In September 1941, when my leave ended, the war was already drawing near to Siam (where I was employed as a university lecturer), so I left my wife and three children in India and went back alone. A friend had kindly opened to them his house at
Tiruvannamalai. I went back without seeing Bhagavan. In December the Japanese invaded Siam and I was arrested and interned. Just before that I had received a letter saying that my eldest daughter, aged five, and my son, three years younger, had asked Bhagavan to keep me safe through the war and he had smiled and assented. There followed three and a half long years of internment until the Japanese surrender in 1945. There was ample time for sadhana. More and more Bhagavan became the support of my strivings, though I did not yet turn to him as the Guru.
As soon as the evacuation could be arranged I went to Tiruvannamalai, arriving there at the beginning of October; and yet it was as much to rejoin my family as to see Bhagavan that I went. Perhaps it would be more true to say that I simply felt I had to go there. I entered the Ashram hall on the morning of my arrival, before Bhagavan had returned from his daily walk on the hill. I was a little awed to find how small it was and how close to him I should be sitting; I had expected something grander and less intimate. And then he entered and, to my surprise, there was no great mpression. Certainly far less than his photographs had made. Just a white-haired, very gracious man, walking a little stiffly from rheumatism and with a slight stoop. As soon as he had eased himself on to the couch he smiled to me and then turned to those around and
to my young son and said: "So Adam's prayer has been answered; his Daddy has come back safely." I felt his kindliness but no more. I appreciated that it was for my sake that he had spoken English, since Adam knew Tamil.
During the weeks that followed he was constantly gracious to me and the strain of nerves and mind gradually relaxed, but there was still no dynamic contact. I was disappointed, as it seemed to show a lack of receptivity in me; and yet, at the
same time, it confirmed the opinion I had accepted that he was not a Guru and did not give guidance on any path. And Bhagavan did nothing to change my view.Until the evening of Kartikai when, each year a beacon is lit on the summit of Arunachala. Or it may have been Deepavali; I am not quite sure.
There were huge crowds for the festival and we were sitting in the courtyard outside the hall. Bhagavan was reclining on his couch and I was sitting in the front row before it. He sat up, facing me, and his narrowed eyes pierced into me,penetrating, intimate, with an intensity I cannot describe. It was as though they said: "You have
been told; why have you not realized?" And then quietness, a depth of peace, an indescribable lightness and happiness.
Thereafter love for Bhagavan began to grow in my heart and I felt his power and beauty. Next morning, for the first time, sitting before him in the hall, I tried to follow his teaching by using the vichara: 'Who am I?' I thought it was I who had
decided. I did not at first realize that it was the initiation by look that had vitalised me and changed my attitude of mind. Indeed, I had heard only vaguely of this initiation and paid little heed to what I had heard. Only later did I learn that other devotees also had had such an experience and that with them also it had marked the beginning of active sadhana under Bhagavan's guidance.
My love and devotion to Bhagavan deepened. I went about with a lilt of happiness in my heart, feeling the blessing and mystery of the Guru, repeating like a song of love that he was the Guru, the link between heaven and earth, between God and me, between the Formless Being and my heart. I became aware of the enormous grace of his
presence. Even outwardly he was gracious to me, smiling when I entered the hall, signing to me to sit where he could watch me in meditation. And then one day a sudden vivid reminder awoke in me: "The link with Formless Being? But he is the Formless Being!" And I began to apprehend the meaning of his Jnana and to understand why devotees addressed him simply as 'Bhagavan', which is a word meaning 'God'. So he began to prove to me what he declared in his teaching: that the outer Guru serves to awaken the Guru in the heart. The vichara, the constant 'Who am I?', began to awaken an awareness of the Self as Bhagavan outwardly and also simultaneously of the
Self within.
The specious theory that Bhagavan was not a Guru had simply evaporated in the radiance of his Grace. Moreover, I now perceived that, so far from his teaching not being practical guidance, it was exclusively that. I observed that he shunned
theoretical explanations and kept turning the questioner to practical considerations of sadhana, of the path to be followed. It was that, and that only, that he was here to teach. I wrote and explained this to the people who had misinformed me and, before
sending the letter, showed it to him for his approval.
He approved and handed it back, bidding me send it.Daily I sat in the hall before him. I asked no questions, for the theory had long been understood. I spoke to him only very occasionally about some personal matter. But the silent guidance was continuous, strong and subtle. It may seem strange to modern minds, but the Guru
taught in silence. This did not mean that he was unwilling to explain when asked; indeed he would answer sincere questions fully; what it meant was that the real teaching was not the explanation but the silent influence, the alchemy worked in the
heart. I strove constantly by way of the vichara, according to his instructions. Having a strong sense of duty or obligation, I still continued, side by side
with it, to use other forms of sadhana which I had undertaken before coming to Bhagavan, even though I now found them burdensome and unhelpful. Finally I told Bhagavan of my predicament and asked whether I could abandon them. He assented, explaining that all other methods only lead up to the vichara.
From the moment of my arrival at Tiruvannamalai there had been no question of my
leaving again. This was home - even at the very beginning, when I was so mistaken about Bhagavan, even when material prospects seemed bleak. Perhaps that was why Bhagavan in his graciousness bestowed the initiation on one who sought but had
not the wit to ask. This period of constant physical proximity lasted up to the beginning of 1948. I had never been in a financial position to make me suppose I should be able to spend nearly three years at an ashram, but circumstances adapt
themselves to the will of Bhagavan. Not only did his Grace keep me there, but it enabled me to go through the long period of unemployment and other trials and bereavement without undue anxiety. Although he never spoke of my difficulties
or misfortunes, he flooded my heart with peace.
Early in 1948 constant physical proximity had ceased to be necessary and professional work had become urgently necessary. Work was found in Madras. I took with me a life-size photograph of Bhagavan painted over in oils - a gift from Dr. T. N. Krishnaswami, a devotee and photographer. I showed it to Bhagavan before leaving and he took it in his hands and returned it, saying: "He is taking Swami with him." Since then it has looked at me with the love and compulsion of a Guru and spoken more
profoundly than all the other portraits. Thereafter I went to Tiruvannamalai only for weekends and holidays, and each visit was revitalising. I was there at the time of one of the operations that Bhagavan suffered and had darshan immediately after it, and the graciousness of his reception melted the heart and awoke remorse to think how great was the reward for so little effort made. I was there that fateful April night of the body's death and felt a calm beneath the grief and a wonder at the fortitude
Bhagavan had implanted in his devotees to bear their loss. Gradually one after another began to discover in his heart the truth that Bhagavan had not gone away but, as he promised, is still here.
Since that day his presence in the heart has been more vital, the outpouring of his Grace more abundant, his support more powerful. I have been to Tiruvannamalai since then also, and the Grace that emanates from his tomb is the Grace of the living Ramana. During these years I had felt no urge to write about Bhagavan. After his body's death and his reassurance: "I am not going away; I am here; where could, I go?" there was a dream in which he called me up to him and, as I knelt before his
couch, placed his hands on my head in blessing. At this time an impulse came to write about Bhagavan and especially to explain the accessibility of the path of Self-enquiry which he taught.
Tiruvannamalai. I went back without seeing Bhagavan. In December the Japanese invaded Siam and I was arrested and interned. Just before that I had received a letter saying that my eldest daughter, aged five, and my son, three years younger, had asked Bhagavan to keep me safe through the war and he had smiled and assented. There followed three and a half long years of internment until the Japanese surrender in 1945. There was ample time for sadhana. More and more Bhagavan became the support of my strivings, though I did not yet turn to him as the Guru.
As soon as the evacuation could be arranged I went to Tiruvannamalai, arriving there at the beginning of October; and yet it was as much to rejoin my family as to see Bhagavan that I went. Perhaps it would be more true to say that I simply felt I had to go there. I entered the Ashram hall on the morning of my arrival, before Bhagavan had returned from his daily walk on the hill. I was a little awed to find how small it was and how close to him I should be sitting; I had expected something grander and less intimate. And then he entered and, to my surprise, there was no great mpression. Certainly far less than his photographs had made. Just a white-haired, very gracious man, walking a little stiffly from rheumatism and with a slight stoop. As soon as he had eased himself on to the couch he smiled to me and then turned to those around and
to my young son and said: "So Adam's prayer has been answered; his Daddy has come back safely." I felt his kindliness but no more. I appreciated that it was for my sake that he had spoken English, since Adam knew Tamil.
During the weeks that followed he was constantly gracious to me and the strain of nerves and mind gradually relaxed, but there was still no dynamic contact. I was disappointed, as it seemed to show a lack of receptivity in me; and yet, at the
same time, it confirmed the opinion I had accepted that he was not a Guru and did not give guidance on any path. And Bhagavan did nothing to change my view.Until the evening of Kartikai when, each year a beacon is lit on the summit of Arunachala. Or it may have been Deepavali; I am not quite sure.
There were huge crowds for the festival and we were sitting in the courtyard outside the hall. Bhagavan was reclining on his couch and I was sitting in the front row before it. He sat up, facing me, and his narrowed eyes pierced into me,penetrating, intimate, with an intensity I cannot describe. It was as though they said: "You have
been told; why have you not realized?" And then quietness, a depth of peace, an indescribable lightness and happiness.
Thereafter love for Bhagavan began to grow in my heart and I felt his power and beauty. Next morning, for the first time, sitting before him in the hall, I tried to follow his teaching by using the vichara: 'Who am I?' I thought it was I who had
decided. I did not at first realize that it was the initiation by look that had vitalised me and changed my attitude of mind. Indeed, I had heard only vaguely of this initiation and paid little heed to what I had heard. Only later did I learn that other devotees also had had such an experience and that with them also it had marked the beginning of active sadhana under Bhagavan's guidance.
My love and devotion to Bhagavan deepened. I went about with a lilt of happiness in my heart, feeling the blessing and mystery of the Guru, repeating like a song of love that he was the Guru, the link between heaven and earth, between God and me, between the Formless Being and my heart. I became aware of the enormous grace of his
presence. Even outwardly he was gracious to me, smiling when I entered the hall, signing to me to sit where he could watch me in meditation. And then one day a sudden vivid reminder awoke in me: "The link with Formless Being? But he is the Formless Being!" And I began to apprehend the meaning of his Jnana and to understand why devotees addressed him simply as 'Bhagavan', which is a word meaning 'God'. So he began to prove to me what he declared in his teaching: that the outer Guru serves to awaken the Guru in the heart. The vichara, the constant 'Who am I?', began to awaken an awareness of the Self as Bhagavan outwardly and also simultaneously of the
Self within.
The specious theory that Bhagavan was not a Guru had simply evaporated in the radiance of his Grace. Moreover, I now perceived that, so far from his teaching not being practical guidance, it was exclusively that. I observed that he shunned
theoretical explanations and kept turning the questioner to practical considerations of sadhana, of the path to be followed. It was that, and that only, that he was here to teach. I wrote and explained this to the people who had misinformed me and, before
sending the letter, showed it to him for his approval.
He approved and handed it back, bidding me send it.Daily I sat in the hall before him. I asked no questions, for the theory had long been understood. I spoke to him only very occasionally about some personal matter. But the silent guidance was continuous, strong and subtle. It may seem strange to modern minds, but the Guru
taught in silence. This did not mean that he was unwilling to explain when asked; indeed he would answer sincere questions fully; what it meant was that the real teaching was not the explanation but the silent influence, the alchemy worked in the
heart. I strove constantly by way of the vichara, according to his instructions. Having a strong sense of duty or obligation, I still continued, side by side
with it, to use other forms of sadhana which I had undertaken before coming to Bhagavan, even though I now found them burdensome and unhelpful. Finally I told Bhagavan of my predicament and asked whether I could abandon them. He assented, explaining that all other methods only lead up to the vichara.
From the moment of my arrival at Tiruvannamalai there had been no question of my
leaving again. This was home - even at the very beginning, when I was so mistaken about Bhagavan, even when material prospects seemed bleak. Perhaps that was why Bhagavan in his graciousness bestowed the initiation on one who sought but had
not the wit to ask. This period of constant physical proximity lasted up to the beginning of 1948. I had never been in a financial position to make me suppose I should be able to spend nearly three years at an ashram, but circumstances adapt
themselves to the will of Bhagavan. Not only did his Grace keep me there, but it enabled me to go through the long period of unemployment and other trials and bereavement without undue anxiety. Although he never spoke of my difficulties
or misfortunes, he flooded my heart with peace.
Early in 1948 constant physical proximity had ceased to be necessary and professional work had become urgently necessary. Work was found in Madras. I took with me a life-size photograph of Bhagavan painted over in oils - a gift from Dr. T. N. Krishnaswami, a devotee and photographer. I showed it to Bhagavan before leaving and he took it in his hands and returned it, saying: "He is taking Swami with him." Since then it has looked at me with the love and compulsion of a Guru and spoken more
profoundly than all the other portraits. Thereafter I went to Tiruvannamalai only for weekends and holidays, and each visit was revitalising. I was there at the time of one of the operations that Bhagavan suffered and had darshan immediately after it, and the graciousness of his reception melted the heart and awoke remorse to think how great was the reward for so little effort made. I was there that fateful April night of the body's death and felt a calm beneath the grief and a wonder at the fortitude
Bhagavan had implanted in his devotees to bear their loss. Gradually one after another began to discover in his heart the truth that Bhagavan had not gone away but, as he promised, is still here.
Since that day his presence in the heart has been more vital, the outpouring of his Grace more abundant, his support more powerful. I have been to Tiruvannamalai since then also, and the Grace that emanates from his tomb is the Grace of the living Ramana. During these years I had felt no urge to write about Bhagavan. After his body's death and his reassurance: "I am not going away; I am here; where could, I go?" there was a dream in which he called me up to him and, as I knelt before his
couch, placed his hands on my head in blessing. At this time an impulse came to write about Bhagavan and especially to explain the accessibility of the path of Self-enquiry which he taught.
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