Silence
Flowing Like a Stream
From Paul Brunton’s, Search in Secret India
“We
shall now go in the hall of the Maharshi,” announces the holy man of the yellow
robe, bidding me to follow him. I pause outside the uncovered stone veranda and
remove my shoes. I gather up the little pile of fruits which I have brought as
an offering, and pass into an open doorway. Twenty brown-and-black faces flash
their eyes upon us. Their owners are squatting in half-circles on a red-tiled
floor. They are grouped at a respectful distance from the corner which lies
farthest to the right hand of the door. Apparently everyone has been facing
this corner just prior to our entry. I glance there for a moment and perceive a
seated figure upon a long white divan, but it suffices to tell me that here
indeed is the Maharshi.
The
divan is but a few paces away from a broad high window in the end wall. The
light falls clearly upon the Maharshi and I can take in every detail of his
profile, for he is seated gazing rigidly through the window in the precise
direction whence we have come this morning. His head does not move, so,
thinking to catch his eye and greet him as I offer the fruits, I move quietly
over to the window, place the gift before him, and retreat a pace or two.
A small
brass brazier stands before his couch. It is filled with burning charcoal, and
a pleasant odour tells me that some aromatic powder has been thrown on the
glowing embers. Close by is an incense burner filled with joss sticks. Threads
of bluish grey smoke arise and float in the air. I fold a thin cotton blanket
upon the floor and sit down, gazing expectantly at the silent figure in such a
rigid attitude upon the couch. The Maharshi’s body is almost nude, except for a
thin, narrow loin-cloth, but that is common enough in these parts. His skin is
slightly copper-coloured, yet quite fair in comparison with that of the average
South Indian. I judge him to be a tall man; his age somewhere in the early
fifties. His head, which is covered with closely cropped grey hair, is well
formed. The high and broad expanse of forehead gives intellectual distinction
to his personality. His features are more European than Indian. Such is my
first impression.
Pin-drop
silence prevails throughout the long hall. The sage remains perfectly still,
motionless, quite undisturbed at our arrival. I look full into the eyes of the
seated figure in the hope of catching his notice. They are dark brown,
medium-sized and wide open. If he is aware of my presence, he betrays no hint,
gives no sign. His body is supernaturally quiet, as steady as a statue. Not
once does he catch my gaze, for his eyes continue to look into remote space,
and infinitely remote it seems.
It is
an ancient theory of mine that one can take the inventory of a man’s soul from
his eyes. But before those of the Maharshi I hesitate, puzzled and baffled.
The
minutes creep by with unutterable slowness. First they mount up to a half-hour
by the hermitage clock which hangs on a wall; this too passes by and becomes a
whole hour. Yet no one in the hall seems to stir; certainly no one dares to
speak. I reach a point of visual concentration where I have forgotten the
existence of all save this silent figure on the couch. My offering of fruits
remains unregarded on the small carved table which stands before him.
There
is something in this man that holds my attention as steel filings are held by a
magnet. I cannot turn my gaze away from him. My initial bewilderment, my
perplexity at being totally ignored, slowly fade away as this strange
fascination begins to grip me more firmly. But it is not till the second hour
of the uncommon scene that I become aware of a silent, resistless change which
is taking place within my mind. One by one, the questions which I have prepared
in the train with such meticulous accuracy drop away. For it does not now seem
to matter whether they are asked or not, and it does not seem to matter whether
I solve the problems which have hitherto troubled me. I know only that a steady
river of quietness seems to be flowing near me, that a great peace is
penetrating the inner reaches of my being, and that my thought-tortured brain
is beginning to arrive at some rest.
I
surrender myself to the steadily deepening sense of restfulness until two hours
have passed. The passage of time now provokes no irritation, because I feel
that the chains of mind-made problems are being broken and thrown away.
Comes
the first ripple. Someone approaches me and whispers in my ear, “Did you not
wish to question the Maharshi?” The spell is broken. As if this infelicitous
intrusion is a signal, figures rise from the floor and begin to move about the
hall, voices float up to my hearing, and-wonder of wonders!-the dark brown eyes
of the Maharshi flicker once or twice. Then the head turns, the face moves
slowly, very slowly, and bends downward at an angle. A few more moments, and it
has brought me into the ambit of its vision. For the first time the sage’s
mysterious gaze is directed upon me. It is plain that he has now awakened from
his long trance.
The intruder, thinking perhaps that my lack of response is a sign that I have not heard him, repeats his question aloud. But in those lustrous eyes which are gently staring at me, I read another question, albeit unspoken. “Can it be – is it possible – that you are still tormented with distracting doubts when you have now glimpsed the deep mental peace which you – and all men – may attain?”
The peace overwhelms me. I turn to the guide and answer: “No. There is nothing I care to ask now. Another time.”
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