WITH THE SPIRITUAL HEAD OF SOUTH INDIA

 

PAUL BRUNTON

 

            WE ENTER CHINGLEPUT through a palm-fringed high way and find it a tangle of white-washed houses, huddled red roofs and narrow lanes. We get down and walk into the centre of the city, where large crowds are gathered together. We pass through a tiny doorway and enter a bare anteroom. At the far end there is a dimly-lit enclosure, where I behold a short figure standing in the shadows. I approach closer to him, put down my little offering and bow low in salu­tation. There is an artistic value in this ceremony which greatly appeals to me, apart from its necessity as an expression of respect and as a harm­less courtesy. I know well that Shri Shankara is no Pope, for there is no such thing in Hinduism, but he is teacher and inspirer of a religious flock of vast dimensions. The whole of South India bows to his tutelage.

 

            I look at him in silence. This short man is clad in the ochre-col­oured robe of a monk and leans his weight on a friar's staff. I have been told that he is on the right side of forty, hence I am surprised to find his hair quite grey.

 

            His noble face, pictured in grey and brown, takes an honoured place in the long portrait gallery of my memory. That elusive element which the French aptly term spirituel is present in his face. His expression is modest and mild, the large dark eyes being extraordinarily tranquil and beautiful. The nose is short, straight and classically regular. There is a rugged little beard on his chin, and the gravity of his mouth is most noticeable. Such a face might have be­longed to one of the saints who graced the Christian Church during the Middle Ages, except that this one possesses the added quality of in­tellectually. I suppose we of the prac­tical West would say that he has the eyes of a dreamer. Somehow, I feel in an inexplicable way that there is something more than mere dreams behind those heavy lids.

 

            I shall sweep through the earlier phases of this interview, because they are more concerned with myself than with the Hindu Primate. He asks about my personal experience in the country; he is very interested in ascertaining the exact impressions which Indian people and institutions make upon a foreigner. I give him my candid impressions, mixing praise and criticism freely and frankly.

 

            The conversation then flows into wider channels and I am much sur­prised to find that he regularly reads English newspapers, and that he is well informed upon current affairs in the outside world. Indeed, he is not unaware of what the latest noise at Westminster is about, and he knows also through what painful travail the troublous infant of democracy is passing in Europe.

 

            I remember Venkataramani’s firm belief that Shri Shankara pos­sesses prophetic insight. It touches my fancy to press for some opinion about the world’s future.

 

            “When do you think      that the political and economic conditions eve­rywhere will begin to improve?”

 

            “A change for the better is not easy to come by quickly,” he replies. “It is a process which must needs take some time. How can things im­prove when the nations spend more each year on the weapons of death?”

 

            “There is nevertheless much talk of disarmament today. Does that count?”

 

            “If you scrap your battleships and let your cannons rust, that will not stop war. People will continue to fight, even if they have to use sticks!”

 

            “But what can be done to help matters?”

 

            “Nothing but spiritual under­standing between one nation and another, and between rich and poor, will produce goodwill and thus bring real peace and prosperity.”

 

            “That seems far off. Our outlook is hardly cheerful, then?”

 

            His Holiness rests his arm a little more heavily upon his staff.

 

            “There is still God,” he remarks gently.

 

            “If there is. He seems very far away.” I boldly protest.

 

            “God has nothing but love to­wards mankind.” comes the soft an­swer.

 

            “Judging by the unhappiness and wretchedness which afflict the world today, He has nothing but in­difference.” I break out impulsively, unable to keep the bitter force of irony out of my voice. He looks at me strangely. Immediately I regret my hasty words.

 

            “The eyes of a patient man see deeper. God will use human instru­ments to adjust matters at the ap­pointed hour. The turmoil among na­tions, the moral wickedness among people and the suffering of miserable millions will provoke, as a reaction, some great divinely inspired man to come to the rescue. In this sense, every century has its own saviour. The process works like a law of phy­sics. The greater the wretchedness caused by spiritual ignorance and materialism, the greater will be the man who will arise to help the world.”

 

            “Then do you expect someone to arise in our time, too?”

 

            “In our century”, he corrects. “Assuredly. The need of the world is so great and its spiritual darkness is so that an inspired man of God will surely arise.”

 

            “Is it your opinion, then, that men are becoming more degraded?” I query.

 

            “No, I do not think so.” he re­plied tolerantly. “There is an indwell­ing divine soul in man which, in the end, must bring him back to God.”

 

            “But there are ruffians in our Western cities who behave as though there were indwelling demons in them.” I counter, thinking of the modern gangster.

 

            “Do not blame people so much as the environments into which they are born. Their surroundings and cir­cumstances force them to become worse than they really are. That is true of both the East and the West. Society must be brought into tune with a higher note. Materialism must be balanced by idealism; there is no other real cure for the world’s difficul­ties. The troubles into which countries are everywhere being plunged are really the agonies which will force this change, just as failure is fre­quently a sign-post pointing to an­other road.”

 

            “You would like people to intro­duce spiritual principles into their worldly dealings then?”

 

            “Quite so. It is not impracti­cable, because it is the only way to bring about results which will satisfy everyone in the end, and which will not speedily disappear. And if there were more men who had found spiri­tual light in the world, it would spread more quickly. India, to its honour, supports and respects its spiritual men though less so than in former times. If all the world were to do the same and to take its guidance from men of spiritual vision then all the world would soon find peace and grow prosperous”.

 

            Our conversation rolls on. I am quick to notice that Shri Shankara does not decry the West in order to exalt the East, as so many in his land do. He admits that each half of the world possesses its own set of virtues and vices, and that in this way they are roughly equal! He hopes that a wiser generation will fuse the best points of Asiatic and European civili­zations into a higher and balanced social scheme.

 

            I drop the subject and ask permission for some personal questions. It is granted without difficulty.

 

            “How long has your Holiness held this title?”

 

            “Since 1907. At that time I was only twelve years old. Four years after my appointment I retired to a village on the banks of the Cauvery, where I gave myself up to meditation and study for three years. Then only did my public work begin”.

 

            “I would like to meet someone who has high attainments in Yoga and can give some sort of proof or demonstration of them. There are many of your holy men who can only give one more talk when they are asked for this proof. Am I asking too much?”

 

            The tranquil eyes meet mine.

 

            There is a pause for a whole minute. His Holiness fingers his beard.

 

            “If you are seeking initiation into real Yoga of the higher kind, then you are not seeking too much. Your earnestness will help you, while I can perceive the strength of your determination: but a light is begin­ning to awaken within you which will guide you to what you want, without doubt”.

 

            I am not sure whether I cor­rectly understood him.

 

            “So far I have depended on myself for guidance. Even some of your ancient sages say that there is no other god than that which is within ourselves”, I hazard.

 

            And the answer swiftly comes:

 

            “God is everywhere. How can one limit Him to one’s own self? He sup­ports the entire Universe”.

 

            I feel that I am getting out of my depth and immediately turn the talk away from this semi-theological strain.

 

            “What is the most practical course for me to take?”

 

            “Go on with your travels. When you have finished them, think of the various Yogis and holy men you have met; then pick out the one who makes most appeal to you. Return to him, and he will surely bestow his initiation upon you.”

 

            I look at his calm profile and admire its singular serenity.

 

            “But suppose, Your Holiness, that none of them makes sufficient appeal to me. What then?”

 

            “In that case you will have to go on alone until God Himself initiates you. Practise meditation regularly: contemplate the higher things with love in your heart; think often of the soul and that will help to bring you to it. The best time to practise is the hour of waking; the next best time is the hour of twilight. The world is calmer at those limes and will disturb your meditations less.”

 

            He gazes benevolently at me. I begin to envy the saintly peace which dwells on his bearded face. Surely, his heart has never known the devas­tating upheavals which have scared mine. I am stirred to ask him impul­sively:

 

            “If I fail, may I then turn to you for assistance?”

 

            Shri Shankara gently shakes his head.

 

            “I am at the head of a public institution, a man whose time no longer belongs to himself. My activi­ties demand almost all my time. For years I have spent only three hours in sleep each night. How can I take per­sonal pupils? You must find a master who devotes his time to them”.

 

            “But I am told that real masters are rare and that a European is un­likely to meet them”.

 

            He nods his assent to my state­ment, but adds:

 

            “Truth exists. It can be found.”

 

            “Can you not direct me to such a master, one who you know is com­petent to give me proofs of the reality of higher Yoga?”

 

            His Holiness does not reply till after an interval of protracted silence.

 

            “Yes. I know of only two masters in India who could give you what you wish. One of them lives in Benares, hidden away in a large house, which is itself hidden among spacious grounds. Few people are permitted to obtain access to him; certainly, no European has yet been able to in­trude upon his seclusion. I could send you to him, but I fear that he may refuse to admit a European.”

 

            “And the other...?” My interest is strangely stirred.

 

            “The other man lives in the inte­rior, farther south. I know him to be a high master. I recommend that you go to him.”

 

            “Who is he?”

 

            “He is called the Maharishee.

 

            His abode is an Arunachala, the Mountain of the Holy Arcot. Shall I provide you with full instructions, so that you may discover him?”

 

            A picture flashes suddenly be­fore my mind’s eye.

 

            I see the yellow robed friar, who has vainly persuaded me to accom­pany him to his teacher. I hear him murmuring the name of a hill. It is: “The Hill of the Holy Beacon.”

 

            “Many thanks, Your Holiness,” I rejoin, “but I have a guide who comes from the place.”

 

            “Then you will go there?”

           

            I hesitate.

 

            “All arrangements have been made for my departure from the South tomorrow,” I mutter uncer­tainly.

 

            “In that case I have a request to make.”

 

            “With pleasure.”

 

            “Promise me that you will not leave South India before you have met the Maharishee.”

 

            I read in his eyes a sincere de­sire to help me. The promise is given.

 

            A benignant smile crosses his face.

 

            “Do not be anxious. You shall discover that which you seek.”

 

            A murmur from the crowd which is in the street penetrates the house.

 

            “I have taken up too much of your valuable Lime” I apologize. “I am indeed sorry.”

 

            Shri Shankara’s grave mouth relaxes. He follows me into the ante­room and whispers something into the ear of my companion. I catch my name in the sentence.

 

            At the door, I turn to bow in farewell salutation. His Holiness calls me back to receive a parting mes­sage:

 

            “You shall always remember me, and I shall always remember you!”

 

            And so, hearing these cryptic and puzzling words, I reluctantly withdraw from this interesting man, whose entire life has been dedicated to God from childhood. He is a pontiff who cares not for wordly power, be­cause he has renounced all and re­signed all. Whatever material things are given to him, he at once gives again to those who need them. His beautiful and gentle personality will surely linger in my memory .....

 

            It is nearly midnight when I re­turn home. I take a last glimpse over­head. The stars stud the vast dome of the sky in countless myriads. No­where in Europe can one see them in such overwhelming numbers. I run up the steps leading to the verandah flashing my pocket torch. Out of the darkness a crouching figure rises and greets me. “Subramanya”, I exclaim startled: “What are you doing herc?” The ochre-robed yogi indulges in one of his tremendous grins.

 

            “Did I not promise to visit you. sir?” He reminds reproachfully.

 

            Of course!

 

            In the large room I fire a ques­tion to him. “Your master – is he called the Maharishee?”

 

            It is now his turn to draw back astonished.

 

            “How do you know, sir? Where could you have learnt this?”

 

            “Never mind. Tomorrow we both start for his place. I shall change the plans”.

 

            “This is joyful news, sir.”

 

            “But I shall not stay there for long though. A few days, may be.”

 

            I fling a few more questions at him during the next half hour and then thoroughly tired, go to bed. Subramanya is quite content to sleep on a piece of palm, matting which lies on the floor. He wraps himself up in a thin cloth which serves at once as a mattress sheet and blanket and dis­dains offer of more comfortable bed­ding.

 

            The next thing of which I am aware is suddenly awakening. The room is totally dark. I feel my nerves strangely tense. The atmosphere around seems like electrified air. I pull my watch from under the pillow and by the glow of its radium-lit dial discover the time to be a quarler to three. It is then that I become con­scious of some bright object at foot of the bed. I immediately sit up and look straight at it.

 

            My astounded gaze meets the face and form of His Holiness Shri Shankara. It is clearly and unmis­takably visible. He does not appear to be some ethereal ghost but rather a solid human being. There is a myste­rious luminosity around the figure which separates it from the surround­ing darkness.

 

            Surely the vision is an impos­sible one! Have I not left him at Cheingleput? I close my eyes lightly in an effort to test the matter. There is no difference and I still see him quite plainly.

 

            Let it suffice that I receive the sense of a benign and friendly pres­ence. I open my eyes and regard the kindly figure in the loose yellow robe.

 

            The face alters. for the lips smile and seem to say: “Be humble and then you shall find what you seek.” Why do I feel that a living human being is thus addressing me? Why do I not regard it as a ghost at least? The vision disappears as mysteriously as it has come. It leaves me exalted, happy and unperturbed by its supernormal nature. Shall I dismiss it as a dream? What matters it?

 

            There is no more sleep for me this night. I lie awake pondering over the day’s meeting, over the memo­rable interview with His Holiness Shri Shankara, the Heirarch of God to the simple people of South India.

 

 

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