Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
'This is where Bhagavan left his body,' explained the cheerful old
man. 'I was with him, you know. How many times did we lucky
souls sit at his feet right here listening as God's truth poured from
those dear lips . . .
'Come,' he urged. 'Sit for a while. You will soon see that Bhagavan
is still with us. Where would he go, hmm? Sit and ask all your
questions. You will see how clearly he answers. Come when you
are finished so I may lock the door.' He paused, eyes raised, staring
inside himself. 'Unlock
your heart
, my dear friend, and Bhagavan
will undoubtedly speak to you.'
He shut the door firmly behind him. I sat on the smooth clay tile
floor by the Maharshi's bare little bed. Birds sang outside in the
molten-gold sunlight. It was almost cool in the room, though, cool
and peaceful, and outside time. I noticed, among a few other meagre
possessions the Maharshi had owned, a worn steel pocket watch.
What had he wanted with time?
Who am I? Where did I come from and how? Who is my real
mother? Who is my father?
- Adi Sanaracharya, sixteenth century
Adi Sanaracharya's fundamental query really summed up Ramana
Maharshi's meditational method. You dwelt relentlessly on these
five questions, and, if your efforts were hard and sincere enough,
you finally realised the Truth. The Maharshi eventually reduced
the query to three points: Who am I? Why am I here? Where am I
going? It was the nondualistic path, the path of
jnana
, or knowledge.
It required fierce and rigorous mental discipline. Perhaps that
formidable intellect was what I felt still energising his room. The
end result of jnana yoga was supposed to be the realisation that the
Self, the Universe, and God are one. The All is the One.
Sitting there in the peace and silence, cocooned within the
Maharshi's energy field, such vast concepts seemed less forbidding
to me, even accessible. A pleasant tingling pressure massaged my
brain. I felt quiet and calm, untroubled by thought, almost part of
the world, purified by the purity and simplicity of a man who had
died where I sat a quarter of a century before.
