1947 - TIRUVANNAMALAI - 1977

By Henri Hartung

IN order to celebrate this anniversary of Ramana's birth, I
would like to recall two moments of my life, the first having
determined, the other confirmed, its meaning -- they are two
stays in Tiruvannamalai, at an interval of thirty years.

According to the Hindu theory of the four ages of life, my
first stay corresponded with the end of the student state --
brahmacharin; the second was that of increasing spiritual depth
and also of sharing with all those who attempt to fulfil themselves
-- vanaprastha, in some remote place. A forest for instance, with
one's wife. Between the two periods came about the state of the
head of a family within society -- grahastha. What a symbol at
the really sinister end of the Kaliyuga or dark age, to be able to
relate to such a reference -- Sri Ramana Maharshi! What a
benediction to take advantage of his testimony, of the wise man's
darshan, in order to progress on the road to one's own fulfilment.

It is the autumn of 1947. I am in the presence of Bhagavan.

The long path which leads to these few Indian houses called
Ashram, suddenly becomes for me the royal road to the discovery
of oneself. Yes, what is fated to occur, occurs. A first meeting at
Lyon, just ten years earlier, with Olivier de Carfort, widely opened
to me the door of a spirituality as far removed from a dead religion
as from a theoretical culture. A discovery, experienced as a
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revelation, of Rene Guenon, of metaphysics, therefore of
Hinduism, and of the transformation of oneself. This is not a
formula; my life changes, marked through the storm of war by a
thorough study of this message of peace and serenity. So I learn,
while simultaneously engaged in the fight, that in 1939 there
survived an authentic representative of the traditional wisdom,
Ramana Maharshi. After several episodes related to the end of
the conflict in Europe, I am sent to the far East still combining,
with the impetuosity of youth, my temporal mission and my
spiritual journey.

There follows a new meeting, but this time in Bombay,
with a Brahmin who tells me without astonishment as if it
were an item of the everyday news and even before greeting
me, "I was waiting for you, I have to escort you to Maharshi".

Two days and two nights of train travel follow. While
admiring the Indian landscape and especially the noisy and
colourful scenes which occur during the stops, I try to assess
myself. Finally I frame some ten questions that remain essential
for me -- the meaning of my presence on earth, what happens
after death? Why? How? . . . Just after Madras, in the middle
of the second night, my friend wakes me. The train has stopped
at a tiny station, called Villupuram and we alight. My friend
asks me to board another train at seven in the morning and get
down at the third station. That is all. I do not remember having
slept much. All happens as planned. I read the third station's
name -- Tiruvannamalai. I settle in unsteady equilibrium at
the back of a small carriage drawn by two oxen with long lyre-
shaped horns, driven by a coachman without visible effort. He
does not ask me where I am going; that is obvious, there is only
one possible destination -- the Ashram. We cross many other
carriages whose two colossal wheels, much higher than the
animals that move them, turn slowly with an uninteresting
grinding. In spite of the early hour, crowds are walking and it is
a permanent astonishment to see that no one gives the
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impression of bothering his neighbour in spite of the very narrow
space available to the people and to the vehicles. I am shaken
and rocked by the tinkling of tiny bells tied to the animals'
legs, and I inhale red dust rising from the ground. On my right
rises the sacred mountain, Arunachala. It looks huge, but in
fact only stands a few hundred metres above the plain. Suddenly,
also on the right side of the road, appears a wooden arch which
constitutes the main doorway, held up by two white columns.
Moreover white letters compose the words Sri Ramanasramam.
Above this inscription, in the middle of the arch, is inscribed
the most sacred syllable of Hinduism, OM. All is in all, a single
letter of the sacred writings contains the whole doctrine. That
is why it is said that Brahman ^[?] is OM, at the same time past,
present, future, the state of waking, of dreaming and deep sleep,
the highest support of meditation and fulfilment.

I pass the portal. All is quiet, some men and women come
and go; one of them comes to me and invites me to drink
coffee. As I ask him if it will be possible for me to meet the
Maharshi, he smiles and beckons slightly with his hand. Beside
him, having come momentarily to a halt, leaning on a long
wooden stick, he is here, silent and smiling. I am silent. During
the next ten days, I share the ritual life of the Ashram, sitting
for hours in front of Ramana, in the meditation hall with a
simple roof of coconut-leaves, held by bamboo posts that the
members of the community call a pandal, as in the refectory.
But, on the day of my departure, a precise answer to everyone
of the questions I had prepared is given to me.

I give these indications as they show well this function of
Bhagavan's presence. Sometimes through a few words written
by himself, sometimes through answers to questions, sometimes
through some shared domestic chores, especially in the kitchen,
most often in silence; so unfolds a really subtle transmission of
an exceptional spiritual reality. I have to repeat the word: Ramana
is the Witness. Till his last day, he will make it possible for his
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visitors, from the next town or from a remote country, on foot
and penniless or in luxurious cars, servants or prime minister, to
see him, even to talk to him, to bow in any case not in front of
what he called himself this "chump of a body", but in front of the
living incarnation of the divine reality which is in every human
being. He is here, amongst us, without ever showing any sort of
ambition, nor a particle of pride, one of the "self-centered"
projections that accompany human relationships. Obviously, he
does not have this or that, he "is". A smile of love and peace, a
look. A look which I feel, while writing these lines, words could
only devalue. Testimonial of inner truth at a time of outward
tumult; of silence surrounded by noise and fury, of peace in the
midst of disasters and atrocities and so many wars; testimonial
of the living spirit facing so many forms of dead intelligence.

Thirty years after the meeting which changed my life, in the
Autumn of 1977, I am once again at Tiruvannamalai, with my
wife. A pilgrimage which goes to the depths of my soul, as it
did thirty years ago. The Maharshi, his Samadhi, Arunachala.
Who is present in these high quarters where I can, without great
effort, come to terms with what, inside me, is truer than myself?

And what limited means I have at my disposal to describe
but what is around me? Should I not as well, in order to carry
out this story, draw inspiration from a remark of the Ecclesiastes,
"There is a time for silence and a time for words", or from one
of Bhagavan's talks, "Everything will come at its time".

Sylvie and I visit the Ashram which remains in every respect
similar to what it has always been. A library, two offices in which
the persons-in-charge watch over the organisation of visits and
over the daily celebration of rites and songs, the room for the
Ashram journal, The Mountain Path, reception rooms, the kitchen
in which a constantly harmonious activity is centered on big
charcoal fires and the dining-room. On the other side of a path
which leads from the entrance of the Ashram to the foot of the
mountain, stands a temple at whose end lies a pond that is in fact
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a big square reservoir, surrounded on every side by stone stairs
on which a few monkeys hop up and down. In the middle, a
memorial which carries the architectural emblem of South India,
indicates the place of rest of Maharshi's mother and, close by, a
very large hall, wherein is situated the Samadhi of Bhagavan.

Through his life which started on 30 December, 1879,
through his comments which serve as concrete references for
our personal growth, through the universality of his message
directed in the same way towards Oriental and Occidental
people, but also through his look, his smile, his silence, Ramana
Maharshi is the last link of a chain of wise and holy men whose
origin is beyond time and whose influence gives a meaning to
our life, a harmony to our behaviour and peace to our heart. He
appears as the witness of the real finality of the human state
and so puts naturally into their respective places what our
contemporaries still believe they may qualify as values. Time
has come to acquire cognizance of this testimonial which
illustrates transformation of an anxious person who has not
found a meaning to his life into a serene person, centered on
the essential. Yes, to be, as always, even nowadays.

The Ego

By Ira

The ego, in its desperation for survival, goes so far as to
make even the concept of itself (the idea of a limited, embodied
person) an object of thought, thereby creating the illusion that
it has been apprehended.

The seeker thus deluded might spend a lifetime scrutinizing
and studying his captive prize. But he must eventually ask,
`Who is he that has so admirably apprehended the ego?'

Thus will he see how his captive ego is a decoy only, and the
real culprit exists still, strengthened even, by a new invisibility.

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