? It is GOD.
God is pleasure. If I desire perpetual pleasure, I must
forget myself, and be that which is pleasure itself, viz., GOD.
A Master sacrifices his whole self, lets it down as an
artificial idea into the Ocean of GOD Who Is, and Who
is, literally, the Material and the Cause of everything, and
becomes the embodiment of happiness. Similarly he flings
every personal desire aside, even the desire for virtue. He
denies it being his own action and attributes it to GOD, till
he becomes the embodiment of that personal virtue he once
desired, and no one can come near him without being blessed.
He is the embodiment of all virtues. Such is true worship and
its results.
Frank Humphreys returned to England after being
employed as a British police officer in India for 2 1⁄2 years
at the age of 22. For the next 14 years he undertook military,
agricultural, educational and various other occupations until
ultimately he took the religious vows of the Dominican Order
to become ‘Friar Nicholas’.
Certain clues in Friar Nicholas’ later writings call to
mind his earlier recorded impressions of being in Bhagavan’s
presence and of His teachings – “God is everything and
everything is God; total surrender of all that is I and me and
mine.”
A good part of Humphreys’ account given in Glimpses
deals with coming to see that “these bodies and minds are
only the tools of the one ‘I’, the Illimitable Spirit.” He
learns from Bhagavan that Jesus must have been “utterly
unconscious” when He worked miracles and taught. Perhaps
Brother Nicholas states it most clearly when he says that one
can best serve God by “giving up your whole self to Him, and
showing that every thought, every action, is only a working

of that One Life (GOD) – more or less perfect according as
it is unconscious or conscious.” Perhaps this desire to be an
instrument of God was a current that flowed from his early
visits to Bhagavan and on through all his years as a Dominican
friar. Brother Nicholas said that had remained the main theme
of all the retreats he gave and the key point of all his spiritual
life. The seven gifts to seek were – “wisdom, understanding,
counsel, fortitude, knowledge, piety, fear of the Lord.”
“Effort is needed in the beginning until awareness becomes
continual, like the flow of a river towards the ocean...abide in
the Heart.” He found that the stock of notes he had taken over
the years was a good standby in place of the formal studies
which he had missed. His study of Vedanta philosophy also
helped him. The last two years of his life were spent in Cape
Town. Friar Nicholas – “Nick” – died in Cape Town on
September 20, 1975, and was buried at Stellenbosch.
9. Sadhu Natanananda*
S adhu Natanananda (1898-1981) was a spiritual seeker

called Natesa Mudaliar at that time when he first heard
about Bhagavan. He was an elementary schoolteacher when
he read the works of Vivekananda. After going through them
he became fired with an eagerness to renounce the world and
find a Guru. A friend told him of the Swami on Arunachala Hill
but added that it was well nigh impossible to seek upadesa
from him. Nevertheless, Mudaliar decided to try. It was 1918
* Sri Ramana Leela; Sadhu Natanananda, Ramana Darsanam;

‘Introducing....’, The Mountain Path, Apr. 1965; ‘Obituary’, The
Mountain Path, Oct. 1981; Letters from Sri Ramanasramam; Self-
Realisation; Munagala Venkataramiah, Talks with Sri Ramana
Maharshi; Reminiscences of Kunju Swami; The Power of the
Presence – Part 1.
and Bhagavan was already living at Skandasramam. Mudaliar

went there and sat before him, but Bhagavan remained
silent. Mudaliar, not presuming to speak first, came away
disappointed.
Mudaliar did not realise that Bhagavan’s true instruction
was through silence. He returned home but came to see
Bhagavan frequently. After several visits, during which
Bhagavan still declined to speak to him, he decided to
perform a walking pilgrimage to Varanasi. On the way there,
at Sriperumbuthur, a Vaishnavite saint heard his story and
said to him, What a stupid decision! The only person who
can save you is Ramana Maharshi. You must go back to him
again! I will not let you take a single step beyond here.”
The saint spoke very angrily to him and ordered him
back to Tiruvannamalai. Mudaliar turned back, but instead
of going directly to Tiruvannamalai, he wrote a long letter
to Bhagavan, imploring him not to be selfishly indifferent to
the fate of longing souls. He asked permission to come again
since he believed that his previous visits had been ineffective.
A month passed with no reply.
Next he sent a registered letter, acknowledgement due,
and this time he wrote: ‘However many rebirths I have to go
through, I am determined to receive upadesa from you and
you alone. So you will have to be reborn for that purpose, if
you give me up in this life as too unprepared or immature to
receive your upadesa. I swear to this.’
A few days later Bhagavan appeared to him in a dream
and said, ‘Do not think continually of me. You must first
obtain the grace of the God Maheswara [Siva], the Lord of
the Bull. First meditate on him and secure his grace. My help
will follow as a matter of course.’
Mudaliar had a picture in his house of the God Maheswara
riding upon a bull and he took this as a support for meditation.
A few days later he received an answer to his letter from
Vasudeva Sastri, who was at that time teaching in the Veda
Patasala in Tiruvannamalai.
The letter said: ‘The Maharshi does not reply to letters;

you can come and see him in person.’
Before setting out for Tiruvannamalai he wrote once
more to make sure that the letter was written at Bhagavan’s
bidding. Following the course prescribed in his dream, he
went first to the great temple in town and had darshan of
Lord Arunachaleswara. After his darshan he decided to spend
the night there. A brahmin whom he met in the temple tried
to dissuade him from his purpose of visiting Bhagavan by
saying, ‘Listen, I have spent sixteen years near Ramana
Maharshi, trying in vain to obtain his anugraha [grace]. He is
indifferent to everything. Even if you break your head he will
not be interested to ask why. Since it is impossible to obtain
his grace, there is no point in your visiting him.’
But Natesa Mudaliar was not the sort of man to be put
off. Since he insisted on going, the other told him, ‘Anyhow,
you can find out in the following way whether you will have
the good luck to obtain his grace. There is a Swami on the
hill by the name of Seshadri who mixes with none and who
generally drives away people who try to approach him. If you
can obtain some mark of favour from him it will be a good
augury for success.’
Next morning Mudaliar set out with J. V. Subramanya
Iyer, a colleague in his profession, in quest of the elusive
Seshadri Swami.
After much searching they saw him and, to Mudaliar’s
relief and astonishment, he addressed Mudaliar: ‘My poor
child! Why are you grieving and anxious? What is jnana?
After the mind rejects objects, one after another, as transient
and unreal, that which survives this elimination is jnana. That
is God. Everything is That and That alone.
“It is folly to run hither and thither in the belief that jnana
can be attained by going to a hill or a cave. Go without fear.’
Thus did he give his upadesa in the very words that Bhagavan
might have used.
Buoyed by this propitious augury, they proceeded up

the hillside to Skandasramam. It was about noon when they
arrived. For five or six hours Mudaliar sat before Bhagavan
with no words passing between them. Then the evening meal
was made ready and Bhagavan rose to go out.
J. V. S. Iyer said to Bhagavan, ‘This is the man who
wrote those letters.’
Bhagavan looked fixedly at him and then turned and
went out, still without speaking.
Month after month Mudaliar would come back for a day
and sit there, mutely imploring, but Bhagavan never spoke to
him, nor did Mudaliar presume to speak first. After a full year
had elapsed in this way, he could endure it no longer.
Summoning up his courage and suppressing his feeling
that speaking first was somehow disrespectful, he said to
Bhagavan, ‘I wish to learn and experience what your grace
is, as people differ in their accounts of it.’
Bhagavan replied: ‘I am always giving my grace. If you
can’t apprehend it, what am I to do?’
Even then Mudaliar did not understand Bhagavan’s silent
upadesa. He was still confused as to what path he should
follow.
Shortly afterwards Bhagavan appeared to him in a dream
and said: ‘Let your vision be unified and withdrawn from
objects, both external and internal. Thus, as differences
disappear, you will progress.’
Mudaliar, who understood this to apply to his physical
sight, replied: ‘This does not seem to me to be the right way.
If such a superior person as you gives me advice like this,
who will give me true advice?’
However, Bhagavan (in the dream) assured him that it
was the right way.
Mudaliar himself has described the next development: I
followed this dream upadesa for a while. Then I had another
dream. This time Bhagavan appeared to me while my father
was standing nearby and asked, “Who is this?” With some

hesitation about the philosophical accuracy of the answer, I
replied, “My father”. Maharshi smiled at me significantly and
I added, “My answer is in accordance with common parlance,
not with philosophy,” because I remembered I was not the
body. Maharshi drew me to him and placed his palm first on
my head, and then on my right breast, pressing his finger
over the nipple. It was rather painful, but as it was his grace
I endured it quietly. I did not know then why he pressed the
right breast instead of the left.’
Thus, having failed to understand and receive Bhagavan’s
silent initiation, he was given, even though only in his dream,
initiation by touch.
Like many others, Mudaliar’s eagerness and desire to make
every effort drove him to the idea of becoming a sannyasin. As
in all other cases, Bhagavan discouraged this, saying: ‘Just as
you avoid the cares of home life while you are here, go home
and try to be equally unconcerned and unaffected there.’ But
Mudaliar still lacked the full trust of a disciple in his Guru
and he made the renunciation and became a sadhu despite
Bhagavan’s clear advice against this. He found, as Bhagavan
had predicted, that the difficulties on his spiritual path grew
greater not less. After some time he gave up being a sannyasin
and returned to his family and took up his work again.
After this his devotion deepened and he began to
compose Tamil poems in praise of Bhagavan. And then at
last he received, far more fully than most others, the verbal
instructions that he had longed for, for it was Natanananda
who became the recipient of the major part of Bhagavan’s
contained in Upadesa Manjari [Spiritual Instruction]* in
* Sadhu Natanananda was the (sole) compiler of Upadesa Manjari

(Spiritual Instruction) in which he included not only questions put
by him (to Bhagavan) but also the questions of other devotees and
Bhagavan’s answers to them.
which is most beautifully set forth the doctrine of the Guru

and his grace.
Sadhu Natanananda’s own account of how he became
a devotee, which is given below as the first part of his
reminiscences, appears to contradict the account given above.
In his own version Bhagavan spoke to him at their first
meeting. Also, Natanananda claims that it was the saint from
Sriperumbuthur who first told him about Bhagavan. I have
spoken to several people who knew Sadhu Natanananda well,
but none of them has been able to explain these apparently
contradictory accounts of his early interactions with Bhagavan.
A few years after he became a devotee, Sadhu Natanananda
became the recipient of a very remarkable assurance from
Bhagavan. He himself has described the circumstances in
which it took place:
“On a Guru Purnima day, Ganapati Muni and Kapali
Sastry visited the Maharshi to pay their respects. When they
were seated in the old hall they started discussing philosophy
in Sanskrit. I could not follow the meaning. Because of this my
mind began to wander and I became quite agitated, wondering
when the day would dawn when I would have the (psychic)
experiences that they were talking about. My longing for
these experiences was so intense that 1 lost all consciousness
of the body. I am not sure how long I remained in that state,
but suddenly a voice brought back my normal consciousness.
All the others had left and only Bhagavan remained in the
hall. ‘Why are you so dejected?’ said the voice. ‘If you were
really unfit to realise the Self in this life, then you could not
have come to this place at all. The power that drew you here
will make you realise the Self. If not today, it is bound to
fulfil its commitment. There is no reason why you should feel
dejected.’ It was these gracious words that brought me back
to life, and peace entered my soul immediately.
According to Kunju Swami (personal conversation)
Natanananda asked Bhagavan to give him the orange robes of
a sannyasin. Natanananda had brought the robes to Bhagavan’s
hall but Bhagavan refused to touch it. Natanananda then put

the robes on the stool in front of Bhagavan that visitors put
their offerings on. After a few minutes he took them away and
began to wear them. A few months later, when Natanananda
decided to give up his life as a sannyasin, he presented the
orange robes once more to Bhagavan. For the rest of his life
he wore only white.
Sadhu Natanananda was a distinguished scholar,
although he never liked to show off his erudition. In addition
to compiling Upadesa Manjari, he edited the question-and-
answer version of Vichara Sangraha [Self Enquiry] and
wrote the essay version of the same work himself. He also,
at Bhagavan’s request, arranged the verses of Guru Vachaka
Kovai (by Muruganar) in their current order and categories.
Muruganar’s work records in Tamil verse many of the
teachings that Bhagavan gave in the 1920s and 1930s.
Sadhu Natanananda became a close disciple of the
Maharshi and stayed with him till the end. He wrote a book
on the philosophy of Ramana Maharshi entitled “Ramana
Darsanam” which was regarded highly by devotees like
Muruganar. We quote a few gems from that book.
The supreme state, which for a long time had been
imagined to belong exclusively to divine beings such as
maharshis and the great munis, was bestowed with ease by
Bhagavan upon all those who approached him.
A devotee from the West was once sweeping up the
leaf plates that were lying outside the ashram dining room.
Bhagavan, who happened to come there at that time, asked
the devotee what his aim was in undertaking that act. The
devotee replied, ‘Since my arrival at the ashram, until today,
I have not had any opportunity to render any service to the
ashram. Thinking that I may get redeemed by performing at
least this humble act, which no one else has performed, I
decided to do this.’
Looking at him with compassion, Bhagavan told him, ‘Is
sweeping the used leaf plates the means to get salvation?
Is it to perform this tapas that you have come here all

the way from abroad? Go! Go! Enough of doing this kind
of service! Go inside, sit to one side, turn your mind inward
and find out he who wants to be redeemed. The service of
purifying your heart is alone the highest service. That alone
can truly redeem you.’ In this way Bhagavan explained the
truth of real tapas to him.
The benefit of performing namaskaram to the Guru is
solely the removal of the ego. This is not attained except by
total surrender. Within the Heart of each devotee the gracious
Guru is giving darshan in the form of Consciousness. To
surrender is to offer fully, in silence, the subsided ego, which
is a name-and-form thought, to the aham-sphurana [the
effulgence of ‘I’], the true holy feet of the gracious Guru.
Since [this is so], Self-realisation cannot be attained by a
bowing of the body, but only by the bowing of the ego.
A devotee once came from outside the ashram to
have Bhagavan’s darshan for the first time. He approached
Bhagavan, who was not in his usual seat at the time. He
was, instead, engaged in some other activity along with the
devotees.
Not knowing that he was Bhagavan, the visitor asked
him, ‘Where is Ramana?’
Immediately Bhagavan replied with a smile, ‘Oh,
Ramana? He is here!’ and pointed to a brass vessel on which
the name ‘Ramana’ had been engraved.
When Bhagavan saw that the newcomer was puzzled by
his remark, he pointed both to his body and to the vessel and
explained, ‘This is also a form like that vessel. At least the
name Ramana is inscribed on that. Even that is not here.’
Then Bhagavan carried on with his work.
The newcomer understood the truth of Bhagavan’s
remark. This amusing incident is sufficient evidence to
prove that Bhagavan, naturally rooted in the unconditioned
state, wanted devotees to hold on to their swarupa (true
nature).
A rich devotee gave Bhagavan a high-quality fountain

pen as an offering, thinking that it would be useful for his
Guru’s writing work. Without even thinking about this pen,
Bhagavan continued writing as usual with an ordinary pen.
When a devotee noticed that he had to shake the pen frequently
to facilitate the free flow of ink, he reminded Bhagavan about
the new pen and told him that it would not cause any such
inconvenience.
With an attitude of complete indifference Bhagavan
replied, ‘The purpose of a pen is only to write. For that this
pen is sufficient. It is true that since the ink in it is not flowing
properly it needs to be shaken frequently. However, it is good
to have the habit of completing important works immediately
with whatever ordinary instruments are easily available. If we
worry about likely inconveniences, it will not be possible to
complete any task in the allotted time. The happiness that lies
in simplicity can never be found in ostentation.’ In this way
he made it known that he was quite content with the ordinary
old pen.
On another occasion Bhagavan was found collecting the
proof sheets of an ashram publication and binding them into a
book. A rich devotee, who was in the habit of throwing proof
sheets away, even if the contents were of great value, felt that
Bhagavan’s efforts were unnecessary. He approached him and
said, ‘When I come here next week I shall bring a beautifully
bound copy of the book’. Immediately Bhagavan replied
with a smile, ‘Why is that necessary? Whatever matter is in
the beautiful book is also in this. What we need is only the
contents. The price given for the new book is paid only for
its beautiful appearance.’
In this way he indicated to the devotee that for him old
and new were just the same.
Brahmacharya really means meditation on Brahman; it
does not merely mean ‘remaining celibate’. The discipline
of true brahmacharya deserves to be observed by everyone.
For those who observe it, it is important that they do not
swerve from the dharma of their respective asramas. It is

easy to put on the appearance of brahmacharya but to adhere
to it to the end is very difficult. It is only fit for courageous
and mature people endowed with intense detachment. It is
therefore necessary for those who are observing unbroken
brahmacharya to be always extremely careful and vigilant in
associating with women and in craving for sense pleasures.
The various moral teachings in the Puranas that relate stories
about the downfall, and the dangerous consequences of such
falls, of some men, including vedic rishis, are object lessons
for all of us.
Through such spiritual instructions Bhagavan would
frequently warn the devotees. He would also point out and
correct the defects in their character.
A maharaja once came for Bhagavan’s darshan. As he
was leaving, a sadhu from the ashram followed the maharaja
for some distance and then returned. Looking at him with a
smile Bhagavan said, ‘Swami seems to have gone on some
urgent business! There may be some special reason for that
maharaja, who possesses abundant wealth, to come seeking
you, but why did you, who should be a person exemplifying
contentment of mind, go after him? If ever you have any
needs, is he the one who can remove them? Without knowing
even this simple truth, for what purpose have you embraced
sannyasa?’
In the hall where Bhagavan used to give darshan there
was a chimney. One day, a beautiful small bird somehow
entered it and became trapped inside this chimney.
From the moment it entered the chimney, it was frantically
struggling to escape, but all its efforts proved futile. Why?
Because, forgetting the way it came, it was repeatedly trying
to escape through all the closed routes. Bhagavan took this
opportunity to reveal a great truth:
Like this bird, jivas have also given up their natural
place of residence, the vast space of Consciousness. Through
the delusion of ignorance they have become trapped in the
prison of the body. Without knowing how to escape, various

afflictions torment them. The ceaseless efforts of this bird to
reach its natural place of residence are unsuccessful because
they are directed upwards, the way of bondage, instead of
downwards, the way it came.
Similarly, the reason why the jiva’s ceaseless efforts
to attain freedom are unsuccessful is because they too are
directed outwards, the way of bondage, instead of inwards, the
way they came. If, through true discrimination and awareness,
the jiva is made to turn back from outward-directed sight to
inward sight, and if it remains fixed there, it is certain that it
will attain liberation in an instant.
This one upadesa will be sufficient for those genuinely
thirsting for liberation.
‘The realisation of That which continues to exist when all
trace of “I” is gone is good tapas’ – this indeed is Bhagavan’s
way. Therefore, an aspirant should unceasingly examine
inside himself whether the I-am-the-body belief is present in
each one of his thoughts, words and deeds. Meditation does
not destroy inner attachment. It is possible to destroy the root
of the ego only by the practice of remaining unceasingly in
the witness state in such a way that the ego is not allowed to
rise, even in a dream.
Bhagavan often advised his devotees that the possession
of humility is the only sign of possessing grace, adding that
humility should be practised in all walks of life.
A non-brahmin once questioned Bhagavan. Referring
to one of the names of Siva – ‘Obeisance to him who is a
brahmin’ – that occurs in Siva Ashtotram, he asked, ‘Why
should the Lord be described only as a brahmin?’
Bhagavan had to pacify him by saying, ‘Why should
you imagine yourself to be a sudra? Ideas of differentiation
such as ‘I am a brahmin’ and ‘I am a sudra’ arise only from
ignorance.
In the real state, no differences of any kind exist.’ On
another occasion a devotee said that his father had given him
the sakti panchakshari mantra. His father, who was known

as Mantreswara [Lord of mantras] had told him that it was
the means to liberation. The son came to Bhagavan and
questioned him about it.
Bhagavan agreed, saying, ‘This mantra is indeed the way
to liberation’. When the son raised a further question, ‘If this
is so, then are you also practising the same mantra?’ Bhagavan
had to say in reply ‘Yes, yes, the same mantra only!’
Sadhu Natanananda lived in the Ramana Nagar guiding
earnest seekers for nearly thirty years after the Maha Nirvana
of Bhagavan. This great devotee attained the lotus feet of
Bhagavan on Wednesday July 22, 1981.
10. Jagadeesa Sastri*
B orn in 1895 at Injikollai in Thanjavur district in a family

of great scholars, he became an adept in the Vedas and
the kavyas at a very early age under the disciplined training
of his own father, Yajna Venkatarama Dikshitar and other
scholars of repute. He took a prominent part in expounding
Vedantic works in the presence of His Holiness Sankaracharya
of Kanchi Kamakoti Peetam where he became the asthana
vidwan (chief scholar). His Holiness conferred on him the
titles, Atma Vidya Bhushana and Sastra Ratnakara. Another
of his titles is Vidyalankara.
His elder brother, Yajnarama Dikshitar, also a great scholar,
in Tamil too, taught Tiruvachakam of Saint Manickavachakar
and other Tamil works to Sastri. He used to take Sastri with
him when visiting Bhagavan. Jagadeesa Sastri’s association
with Bhagavan went back to the days when the latter lived in
Virupaksha Cave. In the early years of the twentieth century,
* Self-Realisation; Sri Ramana Leela; ‘Introducing....’, The

Mountain Path, July 1971; Reminiscences of Kunju Swami; GVS
Reminiscences; Letters from Sri Ramanasramam.
Jagadeesa Sastri went to see Bhagavan in the Virupaksha Cave.

This paved the way for Sastri to become an ardent devotee of
Bhagavan and to get to know other great devotees of those
days, among them Kavyakantha Ganapati Sastri. Sastri’s
visits became progressively more frequent and he gained a
close association with Bhagavan who always addressed him
familiarly as ‘Jagadeesa’.
Bhagavan said that his famous sloka hridaya kuhara
madhye (at the centre of the Heart-cave) was written in 1915
while he was in Skandasramam, on account of Jagadeesa
Sastri. In the Ramana Gita it is mentioned that Bhagavan
himself wrote it, but Bhagavan denied this. In 1915, Jagadeesa
was staying in Skandasramam during Chaturmasya and one
day he wrote down on a piece of paper hridaya kuhara
madhye, held it in his hand and sat down. When Bhagavan
asked him what it was, he said that he had wanted to write
a sloka starting with this phrase but when he actually began
it he could write only that much. When Bhagavan asked
him to write the rest, he said that he was unable to do so,
however much he tried. After a time, he went out somewhere,
leaving the piece of paper under Bhagavan’s seat. Before his
return, Bhagavan had completed this famous sloka, wrote
‘Jagadeesa’ underneath it and showed it to him as soon as
he returned. Jagadeesa asked Bhagavan why he had put his
name (Jagadeesa) to it. Bhagavan replied that it was because
Jagadeesa had begun it. Jagadeesa replied that if this were so,
he should be allowed to keep the paper for himself. He took
it from Bhagavan and kept it carefully with him. He was a
young man of about twenty at the time.
Sometime later Bhagavan wrote out that same sloka. He
was sitting on a big stone slab near the Ashram and everyone
gathered round him and requested him to tell them the
meaning of the sloka. Bhagavan acquiesced and explained
it to them for two or three hours. Taking advantage of this,
Jagadeesa wrote a long commentary on the sloka in the same
style as he used to do on Sanskrit slokas. The manuscript,
however, got lost. When Nayana wrote the Ramana Gita, he

used this sloka as the opening sloka of his second chapter.
This sloka is inscribed in gold letters on the wall behind
Bhagavan’s stone couch in the New Hall (in front of Sri
Matrubhuteswarar Shrine) in the present Ramanasramam.
Bhagavan later translated this Sanskrit sloka into Tamil. It
was included in Forty Verses on Reality (Anubandham).
Jagadeesa Sastri was the Sanskrit poet-laureate of
Bhagavan’s ‘court’. He was always available to Bhagavan in
the old Hall for references to Sanskrit texts and similar matters
connected with Sanskrit. He authored many Sanskrit works
of wide scholarship. He wrote a commentary on Bhagavan’s
Upadesa Saram and Arunachala Pancharatnam in Sanskrit.
He translated Aksharamanamalai into Sanskrit on 13 June
1940. He also composed Sri Ramana Sahasranama Stuti, a
collection of a thousand names praising Bhagavan.
Sastri and his wife settled permanently near the ashram.
They built a house on land belonging to David McIver. When
McIver ran into financial difficulties he asked them to vacate
the land and offered them a decent compensation. But Sastri
got very upset because he was not willing to vacate it. Some
devotees persuaded Sastri to hand over the place to McIver and
to accept the compensation. However, he still remained deeply
depressed even though he had accepted the compensation to
leave McIver’s land. He went to Bhagavan and placed the
compensation money in the hands of Bhagavan, who held
it for a minute and then handed it back to Sastri. Sastri sat
down near the sofa of Bhagavan for a while and when he got
up he found that his depression was entirely gone. The magic
touch of Bhagavan had done its work! It was a great surprise
to devotees like Balarama Reddiyar that Bhagavan, who was
known to never touch money, had gone out of his way to do
this for Sastri.
Once in 1943, a letter was received from the Nellore
devotees saying that for several years they had been
celebrating Ramana Jayanti and, as they wished to perform
puja to Bhagavan’s portrait as part of the celebrations, they

would like to have the procedural mantras prepared and sent
to them. After reading their letter, Bhagavan passed it on to
Jagadeesa Sastri. Jagadeesa Sastri’s Ramana Sahasranama
Stotram (thousand names in praise of Ramana) had, by then,
got lost. A special request was made by the Nellore devotees
for this Sahasranamam. So in 1943 Sastri rewrote the whole
Sahasranamam. It beautifully describes the magnificence of
Bhagavan in a thousand different ways, using a thousand
praise names for him.
On finishing this work, he came to Bhagavan and prayed
for permission to perform the first puja (worship) using the
Sahasranamam In front of Bhagavan himself in the hall. With
a smile Bhagavan said, “Oh! Is it your idea to make me sit
here and perform your puja to me?” “No Bhagavan; it is not
to you but to your lotus feet,” replied Sastri. Drawing back
his feet hurriedly Bhagavan replied, “Enough, enough of this
nonsense! Go home and perform your puja to a portrait. Pada
(feet) puja and Siras (head) puja!
Why do we need all that here?” Unable to say anything
in reply Jagadeesa duly went home and he performed the first
puja to a portrait of Bhagavan in his house. He placed the new
Sahasranama stotram book at the feet of Bhagavan. Devotees
felt that Bhagavan thus taught a lesson to all those so-called
holy men who accept puja from their devotees, forgetting that
they are mere mortals, like their devotees with bodies that are
subject to decay, as in the case of their devotees.
Once Sastri became critically ill with abdominal cancer.
He was taken to the hospital and several doctors attended
on him. A local doctor who was a devotee of Bhagavan told
Bhagavan that it was not a question of days but only of hours
and that there was no hope. But, if Sastri was to come back to
life it could only be by the Maharshi’s grace. Bhagavan kept
quiet but asked the doctor to treat him as best as he could.
Immediately the doctor got unusual courage and carried out
some radical treatment. During this illness Sastri wrote eight
verses titled Abhayashtakam, which state “If you think me

worth saving, do show your Grace and save me even now, O
Lord! It does not befit you to reckon my sins and merits. You
have the power to create and destroy the universe without any
aid from others. Then why do you now deceive me by saying
that the law of karma is supreme and must work itself out?”
Sastri recovered miraculously.
After Bhagavan’s Maha Nirvana, Jagadeeswara Sastri
settled in Madras with his wife and family and spent his time
in expounding the Upanishads and the Gita in the Bharatiya
Vidya Bhavan at Mylapore and also teaching classes in
Veda Bhashya at the Sanskrit College. This great devotee of
Bhagavan passed away at the ripe old age of 89 in Madras
on March 14, 1983.
11. Muruganar*
M uruganar was born in the district of Ramnad in August

1890. His father was Krishna Iyer and his mother was
Subbulakshmi Ammal. He lost his father early in life. He
had his education at Coimbatore. Though known as C.K.
Subramania Iyer, his parents had named him Sambamurti.
For the first five years of his life Muruganar did not utter
a single word. He attended the Christian Mission School
in Ramanathapuram and completed his Matriculation in
Madurai.
* Smt. T.R. Kanakammal, Sri Muruganar in Tamil; Cherished

Memories; ‘Introducing....’, The Mountain Path, Oct. 1964;
V. Ganesan, ‘Obeisance to the Poet-Saint: Sri Muruganar’, The
Mountain Path, Oct. 1973; Muruganar & Meenakshi Muruganar,
‘How I Came to Bhagavan’, The Mountain Path, Apr. 1981; Smt.
T.R. Kanakkamal, ‘Remembering Sri Muruganar’, Mountain Path,
Oct. 2006.
Upon his return to Ramanathapuram, Muruganar was

approached by one Veluchami Thevar, a member of the royal
family, with a request to teach him the Tirukkural. Many
members of the royal family approached him due to their
interest in classical Tamil literature. Due to his association
with this royal family Muruganar had the opportunity to
associate with and to work with the great scholars of the day.
Muruganar joined some other scholars to write a
critical study of the five great Tamil classics, namely,
Silappadhikaram, Manimekalai, Seevakachintamani,
Valaiyapati and Kundalakesi. This was followed by his
research into other Tamil literary works like Tirukkural,
Nannool and Naidadham. Muruganar had an especially
remarkable understanding of Tiruvalluvar’s immortal work,
the Tirukkural.
He was a scholar-member of the Tamil Lexicon
Committee presided over by Dr. Chandler and became a great
Tamil pundit teaching for some years in the Norwich Girls’
High School, Madras. But Muruganar was also an ardent
nationalist and reformer. Great was his interest in Mahatma
Gandhi’s national liberation movement. His many songs in
praise of Gandhiji and his constructive activities appeared
in various Tamil periodicals and were later collected into a
volume entitled Swatantra Geetam (The song of Freedom).
Because of his involvement in the lexicon project,
Muruganar had the opportunity to work closely with
great scholars like Rao Sahib Mu. Raghava Iyengar,
Mahamahopadhyaya, Dr. U.V. Swaminatha Iyer, Rao
Bahadur V.S. Chengalvaraya Pillai and Sachidanandam Pillai,
etc. All these scholars had a great regard for Muruganar. It
was this group of scholars that wrote the Special Preface to
Muruganar’s book of poems on Bhagavan, titled Sri Ramana
Sannidhi Murai.
Muruganar’s father-in-law, Dandapani Swami, was
already a close devotee of Bhagavan. On one of his visits to
Madras, Dandapani Swami gave Bhagavan’s Arunachala Stuti
Panchakam and Who Am I to Muruganar. He was captivated

by these two books, which are treasure-houses of devotion and
philosophy respectively. Upon reading the books Muruganar
developed the desire to go to Tiruvannamalai immediately, to
have darshan of Ramana Maharshi, but the pressures of work
made it impossible for him to go at once.
Muruganar reached Tiruvannamalai on 21 September
1923. Upon reaching Tiruvannamalai, Muruganar saw the tall
towers (gopuram) of the Arunachala Temple. He visited the
Arunachala temple on the way to Ramanasramam. Believing
he should not go to Bhagavan empty-handed he composed
Desika Padikam ten verses in praise of Bhagavan. They
were inspired verses, in the style of Manickavachakar’s
Tiruvachakam.
When he reached the Ashram, Muruganar was not sure how
to behave when meeting the sage. Discerning his predicament
Bhagavan himself came out of the thatched structure when
Muruganar reached its entrance. Bhagavan looked straight at
him. A miracle took place! The look of the Master on that
day kindled a fire of poesy in him which blazed in him ever
after. “What?” Bhagavan asked. Muruganar dumbstruck,
had been totally absorbed in him and the query brought him
back to life. He started singing his hymn to Bhagavan, in the
specified tune. But tears welled up in him and he choked with
emotion. Seeing him struggling, Bhagavan said, “Can’t you
read it? Give it to me. I shall read it myself!”
During his visit Muruganar became very much perturbed.
He recounts what happened:
Two or three days after my arrival I was given some
medicine. I do not know what it was, but it excited me and
overpowered me. [This may have been purnathilehyam
(containing Marijuana/ganja)] I sat in front of the Maharshi
and concentrated my mind on his person. After a few minutes
I had a vision of brightness. It was a suffused brightness all
over his body and around it. The body was, however, distinct
from the surrounding light. How long it lasted I do not know,
so wholly lost was I in contemplating the vision. Kunju Swami,

Dandapani Swami and Arunachala Swami were present while
this was going on. Maharshi then appeared to me as Christ,
for what reason I cannot say, and again as Mohammed and
other great souls for similarly inexplicable reasons. I lost my
former personality during this period, for it was submerged
and lost in a huge ocean wave of a new state of spirituality.
I was feeling that all my experience was dream-like, vague,
insubstantial, and mysterious, in spite of the feeling that I was
still in the waking condition. I was obsessed by the fear that
my former worldly waking state was being smothered and my
former self plundered of its sense of reality and individuality.
I felt that as a consequence I might be perpetually held down
to this strange life in Tiruvannamalai and be forever lost to
my mother whose sole support I was.
So I bawled out some words to this effect: ‘Here are a
band of robbers called siddhas at whose head is this Ramana
Maharshi! They are all intent on capturing souls who approach
them in the waking condition and rapidly charming them into
this mysterious siddha’s sort of life and adding them to their
group! As it would not be within the power of my mother or
anyone else to see me or take me back from their iron clutch,
I must start off from here at once!’
I also added, looking at this bright dazzling figure of
Maharshi and addressing him: ‘So here I am, unable even for
a few moments to endure this light. How wonderful it is that,
your mother, should have carried you in her womb and bore
this effulgence for nine long months.’
After this I suddenly got up, prostrated to Bhagavan and
rushed out.”
Seeing that Muruganar was greatly agitated, Bhagavan
signalled to Kunju Swami and Arunachala Swami to follow
him. Soon Muruganar and the two others were on the bank
of the Agni Tirtham (a nearby water tank). Muruganar did not
seem to have any intention of slackening his speed. Kunju
Swami approached the hurrying form in front of him and
gently suggested, “Sir, the moon is shining brightly and the

night is cool and beautiful. Why don’t we sit on these steps
(of the pond) and relax for a while?” Muruganar assented
to this suggestion and sat down on the steps with his two
new friends. At first he was silent, but soon he started talking
about the strange experiences that made him rush out of the
Ashram. He said that he had suddenly felt an overpowering
excitement that was frightening in its intensity and that this
sudden rush of emotion was too much for him to handle, and
so he had decided to return home immediately.
To calm him down and to reassure him, they started
talking to him about Bhagavan’s infinite compassion, the
concern and kindness he showered on his devotees, and also
the all-encompassing love that Bhagavan showed for every
creature, animal and human alike. However, Muruganar
could not get over his fear and so, leaving Kunju Swami and
Arunachala Swami, he roamed around on the Chengam road
till three in the morning. All his efforts to leave the Ashram
proved futile. It appeared as if his whole being was tied to
Tiruvannamalai. For him Bhagavan and Tiruvannamalai were
one.
Gradually, Muruganar calmed down, went back to
the Ashram and stayed for two more days. Returning to
Muruganar’s account of his first visit, he says:
A few days later during the same trip, when I had no
medicine to excite me, I again sat before the Maharshi
and had a similar experience. Once again the figure of the
Maharshi became brilliant, and my sense of personality was
again submerged. Again my fears were roused that should I
continue in his presence longer, I should be lost to my mother.
So at midnight I hurried from the ashram into the town and
spent the night in the house of one of my pupils.
Muruganar came to realise that in his heart and mind there
was no room for anyone or anything other than Ramana, who
was his God, Guru and his All. Thereafter, the sole theme
of the poems which welled forth in profusion from his heart
was Ramana: the glory of the great Master and his matchless
teachings.
He, Muruganar, became a non-entity, losing his separate
individuality. He became the ‘shadow of Bhagavan’, as a
devotee put it so aptly. Muruganar was totally captivated
by Bhagavan, and could not stay away from him and
Ramanasramam for long. Every time he felt the urge to see
Bhagavan he would immediately catch the train from Madras
and come to the Ashram. When it was time to return to
Madras, he just could not bear to leave Bhagavan. He would
somehow force himself to leave the Ashram and would set
off for the railway station. But in a short while he would
be back at the Ashram! Bhagavan understood Muruganar’s
difficulty, and arranged for someone to go with Muruganar,
to make sure he reached the station! But once his companion
had left him, Muruganar would completely forget the reason
for his being at the railway station. He would wander up and
down the platform, oblivious to the activity around him. The
train would arrive and leave, amidst the ringing of bells and
the blowing of whistles. Muruganar would not notice all this
but would continue walking up and down, lost in thoughts
of Bhagavan. Long after the train left he would suddenly
emerge from his reverie. He would look around in confusion
and, after a few minutes, make his way back to the Ashram.
Upon his return to the Ashram, Bhagavan would ask him,
“Didn’t the train come on time?” When he heard that the train
had arrived on time, Bhagavan would ask, “Then why did
you not board the train?” In a dazed voice, Muruganar would
reply, “I didn’t feel like getting into the train, Bhagavan!”
Therefore when next Muruganar prepared to go to Madras,
Bhagavan sent someone with him, to actually put him on
the train! They would come back and report to Bhagavan
jokingly, “We have deported Muruganar!”
In this fashion, Muruganar travelled between Madras
and Tiruvannamalai frequently. He wanted to wind up the
household in Madras and settle down in Tiruvannamalai, but
circumstances were not favourable. His mother was old and

infirm, and Muruganar had to stay in Madras for her sake.
In 1924 Muruganar’s mother passed away. He performed
her last rites and took his mother’s ashes to Dhanushkodi to
put the major portion of her ashes in the sea there. Then, with
the remaining ashes in an urn he came to Tiruvannamalai. He
placed the urn at the foot of a tree, had his bath, and went into
the hall. When Bhagavan saw Muruganar, he enquired with
great concern, “Were you able to complete the last rites for
your mother without any trouble?” Bhagavan’s gentle tone
and compassionate words shattered Muruganar’s composure,
and he broke down. Kunju Swami, who was nearby, said to
Bhagavan, “Muruganar has brought his mother’s ashes in
an urn.” Bhagavan said, “That is good. The Agni Tirtham
is a suitable spot for dissolving the ashes.” Muruganar took
Bhagavan’s advice and dissolved the ashes in the Agni
Tirtham. He expressed his deep gratitude to his master in
two of his verses (Keerti Tiruvagaval, Peytru Padikam) in
Ramana Sannadhi Murai.
Two years after his mother’s death Muruganar resigned
his job in Madras and came to Tiruvannamalai for good in July
1926. Before he left Madras for good he made arrangements
for his wife’s maintenance there through Subramania Chettiar.
This man had received Bhagavan’s darshan once when
meditating on him in his home. This incident is mentioned by
Muruganar in Keerti Tiruvagaval (Ramana Sannadhi Murai).
Initially Muruganar stayed at Palakkothu. Bhagavan used
to say that by begging for one’s food one can easily dissolve
the ego. Muruganar’s faith in this principle was very strong.
He lived on alms, going into the town to beg every morning.
On several occasions, he went without food for the entire day,
not even going out to beg for bhiksha. He would set off on
his rounds with a white towel in which he collected the food
he received as alms. Then he would come to Palakkothu, lay
the bundle of food on the bank of the pond, and wade into the
water to clean his hands and feet.
Muruganar was very fastidious, when it came to his

personal hygiene. He would scrub his hands and legs with
mud several times, till he was satisfied that they were quite
clean. Naturally, this took a lot of time. Meanwhile, the
monkeys nearby would come and devour all the food that
Muruganar had collected. Thus, when he finally came out of
the water, he would often find that all his food was gone. He
had no choice but to go without food that day.
Natesa Swami, the Head of the Esanya mutt, had heard
about Muruganar’s capabilities as a teacher. He therefore
requested Muruganar to stay in the mutt and teach him
Manickavachakar’s Tiruchitrambala Kovai. Accordingly,
Muruganar went to stay in the Esanya mutt. Every morning,
he would take class for Natesa Swami and, in the afternoon,
he would come to Ramanasramam. Both Muruganar and
Pudukkottai K. Lakshmana Sarma were privileged to learn
Vedanta directly from Bhagavan.
In those days, Sadhu Natanananda was staying in the
Guhai Namasivaya mutt on the Hill. Natanananda would
time his own visit to Ramanasramam in such a way that
he would meet Muruganar near the western tower of the
Arunachaleswara Temple every afternoon. From this spot both
of them would walk to Ramanasramam together. Muruganar
used to compose verses at home and bring them along
every day. During their walk the two friends would discuss
Muruganar’s latest composition. One day, it so happened that
Muruganar was able to compose only the first four lines of
an eight-line verse. Try as he might, he could not complete
the verse. Natanananda read the four lines, and wrote another
four lines, thus completing the verse.
When they reached the Ashram, they showed the verse to
Bhagavan, and told him the story behind it. Bhagavan smiled
at Natanananda and said, “Tomorrow you should write the
first four lines of a verse, and get Muruganar to complete
the verse for you.” Natanananda did just that, and the second
verse was also shown to Bhagavan. After reading the verse,
Bhagavan said, “Good! It looks like we have twin poets here!

You should name the first poem ‘Muruga Natana’ and the
second one ‘Natana Muruga’!” Everyone present was very
much entertained by this.
In addition to practising Self-enquiry as prescribed by
Bhagavan, his devotees also gave a lot of importance to
giripradakshina. Giripradakshina is a potent way of attaining
Self-Realisation. Muruganar performed giripradakshina for
48 consecutive days. Kunju Swami narrates how he came to
know about the greatness of giripradakshina. “Sometime after
he came here, Muruganar asked Bhagavan about the spiritual
benefit of going round the Hill (giripradakshina). Bhagavan
asked him to first walk around the Hill and then come to
him. Muruganar followed His advice and told Bhagavan that
he lost his dehatma-buddhi (sense of identification with the
body) after a while and regained it only after reaching Adi
Annamalai (a village on the way). He reported to Bhagavan
that the experience was unexpected and unique. Bhagavan
smiled and said, ‘Do you now understand?’”
A disciple of a reputed swami of South India, Swami
Vilakshanananda, started telling Bhagavan about his guru’s
strict injunction that each one of his devotees should do
so many thousands of japa daily and surrender their phala
(fruit/merit) to the guru as their offering. Bhagavan smiled
and observed: “Is that so? It is to be appreciated. So much
gain for the guru with no strain on his part!” Turning to
Muruganar Bhagavan said: “Did you hear that? His guru
commands each of his disciples to perform so many thousands
of nama-japa and surrender the phala (merit) to him, as guru
kanikkai (offering). After that will there be any balance for
the disciples? It looks like the devotees keep the principal
and surrender the interest to the guru as their offering. How
do you like this?”
Muruganar with tears in his eyes replied: “Bhagavan!
Their guru is far better. He at least leaves the principal and
demands only the interest from the devotees. But this guru here
(pointing to Bhagavan) is worse! He takes away the principal

itself, then where is the room for interest? He demands both the
devotees’ mulam (principal) and vaddi (interest) all at once!”
Bhagavan gave a benign smile, enjoying the poet’s joke with
deep meaning! Muruganar meant, of course, that Bhagavan
wiped out both the mind and the ego of his devotees.
A new visitor to the Ashram was telling Bhagavan that
he had been worshipping Lord Subrahmanya with great
devotion for ten years, but that the deity had not chosen to
appear before him. The man was obviously in anguish, and
seemed to hope that Bhagavan would give him some advice.
But Bhagavan merely nodded his head and said, “Is that so?”
Muruganar, who was sitting in the hall, became emotional and
said to the devotee, “Sir! On the contrary, your prayers have
been effective indeed! Look before you! Who is this, in front
of your eyes!” The devotee opened his eyes wide and gazed
at Bhagavan. Within moments, his eyes filled with tears of
ecstasy and he exulted, “Yes! My prayers have been granted!
My Subrahmanya is right here! I am fortunate indeed!”
Later in the evening, this man went to Muruganar and
said, “Thank you, Sir, for advising me. I looked at Bhagavan
and saw Lord Subrahmanya with His two Consorts. Bhagavan
Sri Ramana is none other than Lord Subrahmanya!”
Once when Adiammal was standing directly opposite to
Bhagavan’s place (in the dining hall) he gestured to her to sit
down, saying, “Why are you standing? Please sit down and
begin your meal.” At once, Adiammal sat down. The next day
she did the same and Bhagavan asked her to sit down. On
the third day Bhagavan saw her standing once more, but said
nothing. While serving avial on Bhagavan’s leaf, Shanthamma
said in a low voice, “Bhagavan, Adiammal is still standing.
Will not Bhagavan ask her to sit down?” Bhagavan responded
to this by saying, “oh! There is a Shanthammal to take care
of Adiammal. But what about Muruganar? Who is there to
take care of him? See, you have prepared avial today. Has
anyone thought of giving a portion of this special dish to

Muruganar?”
Shanthammal was deeply touched by Bhagavan’s loving
concern for Muruganar. She said, “I will go right away,
and give Muruganar some of this avial.” She hurried into
the kitchen, scooped up some avial in a coconut shell, and
set off to Palakkothu in search of Muruganar. By the time
Shanthammal left the Ashram with the avial, Muruganar had
left Palakkothu and started out to ask for alms-food. He had
just reached the Dakshinamurti shrine (opposite the Morvi
Guest House) when Shanthammal saw him. She hurried and
called after him. By the time she reached him, she was out of
breath. She gasped, “A fine person you are, wandering around
like a madman, while Bhagavan is so concerned about you!
Why don’t you come to the Ashram and have your meals
there with the rest of the devotees?” She proceeded to relate
the details of the incident in the dining hall.
Muruganar was stunned. He was overcome by emotion
when he heard about Bhagavan’s concern for his welfare.
He kept repeating, “Did Bhagavan say that? Was he worried
about me? Did he say, ‘Who will take care of Muruganar?’
Such concern for me! How fortunate I am!” His voice grew
hoarse, his eyes filled with tears and his face was flushed
with emotion. Unable to support himself, he sat down on the
steps of the shrine. He raised the coconut shell to his eyes and
reverently poured the avial into his cupped palm and ate it as
Bhagavan’s sacred mahaprasad. He skipped his bhiksha that
day. His heart was so full that it mattered little to him that
his stomach was far from full! Bhagavan’s loving concern for
Muruganar was wonderful indeed.
Muruganar’s devotion to Bhagavan was beyond measure.
It found expression in the poems he composed in praise
of Bhagavan. These poems had a sweetness and a depth
of feeling that melted the hearts of listeners. Bhagavan’s
devotees regularly sang Muruganar’s poems in the hall, so
that everybody could enjoy the beauty of his captivating

verses.
However, Muruganar’s wife, Meenakshi Ammal, was not
happy with him. She was a frequent visitor to the Ashram.
Bhagavan was especially kind and considerate to her and
treated her as a favoured guest. Knowing that she loved
good coffee, Bhagavan would tell the Ashram cooks, “Make
Meenakshi some good, strong coffee, just the way she likes
it!” He would also listen very patiently to Meenakshi Ammal’s
complaints about her husband: Muruganar was neglecting
her and his domestic responsibilities, she said. On one of her
visits, Meenakshi Ammal seemed particularly upset. She told
Bhagavan that Muruganar’s neglect was very difficult for her
to bear; he seemed not to realise how badly his behaviour was
affecting her.
It was her practice to sing a few verses from Muruganar’s
Ramana Sannidhi Murai in Bhagavan’s presence on every
visit. On this occasion, she was about to select some verses
when Bhagavan took the book from her and, marking a
section where there were ten verses, each ending with
‘Ramana Mayavaney’, he said to Meenakshi Ammal,
“Look, Meenakshi! Muruganar will soon be returning from
Palakkothu. As soon as he enters the hall, start singing these
verses. But you must substitute ‘Muruga Mayavaney’ for
‘Ramana Mayavaney’ when you sing. Is that clear? Now, take
your place for Muruganar will be here soon.”
In these verses, Muruganar had portrayed himself as
a love-lorn woman who entreats Bhagavan to favour her
with his grace. Each verse ends with the phrase, ‘Ramana
Mayavaney’ the term ‘mayavan’ can be translated as ‘the
great deluder’. The woman accuses her lover of misleading
her with false promises. Yet, her words are full of affection
and reflect the remembered joy of happier times. Each verse
is exquisite in its beauty and delicacy of feeling.
As soon as Muruganar entered the hall, Meenakshi Ammal
started singing the verses. She ended each verse with ‘Muruga
Mayavaney’ instead of the original ‘Ramana Mayavaney’.

At first, Muruganar simply assumed that Meenakshi Ammal
was referring to the belief that Bhagavan was Lord Muruga.
But when Meenakshi Ammal came to the end of the second
verse Bhagavan glanced at him teasingly and then directed
a look of encouragement at Meenakshi Ammal. Suddenly,
Muruganar realised that there was a conspiracy at work! He
realised that Bhagavan was deliberately teasing him, using
Meenakshi Ammal as his agent!
Muruganar could think only of leaving the hall. He got
up and was preparing to quietly slip out of the hall when
Bhagavan stopped him with, “Hey! Why are you leaving the
hall? Is it because she sang about her ‘Muruga Mayavan’?
Well, does that mean that whenever anyone sings about
‘Ramana Mayavan’, I should immediately walk out of the
hall?” Hearing Bhagavan’s words, the entire hall dissolved in
laughter. Muruganar made good his escape!
Bhagavan often joked with his devotees. But even while
doing so, he continued to impart his teachings to them.
Once, on the day of his mother’s anniversary, Muruganar
came to the kitchen very early in the morning. He washed his
dhoti and hung it up to dry. Then, with a wet towel around
his waist, he set about getting the vegetables ready. While
Muruganar was thus engaged, Bhagavan entered the kitchen.
One glance at the dhoti drying on the clothesline, and the sight
of Muruganar clad in a wet towel told Bhagavan everything.
He said to Muruganar, “It is your mother’s annual ceremony
today, is it not? Have you made all arrangements? Who are
the Brahmins?” Before Muruganar could reply, Bhagavan
himself continued. Tapping himself on the chest, Bhagavan
said, “I can be one of the Brahmins. We need one more. I
think we can have Ranga Rao as the second Brahmin. Will
that be alright?” Muruganar felt so moved that he almost
broke down. Muruganar felt that, at the instant that Bhagavan
tapped his own chest and said, “I will be one of the Brahmins
for the ceremony,” not only his parents but several generations
of his ancestors must have attained liberation. Muruganar

never again felt it necessary to perform the annual rituals for
his parents.
On the next death anniversary of his mother, he brought
a large jackfruit, with the intention of giving some fruit to
everyone in the Ashram, in memory of his mother. Bhagavan
saw Muruganar with the jackfruit and remarked, “It is your
mother’s anniversary, is it not? I see you have not yet managed
to get rid of these sentimental attachments!” Hearing this,
Muruganar exclaimed, “I will never do such a thing again,”
and went out. He never again performed his mother’s annual
ceremony. Thus, Bhagavan extinguished all the vasanas
(habitual tendencies) of Muruganar. Later Muruganar
expressed this in Sannidhi Murai, Ramana Puranam and
Muruganar had a strong desire to have Bhagavan wholly to
himself, at least for a short while. Muruganar never mentioned
it to anybody. Muruganar’s secret wish was fulfilled in an
unexpected way. In those days, Bhagavan and his devotees
would collect leaves from the trees in the forest, to make leaf-
plates. Once, while a party was getting ready to go into the
forest, Bhagavan gave Muruganar a very significant glance.
Interpreting this look as a signal to follow him, Muruganar
hurried after Bhagavan. When the others entered the forest,
Bhagavan and Muruganar had already disappeared into the
woods.
Bhagavan led Muruganar deep into the forest. Then
Bhagavan sat down on a log and asked Muruganar to sit
beside him. Muruganar sat, but no words were exchanged.
Bhagavan looked directly into his eyes and Muruganar felt
the power of Bhagavan’s Grace flowing through him like
an electric current. He lost all perception of time or space,
and experienced a joy beyond description. Immersed in this
state of bliss, Muruganar was oblivious to the passage of
time; it was only when he regained his senses that he realised
that he must have remained in this state of bliss for many
hours. Muruganar has mentioned this incident in one of the
poems in the section titled Keerti Tiruagaval in Sri Ramana

Sannidhi Murai. This verse expresses Muruganar’s gratitude
to Bhagavan, for giving him this experience of blissful union
with the Self.
One of the days when Muruganar didn’t go for bhiksha
happened to be Sivaratri day, though Muruganar himself was
not aware of the fact. The next morning, Bhagavan asked
Muruganar to go around the Hill with him. Muruganar set
off enthusiastically enough but soon he started feeling the
effects of the previous day’s starvation. When Bhagavan
saw Muruganar’s exhaustion, he exclaimed, “oh! Did you
fast yesterday for Sivaratri? See how tired you are now. All
right! Come to the Ashram with me and have a proper meal.”
Bhagavan took Muruganar to the Ashram and saw to it that he
got enough to eat. Muruganar was so moved by Bhagavan’s
solicitude that even after many years he could not talk about
this kindness without tears in his eyes.
One morning, Bhagavan was chopping greens in the
kitchen. Muruganar was sitting close to Bhagavan and was
engaged in the same task. Bhagavan was recounting anecdotes
of his days on the Hill. He was talking about the various
kinds of herbs found on the Hill and about the properties
of each kind. He told stories about how he had climbed a
tamarind tree and plucked the tender leaves so that Keerai
Patti could cook them for him. He talked about the old lady’s
amazing knowledge about the properties of every kind of
herb that grew upon the Hill. Bhagavan recalled that the old
lady would say, “This leaf is good for your eyesight. This one
has cooling properties and so, if you eat it regularly, you need
not apply oil on your head to cool your system. This one is
very effective as a laxative,” and so on.
Bhagavan continued: “There are several rare herbs to be
found on the Hill. It is said that some of these herbs can wipe
out the sensations of hunger and thirst and that sages used
to take these herbs so that they could perform penance for
years together, without being bothered by hunger and thirst.
Some of the herbs are supposed to bestow longevity, and it is

believed that these helped sages to live for several centuries!
There is even a belief that, with the help of some herbs, one
could acquire the power to transport oneself through space,
and reach any place of one’s choice just by thinking about it!”
Muruganar was fascinated by Bhagavan’s words and
completely forgot the work in hand. Bhagavan finished his
portion of the job and with the intention of stacking all the
greens together, and gathering all the roots into one single
heap, he looked at Muruganar’s work and remarked, “Look
at him! He is really very smart! Muruganar, your skill in
chopping greens is as striking as your success in running a
household!”
Bhagavan’s remark jolted Muruganar out of his trance-
like state. He looked down at his handiwork. The few stalks he
had managed to chop were lying scattered all over the place.
The roots were in an even messier state, lying like wounded
soldiers on a battlefield! Then he looked at Bhagavan’s portion
of the work and saw the chopped greens piled up neatly in
one place, with the roots in a separate heap. Even the roots
had been laid in a neat pile! Not a scrap had been wasted;
nothing was out of place. Muruganar was quite ashamed of
himself. As if to add insult to injury, Bhagavan was now
making fun of his clumsy attempts at helping in the kitchen!
Murugunar retaliated by composing a poem. The gist of the
poem is, ‘O Ramana! You are an extraordinarily efficient
person. Why don’t you marry an equally efficient young lady
and set up house? Why should you be wandering around as
a mendicant, begging food, when you could so easily set up
an ideal household?’
One morning, Bhagavan was preparing to grind the
coconut chutney to be served with the idlis at breakfast time.
Anticipating Bhagavan’s actions, Muruganar darted forward
and took hold of the vertical stone that rotates within the cavity
of the circular grinding stone. Muruganar started rotating the
vertical stone, while Bhagavan settled down opposite and

slowly pushed the coconut and other ingredients into the gap.
While this activity was going on, Bhagavan was talking
about the early days. He said, “While we were staying on the
Hill, Mother often remarked that a grinding stone would be a
big help. I invariably replied that, once a grinding stone was
acquired, some other appliance would appear indispensable,
and there would be no end to such requirements. I used to tell
Mother that, by acquiring one object after the other, we will
only bind ourselves much more tightly to this earthly life.”
Bhagavan’s voice had a mesmeric effect upon Muruganar.
Though his hands continued their mechanical activity, his
mind was far away. He did not even notice that the chutney
was ready; he just continued to rotate the stone. To catch his
attention, Bhagavan splashed some water onto his face, under
the pretext of sprinkling water over the chutney. Even then,
Muruganar did not recognise the situation. He assumed that
Bhagavan was sprinkling water on the ingredients, and some
of the water had accidentally splashed into his eyes. So, he just
wiped his face with a towel, and continued with his activity.
At that point, Bhagavan exclaimed, “What is this? Can’t you
see that the task is done? Why persist with the grinding when
the chutney is ready?” Only then did Muruganar realise what
was happening.
Once, a particular oil was being prepared in the Ashram.
The herbs were measured and mixed according to Bhagavan’s
instructions, and the mixture was placed on the stove to boil.
When the process of preparation was nearing completion,
Bhagavan was informed, and asked to come and check on it.
On his way to the cowshed, Bhagavan came to the kitchen.
He found that the oil was ready to be removed from the fire
and so he asked the attendants to place the container on the
floor and allow the hot oil to cool. After a while, Bhagavan
came back to the kitchen to see to the filtration and storage
of the oil.
A large vessel was placed on the floor and a white cloth

was spread across the mouth of the vessel. Bhagavan held the
cloth in place, and Muruganar started transferring oil from
the cauldron to the vessel, using a mug. As the work was
going on, Bhagavan was telling Muruganar about the various
herbs that had been used in the preparation, about the specific
qualities of each herb, and the benefits to be derived from the
prepared oil.
Muruganar was apt to forget everything at the mere sight
of Bhagavan. Now, with Bhagavan in such close proximity
and talking about such interesting things, Muruganar was
totally lost. He forgot all about his surroundings and the work
he was supposed to be doing. His mind was totally engrossed
in Bhagavan’s words, but his hands mechanically continued
the task of pouring oil from one vessel into the other. The
vessel was full, but Muruganar did not notice that. Bhagavan,
however, was as alert as ever and said, “Look out! The vessel
is full. Can’t you see?” At Bhagavan’s words, Muruganar
was jolted back to his senses, but not quickly enough. In his
confusion, he poured one more mug of oil into the vessel and
it promptly overflowed.
Muruganar was dismayed to see the oil streaming along
the floor. Bhagavan laughed at the bewildered expression on
his face and said to him, “Don’t let the oil go to waste. Who
is going to supply you with such a nice herbal oil? Quick,
take it and rub it on your scalp, it will do you good!”
Immediately, Muruganar started scooping up the oil from
the floor and rubbing it on his head. He was still in a dazed
state, and was not fully aware of what he was doing. He knew
only that Bhagavan had asked him to take the oil from the
floor and apply it on his head. He proceeded to do just that,
with his hand travelling mechanically from floor to head and
back to the floor. Even after all the oil was gone, he continued
repeating the same sequence of actions, with the result that
he was now scooping up the mud and rubbing it on his head!
Only when Bhagavan burst out laughing, “Hey! I told you to
apply only the oil, not the mud!”, did Muruganar realise what
he was doing. With a shamefaced look, he finally stopped!
All the while Bhagavan was holding the cloth and it did not
occur to Muruganar that he should help Bhagavan remove the
cloth from the vessel. Finally, Subbalakshmi Ammal who was
doing some work in the kitchen had to relieve Bhagavan and
finish the job on hand.
Once Muruganar wished to obtain the leftover leaf-plate
of Bhagavan and tried to get it. He was badly disappointed
and poured out his feelings in the form of a verse: “Lord
Brahma, the Creator of the Universe, is very good at chanting
all the four Vedas; but when it comes to fashioning suitable
dwellings for all the souls entering the world, He is obviously
incompetent. Let us consider my case. I have the body of
a man. Maybe my actions in previous lives had entitled me
to a human body. But the soul that resides in this body is
undoubtedly that of a dog. That is why I have developed
the desire to eat from your used plate, O Noble Ramana! I
prostrate myself at your feet and beg you to grant me Real
Knowledge.”
Once in a while, Chinna Swami would ask Muruganar
to conduct the puja in the Mother’s temple. Muruganar could
not refuse. Muruganar was a perfectionist and, whatever he
did, he would do with whole-hearted concentration. While
engaged in one activity, however, he became oblivious to
everything else. He also lost track of time, and would often
perform a single activity over and over again, any number of
times. For example, if he decided to perform the abhishekham
(ritualistic washing) of the idols, he would bring pot after
pot of water and pour it over the idols. Then he would start
scrubbing the idols, to remove all the accumulated oil and
grease. Once, while Muruganar was busy washing the Linga,
Bhagavan entered the temple. After watching silently for
some time, Bhagavan remarked, in tones of amusement, “The
way you scrub that Linga, it looks as though the entire stone
image will disappear within a few days’ time!”
On another occasion, Bhagavan happened to enter the

Mother’s temple just as Muruganar was finishing the day’s
puja. At the end of a puja, the customary practice is to perform
the arati (worship of the deity with lighted lamps and burning
camphor). Muruganar placed a lump of camphor on a plate,
and lighted it and picked up the bell in his left hand and
started ringing it. While ringing the bell, he could not perform
arati. He was having trouble in doing both simultaneously.
In consternation, he started mumbling to himself, “I wonder
how others manage to recite the mantras, ring the bell with
one hand, and keep up the circular motion of the arati plate
with the other hand, all at the same time! It requires such
perfect synchronisation of activities! I suppose it is a gift that
other people possess. I myself can never master this art!”
At this, Bhagavan teased him, “Oh, your performance
is simply amazing! I have been admiring you all this while.
How nicely you ring the bell! And the graceful way you
perform the arati is simply beyond description!”
Muruganar was startled to hear Bhagavan’s voice, for he
had not noticed him entering the temple. When he realised
that Bhagavan must have been watching him for a long time,
he was thoroughly embarrassed. He said, “Bhagavan! I am
not going to perform puja any more. This is quite beyond
my capabilities! I am going to tell Chinna Swami that I just
cannot do this.” Bhagavan smiled broadly and said, “That is
good. Now you have granted liberation to puja too!”
Once, Bhagavan was talking to Muruganar about certain
books. Muruganar was giving Bhagavan a detailed account of
the content of each of these books. After listening attentively
to all these particulars, Bhagavan remarked, “Ultimately, all
these books are saying the same thing. Only the descriptions
and illustrations differ from one book to the other. The routes
might differ, but the destination is the same.” Muruganar
readily agreed, saying, “Yes. That is true, after reading all
these books; we feel that it has been a waste of time.”
Bhagavan replied, “But unless you read the books, how

can you get to know that they are all saying the same thing?
Until you read them, there is always the tantalising thought
that there might be some new revelation in one book or the
other. Only when you have read them can you feel certain that
there is nothing to be gained from studying them. This is like
saying that one has to perform rituals, before one can truly
appreciate the fact that rituals are not needed, or that only
through engaging oneself in various forms of worship, can
one get to know that performing puja is not really important
for spiritual realisation.”
Once when Muruganar entered the Old Hall on prostrating
to Bhagavan he noticed that worship had been offered to
some books decoratively heaped, garlanded and placed near
Bhagavan’s sofa. He realised that it was Saraswathi Puja day.
As he glanced at the garlanded books and then at the serenely
seated Master, his face broke into an amused smile. Noticing
this, Bhagavan gestured enquiringly. Muruganar’s relationship
with Bhagavan was unique. He knew he was in the presence
of the Reality clothed in human form, available to all as the
spiritual guide. Containing his amusement with great effort,
he said: “Bhagavan! To have offered puja to the sacred books
in your presence amuses me. Imagine that a bunch of the
best variety of sugarcane was squeezed, crystal sugar of the
purest quality made out of the juice and a human form made
with it. Now, picture the superb human form made of this
refined sugar on the one hand and the sugarcane waste on the
other! Bhagavan, you are the essence of Truth. These sacred
books, however sacred they may be, are just like sugarcane
waste! They have offered puja to the cane-waste, while you,
the most beautiful sugar-form, are seated here!” Saying this
Muruganar laughed. Bhagavan too had a hearty laugh.
Regarding Muruganar’s unique relationship with
Bhagavan, one recalls his ‘lizard-talk’! Often, the moment
Muruganar entered the Old Hall Bhagavan would commence
talking to him. Muruganar would start replying even before
prostrating to Bhagavan. While prostrating too he would

continue talking. Often, he would even forget that he was
lying prostrate on the ground and would just go on talking
to him, lifting his head like a chameleon and continuing to
reply to his queries. Others in the Hall would be amused
at this strange sight. Muruganar narrated this and added:
“Viswanatha (Swami) used to jokingly request me to quit
such ‘lizard-talk’, as my words were not audible to anyone,
including Bhagavan! What to do? I was not at all aware of
such happenings. On such occasions my sole thought would
be to reply to Bhagavan immediately and I would forget
the environment, everything else, including my body!”
Muruganar, the so-called ‘shadow of Bhagavan’, had the
highest devotion for him and would never fail to express
this by prostrating to him a number of times and when
Bhagavan left the Hall standing up reverentially. But there
were occasions when Bhagavan would leave the Hall while
Muruganar was composing verses and on returning he would
find him still writing. Without going to the couch Bhagavan
would stand a while, next to the seated Muruganar, and pick
up the thread of the conversation he had with him before
leaving the Hall. The thought that Bhagavan could not stand
without great strain, and that he himself should not be seated
when his master was standing beside him, would not occur
to Muruganar and he would continue talking. The devotees
around him used to get annoyed over this apparent display of
disrespect. Muruganar would realise it only later on, when it
was pointed out by others!
Muruganar’s collection of poems published in 1933, Sri
Ramana Sannidhi Murai, indicates clearly in its preface the
mode of grace which was responsible for the composition of
the poems, as well as their content and goal. ‘Know that the
purport of Sri Ramana Sannidhi Murai is to abide at the feet
of the bounteous Guru Ramana, so that the darkness of the
delusion of egoism ceases, dispelled by the illumination of
the Lord’s grace.’
In another poetical work of great significance, Guru

Vachaka Kovai, Muruganar gives the teachings of Bhagavan
in the most authentic manner. After listening to the master’s
instructions, as and when they were imparted to devotees, he
used to record them in verse. These verses were shown to
Bhagavan, who read them, corrected them where necessary,
and then approved them.
Apart from being the author of numerous hymns and
songs centred on Bhagavan, Muruganar encouraged Bhagavan
to compose verses in Tamil to convey the supreme truth of
non-duality. He it was who implored Bhagavan to have his
stray verses, composed from time to time, collected and also
to add new ones. This collection came out as Ulladu Narpadu
(Forty Verses on Reality), reflecting Bhagavan’s profoundest
teachings. So also it was at his entreaty that Upadesa Saram,
which sets forth the truth of Vedanta, and the path that leads
to the realisation of the Truth was presented by Bhagavan.
After coming to Bhagavan, Muruganar’s fascination
for the Tirukkural started fading. What had been almost
an obsession now became a much milder admiration, and
Muruganar felt relieved at the softening of his emotions. He
expresses this relief in a verse, in which he thanks Bhagavan
for freeing him from the spell that the Tirukkural and other
literary works had cast upon him.
One of Muruganar’s poems tells us about the power of
Bhagavan’s look of Grace. Muruganar says: “The Brahmin
community is noted for its compassion and gentleness. Having
been born in such a community, O Ramana, where did you
learn the arts of destruction? Who taught you those arts? You
are such an adept at destroying the egos of those who come
to you! But you destroy only those egos that are surrendered
to you, O Venkata Ramana! Blessed are those who become
the target of your unfailing weapons!”
In another poem, Muruganar says, “This peerless Brahmin
(Ramana), who was born in Tiruchuzhi, has the power to
change the destiny of his devotees. Though he himself had no
formal instruction in the scriptures, his wisdom and knowledge

are of such magnitude as to fill the most learned scholars with
admiration. He shines as the Sun of Self-Knowledge, bathing
the world in the light of his Grace.”
Muruganar says, in one of his poems, “Having obtained
Self-Realisation at a young age, without having to take
instruction from others, or even having to make any conscious
efforts, you are now bestowing the gift of Self-Knowledge
upon your devotees through the power of your presence alone.
Your devotees are fortunate indeed, for they are granted the
highest Wisdom without having to undergo the rigours of
spiritual practice.”
It is a common belief that great yogis take birth in this
world only to finish the process of their spiritual evolution
which was left incomplete in their previous life. In one of
Muruganar’s poems, a woman asks her friend, “If not to make
up for the deficits of previous lives, why has this Venkataraman
come down to earth? Why else would he be walking about on
this earth now?” To this, her friend replies, “Though it may
appear as though Venkataraman is leading a mortal’s life, the
truth of the matter is that he is, God himself, walking around
barefooted, only to satisfy the Earth Goddess’ longing to feel
the touch of God’s Feet.” Though God came down to the
Earth in various incarnations, in these incarnations He was
transported by various divine vehicles (vahanam) and His
feet seldom touched the earth directly. So the Earth Goddess
felt deprived of the privilege of touching the Divine Feet, and
she longed for the chance to do so. In response to her desire,
God came into the world in the form of Ramana and walked
barefoot over every inch of the Arunachala Hill, just to please
the Earth Goddess. Bhagavan never wore any footwear. But
Muruganar alone could have imagined such a beautiful and
moving explanation for Bhagavan’s bare feet!
Lord Siva assumes human form, from time to time, to
sport with His devotees. On one occasion, the Lord caused
a terrible flood to wash away the banks of the River Vaigai.
The Pandya King, faced with the task of rebuilding the banks
made it mandatory for each family to send one representative
to help in building the banks. A devout old woman called
Vanthi, found herself in a difficult position, because she had
nobody to send. Lord Siva, in the form of a handsome youth,
therefore appeared before Vanthi and offered to go and work
for her sake. As payment for the work, He demanded that
Vanthi should give Him the pittu (a South Indian delicacy) that
she was preparing. Only much later in the story does Vanthi
realise that Siva himself had come to her aid. Muruganar’s
imagines that Vanthi must have regretted the fact that she
could give only pittu to the Lord, and must have longed for
a chance to feed Him with a variety of tasty dishes. As a
result of this longing Vanthi appears as the seven women who
lovingly ply Ramana with a variety of dishes, in the course
of his walk through the forests around Arunachala Hill. This
captivating idea, expressed in one of Muruganar’s poems,
refers to an incident in Bhagavan’s life; a detailed description
of it can be found in his biography.
Bhagavan had the power of bestowing Self-Knowledge
on devotees, through a mere glance of Grace. Muruganar has
devoted an entire chapter, Tirukkannokkam, to the description
of the extraordinary power of Bhagavan’s Grace. One of this
verses in this chapter says: “Due to his constant absorption
in the Self, Ramana is always in the state beyond sleep.
Therefore, his eyes are always wide open, like the unblinking
eyes of a fish swimming in a pool of clear water. If we are
fortunate enough to receive the unblinking gaze of Ramana,
my friends, we can obtain all that we wish for!”
There is a beautiful song in the section titled
Tiruvammaanai: A woman is asked, ‘Venkataramanan never
bothers to address any words of welcome to those who come
to see him. Yet, hordes of devotees rush to him every day,
with so much love and enthusiasm. Why is this be so, can
you tell?’ To her friend’s question, the woman replies, ‘The
reason why multitudes of people flock to Ramana with so
much enthusiasm and joy, is that there is an Ocean of Bliss

flowing at the flower-soft feet of Ramana, and devotees are
eager to immerse themselves in this ocean of joy!’
Kanakkamal recounts an interesting anecdote in her
Mountain Path article of 2006:
In 1950, Swami Rajeswarananda, a former monk of
the Ramakrishna Order and editor of the Call Divine,
invited Muruganar for a pradakshina of the Hill. Swami
Rajeswarananda, a Kanouji Brahmin, was tall and hefty, of
light complexion, and of a genial temperament, who, having
lost the use of one leg in his youth due to polio, walked
with the help of an assistant named Prabhu. While at the
Ramakrishna Mutt in Madras, he picked up Tamil and learned
to speak with sufficient fluency. He had no reservation about
paying his respects to all mahatmas and men of spiritual
eminence and repute.
In those days, along the pradakshina route there was a
Swami called Kattu Siva, also known to some as Amavasya
Swami, whose small ashram was about a kilometre inside
from the pradakshina road where it turned off from the main
Bangalore road. He lived in a cave and for many years came
out only on amavasya days.
Since Swami Rajeswarananda was handicapped and
could not cover the distance alone, it was necessary for him
to do pradakshina by car.
Muruganar accepted his invitation to accompany him and
so off they went. When they got to the first turn, noticing the
car was turning away from the pradakshina road, Muruganar
asked, “Where are we going?”
Swami indicated the direction of the ashram of Kattu
Siva Swami whom he wanted to visit on the way. At once,
Muruganar expressed his unwillingness at this change of plan.
Even after various appeals from Swami Rajeswarananda,
Muruganar remained steadfast saying,“You go have darshan.
I’ll wait in the car.”
But Swami Rajeswarananda however insisted they go

together. As the driver, Prabhu, was about to drive on to the
small ashram, Muruganar said, “If you stop, I can simply get
out and go my way. Otherwise I will have to jump!” Swami
Rajeswarananda finally realised there was no persuading him
and had his assistant turn around and retrace the distance back
to the pradakshina route. None went for Kattu Siva’s darshan.
A woman would be considered unchaste thinking of a
man other than her husband. For Muruganar, to have the
darshan of any guru or deity other than Bhagavan would, in
his mind, be divine infidelity.
He would say, “After beholding Jnana Banu (‘the Sun of
Wisdom’), my eyes have been blinded and can behold none
other than him.”
It is to Muruganar that we owe three priceless gems of
Bhagavan’s spiritual teaching – Upadesa Undiar and Ulladu
Narpadu, Guru Vachaka Kovai. Bhagavan seldom spoke at
length, nor did he have any inclination towards writing down his
teachings. Due to Muruganar’s repeated requests and untiring
persuasion, Bhagavan recorded his teachings in Upadesa Undiar
and Ulladu Narpadu. Muruganar wrote down Bhagavan’s
teaching and presented in poetic form as Guru Vachaka Kovai.
These works contain the very essence of the Vedas.
In addition to Sri Ramana Sannidhi Murai, Muruganar
has composed Sri Ramana Devamaalai, Sri Ramana Charana
Pallaandu, Sri Ramana Anubhooti, Sri Ramana Alankaram,
and Sri Ramana Jnanabhodam. The collection of Bhagavan’s
teachings by Muruganar titled Guru Vachaka Kovai has the
distinction of being edited by Bhagavan himself. In addition
to all this, Muruganar has written a very detailed commentary
on Bhagavan’s Aksharamanamalai.
Muruganar passed away on August 28, 1973. Professor
Swaminathan wrote the following memoriam:
“During the last 20 years of his life Muruganar composed
thousands of poems. Even in the poems of praise, which start
off as variations of themes and modes immortalized by the

mediaeval singers, there is nothing merely repetitive; for
inspiration came to the modern poet not from some lovely
image in some dear familiar shrine embodying an ancient
myth, but from a human being, historical and contemporary,
whose presence radiated love and knowledge and a shared
beatitude.
While making free and splendid use of the old
mythological stories and situations, he never ceased to be
an authentic modern poet uttering with authority and in
strikingly appropriate language his own direct experiences,
his own original thinking and his own genuine insights. No
doubt he was more fortunate than most poets in finding a
hero who combined in himself the most freshening simplicity,
rocklike firmness, spontaneity and all-embracing love, a
Master who taught not only the sublime truth in the simplest
language but a method of enquiry safe to handle, infallible in
effect and available to all. To sing His praises, to practise His
presence and to explain His teachings the poet uses words,
which whether richly sensuous or austerely intellectual, are
invariably appropriate, while his repertory of metrical forms
is astounding in its vastness, flexibility and power. Like some
great temple complex, with its shrines and towers, its tanks
and groves, the immense output of this poet constitutes a
massive and worthy literary monument to the Master, whose
mighty message Muruganar manages to convey, because he
is himself a consummate and humble scholar, manipulating
with unerring tact and taste the inexhaustible resources of an
ancient and still living language unsurpassed in the range,
depth and continuity of its devotional and metaphysical
poetry.
Despite his physical ailments over the years Muruganar
remained calm and peaceful to the last and passed away amidst
the chantings of the devotees in praise of Sri Arunachala and
Sri Ramana.”
12. Yogi Ramiah*
Y ogi Ramiah belonged to a community of wealthy

Reddiyars in Nellore District, Andhra Pradesh. Being the
sole owner of his properties he had every opportunity to pass
his days merrily with his thoughtless companions. But just at
about the age of eighteen his thoughts took a serious turn and
he gave up his former associates and took interest in religion.
In his own words:
“From boyhood I had great devotion (bhakti) towards Sri
Rama Namam. Till I was 19 years old I was generally of
rajasic temperament and was fearless. Once I heard of the
life of Kabir from an old gentleman; and ever since I became
sorrowful that I had wasted this life till then. ‘How to get
undivided devotion (Ananya bhakti)?’ ‘How can I become fit
for God’s mercy (kripa)?’ These were my desires. I then knew
that penance meant meditating on Rama namam continuously
like oil-flow and to be in samadhi forgetting this body. Thus
I acquired bhakti and vairagyam. Subsequently love of the
body (dehabhimanam) disappeared. I couldn’t leave the
continuous dhyana even for a minute. I used to feel sorry that
the nights were being wasted in sleep. I used to feel that I was
meditating even in my sleep. I used to be in meditation when
I awoke. When Brahmanantha Tirtha Swami was at Nellore
I went to him and prayed to him to give me upadesa and
teach me yoga to meditate upon Rama to conquer the mind.
He then gave me the Rama Taraka mantram and asked me
to meditate on it observing pranayama at the time for a little
while. I then got extra vairagyam.
I started my own Ashram and named it Rama Ashram.
Since then it is useful for meditation and also other purposes.
By constant meditation, sitting in an asana I used to get
* Self-Realisation; Balarama Reddiyar, My Reminiscences;

Day by Day with Bhagavan; Letters from Sri Ramanasramam;
Reminiscences of Kunju Swami.
fatigued. To get over this fatigue I used to do pranayama

immediately. While doing this and learning from books such
as Jnana Vasishtam, Bhagavad Gita, Bhagavatam, etc, that
yoga should be practised keeping the lakshyam at the tip of
the nose I began to do likewise. Gradually I achieved breath
retention. Now and then I used to feel sushumna, subtle force,
rise up. Since then a jyoti began to appear. In some months,
there was no body sense and the Self was all pervading.
Ahamkara disappeared. There was no desire to eat anything.
In spite of bodily difficulties the mind was always happy. I
was thinking of Rama in saguna aspect and offering puja to
Hari in my heart.
As external vision decreased I wanted to go to experienced
gurus with Brahma Nishta (‘one who abides in the Reality’).
I remembered that in my boyhood I had seen Bhagavan in
Arunagiri. So I visited him again. Learning that Bhagavan
knows Telugu, I went to him, offered my respects, sat in
his presence and was looking at him. I found that he was
introverted, his eyes were not moving, breath appeared to
have stopped – no movement was visible in him, seeing that
I also turned my vision inside. As I had acquired dharana
siddhi at the tip of the nose I found it easy to turn my vision
inside. When the vision is turned inside the drik (subject)
drisya (objects) are not seen. And I questioned Ganapati Sastri
who had come there about the oneness of subject and object.
The sastri replied that the subject and object are different.
I couldn’t agree with what he said. Bhagavan (Maharshi)
immediately said that when the mind is subdued there is only
one thing and that the subject and object are not different. I
felt very happy on hearing this – I concluded with certainty
that he was the guru I sought and that he had realised the
truth. Because of crowds due to Kartika Deepam Bhagavan
said that it would be convenient to see him in the night. When
I went there in the night, the doors were closed and all were
asleep. Thinking it would not be proper to disturb them in
their sleep I lay down on the pial outside. At about three in

the morning Bhagavan came outside and happened to see me.
Bhagavan, who was all kindness, asked me to come
inside and sleep by his side. That night I asked him some
questions.
Q.: What is Nirvikalpa Samadhi?
A.: That which has no sankalpam (intention) is Nirvikalpa.
Q.: What is meant by Rama?
A.: That in which everything takes its origin, in which
everything exists and in which everything disappears, is
Rama.
I then determined that all practices are only means to
attain this final stage. I was giving up my former spiritual
practices little by little. I felt immensely attracted to Bhagavan
– I felt quite at home in Ramanasramam. Bhagavan was all
love. Leaving Bhagavan I did not go to any other guru.
During my visit the Swami himself looked after my
food arrangements like a kind mother. Sitting in Maharshi’s
presence brings peace of mind. I used to sit in samadhi for
three or four hours together. Then I felt my mind took a
form and came out from within. By constant practice and
meditation it entered the Heart and was merged into it.
I conclude that the Heart is the resting place of the mind.
The result is peace. When the mind is absorbed in the Heart,
the Self is realised. This could be felt even at the stage of
concentration (dharana).
I asked Maharshi about contemplation. He taught me as
follows: “When a man dies the funeral pyre is prepared and
the body is laid flat on the pyre. The pyre is lit. The skin
is burnt, then the flesh and then the bones until the whole
body falls to ashes. What remains thereafter? The mind. The
question arises, ‘How many are there in this body – one or
two?’ If two, why do people say ‘I’ and not ‘we’? There is
therefore only one. Whence is it born? What is its nature
(swarupa)? By enquiring thus the mind also disappears. Then
what remains over is seen to be ‘I’. The next question is
‘Who am I?’ The Self alone. This is contemplation. It is how

I did it. By this process attachment to the body (dehavasana)
is destroyed. The ego vanishes. The Self alone shines. One
method of getting mind-dissolution (manolaya) is association
with the great ones – the yoga adepts (yoga arudhas). They
are perfect adepts in samadhi. Self-Realisation has been easy,
natural, and continuous to them. Those moving with them
closely and in sympathetic contact gradually absorb the
samadhi habit from them.”
Yogi Ramiah passed away in 1962. The Mountain Path
wrote in obituary: “It was for his benefit that Bhagavan
translated Upadesa Saram (‘Thirty Verses’) and Ulladu
Narpadu (‘Forty Verses on Reality’) into Telugu. A man of
generous disposition, he gave freely to religious causes. He
contributed liberally to the Ashram in its early days.”
13. Kavyakantha Ganapati Muni*
G anapati Muni was born in Kalavarayai, near Bobbili in

Andhra Pradesh, on November 17, 1878. His parents,
Narasimha Sastri and Narasamamba, had three sons, the Muni
being the second. His was a family of Sri Vidya initiates.
A year before his birth his mother Narasamamba had gone
to the famous temple dedicated to the Sun God at Arasavalli,
in Andhra Pradesh. It was a holy day (Ratha Saptami) to offer
worship to the Sun God. She stayed overnight in the temple,
after worshipping the Lord in due manner. In the early
morning she had a dream in which a woman of supernatural
beauty emerged from the corridors of the temple, approached
* Self-Realisation; ‘Ganapati Muni’ by Kapali Sastry; Day by Day

with Bhagavan; Sri Ramana Leela; A.V. Ramana, Maha Tapasvi,
Trans. Smt. Sonti Anasuyamma; S. Shankarnarayanan, Bhagavan
and Nayana; T.M.P. Mahadevan, Bhagavan Ramana; Reminiscences
of Kunju Swami; T.K.Sundaresa Iyer, At the Feet of Bhagavan.
her with a fine shining pot, put it in her hand and vanished.
To her utter astonishment the fine pitcher assumed the form
of a male child the moment it came into contact with her.
After her return home she became pregnant.
The father, Narasimha Sastri, also had a unique
experience. He had gone to Banaras (Varanasi or Kashi) in
November 1878. When he was in the temple praying in the
presence of the deity Ganapati, he had the vision of a little
child emanating from the deity and entering into him. At the
time when Narasimha Sastri was witnessing this vision in
Banaras, his wife Narasamamba gave birth to a male child in
her parental home. This child was born under these auspicious
indications given to both parents. The father appropriately
named this son Ganapati, rooted in the conviction that the
child was born as a blessing of the Lord Maha Ganapati
Himself.
Though dumb and afflicted with all sorts of diseases
like enlarged liver and spleen and epileptic fits during his
first five years, he was relieved of them in his sixth year by
branding with red hot iron. And as though to make amends
for the past disabilities, Ganapati Sastri exhibited marvellous
powers of perception, attention, recollection, and resource.
Things once read were immediately understood, and never
forgotten. He could attend to eight or ten things at a time
(ashtavadhana).
He picked up learning with avidity; and at the age of ten,
he had composed a verse in Sanskrit, prepared astrological
almanacs, and mastered several Kavyas (literary works),
and elementary books of grammar. At twelve, he wrote
Bringasamdesa, of which two cantos were in manda-kranta
metre thus closely imitating Kalidasa. At fourteen, he had
mastered the Panckakavya and the chief books on Sanskrit
prosody and rhetoric, besides being familiar with the contents
of the national epics, the Itihasas, Ramayana, Mahabharata,
and some Puranas. At that age, he could speak fluently, and
write with ease, in Sanskrit.
Besides the literary ambition, he was from the age of

ten consumed by another, which has dominated his life
ever since. The itihasas and Puranas i.e. epics and legends
fired him with emulation of the ancient rishis and saints. If
the saints Viswamitra and Dhruva could by their tapas i.e.
mantrajapa (repetition of sacred syllables) attain power
enough to create new worlds or rise to be the pole star, he,
Ganapati of Kalavarayi could do the same.
So from the age of eighteen i.e., soon after his marriage
was consummated, he was visiting holy places like the banks
of the Godavari, the Ganges and the Jumna. In these places he
spent considerable time, doing japa of the Siva panchakshari
(Namasivaya) mantra. The interesting adventures of his tapas
would fill a small volume. Suffice it to say, that after a dozen
trips to various parts of India and performing tapas in each
place to make Mahadeva (Siva) appear before him and grant
him boons, he came to Tiruvannamalai first in 1903-4 and
next in 1907, to some extent sadder and wiser.
Though there had been a few momentary visions and
experiences which he interpreted as appearance of Siva,
these were mere optimistic guesses. Though he had repeated
a crore of Siva panchakshari and as often written out Siva’s
name, no God had appeared to grant him any boons; and it
looked as though his life’s quest was a blank failure. His
literary ambition had meanwhile taken him to Nadia, where
he dazzled in a pandita sabha, an assembly of scholars (under
the presidentship of Asukavi Ambikadatta), with his mastery
of Sanskrit style and literature, with his ease in impromptu
versification, and his ready resource and obtained the title
(and diploma of) Kavyakantha in 1900.
But even in the literary field he had achieved nothing
useful, nothing of any worth to his generation or to posterity,
as he was burning with a lofty ambition to achieve. In 1903,
he had chosen Tiruvannamalai as a good and holy seat of
Siva in the shape of a jyoti linga, for continuing his tapas.
Incidentally having heard of Brahmana Swami on the Hill,

he visited him twice in the course of a twelve months’ stay.
At his very first visit in 1903 he interpreted the well-
known stotra of Vinayaka starting with shuklambharatharam
etc. as applying to the Brahmana Swami. Since this Swami
wore white cloth, was all-pervasive (being identified with
Divinity), was of a pleasing moon-like colour, had consumed
his antahkarana (mind composed of the four parts viz. manas,
buddhi, ahankara, and chitta i.e., mind, reason, ego and will
or desire), was of a gracious mien, and if prayed for would
remove obstacles from his devotee’s path.
He then went away to Vellore as a teacher in a school.
There he organised a band of pupils who with him for their
head and guide would develop their Sakti by force of mantra
japa to such an extent that they might impress the world with
their ideas and help in the uplift of their country, if not of
humanity.
After a short while he gave up his post at the Vellore
school and returned to Tiruvannamalai about December 1907,
to resume his mantra japa. Doubts were now oppressing him
whether with all his vast study of Puranas, Itihasas, Kavyas,
the whole of Rig Veda, some Upanishads and several books
on Mantra Shastra, he had correctly understood the nature of
tapas. He had gained no tangible benefit from his dozen years
of penance in all sorts of places and under the most rigorous
conditions. So on the ninth day of kartigai festival about 1.30
p.m. he recollected that there was a Brahmana Swami on the
Hill and that he must certainly know the true nature of tapas
from his own experience. In that hot hour, he climbed up the
Hill.
The Swami with his good memory would not have
forgotten the earlier visit of Sastri, nor the great sensation
which Sastri (then moving unnoticed through the streets of
Tiruvannamalai) produced in Kartigai of 1904 by reading
a thousand brilliant Sanskrit verses on Siva which he had
composed in Arunachaleswara temple in the few weeks

preceding the festival.
Sastri quivered with emotion as he walked up to the
Virupaksha Cave. Luckily for him, the Swami was seated
alone on the outer pial. Sastri fell flat on his face and held
the Swami’s feet with both hands; and his voice trembled
with emotion as he cried: “All that has to be read, I have
read. Even Vedanta Sastra, I have fully understood. I have
performed japa to my heart’s content. Yet still, up to this
time I have not understood what tapas is. Hence have I
sought refuge at thy feet. Pray enlighten me about the nature
of tapas.” For fifteen minutes, the Swami silently gazed at
Sastri, as he sat at his feet in anxious expectation. None came
to interrupt them at the time. Then the Swami spoke in short
and broken sentences in Tamil:
“If one watches whence this notion I springs, the mind is
absorbed into that. That is tapas.”
“When a mantra is repeated, if attention is directed to
the source whence the mantra sound is produced, the mind is
absorbed in that. That is tapas.”
This instruction filled Sastri’s heart with joy. He stayed
for some hours and ascertained the Swami’s name from the
attendant Pazhani Swami to be ‘Venkatarama Iyer.’ Sastri
immediately composed five stanzas in praise of the Swami
wherein he contracted his name into ‘Ramana,’ which has
stuck to the Swami ever since. Sadly these verses are lost.
In the letter which Sastri wrote next day to his relations
and disciples he mentioned the upadesa he received from the
Swami known as ‘Brahmana Swami’ on the Hill, and added
that he must be called a Maharshi, since his teaching was
quite original, and nothing like that had ever been found in
any book (that the Sastri had read). He wished all his own
disciples should style Brahmana Swami ‘the Maharshi.’ Since
that date, the name Bhagavan Ramana Maharshi has come
into vogue among cultured devotees; and to Sastri must be
given the credit for the currency of this name.
A devotee asked Kavyakantha Ganapati Muni about the

greatness of Sri Bhagavan. He said, “Aspirants in the spiritual
field experience power and peace. When they get that power,
they will tour different parts of the country, write books,
indulge in song and dance, unaware of themselves and their
surroundings. When the Buddha secured power after doing
tapas, he established his religion. Adi Sankara’s wanderings,
writing of the Brahma Sutra Bhashya and establishing the
mutts were the outcome of this power. It was this power that
propelled Swami Vivekananda to Chicago, and made Mirabai,
Tukaram and Chaitanya forget themselves in their song and
dance. But Sri Bhagavan was above all these people. He did
not exhibit his power nor expend it. He was like the great
Lord who had swallowed a mountain! Sri Bhagavan got
merged in that still, unchanging Self. Controlling everything,
he was peace personified. Sahaja Samadhi was his natural
state.”
In the early days of Ganapati Muni’s coming to
Tiruvannamalai he knew nothing of Saiva Siddhanta. The
Association of Saiva Siddhantins decided to hold their
conference in Tiruvannamalai and invited Nayana (Ganapati
Muni) to preside over it. They also announced that he, being
a great pandit, would speak at length and authoritatively on
Saiva Siddhanta. He came to know of the date of his lecture
only four or five days before the conference. On the very
morning of the conference Nayana came to Bhagavan and
said, “These people have asked me to attend Saiva Sabha
and speak, but I do not know what Saiva Siddhanta is or
its meaning.” Bhagavan thereupon took out a Tamil book,
the ‘Siva Jnana Bodha’, selected twelve aphorisms from it,
explained their meaning and then briefly told the Sastri what
the essence of Saiva Siddhanta was. That was enough. Being
highly intelligent Nayana (the Sastri) grasped the fundamentals
immediately and left for the conference. Composing slokas
extempore, he recited them with great confidence and then
lectured in Tamil so authoritatively that everyone present was
surprised at the profundity of his thought and his erudition

regarding Saiva Siddhanta. When Nayana returned from
the conference he said to Bhagavan, ‘‘It was not from my
knowledge or capacity that I spoke today. It was all due to
Bhagavan’s grace. The Saiva Siddhanta which I had never
read appeared to me as though I had it in my mind all these
years.’’ Such was Nayana’s intellectual power.
When Sastri was with Maharshi at the Pachaiamman Koil
in the beginning of 1908 something like a meteor appeared
at dawn and touched Maharshi’s forehead, receded, and came
again and touched him six times in all. This was experienced
and confirmed by Maharshi as well.
Once Bhagavan said, “When I was in the Virupaksha
Cave, Nayana (the Sastri) came there with a boy named
Arunachalam. He had studied up to high school. While
Nayana and I were talking, the boy sat in a bush nearby.
“At that time Nayana argued that the brain was the seat
of the vasanas because it consisted of innumerable cells in
which the vasanas were contained and was illuminated by
the light of the Self which projected from the Heart. Only
this set a person working and thinking. But I asked, ‘How
can it be so? The vasanas must be within one’s Self and can
never remain away from the Self. If, as you say, the vasanas
are stored in the brain and the Heart is the seat of the Self,
a person who is decapitated must be rid of his vasanas and
should not be reborn. You agree that is absurd. Now can you
say that the Self is in the brain with the vasanas? If so, why
should the head bend down when one falls asleep? Moreover,
a person does not touch his head and say ‘I’. So it follows
that the Self is in the Heart and the vasanas are also there, in
an exceedingly subtle form.’
“Others were listening to our conversation. A few days
later we received a letter containing a short poem in English
on that conversation from the young boy, Arunachalam, who
had not yet matriculated.”
The poem is remarkable for its poetic imagination.

Bhagavan, Kavyakantha, and the assembly of other persons
are represented as the Heart, the brain and the body
respectively, and, again, as the sun, the moon and the earth.
The light from the sun is reflected on the moon and the earth
is illumined. Similarly, the brain acts through consciousness
derived from the Heart and the body is thus protected. This
teaching of Bhagavan’s is found in the Ramana Gita also.
The Heart is the most important centre from which vitality
and light radiate to the brain, thus enabling it to function. The
vasanas are enclosed in the Heart in their subtlest form, later
flowing to the brain which reflects them, highly magnified,
corresponding to a cinema-show at every stage. That is how
the world is said to be nothing more than a cinema-show.
Bhagavan also added:
Bhagavan said, “The boy, Arunachalam, somehow
listened to our conversation and composed nine verses in
English, giving the gist of what we were talking about. The
verses were good and so I translated them into Tamil verses
in the ahaval metre.”
In January, February and March, 1908 Maharshi and
Ganapati Sastri spent three months at Pachaiamman Koil
with a large number of others. Sastri went on touching
up his Uma Sahasram and developing his dhyana in
accordance with Maharshi’s directions. His main objective
had not of course been abandoned. He still believed, like
Confucius, that he had a lofty mission in life, and that he
had adequate power to carry it out. Society in India had yet
to be revivified, and old but bright ideas of the Vedic times
resuscitated. New and deleterious growths, which impeded
national life had to be got rid of. And the entire gamut of
heavenly forces (sakti) had yet to be invoked by Sastri and
his associates and pupils who formed a sangha (society) for
developing sakti mainly by mantra japa (holy incantations).
When Sastri left Tiruvannamalai after March 1908, he took
Maharshi’s permission. At that time he asked Maharshi, “Is
the seeking of the source of the ‘I’ thought, sufficient for the
accomplishment of all my aims, or is mantra dhyana needed?”
Maharshi answered, “The former would suffice;” and, when
asked about the aim, added: “You had better throw the entire
burden on the Lord (Iswara). He will carry all and you will
be freed from the burden. Let His will prevail.”
The same year Sastri went away to near Madras for
tapas. There was a Ganesa temple near which he performed
his tapas, observing a vow of silence for eighteen days. On
the eighteenth day, when he was lying wide awake, he saw
the figure of Maharshi coming in and sitting next to him.
Sastri sat up in wonder and tried to get up. But Maharshi
pressed him on the head. Sastri felt some power overpowering
him, and he regarded it as hastadiksha i.e. grace of the Guru
conferred by a touch of the hand.
Ever since Maharshi arrived at Tiruvannamalai on 1st
September 1896 he had not left the place and never had he
seen Tiruvottiyur. But, as Sastri narrated the above in his
presence on 17th October 1929, Maharshi said:
“One day many years ago during my stay at Virupaksha
cave as I was lying down awake, I suddenly felt my body
carried up higher and higher till all objects disappeared and
all around me was nothing but white light. Then the body
began to descend and objects began to appear. I said to
myself, ‘evidently this is how Siddhas move about at will.’
The idea occurred to me that I was at Tiruvottiyur. I was
on a high road and I went along. On one side and some
distance away from there was a Ganapati temple. I went
in and talked, but with whom or what I did not recollect.
Suddenly I found myself again lying in Virupaksha Cave.
I mentioned this immediately to Pazhani Swami who was
always with me.”
Sastri had found that Maharshi’s description of the place
at Tiruvottiyur to Kapali Sastry, a few days after the event
exactly tallied with the Ganesa temple in which he carried
on his tapas.
Sastri frequently visited Tiruvannamalai and the Maharshi

in subsequent years. By his thorough mastery of the Sanskrit
language, and the ease and excellence of his Sanskrit poetry,
he must, to some extent, have influenced Maharshi who was
always receiving new ideas and learning new languages from
persons and books almost unconsciously. Maharshi, who
began to learn Sanskrit by perusing Vivekachudamani with
its Tamil verse translation, made very rapid progress and
composed one stanza in 1915, Arunachala Pancharatnam
in 1917, and Upadesa Sara in 1927. The contact with Sastri
was perhaps one of the elements which developed Maharshi’s
command of Sanskrit.
Sastri, with his colossal learning, remarkable genius and
powerful personality, came to the young Maharshi (almost
of his own age) who had little knowledge of Sanskrit and
who was rapidly absorbing impressions from the books and
men he came across. Sastri and all the members of his family
along with his own disciples became the Maharshi’s disciples
and were very strongly attached to him. The Maharshi in turn
had not merely great admiration for Sastri but was deeply
interested in him and his extraordinary aims and aspirations,
as also in his family concerns. The Maharshi always submitted
his own Sanskrit compositions to Sastri for correction of
grammatical or idiomatic errors, as he had never studied
Sanskrit grammar but had picked up the language casually in
his own way.
Sastri’s chief service in connection with Ramana Maharshi
is his eliciting (through his friends or directly) the replies of
Maharshi to questions that constantly arise in the course of
one’s spiritual development. The first set of questions was put
in December 1913 and the others in July and August 1917.
The answers to these questions were embodied in a work of
eighteen chapters of verse named Ramana Gita.
Sastri was not a mere pandit learned in Sanskrit but a
bold critic too, especially in matters of age and authenticity of
Sanskrit works. In caste and other matters of social institution
like the age of marriage, untouchability, etc., he was quite

modern and progressive. He was always masterful and seldom
failed to impress those with whom he came in close contact,
with his own ideas and attitude. From 1922 to 1929 he lived
at Tiruvannamalai mostly with his family. He was always
consulted by Maharshi on matters of importance, especially
publications and other activities of the Ashram.
When Bhagavan’s mother passed away in 1922, the
question arose as to whether or not to cremate the body.
Ganapati Muni quoted from Ramana Gita the 12th Chapter
the answer to this question: ‘To a lady who is Liberated
after her death, only samadhi is prescribed, not cremation.’
Everybody agreed and the body was buried under the shade
of Ashwattha tree near Pali Tirtham.
On the Maha Puja day, Nayana composed 6 verses on
the Mother, named, ‘Soundaryamba Shatkam’. In the year
Dundubhi in the month of Vrishabha, on the sixth day, of the
ninth day of the dark half of Vaisakha, on Friday night with
the star Satabhisha in the sky, during the first three hours
of the night, ‘Born in the gotra of Bharadwaja and wife of
Sundara who was of the gotra of Parasara and mother of Sri
Ramana Maharshi who was born as a manifestation of Sri
Guruguha and a pure soul’.
‘A Hamsi who has no attachment, she, who has washed
away all her sins through devotion to Lord Siva’s feet, having
her life breath controlled by the power of the hand of Sri
Guha and instantly having her Vikalpas got rid of’, That
Saundaryamba has become the light, which is known by the
declarations of Vedanta, which pervades all the worlds and
which got enlightened by the son who was Kumara Swami
himself.’
May the holy water of the samadhi of Saundaryamba
become the Remover of Sins, like the honey born out of the
lotus hands of Sri Ramana Maharshi.
‘Glory be to the mother, pure, of Sri Ramana Maharshi!
Glory be to her samadhi!
Glory be to the lingam installed by the Maharshi!

Glory be to the holy water of the new Tirtham,
Aghamarshana!’
Sri Ramana installed the lingam on Mother’s samadhi
while Nayana was chanting Vedamantras.
The Muni was the only known person in our times to
have experienced Kapalabheda. From the time of the darshan
of Renuka in Padai Veedu, Nayana had this experience of to
and fro rushing movement of Sakti in him as he described in
certain slokas of Uma Sahasram. He described the existence
of Jada and Atma Chaitanyas separately in him.
‘O Mother Divine! Thy divine blissful wave rising from
the milky ocean of Sahasrara is filling up my whole body
with the sakti of the Self. I do not have consciousness of any
dull part in my body.
‘O Queen of Everything! The glorious shower of rasa
(sentiment) that I am experiencing now is directed by Thee
and is flowing from the cloud of Sahasrara downwards. May
this rain of rasa protect the crop of knowledge.’ This grand
secret of yoga is impossible to come out of an inexperienced
soul. Nayana had this great experience in Arunachala. He
was residing in the mango tree cave on Arunachala at that
time along with his wife. Nayana was most of the time in
meditation. The flow of Sakti was gradually increasing and
on 20-08-1922, it gave rise to Kapala Bhedana Siddhi. While
Nayana was having this experience, his family was with him.
They saw a light coming out of the top of his head forming
a round circle of light on the roof of the cave filling up the
whole cave with glow. They were somewhat afraid and went
to Skandasramamam and told Bhagavan about the strange
light. Bhagavan came and applied castor oil on Nayana’s head
and cooled it. The next day, Bhagavan got a pair of wooden
sandals for Nayana and told him never to touch the ground
without them. Nayana took the sandals from Bhagavan and
told Bhagavan that he was receiving Paduka Diksha (initiation
through sandals) from Bhagavan.
Vasishtha Ganapati Muni was a valiant soldier in the

cause of Truth and Divinity. For communing with the Divine,
the Muni was well endowed, gifted with marvelous powers of
mind, intellect and spirit. To this day, the greatest scholars of
modern times are astounded by his versatility and genius. With
absolutely no formal schooling, he could immediately grasp
the most intricate problems of the day and devise solutions.
His immense scholarship of Hindu Scriptures, coupled with
a faultless memory and Divine intuition shone on his face
and flowed out through his writings and oratory. He belonged
to the era of Rig Vedic seers who were gods among men,
playing in the world their role of leadership of both temporal
and spiritual matters.
The Vedic seers were by no means removed from the
affairs of the world. In fact, these seers made themselves
the vehicle through which the Divine forces worked for the
welfare of humanity. To become one such perfect instrument
in the hands of Maha Shakti was the goal towards which
Ganapati worked and dedicated his entire life of penance.
Though the Muni was a giant personality, he remained
humble. Two incidents in his Divine life will illustrate this:
The Muni and his beloved disciple Daivarata did tapas in
Padaiveedu, near Vellore, in the year 1917. As a result of
these tapas certain mantras were revealed to his disciple
Daivarata. The Guru of the disciple, our Ganapati Muni,
acted as the scribe and noted down the mantras as they issued
forth from his inspired disciple. Later, the Muni even wrote a
commentary on the mantras, just as Adi Sankara did for the
verses of his disciple Hastamalaka.
The Muni was verily a fountain of love and affection
for his pupils and followers, far and near. This did not deter
the Guru and sishya from having a difference of opinion at
times. Nevertheless, Ganapati’s broad-mindedness and love
never wavered on account of these differences, thus revealing
his humble respect and genuine love for all. He even readily
blessed one of his dearest disciples, Kapali Sastry, when he

wished to become a disciple of Sri Aurobindo.
I would like to make the readers aware of the fact
that the poet-seer, Kavyakantha Ganapati Muni, met Sri
Aurobindo on August 15, 1928. He stayed at the Ashram for
about a fortnight. During his stay the Muni meditated alone
with the Mother a few times. At the instance of Kapali and
S.Doraiswamy Iyer the Muni translated some portion of Sri
Aurobindo’s “Mother” into Sanskrit verses, with some notes.
Seeing the Muni’s translation, Sri Aurobindo generously
declared that the translation far excelled the original.
Kavyakantha Ganapati Muni’s writings, particularly on
the Rig Veda and the Tattwa Sastra, will most certainly be
a guiding spirit and lamp for centuries to come. In the field
of Stotra literature his contribution is considerable. Each of
the following works deals with the worship of a Godhead,
its names, forms, mantras, the secret principles involved, etc.
1. Umāsahasram: This is the magnum opus of the Muni.
2. Indrāṇī saptaśatī: Seven hundred verses in praise of
Indrani
3. Pracaṇḍacaṇḍī triśatī: Three hundred verses in praise
of Chinnamasta.
4. Umāśatakam: Hundred verses in praise of Uma, the
consort of Siva.
5. Sivaśatakam: Hundred verses in praise of Siva.
6. Umātriśatī: Three hundred names of Uma for daily
recital are composed as a stotra.
7. Indrasahasranāma: Thousand names of Indra written
as a powerful praise.
8. Gītamālā: A garland of praise on the Vedic deities like
Agni, Vāyu and Sūrya.
9. Ramaṇacatvārimśat: Forty verses in praise of the
Maharshi recited daily in Sri Ramanasramam.
10. Herambopasthānam: Stotras dealing with the worship
of God Ganapati.
11. Viśvamīmāmsa: This book deals with the concepts of

Heaven, Hell, various lokas and the final liberation.
12. Ramaṇagītā: a record of the questions asked by
disciples and answers given by the Maharshi.
13. Tatvaghaṇṭāśatakam: One hundred verses composed
extempore in one hour as a part of avadhāna, near Udupi.
14. Mahāvidyāsūtram: The ten Cosmic powers of the
Great Goddess, the Tantric daśa mahā vidyās are dealt with
in these aphorisms, and their mysteries unravelled.
15. Rājayogasārasūtram: On the essence of Raja Yoga.
16. Śabdapramāṇacarcā: Here the origin of the Veda is
discussed.
17. Pañcajanacarcā: Here untouchability is condemned
on the authority of the śāstrās.
18. Vivāhadharmasūtram: This is on marriage as a
sacrament.
19. Īśopaniṣad bhāṣya: A simple and lucid commentary
on the intricate Upaniṣad.
20. Upadeśa Sāra bhāṣya: A commentary on the
Maharshi’s Upadeśa Sāram.
The following three books are on medicine.
21. Cikitsānuśāsanam.
22. Āyurvedasaṅgrahaḥ.
23. Prāṇatoṣaṇam.
These three books deal with astrology.
24. Sodaśaśloki.
25. Horānirṇayasaṅgrahaḥ.
26. Tribhāvaphalacandrikā.
27. Indragītamu: This is a book in Telugu dvipadā, a
stotra of Indra.
Kavyakantha has also written on an ideal constitution
sāmrājya nibhandanam for a country.
All the works display his inspiration, originality and
uniqueness.
Ganapati Muni was a great tapasvi whose one aim in life
was the restoration of Mother India to her ancient majesty.
Unlike others who aimed at liberation for themselves, this

inspired soul believed that he must obtain the grace of God,
not only for himself, but also for the nation, and through it for
the betterment of the world. Towards that consummation he
had done penance from his early youth and very rigorously
during the last years of his life.
Ganapati Muni passed away unexpectedly at Kharagpur,
in West Bengal, on July 25, 1936, when he was 58 years
old. When the telegram announcing the sad news reached
Bhagavan, he held it in his hand and said, “A shock. Nayana
has passed away!” Again he said, “Has he?” indicating that
he was ever with him. And again with tears rolling down and
a wave of his hand, he exclaimed, “Where are we going to
see the like of him!”
14. Tinnai Swami*
T innai Swami is a little-known devotee of Bhagavan. The

greatness of Tinnai Swami is known from the fact that a
two-syllabled word from Bhagavan transformed him from an
ordinary householder to a renunciate of amazing dispassion.
We reproduce below an article by Michael James which
appeared in the Mountain Path dated Aradhana 2004.
Early in the morning on Deepam Day, 7th December
2003, a little-known devotee left his physical body in
Tiruvannamalai, where he had lived for more than 54 years
in the supreme state of atma-jnana bestowed upon him by the
Grace of Bhagavan.
The reason that he was so little-known, even among fellow
devotees, can only be attributed to the divine Will of Bhagavan,
which can never be fathomed or explained by our limited
human intellects. If at all any semblance of individual will
* Michael James, ‘Sri Tinnai Swami’, The Mountain Path, Apr.

2004.
could be attributed to this self-effacing devotee, he appeared

to have chosen to live in such circumstances as would shield
him from all but the barest minimum of public attention. Those
who knew him respected that seeming choice and avoided
publicising him in any way. But now that the human form has
been cast off, I believe it is not inappropriate that I share with
fellow devotees a little of what I know about him.
The devotee I am writing about was in his former life
named Ramaswami, but for more than forty years past he has
been known as Tinnai Swami, because he lived on and seldom
moved away from the tinnai (masonry bench) in the verandah
of the house of the family of the late C.P. Nathan, who gave
him food and shelter and attended to his few physical needs.
Tinnai Swami was born in Coimbatore on 12th December
1912, in a family of lawyers and doctors belonging to the
small Telugu Brahmin community of that town. As a young
man he was employed for many years as a biochemist in
Madras Medical College, during which time he married and
had four sons. Until his mid-thirties there was no indication
in his outward life of the great inner and outer transformation
that was to happen later.
In the mid-1940s he came to Tiruvannamalai on three
occasions to have the darshan of Bhagavan, each time staying
for just a brief while, but these first three visits appear to have
caused no immediate change in his outward life. The first
hint of an outward change in his life occurred later, possibly
sometime around the end of 1948.
At that time an opportunity had arisen in his department
for a biochemist to be selected to go to America for higher
studies or research, and at first he was the candidate selected.
Soon, however, his selection was reversed, and a junior
colleague was selected in his place. Knowing that this change
had happened unjustly through some political influence, he
resigned his job in Madras Medical College as a matter of
principle. Before seeking another job, he told his wife that
he would take this opportunity to spend some more time in

Bhagavan’s Presence.
Thus he came to Tiruvannamalai for the fourth time,
and soon he wrote to his wife saying that he planned to stay
longer, and would bring her and their children there after the
forthcoming kumbhabhishekam of Matrubhuteswara temple,
at which time he hoped to find suitable accommodation for
them. Accordingly his family soon joined him and stayed
with him in Tiruvannamalai until about July of that year. By
that time his wife was about to give birth to their fourth son,
so he sent her and their children to stay with his father-in-law
in Kolar.
Before she left, he told her that he intended to go soon
to Pondicherry, where a suitable job vacancy was available.
During those months that he lived with his family in
Tiruvannamalai, he spent most of his time either in Bhagavan’s
Presence or doing giripradakshina, and he also appears to
have formed a close friendship with Muruganar. One incident
that occurred at that time gives a clue to the inner change
that was taking place within him. One day he came home
unusually late for lunch, so his mother asked him, “Have
you been to see Swami?” (referring to Bhagavan as Swami).
“What is the use of merely seeing Swami?” he replied, “We
must become Swami.”
After his family had left, he one day approached
Bhagavan and asked permission to leave for Pondicherry to
apply for a job, to which Bhagavan replied, ‘Iru’. ‘Iru’ is a
Tamil word that literally means ‘Be’, but in such a context it
would normally be taken to mean ‘Stay’ or ‘Wait’. Though it
was unusual for Bhagavan to tell someone to stay when they
asked permission to leave, most devotees who were present
at that time probably took little notice of it. However, one of
those present was Muruganar, and he was able to understand
the great power of that single word uttered by Bhagavan and
the profound impact that it had upon Tinnai Swami.
Tinnai Swami obeyed both the colloquial and the literal

meaning of the word ‘iru’ uttered by Bhagavan. From that
moment, he never left Tiruvannamalai, and he also remained
fixed firmly in the eternal state of Self-abidance. As Sadhu
Om once commented, “Lord Murugan bestowed jnana upon
Arunagiriyar by uttering two words, ‘Summa iru’ [meaning
‘Just be’], whereas Bhagavan bestowed jnana upon Tinnai
Swami by uttering just one word, ‘Iru’.”
Tinnai Swami’s inward transformation was reflected
in a complete transformation in his outward life. From that
day on his outward behaviour was changed radically. He
seldom spoke, and when he did his words were usually
enigmatic, often allegorical, and at times even appeared quite
meaningless. He neglected his appearance, allowing his hair
to grow long and matted, and he lived by begging his food,
usually just one meal a day, and sometimes not even that. He
was known sometimes to remain so absorbed in his inward
state that for several days he did not stir outwardly even to
eat or fulfil any other bodily function.
Since they had heard nothing from him for some time,
his family became worried, so his brother-in-law came to
Tiruvannamalai to find out what had happened to him. When
he finally found him and discovered that he had changed so
completely, and when he showed no sign of response when
requested to come home, his brother-in-law concluded that he
had become mad.
His wife, however, refused to believe this, and asked her
father to take her to see him. Finally they came, shortly after
Bhagavan’s Maha Nirvana, but their pleas to him to come
home were of no avail. Seeing this, his wife said to her father,
“If he wishes to live like this, I do not wish to stand in his
way. But as his wife I have the right and duty to serve him.
So please allow me to remain here to take care of him.”
Her father therefore rented a cottage in the compound of
Kittu Iyer, the Ashram priest, for her to stay in with her two
younger sons, while the elder sons would remain with him in
Kolar, where they were going to school. When his wife and
father-in-law requested Tinnai Swami to accept her service,
he consented and lived for a while in an adjacent hut. During
that time he would spend most of his time in deep Self-
absorption, from which he would rise only to accept food or
to do giripradakshina.
After some time, however, his father-in-law asked Tinnai
Swami’s wife to return to Kolar to be with her elder sons, and
though at first she declined, she agreed after Tinnai Swami
told her to go, saying her duty was to look after her sons.
Over the course of the next fifty years or so, she visited
Tiruvannamalai on many occasions, sometimes for just a few
days, and sometimes for several weeks. Whenever she came,
she did whatever she could to serve Tinnai Swami, though
generally there was little anyone could do for him except to
offer him food. Sometimes he would accept her service, and
at other times he would not, and when he did not she usually
understood it to mean that he did not want her to remain
there, so she would return home.
After she returned with her father to Kolar, Tinnai Swami
returned to live in Virupaksha cave. As had become usual, he
spent most of his time there in Self-absorption, and would on
most days get up only once to go for giripradakshina and to
beg his meal on the way.
At first he would beg from houses anywhere in the town,
but gradually he restricted himself to begging from just a few
houses in Sri Ramana Nagar. As time went on, he slowly
stopped begging from other houses, and came on most days
to the house of C.P. Nathan to eat his only meal. Finally one
day in the late 1950s, when he came to their house as usual,
he said to Mrs C.P. Nathan, “Amma, it is raining outside.
May I take shelter here?” She replied, “Swami, this is your
house. You are welcome to stay here.”
He therefore sat on the tinnai in their verandah, and
remained there. That day was actually a very hot sunny
day in the Tamil month Purattasi (September-October), and
there was no sign of any rain. After a short while, however,

a small black cloud appeared, and a few drops of rain fell.
Nevertheless, it appears that what he really meant when he
said, “It is raining outside”, was that living in a public place
like Virupaksha cave, he was exposed to all sorts of unwanted
attention. That is, because from his outward appearance and
behaviour it was clear even to worldly-minded people that he
was no ordinary sadhu, he naturally attracted public attention
and adulation, which he wished to avoid.
At that time C.P. Nathan was living with his family in
a rented house, but because he had recently been disabled
by a paralytic stroke, he knew that he would be unable to
continue paying the rent, and was therefore in need of some
other accommodation.
When Mrs C.P. Nathan informed Tinnai Swami of this
difficulty, he pointed to a nearby piece of vacant land and
said, “Why should you worry? Your house is built there.”
Soon after that, it became known that the plot of vacant land
belonged to David McIver, and that he was ready to sell it
for the nominal price he had paid for it some 15 or 20 years
earlier. But though they could afford to buy the plot, C.P.
Nathan and his wife had no idea how they could afford to
build a house on it. When they told Tinnai Swami this, he
said, “Three sadhus will build your house for you”. Later,
with money lent by some friends, and with the help of three
sadhus, namely, Sadhu Om, Swami Sankarananda of Desur
Ramanananda Mathalayam, and Swami Krishnananda, a
small house was built for them, with a coconut leaf verandah
and tinnai for Tinnai Swami to live on.
For more than forty years Tinnai Swami lived on that
tinnai, and only on a very few occasions did he ever leave that
compound. In the twenty years he lived in Tiruvannamalai,
from 1976 to 1996, he left the compound on only one
occasion, in the late 1970’s, when for some unknown reason
he went and crouched for three or four days in the open
ground between the compound and Arunachala.
During my early years in Tiruvannamalai, he left his tinnai

only to crouch on the floor to eat food, or to visit the outdoor
latrine, or occasionally to sit on the outdoor tinnai facing
Arunachala, or very rarely to walk to the front gate. Other
than this, he remained reclining quietly on his tinnai. Before I
came to Tiruvannamalai, on a few occasions he walked to Pali
Tirtham (the tank beside Sri Ramanasramam) to dip himself
briefly, and returned in his wet clothes, which he allowed to
dry on his body. And while I was there, he once went to the
well behind the house and poured a few buckets of water over
himself. Except on these few occasions, he never took a bath,
but his body did not give off any unpleasant odour. From the
day that Bhagavan told him, “Iru”, Tinnai Swami remained
completely indifferent to all forms of physical discomfort and
inconvenience. Apart from shelter, a small amount of food
each day, and occasionally fresh clothing to replace what he
had been wearing continuously for a considerable period of
time, often till it was threadbare or quite ragged, he generally
did not accept any form of service. His hair always grew
long and matted, and his finger and toenails also grew long,
thickened and curled, and it was only in the later years of
his life, when his nails had become so distorted and curled
that they were growing back into his flesh, causing bleeding
and obviously very painful wounds (which were sometimes
invaded by the small red variety of ants, whose bite stings
sharply), that he finally acceded to our repeated requests to
allow us to cut his nails.
There are many remarkable incidents in his life that I
have witnessed or heard that I could relate, including some
minor miracles that devotees attribute to him, but the most
remarkable thing about his outward life was the fact that he
lived silently in one place for so many years, unmoved by and
unconcerned with whatever was or was not happening around
him. It was not that he did not know what was happening –
from occasional words he uttered it was clear that he knew
many things, including things which he had no means of
knowing through the usual channels of the five senses – but

he was simply unaffected and untouched by anything.
During the many years that he lived on their tinnai, C.P.
Nathan and his family were blessed with the good fortune
of providing him with the little food, clothing and shelter
that his body required, and in the early years, in spite of
their then state of poverty they performed such service not
only to him but also to Sadhu Om and other sadhus and
devotees of Bhagavan. Sometimes they even had to sell
their cooking vessels in order to purchase provisions to feed
visiting devotees. All of us who had the good fortune to know
Tinnai Swami will be ever grateful in particular to Mrs. C.P.
Nathan, who in spite of many hardships served him with
great devotion in every way she could, especially providing
him with food, as she did till the end in spite of her advanced
age and physical weakness.
Towards the end of 1985 Tinnai Swami lost his eyesight,
apparently due to cataract, but he never allowed any doctor to
check his eyes. After this his few physical activities became
even less. He ate food from a plate placed on a table beside
his tinnai, continuing to recline even as he ate, and he got
off his tinnai only to answer the calls of nature in a bowl
placed beside it. Other than that, he remained unaffected by
and totally unconcerned with the failing strength and health
of his body. His state remained unshakable as ever.
Finally, a few days before his 91st birthday, he left his
body as quietly as he had lived in it, in the early hours of the
morning when everyone in the compound was asleep. His
holy remains were found reclining peacefully as ever, and
were interred that afternoon, with due respect and devotion
in the manner traditional for a sadhu, a few hours before
the holy deepam was lit on Arunachala, beside the samadhi
shrine of Sadhu Om, close to the tinnai where he had lived
for so many years.
His ever-devoted wife, Smt. Jayalakshmi, and his four
sons all survive him. In the eyes of the world, which attaches
importance only to doing, overlooking the true importance

of mere being, there may appear to be little greatness in the
extraordinary life of Tinnai Swami.
He did not speak, write or teach anything, nor did he
perform any other ‘useful’ function. But whether we are able
to recognise it or not, his mere being was a great blessing
bestowed upon the whole world by Bhagavan, the effect of
which cannot be known or measured by our finite intellects.
As Bhagavan says in verse 303 of Guru Vachaka Kovai:
“They [the wise] say that the ucchistha [the leftovers of
food] consumed by God is the supreme purifier that removes
all sin. Take to heart that the life of sat-achara [abidance in
the state of being] lived by a jnani in this material world is
itself that ucchistha.”
That is, the mere existence of a jivanmukta, whose
physical form continues to live in this world after God has
consumed his ego, is itself the sacred ucchistha that purifies
the world of all evil. When this supreme good is done by his
mere being, what need is there for the jnani to do anything –
whether to speak, write, teach or perform any other kind of
“good deed”?
15. Paul Brunton (Raphael Hurst)*
R aphael Hurst was born in London on 21st October

1898 of Jewish parents. He was a journalist who was
interested in the occult, in metaphysics and the supernatural.
His spiritual search in India culminated in his discovery of
Ramana Maharshi. His book A Search in Secret India was
a global best seller with about a quarter million copies sold.
Many devotees came to the Master after reading his book.
Major Chadwick said that Brunton was a divine instrument
* Paul Brunton, A Search in Secret India; Ramana Maharshi and the

Path of Self Knowledge; www.paulbrunton.org
who spread the spiritual greatness of the Maharshi far and

wide across the earth.
On his travels Paul Brunton meets a yellow-robed yogi
who tells him about Ramana Maharshi and offers to escort
him to Arunachala. He refuses. Later a journalist-friend,
Venkataramani, arranges for a personal audience with the
Sankaracharya of Kanchi, the first ever with a western
journalist. Part of the interview is described below by Brunton:
I broach the matter of my quest and His Holiness questions
me about the different Yogis or holy men I have so far met. After
that, I frankly tell him: “I would like to meet someone who has
high attainments in Yoga and can give some sort of proof or
demonstration of them. There are many of your holy men who
can only give one more talk when they are asked for this proof.
Am I asking too much?” The tranquil eyes meet mine. There is
a pause for a whole minute. His Holiness fingers his beard.
“If you are seeking initiation into real Yoga of the higher
kind, then you are not seeking too much. Your earnestness
will help you, while I can perceive the strength of your
determination; but a light is beginning to awaken within you
which will guide you to what you want, without doubt.”
I am not sure whether I correctly understand him.
“So far I have depended on myself for guidance. Even
some of your ancient sages say that there is no other god than
that which is within ourselves,” I hazard.
And the answer swiftly comes:
“God is everywhere. How can one limit Him to one’s
own self? He supports the entire universe.”
I feel that I am getting out of my depth and immediately
turn the talk away from this semi-theological strain.
“What is the most practical course for me to take?”
“Go on with your travels. When you have finished them,
think of the various Yogis and holy men you have met; then
pick out the one who makes most appeal to you. Return to
him, and he will surely bestow his initiation upon you.”
I look at his calm profile and admire its singular serenity.

“But suppose, Your Holiness, that none of them makes
sufficient appeal to me. What then?”
“In that case you will have to go on alone until
God Himself initiates you. Practise meditation regularly;
contemplate the higher things with love in your heart; think
often of the soul and that will help to bring you to it. The best
time to practise is the hour of waking; the next best time is
the hour of twilight. The world is calmer at those times and
will disturb your meditations less.”
He gazes benevolently at me. I begin to envy the saintly
peace which dwells on his bearded face. Surely his heart has
never known the devastating upheavals which have scarred
mine? I am stirred to ask him impulsively: “If I fail, may I
then turn to you for assistance?”
Sri Sankara gently shakes his head.
“I am at the head of a public institution, a man whose
time no longer belongs to himself. My activities demand
almost all my time. For years I have spent only three hours in
sleep each night. How can I take personal pupils? You must
find a master who devotes his time to them.”
“But I am told that real masters are rare, and that a
European is unlikely to find them.”
He nods his assent to my statement, but adds: “Truth
exists. It can be found.”
“Can you not direct me to such a master, one who you
know is competent to give me proofs of the reality of higher
Yoga?”
His Holiness does not reply till after an interval of
protracted silence.
“Yes. I know of only two masters in India who could give
you what you wish. One of them lives in Benares, hidden
away in a large house, which is itself hidden among spacious
grounds. Few people are permitted to obtain access to him;
certainly, no European has yet been able to intrude upon his
seclusion. 1 could send you to him, but I fear that he may

refuse to admit a European.”
“And the other…..?” My interest is strangely stirred.
“The other man lives in the interior, farther south. I visited
him once and know him to be a high master. I recommend
that you go to him.”
“Who is he?”
“He is called the Maharshi. I have not met him, but
know him to be a high master. Shall I provide you with full
instructions, so that you may discover him?”
A picture flashes suddenly before my mind’s eye.
I see the yellow-robed friar, who has vainly persuaded
me to accompany him to his teacher. I hear him murmuring
the name of a Hill. It is: The Hill of the Holy Beacon.
“Many thanks, Your Holiness,” I rejoin, “but I have a
guide who comes from the place.”
“Then you will go there?”
I hesitate.
“All arrangements have been made for my departure
from the South tomorrow,” I mutter uncertainly.
“In that case I have a request to make.”
“With pleasure.”
“Promise me that you will not leave South India before
you have met the Maharshi.”
I read in his eyes a sincere desire to help me. The promise
is given.
A benignant smile crosses his face.
“Do not be anxious. You shall discover that which you
seek.”
That same evening Brunton finds the yellow-robed yogi
waiting for him near his house. He agrees to escort him to the
Maharshi in Tiruvannamalai. His momentous meeting with
the Maharshi is best described in his own words:
“We shall now go into the hall of the Maharshi,”
announces the holy man of the yellow robe, bidding me to
follow him.
Pin-drop silence prevails throughout the long hall. The

Sage remains perfectly still, motionless, quite undisturbed at
our arrival. A swarthy disciple sits on the floor at the other
side of the divan. He breaks into the quietude by beginning
to pull at a rope which works a punkah-fan made of plaited
khaki. The fan is fixed to a wooden beam and suspended
immediately above the Sage’s head. I listen to its rhythmic
purring, the while 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. I find this
scene strangely reminiscent. Where have I seen its like? I
rummage through the portrait gallery of memory and find the
picture of the Sage Who Never Speaks, that recluse whom I
visited in his isolated cottage near Madras, that man whose
body seemed cut from stone, so motionless it was. There is a
curious similarity in this unfamiliar stillness of body which I
now behold in the Maharshi.
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 an hour by the hermitage clock which
hangs on a wall; this too passes by and becomes a whole
hour. Yet 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 fruit remains
unregarded on the small carved table which stands before
him.
My guide has given me no warning that his Master will
receive me as I had been received by the Sage Who Never
Speaks. It has come upon me abruptly, this strange reception
characterised by complete indifference. The first thought
which would come into the mind of any European, “Is this
man merely posing for the benefit of his devotees?” crosses
my mind once or twice but I soon rule it out. He is certainly
in a trance condition, though my guide has not informed me
that his Master indulges in trances. The next thought which
occupies my mind, “Is this state of mystical contemplation
nothing more than meaningless vacancy?” has a longer sway,
but I let it go for the simple reason that I cannot answer it.
There is something in this man which 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 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 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.
How small seem those questions which I have asked
myself with such frequency! How petty grows the panorama
of the last years! I perceive with sudden clarity that intellect
creates its own problems and then makes itself miserable
trying to solve them; this is indeed a novel concept to enter
the mind of one who has hitherto placed such high value
upon intellect.
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. And then,
little by little, a new question takes the field of consciousness.
“Does this man, the Maharshi, emanate the perfume

of spiritual peace as the flower emanates fragrance from its
petals?”
I do not consider myself a competent person to apprehend
spirituality, but I have personal reactions to other people. The
dawning suspicion that the mysterious peace which has arisen
within me must be attributed to the geographical situation in
which I am now placed, is my reaction to the personality of the
Maharshi. I begin to wonder whether, by some radioactivity
of the soul, some unknown telepathic process, the stillness
which invades the troubled waters of my own soul really
comes from him. Yet he remains completely impassive,
completely unaware of my very existence, it seems.
Comes the first ripple. Someone approaches me and
whispers in my ear, “Did you not wish to question the
Maharshi?”
He may have lost patience, this quondam guide of mine.
More likely, he imagines that I, a restless European, have
reached the limit of my own patience. Alas, my inquisitive
friend! Truly I came here to question your Master, but now
... I, who am at peace with all the world and with myself,
why should I trouble my head with questions? I feel that the
ship of my soul is beginning to slip its moorings; a wonderful
sea waits to be crossed; yet you would draw me back to the
noisy port of this world, just when I am about to start the
great adventure!
But 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...”
I feel now that some explanation of my visit is required
of me, not by the Maharshi himself but by the little crowd
which has begun to talk so animatedly. I know from the
accounts of my guide that only a handful of these people
are resident disciples, and that the others are visitors from
the country around. Strangely enough, at this point my guide
himself arises and makes the required introduction. He speaks
energetically in Tamil, using a wealth of gesture while he
explains matters to the assembled company. I fear that the
explanation is mixing a little fable with his facts, for it draws
cries of wonder.
The midday meal is over. I enter the large hall and sit
down near him. He half-reclines upon some white cushions
placed on the divan. An attendant pulls steadily at the cord
which operates the punkah fan. The soft burr of the rope and
the gentle swish of the fan as it moves through the sultry air
sound pleasantly in my ears.
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 thank the Maharshi, and say that I shall
be glad to share their unspiced dishes with them; for the rest, I
shall procure some food from the township. 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 many opinions, listened to many theories.
Intellectual proofs of one belief or another lie piled up all
around me. I am tired of them, sceptical 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 realise it for
myself?”
The three or four devotees who are gathered around
us stare in surprise. Have I offended the subtle etiquette of
the hermitage by speaking so brusquely and boldly to their
Master? I do not know: perhaps I do not care. The accumulated
weight of many years’ desire has unexpectedly escaped my
control and passed beyond my lips. If the Maharshi is the
right kind of man, surely he will understand and brush aside
mere lapses from convention.
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 reached my conversational objective and
decide to await the Maharshi’s response. He continues to
stare thoughtfully at me. Perhaps he is pondering over my
questions. 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.
Gunpowder catches fire in an instant, while much time is
needed to set fire to coal.”
I receive a queer feeling that the Sage dislikes to discuss
the subject of Masters and their methods. Yet my mental
pertinacity is strong enough to override this feeling, and I
address a further question on the matter to him. He turns a
stolid face towards the window, gazes out at the expanse of
hilly landscape beyond, and vouchsafes no answer. I take the
hint and drop the subject.
“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.”
Another rebuff! But I do not yield so easily on this
occasion, for I come from a world where the tragedies of life
press far more heavily on people than they do in this peaceful
jungle retreat.
“Will the world soon enter a new era of friendliness and

mutual help, or will it go down into chaos and war?” I persist.
The Maharshi does not seem at all pleased, but
nevertheless he makes a reply.
“There is One who governs the world, and it is His
lookout to look after the world. He who has given life to the
world knows how to look after it also. He bears the burden
of this world, not you.”
“Yet if one looks around with unprejudiced eyes, it is
difficult to see where this benevolent regard comes in,” I object.
The Sage appears to be still less pleased. Yet his answer
comes:
“As you are, so is the world. Without understanding
yourself, what is the use of trying to understand the world?
This is a question that seekers after truth need not consider.
People waste their energies over all such questions. First, find
out the truth behind yourself; then you will be in a better
position to understand the truth behind the world, of which
yourself is a part.”
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.
This renewed indifference of his plays like cold water
upon my self-esteem. I sit around for another quarter of
an hour, but I can see that he is in no mood to answer my
questions. Feeling that our conversation is really at an end, I
rise from the tiled floor, place my hands together in farewell,
and leave him.
Paul Brunton visits Arunachala Temple and returns to the
Maharshi’s presence. He continues his account:
“The usual cloud of incense floats among the rafters of the
roof. I settle down and try to fix my eyes on the Maharshi, but
after a while feel a delicate urge to close them. It is not long
before I fall into a half sleep lulled by the intangible peace

which, in the Sage’s proximity, begins to penetrate me more
deeply. Ultimately there comes a gap in my consciousness
and then I experience a vivid dream.
It seems that I become a little boy of five, I stand on a
rough path which winds up and around the sacred Hill of
Arunachala, and hold the Maharshi’s hand; but now he is a
great towering figure at my side, for he seems to have grown
to giant’s size. He leads me away from the hermitage and,
despite the impenetrable darkness of the night guides me
along the path which we both slowly walk together. After a
while the stars and the moon conspire to bestow a faint light
upon our surroundings. I notice that the Maharshi carefully
guides me around fissures in the rocky soil and between
monstrous boulders that are shakily perched. The Hill is steep
and our ascent is slow. Hidden in narrow clefts between the
rocks and boulders and sheltered by clusters of low bushes,
tiny hermitages and inhabited caves come into view. As we
pass by, the inhabitants emerge to greet us and, although their
forms take on a ghostly appearance in the starlight, I recognise
that they are Yogis of varying kinds. We never stop for them,
but continue to walk until the top of the peak is reached. We
halt at last, my heart throbbing with a strange anticipation of
some momentous event about to befall me.
The Maharshi turns and looks down into my face; I,
in turn, gaze expectantly up at him. I become aware of a
mysterious change taking place with great rapidity in my
heart and mind. The old motives which have lured me on
begin to desert me. The urgent desires which have sent my
feet hither and thither vanish with incredible swiftness. The
dislikes, misunderstandings, coldnesses and selfishness which
have marked my dealings with many of my fellows collapse
into the abyss of nothingness. An untellable peace falls upon
me and I know that there is nothing further that I shall ask
from life.
Suddenly the Maharshi bids me to turn my gaze away

to the bottom of the Hill. I obediently do so and to my
astonishment discover that the Western hemisphere of our
globe lies stretched out far below. It is crowded with millions
of people; I can vaguely discern them as masses of forms, but
the night’s darkness still enshrouds them.
The Sage’s voice comes to my ears, his words slowly
uttered:
“When you go back there, you shall have this peace
which you now feel, but its price will be that you shall
henceforth cast aside the idea that you are this body or this
brain. When this peace will flow into you, then you shall have
to forget your own self, for you will have turned your life
over to THAT!”
And the Maharshi places one end of a thread of silver
light in my hand.
I awaken from that extraordinarily vivid dream with the
sense of its penetrating sublimity yet upon me. Immediately
the Maharshi’s eyes meet mine, his face is now turned in my
direction, and he is looking fixedly into my eyes.
The Sage seems to carry something of great moment
to me, yet I cannot easily determine its precise nature. It is
intangible, imponderable, perhaps spiritual. Each time I think
of him tonight, each time I remember that vivid dream, a
peculiar sensation pierces me and causes my heart to throb
with vague, but lofty expectations.
During the ensuing days I endeavour to get into closer
contact with the Maharshi, but fail. There are three reasons for
this failure. The first arises naturally out of his own reserved
nature, his obvious dislike of argument and discussion, his
stolid indifference to one’s beliefs and opinions. It becomes
perfectly obvious that the Sage has no wish to convert anyone
to his own ideas, whatever they may be, and no desire to add
a single person to his following.
The second cause is certainly a strange one, but
nevertheless exists. Since the evening of that peculiar dream, I
feel a great awe whenever I enter his presence. The questions

which would otherwise have come chatteringly from my lips
are hushed, because it seems almost sacrilege to regard him
as a person with whom one can talk and argue on an equal
plane, so far as common humanity is concerned.
The third cause of my failure is simple enough. Almost
always there are several other persons present in the hall, and
I feel disinclined to bring out my private thoughts in their
presence. After all, I am a stranger to them and a foreigner
in this district. That I voice a different language to some of
them is a fact of little import, but that I possess a cynical,
sceptical outlook unstirred by religious emotion is a fact of
much import when I attempt to give utterance to that outlook.
I have no desire to hurt their pious susceptibilities, but I have
also no desire to discuss matters from an angle which makes
little appeal to me. So, to some extent, this thing makes me
tongue-tied.
It is not easy to find a smooth way across all three
barriers; several times I am on the point of putting a question
to the Maharshi, but one of the three factors intervenes to
cause my failure.
My proposed weekend quickly passes and I extend it
to a week. The first conversation which I have had with the
Maharshi worthy of the name is likewise the last. Beyond
one or two quite perfunctory and conventional scraps of talk,
I find myself unable to get to grips with the man.
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 tantalising mixture of sublime
moods and disappointing failures to effect any worthwhile
personal contact with the Maharshi. I look around the hall
and feel a slight despondency. Most of these men speak a
different language, both outwardly and inwardly; how can I
hope to come closer to them? I look at the Sage himself. He
sits there on Olympian heights and watches the panorama of

life as one apart. There is a mysterious property in this man
which differentiates him from all others I have met. I feel,
somehow, that he does not belong to us, the human race, so
much as he belongs to Nature, to the solitary peak which
rises abruptly behind the hermitage, to the rough tract of
jungle which stretches away into distant forests, and to the
impenetrable sky which fills all space.
Something of the stony, motionless quality of lonely
Arunachala seems to have entered into the Maharshi.
Paul Brunton extended his stay to a fortnight. Initially he
had planned to stay only for a weekend. He has another long
discussion with the Maharshi about the path to self-realisation
before he leaves the ashram. He describes his farewell in the
following words:
“There comes a perceptible change in the telepathic
current which plays between us, the while my eyes blink
frequently but his remain without the least tremor. I become
aware that he is definitely linking my own mind with his; that
he is provoking my heart into that state of starry calm which
he seems perpetually to enjoy. In this extraordinary peace, I
find a sense of exaltation and lightness. Time seems to stand
still. My heart is released from its burden of care. Never again,
I feel, shall the bitterness of anger and the melancholy of
unsatisfied desire afflict me. I realise deeply that the profound
instinct which is innate in the race, which bids man look up,
which encourages him to hope on, and which sustains him
when life has darkened, is a true instinct, for the essence of
being is good. In this beautiful, entranced silence, when the
clock stands still and the sorrows and errors of the past seem
like trivialities, my mind is being submerged in that of the
Maharshi and wisdom is now at its perihelion. What is this
man’s gaze but a thaumaturgic wand, which evokes a hidden
world of unexpected splendour before my profane eyes?
I have sometimes asked myself why these disciples

have been staying around the Sage for years, with few
conversations, fewer comforts and no external activities to
attract them. Now I begin to understand – not by thought but
by lightning-like illumination – that through all those years
they have been receiving a deep and silent reward.
Hitherto, everyone in the hall has been hushed to a
deathlike stillness. At length, someone quietly rises and
passes out. He is followed by another, and then another, until
all have gone.
I am alone with the Maharshi! Never before has this
happened. His eyes begin to change; they narrow down to
pin-points. The effect is curiously like the “stopping-down”
in the focus of a camera lens. There comes a tremendous
increase in the intense gleam which shines between the lids,
now almost closed. Suddenly, my body seems to disappear,
and we are both out in space!
It is a crucial moment. I hesitate – and decide to break
this enchanter’s spell. Decision brings power and once again
I am back in the flesh, back in the hall.
No word passes from him to me. I collect my faculties,
look at the clock, and rise quietly. The hour of departure has
arrived.
I bow my head in farewell. The Sage silently acknowledges
the gesture. I utter a few words of thanks. Again, he silently
nods his head.
I linger reluctantly at the threshold. Outside, I hear the
tinkle of a bell. The bullock cart has arrived. Once more I
raise my hands, palms touching.
And so we part.”
Paul Brunton continues his travels and finally reaches
Bombay to board the ship to England. At that time there is
an inner debate in him about whether his whole journey in
search of a Master has been in vain. He describes it:
“Are you sure none of the men you met here in India can
be the Master you seek?”
A long gallery of faces pass before my mind’s eye.
Quick-tempered Northern faces, placid Southern ones,
nervous emotional Eastern faces and strong silent Maharshi
faces from the West: friendly faces, foolish faces, wise faces,
dangerous faces, evil faces and inscrutable ones.
A single face disentangles itself out of the procession
and persistently hovers before me, its eyes quietly gazing
into mine. It is the calm, Sphinx-like countenance of the
Maharshi, the sage who has spent his life on the Hill of the
Holy Beacon in the South. I have never forgotten him; indeed,
a tender thought of the Maharshi has arisen for a brief while
again and again, but the abrupt character of my experiences,
the whirling panorama of faces and events and the sudden
changes which came during my quest have deeply overlaid
the impressions of my short period with him.
Yet I realise now that he has passed through my life like
a star, which moves across the dark void with its lonely light
and then is gone. And I have to admit, in answer to my inner
questioner, that he is the one man who has impressed me
more than any other person I have ever met, whether in the
East or West. But he had seemed so aloof, so remote from a
European mentality, and so indifferent whether I became his
pupil or not.
The silent voice now grips me with its intensity.
“How can you be sure that he was indifferent? You did
not stay long, but hurried away.”
“Yes,” I confess, feebly. “I had to carry out my self-
imposed programme. What else could I do?”
“There is one thing you can do now. Go back to him.”
“How can I force myself upon him?”
“Your personal feelings are of less importance than
success in this search. Go back to the Maharshi.”
Paul Brunton returns to the Maharshi after a long train
journey. He meets his friend Venkataramani on the way.
His friend shows no surprise at the fact that he has returned

because the Sankaracharya had told him that Paul Brunton
will search everywhere and finally return to the Maharshi. We
return to Brunton’s account:
There are moments unforgettable which mark themselves
in golden figures upon the calendar of our years. Such a
moment comes to me now, as I walk into the hall of the
Maharshi.
He sits as usual upon the magnificent tiger-skin which
covers the centre of his divan. The joss-sticks burn slowly
away on a little table near him, spreading the penetrating
fragrance of incense around the hall. Not today is he remote
from men and wrapped up in some trance-like spiritual
absorption, as on that strange occasion when I first visited
him. His eyes are clearly open to this world and glance at me
comprehendingly as I bow, and his mouth is stretched in a
kindly smile of welcome.
Squatting at a respectful distance from their master are
a few disciples; otherwise the long hall is bare. One of them
pulls the punkah-fan, which flaps lazily through the heavy
air.
In my heart I know that I come as one seeking to take
up the position of a disciple, and that there will be no rest
for my mind until I hear the Maharshi’s decision. It is true
that I live in a great hope of being accepted, for that which
sent me scurrying out of Bombay to this place came as an
absolute command, a decisive and authoritative injunction
from a supernormal region. In a few words I dispose of the
preliminary explanations, and then put my request briefly and
bluntly to the Maharshi.
He continues to smile at me, but says nothing.
I repeat my question with some emphasis.
There is another protracted pause, but at length he answers
me, disdaining to call for the services of an interpreter and
expressing himself directly in English.
“What is all this talk of masters and disciples? All these

differences exist only from the disciple’s standpoint. To the
one who has realised the true Self there is neither a master
nor disciple. Such a one regards all people with equal eye.”
I am slightly conscious of an initial rebuff, and though I
press my request in other ways the Maharshi refuses to yield
on the point. But in the end he does say: “You must find the
master within you, within your own spiritual self. You must
regard his body in the same way that he himself regards it;
the body is not his true self.”
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.
Paul Brunton makes arrangements for a long stay. He
describes his experiences during his stay:
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 tranquillity 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 a reciprocal inter-influence arises whenever our presences
neighbour each other. The thing is most subtle. But it is quite
unmistakable.
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 realisation 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 with all the waters of truth I require and that it
will be better to cease my questioning and attempt to realise
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 realisation which has suddenly fallen upon me
is nothing else than a spreading ripple of telepathic radiation
from this mysterious and imperturbable man.
On another occasion the Maharshi said: “The greatest
error of a man is to think that he is weak by nature, evil by
nature. Every man is divine and strong in his real nature. What
are weak and evil are his habits, his desires and thoughts, but
not himself.”
His words come as an invigorating tonic. They refresh
and inspire me. From another man’s lips, from some lesser
and feebler soul, I would refuse to accept them at such worth
and would persist in refuting them. But an inward monitor
assures me that the sage speaks out of the depths of a great
and authentic spiritual experience, and not as some theorizing
philosopher mounted on the thin stilts of speculation.
“I was literally charmed here,” said the Maharshi to
Paul Brunton. “The same force which drew you to this place
from Bombay, drew me to it from Madurai.” Paul Brunton

continues:
“Day after day brings its fresh indications of the
greatness of this man. Among the strangely diversified
company of human beings who pass through the hermitage, a
pariah stumbles into the hall in some great agony of soul or
circumstance and pours out his tribulation at the Maharshi’s
feet. The sage does not reply, for his silence and reserve are
habitual; one can easily count up the number of words he
uses in a single day. Instead, he gazes quietly at the suffering
man, whose cries gradually diminish until he leaves the hall
two hours later a more serene and stronger man.
During these daily meditations in the potent neighbourhood
of the sage, I have learnt how to carry my thoughts inward
to an ever-deepening point. It is impossible to be in frequent
contact with him without becoming lit up inwardly, as it were,
mentally illumined by a sparkling ray from his spiritual orb.
Gradually Paul Bunton’s meditations were taking him
inward, closer to his deeper Self, as he pursued atma-vichara.
He understands the gist of the message of the Maharshi as:
“Pursue the enquiry ‘Who am I?’ relentlessly. Analyse
your entire personality. Try to find out where the I-thought
begins. Go on with your meditations. Keep turning your
attention within. One day the wheel of thought will slow
down and an intuition will mysteriously arise. Follow that
intuition, let your thinking stop, and it will eventually lead
you to the goal.”
Paul Brunton explains the next experience as follows:
“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
perceive what I have suspected for sometime and what the
Maharshi has confidently affirmed, that the mind takes its rise
in a transcendental source. The brain has passed into a state of
complete suspension as it does in deep sleep, yet there is not
the slightest loss of consciousness. 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. With it arrives an amazing
new sense of absolute freedom, for thought is like a loom-
shuttle which always is going to and fro, and to be freed from
its tyrannical motion is to step out of prison into the open air.
The following are Paul Brunton’s parting reflections:
“This man has strangely conquered me and it deeply
affects my feelings to leave him. He has grappled me to his
own soul with unseen hooks which are harder than steel,
although he has sought only to restore a man to himself, to
set him free and not to enslave him. He has taken me into
the benign presence of my spiritual self and helped me, dull
Westerner that I am, to translate a meaningless term into
a living and blissful experience. Being only a temporary
experience, it did not remain continuous and settled. I linger
over parting, unable to express the profound emotions which
move me.”
Paul Brunton continued to travel all over the world,
returning to the ashram a couple of times. Brunton authored
over eighty books, including A search in secret Egypt, The
Secret Path, A hermit in the Himalayas, The quest of the
Overself, The inner reality to name a few. He was a prolific
writer who wrote 20,000 pages of philosophical writing after
the last published book in 1952. A lifetime of both inner and
outer research enabled Brunton to bring the sacred teachings
of the East to the West and to make them understandable to
the heart and mind. Many spiritual seekers from both Western
and Indian backgrounds came to the Maharshi after reading
A search in secret India. Brunton passed away in Vevey,
Switzerland, on July 27, 1981.
16. Chalam*
G udipati Venkatachalam aka Chalam (1894–1979),

a Telugu writer and philosopher, was one of the most
influential personalities in modern Telugu literature. He was
born on May 19, 1894 in Chennai. His parents were Kommuri
Sambasiva rao and Venkata Subbamma. Most of his writings
were regarding women, especially the kind of difficulties
women encounter – physical as well as psychological – in
society, from their families and from those with whom they
are close. Chalam discussed how he believed women should
face these problems. The philosophical tinge of his writings
blended with a distinctive style which would earn for him
an enviable place in the Telugu literary world. He wrote a
book that aimed to simplify the Telugu language for children,
translated the New Testament into Telugu, and he compiled
Bhagavan Smritulu [Bhagavan Remembered], a book that
recorded the experiences of many of Sri Ramana Maharshi’s
devotees.
Chalam was a radical and militant social campaigner
when he first encountered Bhagavan in the 1930s. Gradually,
over the years that followed, he fell under Bhagavan’s spell
and finally surrendered to him. He moved to Arunachala in
1950 and spent the remaining thirty years of his life there.
He started as a very orthodox Hindu but during his
college days all his beliefs in caste, religious ceremonies,
temples, etc. were shattered. He switched to bhajans, prayers
and meditation. He did this sadhana very intensively and
these practices took up a lot of his time.
His religious life didn’t give him peace and liberation.
Instead, his sexual and romantic thoughts became more and
more prominent. His doubts about Hindu moral teachings also
made him doubt other aspects of Hindu philosophy. He could
* Chalam; The Power of the Presence – Part 1; Day by Day with

Bhagavan.
not see any connection between the idea of an all-merciful

God and a world filled with grief, flaws and difficulties.
He decided that there was no way of knowing whether
there was any meaning in the world or the life that went on
within it. Seeking truth became his life’s most important
activity, even though he felt it was a meaningless quest. He
still retained faith that there was something in him that was
beyond his mind and his reasoning powers, but he also felt
that the solution to the great problems of life and the world
was in a place that was inaccessible to him.
When he was in this frame of mind, a friend of his,
Dikshitulu, took him in 1936 on a visit to Sri Ramanasramam.
On the way Chinta Dikshitulu asked him to buy some fruit
for Bhagavan, but since he had no faith in swamis, he
refused. He also refused to prostrate before Bhagavan until
Dikshitulu forced him to do so. On this first visit he found it
insufferable to sit silently among the people who had come
to see Bhagavan.
Chalam describes his feelings as follows:
“From the moment of our arrival I was pestering
Dikshitulu to take me away from the ashram. On the afternoon
of the second day I saw Bhagavan coming down the hill.
Devotees were standing around in groups, talking to each
other. Bhagavan was walking behind the group I was talking
with. As he came near everyone except for me stepped aside
to give him more room. I stayed where I was because I
thought there was more than enough space for him.
As Bhagavan came nearer, Dikshitulu pulled me to one
side. Bhagavan walked past me and then suddenly stopped.
He turned back, looked at me, gave me a great smile and
went on his way. At the time I did not have any particular
feeling for him, but when I recollected the incident later, I felt
that Bhagavan had won my heart in that one brief moment.
An atheist friend of mine, Gora, came to the ashram on the
evening of Jayanti day. We looked at each other with great
surprise since neither of us expected to find the other in such
a place. He had come to the ashram to investigate what he

termed, ‘the plunder perpetrated by the Swami’. Feeling that
he had found a sympathetic listener, he started listing his
complaints against Bhagavan. He abused Bhagavan in strong
terms and declared that he was a fraud.
I found myself defending the ashram. I said, truthfully, ‘I
do not see any deceit or plunder here. Those who are giving
money do so of their own accord. The ashram does not ask
for money from anyone.’ ‘Why should there be silk mattresses
for a yogi?’ demanded Gora.
‘I don’t see any relationship between him and those silk
mattresses,’ I replied. ‘When they are offered to him, he sits
on them. If he had to sit on the ground, he would sit there
with the same unconcern. Until a few years ago he was living
on the hill, sitting on stones.’
Gora paid no attention to my words. He repeated: ‘This
plundering should be stopped,’ and walked away.
I thought to myself, ‘When so many types of plunder
are prevalent in so many places, why does he get so excited
about an innocent place like this?’
I had defended both Bhagavan and the ashram against an
unwarranted attack, but I still felt that there was nothing special
about Bhagavan or his institution. I was still very anxious to
leave. When Bhagavan sat motionless, looking into distant
space for hours together, his steadiness, his detachment and
the depth of his Self-absorption brought out artistic thoughts
in me. But, on the other hand, he looked ugly to me and his
voice sounded harsh. I failed to see any softness, compassion
or love in his appearance.
One evening, when I could no longer tolerate the
atmosphere in the ashram, I went out for a walk. Quite
unintentionally, I made a pradakshina of the hill. On my
return, after the chanting of the Vedas was over in the ashram,
I sang a song in the hall, again unintentionally. The refrain of
the song was ‘Prana Ramana’. The audience was very much
impressed and even Bhagavan, it seems, listened attentively.
At last the time came for us to go. Dikshitulu wanted to
take leave of Bhagavan and asked me to go along with him.
‘What relationship is there between him and me?’ I asked.
‘Why should I ask for his permission to leave? I will not come
with you because I do not follow all these old traditions.’ ‘All
right,’ he replied. ‘You were a guest of the ashram for three
or four days. Won’t you at least show the minimum courtesy
and say goodbye to him?’
I reluctantly accepted his suggestion and went to the hall
with him. After Dikshitulu had asked Bhagavan for permission
to go, I murmured feebly, ‘I am also going’.
Bhagavan looked back at me and smiled. That smile
caused an unexpected change in me. I don’t know what
happened to me except that I suddenly felt Bhagavan was
saying to me, ‘If you go away, how can I carry on living
here? How lonely I will feel!’
My feet refused to move as I considered the idea of
staying a little longer. I continued to sit for meditation there
and soon started to get very good results. Often, without any
effort on my part, the meditation caught hold of me, made
me sit and took me over for a while. At such times my mind
used to stop completely. When it became clear to me that it
was Bhagavan who was causing this improvement, my faith
in him increased and my spiritual hopes were rekindled. I
thought, over-optimistically, that I would soon be established
in a higher state. In those days I did not know that Bhagavan
was just giving me a taste of the experience of the Self in
order to increase my faith in him. I did not realise at that time
that if I wanted to reach that state by myself, I would have to
work very hard and even shed my blood. I did not have much
faith in Bhagavan’s philosophy, but I still felt that he was
leading me somewhere. My attitude was to let him lead me.
Chalam now describes the family’s first visit to Sri

Ramanasramam:
Souris (Chalam’s daughter) and her mother had been
very keen to see Bhagavan ever since they had heard my
account of him. When Souris came to see Bhagavan for the
first time in May 1938, she immediately went into a trance. I
accompanied her on that trip but I had no spiritual experiences
like that. My nerves used to give me some pain when I sat
with Bhagavan, but nothing else happened. I used to sit for
hours, looking at Bhagavan and hoping that he would do
something for me.
Bhagavan certainly noticed me, for he once turned to
someone near him and asked, pointing at me, ‘Why does he
sit like that for hours?’
I assumed that Bhagavan knew that I wanted and needed
some spiritual progress. I didn’t think there was any need to
tell him, so I kept quiet. It had occurred to me to ask him
to cure my headache and to improve my health generally,
but then I thought that he must know about this problem as
well. I decided that he would cure me if he ever thought that
it was necessary. In all the years that I went to see him, I
never asked him anything because I had the attitude that he
would always give me whatever I needed whenever it was
appropriate.
Chalam takes up the story again:
In the next three years Souris and I paid several visits to
Sri Ramanasramam. She was more enthusiastic than I was. If
she had not put so much pressure on me, I doubt if I would
have visited so frequently.
I always felt that if I spent some time with Bhagavan my
meditation would be deeper, but even though I felt that he
could somehow rid me of my troubles and give me happiness,
I cannot say that I really enjoyed my time in Bhagavan’s
presence because I always felt uneasy when I was near him.
Souris, on the other hand, always used to go into a trance as
soon as she arrived at Arunachala, and she was never willing
to leave at the end of our visits. Bhagavan, on his trips in and

out of the hall, often used to stop near Souris, look in her
direction and smile at her. Souris loved sitting in Bhagavan’s
presence, but I used to sit there rather unwillingly.
On one of the these trips Bhagavan again asked someone
near him, ‘Why does he sit there like that?’
Even then I did not speak. At first I was a little annoyed
by his question because I assumed he knew why I was sitting
there. Later I understood that he was giving me a piece of
needed advice. I felt he was saying, ‘What does he gain by
merely looking at me. He should make an effort to make
progress by himself.’
We usually came with a resolve to stay for days or weeks
but we never managed more than brief stays. It was partly
my fault because I always felt an unbearable agitation rise
in me whenever I was with Bhagavan. When this happened,
I just wanted to get out of the ashram as quickly as possible.
I usually felt as if I were caught in the jaws of a demon.
Everyone used to say that there was peace in Bhagavan’s
presence, but I always seemed to be restless.
So long as I stayed at Arunachala I could not meditate.
Each time I left the ashram, I promised myself that I would
never enter it again. But as soon as I left Tiruvannamalai,
my mind would yearn again for Bhagavan’s darshan. I would
always return, despite my misgivings, because I always hoped
that I would gain something.
Though I was never happy at the ashram, some unknown
power kept on pulling me back towards Arunachala.
In the three years that I visited Bhagavan regularly,
meditation often came to me effortlessly, but I never felt
that I was making much progress. I came to the conclusion
that my bad health was an obstacle to my development. I
tried many treatments, but no one could give me back my
good health. Meditation never took away my sufferings, and
I found that I had little interest in the various things that had
previously given me joy. I reached a point where I became
tired of everything. I felt disillusioned with my spiritual

life because it had taken away all my pleasures but left my
sufferings untouched. In many ways I felt like I was a living
corpse.
My path to Bhagavan was a long and arduous one.
Having a strong atheist background, I had to undergo many
years of doubts and sufferings before I could generate enough
faith to accept implicitly that Bhagavan was guiding me and
protecting me all the time. Other luckier devotees had faith
right from the beginning of their association with Bhagavan.
I remember in particular one devotee who had both faith and
the intellectual simplicity that I lacked. He was an old Telugu
man with a long beard who lived in the Draupadi Temple about
300 metres from Sri Ramanasramam. His only possessions
were an iron pot and an axe that he used to cut firewood
for cooking. He would beg food in the town and cook it in
his iron pot. Each day, for hours together, he could be seen
standing and looking at Bhagavan. He would spend the night
in the temple, which even then was dilapidated, abandoned
and surrounded by jungle. I once found him standing all
alone in front of his temple, gazing at Arunachala. When I
asked him what he was doing in such a remote spot, he told
me that he slept there.
‘What!’ I exclaimed, ‘You sleep here all alone? Are you
not afraid?’
‘Afraid of what?’ retorted the old man. ‘Bhagavan throws
his light on me. All through the night I am surrounded by a
blue radiance. So long as his light is with me, how can I be
afraid?’
This encounter made me deeply humble. Bhagavan’s
love and light was given in full measure to a poor old beggar,
but there were many in the ashram, like myself, who called
themselves his devotees, who had failed to receive such grace
because we were too busy attending to the contents of our
minds.
There was another man, a visitor to the ashram, who

impressed me deeply with his faith in Bhagavan. I was sitting
in the hall one morning when I heard the tapping of a stick
outside. I opened my eyes and discovered that a tall, blind
Muslim was trying to find the entry to the hall with his stick.
I got up and helped him to come inside.
I made him sit right in front of Bhagavan and told him,
‘You are now sitting right in front of Bhagavan. You can
salute him if you wish.’
The Muslim followed my advice and then settled down
to tell his story. He lived near Peshawar, where he was a
teacher of some repute. While he was living there he had
happened to hear somebody reading in Urdu about Bhagavan.
He at once felt that Bhagavan was his spiritual father and that
he must go to him at Tiruvannamalai. Although he was blind,
he took the next train and travelled the whole length of India
all alone, changing trains many times, till at last he reached
Sri Ramanasramam.
When he was asked what he was going to do next, he
replied, ‘Whatever Bhagavan tells me, I shall do’.
His immense faith made me ashamed of myself. Though
he had never met Bhagavan, this blind man had little or no
hesitation in placing his life in the hands of an unknown
South Indian swami. In my own case, I had to wade through
a mountain of doubts and hesitations before I came to
Bhagavan’s feet in earnest.
Over the years I noticed that he was especially kind
to those who came from far-off countries, old people and
children. One devotee once asked Bhagavan why he ignored
a lot of visitors who came to see him.
This devotee remarked, ‘So many prostrate before you
every day but you don’t even bother to look at most of them.’
‘What do you know about these things?’ retorted
Bhagavan, angrily. ‘Before they salute me, I salute them
internally.’
Once, for example, a visitor came to Bhagavan early

one morning and remarked, ‘Throughout the night a dog
was barking. It was making so much noise, I was unable to
meditate.’
Bhagavan responded by saying, ‘No dog barked. It was
your mind that barked.’
Many different types of people came to see Bhagavan:
high officials, lowly beggars, rich people, ascetics, devout
pilgrims, pretty women, and many more besides. All of
them wanted Bhagavan’s attention, but none of them ever
discovered a way of ensuring that they got it.
The events, activities and dialogues in the hall often
seemed, to uninformed observers, to have a bizarre or
irrational character, but that was only because they were not
aware that the power of Bhagavan orchestrated the scene in
such a way that everything that needed to happen happened
automatically. One inexplicable incident might be a message
for one devotee in the hall. That devotee might understand
the import of the message and consequently find his devotion
or faith increasing. The rest of us, not knowing the full
circumstances, would merely be bewildered.
Or, in another case, Bhagavan might notice that the ego
of a devotee sitting before him was rising and rebuke him in
some way.
The others in the hall might interpret this as an unprovoked
attack, but from Bhagavan’s point of view, it was what that
devotee needed at that particular time.
I myself witnessed one incident that produced a reaction
in Bhagavan that was only understood by two people. A friend
of mine called Dharmapuri, who had no faith in swamis, came
to see Bhagavan. Having decided in advance not to prostrate
to Bhagavan, he spent the whole of his brief visit wandering
around the ashram instead of sitting with Bhagavan in the
hall. In the evening, as it was summer, Bhagavan’s chair was
placed outside near the well. Bhagavan came and sat on it and
all the devotees sat on the floor near him. Dharmapuri was
wandering in the area at that time. When he saw Bhagavan

sitting there, he felt an irrepressible desire to prostrate before
him. His determination not to prostrate vanished as he fell
full length at Bhagavan’s feet.
Bhagavan noticed his performance and laughed loudly.
None of the devotees, except for me, knew why Bhagavan
had suddenly laughed. Everyone else was looking around,
trying to ascertain the cause of Bhagavan’s laughter.
A devotee had asked Bhagavan, ‘Siva is sometimes
called “The Lord of the Thieves”. Why does God have such
a name? Is Siva a Lord of Thieves?’
Bhagavan replied by saying, ‘Before they go out on
their professional work, some thieves go to a Siva temple
and promise to give the Lord half of their booty if they are
successful. After their work is over, they honour their promise
and surrender the promised goods to God. There are many so-
called good devotees who have far less of a commitment to
God. They either never make any promises to God, or if they
do, they fail to keep them. So in some ways, thieves are more
sincere devotees of the Lord than ordinary people.’
Chalam comments on the circumstances that prompted
the move and the events that followed:
At the end of 1949 my sister-in-law, who had looked after
us since our childhood, passed away. Feeling that this was
our last link with the world, we decided to give up our home
and move to Arunachala. In those days we had no friends, no
money, no income.
In fact we had no one except Bhagavan. I wondered how
we would live at Arunachala without any money or income. At
that time I didn’t have enough faith to believe that Bhagavan
would look after all our needs. We decided to go, despite
these misgivings, because we felt that we had no alternative.
We went at the beginning of 1950. Bhagavan was very
ill when we saw him, but he still looked at us affectionately
as if he had been waiting for our arrival. We rented a house
and a hut near the ashram, but within a few weeks of our
arrival Bhagavan gave up the body. We had come to die in his

presence, but instead he passed away before our very eyes.
After his death virtually all the devotees left and Ramana
Nagar was deserted. In broad daylight thieves started looting
the abandoned houses. Only our house and the ashram were
left untouched. These activities did not worry us, for we felt
both safe and protected. Both at the time of the Maha Nirvana
[the physical passing away of Bhagavan] and in the terrifying
loneliness that followed it, Bhagavan gave us strength and
protected us. Before he left the body Bhagavan had assured
us that he would not be going away. We believed in his words
and stayed on near his samadhi. For us, there was nowhere
else to go. After one year my health deteriorated still more
and our money ran out. We were reaching the end of our
resources, materially and spiritually. Even after all my time
with Bhagavan, I still had no faith in God, or karma, or life
after death, but I did believe that Bhagavan was the only being
who could do something to alleviate our plight. I believed that
he could, but at the same time I never had any expectation
that he would. My daughter Souris who had experienced
visions of Ishwara in the past now received assurance in a
dream that He would protect us. We accepted Iswara’s word,
accepted that he was Bhagavan who had come in this form to
guide us, and surrendered our lives to him. With great success
he has been guiding us ever since.
Chalam lived a quiet life in Tiruvannamalai near
Ramanasramam for thirty years.
His daughter Souris came under the spiritual influence
of Bhagavan at the age of fourteen. Later she maintained an
ashram in Bheemili, Visakhapatnam in Andhra Pradesh. Her
account of how she came to Bhagavan is given below from
The Mountain Path January 1982.
17. Souris*
“W ho is this ugly man with the big stomach! He hasn’t

got the decency to wear proper clothes, poses
for pictures, and shamelessly gets them published in the
newspapers.” This was my first reaction when at the age of
fourteen I first saw Bhagavan’s picture in the Sunday Times.
I was studying the picture because my father had just gone to
pay his first visit to Sri Ramanasramam.
When he returned, I was in bed with a headache, but
the rest of the family crowded around him to listen to his
account. However, when the word “Arunachala” floated in
through my doorway, I felt such an unaccountable thrill of
joy in my heart that I got up and joined the rest of the party.
By the time I joined him, my father was trying to explain
Bhagavan’s teachings on self-enquiry, and although the rest
of my family seemed to find it very confusing, I took it in
quite easily.
Bhagavan’s teachings seemed to articulate a feeling I
had intuitively had all my life, and though I had always been
a seeker after Truth, it was only after hearing Bhagavan’s
teachings that I became aware that there was a viable method
by which Truth could be discovered. Three days later we
children found father sitting upstairs with his eyes closed,
and we asked him what he was doing. He replied that he was
practising the method of self-enquiry advocated by Bhagavan
and I immediately felt a desire to join him. I went through
the booklet “Who am I?” and began practising self-enquiry
immediately. My brother Vasanth joined us soon afterwards,
but he quickly lost interest and gave it up.
After the first four or five days of meditation Bhagavan’s
form appeared before me. Although I had never seen him in
person, my mind could not get rid of the feeling that it was
conjuring up an image of a person I already knew. I tried to
* Souris, ‘How I Came to Bhagavan’, The Mountain Path, Jan. 1982.

shake off the image, but the image of Bhagavan persistently

drew my mind away from self-enquiry and kept it on himself.
Eventually I gave up trying, and as my mind became
more and more transfixed by the image I found my surging
thoughts subsiding and I was submerged in a strange peace.
I was apprehensive that I was being weaned from the path
of self-enquiry by concentration on Bhagavan’s form, but
later on I understood that Bhagavan’s appearance was not an
illusion but a manifestation of Grace, and that without this
Grace, even the severest sadhana would be of no avail.
During this period I was introduced to Paul Brunton’s
book A Search in Secret India, and after reading it I developed
a strong desire to see Bhagavan in person. My desire was
fulfilled a year later when all my family made a pilgrimage
to Arunachala. The moment I saw Arunachala my heart was
suddenly filled with an intense feeling of happiness and a
strange sense of excitement. When we finally reached the
Ashram and entered the Hall, Bhagavan smiled as if to say
that I was well-known to him and that he had been expecting
me for a long time. Bhagavan was just how I had imagined
him to be, and the minute I sat before him I slipped into deep
meditation like a fish jumping into water. For two days, I
felt as if I was in heaven but on the third day I developed a
severe headache and my heaven suddenly turned into a hell.
I felt as if my head was splitting in two and my only wish
was to find a quiet corner to lie down. However, there was
no privacy anywhere in the Ashram and I suffered intensely.
At the height of the pain I was publicly scolded by one of
Bhagavan’s attendants for being disrespectful to Bhagavan.
My only crime was that I had stretched out my legs towards
Bhagavan because my knees were aching from sitting cross-
legged for a long time. My mind suddenly rebelled against
the whole situation. Bhagavan’s seeming indifference to my
presence, my physical pain and the indifference he showed
to my public humiliation caused me to change radically my
opinion of him. My only desire now was to leave the Ashram.
I communicated these feelings to my father and rather

surprisingly he was happy to leave. It seemed that he too had
been having doubts about Bhagavan, but he had not broached
the subject with me previously because he could see that I
had been in an almost ecstatic state. We both decided that
it had been the height of folly to take Bhagavan seriously,
and we decided to give up our sadhana and leave the place
immediately.
After the next meal we went to take leave of Bhagavan.
When I bowed silently, Bhagavan looked into my eyes and
smiled a loving smile.
That smile lighted up my love and faith again, and
although we still went ahead with our plans to leave, from the
moment I got into the train, I was seized with an eagerness to
see Bhagavan again. That was the first and last time that my
mind rebelled against him. During the years that followed, he
subjected me to many severe tests and trials, but I never again
lost faith in the clarity of his guidance.
I carried on my sadhana at home but it was a year before
I was able to visit Bhagavan again. On my second visit,
although I experienced particularly deep meditations again,
I still had problems with the Ashram customs. I was scolded
again by an attendant for attempting to receive prasad with
my left hand, even though I am naturally left-handed, and my
mind continually rebelled against the seemingly meaningless
pujas and ceremonies which surrounded Bhagavan. I had
been brought up among complete atheists and I found this
sudden immersion into ritual and orthodoxy irritating and
meaningless. Finally, though, I realised that Bhagavan was
subjecting me to this treatment in order to subdue my ego.
From the moment that I started to interpret the happenings in
the Ashram in this light, I was unable to take offence anymore.
I found myself feeling affectionate towards the inmates of
the Ashram and their customs, and they in turn responded by
feeling and showing affection to me.
My love for Bhagavan was growing stronger every day,

and my second visit was marked by a strong desire to find a
way of settling down permanently near Bhagavan. Although
I could see no means by which this could be accomplished,
I consoled myself that Bhagavan would somehow make it
convenient for me to stay near him.
Unfortunately this was not to happen for many years.
I made two more brief visits to the Ashram later that year
and in between the visits I felt that my sadhana was growing
stronger all the time. Suddenly, though, the visits stopped and
I was not able to visit Bhagavan again for ten years. After my
last brief visit to the Ashram, living in my house again was
like living in a jail. Every vacation father and I would try
and go to see Bhagavan, but somehow circumstances always
conspired to prevent us. I realised that Bhagavan did not wish
me to go and see him, and I viewed the long separation as a
prolonged lesson in surrender. As the years went by, I began
to realise that Bhagavan was always with me and within me,
and as a result, the urge to see him physically diminished.
Whenever I had a longing to see him again, Bhagavan
would appear in my dreams and console me by saying:
“Why do you feel sad? I am always with you wherever you
are.” My health declined during the years of separation, but
because I constantly felt that Bhagavan was with me, neither
the physical pain nor the anguish of separation affected me
unduly.
At the end of the ten years, my mother’s sister, who
was both our guardian and our support, died. Although her
death brought many problems, it brought me much nearer
to Bhagavan. It severed the only bond we had with the
outside world and so it gave us an opportunity to move to
Tiruvannamalai and stay permanently near Bhagavan. The
year was 1950 and by the time we arrived at Arunachala
Bhagavan had already had three operations on his arm and
few people thought that he would live much longer. Because
of this, when we arrived at the Ashram with three big cart-
loads of luggage, the people in Ramana Nagar laughed at

us; but for us, whether Bhagavan could be seen there or not,
Arunachala was our life’s last destination.
After settling near the Ashram I found that my meditation
was taking a new turn. My heart was no longer responding with
love at the sight of Bhagavan’s form; instead it was dwelling
more on the real Bhagavan beyond the bodily presence. I
realised later that Bhagavan was giving me an insight into
his real Self in order to wean me from the attachment I felt
towards his physical form. This new perspective enabled
me to view the passing away of Bhagavan with almost total
equanimity.
On the day he died, I was away on a visit, but I remember
that I did not feel miserable at all on hearing the news. I felt
astonished at my own apparent callousness, but underneath I
knew that it was his grace.
I received a letter from my father saying that the spiritual
power radiating from Bhagavan’s samadhi was very strong
and that he himself felt Bhagavan’s presence more strongly
than ever before. When I finally returned to the Ashram I had
to conclude that my father was right. I felt him there at once.
The Ashram seemed to be like a ghost town, and I
wondered why people had made such haste to depart simply
for the reason that they could no longer feast their eyes on
his form. The moment I shut my eyes before the samadhi,
Bhagavan’s smiling form would stand before me and I could
feel his presence as vividly as before.
In the years that have passed since that day, the presence
of Bhagavan has retained its force and potency, and I feel
his guidance within me as a continuous presence. The silent
music of Bhagavan is a devouring harmony, and I feel that
very soon it is going to be a universe filling symphony. Where
can be the end for the Mahaleela that Bhagavan is weaving
while he stands amidst us here for all eternity?
18. Sadhu Om*
S adhu om was born on January 12, 1922 as the second son

of Pakkiri Swami and Kalimuthambal at Punnai Nalloor,
a famous kshetra, 2 miles from Thanjavur in Tamil Nadu. His
parents named him Natarajan as he was born on an Arudra
Star of Margazhi month, the day Arunachala rose as the
column of fire between Brahma and Vishnu.
Natarajan had the natural talent of writing verses from
his childhood and had a great love for Lord Muruga and sang
many songs in His praise. At the age of 24, (i.e., in 1946)
he happened to come across and read the book ‘Sri Ramana
Vijayam’, a Tamil biography of Ramana. This attracted him
greatly and he wanted to have Darshan of Bhagavan. He
enquired amongst his friends and came to know that Janaki
Mata, living at Ganapati Nagar visited Arunachala regularly
with her devotees. The same evening he called on her and
asked whether he could also join to have Darshan of Ramana.
She agreed and said that they are leaving the very next week.
When he was about to leave that place, she said that they are
going to recite Arunchala Aksharamanamalai composed by
Ramana. Natarajan joined in the recitation and was thrilled.
He memorised it immediately!
The appointed day for the devotee to meet the Guru
came on June 7, 1946. Every one went and did prostration at
the old hall and sat. When his turn came, all he saw was an
empty space! He thought that it was the custom that everyone
prostrated like this. He prostrated and when he was rising
up, slowly the image of Bhagavan formed and he received
the Darshan of Bhagavan Ramana. With this, Bhagavan has
made known to him that He is not the body!!
* ‘Introducing....’, The Mountain Path, April 1981; Michael James,

‘Sri Sadhu Om: An Exemplary Devotee’, The Mountain Path, July
1985; Personal Communication: Sri Sankaran.
There is an entry in Day by Day with Bhagavan dated 11-

8-1946 which says: “This morning, the young man Natarajan
of Thanjavur arrived. He brought from Janaki Ammal a
walkingstick with a silver knob and a pair of wooden slippers
with silver gilt for Bhagavan. Bhagavan said, “I shall touch
them and give them back. Let her have them in her puja.”
So saying, he inspected them and gave them back to the
attendant. Later, I asked N. and found out that the allusion in
the seventh stanza of his ‘Vetkai’ is to the following incident:
It seems one morning during his last visit he came into the
dining hall late for his lunch, and that all except Bhagavan
had risen. It seems then Bhagavan also rose and came and
stood by N.’s side and when he tried to get up Bhagavan
told him “Vandha Velaiyai Paar” (“Attend to the business
for which you have come”) and walked on. N. now read out
before Bhagavan his poem ‘Kuyilodu Kooral’ which he had
not read out on his previous visit.”
The previous day, Muruganar had been complaining to
Bhagavan that recently the state of the Tamil language had
gone down. Bhagavan did not make any comment then.
Natarajan arrived with the song ‘Kuyil Vidu Thoodhu’ and
started singing before Bhagavan. He could not continue
singing because he was choking with tears of fervour.
Bhagavan handing over the manuscript to Muruganar and said,
‘here is the boy you wanted!’ Muruganar changed the title to
‘Kuyilodu Kooral’. The relationship between Natarajan (later
Sadhu Om) and Muruganar, bonded by Bhagavan, continued
till the end.
He started finding his job at the Thanjavur Collector’s
Office a hindrance to his spiritual pursuit and resigned from
it.
Sadhu Om’s association with Ramana Maharshi lasted
four years from July 1946 until Sri Ramana’s death in
April 1950. Muruganar, who is often regarded as Ramana’s
foremost disciple, designated Sadhu Om as his literary
executor. Muruganar used to say “One for tapas, two for

Tamil” (Tapas is done alone but you need two for editing
Tamil literature), because such refined literary work can
be done perfectly only when two equally accomplished
poets assist each other. Because of his tireless and willing
labour, his thorough knowledge of Muruganar’s style and
subject, his own literary skill and his profound and practical
understanding of Bhagavan’s teachings, Sadhu Om alone
could render real assistance to Muruganar in all his literary
work. Knowing this, Muruganar once said during his last
days, “If Sadhu Om is not entrusted with full responsibility
for preserving and editing all my unpublished verses, then it
will be better to bundle all of them together and offer them
into the Deepam-fire on top of Arunachala or drown them in
the Bay of Bengal.”
His visits to the ashram continued even after Bhagavan’s
demise in 1950, and he also used to participate in the bhajans
held at Janaki Mata’s residence. When Janaki Mata started
Arul, a monthly publication dedicated to Bhagavan, he
functioned as its editor admirably. Still he continued to visit
the ashram and wanted to live permanently near Bhagavan’s
sannidhi.
The periodical Arul went out of publication after five
years and he could no more bear to be away from Bhagavan’s
sannidhi (presence). Taking the ascetic name “Sadhu Om,”
he came in 1955 to Tiruvannamalai for good. On his
arrival Kunju Swami accommodated him in his cottage in
Palakkothu. He then became a volunteer-staff of the ashram
library, and later on served as an attendant to Doctor Siva
Rao of the ashram dispensary. From 1961 till his end he
lived in the home of Pazhmalai Natha Pillai in Ramana
Nagar. Sadhu Om composed a number of devotional hymns
(keertans), and a lengthy hymn titled Sri Ramana Varugai
[The Coming of Ramana]. These works have come to form
a repertoire of vocal performances by devotees, especially of
the Ramananjali troupe of Bangalore.
The other important verses in prayer form is: 1. Sri Ramana

Guru Arul Andhadi, 2. Arunachala Aksharamanamalai Virivu
Pamalai 3. Arunachala Venba, verses ending in Arunachalam.
4. Sri Ramana Sahasram, 1000 verses praying for Jnana. The
embavai to sing in Margazhi, Sri Ramana Embavai and Sri
Ramana Tiruppalli ezhuchchi etc., were some of his other
compositions. He had an exclusive devotion to Bhagavan and
regularly went for the giripradakshina. He talked about the
merits and created an awareness of its merits in Westerners
and other Bhagavan devotees. Dedicating his life to the twin
purposes of composing hymns on Bhagavan and performing
giripradakshina, Sadhu Om merged in Bhagavan’s grace on
17-3-1985.
Sadhu Om’s Tamil writings include ‘Sadhani Saram’
(Essence of spiritual practice) and three volumes of ‘Ramana
Vazhi’ (The Path of Ramana). Sadhu Om takes pains to
explain in detail the subtle teaching of Ramana Maharshi and
cautions readers against the pitfall of misunderstanding them.
Sadhu Om and Michael James have translated into English
‘Arunachala Stuti Panchakam’. Together they have done a lot
to spread Bhagavan’s teachings to Westerners and English
speaking devotees.
Michael James in the July 1985 issue of the Mountain
Path wrote in depth about Sadhu Om. The following is an
edited excerpt from the article:
“To say that he was a poet of surpassing excellence, a
talented musician, a melodious and sweet-voiced singer, a
lucid prose-writer, a brilliant philosopher, a faithful exponent
of Bhagavan’s teachings, a man of deep, one-pointed
devotion, clear spiritual insight and perfect humility, is to
describe but a few of his many gifts and virtues. He followed
the principal precept taught and exemplified by Bhagavan Sri
Ramana, namely that we should not give importance to our
own individual entity, and should thus completely erase the
ego. It was this self-effacing attitude of Sadhu Om which was
responsible for his remaining unknown even to many devotees
of Bhagavan. When his friends wanted to write about Sadhu

Om, he quoted verse 623 of Guru Vachaka Kovai, which
says: “Because it brings one under the great evil of yielding
to pramada (forgetfulness of Self), through which one is
made to think that one is the worthless and mean body, while
in fact one is the supreme Brahman, fame (or praise) is to be
rejected with great contempt and is not at all to be aspired for
by wise people.”
Two books of his songs, Sri Ramana Gitam and Sri
Ramana Varnangal, have been published by the Ashram,
and a number of his other verses have been published by
individual devotees in small books and pamphlets. However,
many of his verses yet remain unpublished and are known
only to a few devotees, for he was always indifferent to the
publication of his works. Whatever he sang, he sang only
for Bhagavan. In one of the prefatory verses of Sri Ramana
Sahasram (a thousand verses in venba metre praying for
Jnana, a work which may perhaps be called his poetical
magnum opus), he writes, “These venbas are not for print,
approval or appreciation of loving friends. These are my
words of love, the lover’s appeal to the Beloved, the Lord of
my heart, made with great inner yearning, and hence it is not
proper for others to overhear them.”
Sadhu Om’s exemplary way of living truly teaches us how
to follow the path of Sri Ramana. Many devotees of Bhagavan
have received great inspiration and encouragement from Sadhu
Om’s chaste and one-pointed love for Bhagavan and from his
unshakeable conviction that Bhagavan is ever with us, guiding
and sustaining us from within. “Bhagavan’s help and guidance
is never lacking or insufficient,” Sadhu Om often used to
assure people, “Indeed His Grace is the sole existing reality in
this false world. There can never be any need for any devotee
of Bhagavan to go to any other God or Guru. No intermediary
is necessary between Him and us. Of His own accord He
directly contacts the heart of each devotee who comes to Him,
without the need for any intercession from others. To obtain
His Satsanga, we have but to think of Him, pray to Him, read

His teachings, reflect on them and practise them. Such mental
contact with the Satguru is the best Satsanga.
And if at all we want Satsanga with His physical form He
is and ever will be standing here in the form of Arunachala.
In His works Bhagavan has revealed that Arunachala is
Himself, and He has said that just as we identify our bodies
as ‘I’ , so Lord Siva, the Supreme Reality, who is none other
than Bhagavan, has chosen to identify this Hill as ‘I’ in order
to guide us and give us solace. Arunachala is the foremost
physical embodiment of the reality or Sat, so there is no better
form of outward Satsanga than to live in Tiruvannamalai and
to do Arunachala-pradakshina.”
Sadhu Om truly stood as a peerless example of perfect
Guru-bhakti. Though there were some people who wished
to take him as their Guru, he always steadfastly refused to
accept for himself the position of Guru. He often used to
point to the shining example of Muruganar, who was the
foremost disciple of Bhagavan, yet who never accepted for
himself the position of Guru, even after Bhagavan had left the
body. Sadhu Om used to say that one of the important signs
of a true disciple of Bhagavan is that he will never accept for
himself the position of Guru but will always encourage all
devotees to take Bhagavan alone as their Guru.
Occasionally people used to ask Sadhu Om whether it
is not necessary for an aspirant to have a living Guru, but he
always replied, “The Guru alone is living, we are all dead.
If by the term ‘living Guru’ you mean a Guru whose body
is living, then such a living Guru will one day become a
dead Guru. What is the use of such a Guru who will not be
living for ever? But if you take Bhagavan alone as your Guru,
then you will have an ever-living Guru, because Bhagavan
is the ever-existing Self shining in the hearts of all people.”
However, although Sadhu Om thus denied the need for a
“living guru” he always emphasised the need for us to accept
one particular name and form as our Guru. Only a very few
rare souls such as Bhagavan and Lord Buddha have attained

Self-knowledge without a Guru with name and form. For the
majority of spiritual aspirants, a Guru in name and form is
absolutely essential, though that name and form need not be
the name and form of a person whose body is now living. Of
all the names and forms, assured Sadhu Om, the ideal one
for us all to accept as our Guru is that of Bhagavan, who
will ever live and shine as an unequalled and unsurpassed
manifestation of Divine Grace.
When people used to praise his poems and songs, he
would sometimes say with childlike simplicity, “When I see
these verses, I myself wonder whether I could really have
composed them. Truly it can only be Bhagavan and not I who
has given such verses.” Hence, Sadhu Om’s simple, selfless and
open way of living, his warm, cheerful and loving nature, his
patience and forbearance, his readiness at any time to do any
work that came to him, no matter how small or insignificant it
might appear to be, his strong sense of Bhagavan’s protection
and guidance, his fearless way of always standing by the truth,
his indifference to praise and blame, his staunch adherence
to Bhagavan’s teachings his attitude of complete surrender
to and dependence upon Bhagavan, whom he adored as his
Mother, Father, God, Guru and sole Lord and Protector, and
above all, his total denial of his own individuality, made him
an altogether exemplary disciple of his great Master, and has
helped many sincere aspirants to understand more clearly the
glory of an egoless life and the correct and practical way of
following Bhagavan’s path in our day-to-day lives.
In many of his verses Sadhu Om has prayed to Bhagavan
to keep him unknown to the world and to protect him from
the great peril of name and fame. Throughout most of Sadhu
Om’s life Bhagavan fulfilled this prayer of his, though during
the last few years more and more devotees came to know of
the greatness of Sadhu Om and gradually more and more of
his writings came to be published in the form of books or in
the form of articles which he allowed to be published in The
Mountain Path. Hence, when an awareness of his greatness

was thus beginning to spread among the worldwide family
of Bhagavan’s devotees, it was perhaps appropriate and in
keeping with his prayer that Bhagavan should at this time
choose to withdraw from our midst the physical presence
of Sadhu Om. The end of Sadhu Om’s bodily life came in
a most sudden and unexpected fashion. On the evening of
Thursday 14th March, 1985 which was the first of the Tamil
month Panguni, he did giripradakshina, and after returning
home he took food and went to bed as usual. During the night
he had a cerebral haemorrhage, and when we found him early
next morning he was partially paralysed and unable to speak.
On Sunday 17th March, he was lying facing the holy hill of
Arunachala surrounded by all the friends and devotees who
began to chant ‘Sri Arunachala Aksharamanamalai’. At 9.05
a.m., while we were all singing the final refrain “Arunachala
Siva, Arunachala Siva,” Sadhu Om peacefully breathed his last
and was absorbed for ever in absolute union with his Divine
Father and Sadguru, Bhagavan Sri Arunachala-Ramana.”
19. Saab Jaan*
W hen young Venkataraman (of Tiruchuzhi) was studying

in Madurai in the American Mission High School,
he had a close Muslim friend called Saab Jaan. His real
name was M. Abdul Wahab. Mr. Wahab retired as a police
inspector. In an interview Mr. Wahab recalled his happy past:
“We were inseparable mates. Venkataraman was very learned
in Tamil and he stood first in the class. When the teacher
wanted to refer to some portion in the text book he used to
ask Venkataraman to quote and Venkataraman used to do
* G.V. Subbaramayya, Sri Ramana Reminiscences; SEIN, ‘Sri

Ramana: Friend, Philosopher and Guide’, The Mountain Path, Apr.
1970; Sri Ramana Leela.
it with remarkable clarity. He was particularly well-versed

in Nannool Soothram (Aphorisms of Tamil Grammar). Our
Tamil Pandit, Mr. John Balakrishnan, was very fond of him.
His knowledge of Tamil was really remarkable and that of
Tamil Grammar very exact.
“But Venkataraman was not very good in English, in
the sense that he was not an expert in that subject. In other
subjects also he was above average. But in general, he was
not much interested in his school books. He was very fond
of playing games and among games he was an expert in
football. He used to encourage me to join him in playing
the game, saying that he would teach me how to play. We
used to play together in the same team and I was particular
only to be with Venkataraman. As was usual in those days,
Brahmin families did not encourage the boys to take part in
games, so Venkataraman’s relatives did not like his playing
games. Once when we were playing football, Venkataraman,
while defending against the attacks of the opposing players,
received a severe knock on his right leg, which immediately
got swollen. He was frightened because he had to return
home like that, so I carried him to a hospital and had some
medicine applied and brought his leg to normal condition. He
was very happy and thanked me for the timely help.
“Even as a student he was very religious. Every Saturday
and Sunday he would go to Tirupparankundram and go round
the Subramania Swami Temple with fervent religious ecstasy.
He used to take me several times with him and make me go
around the temple saying, ‘God’s creation is alike and there
is no difference in creation. God is the same, the apparent
differences in Gods are created by man.’ In the company of
Venkataraman, I never felt any difference between a mosque
and the Subramania Swami temple.
“This instruction of his really implanted in me a
better understanding of the secret approach to religion and
thenceforth I never felt any difference between a Hindu
God and any other God. It is quite possible, in fact, I am
very certain, that it is because of such an universal outlook,

implanted in me by Venkataraman in those days, that in my
later days I could become an ardent devotee of Sri Varadaraja
Perumal of Kanchipuram, who actually enveloped me in his
divine rapture. I had visions of Varadaraja Perumal in my
dreams and they proved to be of great help to me.”
Mr. Wahab then spoke about Venkataraman:
“Suddenly Venkataraman disappeared and it was a shock
to me that he did not even tell me about his running away
from his home. His disappearance made his mother terribly
sorrow-stricken. While I refer to his home and his mother, I
cannot but mention the kindness and love with which mother
Azhagammal used to receive me.
“Some Saturdays and Sundays he would go to Tiruchuzhi
to be with his mother and kith and kin. I would also go there
to see him. Mother Azhagammal would immediately, with all
affection, tell Venkataraman of my arrival saying, ‘Your dear
Muslim friend has come.’ She had a wonderful face beaming
with nobility. Every time she gave me a very good reception
and used to give me whatever eatables were prepared at home.
If by chance 1 did not turn up for one weekend, she
used to enquire about my absence and give Venkataraman
the eatables saying: ‘Give these to your Muslim friend’. I
can never forget the maternal love of Azhagammal and her
kindness to me, even though I was a Muslim.”
“I was enlisted in the police department and in 1903 in
one of the medical shops at Uttaramerur, I was surprised to
see a portrait of Venkataraman but completely different in
appearance. I was anxious to know how the shop man happened
to possess the photo of my classmate. Then I was told that
this was the ‘Brahmana Swami’ living in Tiruvannamalai and
that the Swami was in mounam then.
“I was very eager to meet Venkataraman and at last after
several months of strenuous efforts, I was able to come to Sri
Ramanasramam, the abode of Sri Maharshi, my dear friend of
those earlier days. I entered it and was taken in by a cowherd
woman who was supplying milk to Bhagavan. I introduced

myself to him as his classmate ‘Saab Jaan’ (but his facial
expression clearly showed that he had at once recognised me
and that my introduction was not at all necessary, and that
he was pleased to receive me although he did not speak). He
simply nodded his head with a radiant face. I was thrilled
to meet my classmate as a swami, for he was all the more
beautiful and resplendent, with a mark of saintliness.
“Again, I went there when I was the Inspector of Police
at Tirupathur. I was very sad then, since my father had passed
away, but Bhagavan showed me his mother’s tomb, which
consoled me. I understood from Bhagavan’s action that death
is inevitable as far as the body is concerned and that no
one was ever born or died. He was so kind and offered me
something to eat and asked me to stay for a couple of days
but I could not, since I was on duty.
After that I went to see him several times and on all
occasions he showed special attention to me and introduced
me to whoever was present on the occasion, with deep love
and kindness. He used to make me sit by his side while taking
food in the dining hall, which later I came to know was quite
unusual with him.
On Maha Puja Day (June 11th 1939) we learnt from
him [Saab Jaan] how at Villupuram Junction, his entry into
a compartment of the Katpadi train was obstructed by three
Burmese, who raised their daggers to stab him and how in
the nick of time he was rescued by a Hindu who received
the stab wound on his own arm and disappeared even before
Saab Jaan could thank him.
Saab Jaan said that he thus had a foretaste of Bhagavan’s
Grace:
“A sudden change took place in me. I was transformed into
a devotee of Bhagavan from being a friend of Venkataraman.
This inward change brought about by Sri Maharshi is
the greatest boon he has showered on me. He showed his
greatness once through a dream in which he showed signs of
my wife passing away and in a mysterious way consoled me

and prepared me for the shocking incident. It did take place
very soon and my beloved wife passed away as predicted and
by the grace of Sri Maharshi it did not affect me very much.
This attitude of detachment is itself the grace of Bhagavan.
In 1950, on 14th April, the memorable day of his Brahma
Nirvana, it so happened that even though it would have been
absolutely impossible for me to come to Tiruvannamalai, as
I was on duty at a place far away, I had the opportunity of
visiting the Ashram. In the day time I could not take my food
due to lack of time during travel to go to a hotel and take
food. I paid my homage to my friend and guru who left his
mortal coil that night, but whose presence still pervaded his
abode. I was in deep mourning. Then someone asked me to
take food since I looked fatigued and tired and it was late in
the night. I flatly refused saying, ‘I am going to fast the whole
day as an act of reverence and homage to my intimate friend
and revered guru.’”
20. Raja Iyer*
I n 1911 when he was in the high school in Tiruvannamalai,

Raja Iyer would climb the Arunachala Hill with other
boys. Bhagavan was usually found sitting on the elevated
place outside the cave and would allow them to sit at his feet
and sing devotional songs to their hearts’ content. When the
singing was over, they would share with him the food they
had brought and wash it down with the cool water from the
spring just above the cave.
The circumstances by which Raja Iyer became a
permanent inmate of the Ashram are interesting. One day he
had a dream in which he saw a great yogi who ordered him
* ‘Introducing…’, The Mountain Path, Jan. 1969; Raja Iyer,

‘Glimpses of Sri Ramana Maharshi’, Ramana Smriti.
to pull the punkah overhead. He obeyed him with great joy.

At his next visit to Bhagavan, the latter looked up as soon as
he had prostrated himself before Bhagavan and, pointing to
the punkah, asked him to pull it. This came as a surprise to
Raja Iyer who connected it immediately with his dream. With
great joy he pulled the punkah for about five minutes when
Bhagavan told him to stop.
From that time onwards he continued to do some service
or other in the Ashram. Very often he worked with Bhagavan
in the kitchen. He did odd jobs like collecting flowers for
worship, drawing water from the well, grinding sandalwood
paste, etc. For some time he was performing the puja at
Bhagavan’s mother’s shrine.
One day Chinna Swami asked him to take up the
preparation of the morning idlis. This gave him a chance to
become a permanent resident of the Ashram. In preparing
idlis he achieved such excellence that visitors commented
that nowhere had they tasted idlis comparable to those of the
Ashram.
Once the workers in the kitchen asked him to grind some
pulses to a paste. Try as he might he could not do it. He was
told not to leave the kitchen without finishing the job but
he just refused to continue. Bhagavan heard the quarrel and
advised him to add some salt. When he did so the grinding
became easy, after that his dislike for grinding jobs left him
completely. Bhagavan was very particular about avoiding
waste. He showed Raja Iyer how to use a ladle so that not
even a drop of food would fall on the ground, how to avoid
spilling while pouring and how to start a fire with just a few
drops of kerosene. If all this were not a part of his spiritual
discipline, why should he have bothered?
In 1937 a post office was opened in the Ashram and
Raja Iyer was made the Postmaster. On the first two days
Bhagavan came to the post office and did all the stamping.
Prior to that Raja Iyer used to bring the mail from the town
post office to the Ashram. “Oh, the postman has been made
the Postmaster!” remarked Bhagavan, humorously.
Bhagavan showed us tangibly to what extent all devotion
will find its way to him, whatever its level, provided it is
sincere. V. Raja Iyer was absorbed at the feet of Arunachala
Ramana on 24-7-82 in his 86th year after nearly 50 years of
continuous service.
21. Viswanatha Swami*
V iswanatha Swami was born on 21 April, 1904 to

Ramaswami and Ammaalu Amma. Ramaswami, who lost
his mother in his childhood, was brought up by Bhagavan’s
parents at Tiruchuzhi. Ammaalu Amma’s father, Narayana
Sastriar, was a profound scholar in Sanskrit.
From his fifth year to the ninth year, Viswanathan studied
Rudram and Pancha Saktas at the Sringeri Mutt at Dindigul.
In his youth Viswanatha was an active Gandhian. He was
appointed Secretary of the District Congress Committee,
Madurai on a monthly salary of Rs. 18/-. He declined the
salary, but instead accepted food. But his political activities
petered out after he came under the influence of Bhagavan in
1921. From 1922 until 1950 he spent most of his time either
with Bhagavan or with Kavyakantha Ganapati Muni.
Viswanatha Swami was a good Tamil and Sanskrit
scholar. In addition to translating several Ramanasramam
publications from English and Sanskrit into Tamil, he also
* ‘Viswanatha Swami’, The Mountain Path; T.K. Sundaresa Iyer,

At the Feet of Bhagavan; Ramana Reminiscences – 2 April 1979;
Viswanatha Swami, ‘The Mysterious Operation of Grace Divine’,
The Mountain Path, Jan. 1979; In the proximity of Bhagavan; The
Power of the Presence – Part 2; Cherished Memories; Reminiscences
of Viswanatha (Surpassing Love and Grace); K. Subrahmanian,
Uniqueness of Bhagavan, 1993.
translated works by Swami Ramdas and Mahatma Gandhi.

Towards the end of his life he was the editor of The Mountain
Path, the journal published by Sri Ramanasramam.
He once wrote: ‘Bhagavan’s most powerful presence
completely annihilated my ego; I can’t say anything more. ’
His first darshan of Bhagavan Sri Ramana was in January
1921 at Skandasramam. He describes his first meeting
with Bhagavan: ”When I first saw Bhagavan, I saw in him
something quite arresting which clearly distinguished him
from all others I had seen. He seemed to live apart from the
physical frame, quite detached from it. His look and smile
had a remarkable spiritual charm. When he spoke, the words
seemed to come out of an abyss. One could see immaculate
purity and non-attachment in him and his movements. I
sensed something very refined, lofty and sacred about him. In
his vicinity the mind’s distractions were overpowered by an
austere and potent calmness. In his presence the unique bliss
of peace was directly experienced. This I would call Ramana
Lahari, ‘The blissful atmosphere of Ramana’. In this ecstasy of
grace one loses one’s sense of separate individuality and there
remains something grand and all-pervading, all-devouring.
This indeed is the spirit of Arunachala that swallows up the
whole universe in its gracious effulgence.
“When I first saw Bhagavan, he was standing in the open
space in front of the ashram building. The very sight of him
thrilled me. Something in that body, shone forth, without
limitation, engulfing everything else. Needless to say, I felt
swallowed up by it. I stayed for a week with Bhagavan in that
atmosphere of utter purity and serenity. I heard from him how
he had come to Arunachala, irresistibly attracted and swept
off his feet by a tremendous benevolent force; how, deep
down within his heart, he was one with that power.
Niranjanananda Swami once told Bhagavan that I
could recite hymns in Sanskrit, so Bhagavan looked at me
expectantly. Seeing that it was impossible to avoid it, I recited
a few verses.
“When I had finished Bhagavan gently looked at me

and said. ‘You have learned all this. Not so in my case.
Before I came here I knew nothing and had learned nothing.
Some mysterious power took possession of me and effected
a thorough transformation. Whoever knew then what was
happening to me? Your father, who was intending in his
boyhood to go to the Himalayas for tapas, became the head of
a big family. And I, who knew nothing, have been drawn and
kept here for good! When I left home in my seventeenth year,
I was like a speck swept away by a tremendous flood. I knew
neither my body nor the world, whether it was day or night. It
was difficult even to open my eyes – the eyelids seemed to be
glued down. My body became a mere skeleton. Visitors pitied
my plight because they were not aware how blissful I was. It
was only years later that I came across the term ‘Brahman’
when I happened to look into some books on Vedanta which
had been brought to me. I was amused and said to myself, ‘Is
this [experience or state] known as ‘Brahman’?’
Bhagavan asked me to take a copy of Sri Ramana Gita
and give it to my father. I did so, and it was only after going
through it that my father understood Bhagavan. At that time
I had not studied its contents myself. It was only at the end
of 1922 that I happened to go through the thrilling verses
in praise of Bhagavan Ramana that comprise the eighteenth
chapter. I was so profoundly moved by them, I made up my
mind to return to Bhagavan for good. I had already been
thinking of dedicating myself solely to spiritual pursuits. It
was the reading of Sri Ramana Gita at this critical juncture
of my life that made me decide that my spiritual future lay
with Bhagavan.
I returned to Bhagavan for good on the evening of
January 2nd 1923 and surrendered myself at his feet. As I
bowed and stood before him, he asked me, ‘Did you get the
permission of your parents to come here?’
Bhagavan must have sensed that I had run away from
home, without telling anyone. I had not informed my family
because I knew that my father would never have given me

permission to live full-time with Bhagavan. I tried to evade
the question. With a smile, Bhagavan advised me to inform
my parents of my whereabouts so that they would not worry
about what I had done. I wrote to my father the next day and
saw his letter to the ashram enquiring about me the day after.
I soon discovered that the power and the presence
of Bhagavan were so strong, there was no necessity to
undertake any formal kind of sadhana. I shared in the work
of the ashram in Bhagavan’s elevating company, I studied his
literary works and I heard his replies to the various questions
put by visitors. But all these activities were incidental. The
most important thing was the mere presence, the spiritually
uplifting company of Bhagavan. As Bhagavan says in Ulladu
Narpadu Anubandham: ‘If one associates with sages, where
is the need for any other rigorous sadhana? No one looks for
a fan when there is the pleasant southern breeze.’
A week after I arrived, I got the permission of Bhagavan
to live on madhukari, that is, begged food. After giving me
permission, Bhagavan reminisced about his own experiences
of living this way:
‘I have experience of it myself; I lived on such food
during my stay at Pavazhakkundru [a small hillock in
the town of Tiruvannamalai]. I did it to avoid devotees
bringing me special rich food. It is altogether different from
professional mendicancy. You feel yourself to be independent
and indifferent to everything worldly. It has a purifying effect
on the mind.’
‘Bhagavan,’ I asked, ‘how am I to rise above my present
animal existence? My own efforts in that direction have
proved futile and I am convinced that only a superior power
can transform me. That is what has brought me here.’
Bhagavan replied with great compassion: ‘Yes, you are
right. It is only by awakening a power mightier than the
senses and the mind that these can be subdued. If you awaken
and nurture the growth of that power within you, everything
else will be conquered. One should sustain the current of

meditation uninterruptedly. Moderation in food and similar
restraints will be helpful in maintaining the inner poise.’
It was this gracious advice of Bhagavan that gave a new
direction to my spiritual career. A new faith was kindled
within me and I found in Bhagavan the strength and support
to guide me forever.
On another day, when I questioned him about the problem
of brahmacharya [celibacy], Bhagavan replied: ‘To live and
move in Brahman is real brahmacharya. Continence, of
course, is very helpful and indispensable to achieve that end.
But so long as you identify yourself with the body, you can
never escape sex-thoughts and distractions. It is only when
you realise that you are the formless pure awareness that
sex-distinction disappears for good. That is brahmacharya,
effortless and spontaneous.’
Four months after my arrival at Arunachala, my parents
came there to have darshan of Bhagavan and to take me back
home. Though they did not succeed in this latter intention,
they were somehow consoled by Bhagavan before they
returned. He asked them if it were possible to wean a person
like me from a course I had taken with all my heart and soul.
Bhagavan told my parents that it would be right for them
to try to discourage me from taking a wrong path, but he
added, ‘Since the course he has taken is intrinsically good,
you should not worry about what will happen to him’.
My father was a cousin of Bhagavan. Though he was
four or five years older than Bhagavan, he had known him
very well as Venkataraman in the days before he left home for
Tiruvannamalai. At the time of this first visit he had already
heard from others about Bhagavan’s spiritual greatness, and
he had also gone through his teachings in Sri Ramana Gita.
However, he had not been sure of what his reaction would
be on seeing Bhagavan. He decided to go to him with an
open mind and judge for himself what he was. The moment
he sighted Bhagavan in the stone mantapam across the road
from Sri Ramanasramam, he was overpowered by a sense of

genuine veneration.
He fell at his feet in adoration, saying, ‘There is nothing
of the Venkataraman whom I knew very well in what I see in
front of me!’
Bhagavan replied with a smile: ‘That person disappeared
forever a long time ago.’
My father then explained that he had not visited Bhagavan
before because he felt that he had not generated enough
dispassion and non-attachment to approach such a great sage.
Bhagavan replied, ‘Is that so? You seem to be obsessed
by the delusion that you are going to achieve these things in
the distant future. If you recognise your real nature, the Self,
to what can it be attached? Dispassion is our real nature.’
Bhagavan advised me to engage myself in non-stop
japa, day and night, except during hours of sleep. He also
encouraged me to study his teachings. I subsequently studied
Sri Ramana Gita in his presence, drinking in the import of
every verse in it. In addition, I also had the good fortune of
listening to Bhagavan explain the meaning of his hymns to
Arunachala. This was done in a very informal way. During his
morning and evening walks I would follow him and listen as
he expounded in great detail the significance of each inspired
verse.
Early one morning, when there was no one else near
Bhagavan, he suggested that we both might go around
Arunachala and return before the others could notice his
absence and begin to search for him. He took me by the
forest path and suggested that Sankara’s Hymn in Praise of
Dakshinamurti might be taken up for discussion on the way.
We walked quickly and within three hours we had completed
our walk. We ended up sitting at Pandava Tirtham, a tank
located a little to the east of the ashram. In the early days
of Sri Ramanasramam, Bhagavan often used to bathe in this
tank.
Bhagavan was opposed to any sort of waste or

extravagance.
“How do you light the fire in your charcoal stove?’ he
asked me one day.
I told him that I used a bit of old rag rolled up and dipped
into kerosene. Smilingly, he scolded me for wasting kerosene
when the fire could easily be lit with some of the dry twigs
and leaves lying around, or with bits of waste paper.
The grace that Bhagavan was constantly emanating had
been felt by mature devotees even in the late 1890s when
Bhagavan was silent, unheralded, and largely unknown.
Bhagavan’s power occasionally impressed or subdued
even those who were very sceptical about his state. Vilacheri
Mani Iyer, who was a senior schoolmate of Bhagavan, is a
good example of this. Once he was accompanying his mother
to Tirupati. On their way back to Madurai his mother pressed
him to stop at Tiruvannamalai to visit Bhagavan. He said:
‘It is not for darshan of this bogus sadhu that I am alighting
at Tiruvannamalai, but to drag him by his ear and bring him
back to Madurai. I am not a weakling. I shall succeed where
his uncle, mother and brother have failed.’
Something quite unexpected had happened. Instead of
seeing his old friend, there was an effulgent Divine Being
seated in front of him, absolutely still and silent. His heart
melted for the first time in his life, tears rolled down his cheeks
and his hair stood on end. He fell prostrate before Bhagavan
and surrendered himself to him. He became a frequent visitor
and a staunch devotee of Bhagavan.
He began to follow Bhagavan’s teachings but he soon
felt that he was in need of a more tangible method than the
vichara – ‘Who am I?’ – and asked Bhagavan several times
for a different technique. Initially, there was no response.
But one day, when he went out for a walk on the hill with
Bhagavan, he stood before him and said, ‘I won’t allow you
to return unless you give me some suitable upadesa.’
Bhagavan replied, ‘What is there to teach, Mani? Instead

of saying “Siva, Siva,” and keeping quiet, why do you ask
for this and that?’
Mani Iyer fell down at Bhagavan’s feet with great joy
and exclaimed, ‘I have received my upadesa and initiation!’
From that moment he took up the japa of ‘Siva, Siva’
day and night; in the course of time it became one with his
prana [life current]. He was totally transformed and his face
shone with a divine radiance.
When Mani Iyer felt that his end was near, he stayed with
Bhagavan for a few days. Every morning he rolled his body
round Bhagavan’s hall. When Bhagavan tried to stop him,
he said, ‘I do not know how else I can express my gratitude
for what Bhagavan has done for me!’ He passed away a few
days later.
The seventy-first birthday of Bhagavan was celebrated
in his presence on January 5th, 1950. Bhagavan sat up for
hours, morning and evening, in the midst of his devotees. He
went through many hymns newly composed by his devotees
and heard them sung. The elephant of the Arunachaleswara
Temple came and stood before him for a while. After bowing
to Bhagavan, it took leave of him by touching his feet with its
trunk. A rani [queen] who had come from North India to pay
her respects to Bhagavan took a motion picture of the scene.
The atmosphere was full of joy, and the festivities ended with
the bowing of the devotees to their Master at the end of the
vedic chanting.”
The very first literary work undertaken by Viswanatha
Swami was the translation of Mahatma Gandhi’s Arogya
Digdarsan. He has translated into Tamil Ashtavakra Gita. He
also rendered into beautiful Tamil, Swami Ramdas’s In Quest
of God.
Bhagavan utilized Viswanatha Swami’s literary talents
and would send for him whenever an interesting magazine
or book was received. He translated into Tamil Talks with Sri
Ramana Maharshi and Upadesa Sara Bhashya, Forty Verses
in Praise of Bhagavan and Sad-Darsana-Bhashya of Kapali

Sastry. He also wrote Sri Ramana Ashtotra Sata Namavali
in Sanskrit. It is a litany of 108 names of Bhagavan. He has
written a commentary on this explaining the significance of
each name. During his last years, he was to be the editor
of The Mountain Path. His work as editor was marked by
excellence and exemplary devotion. His editorials were
scholarly and inspiring, his revisions few and careful. He
was most unwilling to write about himself but was persuaded
to record his ‘Reminiscences’. He began the series in The
Mountain Path for January 1979 and the last one appeared
in October 1979.
The boy who surrendered to Bhagavan in his teens merged
with Arunachala at the age of 75 on October 22, 1979.
Referring to her last visit to Viswanatha Swami, Evelyn
Kaselow in her tribute in The Mountain Path of January
1980 writes: “In spite of his weakened physical condition,
numerous literary projects and voluminous editing for The
Mountain Path, Swamiji found an hour each day to give me
a ‘Sanskrit class’. Despite my repeated requests that he teach
me this or that composition of his own, Swamiji absolutely
insisted on concentrating uniquely on Bhagavan’s works and
teachings. However exalted his own state of mind may have
been, Swamiji was first and foremost a devotee of Bhagavan.”
22. Rangan*
V ilacheri Ranganatha Iyer was a boyhood friend and

classmate of Bhagavan. He narrates his first visit to
Bhagavan: “In June 1907 I went with my wife, mother and
daughter to see Bhagavan. It was the first time I had seen him
* Vilacheri Ranga Iyer, ‘Recollections’, Mountain Path, Apr. 2016;

The Power of the Presence – Part 1.
since we were at school together. ‘Do you recognise me?’ I

asked Bhagavan.
With great difficulty he muttered the name ‘Rangan’ in
guttural tones. In those days, because Bhagavan spoke little,
he found it very difficult to use his voice.
‘When your mother came for the first time to see me,
she was frightened by my ascetic appearance and attire.
‘She asked me, “Have your father’s philanthropy and
charity come to this?”
‘My hair was all matted, my body was completely covered
with dust and I was sitting on the rocks on the mountain. She
went away because she could not bear to see me in that state.
Also, she felt that she could do nothing to help me.’
After a short pause Bhagavan added, ‘That is why none
of you came, except for your mother. You thought that a dirty
ascetic was not worth seeing, so you didn’t bother to come.
Isn’t that so?’
At the time of my departure, after this first visit, I told
Bhagavan, ‘You have reached great heights.’
Bhagavan replied, ‘The far-off mountains look even and
smooth.’
When I finally came for darshan again, Bhagavan had
moved to Skandasramam.
This time he said to me, ‘Darshan [seeing or being seen
by] of holy people is not easily attainable. It is better to visit
them often. They get the cloth woven and keep it ready for
wear.’
The next time I met Bhagavan I was on my way to
Madras in search of a job. My financial circumstances were
not in a good state at that time. Bhagavan seemed to know
this even though I never mentioned the subject.
As soon as I prostrated at his feet he said to me, ‘Look
here Rangan. A man, by himself, can go anywhere in the
world and get by somehow. But women and children are
different. Have you provided enough for the maintenance of
your wife and children at home?’
I tried to reassure him by saying that I had given them

some money but I discovered afterwards that Bhagavan had
not been satisfied by my assurance. A few days later, when
my elder brother arrived at Skandasramam, Bhagavan asked
him how my family was getting on, and whether they were
being inconvenienced by a lack of money. I was not there at
the time because I had continued with my trip to Madras to
look for a job. I had only stayed a few days with Bhagavan
because I knew that it was imperative for me to find some
way of supporting my family.
My brother told Bhagavan that the money I had given to
my family before my departure had been spent and that the
family was now being greatly inconvenienced on account of
their lack of funds.
My attempts to find a job in Madras were unsuccessful.
I decided to return home via Tiruvannamalai and have
Bhagavan’s darshan again. As soon as I saw Bhagavan, he
brought up the subject of my family problems.
‘You told me that you had given some money for your
family’s maintenance, but your brother tells me that they are
suffering due to a lack of funds. Is this so?’
I kept quiet, unable to give an answer. I had tried to hide
my inability to support my family from Bhagavan, but he of
course could not be fooled. I had not been lazy. I had given
my family all the money I could spare and I had gone looking
for work, but I also knew that I had failed to tell Bhagavan the
full extent of our problems. I had excused myself at the time
by thinking that since Bhagavan knew everything anyway,
he could bring about any change in my life if he so desired.
My inability to answer Bhagavan’s probing query
effectively ended the conversation, but that night, when I was
lying on my bed, Bhagavan came and sat next to me. I got up
at once and sat by his side.
‘Rangan,’ he asked, ‘are you not able to sleep? Are you
worried about the financial difficulties of your family? Will
ten thousand rupees be enough for you?’
Again, I was unable to reply.

Bhagavan took my family troubles very seriously, but he
was also able to joke about them.
On this same visit, for example, as we were doing
giripradakshina [walking around Arunachala] together, he
playfully remarked, ‘There are many herbs on this mountain
that can transform any metal into gold’.
I felt that he was teasing me, so I kept quiet. Bhagavan
made fun of me like this many times.
I eventually got a job in an automobile company, selling
buses. Since I got a commission on each bus sold, I was soon
able to raise the Rs.10,000 that Bhagavan had spoken about.
This money was enough to pay off my debts and to perform
the marriages of two of my daughters.
I never mentioned my financial difficulties to Bhagavan,
nor did I ask him for help. I left all these things to him.
Bhagavan himself, without any prompting from me, took care
of all my financial difficulties.
I used to tell him, ‘The burden of my family is yours. I
am merely a puppet in your hands.’
Because I had a large family, which seemed to grow
larger every year, I could never entirely rid myself of worries
about money. In order to console me, Bhagavan once told me
the following story.
‘While a man was meditating intensively in order to get
jnana, Lord Siva appeared before him and asked him what
he wanted.
‘“Give me poverty and troubles all the time!” requested
the devotee.
“What is this?” exclaimed Siva. “You could ask for so
many good or great things. What is this strange thing you
have asked for?”
‘The devotee replied, “When we mortals have wealth,
our eye does not see and our ear does not hear properly. If
I am immersed in the world, I will always be in bondage,
caught in the cycle of birth and rebirth. Poverty will make me

always remember you.”’
‘Can we not get jnana while enjoying wealth and
comforts?’ I asked.
‘Wealth is, without doubt, an obstacle,’ replied Bhagavan,
‘but unless one does good deeds, the desire for knowledge
will not arise.’
I was in and out of debt for most of my life. In the late
1920s, when I was back in debt again, Bhagavan found
another opportunity to make fun of my worries about money.
When I started to visit Bhagavan regularly at
Skandasramam, it occurred to me that it would be good if
I became a sannyasin. I knew that this was a foolish and
irresponsible dream because it would leave my family, already
in a precarious financial position, with no one to support
them. However, the thought would not leave me. One night,
while I was lying in my bed at Skandasramam, I was unable
to sleep because this thought kept recurring so strongly.
As I was turning uneasily in my bed, Bhagavan came to
my side and asked me, ‘What is the matter? Are you in pain?’
‘Venkataraman [Bhagavan’s childhood name],’ I replied,
‘I want to adopt sannyasa.’
Bhagavan went away and came back with a copy of
Bhakta Vijayam, an anthology of the lives of some famous
saints who lived in western India many centuries ago. He
opened the book and read out the story in which Saint Vithoba
decided to take sannyasa. In the story his son, Jnanadeva,
who is an incarnation of Lord Vishnu, gave him the following
advice.
‘Wherever you are, whether in worldly society or the
forest, the same mind is always with you. It is the same old
mind, wherever you reside.’
After reading this out Bhagavan added, ‘You can
attain jnana even while you are living in samsara [worldly
activities].’
‘Then why did you become a sannyasin?’ I countered.

‘That was my prarabdha [destiny],’ replied Bhagavan.
‘Life in the family is difficult and painful, no doubt, but it is
easier to become a jnani while living as a householder.’
There were many occasions when we needed help and
I soon got into the habit of telling Bhagavan all about my
family troubles on my visits to Skandasramam.
On one of these occasions Bhagavan turned to me and
said, ‘You think that your own troubles are very great. What
do you know about my troubles? Let me tell you about one
incident that happened to me. Once, while I was climbing
a steep part of the mountain, I was holding on to a rock to
keep my balance. The rock was loose and would not take my
weight. I lost my balance, fell onto my back and was partly
buried by a small avalanche of stones. I managed to remove
them and stood up. I immediately noticed that my left thumb
was dislocated. It was hanging loosely near the little finger. I
pushed the thumb back into its socket and went home.’
I think that Bhagavan was understating the extent of his
injuries, for while he was relating this incident, his mother
came out of Skandasramam and remarked, ‘I cannot bear to
recall that dreadful accident. He came home bleeding all over.
He was in such a bad condition, I don’t even like to think
about it any more.’
I had two strange but similar experiences with Bhagavan.
The first took place on the mountain. Bhagavan had taken
me to the top of the hill and shown me the place where
the Kartigai jyoti is lit and a few other places. After sunset
we climbed down and slept at Seven Springs. While I was
sleeping at Bhagavan’s feet, a vision of him appeared to me
on all sides. When it had disappeared I told Bhagavan what
had happened, but he declined to make any comment on it.
The other incident was both strange and mysterious. I left
Skandasramam for a short period of time after first noticing
that Bhagavan was sleeping there, inside the door. When I
returned, I saw him sitting outside on a bed. I thought nothing
of it until I went inside the ashram and saw that Bhagavan

was still sleeping inside, in the position I had seen him when
I left the ashram.
When I told Bhagavan about this later, he smiled and
said, ‘Why did you not tell me then itself? I could have
caught the thief!’
This was a typical example of Bhagavan’s response to
the supernatural. If such events were reported to him, he
would either ignore them or pass them off as a joke. This was
because he didn’t want any of his devotees to be sidetracked
from their main goal of realising the Self into an unproductive
interest in miraculous phenomena.
My own experiences and the events I witnessed had
convinced me that Bhagavan was a very great being, but at
the same time, the fact that we had been friends who had
played together as children made it easy for me to talk to him
and be with him. I didn’t have that feeling of reverential awe
that left many visitors tongue-tied in his presence. And since I
had known Bhagavan from his earliest days, we occasionally
talked about our childhood together.
Once, while we were reminiscing, Bhagavan asked me,
‘Do you remember, Rangan, that day when I urinated on the
idol of Karupanna Swami? You threatened to tell my father
about it. I begged you not to tell him because I knew my
father would beat me for it.’
‘I remember it very well,’ I answered. ‘Nowadays, when
I remember it I feel that Karupanna Swami must have felt as
happy as he would if he had been given a bath of Ganges water.’
I had been initiated by the Swami of Sringeri before I
had even met Bhagavan. When I spoke about this initiation
to my brother, he said, ‘I will take my initiation directly from
Iswara [God]’.
Eventually he spoke of initiation by Bhagavan after his
return to Madurai and told me that Iswara himself had given
him initiation. In the years that followed he paid frequent
visits to Bhagavan and soon became an ardent devotee.
Many years later he was afflicted by tuberculosis so badly,

he was not able to move around by himself. He engaged an
assistant who helped him to come into Bhagavan’s presence.
My brother wanted to do pradakshina of Bhagavan, but
this was not allowed because he was very weak. As he was
leaving the ashram to go home, my brother started to cry.
Bhagavan came to the door to see him off. There were tears
in Bhagavan’s eyes as well.
The man who had accompanied my brother told me,
‘I did not believe it at first when your brother told me that
Bhagavan had great love for him. But now I have seen with
my own eyes how much Bhagavan loves him.’
My brother took sannyasa two years after he returned.
He must have known about Bhagavan’s views on the matter,
but he went ahead anyway.
When his wife cried, thinking that he was about to
abandon her, he reassured her by saying, ‘Are you mad? Do
you think that I would leave you alone? I will take you forty
days after my own death.’
Everything happened as my brother said it would.
When this story was told to Bhagavan, he said, with great
wonder, ‘Who knows what God’s purpose is in separating
and joining people like this? Why does He hide and manifest
His form?’
My father was the odd one in our family. He never had
any devotion at all. He used to get malarial fever frequently
and in his delirium used to say, ‘See, son, look there. There
is Lord Siva on his bull. Arati [sacred flame] is being given.
Go and have his darshan.’
When I told Bhagavan about this, he responded by telling
me a story and concluding ‘It is better to keep devotion a
secret.’ He then added the comment, ‘Unless a man annihilates
his ego, he cannot get realisation. One must lose the feeling
that one is performing actions.’
Once we sent a friend to Bhagavan. He came back and
told us, ‘What a useless swami you sent me to! I thought that
he would be engaged in divine worship, but on an ekadasi

day he was actually cutting onions!’
We tried to explain to him that we should not measure
the greatness of jnanis [enlightened beings] with our
yardstick and pointed out that there is no God for a jnani
to worship. But the friend did not appreciate or understand
us. Bhagavan will not let himself be understood by the
undeserving.
On one of my visits Bhagavan told me, ‘You and your
brothers have broadcast the news that there is a Maharshi
here. Some people believe you until they come here and see
me sitting in a corner. Then they think, “Oh, is this the man?”
They get disappointed and go away cursing you.’
I agreed with Bhagavan that many people were unable to
recognise his greatness.
‘Covered densely by the idea of “I” and “mine”,’ I said,
‘people are in such a sad state that even after seeing Bhagavan
they are not able to recognise him.’
On one occasion my brother-in-law, who was also a
great devotee of Bhagavan, brought one of his friends to
Tiruvannamalai. He had told him about Bhagavan’s greatness
and had convinced him to pay a visit.
While he was talking with this friend of the family,
Bhagavan extolled the virtue of Arunachala and remarked,
‘The important point is, Iswara manifested himself here in a
human form’.
The gentleman asked, very eagerly, ‘Where? Where?’
Bhagavan told him, ‘There is a huge banyan tree on this
mountain that has very big leaves. Iswara sits under it.’
My brother-in-law tried to tell his friend off: ‘You are a
big fool because ignorance has masked your vision.’
Pointing at Bhagavan, he continued, ‘You cannot see
Iswara even when he is sitting right in front of you!’
Bhagavan did not approve of my brother-in-law’s
comment, because he turned to him and said, angrily,
‘Enough! Enough!’
I witnessed another strange manifestation of Bhagavan’s

power on one of my visits to Skandasramam. Two men came
from a village and asked Bhagavan to give them vibhuti
[sacred ash] with his own hand.
‘Vibhuti is there,’ he said, pointing at some. ‘You can
help yourself and take some away.’
The men pleaded with Bhagavan, begging him to hand
it over with his own hand. Bhagavan refused, saying, ‘There
is no difference between your hand and mine.’ The visitors
were very disappointed and left the ashram without taking
any vibhuti.
I followed them and asked, ‘Why did you want the vibhuti
from Bhagavan’s own hand? Why were you so insistent?’
One of them told me, ‘I used to have leprosy. When I
came to see Bhagavan on a previous occasion, he gave me
some vibhuti with his own hand. I applied it to my body and
within a day there were no signs of the disease. This is my
friend. He also has leprosy. That is why I asked Bhagavan to
give vibhuti with his own hands.’
Bhagavan must have known that he had inadvertently
cured the leper of his disease. He probably refused to hand
over a second batch of vibhuti because he didn’t want to
acquire a reputation as a ‘miracle man’.
I once heard Bhagavan make an interesting remark about
jnanis and their powers.
‘Jnanis are of two types – siddhas and suddhas. Siddhas
know that they have extraordinary powers. Suddhas also have
such powers but they do not even know that they possess
them.’
I think that Bhagavan would have put himself in the
category of ‘suddha’. Power flowed through him and
manifested in many strange and inexplicable ways, but
Bhagavan was never aware that he was doing any of the
marvellous acts that were attributed to him by his devotees.
I then put in a query of my own, ‘Do jnanis have dreams?’
‘Just like the waking state,’ replied Bhagavan.
I persisted with my enquiries: ‘Then what sort of dreams

do you get?’
‘I dream of temples, holy bathing places and things like
that,’ answered Bhagavan.
Although Bhagavan never boasted about his own
realisation, he would sometimes say that the jnani was in a
very exalted state.
Once, while he was reading the Ribhu Gita, he looked up
and remarked, ‘The trimurtis [the three gods, Brahma, Vishnu,
and Siva] stand before the jnanis with folded hands, saying, “I
am at your service”. The trimurtis have the work of uplifting
the world, but jnanis do not even have that responsibility.’
Bhagavan once gave us an example of the Gods serving
jnanis when he told us about an encounter he had on the hill.
He had been wandering aimlessly on the mountain, without
food, when an old woman brought some rice gruel in a pot
and gave it to him.
Bhagavan, who could easily discern spiritual greatness in
the most ordinary-looking people, told us, ‘I thought that she
must have been Mother Parvati herself.’
Once a visitor commented, ‘The Theosophists say that a great
soul is going to descend to the earth and that everyone must get
ready to receive him. Do you know anything about this?’
‘I do not know anything about it,’ said Bhagavan. ‘But
it is strange that they wait for some great soul to descend
without trying to know anything about the great souls who
are on earth at present.’
Around this time, a friend of mine from Madurai, who
was very orthodox, came to see Bhagavan. As he was sitting
down to eat his meal, a puppy came and sniffed his plate. My
friend refused to eat the meal he had been served because
he felt that the food had been contaminated by the puppy.
Bhagavan smiled at his refusal and started to tell him a story
from the life of Dattatreya, the famous Guru of ancient India.
‘Once Dattatreya and one of his disciples went to see
Dattatreya’s Guru. On the way Dattatreya warned his disciple
that his Guru might appear in any form. The Guru actually
came in the form of a Muslim fakir. After Dattatreya and his
disciple had prostrated, they all sat down to eat. The Guru
took a slice of bread from his bag, dipped it in fresh dog’s
milk and gave it to Dattatreya. Dattatreya broke it into two
pieces, kept one for himself and gave the other to his disciple.
The disciple, who could not overcome his feelings of disgust
towards the dog’s milk, did not eat his piece. He kept it for
some time and then threw it away.
‘A little later Dattatreya asked his disciple, “Have you
eaten the bread?”
The disciple told the truth. Dattatreya then took a piece
of bread that his Guru was chewing and gave it to his disciple
to eat.’
Bhagavan told this story to my friend and then asked him
to eat the food from the plate touched by the dog. My friend
ate it.
I was not there when all this happened. Bhagavan’s
mother gave me all the details on my next visit.
Bhagavan answered, ‘A person once gave me poison in
order to test me. It did not kill me, but instead ate away all
my gums.’
I sympathised with him by saying, ‘When Lord Siva
swallowed halahala [poison], Mother Parvati was there to
take care of him. She advised Siva to keep the poison in his
throat and not let it go down into his stomach. You poor man!
In your case you had no one like Parvati to advise you.’
I noticed this when some devotees, who were on a
pilgrimage to Pandharpur, came to the ashram and ate a meal
there. Just before they left, they went up to Bhagavan and
embraced him.
I took advantage of their activities to embrace him as
well, but as I did so I noticed that the skin on Bhagavan’s
body had gone red.
‘What is this?’ I asked him. ‘How did your skin get like
this?’
Bhagavan replied, ‘They embraced me just as they would

embrace the idol in Pandharpur. There, the God is a stone,
but here the body has skin. The nature of skin is to become
red like this.’
I came to the conclusion that Bhagavan’s body was so pure
and delicate, any kind of violent handling would leave a mark.
Bhagavan was not unaware of body pains; he was just
detached from them. In fact I think that it is likely that he
experienced more pain than we did, for not only did he have
many painful physical ailments, he also experienced pain
when some people came near him. He once told me that
when some people came to bow to him, he felt as though he
was being physically beaten. I thought that such people must
have been very great sinners to affect Bhagavan like this.
Because I had this nagging feeling that I was not making
much headway in spiritual matters, I once complained,
‘Bhagavan, your grace is not on me!’
Bhagavan replied, ‘You are speaking like one who,
standing shoulder deep in the flood waters of the Ganges,
complains that he is thirsty and says that he wants water from
a tap in Thanjavur to be brought to quench his thirst.’
Bhagavan much preferred to sit in silence, without being
bothered by questions, for that was his natural state.
He once remarked to me, ‘I am where there is no word.’
‘Then why do you talk?’ I asked.
‘Out of compassion,’ he replied.
Bhagavan could turn the most mundane event into an
opportunity for spiritual instruction. Once, for example,
Ramaswami Pillai was searching for a key that he had lost.
After some time he came into the hall and told Bhagavan
about the missing key.
Bhagavan said to him, ‘The key is where it always was.
It is not lost. Only your memory is lost. Atman [the Self] is
always everywhere, but due to ajnana [ignorance] we spend
our time searching for it.’
Bhagavan turned one of my own comments into a little

upadesa [teaching] when I accompanied him on one of his
trips to the top of Arunachala.
As we looked down I commented, ‘From this height, all
things, all creatures look alike.’
Bhagavan agreed and gave my statement a philosophical
twist: ‘Yes, as you go up, you will see that all things are
alike.’
Later, while we were walking on the hill together, he
pointed out one of the main differences between us: ‘You
always have a desire for something or other. I never desire
anything.’
According to my horoscope, the year 1921 was destined
to be an especially bad period in my life. Bhagavan told me
many times that I should not leave him during this period. In
saying this he also seemed to acknowledge that this period
would be a potentially troublesome time for me. During
this year, while I was staying at Skandasramam, a friend of
mine came to Bhagavan and asked me to accompany him to
Madras.
I had planned to go, but Bhagavan told me, ‘Put him
on the train and come back here at once. Don’t stay at any
choultry [a guesthouse for pilgrims] in town. Even if it is
very late at night, come straight here from the station.’
I followed his advice since Bhagavan had clearly spotted
some hidden danger.
He was not always so strict. On a few occasions during
this period he would give me permission to go to Madras, but
he would always tell me that I should come back as soon as I
had finished my business there. At some point during the year,
some of my friends decided to go and work in Singapore.
They asked me if I would like to go with them. Because I was
afraid of poverty, I agreed.
When I went to Bhagavan to get his permission, he heard
my story and said, ‘All right, we will see,’ but he would not
give me his permission to leave the ashram.
After several requests I finally persuaded him to allow

me to go to Madras and join my friends. On my arrival there
I learnt that my friends, after seeking me in vain, had left
for Singapore without me. By Bhagavan’s grace, and by his
determined physical intervention, I survived the year without
experiencing any mishaps.
One night Bhagavan said, ‘These steps are not level.
Please go and call all the sadhus who are under the banyan
tree.’
With the help of these mendicants Bhagavan and I lifted
those big stones, put them straight and made the surfaces
even. We started at eight o’clock at night and finished by
midnight. When we woke in the morning and saw our work
in daylight, we saw that the steps were better than any mason
could have built for us.
I stayed with Bhagavan for months together over a
period of many years. During this time I spent many nights
with him. I don’t know if it has any special significance, but
I should like to record that I never once saw him yawning or
stretching his limbs to loosen up his body.
On one of my visits I mentioned to Bhagavan that I
thought my family was getting un-manageably large.
‘If you are afraid of having more children, you will get
more,’ said Bhagavan. Then, after a pause, he said, ‘There are
some more troubles coming up for you’.
I replied, ‘My troubles were over as soon as I came to
see you,’ but Bhagavan’s prediction soon turned out to be
correct. In the next few years my family was afflicted by a
string of disasters.
First, my son fell into an open well. He got a deep wound
and was brought home bleeding heavily. That night he had
a dream in which he saw a black form standing near him.
Bhagavan appeared in the dream, took a stick and chased
away the form. We took my son to the local hospital, but
the doctors there gave us no hope. However, by Bhagavan’s
grace, my son survived and came home within a month. A
little later my third daughter became mentally deranged after

giving birth.
When I wrote to Bhagavan about it, the ashram replied
on his behalf, ‘There is no danger to Meenakshi. You need
not worry.’
I applied the vibhuti, which came along with the letter,
to Meenakshi’s body, and she was soon cured. No other
medication was used.
About a year later Meenakshi gave birth to a boy who had
an enlarged liver. When the baby was brought to the ashram,
Bhagavan personally fed him two oranges a day. The liver
trouble of the child was cured without any other medicine. It
was another victory for Bhagavan’s grace and advice.
After this my family experienced more difficulties.
My fifth daughter caught a fever and lost her memory. An
application of Bhagavan’s vibhuti brought her back to normal.
Then her husband got tuberculosis. I wrote to Bhagavan about
this problem and received a new consignment of vibhuti and
kumkum from the ashram. My son-in-law was cured, although
in this case it took a few months.
The most serious problem occurred when my eldest
daughter became mentally unbalanced and fell into a well. At
the time she went missing, we had no idea what had happened
to her. We searched the whole town for her before it occurred
to us to look down the well. When we first inspected it, we
could not see her body. It was only when my wife insisted
that we make a thorough search that we looked more carefully
and found her. We brought her up to the surface, but she was
already dead. Seeing that there was no life in her, my wife
immediately ran into the house and prayed before Bhagavan’s
photo.
‘Bhagavan, if it is true that we are all safe and sound by
your grace alone, may my daughter breathe again.’
After saying this, she applied vibhuti to the dead body.
Almost at once our daughter started to breathe again.
I used to bring all my family to Bhagavan, and Bhagavan

used to look after them all. When I brought one of my
granddaughters, Mathuram, who was then one and half years
old, Bhagavan put her on his knee and played with her. He was
saying ‘Aha! Aha!’ to her and after some time he succeeded in
getting her to make the same noise. When he put her on the floor
and sent her back to her mother, Chidambaram Swami, who was
sitting nearby, said that Mathuram had just been initiated.
In the 1940s my wife and I attended the mandalabhishekam
festival in the ashram. At the same time she was suffering
from acute pain in the back.
The ashram doctor told us, ‘I will give an injection but I
am not sure if the problem can be cured.’
The doctor gave her the injection and then advised her
to go and lie down. However, she decided to go and sit with
Bhagavan instead. While she was sitting before him, she had
some kind of fit and collapsed. We took her away and made
her lie down in a friend’s house. She was so ill, many people
in the ashram were afraid that she would die. Fortunately,
she made a speedy recovery, so much so that she was able to
come to the ashram the following morning.
Bhagavan asked me, ‘How is Chellammal? I do not think
she is in pain any more.’
As he was saying this, he waved his hands in the air.
From then on, my wife never had that spinal pain again.
The family disasters continued when my second son was
bitten by a snake. His vision became blurred and his body
went blue. He had been bitten in a village where no medicine
or antidote was available. We put him under Bhagavan’s
photo and hoped for the best.
Early the following morning he opened his eyes and said,
‘Father, Bhagavan came to me and patted my leg.’
‘Did he?’ I said with great relief. ‘Then you will live.’
On the following day I took him to a hospital in Madurai.
The doctors there saw him and predicted that he would
probably die. Even if he lived, they said, his leg would have
to be amputated.
I wrote to Bhagavan immediately. In his reply Bhagavan
assured me that he would not leave those who had faith and
belief in him. He added that the boy would soon become well.
As Bhagavan had predicted, the boy soon became normal.
On one of my visits to Skandasramam, Bhagavan had
told me, ‘I have attained what I have to attain. Now there is
nothing more that I should achieve. I can live as I like.’
‘Then shall I bring a girl and marry you off?’ I said
jokingly.
‘All right, whatever you wish,’ he answered.
When I came to attend this mandalabhishekam many
years later, Bhagavan said to my wife, ‘Rangan has asked me
if he can marry off his daughter, and I have said “Yes”. Then
he asked me if he could perform the marriage here itself. I
am afraid that he may bring your daughter and ask me to put
the three knots round her neck myself. Why? Because thirty
years ago he said that he would marry me off. From that day
on I am living in fear that he might suddenly bring some girl
for me!’
Once while parting from Bhagavan I felt very disconsolate
and began to cry. Seeing this, Bhagavan said, ‘You are
imagining that you came from Kumbakonam and are now
going to Madurai. You are where you always were, that is, in
the same place. Now that you are with me, you are in a state
of jubilation. But when you have reached the state of Self by
yourself, you will realise that there is nothing special in me.
You will know that you are also that Self.’
It was a common experience that people would feel
joy, ecstasy or jubilation in Bhagavan’s presence, and then
lose it when they went away from him. Bhagavan knew, of
course, that he had this effect on people. I remember one
man in particular who had this problem. He used to come
to Bhagavan, sing devotional songs with great fervour and
dance to the tunes he was singing.
One day, after his departure, Bhagavan commented, ‘He

dances with joy when he comes here. But when he departs,
he takes back the burden of sin that he temporarily lowered.’
My wife also once did a few pradakshinas around Bhagavan.
She had wanted to go around the hill with him, but I
told her, ‘Bhagavan has stopped going on giripradakshina
[walking around Arunachala]. It will not be fair on our part
to give him trouble by asking him.’
After my wife had walked around Bhagavan, she told
him that she had got the same reward that Lord Ganesh had
obtained from walking around Siva.
‘This is the place where it happened,’ said Bhagavan.
‘Wasn’t it at Pazhani?’ I asked.
‘No, that was on another occasion,’ replied Bhagavan.
Years later, some devotees tried to make Bhagavan sit on
a chair in the dining room and eat his meals off a table. Prior
to that, he had sat on the floor like everyone else. I arrived at
the ashram from Madras shortly after this new arrangement
had been put into operation.
When he saw me enter the dining room, Bhagavan called
out to me, ‘Do you see, Rangan, what they are doing to me
now? They have ordered me to sit in a chair and eat my meal
off this table.’
After making a few enquiries I discovered that this new
arrangement had been made because devotees had noticed
that Bhagavan was finding it difficult to squat on the floor
and get up again.
When I found this out, I went up to him and said, ‘Do
you ever ask for anything? You do not want anything. We
must therefore look after your comfort.’
Bhagavan was not convinced. He would rather put up
with any difficulty than be given special treatment.
I used to visit Bhagavan regularly when I worked in
Madras. On one of my visits I missed the connecting train
in Villupuram. I was very disappointed because the next
train was not due for many hours. I told the stationmaster,
who was a friend of mine, about my problem and he very

kindly arranged for me to travel on a goods train that was
going through Tiruvannamalai. The train was not due to stop
in Tiruvannamalai, but the driver slowed down so I could
jump off. Unfortunately, as I was alighting from the train,
I fell over and wounded myself. I started to limp towards
the ashram, but the path was not clearly visible. I ended up
scrambling through some bushes and thorn trees that added
to my injuries. I arrived in the ashram in a very disreputable
state.
When Bhagavan asked me where all my cuts and
scratches had come from, I told him what had happened.
‘Why all this haste?’ he asked.
‘In order to see you,’ I replied.
Bhagavan made all my troubles worthwhile by saying,
‘The yearning for darshan matters more than the darshan
itself.’
In 1945-46, the wife of Rangan gave Bhagavan a book
named Ramana Kalyanam written by their son. The whole
book was full of songs where Bhagavan was depicted as
a bridegroom with Mukti Kanta (liberation bride) as the
bride. One day he started to sing all these songs in the hall.
Everything that pertained to the marriage ceremony was
described in detail, such as the bridal procession, the exchange
of garlands, etc. At that point, looking at us Bhagavan said,
“Have you all observed me getting married? Here am I
playing with flowers, exchanging garlands, hearing songs and
getting married in the proper way. These people are all grief-
stricken because Swami has not been married all these days.
In this way they have at last made up for the deficiency. Just
listen to them!” And Bhagavan laughed.
23. Lakshmana Sarma (‘WHO?’)*
H e was born in 1879, at Pudukkottai, Tamil Nadu, in the

same year as Bhagavan. He was interested in Nature
Cure which allowed him to eventually reach the ripe and
vigorous age of 86.
Lakshmana Sarma worked as a civil lawyer for the
Government and eventually served in Pudukkottai, the official
Receiver State. At the same time, he was also an active and
courageous social reformer. He was committed to the Freedom
Movement and discarded wearing all foreign cloth and took
up the wearing of khadi in 1918. Even though he knew it
would cost him his job as a Government employee, in 1920
he presided over a public meeting against the autocracy of the
ruler of Pudukkottai.
He lived at Pondicherry from 1920-1925. It was from there
that he continued to develop and promote his involvement in
Nature Cure and began regular visits to his Guru, Sri Ramana
Maharshi at Tiruvannamalai.
He viewed the Maharshi as the formless, timeless and
spaceless Arunachala, who dances as the ‘I’ in the Heart and
who graciously took form so that we could be removed of the
bondage of form. It is with Ramana, the true Guru, that we can
repose our faith and loyalty, because: “...Ramana is the same
as Bhagavatpada Sri Sankaracharya and Sri Dakshinamurti, ...
his words are the primary Upanishad, from which the ancient
Upanishads themselves derive their authority.”
Sarma believed that the teachings of Bhagavan were
centred on the Direct Path, the Quest (Maha Yoga) of the
Self, and that Ramana did not teach the metaphysical truths
of the Vedanta simply for their own sake, but that they had
an intrinsic value as aids for the understanding and practice
* V. Ganesan, Ramana Periya Puranam; K. Lakshmana Sarma

(‘WHO’), Ramanaparavidyopanishad; K. Lakshmana Sarma
(‘WHO’), Mahayoga.
of the Quest. It was the Quest itself that was the means of
solving problems, because it was the direct path to the natural
state, wherein problems would be resolved through harmony
with one’s Self.
Sarma spent more than twenty years in close association
with Bhagavan Sri Ramana Maharshi, and during that time
made a deep study of his teachings.
Once, some time after he came into the Holy presence,
Bhagavan asked him: “Have you not read the Ulladu
Narpadu?” Sarma replied: “No, I am unable to understand
the Tamil.” The fact was that he was altogether unfamiliar
with classical Tamil. But then it occurred to him that here was
a golden opportunity. So he said: If Bhagavan teaches me, I
shall learn it”. So Bhagavan began to teach him.
Bhagavan was as compassionate as ever and the daily
sessions with Lakshmana Sarma were long and in depth.
Later on, when his book was published – though Lakshmana
Sarma never intended for it to be a book – he described the
sessions that he had with Bhagavan and how he worked on
what Bhagavan taught him. During this time, Lakshmana
Sarma lived in a hut in Palakkothu. Since he was a Sanskrit
scholar, when he returned to his hut at night, he would
compile all the knowledge that he had gathered into a verse
in Sanskrit. He would show the verse to Bhagavan the next
day and Bhagavan would read it and correct it. Occasionally,
Bhagavan would respond with a look of dissatisfaction and
then Lakshmana Sarma would rework that verse. Bhagavan
never believed in criticizing anyone or pointing out their
mistakes, but close devotees could read the expression in his
eyes or on his face. This rigorous routine continued, not for a
few days or a few months, but for three years.
To quote Lakshmana Sarma: “Bhagavan began to teach
me. I needed to proceed slowly, going from one verse to
another. I had to make sure that I understood what Bhagavan
had taught me. So I composed verses in Sanskrit that embodied
the meaning that he had imparted. Before proceeding to the
next verse, I would submit the verse to Bhagavan to make sure

that I had faithfully translated what he had said. If I didn’t get
quite the approval I wanted, I would work on the verse again
and again until he was satisfied. This is how I studied all the
verses and translated them into Sanskrit. I was unable to stop
with the first translation because Ulladu Narpadu had taken
complete possession of me and I felt compelled to keep on
revising the Sanskrit verses. After translating the first forty
verses, I went back and reworked them. It seemed to me
that no amount of time and labour would be too much for
achieving the end I had in mind.” The Sanskrit text was given
the title Saddarshanam (The Vision of Reality). Lakshmana
Sarma put in such relentless work that Bhagavan, who rarely
commented on people, observed, “For Lakshmana Sarma it is
tapas. He revised the work again and again and lived by it.”
The almost perfect and flawless rendering into Sanskrit was
what Lakshmana Sarma strove for and achieved.
The editor of a Tamil monthly magazine wanted to
publish the commentary as a series. Every time the magazine
came, Bhagavan would cut out the pages of the commentary
and with keen interest paste these pages on a sheet of brown
paper and preserve them. Once the entire commentary had
been published, he himself stitched these pages into a book.
When the devotees noticed Bhagavan’s great interest in the
commentary, they decided to get it printed. However, for
some reason, the ashram did not print the commentary. So
Lakshmana Sarma himself brought out a private edition of the
book called Ulladu Narpadu Urai, not for personal reasons,
but because of Bhagavan’s interest.
Soon after the commentary was published, an interesting
incident took place. One day, Bhagavan’s brother Chinna
Swami, the manager of the ashram, was busy in the ashram
office with some clerical work. He was so absorbed in it
that he did not observe Bhagavan patiently waiting to get
his attention from behind a window. Bhagavan could have
very well called out to him, but he would never do that. After
some fifteen minutes, someone else noticed Bhagavan and

told Chinna Swami, “Bhagavan is waiting for you behind
your window.” Bhagavan then said, “Pichai,” (that was the
way Bhagavan addressed his brother), “Everyone acclaims
Lakshmana Sarma’s commentary on Ulladu Narpadu as the
best so far. Nobody has studied the text the way Lakshmana
Sarma has. I think it would be fitting for the ashram to publish
the work.” Chinna Swami took the hint and the ashram
published it immediately. Chinna Swami himself studied the
work and recommended it to everyone, saying, “Please read
Ulladu Narpadu Urai. It is a true reflection of Bhagavan’s
teaching.” Ulladu Narpadu Urai was acclaimed the best
publication of the year. Even today, it is considered the best
commentary in Tamil.
Maha Yoga, which is one of Sarma’s most lucid works,
is an insightful exposition of Bhagavan’s teachings and an
eloquent, original summary of Vedantic philosophy and the
Upanishads. Besides this, Sarma also rendered selected verses
from Muruganar’s Guru Vachaka Kovai into both Sanskrit
and English under the title Guru Ramana Vachanamala.
Over the years Muruganar and Lakshmana developed
a close friendship in which they helped each other augment
their philosophical understanding of Bhagavan’s teachings. It
was during these years that Muruganar instructed Lakshmana
Sarma in classical Tamil so that he was better equipped to
understand and translate the teachings of Bhagavan.
Lakshmana Sarma was a regular contributor to The
Call Divine, a Bombay monthly magazine published in the
1950s, dedicated to the works and teachings of Bhagavan. It
was in this magazine that Sarma’s last published work, the
Paravidya Upanishad appeared in monthly installments in
the mid 1950s.
Lakshmana Sarma founded The Indian Institute of
Natural Therapeutics, was founder of Sarma’s Nature Cure
Sanatorium, founder-editor of The Life Natural, the only
English Nature Cure monthly journal published in India,
and also the author of Practical Nature Cure. As well as

his writings on Nature Cure, Sarma, who was renowned
as a foremost authority, also conducted training camps and
travelled the country giving consultations.
At the advanced age of eighty he started and completed
a monumental treatise in Sanskrit verse on Vedanta, entitled
Vedanta Saram. Step by step, he completed his work. He
re-wrote the whole of his magnum opus, Practical Nature
Cure, which comprised 720 pages and also completed two
monumental works in Sanskrit verse, the above-mentioned
Vedanta Saram and Svadhena-Svasthya-Mahavidya.
He gave up his body by gently lowering his intake of
food in accordance with his belief in Naturopathy. He passed
away at 6.50 a.m. on May 3, 1965.
24. Krishna Bhikshu

(Oruganti Venkata Krishnayya)*
K rishna Bhikshu tells us: Our family was in some way

or other always associated with religion and spiritual
searching. Brahmasri Chivukula Venkata Sastri, my uncle, had
asked some of the questions that were recorded in Sri Ramana
Gita. When I was a child I often used to go to his house and
there I saw for the first time the photo of Bhagavan Ramana
and read Sri Ramana Gita and other early publications.
He met Kavyakantha Ganapati Muni in Madras and
thought: ‘If the man is so great, how much greater must be
his master.’
A strong desire to meet Sri Ramana Maharshi was born
in my heart. I went to Arunachala for the first time with Rami
Reddi.
* ‘Introducing…’, The Mountain Path, Jan. 1966; Ramana Smriti;

Reminiscences of Kunju Swami; ‘Obituary’, The Mountain Path,
Apr. 1982.
I only stayed with him for three days but in that short
period he made a great impression on me. I considered him
to be a real mahatma, although his ways were very simple.
When I was about to leave, I asked, ‘Bhagavan, kindly
show me a good path’.
‘What are you doing now?’ he asked.
‘When I am in the right mood, I sing the songs of
Tyagaraja [a poet-saint who wrote in Telugu] and recite the
holy Gayatri mantra. I have also been doing some pranayama
but these breathing exercises have upset my health.’
‘You had better stop them,’ he advised, ‘but never give
up the advaita drishti [non-dual vision].’
At that time I could not understand his words.
I went to Benares for a month, returned to Pondicherry
and spent five months there. Wherever I would go people
would find some fault or other with me: ‘You are too weak;
you are not fit for yoga; you do not know how to concentrate;
you cannot hold your breath; you are unable to fast; you need
too much sleep; you cannot keep vigils; you must surrender
all your property.’ And so on. Only Bhagavan asked for
nothing, and found fault with nothing.
He wanted me, not my goodness. It was enough to tell
him, ‘I am yours,’ for him to do the rest.
In 1930 I visited Ramanasramam for the second time
and stayed a month. At night, after dinner was finished, all
inmates of the ashram would collect around Bhagavan. At
this hour he was our own. He would tell stories, answer
questions, dispel doubts, laughing and joking all the while.
We never knew how late it was until Madhava Swami would
go behind Bhagavan’s back and give us signs that it was
time to allow Bhagavan some rest. Around this time B. V.
Narasimha Swami took up the task of writing a book, Self-
Realisation, on Bhagavan’s life. He was collecting material
for his work from devotees. The first draft of the book was
ready and the author gave it to me to read. The idea came to
me that a similar book should be written in Telugu. I obtained
Bhagavan’s permission and, using Narasimha Swami’s

manuscript for an outline, managed to get the Telugu version,
Sri Ramana Leela, written within a month.
After that, I would come down to Ramanasramam,
whenever I got an opportunity. There was always a warm
welcome for me from everyone, including Bhagavan, who
would say affectionately ‘Krishnayya has come’ when he saw
me arriving.
In those early days Bhagavan was much more ‘one of
us’. Though he would freely move about the ashram and do
all kinds of jobs, cooking was his favourite occupation. He
was an excellent cook and seemed to know everything about
herbs and vegetables, their properties, the many ways of
cooking them, the various dishes and their ingredients. When
he was sitting at the grinding stone, grinding the chutney, we
would all gather around him and, like a mother preparing a
family meal, he would give each of us some to taste. It was
prasad to us.
A devotee said there are several discrepancies between the
Telugu and English versions of the biography of Bhagavan.
‘Bhagavan remarked, “Yes, that is so. Krishna Bhikshu
has made several alterations as he has been coming here every
now and then and checking up. Narasimha Swami, who wrote
the English version, and Suddhananda Bharati, who wrote
the Tamil version [Sri Ramana Vijayam], have not come here
since writing them.”’
Surprisingly, although my contact with him was at an
emotional level, I could not sing in his presence. As much as
I tried, nothing would pass my throat. It was strange because
elsewhere I would sing very well. Others would sing before
him, not only skillful musicians, but also untutored people
would burst out into song in his presence. Only I was made
dumb near him.
To me Bhagavan was always a very great and fatherly
man. I trusted him completely. He guided and I followed.
I knew that I was in safe hands and that I was well looked
after. I had no cares. I just loved him with the whole of my

being and lived my life by his side, eating in the same room,
sleeping in the same hall, chatting and joking, but all the time
being tied fast to him by his immense love and attention.
Once I said to Bhagavan, ‘Bhagavan, formerly, whenever
I thought of you, your form would appear before my eyes.
But now it does not happen. What am I to do?’
Bhagavan advised, ‘You can remember my name and
repeat it. Name is superior to form. But in the course of time
even the name will disappear. Till then repeat the name.’
An orthodox lady from Nellore came to the ashram,
expecting me to be there and to make arrangements for her.
After informing Bhagavan, I went to visit a friend in Kolar
several hundred miles away. Not finding me she asked
Bhagavan ‘Where is Krishnayya?’
‘There,’ said Bhagavan, pointing to the place where I
usually sat.
She looked bewildered and asked again: ‘Where?’ ‘Why?
Don’t you see? There.’
She almost collapsed when someone said, ‘He has gone
somewhere.’
Bhagavan suddenly remembered my trip and said, ‘He
has gone to Kolar.’
What does his saying, ‘There! Don’t you see?’ mean?
Was I, who was in the train, still to him just before his feet?
Was he in his divine sight following and watching me during
the journey?
An even more extreme example springs to mind. A
devotee once brought some expensive halva for Bhagavan.
The sweets were arranged on a large tray and put before
Bhagavan on the ground. A dog came in and touched the
sweets with his nose. One of the inmates got furious and
tried to drive the dog away. Bhagavan got up and shouted at
the devotee, ‘Get out! What right have you to drive this dog
away? On what grounds do you stop a dog from eating? Does
this halva belong to you?’
He cut the halva into pieces, ate some himself and

distributed the rest with his own hands. All the people present
had to eat it as his prasad whether they wanted to or not.
One of the devotees nursed a grudge against the ashram
management. He asserted loudly that distinctions were made
between guests. He claimed he was not being given the same
hospitality that others were. He brought his complaint to
Bhagavan along with his cup of afternoon coffee. Just then a
mug was served to Bhagavan.
The devotee exclaimed, ‘You see, even Bhagavan is
given special coffee! Look at mine, how thin it is!’
Bhagavan said nothing, but took the man’s cup and
exchanged it for his own mug. The disgruntled devotee tasted
it. It was a bitter decoction of jungle herbs! Only Bhagavan
had the courage to drink it. Nobody else could stand it. The
poor man was in a quandary, for he had asked for it himself
and got it from Bhagavan’s own hands. To him, as a Hindu,
it was prasad, a sacred offering. Never in his life did prasad
taste so bitter!
At least this man had the courage to drink his bitter
medicine. Those who refused Bhagavan’s real prasad often
found themselves getting into trouble. A lawyer, Ramidipudi
Ramakrishnaiah, came from Nellore with a long list of
questions. He was quite proud of his questions and was sure
that even Bhagavan would find them difficult to answer. But
when he came to the hall and sat before Bhagavan, his mind
became paralysed and he could not ask a single question.
He had to leave for Nellore by an early train, so he went
in search of Bhagavan to take leave of him. He found him
in the kitchen, preparing idlis and coffee. Bhagavan asked
him to sit down and have his breakfast before going. But our
lawyer said he was in a hurry. ‘I must catch the train. I will
breakfast at the station.’
So saying, he rushed off. On the way to the station he met
a bus driver who assured him that he would reach Katpadi
earlier if he caught a bus. He got into the bus, but the bus
broke down on the road. He was late for the Gudur train, took
the train to Madras, reached Madras very late and caught the
Nellore train when it was already steaming out.
He reached Nellore late in the night, ravenously hungry,
having not eaten since the day before. He was beginning to
regret turning down Bhagavan’s invitation to eat breakfast
with him. When he asked for food, there was none ready in
the house.
‘Then make some,’ he said, ‘I haven’t eaten all day.’
‘It is not allowed,’ he was told. His father’s death
anniversary was due to be celebrated the following day, and
he was barred from eating until the function was over. The
next day the ceremonies were delayed, so he only managed to
eat late in the afternoon, after a fast of over forty hours! Had
he listened to Bhagavan, all this would not have happened.
Sometime in 1939 I told him, ‘Bhagavan, a saint has
initiated me into pranava [repeating Om as a mantra]. May I
do that japa?’
‘Do it by all means,’ he said. ‘Pranava came to you.
Carry on with it.’
Rama Rao was requested many times by friends to
visit Bhagavan. He would invariably reply, ‘I shall go when
Bhagavan calls me’.
One day, while he was praying, Bhagavan appeared to
him and asked, ‘Why have you not come?’
Rama Rao immediately left for Tiruvannamalai. Before
reaching the ashram he had a dream in which a yantra, a
symbolic drawing, appeared before him. He told the dream
to Bhagavan, described the yantra and asked who could help
him in having one drawn correctly. Bhagavan gave him all the
necessary information. When the yantra was ready, Bhagavan
examined it carefully and gave it to Rama Rao, telling him to
use it in his worship.
During one of my early visits to the ashram Bhagavan
had encouraged me to carry on repeating the Gayatri mantra,
since I had been repeating it in the past. After some time I

asked him again because I was having a problem with the
repetitions.
‘You told me to repeat the Gayatri mantra. It is too long.
Also, I am expected to know its meaning and to meditate on it.’
‘Who asked you to bother about the meaning? I have
only asked you to see who is repeating the Gayatri, or who is
the one doing the japa.’
By making me look for the one who was doing the japa,
he was subtly and slowly turning me towards the practice of
self-enquiry.
He would say, ‘Sooner or later the question “Who am
I?” will have to be faced. All that leads to this question is
good. By itself nothing else is fully effective, for Self-
knowledge comes only through self-enquiry. Other methods
purify the mind and help it to see its own limits. When the
mind comes to the end of its resources and stands baffled
before the unanswerable question, then a higher power takes
charge of the mind and the Self stands revealed as the real,
the wonderful.’
Some devotees in the ashram wanted to publish an
ashram magazine. A scheme was drawn up and submitted to
Bhagavan for approval.
He asked, ‘What will the magazine contain?’
‘All the news of the ashram along with Bhagavan’s talks
and his answers to questions. It will be read by people all
over the world.’
‘And if I don’t talk or give answers, what will you
publish? Am I to keep on talking so that your magazine
appears regularly? What new punishment have you invented
for me?’
The idea was quickly dropped.
It was a summer evening, and we were all sitting outside
in the open space by the well. Suddenly one of the visitors
started weeping bitterly.
‘I am a horrible sinner. For a long time I have been

coming to your feet, but there is no change in me. Can I
become pure at last? How long am I to wait? When I am here
near you, I am good for a time. But when I leave this place,
I become a beast again. You cannot imagine how bad I can
be – hardly a human being. Am I to remain a sinner forever?’
‘Why do you come to me? What have I to do with you?’
demanded Bhagavan. ‘What is there between us that you
should come here and weep and cry in front of me?’
The man started moaning and crying even more, as if his
heart was breaking.
‘All my hopes of salvation are gone. You were my last
refuge but you say you have nothing to do with me! To whom
shall I turn now? What am I to do? To whom am I to go?’
Bhagavan watched him for some time and said, ‘Am I
your Guru that I should be responsible for your salvation?
Have I ever said that I am your Master?’
‘If you are not my Master, then who is? And who are you,
if not my Master? You are my Guru. You are my guardian
angel. You must take pity on me and release me from my sins!’
He started sobbing and crying again. We all sat silently,
overcome with pity. Only Bhagavan looked alert and matter-
of-fact.
‘If I am your Guru, what are my fees? Surely you should
pay me for my services.’
‘But you won’t take anything!’ cried the visitor. ‘What
can I give you?’
‘Did I ever say that I don’t take anything? And did you
ever ask me what you can give me?’
‘If you would take, then ask me. There is nothing I would
not give you.’
‘All right. Now I am asking. Give me. What will you
give me?’ ‘Take anything. Everything I have is yours.’
‘Then give me all the good you have done in this world.’
‘What good could I have done? I have not a single virtue to
my credit.’
‘You have promised to give. Now give. Don’t talk of

your credit. Just give away all the good you have done in
your past.’
‘Yes, I shall give. But how does one give? Tell me how
the giving is done and I shall give.’
‘Say like this: “All the good I have done in the past I
am giving away entirely to my Guru. Henceforth I have no
merit from it nor have I any concern with it.” Say it with your
whole heart.’
‘All right, Swami. “I am giving away to you all the good
I have done so far, if I have done any, and all its good effects.
I am giving it to you gladly, for you are my Master and you
are asking me to give it all away to you.”’
‘But this is not enough,’ said Bhagavan sternly.
‘I have given you all I have. I have given you everything
you asked me to give. I have nothing more to give.’
‘Not true. You have more. Give me all your sins.’ The
man looked wildly at Bhagavan, terror stricken.
‘You do not know, Swami, what you are asking for. If
you knew, you would not ask me. If you take over my sins,
your body will rot and burn. You do not know me. You do not
know my sins. Please do not ask me for my sins.’
He wept bitterly.
‘I shall look after myself. Don’t you worry about me,’
said Bhagavan. ‘All I want from you is your sins.’
For a long time the bargain would not go through. The
man refused to part with his sins, but Bhagavan was adamant.
‘Either give me your sins along with your merits, or keep
both and don’t think of me as your Master.’ In the end the
visitor’s scruples broke down and he declared, ‘Whatever
sins I have done, they are no longer mine. All of them and
their results, too, belong to Ramana.’
Bhagavan seemed to be satisfied. ‘From now on there is
neither good nor bad in you. You are just pure. Go and do
nothing, either good or bad. Remain yourself. Remain what
you are.’
A great peace fell over the man and over us all. No one
knows what happened to the fortunate visitor, for he was
never seen in the ashram again. He might have had no further
need to come.
Once Samba Siva Rao who was feeling very angry,
overheard Bhagavan saying to somebody: ‘If you have to get
angry, get angry with good people. If you get angry with bad
people, you may get it back with interest.’
Sambasiva Rao was startled, thinking that the words
were meant for him.
‘Bhagavan,’ he said, ‘is there no danger in abusing good
people?’
Bhagavan smiled and said, ‘When good people are
abused, they may not retaliate, but they are hurt, and because
of that the abuser may have to suffer. There is also a saying in
the scriptures that he who curses good people gets all the bad
that may be still left in them. If you want to curse at all, curse
Bhagavan. He will not be hurt and he is without sin. You are
safe in cursing him. He wants only to be remembered. The
mood in which you remember him is of less importance. Were
it otherwise, how could Ravana and Sishupala get salvation?
Sambasiva Rao heard it in silence and his way of behaving
with Bhagavan changed completely.
An inmate of the ashram who had been serving Bhagavan
for many years started visiting a certain woman in the town.
Her relatives came to know of it and decided to catch and
kill the man. One night they caught him in her house, bound
him hand and foot and locked him up in a room, postponing
the cutting of his throat until they had found a safe way of
disposing of the body. Our man managed to escape and came
running to the ashram, pursued by his enemies. When he
entered the gate they gave up the chase.
He entered the hall trembling and fell on the ground
shouting, ‘Save me, save me!’
Bhagavan ordered the doors to be shut and said, ‘Don’t
be afraid. Tell me what happened.’
After Bhagavan had heard the man’s confession, he looked

at the culprit with understanding and pity and said, reassuringly,
‘You don’t need to have this fear any longer. Go and sleep.’
Everybody in the town came to know what had happened.
The ashram people requested Bhagavan to send the man away,
for his presence would tarnish the good name of the ashram.
Bhagavan called the man and told him in front of everybody:
‘You have done some wrong, but you were too foolish not to
keep it a secret. Others do worse things, but they take care not
to be caught. Now, the people who were not caught want you
to leave the ashram because you were caught.’
The devotee was allowed to stay.
Bhagavan once had this to say about some people who
were making complaints:
‘On their first visit to the ashram they seem to be all right.
On their second visit they discover that the ashram is not
properly run. During their third visit they start giving advice.
On the fourth they know best how the place should be run.
The fifth time they come they discover that the management
is not responsive and they are displeased. Sixth time round
they suggest that the present staff should walk out, leaving
the ashram to them. Finally, they become disheartened and
blame me for what I have never done.’
This final comment was particularly appropriate.
Krishna Bhikshu continues:
“Once I wrote a poem in praise of Bhagavan and in it I
said: ‘May you be successful in all your future births.’
Bhagavan heard this and said, ‘Is this birth not enough,
that he wishes me many more?’
People scolded me for writing so disrespectfully. Some
said he was a great saint, beyond the need of rebirth. Others
maintained that he was the son of the great God Siva himself,
who was never in need of a human body.
I cut short the discussion by exclaiming, ‘Bhagavan will
be reborn many times, not because he needs it but because
we need him!’
Bhagavan listened carefully.

‘Right,’ he said, and became very quiet.
The hall was filled with power and silence and an
immense love that was pouring from Bhagavan like a mighty
sea.
Somebody asked Bhagavan, ‘We have met at your feet,
all of us. Was it our good luck, or is there a link between us
from our previous births?’
Bhagavan replied in a quite matter-of-fact way: ‘Were
it not for the old links, how could you all have come here?’
Bhagavan gave the same reply to many devotees on other
occasions. Those who loved him in their previous births come
to him again in this. However far away they would be born,
Bhagavan would pull them to himself. Invariably they would
find their way to him.
Krishna Bhikshu was a man of sharp intellect and
prodigious learning. He authored several works of which,
besides Sri Ramana Leela, Sukti Sudha (Supplement to Forty
Verses), Ramana Yoga Sutras, a summary of Ramana Lahari,
Tripura Rahasya – all in Telugu, and Ramana Gita (5th
edition) in English merit special mention. Many more are his
works, both published and unpublished; among the latter is his
magnum opus, Anasuya Ramayana, a complete and faithful
translation in Telugu of Valmiki Ramayana. Before his death
on December 30, 1981 at 6.05 a.m. Krishna Bhikshu joined
his brother Dr. O. Ramachandraiah, in chanting Arunachala
Siva from 3.40 a.m. to 5.20 a.m. It is remarkable that he
chose Bhagavan’s birthday to leave his body.
25. Dr. Hafiz Syed*
D r Syed was a Muslim scholar and a great devotee of

Bhagavan. He writes about how he came to Bhagavan:
It was in March 1935 that a friend of mine, Mr. Bertram
Keightly, gave me a copy of A Search in Secret India by
Paul Brunton, which I readily devoured and felt interested
in Ramana Maharshi whom I longed to meet. The same year
during the Christmas week I paid my first visit to Madras
to attend the Theosophical Society convention from where
I went to Mysore in response to the invitation of Sir Mirza
Mohd. Ismail. On my return to Bangalore I accidentally met
Maurice Frydman whose ascetic life made me curious to
know who he was and what made him lead an austere life. It
was he who told me a great deal about Ramana Maharshi and
roused my sleeping interest in him. Through his good offices
I arrived in Tiruvannamalai one morning and was ushered
into Maharshi’s presence by Paul Brunton himself. After
three days’ stay there, while taking leave of the Maharshi, I
begged him to give me his blessing before I left him. He was
gracious enough to nod his assent which meant a great deal
to me.
Next year, 1936, I visited him again during the Dassara
holidays. 1937 was the most momentous year in my life as I
was attacked by a series of misfortunes. I had to stay in one
of the rooms in the Ashram itself for more than a month due
to my serious illness. It was during those days that I realised
vividly Maharshi’s greatness as a divine master endowed with
all spiritual and human qualities. While I was lying ill with
high fever he was considerate enough to visit me three times
and prepared upma (a preparation made of semolina) for me
with his own hands.
* Call Divine, Jan. 1955; Talks with Sri Ramana Maharshi; Ramana
Maharshi and the Path of Self Knowledge.
My eyesight was affected by high fever. When parting

from him and starting for Madras for treatment, I took hold of
his toes and touched my eyes with them. That was sufficient
guarantee to me in my heart, that my eyesight would not fail
me. So it has not. I shall never forget his grace which he gave
me during my serious illness. I had no idea what it was till
I returned to my place in north India and felt its purifying
effect on my life. I had never felt so light and free from all
taint of desire, as I did in those days.
In 1939 again I went on a sacred pilgrimage to him
during the summer vacation. As there was a big crowd in the
Ashram I could not take leave of Maharshi before leaving
Tiruvannamalai; its result was that somehow or other I was
deprived of the inestimable privilege of having Maharshi’s
darshan for three years.
From 1943 onwards I never missed a year when I did
not visit him. I was present during his serious illness and
saw him undergoing an operation for sarcoma without any
sigh, cry. The doctors were amazed at his composure and
at his amazing peace of mind. During his illness he was so
considerate and thoughtful of the feelings of others that, in
spite of his intense suffering, he did not deprive anyone of
the privilege of having his darshan.
His sense of humanity was as great as his sense of
spirituality.
On one of the occasions of his birthday celebrations,
while reading an article before him, I remarked, “The more a
person is spiritual the more he is human,” and he indicated his
assent. The sight, or even a tale, of human suffering touched
his heart deeply.
I invariably noticed during my close contact with him
that he was indifferent to his body as he believed that it was
transitory. The real man in him and in others was beyond
any change. One of his plain teachings or advice which he
gave to seekers of Truth was self surrender to God or guru
because he himself had surrendered to the divine and reaped

its fruit. This method of approach to Truth, he said, was the
easiest and the safest if one had an earnest desire to attain
liberation. I feel that his method of approach to truth was so
definite, clear and direct that it must appeal to the modern
mind because it is essentially scientific.
Maharshi never expected anyone to pin his faith in this
or that scripture or practise any sadhana or repeat any mantra.
All He expected of us was to closely and critically analyse
the content of our own being. His words spoke straight to the
heart because he lived what he taught. His grace was always
there for those who were ready for it.
The dominant feature of his philosophy was the unity of
life, the oneness of Divine Essence which is the indwelling
Self of all. In view of this deep-seated conviction of his, we
noticed that he made no distinction in everyday life between
great and small, rich or poor, holy or profane. He treated all
alike. He saw One Life vibrant in all. Another remarkable
feature of his life was that he showered grace on everyone
whom he considered eligible for it, whether they were
frequent visitors to the Ashram and attached to him or not,
and (even) to those who came from other Ashrams and were
the disciples of other gurus.
I heard him repeatedly say that there is One who governs
the world and it is His task to look after the world. He who has
given life to the world knows how to look after it also. It is
He who bears the burden of the world, not we. He also added
that each was helped according to his nature, in proportion to
his understanding and devotion. Devotion meant turning the
mind inwards to the Self.
Dr. Syed’s wife too became a devotee, without
abandoning the ways and conventions of Islam. At first, she
would not appear before other men. Stealthily, she would
come to the ashram, hide herself in one of the rooms and
implore her husband to ask Bhagavan to come to see her. It
was a most unusual request, but such was Bhagavan’s grace

and compassion that even this was granted. Mrs Syed initially
kept silent because she did not want to talk to Bhagavan
through her veil. Later, she overcame this reluctance, but it
took a long time for her to venture into the hall without a veil
and sit there like everybody else.
Dr. Syed and his wife used to stay in a rented house
outside the ashram and cook their own food. One day she felt
a strong desire to invite Bhagavan to their house for food. She
nagged her husband, but he did not have the courage to do
something so unusual. That Bhagavan should agree to meet
his wife outside the hall was unusual enough. He had asked
twice for this to happen, and twice Bhagavan had consented.
However, it was unthinkable that Bhagavan would come to
their house and eat since he had never before accepted an
invitation to eat in a devotee’s house. But the intrepid lady
went on pressing her husband until he got more afraid of her
than of the enormity of her request. When Dr. Syed finally
told Bhagavan about his wife’s desire, Bhagavan merely
smiled and kept quiet.
Dr. Syed’s wife would not give up. She was certain that
Bhagavan would grant her wish if the matter were put before
him in the proper spirit and form. At last, while Bhagavan
was going up the hill, Dr. Syed and his wife stood before him
and told him her desire. Bhagavan just laughed and went up
the hill.
When they returned home in the evening, there was quite
a row in their house. Dr. Syed’s wife blamed him because she
thought that he had not asked Bhagavan in the proper way.
At last he had enough of the quarrel and told her, ‘How
am I responsible? The truth of the matter is, your devotion is
deficient. That is the reason why Bhagavan refused.’
These words of his must have touched her deeply for she
sat in meditation throughout the night. She wanted by sheer
intensity of prayer to bring Bhagavan to dinner! During the
early hours of the morning she must have dozed, for Bhagavan
appeared to her in a dream or vision and told her, ‘Why are
you so obstinate? How can I leave the ashram and come to
your house for food? I must dine along with the people there,
otherwise they won’t eat. Besides, as you know, people are
coming from distant places, facing a lot of trouble to see me
and to have food with me. How can I leave all these guests
and come to your place? Feed three devotees of mine and it
will be the same as feeding me. I shall be fully satisfied.’
In her vision she saw the three devotees whom she
had to invite. One was Dr. Melkote, the second Swami
Prabuddhananda and the third was Voruganti Krishnayya.
She gave full details of her vision to Dr. Syed, who
promptly invited all the three for food in his house, telling
us that we could not possibly refuse. We were all brahmins
and, although we were delighted to represent Bhagavan at the
feast, we were afraid of what the ashram brahmins would say.
For a brahmin to eat in a Muslim house is a serious breach
of convention.
Dr. Melkote was in the guestroom near the flower garden.
Krishnayya went to him and asked him, ‘What are you
thinking about?’ ‘I am thinking of the dinner at Syed’s place.’
‘Are you going?’
‘I am still thinking about it. They are Muslims.’
‘If we go, we are bound to get into a lot of trouble.’
‘Yes, they may turn us out of the ashram.’
‘Then are you going?’
‘I am going,’ said Dr. Melkote. ‘I am taking it as
Bhagavan’s direct order. Otherwise how could Mrs Syed pick
us? How could she know our names and faces well enough to
show us to her husband?’
‘Prabuddhananda can go, for he is a sannyasi and can eat
anywhere. Besides, he is not afraid of the ashram authorities,
for he cooks his own food. But we are taking serious risks,’
Krishnayya said.
‘Well,’ said Dr. Melkote, ‘we are going, and Bhagavan

will attend to the risks.’
In spite of these brave words Dr. Melkote was perplexed.
We were to dine in a Muslim house. Even if the food was
vegetarian, what about the kitchen and vessels? What do
Muslims know about the brahmin rules and habits concerning
cleanliness? How would we explain our going to a Muslim
house for food? Why should we trust the vision of some
Muslim lady? Could we really say that we were merely
obeying Bhagavan’s orders? Who would believe us? Surely
not the ashram brahmins! And what an assortment we three
made! One was a Kanarese householder, the second an
Andhra bachelor, the third a Bengali sannyasi!
The next day, when the bell for dinner was rung, we
three went before Bhagavan and bowed. Bhagavan did not
ask us the reason. He merely looked at us. Instead of going to
the dining hall with the others, we marched out of the ashram,
passing before Chinna Swami who, wonder of wonders, did
not ask us why we were going out of the ashram without
eating food there. Mrs Syed had got up early that morning,
swept the kitchen and washed the vessels carefully herself.
She would not allow her servant girl to enter the kitchen.
Mrs Syed had been scolded repeatedly by her relatives and
the Muslim moulvis [teachers and scholars] for her devotion
to a Hindu saint.
She told them, ‘When I used to say my prayers, I would
see the Prophet standing by my side. Since I met Bhagavan,
the Prophet has disappeared, and now Bhagavan comes to
watch me pray.’
So great was her devotion!
After getting everything thoroughly clean, she lovingly
prepared dish after dish. When we arrived, we found the food
excellent. At the conclusion of the meal she offered us betel
leaves with her own hands.
As we were walking back to the ashram, Dr. Melkote had
tears in his eyes.
‘I come from Hyderabad,’ he said, ‘and I know well the

Muslim ways and customs. A Muslim lady will give betel
leaves with her own hands to nobody except her husband or
a fakir. In her eyes we were fakirs, the forms Bhagavan took
to go to her place.’
When we returned to the ashram, we were astonished
that nobody had enquired why we had not been present in
the dining hall, or where we had gone or what we did in
a Muslim house. How wonderfully does Bhagavan protect
those who obey him!
Once H.W.L. Poonja told David Godman the following:
I was staying in Sri Ramanasramam with my wife and
children. My children were playing outside the hall where the
Maharshi sat when Dr. Syed came out and saw them.
He asked them, ‘Where is your father?’
They answered, ‘He has gone to the house we rented in
the fields.’
‘Can you take me to him?’ asked Dr. Syed. ‘I don’t know
where it is. I want to meet him.’
He walked into my house a few minutes later. I offered
him some tea and invited him to come to lunch later, but
he didn’t accept. He said that his cook had already prepared
food for him at his own cottage, and that he had to get back
in time to eat it.
‘But you can come for tea with me this afternoon,’
he said. ‘Come at five o’clock because there is something
interesting that I want to discuss with you.’
I accepted the invitation and several hours later took my
whole family along to the professor’s house.
After the tea was over, Dr. Syed moved on to the main
business of the meeting. ‘Do you believe in astrology?’ he
asked.
I replied, ‘No, I don’t’.
He went on to tell me that Muslims were not supposed
to believe in it either, but something had happened recently
which had caused him to revise his views.
‘Now, I am not so sure,’ he began. ‘Perhaps I believe in

it to some extent, but I am not completely convinced.’
He showed me a horoscope that had been prepared for
him in Sanskrit. It had been translated into English by Dr.
Radhakrishnan, the eminent philosopher and teacher who
later went on to become the President of India. Dr. Syed
had known Dr. Radhakrishnan when they had been working
together at a university in England.
Dr. Syed was a Persian specialist whereas Dr.
Radhakrishnan had taught comparative religion. The
horoscope had come from a Brighu Nadi collection. This
is a very mysterious and ancient school of astrology. Many
centuries ago some Indian sages, reputedly led by the sage
Brighu, wrote down thousands of personal horoscopes for
people who would be born in the distant future. They were
all written on palm-leaf manuscripts.
There are several places in India which claim to have
copies of all these predictions. One can go to them and see
if one’s own horoscope is stored there. There is a reliable
place in Hoshiarpur in the Punjab, and there are other centres
that have copies, but many of the places that advertise these
leaves nowadays are fraudulent. Dr. Syed must have found
one of the rare genuine collections because the prediction he
showed me on that day was astonishingly accurate.
The prediction began by saying that Dr. Syed had been
a Hindu in his last life, and that he had been a disciple of a
famous ancient Guru. He had committed some act that had
made this Guru very angry.
The Guru cursed him, saying, ‘In your next life you will
be born as a Muslim, but your love of Hinduism and your
love of Krishna will remain with you.’
This explained the strange mixture of beliefs that Dr.
Syed had. Though he was a Muslim by birth, and though he
had a great liking for all things connected with the Islamic
tradition, he was also a Krishna bhakta who carried a small
edition of the Bhagavad Gita around in his breast pocket. He
had also become a disciple of Ramana Maharshi, something

that no orthodox Muslim would do.
This horoscope said that in his current life he would go to
Vrindavan and be initiated by a swami called Baba Haridas.
This Haridas had, according to the horoscope, been a fellow
disciple of Syed’s Guru in his last life. When Dr. Syed was
given this prediction, he had already gone to Vrindavan
and received initiation from this swami. There was one
other connection from his past life. The horoscope said that
another of his Guru-bhais [fellow disciples] would be born as
a contemporary of Dr. Syed, that he would be called Nixon,
and that he would change his name to Krishna Prem. At that
time there was an Englishman called Nixon who was a great
Krishna bhakta. He had come to India, settled in Almora, and
become a teacher after changing his name to Krishna Prem.
Dr. Syed also knew this man because they had, for some time,
attended the same university.
The accurate predictions did not end there. Further down
the horoscope it was stated that in 1932 Dr. Syed would meet
Ramana Maharshi and would accept him as his Guru. This
was the year in which Dr. Syed first met the Maharshi.
26. Munagala Venkataramiah*
O n August 29, 1896, S. Venkataraman (Bhagavan)

left Madurai for Tiruvannamalai. One week later
another S. Venkataraman (Munagala S. Venkataramiah,
later Ramanananda Saraswati) went home from Madurai to
Sholavandan and told his mother that a Brahmin boy who was
studying in an adjoining school had run away from home. At
that time he little realised that he was to meet the runaway
boy later (in 1918 at Skandasramam) and that he was to be
* M.V. Krishnan, ‘Swami Ramananada Saraswati’ (Munagala

Venkataramiah) The Mountain Path, Apr. 1979.
in his close proximity from 1933 to 1950 and that he was to

compile Talks with Sri Ramana Maharshi.
Well-acquainted both with scriptural lore and a knowledge
of the English language, Swami Ramanananda Saraswati, was
well-equipped to perform the duty of interpreter for Bhagavan
and those devotees who did not know the local language. He
was an outstanding example of devotion and total surrender
to the Master.
Munagala S. Venkataramiah was born in the year 1882
at Sholavandan, Madurai District. His father was Munagala
Subramanian. Munagala had one elder brother, three younger
brothers and three sisters. All of Venkataramiah’s brothers
studied in the Veda Patasala of Sholavandan itself. He alone
received an English education, first in Sholavandan and then
in Pasumalai.
In his thirteenth year Venkataramiah married his uncle’s
daughter. After studying for four years in the Madras Christian
College, he moved to Bombay and joined Professor Gajjar’s
Laboratory. Here he maintained himself by tutoring and by
translating Tamil letters received by Bombay businessmen.
He and his wife were blessed with a daughter in the year
1900 while he was still a student.
In the year 1908 he returned to Madras and in 1910 he
presented himself for his final examinations. When the results
were known, Venkataramiah stood first among the successful
candidates of the whole Madras Presidency. He was awarded
the Arni Gold Medal.
In 1911, he joined the Noble College, Masulipatnam, as
a Chemistry Lecturer. From 1912 to 1917 he worked as a
Senior Chemistry Lecturer in the Madras Christian College.
In 1918 he lectured at Madras Pachaiyappa’s College.
During these years, Venkataramiah was in contact with Sai
Baba Narayan Guru, a Bengali sadhu and a disciple of the
famous Kali Kamliwala of Hardwar and Rishikesh. Under the
guidance of Sai Baba Narayan Guru, Venkataramiah studied
the ten Upanishads, the Bhagavad Gita and the Brahma

Sutras.
In 1918 his daughter passed away and Venkataramiah lost
all interest in life. However, thanks to the guidance of his guru,
he was able to regain his former composure. Venkataramiah’s
first visit to Bhagavan took place at Skandasramam in 1918.
In 1927 he renewed contact with the Maharshi and from then
on, until the time of Venkataramiah’s attainment of final peace
in 1963, he was a staunch devotee of Bhagavan.
In 1919 he left Madras and began to work as a chemist
with the Madras Government in the Department of Small
Industries which was located at Ootacamund. The office
functioned under the direction of one Frederick Nicholson,
a retired British Civilian, but Ooty was far away from
Venkataramiah’s guru.
As luck would have it, a regular department was formed
early in 1920 and Venkataramiah was made the Superintendent
of the Government Industrial Institute, Washermanpet,
Madras. This was a great boon to him, as his guru’s abode
was not far from his office.
During the evening he used to spend an hour with his
guru after office hours.
In August, 1922 his guru attained Maha-samadhi after
doing prayopavesa (not even taking water till the end). The
guru told Venkataramiah that he (the guru) would pass away
on the evening of a particular day which happened to be a
working day. Venkataramiah wanted to take leave for that day
but his guru asked him to go to the office as usual and come
to him at 5-00 p.m. Venkataramiah went to work as directed
and found his guru alive when he came. His guru then blessed
him and breathed his last.
Between 1922 and 1927 Venkataramiah studied almost
all of the published works on Advaita Vedanta although he
had not previously studied Sanskrit. In school he had studied
Tamil and in college, Latin. As a result of his interest in
Vedanta he took up the study of Sanskrit and gained sufficient

mastery to understand the various texts.
Venkataramiah’s second visit to Bhagavan was in 1927.
From then on he would visit Bhagavan in the summer with his
family and spend a month with him. In 1932, after having put
in twenty-three years of work, Venkataramiah was retrenched
from service. He had no means of livelihood, so he came to
reside with Bhagavan. He became a regular inmate of the
Ashram where he answered English letters from devotees
from India and abroad. He also interpreted Bhagavan’s replies
in Tamil to the questions raised by devotees in English.
Under the guidance of Bhagavan, Venkataramiah studied
the Tamil works of the Saiva Samayacharyas. He studied all
the works of Sankara Bhagavadpada, the Mahabharata, the
Ramayana and Srimad Bhagavatam.
During his stay in the Ashram, Venkataramiah compiled
the Talks, translated several philosophical works by Bhagavan
from Tamil into English and translated into English works
like Tripura Rahasya, Advaita Bodha Deepika, Kaivalya
Navaneetam, etc., under instruction from Bhagavan.
In Munagala’s own words: “In a very critical and
distressing period of his life, a humble devotee (referring
to himself) sought the presence of Bhagavan Sri Ramana
Maharshi for his own peace of mind, and lived in the ashram
with the kind permission of Niranjanananda Swami.”
He explains how he came to record the conversations of
Sri Ramana Maharshi from 1935 to 1939: “The seeker took
it upon himself to note down, as occasions arose, the sweet,
refreshing and enlightening words of the master. This self-
imposed task was undertaken for the purification of his own
mind, and better understanding of the subtle and profound
words of Bhagavan.”
In 1945/46 Munagala Venkataramiah’s daughter,
Kamakshi, came to reside with him at the Ashram for a
month. They were put up in the MacIver’s compound. In
those days Veda Parayana was chanted in front of Bhagavan
in the Brahma Muhurtam (morning 4-30 a.m. to 6 a.m.).

Kamakshi regularly attended to hear the chanting.
One fine morning she entered the hall at about 4-30 a.m.
There was no one else there except Bhagavan. Kamakshi paid
her respects to Bhagavan and when she got up Bhagavan
called her and showed her a small slip on which was written
“Om Namo Bhagavate Sri Ramanaya.” Then He told her to
chant it always, which she did throughout her life.
This was kept a very close secret between Kamakshi and
her father. Venkataramiah told his daughter that she was the
most fortunate person in the world to be blessed by Bhagavan
in that way!
Munagala Venkataramiah left the Ashram in 1952 and
returned in 1954; he had a heart attack and took aabath-
sannyasa (taking sannyasa when facing mortal danger). In
1955 he went to Waltair and then to Calcutta. Where he met
Sankaracharya Krishnabodhasramji Maharaj of Badrinath
and got his sannyasa regularized. This guru gave him some
name although the Ashramites knew him only as Swami
Ramanananda Saraswati.
In 1959 Venkataramiah returned to the Ashram where he
remained until his Maha-Nirvana on 12th February 1963. A
living example of Self-abidance of beatific smile and gentle
ways, he aided and taught other devotees during the final
years of his life more by example than by precept.
27. Maurice Frydman*
M aurice Frydman was born in the year 1902 to Jewish

parents in Poland. His father whom he lost early in life,
was an apothecary. His mother brought him and his sister
up. He had his schooling in Poland and learnt the Russian
and German languages along with Polish. After finishing his
high school, he migrated to Paris to qualify as an electrical
engineer. He took up work as a Research Engineer in a
large firm manufacturing electrical machinery. In France
he had to learn French and later on he learnt English and
could write excellent English as most Poles who take to
this language do. In India he learnt to speak Hindi fluently.
As a Research Engineer, he had a large number of patents
under his name. From early youth he had great interest in
India and its spiritual leaders. When he was working in the
French engineering firm, Sir Mirza Ismail, then Dewan of
Mysore, visited the firm. Frydman met him and asked him a
number of questions about India. Sir Mirza asked Frydman
whether he was interested in coming to India to organise a
firm for manufacturing electrical machinery. Frydman agreed
promptly and so came to India to organise the firm now
known as the Mysore Electrical Industries Ltd. He worked
as the technical head of this manufacturing firm on a good
salary for a few years.
During this period, he often visited Bhagavan Sri Ramana
Maharshi and sat at his feet. Many of the questions published
in Maharshi’s Gospel (1939) were put by him and elicited
detailed replies from Bhagavan.
Maurice Frydman writes about his visits to Ramana
Maharshi in The Call Divine as follows:
* Apa B. Pant, ‘How I Came to the Maharshi’, The Mountain Path,

July 1970; ‘Obituary’, Mountain Path, Apr. 1976; Dr. M. Sadashiva
Rao, ‘Profile of an Old Devotee: Maurice Frydman’, The Mountain
Path, Jan. 1977.
“Just six months after I came to India, I was left alone

and had no friends. The person whom I loved died and I had
nothing to attract me in life. Quite accidentally, just for fun, I
dropped in at Tiruvannamalai. I went direct to the swami but
his disciples ordered me out, as I had not taken off my shoes.
After bathing and other preparations, I went again to the hall
and remained there with the Maharshi for two hours. Then I
understood that I had met someone, the likes of whom I had
never met before.
I did not then know what was meant by words like
‘Maharshi’ and ‘Bhagavan’. I had no preconceived ideas and
yet I felt that there was something extraordinary in that man.
I was told about his teachings but they were far too high
for me. I did not understand what they meant but I felt a
strong and lasting affection for him. I was alone in India and
I attached myself to him just as a homeless dog would to his
master. Afterwards, whenever I felt worried, I used to go to
Arunachala, and sit in his presence. In the early days I would
be asking questions, but later, when I began to visit him more
and more, the discussion with him grew less and less.
Then I began to visit him almost every month. I knew
no sadhana or dhyana. I would simply sit in his presence. To
my questions, Maharshi would say: “Find out who you are.”
I could not make out anything, but all the same I felt happy.
Slowly some change came in me. Just as the egg grows
and hatches only with the aid of the warmth of the mother
(hen) I was also getting into shape slowly and steadily in his
presence.
My mind became quieter than before. Previously it was
unhappy and never satisfied. Now a kind of security and
peace began to be felt spontaneously.
I felt that Maharshi was coming nearer and nearer as
time passed. Afterwards I used to think of him whenever I
felt unhappy. He used to appear before me and ask if I have
not committed any sin. If I had erred or sinned, he used to
hide himself for a time but later on appear and reply.
His affection was always there and as fire melts ice so his
affection made my worries melt.
The following are some of the incidents connected with
Maurice:
When Maurice Frydman was working as owner-cum-
engineer in a firm in Bangalore, he absorbed into his firm
some of the sons of the Ashram inmates like T.K. Sundaresa
Iyer. Every Saturday evening he would come to the Ashram
and go back to Bangalore the next night in his jeep along
with these lads. When someone asked Maurice why he spent
so much money coming every week instead of once a month
or so, quick came his reply: “What to do? My battery can last
only one week and then it dries up. I have to come here to
Bhagavan to have it recharged!”
Once Maurice Frydman wrote a poem and handed it over
to Bhagavan. Long after he had left, Bhagavan commented,
“Maurice Frydman prays: ‘Just as in a King’s court a dancer
has to go on dancing till the King signs to him to stop, though
the dancer would be absolutely exhausted, Oh Bhagavan!
When are you going to throw your glance of grace at me and
bid me to stop this whirlpool of activities?’ Appayya Dikshitar
has written a verse in Sanskrit on these lines. Maurice must
have had the same bhava and written this, as he could not
have read Dikshitar at all!”
From 1935 he led a very busy life in India with a touch
of real genius. He started the Bakelite factory in Bangalore,
invented the Dhanush Takli (bow-shaped charka) in co-
operation with Mahatma Gandhi, tried to improve on the
elementary education of Andhra Pradesh, constructed a major
part of a 36-spindles charka on which a whole family might
work simultaneously and for some time he was even the
Dewan (Chief Minister) of one small Indian State, Oudh, in
Maharashtra.
Frydman’s religious propensities were not less diversified
than his material ones. In 1925 he got converted from
Judaism to Christianity in the Liberal Catholic Church,
founded by Theosophist bishops and was ordained a priest

in it. But before long he became the chief expounder of J.
Krishnamurti’s thoughts in India, only to turn an earnest
devotee of Sri Ramana Maharshi with whom he had stayed
many times since 1935. He became Swami Bharatananda
wearing an ochre robe about this time, but he gave it up soon
after, as of no significance.
In the later part of his life, after Bhagavan had left his
body, Frydman took to translating into English the advaitic
teaching of Nisargadatta Maharaj of Bombay and published
his book I Am That, in perfect and lyrical English.
Following his death on March 9th, 1976, an article
written by him on Ramana Maharshi was published in The
Mountain Path of July 1976. He appears to be speaking of
missed opportunities with Bhagavan. The article is reproduced
below:
“The burning regret which many, probably, share with
me, is that full advantage was not taken of those happy and
precious days when He was with us physically also – eating,
talking, laughing, welcoming all, open to all. Reality was
there – in abundance and for the taking, but we enclosed
ourselves in timidity, in false humility, in self-deprecation
and false excuses. We took a cupful when the ocean was at
our feet.
Now He is still with us, but no longer so easily accessible.
To find Him again we must overcome the very obstacles which
prevented us from seeing Him as He was and going with Him
where He wanted to take us. It was tamas and rajas – fear
and desire, that stood in the way – the desire for the pleasure
of the past and fear of austere responsibility of a higher state
of being. It was the same old story – the threshold of maturity
of mind and heart which most of us refuse to cross. ‘Ripeness
is all’ He used to say – and now ripeness is the condition of
finding Him again.
We ripen when we refuse to drift, when striving
ceaselessly becomes a way of life, when dispassion born of
insight becomes spontaneous. When the search Who Am I?

becomes the only thing that matters, when we become a mere
torch and the flame all important, it will mean that we are
ripening fast. We cannot accelerate that ripening – but we can
remove the obstacles of fear and greed, indolence and fancy,
prejudice and pride. He is there and waiting – timelessly.
It is we who keep Him waiting.”
After having made India his home for five decades,
Maurice Frydman passed away on the 9th of March 1976 in
Bombay.
28. Chhaganlal Yogi*
C hhaganlal Yogi describes in his own words how he

became a devotee of Bhagavan: “What does Bhagavan
mean to me? After many years of experiencing his grace I
can now reply, ‘He is everything to me. He is my Guru and
my God.’ I can say this with confidence because, had I not
had the good fortune of seeing him and thereafter getting into
closer contact with him, I would still have been groping in
the dark. I would still have been a doubting Thomas.
How did it all begin? When I was eighteen I read a lot of
books by Swami Vivekananda and Swami Rama Tirtha. This
reading generated a desire in me that I should also become
a sannyasin, like the authors of these books. Their writings
also implanted in me the ideal of plain living, high thinking,
and a life dedicated to spiritual matters. Somehow, my desire
to become a sannyasin was never fulfilled, but the ideal of
a dedicated life made a deeper and deeper impression on
my mind. At the age of twenty I had the good fortune of
* Chhaganlal V. Yogi, ‘How I Came to the Maharshi’, The Mountain

Path, Apr. 1974; Chhaganlal V. Yogi, ‘Reminiscences of Sri
Bhagavan’, The Mountain Path, Apr. 1982; The Mountain Path
articles; Call Divine articles.
contacting Mahatma Gandhi. His ideals won my heart and

for several years I faithfully tried to put them into practice.
I was doing my duty to the best of my ability and leading,
as best I could, a pure and dedicated life till the age of thirty-
eight. Around that time scepticism began to assail me and
my mind became a home for all kinds of doubts. I began to
doubt the ideals of Gandhiji; I began to doubt sadhus and
sannyasins; I doubted religion, and I began to doubt the
existence of God.
It was in this darkest period of my life that I first heard
of Sri Ramana Maharshi. At that time, I seemed to be heading
swiftly towards total scepticism. The world appeared to me
to be full of injustice, cruelty, greed, hate and other evils,
the existence of which logically led me to a strong disbelief
in God. For, I argued, had He truly existed, could anything
dark or evil ever have flourished? Doubt upon doubt assailed
me like dark shadows that dogged my footsteps. I had, as a
consequence, lost whatever little reverence I might have had
for sadhus and sannyasins. I found myself slowly but surely
losing my interest in religion.
The very word itself eventually became a synonym in my
mind for a clever ruse to delude the credulous of the world. In
short, I began to live a life lacking in optimism and faith. I was
not happy in my disbelief, for my mind took on the aspect of
turbulent waters, and I felt that all around me there was raging
a scorching fire that seemed to burn up my very entrails.
One day, while travelling as usual on the train to the office,
I happened to meet a friend who had spent over a decade in
Europe and America. I hadn’t met him for quite a long time
and I sometimes used to wonder where he had disappeared
to. In answer to a query about his recent activities he said that
he had been to Sri Ramanasramam and immediately launched
into a description of what went on there. While he was trying
to describe to me his experience of the darshan of Bhagavan
he drew out from his pocket a small packet that he extended
to me. I wondered what it contained. He explained that it
contained something extremely precious – some vibhuti, holy

ashes brought from the ashram. He insisted on my accepting
them. His kind invitation did not interest me in the least. On
the other hand, it amused me.
I said, scornfully, ‘Pardon me, but I think that all this sort
of thing is mere sham and humbug, so I trust you will not
misunderstand me if I refuse to accept.’
He then argued that by refusing his gift, I was not merely
insulting him, I was also insulting the vibhuti.
I thought that this was rather comical, but to placate
him I replied, ‘Well, if that be so, to please you I will take a
pinch of these ashes on condition that you will allow me to
do whatever I like with them’.
Unsuspectingly, he nodded his head in assent and
passed the packet over to me. A smile appeared on his
lips as he watched me take a pinch out of it. This smile
was the preface to a zealous lecture on Bhagavan and his
miraculous greatness. While he was lost in his missionary
enthusiasm, I surreptitiously let the ashes fall onto the floor
of the compartment. To be quite frank, it was a relief when
my friend had concluded what I had then considered to be a
puerile and unnecessary lecture.
At the end of it I remarked, ‘I have an utter contempt for
these so-called saints.’
My friend refused to give up. He insisted on impressing
on me that Sri Ramana Maharshi was not a ‘so-called’ saint,
but an authentic sage, acknowledged as such by great savants
all over the world. He suggested that for my own benefit I
read about him in some of the available literature. To start
me off he gave me a book entitled Sri Maharshi that had
been written by Kamath, the editor of The Sunday Times in
Madras.
I must confess that despite my prejudices the book evoked
in me an interest in Bhagavan. After completing this small
book I was sufficiently curious to borrow another book about
him from a different friend. It was the second edition of Self-
Realisation, the earliest full-length biography of Bhagavan.

From then on, my interest grew without my being aware of it.
A little later I felt compelled to write to Sri Ramanasramam
to ask for all the literature on Bhagavan that was available in
English. As I began to study it with great avidity, I found that
my outlook on life began to undergo a subtle transformation,
but only a partial one. At the back of my mind there still
lurked a heavy doubt, resembling a cloud, that stained the
gathering illumination. My old scepticism did not wish to
yield place so easily to this new faith, which was apparently
being inculcated in my mind.
My scepticism tried to challenge my new faith by arguing,
‘So many books are wonderful to read, but their authors, more
often than not, are not as wonderful to know. It is possible for
men to teach truths that they are unable to live themselves.
What, then, is the use of books, however wonderful?’
To counter this doubt, I decided to correspond directly
with Bhagavan. Over the next few months I wrote several
letters to him, all of which were answered by his ashram
with a rare punctuality. However, although they breathed the
teachings of the Master, they hardly gave me a glimpse into
the nature of the daily life lived by him. Because of this I
began to be haunted by a desire to visit the ashram to see for
myself what went on there.
To fulfil that desire I paid my first visit to Sri
Ramanasramam in the Christmas holidays of 1939. At first,
I was terribly disappointed because nothing seemed to strike
me in the way I had expected. I found Bhagavan seated on a
couch, as quiet and unmoving as a statue. His presence did not
seem to emanate anything unusual, and I was very disappointed
to discover that he displayed no interest in me at all. I had
expected warmth and intimacy, but unfortunately I seemed to
be in the presence of someone who lacked both. From morning
till evening I sat waiting to catch a glimpse of his grace, of
his interest in me, a stranger who had come all the way from
Bombay, but I evoked no response. Bhagavan merely seemed
cold and unaffected. After pinning such hopes on him, his

apparent lack of interest nearly broke my heart. Eventually, I
decided to leave the ashram, knowing full well that if I did so,
I would be more sceptical and hard-headed than before.
The Veda Parayana was chanted every evening in
Bhagavan’s presence. It was considered to be one of the most
attractive items in the daily programme of the ashram, but in
my depressed state it fell flat on my ears. It was the evening
of the day I had decided to leave. The sun was setting like
a sad farewell, spreading a darkness over both the hill and
my heart. The gloom deepened until the neighbourhood
disappeared into the blackness of the night. In my sensitive
state the electric light that was switched on in the hall seemed
like a living wound on the body of the darkness. My mind,
which was deeply tormented, felt that the psychic atmosphere
in the hall was stuffy and choking. Unable to bear it any
longer, I walked outside to get a breath of fresh air.
A young man called Gopalan came up to me and asked me
where I had come from. He asked me if I had been introduced
to the Master, and when I replied that I had not, he was most
surprised. He immediately led me to the office, introduced me
to the sarvadhikari [manager] and then proceeded with me to
the hall where he introduced me to Bhagavan. When he heard
my name Bhagavan’s eyes turned to me, looked straight into
mine and twinkled like stars. With a smile beaming with
grace he asked me if I were a Gujarati. I replied that I was.
Immediately he sent for a copy of the Gujarati translation by
Kishorelal Mashruwala of Upadesa Saram, a few copies of
which had only just arrived. He then asked me to chant the
Gujarati verses from the book.
‘But I am not a singer,’ I answered, hesitating to begin.
But when it became clear that I was expected to perform,
I got over my initial hesitation and began to chant verses
from the book. I had sung about fifteen when the bell for the
evening meal rang. All the time I was chanting I could feel
Bhagavan keenly observing me. It seemed that the light of his

eyes was suffusing my consciousness, even without my being
aware of it. His silent gaze brought about a subtle but definite
transformation in me. The darkness, which a few minutes
before had seemed heavy and unbearable, gradually lightened
and melted into a glow of wellbeing. My erstwhile sadness
completely disappeared, leaving in my heart an inexplicable
emotion of joy. My limbs appeared to have been washed in
an ocean-tide of freedom.
That evening I sat close to Bhagavan in the dining room.
In my exalted state the food I ate seemed to have an unusual
and unearthly taste. I quite literally felt that I was participating
in some heavenly meal in the direct presence of God. After
having such an experience I of course abandoned all thought
of leaving the ashram that night. I stayed on for three
days longer in order to widen the sacred and extraordinary
experience that had already begun, an experience of divine
grace that I felt would lead me in the direction of spiritual
liberation.
During the three days of my stay in the proximity of the
Divine Master, I found my whole outlook entirely changed.
After that short period I could find little evidence of my
old self, a self that had been tied down with all kinds of
preconceptions and prejudices. I felt that I had lost the chains
that bind the eyes of true vision. I became aware that the whole
texture of my mind had undergone a change. The colours of
the world seemed different, and even the ordinary daylight
took on an ethereal aspect. I began to see the foolishness and
the futility of turning my gaze only on the dark side of life.
In those few days Bhagavan, the divine magician, opened
up for me a strange new world of illumination, hope and joy.
I felt that his presence on earth alone constituted sufficient
proof that humanity, suffering and wounded because of its
obstinate ignorance, could be uplifted and saved. For the first
time I fully understood the significance of darshan.
While I lay in bed in the guest room of the ashram,

the encounter that had taken place on the train in Bombay
replayed itself in my mind. I recalled the blind audacity that
had prompted me to drop the thrice-holy vibhuti in contempt
onto the floor of the railway carriage. Today, even one speck
of such vibhuti is a treasure to me, for prasad received from
the Master is a form of grace that no wealth on earth may
buy. Sometimes I even feel that I am not worthy enough to
raise it to my eyelids and streak my forehead with it.
‘O Master,’ I thought to myself, ‘what a miracle of
transformation! Why did it take half a lifetime before I could
meet you? Half a lifetime of blundering, of failing and falling.
But I suppose, my Master, that you would say that time is a
mental concept. For I feel that in your sight your bhaktas
[devotees] have, throughout all time, always been with you
and near you.’
As these thoughts were passing through my mind, I
slowly fell into a deep sleep. The next morning I arose in a
rejuvenated state. There was a new vigour in my limbs and
an awareness that my heart was permeated with light. On
the third day of my visit I sadly took leave of Bhagavan. I
was still human enough, still caught in the sense of time and
space, for the parting to leave me with a feeling of aching and
emptiness in the heart. But there was no despair. Something
assured me that I would be returning to the feet of the Master
sooner than I could imagine.
My intuition turned out to be correct. In the following
years repeated visits seemed to be miraculously and easily
arranged by the Master. He seemed to know that I felt an
occasional need to be close to him physically. In the years
that followed each succeeding visit deepened the light within,
toned up my nerves and suffused my senses with an increasing
experience of exhilaration.
The subtle and subconscious manner with which the
Master toils at his children is amazing. There were times
without number when I distinctly saw his hand, his mighty

hand, extended to me when I stood in need of guidance. These
occasions continually reminded me of his famous words in
Who am I?:
“He that has earned the grace of the Guru shall
undoubtedly be saved and never forsaken, just as the prey
that has fallen into the tiger’s jaws will never be allowed to
escape.”
In 1945 I decided to wind up my printing press in Bombay
in order to go and settle at Sri Ramanasramam. I had no pre-
arranged plan for closing down my business; I merely relied
on Bhagavan. And he in turn responded to my devout prayer.
In the early hours of the morning, while I was still in my
bed and only half awake, I saw a vision in which Bhagavan
appeared before me. By his side stood a gentleman whom I
recognised as a friend of mine. He had neither been to the
ashram nor had he ever exhibited any faith in Bhagavan. The
following conversation then took place between Bhagavan
and myself:
Bhagavan: You want to sell your press, don’t you?
Me: Yes, Bhagavan, but I must find a buyer.
Bhagavan: (showing my friend standing by his side)
Here is the buyer. He will buy your press, so sell it to him.
Me: Since Bhagavan has been kind enough to show me
the buyer, may he also favour me by stating the amount at
which I should execute the sale?
Bhagavan then showed me five figures on the opposite
wall that were shining like a neon sign. The amount indicated
to me was quite reasonable, neither low nor exorbitant.
Bhagavan and my friend then disappeared from my sight
and the vision ended. By itself the vision was astonishing
enough, but there was more to come. When I entered my
press that day at 11 a.m., my friend from the vision was
waiting there for me. Of course, he had come to see me about
some other work and had no idea that he had been singled out
as a prospective buyer. Feeling that Bhagavan had sent him

to me, I told him about the vision that had come to me a few
hours before. He listened to me very attentively.
When I had finished my tale he simply commented, ‘I
will buy your press at the price indicated by your Guru.’
There was no limit to my joy. My desire to sell was
fulfilled by his grace and the sale was completed in less than
a minute.
My original plan had been to sell all my property in
Bombay and move directly to Sri Ramanasramam. However,
when the devotees heard what I was planning to do, it was
suggested to me that I could be of more use to the ashram
in Bangalore. I was asked to start a printing press there that
could execute all of Sri Ramanasramam’s printing work.
I agreed to the idea and soon found myself in Bangalore,
looking for suitable premises.
I began to suspect that Bhagavan had assisted the sale
of my original press because he had work for me to do in
Bangalore.
I was a stranger in the city but I soon located an old
press that had been lying idle for the previous six months. It
was for sale. I saw its proprietor and told him why I wished
to buy his business. He agreed to sell it to me but we were
unable to agree on a price. To break the deadlock I proposed
that both of us should visit the ashram and suggested that we
could talk about the deal after we had Bhagavan’s darshan.
I thought that since Bhagavan wanted me to do this work in
Bangalore, his darshan might help to lubricate the wheels of
the transaction.
The owner agreed to the idea, so we set off together for
Sri Ramanasramam. On our arrival, I took him into the holy
presence of Bhagavan and informed him that I proposed to
buy the press of the gentleman who was accompanying me,
and that I planned to do all the ashram’s printing work there.
Bhagavan did not say anything; he just nodded his head.
Within a few hours of having had Bhagavan’s darshan,

there was a wonderful change in the attitude of the owner
of the press. He approached me and agreed to sell his press
for whatever price I was willing to pay for it. I stated a
reasonable amount since I did not want to exploit him, and
he happily accepted my offer. When he had agreed to come
and see Bhagavan with me he had made a stipulation that no
business talks should take place at the ashram. However, after
seeing Bhagavan, he proposed that we settle our business
immediately. We drafted and signed a sale agreement in the
ashram itself and within a week of our visit the press came
into my possession.
It was a fairly big press that enabled me to do all kinds
of printing work in several languages. Because of the good
facilities that were available there, I undertook to print
ashram books in English, Tamil, Telugu, Hindi, Gujarati and
Kannada.
The press, which was given the name ‘Aruna Press’ by
Bhagavan himself, had been idle for six months. It needed
a lot of work to get it functioning again, but by Bhagavan’s
grace I was soon able to take up the ashram work that had
been given to me.
In 1946, the devotees of Bhagavan decided to celebrate
a golden jubilee to commemorate Bhagavan’s fifty years at
Arunachala. He had arrived on September 1st, 1896, and
on that same date in 1946 the ashram proposed to mark
the occasion by a number of special events, one of which
was the publication of a book entitled The Golden Jubilee
Souvenir. The printing of this souvenir was entrusted to my
press. Up till then, the press had only printed small books
for the ashram. Since this was going to be a big volume of
several hundred pages, I was initially reluctant to accept the
work because I felt that I would not have enough time to
complete it. However, once I overcame my diffidence and
accepted the commission, help and cooperation began to pour
in. Since some of it was wholly unexpected, I suspected that

Bhagavan’s divine grace was again at work.
At first, my initial fears appeared to be justified. When
only ten days remained before the publication date, I had still
not managed to print more than a small part of the book. I
temporarily lost my courage and rushed off to the ashram.
I prostrated before Bhagavan, told him about the lack of
progress and informed him, ‘Unless the help of some other
press is taken, the volume will not come out on the first of
September.’
I then sat before him, enjoying his darshan, waiting for
his reply.
After a few moments of silence he said in a low melodious
tone, ‘Do your work.’
These three simple words had a magical effect on me.
They fired me with fresh vim and vigour and there arose in
my heart a strong belief that the volume would surely be out
on the scheduled date. I had received my orders from my
Master. I had simply to obey and ‘do my work’. I had faith
that all the other details would be looked after by him.
I returned to Bangalore and told the story of my experience
at Sri Ramanasramam to my co-workers in the press. All of
them accepted Bhagavan’s order in the same spirit as I had
done.
Over the next few days all of us worked day and night
with full faith, zeal and enthusiasm. The amount of work
turned out in those last ten days was, in retrospect, quite
astonishing. Then, when three days remained till our deadline,
a party of about ten devotees came to my house on its way
to the ashram. They were going there to attend the golden
jubilee celebrations. Three of them turned out to be expert
bookbinders. I immediately enlisted their aid and managed to
complete the work of the souvenir a day early.
Between 1945 and 1947 the Aruna Press printed all the
publications of Sri Ramanasramam. The work was complex
and I often found myself having to argue with the official
at Sri Ramanasramam who had been put in charge of the

publications there. The tension between us increased to the
point where both of us decided that we should go to Bhagavan
to get our differences resolved. He silently listened to our
complaints. That healing silence solved our problem. In those
few minutes our hearts had changed. We separated with the
resolve to bury the past and to treat each other in future with
love and friendship. The silken tie with which Bhagavan
bound us on that day has never snapped again.
Replying to a question of a visitor to Sri Ramanasramam
a few years ago, Sri Ramana Maharshi said: ‘To have darshan
of a saint is sure to bring good to you. Thousands of people
pass by Tiruvannamalai in trains every day, but few alight
here and fewer still visit the ashram. About darshan of and
association with a saint, the scriptures say that it is a vessel
that enables you to cross the vast ocean of samsara. What
more benefit do you want?’
I can heartily endorse this comment, citing the evidence
of my own particular case. By merely having the darshan
of Bhagavan, the sun of spiritual wisdom appeared on the
horizon of my life, driving away the darkness of disbelief and
delusion. It illuminated my heart with the light of devotion.
Since that blissful moment, the gracious gleam of light in my
heart has been growing into a bigger and brighter flame.
Bhagavan was undoubtedly one of those rare mahatmas
who had the power to banish suffering merely through his
presence, merely through giving darshan. This giving of
darshan, and the concomitant transmission of grace, formed
the central and most important part of his teaching.
Having said that, one must be wary of attaching too
much importance to the external physical form of the one
who gives darshan, for has not Bhagavan himself said, ‘The
Guru is within. Meditation is meant to remove the ignorant
idea that he is only outside. If he be a stranger whom you
await, he is bound to disappear also. What is the use of a
transient being like that?’
He further says that in order to receive the grace of the

Guru ‘One of two things must be done: either surrender
yourself because you realise your inability and need a higher
power to help you; or, investigate into the cause of misery by
self-enquiry and so merge in the Self. Either way you will
attain freedom from misery. God or Guru never forsakes the
devotee who has surrendered himself.’
So, the Guru provides the darshan and the silent grace.
The devotee, for his part, tries to enhance his ability to receive
and experience that grace by enquiring ‘Who am I?’ or by
surrendering to the source. Truly speaking, darshan and grace
go together; one inevitably follows from the other. Darshan
begets the experience of grace, and if it does not beget it, the
darshan is not that of a true saint or sage.
Though the darshan and the grace are always beneficial,
the devotee may not always be aware of the purifying effect
they are having on him. This can be illustrated by an incident
I witnessed in Bhagavan’s hall.
For most of the day Bhagavan used to sit on his sofa,
which was adjacent to a window. Squirrels would occasionally
come in through the window and run around near him.
Bhagavan would often respond to them by lovingly feeding
them cashews or other foodstuffs with his own hand.
One day Bhagavan was feeding the squirrels when a
Muslim devotee, who had been watching him, gave him a
note in which was written: ‘The squirrels are very fortunate
because they are getting the food from your own hands. Your
grace is so much on them. We feel jealous of the squirrels and
feel that we also should have been born as squirrels. Then it
would have been very good for us.’
Bhagavan couldn’t help laughing when he read this note.
He told the man, ‘How do you know that the grace is not
there on you also?’
The Muslim devotee finally understood and was satisfied
by these words.
As Bhagavan’s fame began to spread, the number of

visitors to the ashram increased. Many of them tried to offer
him presents such as fancy sheets for his sofa, curtains for
the doors and windows, embroidered carpets, etc. In order to
satisfy the devotees who offered these things, Bhagavan would
usually allow his attendant to substitute, for a short period
of time, the new offerings for the ones that were already in
use. After a few hours they would be removed and sent away
to the ashram storeroom, and the old, still-serviceable items
would be brought back into use. Bhagavan would briefly
utilise these presents merely to strengthen the devotion of the
donors. Left to himself, he would use cheap or old items, and
never claim that they were his own. Devotees who tried to
get him to use newer or better-made products could always
count on resistance from Bhagavan himself. I discovered this
for myself when I tried to give him a new pen.
Bhagavan generally used two fountain pens: one contained
blue ink, the other, red. Both of these pens were quite old and
looked, to me at least, worn out. One day the top cover of
the red-ink pen cracked, so a devotee took it to town to have
it repaired. It was gone for several days. During this period
Bhagavan reverted to an old-fashioned nib pen that had to be
dipped in an ink-pot of red ink. Since this seemed to cause
him some inconvenience, I decided to get him a new pen.
I wrote to a friend in Bombay and asked him to send one
immediately. A few days later the pen arrived by post. I went
straight to Bhagavan and handed over the unopened parcel
containing the pen.
Whenever a parcel or letter bore the name of the sender
on the cover, Bhagavan never failed to notice it. As soon as
he received the packet from me, he turned it over and read the
name of both the recipient and the sender. Having deduced
that the parcel had been sent at my instigation, he took out
the pen, carefully examined it, and put it back in the box. He
then tried to hand the box to me.
Allowing it to remain in his hand, I explained, ‘It has

been ordered from Bombay specially for Bhagavan’s use.’
‘By whom?’ he asked.
‘By me,’ I said, not without some embarrassment because
I was beginning to feel that Bhagavan did not approve of my
action.
‘What for?’ demanded Bhagavan.
‘Bhagavan’s red-ink pen was out of order,’ I said, ‘and
I saw that it was inconvenient for him to write with a pen
holder and nib.’
‘But what is wrong with this old pen?’ he asked, taking
out the old red-ink pen that had by then been received back
in good repair.
‘What is wrong with it?’ he repeated. He opened it up and
wrote a few words to demonstrate that it had been restored to
full working order.
‘Who asked you to send for a new pen?’ demanded
Bhagavan again. He was clearly annoyed that I had done this
on his behalf.
‘No one asked me,’ I said, with faltering courage. ‘I sent
for it on my own authority.’
Bhagavan waved the old pen at me. ‘As you can see, the
old pen has been repaired and writes very well. Where is the
need for a new pen?’
Since I could not argue with him, I resorted to pleading
and said, ‘I admit that it was my mistake, but now that it has
come, why not use it anyway?’
My plea was turned down and the new pen went the way
of all its forerunners. It was sent to the office to be used there.
Bhagavan gave us an example of how to live simply by
refusing to accumulate unnecessary things around him. He also
refused to let anyone do any fund-raising on behalf of the ashram.
In this too he set an example. He taught us that if we maintain
an inner silence and have faith in God’s providence, everything
we need will come to us automatically. He demonstrated the
practicality of this approach by refusing to let anyone collect

money for the construction of the temple over his mother’s
samadhi. Though large amounts of money were being spent on
it every day, we had to rely on unsolicited donations to carry on
the work. I knew this from direct experience because one day the
ashram manager asked me to get permission from Bhagavan to
go to Ahmedabad to ask for a donation from a rich man I knew
who lived there. Bhagavan, as usual, flatly refused. No amount
of persuasion could move him from his categorical ‘No’.
‘How is it,’ he complained, ‘that you people have no
faith?’
He pointed to the hill and told us, ‘This Arunachala gives
us everything we need.’
Once, more recently, when Bhagavan was very debilitated,
his doctors recommended that he should take some nourishing
food. But he would not listen to them or to the devotees who
appealed to him to follow the advice. Some of them were
earnestly begging him to eat thickly buttered bread, others
were trying to make him drink milk and orange juice. But to
all of them he had only one answer to give.
With his usual genial smile he would say, ‘But how can
we afford to have such a luxurious diet? For us there can only
be the poor man’s rations.’
‘But what is the harm in changing one’s diet for the sake
of one’s health?’ ventured one devotee in a plaintive tone.
‘Even Mahatma Gandhi takes a special diet and Sri Aurobindo
too does the same, to keep up their health. Please, therefore,
take a tumblerful of orange juice, at least for our sake.’
‘But do you know the cost of a tumbler of orange juice?’
asked Bhagavan.
‘Oh, only four annas,’ rejoined the devotee, with hope
gleaming in his eyes.
‘No, it won’t be four annas. We will require about 200
tumblers of juice. Do you want me alone to gulp down the
drink with all of you watching, empty-handed? Moreover,
how can poor people like us provide for 200 tumblers of

juice, paying Rs. 50 every day?’
This answer checked the devotee’s pleas for a while, but
he would not give up so easily. He still had a lingering hope
that if once Bhagavan started to take the nourishing diet, he
would continue to do so for at least enough days for his health
to improve a little. So, the next day, he quietly prepared hot
rotis [chapatis], well smeared with ghee [clarified butter], and
filled two tumblers, one with milk and the other with orange
juice.
Then with the assistance of a few other devotees, he took
all these things to Bhagavan on a tray.
‘What’s all this?’ he enquired as he saw them walking
towards him.
The devotees placed the tray before him, uncovered it
and begged him to accept the offering. He refused point-
blank even to touch the food, asking instead that the devotees
should consume it. Repeated appeals to him from other
devotees were also of no avail.
Then, in the heat of the moment, a woman devotee who
was present at the time burst out, ‘O Bhagavan! Just as you
are kind enough to agree to sit on your sofa [instead of on the
floor like everyone else] for our sake, why not also favour us
by taking this special diet?’
Though the woman spoke these words in good faith,
the outcome was quite the reverse of what was expected.
Hardly had she finished when, to her and the other devotees’
dismay, Bhagavan got down from his sofa and squatted on
the floor. The woman was horrified by the consequences of
her suggestion.
She called out with anguish in her heart and tears in her
eyes, ‘Bhagavan! No! Please don’t! What a stupid woman I
am! What stupid words I blurted out!’
Then she got hysterical and started screaming.
All the others stood around, aghast at what had happened.
The remedy had turned out to be worse than the disease. The
rotis, the milk, the juice were abandoned as everybody racked

their brains to find a way out of this impasse and re-seat
Bhagavan on the sofa.”
We conclude the experiences of Chhaganlal Yogi by
recalling his realisation of what Bhagavan meant to him: ‘He
is everything to me. He is my Guru and my God.’
29. Dr. T.N. Krishnaswami*
I t was in 1930 that I first met Bhagavan. I was studying

medicine and my final examination was a few months
ahead. Together with a few friends I set out on an excursion
to Vellore. I carried my camera with me and took pictures
of the old Fort and some stone carvings of archaeological
interest at Vellore. There was not much to see there, and
someone suggested that the temple at Tiruvannamalai was
a huge and impressive work of art. So we got in a bus for
Tiruvannamalai and went round the temple, admiring the
beautiful stone carvings and the huge towers. I had a good
harvest of photographs. A bystander suggested that we pay a
visit to the Maharshi who was living a couple of miles away.
So we set out for the Ashram in a horse cart. I was wondering
if the Maharshi would be a good subject for photography.
It was evening by the time we arrived at the Ashram. The
visitors had dispersed from the hall. The Maharshi had gone
out, as was his habit, for a short walk on the hill.
We waited for a few minutes and saw a string of people
following a tall man walking with a stick and holding a
Kamandalam (vessel for water). We alerted ourselves and
I asked if I could take a few photographs of the Maharshi,
* ‘Introducing….’, The Mountain Path, Jan. 1965; Dr. T.N.

Krishnaswami, ‘How I Came to the Maharshi’, The Mountain Path,
Jul. 1968; Dr. T.N. Krishnaswami, ‘The Sage’s Body’, The Mountain
Path, Jul. 1975; ‘Obituary’, The Mountain Path, Jul. 1975.
The reply was ‘No, no, you cannot’. As we were talking, the
tall stately figure had approached us and asked what was the
matter. Mr. Seshu Iyer, the man I had asked for permission,
pointed to me and my colleagues and said, ‘This party are from
Madras and they want to take some pictures of Bhagavan.’
‘Oh ! Is that so? said the Maharshi. ‘Let them.’ So saying he
stood posing for me with his hands on his hips and with his
face in semi-profile. I lost no time.
I opened my camera, brought it into focus and clicked 3
or 4 times, giving different apertures and different timings. I
was not looking for any spiritual fare and I was not conscious
of any holy atmosphere. Bhagavan, as they called him,
entered the hall and lowered himself on to the sofa which was
carefully arranged for him. He pulled out a towel and wiped
his wet feet and then he sat recumbent on the sofa, seeming
quite relaxed. It was surprising how he merged into himself
totally oblivious of the surroundings.
We entered the hall and sat a few feet off in front of him.
The Maharshi did not seem to take notice of anything around
him. He wore a calm and distant look. His eyes were shining
and there was something divine about his countenance. The
hall was badly lighted for photography but still I took a few
pictures of the Maharshi. We then got up and mechanically
prostrated before him and left the hall; before we were out
of the Ashram compound, a sannyasi clad in orange robes
came running after us and said, ‘Please send a few prints to
us to the Ashram address. We do not have any good picture
of Bhagavan.’
This person was none other than Niranjanananda Swami,
the then Sarvadhikari. I left the Ashram without giving any
further thought to the matter and never suspected that it was
to play a vital part in my life. I returned to Madras, developed
the films and sent a few prints to the Ashram.
Then I settled down to my studies. I had almost forgotten
Tiruvannamalai. One morning I received a letter inviting me
to come and take a group photo with the Maharshi, as all
the devotees were impressed with the good pictures that I

had made. I wondered if this could not be put off till my
examinations were over. But somehow I found myself
entrained for Tiruvannamalai. When I entered the Maharshi’s
presence, he greeted me with a smile and said: ‘They want
a group photo and they want you to take it for them.’ I felt
highly flattered and I felt that I had done right in answering
their call. To have been the object of Maharshi’s remark
was exquisitely pleasing. I felt quite important, arranged
the group, erected my camera and took a few pictures. Then
Bhagavan posed for me in the conventional Padmasana. The
Ashram has sold many thousand copies of this particular pose
of Bhagavan. Bhagavan sat almost statue-like, with a clean
shaven head.
On another occasion, as I entered the hall, the Maharshi
remarked, ‘Just now we were talking about you and see
the coincidence, you are here in person. You may yourself
receive the letter personally which they have addressed ready
for posting to you.’
Whenever I went to the Ashram, though I usually stayed
there only for one brief day from morning till evening,
I made it a point to accompany the Maharshi and take as
many pictures of him as possible. I used to wonder if such
doggedness on my part would not vex the Maharshi. I have
snapped him walking, sitting, eating, cleaning his feet. I have
snapped him smiling; bursting into laughter; smiling at a
child ; in a meditative mood; in Samadhi, etc. Once he was
going up the hill when there was a slight drizzle and he was
offered a country-made palmyra umbrella. I took a picture
of him while he was using this. I also took another picture
of him using an ordinary umbrella; As I began to take this
picture, the Maharshi was smiling broadly.
In the few hours that I spent with the Maharshi, I felt
charged with an inexplicable peace and contentment and I
returned home elated. The Maharshi seemed someone whom
I knew intimately. I felt at home in his presence and even
expected some sort of paternal indulgence and affection from

him. I have no doubt that he did indulge me like a loving
father. It is amazing how the thousands of visitors felt at ease
in his presence and were made to feel that personal attention
was bestowed upon each one of them. My short walks with
the Maharshi gave me the rare opportunity of listening to and
taking part in the conversations. One day, as we were going
up the hill, he picked up a small glistening pebble from the
path and held it out to me saying, ‘Someone from abroad has
written asking for a stone taken out from a holy part of this
hill. He does not know that the whole hill is holy. The hill is
Siva Himself; as we identify ourselves with the body, so Siva
has chosen to identify Himself with this Hill. Arunachala is
pure wisdom appearing in the shape of a hill. It is out of
compassion to those who seek Siva, that Siva has chosen to
reveal himself as a hill visible to the eye. The seeker will
obtain guidance and solace by staying near this hill.’ These
words sank into my heart. It never occurred to me to weigh
or examine the aptness of what was said. The hill was holy.
The Maharshi had said it and that was what counted with me.
Sometimes I used to wonder if it was not ridiculous of me
to pay so much attention to photography whereas his teaching
was ‘I am not the body.’ Was I not chasing the shadow and
even trying to perpetuate it?
Somehow so long as I was seeing the Maharshi, his
teaching did not assume any importance to me. His person
was seen and felt by me and I felt drawn and attracted to
him. It gave me immense pleasure to take pictures of him:
he was more important to me than his teaching – every little
movement, every one of his acts and gestures, was highly
valued by me and they always carried some divine fragrance.
Simply to watch him, no matter what he was doing, was highly
gratifying. I was attracted to him like a baby to its mother.”
Dr. T.N. Krishnaswami, or Dr. TNK, was perhaps the
only devotee for whom Bhagavan’s physical body meant
everything.
He was also the person to whom Bhagavan revealed that

the whole of Arunachala hill was sacred and was the Lord
himself. Once, the ashram was bringing out a book titled
The Maharshi, with a hundred and seventeen illustrations.
By then, the ashram had plenty of Bhagavan’s pictures taken
by Dr. TNK. But they did not have a single proper photo
of the hill. So Niranjanananda Swami requested him to
take a good picture of the hill for that book. For Dr. TNK,
Bhagavan was father, mother, guru, God – everything. He
approached Bhagavan and appealed, “They have asked me to
take a photograph of the hill. What should I do?” Bhagavan
replied, “Before the railway tracks from the south reach
Tiruvannamalai, there is a railway bridge. From there, if you
look at Arunachala, the top of Arunachala and the temple’s
main tower fall in a straight line. That view is especially
striking. Take that!”
Recounting the incident, Dr. TNK said: “Put yourself in
Bhagavan’s position: Only once had he travelled that way by
train – as a sixteen year old boy running away from home in
ecstatic search of his Father. And yet, just a glimpse of the hill
and the temple’s main tower from that bridge got so deeply
imprinted in his Heart that he could bring it out vividly and
immediately years later! A sage’s every movement, word and
gesture has great significance because for a sage everything
is in the now.”
Once he was asked, “Have you ever taken any picture of
Bhagavan stealthily, without taking his permission, without
his knowledge?” He said, “I always sought his permission
before taking his photo, except this once. I wanted to take
a photo of his holy feet as the feet of the satguru are highly
extolled in our scriptures. I requested the attendant to sprinkle
a few flowers in front of Bhagavan’s feet as he reclined on
his couch. Hiding my camera from Bhagavan’s vision, I
pretended to bend down and prostrate. Suddenly, I raised
myself and took the photo.” He added, “Bhagavan’s figure
was out of focus, only the feet were clearly focussed. When
I tried to slip out, Bhagavan beckoned me to his side. As he

looked at me, he had a knowing smile dancing in his eyes
which seemed to say, ‘Do I not know the mischief you are
up to?’
When speaking about the last moments of Bhagavan’s
earthly life, tears flowed down Dr. TNK’s cheeks and he was
choked with emotion. He could not utter a single word. So,
he was asked to write it down. This is what he wrote: “I had
the rare privilege of being allowed to stay with the Maharshi
during his last days. Knowing fully well that his end was
near I was inquisitive to watch and see if he would leave
any message for us. Would he not speak words of solace?
Would he not leave behind some directions for us? It was sad
indeed to look at the suffering of the body but the mystery
was his attitude to it. He described all the pain and suffering
as though the body belonged to somebody else. The question
arose whether he was suffering or not. How could he describe
the pain and suffering so accurately and locate it in the body
and yet remain unaffected by it? ‘There is a severe, intolerable
headache,’ he said as his kidneys started failing. The Maharshi
never described the symptoms in a subjective manner. On the
evening of the last day, the Maharshi asked to be propped
up in a sitting posture and he assumed something like a
padmasana posture. His breathing was getting strenuous and
heavy. The attending doctor put the oxygen mask to his face.
The Maharshi brushed it aside. There was a heavenly chorus
of ‘Arunachala Siva, Arunachala Siva ’ being sung outside the
room. The gathering stood speechless. Would physical death
dare touch him? No! It is impossible. A miracle will happen.
That is what everyone thought. The atmosphere was tense
with emotion, fear and expectation. There was some weeping.
Very gently, the Maharshi seemed to gasp a little and the body
became still. Synchronizing with the Maharshi’s last breath,
a meteor was seen to trail across the sky. We could scarcely
realise what had happened. The physical form had left us
once for all. No more the beatific smile to greet us. No more
the graceful form to adorn the ashram.”
Dr. TNK shared a story about a photograph of Bhagavan:
“For the naming ceremony of my second son, a celebration and
puja was arranged. I wanted to name him Ramana. My wife
objected to that. She said, ‘By tradition, you should give him
my father’s name, just as you have named our first son after
your father. As I could not object to that, I reluctantly agreed.
The function was going on and as per tradition I covered my
second son under a cloth and was about to whisper my wife’s
father’s name in his ear. Suddenly, this framed picture fell off
from the wall on to my back. For me, it was as if Bhagavan
himself was telling me, ‘Give him my name.’ So, I named
him Ramana!”
Dr. TNK continues thus:
His death gave me a severe jolt. I was shocked. Had I
missed the opportunity of a lifetime, to imbibe the teaching
of the Enlightened One? I had done nothing in the direction
of spiritual sadhana. Had I wasted all my time taking
photographs, while I should have engaged myself in trying
to understand and practise his teachings in his very presence.
‘No’, I said to myself, this cannot be true. I was sure that I had
obtained some grace from the Maharshi. He was somehow
still here. Only, we have to learn to feel his Presence. We
would never be forsaken for he had himself assured us that
he was not going away. Then I turned with a sad heart to
studying his teachings. I began to see light in them. Some
of the sentences touched me and made me feel that I was in
his presence, listening to him. I took heart; the more I read,
the more intimate the Maharshi became to me. His teaching
pulsated with life; I began to understand it and it mixed with
my being and became my own!
When Dr. TNK was on his deathbed, people around him
wept. He chided everyone saying, “Is this your understanding
of Bhagavan’s teaching? Look at me. I am looking at Bhagavan
beckoning to me. I am going to him. Why should you cry?

Come on, wake up.” Dr. TNK, pre-eminent ‘Bhagavan-
photographer’, merged with Ramana Arunachala on April 2,
1975.
30. Framji Dorabji*
F ramji Dorabji was a Zoroastrian, or Parsee, who owned a

movie theatre in Chennai. From childhood, Framji was so
devoted to sages and saints that wherever there were sadhus
and sannyasins, he would go and fall at their feet. Knowing of
his ‘madness’, his family friends often played pranks on him
saying, “Framji, there is a great sage at such and such a place
on the outskirts of Bombay.” He would go there immediately
with offerings of fruits, only to find no one like that there.
Though he knew that they had played a prank on him, he
never resented it. As he later recounted, “I was never hurt or
angry – those moments were very precious to me as I was for
that duration thinking of meeting a saint.”
Once, he was actually cheated by a sadhu who he
thought was genuine. The sadhu was a psychic and an expert
in thought reading. The first time he went to meet this sadhu,
Framji was still in the car while his friends went on ahead. To
their utter amazement, the sadhu asked them, “Why have you
left your friend Framji Dorabji in the car? Bring him here.”
When Framji met him, the sadhu did some psychic reading
of his thoughts. Framji was very impressed and thinking that
he was a great saint, started going to him regularly. Soon,
the sadhu started extracting money from him. Once, he asked
for a huge amount that Framji could never even hope to get.
On being told that, the sadhu threatened him, “If you do not
come with that money, I will curse you. Your whole family
* ‘Introducing…’, The Mountain Path, Apr. 1968; V. Ganesan,

Ramana Periya Puranam.
will be destroyed.” When he returned home, he found his

elder daughter had fallen ill. As the days went by, seeing
her condition getting worse, he rushed back to the sadhu and
pleaded, “Please reverse your curse. My daughter is dying.”
The sadhu was unmoved, “Unless you give me the money I
will not reverse the curse.” When he went home, he found his
daughter dead and his wife ill. He was overtaken by grief and
fear. Taking pity on him, his elder brother Dadiba who had
just read a review of A Search in Secret India said, “Brother!
I have just read about a great sage in South India. Why don’t
you go to him for protection?”
Thus, in 1937, Framji Dorabji came to Bhagavan. No
private interviews with Bhagavan were allowed, but one
could go up the hill alone with Bhagavan. Framji followed
Bhagavan up the hill and poured out all his woes, “Bhagavan,
this is my plight. In fact, I do not even know whether my wife
is now alive or not.” Bhagavan stopped, turned and looked at
Framji for some time and then said, “Only that far can they
go. There is nothing to fear. There is protection always. Go
back peacefully.” Framji felt his fear dropping off like a cloak
off the body. A word surged from his heart, “Master!” He was
the first person to call Sri Ramana Maharshi ‘master’. From
then on, he started repeating, “My master, my master,” often.
When Framji returned to his family, they were surprised
because what had happened to him was undoubtedly a real
miracle. His wife became all right and Framji started coming
to his master from far off Mumbai.
In 1942, his business fortunately shifted to Chennai. He
became the owner of a movie theatre. This gave him the
freedom to go to Bhagavan any time he chose. In Bhagavan’s
presence, he had no doubts or questions. In his presence
Framji felt divinity in the here and now. The moment he
went to Bhagavan, whatever doubt he had was cleared by one
look from Bhagavan. At other times, somebody else would
raise the same doubt he had and Bhagavan would answer it.
So there was never a need for him to put any intellectual
question to Bhagavan. He understood that his path was the

path of surrender.
He used to go to Bhagavan wearing a black cap which was
part of his traditional Zoroastrian attire and prostrate before
him. In India, perhaps due to the influence of the British, one
would remove one’s hat while in the presence of an elder or
person of higher standing. The other devotees therefore told
Framji that he was insulting Bhagavan when he prostrated and
sat before Bhagavan with his cap on. When Bhagavan heard
this, he said, “The Zoroastrian custom is that when one wants
to show respect to a holy personage, he must wear his cap.
Framji is only doing the right thing.” Framji was surprised,
“How did Bhagavan know that? Though a few Zoroastrian
devotees were already coming to Bhagavan, none of them had
ever discussed their habits and customs with him.”
When Framji started to settle down in Chennai, a friend
offered to sell him a large piece of land with buildings on it for
a throw away price. It belonged to a widow and was a distress
sale. Framji wanted to buy it as it would make him extremely
wealthy. However, he wanted Bhagavan’s approval. He went to
the ashram and sat in Bhagavan’s presence, mentally appealing
for guidance. After some time, a devotee asked Bhagavan a
question. In the course of his long answer, Bhagavan gave a
look at Framji and smilingly added, “One is already burdened
with past acquisitions. Why add more? It will only increase
one’s bondage.” Framji dropped the idea of buying the property.
Years later, he came to know that the person who bought it had
to face endless and troublesome litigations.
While K. K. Nambiar brought a movie camera with which
he filmed Bhagavan, it was Framji who brought popular
spiritual movies on saints like Tukaram, Mira, and Nandanar
for Bhagavan’s viewing. With the help of another devotee
who had a movie projector and screen, Framji succeeded in
showing Bhagavan such movies in the ashram dining hall
at night. I was fortunate to sit next to Bhagavan when he
was seeing these movies. Bhagavan appreciated the movies
laughing and thoroughly enjoying the humourous scenes and

shedding ecstatic tears during those scenes where the saints
were moved by spiritual bliss.
During the last days of Bhagavan, Framji like everyone
else was standing in the queue to have the darshan of
Bhagavan. When he stood in front of Bhagavan, he was
chanting verses from Zend Avesta, the Zoroastrian scripture.
Bhagavan turned to him, smiled and said, “Framji, it is not
the rising sun, it is the setting sun!” Framji was surprised as
the holy verses he was chanting, in ancient Avestan, were
addressed to the rising sun!
In Framji’s view, “There is absolutely no contradiction
between Zoroastrianism and Bhagavan’s teachings. In fact, the
essential teachings of my religion are the same as Bhagavan’s.
An incident from Day by Day with Bhagavan illustrates this:
‘This evening, after the parayana, Munagala Venkataramiah
came and told Bhagavan, “It seems that Mrs. Taleyarkhan and
a friend of Sir Mirza Ismail of Mysore were sitting on the hill
talking about Bhagavan and about the hill. Mrs. Taleyarkhan
told him, ‘Bhagavan is a walking God and all our prayers are
answered. That is my experience. Bhagavan says that this hill
is God himself. I cannot understand it but since Bhagavan
says so I believe it.’ Thereupon her Parsee friend replied, ‘I
would take it as a sign if in accordance with our Parsee beliefs
it rains’ (a light rain is a good omen). Almost immediately,
there was a shower and they came down from the hill fully
drenched and told me about it.’”
Framji Dorabji always talked about the greatness of sages
and saints. His heart was filled with devotion to saints like
Meerabai, Tukaram, Tulsidas and Surdas. Mention any one of
them and he would chant their verses and then translate them.
Framji, his wife, daughter and son, all became staunch
devotees of Bhagavan and visited the Ashram frequently.
They built a house for themselves, not far from the Ashram.
All of them regarded Bhagavan as their Guide and Guru and
the Ashram as their ‘home’.
Framji brought his young son to Bhagavan. While having

breakfast in the ashram dining hall, Dorab discovered the
idlis that he was eating for the first time in his life was not
to his taste at all. The next day, Dorab quite naturally refused
to go in for breakfast. But his father insisted. With great
reluctance, he sat next to his father. Surprisingly, when the
dish was served, Dorab ate it with relish. The secret was that
Bhagavan had observed Dorab’s intense dislike of idlis the
previous morning. So, he instructed the cooks to specially
coat the idlis with ghee and a thick layer of sugar. With this
‘special treatment’ the once despised idlis, now looked and
tasted like a famous Parsee delicacy! How Bhagavan knew
about such a Parsee delicacy was a wonder to both Framji
and Dorab.
On another occasion, young Dorab was sleeping outside
the hall one night. Bhagavan was passing by. With the
intention of waking him, so that he could have the darshan
and the blessings of Bhagavan, Framji rushed towards the
sleeping Dorab. Bhagavan gestured to him to refrain from
doing so and said in a soft voice, “Do not wake him up. Let
him wake up himself.” Is this not a great revelation? No one
can awaken another to the truth. Each one of us has to awaken
to the truth by diving within oneself.
Framji completely surrendered himself to Bhagavan. He
was the proprietor of the Wellington Talkies, Madras. Framji
passed away on November 20, 1967 one day after Maha
Deepam. On his passing away The Mountain Path wrote:
“The sacred Krittika Deepam of Arunachala was constantly
before his inner vision. He had never missed this particularly
holy occasion all these years. Framji was pious, humble and
of a benevolent disposition. He adored Bhagavan as God
Himself in human form. He has been a staunch supporter of
The Mountain Path from its inception. Even during the last
few years of great physical infirmity he was regularly visiting
the Ashram. Framji is not dead; he lives for ever at the Feet
of his Master, revered by all co-devotees!”
31. Ramaswami Pillai*
R amaswami Pillai was one of the few fortunate devotees

who lived a full hundred years. Born in 1894 he came
to Bhagavan in 1917. He has written about his visits to
Bhagavan as follows:
“From boyhood I was spiritually inclined. Although
coming from a meat-eating family, I turned vegetarian while
still a boy. I was mainly a worshipper of Siva but learned
about Christ and Buddha too and revered them. Twice I
visited the great Muslim shrine at Nagore and I understood
that Allah was only another name for God. My one ambition
in life was to see God face to face. This was granted to me
while still a schoolboy, in March 1917, when I first went to
Skandasramam and set eyes on Bhagavan. Reclining on the
couch, he looked indescribably majestic.
Since then he has been God in human form for me, my
God, Guru and All. I did not ask for anything, I was filled to
overflowing by just seeing him. He turned on me that look of
heart-melting Grace that he so often bestowed on newcomers.
After a few days I had to return home. There I learnt the
Marital Garland of Letters and spent my time reciting it
either mentally or aloud and even writing it out.
After finishing school I went to college. Then I returned
to my village and although I had no desire for married life
my parents got me married. I had no children, however, and
was soon able to give up married life and go and live with
Bhagavan at his Ashram.
During his years at Skandasramam Bhagavan still spoke
little and seldom. It did not matter; his gaze was dynamic,
* G. Ramaswami Pillai, ‘How I Came to Bhagavan’, The Mountain

Path, Jul. 1981; Ramaswami Pillai, ‘Early Days with Bhagavan’,
The Mountain Path, Jan. 1966; Ramaswami Pillai, ‘The Effulgence
of Arunachala’, The Mountain Path, Jan. 1979; Ramaswami Pillai,
‘The Sannidhi of Sri Bhagavan’, The Mountain Path, Apr. 1979.
penetrating, gracious, soul-stirring, ego-killing. In later years

he spoke far more but his silences were still tremendous.
It was on my second visit to Skandasramam that I first
made pradakshina. A visitor from Madurai whom I knew
wanted to go round the hill with Bhagavan and I joined them.
At that time the lower slopes were still forested and we took
the forest path for a good part of the way before coming out
on the road. Next day I had a sudden urge to go around by
myself. I started out as before but soon lost my way on the
forest track. As I started I had noticed that one of the Ashram
dogs was following me. Now it ran in front and began to
lead. At once it flashed on me that this was Bhagavan’s
work. With tears of gratitude and joy I followed my guide.
He took me by the same path as the previous day until we
came to the road and then disappeared; and I saw him at the
Ashram when I got back. At the time I told nobody about
this. It was my first experience of my spiritual relationship
with Bhagavan and I was more than ever convinced that he
would guide me through the unknown paths of life. Such an
incident may appear trivial to the reader, but when it actually
happens it strengthens one’s faith in Bhagavan who alone can
help one by his infinite Grace in opening one’s inner vision.
Another equally interesting and illuminating event took
place when Bhagavan was in Skandasramam. I was then a
student, occasionally visiting the Ashram whenever I had the
urge or felt a call. Ordinarily when I came to the Ashram
in those days I would go into the town for the night like all
other visitors. But this time somehow I managed to stay in
the Ashram.
Somebody told me there would be no food there at night,
since Bhagavan was then taking only one meal during the day.
But I had made up my mind to stay, and so I stayed. About
8-30 that night, one of the devotees, Ramanatha Brahmachari,
told Bhagavan that he had been given half a coconut and some
sweet rice during the day by some man in town who had
celebrated his child’s ear-boring ceremony. He apologized for
not informing Bhagavan earlier. Bhagavan said, “Since you

all have nothing for the night, you can make a paste of the
rice and the coconut, boil it with some water, and make a
kanji (gruel), which you can all take.” We immediately made
a paste and dissolved it in water and boiled it in a vessel
on the furnace-like charcoal stove that was burning before
Bhagavan to keep off the rainy season chill. When the kanji
was ready, Bhagavan asked whether there was any sugar
or sugar-candy in the ashram. Those were the days when
anything and everything that pilgrims brought as offerings
were distributed then and there without leaving anything
over. So the search for sugar and sugar-candy proved futile.
Even salt, which Bhagavan suggested as an alternative,
was not to be found!
At that moment, about 9 o’clock at night, a knock came
at the door. Since I was sitting near the door, I opened it. To
our great surprise, two young men, who had come through
the drizzling rain, entered the verandah, one with a packet of
sugar-candy, the other with a bunch of plantains. Bhagavan
jokingly said, “Aye! Sugar-candy has come with plantains
to supplement! “ The sugar candy was powdered and duly
mixed with the kanji. Then Bhagavan said in all solemnity,
“Today is the 365th day of my fast, and it is broken by my
sharing this kanji with you.” When he spoke these words, we
were all filled with awe, including the visitors. They were
overpowered with joy and gratitude at Bhagavan’s gracious
love which enabled them to partake in the breaking of his
365-day fast.
It was in 1922 that I became a resident of Ramanasramam.
I stayed for a month or two doing odd jobs. There was no
servant here like Veeran who was with us in the Skandasramam.
Bhagavan had not yet come down and settled permanently.
Thereafter I used to come frequently.
When one of the devotees, Dandapani Swami, who was
then managing the affairs of the Ashram, asked me to go
with him for raising funds for the upkeep of the Ashram,
I declined, preferring to remain and serve Bhagavan. I

remained there in his absence for a year looking after the
management along with Chinna Swami and maintaining the
accounts. The Ashram ground was cleared and levelled and
about 2000 rupees were spent for erecting thatched sheds
which served as kitchen, store room, dining hall and living
quarters. Spiritually for me that year was the best. We went
for giripradikshina frequently with Bhagavan and worked
with him in clearing away the bushes, etc.
At first there was only a thatched hut over the Mother’s
shrine and another small hut that served as a kitchen. There
were only a few of us then. There were no Ashram servants
in those days. We did all the work ourselves along with
Bhagavan. Puja was performed twice a day, as it is of now.
We spent our time doing Ashram work, chanting, walking
round the Hill, meditating and reading spiritual books.
After ten months I left for my village, B. Muyalur,
Chidambaram. I stayed in a temple for three months observing
silence. I then pursued the enquiry ‘Who am I?’ I visited
Ramanasramam off and on.
During my stay at the Ashram, at nights I used to
concentrate on Bhagavan’s face and then I would see a halo
– a glorious spectrum of colourful light – and at times he
appeared as a majestic royal figure. This happened to me
several times particularly before 1921.
Earlier Bhagavan was more silent and aloof. Later,
when the inflow of the devotees began to increase, he was
necessarily aloof. However, he took part in everything,
guiding and helping in every activity of the growing Ashram.
He was our Lord and guru and was always with us. Devotees
used to bring us provisions when they were needed and so we
never felt any need for anything at all. We used to consume
anything that came. Sometimes the supply would be even
more than we needed. We even used to prepare tea and coffee
when the ingredients were available.
Though this was an idyllic state in itself, the essence of

it was our striving for realisation. Having attained a human
birth realisation is the only goal worth aiming at, for it is
unalloyed, eternal Bliss and Peace.
Bhagavan’s inner personality manifested on important
occasions like Kartigai Deepam, Jayanti, Mahasivaratri,
Mahapuja and also when old and ardent devotees came to see
him. It was on such occasions that we saw his light specially
shining on us; he would be bestowing on us, his devotees,
his love, mercy and grace. He was our model and exemplar
and a shining light guiding us. We had glimpses of sahaja
samadhi, which we had to further develop and realise within
ourselves. This was what I felt during my ten months’ stay at
the ashram.
The first Sivaratri that we spent with Maharshi was in
1923. Bhagavan did not start for giripradakshina as usual.
Only five of us, i.e., Chinna Swami, Dandapani, Ayyaswami
Pillai, R. Viswanathan and myself were with Bhagavan and
sat with him throughout the night. The rest went away for
pradakshina. We were all in a blissful state impossible to
express in words.
Even when away from this place I used to think of
Bhagavan’s person and his name and then I used to experience
the sinking of all thoughts into the Self. I had been a non-
vegetarian and became a vegetarian in 1920, because of long
association with the Maharshi.
During one stay of two months at the Ashram, we read
the Ribhu Gita often. There would usually be six or seven
of us, including Bhagavan, and we each read a few verses in
turn, going all the way through the book until we had finished
the complete book. Bhagavan used to tell us, and on occasions
we felt and experienced it, that to read the Ribhu Gita is to
be in samadhi. Viswanathan, Muruganar, Chinna Swami
and anyone else who was present would sit together with
Bhagavan and take turns to read it. No other book was read
so often, but sometimes we would vary our reading by going
through the Tiruvachakam and the works of Thayumanavar.

Sometimes Bhagavan himself would read out three or four
stanzas from a work, and then explain the meaning to us.
In addition to the readings, we often chanted certain works
in his presence. Apart from the Hymns to Arunachala,
we frequently recited the Dakshinamurti Ashtakam in his
presence. As soon as his new works, Upadesa Saram and
Reality in Forty Verses were composed, we all learned them
by heart in all the four languages in which he had composed
them. On other occasions we would recite stanzas written in
praise of him, usually by Muruganar, Sivaprakasam Pillai and
the Tamil pundit, T.R. Ramachandra Iyer. To me he is still
more than father, mother, king, country, guru and God.
Now I realise after the passage of time that it is enough
if one dives deep into the heart and seeks within. The ‘Who
am I?’ enquiry is the most potent weapon with which to
fight the ego. His grace is always there. All other pursuits
like visiting various shrines, performing rituals, etc. are not
at all necessary after coming to Arunachala or to Bhagavan.
One should never waste his precious time after coming to
Bhagavan in other pursuits.
Ramana Bhagavan, who is known to the world as a jnani
and jivanmukta of the highest order, did not work miracles,
but miracles happened in his presence. These miracles are
many and were a matter of daily occurrence. The beauty and
significance of such occurrences is not so much in the events
themselves as in the manner and circumstances in which they
took place. I give here two such examples.
The one that comes to my mind with utmost strength
is of the recovery of sight by a mill-hand from Bangalore.
He had lost the sight of both eyes in smallpox. After trying
many different remedies, he was advised by someone to go to
Ramanasramam, so he came here as a last resort.
Bhagavan used to take a walk in the forest garden that was
then adjoining the Ashram, as soon as he finished the midday
meal with devotees and guests. On this particular day he had
finished his lunch and was about to start off. Two doctors
from Madras, Dr. Srinivasa Rao and Dr. Krishnaswami Iyer,
who were both long-standing devotees of Bhagavan, had
been at the Ashram for Bhagavan’s darshan. They had taken
leave of Bhagavan and were about to leave for Madras. Their
car was waiting for them.
Just then the man from Bangalore arrived and prostrated
before Bhagavan, who had not yet left his seat. He narrated
his sad story. Besides his being blind, he was the sole wage
earner for a large family, which included his aged mother and
father, his wife and children. Bhagavan simply listened to the
whole story in silence.
The two doctors, who had seen the man enter the
dining hall, returned to the dining hall, after having some
consultations between themselves they said to Bhagavan,
“Bhagavan, we will take this man with us to Madras and do
all we can for him, by your Grace.”
They left immediately afterwards and no one thought
of him again. Nothing was heard from the doctors or the
hospital where he was treated, but about a month later, this
man returned and prostrated before Bhagavan, saying with
tears of gratitude that he had regained perfectly the sight of
one eye.
Is this whole sequence of events not a miracle? If this
man had reached the Ashram just a few minutes later, it
would have been a completely different story. Looking at the
whole thing from the standpoint of the working of Bhagavan’s
Grace, we have to understand that the doctors had come the
day before with a car as though in anticipation of this man’s
arrival and were waiting for him. It is like this that Bhagavan
works his wonderful miracles.
Almost all the miracles that took place in the Bhagavan’s
presence that I witnessed, or even took part in, were all most
natural and normal in appearance. “Action in inaction and
inaction in action,” is the only explanation for all these events
that took place in the presence of Sri Ramana Maharshi.
In the presence of Bhagavan actions took place

spontaneously of their own accord. Now when we think
of them after a lapse of years we find them to be “natural
miracles”. It was as if Bhagavan, himself unmoving, held
us as captives and allowed us all to play, as if He were the
screen and we the figures on it.
Once, S. Doraiswami Iyer, Dr. Srinivasa Rao and others
were going by car from Bangalore to Pondicherry and they
stopped at Ramanasramam to have darshan of Bhagavan.
They were to stay only for a few hours; their car too had some
minor repairs to be done and it was sent to the town. When
Doraiswami Iyer was talking to Bhagavan I was present in
the Hall. He was recounting how when they passed through
Chengam (20 miles from Tiruvannamalai) their car had grazed
an old woman who then fell down, and that this had caused
some delay. Then Bhagavan asked with some concern: “What
is her condition now? Has she been attended to?” I, who was
merely a silent listener, immediately felt that I should go to
Chengam. Without telling anyone, (not that I did not want to
tell, but the thought never occurred) I took my cycle and went
to Chengam and, on enquiry at the hospital there, found out
that there was no injury to the old woman and that she was
attended to, and sent home. I was satisfied. I returned cycling,
came to the Ashram and reported everything to Bhagavan.
The party, who could not have their car repaired, had
meanwhile gone to the Railway Station to catch a train for
Pondicherry. Presuming they would go only after the car
came back, Niranjanananda Swami had prepared dosais
for them to eat and he was expressing disappointment that
they had left without eating them. I volunteered with joy to
take the eatables to the station. I had just then returned after
cycling nearly 45 miles. I took the dosais and eatables, gave
them to the party and after telling them about the satisfactory
condition of the woman, returned to the Ashram.
The point to note here is this. Bhagavan did not ask me
to do anything, but he impelled me from within to do all this.
This is the miracle. To cycle nearly 50 miles without

anyone’s prompting, and without any urgent need for it and
even without any personal satisfaction (the party was not
close to me) to do all this without thinking why, means that
it was done in the presence (sannidhi) of the Master! His
concern for the old woman and solicitude for his devotees
made me do all this with no strain and no thought of myself.
Bhagavan used to perform many such miracles and
play with His devotees, especially those close to Him! For
devotees of Ramana Bhagavan, whatever he spoke was the
law and the truth. For us, nothing existed and nothing exists
apart from Bhagavan. His adoration of Arunachala and its
glory has a special meaning for us, his devotees.
After coming to Bhagavan, I have never missed a
Deepam festival (lighting of the beacon on top of Arunachala,
symbolising the enlightenment of one’s own heart) on the full
moon night in the month of Kartigai (November-December).
Wherever I happened to be I would somehow manage to go
to Tiruvannamalai for the festival of the beacon.
Once in the 1930s I was held up in Chidambaram just
before the Deepam. I tried to reach Tiruvannamalai either by
train or by bus, but owing to heavy rains and floods none of
them were being run. My anxiety to reach Arunachala was
such that I decided to walk the whole distance. But lo, when
I came to a bridge over a river on the way, I found the bridge
had been washed away.
I returned disappointed and spent the night crying. Then
I had a vivid vision, which was definitely not a dream, for
I had not slept. I saw the Holy Hill clearly and the bright
tongues of flame leaping up from the kindled beacon. I was
thrilled. It was the very night of the Deepam. Arunachala
Ramana had showered His grace on His devotee who was
miles away from Arunachala at the time! Such is the glory of
Arunachala-Ramana.”
The Mountain Path of January 1966 writes about him:
“Ramaswami Pillai is one of the senior most devotees still
living here. He used to visit Bhagavan right back in the

Skandasramam days and became a permanent resident of the
Ashram in 1922, the year when the present Ashram at the foot
of the hill was founded. He was a college educated young
man with a robust body and genial disposition and was from
the start noticeable for the zest with which he tackled the
many kinds of manual labour that were necessary for building
up an ashram. Years later, when the present buildings had
been erected and labourers were employed, he was the person
in charge of Ashram labour and never minded lending a hand
himself when anything had to be done. He was an asset to the
Ashram Office in many ways, being always ready to go into
town to make purchases or do whatever needed to be done.
In the later years, when Bhagavan’s knees were badly
swollen with rheumatism and Ramaswami Pillai himself was
already well advanced into middle age, Bhagavan slipped and
fell one day in his daily walk on the hill, injuring his foot.
Without a word to any one, Ramaswami Pillai set out
next day to make a path up the hill, shoring up the steep slope
into steps, chiselling steps in the slabs of rock, putting a firm
stone edge to the path. From dawn to dusk he worked, single
handed, for weeks together, until the path was made. Little is
done to keep it in repair now that Bhagavan is no longer here
in the body to walk on it, but after all the years of monsoon
rain beating down on it the path still remains, so thoroughly
did Ramaswami Pillai do his work.
Ramaswami Pillai was a member of the Ashram
Committee, which was set up to assist the management after
the Maha Samadhi of Bhagavan till its dissolution in January
1964.
An outstanding feature about him was his love of spiritual
songs. He has a stentorian voice and a vast repertoire and
every day, morning and evening, he joined with a few like-
minded devotees in a session of devotional singing (Tamil
Parayana) initiated by Bhagavan himself, consisting of
hymns composed by various poet-saints of the Tamil land,

including Bhagavan.
Pillai was the ‘cycle swami’ of the Ashram. He was
ever ready to run an errand and he regularly went to the post
office which was in the beginning a few miles away. He did
the shopping for the Ashram and collected parcels from the
railway station.
The obituary section of The Mountain Path dated 1995
Aradhana, says: “He was the oldest among the living devotees
of Bhagavan. It is remarkable that he had spent no less than
72 years of his life at the Ashram as a permanent resident.
Ramaswami Pillai gave valuable service to the Ashram
in various capacities, but above all he will be remembered
for his enthusiastic participation in manual work of all kinds
such as levelling the ashram grounds, laying out the garden,
maintaining it, watering plants, etc.
Even more unique was his contribution to making the
path up the Hill suitable for Bhagavan’s daily walk. This was
an arduous work which involved chiselling slabs of rock and
forming steps on a steep slope. He braved it all and completed
the work, single-handed.
Ramaswami Pillai had a spirited way of singing spiritual
songs in Tamil, especially those composed by Bhagavan and
those by devotees in Bhagavan’s praise.
His booming voice often drowned out those of others
while singing in chorus. A few hours before his passing away
a number of Ashram inmates had assembled in his room at
his request. He sang Aksharamanamalai, and other hymns
from Nooltirattu (Bhagavan’s Collected Works). This ecstatic
singing went on from 3 p.m. to 5 p.m. He was absorbed at
the Lotus Feet of Bhagavan on January 14, 1995 during the
sacred hour of pradosha.
32. T.P. Ramachandra Iyer*
T .P. Ramachandra Iyer (TPR) was born in Tiruvannamalai,

so he grew up at the foot of holy Arunachala. His family
had lived there for generations and they were devoted to
Arunachaleswara, the temple deity, and his Shakti (consort),
Mother Apitakuchambal. When TPR was a boy of six or seven,
he had the darshan of Bhagavan many times in Virupaksha
cave. He used to run up to Virupaksha cave, but he was honest
enough to admit, “I went to Bhagavan because he gave us
sweets like sugar candy and raisins.” Naturally, he also came
under the spiritual influence of Bhagavan and received his
blessings. The impact of these experiences became obvious
when he was a youth in high school and college. He became
passionate about the study of religion and philosophy. In fact,
in college he chose philosophy as his subject much against his
family’s wishes. Perhaps he needed the theoretical knowledge
of the scriptures of all religions for him to understand and put
into practice Bhagavan’s direct teaching. In his later years, he
became an affluent lawyer in Chennai.
TPR once asked a relative whether Bhagavan could read
his mind and see into his past, present and future. His relative
advised him go to Bhagavan and ask him about this.
So, in TPR’s own words: “I entered Bhagavan’s hall in
this frame of mind and looked at him. That is all. Bhagavan
very graciously looked at me in all expectancy as it were,
and full of benign compassion – yes, he looked into the very
core of my Being. He was sensing my entire Being. I fell flat
in prostration to him with an experience as totally consuming
as it was convincing. The discovery that ‘He’ whom I was
hankering for, all these years, who could sway my entire
Being and guide my energy, was here. So great, yet so simple
was this. I rose up and Bhagavan smiled again and bade me
* ‘Introducing…’, The Mountain Path, Jul. 1966; ‘Obituary’, The

Mountain Path, Oct. 1976; V. Ganesan, Ramana Periya Puranam.
to be seated. All the emotions, thoughts and, surging doubts

were nowhere! I felt that, I had found my refuge, which was
the greatest fortune of my life. It was a conviction born of
instant experience through His grace.”
In his own words: “When I had just become a lawyer, I
came to the ashram on one of my frequent visits. Once, there
was a discussion going on in the hall about the nature of
the Self. Since my mind was still fresh with all the bookish
knowledge that I had gathered, I freely gave vent to all that I
had learnt. I talked about the various grades of consciousness
that exist in the different systems of philosophy. I also used
terms such as super-consciousness, sub-consciousness and
unconsciousness. I boasted before Bhagavan. He listened to
my enthusiastic and elaborate explanations, and then reacted
suddenly and sharply, ‘It is only with reference to something,
that one can postulate a super, a sub or an unconscious state.
Consciousness being the truth, any form of postulation about
it is ignorance, even though it may be very appealing to the
intellect. Truth is very simple and direct; it needs no variation.
What exists is only consciousness. Call it by any name –
Atma, Brahman, Awareness, Absolute, Arunachala. It is Pure
Consciousness.’ These powerful words of Bhagavan made me
instantly dive within, into that one and only consciousness. I
was submerged in bliss for a long time. This is the advantage
of living near the master. What takes one volumes to
understand, takes just one knock from the master – it makes
you go into that state to experience the truth instantaneously.
This was not the only knock I got, because when you live
close to the master, you get many knocks. Each knock takes
you within, not without.”
In 1938, Ramanasramam had some litigation problems,
all of which he attended to. His wife passed away in 1939. He
was very fond of her. Her death therefore shook him so deeply
that he became like a rudderless boat. His only solace became
the presence and proximity of Bhagavan. Bhagavan guided
TPR to come to him with the result that he took voluntary
retirement in the 1940’s and settled down in Arunachala.

After 1946, he became the personal attendant of Bhagavan.
TPR further observes, “There was always a confrontation
within me between knowledge and wisdom. Is all knowledge
of the scriptures really so useless that one can attain wisdom
only by giving it up, or does one go beyond this framework?
This was the dilemma I was in. I wondered whether learning
the scriptures was a mere waste of time. I therefore put this
question to Bhagavan. He then calmly explained, ‘Arunachala
is the centre of unlearning. Everything that one has learnt
has to be given up here for the final culmination of spiritual
perfection. Unless one has learnt something, how can one
unlearn it? The scriptures equip us with learning. Does
‘unlearning’ denote denying or removing the scriptures
from one’s memory? How is that possible? On the other
hand, ‘unlearning’ means releasing oneself from the mere
intellectual knowledge of the scriptures and plunging oneself
into the experience of the truth, i.e. making it one’s own
and not keeping it outside as something other than one’s
Self. What is stated in the scriptures should become one’s
own experience. Arunachala makes one perfect by giving the
cream of all the scriptures as one’s own experience, in which
theoretical knowledge is transcended. In short, the individual
‘I’ or the ego is the learning. This learning, this knowledge is
in the head, while the throbbing of the ‘I-I’ is in one’s Heart.
It is wisdom. Where is the contradiction then? Bhagavan has
clearly stated, ‘Descending from the head to the Heart is the
beginning of spiritual sadhana.’”
T.P. Ramachandran recalled an incident which
demonstrated Bhagavan’s compassion, contrary to everybody’s
expectation:
“There was once a swami from North India. He was
old and had stayed on for a few weeks. He must have been
a very ripe soul because people could see an aura around
him. On the day he was leaving, he stood before Bhagavan.
I too was beside Bhagavan. The swami said, ‘I am very
happy, Bhagavan, that I got all that I wanted after coming to

Arunachala and to your ashram. But I need two more things
to be fulfilled and they can be done only by you.’
“All of us in the hall thought that the swami was going
to get a very rude shock from Bhagavan. We waited with
bated breath. Bhagavan, with a movement of his head,
signalled the swami to continue. The swami, with folded
hands, said, ‘My first request is that I want to place my head
on your holy feet and melt. I want to wash your feet with
my tears.’ Bhagavan waited, without uttering a word. ‘The
second thing, Bhagavan,’ continued the swami, ‘you have to
put your holy hands on me and declare that you have given
me atma sakshatkar – liberation.’ We all laughed within
ourselves because the swami had put forth such requests to
Bhagavan. But a miracle took place. Bhagavan got up from
the sofa and stood in front of him, pointing to his feet. The
swami fell at Bhagavan’s feet. We saw his tears drenching the
feet of Bhagavan. After a while, Bhagavan lifted him up, put
his hands on his shoulders and declared, ‘I have given you
atma sakshatkar.’ Though his eyes continued to shed tears,
the swami’s face glowed with fulfillment as he took leave of
Bhagavan!”
T.P. Ramachandra Iyer, generally known as T.P.R, passed
away into the Peace of Bhagavan on the evening of August
26, 1976 after being bedridden for two years due to a sudden
paralytic stroke.
33. Hari Chand Khanna*
K hanna came from a Punjabi family which had strongly

supported, from the very beginning, the Arya Samaj
movement founded by Swami Dayananda Sarasvati. He
always felt a strong desire to discover the real ‘I’ in him and
for several years he was trying to find this out by himself.
Having been brought up in the Arya Samaj tradition he had
no faith in the Guru-Chela (Master-Disciple) relationship and
therefore refused to seek the help of anyone in his search.
Once Khanna met Professor Bhatnagar who told him that if
he was really interested in finding out the real ‘I’ he ought
to go to Sri Ramana Maharshi. He also gave Khanna a copy
of Upadesa Saram. At the same time, he learnt by a strange
coincidence, from his father, that an interesting article on
the Maharshi had appeared in one of the English dailies
of Lahore and that his father had taken down carefully the
particulars relating to the abode of Maharshi with the idea of
going to him some time or other. His father had noted down
the address in his diary. So, when his father found a copy
of the Upadesa Saram on his son’s bookshelf, he strongly
advised him to go to the Maharshi.
Accordingly Khanna came to have darshan of Bhagavan.
The moment he entered the hall and Bhagavan turned his
beaming and penetrating and gracious look on him he was
pervaded by a strange feeling of happiness and peace. So he
sat there in silence without putting any questions to Bhagavan.
But on the following day he told Him that, although he had
till then no faith in Gurus, he had decided the moment he saw
Bhagavan that He was his Guru and that, even if Bhagavan
refused to accept him, he would look upon himself as his
* ‘Introducing....’ The Mountain Path, Apr. 1970; Letters from Sri

Ramanasramam; Day by Day with Bhagavan; Ranvir Khanna, ‘My
Father Hari Chand Khanna’, ‘The Maharshi’ newsletter, Jan/Feb
2000.
disciple. Upon this Bhagavan said: “In our eyes everyone

is a Guru.” This was in 1941. Thereafter Khanna became
a staunch devotee of Bhagavan and started coming to the
Ashram almost every year. In 1946 he brought with him his
entire family. His wife, Premavati, also became a staunch
devotee of Bhagavan with whom she used to talk freely and
get her doubts cleared. Both husband and wife were present
at the Ashram when Bhagavan attained Maha Nirvana.
In 1965 Khanna constructed a guest house close to the
Ashram and, after naming it the Premavati Khanna Guest
House, presented it to the Ashram for the use of devotees
including himself and family. He and the members of his
family were regular visitors to the Ashram. His son Ranvir
Khanna wrote about him as follows:
My father Hari Chand Khanna was born in the year
1905 in a small village called Satghara, which is now part
of Pakistan. After a visit to the Maharshi, my father smashed
all the liquor bottles and liquor glasses in his possession.
He had always been an outgoing man, but now he started
spending much more time at home in meditation and reading
Ramana’s books. Thereafter instead of visiting hill stations he
started visiting Bhagavan in Tiruvannamalai, a town as hot
as, if not hotter than, Kanpur. He rented a house in the Bose
compound. I was six or seven when we first started visiting
the Ashram. At that time Bhagavan’s brother, Niranjanananda
Swami, was the Sarvadhikari looking after the Ashram.
During those early visits, I remember that every night we
would find father missing from his bed. Then he would return
in the morning, saying he was with Bhagavan throughout the
night, and if Bhagavan didn’t sleep, he also kept awake. He
considered it the greatest good fortune to be able to spend his
nights with his Guru in the Old Hall. Often large bus loads
of pilgrims would come to Tiruvannamalai during the night
for Bhagavan’s darshan. The pilgrims would wait until dawn
for the doors of the Old Hall to be opened. When Bhagavan
noticed that, he asked the sarvadhikari to keep the doors open
all the time. After that the doors to his room (the Old Hall)
were kept open all the time. Devotees would enter through
one door, have darshan and exit from the other door.
Our annual visits went on for some years, but then
were suspended for a few years for reasons unknown to me,
though my father was in constant touch with the Ashram.
When again we resumed the annual visits to the Ashram,
my father would sometimes carry bottles of the Ayurvedic
medicine (Mahanarayan oil) for Bhagavan. Bhagavan had
rheumatism in his legs and could not walk properly. No
sooner was Bhagavan given the bottles of medicine than
he would announce then and there that Khanna has brought
Mahanarayan Oil, which relieves pain in the legs, and anyone
with pain in their legs could make free use of the same. There
were many times when my father used to prepare questions to
ask Bhagavan, but he said that most of the time his questions
would get answered by Bhagavan without them being asked.
In those days the Ashram’s financial condition was not
good. My father would send money to the Ashram regularly
whenever there was a need. At the Ashram I remember
feeling very happy when Bhagavan played with my younger
sister Kusum, who was then maybe a year old. Bhagavan
would hold one end of his staff, while Kusum played with
the other. Bhagavan would laugh and pull the staff away as
the child reached out for it. Bhagavan used to call her Jhansi
Ki Rani, after the courageous queen of Jhansi, who died
fighting the British in the first war of independence in 1857.
Afterwards, I used to tease Kusum with that name. We were
six brothers. My father divided us in two groups, and I was
made the leader of one group. My younger brother, Kailash,
was in charge of the other group. Bhagavan used to go up the
Hill with one attendant carrying his kamandalu. My father
asked us to go and touch his feet. My brother Kailash was
very bold and dynamic; I was shy and withdrawn. Kailash
touched Bhagavan’s feet; I could not. My father was annoyed.
That evening Bhagavan laughed and told everyone: “Today

Khanna’s son (Kailash) caught me on the Hill.”
Bhagavan made loud clucking sounds, calling out to
squirrels with peanuts in his hands. Squirrels ran all over his
body. He used to call out to the monkeys with bananas in his
hand and warn the attendants not to show their stick to the
monkeys. I was ten years old and at the Ashram, when one
day Lakshmi the cow came running with her rope trailing
behind her. She made her way through the crowd towards
Bhagavan. The crowd parted to make way for her. Bhagavan
got up from his seat and came towards her. She became calm
at his touch.
In 1950, my father was working in LRCH Mills Ltd. He
came home one evening and called me and told me that he
had an intuition that his Guru Ramana was not in good health
and he felt that he wanted my father to reach the Ashram
immediately. He told me that though he had not even applied
for leave, he must leave immediately with my mother and
my young sister Kusum. He also added that he was fully
aware that all his children had to attend school and sit for
their final exams, but still he could not wait. All three of
them left immediately for Madras en route to Tiruvannamalai.
When he returned home he told me that upon reaching the
Ashram, Niranjanananda Swami saw him coming and rushed
towards him, informing him that Sri Ramana Maharshi had
asked twice if Khanna had arrived. On hearing this my father
rushed to Bhagavan immediately. When Bhagavan saw him
he smiled.
Immediately after Sri Ramana Maharshi’s Maha Nirvana,
my father rushed to the town and bought a very large,
beautiful garland for Bhagavan’s body. When he reached the
Ashram, a dispute between two different groups was going
on as to who should be the first to garland the Maharshi’s
body. On seeing my father, both the Brahmins and the non-
Brahmins amicably agreed that Khanna, one of the oldest and
staunchest devotees, must be allowed to garland Bhagavan’s

body first. Thus my father was the first to garland the body
of Bhagavan.
My father used to tell everyone, and especially his
children, not to be outgoing but to turn inward and enjoy
their true nature. He used to impress upon his children not to
strive for material wealth, which one has to leave behind at
death, but instead to aspire for the real, everlasting, spiritual
wealth, as taught by Bhagavan Ramana. On 23rd July 1984
he merged with his Master’s lotus feet while staying in his
cottage built near the Ashram. His remains were interred
within the Ashram premises.
34. Hariwansh Lal Poonja*
H ariwansh Lal Poonja was born into an upper-class

Brahmin family on October 13, 1910 in Gujrunwala in
western Punjab, a part of India that is now in Pakistan, and
raised in nearby Lyalpur, now called Faisalabad. He was the
nephew of Swami Rama Tirtha, a famous saint, who died
four years before Poonja’s birth.
He was a spiritual seeker from a very young age. When
he was a small boy he saw a picture of the Buddha as a
skeletal ascetic and began to starve himself. His father had to
take him to a doctor to make him eat again.
After having a direct experience of the Self in Lahore
when he was still a boy, he tried to get it back by ardent
devotion to Lord Krishna. As a result of his burning desire for
God, Krishna appeared before him many times, but he could
not re-establish himself in the formless state of the Self.
After a brief career in the army he travelled all over
India, looking for a Guru who could give him the experience
* H.W.L. Poonja, ‘You that is Me is God’, The Mountain Path, Jul.

1988; ‘Papaji’, The Mountain Path, Jun. 1993.
of God he so much desired. He returned home, his mission

unaccomplished. Then, one day, a sadhu appeared at his
door in the Punjab and told him that Ramana Maharshi
in Tiruvannamalai could show him God. He went there in
1944, but much to his disgust, he found the same sadhu
who had visited him in the Punjab sitting on the sofa in the
old hall. Annoyed at being tricked, he started to leave, but
was persuaded to stay by a devotee who convinced him that
Bhagavan had not been out of town for more than forty years!
Somewhat intrigued, Poonja decided to stay and ask
Bhagavan about this strange manifestation.
This is his account of his first meeting with Bhagavan:
I approached him in a belligerent way. ‘Are you the man
who came to see me in my house in the Punjab?’ I demanded.
The Maharshi remained silent.
I tried again. ‘Did you come to my house and tell me
to come here? Are you the man who sent me here?’ Again
the Maharshi made no comment. Since he was unwilling
to answer either of these questions I moved on to the main
purpose of my visit. ‘Have you seen God?’ I asked. ‘And if
you have, can you enable me to see Him? I am willing to pay
any price, even my life, but your part of the bargain is that
you must show me God.’
‘No’, he answered, ‘I cannot show you God or enable
you to see God because God is not an object that can be seen.
God is the subject. He is the seer. Don’t concern yourself with
objects that can be seen. Find out who the seer is.’ He also
added. ‘You alone are God,’ as if to rebuke me for looking for
a God who was outside and apart from me. His words did not
impress me. They seemed to me to be yet one more excuse
to add to the long list of those I had heard from swamis all
over the country. He had promised to show me God, yet now
he was trying to tell me that not only could he not show me
God, no one else could either. I would have dismissed him
and his words without a second thought had it not been for an
experience I had immediately after he had told me to find out
who this I was who wanted to see God. At the conclusion of

his words he looked at me, and as he gazed into my eyes, my
whole body began to tremble and shake. A thrill of nervous
energy shot through my body. My nerve endings felt as if
they were dancing and my hair stood on end. Within me I
became aware of the spiritual Heart. This is not the physical
heart, it is, instead, the source and support of all that exists.
Within the Heart I saw or felt something like a closed bud.
It was very shining and bluish. With the Maharshi looking
at me, and with myself in a state of inner silence, I felt this
bud open and bloom. I use the word ‘bud’, but this is not
an exact description. It would be more correct to say that
something that felt bud-like opened and bloomed within me
in the Heart. And when I say ‘Heart’, I don’t mean that the
flowering was located in a particular place in the body. This
Heart, this Heart of my Heart, was neither inside the body
nor out of it. I can’t give a more exact description of what
happened. All I can say is that in the Maharshi’s presence,
and under his gaze, the Heart opened and bloomed. It was
an extraordinary experience, one that I had never had before.
I had not come looking for any kind of experience,
so it totally surprised me when it happened. Though I had
an immensely powerful experience in the presence of the
Maharshi, his statement, ‘You alone are God’ and his advice
to ‘Find out who the seer is’ did not have a strong appeal for
me. My inclination to seek a God outside me was not dispelled
either by his words or by the experience I had with him.
I thought to myself, ‘It is not good to be chocolate, I
want to taste chocolate.’ I wanted to remain separate from
God so that I could enjoy the bliss of union with Him.
When the devotees came in that afternoon I viewed
them all with the rather prejudiced eye of a fanatical Krishna
bhakta. So far as I could see, they were just sitting quietly,
doing nothing. I thought to myself, ‘No one here seems to be
chanting the name of God. Not a single person has a mala
to do japa with. How can they consider themselves to be
good devotees?’ My views on religious practice were rather

limited. All these people may have been meditating, but so
far as I was concerned, they were wasting their time.
I transferred my critical gaze to the Maharshi and similar
thoughts arose. ‘This man should be setting a good example
to his followers. He is sitting silently, not giving any talks
about God.
‘He doesn’t appear to be chanting the Name of God
himself, or focussing his attention on Him in any way. These
disciples are sitting around, being lazy, because the Master
himself is sitting there doing nothing. How can this man
show me God when he himself shows no interest in Him?’
With thoughts like these floating around my mind, it
was not long before I generated a feeling of disgust for both
the Maharshi and the people who surrounded him. I still had
some time before I had to report for duty in Madras, but I
didn’t want to spend it with all these spiritually lazy people
in the ashram. I took off to the other side of Arunachala, a
few kilometres away, found a nice quiet spot in the forest on
the northern side of the hill, and settled down there to do my
Krishna japa, alone and undisturbed.
I stayed there for about a week, immersed in my
devotional practices. Krishna would often appear before me,
and we spent a lot of time playing together. At the end of that
period I felt that it was time to go back to Madras to make
preparations for my new job. On my way out of town I paid
another visit to the ashram, partly to say goodbye, and partly
to tell the Maharshi that I didn’t need his assistance for seeing
God because I had been seeing Him every day through my
own efforts.
When I appeared before him, the Maharshi asked, ‘Where
have you been? Where are you living?’
‘On the other side of the mountain,’ I replied. ‘And what
were you doing there?’ he enquired. He had given me my
cue. ‘I was playing with my Krishna,’ I said, in a very smug
tone of voice.
I was very proud of my achievement and felt superior

to the Maharshi because I was absolutely convinced that
Krishna had not appeared to him during that period.
‘Oh, is that so?’ he commented, looking surprised and
interested. ‘Very good, very nice. Do you see Him now?’
‘No sir, I do not,’ I replied. ‘I only see Him when I have
visions.’ I was still feeling very pleased with myself, feeling
that I had been granted these visions, whereas the Maharshi
had not.
‘So Krishna comes and plays with you and then He
disappears,’ said the Maharshi. ‘What is the use of a God
who appears and disappears? If He is a real God, He must
be with you all the time.’ The Maharshi’s lack of interest in
my visionary experiences deflated me a little, but not to the
extent that I was willing to listen to his advice. He was telling
me to give up my search for an external God and instead find
the origin and identity of the one who wanted to see Him.
This was too much for me to swallow. A lifetime of devotion
to Krishna had left me incapable of conceiving the spiritual
quest in any other terms than that of a quest for a personal
God.”
Poonja returned to Madras to take up a managerial post
with the British army. He spent all his spare time locked
in his puja room, chanting the name of Krishna. Then,
unexpectedly, he had a vision of Rama, after which he found
himself incapable of doing any kind of sadhana. A further
vision of Bhagavan prompted him to return to Tiruvannamalai
for spiritual guidance. He continues:
“I sat in front of the Maharshi and began to tell him
my story. ‘For twenty-five years I have been doing sadhana,
mostly repeating the name of Krishna. Up till fairly recently
I was managing 50,000 repetitions a day. I also used to read
a lot of spiritual literature. Then Rama, Sita, Lakshmana and
Hanuman appeared before me.
After they left I couldn’t carry on with my practice. I
can’t repeat the Name any more. I can’t read my books. I
can’t meditate. I feel very quiet inside, but there is no longer

any desire to put my attention on God. In fact, I can’t do it
even if I try. My mind refuses to engage itself in thoughts of
God. What has happened to me and what should I do?’
The Maharshi looked at me and asked, ‘How did you come
here from Madras?’ I didn’t see the point of his question but I
politely told him the answer: ‘By train.’ ‘And what happened
when you got to the station at Tiruvannamalai?’ he enquired.
‘Well, I got off the train, handed in my ticket and engaged
a bullock cart to take me to the ashram.’ ‘And when you
reached the ashram and paid off the driver of the cart, what
happened to the cart?’
‘It went away, presumably back to town,’ I said, still not
clear as to where this line of questioning was leading.
The Maharshi then explained what he was driving at.
‘The train brought you to your destination. You got off it
because you didn’t need it anymore. It had brought you to the
place you wanted to reach. Likewise with the bullock cart.
You got off it when it had brought you to Ramanasramam.
You don’t need either the train or that cart anymore. They
were the means for bringing you here. Now you are here,
they are of no use to you.
‘That is what has happened with your sadhana. Your
japa, your reading and your meditation have brought you to
your spiritual destination. You don’t need them anymore. You
yourself did not give up your practices, they left you of their
own accord because they had served their purpose. You have
arrived.’
Then he looked at me intently. I could feel that my whole
body and mind were being washed with waves of purity.
They were being purified by his silent gaze. I could feel him
looking intently into my Heart. Under that spellbinding gaze I
felt every atom of my body being purified. It was as if a new
body were being created for me. A process of transformation
was going on – the old body was dying, atom by atom, and
a new body was being created in its place. Then, suddenly, I
understood. I knew that this man who had spoken to me was,

in reality, what I already was, what I had always been.
There was a sudden impact of recognition as I became
aware of the Self. I use the word ‘recognition’ deliberately,
because as soon as the experience was revealed to me, I
knew, unerringly, that this was the same state of peace and
happiness that I had been immersed in as an eight-year-old
boy in Lahore. The silent gaze of the Maharshi re-established
me in that primal state, but this time it was permanent. The
‘I’ which had for so long been looking for a God outside of
itself, because it wanted to get back to that original childhood
state, perished in the direct knowledge and experience of the
Self which the Maharshi revealed to me. I cannot describe
exactly what the experience was or is because the books are
right when they say that words cannot convey it. I can only
talk about peripheral things. I can say that every cell, every
atom in my body leapt to attention as they all recognised
and experienced the Self that animated and supported them,
but the experience itself I cannot describe. I knew that my
spiritual quest had definitely ended, but the source of that
knowledge will always remain indescribable.
I got up and prostrated to the Maharshi in gratitude. I had
finally understood what his teachings were and are. He had
told me not to be attached to any personal God, because all
forms are perishable. He could see that my chief impediments
were God’s beautiful form and the love I felt towards Him.
He advised me to ignore the appearances of these ephemeral
Gods and to enquire instead into the nature and source of the
one who wanted to see them. He had tried to point out to me
what was real and permanent, but stupidly and arrogantly I
had paid no attention to his advice.
With hindsight I could now see that the question ‘Who
am I?’ was the one question which I should have asked myself
years before. I had had a direct experience of the Self when
I was eight and had spent the rest of my life trying to return
to it. My mother had convinced me that devotion to Krishna
would bring it back and had somehow brainwashed me into

undertaking a quest for an external God whom she said could
supply me with that one experience which I desired so much.
In a lifetime of spiritual seeking I had met hundreds of sadhus,
swamis and gurus, but none of them had told me the simple
truth the way the Maharshi had done. None of them had said,
‘God is within you. He is not apart from you. You alone are
God. If you find the source of the mind by asking yourself
“Who am I?” you will experience Him in your Heart as the
Self.’ If I had met the Maharshi earlier in my life, listened
to his teachings and put them into practice, I could probably
have saved myself years of fruitless external searching.
After his retirement in 1966 Poonja led, for many years,
a peripatetic life, teaching small groups and occasionally
leading the life of a sadhu. He spent his days travelling
all over the world and giving satsangh in his home town,
Lucknow. He passed away on 6 September 1997.
35. Narayana Iyer*
N arayana Iyer came with his friend Ramakrishna to

Arunachala for Karthigai Deepam in 1928. He was
sceptical of sadhus and averse to meeting them. When
Bhagavan saw Ramakrishna Iyer, he paused and enquired,
“Ramakrishna, how is your mother? How is your family?”
During the conversation, Narayana Iyer did not even turn
towards Bhagavan as they had not been formally introduced
to each other. Ramakrishna Iyer then introduced Narayana
Iyer to Bhagavan. Narayana Iyer was at once captivated by the
calm, serene and compassionate countenance of Bhagavan.
The very next moment, he fell flat before Bhagavan’s holy
feet, unmindful of the uneven ground strewn with stones.
* R. Narayana Iyer, ‘How I Came to Bhagavan’, The Mountain Path,

Apr. 1968; Cherished Memories; ‘Years of Grace’, Ramana Smriti.
However, he was in a dilemma because he had all along

ridiculed sadhus and sannyasins, and here he was prostrating
before one! He steadied himself, thinking, “I have met two
great people in my life – Mahatma Gandhi and Rabindranath
Tagore. Neither of them can compare to this strange man
whose compassionate look is so arresting and bewitching
that I can hardly take my eyes off him. I must keep myself
in check because I do not want to get trapped by this man’s
looks. However, let me give a chance to this swami. I will
read some of his books.”
He went to the book store, which at that time was only
a small, open shelf. Bhagavan’s Ulladu Narpadu (Reality in
Forty Verses) in Tamil had just been published. He bought the
book to read so that he could evaluate the swami he had just
met. He wanted to find out whether this swami was worthy
of his admiration! When he read the first verse, he couldn’t
understand a single word. He wondered what was happening.
He thought to himself, “When I look at him, something is
kindled within me; it is beyond my control. I don’t know
what is causing it. When I want to evaluate him, I cannot
understand even a single word of what has been written by
him in Tamil.” He asked someone who was passing by, “Do
you know Ulladu Narpadu? Do you know the meaning?” The
person said, “I also do not know the meaning. But Bhagavan
is going to read out the verses and explain them tonight. Why
don’t you stay?” Narayana Iyer told himself, “I will stay and
give the swami another chance.”
That night, Bhagavan read out the verses in the most
musical tone, making every word so comprehensible, so
simple, that Narayana Iyer was left wondering if he was being
hypnotized. “Whatever he is reading now, I can understand;
previously, I couldn’t understand a single word,” was his
thought. While his mind was in this kind of turmoil, Bhagavan
focussed his attention solely on him in the midst of his reading.
In those early days, there was only a small intimate group
around Bhagavan. Narayana Iyer was mesmerized, both by
Bhagavan and the verses that he was reading. Narayana Iyer

recalled, “While explaining verse twenty-one Bhagavan said,
‘God can neither be seen with our eyes nor with our senses. To
see God is to be God. This is what the verse is saying.’ From
the audience, a person called Dandapani Swami asked rather
boldly, ‘Is Bhagavan saying this out of his own experience?’
This blunt question was answered calmly and with candour
by Bhagavan: ‘Otherwise, would I dare say so?’”
On hearing this declaration, a strange sensation overtook
Narayana Iyer. His entire frame quivered and when he looked
at Bhagavan in that state, he saw a glorious and luminous
aura around him. Narayana Iyer had an inner experience that
affirmed that Bhagavan was God himself. Narayana Iyer said,
“From that moment onwards, it was not my decision; I had
become a slave of Bhagavan.”
Narayana Iyer said, “Whenever I was talking to Bhagavan
or sitting in his presence, there was the feeling that here is
God sitting and talking. It is our greatest fortune that the
supreme consciousness, appearing in the garb of a human
body, graciously undertook to come down to our level of
understanding and interpret to us the truth of atma vidya
– the wisdom of the Self. Such thoughts always made me
understand Bhagavan and his teachings more clearly.”
Narayana Iyer said, “Once, some very learned scholars
were sitting in the Old Hall, discussing portions of the Vedas,
the Upanishads and other scriptural texts in Sanskrit. Bhagavan
was giving them the right explanation and it was indeed a
sight to behold, remember and adore! While watching, I was
also ridden with shame that these knowledgeable people were
fortunate enough to be sharing this kind of learning with
Bhagavan; they had a zest for learning and at the same time
a keen understanding of the subject. What was I compared
to them? I was a zero as far as scriptural knowledge was
concerned and that made me feel miserable. These were
the thoughts in my head. After the scholars left, Bhagavan
turned to me and said, ‘What?’ As he said this, he looked
deep into my eyes, as if reading my thoughts. Without giving

me an opportunity to respond, Bhagavan continued, ‘This
is only the husk. Book learning and the capacity to repeat
the scriptures by rote are of absolutely no use. To know the
truth, you need not undergo this torture of learning.’ Then,
he uttered the most beautiful sentence: ‘Not by reading do
you arrive at the truth. Be quiet – that is the truth. Be still –
that is God.’ Then, very graciously, Bhagavan turned to me
again. This time there was an immediate change in his tone
and attitude, ‘Narayana Iyer, do you shave yourself?’ I was
bewildered by the sudden change in Bhagavan’s questioning
which had become personal in nature. I answered in the
affirmative. Bhagavan then continued, ‘You use the mirror
for shaving, don’t you? You look into the mirror and then
shave your face. You do not shave the image in the mirror,
do you? Similarly, all the scriptures are meant only to show
you the path to realisation. They are meant for practice and
attainment. Mere book knowledge and discussions can be
compared to a man shaving the image in the mirror.’ This
was a tremendous relief for me. After Bhagavan said these
words, my inferiority complex left me once and for all. The
other positive thing about Bhagavan’s statement was that,
since then, I was able to be still and quiet.”
Once Narayana Iyer said “I cried to Bhagavan that I
knew nothing of Vedanta. I also could not practice certain
austerities since I was a householder. I prayed to Bhagavan to
help me by showing the way to reality, or reality itself. I also
frankly told Bhagavan that his own method of Self Enquiry
was too difficult for me. Bhagavan graciously turned to me
and said, ‘Narayana Iyer, do you know Ulladu Narpadu?
It imparts pure truth. It deals with pure truth and explains
pure truth. Continue reading it verse by verse. The words of
the verses will in due course vanish and pure truth – sat or
ulladu (‘that which exists’) – alone will shine like the snake
shedding its skin to emerge shining.’
Once Kanakammal (an old devotee of Bhagavan) said

about Narayana Iyer: “Narayana Iyer was born in a rich
family, but he was perfectly humble. Narayana Iyer’s wife
shared his views and lived her life as her husband wanted her
to. When he was at home, he would often be reciting Ulladu
Narpadu at the top of his voice. He tended to the cows and
did gardening since these were matters that interested him
deeply. The moment a cow gave birth to a calf, he paid total
attention to both cow and calf. As the cow was giving birth,
he would recite Ulladu Narpadu. In a lighter vein, Narayana
Iyer’s wife once told me that the privilege of receiving
Narayana Iyer’s exclusive attention was given to the cows
during delivery time but was never ever extended to her, the
mother of eight children!”
Once Narayana Iyer asked Bhagavan about the unreality
of the world. He wondered how Bhagavan sitting on the couch,
and the wooden barrier between him and Bhagavan could be
false. He narrates as follows: “I asked Bhagavan whether all
of us could be unreal and non-existent. Bhagavan laughed
and asked me whether I had had a dream the previous night.
I told him that I had had one in which I had seen several
people asleep. Bhagavan then said, ‘Suppose I ask you to go
and wake all those people up in the dream and tell them they
are not real. Will that not be absurd? That is how it is to me
now. Be assured that there is nothing but the dreamer. So,
where is the question of the people in the dream being real or
unreal? Still more, of waking them up and telling them that
they are not real! We are all unreal. Why do you doubt it?
THAT alone is real.’ After this explanation, I had absolutely
no doubts about the unreality of the world. I could constantly
feel its unreal nature.” Another day, Bhagavan told Narayana
Iyer, “Everything is unreal, like dream objects. However, at
a certain stage, there exists truth, or reality, and the world of
unreality. There, the realised man’s job is to awaken ‘others’
to the fact that what they see and feel is unreal, and reality
is one’s own being. This can be compared to an elephant

dreaming of a lion and suddenly waking up to find that the
lion is unreal and the elephant alone is real. The elephant is
the individual (jiva), the dream is the unreal world, and the
lion is the guru or the jnani. The guru is the link between the
real and the unreal.”
Narayana Iyer was transferred to Tiruchirapalli as sub-
registrar; a place far-off from Tiruvannamalai. Devaraja
Mudaliar in his recollections of Bhagavan mentions the
following: “R. Narayana Iyer, a great devotee of Bhagavan, was
suddenly transferred from Tiruvannamalai to Tiruchirapalli,
through the machinations of a man in the Registration
department. As Narayana Iyer felt it to be a terrible calamity
to be sent away so far from Bhagavan, and as I believed it was
the work of an enemy who was deliberately trying to harm
him, I pleaded with Bhagavan: “When it is known that a man
deliberately does something simply to harm one of us, such
as transferring him not in the usual course, in the exigencies
of public service, but out of malice, should Bhagavan remain
passive and do nothing about it?”
On the following day I happened to be singing before
Bhagavan the song from Vel Vaguppu (Lord Muruga’s spear)
“If anybody should intend harm to adoring devotees, it (Lord
Muruga’s spear) will destroy root and branch their entire
family and be my unique support”, in walked Narayana Iyer,
and Bhagavan said: “You are just singing that line and in he
comes.” Narayana Iyer and I regarded this as a good augury.
He went to Tiruchi and after having darshan of all the famous
temples in and round that town returned within a week, his
transfer having been cancelled and he having been posted to
Tirukovilur, very near Tiruvannamalai.
Once, he came to the ashram at eight thirty in the night
and learnt from the sarvadhikari that Bhagavan had had an
accident and shouldn’t be disturbed. Obeying Niranjanananda
Swami’s instructions, he went in stealthily like a cat and
prostrated to Bhagavan from a distance. But Bhagavan called
out to him, “Narayana Iyer, come here!” He was surprised

because he thought no one could hear him. Bhagavan then
added, “Narayana Iyer, I can see that you are trying not to make
any noise!” Then, lying on the couch, he said the strangest
thing, “Narayana Iyer, come and sit next to me.” Bhagavan
said, “The native doctor has said that the bandage should not
be moved; I want to see you and talk to you.” Narayana Iyer
was afraid that the sarvadhikari would be angry if he saw
him sitting on Bhagavan’s couch, but in a fraction of a second
he overcame that fear and went to Bhagavan. As he sat down,
Bhagavan continued, “This morning, I was going up the hill.
A dog was chasing a squirrel and so I put my walking staff
between the two of them. I then slipped and broke my collar
bone. A devotee, who is also a native bone -setter, made a
paste of leaves and black gram and applied it with the plea
that I do not move my arm.”
Once, while he was leaving the ashram Bhagavan said,
“Come, Narayana Iyer, you should have something to eat.”
Bhagavan took him to the kitchen. They both looked into
the vessels but there was nothing there because everything,
including the floor, had been cleaned with water the previous
night. Bhagavan went into the small room inside the kitchen
and looked into all the pots and pans. Fortunately, he found
a handful of almonds. As he came out, he noticed that the
kitchen fire was almost out, so he put more firewood into the
fire and then set a frying pan on it. He poured some ghee into
the pan, then added the almonds and roasted them. He also
added some salt and chilli powder. He put the almonds on a
leaf and gave it to Narayana Iyer, saying, “How can you go
without eating anything?” It seemed heavenly to Narayana
Iyer though he could not believe what was happening. Then,
Bhagavan got up, looked for a newspaper and another leaf
and wrapped up the rest of the almonds in them. He packed
it beautifully, just like they do in restaurants. He gave it
to Narayana Iyer, saying, “When you go home, Lalitha
(Narayana Iyer’s wife) and your children will ask, ‘What
have you brought us from Bhagavan?’ Take this and give it

to them.”
When Narayana Iyer’s eldest daughter was to be married,
Narayana Iyer had no money for the betrothal. Narayana Iyer’s
wife said, “Why don’t you go and appeal to Bhagavan?” He
replied, “I will never go and appeal to Bhagavan for material
things.” She prayed to Bhagavan silently, telling him of the
importance of the betrothal. The couple then went to see
Bhagavan and prostrated before him. They did not breathe
a word of the matter. The next morning, the postman arrived
with a money order of fifty one rupees. It had come from
Ahmedabad. There was a message saying, “Letter follows.”
The couple bought whatever they needed with the money.
The prospective groom came and was received well and the
wedding was fixed. The letter arrived later from a Gujarati
gentleman in Ahmedabad. The couple did not know him at
all. He wrote, “Dear Narayana Iyer, Bhagavan Sri Ramana
Maharshi appeared in my dream and told me that I have to
immediately telegraph a money order of rupees fifty-one. He
also gave me your address. I do not know you and I do not
know what the money is for. Please do not refuse the money.
Please accept it.” Narayana Iyer, his wife and their daughter
went before Bhagavan. They wept and prostrated before
him and said, “Bhagavan, what grace are you showering on
us!” Bhagavan read the letter as though someone else had
showered the grace! He then focussed his attention on both of
them and said, “Why doubt? Why should you not ask me?”
Narayana Iyer once told Bhagavan, “Bhagavan, I have
been here many years. People meditate and then go into
samadhi. I close my eyes for a minute, and my mind travels
round the world ten times. And so many forgotten thoughts
leap up. I suffer, Bhagavan.” Upon hearing this, Bhagavan
said, “Why do you concern yourself about others? They may
meditate or sleep or snore. Look at your Self. Whenever the
mind goes astray, bring it back to the quest. There is a verse
in the Bhagavad Gita which says one should check and bring
back the mind to the Self no matter to what side a restless and
unsteady mind wanders.”
Narayana Iyer was one of the few chosen to witness the
drawing up and signing of the will by which Bhagavan left
the management of the Ashram to the family of his brother
Niranjanananda Swami. Narayana Iyer continued to live in
Tiruvannamalai after the Maha Nirvana of Bhagavan. He was
a regular contributor to the Mountain Path. He continued to
tide over his difficulties by the grace of Bhagavan. Later in
his life due to physical infirmity he lived with his sons at
Madras. He was absorbed into the lotus-feet of Bhagavan on
April 11, 1976.
36. Swami Abhishiktananda*
“I n our days how great was the spiritual radiance spread

throughout Tamil Nadu, and far beyond, by that young
brahmin of Madurai who quietly walked out of his father’s
house and made straight for Arunachala. During the fifty
years which he passed on the mountain, how many thousands
of those who thirsted for truth and salvation came to prostrate
before him and to sit at his feet, eagerly drinking in the
teaching of his lips, and, far more deeply still, quenching
their thirst from his silence.” These words were written by
Swami Abhishiktananda (Father Henri le Saux) in 1954,
when he himself was living as a hermit in one of the caves
on Arunachala. He was one of those who drank deeply from
Sri Ramana’s words, and much more so from his silence.
To the end of his life he never ceased to speak with love
* J.D.M. Stuart, ‘The Awakening’, Mountain Path, June 1993;

J.D.M.Stuart and O. Baumer-Despeigne, ‘A Deeply Effective
Darshan of Bhagavan’, The Mountain Path, Jul. 1980; Father Bede
Griffiths, ‘Advaita and Christian Faith’, Jul. 1988; Monica Bose,
The Hill of Fire.
and reverence of the sage whom he regarded as the perfect

embodiment of Vedanta.
Abhishiktananda had the darshan of Sri Ramana on
only two occasions: once in January 1949, just before the
Maharshi’s last illness, and again six months later. He
recorded his impressions in his diary and later wrote them up
in his book, The Secret of Arunachala.
When he was introduced to Sri Ramana, “the Maharshi
replied with a gesture of the hand, accompanied by a smile
filled with a kindness that was impossible to forget.” But at
first he did not know what to make of the sage whose darshan
he had looked forward to for so long.
He gazed at him, but all that he could see was “a
kindly grandfather....happy, peaceful and smiling among his
grandchildren.”
Where was the halo? He took his problem to an English
lady who was living near the ashram. “Your trouble is that
you are not receptive,” she advised. “You want to know, to
understand. Instead, simply be open before Bhagavan.” He
took her point and began trying to listen at a deeper level. As
he sat in the hall, the chanting of the Vedic hymns, assisted
perhaps by the feverish cold which came upon him, had the
effect of relaxing the fetters of his mind. “Even before my
mind was able to recognise the fact, and still less to express
it, the invisible halo of this sage had been perceived by
something in me deeper than any words.”
The fever soon forced him to return home to Kulithalai.
But, as he lay in bed, “In my feverish dreams it was the
Maharshi who unremittingly appeared to me, the Maharshi
bringing the true India, which transcends time and of which
he was for me the living and compelling symbol.” Then
significantly, he added: “My dreams also included attempts,
always in vain – to incorporate in my previous mental
structures, without shattering them, these powerful new
experiences which my contact with the Maharshi had brought
to birth; new as they were, their hold on me was already too

strong for it ever to be possible for me to disown them.”
After this, Abhishiktananda saw Sri Ramana only once
more, in July 1949, shortly after Maharshi’s operation. This
time he was better prepared to profit from Sri Ramana’s
grace: “I did my best not to allow my efforts at rationalisation
to get in the way as on the first visit, and tried simply to
attend to the hidden influence.” As he had already begun
to glimpse the eternal in Sri Ramana, the withdrawal of his
physical presence (Bhagavan’s Maha Samadhi occurred on
14-4-1950) did not break the bond that was forming.
Abhishiktananda had been studying the Upanishads for
several years and felt the attraction of advaita. His contact with
Sri Ramana, a living embodiment of advaita, gave to his study
and meditation an existential direction. He realised that advaita
is nothing until it is lived. He therefore sought to open himself
to Sri Ramana in every way that he could, by meditating on
the Maharshi’s own profound philosophical poems and on Sri
Ramana Gita, trying to listen beyond the words to the depth of
spirit from which they came. At the same time, he took every
opportunity of meeting those of his disciples who had most
deeply realised Sri Ramana’s message. One of these spoke to
him of the mystery of the Heart:
“Find the Heart deep within oneself; cut all the bonds
which restrain this heart and hold it at the level of sense and
external consciousness, all the fleeting identifications of what
one is with what one has or what one does.”
On his next visit to Sri Ramanasramam in November
1951, Abhishiktananda discovered – or was discovered by –
Arunachala, and this also drew him nearer to Sri Ramana. “It
was with me as with Ramana: Arunachala awakened me.”
He was “truly reborn at Arunachala under the guidance of
the Maharshi.”
For many years Abhishiktananda had been leading an
austere life as a Benedictine monk, and since coming to India
he had begun to live as a sannyasi in his ashram at Kulithalai.

Now he discovered what it was to live as a hermit in the caves
of the holy mountain. In 1952 he spent five months there,
mostly in mauna (silence) and living on bhiksha (alms), and
he returned for further periods each year until 1955.
Before him was the ideal of Sri Ramana, of the Desert
Fathers in Egypt, and of his own Saint Benedict of Nursia,
who loved the solitude of his cave, where “alone in the
presence of the heavenly Witness, he abode with himself.”
During these times the grace of Arunachala took hold
of him in ways which are indescribable in words, though he
gives hints in his Diary and in letters to his friends.
It was Sri Ramana who led him to Arunachala, and it
was there, partly through silence, and partly through the
words and example of other holy people, that he deepened his
understanding of Sri Ramana’s upadesa (instruction). This
experience, so early in his life in India, was decisive.
Although in his case there was no sudden, once for all
illumination, there were moments which he afterwards called
“the high points of my whole life.” In fact, it was many years
before this experience was fully integrated.
Finally, it seems, only in his heart-attack of July 1973,
when he hung between life and death, did he realise that “the
awakening is independent of any situation whatever.” In the
last year of his life, he wrote to a friend:
“[There has been] nothing new since Arunachala,” And
to another friend, a month or so before his death, he said,
“There were times there [in the caves of Arunachala] that
were so high. And this was vastly deeper than I thought at
the time. Words that I wrote in those days were not fully
understood until very long afterwards.” Some hints of his
experience on Arunachala are given in these passages from
his Diary:
“Satori, the illumination, is the real baptism, this new view
of oneself and of the world, not an intellectual knowledge,
but an abysmal, cataclysmal transfiguration of one’s being.
“There is a mystery in Arunachala. What is this mystery?

Why have so many in the past been drawn by its ‘magic’?
Like elder sons, they have come from every direction. And
I have come from beyond the seas. Fascinated. Why this
strange sensation? Why, despite all the inconveniences of
life, do I feel happy and at peace here as nowhere else? This
fascination has attracted ascetics over the centuries. There is
something in the caves of Arunachala. Sages have lived there
and have impregnated the rocks with their inner life. And yet
there is more to it than that. Brahman himself inhabits the
cave of the Heart, say the Upanishads. Here is the cave of
Brahman himself, not so much that he lives in me, as that
I live in him. If it is still possible for there to be ‘he’ and
‘me’! Ramana lived the mystery of the unity in Arunachala,
the illuminated, the illuminating.
“On entering this place which is so isolated and so pure,
these words sang in my heart: ‘This shall be my resting place
forever; here will I dwell for I have a delight therein’ [a verse
sung at the profession of a Benedictine monk]. How will
God’s will for me be manifested in the coming days? ‘Boldly
take the final plunge into pure advaita is what is constantly
whispered by the voice which continually sings in the depth
of my heart.”
A few days after the foregoing entry, he meditated in the
underground crypt of the Patala Linga, which he later called
his true ‘meeting’ with the Maharshi. This meeting “took
place on a plane that has nothing in common with any visual,
auditory or psychic phenomenon whatever; literally at the
one level where Ramana can always be truly met.”
“The place of birth and the changing circumstances of
life are really of little importance to him who has chosen – or
rather, has been granted – to exist in this world as no more
than a sign, a linga, of the Lord, while his own self, his I, has
been swallowed up for good in the overwhelming experience
of him who alone IS. This is what the young Brahmanaswami
understood at the moment when, in the temple of the Heart,
he recognised the Lord Arunachala. And that is why, from

then on, it is only at that level that he in his turn can truly be
met by anyone who is himself engaged in the inner quest for
his true being.”
“They – Ramana and Arunachala – have become infused
into my flesh, they are woven into the fibres of my heart.”
The following excerpts indicate how deeply
Abhishiktananda integrated the upadesa of Sri Ramana:
“[His teaching] is simply to go back to the source of myself
and to grasp (but not intellectually) that the ‘authorship’, the
Aham, which governs our corporal and mental activity, cannot
be divided into two – God and myself.
“...the submersion of the self in the Self. The great
mistake is surely to wait for the submersion.
The goal is neither the submersion nor an eternal life.
There is no goal to attain, there is only an eye to open –
rather, not to open, still less to close, or even to gaze – the
gaze is just there, eternal, timeless, spaceless; the gaze, the
love, the bliss, the divine shanti which is in and through me...
it is merely to be no longer diverted from the Real.
“The sahaja is not something to be produced in myself. It
is just there. It is only a matter of discovering it, or recognising
it, of finding the way to it, clogged as it is with stones, thorns,
so many vasanas since the time of my birth.
‘Advaita is neither a doctrine nor a system. It is the
supreme experience here below, one which forbids giving an
absolute meaning to the form of multiplicity which marks
everything in the world and that comes before our senses or
our mind. Advaita is the fundamental dimension of being.
“The jnani neither realises nor discovers anything that is
new. He simply sees reality in all its splendour. He penetrates
to the essence of things and there discovers Yaweh-Brahman.
“The teaching of advaita is not a matter of negation – no
rites, no dogmas, etc. It is the blazing discovery of a secret,
of an interior level; the level into which Jesus entered and
remained.”
In his book Saccidananda Swami Abhishiktananda gave

a clear and forceful account of Sri Ramana’s teaching:
“It is the worst possible illusion to imagine that we
have to struggle to find liberation or mukti; or to experience
the Self, which is the same thing. To strive consciously
and deliberately, to arrive at this ‘realisation of the Self, is
paradoxically the greatest obstacle in the way of reaching it;
for it involves the assumption that man’s natural state – the
sahaja sthiti, as he called it – is something that man does not
yet possess. As if a man could be without being himself! This
method leaves no place for subconscious transference or for
the inflation of the ego. It is through and through a method
of relaxation, of detachment, of flight towards what is inward
and authentic. It cuts at the root of any self-satisfaction and
so achieves the most radical purification.”
Some of Abhishiktananda’s references to Sri Ramana
show how he reverenced him as a supreme advaitin and
grasped the Maharshi’s own explanation of his role as a guru:
“Ramana is not a brahmavid; there is no other brahmavid
than Brahman. Brahman knows himself in his Ramana-murti.
Ramana is Brahman’s own pure consciousness of himself.
“There is nothing left in Ramana which could congratulate
itself or delight in knowing Brahman, or in the fact that
Brahman knows himself in him, Ramana. There is only pure
chit in itself, chitswarupa pure ananda in itself, swarupananda
because he is nothing but pure sat (truth). The mental and
physical functions of Ramana are pure Brahma-shakti, pure
radiance of self-awareness in himself of Brahman. There is
nothing in them to deflect them from their essential object...
the essential object of the divine, cosmic sport which also is
nothing other than Brahman, if one may so express it. The
shakti of the jivanmukta is the very power of Brahman at
work in the world. The true guru, precisely because he has
realised, is able to penetrate the soul of his disciple.
“The whispering of the sacred mantra in the disciple’s
ear on the day of his initiation is the symbol of a mysterious
and effective whisper from heart to heart. The disciple is

united to God through his guru. Not that the guru would be
an intermediary between the disciple and God. It is in the
person of the guru that God appears to the disciple. The guru
is for him an authentic revelation of God. So the only true
guru is he who is realised.
“Books and the guru can only point the way. It is for
the self to find the way to the Self. The intellect can merely
give assistance; it is not able to open the door. It makes
preparations, but only the Self opens the door of the Self.
Lightning, thunder...!
“Why trouble about a guru, about Ramana, about
Arunachala? Tat tvam asi (you are That). The guru, Ramana,
Arunachala, and the rest, they are the outward projections of
the Self, who hides himself in order to be found.
“My deepest ideal – that to which unconsciously
everything in me is referred – is that of Ramana, who is
such a perfect example of Vedanta. This ideal of Ramana
could never have rooted itself at this depth in my psyche if
there had not been a meeting with an obscurely felt call, an
awakening.”
Finally, it will be of interest to note another very important
aspect of the advaita which Abhishiktananda lived as a
consequence of his ‘initiation’ by Sri Ramana and Arunachala.
He once described himself in his Diary as “at once so deeply
Christian and so deeply Hindu, at a depth where Christian
and Hindu in their social and mental structures are blown
to pieces, and yet are found again ineffably at the heart of
each other.” In his Diary, he often writes, “We Hindus...”
Yet he was, and remained to the end of his life, a Christian
and a Christian priest with a profound sense of responsibility
towards his Christian brethren.
“Christianity and Vedanta, are they not, in the end, two
points of view from which man seeks to understand the
mystery of God? Two irreconcilable perspectives, but is not
God precisely the meeting point of opposites – coincidentia

oppositorum?”
A few extracts hint at the deepening of Abhishiktananda’s
entry into the Christian mystery:
“Ramana’s ashram helps me to understand the Gospels.
“There is one fact which overrides all: the religious
experience which I have had in a non-Christian environment
with an intensity never known in my previous life, and in real
continuity with all that I had obscurely felt hitherto.
“Ramana’s advaita is my birthplace – mulagarbha. Faced
with that, all reasonings are shattered.
“The essential task is the absolute surrender of the
peripheral I to the inner mystery.”
Part of Abhishiktananda’s discovery was undoubtedly
to realise more clearly the Advaitic dimension in Christian
experience. He tirelessly drew attention to this in his writings
for Christians, calling for a real recovery of contemplative
prayer and exposing the shallowness of popular dualistic
forms of Christianity. It was no small consolation to him
that a number of Christians wrote to tell him that his books
had helped them for the first time to understand their own
experience.
A near-fatal heart-attack in July 1973 was an experience
of intense realisation. “In seeing myself so weak, so incapable
of thought, of movement, I was freed from being identified
with this I which had previously thought, willed, moved
about, and been worried about each and everything. All that
consciousness with which I was moving about was no longer
mine; but as for myself, I still was...”
A close friend and disciple of Abhishiktananda wrote of
him shortly after his death on December 7, 1973:
“His spiritual path essentially consisted in the complete
appropriation of the advaitic experience of the Upanishadic
rishis, without, however, losing hold of his own rootedness
in the Christian tradition. He never ceased to contemplate the
mystery – at once the mystery which has a face, even as the

Gospels present it to us in the person of Jesus; and at the
same time, the mystery that has no face, as it was revealed in
the heart of India’s rishis. For him there was the one single
and unique act of contemplation, centered unfailingly on the
non-dual experience of the absolute and unique aham asmi,
pregnant with the resonance of the ‘I AM’ of Yahweh which
Jesus pronounced as his own name. That aham (I am) is the
mystery realised by Swamiji, the essence of his illumination.”
Swami Abhishiktananda deeply drank the upadesa of Sri
Ramana and lived his own authentic experience of the unique
mystery.
37. Ethel Merston*
E thel Merston was a long-standing devotee of Bhagavan.

She had a long and active life. It was for her services in
relief work in Belgium after the first world war that she was
awarded the Order of the British Empire. She was a follower
of Gandhi and, under his influence, adopted a village in North
India, where she ran a free dispensary and unofficially settled
disputes and did all she could for the villagers. She spoke Hindi
but not Tamil; nevertheless, out of devotion to Bhagavan, it
was here (at Tiruvannamalai) that she finally chose to settle.
She writes about how she came to Bhagavan:
“It was in Paris in 1937-38 that a small group of us met
weekly to discuss J. Krishnamurti’s and other teachings. All
of us had read Paul Brunton’s A Search in Secret India, so
we all knew the Maharshi by name, and we had discussed his
teaching too, but one of us, Pascalline Mallet, had actually
visited him in his ashram and had been much impressed. One
* Ethel Merston, ‘How I Came to Bhagavan’, The Mountain Path,

Oct. 1980; ‘Obituary’, The Mountain Path, Apr. 1967.
day, she received from a friend she had met there, a copy of
his daily diary kept while at the Ashram, and this she brought
to read to us. A little later, Pascalline asked me to help her
to translate Who Am I into French. All this made so deep an
impression on me that, on returning to India, and being in the
south touring with a friend equally curious to see the great
man so eulogised by Paul Brunton, we decided to turn aside
and visit Tiruvannamalai to see him for ourselves.
“It was in 1939 that Bhagavan drew me to Tiruvannamalai
and everything was new to me. I had known Krishnamurti,
Ouspensky and Gurdjieff, but never any Hindu sage of the
advaitic tradition. 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 would return.
“The return visit came only 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 Bhagavan Ramana.
“In the early days of my visits, the entrance door to the
little hall where Bhagavan lived night and day, 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 on
the other side at the foot of the couch.
“Every sort of caste, creed and nationality came for
darshan. To each and everyone, 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, while sitting
opposite Bhagavan, still harassed by the problem, Bhagavan
suddenly turned his eyes on me. After a moment, he asked
one of the 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 one’s questions would be answered by
the questioner simply gazing at his (Bhagavan’s) eyes. Only
on rare occasions would he give advice audibly, and even
then, it was usually indirect. This can be illustrated by the
experience of a young devotee from Bombay, during another
visit I paid the Ashram.
“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 his health
was so clearly in danger that, meeting him one day outside
the hall, I asked him why he took to 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 liberation in
the end.
“We then entered the hall, prostrated before Bhagavan,
and sat down on our respective sides of the gangway. The
doorway of the hall had by then been altered and we women
sat on the exit side at Bhagavan’s feet. I sat down just beside
Mrs. Taleyarkhan while 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. Taleyarkhan, Bhagavan said with a smile: “She asks the
value of such practices’’ he said, and nodding towards the
young man contorting, he added: “Those sort of practices
have absolutely no value. At very best, the only thing that
might happen is that perhaps, after twenty-five years of going
on and on with them, you might wake up sufficiently to realise
the valuelessness of what you are doing.” The young man did
not even hear the advice thus 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
was a strong current or pulsation flowing from him to the
person in the hall. I had felt the same with Gurdjieff. But
one other special occasion when the current was reciprocated
stands out in my memory.
“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 across 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 to stand near Bhagavan’s feet. 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, with not a word spoken aloud,
but I could literally feel them speaking to each other, the flow
of current going back and forth between them. They talked
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 carried on reading as though nothing had happened
as, doubtless for him, nothing had. But for us all it was an
unforgettable experience.
“During the last years of Bhagavan’s physical life, many
were the lessons we learned from him, but the chief one
which he never ceased to hammer into us, was that he was
not the body; the body might go, but he would not go, for
where should he go? He always and always would be there
with us as he was now.
“So true did he make this for us that even on the day
of the Maha Samadhi, we felt Bhagavan Himself was still
there with us as before and all the rites and ceremonies had
nothing to do with him. He was still dynamically present,
ready to be questioned and talked with as before. And so well
had he prepared us to realise this, that in all the crowd of
some 1,500 present, many of them devotees, I only saw three
people weep loudly as we spent the night in vigil. We knew
that Bhagavan had not gone, so what need to cry for Him
who was still with us?”
In 1959 Ethel built herself a house and settled down near
the ashram permanently. Even that was a remarkable feat,
characteristic of her terrific drive and energy – to build a
house, supervising every detail, at the age of 77 and without
speaking the language.
Shortly after building her house Ethel Merston fell ill.
She was mentally as alert and active as ever, but was unable
to go out, even to walk the few hundred yards to the Ashram
– and she was too independent in spirit to consent to a wheel
chair. She still carried on a wide correspondence and many
people came to see her.
In about 1964 she was taken to Madras for a medical
check-up and the doctors told her that she had only six
months more to live. Perhaps few people would have gone
on longer in her state but her tremendous vitality carried her
on. She recognized and freely admitted that her long illness
was a sign of Grace, forcing her to a more indrawn life when
she had always been too extrovert. When the end came it was
one more relapse, of which there had been several.
Her strength failed her and she died peacefully, on the
afternoon of March 19, 1967 at the age of 85.
38. Dr. T.M.P. Mahadevan*
B orn in 1911, Dr. Mahadevan had the distinct fortune of

coming under the influence of great saints and sages very
early in life. He had been cruelly robbed of both his parents
in childhood, but fate had made up for it by providing for him
intense spiritual education from the beginning. A kindly aunt
took him one day to a silent saint, whose unspoken blessings,
perhaps brought the small child under the care of Swami
Rajeswarananda who saw him through his education in the
Ramakrishna Mission Students’ Home.
One day Swami Sivananda, the direct disciple of
Ramakrishna, came to inspect the Ramakrishna Mission in
Madras. He was accompanied by Swami Apurvananda who
noticed something special about one of the small boys sitting
at the shrine and pointed out the child to his Master. Swami
Sivananda responded by personally initiating the boy in the
shrine itself. Thus the hallowed influence of Sri Ramakrishna
was transmitted through his great disciple to the little boy.
It was in the Ramakrishna Mission Students’ Home that
this great modern exponent of Advaita came across Sankara
and his teachings. Soon he was to meet the most beautiful
descendent in the line of Sankara Acharyas: His Holiness Sri
Chandrasekharendra Saraswati, of the Kanchi Kamakoti Peetha.
* ‘Introducing....’, The Mountain Path, Jan. 1979; ‘Obituary’, The

Mountain Path, Jan. 1984; Call Divine, Apr. 1960; sri-ramana-
maharshi.blogspot.com/2008/.../interview-with-prof-t-m-p-
mahadevan.htm...
TMP was introduced to Bhagavan when he was eighteen

years old, by Swami Rajeswarananda who later became editor
of the journal, Call Divine.
What good fortune, so early in life! The spell of the
Maharshi and the Acharya of Kanchi. The visits to the
Maharshi continued. And the college-student Mahadevan
learnt from his own experience how “what one might succeed
in attaining after a prolonged course of yogic discipline
one got with perfect ease and effortlessly in the proximity
of the Maharshi.” He also discovered that “the impress of
spirituality once gained was never lost.” Passing through
college and University with flying colours and travelling in
U.S.A. and Mexico as a distinguished representative of India’s
spirituality, he always cited Ramana Maharshi as his guiding
light and as the one sage in modern India who actually lived
what he taught, pure Advaita Vedanta.
When he returned to India after a lecture tour in the
States in 1948-49, he had the unique opportunity of relating
his experience and impressions to the devotees in the very
presence of the Master. When he gave his talk, Bhagavan
remarked: “He has taken us all to those countries!” The
Professor felt that “those who have had the good fortune of
associating with His (Maharshi’s) embodied form have a duty
to ourselves, which is to meditate on him and his teachings
and share with others the precious legacy we have received
from him.” This “sacred duty” was faithfully fulfilled by
the revered Professor through various publications about his
beloved Master, through lucid and uplifting talks, and through
seraphic silence.
He has said in his article the “Ramana Experience”: “He
alone can be said to have known Sri Ramana, that has had the
Ramana experience. And, he that has had that experience will
not know him, remaining outside of him. To know Ramana
is to be Ramana. To be Ramana is to have the plenary
experience of non-duality. In the absence of that experience,
we can only seek to know him by ‘description.’ This itself is
not without its value. Through knowledge by description we

may succeed in gaining knowledge by identity. It is a sadhana
(discipline) of supreme potency, therefore, to be constantly
aware of one’s acquaintance with Sri Ramana.”
To meet a sage and be acquainted with him is not an
ordinary occurrence. It must be the result of a good stock
of merit. I consider myself extremely fortunate, therefore, to
have had the privilege of meeting the Master, when I was
barely eighteen. As I recall those three days I spent basking
in the sunshine of Sri Ramana’s Glorious Presence, I have no
word to express the benefit I derived from that experience. To
sit before him was itself a deep spiritual education. To look at
him was to have one’s mind stilled. To fall within the sphere
of his beatific vision was to be inwardly elevated. The most
remarkable feature about the Master that struck even a casual
visitor was his beaming face. There was no need, in his case,
to frame the head in a halo. Such an enchantingly bright face
with a soothing look and never-failing smile, one can never
forget having seen it even once. The brightness remained
undiminished till the very end, even when the Master’s
body bore the cross of the last illness. A few days before the
Maha Samadhi when I went into the room where he lay and
touched his feet with my head and quickly saw the condition
in which his body was, I was on the point of shedding tears.
But immediately I saw his face and he made kind inquiries in
his usual inimitable way, all sorrow left without a trace, and
there was Eternity looking on and speaking.
Even when I first saw the Master, his head had begun
to nod. The shaking head seemed to me to be saying ‘neti’,
‘neti’ (not this, not this). And, all on a sudden the nodding
would stop, the vision of the Master would become fixed,
and the spirit of silence would envelop everyone present. In
the stillness of the Heart, one would realise that the ‘Self is
peaceful quiet’ (santo’yam atma). Many of those who came
with long lists of questions used to depart in silence after
sitting for a while in the Master’s presence. When some did
put questions to him, they received the replies they deserved.

It was evident that many could not even frame their questions
properly. In such cases Sri Ramana himself would help in
the framing of questions. When he chose to answer questions
or instruct through words, it was a sight for the gods to see.
Each sentence was like a text from the Upanishad, so full of
meaning that it required calm silent pondering over in order
to be understood. Sri Ramana’s answers never remained on
the surface. He would go straight to the root of a question and
exhibit to the wondering questioner the implications of his
own question which he could not even have dreamt of. Often
the Master would make a questioner resolve his own doubts.
But each time, the supreme Lord would gently guide
the seeker to the state of inner silence where all doubts get
dissolved and all questionings cease. There was no occasion
when I experienced the manifestation of supernormal powers
sometimes attributed to the Master. He seemed to me to be
perfectly normal. It is we that were abnormal by contrast.
We have our tensions and mental tangles. As for the Master
there was no ruffle, not even the least agitation. The storms
of the world never reached him. Sitting or reclining on the
couch in the Ashram Hall, he appeared to be ‘the still point
of a turning world.’ There was not the least suggestion of
his appearing to be other than normal. His mode of referring
to his person as ‘I’ and not as ‘this’ was itself significant.
He did not want to appear distinct from the rest of us with
regard to empirical usage. Yet, there was no doubt about the
fact that there was not the least adhyasa present in him. His
last illness quite clearly demonstrated this. What complete
and utter detachment from the body he manifested in order to
teach the world that the body is not the Self!
Having been a student of the Gita from childhood, I
saw in the Bhagavan a vivid and living commentary on that
great Scripture. When I was asked to address a meeting
held in the local High School during one of my early visits
to Tiruvannamalai, this is what I said: ‘If anyone wants to
understand the inner meaning of the Gita, he must come and

meet the Maharshi.’ In 1948-49, when I was in the United
States lecturing on Vedanta, many friends asked me if there
was anyone living in India answering to the truth of the
Vedanta. My reply invariably used to be ‘Ramana’. On my
return to India when I went to the Ashram, I had the unique
opportunity of giving an account of my American visit to the
devotees gathered at the evening worship in the presence of
the Master. I repeated to the gathering what exactly I had told
American friends; and it was a pleasant surprise to find one or
two Americans there whom I had known earlier.
The critics of Advaita usually say that the Advaitin is
an austere intellectual in whom the wells of feeling have
all dried up. Those who have seen the Master will know
how unfounded such a criticism is. Sri Ramana was ever
brimming with the milk of divine kindness. Even members of
the subhuman species had their share of the unbounded love
of the Master. He was a consummate artist in life. Anything
that he touched became orderly and pleasant. Sweet and firm
was his person even as the sacred Arunachala is. Why should
I say ‘was’? Even now he is and ever will be the light that
never fades, the sweetness that never surfeits, to those who
desire wisdom and eternity.”
In his speech given on a Jayanti day he says:
“It is only when the world has learned to go to the guru
that the world will feel inclined to listen to him. Ramana had
no need of going to the world whilst he lived in Arunachala.
The world, even the western world went to him. Why did
this happen? Bhagavan was the light transcendent which
cannot be resisted. If you try to resist it today, by a greater
force you will be attracted to it tomorrow. Light does not
require darkness for making it acceptable. Only darkness
does. You need not paint light because it is all luminous.
Without advertisement, without any drum beating, without
any concerted propaganda, the light that was at Arunachala
spread far and wide, and it is on that light that we should
meditate. We saw before our eyes the grand manifestation of

that majestic light. We saw the grandeur of that spiritual light
before us. If we could not see it, it was our fault, and not that
of the light. In order that you may understand light, the light
need not speak to us. It is only when there is darkness that
you require the help of speech in order to identify the things
around, but when there is light and when your eyes are all
right you need not be told what is around you.
And so, for the most part, Bhagavan Ramana kept silent.
Silence was his mode of communication. Today people
all over the world are striving hard to find out new means
of communication. But in spite of the many devices,
communication becomes more and more difficult. Here,
without any verbal communication for the most part, the
blessed Lord, seated or reclining on his couch in the corner
of the old hall in the Ashram, was communicating not only
with those who sat before him, but with devotees who were
even far away. Though most of us may not understand for the
moment the language of silence, we are sure to understand it
eventually. Our Bhagavan did not move out of Arunachala
and seldom did he speak. Even his speech was of a quality
that is far different from the speech that we are accustomed
to. His speech was scarcely distinguishable from silence.
Some of us had opportunities of watching the grand silent
drama that was being enacted constantly in that auspicious
hall. People came, strangers came with long lists of questions
to test the Maharshi, but often it so happened that those who
came with doubts forgot all about them.
They forgot to question because there was no need to
ask. What they had come for had already been fulfilled. The
most remarkable feature about Bhagavan’s form was his eyes,
extremely penetrating and profoundly fascinating. Once you
had come within the range of those beaming eyes, there was
no need for any other sadhana. Once those eyes had rested
upon you there was no more fear or worry for you. The
very first European to see our Master, Humphreys, who sent

reports to a magazine in England, has made this statement:
‘For half an hour I looked into the Maharshi’s eyes, which
never changed their expression of deep contemplation.’ This
was written as early as in 1911. Those of us who met the
Master much later could testify that the brightness of those
eyes did not diminish at all, not even on the last day of his
earthly existence.
Last summer in Honolulu some American professors of
philosophy happened to look at the picture of the Master that
appears as frontispiece in the book Ramana Maharshi and
His Philosophy of Existence. Many of them wanted to have
copies of this book even before reading what was written
there, just because the face of the Master fascinated them,
enraptured them. All of them, without exception remarked
about the remarkable eyes. From those eyes, light shone forth
from which no one could escape. Bhagavan out of compassion
for us, who cannot understand the language of silence, did
sometimes speak, but not for the sake of speaking as most of
us do. He wrote not for the sake of writing, because he was
no writer at all. He spoke and wrote because he wanted to
save us.”
Dr. T.M.P. Mahadevan had been dean of the philosophy
department at Madras University and had introduced the
teachings of Bhagavan as a subject in MA Philosophy in the
University. As scholar, writer, professor and orator, he was
invited by the UNESCO and various academic institutions
around the world to speak on Indian philosophy. He became
famous, both in India and abroad, for his outstanding
contribution to the philosophy of Advaita.
He was awarded Padma Bhushan by the Government of
India in 1967 in recognition of his valuable contribution to
Indian Philosophy.
As an ardent devotee of Sri Bhagavan he took every
opportunity to talk and write on Him and on His teachings.
His writings in, Call Divine, the journal dedicated to the

Maharshi include various commentaries on Sankara’s Hymn
to Dakshinamurti, Forty Verses on Reality and Supplement
to Forty Verses On Reality, Upanishads, Marital garland of
Letters and five Hymns to arunachala. He has also written a
book on Ramana Maharshi and the Philosophy of Existence.
In an interview quoted by David Godman from the 1980’s
when he referred to his years sitting at the feet of Bhagavan, he
admitted that he had never once asked Bhagavan a question.
This is indeed an astounding revelation.
As Godman says: “Here was an enlightened being,
Bhagavan, who embodied the experience and the knowledge
that Sankara had, who even identified himself with Sankara
on occasions, yet Prof. Mahadevan, whose specialty was
advaita philosophy, felt no inclination to quiz him on any of
the hot topics that he doubtless discussed and wrote about
when he was not at the ashram.
Prof. Mahadevan had one of the greatest philosophical
minds of his generation, but he chose to remain silent in
Bhagavan’s presence in order to absorb his non-verbal
teachings. What a great testimony to the power of Bhagavan’s
silence! It also indicates that Prof. Mahadevan knew the limits
of the intellect and also knew that the treasure of Bhagavan’s
silence was more valuable than any intellectual answers he
might give out.”
TMP Mahadevan attained the lotus feet of the Master
on November 5, 1983 and as the obituary in The Mountain
Path says “In his passing away the Ramana family has lost an
elder brother honoured and beloved and the world of learning
a scholar and teacher of international fame.”
His fascinating article “Uniqueness of Bhagavan” which
describes how he viewed the Master is appended.
Bhagavan was unique. He was unique in that he was not
unique. What struck even a casual visitor to the Ashram was
Bhagavan’s naturalness. He did not impress anyone as if he
were nonnatural, even supranatural. There was no affectation
at all in Ramana. Let me illustrate what I mean. In South

India sadhus refer to themselves, while speaking, in the third
person.
They would say ‘this was walking’ or ‘this wants to go
there ‘while referring to themselves. They would not use the
first person singular ‘I’. But Bhagavan quite naturally used
to say ‘I go’, ‘I walk’, ‘I sit’ and so on. One who has the
experience of the plenary illumination constantly, naturally,
has no use for such affectations. And always he used to
behave in the most natural manner. There was nothing which
would make others think that there was some unnaturalness
about Bhagavan. But yet once in his presence there was no
need for prompting from outside.
One would be convinced in one’s own heart that one
was in the presence of the non-dual Reality. This was an
experience that almost everyone had in the presence of
Bhagavan. He was an open book for all at all times. He did
not make any distinction between what is private and what
is public. So far as Bhagavan was concerned, there was no
privacy. In those days, devotees used to be with him in the
small meditation hall all day and night. We used to sleep in
the same hall where we used to sit during daytime. And he
was a silent witness to all that happened around him. Any one
could walk in at any time.
He was easily accessible not only to humans but also to
animals. Squirrels used to play with him. The cow Lakshmi
used to walk in at her own pleasure. The monkeys used to
come into the Ashram without any hindrance. Bhagavan
remarked about a trespassing cow, “Who is to be taken to
task? If you have no fence and the cow walks in through your
garden, who is responsible for this, you or the cow?”
Bhagavan’s love and grace knew no limits. In his presence
there was no high and no low. All were the same. There was
no distinction between a Maharaja of old days who visited
him and the rustics who wanted to have his darshan. He could
understand the language of the mute creation. In earlier days
when he was on the Hill Arunachala, the monkeys used to go

to him for arbitration. This shows how Bhagavan taught the
plenary experience to others – the experience which makes
no distinction between one level of creation and another.
Others might think that Bhagavan practised austerities
during the early years of his stay in Arunachala, that his
Mauna, silence, was deliberate, that his sitting posture for
days and weeks in the subterranean temple was sadhana,
but some of us have heard him say that all this was not
tapasya, although it seemed to be so. The time factor did not
enter into the realisation of Bhagavan. There was no earlier
preparation; there was no evolution thereafter. Of what is
referred to in Advaita as sadyomukti, instantaneous release,
we had a glowing example in Bhagavan Ramana. One does
not know what led to this instantaneous illumination. There
was no growth, no procedural technique, no yogic meditation
and no other sadhana. All of a sudden, the experience came
without his inviting it. Now, this is unique; the entire history
of sagehood holds no parallel. A boy at school who had no
particular interest in spirituality, who was not even a brilliant
boy in studies, that such a lad should, all of a sudden, become
transformed into a Sage, I think, is unique. And what was the
nature of the realisation? It admitted no stages, required no
effort. It was all complete. Completeness, fullness was there
when Ramana had in a trice solved the mystery of death.
Nachiketas had to go to Yama, wait at his house for three
days and nights, and put to him questions. The fear of death
was only an occasion for solving the mystery. The non dual
Self which knows no death and no birth came to Ramana in
a flash; but that did not vanish like a flash, it remained as His
sahajasthiti.
I am not saying that the process of meditation has no
place in sadhana, but that what one gains through the method
of thought control, emptying of mind, is not the plenary
experience of the non-dual Atman. In the case of Bhagavan
this pinnacle was gained without the least conscious effort. It
is his uniqueness. Ordinarily, a study of scripture comes first

and then experience. But in the case of Bhagavan, experience
came first and only later an acquaintance with what scriptures
teach. It was when scholarly devotees came to him and
wanted some doubt or other to be cleared that he listened to
the readings from scriptures and then told them that His own
experience confirmed what the texts taught.
The great scholars, both traditional and modern, were
astounded at the simple words that fell from the lips of
Bhagavan. Ganapati Sastri was one instance. He was a master
of Sanskrit. He was a great teacher. He practised mantra
sadhana all through his life. He was accepted as a Guru by a
large number of disciples. But he was tormented and went to
Ramana. It was Ganapati Muni that announced to the world
the greatness of Ramana, finding the culmination of his earlier
sadhana in Bhagavan.
Elsewhere, I have tried to compare these three great
teachers of Advaita: Dakshinamurti, Sankara and Ramana.
Dakshinamurti is the Adi Guru, the first preceptor. He sat
beneath the banyan tree; a youthful figure surrounded by
elderly disciples and instructed them in the language of
silence.
Most of us cannot understand the language of silence. So,
Dakshinamurti rose from His seat beneath the banyan tree and
broke His silence. He appeared in the form of Sankaracharya.
He is constantly going around this world, rousing it from its
slumber. All the great ones who came after him, whether they
would acknowledge it openly or not, are but reflections of
this form of Sankara. In the form of various masters it is
Sankara that is moving in this world. It is the same Sankara
that appeared to us as Ramana.
The times have changed. The present world can be saved
neither by the Guru who is seated in a particular place nor by
the one who is perpetually moving about. The Guru who is
required for our times is neither the one who keeps absolute
silence, nor the one who speaks profusely. We had this need
satisfied in the avatara of Ramana. He did not move out of

the limits of Arunachala. He did not talk profusely or read
extensively. Day in and day out, most of the time, he was
in silence. People used to come with long lists of perplexing
questions formulated in their minds; some of them, lest they
might forget, used to write out those questions. But what
happened? When they came and sat before Bhagavan they
forgot all about those questions. I happened to be present
when Paul Brunton came. He had seen other saints in India.
He had written out the questions which he wanted to
ask. He sat there for a long time without opening his mouth.
The friend who had come with him had to prompt him. It
was only then that he read out his questions. This was not an
isolated instance.
This was the daily experience. The questioning mind
was silenced in his presence. And what is the quantum of his
“writings”? They are so potent that even a single line could
transform the lives of people. Here, we have a middle course
between silence and speech. Silently but surely the influence
of Bhagavan is felt. No one could have thought some years
ago that the influence would be felt so strongly in the capital
of our country. But this is what is now happening all over the
world. In Europe and America there are seekers, who when
they get even a glimpse of Bhagavan’s teachings feel that
they have turned a new leaf in their lives.
What is, again, significant in Bhagavan’s teaching is
that it involves no mystification. There is nothing by way of
creed. It is an open book of wisdom from which one could
draw according to one’s capacity. There is no narrowness
or parochialism of any sort in the Master’s teachings. All
the teachings of all the Sages are put in a capsule form in
this single sloka, Hridayakuhara madhye which says that in
the cave of the Heart Brahman shines. He made known to
sadhakas the hridayavidya. He was the one who discovered
that the spiritual heart is the Self itself. The hridaya is the
nondual spiritual Self.
The ‘I’ is manifest in the region of the Heart; When a

person refers to himself he points to the right side of the
chest. The ‘I’ shines in the Heart; the Self is manifest in the
cave of the Heart.
This manifestation of the Self in the form of ‘I’ is direct,
immediate to every one. It does not require any belief, or
faith or creed. One need not read Sastra to realise it, one
realises it every moment: And the Upanishads tell us that in
deep sleep one goes into it. Thus, one cannot deny oneself
however much one might try. In a famous verse Sankara says
‘It is this ‘I’ which is immediately, directly experienced in the
region of the Heart by every one; but this Self is not realised
to be the non-dual Brahman on account of ignorance.’ There
is no realising the Self. Because the Self is real, you cannot
realise or make it real. What is to be done is to unrealise the
unreal.
We imagine that this world is real, while in fact it is not.
Today the scientists are approaching Vedanta through science.
Nuclear physics tells us that even in the hardest piece of
matter there is no hardness. If you can accept the evidence
of the physicist that what you regard as a concrete piece of
matter is not concrete after all, then from a higher level is
there anything which is unintelligible or impossible in the
proclamation of the Sage that the entire world is maya? Maya
does not mean that there is no reality. In fact, the Self is the
real and the world is only an appearance. And so, Bhagavan
tells us that this Aham sphurana, the ‘I’ manifestation, is a
pointer that, if we are judicious enough to discern the truth,
we shall realise the identity of the Self with Brahman. This
is what we have to experience. Self-Realisation is no more
than this. It is losing the individuality in the non-dual Reality.
How is one to gain this? What is the way? Hrdi visa, enter
into the heart. Use the mind, but there is a stage where you
have to transcend the mind and be what you are always. You
can throw off your body; it is difficult to throw off your mind.
It is with you all the time you are empirically conscious. You
have to make use of it. It is in jagrat that you have to perform

the sadhana not in deep sleep. We have to work this out during
our conscious moments, moments of wakefulness. And what
functions in wakefulness is the mind, which is to be made use
of. Enter into the Heart with your mind. The direct road is
Self-enquiry. It is by Self-enquiry that you have to reach the
Heart. But if that becomes impossible for the moment, then
adopt the technique of surrender. If even for this your mind
is not ready, practise pranayama. You begin at the physical,
vital level. Bhagavan says in the Upadesa Saram that the
source of both the vital principle and the mind is the same.
By controlling the vital principle you can control the mind.
Begin then with the practice of regulating the breath.
You will find the mind settling down through the practice
of pranayama, and then you will be ready for the royal road.
Very often people consider jnana yoga to consist in intellectual
analysis. This is not so. It is not intellectual speculation. Up
to a point the mind can go; but there it stops. Bhagavan has
taught a simple mode by which one goes beyond mind. What
is that mode? The ‘I’-thought is the first of all thoughts. All
other thoughts arise after the I-thought. Only later on ‘this’,
‘that’ and ‘the other’ arise in your mind. Trace the source
of the I-thought and the practice will reveal to you that the
I-thought arises from the Self. Because we may not have
either the competence or the time to go through the sastras
and discover the path ourselves, this technique is taught
to us as it can be pursued by one and all at any time. This
certainly is not an easy path. We must not delude ourselves
by imagining that it is easy. It requires preparation, constant
practice; it requires all the other sadhanas. But along with
those sadhanas the enquiry can be practised. And if the Grace
of the Guru is there, we will be helped on this road faster than
we may imagine.
39. Hugo Maier (1929-2004) – A Life of

Devotion and Service*
“In life, it often seems that the spirit of
complacency, passivity and despair is the mightier
power. But the spirit of truth, commitment and
compassion has always the longer breath.”
“Our motto: ‘Help for Self-Help’ is not just
empty words. It is the only dignified way to help,
for the givers as well as for the receivers. We are
learning this daily – we continue to learn it better
and more profoundly.”
L ovingly known as ‘Appa’ by his followers and friends,

Hugo Maier was born in Germany on May 9, 1929. His
sister, Gertrud, recalls he had a fairly ordinary childhood. But
he shone through many daring pranks. He was enthusiastic
about farming, riding a motorbike and later flying a glider.
Appa’s father, Leander Maier was an accountant. His mother,
Philomena, was a housewife and mother. Both parents tried to
help poor and needy people as far as they were able.
Around the age of 10, Appa became conscious of the
fact that he had healing powers, which later led him into the
field of homeopathy. At the age of 21, he fell mysteriously
and deathly ill and spent a year recovering in hospital. When
everyone had given him up to die, Appa had a deep experience
of the healing grace of God and got well.
Around this time Appa’s sister gave him Yogananda’s
“Autobiography of a Yogi” to read. This was his first encounter
with Indian spirituality. His interest in spiritual literature led
him to the writings of Heinrich Jurgens, the homeopath,
journalist and translator. From 1954 to 1958, Hugo worked
closely with the renowned healer. This is where he saw a
photo of Bhagavan for the first time. It touched him deeply.
In that face, Appa recognized the face of his spiritual Master.
* Personal Communication: Dr. Andreas.

Bhagavan led Appa to Tiruvannamalai in 1959 to

further his spiritual development at the foot of the holy
mountain Arunachala and within Sri Ramanasramam. He
started a rigorous, one-pointed sadhana characteristic of his
wholehearted commitment to whatever task he set himself.
His skill as a homeopathic doctor, coupled with his natural
healing gifts, opened the way to a lifelong dedication of
helping people in physical and mental distress. While staying
at Sri Ramanasramam, Appa began to look after the health
of its residents – particularly Murugunar, caring for him until
the end of the devotee’s life. Appa was also very closely
associated with Mother Krishnabai and Swami Ramdas at
Anandashram and was present when Ramdas left the physical
body.
Appa was a natural leader and introduced many seekers
to Bhagavan’s teaching. In 1974-75 he moved from Sir
Ramanasramam to some land near Nirudhi lingam which
later became known as Shanthimalai. A community of
devotees began to gather around him there. In his final
years, he experienced the most severe pains from cancer and
courageously accepted relentless and often harsh medical
treatment without a murmur.
Among Appa’s legacies is the Shanthimalai Research
and Development Trust, which he established in 1986 with
his wife, Anne. An educational-centred organization founded
on the idea of self-help, it adopted some 40 villages in and
around Tiruvannamalai and embraced various community
activities such as:
Health care; Water development and environmental
projects; Education and schools; Traditional crafts and
women’s businesses and Medicinal plant research.
Shanthimalai’s activities live on today under the loving
guidance of Anne Maier, known simply, with love, as ‘Amma’.
40. Dr. Anantanarayana Rao*
D r. Anantanarayana Rao came to Bhagavan in 1932 and the

thought flashed vividly through his mind, “Here is God
in human form. This is what the scriptures have described
about the Sadguru, the jivanmukta, the Siddha Purusha and
the jnani.” He started frequenting the ashram as often as
possible. On his second visit, he not only understood the
divinity of the Maharshi but also gained an insight into the
teaching of Self Enquiry. Sitting in the presence of Bhagavan,
he attained the state of quietude almost effortlessly. Whatever
he had read about the state of inner bliss and inner perfection,
he experienced by merely sitting before Bhagavan. With this
experience, began his constant practice of Self Enquiry.
In 1942, he built a house near the ashram and grew fruit
trees. The first fruits of these trees were always offered to
Bhagavan. Bhagavan would cut the fruit into pieces, take a
piece and then ask Dr. Rao to distribute the rest of the pieces
among the other devotees gathered there. The strange thing
about it was that for almost three years, he himself never got
a single piece of fruit as Prasad. On one such occasion, he
returned to Bhagavan with the empty plate after distributing
the Prasad. With anguish in his heart, he thought, “Why
haven’t I yet received prasad from Bhagavan?” Just then,
Bhagavan called out, “Anantanarayana Rao, come here. I have
observed that in all these years you have always distributed
fruits to everyone, but you have never got a single piece of
fruit.” Then, taking out a slice of fruit that was near his own
slice, he said, “I have kept a piece for you. Come and take it.”
Dr. Rao was thrilled!
He prayed to Bhagavan, “I want to serve you personally.”
He had this good fortune in 1948 when Niranjanananda Swami
asked him, “Can you be Bhagavan’s personal attendant?”
* Call Divine, Jan. 1955; Suri Nagamma, My Life at Sri

Ramanasramam.
He was told that as a personal attendant it would be his

duty and privilege to massage the limbs of Bhagavan. Dr.
Anantanarayana Rao was deliriously happy!
His account of his time as an attendant is described
below:
Owing to chronic rheumatism, Sri Bhagavan’s limbs
were massaged, and strange to say he distributed his limbs,
as if they were not his, to each one of his attendants and the
left hand of his came to my care. I did not understand the
significance of it till a year later. None of us then suspected
that the left arm would be the cause of trouble. It was during
the time of massage that he graciously spoke to us freely,
sometime cracking jokes. These jokes too had deep meaning.
Often, in simple language, he answered our questions. That
was real schooling indeed and we still cherish those words in
our hearts.
In December 1948 while I was massaging I felt a small
nodule, which was painful when pressed, above the point of
the elbow. Sri Bhagavan told me that he had a fall in the
lavatory and that part was hurt badly a month or so earlier.
This nodule was the beginning of the end, as you all know.
From May 1949 to the 14th April 1950, the privilege of
making dressings, sterilising them and helping the doctor
while dressing fell to my lot. It was during this period, it
became clear to me why he drew me to him. Similarly, he
drew many other devotees and kept them in the sunshine of
his grace. There was a purpose in whatever he said or did,
and that purpose is to put us on the path to perfection.
About July 1949, the lesion on the arm, which looked to
be healing nicely flared up; it was then that I begged him to
make a resolve to heal himself. He smiled and sat silent till
I repeated my request. He then answered: “There is no mind
here (meaning himself), so the question of a resolve does not
arise.” He further said that the body itself is a disease. His
answer made all of us present feel very sad. His answer made
me understand that his was a mindless or egoless state. To
him the body with its ills did not exist, and we who have
‘I am the body’ idea feel so much when it suffers. Giving
some pain while dressing a large wound is inevitable, but Sri
Bhagavan did not show any pain and even assisted with his
right hand in adjusting the dressing or the bandage, as if it
were an arm belonging to another. This he did even on the
morning of the 14th April!
In the course of conversation, about June 1949, he had
described to us that tears flow from the outer canthus of the
eyes of a man when he is very happy and from the inner
canthus when he is sad. It is a correct observation. On the
evening of the 14th April (the Nirvana Day), I was in that
room among others, fanning Sri Bhagavan from the head end
of the cot. At his request, he was assisted to sit up with his
legs stretched in front. He had kept his eyes closed, and his
breathing was gradually becoming shallow. At 8:20 p.m. the
devotees outside began singing the ‘Arunachala Siva’ hymn.
He immediately opened his eyes, looked at the direction
from where the voices came and then closed the eyes. Tears
came gushing from the outer canthus of the eyes. I then
remembered what Sri Bhagavan had said about tears, and felt
that it was the visible sign of the Supreme Bliss of rejoining
the ONE without a second, by discarding the body which had
done its duty of leading or directing mankind towards the
all-pervading Self. The body was discarded very peacefully,
and in so doing he left his imprint so indelibly in the hearts
of his devotees.
Glory to Guru Bhagavan Sri Ramana who paid individual
attention to every devotee in moulding him and making him
what he is today.
41. Ella Maillart*
E lla Maillart came to Bhagavan in October 1940. Her

arrival at Bhagavan’s feet can be seen as the culmination
of many years of restless wandering through many lands, in
the course of which she became an internationally famous
travel writer, photographer and foreign correspondent. Whilst
much is known about her sportsmanship and her travels, little
is known about her spiritual journey.
She was an extremely talented sportswoman, competing
in sailing, skiing and field hockey. In 1919 she founded, and
thereafter captained Switzerland’s first womens’ field hockey
team for several years. In 1924 she represented Switzerland in
a single-handed sailing event at the Paris Summer Olympics;
and between 1931 and 1934 she successfully defended
Switzerland in the World Skiing Championships.
Her spirit of adventure took her across Asia and the
Middle East on foot, on horseback, and on camel. She also
made a forbidden trek through Chinese Turkistan, through
Tibet and finally reached Kashmir. These intrepid expeditions
resulted in several widely sold travel memoirs. She also
wrote regularly for a French daily called Le Petit Parisien
* Ella Maillart official website (www.ellamaillart.ch); The Cruel

Way: Switzerland to Afghanistan in a Ford, 1939. University of
Chicago Press, 1947; ‘Two Swiss Travellers in India: Experiences
and Perspectives on Religion in the Mid-20th Century’ by Fanny
Guex, Workshop May 2014, Ella Maillart fonds – Ms. Fr. 7127/C,
A chacun sa raison de vivre…, trans. Fanny Geux. As quoted
in ‘Saranagati’ Sri Ramanasramam, Feb. 2018; Ti Puss William
Heinemann, London, 1951; Sri Ramanasramam Library, pasted in
the 1942 English edition of Cruises and Caravans that Ella presented
to Bhagavan; Croisieres et Caravanes, Chap. XIV, ‘South India’,
(French ed., 1951), trans. Marye Tonnaire, p. 225; ‘The Sage’s
Activity in Inactivity’, Golden Jubilee Souvenir, Sri Ramanasramam,
September 1946; ‘Obituary’, The Mountain Path, Dec. 1997.
and had been sent by them to China to report on the Japanese

Occupation.
In June 1939 Ella Maillart set out on a journey to
Afghanistan in a Ford car with her friend Annemarie
Shwarzenbach. She arrived in India in the summer of 1940.
It had been an epic journey. The Cruel Way published in 1947
is an account of that epic journey.
It was another six months before she arrived in
Tiruvannamalai. She described her first encounter with
Bhagavan thus:
“His extraordinarily bright eyes expressed such kindness
and peace. The silence between us was so rich that it gave
me something like a cracked valve in my heart. It created
emptiness, a total blank. My call to Reality, represented by
this man, was so intense that I knew the answer I was looking
for was to be found in his surroundings. The purpose of my
expeditions was to bring me to the brink of knowledge that
gives meaning to life. Only the inner journey is real.”
During her stay in India she wrote several more books
including Ti Puss and Cruises and Caravans.
In Ti Puss (1951) she says:
“What counted above and beyond everything else were
the eyes of the Maharshi when he looked at me, a look so
noble and so magnificent that one had to ask oneself what he
was seeing! [I saw now that] I had come to Tiruvannamalai
in order to live near a Sage who embodied the essence of
Hindu wisdom; and whereas a course for beginners would
have suited me best, I found myself… listening all at once to
the highest metaphysical teaching.”
In her book, Ti Puss she uses her relationship with her
cat to reflect on the teachings of Bhagavan and articulates her
insights in a way that is seldom if ever articulated by seekers:
“The teaching says: ‘It is for the sake of the Self that all
things are dear,’ though we usually think it is for the sake of
the loved object. This cat, so alive in me that she has become
like part of me, opened my heart where love was dormant...
‘Love being the real Self.’ When my feeling of love becomes

uppermost for an extremely short while, there is neither cat
nor any limited individuality. I am lost in love impersonal,
love which is a state where time has no power.
“Finally I was able to love without any restriction ... to
love without asking for anything in return ... to love for the
joy of loving.”
A handwritten inscription in Cruises and Caravans (1942)
found in the Ramanasramam library reads: “Dear Bhagavan,
here is the book you helped me to write during the summer
before last. ... Once more I form the deep wish that after so
many years spent in dealing with the external world as you
may see by gleaning through my autobiography I shall make
swift progress in discovering the inner life leading to You.
Yours, Ella.”
In this book she wrote: “I wanted to prolong my stay near
the sage Ramana Maharshi. His life was public. Anyone could
approach him, ask him questions and enjoy the benefits of his
presence that radiated goodness, distinction and immutable
peace. And there each one of us was free to do whatever
they wanted, because, with the exception of meals, there was
no set of rules for community life. I got into the routine of
staying for two hours each morning and each evening in the
hall where around twenty people of both sexes were seated on
the ground, legs crossed in silent meditation. I read the little
brochures where the main responses of the sage had been
collected over the course of some thirty years. His function
was to inform seekers about the nature of the ultimate reality.
And I tried to see if his replies corresponded with something
I felt in myself.”
She clearly did find a correspondence and did make the
inner progress that she sought. This is evident in her later
writing. For the Golden Jubilee Souvenir 1946 she chose
to write on The Sages Inactivity in Activity. In this article
she addresses the commonly held belief which arises from
identification with the body, that one has to be physically
active. She refers to the verse in the Bhagavad Gita about

seeing activity in inactivity and inactivity in activity, which
proves that one can eventually be established beyond such a
pair of opposites.
She goes on to say that whilst at Tiruvannamalai she felt
strongly that great ones like the Maharshi though giving the
apparent appearance of inactivity, were in fact tremendously
active.
“I say their activity is tremendous; they are the salt of the
earth, their influence spreads out far away and is unconsciously
felt even by workers hardly ever giving a thought to such
sages.
Something intangible emanates from these realised men;
rather, what they stand for permeates the land they inhabit.
Odeur de saintete... they sanctify the place through their
presence.
A kind of equilibrium is brought into being in the mind
of the people. Whatever happens – good or bad – in the daily
life of these men, everything seems to be in order because the
Sage is there.”
And this is not just a matter of faith she argues: “Such a
Master has lived for ten, twenty, forty years on the same spot.
Those who come to know of him slowly become sure that he
is totally “other” than they; he has attained a certitude which
makes him free from restlessness, free from fear, desire and
doubt, he can do things none of them can do, because he is
egoless.
Also, something else had taken place which was
more important from the point of view of the layman’s
understanding. One day the saintly recluse had been questioned
about truth, about the aims of life, or about the nature of
ultimate Reality. And, though he had studied or read nothing
about such subjects, his answers corroborated the teachings
of the sacred books: he could even explain obscure passages
of these books. His words created a deep, lasting emotion;
and what was more important from the point of view of the
earnest enquirer, was the fact that he (the enquirer) got a firm
conviction about the object of his enquiry, a conviction he
never had from the study of the scriptures. The Sage spoke
with authority.
It does not mean that he was fully understood. But
in those who had lived near him grew the conviction that
here was a man who knew what he was talking about, who
knew the ‘why and how’ that had been harassing them. They
stopped worrying continually about problems they were never
meant to solve. They resumed their daily tasks and they felt
for the first time at peace: there was a living one who knew
the ultimate answers. He had proved that, so far, things had
to be as they were.
“As for the future, the only way out was to start loving
one’s neighbour as oneself. Because he had shown how in
Truth we are all the same Self. And the nature of the Self is
Love.”
Is not this the most important action one can accomplish:
to be the link between what we call the concrete world and
the Unmanifest, that obviously contains and regulates all
creation – to be the living symbol of that knowledge without
which the humanity of today is but a pitiful joke –- to implant
a lasting peace in the centre of everyone’s heart in spite of all
the surface difficulties, whatever they may be? Is this not, I
ask, the highest achievement in life?”
On her return to Europe in 1945 Ella settled in Chandolin,
on one of the tallest peaks in the Swiss Alps. Here she built
a chalet called Achala in memory of Arunachala, the sacred
hill overlooking the ashram. Speaking rarely about the depths
of her interior journey, she did so only when she found that
the person facing her had a real need to know and a genuine
interest in these spiritual search.
Over the next 30 years Ella took small groups on
cultural tours to various Asian countries. She revisited India
most frequently, appreciating its capacity to put problems in
their true place and to discover a scale of values where the
spiritual life remains the essential. “Continually ask yourself

the question: Who am I?” she advised her travel companions,
“And through this constant seeking it will become clear to
you that you yourselves are the light of knowledge.”
42. Victoria Doe*
V ictoria Doe is an exceptional devotee of Bhagavan. She

was a very deep devotee who never visited Bhagavan
but was in regular communication with the ashram. Bhagavan
asked Nambiar and Bose to visit her when they went to
England. The following is taken from Nambiar’s article in
the Golden Jubilee Souvenir published in 1947:
“When I was in England last year, I went to see a
venerable old lady, by name Mrs. Victoria Doe. She must
be nearing 80 and lives in a quiet house at 17, St. Martin’s
Avenue, Epsom, Surrey, with her only daughter, Miss Leena
Doe. She has never come to India, never seen Bhagavan Sri
Ramana in flesh and blood. Yet I was deeply moved by her
devotion to him. She had read about him, prayed to him,
meditated on him, and lives in him day in and day out. There
was something transmundane, something related to a sphere
other than the physical world, that occasioned my visit to this
elderly lady, who was a recluse to the social life in England.
It seems she had written to the Ashram that, much as she
would have liked to go over to India to have a Darshan of
Bhagavan, her circumstances did not permit it, and that she
was very desirous of at least meeting someone who had seen
him and had the good fortune to sit at his feet. Hence the visit
I paid her, on the suggestion I received by a letter from the
Ashram, was, in effect, the fulfilment of her long cherished
* K.K. Nambiar, ‘My Experience of Maharshi’, Golden Jubilee

Souvenir; K.K. Nambiar, The Guiding Presence of Sri Ramana; Day
by Day with Bhagavan.
desire. She showed me sheaves of letters she took from a

corner of a shelf, and kissed them with great reverence before
handing them to me. All the letters were from the Ashram
and were meticulously preserved for the past several years.
She had also with her all the English publications of Sri
Ramanasramam. She opened one of the books and, running
her shaky finger along the writing on the first page “With
Gracious Blessings from Bhagavan” burst into tears of joy
and devotion. She said “Mr. Nambiar, how lucky you are to
have been able to be with him, to see him and hear him speak.
Here, we treasure these books and letters as representing him.
Now he has sent you here. I feel that he is with us now.”
Such love, such devotion to the Sage, so tenderly expressed
to me, a total stranger to her till the other day, moved me to
the depths of my being. Verily, his kingdom is the Heart of
the devotee, and I have always found him there enthroned.
I was told that the old lady had to undergo a serious
operation two years ago, and, though the surgeon and others
felt sure that at her age it would be difficult for her to stand
the suffering, strain and risk involved, her supreme faith
in Bhagavan enabled her to bear it all with fortitude. After
spending some hours at her cottage I returned to London,
which was about three-quarters of an hour’s journey by train.
A fortnight later I visited her once again. This time Miss
Doe met me at the door and escorted me to her drawing room,
saying she had a surprise awaiting me there; and lo! whom do
I find sitting there? Mr. Bose, who had flown to London and
likewise made it a point to see her as an ardent devotee of
Bhagavan. Indeed, had she not prayed to Bhagavan that she
might have the opportunity to see some one of his devotees
who, at least, had had the privilege to sit at his feet? It was
a happy meeting for us two Mr. Bose and myself and one of
the happiest moments in the life of the Does. We decided to
put on record our visit by taking a few snapshots of us taking
tea in her garden and by writing a joint letter to the Ashram
about our meeting, signed by all four of us.
43. Feroza Taleyarkhan*
M rs Taleyarkhan, born in 1898, came from a rich and

prominent Parsi family of Bombay. The Mountain Path
January 1965, says: “in the days of British India she moved in the
highest society, knowing Maharajahs and Viceroys personally.
She had, however, an urge for a more meaningful life and this
inclined her to seek out more than one swami or guru. The real
turning point came, however, when she came to Tiruvannamalai.
She was completely overwhelmed by Bhagavan.”
She became estranged from her family because of the
path she trod, but nothing deterred her. She built for herself
a small house in Tiruvannamalai and initially spent winter
in the ashram and the rest of the year in Bombay. Later she
settled in Tiruvannamalai.
She describes in her book how, on her second visit to the
ashram, she had intended to take Bhagavan to task for the
failure of her Women’s Project for which she had believed
she had the Maharshi’s support. However, she was not able to
even broach the subject. Instead, through a passage read out
for the benefit of another devotee she understood Bhagavan’s
message to her: “A weak, frail woman who knows how to
find God’s peace through prayers can do more to save the
nations of the world than all the intellectuals combined.”
She realised then that an “I” who was full of passions,
like anger and jealousy, could hardly carry through such a
project to a successful conclusion. “One must first conquer
oneself to be able to take on such onerous tasks as I had
intended to,” she wrote.
* Feroza Taleyarkhan, ‘Sages, Saints and Arunachala Ramana’ pub.

Orient Longmans (1970); ‘Introducing…’, The Mountain Path,
Jan. 1965; Feroza Taleyarkhan, ‘How I Came to the Maharshi’, The
Mountain Path, Apr. 1965; ‘Obituary’, The Mountain Path, April,
1985.
Spelling of her name varies in different publications.
She added: “Had Bhagavan told me in so many words,

I am sure I would have flared up even in his presence, and
hurled, in a fit of temper, some words I would in leisure
regret but could not recall. He had, instead, with no words
of his own, conquered me so completely. From that day
onwards, I knew no master who could hold me as he did. To
this day I remain bound to His feet faster than one can be
to hooks of steel – with bonds of love, to Him who was and
is the personification of Love in all its plenitude, grace and
majesty.”
After she became a devotee of Bhagavan in the 1930s,
she used her connections with her wealthy and titled friends
and Parsi community members to raise funds for various
Ramanasramam building projects.
Though she had little money of her own, she knew
many families who were extraordinarily wealthy. She used
these resources and collected donations for Ramanasramam
which were primarily used to fund building projects. She
was instrumental in the purchase of the two houses where
Bhagavan was born and attained enlightenment, namely ‘Sri
Ramana Mandiram’ in Madurai and ‘Sri Sundara Mandiram’
in Tiruchuzhi. And, together with others, she raised funds
for the Matrubhutheshvara temple (Mother’s shrine) at
Ramanasramam.
She is perhaps best known for the renovation and grand
reopening of the Patala Lingam of the Arunachaleswara
Temple in 1949. She personally supervised the renovation of
the Patala Lingam Shrine where Bhagavan stayed briefly in
the 1890s and she was able to arrange for the re-opening of
the Patala Lingam by C. Rajagopalachari who by this time
had become the Governor General of India.
In anticipation of Rajaji’s visit she saw to it personally
that all the stations on the railway line from Madras to
Tiruvannamalai received a coat of whitewash and that the
houses lining the streets of the town of Tiruvannamalai, along
which Rajaji was to pass, were also whitewashed and gaily
decorated. The town of Tiruvannamalai was also brilliantly

lit up. All the temple tanks were also cleaned out before this
grand event.
At the ceremony, Rajaji made a gracious speech about
Bhagavan but he did not visit Ramanasramam and Bhagavan.
Mrs Taleyarkhan has described some of her most prized
possessions that she received from Bhagavan: “Hard coconut
shells are generally used in households as fuel, and their
ashes sometimes used for tooth powder. Bhagavan had other
uses to put them to. He would take immense pains to clean
off the strands of fibre from the shells, scrape and polish the
surface inside and out, and make ladles out of them for use in
the kitchen, and for other purposes as well. I saw Bhagavan
at work with two shells, and a few days later found them
turned into very beautiful cups. This type of work was almost
a hobby, and a passionate one, with Bhagavan. One of these
shells was big and the other somewhat smaller. He took three
or four days to polish these cups to his satisfaction. As I was
watching him, I was praying to have one. Sensing my desire
to have it, he passed the smaller one on to me. I was thinking,
however, of the other one too, and although I never gave
expression to my wish, he called, ‘Ho, come here, take this,’
and gave me the other one as well! These are possessions
which I am never tired of showing to all my friends as the
handiwork of Bhagavan, for whom no work was too small.
For him all work was sacred. Close attention to detail,
absence of hurry, perfection in every task attempted, and
maximum utilization of every bit of an article characterized
Bhagavan.
In the final year of Bhagavan’s life I made two long
cushions for Bhagavan to rest the arm that was affected by
the cancer. After one of the operations, the wound opened
and the cushions became soaked with blood. On this occasion
Bhagavan, in the presence of his attendants Rangaswami and
Satyananda, gave me those two cushions as his gift to me.
I replaced them with fresh ones the next day. The original
cushions I esteem as precious relics and today they are

amongst my most prized possessions.”
After Bhagavan’s Maha Samadhi, due to some differences
of opinion with the ashram management, Mrs. Taleyarkhan
severed her connection with the ashram but her love for
Bhagavan never wavered.
Feroze Taleyarkhan continued to travel widely and met
many saints and sages. She attained the holy feet of her Guru,
in Tiruvannamalai on the 30th December 1984, at the age of
92 years.
44. Lucia Osborne*
L ucia Osborne married Arthur Osborne while he was in

Poland in the year 1932. The story of how she came to
Bhagavan is best related in her own words:
“Our stay in Kashmir was nearing its end in September
1941, as Arthur’s 6 month’s leave from the Chulalongkorn
University in Bangkok was nearly up. We were getting ready
to return to Siam without having seen Ramana Maharshi
because our friends maintained that it would have been far
too hot for the children to go there from April to August
or September. Unexpectedly we received a letter from the
British High Commissioner that women and children should
not go back as there was the likelihood of the war extending
to Siam. Men holding positions of prestige should return.
“One of our friends, David McIver, had a cottage in
Tiruvannamalai and it was arranged for me and the children
to stay there as he himself would be travelling most of the
time. I was delighted, probably because of the possibility
of making a sculpture of the Maharshi. We all left Kashmir
and parted at Lahore; Arthur on his way back to Bangkok,
* Lucia Osborne, ‘How I Came to the Maharshi’, The Mountain

Path, Apr. 1970; ‘Obituary’, Mountain Path, Apr. 1988.
our friends on their travels and the children and myself to

Tiruvannamalai. David had already informed the Ashram
about our visit. At the station in Tiruvannamalai we took two
horse carts (jutkas), one for the luggage and the other for
us. I did not notice much on the way, not even the mountain
Arunachala, as I was too preoccupied with the children.
“Kitty, who was 5 years old then, was the first to see him.
A sadhu swami friend of David’s was also living in one of
the rooms and he took Kitty to the hall of the Maharshi. She
was the first Western child to come to the Ashram and created
quite a stir with her golden locks and appearance. She was
used to being stared at and admired East and West. There was
a small table or stool before the couch on which the devotees
put their offerings, but Kitty, instead of putting hers on this
low stool, herself sat down on it with her back towards the
Maharshi and still holding the tray with the fruit. There was
no other way of sitting down except sideways as the stool
was too near the couch*.
Before leaving Bangkok for our holiday in India Arthur
showed me a booklet, probably “Who am I?” or “Spiritual
Instruction” received from India with a picture of the Maharshi
in it. The picture impressed me greatly as a model, so caught
up in sculpture was I at the time. Perhaps this was a sort of
vichara in clay to express the essence of the model “Who are
you?” Never have I seen a face so alive, so serene and wise,
so interesting. Even as a child I used to watch myself and
wonder who I was really, and here was a book showing the
way how to find out, but I was not interested to read it. When
I arrived in Tiruvannamalai I still had the conceited attitude
of judging for myself and finding out just by seeing the
Maharshi, without ever having gone deeply into his teaching.
* It has been recorded elsewhere that when little Kitty placed herself
on the stool, Bhagavan chuckled aloud and commented, “She has
offered herself!” Kitty has commented that Bhagavan’s remark has
shone (like a protecting talisman) at difficult periods in her life. She
still visits the ashram very regularly even today.
“On entering the Ashram hall for the first time, from the
door I perceived a figure reclining on a couch. Actually I did
not see anything much except his extraordinary eyes, transparent
like water, looking at me. There was no more any question of
judging for myself or finding out. Genuine, so transparently
genuine was he, that to doubt it would have been like doubting
the innocence of a little baby. An extraordinary combination of
such innocence and wisdom. I greeted him in Indian fashion
with the palms folded in namaskaram and sat down on the floor
among others near the couch. I closed my eyes and the thought
came to me or it had, I could almost say, recalled itself to me,
“There is only God. All is one.” There was a feeling of great
ease mixed with unease: those eyes could see through me. I sat
like that for 10 or 15 minutes. Someone told me later that the
Maharshi never shifted his eyes from me and that it was very
remarkable. But it was not initiation. This happened later.
“I started going to the hall mornings and evenings and
concentrated on the Heart, the spiritual heart on the right
side. I did not find meditation difficult but sitting cross-
legged was another matter. How painful it could be in the
beginning! But I persisted. One early morning I sat down in
the hall a few yards from the couch to meditate. Bhagavan
was busy with some letters and papers brought from the
office. Suddenly it happened. What actually happened is very
hard to say. Indescribable bliss of not being weighed down
any more, waves of bliss and fear, of lightness, as if my
heart was expanding ...... expanding ...... In the midst of it I
noticed Bhagavan suddenly turning to me with a searching,
almost startled look, letters and papers forgotten. Afterwards
I tried to describe this experience and it turned out a poem,
which was surprising, as I was not given to writing poetry,
and find it hard enough to express myself even in prose. The
beginning of it I have forgotten. It was something about my
confined heart trying to free itself; like a fluttering bird flying
out of its cage into the boundless sky, into freedom, into void
……………
High, higher ..... so near,

Over waves of bliss and fear
Higher, higher, ...... so near,
My heart shrank in fear of death
Was it Life?
“Actually the expression ‘high’ does not express it. It was
without dimensions or embracing all dimensions including a
bottomless precipice or void. Nothing to hold on to in fearful
blissfulness. Words are so limited. I showed it to Bhagavan
in the evening. He read it with obvious interest, sat up from
his reclining position to read it, then put it under the pillow.
A little later I saw him read it again. He did not give it back
to me. It felt very much like a near miss.
“Soon after, the war extended to Siam, the Japanese having
invaded the country. All communications from Arthur ceased.
Not a single letter for four years. No news even through the
Red Cross. Prompted by me, Adam, who was about 3 years
old, went up to Bhagavan and asked him: “Bhagavan, please
bring back my daddy safely?” Bhagavan nodded, graciously
assenting. That was enough. It was astonishing how we did
not worry. It was even more strange for someone like me,
who was given to anxiety and worrying over small matters.
I would watch my anxious thoughts angrily, unable to shut
them off. To shut them off like a tap is what I felt one should
be able to do. Worrying never helps, never changes anything,
so why harbour and activate such negative feelings?
“Often the children would come to the hall. Frania still
in the crawling stage, on all fours as if prostrating. Once she
crawled first to Bhagavan then to me. He patted her, saying
to those around, obviously delighted: “You see she did not
go first to her mother, Bhagavan comes first with her.” This
he said in a most impersonal way. Adam would run, jumping
for joy and panting like a little colt, up and down the hall
between the two rows of seated devotees, men and women sat
apart, occasionally stopping in his tracks to give me a brief
hug. Bhagavan looked on with a smile, which Kitty described
to her father, probably in the last letter to reach him from us:
‘Oh Daddy, I am so happy to be here. When Bhagavan smiles
everyone must be happy.’
“An amazing, most vital, period of my life had started.
To continue writing,
Will it not be divulging,
‘betraying Thy secret workings Oh Arunachala?’”
She describes one of her spiritual experiences:
“A sort of lassitude came over me, but a most pleasant
lassitude. From the base of my spine a tingling feeling arose
as if a thousand ants were climbing up. I must have fever, I
thought; but a most delightful fever, so let it be. All thought of
packing or going or any urgent work just vanished. I simply
rested, whether sitting or lying down I don’t remember. The
ascent continued, stopping at various points along my spine.
I particularly remember at the base of my neck. Then it burst
through the crown of my head with the blaze of a million suns
– the splendour of it! Ecstasy which no words could describe!
There was nothing to be perceived – nothing now to describe.
Only this unimaginable feeling of indescribably blissful well-
being. There was nobody else. There was nothing else. So
that’s it!
“How long it lasted – a second, an eternity – I cannot
tell. Then I returned to normal body-consciousness and the
world emerged again but how drab! It was like being thrust
back into a cage, in spite of the after-glow of the experience.
“At that time, I knew nothing of Kundalini and I have
never practised it. On my return to Tiruvannamalai I came
across Sir John Woodroffe’s The Serpent Power and there
read about the chakras and verified my experience. I did not
mention it to Sri Maharshi until sometime later, when I was
asked to go through Heinrich Zimmer’s German work Der
Weg Zum Selbst in which he speaks about Kundalini from a
theoretical standpoint. In this connection I told Sri Maharshi
that my experience was different and wrote out an account of
it. He perused this very attentively and did not return it to me

but gave it to the attendant to file.
“Some years later I heard a certain Swami tell his
disciples that when Kundalini bursts through the sahasrara
in the crown of the head the person is realised. I did not want
to raise this question in front of everybody, so I spoke with
him privately about it later, when I begged to differ. I told
him about my experience and said that it was only sporadic
and not a permanent change of state.
“He asked me about it in great detail and was surprised,
but obviously convinced, because he said: ‘You are moving
in Grace; just persevere.’”
She loved the Holy Hill so dearly that going around
the Hill was her most chosen ‘ambition’ and ‘luxury’! Her
devotion and surrender to her Master, Bhagavan Ramana,
was total. She chose to stay with Bhagavan instead of
accompanying her children to England for their education.
After the passing away of her husband, Arthur Osborne, she
took over the editorship of The Mountain Path from July
1970 to April 1974. Pilgrims, especially westerners, were
greatly helped by her homely yet authentic explanations
of the practice of Bhagavan’s teachings; many enjoyed her
motherly hospitality. In no time, she would put a stranger at
ease with her solicitude. Mrs. Lucia Osborne passed away,
peacefully, on December 2, 1987 in London. Her ashes were
brought from London by her daughter, Kitty and interred near
the Samadhi of her husband, Arthur.
45. Eleanor Pauline Noye*
E leanor Pauline Noye from California took a trip around

the world. On her journey she fell ill and was advised to
give up travel. However she persisted with her travels and
reached Madras, India. In her own words: “As we approached
India I decided to get off at Madras instead of going on to
Calcutta, where the ship would be in dry-dock for two weeks.
The people on board gave all sorts of reasons why I should
not get off at Madras. It was very difficult to leave them;
nevertheless I did, so they took me to the Connemara Hotel,
saying it was not safe to stop at a second-rate hotel because
of the food, etc. After my friends had gone I felt lost and went
to my room and, with tears in my eyes, prayed for guidance.
All night the heat was intense, so the next morning I asked
the proprietor if he could suggest a cooler place. He said the
hill-station, Kodaikanal was lovely and cool. So I made my
plans to leave Madras immediately. Motoring there, I found
it to be a charming place. The very first day (in Kodaikanal)
I met two Hindu brothers and I asked them if they knew any
Seers? I have no explanation to offer as to why I put that
question. I anticipated nothing. They said they knew of one
at Tiruvannamalai, Ramana Maharshi. “People come from far
and near to see Him. He left home,” they said, “when he was
twelve years old and never went to school. He is the greatest
Seer in India. It is difficult to find one that is genuine.” This
is what they told me about Bhagavan; of course, these facts
are not accurate.
I decided to leave for Tiruvannamalai the next day.
After arriving there I engaged a bullock cart to take me to
the Ashram, where I was greeted by some of the inmates,
* The Guiding Presence of Sri Ramana; ‘Introducing…’ , The

Mountain Path, Apr. 1972; Day by Day with Bhagavan; Eleanor
Pauline Noye, ‘My Pilgrimage to Sri Ramanasaramam’, Golden
Jubilee Souvenir; Letters from Sri Ramanasramam.
including Niranjanananda Swami, brother of Bhagavan. They

told me that Bhagavan was on the Hill, but would be in the
hall shortly, and graciously invited me to have my breakfast.
My heart throbbed with expectation as I was taken to the
hall. As I entered it I felt the atmosphere was filled with
Bhagavan’s Purity and Blessedness. One feels a breath of the
Divine in the Sage’s presence.
He was sitting on a couch, clad only in a loincloth,
surrounded by His devotees. When He smiled it was as though
the gates of Heaven were thrown open. I have never seen eyes
more alight with Divine Illumination, they shine like stars. He
greeted me very tenderly and made some enquiries about me,
which put me at ease. His look of Love and Compassion was a
benediction that went straight to my heart. I was immediately
drawn to Him. His greatness and kindness is all-embracing.
One feels such an uplifting influence in His Saintly Presence
and cannot help but sense His extraordinary spirituality. It is
not necessary for Him to talk; His silent influence of Love
and Light is more potent than words could ever be. I did not
know what manner of man I expected to find. But once I saw
Him, I said to myself, “Surely, no one is like Bhagavan!” I
do not think there is another like Him on earth today. To see
Him is to love Him. After spending the morning with Him,
I had lunch at eleven o’clock and rested until 2 p.m. Then I
returned to the hall. As I looked upon Bhagavan’s serene face
and into His eyes, which beamed with mercy, my soul was
stirred.
He knew how much I needed Him, while He looked
straight into my heart. Everyone who comes to Him is blessed;
the inner Peace which is His is radiated to all. A beautiful
sight is the little children kneeling before the Master as He
blesses them and smiles so tenderly, sometimes taking one in
His arms, reminding me of the painting, “Christ Blessing the
Children.” Later I walked around the grounds, talked to the
devotees. At seven o’clock I had a light meal; then I had the
opportunity to say just a few words to Bhagavan about my
journey. Some time later I went to the Traveller’s Bungalow,

as ladies are not allowed to stay in the Ashram at night.
I would like to say here, that the one reason why I had
been in such a run-down condition was that I had not slept
well for years, although I had been taking medicine, which
never gave me any relief. Although I said nothing to Bhagavan
about this, the amazing thing was that I slept soundly the
first night and thereafter without taking any medicine, though
I lacked the many comforts I had been accustomed to. I
received “the Medicine of all medicines, the unfailing grace
of the Lord, whose name is Heart.” I arose next morning,
feeling refreshed, as though I were born anew.
Soon after, one afternoon, as I was standing by the gate,
Bhagavan stopped, while on His way to the Hillside, and
asked me if I had more peace. His loving solicitude made
me feel quite at home; and when He smiled, my joy knew
no bounds.
During those sacred hours with the Master I unconsciously
absorbed the Truth which He lives; it filled all my being.
As a writer has said, “The Maharshi’s life is but one more
instance of that Indian ideal of teaching through life and not
through words… His life is, in fact, His highest teaching. His
teachings are but a literary expression of His Realisation.”
My love blossomed into deep devotion and I was filled
with ineffable peace; the things which seemed so vital before
were no longer of any importance. I could see things in their
correct perspective; the heartaches of yesterday and thoughts
of tomorrow faded into oblivion.
Here, in the Ashram, far away from the noise and
confusion of the busy highways, silence reigns. It is broken
only by the bleating of the sheep and goats and the songs
of the birds and the shepherd’s song as he takes his flocks
home to rest. Time seems to stand still in this peaceful, sacred
retreat, amidst the beauties of nature, with its lovely flower
gardens and beautiful pools, which are surrounded by knarled
oak-like trees that greet you like old friends. It is so primitive,
but therein lies its charm. It is truly the Holy Land. The air is
permeated with His peace and love.
Looking upon eternal Arunachala, ‘The Hill of Light,’
one is filled with awe and is overwhelmed by a great Spiritual
Power. Everything is vibrant and speaks to us in Silence. On
full moon night it is especially inspiring to go around the
Hill. In this deep silence and quietude one readily hears the
voice of God. In the inspiring words of the Master, from Five
Hymns:
“Only to convey by Silence Thy Transcendent State
Thou standest as a Hill, shining from heaven to earth.” One
may also say with the Psalmist, “Be Still and know That I
Am God.” These were among the first words spoken to me
by Bhagavan and the last ones before I left for America. I had
always loved to meditate upon them, but now they seemed
to take on a new meaning and filled my heart with bliss.
I had been at the Ashram for two months and then made
arrangements to sail one month later. I wanted to know more
about India before going home. So I reluctantly made plans
to leave the place. I had grown to love it and was very sad
during those last days. Bhagavan said, “I will always be with
you, wherever you go.”
When the last day arrived I could not stop crying.
Therefore, I did not go to the hall but sat by the pool. In the
afternoon when I sat before Bhagavan He smiled and said,
“She has been crying all day; she does not want to leave Me.”
He was so sweet and tender. Later I went to Him for His
blessing; the pain of parting was almost more than I could
bear; with tears in my eyes I knelt in deepest reverence and
devotion before my Beloved Master. May He always be my
Father, Mother and God; and may I always be His child, and
whatever I do, may it be in His name!
Devaraja Mudaliar in My recollections of Bhagavan
mentions: “It was a peculiarity with this devotee (Eleanor
Noye) that she would often weep before Bhagavan, when
she was in the hall. Referring to this, I told Bhagavan that
Mrs. Noye had captured Bhagavan by means of her tears.

Bhagavan told me that such weeping is good and quoted from
Tiruvachakam: “By crying for You (God), one can get you!”
Mrs. Noye continued with her tour of India. She recalls:
“It was the hottest season of the year, yet I felt no ill effects.
A physician who was stopping at the same hotel in Agra said
it was miraculous the way I travelled in the heat; he had seen
strong Hindus faint like flies owing to the heat, which did not
seem to bother me. I could hear Bhagavan’s words: “I will
always be with you, wherever you go.” His dear face was
always before me, no matter what I was doing. His presence
filled all my heart.
My eyes were filled with tears many times as I thought
of returning to America without seeing Him again. One day I
seemed to hear Him say, “Come back to Me again.” During
the time I was away from the Master my love and faith had
deepened, and I decided to return to Him as soon as possible.
I changed my plans. Instead of going back to America
by the next boat, I took the train, leaving Calcutta for
Tiruvannamalai. Queer to say, I felt as though I were going
home! The tender way Bhagavan greeted me, as I stood
before Him, will live in my heart always. I wept with joy
knowing I was thrice Blessed in being able to return to Him.
As I basked in His Eternal Sunshine in those silent hours of
communion I was filled with His Grace.
It is a privilege to have some meals with the Master; to
eat the food which He has handled is in itself a Blessing.
He would arise at dawn and help to cut the vegetables, very
often helping also to prepare special dishes which were
delicious. My food was prepared by the devotees especially
for me, and it was wholesome and good. Bhagavan was
always considerate to everyone, He wanted to be sure there
was plenty of everything; and the rich and the poor received
the same kind attention, as also the animals; no distinction
was shown. One day I saw Bhagavan stoop down and pick
up three grains of rice. That simple act taught me much more

than what I could have learnt by studying ten volumes on
domestic economy which is so essential in present day life
but is so difficult to practice. Each day brought new lessons
and Blessings. He grew nearer and dearer to me as time
passed and my only wish was to be by His side.
The monsoon was on, the air was fresh and clean and
all the earth seemed radiant. Whenever it rained Bhagavan’s
attendants put a white cloth on His chest to protect His body
from the cold weather. He looked like a sweet child wearing
a bib, and with all His Wisdom and greatness one is struck
by His childlike nature. At other times He looks like the
King of kings; His poise and dignity are outstanding. When
some times at night He would throw a shawl over His head,
He looked like the Madonna; I would stand outside in silent
adoration. Again, at other times He looked like a devoted
father smiling upon His children. I loved to watch Him as He
walked up the Hill, just when the sun was setting. And it was
my greatest delight when I could go with Him.
One morning I picked a lovely rose; my first thought was
to give it to the Master. A devotee said, “What a beautiful
rose!” I replied, “Yes, it is for Bhagavan.” I sat in the hall,
wondering if I should give it to Him. After a few minutes I
laid it on the small footstool at His sofa, and he said: “What
is that?” I replied, “Only a rose.” He said, “Give it to me.” He
took it and touched with it His forehead and cheeks. I was so
deeply touched, I wept.
I had the great privilege of being at the Ashram in
1939 for Bhagavan’s Birthday celebration when, as on such
occasions, thousands of people were fed. He is, indeed, a
friend of the poor. A special leaf-covered shelter is erected
for the occasion, so that many devotees who come for the
celebration may sit in the presence of Bhagavan. One can
never forget the Master as He sits there on His couch, so
majestically, amidst garlands of flowers, surrounded by His
loving devotees, who are so happy to be with Him at that

time. It is a day of rejoicing and thanksgiving for everyone,
even the animals.
As I walked along that night and looked at Arunachala,
so silent, I was held spellbound by the beautiful sight. The
brightest star in the heavens shone directly above its peak
like a great Beacon Light to tell us, as it were, “This is the
Holy Land, the abode of Bhagavan, the Lord of the Universe,
whose greatness and spiritual power have drawn men from
the remote parts of the earth, who come and kneel down
and worship Him, singing songs of adoration and praise to
proclaim His Glory.”
Mrs. Noye had been planning to leave the Ashram
for five months; but each time she thought she was going,
something unforeseen presented itself. It was not His Will
that she should go. As the time to leave drew near she was
very sad.
When writing her article in 1946 (six years after she
left the Ashram), she says: “I would like to say that I have
felt the Master’s Presence more and more with the passage
of time, just as He said I would. My devotion and faith have
grown through the years and will never be shaken under any
circumstance. I am very happy to say that I shall be returning
soon to my Beloved Master. I hear His call!”
When K.K. Nambiar left for the USA, Bhagavan asked
him to meet Eleanor Pauline Noye. Nambiar describes his
visit to her:
“During my tour of the Western States, I had the good
fortune to meet another great devotee of Bhagavan, Mrs.
Eleanor Pauline Noye. Mrs. Noye was waiting for me at the
Van Nuys Tram Terminus, with her automobile. On seeing
me Mrs. Noye burst into profuse tears as soon as our eyes
met. She could hardly utter a few words of welcome, for
such was her emotion on seeing one who had come from
Bhagavan. She drove me to her home where she lived with
her sister and brother-in-law. We spent several hours talking
about Bhagavan, and also wrote a joint letter to the Ashram

about my visit to her place.
She returned my visit two days later, when we spent the
whole evening talking about Bhagavan and meditating on
him. The peace that I enjoyed during those few moments was
indescribable. Mrs. Noye also felt the same way.”
Difficulties in getting a visa, on account of more stringent
travel restrictions, had prevented her from coming to India
again. When the Ashram authorities and Nambiar helped her
to secure the visa she visited the Ashram again in 1950 during
Bhagavan’s last illness.
During the two decades that have elapsed thereafter, she
was keeping in touch with the Ashram by correspondence.
Though living so far away, she felt Bhagavan’s Presence
there everyday, for, hadn’t He told her that He would be with
her wherever she went?
46. Arunachala Bhakta Bhagavat*
T here probably could not have been a more unlikely

candidate to light the torch of devotion and dedication to
Bhagavan Sri Ramana Maharshi in the West than Bhagavat.
But the ways of Providence are inscrutable, and only now,
after half a century has passed, do we more clearly understand
the gracious wisdom of divine will in action.
Bhagavat Prasad Singh was born in a remote farming
village of Bihar, India. His parents were illiterate and no one
up until then had ever even left the village for education.
Bhagavat tells the story like this:
“My mother, Srimati Pancha Devi, and father, Sriman
Girivar Roy, although illiterate, were a very religious and
* ‘Introducing….’, The Mountain Path, Jul. 1982; ‘Obituary’,

Mountain Path, June 2000; ‘The Maharshi’ newsletter, Sep/Oct
2000; Personal Communication: Dennis Hartel.
God-fearing couple. I was their youngest child and was

brought up in the hope of being given a formal education
so that I might be able to read and recite the religious epic
poem Ramayana of Goswami Tulsidas, the immortal saint-
poet of the Hindi language. Thus, my Lord, Bhagavan Sri
Ramana Maharshi, inspired my parents to name me ‘Bhagavat’
(a devotee of the Lord) and to put me under the care of the
village teacher so that I might read and learn about the world.
From my earliest childhood I remember being given to
contemplation and to very serious and deep conversation. That
is why the villagers often called me ‘an old man in the body
of a child’, and I can picture myself as I used to go about the
village with a serious countenance and deep purpose.”
Even before reaching the age of ten Bhagavat became
active in the Non-Cooperation Movement of Mahatma
Gandhi. This may have disconcerted his older brothers and
parents, but Bhagavat was an incorrigible idealist right from
his youth. Any high ideal outside the normal pursuits of
life invariably captivated his heart and mind and he would
throw his whole being into it with the utmost sincerity and
intensity. It happened again when he read the life of Gautama
Buddha in upper primary school. As a teenager his motto
became, “National Liberation and Self-realisation.” His
zeal for independence landed him in prison when he was
seventeen years old. His education was interrupted. Despite
financial difficulties, Bhagavat’s family was still keen to
send him for higher studies. After his release from jail he
completed his high school in Calcutta, attended the Benares
Hindu University and finally completed his B.A. at the Patna
University in Bihar. He then took employment as a teacher in
a Hindi school in Darjeeling, a Himalayan hill station. It was
here, about a month before his 29th birthday, that he first read
the Hindi version of A Search in Secret India. The moment
his eyes fell on the photo of Sri Maharshi he wanted to fly
to his abode at Arunachala. Bhagavat had always felt that he
would be his guru, to whom he need not ask any questions.
Although he did not set off for Arunachala then, of this

time in his life Bhagavat later wrote: “I never wavered in my
devotion to Bhagavan Ramana and tried my best to draw the
attention of my hometown teacher to the wonderful Sage who
was radiating His Grace from Arunachala. With my mind’s
eye I saw Bhagavan sitting in Arunachala and looking at me.
He was pouring His Grace on me, but He did not make it
possible for me to go to Him.”
As an idealist, Bhagavat was always inspired by the
American independence movement of the 18th Century and
the purest forms of American democratic ideology. A longing
in his heart arose to travel to the “New World”, even though
he had no contacts in the West or financial means to make
the journey. He somehow intuitively felt that his future was
linked to America and no one could dissuade him from this
apparently impracticable dream. Only his sister encouraged
him by saying, “I do not know where you will find the money
to go to America, or how you will do it, but you are so intent
on going, so sincere in your desire, I believe God will make
it possible for you to go.” And he did go, in 1947, the year in
which India attained independence.
The University of Iowa offered him a fellowship and a
sympathetic friend lent him the money to make the ocean
journey.
After two years in Iowa, Bhagavat received an M.A.
degree in journalism and began a job as the Information
Officer at the Indian Embassy in Washington, D.C.
Bhagavat was married to Yoga Maya Devi when just
a boy of 17 while she was only 8. She joined him in the
U.S. only in 1952. She gave birth to a son in 1953. It was
the following year, by the grace of Bhagavan Ramana, that
Bhagavat experienced a dramatic change in his inner life. He
later wrote about it:
“On Wednesday, October 13th, 1954, I was in the guest
cottage of a Quaker couple, Helen and Albert Baily, Jr., located
on their farm in West Chester, Pennsylvania. The cottage was
situated in a valley near their residence. On the second floor

of the cottage my wife, Yogamaya, our 15-month-old boy and
I were occupying the large wooden-framed bed that night. In
the second half of the night I saw Bhagavan Ramana sitting
on the bed near my head. Although this was a dream, I saw
it as clearly as I see the sun during the day, and remember
it vividly. His famous figure was near my head and His
legs were dangling. Arunachala Siva Bhagavan Sri Ramana
Maharshi stayed near my head for quite a while so that I
could drink deep in Him. Bhagavan simply kept on looking
at me and I was filled with joy and happiness and could not
turn my eyes away from Him. I do not know how long this
lasted. But once I woke up I could not return to sleep and
sat on the bed meditating on Him. All morning and all day
I kept on thinking of the darshan Bhagavan had given me in
my dream. That dream enabled the sugar doll to be dissolved
into the Divine Ocean of Bhagavan Sri Ramana Maharshi.
Since then I have not been the same Bhagavat I used to be.”
The following night he had another stirring dream
wherein he saw the Sanskrit word “Upanishad” written on a
loose leaf. Then the leaves of text began to turn one by one
until he awoke.
These experiences rekindled the fire of devotion to Guru
Ramana that had first ignited in 1941. Though the Maharshi
had left his body four years earlier, Bhagavat began writing
letters to him at Sri Ramanasramam, as he now began to
experience him as a living Presence.
After eight years of working for the Indian Embassy,
Bhagavat resigned and returned to his ‘Bharat Mata’, home
of his heart’s longing. Then only, in 1960, was he able to visit
Sri Ramana Bhagavan’s abode in Tiruvannamalai for the first
time: “As soon I caught the first glimpse of Sri Arunachala, I was
swimming in the Bliss of Bhagavan. After 19 years Bhagavan
had brought me to His Lotus Feet. The greatest dream of my life
was fulfilled on Friday morning, December 30th, 1960.”
It was here at Sri Ramanasramam that Arthur Osborne, a

staunch devotee, and the author of several profound books on
Sri Ramana Maharshi, as well as the founder of the ashram’s
The Mountain Path magazine, encouraged Bhagavat to start
regular meetings in America centred on Sri Maharshi when
he returned. Bhagavat did not know at that time if he would
return, but he did, taking a position at the Indian Mission to
the United Nations in New York City in 1962.
In 1965, Bhagavat, reflecting on the recent events of
his life, wrote: “Bhagavan made it possible for me to find
employment once again in the United States. But New York
was the last place we wanted to live. In spite of my best
efforts to get away from New York, Bhagavan held me here.
He must have had some purpose in not helping me find
employment elsewhere.”
The purpose soon revealed itself. On November 12th,
1965, Bhagavat began weekly meetings in a room at the
American Buddhist Society on the West Side of Manhattan.
He wanted it to be a meeting place for sincere aspirants
who wished to deepen their spiritual lives in the light of the
Maharshi’s guidance and grace. In 1966, Arunachala Ashrama,
Bhagavan Sri Ramana Maharshi Center was incorporated and
registered as a charity with the state and federal governments.
Then, in 1967, a meeting room at 78 St. Marks Place was
rented and the weekly gatherings became daily.
In 1967, Bhagavat resigned his job and dedicated himself
fully to the Ashram. He legally adopted the name of Arunachala
Bhakta Bhagavat. Thus began his daily routine of travelling
by subway to Manhattan from his Brooklyn apartment. He
was now 55 years old, unemployed and without funds to
support his wife and son, totally taking refuge in his Master
and Lord, Ramana Bhagavan. About this period of his life he
wrote: “I wander about like a drunken person who does not
care what the world thinks of him, as he is oblivious to the
physical world in his inebriated state.”
In 1969 the Ashrama moved to a rented storefront near

First Avenue, and remained there for the next seventeen
years. Slowly a small group of sincere seekers began to
attach themselves to the Ashram and daily practice of prayer
and meditation. Bhagavat’s mission of “raising the Flag of
Self-enquiry and Self-surrender” in the Western Hemisphere
slowly began to take shape.
What inspired the few sincere seekers, who ultimately
dedicated themselves to the Ashram, was Arunachala Bhakta
Bhagavat’s emphasis on the need for spiritual practice. He often
would say, “This is Arunachala Abhyasa Ashrama.” ‘Abhyasa’
means ‘spiritual practice.’ Pointing to Bhagavan’s photo, he
often told new visitors, “He teaches, and we practise. He has
made me His servant and servitor, His doorman and doormat.”
Bhagavat was a prolific writer and the inspiration to
dedicate his life to establish Sri Ramana Maharshi’s Ashrama
in the West can be easily understood by reading just a few
pages of the manuscripts that became part of his spiritual
practice. He used to say, “Unless my mind sinks into the
Heart, I cannot write.” And it would sink, and the writing
went on and on. All his spare time would be occupied with
“worshipping at the altar of Hermes 3000 [typewriter] with
the fruits and flowers of my breath.” He would be seen
either sitting inwardly absorbed in front of the typewriter or
outwardly absorbed typing thousands of pages of what he
called “prayer manuscripts”.
In 1970, he began writing a piece titled, “Bhagavan!
Thou Art the Self”. This went on for 3,500 pages. “From
the top of my voice I declare to the world that Thou art the
very breath for me and day and night I find myself immersed
in the surging Ganga of the Silent Sage of the Holy Hill of
the Beacon Light, Sri Arunachaleshwara Siva Bhagavan Sri
Ramana Maharshi...”
And these direct experiences described in his writings,
or expressed directly to his friends, confirmed the faith in the
minds of Western seekers that though Bhagavan Ramana is

no longer physically available, his Divine Presence, guidance
and grace are continually flowing to those who turn to him. He
is a LIVING Guru. Bhakta Bhagavat realised that Bhagavan
did not allow him to see him in the physical form for the
simple reason that he did not want him to confuse that form
with his real being, the Self of all. New seekers from the
West had their faith in the continued presence of Sri Ramana
confirmed in the life of Arunachala Bhakta Bhagavat.
Nevertheless, the upsurge of Bhagavat’s inner,
overwhelming experience of the presence of Bhagavan Sri
Ramana Maharshi in his heart constantly inspired him to
“shout from the highest tower, proclaim to every corner of
the earth, the glory and majesty of my Guru, Arunachala
Siva Bhagavan Sri Ramana Maharshi Dakshinamurti!” But
how was he to do it? Who was there to listen? None. So,
he resorted to the confines of his typewriter to express his
aspirations and experience.
The ashram continued to develop and attract a small group
of sincere and hardworking seekers who, under an inspiration,
sought out a farm property in Nova Scotia, Canada. In 1972,
Bhagavat and some of his devotees drove up to Nova Scotia
to see the farm and make the final decision on its purchase.
Gazing upon the hill behind the farm, Bhagavat was amazed
when he saw a steep rocky outcrop near the top. “Look
there!” he said excitedly, “It is right there on that cliff that I
had the vision of Bhagavan standing looking down at me!”
This provided Bhagavat with the certitude that the Taylor
farm was the place destined to become Bhagavan’s country
ashrama. Later, at that very same spot, a cave was discovered
and was immediately christened “Virupaksha Cave”.
Both the New York City Ashram and the Nova Scotia
ashram developed and expanded under his inspired
supervision, becoming the main source of information on the
life and teaching of Ramana Maharshi in the West.
In the New York Arunachala Ashrama, on Monday

morning, April 10th, 2000, Arunachala Bhakta Bhagavat
looked as if he were asleep. On closer examination it was
found that his life breath had left the body and he had left
with it. From all appearances no one could have guessed
that he was about to depart. The previous night he had been
quietly absorbed in listening to both the morning and evening
Veda Parayanas one after the other, then had a meal, smiled
and conversed with the Ashrama friends who had gathered
that night, but showed no signs that this was his final night.
Since suffering a stroke eighteen months earlier, he had
been unable to walk and, of course, was weak. He would
routinely sit in a wheel chair for five hours every day
and, although functioning in a limited way, he was hardly
conscious of his frailty, occasionally forgetting that he was
unable to walk. Nevertheless, he remained ever cheerful and
grateful, rarely asking for anything other than a warm blanket
and to be helped into bed when he was tired.
“It is now fifty years since Bhagavan’s Maha Nirvana,”
were the last words he heard before he fell asleep and the
lights were dimmed. He nodded his head and closed his eyes.
In the morning he was gone. It was Rama Navami (Rama’s
Birthday). On April 14, 2000, exactly fifty years to the day of
his Master’s Maha Nirvana, Arunachala Bhakta Bhagavat’s
body was cremated.
47. Professor Tadashi Yanagida*
H e came to Sri Ramanasramam in the late 1980s, after

his eldest son’s demise. When he was in Japan, he met
the founder of Nippon Ramana Kendra, Mr. Hashimoto. The
president was about to retire from his job, and Prof. Yanagida
was selected as the second president of the Kendra, a position
* Personal Communication: Iwao Hukuma.

that he accepted without hesitation. The Mountain Path of

Jayanti 1992 mentions: Nippon Ramana Kendra, which was
started in Japan in 1980, thanks to Dr. Sozo Hashimoto,
has grown sizeably under the leadership of Prof. Tadashi
Yanagida. Members of the Kendra and a few yoga institutions
visited the Ashram in 1991.”
Prof. Yanagida had met Ganesan at Ramanasramam. This
association took Ganesan to Japan twice to have Satsang
with Japanese devotees. Also, Prof. Yanagida organised a
special group tour for Japanese devotees every year which
was called the Sri Ramana Pilgrimage, from Chennai to
Tiruchuzhi which then followed Sri Ramana’s footsteps until
he reached Arunachala. He published the quarterly newsletter
“Arunachala” in Japanese.
His devotion became very deep, so deep that he could not
bear to be separated from Arunachala. He built a cottage on
the land owned by the Ashram near the post office in 1995.
The Mountain Path of Jayanti 1994 informs its readers: “Prof.
Tadashi Yanagida, President, Nippon Ramana Kendra, Japan,
has now become Arunachala-Vaasi (permanent resident at
Arunachala), taking shelter under ‘Arul Ramana’.” During his
stay in this cottage, he walked around the hill every single
night starting at 2:00 a.m. This became his great sadhana.
Sri Ramana Maharshi on the way to Arunachala visited
the Atulyanatheswarar Temple at Arakandanallur where he had
a vision of light and the Hill of Arunachala. Prof. Yanagida
arranged for significant financial help for the renovation
and Kumbhabhishekham of Atulyanatheswarar temple.
The Mountain Path of January 2003 provides a fascinating
account how the working of Divine Grace brought all this
about. We quote from The Mountain Path: “During a visit
to the temple by a Japanese devotee, Ms. Shunya, she felt
that there was a special atmosphere in this ancient temple
and its importance became clear when she stood in the outer
courtyard and saw Arunachala in the distance. This was the
temple at which Bhagavan had paused on his historic journey
to Tiruvannamalai many years ago. This may also have

been the place where he had his first darshan of the Holy
Mountain. But this special temple and its precincts were now
an abandoned ruin.
Ms. Shunya shared her concern with Professor Yanagida,
who returned to Japan a short while later. There he had a
powerful dream indicating the significance of the temple and
underlining its decayed state. Bhagavan also appeared in the
dream. Both these concerned people decided at once that
something should be done to bring this forsaken place back to
life. They collected funds from the Nippon Ramana Kendra.
But before any work was started, money was made available
for pujas to be resumed on a regular basis.
The actual restoration began with endowments from
various local religious establishments, but the work was slow
and only modest repairs were accomplished.
Then the Nippon Ramana Kendra, at the instigation of
Ms. Shunya Shakiyama, Prof. Yanagida and others, provided
Rs. 20 lakhs.” Thus Prof. Yanagida proved to be an instrument
of the Lord in renovating this ancient temple.
After a stay of five years Prof. Yanagida went back to
Japan in 2000. His health was starting to deteriorate without
an apparent cause. It was discovered that he had cancer of
the pancreas. He passed away on August 16th 2004 in Kyoto,
Japan at the age of 77. His contribution to the Ramana sangha
in Japan is immeasurable.
48. Attendants of Bhagavan*
E ver since Bhagavan’s days at Gurumurtam there were

men who came to serve Him. In the early days men
like Uddandi Nayanar attached themselves to the young
‘Brahmana Swami’ being attracted by his spiritual state.
In later days Bhagavan’s personal attendants were
chosen by Chinna Swami. Bhagavan himself never asked
anyone to serve him, nor did he ever send away an attendant
who had been allotted to him. It became the tradition in the
Ashram that the attendants were always young unmarried
men. Annamalai Swami reports, “Once, when a woman who
was a qualified nurse from North India volunteered to be an
attendant, Bhagavan replied by saying, ‘Ask the people in the
Hall’. Krishnaswami, the chief attendant, and some of the
other people in the Hall objected: ‘No! No! We cannot have
ladies doing service to Bhagavan. It is not proper.’ Bhagavan
turned to the woman and said, ‘These people all think like
this. What can I do?’”
One of the attendants’ tasks was to receive the food
offerings brought by devotees and give some of it back to
them as prasadam. They had to be careful that the men sat on
one side of the Hall and the women on the other. Whenever
Maharshi left the Hall, one of them had to accompany him.
The other one stayed back to clean the Hall. The cloths on the
couch had to be kept clean. Washing the cloths and preparing
warm water for Bhagavan’s morning bath was also the duty
of the attendants, as was accompanying him on his nightly
walks to the toilet. There was, therefore, someone there to be
helpful to him round the clock.
* ‘Introducing...’, The Mountain Path, Jul. 1967; Anu and KVS,

‘Old Ashramites’, The Mountain Path, May-June 1989; V. Ganesan,
Moments Remembered; Sri Ramana Leela; Reminiscences of Kunju
Swami; Major A.W. Chadwick; Annamalai Swami, Living by the
Words of Bhagavan.
Sri Ramana was strict with his attendants, insisting that

they carry out their duties meticulously and punctually. He did
not let them get away with anything. At first, Krishnaswami
often failed to chase away the monkeys during their raids into
the Hall to steal fruit. He was rebuked for this by Sri Ramana.
Thereafter Krishnaswami became a keen monkey chaser. He
armed himself with a catapult and drove the monkeys away
with it as soon as they appeared.
Something similar happened with the attendant
Rangaswami, who also failed to chase away monkeys and
instead liked to meditate. Bhagavan scolded him, “If you
want to meditate like this, go somewhere else. If you want to
live here you must do service like everyone else. Meditation
is contained in your service to the Guru.” One of Bhagavan’s
characteristics was that he never asked for anything. If the
attendant did not know what he might need he did not ask for
it. He did not want anyone to be troubled on his behalf, not
even his attendants. So the attendants were trained to know
what Sri Ramana might want, whether it be something to
drink, or the wish to wash his hands or read the newspaper
– they knew without him having to say it. They were helped
by the fact that there was a fixed time for almost everything.
Major Chadwick tells the story of the betel nut. In this
case the attendant’s omission resulted in Bhagavan simply
giving up chewing betel. “One morning Bhagavan was about
to go out and was only waiting for the attendant to give him
the betel, which was always placed by his side when it was
time for his walk. For some reason the attendant did not do it.
Everybody in the Hall was waiting expectantly but could do
nothing about it, as the management did not allow anybody
to attend on Bhagavan except those who had been specially
detailed. Eventually Bhagavan got up and left the Hall without
it. From that day on he never chewed betel again.”
Although Bhagavan could be very strict with his
attendants, he was also very concerned for their welfare.
In summer, when he used to walk to Palakkothu between
midday and 1.30 p.m., the sandy path was so hot that walking
barefoot could be very painful. Bhagavan always walked at
the same steady pace, whether it was raining cats and dogs
or whether the sun was blazing down, but he used to say to
the attendant walking behind him, “Run, run and take shelter
under that tree.” Or “Put your upper cloth under your feet and
stand on it for a while.”
Similarly Bhagavan’s concern was extended to
Rangaswami, when he had to copy out several pages of a
book: “One day, Bhagavan asked me if I had completed the
job. ‘I do not have the time for it’, I said. ‘What are you
doing now?’ he queried. ‘I am going to Palakkothu to wash
your loincloth.’ Bhagavan said, ‘Okay, you do my job and I
will do yours;’ so saying, he copied the remaining pages.”
Their way of life is well described in the following
statement of Kunju Swami:
“Bhagavan used to sleep on the sofa in the hall while I
and a few other attendants used to sleep on the floor near it.
Regularly, at half past three in the morning, Bhagavan would
get up and go out for his ablutions. As soon as he got up from
the sofa one of us would give him the torch which was kept
for his use. But not once was it necessary for Bhagavan to call
us by name or wake us up and ask for the torch. The moment
he got up, we also used to wake up without any special effort
on our part. Bhagavan’s look in our direction produced a
sense of brilliant light in us and we used to wake up at once.
Bhagavan never ordered his servants about. He preferred to
do everything by himself, but the attendants would always
anticipate his wishes and do what was necessary.”
Bhagavan watched constantly over their sadhana. Kunju
Swami goes on to say, “I once asked Bhagavan’s permission
to live outside the Ashram and devote all my time to spiritual
practices. I said I was not completely satisfied with doing
service. To this he replied that real service was not the
washing of his clothes, etc., but that it lay in the cleaning of
one’s mind.”
In Bhagavan’s view silence was the preeminent method

of imparting instruction. Yet he wrote, for the sake of those
devotees who could not absorb his silent teaching. Among
those who asked him questions regarding his teaching, his
early attendants were the foremost, they were Ayyaswami,
Pazhani Swami and Perumalswami.
(i) Pazhani Swami
I t is no exaggeration to say that Bhagavan wrote his early

works because of these attendant-disciples. These long line
of attendants begins with Uddanadi Nayanar but Pazhani
Swami was the first devotee to voluntarily attach himself
permanently to Bhagavan.
There was no Ashram, no organisation at the time;
Pazhani Swami simply showed his devotion to Bhagavan by
performing such services as he could.
Pazhani Swami belonged to Vadavanur near Palghat.
Being a Malayali he had difficulty in reading Tamil, and
he brought a large number of Tamil texts to Bhagavan to
elucidate. Bhagavan has said that in reading these books he
recognized his own spiritual experiences. During these years
Bhagavan was mainly in silence and spoke only infrequently
with Pazhani Swami. In those days the duty of attendants
was mainly to keep visitors at bay. The attendants also got
food either from visitors, a choultry or by begging. Pazhani
Swami attended to Bhagavan until the move from Virupaksha
Cave to Skandasramam. Thereafter he continued to stay in
Virupaksha Cave for nearly two years. During this time
Bhagavan met him on most days.
On 11th June 1918 Bhagavan saw a peacock flying
up from the Virupaksha Cave to Skandasramam in great
excitement and it struck him that Pazhani Swami must be
in a critical condition. At once Bhagavan went down to the
Cave and found his intuition was correct. Pazhani Swami

was in the throes of death, gasping for breath. Bhagavan
sat near him with his right hand on Pazhani Swami’s chest.
Pazhaniswami’s breath became soft and Bhagavan took off
his hand when he felt a quivering within Pazhaniswami’s
chest. This, Bhagavan has said, is the sign of life becoming
extinct in the body. But when Bhagavan took his hand off,
that very moment, Pazhani Swami’s eyes opened. “I thought
he would subside at the Heart, but he escaped,” Bhagavan
remarked, adding, “That is said to be the sign of one going
to higher states of spiritual experience, though not the sign of
immediate merger at the Heart.”
Pazhani Swami had served Bhagavan faithfully from the
time he first saw him at Gurumurtam up to the Virupaksha
days. He was the person who looked after Bhagavan day and
night like a mother. He was twenty years older than Bhagavan.
(ii) Ayyaswami
P azhani Swami was succeeded by Ayyaswami. Ayyaswami,

who was also from Kerala, began his service of the
Maharshi in 1918. Ayyaswami had worked under a European
in South Africa and was clean, active and capable. “He could
manage even ten Ashrams at a time”, said Bhagavan. He was
free from attachment and greed. He was loyal to Pazhani
Swami, and even fond of him. He was more capable than the
Pazhani Swami, said Bhagavan.
Without wasting his time, he would be doing something
or other. He made the bowl and the kamandala which were
regularly used by Bhagavan and which are now in the nirvana
room. He used to make and gift to others walkingsticks,
kamandalas and begging bowls. To make a walking stick, he
would measure a stick, remove the bark with a knife, smooth
the surface, and later rub it with sandpaper and a leaf called
guttipura. Then he would apply oil to it and polish it with a

woollen cloth. The stick used to shine beautifully. Tirelessly
he would prepare such things and gift them to Bhagavan and
others. Bhagavan later used to ask the attendants to make
walkingsticks in a similar manner. Ayyaswami used to remove
the kernel of the bilva fruit, clean it, plug the holes with small
pieces of wood and use it for keeping vibhuti or kumkum. He
would make nice cups out of coconut shells. Bhagavan used
to appreciate his craftsmanship.
In 1910, there was a great function at Sringeri Mutt, the
mutt established by Adi Sankara. On that occasion books by
various teachers were exhibited and sold. Ayyaswami bought
some of Sankara’s works and later requested the Maharshi to
render them into Malayalam. The Maharshi translated some
parts of Sankara Vijayam. At Pazhani Swami’s request the
Maharshi translated Gurustuti and Hastamalakam into Tamil.
Ayyaswami was described as an ideal sadhu and devotee,
and was, in later years, often remembered by Bhagavan. He
would often bring things from town which devotees wanted but
had forgotten to ask him for. When asked how he happened to
bring just those things, he would say “somehow it occurred to
me.” It was next to a miracle and even Bhagavan would join
in admiration with the others. Ayyaswami was in Bhagavan’s
service for four or five years.
Bhagavan described in a vivid way how he had composed
the Eight Stanzas to Arunachala:
“On that day, after composing the last two stanzas,
I started out to go round the Hill. Ayyaswami brought a
piece of paper and pencil and told Pazhani Swami who was
going with Bhagavan, “Bhagavan has been composing one
stanza every morning for some days now, and today he has
composed two stanzas. More may come to him today. In case
they do, keep this paper and pencil with you, so that the same
may be recorded.” I learnt about this only when I noticed that
Pazhani was not with me for a while but came and joined me
later. That day, before I returned to Skandasramam, I wrote
six of the eight stanzas of the Arunachala Ashtakam (Eight

Verses on Arunachala).”
After Ayyaswami, Arni Annamalai Swami served
Bhagavan but for two years only in Skandasramam, because
he died of plague in January 1919. Thereafter Kunju Swami
served Bhagavan for 15 years. In his absence, Ramakrishna
Swami used to look after Bhagavan. Later, when Bhagavan
became ill, Kunju Swami, Madhava Swami, Krishnaswami,
Rangaswami and Sivananda served Bhagavan by turns. After
Madhava Swami, Satyananda Swami attended on Bhagavan. In
Bhagavan’s last days, Dr. Srinivasa Rao, Dr. Anantanarayana
Rao, T.P. Ramachandra Iyer and Venkataratnam from Andhra
served Bhagavan.
(iii) Madhava Swami
M adhava Swami was a Malayali brahmachari from a village

near Palghat. He came to Bhagavan around 1931, when
he was only twenty years of age and did personal service to
Bhagavan. He was meek and gentle by nature and attended on
Bhagavan like his shadow for twelve years. However in later
years he wanted to go on pilgrimage and lead an independent
life. This desire became fulfilled when the head of a mutt,
Rangaswami Iyengar from Kumbakonam, came to Bhagavan
and passed away in Tiruvannamalai. Madhava Swami was
invited to visit the mutt in Kumbakonam. But he passed away
suddenly within a short time thereafter, during his visit.
Kunju Swami, went to supervise the burial ceremony
in Kumbakonam. On his return he said: “Madhava Swami
was wandering about in search of peace of mind but could
not gain peace, and so he told people that he would not
live any longer when he came to the Mutt at Kumbakonam.
He had a sudden attack of diarrhoea for a day, and, as he
complained of difficulty breathing while taking soda water,
he was made to lie down. He never regained consciousness,
according to what the people in the Mutt told me. They kept
the corpse till I got there. It did not deteriorate in anyway

even though three days had elapsed.” After he passed away
Bhagavan said, “Madhavan was a good man. That is why
we all feel sorry that he is dead.” Soon after his death the
Maharani of Baroda gifted a white peacock to Bhagavan. G.
V. Subbaramayya, one of Bhagavan’s closest devotees, was
so struck by the extraordinary relationship that developed
between Bhagavan and the white peacock that he composed
a poem, titled Svethamayura-ashtakam. Bhagavan read the
eight stanzas, gave the poem to Lalitha Venkataraman, a
daughter of Manavasi Ramaswami Iyer, and asked her to play
the verses on her veena.
Lalitha studied the poem and prepared to set the tune
to play on the veena. Just as she was about to start playing,
Bhagavan exclaimed, “Wait! The hero of the poem is not here.
We should get him here, to listen to the song which has been
composed in his honour!” So saying, Bhagavan raised his
voice and called, “Madhava! Where are you?” Immediately,
the peacock flew down from the roof of the hall and stood
before his Master.
Bhagavan’s face shone like the full moon at this. The
lady started singing the verses and playing the veena. As
soon as she started singing, the peacock spread its wings and
started dancing. It continued to dance all the while she sang.
As soon as she stopped playing, the peacock went up to her
and pecked at the strings of the veena. Bhagavan laughed at
the peacock’s antics, and said to Lalitha, “Madhavan wants
you to continue the singing.” She immediately started singing
once again. This time also the peacock danced throughout the
performance! It was a truly thrilling experience for all who
witnessed it.
After Madhava Swami came a group of attendants:
Satyananda, who was Malayali, Venkataratnam who was
Telugu, and the Tamilians Krishnaswami, Sivananda Swami,
Vaikuntavasar and Annamalai Swami. For some years, a Tamil
married man, Rajagopalan, served Bhagavan as an attendant,
while his family lived in a house outside the Ashram. But

finding it difficult to support his family he left Tiruvannamalai
to take a job elsewhere.
(iv) Satyananda Swami
S atyananda Swami first came to Bhagavan in 1938 in

Virupaksha Cave. Both there and later on in Skandasramam
he performed various kinds of service but it was only in the
present Ashram, in 1946, that he became a permanent attendant.
He has given us the following account of the Maha Nirvana:
“After one operation there was profuse bleeding from the
body of Bhagavan. There was a big crowd outside the New
Hall but none were allowed inside. I was very moved and,
shedding tears, told Bhagavan that it was painful to see such
suffering. Bhagavan was absolutely unconcerned about his
condition and said ‘What suffering? All is Bliss.’
“I was blessed to be near Bhagavan during the Maha
Nirvana. At 6 p.m. that day, we massaged Bhagavan’s legs.
At 6-30 Bhagavan wished to sit upright so we helped him
into that posture. Then started the chanting of Arunachala
Aksharamanamalai (The Marital Garland of Letters) by
devotees outside the Nirvana Room. There were profuse tears
from Bhagavan, though there was no change in the expression
on his face. It was such an immense outflow that Dr. T.N.
Krishnaswami asked me to wipe the tears away.
I did so, but it would not stop. This continued till 8 p.m.
I was asked to give a little water and fruit juice to Bhagavan
which I did with the aid of a spoon.
“The most awe-inspiring moment was the physical
demise of Bhagavan. There was no physical movement of
any kind, no visible change, not even a flutter. It was as if
the human frame in which Bhagavan was, turned into a statue
instantaneously.”
After the Maha Nirvana Satyananda looked after the
little ‘Nirvana Room’ and the Ashram Library. For twelve
years he observed mouna, but he broke it on a Maha Nirvana

anniversary and resumed speech.
The Mountain Path of 1989 April says of him: “Sweet,
soft-spoken, simple at heart and in dress, innocent of the
subtleties of language and thought, reticent and receptive,
methodical and mindful in his work, Satyananda Swami, like
some of his fellow-attendants, kept his heart fully open for
Bhagavan to pour His boundless love.”
Swami Satyananda was absorbed in Arunachala on the
evening of Monday, 27th November, 1989. His end came
rather suddenly, though very peacefully.
(v) Krishnaswami
K rishnaswami came from Srirangam near Tiruchi. He came

to Bhagavan in 1936 and continued as his attendant till
the end. As he was strict they called him “Hall Sarvadhikari.”
Apparently Bhagavan jocularly would tell him, “You are very
abrupt and speak sharply to others, that’s why people mistake
(as being rude and overbearing) you.”
Krishnaswami reminisces:
“There was a lame puppy which would wag its tail
whenever Bhagavan went up the Hill. That puppy was fed
with idlis. One day after having idlis the pup went and
urinated in front of Sarvadhikari’s office. The Sarvadhikari
got wild and ordered that no more idlis should be given to the
puppy. When Bhagavan asked why the puppy was not fed, I
told him that as it urinated in front of Chinna Swami’s office
I didn’t feed it. Bhagavan got very angry with me and told
me, ‘Before so many have come, ruled and gone, one day you
too have to go.’ Immediately I went and reported to Chinna
Swami what Bhagavan had told me and thus feeding of the
puppy was resumed. The same mongrel would come in front
of Bhagavan with its mouth full of excreta. Bhagavan used
to wipe her mouth clean with his own towel and say, ‘Some
great soul has come in this garb.’ He never gave me the towel
for washing.
Bhagavan used to say with a laugh, ‘A person performs
namaskaram to the Swami or an idol, and expects all his
prayers to be fulfilled and boons granted. Who wants this
namaskaram? Even before they prostrate physically, I
prostrate to them mentally.’
Bhagavan would add, ‘Who wants all this namaskaram?
Try to know who you are. That is the import of the
namaskaram. I am not taken in by all this gymnastics!’
One day Bhagavan told me, “One could produce God
through alchemy. But even if that God tells you something
don’t believe it! If I come in front of you don’t believe it! The
Seer is most important. YOU ARE! That’s most important.
Concentrate on the seer, not on the seen. All that you see
is false and the seer alone is true. All that you read, all
knowledge you gather is useless, until you hold on to your
Self. YOU ARE THE TRUTH, not what’s being told to you,
not what you see. What you read in books may be knowledge,
but it is not the truth.”
Krishnaswami went away for some years after the Maha
Nirvana but he returned as the caretaker of Skandasramam.
He was absorbed in the lotus feet of the Master on 6th March
1996.
Several others, though not full-time attendants, performed
personal services for Bhagavan out of love and the joy of
serving him. Such are T.P. Ramachandra Iyer, Viswanathan,
Dr. M.R. Krishnamurthy Iyer, Dr. Srinivasa Rao, Dr. Shankar
Rao, and the late Dr. Anantanarayana Rao.
49. Grant Duff*
G rant Duff (Douglas Ainslie), nephew of one of the British

Governors in India, was a philosopher and diplomat of
high rank. He had made several visits to the Ashram. In Talks
with Sri Ramana Maharshi the entry dated January 19th, 1935
says: “Mr. Douglas Ainslie (Mr. Grant Duff), an aristocratic
English gentleman, 70 years old, nephew of a former Governor
of Madras, an author and poet formerly attached to the British
Legation in Athens, Paris and The Hague, had come to Madras
as a guest of the Government House. He came to see Maharshi
with a letter of introduction from Paul Brunton. Next day he
returned and remained a little less than an hour in the hall.
On both days practically no words were exchanged, only gaze
meeting gaze. His habits are abstemious; he remains without
food of any kind till 1 p.m. and then lunches; he is said to
have coffee and biscuits in the evening and retires without any
further food. He has been a bachelor all along, walks a few
miles a day on an empty stomach, speaks little and is very
graceful in his movements. His voice is low and soft and his
words appear to come from the heart. He has friends among
whom might be counted the late Sir John Woodroffe, Sir
Sarvepalli Radhakrishnan and Prof. Thomas, Sanskrit Professor
in Oxford University. He expressed a desire to hear the Vedas.
On Monday a letter arrived from Riga and the questions therein
happened to coincide with the questions the European visitor
had asked relating to the existence of departed souls and how
best to serve them.
The reply sent to Riga was read out to him. Tamil
songs from Maharshi’s “Truth Revealed” and the Vedas
* Call Divine, Jan. 1953; Grant Duff; Ramana Maharshi and the Path
of Self-knowledge; Major A.W. Chadwick, A Sadhu’s Reminiscences;
S.S. Cohen, Guru Ramana; Talks with Sri Ramana Maharshi; Day
by Day with Bhagavan; Letters from Sri Ramanasramam; Sage of
Arunagiri.
were repeated in his presence. He considered the recitations

magnificent. He came the next afternoon and to the wonder
of others, had an experience on the previous night which he
repeated to Maharshi. It was that he had seen something like
an electric light within himself in the Heart centre on the right
side. And he added further that he had seen the sun shining
within. Maharshi smiled a little and then had a translation
of ‘Atmavidya’ (Self-Knowledge) read out to him wherein
there is the cryptic saying that realisation consists in reaching
the Atman (Self) which is the expanse of consciousness
(chidvyoman) as distinguished from the mind, which is the
expansion of chittavyoman. This explanation appealed to him.
Speaking of him later, Maharshi remarked, “Just think
of an old man of 70 not choosing to live peacefully in his
own house on the income he had earned! How intense has
been his earnestness that he has left his native land, dared a
sea-voyage of 6,000 miles, and faced the hardships of long
railway journeys in a foreign land, ignorant of the language,
undergoing the vicissitudes of a lonely life, submitting to the
inclemency of a hot climate, in surroundings uncongenial and
unaccustomed to him. He could have been happy in his own
house. It is his longing for internal peace that has brought him
here.” Quite so! The intensity of his earnestness is revealed
by his illuminating experiences here within four days of his
arrival, people say.”
Grant Duff writing for the Golden Jubilee Souvenir
in 1946 says: “At a time when I had a thirst for a deeper
understanding about life, the world and what they mean, I
came to know of the Sage of the Hill of the Holy Beacon.
It was the good Mr. Raphael Hurst (Paul Brunton) who told
me of the Holy One and the Ashram at Tiruvannamalai.
Eventually I found my way out there and had the greatest
adventure of my life. I do not know what happened when I
saw Maharshi for the first time, but the moment he looked
at me, I felt he was the Truth and the Light. There could be
no doubt about it, and all the doubts and speculations I had
accumulated during the past many years disappeared in the

Radiance of the Holy One.
It is very difficult to describe in words the unanticipated
change that came over me. Suffice it to say that though my
visits to the Ashram were brief, I felt that every moment I
was there I was building up within me what could never be
destroyed, whatever may happen to this body and mind.
I will only mention here just a very few of the points in
which the Maharshi has particularly appealed to me. One of
these is the extreme politeness and gentleness which always
surrounds his least act. It is as though he is actually conscious
of the frail beings whom he is addressing and avoiding
the words that may cause them to be ashamed or to regret
something that they had done. He sees and knows everything
about all those who come before him but he is gentle to a
degree that surpasses gentleness, whereby he reaches his end
with perfect ease and to the utmost benefit of the visitor.”
Grant Duff was shocked when he learnt that a disgruntled
devotee had brought a lawsuit that required Bhagavan to
testify in the court in Chennai. He immediately contacted the
governor of Madras who passed an order that Bhagavan could
be examined by a commission in Tiruvannamalai itself and
need not come to Chennai to attend the court. This order was
received on the day before the hearing and brought immense
relief to the devotees of Bhagavan. Grant Duff passed away
in the USA in June 1948 at the age of 83.
50. Mouni Sadhu*
M ouni Sadhu was born in Poland on 17 August 1897

and was called Mieczyslaw Demetriusz Sudowski.
As a young man in Europe, Mouni Sadhu was attracted to
Theosophy and also belonged to an order of Rosicrucian
Hermeticism and published a number of articles on Tarot
Hermetic philosophy as well as spirituality. He was also
interested in occultism and mysticism.
He became a prisoner of war from 1939 until 1945. He
was released in 1945 and served with the US Army in France
until November 1946. He settled in Australia in 1948.
In the chapter IX, ‘My Path to Maharshi’, of his well
known book, In Days of Great Peace, Mouni Sadhu reveals
that during his time in Paris, he was given the book A Search
in Secret India (by Paul Brunton): “Soon after my visit to
France, family life, and, later, the Second World War, brought
me a period of darkness. I forgot all my previous endeavours.
Not earlier than the spring of 1945 an elderly lady, with whom
I sometimes spoke of Theosophy, lent me Paul Brunton’s A
Search in Secret India. She literally forced me to take the
book, for I was by no means eager to read it; but the last two
chapters, where the author describes his visit to Maharshi,
were decisive. At last I had found my true Master.”
From there began the process of putting the teaching
of the Maharshi into practice, specifically in the form of
vichara, Self-enquiry, and of beginning the process of spiritual
preparation that enabled Mouni Sadhu to reach the ashram
of the Maharshi in 1949. To help facilitate the practice of
vichara and meditation in general he spent time in a Catholic
monastery in Paris.
Mouni Sadhu greatly appreciated The Imitation of Christ
and also the Vivekachudamani of Sri Sankaracharya, both of
which he quoted extensively in his first published booklet
* Mouni Sadhu, In Days of Great Peace.

‘Quem Sou Eu’ (‘Who am I?’) published in Curitiba, Brazil,

in 1948, even before he visited the Maharshi. About this time
Mouni Sadhu came in contact with the head of the Ramakrishna
Mission in Paris, the eminent Swami Siddheswarananda,
whom the Ashram of Sri Maharshi recommended him to visit.
Between 1946 and 1948 he lived for two years in Brazil,
before emigrating to Australia. During this time he formed
an, ‘Arunachala (satsang) Group’ there.
Mouni Sadhu’s devotion to Christ and his unwavering
commitment as a Christian, can be summed by his description
of Christ as the Master of Masters, an expression that he said
was used by the Maharshi.
He visited the Maharshi in 1949. In his book In Days of
Great Peace he describes what happened during his stay with
the Master:
“I am gazing intently on the Saint, looking into his
great widely-opened, dark eyes. And suddenly I begin to
understand. How can I express in our earthly language what
exactly I do understand?
May I say that I understand that Maharshi’s life is not
concentrated on the earthly plane; that it extends far beyond
our world; that he contemplates a different and real world…
I only feel a stream of tears upon my face. They are abundant
and serene. They flow silently…”
In a further note he says:
“The eyes of the Maharshi always seem to be the same.
Light and life are constantly flowing through them with a
majesty and intensity unimaginable to those who have not
seen them. A stream of peace, powerful yet sweet, flows from
these eyes. They glow with the perfect understanding of all
the weaknesses, defects and inner difficulties of those who
look into them.
“A strange new and powerful current awakens in my
consciousness. I seem to hear the whisper ‘persevere and
you will find the answer.’ Suddenly light comes. It is like a
lightning flash of tremendous power. I am dazzled, terrified
for a moment, in the face of the reality seen. Of course, there

is no hope of being able to convey this vision to others in
words. But now I am entitled to say: ‘I know who looks
through the Maharshi’s eye.’”
He continues, “It is difficult to express the sublime. I
spoke with the Master only three times, and on each occasion
only for a few minutes. No more was necessary. Speech was
too clumsy and inadequate.”
Mouni Sadhu returned to Australia six months before
Bhagavan’s Maha Samadhi.
Following his visit he wrote the book In Days of Great
Peace: The Highest Yoga As Lived, in which he describes his
time at the ashram and the atmosphere at the time, about a
year before Bhagavan’s Nirvana.
Following his return to Australia Mouni Sadhu remained
a prolific writer on various mystical and esoteric matters until
he passed away on 24 December 1971.
51. Barber Natesan*
N atesan, a staunch old devotee of Bhagavan, had the unique

privilege of shaving Bhagavan for an uninterrupted
period of twenty-five years.
Natesan was a native of Polur, a small village to the north
of Tiruvannamalai. His father, a staunch devotee of Lord
Arunachaleswara, used to visit Tiruvannamalai, walking the
distance of twenty miles on the first day of each Tamil month
in order to do a pradakshina of Arunachala. After reaching
a ripe old age, his father eventually died during one of his
walks around the Mountain, and Natesan considers that it was
the merit earned by his father which eventually earned him
the privilege of serving Bhagavan.
* ‘Introducing…’ Mountain Path, Jul. 1981; Reminiscences of

Kunju Swami.
After his father’s death, Natesan was adopted by

his uncle, Subbarayan. His uncle first saw Bhagavan at
Gurumurtam, the period when he had long matted hair. On
seeing Bhagavan, Subbarayan asked for permission to give
him a shave. Bhagavan remained silent and Subbarayan took
this to be a negative answer.
Some time later, when Bhagavan was at Pachaiamman
temple, some devotees who had come from Cuddalore saw the
wild growth of hair on his head. One of them decided to bring
a barber and went into town and on the way saw Subbarayan!
He was delighted when he was asked to shave Bhagavan.
He prostrated before him and did his work. Bhagavan also
recognised him as the man who had offered to shave him at
Gurumurtam. It was a full moon day.
The Cuddalore devotees asked Subbarayan to shave
Bhagavan’s head every month on full moon days and they
gave him three rupees.
Subbarayan considered it his good fortune to serve
Bhagavan. After some years, due to poor eye sight, he could
not do his work satisfactorily. So Chinna Swami asked him
to look for a substitute. Subbarayan said he would bring his
uncle’s son, Natesan. When he heard this, Bhagavan said,
“You are all young people. You can look for another barber.
Subbarayan has been serving me so long. What does it matter
if, because of poor eyesight, he does not remove some hair?
Let him continue to be my barber!” He said this in a firm
tone. What compassion!
Some time later, Subbarayan himself told Bhagavan
that he could not do any work owing to old age. He said he
would remain beside Natesan if the latter was allowed to be
Bhagavan’s barber. Bhagavan agreed to the proposal.
Every full moon day, Natesan and Subbarayan would
come to the Ashram, have their bath and clean their razor,
cup, etc. Bhagavan would be ready by 10 a.m. He would go
for a bath after the shave.
Subbarayan passed away in his 79th year. Natesan was

also modest and devoted like Subbarayan. He would speak
very gently. Ashramites and devotees from outside sought
Natesan’s services eagerly. They wanted the hands that
touched Bhagavan to touch them also. Occasionally Natesan
had a desire to ask for some upadesa from Bhagavan. But
he dismissed it, thinking that he should consider it his good
fortune to be close to Bhagavan and to touch him. There was
no need for upadesa of any kind, he thought.
On the mornings when he was due to shave Bhagavan,
Natesan would first have a bath, smear vibhuti (sacred ash) on
himself and then respectfully approach Bhagavan at exactly
9 a.m. At this time of day, Bhagavan would normally have
just returned from his morning walk and, on seeing Natesan,
Bhagavan would apply oil to the rheumatic swelling in his
joints and then slowly walk to the goshala (cow shed). A
special place was set aside in the goshala for shaving and on
the days when Bhagavan had his shave it would be specially
cleaned and decorated with rangoli (floor patterns). Natesan
would prostrate before starting the shave, and then complete
the shave in silence; only when it was completed would he
say a few words to Bhagavan.
On one occasion, Niranjanananda Swami called Natesan
and asked him to start the work an hour earlier for he thought
that in the heat of the summer this would be more convenient
for Bhagavan. Natesan turned up at the newly appointed hour,
and in response to Bhagavan’s questioning gaze, he narrated
Niranjanananda Swami’s new plan. Bhagavan said that the
heat was of no consequence, and the former timetable was
restored.
Natesan also used to play the Nadaswaram (pipes)
for weddings and other festivities, and once when he was
shaving Bhagavan, his uncle Subbarayan came to see him
and told him that he was required in town to play some
music as soon as he had finished shaving Bhagavan. On
hearing this Bhagavan remarked: “It seems that Natesan

has to go to town by noon, and he has not taken any food
since this morning.” His attendants who were standing
nearby took the hint and brought him some lunch from
the kitchen. Barbers were normally treated as outcasts and
caste Hindus would normally only offer them food after
they themselves had finished eating. Natesan was therefore
overwhelmed by the compassion shown by Bhagavan and
felt that only Bhagavan could love everyone like this.
Recalling this incident in later years, Natesan would be
moved to tears and would point out that Bhagavan always
treated all devotees equally, and was always particular that
no devotee went without food.
Natesan considered his service to Bhagavan to be his
highest priority, and never failed to appear for the monthly
shave. On one occasion, on the day before full moon,
Natesan’s brother, who was living in a village nearby, fell
sick and his life appeared to be in danger. Natesan explained
his position to his relatives and they wisely advised him to go
at once to Tiruvannamalai and do his sacred duty.
Soon after the shave the following day, one of his relatives
came to inform him that his brother had passed away and that
he was required immediately for the last rites. Bhagavan heard
this information being passed on and remarked: “It seems that
Natesan’s brother has passed away and he has to go at once
to Polur. He could not have taken his food yet and it is not
known whether he has money to travel.” On hearing this, one
of Bhagavan’s attendants, Ramakrishna Swami, went to the
kitchen and brought some food. Natesan had little appetite for
food, but he drank three cups of coffee and was given five
rupees for his journey home.
Natesan once prostrated to Bhagavan when he met him
walking on the Hill. “Why here?” questioned Bhagavan, and
Natesan took this to mean that his prostration in the goshala
was a sufficient expression of his devotion and that he need
not do it elsewhere.
Natesan always used to spend a few minutes with

Bhagavan after his monthly work had been completed. In
those few minutes he would have Bhagavan’s uninterrupted
and undivided attention. Natesan later considered these short
sessions in which he listened to the compassionate words of
Bhagavan, to be the happiest moments of his life.
Bhagavan usually sat on a stool, while Natesan would
stand and shave him. Once Bhagavan suggested to Natesan
in all seriousness that it would be more comfortable for the
barber to sit on the stool while Bhagavan himself could sit
on the floor!
When a statue of Bhagavan was being made Vaidyanatha
Sthapati was showing Bhagavan the sculpture he was making
of him. The Sthapati asked Bhagavan for his opinion as to
whether it was a good likeness of him. Bhagavan said, “I
can’t say. Only Natesan knows.” Vaidyanatha Sthapati looked
at Natesa Iyer who was nearby and Bhagavan said, “Not
that Natesan, the barber Natesan!” Bhagavan considered the
barber to be the best authority on artistic representations of
his body.
Natesan served Bhagavan for 25 years. He was not absent
even once during all those years. When he shaved Bhagavan
for the last time, he felt that Bhagavan’s end was near. He felt
that he might not have the opportunity to serve him again.
He therefore prostrated before Bhagavan and said with great
feeling, “Bhagavan! You must forgive me for my lapses.”
Bhagavan smiled and said, “Hm! Hm!”
The Mountain Path of January 1983, in the obituary
section, writes: “One of the greatest devotees of Bhagavan
is, no doubt, Natesan, the barber who served Bhagavan
continuously without any break for 25 years. Visiting-devotees
of Bhagavan remember him with affection and used to have
a shave by him since his hands had the rare opportunity of
shaving Bhagavan’s head. He was fully conscious till the
end and was chanting ‘Arunachala Siva’ and ‘Ramana’, and
passed away most peacefully.
52. Sadhu Ekarasa (Dr. G.H. Mees)*
D r. G.H. Mees (or Sadhu Ekarasa) was a brilliant research

scholar from an aristocratic Dutch family. He had won
acclaim with his new classic Dharma and Society. He had
worked at Leyden University after he had obtained his M.A.
at Cambridge. In 1936, when he was thirty-three years old,
while travelling in Mysore somebody told him that there was
a strange and wonderful man in Tiruvannamalai and that a
journalist, Brunton, had written a chapter about him.
He decided to visit Bhagavan immediately. At the feet of
Bhagavan he discovered himself in his natural role of devotee
and disciple. As a devotee, he writes in “The tear drops of my
eyes”: “Two mirrors facing . . . and the emptiness between,
which is the fullness.” It was because of this insight that he
hardly put a question to Bhagavan or, if he did, it was on
matters of secondary interest, ‘just for the joy of hearing
Him speak, see His gracious gestures . . .’ because ‘all so-
called important’ questions related to practice (he never
spoke of sadhana) or private worries or problems, ‘are solved
minutes after I sit down at His Feet.’ Later, in Travancore, he
experienced the continuation of his contact with Bhagavan
‘just as strong or stronger, a kind of magnetic bipolarity.’
It was his health that compelled him to settle down
in what is now Kerala. Having found a place which was
‘kindred in spirit’ he was not surprised to discover that the
place had always been an Ashram, the Kanvasramam, graced
by a sacred Vishnu Tirtham (pond). He was leading a less
active life, awaiting something.
This ‘something’ was the 1939 war. The British were
suspicious of him as an alien with Congress and Independence
sympathies, whose Indian friends were usually in jail
* Johannes De Reede, ‘Sadhu Ekarasa (Dr. G.H. Mees): A Great

Devotee’, The Mountain Path, Oct. 1975; Talks with Sri Ramana
Maharshi.
somewhere, and extradited him from all coastal areas of India

where the Japanese fleets were cruising around.
He was therefore glad to return to Tiruvannamalai, to
test the near tangible relationship he felt with the Master.
He renewed and deepened his friendship, often stormy, with
Chadwick, with the early David McIver and Rhoda (David’s
wife), with the young Swami Viswanathan, with S.S. Cohen,
with the thin, friendly, ascetic-looking Raja Iyer, with Ethel
Merston, Ella Maillart and others. He photographed a lot,
more for friends and relations. Many of the famous photos
of Bhagavan we owe to his courage, since, as he said, “One
really needs courage to aim at the Guru through a viewfinder.”
He was often surprised that on the negative the figure of
Bhagavan did appear.
In 1943 he was allowed by the British government to
return to Kanvasramam. There, twenty years of his having
absorbed the traditions and religions of the world, together
with his huge reservoir of poetic imagination sparked spiritual
awakening in him. It is in this connection that Muruganar
once protested, “Mees was called a pandit by some, but he
was more, he was a rishi.”
Until 1955 he continued to visit Ramanasramam, between
his stays in Kerala and a last visit to his aging parents in
Holland. At Kanvasramam he was surrounded by a trusted
caretaker and a few good friends and pupils, one hailing
from Holland, who accompanied him on his last journey to
England. To this friend and pupil he confided his last words:
“But Heaven is HERE!” The source of his inspiration was
his living experience of the relationship with Bhagavan, his
Guru. His pupils put up a shrine to Sri Dakshinamurti and a
guest cottage in Ramana Nagar dedicated to Sadhu Ekarasa.
He was absorbed in Arunachala in June 1955.
53. Lucy Cornelssen*
L ucy Cornelssen, affectionately known as ‘Lucy Ma’ in the

ashram, was born in Germany at the end of the nineteenth
century and though Eastern religious thought had barely
penetrated Europe at that time, she soon found her spiritual
inclinations turning towards the East rather than the West.
Young Lucy often saw her mother, who was an Indologist,
poring over huge tomes. One day the girl opened a book at
random. This book fascinated her before she read a single word
of it. A page in it had a strange picture which transformed her
all at once. She lost all sense of her body and surroundings.
All that remained was an awareness of immense joy. After
a while her mother came in, shook the girl and brought her
back to herself. The girl pointed to the picture and asked.
“Mutti, what is that?” The mother said: “My dear child! This
is Siva, the great god of India.” Precocious young Lucy was
thrilled! From that moment she became a devotee of Siva at
heart. It was years later that she realised that the trance-like
state induced in her by that picture was very deep meditation.
Siva became for her a living god. Lucy took to writing,
or rather was called to that vocation which didn’t pay much.
The Second World War broke out in 1939. Lucy stayed in
Germany and suffered. As she had already found a measure
of inward poise, the war did not touch her inmost being. She
quietly retired to a life of solitude in a little hut in the midst
of a dense forest.
One night, Lucy had lost the way to her hut and was
groping around in the dark. Weary and dispirited, Lucy was
about to collapse, when she came across another hut. She just
walked in. On a table near the candle, whose little flame had
* V. Ganesan, ‘Thank you for Everything, Lucy Ma!’, The Mountain

Path, May-June 1990; Lucy Cornelssen, ‘How I Came to Sri
Bhagavan’ The Mountain Path, Apr. 1979; ‘Introducing...’, The
Mountain Path, Apr. 1982.
guided her to that hut, there stood the photograph of the head
and shoulders of a man whose eyes shone with a rare lustre.
Lucy saw the photo and stood still, a moment of Bliss. She
had made no effort, yet the sage had made her alive, as no
mere philosopher could. Lucy found it strange that she now
felt fully alive as never before and yet her body was nowhere.
The owner of the hut walked in after a while. She was
surprised to see a youthful lady standing entranced and statue-
like, a look of rapture on her radiant face. She shook Lucy
and brought her out of the trance.
Lucy learnt that the person was the lady’s spiritual Master,
that He lived at the foot of Arunachala, the Hill of the Holy
Beacon, in South India, and was called Sri Ramana Maharshi.
Not much later a copy of Heinrich Zimmer’s book Der
Weg zum Selbst (The Way to the Self), in which the great
Indologist had written a glowing account of the Sage’s life and
teachings and had made translations of some of His works,
“somehow found its way into my deep forest solitude.” That
photograph and that book totally transformed Lucy’s life.
She recalls: “I had already studied and was familiar with
Upanishadic wisdom, and I was able to perceive that Ramana
was an authentic representative of that lofty wisdom in our
own days.
“But that was not all. Another friend later brought the
same book – and again another one. Although I felt a definite
‘ call’, I could not understand its significance. Well, so there
lived on a sacred hill, far away in the land of yogis and
elephants, a sage – what did it matter? Economically, a trip
there was out of the question for me; psychologically, I was
not in search of a guru since the inner Guru had long since
revealed himself to me. What then could be the meaning of
the ‘call’? So, I dropped the matter.
Then came another call, from Germany’s capital, from
relatives who wanted to go abroad but without their beloved
dogs. “Please come and look after our pets,” they said. This
idea was so funny and so completely out of my way that at
once I again felt that ‘call’. I wondered what it meant – apart

from the dogs. There was an Oriental library at the University
and I could use the time for some studying, so I went. And
there it happened.
One day, when I came across a certain professor in
the library, I suddenly stopped and addressed him, “Please,
professor, is there a German grammar of Tamil?” He looked
a little surprised and asked, “Are you going to learn Tamil?”
I was confused – not by his question but by my own.
“Yes, maybe. . .”The ‘call’ . . . suddenly, I understood! There
was a grammar. And, to make a long story short, I learned to
read Tamil and translated Bhagavan’s works and talks into
German with the aid of a dictionary and supported by the
available English translations.
When I had almost finished, circumstances prompted me
to give up my forest abode. During the work, the translator had
been transformed into a blessed devotee of Bhagavan. What
better could she do than to carry her scripts to Arunachala,
outwardly to verify the rendering, inwardly to place them on
the samadhi of the sage?
Five days before Christmas, at the end of 1956, I found
myself sitting in the Old Meditation Hall of Sri Ramanasramam
before Bhagavan’s life-size portrait, half-jokingly talking
with him: “Well, Bhagavan, here I am – and here is the work
you gave me to do. But the real problem is unsolved, the
publishing. I am not able to arrange that as there is not enough
spiritual interest in Germany now. If you want your teachings
published for the sake of the German seeker, you will have
to find the publisher yourself!” Five days later, on Christmas
Eve, a letter from a German publisher arrived at the Ashram
office, asking for the copyright of Bhagavan’s works!
Lucy Ma became a member of the Editorial board of
The Mountain Path. She wrote extensively on the philosophy
of Bhagavan which included her best-known book ‘Hunting
the ‘I’. She also translated many books on Bhagavan into
German, including the Talks with Sri Ramana Maharshi.
She became a permanent resident of the ashram for nearly

twenty-five years. She was a great support to the guests of the
ashram especially the Westerners. She clarified the teachings
of Bhagavan to spiritual seekers. On December 31, 1989 she
merged into the Lotus Feet of Arunachala Ramana. In her
own words: “The inner story of a devotee will ever remain a
secret between Bhagavan and his happy victim.”
54. Perumal Swami*
P erumal Swami had first come to the ashram in 1914, while

Bhagavan was still living in Virupaksha Cave. Initially he
had served as Bhagavan’s attendant but after a few years he
also took over the job of ashram manager.
In the early days at Skandasramam Perumal Swami had
shown a lot of devotion towards Bhagavan. Once, when
Bhagavan had been weakened by an attack of dysentery,
Perumal Swami stayed with him night and day. On one
occasion during this period, when Bhagavan had severe
diarrhoea, Perumal Swami caught the excrement in his hands
and then disposed of it outside because he knew that it would
be a great strain for Bhagavan to get up and go outside. His
devotion also showed in other ways. When he became the
manager at Skandasramam he collected a lot of money so
that he could celebrate Bhagavan’s jayanti on a large scale.
Each year, on jayanti day, he paid for a big procession to
go through the streets of Tiruvannamalai, with Bhagavan’s
picture at its head. He also collected enough funds to have a
statue of Bhagavan made of five different metals. This statue
was about three feet high. For many years after he ceased to
be the manager at Skandasramam he continued to celebrate
* Living by the Words of Bhagavan; Reminiscences of Kunju Swami;

My Life at Sri Ramanasramam.
Bhagavan’s birthday with this annual procession through the

town.
When Bhagavan came down the hill in 1922 to live at the
spot that became Sri Ramanasramam, Perumal Swami decided
to go and live in the Mula Mandapam in the Arunachaleswara
Temple. He still came to see Bhagavan occasionally but after
1922 he took no part in the management of the ashram. After
his departure three other managers – Gopal Rao, Vasudeva
Sastri and Dandapani Swami – came and went before Chinna
Swami finally took over as manager and sarvadhikari.
In the years before Chinna Swami took complete control
of the ashram’s management some departments of the ashram
functioned in a virtually autonomous way. When Chinna
Swami brought all the ashram’s activities under his direct
control, he gave himself the title ‘Sarvadhikari’, meaning
‘ruler of all’. He assumed the title in order to send a message
to everyone that he alone was responsible for the running of
all the ashram’s different activities.
For the first few years after 1922 the new ashram had no
official resident manager. Its affairs were handled by a group
of sadhus who lived in the Mula Mandapam in the town.
They collected funds and food for the ashram and passed them
on to the devotees who were staying at Sri Ramanasramam.
They also published Bhagavan’s works and sold them in the
Ramaniya Vani bookstore which was also located in the Mula
Mandapam. Gopal Rao was the most energetic of this group.
He almost single-handedly raised the funds that were used to
construct the Old Hall. This group, which included Perumal
Swami, Iswara Swami and several others, called itself the
‘Brahmachari Ashram’.
Most of the residents of Sri Ramanasramam felt that some
members of the Brahmachari Ashram were not forwarding all
the donations they received to Sri Ramanasramam. Instead,
they were using the donations to support themselves. Chinna
Swami put a stop to this practice when he took over the
management by instructing all devotees to bypass this group
and give their donations directly to Sri Ramanasramam. He

also took all the books from the Ramaniya Vani bookstore
and opened his own book shop in the ashram. By doing this
he deprived the Brahmachari Ashram of one of its principal
sources of income.
We learnt that: “Maharshi told Dandapani Swami, who
complained about the materialistic behaviour of the manager
of the ashram [one of his predecessors, not Chinna Swami],
that it often happened that an ashram began to lose sight of its
original purpose, which was to gather people who wanted to
retire from the world for spiritual development. It frequently
happened that an ashram became more concerned with the
details of material organisation and less concerned with its
spiritual purpose, thus becoming deflected from its spiritual
path. But, in any case, Maharshi said that the material services
and work and manual and office labour of an ashram were
really intended for a lower order of minds, whilst those who
were more advanced could do their meditations away from an
ashram in their own solitude.
“Maharshi even confessed that he was silent to most of
the ashram people because in their heart of hearts they were
not so much interested in spiritual Self-realisation as in work
and in busying themselves in the material organisation of the
ashram, so he thought to himself it would be of no use to talk
of the higher things to them.”
According to Annamalai Swami: “When I first came to
the ashram in 1928 Perumal Swami was still claiming that
he was the real manager of the ashram. He felt that the three
devotees who had held the job after him had all improperly
usurped his position. There was a lot of anger and bitterness
in him because he had the strange notion that he alone
was entitled to manage the ashram. He was still polite and
respectful when he came to see Bhagavan but it was easy to
see that he was hiding his true feelings. All this anger only
came out into the open when Chinna Swami was appointed
manager.
The arrival of Chinna Swami at Skandasramam seemed

to mark a turning point in Perumal Swami’s life. As a
newcomer, Chinna Swami had to ask Perumal Swami if he
could stay in the ashram.
When Perumal Swami referred the matter to Bhagavan,
Bhagavan jokingly replied, ‘This man will become your
enemy. If you want to be safe you should send him away!’
Perumal Swami rejected the advice and allowed Chinna
Swami to stay.
Bhagavan’s comment was soon proved to be correct.
When Chinna Swami had established himself in the ashram,
he started to take an interest in its management, and this often
led him to do things that Perumal Swami did not approve of.
Perumal Swami’s management problems were compounded
by the activities of Dandapani Swami, who was also trying
to influence the way the ashram was run. In this clash of
personalities Perumal Swami came to the conclusion, quite
wrongly, that Bhagavan was favouring Chinna Swami
because he was his brother. Sensing that his authority and
position were being undermined, Perumal Swami reacted by
becoming increasingly dictatorial. He started to insist that he
was the sole manager and that everything should be done his
way. This attitude only led to further conflicts.
Perumal Swami, along with a few other non-brahmin
devotees, felt that the brahmins were trying to take control of
the ashram. Perumal Swami resisted their attempts to take on
additional responsibilities, feeling that they were all attempts
to undermine his authority.
When asked why Perumal Swami became an enemy of
the ashram after initially being such a good devotee, Bhagavan
replied: ‘He was not serving with humility, he always served
with a sense of ego. He always had the feeling, “I must be the
sole manager of this ashram”.’
Bhagavan then went on to tell the story of Jaya and
Vijaya. Vishnu had appointed them watchmen in Vaikunta.
They were both very devoted to Vishnu but they were also
very proud of their positions. This made them very egoistic.

They had a lot of power because everyone who wanted to
enter Vaikunta had to get their permission first. One day four
rishis [sages or seers] – Sanandana, Sanatkumara, Sanaka
and Sanatsujata – came to Vaikunta to see Lord Vishnu.
Jaya and Vijaya got very angry with them, for no apparent
reason, and refused to let them in. Angered by this refusal,
the rishis cursed Jaya and Vijaya. They condemned the two
watchmen to take birth as enemies of Lord Vishnu in three
successive births before they could be allowed to come back
to Vaikunta. Thus Jaya and Vijaya were reborn as rakshasas
[demons] during Vishnu’s incarnations as Narasimha, Rama
and Krishna.
Bhagavan concluded this story by saying, ‘Because
they served with a strong sense of ego they had to take
birth as Vishnu’s enemies. Perumal Swami also served at
Skandasramam with a strong sense of ego. When his ego
got the better of him he therefore became an enemy of the
ashram.’
Annamalai Swami noticed that one of Bhagavan’s big
toes was slightly crooked and asked him how it had got like
that. ‘It got that way while I was at Skandasramam,’ said
Bhagavan. ‘Mother was sick at the time and I was looking
after her. I thought that it would be good to raise her head a
little, so I asked Perumal Swami to bring me a short wooden
plank to use as a pillow. Perumal Swami had been sulking
because of some argument that he had. Instead of giving me
the plank, he threw it at me. It hit this toe and knocked it out
of alignment. It has been crooked ever since. I said nothing
to Perumal Swami at the time. I just put the board under
Mother’s head and carried on nursing her.’
In his last months at Skandasramam, Perumal Swami
abandoned his role of attendant and actually started giving
orders to Bhagavan.
When Bhagavan came to live at Sri Ramanasramam,
Perumal Swami initially behaved very well. He would do
namaskaram to Bhagavan, sit quietly for a while and then

go back to town. He once brought a small cup of coffee
for Bhagavan in a brass vessel. Bhagavan took a sip before
returning the remainder as prasad. However, when Chinna
Swami was appointed manager, Perumal Swami’s old
resentment was rekindled, expressing itself in a vicious
campaign against both Bhagavan and the ashram management.
He convinced the postmaster that he was the real manager
of the ashram and intercepted the ashram’s mail and stole a
lot of its donations. After stealing the money, he would send
devotees acknowledgements for their donations, stamping
each letter with a rubber stamp made in the name of Sri
Ramanasramam.
When news of this reached the ashram Bhagavan executed
a document which permitted only Chinna Swami to collect
letters that were addressed to either Ramana Maharshi or Sri
Ramanasramam. As an additional precaution Chinna Swami
also wrote to all Bhagavan’s devotees saying that donations
to the ashram should henceforth be sent in his (that is Chinna
Swami’s) name.
Prior to these events Chinna Swami had been stamping
all correspondence with a seal marked ‘Azhagammal Puram’.
At that time, Panna Lal, a member of the Indian Civil Service
and the Chief Secretary of the then United Provinces in
North India had come on a visit to the Ashram. When he
learnt about Perumal Swami’s mischief he said: “Who is this
troublemaker Perumal Swami? Ramanasramam is where Sri
Ramana Maharshi is”. On his way back he discussed the
matter with the Postmaster General at Madras and paved the
way for the establishment of a separate Post Office for Sri
Ramanasramam in 1937.
After the Post Office affair had been settled, Perumal
Swami engaged an Iyengar brahmin from town to come to the
ashram and insult Bhagavan. Before bringing him, Perumal
Swami filled him with arrack and toddy [home-made alcoholic
drinks] so that he would give a better performance. They came
to the ashram together and stood in the southern doorway of

the old hall. The Iyengar shouted abuse at Bhagavan while
Perumal Swami stood next to him, silently smiling.
Although Perumal Swami was only a silent witness to
the scene, it was clear from the smiling expression on his face
that he was the mastermind behind it. Annamalai Swami went
up to him and waved his fist under Perumal Swami’s nose.
‘If I hit you on this side of the face,’ he said pointing to
the left side of his face, ‘I will hit you so hard that the other
side of your face will also swell up!’
Perumal Swami saw that Annamalai Swami was serious,
so he told the Iyengar brahmin to stop. Without saying another
word, they both left the ashram.
Soon after the Iyengar incident Perumal Swami planned
to build a hut near the iluppai tree that stands just inside the
front gate of the ashram. He probably thought that he could
carry on his campaign more effectively if he were living in
the ashram itself. Because he knew that Chinna Swami would
never give him permission to build there, he decided to build
his hut secretly in the middle of the night. A devotee in town
got to hear of this plan and warned the ashram in advance.
There was a sub-inspector of police in Tiruvannamalai
who was a devotee of Bhagavan. T. K. Sundaresa Iyer went
to see him to ask what to do about this latest threat. The
sub-inspector said that if the ashram could erect a temporary
fence to enclose the ashram, with a small gateway at the
front, he would post two policemen at the entrance to prevent
Perumal Swami from entering their property at night. The
ashram had very little money to spare, but followed the sub-
inspector’s advice and enclosed all the ashram’s land with a
fence made out of bamboo poles and rope. Prior to this time
the ashram’s land had never been enclosed. Perumal Swami
was apparently unaware of the fence and the police guards.
He turned up a few nights later with a bullock cart full of
bamboo poles and coconut leaves, obviously intending to
build his hut. The policemen on duty at the gate turned him
away, saying that they had instructions to prevent him from

entering the premises.
When his attempt to move into the ashram failed,
Perumal Swami started a court case against Bhagavan and
Chinna Swami. In his submission to the court Perumal Swami
supported his case with some rather convoluted logic. First, he
declared that since Bhagavan was a sannyasin, he could not
legally own land or property. This being so, Perumal Swami
argued, Bhagavan had no rights over the property known as
Sri Ramanasramam. Perumal Swami then went on to argue
that Bhagavan had no authority to appoint Chinna Swami to
manage it. Having disposed of Chinna Swami’s claim in this
way, he advanced his own case by saying that since he had
been the undisputed manager at Skandasramam, he must still
be the ashram manager because neither Bhagavan nor anyone
else was legally competent to remove or replace him.
Although Perumal Swami’s claim was clearly spurious,
Bhagavan was ordered to appear in court to answer these
charges. A British diplomat called Grant Duff, who was a
devotee of Bhagavan, was horrified to hear of this and so he
persuaded the British authorities that Bhagavan was a harmless
soul who should not be forced to appear in court. Instead, he
arranged for the court to hear Bhagavan’s testimony in the
ashram itself.
The hearings were held in public. The questions and
answers are recorded in Talks with Sri Ramana Maharshi. The
lawyer who asked Bhagavan the questions was unnecessarily
disrespectful and argumentative. Within a few weeks his
son went mad and started to wander around the streets of
Tiruvannamalai carrying human excrement in his hands.
Then the lawyer himself went mad. Both he and his son died
a short time later. Many devotees felt that this had happened
because the lawyer was so disrespectful towards Bhagavan.
Perumal Swami lost his case but he continued his
campaign against the ashram by publishing a small book
entitled ‘Ramana Maharshiyin Nija Swarupam’ [The Real

Nature of Ramana Maharshi]. It accused Bhagavan of sexual
misconduct with his female devotees and gave a long list of
all his character defects. Chinna Swami wanted to take legal
action against Perumal Swami but Bhagavan dissuaded him
from doing so.
When Bhagavan read the section about his character
defects he laughed and said, ‘Why didn’t he come to me
before writing all this? I could have told him about many
more of my defects, things which I alone know!’
Perumal Swami was hoping that a court case would
publicise his book. When the ashram refused to make any
response he tried to initiate legal action himself by pretending
to be an aggrieved devotee. Devaraja Mudaliar, one of
Bhagavan’s lawyer-devotees, was asked by Bhagavan to take
up the matter on behalf of the ashram. Mudaliar succeeded in
getting the case stopped before any court proceedings started.
A brief account of this episode can be found on page twelve
of his memoir, My Recollections.
When the scandalous book was mentioned to Bhagavan,
he remarked, ‘Let the book be sold in front of the ashram
gate.’
Bhagavan was half serious and half joking when he said
this. He went on to explain: ‘If ordinary people read this
book, they will believe it and be deterred from entering the
ashram. Good devotees, who will not believe such nonsense,
will continue to visit.’
Perumal Swami’s last serious attempt to inconvenience
the ashram was trying to convince the owners of the land
on which ashram is located to start a lawsuit against the
ashram. However, this case was not as troublesome as the
other one. After an ashram deputation was sent to negotiate
with the owners the whole affair was amicably settled out of
court. Under the terms of the agreement Sri Ramanasramam
purchased a plot of land in Tiruvannamalai which was exactly
the same size as the plot on which the ashram buildings were
located. This newly-purchased plot was given to the owners
in exchange for the plot which the ashram was using.
Soon afterwards Perumal Swami’s health deteriorated to
such an extent that he spent the last twenty years of his life
as a housebound invalid. As the years passed and his illnesses
increased he began to realise how badly he had behaved. On
one of his last visits to the ashram (he arrived in a horse cart
because he was too sick to walk) he came to the hall and
spoke to Bhagavan.
‘Bhagavan,’ he said, ‘I will go to hell because I have
done a lot of bad things. Please forgive me and don’t forget
me!’
Bhagavan replied, ‘Even if you forget me, I shall not
forget you.’
‘But I’ll be in hell!’ exclaimed Perumal Swami.
Bhagavan looked at him for a while and then said, ‘I am
present there also!’
In his last days Perumal Swami was deserted by all his
friends and cheated out of all his money. During this period
he lived for a time in the house of a man called Mudaliar. This
man borrowed all Perumal Swami’s money and then refused
to pay him back. When Mudaliar realised that Perumal Swami
had no more money to give him, he tried to throw him out
of his house. He called a horse-cart, put Perumal Swami in it
and told the driver to take him to Sri Ramanasramam.
‘I am sending you to Sri Ramanasramam,’ he said. ‘Many
people are eating there without paying anything. You served
them for many years so they are sure to look after you.’
After saying this he told the cart driver to put him just
inside the gate and then leave as quickly as possible.
The ashram authorities refused to accept delivery of
Mudaliar’s consignment. They hired another horse-cart and
sent him straight back to Mudaliar’s house. Mudaliar, who
didn’t want him back, refused to let him in. Instead, he hired
yet another cart and told the driver to deposit Perumal Swami
back in the ashram again. The ashram again refused to accept

him, and again sent him back to Mudaliar’s house. Mudaliar
finally admitted defeat and permitted Perumal Swami to
continue to stay with him.
Perumal Swami finally died in April 1950 just two weeks
after Bhagavan’s Maha Samadhi. He died alone and uncared
for, on a stone bench somewhere in town.
55. Ravi Ramanan*
R avi Ramanan was blessed to be born as the second son of

Bhagavan’s grand nephew, V. S. Ramanan, on September
7, 1966. Having grown up with his parents in the ashram
atmosphere it was not surprising that he became a devotee of
Bhagavan. After completing his education in India he moved
to the US for further studies. While successfully pursuing his
career in the USA, he took immense interest in the upkeep
of the ashram. He also brought some of the techniques of
modern management into the management of the ashram. He
started a monthly free e-magazine called Saranagati which
was dedicated to Bhagavan’s life and teaching.
Throughout his life he was a source of inspiration and
support to all devotees. He often told everyone that whatever
Bhagavan had given him belonged to Bhagavan’s devotees.
Even without his saying this, it was clearly demonstrated
by his generous deeds, which were numerous. Although
residing in the USA, Ravi continued to be a dedicated, active
participant in the affairs of Sri Ramanasramam. He went to
great lengths to obtain copies of photos taken of Bhagavan
by Eliot Elisofon, owned by Time-Warner and archived at
the University of Texas in Austin. He was also successful in
* ‘Ashram Bulletin’, Mountain Path, Oct. 2010; ‘The Maharshi’

newsletter, Sept/Oct 2010 & Jan/Feb 2011; Personal Communication.
persuading the Henri Cartier-Bresson Foundation to release

Sri Ramana Maharshi’s photos from their archive in France.
He, along with his wife Ranjani, were the founding editors
of Saranagati, the Ashram’s online monthly free newsletter.
He guided the development of Sri Ramanasramam’s website
www.sriramanamaharshi.org. His guidance in administrative
matters was always decisive and correct, coming as it did
from a pure, totally dedicated heart.
Ravi had always told his family that at the age of 45
he would wrap up his commitments in America and together
with his family return to Tiruvannamalai. On the threshold
of his 45th birthday, his Master and Lord Sri Ramana, took
him directly to His eternal abode, bypassing whatever noble
plans of serving his Guru at Sri Ramanasramam Ravi had
envisioned.
The existence of a brain tumour first became apparent
on September 23, 2008, when he suffered a seizure and lost
consciousness while exercising in the early morning. As he
was losing consciousness, not knowing what was happening
to him, he first thought of the uncertain fate of his wife and
two daughters, but no sooner did that thought come than
another overwhelming thought rushed in, formed in the
following words of the second verse of Sri Ramana’s Sri
Arunachala Ashtakam: “Kandavan evanenak karuttinul nadak,
kandavan indrida nindradu kanden”, which means, “Who is
the seer? When I sought within, I watched what survived the
disappearance of the seer (that is, the Self).” Spontaneously
focussing on the import of these words, he experienced a
flood of pure awareness filling his entire being. That was the
beginning of his final journey on Earth, a journey he felt to
be the direct grace of Bhagavan Ramana.
Everyone who had heard of Ravi’s illness during these
last two years was naturally saddened by the news. But those
who went to visit him, surprisingly, came back inspired and
encouraged. On seeing him we never felt any weakness of
spirit, paucity of faith, or absence of complete surrender or
devotion to Bhagavan. Ravi never allowed others to dwell on

his illness or be inconvenienced because of it. As the months
passed he became spiritually transformed and indrawn, yet
sensitive to the concern and feelings of all his friends and
relatives. Knowing his departure was imminent, he gave
instructions to his family on every detail regarding where
they should live, the girls’ education and even the destination
of his remains, which travelled within days to the foot of
Arunachala.
On Tuesday morning, the 10th of August 2010, Ravi
entered the hospital for the last time. The previous evening,
in Raleigh, North Carolina, Ravi ate his last meal, and that
meal was prepared in the kitchen of Sri Ramanasramam,
India. How was it possible for him, living in America, to have
Sri Ramanasramam’s prasad prepared and served for his last
meal? It happened like this.
The day before, on Monday, Ravi received a letter sent
from Chennai from his uncle, V. Ganesan. In the letter there
were a number of Bhagavan’s Tamil verses that his uncle
wanted him to read and meditate upon.
Ranjani’s mother read out these Tamil verses to Ravi,
who listened to them with full attention. While this was
happening, Ranjani recalled a visit that Ganesan had made
to them in North Carolina three months earlier. Ganesan
had given Ranjani a bag of ready-mixed upma, a dish made
with cream of rice, spice and some vegetable. Whenever
Ganesan travels to the USA from Tiruvannamalai he has this
preparation made for him in Sri Ramanasramam’s kitchen.
He gave Ranjani a small bag of this upma-mix during his
visit, which she promptly stored in the freezer and forgot
about. This letter from Ganesan reminded her of the frozen
upma-mix and she brought it out and began to prepare it for
Ravi’s evening meal.
Ravi was at this time having continuous hiccups which
made swallowing any food item difficult. Ranjani made the
upma preparation with additional water so it would be thinner
and easier for Ravi to swallow. Surprisingly, Ravi had little

difficulty eating it and his plate was quickly emptied. He
asked for more and effortlessly finished the whole pot of
upma with apparent relish.
Early the next morning, Tuesday, Ravi developed a fever
and, after consulting his doctor, was taken to the hospital.
That morning he did not even partake of tea or biscuits as
usual. He was able to walk himself into the hospital and lay
himself on the bed. Soon he lost outward consciousness and
remained in that state till his passing.
Hence, through a series of unrelated events, the holy
prasadam from the kitchen of Sri Ramanasramam was given
as the last meal to our friend Ravi, who had dedicated his life,
directed his aspirations and surrendered his heart and soul to
his God and Guru, Sri Ramana Bhagavan.
Ravi was moved to the hospice building on Thursday,
August 12th. In this facility there is a prayer room in which
several religious books were found in a basket.
Ranjani’s mother was looking through the books, which
were mostly Christian, but was happy to find one book
clearly left there for Hindu visitors. It was the Bhagavad
Gita rendered into English by Stephen Mitchell, the famous
translator and author of numerous books of ancient wisdom.
Later, when Ranjani’s brother, Sridhar, arrived at the hospice
he also saw that Bhagavad Gita, picked it up and opened it.
It opened on the dedication page, on which was printed: “In
honour of Sri Ramana Maharshi”. On seeing this they all felt
that Bhagavan was already present there and had preceded
their arrival at the hospice.
The many ways in which Bhagavan Ramana demonstrated
his presence to Ravi and to all those who had gathered around
him during his final illness may not ever be fully known, yet
what we do know is truly remarkable.
On August 14th 2010 at 2:46 p.m., surrounded by his
family members and by Bhagavan’s devotees chanting
Ramana Sadguru, Ravi Ramanan was absorbed into his
Master, Bhagavan Sri Ramana. All those present on Ravi’s

last day tell of the overwhelming experience of peace that
flooded his room. They said it was like a surging wave that
washed up on the shore of his consciousness and overflowed
into the heart of everyone present. And some time after he
had breathed his last and that wave of peace and joy receded,
they found themselves left behind, standing, while Ravi,
totally surrendered, was swept away into that eternal ocean
of pure awareness. His early demise is not only a tremendous
loss to his immediate family, but a loss to the ever-growing
family of devotees of Sri Ramana Maharshi the world over.
56. Rajapalayam Ramani Ammal*
R amani Ammal came from a family of wealthy landlords

in Rajapalayam. From her early childhood she was
spiritually inclined and this was known to her parents.
In 1944, when she was barely eighteen, she lost both
her parents within a span of six months. This deep shock
further intensified her search for the Real and she started
reading spiritual books. One day she came across Sri Ramana
Vijayam, the Tamil biography of Bhagavan. The very touch
of the book, even before she opened it, transfixed her. On
seeing the photo of young Ramana there, she knew that she
had reached the end of her quest. She says: “That very instant
I attained the vairagya necessary to renounce everything and
surrender to Bhagavan.”
This was the turning point in her life. Ramani lost
whatever interest she had in worldly matters. When she was
22 years old (in 1948) she took the final decision – she shared
this only with her brother whom she loved and respected
very much. Her brother saw the intensity of his sister’s
vairagya, did not resist her wishes and, in fact, arranged for
* ‘Introducing….’ The Mountain Path, Jul. 1986.

her journey. One morning she left for Tiruvannamalai with

an attendant who was asked by her brother to leave her at
the railway station. She felt guilty that she had to leave her
family stealthily, like a thief.
Her first meeting with the Master would forever
stand out crystal clear in Ramani’s mind. On reaching Sri
Ramanasramam she asked a person where Bhagavan was
and she was directed near the well (at that time Bhagavan
was seated under a thatched shed, called the Jubilee Hall,
just north of the Old Hall). But, wonder of wonders, instead
of seeing Bhagavan, she saw a bright fire burning in his
place and no devotees around Him. Gradually the vision
faded and she saw Bhagavan seated on a couch, surrounded
by devotees.
With wonder she related later how Bhagavan solved all
her problems even as they arose and even before she could
speak about them to Him. At first she felt very shy, and used
to sit in the very last row, hidden among the crowd. But
gradually her eagerness to hear Bhagavan’s words overcame
her fear, and soon she was sitting in the very first row! She
was very miserable for a few days after her arrival, feeling
acutely guilty for having run away from home like a culprit.
Imagine her surprise when she heard Bhagavan telling a
devotee, just as she entered the Hall, “I ran away from home
like a thief! When I sat in the train, my heart was thumping
lest I should be seen by someone and dragged back home!”
Hearing these divine words, Ramani lost her guilty feelings
and was filled with joy at having done the right thing! She
also remembers how often Bhagavan used to greet her with
that lovely, tender smile of His, which made her feel that she
had been accepted. Her joy knew no bounds.
Ramani noticed people going for giripradakshina and
wished to do it herself, but because of her upbringing, she
was not sure if she could manage it. One day a group of old
devotees went to Bhagavan and asked His permission to go
round the Hill, and Bhagavan pointed to Ramani and said:
“Can you take her also? She seems quite eager.” And then he
said to her: “Go with them; you can do it!”
Being unaccustomed to walking long distances, she
found it very difficult to keep pace with the others. On seeing
this the other devotees walked slowly. Feeling ashamed, she
asked them to go ahead and told them that she would be able
to find the way herself. But they would not hear of it, as
they would not be able to face Bhagavan’s queries! So they
were all back only after seven hours. Ramani was feeling
crestfallen and tried to avoid Bhagavan by sitting far away.
In the meantime a discussion started among the devotees on
the topic of pradakshina. Bhagavan quietly commented that
one ought to go around the Hill very slowly like a Royal
Queen walking in the ninth month of pregnancy! On hearing
this Ramani was filled with joy, as her guilt was removed
by Him even without her expressing it! She recalled that her
swollen feet were aching terribly and that she was almost
in tears. Bhagavan looked at her with compassion and said:
“Get some coconut oil from the stores and smear it like this
on your legs and feet. Then go to the bathing room and pour
hot water on them.” The attendant escorted her to the bathing
room. All her pain had vanished by the time she returned to
sit down before Bhagavan.
Ramani reminisced about her life before she came to
Bhagavan: “My chosen deity in childhood was Lord Krishna.
From my youth I had very pleasant dreams and would
sometimes see Lord Krishna or other familiar deities in
these dreams. But at the age of sixteen or seventeen I once
saw a strange sage-like person coming down a Hill and was
captivated by his grandeur. I later came to realise that this
sage was Bhagavan. After having that vision of Bhagavan
in my dream, a certain fear that had troubled me for some
time suddenly disappeared. In 1946, a relative brought me
Suddananda Bharati’s biography of Bhagavan, Ramana
Vijayam. After reading this book, I felt that I must leave home
and have the darshan of Ramana Maharshi.
“With my brother’s help I secretly left home and reached

Tiruvannamalai and the holy feet of Bhagavan!
I used to fast a lot in those days – almost fifteen days
in a month. It was helping my sadhana. One day, with the
permission of Chinna Swami, I stayed in the Ashram till
suppertime. Bhagavan turned to me and said, “Aren’t you
coming for supper?” Then he said, “Sattvic food should be
eaten. There is no meaning in mere fasting.” Since then I
stopped fasting. Even if I wanted to fast, for some reason or
other the fast would be broken. That is a real wonder to me. I
was not aware of this Brahmin-non-Brahmin separation in the
Dining Hall. One day I entered and saw the screen dividing
the seating area. Some people were already seated. I was in
a fix as to where I should sit. Bhagavan saw my plight and
asked me to sit right next to him. He said to an attendant,
“She doesn’t know anything, so put her leaf here.” Then he
said to me, “Don’t worry about these Brahmins!” That is how
Bhagavan in his kindness used to take care of me, for I was
all alone and ignorant of the customs and ways of the world.
“Since Bhagavan was showering all this personal
attention on me, Chinna Swami also took a personal interest
in my welfare. As Muruganar was away, Chinna Swami
offered me his residence to stay in, and also offered to send
someone to guard me. I told him that I was not afraid and
would lock the house from inside and needed no one to guard
me. Bhagavan overheard this and said, “She is a young girl,
and does not know the consequences. Let her sleep indoors,
behind closed doors, but you send a servant to sleep outside
on the veranda.” I did not know anything when I came here.
Even cooking I learned here and, of course, Bhagavan taught
me many things from within.
“Once while I was seated in front of Bhagavan, in the old
hall, slices of some fruit were brought by a devotee and placed
before Bhagavan. A monkey walked in. Though the attendant
was not very keen on obliging the monkey, upon Bhagavan’s
behest he gave him a piece. Receiving it the monkey bounded

away, but another soon came in, evidently informed by the
former. A piece was given to him, and he soon went away.
A third one came for his share! Bhagavan gave him a piece,
saying: “All right! Now don’t go and inform any others, or
else these people here will be angry with me!” This fellow
left with his share and obviously followed Bhagavan’s adesa
(command) to the letter, as there were no further claimants
from his class!
“A very poor, old woman, about 75 years old, who
gathered honey, came one day with a mere rag for a sari and
a small vessel in hand. Approaching Bhagavan, shading her
eyes with her hands to see Him better, she broke into terms of
great endearment, repeatedly prostrating and expressing her
uncontrollable joy. It appeared that she had been trying for
the past 26 years to visit her “dear one”, but had been able
to realise her wish only then. Bhagavan asked her with great
affection, “What have you brought for me, Patti (Granny)?
Give it to me, I will take some!” She gave him the honey
she had brought. He then remarked: “If she is given a meal
it would be good.” Chinna Swami executed this ‘suggestion’
as an order. Later Bhagavan said: “Perhaps someone would
like to give her a sari.” When the attendant nearby sprang
into action, Bhagavan whispered to him: “These people are
not used to anything expensive, so get something simple.”
He later told the old woman: “Patti, some rich people wish to
give this gift for you. Please accept it.”
Ramani Ammal recalls that the old woman accepted the
“offer” with some reluctance. Ramani Ammal was thrilled
to see the way Bhagavan made the suggestion and how he
whispered to the attendant and later persuasively offered the
gift to the ‘honey patti’! As the old woman had no money, she
had had to walk a great distance to come to Tiruvannamalai.
Bhagavan, knowing this, said in an impersonal way, “Would
anyone be interested in getting her a bus ticket?” Krishnaswami
Reddi came forward and said, “We will provide her with a bus
ticket and see her off.” When the old lady returned from the
dining hall she was touching the ground, and then touching
her eyes. That was her way of prostrating and thanksgiving. It
is noteworthy that whenever the poor or ‘untouchables’ came,
Bhagavan took a very personal interest in them, which was a
moving sight to see.
There was an old shepherdess who used to visit Bhagavan
in the early years, when he was living on the Hill. She would
offer Him koozhu (gruel), saying: “You are simply sitting like
this all day long. At least, eat this please.” She once came
to see Bhagavan on a Sivaratri day, around 1948, with a
large pot of koozhu with some sliced onions for a side dish.
Though a rich and variegated fare was to be served to all
on that festive day, Bhagavan said that he cared more for
the koozhu but urged others to partake of the sumptuous
feast. When all those present expressed willingness to share
the koozhu (overlooking the onion) and begged Him to taste
the rest of the fare too, Bhagavan agreed. I was there and
watched Bhagavan intently. He sat in the dining hall and
simply waited till all the items were served, then mixing them
all up together, ate the gruel!
One day, I returned to the Ashram after visiting the Patala
Linga at the main temple and having Arunachaleswara’s
darshan. Even today I wonder at my courage in standing
before Bhagavan and, upon his prodding, relating to him the
dilapidated condition of the Patala Linga shrine. Bhagavan
enquired about the elephant tied nearby and then asked
whether I had received prasad at the main shrine. I realised
that I was carrying the vibhuti all along in my palm without
offering it to Him and now respectfully held it out to him.
Like a child, He picked up a tiny amount from that and
applied it to his forehead.”
Once in 1949 Ramani stayed in the Mango-tree Cave,
with an old lady-devotee. One night, while in the cave she
heard the clatter of footsteps, as if many people were walking
around with wooden sandals on. Surprisingly, she was not

afraid but had a great desire to go out and see these people.
Next morning she requested the elderly devotee to mention
this to Bhagavan. He responded that they were siddhas and
rishis residing in Arunachala, doing tapas!
“At the time of Bhagavan’s Maha Nirvana, Ramani
was away at Rajapalayam. On that night, namely, the night
of 14th April, 1950, while gazing absent-mindedly up at the
night sky, she suddenly saw a beam of bright blue light trail
across the sky and vanish into the distance. Like many other
devotees, she understood at once that Bhagavan’s physical
end had come. She was so overcome with grief then that
she gave up food altogether. At the end of the fourth day
of this involuntary fast, she had a dream in which she saw
Bhagavan beside a cool clear lake, with Kamadhenu (the
celestial wish-fulfilling cow) grazing nearby and with several
rishis in nishta (meditation). Bhagavan reclined majestically
amidst them all on a sofa with His head resting on His hand,
in his characteristic pose, gazing out, as usual. This vision
reassured her that Bhagavan was ever present. Her grief
disappeared and she broke her fast. She decided to live near
Sri Ramanasramam. In 1958, she built a small cottage for
herself where she continued to stay till her death, sharing
with other devotees the bliss of her Ramana-experience. In
1996 this ardent devotee, blessed in abundance by Bhagavan
was absorbed in Him.
57. Prof. K. Swaminathan*
P rof. K. Swaminathan (KS) was born on 3 December 1896

in Pudukkottai. His parents were P.S. Krishnaswamy Iyer
and his wife Dharmambal. KS was the eldest of four children.
He attended the Lutheran Mission School in Purasawalkam
in Madras and later joined the Madras Presidency College
in June 1912 and studied there for five years till 1917. He
passed his intermediate examination in 1914 and took his
B.A. (Hons.) Degree in English literature in 1917. Sarvepalli
Radhakrishnan and Dr. U.V. Swaminatha Iyer (a great Tamil
scholar) were on the staff of the college. KS had the unique
privilege of learning Tamil at the feet of Dr. Swaminatha Iyer
where he imbibed a great passion for the Tamil language and
literature. Many years later, KS paid a great tribute to his
Tamil teacher, Dr. UVS in these words: ‘No one, anywhere in
the world, at anytime in history, has rendered to any language
the kind of service that Dr. UVS had done to Tamil.’
In May 1915 he was married to Visalakshi, daughter of
K. Swaminathan, a well known public figure and lawyer in
Pudukkottai State. He first met Mahatma Gandhi in April/
May 1915 and forever remained a committed Gandhian.
After taking his BA (Hons.) Degree with distinction from
Presidency College, and not being allowed to take up his
Oxford Scholarship by his mother, he took his B.L. degree
in 1919 and practised in Pudukkottai. He later joined as
Lecturer in the English department of Sri Meenakshi College,
Chidambaram (Annamalai University). He later went to
Christ Church College, Oxford, and took his BA in English
Language and Literature in 1924.
* Prof. K. Swaminathan (1896-1994): Tributes to Commemorate His

Birth Centenary; KS Remembered: Prof. K. Swaminathan (1896-
1994); Various Articles in The Mountain Path; Recorded Interviews
with Prof. K. Swaminathan; ‘Saranagati’ newsletter, Jan/May 2013.
On his return from Oxford, KS rejoined Sri Meenakshi

College in Chidambaram. T.K. Chidambaranatha Mudaliar,
a renowned scholar, introduced KS to the verses of Guhai
Namasivaya on Annamalai, the Holy Hill. Not long
after learning of Arunachala through the verses of Guhai
Namasivaya, the professor heard about Bhagavan Sri Ramana
in a conversation with one of his students (M.G. Shanmukham)
who spoke enthusiastically of the sage. Kavyakantha Ganapati
Muni had come and spoken at the college about Bhagavan.
Others had written to KS about Sri Bhagavan, but KS, soaked
in the spirit of Gandhian activism, was not persuaded to go
to Tiruvannamalai.
KS moved to Presidency College from Sri Meenakshi
College as Additional Professor of English in 1930.
He later said in a video interview of his obstinacy: “I
was a fool then and did not listen.”…. “[At that time] I was
not interested in someone sitting still and doing nothing when
so much needed to be done to change this mad, bad world
and Mahatma Gandhi strode the land doing so many things
‘socially relevant’.”
A decade passed, and he continued his teaching and
service in the movement for social and political equity in
India. But later, in 1939, when he came across Sri Ramana
Sannidhi Murai, the devotional work of the great Tamil
devotee-poet, Muruganar, KS said, “Good heavens, the man
who inspired this kind of poetry is Divine!”
A year later in Chennai he met the scholar Grant Duff
(Douglas Ainslie), the Scots critic, poet and diplomat who
came to Bhagavan in 1935. Duff had translated the works
of Bendetto Croce, a favourite of KS, into English. When
the Englishman asked if the professor had ever gone to
see Ramana Maharshi, KS felt ‘ashamed’, being so near
to Tiruvannamalai and not having availed himself of the
opportunity.
In April of that year when KS was on vacation in
Bangalore, he took up study with a renowned Pandit in the
Brahma Sutras and began to understand that there was more

to life than what could be seen with the naked eye or written
down with a pen. During their interactions, the pundits spoke
of Bhagavan:
“This is not mere theory. You go to Tiruvannamalai and
see this man.”
These four encounters and the anguish of a family
crisis regarding a beloved niece coalesced to dissolve KS’s
resistance and convinced him that ‘an actual person in the
Brahmic state was present in Tiruvannamalai, offering rest
and shade to tired travellers in the desert of Samsara’.
KS made up his mind to make the journey, but first he
took permission from Sir P.S. Sivaswami Iyer, the guardian
and guide appointed by his late father. The permission was
forthcoming, but with this proviso: “You are a young man
with many responsibilities. When I look down at the abyss
from the edge of Doddabetta (the 8,000 feet precipice in the
Nilgiri Hills, near Ooty), in order not to become giddy and
risk falling, I have four strong men hold me with a rope round
my hip. By all means, go to the Ashram. But don’t go alone.
When you go before Bhagavan, you will be swept off your
feet and fall headlong into the abyss. So be bound by some
attachment to people. Take some friends with you.”
On September 29, 1940, KS took with him ‘three ropes’,
his wife and two students, K. Subrahmanyam and M.M.
Ismail, and travelled to Tiruvannamalai. When the group
came before Bhagavan, KS experienced ‘the most memorable
event’ of his life. K. Subrahmanyam described the darshan as
follows:
“The mind was stilled before it could even feebly affirm
its existence. In its place was Bhagavan’s silence-awareness
with only peace for its content. What we had hitherto called
‘silence’ had been very different: a respite from speech, perhaps
to replenish the exhausted energy for the sake of speech yet
to come, or a manner of inward chatter, a succession of jerky
thoughts whose utterance was only inaudible to others...
The moment vanished, but [our] being had been fertilised.

Silence and seclusion could not fill [us] with dread thereafter.
Nirvana, Sunyata were now terms to be received with reverent
attention, not with frightened bewilderment.”
KS himself later wrote, “So many things had compelled
me to [come] and [now] all my problems were solved in five
minutes. In his presence, I felt like a baby in its mother’s lap.
How to explain this?”
And again, “Bhagavan was a perfect Impersonality, like
the sun in the sky, or like unnoticed daylight in an inner
chamber. [At the Ashram] people spoke to one another freely
and frankly, in his presence, as if the figure on the couch
were a statue, not a listener. It was natural to refer to him as
“It,” instead of You or He. Thus, every conversation in the
Old Hall turned out to be a truly Socratic dialogue; every
statement was tentative and therefore poetic; no statement
was dogmatic, eristic or polemical. This impersonal Being
would suddenly become a Person full of sattvic power, highly
human, charming, mother-like, who could communicate with
sharp precision his own Awareness-Bliss to other persons
according to their needs and moods.”
From that day onward, KS spent weekends and vacations
with Bhagavan, bringing with him students, family members,
friends, colleagues and indeed anyone that could be persuaded
to join him, and among them too, some notable figures like
D.S. Sarma, Sir C.P. Ramaswami Iyer, Dr. S. Radhakrishnan,
S. Duraiswami Iyer, Harindranath Chattopadhyaya, Dilip
Kumar Roy, O.P. Ramaswami Reddiyar and others. KS began
reading Bhagavan’s books and visited as often as possible,
avoiding festivals or crowded times, so that he might be with
Bhagavan in the tranquillity of ordinary days.
The professor soon took notice of Bhagavan’s appreciation
for simplicity and humility. KS learned from Bhagavan that
worldly accomplishments and earthly learning could in no
way serve to aid one in gaining a foothold in the realm of
true knowledge but were rather often barriers to it. Such
reflections prepared the ground for the following experience

at the Ashram. KS writes:
“Once during a visit to the Ashram in the 1940s I was
sitting outside the Old Hall with many devotees, facing
Sri Bhagavan who was reclining on [his] couch. A group
of learned pundits were discussing certain passages from
the Upanishads with great enthusiasm and profundity. All,
including Bhagavan, appeared to be attentively listening to
this interesting discussion when, all of a sudden, Bhagavan
rose from his couch, walked thirty metres to the north, and
stood before a villager who was standing there looking lowly
with palms joined. Immediately the discussion stopped and
all eyes were turned to Bhagavan and the villager standing
at a distance. They appeared to be conversing, but at such
a distance no one could tell about what. Soon Bhagavan
returned to his couch and the discussion resumed. I was
curious about this villager and why Bhagavan had gone out
of his way to meet him. So while the discussion continued,
I slipped away and caught up with him before he left the
Ashram. I asked the villager what he and Bhagavan had
talked about. He said that Bhagavan had asked him why he
was standing there so far away. ‘I told Bhagavan, “I am only
an ignorant, poor villager. How am I to approach you who
are God incarnate?”’ ‘What did the Maharshi say then?’ I
asked. ‘He asked me my name, what village I was from,
what work I did and how many children I had, etc.’ ‘Did
you ask Him anything?’ ‘I asked Him how I could be saved
and how I could earn His blessings.’ ‘What did He tell you?’
‘He asked me if there was a temple in my village. I told him
there was. He wanted to know the name of the deity of that
temple. I told Him the name. He then said that I should go
on repeating the name of that deity and I would receive all
the blessings needed.’”
“I came back to Bhagavan’s presence and sat among the
devotees listening to the learned discussion, in which I had
now lost all interest, realising that the simple humility and
devotion of this peasant had evoked a far greater response

from our Master than any amount of learning. I then decided
that, though a scholar by profession, I should always remain a
humble, ignorant peasant at heart, and pray, like that villager,
for Bhagavan’s grace and blessings.”
In his letters to Bhagavan, KS addressed his guru as
‘Ammaiappa’, a Tamil word, a form of address that means
both mother and father. KS would sign the letters as ‘Ramana
Sei’ (Ramana’s child). KS writes: “And how did [Bhagavan]
react to this? Was he indifferent how I addressed him? Did
he leave me to imagine that he was taking no special notice
of my unusual way of addressing him? If anybody came to
him and sang before him any Tamil song in which the word
‘Ammaiappa’ occurred, he [would] turn round to see if I was
there and his eyes [would] ask me, “Are you attending? Here
is another using your name.”
During those final days of the Maharshi’s bodily existence,
KS kept up his regular visits and saw Bhagavan the last time
just seven days before his departure. Of the final moment,
he wrote: “When Kavyakantha was living with the Maharshi
in 1908, something like a meteor appeared at dawn, touched
Maharshi’s forehead, retreated and came again six times. On
the night of 14th April, 1950, as Maharshi cast off his body,
a bright meteor shooting over the ashram was seen and noted
by all and sundry all over S. India.”
But feeling the sting of the loss, KS wrote a month later:
“Gone is that beaming smile with which you used to be
welcomed into his presence. Gone is that kind mood which
you used to take for an assurance that Bhagavan [had] taken
cognisance of your matter and all [would] be well with you
thereafter. With what affection would he not enquire about
your journey? With what sympathy would he not enquire
about any who may be ailing in your family and about whom
you may have written to him already. Those who have had
such experiences, find the cruel separation of this Maha
Nirvana all too hard to bear.”
Desperate for relief, KS began organising weekly meetings

of the Ramana Bhakta Sabha at ‘Dharmalayam’. He writes: “In
this state of mind it occurred to me it would be really something
of a consolation, the best consolation that could be had under
the circumstances, if I [could] come across other devotees
of Bhagavan, others whom I have come to regard as fellow
members with me in Bhagavan’s great family, with whom I
[could] exchange confidences and share experiences. This is the
urge that made me move in the direction of taking steps to start
a centre in Madras […] where I [could] meet old devotees of
Bhagavan, feel as if I was once again in the old atmosphere.”
Till 1977 the weekly Bhagavan satsangs were held in
“Dharmalayam”, his residence in Madras. Later the satsang
was renamed Ramana Kendra, Madras, moved elsewhere and
continues to function till today. This initiative was typically a
forerunner of numerous other Ramana centres established in
India and abroad.
Prof. Swaminathan retired from educational service in
1953 as principal of the Government Arts College. He then
became the associate editor of the Indian Express between
1953 and 1959. As president of the Madras Social Service
League, he took the lead in the Harijan uplift work, for which
he was awarded the state government’s gold medal in 1957.
KS produced two major translations in English, Vinoba
Bhave’s Talks on the Gita and Rajaji’s Ramayana, both of
which were serialised in the Indian Express. Collaboration
with these two eminent figures left an impression on the
professor and, it would seem, on them as well: just a few years
later in 1959 Vinoba Bhave would approach Pandit Jawaharlal
Nehru to recommend KS’s name to head-up one of the most
ambitious and comprehensive literary projects ever conceived,
namely, collecting, collating, editing and publishing all the
written works, recorded speeches, conversations and letters
of Mahatma Gandhi. A colossal undertaking that would span
three decades and comprise more than 40,000 pages in 99
large bound volumes, The Collected Works of Mahatma
Gandhi (CWMG) was commissioned by Prime Minister

Nehru in 1956 and supervised by an Advisory Board chaired
by Morarji Desai.
In spite of the demands made on him, with some fifty
scholars and linguists under his direction, KS attended to
Bhagavan with equal care and devotion, writing articles
on Bhagavan and in 1976, releasing his own book simply
entitled, Ramana Maharshi, an important work that was
eventually translated into other Indian languages and thus
was distributed nationally.
A copy of the book was handed over to Morarji Desai
through the good offices of a senior police officer while Desai
was under detention at an undisclosed location in Haryana
during the Emergency. After a week, the professor received
a postcard handwritten by Desai: “Read your book thrice.
Highly illuminating. But why the comparison of the Maharshi
with others (last chapter)? He is beyond compare.”
In 1971, KS succeeded in winning a bid to have the first
Ramana Maharshi commemorative postage stamp issued
nationwide. A year later he was awarded the Padma Bhushan
for his work on the Collected Works. In 1980, he lobbied to
have a major arterial road in the Lodi Estate, New Delhi,
renamed Maharshi Ramana Marg.
When the 89th and 90th volumes of the Collected Works
were launched in 1980, Prime Minister Indira Gandhi, stated
publicly: “A major project has been completed. Only those
who know how very difficult it is to edit historical documents
will appreciate the magnitude of this work.... Above all, our
thanks are due to Prof. Swaminathan, who has worked with
the dedication expected of a follower of Ramana Maharshi
and Mahatma Gandhi.”
Later the professor said: “His grace it was that gave me
length of life, strength of body and ample room to render
humble service to Rajaji, Vinoba and Gandhi, all reflections
in our own time of the eternal goodness of which He was the
full embodiment.”
While in Delhi, the professor also initiated a pioneering

Ramana Satsang with weekly lectures and devotional songs
held in devotees’ houses (and often in his own residence).
This steadily grew to later become the Delhi Ramana Kendra
with its own building in Lodi Institutional Complex in New
Delhi. Prof. Swaminathan was instrumental in effecting
the issue of the Ramana Maharshi commemorative postage
stamp in 1971. The week-long Ramana Maharshi centenary
celebrations and conference at the ashram owed their success
to the joint efforts of Professor Swaminathan and A.R.
Natarajan.
He was the general editor of the national biography
series of the National Book Trust and chairman of the All-
India Subramania Bharati Centenary Sub-committee for
Publications (1982-84).
Prof. Swaminathan was long associated with the editing of
The Mountain Path. His English translations of Muruganar’s
Guru Vachaka Kovai, consisting of 1253 stanzas, was
serialised in the journal. He was the chief editor of the journal
for many years during the eighties.
He has also written the book called Ramana the Self
Supreme and translated into English Ramana Sannidhi Murai
as Homage to the Presence and Five Hymns to Arunachala.
KS enjoyed good health and a lucid and productive life
right up until the end. At the age of 97, with no struggle,
whatever, “after having sipped coconut water”, KS breathed
his last. Family and friends gathered round and chanted
‘Arunachala Siva, Arunachala Siva’ as this servant of
Bhagavan, this servant of the nation, merged with Ramana
Arunachala at 12 noon on the 19th May, 1994.
The obituary in The Mountain Path notes: “In the
passing away of the professor, thousands of his admirers,
students, friends and Ramana-devotees have lost a versatile
philosopher and guide, and the nation a precious gem of an
earlier generation.”
58. Akhilandamma*
A khilandamma was born in 1871 in a small village

called Desur, located about fifty kilometres northeast of
Tiruvannamalai. She was ‘married’ at an early age but her
husband died within two years of her marriage. When she
grew up she decided to devote her life to serving sadhus.
Though she was primarily attracted to Ramana Maharshi, she
also served Seshadri Swami and Vithoba, a saint who lived in
Polur, about thirty kilometres north of Tiruvannamalai.
She first saw Bhagavan in 1896 while he was residing
in the Arunachaleswara temple. On that occasion she saw
the temple priest collecting the abhishekam milk from the
Amman shrine and giving it to Bhagavan. This darshan did
not make a great impression on her. It was not until 1903,
when she visited Bhagavan on the hill, that she first felt his
power. From 1903 onwards she was a regular visitor. On each
visit she would bring food for Bhagavan and his devotees.
When she was in her village with her mother, many of
Bhagavan’s devotees would come and stay at her house. With
the object of serving such devotees, Akhilandamma and Mastan
Swami (whom she introduced to Bhagavan) established a mutt
or centre there in 1914. Called Sri Ramanananda Mathalayam,
it was the first ‘Ramana Centre’ to be established outside
Tiruvannamalai. Many of Bhagavan’s early devotees such
as Kunju Swami, Ramaswami Pillai, Madhava Swami and
Ramanatha Brahmachari were taken there to recuperate from
various illnesses they had contracted in Tiruvannamalai.
Kunju Swami, one of her cured patients, made this
comment in the introduction to her biography: ‘I know that
for the last forty years this lady has been engaging herself in
serving food to Bhagavan Sri Ramana Maharshi and Mahan
Seshadri Swami. Even from the days when Bhagavan was
living at Skandasramam, whenever any devotees there fell ill,
* Friend of All Creation; The Power of the Presence – Part 1.

it was her custom to take them to the mutt in her village and
look after them. She would only send them back after curing
their illness.’
In her own words: “In 1903 I visited Tiruvannamalai.
While I was wandering near the mountain with the object
of gathering flowers, I saw many people walking in a crowd
towards Banyan Tree Cave, then known as Sadguru Swami
Cave.
I enquired of them, ‘Where are you going? What is so
special there?’
One of the crowd told me, ‘There is one Brahmana
Swami there. He is only a small child but he sits motionless,
without taking food or water.’
These words surprised me, but they also kindled in me
a desire to see him. Perhaps it was through these brief words
that the grace of Bhagavan ensnared me.
My first thought was, ‘Can I take him something to
eat? They say that he is a Brahmana Swami [i.e. a brahmin
swami]. If I take any kind of food he may not eat it.’
After thinking the matter over I bought a little sugar
candy as a token offering and then went to see him.
What a sight he was! For the first time I saw the magnetic
Lord who draws towards him the minds of those who see him.
Even though he was unwashed and covered with dust, his
holy body glowed like gold. On seeing this ascetic sannyasi,
with a frame so lean that it exposed his bones, my mind
melted and tears welled up within me. The young Lord then
opened his eyes and graciously directed them towards me. I
approached, placed the sugar candy near him, and prostrated.
After Bhagavan had taken a piece and eaten it, a sadhu who
was nearby returned some of it to me as prasad.
On seeing the condition of Bhagavan’s body I was both
struck with awe and overcome with grief. These emotional
reactions were so strong, I was unable to speak. While I was
standing there, affected in this way, a brahmin aged about
fifty came in with some sweets in his hand. Bhagavan smiled

when he noticed him but the brahmin burst into tears. Unable
to control his weeping, he eventually went outside to wipe
his face.
I followed him and asked, ‘Sir, why did Swami smile at
you, and why are you crying?’
He replied, ‘Madam, I am a relative of the Swami. This
Swami belongs to our place. He is the son of a great lawyer
but he has come to this. My mind is unable to bear this fact
and so I weep. He smiled at me because he knows who I am.’
I then asked some people who were standing there, ‘Will
Swami take some food if I bring it?’
I received a positive reply. From that time on I became a
regular visitor. Each time I came I would bring fruits, place
them before him and do namaskaram.
After this visit I returned to Desur. Bhagavan at that time
was not living permanently in one place. He would mostly
stay in Virupaksha Cave, but in the summer months he would
move to one of the adjoining caves, [such as Mango Tree Cave
or Sadguru Swami Cave]. When I came for darshan again,
Bhagavan was sitting inside Virupaksha Cave, facing south.
I slowly made my way inside the cave, placed some
milk near Bhagavan as an offering, and then came outside
and stood in a shady place. On seeing Bhagavan again my
mind had flowed towards him with uninterrupted, boundless
love, but along with this emotion there had been a sort of
inexpressible regard and fear. It is only natural for people
to feel a sense of awe and reverence while they are near
Bhagavan. It is also natural for the individual self to subside
in his presence. There was a gracious power that prevailed
in that holy place. It numbed the mind, the power of speech
and the body so effectively, that visitors were automatically
silenced. There were no rules about silence, but in that holy
presence casual visitors who had come for darshan would
automatically remain calm and quiet.
After I had waited outside for some time Pazhani Swami

came out. There was some milk remaining in the vessel,
and it was given to me as Bhagavan’s prasad. I took it and
returned home greatly delighted. From that day on this poor
lady had the good fortune of getting Bhagavan’s prasad for
many years.
While Bhagavan was living in the Virupaksha Cave,
Kandaswami, a leading devotee who had great love for
Bhagavan, selected a site higher up the hill for a new
ashram. He took Bhagavan there and Bhagavan indicated his
appreciation of the site. Kandaswami then began work on
the new ashram. Single-handedly he cleared away the thorny
shrubs, levelled the ground and planted coconut trees. Since
that ashram was constructed in a spirit of service to Sri Ramana
in a quiet manner and without any self-advertisement, it came
to be called Skandasramam in memory of Kandaswami.
Bhagavan often used to go from Virupaksha Cave to
Skandasramam during the period when the latter was being
constructed. Because Pazhani Swami was very ill at that
time, he was left behind in Virupaksha Cave. On one of these
occasions I went there to serve food to Bhagavan. I placed
the rice, sambar and rasam. I had brought outside the cave. I
then peeped inside, but Bhagavan was not to be seen. Pazhani
Swami, who was lying by himself in the cave, called me
inside. I went to him and told him that I had brought bhiksha
[food offering] for Bhagavan.
He replied, ‘Bhagavan has gone up to Skandasramam,
but he will return soon because I am not in good health.
Bhagavan thinks that there is no one here to attend on me, so
he will soon come back and see me.’
On hearing this I thought about Bhagavan, and in
particular I thought about how he had made me do service to
devotees. I realised that it was my duty to stay with Pazhani
Swami. I quickly began to prepare hot water for him so that
he could take a bath. Bhagavan returned from Skandasramam
just as I was finishing this job. I bowed to him and then stood
aside. Bhagavan went straight to Pazhani Swami and enquired

about his health.
Pazhani Swami merely replied, ‘I will take my bath now’.
I then explained to Bhagavan that I had been preparing
the hot water in his absence, and that it was now ready.
Bhagavan indicated his pleasure by saying ‘Very good!’
Turning to the others he said, ‘Everyone is waiting
hungrily. Let us eat food soon.’
Pazhani Swami then said, ‘I also wish to have some solid
food,’ but Bhagavan told him, ‘You must take only gruel.’
Pazhani Swami replied, ‘The rasam prepared by
Desuramma [the affectionate nickname for Akhilandamma]
will be nice. I will dilute the rice with it and eat it.’
Then Pazhani Swami called me aside and said, ‘Prepare
rasam with pepper, chutney with horse-gram and feed them
to Bhagavan.’
I followed his instructions and served the food to all the
people there except Pazhani Swami. Everyone, including
Bhagavan, ate it.
To Pazhani Swami I merely gave cooked rice diluted with
rasam. He ate it and seemed satisfied with it. However, he
never ate again and about a week later he died. Perhaps it was
Bhagavan’s grace that he took his last food from the hands
of this lady. When Bhagavan first moved to Skandasramam,
no cooking was done there. Bhagavan and the devotees who
were living there used to live on the food offerings that were
brought every day. Whatever food came was equally divided
and served to all. On one occasion during this period Kamakshi
Ammal and I went there with some food. On that day five or
six heads of mutts had unexpectedly come to Skandasramam
to have Bhagavan’s darshan. Since we had not known about
this in advance, we were not able to prepare food for them.
When it was time to eat, a devotee approached Bhagavan
and said, ‘They are all waiting. May we take food?’
Bhagavan, who knew that there was not enough food for
everyone, replied, ‘Let us wait a while.’
A short time later a group of people unexpectedly

arrived, bringing with them big vessels full of food. After
prostrating to Bhagavan they offered the food to him.
Bhagavan asked them to first serve the food to everyone
who was present. Only then did he stand up to indicate that
he was ready to eat.
In Sri Ramana Gita a devotee asks, ‘How can one detect
the existence of jnana in a person?’
Bhagavan’s reply was, ‘The existence of jnana is
perceived by the equality of vision that expresses itself in the
form of total love towards all living beings.’
Bhagavan himself was an example of this since his entire
life was an illustration of this equality to all.
Bhagavan never accepted anything that was served to
him alone and not to others. Even when medicine was given
to him, he would take some and then have the remainder
distributed to the devotees who were with him. Not only did
he insist that all offerings should be shared, he also insisted
that he should not be given more than anyone else. Nor would
he let himself be given anything that was of a better quality
than that which was given to the devotees. Because of this,
he would only accept a small quantity of food when devotees
insisted on serving him first.
Whenever I cooked food, I would put most of it in a large
vessel and put the remainder in a small pot for Bhagavan.
When I served Bhagavan from this small pot Bhagavan
would sometimes say, ‘You are serving too much to me! How
will the remainder in this small pot be sufficient for everyone
else?’
I would then have to reassure him by saying, ‘I have
brought a large quantity in another vessel. It will be quite
sufficient to distribute a good amount to all.’
Only when Bhagavan had satisfied himself that this was
correct would he relent and accept the offering.
Because everyone was aware of this principle, Bhagavan
trusted us to distribute the food equally to all, after first giving
him a small quantity. However, in later years, when Bhagavan

became aware that this principle was not being rigidly adhered
to, he refused to let anyone serve him first. Instead, he insisted
that he be served last with whatever remained, when all the
others present had been served. He would also refuse to start
eating until all those who were eating with him had been
served their food. All these practices were continued when
Bhagavan moved to the new ashram (Ramanasramam) at the
foot of the hill.
In the Skandasramam days the good fortune of eating
food together with Bhagavan was equally available to birds,
animals and human devotees. Bhagavan never distinguished
between his human and his animal devotees. The same
compassion was available for all. At times it would seem
as if his animal devotees were even more fortunate than his
human ones. Lakshmi the cow, Valli the deer, Jackie the dog
and the monkey called ‘Nondi Payan’ [the lame boy] are apt
examples of this.
When Bhagavan first moved to Skandasramam ‘the
lame boy’ (Nondi the monkey) used to come and eat with
us. Although he was given a separate leaf plate, he usually
preferred to help himself to rice from Bhagavan’s own leaf.
How lucky he was! None of the human devotees ever had the
opportunity to share Bhagavan’s meal like that.
On one occasion Bhagavan and the devotees were sitting
in a line, waiting for the food to be served. ‘The lame boy’
was seated nearby. After I had served Bhagavan, but before
I could serve the others, ‘the lame boy’ took some handfuls
of rice from Bhagavan’s plate and ate them. Bhagavan only
used to take a small quantity of rice, but he was quite happy
to share that small amount with the monkey. When I placed
some more rice on Bhagavan’s leaf to replace the amount that
the monkey had taken, the monkey grunted at me in a slightly
aggressive manner.
Bhagavan at once turned to him and chided him, ‘Adey!
Adey! She is one of our people.’
Then it kept quiet. What a perfect sense of equality

resounds in those words!
One day I prepared some murukkus for Bhagavan and
took them to Skandasramam. I did not tell him in advance
that I was bringing them. On that same day some Nattukottai
Chettiars also prepared murukkus and brought them. As they
prostrated to Bhagavan and presented their offering I noticed
that their murukkus were beautifully shaped and had a very
good colour. I felt too embarrassed to give my offering at the
same time because my murukkus were of such an inferior
quality. I decided to wait until theirs had been distributed.
The murukkus brought by the Chettiars were first
presented to Bhagavan. Bhagavan broke a small piece
from one of them and then requested that the remainder be
distributed to everyone. When this had been done I took my
own murukkus and placed them before Bhagavan. Bhagavan
took a whole murukku and ate it all. An attendant, Ayyaswami,
then distributed the remainder. As he was passing in front
of Bhagavan, Bhagavan leaned forward and took one more
murukku from the plate.
While he was eating this second murukku he asked
Mastan Swami, who was standing nearby, ‘Mastan, what has
been mixed in this?’
Who can understand the reasons behind Bhagavan’s
actions, or the meanings that are conveyed in them? Bhagavan
has no sankalpa. He never decides in advance how he should
speak or what he should do. The speech and activities of
Bhagavan are the automatic gracious lilas of the omnipresent
Lord Himself. I learned from this incident that no one can
discover or explain why Bhagavan’s grace manifests in a
particular way.
There were no ashram buildings and no rules and
regulations when I first started to visit Bhagavan. Bhagavan
would almost always be alone, either out in the open or
inside the cave. Sometimes Pazhani Swami would be with
him. Even then there were no restrictions on devotees. When
I served Bhagavan food I would wait for him to finish and

then take my own food from the same leaf. I continued with
this practice for many years.
Bhagavan not only graciously permitted me to do this,
at times he even helped me in the matter. During the later
Skandasramam days, when Bhagavan’s mother, Chinna
Swami and many other devotees lived with Bhagavan,
they and Bhagavan never prevented me from enjoying this
good fortune whenever I came. In later days, even when Sri
Ramanasramam came up, this same opportunity was provided
to me whenever I came.
After some time at Skandasramam, Bhagavan’s mother
and other devotees began to do service by preparing food
for Bhagavan and his devotees. Even when this practice
started I continued to prepare food and bring it since I had
been accustomed to do this right from the beginning of my
time with Bhagavan. Echammal and Kamakshi Ammal, the
daughter-in-law of Mudaliar Patti, also used to prepare and
bring food even after the ashram acquired its own cooking
facilities.
One day, during Bhagavan’s years at Skandasramam,
Kamakshi Ammal came to me and said, ‘Bhagavan and the
devotees are going to the top of the hill tomorrow. They
have asked us to prepare food in the morning and bring it to
Skandasramam.’
This was a joyful task for me. I got up very early the
next morning, cooked the food and took it to Skandasramam.
Kamakshi Ammal and Echammal did the same.
Soon after our arrival Bhagavan started out from
Skandasramam with his devotees. Ascending the hill in the
company of Bhagavan gave me immense happiness. On the
way to the summit of Arunachala, roughly three quarters of
the way up, there is a place called Seven Springs lying to
the right of the path. It was so named because of the seven
springs that issue from the rock there. A little above these
springs some rocks have naturally formed themselves into
the shape of a mantapam. At the centre of the mantapam

there is a big flat rock in such a position that it looks as if a
seat has been deliberately put there. The rays of the sun do
not penetrate this place. Even at noon a pleasant cool breeze
can be felt there. When Bhagavan arrived at this place he
informed us that he alone would stay there and that the rest
of us should go to the top of the hill and return.
Mastan Swami and Perumal Swami insisted on staying in
that place with Bhagavan, but the rest of us went to the summit,
leaving all the prepared food behind us at Seven Springs. On
the way down, because I was at the rear of the party and
walking slowly, I lost my way. While I was wondering how
I could ever reach Bhagavan, Bhagavan himself sent out a
search party that repeatedly called out my name very loudly.
Guided by the sound, I was able to find them. I reached Seven
Springs feeling very happy that Bhagavan had bestowed so
much grace and affection on me that day.
When Bhagavan’s mother finally came to understand that
her son was the Supreme Lord himself, she came to him and
took refuge in him. After she came to live at Skandasramam,
Bhagavan not only looked after her bodily health, he also
took the opportunity to raise her soul to a high spiritual level.
Although Bhagavan was bringing about a spiritual ripening in
all those who came into contact with him, merely by bestowing
his gracious look on them, in his mother’s case he accelerated
this ripening process by being unusually strict with her. On
many occasions he used to correct both his brother and his
mother, by chiding them with stern glances, by exhibiting
anger or by ignoring them. His aim was to raise them to a more
exalted spiritual plane. This happened many times but I will
only mention three of the incidents since they all involved me.
One day I went to Skandasramam with fruit and milk.
After saluting Bhagavan I stood to one side. Bhagavan looked
at his mother who was nearby and asked her to take some.
Bhagavan’s mother was still reluctant at this time to abandon
her orthodox habits. Consequently, she was unwilling to

consume even fruit and milk that had been brought by a non-
brahmin.
Without giving a reason she replied to Bhagavan, ‘You
yourself eat.’
Bhagavan, who understood his mother’s mind, said to her,
‘All right; it is better that you go back to your house in Madurai!’
He then ate some of the fruit and drank some milk and
gave the remainder to Pazhani Swami. After taking a little,
Pazhani Swami returned what remained to me as Bhagavan’s
prasad. By correcting her in this way, whenever the opportunity
arose, Bhagavan was causing the illusion of differentiation to
be dispelled from his mother’s mind.
On another occasion when Bhagavan, his mother and a
few other devotees were seated in the ashram, I was moving
among them doing some work. Though I was moving about
very carefully, knowing I was in the presence of great people,
I must have brushed past Bhagavan’s mother’s sari at one
point. It had been hung out to dry in the area I had been
working in. Bhagavan turned playfully to his mother with an
intention to mature her mind.
‘Look! Look!’ he said, ‘Your sari that you hung up today
has come into contact with Desuramma’s body! Orthodoxy
has gone! Go and soak it and take a bath.’
Bhagavan’s mother, obviously embarrassed by this jibe,
merely mumbled, ‘No, no,’ and after that she kept quiet.
There is yet another of my experiences that illustrates how
strict Bhagavan was with his mother. I went to Skandasramam
one day to have his darshan. When I had bowed to Bhagavan
and stood up, Bhagavan’s mother enquired of me, ‘What have
you brought?’
I replied that I had cooked and brought some green
leaves.
‘What kind of green leaves?’ she asked.
I replied, ‘Leaves that are found on the mountain.’
Bhagavan’s mother then said to me, rather wistfully,

‘Only you people know where such leaves are available.
They are very tasty when they are cooked.’
From these words I inferred that she liked this particular
kind of green leaf. So the very same day I went up the hill and
plucked some more leaves of the same kind. I then brought
them to Skandasramam and concealed them under some
plants that were growing just outside the ashram. After hiding
the leaves I went up to Bhagavan’s mother and told her in a
low voice that I had picked some leaves and concealed them
near the gate. She was less discreet.
In a loud voice she said to Ramanatha Brahmachari,
‘Ramanatha, Desuramma has brought some leaves. Take
them and keep them.’
This instruction was heard by Bhagavan.
He looked at his mother and said sternly, ‘It seems that
you are in the habit of asking for various things from those
who come here.’
Feeling that my action had created trouble for Bhagavan’s
mother, I intervened before she could give a reply.
‘No Bhagavan,’ I said, ‘mother did not ask. I myself
brought them.’
To this Bhagavan said laughingly, ‘Mother also habitually
asks.’
The implications of this seemingly trivial incident
are very profound. Anyone who tries to hide anything
from Bhagavan is only deceiving himself. It is foolish to
derive satisfaction from hiding something from Bhagavan.
Bhagavan exposed such activities merely to purify our
minds. On this occasion even though I spoke in a very low
voice, it was the gracious power of Bhagavan that made
his mother reply in a voice that was loud enough for my
subterfuge to be exposed. On this occasion I think Bhagavan
chided his mother so that she could increase her feeling of
renunciation. He wanted her to realise that she should not
be dependant on anything in this world. Even if Bhagavan
did not intervene on occasions like this, he was still aware

of what was going on. If he remained silent, he did so for
the benefit of devotees, not out of ignorance.
Once, while Bhagavan was at Skandasramam, I went up
the hill with all the required foodstuffs to serve a bhiksha. I
could not see Bhagavan there so I asked Akhandanandar, who
was also known as Appadurai Swami, where he was.
He told me, ‘Today is the day when Bhagavan has his
shave. So please wait.’
He also told me that since it was full moon day, it was
a very auspicious time to receive upadesa [verbal teachings]
from great souls.
He added, ‘When Bhagavan comes, please request him
to impart some upadesa to you through his gracious words.’
By inclination I am a person who has neither the desire
nor the capacity to make such a request. To see Bhagavan,
to think of him and to do service to him – these alone
were sufficient for my happiness. Furthermore, as someone
who had no education, I felt ill-qualified to ask him about
anything. And even if I did ask, I felt apprehensive about my
ability to understand his reply. However, for some reason,
on that particular day I felt like following the course that
Akhandanandar had suggested.
When the shave was finished Bhagavan came and sat
near us. He had not yet taken his bath.
While he was sitting there I approached him, bowed,
stood up and then said, ‘Bhagavan, kindly tell me something.’
Bhagavan stared at me and asked, ‘About what am I to
tell you?’
I was both puzzled and nonplussed. A mixture of fear
and devotion along with an eagerness to hear Bhagavan’s
gracious words welled up within me, rendering me incapable
of speech. I just stood there mutely.
Bhagavan understood my predicament. No one can hide
anything from him. He can understand the state of mind of
anyone who approaches him, merely by looking at him.
On this occasion he looked at me graciously and said,

‘Be without leaving yourself.’
I could not comprehend the meaning of this high-level
upadesa, and had no idea how to practise it, but as soon as
the words came from Bhagavan’s mouth I felt an immense
satisfaction and a wonderful effulgence in my mind. These
gracious words welled up in my mind again and again like
the rising of the tides. The feeling they produced gave me an
indescribable happiness. I stood there delighting myself in the
feelings produced by this one phrase. Even today, the sound
of that upadesa rings in my ears and bestows immense peace
on me. How is it possible to describe Bhagavan’s grace?
What was told? How to be without leaving myself? What
is the state of leaving? What is the meaning of ‘yourself’?
Let the spiritual teachers, the vedantins, explain all these
things. To me they are all incomprehensible. What is more,
I have no desire to understand them. The happiness that can
be attained not only by understanding this sentence, but also
by practising it, that same happiness Bhagavan gave me at
the moment when the words came from his mouth. I didn’t
need to understand with my mind because I immediately
experienced the state that the words were indicating without
ever really understanding what the words themselves meant.
I took this immediate experience, this perfect satisfaction,
as the fruit of that upadesa. I came to understand through
this experience that in Bhagavan’s benign presence a single
gracious utterance can produce the fruit and the fulfilment
of all spiritual practices such as sravana [hearing], manana
[thinking or reflection] and nididhyasana [contemplation or
abidance].
After imparting this instruction Bhagavan continued
to sit there for a very long time. I also continued to stand
before him. There appears to be a great significance in this.
The meaning is that after giving upadesa through the words
‘Be without leaving yourself’, Bhagavan gave a practical
illustration of how it could be done by remaining in this state

himself.
I used to worship Bhagavan by breaking a coconut,
lighting camphor and performing arati before him. In the
old days on the hill Bhagavan had graciously allowed me to
worship like this.
Once Bhagavan and the devotees started to do
giripradakshina. I was one of the crowd that followed him.
I and two of the ladies who accompanied me, Echammal
and Kamakshi Ammal, had planned to worship Bhagavan
while he was walking around the hill. Breaking coconuts and
lighting camphor before Bhagavan inside the ashram was not
liked by Chinna Swami. He preferred that such ceremonies
be performed in front of the Mother’s shrine. So the three of
us, without his knowledge, brought all the necessary things to
do puja to Bhagavan on the pradakshina road.
Bhagavan always walked very slowly when he performed
giripradakshina. He also used to stop at regular intervals.
At one of the resting places Echammal broke a coconut and
lighted camphor in Bhagavan’s benign presence. At the next
halting place Kamakshi did the same. My turn came when
Bhagavan halted again outside Gautama Ashram. I broke the
coconut, lighted the camphor and bowed to him.
Bhagavan looked at me and asked in a kindly manner:
‘Did the three of you bring coconuts and fruit after consulting
together?’
Our conspiracy was thus exposed. Bhagavan tolerated
our behaviour because he knew that it meant a lot to us to be
able to worship him in this way.
During one of the Deepam festivals I went to
Skandasramam with a coconut and camphor to have darshan
of Bhagavan. On this visit I met Dandapani Swami, who had
recently settled in the ashram, for the first time. Bhagavan
was not there when I arrived. When Dandapani Swami saw
the coconut and camphor he knew what I had come for. He
tried to prevent me from carrying out my plan by ordering me

not to worship Bhagavan with the coconut and the camphor.
I had no intention of following his orders, but to placate him
I kept quiet while he lectured me on how it was against the
ashram rules to perform ritual worship to Bhagavan. Finally
Bhagavan came.
While he was still walking towards us he looked kindly
at me and enquired, ‘When did you come?’
This was Bhagavan’s standard greeting to me. Whenever
I arrived from my village with some food for him, he would
always ask me when I had arrived.
Dandapani Swami was quite surprised. He had been
ordering and threatening me on the assumption that I was a
new devotee who had never met Bhagavan before. When he
saw how well I knew Bhagavan, he calmed down and went
away, leaving us alone. In his absence I performed my usual
puja to Bhagavan, thinking all the while of Bhagavan’s grace.
Bhagavan’s manner of protecting his devotees is unique.
Unlike most spiritual figures he wants nothing from his
devotees. Devotees must offer food and namaskarams to
the heads of mutts in order to get any grace from them.
But Bhagavan is different. When he does not even like the
salutations from his devotees, how can there be any desire for
the food offerings that the devotees bring? Bhagavan never
accepts the worship of devotees when they break coconuts
and wave camphor before him. Some of us, who had been
devotees for many years, still worshipped him in this way,
but Bhagavan did not approve of our activities. He did not
prevent us because he knew that it gave us some mental
satisfaction, but at the completion of each puja he would
usually request us not to do it again.
Once I went into the presence of Bhagavan with two
coconuts, determined in my mind to offer one to Bhagavan
and the other at the Mother’s samadhi. Bhagavan, of course,
knew what my intentions were.
He said, ‘I am an idol that eats. In the temple there is an

idol that doesn’t eat. Break the coconut before the God who
doesn’t eat.’
On another occasion, just before I started giri pradakshina,
I lighted camphor in Bhagavan’s presence, prostrated and
left. I learned later that after I had gone a few boys also burnt
camphor in Bhagavan’s presence and prostrated to him.
Bhagavan complained, ‘All this happened on account of
Akhilandamma.’
Bhagavan is the one who bestows grace without being
asked. Does he shower his grace merely in exchange for our
puja offerings? No! Is not grace his natural state?
It is well known that many of the devotees who had darshan
of Bhagavan Sri Ramana during his early days at Arunachala
adored him as Jnanasambandhar himself. That sage also
attained Self-realisation in his youth. Those who ponder over
the two lives will discover many other similarities between
the two. Bhagavan himself frequently praised the jnana of
Jnanasambandhar. The birthday of both of them is Arudra
Darsanam, both were strongly drawn to Arunachala, and both
reached it by the same route. On the way to Arunachala both
halted at the Ariyanainallur temple. The sceptre of jnana that
Jnanasambandhar wielded till his sixteenth year was taken
over by Bhagavan, also in his sixteenth year. The similarities
between the two are very striking. Because of this, when
the Guru puja of Jnanasambandhar was celebrated every
year at Sri Ramanasramam, I always used to go there, have
Bhagavan’s darshan and offer bhiksha.
After cooking started at Sri Ramanasramam, I still
wanted to offer bhiksha to all Bhagavan’s devotees, but how
could I offer it to the brahmins? I resolved the problem by
purchasing vegetables and other provisions and giving them
to the ashram with instructions that they should be prepared
for the brahmins. I myself used to cook the food for Bhagavan
and the other non-brahmin devotees and bring it to the ashram.
In the early days of Sri Ramanasramam, when the cooking

facilities were not very well developed, Bhagavan never
made any critical comments about my habit of preparing and
bringing food in this way. However, when the ashram began
to expand, a big dining room was constructed in which it was
possible to cook and serve several hundred meals a day. Even
then, I stuck to my old practice of cooking food at home and
bringing it to the ashram.
Once, after the dining room had been built, I brought
bhiksha to the ashram on the Guru puja of Jnanasambandhar.
Bhagavan looked at me and said, ‘Why all this trouble
for you? If you donate some provisions, the ashramites can
cook them and serve them.’
From that time on, unable to disobey the gracious order
of Bhagavan, I gave the ashram whatever food provisions I
could in order to continue my service. I still managed to do
some cooking for Bhagavan and the devotees because from
that time on I was permitted to assist with the preparation of
the ashram breakfast. Since Bhagavan did not say anything
about this, whenever I went to the ashram I had the good
fortune of preparing the morning breakfast.
In Bhagavan’s last days, while I was staying in Desur,
I was frequently thinking and worrying about Bhagavan’s
health. I decided that I had to come and see him because my
desire for darshan and the grief I was feeling on account of his
suffering were both very great. When I reached the gates of
the ashram, a brahmin, who was not known to me, prevented
me from entering. He ordered me to stay outside. I was
immediately struck with an unbearable grief because at that
time my yearning to see Bhagavan was very great. Fortunately,
by Bhagavan’s grace, an inmate of the ashram who knew me
came to that place. The barriers, rules and regulations that
had been formed to maintain the tranquillity of the ashram in
those final days could not withstand the surging tides of my
ocean of grief. When this devotee informed Bhagavan that I
had arrived, I was given permission to enter the ashram and
have darshan. I tried to suppress my emotions as I went into

Bhagavan’s room, but the feeling that I would soon be losing
my one and only God completely destroyed my self-restraint.
I cried out to him, ‘Bhagavan! Bhagavan has decided to
give up his body. What can I do?’
There were thousands of good souls outside who, like
me, had been wanting to have Bhagavan’s darshan. Is it not
the boundless grace of Bhagavan that I alone was admitted
inside? Musing on this graciousness I bowed to my Lord and
came out in a perplexed state of mind. It goes without saying
that I was very unwilling to leave. After I had left the room,
Bhagavan sent me the following message via the devotee
who had opened the door for me.
‘Why do you feel sorry for this mortal body?’
It occurred to me that Bhagavan was consoling me by
saying, ‘Don’t feel sorry for this body, I am always your
saviour!’
When the import of this message registered with me, I
experienced a feeling of mental clarity.
She attained at the Lotus Feet of Bhagavan in 1960 at the
age of Ninety.
59. Mastan Swami*
M astan came from a Muslim family but was drawn to

Bhagavan by Akhilandamma, a very devout widow of
the village who made regular trips to Tiruvannamalai to see
Bhagavan and cook for him. It is not known exactly when
Mastan first encountered Bhagavan, but it must have been
in the early years of Bhagavan’s Virupaksha Cave period.
* Self-Realisation; Ramana Maharshi and the Path of Self-

knowledge; Reminiscences of Kunju Swami; Sri Ramana Leela;
Bhagavan Ramana: The Friend of All Creation; The Power of the
Presence – Part 3.
Bhagavan once remarked to Viswanatha Swami that Mastan

had come to him even before Ganapati Muni, who made his
first visit to Bhagavan in 1903.
Mastan was helping his parents to spin thread and
weave cloth. Occasionally, during this work he would go
into samadhi. His hands and feet, which were plying the
machinery of his trade, would stop and he would become
absolutely still. His parents thought that he was falling asleep
on the job. Whenever they saw him in this condition, they
would hit him, bring him back to his waking state, and tell
him to get on with his work. These episodes seem to have
been a recurring feature of his childhood.
On his very first visit to Tiruvannamalai he received
Bhagavan’s grace. In his own words: “When I came to
Bhagavan, he was seated like a rock outside Virupaksha Cave.
His unwavering gaze was filled with grace, compassion and
steady wisdom. I stood by his side. After giving me a look,
he opened the gate of my Heart and I was also established in
his state. I stood like that for eight hours, absolutely without
fatigue, but filled with total absorption and peace. Bhagavan
in those days used to open our Heart with a simple gracious
look, and it transformed us. There was no need for any
questions since he made us, by his look, like himself.”
Mastan went into a deep samadhi on many of his
subsequent visits. It seems that the power of Bhagavan’s
presence regularly precipitated experiences such as the one
described above. Bhagavan himself described some of these
visits to Viswanatha Swami, who is the narrator of the next
story:
Many of Bhagavan’s activities, utterances and reactions
were to some degree predictable. When you live in close
proximity to a great being such as Bhagavan, becoming
drenched in his presence and teachings, you start to believe
that you understand him, at least to a certain extent. However,
once in a while Bhagavan would spontaneously say things
that astounded us all, making us realise how little we really
knew and understood him. I remember one such statement

very well.
Bhagavan once told me, ‘All sorts of beings gravitate
towards the presence of a jnani – devas [inhabitants of
the heavenly realms], rishis [sages], Brahmanishtas [those
established in Brahman], siddhas [perfected beings with
supernatural powers] and yogis. Some come in a normal
human form, but others turn up in their subtle, astral bodies.
Some of these great beings show up in the guise of beggars
or madmen, and some of them even manage to appear in the
forms of birds and animals.
‘Among those who show up in a normal human body,
and who subsequently stay on and become devotees, there
is a huge range of spiritual attainment: complete beginners
mix with highly advanced souls. The most advanced are ripe
fruits, just waiting to fall. They only have to come into the
presence of a jnani in order to plunge into a deep experience
of the Self. One such devotee was Mastan.
‘He was such a ripe soul, that when he came to Virupaksha
Cave to see me he would sometimes go into a deep samadhi
before he had even entered the cave. As soon as he touched the
railings of the gate, he would have a paralysing experience of
the Self. He would stand, rooted to the spot, unable to move,
for six or seven hours. This happened several times. Usually,
these experiences would happen before he had even seen me
since I would be inside the cave, unaware of what was going
on at the gate.
‘Mastan was in an entirely different category to most
of the people who came. He was highly spiritual, although
outwardly he looked like an ordinary man. He was a kind,
generous man who was always looking for an opportunity to
help other people. He never showed any self-importance. On
the contrary he liked to stay in the background, unnoticed and
unappreciated by ordinary people.’
In a brief, unpublished account of Mastan’s life Kunju
Swami made the following comments on Mastan: ‘Mastan
had a very peaceful disposition.… After [his] first visit he

used to come to Arunachala whenever he felt like it and have
Bhagavan’s darshan at Virupaksha Cave for long periods,
but standing at a distance. He would not speak anything
to anybody… He did not get married and remained a
brahmachari. He was leading a peaceful life, practising his
weaving profession and having Bhagavan’s darshan.’
Though Mastan was clearly an outstanding devotee, very
little information is available about him or his years with
Bhagavan. The few stories that exist come from people who
were associated with him. Akhilandamma, who probably
knew him better than anyone else, has described how they
used to come to Tiruvannamalai together:
Mastan and I would come to Arunachala from our village
to have the pleasure of serving Bhagavan. Mastan, a weaver,
belonged to our village, but he did not stick to his craft. A
man of whims, he would suddenly suspend his weaving and
go to live with Bhagavan for months on end. During this time
he would keep his body and soul together on alms that he
begged.
In those early days we had no buses. I would make a
bundle of provisions, such as rice and pulses, and put them on
his head. Loaded in this way, we would start on our journey
of forty miles to Arunachala. We would walk slowly and
leisurely, telling each other stories of Bhagavan.
Mastan occasionally made towels and kaupinas and
offered them to Bhagavan, who accepted them with deep
regard.
Bhagavan once remarked, with great joy, ‘Mastan’s craft,
though it did not give food either to him or his parents, gives
me clothes.’
On full moon nights we would go round the hill in
the divine company of Bhagavan. In those days there would
be about ten of us – Perumal, Mastan and a few others. On
those moonlit nights we would walk in rapture, forgetting the
entire universe, except for the sacred mountain. I don’t think

those enchanting days will ever come again!
On one of those occasions Mastan began to sing at the
top of his voice. I had never heard him singing so loudly.
‘Mastan, what happened to you today?’ asked Bhagavan
as soon as the pradakshina was over. ‘You never ever sing,
so why did you sing like that?’
‘It was nothing,’ replied Mastan, casually. ‘Perumal
instructed me that I had to sing in order to ward off your
drowsiness. To raise my spirits and to equip me for the job,
he made me take a drink containing ganja.’
‘So that’s what happened. Ganja intoxication was behind
your wild singing. How many times have I told you that I
need no external help to keep me awake? Also, I have told
you before not to do anything for my sake. Don’t listen to
other people who tell you differently.’
Though Bhagavan rebuked Mastan in this way, I don’t
think he took the criticism very seriously. Mastan was a very
innocent man, and events like this didn’t touch him.
The next story is also narrated by Akhilandamma:
It was the time when Bhagavan was living in
Skandasramam. One day a golden mongoose entered the
ashram premises and made straight for Bhagavan. It sat on
his lap for a while. Later, it wandered around and closely
inspected all the different parts of the cave. When the
inspection was over, it disappeared into the bushes on the hill.
While all this was happening, Mastan was the only devotee
with Bhagavan.
Some time later Perumal came back to the ashram and
Mastan told him about the visit of the mongoose. One can
get a glimpse of Mastan’s state of mind at the time from the
remarks he made.
‘I was afraid that the mongoose might harm our peacocks,’
he said, ‘so I kept myself ready in case it made an attack. I
had a big stick handy. Fortunately, it moved away without
making any move towards the peacocks.’
Perumal told him, ‘Mastan, you should have caught it. If

you had managed to capture it, we could have brought it up
here and kept it as a pet.’
Bhagavan was listening to this conversation.
Addressing Mastan, he said, ‘Whom do you think he
was? Do you think you could have caught him, and do you
think that this other man could have domesticated him? This
was a sage of Arunachala who took on this form to come and
visit me. He wanted to pay his respects to me. How many
times have I told you that sages come to see me in various
forms?’
This is Bhagavan’s own account of the visit of the
mongoose:
I was living up the hill at Skandasramam. Streams of
visitors were climbing up the hill from the town. A mongoose,
larger than the ordinary size, of golden hue (not grey as a
mongoose is) with no black spot on its tail as is usual with
the wild mongoose, passed these crowds fearlessly. People
took it to be a tame one belonging to someone in the crowd.
The animal went straight to Pazhani Swami, who was having
a bath in the spring by Virupaksha Cave. He stroked the
creature and patted it. It followed him into the cave, inspected
every nook and corner and left the place and joined the crowd
coming up to Skandasramam.
I noticed it. Everyone was struck by its attractive
appearance and its fearless movements. It came up to me,
got on my lap and rested there for some time. It went round
the whole place and I followed it lest it should be harmed
by the unwary visitors or by the peacocks. Two peacocks of
the place looked at it inquisitively. The mongoose looked
nonchalantly from place to place and finally disappeared into
the rocks on the southeast of the ashram.
After they had been coming to Bhagavan for several
years, Mastan and Akhilandamma decided to open a mutt in
the village of Desur that would function as a choultry, a place
where visiting sadhus and pilgrims could be accommodated
and fed. Akhilandamma had been feeding sadhus prior to this

date for many years, but her operations had been based in her
own house. Her relatives had not approved of the amount of
time, energy and money she was devoting to sadhus, so she
left her family home and found a separate house in Desur.
For many years this was the base of her charitable activities.
Around 1914 an opportunity arose to have a proper mutt in
the village.
Mastan, she said, helped in the construction of the mutt.
He cleared the ground and did some of the building work
himself. The mutt functioned as a choultry, offering food and
accommodation to visiting pilgrims and sadhus. Many of the
sadhus from Ramanasramam came to stay here, particularly
when they were sick and needed someone to look after them.
They also had visitors from other places.
When the building was completed, Mastan regularly did
parayana of Bhagavan’s works there. By this time Mastan
had more or less abandoned his career as a weaver. He lived
as a sadhu and usually went out to beg his food, although
sometimes Akhilandamma fed him. Akhilandamma would
cook in the mutt. If no food was available there, Mastan
would go out to beg. Whenever devotees would come to visit,
Mastan would take them to the mutt and talk to them about
Bhagavan.
In 1928 Nandagopal Mudaliar, a local man, gave some
money that was used to construct a new building on the north
side of the mutt. A plaque was placed on the wall stating
that Nandagopal Mudaliar had given the money for its
construction. Mastan, it seems, wasn’t happy with this plaque.
He didn’t want to live in a place that had a name other than
Bhagavan’s on the wall. He was so offended by this plaque,
he decided to leave the mutt and live elsewhere.
Muniswami Gounder, a man who lived a few kilometres
away, heard about this development and invited both
Akhilandamma and Mastan to come and stay in his village
at his expense. He lived in Matam, a small community
about four kilometres from Desur. Muniswami Gounder was

sponsoring a mutt in his own village that was named after
Appar and he expected Mastan and Akhilandamma to live
in this place. Mastan, though, had already made it clear that
he didn’t want to stay in any place that was named after
anyone other than Bhagavan, so he also refused to stay in this
second mutt. As a compromise, Muniswami Gounder built
him a small hut near the mutt. Akhilandamma decided to stay
in Desur. Both of them would occasionally leave and go to
visit Bhagavan in Tiruvannamalai. Sometimes they walked
there and sometimes Mastan would drive a cart loaded with
provisions for the inmates of Bhagavan’s ashram.
When Akhilandamma told Bhagavan that she had opened
a mutt in her village to serve his devotees, he said to all the
devotees present:
‘Now our name and fame will spread over the entire country.
You see this Desuramma has girded up her loins. She has set up
Ramanananda Mathalayam.’ Saying this, he laughed loudly.
When Bhagavan heard at a later date that Mastan had
moved to the village of Matam, he asked Akhilandamma
to move there as well to look after him. She took this as a
direct command. Saying, ‘Wherever he is I will serve him,’
she went to the mutt in Matam.
Mastan continued to visit Bhagavan throughout the
1920s, although his visits were less frequent than in earlier
years. He was present in Ramanasramam, along with a small
number of other devotees, on a famous occasion in 1924
when Bhagavan was attacked by a gang of robbers who were
under the mistaken impression that a large amount of money
was kept there.
Bhagavan received a severe blow on his leg during the
robbery, but in a characteristic response he told the robbers,
‘If you are not satisfied, you may strike the other leg also.’
Ramakrishna Swami, one of the devotees present, was so
outraged by the assault on Bhagavan’s person that he took up
an iron bar with the intention of attacking the intruders.
Bhagavan restrained him, saying, ‘Let these robbers play

their role. We shall stick to ours. Let them do what they like.
It is for us to bear and forbear. Let us not interfere with them.’
Mastan appeared to follow Bhagavan’s advice during this
attack since there is no record of him reacting in any way to
the violent invasion. When Kunju Swami wrote about Mastan
in his unpublished account of his life, he made a point of
stressing how peaceful and unprovokable Mastan was.
In one of his rare recorded statements, Mastan is reported
to have said, ‘Even if the sky falls on your head, or even if
a sword is firmly driven through your chest, do not slip from
your true state.’
His advice, which can equally well be translated as ‘do
not get agitated’, seems to sum up Mastan’s response to the
violent robbery.
The mutt that Mastan and Akhilandamma ran in Desur
had been established to serve travelling sadhus, particularly
those who were devotees of Bhagavan. The following story,
narrated by Viswanatha Swami, indicates that he took this
responsibility very seriously:
In the 1920s some of Bhagavan’s devotees used to travel
on foot to nearby towns such as Polur and Desur. We used
to undertake these trips to visit devotees who lived in those
areas. Bhagavan always gave us his permission before we
undertook any of these trips. The members of the group
would vary from trip to trip but we could usually count on
devotees such as Kunju Swami, Ramaswami Pillai, ‘Nondi’
Srinivasa Iyer, Ramanatha Brahmachari and Ranga Rao to be
enthusiastic about these adventures. I also went on many of
these trips. Some of our expeditions would be to Cuddalore
or Vellore, but most of them would be to locations in the
Polur and Chengam areas.
When we travelled we would never stay in houses.
When night came we would shelter in mantapams or caves.
Sometimes we would just sleep under trees. We would beg
for our food on the way. Sometimes people would give us
provisions for a meal. If that happened we would stop and

cook. If we received cooked food in our bowls, we would
share it out equally among all the members of our group.
Although we had a lot of fun, we were also aware that we
were sadhus on a pilgrimage. As we walked we would chant
scriptural works or meditate in silence.
On some of these trips Mastan would somehow find out
in advance where we were going. We would arrive at a town,
Polur for example, and find him waiting for us. Once he had
discovered our whereabouts, he would make us sit while
he went out begging for us. We didn’t want to be served in
this way, but Mastan was very insistent. He told us on these
occasions that he was the ‘devotee of devotees’, a role and a
title that he took on himself.
He would say, ‘I want to serve the devotees of Bhagavan.
You must stay here while I find food for you.’
Mastan would generally return with a huge amount of
food, far more than we could possibly eat. After we had eaten
as much as we could, we would share the leftovers with any
local people who lived nearby. If we were living in caves or
other out-of-the-way places, we would give the leftovers to
monkeys.
As he fed us Mastan would make one persistent request:
‘Please tell me some stories about the glory of our Master.
Tell me everything he has said during the time I was not with
him. To me, every word Bhagavan speaks is holy. The words
that come out of his holy mouth are so powerful that merely
listening to them can give liberation to ripe souls.’
Mastan continued to be based in Matam until 1931,
the year he passed away. He was aware well in advance of
the date and time of his death, for he gave full details to
Muniswami Gounder, the man who was looking after him
there. Muniswami Gounder, though, paid no attention to the
prediction.
The day before he died Mastan sent a message to all the
devotees of Bhagavan who lived in his vicinity, asking them
to come to see him as soon as possible. Most of them failed

to arrive in time, either because they lived too far away, or
because they did not receive the news before it became dark.
Akhilandamma was present when Mastan died. This is
her description of his final moments:
He was sick and bedridden for about a week. During
those days he spoke of many things not of this world, as if
he were actually seeing them.
He said, ‘There Nandiswara is descending. He is very
affectionately licking all over my body! Look! The Siva ganas
are dancing here! See! They are beckoning me to come to
their world. Look at those lotus ponds where celestial swans
are swimming!’
We thought that this was nothing but delirium, but on the
last day a very strange thing happened, and we cannot lightly
dismiss it as delirium. On this day he suddenly got up from
his bed and stood up, looking as if someone, face to face, had
been calling him.
Then, in great excitement, he exclaimed, ‘Mother
Apitakuchamba, have you come yourself to escort me?’
The next moment he fell down dead. I immediately sent
a message to Bhagavan.
When Bhagavan learned of Mastan’s passing away, he
sent Kunju Swami to our village with full instructions on how
to make a samadhi for Mastan. Tirumandiram of Tirumular
gives the details of how saints who have followed Lord Siva
have to be buried. In accordance with these details Bhagavan
drew up a plan of the dimensions of the samadhi and sent it
along with Kunju Swami. It seemed very strange to us that a
Muslim should be given a Saiva saint’s burial and stranger still
that Bhagavan, who did not generally encourage ceremonial
rites, actually laid down in the minutest detail the rites to be
followed in the samadhi of Mastan.
Whatever the reason, just as Bhagavan stipulated,
we made a tomb for Mastan in our village. It is a village
whose population is predominantly Jain. These inhabitants of
the village felt that having a Hindu samadhi in their midst

would be very inauspicious. When they first heard of it, there
was even talk of their abandoning the village completely.
However, in the time that has passed since Mastan’s samadhi
was constructed, the village has thrived and grown rich.
Nowadays the samadhi is a visible deity to all the people from
the village, whatever their caste or religion. What a wonder!
When Bhagavan sent Kunju Swami to Matam, he
sent enough vibhuti and camphor from the ashram to take
care of all the necessary rituals. The funds for the samadhi
were provided by Simhakutti Nayanar, a local Jain. It is a
remarkable feature of Mastan’s life that people of all religions
revered him as a saint. This may be partly explained by the
fact that Mastan didn’t like or indulge in any rituals that
would mark him out as a follower of any particular religion.
The manuscript at his samadhi states that he disliked, ‘pujas,
drums, prostrations, delicious food and garlands’. He did,
though, like smearing his face with vibhuti. Kunju Swami has
reported that he always showed up at Ramanasramam with
vibhuti on his forehead, and in the one surviving photo, taken
at Skandasramam with Bhagavan, his forehead is liberally
smeared.
When news of Mastan’s death spread, a nearby Siva
temple lent a chapram so that Mastan’s body could be taken
in procession through the local villages prior to its burial. A
chapram is a four-wheeled wooden trolley that temples use
to parade deities through the streets. This particular one was
brand new. It had only just been completed and it had never
been used by the temple. It is an astonishing testimony to
Mastan’s holiness that a Hindu temple would allow one of
its vehicles to be used to carry a Muslim’s body on a funeral
procession.
Mastan passed away on 8th November 1931. That year
this was also Deepavali day. With Mastan’s body on board,
the chapram was pushed and pulled through three of the local
villages in a torrential downpour. One man, whose uncle built
Mastan’s samadhi, told me that at times the devotees had to

maneuver the chapram through waist-deep water. Neither the
weather nor the difficulties of pushing the vehicle seemed to
dampen the spirits of the funeral procession. At each place the
chapram visited, local people joined the funeral and helped
to push.
When the procession returned to the site of the samadhi,
a funeral feast was arranged. Muniswami Gounder, who had
looked after Mastan’s needs for many years, donated 200 kg
of rice and fed everyone who attended. For the rest of his
life Muniswami Gounder organised a similar-sized meal on
Mastan’s samadhi day. The practice stopped when he died.
I asked Chockalingam, a local resident about the tradition
that Mastan’s samadhi has wish-fulfilling powers, something
that Akhilandamma referred to in the final paragraph of her
account.
He replied, ‘In the years that followed his samadhi
everyone noticed that the family affairs and businesses of
people who had helped Mastan prospered, whereas those
who were opposed to him found that their fortunes declined.
Everyone could see what was happening, so people started
coming to the samadhi to ask for blessings. Even today, many
people still come here to pray for their desires to be fulfilled.’
Some days later Akhilandamma went to Tiruvannamalai
to tell Bhagavan about Mastan’s passing away:
I went to Bhagavan and described the final days of
Mastan.
Upon hearing about them Bhagavan commented, ‘Maybe
the universal mother, Apitakuchamba, personally did come
to take him. All his descriptions tally with the world of Siva.
Mastan was an unassuming devotee. He had a wealth of
hidden spiritual experiences. It is a matter for gratification
that he passed away in your care and under your supervision.’
60. Janaki Mata*
J anaki Mata was a well-known mystic. She was born in

1906 in a small village near Palghat in Kerala and was
married to Dr. C.S. Ganapathy Iyer, a Medical Officer under
the Government of Madras. From her childhood she was
attracted to a religious way of life and, as she grew up, began
to have ecstatic visions of the various gods and goddesses
whom she worshipped. Persons who were drawn to her by
her mystic qualities often saw in her the gods whom they
worshipped. In spite of her visions and mystic experiences
Janaki Mata was not quite satisfied. She felt that she should
have a living Guru before she could attain Liberation.
She was in due course mysteriously directed to Bhagavan
Sri Ramana Maharshi whom she met for the first time in
1935. The moment she saw Him she felt that He was the
Guru whom she was seeking. From the moment she first
came to Bhagavan Sri Ramana he was her all. For her
Bhagavan Ramana represented the confluence of manifold
manifestations of the pantheon. The pace of progress was
accelerated thenceforth. The daily puja took a different turn.
Thereafter she continued to visit the Ashram frequently until
Bhagavan attained Maha Nirvana. Although she desired
to come and stay permanently with Bhagavan, He did not
encourage her to do so and therefore she continued to live
with her husband and children.
Owing to some illness her grandson Janakiramanan lost
his eyesight at the age of three. Mata advised her daughter
Padma to appeal to Bhagavan, the Sat-Guru of all. Padma
appealed in a letter to Bhagavan for his Grace. A reply came,
“By the Grace of Bhagavan, child Janakiramanan’s eyesight
* Dr. G. Swaminathan, Biography of Guru Devi Sri Janaky Matha,

(1966), Pub. Gurudevi Sri Janaky Matha Ashram, Thanjavur; Letters
from Sri Ramanasramam.
will be fully restored.” On receipt of these blessings from

Bhagavan everyone felt relieved and very happy.
For forty days the boy could not open his eyes. On
Karthigai day, Janakiramanan was taken to the temple at
Thanjavur. Suddenly he began to see the images in the temple.
He was brought home. He started seeing well and shouted: “I
am seeing Bhagavan”. “I am seeing Mataji!”
Padma was overjoyed. Janaki Mata told her to go to
Arunachala and prostrate before Bhagavan.
When Padma, along with Janakiramanan, reached the
Ashram and entered the hall she could not control her tears.
She prostrated before Bhagavan and burst out, “Bhagavan,
it is entirely due to your Grace that my son has got back
his eyesight.” Bhagavan gave a gracious smile and remarked,
“See, she says her son got back his eyesight because of
Bhagavan!”
In the evening the child Janakiramanan and Padma were
seated very near Bhagavan’s sofa, when the child said aloud
to his mother, “I am not able to see the head.” Though he had
got back his eyesight Janakiramanan still had night blindness.
Now Bhagavan wanted to know what the child had uttered.
Padma said that he was unable to see the head and face of
Bhagavan. Bhagavan then looked steadily at the boy and said,
“Look intently here! Now, are you not able to see Bhagavan’s
head? Look, Look!” The boy could see him. The boy’s night
blindness had gone for ever!
Janaki Mata had considered taking sannyas and had
informed her husband of this. But when she was sitting in
front of Bhagavan, he gazed steadily at her and then said:
“Did I ask you to become a sannyasini? Look at me: I have
not taken sannyas and do not wear the ochre robe. You have
only one family but I have to shoulder the burden of all these
devotees and their families!”
It dawned on Janaki Mata then that renunciation must be
in the heart and that inner purity is more important than outer
renunciation.
A band of devotees gathered around her. They considered

her their Guru and an ashram started functioning. Janaki
Mata passed away on 27th April 1969 at Janaki Nilayam,
her residence at Thanjavur, at the age of 63 after a period of
illness.
61. Kitchen Workers*

The arrival of Bhagavan’s mother led to the beginning
of a kitchen in Skandasramam which grew larger after the
ashram moved down the Hill. Bhagavan took an active
interest and a major role in the preparation of the food at the
ashram. His interaction with the kitchen workers gave them
the opportunity to receive very valuable spiritual lessons
while working with him. His interactions also tell us about
Bhagavan himself.
Bhagavan usually woke up between 3 and 4 a.m. He
would go to the kitchen to start cutting the vegetables that
were to be cooked that morning. The other kitchen workers,
who slept longer, would join him a little later. Before he
started on the work, Bhagavan would generally cut a piece of
ginger into small pieces, add a little salt, and then swallow it.
This was his home remedy for his chronic digestion problems.
Since Bhagavan was usually the first person to reach the
kitchen, it was his job to start the fire. Ranga Rao, who was
also an early riser, sometimes tried to relieve Bhagavan of
this chore but he rarely succeeded. Others tried to relieve
him of the grinding work, with only a little more success.
When the vegetable cutting was over, Bhagavan would wrap
a towel around his head and grind chutney in one of the stone
mortars. He would put all his strength and energy into the
grinding, only abandoning it if some strong, experienced
* Sri Ramana Leela; Ramana Smriti (1980); Reminiscences of

Kunju Swami; The Power of the Presence – Part 3.
devotee volunteered to take over the work. Once the chutney

was finished, he would wash his hands and go to the morning
parayana.
Bhagavan would keep in touch with the kitchen work
while he was sitting in the hall. Sampurnamma, or one of
the other cooks, would bring samples of the sambar and the
vegetables to him as soon as they were ready. After tasting
them Bhagavan would either give his approval or give some
new instruction such as ‘add more salt’. If the cooks ever
forgot to bring their samples, Bhagavan would leave the hall
in the middle of the morning, go to the kitchen and see for
himself whether or not the food had been prepared correctly.
Usually, everyone was happy to follow Bhagavan’s
instructions but there were a few occasions when he had
to exert his authority. On one occasion he taught the cooks
how to make aviyal properly. Aviyal is a spicy vegetable
dish containing many different vegetables, coconut and curd.
Bhagavan had insisted on many occasions that the chillies
and other spices should be ground into a paste before they
were added to the simmering vegetables. Since this was a
very laborious and time-consuming activity, the cooks once
decided to add powdered spices to the meal instead of the
hand-ground paste. Bhagavan somehow found out what had
happened. On the next occasion that aviyal was prepared,
Bhagavan himself came to the kitchen and ground the spices.
He finished the work without permitting anyone else to
take the stone from him. Then, after adding the paste to the
aviyal and stirring it with a spoon, he personally cleaned both
of the grinding stones. It was a good lesson for everyone.
Powdered spices were never again added to aviyal!
One morning in the 1920s, when there was virtually no
food in the ashram, he took what little food there was and
began to cook a meal. It was about 5.30 in the morning when
Bhagavan began to clean a handful of broken rice. He washed
it in a pot, took all the stones out, and then started cooking it
on a kumutti [charcoal brazier].
As the rice came to the boil, a devotee appeared with

two litres of milk. When the rice was cooked, Bhagavan put
a larger vessel on the kumutti and began cooking the rice
and milk together. A few minutes later another devotee came
with an offering of raisins and sugar candy. Bhagavan washed
the offering and put it in the pot. At about 6.30, when the
cooking was nearly finished, a party of devotees arrived from
Kumbakonam. They brought with them a big pot containing
idlis, vadai, chutney, special hill bananas and some cups
which had been made out of banana leaves. These banana-leaf
cups [donnai] were just what was needed to serve Bhagavan’s
home-made payasam. At about 7 a.m., after Bhagavan had
taken his bath, we all sat down and ate a sumptuous breakfast.
Bhagavan disliked waste. Once, as the midday meal was
being prepared, a few mustard seeds fell on the ground. The
cooks ignored them but Bhagavan picked them up, one by
one, with his fingernails and put them in a small pot.
Sama Iyer, one of the brahmins who worked in the
kitchen, remarked, ‘Bhagavan is taking these few mustard
seeds and saving them. Bhagavan is also very miserly about
saving money. For whom is Bhagavan saving all this?’
‘All these things are created by God,’ replied Bhagavan.
‘We should not waste even small things. If it is useful for
someone, it is good to keep it.’
Bhagavan’s insistence on frugality and his abhorrence of
waste led him to manufacture many tools and implements from
locally available materials. When he lived at Skandasramam
he once took a big granite stone, about 2½ feet square, and
spent many days smoothing its surface by rubbing sand and
water on it. At the end of that time the surface of the stone
was so smooth and polished one could see one’s face in it.
This stone was used to cool rice after it had been cooked. In
the late 1930s four or five devotees went to Skandasramam
to collect this stone because they knew it had been made by
Bhagavan. They carried it down the hill and installed it in
the new kitchen. Following Bhagavan’s example, several
devotees polished some new stones and used them for the
same purpose.
Although Bhagavan was willing to spend several hours
each day ensuring that the ashram food was cooked properly,
he disliked elaborate meals consisting of many dishes. He
was quite satisfied with rice, sambar and one vegetable dish.
A lady from Kerala, who was accustomed to preparing a lot
of dishes for each meal, once came for darshan and insisted
on cooking for everyone. After a great expenditure of time
and effort she succeeded in preparing and serving thirty-two
separate dishes. Bhagavan allowed her to serve each item
separately on his banana leaf, but when the serving was over
he mixed up all the offerings into a single homogenized lump.
By way of explanation he told her, ‘You had to expend
a lot of energy preparing all this food. Just collecting
the materials must have been very time consuming. One
vegetable – which is enough to clean the stomach and keep
one free of constipation – is enough. Why make all this?
Then there is another trouble: if you prepare thirty-two
dishes, the mind is always thinking, “Shall I eat this one
or that one?” So the mind is also dissipated while eating.
If there is one dish there is no trouble. We can eat it very
simply. Also, meals like this set a bad example to people
who have no food. Poor people will get to hear that we are
serving luxurious meals and think, “We are very hungry,
but these people, who are supposed to be simple sadhus,
are eating so many dishes.” Thoughts like these will cause
unnecessary jealousy.’
Later he added, ‘If Bhagavan were to eat one dish first,
the woman who is serving will think, “Oh, Bhagavan likes
this very much”. Then she will come and put another helping
on my plate. This is why I mix everything into a single ball.’
Shantammal, the head cook, once sent a message to
Bhagavan. She had become very weak as a result of working
long hours in the kitchen and there was pain in her body. So
what should she do?
Bhagavan’s reply was not very sympathetic. ‘She is

working for the sake of her ego. She has the feeling, “I am
doing all this work. I am responsible for everything in the
kitchen.” She is trying to show people that she is doing all
the work and trying to get a good name because of it. She is
complaining so that people will become aware of how hard
she is working. Tell her to work less. Tell her just to supervise
the other ladies. There are enough people in the kitchen to
do all the heavy work. It is not necessary for her to show off
in this way. If she follows my instructions, the pains will go
away.’
Bhagavan himself went to the kitchen and told her, ‘From
now on, just supervise the other women. Let them do all the
hard work.’
One Jayanti day, just before lunch, Bhagavan heard
Chinna Swami calling out in a loud voice, ‘No paradesis
[sannyasins] in the first batch!’
Bhagavan, who was walking towards the dining room,
turned back and went inside the old hall. He evidently
regarded himself as a paradesi and felt that he had been
barred from the dining room. This created a big problem
because it was a long-established custom that no one should
eat until Bhagavan had begun his meal. Chinna Swami came
to the hall, apologized for giving such a discriminatory
order, and requested Bhagavan to come and eat at the first
sitting. Several of the older devotees also came and added
their pleas. Bhagavan replied that he would not eat unless all
the paradesis were allowed to eat with him. Chinna Swami
readily agreed to this condition because the whole feeding
programme, involving thousands of people, could not be
initiated until Bhagavan took his seat in the dining room.
(i) Natesa Iyer

If devotees were due to arrive late after a long journey,
or if they came back to the ashram after a night-time
pradakshina, they would usually find Natesa Iyer waiting for
them with hot food. Preparing food at three in the morning
for newly arrived devotees never seemed to be a source of
irritation for him. In fact, quite the opposite. Serving devotees
and attending to their needs was a source of pleasure for him.
But Natesa Iyer also found himself in a kitchen that was
run by a group of bossy women who worked him hard. In
those days he would release his frustrations by having private
bursts of anger. He says: ‘I knew it was wrong to get angry,
irrespective of what the provocation might be, but these
outbursts of temper still kept happening. I had no control over
them. One day, while I was still experiencing anger, I went
to Bhagavan and told him about my problem. Although it
wasn’t my intention when I approached him, I found myself
asking if I could go round the hill. Bhagavan gave me a big
smile and nodded his head in approval. From that time on,
whenever I felt angry, I would start walking around the hill.
Before leaving, I would prostrate to Bhagavan. After I left he
would sometimes comment to people in the hall that I was
going round the hill to release myself from the grip of anger.
Eventually Natesa Iyer got tired of the way he was
being treated in the kitchen. He resolved to leave the ashram,
without telling anyone, and to return to Chidambaram. Since
he never touched money, that meant walking home, a distance
of almost 100 miles. In the early hours of the morning, before
it was light, he prostrated to Bhagavan, left the ashram and
began his journey home. He made good progress. By the
time evening came he had reached Villupuram, a town about
forty miles from Tiruvannamalai. He bathed in a nearby tank,
intending to sleep in an inviting hollow he had found in the
roots of a nearby tamarind tree. Before he settled down for
the night, he put vibhuti on his forehead, closed his eyes and
mentally made a short prayer to Bhagavan.
When he opened his eyes he saw Bhagavan himself
standing in front of him.
‘How did you get here?’ exclaimed Natesa Iyer in
amazement.
Bhagavan smiled and replied, ‘How far have you gone
away from me?’
Natesa Iyer told me that he dissolved in tears, unable to
give Bhagavan any kind of reply. The apparition of Bhagavan
turned away and began to walk towards Tiruvannamalai.
Though he was worn out from his long walk, Natesa
Iyer had no hesitation in following him all the way back
to Tiruvannamalai. The figure of Bhagavan eventually
disappeared in the gloom, but Natesa Iyer felt that Bhagavan
was always ahead of him, bringing him home. He reached the
ashram just before dawn.
When he entered the hall and prostrated to Bhagavan,
Bhagavan gave him the same smile he had given him in
Villupuram and asked him the same question: ‘How far have
you gone away from me?’
Natesa Iyer again broke down and cried. He went back
to the dining room, without giving any answer to Bhagavan,
and resumed his work there. From that day on, he swallowed
his pride and his anger and learned to surrender them to
Bhagavan. He never again complained about the behaviour
and comments of the women cooks.
This incident initiated a process of surrender in Natesa
Iyer that culminated in an understanding and a direct
experience that Bhagavan was not the body that everyone
saw moving about the ashram. This is what he once said:
“Bhagavan is not something or someone that we can fathom
with our minds. We have to admit our ignorance and our
inability to say anything about him that is true. When we
accept that Bhagavan is unfathomable, when we surrender
our compulsion to understand and explain him, we fall into
a deep silence that is the experience of the real Bhagavan

within us. This is what happened to me. I cannot tell you
anything about Bhagavan, because the real Bhagavan cannot
be explained in words. It is a sweet taste that you can only
know by tasting it for yourself.”
Natesa Iyer was never able to speak to Bhagavan because
in his presence his mind would sink into a silence in which
words were not possible.
He said: “Bhagavan was like Dakshinamurti to me. The
inner feeling of his presence was so stilling, I had no desire
to open my mouth in his presence. No thoughts or desires for
answers could survive the power of that presence.”
When one of the women complained about all the hard
work they were being forced to do, Bhagavan said, ‘Don’t
give any importance to what the body is doing. Try to go
beyond it and be a witness to it. You think you are suffering,
but you are actually being blessed by doing all this work in
the kitchen because you are feeding so many devotees. You
can pass on these blessings to the people who eat here by
having the right attitude to the work. If you do your work
with an introverted mind, the quality of food you prepare will
change in a subtle way. Devotees who eat food that has been
prepared by introverted minds will find that their own minds
will also become introverted.’
Sometime in the 1970s, Natesa Iyer was being taken
to a hospital in Vellore. At one point during the journey
he went into a deeply withdrawn state in which he was
unable to communicate with any of the devotees. He was so
unresponsive, that those in the car thought that he must have
died.
A few minutes later he opened his eyes and said very
clearly, in a strong voice, ‘You can take me to the hospital or
you can take me back to Ramanasramam. It doesn’t matter
any more. I have just had a deep experience of being. I now
know for certain that I am not the body. What happens to this
body is no longer important to me!’
We took him to the hospital and admitted him. Natesa

Iyer discharged himself after a few days and came back to
Ramanasramam. Soon after that he remarked, ‘On Thursday
at 6 p.m. I will be chanting Veda Parayana with the students.’
This surprised everyone because nobody had ever seen
him chant the Vedas. On the Thursday at 6 p.m. he passed
away. ‘Chanting Veda Parayana with the students’ was his
indirect way of informing others that he was about to merge
with Bhagavan, because the patasala boys sat on Bhagavan’s
samadhi while they chanted.
(ii) Sampurnamma
S ampurnamma narrates her experience:

“When my husband died, I fell into a state of deep
despair in which I thought that life was no longer worth
living. To get me out of this state my relatives urged me to
go to Ramanasramam to get some spiritual guidance from
Bhagavan, but at the time I was not in the mood to go
anywhere.
One day after my husband passed away I was worshipping
in the great Meenakshi Temple.
An old brahmin approached me and asked, ‘Won’t you
cook a meal for me?’
The request was a strange one, and it surprised me. A
brahmin would freely ask for already-prepared food from
another brahmin, but this man wanted food to be specially
made for him. I entered the inner shrine for a moment,
since I didn’t want to forget having my darshan, but when
I came out the old brahmin was not to be seen. Somehow,
the incident left a deep mark in my mind and I was unable
to forget this old man and his strange request. Later on,
I had good reasons to believe that the old brahmin in the
Meenakshi Temple was Bhagavan himself, and that his
strange request was a summons to come to him and to cook

for him.
In 1928 I accompanied my sister and her husband to see
Bhagavan. I was able to sit for long hours in Bhagavan’s
presence. During these times my mind would just stop
thinking and I would not notice the passage of time. I was not
taught to meditate, nor did I know how, by my own efforts,
to stop the mind from thinking. But in Bhagavan’s presence
it would happen by itself, by his grace alone. I would sit and
sit, immersed in a strange state in which the mind would not
have a single thought. It would not be a dull blank, for in
this state there would be a vivid awareness of mental clarity.
Those were days of deep and calm happiness in which my
devotion to Bhagavan took firm roots. It has never left me.
On this first visit I stayed for twenty days. As I was
leaving, Bhagavan took out a copy of Who am I? and gave it
to me with his own hands.
Back in my village I was restless. I had all kinds of
daydreams. I would dream that a pious lady would come to
take me to the ashram, or that Bhagavan was enquiring after
me and calling for me. I longed to go again to Ramanasramam,
so when my uncle left to visit Arunachala I eagerly accepted
his offer to take me with him. On my arrival I was asked to
help in the kitchen because the lady in charge of cooking had
to leave temporarily for her home. I gladly agreed, for it gave
me a chance to stay at the ashram and to be near Bhagavan.
In the beginning I was not good at cooking, for the
cooking methods at the ashram were different from mine, but
Bhagavan was always by my side, helping me with detailed
instructions. His firm principle was that health depended on
food that could be digested easily. So, we used to spend hours
on grinding and stewing.
Since he would taste all the food before it was served to
others, our food became consecrated, for all food offered to
God becomes holy.
Bhagavan paid very close attention to proper cooking.

To be sure that the seasoning was just right, I would give
him food to taste while it was still cooking. He was always
willing to leave the hall to give advice in the kitchen. Amidst
pots and pans he was relaxed and free. He would teach us
countless ways of cooking grains, pulses and vegetables, the
staples of our South Indian diet. While we were cooking he
would tell us stories from his childhood, or about his mother,
her ways and how she cooked sampurnam [sweet filling].
He once told me, ‘Your cooking reminds me of Mother’s
cooking. It is not surprising since our villages are so near.’
Whenever my going home was mentioned, he would
flatter me by saying, ‘Oh, our best lady cook wants to go
away!’
He was very strict with us in the kitchen. We soon learned
that his orders were to be obeyed down to the last detail. No
choice was left to us to guess or try on our own. We had to
do blindly as he taught us and, by doing so, be convinced that
he was always right and that he would never fail us if we put
our trust in him. When I think of it now, I can see clearly
that he used the work in the kitchen as a background for our
spiritual training. He taught us to listen to every word of his
and to carry it out faithfully. He taught us that work is love
for others. He imbued us with the spirit that we never can
work for ourselves. By his very presence he taught us that we
are always in the presence of God, and that all work is his. He
used cooking to teach us religion and philosophy.
In the kitchen he was the master cook, aiming at perfection
in taste and appearance. One would think from the care he
took that he liked good food and enjoyed a hearty meal. Not
at all. When meals were served, he would mix up the little
food he would allow to be put on his leaf – the sweet, the
sour and the savoury, everything together – and gulp it down
carelessly as if he had no taste in his mouth.
When we would tell him that it was not right to mix such
nicely prepared dishes, he would say, ‘Enough of multiplicity.
Let us have some unity!’
It was obvious that all the extraordinary care he gave to
cooking was not for our sake. He wanted us to keep good
health, of course, but more than that he wanted an opportunity
to teach us how to live. For those who worked in the kitchen,
cooking became a deep spiritual experience.
‘You must cover your vegetables when you cook them,’
he used to say. ‘Only then will they keep their flavour and be
fit to eat. It is the same with the mind. You must put a lid over
it and let it simmer quietly. Then only does a man become
food fit for God to eat.’
One day some friends were going sightseeing for a
couple of days and I wanted to go with them. Shyly I went to
Bhagavan and asked for leave to go.
He looked displeased and said, ‘I thought you could be
depended on to cook for me properly. Now you want to go.
Why are you always so restless? Anyhow, you are going, are
you not? When will you be back?’
‘I will surely be here within two days,’ I promised.
It took me four days to return.
When I presented myself before Bhagavan he said, ‘You
were sure you would return in two days. Now you know that
nothing is in your hands. Going and coming are not yours to
decide.’
I learned from this to stick to my job and to make of it
an offering to him.
One day he gave me a copy of Ribhu Gita and asked
me to study it. I was not at all anxious to pore over such a
difficult text, good only for learned pandits, and asked to be
excused, saying that I did not understand a single word of it.
‘It does not matter that you do not understand,’ he said.
‘It will still be of great benefit to you.’
He would allow nothing to go to waste. Even a grain of

rice or a mustard seed lying on the ground would be picked
up, dusted carefully, taken to the kitchen and put in its proper
tin. I asked him why he gave himself so much trouble for a
grain of rice.
He replied, ‘Yes, this is my way. Everything is in my
care and I let nothing go to waste. In these matters I am quite
strict. If I was married, no woman could get on with me. She
would run away.’
On another occasion he told me, ‘This is the property of
my father Arunachala. I have to preserve it and pass it on to
his children.’
His economical habits would sometimes lead him to use
for food things we would not even dream were edible: wild
plants, bitter roots and pungent leaves were turned under his
guidance into delicious dishes.
Once a feast was being prepared for his birthday.
Devotees sent food in large quantities. Some sent rice,
some sugar, some fruits. One devotee sent a huge load of
aubergines that we had to eat day after day. When they
had all been eaten, Bhagavan asked us to cook the stalks,
which were lying in a big heap in a corner, and make them
into a curry! I was stunned, for even cattle would refuse
to eat such useless, spiky fodder. Bhagavan insisted that
the stalks were edible, so we put them in a pot to boil
along with some dry peas. After six hours of boiling they
were as hard as ever. We were at a loss what to do, yet
we did not dare to disturb Bhagavan. We need not have
worried because he always knew when he was needed in
the kitchen. He would often leave the hall, even in the
middle of a discussion, if we needed his advice. A casual
visitor would think that his mind was always on cooking.
In reality his grace was on the cooks. As usual, he did not
fail us in this occasion.
He appeared at an opportune moment in the kitchen and
asked, ‘How is the curry getting on?’
‘Is it a curry we are cooking? We are boiling steel nails!’

I exclaimed, laughing.
He stirred the stalks with the ladle for a few seconds and
then went away without saying anything. Soon afterwards we
found them quite tender. The dish was simply delicious and
when it was served everybody asked for a second helping.
Bhagavan challenged the diners to guess what vegetable they
were eating, but, of course, no one got it right. Everybody
praised the curry and the cook, except Bhagavan, who was
the principal architect of the meal. He swallowed the little
he was served in one mouthful like a dose of medicine and
refused a second helping. I was very disappointed that after
taking so much trouble to cook these stalks, he would not
even taste them properly.
Next day I overheard him telling someone, ‘Sampurnamma
was distressed that I did not eat her wonderful curry. Can she
not see that everyone who eats is myself? What does it matter
who eats the food? It is the cooking that matters, not the cook
or the eater. A thing done well, with love and devotion, is its
own reward. What happens to it later matters little, for it is
out of our hands.’
It was clear that Bhagavan did not want me to treat him
differently from others. He corrected my faults by refusing
to touch the very thing I was so proud of and eager to serve.
In the evening, before I left the ashram to go to town to
sleep, he would ask me what food was available for cooking
the next day. When I arrived at daybreak the following
morning, I would find everything ready: vegetables peeled
and cut, lentils soaked, spices ground, and coconuts scraped.
As soon as he saw me in the kitchen, he would give detailed
instructions about what should be cooked and how. He would
then sit in the hall awhile before returning to the kitchen to
see how things were moving. He would taste whatever we
had cooked, go back to the hall, and then return again an hour
or two later for a further progress report. It was so strange to
see him so eager to cook and so unwilling to eat.
I once prepared some semia [vermicelli] beautifully.

They were fluffy and separate. He squeezed his share into a
hard little ball and chewed it.
‘Why are you doing that, Bhagavan?’ I asked. ‘You have
spoiled your noodles. They are not meant to be squeezed like
this.’
‘Why all this separateness?’ he asked. ‘Should not all be
one indistinguishable whole?’
He had ruined his meal merely to teach me a lesson in
Vedanta!
As a cook, Bhagavan was perfect. He would never put in
too much or too little salt or spices. So long as we followed
his instructions, everything would go well with our cooking,
but the moment we tried to act on our own we would get into
trouble. Even then, if we sought his help, he would taste our
brew and tell us what we had to do in order to make the food
palatable. From these experiences we came to understand
fully that in dealing with him our only duty was to obey.
This training became a part of our lives. By daily practice
we learned to have our minds always focussed on Bhagavan.
Whenever we were afraid, anxious or in pain, we had only to
think of him to feel his helping hand.
In coming to and from the ashram I sometimes had to
walk in the dark along a jungle path which skirted the hill.
When Bhagavan noticed that it made me afraid, he told
me, ‘Why are you afraid? Am I not with you?’
Bhagavan confirmed that he was protecting me when
Chinna Swami, the manager of the ashram, once asked me,
when I came at dusk, ‘How could you come all alone? Were
you not afraid?’
Bhagavan rebuked him: ‘Why are you surprised? Was
she alone? Was I not with her all the time?’
Once Subbalakshmi Ammal and myself decided to walk
around the hill. We started very early, long before daybreak.
We were very afraid of the jungle, which we knew housed
snakes, panthers, and even a few evil men. After walking a
little way we saw a strange, blue light in front of us. It was

uncanny and we thought it was a ghost, but it led us along the
path. When we realised it was guiding us, we felt safe with
it. It left us at dawn.
Another time the two of us were walking around the hill
early in the morning and chattering about our homes and
relatives. We noticed a man following us at a distance. We
had to pass through a stretch of lonely forest, so we stopped
to let him pass and go ahead. He too stopped. When we
walked, he also walked.
We got quite alarmed, and started praying aloud, ‘Lord
Arunachala! Only you can help us, only you can save us!’
The man caught up with us and remarked, ‘Yes,
Arunachala is our only refuge. Keep your mind on him
constantly. It is his light that fills all space. Always have him
in your mind.’
We wondered who he might be. Was he sent by Bhagavan
to remind us that it is not proper to talk of worldly matters
when going around the hill? Or was it Arunachala himself in
human disguise? We looked back. But there was nobody on
the path! In so many ways Bhagavan made us feel that he
was always with us, until the conviction grew and became a
part of our nature.
In those days we lived on the threshold of a new world,
a world of ecstasy and joy. Time just rolled on noiselessly,
unfelt and unperceived. The heaviest task seemed a trifle.
We knew no fatigue. At home the least bit of work seemed
tiresome and made us grumble, but in the ashram we worked
all day and were always ready for more. Once Bhagavan
came to the kitchen and saw that the cooking had been done
and that everything had been cleared away. He told us that
he was surprised that the work had been completed so soon.
‘No mere human hands were working here, Bhagavan,’ I
said. ‘Good spirits helped us all the time.’
He laughed and said, ‘The great spirit, Arunachala, is
here, towering over you. It is he who works, not you.’
I once suggested that we should eat our dinner in the

open air, partly because the moon was bright in the sky and
partly because there was quite a crowd of visitors to feed.
Bhagavan agreed and we arranged for the food to be served
in the courtyard by the hall. As Bhagavan sat with us there,
we saw a strong and clear halo around his head. Was it the
moonlight or some other cause? I cannot say, but the halo
was there and many could see it. It made a deep impression
on us and we talked about it for weeks.
I should mention that just before the meal somebody
brought a big basketful of sweets, enough for all. Was it
coincidence or Bhagavan’s wonderful play?
During their periods, woman were not given ashram food
to eat, nor were they allowed to enter the ashram. On one
particular month none of my relatives was there, nor could I
arrange for my food elsewhere. Since I had no one to feed me
I was forced to fast. I sat in a stone shed outside the ashram,
where beggars usually spent the night. Bhagavan enquired
about me and was told that I would not be coming for three
days.
‘Where is she?’ he asked.
‘In the mantapam in front of the gate,’ was the reply.
‘Bring her in and feed her decently,’ ordered Bhagavan.
Everybody was shocked, for it was a clear breach of all
rules and customs.
‘But she is impure,’ they all protested.
‘Who is pure and who is impure? All are one, all are the
same!’
One needs to know the South Indian brahmin to
understand what a crisis Bhagavan had created. The rules
governing women having their periods were most severe and
were rigidly enforced. The brahmins believed that breaking
these rules would pollute the entire ashram and produce a
public outcry. It speaks a lot for the devotion of the inmates
that they very reluctantly called me in. Bhagavan wanted to
go to the kitchen himself to bring me some food, but the

devotees asked him to wait. They brought some food and
fed me in front of him. An ancient rule was broken and he
sanctified the breach with his presence. He wanted to teach us
all the lesson that in spirituality the human being comes first
and that compassion is the supreme law. Some understood,
but many looked daggers at me or scolded me for polluting
them all by causing them to feed me.
Once I sought Bhagavan’s permission to accompany
some friends who were going on a pilgrimage to Benares. He
made fun of me.
‘What do you expect to find in Benares that you cannot
find here?’ he asked. ‘The Lord of Benares [Siva] is here.
He is himself Arunachala. Why go in search of him who is
already here with you?’
Since he would not give permission, I decided to abandon
my trip.
The next morning he told me, ‘Sampurnamma, I had
a dream last night. I saw you worshipping God in the Kasi
Viswanatha Temple [in Benares].’
Was it just a dream? I felt that he had taken me there,
had given me a chance to worship and had then brought me
back to the ashram.
I did go to Benares after Bhagavan left his body. When
I entered the holy waters of the Ganga, I had a feeling of my
body dissolving and myself floating up delightfully into the
sky. For a few minutes I was quite unconscious of everything
except of being carried away.
According to Bhagavan, high souls often visited the
ashram in animal bodies. Once, for example, a white-breasted
eagle, which is considered holy in India, flew into the hall
and sat on the top of a cupboard near Bhagavan. After a while
it flew around him and disappeared.
‘He is a siddha [perfected being] who came to pay me a
visit,’ said Bhagavan most seriously.
On another occasion he remarked, ‘When I was on the

hill, a crow used to keep me company. He was a rishi in
a crow’s body. He would not eat from anybody’s hand but
mine. He died soon after.’
The respect he showed to animals and birds was most
striking. He really treated them as equals. They were served
food first like respected visitors and, if they happened to die
in the ashram, they would be given a decent burial and a
memorial stone. The tombs of the deer, the crow and the cow
Lakshmi can still be seen in the ashram near the back gate.
Who knows how many different forms, animal, human,
and divine, visited this embodiment of the Almighty? We,
common and ignorant women, knew only the bliss of his
presence and could not tear ourselves away from the beloved
of all.
(iii) Sundaram (Sadhu Trivenigiri)
W hen I was in Tiruchendur in 1932 it came to my mind

that if I was intent on leading a spiritual life I should
regard all women as my mother or Valli [the consort of
Subramanian, the son of Siva]. One evening, a few days later,
I went to the shrine of Lord Subramanian.
As I stood for half an hour before the principal deity,
the following words flashed into my consciousness: ‘Here I
am, a God who does not talk. Go to Tiruvannamalai. There,
Maharshi is a God who talks.’
This was how Maharshi’s grace manifested itself to me.
I had not even seen Maharshi at that time.
In December 1932 I wrote to Ramanasramam and
received a reply that conveyed Bhagavan’s upadesa that the
body is the result of prarabdha. It said that though the joys
and sorrows the body experiences are inevitable, they can be
borne easily if we put all our burdens on God.
One day, in 1933, a man I knew, Vakil Vaikuntam

Venkatarama Iyer, suddenly spoke to me about Maharshi and
gave me a copy of Sri Ramana Vijayam, the Tamil biography
of Bhagavan. I read it eagerly. When I came to the part where
his mother was crying before him, urging him to return home,
I was choked with tears. My mother noticed this and gave me
some advice:
“God is calling you. Go to him. This path will result
in the salvation of twenty-seven generations of our family.
This is the upadesa of Mother Truth. Go along this path. If
you meet any obstacle, regard it as maya. You will soon be
liberated.”
In February 1933 I wrote to the ashram again and received
a prompt reply. In response to my various enquiries about diet
and meditation I was given the following written instructions:
Sattvic food will keep the mind clear and will help
your meditation. This is the experience of sadhakas. Eat to
appease hunger and not to satisfy taste or craving. In due
course this will lead to control of the senses. Later, continued
and concentrated meditation will result in the annihilation of
desires.
It is the Atman that activates the mind and the breath.
Watching the breath will result in kevala kumbhakam
[stopping of breath]. Control of breath will lead to temporary
control of the mind and vice versa.
Intense and constant japa will lead to ajapa [spontaneous
or involuntary japa]. Since sound is subtler than form, japa is
preferable to meditating on or worshipping a form or image.
The mantra ‘I am Brahman’ is the best one. To those who seek
the source of the ‘I’, no other mantra or upasana [worship]
is needed.
After my wife’s death I went to Ramanasramam.
Bhagavan’s younger brother, Swami Niranjanananda, whom
everyone called Chinna Swami, was the ashram manager. I
was fortunate to be taken onto the ashram staff within a day
of my arrival. After a period in the book-shop, I was asked to

work in the kitchen. There I had the good fortune of working
under Bhagavan’s direct supervision.
Prior to my arrival at Ramanasramam I had been suffering
from asthma for many years. It gave me a lot of trouble during
cooking, but I did not bother to mention it to Bhagavan. I felt
that my job was to endure to the very end and let things take
their own course.
Bhagavan used to prepare various kinds of chutney, which
were usually made of coconut, fragrant herbs and condiments.
When something unusual was ready, he would give everybody
in the kitchen a pinch to taste. On such occasions we would
take it with our eyes closed, deeming it to be his prasad.
Once he gave me a pinch of some chutney and said,
“This is medicine for you.”
Without giving much thought to it I swallowed the titbit.
A little later I realised that I was completely cured of asthma.
It was strange how little I understood Bhagavan in the
beginning. At first I merely thought of him to be a good man,
but after some time I slowly came to understand that I was
dealing with God himself, my supreme Master, in whose
hands lay my life and my salvation.
Soon after I arrived I decided to spend forty-eight
consecutive nights in the presence of Bhagavan. On the
fifteenth day I had a dream in which the attendant Madhava
Swami had an epileptic attack and suddenly grasped my
hand. I cried for help to Bhagavan who pulled away Madhava
Swami’s hand and gave me milk to drink. When I woke up
I still had the taste of the milk in my mouth. I felt that I had
drunk the ‘milk of wisdom’. From then on my mind started
to turn inwards.
Somebody once complained to Bhagavan that the ashram
food was too pungent, that it was so full of chillies and spices,
it left a burning feeling in the stomach.
This man, who wanted us to serve bland food, asked

Bhagavan: “When sattvic food is essential for spiritual
practice, how is it that the ashram food is so heavily spiced?”
Bhagavan explained to him that so long as the ingredients
are pure and prepared in a clean place in the proper way,
seasoning is a matter of taste and habit.
To illustrate the point that heavy seasoning does not
make food less sattvic, he remarked, “In the North, people
take plenty of milk and butter and hardly any spices, yet they
quarrel and fight all the time. In Thanjavur, where they spice
their food so that it tastes like fire, the people are cool-headed
and mild. We must prepare food that pleases everybody. Those
who find it too hot can dilute it with rice or buttermilk.”
The ashram resources would not permit an increase of
the permanent staff beyond a certain number, so there was
always plenty of work to do. An unwritten rule demanded
that until the last meal was served and cleared, the workers
should attend to their duties full-time. Sitting in meditation
or in Bhagavan’s hall during working hours was strongly
discouraged. The manager argued, with good reasons, that
because devoted service to the ashram was itself a spiritual
practice of the highest order, no other practice was needed.
He would not allow us to linger in the hall even when
we could see that there were interesting discussions and
happenings going on there. When we sneaked in and tried to
hide ourselves behind peoples’ backs, Bhagavan would look
at us significantly, as if saying: “Better go back to your work.
Don’t ask for trouble.”
Madhava Swami served in the hall as Bhagavan’s
attendant. He also looked after the library books that were
kept there. One day, while he was binding a book, a devotee
asked Bhagavan if he could borrow a book from the library.
Bhagavan asked Madhava Swami to get it saying, “You
do my work and I will do yours.”
Bhagavan took Madhava Swami’s book and carried on

with the binding while Madhava Swami found the library
book.
A devotee who was present made the following comments:
‘“My work” means looking after the needs that arise in the
minds of devotees or anything from Bhagavan. “Your work
is to get liberation, which is not possible without Bhagavan’s
grace and help.’
Bhagavan heard this comment and agreed: ‘Hum! Hum!
That is what it is.’
Bhagavan was fully aware of all the thoughts that passed
through our minds while we sat before him. Once, while I was
meditating in the presence of Bhagavan, my mind persisted in
wandering. I couldn’t control it so I gave up meditating and
opened my eyes.
Bhagavan at once sat up and said, ‘Oh! You abandon
meditation thinking it is the nature [svabhava] of the mind to
wander. Whatever we practise becomes the svabhava. If control
is practised persistently, that will become the svabhava.’
Yet another teaching for me!
At night, after dinner was over, we would all collect around
Bhagavan. The visitors had left by that time, so we had him
all to ourselves. We felt like a big family collected together
after a day’s work. During these short hours Bhagavan would
enquire about our welfare, chat with us, make us laugh, and
also give instructions for the next day.
With time I realised that working with Bhagavan in the
kitchen was not mere cooking, but definitely a form of spiritual
training. The first lesson in spiritual education is to learn, and
to learn for good, that one must obey the Guru implicitly
without questioning him or using one’s own judgment in any
way. Nothing would make Bhagavan as happy as when he
saw that we had grasped the essential point that the commands
of the Master should be immediately carried out and not be
delayed by either a desire to please him or a desire to perform
a task correctly. Even if we knew a better way of doing a

job, we still had to do it exactly as the Master told us. It
might have appeared that by obeying him the work would be
ruined, but still one had to obey. One must master this art of
instantaneous and unquestioning obedience, for the secret of
realisation lies in the utter surrender and renunciation of one’s
own judgment.
I learned about instant obedience in an interesting way.
One morning, when I was cutting vegetables with
Bhagavan, he said, ‘Sundaram, take this hurricane light and
pick up the mangoes that have fallen from the tree.’
I said ‘Yes’, but continued cutting up the vegetables.
Bhagavan then called to me: ‘Sundaram! Attend to what
I said first. It is from me that everything rises. Attend to it
first.’
I took this as both advice and instruction. I felt that he
was not merely reprimanding me. From the way he phrased
his remarks I felt that he was instructing me to take up the
practice of self-enquiry. My friends also thought that this was
what Bhagavan meant.
Our willingness to obey Bhagavan was severely tested by
his strict instructions that no food should ever go to waste. In
the good old days on the hill, all food collected during the day
would be distributed among those present and consumed then
and there. Nothing would be left for the next day, not even
uncooked provisions. It was a beggar’s life, pure and simple.
When the number of devotees increased and Bhagavan’s
mother came to live with her son, she started a kitchen for
the sake of the devotees whom she wanted to serve. This led
to a Ramanasramam with a storeroom, a kitchen and regular
cooking.
Bhagavan himself was an excellent cook and made a
point of teaching us to cook properly. Cooking is the least
rewarding work, for good cooks are usually poor eaters, and
all profit goes to others. That is probably why Bhagavan
selected cooking as a training ground for some of his most

devoted disciples.
Bhagavan once came to the kitchen before dawn and put
some of the previous day’s soup on the fire for heating. After
some leaves had been washed and cut, he told me to mix
them in the soup and carry on stirring them until they lost
their bright-green colour. I stirred for a long time, but the
leaves did not change colour, nor did Bhagavan return to tell
me what to do. As the soup began to dry up, I began to get
a little apprehensive over the possibility that there would be
no sambar for breakfast. Bhagavan came back very late, just
before breakfast.
‘What! Are you still stirring?’ he asked with a bright
smile.
He was obviously pleased that I had obeyed him implicitly
and asked me to go on stirring. The sambar was ready in time
and was delicious.
Every morning, just before breakfast, Bhagavan would
enter the kitchen. The vessels containing coffee, idlis and
sambar were kept ready, covered and shining bright.
He would lift the lid, look inside and say, ‘This is coffee.
These are idlis. This is sambar.’
We all felt that this consecrated the food before it was
distributed to the visitors and inmates.
One morning, I wanted to do giripradakshina instead of
cutting vegetables. I asked Bhagavan if I could go. Devotees
nearby made signs to Bhagavan not to let me go as there was
a lot of work to be done.
Bhagavan said, ‘Is not desire for pradakshina a sankalpa
[an intention or a decision to follow a particular course of
action]? Let him go.’
I told Bhagavan, ‘I decided last night to go with somebody.
That is all.’
Bhagavan responded, ‘Oh! You have made the sankalpa.
Sankalpas lead to samsara. Fulfil the sankalpa. You need not
cut vegetables.’
I took this episode as an upadesa not to make sankalpas

thereafter.
Once Bhagavan was frying a large quantity of condiments
in a big iron pan over a strong fire. I was standing beside
him when he quietly asked me to remove the pan from the
fire at once. Probably he saw that more heating would burn
the spices. There was nothing nearby to hold it with, so I
caught the pan with my bare hands, lifted it, and put it on the
ground. I was not at all afraid to touch the hot iron, nor was
I surprised that I could lift it without feeling its weight. The
surprise came later when I realised how utterly impossible my
feat was. It was a striking instance of the power of obedience
to one’s Guru. We can all do miracles at the command of the
Master. We have only to obey. It looks as if what he cannot
do himself he can do through his devotees, provided their
faith in him is absolute.
Bhagavan looked after all our needs and always enquired
about our welfare if we were sick.
One day for example, when Mr Chadwick was down
with a fever, Bhagavan asked, ‘How is he now?’
‘I don’t know; I haven’t seen him today,’ I replied.
‘Please go and see him at once,’ said Bhagavan. ‘He left
his country and travelled thousands of miles, staying with us
and making us his own. Should we not take care of him and
look to his needs?’
I went at once to see Chadwick and found that his fever
had left him.
Sometimes I was fortunate enough to be able to serve
food to Bhagavan with my own hands. I was very alert and
careful for I had studied his habits and knew what I had to do
in order to please him. Even so, he would be more alert than
I and would notice the least mistake.
‘Why did you serve me more than usual? Do I need more
food today than yesterday? And why do I get more sweets
and dainties than other people? How do you dare to make
distinctions like this?’
The people nearby would plead for me. ‘No, Bhagavan,’

they would say, ‘Sundaram did not serve you more. Look, we
got as much as you did.’
But Bhagavan would not be so easily appeased. ‘You do
not know, the ego is strong in him. His giving preference to
me is the working of his ego.’
I could not make out where I was at fault, but I took his
reprimands as a kind of blessing and would not worry about
them.
It would sometimes happen that some soup or vegetables
would remain after serving everybody. It was Bhagavan’s
standing order that such leftovers should be used as stock
for the next day’s breakfast sambar. As idlis with sambar
was our standard breakfast, and since we needed sambar
every morning, the leftovers from the previous day came in
handy. But this order created a serious problem, for custom
demanded that no leftover could be used the next day. Food
cooked the day before was considered polluted and polluting.
It was a matter of custom only, because fried food was
excluded from the rule, and sweets and vadai were kept for
days. Bhagavan would come to the kitchen in the early hours
in the morning, see what was leftover from the night before,
warm it up, dilute it, and add some more ingredients for the
morning’s sambar. He would sometimes use a pot that was
still black from the previous day’s cooking, when tradition
demanded that it should first be washed and smeared with a
paste of mud.
The injunction against food from the previous day is very
much respected in the higher castes of South India, and no
doubt it is a very salutary custom. But Bhagavan, insisting
that the avoidance of waste overruled everything else, would
never permit God’s gifts to be thrown away. As for giving
leftovers to beggars, it was not practicable, for Bhagavan
insisted that beggars be given the same food as everybody
else, and not some inferior stuff! Even dogs had to be fed
from the common meal, and first, too!
The ladies would come in the morning to clean the

kitchen and make it ready for the day’s cooking. When they
found Bhagavan there brewing the morning’s sambar from
the previous day’s leftovers, they would be deeply distressed,
but would not, of course, dare to admonish him. Bhagavan
watched them and waited. Their distress was real and deep for
they were risking loss of caste. On the other hand, Bhagavan’s
instructions were clear – no waste of food in the ashram, and
the same food for all. It was a tug of war between the wisdom
of the Guru and the cultural habits of his followers.
The ladies tried to be in the kitchen very early, but he
was always there first, cooking the sambar. One day some of
the sambar was taken to a devotee’s house, but when it was
discovered that it was a sambar cooked from the previous
day’s leftovers, a special ceremony was ordered to purify the
house.
On hearing this, Bhagavan told the ladies, ‘Call the
purifiers and get your kitchen purified. I shall never more
enter your kitchen!’
The women, for the sake of their orthodox customs, lost
Bhagavan’s constant presence, company and guidance. It was
a real tragedy. All the devotees in the ashram believed that
Bhagavan was God incarnate, and that he came to purify us,
bless us, and put our feet firmly on the path to liberation.
Yet when God himself went against their religious customs,
they preferred to cling to their customs rather than to God.
Thus again and again do we drive God from our midst. A
disciple is expected to choose between truth and convention.
Blessed were those who had no other rule than obedience to
Bhagavan.
It was clear that Bhagavan was trying to teach us the
simple lesson that in his presence no rule was valid except
the rule of absolute surrender. But it was not an easy lesson
to learn. Again and again old habits and loyalties would
assert themselves and make us pit our will against his, to our
greatest harm. Once for example, a lunar eclipse was due at
about 7:30 p.m., which was the usual time for food in the
ashram. It was decided by the management that food would
be served at 5.30 p.m., to enable everybody to avoid eating
during the eclipse, but Bhagavan was neither consulted nor
informed. Perhaps it was taken for granted that meals are not
taken at eclipse time. The bell rang at 5.30. When Bhagavan
enquired what the bell was for, he was told that the dinner
was to be early as an eclipse was coming.
‘Oh, is it so?’ he said, but he did not join the others in
the dining hall.
At 7.30 p.m. Bhagavan looked significantly at the clock,
but there was no bell. No food was served. At 9.30 p.m.
when the eclipse was over, the bell was again sounded and
everyone went to eat except Bhagavan, who refused to leave
the hall. After the people were told that Bhagavan was not
hungry, they had their dinner.
One day we were cooking a variety of yam that would
irritate the throat if it were not cooked very well. In earlier
days Bhagavan would have known what was going on and
there would have been no trouble. But this took place after
he had stopped coming to the kitchen. Because the yam was
not properly cooked, I received orders not to serve any to
Bhagavan. I did not dare disobey, so Bhagavan did not get a
portion of the yam.
He noticed it at once and said to his attendant, ‘Look, I
was not served that yam.’
The attendant called me and I had to explain that the yam
might irritate his throat, for it had not been properly boiled.
‘Was it right then to serve it to everybody else?’ asked
Bhagavan angrily.
Visitors would not always be treated equally and
complaints would often reach Bhagavan that in the matter
of food or accommodation distinctions were being made.
For instance, the higher castes had facilities to follow the
restrictions and limitations imposed on them from birth, but
similar arrangements were not made for other castes, some
of whom observed different rules. Hospitality demanded that

the needs of visitors should be met, but there were always
grumblers.
To solve this problem Bhagavan once suggested the
following solution: ‘Mix rice with vegetables or curds, wrap
measured quantities in leaves and give each visitor a parcel.
In this way everybody will be served equally and only those
who come for their spiritual progress will have the courage
to stay. The idea that people come here to have a good time
will vanish, and other troubles along with it.’
The idea was not considered. In the dining hall a
government minister would sit for food by the side of his
peon. The feeling that in Bhagavan’s presence all were equal
was very strong. Only the orthodox brahmins, who would not
dine with other castes at home, would not be permitted to do
so in the ashram. They had to eat in their own enclosure. The
ashram’s policy was that if they obeyed caste rules at home,
the ashram was not the place to break them.
Bhagavan did not discourage people from following their
religious customs at home, but in the ashram he would not
take all these customs for granted. At Ramanasramam he was
both the religion and the custom, and those who forgot it had
to face his very strong will!
(iv) Shantammal
P rior to coming to Bhagavan, Shantammal having been

widowed, spent time in Rameshwaram where she read the
Kaivalyam and received the upadesa of a mantra from a Guru,
which she practiced regularly. She continued to read holy
books for ten years. Around this time she saw Bhagavan’s
photo with Muruganar and felt a very strong urge to go and
see him. However, she was very poor and it took her a year
to collect the necessary money.
She reminiscences: “In 1927 I, along with three other

women, went to Tiruvannamalai. By that time Bhagavan had
come down from the hill and was living in a hut near his
mother’s samadhi. We rented a place in the town, had a bath
and went to see him. We found him sitting on a bench in a
thatched shed with Muruganar at his side. As soon as I saw
him I knew he was God in human form. I bowed reverently
to him and said, ‘The dream of my life has come true. Today
I am blessed. Grant that my mind does not trouble me any
more.’
Bhagavan turned to Muruganar and said, ‘Ask her to find
out whether there is such a thing as mind. If there is, ask her
to describe it.’
I stood still, not knowing what to say.
Muruganar gave me his explanation: ‘Don’t you see?
You have been initiated in the search for the Self.’
I was very confused since his upadesa meant little to me
at the time, but I remembered to honour Bhagavan by singing
a verse from Ramana Stuti Panchakam:
Your spiritual splendour fills the universe with its
perfume. Attracted by it, numberless beings turn their face
to you. I too grew restless and sought you eagerly. ‘Where is
he?’ I enquired, and now I have come to you.
When Bhagavan asked me how I had come to know this
song, Muruganar explained that he had given me a copy of
the book.
On this first visit we stayed for forty days, a period which
included the famous Kartigai Deepam festival. During the ten
days of the festival so many people were coming from three
in the morning until twelve at night that Bhagavan had to be
protected by a bamboo fence. Each day during our stay we
would cook some food, sharing the expenses, and take it to
the ashram. Bhagavan would taste a little and then ask that
the remainder be distributed among the devotees. In those
days Bhagavan’s brother, Chinna Swami, was cooking for the
ashram. Some provisions were sent from the town by various

devotees, but the supply was very precarious. Often there
were no curries or sambar, only plain rice and a piece of
pickle.
I wanted to stay on until Bhagavan’s birthday, which was
to be celebrated about a month after the Kartigai festival, but
the other three women had to return. Since I had to go back
with them, I went to Bhagavan to ask him permission to
leave. Bhagavan asked me to wait an extra day so that I could
receive a copy of the newly printed book, Upadesa Saram.
In accordance with his wishes I delayed my departure. The
following day he gave me a copy of the new book with his
own hands. As he gave it to me, the thought of leaving him
broke my heart and I wept bitterly.
Bhagavan very kindly said, ‘No, don’t cry. You are going
to Ramanathapuram, but you are not leaving Arunachala. Go
and come back soon.’
I spent a year at Ramanathapuram, living the way I did
before. As the date of Bhagavan’s next birthday got nearer
and nearer, I felt a great desire to go to him, but I did not
even have the money to buy a train ticket. Despite this lack
I resolved to start on the Saturday before his birthday, come
what may. On the preceding Friday an invitation arrived from
Sri Ramanasramam. Later, I came to know that Bhagavan
himself had mentioned my name to the dispatchers. I took
the invitation, which had Bhagavan’s picture on it, to the
women in the Ramanathapuram palace and explained my
financial problem to them. After hearing my story they gave
me thirty rupees to attend the Jayanti celebrations. One who
is determined to visit Bhagavan, in spite of every apparent
obstacle, soon finds that all obstacles somehow vanish. This,
I have found, is the experience of every true devotee.
This time when I arrived Bhagavan was sitting on a
sofa in a newly built hall, explaining something from Ulladu
Narpadu to Dandapani Swami.
When he saw me his first question was, ‘Have you

received a copy of this book? I asked them to post one to
you.’
How my Lord remembers me by name and how loving is
his personal attention to my needs! What have I, an ignorant
woman, done to deserve such kindness? How can I afford to
keep away from him?
I stayed at the ashram as if it were my own home. At
night I would sleep in some devotee’s house, but from dawn
to dusk I would help with the ashram’s chores.
When the celebrations were over and the guests were
leaving, I naturally felt that I too would have to go. But how
could I leave Bhagavan? One day I gathered my courage and
told Bhagavan about my deep urge to stay on.
‘As long as I am with you, Bhagavan, my mind is at
peace. Away from you I am restless. What am I to do?’
‘Stay here until your mind gets settled,’ he replied. ‘After
that you can go anywhere and nothing will disturb you.’
But how could I remain? I had no funds to stay in the
town. The ashram was poor too. Often there was not enough
food for everyone. How could I ask them to take me in? Why
should they? Although I could not conceive of any means by
which I could support myself, I decided to stay at the feet of
my Guru instead of returning to Ramanathapuram. However,
I knew that it would need some kind of miracle to keep me
at the ashram.
While I was thinking about my future, the miracle
actually happened! I was going towards the dining hall when
I overheard Chinna Swami and Ramakrishna Swami talking
to each other. Chinna Swami, who was then our cook, was
unwell and was planning to leave for Madras for treatment.
I heard him ask Ramakrishna Swami, ‘Would Shantammal
agree to cook in my absence?’
Of course I would agree! I was dreaming of nothing else.
How merciful was Bhagavan! I planned to stay for another
two months, but in the end I stayed forever.
When I was put in charge of the cooking, Bhagavan would

often come to help. Could I dream of greater happiness? He
would get everything ready and tell me what to cook and
how. With him near me I was tireless. No amount of work
was too much for me. I did not feel I was working because
I was moving with God. And all the while I was silently
wondering at my great good fortune of being allowed to live
and work in his great and holy presence.
At that period of the ashram’s life Bhagavan was
unusually active, working both in the kitchen and outside.
He would clean grain, shell nuts, grind seeds, stitch
together the leaf plates we ate from, and so on. We would
join him in every task and listen to his stories, his jokes,
his reminiscences and his spiritual teachings. Occasionally,
he would scold us lovingly like a mother. All the Vedanta
I learned came from him in easy and happy lessons. At
every hour and place, at each task, the work was from him
and for him. In this way a permanent link was established
between us. He was always in the centre, so it was easy
for us to keep our minds on him. In fact, it was impossible
to do anything else, for we had to refer to him all the
time. All initiative and responsibility were his. He would
attend to everything. Whatever trouble cropped up during
cooking or in daily life, we had only to mention it to him
and he would set it right. Everything we did, every problem
we faced, was made use of in teaching us the art of total
reliance on him.
When I first worked in the kitchen, there were no proper
jars for foodstuffs. Everything was kept in tins and pots,
which would leak and spill and make the floor in the kitchen
messy and slippery. Once, when I scrubbed the kitchen very
carefully, Bhagavan congratulated me on the neatness in the
kitchen.
I sighed: ‘What is the use, Swami? People will come and
spill the oil and scatter the flour and it will be all the same
again. We must have proper jars and containers.’
Ten days later I was called to the hall. Attendants were

opening wooden boxes that contained six beautiful jars.
‘You wanted jars, now you have jars. Take them to the
kitchen,’ said Bhagavan.
On enquiry it was found that some stationmaster had
mistakenly booked them to the ashram. Such mysterious
coincidences happened almost daily, both at the ashram and
in the homes of the devotees. Unless one has witnessed this
for oneself, it is hard to believe that such strange coincidences
could happen so often. I often found it difficult to convince
others that all the things that happened in front of me were
true. Such things happen even now. A few days ago [this was
written in the 1950s] I was taking a lady visitor to the ashram.
I did not feel well and wanted to go home and have some
change from the ashram rice. I stayed in the dining room for
the lady’s sake, but did not eat. Subbalakshmi, who did not
stay for food, went home, made some wheat cakes, packed
them in a leaf, brought them to the ashram and gave them to
me to eat. She told me that she did not know why she was
baking the cakes or who was going to eat them until she heard
later that I wanted to eat something other than rice. To me it
was clearly Bhagavan’s care, but how can I convince others?
I can give another example. Once I had no money and
badly needed some.
I prayed silently to Bhagavan: ‘Ramana, how can I get
hold of a little money?’
Three days later a money order came for me from Dr.
Srinivasa Rao, whom I did not even know. It seems he was
reading an account of Bhagavan’s life, and on reading the
name of Shantammal decided that it would be nice to send
her some money. How can such spontaneous actions be
explained?
Once while we were cooking, we had to fry a big
quantity of snake gourd. This vegetable is full of water and
the usual way of preparing it is to squeeze all the water out
of it to shorten the frying time. But Bhagavan said that it

should be fried with the water in it. So we were sitting near
the fire, stirring the vegetable in the big iron pan with our
long spoons. Suddenly, Bhagavan let go of his spoon and
stared, motionless. When I looked at him, my mind stood
still. Everything disappeared from before my eyes. After
some time Bhagavan moved, and as he moved my mind also
began to function again.
‘The curry is noiseless,’ he said. ‘It is time to add the
spices.’
He was referring to the vegetables, but his behaviour
reminded me of his poem, Aksharamanamalai, in which he
addresses Arunachala: ‘You drugged me with your charm and
I woke up full of knowledge.’
When the curry of the mind is silent, then is the time to
add the spice of wisdom.
Bhagavan would often come from the hall to the kitchen
to taste the food and see whether the seasoning was just right.
On one of these visits he remarked, ‘Maharajas employ
special taste experts and pay them huge salaries. I wonder
what my pay will be?’
‘I am a beggar, Bhagavan, and all a beggar can offer is
her life,’ I answered.
Bhagavan nodded lovingly.
When Chinna Swami became the sarvadhikari of the
ashram [in 1929], he was full of zest. He declared that
henceforth adequate meals were to be served in the ashram,
even if it meant buying and storing foodstuffs. Prior to that
we had lived a hand-to-mouth existence.
Bhagavan, who preferred the old mode of living, made
fun of his idea: ‘Well, store up, go on storing! Have rice from
Nellore, dhal from Virudupatti, all the best and the costliest!’
The sarvadhikari was eventually allowed to have his
way because the ashram was growing, the number of visitors
increasing, and food was needed at all hours.
The following year I wanted to return briefly to

Ramanathapuram for the Devi Puja. Before I went, while
I was sitting in the hall in meditation, I saw, instead of
Bhagavan, a little girl, about two years old. She was full of
charm and splendour, intensely alert and powerful, and she
radiated a golden brilliance. The vision soon vanished and
I saw the normal face of Bhagavan again. I understood at
once that he was the goddess I had wanted to worship in
Ramanathapuram. Where, now, was the need for a pilgrimage
to a goddess when I was daily serving him in whom all gods
eternally are born?
Bhagavan once gave a similar display of grace to a
sannyasin who came and stayed in the ashram for three weeks.
On the last day of his stay he came near Bhagavan and
said, ‘Swami, I am satisfied in every way with my stay in the
ashram. Now, I pray, fill my heart.’
Bhagavan got up and held the sannyasin’s hands. They
stood holding hands for a long time.
Finally, the sannyasin prostrated before Bhagavan,
said, ‘Now I am blessed,’ and left the ashram. Thus would
Bhagavan give enlightenment with a word, a look, a touch or
in deep silence.
Sometime during this period I had a dream. A resplendent
lady with a luminous face was seated by Bhagavan’s side on
the sofa, and Bhagavan was adorning her with meticulous
care. Another lady, just as beautiful and full of light and
splendour, was moving about the ashram, doing all kinds
of service. I asked Bhagavan how it was that he was giving
so much attention to one and none to the other, but I woke
up before I received an answer. When I told my dream to
Muruganar, he told me that it was true that an invisible being
was always near Bhagavan. She was the Goddess of Salvation
and Muruganar had composed several songs about her.
That afternoon Bhagavan, Muruganar and I were sitting
around a big brass plate, preparing sweets for a forthcoming
festival.
I asked Muruganar to tell my dream to Bhagavan, but

when he started, Bhagavan interjected: ‘Who are you, her
attorney? Let her tell her dream herself.’
When I had finished my account, Bhagavan remarked,
‘When I was living on the hill, a woman who used to bring
me food would serve a second plate by my side. When I
asked whom it was for, she would answer, “For the Mother”.
She had also had a similar vision.’
The Maharaja of Mysore once visited the ashram. He
did not want to visit Bhagavan in the hall and instead asked
for a private interview. We were perplexed, for Bhagavan
had never before allowed such a thing. Whatever had to be
said was said in public, or by letter, or in the mind. Finally,
as a compromise, it was decided to bring the Maharaja to
the bathroom when Bhagavan was having his bath. The
Maharaja entered the room while we all waited outside.
Numerous trays of costly presents and all kinds of sweets
and dainties were offered at Bhagavan’s feet. The Maharaja
gazed at Bhagavan for about ten minutes and then prostrated
before him. The tears which flowed from his eyes actually
made Bhagavan’s feet wet. He sobbed for some time and
then went away.
The Maharani of Travancore also once visited the ashram,
but not at the same time.
A few days after her visit, when Bhagavan was sitting
alone in the dining hall after lunch, I asked him, ‘The
maharani was here. What did she do?’
‘She asked many questions and then went away,’
answered Bhagavan.
‘And the Maharaja of Mysore?’ I asked.
‘Oh, he is a ripe fruit,’ said Bhagavan, and with great
feeling he re-enacted the scene that took place in the bathroom.
As Bhagavan acted out the little drama, we could almost see
the Maharaja’s eagerness, his humility and sadness.
The Maharaja had told Bhagavan: ‘They made me a
maharaja and bound me to a throne. For the sin of being born
a king I lost the chance of sitting at your feet and serving in

your glorious presence. I cannot stay here and cannot hope
to come again. Only these few minutes are mine. I can only
pray for your grace.’
After sometime the ashram received a long letter from
the Maharaja in his own handwriting. At the end he wanted
to know where he could get the incense sticks that were used
in the ashram. They were Mysore incense sticks, made in his
own city, but what could not be purchased was the fragrance
they were giving off while they were glowing in Bhagavan’s
presence.
On one occasion I had to pay a brief visit to
Ramanathapuram. My train was due to leave in the evening,
so I decided at noon to ask for Bhagavan’s permission to
leave.
‘Why are you asking so early?’ enquired Bhagavan.
I replied, ‘If I make a hurried departure later, I may forget
to ask you then.’
Bhagavan laughed, turned to G.V. Subbaramayya and
remarked, ‘There is a sloka like this.’
He then recited a Sanskrit verse which runs, ‘O my Lord,
at the time of leaving this world I may not remember your
name. So I am pleading with you now to take charge of me
at the time of my death.’
I could not go that night because of unforeseen
circumstances.
The next morning, while I was serving the breakfast idlis,
Bhagavan said jokingly to Subbaramayya, ‘Look at her. She
took my permission to go, but she did not ask for permission
to stay!’
In those days, before Bhagavan took his meals, he would
walk round the ashram to see if all the animals, such as the
dogs and the birds, had been properly fed. After that, he would
go and see if the cattle were being looked after properly. In
those days the cows and the calves had to be given idlis, the
same food that we were eating. Sometimes the ashram idlis
were all eaten up by the cows and we had to send to town for
more, lest Bhagavan should reproach us for stingy cooking.
Bhagavan would also ensure that the beggars at the ashram
gate were properly fed. If there was no rasam ready for the
beggars, to go with their rice, he would order sambar to be
distributed.
During the Kartigai festival beggars from all over
South India would collect at Tiruvannamalai in vast
crowds. Each day they would come to the ashram because
they knew that they could get a free meal there. On one
occasion they became so unruly that the attendants refused
to serve them. The matter was discussed among the workers
and it was decided that henceforth the distribution of food
to beggars would be abandoned. That night I had a dream
in which Bhagavan’s hall was full of devotees. On the
sofa a small creature appeared which grew and grew and
became a huge, bright-red horse. The horse went round the
hall, sniffing at each devotee in turn. I was afraid it would
come near me, but the horse went to Bhagavan, licked his
body all over and then disappeared. Bhagavan called me
near him and asked me not to be afraid. A divine perfume
emanated from him.
‘Don’t think it is an ordinary horse,’ he said. ‘As soon
as the flags are hoisted at the Arunachaleswara Temple for
the Kartigai festival, gods come down to partake in the
celebrations. They join the crowd and some mix with the
beggars at the ashram gate. So never stop feeding sadhus and
beggars at festivals.’
When I told the dream to Chinna Swami the next day, he
ordered seven measures of rice to be cooked for the beggars.
When I first came to Bhagavan, I saw a bright light, like
the sun, with Bhagavan in the midst of it. Later on I used to
see a light between my eyebrows. On another occasion I saw
a big light come out from Bhagavan’s head and fill the hall.
In that light everything disappeared, including Bhagavan.
Only the feeling of ‘I’ remained, floating in a luminous void.
When I related these experiences to Bhagavan, he said,

‘Yes, such visions do occur. To know how you look you
must look into a mirror, but don’t take that reflection to be
yourself. What is perceived by our senses and the mind is
never the truth. All visions are mere mental creations, and if
you believe in them, your progress ceases. Enquire to whom
the visions occur. Find out who is their witness. Stay in pure
awareness, free from all thoughts. Don’t move out of that
state.’
When one of our visitors was leaving the ashram, he
stood before Bhagavan with folded hands and prayed: ‘I am
going far away. I do not know when I shall be coming back,
and if at all I shall be allowed to see your holy face again in
this life. I am so much less fortunate than those who have the
benefit of your constant presence. How can you help me, a
sinner in a distant place, unless you think of me? I implore
you, give me a place in your mind.’
Bhagavan replied, ‘A jnani has no mind. How can one
without a mind remember or even think? This man goes
somewhere and I have to go there and look after him. Can I
keep on remembering all these prayers? Well, I shall transmit
your prayer to the Lord of the Universe. He will look after
you. It is his business.’
One day, when I was still new in the kitchen, I served
Bhagavan with a few extra pieces of potato. Bhagavan noticed
it and got very angry with me. He turned his face away and
would not look at those who were serving him food. Not
knowing the rules at that time, I could not make out the cause
of his anger and wondered who it was who had offended him.
Each night, after the day’s work was over, the women
who worked in the kitchen would collect around him and ask
him permission to leave. Usually, he would exchange a few
words with us, enquire who was accompanying us, whether
we had a lantern, and so on. That evening he gave me a sign
to come near.
‘What did you do tonight?’
‘I don’t know, Swami. Have I done something wrong?’

‘You served me more curry than the others.’
‘What does it matter? I did it with love and devotion.’
‘I felt ashamed to eat more than the others. Have you
come all this way to stuff me with food? You should always
serve me less than other people.’
‘But Bhagavan, how can I treat you worse than others?’
‘Is this the way to please me? Do you hope to earn grace
through a potato curry?’
‘Out of my love for you I committed a blunder. Forgive
me, Bhagavan, I shall respect your wishes.’
‘The more you love my people, the more you love me,’
said Bhagavan, and the matter was closed. A good lesson was
learned and never forgotten.
Two devotees of Swami Vilakshanananda, a husband and
wife, once came to see Bhagavan. They told Bhagavan that
their Guru had asked them to repeat Rama’s name constantly
and surrender the merit of it at the Guru’s feet.
Bhagavan laughed and said, ‘If the Guru takes the benefit,
what remains with the devotee? It is like keeping the capital,
but abandoning the interest.’
Muruganar, who was present, said, ‘Their Guru takes the
name, which is the interest, and leaves the mind, which is the
capital. Bhagavan robs us of both the interest and the capital.’
As he talked, tears were flowing in a stream from his
eyes.
On another occasion two women came from Kumbakonam
to meet Bhagavan. One of them was a guru and the other her
disciple. They had planned to leave by train the same evening.
In the afternoon the disciple brought her guru into the hall and
made an elaborate seat for her in front of Bhagavan. Every
now and then the disciple would go up to Bhagavan’s sofa
and whisper to him.
On her first trip she told him, ‘In everything she is just
like you, swami. She is in the same state as you. Please let us
have your blessings.’
On one of her later trips to the sofa she asked, ‘Will you
teach us briefly the path of salvation? How to be free from
maya?’
She was going backwards and forwards like this for
quite a long time, but Bhagavan never replied to any of her
questions.
As evening approached, the disciple began to feel a
little hurt. ‘Swami, please instruct us,’ she begged. ‘Swami,
proceed with our initiation quickly. It is getting late.’
Some time later she demanded, ‘Be quick Swami. You
know we have to catch the train. Hurry!’
The poor lady was getting desperate. ‘At least tell us
something. All people speak of ignorance, what is ignorance?’
Bhagavan turned to Muruganar and, in a kindly way,
said, ‘Ask her to enquire within, “Who is ignorant?”’
Muruganar turned to the women and told them, ‘Now
you can go, your initiation is over.’ And they went away.
Bhagavan talked about this incident later. ‘Everything
must be done in a hurry. Everybody has some train to catch.
They visit the swami in a rush and want to carry away a
parcel of liberation. They read something here and there and
think they are quite learned.’
Whenever there was a chance to snub our egos, Bhagavan
would never miss it.
He continued: ‘Before people come here, each one of them
has the most sincere desire to work for his own liberation; but
when they settle down here, their egos go to their heads and
they forget why they came. They imagine they are doing me a
great service by feeding me. They think altogether too much of
themselves. The feeling of self-importance that they have when
they serve their Guru destroys their hope of enlightenment.
Only humility can destroy the ego. The ego keeps you far away
from God. The door to God is open, but the lintel is very low.
To enter one has to bend. Are you doing me greater service
than the man who for years was like my shadow? What was
the good of it? The same man went to court against me and got
me cross-examined! Even if a trace of ego is left in the mind,

it will rapidly increase and ruin you spiritually.’
One day there was talk in the hall about one of
Bhagavan’s old devotees who had come under [Shirdi] Sai
Baba’s influence.
Bhagavan commented, ‘Once a man has surrendered
his life here, he belongs here. Wherever he may go, he shall
return. For him this is the door to liberation.’
A devotee once arranged for a big feast for all the inmates
and guests of the ashram. Bhagavan had a bad cold that day.
Whenever he was afflicted in this way, he would not take milk,
curds or coffee. That day the people in the kitchen prepared
some sweet pancakes and planned to serve them with almond
milk. We were all sad that Bhagavan would not be able to
eat any. Chinna Swami, who was naturally anxious that the
feast should go off without a hitch, assured us that Bhagavan
would eventually relent and eat what we had prepared.
When it was time for us to eat, Raja Iyer started serving
pancakes to Bhagavan, who immediately asked him, ‘Are
they sweet?’
‘No,’ lied Raja Iyer, thinking that Bhagavan would be
more likely to take some if he answered in this way.
‘Then put some rasam on them,’ said Bhagavan.
I had the almond milk in my hands so I poured it over
his pancake.
Bhagavan immediately flared up. ‘What! I ask for rasam
and you serve me milk? Go and get some rasam.’
We then had to serve him rasam with one extra pancake.
He mixed all of it together – sweet pancakes, almond milk
and rasam – and then ate the strange-tasting, homogenized
pulp on his plate.
When he had finished, he continued complaining: ‘I ask
for one thing and get another. I ask for plain pancakes and get
sweet ones. I ask for rasam and get almond milk. You expect
the swami to eat as he is told. You seem to know what is best
for your swami.’
The next day Bhagavan refused to drink coffee. Since

I believed that he was doing this to punish us for our
misbehaviour the day before, I gave up coffee too, as a
penance, and a hard penance it was!
After a month had passed like this, I burst into tears
before Bhagavan. ‘Swami, I offended you, but there must be
an end to the punishment. Please have your coffee.’
Bhagavan looked surprised.
‘No, I do not think I gave up coffee to punish you. Why
should I punish anybody? I gave up coffee because it does not
agree with me. Ask the doctor. He will tell you. He advised
me to avoid coffee.’
Then, turning to the audience of devotees, Bhagavan
added: ‘It was the same on the hill. If I did not take coffee,
nobody would touch it and all would curse the swami for
depriving them of coffee.’
A few days later Janaki Amma brought a huge pot of
coffee and placed it before Bhagavan.
‘What am I to do now?’ he asked. ‘Coffee has come by
itself. Nobody asked Janaki to bring it. Now, if I do not drink
it, nobody will touch it and Janaki will be upset.’
He tasted some of Janaki’s coffee and began to take it
regularly again soon after that.
You may ask what this storm in a pot of coffee has to
do with liberation and realisation. Those who have not lived
through it cannot appreciate the deep, spiritual effect of these
anxieties and conflicts. Our sense of ‘I’ [ego] would hurl itself
against the rock of truth, but the rock would not yield. The
‘I’ had to yield and in that yielding was the highest blessing.
Bhagavan’s anger would sometimes seem to shatter us to
pieces, and blessed indeed were they who saw in his wrath
his utmost grace.
After serving for years in the kitchen, I became old, my
heart got weak, and I could work no longer. I stopped going
to the kitchen and I was wondering what to do next. I did not
want to eat without working, nor had I any means to live on
my own in Tiruvannamalai. I wanted to go away to a near

relative of mine, a doctor who had been inviting me to come
and live with him. One night I dreamt that I was taking leave
of Bhagavan. As I fell at his feet he told me, ‘Why do you
think of going? Who is there in this world to take care of
you?’
Disregarding the dream, I left the ashram. I reached the
doctor’s house on a Saturday afternoon. The doctor, who
looked quite healthy, died suddenly the next day at noon.
I then went to my own place in Ramanathapuram. There
too everything went wrong and I felt so miserable, that my
relatives bought me a ticket and put me on the train for
Tiruvannamalai. Now I have no place in the world except at
his feet. Nor do I want any other.
To those who would taunt me by saying, ‘You were for
so long with Bhagavan and still you are subject to pain and
sorrow,’ my answer would be: ‘Each time I was in trouble
I experienced his grace. My greatest sorrows led me to the
highest bliss. Bhagavan makes me and unmakes me. Who
am I, a simple old woman, to choose when all comes from
him only?’
(v) Subbalakshmi Ammal
I lost my husband when I was sixteen years old. From then

on, I tried to live the traditional life of a widow by going
back to my mother’s house and devoting my life to prayer
and meditation on God. Fortunately for me, my mother was
spiritually inclined. Religion and the quest for God were the
most important things in her life.
When we were returning from a pilgrimage we had
undertaken together, we stopped off at Arunachala on the
way home. In Tiruvannamalai we were told that a young
brahmin saint had been living on the hill for the last ten years.
On the morning after our arrival we went up the hill to see
him, accompanied by our fellow pilgrims. We took a break

at Mulaipal Tirtham, cooked our food and had a rest. When
we continued our journey we found the young swami outside
Virupaksha Cave. He was sitting on a brick platform near
the entrance to the cave. As soon as I saw him, I was at once
convinced that God Arunachala himself had come in a human
form to give salvation to all who approached him.
He was about thirty at the time, and wonderful to behold.
His eyes were blooming and clear, like the petals of a lotus,
and he shone brightly, like burnished gold. On this first visit
he looked at us for a long time. The summit of Arunachala
was towering over our heads, the huge gopurams of the
temple were below us, and an immense silence surrounded the
swami. Some of the women who had accompanied us started
whispering. One wanted to pray for a child for a daughter-in-
law who was barren, but another replied by saying that the
swami was too exalted to bother about such worldly matters.
Eventually, the swami was told of the young wife’s sorrow.
He smiled and lifted his folded hands to the sky as if to say,
‘All happens by the will of the Almighty’.
We returned to Nellore and the impression of that first
visit faded away. I did not even dream at that time that my
life would be spent at the feet of this swami.
When I was thirty-one, I went to Rameshwaram
on a pilgrimage and on the return journey I stopped at
Tiruvannamalai. I enquired about the swami who had made
such a deep impression on me on my earlier visit and
discovered that he was now living at the foot of the hill. On
the afternoon of the day of our arrival we went to see him
in his ashram. It was not a large place. There was a thatched
shed over the samadhi of his mother and a tiled hall where
visitors met with him. He was seated on a couch and about a
dozen devotees were sitting nearby on the bare floor. We sat
in silence for about ten minutes before returning to the town.
Bhagavan’s presence gave me the experience of inner
silence and mental stillness, but away from him I could not
regain it, although I did make efforts to do so. I spent most of

the next year vainly trying to free myself from all thoughts.
At the end of this period some friends who were going to see
Sri Aurobindo’s Ashram at Pondicherry took me along with
them. They planned to stay there for a week. I was not very
impressed with that ashram so I left my friends there so that
I could make a short visit to Ramanasramam.
Before I left, a Sastri [pandit] I knew appeared to me
in a dream and asked me, ‘What need was there for you to
go to Pondicherry? Entrust yourself to Bhagavan Sri Ramana
Maharshi. He is God himself. He will surely lead you to
salvation.’
Even though I had such a clear dream, and even though
I had good experiences in Bhagavan’s presence, I did not
listen to the advice because I had long cherished the idea of
going to Benares and spending my life there in holy tapas.
I decided to go to Bhagavan first, learn meditation from him
and then leave for Benares for good. My friend Parvatamma
decided to join me on this spiritual adventure. We went to
Tiruvannamalai and rented a house there.
On the second day of our visit I found myself sitting with
Bhagavan in the hall. He had just eaten his midday meal.
He was reclining on his sofa, explaining a verse from the
Bhagavad Gita to Yogi Ramayya.
As no one else was in the hall, I gathered up my courage
and asked, ‘What is Atma [Self]? Is it the limitless expanse of
space or the awareness that cognises everything?’
Bhagavan replied, ‘To remain without thinking, “This is
Atma” and “That is Atma” is itself Atma.’
Then he looked at me and I felt my mind melt away into
nothing. No thoughts came. Only the feeling of immense,
unutterable peace was there. My doubts were cleared in that
moment of peace.
From that time on I would visit Bhagavan every day
and listen to the conversations he had with his devotees. The
peace he had given me as an answer to my query remained.
Deep in my mind there was a rock-like stillness, immensely

solid, yet strangely vibrant.
I had a desire to become a sannyasin, but when I asked
for Bhagavan’s permission to put on the orange robes and
beg for my food, he said, with disapproval, ‘Will coloured
clothes give you renunciation? First learn what sannyasa
means.’
On several occasions I was invited to work in the ashram,
but the ashram ways were not orthodox enough for me.
However, when Bhagavan’s own sister asked me to take her
place in the ashram because she had to leave for some time, I
could not refuse. At that time Shantammal was the chief cook
and my duty was to help her. To my great joy I discovered
that Bhagavan worked with us in the kitchen for most of the
time. He soon taught me to cook tastily and neatly. I would
spend all day in the ashram and in the evening I would go
to the town to sleep, for there was no accommodation in the
ashram for women.
Once Bhagavan told me, ‘You widows do not eat
vegetables such as drumsticks and radishes. Diet restrictions
are good to strengthen the will. Besides, the quality of food
and the manner of eating have a great influence on the mind.’
Sometimes, though, Bhagavan would mock some of our
dietary prejudices. Orthodox brahmins and widows will not
eat food that has been prepared from rice whose grains have
been obtained by boiling them while they are still in the husk.
They only eat rice that has had its husks removed by milling.
One morning Bhagavan asked Shantammal to give some idlis
that had been prepared from the ‘wrong’ sort of rice to Venu
Amma.
Shantammal told him, ‘Boiled rice was used in the idlis,
so Venu Amma will not touch them’.
Bhagavan looked displeased. ‘Surely this is a foolish
scruple,’ he said. ‘She should take what is offered!’
I too did not want to eat these idlis, and for the same
reason, but nobody knew it. Full of remorse, I ran to the
kitchen and stuffed an unorthodox but perfectly good idli into

my mouth.
I was very happy to work in the kitchen under Bhagavan’s
direct supervision, but at the same time I wanted to go home
because the ashram ways were too unorthodox for me. Also,
I felt there was too much work to do. I didn’t want to work
all day long. I wanted to sit quietly and meditate in solitude.
I went back to my village and stayed away from Bhagavan
for about a year, dividing my time between idleness and
meditation, but my heart was really at Ramanasramam.
I would tell myself, ‘Where is the need to run around to
different places? Is not Bhagavan here and everywhere?’
It didn’t work. I could feel my heart pulling me back to
Bhagavan’s physical presence. Even when I was telling myself
that in the ashram there would be no time for meditation, my
heart would say, ‘Working in the kitchen by his side is far
better than meditation!’
At home I had all the leisure I wanted, but it seemed to
me that I was wasting my time.
Later on I learned that Bhagavan frequently remembered
me during this period.
On one occasion, as pongal was being prepared to
celebrate Bhagavan’s monthly star day, Bhagavan told
Shantammal, ‘Subbalakshmi is far away, yet she worries
whether pongal is being cooked here today or not!’
On a different festival day Bhagavan announced, ‘Today
Subbalakshmi will turn up. Keep some pongal for her.’
Bhagavan’s prediction was correct: that was the day I
returned to the ashram, unannounced.
Bhagavan’s great love for me, a worthless devotee, bound
me firmly to his feet. In the weeks and months that followed
there were many times when I felt that I wanted to leave the
ashram, but Bhagavan, for my own good, held on to me far
more powerfully than I held on to him.
The manager of the ashram was very kind to me and
would not even hear of my leaving. Bhagavan too went out
of his way to ensure that I remained near him. Whenever

I was collecting up my courage to tell Bhagavan about my
desire to leave, Bhagavan would seem to read my thoughts
and forestall me by giving me something special to do.
‘Here is Arunachala Ashtakam in Telugu,’ he said on one
such occasion. ‘A copy of it is needed.’
I was only semi-literate, and the kitchen work gave
me very little leisure. I knew it would take me weeks to
make a copy, and yet more time to have all the mistakes
corrected. On top of this, Bhagavan then said that he wanted
me to study it and learn its meaning. So, when the copying
was over, I took lessons on its contents and finally learned
the whole poem by heart. All this took several months.
Meanwhile, other tasks, not connected with my kitchen
work, kept cropping up, and these too kept me busy and
anchored safely at Ramanasramam. I didn’t realise at the
time that I was being given this heavy workload for my own
good, to keep me near Bhagavan. After living like this for
some time, I began to feel that I had too much to do and that
my life was being wasted.
One day Bhagavan looked at me intently and said, ‘It
looks as if you are still hankering after meditation.’
I replied, ‘I have no time. All I have is endless work in
the kitchen.’
Bhagavan responded, with deep feeling, ‘Your hands
may do the work but your mind can remain still. You are that
which never moves. Realise that and you will find work is
not a strain. But as long as you think that you are the body
and that the work is done by you, you will feel your life to be
an endless toil. In fact, it is the mind that toils, not the body.
Even if your body keeps quiet, will your mind keep quiet
too? Even in sleep the mind is busy with its dreams.’
‘Yes, Swami,’ I replied, ‘It is as natural for you to know
that you are not your body as it is for us to think that we are
the body. I had a dream recently in which you were explaining
this very point. I was dreaming that I was working in the
kitchen and that you were having your bath in your usual
place behind the bamboo-mat partition.
‘You [Bhagavan] asked, “Who is it?” and I [Subbalakshmi]
replied, “Who shall I say I am?”
‘Then you answered, “Exactly so. You are nothing of
which something can be said.”
‘That was my dream, and it was all quite clear. Why
can’t I continuously remember while I am awake that I am
not the body?’
‘Because you haven’t yet had enough of it,’ he replied
with a smile.
I used to fast quite often, as advised in some scriptural
texts. In one of the books I read it was stated that ‘He who
wants to know himself and yet pays attention to his body is
like a man who trusts a crocodile to take him across a river.’
I showed the text to Bhagavan and he explained its
meaning.
‘It does not mean that you should starve. You need not
torture the body. It only means that you should not give the
body more than it needs. With your mind, hold on to the
enquiry [Who am I?] and just keep the body going so that it
does not become a hindrance. For this, pure and fresh food,
simply prepared and taken in moderation, is a great help.’
At that time Bhagavan would not take buttermilk with
his rice, except in the hot summer months. Whether he took
any or not, he insisted that the buttermilk should be fresh
and sweet, but in summer that was often difficult to achieve
because the heat would make it sour very quickly. We could
not make buttermilk especially for him because what was
served to him had to be served to everyone, and if supplies
ran short, he always insisted that he should be the one who
went without whatever was in short supply. On one summer
evening the buttermilk got very sour. The following evening
the same thing happened. The next day I tried again. I got
some good, fresh milk and set it for curds, but there was not
enough to serve everyone.
In my anxiety for Bhagavan’s welfare I argued with

myself, ‘Everybody has curds all year round. Bhagavan takes
buttermilk, and that too only in summer. For two days he has
gone without buttermilk. Surely it is only right that he should
get some curds at least once.’
I was so sure of my reasoning, I decided to serve some
curds to Bhagavan without his permission. The next day,
while he was eating rice with rasam, I went up to him with a
cup of buttermilk in one hand and a cup of curds in the other.
I coolly dumped the curds over his rice and waited, as usual,
to pour the buttermilk into his cupped hands.
He touched the curds with his fingers, lifted his head and
looked at me. That look scorched me to the very depths of
my soul!
We used to take leave of him in the evening before
going to the town, but that night he turned his face away
from me. Who can say how I suffered! He alone knows. The
next morning he told Tenamma not to serve him buttermilk
in future.
‘Why, Swami?’ she asked.
‘Buttermilk becomes curds for my sake,’ he replied.
I too gave up buttermilk, which was not easy, for I had
been taking it daily since my childhood. But how could I take
it when, as a result of my mistake, my Master had given it
up? Bhagavan was kind to me, as usual, but I had no chance
to beg his forgiveness.
On the fourth day a dish of vegetables with curds had to
be prepared and Bhagavan stood by, giving instructions.
When the time came to pour the curds into the boiling
vegetables, I fell at his feet and cried, ‘My Lord, I sinned
against you. Give me wisdom so that I may not offend you
again. I am in agony and it will not stop until you have your
buttermilk again.’
‘No, no, why do you worry? I happened to have a cold,
and is not buttermilk bad for colds?’
That same afternoon Echammal brought some curds and

Bhagavan told her, ‘Tell Subbalakshmi not to suffer. I shall
have my buttermilk.’
There was another occasion when I upset Bhagavan’s
eating routine. When the meals were being served, I would
pour rasam into Bhagavan’s hands. He would not cup his
hands as before. I thought I had offended him in some way
and requested Shantammal to find out the reason.
Bhagavan told her, ‘When she serves me, she makes
others wait.’
He disliked being given preference in any form.
When I had the chance, I told him, ‘Forgive me,
Bhagavan, I shall not keep others waiting. But if you don’t
have your rasam, I shall feel guilty.’
‘Why should you? I do not need so much rasam.’
‘What can I say? You used to have plenty of it. Now you say
you don’t need it. Well, you will have as much as you please.’
‘Why do you imagine that I am pleased only when I am
full of rasam? And why are you so anxious? Is my grace
proportionate to the amount of rasam I take?’
Never again did he take rasam in his palms. He wanted
us to learn well the lesson that God is present in every being
in all his glory and fullness, and that all forms of him must
be given equal reverence. He was tireless in hammering this
lesson into our minds and hearts, and he would ruthlessly
sacrifice the little comforts we so loved to provide for him
as soon as he noticed a trace of preferential treatment. In his
dealings with us, the law that what cannot be shared must not
be touched was supreme.
Feelings of separation are the cause of the ‘I’ and are
therefore the greatest obstacles in the realisation of the one.
No wonder he was exterminating them so relentlessly.
I can give another example. Whenever we fried
poppadums, we dared not select the biggest for him. If we
did, invariably he would refuse to eat poppadums that day.
Our love made us give him special attention. Torn between

attachment and obedience, we felt lost. When our Lord wanted
to be treated as equal with the humblest, we felt ourselves to
be the smallest of the small.
In the early 1940s Bhagavan caught jaundice. He had
to be put on a fruit diet, but he would not eat fruit unless it
was served to all, and in equal quantities too! We could not
obtain such a large quantity of fruit, yet he would adamantly
leave his share of the fruit untouched unless he saw an equal
quantity on everybody’s leaf-plate. Those who say that a
sick man needs special food and must not give trouble miss
the point. Bhagavan was not sick. It was his body that had
jaundice. He wanted to impress on our minds that under no
condition must anyone, including himself, have a greater
share. Our learning this lesson was more important to him
then the cure of his jaundice.
No treatment could cure the jaundice, for the right diet
was not available. However, after some time, an old man
brought two sour limes for Bhagavan. He said he had a dream
that lime juice should be given to Bhagavan with honey and
sugar. A single dose of this juice cured Bhagavan of his
jaundice. Surely he caught jaundice to teach us a lesson, and
when it was no longer needed, he cured himself by a sour
lime!
On one occasion a devotee from Nellore, Griddaluri
Narayana Rao, was not well. I was in the kitchen preparing
some medicinal rice gruel for him according to Bhagavan’s
prescription. Sampurnamma was nearby cooking some
aubergines. She put a little sample on a leaf and gave it to
Bhagavan to taste. I felt envious of her good luck, but as
soon as the thought crossed my mind, he asked me to give
him some water to drink. We all knew that he never asked for
food or water. He could read my thoughts, and in his infinite
kindness he asked for a glass of water.
Bhagavan was not always so kind and gentle. One day

five or six devotees sat down before him and sang a hymn in
praise of the Guru.
He got up in the middle of the recitation and went away,
saying, ‘Prayers and praises will not take one far. It is the
merciful look of the teacher that bestows true knowledge.’
I felt elated. Had I not already received his merciful
glances? My happiness, though, did not last long.
The following day he said, ‘Unless one becomes a six-
month-old baby, there is no hope for one in the realm of Self-
knowledge.’
My heart sank. Although I lived in the presence of Lord
Arunachala himself, I was far from becoming an infant. I
think Bhagavan wanted us to have the innocence and trusting
faith of babies.
This became clear to me when Bhagavan started telling us
stories from the lives of famous devotees who lived centuries
ago. I questioned him about one particular story.
‘It is written that God appeared before this devotee and
shed his grace on him while he was still in his mother’s
womb. Can it be true?’
Bhagavan replied, ‘Why should you doubt? Will doubt
profit you? Only your devotion will suffer. Those stories are
as real as your telling me that you are present here and now.’
Bhagavan loved retelling incidents from the old
devotional classics. His face would light up as he recounted
the amazing stories of saints of long ago. He would also be
visibly moved when he recited their inspired poetry. I was
once in the hall while he was reading and explaining the
Tiruppugazh to Alamelu Ammal of Madurai. As I did not
know Tamil, I could only look on. I saw an immediate change
in Bhagavan as he began to read the verses. A light started
to shine from within him. His face became radiant, his smile
became a great beam, and his eyes filled with compassion.
Though I did not understand the text he was discoursing on,

his explanations reverberated in my mind and were instantly
and deeply understood. All my being was carried upwards on
a current of strange vibrations. The memory of this experience
is still ever-present in my heart. A great joy has remained
with me, a joy that comes from knowing that I was privileged
to sit at the feet of a Divine Being.
It was always like this with him. Bhagavan knew what
spiritual level each of us was on. Whenever devotees would
go to him, Bhagavan would adapt his words, his gestures and
even the intonation of his voice to the people who were in front
of him. Alamelu Ammal had a passion for the Tiruppugazh
and for Subramaniam, the deity it praises. On this particular
day, Bhagavan reflected and magnified the devotion that
Alamelu Ammal felt for this particular work.
With children, Bhagavan was their playmate; to family
people, he was a wise counsellor; to pandits he was a well
of knowledge; to yogis he was the God of will, the God
of victory. With all these people Bhagavan saw himself in
them, while they saw themselves in him. As a consequence,
the hearts of all these visitors would be bound to his feet
in everlasting love. Everyone who came to see him would
be charmed by his love and kindness, by his beauty and his
wisdom, and by the overwhelming sense of unity he radiated.
To me he was like a fire that constantly radiated spiritual heat.
To some he would grant a special vision, invisible to others.
With others he would openly discourse. Crowds would gather
around him and each one would see him differently. Even his
pictures differ. A stranger would not guess that they are all of
the same person.
One afternoon a lady from Kumbakonam sat near
Bhagavan and exclaimed, ‘How glad I am that I have met
you, Swami! I have been desperate to see you for such a long
time, Swami. Please be kind enough to grant me salvation.
That is all I want.’
Then she got up and went away.
Bhagavan had a hearty laugh.

‘Look at her! All she wants is salvation. Give her
salvation, she wants nothing else.’
‘Is it not what we all want?’ I asked.
He replied, ‘Is salvation something to be handed over on
request? Do I keep bundles of salvation concealed about me
that I can give away when people ask?
‘She said, “I do not want anything”. If what she says is
true, that itself is salvation. What is there that I can give and
what is there that they can take?’
Bhagavan once made some similar comments when
somebody presented him with a bell that was to be used
during the ashram pujas. He tried its sound in various ways
and laughed.
‘God wants us to make a fire of our past evil deeds and
burn our karma in it. But these people burn a small amount
of camphor and hope to please the Almighty. Do they really
believe that they can get something for nothing? They do not
want to bend to God, they want God to bend to them. In
their greed they would swallow God, but they will not let him
swallow them. Some boast of their offerings. What have they
got to offer? Some idols of Vinayaka are made of jaggery.
Devotees break off a piece of these statues and offer it to
him. Are these pieces not his already? Clearing the mind of
thoughts and remaining steady in the peace of Self: that is the
only offering worthy of the Lord.’
In the early days, when I first joined the ashram, Bhagavan
used to help in grinding lentils and peeling vegetables. He
would even lend a hand with the cooking itself. Long before
daybreak he would get up and join the resident kitchen staff
at their work. We ladies would arrive by sunrise. Bhagavan
would make sure that all was ready for our arrival and we
often found that a part of our work had already been done.
To forestall him, we tried coming at five. He responded by
turning up for work at four. Not to be outdone, we began to
turn up at three. When Bhagavan saw that we were being left
without sleep, he stopped entering the kitchen before sunrise

in order to give us time to rest properly.
Bhagavan was the very embodiment of wisdom and
kindness. Though he did not mind our faults and mistakes, he
made us follow his instructions to the letter. We had to do the
same task again and again until it was done to his complete
satisfaction. Did he do it for himself? Of what use was it to
him? He wanted to prove to us that we could do things right,
that our bad habits were only caused by a lack of patience
and attention. He sometimes seemed to be severe, even harsh,
in order to make us do something correctly. Bhagavan knew
something that we at that time were not aware of: that we
can act correctly at all times if we only try. When this is
experienced, confidence comes, and with confidence the great
peace of righteousness.
While he was working in the kitchen, he was one of us,
but in the hall, seated on the sofa, he was the great Lord
of Kailas, the holy mountain of Siva. Whenever Bhagavan
would enter or leave the hall, we would all get up respectfully,
but we could see that he did not like so many people being
disturbed on his account. He clearly disliked all kinds of
formal devotion. I found this out for myself when he criticised
me for indulging in a formal ritual. I had got into the habit
of offering him a few dried grapes whenever I came from the
town, because it was traditional not to go to a Guru empty
handed.
One day, when I gave him my usual offering, he got quite
vexed and started scolding me: ‘Why all this show of respect
and devotion? Who here taught you all this hypocrisy? What
do you gain by it? Can’t you just be natural? What is needed
is a pure and sincere heart. How can you possibly please me
with a show like this?’
He went on like this for quite a long time. Then, addressing
Muruganar, he complained bitterly that our devotion was
shallow and its expressions cheap. He went on to tell a story
about some devotees who abused their Guru.
‘They take their Guru in procession and parade him

before the crowd. When they have done with him, they dig a
pit and ask him, “Will you get into the pit yourself, or shall
we push you in?”’
Bhagavan was so angry that day, even Muruganar was
afraid to offer his usual prostrations to him.
Bhagavan continued, ‘When people first come here, they
are quite sincere, but as soon as they settle down, they become
the masters of the place. They take charge of everything. The
swami must do their bidding and ignore their mischief. In
return for their prostrations the swami has to put up with all
the mess they create around him. They think that it is his duty
to carry them on his head.’
One morning, while I was working in the kitchen, I saw
Bhagavan grinding black gram. We always felt ashamed
when we saw him working, but when we offered to take over
he would get cross and stop coming to the kitchen, which
would make us very sad. While Bhagavan was in the hall, he
belonged to everybody, but when he came to the kitchen, he
belonged only to us. If he ever stopped coming, it would be a
great loss to us. That day I had the courage to ask him to let
me grind the gram.
To my astonishment he got up from the grinding stone
and said, ‘Yes, finish it. I was waiting for you to come.’
When I had finished grinding and had gone back to the
kitchen, I saw him boiling pumpkin curry in a huge cauldron
over a big fire. It was nearing noon. The day was hot, the fire
was hot, and the steam rising from the pot was also very hot.
Bhagavan was bathed in perspiration. It was to save me from
this tiresome work that he invited me to grind for him. How
I regretted offering my help! The stew was boiling vigorously
and a piece of pumpkin jumped out onto Bhagavan’s finger.
The next day we saw a big blister there, and when
somebody asked him about it, he joked, ‘Oh, it is only a ring.
I wanted some jewellery.’
I learned my lesson about trying to relieve Bhagavan of work.
Coffee is a must in South India. Everybody used to bring

coffee to the ashram and try to make Bhagavan drink it. If
he refused to drink it, others would feel too guilty to take it
themselves. For their sake Bhagavan would sometimes taste
their coffee. Very few people found out that he didn’t like
coffee at all. Using one pretext or another, Bhagavan would
manage to avoid coffee for weeks until, once again, he was
compelled to take it by some misguided devotee. One day
Appu Sastri’s wife came with a big pot of excellent coffee,
but Bhagavan refused to have any.
‘Don’t you know that I don’t like coffee?’ he asked.
She fought back by asking, ‘What am I to do? I had a
dream last night in which I saw a very stately lady at the gate
of the temple. I knew at once that she was Parvati herself. She
told me, “My son is not taking coffee. Please prepare some
good coffee and make him drink.” There you are, Swami. It’s
your mother’s orders!’
Bhagavan got indignant. ‘She [Parvati] is always like
this, interfering with my ways of living and frustrating my
tapas. She did the same when I was living on the hill!’
To serve Bhagavan at mealtimes was a dangerous
adventure. Our womanly desire was to fill him to the brim.
His rule was to clear his plate no matter what or how much
was served. Not a speck of food would be left uneaten. So
we had to be watchful and serve much less than we would
like to. It was not easy, and we would often fail. He would
scold us bitterly or, what was infinitely worse, would fall ill
and suffer. I cannot understand how he managed to produce
an illness when a lesson was needed, but our life with him
was crisis after crisis.
Nothing brought to the ashram would be wasted, not even
when it was obviously useless. Here Bhagavan was adamant.
A pious offering was Arunachala’s own property and had to
be looked after. Even the water in which bitter gourd was
boiling could not be thrown away. With salt added it would
be taken to the cows. Fortunately, the cows were not able to

tell us what they thought of it!
One evening some village woman was passing through
the ashram with a bundle of wild and bitter herbs for her
goats. She left it near the well and entered the hall to offer
her devotion.
Bhagavan saw the bundle and asked, ‘Who has left that
there? Better take it to the kitchen and make it into a paste
with some coconut.’
Our hearts stopped beating. On that occasion our horror
of what we might be made to eat was stronger than our
devotion. We called the woman and begged her to disappear
with her dangerous bundle.
When curds mixed with water are churned, the butter
floats to the surface. Whenever a large quantity of butter
is made, a lot of buttermilk becomes available. Since this
cannot be all consumed before it goes sour, it is often given
away to the poor, or to some deserving institution. Once,
while we were making butter, we made pots and pots of
buttermilk, much more than we could all drink in a day or
two. Bhagavan added salt and green chillies and said that it
would keep well if it were stirred daily to beat air into it. He
then gave detailed instructions on how the buttermilk should
be used as stock for cooking vegetables until the supply was
exhausted. We did this for four days but even then there was
still some buttermilk to spare. Keeping it so long was against
our entire kitchen tradition. So, in desperation, Shantammal
made a rasam with the remaining buttermilk and gave it all
away to the ashram workers.
That day Bhagavan casually enquired, ‘What happened
to the buttermilk?’
Nobody dared to tell him the truth. He knew everything,
of course, but unless he was told, he would behave as if he
knew nothing. He read our minds, but he kept the knowledge
he learned to himself. We could generally make out from his
behaviour that he always knew what was going on.
Water running off the body of a temple deity is considered

to be holy. Since Bhagavan was our God, all that touched
his body was holy to us. The water with which he used to
wash his hands, feet and body, the remnants of his food, the
very leaf on which he ate – all of these things were sacred
to us. He knew it well and very cunningly prevented such
items from falling into our hands. Sometimes he would raise
a storm but usually it was a silent tug of war.
In the beginning life was simple. After each meal
Bhagavan would wash his hands over a brass cup and leave
his leaf to be thrown out. This system was changed when a
girl was once found waiting at the door at food time.
When Bhagavan asked her, ‘What are you waiting for?’
she answered, innocently, ‘Holy water.’
In this way Bhagavan discovered that the water with
which he washed his hands was taken to some home and
treated as a sacrament. That day Bhagavan picked up his own
leaf, took it to the dust-bin and washed his hands over the
gutter.
Prabhavati Rani, thinking that it would save Bhagavan
some trouble, asked for permission to clear Bhagavan’s place
in future, but Bhagavan asked her, ‘Why not everybody’s
place? Why must I be treated differently?’
She then undertook to clear the entire dining hall every
day, and Raja Iyer joined in the promise. However, as time
passed, things became worse, for people were dull and
obstinate. Bhagavan was forced to wash his feet over sand or
stone and see that his bath water was run off underground. He
would clean his leaf carefully and a trusted attendant would
secretly dispose of it.
Bhagavan would take any amount of trouble to teach
us the virtues necessary for Self-discovery. Our life in the
ashram was a school of yoga, and a hard school too. For
book-knowledge was as nothing to him. Only character and
genuine spiritual experience counted.
(vi) Lokamma Patti
A nother kitchen worker Lokamma Patti says her intense

desire to visit Ramanasramam was fulfilled when she got
a chance to go to Tiruvannamalai along with some friends.
She says: “I looked at Bhagavan and could not take my eyes
off Him. I even forgot to offer him the fruits I had brought
with me.” That was my first meeting. As my friends returned
from Tirupati I had to leave for home. When I asked Bhagavan
permission to go home he exclaimed, “What, you are going?”
I told him all about the trouble I had at home for wanting
to come to the Ashram. I said that I had no attachments and
prayed to him to keep me at his feet.
Bhagavan was at that moment reading Upadesa Saram.
Muruganar came in and Bhagavan said to him, “She wants
some instructions to take home with her. Read this to her.” He
gave him his copy of Upadesa Saram and Muruganar read
out some points for me. Before leaving I asked Bhagavan to
give me the book.
Bhagavan said if this copy were given away the Ashram
would be without a copy. Just then Somasundara Swami
told Bhagavan that he had a copy which he would give to
the Ashram and requested Bhagavan to give me his copy of
Upadesa Saram.
After this first visit I used to come to the Ashram often
and stay for a month or two. One day I was asked to cook
some dhal (split pulses) and some curry for the next day. I
came very early but Bhagavan was quicker than me. He told
me that the dhal was ready and that I had only to prepare the
curry.
One morning I was singing a Tevaram Song in front
of Bhagavan and read one verse incorrectly. Bhagavan
noticed it and asked, “Is it written like that? Better read
it again.” I read it wrong several times. At last Bhagavan
said sternly, “Find out by yourself where you made the
mistake. I shall not correct you. If I do, you will not learn
to see where you are wrong and you will repeat the same
mistake again and again.” Kunju Swami was in the hall
and wanted to help me. But Bhagavan ordered him to keep
quiet. Then K.V. Ratnam begged Bhagavan to show me
where I was wrong, but he refused firmly, saying, “No,
I must not do it. She is reading it incorrectly again and
again because her secret wish is that I should correct it.”
I went on reading the passage trying to find out where I
was reading it incorrectly. It was nearing noon and I had
to help serve lunch. When I was about to go to the kitchen,
Bhagavan told me to sit down. He said, “No, you cannot
go. First find out your mistake. You must not just run away.
Better sit down.” The bell rang for lunch. Bhagavan got up
from his sofa and went to the dining hall.
After lunch I went to Somasundaram Pillai who showed
me my mistake. I came to Bhagavan and recited the verse
correctly. “Who has shown you the mistake?” he asked. “It
is useless to do so. Only when you yourself have found out
where you were wrong will it remain firmly in your mind
and you will have the knowledge and the capacity not to go
wrong again.”
On some other occasion Bhagavan gave me Vasudeva
Mananam to read. I finished the book and brought it back
to Bhagavan. “Have you read it?” he asked. “Yes, I did,
but I understood nothing at all.” “That does not matter. We
remember even if we do not understand it at the moment. We
may come to understand much later. We may think we forgot
it, but nothing of real value is ever forgotten,” said Bhagavan
graciously.
Once we had only some dried vegetables for the soup to
eat with our rice and I did my best to make it palatable. After
the meal I asked Bhagavan how he liked the soup. He replied,
“What is taste? It is what our tongue tells us. We think the
taste is in the food itself. But it is not so. The food itself is
neither tasty nor tasteless, it is the tongue that makes it so. To

me no taste is pleasant or unpleasant, it is just as it is.”
With time he ceased working in the kitchen, but we
could still find him in the dining hall. When all would leave
after food, he would linger on his seat and we would collect
around him to chat and listen to his precious words. He would
teach us and guide us, and we would forget the years that had
passed and be again the happy crowd of yore.
One had to live and work with him to know what
a great teacher he was. Through the trifles of daily life
he taught us Vedanta both in theory and practice. He led
us with absolute wisdom and infinite kindness. We were
changed to the very root of our being, not even knowing
the depth and scope of his influence. It is only now, after
so many years, that we can see the meaning of the orders,
prohibitions, reprimands and storms that we had to endure.
At that time we understood so little and just obeyed,
merely because we felt that he was God. Even that feeling
we owed to his grace, for from time to time he would let
us see him as he really was: the Lord Almighty, and not
the human frame to which we were accustomed. We were
women, simple and uneducated. It was our love for him,
a reflection of his love, which chained us to his feet and
made us stay. For him we gave up hearth and home and
all our earthly ties. We only knew that we were safe with
him, that in some miraculous way he could take us to our
goal. He himself was our goal, our real home. More than
that we did not know or care. We were even slow to learn
the lesson of equality between man and beast that he was
so anxious to teach us. To us, he alone existed. His radiant
form was enough for us. We did not know then that it
was not enough, that a human soul must learn to embrace
the universe and realise the Self’s own presence in every
living being. We would concentrate too much on him and
resent his compelling us to enlarge our attention to the
manifestations of the Self that were all around us. His
occasional harsh treatment would bewilder us and make

us cry. Now we see that it was love that suffered as it
laboured.
Yogis control themselves severely for long periods
to reach the state to which Bhagavan would take us by
making us work near him in the kitchen. He would make
the small tasks of daily life into avenues that led to light
and bliss. We experienced ecstasy in grinding, rapture in
cooking, joy in serving idlis to devotees. Why? Because
while we were doing these things, we were experiencing
the state in which the mind is in the Heart. Our hearts were
with him and in him, and he was in all the work we did.
Someone who has not had this experience cannot really
know how much bliss a human heart can contain. Although
physically he is no more with us, he still directs us, as in
the past. He will not let go his hold on us until we reach
the other shore. This is our unshakeable faith. We may not
always be conscious of his guidance, but we are safe in
his hands.
Sri Krishna, in his mercy, became a cowherd to teach
simple milkmaids the way to salvation. Similarly, Bhagavan,
the same Supreme Being in another form, took to cooking in
order to save a few ignorant women. With his eyes he served
his devotees the food of the spirit, with his hands, the bread
of life.
62. N.R. Krishnamurti Iyer*
N .R. Krishnamurti Iyer was born in 1898 in a village near

Tiruchirappalli, a large town located about a hundred
miles south of Tiruvannamalai. He first came to Bhagavan in
April 1914. He writes:
“It was in April 1914 that I first saw him. I was then
about fifteen years old. I made my obeisance to Bhagavan
along with everyone else. Bhagavan’s benign and divine gaze
was fixed upon me, but I paid little attention to him as I ran
about the place along with the other boys.
After my return home to Tiruchirappalli, a great change
came over me. Till then I had never cared to go to any temple,
but now I felt dragged, as it were, by some mysterious
fascination to the huge and magnificent Matrubhuteswara
Lingam in the rock temple in the centre of the city. I would
go up the hill to see this lingam almost every evening. Once
inside the temple, a great peace overwhelmed me and the joy
I felt was indescribable. All the same I was, as usual, keenly
interested in my academic work and successfully finished my
high school studies in April 1915.
When I entered college, a further change came over
me. This was noticeable during the weekly hour for English
composition in the classroom. The tutor would announce the
subject for composition as soon as the class assembled. Every
student, except me, would finish his composition during the
hour. I would just write the subject heading on the paper, sit
statue-like for the whole hour, and then hand over the blank
sheets to the tutor. No ripple of thought could cross my mind
during this period. I was fully conscious, but my mind was
immobile, like a block of stone. I simply could not muster the
thoughts even for a few lines, however much I tried.
* Prof. N.R. Krishnamurti, ‘Sri Bhagavan’s Triumphant Gaze’, The

Mountain Path, Jan. 1966; ‘Sri Ramana’s Boyhood in Madurai’,
Ramana Smriti; The Power of the Presence – Part 1.
These states persisted for the two years of my Intermediate

classes. Even today it is a wonder to me how I passed the
Intermediate examination with just a few marks short of a
first, a feat that enabled me to secure a coveted seat in the
BA Honours course. I had to take physics, even though my
original desire was to take English Literature. That could
not be, as I had done poorly in English, getting just a pass
mark. Judged from this distance of time, it seems that I lost
the ability to write original thoughts, a skill much needed in
English, though the capacity to remember and repeat facts
taken from books was not much impaired.
In January 1919 I had occasion to visit my sister’s house
in Tiruvannamalai. The very morning I arrived there from
Tiruchirappalli I had darshan of Bhagavan at Skandasramam.
This time also Bhagavan’s gracious look was impressed upon
me. Returning to my sister’s house after darshan, I lay down
to sleep after breakfast. It was not an ordinary sleep. For over
two hours I was fully conscious, but at the same time totally
unconscious of my body and its surroundings.
After my return to Tiruchirappalli, I slowly recovered my
ability to study, but even so, I had to extend my three-year
course to four years. After I graduated I initially thought that
I would study law but when I was offered a job teaching
physics I immediately accepted.
[On his next visit to Tiruvannamalai, he met Ganapati
Muni]. I prostrated at the feet of this great master of
mantra sastras [mantra scriptures]. At that time I was very
sympathetic towards people like Ganapati Muni who were
working towards the political uplift of India. I also felt anger
towards people like Bhagavan who were not lifting a finger
for the country’s liberation. Before I met Bhagavan that
year I had made it my business to pick a fight with anyone
who neglected the practicalities of life in favour of mere
discussions on the existence of God.
Because of this attitude I had told my companions that I
would not prostrate before the Maharshi, but when I saw him
a strange thing happened: the instant we reached his presence

I fell flat on my face in the traditional mode of prostration.
This spontaneous gesture embarrassed me a little since I knew
that my companions were aware of my attitude.
In a belated attempt to regain my composure I gazed
steadily at the Maharshi and tried to engage him in a
philosophical discussion.
‘You are now sitting like this,’ I asked, ‘but what is your
next state?’
I wanted to know what he thought about life after death.
My idea was to elicit from him the reply that there is a soul
that survives the dissolution of the body, that later gets unified
with the oversoul or God. I wanted to have a verbal fight with
him so that I could prove that this was not so. Minutes passed
but no reply was forthcoming. There was absolute silence as
two pairs of eyes were interlocked in a mutual, steady gaze.
A thought arose within me, ‘Is this man taking shelter in
silence to avoid answering an inconvenient question?’
Just then Bhagavan’s ringing voice exploded, ‘You said
‘state’. What do you mean by ‘state’?’
If a bombshell had exploded under my seat, it could not
have been as shattering as this sudden counter question, most
unexpectedly delivered. I felt I had to answer him.
I began to think: ‘Well, I did not ask him about the body
that will be buried or burnt. There is something inside the
body, the thinking apparatus, the so-called mind. It is about
this that I asked. Now, if I say that the question is about the
state of mind, he will naturally ask me to define mind, so I
must have the answer ready for such a question.’
So, within myself, I raised the enquiry ‘What is mind?’
But no answer was forthcoming. My mind was paralysed, its
thought power dead. I was like a helpless mute. There was
a fierce glow in Bhagavan’s eyes that held my own eyes in
a tight grip. Then a radiant smile of victory spread over his
divine face. I lost awareness of both the body and the world as
the insignificant ‘I’ was swallowed up in the pure Awareness-
Being in which all names, forms, time, space and action are
utterly lost. It was a state of utter silence without beginning or
end, aglow with the self-effulgent ‘I am’. When I recovered
consciousness of my body and its surroundings, with the
inner glow still effulgent, there were no more questions to
be asked or answered. Revelling in the joy of that thrilling
defeat, I quickly prostrated and made a headlong flight.
In 1929 I had a tonsillectomy that eventually led to a
severe attack of asthma. Both ayurvedic and allopathic
treatment were an utter failure. After I got some medicine
from a Siddha doctor in Madras I got some relief. On my
way back from Madras I visited Sri Ramanasramam. I and
my uncle Appachi Iyer sat for lunch. Under the Siddha
treatment I should have observed dietary restrictions. As I
had been forbidden to take preparations containing chillies
and tamarind, which were the primary ingredients of sambar,
I decided to take only rice with buttermilk. When the sambar
arrived my uncle told the server that he should not serve me
the sambar. The server turned a deaf ear and poured out two
large ladles of sambar over my rice. Appachi Iyer could not
help raising a loud protest.
Bhagavan said loudly, ‘Having come here to be rid of all
your ills, eat!’
The implication was that this was my medicine. I bent
my head as I felt a little humiliated. However, at the same
time I felt overjoyed by the promise of relief from my ills.
I cleared the leaf of all its contents. I came to realise the
full effect of that command-cum-benediction at the end of the
year in Madurai.
Before I left I asked, ‘Bhagavan, I am doing Rama mantra
japa. Is not Arunachala mantra japa superior to this?’ ‘No!
No!’ said Bhagavan vehemently. ‘Both are identical. “Ra”
means “that is” and “ma” means “thou”. “A” in Arunachala
means “that”, “ru” means “thou”, and “na” means “art”.’
Then he added, ‘Using your mind as your mouth, let
the name Rama revolve continuously like Vishnu’s chakra
[discus-like weapon] within your mind. No others need know

that you are doing japa.’
I interjected, ‘If I spend all my time like that, what will
happen to my teaching work? Will not my bread winning be in
jeopardy?’ Bhagavan replied, ‘The one whose name you repeat
will take full charge of all that. Don’t be concerned about it.’
Before I left the ashram Chinna Swami asked me to
take photographs of Sri Meenakshi Temple in Madurai and
Bhuminatheswarar temple in Tiruchuzhi. Back in Madurai
my illness was getting worse. To add to my troubles I had my
usual asthma, piles and a severe attack of amoebic dysentery.
By Bhagavan’s grace I was able to get the photographs. The
ashram sent me the book Sri Ramana Vijayam by registered
post. This book has been up to this day my inspiration and
scripture as well. My illness worsened and I was spitting
phlegm mixed with blood. I was confined to bed and I had
racking intestinal pains with motions of mucus mixed with
blood. I was seriously contemplating suicide, simply because
I couldn’t stand the pain any more.
‘One day I decided that I couldn’t take any more pain.
I went up to the roof of my house with the intention of
throwing myself off the parapet wall. As I stood on the roof,
summoning up the courage to execute the act, Arunachala
Siva appeared before me, glowing resplendently.
‘“What are you doing here?” he asked.
‘I was ashamed to admit what I was doing, but I couldn’t
tell a lie.
‘ “I have been sick for a long time. The pain is excruciating.
I can’t take it any longer. I came up here to throw myself off
the roof because living is too painful for me.”
‘Siva reprimanded me: “You think your problems are
great, but are you the only one who experiences pain? In
Tiruvannamalai people dig holes in me and light fires on me,
but I don’t react. I don’t decide to commit suicide. I lie there
unaffected by all these events. Now you go downstairs and
behave the same way.”
‘Chastened by this reprimand, I went back to my bed and

never contemplated suicide again.’
My wife, who was looking after our four-year-old son
and our six-month-old daughter, became worried, and wired
to her parents that my life was in danger. During the following
day I told my wife that I felt that I might not live for more
than a couple of days. Scarcely had I spoken these words
when a tall, lean figure approached and bent over me. It was
Vilacheri Mani Iyer, a boyhood friend of Sri Ramana. He had
just returned from Tiruvannamalai where he had attended
Sri Ramana’s Jayanti celebrations. Sizing up the situation,
he immediately took out some of Bhagavan’s vibhuti and
kumkum prasad. With his own hands he placed a dot of
kumkum on my forehead and rubbed the vibhuti on my brow.
Immediately a thrill of joy shook my frame, infusing me with
a feeling of vigorous health.
I sat up in my bed and told my wife, ‘I am quite well, my
dear. I will not die. Don’t fear!’
With further doses of medicine my intestinal pains and
motions ceased, and in the course of two days my bowels
became normal. Asthma alone remained. I took a month’s
leave from college in continuation of the Christmas vacation.
Bhagavan Maharshi, Arunachala-Siva-Ramana, saved me
from the jaws of death.
From 1931 onwards I sought out Sri Ramana’s boyhood
friends in Madurai. In that Ramana circle were Vilacheri
Mani Swami and his brother Ranga Iyer. There were other
Ramana associates such as Venkataramana Iyer, Suppiah
Thevar and Narayanaswami, along with the later devotees
such as Viswanatha Swami, his brother Sundaresa Iyer and
the young lawyer devotee S. R. Subramania Iyer. Not a day
passed without my meeting someone or other in this group. I
used to roam about in their company every evening till a late
hour in the night.
Narayanaswami, a member of this group, was a librarian
in Madurai when I met him. He told me two remarkable
incidents from Bhagavan’s boyhood. The first concerns a

rather violent game that Bhagavan and his friends used to
indulge in. They would assemble in Bhagavan’s house in
the room where he eventually had his death experience. This
room was selected because it was rarely used or visited by
other members of the family. The young Ramana would roll
himself up as tightly as he could and then encourage the
others to pick him up and use him as a ball. He would be
tossed from person to person and occasionally he would crash
to the floor when a particular player failed to make a good
catch. Astonishingly, despite many falls onto the hard floor,
there was never any sign of a scratch or mark, let alone any
muscular sprain or bone fracture.
Narayanaswami saw his friend sitting for long stretches
of time in a small room on the first floor. Narayanaswami,
thinking that it was some kind of meditation, asked Bhagavan
if he could also learn how to sit like this. Bhagavan told
him to sit cross-legged on the floor. As he was sitting there,
Bhagavan pressed the point of a pencil midway between his
eyebrows. Soon afterwards Narayanaswami lost all awareness
of his body and the world and entered a trance that lasted
for about half an hour. When he came back to his normal
state the first thing he saw was Bhagavan’s face wreathed
with smiles. Narayanaswami tried several times to repeat this
experience by himself, but he was never able to duplicate it.
Narayanaswami accompanied Bhagavan’s uncle when he
went to Tiruvannamalai in the late 1890s in his family’s first
attempt to bring Sri Ramana back to Madurai.
Ranga Iyer, another member of our Madurai group, was a
frequent visitor to Sri Ramanasramam. In one of our talks in
Madurai he told me about a very remarkable incident that took
place in the Mother’s samadhi at the time when it was still a
mud-walled building with a thatched roof. Bhagavan had been
sitting on a bench close to the wall. Ranga Iyer, Ramaswami
Pillai and a number of other sadhus were sitting on the floor
in front of Bhagavan. The group began to chant the Tamil
verses in praise of Bhagavan that are known as Sri Ramana

Stuti Panchakam. As they began the chanting Bhagavan was
seated in the sukhasana [cross-legged] pose on the bench,
while Ranga Iyer was sitting on the floor just in front of him.
Ranga Iyer was sitting so near Bhagavan, his head was only a
couple of inches away from the edge of the bench.
The fourth stanza in the third decad begins, ‘Let me place
your soft, holy feet on my head...’.
As this line was being chanted one of Bhagavan’s feet
descended, came into contact with the top of Ranga Iyer’s
head and stayed there for quite some time. The whole group,
including Ranga Iyer, was more or less hypnotised by this act
and went on repeating the same stanza over and over again.
It seems that they were quite incapable of proceeding any
further. Only when Bhagavan withdrew his foot and resumed
his former sukhasana posture was the group able to continue
and complete the chanting. The devotees all viewed this as a
rare example of pada diksha [initiation by being touched by
the Guru’s foot]. I have spoken to Ramaswami Pillai about
this incident, since he was present when it happened, and his
own account agrees in every detail with Ranga Iyer’s.
Sometime in 1934, we visited Sri Ramanasramam during
Jayanti with our families.
On the day after Jayanti we spoke about how Sri
Ramana and his friends would climb the high, solid mountain
of granite, the hill in Dindigul. Narayana Iyer said that the
Arunachala hill, heavily overlaid with earth, could easily be
climbed and that it could not be compared to the Dindigul hill
that was a slippery rock of granite.
Sri Ramana laughed and said, ‘Oh! Is that so?
Venkataramana, please take Narayana to the top of Arunachala
early tomorrow morning. Let him see how easy it is to climb
up this hill.’
Early next morning at 3 a.m. Bhagavan took us to the
kitchen where he himself prepared a vessel full of uppuma
for our lunch on the hill. Venkataramana Iyer took charge

of it. After some refreshment, a party of five consisting of
Venkataramana Iyer, Professor Narayana Iyer, photographer P.
R. S. Mani and myself, all under the leadership of Arunachala
Shastri, who knew the path up to the top of the hill, started to
climb at about 4.30 a.m. Just then my boy Setu Ram and my
daughter Muthu Meenakshi, who had been sleeping with me
in Bhagavan’s meditation hall, woke up with uproarious cries
and would not let me go. Bhagavan pacified them.
Holding each child by the hand, he said to me,
‘Krishnamurti! You attend to your business and go. I shall
take care of the children.’
‘Here is my Bhagavan to take care of me and my
family. He has packed me off to my salvation on the top of
Arunachala!’ So sang my soul as I hurried to join the party
that had already gone some distance up the hill.
On my return from the excursion my wife told me how the
children, during my absence, were taken to the kitchen where
they were engaged in peeling some beans with Bhagavan
until she came in the morning and took charge of them. As
ladies were not allowed to stay in the ashram at night, my
wife spent each night, along with the child Ramanan, in the
house of Mudaliar Patti in town. She would return to the
ashram early in the morning.
We reached the top of the hill with some difficulty after
taking our lunch at Seven Springs where we had a plentiful
supply of sweet and cool drinking water. By the time we
reached the top of the hill Tangakkai Narayana Iyer was
completely exhausted.
He stretched himself flat on the ground and moaned,
‘What a fool I was to compare Arunachala to Dindigul hill! I
cannot move. I shall die here!’
We gave him plenty of time to rest and then helped him
by turns all the way down the hill. We reached the ashram at
about 5 p.m.
When we prostrated before Bhagavan, he congratulated

his old friend by saying, ‘Narayana, are you not fifty-four? At
this age you have really performed a feat!’
Narayana Iyer laughed and forgot all his pains.
During this visit my son had an interesting encounter
with Bhagavan.
He went up to Bhagavan, who was just starting out
on his morning walk, and called after him, ‘Taatta, Taatta
[grandfather, grandfather]!’
Maharshi: Who are you?
Boy: I am Setu Ram Das.
Maharshi: Who is your father?
Boy: N. R. Krishnamurti Iyer.
M: How is it? Your dad is called Iyer. How can you be
called Das?
Boy: I am Setu Ram only. Is that all right, taatta?
M: Quite all right. Now, what do you want?
Boy: Please give me a walking stick.
M: Why? What for?
Boy: The other day you gave one to that taatta. Please
also give me a stick.
M: What? Are you an old man? How old are you?
Boy: No, I am only a small boy. I am aged seven. Please
give me one. A small stick will do.
M: What for?
Boy: I will always keep it with me. That way I will
always remember my Bhagavan taatta.
M: All right! Go and wait in the hall. You shall have your
stick. (Bhagavan then whispered something to his attendant,
Sadhu Rangaswami.)
Bhagavan returned to the hall, wiped his feet with his
towel and took his seat on the couch. Sadhu Rangaswami
came in and placed a stick before him. It was an old, broken,
walking stick, once used by Bhagavan. It had been polished
and cut to a size to suit a little boy.
Then Bhagavan narrated the incident, enacting the two

characters in his own inimitable way to the amused audience
before him. Soon afterwards the little boy in high glee stepped
forward and received his prize from Bhagavan’s own blessed
hands.
After dinner everybody in the hall retired for the night.
At dawn the lights were lit and a devotee, Ramachandra Rao
of Bangalore, sat before Bhagavan and recited verses from
the Ribhu Gita. The phrase ‘Aham Brahman, aham Brahman’
[I am Brahman], repeated in nearly every verse, indicates
the import of the work. As I listened to the chanting, at a
point within the right side of my chest there was an echoing
reverberation of ‘Aham Brahman, aham Brahman’. All the
light that was on the crown of my head and my brow was
drained off into that point, and a jet of blissful, ethereal
nectar gushed forth from that centre in the chest and filled
my whole body, causing it to tingle with intense bliss. With
this ethereal nectar gushing out of every pore of my skin, I
rushed out of the hall into the open space. The inundation
I was experiencing was gushing forth, extending up to the
infinities of space, drenching all the objects on the way. It
was vibrant with a feeling of Consciousness-Being in which
my body and all other bodies were like shadowy flakes of
snow in an ocean of limpid, cool and sweet water. I closed
my eyes and felt myself to be the clear sky of Consciousness-
Being. Then I opened my eyes and discovered myself to be
an ocean of the ethereal all-pervasive fluid. I was aware of
myself as Consciousness-Being with the shadow forms of
objects afloat in this ethereal fluid. Like a phantom I moved
back into the hall and resumed my seat.
As I sat down a thought flashed within me: ‘I must now
disappear forever into the forests of the Arunachala hill.’
An instant later I saw my wife in tears. My baby Ramanan
was in her arms, and she was accompanied by my little boy
Setu Ram and my daughter Muthu Meenakshi.
Bhagavan looked at me and said, strongly and forcefully,

‘Krishnamurti! Go back home to Madurai with your family.
That salvation you want to gain as a sannyasin in the forest
you will have even as a householder in your profession!’
After this eventful trip to the ashram at the end of 1934,
it took me sometime to recover my normal state. With only
four days before me until the reopening of the college, I found
my thinking capacity paralysed. How then could I lecture in
the classroom? I began to panic and felt that only Bhagavan
could help me.
I took a train and rushed back to Tiruvannamalai,
reaching the ashram early the next morning. I was afraid
to speak to Bhagavan. So I just sat before him. He seemed
totally indifferent to my plight and did not even look in my
direction. At breakfast time I followed the people to the dining
hall for morning coffee and bolted down the refreshment.
After breakfast I selected the book Jnana Vasishta from
Bhagavan’s bookshelf in the meditation hall and took it to
the Mother’s samadhi.
I prostrated before the Siva lingam and murmured, ‘O
Mother! Your son does not care even to look at me. I am
distraught on account of innumerable difficulties. By your
grace I must get a definite answer from this book that will
clear all my difficulties.’
I sat near a window in a corner and started reading the
verses with great earnestness. Time was forgotten. By about
6 p.m. I finished the reading, having been struck by the
significance of one of the verses: ‘In the interval between
two successive flights of thought there is a silence in which
shines the pure consciousness of the Self.’
I said to myself, ‘Well, I am repeating “Rama, Rama”.
Each sound of ‘Rama’ is a thought, so there must be a silence
of pure consciousness in between the two utterances of
‘Rama’. That Consciousness-Being is the Self.’
Feeling overjoyed by my experience in Mother’s
samadhi, I went to the dining room and quickly ate my
night meal. I prostrated before Bhagavan and took leave of

him. The Maharshi merely nodded his head with a knowing,
benevolent smile. By the next morning I was back in Madurai
in a fit condition to resume my teaching work.
I used to turn up at Ramanasramam once or twice a
month during my weekend breaks. I noted that as soon as
I entered the ashram my constant japa came to a complete
stop. At the end of the year 1940 I found it very difficult
to continue the japa. When Shantammal, one of the lady
devotees who worked in the ashram kitchen, visited me in
Madurai, I mentioned my difficulty.
She said, ‘You should be happy indeed about this! The
name ‘Rama’ is saguna Brahman. [Brahman with manifest
attributes]. It has resolved itself into the silent nirguna
Brahman [unmanifest, unconditioned Brahman] of the Self,
the motionless Being-Consciousness. The goal of the japa
sadhana has been attained. That is why there is no more japa.’
Sometime later I met Sadhu Arunachala (Major
Chadwick) in the ashram and told him about my spiritual
visions. Sadhu Arunachala responded by saying that he too
had had a similar experience that he subsequently reported
to Bhagavan. Bhagavan had informed him that it was only a
vision, and that it should not be confused with an experience
of the Self. Bhagavan had added that the luminous entity was
nothing but an amalgam, so to say, of the nescience of sleep
with the pure light of the consciousness of the Self.
On the auspicious day of Vijayadasami I stood before
Bhagavan with the Ribhu Gita in my hand. When he asked
me what I was holding, I placed the book in his hands.
I said, ‘Bhagavan, please select for me the most important
portion of the book for my daily recital.’
Bhagavan opened the book and showed me the twenty-
sixth chapter, saying, ‘The recital of this chapter is itself
samadhi’.
I prostrated and received the book, this precious gift,
from the blessed hands of Bhagavan himself.
I read the Ribhu Gita daily until I had learned by heart

all the forty-five verses in the twenty-sixth chapter. Later on,
the continuous repetition of the verses became natural to me.
I continued this sadhana until one of my later visits to Sri
Ramanasramam.
Ramana Maharshi’s sixtieth birthday was celebrated
on a large scale during the Jayanti of 1939. At that time
the question of building a large, traditional, granite temple
over the samadhi of the Mother was being hotly debated.
Bhagavan himself was, as usual, silent on the matter and was
quite uncommitted to either of the two views. Chinna Swami,
the ashram manager, was intent on building the temple.
But there was strong opposition from a sizeable group of
Bhagavan’s other devotees. This group held that the primary
object of the ashram management should be to provide food
and accommodation for the visiting and resident devotees.
They also thought that the ashram should undertake to feed
large numbers of the local poor people on a regular basis. The
anti-temple group felt that money should not be wasted on
the purchase of unnecessary stones, bricks and mortar.
Such devotees used to say, ‘Are there not enough temples
in Tiruvannamalai? Why add one more to them? We should
purchase some fertile lands with the funds we collect. If we
own our own fields, we can always be assured of a plentiful
supply of food.’
This strong opposition almost reduced Chinna Swami to
tears of despair.
Yogi Ramayya demanded to know ‘Why should there be
a temple for the Maharshi’s mother, when there is no temple
for Kausalya, the mother of Rama, who was an avatar of
Vishnu himself?’
I did not agree with such sentiments. So, when a
letter arrived from Madurai, saying that my daughter had
chickenpox, I used it as an excuse to return home.
On the night after my arrival I had a dream. I was in a
clearing in a forest on the Arunachala hill. The whole of the
open space was bathed in the light of the full moon. I saw
Bhagavan in the clearing with a tall, majestic attendant whose
body shone like burnished gold. I approached Bhagavan and
prostrated before him.
As soon as I got up Bhagavan questioned me:
‘Krishnamurti, do you know who the Mother is?’
I promptly answered, ‘Mother is Bhagavan and Bhagavan
is the Mother.’
Bhagavan smiled and said, ‘That is correct!’
I turned to one side to look at the lustrous attendant
and found him to be none other than Bhagavan’s brother,
Niranjanananda Swami. As soon as I got up the next morning
I sent Rs. 100 to Chinna Swami along with a covering letter
requesting him to accept the offering and use it for the
construction of the Mother’s Temple. Some nine years later
I had the joy and satisfaction of witnessing the consecration
of a temple over the Mother’s samadhi that contained, in the
sanctum sanctorum, a Meru Chakra that had been blessed by
Bhagavan’s own hands.
During the Jayanti celebrations of 1939 the question of
acquiring the house in Tiruchuzhi where Bhagavan was born
was also considered. My father offered his whole-hearted
support to buy the house. I accompanied T.P. Ramachandra
Iyer, to Tiruchuzhi. Soon afterwards a party consisting of
Niranjanananda Swami, his personal attendant Rajagopala Iyer
and my father, arrived in Madurai. When the ashram people
approached them, the owners refused to sell the property by
the simple expedient of fixing a price of Rs. 10,000. They
had recently purchased it for Rs. 2,000. The ashram party
persisted in their negotiations and after a prolonged stay
of about three months they finally secured the property for
Rs. 3,000, plus a house in Tiruchuzhi itself that cost
Rs. 2,000.
At this time my father was sixty-six years old suffering
from both hernia and asthma. These troubles had been
aggravated by the frequent trips to Madurai and Tiruchuzhi.
Soon after reaching Tiruvannamalai he was stricken with

another strangulated hernia.
The attack was sudden and severe. It was not possible
for him to travel to the Vellore hospital. The ashram doctor
Kuppuswami Iyer prayed to Bhagavan and conducted the
operation himself. By the grace of Bhagavan the operation
was quiet successful.
Ten days after the operation I received a telegram from
the army headquarters in India, to the effect that my brother,
Narayanaswami, had died as a casualty in the war. I felt that
my father, in his weakened condition, would die of shock
if he got any inkling of the news. However, when I passed
on the news to Bhagavan, he felt that my father should be
immediately told about it. He sent Devaraja Mudaliar, the
author of Day by Day with Bhagavan, along with me to
communicate the sad story to my father. Bhagavan’s grace
working in my father’s mind gave him the strength necessary
to withstand the pain.
Some time in March 1948 I had an interesting conversation
with Bhagavan. His health was then rapidly declining and his
body had lost much weight.
NRK: It is clear that Bhagavan, out of his infinite mercy
and grace, cures even the fatal diseases of his devotees. Does
not Bhagavan’s body suffer on that account?
Bhagavan: (speaking in English) Yes and no.
NRK: Please, Bhagavan, explain in more detail.
Bhagavan: The mukta purusha [liberated being] does
not need his body once he has realised the Self. However, so
long as he stays alive, he has the power to drain off devotees’
illnesses into his own body. That is why his body suffers for
the time being. That is what is meant by the answer ‘yes’.
If he retires into the solitude of a quiet corner and remains
in kevala nirvikalpa samadhi, completely oblivious of the
body-world complex, the disease received in the body gets
dissipated. When he returns to his body consciousness the
body is cured and restored to its original health. The duration
of that samadhi should be in adequate proportion to the

seriousness of the disease concerned.
When a woman asked late in his life if Bhagavan could
not share his physical problems with his devotees in the same
way that he insisted on sharing everything else that came his
way, Bhagavan laughed and remarked, ‘Who do you think
gave me these illnesses in the first place?’ On getting this
illuminating exposition. I groaned in remorse: ‘Have I not
been a major contributor to the suffering of his body?’
On the 14th April 1950, after a hard day’s work, I went
to bed on a bench on the veranda at about 8 p.m., and fell
fast asleep. Suddenly I woke up with a start and rushed
headlong into my room. A sudden blinding flash of lightning
had enveloped me and the vast space around me. It was this
startling phenomenon that had caused me to wake up in a
panic. Once I reached the room the brilliant flash of light
confined itself to my chest. It then subsided into my heart-
centre, which began to throb continuously with the sound
‘Arunachalam, Arunachalam’ in the same way that it used to
throb with the sound ‘Rama, Rama’. The vibrations of that
sound were so violent they shook my whole body. However
much I tried, I could not stop that powerful reverberation.
Fortunately, by the time the following day dawned, the
throbbing had subsided of its own accord.
I went out to take my morning coffee in a neighbouring
hotel at daybreak. Going out onto the road I saw a wall poster
announcing in big letters: ‘Bhagavan Ramana Maharshi
attained Maha Nirvana last night at 8.48 p.m.’
I felt an anguished cry within me: ‘I have lost the delight
of my eyes, that charming figure of my Bhagavan, for ever!’
Bhagavan’s parting gift to me had been an infusion of
grace that had touched the core of my Heart, revealing to me
the eternal silence that had always been there, and that will
always be there. Through that grace I finally understood who
Sadguru Ramana was and is, and I understood directly what I
had been striving for during all my years of sadhana.
The next day I returned to Madurai. I was then in an

infinite ocean of pure being that was aware of nothing other
than itself. The nescience of sleep was lost for ever. I am now
that screen of consciousness on which this endless shadow-
play of the world is going on, with a shadow body carrying
the label N.R.K. actively engaged in singing the five hymns
on Arunachala and Ramana by turns. It has now made this
record of its sojourn on earth.
63. Wolter A. Keers*
W
and 80s.
olter Keers was a Dutch teacher and writer who lectured
extensively on yoga and advaita in Europe in the 1970s
Wolter Keers first came to Bhagavan in 1950. He

contributed an article to Ramana Smriti, a birth centenary
offering, entitled “What does He Mean to me?”. We give below
his fascinating account of his connection with Bhagavan:
“When I look back upon my childhood, it is clear as
crystal that I brought a large amount of spiritual samskaras
into this life. I was born into a family of clergymen, a family
tradition that had spanned many generations. My father
and both my grandfathers were ministers in the protestant,
Calvinist tradition. It was not surprising, therefore, that all
interest in our household was focussed on matters of religion.
I must have been taught how to pray almost before I could
talk.
If it is true that one’s childhood is decisive in most
important matters in life, this is certainly true in my case. Two
events have marked the whole sequence of my adventures
in the spiritual realm, both leading to a desperate search
for someone who might enlighten me, and ending in the
unbelievable event of finding just such guidance.
* The Power of the Presence – Part 3.

The first event must have occurred when I was about five
years old. A well-known missionary, travelling from place to
place, arrived at our village to give a lecture and exhibition
about Netherlands New Guinea (now part of Indonesia) where
he had worked. I can still remember some of the exhibits, but
more importantly, he stayed in our house and had his meals
with us.
One day during lunch he told my parents how, this time,
he had not made the journey from the East Indies in the
usual way by boat. He had instead done part of the journey
overland, travelling through British India.
That phrase ‘British India’ struck me like lightning. It
is hardly possible that at this very early age I could ever
have been told this name before, but the moment I heard it,
it struck me with such force, I felt I was splitting into two.
I went numb, paralysed with silent, amazed wonder, thrilled
by some inexplicable recognition of something extraordinary,
something absurdly desirable, something like the ultimate
good. I don’t know what my concept of God might have been
at that early age, but I somehow felt that I had been told
about his existence, and the place where he could be found.
The second event must have occurred just a little later. I
presume it must have been in the spring of 1928 when I was
five years old. I was playing in a small grassy field, making
piles of sand. Casually, I looked at a nearby hedge that had
tiny pink flowers and white fluffy balls as big as marbles.
Suddenly, the entire world, myself included, was transformed
into light. If anything in particular triggered this off, I cannot
now say what it was. I fell into the state that I later learned
was called ‘samadhi’.
If this sounds like a very impressive event to happen to
a five-year-old, I have to say that at the time it felt like the
most ordinary of ordinary things. It was normal, natural and
unaffected.
Though I was small and inexperienced in the reactions
of adults, I somehow had a feeling that I should keep quiet
about this experience. I never talked to anyone about it till

I was about twenty years of age, and I only spoke about it
then because the same thing happened to me when I was
sitting in the company of a friend. He was reading a text
to me. I don’t remember exactly what it was, but I know
that it was something that had originated with an ancient,
oriental mystic. Without warning, samadhi dissolved me into
nothingness. That is how it is with me: with no prior warning
and no obvious cause, ‘I’ simply disappears.
Many things had of course happened between the ages of
five and twenty. But here was a new decisive point, confirming
for me that it was in the East that I had to look for an answer
to the questions I put to all the theologians in my family. I
had pestered them (and anyone else I thought might be able
to answer me) with questions about what I sensed indirectly
was an underlying reality that was behind all people and
appearances, supporting and animating them, but no one had
been able to give me satisfactory answers. In fact, I couldn’t
even get unsatisfactory answers out of them because no one
seemed to have the slightest idea what I was talking about.
I looked for answers in books. Though I read widely and
avidly consumed many books of interest, none of them could
explain to me what I wanted to know. The knowledge and
information I desired seemed to be so elusive that, no one
was willing to write it down or discuss it. A profound sense
of desperation seemed to grow in me. I couldn’t get back
into this samadhi state that had arrived spontaneously, and I
couldn’t discover answers to my burning questions in any of
the books that came my way. I fell into a deep depression as
it gradually dawned on me that the solution to this problem
was utterly beyond me. Realising that self-effort had failed
me, I came to the conclusion that I had to find a Guru who
could guide me back to this state of being that I already knew
was the only goal or state worth striving for. I knew that if I
failed to find a Guru who could help me to accomplish this,
life would not be worth living any more.
It was during this despairing phase of my life that an

elderly lady, the mother of a friend of mine, lent me two
books. The first one was Jnana Yoga, a nineteenth-century
summary of the jnana tradition in India that had been written
by Swami Vivekananda. When I picked up the book, I had no
idea that the book as well as the author were world famous. At
first glance it looked like yet another book that would leave
me frustrated and still searching. However, when I started to
read it, it caused something like an explosion in me. There,
in those pages, I finally found someone who had been able
to put into words what I had been feeling intuitively. I had
never managed to verbalise either my problem or the solution
I craved, but here was a man who showed me that I was not
unique. It was a relief to discover that my own problem and
spiritual hunger had been shared by countless seekers down
the ages. Not only that, the book also showed and convinced
me that in India there was a living tradition of sages who
had not only experienced this state I sought, but also had
the power and the capacity to push their disciples into same
state. My peculiar spiritual hunger was not satiated with this
indirect knowledge, but at least I now knew with certainty
that somewhere in India there would be a teacher who would
be able to help me.
It is said that when the disciple is ready, the Guru makes
his existence known. It was not long after I had read Jnana
Yoga that I came across The Secret Path by Paul Brunton.
In Dutch it was entitled Hidden Wisdom. When I read in
those pages that there was a living sage in India with whom
one could talk, blue patches returned to my sky. I still felt I
had many burning questions that needed answers, but I felt
confident this man could not only answer them all, he could
also show me that elusive source from which mind and all
its questions sprang into existence. Only one point bothered
me: the edition I read was several years old. I had to concede
the possibility that Ramana Maharshi might have passed
away. I had no way of getting information about this because
the Second World War was on. The Netherlands had been
occupied by the German army, so there was no possibility
of corresponding with anyone in British India, or with the
author and his publisher.
I took a decision: I would believe he was still alive and I
would trust in the words he had spoken that were recorded in
the book. I surrendered my doubts and put all my faith in him.
There was a photo of Bhagavan in this book. I used to focus
on it during my meditation and I also began to concentrate
on the heart-centre that Bhagavan had stated was on the
right side of the chest. It took a lot of effort and practice to
become fully absorbed in these objects of meditation, but I
persevered because I felt at the time that these were tools that
had been given to me by Bhagavan. I believed that if I used
them properly, they would take me beyond the phenomenal
appearance of the world and my mind.
I have always had strong yogic samskaras. It seemed
natural for me to be putting all my energy into focussing on a
strategic point in the subtle body. After doing this practice for
sometime, l found I was able to sink into this centre every time
I meditated. At other times I would meditate on Bhagavan’s
photo. As I became absorbed in the image, I began to feel his
living presence.
The grace and power that flowed from that picture
convinced me that he was still alive. More than that, I felt
he knew that I was striving hard for the truth. As the power
flowed from those magnificent eyes, I knew that Bhagavan
was supervising my progress, even though he was thousands
of miles away.
There was an initial euphoria that wore off when I realised
that my experiences – bliss, silence, and so on – were only
temporary interludes in the continuing depressing saga of my
mind’s seemingly endless and distracting journey. On the plus
side I can say that coming into contact with Bhagavan had
removed my depression and its underlying cause. I was no
longer frustrated by my inability to understand my spiritual
hunger, but at the same time, the intellectual knowledge of

the Self and the means of discovering it did not effect a
permanent change in me. I knew that I was not the body, not
the mind. I knew that I could experience temporary blissful
states when I subsided into the heart-centre, and I knew I
could feel a glowing peace when I focussed on Bhagavan’s
eyes, but there was nothing permanent about any of these
states. Pleasant though they all were, they had not established
me in my true centre. They had not taken me to the place
where I could say with confidence, ‘Yes, this is what I have
been searching for all my life. This is the final goal towards
which I have been moving for so long.’ I didn’t write off these
experiences as being useless. I knew they were a marvellous
preparation for something else, but that something else had
not yet come to me.
What I did not know at that time was this: on account
of close identification with the body, the body itself must be
brought at least once, but preferably many times, into the
living presence of an authentic Master. What I did know,
intuitively and directly, was that I had to see this amazing
being in that little Indian town of Tiruvannamalai.
I concentrated on Bhagavan more and more. Sometimes
I was almost fighting with him, begging him to help me in
my efforts to come and see him. I know that it sounds absurd
to make such a claim, but there came a point when I could
confidently say ‘I won’. One day I looked at Bhagavan’s
photo and knew with a calm unshakeable certainty that I
would be travelling to India in the future, and that I would
find Bhagavan still in the body, when I arrived.
How much of this sadhana was my own projection and
how much was Bhagavan’s real, reassuring presence, I shall
never know. Every sadhaka projects a man upon the sage, and
every sadhaka conceives the sage to be a person who walks,
talks, eats and wills things to happen. This is the sadhaka’s
point of view and it is wholly wrong because the true Master
does nothing.
The true Master, I discovered later, never gives the

sadhaka anything to grip on or get hold of. He is like air or
sunlight – something you can’t grasp or get hold of or give
a form to. And yet at the same time, we cannot deny that
air and sunlight exist, because we are immersed in them and
they sustain us whether we believe in them or not. What, in
hindsight, I am trying to say is this: I called on the name and
form of a being who for me represented the ultimate, infinite
Self in the Heart of all beings.
I don’t think that the name and form of Bhagavan that
I focussed on made a response, but the Self who resides in
the Heart of all beings somehow heard my plea, felt my
earnestness and my raging, spiritual thirst. It arranged for
me to be brought into the presence of Bhagavan because
it knew that in that holy presence I could be brought to an
understanding of who I truly was and am.
Though I was given the certainty that I would be brought
to Bhagavan in time, it was not until the beginning of 1950
that I was finally able to make the trip to India. The visit was
many years ago, but the memories of it are still green and fresh
in my mind. As I consult my memory to describe my arrival
at Tiruvannamalai, I feel as if I am writing about something
that happened as recently as yesterday. I remember the jolting
train ride on the metre-gauge line from Madras. I remember
my first view of Arunachala from the train window. It was
glowing white re-radiating the light of the full moon. I had
not arranged to arrive on a full moon night, so I remember
thinking that this was somehow a good omen. I was thrown
into the reality of everyday India when my train arrived at
the Tiruvannamalai station. All the porters descended on me
(I must have looked like the richest potential customer) and
fought over my luggage. It didn’t seem to be much to do with
me, because with very little effort on my part, I suddenly
found myself sitting in a jutka [a small two-wheeled cart
pulled by a single horse], being transported to the ashram.
I remember the driver shouting ‘Hey Hey!’ repeatedly, with
the accent always on the second syllable, and I remember

the innumerable jolts that came from the ruts and holes In
the unsurfaced road. I didn’t feel any responsibility for my
activities, or for my movement from one place to another.
I felt that I had been taken over by a benign wave that
would wash me up at an appropriate destination.
I knew from friends whom I had corresponded with, that
Bhagavan was seriously ill, and that he would not be with us
in the body much longer, but that didn’t worry me. I had come
in time. I knew he had fulfilled his promise to get me into
his living presence. As we turned into the ashram gate there
was a feeling of success, of accomplishment. By presenting
myself in time, I knew I had fulfilled all my obligations. The
rest was up to Bhagavan. I somehow knew he would not fail
me.
Roda McIver, a Bombay devotee who had been living
near Bhagavan for several years, took me to the ashram a
few hours later and pointed out Bhagavan to me. From
some distance away I saw him sitting on a chair in the small
passageway that connected his room with the hall where
he met with visitors and devotees. The mere sight of him
made me tremble all over. It was not because of nerves or
uneasiness, it was because I had come face to face with the
divine. This recognition affected me so much, my body shook
involuntarily. I looked at this being who had been the focus
of all my dreams, hopes and expectations for so many years.
There could have been a let down, a disappointing realisation
that I had come so far just to see an ordinary-looking man
sitting on a chair. But this was not what I saw, not what I
experienced. As I gazed at Bhagavan, I felt I saw God himself
sitting there. In that early morning meeting I saw a blazing
light that had taken human form. It was more radiant than
anything I had ever seen before.
Roda introduced me, after which Bhagavan looked at
me for a few seconds. I remember that a few words were
exchanged, but they were inconsequential. The message that
impressed itself upon me came not from the few words he

uttered, but from his presence and from the smile on his face.
Together they said, ‘So, you are finally here!’
I was invited to sit down among a group of men. There
were perhaps ten or twenty of us. I found a place where
I could lean my back against a wall and look at him, and
then I feasted my eyes on his form. I looked and looked
and looked, soaking up every emanation of this radiance.
Long, long ago, when I was very young, I had believed that
God was some magnificent being, having a human form that
radiated light and goodness. I had long since abandoned this
childhood belief, believing it to be a fairy story that was
told only to credulous children. Yet now this belief turned
out to be true, because here before me was a human form
that seemed to be made of light itself. How to describe what
I experienced on that first morning? God became manifest
before my eyes, announcing his presence to me by radiating
a blazing, penetrating light, a light that went right through
me like x-rays.
Bhagavan was behaving in a normal, everyday way. He
looked at various people who had come to see him, he smiled
at the squirrels that ran up and down the nearby trees, and he
occasionally exchanged a few words with his attendants who
were sitting nearby. Occasionally he would close his eyes for
perhaps half a minute. It looked to me as if he was having
short naps, but I soon realised that he was fully aware of
everything that was going on around him, even when his eyes
were closed. His head would suddenly swivel, his eyes would
open and he would focus on someone for a few seconds.
This was not the sort of casual look that one gets from a
stranger in the street. It was a deep, searching look. If one
was on the receiving end, it felt as if Bhagavan was, without
judgement, making a complete inventory of one’s soul, taking
in all its problems and requirements. At the same time it was
effortlessly casual. One glance might be enough to give him
all the information he required. After that brief look, he might
rub his head with his long elegant fingers, or he might chat
to someone nearby.
When I had time to reflect on this first darshan, it seemed
amazing that such an air of normality could prevail around
someone who was radiating so much light and energy.
Perhaps other people were not seeing and feeling what I was
experiencing. I asked Roda about this later that day.
She laughed and said, ‘Many people do have special
experiences when they see Bhagavan, especially new people,
but for most of the time we all see him as a normal, elderly
man sitting on a sofa. But once in a while he graces us with
an experience such as you had today, that convinces us of his
greatness and his divinity.’
Then to demonstrate her point, she told me what had
happened when she first came to Bhagavan:
‘It was in 1940 that I first saw a photo of Bhagavan. At
that time I was living in Bombay. I come from a prosperous,
well-connected family, but I was not happy in my heart.
When I saw the photo, I knew I had to come here and see
Bhagavan. I sensed that he would give me a satisfaction that
was missing in Bombay.
I read books about him, but they didn’t interest me. I
didn’t understand his teachings or care much about them.
It was the presence radiating from that photo that drew me
here.
I eventually came here in 1942 and first met Bhagavan
on the hill. I had been told that he had gone for a walk up
the mountain. The route was pointed out to me, so I stood
gazing at it, waiting for Bhagavan to make the return journey.
I was expecting to see a man walking down the hill, but when
he finally appeared, I couldn’t believe that I was watching
a human being come into view. It was like watching a
glorious sunrise unfold: a distant glimmering of light that,
as it approached, became more and more radiant until the
blazing sun itself was standing next to me. I was overawed
and humbled by this display of utter magnificence. Standing
in the glow of that radiant presence, something shifted inside

me, some new awareness manifested that I had never had
before. I was caught by him and his love, and in that moment
my soul became his.’
I was happy to hear that someone else’s first experience
of Bhagavan had been one of radiant light. I knew I had not
been hallucinating when I had seen him take that form earlier
that day, even though all the other people around him did not
appear to be seeing and feeling what I had been experiencing.
‘What happened next?’ I asked.
‘How could I go back to living a normal life in Bombay
after an experience like that? Though I returned home to my
family, I was restless with them. I knew I had to come back to
Arunachala and be with Bhagavan all the time. Nothing else
in life felt important. I tried coming for visits, but it wasn’t
enough. In 1945, I sold everything I had and moved here.
‘I wanted to show my gratitude to Bhagavan by touching
his feet, but I knew this was not allowed by his attendants. I
confided this desire to Mrs. Taleyarkhan, thinking she would
keep it a secret. But in the hall, in front of everyone, she told
Bhagavan, “Roda has a strong desire to touch your feet.” I
was so embarrassed.
‘Bhagavan said nothing at the time, but after lunch that
day, he stopped near me, said something in Tamil to a nearby
devotee, and asked him to translate it for me.
‘The devotee said, “Bhagavan says, ‘Why should she want
to touch my feet? My feet are always on her head.’” I was
overwhelmed with joy. Everyone around me congratulated
me on my good fortune on getting a blessing like this. People
who had been with Bhagavan for years and years said that
they had never heard him make a remark like this to anyone
else.
‘One old devotee told me, with great joy, “You have his
full Grace”.
‘From that time on, I stopped regarding Bhagavan as a
body, as a person. I think that was the fruit of the blessing he
gave me. Nowadays, people who think Bhagavan is a body

see him as an old man with cancer, and they grieve over his
pain and suffering. When I see him, I still feel him to be
that glorious body of light that he showed me many years
ago. People say that he might die soon but I know that the
disappearance of this tired, old body will make no difference
to him. Only people who think that he is a body need to
grieve over its possible disappearance.’
Bhagavan was indeed very sick, but he insisted on coming
out to meet with devotees twice a day. We were all able to sit
with him for two hours in the morning and two hours in the
afternoon. This was a severe curtailment of his usual routine,
the one that had been in place while he was healthy, but
having been deprived of his physical presence for so many
years, this was still a feast for me. Those first few days were
the fulfilment of everything I had ever hoped to find. In fact,
I can say that it was much more than that. I had had lucid,
radiant moments during my years of practice, but nothing
had prepared me for the possibility of coming into contact
with even a portion of this blazing presence. No part of my
imagination had even conceived that such experiences were
possible. There was a radiant power and energy in Bhagavan’s
presence that effortlessly swept through mind and matter. His
grace silenced my mind, it filled my heart, and it took me to
realms that were way beyond the phenomenal [material].
By the second or third day I had to laugh at the absurdity
that had been my previous life. Who was I to cultivate a
garden full of problems? What on earth could have given me
the impression that I was so important that I ought to have
problems and questions; complicated situations that I thought
I needed to get out of?
These passing thoughts effortlessly led me into the ‘Who
am I’–sadhana. I had tried this before, getting my instructions
from the books I had read. But doing it in his presence was an
entirely different matter. In this radiant light it was so evident
that I was not a body, not an ego, that no analysis was needed.
The light radiating from Bhagavan filled my being, sweeping

away all my darkness in one stroke. Effort seemed redundant
when his presence alone was enough to evaporate the usual
mental flow of thoughts, ideas and problems.
I mentioned to Roda how happy I was to have found
such a great Guru. I felt that everyone should be coming to
Bhagavan for his grace, particularly since it didn’t look as if
his physical body would be with us for much longer. When
I mentioned this to Roda, it reminded her of an incident that
she had witnessed in the hall a few years before:
‘Two men came to the ashram. One of them pointed to
the other and said, “Bhagavan, this man has accepted a certain
person as his Guru. That Guru has not reached any great state
himself. I want to show my friend what a real Guru looks
like. I want him to feel what it is like to be in the presence of
a fully enlightened Guru, so I have brought him here to see
you. I am hoping that by bringing him here I will be able to
divert him from a wrong path.”
‘Bhagavan was furious with the man. In a very angry
tone he replied, “How do you know that his Guru is not a
good Guru? What qualifications do you have to assess the
competence or otherwise of spiritual teachers? And even if
you did have that qualification, what right do you have to
tell this man that his own Guru is no good? The disciple’s
devotion in many cases is more important than the Guru’s
qualifications. If worshipped with great devotion, even a
stone becomes Iswara.”
‘Bhagavan never liked to hear visitors or devotees
criticising other ashrams and other Gurus.’
News of Bhagavan’s sickness and operations had spread
throughout India. Many people were making special trips to
have his darshan because they knew that they would not have
the opportunity to see him for much longer. Old devotees
were turning up in large numbers, and they were being joined
by large crowds of new people. At times it made the ashram
very crowded and noisy. I heard stories of the ‘good old days’
when three or four people could sit quietly with him for hours
together. What great karma people must have had to have
been with him in such circumstances!
I mentioned this to Roda and she remarked,
‘It has hardly ever been quiet and uncrowded, at least
not in the years I have been here. People used to visit at all
hours of the day and night, and no one, Bhagavan included,
tried to make these people behave in a quiet way. A few years
ago someone donated a radio to Bhagavan and it was put in
the hall. Krishnaswami, the attendant, decided when it would
be on or off, and for many hours a day it would be on. It
was a big disturbance to everyone in the hall, particularly the
foreigners who were not used to Indian music. One woman
asked Krishnaswami to turn it down.
“Why do you always switch on the radio when we
come here to meditate?” she asked. “Don’t you realise how
disturbing it is to those who are sitting here quietly, focussing
on Bhagavan, or meditating?”
Krishnaswami responded by turning up the radio even
higher. Bhagavan noticed that the woman was getting
increasingly agitated by Krishnaswami’s refusal to create a
quiet atmosphere in the hall.
Turning to her Bhagavan said, “Why do you disturb your
mind like this? The quarrel is disturbing you more than the
music. If the radio is disturbing you, why not leave. Are you
obliged to sit here to do your meditation? If you need physical
silence, there are many quiet places where you can go and
meditate without being disturbed. If it is too noisy here for
you, why don’t you find such a place and meditate there?”
Bhagavan expects us to maintain inner silence in the
midst of a noisy world. He doesn’t encourage us to run away
and hide in quiet places.’
I had no intention of running away to find a quiet
place. For me Bhagavan’s immediate presence was so
overwhelmingly potent, nothing could distract me or disturb
me there. However, after attending Bhagavan’s darshans for
a couple of weeks, I began to notice that the exalted states

I experienced in his Presence gradually wore off when I
went back to my little house opposite the ashram. Sitting in
Bhagavan’s presence I felt a quiet lucidity. All thoughts and
problems would be swept away, burnt in the raging fire of his
potent presence. But after a few hours of being alone in my
room, I would realise that these states were only temporary
because my old thoughts and problems would eventually rise
up again. I began to feel a spirit of rebellion rising within me.
I felt I had to confront Bhagavan with this problem. I had not
come to him for blissful experiences, I had come to him to
seek a permanent end to my mind and all its problems.
That day when I walked in for the afternoon darshan,
I refused to melt away into his radiance. This had been my
usual habit up till then. I refused the blessing of mental
quietness that he had been bestowing on me every time I had
so far walked into his presence. It was a most difficult gift to
refuse because his peaceful emanations were so powerful and
so tempting to sink into. As I sat there, stubbornly refusing
them, I had the embarrassed feeling I was slapping my own
mother in the face. I persisted with my intransigence because
it was not a heavenly hour I was in search of. I was looking
for lasting liberation from ignorance.
That day when I passed in front of him and greeted him
in the traditional Indian style, a quick smile passed over
his face. That was all. I somehow felt that he knew what
I had come for that day. Was he smiling at the audacity of
my demand, or was he smiling because he knew that I had
come to understand that he had something to offer that was
worth infinitely more than a temporary blissful state? I sat
down among the crowded hall and waited to see what would
happen. Bhagavan paid no attention to me at all, or at least
none that I was aware of, but experience had taught me that
he was aware of every mood and mind-state in the hall. He
beamed radiantly at all the new visitors, occasionally rubbed
his head, and when none of the new arrivals was occupying
his attention, he would watch the squirrels for a while. He

seemed utterly self-contained, completely detached from
everything that was going on in front of him, but I knew that
at a subtle level he was engaging with all the thoughts and
desires that were being beamed at him from the assembled
masses.
Darshan that day was being given on the northern side of
the new hall in an open space that has now been taken over
by the samadhi hall. Bhagavan, sitting on his sofa, had his
back to the granite wall of the new hall. He was shaded by
the covered walkway that in those days adjoined the temple
complex. I sat quite close to where Bhagavan’s body was
eventually buried.
I began to bombard Bhagavan with thoughts. With all the
mental energy I could summon up, I shot out my complaint
at him: Bhagavan, of what use is all your radiance to me,
if I cannot solve my mental problems the moment I leave
you?’
This, with minor variations, I repeated again and again.
Bhagavan took no notice. He continued to go through his
everyday routine, showing no indication that he had heard
my mental complaint. Frustrated, I concentrated on him even
more.
I tried to shake his indifference with my thoughts. I felt
I was shaking him the way I would shake a tree to get a fruit
to fall off: the whole force of my will was focussed on one
thought: ‘I must have an answer; I must have an answer!’
Finally, my mental persistence paid off.
He turned in my direction and looked at me with a smile
of utter amazement on his face.
‘What do you want?’ said his smile.
Then his expression changed, and its new configuration
exclaimed ‘You are looking for your glasses, and they are on
your nose!’
No words passed his lips, but these messages came to me
with unbelievable clarity. There was no doubt or conjecture
or imagination. Bhagavan continued to gaze at me. Perhaps

he was waiting for some kind of response.
Suddenly his eyes emitted light and spat fire at me. I can
think of no other way of describing that sudden explosion
in his gaze. His powerful look went straight into me, boring
away at everything that made me think I was different and
separate from him. I felt the right-hand side heart centre
begin to get warm. I had often felt it during the course of
my meditation, and I had often had the feeling of being
absorbed and consumed by this centre, but this was something
completely different. The heart-centre got warmer and warmer
as he continued to gaze at me until I felt it to be a hot, fiery
ball glowing inside me. It felt as if Bhagavan was charging it
with some immensely powerful spiritual electricity because,
as he continued to look at me, I had the unmistakable feeling
that this heart-centre was some kind of spiritual dynamo,
that was emitting sparks of light and energy. I felt as if some
enormously potent electric apparatus had been suddenly
transplanted into my chest. I sat rigid and straight, my eyes
glued to his. Fire flowed from his glowing eyes and drilled
into the core of my being.
‘Kill me,’ I prayed.
How long this transmission lasted, I cannot say. Time and
space had no meaning in that never-ending moment when our
eyes were locked together. At some point, though, I realised
that my body could no longer stand the strain. The fire in my
chest had expanded to the point where I felt that I was about
to explode. Mentally, I asked him to let me go.
I had received what I had come for. In writing this account
of the initiation I received from him as his eyes met mine, I
realise I have only given the briefest explanation and indication
of what actually happened in those moments. There was a
complete transformation, inside and out, and it all happened
without a word being spoken. That communication through
silence was clearer and more direct than any explanation that
could have been given in words.
Bhagavan had taken me to the limit of my readiness.

When I felt I could not contain any more of his power, I
withdrew from the encounter. I knew there was still work to
do, but I felt that the infusion of grace that Bhagavan had
blessed me with on that day would do its own work in its
own time. I had received my parting gift from him, and I
could have asked for nothing more valuable.
I stayed in Tiruvannamalai until a few days before
Bhagavan’s passing away. By that time there were at least
a thousand people trying to get to see him every day, but
we were only allowed to stand in front of his door for ten
or twenty seconds and look at him, lying in his bed. I felt
that I should leave him alone to pass away in peace. Having
received my blessing and my initiation, I gave my place in
the crowd to those who might still have been seeking their
own final benediction.
Back in Bombay, where I stayed in a friend’s flat, I was
amazed to discover to what extent changes had occurred. It
was the same house that I had stayed in on my journey to
Tiruvannamalai. I had been reading Spinoza’s Ethics there, a
very tough book that I had to chew on, phrase by phrase. I had
left the book open on my bed, and since no one had used the
room since, it was there to greet me when I returned. Though
its contents no longer interested me, when I picked it up, I
found I could read it like a novel. Something had clearly and
demonstratively transformed my mind and my understanding.
I knew, though, that this metamorphosis was not enough.
My two months with Bhagavan had turned me inside out
and upside down. My mind and heart had been illuminated
by his grace, but I also knew that the time I had spent with
him had been too short to remove all obstacles. The states
of silence, or burning ecstasy, had been wonderful, but by
dwelling in them all those weeks, I had been blinded to the
existence of underlying problems in my mind. Fundamental
aspects of my mind had lain dormant and certain mistakes and
tendencies had not been recognized. I had, for instance, very
strong yogic tendencies and l had always been convinced that

consciousness arose from the Kundalini.
The correct view, as taught by Bhagavan, that Kundalini
appears in consciousness, was only pointed out to me a few
weeks after Bhagavan left his body. I have no idea where I
originally got my absurd notion from, but when I became
aware of it, it revealed to me that I was still carrying erroneous
ideas in my mind. My stay with Bhagavan had not wiped my
mental slate as clean as I originally thought. As my mind slowly
began to reactivate itself in Bombay, other thoughts arose that
revealed to me that I had not fully grasped the radical essence
of Bhagavan’s teachings and experience. I wondered about the
deep-sleep state. Bhagavan had said quite categorically that
in the liberated state there is an awareness of deep sleep as
a passing, temporary phenomenon. This had never been my
experience even in my deepest, most exalted states. Clearly,
there were other deeper levels of experience that I had failed
to be aware of. I also contemplated his simple statement that
one is ever the witness of thoughts, and that one is never the
thinker of them. I could see that this must be the truth, but at
the same time I could not honestly say that I had seen through
the fiction of myself as the thinker of ‘my’ thoughts.
Though I was far from satisfied with my spiritual state, I
did not suffer or worry to the extent I had done in Europe. Being
with Bhagavan had given me the unshakeable conviction that
he was looking after me. I knew that he was supervising my
spiritual welfare. I knew that his guidance would not cease
simply because he had shed his body. I waited patiently, with
full confidence.
Three months after his physical departure I had a vision
of Bhagavan that amply justified my faith that he would
continue to guide me. I used to imagine myself in the Old
Hall, speaking with him about the various issues that were
still bothering me. During one of these imaginary exercises,
I suddenly found myself transported back to Ramanasramam,
and once more I was sitting opposite him. I was quite close
to him, but the hall was crowded with perhaps two hundred
people, and it didn’t seem likely that I would get a chance to
speak with him about the problems that were bothering me.
I found myself silently wishing, ‘O Bhagavan, I wish I
were alone with you’.
Almost immediately a person near me got up, prostrated
and left. This initiated a whole procession of departures. One
by one, everyone in the hall made some kind of obeisance to
Bhagavan and then left. Within a couple of minutes Bhagavan
and I were alone in the hall. I edged closer and sat next to
his feet.
I looked at him and remarked, ‘How wonderful it is to be
alone with Bhagavan.’
He smiled at me. How can that smile ever be described?
It contained a whole world. On this occasion I felt I was being
bathed in a radiant glow of love and light. At the same time
there was a slight trace of humour there, a hint of amusement
that my mind could still hold on to such an unenlightened
position.
Very slowly, articulating each syllable with great care, he
said, ‘Are... you... ever... not... alone?’
This remark, so typical of Bhagavan, made me glow with
happiness and recognition. I immediately understood what he
meant. I felt completely at home again, both physically and
spiritually.
I asked him what I should do about all the various mental
problems that had arisen in the months since his physical
departure. Instead of giving me specific answers to my
questions, he told me that I should go and spend time with
another venerable teacher whose name I recognised when
Bhagavan mentioned it to me. Assessing my mental state,
Bhagavan must have realised that I would most benefit from
continuing to be in the presence of another living teacher.
I followed Bhagavan’s advice and spent several years
with this man [Krishna Menon], remaining with him until I
felt that all my problems had been overcome.
Of course, having been with a teacher as great as

Bhagavan, I wanted to know if this teacher was equally
qualified.
‘Is he realised?’ I asked.
Bhagavan replied with a typical, cryptic answer: ‘He is
neither realised nor not realised.’
Initially I did not understand this remark, but a few days
later I suddenly understood that Bhagavan was giving me the
jnani’s viewpoint: for him there is no one aware of the Self
and no one unaware of the Self. There is only the Self. Labels
such as ‘enlightened’ and ‘unenlightened’ are concepts that
have no reality, no validity to such a being. In giving me this
answer Bhagavan refused to deal with me at a conceptual
level. He refused to take part in the labelling game – is he
enlightened or not? – that all ‘unenlightened’ people love to
indulge in. In giving me this answer Bhagavan demonstrated
that he himself had transcended all possible labels and
concepts.
I went to this man, as directed by Bhagavan, and in his
presence I found confirmation of everything Bhagavan had
told me.
I am writing this more than twenty-five years after
the events I have described. I still find myself being with
Bhagavan, not in the absolute sense of being Brahman or
Atman, but in that intimate way that we all experienced when
he was still in the body. There is something that I can’t put a
name to other than to say that it is a ‘Bhagavanish presence’.
Sometimes it is with form, and sometimes it is without form.
It is a kind of deep visitation that touches and overwhelms
me when it suddenly descends. When Bhagavan’s presence
makes itself known to me, I feel tears beginning to flow.
Deep emotions arise. I glow with happiness and my heart
leaps into the sky. Such is the radiance from his heart. It is
the Heart of the world.
Looking back over the brief period I spent in his presence,
and over the years that his less tangible presence has been
visiting and guiding me, I find myself occasionally asking,

‘Who is this Bhagavan? What does he mean to me?’ I find it
is impossible to give a neat answer to this question, but I will
try to answer by reviewing some of the transforming events
that I know he was responsible for.
The first thing I have to say is that he opened my heart.
I do not mean by this that he enabled me to access and show
my emotions better. That is just a modern interpretation
of ‘opening the heart.’ I am speaking of something almost
physical. It is a kind of breaking open in which the mind is
flooded by a glow of divine energy that infuses one’s being
with happiness and burns up the notions of separateness that
are the cause of all our suffering.
The first time I saw Bhagavan, even at a distance, I
immediately recognised that this was the being I had been
looking for all my life. My immediate experiences in his
presence cemented that conviction. As I sat before him, I
became aware of an all-penetrating, all-conquering love
that nothing in me was able to resist. But when I use the
word ‘love’, I don’t think I quite encapsulate the driving,
unstoppable energy with which Bhagavan effortlessly radiated
this dissolving force. If I say that I was repeatedly struck by
jolting, shuddering, mind-dissolving bolts of lightning, you
will get a better idea of just how powerful his presence was.
Or perhaps you won’t, because I have discovered that no one
who has not experienced this kind of energy for himself can
really understand what I am hinting at. You will get the idea
of some magnificent being radiating light, but you will not
have that experience for yourself.
This is the problem I always encounter when I start to
speak or write about Bhagavan. The real Ramana Maharshi is
unimaginable and therefore indescribable. Who, for example,
can really describe happiness? We may experience a moment
of pure, undiluted joy, but when we start to describe it, we are
back in the ego. We are using our memories and our minds
to recollect a moment that has already passed. The afterglow
of that moment of happiness may still be there in the mind,

and even in the body, but we end up using words to talk
about something that, while it existed in us, was entirely
experiential, non-mental and non-verbal. I can say that my
experience of Bhagavan was pure happiness, but I cannot, in
words, give any real feeling of what existing, utterly happy,
in the present moment, is really like.
I sat for a few months in the presence of what appeared
to be a frail, old, dying body, reclining on a sofa. We all
loved and cherished that form, but we also knew that this
form was merely a glittering diamond that reflected the light
that he really was. The pure radiance of his real, ego-less
state was unimaginable, beyond any verbal description. So,
if I talk about my experiences in Bhagavan’s presence, I can
only describe a pale reflection of what he really was.
I did not understand all this when I first arrived. To me
he was something like a divine person, and I was inclined to
compare him with Jesus or the Buddha. But Jesus and the
Buddha were images in my head, formed on the basis of the
beliefs in which I had been brought up, and on the stories
heard and read later on. Sri Ramana Maharshi, from the first
second I saw him, was anything but an image in my head.
He was a bomb that exploded the myth of my life. His look
blasted away eons of accumulated wrong ideas. He didn’t
need to tell me they were wrong. In his presence reality
manifested itself, and in the light of that directly experienced
truth, wrong ideas were simply dropped because they were
seen to be erroneous, unnecessary, and the cause of endless
suffering.
I thought I was a spiritual person when I first came to
Bhagavan, because I had spent years reading, practising and
meditating. Bhagavan’s look showed me that what I thought
was spirituality was merely the mind setting up imaginary
problems and then, very self-righteously, looking for solutions
to them. I had done self-enquiry before I met Bhagavan,
but I had done it with the feeling that I was battling against
my mind. Bhagavan did not discourage me from doing this

practice, but his compassionate and at times amused look told
me, ‘Why do think you are a person who has problems and
questions?’
Though he did not condemn me or criticise my efforts,
there was something about his presence that gave me a total
shift of perspective. As Bhagavan’s cleansing gaze ate away
my concepts, I felt I could hear him saying, with astonishment,
‘How could you had been misled into believing that you had
an ego, and this ego had any importance? Instead of seeing
that an ego is a mere stupidity or the belief in a fantasy, you
have been cherishing it and even cultivating it by feeding
it with important questions and problems. One part of you
sets up a problem, and then another part of you tries to find
a solution. Is this not foolishness? Your entire life until now
was led by this belief in something totally imaginary.’
He did not judge me harshly for having these foolish
beliefs. Tenderly, lovingly, he showed me how I had brought all
my problems on myself. Then, radiating his loving kindness,
he showed me the truth, the place of happiness where such
ignorant ideas did not arise. This approach left me in a state
of utter amazement. I came to Bhagavan for help to climb a
mountain, but after smiling at my pleas for help, he showed
me that the mountain did not exist.
His presence revealed to me how stupid I had been all
my life. He didn’t show his disapproval of my world-view
by verbally criticising it in the father-knows-best attitude
that we are all too familiar with. He simply and non-
judgementally radiated his light on me. That light did not
criticise me, condemn me, or even try to change me. It was an
unconditional emanation of power and grace. The darkness
in me was revealed for what it was simply by coming into
contact with this light. The idea that I was a suffering person
who needed to work hard to reach the light could not be
sustained. I recognised that I too was light, and with this
recognition there came the understanding that I didn’t have
to do anything to remove my darkness. Having said that, I

must add that I don’t think Bhagavan ever saw me as an area
of darkness that needed to be lit up. He knew that I was light.
He saw me as light, even if I didn’t see myself that way.
Simply by abiding in his luminous natural state, he made me
experience myself as light.
I will not say that in his presence my sense of ‘I’
completely vanished. It simply diminished in significance. It
became a little whirlpool of light within an ocean of light.
The ‘I’ that had self-importantly conducted my whole life,
ceased to be in conflict with itself and the world. It began to
identify with the consciousness that supports all beings, and it
allowed that consciousness to animate and sustain it, instead
of pretending that it sustained itself.
I think it took three or four years for the full impact of
Bhagavan’s silence to settle in me and become, if I may use
such a phrase, ‘my own’. Bhagavan never encouraged anyone
to believe that ‘a person’ could realise the truth. The person
could disappear, leaving truth to shine, or he could remain and
experience limitation and suffering. Bhagavan encouraged us
to examine, through self-enquiry, questions such as ‘Who
wants to realise? Who feels exalted or miserable? Who feels
angry desired or shunned?’ The point of this was not to track
down the person who had these feelings and emotions, it was
to discover that such a person does not and never did exist.
In hindsight I can make the extreme statement that
Bhagavan never gave me anything, even though I came to
him as a beggar. When I arrived, regarding myself as a poor
man in need of help, he revealed to me that I was more than
a millionaire. He showed that I was the source of all things.
Bhagavan never asked me for anything, not even my
love or respect. For a long time I thought that we had some
kind of transaction: I felt I had given him my heart, and in
return I felt that he had given me his love. Now, I think even
this conclusion was some kind of illusion. He did not accept
my offering and give me love in return. He remained as he
was and always is, wanting nothing and giving nothing, but
somehow, by sitting in his presence, there was a confrontation
between illusion and truth, and in that confrontation illusion
could not sustain itself.
I don’t think Bhagavan wanted me to change because he
accepted me as I was. Whatever transformation took place
in his presence happened of its own accord, and not because
he desired it or willed it. Darkness was exposed to light and
ceased to be dark.
Light didn’t will it or orchestrate it in any way. It simply
expressed its inherent nature. If you ask me how all this
worked, my answer is ‘I don’t know’.
When I look back to this encounter, trying to work out
what actually happened, I generally fail, but as I scan my
memories, I come up with a recurring image of what I can
only call ‘radiant certainty’. Bhagavan knew with absolute
certainty who and what he was. By abiding in that state,
something of that conviction, that supreme knowledge,
communicated itself to those around him. In my case it broke
through my fears and desires, enabling me to let go of the
desire to enrich an imaginary ‘me’. I am occasionally asked,
‘What does Bhagavan mean to you?’ Having explained in the
last few paragraphs the way he seemed to work on me, I can
now answer, somewhat cryptically, ‘He was what he was and
he is what he is, and because of that I can now say “I am what
I am”. Does that make any sense? Does it mean anything to
say that just by being who he was, Bhagavan enabled me
to realise the timeless, unimaginable, unthinkable “I am”?
My mind now goes back to something more concrete, more
tangible. I am once again sitting in the shadow of the temple
with my back against its wall. Opposite me is the blazing light
of Bhagavan. A monkey walks behind him, just a few yards
away. Its baby is holding on tightly, but at the same time it is
looking curiously at Bhagavan from the safety of its mother’s
chest. Squirrels run up and down the palm trees. An attendant
moves a fan to cool him down a little. Someone approaches,
prostrates before him, and hands a bundle of incense sticks to

one of the attendants, who lights them. A wave of scent floats
through the stillness. There is total silence. In this memory of
his presence I find myself asking again, ‘What does he mean
to me?’
The question is in some ways absurd because when I
look at him he makes it clear that I am stillness, silence. The
stillness that he is the stillness that I am. That stillness is the
meaning of all things. To find this stillness, people do all sorts
of things, hoping that they will make them happy. Everyone is
hungry for this perfect equilibrium, this unfathomable peace,
this stillness, this place that is the root of all joy, this true
source where no desire can survive.
In that stillness I discover that I am the meaning of all
things. I am the stillness behind the pictures projected on the
screen. Everything points to one thing: I am their beholder
and their meaning derives from me.
In this moment when it is revealed that I am all the
meaning in the film called ‘life’, the meaning itself changes.
Love does not search for love. It recognises it everywhere.
This innermost feeling, which is not really a thought or a
feeling, may be called ‘Love’. This, I discover, is what human
beings are: love in search of itself.
Shortly before Wolter Keers passed away in the mid-
1980s, he invited all his friends to attend a party in his
house in the Netherlands. At the time he was suffering from
emphysema, but his condition was not life-threatening. At
the end of the party, when only a few of his close friends
remained, he informed them that he was going to give up his
body. He prostrated to a large photo of Bhagavan that he had
placed on the floor. Then he placed a cushion in front of the
photo, lay down with his head on the cushion at Bhagavan’s
feet, and passed away.
Index
A
Abhyasa 370
Absolute 287
Advaita 239, 240, 309, 314, 323, 324, 327, 329, 332, 333
Aham 71, 314, 318, 335, 541
ahankara 113
ajnana 205
Akhilandamma 5, 431, 435, 447, 449, 452, 453, 454, 455, 456, 457,
459, 461
Aksharamanamalai 77, 105, 172, 175, 179, 285, 383, 499
Annamalai Swami 45, 375, 381, 382, 403, 405, 407
anugraha 18, 66
Appar, Saint 456
arati 98, 200, 445
Arunachala 8, 12, 14, 21, 23, 28, 38, 40, 51, 64, 77, 80, 81, 82, 83,
102, 103, 106, 119, 121, 130, 131, 132, 134, 144, 145, 148, 156,
160, 161, 162, 165, 167, 168, 170, 171, 172, 174, 175, 177, 179,
183, 185, 186, 189, 190, 193, 196, 201, 206, 211, 213, 217, 228,
243, 255, 261, 266, 267, 268, 270, 274, 275, 280, 283, 286, 287,
288, 289, 297, 301, 309, 310, 311, 312, 313, 314, 316, 327, 328,
332, 334, 338, 341, 346, 349, 353, 356, 361, 364, 365, 366, 367,
368, 369, 370, 371, 372, 373, 380, 381, 383, 384, 390, 391, 395,
397, 399, 400, 401, 412, 413, 421, 423, 430, 439, 447, 452, 454,
463, 473, 476, 479, 481, 495, 499, 509, 510, 514, 519, 524, 534,
535, 536, 538, 539, 541, 543, 544, 548, 554, 558
Arunachala Ashtakam 381, 412, 514
Ashtavakra Gita 192
Atman 205, 332, 387, 483, 568
atma vidya 303
Atma Vidya (Book) 75
Aurobindo, Sri 123, 261, 511

awareness 12, 64, 74, 155, 175, 179, 189, 252, 315, 398, 412, 415,
424, 473, 504, 511, 533, 537, 558, 566
Azhagammal 181, 406
B
Benares (Kasi) 135, 218, 366, 481, 511
Bhagavad Gita (Gita) 108, 236, 239, 308, 345, 414, 511
Bhagavatam, the 108, 240
Bhakta 197, 365, 369, 370, 371, 372, 428
Bhakta Vijayam 197
bhakti 107, 177
bhava 14, 244
Birth 422
Bliss 104, 279, 341, 368, 383, 399, 425
bondage 74, 196, 213, 272
Bose, A. 291, 309, 347, 348
Brahmacharya 72, 73, 189
Brahman 72, 176, 187, 189, 287, 313, 314, 315, 334, 335, 451, 483,
541, 543, 568
Brahma, the Creator 97, 108, 115, 172, 183, 203, 239, 241, 315, 424
Brunton, Paul (Raphael Hurst) 133, 134, 136, 144, 148, 149, 150,
151, 152, 153, 154, 155, 168, 229, 318, 319, 334, 386, 387, 389,
396, 551
Buddha, the 115, 178, 275, 294, 366, 570
buddhi 87, 113
C
Chadwick, Maj. A. W.(Sadhu Arunachala) 52, 133, 375, 376, 386,
397, 489, 543
Chaitanya 115
Chalam (Venkatachalam, Gudipati) 156, 157, 160, 165, 166
Chaturmasya 76
Chhaganlal Yogi 246, 263
Chidambaram 3, 50, 209, 278, 283, 422, 423, 469
Chinna Swami 46, 48, 49, 97, 98, 184, 215, 216, 234, 278, 279, 375,
384, 392, 402, 403, 404, 406, 407, 408, 409, 418, 419, 439, 445,
468, 478, 483, 494, 496, 499, 503, 507, 535, 544, 545
chit 315
chitta 113
Christ, Jesus 82, 275, 359, 389, 390, 422
consciousness 7, 24, 26, 59, 61, 69, 117, 121, 138, 145, 154, 155,
251, 287, 303, 311, 315, 317, 356, 381, 387, 390, 412, 414, 415,
482, 534, 542, 543, 546, 548, 566, 572
Creation 431, 449
D
Dakshinamurti 89, 190, 213, 280, 330, 333, 371, 397, 471
Dandapani Swami 80, 82, 277, 303, 402, 403, 404, 445, 446, 495
darshan 4, 5, 26, 27, 30, 31, 33, 66, 71, 73, 81, 85, 104, 105, 121,
126, 161, 172, 186, 189, 191, 194, 195, 200, 212, 230, 247, 251,
254, 255, 256, 257, 258, 273, 274, 281, 282, 286, 290, 291, 292,
306, 309, 310, 319, 331, 347, 368, 374, 417, 420, 424, 431, 433,
435, 441, 445, 447, 448, 449, 452, 467, 472, 532, 557, 560, 562,
563
Das, B. C., 540
Day by Day with Bhagavan 21, 107, 110, 156, 173, 273, 290, 347,
358, 386, 546
death 27, 36, 58, 85, 92, 120, 166, 170, 173, 182, 200, 222, 228,
245, 268, 269, 287, 294, 312, 317, 332, 355, 379, 382, 392, 421,
458, 460, 483, 502, 533, 536, 537
desires v, 20, 63, 107, 145, 153, 461, 471, 483, 563, 573
dharma 73, 396
dhyana 117, 118, 243
Diet 512
Diksha 121
Dindigul 185, 538, 539
discrimination 74
Divine Grace 178, 373
drishti 218
Drisya 108
Duff, Grant 386, 387, 388, 408, 423
E
Echammal 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 34, 36, 39, 40, 439,
445, 517
Europe 247, 334, 346, 389, 398, 548, 566
F
fasting 418
Five Hymns to Arunachala 430
Framji Dorabji 270, 271, 273
Frydman, Maurice 229, 242, 244, 246
G
Ganapati Muni (Kavyakantha) 16, 17, 53, 69, 110, 115, 120, 122,
123, 124, 185, 217, 333, 423, 450, 532
Gandhi, Mahatma 44, 47, 48, 49, 80, 186, 192, 244, 247, 261, 302,
318, 366, 422, 423, 428, 429
Ganesa 118
Gayatri 218, 222, 223
giripradakshina 19, 20, 50, 87, 127, 129, 175, 196, 211, 279, 416,
445, 488
God and Guru 414
grace 6, 8, 9, 17, 21, 23, 24, 26, 40, 48, 65, 66, 67, 68, 69, 74, 78,
90, 100, 116, 118, 125, 162, 171, 175, 183, 186, 191, 205, 207,
208, 230, 231, 232, 244, 246, 249, 250, 251, 252, 253, 254, 255,
256, 257, 258, 269, 279, 280, 283, 287, 308, 309, 311, 312, 331,
337, 340, 350, 360, 367, 369, 371, 412, 427, 429, 432, 435, 438,
440, 444, 446, 447, 448, 449, 450, 473, 476, 482, 486, 500, 502,
505, 508, 509, 517, 519, 529, 535, 542, 546, 547, 552, 559, 560,
565, 571
Grace 4, 6, 14, 39, 41, 79, 92, 101, 102, 103, 125, 168, 176, 178,
182, 185, 275, 276, 281, 301, 322, 336, 357, 362, 367, 373, 462,
463, 558
Guru 4, 11, 17, 18, 23, 24, 46, 53, 64, 68, 69, 70, 71, 72, 83, 100,
101, 105, 118, 122, 133, 172, 175, 176, 177, 178, 203, 204, 213,
216, 224, 225, 236, 237, 238, 246, 253, 254, 257, 258, 263, 273,
275, 290, 291, 293, 294, 320, 333, 336, 341, 352, 368, 371, 376,
386, 397, 399, 412, 414, 430, 447, 448, 462, 464, 486, 489, 491,
493, 496, 505, 506, 519, 522, 523, 538, 550, 551, 560
Gurumurtam 375, 379, 392
H
Hafiz Syed, Dr. 229
Hardwar 238
Harijan 428
Heart 2, 4, 50, 64, 71, 76, 109, 116, 117, 213, 267, 288, 296, 299,
301, 311, 313, 325, 334, 335, 336, 348, 354, 360, 370, 379, 387,
450, 530, 547, 554, 568
Himalayas 155, 187
Humphreys, F.H. 17, 52, 63, 329
I
I-am-the-body idea 11
idlis 19, 43, 94, 184, 221, 274, 384, 466, 488, 490, 502, 512, 530
I-I thought 288
Islam 231
Iswara 118, 166, 199, 201, 402, 560
J
Jagadeesa 75, 76, 77, 78
japa 9, 87, 112, 113, 114, 117, 190, 192, 222, 223, 296, 297, 299,
483, 534, 535, 543
Jayanti 19, 29, 77, 157, 279, 327, 373, 468, 495, 536, 538, 544, 545
jnana 1, 105, 108, 115, 175, 176, 542, 551
K
Kabir 107
Kailas (Mountain) 522
Kaivalya Navaneetham 240
Kali, Goddess 238
karma 6, 79, 166, 521, 561
Kashmir 342, 352
kevala nirvikalpa 546
Khanna, H.C. 290, 291, 292, 293
Krishnamurthy Iyer, N. R. (Prof.) 385
Krishna, Sri 1, 18, 30, 59, 79, 217, 219, 227, 228, 236, 237, 294,
296, 297, 298, 300, 405, 417, 530, 567
Krishnaswami,T.N.(Dr.) 263, 266, 267, 268, 269, 270, 383
Krishnayya 30, 217, 219, 220, 233
Kundalini 356, 357, 566
Kunju Swami 30, 32, 37, 42, 47, 49, 64, 69, 75, 82, 83, 85, 87, 107,
110, 174, 217, 375, 377, 381, 391, 401, 431, 449, 451, 457, 459,
460, 464, 528
L
Lakshmana Sarma (Who) 86, 213, 214, 215, 216
Letters from Sri Ramanasramam 21, 75, 107, 290, 358, 386, 462
Liberation 366, 462
loincloth 12, 27, 359, 377
M
MacIver, Mr. 240
Madhava Swami 218, 381, 382, 431, 484, 485, 486
Madurai 79, 154, 179, 185, 191, 199, 203, 209, 210, 237, 238, 276,
309, 350, 441, 519, 531, 534, 535, 536, 537, 542, 543, 544, 545,
548
Mahadevan, T.M.P. (Dr.) 52, 323
Maha Nirvana 38, 41, 75, 79, 293, 372, 383, 384, 385, 427, 462
Maha Samadhi 284, 322, 352, 411
Maha Yoga 213, 216
manana 444
manas 113
manolaya 110
mantras 21, 75, 78, 98, 112, 113, 114, 117, 118, 122, 123, 218, 222,
223, 231, 315, 333, 483, 493, 532, 534
Mastan Swami 431, 438, 440, 449
Matrubhuteswara 127, 531
maya 335, 367, 483, 506
Meditation, method of 74, 161, 257, 376, 400
Meenakshi 79, 90, 91, 208, 422, 423, 472, 535, 539, 541
Mees, G. H. 396, 397
Merston, Miss 318, 322, 397
moksha 320
moon v, 50, 83, 117, 145, 283, 361, 382, 392, 394, 443, 452, 480,
545, 554
Mouni Sadhu 389, 390, 391
Mudaliar Patti 5, 27, 30, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 46, 439, 539
Mukti 212
Muni 16, 17, 53, 69, 110, 115, 120, 121, 122, 123, 124, 185, 217,
333, 423, 450, 532
Muruganar 70, 79, 80, 81, 82, 83, 84, 85, 86, 87, 88, 89, 90, 91, 92,
93, 94, 95, 96, 97, 98, 99, 100, 101, 102, 103, 104, 105, 106, 127,
173, 174, 177, 216, 279, 280, 397, 418, 423, 430, 493, 494, 500,
501, 505, 506, 522, 523, 527
Muslim 163, 179, 181, 204, 229, 233, 234, 235, 236, 237, 258, 275,
449, 459, 460
Mutt 31, 32, 104, 185, 380, 381
Mysore 20, 229, 242, 273, 396, 501, 502
N
Nadi 236
Nagamma, Suri 21, 35, 51, 339
Nandanar 272
Narasimha Swami 1, 218, 219
Narayana Iyer 301, 302, 303, 304, 305, 306, 307, 308, 309, 538,
539, 540
Natesa Iyer 395, 469, 470, 471, 472
Nayana (Kavyakantha Ganapathi) 77, 110, 115, 116, 120, 121, 125
nididhyasana 444
Nirvana 183, 241, 309, 341, 379, 383, 391, 421, 425
nirvikalpa samadhi 109, 546
Noye, Eleanor Pauline 358, 361, 362, 364, 365
O
Osborne, Arthur 37, 352, 357, 369
P
Pachaiamman 42, 116, 117, 392
Padikam 81, 85
padmasana 36, 268
Palakkothu 47, 49, 50, 85, 89, 90, 174, 214, 376, 377
Pandya King 103
Paramatma 50
parayana 273, 284, 455, 465
Parvati, Goddess 3, 33, 203, 204, 524
Patanjali 22
Pazhani Swami 4, 5, 11, 114, 118, 378, 379, 380, 434, 435, 438,
441, 454
Peace 279, 289, 359, 389, 390, 391

Periya Puranam 213, 270, 286
Personal God 298, 300
Perumal Swami 5, 42, 378, 401, 402, 403, 404, 405, 406, 407, 408,
409, 410, 411, 440
Pradakshina 104, 105, 158, 175, 177, 200, 276, 279, 391, 417, 445,
447, 453, 469, 488
prana 159, 192
pranava 222
pranayama 2, 107, 108, 218, 336
prarabdha 13, 198, 482
puja 25, 31, 47, 78, 97, 98, 99, 108, 173, 184, 269, 298, 445, 446,
447, 448, 462
Punjabi 290
Purusha 19, 339, 546
Q
questioner 150, 320, 326
R
Radhakrishnan, Sarvepalle 15, 236, 386, 422, 425
rajas 245
Raja Yoga 1, 124
Ramachandra Iyer of Nagercoil 280, 286, 289, 381, 385, 545
Ramachandra Iyer, T.P. 286, 287, 288, 289, 381, 385, 545
Ramakrishna Mission (Mutt) 323, 390
Ramakrishna Swami 33, 381, 394, 456, 496
Rama, Lord 1, 18, 19, 107, 108, 109, 222, 246, 294, 298, 372, 405,
505, 534, 542, 543, 544, 547
Ramana Gita 76, 77, 117, 119, 120, 187, 189, 190, 217, 228, 311,
436
Ramana Leela 1, 3, 30, 37, 42, 64, 75, 110, 179, 219, 228, 375, 449,
464
Ramanatha Brahmachari 42, 43, 44, 45, 46, 47, 48, 49, 50, 51, 52,
276, 431, 442, 457
Ramaswami Iyer, Manavasi 37, 38, 39, 40, 41, 382, 425
Ramaswami Pillai 205, 275, 283, 284, 285, 431, 457, 537, 538
Ramiah, Yogi 107
Ranganatha Iyer, Mr. 193

Rangan (Ranganatha Iyer, Vilacheri) 193, 194, 195, 199, 210, 211,
212
Rangaswami Iyengar 32, 42, 351, 376, 377, 381, 540
Ravana 226
reality 7, 77, 82, 99, 101, 108, 110, 135, 155, 176, 177, 215, 245,
280, 300, 302, 304, 305, 314, 330, 331, 335, 343, 344, 345, 391,
476, 550, 554, 568, 570
Rebirth 197, 227
renunciation 10, 68, 442, 463, 487, 512
Ribhu Gita 203, 279, 475, 541, 543, 544
rites 36, 85, 314, 322, 394, 459
S
Saab Jaan (Abdul Wahab) 179, 182
sadhana 156, 168, 169, 170, 188, 231, 243, 269, 288, 298, 299, 325,
328, 332, 333, 336, 338, 373, 377, 396, 418, 543, 544, 547, 553,
559
Sadhu Natanananda (Natesa Mudaliar) 64, 68, 69, 70, 75, 86
Sadhu Om (Natarajan) 128, 130, 132, 172, 173, 174, 175, 176, 177,
178, 179
sage 54, 81, 150, 153, 154, 190, 236, 248, 258, 267, 270, 271, 310,
319, 324, 325, 344, 399, 400, 417, 423, 447, 454, 551, 553
Sage 4, 137, 139, 141, 143, 144, 145, 146, 147, 149, 263, 332, 335,
342, 343, 345, 346, 348, 359, 367, 370, 386, 387, 399
sages 93, 94, 134, 141, 142, 188, 236, 270, 273, 323, 345, 352, 405,
451, 454, 551
Sahaja Samadhi (sthiti) 115, 279
Sahasrara 121
Saiva 32, 115, 116, 240, 459
sakti 75, 117, 121
Sakti 113, 121
samadhi 2, 26, 36, 37, 107, 109, 110, 120, 121, 132, 166, 171, 239,
261, 279, 308, 321, 400, 446, 450, 451, 459, 460, 461, 472, 494,
510, 537, 542, 543, 544, 545, 546, 547, 549, 550, 563
Samadhi 109, 115, 265, 357
samsara 424
Sanaka 405
Sanandana 405
Sanatkumara 405
sangha 117
sankalpa 438, 488, 489
sannyasa 12, 39, 73, 197, 200, 241, 512
sannyasi 15, 17, 21, 29, 32, 36, 233, 234, 264, 312, 321, 432
Sarvadhikari 47, 50, 264, 291, 384, 402
Satguru 177, 267
satsang 390, 428
Satsang 177, 373, 390, 428, 430
Self-Realisation 1, 3, 14, 37, 42, 75, 87, 102, 107, 110, 335, 449
serpent 356
Shankaracharya 75, 134, 151, 213, 241, 333, 389
shastra 113
Shiyali 39, 40
Siddha 19, 53, 82, 339, 481, 534
siddhis 108
sishya 122
Siva, Lord 102, 103, 120, 177, 196, 200, 204, 459
Sivaprakasam Pillai 3, 4, 6, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 280
Sivaratri 93, 279, 420
Skandasramam 5, 31, 39, 42, 44, 65, 67, 76, 186, 194, 195, 197,
198, 202, 206, 210, 237, 239, 275, 276, 277, 284, 378, 380, 381,
383, 385, 401, 404, 405, 408, 431, 434, 435, 437, 438, 439, 440,
441, 442, 443, 445, 453, 454, 460, 464, 466, 532
solitude 312, 398, 399, 403, 513, 546
Sphurana 71, 335
sravana 444
Srimad Bhagavad Gita 108, 236, 239, 308, 345, 414, 511
Sri Ramana Gita 187, 189, 190, 217, 311, 436
Stuti 77, 80, 175, 494, 538
Stuti Panchakam 80, 175, 494, 538
Subbaramayya, G. V. 21, 382, 502
Subramania Iyer, Dr. 79, 536
Subramanya 66
Sundaresa Iyer, T. K. 185, 244, 407, 536

Sunday Times 167, 248
supernatural powers 451
surrender vi, 41, 63, 71, 87, 138, 165, 170, 178, 218, 230, 238, 258,
272, 317, 336, 357, 370, 412, 415, 470, 487, 491, 505
Swaminathan, K. (Prof.) 422
Swami Pranavananda (Sarvepalli Narasimham) 15, 17, 20
swarupa 14, 71
Syed, Dr. Mohammed Hafiz 229, 231, 232, 233, 234, 235, 236, 237
T
Talks with Sri Ramana Maharshi 64, 192, 229, 386, 396, 400, 408
tamas 245
tapas 71, 74, 112, 113, 114, 115, 118, 122, 174, 187, 215, 421, 511,
524
Tevaram 527
Thayumanavar, Saint 280
Theosophy 59, 389
Tiruchuzhi 52, 101, 179, 181, 185, 350, 373, 535, 545
Tirukoilur 4, 306
Tirumandiram 459
Tiruppugazh 519, 520
Tiruvachakam 12, 75, 81, 280, 362
transcendent 327
transcendental 154
Truth Revealed 386
Tyagaraja, Saint 218
U
Uma (Goddess Parvati) v, 52, 121, 123
Uma Sahasram 121
universe 79, 134, 171, 186, 453, 494, 529
upadesa 64, 65, 66, 67, 68, 70, 74, 77, 101, 105, 107, 110, 114, 119,
191, 192, 206, 250, 280, 290, 312, 314, 318, 336, 393, 443, 444,
482, 483, 489, 493, 494, 495, 527
Upadesa Saram 77, 101, 110, 250, 280, 290, 336, 495, 527
Upanishad 213, 216, 326, 368
V
Vaikunta 404, 405
Vaishnavite 65
Valli 437, 482
vasana 7, 92, 116, 117, 314
Vasishta, Jnana 542
Vasudeva Sastri 65, 402
Veda 42, 65, 79, 113, 123, 124, 238, 372
Vedanta 64, 86, 101, 114, 120, 187, 213, 217, 239, 240, 304, 310,
316, 324, 327, 335, 478, 497, 529
Vedaparayana 240, 250, 472
Veda Patasala 42, 65, 238
Venkataramiah, Munagala 64, 237, 240, 241, 273
Vibhuti 10, 12, 202
vichara 12, 13, 154, 191, 353, 389
Vichara Sangraha 1, 70
Virupaksha Cave 5, 11, 15, 17, 23, 26, 31, 36, 37, 38, 39, 42, 45, 46,
50, 52, 54, 75, 76, 114, 116, 118, 371, 378, 383, 401, 433, 434,
449, 450, 451, 452, 454, 510
Viswanatha Swami 185, 192, 193, 450, 457, 536
Vithoba 197, 431
Vivekachudamani 18, 119, 389
Vivekananda, Swami 1, 2, 59, 64, 115, 246, 551
void 150, 354, 355, 503
W
waking and dream 9
Who Am I? (book) 81, 246, 319
Who am I? (inquiry) 4, 7, 11, 18, 110, 154, 167, 191, 223, 253, 258,
278, 280, 300, 301, 347, 353, 390, 473, 509, 515, 559
Y
Yama, Lord 332
yoga 1, 107, 108, 110, 121, 218, 336, 373, 526, 548
Om Tat Sat
Sri Ramanarpanamasthu
At Virupaksha Cave (1908)
Gambhiram Seshayyar Sivaprakasam Pillai
Swami Pranavananda Echammal

(Sarvepalli Narasimham)
Ramanatha Brahmachari Manavasi Ramaswami Iyer
Mudaliar Patti and daughter-in- Natesa Mudaliar (a) Natanananda

law
Jagadeesa Sastri and his wife with Bhagavan
Muruganar with Bhagavan
Yogi Ramiah with Bhagavan
Ganapati Muni with Bhagavan
Yogi Ramiah with Bhagavan
Tinnai Swami Paul Brunton
Chalam Sadhu Om
Saab Jaan Raja Iyer
Rangan Lakshmana Sarma (‘Who’)

Krishna Bhikshu Dr. Hafiz Syed
Munagala Venkataramiah Maurice Frydman

Maurice Frydman with Bhagavan
Blessed be the feet of the Supreme One who drives away all sins. Blessed be the feet of the Father
who lets no danger approach (His devotees).
You have nothing but everything is yours!
Chhaganlal Yogi Dr. T.N. Krishnaswami
Framji Dorabji Ramaswami Pillai

T.P. Ramachandra Iyer Harichand Khanna
Hariwansh Lal Poonja Narayana Iyer

Swami Abhishiktananda Ethel Merston
Dr. T.M.P. Mahadevan Hugo Maier

Dr. Anantanarayana Rao Ella Maillart
A. Bose, Victoria Doe and K.K. Nambiar

Feroza Taleyarkhan Lucia Osborne
Eleanor Pauline Noye Arunachala Bhakta Bhagavat

Guru Ramana, Siva, deign to look
With grace on me lying here, revive me and
Sustain me with one whisper “Fear not”.
Sub Registrar R. Narayana Iyer and family with Bhagavan
Standing to the right of Bhagavan is Madhava Swami
Kitty and Lucia Osborne with Bhagavan
Prof. Tadashi Yanagida Pazhani Swami
Satyananda Swami Krishnaswami

Grant Duff Mouni Sadhu
Barber Natesan Dr. G.H. Mees

Lucy Cornelssen Perumal Swami
Ravi Ramanan Rajapalayam Ramani Ammal

Prof. K. Swaminathan Akhilandamma
Mastan Swami Janaki Mata

Bhagavan with attendant Satyananda
Blessed be the feet of the Lord who does good even to those who do evil
(to Him). Blessed be the feet of the Creator who melts even stone-like hearts.
Attendant Krishnaswami fanning Bhagavan (outside the Old Hall)
Natesa Iyer Sampurnamma
Sundaram (Sadhu Trivenigiri) Shantammal

Subbalakshmi Ammal Lokamma Patti
Prof N.R. Krishnamurti Iyer Wolter A. Keers

Madhava Swami attending on Bhagavan

RAMANA Devotees

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ARUNACHALA

First Edition : 2018

Hill of Patience, bear with my foolish words, (regarding

To the dispeller of fever caused by ill luck,

when I was in Arunachaleswara Temple, she was staying

24. Krishna Bhikshu (Oruganti Venkata Krishnayya) . . .217

49. Grant Duff . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 386

G ambhiram Seshayyar was a Telugu Brahmin of Mulkinad

* Sources: B.V. Narasimha Swami, Self-Realisation: The life and

own experience, and what he pointed out as the truth in other

The earliest version of Self Enquiry (1931) published

S ivaprakasam Pillai was born on 7th August 1875 in the

* Self-Realisation; Sri Ramana Leela; The Power of the Presence:

on official duty, and there heard of the saintly and ascetic

I asked Brahmana Swami questions about Self-enquiry,

in. Whenever Maharshi went to take his bath there, he would

have sufficient money, I was confused and troubled and tried

[what I had seen]’. They all ridiculed me in various ways

Most of Sivaprakasam Pillai’s poems are autobiographical

fortune granted by him? He told me to stick to the path of

‘One day, thinking of following [Bhagavan’s] advice of

and the areas inhabited by outcasts. During this period he

of Tamil spiritual texts to all who came to him seeking

S wami Pranavananda was one of the earliest devotees to

* Smt. T.R. Kanakkamal, Cherished Memories. Trans. Lalitha

Munshi (a teacher who trained foreigners in the use of local

time Bhagavan was staying in the Virupaksha Cave. At that

feathers gently. He saw that the crow was mortally wounded,

* Jatayu was an eagle who was given salvation by Rama.

eating, Hariprasad told Bhagavan that he wanted to set out

L akshmi Ammal, known to Bhagavan’s devotees as

* Self-Realisation; Suri Nagamma, Letters from Sri Ramanasramam,

From that day onwards a flood of misfortunes

In 1906 she returned to the place of her birth, having

Echammal converted these cash donations into food

Echammal later came to tell Bhagavan about her experiences

Desiring to learn more about the subject from Seshadri,

Bhagavan defended himself by saying that Echammal had

Bhagavan accepted defeat. ‘What can I do?’ he asked. ‘It

but he ignored them. He had a faraway look that showed no

She remarked, ‘Echammal seems to have gone.’

M udaliar Patti was originally called Alankarathanni and

* Self-Realisation; Sri Ramana Leela; Kunju Swami, Reminiscences

name of ‘Brahmana Swami’. A few days later the saint passed

a tambiran [a Saiva sannyasi]. From that time on we called

When Patti became weak in her old age, a woman called

Mudaliar Patti, who used to feed Bhagavan daily, always

The agony she experienced when she heard that an

having this samadhi on his property would be ‘inauspicious’.

6. Manavasi Ramaswami Iyer*

M anavasi Ramaswami Iyer was the son of Venkatarama

* Self-Realisation; Sri Ramana Leela; Arthur Osborne, Ramana

Arunachala, he made up his mind to shift to Tiruvannamalai.

Ramaswami Iyer encountered personal problems many

He replied, “I would like to, but I don’t have the money

would come to be sung by Bhagavan’s devotees everywhere;

* ‘Saranagati’ means ‘surrender’. The refrain of the song says: “I

R amanatha Brahmachari first came to Bhagavan in 1912,

* The Power of the Presence – Part 3; Self-Realisation; Letters from

Bhagavan, who was compassion incarnate, was upset by