The next day was occupied in getting acquainted with the routine of the Ashram; the hours of meditation in the presence of the Sage; the time of meals in the dining-hall, and so on.
I had to protect some foodstuffs, which I had brought with me, against the ants. They quickly found their way to my sugar and biscuits and gathered round my tins of honey, although these were hermetically sealed. I had also to arrange for drinking-water to be brought from the nearby tap.
The simple way of life in the Ashram helps one to concentrate and dive deep into oneself; the very atmosphere, charged with the thoughts of so many people seeking their real Self, according to the teachings of the Master, turns the mind inwards and is favourable to introspection. The invisible yet powerful influence of the sacred hill of Arunachala also has its part in creating this peculiar atmosphere, but of that I will speak later.
At 7 a.m. there was the loud sound of a gong calling us to breakfast. When I reached the dining-hall, Maharshi was just mounting the few steps leading to it. He was accompanied by several Indians, his permanent attendants. Here, in full daylight, I noticed for the first time, that the physical state of Maharshi was really precarious. He walked with difficulty, as his joints and knees were affected by acute rheumatism. His left arm and elbow were bandaged because of a malignant tumour, which had begun its growth about six months earlier and, in spite of two operations, had continued to spread its devastating work, causing Maharshi’s death one year later. Sometimes his head shook slightly and this increased the impression of serious ill-health; the whole frame, once tall and powerful, was now bent and weak.
After reaching the hall, Maharshi took his place near the wall, opposite the entrance. He sat alone, while facing him plantain leaves were spread on the floor for the rest of the residents. I occupied a place on his right, about three yards away, and that spot remained mine during the whole period of my stay.
The Sage ate with his hand according to the general Indian custom. His movements seemed to be automatic. I saw that he was quite aware of his surroundings and reacted in a normal way to all the phenomena of the outward world, but I felt certain that his real Self had nothing to do with the functions and actions of his visible vehicle. After some time I understood that, according to his own teachings, this physical plane of existence was like a dream for him. I also understood that unless I were able to realize for myself this state as regards the outer world, I could never know reality.
The grasping of this truth is our first real step to getting rid of the mind’s fetters. During all our lives, the mind constantly creates scores of purposeless thoughts. One of the European disciples of the Sage rightly remarked:
‘Our mind creates its own problems and then tries to solve them, but it will never find a final solution, as this does not exist in its limited sphere of activity’.
There are three communal meals in the Ashram: lunch or dinner at about 11.30 a.m., supper at 7.30 p.m. and also tea at 3.30 p.m. for the Ashram guests and occasional visitors. One is given tea, coffee, or by special request milk, as was the case with me. The dishes are well prepared, but some vegetables and pastry have many condiments added and are too hot for the European palate. But I soon discovered that in this tropical climate the stronger spices are good and I took all the burning curries and sauces, with only a few exceptions, though I must admit that the Brahmins who served us, after noticing what remained on my plantain leaf, ceased serving me the hottest dishes.
Maharshi took a little of everything. At the end of the meal, when buttermilk was distributed, he made a kind of round wall of rice, leaving a space in the middle for the liquid. When he had enough he stopped with a gesture the Brahmin who was serving. He never left a single grain of rice on his leaf. This is regarded as a duty by everyone obeying Hindu customs, which direct each step the individual takes on the physical plane. In the beginning I could not understand this seeming submission to outer customs by a great Sage who sees the whole world as an illusion of the mind and its servants, the five senses. But later on, when in the presence of Maharshi, my own mind became more and more quiet, more fit to judge rightly, and when all the horizons of thought were clearer, this doubt, as well as many others, disappeared.
During the first weeks of my stay in the Ashram, Maharshi’spent the whole day, with the exception of the hours of sleep and food, under a small bamboo roof near the library building, facing the dining hall. He reclined on a big stone couch covered with mats, cotton rugs and a few pillows.
As soon as I saw the stone couch, the thought came to my mind, which according to the old European habit must judge everything by its appearance, that Maharshi’s rheumatism may have developed from sitting for many years on stone. I did not realize that what may be true in colder countries need not necessarily be so in India, for afterwards I found, during my night wanderings on the sacred Hill Arunachala, that the big rocks where I sat were quite warm several hours after sunset, and did not become cold the whole night through.
His disciples and visitors sat on the concrete floor facing Maharshi. For the morning and evening meditations certain Sadhus, pupils of the Master, often came from the caves of Arunachala. Every day the Vedas were recited and before the night meal holy hymns were chanted, often those composed by Maharshi himself in his younger days. Every fortnight one of the permanent residents, a learned Brahmin, sang a most beautiful hymn; it was, as I learned, in praise of the ‘Lord of the Universe’. It was full of melodic implications and the endings of the words, which, of course, I did not understand, will forever remain in my memory, like so many other things in this abode of peace.
Later, amidst the turmoil of worldly life, when I remembered Maharshi’s words: ‘Think about your real Self’ and understood the need of doing so, I found that the memory of this melody, the sound of it inwardly heard, immediately established harmony in my consciousness.
It took some time before I could adjust myself to the rhythm of the Ashram life and could inwardly approach Maharshi. At first I had to struggle with mental distrust, with the tendency to look for blemishes in the lives of those who surrounded the Sage. I was simply wasting precious time in a vain fight with my mental windmills. I was looking on Maharshi from the narrow citadel of the ego, of my own small personality. I was aware that I should not do so, that I should step out of my self into a broader path, and that only thus could I find enlightenment.
I was going through a trial well known to occult psychologists. The mind may reason and discuss lofty matters, it may even be able to create works where spiritual ideas are well expounded under the inspiration of the Master. But when the real, the actual experience approaches, when one has to live what was so cleverly expressed, ah ! then a gap appears, a jarring note sounds.
Yet as days passed, the radiance emanating from the Sage was slowly doing its invisible work. At first I wanted to have a talk with him, but I was disheartened by the shallowness of what I tried to say. Then at last, intuition showed the proper way:
‘Silence is the most powerful form of teaching transmitted from Master to pupil. There is no word by which one can convey the important things, the deepest truths’.
From Maharshi’s Sayings
I began to listen intently to the silence surrounding the Master. I understood what a high degree of concentration, of the control of the movement of thoughts, is necessary to be able to open the door of the mind to the subtle vibrations constantly radiated by Maharshi and leading one to high initiation. I also came to understand that my previous exercises were not of the best; that here they would prove insufficient. At first it was rather depressing to see that all my former methods had to be re-examined and changed.
I realized that the amount of knowledge I could find and assimilate here depended upon my own attitude and that I myself was responsible for catching and using to the full this unique opportunity of being at Maharshi’s feet, an opportunity which would never again be repeated. In other words, the amount of light penetrating into my being would depend directly upon the opening of the doors of my consciousness.
In practice it was not at all easy to let go all my self-centred opinions, all forms of crystallized beliefs, comparisons and prejudices. Many of these beliefs had been regarded by me as unshakable and now I saw that they would not stand the fiery test of the presence of one who had realized the truth. Comparison with some Masters of the past was especially responsible for many moments of inner conflict. What, I queried, is the role of Buddha, of Christ and of other great Masters who have shown Humanity such wonderful paths to salvation? Should we not adhere to those who have given us such unmistakable signs of their divinity? Should we not continue to walk in their holy footsteps?
There were many other doubts and hesitations, but I do not think it useful to repeat here all such misconceived ideas. The answers to my doubts came quite unexpectedly and simply as did everything in this strange abode. I was told that once, when a European Roman Catholic couple were sitting at Maharshi’s feet, and probably under the charm of the incomparable sanctity and sublimity of the atmosphere, were expressing their emotions in the form of prayers traditionally most familiar to them, the Sage remarked:
‘They have another Master. They pray to him. But this makes no difference. There is but One’.
I had read much about Maharshi before coming to the Ashram. I knew that he sees the content of the inner being of every man who approaches him, although he never shows that he does so, or speaks about it. So this case was not surprising to me. But I had also personally to experience this extraordinary power of the Master. It was essential, for without a complete trust in the Master, without a belief that his consciousness is one with the Absolute, as well as one with that of his pupil, the realization of self-knowledge is impossible.
As week after week is spent near him, the shell of the separated personality bursts and dissolves, I always feel this process when I am with him. The important turning-point in my own life came on the day when Maharshi had moved, according to the decision of the Ashram ‘high command’ (his brother and the staff administering the outer affairs of the Ashram) to the hall of the newly-built temple. It was built in purely Hindu style on the spot where his mother was buried in 1922. There were rumours that at first, Maharshi did not want to move, saying he was quite comfortable under the little bamboo roof. But when his brother, the Superintendent of the Ashram and some of his staff, prostrated before the Saint, imploring him to agree, he answered that it mattered little where one stays and yielded to their entreaties.
A big couch carved in granite and covered with embroidered Indian rugs was awaiting the Sage in the hall of the temple which was to be his last abode.
The temple, in the ancient traditional Hindu style with the happy addition of some modern comforts, is built from grey granite, which has been beautifully carved. With not too many sculptures or other ornamentation, with slender columns in the middle, large windows and many doors, with modern electric fans and strong fluorescent lamps, it makes a very pleasant impression indeed. Near Maharshi’s couch stood a shelf with books, a small table and a clock, and in front of him was an incense-holder, with Indian incense sticks burning all day long, and spreading their fragrance throughout the hall.
At noon Maharshi was taken into the temple-hall with some solemnity, but I was not present, as I had left after the morning meditation. When I returned in the afternoon, I had to find a place for myself in this new abode, and chose one by the nearest column facing Maharshi, from which I could always look into his eyes.
The hall was divided into two parts. Men sat on the right side and women on the left. A small portable barrier in front of the Sage’s couch, showed the limit of approach to the devotees and visitors.
Maharshi was sitting as usual, with legs crossed in a posture of meditation and reclining on several pillows, his head slightly bent towards the shoulder. One could see that the previous ceremonies had tired his weak physical frame. This weakness troubled me at first, if one can be troubled at all in his presence. Later on I became accustomed to this sight. I also came to pay less attention to the ‘visible’ side of things and therefore was less anxious or concerned about it.
The recitation of the Vedas began about 5.15 p.m. and lasted for forty-five minutes. After that Maharshi went through his letters, which came from all parts of the world, gave a hasty glance at the newspapers, and then the secretary of the Ashram, an educated Indian with a long grayish beard, a loin cloth and a piece of white towelling over his shoulders as his only garments, brought a pile of letters for approval in answer to the previous day’s mail. Maharshi carefully read them all, putting them back into their respective addressed envelopes. Sometimes the Sage made a few remarks, but this was rather rare and then the secretary took back such letters for correction in accordance with his suggestions.
At last all the activities of the day came to an end and there was silence and peace.