Paul Brunton was born in London in 1898. He was
originally born Raphael Hurst. He was a bookseller and journalist. Brunton
wrote under various pseudonyms, including Raphael Meriden and Raphael Delmonte,
Later, he chose the pen name Brunton Paul, but for some reason, perhaps a
printer's error, the names were reversed to Paul Brunton, a name that he kept.
He served in a tank division during the First World War, and later devoted
himself to mysticism and came into contact with Theosophists. Being partner of
an occult bookshop, The Atlantis Bookshop, in Bloomsbury, Brunton came into
contact with both the literary and occult British intelligentsia of the 1920s.
In the early 1930s, Brunton embarked on a voyage to India, which brought him
into contact with such luminaries as Meher Baba, Sri Shankaracharya of
Kancheepuram and Sri Ramana Maharshi. When Brunton met the Shankaracharya of
Kanchipuram he was directed to meet Sri Ramana. Brunton's first visit to Sri
Ramana's ashram took place in 1931. ...Brunton has been credited with
introducing Ramana Maharshi to the West through his books A Search in Secret
India and The Secret Path. (from Wikipedia)
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 ”
The midday meal is over. For once I am grateful that India
is favoured with a climate which does not foster activity, because most of the
people have disappeared into the shady groves to take a siesta. I can therefore
approach the Maharshi in the way I prefer, without undue notice or fuss.
I enter the large hall and sit down near him. 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 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 realize 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.”
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