Remembering Sub-Registrar Narayana Iyer

A few days ago, in my introduction to the post on Narayana Iyer, I mentioned that I would try to add one more article, written by Kanakammal. Here it is.

T. R. Kanakammal came to Bhagavan in the mid-1940s when she was still a teenager. She moved closely with Muruganar and received lessons from him on the meaning of Bhagavan’s works and teachings. Though she is now well into her eighties, she still visits the ashram regularly, and she also receives visitors in her Ramana Nagar home each morning, where she regales them with stories of Bhagavan and explanations of his teachings.

The first quarter of this article, which was published in an abbreviated form in The Mountain Path earlier this year, repeats material I already posted a few days ago. However, once she has narrated the circumstances under which Narayana Iyer came to Bhagavan, she branches out into new territory, giving a personal account of how Narayana Iyer lived his life in Tiruvannamalai.

* * *

Narayana Iyer was a devotee who came to scoff, but remained as a worshipper. Before he met Bhagavan he was an out and out sceptic with no religion in him. He considered sannyasins and sadhus to be impostors and parasites and felt that no one, however great, had the right to accept the homage of others. But a chance meeting with Bhagavan wrought a complete transformation in this doubting Thomas and turned him into a staunch devotee.

Dr Ramakrishna Iyer was his friend, philosopher and guide. Like Narayana Iyer, this doctor was also working in Chetpet. He was well acquainted with Bhagavan, being the son of Lakshmi Ammal of Tiruchuzhi, one of Bhagavan’s childhood playmates. He invited Narayana Iyer to go with him to Tiruvannamalai during the Deepam festival, and his invitation was accepted, even though Narayana Iyer disliked crowds and temple festivals had no attraction for him; he agreed on the condition that he would neither come inside the ashram nor prostrate to the swami if perchance he met him.

Circumstances forced him to accompany his friend into the ashram. As they were coming inside, a person clad only in a white loin cloth, a towel on his shoulder, a kamandalu [water pot] in one hand and a walking stick in the other stopped in his walk in the opposite direction when he saw them. He spoke kindly to the doctor and enquired about his mother and brother. Though Iyer guessed that this must be the Maharshi, he did not look up, thinking that, after all, he was a complete stranger to him. On being introduced as the Sub-registrar of Chetpet, out of courtesy he looked up. Let us hear him now in his own words:

‘What a wonderful face and what a welcoming smile! Bewitching, fascinating and a powerful look too! In a moment I was at his feet on the gravel ground…. He is not bogus…. looks genuine…. but has he solved the mystery of life, of the universe that we see around us? If not, I withdraw my homage and go my way…. I tried to find out if he had written any books. I got a copy of Ulladu Narpadu [Reality in Forty Verses] in Tamil. It had just been published.’

As he tried to read the first stanza he was confounded and filled with dismay at the repeated use of the word ulladu, which seemed too closely packed. The pure language, embodying the essence of absolute reality, would drive even pundits of Tamil prosody to despair. Someone nearby said that the Maharshi himself would explain the forty verses that night. In anxious and eager suspense Narayana Iyer waited for the night.

A solemn stillness pervaded the air. There was absolute silence. The Maharshi read the first stanza. The mere reading of it made the meaning as clear as clarity itself. Stanza by stanza he read and explained in a voice so sweet and melodious, it seemed to come from a transcendent being.

The climax came when he said, after explaining a verse, ‘God cannot be seen with our eyes and known by our senses. This is what is meant by saying, “To see God is to be God”.’

Suddenly the stentorian voice of Dandapani Swami boomed from out of the listeners, ‘Is Bhagavan saying this out of personal experience [swaanubhava]?’

The question asked with such naiveté was answered with equal candour: ‘How else would I dare to say so?’

It flashed upon Narayana Iyer instantly that if He whom all religions acclaim as God were to appear before him in flesh and blood, here He is. Successive waves of bliss flooding from within shook his frame. He went out to compose himself.

He says, ‘I came, he saw, he conquered’.

The spell was thus cast. Henceforth Bhagavan was his God. Bhagavan was the way and the support on the way as well.

To Narayana Iyer the content of Ulladu Narpadu became a vedic truth and its verses veritable mantras. He took to chanting them as japa. From then on nothing could stop him from frequenting the ashram.

His job entailed frequent transfers; he was successively posted to Arani, Polur, and Shankagiri (Salem) for varying periods. However, there was no let up in his regular visits. Never a Sunday passed without Narayana Iyer arriving at the ashram. He always had some delectable snacks with him which were prepared by his wife Lalitha Iyer, who believed that she was cooking delicacies for God. These were savoured by everyone as Bhagavan would never accept anything unless there was enough for all. Very often Iyer would bring omappodi, [a snack made of gram flour and spices] which Bhagavan appears to have been quite fond of, and occasionally he would bring other items in quantities that would suffice for all in the hall.

Once when Shantammal enquired of Bhagavan whether she could prepare some snacks in the ashram, Bhagavan replied, ‘Tomorrow is Sunday. Narayana Iyer will be arriving and will surely be bringing something to eat.’

Such was the certainty of his arrival and of the snacks that came with him.

In the afternoon devotees bringing snacks would offer the entire amount, in their containers, to Bhagavan. After a quick look around the hall, Bhagavan would pick up a little and hand over the rest to the attendant nearby to be distributed in equal measure among those present. Muruganar, a keen observer of Bhagavan’s ways, used to recall with wonder that if the attendant gave each one present exactly the same amount that Bhagavan had taken, it would just suffice for all, whether the number present was great or small. This was found to be unfailingly true; whatever the quantity Bhagavan allotted for himself was found to be the right measure for distribution that day.

In those days [the early thirties] the area surrounding the ashram was very bare, with no trees or shrubs. The Mother’s Temple was yet to be constructed. Anyone approaching the precincts of the ashram could be easily seen from the old hall. Once, between two successive weekend visits by Narayana Iyer, the ashram administration, feeling that Bhagavan needed some rest in the afternoon after lunch, imposed a restriction that no one would be allowed to disturb him between 12 noon and 2 p.m. Neither Bhagavan nor Narayana Iyer was aware of this new decree. The following Sunday afternoon, as usual, Iyer arrived with omappodi in hand. As he approached the hall those strategically positioned to deflect the would-be visitors until 2 pm, the new receiving hour, apprised him of the rule. Iyer, though still at a great distance from Bhagavan, made his customary prostration from where he was, retraced his steps and waited until the appointed hour.

At 2 p.m. he came before Bhagavan. Bhagavan had spied him on his arrival and noted his subsequent disappearance.

As soon as he entered the hall Bhagavan asked him, ‘Didn’t you come at 1 o’clock? I saw you arriving through the window and was expecting you to come to the hall at any moment. But you didn’t come. Did you have to go elsewhere?’

Narayana Iyer, who had no idea that Bhagavan was not supposed to know of the new arrangement, replied in all innocence, ‘My train arrived late and I could come only at 1 o’clock. I was informed that Bhagavan nowadays rests in the afternoons and is not to be disturbed until 2 p.m. That’s why I have only come in now.’

Bhagavan listened without any comment, other than his customary, ‘Oh! Is that so?’

The next day after lunch, instead of going into the hall, Bhagavan sat outside the hall. The attendant very hesitantly suggested that he go inside, as it was becoming very hot.

Bhagavan said, ‘Nobody is allowed to enter until 2 p.m. Is there also a rule that I should not sit here until two?’

Then Bhagavan, the very embodiment of compassion added, ‘People come from far-away places by various means, suffering innumerable hardships in order to get here. How can they be sure of the exact time of their arrival? When they come after all that trouble, how fair is it to deny them ready access?’

Hearing this, the management immediately revoked the new rule.

In due course, owing to the profound grace of Bhagavan, Narayana Iyer was posted to Tiruvannamalai itself. He was the first in a long line of devotees to have had the rare privilege of establishing a residence near the ashram in order to be in the holy presence of Bhagavan on a regular basis. His entire sadhana comprised of simply remaining with Bhagavan whenever possible, in the hall or in the kitchen, cutting vegetables, grinding chutney and preparing breakfast in the wee hours of the morning. On any given morning the trio of G. V. Subbaramayya, Kalyana Sundaram Iyer of the bookstall and Narayana Iyer, would be found with Bhagavan.

One year, due to an unusual spell of drought, the ashram faced severe water scarcity on the eve of Jayanthi. The devotees, organising themselves into a long chain, passed vessels filled with water from hand to hand from the Agasthya Teertham in Palakothu to the kitchen. Narayana Iyer very enthusiastically participated in this collective endeavour.

An extensive area of twenty grounds [one acre] was the site of Narayana Iyer’s residence where he grew a variety of fruit trees and fodder for his cow. Whatever wild creatures found in that area were left to themselves. Occasionally, he had snakes caught and released in isolated spots on the mountain.

Prior to constructing the house, Iyer took the plans to Bhagavan to have them blessed. After careful perusal Bhagavan observed, ‘The plan is all right, but where is the well?’

Though Iyer had a location in mind, it was not marked on the blueprint. This turned out to be a benediction as Bhagavan selected the site and marked the exact location. Later, one could see what a blessing it was; not only was the water as sweet as tender coconut water, but the well never ran dry and was thus a source of succour for the entire neighbourhood in times of severe drought.

A little distance from the front door was a hexagonal thatched porch with a knee-high parapet wall. Inside was a water pot, two wooden book shelves with books, and a few chairs for visitors. Though a large estate, in keeping with Iyer’s spartan lifestyle, this sparsely and humbly furnished thatched hut was where Narayana Iyer spent most of his time when he was not with Bhagavan. It was the centre of the household’s social activities.

Despite the large family he had to provide for, no domestic worry ever deflected him from his devotion to Bhagavan. His single-pointed dharma was serving Bhagavan’s devotees with profuse hospitality, and his pastime was satsang with fellow devotees, The topic of conversation was invariably Bhagavan. Narayana Iyer’s closest friends included Major Chadwick, Gurram Subbaramayya, Amritananda Yati, Maurice Friedman, Mouni Sadhu and Viswanatha Swami. They and other gurubhais frequently gathered there to engage in fervent and engrossing conversations about Bhagavan and his teachings. Chadwick especially relished Lalitha Iyer’s cooking, and Amritananda Yati always chose to dine in their house whenever he was in Tiruvannamalai. One of Bhagavan’s attendants, Venkataratnam, who resided in a small cottage in Iyer’s compound, was often there as well. Thus, all of his friends were able to partake of feasts both spiritual and temporal. Whenever Narayana Iyer had time, he went for pradakshina around the hill, accompanied by G. V. Subbaramayya. Much of his spare time was spent reading books on Bhagavan.

His wife was a truly sattvic woman, given to dharmic ways and scrupulously adhering to the sastraic injunctions pertaining to a housewife. She shared her husband’s ways and views completely. Though born in a rich family, she had no pretensions or airs about her. Simple, carefree and unattached, she ran the household with a contented mind and to the satisfaction of the entire family, making optimum use of the resources available to her. The children, like the mother, were an uncomplaining lot and were content in doing what they were told to do by their father.

Narayana Iyer derived inordinate pleasure in serving his cow. Tending his garden was also dear to him. The occasions when his cow was about to give birth were significant enough to merit a day’s leave from his work. This exclusive privilege, Mrs Iyer humorously used to remark, was the cow’s alone, and not extended to his wife for her deliveries.

Iyer’s one passion was to chant Ulladu Narpadu unceasingly. Neither conventional vedic duties nor extravagant ritualistic observances had any attraction for him. The constant chanting of Ulladu Narpadu was all the religious observance known to him. It would start right from the morning.

Dyed in brahminical custom, Narayana Iyer looked forward to his invigorating cup of morning coffee. The person who milked the cow used to turn up at 5.00 a.m., announcing his arrival by ringing his bicycle bell. Iyer, who would invariably be chanting Ulladu Narpadu loudly, would open the gate for him. The day would, therefore, begin with Ulladu Narpadu, a routine so predictable and punctual, the neighbour opposite him, an Andhra lady, remarked that she could safely set her clock by his recitation in the morning. His chanting continued throughout the day while he watered the plants or gave the cow a bath.

If ever he were to hear a voice raised in argument among the children, he would simply raise his voice and chant even louder. It was a wonder to see the children immediately quietened, as if the mesmerising spell of this powerful mantra made them aware of Bhagavan’s very presence.

When Mrs Iyer used to list the requirements of the household, acknowledgement of it would be the continuation of chanting of Ulladu Narpadu. Whenever one of his shoes went missing, the other would be prominently suspended above the entrance, making entry or exit impossible. Even then, chanting would go on uninterruptedly, but in a raised voice. Mrs Iyer, taking the hint, would get the children to search and in no time the missing shoe would be found. Narayana Iyer had evolved a way of communicating via his chant.

In those days the area around the ashram was uninhabited. There were just one or two houses in Ramana Nagar. During the holy month of Margazhi [December-January] in the still hours of the early morning Iyer would walk to the ashram from his house chanting Ulladu Narpadu all the way. His chanting filled the air with its reverberations, saturating the atmosphere with its advaitic content which echoed to the sound of ‘Soham, Soham’.

Iyer had the unshakeable conviction that Ulladu Narpadu was verily the upanishadic truth. The Taittriya Upanishad of the ashram’s morning Veda Parayana extols the greatness of the syllable Om. As per vedic tradition, the sacrificial fire, during havan, is ignited with this single syllable; permission to offer the oblation is sought with Om and granted with Om. Ulladu Narpardu, for Iyer, enjoyed similar exalted status.

I [Kanakammal] stayed in Iyer’s compound, occupying a small cottage for nearly ten years. He looked upon me as his own daughter. He always made himself aware of my requirements when he procured groceries for his own household and would always meet my needs.

Iyer had a humorous side to his personality. He delighted in harmless, mischievous pranks. The vegetables and provisions he got for me would be left on different window sills, in bits and pieces, leading me on a treasure hunt. Chadwick, a great votary of the Sri Chakra Puja, one day gave the prasad – the half coconut – to Iyer. But to give away prasad without partaking of even a little of it, Chadwick felt was sacrilegious, so he bit off the protruding part and handed the rest over. Aghast, Iyer refused it saying that once bitten into, it became impure. Instantly Chadwick removed the adjoining portion with his finger nail and repeated the offer. But Iyer still declined. To him once something is bitten into, it is ever impure.

One day I received an urgent summons from him, through his son Arunachalam, to come and see something. What I beheld was a rare and wonderful spectacle. Iyer’s cow was calving; the head of the calf had emerged and was fully visible but the rest of its body was still concealed. So the cow now was two faced; one head in front and another in the rear. Extolled by the sastras as a ‘dwimukhi’ , a two-faced cow, this is considered highly auspicious. The entire household had gathered for this rare sight and prostrated before the cow and calf, and so did I.

Nights were an ideal time to be with Bhagavan, though the ladies were not allowed this privilege. In the sweet and silent hours of the early night, permeated by the powerful presence of Bhagavan, those around him never knew the passage of time. That was when Bhagavan regaled devotees with the most interesting stories and soul-stirring incidents, immersing them all in waves of bliss. And what bliss it was to be alive then! To be in the presence was heaven indeed. These few devotees had Bhagavan exclusively to themselves, for even the attendants who had been present the whole day, on seeing these close devotees, would quietly depart, leaving them to be alone with Bhagavan.

Narayana Iyer and Venkataratnam used to narrate to me whatever transpired in the hall during the nights and on days when I was unable to attend. When I recall those blessed and most happy days, time stands still and my heart brims with joy and peace and I become one with it.

Subsequently Iyer was posted to Polur, but he did not move his residence from Tiruvannamalai. Instead, he cycled to the station, left his cycle there, took the train to Polur and again cycled to his office from there. His return in the evening was by the same route, but like an arrow he would speed his way directly to the ashram in order to be with Bhagavan. He was like a calf rushing to its mother. By then it would usually be 9:00 p.m.

One evening, as Iyer came from the station, Bhagavan enquired whether he had eaten his dinner.

‘Not yet Bhagavan.’

Bhagavan, compassion incarnate, was filled with concern and said, ‘It is already so late. Poor Lalitha will be waiting for you. Just think how late it will be for her to go to bed after serving you dinner, eating herself and then completing the domestic chores. From now on go home first, have your dinner and then come to the ashram.’

Thus ordered by Bhagavan, and also moved by his compassion, Iyer reached his house and exclaimed to his wife, ‘How fortunate you are to be so graciously remembered by Bhagavan, despite remaining within the house. From now on I will have my dinner straight away when I come home from the station. Please have it ready then.’

As Bhagavan’s mahanirvana approached, Narayana Iyer never moved away from the vicinity of Bhagavan. He was a witness to all that went on during those precious last days. At that time Bhagavan’s water pot [kamandalu] and walking stick were in his room as he could not use them anymore. Iyer sensed that several people had secret designs on them, wanting to take them away and preserve them as private, sacred relics. After the mahasamadhi of Bhagavan, abhishekam, alankaram and arathi were performed and the holy body was taken in procession in a small ratha around the Mother’s Temple. Iyer took this opportune moment, picked up the walking stick and kamandalu, and slowly walked ahead of the ratha up to the samadhi chamber where Bhagavan’s body would be enshrined. A small hand spun cloth bag encasing Bhagavan’s earthly frame was filled with vibhuti and camphor according to scriptural procedure. It was then reverently lowered into the samadhi chamber. Iyer himself descended into the chamber and placed Bhagavan’s walking stick and kamandalu on either side of the body. The samadhi pit was then slowly filled in. Anyone who nurtured hopes of acquiring Bhagavan’s meagre possessions as relics was disappointed.

In the aftermath of Bhagavan’s mahanirvana Iyer did not give up his earlier routine of having Bhagavan’s darshan daily. He had darshan of Bhagavan at the samadhi shrine and continued to visit the old hall. The Iyers stayed on in Tiruvannamalai, as did Chadwick who, for a time, took up residence in the Iyer compound in a small thatched-roof cottage until he was invited by the ashram management to move back there again. Iyer and Chadwick were spiritual companions, their uniting bond being the love and devotion they both had for Bhagavan.

Later, when all their children had settled in Madras, the Iyers, who were beginning to feel their age, also moved there to be near their children and grandchildren.

Narayana Iyer and his wife were grihasta asrama [householders] and followed that dharma meticulously. Yet mentally both had donned ochre robes. Their lives, the way they lived, was a penance [tapas] that required no other spiritual practice. Wherever Iyer went, his continued recitation of Ulladu Narpadu made the air around him vibrant with the holy presence of Bhagavan, compelling an inner response from all.

Narayana Iyer

When I was compiling the three volumes of The Power of the Presence, I considered devoting a chapter to Narayana Iyer, a devotee who moved closely with Bhagavan for many years. In the end I decided against it because there wasn’t quite enough material to make a substantial chapter. In today’s post I have assembled all the material he contributed to The Mountain Path in the 1960s. The first piece, in italics, is a 1960s article by the editor of The Mountain Path in which he was ‘introduced’ to readers. Except for one brief editorial interpolation, all the other contributions are Narayana Iyer’s writings, either under his own name or his pen name ‘Vishnu’.

Sri R. Narayana Iyer, an old devotee, a retired Sub-registrar, is one of the, senior-most devotees of Sri Bhagavan, and one who enjoyed some special privileges. Soon after he came to Sri Bhagavan, he began to move with him more like a resident of the ashram than a casual visitor. Initially, he was an out-and-out sceptic with ultra-modern views and ways, but very soon he became a staunch follower and devotee of Sri Bhagavan.

The familiarity and freedom with which he moved with Sri Bhagavan can be understood from the fact that he was chiefly responsible for eliciting a good deal of information about the family in Tiruchuzhi, their financial difficulties which necessitated borrowings and alienation of family properties. He also assisted the ashram management to redeem these properties and to preserve them as sacred monuments at Bhagavan’s birthplace and the place of his education under the names of Sundara Mandiram and Ramana Mandiram. He likewise played a prominent part in the execution of the will of Sri Bhagavan – a document about the propriety of which later on there was a good deal of controversy.

There were occasions on which Sri Bhagavan took special notice of him, for instance, when a cinema picture was about to be shown in the dining hall at 5 p.m., Bhagavan declined to go there till Sri Narayana Iyer, who was expected at 7 p.m. arrived, consequently a large number of people who had gathered in the hall had to wait for a long time. There were other instances also. Though deeply involved in the affairs of the ashram and having different views, he continues to visit the ashram regularly and is well known to one and all.

It was he who asked for a clarification of the state of a family man who follows the path of jnana, and to whom Sri Bhagavan said: ‘Remaining as a family man you can certainly engage in spiritual practice. Even better than the man who thinks “I have renounced everything” is one who does his duty but does not think “I do this” or “I am the doer”. A sannyasi who thinks “I am a sannyasi” cannot be a true sannyasi, whereas a householder who does not think “I am a householder” is truly a sannyasi.’

Sri Narayana Iyer was the first person to construct a house in Ramana Nagar colony. He still lives here and narrates, to those who seek, the grace, love and splendour of Sri Bhagavan.

It was in the year 1928 or may be 1929. I was employed at Chetpet, a township 30 miles from Tiruvannamalai. My only friend and constant companion there was Dr V. Ramakrishna Iyer, a versatile man of parts, rather religious but not of the orthodox type, very genial and entertaining, one whom I would now deem a purushottama [best of men], a friend, philosopher and guide as he subsequently proved to be. I was just the opposite in my make-up, an out-and-out sceptic with no religion in me, scoffing in my references to sadhus, sannyasis and swamis, whom I considered impostors and parasites on society, who exploited the credulous folk for personal ends, and accepted their homage and hero-worship as though they were superior to ordinary men.

Dr Ramakrishna Iyer is the son of the late Lakshmi Ammal, a friend and playmate of Sri Bhagavan in his boyhood days at Tiruchuzhi, to which place she also belonged. He was therefore well acquainted with Bhagavan and was an occasional visitor to Sri Ramanasramam. He once asked me to go to Tiruvannamalai with him during the festival of Karthigai Deepam. Although I disliked the crowds, and the unsanitary condition of the town and the pomp and pageantry of the temple festival had no attraction for me, I agreed, not wishing to hurt his feelings, but requested to be left with my parents who had gone for the festival and were staying in the town while he went to the asramam in search of his favourite pursuits.

He agreed and took me to the place where they were staying, but on seeing the number of families huddled in a small house, I told my friend: ‘Doctor, I cannot stay here. There is not even breathing space. Your asramam will have plenty of open air and sunshine and shade of trees. I would rather go there and stay outside while you go in and have your way.’

He said ‘yes’ and took me to the asramam a mile or so from the town. On the way I repeated my opinion of the so-called holy men and said to him: ‘I will not come in or join in any of your “‘tomfoolery”. If by chance I meet your swami, I will not prostrate before him. I mean no insult but cannot do what is against my conviction. I don’t believe that any man, however great, has a right to accept the homage of others just because he has learned to memorise and quote scriptures or sacred lore.’

With this warning to my friend we came to the asramam. It then comprised just three thatched sheds, a little away from the road, which one could reach by a narrow foot-path amongst thorns and bushes.

We walked in. A man in a white loincloth, a towel suspended on his shoulder, a kamandalu [water pot] in one hand and a walking stick in another, stopped in his walk in the opposite direction on seeing us. The doctor hastened his steps and I slowly followed. The doctor was greeted very kindly and was asked about the welfare of his mother and brother. It must be the Maharshi, thought I, but I didn’t look up as he was a complete stranger to me. Then I heard my friend saying: ‘This is the Sub-registrar of Chetpet’. Out of courtesy I looked at him. What a wonderful face and what a welcoming smile! Bewitching, fascinating and a powerful look too!

In a moment I was at his feet on the gravel ground! I soon regained my self-possession and felt ashamed. ‘I should not have been so hasty in expressing my views to the doctor,’ thought I.

Two persons whom I had seen before had impressed me with their powerful personality – Mahatma Gandhi and Rabindranath Tagore. ‘This person surpasses them,’ said I to myself, ‘not bogus, looks genuine. Yet I must find out from him about his greatness and how he is entitled to the homage of others, and how he accepts it. Has he solved the mystery of life, the universe that we see around? If not I withdraw my homage and go my way.’

With a pleasing smile he said: ‘You have a couple of days’ leave, is it not so? You can stay in the asramam. I will be there in a few minutes.’

I dared not say anything. I was dazed. Soon I recovered and wanted to find out if he had written any book. I got a copy of Reality in Forty Verses in Tamil, just published. I tried to read the first stanza. I could not follow it. The words ulladu seemed too closely packed and somehow jumbled together to form a stanza. I was flabbergasted.

‘What,’ thought I, ‘can he not say what he has to say in some intelligible language?’

Someone nearby said that it had been arranged that the Maharshi himself would explain to us the Forty Verses that night. I prevailed upon my friend to prolong our visit. This time it was his turn to be flabbergasted.

In anxious and eager suspense I waited for the night. The Maharshi sat on a raised pial or dais inside a shed containing his mother’s samadhi. Apparently he used to remain most of the time there. Night came. About half a dozen of us were seated on the ground before him. A solemn stillness pervaded the air. There was absolute silence, except for an occasional chirping of a bird or the hooting of an owl. The Maharshi read the first stanza. The mere reading of the stanza made the meaning as simple as simplicity itself! The word ulladu was just used in the sense of being or reality, as noun, verb and adjective. Stanza by stanza he read and explained in a voice that was so sweet and melodious and coming as though from ‘somewhere’. The climax came. Explaining one verse he said ‘God cannot be seen with our eyes or known by our sense perceptions. This is what is meant by saying: ‘To see God is to become God.’

One man from the small audience, a stalwart person with a severe expression named Dandapani Swami, interposed: ‘Is Bhagavan saying this out of personal experience?’

The question asked bluntly with such naiveté was answered with equal candour: ‘Else would I dare to say so?’

Enough. It set me furiously thinking and putting two and two together; what takes so much time to think flashed upon me in a moment. ‘To see God is to become God.’ God cannot be known by our sense faculties. The only way was to become God. If He whom all religions acclaim to be God were to appear before one in flesh and blood, here He is. My body experienced a thrill from somewhere deep down in me. Yet another – again and again, thrill after thrill quivered and shook my frame. I went out to compose myself.

I came, he saw, he conquered.

* * *

At first it was not thirst for Self-realisation or spiritual development that impelled me and drew me to Sri Bhagavan. In fact there was a background of scepticism and incredulity. The first impression was more or less a mental conviction, something like that which we have towards a deity in a temple symbolised by an idol. It gave me no spiritual insight.

‘Somehow or other he appears to have discovered some truth, perhaps like Buddha under the bodhi, tree,’ I thought.

But I loved him and longed to be in his company as much as possible. I felt a rapturous delight in hearing him talk. I was in the prime of youth, recently married and placed in a respectable government job, and I was happy and satisfied with life as it was. I was in no need of the solace of religion or spirituality. Yet I could not leave him and the first impression of his beaming face, sweet smile and endearing talk always danced before my eyes drawing me from my usual routine and pursuits. I arranged with the doctor who first took me to Sri Bhagavan to pay monthly visits to the ashram of three days, namely the penultimate Saturday, Sunday and a day’s casual leave out of the fifteen days available to me in a year.

This arrangement worked for a few years. Then this doctor friend, who was so free and familiar in the ashram as to move about and to conduct himself as a regular inmate, doing work in the kitchen and elsewhere, introduced me also to the same privilege and the opportunities it gave to be in close contact with Sri Bhagavan, who presided over and participated in all kinds of kitchen work with the proficiency and ease of an expert – a regular nala in the culinary art!

Well, I seemed caught in a net! The more I was with him, the more I wanted to be with him. But I was shortly transferred to Arni, another town within the same radius of thirty miles. Here I missed the company of the doctor friend. Losing delight in all other things, I turned the monthly visits to the ashram to weekly ones, coupling Sundays with other holidays. And I was always welcome to the ashram.

I used to translate from Tamil to English Sri Bhagavan’s replies to letters received by him. On one occasion, when Bhagavan was talking very fast, I asked him to wait a little and took up a paper and pencil to write down what he was saying.

Upon this he said: ‘Well, well, you write what you are able to. If I begin to dictate they would want to print it. There will be no end to it.’

Like an ass carrying a load of camphor, I had no idea of all that I wrote or listened to.

By this time I had made friends with the attendants, Sri Madhavaswami, Sri Satyanandaswami, Sri Krishnaswami, Sri Rangaswami and others, and they did not protest when I gradually introduced personal services to Sri Bhagavan, such as massaging his legs, fomentations, etc. There were occasions when his muscles became rigid or painful. His physical work, like cutting vegetables and directing the work of the kitchen, was generally confined to the early hours of the morning when only the residents were present. After 5 a.m., during the Vedaparayanam, or when visitors came from the outside, he would be on his couch in the hall, sitting there or just reclining like a statue cut in alabaster, or like one posing for a painter or sculptor. Sitting and sitting like this all day made his muscles hard and inflexible and required some massage. Thus, by slow degrees, a sort of familiarity and intimacy grew up between me and Bhagavan.

During one of my visits I stayed outside the hall for about half an hour and when I entered the hall, Sri Bhagavan remarked: ‘What is this? You are not at all to be seen.’ Although it was I who chose to render personal service, he seemed to have assumed the role of a master with complete control over my programme and to decide what I should do and how I should spend my time. Anything out of the way, like a stroll into the town, etc., was done only after seeking his permission. Although I had not bargained for this surrender of freedom, I yielded to him as there was such love, love unmistakable.

One morning at about 5 a.m. I prostrated before Bhagavan and took leave of him. There had been some function like jayanti or mahapuja the previous day and all were tired and asleep.

Sri Bhagavan said ‘Wait’ and went into the kitchen. I followed. He searched and found nothing to give me. He then put his hand inside a pot and found some almonds. He immediately lit the fire, put a pan on it, fried the almonds in ghee and gave them to me. Though I protested, he gave me a big packet of them and asked me to eat them on my way and to give some to the children at home! Is this not divine love?

Sometimes when I came and prostrated before him an attendant would run up and fetch me a packet of some dish of groundnuts or something special served during the midday meal. I would be told by the attendant that Bhagavan wanted ‘a little of it to be kept for Narayana Iyer who would be coming in the evening’. Oh! What have I done to deserve such kindness and attention? Tears trickle down my cheeks as I write this at such a distance of time.

Once I asked Bhagavan: ‘Bhagavan, you left your home in Madurai where your relatives had been treating you with love and kindness and spending money upon your education. You misappropriated their money for your train fare to Tiruvannamalai. You sneaked your way to the railway station so as not to be noticed by anyone. You posed yourself as a pilgrim who had lost his kit. Then you saw at Tirukoilur the Holy Hill and burst into a wave of sobbing. Was all this straightforward and proper?’

Sri Bhagavan was silent for a while and then replied: ‘This can be explained. It is said in the Kural: “‘Even falsehood is akin to truth when it is unblemished good and harms none.”’ This shows the freedom I enjoyed with Bhagavan.

I once told Bhagavan: ‘I have been here for many years. People meditate and get into samadhi. I close my eyes for a minute and the mind travels round the world ten times and so many long-forgotten things come up.’

Upon this Bhagavan said: ‘Why do you concern yourself about others? They may meditate or sleep and snore. Look to yourself. Whenever the mind goes astray, bring it back to the quest. There is a verse in the Bhagavad Gita which says: “To whatever side the restless, unsteady mind wanders away, one should check it and bring it back controlled to the Self.”’

But I was not satisfied and Sri Bhagavan said: ‘The child, who was woken up and given its milk after it had gone to sleep, says to its mother the next morning: “Mother, you never gave me milk last night.” Even so you had your fill.’

His analogy and assurance was convincing and consoling. I cannot even imagine what I would have been but for my contact with Sri Bhagavan. Countless have been the incidents which gripped my heart in bonds of ecstatic love to Him. The contact and impact that I have had with Bhagavan have been such as to make me feel that knowingly or unknowingly I must have done something in the course of my lives to deserve this unique blessing.

The lamp has been lit and ‘not all the darkness of the world can extinguish the light of the burning candle’. The contact and impact will and must lead me to the right goal, the ‘Be all and end all of human birth’.

* * *

One day when I was sitting by the side of Sri Bhagavan, I felt so miserable that I put the following question to him: ‘Is the sankalpa [wish] of the jnani not capable of warding off the destinies of the devotees?’

Bhagavan smiled and said: ‘Does the jnani have a sankalpa at all? The jivanmukta can have no sankalpas whatsoever. It is just impossible.’

I continued: ‘Then, what is the fate of all of us who pray to you to have grace on us and save us? Will we not be benefited or saved by sitting in front of you or coming to you? What use is there then for family men like me to gain by coming here to you?’

Bhagavan turned graciously to me and said: ‘Just as a trouble (or arrow) that comes to destroy the head goes away carrying with it only the turban, so a person’s bad karma will be considerably reduced while he is in the presence of a jnani. A jnani has no sankalpa but his sannidhi [presence] is the most powerful force. He need not have sankalpa but his presiding presence, the most powerful force, can do wonders, save souls, give peace of mind, even liberation to ripe souls. Your prayers are not answered by him but absorbed by his presence. His presence saves you, wards off the karma and gives you the boons as the case may be, involuntarily. The jnani does save the devotees, but not by sankalpa, which is non-existent in him, only through his presiding presence, sannidhi.’

I was filled with joy. Even today his presence is the most powerful thing and that alone, I am confident, saves me!

* * *

Bhagavan is God Himself and in saying this I do not refer to any of the personal gods of any religion but to the universal principle or pure consciousness. I dislike comparing him with any past personage, for there is no meaning in comparing incarnations of that one principle which has no second; but yet for our understanding, if at all we want to compare, it can only be with Christ or Buddha.

I never forgot, whenever I was talking with him or sitting in his presence, that here was 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 bore the tremendous task of imparting to us the truth of Atma vidya. Such a thought always made me understand him and his talks better and more clearly.

Once a few very learned Sanskrit scholars were sitting in the old hall, discussing portions of the Upanishads and other scriptural texts with Bhagavan. Bhagavan was giving them proper explanations and it was a sight to remember and adore! At the same time I felt genuinely in my heart, ‘Oh, how great these people are and how fortunate they are to be so learned and to have such deep understanding and be able to discuss with our Bhagavan. Compared with them, what am I, a zero in scriptural learning?’

I felt miserable. After the pundits had taken leave, Bhagavan turned to me and said: ‘What?’, looking into my eyes and studying my thoughts. Then, without even giving me an opportunity to explain, he continued: ‘This is only the husk! All this book learning and capacity to repeat the scriptures by memory is absolutely no use. To know the truth, you need not undergo all this torture of learning. Not by reading do you get the truth. Be quiet, that is truth. Be still, that is God.’

Then, very graciously he turned to me again, and there was an immediate change in his tone and attitude.

He asked me: ‘Do you shave yourself?’

Bewildered by this sudden change, I answered, trembling, that I did.

‘Ah, for shaving you use a mirror, don’t you? You look into the mirror and then shave your face; you don’t shave the image in the mirror. Similarly, all the scriptures are meant only to show you the way to realisation. They are meant for practice and attainment. Mere book learning and discussions are comparable to a man shaving the image in the mirror.’

From that day onwards the sense of inferiority that I had been feeling vanished once for all.

One more assurance from Bhagavan which also he gave as a personal instruction is of absolute value for me in my sadhana. I cried to him that I knew nothing about Vedanta nor could I practise austerity, being a householder; so I prayed to him to help me by showing the reality or the way to it. I also frankly admitted that Bhagavan’s own method of self-enquiry was too hard for me.

He then graciously said: ‘You know Ulladu Narpadu [Reality in Forty Verses]. It imparts pure truth, deals with it and explains it. Go on reading it verse by verse. The words of the verses will, in course of time, vanish and pure truth [sat] alone will shine, like the snake relinquishing its skin and coming out shining.’ This is now my sadhana.

One day I was sitting near Bhagavan’s couch. I felt puzzled by the ancient teaching that everything that appears in the world is maya or illusion. I wondered how it could be when I saw Bhagavan, the couch on which he sat, the barrier separating me from Bhagavan and myself. How could all these be false? I asked Bhagavan, explaining my doubt.

‘Bhagavan, can all of us be unreal and non-existent? Please enlighten me.’

Bhagavan laughed and asked me whether I had had any dreams the previous night. I replied that I saw several people lying asleep.

He said: ‘Suppose now I ask you to go and wake all those people in the dream and tell them they are not real, how absurd it would be! That is how it is to me. There is nothing but the dreamer, so where does the question of dream people, real or unreal, arise? 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 never had any doubt about the unreality of the objective world. I constantly feel the reality in its unreal nature.

On another occasion he said: ‘Everything is unreal, like dream objects. However at a certain stage there exists truth, the reality, and world, the unreality; and a jnani’s job is to awaken the ignorant to the fact that what they see and feel is unreal and that the reality is their own being. This can be compared to an elephant dreaming of a lion and suddenly waking up and finding that the lion is unreal and that itself alone is real. The elephant is the jiva or individual, the dream is the unreal world and the lion, the jnani or Guru. The Guru is the link between the unreal and the real.’

On another occasion he said: ‘There is no jnani [realised man], jnana [knowledge] alone is.’

About the jivanmukta, realised while still living, Bhagavan said: ‘The jivanmukta is one without any thoughts or sankalpas [inherent tendencies]. The thought process ceases completely in him. Some power makes him do things. So he is not the doer but the one, who is made to do.’

* * *

Bhagavan Sri Ramana taught that Vedas and Upanishads are not mere book-lore or dry script, that moksha or liberation is not something to be attained in a distant future or after death, but that it is our ever-present nature, to be known and experienced here and now, that we are ever realised and that the simple and direct method is introspection and self-enquiry.

I once asked him: ‘Bhagavan, it is said that all roads lead to Rome. All religions lead to the same goal. How, can it be said that the quest “Who am I?” is the only way and the direct way?’

He replied: ‘Yes, all roads lead to Rome. But, on reaching Rome, you have to go to the citadel – the sanctum. What I say is just that.’

* * *

Sri T. Viswanatham was posted as Sub-registrar of Tiruvannamalai. He wrote to me about his good fortune to spend the closing period of about six months of his official career at this holy place and of the much-yearned-for opportunity he hoped to have the darshan of Sri Bhagavan and intimated to me that he would take up duty in about a week. I showed letter to Sri Bhagavan and the subject went out of my thoughts. About a week or so afterwards, at about 7-30 p.m., a person who looked orthodox was prostrating before Sri Bhagavan. Evidently he had read the notice board put up by the ashram management forbidding the devotees from touching Sri Bhagavan’s feet. This person, obviously wishing to avoid being objected to, but unwilling to forego his heart’s desire, observed the letter of the rules by clasping his hands behind him, away from Sri Bhagavan while he prostrated like a gymnast, and rubbed his head over the feet of Sri Bhagavan, as a calf would do when fondled, and Sri Bhagavan allowed full scope for this indulgence!

Then he turned towards me and said: ‘Sri T. Viswanatham.’ Who had told him so? The newcomer hadn’t spoken a word! Perhaps Sri Bhagavan had a sixth sense to scent a devotee!

* * *

The reactions of Sri Bhagavan to physical pain were always a mystery to me. I asked him if it was true that he once had (as I was told by a friend) boiling rice gruel (kanji) spilt over his posterior and that Sri Bhagavan knew about it only some time after.

He narrated the incident thus: ‘I was straining the kanji from a vessel in which rice was boiled. I was sitting on the floor. The boiling kanji was to be collected in a smaller vessel on the floor, but I was talking to some one and without my noticing the kanji fell on the floor, not in the vessel. As the floor sloped towards me, it got under my posterior. I knew about it only afterwards when it got cool!

‘Of course I got blistered and Zam Buck was later applied. No doubt there was pain after it was noticed, but who cares?’

The bliss of Self-realisation perhaps drowns any other experience!

* * *

Sri Bhagavan was not always the same. Most of the time he was a very pleasing person with a fascinating welcome smile. However, on occasion, he could be stern and look forbidding. At such moments people were struck with awe and deep searching of the heart.

One hot Sunday afternoon an old devotee placed before Sri Bhagavan some palmyra fruits [nongu].

Bhagavan severely remarked: ‘Why do you do this daily? You are a sannyasin. You must beg of others the wherewithal to procure these. You must say that they are for me. You know that I cannot eat them without others present sharing them and so you have to get some quantity, and this you do using my name, as though I desire it! Can’t you keep quiet and mind your business? You prostrate before me and think that you have won me over. Every prostration is like a blow on my head. All sorts of things are done outside these four walls with impunity, as though these walls hide and protect them. Who likes these prostrations?’

And on and on he went in a tirade against all and sundry who posed like pious men but were hiding a lot of impurity. It was not one individual that was attacked. The atmosphere in the hall was tense, and one by one, the devotees sneaked out. But such moods were only momentary, and he could switch on to his wonted geniality the next instant.

* * *

Once Sri T. P. R. and I decided to ask Sri Bhagavan for an explanation of the sixth stanza of Arunachala Ashtakam, and went to the hall after Sri Bhagavan returned from his usual walk on the Hill. In the meanwhile something moved us. Sri Muruganar prostrated before Sri Bhagavan and went out on his usual round for begging food from the town. We had just then ground in the mortar jack fruit for a sweet dish in the midday meal and Sri Muruganar had given some donation for bhiksha since it was his mother’s death anniversary. He was not there to taste the dish and we were sorry. The fact that he was going out after giving something for a bhiksha in honour of his mother was taken to the notice of Sri Bhagavan. Instantly there was a change in the face of Bhagavan. He knew that Sri Muruganar was not a favourite with the ashram management.

‘Who has to invite him to stay for meals? Chinnaswamy does not like him. He is the master here.’

There was tension in the atmosphere. T. P. R. and I whispered to each other that we would choose some other time for the closed our books. Sri Bhagavan saw us doing so and asked us what the matter was. We told him what we had come for.

Instantly Sri Bhagavan said, ‘Why not now?’ and started explaining. It was wonderful! Every sentence started a mighty current. It didn’t stop there. Wave after wave of the same exposition came to us for a day or two more whenever we sat before him.

* * *

Sri Bhagavan had his head shaved once a month on the full moon day. Natesan was the barber who used to do this service. Bhagavan sat on a stool and Natesan would stand and shave him. Once Sri Bhagavan suggested to Natesan in all seriousness that it would be more comfortable for the barber to sit on the stool while he himself would sit on the floor!

* * *

It was past 8-30 one night the ashram on one of my visits. Everyone had retired to rest after the night meal. I went to the office. Chinnaswamy was sitting in his place talking to some ashramites.

When he saw me enter he said, ‘Narayana Iyer, don’t go near Sri Bhagavan’s couch. He is resting on the verandah near the wall. He had had a fracture of his collar bone and a plaster has been put on it. He should not be disturbed. Prostrate at a distance and come away noiselessly.’

I was shocked to hear the news. If any other reason had been given it could have restrained me, but the mention of a ‘fracture’ made me anxious to see Sri Bhagavan. I went on tiptoe and prostrated quietly.

He evidently saw me and said, ‘Narayana Iyer, come and sit by my side on the couch. Only then can I see you and talk. Otherwise the bandage they have put might be disturbed and there might be pain.’

Implicitly I obeyed when he said this, notwithstanding my fear of Chinnaswamy’s reaction if he should happen to see me there.

He said, ‘I was going up the steps. A dog was chasing a squirrel. I barred its way by putting my walking stick in front of it. The stick slipped and I fell down and got hurt on the collar bone. They say it is a fracture and the native bone-setter of the village, an old devotee, was sent for. He has put this bandage with some green leaves and black gram paste and I am enjoined not to move lest it be disturbed.’

He narrated the incident as though it was someone else’s body that was injured and was suffering!

* * *

One day in the last weeks of Sri Bhagavan’s illness a devout lady prostrated herself him with her two children, and entreated: ‘Bhagavan, you must not leave the body. You must continue to give us darshan.’

Bhagavan smiled and said: ‘Yes, see there.’ He pointed to the sculptor at on a statue of the Maharshi in granite. ‘They are chiselling a Bhagavan who will give you darshan always.’

Then he to the rest and said: ‘Now these have become my gurus. I have been saying “give up your dehatma-buddhi [identification with the body].” They now want me to cling to the body.’

After a pause, he continued: ‘You see what it means? I must not leave this body so that I can give her darshan always. To have darshan she too must not die. And what about her children? They too must always have darshan. So, nobody should die.’

The truth was grimly portentous, and told in his own unique way.

* * *

[V Ganesan recorded an incident in which Bhagavan and Narayana Iyer discussed giving up the ‘I am the body’ idea:

Sri R. Narayana Iyer, retired Sub-registrar, once told me that he asked Sri Bhagavan about too much emphasis being given by Ramana-devotees to the discarding of the I-am-the-body idea and said that this was impossible for him since he was always aware of this body and its creature comforts. Sri Bhagavan graciously remarked: ‘Yes, yes. You cannot give up the I-am-the-body consciousness without being first aware of it. There is nothing wrong with that. The giving up of the idea should take place by the grace of God, for by our own effort it will be very difficult.’

The final extract in this post was written by Narayana Iyer a few months after Bhagavan passed away in 1950.]

‘Before some stars appear, light appears. After they vanish from vision, light alone remains. That is the state of a jnani - his birth and death.’

These were the words of Sri Bhagavan in a talk about jnanis. The exact import of the words is as puzzling as the strange phenomena that occurred on the 14th April, 1950 and passed vividly before our eyes. It was about a quarter to nine at night. I was sitting in the open space in front of my house facing east. The sky was clear, the air still. A grave and subdued solemnity pervaded the atmosphere as though reflecting the anxiety of so many sincere devotees of the Maharshi who had come to Tiruvannamalai on account of his illness.

Suddenly a bright and luminous body arose from the southern horizon, slowly went up and descended in the north somewhere on Arunachala Hill. It was not a meteor as it was bigger than what Venus looks to our vision, and its movement was slow. It was so lustrous that, as it was at the zenith, the light shed by its trail stretched as far as the horizon, like an arc. The sight dazed me. Instinctively as it were I jumped to my feet and ran as fast as I could to the ashram a hundred yards off. There was a crowd of people moving about and quite a hustle and bustle. It didn’t strike me to enquire of anyone what it was about. Access to the Maharshi was naturally then select and restricted to a few. I cared not for the ashram rules and regulations, but like a tethered calf let loose and running to its mother, I took a short cut, jumped into the garden, scaled the parapet and rushed into the room where the Maharshi, Bhagavan, my Ramana, Guru, Father, God in flesh and blood was lying.

Lo! My heart thumped. Breath choked. He was no longer in the flesh and blood. He had just breathed his last. As the star descended on the Hill, he had left the body. It was held in padmasan position by the attendants. I touched the body. There was no warmth. I clasped in frenzied hold the hand, the mere touch of which used to give the thrill of eternity. Coldness of death frenzied my nerves. All was over like a dream. Sobs and hymns and chanting filled the air, and my head reeled with dizzy thoughts. We will no longer see our dear Bhagavan in that beautiful form of molten gold in which he charmed and enchanted us for decades! We will no longer see those compassionate eyes that gleamed like twin stars and peered into our innermost depths and dispelled the shadows that blurred our vision and understanding! No more that kind and godly look of grace that solaced our wearied souls and inspired our depressed hearts in speechless silence with peace unbounded, or that bewitching and enchanting radiant smile that fascinated us and drew us to him to heights of bliss, far far above this world. No more could we hear that sweet and ringing voice, the talks of sparkling wit and humour, or those words of profound wisdom from the depths of deep realization which intellect could not fathom! Tears gushed forth from my eyes as from a fountain. ‘Roll! Roll! You beads of love, from the fountain of love to the ocean of love!’ It is not fruit and flowers, nor sweets and savoury dishes that can be offered at your feet anymore. The only oblation that would reach you are tears of love from that perennial spring that is the core of our being of which you are the source in your disembodied fullness. The divine leela is over.

So his leela was really over on that momentous fourteenth day of April, 1950. No one was kept in doubt or suspense or taken by surprise. It was a prolonged ailment, and abundant opportunity was afforded to one and all from far and near to come and see him. It was one of the worst maladies that could afflict the human frame, and the way he bore it was an object lesson to all. Not once did his face reveal agony or suffering, but he carried on the normal routine with his majestic smile of supreme bliss on his face, and the mirthful repartees and sallies of wit. It was also plain that he used no mysterious yogic or superhuman powers to alleviate or conquer pain as the following remark he made about the disease would show: ‘Appah! Who could conceive that such a disease as this could be in this world? When a hiccough comes, the whole body splits like the flashes of lightning in a cloud!’ This remark was made by him in such a cool and composed way as though it was not his body that was suffering.