I
A Sage is simply an embodiment, a momentary
appearance of the nameless, formless Reality. It may
appear as if a Sage has a birth, a personality, a history,
speaks, acts, teaches—all the raw material which
informs a biography—but know that all this is but a tale
that a mind that is possessed by the defect of duality
tells. In whatever way one perceives a Sage, the Sage
remains what the Sage is, always has been, and always
will be.
Early Life
As the story is told, on a cool pre-dawn December morning in 1879 in the little non-descript South Indian town of Tiruchuzhi, an incomparable Sage was born. It was 1:00 a.m. on Monday, December 30th, during the Tamil month of Mārgazhi. For the Hindus it was an auspicious day—the Ārudra-darśanam day—the day when the temple image of Lord Śiva is taken in procession in order to celebrate the divine grace of the Lord. It was an auspicious time as the movable image (utsava) of Śiva was just about to re-enter the temple precincts when Veṅka—arāman (his birth name) was born to Sundaram Iyer and Alagammāḷ. That which is formless had taken a form. That which is birthless had been birthed. That which is timeless entered into time so that the world would benefit. Some call it the descent of divine grace. The moon was suspended high in the sky like a ball of light resting on the tip of eternity. The cool rays of the Sage’s thunderous silence were soon to illumine the entire universe.
The Self that dances as unbroken bliss in devotees’ hearts, Śiva unique, the Light Supreme that shines unceasing in bright Tiruchuzhi, bestow your grace on me and shine as the Heart within my heart.
There, in that room, in that house, the Sage was born into what, for all appearances, was a normal South Indian middle-class brahmin family. Sundaram Iyer was a well-known, well-respected vakil (pleader) in the town. Life was normal, favorable, uneventful, and happy for the parents and their four children: Veṅkaṭarāman, his elder brother, his younger brother and sister. There were no distractions in this sequestered town, and the wants of its inhabitants were few. Perhaps the only unusual thing that can be said about this family was a story that an ascetic had once been refused alms by one of Sundaram Iyer’s ancestors and thus the ascetic had cursed the family so that in every generation one member of the family would become an ascetic, renounce the world, and live on alms secured by begging. Whether one believes in curses or not, it is true that one of Sundaram Iyer’s paternal uncles had become a wandering monk and that his elder brother had suddenly left home one day never to be seen again. Now it was the turn of the next generation to continue the curse, if curse it was, for what is a curse to one may be a blessing to another. In this instance, a generation lost a family member while humanity gained a Sage.
In this peaceful, quiet climate, as a simple country child in tune with his environment, Veṅkaṭarāman began his life. There was nothing particularly distinctive about Veṅkaṭarāman's early years. There was no obvious indication that he would become Ramaṇa Maharshi, the Sage of Aruṇācala. He attended the local elementary school that was held in a small low-roofed house that formed part of the temple complex. Next to the school was a large banyan tree around which the children used to play. At the age of eleven, for just one year, he went to school in Dindigul, the nearest sizable town. Then, in 1892 his father died, and the children went to live in the house of their paternal uncle in Madurai. There, Veṅkaṭarāman attended Scott’s Middle School and then the American Mission High School. Through his school years Veṅkaṭarāman, though intelligent, was an incorrigibly indifferent scholar and displayed little interest for studies.
Although he was similar to his fellow-students in many ways, it may be noted that he differed from most small town boys in that he had a prodigiously retentive memory (which not only served to get him through school, but which would be utilized in the future in regards to things he would hear or read but once), an alert mind, a greater than average natural athletic ability, a fierce, tenacious strength, and an uncanny ability to sink into extremely deep sleep.
Regarding this deep sleep, later in his life Ramaṇa narrated the following incidents on observing the presence of a relative who was visiting Tiruvannamalai:
Seeing you reminds me of something that happened in Dindigul when I was a boy. Your uncle, Periappa Seshayyar, was then living there. Some function was going on in the house and everyone attended it and then in the night went to the temple. I was left alone in the house. I was sitting reading in the front room, but after a while I locked the front door and fastened the windows and went to sleep. When they returned from the temple, no amount of shouting or banging at the door or window would wake me. At last they managed to open the door with a key from the opposite house and then they tried to wake me up by beating me. All the boys beat me to their heart’s content, and your uncle did too, but without effect. I knew nothing about it until they told me in the morning . . . the same sort of thing happened to me in Madurai also. My classmates didn’t dare touch me when I was awake, but if they had any grudge against me they would come when I was asleep and carry me wherever they liked and beat me as much as they liked and then put me back to bed, and I would know nothing about it until they told me the next morning. [1]
Why do biographers attach so much significance to the fact that he was such a heavy sleeper? As we shall see, in the philosophical teachings of Advaita Vedānta, deep sleep is often likened (though they are not identical) to the experiential mystical state of non-duality (nirvikalpa-samādhi). Deep sleep is employed as a powerful metaphorical analogy which conveys the message that in certain existential encounters with the ultimate Reality one loses all sense of duality including the understanding that a knowing subject, someone, is experiencing a known object, something, which is other than the knower. There, in the mystical experience of non-duality, there is no knower, no known, and no act of knowing. To those who declare that such a non-dual experience is not only inconceivable, but impossible even to imagine, the universal daily example of the state of deep dreamless sleep is cited by philosophers.
Not only was Veṅkaṭarāman an indifferent student, his religious education was also extremely minimal. Having attended mission schools, he did have a marginal awareness of some of the teachings of the Bible. However, he knew next to nothing of the Hindu scriptures. His first real enquiry into the meaning of life and death occurred when his father died. Paul Brunton related what Ramaṇa said to him: “On the day his father died, he felt puzzled by death and pondered over it, whilst his mother and brothers wept. He thought for hours and after the corpse was cremated he got by analysis to the point of perceiving that it was the ‘I’ which makes the body see, run, walk, and eat. ‘I’ now know this ‘I’, but my father’s ‘I’ had left the body.” [2]
Then, some three years later, at the end of his fifteenth year, two events happened which awoke, seemingly without any prior preparation, strong religious yearnings in the boy. The first incident has been somewhat erroneously reproduced in virtually all the biographies of Ramaṇa. The earliest biographer, B.V. Narasimha Swami, wrote in 1930 that the boy Veṅkaṭarāman had no reverence to Aruṇācala until a relative announced that he had recently returned from there and, upon hearing the name, a thrill went through his veins. In actuality, Veṅkaṭarāman had been hearing the verse: “the mere remembrance of Aruṇācala confers liberation,” from his childhood and had a child’s simple reverence for Aruṇācala.
Seemingly accidentally and innocently, the first thrill from Aruṇācala came, not because he heard the name, but because a mere mortal had returned from there. One day an elderly relative of his that he had known in Tiruchuzhi visited the family, and the boy asked the relative where he had come from. The relative replied, “from Aruṇācala.” This acted as a magic potion overwhelming Veṅkaṭarāman because, though the boy had no definite idea as to what Aruṇācala signified, he had a vague idea that it was the name of the holiest form of God. When his relative casually said that he had returned from Aruṇācala, the very thought of a mere mortal returning from God was a thrilling revelation to him. So, with evident excitement, he put his next question to the elderly gentleman, “What! From Aruṇācala! Where is it?” He got the reply that Aruṇācala was a mountain at Tiruvannamalai, a town that Veṅkaṭarāman already knew about. The thrill vanished, and he remarked, “I did not understand its meaning.” Referring to this incident the Sage was later to compose a hymn:
Look, oh, great wonder! There it stands as if insentient. Mysterious is the way it works, beyond all human understanding. From my unthinking childhood the immensity of Aruṇācala had shone in my awareness, but even when I learned from someone that it was only Tiruvannamalai, I did not realize its meaning. When it stilled my mind and drew me to itself, and I came near, I saw that it was the Immovable, stillness absolute.
A second seemingly innocent incident occurred at this time that contributed to the turning of the boy’s mind towards spirituality. A copy of Sekkilār's Periya-purāṇam, a Tamil book narrating the lives of the sixty-three Śaivite saints (nāyanmārs), came into his hands. “The book happened to be in our house and coming across it, I looked into it out of curiosity and then becoming interested, read the whole book.” [3] He was enthralled reading about the lives of the saints who were permeated with devotion for God, and his heart yearned to emulate them.
The Great Change
In July of 1896, Veṅkaṭarāman was sixteen years old. The spiritual experience that he was longing for was about to happen, quite suddenly, quite unexpectedly and, one must admit, rather uniquely in the annals of spiritual lore. Years later, he narrated what his state of mind was, immediately preceding the experience:
At that time I had no idea of the identity of that current of my personality with a personal God or “Iśvara” as I used to term him. I had not even heard of the Bhagavad Gītā or other religious works. Except the Periya-purāṇam and the Bible class texts, the Gospels and Psalms, I had not read any other religious book. I had just seen, with my uncle, a copy of Vivekananda’s Chicago address but had not read it. I could not even correctly pronounce the Swami’s name but pronounced it Vyvekananda the ‘I’ the ‘y’ sound. I had no notions of religious philosophy, except the current notion of God that he is an infinitely powerful person, present everywhere, though worshipped in special places in images representing him and other ideas which are contained in the Bible text or Periya-purāṇam which I had read.
On July 17th, 1896 we know that Veṅkaṭarāman was in good health. We know that he had almost no scriptural or philosophical knowledge. We know that he had not performed any systematic spiritual discipline (sādhana). For all intents and purposes, he was an average village boy. On the day in question he was sitting alone on the first floor of his uncle’s house in Madurai. In his own words:
It was about six weeks before I left Madurai for good that the great change in my life took place. It was so sudden. One day I sat up alone on the first floor of my uncle’s house. I was in my usual state of health. A sudden and unmistakable fear of death seized me. I felt I was going to die. Why I should have felt so cannot now be explained by anything felt in the body. I did not however trouble myself to discover if the fear was well grounded. I did not care to consult doctors or elders or even friends. I felt I had to solve the problem myself then and there. The shock of fear of death made me at once introspective, introverted. I said to myself mentally, ‘Now, death has come. What does it mean? What is it that is dying? This body dies.’ I at once dramatized the scene of death. I extended my limbs and held them rigid as though rigor-mortis had set in. I imitated a corpse to lend an air of reality to my further investigation. I held my breath and kept my mouth closed, pressing the lips tightly together so that no sound might escape. Let not the word ‘I’ or any other word be uttered. ‘Well then,’ I said to myself, ‘this body is dead. I will be carried stiff to the burning ground and there burnt and reduced to ashes. But with the death of this body, am “I” dead? Is the body “I”? This body is silent and inert. But I felt the full force of my personality and even the sound “I” within myself, apart from the body. So “I” am a spirit, a thing transcending the body. The material body dies, but the spirit transcending it cannot be touched by death. I am therefore the deathless spirit.’ All this was not a mere intellectual process, but flashed before me vividly as living truth, something which I perceived immediately, without any argument almost. ‘I’ was something very real, the only real thing in that state and all the conscious activity that was connected with my body was centered on that. The ‘I’ or my ‘self’ was holding the focus of attention by a powerful fascination from that time forwards. Fear of death had vanished at once and forever. Absorption in the self has continued from that moment right up to this time. Other thoughts may come and go like the various notes of a musician, but the ‘I’ continues like the basic or fundamental śruti note which accompanies and blends with all other notes. Whether the body was engaged in talking, reading, or anything else, I was still centered on ‘I’. Previous to that crisis I had no clear perception of myself and was not consciously attracted to it. I had felt no direct perceptible interest in it, much less any permanent disposition to dwell upon it. The consequences of this new habit were soon noticed in my life. [4]
Because we have Ramaṇa’s own version of the experience, we can date the event with credible precision and trust in its veracity. Because of all he said and did after this experience, we can credibly declare that the experience was complete and unending. However, the factors responsible for this great awakening are not so obvious. It is a commonly accepted Hindu tradition that unless one is worthy and ready, that one is a qualified aspirant (adhikārin), the body and mind of a person will be shattered by the force of a full descent of divine grace. If a trillion volts of electricity suddenly illumine a hundred watt bulb, the bulb will shatter. If a small cup attempted to contain the entire ocean, it would drown in the attempt.
It is because of this anomaly, this seeming lack of preparation, that biographers, scholars, and devotees meticulously search for clues in Veṅkaṭarāman’s samādhi-like sleep wherein he would be totally oblivious to the existence of his body for hours on end; to his deep introspection upon the death of his father wherein he concluded that it was his father’s ‘I’ which had left his body while his ‘I’ was in his body making the difference between life and death; to his statements that from his “unthinking infancy the immensity of Aruṇācala had shone in his awareness;” [5] to his reading about the inspiring lives of the Nāyanmārs.
It should also be noted that the account of Ramaṇa’s great experience, recounted years later, is usually cited in English and comes across as a first-person account. As well, when a reader reads of the account, the reader understands it by employing their intellect. But one should be careful not to take it too literally for, as B.V. Narasimha Swami explained:
The exact words have not been recorded. The Swami as a rule talks quite impersonally. There is seldom any clear or pronounced reference to ‘I’ or ‘you’ in what he says. The genius of Tamil is specially suited for such impersonal utterances, and he generally talks Tamil. However, one studying his words and ways discovers personal references, mostly veiled. His actual words may be found too colorless and hazy to suit or appeal to many readers, especially of the Western type. Hence, the use here of the customary phraseology, with its distinct personal reference. [6]
Secondly, the Great Event looks to a casual reader as though it was arrived at through a process of reasoning. But Ramaṇa, when he recounted the experience, took great care to explain that it was not reasoned out. “All this was not a mere intellectual process, but flashed before me vividly as living Truth, something which I perceived immediately.” The realization came to him in a flash, and the Truth was perceived immediately and directly. Fear of death vanished never to return. From that moment on, the “I” or Pure Consciousness was experienced as the only Reality; and this experience never ceased. Years later, when Ramaṇa was speaking of this event, he said: “Absorption in the Self has continued from that moment right up to this time.” Whether his body was engaged in talking, walking, sitting, eating, or anything else, it would forever more be centered on the Imperishable.
Incredibly, Ramaṇa’s experience was unmotivated. He recalled: “I knew nothing of life and had no idea that it was full of sorrow; and I had no desire to avoid rebirth or seek release, to obtain detachment or liberation.” True, his awakening was set in motion by a “sudden fear of death”, but it should be noted that this fear appeared suddenly, spontaneously. The boy was not consciously seeking to avoid death or seek a solution to life’s problems.
The reader should take a moment to pause and reflect on this. Normally, this awareness is generated only after a long and difficult period of spiritual discipline. Ramaṇa narrated years later: “I have never done any sādhana. I did not even know what sādhana was. Only long afterwards I came to know what sādhana was and how many different kinds of it there were.” [7] In Ramaṇa’s case, his awakening happened spontaneously, without either prior effort or, more remarkably, desire. Further, Ramaṇa described his experience as permanent and irreversible. Throughout history there are individuals who have reported having seemingly similar experiences, but invariably such experiences are almost always temporary. As well, those who recount such experiences invariably also have been performing spiritual disciplines; and even if their experience did happen spontaneously and did not involve prior spiritual disciplines, they all involved a desire for an experience.
Another feature regarding this event that deserves notice is that it occurred spontaneously. The Kaṭha Upaniśad states: “The Self is not to be attained by conscious effort. The Self is known by him to whom it chooses to disclose itself.” [8] Self-realization is an uncovering, an unveiling, and not something that is obtained in the way things are ordinarily obtained in the physical world. Self-knowledge is not a goal or an object that can be achieved through one’s own efforts. Finite efforts cannot produce an infinite Reality. All one can do vis-à-vis the Self is to remove the obstacles which are blocking its revelation. One cannot create the realization itself. If a person is in a house and has all the doors and windows closed, one cannot see the sun. One can open the doors and windows, but one cannot create the sun.
Imagine, at this time Ramaṇa was just a boy of sixteen years. He was a village boy and all that took place in the late 1800’s in Southern India. A child-Sage, ancient of the ancients, emerged and demonstrated to humanity once again what the behavior of such a one is like. In physical appearance he appeared to the world like an eccentric vagrant, with a wire-thin body, yet glowing and healthy. He would forever wear only a loincloth and live a life of utter simplicity. He could be found sitting silent among trees, rocks, and in caves. To all intents and purposes it was as if Dakṣiṇāmūrti had reappeared.
From this time on, everyone noticed a change in the young boy. Things he had once valued before no longer interested him. He became utterly indifferent to friends, food, studies, everything around him. He could be found either sitting alone, absorbed in the Self, or else standing in front of the images of the deities or Nāyanmārs in the Mīnākśi temple with tears flowing from his eyes. As Ramaṇa said:
In the first place I lost what little interest I had in my outward relationship with friends, kinsmen or studies. I went through my studies mechanically. I would take up a book and keep the page open before me to satisfy my elders that I was reading. As for my attention, that was far away, gone far indeed from such superficial matters. In my dealings with relatives, friends, etc., I developed humility, meekness, and indifference. Formerly, when among other boys I was given some burdensome task, I would occasionally complain of unjust distribution of work. If boys chaffed me, I might retort and sometimes threaten them, and assert myself. If someone dared to poke fun at me or take other liberties he would be made quickly to realize his mistake. The old personality that resented and asserted itself had disappeared. I stopped going out with friends for sports, etc., and preferred to be left to myself. Oftentimes I would sit alone by myself, especially in a posture suitable for meditation, close my eyes, and lose myself in the all-absorbing concentration on myself, on the spirit, current or force which constituted myself. I would continue it despite the constant jeers of my elder brother, who would mock me, address me by the titles, Jñāni (Sage), Yogiśvara (Lord of Yogis), and advise me jocularly to go away to a dense primeval forest like the ṛṣis of yore. All preference and avoidance in the matter of food had gone. All food given to me, tasty or tasteless, good or rotten, I would swallow with indifference to its taste, smell or quality. [9]
One of the new features related to the Mīnākṣi temple. Formerly I would go there rarely with friends, see the images, put on sacred ashes and sacred vermillion on the forehead and return home without any perceptible emotion. After the awakening into the new life, I would go almost every evening to the temple. I would go alone and stand before Śiva, or Mīnākṣi, or Naṭarāja, or the sixty-three saints for long periods. I would feel waves of emotion overcoming me. The former hold on the body had been given up by my spirit, since it ceased to cherish the idea “I-am-the-body” . . . Mostly I would let the deep within flow on and into the deep without. Tears would mark this overflow of the soul and not betoken any particular feeling of pleasure or pain. [10]
The Call to Arunacala
All that is left to tell of Veṅkaṭarāman’s early life is the denouement, the unraveling, the outcome of this profound experience. It began on August 29th, 1896, about six weeks after his enlightenment. His neglect of his studies did not go unnoticed by his brother, his brother-in-law, and his schoolmaster. He had performed poorly in English grammar, and as a punishment for his indifference had been instructed by his teacher to copy certain portions from Bain’s Grammar three times. After writing the assignment twice, the futility of what he was doing forcefully struck him and he closed his eyes and turned inwards. Observing this, his brother scornfully remarked: “Why should one, who behaves thus, retain all this?” Veṅkaṭ arāman had been hearing such remarks fairly often, but this time the truth of the remark hit home. The main point of his brother’s remark is that one should not live in another person’s house and partake of all the facilities and amenities therein if one is going to act like a homeless mendicant. This is common knowledge oft given lip service among the Hindus, and yet it is seldom heeded. If one chooses to live in the empirical world and benefit from its perks, then one has certain duties to perform. If one wants to be a renunciate, then leave the empirical world and get on with one’s renunciation. A person should not try to have it both ways.
Realizing the truth of his brother’s remark, Veṅkaṭarāman decided then and there to leave home. There was no point in pretending to study and act as his old self. But where was he to go? Spontaneously, there arose the memory of the word “Aruṇācala.” He knew that if he told his elders of his intention to go to Tiruvannamalai, they would not let him go. Thus, he got up and informed his brother that he had to attend a special class at school. His brother remarked: “Well then, do not fail to take five rupees from the box and pay my college fees in the college near your school.” Destiny had provided him with the money necessary for his trip.
Veṅkaṭarāman went downstairs, quickly ate a meal served by his aunt, and received from her the five rupees. He then looked in an old outdated atlas that informed him that the nearest railroad station to Tiruvannamalai was Tindivanam. Actually there was a new branch line opened from Villupuram to Tiruvannamalai, but he remained unaware of this because of the outdated atlas. He calculated that three rupees would be sufficient for the fare. He left the balance of two rupees in the box along with a farewell note informing the family of what he had done and not to be unduly worried about him. The note said:
I have, in search of my Father and in accordance with His command, started from here. This is only embarking on a virtuous enterprise. Therefore none need grieve over this act. No money need be spent looking for this. Your fee has not yet been paid. Two rupees are kept herewith. Thus, ______. [11]
The letter was not signed. Later he was to say of this note, “You can observe in the letter at home at the time of starting, I first wrote ‘in accordance to his command’ and interposed above it ‘in search of my father’ and because it is he who drew me. I wrote that and started. The finding of funds was not my act. My brother of his own accord did it.” [12] As well, the “search” was not his own volitional act, but in accord with the dictates of destiny and a sudden internal inspiration. His brother was the vehicle that served as the initial catalyst. Aruṇācala called, and he merely accepted that call. His brother provided the financial means. The entire scene was not preplanned but spontaneously occurred from an inner impulse and a willingness to accept.
There is a theory, to some a truth, that when one has three-fold purity of thought, word, and deed (trikaraṇa śuddhi), that whenever, whatever one thinks, says, and performs are in perfect accordance, then the world becomes a wonderful, wonder filled place. Having decided to leave home, food and financial means quickly and spontaneously manifested. After writing the letter, Veṅkaṭarāman went to the railway station. He was late but the train was also late! The ticket he purchased to Tindivanam was two rupees and thirteen annas. If only he had known that the exact price of a ticket, all the way to Tiruvannamalai, was exactly three rupees. Because of the presence of an old, out of date atlas and a lack of desire to enquire further, his body would have to undergo certain hardships and adventures on the way even if his mind was always immersed in bliss. Everything lined up perfectly, yet fate also had its part to play, apparently due to negligence or a lack of inner inspiration.
Veṅkaṭarāman’s choice of Aruṇācala was not entirely by chance. Even as a little boy he was continually aware of something supremely holy whose name was Aruṇācala. In his later years he would say that it was the spiritual power of Aruṇācala that had brought about his Self-realization. His love for the mountain was so great that from the day he arrived in 1896 until he left his body in 1950, he was never more than two miles away from its base.
On the morning of September 1st, 1896, three days after leaving home, Veṅkaṭarāman arrived in Tiruvannamalai. Upon arrival, he made his way to the great temple of Arunācaleśvara. If one checks government and temple records, one will discover that every 30 to 40 years the temple totally closes its doors and gates so that it may clean the jewelry used in adorning the mūrtis. September 1st, 1896, is recorded as one such day. This “coincidence” would appear to give new significance to the young Sage’s delays and apparent “missteps” on his journey to Tiruvannamalai. Inexplicably, Veṅkaṭarāman, upon arriving at the temple, appears to have found the doors and gates wide open. He noted that the temple was empty of devotees. He made his way to the innermost shrine, and presented himself before his Lord. This was his first and only visit to the sanctum sanctorum.
This is one approach to a biography, the familiar empirical way, the worldly view (laukika dṛṣṭi) to tell chronologically the early-life story of the Sage. There is a second approach known as the scriptural approach (śāstra-dṛṣṭi) which hints at, which talks about the Reality. The average person knows little, if anything, about true spirituality and cares even less. A seeker of spirituality finds clues and hints in the scriptures and lives of the Sages. Finally, there is a third approach, another story, the never-beginning, never-ending story that cannot be told except through silence. In this approach, what cannot be said cannot be said; the inexpressible cannot be expressed.
It is an incredible tale, and one not easily understood. How to establish the plausibility of this apparently astonishing claim that one’s experience of multiplicity is false, an illusion, similar to a dream, a cinema show, or a snake superimposed upon a rope, or silver superimposed upon a shell? Certainly, it is easier to accept virtually everyone’s normal experience of life than to accept that all that is, is only the one undifferentiated Consciousness.
How can one speak of Ramaṇa’s “Great Change” as an “experience” when all experiences demand the presence of an experiencer and something to be experienced? Yet, according to Ramaṇa, neither actually is. There is no before and no after, because what happened is not dependent on time. This is the dilemma. How to speak of the eternal non-dual Sage? There is an indivisible and universal Consciousness wherein there is no question of birth nor death nor body; and from this perspective, what can one say and whom to say it to? “Who is it that speaks of an experience? The speaker is (but) the ignorant self, and he speaks of the pure Self. How can that hold?”
There is an unexamined premise in believing that any person in general, or Ramaṇa in particular, was born, experienced all life has to offer, became enlightened or not, and then died. The hidden premise is that there exists a distinct separate individual person. This is an unexamined assumption, a mere mental construct.
Life at Tiruvannamalai
Driven by an inner compulsion, this sixteen-year-old schoolboy left home, threw away all his money and possessions, made his way to Aruṇācala, and immersed himself in his real nature—the great inner Self, formless and forever. His initial absorption in this awareness was so deep and intense that he would live for almost three years completely oblivious of his body and the world around him. Insects chewed away portions of his flesh. He seldom ate, and his body wasted away.
His first couple of years were spent in and around the great temple. It was during this period that Veṅkaṭarāman began to be known as the Brāhmaṇa Swami. For the first few weeks, he took refuge in the thousand-pillared hall, a large, square, raised stone platform with one thous—and sculptured pillars supporting a flat roof, open on all sides, which was used only once or twice a year on festival days. There he sat, stone-like, oblivious to his surroundings, rarely moving, immersed in the bliss of the Self. One would have imagined that this place would be a perfect dwelling for a contemplative ascetic. However, the young Sage’s presence soon attracted the attention of young urchin-boys who, having nothing else to do, used to amuse themselves by throwing stones at his motionless body. So, though undisturbed himself, the young Sage shifted to a vault under the hall known as the Pātāla-liṅgam.
The vault was pitch dark, damp, dusky, humid, and extremely dirty, for it was seldom cleaned. There, at the back of the vault, leaning against the wall, the young boy sat immersed in the Self. Besides him, the only other inhabitants were ants, mosquitoes, and vermin that feasted upon his body, causing sores and abrasions from which blood and pus would ooze. Nevertheless, the young Sage was oblivious to his body and what was happening to it, oblivious to whether it was day or night. Venkatachala Mundali recounts:
Proceeding inside (the vault), I could make out nothing for a while, as I was coming from the glare into the darkness. In a few minutes, the faint outlines of a young face became discernible in that pit. Somewhat frightened, I went out to the adjoining flower-garden, where a sādhu was working with his disciples. Mentioning the facts to them I took some of them with me. Even then the youthful figure sat motionless and with closed eyes, despite the noise of our footsteps. Then we lifted the Swami from the pit, carried him from the hall up a flight of steps and deposited him in front of a shrine of Subrahmanya. The Swami still remained unconscious, his eyes closed; evidently, he was in deep samādhi. We noted the large number of sores on the nether side of his thighs and legs, with blood and pus flowing from some of them, and wondered how any one could remain unconscious of his body amidst such torture. Regarding it as irreverence, nay impertinence, to make any further noise in such presence, we bowed and came away. [13]
Thus, providentially—and as was about to happen a number of times in rather quick succession—the young Sage was deposited at a new location, this time near the shrine of Subrahmaṇya. He resided there for about two months before being moved to an adjoining flower garden, then to a banana grove, and then the foot of an iluppai tree. From the time of the Subrahmaṇya shrine on, someone or other appeared to take care of the food needs of the Sage. His seat of residence changed frequently. Gardens, groves, shrines—all were provided to give shelter to the Sage. The boy-Sage himself never spoke during this period. Not that he took any vow of silence; he simply had no inclination to speak.
During this period, the young boy remained deeply absorbed in the inner Self and thus, like a variation on a theme from his childhood, was moved about without his knowledge. If you remember, he was such a heavy sleeper as a child that his schoolmates would beat him without him being any the wiser. Thus it was that, during the first few years at Tiruvannamalai, the young urchin-boys sought him out and played the same type of game with his body. The only difference was that, this time, he was sunk in a deep state of bliss rather than sleep. Outwardly, it made no difference to him, but the pranks of these urchins sometimes reached the heights of stupidity and malice.
One day, as he sat deep in samādhi at the foot of the iluppai tree, a mischievous urchin, perhaps in order to test the intensity of the Sage’s absorption, urinated all over the Sage, who, being deeply absorbed, was quite unaware of what had happened until sometime later when his consciousness surfaced and he wondered how he came to be all wet. Then, upon perceiving the smell, he understood what had happened. Wonderfully, there was not a trace of anger in the Sage; he thought to himself that perhaps he had performed a similar prank during his infancy and the whirling of time had brought its revenge.
As the iluppai tree was a place of much disturbance for the Sage, one day, in February 1897, a sādhu, Annamalai Tambiran, who belonged to an order of Saiva ascetics in charge of a small shrine known as Gurumūrtam, located in a suburb of Tiruvannamalai, suggested that the boy move there and live in quiet seclusion. The change of place made no difference to the boy-Sage, and so he agreed to the proposal. At Gurumūrtam, where he would remain for eighteen months, his life continued as before, and he could be found sitting on the ground for hours on end, neither opening his eyes nor being aware of what was happening around him. As in the Pātāla Liṅgam, ants, mosquitoes, and other insects attacked him, his hair became matted, and his finger-nails grew long and curly:
The hair had got matted and woven like a basket. Small stones and dust had settled in it, and the head used to feel heavy. I had long nails and a frightful appearance. So people pressed me to have a shave, and I yielded. When my head was shaven clean, I began to wonder whether I had a head or not, it felt so light. I shook my head this way and that to assure myself that it was there. [14]
The boy’s fame spread spontaneously because of his extreme asceticism. Increasing numbers of pilgrims and sightseers came to visit him, though he was averse to any show of pretentious pomp or ostentation. Human nature being what it is, even Annamalai Tambiram developed a desire to worship the Sage in the way he would worship the sacred image in the temple. Coming to know of this, a new chapter in the life of the Sage was about to unfold. He wrote in Tamil upon the wall with a piece of charcoal, “This (food) alone is service for this (body).” When Annamalai saw the writing, he understood at once two things: what it was that the boy wanted and did not want him to do; and that the boy could read and write Tamil.
After this incident, upon hearing that the young Sage could write, the head accountant in Tiruvannamalai approached him with a desire to discover who he was and where he was from. Continuous entreaties fell on deaf ears until the accountant finally, in desperation, produced a pen and paper and demanded that, unless and until he was told the name and native place of the boy, he would fast and not return to his office. Out of compassion, the young Sage yielded to the accountant’s demands and wrote in English, “Veṅkaṭarāman, Tiruchuzhi.” Now it was known that the boy could read and write both Tamil and English. But a puzzle remained. What did the name, “Tiruchuzhi”, spelled with a “zhi”, refer to? The young Sage noticed that the book that the accountant had given him upon which to write was a copy of the Periya-purānam. The boy opened it and turned to the page where Tiruchuzhi is mentioned as a sacred place, whose praise has been sung by one of the Śaiva saints. Thus it was that the world came to learn of the identity of the young Sage and his native place.
While at Gurumūrtam, both Annamalai Tambiran and then,a few days later, Uddandi Nayanar, the two sādhu attendants, who were looking after the boy, were called back to the headquarters of their ascetic order. There was now no one to look after the boy. That was not a problem as the pilgrims and devotees who flocked to see the Sage vied with one another to provide him food. The problem was how to keep the crowds away and maintain some semblance of order. It so happened that there was a young spiritual aspirant from Kerala, Palaniswami, who was living nearby in a Gaṇeśa temple and performing daily worship of the deity therein. Several people advised him to stop serving this non-living image and go to serve the living God in the form of the boy-Sage. He paid a visit to the Sage and, upon seeing him, instantly gave his heart to him and lived with the Sage for the next twenty-one years, serving him with total and utter devotion and faith.
After a year and a half at Gurumūrtam, by which time the growing reputation of the young Sage was providing fuel for frenzied distractions, the young Sage and Palaniswami moved to a neighboring mango orchard. In May of 1898, the owner of the orchard offered them protected shelter from the large number of daily visitors. It was during this period that the young Sage acquired his first familiarity with some of the basic texts of Advaita Vedānta, such as the Ribhu Gītā, Kaivalya-navanītam, Vedānta-cintāmaṇi and the Vāśiṣṭam. Palaniswami was keen on studying such texts and used to go to the town and borrow them from the library there. They were written in Sanskrit, Telegu, and Malayalam and, as Palaniswami struggled with them only knowing Malayalam, he would often read them aloud to the young Sage for help in understanding them. It was through these texts that the young Sage discovered corroboration of his own experience and that they had been experienced and expounded by sages before him. Ramaṇa later told of his surprise upon hearing an exact description of his own exalted state described in the Ribhu Gītā. Until then, he had no idea that what had happened to him had been experienced by others and was greatly sought after by seekers of the truth from time immemorial. Remember, before his great change, Ramaṇa neither knew anything of the great Self nor practiced spiritual disciplines.
From the mango orchard the young Sage moved in quick succession, first to a small temple, next to the large temple for a week, then to a garden, and finally, in late 1898 he made his first move onto the mountain, Aruṇācala, at a spur called Pavazhakkunru. It was here that the Sage’s mother, having been informed of her son’s whereabouts, visited him in hopes of persuading him to return to Madurai. His mother pleaded, cried, beseeched, and begged, but received no response from her son. Then, upon being asked to at least write her a reply, he was given a pencil and piece of paper. He took the pencil and paper and wrote:
The ordainer controls the fate of souls in accordance with their past deeds—their prārabdha-karma. Whatever is destined not to happen will not happen, try how hard you may. Whatever is destined to happen will happen, do what you may to stop it. This is certain. The best course, therefore, is for one to be silent. [15]
It was obvious her son was not going to return with her and so she returned to Madurai with a heavy heart.
What is remarkable about the Sage’s reply to his mother is his unequivocal presentation upholding the doctrine of predetermination. Throughout history, both East and West, philosophers, religionists, and even ordinary people have grappled with the thorny question of predetermination and free will. Here was a modern Sage advocating emphatically a clear and definite doctrine of predestination. Many years later he was asked by Arthur Osborne, “Are only important events in a man’s life, such as his main occupation or profession, predetermined, or are trifling acts also, such as taking a cup of water or moving from one part of the room to another?” The Sage replied: “Everything is predetermined.” [16]
This doctrine is so counter-intuitive and produces such extreme reactions in individuals who hear of it that we will take up the issue in more depth in a subsequent chapter. Nevertheless, there exists the possibility that either one is free to choose whatever one decides at any and every moment or else what is to be will be and all the choice that exists, if one does, is only the choice of accepting or rejecting, that is, to happily accept what happens or sadly reject what happens. We know, if we coolly and logically look at the situation, there do exist a plethora of factors that are definitely not in our control at any given moment. The way and what we see is determined by the particular rods and cones in the eyes; the heart beating and the blood circulating; the strength in the arms or legs or brain; gravity; H2O; on and on. If this is so, if many factors are definitely not in our control, then how can one know that, in actuality, none of it is really in one’s control (other than one’s attitude towards what happens at any given moment). Thus, perhaps Ramaṇa’s remarks are not as incredible or hard to digest as they might have at first glance appeared.
Life on Arunacala
The young Sage would now spend the next twenty-three years living in caves up the Arunācala hill. In India, caves have always had a mystic aura associated with Sages. There are references in the Upaniṣads to “the thumb-sized cave of the heart”, [17] “the secret cave located in the body”, and “the celestial cave.” Caves are considered ideal places to reside and meditate, physically, symbolically, and mystically.
Having climbed the hill, the young Sage began to reside in the Virupākṣa cave, a place he would live in for the next seventeen years. This cave was associated with the 13th-century Sage, Virupākṣa, who allegedly lived and was buried there. The shape of the cave resembled the mystic syllable “Om” which lent it added sanctity.
Life in the caves, so far as the young Sage was concerned, continued much as before. Most of the time he could be found sitting in a deep, inner absorption. However, it was from this time that his life became more public. Slowly, a select band of dedicated and earnest seekers formed around him and put questions regarding spiritual matters to him and brought him sacred books so that he might explain the contents to them. Sometimes, the young Sage would remain quiet, at other times he would answer verbally or write out his answers to their questions.
The first photograph of the Brāhmana Swami dates from the early Virupākṣa cave period. As well, it was during this period that the Brāhmana Swami acquired the title of Ramaṇa Maharshi, the name by which he would be forever known.
In 1903, a great Sanskrit scholar came to Tiruvannamalai, T. Ganapati Sastri, who became famous as Ganapati Muni, because of the severe austerities he had been observing. He had the title Kāvya-kaṇṭha (one who had poetry at his throat), and his disciples addressed him as nāyana (father). On a visit to the Brāhmaṇa Swami in December 1907, Ganapati Muni enquired as to the nature of austerity (tapas):
Śāstri quivered with emotion as he walked up to the Virupākṣa cave. Luckily for him the Swami was seated alone on the outer raised platform. Śāstri 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 Vedānta Śāstra I have fully understood. I have performed japa to my heart’s content. Yet, I have not up to this time understood what tapas is. Hence, have I sought refuge at thy feet. Pray enlighten me about the nature of tapas.” [18]
For fifteen minutes, the Sage gazed silently at Ganapati Muni as he sat at his feet in anxious expectation. No one came to interrupt them at that time. Then the Sage spoke in short, broken Tamil sentences:
If one watches whence this notion of ‘I’ springs, the mind will be absorbed in that. That is tapas. If a mantra is repeated and attention directed to the source whence the mantra-sound is produced, the mind will be absorbed in that. That is tapas. [19]
Ganapati Muni was elated with this teaching and the next day declared to his disciples that the Brāhmaṇa Swami should henceforth be known as the ‘Maharshi’ (great Sage), since his teachings were original, just as the teachings of the ancient seers (ṛṣi) were original. Since that day, the name has stuck and it has resounded around the world as the name of the Sage of Aruṇācala.
To give someone a name is an important rite. In Sanskrit texts, name-giving is one of the sacred rituals or rites of passage (samskāra). As a sacrament, giving a name signifies the outward expression of an inner refinement and grace. It is intended to give one a distinct aura. It stands guard against undesirable influences. It may inspire and/or motivate one to live up to the name’s meaning. It may also invoke grace through the propitiation of the deity, nāma japa, for the repetition of a deity’s name (mantra) invokes the divine power. Bestowing a name is a defining mark.
One’s name is the means whereby one is able to approach the named. It is a means to reach the goal, for the goal is contained in the means. Consciousness of the name leads to consciousness of the named. As one thinks, so one becomes, like a piece of wood that has been placed in a fire, sooner or later, turns into fire. Likewise, a mind that is immersed in God’s name will eventually become Divine. The individual (jīva) becomes the Divine (Śiva) through the Name. The Chāndogya Upaniṣad says, “Meditate on the Name as Brahman”. [20]
Can you think of the word ‘tree’ without also thinking of its form? There is an intimate connection between the name and the form it represents. Further, it is said that the name is even sweeter than the form. If one thinks of a mango, one immediately becomes happy, and one’s mouth begins to water. The word “mango” conjures up an image of a large, sweet, perfect mango. But if one sees a physical mango, all sorts of doubts may arise: “Is it sweet? Will it be stringy? Will it taste oily? How much will it cost?”
A name hints at its physical appearance; some hint at its attributes; some hint at its function or personality, or temperament or life-history. They are his or her calling cards, so to speak. They invoke the salient features of the named. Names are adorations. The name leads to the form (all of creation is but name and form, nāma and rūpa). The manifest universe is but name and form; the Unmanifest Truth manifests itself cyclically so that one may relate to it. A Sage is said to give three gifts to the world: his name, his form, and his life’s example. We will speak of these three gifts in chapter eight.
Ramaṇa’s mother had come to Tiruvannamalai in 1898 in a failed attempt to bring him back to Madurai. After Ramaṇa’s elder brother died and her domestic situation was far from satisfactory, she again visited Ramaṇa in 1912 and 1914 during pilgrimages she undertook. Finally, in early 1916, with a desire to spend her last days with her son, Alagammāḷ came to the Virupākṣa cave, and this time Ramaṇa accepted her as a member of the small āśrama family. She began to cook for the inmates, and in 1922 she died in a quite significant manner.
As her end was nearing, Ramaṇa laid his right hand upon her heart and his left hand on her head. As he explained:
Innate tendencies and the subtle memory of past experiences leading to future possibilities became very active. Scene after scene rolled before her in the subtle consciousness, the outer senses having already gone. The soul was passing through a series of experiences, thus avoiding the need for rebirth and making possible union with the Spirit. The soul was at last disrobed of the subtle sheaths before it reached the final Destination, the Supreme Peace of Liberation from which there is no return to ignorance. [21]
When he was asked whether the procedure he performed was a success, he said: “Yes, in her case it was a success; on a previous occasion I did the same to Palaniswami when the end was approaching, but it was a failure. He opened his eyes and passed away.”
Since no burials are allowed on the sacred Aruṇācala hill, it was decided to bury her body at the foot of the southern slope of Aruṇācala, near Pāli Tīrtham. A thatched roof was erected over her samādhi and a hut was constructed with mud walls. For six months, Ramaṇa used to visit the site daily, and then in December 1922, he shifted permanently to the proximity of his mother’s shrine. When asked why he had shifted from Skandāśramam, Ramaṇa replied: “The same power which brought me from Madurai to Aruṇācala brought me here.” What is also noteworthy is that this became the starting point of Śrī Ramaṇāśramam, which grew around Ramaṇa and the mother’s samādhi.
In 1947, Ramaṇa’s health began to fail, and towards the end of 1948, a small nodule appeared below the elbow of his left arm. As it grew in size, the doctor in charge of the āśrama dispensary cut it out, though in a month's time it reappeared. Surgeons from Madras were called and they operated. The wound did not heal, and the tumor came again. On further examination, it was diagnosed that the affliction was a case of sarcoma. The doctors suggested amputating the arm above the affected part. Ramaṇa replied with a smile: “There is no need for alarm. The body is itself a disease. Let it have its natural end. Why mutilate it? Simple dressing of the affected part will do.” Two more operations had to be performed, but the tumor appeared again. Indigenous systems of medicine were tried as well as homeopathy. The disease did not yield itself to treatment. The sage was quite unconcerned and was supremely indifferent to suffering. He sat as a spectator watching the disease waste the body. However, his eyes shone as bright as ever, and his grace flowed towards all beings. Crowds came in large numbers. Ramaṇa insisted that they should be allowed to have his darśana.
Once it so happened that the operating surgeon had to prod the raw wound thoroughly. Declining an anesthetic, Ramaṇa stretched out his arm. The doctor caught his breath. The Maharshi’s face remained calm and serene, not a single groan issued from his lips. Duraiswami, who was there, could not bear the sight. The arm was bleeding so profusely, and he went away shedding tears. The Maharshi smiled and addressed a disciple who stood before him: “Duraiswami is crying because he thinks I am suffering agonies! It is true that my body is suffering. But oh, when will he realize that I am not this body?”
Mahasamadhi
The end came on April 14th, 1950. That evening, Ramaṇa gave darśan to the devotees who came. Everyone present in the āśrama knew that the end was nearing. They sat singing Ramaṇa's hymn to Aruṇācala with the refrain Aruṇācala-Śiva. The Sage asked his attendants to make him sit up. He opened his luminous and gracious eyes for a brief while. He smiled. A tear of bliss trickled from the outer corner of his eye. At 8:47p.m. the breathing stopped. There was no struggle, no spasm, none of the signs of death. At that very moment, a shooting star moved slowly across the sky, reached the summit of the holy hill, Aruṇācala, and disappeared behind it.
The Sage laughs with the laughing, weeps with the weeping, plays with the playful, sings with those who sing, keeping time to the song. Among children he is a child. Among humans he is a human. What does he lose? His presence is like a pure, transparent mirror. It reflects the image exactly as it is. But the Sage, who is only a mirror, is unaffected by actions. How can a mirror be affected by the reflections? On the other hand, the actors in the world, the doers of all acts, ordinary individuals, must decide for themselves what song and what action is for their own good, is for the welfare of the world, what is in accordance with the scriptures, and what is practicable.
In his life, Ramaṇa experienced, demonstrated, and expounded the astonishing idea that the inner Self, and not the external universe, was all there was. Incredibly, the mystery of everything could be explained by this simple idea. Once again, a revolutionary Sage revealed in his life and teachings how different a universe from the one most people believe they inhabit actually exists. The profound mystical philosophy of the Upaniṣads had once again taken a physical embodiment and revealed to the world the living Truth of its teachings.