SRI RAMANA:
A PURE CHANNEL FOR
A HIGHER POWER

---

Paul Brunton

FORTY YEARS* have passed since I walked into his abode
and saw the Maharshi half-reclining, half-sitting on a tiger-

skin covered couch. After such a long period most memories of
the past become somewhat faded, if they do not lose their
existence altogether. But I can truthfully declare that, in his
case, nothing of the kind has happened. On the contrary, his
face, expression, figure and surroundings are as vivid now as
they were then. What is even more important to me is that - at
least during my daily periods of meditation - the feeling of his
radiant presence is as actual and as immediate today as it was on
that first day.

So powerful an impression could not have been made,
nor continued through the numerous vicissitudes of an
incarnation which has taken me around the world, if the
Maharshi had been an ordinary yogi - much less an ordinary
* Written in 1971
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man. I have met dozens of yogis, in their Eastern and Western
varieties, and many exceptional persons. Whatever status is
assigned to him by his followers, or whatever indifference is
shown to him by others, my own position is independent and
unbiassed. It is based upon our private talks in those early days
when such things were still possible, before fame brought
crowds; upon observations of, and conversations with, those
who were around him; upon his historical record; and finally
upon my own personal experiences, whatever they are worth.

Upon all this evidence one fact is incontrovertibly clear -

that he was a pure channel for a Higher Power.

This capacity of his to put his own self-consciousness aside
and to let himself be suffused by this Power, is not to be
confounded with what is commonly called in the West,
spiritualistic mediumship. For no spirit of a departed person ever
spoke through him: on the contrary, the silence which fell upon
us at such times was both extraordinary and exquisite. No physical
phenomena of an occult kind was ever witnessed then; nothing
at all happened outwardly. But those who were not steeped too
far in materialism to recognise what was happening within him
and within themselves at the time, or those who were not
congealed too stiffly in suspicion or criticism to be passive and
sensitive intuitively, felt a distinct and strange change in the mental
atmosphere. It was uplifting and inspiring; for the time being it
pushed them out of their little selves, even if only partially.

This change came every day, and mostly during the evening
periods when the Maharshi fell into a deep contemplation. No
one dared to speak then and all conversations were brought to
an end. A grave sacredness permeated the entire scene and
evoked homage, reverence, even awe. But before the sun's
departure brought about this remarkable transformation, and
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for most of the day, the Maharshi behaved, ate and spoke like a
perfectly normal human being.

That there was some kind of a participation in a worldless
divine play during those evenings - each to the extent of his
own response - was the feeling with which some of us arose
when it all ended. That the Maharshi was the principal actor
was true enough on the visible plane. But there was something
more .

In his own teachings Sri Ramana Maharshi often quoted,
whether in association or confirmation, the writings of the first
Acharya Shankara, who lived more than a thousand years ago.

He considered them unquestionably authoritative. He even
translated some of them from one Indian language to another.

In the temple of Chingleput I interviewed His Holiness
the Shankaracharya of Kamakoti Peetam, a linear successor of
the first Guru. When the meeting was concluded but before I
left, I took the chance to ask a personal question. A disciple of
the Maharshi had come to me and wanted to take me to his
Guru. None of those I asked could tell me anything about him,
nor had even heard of him. I was undecided whether to make
the journey or not.

His Holiness immediately urged me to go, and promised
satisfaction. He is still alive and still active in the religious world
of Southern India.

Sometimes, as I looked at the figure of Ramana Maharshi
on the couch, I wondered if he would ever come to England. If
so, how would he be dressed, how would he behave in those
teeming London streets, how would he eat, live and work? But
he was uninterested in travelling and so he never came, not in
the physical body: what did come was his spirit and mind, which
have awakened sufficient interest among the English.

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Again and again he gave us this teaching, that the real
Maharshi was not the body which people saw; it was the inner
being. Those who never made the journey to India during his
life time may take comfort in this thought that it is possible to
invoke his presence wherever they are, and to feel its reality in
the heart.

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