DR. PAUL BRUNTON

A SEARCH IN

SECRET

INDIA

$12.95

A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

This is the famous classic that has sold more than a

quarter million copies.

It is the story of this celebrated writer's spiritual

odyssey, his journey up and down India to seek out and

interview holy people. We meet such fascinating figures

as Meher Baba - the silent Messiah; Shri Shankara - the

spiritual Head of South India; the Master Mahasaya;

Sahabji Maharaj: Hazrat Babajan - a woman fakir;

Vishudhananda - the Magician; and many others.

The reader will especially relish the account of how Paul

Brunton met his own guru, Shri Ramana Maharshi, the

sage of Arunachala. Because of this book, Ramana

became well known within India and throughout the

West. Today there are Ramanashrams all over the

world.

The London Times said of A Search in Secret India,

"His work is excellent. It has life, color, movement.

Readers will find their interest unflagging from the first

page to the last." Students on any spiritual path will en-

joy sharing this experience with Paul Brunton.

SAMUEL WEISER, INC.

Box 612

York Beach, Maine 03910

Cover design by Alden Cole

The works of Dr Brunton

In chronological order

A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

T H E SECRET PATH

A SEARCH IN SECRET EGYPT

A MESSAGE FROM ARUNACHALA

A HERMIT IN T H E HIMALAYAS

T H E QUEST OF T H E OVERSELF

DISCOVER YOURSELF

INDIAN PHILOSOPHY AND MODERN CULTURE

T H E HIDDEN TEACHING BEYOND YOGA

T H E WISDOM OF T H E OVERSELF

T H E SPIRITUAL CRISIS OF MAN

A SEARCH IN

SECRET

INDIA

DR. PAUL BRUNTON

SAMUEL WEISER, INC.

York Beach, Maine

First American paperback published in 1970 by

Samuel Weiser, Inc.

Box 612

York Beach, Maine 03910-0612

Revised edition, 1985

Reprinted, 1994

Copyright © 1985 Kenneth Thurston Hurst

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or

transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,

including photocopy, without permission in writing from Samuel Weiser,

Inc. Reviewers may quote brief passages.

First published in England in 1934 by Rider & Co., London

First American edition published in 1935 by E. P. Dutton & Co., Inc.,

New York. Copyright © 1935 E. P. Dutton & Co., Inc.

Copyright © 1962 renewed by Paul Brunton.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 83-50400

ISBN 0-87728-602-7

MG

Cover art is a reproduction of the painting Remember, by Nicholas

Roerich. Copyright © 1985 Nicholas Roerich Museum. Reproduced

by permission.

Printed in the United States of America

The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of

the American National Standard for Permanence of Paper for Printed

Library Materials Z39.48-1984.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 3

A PERSONAL NOTE 5

FOREWORD TO THE REVISED EDITION 7

FOREWORD TO THE FIRST EDITION 9

PREFACE 11

I. WHEREIN I Bow TO THE READER 13

II. A PRELUDE TO THE QUEST 21

III. A MAGICIAN OUT OF EGYPT 35

IV. I MEET A MESSIAH 46

V. THE ANCHORITE OF THE ADYAR RIVER 66

VI. THE YOGA WHICH CONQUERS DEATH 86

VII. THE SAGE WHO NEVER SPEAKS 104

VIII. WITH THE SPIRITUAL HEAD OF SOUTH INDIA 117

IX. THE HILL OF THE HOLY BEACON 134

X. AMONG THE MAGICIANS AND HOLY MEN 164

XI. THE WONDER-WORKER OF BENARES 189

XII. WRITTEN IN THE STARS! 205

XIII. THE GARDEN OF THE LORD 226

XIV. AT THE PARSEE MESSIAH'S HEADQUARTERS 253

XV. A STRANGE ENCOUNTER 263

XVI. IN A JUNGLE HERMITAGE 277

XVII. TABLETS OF FORGOTTEN TRUTH 295

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

The following illustrations will be found between pages 116 and 117.

T H E GREAT TEMPLE OF ARUNACHALA AND THE HILL OF THE HOLY BEACON

YOGIS' CAVES HEWN OUT OF SOLID MOUNTAIN ROCK

THE CAVE HOME OF SHRI SADGURU MEHER BABA

THE " N E W MESSIAH"

HAZRAT BABAJAN, THE W O M A N FAQUEER

UPASANI MAHARAJ

BRAMA SITTING IN HIS FAVOURITE YOGA POSTURE

THE ANCHORITE OF THE ADYAR RIVER

SHRI SHANKARA, THE SPIRITUAL HEAD OF SOUTH INDIA

INTERIOR OF DILWARA TEMPLE

IN THE MUHAMMEDAN MOSQUE

THE MASTER MAYASAYA

SARADA DEVI, " T H E HOLY MOTHER"

BADREENATH SATHU

EESWARA SWAMI

WANDERING SNAKE CHARMERS

COMMON FAQUEERS OF AN INFERIOR ORDER AT BENARES

THE RIVER BANK AT BENARES

VISHUDHANANDA THE MAGICIAN

TWILIGHT OVER THE JUMNA

SAHABJI MAHARAJ

THE GATEWAY TO JEHANGIR'S PALACE, AGRA

YOUNG RAMANA, THE FUTURE MAHARISHEE

THE MAHARISHEE OR GREAT SAGE

YOGI RAMIAH

RAMIAH'S QUAINT ABODE

A PERSONAL NOTE

Dr. Paul Brunton died July 27, 1981, in Vevey, Switzerland.

Born in London in 1898, he authored thirteen books from "A

Search in Secret India" published in 1934 to "The Spiritual

Crisis of Man" in 1952. Dr. Brunton is generally recognized as

having introduced yoga and meditation to the West, and for

presenting their philosophical background in non-technical

language.

His mode of writing was to jot down paragraphs as inspira-

tion occurred. Often these were penned on the backs of

envelopes or along margins of newspapers as he strolled amid

the flower gardens bordering Lac Leman. They later were

typed and classified by subject. He then would edit and meld

these paragraphs into a coherent narrative.

Paul Brunton had lived in Switzerland for twenty years. He

liked the mild climate and majestic mountain scenery. Visitors

and correspondence came from all over the world. He played

an important role in the lives of many.

"P.B.", as he is known to his followers, was a gentle man. An

aura of kindliness emanated from him. His scholarly learning

was forged in the crucible of life. His spirituality shone forth

like a beacon. But he discouraged attempts to form a cult

around him: "You must find your own P.B. within

yourselves," he used to say.

KTH

F O R E W O R D T O T H E R E V I S E D E D I T I O N

A Search in Secret India was an instant success when published

in 1934. It continues to be popular after many reprintings,

and has been translated into several languages. Written at

the age of thirty-five, it was my father's first book. To mark the

occasion, he adopted the pen name of Paul Brunton.

This is the story of his personal odyssey, his search for holy

men to guide him on his quest. To this task he brought all his

professional journalistic skills coupled with an extensive

background in spiritual research.

My father was a pathfinder. In this book he introduced the

terms yoga and meditation to the Western world. He travelled the

length and breadth of the sub-continent interviewing yogis,

fakirs, and mystics, exploring a side of India previously unknown

to foreigners. His story became a tale of high spiritual

adventure.

Fifty years later I retraced my father's steps and journeyed

around India giving "in memoriam" lectures in his honor. I

learned that his name is still held in highest esteem. Many

Indians told me they discovered their country's spiritual

dimension from this very book. I made a pilgrimage to the same

ashram he discovered and offered my obeisance in the

meditation hall where Ramana Maharshi had lived. I saw the

small bungalow my father had inhabited, and I gazed up at

towering Arunachala.

The highlight of my trip was my encounter with His Holiness

Shri Shankara Acharya, the Spiritual Head of South India, whom

my father describes in Chapter VIII. I had no prior intention of

meeting him, but upon leaving the Ramanashram, decided to

seek him out. After driving along country roads for three hours

and locating the village where he was staying, history seemed to

repeat itself as I was told there was no chance of my being

8 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

granted an audience with him. However, a friendly disciple

agreed to submit my card and returned with the news that His

Holiness would received me at the rear of the temple, to avoid

the crowds milling in front. His slight figure, clad in a saffron

robe, reflected his ninety-one years. I told him I was the son of

Paul Brunton. He replied briefly. The interpreter informed me,

"He knows!" His Holiness spoke again. "He has been waiting for

you! He has been expecting you," said the interpreter. But how

did he even know of me? How did he know I was in India, I

wondered to myself? I held out a copy of this book and showed

him his photograph, taken when he was thirty-eight. "I know!"

was his comment.

At this point I had hoped to elicit his views on the world

situation as had my father previously. But suddenly all questions

melted, as I felt an onrush of peace and love. All I could do was

prostrate myself in the time-honored tradition at the feet of His

Holiness as he gave me his blessing. He then put around my neck

a sacred mala, a garland fashioned from fragrant sandalwood. I

wear it daily.

Thus the wheel came full circle half a century later.

Kenneth Thurston Hurst

August, 1985

F O R E W O R D T O T H E F I R S T E D I T I O N

by

SIR FRANCIS YOUNGHUSBAND, K.C.I.E., K.C.S.I., CLE.

" S A C R E D INDIA" would be as apt a title for this book. For

it is a quest for that India which is only secret because it is

so sacred. The holiest things in life are not bruited abroad

in public. The sure instinct of the human soul is to keep them

withdrawn in the inmost recesses accessible to few - perhaps to

none. Certainly only to those who care for spiritual things.

And with a country as with an individual. The most sacred

things a country keeps secret. It would not be easy for a stranger

to discover what England holds most sacred. And it is the same

with India. The most sacred part of India is the most

secret.

Now secret things require much searching for; but those who

seek will find. Those who seek with their whole heart and with

the real determination to find will at last discover the

secret.

Mr. Brunton had that determination, and he did in the end

find. The difficulties were very great though. For in India, as

everywhere else, there is much spurious spirituality through

which a way must be forced before the true can be found. There

is an innumerable crowd of mental acrobats and contortionists

through which the seeker after pure spirituality must elbow his

way. These men have trained their mental as well as bodily

muscles till they are extraordinarily efficient They have exercised

powers of concentration till they have nearly complete control

over their mental processes. Many of them have developed what

we call occult powers.

10 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

These are all interesting enough in their way and are well

worth study by scientific men interested in psychic phenomena.

But they are not the real thing. They are not the springs whence

spirituality comes gushing.

They do not form the secret sacred India that Mr. Brunton

was seeking. He saw them. He noted them. He describes them.

But he pushed through them. Spirituality at its finest and purest

is what he wanted. And this he found at last.

Remote from the haunts of men, deep in the jungles to

which - or to the Himalayas - the holiest men in India always

return, Mr. Brunton found the very embodiment of all that India

holds most sacred. The Maharishee - the Great Sage - was the

man who made most appeal to Mr. Brunton. He is not the only

one of his kind. Up and down India others - not many, but a

very, very few - may be found. They represent the true genius of

India, and it is through them that the Mighty Genius of the

Universe manifests Himself in peculiar degree.

They, therefore, are among the objects most worth searching

for on this earth. And in this book we have the results of one

such quest.

FRANCIS YOUNGHUSBAND

P R E F A C E

Since its original publication in 1934, so much has changed in

India that many details of this narrative will seem foreign to

today's reader. However, the encounters described in A

Search in Secret India have lost nothing of their value over the

years, and I still fully affirm the fundamental truth of this

work.

At the time this book was written, two important groups of

mystics existed in India. The well known mystics were snake

charmers, hypnotists, soothsayers, and others, who developed

special abilities and attained a certain power in their domain. The

other group consisted of people who searched for God through

various meditation practices. This group of mystics was smaller in

number, but they could be found scattered across the whole of

India, and they were very important people in Indian

culture.

Contacts with Western educational methods and achievements,

threats of Japanese and Chinese invasions, as well as the

realization of the necessity for a higher standard of living, led the

younger Indian people to a more secular and more science-

oriented world view. Nehru's policy of modernization and

industrialization favored this, while mysticism, metaphysics and

yoga promised no great material advantages.

A beneficial result of these changes has enabled women to

have more freedom than before. Ananda Mayee leaves her main

Ashram in old Benares to wander across the land visiting and

teaching her disciples. She is greeted with reverance and

admiration, and even met with Nehru on her travels. It is no

longer easy for fanatics, charlatans and those obsessed by religious

delusions to exploit the local villagers. Progress in the larger cities

has caused city dwellers to become more and more motivated by

political passions, and their disputes are sometimes violent.

When I was there, these people were much more friendly.

12 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

Most of the Indian sages whom I portray have parted form the

earth, but I shall never forget them. Two of these sages have

made the most profound impression on me: one is the

Maharishee of Arunachala, who has crossed the threshold of

death; the other is Shri Shankara Acharya of Kanchi,* who is the

spiritual leader of South India. He is widely respected by all those

whom I consider competent to evaluate the spiritual attainment

of a man, and he is, of all of India's living holy men, by far the

most enlightened.

It is perhaps appropriate to mention another very special

person, who for some years has lived as a refugee in the foothills

of the Himalayas: the Dalai Lama of Tibet. Although still a young

man, he has a profound knowledge of the teachings of

Buddhism. To the enemies who so cruelly fight to suppress his

homeland, he has demonstrated an attitude that comes close to

that of Jesus.

When I first wrote this book, I expressed my regrets that so

few people in the West seemed interested in "the Spiritual

India." These regrets no longer apply. In the course of the last 20

or 30 years, Westerners have begun to journey to India and the

Ashrams of well-known Yoga masters. Many serious books have

been published in Western languages in which religious-

philosophical Indian writings are presented and explained. What

was once the search of a few has now become the longing of

hundreds from Europe and the United States.

Paul Brunton

Rome, February 1967

*Not to be confused with three other sages of the same name in North,

East, and West India.

(Publisher's Note: Ananda Mayee is no longer living.)

A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

CHAPTER I

WHEREIN I BOW TO THE READER

THERE is an obscure passage in the yellowed book of

Indian life which I have endeavoured to elucidate

for the benefit of Western readers. Early travellers

returned home to Europe with weird tales of the Indian

faqueers and even modern travellers occasionally bring

similar stories.

What is the truth behind those legends which come ever and

anon to our ears, concerning a mysterious class of men called

Yogis1 by some and faqueers by others? What is the truth

behind the fitful hints which reach us intimating that there

exists in India an old wisdom that promises the most extra-

ordinary development of mental powers to those who practise

it? I set out on a long journey to find it and the following

pages summarize my report.

"Summarize" I say, because the inexorable exigencies of

space and time required me to write of one Yogi where I had

met more. Therefore I have selected a few who interested me

most, and who seemed likely to interest the Western world.

One heard much of certain so-called holy men who possessed

repute of having acquired deep wisdom and strange powers;

so one travelled through scorching days and sleepless nights

to find them - only to find well-intentioned fools, scriptural

slaves, venerable know-nothings, money-seeking conjurers,

jugglers with a few tricks, and pious frauds. To fill my pages

with the records of such people would be worthless to the

reader and is a distasteful task to me. Therefore I omit the

tale of time wasted upon them.

1 Pronounced Yogees.

13

14 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

I feel quite humbly that I have been privileged to see a

remote aspect of India seldom seen and less understood by

ordinary travellers. Among the English residents in that vast

land only an infinitesimal fraction has cared to study this

aspect, and of this fraction very few were free enough to

examine it more deeply and give their report, for official

dignity must needs be respected. Therefore, English writers

who have touched on this subject swing over to a hearty

scepticism which, by its very nature, renders many sources of

native knowledge not readily available to them, and which

causes the Indian who really knows something about the less

superficial side of the matter to shrink from discussing it with

them. The white man will, in most cases, possess but an

imperfect acquaintance with the Yogis, if he knows them at

all, and certainly not with the best of them. The latter are

now but a mere handful in the very country of their origin.

They are exceedingly rare, are fond of hiding their true attain-

ment from the public, and prefer to pose as ignoramuses. In

India, in Tibet and in China, they get rid of the Western

traveller who may happen to blunder in upon their privacy,

by maintaining a studied appearance of insignificance and

ignorance. Perhaps they would see some sense in Emerson's

abrupt phrase : " T o be great is to be misunderstood"; I do

not know. Anyway, they are mostly recluses who do not care

to mingle with mankind. Even when met with they are

unlikely to break their reserve except after some period of

acquaintance. Hence little has been written in Western con-

tinents about the strange life of these Yogis and even that little

remains vague.

The reports of Indian writers are indeed available, but they

must be read with great care. It is an unfortunate fact that the

Hindus lack any critical approach to these matters and will mix

hearsay with fact quite indiscriminately. Therefore such

reports diminish greatly in truth as documentary records.

When I saw the cataract of credulity which covers so many

Eastern eyes, I thanked Heaven for such scientific training as

the West has given me and for the common sense attitude

which journalistic experience had instilled in me. There is

a basis of fact underlying much Oriental superstition, but

vigilance is needed to discover it. I was compelled to keep

a critical but not hostile eye widely open wherever I went.

Those who learned that I was interested in the mystical and

miraculous, apart from my philosophical concerns, applied

liberal paint and plentiful varnish to their few facts; many

W H E R E I N I BOW TO T H E READER 15

would think nothing of indulging in b r e a t h - t a k i n g exaggera-

tions. I might have spent my time trying to teach them

t h a t T r u t h is so strong she can stand upon her own legs

without falling to the ground, b u t I had other things to do.

I felt glad, however, t h a t I had preferred to gain my knowl-

edge of Oriental wonders at first h a n d , just as I prefer Christ's

wisdom to his c o m m e n t a t o r s ' ignorance. I searched t h r o u g h

a welter of crass superstitions, incredible impostures and

ancient pretensions for those things which are true, which

will stand the acid test of thorough investigation. I flatter

myself t h a t I could never have done this did I not contain

within my complex n a t u r e t h e two elements of scientific

scepticism and spiritual sensitivity, elements which usually

range themselves in sharp conflict a n d flagrant opposition.

I have titled this book Secret India because it tells of an India

which has been hidden from prying eyes for thousands of years,

which has kept itself so exclusive that to-day only its rapidly

disappearing remnants are left. T h e manner in which the

Yogis kept their knowledge so esoteric may appear selfish to us

in these democratic days, but it helps to account for their

gradual disappearance from visible history. Thousands of

Englishmen live in India and hundreds visit it each year. Yet

few know anything of what may one day prove more worthy to

the world than even the prized pearls and valuable stones

which ships bring us from India. Fewer still have taken the

trouble to go out of their way to find the adepts in Yoga,1 while

not one Englishman in a thousand is prepared to prostrate

himself before a brown, half-naked figure in some lonely cave

or in a disciple-filled room. Such is the inevitable barrier

imposed by this form of caste that even men of generous

character and developed intellect, if suddenly taken from their

habitations in the British quarters and set down in such a cave,

would find a Yogi's company uncongenial and his ideas unin-

telligible.

Yet the Englishman in India, whether soldier, civil servant,

business man or traveller, is not to be blamed because he is too

proud to squat on the mat of the Yogi. Quite apart from the

business of upholding British prestige, doubtless an important

and necessary procedure, the kind of holy man he usually

encounters is more likely to repel than attract. It is certainly

no loss to avoid such a man. Nevertheless it is a pity that after

a sojourn of many years the English resident will often leave

1 Pronounced Yohg. Its spelling is unphonetic.

16 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

the country in blameless ignorance of what lies behind the

frontal brain of an Indian sage.

I plainly remember my interview with a Cockney under the

shadow of Trichinopoly's gigantic rock fort. For over twenty

years he had held a responsible post on the Indian railways.

It was inevitable that I should ply him with many questions

about his life in this sunburnt land. Finally I trotted out my

pet interrogation, "Have you met any Yogis?"

He looked at me somewhat blankly and then replied :

'Yogis? What are they? Some kind of animal?"

Such ignorance would have been perfectly pardonable had

he stayed at home within the sound of Bow Bells; now, after

twenty-six years' residence in the country, it was perfectly

blissful. I permitted it to remain undisturbed.

Because I put pride underfoot in moving among the varied

peoples who inhabit Hindustan; because I gave them a ready

understanding and an intellectual sympathy, a freedom from

finicky prejudice and a regard for character irrespective of

colour; and because I had sought Truth all my life and was

prepared to accept whatsoever Truth brought in its train, I

am able to write this record. I picked my way through a crowd

of superstitious fools and self-styled faqueers in order to sit at

the feet of true sages, there to learn at first hand the real teach-

ings of Indian Yoga. I squatted on the floor in many a secluded

hermitage, surrounded by brown faces and hearing strange

dialects. I sought out those reserved and reclusive men, the

best Yogis, and listened humbly to their oracular instruction. I

talked for hours with the Brahmin pundits of Benares, discuss-

ing the age-old questions of philosophy and belief which have

tormented the mind and troubled the heart of man since he

first began to think. I stopped now and then to divert myself

with the magician and wonder-worker, and strange incidents

crossed my trails.

I wanted to gather the real facts about the Yogis of to-day by

the method of first-hand investigation. I prided myself that

experience as a journalist fitted me to draw out, with the least

possible delay, much of the information which I sought; that

sitting at the editorial desk and curtly wielding the blue pencil

had trained me to become ruthlessly critical in separating wheat

from chaff; and that the contact with men and women in

every grade of life which the profession generally gives, with

ragged mendicants as well as well-fed millionaires, would help me

move just a little more smoothly through the variegated masses of

India, among whom I searched for those strange men, the Yogis.

WHEREIN I BOW TO THE READER 17

On the other side of the sheet I had lived an inner life totally

detached from my outward circumstance. I spent much of

my spare time in the study of recondite books and in little-

known bypaths of psychological experiment. I delved into

subjects which always have been wrapped in Cimmerian

mystery. To these items must be added an inborn attraction

towards things Oriental. The East, before my first visit, threw

out vast tentacles that gripped my soul; ultimately they drew

me to study the sacred books of Asia, the learned commen-

taries of her pundits and the inscribed thoughts of her sages,

so far as English translations could be procured.

This dual experience proved of great value. It taught me

never to permit my sympathy with Oriental methods of probing

life's mysteries, subvert my scientific desire of critically and

impartially finding the facts. Without that sympathy I could

never have gone among people and into places where the

average Englishman in India may disdain to tread. Without

that strict, scientific attitude I might have been led away into

the wilderness of superstition, as so many Indians seem to

have been led away. It is not easy to conjoin qualities which

are usually held to be contradictory, but I sincerely tried to

hold them in sane balance.

§

That the West has little to learn from present-day India, I

shall not trouble to deny, but that we have much to learn from

Indian sages of the past and from the few who live to-day, I

unhesitatingly assert. The white tourist who " d o e s " the chief

cities and historical sights and then steams away with disgust

at the backward civilization of India is doubtless justified in

his depreciation of it. Yet a wiser kind of tourist shall one day

arise who will seek out, not the crumbling ruins of useless

temples, nor the marbled palaces of dissipated kings long dead,

but the living sages who can reveal a wisdom untaught by our

universities.

Are these Indians mere idlers sprawling in the fierce tropic

sun? Have they done nothing, thought nothing that is of worth

to the rest of the world? The traveller who can see only their

material degeneration and mental flabbiness has not seen far.

Let him substitute consideration for his contempt and he may

open sealed lips and hidden doors.

Grant that India has nodded and snored for centuries;

grant that even to-day there exist millions of peasants in this

18 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

land who suffer the same illiteracy, share the same outlook

blended of puerile superstition and kindergarten religion as did

English peasants of the fourteenth century. Grant further

that the Brahmin pundits in native centres of learning waste

their useless years splitting sacerdotal hairs and drawing

metaphysical wire as subtly as our own medieval scholastics

ever did. Yet there still remains a small but priceless residue

of culture classified under the generic term Yoga, which proffers

benefits to mankind as valuable in their own way as any prof-

fered by the Western sciences. It can bring our bodies nearer

the healthy condition which Nature intended them to possess;

it can bestow one of modern civilization's most urgent needs -

a flawless serenity of mind; and it can open the way to enduring

treasures of the spirit to those who will labour for them. I

admit that this great wisdom hardly belongs to India's present,

but to her past; that this guarded knowledge of Yoga flourishes

little to-day when once it must have had worthy professors and

faithful students. It may be that the secrecy in which it was

carefully enshrouded succeeded in killing all spread of this

ancient science; I do not know.

It is perhaps not amiss, then, if one asks one's Western

fellows to look Eastward, not for a new faith, but for a few

pebbles of knowledge to cast upon our present heap. When

Orientalists like Burnouf, Colebrooke and Max Muller appeared

upon learning's scene and brought us some of the literary

treasures of India, the savants of Europe began to understand

that the heathens who inhabited that country were not so

stupid as our own ignorance had presumed. Those clever

people who profess to find Asiatic learning empty of useful

thoughts for the West thereby prove their own emptiness.

Those practical persons who would fling the epithet " s t u p i d "

at its study, succeed only in flinging it at their own narrow-

mindedness. If our ideas about life are to be wholly deter-

mined by a mere accident of space, by the chance that we

were born in Bristol instead of Bombay, then we are not worthy

the name of civilized man. Those who close their minds to the

entrance of all Eastern ideas, close them also to fine thoughts,

deep truths and worth-while psychological knowledge. Who-

ever will poke about among this musty lore of the Orient in

the hope of finding some precious gems of strange fact and

stranger wisdom, will find his quest no vain one.

WHEREIN I BOW TO THE READER 19

§

I journeyed Eastwards in search of the Yogis and their

hermetic knowledge. The thought of finding a spiritual light

and diviner life was also entertained, though it was not my

primary purpose. I wandered along the banks of India's holy

rivers - the quiet, grey-green Ganges, the broad Jumna and the

picturesque Godavari - in this quest. I circled the country.

India took me to her heart and the vanishing remnant of her

sages opened many a door for the unfamiliar Westerner.

Not so long ago I was among those who regard God as

a hallucination of human fancy, spiritual truth as a mere

nebula and providential justice as a confection for infantile

idealists. I, too, was somewhat impatient of those who con-

struct theological paradises and who then confidently show

you round with an air of being God's estate agents. I had

nothing but contempt for what seemed to be the futile,

fanatical efforts of uncritical theorisers.

If, therefore, I have begun to think a little differently about

these matters, rest assured that good cause has been given me.

Yet I did not arrive at paying allegiance to any Eastern creed;

indeed, those which matter I had already studied intellectually

much earlier. I did arrive at a new acceptance of the Divine.

This may seem quite an insignificant and personal thing to do,

but as a child of this modern generation, which relies on hard

facts and cold reason, and which lacks enthusiasm for things

religious, I regard it as quite an achievement. This faith was

restored in the only way a sceptic could have it restored, not

by argument, but by the witness of an overwhelming experience.

And it was a jungle sage, an unassuming hermit who had

formerly lived for six years in a mountain cave, who promoted

this vital change in my thinking. It is quite possible that he

could not pass a matriculation examination, yet I am not

ashamed to record in the closing chapters of this book my

deep indebtedness to this man. The production of such sages

provides India with sufficient credentials to warrant attention

from intelligent Westerners. The secret India's spiritual life

still exists, despite the storms of political agitation which now

hide it, and I have tried to give authentic record of more than

one adept who has attained a strength and serenity for which

we lesser mortals wistfully yearn.

I have borne witness in the book to other things also, things

marvellous and weird. They seem incredible now, as I sit and

2 0

A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

type my narrative through the inked ribbon amid the matter-of-

fact surroundings of English country-side; indeed, I wonder

at my temerity in writing them down for a sceptical world to

read. But I do not believe the present materialistic ideas which

dominate the world will remain for all time; already one can

perceive prophetic indications of a coming change of thought.

Yet quite frankly I do not believe in miracles. Neither do most

men of my generation. But I do believe that our knowledge of

Nature's laws is incomplete, and that when the advance guard

of scientists who are pushing forward into unexplored territory

have found out a few more of those laws, we shall then be able

to do things which are tantamount to miracles.

CHAPTER II

A PRELUDE TO THE QUEST

THE geography master takes a long, tapering pointer and

moves over to the large, varnished linen map which

hangs before a half-bored class. He indicates a

triangular red patch which juts down to the Equator, and then

makes a further attempt to stimulate the obviously lagging

interest of his pupils. He begins in a thin, drawling voice and

with the air of one about to make a hierophantic revelation:

"India has been called the brightest jewel in the British

c r o w n . . . "

At once a boy with moody brow, half wrapt in reverie, gives

a sudden start and draws his far-flung imagination back into

the stolid, brick-walled building which constitutes his school.

The sound of this word I N D I A falling on the tympanum

of his ears, or the sight of it caught up by the optic nerve of his

eyes from a printed page, carries thrilling and mysterious

connotations of the unknown. Some inexplicable current of

thought brings it repeatedly before him.

When the mathematics master believes that this pupil is

laboriously working at an algebraical problem, little does he

know that the young rascal uses the school's desk for ulterior

purposes. For under the cover of skilfully arrayed books he

rapidly sketches turbaned heads, dusky faces and spice-laden

ships being loaded from flat junks.

The youthful years pass, but this interest in Hindustan

remains undimmed. Nay, it spreads and embraces all Asia

within its eager tentacles.

Ever and anon he makes wild projects to go there. He

will run away to sea. Surely it would then be a mere

matter of enterprise to get some brief glimpse of India?

Even when these projects come to nought, he talks rhetorically

to his schoolmates until one of them falls an easy victim to his

immature enthusiasm.

Thereafter they conspire in silence and move in secret.

21

22 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

They plan an adventurous tramp across the face of Europe;

it is then to continue into Asia Minor and Arabia until the port

of Aden is reached. The reader, contemplating the innocent

boldness of that long walk, will smile. They believe that a

friendly ship's captain could be approached at Aden. He

would undoubtedly prove a kindly, sympathetic man. He

would take them aboard his steamer and a week later they would

begin to explore India.

Preparations for this protracted excursion go on apace.

Money is thriftily collected, and what they naively imagine to

be an explorer's outfit is secretly brought together. Maps and

guide-books are carefully consulted, the coloured pages and

attractive photographs raising their wanderlust to fever heat.

Finally they are able to fix the date when they intend to snap

their fingers at destiny and leave the country. Who knows

what lies around the corner?

They might have saved some of their youthful energy and

conserved some of their early optimism. For on an unfortunate

day the second boy's guardian discovers the preparations,

elicits further details of the affair, and comes down with a

stern hand. What they suffer as a result is not to be related!

The enterprise is reluctantly abandoned.

The desire to view India never leaves the promoter of that

unfortunate expedition. The dawn of manhood, however,

brings bonds in the form of other interests and holds his feet

with enchaining duties. That desire has to be put regretfully

in the background.

Time turns page after page of the calendar of years until he

meets unexpectedly with a man who gives a temporary but vivid

life to the old ambition. For the stranger's face is dusky, his

head is turbaned, and he comes from the sun-steeped land of

Hindustan.

§

I fling out the fine net of remembrance to sweep the past

years for pictures of that day when he steps into my life. The

tide of autumn is fast ebbing, for the air is foggy and a bitter

cold creeps through my clothing. Clammy fingers of depression

strive hard to grip my failing heart.

I wander into a brightly-lit cafe and seek the borrowed

comfort of its warmth. A cup of hot tea - so potent at other

times - fails to restore my serenity. I cannot banish the

heavy atmosphere which surrounds me. Melancholy has

A PRELUDE TO THE QUEST

23

determined to make me serve her dark ends. Black curtains

cover the entrance to my heart.

This restlessness is difficult to endure and it ends by driving

me from the cafe into the open street. I walk without aim and

follow old tracks until I find myself in front of a small book-

shop which I know well. It is an ancient building and harbours

equally ancient books. The proprietor1 is a quaint man, a

human relic surviving from an earlier century. This hustling

epoch has little use for him, but he has just as little use for this

epoch. He deals only in rare tomes and early editions, while

specializing in curious and recondite subjects. He possesses

a remarkable knowledge - so far as books can give it - of

learning's bypaths and out-of-the-way matters. From time

to time, I like to wander into the old shop and discuss them

with him.

I enter the place and greet him. For a while I finger the

yellowed pages of calf-bound volumes or peer closely into

faded folios. One ancient book engages my attention; it

seems somewhat interesting and I examine it more carefully.

The bespectacled bookseller notes my interest and, as is his

wont, commences what he imagines to be an argument anent

the book's subject - metempsychosis.

The old man follows habit and keeps the discussion to his

own side. He talks at length, appearing to know the pros and

cons of that strange doctrine better than my author, while

the classic authorities who have written about it are at his

finger-tips. In this way I glean much curious information.

Suddenly, I hear a man stirring at the far end of the shop

and, turning, I behold a tall figure emerge from the shadows

which hide a little inner room where the costlier books are

kept.

The stranger is an Indian. He walks toward us with an

aristocratic bearing and faces the bookseller.

" M y friend," he says quietly, "pardon me for intruding.

I could not help overhearing you, while the subject you dis-

cussed is of great interest to me. Now you quote the classical

authors who first mention this idea of man's continual rebirth

upon this earth. The deeper minds among those philosophic

Greeks, wise Africans and early Christian Fathers understood

this doctrine well, I agree. But where, do you think, did it

really originate?"

He pauses for a moment, but gives no time for a reply.

1 Now, alas, he has departed from terra firma an d his sho p has

disappeared with him!

24

A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

"Permit me to tell you," he continues, smiling. "You

must look to India for the first acceptance of metempsychosis

in the Old World. It was a cardinal tenet among the people

of my land, even in remote antiquity."

The speaker's face fascinates me. It is unusual; it would

be distinguished-looking among a hundred Indians. Power

kept in reserve - this is my reading of his character. Piercing

eyes, a strong jaw and a lofty forehead make up the catalogue

of his features. His skin is darker than that of the average

Hindu. He wears a magnificent turban, the front of which is

adorned with a sparkling jewel. For the rest, his clothes are

European and finely tailored withal.

His slightly didactic statement does not appeal to the old

gentleman behind the counter; in fact, vigorous opposition

is offered to it.

"How can that be," comes the sceptical observation,

"when the East Mediterranean cities were flourishing centres

of culture and civilization in the pre-Christian era? Did not

the greatest intellects of antiquity live in the area which

embraced Athens and Alexandria? So, surely their ideas

were carried Southward and Eastward until India was reached?"

The Indian smiles tolerantly.

" N o t at all," is his immediate reply. "What really happened

was quite the reverse of your assertion."

" I n d e e d ! You seriously suggest that the progressive

West had to receive its philosophy from the laggard East?

No, s i r ! " expostulates the bookseller.

"Why not? Read your Apuleius again, my friend, and learn

how Pythagoras came to India, where he was instructed by

the Brahmins. Then notice how he began to teach the doctrine

of metempsychosis after his return to Europe. This is but a

single instance. I can find others. Your reference to the lag-

gard East makes me smile. Thousands of years ago our sages

were pondering over the deepest problems while your own

countrymen were not even aware that such problems existed."

He stops curtly, looks intently at us, and waits for his words

to sink into our minds. I fancy the old bookseller is a little

perplexed. Never before have I seen him so struck into

silence or so obviously impressed by another man's intellectual

authority.

I have listened quietly to the other customer's words and

make no attempt to offer a remark. Now there arises a con-

versational lull which all of us seem to recognize and to respect.

Soon the Indian turns abruptly and retires to the inner room,

A PRELUDE TO THE QUEST 25

only to emerge a couple of minutes later with a costly folio

which he has selected from the shelves. He pays for the book

and prepares to leave the shop. He reaches the door, whilst

I stare wonderingly at his departing figure.

Suddenly, he turns again and approaches me. He draws a

wallet out of his pocket and selects a visiting card.

"Would you care to pursue this conversation with m e ? "

he asks, half smiling. I am taken by surprise, but gladly agree.

He offers me the card, adding an invitation to dinner.

§

I set out toward evening to find the stranger's house, a

task not without its discomfort, for I am companioned by an

unpleasant fog which has descended thickly upon the streets.

An artist, I presume, would find a touch of romantic beauty

in these fogs which sometimes brood over the town and dim

its lights. My mind, however, is so intent upon the forth-

coming meeting that I see no beauty and feel no unpleasantness

in the surrounding atmosphere.

A terminus is set to my travels by a massive gateway which

suddenly looms up. Two large lamps, as in greeting, are held

out by iron brackets. My entry into the house is followed by

a delightful surprise. For the Indian has given no hint of this

unique interior, upon which he has obviously lavished a fine

taste and free purse.

Let it suffice that I find myself in a great room, which might

be part of some Asiatic palace for aught I know, so exotically

is it furnished and so colourful are its gorgeous decorations.

With the closing of the outer door I leave behind the grey,

bleak Western world. The room has been decorated in a quaint

combination of Indian and Chinese styles. Red, black and gold

are the predominating colours. Resplendent tapestries, bearing

sprawling Chinese dragons, stretch across the walls. Carved

green dragon heads glare fiercely from all the corners, where

they support brackets which carry costly pieces of handicraft.

Two silken mandarin coats adorn both sides of the doorway.

Boldly patterned Indian rugs repose on the parquet floor,

one's shoes sinking delightfully into their thick pile. A

gigantic tiger skin stretches its full length in front of the hearth.

My eyes meet a small lacquered table which stands in one

corner. Upon it rests a black ebony shrine with gilded folding

doors. I glimpse the figure of some Indian god within the

26 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

recess. It is probably a Buddha, for the face is calm and

inscrutable and the two unwinking eyes gaze down at its nose.

My host greets me cordially. He is impeccably dressed in

a black dinner suit. Such a man would look distinguished in

any company in the world, I reflect. A few minutes later we

both sit down to dinner. Some delightful dishes are brought

to the table, and it is here that I receive my initiation into the

pleasures of curry, thus acquiring a taste which is never to

leave me. The servant who attends on us provides a picturesque

note, for he wears a white jacket and trousers, a golden sash

and spotless turban.

During the course of the meal our talk is superficial and

general, yet whatever my host says, whatever subject he

touches, his words invariably carry an air of finality. His

statements are so phrased that they leave one with little ground

for argument; his accents are so confident that his talk sounds

like the last word upon the matter. I cannot help being

impressed by his air of quiet assurance.

Over the coffee cups he tells me a little about himself. I

learn that he has travelled widely and that he possesses some

means. He regales me with vivid impressions of China -

where he has spent a year, of Japan - whose amazing future

he tersely predicts, of America, Europe and - strangest of all

- of life in a Christian monastery in Syria, where he had once

spent a period of retirement.

When we light our cigarettes he touches on the subject

which was mentioned at the bookshop. But it is evident that

he desires to talk of other things, for he soon leads the way to

larger issues, and broaches the subject of India's ancient

wisdom.

"Some of the doctrines of our sages have already reached

the West," he remarks impressively, " b u t in most cases the

real teachings have been misunderstood; in a few instances

they have somehow been falsified. However, it is not for me

to complain. What is India to-day? She is no longer

representative of the lofty culture of her past. The greatness

has gone out of her. It is sad, very sad. The masses hold

on to a few ideals at the cost of being enmeshed in a fussy

tangle of pseudo-religious fetters and unwise customs."

"What is the cause of this degeneration?" I ask him.

My host is silent. A minute slowly passes. I watch him

while his eyes begin to narrow until they are half-closed;

then he quietly breaks the silence.

"Alas, my friend! Once there were great seers in my land,

A PRELUDE TO THE QUEST

27

men who had penetrated the mysteries of life. Their advice

was sought by king and commoner. Under their inspiration

Indian civilization reached its zenith. To-day, where are they

to be found? Two or three may remain - unknown, un-

recorded and far from the main stream of modern life. When

those great sages - Rishees, we call them - began to withdraw

from society, then our own decline also began."

His head droops till the chest must support his chin. A

sorrowful note has entered his voice with the last sentence.

For a while he seems withdrawn from me, his soul wrapped

in melancholy meditation.

His personality impresses me again as being provocatively

interesting and decidedly attractive. Eyes, dark and flashing,

reveal a keen mentality; voice, soft and sympathetic, reflects

a kindly heart. I feel anew that I like him.

The servant noiselessly enters the room and approaches the

lacquered table. He lights a joss stick and a blue haze rises to

the ceiling. The strange perfume of some Eastern incense

spreads around the room. It is not unpleasant.

Suddenly my host raises his head and looks at me.

"Did I tell you that two or three still remain?" he asks

queerly. "Ah, yes! I said that. Once I knew a great sage.

It was a privilege about which I rarely speak to others now.

He was my father, guide, master and friend. He possessed

the wisdom of a god. I loved him as if I were really his own

son. Whenever I stayed with him at fortunate intervals, I

knew then that life at its heart is good. Such was the effect

of his wonderful atmosphere. I, who have made art my hobby

and beauty my ideal, learnt from him to see the divine beauty

in men who were leprous, destitute or deformed; men from

whom I formerly shrank in horror. He lived in a forest

hermitage far from the towns. I stumbled upon his retreat

seemingly by accident. From that day I paid him several

visits, staying with him as long as I could. He taught me much.

Yes - such a man could give greatness to any country."

"Then why did he not enter public life and serve I n d i a ? "

I question frankly.

The Indian shakes his head.

" I t is difficult enough for us to understand the motives of

such an unusual man. It would be doubly difficult for you,

a Westerner, to understand him. His answer might probably

be that service can be rendered in secret through the telepathic

power of the mind; that influence can be exerted from a

distance in an unseen yet no less potent manner. He might

28 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

also say that a degenerate society must suffer its destiny until

the fated hour of relief strikes."

I confess to being puzzled by this answer.

"Quite so, my friend, I expected that," observes the other.

§

After that memorable evening I visit the Indian's home

many times, drawn by the lure of his unusual knowledge as

much as by the attractiveness of his exotic personality. He

touches some coiled spring among my ambitions and releases

into urgency the desire to fathom life's meaning. He stimulates

me, less to satisfy intellectual curiosity than to win a worth-

while happiness.

One evening our conversation takes a turn which is destined

to have important results for me. He describes on occasions

the queer customs and peculiar traditions of his countrymen;

sometimes he portrays in words a few of the types who people

his amazing land. He drops a remark this evening anent a

strange type, the Yogi. I possess but a vague and incoherent

idea of what the term really means. It has come to my notice

a few times during the course of my reading, but on each

occasion the terms of reference differ so much from the others

that confusion is the natural result. So, when I hear my friend

use the word I stop him short and beg for further information.

" T h a t I shall do with pleasure," he answers, " b u t I can

hardly tell you, in a single definition, what constitutes a Yogi.

No doubt, a dozen of my countrymen will define the word in

a dozen different ways. For instance, there are thousands of

wandering beggars who pass by this name. They swarm

through the villages and attend the periodic religious fairs in

droves. Many are only lazy tramps and others vicious ones,

while most are totally illiterate men, unaware of the history

and doctrines of the science of Yoga, under whose shelter

they masquerade."

He pauses to flick the ash off his cigarette.

" G o , however, to some place like Rishikesh, over which the

mighty Himalayas keep eternal guard. There you will find a

totally different class of men. They live in humble huts or

caves, eat little food and constantly pray to God. Religion is

their breath; it occupies their minds day and night. They

are mostly good men studying our sacred books and chanting

prayers. Yet they, too, are called Yogis. But what have

A PRELUDE TO THE QUEST 29

they in common with the beggars who prey on the ignorant

masses? You see how elastic the term i s ! Between these

two classes there are others who partake of the nature of both."

"And yet there seems to be much made of the mysterious

powers possessed by Yogis," I remark.

" A h ! now you must listen to a further definition," he

laughs back at m e . " There are strange individuals in solitary

retreats far from the big cities, in the seclusion of lonely

jungles or mountain caves, men who devote their entire

existence to practices which they believe will bring marvellous

powers. Some of these men will eschew all mention of religion

and scorn it; others, however, are highly religious; but all of

them unite in the struggle to wrest from Nature a mastery over

forces invisible and intangible. You see, India has never

been without her traditions of the mysterious, the occult, and

many are the stories told of those adepts who could perform

miraculous feats. Now these men, too, are called Yogis."

"Have you met such men? Do you believe these tradi-

tions?" I ask innocently.

The other man is silent. He seems to be ruminating over

the form in which to couch his reply.

My eyes turn to the shrine which stands upon the lacquered

table. I fancy, in the soft light which fills our room, that the

Buddha is smiling benignantly at me from its lotus throne of

gilt wood. For half a minute I am ready to believe that there

is something uncanny in its atmosphere; and then the Indian's

clear voice breaks into my thoughts and arrests my wandering

fancies.

" L o o k ! " he says quietly, holding something out for my

inspection. He has loosed it from under his collar. "I am a

Brahmin. This is my sacred thread. Thousands of years of

strict segregation have made certain qualities of character

instinctive in my caste. Western education and Western

travelling can never remove them. Faith in a higher power,

belief in the existence of supernatural forces, recognition of a

spiritual evolution among men - these things were born in

me as a Brahmin. I could not destroy them if I would, while

reason is overpowered by them whenever the issue comes to

battle. So, although I am quite in sympathy with the principles

and methods of your modern sciences, what other answer

can I give you, except this - I believe!"

He looks intently at me for a few moments. Then he

proceeds:

"Yes, I have met such men. Once, twice, three times.

30

A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

They are difficult to come across. Once they were easier to

find, I believe, but to-day they have almost disappeared."

" B u t they still exist, I presume?"

"Most likely, my friend. To find them is another matter.

It would require a protracted search."

"Your master - was he one of t h e m ? "

" N o , he belonged to a higher order. Did I not tell you that

he was a Rishee?"

The term needs some elucidation before my mind can digest

it. I tell him so.

"Higher than the Yogis stand the Rishees," he answers.

"Transfer the Darwinian theory to the realm of human

character; accept the Brahmin teaching that there is a

spiritual evolution running parallel with the physical one;

look upon the Rishees as men who have attained the crest

of this upward climb; then you may form some rough

conception of their greatness."

"Does a Rishee also perform those wonders of which we

h e a r ? "

"Yes, he certainly does, but he will not value them for their

own sake, whereas many of the Yogi wonder-workers do.

Such powers arise in him naturally by reason of his great

development of will and mental concentration. They are not

his chief concern; he may even disdain them and use them

little. You see, his first purpose is to become inwardly some-

thing akin to those divine beings of whom Buddha in the East

and Christ in the West are the most illustrious examples."

" B u t Christ worked miracles!"

" H e did. But do you think he performed them for any

vain self-glory? Not s o ; he desired to help the souls of

ordinary people by thus catching their faith."

"Surely, if such men as Rishees existed in India, multitudes

would flock after t h e m ? " I conjecture.

"Undoubtedly - but they would first have to appear in

public and announce themselves for what they are. Only in

the most exceptional cases have Rishees ever been known to

do that. They prefer to live apart from the world. Those

who wish to perform a public work may emerge for a limited

time and then disappear again."

I object that such men could hardly be of much service to

their fellows if they hide themselves in inaccessible places.

The Indian smiles tolerantly.

" T h a t is a matter which comes within the province of

your Western saying: 'Appearances are sometimes deceptive.'

A PRELUDE TO THE QUEST 31

Without intimate knowledge of these persons, the world is

not in a position to judge them accurately, if you will pardon

my saying so. I have mentioned that the Rishees did some-

times live for a while in towns and move in society. In olden

times, when that was a little more frequent, their wisdom,

power and attainment became obvious to the public; their

influence was then openly acknowledged. Even Maharajahs

did not disdain to pay reverent homage to those great sages

and to consult them for guidance in their policies. But as a

matter of fact, it is certain that the Rishees prefer to exert

their influence in a silent and unknown manner."

"Well, I would like to meet such men," I mutter, half to

myself. "And I should certainly like to encounter some real

Yogis."

"You shall do so one day, without a doubt," he assures me.

"How do you know that? " I ask, somewhat startled.

"I knew it that day we first met," is the astonishing answer.

" I t came to me as an intuition - does it matter what you call

it? - as a message deeply felt but inexplicable by outward

evidences. My master taught me how to train this feeling,

to develop it. Now, I have learnt to trust it implicitly."

"A modern Socrates guided by his daemon!" I remark

half-jocosely. "But tell me, when do you think your prophecy

will come t r u e ? "

He shrugs his shoulders.

"I am not a prophet. So I regret that I cannot date the

event for you."

I do not press him, though I suspect he could say more if

he would. I meditate upon the matter and then offer a

suggestion.

"I suppose you will return to your own country eventually.

If I am ready at the time, could we not travel together? Would

you not help me locate some of these men we have been dis-

cussing?"

" N o , my friend. Go alone. It will be better that you do

your own finding."

" I t will be so difficult for a stranger," I complain.

"Yes - very difficult. But go alone; one day you will see

that I am right."

§

From that time I feel strongly that a momentous day will

dawn which will find me at anchor in the sunny East. I reflect

32 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

that if India has harboured such great men as the Rishees in the

past, and if, as my friend believes, there may be a few of them

still in existence, then the trouble of locating them might be

balanced by the reward of learning something of their wisdom.

Peradventure, I might then gain an understanding and content

which life has so far denied me. Even if I fail in such a quest,

the journey will not be a vain one. For those queer men, the

Yogis, with their magic, their mysterious practices and their

strange mode of living, excite my curiosity and arouse my

interest. The journalistic grindstone has sharpened to an

abnormal keenness my concern with the unusual. I am fascin-

ated by the prospect of exploring such little-known trails. I

decide to carry out my fancy to its full proportions and, when

opportunity allows, take the first boat to India.

My dark-skinned friend, who has thus clinched and rendered

final this determination to trek towards the rising sun, con-

tinues to receive me at his house for several months. He assists

me to take my bearings upon the swirling ocean of life, though

he always refuses to act as a pilot across the uncharted waters

which stretch ahead of me. To discover one's position, to be

made aware of latent possibilities, and to get one's vague ideas

clarified, is nevertheless of indubitable value to a young man.

It is not amiss, then, if I pay my meed of gratitude to that early

benefactor of mine. For a dark day comes when fate spins its

wheel once again, and we part. Within a few years I hear,

seemingly by accident, of his death.

Time and circumstance are not ready for my journey.

Ambition and desire lure a man into responsibilities from which

it is not easy to extricate himself. I can do little more than

resign myself to the life which hems me in, and watch and wait.

I never lose my faith in the Indian's prophecy. One day it

is strengthened by an unexpected confirmation.

Professional work throws me for several months into frequent

contact with a man for whom I entertain a high respect and

friendly regard. He is exceedingly astute and knows human

nature through every letter of its alphabet. Many years earlier

he held the post of Professor of Psychology at one of our

universities, but an academic life was not to his taste. He

deserted it for pastures where he could put his amazing range

of knowledge to more practical use. For a time he acted as

adviser to magnates of the business world. How often has he

boasted of drawing several retaining fees from the chiefs of

large firms!

He is born with the remarkable gift of inspiring others to

A PRELUDE TO THE QUEST 33

their best endeavours. Every person he meets - from office

boy to millionaire magnate - finds practical help and new

enthusiasm from the contact; sometimes they receive golden

advice. I make it a practice to take careful note of any counsel

he gives me, for his foresight and insight usually receive

startling verification in both business and personal matters.

I enjoy his company because he has succeeded in fusing the

elements of introspection and extrospection in his own nature,

with the result that he can talk profound philosophy one minute

and deal with a commercial report the next. Withal he is

never dull, always witty and radiating good-humour.

He admits me into the circle of intimate friendship and,

sometimes, we spend several hours at a time in mingled work

and pleasure. I never tire of listening to his talk, for its

latitude of subject enthrals me. I wonder often that one small

head can carry all he knows!

One night we go out to dine together in a little Bohemian

restaurant where pleasantly shaded lights and nicely cooked

food accompany each other. After the meal we find a full

moon resplendent in the heavens, and tempted by the witchery

of its poetic light, decide to walk homewards.

The conversation has been somewhat light and frivolous for

most of the evening, but as we walk on through the city's

quieter streets, it drifts into philosophical depths. The close

of our nocturnal peregrination finds us discussing subjects so

abstruse that some of my companion's clients would take fright

at the mere sound of the names. Outside his door, he turns

and proffers a hand in farewell. As he grips mine, he suddenly

addresses me in grave tones and says slowly:

"You ought never to have entered this profession. You are

really a philosopher caught up in the ink-slinging business of

writing. Why did you not become a university don and spend

your life in secluded research? For you like to put on those

carpet slippers of yours and walk around inside your brain.

You are trying to reach the very source of the mind. One day

you will go out to the Yogis of India, to the Lamas of Tibet and

the Zen monks of Japan. Then you will write some strange

records. Good n i g h t ! "

"What do you think of these Yogis?"

The other man bends his head towards mine and half-

whispers in my ear:

"My friend, they know, they know! "

I walk away greatly puzzled. This Eastern journey is not

likely to happen for a long time ahead. I am sinking deeper and

34 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

deeper into a maze of activities from which escape becomes

proportionately more difficult. For a while pessimism seizes

me. Am I not doomed by destiny to remain imprisoned in this

maze of private bonds and personal ambitions?

Yet my guess at the unseen writ is wrong. Fate issues its

orders every day, and though we are not literate enough to be

able to read them, nevertheless we unconsciously move about

to obey! Before twelve months pass I find myself disembarking

at Alexandra Dock, Bombay; mingling with the motley life of

that Eastern city, and listening to the weird medley of Asiatic

tongues which contribute to its cacophony!

CHAPTER III

A MAGICIAN OUT OF EGYPT

IT is a singular fact - and perhaps a significant one - that

before I can begin to try my luck in this strange quest,

fortune herself comes in quest of me. I have not even

taken the tourist's privilege of exploring the show places of

Bombay. All I know of the city can be comfortably written

down on a postcard. My trunks, save one, remain in a sedate,

unpacked condition. My sole activity consists in an attempt

to familiarize myself with my surroundings in the Hotel

Majestic, which a shipboard acquaintance had described as

one of the most comfortable hotels in the city. It is through

this activity, then, that I make a startling discovery. For,

staying as a fellow guest of the hotel, I find a member of the

magician's fraternity, a weaver of strange spells, in short, a

wonder-worker in the flesh!

Not that he is one of those juggling fellows, mind you, who

make their own and theatres' fortunes by bewildering jaded

audiences. He is not some clever individual attempting to

emulate the feats of Maskelyne and Devant in a less prosaic

environment than that of Regent Street. N o ! This man

belongs to the line of medieval sorcerers. He engages daily in

commerce with mysterious beings, invisible to normal human

eyes, but plain enough to his own! Such, at least, is the

peculiar reputation which he has created. The hotel staff

regard him with fearful looks and speak of him with bated

breath. Whenever he passes by, the other guests instinctively

break off conversation and a puzzled, questioning look comes

into their eyes. He makes no overtures to them and usually

insists on dining alone.

What makes him more intriguing in our eyes is that he

bears neither European nor Indian nationality; he is a traveller

from the country of the Nile; in very sooth, a magician out

of Egypt!

It is not easy for me to reconcile the appearance of Mahmoud

35

36 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

Bey with the sinister powers with which he has been credited.

Instead of the stern visage and lean body which I look for, I

observe a good-looking smiling face, a well-built figure with

massive shoulders and the quick walk of a man of action.

Instead of the white robe or voluminous cloak, he is sprucely

dressed in well-fitting, modern clothes. He looks like a hand-

some Frenchman, such as one might see any evening in the

better restaurants of Paris.

I ruminate upon the matter for the rest of the day. Next

morning, I wake up with a clear-cut decision. Mahmoud Bey

must be forthwith interviewed. I shall "get his story," as

my fellow scribes of the Press might say.

I write a few lines, expressive of my desire, on the back of a

visiting card and then, in the right-hand corner, I draw in

tiny characters a certain symbol which will indicate that I am

not unfamiliar with the traditional side of his mysterious art

and which, I hope, may help me to obtain an interview. I

slip the card into the hand of a soft-footed servant, add a

silver rupee, and send him up to the magician's room.

Five minutes later the response arrives: "Mahmoud Bey

will see you at once, sir. He is just about to take breakfast

and invites you to join him."

This first success encourages me. The servant leads the

way upstairs and I find Mahmoud Bey seated at a table

whereon there is tea and toast and jam. The Egyptian does

not rise to greet me. Instead, he points to a chair opposite

him and says, in a firm, resonant voice:

"Please be seated. Excuse me, but I never shake hands."

He wears a loose grey dressing-gown. There is a leonine

mane of brown hair on his head. A curling lock strays over

his forehead. His teeth flash white in a charming smile as

he asks:

"You will share my breakfast, e h ? "

I thank him. Over the cups I inform him of the awe-

inspired reputation which belongs to him in the hotel, and of

the prolonged meditation in which I have indulged before

having the temerity to approach him. He laughs heartily and

half raises a hand into the air, as a gesture of helplessness, but

says nothing.

After a pause, he asks: "Are you representing any p a p e r ? "

" N o . I have come to India on a private mission - to

study some out-of-the-way things, and possibly make a few

notes for literary work."

"Will you stay here l o n g ? "

A MAGICIAN OUT OF EGYPT 37

" T h a t depends on circumstances. I have fixed no period,"

I answer, with a queer feeling that the affair is becoming a

case of the interviewer interviewed. But his next words

reassure m e :

" I , too, am here on an extended visit. Possibly one year,

possibly two years. After that, I am off for the Far East. I

would like to see the world and then return home to Egypt,

if Allah permits."

The servant enters and clears the table after we have finished.

I feel that it is time to plunge into deeper water.

" I s it true that you possess these magical powers?" I

question him, pointedly.

Calmly and confidently, he says: " Y e s ! Allah, the All-

Powerful, has granted me such powers."

I hesitate. His dark grey eyes gaze fixedly at me.

"You would like me to demonstrate them, I believe?"

he asks, suddenly.

He has correctly gauged my desire. I nod assent.

" Very well. Have you a pencil and some p a p e r ? "

I hastily feel in a pocket for my notebook, tear out a page,

and then produce a pencil.

"Good," he remarks. "Now please write some question

on the paper." With that he withdraws and sits at a small

table in the window recess. He half turns his back upon me

and looks down into the street below. Several feet of space

now separate us.

"What kind of question?" I query.

"Anything you wish," he replies promptly.

My brain plays with a few thoughts. Finally, I write down

a brief question. It i s : "Where did I live four years a g o ? "

"Now fold the paper repeatedly until it forms a tiny square,"

he instructs me. " L e t it be the smallest possible fold."

I obey him. Thereupon he draws his chair back to my table

and faces me once again.

"Please clench the piece of paper, together with the pencil,

in the palm of your right hand."

I hold the articles tightly clutched. The Egyptian closes

his eyes. He appears to fall into a profound concentration.

Then the heavy lids open once more, the grey eyes look

steadily at me, and he quietly says:

" T h e question which you asked - was it not, 'Where did

I live four years a g o ? ' "

"You are correct," I reply, astonished. This is a case of

mind reading extraordinary!

38 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

"Now, please unfold the piece of paper in your hand," his

voice breaks in.

I place the tiny scrap upon the surface of the table and

slowly open out its many folds until the paper lies flat, extended

to its original size.

"Examine i t ! " commands the other man. I do so and make

a surprising discovery. For some unseen hand has written in

pencil the name of the town where I lived four years ago. The

answer has been placed immediately beneath the written

question.

Mahmoud Bey smiles triumphantly.

"There is the answer. Is it correct?" he demands.

I give a wondering assent, for I am baffled. The feat hardly

seems credible. As a test, I ask him to repeat it. He readily

agrees and moves away to the window while I write down a

further question. Thus he avoids any possible accusation of

being close enough to read my writing. Besides, I watch him

carefully and note that his eyes are set upon the colourful scene

in the street below.

Once again I fold the paper and clutch it tightly against the

pencil which is in my hand. He returns to the table and

plunges again into close concentration, his eyes fast shut.

Then come the words :

"Your second question - 'What journal did I edit two years

a g o ? ' "

He has given my query quite accurately. Thought-reading

again, I presume.

Once more he requests me to unfold the tiny scrap in my

right hand. I place it flat on the table and it reveals to my

astounded gaze the name of the journal in question, clumsily

written in pencil!

Conjuring? I dismiss the suggestion as absurd. The paper

and pencil were supplied from my own pockets, the questions

were unpremeditated, while Mahmoud Bey has scrupulously

put several feet between us at each writing. Moreover, the

entire feat has been performed in the morning daylight.

Hypnotism? I have studied the subject and know well

when any attempt at undue influence is being made. I know

equally how to guard against it. And the mysteriously added

words still remain on the paper.1

1 T h e scrap of paper remained in my possession for several

months, and the writing did not disappear during the whole of that

time. I showed it to two or three persons who readily identified the

added answers. It is therefore evident that the experience had not

been a hallucination.

A MAGICIAN OUT OF EGYPT 39

I am baffled again. For a third time I request the Egyptian

to repeat the experiment, and he agrees to a final test. From

this, too, he emerges completely successful.

The facts cannot be gainsaid. He has read my mind (as

I believe); he has somehow, by some inexplicable magic,

caused certain words to be written by an invisible hand upon a

piece of paper which I clutch tightly in my hand; and, finally,

those words form correct replies to my question.

What is the strange process he uses?

As I ponder over the matter, I feel the presence of uncanny

forces. To the normal mind, the thing is incredible. It is

something alien and apart from sane existence. My heart

almost stands still with a sense of eeriness.

"Have you men in England who can do t h i s ? " he asks,

half boastfully.

I am compelled to admit that I know of none who can

perform the feat under similar test conditions, though several

professional conjurers can doubtless perform it if allowed to

use their own paraphernalia.

"Would you care to explain your methods?" I inquire

weakly, fearing that in asking him to reveal his secrets I am

asking for the moon.

He shrugs his broad shoulders.

"I have been offered large sums of money to give my

secrets away, but I do not intend to do so yet."

"You are aware that I am not entirely ignorant of the

psychic side of things?" I venture.

"Assuredly. If I ever come to Europe - which is quite

possible - you may be able to render certain services to me.

In that case, I promise to train you in my methods so that you

could do the same things, if you wish."

"How long does the training l a s t ? "

" T h a t would differ with different persons. If you

worked hard and gave the whole of your time to it,

three months would be enough to get an understanding

of the methods, but after that years of practice may be

required."

"Can you not explain the broad basis of your feats, the

theoretical side alone, without explaining your secrets?" I

persist.

Mahmoud Bey muses over my query for a while.

"Yes, I am willing to do that for you," he answers softly.

I feel for my shorthand book, draw it out of a pocket, and

poise the pencil in readiness to take notes.

40 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

" N o , please. Not this morning," he protests, smiling.

"I am busy; you must excuse me now. Come here to-morrow

at one hour before noon, and we shall continue our talk."

§

Precisely at the appointed time I sit again in Mahmoud

Bey's room. He pushes a box of Egyptian cigarettes over the

table towards me. I pick one out and, as he proffers the light,

he remarks:

"These come from my native country. They are good."

We lean back in our chairs, puffing a few preliminary whiffs.

The smoke is fragrant, aromatic; certainly these cigarettes

are excellent indeed.

" S o I must now describe my theories, as your English

friends would call them; to me they are certainties." Mah-

moud Bey laughs good-naturedly. " Perhaps you will be

surprised to hear that I am a man expert in scientific agriculture

and that I hold diplomas in the subject? " he adds irrelevantly.

I begin to scribble a note.

" T h a t does not seem to fit in with my - shall we say,

interest in magic, I know," he continues. I look up at him and

notice a smile hovering around his lips. He gazes back at me.

There is a good " s t o r y " in this man, I reflect.

"But you are a journalist; probably you would like to know

how I became a magician, e h ? " he queries.

I express an eager assent.

" G o o d ! I was born in an interior province, but brought up

in Cairo. Let me tell you that I was just a normal boy, with

the usual interests which schoolboys possess. I was very keen

on making agriculture my profession, so I attended the Govern-

ment Agricultural College for that purpose. I worked hard at

my studies and went on with them most enthusiastically.

" O n e day an old man took an apartment in the house

where I lived. He was a Jew, with bushy eyebrows and a long

grey beard, and his face was always grave and serious. He

seemed to be living in the past century, for he wore very old-

fashioned clothes. His manner was so reserved that the other

inhabitants of the house were kept at a distance. Strangely

enough, instead of having the same effect upon me, this

mysterious reserve piqued my interest. Being young, self-

assertive and utterly without a trace of shyness, I persistently

strove to make his acquaintance. At first he rebuffed me, but

A MAGICIAN OUT OF EGYPT 41

that only added fuel to the fire of my curiosity. Eventually,

he gave way to my constant attempts to engage him in con-

versation. He opened his doors to me and permitted me to

enter his life. Thus I came to learn that he spent much of his

time in strange studies and weird practices. In short, he

confessed to me that he was making researches into the super-

natural side of things.

"Imagine i t ! Hitherto my life had run along the even

channel of youthful study and healthy sport. Now, I was

forced abruptly face to face with a totally different kind of

existence. And it appealed to me. The thought of the super-

natural did not frighten me, as no doubt it would have done

other boys. Really, it thrilled me because I saw the possi-

bilities of great adventures opening up through it. I begged

the old Jew to teach me something about the subject, and he

yielded to my desire. In this way I was brought into a new

circle of interests and friends. The Jew took me with him to

a society in Cairo which conducted practical investigations,

into magic, spiritualism, theosophy and the occult. He often

delivered lectures to them. The group was composed of

society people, learned savants, Government officials and other

persons of good standing.

"Although I had only just reached manhood, I was permitted

to accompany the old man to every meeting of the society. On

each occasion I listened eagerly; my ears drank in every word

of the talk around me; my eyes watched with keen fascination

the strange experiments which were so often made. Of course,

it was inevitable that my technical studies in agriculture were

neglected, so that more time could be given to the researches

into supernatural matters. However, I had a natural genius

for the former studies and scraped through my diploma

examinations without difficulty.

"I studied the musty old books which the Jew lent me, and

practised the magical rituals and other exercises which he

taught me. I made such quick progress that I began to

discover things which he himself did not know. At length, I

became acknowledged as an expert in these arts. I delivered

lectures and gave demonstrations to the Cairo Society, until its

members appointed me as its President. For twelve years I

remained its leader. Then I resigned, because I wanted to

leave Egypt and travel to certain countries - and, incidentally, to

acquire a fortune!''

Mahmoud Bey stops speaking; his carefully manicured fingers,

which I have not failed to observe, flick the ash from his cigarette.

42 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

"A difficult t a s k ! "

He smiles. " F o r me it will be easy. I need only a few

clients among the super-rich who wish to make use of my

magical powers. Already I am known to certain wealthy

Parsees and rich Hindus. They come here to consult me

about their problems or troubles, or they wish to discover

certain things which elude them, or they want information

which is only to be procured by occult means. I charge them

high fees, naturally. One hundred rupees is my minimum.

Frankly, I want to make a lot of money and then throw the

whole thing up and retire to some quiet interior province in

Egypt. I will buy a large orange-grove plantation and take up

my agricultural work once again."

" D i d you come here direct from Egypt "

" N o - I spent some time in Syria and Palestine, after leaving

Cairo. The Syrian police officers heard of my powers and

occasionally asked me to help them. Whenever they were

puzzled by some crime, they used my services as a last resource.

Almost always I succeeded in finding the criminal for them."

"How were you able to do t h a t ? "

" T h e inner secrets of the crimes were revealed to me by my

attendant spirits, who created a vision of the scenes before my

eyes."

Mahmoud Bey relapses for a minute into reminiscent

thought. I wait patiently for his next words.

"Yes, I suppose you could call me a practising Spiritualist

of a sort, since I do invoke the aid of spirits," he goes on.

" B u t I am also what you call a magician in the real sense - not

a conjurer - as well as a thought reader. I do not claim to be

anything more than this."

His claim is sufficiently startling to require no further

additions!

"Please tell me something about your invisible employees,"

I ask him.

" T h e spirits? Well, it took me three years of difficult

practice to get my present control of them. You see, in the

other world which exists outside our material senses, there are

bad as well as good spirits. I try to use good spirits only.

Some of them are human beings who have passed through

what the world calls death, but most of my attendants are jinns

- that is, native inhabitants of the spirit world who have never

possessed a human body. Some of them are just like animals,

others are as shrewd as men. There are also evil jinns - we call

them jinns in Egypt and I do not know any suitable English

A MAGICIAN OUT OF EGYPT

43

word for them - who are used by low sorcerers, especially by

the African witch doctors. I refuse to have anything to do with

them. They are dangerous servants and will sometimes turn

treacherously on the man who is using them and kill him."

" Who are these human spirits you employ?"

"I can tell you that one of them is my own brother. He

' d i e d ' some years ago. But remember - I am not a Spiritualist

medium, for no spirit ever enters my body or is allowed to

control me in any way. My brother communicates with me by

impressing upon my mind whatever thought he wishes, or by

bringing a picture-vision before my mind's eye. That is how

I knew the questions you wrote down yesterday."

"And the jinns?"

"I have as many as thirty at my command. Even after

obtaining mastery over them, I had to train them how to do my

bidding, just as you train children to dance. I have to know

the name of each one, because you cannot bring or use them

without knowing their names. Some of these names I learned

from the musty old books which the Jew lent me."

Mahmoud Bey pushes the cigarette-box towards me again,

and then continues:

"I have given each spirit a particular duty; each one is

trained to do a separate work. Thus, the jinns who produced

the pencil-written words on your piece of paper yesterday

would be quite unable to help me discover the nature of your

questions."

"How do you get into contact with these spirits?" is my

next query.

"I can call them to me very quickly merely by concentrating

in thought upon them, but in practice I usually write down in

Arabic the name of the spirit required; that is sufficient to

bring it to me almost at once."

The Egyptian looks at his watch. He rises and says:

"And now, my friend, I regret to say that I cannot give you

any further explanation of my methods. Perhaps you will now

understand why I must keep them secret. We may meet again

one day, if Allah wills. Good-bye."

He flashes his teeth in a smile as he bows. The interview is

at an end.

§

Night in Bombay. I go to bed late, but not to sleep. The

heavy air suffocates m e ; it seems to contain no oxygen; and

44 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

its heat is intolerable. The whirring blades of an electric fan

which hangs from the ceiling bring little relief, certainly not

sufficient to induce my weary eyes to close. I find that the

simple act of breathing is a distinct labour. The air is hot

enough to hurt my inexperienced lungs with every dilation.

My wretched body becomes flaccid and drips a continuous

stream of perspiration which my pyjamas soak up. Worse, my

oppressed brain finds no rest. The devil of insomnia enters

my life this night and is destined to haunt me until the day when

my shoes tread Indian soil for the last time. I have begun to

pay the inevitable price of acclimatization to the tropical world.

A mosquito net hangs around my bed like a white shroud.

Through a tall window which opens on the veranda balcony

the moonlight comes streaming and casts eerie shadows on the

pale ceiling.

Musing over the morning's talk with Mahmoud Bey and the

astounding phenomena of the previous day, I seek for some

explanation other than that he has given me, but can find none.

If those thirty or more mysterious servitors of his really exist,

then one is back in the medieval period when - assuming legend

does not always lie - magicians flourished in every city of Europe,

though often hindered in their dark work by Church and State.

The more I seek for an explanation, the more I retreat

baffled.

Why had Mahmoud Bey instructed me to hold the pencil

simultaneously with the piece of paper? Did his alleged spirits

draw some constituent atoms from the lead to enable them to

write the answers?

I cast about in memory for instances of similar feats. Does

not the famous Venetian voyager, Marco Polo, relate somewhere

in his book of travel how he came across certain magicians in

China, Tartary and Tibet and how they were able to perform

pencil writing without contact? And did not those wizards

inform him that this weird art was known and practised among

their people since centuries before?

I remember, too, that Helena Petrovna Blavatsky, the enig-

matic Russian lady who founded the Theosophical Society,

produced somewhat parallel phenomena fifty years ago.

Certain favoured members of her society received somewhat

lengthy messages through her agency. They propounded

philosophical questions and the replies were scrawled -

precipitated, she called it - upon the actual letter paper bearing

the questions! It is curious that Mme Blavatsky claimed

intimate acquaintance with both Tartary and Tibet, the very

A MAGICIAN OUT OF EGYPT 45

lands where Marco Polo met with the same phenomena. Yet

Mme Blavatsky did not claim to control any mysterious

spirits, as Mahmoud Bey had done. Her assertion was that the

mysterious writings emanated from her Tibetan masters, who

lived in the flesh and lurked unseen as the inspirers of her

society. Apparently they were better hands at the feat than

the Egyptian, for they produced such writings hundreds of

miles away from Tibet. There had been much dispute at the

time whether the Russian lady's phenomena were really

genuine, and whether her Tibetan teachers really existed.

But that is not my concern, for that brilliant woman has long

since gone to the other world in which she seemed so much at

home while yet here. I know my own experience and what

I have witnessed with my own eyes. I must accept the genuine-

ness of the performance, even if I reserve its explanation.

Yes, Mahmoud Bey is a magician, a twentieth-century wizard.

My discovery of him so soon after landing on Indian earth

seems to be a herald, apt and prophetic, of even stranger

discoveries yet. Metaphorically, I have cut the first notch in

my stick of Indian experience. Actually, I have put down the

first note on the virgin white sheets of my note-book.

CHAPTER IV

I MEET A MESSIAH

"I AM pleased to see y o u " is the somewhat conventional

greeting with which I am received by Meher Baba. He

is destined, had I but known it, to flash like a meteorite

across the Western sky and to rouse the curiosity of millions of

people in Europe and America. Moreover, like a meteorite, he

will fall ingloriously to earth. I am the first Western journalist

to interview him, for I track him down to his Indian abode

when he is almost unknown to more than local fame.

I have become acquainted with one of his chief disciples,

and, after some correspondence, wonder what manner of man

has joined the ranks of self-appointed deliverers of mankind.

Two Parsee disciples come to Bombay to escort me. Before we

leave the city, they inform me that it is necessary to make a

present of choice flowers and fruits to their master. So we

proceed to the bazaar and they collect a large hamper of these

commodities on my behalf.

Our train arrives at Ahmednagar next morning, after travel-

ling through the night. I remember it as the historical place

where the cruel Emperor Aurungzeeb, Preserver of the Faith

and Ornament of the Moghul Throne, stroked his heavy beard

for the last time, for Death caught him here in his tent.

A rackety old war-time Ford car, which does duty for the

transport needs of Meher Baba's retreat, waits for us at the

station. The seven-mile run which follows takes us through

flat country. An avenue of neem trees lines part of the road.

We pass a village whose huddled brown roofs rise against the

elaborate little spire of the local temple. Then I sight a stream,

whose banks are lined with pink and yellow flowers, and in

whose muddy water buffaloes are blissfully resting.

We arrive at Meher Baba's curious colony, which is spread

out in scattered erections. Three odd-looking stone structures,

which I learn later are the remnants of a dismantled army camp

site, stand in a field. Three plain wooden bungalows stand in

46

I MEET A MESSIAH 47

an adjacent one. A quarter of a mile away is a little village whose

name is given as Arangaon. The whole place presents a bare

appearance and seems half deserted. My Parsee escorts are at

pains to inform me that this is only the country headquarters of

their master, and that his principal centre is near the town of

Nasik, where the majority of his intimate disciples reside and

where visitors are usually received.

A few men emerge from one of the bungalows as we pass.

They lounge on the veranda, smile, gesticulate, and seem

pleased at the arrival of a European in their midst. We cross

a field and reach a queer-looking structure, which is nothing

less than an artificial cave. It is built of stones and rubble

cemented together and is about eight feet deep. It faces due

south and receives the bright morning sunlight full into its

interior. I look around and see the rolling expanse of fields,

the ring of hills which bounds the horizon on the east, and the

tree-shaded village down in a hollow. This Parsee holy man

is doubtless a great lover of Nature, for he has set his retreat

in a scene of aloof, untroubled peace. I am, indeed, glad to

find such a quiet backwater after the whirl of Bombay life.

Two men stand on guard like sentries outside the cave's

entrance. They move at our approach and go inside to consult

their master. " P u t out your cigarette," whispers one of my

escorts, "Baba does not like smoking." I throw the offending

cigarette away. A minute later I an: conducted into the august

presence of the so-called "new messiah."

He squats at the far end of the cave, the entire floor of which

is covered with a beautifully patterned Persian rug. He proves

to be somewhat different from the person I have imagined. His

eyes do not penetrate me, his facial expression lacks strength,

and although I am aware of something ascetic, unworldly and

gentle in his atmosphere, I wonder why I feel no responsive

thrill, such as one may reasonably expect to feel in the presence

of one who proposes to win the allegiance of millions of

people.

He is clothed in a long, spotless white robe, which looks

ludicrously like an old-fashioned English nightshirt! His

amiable and kindly face is framed in chestnut-coloured hair,

which falls in long curly waves to his neck. I am struck by the

soft, silky texture of the hair, which is remarkably like the hair

of a woman. His nose rises into arched prominence and then

descends into aquiline depth. The eyes are dark, medium

sized and clear, but I find them unimpressive. A heavy brown

moustache stretches across his upper lip. The light-tinted

48 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

olive skin betrays his Persian origin, for his father hails from

the land of the Shahs. Withal he is young, apparently some-

where in the thirties. A final feature which remains in memory

is his forehead. It is so low as to appear less than average

height, and it is so receding as to make me wonder. Do brain

areas carry qualitative significance? Does a man's forehead

indicate his powers of thought? But possibly a messiah is

above such physical limitations!

" I am pleased to see you," he remarks, but not, mind you,

in the usual manner of human speech. For he holds a small

alphabet board upon his lap and points rapidly with his index

finger to one letter after another. As the words are spelt out

in this dumb pantomime manner, his secretary interprets them

aloud for my benefit.

Since the tenth of July, 1925, the holy man has not

uttered a single word. His younger brother tells me that

when the new messiah breaks into speech, his message will

startle the world! Meanwhile, he adopts a pose of strict

silence.

Still fingering the board, Meher Baba makes some kindly

inquiries into my personal well-being, asks questions about my

life, and expresses his gratification at my interest in India.

He possesses an excellent knowledge of English, so there is no

necessity to translate my speech. He postpones till the late

afternoon the lengthy interview which I request. "Food and

rest are your immediate needs," he says, or rather,

communicates.

I adjourn to one of the stone structures. It possesses a

bare gloomy interior, but contains an old bedstead without

bedding, a ramshackle table and a chair which might have

rendered good service during the Indian Mutiny. Here I am

to make my home for nearly a week. I peer through the

glassless window and am rewarded by a view of sparse,

untilled fields stretching away into scrub bush dotted with

cactus.

Four hours creep lethargically around my watch. Once

again I sit upon the Persian rug, face to face with Meher Baba,

whose colossal claim that he is destined to give spiritual light

and practical leading to the whole of mankind, I have yet to

investigate.

He puts this claim into the first sentence which he flicks out

on the alphabet board.

"I shall change the history of the whole world I"

My note-taking disturbs him, however.

I MEET A MESSIAH 49

"Can you not make your notes after you leave m e ? "

I agree, and henceforth inscribe his words upon the pages

of memory.

"As Jesus came to impart spirituality to a materialistic age,

so have I come to impart a spiritual push to present-day

mankind. There is always a fixed time for such divine work-

ings, and when the hour is ripe I shall reveal my true nature

to the entire world. The great teachers of religion - Jesus,

Buddha, Muhammed and Zoroaster - do not differ in their

essential doctrines. All these prophets came from God. The

chief commandments run through all their teachings like a

golden thread. These divine ones came out into public

when their help was most needed, when spirituality was at

its lowest ebb and materialism was apparently everywhere

victorious. Such a time we are fast approaching at present.

The whole world is now enmeshed in sensual desires, in racial

selfishness and money worship. God is forsaken. True

religion is abused; man seeks life and the priests usually give

him a stone. God, therefore, must send his true prophet

among men once again to establish true worship and to awaken

people out of their materialistic stupor. I but follow in the

line of those earlier prophets; this is my mission. God has

given me a mandate."

I listen quietly while the secretary voices these amazing

assertions. I keep my mind open, uncritical, and offer no

mental resistance. This is not to say that I accept them,

however, but that I am aware one must know how to listen

among these Orientals. Otherwise a Westerner will get little

for his pains, even where there might be something worthy of

acceptance. Truth can stand a ruthless investigation, but the

methods of the Occident must be modified to suit the mental

atmosphere of the Orient.

Meher Baba smiles genially at me, and then proceeds:

" T h e prophets lay down certain rules and regulations to

help the masses lead better lives and to incline them towards

God. Gradually these rules become the tenets of an organized

religion, but the idealistic spirit and motive force which prevail

during the founder's lifetime, disappear gradually after his

death. That is why organizations cannot bring spiritual truth

nearer and why true religion is always a personal concern.

Religious organizations become like archaeological departments

trying to resuscitate the past. Therefore I shall not attempt

to establish any new religion, cult or organization. But I shall

rejuvenate the religious thought of all peoples, instil a higher

50 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

understanding of life into them. Dogmas invented centuries

after the founder's death, frequently differ startlingly, but the

fundamentals of all religions are really the same, because all

issue from the same source - God. Therefore, when I appear

publicly I shall run down no existing religion, but then I shall

not uphold any special one. I want to turn men's minds away

from sectarian differences, so that they will agree on essential

truths. Remember though, that every prophet considers the

times, the circumstances and the prevailing mentality of

the people before his public manifestation. He therefore

preaches doctrines best understood and best suited to such

conditions."

Meher Baba pauses for a while to let these exalted ideas soak

into my head, and then his words take a new turn.

"Have you not noticed how all the nations have been

brought into quick communication with each other during this

modern epoch? Do you not see how railways, steamships,

telephones, cables, wireless and newspapers have caused the

whole world to become a closely-woven unit? An important

event which happens in one country is made known within a

day to the people of a country ten thousand miles away. There-

fore a man who wishes to deliver an important message can

find almost the whole of mankind as a ready audience. For all

that there is a sound reason. The time is soon coming to

give mankind a universal spiritual belief which shall serve

all races of people and all countries. In other words, the

way is being prepared to enable me to deliver a world-wide

message!"

This breath-taking announcement indicates sufficiently that

Meher Baba possesses an unlimited faith in his own future, and

indeed, his whole manner confirms it. In his own estimation,

his stock will one day stand at infinitely more than par!

" B u t when shall you tell the world about your mission?"

I ask.

"I shall break my silence and deliver my message only

when there is chaos and confusion everywhere, for then I shall

be most needed; when the world is rocking in upheavals -

earthquakes, floods and volcanic eruptions; when both East

and West are aflame with war. Truly the whole world must

suffer, for the whole world must be redeemed."

"Do you know the date of this w a r ? "

"Yes. It is not far off. But I do not wish to reveal the

date."1

1 See also Chapter XIV.

I MEET A MESSIAH 51

"That is a terrible prophecy!" I exclaim.

Meher Baba spreads out his thin tapering fingers

apologetically.

" I t is. The war will be terrible in its nature because

scientific ingenuity will make it more intense than the last

war. However, it will last only a short time - a few months -

and at its worst I shall make myself publicly known and

declare my mission to the entire world. By my material

efforts and spiritual powers, I shall speedily bring the conflict

to an abrupt end, thus restoring peace to all the nations. Yet

great natural changes must take place on this planet simul-

taneously. Life and property in different parts of the globe

will suffer. If I play the role of a messiah it will be because

world conditions require it. Be assured that I shall not leave

my spiritual work undone."

His secretary, a short dusky-faced man who wears the round

black cap of the Mahratta people, looks at me impressively

after he finishes speaking the last word. The expression on his

face seems to say: " T h e r e ! how do you like that! You see

what important things we know h e r e ! "

His master's fingers begin to move over the board once more,

and he hastens to tell me their new import.

"After the war will come a long era of unique peace, a time

of world tranquillity. Disarmament will then no longer be a

matter of mere talk, but an actual fact. Racial and communal

strife will cease; sectarian hatred between religious organi-

zations will come to an end. I shall travel widely throughout

the world and the nations will be eager to see me. My spiritual

message will reach every land, every town, every village even.

Universal brotherhood; peace among men; sympathy for

the poor and downtrodden; love of God - I shall promote

these things."

"What of India - your own country?"

" I n India I shall not rest till the pernicious caste system is

uprooted and destroyed. India became depressed in the scale

of nations with the establishment of caste. When the out-

castes and lower castes are elevated, India will find herself to

be one of the influential countries of the world."

"And what of her future?"

"Despite its faults, India is still the most spiritual country

in the world. The future will find it the moral leader of all the

nations. All the great founders of religions were born in the

East, and it is to the East that the peoples must continue to look

for spiritual light."

52 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

I try to visualize the great Western nations sitting at the feet

of the meek little brown men, but fail. Perhaps the white-robed

figure squatting in front of me grasps my difficulty, for he adds:

" T h e so-called subjection of India is not real subjection.

It is of the body, and therefore temporary. The soul of the

country is deathless and great, even if outwardly the nation

has lost its power."

This subtle explanation somewhat eludes my understanding.

I return to our earlier theme.

" W e in the West have heard most of the things in your

message from other sources. You have nothing new to tell

us, t h e n ? "

" M y words can only echo the old spiritual truths, but it is

my mystic power that will bring a new element into the world's

life."

Upon this point I seek to rest my brain. For a while there is

silence; I ask no more questions. I turn my head and gaze

out of the cave. Far across the quiet fields, a line of hills rises

in the distance. In the sky, a pitiless sun scorches man, beast

and earth alike. The minutes pass. In this secluded cave, in

this unending heat, surrounded by absorbent minds, it is easy

to weave grandiose schemes of world reformation, to possess

oneself of extravagant religious ideas. But out in the world of

reality, amid the hard life of materialistic cities, these things

would soon dissipate like mists before the dawning sun.

"Europe is hard, sceptical," I remark, turning and looking

at the new messiah. " H o w are you going to convince us that

you speak with real divine authority? How can you convert

unfamiliar peoples to your brand of spiritual belief? The

average Westerner will tell you that it is impossible, and very

likely he will laugh at you for your pains."

"Ah, you do not realize how changed the times will be."

Meher Baba strokes his pale slender hands. And then he

adds some astounding claims, which sound fantastic to Western

ears, yet his manner is quite matter-of-fact.

"Once I publicly announce myself as a messiah, nothing

will be able to withstand my power. I shall openly work

miracles in proof of my mission at the same time. Restoring

sight to the blind, healing the sick, maimed and crippled, yes,

even raising the dead - these things will be child's play to me!

I shall work these miracles because through them people will

everywhere be forced to believe in me, and then believe in my

message. These wonders will not be done to satisfy idle

curiosity, but to convince the sceptically minded."

I MEET A MESSIAH 53

I hold my breath. The interview has reached the boundary

of common sense. My mind begins to falter. We are entering

the region of Oriental fantasy.

"Make no mistake, however," continues the Parsee messiah.

"I tell my disciples that these miracles are to be done only for

the masses, not for them. I should not care to perform a single

wonder, but I know that this will turn the minds of common

people to my words. If I shall astonish the peoples of the world

with these feats, it will be only because I wish to spiritualize

them."

"Baba has already done marvellous things," breaks in the

secretary.

I am instantly alert.

"Such as ?" I demand quickly.

The master smiles self-deprecatingly.

"Tell him another time, Vishnu," he communicates." I

can perform any miracle when necessary. It is easy to one who

has reached my divine state."

I make a mental note to buttonhole the secretary on the

morrow and get some details of these reputed marvels. They

will form an interesting part of my investigation. I come as a

circumspect inquirer and every kind of fact will make grist for

my mill.

There is another interlude of silence. I request the holy man

to give me certain information about his career.

"Tell him that also, Vishnu," he answers, directing me

again to his secretary. "You will have plenty of opportunity

to talk to my disciples, since you are staying here for a little

while. They can tell you about the past."

The talk drifts into the domain of general matters. Soon

after, our meeting disperses. The first thing I do on getting

back to my quarters is to light a cigarette, thus atoning for the

one forbidden me, and then watch its fragrant smoke rise

erratically upward.

§

I witness a curious spectacle in the early evening. The stars

have just begun to twinkle faintly, the day is not quite dead, and

in this queer half light a few oil lanterns glow palely. Meher

sits inside his cave while a motley crowd, composed of dis-

ciples, visitors and people from the nearby village of Arangaon,

gather in horseshoe fashion around the entrance.

A ceremony which is repeated every evening wherever

54 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

Meher may be at the time is about to take place. A devotee

holds aloft a shallow metal bowl which serves as a lamp, its wick

being dipped in oil which is strongly perfumed with sandal-

wood. He waves it seven times around the saintly head of his

master. The assembled audience thereupon break into a

vigorous chorus of chants and prayers. Through the in-

tonations of their Mahratti dialect, I catch the name of Baba

several times. It is obvious that the chants are hyperboles of

adulation for their master. Everyone looks at him with

adoring eyes. Meher's younger brother sits at a small portable

harmonium, and makes a wailing kind of music to accompany

the singers.

During the course of the ceremony, each devotee files up to

the cave in turn, prostrates himself before Meher and kisses

his uncovered feet. Some are so overwrought with pious

emotion that they prolong the act of osculation to a full minute!

I am told that this act is deemed extremely beneficial spirit-

ually, since it brings Meher's blessing upon the devotee and

automatically washes away some of his sins.

I walk back to my quarters, wondering what the next day will

bring forth. Somewhere across the fields and out in the jungle

a jackal bays and breaks the night's silence.

The next day I gather the secretary and some of the English-

speaking disciples outside one of their wooden bungalows. We

sit in a half circle. Those who do not understand English stand

a little distance away and watch us with smiling faces and

interested eyes. I proceed to extract from all these collective

minds and memories such facts about their amazing master's

career as I do not already know.

His personal name is Meher, but he calls himself Sadguru

Meher Baba. Sadguru means "perfect master," while Baba

is simply a term of affection in common use among some of the

Indian peoples, and it is by this name alone that his disciples

usually address him.

Meher Baba's father is a Persian1 who is an adherent of the

Zoroastrian creed, and who emigrated to India as a poor youth.

Meher was his first son and was born in 1894 at Poona City.

The boy was put to school at five, proved good at his studies,

and passed the matriculation examination at seventeen. He then

entered Deccan College in Poona and received a good modern

education for two years.

Now began the tortuous and incomprehensible phase of his

career. He was cycling back from school one evening and was

1 Hence the appellation Parsee.

I MEET A MESSIAH 55

about to pass the dwelling-place of a well-known Muhammedan

woman faqueer. Her name was Hazrat Babajan, and she was

reputed to be over a century old. She was reclining on a long

couch which stood upon a railed veranda outside her humble

wooden one-roomed house. When the cycle drew abreast of

her, the old woman rose and beckoned to the boy. He dis-

mounted and approached her. She clasped his hands and

embraced him and then kissed his forehead.

What happened afterwards is not very clear. I gathered that

the youth reached his home in a dazed mental state, and that

during the following eight months his mental faculties pro-

gressively weakened until he became unable to study properly.

In the end he had to bid a final farewell to his college, because

he could no longer follow his lessons.

Thereafter young Meher fell into a semi-idiotic condition

and was hardly able to look after himself. His eyes became dull

and lifeless, and he lacked the intelligence to perform the most

elementary duties of a human being, such as taking food, washing

oneself, attending to the calls of nature, and so on. When his

father said, " E a t ! " he took his food in a mechanical manner;

otherwise he did not understand why the food was put before

him. In short he became a human automaton.

A young man of twenty, whose parents have to care for him

like a child of three, seems a case of mental regression, and the

distracted father concluded that he had overworked his mind

while cramming for an examination. Meher was taken to

various doctors, who diagnosed mental breakdown and gave

him injections. In nine months' time improvement in his

lamentable condition set in and gradually increased, until he

was able to understand his environment intelligently and to act

more normally.

After his recovery it was discovered that his character had

changed. His scholastic ambitions were gone, his ambitions for

a worldly career had disappeared, while his interest in games

and sports had collapsed. All these things were replaced by a

deep thirst for the religious life and by a continuous aspiration

to spiritualize himself.

Because he believed that these changes took their root in the

kiss which the Mudammedan woman faqueer had bestowed on

him, Meher approached the old lady for advice about his

future. She directed him to find a spiritual teacher. He

inquired where this boon was to be obtained. She waved her

hand vaguely into space for reply.

He visited several holy men of repute in the locality. Then

56 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

he went farther afield to the villages within a hundred miles of

his native Poona. One day he walked into a little stone-built

temple near Sakori. It was a poor humble shrine but it was the

abode of a very holy man, or so the villagers said. And so, when

Meher came face to face with Upasani Maharaj, he felt that he

had found his master.

The young aspirant for holiness made periodic excursions

from home to Sakori. He usually spent a few days at a time

with his teacher, but once he remained for four months. Meher

asserts that during this period he was being perfected, made

ready for his mission. One evening he collected thirty of his old

schoolmates and boyhood friends, gave them mysterious hints

of an important meeting, and brought them to the little temple

in Sakori. The doors were locked and Upasani Maharaj, the

stern-looking holy man who lived there, rose and addressed the

gathering. He spoke to them about religion, told them to seek

virtue, informed them that he had made Meher the spiritual

inheritor of his own mystic powers and knowledge, and finally

announced to the surprised young men that Meher had

attained divine perfection! He strongly advised them to

become followers of their Parsee friend, for then they would

receive great spiritual benefit, both in this life and in that to

come.

Some of his listeners took his advice and others remained

sceptical. About a year later, when Meher had reached the age

of twenty-seven, the young Parsee announced to his small

flock that he had become conscious of a divine mission which

he was to carry out, and that God had given him a work of

colossal importance to mankind. He did not straightway reveal

the precise nature of that mission, but within a few years he let

the secret emerge. He was destined to become a messiah!

In 1924 Meher left India for the first time. He embarked on

a journey to Persia with a company of half a dozen disciples,

telling them that he would tour the country of his ancestors.

When the ship touched port at Bushire, he suddenly changed

his mind and left the place by the next homeward boat. Three

months later rebel forces captured Teheran, the Persian capital

and deposed the old regime. A new Shah came to the throne.

Meher Baba then turned to his followers and said:

" N o w you see the result of my mystic workings during my

visit to Persia!"

His disciples told me that Persia was a happier land under the

new ruler, and that Muhammedans, Zoroastrians, Jews and

Christians were living amicably together, whereas there had

I MEET A MESSIAH 57

been constant strife and cruel outrages among them under the

old regime.

Some years after this mysterious excursion, Meher Baba

began a curious educational institution. At his suggestion a

disciple purchased the colony's present site near the village of

Arangaon. Several rough bungalows were constructed, to-

gether with many thatch-and-pole huts. A free boarding school

was then declared open, the teachers being recruited from the

Parsee's educated disciples and the pupils from the families of

devotees or their friends. No fees were charged for tuition,

while even board and lodging were free. In addition to the

usual secular subjects, there was special instruction in un-

denominational religion by Meher himself.

On such attractive terms it was an easy matter to collect

nearly one hundred boys. A dozen of them arrived from dis-

tant Persia. The boys were taught the moral ideals which are

more or less common to most religions, and the life stories of

the great prophets were unfolded to them. The class on

religion gradually became the central feature of the curriculum

and Meher Baba led the older boys into a devotional mysticism

which appears to have been of a somewhat watery nature.

They were taught to regard him as a sacred personage, even to

worship him. A few boys began to manifest signs of religious

hysteria in the sequence. Strange scenes occurred among

them every few days.

A noticeable feature of this unusual school was that the pupils

belonged to varying castes, races and creeds. Hindus

Muhammedans, Indian Christians and Zoroastrians mingled

freely, but Meher Baba wanted a still wider enrolment. He sent

his chief disciple on a mission to England to find a few white

pupils. The emissary, however, encountered much difficulty

because the white parents were unwilling to entrust their

children to a stranger, who wanted to haul the latter off to a

school in distant Asia. Moreover, the idea of a school com-

bining all religions did not mean much to them. There are

plenty of schools in England where pupils of different creeds

foregather in a natural spontaneous manner without the fuss

that is made of it in a creed-ridden country like India.

One day the emissary from India met an Englishman who

straightaway became converted to acceptance of the Parsee

messiah after a conversation or two. The man was possessed

of an enthusiastic temperament and having rapidly travelled

through all the cults which honeycomb London, he was ready

for what seemed to be the loftier message of Meher Baba. So

58 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

he assisted in the quest for white pupils and found three

children, whose poverty-stricken parents were willing to ease

their own burdens at the price of parting with them. At this

stage the India Office bestirred itself into activity, investigated

the matter, shook its official head and put a ban on the project.

The children did not sail. The representative of the Parsee

messiah returned to India, accompanied by the Englishman

and the latter's wife and sister-in-law. Five or six months

after their arrival, Meher Baba sent them back to England at

the expense of his chief disciple.

I learnt from Meher that his object in founding this school

was twofold. First, he wanted to break down the racial and

religious barriers among the pupils; secondly, he sought to

train a selected number of them as future ambassadors for his

spiritual cause. When the years had sufficiently ripened them

and the time came for public announcement of his own mission,

he would send them out to all the five continents to act as

apostles and helpers in his destined work of spiritualising

mankind.

Another activity developed into being alongside the school.

A primitive hospital was opened and ardent disciples were sent

out to collect the blind, the ailing and the crippled from the

locality. The latter were given free medical treatment, food

and accommodation, while the Parsee holy man provided them

with spiritual consolation. Five lepers were cured by his mere

touch, says an enthusiastic devotee. Alas, I am a trifle sceptical,

for no one knows who they are, where they are or how to find

them now. 'Tis a piece of Oriental exaggeration, I fear.

Surely one of the lepers would have attached himself to Meher

Baba's train of disciples in sheer gratitude. Surely the news

would have spread like a prairie fire across leprosy-ridden

India, and all the stricken souls of the country would have

eagerly flocked to the hospital near Arangaon.

There grew up a large camp-following of devotees, visitors

and hangers-on from nearby villages. The population of this

unusual colony reached into hundreds; intense religious

fervour pervaded the whole place; and Meher Baba was, of

course, the centre of the whole picture.

Eighteen months after the colony was founded, it was

suddenly closed down and all these activities were abandoned.

The boys were sent back to their parents and the patients to

their homes. Meher Baba vouchsafed no reason for this move

on his part. I learnt that sudden inexplicable impulses of this

kind were a regular feature of his conduct.

I MEET A MESSIAH 59

In the spring of 1929 he sent out his first missionary disciple,

a man named Sadhu Leik, who was bidden to go on tour round

India. The latter was told as a parting injunction:

"You have the advantage of a messiah to work for. Be

cosmopolitan and do not run down any religion. Be sure

that I will know all about you. Do not be disheartened

by the remarks of others. I will lead you, and follow none

but me."

From the information which I picked up it was obvious that

the poor fellow was physically unfitted for a wandering life.

He was able to create a small following in Madras, but soon

sickened on the way and then returned to die.

Such is a rapid outline of the Parsee holy man's career.

§

I have had several fugitive talks of a chatty nature with

Meher Baba, but I want to hear something more definite about

his self-appointed mission to the world. So I seek and obtain

my final interview with him.

He wears a soft blue scarf to-day and the alphabet board

rests upon his knees in readiness for our conversation. The

disciples present form an admiring audience and provide the

requisite background. Everyone smiles at everyone else until

I shoot a sudden question through the silence.

"How do you know that you are a messiah?"

The disciples look aghast at my temerity. The master

moves his bushy eyebrows. But he is not disconcerted, for he

smiles at the enquiring Westerner and quickly answers:

"I know! I know it so well. You know that you are a

human being, and so I know that I am a messiah! It is my

whole life. My bliss never stops. You never mistake yourself

for some other person; so I cannot mistake who I am. I have

a divine work to do and I will do it."

"What really happened when the Muhammedan woman

faqueer kissed you. Can you remember?"

"Yes. Until then I was as worldly as other youths. Hazrat

Babajan unlocked the door for me. Her kiss was the turning

point. I felt as though the universe was receding into space;

and I was left entirely alone. Yes - I was alone with God. For

months I could not sleep. And yet I grew no weaker but

remained as strong as before. My father did not understand;

he thought I was going mad. He called in one doctor and then

60 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

another. They gave me medicines and tried injections, but

they were all wrong. I was with God and there was nothing

to cure. Only, I had lost hold of normal existence and it took

me a long time to get back. Do you understand?"

"Quite. Now that you have got back, when will you let the

public k n o w ? "

" M y manifestation will happen in the near future, but I

cannot give you the exact date."

" A n d then - ? "

" M y task on this earth will last for thirty-three years.

Afterwards I shall undergo a tragic death. My own people, the

Parsees, will be responsible for my violent end. But others will

continue my work."

"Your disciples, I presume?"

" M y circle of twelve selected disciples, of whom one will

become a master at the appointed time. It is for their sake

that I fast often and observe silence, for this wipes their sins

away and will enable them to become perfect spiritually.

They have all been with me in past births, and I am bound to

help them. There will also be an outer circle with forty-four

members. They will be men and women of lower spiritual

grade; their duty will be to assist the twelve chief disciples,

after the latter have attained perfection."

"There are other claimants to messiahship?"

Meher laughs in deprecation of those absurd persons.

"Yes. There is Krishnamurti - Mrs. Besant's protege.

The Theosophists deceive themselves. Their chief wire-pullers

are supposed to be somewhere on the Himalayas in Tibet.

You will find nothing but dust and stones in their supposed

abodes. Besides, no real spiritual teacher ever required

someone else's body to be prepared and trained for his use.

That is ridiculous."

Other strange statements emerge from this final conversa-

tion; a curious jumble of assertions, which come through

slim fingers flickering from letter to letter. . . . " America

has a great future; she will become a spiritually-minded

nation. . . . I am aware of everyone who puts his faith in

me, and he is always helped. . . . Do not try to read my

actions, you will never fathom them. . . . Once I visit a

place and stay there, however short a time, its spiritual atmo-

sphere becomes greatly elevated. . . . The general spiritual

push that I shall give the world will soon put right all material

problems - economic, political, sexual, sociological - for selfish-

ness will be destroyed and brotherhood will replace it. . . .

I MEET A MESSIAH 61

Shivaji, the chieftain who built up the Mahratta empire in

the seventeenth century, is also here (he points to himself;

the meaning is that Meher is a reincarnation of Shivaji). . . .

Some of the planets are inhabited; they resemble this globe

in culture and material advancement, but spiritually our earth

is most advanced. . . . "

One observes that Meher suffers from no modesty when

discussing his claims. I am a little startled, however, when he

communicates a command to me at the finish of the interview.

" G o to the West as my representative! Spread my name

as that of the coming divine messenger. Work for me and my

influence, and you will then be working for the good of

mankind."

" T h e world will probably scout me as a madman," I reply

uneasily, for such a task staggers my imagination.

Meher disagrees.

I answer that nothing short of working a series of miracles

will convince the West that anyone is a spiritual superman,

let alone a messiah, and that since I cannot perform miracles

I cannot undertake the job of being his herald.

"Then you shall perform t h e m ! " is his comforting

assurance.

I remain silent. Meher misconstrues my silence.

"Stay with me and I shall confer great powers on you," he

urges. "You are very fortunate. I will help you to obtain

advanced powers, so that you will render service in the West."

§

It is unnecessary to describe the remainder of this incredible

interview. Some men are born great, some achieve greatness,

and others appoint a press agent. Meher seems to favour the

latter course.

Next day I prepare to leave. I have imbibed sufficient

pious wisdom and prophetic forebodings to suffice me for the

time. I have not wandered to distant parts of the world

merely to hear religious assertions or declarations of grandeur.

I want facts, even if they are to be facts of a strange, uncommon

kind. And I want reliable evidence; better still, something

personal, something to which I can testify for my own

satisfaction.

My kit is packed, I am about to leave. I go to Meher and

bid him a polite farewell. He informs me that within a few

62 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

months he will be in residence at his central headquarters,

which are situated near the town of Nasik. He suggests that

I should visit him there and stay for a month.

" D o this. Come when you can. I will give you wonderful

spiritual experiences and enable you to know the real truth

about me. You will be shown my inner spiritual powers.

After that, you will have no more doubts. You will be able to

prove by your own personal experiences what I claim. Then

you can go to the West and win many people for me."

I decide to return at my leisure and spend a month with

him. Despite the theatrical character of the Parsee holy man

and the fantastic nature of his mission, I decide to investigate

the whole thing with an open mind.

§

A brief return to the stir of city life in Bombay, and then I

entrain for Poona. My wanderings around this ancient land

are about to begin.

The old Muhammedan holy woman, whose sudden inter-

vention started Meher Baba off on his queer tangent, engages

my interest. I deem a short visit to her will not come amiss.

I have already made a few preliminary enquiries about her in

Bombay, where I learn from former Judge Khandalawalla,

who has known her for fifty years, that her age is really about

ninety-five. I remember that Meher's followers informed me

that it is one hundred and thirty, but I generously ascribe this

exaggeration to the heat of their enthusiasm.

The Judge briefly tells me her story. She is a native of

Baluchistan, that vague territory situate between Afghanistan

and India, and she ran away from home quite early. After

long and adventurous wanderings afoot, she arrived at Poona

about the beginning of this century and has never moved

from the city since. At first, she made her home under a

neem tree, where she insisted on remaining in all seasons. Her

reputation for sanctity and strange powers spread throughout

the Muhammedan people in the vicinity, until even the

Hindus came to treat her with due reverence. Some Muham-

medans eventually built a wooden shelter under the tree for

her, since she refused to live in a proper house. This gives her

the semblance of a home and provides some protection against

the inclemencies of the monsoon season.

I ask the Judge for his personal opinion. He replies that he

I MEET A MESSIAH 63

does not doubt but that Hazrat Babajan is a genuine faqueer

The Judge happens to be a Parsee, so I make some judicious

enquiries about Meher Baba, who is well known to him.

What I learn is unlikely to make me more favourable to the

Parsee messiah. I ask him finally about Upasani Maharaj,

who is now the inspirer of Meher. My informant, a shrewd,

discerning old man of vast experience in these and worldly

matters, enters into a lengthy account of his own unfortunate

contact with him. I give two instances:

"Upasani has made ghastly mistakes. He once induced me

to go to Benares, where he was staying at the time. After a

while, I got a premonition of death and wanted to return to

Poona, where my family was living. Upasani prevented me

from going by repeatedly prophesying that everything would

be all right. Nevertheless, two days later I received a telegram

saying that my son's wife had given birth to a child, and that

it died within a few minutes. In the other case, Upasani told

my son-in-law, who was thinking of going on the Bombay

Stock Exchange, that such a move would prove extremely

fortunate for him. Acting on this advice, he embarked on the

Exchange and was almost ruined!"

Judge Khandalawalla impresses me with the independence

of his outlook. He debunks Upasani Maharaj, whom Meher

Baba has described to me as "one of the greatest spiritual

personalities of this age," yet he does not hesitate to admit that

Meher himself is honest and really believes in his spiritual

attainment, although this attainment remains unproven.

I reach Poona, put up at a hotel in the cantonment, and then

drive straight to the abode of Hazrat Babajan. A guide, who

knows her personally and who will eke out my little Hindustani

as an interpreter, accompanies me.

We find her in a narrow street, whose lighting is a quaint

mixture of gaudy little oil lamps and electric globes. She lies,

in full view of passers-by, upon a low divan. A fenced veranda

rail separates it from the street. Above the wooden shelter

rises the shapely outline of a neem tree, whose white blossoms

make the air slightly fragrant.

"You must take off your shoes," my guide warns m e . " It

is considered disrespectful to wear them when you enter."

I obey him and a minute later we stand by her bedside.

She lies flat on her back, this ancient dame. Her head is

propped by pillows. The lustrous whiteness of her silky hair

offers a sad contrast to the heavily wrinkled face and seamed

brow.

64 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

Out of my slender store of newly-learnt Hindustani I

address a phrase of self-introduction to the old lady. She

turns her aged head, stretches out a skinny, bony forearm,

and then takes one of my hands in her own. She holds it

tightly, staring up at me with unworldly eyes.

Those eyes puzzle me. They seem to be quite uncompre-

hending, entirely vacant. She silently grips my hand for three

or four minutes and continues to look blankly into my own

eyes. I receive the feeling that her gaze penetrates me. It is

a weird sensation. I do not know what to do. . . .

At last she withdraws her hand and brushes her forehead

several times. Then she turns to my guide and says something

to him, but it is in the vernacular and I cannot grasp its

meaning.

He whispers the translation:

" He has been called to India and soon he will understand."

A pause, and then she croaks forth another sentence, but its

meaning were better kept in my memory than in print.

Her voice is extremely feeble; her words emerge slowly

and with much difficulty. Is it possible that this aged and

decrepit fleshly frame, this haggard and huddled figure,

contains the soul of a genuine faqueer with wondrous powers?

Who can say? It is not always easy to read the pages of the

soul by the letters of the body.

But the woman is nearing her century. I have been warned

that continued conversation with her is not permissible, owing

to her enfeebled condition. I prepare to withdraw quietly,

strongly impressed by one thought. I think that the vacancy

of her eyes is a signal that she is near the gate of death. The

mind is parting from the worn-out body, but drags itself back

now and again to pay a feeble attention to this world through

strange eyes.1

In the hotel, I sum up my feelings. That some deep

psychological attainment really resides in the depths of her

being, I am certain. Respect rises unbidden within me. I

find that the contact has diverted my normal thought currents

and raised up an inexplicable sense of that element of mystery

which surrounds our earthly lives, despite all the discoveries

and speculations of the scientists. I see with unexpected

clarity that those scientific writers who profess to reveal the

fundamental secrets of the great world puzzle, profess what is

nothing more than surface scratching. But I cannot under-

1 I visited her again some month s later. T h e impression of her

near decease was confirmed. She died soon after.

I MEET A MESSIAH 65

stand why a brief contact with the woman faqueer should so

sap at the very base of my confident mental certainties.

The cryptic prophecy she made recurs to my mind. I am

unable to grasp its meaning. No one has called me to India;

have I not gone freely of my own whim? . . . Only now, as

I write these lines, long after the event, do I believe that I

begin dimly to understand. 'Tis a strange world, my masters!

CHAPTER V

THE ANCHORITE OF THE ADYAR RIVER

THE hands race around my watch, the weeks move

across the face of my calendar, while I work my way

southwards across the Deccan plateau. I visit several

remarkable places, but find few remarkable men. Some

inscrutable, impelling force - which I cannot understand, but

which I blindly obey - hurries my pace so that sometimes I

rush onwards as though I am a tourist.

At last I am on the train to Madras, where I intend to halt

and establish myself for a while. During the long night journey,

when sleep is difficult to procure, I take count of the invisible

gains which I have reaped during these travels in Western

India.

I force myself to confess that so far I have not tracked down

any Yogi, about whose discovery I can feel unduly elated; as

for the thought of finding a Rishee, that now lies in the remote

depths of my mind. On the other hand, I have seen enough of

the gross superstitions and suffocating customs of sleepy

India, to make me realize that the scepticism and warnings

of some chance Bombay acquaintances are well justified.

I realize, too, that my self-imposed task will be difficult of

fulfilment. Pious men are here in all their fifty-seven

varieties, but they do not provide sufficient attraction. One

wanders by temples whose mysterious interior seems to promise

much. I cross the sacred precincts and stand at the threshold.

I peep inside and behold the fantastic worshippers, who toll a

bell as they pray, that their prayers may not escape the ears of

their chosen deity!

I am glad to reach Madras, whose straggling and colourful

appearance appeals to me, and I settle in a charming suburb

about two miles outside the city so as to get easier contact

with the Indian, rather than the European, element. My

house is in the Street of the Brahmins. The road is choked

with a thick layer of sand, into which my shoes readily sink;

66

THE ANCHORITE OF THE ADYAR RIVER 67

the sidewalk is made of beaten earth: everything is free from

the improving touch of the twentieth century. The white-

washed houses have pillared porches and open verandas. In

the interior of mine, there is a tiled courtyard, around which

runs a covered gallery. Our water is hauled up by a bucket

from an old well.

The luxuriant tropical scenery which unfolds as soon as

one gets away from the two or three streets which compose

this suburb affords me perpetual delight. Soon I discover

that the Adyar River is less than half an hour's walk away.

There are several shady palm groves near this wide stream,

and they take my fancy. I spend my spare time loitering

among them or walk for a few miles beside the languid water.

The Adyar River flows down to Madras, of which city it

forms the southern boundary, and then joins the ocean amid

the ceaseless rise and fall of the Coromandel surf. Alongside

this beautiful stream I slowly amble one morning, accompanied

by a Brahmin acquaintance who learns where my interests lie.

After some time he suddenly seizes my arm.

" L o o k ! " he exclaims. " D o you see that young man who

is approaching us? He is known to be a Yogi. He would

interest you, but, alas! he never talks to us."

" Why n o t ? "

"I know where he lives, but he is the most reserved man

in the whole district."

By this time the stranger has almost reached us. He

possesses an athletic figure, and I judge him to be about thirty-

five. He is slightly above medium height. What strikes me

most, however, is the negroid character of his face. The skin

has darkened to a shade of black, and the broad flat nose, the

thick lips and muscular frame, all betoken non-Aryan blood.

His long neatly-plaited hair is gathered around the crown of

his head in a sort of top-knot. He wears a peculiar kind of

large ear-ring. A white shawl is wrapped around his body

and then flung across the left shoulder. The legs are bare

and the feet uncovered.

He completely ignores us and paces onwards with slow

steps. His eyes are downcast, as though intent on searching

the ground. One gathers the impression that the mind behind

those eyes is pondering over some matter. What, I wonder,

is the subject of this walking meditation?

He piques and arouses my interest still further. An intense

desire to break down the barriers which separate us grips me

suddenly.

68 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

"I want to talk to him. Let us turn back," I suggest.

The Brahmin protests firmly.

" I t is useless."

" A t least I can try," I answer.

The Brahmin again endeavours to dissuade me.

" T h a t man is so inaccessible that we know hardly anything

of him. He keeps himself quite aloof from his neighbours.

We must not interfere with him."

But I am already moving in the reputed Yogi's direction

and my companion has perforce to follow me.

We are soon behind the other man, who gives no sign of his

awareness of our presence, but continues to pace slowly onward.

We follow with parallel steps.

"Please ask if I may converse with him," I tell my com-

panion. The latter hesitates, and then shakes his head.

"No - I dare not," he declares weakly.

The unpleasant possibility that I might be missing a valuable

contact stirs me to further effort. There is no alternative

but to address the Yogi myself. I throw all conventions -

Hindu and European - to the wind, stand directly in his path

and face him. I try a brief sentence out of my slight stock

of Hindustani. He looks u p ; there is a half-smile around his

mouth, but he makes a negative gesture of the head.

At this time I know only a single word of Tamil, which is the

vernacular of Madras, and doubtless the Yogi knows even less

of English. Few people know Hindustani in the South, but

of this fact I am not yet aware. Fortunately, the Brahmin

begins to feel that he cannot leave me so helpless, and advances

to the rescue.

In a hesitant, apologetic voice, he says something in

Tamil.

The Yogi does not reply. His face hardens, the eyes become

cold and unfriendly.

The Brahmin looks at me embarrassed. A prolonged pause

follows. Neither of us knows what to do. I realize ruefully

what a difficult task it is to help hermits to find their tongues.

They dislike being interviewed, and they do not wish to talk

to strangers about their intimate experiences. They dislike,

especially, being asked to break their chronic silence for the

sake of a sun-helmeted white man, who is tacitly assumed to

possess neither sympathy with nor understanding of the

subtleties of Yoga.

This feeling is succeeded by another. I become strangely

aware of a penetrating inspection on the Yogi's part. Some-

THE ANCHORITE OF THE ADYAR RIVER 69

how, I sense that he is mentally probing my innermost thoughts.

Yet outwardly he remains aloof, indifferent. Am I mistaken?

But I cannot shake off this weird feeling that I have become

a kind of human microscopical specimen.

The Brahmin becomes very nervous and nudges me as a hint

to be off. Another minute and I shall yield to his silent

importunity and go away defeated.

The Yogi makes a sudden gesture of his hand, leads us

towards a tall palm tree close by, and silently bids us sit down

at its foot. He then drops to the ground himself.

He addresses some Tamil words to the Brahmin. I notice

that his voice possesses a peculiar resonance and a quality

which is almost musical.

" T h e Yogi says that he is willing to converse with you,"

my companion interprets, and then volunteers the statement

that the other man has peregrinated an unfrequented part of the

river for some years.

The first thing I ask is the man's name, whereupon I hear

such a lengthy string of appellations that I immediately

christen him anew. It appears that his first name is "Brama-

suganandah," that he possesses four other names all equally

long or longer, and that the only useful thing to do seems to be

to call him Brama. If I am to give all five of the names, the

words would stretch right across this page, so many letters are

there in each name! I am both awed and appalled at the

length of the young man's patronymic.1 It is, therefore,

better to maintain a discreet silence about them, and make

matters easier for unacclimatized readers by referring to him

henceforth as Brama, the shorter name which I bestow on him

in conversation.

"Please tell him that I am interested in Yoga and wish to

know something about it," I say.

The Yogi nods his head on hearing the translated statement.

"Yes, I can see that," he replies with a smile. " L e t the

sahib ask questions."

"What kind of Yoga practice do you follow?"

"Mine is the system of Body Control. It is the most

difficult of all the Yogas. Body and breath must be fought as

though they were obstinate mules, and they must be conquered.

Thereafter the nerves and mind are more easily controlled."

1 Tamil, the vernacular of South-eastern India, is similar to Ger -

man in the ease with which it forms lengthy compound words. With

the result that a train will carry you past a railway station called

Kulasekharapatnam, and - but I had better stop my pen in t i m e !

70 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

"What benefit do you get from i t ? "

Brama gazes across the river.

"Health of the body, strength of the will, length of years

these are a few benefits," he says. " T h e Yogi who has

become a master in the training which I follow, brings the flesh

to iron-hard endurance. Pains do not move him. I know

one who submitted to an operation at the hands of a surgeon,

when no sleep-giving drug could be used. He endured it

without a murmur. Such a one can also experience in his

unprotected body the most intense cold, yet receive no hurt."

I whip out my note-book, for I perceive that our conversation

is likely to prove more interesting than I anticipated. Brama

smiles again at my stenography, but does not object.

" T e l l me more about your Yoga system," I beg him.

" M y master has lived on the open mountains of the Hima-

layas, surrounded by snow and ice and wearing a cinnamon-

coloured robe for his only comfort. He can sit down for

several hours at a stretch in a place where it is so cold that

water instantly freezes. Yet he will feel no distress. Such is

the power of our Yoga."

"You are a disciple, t h e n ? "

"Yes. There are still many hills to climb. I have given

twelve years of unstopping effort to practise our exercises

every day."

"And you have attained some unusual powers ?"

Brama nods his head, but maintains a stolid silence.

I am intrigued more and more by this strange young

man.

" I s it permissible to ask how you became a Yogi? " I query,

somewhat uncertainly.

At first there is no answer. We three continue to squat

under the fronded palm. I hear the hoarse cries of errant

crows among a group of coconut trees on the opposite bank

of the river. Mingling with this noise comes the fitful chatter

of a few monkeys, who explore the tree-tops. From the shore

rises the quiet plash of the water.

"Most willingly!" comes Brama's sudden reply. I think

he realizes that my questions are prompted by something

deeper than mere academic curiosity. He hides his hand

beneath his shawl, fixes his gaze upon some object on the

other side of the river, and begins to speak:

"I was a quiet and lonely child; there was no pleasure for

me in the usual habits of children. I did not care to play with

the others, but liked to wander alone in gardens or in the

THE ANCHORITE OF THE ADYAR RIVER 71

fields. Few people understand a brooding boy, and I cannot

say that I was happy with life. About the age of twelve I

happened, by mere chance, to overhear the conversation of

some older persons, and it was through their talk that I first

discovered the existence of Yoga. This event aroused in me a

desire to learn more of the matter. I began to enquire into it

among several people and in this way was able to get a few

books in Tamil, which revealed many interesting things about

the Yogis. As a horse riding through a desert thirsts for

water, so did my mind thirst for still further knowledge about

them. But I came to a point where it seemed impossible to

get to know more. One day I re-read, as if by chance, a sen-

tence in one of my books. It was: ' T o succeed on the path

of Yoga, one must have a personal teacher.' These words

now made a tremendous impression on me. I felt that only

by leaving home and travelling about could I find a suitable

teacher. To this course, my parents would not give permission.

Not knowing what else to do, I began to practise in secret

some breathing exercises, about which I had collected some

scraps of information. These practices did not help m e ;

instead, they injured me. I did not then realize that without

the guidance of an expert teacher, it is not safe for anyone to

do them. But my eagerness was such that I could not wait

till I met a teacher. Within a few years the effect of these

breathing exercises showed itself. A small rupture made its

appearance on the top of my head; it seemed that the skull

was broken in its weakest spot. Anyway, blood streamed

from the wound and my body became cold and numb. I

thought I was dying. Two hours later a strange vision crossed

my mind's eye. I seemed to see the figure of a venerable

Yogi, who addressed me, saying: ' You now see what a

dangerous condition you have brought yourself into by these

forbidden practices. Let this be a severe lesson to you.' The

vision disappeared and, peculiarly enough, from that moment

my state grew better and I completely recovered. But the

scar remains still."

Brama bends his head so as to show the crown to our eyes.

A tiny rounded scar is plainly visible on his poll.

"After this unfortunate experience I gave up breathing

exercises and waited for some years until home ties were

looser," he goes on. "When my opportunity for freedom

came, I left home and went out in search of a teacher. I knew

that the best way to test a teacher is to live with him for a few

months. I found several teachers and divided my time

72 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

between staying with them for a while and returning home

disappointed. Some were the heads of monasteries; others

were the chiefs of institutions of spiritual learning, but somehow

none of them satisfied me. They gave me plenty of philosophy,

but little from their own experience. Most of them could

only repeat what the books said; they could offer no really

practical guidance. I did not want book theories so much as

practical experience of Yoga. Thus, I visited no less than ten

teachers, but they did not seem to be the real Yoga masters.

I did not despair, though. My youthful eagerness burnt more

strongly, for rebuffs only increase my determination to succeed.

"I was now at the gate of manhood. I resolved to leave the

home of my fathers for ever, to renounce the worldly life and

to search till death for a true master. I then set out from home

on my eleventh wandering or pilgrimage. I moved about

until I came to a large village in the district of Tanjore. I went

down to the river-side for my morning bath and afterwards

walked along the bank. Soon I came to a small shrine built of

red stone, or rather, it was a miniature temple. I peered

inside out of curiosity and was surprised to see a number of

men gathered in a circle around a man who was almost nude;

in fact, he was wearing only a cod-piece.1 The men were

looking at him with expressions of the utmost respect. There

was something venerable, dignified and mysterious in the face

of the central figure. I remained at the entrance, awed and

fascinated. I soon gathered that the little meeting was receiving

some kind of instruction and I had a strong feeling that the

man in the centre was a real Yogi, a genuine master and not

merely a book-filled scholar. I cannot explain why I felt that.

"Suddenly, the teacher turned his face towards the door

and our eyes met. I then obeyed my inner urge and walked

into the temple. The teacher greeted me warmly, bade me sit

down, and said: 'Six months ago I was directed to take you

as a pupil. Now you have come.' I remembered with a

pleasant shock that it was exactly six months since I left home

to begin my eleventh journey. However, it was thus that I met

my master. Thereafter, I accompanied him wherever he

travelled. Sometimes he would go into the towns; sometimes

he would withdraw into secluded forests or lonely jungles.

With his help I began to make good progress upon the path of

Yoga, and I was satisfied at last. My teacher was a Yogi of

great experience, though the path he followed was that of

Body Control. There are several systems of Yoga; they are

1 A semi-loincloth.

THE ANCHORITE OF THE ADYAR RIVER 73

very different in their methods and exercises; and the system

I was taught is the only one which begins with the body

instead of the mind. I was also taught how to obtain breath

control. On one occasion I had to fast for forty days, to

prepare myself to receive one of the Yogic powers.

"You may imagine how surprised I was one day when my

teacher sent for me and said: ' T h e life of total withdrawal

from the world is not yet for you. Go back to your people and

live a normal life. You will marry and have one child. At the

age of thirty-nine certain signs will be given you, and after that

you will find yourself free to retire from the world again. You

will then go to the forests and practise solitary meditation until

you reach the goal which every Yogi seeks. I shall be waiting

for you and you can return to me.'

"I obeyed his commands and returned to my native place.

In due course I married a faithful and devoted woman, who

bore me one child, exactly as my teacher had predicted. But

not long after, my wife died. My parents were no longer living,

so I left my native town and came here to stay in the house of an

old widow who also comes from there and who knew me as a

child. She looks after my domestic needs and yet, because the

years have made her discreet, she permits me to live the

reserved existence which the rules of our school enjoin."

Brama ceases talking and I am so impressed by his narrative

that my questioning tongue is likewise stilled. There are two

or three minutes of complete silence and then the Yogi rises,

turns his face homewards, and begins to walk slowly. The

Brahmin and myself follow him.

Our path leads through lovely palm groves and through

pretty clumps of casuarina. The river shines in the bright

sunlight and an hour or so is passed pleasantly as we stroll along

its banks. Anon, we begin to enter the haunts of men. Fisher

folk wade into the water to carry on their work in the ancient

way. For they fish neither from boats nor from the shore,

but stand waist high in the stream and hold their nets and

baskets.

The beauty of the scene is enhanced by the brightly-plumed

birds which flutter down to the river. The air is slightly scented

by a gentle breeze, which blows pleasantly in our faces from the

direction of the sea. We reach a road where I leave the river

regretfully. A herd of squeaking pigs passes us. They are

under the care of a grey-haired, low caste woman, who hits

unfortunate stragglers with a bamboo stick.

Brama turns eventually to bid us farewell. I express the hope

74 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

that I may be allowed to see him again. He assents. I then

venture to ask whether I may have the honour of a visit from

him. To the great surprise of my Brahmin companion, the

Yogi readily agrees to call in the evening.

§

With the fall of dusk I await Brama's arrival somewhat

eagerly. Several questions tumble over each other in my mind.

His brief autobiography has intrigued me, while his strange

character has puzzled me.

When the servant announces him, I descend the few steps

which lead from the veranda and hold up my hands, with palms

touching, as a token of welcome. The symbolism of this

common Hindu greeting, which I have soon learnt, will appear

quaint to the Western mind. For the gesture indicates, " M y

soul and yours are o n e ! " The Hindus delight to receive it

from a European, which reveals the rarity of that event, though

it is nothing more than the Indian substitute for shaking hands.

I want to be accepted as one with friendly intent, and therefore I

try to respect the Indian customs and conventions, so far as

I am aware of them. This does not mean that I am going to

" t u r n native" - I have no such purpose - but that I believe

in treating others as I would have them treat me.

Brama accompanies me into the large room and immediately

squats cross-legged on the floor.

"Will you not sit on the d i v a n ? " I ask him, through the

interpreter. " I t is well cushioned and extremely comfort-

able." But no - he prefers the hard floor! And Indian floors

are laid with tiles, not boards.

I express my gratitude for his visit and offer him some food,

which he accepts and eats in silence.

After the meal I feel that I must tell him something about

myself, something that will explain my sudden intrusion into

his existence. And so I enter into a brief account of the forces

which drew me to India. At its close, Brama emerges from the

bulwark of aloofness behind which he has so far hidden, and

puts his hand on my shoulder in a friendly way.

" T h a t such men should exist in the West it is pleasant to

hear. You have not wasted your journey, for you shall learn

much. It is a happy day for me that destiny brought our feet

to the same spot. Whatever you wish to know, ask, and, so far

as my oaths permit me, I shall gladly tell you."

THE ANCHORITE OF THE ADYAR RIVER 75

This sounds like good luck, indeed! I ask him about the

nature of his Yoga system, its history and its aims.

"Who dare say how old is the system of Body Control which

I have studied? Our secret texts declare that it was revealed

by the god Shiva to the sage Gheranda. From his lips it was

learnt by the sage Marteyanda, who then taught it to others,

and thus it came down in a continuous line through thousands

of years; but how many thousands we neither know nor care,

though we believe that it is the last of the Yoga sciences that

were born in antiquity. Such was the decline of man even in

those days, that the gods had to give him a way of spiritual

salvation which led purely through the body. The Yoga of

Body Control is little understood except by the adepts who

have mastered it, and the common people possess the most

false notions of our ancient science. And since such adepts

are, alas! so infrequently to be found to-day, the most foolish

and distorted practices pass as our system without hindrance

among the multitude. Go to Benares and you will see a man

who sits all day and sleeps all night on a bed of sharp spikes;

and in another place you will see a man who holds one arm

aloft in the air until it is half withered from disuse and until

the nails are several inches long. You will be told that they are

men who practise our system of Yoga, but it is not so. Such

men bring shame on it, rather. Our aim is not to torture the

body in foolish ways for the sake of public wonder; these self-

torturing ascetics are ignorant men who have picked up by

hearsay, or from some friendly person, a few exercises in the

forced contortion of the body. But since they know not what

are our objects, they distort these practices and prolong them

unnaturally. Yet the common people venerate such fools and

bestow food and money upon them."

"But are they to blame? If the real Yogis make themselves

so scarce and keep their methods so secret, then misunder-

standings will surely arise," I object.

Brama draws up his shoulders and a scornful expression

passes across his mouth.

"Does a Rajah keep his jewels on the highway for public

display?" he asks. " N o , he hides them in the treasure cham-

bers deep down in the vaults of his palace. The knowledge of

our science is one of the greatest treasures a man can have.

Is he to offer it in the bazaar for all and sundry? Whoever

desires to grasp this treasure - let him search for it. That is

the only way, but it is the right way. Our texts enjoin secrecy

again and again, while our masters will reveal the important

76 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

teachings only to tested disciples who have been faithful to

them for some years at least. Ours is the most secret of all the

Yogas; it is full of grave dangers, not only to the disciple him-

self, but to others. Think you that I am allowed to reveal any

but its most elementary doctrines to you, or even those without

extreme discretion?"

" I see."

" B u t there is a branch of our science about which I may talk

to you more freely. It is that wherein we strengthen the will

and improve the body of beginners, for only so can they be fit

to attempt the difficult practices of real Yoga."

" A h , that would interest the W e s t ! "

" W e have nearly a score of body exercises which strengthen

the different parts and organs, and remove or prevent certain

diseases. Some of them are postures which press upon special

nerve centres; these in turn affect certain organs which are

not working properly, and help to put them right."

" D o you use medicines? "

"Certain herbs, plucked under a waxing moon, are used if

necessary. We have four kinds of exercises or methods to

accomplish this early work of putting the body's health in

good order. First, we learn the art of repose so that the nerves

may be soothed. For that, there are four suitable exercises.

Then we learn the 'stretches,' which are exercises copied from

the natural stretching of healthy animals. Third, we clean the

body thoroughly by a variety of methods which may seem very

curious to you, but which are indeed excellent in their effect.

Lastly, we study the art of breathing and its control."

I express a desire to receive a demonstration of some exer-

cises.

"There is no dark secret in those which I shall show you

now," Brama smiles. " L e t us begin with the art of repose.

We can learn something of this matter from the cat. Our

master places a cat in the circle of his pupils and gets them to

notice how graceful the animal becomes when in repose. He

instructs them to observe it carefully when the midday heat

sends it to sleep. He tells them to watch it closely when it

crouches in front of a mouse hole. He makes it clear to them

that the cat sets a perfect example of true rest, and that it

knows how to store and keep every bit of strength. You

imagine that you know how to rest, but really you do not. You

sit in that chair for a while, then move from side to side, then

fidget, and then sprawl out your legs. Though you do not rise

from the chair and outwardly seem to be at ease, one thought

THE ANCHORITE OF THE ADYAR RIVER 77

after another races through your brain. Can you call that

repose? Is it not a way of still being active?"

"That is a point of view which has never occurred to me,"

I say.

"Animals know how to rest themselves, but not many men

have this knowledge. This is because animals are guided by

instinct, which is the voice of Nature, while men are guided by

their thoughts. And since men largely lack control over their

brains, their nerves and bodies are affected as a result; there is

little real repose for them."

"What must we do, t h e n ? "

" T h e first thing you must learn is nothing more than the

Oriental form of sitting! Chairs may indeed be useful in the

cold rooms of your Northern countries, but you must learn to

do without them during the times of exercise which shall pre-

pare you for Yoga. Our way of sitting is really most restful.

After working or walking, it gives peace to the entire body.

The easiest way for you to learn it is to place a small rug or mat

before the wall of your room; sit upon this as comfortably

as you can and use the wall to support your back. Or you can

place the mat in the centre of the room, and then use a couch

or chair to lean against. After that, bend the legs inwards at

the knees and cross the feet. There need be no feeling of

strain and you must not tighten the muscles. So your first

exercise will be to sit like that and keep your body quite still,

except for the effort of gentle breathing. And having got into

that position, you must promise yourself that you will with-

draw your thoughts from all worldly burdens and affairs; just

rest your mind on a beautiful object, a picture or a flower."

I leave my easy chair and drop on the floor, facing Brama,

assuming the attitude he has just described. It is the position

of an old-time tailor sitting cross-legged at his work.

"Yes, you do it easily," observes Brama, " b u t other

Europeans may not find it comfortable, because they are not

accustomed to it. You have one fault - keep your back-

bone straight, not bent. Let me show you another of our

exercises."

Brama proceeds to raise his knees toward his chin, though

still keeping his feet crossed. This position draws his feet

away somewhat from the trunk. He clasps his hands around

the front of his knees.

"This position is very restful after you have been standing

on your legs for a long time. Be careful to throw most of the

body's weight upon the seat. You may practise this for a few

78 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

minutes, whenever you feel very tired. It will soothe important

nerve centres."

" I t is extremely simple, anyway."

" W e need nothing complicated to learn the art of repose;

in fact, our easiest exercise gives excellent results. Lie flat on

your back, legs stretched out side by side. Turn the toes out-

ward. Let your hands be extended and rest them alongside

the body. Relax every muscle. Close the eyes. Give your

whole weight to the floor. You cannot do this exercise properly

in a bed, as it is important to keep the backbone perfectly flat.

Use a rug laid upon the floor. In this attitude, Nature's healing

forces will rest you. We call this the corpse position. By

practice, you may learn to rest in any of these attitudes for an

hour, if you wish. They take away tension of muscle and

soothe nerves. Repose of muscle comes before repose of

mind."

"Really, your exercises seem to consist of nothing more than

sitting still in some way or o t h e r ! "

" I s that nothing? You Westerners thirst to be active, but

is repose to be despised? Do calm nerves possess no mean-

ing? Repose is the beginning of all Yoga, but it is not our

need alone; it is also the need of your world."

Brama's words are not without justification.

"Those exercises are enough for this evening," he adds.

"I must go."

I thank him for what he has told me, and beg for further

instruction.

"To-morrow morning you may find me along the river,"

he replies.

Gathering his white shawl around his shoulders, he touches

his palms in farewell and is gone. I am left to ruminate upon

the interesting conversation which has so abruptly ended.

§

I meet the Yogi again on many occasions. At his desire, I

intercept him on his morning walks, but when I can cajole him

indoors, he spends his evenings with me. Those evenings

prove extremely fruitful for me and my quest, because he

unfolds a more arcane knowledge when the moon displays her-

self than he is willing to unfold under a high sun.

A little enquiry enables me to solve a point which has puzzled

me for a while. I have been under the impression that the

THE ANCHORITE OF THE ADYAR RIVER 79

Hindus are a brown race. Why, then, is Brama's skin dark

to the point of negroid blackness?

The answer is that he belongs to an indigenous population

which appears to be India's first inhabitant. When the

Aryans - India's earliest invaders - broke through the moun-

tains in the north-west thousands of years ago and descended

into the plains, they found this native race of Dravidians and

drove them into the South. These Dravidians remain a

separate people to this day, except that they have absorbed the

religion of their conquerors. The fiery tropic sun has pig-

mented their skins almost black, which, together with other

evidences, makes certain ethnologists think that they primally

arose out of some African stock. As in those early days of their

undisputed sway over the entire country, the Dravidians still

wear their hair long and tied in a knot behind their heads, and

they still speak their primal, half-chanted tongues, of which

the most important is Tamil.

Brama makes the confident assertion that the brown invaders

took their knowledge of Yoga from his own race, just as they

took certain other things in addition. But scholarly Hindus

to whom I mention this claim deny it as absurd; I, therefore,

leave the less important question of origin to settle itself!

Because I am not writing a thesis around the subject of

Yogic physical culture, I do not purpose to describe more

than two or three exercises in the art of adopting and main-

taining fixed bodily attitudes, which appears to be so prominent

a feature of the Yoga of Body Control. The twenty or more

postural methods which Brama demonstrates, either in a palm

fringed grove or in my more prosaic quarters, involve strangely

contorted attitudes, and, to Western eyes at least, must appear

either ludicrous or impossible, or both. Some of them require

balancing on both knees with feet upturned, or balancing the

entire weight of the body upon the tips of one's fingers; others

take the arms behind the back and somehow bring the hands to

the front again on opposite sides; others again tie up all the

limbs in a complicated knot; still others put the legs round the

neck or over the shoulders, in acrobatic manner; while a

fifth group twist and turn the trunk in the queerest imaginable

style. It is while watching Brama perform some of these feats

that I begin to perceive how difficult will this art of Yoga be.

"How many of these exercises comprise your system?'

I enquire.

"There are eighty-four postures in the Yoga of Body

Control," replies Brama, "though I do not know more than

80 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

sixty-four at present." Even as he speaks he practises one of

these postures and sits in it as comfortably as I sit in a chair.

Indeed, he tells me that this is his favourite posture. It is not

a difficult one, this, but it does seem uncomfortable. His

left foot is tucked into the groin and the heel of the other foot

is placed under the base of the body, the right leg being doubled

back so as to carry most of the weight,

"What is the use of such a posture? " I ask again.

" I f a Yogi enters into it and then practises a certain breathing

exercise, he will become more youthful."

" A n d that breathing exercise ? "

"I am not permitted to reveal it to you."

"What is the object of all these postures, t h e n ? "

" T h e mere fact of sitting or standing for regular periods

in certain fixed postures may seem of small importance in

your eyes. But the concentration of attention and will power

upon the chosen posture is so intense - if success is to be

gained - that sleeping forces awaken within the Yogi. Those

forces belong to the secret realms of Nature; therefore they

are seldom fully aroused until our breathing exercises are also

practised, for the breath possesses deep powers. Though the

awakening of such forces is our real aim, no less than a score

of our exercises are capable of being used for benefiting one's

health or to remove certain diseases; while others will drive

impurities out of the body. Is this not of great use? Still

other postures are intended to assist our efforts to get control

over the mind and soul, for it is a truth that the body influences

thought no less than thought influences the body. In the

advanced stages of Yoga, when we may be plunged for hours

in meditation, the proper posture of the body not only enables

the mind to remain undistracted in its efforts, but actually

assists its purpose. Add to all these things the tremendous

gain in will power which comes to the man who perseveres in

these difficult exercises, and you may see what virtues there are

in our methods."

" B u t why all this twisting and turning?" I object.

"Because there are many nerve-centres scattered throughout

the body, and each posture affects a different centre. Through

the nerves we can influence either the organs of the body or

the thoughts in the brain. Those twists enable us to reach

nerve centres which otherwise might remain untouched."

"I see." The basis of this Yogic physical culture begins to

shape itself a little more clearly in my mind. It is interesting

to ascertain how it compares with the basic principles of our

THE ANCHORITE OF THE ADYAR RIVER 81

European and American systems. I tell Brama about the

existence of the latter.

"I do not know your Western systems, but I have seen white

soldiers being drilled at the great camp near Madras. By

watching them I have understood what their instructors

wished to do. Strengthening the muscles seems to have been

their first object, because you Westerners find your highest

virtues in being bodily active. Therefore, you make much use

of the limbs in a most energetic manner, repeating those

movements again and again. You spend energy vigorously,

so that you may build up the muscles and receive greater

strength in return. That is a good thing to do in the cold

countries of the North, doubtless."

"What is the chief difference between the methods, as you

see i t ? "

" O u r Yoga exercises are really poses and require no further

movements after the pose has been taken up. Instead of seeking

more energy with which to be active, we seek to increase the

power of endurance. You see, we believe that though the

development of the muscles may be useful, it is the power

which is behind them that is of greater value. Thus, if I tell

you that standing on your shoulders in a particular way will

wash the brain with blood, soothe the nerves and remove

certain weaknesses, you as a Westerner would probably do the

exercise for a moment and repeat it several times with a rush.

You may strengthen the muscles which are called into action

by this exercise, but you would get little of the benefits which

a Yogi gets by doing it in his own way."

"And what may that b e ? "

" H e will do it slowly, with deliberation, and then maintain

the position as steadily as he can for some minutes. Let me

show you this All-Body posture, as we call it."

Brama lies flat upon his back, hands at sides and legs to-

gether. He raises his legs into the air, keeping the knees quite

straight, until they have attained about two-thirds of a right

angle with the floor. He supports his back with his hands,

resting the elbows on the floor. The body is then tilted com-

pletely upward, his trunk and hips becoming vertical. The

chest is brought forward to touch the chin. The hands form

a bracket which supports the trunk. The weight of the body is

supported by the shoulders and the back of the neck and head.

After maintaining this upside down position for about five

minutes, the Yogi gets up and explains its value.

"This posture brings blood flowing down to the brain by its

82 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

own weight for a few minutes. In the ordinary position the

blood has to be forced upwards by the pumping action of the

heart. The difference between the two ways is shown by the

soothing effect of the posture upon the brain and nerves. For

men who work with their minds, thinkers and students, the

quiet practice of this all-body posture brings quick relief when

their brains are tired. This is not its only virtue. It strengthens

the sex organs. But these benefits come only if the exercise is

done in our way and not in your hasty Western manner."

" I f I am not mistaken, you mean that the Yoga attitudes

keep the body fixed in a state of poised stillness, whereas our

Western exercises violently agitate i t ? "

"Even so," agrees Brama.

A further exercise which I select from Brama's repertory

as being more within the compass of Western limbs, is one

which should quickly yield to patience and practice. In this

posture, the Yogi sits with extended legs, raises both arms over

his head and crooks the first fingers. He bends his trunk for-

ward, exhaling the breath while doing so, and grasps the big

toes of his feet inside the hooked fingers. The right toe is

caught by the right index finger, and so on. Then he slowly

bends his head forward until it falls between his outstretched

arms and the forehead lies flat against his thighs. He keeps

this curious position for a little while and then gradually returns

to a normal attitude.

" D o not try to do this all at once," he warns me. " T r y to

bring the head a little closer to the knees little by little only;

even if it takes a few weeks to succeed in this posture, once you

have mastered it, it will be yours for years."

I learn that this exercise strengthens the spine, as indeed one

might expect it to d o ; that it removes nervous troubles caused

through spinal weakness; and that it will work wonders with

the blood circulation.

In the next posture, Brama sits on the floor and then doubles

his legs up underneath him; thus the soles of his feet come

under the base of his body. He drops the trunk backward

until his shoulders touch the floor. He crosses his arms under-

neath the back of the head, which is then cushioned upon them.

Each hand now grasps the opposite shoulder joint. He remains

in this not unshapely pose for some minutes. On emerging

from it, he explains that nerve centres situate in the neck and

shoulders, as well as in the legs, are favourably affected by the

exercise; and that even the chest is benefited.

The average Englishman is so apt to regard the average

THE ANCHORITE OF THE ADYAR RIVER 83

Indian as a weakling, as an enervated product of tropic sun and

under-feeding, that it surprises one to learn that such a care-

fully thought out native system of physical culture has existed

in India since antiquity. If our Western systems possess such

a usefulness that no one would dream of disputing their value

at this day, this is not to say that they are consequently com-

plete and that they have pronounced the last word on bodily

development, health preservation and the eradication of disease.

Perhaps if the West, with its thorough methods of scientifically

directed research, would pick some dust-covered practices out

of the traditional teaching of Yoga, we might arrive at a com-

pleter knowledge of our bodies and a fuller regime for the

healthy life.

Yet I know that perhaps not more than a round dozen of the

Yoga postures are easy enough to be worth our time and

trouble. The seventy odd postures which compose the re-

mainder of the system are hardly likely to yield to any except

the most enthusiastic, and that only if they are young enough to

have flexible limbs and supple bodies.

Brama himself admits:

"I have practised hard each day for twelve years; only in

this way could I master the sixty-four postures which I know.

And then I was fortunate enough to begin while young, for a

man of mature years could not even attempt these postures

without feeling much pain. Bone, muscle and flesh settle down

into stiffened positions in a grown man and can be disturbed

only with difficulty and with pain. Yet even then it is remark-

able how the postures can be conquered by continued efforts."

I do not doubt Brama's assertion that anyone may master

these exercises by persistent practice, only the slow breaking-in

of limbs, joints and muscles to the novel positions into which

they are introduced must necessarily be such a dilatory process

as to embrace the years. He has the advantage of beginning

these postures when hardly out of his 'teens, and the value of

this early beginning cannot be over-estimated. Just as success-

ful acrobats are usually those who have been trained in child-

hood, so is it obvious that successful Yogis of the school of

Body Control must start their training before the growing

period ends, say before twenty-five. I certainly do not know

how it is possible for any adult European to adventure with the

scores of intricate postures which comprise most of their

system without breaking a bone or two in the undertaking.

When I argue this with Brama, he grants only a partial agree-

ment and stubbornly maintains that continued efforts may

84 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

succeed in many cases, though not in all. But he agrees that

Europeans may have a harder task.

" W e Orientals have the advantage of having learnt to sit

with folded legs from childhood. Can a European bend his

legs and sit steadily for two hours without pain? Yet the cross-

ing of the legs with intertwined ankles forms but the beginning

of several of our postures. We look upon it as one of the best.

Shall I show i t ? "

Thereupon Brama assumes that position which has been

made familiar to the Western world by the numerous pictures

and images of the Buddha. Sitting perfectly erect, he folds the

right leg so as to tuck the foot into the left groin. Then he

folds the other leg and brings his left foot across to the right

thigh, where its heel touches the lower corner of the abdomen.

The soles of his feet are turned up. It is an artistic and

balanced pose; the thought occurs to me that such an attractive

posture may be worth trying.

I try to imitate him and am rewarded for my labours with

excruciating pains in the ankles. I complain that I cannot

achieve this position even for a single moment. How pic-

turesquely exotic has this Buddha seat seemed to me in the

past, when I have seen it exemplified in some attractive bronze

figure which is placed in the window of a curio shop! But

how unnatural does this twisting of the lower limbs now seem

to me in India, when I attempt to exemplify it in my own

person! Brama's smiling encouragement fails to reassure me.

I tell him that I must postpone my efforts.

"Your joints are stiff," he observes. " R u b a little oil into

the ankles and knees before you practise it again. You are so

accustomed to sitting in chairs that the posture will put some

strain on your limbs. A little practice every day will slowly

remove the difficulty."

"I doubt whether I could ever do it."

"Say not that it is impossible. It will take you a long time,

but you shall surely master it. Success will take you by sur-

prise one day; it comes suddenly."1

" I t is so painful that it feels like a new torture! "2

"But the pain will lessen, and though it may take a much

1 I state the fact for what it is wort h that, lured by the attractiveness

of the Buddha position, I succeeded, after sporadic and painful

efforts, in achieving it eight months later. Thereafter the difficulty

disappeared.

2 It is necessary to warn amateur dabblers in these Yoga posturings

against the grave risks they incur. A surgeon to whom I described

them, said that a strained ankle or a broken tendon are likely injuries.

THE ANCHORITE OF THE ADYAR RIVER 85

longer time than it will to reach success, you will reach a point

where the posture brings no pain with it."

"But is it worth while for me to attempt i t ? "

"Assuredly. The Lotus posture - for that is what we name

it - is so important that none of our novices are permitted to

miss it, however much he is allowed to avoid other postures.

It is the chief attitude in which advanced Yogis perform their

meditations. One reason is that it gives a solid base to the

body, which is unlikely to topple over should the Yogi pass

into a deep trance - an event which sometimes occurs un-

expectedly, though the adepts can pass into trance at will.

You see, the Lotus posture locks the feet together and holds

the body quiet and steady. A restless and irritated body will

disturb the mind, but in the Lotus posture one feels poised and

self-controlled. In this attitude it becomes easier to win the

power of mind concentration, which is so greatly prized

among us. Lastly, we practise our breathing exercises mostly

when sitting in this posture, for the combination arouses the

spirit-fire which sleeps in the body. When this unseeable fire

awakens, all the blood in the body is redistributed afresh, while

the nerve force is sent with great keenness to certain important

points."

With this explanation I remain content and bring our talk of

postures to a close. For Brama has earlier thrown himself into

a large number of fearful contortions and convulsive pos-

turings for my edification, just to show me something of his

mastery over flesh and bone. What Westerner has the patience

to go through all these complicated exercises and master them?

What Westerner has even the time to do so?

CHAPTER VI

THE YOGA WHICH CONQUERS DEATH

Brama expresses a wish that I shall visit his dwelling.

He tells me that he does not actually stay in the house,

but has erected a roomy hut in the garden at the rear

so as to keep his freedom and preserve his independence.

Accordingly - and I must confess, with some eagerness - I

call at the house one afternoon. The building stands in a dusty

street, which bears a desolate and neglected air. I stand for a

moment outside the ancient whitewashed structure and survey

its wooden upper storey, whose projecting window is so remi-

niscent of our medieval European houses. I push open the

heavy old door which confronts me, an act which sends a

rattling echo through the rooms and passages.

An old woman, whose motherly smile stretches broadly

across her face, appears almost at once and bows repeatedly

before me. She leads me through a long darkened passage

until we emerge through a kitchen into the back garden.

The first thing I notice is a spreading peepul tree and then,

under the protective shade of its branches, an old fashioned

well. The woman guides me to a hut on the other side of the

well and close enough to it to receive some of the tree's shade.

It is lightly built of bamboo posts, thin wooden cross beams

and a thatched grass roof.

The dame, whose face is as black as Brama's, becomes

visibly excited and bursts out into a series of trembling Tamil

sentences, apparently addressed to the hut. A musical voice

answers from within, the door slowly opens, the Yogi appears

and then affectionately draws me into his simple hermitage.

He omits to close the door. The widow remains in the entrance

for the next few minutes, her eyes glued upon me, her face

exuding indescribable happiness.

I find myself in a plain room. A low cushionless divan

stands along the farther wall and a rudely made wooden

bench, which is littered with papers, fills a corner. A heavily

86

THE YOGA WHICH CONQUERS DEATH 87

chased brass water-pot hangs by a cord from one of the roof

beams. The floor is covered with a large piece of matting.

"Seat yourself!" says Brama, waving a hand towards the

floor. " W e have no chair to offer you; I am sorry."

We all squat around the mat - Brama, myself, and a young

student-teacher who has attached himself to me and is now

acting as interpreter. Within a few minutes the old widow

departs, only to return later with a pot of tea, which is served

upon the mat in lieu of a table. She departs again and re-

appears with biscuits, oranges and plantain fruits, which are

heaped upon brass dishes.

Before we begin to take these pleasant refreshments, Brama

produces a garland of yellow marigolds and hangs it around

my neck. I am astonished and protest strongly, for I know

that this Indian custom is usually reserved for distinguished

persons and I have never classed myself in that sublime

category.

"But, brother - ," he pleads smilingly. "You are the first

European to visit my abode and the first to become my friend.

I must express my delight, and the delight of this lady here,

by honouring you in this way"

My further protests prove of no avail. I have perforce to

sit on the floor with a wreath of marigolds draped ceremoni-

ously over my jacket. I am indeed glad that Europe is suffici-

ently far away for none of my friends to notice this odd sight

and laugh at m e !

We drink our tea, eat the fruit and chat pleasantly for a

while. Brama informs me that he built the hut and made the

rude furniture with his own hands. The sight of the papers

on the corner bench arouse my curiosity, and I beg him to tell

me their raison d'etre. For I observe that the papers are all of

a pink colour and that they have been written on in green ink.

Brama picks up a handful, which I perceive are written in

quaint characters easily recognizable as Tamil. The student-

teacher examines the documents but finds them hard to read

and harder to understand. He informs me that they are written

in an obsolete form of Tamil which was the literary form of

early centuries, but is nowadays understood only by few

persons. He adds that the great classics of Tamil philosophy

and literature are unfortunately written in this archaic form of

language, which is called high Tamil, and which presents more

difficulties for those only familiar with the modern living

vernacular than medieval English presents to the average

present-day English-knowing person.

88 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

"These papers are written by me mostly at night," Brama

explains. "Some of them are accounts of my Yoga experi-

ences written in verse, and some are lengthy poems where I

let my heart speak its religion. There are a few young men who

call themselves my pupils, who often come here to read these

writings aloud."

Brama picks up an artistic-looking document, which consists

of a few pages of pink paper written on in red and green

inks and tied with a green ribbon, and smilingly presents it

to me.

"I have written this especially for you," he declares.

The young interpreter finds it to be a poem of eighty-four

lines. It opens and closes with a mention of my name, but

beyond this the young man can hardly travel. He deciphers

occasional words and tells me that the poem evidently contains

some kind of personal message, but it is written in such high

Tamil that he is not. competent to render a proper translation

of it. However, I am extremely pleased to receive this unex-

pected gift, especially as it is an expression of the Yogi's good

will.

After the celebrations of my visit are finally over, the old

lady departs and we settle down to serious talk. I plunge anew

into that matter of breathing which seems to play so important

a part in Yoga, and which is wrapped in such secrecy. Brama

regrets that he can show me no further exercises for the present,

but he is willing to tell me a little more of his theories.

"Nature has measured out 21,600 breath-rhythms to every

man, which he must use up daily and nightly from one sunrise

till the next. Quick, noisy and tumultuous breathing exceeds

this measure and therefore shortens one's life. Slow, deep and

quiet breathing economizes this allowance, and so lengthens

life. Every breath which is saved goes to build up a great

reserve, and out of this reserve a man can draw extra years for

living. Yogis do not take so many breaths as other men; nor

do they need to for - but, alas! how can I explain further

without transgressing my o a t h s ? "

This reserve of the Yogi tantalizes me. Is it possible that a

knowledge which is hidden away with so much pains cannot

have something of real worth in it? If that is really the case,

then one can understand why these strange men cover up their

tracks and conceal the treasure of their teachings in order

to ward off the superficially curious, the mentally unready

and perhaps the spiritually unworthy. Is it likely that I,

too, may come within one of these latter classifications and

THE YOGA WHICH CONQUERS DEATH 89

eventually leave the country with little more than my trouble

for reward?

But Brama is speaking again:

"Have not our masters the keys to the powers of breath?

They know how close is the connection between the blood and

the breath; they understand how the mind, too, follows the

path of the breath; and they have the secret of how it is possible

to awaken awareness of the soul through workings of the breath

and thought. Shall I not say that breath is but the expression

in this world of a subtler force, which is the real sustainer of the

body? It is this force which hides in the vital organs, though

it is unseeable. When it leaves the body the breathing stops

in obedience and death is the result. But through the control

of breath it is possible to get some control over this unseeable

current. But though we bring our body under extreme

control - even to the point of controlling the beats of the heart -

do you think that our ancient sages had only the body and its

powers in view when they first taught our system?"

Whatever I think about the ancient sages and their purpose,

disappears in the intense curiosity which is suddenly aroused in

my mind.

"You can control the working of your h e a r t ? " I exclaim

in surprise.

" M y self-acting organs, the heart, the stomach and the

kidney, have been brought to some degree of obedience," he

answers quietly, without a trace of boastfulness.

"How do you do t h a t ? "

"One gains the power by practising certain combinations of

posture, breathing and will-power exercises. Of course, they

belong to the advanced degrees of Yoga. They are so difficult

that few persons can ever do them. Through these practices

I have conquered somewhat the muscles which work the heart;

and through the heart muscles, I have been able to go on and

conquer the other organs."

"This is indeed extraordinary!"

"You think so? Place your hand upon my chest, just

over the heart, and keep it there." With that, Brama

changes his position, takes up a curious posture, and closes

his eyes.

I obey his command and then wait patiently to see what is

going to happen. For some minutes he remains as steady as

a rock, and almost as motionless. Then the beating of his heart

begins to diminish gradually. I am startled to feel it become

slower and slower. A thrill of eerieness spreads over my nerves

90 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

as I distinctly feel his heart completely stop its rhythmic

functioning. The pause lasts for about seven anxious seconds.

I try to pretend that I am hallucinated, but my nervousness

is such that I know the attempt is useless. As the organ returns

to life from its seeming death, relief seizes me. The beats

begin to quicken and normality is safely reached at length.

The Yogi does not emerge from his motionless self-absorption

till some minutes later. He slowly opens his eyes and asks:

" D i d you feel the heart stop? "

"Yes. Most distinctly." I am certain that there was no

hallucination about the feat. What other strange Yogi tricks

can Brama play with his internal mechanism, I wonder?

As if in answer to my unspoken thought, Brama says:

" I t is nothing compared with what my master can achieve.

Sever one of his arteries, and he is able to control the flow of

blood; yes, even to stop it! I, too, have brought my blood

under some measure of control, but I cannot do that."

" Can you show me that control? "

He requests me to take his wrist and grip it where I can feel

the flow of blood through his artery. I do so.

Within two or three minutes I become aware that the curious

rhythm which beats under my thumb is lessening. Soon it

comes to a definite halt. Brama has brought his pulse to a

stop!

I anxiously await the resumption of circulation in his artery.

A minute passes but nothing occurs. A second minute, during

which I am acutely conscious of each second, likewise ticks

itself away in my watch. The third minute is equally fruitless.

Not until half-way through the fourth minute do I become

conscious of a faint return to activity within the artery. The

tension is relieved. Before long, the pulse beats at its normal

rate.

" H o w strange!" I exclaim involuntarily.

" I t is nothing," he modestly replies.

" T h i s seems to be a day of strange feats, so will you not

show me another?"

Brama hesitates.

"Only one more," he says at length, " and then you must

be satisfied."

He looks thoughtfully at the floor and then announces:

"I shall stop the breath!"

" B u t then you will surely d i e ! " I exclaim nervously.

He laughs but ignores the remark.

"Now hold your hand flat under my nostrils."

THE YOGA WHICH CONQUERS DEATH 91

I obey him hesitantly. The warm caress of exhaled air

touches and retouches the skin of my hand. Brama closes his

eyes; his body becomes statuesque in its steadiness. He

appears to fall into a kind of trance. I wait, continuing to hold

the back of my hand immediately under his nose. He remains

as still and as unresponsive as a graven idol. Very slowly, very

evenly, the caress of his breath begins to diminish. Ultimately

it completely ceases.

I watch his nostrils and lips; I examine his shoulders and

chest; but in no single case can I discover any external evidence

of respiration. I know that these tests are not final and wish

to make a more exhaustive test, but how? My brain works

rapidly.

There is no hand-mirror in the room, but I find an excellent

substitute in a small polished brass dish. I hold the dish

under his nostrils for a while, and again in front of his lips.

Its shining surface remains unmarred by any dullness or

moisture.

It seems impossible to believe that in this quiet conventional

house near a quiet conventional city, I have established contact

with something significant, something that Western science

may one day be forced to recognize against its will. But the

evidence is there, and it is indubitable. Yoga is really more

than a worthless myth.

When Brama ultimately emerges from his trance-like condi-

tion, he seems a little tired.

"Are you satisfied? " he asks, with a fatigued smile.

"I am more than satisfied! But I am at a loss to understand

in what way you can do it."

" I t is forbidden me to explain. The restraint of breath is

a practice which is part of advanced Yoga. To a white man

it may seem a foolish thing to strive for, yet to us it is of much

importance."

"But we have always been taught that man cannot live

without breathing. Surely that is not a foolish i d e a ? "

" I t is not foolish; nevertheless it is not true. I can hold

my breath for two hours, if I wish. Many times I have done

that, but I am not yet dead, you s e e ! " Brama smiles.

"I am puzzled. If you are not permitted to explain, perhaps

you can throw a little light upon the theory behind your

practices?"

"Very well. There is a lesson we can draw from watching

certain animals, which is a favoured method of instruction with

my master. An elephant breathes much more slowly than a

92 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

monkey, yet it lives much longer. Some of the large serpents

breathe far more slowly than a dog, yet they live far longer.

Thus, creatures exist which show that slowness of breathing

may possibly prolong age. If you can follow me so far, the

next step will be easier for you to grasp. Now, in the Himalayas,

there are bats which go into winter sleep. They hang suspended

in the mountain caverns for weeks, yet they do not draw a single

breath until they again awaken. The Himalayan bears, too,

will sometimes sink into trance throughout the winter, their

bodies apparently without life. In deep burrows of the

Himalayas, when food cannot be found during the winter, there

are hedgehogs which pass into sleep for some months, a sleep

in which breathing is suspended. If these animals cease to

breathe for a time, and yet live, why should not human beings

be able to do the s a m e ? ' '

His statement of curious facts is interesting, but it is not

so convincing as his demonstration. The common notion that

breathing is an essential function in every condition of life is

not to be thrown aside at a few minutes' notice.

" W e Westerners will always find it difficult to understand

how life can continue in a body unless breathing continues

also."

"Life always continues," he answers cryptically. "Death

is but a habit of the body."

" B u t surely you cannot mean that it may be possible to

conquer d e a t h ? " I enquire incredulously.

Brama looks at me in a strange manner.

" W h y n o t ? " There is a tense pause. His eyes search me,

but they do it in a kindly way.

"Because there are possibilities in you, I shall tell you one

of our old secrets. But I must first demand your agreement

to one condition."

" A n d that ?"

"You shall not attempt to practise any breathing exercise

as an experiment, except those which I may teach you

later"

" I agree."

"Keep your word, then. Now you have hitherto believed

that the complete stoppage of breathing brings d e a t h ? "

"Yes."

" I s it not reasonable to believe, also, that the complete

holding of the breath within one's body keeps life within us

for so long as the breath is held, at l e a s t ? "

"Well------?"

THE YOGA WHICH CONQUERS DEATH 93

" W e claim no more than that. We say that an adept in

breath control, who can completely retain his breath at will,

thereby retains his life current. Do you grasp t h a t ? "

"I think so."

"Imagine, now, an adept in Yoga who can keep the locked

breath, not merely for a few minutes as a curiosity, but for

weeks, for months and even for years. Since you admit that

where there is breath there must be life, do you not see how

the prospect of prolonged life opens up for m a n ? "

I am dumb. How can I dismiss this assertion as prepos-

terous? Yet how can I accept it? Does it not recall to memory

the idle dreams of our European alchemists of medieval times,

dreamers who sought an elixir of life, but who succumbed to the

sickle of death one by one? But if Brama is not self-deceived,

why should he seek to deceive me. He has not sought my

company and he makes no effort to acquire disciples.

A strange fear touches my brain. What if he is merely mad?

No - he seems so sensible and rational in other matters. Would

it not be better to regard him as mistaken? Yet something in

me doubts even that conclusion. I am bewildered.

" C a n I not convince y o u ? " He speaks again. "Have you

not heard the story of the faqueer who was buried by Ranjeet

Singh in a vault at Lahore? The burial of the faqueer took

place in the presence of English army officers, while the last

of the Sikh kings watched it himself. The living tomb was

guarded by soldiers for six weeks, but the faqueer emerged

healthy and alive. Enquire into this story, for I have been told

that it is written somewhere in the records of your Government.

This faqueer had brought his breathing under great mastery

and could stop it at will without danger of dying. Yet he was

not even an adept in Yoga, for I have heard from an old man

who knew him when he was alive that his character was not

good. His name was Haridas and he lived in the North. If

this man could live in an airless space for such a long time

without breathing, how much more can be done by the true

masters of Yoga, who practise in secret and will not perform

these marvels for g o l d ? " 1

A pregnant silence follows our conversation.

"There exist other strange powers which can be acquired

1 I have since verified this reference and find that the actual

episode occurred in 1837 at Lahore. T h e faqueer was buried in the

presence of King Ranjit Singh, Sir Claude Wade, Dr. Honigberger,

and others. A guard of Sikh soldiers watched the grave day and

night to prevent fraud. T h e faqueer was dug up alive forty days

later. Fuller particulars can be found in the archives at Calcutta.

94 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

by the way of our Yoga, but who, in these degenerate days,

will pay the heavy price to obtain t h e m ? "

There is another pause.

" W e who live and work in the everyday world have sufficient

to do without seeking such powers," I venture, in defence of

my epoch.

"Yes," agrees Brama, "this path of Body Control is only

for the few. Therefore the teachers of our science have kept

it a silent secret through the centuries. It is not often that

they seek after pupils; pupils must seek after them."

§

The next time we meet, Brama visits my quarters. It is

evening and we soon adjourn for dinner. After the meal and

a short rest, we go out on the moonlit veranda where I plant

myself in a deck chair, while the Yogi finds a mat on the floor

more comfortable.

For several minutes we silently enjoy the bright radiance of

the full moon.

As I have not forgotten the astonishing events of our last

meeting, it is not long before I broach anew this incredible

matter of men who snap their fingers at death.

"Why n o t ? " Brama asks his favourite question. "There

is an adept in our Yoga of Body Control who is hidden among

the Neilgherry Hills, here in the South. He never stirs from

his retreat. In the North, there lives another whose home is

a cave upon the snowy Himalayas. These men you cannot

meet, for they disdain this world, yet their existence is a

tradition among us and we are told that they have extended

their lives to hundreds of years."

"You really believe t h i s ? " I exclaim in deferential

doubt.

"Without a doubt! Have I not the visible example of my

own master?"

A question which has been on my mind for many days,

presses itself to the fore again. Hitherto I have hesitated in

voicing it, but now that our friendship has come so close I

decide to give the query a bold outlet. I look earnestly at the

Yogi and ask him:

"Brama, who is your master?"

For a while he returns my gaze, but yields no answer. He

looks at me hesitatingly.

THE YOGA WHICH CONQUERS DEATH 95

When he speaks, his voice is slow and grave:

" H e is known to his Southern disciples as Yerumbu Swami,

meaning The Ant Teacher."

"What a curious name! " I exclaim involuntarily.

" M y master always carries a bag of rice powder from which

he feeds the ants wherever he may be. But in the North and

among the Himalayan villages where he sometimes stays, he

bears another name."

" I s he, then, perfect in your Yoga of Body Control?"

"Even so."

"And you believe that he has lived ?"

"I believe that he is over four hundred years o l d ! " Brama

quietly finishes the sentence for me.

There is a tense pause.

I stare at him in bewilderment.

"Many a time he has described to me what happened during

the reigns of the Moghul Emperors," supplements the Yogi.

"And he has told me stories of the days when your English

India Company first came to Madras."

Sceptical Western ears are unable to accept these statements.

"But any child who has read a history book could tell you

such things," I counter.

Brama ignores my remark. He goes o n :

" M y master remembers clearly the first battle of Panipat1

and he has not forgotten the days of the battle of Plassey.2

I recollect how he once referred to a brother disciple, one

Beshudananda, as a mere child of eighty years!"

In the clear moonlight I notice that Brama's swarthy, broad-

nosed countenance remains peculiarly unmoved while he

utters these strange words. How can my brain, nurtured in

the strict methods of inquiry which modern science has called

forth, entertain such assertions? After all, Brama is a Hindu

and must possess some of the legend-swallowing ability of his

people. It is useless to contend with him; I shall remain silent.

The Yogi continues:

"For more than eleven years my master was spiritual

adviser to one of the old Maharajahs of Nepal, the State which

lies between India and Tibet. There he is known and loved

by some of the village people, who dwell among the Himalayan

1 In 1526, the invading army of Baber, a descendant of the ruthless

Tamerlane, and the forces of the King of Agra met in conflict at

Panipat.

2 This famous battle, which opened the British path to power in

India, occurred in 1757.

96 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

mountains. They revere him as a god when he visits them,

yet he talks to them in a kindly way, in the manner of a father

talking to his children. He gives no heed to caste rules, and he

eats neither fish nor meat"

"How is it possible for a man to live so l o n g ? " My thoughts

involuntarily voice themselves again.

Brama looks away, seems to forget my presence.

"There are three ways in which this is possible. The first is

to practise all the postures, all the breathing exercises and all the

secret exercises which comprise our system of Body Control.

This practice must take place until one is perfect, which can

be done only under a proper master who can show you in his

own body what he teaches. The second way is to partake

regularly of some rare herbs which are known only to the adepts

who have studied this matter. These adepts carry the herbs

secretly, or hide them in their robes when travelling. When

the time arrives for the final disappearance of such an adept,

he selects a worthy disciple, makes the secret known to him,

and presents him with the herbs. To none else are they

given. The third way is not easy to explain." Brama stops

abruptly.

"Will you not t r y ? " I urge.

" I t is possible that you will laugh at my words."

I assure him that, on the contrary, I shall treat his explanation

with due respect.

"Very well. There exists a tiny hole inside the brain of

man.1 Within this hole dwells the soul. There is also a kind of

valve which protects this hole. At the bottom of the spine

there comes into being the unseeable life-current which I have

mentioned to you more than once. The constant loss of this

current causes the body to grow old, but its control fills the

flesh with new life and perpetuates it. When a man has

conquered himself, he can begin to get this control by certain

practices which are known only to advanced Yogis of our

school. And when he can withdraw this life-current up his

spine, he may then try to concentrate it into the hole in the

brain. But, unless he finds a master who will assist him to

open the protecting valve, he cannot succeed. If he finds a

master who is willing to do this, then the unseeable current

will enter the hole and turn into the Nectar of Longevity, as

we name it. It is no easy task, for ruin waits in ambush for the

man who attempts it alone. But the man who succeeds can

1 It is possible that Brama refers to the cavity caused by the four

inter-communicating ventricles of the brain, but I am not sure.

THE YOGA WHICH CONQUERS DEATH 97

induce a condition similar to death whenever he pleases, and

so obtains the victor's power when real death seeks him out.

In fact, he can choose the exact moment of his death at any

time, and to the severest examination he will appear to have

died naturally. One who has all these three methods at his

command can live for many hundred years. So have I been

taught. Even when he dies, the worms will refrain from

attacking his body. A century later his flesh will still be free

from decay."

I thank Brama for his explanation, but I wonder. I am

profoundly interested, but I am not convinced. Anatomy

does not know this current of which he talks, and it has

certainly never known his Nectar. Are these stories of physio-

logical marvels mere superstitious misunderstandings? With

them one returns to the age of fable, the ancient days of long-

lived wizards and magicians who hold the elixir of life. Yet

the demonstrations of breath and blood control which Brama

has given me provide some assurance that Yogic powers are

not mere chimeras, that these powers can undoubtedly be

responsible for the performance of feats which must appear

fabulous to the uninitiated. Beyond this point I find it

difficult to walk with him.1

I remain respectfully silent, careful not to allow my intellectual

struggles betray themselves on my face.

"Such powers as these would be much desired by men who

are nearing the grave," Brama resumes, " b u t forget not that

the way to them is full of danger. Can you wonder that our

masters say of these exercises: 'Keep them as secret as you

would keep a box of diamonds.'"

" S o you are unlikely to reveal them to m e ? "

"Those who wish to become adepts should first learn to

walk before they try to run? " he replies, with a faint smile.

"A last question, Brama."

The Yogi nods.

"Where is your master now living?"

" H e has entered a temple retreat in the mountains of Nepal,

on the yonder side of the Terai jungle."

1 Th e entire conversation, with its amazing statements and cool

assertions, now seems like a fantastic dream. My attempt to transfer

it to paper is a task which, more than once, makes me contemplate

omitting it completely from this book as I have perforce to omit many

other conversations. I do not doubt but that it will cause many

superior European lips to curl in contempt of Asiatic superstition.

If I finally let it pass into publication, it is at the bidding of other

judgments than mine.

98 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

" I s he likely to return to the plains again?"

" W h o can foretell his movements? He may remain in

Nepal for many years, or he may begin his travels again. He

likes Nepal best because our school of Yoga flourishes better

there than in India. You see, even the teaching of Body

Control differs with different schools. And ours is the Tantra

school, which is better understood in the atmosphere of Nepal

than among the Hindus."

Brama reverts to silence. I guess that he is dwelling in

devoted thought upon this enigmatic figure of his master.

Ah! if these things I have heard to-night are more real than

legendary, then, indeed, one may catch a glimpse of what is

around the corner - Man, Ageless and Immortal!

§

If I do not hurry my pen, this chapter will never be brought

to a close. Therefore I shall endeavour to transfix the last

memorable scene of my association with the Yogi of the five

names.

The Indian night comes quickly on the heels of evening;

there are no lingering sunsets as in Europe. And as the swift

dusk begins to descend on his garden hut, Brama lights an oil

lantern and suspends it by a cord from the roof. We settle

down anew.

The old widow discreetly slips away and leaves me alone

with the Yogi and the student-teacher who translates our

words. The odour of burning incense touches the room with

a mystical atmosphere.

This evening sad thoughts of parting steal over me. I try

to brush them off, but fail. I cannot clearly tell this man,

through the irritating barrier of speaking through a third person,

what is in my heart. How far the novel facts and strange

theories he has put forward are correct, I am little able to say,

but I have appreciated his readiness to let me enter his solitary

existence; I have felt at times that our hearts have drawn

sympathetically near to each other; and I know now what it

has meant to him to break his habitual reserve.

To-night I have made a last attempt, under the shadow of

impending departure, to induce him to reveal his deeper secrets.

"Are you ready to abandon the life of cities and to retire

into a solitary place in the hills or the jungle for some years?"

he asks me, searchingly.

THE YOGA WHICH CONQUERS DEATH 99

"I must first think this out, Brama."

"Are you ready to give up all other activities, all your work,

renounce your pleasures and put your whole time into the

exercises of our system - and that not merely for a few months,

but for several y e a r s ? "

"I do not think so. No - I am not ready. One day,

perhaps "

" T h e n I can take you no farther. This Yoga of Body Control

is too serious to become the mere sport of a man's leisure

hours."

I see my chances of becoming a Yogi fade swiftly into

nothing. I regretfully realize that the full system, with its

many years of difficult training, its rigorous and austere

discipline, is not for me. But there is something else which is

closer to my heart than strange powers of the flesh. I confide

in the anchorite.

"Brama, these powers - they are wonderfully fascinating.

One day I would really like to go more deeply into your training,

yet, after all, how much lasting happiness do they bring?

Is there not something finer still in Yoga? Perhaps I do not

make myself clear?"

Brama nods his head and says:

"I understand."

We both smile.

"Our texts say that the wise man will follow up his practice

of the Yoga of Body Control with the Yoga of Mind Control,"

he remarks, slowly. " I t can be said that the first prepares

the way for the second. When our ancient masters received

the principles of our system from the god Shiva, they were

told that the final goal was not to be purely material. They

understood that the conquest of the body was to be looked

upon as a step towards the conquest of the mind, and this

again as a way to becoming spiritually perfect. So you see

that our system deals with things close at hand, indeed, with

the body, but only as an indirect means of penetrating to the

spirit. Therefore, my own master has taught m e : 'First

run your course in Body Control; then you can take to the

kingly science, the Mind Control.' Remember that a body

which is mastered ceases to distract the mind; only a few

can plunge straight into the path of holding the thoughts.

Yet if a man feels strongly drawn to the way of Mind Control

we do not interfere; for that, then, is his path."

"And that is a purely mental Y o g a ? "

"Even so. It is a training to make the mind like a steady

100 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

light, and then that light is turned on to the abode of the

spirit."

" H o w can one start such training?"

" F o r that again, it is necessary to find a master."

" W h e r e ? "

Brama shrugs his shoulders.

"Brother, people who are hungry look eagerly for food;

those who are starving, however, will search like madmen.

When you want a master as much as a starving man wants to

eat, you will surely find one. Those who search sincerely will

most assuredly be led towards him at the appointed hour."

"You believe that there is a destiny about the matter? "

"You speak truly."

"I have seen some books "

The Yogi shakes his head.

"Without a master, your books are mere pieces of paper.

Our word for him, guru, means: ' One who dispels darkness.'

The man whose efforts and destiny favour him sufficiently to

find a real teacher, steps quickly into a state of light, for the

master uses his own higher gifts to benefit the disciple."

Brama moves away to his bench of littered papers and

presently returns with a large document, which he hands to

me. It is covered with an orderly arrangement of cabbalistic

signs, peculiar symbols and Tamil characters drawn in red,

green and black inks. The top of the sheet is adorned with a

large hieroglyphic symbol patterned like a scroll, in which I

recognize representations of the sun, moon and the human

eyes. All the sketches and writings fall around a central

blank space.

"Last night, I spent some hours preparing this," says

Brama. " When you get back, paste one of my photographs

in the centre."

He informs me that if I will concentrate my mind upon this

queer but not inartistic document for five minutes before

going to sleep at night, I shall dream clearly and vividly of

him.

"Even if five thousand miles separate our bodies, place your

thoughts upon this paper and our spirits shall meet at night,"

he asserts confidently. And he explains that these dream

meetings will be as actual and as real as our physical meetings

have been so far.

This brings me to mention that my trunks are all but packed,

and that I shall soon be off; I am doubtful when and where

I may see him again.

THE YOGA WHICH CONQUERS DEATH 101

He replies that he does not doubt that whatever destiny

has been allotted us, must be fulfilled. And then he confides

in m e :

"I leave this place in the spring, when I shall go to the

Tanjore district, where two students await me. As for what

will happen thereafter, who can say, for, as you know, I hope

one day to receive the call from my master."

There is a long silence, which Brama eventually breaks by

addressing me in a voice which is lowered to a hushed whisper.

I turn to the student-teacher, preparing myself to receive

some new revelation.

" L a s t night my master appeared to me. He spoke to me

about yourself. He said: 'Your friend, the sahib, is eager for

knowledge. In his last birth he was among us. 'He followed

Yoga practices, but they were not of our school. To-day he

has come again to Hindustan, but in a white skin. What he

knew then, has now been forgotten; yet he can forget for a

while only. Until a master bestows his grace upon him he

cannot become aware of this former knowledge. The master's

touch is needed to help him recover that knowledge in this

body. Tell him that soon he shall meet a master. Thereafter,

light will come to him of its own accord. This is certain. Bid

him cease his anxiety. Our land shall not be left by him until

this happens. It is the writing of fate that he may not leave us

with empty hands.'"

I draw back, astounded.

The lamp throws its beams of light upon the little assembly.

My young interpreter's face seems stricken with awe in that

yellowish glare.

" D i d you not tell me that your teacher was in distant

Nepal?" I demand reproachfully.

"Indeed, he remains there s t i l l ! "

" T h e n how on earth can he travel twelve hundred miles in a

single n i g h t ? "

Brama smiles cryptically.

" M y master is ever present to me, though India's span

lies'between our bodies. I receive his message without letter

or bearer. His thought speeds through the air. It reaches

me and I understand."

"Telepathy?"

" I f you w i s h ! "

I rise, for it is time to go. We wander out on our last moon-

light walk together, and pass the ancient walls of the temple

which stands not far from Brama's house. The moon filigrees

102 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

through the many-branched trees as we halt at a lovely group

of palms which borders the road.

Whilst he is bidding me farewell, Brama murmurs:

"You know that I have but few possessions. This is the

thing I value most. Take it."

He grasps the fourth finger of his left hand, and pulls at it.

He holds forward the palm of his right hand. I see a golden

ring glistening in the centre under the rays of the moon. Eight

slender claws grip a round green stone, whose face is veined

with reddish-brown markings. Brama puts it in my hand as

we clasp in farewell. I attempt to return the unexpected gift,

but he meets my refusal by pressing it more determinedly

upon me.

" O n e who enjoys great wisdom in Yoga gave this to me.

In those days I was travelling far and wide for knowledge.

Now - I beg you to wear it."

I thank him and enquire, half jokingly:

"Will it bring me good fortune? "

" N o , it cannot do that. But there is a powerful charm

within the stone, which will help you penetrate to the company

of secret sages, and which will help you awaken your own mystic

powers. This you will realize by experience. Wear it when

you need these things."

There is a final and friendly parting, and we go our ways.

I walk slowly away, my head filled with a strange medley of

thoughts. I muse over the extraordinary message from Brama's

far-off master. It is too extraordinary for me to dispute. I

remain silent before it while belief and scepticism fight

a fantastic conflict in my heart.

I glance at the golden ring and ask myself, "How can a mere

ring possess any real efficacy in these matters?" I do not

understand how or why it can influence me or others in any

mental or spiritual manner. The belief savours of superstition.

Yet Brama seems so confident of the reality of its fanciful

properties. Is it possible? I feel almost impelled to answer:

In this strange land all things may be possible! But intellect

rushes to the rescue and puts up a barricade of question marks.

I fall into a fit of musing abstraction, so that I move away,

startled, when I stumble against something and knock my

forehead. Looking up, I behold the poetic silhouette of a palm

tree and the fireflies making a myriad dancing points of light

between the branches.

The night sky is deep blue. Venus - a point of intense

brightness - seems quite close to our planet. Infinite peace

THE YOGA WHICH CONQUERS DEATH 103

broods over the road as I walk. A mysterious stillness enthrals

me. Even the large bats which occasionally appear and sweep

over my head, move their wings silently. The scene charms me.

I stop for a moment. The moon diffuses a light which turns

a man, who is approaching me, into a flitting ghost.

When I reach my quarters, I find that wakefulness lingers late

this night. Close to dawn sleep comes at last, drowning my

whirl of thoughts in forgetfulness.

THE YOGI'S MAGIC CHART

"Paste one of my photographs in the centre. Even if five thousand

miles separate our bodies, place your thoughts upon this paper and

our spirits shall meet at night."

CHAPTER VII

THE SAGE WHO NEVER SPEAKS

I MUST break the chronological character of this record,

and wander backwards in time for a week or so, if I am

to catch the record of a not uninteresting encounter.

During my stay in the suburb outside Madras, I have not

neglected to pursue diligent enquiries within Indian circles in

the city itself, with reference to the existence of outstanding

figures of the kind in whom I am interested at the time. I talk

to judges, lawyers, teachers, business people and even one or

two pious notables. I interview the interviewers and spend a

few pleasant hours with men of my own profession. I discover

an assistant editor who tells me privately that he was a keen

student of Yoga in his younger days. He sat then at the feet

of one whom he still regards as being indubitably an adept

in the science of Mind Control, but this master died ten

years ago.

The erstwhile pupil is a charming and highly intelligent

Hindu, but alas! he does not know where high-grade Yogis

can now be found.

Aside from this, I meet with little more than vague tales,

foolish legends and positive rebuffs. It is true that I meet

with one holy man whose Christlike face and robes would have

created a sensation in prosaic Piccadilly, but he, too, tells me

that he is wandering the land in search of a higher life. He has

renounced an estate of good farming land to become a gypsy,

a holy beggar. He offers me this estate, provided that I shall

settle down and serve benighted, suffering Indians. Alas, I too

am a benighted, suffering mortal. His munificent offer is

passed on elsewhere.

Word is brought me one day concerning a reputed Yogi.

He lives about half a mile outside Madras, yet, because he dis-

courages acquaintance, appears to be known to few persons.

My curiosity is quickly excited and I determine to have an

audience with him,

104

THE SAGE WHO NEVER SPEAKS 105

The house is hidden behind tall bamboo poles which fence

a square compound, and which stands completely isolated in the

centre of a field.

My companion points to the compound.

"I am told that the Yogi is immersed in trance most of the

day. It is unlikely that he will hear us even if we rattle the gate

or shout his name; even if we did those things, it would be

thought rude."

A rough gate gives entrance to the enclosure, but as it is

strongly padlocked I begin to wonder how we are to get into

the house. Complete silence pervades the scene. We wander

around the field, turn away from a piece of adjoining waste

land, and eventually meet a boy who knows where to find the

residence of the Yogi's attendant. A circuitous walk brings

us to the place.

The man proves to be a hired servant. His wife and many

children come outside to see us and trail behind his heels. We

tell him our desire, but he refuses to help us. He firmly

declares that the Sage Who Never Speaks is not on view

to stray visitors, but lives in strict seclusion. The Sage's

days are spent in deep trances and he would be highly

offended if all and sundry were allowed to break in on his

privacy.

I beg the attendant to make an exception in my favour, but

he is adamant. It becomes necessary for my friend to threaten

Government interference, if we are not admitted forthwith -

a totally unjustifiable procedure, of course, but one which I

illegally reinforce, though our eyes wink towards each other.

There ensues an animated discussion. I supplement our

threats by the lure of liberal baksheesh and it is not long

before the attendant reluctantly yields and brings out his

keys. My companion informs me that it is clear the man

is no more than a paid servant, because if he were a personal

disciple of the Sage, neither threats nor money could have

moved him.

We march back to the gate of the compound and unlock a

massive iron padlock. The servant informs us that the Sage's

belongings are so few that they do not include a key. He is

locked in the compound from the outside and has no means of

egress until the attendant's visits, which take place twice

daily. We learn further that the Sage is occupied with his

trances throughout the day, but in the evening he partakes of

some fruit, sweetmeats, and a cupful of milk. There have

been many evenings, however, when the food has remained

106 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

untouched. The fall of darkness sometimes brings the recluse

out of his cottage, though a walk around the fields is the only

exercise he takes.

We cross the compound and arrive at a modern cottage. It is

solidly built of stone slabs and painted timber posts. The

attendant produces another key and unlocks a heavy door. I

express surprise at all these precautions, for did not the servant

tell us that the Sage's belongings are very few? Thereupon the

man tells us a brief explanatory story.

Some years earlier the silent Sage lived in the cottage

without the protection of any locks or fastenings upon the

entrances. But one unfortunate day there came a man who was

drunk with toddy liquor, and who took advantage of the

defenceless state of the Sage to attack him. The drunkard

pulled his beard, belaboured him with a stick and shouted

disgusting epithets.

Chance intervened to draw some young men into the field,

intent upon playing a ball game. The noise of the assault

drew their attention. They entered the cottage and rescued the

Sage from his assailant, while one of them ran off to the nearest

houses to inform all and sundry. Before long a group of excited

people gathered together, Indian fashion, and began to mis-

handle the drunken ruffian who had dared attack a revered holy

man. There was a likelihood that the man who was so dastardly

would be lynched.

Throughout this episode the Sage had maintained his usual

stoic calmness and endurance. Now he intervened and wrote

down the following message.

" I f you beat this man, it is the same as beating me. Let

him go, for I have forgiven him."

Since the Sage's word was unwritten law, his request was

unwillingly obeyed and the miscreant set free.

§

The attendant peers into the room and then warns us to be

perfectly quiet, because the Sage is sunk in trance. I unlace

my shoes and leave them behind on the veranda, in obedience

to the inexorable dictates of Hindu custom. As I bend my

head I notice a small flat stone in the wall. Its face is inscribed

with Tamil characters. " T h e Abode of the Sage Who Never

Speaks," translates my companion.

We enter the one-roomed cottage. It is lofty, well-roofed

THE SAGE WHO NEVER SPEAKS 107

and scrupulously clean. A raised marble dais, which is about

one foot high, is built into the floor's centre. Its surface is

covered with a richly patterned Persian rug. Upon this rug sits

the entranced figure of the silent Sage.

Imagine a handsome man, whose skin shines with a tawny

blackish colour, whose body is finely erect, and who sits in a

peculiar attitude which I immediately identify as one of the

Yoga postures which Brama has shown me. The left leg is

doubled back so that the foot is under the base of the body,

and the right leg is swung across the left thigh. The Sage's

back, neck and head form a perfectly straight line. His hair falls

in long black strands almost to his shoulders, and hangs thickly

around his head. There is a sweeping black beard upon his

chin. His hands are clasped over his knees. I notice that the

trunk is remarkably well developed; it is very muscular and he

is clearly in a healthy condition. The only covering he wears

is a loin cloth.

His face photographs itself immediately in my memory as the

face of a man who smiles in triumph over life, a man who has

conquered the frailties which we, feebler mortals that we are,

harbour willingly or unwillingly. The mouth is slightly

stretched - as though about to break into a smile. The

nose is short and straight, almost Grecian in type. The

eyes are wide open; they stare straight ahead in a fixed and

unblinking gaze. The man sits like a carved rock and never

moves.

My informant has earlier told me that the silent Sage is

without doubt deeply immersed in an entranced communion

wherein the human part of his nature is presumed to be sunk

into temporary abeyance, and that he is quite unaware of his

physical surroundings. I watch the Sage steadily but can find

no room for doubt that he is in a cataleptic trance. The minutes

add up into hours but he remains motionless.

What impresses me most is that throughout that time he

never blinks his eyes. I have never before met any human

being who could sit down and look steadily ahead for two hours

without the flicker of an eyelid. Little by little, I am compelled

to conclude that if the recluse's eyes are still open, they are

nevertheless quite unseeing. If his mind is awake, it is not to

this sublunary world. The bodily faculties seem to have gone

to sleep. Occasionally, a tear drop falls from his eyes. It is

clear that the fixation of the eyelids prevents them carrying

out their usual office on behalf of the tear ducts.

A green lizard descends from the roof, creeps across the

108 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

carpet, crawls over one of the Sage's legs, and then passes

behind the marble dais. Yet, had it crawled over a stone wall,

it would not have found a steadier surface than that leg. From

time to time flies settle upon his face and journey over his

swarthy skin, but no muscular response can be observed. Had

they alighted upon the face of a bronze statue, precisely the same

effect might be observed.

I study the figure's breathing. It is extremely gentle, almost

imperceptible, quite inaudible but quite regular. It is the only

sign he provides that life has not parted from the body.

While we are waiting I decide to use the time to take a photo-

graph or two of this impressive figure. I slip my folding camera

out of its leather case and focus the lens upon him from my seat

on the floor. The lighting of the room is not good; therefore

I give a couple of time exposures.

I look at my watch. Two hours have passed. The Yogi

still shows no signs of emerging from his long trance. The

sculptural rigidity of his form is remarkable.

I am prepared to stay all day in order to achieve my object,

in order to interview this strange man. But the attendant now

comes up to us and whispers that it is useless to wait any longer.

Nothing will be gained by doing so. If we will come again in

a day or two, better fortune might be ours; nevertheless, he

cannot promise anything definitely.

We leave the place, temporarily defeated as we are, and turn

our steps toward the city. My interest has not waned; on the

contrary, it has heightened.

During the next two days I endeavour to collect some

information relative to the Sage Who Never Speaks. This

endeavour involves a scattered and discursive investigation,

which varies from a lengthy cross-examination of his attendant

to a brief interview with a police inspector. In this way I

succeed in piecing together a fragment of the Sage's story.

Eight years ago he arrived in Madras district. No one knew

who he was, what he was or whence he came. He took up his

residence on the piece of waste land which now adjoins the field

containing his cottage. Inquisitive inquirers who addressed

him received no reply for their pains. He spoke to none,

heeded no sounds and no persons, and could not be drawn

even into the most casual conversation. He begged a little

food occasionally by holding out his coconut-shell bowl.

Day after day he persisted in squatting amid these unattrac-

tive surroundings, despite his exposure to the relentless rays

of a burning sun, to the heavy downpours of the monsoon

THE SAGE WHO NEVER SPEAKS 109

season, and to dust and unpleasant insects. Never at any time

did he make any effort to seek shelter, but always remained

serenely oblivious of external circumstances. There was no

protection for his head and no covering for his body, except

for a narrow loin cloth.

He never changed the Yoga posture in which he sat for any

other. Now, the outskirts of a large city like Madras were

hardly suitable for a hermit who wished to seat himself in the

open air and in full public gaze in order to plunge his mind

into abstracted meditations for lengthy periods. Such conduct

would have won great respect in ancient India, but the modern

Yogi can find favourable conditions for his mystic practices

only in sparse jungle spaces, forest retreats, mountain caves or

in the seclusion of his room.

Why, then, did this strange hermit choose such an unsuitable

spot for his meditations? An unpleasant occurrence provided

the curious explanation.

One day a band of youthful and ignorant hooligans came

across the lonely Yogi by chance and began to persecute him.

They left the city with reprehensible punctuality to engage in a

daily campaign of stone-throwing, dirt-flinging and abusive

jeering. The hermit continued to sit quietly, and patiently

endured his trials, although he was stalwart enough to be able

to give them a sound thrashing. He did not even rebuke them

because he was under a vow of silence.

Nothing stopped the young brutes until a man happened to

pass by when they were busy with their usual persecution of

the Yogi. The stranger was shocked at seeing a holy man so ill-

treated. He went back to Madras and gave information to the

police, from whom he demanded help on behalf of the voiceless

Yogi. The help was forthcoming and the despicable band was

dispersed with severe warnings.

After this event a police officer decided to make some

enquiries about the hermit, but he was unable to find a single

person who knew anything about him. So he was compelled

to question the Yogi, which he did with all the authority of the

law. After much hesitation the Yogi wrote a brief statement

upon a slate. This is what he scribbled:

"I am a pupil of Marakayar. My master directed me to

cross the plains and go south to Madras. He described this

piece of ground and explained where I would be able to find it.

He told me to take up my abode here and to continue in the

steady practise of Yoga until I have made myself perfect in it.

I have given up the worldly life and desire only to be left alone.

110 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

I have no interest in the affairs of Madras and seek nothing

more than to follow my spiritual path."

The police officer was quite satisfied that the man was a

genuine faqueer of a superior type, so he withdrew after

promising protection against the hooligans. He recognized the

name of Marakayar as being that of a famous Muhammedan

faqueer who had recently died.

" O u t of evil cometh good," runs the old proverb. The

upshot of this unpleasant affair was that the presence of the

recluse became known to a wealthy and pious citizen of Madras.

The latter endeavoured to tempt him into the city with the lure

of residence in a fine house, but the hermit would not disobey

his master's instructions. In the end the newly-found patron

had to build a stone-and-timber bungalow near the ground

which the Yogi refused to leave. The latter consented to

occupy it and, as it was properly roofed, he was thenceforth

adequately protected against the inclemencies of changing

seasons.

His patron also appointed a personal attendant for the Yogi.

It was now no longer necessary for the latter to beg, as all his

food was brought to him by the attendant. Whether his master

Marakayar had foreseen such a pleasant consequence of an

unpleasant experience or not, it remained that the last condition

of his pupil was much better than the first.

I learn that the Sage Who Never Speaks has not even one

pupil. He seeks none and accepts none. He is one of those

solitaries who prefer to live in isolation in order to achieve their

own "spiritual liberation." If there is any value in the latter,

then their attitude is apparently a selfish one, judged by our

Western lights. And yet, when one remembers the Sage's

profound considerateness towards the drunkard and his refusal

to retaliate against the young hooligans, one wonders whether

he can be so very selfish after all.

§

Accompanied by two other persons, I make my second

attempt to interview the Sage Who Never Speaks. One is my

interpreter, while the second man is none other than the Yogi

who has taught me so much - Brama, " t h e Adyar anchorite,"

as I affectionately call him. Brama never cares to enter the

city, but when I make known the object of my visit and desire

him to accompany me, he agrees without demur.

THE SAGE WHO NEVER SPEAKS 111

At the compound we meet another visitor, who has left a large

car on the roadside and walked across the fields to the same

objective. He, too, is desirous of seeing the silent Sage. He

tells me during a brief conversation that he is a brother of the

Queen of Gadwal, a small state which is tributary to the Nizam

of Hyderabad. He informs me that he also is a patron of the

Sage, inasmuch as he insists on making a regular contribution

towards the cost of maintaining the shelter. He has come on a

brief visit to Madras, but cannot leave the town without paying

his respects to the Sage, and perchance receiving his blessing.

What the latter is worth, I learn from a story which the visitor

narrates.

A lady at the Court of Gadwal had a child who suffered from

some dread ailment. By some odd coincidence she heard of the

existence of the Sage Who Never Speaks. Such is her anxiety

that she journeys to Madras and begs the hermit to grant his

blessing and heal the little boy. The blessing is given and from

that date the child makes a marvellous recovery. The incident

comes to the notice of the Queen, who also visits the hermit.

Her Highness presents him with a purse of six hundred rupees,

which he refuses to accept. She presses him until he writes a

message saying that the money can be used to improve his

shelter by fixing a fence around the cottage, so that he shall

secure more privacy. The Queen arranges to have this done

and thus the bamboo fence comes into being.

The attendant again admits us into the cottage, where we

find the recluse sunk in the same trance-like condition which he

maintained throughout my first visit.

We squat upon the floor in silence and wait patiently before

the tall, majestic, black-bearded figure on the marble dais.

About half-way through the second hour we perceive the first

signs of returning activity in the Sage's body. His breathing

becomes deeper and then more audible. The eyelids move, the

eyeballs roll alarmingly upwards until the whites glare and then

come down to normal. A slight swaying movement becomes

perceptible in his trunk.

Five minutes later the expression in the Sage's eyes changes

in such a way that we know he has become aware of his physical

environment. He looks attentively at the interpreter, turns his

head abruptly and looks at Brama and then at the other visitor,

turns it again and looks at me.

I seize the opportunity and place a pencil and a pad of paper

at his feet. He hesitates awhile, takes up the pencil and writes

in large flourishing Tamil characters:

112 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

" W h o came here the other day and tried to take pictures?"

I am compelled to admit to this activity. As a matter of fact,

the effort had been useless, for I had under-exposed the films.

He writes again:

"When you go again to Yogis who are in deep trance, never

disturb them by such actions. Do not attempt to break in

abruptly upon their meditations. In my own case it did not

matter, but I tell you this to guide your future actions when

you try to see other Yogis. Such interruption may be dangerous

to them and they might put a curse upon you."

It is evidently looked upon as a minor act of sacrilege

to penetrate the solitude of such a man, so I express my

regrets.

The Queen of Gadwal's brother now proffers his devotion

to the Sage. When he has finished I venture to introduce

myself as one deeply interested in the ancient wisdom of India.

I have heard across the seas, I inform him, that India still

possesses a few men who have made remarkable attainments in

Yoga and I seek to discover them. Will the Sage give me such

enlightenment as he thinks fit?

The hermit remains statuesque, impassive; his face betrays

no responsive change of expression. For fully ten minutes he

gives no sign that he has heard my request. I begin to fear that

I have drawn a blank, that he regards the materialistic Westerner

as unfit even for the slightest degree of enlightenment. Possibly

my clumsy outrage with the camera has repelled him. Am I

not expecting too much, when I expect this reserved member

of a reclusive species to break his trance for the sake of an

infidel member of an alien race? A sense of chagrin rises up

in me.

My disappointment is too premature. The Sage takes the

pencil at length and scrawls something upon the paper. When

he has finished I lean over and push the pad to our interpreter.

"What is there to understand?" he slowly translates. The

writing is difficult to decipher.

" T h e universe is full of problems?" I rejoin, disconcerted.

I fancy that a slightly derisive smile now begins to play around

the lips of the Sage.

"Since you do not understand even your own self," he asks,

"how can you hope to understand the universe?"

He looks straight into my eyes. I feel that behind his steady

gaze there is some deep knowledge, some store of secrets which

he is guarding with relentless care. I cannot account for this

queer impression.

THE SAGE WHO NEVER SPEAKS 113

"Yet I am much bewildered," is all I can bring myself to

say next.

"Why, then, do you go about like a bee which sucks mere

drops of the honey of knowledge, when the heavy mass of pure

honey awaits y o u ? "

This answer tantalizes me. It is, no doubt, all-sufficient to

an Oriental mind. Its mystic vagueness charms me as a piece

of poetry, but blurs me when I look for a useful contribution

that will solve some of life's problems.

"But where shall one l o o k ? "

"Seek your own self, and you shall know the Truth which is

deep hidden therein," comes the reply.

"But I find only the emptiness of ignorance," I persist.

" T h e ignorance exists within your thoughts alone," he

writes laconically.

"Pardon me, master, but your answer plunges me into still

further ignorance!"

The Sage actually smiles at my temerity. He hesitates

awhile, screws up his eyebrows, and then writes:

"You have thought yourself into your present ignorance;

now think yourself back into wisdom, which is the same as

self-understanding. Thought is like a bullock cart which

carries a man into the darkness of a mountain tunnel. Turn

it backwards and you will be carried back to the light

again."

I ruminate over his words, which still puzzle me a little.

Seeing this, the Sage beckons for the pad, poises the pencil in

the air for a few moments, and explains:

"This backward-turning of thought is the highest Yoga.

Now do you understand?"

A very dim light begins to dawn on me. I feel that, given

sufficient time in which to meditate on the matter, we shall be

able to understand each other; therefore, I resolve not to press

the point too much.

I am so intent on watching him that I have not noticed the

arrival of a fresh visitor, who has taken advantage of the opened

gate to enter and join us. I become aware of his presence only

when he breathes a strange remark into my ear, for he is sitting

immediately behind me. Whilst I am puzzling over a reply of

the Sage, feeling slightly disappointed at the cryptic character

of his words, a mysterious murmur reaches me, its words

phrased in excellent English:

"My master can give you the answer for which you are

waiting."

114 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

I turn my head and look at the intruder.

He is a man not older than forty, dressed in the ochre-

coloured robe of a wandering Yogi. The skin of his face shines

like polished brass. He is well built and broad shouldered - a

powerful looking figure. His nose is thin, prominent and beaked

like a parrot's. His eyes are small and seem to be wrinkled in

perpetual laughter. He squats upon his haunches and grins

broadly at me when our eyes meet.

But I cannot perpetrate the rude action of entering into

desultory conversation with the stranger, so I turn back and fix

my attention again upon the Sage.

Another question comes to the forefront of my mind. It is

possibly too daring or too impertinent.

"Master, the world needs help. Is it right for the wise ones,

such as yourself, to be lost to it in solitary retirement?"

A quizzical expression crosses the calm face of the

hermit.

" M y son," he replies, "when you do not know yourself,

how can you dream of understanding me? It is of little avail

to discuss the things of the spirit. Strive to enter into your

inner self through the practice of Yoga. You must work hard

upon this path. Then your problems will solve themselves of

their own accord."

I make a last attempt to draw him.

" T h e world needs a deeper light than it possesses. I would

like to find it and share it. What shall I d o ? "

"When you know the Truth you will know exactly what to

do to serve mankind best, nor will you lack the power to do so.

If a flower possesses the honey, the bee will find it out of its

own accord. If a man possesses spiritual wisdom and strength,

he need not go in search of people; they will come unasked

to him. Cultivate your inner self until you know it fully.

No other instruction is necessary. This is the only thing

to do."

He then informs us that he wishes to close the interview, so

as to resume his trance.

I ask for a final message.

The silent Sage gazes over my head into seeming space. A

minute later he pencils a reply and pushes the pad towards me.

We read:

"I am very pleased because you came here. Take this as

my initiation."

I hardly finish taking in the purport of his answer when I

suddenly feel a strange force entering my body. It pours

THE SAGE WHO NEVER SPEAKS 115

through my spinal column and stiffens the neck and draws up

the head. The power of will seems raised to a superlative

degree. I become conscious of a dynamic urge to conquer

myself and make the body obey the will to realize one's

deepest ideals. And I feel intuitively that those ideals are but

voices of my best self, which alone can promise me lasting

happiness.

A queer thought comes to me that some current is being

projected to me from the Sage, some invisible telepathic

current. Can it be that he is thus vouchsafing to me an inkling

of his own attainment?

The eyes of the recluse become fixed and the far-off look

again enters them. His body becomes taut as he settles down

more firmly into his familiar posture. I plainly perceive that

he is withdrawing his attention into depths which may possibly

be deeper than thought, that he is plunging his consciousness

into inner recesses which he loves better than this world.

Is he then a true Yogi? Is he engaged on mysterious

inward explorations which, I begin to suspect, may be fraught

with some meaning to humanity? Who knows?

When we emerge from the compound, Brama, the Adyar

anchorite, turns to me and says, in a quiet voice:

" T h i s Yogi has reached a high state, although not the final

goal. He possesses occult gifts, but is keener to perfect his

spirituality. His fine bodily condition I attribute to his long

practice of the Yoga of Body Control, though I now observe

that he has advanced into the art of Mind Control. I knew

him before."

" W h e n ? "

"I discovered him some years ago near here, when he lived

in the open field without a cottage. I recognized him for what

he was - a practising Yogi following my path. I shall also tell

you that he informed me - through writing, of course - that

in early life he was a Sepoy in the army. After his period of

service came to an end, he wearied of this worldly life and

embraced solitude. It was then that he met the renowned

faqueer Marakayar and became his disciple."

We proceed in silence across the fields and then rejoin the

dusty road. I do not mention to anyone the unexpected and

inexplicable experience which came to me in the cottage. I

want to muse over it while its echoes are yet sounding fresh

within me.

I never see the Sage again. He does not wish me to intrude

upon his secluded life and I must respect his wish. I leave

116 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

him to his lonely meditations, wrapped in his mantle of

impenetrability. He has no desire to found a school or collect

a following, and his ambitions seem to stretch no farther than

passing unobtrusively through life. He has nothing to add to

what he has already said to me. He does not make an art of

conversation for its own sake, as we do in the West.

THE GREAT TEMPLE OF ARUNACHALA AND THE HILL OF THE HOLY BEACON

" H e r e is no stone building whose columned beauty stays one's emotions in a few minutes of silent wonder, as do those courts of the deities near Athens, but rather a gloomy sanctuary of dark mysteries."

Y O G I S ' CAVES H E W N O U T O F S O L I D M O U N T A I N ROCK

"Go to some place over which the m i g h t y H i m a l a y a s keep eternal guard. There you will find a totally different class of men. They live in humble huts or caves, eat little food and constantly pray to God. They, too, are called Yogis."

(Above) THE CAVE HOME OF SHRI SADGURU MEHER BABA

(Below) THE " N E W MESSIAH"

"This Parsee holy man is doubtless a great lover of Nature for he has

set his retreat in a scene of aloof untroubled peace."

H A Z R A T B A B A J A N , T H E WOMAN F A Q U E E R

UPASANI M A H A R A J

" I s it possible t h a t this aged and decrepit fleshly frame, this

" A n d so, when Meher came face to face with Upasani Maharaj,

haggard and huddled figure, contains the soul of a genuine

he felt t h a t he had found his m a s t e r . "

faqueer with wondrous powers. W h o can s a y ?

BRAMA SITTING IN HIS FAVOURITE YOGA

THE ANCHORITE OF THE ADYAR RIVER

POSTURE

"One gathers the impression that the mind behind

"If a Yogi enters into such a posture and then practises

those eyes is pondering over some matter."

a certain breathing exercise, he will become more

youthful."

SHRI SHANKARA, THE SPIRITUAL HEAD OF SOUTH INDIA

His noble face, pictured in grey and brown, takes an honoured place in the

long portrait gallery of my memory."

By courtesy Indian Railways Bureau, London

INTERIOR OF DILWARA TEMPLE

' The tradition of my office requires that I give a spiritual discourse in the

local temple."

By courtesy Indian Railways Bureau, Lone

I N T H E M U H A M M E D A N MOSQUE

" S o m e t h i n g inside me always thrills to the graceful arches of a mosque and to the delicate b e a u t y of cupolas.

Once again I remove my shoes and enter the charming white building."

THE MASTER MAHASAYA

SARADA DEVI, "THE HOLY MOTHER"

' A patriarch has stepped from the pages of the Bible, and a figure

She was the wife of Ramakrishna. The latter was the spiritual

from Mosaic times has turned to flesh."

guide of Mahasaya, and was one of the last of India's Rishees, or

spiritual supermen.

B A D R E E N A T H S A T H U

E E S W A R A SWAMI

A faqueer who claims e x t r a o r d i n a r y occult powers. H e r e he is seen

in a mystic t r a n c e wherein t h e eyeballs t u r n u p o n t h e i r axes. N o t e Once a pupil of t h e Maharishee, b u t now an a d e p t in his own t u r n

t h e chin-rest.

lives in a temple a n d i n s t r u c t s his own group of disciples.

By courtesy Indian Railways Bureau, London

(Above) WANDERING SNAKE CHARMERS

(Below) COMMON FAQUEERS OF AN INFERIOR ORDER AT BENARES

T H E R I V E R B A N K A T B E N A R E S

V I S H U D H A N A N D A T H E MAGICIAN

' T h e feet of m a n y centuries have worn down t h e steps

" H i s venerable appearance and seat of honour are

until they are rugged and u n e v e n . "

enough to inform me t h a t here is the object of my

q u e s t . "

By courtesy Indian Rail-ways Bureau, London

TWILIGHT OVER THE JUMNA

'The river reflects the last red light of sunset. All nature, dumb at the lovely

sight, seems to have come to momentary rest."

By courtesy Indian Railways Bureau, London

S A H A B J I M A H A R A J

T H E G A T E W A Y T O J E H A N G I R ' S P A L A C E , A G R A

" Master of over one h u n d r e d t h o u s a n d

We explore colourful edifices where once t h e seductive favourites of kings flaunted their people who practise a mysterious form of

olive-skinned b e a u t y u p o n marble balconies and in golden b a t h s . "

Y o g a . "

YOUNG RAMANA, THE FUTURE MAHARISHEE

T H E M A H A R I S H E E O R G R E A T SAGE

"I h a v e , in search of my F a t h e r and in obedience to His com-

" H e gazes out towards the jungle-covered hills which stretch

m a n d , s t a r t e d from here. This is only e m b a r k i n g on a virtuous

to t h e horizon and remains motionless. It is impossible to

enterprise. Therefore none need grieve over this affair."

be in frequent contact with him w i t h o u t becoming lit up

inwardly, as it were, by a r a y from his spiritual o r b . "

YOGI R A M I A H

R A M I A H ' S Q U A I N T A B O D E

" I m e e t him at t h e pool, w h i t h e r he h a s c o m e with a

" He s t a y s in a small stone shelter which he has had

brass pitcher for water. His d a r k l y mysterious, b u t

constructed under the shadow of some huge b o u l d e r s . "

b e n i g n a n t , countenance again a t t r a c t s m e . "

CHAPTER VIII

WITH THE SPIRITUAL HEAD OF SOUTH INDIA

SOMEONE draws up to my side before we reach the

end of the road which is to take us into Madras. I

turn my head. The yellow robed Yogi - for it is he -

rewards me with a majestic grin. His mouth stretches almost

from ear to ear, and his eyes wrinkle into narrow slits.

"You wish to speak to m e ? " I enquire.

"I do, sir," he replies quickly, and with a good accent to

his English. "May I ask what you are doing in our country?"

I hesitate before this inquisitiveness, and decide to give a

vague reply.

" O h ! just travelling around."

"You are interested in our holy men, I believe?"

"Yes - a little."

"I am a Yogi, sir," he informs me.

He is the heftiest-looking Yogi I have ever seen.

"How long have you been o n e ? "

"Three years, sir."

"Well, you look none the worse for it, if you will pardon

my saying s o ! "

He draws himself proudly together and stands at attention.

Since his feet are naked, I take the click of his heels for granted.

" F o r seven years I was a soldier of His Majesty the King-

Emperor!" he exclaims.

" I n d e e d ! "

"Yes, sir. I served with the ranks in the Indian Army

during the Mesopotamian campaign. After the war I was put

into the Military Accounts Department because of my superior

intelligence!"

I am compelled to smile at this unsolicited testimonial to

himself.

"I left the service on account of family trouble and went

through a period of great distress. This induced me to take

to the spiritual path and become a Yogi."

117

118 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

I hand him a card.

"Shall we exchange names? " I suggest.

" M y personal name is Subramanya; my caste name is

Aiyar," he quickly announces.

"Well, Mr. Subramanya, I am waiting for an explanation

of your whispered remark in the house of the silent Sage."

"And I have been waiting all this time to give it to you!

Take your questions to my master, for he is the wisest man in

India, wiser even than the Yogis."

" S o ? And have you travelled throughout all India? Have

you met all the great Yogis, that you can make such a

statement?"

"I have met several of them, for I know the country from

Cape Comorin to the Himalayas."

" W e l l ? "

"Sir, I have never met anyone like him. He is a great soul.

And I want you to meet him."

" W h y ? "

"Because he has led me to you! It is his power which has

drawn you to I n d i a ! "

This bombastic statement strikes me as being too exaggerated

and I begin to recoil from the man. I am always afraid of the

rhetorical exaggerations of emotional persons, and it is obvious

that the yellow-robed Yogi is highly emotional. His voice,

gesture, appearance and atmosphere plainly reveal it.

"I do not understand," is my cold reply.

He falls into further explanations.

"Eight months ago I came into touch with him. For five

months I was permitted to stay with him and then I was sent

forth on my travels once more. I do not think you are likely

to meet with another such man as he. His spiritual gifts are

so great that he will answer your unspoken thoughts. You

need only be with him a short time to realize his high spiritual

degree."

"Are you sure he would welcome my visit?"

" O h , sir! Absolutely. It is his guidance which sent me

to you."

"Where does he l i v e ? "

" O n Arunachala - the Hill of the Holy Beacon."

"And where is t h a t ? "

" I n the North Arcot territory, which lies farther south.

1 will constitute myself your guide. Let me take you there.

My master will solve your doubts and remove your problems,

because he knows the highest truth."

WITH THE SPIRITUAL HEAD OF SOUTH INDIA 119

" T h a t sounds quite interesting," I admit reluctantly, " b u t

I regret that the visit is impossible at present. My trunks are

packed and I shall soon be leaving for the North-east. There

are two important appointments to be fulfilled, you see."

" B u t this is more important."

"Sorry. We met too late. My arrangements are made

and they cannot be easily altered. I may be back in the South

later, but we must leave this journey for the present."

The Yogi is plainly disappointed.

"You are missing an opportunity, sir, and "

I foresee a useless argument, so cut him short.

"I must leave you now. Thanks, anyway."

"I refuse to accept your refusal," he obstinately declares.

"To-morrow evening I shall call upon you and I hope then

to hear that you have changed your mind."

Our conversation abruptly finishes. I watch his strong,

well-knit, yellow-robed figure start across the road.

When I reach home, I begin to feel that it is possible I have

made an error of judgment. If the master is worth half the

disciple's claims, then he is worth the troublesome journey

into the southern tip of the peninsula. But I have grown

somewhat tired of enthusiastic devotees. They sing paeans of

praise to their masters, who prove on investigations to fall

lamentably short of the more critical standards of the West.

Furthermore, sleepless nights and sticky days have rendered

my nerves less serene than they should b e ; thus, the possibility

that the journey might prove a wild goose chase looms larger

than it should.

Yet argument fails to displace feeling. A queer instinct

warns me that there may be some real basis for the Yogi's

ardent insistence on the distinctive claims of his master. I

cannot keep off a sense of self-disappointment.

§

About the time of tiffin, that is, tea and biscuits, the servant

announces a visitor. The latter proves to be a fellow member

of the ink-stained fraternity, to wit, the writer Venkataramani.

Several letters of introduction lie where I have thrown them,

at the bottom of my trunk. I have no desire to use them.

This is in response to a curious whim that it might be better

to tempt whatever gods there be to do their best - or worst.

However, I used one in Bombay, preparatory to beginning my

120 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

quest, and I used another in Madras because I have been

charged to deliver a personal message with it. And thus, this

second note has brought Venkataramani to my door.

He is a member of the Senate of Madras University, but he

is better known as the author of talented essays and novels of

village life. He is the first Hindu writer in Madras Presidency,

who uses the medium of English, to be publicly presented with

an inscribed ivory shield because of his services to literature.

He writes in a delicate style of such merit as to win high

commendation from Rabindranath Tagore in India and from

the late Lord Haldane in England. His prose is piled with

beautiful metaphors, but his stories tell of the melancholy

life of neglected villages.

As he enters the room I look at his tall, lean person, his small

head with its tiny tuft of hair, his small chin and bespectacled

eyes. They are the eyes of a thinker, an idealist and a poet

combined. Yet the sorrows of suffering peasants are reflected

in their sad irises.

We soon find ourselves on several paths of common interest.

After we have compared notes about most things, after we have

contemptuously pulled politics to pieces and swung the

censers of adoration before our favourite authors, I am suddenly

impressed to reveal to him the real reason of my Indian visit.

I tell him with perfect frankness what my object is; I ask

him about the whereabouts of any real Yogis who possess

demonstrable attainments; and I warn him that I am not

especially interested in meeting dirt-besmeared ascetics or

juggling faqueers.

He bows his head and then shakes it negatively.

" India is no longer the land of such men. With the in-

creasing materialism of our country, its wide degeneration on

one hand and the impact of unspiritual Western culture on

the other, the men you are seeking, the great masters, have all

but disappeared. Yet I firmly believe that some exist in

retirement, in lonely forests perhaps, but unless you devote a

whole lifetime to the search, you will find them with the

greatest difficulty. When my fellow Indians undertake such

a quest as yours, they have to roam far and wide nowadays.

Then how much harder will it be for a European?"

" T h e n you hold out little h o p e ? " I ask.

"Well, one cannot say. You may be fortunate."

Something moves me to put a sudden question:

"Have you heard of a master who lives in the mountains of

North A r c o t ? "

WITH THE SPIRITUAL HEAD OF SOUTH INDIA 121

He shakes his head.

Our talk wanders back to literary topics.

I offer him a cigarette, but he excuses himself from smoking.

I light one for myself and while I inhale the fragrant smoke of

the Turkish weed, Venkataramani pours out his heart in

passionate praise of the fast disappearing ideals of old Hindu

culture. He makes reference to such ideas as simplicity of

living, service of the community, leisurely existence and

spiritual aims. He wants to lop off parasitic stupidities which

grow on the body of Indian society. The biggest thing in his

mind, however, is his vision of saving the half-million villages

of India from becoming mere recruiting centres for the slums

of large industrialized towns. Though this menace is more

remote than real, his prophetic insight and memory of Western

industrial history sees this as a certain result of present day

trends. Venkataramani tells me that he was born in a family

with a property near one of the oldest villages of South India,

and he greatly lamented the cultural decay and material

poverty into which village life had fallen. He loves to hatch

out schemes for the betterment of the simple village folk,

and he refuses to be happy whilst they are unhappy.

I listen quietly in the attempt to understand his viewpoint.

Finally, he rises to go and I watch his tall thin form disappear

down the road.

Early next morning I am surprised to receive an unexpected

visit from him. His carriage rushes hastily to the gate, for he

fears that I might be out.

"I received a message late last night that my greatest

patron is staying for one day at Chingleput," he bursts out.

After he has recovered his breath, he continues:

"His Holiness Shri Shankara Acharya of Kumbakonam is

the Spiritual Head of South India. Millions of people

revere him as one of God's teachers. It happens that he has

taken a great interest in me and has encouraged my literary

career, and of course he is the one to whom I look for

spiritual advice. I may now tell you what I refrained from

mentioning yesterday. We regard him as a master of the

highest spiritual attainment. But he is not a Yogi. He is the

Primate of the Southern Hindu world, a true saint and great

religious philosopher. Because he is fully aware of most of the

spiritual currents of our time, and because of his own attain-

ment, he has probably an exceptional knowledge of the real

Yogis. He travels a good deal from village to village and from

city to city, so that he is particularly well informed on such

122 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

matters. Wherever he goes, the holy men come to him to pay

their respects. He could probably give you some useful

advice. Would you like to visit h i m ? "

" T h a t is extremely kind of you. I shall gladly go. How far

is Chingleput?"

"Only thirty-five miles from here. But stay ?"

" Y e s ? "

"I begin to doubt whether His Holiness would grant you

an audience. Of course I shall do my utmost to persuade him.

But "

"I am a European!" I finish the sentence for him. "I

understand."

" You will take the risk of a rebuff?" he asks, a little

anxiously.

"Certainly. Let us go."

After a light meal we set out for Chingleput. I ply my

literary companion with questions about the man I hope to see

this day. I learn that Shri Shankara lives a life of almost

ascetic plainness as regards food and clothing, but the dignity

of his high office requires him to move in regal panoply when

travelling. He is followed then by a retinue of mounted

elephants and camels, pundits and their pupils, heralds and

camp followers generally. Wherever he goes he becomes the

magnet for crowds of visitors from the surrounding localities.

They come for spiritual, mental, physical and financial assist-

ance. Thousands of rupees are daily laid at his feet by the

rich, but because he has taken the vow of poverty, this income

is applied to worthy purposes. He relieves the poor, assists

education, repairs decaying temples and improves the condition

of those artificial rain-fed pools which are so useful in the river-

less tracts of South India. His mission, however, is primarily

spiritual. At every stopping-place he endeavours to inspire

the people to a deeper understanding of their heritage of

Hinduism, as well as to elevate their hearts and minds. He

usually gives a discourse at the local temple and then privately

answers the multitude of querents who flock to him.

I learn that Shri Shankara is the sixty-sixth bearer of the title

in direct line of succession from the original Shankara. To get

his office and power into the right perspective within my mind,

I am forced to ask Venkataramani several questions about the

founder of the line. It appears that the first Shankara flourished

over one thousand years ago, and that he was one of the greatest

of the historical Brahmin sages. He might be described as a

rational mystic, and as a philosopher of first rank. He found

WITH THE SPIRITUAL HEAD OF SOUTH INDIA 123

the Hinduism of his time in a disordered and decrepit state,

with its spiritual vitality fast fading. It seems that he was born

for a mission. From the age of eighteen he wandered through-

out India on foot, arguing with the intelligentsia and the priests

of every district through which he passed, teaching the doctrines

of his own creation, and acquiring a considerable following.

His intellect was so acute that, usually, he was more than a

match for those he met. He was fortunate enough to be

accepted and honoured as a prophet during his lifetime, and

not after the life had flickered out of his throat.

He was a man with many purposes. Although he cham-

pioned the chief religion of his country, he strongly condemned

the pernicious practices which had grown up under its cloak.

He tried to bring people into the way of virtue and exposed the

futility of mere reliance on ornate rituals, unaccompanied by

personal effort. He broke the rules of caste by performing the

obsequies at the death of his own mother, for which the priests

excommunicated him. This fearless young man was a worthy

successor to Buddha, the first famous caste breaker. In

opposition to the priests he taught that every human being,

irrespective of caste or colour, could attain to the grace of

God and to knowledge of the highest Truth. He founded no

special creed but held that every religion was a path to God,

if sincerely held and followed into its mystic inwardness. He

elaborated a complete and subtle system of philosophy in

order to prove his points. He has left a large literary legacy,

which is honoured in every city of sacred learning throughout

the country. The pundits greatly treasure his philosophical

and religious bequest, although they naturally quibble and

quarrel over its meaning.

Shankara travelled throughout India wearing an ochre robe

and carrying a pilgrim's staff. As a clever piece of strategy,

he established four great institutions at the four points of the

compass. There was one at Badrinath in the North, at Puri

in the East, and so on. The central headquarters, together

with a temple and monastery, were established in the South,

where he began his work. To this day the South has remained

the holy of holies of Hinduism. From these institutions there

would emerge, when the rainy seasons were over, trained bands

of monks who travelled the country to carry Shankara's message.

This remarkable man died at the early age of thirty-two, though

one legend has it that he simply disappeared.

The value of this information becomes apparent when I

learn that his successor, whom I am to see this day, carries

124 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

on the same work and the same teaching. In this connection,

there exists a strange tradition. The first Shankara promised

his disciples that he would still abide with them in spirit, and

that he would accomplish this by the mysterious process of

"overshadowing " his successors. A somewhat similar theory

is attached to the office of the Grand Lama of Tibet. The

predecessor in office, during his last dying moments, names the

one worthy to follow him. The selected person is usually a

lad of tender years, who is then taken in hand by the best

teachers available and given a thorough training to fit him for

his exalted post. His training is not only religious and intel-

lectual, but also along the lines of higher Yoga and meditation

practices. This training is then followed by a life of great

activity in the service of his people. It is a singular fact that

through all the many centuries this line has been established,

not a single holder of the title has ever been known to have

other than the highest and the most selfless character.

Venkataramani embellishes his narrative with stories of the

remarkable gifts which Shri Shankara the Sixty-sixth possesses.

There is an account of the miraculous healing of his own cousin.

The latter has been crippled by rheumatism and confined to his

bed for many years. Shri Shankara visits him, touches his body,

and within three hours the invalid is so far better that he gets out

of bed; soon, he is completely cured.

There is the further assertion that His Holiness is credited

with the power of reading the thoughts of other persons; at

any rate, Venkataramani fully believes this to be true.

§

We enter Chingleput through a palm-fringed highway and

find it a tangle of whitewashed houses, huddled red roofs and

narrow lanes. We get down and walk into the centre of the city,

where large crowds are gathered together. I am taken into

a house where a group of secretaries are busily engaged handling

the huge correspondence which follows His Holiness from his

headquarters at Kumbakonam. I wait in a chairless ante-

room while Venkataramani sends one of the secretaries with

a message to Shri Shankara. More than half an hour passes

before the man returns with the reply that the audience I seek

cannot be granted. His Holiness does not see his way to re-

ceiving a European; moreover, there are two hundred people

waiting for interviews already. Many persons have been staying

WITH THE SPIRITUAL HEAD OF SOUTH INDIA 125

in the town overnight in order to secure their interviews. The

secretary is profuse in his apologies.

I philosophically accept the situation, but Venkataramani

says that he will try to get into the presence of His Holiness

as a privileged friend, and then plead my cause. Several

members of the crowd murmur unpleasantly when they

become aware of his intention to pass into the coveted house out

of his turn. After much talk and babbling explanations, he

wins through. He returns eventually, smiling and victorious.

" H i s Holiness will make a special exception in your case.

He will see you in about one hour's time."

I fill the time with some idle wandering in the picturesque

lanes which run down to the chief temple. I meet some

servants who are leading a train of grey elephants and big buff-

brown camels to a drinking-place. Someone points out to me

the magnificent animal which carries the Spiritual Head of

South India on his travels. He rides in regal fashion, borne

aloft in an opulent howdah on the back of a tall elephant. It

is finely covered with ornate trappings, rich cloths and gold

embroideries. I watch the dignified old creature step forward

along the street. Its trunk coils up and comes down again as it

passes.

Remembering the time-worn custom which requires one to

bring a little offering of fruits, flowers or sweetmeats when

visiting a spiritual personage, I procure a gift to place before

my august host. Oranges and flowers are the only things in

sight and I collect as much as I can conveniently carry.

In the crowd which presses outside His Holiness's temporary

residence, I forget another important custom. "Remove

your shoes," Venkataramani reminds me promptly. I take them

off and leave them out in the street, hoping that they will still

be there when I return!

We pass through a tiny doorway and enter a bare ante-

room. 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 dimen-

sions. The whole of South India bows to his tutelage.

126 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

§

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 this

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 notice-

able. 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 intellect-

uality. 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.

"Your Holiness has been very kind to receive me," I remark,

by way of introduction.

He turns to my companion, the writer, and says something

in the vernacular. I guess its meaning correctly.

" H i s Holiness understands your English, but he is too afraid

that you will not understand his own. So he prefers to have

me translate his answers," says Venkataramani.

I shall sweep through the earlier phases of this interview,

because they are more concerned with myself than with this

Hindu Primate. He asks about my personal experiences 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 news-

papers, 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

WITH THE SPIRITUAL HEAD OF SOUTH INDIA 127

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 con-

ditions 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 d e a t h ? "

"There is nevertheless much talk of disarmament to-day.

Does that c o u n t ? "

" I f 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."

" T h a t seems far off. Our outlook is hardly cheerful, t h e n ? "

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.

" G o d has nothing but love towards mankind," comes the

soft answer.

"Judging by the unhappiness and wretchedness which

afflict the world to-day, He has nothing but indifference,"

I break out impulsively, unable to keep the bitter force of irony

out of my voice. His Holiness looks at me strangely. Immedi-

ately I regret my hasty words.

" T h e 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 re-

action, 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, materialism, the greater will be

the man who will arise to help the world."

"Then do you expect someone to arise in our time, t o o ? "

" I n our century," he corrects. "Assuredly. The need of

the world is so great and its spiritual darkness is so thick, that

an inspired man of God will surely arise."

" I s it your opinion, then, that men are becoming more

degraded? " I query.

128 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

" N o , 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."

" B u t there are ruffians in our Western cities who behave as

though there were indwelling demons in them," I counter,

thinking of the modern gangster.

" D o 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 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, t h e n ? "

"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 trails 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 globe

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.

" H o w long has Your Holiness held this t i t l e ? "

"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."

"You rarely remain at your headquarters in Kumbakonam

I take it? "

" T h e reason for that is that I was invited by the Maharajah

WITH THE SPIRITUAL HEAD OF SOUTH INDIA 129

of Nepal in 1918 to be his guest for a while. I accepted and

since then have been travelling slowly towards his state in the

far north. But see! - during all those years I have not been

able to advance more than a few hundred miles, because the

tradition of my office requires that I stay in every village and

town which I pass on the route or which invites me, if it is not

too far off. I must give a spiritual discourse in the local temple

and some teaching to the inhabitants."

I broach the matter of my quest and His Holiness questions

me about the different Yogis or holy men I have so far met.

After that, I frankly tell him:

"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

m u c h ? "

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 determina-

tion; 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 understand him.

" S o 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? "

" G o 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? "

" I n 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

130 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

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 times 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 scarred

mine? I am stirred to ask him impulsively:

" I f 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."

" B u t I am told that real masters are rare, and that a European

is unlikely to find them."

He nods his assent to my statement, but adds:

" T r u t h exists. It can be found."

" C a n you not direct me to such a master, one who you know

is competent to give me proofs of the reality of higher

Y o g a ? "

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.

" T h e other man lives in the interior, farther south. I

visited him once and know him to be a high master. I recom-

mend that you go to him."

" W h o is h e ? "

" H e is called the Maharishee.1 I have not met him, but

know him to be a high master. Shall I provide you with full

instructions, so that you may discover h i m ? "

A picture flashes suddenly before my mind's eye.

I see the yellow-robed friar, who has vainly persuaded me to

1 T h e title is derived from Sanskrit. Maha means great : Rishee

means sage or seer. Hence, the Great Sage.

WITH THE SPIRITUAL HEAD OF SOUTH INDIA 131

accompany him to his teacher. I hear him murmuring the

name of a hill. It i s : " T h e Hill of the Holy Beacon."

"Many thanks, Your Holiness," I rejoin, " b u t I have a

guide who comes from the place."

"Then you will go t h e r e ? "

I hesitate.

"All arrangements have been made for my departure from

the South to-morrow," I mutter uncertainly.

" I n 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.

" D o 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 time," I

apologize. " I am indeed sorry."

Shri Shankara's grave mouth relaxes. He follows me into

the ante-room 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 y o u ! "

And so, hearing these cryptic and puzzling words, I reluc-

tantly withdraw from this interesting man, whose entire life

has been dedicated to God from childhood. He is a pontiff

who cares not for worldly 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.

I wander about Chingleput till evening, exploring its

artistic, old-world beauty, and then seek a final glimpse of

His Holiness before returning home.

I find him in the largest temple of the city. The slim,

modest, yellow-robed figure is addressing a huge concourse of

men, women and children. Utter silence prevails among the

large audience. I cannot understand his vernacular words,

but I can understand that he is holding the deep attention of

all present, from the intellectual Brahmin to the illiterate

132 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

peasant. I do not know, but I hazard the guess that he speaks

on the profoundest topics in the simplest manner, for such is

the character I read in him.

And yet, though I appreciate his beautiful soul, I envy the

simple faith of his vast audience. Life, apparently, never

brings them deep moods of doubt. God is; and there the

matter ends. They do not appear to know what it means to

go through dark nights of the soul, when the world seems like

the grim scene of a jungle-like struggle; when God recedes

into shadowy nothingness; and when man's own existence

seems nothing more than a fitful passage across this small,

transient fragment of the universe which we call Earth.

We drive out of Chingleput under an indigo sky gemmed

with stars. I listen to palms majestically waving their branches

over the water's edge in an unexpected breeze.

My companion suddenly breaks the silence between us.

"You are indeed lucky!"

" W h y ? "

"Because this is the first interview which His Holiness has

granted to a European writer."

"Well ? "

" T h a t brings his blessing upon y o u ! "

§

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 veranda, flashing my pocket torch.

Out of the darkness, a crouching figure rises and greets

me.

"Subramanya!" I exclaim, startled. "What are you

doing here? " The ochre-robed Yogi indulges in one of his

tremendous grins.

" D i d I not promise to visit you, sir? " H e reminds me

reproachfully.

" O f course!"

In the large room, I fire a question at him.

"Your master - is he called the Maharishee?"

It is now his turn to draw back, astonished.

" H o w do you know, sir? Where could you have learnt

t h i s ? "

WITH THE SPIRITUAL HEAD OF SOUTH INDIA 133

"Never mind. To-morrow we both start for his place.

I shall change my plans."

" T h i s is joyful news, sir."

"But I shall not stay there long, though. A few days,

maybe."

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 cotton cloth, which

serves at once as a mattress, sheet and blanket, and disdains

my 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 me 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 quarter to three. It is then

that I become conscious of some bright object at the 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 Chingleput? I close my eyes tightly 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 s e e k ! "

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 feeling 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 inter-

view with His Holiness Shri Shankara of Kumbakonam, the

Hierarch of God to the simple people of South India.

CHAPTER IX

THE HILL OF THE HOLY BEACON

AT the Madras terminus of the South Indian Railway,

Subramanya and I board a carriage on the Ceylon

boat train. For several hours we roll onwards through

the most variegated scenes. Green stretches of growing rice

alternate with gaunt red hills, shady plantations of stately

coconut trees are followed by scattered peasants toiling in

the paddy fields.

As I sit at the window, the swift Indian dusk begins to blot

out the landscape and I turn my head to muse of other things.

I begin to wonder at the strange things which have happened

since I have worn the golden ring which Brama has given me.

For my plans have changed their face; a concatenation of

unexpected circumstances has arisen to drive me farther South,

instead of going farther East as I have intended. Is it possible,

I ask myself, that these golden claws hold a stone which really

possesses the mysterious power which the Yogi has claimed

for it? Although I endeavour to keep an open mind, it is

difficult for any Westerner of scientifically trained mind to

credit the idea. I dismiss the speculation from my mind, but

do not succeed in driving away the uncertainty which lurks at

the back of my thoughts. Why is it that my footsteps have been

so strangely guided to the mountain hermitage whither I am

travelling? Why is it that two men, who both wear the yellow

robe, have been coupled as destiny's agents to the extent of

directing my reluctant eyes towards the Marishee? I use this

word destiny, not in its common sense, but because I am at a

loss for a better one. Past experience has taught me full well

that seemingly unimportant happenings sometimes play an

unexpected part in composing the picture of one's life.

We leave the train, and with it the main line, forty miles from

Pondicherry, that pathetic little remnant of France's territorial

possessions in India. We go over to a quiet, little-used branch

railroad which runs into the interior, and wait for nearly two

134

THE HILL OF THE HOLY BEACON 135

hours in the semi-gloom of a bleak waiting-room. The holy

man paces along the bleaker platform outside, his tall figure

looking half-ghost, half-real in the starlight. At last the ill-

timed train, which puffs infrequently up and down the line,

carries us away. There are but few other passengers.

I fall into a fitful, dream-broken sleep which continues for

some hours until my companion awakens me. We descend at a

little wayside station and the train screeches and grinds away into

the silent darkness. Night's life has not quite run out and so we

sit in a bare and comfortless little waiting-room, whose small

kerosene lamp we light ourselves.

We wait patiently while day fights with darkness for

supremacy. When a pale dawn emerges at last, creeping bit by

bit through a small barred window in the back of our room, I

peer out at such portion of our surroundings as becomes

visible. Out of the morning haze there rises the faint outline

of a solitary hill, apparently some few miles distant. The base

is of impressive extent and the body of ample girth, but the

head is not to be seen, being yet thick-shrouded in the dawn

mists.

My guide ventures outside, where he discovers a man loudly

snoring in his tiny bullock cart. A shout or two brings the

driver back to this mundane existence, thus making him aware

of business waiting in the offing. When informed of our des-

tination, he seems but too eager to transport us. I gaze some-

what dubiously at his narrow conveyance - a bamboo canopy

balanced on two wheels. Anyway, we clamber aboard and the

man bundles the luggage after us. The holy man manages to

compress himself into the minimum space which a human

being can possibly occupy; I crouch under the low canopy

with legs dangling out in space; the driver squats upon the

shaft between his bulls with his chin almost touching his

knees, and the problem of accommodation being thus solved

more or less satisfactorily, we bid him be off.

Our progress is anything but rapid, despite the best efforts

of a pair of strong, small, white bullocks. These charming

creatures are very useful as draught animals in the interior of

India, because they endure heat better than horses and are less

fastidious in the matter of diet. The customs of the quiet

villages and small townships of the interior have not changed

very much in the course of centuries. The bullock carts which

transported the traveller from place to place in B.C. 100, transport

him still, two thousand years after.

Our driver, whose face is the colour of beaten bronze, has

136 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

taken much pride in his animals. Their long, beautifully

curved horns are adorned with shapely gilt ornaments; their

thin legs have tinkling brass bells tied to them. He guides

them by means of a rein threaded through their nostrils.

While their feet merrily jog away upon the dust-laden road, I

watch the quick tropic dawn come on apace.

An attractive landscape shapes itself both on our right and

left. No drab flat plain this, for heights and hillocks are not

long absent from the eyes whenever one searches the horizon's

length. The road traverses a district of red earth dotted with

terrains of scrubby thorn-bush and a few bright emerald paddy

fields.

A peasant with toil-worn face passes us. No doubt, he is

going out to his long day's work in the fields. Soon we overtake

a girl with a brass water pitcher mounted upon her head. A

single vermilion robe is wrapped around her body, but her

shoulders are left bare. A blood-coloured ruby ornaments one

nostril, and a pair of gold bracelets gleam on her arms in the

pale morning sunlight. The blackness of her skin reveals her

as a Dravidian - as indeed most of the inhabitants of these

parts probably are, save the Brahmins and Muhammedans.

These Dravidian girls are usually gay and happy by nature. I

find them more talkative than their brown countrywomen and

more musical in voice.

The girl stares at us with unfeigned surprise and I guess that

Europeans rarely visit this part of the interior.

And so we ride on until the little township is reached. Its

houses are prosperous-looking and arranged into streets which

cluster around two sides of an enormous temple. If I am not

mistaken, the latter is a quarter of a mile long. I gather a

rough conception of its architectural massiveness a while later

when we reach one of its spacious gateways. We halt for a

minute or two and I peer inside to register some fleeting

glimpses of the place. Its strangeness is as impressive as its

size. Never before have I seen a structure like this. A vast

quadrangle surrounds the enormous interior, which looks like a

labyrinth. I perceive that the four high enclosing walls have

been scorched and coloured by hundreds of years of exposure

to the fierce tropical sunshine. Each wall is pierced by a single

gateway, above which rises a queer superstructure consisting of

a giant pagoda. The latter seems strangely like an ornate,

sculptured pyramid. Its lower part is built of stone, but the

upper portion seems to be thickly-plastered brickwork. The

pagoda is divided into many storeys, but the entire surface is

THE HILL OF THE HOLY BEACON 137

profusely decorated with a variety of figures and carvings. In

addition to these four entrance towers, I count no less than five

others which rise up within the interior of the temple. How

curiously they remind one of Egyptian pyramids in the

similarity of outline!

My last glimpse is of long roofed cloisters, of serried ranks of

flat stone pillars in large numbers, of a great central enclosure,

of dim shrines and dark corridors and many little buildings. I

make a mental note to explore this interesting place before

long.

The bullocks trot off and we emerge into open country again.

The scenes which we pass are quite pretty. The road is covered

with red dust; on either side there are low bushes and occa-

sional clumps of tall trees. There are many birds hidden among

the branches, for I hear the flutter of their wings, as well as

the last notes of that beautiful chorus which is their morning

song all over the world.

Dotted along the route are a number of charming little

wayside shrines. The differences of architectural style surprise

me, until I conclude that they have been erected during

changing epochs. Some are highly ornate, over-decorated and

elaborately carved in the usual Hindu manner, but the larger

ones are supported by flat-surfaced pillars which I have seen

nowhere else but in the South. There are even two or three

shrines whose classical severity of outline is almost Grecian.

I judge that we have now travelled about five or six miles,

when we reach the lower slopes of the hill whose vague outline

I had seen from the station. It rises like a reddish-brown giant

in the clear morning sunlight. The mists have now rolled

away, revealing a broad skyline at the top. It is an isolated

upland of red soil and brown rock, barren for the most part,

with large tracts almost treeless, and with masses of stone split

into great boulders tossed about in chaotic disorder.

"Arunachala! The sacred red mountain!" exclaims my

companion, noticing the direction of my gaze. A fervent

expression of adoration passes across his face. He is momen-

tarily rapt in ecstasy, like some medieval saint.

I ask him, "Does the name mean anything?"

"I have just given you the meaning," he replies with a smile.

" T h e name is composed of two words,' Aruna' and 'Achala,'

which mean red mountain, and since it is also the name of the

presiding deity of the temple, its full translation should be

'sacred red mountain.'"

" T h e n where does the holy beacon come i n ? "

138 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

" A h ! Once a year the temple priests celebrate their central

festival. Immediately that occurs within the temple, a huge

fire blazes out on top of the mountain, its flame being fed with

vast quantities of butter and camphor. It burns for many

days and can be seen for many miles around. Whoever sees it,

at once prostrates himself before it. It symbolizes the fact

that this mountain is sacred ground, overshadowed by a great

deity."

The hill now towers over our heads. It is not without its

rugged grandeur, this lonely peak patterned with red, brown

and grey boulders, thrusting its flat head thousands of feet into

the pearly sky. Whether the holy man's words have affected

me or whether for some unaccountable cause, I find a queer

feeling of awe arising in me as I meditate upon the picture of

the sacred mountain, as I gaze up wonderingly at the steep

incline of Arunachala.

" D o you know," whispers my companion, "that this

mountain is not only esteemed holy ground, but the local

traditions dare to assert that the gods placed it there to mark the

spiritual centre of the world!"

This little bit of legend forces me to smile. How naive it is

At length I learn that we are approaching the Maharishee's

hermitage. We turn aside from the road and move down a

rough path which brings us to a thick grove of coconut and

mango trees. We cross this until the path suddenly comes to

an abrupt termination before an unlocked gate. The driver

descends, pushes the gate open, and then drives us into a large

unpaved courtyard. I stretch out my cramped limbs, descend

to the ground, and look around.

The cloistered domain of the Maharishee is hemmed in at

the front by closely growing trees and a thickly clustered

garden; it is screened at the back and side by hedgerows of

shrub and cactus, while away to the West stretches the scrub

jungle and what appears to be dense forest. It is most

picturesquely placed on a lower spur of the hill. Secluded

and apart, it seems a fitting spot for those who wish to pursue

profound themes of meditation.

Two small buildings with thatched roofs occupy the left side

of the courtyard. Adjoining them stands a long, modern

structure, whose red-tiled roof comes sharply down into over-

hanging eaves. A small veranda stretches across a part of the

front.

The centre of the courtyard is marked by a large well. I

watch a boy, who is naked to the waist and dark-skinned to the

THE HILL OF THE HOLY BEACON 139

point of blackness, slowly draw a bucket of water to the surface

with the aid of a creaking hand windlass.

The sound of our entry brings a few men out of the buildings

into the courtyard. Their dress is extremely varied. One is

garbed in nothing but a ragged loin-cloth, but another is pros-

perously attired in a white silk robe. They stare questioningly

at us. My guide grins hugely, evidently enjoying their astonish-

ment. He crosses to them and says something in Tamil. The

expression on their faces changes immediately, for they smile

in unison and beam at me with pleasure. I like their faces and

their bearing.

" W e shall now go into the hall of the Maharishee," announces

the holy man of the yellow robe, bidding me 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 Maharishee.

My guide approaches the divan, prostrates himself prone on

the floor, and buries his eyes under folded hands.

The divan is but a few paces away from a broad high window

in the end wall. The light falls clearly upon the Maharishee

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, but the pungent

perfume is quite different.

140 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

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 Maharishee'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 fore-

head gives intellectual distinction to his personality. His

features are more European than Indian. Such is my first

impression.

The couch is covered with white cushions and the Mahar-

ishee's feet rest upon a magnificently marked tiger skin.

Pin-drop silence prevails throughout the long hall. The sage

remains perfectly still, motionless, quite undisturbed at our

arrival. A swarthy disciple sits on the floor at the other side

of the divan. He breaks into the quietude by beginning to

pull at a rope which works a punkah-fan made of bamboo

matting. The fan is fixed to a wooden beam and suspended

immediately above the sage's head. I listen to its rhythmic

purring, the while 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. I find this

scene strangely reminiscent. Where have I seen its like?

I rummage through the portrait gallery of memory and find

the picture of the Sage Who Never Speaks, that recluse whom

I visited in his isolated cottage near Madras, that man whose

body seemed cut from stone, so motionless it was. There is

a curious similarity in this unfamiliar stillness of body which

I now behold in the Maharishee.

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 Mahar-

ishee 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

THE HILL OF THE HOLY BEACON 141

figure on the couch. My offering of fruits remains unregarded

on the small carved table which stands before him.

My guide has given me no warning that his master will

receive me as I had been received by the Sage Who Never

Speaks. It has come upon me abruptly, this strange reception

characterized by complete indifference. The first thought

which would come into the mind of any European, " I s this

man merely posing for the benefit of his devotees?" crosses my

mind once or twice but I soon rule it out. He is certainly in

a trance condition, though my guide has not informed me that

his master indulges in trances. The next thought which

occupies my mind, " I s this state of mystical contemplation

nothing more than meaningless vacancy?" has a longer sway

but I let it go for the simple reason that I cannot answer it.

There is something in this man which 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 fascina-

tion 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.

How small seem those questions which I have asked myself

with such frequency! How petty grows the panorama of the

lost years! I perceive with sudden clarity that the intellect

creates its own problems and then makes itself miserable trying

to solve them. This is indeed a novel concept to enter the mind

of one who has hitherto placed such high value upon intellect.

I surrender myself to the steadily deepening sense of rest-

fulness 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. And then,

little by little, a new question takes the field of consciousness.

"Does this man, the Maharishee, emanate the perfume of

spiritual peace as the flower emanates fragrance from its

petals?"

I do not consider myself a competent person to apprehend

142 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

spirituality, but I have personal reactions to other people.

This dawning suspicion that the mysterious peace which has

arisen within me must be attributed to the geographical situation

in which I am now placed, is my reaction to the personality of

the Maharishee. I begin to wonder whether, by some radio-

activity of the soul, some unknown telepathic process, the still-

ness which invades the troubled waters of my own soul really

comes from him. Yet he remains completely impassive,

completely unaware of my very existence, it seems.

Comes the first ripple. Someone approaches me and

whispers in my ear, " D i d you not wish to question the

Maharishee?"

He may have lost patience, this quondam guide of mine.

More likely, he imagines that I, a restless European, have

reached the limit of my own patience. Alas, my inquisitive

friend! Truly I came here to question your master, but

now . . . I, who am at peace with all the world and with

myself, why should I trouble my head with questions? I feel

that the ship of my soul is beginning to slip its moorings;

a wonderful sea waits to be crossed; yet you would draw me

back to the noisy port of this world, just when I am about to

start the great adventure!

But 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 Maharishee 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.

" C a n 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:

" N o . There is nothing I care to ask now. Another

time "

I feel now that some explanation of my visit is required of

me, not by the Maharishee himself but by the little crowd

which has begun to talk so animatedly. I know from the

THE HILL OF THE HOLY BEACON 143

accounts of my guide that only a handful of these people are

resident disciples, and that the others are visitors from the

country around. Strangely enough, at this point my guide

himself arises and makes the required introduction. He speaks

energetically in Tamil, using a wealth of gesture while he

explains matters to the assembled company. I fear that his

explanation is mixing a little fable with his facts, for it draws

cries of wonder.

§

The midday meal is over. The sun unmercifully raises the

afternoon temperature to a degree I have never before experi-

enced. But then, we are now in a latitude not so far from the

Equator. For once I am grateful that India is favoured with

a climate which does not foster activity, because most of the

people have disappeared into the shady groves to take a siesta.

I can therefore approach the Maharishee in the way I prefer,

without undue notice or fuss.

I enter the large hall and sit down near him. He half-

reclines upon some white cushions placed on the divan. An

attendant pulls steadily at the cord which operates the punkah-

fan. The soft burr of the rope and the gentle swish of the fan

as it moves through the sultry air sound pleasantly in my ears.

The Maharishee holds a folded manuscript book in his

hands; he is writing something with extreme slowness. A

few minutes after my entry he puts the book aside and calls

a disciple. A few words pass between them in Tamil and the

man tells me that his master wishes to reiterate his regrets at

my inability to partake of their food. He explains that they

live a simple life, and never having catered for Europeans before

do not know what the latter eat. I thank the Maharishee, and

say that I shall be glad to share their unspiced dishes with

them; for the rest, I shall procure some food from the town-

ship. I add that I regard the question of diet as being far less

important than the quest which has brought me to his hermitage.

The sage listens intently, his face calm, imperturbable and

non-committal.

" I t is a good object," he comments at length.

This encourages me to enlarge upon the same theme.

"Master, I have studied our Western philosophies and

sciences, lived and worked among the people of our crowded

cities, tasted their pleasures and allowed myself to be caught

144 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

up into their ambitions. Yet I have also gone into solitary

places and wandered there amid the loneliness of deep thought.

I have questioned the sages of the West; now I have turned

my face towards the East. I seek more light."

The Maharishee nods his head, as if to say, "Yes, I quite

understand."

"I have heard many opinions, listened to many theories.

Intellectual proofs of one belief or another lie piled up all

around me. I am tired of them, sceptical of anything which

cannot be proved by personal experience. Forgive me for

saying so, but I am not religious. Is there anything beyond

man's material existence. If so, how can I realize it for myself?"

The three or four devotees who are gathered around us

stare in surprise. Have I offended the subtle etiquette of the

hermitage by speaking so brusquely and boldly to their master?

I do not know; perhaps I do not care. The accumulated

weight of many years' desire has unexpectedly escaped my

control and passed beyond my lips. If the Maharishee is the

right kind of man, surely he will understand and brush aside

mere lapses from convention.

He makes no verbal reply but appears to have dropped into

some train of thought. Because there is nothing else to do and

because my tongue has now been loosened, I address him for the

third time:

" T h e wise men of the West, our scientists, are greatly

honoured for their cleverness. Yet they have confessed that

they can throw but little light upon the hidden truth behind

life. It is said that there are some in your land who can give

what our Western sages fail to reveal. Is this so? Can you

assist me to experience enlightenment? Or is the search

itself a mere delusion? "

I have now reached my conversational objective and decide

to await the Maharishee's response. He continues to stare

thoughtfully at me. Perhaps he is pondering over my questions.

Ten minutes pass in silence.

At last his lips open and he says gently:

"You say I. ' I want to know.' Tell me, who is that I?"

What does he mean? He has now cut across the services

of the interpreter and speaks direct to me in English. Bewilder-

ment creeps across my brain.

"I am afraid I do not understand your question," I reply

blankly.

" I s it not clear. Think again!"

I puzzle over his words once more. An idea suddenly

THE HILL OF THE HOLY BEACON 145

flashes into my head. I point a finger towards myself and

mention my name.

"And do you know h i m ? "

"All my life!" I smile back at him.

"But that is only your body! Again I ask, ' Who are

you?' "

I cannot find a ready answer to this extraordinary query.

The Maharishee continues:

"Know first that I and then you shall know the truth."

My mind hazes again. I am deeply puzzled. This bewilder-

ment finds verbal expression. But the Maharishee has evidently

reached the limit of his English, for he turns to the interpreter

and the answer is slowly translated to m e :

"There is only one thing to be done. Look into your own

self. Do this in the right way and you shall find the answer

to all your problems."

It is a strange rejoinder. But I ask him:

"What must one do? What method can I pursue?"

"Through deep reflection on the nature of one's self, and

through constant meditation, the light can be found."

"I have frequently given myself up to meditation upon the

truth, but I see no signs of progress."

"How do you know that no progress has been made? It is

not easy to perceive one's progress in the spiritual realm."

" I s the help of a master necessary?"

" I t might be."

"Can a master help a man to look into his own self in the

way you suggest? "

" H e can give the man all that he needs for this quest. Such

a thing can be perceived through personal experience."

"How long will it take to get some enlightenment with a

master's help? "

" I t all depends on the maturity of the seeker's mind. The

gunpowder catches fire in an instant, while much time is needed

to set fire to the coal."

I receive a queer feeling that the sage dislikes to discuss

the subject of masters and their methods. Yet my mental

pertinacity is strong enough to override this feeling, and I

address a further question on the matter to him. He turns a

stolid face toward the window, gazes out at the expanse of hilly

landscape beyond, and vouchsafes no answer. I take the hint

and drop the subject.

"Will the Maharishee express an opinion about the future

of the world, for we are living in critical t i m e s ? "

146 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

" W h y should you trouble yourself about the future?"

demands the sage. " You do not even properly know about the

present! Take care of the present; the future will then take

care of itself."

Another rebuff! But I do not yield so easily on this occasion,

for I come from a world where the tragedies of life press far

more heavily on people than they do in this peaceful jungle

retreat.

"Will the world soon enter a new era of friendliness and

mutual help, or will it go down into chaos and war? " I persist.

The Maharishee does not seem at all pleased, but nevertheless

he makes a reply.

"There is One who governs the world, and it is His look-

out to look after the world. He who has given life to the world,

knows how to look after it also. He bears the burden of this

world, not you."

"Yet if one looks around with unprejudiced eyes, it is diffi-

cult to see where this benevolent regard comes in," I object.

The sage appears to be still less pleased. Yet his answer

comes:

" A s you are, so is the world. Without understanding your-

self, what is the use of trying to understand the world? This

is a question that seekers after truth need not consider. People

waste their energies over all such questions. First, find out

the truth behind yourself; then you will be in a better position

to understand the truth behind the world, of which yourself is a

part."

There is an abrupt pause. An attendant approaches and

lights another incense stick. The Maharishee watches the blue

smoke curl its way upwards and then picks up his manuscript

book. He unfolds its pages and begins to work on it again, thus

dismissing me from the field of his attention.

This renewed indifference of his plays like cold water upon

my self-esteem. I sit around for another quarter of an hour, but

I can see that he is in no mood to answer my questions. Feeling

that our conversation is really at an end, I rise from the tiled

floor, place my hands together in farewell, and leave him.

§

I have sent someone to the township with orders to fetch a

conveyance, for I wish to inspect the temple. I request him to

find a horsed carriage, if there is one in the place, for a bullock

THE HILL OF T H E HOLY BEACON 147

cart is picturesque to look at, but hardly as rapid and comfort-

able as one could wish.

I find a two-wheeled pony carriage waiting for me as I enter

the courtyard. It possesses no seat, but such an item no longer

troubles me. The driver is a fierce-looking fellow with a soiled

red turban on his head. His only other garment is a long piece

of unbleached cloth made into a waistband, with one end

passing between his thighs and then tucking into his waist.

A long, dusty ride and then at last the entrance to the great

temple, with its rising storeys of carved reliefs, greets us. I

leave the carriage and begin a cursory exploration.

"I cannot say how old is the temple of Arunachala," remarks

my companion in response to a question, " b u t as you can see

its age must extend back hundreds of years."

Around the gates and in the approaches to the temple are a

few little shops and gaudy booths, set up under overhanging

palms. Beside them sit humbly dressed vendors of holy

pictures and sellers of little brass images of Shiva and other

gods. I am struck by the preponderance of representations of

the former deity, for in other places Krishna and Rama seem

to hold first place. My guide offers an explanation.

"According to our sacred legends, the god Shiva once

appeared as a flame of fire on the top of the sacred red mountain.

Therefore the priests of the temple light the large beacon once a

year in memory of this event, which must have happened

thousands of years ago. I suppose the temple was built to

celebrate it, as Shiva still overshadows the mountain."1

A few pilgrims are idly examining the stalls, where one can

buy, not only these little brass deities, but also gaudy chromo-

lithographs picturing some event from the sacred stories, books

of a religious character, blotchily printed in Tamil and Telegu

languages, and coloured paints wherewith to mark on one's

forehead the fitting caste or sect symbol.

A leprous beggar comes hesitatingly towards me. The flesh

of his limbs is crumbling away. He is apparently not certain

whether I shall have him driven off, poor fellow, or whether he

will be able to touch my pity. His face is rigid with his terrible

disease. I feel ashamed as I place some alms on the ground,

but I fear to touch him.

The gateway, which is shaped into a pyramid of carven

figures, next engages my attention. This great towered portico

1 We Westerners may regard these deities as fantastic personifi-

cations of religious ideas, but the Hindus themselves do not doubt

they really exist as real beings.

148 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

looks like some pyramid out of Egypt with its pointed top

chopped off. Together with its three fellows, it dominates the

countryside. One sees them miles away long before one

approaches them.

The face of the pagoda is lined with profuse carvings and

quaint little statues. The subjects have been drawn from

sacred myth and legend. They represent a queer jumble. One

perceives the solitary forms of Hindu divinities entranced into

devout meditation, or observes their intertwined shapes engaged

in amorous embraces, and one wonders. It reminds one that

there is something in Hinduism for all tastes, such is the all-

inclusive nature of this creed.

I enter the precincts of the temple, to find myself in part of

an enormous quadrangle. The vast structure encloses a laby-

rinth of colonnades, cloisters, galleries, shrines, rooms, corri-

dors, covered and uncovered spaces. Here is no stone building

whose columned beauty stays one's emotions in a few minutes

of silent wonder, as do those courts of the deities near Athens,

but rather a gloomy sanctuary of dark mysteries. The vast

recesses awe me with their chill air of aloofness. The place is a

maze, but my companion walks with confident feet. Outside,

the pagodas have looked attractive with their reddish stone

colouring, but inside the stonework is ashen grey.

We pass through a long cloister with solid walls and flat,

quaintly carved pillars supporting the roofs. We move into

dim corridors and dark chambers and eventually arrive at a vast

portico which stands in the outer court of this ancient fane.

" T h e Hall of a Thousand Pillars!" announces my guide as

I gaze at the time-greyed structure. A serried row of flat,

carved, gigantic stone columns stretches before me. The place

is lonely and deserted; its monstrous pillars loom mysteriously

out of the semi-gloom. I approach them more closely to study

the old carvings which line many of their faces. Each pillar is

composed of a single block of stone, and even the roof which it

supports is composed of large pieces of flat stone. Once again

I see gods and goddesses disporting themselves with the help

of the sculptor's art; once again the carved faces of animals

familiar and unfamiliar stare at me.

We wander on across the flagstones of these pillared galleries,

pass through dark passages lit here and there by small bowl-

lamps, whose wicks are sunk in castor oil, and thus arrive near a

central enclosure. It is pleasant to emerge once again in the

bright sunshine as we cross over to the enclosure. One can

now observe the five shorter pagodas which dot the interior of

THE HILL OF THE HOLY BEACON 149

the temple. They are formed precisely like the pyramidal

towers which mark the entrance gateways in the high-walled

quadrangle. I examine the one which stands near us and arrive

at the conclusion that it is built of brick, and that its decorated

surface is not really stone-carved, but modelled out of baked

clay or some durable plaster. Some of the figures have evidently

been picked out with paint, but the colours have now faded.

We enter the enclosure and after wandering through some

more long, dark passages in this stupendous temple, my guide

warns me that we are approaching the central shrine, where

European feet may not walk. But though the holy of holies is

forbidden to the infidel, yet the latter is allowed to catch a

glimpse from a dark corridor which leads to the threshold. As

if to confirm his warning I hear the beating of drums, the

banging of gongs and the droning incantations of priests

mingling into a monotonous rhythm that sounds rather eerie in

the darkness of the old sanctuary.

I take my glimpse, expectantly. Out of the gloom there

rises a golden flame set before an idol, two or three dim altar

lights, and the sight of a few worshippers engaged in some

ritual. I cannot distinguish the forms of the priestly musicians,

but now I hear the conch horn and the cymbal add their harsh,

weird notes to the music.

My companion whispers that it would be better for me not to

stay any longer, as my presence will be decidedly unwelcome

to the priests. Thereupon we withdraw into the somnolent

sanctity of the outer parts of the temple. My exploration is at

an end.

When we reach the gateway once more, I have to step aside

because an elderly Brahmin sits on the ground in the middle of

the path with a little brass water-jug beside him. He paints a

gaudy caste mark on his forehead, holding a broken bit of

mirror in his left hand. The red-and-white trident which

presently appears upon his brow - sign of an orthodox Hindu

of the South - gives him, in Western eyes, the grotesque

appearance of a clown. A shrivelled old man, who sits in a

booth by the temple gates and sells little images of holy Shiva,

raises his eyes to meet mine and I pause to buy something at his

unuttered request.

Somewhere in the far end of the township I espy the gleaming

whiteness of a marble minaret, so I leave the temple and drive

to the local mosque. Something inside me always thrills to the

graceful arches of a mosque and to the delicate beauty of

cupolas. Once again I remove my shoes and enter the charming

150 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

white building. How well it has been planned, for its vaulted

height inevitably elevates one's mood! There are a few wor-

shippers present; they sit, kneel or prostrate themselves upon

their small, colourful prayer rugs. There are no mysterious

shrines here, no gaudy images, for the Prophet has written that

nothing shall come between a man and God - not even a priest!

All worshippers are equal before the face of Allah. There is

neither priest nor pundit, no hierarchy of superior beings to

interpose themselves in a man's thoughts when he turns

towards Mecca.

As we return through the main street I note the money-

changers' booths, the sweetmeat stalls, the cloth merchant's

shop and the sellers of grain and rice - all existing for the benefit

of pilgrims to the ancient sanctuary which has called the place

into being.

I am now eager to get back to the Maharishee, and the driver

urges his pony to cover the distance which lies before us at a

rapid pace. I turn my head and take a final glimpse of the

temple of Arunachala. The nine sculptured towers rise like

pylons into the air. They speak to me of the patient toil in the

name of God which has gone into the making of the old temple,

for it has undoubtedly taken more than a man's lifetime to

construct. And again that queer reminiscence of Egypt

penetrates my mind. Even the domestic architecture of the

streets possesses an Egyptian character in the low houses and

thick walls.

Shall a day ever come when these temples will be abandoned

and left, silent and deserted, to crumble slowly into the red and

grey dust whence they have emerged? Or will man find new

gods and build new fanes wherein to worship them?

While our pony gallops along the road towards the hermitage

which lies on one of the slopes of yonder rock-strewn hill, I

realize with a catch in my breath that Nature is unrolling an

entire pageant of beauty before our eyes. How often have I

waited for this hour in the East, when the sun, with much

splendour, goes to rest upon its bed of night! An Oriental

sunset holds the heart with its lovely play of vivid colours.

And yet the whole event is over so quickly, an affair of less than

half an hour.

Those lingering autumnal evenings of Europe are almost

unknown here. Out in the west a great flaming ball of fire

begins its visible descent into the jungle. It assumes the most

striking orange hue as a prelude to its rapid disappearance from

the vault of heaven. The sky around it takes on all the colours

THE HILL OF THE HOLY BEACON 151

of the spectrum, providing our eyes with an artistic feast which

no painter could ever provide. The fields and groves around us

have entered into an entranced stillness. No more can the

chirruping of little birds be heard. The chatter of wild monkeys

has come to an end. The giant circle of red fire is quickly

fading into some other dimension. Evening's curtain falls

thicker yet and soon the whole panorama of thrusting tongues

of flame and outspread colours sinks away into darkness.

The calmness sinks into my thoughts, the loveliness of it all

touches my heart. How can one forget these benign minutes

which the fates have portioned us, when they make us play

with the thought that, under the cruel face of life, a benevolent

and beautiful Power may yet be hiding? These minutes put

our commonplace hours to shame. Out of the dark void they

come like meteors, to light a transient trail of hope and then to

pass away from our ken.

§

Fireflies whirl about the hermitage garden, drawing strange

patterns of light on the background of darkness, as we drive

into the palm-fringed courtyard. And when I enter the long

hall and drop to a seat on the floor, the sublime silence appears

to have reached this place and pervaded the air.

The assembled company squats in rows around the hall,

but among them there is no noise and no talk. Upon the corner

couch sits the Maharishee, his feet folded beneath him, his

hands resting unconcernedly upon his knees. His figure

strikes me anew as being simple, modest; yet withal it is

dignified and impressive. His head is nobly poised, like the

head of some Homeric sage. His eyes gaze immovably towards

the far end of the hall. That strange steadiness of sight is as

puzzling as ever. Has he been merely watching through the

window the last ray of light fade out of the sky, or is he so

wrapt in some dreamlike abstraction as to see naught of this

material world at all?

The usual cloud of incense floats among the wooden rafters

of the roof. I settle down and try to fix my eyes on the

Maharishee, but after a while feel a delicate urge to close them.

It is not long before I fall into a half sleep, lulled by the in-

tangible peace which, in the sage's proximity, begins to pene-

trate me more deeply. Ultimately there comes a gap in my

consciousness and then I experience a vivid dream.

152 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

It seems that I become a little boy of five. I stand on a rough

path which winds up and around the sacred hill of Arunachala,

and hold the Maharishee's hand; but now he is a great

towering figure at my side, for he seems to have grown to

giant's size. He leads me away from the hermitage and,

despite the impenetrable darkness of the night, guides me

along the path which we both slowly walk together. After a

while the stars and the moon conspire to bestow a faint light

upon our surroundings. I notice that the Maharishee carefully

guides me around fissures in the rocky soil and between

monstrous boulders that are shakily perched. The hill is

steep and our ascent is slow. Hidden in narrow clefts between

the rocks and boulders or sheltered by clusters of low bushes,

tiny hermitages and inhabited caves come into view. As we

pass by, the inhabitants emerge to greet us and, although

their forms take on a ghostly appearance in the starlight,

I recognize that they are Yogis of varying kinds. We never

stop for them, but continue to walk until the top of the peak

is reached. We halt at last, my heart throbbing with a strange

anticipation of some momentous event about to befall me.

The Maharishee turns and looks down into my face; I, in

turn, gaze expectantly up at him. I become aware of a mysteri-

ous change taking place with great rapidity in my heart and

mind. The old motives which have lured me on begin to

desert me. The urgent desires which have sent my feet

hither and thither vanish with incredible swiftness. The

dislikes, misunderstandings, coldnesses and selfishness which

have marked my dealings with many of my fellows collapse

into the abyss of nothingness. An untellable peace falls upon

me and I know now that there is nothing further that I shall

ask from life.

Suddenly the Maharishee bids me turn my gaze away to the

bottom of the hill. I obediently do so and to my astonishment

discover that the Western hemisphere of our globe lies stretched

out far below. It is crowded with millions of people; I can

vaguely discern them as masses of forms, but the night's

darkness still enshrouds them.

The sage's voice comes to my ears, his words slowly uttered:

"When you go back there, you shall have this peace which

you now feel. But its price will be that you shall henceforth

cast aside the idea that you are this body or this brain.

When this peace will flow into you, then you shall have to

forget your own self, for you will have turned your life over to

THAT! "

THE HILL OF THE HOLY BEACON 153

And the Maharishee places one end of a thread of silver

light in my hand.

I awaken from that extraordinarily vivid dream with the

sense of its penetrating sublimity yet upon me. Immediately

the Maharishee's eyes meet mine. His face is now turned in

my direction, and he is looking fixedly into my eyes.

What lies behind that dream? For the desires and bitter-

nesses of personal life fade for a while into oblivion. That

condition of lofty indifference to self and profound pity for

my fellows which I have dreamt into being, does not take its

departure even though I am now awake. 'Tis a strange

experience.

But if the dream has any verity in it, then the thing will

not last; it is not yet for me.

How long have I been sunk in dream? For everyone in the

hall now begins to rise and to prepare for sleep. I must

perforce follow the example.

It is too stuffy to sleep in that long, sparsely ventilated hall,

so I choose the courtyard. A tall, grey-bearded disciple

brings me a lantern and advises me to keep it burning through-

out the night. There is a possibility of unwelcome visitors,

such as snakes and even cheetahs, but they are likely to keep

clear of a light.

The earth is baked hard and I possess no mattress, with the

result that I do not fall asleep for some hours. But no matter

- I have enough to think over, for I feel that in the Maharishee

I have met the most mysterious personality whom life has yet

brought within the orbit of my experience.

The sage seems to carry something of great moment to

me, yet I cannot easily determine its precise nature. It is in-

tangible, imponderable, perhaps spiritual. Each time I think

of him to-night, each time I remember that vivid dream, a

peculiar sensation pierces me and causes my heart to throb

with vague, but lofty expectations.

§

During the ensuing days I endeavour to get into closer

contact with the Maharishee, but fail. There are three reasons

for this failure. The first arises naturally out of his own

reserved nature, his obvious dislike of argument and discussion,

his stolid indifference to one's beliefs and opinions. It becomes

perfectly obvious that the sage has no wish to convert anyone

154 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

to his own ideas, whatever they may be, and no desire to add

a single person to his following.

The second cause is certainly a strange one, but nevertheless

it exists. Since the evening of that peculiar dream, I feel a

great awe whenever I enter his presence. The questions

which would otherwise have come chatteringly from my lips

are hushed, because it seems almost sacrilege to regard him as

a person with whom one can talk and argue on an equal plane,

so far as common humanity is concerned.

The third cause of my failure is simple enough. Almost

always there are several other persons present in the hall,

and I feel disinclined to bring out my private thoughts in their

presence. After all, I am a stranger to them and a foreigner

in this district. That I voice a different language to some of

them is a fact of little import, but that I possess a cynical,

sceptical outlook unstirred by religious emotion is a fact of

much import when I attempt to give utterance to that outlook.

I have no desire to hurt their pious susceptibilities, but I have

also no desire to discuss matters from an angle which makes

little appeal to me. So, to some extent, this thing makes me

tongue-tied.

It is not easy to find a smooth way across all three barriers;

several times I am on the point of putting a question to the

Maharishee, but one of the three factors intervenes to cause

my failure.

My proposed week-end quickly passes and I extend it to a

week. The first conversation which I have had with the Mahar-

ishee worthy of the name is likewise the last. Beyond one or

two quite perfunctory and conventional scraps of talk, I find

myself unable to get to grips with the man.

The week passes and I extend it to a fortnight. Each day I

sense the beautiful peace of the sage's mental atmosphere,

the serenity which pervades the very air around him.

The last day of my visit arrives and yet I am no closer to

him. My stay has been a tantalizing mixture of sublime moods

and disappointing failures to effect any worth-while personal

contact with the Maharishee. I look around the hall and feel a

slight despondency. Most of these men speak a different

language, both outwardly and inwardly; how can I hope to

come closer to them? I look at the sage himself. He sits

there on Olympian heights and watches the panorama of life

as one apart. There is a mysterious property in this man

which differentiates him from all others I have met.

I feel, somehow, that he does not belong to us, the human

THE HILL OF THE HOLY BEACON 155

race, so much as he belongs to Nature, to the solitary peak

which rises abruptly behind the hermitage, to the rough tract

of jungle which stretches away into distant forests, and to the

impenetrable sky which fills all space.

Something of the stony, motionless quality of lonely Arun-

achala seems to have entered into the Maharishee. I have

learnt that he has lived on the hill for thirty years and refuses

to leave it, even for a single short journey. Such a close

association must inevitably have its effects on a man's character.

I know that he loves this hill, for someone has translated a

few lines of a charming but pathetic poem which the sage has

written to express this love. Just as this isolated hill rises out

of the jungle's edge and rears its squat head to the sky, so does

this strange man raise his own head in solitary grandeur, nay,

in uniqueness, out of the jungle of common humanity. Just

as Arunachala, Hill of the Sacred Beacon, stands aloof, apart

from the irregular chain of hills which girdles the entire

landscape, so does the Maharishee remain mysteriously aloof

even when surrounded by his own devotees, men who have

loved him and lived near him for years. The impersonal,

impenetrable quality of all Nature - so peculiarly exemplified

in this sacred mountain - has somehow entered into him. It

has segregated him from his weaker fellows, perhaps for ever.

Sometimes I catch myself wishing that he would be a little

more human, a little more susceptible to what seems so normal

to us, but so like feeble failings when exhibited in his impersonal

presence. And yet, if he has really attained to some sublime

realization beyond the common, how can one expect him to do

so without passing beyond man, without leaving his laggard

race behind for ever? Why is it that under his strange glance

I invariably experience a peculiar expectancy, as though some

stupendous revelation will soon be made to me?

Yet beyond the moods of palpable serenity and the dream

which stars itself in the sky of memory, no verbal or other

revelation has been communicated to me. I feel somewhat

desperate at the pressure of time. Almost a fortnight gone

and only a single talk that means anything! Even the abrupt-

ness in the sage's voice has helped, metaphorically, to keep

me off. This unwonted reception is also unexpected, for I

have not forgotten the glowing inducements to come here

with which the yellow-robed holy man plied me. The

tantalizing thing is that I want the sage, above all other men,

to loosen his tongue for me, because a single thought has

somehow aken possession of my mind. I do not obtain it by

156 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

any process of ratiocination; it comes unbidden, entirely of

its own accord.

" T h i s man has freed himself from all problems, and no woe

can touch him."

Such is the purport of this dominating thought.

I resolve to make a fresh attempt to force my questions into

voice and to engage the Maharishee in answer to them. I go

out to one of his old disciples, who is doing some work in the

adjoining cottage and who has been exceedingly kind to me,

and tell him earnestly of my wish to have a final chat with his

master. I confess that I feel too shy to tackle the sage myself.

The disciple smiles compassionately. He leaves me and soon

returns with the news that his master will be very pleased to

grant the interview.

I hasten back to the hall and sit down conveniently near the

divan. The Maharishee turns his face immediately, his

mouth relaxing into a pleasant greeting. Straightway, I feel

at ease and begin to question him.

" T h e Yogis say that one must renounce this world and go

off into secluded jungles or mountains, if one wishes to find

truth. Such things can hardly be done in the West; our

lives are so different. Do you agree with the Yogis?"

The Maharishee turns to a Brahmin disciple of courtly

countenance. The latter translates his answer to me.

" T h e life of action need not be renounced. If you will

meditate for an hour or two every day, you can then carry on

with your duties. If you meditate in the right manner, then

the current of mind induced will continue to flow even in the

midst of your work. It is as though there were two ways of

expressing the same idea; the same line which you take in

meditation will be expressed in your activities."

"What will be the result of doing t h a t ? "

" A s you go on you will find that your attitude towards

people, events and objects will gradually change. Your

actions will tend to follow your meditations of their own

accord."

" T h e n you do not agree with the Yogis?" I try to pin

him down.

But the Maharishee eludes a direct answer.

"A man should surrender the personal selfishness which

binds him to this world. Giving up the false self is the true

renunciation."

" H o w is it possible to become selfless while leading a life of

worldly activity?"

THE HILL OF THE HOLY BEACON 157

'There is no conflict between work and wisdom."

" D o you mean that one can continue all the old activities

in one's profession, for instance, and at the same time get

enlightenment?"

"Why not? But in that case one will not think that it is

the old personality which is doing the work, because one's

consciousness will gradually become transferred until it is

centred in That which is beyond the little self."

" I f a person is engaged in work, there will be little time left

for him to meditate."

The Maharishee seems quite unperturbed at my poser.

"Setting apart time for meditation is only for the merest

spiritual novices," he replies. " A man who is advancing will

begin to enjoy the deeper beatitude, whether he is at work or

not. While his hands are in society, he keeps his head cool in

solitude."

" T h e n you do not teach the way of Y o g a ? "

" T h e Yogi tries to drive his mind to the goal, as a cowherd

drives a bull with a stick, but on this path the seeker coaxes

the bull by holding out a handful of g r a s s ! "

"How is that d o n e ? "

"You have to ask yourself the question, Who am I? This

investigation will lead in the end to the discovery of something

within you which is behind the mind. Solve that great

problem, and you will solve all other problems thereby."

There is a pause as I try to digest his answer. From the

square-framed and barred hole in the wall which does duty as

a window, as it does in so many Indian buildings, I obtain a

fine view of the lower slopes of the sacred hill. Its strange

outline is bathed in the early morning sunlight.

The Maharishee addresses me again:

"Will it be clearer if it is put in this way? All human

beings are ever wanting happiness, untainted with sorrow.

They want to grasp a happiness which will not come to an end.

The instinct is a true one. But have you ever been struck by

the fact that they love their own selves m o s t ? "

" W e l l ? "

"Now relate that to the fact that they are ever desirous of

attaining happiness through one means or another, through

drink or through religion, and you are provided with a clue

to the real nature of man."

" I fail to see ."

The tone of his voice becomes higher.

"Man's real nature is happiness. Happiness is inborn in

158 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

the true self. His search for happiness is an unconscious

search for his true self. The true self is imperishable; there-

fore, when a man finds it, he finds a happiness which does not

come to an end."

" B u t the world is so unhappy? "

"Yes, but that is because the world is ignorant of its true

self. All men, without exception, are consciously or

unconsciously seeking for it."

"Even the wicked, the brutal and the criminal? " I ask.

"Even they sin because they are trying to find the self's

happiness in every sin which they commit. This striving is

instinctive in man, but they do not know that they are really

seeking their true selves, and so they try these wicked ways

first as a means to happiness. Of course, they are wrong ways,

for a man's acts are reflected back to him."

" S o we shall feel lasting happiness when we know this true

s e l f ? "

The other nods his head.

A slanting ray of sunshine falls through the unglazed

window upon the Maharishee's face. There is serenity in that

unruffled brow, there is contentment around that firm mouth,

there is a shrine-like peace in those lustrous eyes. His unlined

countenance does not belie his revelatory words.

What does the Maharishee mean by these apparently simple

sentences? The interpreter has conveyed their outward

meaning to me in English, yes, but there is a deeper purport

which he cannot convey. I know that I must discover that for

myself. The sage seems to speak, not as a philosopher, not as

a pundit trying to explain his own doctrine, but rather out of

the depth of his own heart. Are these words the marks of his

own fortunate experience?

"What exactly is this self of which you speak? If what

you say is true, then there must be another self in man."

His lips curve in a smile for a moment.

" C a n a man be possessed of two identities, two selves?"

he makes answer. " T o understand this matter it is first

necessary for a man to analyse himself. Because it has long

been his habit to think as others think, he has never faced his

' I ' in the true manner. He has not a correct picture of him-

self; he has too long identified himself with the body and the

brain. Therefore, I tell you to pursue this enquiry, Who am

I ? "

He pauses to let these words soak into me. I listen eagerly

to his next sentences.

THE HILL OF THE HOLY BEACON 159

"You ask me to describe this true self to you. What can

be said? It is That out of which the sense of the personal

' I ' arises, and into which it shall have to disappear."

" Disappear? " I echo back. " How can one lose the feeling

of one's personality? "

" T h e first and foremost of all thoughts, the primeval

thought in the mind of every man, is the thought ' I . ' It is

only after the birth of this thought that any other thoughts

can arise at all. It is only after the first personal pronoun

' I ' has arisen in the mind, that the second personal pronoun

'You ' can make its appearance. If you could mentally follow

the ' I' thread until it leads you back to its source, you would

discover that, just as it is the first thought to appear, so is it

the last to disappear. This is a matter which can be

experienced."

"You mean that it is perfectly possible to conduct such a

mental investigation into oneself?"

"Assuredly! It is possible to go inwards until the last

thought ' I ' gradually vanishes."

"What is left?" I query. "Will a man then become quite

unconscious, or will he become an i d i o t ? "

" N o t so! On the contrary, he will attain that consciousness

which is immortal, and he will become truly wise, when he

has awakened to his true self, which is the real nature of

man."

"But surely the sense of ' I' must also pertain to t h a t ? "

I persist.

" T h e sense of ' I' pertains to the person, the body and

brain," replies the Maharishee calmly. " When a man knows

his true self for the first time, something else arises from the

depths of his being and takes possession of him. That some-

thing is behind the mind; it is infinite, divine, eternal. Some

people call it the kingdom of heaven, others call it the soul,

still others name it Nirvana, and we Hindus call it Liberation;

you may give it what name you wish. When this happens a

man has not really lost himself; rather, he has found

himself."

As the last word falls from the interpreter's lips, there

flashes across my mind those memorable words which were

uttered by a wandering Teacher in Galilee, words which have

puzzled so many good persons: Whosoever shall seek to save

his life shall lose it; and whosoever shall lose his life shall

preserve it.

How strangely similar are the two sentences! Yet the

160 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

Indian sage has arrived at the thought in his own non-Christian

way, through a psychological path which seems exceedingly

difficult and appears unfamiliar.

The Maharishee speaks again, his words breaking into my

thoughts.

"Unless and until a man embarks upon this quest of the

true self, doubt and uncertainty will follow his footsteps

throughout life. The greatest kings and statesmen try to rule

others, when in their heart of hearts they know that they

cannot rule themselves. Yet the greatest power is at the

command of the man who has penetrated to his inmost depth.

There are men of giant intellects who spend their lives gathering

knowledge about many things. Ask these men if they have

solved the mystery of man, if they have conquered themselves,

and they will hang their heads in shame. What is the use of

knowing about everything else when you do not yet know

who you are? Men avoid this enquiry into the true self, but

what else is there so worthy to be undertaken?"

" T h a t is such a difficult, a superhuman task," I comment.

The sage gives an almost imperceptible shrug of his

shoulders.

" T h e question of its possibility is a matter of one's own

experience. The difficulty is less real than you think."

" F o r us, who are active, practical Westerners, such intro-

spections ?" I begin doubtfully and leave my sentence

trailing in mid-air.

The Maharishee bends down to light a fresh joss stick, which

will replace one whose red spark is dying out.

" T h e realization of truth is the same for both Indians and

Europeans. Admittedly the way to it may be harder for those

who are engrossed in worldly life, but even then one can

and must conquer. The current induced during meditation

can be kept up by habit, by practising to do so. Then one

can perform his work and activities in that very current itself;

there will be no break. Thus, too, there will be no difference

between meditation and external activities. If you meditate

on this question, Who am I? - if you begin to perceive that

neither the body nor the brain nor the desires are really you,

then the very attitude of enquiry will eventually draw the

answer to you out of the depths of your own being; it will

come to you of its own accord as a deep realization."

Again I ponder his words.

"Know the real self," he continues, "and then the truth will

shine forth within your heart like sunshine. The mind will

THE HILL OF THE HOLY BEACON 161

become untroubled and real happiness will flood it, for happi-

ness and the true self are identical. You will have no more

doubts once you attain this self-awareness."

He turns his head and fixes his gaze at the far end of the hall.

I know then that he has reached his conversational limit.

Thus ends our last talk and I congratulate myself that I

have drawn him out of the shell of taciturnity before my

departure.

§

I leave him and wander away to a quiet spot in the jungle,

where I spend most of the day among my notes and books.

When dusk falls I return to the hall, for within an hour or two

a pony-carriage or bullock-cart will arrive to bear me away from

the hermitage.

Burning incense makes the air odorous. The Maharishee

has been half-reclining under the waving punkah as I enter

but he soon sits up and assumes his favourite attitude. He

sits with legs crossed, the right foot placed on the left thigh

and the left foot merely folded beneath the right thigh. I

•remember being shown a similar position by Brama, the Yogi

who lives near Madras, who called it " T h e Comfortable

Posture." It is really a half-Buddha posture and quite easy

to do. The Maharishee, as is his wont, holds his chin with

his right hand and rests the elbow on a knee; next he gazes

attentively at me but remains quite silent. On the floor beside

him I notice his gourd-shell water-jug and his bamboo staff.

They are his sole earthly possessions, apart from the strip of

loin-cloth. What a mute commentary on our Western spirit

of acquisitiveness!

His eyes, always shining, steadily become more glazed and

fixed; his body sets into a rigid pose; his head trembles

slightly and then comes to rest. A few more minutes and I can

plainly see that he has re-entered the trance-like condition in

which he was when I first met him. How strange that our

parting shall repeat our meeting! Someone brings his face

close to mine and whispers in my ear, " T h e Maharishee has

gone into holy trance. It is useless now to talk."

A hush falls upon the little company. The minutes slowly

pass but the silence only deepens. I am not religious but I can

no more resist the feeling of increasing awe which begins to

grip my mind than a bee can resist a flower in all its luscious

162 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

bloom. The hall is becoming pervaded with a subtle, in-

tangible and indefinable power which affects me deeply. I feel,

without doubt and without hesitation, that the centre of this

mysterious power is no other than the Maharishee himself.

His eyes shine with astonishing brilliance. Strange sensations

begin to arise in me. Those lustrous orbs seem to be peering

into the inmost recesses of my soul. In a peculiar way, I feel

aware of everything he can see in my heart. His mysterious

glance penetrates my thoughts, my emotions and my desires;

I am helpless before it. At first this disconcerting gaze

troubles m e ; I become vaguely uneasy. I feel that he has

perceived pages that belong to a past which I have forgotten.

He knows it all, I am certain. I am powerless to escape;

somehow, I do not want to, either. Some curious intimation of

future benefit forces me to endure that pitiless gaze.

And so he continues to catch the feeble quality of my soul

for a while, to perceive my motley past, to sense the mixed

emotions which have drawn me this way and that. But I feel

that he understands also what mind-devastating quest has

impelled me to leave the common way and seek out such men

as he.

There comes a perceptible change in the telepathic current

which plays between us, the while my eyes blink frequently but

his remain without the least tremor. I become aware that he is

definitely linking my own mind with his, that he is provoking my

heart into that state of starry calm which he seems perpetually

to enjoy. In this extraordinary peace, I find a sense of exalta-

tion and lightness. Time seems to stand still. My heart is

released from its burden of care. Never again, I feel, shall

the bitterness of anger and the melancholy of unsatisfied desire

afflict me. I realize deeply that the profound instinct which is

innate in the race, which bids man look up, which encourages

him to hope on, and which sustains him when life has darkened,

is a true instinct, for the essence of being is good. In this

beautiful, entranced silence, when the clock stands still and the

sorrows and errors of the past seem like trivialities, my mind

is being submerged in that of the Maharishee and wisdom is now

at its perihelion. What is this man's gaze but a thaumaturgic

wand, which evokes a hidden world of unexpected splendour

before my profane eyes?

I have sometimes asked myself why these disciples have been

staying around the sage for years, with few conversations, fewer

comforts and no external activities to attract them. Now I begin

to understand - not by thought but by lightning-like illumination

THE HILL OF THE HOLY BEACON 163

- that through all those years they have been receiving a deep

and silent reward.

Hitherto, everyone in the hall has been hushed to a deathlike

stillness. At length, someone quietly rises and passes out. He

is followed by another, and then another, until all have gone.

I am alone with the Maharishee! Never before has this

happened. His eyes begin to change; they narrow down to

pin-points. The effect is curiously like the "stopping-down"

in the focus of a camera lens. There comes a tremendous

increase in the intense gleam which shines between the lids,

now almost closed. Suddenly, my body seems to disappear,

and we are both out in space!

It is a crucial moment. I hesitate - and decide to break this

enchanter's spell. Decision brings power and once again I am

back in the flesh, back in the hall.

No word passes from him to me. I collect my faculties,

look at the clock, and rise quietly. The hour of departure has

arrived.

I bow my head in farewell. The sage silently acknowledges

the gesture. I utter a few words of thanks. Again, he silently

nods his head.

I linger reluctantly at the threshold. Outside, I hear the

tinkle of a bell. The bullock-cart has arrived. Once more I

raise my hands, palms touching.

And so we part.

CHAPTER X

AMONG THE MAGICIANS AND HOLY MEN

SPACE and time, those defiant enemies of man, hurry

this pen again. My feet must once more take giant

strides on this eastward trek, while my pen sets down

a few salient things that are worth a written memorial.

It is true that the faqueer of a few tricks, the magician of the

streets, holds for me, as for everyone else, a natural interest.

Yet mine is only a fleeting interest, for he can throw little light

on the great mysteries of human life which are alone worthy

of a man's deepest thought. Still, his presence is a diversion

and I turn aside on occasions to enquire after him.

I want to picture a few of the types who come into the orbit

of my wandering, to point my pen at widely differing men.

One of them looms up in memory, though he is but an insig-

nificant trickster whom I meet at Rajahmundry, a quiet town

in the north-eastern part of Madras Presidency.

An aimless stroll takes me through a place where my shoes

sink into the soft sand which covers the ground. Eventually

I arrive at a narrow street which leads to a bazaar. As I walk

along in the sultry air, old men squat in open doorways, children

play amid the dirt, and a stark-naked youngster dives out

of a house - only to disappear again on catching sight of the

stranger.

In the long, bustling bazaar itself, elderly merchants sit in

their little shops and stroke their beards expectantly while I

pass; the sellers of food and grain squat beside their open

booths, while an army of flies is busy attacking their wares.

In course of time I come to the somewhat gaudy structure of

a temple, where a little group of men and women stirs out of the

dust at my approach. The leprous, the crippled and the desti-

tute make their rendezvous near the temples and the stations

of most Indian cities, that they may gather alms of the pious

and the strangers. Worshippers walk noiselessly into the

building, their bare feet treading the dust on the stones. Shall

164

AMONG THE MAGICIANS AND HOLY MEN 165

I, too, wander into the building and watch the ministrations

of the priests? I debate the question and decide in the

negative.

I proceed on my protracted ramble until I observe a youth

striding along before me. He is dressed in a European shirt

worn, as is the custom, back to front, and a flowing waistband,

while his right arm clasps a bundle of cloth-bound books.

When I overtake him, he instinctively turns his head; our

eyes meet - and our acquaintance begins!

The exigencies of my profession have taught me to serve the

conventions whenever one can, but to dispense with them when-

ever they stand between one and an objective. I like travel,

but usually in an unconventional way; hence my Indian

wanderings will hardly be a model for the Cook's tourist or

unbohemian traveller.

The youth proves to be a student at a large local college, and

he possesses an air of general intelligence which is quite

attractive. Moreover, he seems to have a care for the ancient

culture of his land, and when I tell him of my interest in the

subject, his delight knows no bounds. I discover, too, that he

he has not yet succumbed to the hysteria for politics which has

attacked most of the young students in the towns, though

India is now in the throes of the long turmoil which Gandhi has

aroused into being in his effort to disturb the relations between

white rulers and brown ruled.

Half an hour later he is guiding me to an open space where

a little crowd has gathered in expectant mood. There is a

man in the centre who is bawling something at the top of his

voice. The youth informs me that this loud declaration con-

sists mainly of a list of wonderful Yogic powers which the man

claims to possess.

The self-proclaimed Yogi is powerfully built; he has an

elongated head, thick-set shoulders, and an abdomen which has

begun to bulge through the piece of cotton cloth wrapped about

his loins which constitutes part of his dress. For the rest he

wears a long loose white robe. I feel that there is a little too

much bravado about the man, but when he offers to perform

the mango-tree feat, if sufficient financial inducement is forth-

coming, I join with a few others in throwing some coins at his

feet.

He begins by placing a capacious earthenware pot in front

of him and then proceeds to squat on the ground. The pot is

filled with reddish brown earth. He shows us a little mango

stone and plants it in the earth. After that he produces a large

166 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

cloth out of his travelling bag, and spreads it over the pot, his

folded knees and his thighs.

For several minutes we are treated to some mystic incanta-

tions, which the Yogi chants in a monotonous voice, and then he

withdraws the cloth. The first bud of a mango plant peeps

its head above the earth!

Once again he covers both pot and legs, picks up a reed pipe,

and emits a weird noise which is presumably to be taken for

music. After some more minutes, he takes up the cloth to show

us that the little plant has grown a few inches higher. This

procedure of covering and uncovering, with due intervals

of pipe music, is repeated until a small mango bush has emerged

from the earth. It is about nine or ten inches high. Hardly a

tree! But nevertheless a small yellowish gold mango fruit

hangs from the top of the plant.

"All this tree has sprung from the seed which you saw me

bury in the e a r t h ! " announces the Yogi triumphantly.

My mental constitution does not permit me to accept his

statement too readily. I feel, somehow, that the feat was a

piece of mere jugglery.

The young man delivers his opinion:

"Sahib, that man is a Yogi. Such men can do wonderful

things."

But I am not satisfied. Trying to comprehend the mystery,

I decide that the man is more likely a member of the Maskelyne

and Devant fraternity. Yet how can one be certain about the

matter?

The Yogi closes his bag and continues to crouch on his

hams, while watching the crowd slowly disperse.

An idea comes suddenly. When we are alone, I approach the

Yogi, pull out a five-rupee note, and say to the student:

"Tell him that he can have this money, if he will show me

how the thing is done."

The youth obediently translates my request. The man

makes a show of refusal, but I catch the gleam of desire in his

eyes.

"Offer him seven rupees, then."

Still the crouching man scorns my attempt to negotiate.

"Very well, tell him that we bid him farewell."

We proceed to walk away, though I purposely take slow

steps. Within a few seconds the Yogi shouts and recalls us.

" I f the sahib will give one hundred rupees, the Yogi

promises to tell all."

" N o ! Seven - or he can keep his secret. C o m e ! "

AMONG THE MAGICIANS AND HOLY MEN 167

Once again we move away. Soon there is another shout.

We return.

" T h e Yogi says he will accept the seven rupees." And the

explanation duly comes forth.

The man opens his travelling bag and produces the parapher-

nalia with which his mystifying feat has been performed. It

consists of a mango stone in bud and three slips of mango

plant, each longer than the previous one.

He compresses the shortest slip into a mussel shell. The

plant bends round into this cramping position, the shell is

closed and buried in the earth. To produce the first bud, the

man has only to dig his fingers into the earth and remove the

lid of the shell, when the plant will once more stand erect.

The longer slips of plant are hidden within his cotton waist-

wrap. During the intervals of waiting, chanting and music

making, he raises the cloth cover once or twice to see how the

growth is proceeding, without however permitting anyone else

to do the same. Under cover of these movements, he deftly

takes a longer slip from his waist-cloth, plants it in the earth,

removes the shorter plant and replaces it in his dress. Thus the

illusion of a growing plant is created.

I walk away a little wiser, 'tis true, but I begin to wonder

whether my last illusions about these Yogis will fall from me

like bronze leaves rustled off the trees in autumn.

And then I remember the warning given me by Brama, the

Yogi of the Adyar river, that faqueers of a low order and pseudo

Yogis give performances in the streets that are nothing but

conjuring feats. Such men bring the name of Yogi into dis-

credit with the younger people and educated classes, he has

informed me.

This man who makes mangoes grow in less than half an hour

is no real Yogi; he is a pretender.

§

Nevertheless the faqueers who practise a true magic do exist.

One comes to me during a halt at Berhampur, while I go to a

second at Puri.

In this town of Berhampur, where the old customs and dusty

ways of Hindu life refuse to be dislodged, I have taken tem-

porary quarters in a rest-house which possesses a widely roofed

veranda. One broiling afternoon I seek refuge from the stifling

heat in the pleasant shade of this veranda. From my long

168 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

chair I watch the play of sunshine upon the luxuriant foliage of

some tropical plants in the garden.

There comes the almost silent patter of naked feet and a

rather wild-looking man, carrying a small bamboo basket

approaches the compound gate. He has long, black, tangled

locks and I notice that his eyes are a little bloodshot. He comes

closer, deposits his basket in the dust, and momentarily raises

his hands to cover his face as a salute. He addresses me in a

mixture of vernacular and faintly recognizable English. I fancy

that the vernacular is Telegu, though I am not sure. The

accent of his English is so execrable that I am unable to grasp

the meaning of more than three or four words. I retaliate by

trying some sentences in English on him, but his command of

the language is totally insufficient to enable him to understand

me. My command of Telegu, however, is even more insuffi-

cient to enable me to understand him. We both discover this

fact after we have attempted utterances which are nothing more

than long strings of sound to the other. Finally, he attempts to

devise a language of gesture and facial expression until I gather

that he has something of importance in the basket to show

me.

I dive into the bungalow and call for the servant, who knows

a sprinkling of English - just about enough to sprinkle some

intelligibility upon his own vernacular verbosity. I bid him do

what he can to translate.

" H e wishes show you faqueer's magic, master."

"Excellent. Let him show it, then. How much money

does he want? "

" H e says master can give what he pleases."

" G o ahead!"

The faqueer's unkempt appearance and unknown origin

alternately intrigue and repel me. It is difficult to fathom

the expression on this man's countenance. There is something

almost sinister about it, yet I do not feel the presence of evil.

What I sense around him is an aura of strange forces,

unfamiliar powers.

He makes no attempt to mount the veranda steps, but squats

down under a banyan tree, whose long, rambling branches

form a low canopy which trails over his head and sinks to the

ground. Out of the bamboo basket he draws forth a venomous-

looking scorpion, which he holds by means of a pair of rudely

made wooden pincers.

The unpleasant-looking insect tries to run away. Immedi-

ately the faqueer draws a circle around it in the dust, using his

AMONG THE MAGICIANS AND HOLY MEN 169

index finger. Thereafter, it continues to run round and round.

Each time it reaches the circle it hesitates, as though confronting

some visible barrier, and then goes off in another direction. I

watch the thing closely in that hard brilliant tropical light.

After two or three minutes of this peculiar exhibition, I

raise my hand in a gesture of satisfaction and the faqueer

replaces the scorpion in his basket, from which he next draws

out two sharp, thin, pointed iron skewers.

He closes his somewhat terrifying, reddened eyes and seems

to wait for an appropriate moment to perform his next piece of

magic. At length he opens his optical organs, takes one of the

skewers and puts it into his mouth, point foremost. He forces

it through his cheek until most of its length protrudes strangely

outside his face. As if not satisfied with this slightly gruesome

feat, he repeats it by forcing the second skewer through his

other cheek. Mingled sensations of repulsion and wonder

flow through me.

When he imagines that I have seen enough, he withdraws

each of the skewers in turn and proffers a salute. I descend the

veranda steps and closely examine his face. Beyond a few

insignificant drops of blood and two tiny holes in the skin,

both wounds are hardly noticeable!

The man makes a gesture to bid me occupy my chair again.

When I am once more reclining on the veranda, he quietly

composes himself for two or three minutes as though in further

preparation for some striking feat.

Calmly, with the detachment with which one might pull a

button from a jacket, the faqueer's right hand ascends to his

eyes, seizes the right eyeball and gradually pulls it out of its

socket!

I start back, astonished.

There is a few seconds' interval and he draws the organ a

little farther out, so that it hangs loosely on his cheek, suspended

by protruding muscles and veins.

A feeling of nausea overwhelms me at the ghastly sight. I

remain uneasy until he replaces the dislodged eyeball in its

socket.

I have had enough of his magic and reward him with some

silver rupees. Half-heartedly, I ask the servant to enquire if

the man is willing to explain how he performs these anatomical

horrors.

"Promise no tell, master. Father teach son only. Only

family know."

His unwillingness does not disturb me. After all, it is a

170 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

matter more for the investigation of surgeons and doctors than

for errant writers.

The faqueer covers his face with his hands in a parting

salute, retreats through the gates of the compound, and soon

disappears down the dusty road.

§

The quiet ripple of the waves at Puri comes to my ears. It is

pleasant to catch the tang of a faint breeze which blows in from

the Bay of Bengal. I walk upon a deserted part of the shore,

where yellowish white sands stretch away in a broad expanse

and where one sees the horizon through the hot, shimmering

haze which fills the air. The sea is like liquid sapphire.

My watch glitters in the glaring sunlight as I draw it out of a

pocket. Retracing my steps to the town, I walk right into an

inexplicable performance which is destined to provide me with a

standing puzzle.

I discover a gaudily dressed man surrounded by a mixed

crowd. His turban and pyjama trousers reveal him as a

Muhammedan. I reflect on the anachronism that a Muham-

medan should be so prominent in a town which is so pro-

nouncedly Hindu. The man piques my curiosity and arouses

my interest. He has a little, tame monkey which is quaintly

dressed in coloured clothes. He puts it through its paces and

each time it unerringly obeys the commands of its master with

an intelligence which is almost human.

Espying me, the man says something to the creature, which

straightaway hops through the crowd and accosts me with a

plaintive cry. It then removes its hat and holds it out before

me, as though begging for baksheesh. I throw in a four anna

piece. The monkey politely bows its head, makes a sort of

curtsy, and then returns to its master.

Its next performance is to execute an amazing dance in

perfect time to the music pressed out of an old accordion by the

man. It possesses an artistic grace and exquisite sense of

rhythm worthy of a better stage.

When the show comes to an end, the man addresses a few

words in Urdu to his assistant - a young Muhammedan - who

approaches me and asks me to enter a tent which stands at the

rear, as his master has something special to show me.

While the youth remains outside to keep back the press of

people, I enter the tent with the gaudily dressed man. I dis-

AMONG THE MAGICIANS AND HOLY MEN 171

cover inside that the structure is really a cloth partition flung

around four upright posts, and that it is quite roofless. One

can see, therefore, almost as well inside it as out. A plain, light

wooden table occupies the centre.

The man opens a linen wrap and takes out several tiny dolls,

each about two inches high. The heads are made of coloured

wax and the legs of stiff straw shod with flat, iron buttons.

The man then places the tiny figures on the table, so that each

one stands quite erect upon its iron buttons.

He withdraws about a yard from the table and begins to issue

commands in Urdu. Within a minute or two, the dolls com-

mence to stir around the table and then to dance!

He waves a short wand, much as an orchestra conductor

wields his baton to beat time, and the coloured little figures

dance away in perfect rhythm with his flourishes!

They move all over the table's surface, but carefully avoid

falling over the edge. I see this amazing display in full day-

light at about four o'clock in the afternoon. Suspecting some

trick, I move nearer the table and examine it thoroughly, even

moving my arms above the figures and below the table in quest

of strands of thread, but I can find nothing untoward. Is the

man not a mere conjuror but a faqueer of some kind?

He then proceeds to indicate, by means of signs and words,

that I should point out different parts of the table. I do so and

on each occasion the dolls mass themselves together and dance

in a body towards the precise direction which I indicate!

Lastly he shows me a rupee piece and utters something which

I intuitively divine as a request to produce such a coin. I take

one out of my pocket and place it on the table. Almost immedi-

ately the silver coin commences to dance across the surface

towards the faqueer. When it reaches the farther edge of the

table, it falls off and rolls over to his feet, where it suddenly

stops. The man picks it up and keeps it, making some courtly

salaams in acknowledgment.

Am I witnessing some remarkable piece of conjuring or a feat

of real Yogi magic? My doubts must be clearly writing them-

selves upon my face, for the faqueer calls in his young assistant.

The latter asks me whether I wish to see some more of his

master's power. I reply in the affirmative, whereupon he hands

the old accordion to the faqueer and then requests me to place

my ring on the table. I take the ring off my finger and obey

him. It is the same ring which Brama, the anchorite of the

Adyar river, presented me as a farewell gift. I watch its golden

claws and greenish stone, the while the faqueer withdraws a

172 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

few paces away and issues command after command in Urdu.

At each word the ring rises into the air and falls again! The

man makes an appropriate gesture with his right hand syn-

chronously with his commands; his left hand still holds the

accordion.

Now he begins to play the instrument and, before my

astounded gaze, the ring starts to dance upon the table in

harmony with the music! The man has not approached it,

has not even touched it. I do not know what to make of this

remarkable performance. How is it possible to transform so

mysterious a piece of inanimate matter, and to make it into an

object that responds to verbal commands?

When the assistant returns my ring I examine it closely, but

can find no trace of any mark.

Once again the faqueer unwraps his cotton package. This

time he draws out a rusty, flat iron bar. It is about two and a

half inches long and a half inch in width. He is about to place

it on the table, when I intervene and request the assistant to let

me examine it. They raise no objection and I carefully

scrutinize it. There are no threads attached to it. I return it

and look over the table, but find nothing suspicious.

The bar rests on the table top. The faqueer vigorously rubs

the palms of his hands together for about one minute. Then

he bends his trunk slightly forward and holds his hands a few

inches above the iron bar. I watch him attentively. He begins

to draw his hands slowly backward, still pointing his fingers

toward the bar, when my startled eyes see the rusty object

follow him. It moves over the table-top of its own accord,

parallel to the faqueer's backward movement!

The distance between the man's fingers and the bar is about

five inches. When his hands hover above the table's edge, the

bar likewise rests there. Once again I ask to be allowed to

examine it. Permission is readily granted. I pick it up

immediately, but find nothing wrong; it is just a scrap of old

iron.

The faqueer repeats the same feat with a small, steel-

handled knife.

I reward him liberally for these unusual displays and then

endeavour to obtain some explanation of them. The faqueer

vouchsafes the information that it is usually essential for the

object to be made of, or to contain, iron, because iron possesses

a peculiar psychic quality; now, he has so perfected himself

in this art that he can perform the same feat with objects made

of gold.

AMONG THE MAGICIANS AND HOLY MEN 173

I seek in mind for a solution of his secret. Almost at once,

it occurs to me that a long thin hair, looped at one end, could

catch the bar in its loop and yet remain practically invisible.

And then I remember my dancing ring, the fact that the

faqueer's both hands were occupied with the accordeon, and

that he stood several paces away. Neither can the assistant be

accused of complicity, for he stood outside the tent during the

movements of the dolls. However, in order to test the matter

still further, I praise the man as being a clever conjurer and

juggler.

His brow darkens and he vehemently denies being one.

"What are you t h e n ? " I press home my enquiry.

"I am a true faqueer," he answers proudly through the

assistant, " a practiser of the art of ." I am unable to

catch the last word, which is some Urdu name.

I tell him of my interest in these things.

"Yes, I observed that even before you reached the crowd,"

he replies, disconcertingly. " That is why I invited you to

this tent."

"Indeed."

"Yes, do not imagine that I am collecting money through

greed. It is because I need a certain sum to build a mausoleum

for my late master. I have set my heart upon this work and

I shall not rest until it is built."

I beg him to tell me a little more about his life. Very

reluctantly, he yields to the request.

"When I was a boy of thirteen I was occupied in taking care

of a herd of goats for my father. One day there came to our

village a lean ascetic whose thinness was almost terrifying.

The bones seemed to be sticking up out of his skin. He asked

for a night's food and shelter, which was readily given him by

my father, who always treated holy men with respect and

regard. However, instead of staying for a single night, his

stay extended for more than a year; such was the liking which

our family formed for him, that my father continually pressed

him to remain and enjoy our hospitality. He was a wonderful

man and we early discovered that he possessed strange

powers. One evening, as we sat at our simple meal of rice

and vegetables, he looked at me several times very closely and

I wondered why. The following morning he came to the place

where I was tending the goats and sat down by my side.

" ' M y child,' he said, 'would you like to become a

faqueer?' "

I did not have a very clear idea of what that sort of life

174 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

was like, but its freedom and strangeness appealed greatly

to me. So I told him that I would be glad to become one.

He spoke to my parents and said that he would return when I

was three years older, and then he would take me away with

him. Strangely enough, both my parents died during that

time so that when he came I was quite free to accompany him.

Thereafter we roamed the land, going from village to village;

I as his disciple, he as my master. All the marvels which you

have seen to-day are really his, for he taught me how to do

them."

" I s it possible to learn these things easily?" I ask.

The faqueer laughs.

"Only by many years of hard practices can a man master

such things."

Somehow, I feel that his story rings true. He seems a

pleasant, sincere sort of man. Though I am sceptical by

temperament, yet I keep my scepticism on a leash.

As I stagger out of the tent, uncertain whether I have lived

through an extraordinary dream, the pleasant breeze revives

me. I hear it stir a row of graceful coconut trees which shadow

a distant compound. The farther I walk away, the more

incredible those feats appear to me. I would like to suspect

some trick on the faqueer's part, yet I feel that his character

is more honest than not. But how can one explain this amazing

art of moving material objects without visible contact? I do

not understand how anyone can alter natural laws at his mere

whim. Perhaps we do not know as much about the nature

of things as we think we do.

§

Puri is one of the sacred cities of India. Monasteries and

temples have found a home here since antiquity. Pilgrims pour

into the town during certain years of festival, and help to pull

the gigantic Car of Juggernaut on its two-mile journey. I take

the opportunity to study the holy men who pass through the

place, and in the result have to modify my earlier unfavourable

impressions.

One wandering holy man, who speaks broken but under-

standable English, proves to be quite a fine character when I

get into closer acquaintance with him. He is on the right side

of forty and wears a thin necklace of berries around his throat.

He tells me that he roams from shrine to shrine upon pilgrimage,

AMONG THE MAGICIANS AND HOLY MEN 175

and from monastery to monastery. Wearing only a single robe

and begging his food, his ambition is to visit the chief sacred

places of the East and South. I help him with a little alms.

In return he shows me a small book printed in Tamil. It is so

yellow-stained and weather-worn as to appear nearly a century

old. It contains several quaint woodcuts. Slowly and care-

fully he cuts out two of the pictures and presents them to

me.

My encounter with the Literary Sadhu, as I name him, is

more amusing. It happens one morning when I sit upon the

sands, reading the rose-scented pages of Omar Khayyam.

The Rubd'iyat is a poem which always fascinates me, but

since the day when a young Persian writer initiated me into

its deeper meaning, I find a twofold pleasure in drinking the

wine of its quatrains. This delight which the poem holds for

me accounts, perhaps, for the fact that I am so absorbed in

it as not to notice the figure which walks across the sands

towards me. It is only when raising my eyes from the printed

pages at last that I see this unexpected visitor squatting on

folded legs beside me.

He wears a holy man's yellow robe and on the ground he

has placed a walking-staff and a small linen bundle. I notice

the edges of some books peeping out of the latter.

"Pardon me, sir," says the man in excellent English as he

introduces himself, " but I, too, am a student of your literature."

He begins to untie the knot of his linen bundle. " Please do

not be offended, sir. I could not resist talking to you."

"Offended? Not at a l l ! " I smile back at him.

"You are a tourist?"

"Hardly that."

"But you have not lived long in our country?" he persists.

I make a nodding assent.

He unrolls the bundle and displays three cloth-bound books

with worn-looking covers and tattered corners, some paper-

wrapped pamphlets and some writing paper.

"Observe, sir, here I have Essays, by Lord Macaulay. A

wonderful literary style, sir, a great intellect - but what a

materialist!"

So I have stumbled across a budding literary critic, I

reflect.

" T h i s book is A Tale of Two Cities, by Mr. Charles Dickens.

What sentiment, what tear-bringing pathos, s i r ! "

After that the holy man quickly wraps his treasures together

and turns to address me once more.

176 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

" I f it is not too impertinent, may I inquire the title of the

book you are reading, sir? "

"I am reading a book by Khayyam."

" M r . Khayyam? I have not heard of him. Is he one of

your novelists? "

I laugh at the question.

" N o - a poet."

There is an interval of silence.

"You are very inquisitive," I remark. " I s it alms that you

want? "

"I did not come for money, sir," he answers slowly. " What

I really want, what I hope for, is that you will present me with

a book. I am so fond of reading, you see."

"Yes, you shall have a book. When I return to the bungalow

you may accompany me, and I shall find you something slow

and early Victorian that will be sure to please you."

" M y deep gratitude, sir."

"Wait a moment. Before I give you the present I want

you to tell me something. What is the third book in your

bundle? "

"Ah, sir! it is a most uninteresting volume."

"Quite possibly. But I would like to know its title."

" I t is most unworthy of mention, sir."

" D o you still want the book I have promised y o u ? "

The other man becomes a little panic-stricken.

"I do, indeed, sir. I must tell you, since you force me. It

is called Mammonism and Materialism: A Study of the West,

by a Hindu Critic."

I pretend to look shocked.

" O h , ho 1 So that is the kind of literature you

study? "

" I t was given to me by a merchant in the town," he excuses

himself in a weak, apologetic manner.

" L e t me see it, then."

I run my eyes over the chapter headings of his tattered

volume and read a page here and there. It is written in

declamatory style by some Bengali babu and published in

Calcutta - probably at its author's expense. On the strength

of the two degrees tacked on to the end of his name, but

without any first-hand acquaintance with his subject, the

writer luridly pictures Europe and America as a kind of new

inferno, full of suffering and gloom, and peopled by tortured

working-classes and sybaritic plutocrats engaged in debased

pleasures.

AMONG THE MAGICIANS AND HOLY MEN 177

I return the book without comment. The holy man hastily

puts it away and produces one of his pamphlets.

" T h i s contains a short biography of an Indian saint, but it

is printed in Bengalee," he informs me.

"Now tell me - do you agree with the writer of

Mammonism," I ask.

"Just a little, sir; just a little! It is my ambition to travel

to the West one day; then I shall see it for myself."

"And what will you do t h e r e ? "

"I shall deliver lectures to transform the darkness of

peoples' minds into light. I would like to follow in the foot-

steps of our great Swami Vivekananda, who gave such captiva-

ting orations in the great cities of your lands. Alas, that he

died so young! What a golden tongue died with h i m ! "

"Well, you are a strange kind of holy man," I remark.

He raises a forefinger to the side of his nose and replies, with

a sapient air:

" T h e Supreme Playwright has set the stage. What are we

but actors who make our entrances and exits, as your world-

renowned Shakespeare says! "

§

I come now to the realization that India's holy men are an

extremely mixed lot. Many are good, inoffensive people for

the most part, even though they seem anaemic from the angle

of power or wisdom. Others are either failures in worldly life

or just men looking for an easy living. One of these men

approaches me and begs for baksheesh. His matted hair,

ash-smeared body and rascally face give him a repulsive

appearance. I decide to resist his importunities, if only to

study the result. Resistance merely increases his persistence.

When, finally, he tries a new tack by offering to sell me his

bead rosary - to which dirty-looking object he attaches rever-

ential importance, if I am to judge by the exorbitant price he

demands - I bid him begone.

Less common are those foolish ascetics who publicly display

their efforts at self-torture. The man who holds an arm aloft

in the air until his nails are half a yard long may be matched

by the man who stands on one leg for years. What either

hopes to gain from these unattractive exhibitions - aside from

the few annas he may collect in the begging bowl which rests

at his side - it is not easy to determine.

178 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

A few seem to practise a sinister sorcery quite openly.

They are the voodoo men of India and work mainly in the

villages. For a small fee, they will injure your enemy, dispose

of an unfavoured wife or clear the path of your ambition by

striking your rival down with mysterious sickness. One hears

dark and astonishing tales concerning these black magicians.

Yet they, too, rejoice in the name of Yogi or faqueer.

Remains a cultured remnant of holy men who condemn

themselves to long years of distracted search, to periods of

painful self-denial, and to ostracism from the conventional

world of organized society, because they have gone forth in

search of truth. They possess an instinct which plainly says

- whether rightly or wrongly - that to attain to truth is to

attain to lasting happiness. We may question the Indian's

stereotyped, religious and world-renouncing way of conducting

this search, but the urge which sends him forth is less open

to question.

The average man in the West has no time for such a quest.

He possesses a good excuse for accepting the prevailing mood

of indifference, because he knows that if he errs, then he errs

in company with a whole continent. For this sceptical age

treats the search after truth as a trifle, while spending its own

energy upon the serious pursuit of what our best moments

reveal as trifles. Somehow it never occurs to us that the few

whose lives are spent in the passionate quest of life's real

meaning, are more likely to form correct opinions on the prob-

lems of the passing hour, than those who spend their energies

upon a dozen different interests and have given barely a single

thought to the discovery of truth.

A Westerner once came down into the Punjab plains on a

mission other than mine, but some folk he encountered there

caused him to strike off at an unexpected tangent, until he

came dangerously near to forgetting his primal purpose.

Alexander the Great was looking for a vaster land than his

own to put under his sceptre. He came as a soldier but it

seemed that he might finish as a philosopher.

I often speculate about the thoughts which ran through

Alexander's brain as he drove his chariot homeward across icy

mountains and parched deserts. It is not difficult to perceive

that the Macedonian king, who fell under the spell of the sages

and Yogis he encountered and spent days at a time eagerly

questioning them and warmly discussing their philosophy,

needed only a few more years' sojourn in their midst to startle

the West with new departures in policy.

AMONG THE MAGICIANS AND HOLY MEN 179

The holy men of to-day still contain some among their ranks

who do much to keep alive what there is of idealism and spirit-

uality in the country. That the undesirables are in the majority

is possible; if so, it is the inevitable result of time's degenerating

activity, but it need not blind us to the presence of the saving

remnant, who shine out all the more. One meets such a

bewildering variety that it does not seem advisable to affix

a label, either of praise or blame, upon the whole race. I

understand the attitude of those hot-headed students of the

towns who assure me that the extermination of these "parasitic

holy m e n " will constitute a great blessing on India. I equally

understand those milder spirits who, older in years and residents

of quieter towns, inform me that if Indian society can no longer

provide for its holy men, then it is doomed.

The problem is important to India in other directions, for

economic distress is compelling certain revaluations. The holy

man fulfils no useful economic function in the country. Swarms

of ignorant and untaught persons wander through the villages

and attend the periodic religious fairs in certain cities. They

become bogy-men to the children, and impertinent, impor-

tunate beggars to adults. They are a burden to society, for

they have nothing to give in return for that which they receive.

Yet there exist also really noble men who have thrown up good

positions or given away their property, in order to go forth and

find God. Wherever they go they endeavour to exalt those

with whom they come in contact. If character counts, then

their efforts to uplift themselves and others is surely worth the

bit of bread or plate of rice they receive.

One can only say, in conclusion, that one must strip the

spiritual skin off a man, whether he be vain humbug or saintly

wanderer, if his real worth is to be rightly estimated.

§

The black mantilla of night descends upon the ample

shoulders of this earth, the while I wander through narrow,

overcrowded lanes in old Calcutta.

My mind is still haunted by a gruesome sight of the

morning. Our train puffs into Howrah Station bearing a

ghastly cargo on its cow-catcher. The line runs for many miles

through a dangerous jungle where princely panthers roam freely.

During the night our engine hits a beast, kills it instantly, and

carries the broken body into the station. The panther's torn,

jagged flesh is not easily dislodged from the iron frame.

180 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

But in the onward-rushing train I have picked up another

thread of guidance in this quest. Like most main-line trains

in India, it is packed to the point of fullness. The compart-

ment in which I have been fortunate enough to find a berth -

for all trains carry sleeping berths, except in the lowest class -

contains a mixed crew. They discuss their affairs so openly

that soon one learns who and what they are. There is a vener-

able son of Islam who is attired in a long, black silk coat, which

is buttoned around his neck. A round black cap, neatly

embroidered in gold, rests on his thinly thatched head. White

pyjama trousers are gathered around his legs, while his shoes

provide an artistic finish to his dress for they are daintily made

with red and green threadwork. There is a beetle-browed

Mahratti from Western India; a gold-turbaned Marwari who,

like many members of his race, is a moneylender; and a stout

Brahmin lawyer from the South. They are all men of some

wealth for they are attended by personal servants who dart

out of their third-class carriages at most stopping-places, to

enquire after their masters' welfare.

The Muhammedan gives me a single glance, closes his eyes,

and drifts off into vacuous sleep. The Mahratti busies himself

in conversation with the Marwari. The Brahmin has recently

entered the train; he has yet to settle down.

I am in one of my talkative moods, but there is no one to

whom I can talk. The invisible barrier between West and East

seems to divide me from all the others. I feel cheered, there-

fore, when the rubicund Brahmin pulls out a book whose

English title, Life of Ramakrishna, I cannot help seeing, so

boldly is it printed upon the cover. I seize the bait and bring

him into conversation. Has not someone once told me that

Ramakrishna was the last of the Rishees, those spiritual super-

men? Upon this point I engage my fellow-traveller, and he

is eager to respond. We ascend the heights of philosophical

discussion and descend into talk on the homelier aspects of

Indian life.

Whenever he mentions the name of the Rishee, his voice fills

with love and awe and his eyes light up. The reality of his

devotion to this long-passed man is indubitable. Within two

hours I learn that the Brahmin has a master who is one of the two

or three surviving disciples of the great Ramakrishna himself.

This master of his is nearly eighty years old and lives, not in

some lonely retreat, but in the heart of Calcutta's Indian

quarter.

Of course, I beg for the address and it is freely given.

AMONG T H E MAGICIANS AND HOLY MEN 181

"You will need no introduction other than your own desire

to see him," says the lawyer.

And so I am now in Calcutta itself, searching for the house of

the Master Mahasaya, the aged disciple of Ramakrishna.

Passing through an open courtyard which adjoins the street,

I reach a steep flight of steps leading into a large, rambling old

house. I climb up a dark stairway and pass through a low door

on the top storey. I find myself in a small room, which opens

out on to the flat, terraced roof of the house. Two of its walls

are lined with low divans. Save for the lamp and a small pile

of books and papers, the room is otherwise bare. A young man

enters and bids me wait for the coming of his master, who is

on a lower floor.

Ten minutes pass. I hear the sound of someone stirring

from a room on the floor below out into the stairway. Immedi-

ately there is a tingling sensation in my head and the idea

suddenly grips me that that man downstairs has fixed his

thoughts upon me. I hear the man's footsteps going up the

stairs. When at last - for he moves with extreme slowness -

he enters the room, I need no one to announce his name. A

venerable patriarch has stepped from the pages of the Bible,

and a figure from Mosaic times has turned to flesh. This man

with bald head, long white beard, and white moustache, grave

countenance, and large, reflective eyes; this man whose

shoulders are slightly bent with the burden of nearly eighty

years of mundane existence, can be none other than the master

Mahasaya.

He takes his seat on a divan and then turns his face towards

mine. In that grave, sober presence I realize instantly that

there can be no light persiflage, no bandying of wit or humour,

no utterance even of the harsh cynicism and dark scepticism

which overshadow my soul from time to time. His

character, with its commingling of perfect faith in God and

nobility of conduct, is written in his appearance for all to

see.

He addresses me in perfectly accented English.

"You are welcome here."

He bids me come closer and take my seat on the same divan.

He holds my hand for a few moments. I deem it expedient

to introduce myself and explain the object of my visit. When

I have concluded speaking, he presses my hand again in a

kindly manner and says:

" I t is a higher power which has stirred you to come to India,

and which is bringing you in contact with the holy men of our

182 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

land. There is a real purpose behind that, and the future will

surely reveal it. Await it patiently."

"Will you tell me something about your master Rama-

krishna?"

" A h , now you raise a subject about which I love best to

talk. It is nearly half a century since he left us, but his blessed

memory can never leave m e ; always it remains fresh and

fragrant in my heart. I was twenty-seven when I met him and

was constantly in his society for the last five years of his life.

The result was that I became a changed man; my whole

attitude towards life was reversed. Such was the strange

influence of this god-man Ramakrishna. He threw a spiritual

spell upon all who visited him. He literally charmed them,

fascinated them. Even materialistic persons who came to

scoff became dumb in his presence."

" B u t how can such persons feel reverence for spirituality

- a quality in which they do not believe?" I interpose, slightly

puzzled.

The corners of Mahasaya's mouth pull up in a half smile.

He answers:

" T w o persons taste red pepper. One does not know its

name; perhaps he has never even seen it before. The other is

well acquainted with it and recognizes it immediately. Will it

not taste the same to both? Will not both of them have a burn-

ing sensation on the tongue? In the same way, ignorance of

Ramakrishna's spiritual greatness did not debar materialistic

persons from 'tasting' the radiant influence of spirituality

which emanated from him."

" T h e n he really was a spiritual superman?"

"Yes, and in my belief even more than that. Ramakrishna

was a simple man, illiterate and uneducated - he was so illiterate

that he could not even sign his name, let alone write a letter.

He was humble in appearance and humbler still in mode of

living, yet he commanded the allegiance of some of the best-

educated and most-cultured men of the time in India. They

had to bow before his tremendous spirituality which was so

real that it could be felt. He taught us that pride, riches,

wealth, worldly honours, worldly position are trivialities in

comparison with that spirituality, are fleeting illusions which

deceive men. Ah, those were wonderful days! Often he

would pass into trances of so palpably divine a nature that we

who were gathered around him then would feel that he was a

god, rather than a man. Strangely, too, he possessed the power

of inducing a similar state in his disciples by means of a

AMONG THE MAGICIANS AND HOLY MEN 183

single touch; in this state they could understand the deep

mysteries of God by means of direct perception. But let me

tell you how he affected me.

"I had been educated along Western lines. My head was

filled with intellectual pride. I had served in Calcutta colleges

as Professor of English Literature, History and Political

Economy, at different times. Ramakrishna was living in the

temple of Dakshineswar, which is only a few miles up the river

from Calcutta. There I found him one unforgettable spring

day and listened to his simple expression of spiritual ideas born

of his own experience. I made a feeble attempt to argue with

him but soon became tongue-tied in that sacred presence,

whose effect on me was too deep for words. Again and again

I visited him, unable to stay away from this poor, humble

but divine person, until Ramakrishna one day humorously

remarked:

" ' A peacock was given a dose of opium at four o'clock. The

next day it appeared again exactly at that hour. It was under

the spell of opium and came for another dose.'

" T h a t was true, symbolically speaking. I had never enjoyed

such blissful experiences as when I was in the presence of

Ramakrishna, so can you wonder why I came again and again?

And so I became one of his group of intimate disciples, as

distinguished from merely occasional visitors. One day the

master said to m e :

' " I can see from the signs of your eyes, brow and face that

you are a Yogi. Do all your work then, but keep your mind on

God. Wife, children, father and mother, live with all and

serve them as if they are your own. The tortoise swims about

in the waters of the lake, but her mind is fixed to where her

eggs are laid on the banks. So, do all the work of the world

but keep the mind in God.'

"And so, after the passing away of our master, when most

of the other disciples voluntarily renounced the world, adopted

the yellow robe, and trained themselves to spread Rama-

krishna's message through India, I did not give up my pro-

fession but carried on with my work in education. Neverthe-

less, such was my determination not to be of the world although

I was in it, that on some nights I would retire at dead of night

to the open veranda before the Senate House and sleep among

the homeless beggars of the city, who usually collected there to

spend the night. This used to make me feel, temporarily at

least, that I was a man with no possessions.

"Ramakrishna has gone, but as you travel through India

184 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

you will see something of the social, philanthropic, medical and

educational work being done throughout the country under the

inspiration of those early disciples of his, most of whom, alas!

have now passed away too. What you will not see so easily is the

number of changed hearts and changed lives primarily due to

this wonderful man. For his message has been handed down

from disciple to disciple, who have spread it as widely as they

could. And I have been privileged to take down many of his

sayings in Bengali; the published record has entered almost

every household in Bengal, while translations have also gone

into other parts of India. So you see how Ramakrishna's

influence has spread far beyond the immediate circle of his

little group of disciples."

Mahasaya finishes his long recital and relapses into silence.

As I look at his face anew, I am struck by the non-Hindu colour

and cast of his face. Again I am wafted back to a little kingdom

in Asia Minor, where the children of Israel find a temporary

respite from their hard fortunes. I picture Mahasaya among

them as a venerable prophet speaking to his people. How

noble and dignified the man looks! His goodness, honesty,

virtue, piety and sincerity are transparent. He possesses that

self-respect of a man who has lived a long life in utter obedience

to the voice of conscience.

"I wonder what Ramakrishna would say to a man who cannot

live by faith alone, who must satisfy reason and intellect?" I

murmur questioningly.

" H e would tell the man to pray. Prayer is a tremendous

force. Ramakrishna himself prayed to God to send him

spiritually inclined people, and soon after that those who later

became his disciples or devotees began to appear."

" B u t if one has never prayed - what t h e n ? "

"Prayer is the last resort. It is the ultimate resource left to

man. Prayer will help a man where the intellect may fail."

" B u t if someone came to you and said that prayer did not

appeal to his temperament. What counsel would you give

h i m ? " I persist gently.

" T h e n let him associate frequently with truly holy men who

have had real spiritual experience. Constant contact with them

will assist him to bring out his latent spirituality. Higher men

turn our minds and wills towards divine objects. Above all,

they stimulate an intense longing for the spiritual life. There-

fore, the society of such men is very important as the first step,

and often it is also the last, as Ramakrishna himself used to say."

Thus we discourse of things high and holy, and how man can

AMONG THE MAGICIANS AND HOLY MEN 185

find no peace save in the Eternal Good. Throughout the evening

different visitors make their arrival until the modest room is

packed with Indians - disciples of the master Mahasaya. They

come nightly and climb the stairs of this four-storeyed house to

listen intently to every word uttered by their teacher.

And for a while I, too, join them. Night after night I come,

less to hear the pious utterances of Mahasaya than to bask in the

spiritual sunshine of his presence. The atmosphere around

him is tender and beautiful, gentle and loving; he has found

some inner bliss and the radiation of it seems palpable. Often I

forget his words, but I cannot forget his benignant personality.

That which drew him again and again to Ramakrishna seems

to draw me to Mahasaya also, and I begin to understand how

potent must have been the influence of the teacher when the

pupil exercises such a fascination upon me.

When our last evening comes, I forget the passage of time,

as I sit happily at his side upon the divan. Hour after hour has

flown by; our talk has had no interlude of silence, but at length

it comes. And then the good master takes my hand and leads

me out to the terraced roof of his house where, in the vivid

moonlight, I see a circling array of tall plants growing in pots

and tubs. Down below a thousand lights gleam from the

houses of Calcutta.

The moon is at its full. Mahasaya points up towards its

round face and then passes into silent prayer for a brief while.

I wait patiently at his side until he finishes. He turns, raises

his hand in benediction and lightly touches my head.

I bow humbly before this angelic man, unreligious though I

am. After a few more moments of continued silence, he says

softly:

" M y task has almost come to an end. This body has nearly

finished what God sent it here to do. Accept my blessing

before I go."1

He has strangely stirred me. I banish the thought of sleep

and wander through many streets. When, at length, I reach a

great mosque and hear the solemn chant, " God is most great! "

break forth upon the midnight stillness, I reflect that if anyone

could free me from the intellectual scepticism to which I cling

and attach me to a life of simple faith, it is undoubtedly the

master Mahasaya.

1 Before long I was apprised of his death.

186 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

§

" Y o u have missed him. Perhaps it was destined that you

should not meet. Who can t e l l ? "

The speaker is Dr. Bandyopadhya, House Surgeon to one of

the Calcutta hospitals. He is one of the most skilful surgeons

in the city; his hands have performed six thousand operations;

his name possesses a string of degrees trailing after i t ; and I

have derived much pleasure in carefully and critically examin-

ing with him some of the knowledge of the Yoga of Body

Control which I have picked up. His scientific training in

medicine and his expert knowledge of anatomy have proved

helpful in my endeavour to lift the subject of Yoga to a purely

rational plane.

"I know almost nothing of Yoga," he has confessed. "What

you tell me is new to me. I have not even met a Yogi, that is, a

real one, save Narasingha Swami, who came to Calcutta not

long ago."

It is then that I enquire after the latter's whereabouts, only

to receive this disappointing answer.

"Narasingha Swami flashed into Calcutta, created a sensa-

tion, and then went off I know not where. I understood that he

emerged suddenly out of retirement in the interior, before he

came here, so he may have returned there."

"I would like to know what happened."

" H e was the talk of the town for a short time. He was dis-

covered by Dr. Neoghy, who is Professor of Chemistry at the

Presidency College of Calcutta University, a month or two

before at Madhupore. Dr. Neoghy saw him lick a few drops of

poisonous acid, and also stuff glowing charcoal into his mouth

and keep it there until it stopped glowing. The doctor's

interest was aroused and the Yogi was persuaded to come to

Calcutta. The University arranged to have a public demon-

stration of Narasingha Swami's powers before an audience

composed exclusively of scientists and medical men. I was

among those invited to be present. It was held in the Physics

Theatre of the Presidency College. We were a fairly critical

lot and, as you know, I have given very little thought to matters

of religion, Yoga, and suchlike things, because my attention

has been centred on professional studies.

" T h e Yogi stood in the centre of the theatre and he was

handed poisons which had been taken from the college labora-

tory stock. We gave him a bottle of sulphuric acid first. He

AMONG THE MAGICIANS AND HOLY MEN 187

poured a few drops into his palm and licked them up with his

tongue. He was then given strong carbolic acid, and he licked

that up too. We tried him with that deadly poison, potassium

cyanide, but he swallowed it without turning a hair! The feat

was astounding, unbelievable even, yet we had to accept the

evidence of our own eyes. He had taken enough potassium

cyanide to kill any other man within three minutes at most, yet

there he stood smiling and apparently unharmed.

"After that, a thick glass bottle was broken and the pieces

were ground down to a powder. Narasingha Swami swallowed

the powder, which can slowly kill. Three hours after swallow-

ing this strange meal, one of our Calcutta doctors applied a

stomach pump to the Yogi and the contents of his stomach were

taken out. The poisons were still there. And on the following

day the powdered glass was discovered in his stool.

" T h e thoroughness of our test was beyond dispute. The

strength of the sulphuric acid was shown by its destructive

effect on a copper coin. Among those present at the demonstra-

tion was Sir C. V. Raman, the famous scientist and winner of

the Nobel prize, who described the performance as a challenge

to modern science. When we asked Narasingha Swami how

he was able to take such liberties with his body, he told us that

immediately on his return home he would go into a Yoga trance

and, by an intense concentration of the mind, counteract the

deadly effect of the poisons."1

"Can you offer any explanation based on your medical

knowledge?"

The doctor shakes his head.

" N o , I can offer none. It completely baffles me."

When I return home, I hunt through a trunk for the note-

book in which I have recorded my conversations with Brama,

the Yogi of the Adyar river. I turn the pages rapidly until I

find this note:

"Poisons cannot harm the adept who has practised the

Grand Exercise, no matter how violent they be. This exercise

is a combination of certain posture, breathing, will-power and

mind concentration exercises. According to our tradition, it

confers upon the adept the power of absorbing any object he

chooses, even poisons, without being inconvenienced. It is an

1 Narasingha Swami reappeared in Calcutta some time later, and

then proceeded to Rangoon, Burma. Here he gave a similar demon-

stration, but, owing to a press of unexpected visitors, omitted to

follow his usual practice of entering the Yoga trance on arrival home.

The result was that he died with tragic swiftness.

188 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

exceedingly difficult practice and must be regularly done if it is

to keep its merit. A very old man once told me of a Yogi who

lived in Benares and who could drink large quantities of poison

without being harmed. This Yogi's name was Trailingya

Swami; he was very well known in the town in those days, but

he died many years ago. Trailingya was a great adept who was

very learned in the Yoga of Body Control. He sat almost

clothes-less on the banks of the Ganges for years, but no one

could hold converse with him because he had imposed a vow of

silence upon himself."

Incredible and impossible I had deemed this immunity to

poison, when Brama had brought the subject within the line of

my vision for the first time. But now, my preconceived ideas

of the limits of what is possible have become a little shaky.

Sometimes I have wondered at the unbelievable and almost

incomprehensible tasks which these Yogis set themselves, yet

who knows - perhaps they possess secrets which we Westerners

are vainly trying to discover through a thousand laboratory

experiments?

CHAPTER XI

THE WONDER-WORKER OF BENARES

MY wanderings in Bengal must hasten into the limbo of

unrecorded experience, and my unexpected contacts

near Buddha-Gaya with three Tibetan lamas, who

proffer an invitation to their mountain monastery, must likewise

follow suit, for I am eager to enter the sacred city of Benares.

The train thunders across the great iron bridge near the city,

its noise heralding, no doubt, modernity's further invasion of

an antiquated and static form of society. The holy Ganges can

hardly remain holy much longer when alien and infidel men

send snorting fire-chariots across its greyish-green waters.

So this is Benares!

A huge crowd of pilgrims jostle each other while I pass out

of the station and step into a waiting carriage. As we drive

along the dusty road I become aware of a new element in the

atmosphere. I try to ignore it but, with increasing insistence,

it forces itself upon my attention.

So this is India's holiest city! Well, it possesses a most

unholy smell! Benares is reputed to be the oldest populated

town in India. Its odour fully confirms its reputation. The

unsavoury air seems insupportable. I begin to lose courage.

Shall I order the driver to take me back to the station? Is it

not better to be an arrant infidel and breathe clean air than

acquire piety at such a monstrous price? And then I reflect

that time will somehow acclimatize one even to this air, as it

acclimatizes one to more unfamiliar things still in this stale

land. But Benares! you may be the hub of Hindu culture, yet

please learn something from the infidel whites and temper your

holiness with a little hygiene!

I learn that the stench arises partly because the roads are

paved with a mixture of cow-dung and earth, and partly

because the old moat which surrounds the city has been used

by the people of many generations as a convenient refuse

heap.

189

190 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

If Indian chronicles can be credited, Benares was an estab-

lished city as long ago as twelve hundred years before the

Christian Era. Just as pious Englishmen journeyed to the holy

city of Canterbury in the Middle Ages, so have Indians flocked

from every part of their country to the holy city of Benares.

Hindus come in their wealthy state or poverty-stricken

condition to receive its blessing, while the ailing come to eke

out their last days, for death here will take the soul straight

into Paradise.

The next day I wander afoot through old Kashi - as the

Hindus prefer to call their city - and explore the labyrinth of

crooked streets which compose it. There is a purpose behind

my aimless wandering, for I bear in my pocket a paper which

describes the location of the house of a Yogi wonder-worker,

whose disciple I met in Bombay.

I pass through stuffy streets along which a carriage would be

too wide to pass. I make my way through crowded bazaars,

where seethe the people of a dozen different races, and where

mangy dogs and innumerable flies add to the bustle. Old

women with grey hair and shrunken breasts; young women

with supple figures and smooth, brown limbs; pilgrims finger-

ing their rosaries and muttering the same sacred words which

they have already repeated perhaps fifty thousand times; the

gaunt figures of ash-besmeared elderly ascetics; all these and

other types throng the narrow ways. Among a tangle of

streets which are full of turmoil, noise and colour, I come

accidentally upon the Golden Temple, which is famed among

the orthodox throughout India. Ash-bedabbled ascetics, whose

uncouth appearance is repellent to Western eyes, crouch around

the entrance. Worshippers flow in and out in an endless

stream. Several carry lovely flower garlands and thus give a

gay colour to the scene. The pious touch the stone door-posts

with their foreheads as they leave the temple and then, turning,

start in momentary surprise on beholding the white infidel. I

become conscious again of the invisible barrier between these

men and myself, the profound barrier between white and brown

skin.

Two domes, made of thick sheets of gold, glisten in the quiver-

ing sunlight; screeching parrots swarm on the nearest tower.

The Golden Temple is given over to the god Shiva. Where is

he now, I wonder, this god to whom these Hindus cry, before

whom they pray, and to whose stone representations I have

seen them offer scented flowers and cooked rice?

I move on and stand near the threshold of another temple,

THE WONDER-WORKER OF BENARES 191

where I watch the god Krishna being worshipped. Lighted

camphor burns before a golden idol; the temple bells peal out

their insistent calls for his attention; and the sounds of conch

horns stray up to his unhearing ears. A lean and austere priest

comes out and looks questioningly at me, and I proceed upon

my way.

Who can count the multitude of images and idols which teem

within the temples and houses of Benares? Who can explain

these serious-looking Hindus - so often childish, yet sometimes

so profoundly philosophical?

Through the dark alleys I thread my way, afoot and alone,

seeking the house of the wonder-worker. At length I emerge

from the swarming streets into wider roads. A straggling,

ragged column of little boys, thin youths and a few men, swing

past me in single file. Their leader carries a makeshift banner,

with something indecipherable inscribed upon the flag. They

shout queer catchwords and occasional snatches of song. They

look at me with hostile faces and scowling eyes as they go by,

so that I sense the political nature of this motley procession.

Last night, in a packed bazaar, with no European or policeman

anywhere in sight, someone behind me hisses out a threat to

shoot me. At once I wheel round - only to behold a crowd of

bland faces, for the young fanatic (I guess his youth by the

sound of his voice) has disappeared around a corner into the

darkness. And so I gaze with pity upon this ragged procession

which now disappears down the road. Politics, that deceptive

siren who promises everybody everything, has gathered a few

more victims into her insidious arms.

I come at last to a street where the houses are large and well

built and where the compounds are spacious and trimly kept.

I quicken my pace until I reach a gate, upon whose post the

name VISHUDHANANDA is inscribed on a stone tablet. I

enter the compound, for this is the house which I seek, and

approach someone who lounges on the veranda. He is a young

man with an unintelligent face. I ask him in Hindustani:

"Where is the teacher?" but he shakes his head and gives me

to understand that no such person is known here. I utter the

teacher's name, but again receive a negative reply. The result

is disappointing, but I am determined not to be beaten. An

inward monitor warns me that the young man thinks no

European can possibly have any business here, and that he has

jumped to the conclusion I am really seeking some other house.

I look again at his face and write him down as stupid. Ignoring

his gesticulations, I walk straight into the house.

192 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

In an inner room I come upon a semicircle of dark faces.

A group of well-dressed Indians squat around the floor. A

bearded old man reclines upon a couch at the far end of the

room. His venerable appearance and seat of honour are enough

to inform me that here is the object of my quest. I raise my

hands in salutation, palms touching.

"Peace, master!" I make the conventional Hindustani

greeting.

I proffer my introduction and present myself as a writer

travelling in India, yet withal a student of their native philo-

sophy and mysticism. I make it clear that the disciple whom I

encountered was careful to explain that his teacher never made a

public exhibition of his wonderful powers, and that even under

the shadow of privacy he rarely displayed them to strangers.

Nevertheless, in view of my deep interest in their ancient wis-

dom, I crave their indulgence and beg to be treated as an

exception.

The students stare blankly at each other and then turn

towards the teacher, as if in wonderment at his response.

Vishudhananda is a man of more than seventy years of age, I

judge. A short nose and a long beard adorn his face. I am

struck by the large size of his eyes, which are deeply pouched.

The sacred thread of a Brahmin hangs around his neck.

The old man fixes his eyes coldly upon me, as though I were a

specimen to be studied under a microscope. I feel something

weird and uncanny touch my heart. Indeed, some strange

force seems to pervade the whole room, and I feel slightly

uneasy.

At length he addresses some words, in a dialect which I

recognize as Bengalee, to a disciple, who turns and informs me

that no audience can be granted unless I bring Pundit Kavirj,

who is Principal of the Government Sanskrit College, to act as

interpreter. The pundit's perfect knowledge of English, com-

bined with his long standing as a disciple of Vishudhananda,

perfectly fits him to act as a medium between us.

"Come with him to-morrow afternoon," says the teacher.

"I shall expect you at the hour of four."

I am forced to retreat. On the road I hail a passing carriage

and drive through the winding streets to the Sanskrit College.

The Principal is not there. Someone thinks he may be at

home, so I drive on for another half-hour until I find him at

last in a tall, ancient house with a projecting upper storey,

whose appearance is strangely like that of a medieval Italian

building.

T H E W O N D E R - W O R K E R O F B E N A R E S 193

T h e pundit sits on the floor of a top room, surrounded on

every side by small hills of books, papers and scholastic para-

phernalia. He has the Brahmin's typical high brow, thin long

nose and lighter complexion. His face is refined and scholarly.

I explain my e r r a n d ; there is a slight hesitation on his p a r t ;

and then he agrees to accompany me next day. T h e appoint-

ment fixed, I withdraw.

I ride down to the Ganges and dismiss the carriage. I

saunter along the river bank which, for the benefit of bathing

pilgrims, is built into long rows of stone steps. T h e feet of

many centuries have worn down the steps until they are rugged

and uneven. How untidy and irregular is the water-front of

Benares! Temples tumble into the w a t e r ; glistening domes

are neighbours to squat, square, decorated palaces which rise

to varying heights; while the whole hotch-potch of buildings

mingles the ancient and the modern indiscriminately.

Priests and pilgrims swarm everywhere. I come across some

pundits teaching their pupils in small, open rooms. T h e walls

are plainly whitewashed; the teachers sit on r u g s ; and the

pupils squat respectfully around, absorbing the cobwebbed

doctrines of their creed.

A bearded ascetic's appearance causes me to make enquiries.

He has rolled over and over in the dust for four hundred miles.

A strange way to make one's pilgrimage to B e n a r e s ! Farther

on I meet another weird-looking individual. He has held one

arm aloft for years. T h e sinews and ligaments of his unfor-

tunate limb have almost withered, while the flesh which covers

it has shrivelled to parchment. How account for such futile

austerities, unless, indeed, the unending tropical sun has made

the minds of these men a trifle m a d ? It may be that existence

in a temperature of one hundred and twenty degrees in the

shade has helped to unbalance these unfortunate members of

a race which is already so prone to religious hysteria.

§

T h e next day, precisely at four o'clock, Pundit Kavirj and I

drive into the courtyard of the teacher's house. We enter the

large room and greet him. About six other disciples are

present.

Vishudhananda asks me to come a little closer, so I squat

down a few feet away from his couch.

194 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

" D o you desire to see one of my wonders?" is his first

question.

" I f the master wishes to grant this favour, I shall be

extremely pleased."

"Give me your handkerchief, then. If you have a silk one,

so much the better," translates the Pundit. "Any scent which

you desire will be created for you, with nothing but a lens and

the sun's rays as equipment."

Fortunately I do carry a silk handkerchief and pass it to the

wonder-worker. He takes out a small burning lens and then

explains that he wishes to concentrate the sun's rays but, owing

to the orb's present position and the sheltered aspect of the

room, that cannot be done with directness. The difficulty will

easily be overcome, however, by sending one of the disciples

outside into the courtyard. The man will use a hand mirror,

catch the rays, and then reflect them through an open window

into the room.

"I shall now create a scent for you out of the a i r ! "

announces Vishudhananda. "Which would you l i k e ? "

" C a n you produce white jasmine? "

He takes up my handkerchief in his left hand and holds the

burning lens above it. For the brief space of two seconds,

a gleaming ray of sunlight hovers upon the silken fabric;

then he puts down the lens and hands back the handkerchief.

I put it to my nose, and am rewarded with the delightful frag-

rance of white jasmine!

I examine the handkerchief but can discover no trace of

moisture, no evidence that some liquid perfume has been

dropped on it. I am puzzled and look half-suspiciously at the

old man. He offers to repeat the demonstration.

The second time I choose attar of roses. I watch him

narrowly during the further experiment. Every move which he

makes, every bit of space around him is scrutinized with all the

care I can muster. I examine his puffy hands and his spotless

white robe with critical eyes, but can detect nothing suspicious.

He repeats his former procedure and evokes the perfume of

attar of roses, which strongly impregnates another corner

of the handkerchief.

My third choice is violets. Here again he is equally successful.

Vishudhananda is quite emotionless about his triumph.

He treats the whole demonstration as a sort of everyday affair,

as a mere minor event. His grave face never once relaxes.

"And now I shall choose the scent," he unexpectedly

declares. "I shall create the perfume of a flower which grows

THE WONDER-WORKER OF BENARES 195

only in Tibet." He concentrates some sunlight upon the last,

unscented corner of the handkerchief and lo! it is done he

has evoked a fourth perfume, which I fail to recognize.

Slightly bewildered, I put the piece of white silk into my

pocket. The feat appears to border on the miraculous. Has

he concealed the perfumes upon his person? Has he hidden

them in his robe? Then he would need to carry a formidable

stock because, until I spoke, he could not know which scent

I should choose. His simple robe could hardly contain such

an ample stock as would be requisite. Besides, not once has

his hand disappeared into the folds of his robe.

I ask for permission to inspect the lens. The latter proves to

be quite an ordinary magnifying glass, set in a wire frame with

a small wire handle. I can see nothing suspicious about it.

There is an additional safeguard, for what it is worth, in the

fact that Vishudhananda is being watched, not only by me

but also by the half-dozen disciples around us. The Pundit

has already informed me that, without a single exception, they

are all men of high standing, good education and responsibility.

Hypnotism offers a possible explanation. The value of this

explanation can be simply tested. When I return to my

quarters, I shall show the handkerchief to other persons.

Vishudhananda has another and greater piece of wonder-

working to show me. It is one he seldom performs, though.

He tells me that he needs strong sunlight for this second feat;

now, the sun is sinking and evening is approaching. So I am

to come again at high noon of a later day of the week. He will

then display his amazing feat of temporarily restoring life to

the dead!

I leave him and drive home, where I show the handkerchief

to three persons. Each one finds that it still bears strong traces

of the perfumes. The feat, therefore, cannot be accounted for

on the hypothesis of hypnotism. Nor is it much easier to

regard the whole affair as a piece of trickery.

§

Once again I am in the house of the magician. The latter

tells me that he can restore life only to a small animal; usually

he experiments with a bird.

A sparrow is strangled and left exposed to our gaze for about

an hour, so that we can assure ourselves that it is really dead.

Its eyes are motionless, its body sad and stiff; I cannot discover

196 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

a single sign which might betray the presence of life in the little

creature.

The magician picks up his magnifying glass and concentrates

a ray of sunlight into an eye of the bird. I wait while a few

minutes pass uneventfully. The old man sits bent over his

strange task, his large eyes fixed in a glassy stare, his face cold,

emotionless and non-committal. Suddenly, his lips open and

his voice breaks out into a weird, crooning chant in some

language which is unknown to me. A little later the bird's

body begins to twitch. I have seen a dog twitch its suffering

frame in the same manner, when the spasms of approaching

death have overtaken it. Then comes a slight fluttering of the

feathers and within a few minutes the sparrow is on its legs,

hopping around the floor. Truly the dead have come to life!

During its next phase of this strange existence, the bird

gathers sufficient strength to fly up into the air, where it busies

itself for a while in finding new perching points as it flies

around the room. The thing seems so incredible that I pull

body and wits together, in an effort to reassure myself that

everything and everyone surrounding me is real, tangible and

not hallucinatory.

A tense half-hour passes, while I watch the fluttering efforts

of the revived creature. At last a sudden climax provides me

with a fresh surprise. The poor sparrow falls through the air

and lies motionless at our feet. It remains there without

stirring. An examination reveals it as breathless and quite

dead.

"Could you have prolonged its life still further?" I ask

the magician.

" T h a t is the most I can show you at present," he replies,

with a slight shrug. The Pundit whispers that greater things

are hoped for from future experiments. There are other things

his master can do, though I must not over-use his indulgence

and make him play the part of a street showman. What I have

seen already must satisfy me. I feel once again the pervading

sense of mystery which fills the place. The stories of Vishud-

hananda's other powers only heighten this feeling.

I learn that he can bring fresh grapes seemingly out of the

air and deliver sweetmeats out of sheer nothingness; that if

he takes a faded flower in his hand it will soon regain its pristine

freshness.

THE WONDER-WORKER OF BENARES 197

§

What is the secret of these apparent miracles? I try to

elicit some hint and receive an extraordinary reply. It is one

of those explanations which do not really explain. The real

secret still remains hidden behind the square forehead of the

Benares wonder-worker, and he has so far not revealed it

even to his closest disciple.

He tells me that his birthplace was in Bengal. At the age

of thirteen he was bitten by a poisonous animal. His condition

became so serious that his mother despaired of his life and took

him down to the Ganges to die. According to the Hindu

religion, there can be no holier or happier death than beside

this river. He was carried into the sacred stream while the

mourning family gathered on the banks for the funeral cere-

monies. He was lowered into the water. And then a miracle

happened. The deeper they dipped him, the more the water

sank around his body. When he was raised again, the water rose

upward in harmony until it reached its normal level. Again

and again he was dipped; again and again the waters sank of

their own accord. In short, the Ganges refused to receive the

boy as its dying guest!

A Yogi sat on the banks of the river and watched the pro-

ceedings. He got up and predicted that the boy was reserved

to live and achieve greatness, and that his destiny was most

fortunate, inasmuch as he would become a famous Yogi.

The man then rubbed some herbs on the poisoned wound and

went away. Seven days later he returned and told the parents

that the boy was now quite cured, and indeed it was so. But,

during the interim a strange thing had happened to the child.

His entire mentality and character had changed, and instead

of being content to remain at home with his parents, he thirsted

to become a wandering Yogi. Henceforth he worried his

mother constantly until, a few years later, she granted him

permission to leave home. He went forth in quest of the Yoga

adepts.

He made his way to Tibet, that trans-Himalayan land of

mystery, in the hope of finding his destined teacher among its

reputed miracle-working hermits. For it is an idea strongly

inherent in the Indian mind that the aspirant must become a

personal disciple of someone who has himself mastered the

mysteries of Yoga, if he is to succeed in the same quest. The

young Bengalee sought for such a man among the solitary

198 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

hermits who dwell in huts or caves, sometimes when the

mountains were swept by howling, icy blizzards, but he

returned home disappointed.

Years passed uneventfully, yet his desire found no abate-

ment. Once more he crossed the border and wandered the

bleak wastes of Southern Tibet. In a simple habitation among

the mountain fastnesses he discovered a man who proved

to be the long-sought teacher.

I hear, next, one of those incredible statements which might

once have moved me to satiric laughter, but now actually

startles me. For I am solemnly assured that this Tibetan

master is no less than one thousand two hundred years old!

The assertion is made as calmly as a prosaic Westerner might

mention that he is forty.

This amazing legend of longevity has cropped up at least

twice before. Brama, the Yogi of the Adyar river, once told me

that his master in Nepal was over four hundred years old,

while a holy man whom I encountered in Western India said

that there was a Yogi living in an almost inaccessible mountain

cave on the Himalayas who was so old - over one thousand years,

was the figure given me - that the lids of his eyes actually

drooped heavily with age! I had dismissed both these asser-

tions as being too fantastic, but now I must again entertain

a repetition of them, for this man before me hints at being on

the track of the elixir of life.

The Tibetan teacher initiated young Vishudhananda into the

principles and practices of the Yoga of Body Control. Under

this rigorous training, the disciple developed powers of body and

mind which were supernormal. He was also initiated into a

strange art which he calls Solar Science. For twelve years,

despite the hardships of life in a snow-bound region, he

continued his pupilage at the feet of the Tibetan possessor of

immortal life. His training finished, he was sent back to

India. He crossed the mountain passes, descended into the

plains, and in due course himself became a teacher of Yoga.

He settled for a while at Puri, on the Bay of Bengal, where he

still maintains a large bungalow. The flock of disciples which

gathered around him belong exclusively to the higher class of

Hindus. They comprise wealthy merchants, rich landowners,

Government officials and even a Rajah. I get the impression

- perhaps I am wrong - that humbler folk are not encouraged.

How did you perform those wonders you showed m e ? "

I ask bluntly.

Vishudhananda crosses his plump hands.

THE WONDER-WORKER OF BENARES 199

"What you have been shown is not the result of Yoga

practice. It is the result of a knowledge of Solar Science.

The essence of Yoga is the development of will power and

mental concentration on the part of the Yogi, but in Solar

Science practice those qualities are not required. Solar

Science is merely a collection of secrets and no special training

is necessary to make use of them. It can be studied in exactly

the same way that any of your Western material sciences are

studied."

Pundit Kavirj supplements the hint that this strange art is

more akin to the science of electricity and magnetism than to

any other.

I feel as much in the dark as before, so the master vouch-

safes some further information.

" T h i s Solar Science which now comes from Tibet is nothing

new. It was well known to the great Yogis of India in very

ancient times. But now, except for a rare few, it has almost

been lost to this country. There are life-giving elements in

the sun's rays, and if you knew the secret of separating or

selecting those elements, you, too, could do wonders. And

there are etheric forces in sunlight which have a magic power,

once you get control of them."

"Are you teaching these Solar Science secrets to your

disciples?"

" N o t yet, but I am preparing to do so. Certain disciples

will be selected and the secrets imparted to them. Even now

we are building a large laboratory where study classes, demon-

strations and experiments will be carried on."

" T h e n what are your disciples learning at present?"

"They are being initiated into Yoga."

The pundit takes me to inspect the laboratory. It is a

modern structure several storeys high and distinctly European

in design. The walls are built of red brick and large gaps take

the place of windows. These gaps await the coming of huge

sheets of plate glass, for the research work to be conducted

in the laboratory will involve the reflection of sunlight through

red, blue, green, yellow and colourless glass.

The pundit tells me that no Indian works can make glass of

the size required to form the giant windows, and therefore the

edifice cannot be completed. He asks me to make enquiries

in England, but emphasizes that Vishudhananda wants his

specifications to be adhered to completely. These include the

condition that the makers should guarantee their glass to be

absolutely free from air bubbles, and that the coloured glass

200 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

should be quite transparent. Each sheet is to measure

twelve feet in length, eight feet in width and one inch in

thickness.1

The laboratory building is surrounded by spacious gardens,

which are girdled and screened from prying eyes by rows of

feather-branched palm trees.

I return to the wonder-worker and sit down before him. The

disciples have thinned out; only two or three are left. Pundit

Kavirj squats beside me, his study-worn face fixed in devoted

regard of his master.

Vishudhananda momentarily glances at me and then studies

the floor. Dignity and reserve mingle in his manner; his

face is preternaturally solemn, and the faces of his disciples

reflect his solemnity. I attempt to penetrate behind his mask

of gravity, but can perceive nothing. The mind of this man

is as impenetrable to my Western mentality as is the inmost

shrine of the Golden Temple in yonder town. He is steeped

in the strange lore of Oriental magic. I feel strongly that

though he has shown me his wonders even before I express

a second request, nevertheless he has put up a psychic barrier

between us which I shall never cross. My welcome is but

a surface one; Western investigators and Western disciples

are not wanted here.

He drops an unexpected remark quite suddenly.

"I could not initiate you as my own pupil unless I secure

permission beforehand from my Tibetan master. This is a

condition under which I have to work."

Has he read the thoughts which run through my brain?

I gaze at him. His slightly bulging forehead betrays a faint

pucker. Anyway, I have expressed no desire to become his

disciple. I am in no undue hurry to become anyone's disciple.

But of one thing I feel sure - such a request would bring forth

a negative answer.

" B u t how can you communicate with your master if he is

in far-off T i b e t ? " I query.

1 I wrote to the largest manufacturers of plate glass in Great

Britain, but they refused to undertake the task because the technical

conditions laid down by Vishudhananda were impossible of fulfilment.

T h e y declared that it was beyond the wit of any manufacturer to

devise a process which would guarantee the absence of any air bubbles

in the s h e e t s ; that the glass could not be coloured without diminishing

its transparency to the sun's r a y s ; that plate glass could not be made

satisfactorily thicker than one quarter of an i n c h ; and that the sheets

would have to be made in halves if breakage on the long journey to

Benares was to be avoided.

THE WONDER-WORKER OF BENARES 201

" W e are in perfect touch upon the inner planes," he replies.

I am conscious of listening, but not of comprehending. Yet

his unexpected remark has turned my mind away from his

miracles for a while. I fall into a pensive mood. Unwittingly

I find myself asking:

"Master, how can one find enlightenment?"

Vishudhananda does not reply; instead, he puts me another

question.

"Unless you practise Yoga, how can you obtain enlighten-

m e n t ? "

I think the matter over for a few seconds.

"Yet I am told that without a teacher it is extremely

difficult to understand Yoga, let alone practise it successfully.

Genuine teachers are hard to find."

His face remains indifferent and imperturbable.

"When the seeker is ready, the master always appears."

I express my doubts. He spreads out a plump hand.

"A man must first make himself ready; then, no matter

where he is, he will eventually find a teacher. And if the

master does not come in the flesh, he will appear to the inward

eye of the seeker."

"How shall one begin, then?"

"Mark off a part of your time every day to sit in the simple

posture which I shall show you. That will help to prepare

you. Take care also to curb anger and control passion."

Vishudhananda proceeds to show me the Lotus posture,

with which I am already familiar. Why he calls this a simple

posture, with its intertwined and folded legs, I cannot under-

stand.

"What adult European can achieve such a contortion!"

I exclaim.

" T h e difficulty lies only in the early attempts. It becomes

easy if practised every morning and evening. The important

thing is to fix an exact time of the day for this Yoga practice,

and to keep regularly to that time. At first five minutes'

effort is enough. After one month, you can lengthen the time

to ten minutes; after three months, to twenty minutes, and

so on. Take care to keep the spine straight. This exercise

will enable a man to acquire physical poise and mental calmness.

Calmness is necessary for the further practice of Yoga."

" T h e n you teach the Yoga of Body Control?"

"Yes. Do not imagine that the Yoga of Mind Control is

superior to it. Just as every human being both thinks and

acts, so there must be training for both sides of our nature.

202 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

The body acts on the mind, and the mind inter-acts on the

body; they cannot be separated in practical development."

I become aware once again of an inner reluctance on the

part of this man to submit to further questioning. A mental

coldness fills the atmosphere. I decide to withdraw soon, but

fling a last question at him.

"Have you discovered whether there is any goal, any

purpose, in l i f e ? "

The disciples break their gravity and smile at my simplicity.

Only an infidel, ignorant Westerner could ask such a question.

Do not all the sacred Hindu books, without exception, indicate

that God holds this world in His hand for His own purpose?

The teacher does not answer me. He relapses into silence,

but glances at Kaviraj, who thereupon supplies the answer.

"Certainly, there is a purpose. We have to attain spiritual

perfection, to unite with God."

And then, for the next hour, the room remains silent.

Vishudhananda fingers the large pages of a thick book, whose

paper cover is printed in Bengalee. The disciples stare, sleep

or meditate. A soothing, mesmeric influence begins to steal

over me. I feel that if I stay long enough, I shall either fall

asleep or fall into some kind of a trance, so I pull my faculties

together, thank the teacher, and take my departure.

§

After a light meal I pick my way through tortuous alleys in

this motley city, which seems to attract saints and sinners alike.

It lures the pious from all over the land into its crowded homes,

but it also draws the impious, the ruffianly and the vicious, to

say nothing of the priestly parasites.

The jingling temple bells along the bank of the Ganges

peal out their call to evening worship. Night is advancing

rapidly on the greying sky. Sunset adds another to its own

sounds, for the muezzins call to the followers of the Prophet

to come to prayer.

I sit on the bank of this ancient river, this much-revered

Ganges, and listen to the rustling fronds of palms, which sway

slightly in the temporary breeze.

An ash-besmeared beggar approaches me. He halts and I

gaze at him. He is some sort of holy man, for something that

is not of this world glows in his eyes. I begin to realize that I

have not succeeded in understanding this old India so well as

THE WONDER-WORKER OF BENARES 203

I thought. I grope among the few coins in my pocket, wonder-

ing the while whether we can leap across the abyss of civilization

which separates us. He takes the alms with a quiet dignity,

raises his hands to his ash-covered brow in salutation, and

withdraws.

I have mused for long over the mystery of the wonder-

worker, who plays tricks with the ether and restores fleeting

life to dead birds. His plausible but brief exposition of Solar

Science does not capture me. Only a thoughtless man would

deny that modern science has not fully explored the possibilities

latent in the sun's light; but there are features in this case

which incline me to look elsewhere for an explanation.

For, in Western India, I had learnt of the existence of two

Yogis who could perform one of Vishudhananda's feats,

namely, the extraction of different scents from the air. Un-

fortunately for my investigation, both these persons died

towards the close of last century, but the source of my informa-

tion seemed reliable enough. In both cases a fragrant, oily

essence was made to appear on the palm of the Yogi's hand,

as though it exuded through the skin. Sometimes the perfume

was strong enough to scent the room.

Now, if Vishudhananda possesses the same strange gift,

he can easily transfer some scent from his palm to the handker-

chief, whilst appearing to fumble with the magnifying lens.

In short, the whole performance of concentrating the sunlight

may be nothing more than a piece of play-acting to cover the

transference of the magically produced scent. Another point

which favours this view is the fact that the wonder-worker has

failed to reveal the secret to a single one of his disciples so

far. Their hopes have been kept up, meanwhile, by the

protracted building of costly laboratories. Even this work has

come to a standstill because of the impossibility of procuring

the giant sheets of glass in India. And so they wait on and

hope.

What process has Vishudhananda really used, if the con-

centration of sunlight is merely a blind? It may be that the

production of fragrant odours is another of the Yoga powers

which can be developed by personal effort, but I do not know.

Nevertheless, though I cannot provide a tenable theory to

account for the wonder-worker's feats, I need not jump at

the theory of Solar Science which he offers. Why trouble my

head further My duty is but to play the scribe and record

these happenings, not to explain the inexplicable. Here is

a side of Indian life which must remain sealed, for even if the

204 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

plump little wonder-worker, or some chosen disciple, demon-

strates this strange art to the outside world and engages the

astounded attention of scientists, it is unlikely that the secret

will be made known. I think I have read so far into his

character, at least.

An inner voice asks m e : How has he revived the dead bird

And what about this legend of a perfected Yogi's ability to

extend indefinitely the duration of his life? Have some

Eastern men really discovered the secret of protracted age?

I turn my head away from the inner questioner and wearily

look up at the heavens. The imponderable immensity of the

star-filled sky awes me. Nowhere are the stars so bright as

in the tropical sky. I continue to gaze fixedly at the twinkling

points of light. . . . When I look around again at my fellow-

creatures and at the amorphous mass of houses, I begin to feel

deeply the recondite mystery of this world. Tangible things

and ordinary objects recede quickly into unreality, and the

blend of shadowy, moving figures, slowly gliding boats and

a few bright lamps, turn both night and environment into

some enchanted land of the dream world. The old Indian

philosophical doctrine that the universe is but phantom-like

in its real nature drifts into my mind and begins to abet this

destruction of my sense of reality. I become ready for the

strangest experiences that this planet, which hurries so swiftly

through the abysses of space, can bring me.

But some creature of the earth world breaks rudely into my

heavenly dream by giving loud voice to the monotonous

rhythm of an Indian song, and I return rapidly to that pot-

pourri of uncertain pleasures and unexpected sorrows which

men call life.

CHAPTER XII

WRITTEN IN THE STARS!

THE cupolas quiver with light in the dazzling sunshine,

the bathers fill the air with the sounds of their

matutinal ablution, and the jumbled, Oriental pageant

of the water-front at Benares shows itself anew to my alien

gaze. I idle down the Ganges in a heavy junk, whose prow

is carved like a cobra's head. I sit on the roof of a cabin,

while the three rowers who are below pull their quaint oars.

A merchant from Bombay is my companion and, as he sits

next to me, he tells me that he intends to retire from trade

when he returns to that city. He is an extremely pious but

equally practical man. While laying up treasure in heaven,

he has not omitted to lay up treasure in the bank. I have

known him for about a week and find him an amiable, genial

and friendly person.

" I a m retiring at the very age which Sudhei Babu predicted

it would happen," he says, eager to explain.

This odd remark causes me, metaphorically, to prick up

my ears.

"Sudhei Babu - who is he? "

" D o you not know? He is the cleverest astrologer in

Benares."

" O h , just an astrologer!" I grunt back a little scornfully.

For I have seen the breed squatting in the dust of Bombay's

great open space, the Maidan sitting in sultry booths at

Calcutta; and foregathering wherever travellers pass through

every little town I have visited. Most of them are dirty-looking

creatures, with wild locks of unkempt hair. The recognizable

print of superstition and ignorance rests upon their faces.

Their stock-in-trade usually consists of two or three greasy,

well-fingered books and some vernacular almanac filled with

incomprehensible signs. I have often cynically thought of

their eagerness to direct the fortunes of other persons,

when they themselves seemed outside the pale of good

fortune.

205

206 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

" I a m somewhat surprised at you. Is it safe for a business

man to trust himself to the twinkling of the stars. Don't you

think common sense is a better g u i d e ? " I add, in the tone of

one giving good advice.

The other man half-shakes his head and smiles tolerantly at

me.

"How, then, do you explain the prediction of my retirement?

Who could have guessed that I would give up trade at such an

exceptionally early age, for as you know I am only a year past

f o r t y ? "

"Coincidence, perhaps."

"Very well; let me tell you a little story. Some years ago I

met a great astrologer in Lahore and started a large business

negotiation on his advice. At that time I was in partnership

with an older man. My partner asserted that the affair was far

too risky and he refused to agree with me. Because he would

not enter into the transaction we dissolved partnership. I

carried the business through alone. It was a startling success

and brought me a small fortune. Yet unless the Lahore

astrologer had strongly supported me, I, too, would have

feared to enter into the affair."

" T h e n you hold the opinion that "

My companion finishes the sentence for me.

" O u r lives are ruled by destiny and that destiny is shown by

the positions of the s t a r s ! "

I slip my objections to his statement upon the thread of an

impatient gesture.

" T h e astrologers I have seen in India are such an illiterate,

stupid-looking lot, that I cannot imagine what beneficial

advice they can give anyone."

"Ah, you must not confuse a learned scholar like Sudhei

Babu with those ignorant men you have encountered. Truly,

those men are charlatans, but he is a highly intelligent Brahmin

who lives in a large house of his own. He has made a deep

study of the subject for many years and possesses many volumes

of great rarity."

It suddenly occurs to me that my companion is no fool. He

belongs to that type of modern Hindu who is enthusiastically

practical and who does not hesitate to avail himself of the latest

resources of Western invention. He is even ahead of me in

some ways. He carries a magnificent moving-picture camera

on the boat, whereas I can boast of nothing better than a

humble pocket Kodak; his servant produces a thermos flask

and pours out a cooling drink, thus rebuking my lamentable

WRITTEN IN THE STARS!

207

forgetfulness of an excellent travelling requisite; and I know

from his talk that he makes more use of the telephone when in

Bombay than I have ever cared to do when in Europe. And

yet he believes in astrology! I puzzle over the incongruous

elements which compose his character.

" L e t us understand each other. You fully accept the theory

that every man's career and every worldly event is controlled

by stars whose distance from our planet is so great that it

beggars imagination?"

"Yes, I do,"he answers quietly.

I shrug my shoulders, not knowing what to say.

He assumes an apologetic air.

" M y dear sir, why not go and try him for yourself? You

say in your country, ' T h e proof of the pudding is in the eating.'

Find out what Sudhei Babu can discover about you. I have no

use for the cheap charlatans myself, but I believe in that man's

genuineness."

" H ' m . I am sceptical about those who make a business of

foretelling. Still, I shall take you at your word. Will you take

me to this astrologer?"

"Certainly. Come and have tiffin1 with me to-morrow and

then we shall visit him."

We continue to float by broad palaces and old temples and

little shrines bespattered with yellow flowers. I look indiffer-

ently at the broad stone steps crowded with bathing pilgrims

and reflect that, though science rightly flatters itself with having

put a check to superstition, I have yet to learn that a scientific

attitude should put a check to investigation. If my companion

can produce some evidential facts for the marked feeling of

fatalism which he shares in common with most of his country-

men, I shall study them with an open mind.

§

The next day my amiable acquaintance brings me to a narrow,

archaic street which runs through a heap of flat-topped houses.

We stop before a rambling, old, stone-built structure. He

leads the way through a dark, low-roofed passage and then we

climb several stone steps, which are no wider than a man's

body. We pass through a narrow room and find ourselves on

the veranda of a spacious inner courtyard, around which the

house has been built.

1 Light afternoon tea.

208 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

A chained dog sights us and furiously barks a challenge. An

array of large pots, each holding some tropical flowerless

plant, spreads along the veranda. I follow my companion into a

dark, frowning room and nearly fall over some broken flag-

stones at the threshold. As I stoop, I notice that loose earth

lies sprinkled in the room as freely as it is sprinkled on the

veranda floor. Does the astrologer find relief from his starry

studies in plant-growing, I wonder?

The other man shouts for the astrologer, whose name is

echoed back to us by the ancient walls. We wait for two or

three minutes and assist the dog, by further calls for the astrol-

oger, to punctuate the silence of this seemingly deserted

building. I begin to think that we have come on a fruitless

errand, when the sound of someone stirring descends from an

upper floor. Soon after I hear shuffling steps approach our room.

The figure of a slight man, carrying a candle in one hand and

jangling a bunch of keys in the other, appears on the threshold.

There follows a brief conversation in the semi-gloom and the

astrologer unlocks another door, through which we all pass. He

draws aside two heavy curtains and opens the shutters which

cover tall balcony windows.

The astrologer's face is suddenly illuminated by the light

which falls through the opened windows. I see a man who

seems more like a figure from the ghost world than one of flesh

and blood. Never before have I seen anyone so "sicklied o'er

with the pale cast of thought." His death-like countenance,

incredibly lean body and Unearthly slow movements combine

to produce a weird effect. The whites of his eyes are so pro-

nounced as to heighten this impression, their whiteness offering

a strong contrast to the jet-black pupils.

He takes his seat at a large table, whose surface is littered

with papers. I discover that he speaks tolerably good English,

yet it is only after some persuasion that I can induce him to

carry on a direct conversation without the aid of a third party

as interpreter.

"Please understand that I come as an enquirer, not as a

believer," I begin.

He nods his thin head.

"Yes, I shall cast your horoscope and then you must tell me

if you are satisfied."

"What is your f e e ? "

"I have no fixed charge. Some people of good position pay

me sixty rupees; others pay me twenty rupees. I leave the

amount to you."

WRITTEN IN THE STARS! 209

I proceed to make it clear to him that, before we bother about

the future, I want to test his knowledge of the past. He

agrees.

For a while he busies himself with calculations over my birth

date. After ten minutes he stoops to the floor behind his chair

and searches among a disorderly pile of yellowed papers and

palm-leaf manuscripts. Finally he draws out a little bundle of

oblong, time-stained slips. He sketches a queer diagram on a

sheet of paper and says:

" T h i s is a chart of the heavens at the time you were born.

And these Sanskrit texts explain the meaning of every part of

the chart. Now, I shall tell you what the stars declare."

He scrutinizes the diagram with minute care, refers to one of

the slips, and speaks again, in that low, emotionless voice which

befits his personality so well.

"You are a writer from the West? Am I correct?"

I nod in agreement.

He tells me thereafter about my youth and describes, in

quick succession, a few happenings of the earlier years of my

life. In all, he gives me seven important points about my past.

Five of them are broadly correct, but the other two are utterly

wrong. Thus I am able to check up on the value or worthless-

ness of his powers. The honesty of the man is transparent. I

am already convinced that he is incapable of deliberate decep-

tion. A 75 per cent success in an initial test is startling enough

to show that Hindu astrology calls for investigation, but it also

indicates that the latter is no precise, infallible science.

Once again Sudhei Babu burrows among his scattered papers

and then describes my character with a fair degree of accuracy.

After that he pictures the mental capacities which have brought

me to follow a profession congenial to them. Here again, when

he lifts his intellectual head and asks, "Have I read correctly?"

I cannot dispute his words.

He shuffles his papers, silently studies the diagram, and

begins to speak of the future.

" T h e world will become your home. You shall travel far

and wide, yet always you will carry a pen and do your writing

work." And in this strain he discourses of what is yet to be.

But I can run no investigating rule over his prophecies, so I am

content to leave them where I find them - written in the stars I1

1 One of his predictions, which I had instantaneously and scepti-

cally dismissed as a ridiculous impossibility, has now received ample

confirmation. But a second event has failed to mature at the date

he gave for it. The others still wait for time's comment.

210 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

With his last words he again asks if I am satisfied. His

fairly correct description of my past forty years on this amazing

planet; his almost completely successful effort to show me my

mental self - these things silence the criticisms which I have

come prepared to utter.

I want to ask myself, " I s this man merely drawing a bow at a

venture? Is he doing nothing more than a bit of smart guess-

w o r k ? " but I must candidly confess that his prognostications

impress me. Yet time alone can tell whether there is any worth

in them or not.

Is my Western attitude toward the dark question of fate to

tumble about me like a house of thin cards What can I say

about the matter? I move over to the window and stand there,

staring out at the opposite house and jingling the silver rupees

in my pocket. Finally I return to my seat and question the

astrologer.

" W h y should it seem impossible to you that such distant

stars can influence the lives of m e n ? " he rejoins softly. " D o

not the tides respond to the distant moon in their ebb and flow

Does not the body of a woman undergo a change every lunar

month? Does not the absence of the sun make men more

liable to depressed moods?"

"Quite so. But that is a far cry from asserting the claims of

astrology. Why should Jupiter or Mars care two annas

whether I meet with shipwreck or n o t ? "

He looks at me with an unruffled face.

" I t is better that you regard the planets as being only

symbols which stand in the sky; it is not they which really

influence us, but our own past," he replies. "You will never

understand the reasonable nature of astrology unless you accept

the doctrine that man is born again and again, and that his fate

follows him with every birth. If he escapes the results of his

evil actions in one birth, they will punish him in his next;

and if he does not receive a due reward for his good actions in

one lifetime, he will surely receive it in the next. Without this

doctrine of the continued return of man's soul to this earth

until such time as it becomes perfect, the changing fortunes of

different persons would seem the result of mere chance or

blind luck. How can that be allowed by a just Deity? No - it

is our belief that when a man dies, his character, desires,

thoughts and will continue to exist until they enter a body of

flesh once more and come among us in the form of a new-born

baby. The good or evil actions committed in the former birth

will be suitably rewarded or punished in the present or even

WRITTEN IN THE STARS! 211

future births. This is how we explain fate. When I said that

you would be shipwrecked one day and in grave danger of

drowning, that is the fit destiny which God, in His hidden

justice, has portioned out to you because of something wrong

which you did in a former birth. It is not the planets which

force you into shipwreck, but the inescapable results of your

former actions. The planets and their positions only act as a

record of this destiny; why they should do so I cannot say.

No man's brain could ever have invented astrology; it came

to us from long ago, when it was revealed for man's benefit by

the great seers of ancient times."

As I listen to this plausible pronouncement, I hardly know

what comment to make. He would bind one's soul and fortune

to the stake of fate, but no healthy Westerner will let himself

be despoiled of the prized possession of free will. What

inhabitant of the energetic Occident can wax enthusiastic

over this belief that it is destiny, and not choice, which directs

him to take his steps? I gaze in bewilderment at this lean

dreamer, this sallow wanderer through remote signs of the

zodiac. " D o you know," I tell him, "that in some parts of

the South the astrologers rank next to the priests, and that

nothing of any magnitude can be done without previously

consulting them? We Europeans would laugh at such a posi-

tion, for we do not look kindly upon predictive methods. We

like to think that we are free individuals and not the hapless

victims of an inexorable destiny."

The astrologer shrugs his shoulders.

" I n one of our old books, the Hitopadesa, it is declared:

' N o one is capable of opposing the predestinations of fate,

which are written on the foreheads of men.' " H e lets his

words sink in. Then he continues:

"What can you do? We must bear with the fruit of our

actions."

But I am dubious about this statement and express my

feelings.

The prophet of personal fortunes rises from his chair.

I take the hint and prepare to leave him. He murmurs

musingly:

"All is in the power of God. Nothing can escape Him.

Who of us is really free? Whither can we go where God is

not?"

At the door he adds hesitatingly:

" I f you wish to come again we may talk further on these

matters."

212 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

I thank him and accept the invitation.

"Very well. I shall expect you to-morrow, after the sun has

gone down, about the hour of six."

§

Next day I return with the dusk to the astrologer's house. I

have no intention of accepting all that he tells me, but neither

have I formed any plans for rejection. I come to listen, possibly

to learn, though the latter rests on how far his statements can

be verified by experiment. And at this time I am ready enough

to make experiments, but only if sufficiently strong reasons

can be given for them. Yet Sudhei Babu's reading of my horo-

scope has stirred me to the perception that Hindu astrology

is not superstitious nonsense, and that it may well warrant

a deeper investigation. That thought represents the limit of

my present attitude.

We sit facing each other at his large writing-table. A

paraffin lamp throws a dim light upon the scene. Millions

of other Indian homes are being lit to-night in the same

way.

"I have fourteen rooms in this house," the astrologer tells

me. " T h e y are filled with ancient manuscripts, which are

mostly written in Sanskrit. That explains why I need such

a large house, although I live alone. Come and see my

collection."

He removes the hanging lamp and leads the way into another

room. Open boxes are ranged around the walls. I peer inside

one of them and find it full of books and papers. Even the

floor of the room is hidden under a multitude of papers,

bundles of palm-leaf manuscripts and books whose covers are

discoloured with age. I take a small bundle in my hand; each

leaf is covered with incomprehensible, faded characters. We

go from room to room and find the same scene everywhere.

The astrologer's library appears to be in a state of hopeless

disorder, but he assures me that he is familiar with the where-

abouts of every book and paper. It seems to me that his house

has gathered the wisdom of Hindustan. Surely much of the

strange lores of India is contained in the almost undecipherable

pages of these ancient rolls of manuscript and in these Sanskrit

books?

We return to our chairs and the other man informs

m e :

WRITTEN IN THE STARS! 213

"Nearly all my money has been spent in buying those

manuscripts and books. Many of them are very rare and cost

me large sums. So it is that I am very poor to-day."

"What subjects do they deal w i t h ? "

"They deal with human life and divine mysteries, while

many are concerned with astrology."

" T h e n you are also a philosopher?"

His thin mouth relaxes into a half-smile.

"A man who is not a good philosopher will make a poor

astrologer."

" I f you will pardon me for saying so, I hope you do not

over-study all those books. I was shocked at your pallor

when I first met you."

" T h a t is not surprising," he replies calmly. "I have not

eaten for six days."

I express my concern.

" I t is not a question of money. The woman who comes

every day to cook for me is away ill. She has been away for

six days."

" T h e n why not call in another w o m a n ? "

He shakes his head firmly.

" N o . My food must not be cooked by a lower caste woman.

I would rather not eat for a month than permit that to happen.

I must wait till my servant's health is restored. But I expect

her to return in a day or two."

I peer at him intently and notice that he wears the sacred

thread of " T h e Sons of Brahma." The triple cord of woven

linen which nestles under his chin is placed around the neck

of every Brahmin baby and is never to be removed till death.

So he is a Brahmin.

"Why trouble yourself with a superstitious caste restric-

tion," I urge. "Surely your health is more important than

t h a t ? "

" I t is not superstition. Everyone gives out a magnetic

influence which is quite real, even though the instruments of

your Western science have not yet discovered it. The cook

who prepares food throws her influence into it, unconsciously

of course. A cook of low character will thus taint the food

with bad magnetism, which passes into the person who eats

the food."

"What a strange theory!"

"But it is true."

I change the subject.

"How long have you been an astrologer?"

214 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

" F o r nineteen years. I took up the profession after my

marriage."

" A h , I understand."

" N o , I am not a widower. Shall I explain? When I was

a youth of thirteen I prayed often to God for knowledge, and

so was led to various people who taught me and to different

books. I became so fascinated by study that I would sit up

reading all day and far into the night. My parents arranged

a marriage for me. A few days after we were married, my

wife got angry with me and said: 'I have married a human

book!' On the eighth day she ran away with the man who

used to drive our carriage!"

Sudhei Babu pauses. I cannot help smiling at his wife's

caustic comment, though her speedy elopement must have

created a sensation in conservative India. But the ways of

women are tortuous and beyond the compass of a man's mind.

"After a while I recovered from the shock," he continues,

" a n d forgot her. All my emotions were blotted out. I went

deeper than ever into the study of astrology and the divine

mysteries. It is then that I took up my greatest study, the book

of Brahma Chinta."

"Perhaps you will tell me what that book is concerned

w i t h ? "

" T h e title can be translated as Divine Meditation, or as The

Quest of Brahma, or even as God-Knowledge. The entire work

contains several thousand pages, but the part I study is only

a section. It took me nearly twenty years to collect even that,

because it exists only in scattered parts here and there. I have

slowly obtained these different parts through agents in the

various provinces of India. There are twelve chief divisions

among its subjects, and many subdivisions. The chief topics

are philosophy, astrology, Yoga, life after death, and other deep

matters."

" D o you know if there is any English translation of the

b o o k ? "

He shakes his head.

"I have never heard of one. Few, even, are the Hindus who

know of the existence of the book. Hitherto, it has been

jealously guarded and kept secret. It came originally from

Tibet, where it is looked upon as very sacred and only chosen

students are allowed to study it."

"When was it written?"

" I t was composed thousands of years ago by the sage

Bhrigu, who lived so long ago that I cannot give you the date.

WRITTEN IN THE STARS! 215

It teaches a method of Yoga which is quite different from all

others which exist in India. You are interested in Yoga, are

you n o t ? "

"How do you know t h a t ? "

For answer, Sudhei Babu quietly produces the chart which

he has constructed around my birth-date, and moves his

pencil among the strange glyphs which represent planetary

configurations and zodiacal signs.

"Your horoscope surprises me. It is out of the ordinary

for a European, and not even a common one for an Indian.

It shows that you will have a great tendency to study Yoga

and that you will enjoy the favour of sages who will help you to

delve deeply into the subject. Yet you will not limit yourself

to Yoga alone, but become versed in other mystic philosophies."

He pauses and looks at me straight in the eyes. I receive

the subtle impression that he is about to make a statement

which will be tantamount to a revelation of his inner life.

"There are two kinds of sages: those who selfishly keep

their knowledge to themselves, and those who, after obtaining

enlightenment, share it freely with others who are seeking for it.

Your horoscope shows that you are almost at the gate of

illumination and therefore my words will not fall on deaf ears.

I am ready to impart my knowledge to y o u ! "

I am taken aback at this strange turn of affairs. I first come

to Sudhei Babu to check up on the claims of Indian astrology;

I come again to listen to his further defence of its basic postulate.

And now he unexpectedly offers to become my teacher in

Yoga!

" I f you will practise the methods of Brahma Chinta you

will need no teacher," he continues. "Your own soul will

become your teacher."

I suddenly realize my mistake and wonder whether he has

read my thoughts.

"You take me by surprise!" is all I can say.

"I have already instructed a few persons in this knowledge

but I never regard myself as their master - only as their brother

or friend. So I do not undertake to become your teacher in

the ordinary sense. The spirit of the sage Bhrigu will simply

use this body and mind of mine to communicate his teachings

to you."

"I do not understand how you can combine the profession

of astrology with the teaching of a Yoga system?" "

His thin hands spread themselves upon the table.

" T h e explanation is this. I live in the world and serve it

216 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

through my work, which happens to be astrology. Secondly,

I refuse to be looked upon as a teacher of Yoga, because

in our Brahma Chinta the only teacher acknowledged is God.

He is the only preceptor we acknowledge. He, as the universal

soul, is in us, and will teach us. Look on me as a brother, if

you wish, but do not look on me as a spiritual preceptor.

Those who have a teacher are too apt to lean on him and to

depend on him instead of their own soul."

"And yet you depend on astrology for guidance," I retort

quickly, "instead of your own soul."

"You are not right. I never look at my own horoscope now

- in fact, I tore it up many years ago."

I express astonishment at this statement. He replies:

"I have found the light and do not need astrology to guide

me, but those who still walk in darkness find it helpful. I have

placed my life entirely in the Lord's hands. I carry that act to

its proper conclusion by giving up all care about future or past.

Whatever the Lord sends, that I accept as His will. I have

given my whole self - body, mind, actions and feelings - to the

will of the Almighty."

"Suppose you are threatened with death by a murderous

ruffian, would you do nothing and accept that as God's w i l l ? "

"When any danger arises I know that I have only to pray

and instantly to receive His protection. Prayer is necessary

but fear is not. I pray frequently and the Lord has marvellously

protected me. Yet I have been through great troubles.

Through all of them I was conscious of His help and I trust

Him fully under every event. One day you, too, will disregard

the future and become indifferent to it."

"There will have to be a remarkable change in me before

that happens," I observe drily.

" T h a t change will surely come."

"Are you certain?"

"Yes, you cannot escape your destiny. This spiritual rebirth

is an event which comes from God, whether one looks for it

or not."

"You say strange things, Sudhei Babu."

The idea of Deity is the unknown factor which enters into

so many of my conversations in this land. The Hindus are

essentially religious and I am often tantalized by the familiar

way in which they introduce mention of God. Is it possible

for them to appreciate the view-point of a doubting Westerner,

who has surrendered simple faith for complex reason? I

realize that it will be unavailing and suit no practical purpose

WRITTEN IN THE STARS! 217

to throw up this question of Deity into argument with the

astrologer. I have no taste for partaking of any theological

diet which he will probably place before me, so I turn the subject

back to less controversial ground.

" L e t us talk of other matters, for God and I have never

met."

He looks at me fixedly, his peculiar black and white eyes

searching my soul.

" T h e chart of your horoscope cannot be wrongly drawn or I

might keep back my knowledge from an unready mind. But

the stars move without fault; what you are unable to grasp

to-day will linger in your thoughts for a time and then return

with double force. I tell you again that I am ready to impart

the way of Brahma Chinta to you."

"And I am ready to learn it."

§

Evening after evening I visit the old stone house of the

astrologer and receive my lessons in Brahma Chinta. The

pale lamplight throws flickering patterns upon his narrow face

as he initiates me into the arcana of this primitive Tibetan

Yoga system.1 At no time does he adopt the attitude of spiritual

superiority or egoistic tutorship. He is humility personified

and usually prefaces his instruction with the phrase, " I n this

teaching of Brahma Chinta it is said "

"What is the supreme object, the final goal of this Yoga of

Brahma Chinta?" I ask him one evening.

" W e seek the condition of sacred trance, for in that condition

man obtains perfect proof that he is a soul. Then it is that he

frees his mind from his surroundings; objects fade away and

the outside world seems to disappear. He discovers the soul as

a living, real being within himself; its bliss, peace and power

overwhelm him. All he needs is a single experience of this kind

1 I do not care to commit the details of this system to print, nor

would Western readers derive any benefit even if I did so. Its

essence is a series of meditations which aim at creating what the

tutor described as " the vacuum m i n d ! " There are six different

paths of practice to be studied, and there are ten stages of attainment

upon the principal path. It is neither right nor necessary for the

average European to take up the practice of a method which is fit

only for jungle retreats or mountain monasteries, and which might

even prove dangerous. Insanity lies around the corner for Western

amateurs who dabble in such practices.

218 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

to obtain the proof that there is a divine and undying life in

himself; never again can he forget it."

A shred of doubt prompts my enquiry:

" A r e you sure that all this is not a deep form of auto-

suggestion?"

A ghost of a smile curls around his lips.

"When a mother gives birth to a child, is it possible that she

can doubt, even for a single moment, what is happening

And when she comes to look back on that experience, could she

ever think that it was only an auto-suggestion? And when

she watches her child grow up beside her year after year, can

she hesitate at any time and disbelieve in its existence? In the

same way, the labour of spiritual rebirth comes as such a

tremendous event in one's life that it cannot be forgotten; it

changes everything for one. When one enters into the sacred

trance, a kind of vacuum is created within the mind; God - or,

as you do not seem to care for that word, the soul, the higher

power, shall I say, enters and fills that vacuum. When that

happens, it is impossible to avoid becomng filled with intense

happiness. One also feels a great love for the whole of creation.

The body will appear to an observer to be not only in a trance,

but apparently dead, for all breathing stops when the deepest

point is attained."

" I s that not dangerous?"

" N o . The trance is attained in complete solitude or a friend

may be permitted to watch over one. I frequently enter into

the sacred trance and can always emerge from it whenever I wish

I usually stay in it for two or three hours, and fix the time of its

ending beforehand. It is a wonderful experience because

what you see as the universe I see again within myself! That

is why I say that all you need to learn can be learnt from your

own soul. After I have communicated the complete Yoga of

Brahma Chinta to you, no master will be necessary; you will

need no outside guidance."

"You have never had a teacher yourself?"

"None. I have never looked for one since I discovered the

secrets of Brahma Chinta. Nevertheless, some great masters

have come to me from time to time. This has happened when I

have entered the sacred trance and become conscious in the

inner world. These great sages have appeared before me in

their psychic forms and placed their hands on my head in

blessing. Therefore I say again, trust the guidance of your own

soul and teachers will come unbidden to you in the inner

world."

WRITTEN IN THE STARS! 219

For the next two minutes there is a brooding silence. The

other man seems to be caught up in a cloud of thoughts. Then,

very quietly, very humbly, this strange tutor says:

"Once, during the sacred trance, I saw Jesus."

"You mystify m e ! " I exclaim.

But he does not hasten to explain. Instead, he suddenly

rolls the whites of his eyes upwards in a most alarming manner.

There is another minute of intense silence, and only when he

brings his eyes back to their normal appearance am I reassured.

When he addresses me again a faintly enigmatical smile

hovers once more around his lips.

"Such is the greatness of this sacred trance that death cannot

catch a man while he is in it. There are some Yogis on the

Tibetan side of the Himalayas who have practised to perfection

this path of Brahma Chinta. Because it pleases them to do so

they have secluded themselves in mountain caves, where they

have entered the profoundest degree of the sacred trance. In

that condition, the pulse stops, the heart no longer beats and

the blood does not flow through the unmoving body. Anyone

finding them would think that they are dead. Do not imagine

that they have gone into a kind of sleep, because they are as

fully conscious as you or I. They have entered the inner

world, where they live higher lives. Their minds have become

released from the limits set by the body and they discover the

whole universe within themselves. One day they will come out

of their trance, but then they will be many hundreds of years

o l d ! "

So once again I hear this incredible tradition of perennial

human life. Apparently it will follow my feet wherever I go

under this Eastern sun. But shall I ever track down one of

these legendary immortals and behold him face to face? And

will the West ever discover and accept, as a scientific and

psychological contribution, this ancient magic cradled in the

bleak climate of Tibet? Who knows?

§

My last lesson in the fantastic doctrines of the Yoga of

Brahma Chinta comes to an end.

I persuade the sedentary astrologer to venture out of his house,

which he rarely leaves, and give his limbs a little exercise. We

wander through narrow alleys, in an effort to avoid the packed

bazaars which bar our way to the river. With all its ancient

220 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

squalor and unhygienic overcrowding, Benares nevertheless

presents a variety of colourful sights to the man who wanders

its streets afoot.

It is afternoon and my companion carries an open, flat

parasol on his shoulder so as to keep off the sun's rays. His

frail figure and weary languid movements do not conduce to

quick progress, and I change our route in order to shorten our

journey.

We pass into the Street of the Brass Workers. The air rings

with the hammers of bearded craftsmen, and their products,

shining brazen vessels, gleam in the sunlight. Here, too, are

multitudes of little brass images - earthly representations of the

chief gods in the Hindu Pantheon.

An old man crouches in the shade by the roadside in another

street. He looks up at me with feeble eyes and pathetic face.

His fear removed, he begs for alms.

We drift through the Street of the Merchants of Grain, where

little wooden platforms exhibit piles of red and golden grains.

The shopkeepers sit on folded legs or squat on haunch and heel

beside their goods. They throw a few glances at the odd

couple that passes by, and then resume their patient waiting for

customers.

Odours mingle indiscriminately in the other streets. As we

approach the river, we walk right into a region which seems to

be a hunting ground for those who seek alms. Lean beggars

drag themselves along the dusty road. One of them comes

near to me and looks inquiringly into my eyes. He possesses a

face of unspeakable melancholy. My heart is moved

embarrassingly.

Farther on I nearly stumble over a fleshless old woman, whose

body is a bunch of hanging skin and protruding bones. She,

too, glances into my eyes. There is no reproach, only dull

acceptance. I bring out my purse. Immediately she becomes

an animated creature once again. She extends a skinny arm

and takes the proffered coins.

I tremble at my own good fortune in having plenty of food,

good clothes, proper shelter and other desirable things. When

I think of the haunting eyes of those unfortunate wretches, I feel

guilty. By what right do I enjoy the possession of so many

rupees, so many annas, when those poor beggars own nothing

more than rags? Suppose, by some accident of birth or fluke

of fate, I had been born in the place of one of them? I play

for a while with this ghastly thought, but horror eventually

causes me to send it into oblivion.

WRITTEN IN THE STARS! 221

What is the meaning of this mystery of chance, which, by

the mere fortune of birth, puts one man in dirt-stained rags

upon this road and another in silken robes in yonder river-side

palace? Life is truly a dark enigma; I cannot comprehend it.

" L e t us sit down here," says the astrologer, when we reach

the Ganges. We sit in the shade and look down the river upon

the stretch of broad stone steps, rambling terraces and jutting

platforms. Little groups of pilgrims are constantly coming and

going.

The shapely forms of two slender minarets soar gracefully

into the pearly sky to a height of nearly three hundred feet.

They mark the charming Mosque of Aurungzeeb, that Muham-

medan anachronism in this most Hindu of Hindu cities.

But the astrologer has noted my sad preoccupation with

beggars, for he turns his sallow face towards me and says:

"India is a poor country." His voice is somewhat apologetic.

" I t s people have been sunk in inertia. The English race

possesses some fine points and I believe that God brought them

to our country for its benefit. Before they came life was unsafe;

law and justice were often set aside. It is my hope that the

English will not leave India; we need their help, but it should

be given in friendship now, and not by force. However, the

destiny of both nations must fulfil itself."

"Ah, your fatalism returns again!"

He ignores my comment and falls into silence. At length he

asks:

"How can the two peoples avoid God's will? Day is ever

followed by night, and night is ever followed by day. So is it

with the history of nations. Great changes brood over the

world. India has been sunk in sloth and inertia, but she will

change until she becomes filled with desires and ambitions,

which ever precede activity. Europe burns with practical

activities, but the strength of its materialism will pass away and

it will turn its face towards higher ideals. It will seek out the

inner things. And the same will happen to America."

I listen in silence.

" F o r this reason the philosophic and spiritual teachings of

our land will travel towards the West like a wave of the ocean,"

he continues gravely. "Scholars have already translated some

of our Sanskrit manuscripts and sacred books into Western

languages, but many texts are hidden away in cave libraries in

out of the way parts of India, Nepal and Tibet. Those, too,

must eventually be made known to the world. The time will

come before long when the ancient philosophies and inner

222 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

knowledge of India shall unite with the practical sciences of the

West. The secrecy of past times must give way to the needs

of this century. I am glad that all this will happen."

I stare into the greenish water of the Ganges. The river is

so strangely tranquil that it hardly seems to flow. Its surface

shimmers in the sunlight.

He addresses me yet again:

" T h e destiny of each race of people must be realized, just as

the destiny of every person must be fulfilled. The Lord is

omnipotent. Men and nations cannot escape from their self-

earned fate, but they may be protected throughout their

troubles and even saved from great dangers."

"And how does one obtain such protection?"

" B y prayer, by keeping a child-like nature when one turns

towards the Almighty, and by remembering Him not on one's

lips, but in one's heart, especially before one begins any action.

In happy days try to enjoy them as a blessing of God, and in

troubles try to think that it is very much like a medicine to heal

your inner disease. Fear Him not, as He is all merciful."

"You do not believe that God is remote from this world,

then? "

" N o . God is a Spirit which is hidden in people and through-

out this universe. If you see any beauty in Nature, a beautiful

landscape, for instance, do not worship it for its own sake, but

remember that it is beautiful because of the Deity present in it.

See the Divinity in objects and people, and do not be so capti-

vated by the outer forms that you forget the inner Spirit which

gives them life."

"You mingle your doctrines of fate, religion and astrology

in a peculiar manner, Sudhei Babu."

He gazes solemnly at me.

"Why so? These doctrines are not of my creation. They

have descended to us from the most distant ages of the past.

The tremendous power of destiny, the worship of our Creator

and the lore of planetary influences were known to the earliest

peoples. They were not such savages as you Westerners

imagine. But have I not prophesied? The West will redis-

cover before this century closes how real are these invisible

forces which enter into the lives of all men."

" I t will be extremely hard for the West to give up its inborn

notion that a man's will is free to make or mar his own life."

"Whatever happens is by His will and what seems like free

will really works by His power. The Almighty returns to men

the good or evil fruits of their thoughts and deeds in earlier

WRITTEN IN THE STARS!

223

bodies. It is best to accept His will, but one will not tremble

under sorrows if one looks to Him for the strength to endure

them."

" L e t us hope that you are right, for the sake of those

unfortunate beggars whom we have just encountered."

" T h a t is the only answer I can make," he rejoins shortly.

" I f you would follow the path into your own soul, the way of

Brahma Chinta which I have shown you, these problems

would clear themselves."

I realize that he has now conducted me to the limits of his

argumentative possibilities and that I must find my own way

henceforth.

One of my coat pockets hides a fateful telegram, that bids

me whisk myself into a train out of Benares. In another pocket

there reposes a folding kodak. I ask the astrologer to pose for

his photograph. He politely declines.

I press him more insistently.

" B u t w h y ? " he remonstrates. " M y ugly face and shabby

clothes?"

"Please! Your photograph will remind me of you in later

years when I may be in distant lands."

" T h e best reminder," he replies gently, "will be holy

thoughts and unselfish deeds."

I yield to his objection reluctantly, and the camera dis-

appears again into my pocket.

When he rises to return at last and I begin to follow him, I

discover, close by, a seated figure, who has taken shelter from

the terrific sun under a huge, round, bamboo umbrella. His face

is fixed in rapt meditation and I perceive by the ochre colour

of his robe that he is a holy man belonging to a superior order.

We go a little way and find a cow - possibly a member of the

sacred variety which abounds in Benares - sleeping in that

strange posture familiar to its kind. It lies across our track

with legs doubled back under its abdomen.

We reach the shop of a money-changer, where I hail a

carriage and then our ways part.

§

I indulge in an orgy of travelling during the next few days.

I spend my nights in wayside rest houses put up by a paternal

government for travelling officials and other persons who have

to journey into the interior.

One of these rest houses possesses no amenities worth

224 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

mentioning, but I discover that it has a plentiful population of

ants. After two hours' slow torture and vain efforts to repel

their attacks, I decide to leave the bed and spend the night in

a chair.

Time trickles by unpleasantly until my thoughts let go of

their surroundings and fasten themselves upon the fatalistic

philosophy of the Benares astrologer.

Simultaneously I remember the wretched beggars who

dragged their hungry bodies along the road. Life does not let

them live and does not let them die. The wealthy Marwari

money-lender may pass them in his ornate, comfortably-sprung

carriage, but they accept him, as they accept their misery,

with a complete submission to the will of God. In this land

of a burning sky, even the pitiful leper seems content with his

lot. Such is the narcotic fatalism which creeps into the bones

of so many Indians!

I realize how vain it is for the Occidental partisan of free

will to argue with the Oriental advocate of an all-powerful

destiny. To the latter there is but one side to the problem,

the side which unquestioningly accepts the dogma that there

is no problem! Fate rules his roost and there is nothing

more to be said.

What self-reliant Westerner likes to hear that we are but

marionettes which dangle from the strings of fate, and which

move up and down or from right to left at the bidding of an

unseen hand? I remember that remarkable outburst of

Napoleon before his army's brilliant dash across the Alps:

"Impossible? There is no such word in my dictionary!"

But I have studied and re-studied the fascinating records of

Napoleon's entire life, and memory brings back to me strange

lines which he wrote down at St. Helena, where his colossal

brain raced again and again over the past.

"I was always a fatalist. What is written in the heavens is

written. . . . My star grew dim; I felt the reins slip from my

hands and yet I could do nothing."

The man who held such paradoxical, contradictory beliefs

could not have solved the mystery and one doubts whether

anyone has ever completely solved it. It may be that ever

since the brain of man commenced to function, this ancient

problem has been discussed by people all the way from the

North Pole to the South. The cocksure, as usual, have settled

it to their satisfaction. The philosophical still enter up the

account of pros and cons but hesitate to strike a balance.

I have not forgotten the astrologer's surprisingly correct

WRITTEN IN THE STARS! 225

interpretation of my horoscope. At odd moments I have

mused over it, until I wonder whether some of this Oriental

fatalistic foolishness has crept into my head. Whenever I have

remembered how this man of modest assumptions read my

past, how he recalled the fluttering phenomena of bygone

events back to temporary existence, I hesitate and feel tempted

to collect material for a fat treatise upon this hoary problem of

fate and free will. But I know that it will be a useless task to

let my pen play with the thought of destiny and that I may

probably finish up in the same abysmal darkness with which I

begin. For the problems of astrology will need to be brought

in and my task will become complicated beyond my power.

Yet such are the gigantic strides of modern invention, that the

day when we shall take Cook's tours to the distant planets may

not be far off! It will then be possible to discover whether

the starry frame possesses any real significance in our lives.

Meanwhile, one may test the powers of an astrologer or two,

bearing in mind Sudhei Babu's warning about their fallibility

and about the fragmentary nature of that portion of astrology

which has been revealed to the world.

And yet, even assuming and admitting that in some strange

fourth-dimensional manner the future already exists, is it

desirable to learn those secrets of personal destiny which are

curtained from one's eyes

On this questioning note, my musings come to a dead end

and sleep overtakes me.

A few days later I am in a town several hundred miles away

from Benares, when the news comes of startling riots in the

latter city. It is the unpleasant story of Hindu-Moslem strife,

which usually begins in a petty way, but is used by ruffians

who want a pseudo-religious pretext for their looting, maiming

and murdering.

A reign of terror rules the city for several days. That

lamentable period brings the usual tale of broken heads,

tortured bodies and indiscriminate slaying. I feel concerned

for the astrologer's safety, but it is impossible to get into touch

with him. The postmen are too scared to venture into the

streets and no private letter or telegram can be delivered.

I am compelled to wait until King Mob is dethroned in

Benares, and then desptach one of the first wires which pene-

trate the unhappy city. Back comes a simple letter of thanks

in which the astrologer ascribes his safety to " t h e protection

of the Almighty." And upon the reverse side of the paper he

has inscribed ten rules of practice of the Yoga of Brahma Chinta!

CHAPTER XIII

THE GARDEN OF THE LORD

OUT of the scurrying of my feet hither and thither

over the face of North India, two tracks converge

upon a unique, little-known colony, which is housed

in a town that bears the poetical name of Dayalbagh, the

Garden of the Lord.

One of the tracks starts in Lucknow, where I have the good

offices of Sunderlal Nigam as guide, philosopher and friend

during my stay in that picturesque city. We roam the city

together and talk philosophy as we roam. He is, I suppose,

not more than twenty-one or twenty-two, but, like many of

his Indian brothers, he has matured early.

We wander through the old Moghul palaces and muse upon

the inexorable fate which has overtaken the vanished kings.

I fall in love anew with the glorious Indo-Persian architecture,

whose graceful curves and delicate colourings reveal the

refined taste of its creators. How shall I ever forget these

bright days when I idle among the orange trees of the royal

pleasure-gardens which grace Lucknow?

We explore colourful edifices where once the seductive

favourites of the old kings of Oudh flaunted their olive-skinned

beauty upon marble balconies and in golden baths. Now these

palaces are empty of royal flesh and hold only memories.

I return again and again to a beautiful mosque which stands

near the quaintly named Monkey Bridge. Its exterior- is

white throughout and gleams in the sunlight like a fairy palace.

The shapely minarets seem to rise in perpetual prayer to bright

heaven. Peeping inside, I see a crowd of worshippers prostrat-

ing themselves upon the ground and rhythmically invoking

Allah. The scene receives accentuated charm from the

brightly coloured little rugs upon which the devout perform

their prostrations. None can doubt the fervour of these

followers of the Prophet, for their religion seems a living force

to them.

226

THE GARDEN OF THE LORD 227

Amid all these excursions and peregrinations I become

gradually impressed by certain characteristics belonging to my

young guide. His shrewd remarks, his exceptional intellectuality

and his matter-of-fact attitude towards mundane affairs, are

somehow blent with the depth and mysticism of a student of

Yoga. It is only after repeated meetings and ardent discussions,

during which I become aware that he is sounding and probing

my own beliefs and ideas, that he reveals himself to be a

member of a semi-secret fraternity called the Radha Soamis.

§

I pick up the second track which leads me to Dayalbagh

from Mallik, another member of the same brotherhood. He

comes within my orbit at another place and time. As Indians

go, he is a fine, fair-skinned, stalwart fellow. For centuries

his people have had as neighbours, wild frontier tribes, who

keep covetous eyes on their neighbours' possessions. But the

wise British Government is taming these restless fire-eaters,

not by recourse to the old methods of endless fighting, but by

taking them into its service and pay.

Mallik is superintending some of the fierce tribesmen who

have submitted to the more pacific and useful occupations of

making roads across hill and desert, constructing bridges, and

building defence forts and barracks. Many of these wild-

looking persons carry their rifles - more perhaps from old

habit than from present need. They are at work all along this

stretch of the North-West Frontier, making new routes for

traders and new defences for soldiers.

Mallik works hard and well near Dera Ismail Khan, that

frontier outpost of Empire. His character harmoniously

couples a sturdy self-reliance and intense practicality with

nobility of character and profound thought. I am impressed

by the careful balance of his qualities.

After a strong initial reticence which is in accord with all the

ancient traditions of Yoga, he reluctantly yields to my enquiries

and admits that he has a master whom he periodically visits,

whenever his service leaves permit him to do so. His master,

whose name is Sahabji Maharaj, is head of the Radha Soamis.

And I learn for the second time that his master has conceived

the astonishing and interesting notion of combining a Yoga

discipline with a daily life based on Western ways and ideas.

228 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

§

The friendly efforts of these two men, Nigam and Mallik,

bear fruit at last. I am to be the guest of His Holiness Sahabji

Maharaj, who is uncrowned king of the Radha Soamis' own

town of Dayalbagh.

I motor the few, dusty miles of road from Agra to the

colony.

Dayalbagh - the Garden of the Lord! If my early

impression is correct, the founder is striving to keep the town

true to its beautiful name.

I am taken to a building which houses the master's private

office. The waiting-room is furnished in an attractive European

style. From my restful easy chair I can appreciate the nicely

painted walls and the refined simplicity of the furniture.

Here is Westernization with a vengeance! I have encoun-

tered Yogis in bare, drab bungalows, in lonely mountain caves

and in gloomy, thatched huts on river banks, but never have

I expected to find one of the tribe housed in such a modern

environment. What manner of man is the leader of this

unusual fraternity, I wonder?

I am not left long in doubt, for the door slowly opens and

he himself walks in. His figure is of medium height. His head

is wrapped in a spotless white turban; his features are refined,

though not typically Indian; with a slightly paler skin he

might have passed for a quiet American. A pair of large

spectacles cover his eyes and a short moustache adorns his

upper lip. He wears the high-necked many-buttoned long

coat which is the Indian tailor's adaptation of our Western

style.

His bearing, as he approaches, is modest and gentle. He

welcomes me with courtly dignity.

Our greeting over, I wait till he has settled down in his chair

and then venture to compliment him on the artistic decorations

of the room.

A row of brilliant teeth gleams across his mouth as he

smiles his reply:

" G o d is not only love but beauty. As man begins to express

the Spirit within him, he should express more beauty - not

only in self but in surroundings and environments."

His English is noticeably well spoken. The voice is quick

and confident.

There is a little period of silence and then he speaks again:

THE GARDEN OF THE LORD 229

" B u t there is another decoration, upon a room's walls and

furnishings, which is invisible. Yet it is very important.

Do you know that these things carry the influence of people's

thoughts and feelings? Every room, every chair even, gives

out the unseen influence of the person who has constantly used

it. You may not see this atmosphere but it is nevertheless

there, and all who enter within its range are unconsciously

affected by it - to varying degrees."

" D o you mean that there are electrical or magnetic radiations

around objects which reflect human characters?"

"Quite so. Thoughts are real things on their own plane

and they attach themselves, for shorter or longer periods, to

whatever we consistently use."

" T h a t is an interesting theory."

" I t is more than a theory; it is a fact! Man possesses

a subtler body than the physical, and in this subtle body there

exist centres of activity which correspond to the physical organs

of sense-activity. Through these centres he can discern invis-

ible forces for, when they are energized, they bestow psychic

and spiritual sight."

A brief pause follows and then he asks my impressions of

India's condition. I frankly criticize his country's neglect of

modern ways of living, its slowness in picking up all those

pleasant comforts, handy conveniences and mechanical inven-

tions which improve man's brief sojourn in this world, its

inattention to the demands of sensible hygiene and proper

sanitation, and its excessive devotion to stupid social customs

and cruel practices, which are supposedly based on religious

practices. I tell him freely that priestly preoccupations seem

to have kept India's energies in a cul-de-sac with deplorable

results. I instance some of the irrational things which I have

seen done in the name of religion, but which merely succeed

in proving how men can neglect or misuse the gift of intelligence

which their God has bestowed upon them. My outspoken

observations draw a definite assent from the lips of Sahabji

Maharaj.

"You have hit on the very points which form part of my

programme of reform," he remarks, gazing at me reminiscently.

" O n the whole, it seems that many Indians expect God to

do for them what they are perfectly capable of doing for them-

selves."

"Exactly. We Hindus talk glibly of religion in order to

cover up a lot of things which have nothing to do with religion.

The trouble is that for the first fifty years or so a religion is pure

230 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

and vital. Later it degenerates into a mere philosophy; its

followers become talkers - not religiously-living men. Finally

it descends, for its last and longest phase, into the arms of

hypocritical priests. In the end, hypocrisy becomes accepted

as religion."

I gasp at ,such straightforward admissions.

"What is the use of wrangling about heaven and hell, about

God and so forth? Humanity finds itself on the physical plane

and it ought not to neglect the matters which pertain to this

plane. Let us try to make our life here more beautiful and

happier," he concludes.

" T h a t is why I have sought you out. Your disciples seem

such fine men, straining to be as practical and up-to-date as any

European, making no parade of religion but living good lives,

and withal they keep to their Yoga practices with faithful

regularity."

Sahabji smiles in acknowledgment.

"I am glad you have observed that," he replies quickly.

" B y setting up these activities at Dayalbagh I am attempting

to show the world the same thing - that a man can be perfectly

spiritual without running away to caves, and that he can reach

the highest attainments in Yoga while carrying on with worldly

avocations."

" I f you can succeed in that effort, the world may think a lot

more of Indian teachings than it does now."

" W e are going to succeed," comes the confident answer.

" L e t me tell you a story. When I first came here to begin the

colony, one of my chief desires was to have plenty of trees about

the place. But outsiders told me that it was impossible to grow

trees in this barren, sandy soil. The Jumna is not far off and

this site is one of its old tracks - an ancient river bed, in short.

There were no experts among us and we had to learn by frequent

experiment and constant failure which kind of tree could live

in such unpromising soil. Almost all the trees planted during

the first year - and there were over a thousand of them - died

off. However, one tree thrived. We noted it and kept up

our endeavours. Now there are nine thousand healthy trees

growing in Dayalbagh. I tell you this because it is symbolical

of the attitude with which we are facing our problems. We

found barren ground here; it seemed so worthless that no one

else would buy it. Look how it has been transformed!"

" T h e n it is your aim to build an Arcadia near A g r a ? "

He laughs.

I tell him of my desire to see the town.

THE GARDEN OF THE LORD 231

"Certainly! I shall arrange it for you at once. See Dayal-

bagh first and then we can talk about its why and wherefore.

You will understand my ideas better when you can see them

in practice."

He rings a business-like bell. A few minutes later I

am walking on a tour of inspection along half-finished streets

and among bright-looking factory buildings. My guide is

Captain Sharma, who was formerly in the Indian Army Medical

Service, but who is now devoting all his services to the con-

structive effort which is being made here by his master. A

quick reading of his character conveys the impression of another

successful combination of Western striving with sincere

spirituality.

A luxuriant avenue provides the entrance to Dayalbagh,

which is a clean little town. All the streets are bordered by

shady trees. Some beautiful flower gardens adorn the central

place. I am told that they represent repeated efforts to conquer

dry desert, which does not take kindly to horticultural activity.

A mulberry tree which was planted by Sahabji Maharaj in

1915, when he began to build his colony, stands as a symbol of

his appreciation of an artistic background.

The industrial quarter's chief feature is a group of workshops

which are called "Model Industries." They are sensibly

designed, light, airy, clean and spacious.

§

My first steps take me into the footwear factory. Busy

driving-belts hum continuously from an overhead spindle and

set a long line of machines in operation. The dusky mechanics

work with deft hands amid the din, and seem as expert at

their task as the operators I have seen in huge English factories

at Northampton. The workshop manager tells me that he had

learnt his technique in Europe, whither he had gone to study

twentiety-century methods of leather-goods manufacture.

Boots, shoes, sandals, handbags and belts pass noisily through

all the processes of mechanical manufacture. The men at the

machines had begun as raw novices and were taught and trained

to their work by the manager.

Some of the goods produced find a local outlet in Dayalbagh

and in Agra, while the rest goes to more distant cities. Shops

are being opened in the latter places, the sales organization being

based on the multiple store idea.

232 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

I pass into the next building, which proves to be a textile

factory. The products are mercerized cloths and silks, which

are made in a limited range of patterns.

In another building I find an up-to-date engineering

machine-shop, a smithy and a moulding shop, where a monster

sledge-hammer sounds the active inspiration of the place with

each of its power-operated thuds. Scientific instruments,

laboratory apparatus, balances and weights are being made in

a nearby workshop, and made well enough to have won the

patronage of the United Provinces Government. I watch

the delicate operations of gold, nickel and brass electro-plating.

The other departments of "Model Industries" are busily

producing electric fans, gramophones, knives and furniture.

One of the mechanics has invented a special type of sound-

box and this, too, will be manufactured in the near future.

I am surprised to discover a fountain-pen workshop and learn

that it is the first one to come into existence in India. A long

series of experiments has been necessary before the first pen

could be marketed. One thing has baffled these industrial

pioneers: how to put the iridium tip on gold nibs. They hope

to discover the secret one day but meanwhile the nibs are sent

to a European firm to undergo the process of tipping.

A complete printing equipment at the Dayalbagh Press

looks after the town's print needs, both in the business and

literary fields. I inspect samples of its output in three languages

- Hindu, Urdu and English. A small weekly newspaper, the

Prem Pracharak, is also run off the machines and posted to

many Radha Soamists living in distant parts of the country.

In every building I find workers who are not merely satisfied

but positively enthusiastic. A trade union would be an utter

anomaly in this place. Everyone does his job, whether it be

high or low, as though it were a real pleasure and not a task.

The town possesses its own electrical generating installation,

which provides the power for all the machinery in factories

and for the ventilating ceiling fans in larger houses. In addition,

every house is electrically illuminated at communal expense,

thus avoiding the necessity of costly meters.

The agricultural section contains a small but modern farm,

which is still in an early stage of development. A steam

tractor and a steam plough are amongst the mechanical equip-

ment. The chief products are fresh vegetables and cow fodder.

Perhaps the most efficiently organized section is the dairy

farm. Nowhere else in India have I seen its like. It constitutes

a model dairy fit for exhibition purposes. Every head of cattle

THE GARDEN OF THE LORD 233

is a picked specimen which provides a significant and favourable

contrast to the animals one need not go further than Agra to

see. Scrupulous cleanliness is observed in the stalls and I am

told that the scientific methods pursued have resulted in a

substantially higher yield of milk than that obtained in the

average Indian dairy. A pasteurizing and refrigerating plant

has enabled those inhabitants of Dayalbagh and Agra who

appreciate good, germ-free milk to obtain it for the first time.

Another imported appliance is an electrical butter-making

machine. All the credit for this section goes to a son of Sahabji

Maharaj. That energetic and efficient young man informs me

that he travelled to the chief dairying centres of England,

Holland, Denmark and the United States in order to learn the

most up-to-date methods used in his work.

The supply of water for the farms, as well as for the rest of

the town, proved a difficult problem in the colony's early days.

An irrigation canal was dug and a waterworks installation

erected, but expanding demand forced Sahabji Maharaj to

seek additional sources of supply. He enlisted the help of

Government engineers, who bored a deep tube-well with

successful results.

The colony possesses its own banking institution, a strongly

built structure with iron-grilled windows bearing the words:

"Radha Soami General and Assurance Bank, Limited."

The bank has an authorized capital of twenty lakhs1 of rupees,

and not only transacts private banking business but controls

the town's finances.

The Radha Soami Educational Institute stands in the centre

of Dayalbagh; it is fitly placed for it is the finest building in

the colony. Its two hundred feet of red brickwork look well

to a Western eye. The windows are shaped into Gothic

arches and surrounded by white marble. Flowering gardens

front the edifice.

This modern High School has several hundred students and

is managed by a Principal and thirty-two qualified teachers.

The latter are idealists who are young, enthusiastic and filled

with a desire to serve both their pupils and their master,

Sahabji Maharaj. A high standard of general education is

maintained. No formal religious teaching is given but an

effort is made to develop noble character. In addition, Sahabji

Maharaj visits the boys from time to time and every Sunday

delivers a spiritual talk to the assembled school.

1 A lakh is the equivalent of 100,000,

234 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

The boys are encouraged to practise sports; hockey, foot-

ball, cricket and tennis are their favourites. A library with

seven thousand books and a curious little museum complete

the institute.

Another magnificent building houses the Girls' College,

which is conducted on similar lines. It represents a determined

effort by Sahabji Maharaj to break down, within his own sphere

of influence, the unenviable illiteracy which was forced on

Indian women until recently.

The Technical College is the youngest of the educational

institutions. It provides courses in mechanical, electrical

and automobile engineering, and trains mechanicians and fore-

men for manufacturing industries. Special machines and

benches have been placed in the " Model Industries " section

for the use of college students, so that class-room instruction

goes hand in hand with practical experience under factory

conditions.

There are several attractive hostels for the hundreds of pupils

who attend the three colleges. Each hostel is light, airy and

modern.

The residential part of the town is under the supervision

of the Dayalbagh Building Department, which provides the

plans and erects all houses. Each street possesses its own

pleasant harmony of architecture, and it is evident that artistic

unity is one of the ideals of these town-planners. Ugly erections

and defective, shoddy buildings are barred, because a prospec-

tive tenant is free to choose his style of house only from the

Department's own plans. Four sizes of residence have been

standardized at graded and fixed prices. The buyer pays actual

cost plus a very small percentage.

The colony maintains a bright little hospital and a maternity

home. It has fixed its aim at being self-contained in every

way, so that I am hardly surprised when I learn that the uni-

formed policeman who brings his hand to a smart salute is also

a member of the Radha Soami fraternity. Yet his presence

raises a piquant note of enquiry in my mind, for I expect

that the level of morality in Dayalbagh is so high as to render

crime conspicuous by its absence. He is here to protect the

place from undesirable intruders.

§

When Sahabji Maharaj is able to spare me a little time again

from the pressure of his heavy duties, I pay my meed of tribute

THE GARDEN OF THE LORD 235

to his praiseworthy achievement and then tell him of my

astonishment at finding such a progressive town in unpro-

gressive India.

"But," I ask, " h o w do you finance it? You have surely

spent a great sum in capital outlay?"

"You will probably have an opportunity later of seeing the

money come in," he returns. " T h e members of the Radha

Soami fraternity are themselves financing the colony. There

is no compulsion on them to do this, nor are subscriptions

required from them, but they regard it as a religious duty

to give what they can to help Dayalbagh grow. But although

we have had to depend on these contributions during the

initial stages, my aim is to make it completely self-supporting.

I shall not rest until we approach the stage of complete inde-

pendence."

"You have wealthy supporters, t h e n ? "

" N o t at all. The rich Radha Soamis can be counted on the

fingers of one hand. Our members are all in modest or moderate

circumstances. The progress we have made has called for

self-sacrifice on the part of many. Thanks to the grace of

the Supreme Father, we have been able to find and spend many

lakhs of rupees so far. The colony's future is assured, for its

income will grow as our fraternity expands; therefore, we

shall never be out of funds."

"How many members have y o u ? "

" O u r membership is over 110,000 but, of course, only a few

thousands have settled here. The Radha Soami fraternity

is nearly seventy years old but its greatest growth has been

made during the last twenty years. And this progress has

occurred, mind you, without any public propaganda because

we are a semi-secret organization. If we cared to come out

into the public eye and propagate our teachings openly, we

could increase our membership tenfold. Our members are

spread all over India already, but they look to Dayalbagh as

their headquarters and visit us as often as they can. They

are organized into local groups which meet every Sunday at

precisely the same hour when we hold a special meeting at

Dayalbagh."

Sahabji pauses to wipe his spectacles.

"Just consider. When we began building this colony we

possessed no more than five thousand rupees, which had been

presented for the purpose. Our first plot of ground was no

larger than four acres; now, Dayalbagh covers thousands of

acres. Does it not seem that we are indeed growing? "

236 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

"How large do you intend to make Dayalbagh?"

"I expect to settle about ten to twelve thousand people here

and then we shall stop. A town of twelve thousand people, if

it is properly laid out, is large enough. I do not want to copy

the monstrous towns of your Western countries; they are

overcrowded and therefore breed many undesirable qualities.

I want to build a garden city where people can work and live

happily, where they can have plenty of space and air. It will

take a few years more to finish Dayalbagh's growth and then

it will be a model community. Incidentally, when I first read

Plato's Republic I was pleasantly surprised to find in that

book many of the ideas I am trying to express here. When

Dayalbagh is complete I want it to act as a prototype for the

creation of similar communities all over India, or at least one

in each province. I shall offer it as my solution of many

problems."

"You want India to turn her energies into industrial develop-

m e n t ? "

"Most certainly. That is her crying need. But - I would

not like to see India lose herself completely in it, as you in the

West have done," he laughs back. "Yes, India must build

up an industrial civilization to rid herself of the poverty which

grinds the masses, but she must build it up on a system which

will avoid the fight between capital and labour that would

otherwise accompany it."

" H o w do you propose to do t h a t ? "

" B y aiming at personal well-being through general well-

being, and not at the expense of the community. We work

on a co-operative principle and everyone sets the success of

Dayalbagh as being higher than personal success. There are

pioneers working here for salaries much lower than those they

could obtain elsewhere; I refer to trained and educated men,

not to illiterate labourers, of course, who do this voluntarily

and gladly. This principle works well here only because

we are inspired by a spiritual purpose, which is also the motive

power behind all our other efforts. Some men, who are in a

position to do so, are even giving their services freely. This

will show you what a fine spirit and enthusiasm our people

have. But when Dayalbagh is fully developed and com-

pletely self-supporting, I hope such sacrifices will be unneces-

sary. Anyway, it is the ideal of making spiritual progress more

quickly which has brought these people here, for that is the

fundamental aim of our fraternity. If you were to come here and

join our colony, you might be worth a thousand rupees a month,

THE GARDEN OF THE LORD 237

but you might have to take only one-third that amount because

we cannot afford to pay high salaries. Then, gradually, you

might build a house, acquire a wife and beget children. But

if, in this process, you begin to think only of the material side

of your career and to lose sight of the spiritual ideal for which

you really joined us, then to that extent you begin to fail.

Despite all these material activities you see here, we try never

to lose sight of the central purpose for which our fraternity

was founded."

" I see."

" N o w we are not socialists in your Western sense, but it

is a fact that the industries, the farms and colleges are owned

by the community. Moreover, this ownership extends to land

and houses. You may build a house here but it is yours only

whilst you tenant it. Beyond these limits, everyone is perfectly

free to possess and accumulate whatever money and property

he has and wherever he has it. This, of course, completely

divides us from the tyrannies of socialism. All our communal

properties and all the money offerings voluntarily made by

members are regarded as trusts to be administered in a religious

spirit. Everything is subordinated to our spiritual ideal.

This administration is supervised by a body of forty-five

members, representative of the various provinces in India,

which meets twice a year to scrutinize accounts and consider

budgets. The ordinary work and general control is in the

hands of an executive committee of eleven members."

"You said before that you would offer Dayalbagh as a

solution of many problems. I do not see how you can offer it

as a solution of the economic problem, which is, perhaps, the

chief one to-day."

Sahabji Maharaj smiles confidently.

"Even India may have something useful to contribute on

that point," he rejoins. " Let me tell you about a plan which

we have lately put into operation in order to quicken our rate of

growth during the next few years. This plan, to my mind,

embodies economic and social principles of radical importance.

We have established an inheritance fund which invites offerings

from those of our members who are able to subscribe one

thousand rupees and upwards. Every such subscriber then

receives an annuity of not less than 5 per cent from our adminis-

trative committee. At his death, the same annuity will be paid

to his wife, child or whoever else he has previously named.

The second person has the same right to name his or her suc-

cessor to the annuity. But with the death of the third generation,

238 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

all payment ceases. Should the original subscriber find

himself in difficult circumstances or urgent need, then part or

even all of his sum may be repaid him. Thus, lakhs of rupees

will, in course of time, pour into the coffers of our committee

through the inheritance fund, yet the purses of our members

will not be laid under heavy toll. Whatever contribution they

make, they will be sure of a moderate income in return."1

"I take it that you are trying to find a clear place between

the evils of capitalism and the fancies of socialism. Anyway, I

am sure you will deserve every bit of your success and I hope it

comes quickly."

It becomes clear to me that Dayalbagh possesses assured

resources for a successful future in the ever-growing inheritance

fund, in the constant stream of voluntary donations and in those

industries which have reached a profit-making stage.

"Several well-known leaders in India are watching our

experiment and waiting to see its result," says the white-

turbaned head of the Radha Soamis. "Some have visited

Dayalbagh and even critics who oppose our ideas have come

here. You see, the Indian people are among the weakest and

poorest in the world, and its leaders offer conflicting panaceas.

Gandhi came here once and engaged me in a long conversation.

He wanted me to join his political campaign, but I refused.

We have nothing to do with politics here. We believe in con-

centrating on the practical means of regeneration. Although I

do not concern myself with Gandhi's political plans, I scout

his economic ideas as being visionary and unpractical."

" H e wants India to throw all machinery into the sea."

Sahabji shakes his head.

"India cannot go back to the past; she must go forward and

develop the best points of a material civilization, if she is to

become more prosperous. My countrymen had better take a

lesson from America and Japan. The hand spinner and the

hand weaver can no longer stand the onslaught of modern

rationalized methods."

And as Sahabji Maharaj expounds his ideas I catch the picture

of an alert American mind encased in a brown Hindu body, so

efficient and business-like is his manner, so precise is the

expression of his thoughts. My rational temperament is

1 European economists have long been familiar with an almost

identical scheme evolved by Professor Rignano, of Italy, who proposed

to modify the law of inheritance in such a way as to cause the least

opposition and entail the least sacrifice.

THE GARDEN OF THE LORD 239

attracted by his air of common sense, balance and sanity -

qualities not very common in this sub-continent.

I realize anew the curious paradox which his character

presents. Master of over one hundred thousand people, who

practise a mysterious form of Yoga prime organizer of the

multifarious and materialistic activities which seethe around me

in Dayalbagh; taken all in all, I write him down as a brilliant

and breath-taking man. Nowhere in India, nowhere in the

entire world, may I expect to meet his like again.

His voice breaks into my thoughts.

"You have seen two aspects of our life here in Dayalbagh,

but our activities are threefold. Man's own nature is threefold

- spirit, mind and body. Therefore we have the workshops

and farms for physical work, the colleges for mental growth,

and lastly there are the group meetings for spiritual activities.

Thus we aim at harmonious and all-round growth for each

individual. But we place the greatest emphasis on the spiritual

side and every member of our fraternity endeavours to carry

out his individual Yoga practices regularly, wherever he may

be."

"May I join one of your group meetings?"

"With pleasure. We shall welcome you at every gathering."

§

Dayalbagh's activities begin at six o'clock in the morning

with the first group meeting. Dawn swiftly rubs away the

darkness of night; sweet chirrups mingle with the funereal

cries of crows; and all the birds begin their matutinal homage

to the sun. I follow my guide to a gigantic canvas structure,

which is supported by wooden posts.

A huge crowd of people presses around the entrance, where

each person removes his sandals or shoes and hands them to

waiting attendants. I follow the requirements of custom and

then enter the great tented hall.

A raised platform stands in the centre and His Holiness

Sahabji Maharaj sits there in a chair. Hundreds of his followers

squat in circling ranks around him, so that the entire floor is

carpeted with human bodies. All eyes are turned upon the

master, all tongues are still in silent reverence.

I make my way to a place beneath the platform and then

squeeze myself into the narrow space. Soon, two men stand up

at the rear of the hall and their voices break out into a slow

240 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

chant. The words are Hindi and the rhythm is extremely

agreeable to one's ears. This continues for some fifteen

minutes, by which time the strange, sacred words have lulled

one into a peaceful mood. And then the voices diminish in

volume until they die down altogether.

I look around. Every person in the vast tent is quiet,

motionless, sunk in meditation or prayer. I look at the modest,

plainly dressed figure on the platform, from whose lips no

single word has yet come. His face is graver than usual; his

alert, active manner has disappeared; and a serene contempla-

tion seems to engage his mind. What thoughts cross and criss-

cross under his white turban, I wonder? What responsibility

lies upon his shoulders, for all these people regard him as their

sacred link with a higher life!

The utter silence lasts for another half-hour. Not a cough,

not even a stir! Have all these contemplative Orientals with-

drawn their minds into a world barred to the sceptical

Westerner? Who knows? But it is a striking prelude

to the forceful activities which will soon make the town

hum.

We recover our footgear and quietly disperse home-

wards.

During the morning hours I enter into conversation with

many Radha Soamists, both residents and visiting members.

Several of them speak good English. There are turbaned men

from the North-West, pig-tailed Tamils from the South, active

little Bengalees from the East and bearded figures from the

Central Provinces. I am impressed by their air of self-respect

and by the shrewd practicality which counterpoises their

spiritual aspirations. If their desires soar into the empyrean,

their feet still walk firmly on the solid earth. Here, I reflect, is

a type of citizen of whom any town might be proud. I like

them instinctively and admire them immensely, for they

possess that rare quality - character!

A smaller meeting takes place during the afternoon. It is a

brief, informal affair intended for the benefit of visiting

members. Individual problems are discussed, questions

answered and some matters of general concern are dealt with.

Sahabji Maharaj reveals an uncommon resourcefulness in the

way he disposes of everything which comes up. He adopts a

chatty, witty tone, is never at a loss for an answer to the subtlest

query, and delivers quick, confident opinions upon the most

varied spiritual and material problems. His entire attitude

betokens an unusual and successful reconciliation of complete

THE GARDEN OF THE LORD

241

self-confidence with quiet humility. He shows that he possesses

an engaging sense of humour, which crops up again and again

in merry remarks.

The evening brings another group meeting. Every work-

shop, store and farm in the colony has closed its activities for

the day and a vast gathering once more fills the giant tent.

Sahabji Maharaj occupies his platform chair again. I watch a

file of his followers approach his seat and voluntarily place

contributions for the funds of the board of management at his

feet. Two committee members collect and record all these

contributions.

The chief event which follows is a lengthy address by the

master. His thousands of followers listen to the well-spoken

Hindi with absorbed attention, for he has a good oratorical

style. He seems to speak from the heart in a picturesque

manner which is pregnant with deep feeling. He is so animated

by a fiery vigour and ardent enthusiasm that the inspiring

effect upon his hearers becomes almost palpable.

§

Each day the same unvarying programme is followed. The

evening meeting is the longest, for it lasts nearly two hours.

It says much for the power of Sahabji Maharaj's mentality

that he can keep up this programme without difficulty and with

his usual dynamic power. No one knows beforehand what the

subject of his evening address will be. I question him upon

the point and he replies:

"When I sit down in the chair I am quite unaware of the

subject. Even after I have begun, I do not know what my next

sentence will be or even how I will finish. I trust myself

unreservedly to the Supreme Father. He tells me instantly

whatever I need to know. I take my orders from Him

internally. I am actually in His hands."

The words of his first address haunt me for some days.

Its theme of surrendering to a master piques my mind until

I broach it eventually to Sahabji. We sit on a carpeted piece

of ground in the centre of Dayalbagh - it is something like a

village green - and develop a friendly discussion.

He reiterates his point and adds:

" T h e master is absolutely necessary. There is no such

thing as self-reliance in the spiritual sphere."

"But did you find one necessary?" I ask boldly.

242 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

"Without a doubt. I spent fourteen years searching for a

true master before I found him."

"Fourteen years! A fifth of your life! Was it worth

w h i l e ? "

" T h e time spent in search of a true master is never wasted,

even if it is twenty years," he replies, quick as a flash. "Before

I became a believer I was as sceptical as you are. And then I

grew desperate in trying to discover a teacher who could open

the way to spiritual illumination. I was young and simply

crazy to find the truth. I asked the trees, the grass, and the

sky to enlighten me if truth existed. I sobbed my heart out like

a child, with head bent low, begging for light. Finally I could

stand the strain no longer. One day I resolved to give up eating

and starve to death, unless and until the divine power saw fit to

grant me some illumination. I could no longer work even.

The next night I had a vivid dream, wherein a master appeared

to me and revealed himself as such. I asked for his address.

His answer was: 'Allahabad! You will know my full address

later.' The next day I spoke to a friend who belonged to that

town and told him of my dream. He went away and returned

with a group photograph and asked me if I could indentify the

master's face in the group. I at once pointed to it. My friend

then explained that he belonged to a semi-secret society in

Allahabad and that the figure I indicated was the master. I

quickly got into touch with him and became a disciple."

"How interesting!"

"Even if you take up Yoga exercises alone and depend on

your own powers, the day your true prayer is heard will be the

day when you will be led to meet a master. There is no escape.

You must have a guide. A sincere, fully determined seeker

will eventually be brought to his real master."

"How is one to recognize h i m ? " I murmur questioningly.

Sahabji's face relaxes and an amused expression flickers

across his eyes for a moment.

" T h e master knows beforehand who is to come to him and

he will draw them magnetically to him. His power meets their

destiny and the result is inescapable."

A little company of variegated figures has gathered around

us and is rapidly increasing. Soon, Sahabji Maharaj will have

not one hearer, but two or three score.

"I have been trying to form a clear understanding of your

Radha Soami doctrines," I tell him, " b u t they are hard nuts.

One of your disciples has loaned me some writings on the

subject by an earlier master of your fraternity, His Holiness

THE GARDEN OF THE LORD

243

Brahm Sankar Misra, with the result that my brain is working

overtime."

Sahabji laughs.

" I f you want to understand the truths of Radha Soami

teachings, you must perform our Yoga practices. We regard

the daily performance of these practices as being far more

important than theoretical understanding of our doctrines. I

am sorry that I cannot explain the detailed methods of medita-

tion we employ, because they are only imparted under a vow of

secrecy to those who apply to join us and are accepted. But

the basis of them is 'Sound-Yoga,' or 'listening for the

internal sound,' as we usually call it."

" T h e writings I am studying say that sound is the force

which called the universe into being."

"From a material standpoint you understand it correctly,

but rather it is that a current of sound was the first activity of

the Supreme Being at the beginning of creation. The universe

is not the result of blind forces. Now this divine sound is

known to our fraternity and can be phonetically transcribed.

It is our belief that sounds bear the impress of their source, of

the power which created them. Therefore, when one of our

members listens internally and expectantly for the divine

sound, with controlled body, mind and will, he will become

lifted up towards the bliss and wisdom of the Supreme Being

as soon as he hears the divine sound."

" I s it not possible to imagine that the sound of the blood

beating through one's arteries is the divine sound? What

other sound can one hear internally?"

"Ah, we do not mean any material sound, but a spiritual

one. The force which appears as sound on our material plane

is only a reflection of that subtler force whose workings evolved

the universe. Just as your scientists have reduced matter to

electricity, so we may trace the force which we hear on the

material plane as sound to a higher vibration that escapes our

physical ears because it exists on the spiritual plane. A sound

carries the influence of the region whence it emanates and so,

if you concentrate your attention inwardly in a certain way,

you may one day hear the mystic words which sounded forth

at the first upheaval in the primeval chaos and which form the

true name of the Creator. The echoes of those words rever-

berate back into man's spiritual nature; to catch those echoes,

by means of our secret Yoga practice, and to trace them up to

their origin is literally to be carried up to paradise. The

man who faithfully carries out our Radha Soami practices

244 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

which are intended to enable him to hear the mystic sound,

will forget himself in utter ecstasy when at last it impinges

itself upon his inner ear."

"Your teachings are startlingly novel."

" T o the West, but not to India! Kabir taught the Sound-

Yoga in Benares as far back as the fifteenth century."

" O n e hardly knows what to say about them."

"Why the difficulty? You will readily admit that one form

of sound - music - can throw a man into emotional ecstasy.

Then how much more will the heavenly internal music affect

h i m ? "

"Agreed! - if one could prove that the internal music really

does exist."

Sahabji shrugs his shoulders.

"I might present you with several arguments to convince

your reason, but I fancy you are looking for something more

than that. How can I prove the existence of super-physical

states by mere reasoning? It is natural for the unprepared

brain to perceive nothing beyond this physical world. If

you want the best proof - first-hand experience - of these

spiritual truths, then you must persistently follow up a course

of Yoga practices. I assure you that the human body is really

capable of higher functions than those we commonly know;

that the innermost parts of our brain centres are associated

with subtle worlds of being; that, after proper training, these

centres can be energized until we become aware of these

subtler worlds; and that the most important centre of all

enables us to obtain divine consciousness of the highest

order."

"Are you referring to the brain centres known to

anatomists?"

"Partly. They are merely the physical organs through

which the subtler centres work; the real activity takes place

in the latter. The most important of these centres is the

pineal gland, which, as you know, is situated in the region

between the eyebrows. It is the seat of the spirit-entity in

man. Shoot a man through that spot and death is certain

and instantaneous. The spirit-currents which flow through

the auditory, optic, olfactory and other nerves converge in

that gland."

" O u r medical men are still puzzled about the chief functions

of the pineal gland," I comment.

" A n d well they might be, considering that it is the focus

of the individual spirit-entity which gives life and vitality to

THE GARDEN OF THE LORD 245

man's mind and body. It is when this spirit-entity recedes

from the pineal gland that the conditions of dream, deep sleep

or trance supervene, and when it finally leaves the gland

the body falls dead. Since the human body is an epitome of the

entire universe, inasmuch as all the elements employed in the

evolution of creation are represented in it on a miniature scale,

and since it contains links with all the subtler spheres, it is

quite possible for the spirit-entity in us to reach the highest

spiritual world. When it leaves the pineal gland and passes

upwards, its passage through the grey matter of the brain

brings it into contact with the region of universal mind, and

its passage through the white matter exalts its consciousness

to lofty spiritual realities. But to attain this spiritual con-

sciousness all the activities of the bodily senses have to be

brought to a standstill, otherwise it is not possible to shut off

external stimuli. Therefore the essence of our Yoga practices

is a complete concentration which turns the current of attention

inwards, away from one's environment, until a profound degree

of internal contemplation is attained."

I look away, trying to digest this suavely-spoken flow of

subtle, recondite ideas. A goodly-sized gathering around us is

taking a keen interest in the talk. The tranquil assurance

which underlies their master's words attracts me, but . . .

"You say that the only way to verify these statements is to

practise your Sound-Yoga exercises. But you keep those

exercises secret," I complain.

"Whoever applies for admission to our fraternity and is

accepted, will have our methods of spiritual practice com-

municated verbally to him."

" C a n you not give me some personal experience first, some

convincing proof at first hand? What you say may be per-

fectly true - indeed, my heart wants to believe it."

"You must join us first."

" I a m sorry. That I cannot do. I am built in such a way

that it is difficult to give belief before proof."

Sahabji spreads out his hands in a helpless gesture.

"What can I do then? I am in the hands of the Supreme

Father."

§

Day after day I attend all the group meetings as regularly

as the members of the society themselves; I meditate silently

246 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

in their midst and listen to their master's addresses; I question

them freely and study such portions of the Radha Soami

teachings concerning the universe and man as are made

available to me.

Late one afternoon I wander with a disciple about one mile

or so away from Dayalbagh to where the jungle begins. Then

we turn our feet towards the Jumna and eventually sit down

on the banks of that wide river. From the steep and sandy

height we watch the slow-moving water wind its placid way

through the plain which stretches to Agra. Now and then a

great vulture flaps its way over our heads towards its

home.

The Jumna! Somewhere along these banks Krishna moved

victoriously among the milkmaids, charming them with his

wondrous lute and his love-making. To-day he is probably

one of the most worshipped gods in the Hindu pantheon.

" U p till recent years," murmurs my companion, "this

place was the abode of wild animals and at night they roamed

over the very site on which Dayalbagh has been built. And

now they avoid the place."

We sit silently for a couple of minutes and then he says:

"You are the first European to sit in our group meetings,

though you will certainly not be the last. We appreciate the

understanding and sympathy you have shown. Why don't

you join our society?"

"Because I have no faith in faith. Because I realize that it

is fatally easy to believe in what you want to believe."

He draws his knees up and rests his chin upon them.

" T h e contact that you are having with our master will

benefit you in any case. I shall not press you to join. We do

not attempt to make converts and our members are not allowed

to preach."

"How did you learn of the existence of the society?"

"Very simply. My father has been a member for many

years. He does not live at Dayalbagh, but visits it from time

to time. He brought me with him on some of those visits,

but never, on any occasion, did he attempt to induce me to

join. About two years ago I began to puzzle over things and

went about questioning various friends as to their beliefs.

I questioned my father, too, and what he told me drew me to

the Radha Soami teachings. I was accepted as a member of

the fraternity and time has confirmed my faith. I was fortunate,

perhaps, because others have come to us only after a lifetime

spent in perplexity."

THE GARDEN OF THE LORD 247

" I f I could settle my doubts as easily and as quickly as you

settled yours. . . . ? " I respond vacantly.

Once again we both revert to silence. The dark blue

Jumna water draws my gaze and I slip insensibly into a

profound reverie.

All the conscious and unconscious thinking of these Indians

is coloured by faith, by the necessity of owning allegiance to

some sort of a religion, creed or sacred script. Every kind of

faith from the most degraded to the most dignified is represented

in India.

Once I stumbled across a little temple on the Ganges. Its

pillars were covered with carved reliefs depicting men and

women engaged in sexual embrace, and its walls were frescoed

with erotic scenes which might horrify a Western clergyman.

There is room for this kind of thing in Indian religion, and it

may well be that the religious recognition of sex is a better

thing than its relegation to the gutter, but then - there is also

room for faiths embodying the loftiest and purest conceptions

possible to man. Such is India!

But nowhere in this land have I come across such an amazing

cult as the Radha Soamis. It is undeniably unique. What

brain other than Sahabji Maharaj's could have conceived this

paradoxical combination of Yoga, the oldest learning in the

world, with the high-pressure, mechanized civilization of an

up-to-date European or American city?

Is Dayalbagh likely to loom forth in Indian history out of all

proportion to its present apparent unimportance? If India is

a crossword puzzle to which no one seems to have yet found

the correct solution, that is not to say that the coming years

shall not provide an answer.

Sahabji had laughed at Gandhi's preaching of medievalism,

and the town of Ahmedabad, where Gandhi's own head-

quarters lie, still echoes back this laughter. From the Sabar-

mati River one can count half a hundred tall factory chimneys,

which smoke defiance at the little cluster of white, wooden

bungalows where the gospel of peasant handicrafts finds its

inspiration.

The forceful impact of Western ways has begun to disin-

tegrate India's traditional methods of carrying on the necessary

business of living. The first Europeans who appeared off the

sea coast of India brought not only bales of goods, but also

ideas. When Vasco da Gama landed his rough-bearded sailors

in the quiet harbour of Calicut, there began that process of

Westernization which is moving at such a quick rate to-day.

248 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

The industrialization of India has begun in a tentative and

timid fashion, but it has begun. Europe has faced in turn the

Renaissance of intellect, the religious reformation and the

industrial revolution, and she has left these things behind.

India has awakened and finds them lying in her stride. These

are now her problems. Will she blindly imitate the Europeans

or will she work out her own - and perhaps better - way of

solving them? Will Sahabji Maharaj's unique contribution

focus her attention one day?

If I am certain of anything I am certain of this: India will

be thrown into a melting-pot of unparalleled character before

long. Thousands of years of a society tied up in worn-out

traditions, imprisoned in hide-bound religious conventions,

will vanish within two or three decades at most. It will seem

a miracle, but it will happen.

Sahabji Maharaj has evidently grasped this situation clearly

enough. He realizes that we live in a new epoch; the old

order of things is being destroyed everywhere, and in India as

in other countries. Are Asiatic lethargy and Western practi-

cality to remain twin incompatibilities? He thinks not. Why

should not the Yogi put on a worldling's clothing? And so

he gives forth the fiat that the Yogi must come out of his

habitual seclusion and mingle with the noisy assemblages

where men command machines. He thinks it is time for the

Yogi to descend into the factory, the office and the school and

attempt to spiritualize them - not by preaching and propaganda,

but by inspired action. The way of hustling everyday activity

can and must be made the way of heaven. A spiritually

based way of living like Yoga, which stands too aloof from

workaday men, may come to be regarded by them as a deceptive

form of self-important stupidity.

If Yoga is to remain the hobby of a few hermits, the modern

world will have no use for it and the last traces of the dying

science will disappear from existence. If it is to serve only

as the delectation of some lean anchorites, we who push pens

or ploughs, move amid the grease and grime of engine-rooms,

who have to endure the hubbub of stock exchanges and the

busy barter of shops, we shall roughly turn our heads away.

And the attitude of the modern West will shortly be the

attitude of modern India.

Sahabji Maharaj has shrewdly foreseen the inevitable trend

of things and has made a striking effort to save the ancient

science of Yoga for modern use. This inspiring and strenuous

man will certainly leave his mark upon his native land. He

THE GARDEN OF THE LORD 249

has realized that his country has lain in lethargy long enough.

He sees clearly why the West, throbbing with manufacture

and trade and its agriculture modernized, lives a wealthier

life. He sees also that the culture of Yoga remains one of the

valuable inheritances which India has received from her

ancient sages, but that the few masters who keep this culture

alive in lonely places are a fading remnant of their class;

when they die, the real secrets of Yoga will die with them.

And so he has come down from the rarefied air of those peaks

of thought to our own times, to the energetic strivings of the

twentieth century, and is endeavouring to relate the two.

Is his effort too fantastic On the contrary, it is highly

admirable. We live in days when Muhammed's tomb in

Arabia is illumined by electric light, when the camel is being

pushed off the desert sands of Morocco by luxuriously fitted

motor cars. What then of India? This vast country, startled

from the sleep of many hundred years by the impact of a

completely opposite culture, must go on opening its heavy-

lidded eyes. The English have done more than turn sandy

deserts into fertile fields; than build canals and dams to assist

agriculture and regulate the floods of great rivers; than fling

an impenetrable barrier of highly efficient soldiers across the

North-West Frontier to keep peace and property secure; than

bring in a healthy breeze of sane, rational ideas.

Out of the grey North and distant West came the white men.

Fate placed India at their feet and the country became theirs

with but a few efforts.

Why?

Perhaps the world, incubating over Asiatic wisdom and

Western science, will one day hatch out a civilization that will

shame antiquity, deride modernity and amaze posterity.

The trail of my meditation comes to an end. I raise my head

and address a questioning word to my companion. I do not

think he hears me. He continues to stare across the river,

which reflects the last red light of sunset. It is the twilight

hour. I watch the great orb make its rapid disappearance from

the sky. The stillness is indescribable; all nature, dumb at

the lovely sight, seems to have come to momentary rest. My

heart drinks in the superb peace. Once more I glance at the

other man. His figure is now wrapped in the shroud of fast-

gathering dusk.

So we sit in the dead silence for a few more minutes until the

sun slips suddenly into black night.

My companion rises and quietly leads me through the

250 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

shadows back to Dayalbagh. Our walk terminates under a

canopy of thousands of starry points of light.

§

Sahabji Maharaj decides to leave Dayalbagh and go down to a

place in the Central Provinces for a well-earned rest. I take

the event as our destined time of farewell and plan a move in

the same direction. We shall travel together as far as Timarni

and then our ways will diverge.

About one hour after midnight we descend on Agra Station.

A score of close disciples accompany their master and so the

size of our party is quite noticeable. Someone procures a chair

for Sahabji, and while he sits in the midst of his devoted

followers I pace the half-lit platform.

During the day I have reviewed my stay at Dayalbagh and

realize with regret that no memorable inner experience has

occurred, no soul-upheaving vision of life's secret meaning has

been vouchsafed to me. I had hoped that some illuminating

Yogic expansion of consciousness might pierce my mental

gloom for an hour or two, so that I could then follow up the track

of Yoga with sight and not with faith. But no, the benediction

is not for me. Perhaps I am not worthy of it; maybe I demand

far too much; I do not know.

From time to time I glance at the seated figure. Sahabji

Maharaj possesses a magnetic personality which fascinates me.

He is a curious mixture of American alertness and practicality,

British predilection for correct conduct and Indian devoutness

and contemplativeness. He is a type which is rare in the modern

world. Over one hundred thousand men and women have

entrusted the guidance of their inner lives to this man, yet he

sits there in quiet modesty and humility, this unassuming master

of the Radha Soamis.

At last our train roars into the station and a giant headlight

throws an uncanny illumination upon the scene through which

the rails pass. Sahabji enters his reserved compartment and

the rest of us sort ourselves into other carriages. I stretch

myself out for a few hours' sleep and know nothing more until I

awake in the morning with an incredibly dry throat.

At every halt which the train makes during the next few

hours, followers of Sahabji who live in the vicinity or even

many miles away crowd around his compartment window.

They have been notified of his journey in advance and eagerly

THE GARDEN OF THE LORD 251

seize the opportunity of obtaining this brief contact, for it is

said in India that even a minute's contact with a master will

produce important spiritual and material results.

I seek and obtain Sahabji's permission to spend my last

three hours with him in his own compartment. We fall into a

long talk about world conditions, about the nations of the West,

about India's future and about the future of his own cult. At

the end he tells me in his pleasant, suave manner:

" L e t me assure you that I have no consciousness of India

being my own country. I am cosmopolitan in outlook and look

on all men as my brothers."

Such amazing frankness delights me. It is so with all his

conversations. He always goes straight to the point; he shoots

every sentence at a definite target, and he has the full courage

of his convictions. To converse with him, to commune with

his mind, is a welcome experience. Always he comes out with

some unexpected phrase, some new view-point on things.

The train now moves across country at an angle which brings

an intolerable sun through the window and into my eyes. The

torrid heat bakes one's flesh, the merciless rays weary one's

mind. I pull up the wooden sun-blind, that peculiar structure

which is so curiously like a Venetian blind, and switch on the

electric fan, thus gaining a slight relief from the midday heat.

Sahabji Maharaj notices my discomfort and draws some oranges

out of a travelling bag. He puts them on the small table and

asks me to share them with him.

"They will cool your throat," he observes.

As his knife slowly parts the coloured peel, he remarks

musingly:

"You are right in being so careful about taking anyone as

your master. Scepticism is a useful attitude before you decide

on him, but afterwards you must have full faith. Don't rest

until you find your spiritual preceptor. He is absolutely

essential."

Before long there is a grinding sound and someone noisily

shouts:

" T i m a r n i ! "

Sahabji Maharaj rises to depart. Something awakens in me

before his disciples can come and capture him. It breaks my

reserve, ignores my Western pride, crushes my anti-religious

temperament and speaks through my lips.

"Your Holiness, may I have your blessing?"

He turns with a friendly smile, beams pleasantly through his

glasses, and cordially pats my shoulder.

252 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

"You have that already!" he assures me in farewell.

I return to my compartment and the train moves rapidly

away. Dun-coloured fields flash by the window. Little groups

of drowsy-eyed cattle munch contentedly on the sparse

herbage. My eyes register them only half-consciously, for my

mind is carrying away a picture of a notable man, whom I

greatly like and profoundly admire. For he is at once an

inspired dreamer, a serenely-minded Yogi, a practical man of

the world and a polished gentleman!

CHAPTER XIV

AT THE PARSEE MESSIAH'S HEADQUARTERS

THE trail from Agra to Nasik is a long one, but I shall

make no more mention of it than this short paragraph,

so that the record of my wanderings may come to its

allotted end.

The wheel of time turns its inevitable course and so carries

me around India on its spokes. Once again I am to see Meher

Baba, the Parsee holy man and self-styled "new messiah."

It is with no keen desire that I return to him. The cold

serpents of doubt have firmly coiled themselves around my

mind, and a strong inner feeling tells me that my proposed stay

near him will be a waste of time, and that Meher Baba, though a

good man and one living an ascetic life, is unfortunatly suffering

from colossal delusions about his own greatness. Incidentally,

I have taken the trouble to investigate during my travels the

few so-called miracles of healing which he is alleged to have

performed. One is a case of appendicitis, and the sufferer's

simple faith in Meher is said to have completely cured him.

But strict enquiry shows that the doctor who has attended this

man could discover nothing worse than severe indigestion!

In another case a nice old gentleman, who has been reported

cured overnight of a whole catalogue of ailments, seems to have

had little more than a swollen ankle! In short, the marvellous

healing power of their master has been grossly exaggerated by

his disciples, whose exuberant fervour is understandable enough

in a country where fable often runs faster than fact.

I do not believe that the Parsee messiah can keep the extra-

ordinary promises of wonderful experiences which he has made

me; but because I have agreed to spend a month near him, I

think my pledge is not to be lightly broken. So, against every

instinct and all judgment, I take train for Nasik, that he may

not accuse me of never having given him the chance to prove

his alleged powers.

253

254 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

§

Meher has set up his headquarters in some modern houses

on the extreme outskirts of the town. A retinue of forty dis-

ciples wander aimlessly about the place.

"What are you thinking a b o u t ? " is one of his first questions

to me when we meet. I feel tired and travel-worn; he has

probably mistaken my haggard appearance for the pallor of

profound meditation, but no matter, my reply is instantly

forthcoming.

" I a m thinking of the dozen or more messiahs whom I have

discovered in India since I have been here."

Meher Baba does not seem surprised.

"Yes," he rejoins with fingers moving slickly across his

alphabet board, "I also have heard of some of them."

" H o w do you explain i t ? " I ask innocently.

His forehead contracts into wrinkles, but his mouth smiles

in a superior sort of way.

" I f they are honest, then they are mistaken. If they are

dishonest, then they are deceiving others. There are holy men

who make good progress and then develop spiritual ' swelled-

head.' Such a sad state of affairs usually arrives when they

have no proper master to advise and guide them. There is a

point which is midway along the mystical path and which is

most difficult to cross; it often happens that the person whose

devotions have brought him to this point foolishly believes

that he has reached the highest goal. It takes little more for

him to imagine himself a messiah!"

" A n excellent and logical explanation. But unfortunately I

have heard very much the same thing from the other men who

claim to be messiahs. Each asserts that he is perfect; each

allots imperfection to his rivals!"

" D o not worry about it. All these people are unconsciously

helping to do my work. I know who I am. When the time

comes for me to fulfil my mission, the world will also know who

I am."

It is not possible to argue rationally in such an atmosphere,

so I let the matter drop. Meher Baba indulges in some

pleasant platitudes and then dismisses me.

I settle down to live in a bungalow which is two or three

minutes' walk from his headquarters. I resolve ruthlessly to

thrust my feelings aside and keep a perfectly open mind to the

events of the coming four weeks. There shall be no mental

AT THE PARSEE MESSIAH'S HEADQUARTERS 255

hostility to Meher, no inner attitude of scepticism, but rather a

mood of expectant waiting.

Each day I associate closely with the disciples: I see their

manner of existence, study their psychological make-up and

probe into the history of their spiritual relationship to Meher.

Each day the Parsee messiah gives me a little of his time. We

talk about many things and he answers many questions, but

not once does he make any reference to the strange promises

which he gave me at Ahmednagar. I resolve to make no

attempt to jog his memory and so the matter seemingly falls into

abeyance.

One result of the constant rain of questions which I let fall

upon him and his disciples - partly out of my journalistic

instinct of curiosity and partly out of a sincere desire to find

enough facts, either to buttress my intuitions of the futility of

my visit or to dispose of them altogether - is that he places at

my disposal a set of secret diaries which have been kept by his

command for several years. They contain a connected history

of the chief events concerning the messiah and his group of fol-

lowers, and a record of every important teaching, message and

prophecy which he has verbally given out. These books cover

nearly two thousand pages of closely written manuscript,

which is mostly composed in English.

The diaries have clearly been compiled in a spirit of blind

faith, but I find them to be a valuable searchlight upon Meher's

character and powers. The very honesty of these pages,

despite their devoutness, in recording matters which might

seem trivial to an outsider excellently serves my purpose, for I

view these matters as psychological straws that show which way

Meher's mind is moving. The two disciples who have kept

these diaries are young men with only a fragmentary experience

of life beyond their extremely limited circle, but their very

naivete and complete trust in their master have caused them to

place on record things which are really uncomplimentary to

him.

Why have they recorded that Meher struck one of his most

intimate disciples a stinging blow on the ears during a train

journey to Muttra, a blow so severe that the unfortunate fol-

lower had to seek medical attention? Why have they recorded

the lame excuse of their master, this man who preaches a

gospel of divine love, that when a messiah pretends to show

anger towards one of his devotees, the sins of the latter which

are awaiting punishment are thereby heavily reduced? Why

have they recorded the comical incident of the disciple who

256 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

was " l o s t " at Arangaon for whom Meher sent out a search

party which returned after several hours without its quarry.

He turned up of his own accord ultimately and explained that

having suffered with insomnia for several nights, he had

unexpectedly fallen asleep in a disused building which stood

close to Meher's own abode! The master, who claims to have

been taken into the council of the gods and to know the future

of all mankind, did not know that his "lost " disciple was in

the next field!

I find enough matter, therefore, to feed the doubts which

live repressed existences in my own mind. I find also that

Meher Baba is a fallible authority, a man subject to constantly

changing moods, and an egotist who demands complete enslave-

ment on the part of his brain-stupefied followers. And lastly,

I find in these pages that he is a prophet whose predictions are

seldom verified. At our first meeting near Ahmednagar he

prophesied a coming world-war, but refused to say when it is

going to happen, although he was careful to impress me with

the claim that he knows the date. Now, in these diaries, I

discover that he has made the same prophesy to his intimate

disciples, and that he has made it not once but several times.

On each occasion he has had to give a different date for that

calamitous event because, as each date arrives, no war arrives.

One year, when things look ominous in Asia, he has placed the

outbreak in the East; another year, when things look dark in

Europe, and when he has forgotten his earlier failure, he has

placed it in the West, and so on. His caution in hesitating

to give me a date at Ahmednagar now becomes comprehensible.

I tax one of the more intelligent disciples with this series of

unfulfilled predictions and he candidly admits that most of his

master's prophecies are generally wrong. "I doubt whether

the war will ever take place as an ordinary war, but it will

probably happen as an economic w a r ! " he concludes

naively.

Though I turn the last page of these astonishing diaries with

a smile, I candidly confess to myself that I have read lofty and

soul-elevating discourses in them, and that Meher Baba

possesses religious genius. Whatever success he may have

will arise from that last quality. But I do not forget one of his

own sayings, recorded somewhere in these pages, that "Ability

in advising others about virtue is no proof of saintliness, nor

is it a mark of wisdom."

AT THE PARSEE MESSIAH'S HEADQUARTERS 257

§

It is better to pass over the rest of my stay in prudent silence

If I am living in the company of a world deliverer and redeemer

of mankind, there is little to make me aware of my good fortune.

This, perhaps, is because I am more interested in tangible

facts than mythical legends. I shall not enter into the tale of

childish actions and unfulfilled predictions, blind obedience

to irrational orders on the part of disciples, and messianic

advice which only increases the troubles of those who follow it.

Meher Baba seems to be avoiding contacts with me as my

stay draws to its close, or it may be my fancy. When I do

see him, he is always in a tremendous hurry, and rushes away

a few minutes after. Each day I become conscious of my false

position, and it is possible that Meher himself knows the dis-

comfort which increasingly troubles me.

I wait for the wonderful experiences he has promised me,

though I never expect them to arrive. My expectations are

completely fulfilled! Nothing unusual happens nor do I see

anything unusual happening to the other men. I make no

effort to put Meher under a stringent interrogatory, merely

because I realize the futility of such a proceeding. However,

with the passing of the month I announce my impending depar-

ture and then tax Meher Baba with his failure to redeem his

words. For answer he lightly transfers the date of his promised

marvels to a couple of months later, and then dismisses the

matter! I may be mistaken, but I fancy that an inward

nervousness is affecting him, a peculiar impatience with my

presence, a condition which I sense rather than see with my

eyes. Yet I make no attempt to argue with him, for I see that

it is useless to pit my straightforward direct question in unequal

combat with his elusive Oriental mind.

Even at the last moment of parting, when I bid an amicable

adieu and polite farewell for ever to Meher Baba, he talks as

though there can be no question but that he is the world teacher

for whom many are waiting. He even asserts that when he is

ready to go to the West one day and spread his work there, he

will send for me and I shall have to travel with him!1

Such is the result of my foolish attempt to take this man at

his word. What can one say of soi-disant "divine teachers"

1 He went to the West in due course, but his prediction as regards

myself proved utterly fallacious.

258 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

who promise an ecstasy of the spirit, but give instead an

exasperation of the mind?

§

Is it possible to find any acceptable explanation of Meher

Baba's strange career and curious conduct? A superficial

estimate of the man may easily dismiss him as a rogue or as a

charlatan. This has been done, but does not explain several

things in his life and is manifestly unjust. I prefer to accept

the opinion of old Judge Khandalawalla, of Bombay, who has

known Meher Baba since the latter was a boy, and who told

me that the Parsee messiah was simply an honest but mistaken

man. This explanation is good as far as it goes, but for me it

does not go far enough.

A little analysis of Meher Baba's character will make my

theory more comprehensible. I have already mentioned that,

at our first meeting near Ahmednagar, I was impressed by the

peace and gentleness of his attitude. But observation during

my stay at Nasik revealed, through everyday incidents, that this

was the calmness of a weak character and the gentleness of a

frail physique. I discovered that he is really an irresolute man,

influenced by others and by circumstances. His small pointed

chin is eloquent on this point. Moreover, sudden unaccount-

able impulses mark his conduct. He is obviously a highly

emotional man. His passion for the theatrical, his childish but

Oriental fondness for spectacular demonstrations also evidence

the fact that he loves to dramatize himself. He seems to live

more for an audience than for himself. And although he claims

to have appeared on the stage of life in a serious part, those who

see only an element of comedy in his acting are not wholly to

blame!

My own theory is that the old Muhammedan woman faqueer,

Hazrat Babajan, did really create an upheaval in Meher Baba's

character that upset his equilibrium, in fact, so completely

as to precipitate him into a condition which neither he nor those

around him understand. My own experience with the remark-

able lady, brief though it was, convinces me that she possessed

some strange power sufficient to startle the most hide-bound

rationalist. I do not know why Hazrat Babajan should have

suddenly intervened in Meher Baba's career, swept him off

at a tangent and started him on a course whose outcome -

whether merely farcical or really momentous - we have yet to

AT THE PARSEE MESSIAH'S HEADQUARTERS 259

witness. But I do know that she was quite capable of doing to

him something which, metaphorically speaking, took the earth

from under his feet.

The kiss which she gave him was nothing in itself, but

became important as the symbolic conveyance of her psychic

inner grace. The peculiar cerebral condition which he

developed as a result is significant in view of his later history.

" M y mind received a great shock which caused it violent

vibrations for some time," he told me once in reference to this

event. He was clearly quite unprepared for it. He had gone

through no training and no discipline to fit himself for what

might be tantamount to a Yogic initiation. "When I was a

friend of Baba in his youth," said his disciple Abdullah, "I

never found him interested in religion or philosophy. He

was always keener on sports, games and fun. He played a

principal part in our school debates and activities. His sudden

departure into spiritual matters took us by surprise."

I believe that the youthful Meher became quite unbalanced

as a result of this unexpected experience. This was obvious

enough when he fell into a condition of semi-idiocy and

behaved like a human robot, but it is not so obvious now that

he has recovered sanity. I do not believe that he has returned

to normality as a human being. To some people, a sudden

overdose of religion, Yogic trance, or mystic ecstasy is as

unbalancing as a sudden overdose of certain drugs. In short,

I believe that Meher Baba has not yet recovered from the first

intoxication of his exalted mood, and a lack of balance still

exists as a result of the tremendous derangement which

occurred to his mental faculties at such an early age. On no

other hypothesis can I account for the extraordinary behaviour

which he manifests from time to time.

He shows, on the one hand, all the qualities of a mystic -

love, gentleness, religious intuition, and so on, but on the other

hand he shows signs of the mental disease of paranoia. He

exaggerates everything which pertains to his own self. This

condition is also found among religious enthusiasts who

experience sudden but temporary states of ecstasy. They

emerge with the awareness that something colossal has happened

to them. It is only another step for them to make unwarranted

claims to spiritual greatness, and so they begin to found new

cults or to set up queer societies with themselves at the head.

The deification of self, the belief that they are messiahs

destined to save all mankind, is the final step taken by the

audacious few.

260 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

In India I find that there are men who want the exalted

consciousness which Yoga promises its votaries, but are

unwilling to pay the price in training and discipline which it

demands. So they take drugs, such as opium and hasheesh,

and thus obtain a colourable imitation of that transcendental

consciousness. I have watched the behaviour of these drug

addicts and discovered that one quality (or vice) is common to

all of them. They exaggerate tremendously the small or great

phenomena of their lives, and will tell you outright lies in the

firm belief that they are telling you the truth! Hence the

development of paranoia, which is an exaggeration of self-

consciousness to the point of complete delusion.

The drug addict may notice a woman glance carelessly at

him. At once he weaves a whole romance with her in his mind.

His world revolves entirely around his own glorified self. He

will make such fantastic assertions about his own wonderful

powers that one wonders whether he is in full possession of

his faculties. And his actions spring out of sudden, inexplicable

impulses.

Some of the unbalanced qualities which mark the characters

and lives of such unfortunate persons, also mark the character

and life of Meher Baba, but with this qualification - he never

descends into the evil depths it is possible for them to fall into,

because the origin of his abnormality is not drugs, but a

spiritual and benign experience. To borrow a phrase from

Nietzsche, the Parsee messiah is " human, all-too-human."

Much ado is made in regard to the time when he will break

his silence. One wonders whether he will ever dare to do so,

but it needs no great discernment to see that his voice, if at

long last it comes forth, will fall futile upon the world's ears.

Words cannot work miracles. His rash prophecies may or

may not be realized; what matters is that the prophet himself

has proved unreliable: his promises are not kept, his predic-

tions are not realized, and his conduct is both egotistic and

erratic. He fails to illustrate in himself the high message which

he proposes to convey - to others. The message of such a man

must necessarily fall on deaf and unheeding ears.

What of his ardent followers? Will Time come with cold

hands and undeceive them? That is unlikely. The story of

Meher Baba is a typical story of Indian credulity and provides

a handy illustration of the strength of this defect in Indian

character. India suffers from the defects of an illiterate and

over-religious race, untrained in those scientific modes of

thought which demand the divorce of emotion from reason,

AT THE PARSEE MESSIAH'S HEADQUARTERS 261

history from hearsay, and fact from imagination. It is easy

enough to gather a flock of enthusiastic followers, whether

from sincere aspirants, foolish and inexperienced persons, or

those who deem it wise to attach themselves and their fortunes

to stars of greater magnitude than themselves.

I have neither the space nor the patience to point them out,

but it is a fact that Meher Baba has committed blunders at

every step of his career. So have I. But he claims to be a

divinely inspired messiah, whereas I am only too painfully

aware of my limitations as an ordinary mortal. My point is

that his followers will never admit that Meher Baba can

commit blunders. Always they naively assume that some

mysterious esoteric purpose lies behind everything he says or

does. They are content to follow blindly, as indeed they must,

for reason soon rebels at what they have to swallow. My own

experience with him only tended to confirm and deepen that

cynicism which has taken the allegiance of so much of my life,

and to strengthen that radical scepticism which hid the inner

sensitivity that guided my wanderings around this sub-

continent.

All over the East there have been recurring hints of a coming

event which is to prove the greatest thing history has given us

for many hundred years. The prophecy of a Coming rears its

head among the brown faces of India, the stocky people of

Tibet, the almond-eyed masses of China, and the old grey-

beards of Africa. To the vivid and devout Oriental imagination,

the hour is ripe and our restless time bears outward portent

of the near approach of this event. What more natural than

for Meher Baba to regard his sudden psychological change as

an indication of his own messianic destiny? What more

natural than his fondly cherished belief that one day he will

announce himself to an awe stricken world? What more

natural than for his own obedient flock to take it upon them-

selves to spread the news of their messiah's advent? Neverthe-

less one is compelled to condemn the theatrical methods

which he has used. No great religious teacher worthy the

name has ever used them, or is ever likely to break the spiritual

etiquette of thousands of centuries. I have a shrewd suspicion

as to what form the future vagaries of this spectacular " saint "

will take. But time will reveal them for the world's entertain-

ment better than the present writer.

And as this long reflection draws to an end, I realize that I

need not deny that many high and sublime sayings have been

communicated through the lithe fingers of Meher Baba. But,

262 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

when he descends from his religious inspirations, as descend

he must, and stoops to talk of his own personal greatness and

personal fortunes, it is time to put on one's shoes again. For

the future leader of mankind is then likely to become its

misleader! l

1 Meher Baba has since appeared in the West and a Western cult has started to gather around him. He still promises wonderful things,

which will happen when he breaks his silence. He has several times

visited England, has acquired a following in France, Spain and Turkey,

and has been twice to Persia. He made a theatrical journey across

the continent of America with a mixed retinue of men and women.

When he arrived in Hollywood, he was given a royal reception.

Mary Pickford entertained him in her home, Tallulah Bankhead

became interested in him, while a thousand leading people were

presented to him at Hollywood's largest hotel. A large tract of land

was acquired in the United States to establish his Western head-

quarters. Meanwhile dumbness still lies upon his lips, the while he

flits impulsively from country to country on brief visits. At last he

has been brought into the glare of notoriety.

CHAPTER XV

A STRANGE ENCOUNTER

I WANDER about Western India for the second time in a

leisurely and indeterminate manner. Tired of travelling

in dusty railway trains and seatless bullock-carts, I take

to an old, but sturdy touring car with a Hindu who plays the

threefold part of companion, chauffeur and servant.

We move on through several changes of scenery, while the

miles speed away under our tyres. In the forest areas the

chauffeur stops at nightfall, if unable to reach a village in time,

and halts till dawn breaks. Throughout the night he keeps a

large fire burning, feeding it with twigs and bushes. He

assures me that the flames will keep wild beasts from approach-

ing us. Leopards and panthers haunt the forests, but such is

the fear which a simple fire seems to inspire in them that they

keep at a respectful distance. Not so the jackals. Among the

hills we hear their lugubrious barking quite close to us at

times. And during the daytime we meet on occasions with

vultures soaring out of their eyries into the brassy sky.

Late one afternoon, while we are motoring along a road

which is thickly covered with dust, we overtake a queer couple

sitting by the wayside. One is a middle-aged holy man,

crouching on his hams and apparently contemplating his navel

under the thin shade of some scanty-leaved bushes; the other

is his youthful attendant, probably a disciple. The older man's

hands are joined, his eyes are half-shut in meditation, and he

sits perfectly unmoved as we pass. We do not succeed in

winning so much as a glance from him, although his youthful

devotee stares in a dull way at our car. Something in the man's

face attracts me and decides me to stop a little way off. My

Hindu companion goes back to question them and I watch

him nervously approach the couple. At length he gets into a

lengthy conversation with the young man.

When he returns he informs me, amongst a multitude of

trivial details, that the couple are indeed master and disciple,

263

264 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

that the older man's name is Chandi Das, and that according

to the youngster's tribute, he is a Yogi gifted with exceptional

faculties. They are wandering from village to village and have

already covered a great distance, partly on foot and partly by

train, since they left their native Bengal nearly two years ago.

I offer them a lift which they immediately accept, the older

man with benign grace and the younger one with impulsive

gratitude. And so, half an hour later, the car deposits a

strangely mixed crew in the next village, where we resolve to

spend the night.

No other soul has been in sight on the route except, when

nearing the village, a boy tending a small herd of scraggy cows.

The afternoon is drawing to its end as we stand beside the

village well and drink some refreshing though dubiously

coloured liquid. The forty or fifty huts and cottages which

make up the village's single straggling street, with their

unevenly thatched grass roofs, low irregular mud walls and

rough bamboo uprights, depress me a little with their squalid

appearance. A few inhabitants squat in the shade before their

unattractive dwellings. A grey, sad woman with half-hidden

shrivelled breasts approaches the well, stares at us, fills her

brass pitcher with water, and sets out for home again.

My Hindu companion collects the things for making tea

and goes off in search of the village headman's house. The

Yogi and his faithful attendant-disciple squat in the dust and

rest. The former knows no English, and I have already

discovered in the car that the latter possesses a smattering of

the language, though hardly adequate enough to carry on a

proper conversation. After a few attempts I found it more

profitable to wait until we could all settle down in the evening

for the interview I am determined to secure, when I can call

on the services of my Hindu interpreter.

Meanwhile a little group of men, women and children has

collected around us. These inhabitants of the interior seldom

come into contact with Europeans. I have often found it an

interesting experience to talk to some of them, if only for the

unsophisticated and innocent view-point of life which such

talks disclose. The children are shy at first, but I win them by

distributing a few annas. They regard my alarm watch with

incredulous wonder and naive delight, as I set the dial and let

the little peals ring forth for their benefit.

A woman approaches the Yogi, prostrates herself before him

in the open street, touches his feet and then puts her fingers to

her own forehead.

A STRANGE ENCOUNTER 265

My Hindu servant returns with the headman and with the

announcement that tea is ready. He is a college graduate, but is

quite content to act as bearer, chauffeur and interpreter, for he

is seeking to fathom my Western experience and lives in the

constant hope that one day I will take him to Europe. I treat

him as a companion and with that friendliness which I feel his

good intelligence and character deserve.

Meanwhile someone has captured the Yogi and his disciple

and taken them off to a hut for hospitality. Certainly these

village folk are kindlier than their brethren of the towns.

As we walk down to the headman's house, I watch the west

reddenning behind the distant hills as an orange sun flickers

out its life. We halt at a superior-looking cottage, and inside I

take the opportunity of thanking the headman.

" T h e honour of your visit overwhelms me," he replies

simply.

We rest awhile after the tea. The shadows of a brief twilight

now lie across the fields and I can hear the cattle being driven

into the village for the night. Later my servant goes out to

visit the Yogi and succeeds in preparing the way for me. He

leads me to the door of one of the humbler huts.

I enter the square, low-roofed room and my feet tread an

earthen floor. Hardly any furniture is to be seen, though a few

clay pots lie around the rude hearth. A bamboo pole stuck into

the wall acts as a kind of wardrobe, for clothes and rags hang

upon it. One corner is graced with a brass water-jug. I think

how bare the place looks in the pale light of the primitive lamp.

Such are the cheerless comforts of a poorer peasant's home.

The Yogi's disciple greets me with his broken English, but

his master is not visible. The latter has been called to the side

of an ailing mother for his blessing. I wait for his return.

At length there is a sound outside in the street and then a

tall figure appears on the threshold. He enters the room

gravely. Seeing me, he makes a gesture of acknowledgment

and murmurs some words. My bearer whispers the translation:

"Greetings, sahib. May the gods protect y o u ! "

He refuses my offer of a cotton blanket to squat on and drops

to the floor, where he crosses his legs. We confront each other,

and I take the opportunity to study him more closely. The

man before me is probably fifty years of age, though the short

rugged beard on his chin gives him an older appearance. His

hair hangs down in tangled strands to his neck; his mouth is

serious and always unsmiling. But what struck me most when

we first met strikes me anew at this moment - the strange

266 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

glitter of his coal-black eyes, their lustrous brilliance. I know

that such unearthly eyes will continue to haunt me for days.

"You have travelled far? " he asks quietly.

I nod assent.

"What do you think of the Master Mahasaya? " he demands

suddenly.

I am startled. How has he come to know that I have been

to his native Bengal and visited Mahasaya in Calcutta? I gaze

at him for a while in bewilderment and then recall myself to his

question.

" H e is a man who has won my heart," I reply. " B u t why

do you a s k ? "

He ignores my counter-question. There is an embarrassing

silence. I try to keep up the conversation by saying:

"I am looking forward to seeing him again when I revisit

Calcutta. Does he know you? Shall I carry your greetings? "

The Yogi shakes his head firmly.

"You will never see Mahasaya again. Even now Yama, the

god of death, is calling to his spirit."

Another pause. And then I tell him:

" I a m interested in the lives and thoughts of Yogis. Will

you not tell me how you came to be one and what wisdom you

have gained?"

Chandi Das does not encourage my attempt to interview him.

" T h e past is but a heap of ashes," he answers. " Do not

ask me to poke my finger in the ashes and pick out dead

experiences. I live neither in the past nor the future. In the

depths of the human spirit, these things are no more real than

shadows. That also is the wisdom I have learnt."

This is disconcerting. His stiff hieratic attitude upsets my

composure.

" B u t we who live in the world of time must take account of

them," I object.

'' Time? " he queries. ''Are you sure there is such a thing? ''

I fear that our talk is becoming fantastic. Does this man

really possess the wonderful gifts which his disciple claims on

his behalf? Aloud I say:

" I f time did not exist, then the past and the future would

both be here now. But experience tells us to the contrary."

" S o ? What you mean is that your experience, the world's

experience, tells you t h a t ! "

"Surely, you do not suggest that you have a different

experience of the matter? "

"There is truth in your talk," comes the strange answer.

A STRANGE ENCOUNTER 267

" A m I to understand that the future shows itself to

you?"

"I live in the eternal," replies Chandi Das. "I never seek

to discover the events that coming years will pass over my

head."

" B u t you can for o t h e r s ? "

" I f I wish - yes! "

I am determined to get the thing clear in my mind.

" T h e n you can give them an understanding of events which

are yet to happen?"

"Only in part. The lives of men do not move so smoothly

that every detail is ordained for them."

" T h e n will you reveal that part of my future which you can

discover?"

"Wherefore do you seek to know these t h i n g s ? "

I hesitate.

" G o d has not dropped a veil over what is to come without

fit cause," continues the other man almost sternly.

What can I say? And then an inspiration comes.

"Grave problems vex my mind. In the hope of finding

some light upon them I have come to your land. Perhaps in

what you can tell me there may be guidance for my feet, or

perhaps I shall know whether I have come on a fruitless

errand."

The Yogi turns his shining black eyes upon me. In the

silence which ensues I am impressed once more by the grave

dignity of this man. He seems so profound, so pontifically

wise as he sits there with folded legs and interlocked feet, as to

transcend his mean surroundings in this poor hut of a remote

jungle village.

I notice, for the first time, a lizard watching us from the upper

part of a wall. Its bead-like eyes never leave us, and its

grotesquely wide mouth is so fantastic that I almost believe it is

grinning wickedly at me.

At last Chandi Das finds his voice.

"I am not adorned with the polished jewels of learning, but

if you will listen to what I have to say, then your journey will

not be fruitless. Go back to the same place where you started

your Indian journey and, before a new moon will have risen,

you shall have your desire satisfied."

" D o you mean that I should return to Bombay?"

"You speak rightly."

I am puzzled. What can that hybrid half-Western city hold

for me?

268 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

" B u t I have never found anything there to help me on my

quest," I protest.

Chandi Das looks at me coolly.

"There is your path. Follow it as quickly as your heels can

carry you. Lose no time, but hasten back to Bombay

to-morrow."

" I s that all you can tell me? "

" T h e r e is more, but I have not troubled to perceive it."

He reverts to silence. His eyes become as expressionless as

still water. A while later he speaks:

"You will leave India and return to the Western lands before

the next equinox. A grievous illness will fall upon your body

almost as soon as you leave our soil. The spirit will struggle in

the wracked body, but not yet is its hour of escape. And then

the hidden work of destiny will come to light, for it will send

you back to Aryavarta (India) so that in all you visit us thrice.

A sage awaits you even now and for his sake, since you are tied

to him by ancient threads, you will come back to dwell among

us."1

His voice stops and a faint tremor passes across his eyelids.

When, later, he looks directly at me, he adds:

"You have heard. There is nothing more to say."

The rest of our talk is desultory and unimportant. Chandi

Das refuses to enter into further discussion about himself, so

that I am left wondering how to receive his strange words,

although I feel that there is more behind them.

There is an amusing moment when, in the course of a brief

conversation with his youthful disciple, the latter asks me

earnestly:

" Do you not see such things among the Yogis of England? "

I try to restrain a smile.

"There are no Yogis in that country," I answer.

Everyone else has sat still and silent throughout the evening,

but when the Yogi signifies that the interview is over, the owner

of the hut, a peasant probably, approaches us and asks if we will

share his humble meal with him. I tell him that we have

brought some food in the car and that we will go over to the

headman's house to cook it, since the headman had promised

to accommodate us in a room of his house for the night. But

the peasant replies that he will not have it said that he has for-

gotten how to be hospitable. I tell him that I have eaten well

to-day and beg him not to trouble. However, he is firm and

insistent, so, rather than disappoint him, I accept.

1 Time has written its confirmation of the first half of this prediction.

A STRANGE ENCOUNTER 269

" I t ill becomes me to receive a guest and give him no food,"

he remarks, when he offers a dish of fried grain.

I look through the barred hole which serves as a window.

The opal crescent of the moon thrusts a pale light through the

hole as I reflect upon the superior character and kindliness

which one finds so often in these simple, illiterate peasants. No

college education, no business acumen can compensate for the

degeneration of character which so often marks the folk of the

towns.

And when I have taken farewell of Chandi Das and his

disciple, the peasant lifts the cheap lantern which hangs from a

narrow beam in the roof and accompanies us to the street. I

reassure him, so he touches his forehead, smiles, and stands in

the open doorway. I follow in the wake of my servant, each of

us flashing a torch, towards our place of rest for the night.

Sleep eludes m e ; for, mingling with my thoughts of the mys-

terious Yogi from Bengal are the eerie cries of jackals and the

peculiar long howl of a pariah dog.

§

If I do not follow the counsel of Chandi Das to the strict

letter, at least I turn the car's radiator towards Bombay and

make a gradual return to that city. When I succeed in arriving

there and installing myself in a hotel, I succeed also in falling ill.

Cooped up between four walls, tired in mind and sick in

body, I begin to develop, for the first time, a pessimistic out-

look. I begin to feel that I have had enough of India. I have

covered many thousands of miles of travel in this country, and

occasionally under dismal conditions. The India I have been

seeking is not to be found in the European quarters, where

wining, dining, dancing, bridge and whisky-and-sodas make up

the pattern of an attractive picture. Sojourn in the Indian

quarters of towns, whenever decently possible, has helped me

in my quest, but has not improved my health, while sojourn in

up-country districts and jungle villages, with unsuitable food

and bad water, unsettled life and tropical sleeplessness, has

proved itself dangerous. My body is now a weary burden

flung on a bed of pain.

I wonder how much longer I can stave off a breakdown. I

have grown heavy-eyed with lack of sleep. For months I have

been unable to exorcise this wraith of insomnia which has

relentlessly pursued me throughout this land. And the need to

270 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

walk warily between the strange types of men with whom I have

come into contact has played sad havoc with my nerves. The

necessity of keeping a careful inner balance, of being critical

and yet receptive at the same time, while penetrating the

unfamiliar circles of India's secret hinterland, has imposed a

prolonged strain upon me. I have had to learn how to pick my

way between genuine sages and fools who mistake their egotistic

fancies for divine knowledge, between true religious mystics

and mere mystery-mongers, between pseudo holy men working

black magic and true followers of the way of Yoga. And I have

had to cram and concentrate my investigations into minimum

time, for I cannot afford to spend years out of a life upon a

single quest.

If my physical and mental condition is bad, my spiritual

state is little better. I am disheartened by a sense of failure.

True, I have met some men of remarkable attainments and fine

character, as well as others who can do amazing things, but I

have not settled down to any positive inward recognition that

here is the spiritual superman of my quest, the master who

appeals to my rationalistic make-up and to whom I can gladly

attach myself. Enthusiastic disciples have vainly endeavoured

to draw me into their own teachers' folds, but I can see that,

just as youth takes its first adolescent adventure as the last

measure of love, so these good folk have been so thrilled by

their early experiences that they have not thought to seek any

farther. Besides, I have no desire to become the depository of

another man's doctrines; it is a living, first-hand, personal

experience which I seek, a spiritual illumination entirely my

own and not someone else's.

But, after all, I am only a humble and irresponsible scribe

wandering in the East after abandoning his ambitions. Who

am I to expect to be favoured with such a meeting? And so

depression throws its heavy mantle around my heart.

When I am well enough to drag my body around, I sit at the

hotel table with an Army captain as my neighbour. He unfolds

a long story of a sick wife, a slow recovery, cancelled leave

arrangements, and so on. He makes my own morbidity worse.

When we have finished and are out on the veranda, he sticks a

long cigar in his mouth and mutters:

" S o m e game - life, eh? "

"Yes - s o m e ! " I agree laconically.

Half an hour later I am in a taxi speeding along Hornby

Road. We stop outside the tall, piazza-like facade of a shipping

company's offices. I pay for my ticket with the consciousness

A STRANGE ENCOUNTER 271

that I have done the only possible thing in taking this sudden

exit from India.

Despising the grimy hovels, dusty shops, ornate palaces and

efficient-looking office blocks which are Bombay, I return

to my hotel room in order to continue my unhappy

ruminations.

Evening comes. The waiter sets a delicious curry on the

table, but the dinner repels me. I take a couple of iced drinks

and then taxi across the city. I get out and saunter slowly

along a street until I find myself standing in front of one of the

West's gifts to urban India - a great, gaudy-faced cinema

theatre. I pause awhile before its brightly lit entrance and

study its flaringly coloured posters.

Always fond of movies, they seem to offer to-night a welcome

drink of the cup of Lethe. I do not imagine that I shall ever be

completely forlorn while I can buy, for a rupee or its equivalent,

a padded and plush-covered seat at a cinema in any city

throughout the world.

Inside I settle down to watch the inevitable fragments of

American life turned into tabloids and flung in shadows upon a

white screen. Once again there reappears a foolish wife and

faithless husband, both moving on a background of palatial

apartments. I try hard to fix my attention on them, but some-

how find myself becoming increasingly bored. To my surprise I

discover that the old zest for cinema pictures has suddenly

deserted me. The tales of human passion, tragedy and comedy

have strangely lost their power to sadden my heart or move me

to laughter.

Half-way through the show the screen figures flicker away

into sheer unreality. My attention becomes quite abstracted

and my thoughts fasten themselves once again upon my strange

quest. I realize unexpectedly that I have become a pilgrim

without a God, a wanderer from city to city and from village to

village seeking a place where the mind may rest, but finding

none. How I have gazed into the faces of many men, hoping

to find the exotic lineaments of a spiritual superman who has

cast the plumb-line of thought deeper than the men of my own

land and time; how I have looked into the dark flashing eyes

of other peoples, hoping to find a pair that will echo back the

mysterious answer which will satisfy m e !

And then a peculiar tenseness arises in my brain and the

atmosphere around me seems to be charged with potent

electrical vibrations. I am aware that some profoundly

dynamic psychic change is occurring within me. Suddenly a

272 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

mental voice thrusts itself into the field of attention and forces

me to listen, amazed, as it scornfully says to m e :

"Life itself is nothing more than a cinema play unrolling its

episodes from the cradle to the grave. Where now are the past

scenes - can you hold them? Where are those yet to come -

can you grasp them? Instead of trying to find the Real, the

Enduring, the Eternal, you come here and waste time on what

is even more deceptive than ordinary existence - a wholly

imaginary story, an illusion within the great illusion."

Thereupon I lose the last shred of interest in the spinning

film of human love and tragedy. To retain my seat any

longer will be a farce. I rise and walk out of the theatre.

I wander slowly and aimlessly through the street under the

brilliant moon which, in the East, seems so close to man's life.

At a corner a beggar approaches me, and I gaze into his face as

he utters his first unrecognizable sound. I recoil in horror, for

he is disfigured by a terrible disease, which has left the skin of

his face clinging in patches to the bone. But a profound pity

for this fellow-victim of life replaces my first disgust and I

thrust all my loose change into his outstretched hand.

I make my way to the seashore, to a lonelier part where one

can remain untroubled by the motley crowds of varied races

which throng the Back Bay promenade each night. Gazing at

the stars, which form a beautiful canopy to this city, I realize

that I have reached an unexpected crisis.

§

Within a few days my ship will head its way to Europe and

slide through the greenish-blue waters of the Arabian Sea.

Once on board I shall bid farewell to philosophy and toss my

Oriental quest into the waters of oblivion. No longer shall I

give all that I have to offer - time, thought, energy, money -

upon the altar of a search for supposititious masters.

But the inescapable mental voice persists in troubling me

again.

" F o o l ! " it flings scornfully at me. " S o this is to be the

empty result of years of investigation and aspiration! You are

to tread the same road as other men, to forget all you have

learnt, to drown your better feelings in hard egotism and

sensuality? But take care! Your apprenticeship to life has

been served with terrible masters; unending thought has

stripped the veneer off existence, ceaseless activity has lashed

A STRANGE ENCOUNTER 273

you with its whip, and spiritual loneliness has segregated your

soul. Think you that you can escape the results of such an

indenture? Not so, for it has put invisible chains on your

feet!"

I see-saw from one mood to another, the while I stare at

the thick star-clusters which overpower the Oriental sky. I

seek to defend myself against the merciless psychic voice,

pleading my helplessness in the face of failure.

The voice answers:

"Are you sure none of the men you met here in India can

be the Master you seek? "

A long gallery of faces passes before my mind's eye. Quick-

tempered Northern faces, placid Southern ones, nervous

emotional Eastern faces and strong silent Mahratti faces from

the West: friendly faces, foolish faces, wise faces, dangerous

faces, evil faces and inscrutable ones.

A single face disentangles itself out of the procession and

persistently hovers before me, its eyes quietly gazing into mine.

It is the calm, Sphinx-like countenance of the Maharishee, the

sage who has spent his life on the Hill of the Holy Beacon in

the South. I have never forgotten him; indeed, a tender

thought of the Maharishee has arisen for a brief life again and

again, but the abrupt character of my experiences, the whirling

panorama of faces and events and the sudden changes which

came during my quest have deeply overlaid the impressions of

my short period with him.

Yet I realize now that he has passed through my life like a

star, which moves across the dark void with its lonely light and

then is gone. And I have to admit, in answer to my inner

questioner, that he is the one man who has impressed me more

than any other person I have ever met, whether in the East or

West. But he had seemed so aloof, so remote from a European

mentality, and so indifferent whether I became his pupil or not.

The silent voice now grips me with its intensity.

"How can you be sure that he was indifferent? You did not

stay long, but hurried away."

"Yes," I confess, feebly. "I had to carry out my self-

imposed programme. What else could I d o ? "

"There is one thing you can do now. Go back to him."

"How can I force myself upon h i m ? "

"Your personal feelings are of less importance than success

in this search. Go back to the Maharishee."

" H e is at the other end of India and I am too ill to start my

wanderings again."

274 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

"What does that matter? If you want a Master you must

pay the price."

"I doubt whether I want one now, for I feel too tired to

want anything. Anyway, I have booked a steamer berth and

must sail in three days; it is too late to alter things."

The voice almost sneers at me.

" T o o late, eh? What has happened to your sense of values?

You admit that the Maharishee is the most wonderful man

you ever met, but you are quite willing to run away from him

before you have hardly tried to know him. Return to him."

I remain sullen and obstinate. The brain answers " Yes,"

but the blood says " N o ! "

Once more the voice urges m e :

"Change your plans again. You must go back to the

Maharishee."

Thereupon something surges up from the inner depths of my

being and demands immediate assent to the command of that

inexplicable voice. It overwhelms me and so forcibly does it

master my reason-born objections and the protests of my

enfeebled body that I become as a babe in its hands. Through

all this sudden overpowering urgency which asks my instant

return to the Maharishee, I see his summoning irresistible

eyes in a most vivid manner.

I cease all further argument with the inner voice, because I

know that I am now helpless in its hands. I shall travel at once

to the Maharishee and, if he accepts me, entrust myself to his

tutelage. I shall hitch my wagon to his shining star. The die

is cast. Something has conquered me, though I do not

understand what it is.

I return to the hotel, mop my brow and sip a cup of lukewarm

tea. As I drink it I realize that I am a changed man. I am

conscious that my dark burden of wretchedness and doubt is

falling from my shoulders.

Next morning I come down to breakfast aware that I am

smiling for the first time since I came back to Bombay. The

tall bearded Sikh servant, resplendent in white jacket, golden

cummerbund and white trousers, smiles back in response as

he stands with folded arms behind my chair. Then he says:

"A letter for you, sir."

I look at the cover. It has been twice readdressed and has

followed me from place to place. As I take my seat I slit it

open.

To my delight and surprise I discover that it has been

written in the hermitage at the foot of the Hill of the Holy

A STRANGE ENCOUNTER 275

Beacon. Its writer, once a prominent public man and Member

of the Madras Legislative Council, has withdrawn from

worldly affairs following a tragic domestic bereavement and

become a disciple of the Maharishee, whom he visits on

occasions. I had met him and we were engaged in a desultory

correspondence.

The letter is full of encouraging thoughts and suggests

that I shall be welcome if I care to revisit the hermitage.

When I finish reading it one sentence flames out in memory

so as to obliterate the others.

"You have had the good fortune to meet a real Master," it

runs.

I treat the letter as an omen favourable to my new-born

decision to return to the Maharishee. A ride down to the

shipping offices follows breakfast, and I leave the intimation

that I am not sailing.

It is not long before I bid adieu to Bombay and carry out my

new plan. I cross hundreds of miles of flat colourless Deccan

tableland, with long stretches where solitary bamboo trees

alone rear their leafy heads to vary the scene. The train cannot

roll through the scanty grass and occasional trees of this Indian

prairie fast enough for me. As it flies jokingly along the rails,

I feel that I am speeding towards a great occasion - spiritual

enlightenment and the most mysterious personality I have

ever encountered. For as I look out of the screened compart-

ment window, my slumbering hopes of discovering a Rishee,

a spiritual superman, awaken once more.

When, on the second day, we have covered over a thousand

miles and have begun to enter the placid Southern landscape,

broken by a few red hills, I feel strangely happy. And when we

leave the torrid plains behind, I find the dank, steamy heat of

Madras City positively welcome, for it means that I have

broken the back of my journey.

After leaving the South Mahratta Company's terminus, I

have to cross the scattered town in order to change on to the

South Indian Railway. Finding that I have a few hours to

spare before the train starts, I use the time to make some

necessary purchases and to have a hurried chat with the

Indian author who introduced me to His Holiness Shri

Shankara, the spiritual head of South India.

He greets me warmly, and when I inform him that I am on

the way to the Maharishee, the writer exclaims:

"I am not surprised! That is what I expected."

I am taken aback, but ask him:

276 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

" Why do you say t h a t ? "

He smiles.

" M y friend, do you not remember how we parted from His

Holiness in the town of Chingleput? Did you not notice that

he whispered something to me in the ante-room just before we

l e f t ? "

"Yes, now that you remind me, I certainly do remember

it."

The author's thin, refined face still keeps its smile.

" This is what His Holiness told me. 'Your friend will

travel all round India. He will visit many Yogis and listen to

many teachers. But, in the end, he will have to return to the

Maharishee. For him, the Maharishee alone is the right

Master.'"

These words, coming as they do on the eve of my return,

deeply impress me. They reveal the prophetic power of Shri

Shankara more, they offer a kind of confirmation that I am

taking the right course.

How strange are the wanderings which my stars have

imposed upon me.

CHAPTER XVI

IN A JUNGLE HERMITAGE

THERE are moments unforgettable which mark them-

selves in golden figures upon the calendar of our

years. Such a moment comes to me now, as I walk

into the hall of the Maharishee.

He sits as usual upon the magnificent tiger-skin which

covers the centre of his divan. The joss-sticks burn slowly

away on a little table near him, spreading the penetrating

fragrance of incense around the hall. Not to-day is he remote

from men and wrapped up in some trance-like spiritual

absorption, as on that strange occasion when I first visited him.

His eyes are clearly open to this world and glance at me compre-

hendingly as I bow, and his mouth is stretched in a kindly

smile of welcome.

Squatting at a respectful distance from their master are a

few disciples; otherwise the long hall is bare. One of them

pulls the punkah-fan, which flaps lazily through the heavy

air.

In my heart I know that I come as one seeking to take up the

position of a disciple, and that there will be no rest for my mind

until I hear the Maharishee's decision. It is true that I live

in a great hope of being accepted, for that which sent me

scurrying out of Bombay to this place came as an absolute

command, a decisive and authoritative injunction from a

supernormal region. In a few words I dispose of the pre-

liminary explanations, and then put my request briefly and

bluntly to the Maharishee.

He continues to smile at me, but says nothing.

I repeat my question with some emphasis.

There is another protracted pause, but at length he answers

me, disdaining to call for the services of an interpreter and

expressing himself directly in English.

"What is all this talk of masters and disciples? All these

differences exist only from the disciple's standpoint. To the

277

278 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

one who has realized the true self there is neither master

nor disciple. Such a one regards all people with equal

eye."

I am slightly conscious of an initial rebuff, and though I press

my request in other ways the Maharishee refuses to yield on

the point. But in the end he does say:

"You must find the master within you, within your own

spiritual self. You must regard his body in the same way that

he himself regards it; the body is not his true self."

It begins to voice itself in my thoughts that the Maharishee

is not to be drawn into giving me a direct affirmative response,

and that the answer I seek must be found in some other way,

doubtless in the subtle, obscure manner at which he hints.

So I let the matter drop and our talk then turns to the outward

and material side of my visit.

I spend the afternoon making some arrangements for a

protracted stay.

§

The ensuing weeks absorb me into a strange, unwonted life.

My days are spent in the hall of the Maharishee, where I

slowly pick up the unrelated fragments of his wisdom and the

faint clues to the answer I seek; my nights continue as hereto-

fore in torturing sleeplessness, with my body stretched out on

a blanket laid on the hard earthen floor of a hastily built

hut.

This humble abode stands about three hundred feet away

from the hermitage. Its thick walls are composed of thinly

plastered earth, but the roof is solidly tiled to withstand the

monsoon rains. The ground around it is virgin bush, some-

what thickly overgrown, being in fact the fringe of the jungle

which stretches away to the west. The rugged landscape

reveals Nature in all her own wild uncultivated grandeur.

Cactus hedges are scattered numerously and irregularly around,

the spines of these prickly plants looking like coarse needles.

Beyond them the jungle drops a curtain of scrub bush and

stunted trees upon the land. To the north rises the gaunt

figure of the mountain, a mass of metallic-tinted rocks and

brown soil. To the south lies a long pool, whose placid water

has attracted me to the spot, and whose banks are bordered

with clumps of trees holding families of grey and brown

monkeys.

IN A JUNGLE HERMITAGE 279

Each day is a duplicate of the one before. I rise early in the

mornings and watch the jungle dawn turn from grey to green

and then to gold. Next comes a plunge into the water and a

swift swim up and down the pool, making as much noise as I

possibly can so as to scare away lurking snakes. Then,

dressing, shaving, and the only luxury I can secure in this

place - three cups of deliciously refreshing tea.

"Master, the pot of tea-water is ready," says Rajoo, my hired

boy. From an initial total ignorance of the English language,

he has acquired that much, and more, under my occasional

tuition. As a servant he is a gem, for he will scour up and down

the little township with optimistic determination in quest of the

strange articles and foods for which his Western employer

speculatively sends him, or he will hover outside the Mahari-

shee's hall in discreet silence during meditation hours should

he happen to come along for orders at such times. But as a

cook he is unable to comprehend Western taste, which seems a

queer distorted thing to him. After a few painful experiments I

myself take charge of the more serious culinary arrangements,

reducing my labour by reducing my solid meals to a single one

each day. Tea, taken thrice daily, becomes both my solitary

earthly joy and the mainstay of my energy. Rajoo stands in the

sunshine and watches with wonderment my addiction to the

glorious brown brew. His body shines in the hard yellow light

like polished ebony, for he is a true son of the black Dravidians,

the primal inhabitants of India.

After breakfast comes my quiet lazy stroll to the hermitage, a

halt for a couple of minutes beside the sweet rose bushes in the

compound garden, which is fenced in by bamboo posts, or

a rest under the drooping fronds of palm trees whose heads

are heavy with coconuts. It is a beautiful experience to

wander around the hermitage garden before the sun has waxed

in power and to see and smell the variegated flowers.

And then I enter the hall, bow before the Maharishee, and

quietly sit down on folded legs. I may read or write for a

while, or engage in conversation with one or two of the other

men, or tackle the Maharishee on some point, or plunge into

meditation for an hour along the lines which the sage has

indicated, although evening usually constitutes the time

specially assigned to meditation in the hall. But whatever I am

doing I never fail to become gradually aware of the mysterious

atmosphere of the place, of the benign radiations which

steadily percolate into my brain. I enjoy an ineffable tranquil-

lity merely by sitting for a while in the neighbourhood of the

280 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

Maharishee. By careful observation and frequent analysis I

arrive in time at the complete certitude that a reciprocal inter-

influence arises whenever our presences neighbour each other.

The thing is most subtle. But it is quite unmistakable.

At eleven I return to the hut for the midday meal and a rest

and then go back to the hall to repeat my programme of the

morning. I vary my meditations and conversations sometimes

by roaming the countryside or descending on the little township

to make further explorations of the colossal temple.

From time to time the Maharishee unexpectedly visits me at

the hut after finishing his own lunch. I seize the opportunity

to plague him with further questions, which he patiently

answers in terse epigrammatic phrases, clipped so short as

rarely to constitute complete sentences. But once, when I

propound some fresh problem, he makes no answer. Instead,

he gazes out towards the jungle-covered hills which stretch to

the horizon and remains motionless. Many minutes pass, but

still his eyes are fixed, his presence remote. I am quite unable

to discern whether his attention is being given to some invisible

psychic being in the distance or whether it is being turned on

some inward preoccupation. At first I wonder whether he has

heard me, but in the tense silence which ensues, and which I

feel unable or unwilling to break, a force greater than my

rationalistic mind commences to awe me until it ends by

overwhelming me.

The realization forces itself through my wonderment that all

my questions are moves in an endless game, the play of thoughts

which possess no limit to their extent; that somewhere within

me there is a well of certitude which can provide me with all the

waters of truth I require; and that it will be better to cease my

questioning and attempt to realize the tremendous potencies of

my own spiritual nature. So I remain silent and wait.

For almost half an hour the Maharishee's eyes continue to

stare straight in front of him in a fixed, unmoving gaze. He

appears to have forgotten me, but I am perfectly aware that the

sublime realization which has suddenly fallen upon me is

nothing else than a spreading ripple of telepathic radiation

from this mysterious and imperturbable man.

On another visit he finds me in a pessimistic mood. He tells

me of the glorious goal which waits for the man who takes to

the way he has shown.

"But, Maharishee, this path is full of difficulties and I am

so conscious of my own weaknesses," I plead.

" T h a t is the surest way to handicap oneself," he answers

IN A JUNGLE HERMITAGE 281

unmoved, "this burdening of one's mind with the fear of

failure and the thought of one's failings."

"Yet if it is true ? " I persist.

" I t is not true. The greatest error of a man is to think that

he is weak by nature, evil by nature. Every man is divine and

strong in his real nature. What are weak and evil are his

habits, his desires and thoughts, but not himself."

His words come as an invigorating tonic. They refresh and

inspire me. From another man's lips, from some lesser and

feebler soul, I would refuse to accept them at such worth and

would persist in refuting them. But an inward monitor assures

me that the sage speaks out of the depths of a great and authentic

spiritual experience, and not as some theorizing philosopher

mounted on the thin stilts of speculation.

Another time, when we are discussing the West, I make the

retort:

" I t is easy for you to attain and keep spiritual serenity in this

jungle retreat, where there is nothing to disturb or distract

you."

"When the goal is reached, when you know the Knower,

there is no difference between living in a house in London and

living in the solitude of a jungle," comes the calm rejoinder.

And once I criticize the Indians for their neglect of material

development. To my surprise the Maharishee frankly admits

the accusation.

" I t is true. We are a backward race. But we are a people

with few wants. Our society needs improving, but we are con-

tented with much fewer things than your people. So to be

backward is not to mean that we are less happy."

§

How has the Maharishee arrived at the strange power and

stranger outlook which he possesses? Bit by bit, from his own

reluctant lips and from those of his disciples, I piece together a

fragmentary pattern of his life story.

He was born in 1879 in a village about thirty miles distant

from Madura, which is a noted South Indian town possessing

one of the largest temples in the country. His father followed

some avocation connected with law and came of good Brahmin

stock. His father appears to have been an extremely charitable

man who fed and clothed many poor persons. The boy

eventually passed to Madura to carry on his education, and it

282 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

was here that he picked up the rudiments of English from some

American missionaries who were conducting a school.

At first young Ramana was fond of play and sport. He

wrestled, boxed and swam dangerous rivers. He betrayed no

special interest in religious or philosophical concerns. The

only exceptional thing in his life at the time was a tendency to

somnambulism or sleep-walking, and to a condition of sleep so

profound that the most disturbing interruptions could not

awaken him. His schoolmates eventually discovered this and

took advantage of it to sport with him. During the daytime

they were afraid of his quick punch, but at night they would

come into his bedroom, take him into the playground, beat his

body and box his ears, and then lead him back to bed. He was

quite unconscious of these experiences and had no remembrance

of them in the mornings.

The psychologist who has correctly understood the nature

of sleep will find in this account of the boy's abnormal depth of

attention, sufficient indication of the mystical nature which he

possessed.

One day a relative came to Madura and, in answer to

Ramana's question, mentioned that he had just returned from a

pilgrimage to the temple of Arunachala. The name stirred

some slumbering depths in the boy's mind, thrilling him with

peculiar expectations which he could not understand. He

enquired as to the whereabouts of this temple and ever after

found himself haunted by thoughts of it. It seemed to be of

paramount importance to him, yet he could not even explain to

himself why Arunachala should mean anything more to him

than the dozens of other great temples which are scattered over

India.

He continued his studies at the mission school without

showing any special aptitude for them, although he always

evinced a fair degree of intelligence in his work. But when he

was seventeen, destiny, with swift and sudden stroke, got into

action and thrust its hands through the even tenor of his days.

He suddenly left the school and completely abandoned all his

studies. He gave no notice to his teachers or to his relatives,

and told no one before the event actually occurred. What was

the reason of this unpromising change, which cast a cloud upon

his future worldly prospects?

The reason was satisfying enough to himself, though it

might have seemed mind-perplexing to others. For life, which

in the ultimate is the teacher of men, set the young student on

another course than that which his school-teachers had assigned

IN A JUNGLE HERMITAGE 283

him. And the change came in a curious way about six weeks

before he dropped his studies and disappeared from Madura

for ever.

He was sitting alone one day in his room when a sudden and

inexplicable fear of death took hold of him. He became acutely

aware that he was going to die, although outwardly he was in

good health. The thing was a psychological phenomenon,

because there was no apparent reason why he should die. Yet

he became obsessed with this notion and immediately began to

prepare for the coming event.

He stretched his body prone upon the floor, fixed his limbs

in the rigidity of a corpse, closed his eyes and mouth, and

finally held his breath. "Well, then," said I to myself, "this

body is dead. It will be carried stiff to the burning ground and

then reduced to ashes. But with the death of the body, am I

dead? Is the body I This body is now silent and stiff. But I

continue to feel the full force of my self apart from its condition."

Those are the words which the Maharishee used in describ-

ing the weird experience through which he passed. What

happened next is difficult to understand though easy to

describe. He seemed to fall into a profound conscious trance

wherein he became merged into the very source of selfhood, the

very essence of being. He understood quite clearly that the

body was a thing apart and that the I remained untouched by

death. The true self was very real, but it was so deep down in

man's nature that hitherto he had ignored it.

Ramana emerged from this amazing experience an utterly

changed youth. He lost most of his interest in studies, sports,

friends, and so on, because his chief interest was now centred

in the sublime consciousness of the true self which he had found

so unexpectedly. Fear of death vanished as mysteriously as it

came. He enjoyed an inward serenity and a spiritual strength

which have never since left him. Formerly he had been quick

to retaliate at the other boys when they had chaffed him or

attempted to take liberties, but now he put up with everything

quite meekly. He suffered unjust acts with indifference and

bore himself among others with complete humility. He gave

up old habits and tried to be alone as much as possible, for then

he would sink into meditation and surrender himself to the

absorbing current of divine consciousness which constantly

drew his attention inwards.

These profound changes in his character were, of course,

noticed by others. One day his elder brother came into the

room when the boy was supposed to be doing his homework

284 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

and found him sunk in meditation with closed eyes. The

school books and papers had been tossed across the room in

disgust. The brother was so annoyed at this neglect of studies

that he jeered at him with sharp words:

"What business has a fellow like you here? If you want to

behave like a Yogi, why are you studying for a career?"

Young Ramana was deeply stung by these words. He

immediately realized their truth and silently decided to act

upon them. His father was dead and he knew that his uncle

and other brothers would take care of his mother. Truly he

had no business there. And back into his,mind there flashed

the name which had haunted him for nearly a year, the name

whose very syllables fascinated him, the name of the temple of

Arunachala. Thither would he go, although why he should

select that place he was quite unable to say. But an impelling

urgency arose within him and formed the decision for him of its

own accord. It was entirely unpremeditated.

"I was literally charmed here," said the Maharishee to me.

" T h e same force which drew you to this place from Bombay,

drew me to it from Madura."

And so young Ramana, feeling this inner pull within his

heart, left friends, family, school and studies, and took the

road which eventually brought him to Arunachala and to a

still profounder spiritual attainment. He left behind a brief

farewell letter, which is still preserved in the hermitage. Its

flourishing Tamil characters read as follows:

"I have, in search of my Father and in obedience to His

command, started from here. This is only embarking on a

virtuous enterprise. Therefore none need grieve over this

affair. To trace this out, no money need be spent."

With three rupees in his pocket and an utter ignorance of

the world, he set out on the journey into the interior of the

South. The amazing incidents which marked that journey

prove conclusively that some mysterious power was protecting

and guiding him. When at last he arrived at his destination,

he was utterly destitute and among total strangers. But the

emotion of total renunciation was burning strong within him.

Such was the youth's scorn for all earthly possessions, at the

time, that he flung his robe aside and took up his meditative

posture in the temple precinct quite nude. A priest observed

this and remonstrated with him, but to no purpose. Other

shocked priests came along, and, after vehement efforts,

forced a concession from the youth. He consented to wear a

semi-loincloth, and that is all he has ever worn to this day.

IN A JUNGLE HERMITAGE 285

For six months he occupied various spots in the precinct,

never going anywhere else. He lived on some rice which was

brought him once a day by a priest who was struck by the

precocious behaviour of the youth. For Ramana spent the

entire day plunged in mystical trances and spiritual ecstasies

so profound that he was entirely oblivious of the world around

him. When some rough Moslem youths flung mud at him

and ran away, he was quite unaware of the fact until some hours

later. He felt no resentment against them in his heart.

The stream of pilgrims who descended on the temple made

it difficult for him to obtain the seclusion he desired, so he left

the place and moved to a quiet shrine set in the fields some

distance from the village. Here he continued to stay for a year

and a half. He was satisfied with the food brought by the few

people who visited this shrine.

Throughout this time he spoke to no one; indeed, he never

opened his lips to talk until three years passed since his arrival

in the district. This was not because he had taken a vow of

silence, but because his inner monitor urged him to concentrate

all his energy and attention upon his spiritual life. When his

mystic goal was attained the inhibition was no longer necessary

and he began to talk again, though the Maharishee has remained

an extremely taciturn man.

He kept his identity a complete secret, but, by a chain of

coincidences, his mother discovered his whereabouts two years

after his disappearance. She set out for the place with her

eldest son and tearfully pleaded with him to return home. The

lad refused to budge. When tears failed to persuade him she

began to upbraid him for his indifference. Eventually he

wrote down a reply on a piece of paper to the effect that a

higher power controls the fate of men and that whatever she

did could not change his destiny. He concluded by advising

her to accept the situation and to cease moaning about it.

And so she had to yield to his obstinacy.

When, through this incident, people began to intrude on

his seclusion in order to stare at the youthful Yogi, he left the

place and climbed up the Hill of the Holy Beacon and made

his residence in a large cavern, where he lived for several years.

There are quite a few other caves on this hill and each one

shelters holy men or Yogis. But the cave which sheltered

young Ramana was noteworthy because it also contained the

tomb of a great Yogi of the past.

Cremation is the usual custom of the Hindus in disposing of

their dead, but it is often prohibited in the case of a Yogi who

286 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

is believed to have made the highest attainment, because it is

also believed that the vital breath or unseen life-current

remains in his body for thousands of years and renders the

flesh exempt from corruption. In such a case the Yogi's body

is bathed and anointed and then placed in a tomb in a sitting

posture with crossed legs, as though he were still plunged in

meditation. The entrance to the tomb is sealed with a heavy

stone and then cemented over. Usually the mausoleum

becomes a place of pilgrimage. There exists still another

reason why great Yogis are buried and not cremated, and that

is because of the belief that their bodies do not need to be

purified by fire since they were purified during their lifetimes.

It is interesting to consider that caves have always been a

favourite residence of Yogis and holy men. The ancients

consecrated them to the gods; Zoroaster, the founder of the

Parsee faith, practised his meditations in a cave, while Muham-

med received his religious experiences in a cave also. The

Indian Yogis have very good reasons for preferring caves or

subterranean retreats when better places are not available.

For here they can find shelter from the vicissitudes of weather

and from the rapid changes of temperature which divide days

from nights in the tropics. There is less light and noise to

disturb their meditations. And breathing the confined atmo-

sphere of a cave causes the appetite to diminish markedly, thus

conducing to a minimum of bodily cares.

Still another reason which may have attracted Ramana to

this particular cave on the Hill of the Holy Beacon was the

beauty of its outlook. One can stand on a projecting spur

adjoining the cave and see the little township stretched out

flat in the distant plain, with the giant temple rising as its

centre-piece. Far beyond the plain stands a long line of hills

which frontier a charming panorama of Nature.

Anyway, Ramana lived in this somewhat gloomy cavern for

several years, engaged in his mysterious meditations and

plunged in profound trances. He was not a Yogi in the

orthodox sense, for he had never studied any system of Yoga

and he had never practised under any teacher. The inner

path which he followed was simply a track leading to self-

knowledge; it was laid down by what he conceived to be the

divine monitor within him.

In 1905 plague appeared in the locality. The dread visitant

was probably carried into the district by some pilgrim to the

temple of Arunachala. It devastated the population so fiercely

that almost everyone left the little township and fled in terror

IN A JUNGLE HERMITAGE 287

to safer villages or towns. So quiet did the deserted place

become that tigers and leopards came out of their lurking dens

in the jungle and moved openly through the streets. But,

though they must have roamed the hill-side many times, for it

stood in their path to the township, though they must have

passed and repassed the Maharishee's cave, he refused to leave,

but remained as calm and unmoved as ever.

By this time the young hermit had involuntarily acquired a

solitary disciple, who had become very much attached to him

and persisted in staying by his side and attending to his needs.

The man is now dead, but the legend has been handed down

to other disciples that each night a large tiger came to the cave

and licked Ramana's hands, and that the tiger was in return

fondled by the hermit. It sat in front of him throughout the

night and departed only at dawn.

There is a widespread notion throughout India that Yogis and

faqueers who live in the jungles or on the mountains, exposed to

danger from lions, tigers, snakes and other wild creatures,

move unharmed and untouched if they have attained a sufficient

degree of Yogic power. Another story about Ramana told how

he was once sitting in the afternoon outside the narrow entrance

to his abode when a large cobra came swishing through the

rocks and stopped in front of him. It raised its body and

spread out its hood, but the hermit did not attempt to move.

The two beings - man and beast - faced each other for some

minutes, gaze meeting gaze. In the end the snake withdrew

and left him unharmed, although it was within striking distance.

The austere lonely life of this strange young man closed

its first phase with his firm and permanent establishment in

the deepest point of his own spirit. Seclusion was no longer

an imperative need, but he continued to live at the cave until

the visit of an illustrious Brahmin pundit, Ganapati Shastri,

proved another turning-point of his outer life, which was now

to enter on a more social period. The pundit had recently

come to stay near the temple for study and meditation. He

heard by chance that there was a very young Yogi on the hill

and out of curiosity he went in search of him. When he found

Ramana, the latter was staring fixedly at the sun. It was not

at all uncommon for the hermit to keep his eyes on the dazzling

sun for some hours till it disappeared below the western

horizon. The glaring light of the rays of an afternoon sun in

India can hardly be appreciated by a European who has never

experienced it. I remember once, when I had set out to climb

the steep ascent of the hill at a wrong hour being caught

288 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

without shelter by the full glare of the sun at midday on my

return journey. I staggered and reeled about like a drunken

man for quite a time. So the feat of young Ramana in enduring

the merciless glare of the sun, with face uplifted and eyes

unflinching, may therefore be better evaluated.

The pundit had studied all the chief books of Hindu wisdom

for a dozen years and had undergone rigorous penances in an

endeavour to reach some tangible spiritual benefit, but he was

still afflicted by doubts and perplexities. He put a question

to Ramana and after fifteen minutes received a reply which

amazed him with its wisdom. He put further questions,

involving his own philosophical and spiritual problems, and

was still more astounded at the clearing-up of perplexities

which had troubled him for years. As a result he prostrated

himself before the young hermit and became a disciple.

Shastri had his own group of followers in the town of Vellore

and he went back later and told them that he had found a

Maharishee (Great Sage or Seer), because the latter was

undoubtedly a man of the highest spiritual realization whose

teachings were so original that the pundit had found nothing

exactly like them in any book he had read. From that time the

title of Maharishee began to be applied to young Ramana by

cultured people, although the common folk wanted to worship

him as a divine being when his existence and character became

better known to them. But the Maharishee strongly forbade

every manifestation of such worship in his presence. Among

themselves and in private talk with me, most of his devotees

and people in the locality insist on calling him a god.

A small group of disciples attached themselves to the

Maharishee in time. They built a wooden frame bungalow

on a lower spur of the hill and persuaded him to live in it with

them. In different years his mother had paid him short

visits and became reconciled to his vocation. When death

parted her from her eldest son and other relatives, she came to

the Maharishee and begged him to let her live with him. He

consented. She spent the six years of life which were left to

her at his side, and finished up by becoming an ardent disciple

of her own son. In return for the hospitality which was given

her in the little hermitage, she acted as cook.

When the old lady died, her ashes were buried at the foot of

the hill and some of the Maharishee's devotees built a small

shrine over the place. Here, ever-burning sacred lamps glow

in memory of this woman, who gave a great sage to mankind,

and little heaps of scented jasmines and marigolds, snatched

IN A JUNGLE HERMITAGE 289

from their stalks, are thrown on a tiny altar in offering to her

spirit.

The efflux of time spread the reputation of the Maharishee

throughout the locality, so that pilgrims to the temple were

often induced to go up the hill and see him before they returned

home. Quite recently the Maharishee yielded to incessant

requests and consented to grace the new and large hall which

was built at the foot of the hill as a residence for him and his

disciples.

The Maharishee has never asked for anything but food,

and consistently refuses to handle money. Whatever else has

come to him has been voluntarily pressed upon him by others.

During those early years when he tried to live a solitary exist-

ence, when he built a wall of almost impenetrable silent

reserve around himself whilst he was perfecting his spiritual

powers, he did not disdain to leave his cave with a begging

bowl in hand and wander to the village for some food whenever

the pangs of hunger stirred his body. An old widow took pity

on him and thenceforth regularly supplied him with food,

eventually insisting on bringing it up to his cave. Thus his

venture of faith in leaving his comfortable middle-class home

was, in a measure, justified, at any rate to the extent that

whatever powers there be have ensured his shelter and food.

Many gifts have since been offered him, but as a rule he

turns them away.

When a gang of dacoits broke into the hall one night not long

ago and searched the place for money, they were unable to find

more than a few rupees, which was in the care of the man who

superintended the purchase of food. The robbers were so

angry at this disappointment that they belaboured the Mahari-

shee with stout clubs, severely marking his body. The sage

not only bore their attack patiently, but requested them to take

a meal before they departed. He actually offered them some

food. He had no hate towards them in his heart. Pity for their

spiritual ignorance was the sole emotion they aroused. He let

them escape freely, but within a year they were caught while

committing another crime elsewhere and received stiff sentences

of penal servitude.

Not a few Western minds will inevitably consider that this

life of the Maharishee's is a wasted one. But perhaps it may be

good for us to have a few men who sit apart from our world of

unending activity and survey it for us from afar. The onlooker

may see more of the game and sometimes he gets a truer per-

spective. It may also be that a jungle sage, with self lying

290 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

conquered at his feet, is not inferior to a worldly fool who is

blown hither and thither by every circumstance.

§

Day after day brings its fresh indications of the greatness of

this man. Among the strangely diversified company of human

beings who pass through the hermitage, a pariah stumbles into

the hall in some great agony of soul or circumstance and pours

out his tribulation at the Maharishee's feet. The sage does not

reply, for his silence and reserve are habitual; one can easily

count up the number of words he uses in a single day. Instead,

he gazes quietly at the suffering man, whose cries gradually

diminish until he leaves the hall two hours later a more serene

and stronger man.

I am learning to see that this is the Maharishee's way of

helping others, this unobtrusive, silent and steady outpouring

of healing vibrations into troubled souls, this mysterious tele-

pathic process for which science will one day be required to

account.

A cultured Brahmin, college-bred, arrives with his questions.

One can never be certain whether the sage will make a verbal

response or not, for often he is eloquent enough without

opening his lips. But to-day he is in a communicative mood

and a few of his terse phrases, packed with profound meanings

as they usually are, open many vistas of thought for the visitor.

A large group of visitors and devotees are in the hall when

someone arrives with the news that a certain man, whose

criminal reputation is a byword in the little township, is dead.

Immediately there is some discussion about him and, as is the

wont of human nature, various people engage in recalling some

of his crimes and the more dastardly phases of his character.

When the hubbub has subsided and the discussion appears to

have ended, the Maharishee opens his mouth for the first time

and quietly observes:

"Yes, but he kept himself very clean, for he bathed two or

three times a d a y ! "

A peasant and his family have travelled over one hundred

miles to pay silent homage to the sage. He is totally illiterate,

knows little beyond his daily work, his religious rites and

ancestral superstitions. He has heard from someone that there

is a god in human form living at the foot of the Hill of the Holy

Beacon. He sits on the floor quietly after having prostrated

IN A JUNGLE HERMITAGE

291

himself three times. He firmly believes that some blessing of

spirit or fortune will come to him as a result of this journey.

His wife moves gracefully to his side and drops to the floor.

She is clothed in a purple robe which flows smoothly from head

to ankles and is then tucked into her waist. Her sleek and

smooth hair is glossy with scented oil. Her daughter accom-

panies her. She is a pretty girl whose ankle-rings click in

consort as she steps into the hall. And she follows the

charming custom of wearing a white flower behind her

ear.

The little family stay for a few hours, hardly speaking, and

gaze in reverence at the Maharishee. It is clear that his mere

presence provides them with spiritual assurance, emotional

felicity and, most paradoxical of all, renewed faith in their creed.

For the sage treats all creeds alike, regards them all as significant

and sincere expressions of a great experience, and honours

Jesus no less than Krishna.

On my left squats an old man of seventy-five. A quid of

betel is comfortably tucked in his cheek, a Sanskrit book

lies between his hands, and his heavy-lidded eyes stare medi-

tatively at the bold print. He is a Brahmin who was a station-

master near Madras for many years. He retired from the rail-

way service at sixty and soon after his wife died. He took the

opportunity thus presented of realizing some long-deferred

aspirations. For fourteen years he travelled about the country

on pilgrimage to the sages and saints and Yogis, trying to find

one whose teachings and personality were sufficiently appealing

to him. He had circled India thrice, but no such master had

been discoverable. He had set up a very individual standard

apparently. When we met and compared notes he lamented

his failure. His rugged honest face, carved by wrinkles into

dark furrows, appealed to me. He was not an intellectual man,

but simple and quite intuitive. Being considerably younger

than he, I felt it incumbent on me to give the old man some good

advice! His surprising response was a request to become his

master! "Your master is not far off," I told him and con-

ducted him straightaway to the Maharishee. It did not take

long for him to agree with me and become an enthusiastic

devotee of the sage.

Another man in the hall is bespectacled, silken-clad and

prosperous-looking. He is a judge who has taken advantage of a

law vacation to pay a visit to the Maharishee. He is a keen dis-

ciple and strong admirer and never fails to come at least once a

year. This cultured, refined and highly educated gentleman

292 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

squats democratically among a group of Tamils who are poor,

naked to the waist and smeared with oil, so that their bodies

glisten like varnished ebony. That which brings them together,

destroys the insufferable snobbishness of caste, and produces

unity, is that which caused Princes and Rajahs to come from

afar in ancient times to consult the forest Rishees - the deep

recognition that true wisdom is worth the sacrifice of superficial

differences.

A young woman with a gaily attired child enters and prostrates

herself in veneration before the sage. Some profound problems

of life are being discussed, so she sits in silence, not venturing

to take part in intellectual conversation. Learning is not

regarded as an ornament for Hindu women and she knows little

outside the purlieus of culinary and domestic matters. But she

knows when she is in the presence of undeniable greatness.

With the descent of dusk comes the time for a general group

meditation in the hall. Not infrequently the Maharishee will

signal the time by entering, so gently as occasionally to be

unnoticed, the trance-like abstraction wherein he locks his

senses against the world outside. During these daily medita-

tions in the potent neighbourhood of the sage, I have learnt

how to carry my thoughts inward to an ever-deepening point.

It is impossible to be in frequent contact with him without

becoming lit up inwardly, as it were, mentally illumined by a

sparkling ray from his spiritual orb. Again and again I become

conscious that he is drawing my mind into his own atmosphere

during these periods of quiet repose. And it is at such times

that one begins to understand why the silences of this man are

more significant than his utterances. His quiet unhurried

poise veils a dynamic attainment, which can powerfully affect

a person without the medium of audible speech or visible action.

There are moments when I feel this power of his so greatly that I

know he has only to issue the most disturbing command and

I will readily obey it. But the Maharishee is the last person in

the world to place his followers in the chains of servile obedi-

ence, and allows everyone the utmost freedom of action. In

this respect he is quite refreshingly different from most of the

teachers and Yogis I have met in India.

My meditations take the line he had indicated during my

first visit, when he had tantalized me by the vagueness which

seemed to surround many of his answers. I have begun to

look into my own self.

Who am I?

Am I this body of flesh, blood and bone?

IN A JUNGLE HERMITAGE 293

Am I the mind, the thoughts and the feelings which dis-

tinguish me from every other person?

One has hitherto naturally and unquestioningly accepted the

affirmative answers to these questions, but the Maharishee has

warned me not to take them for granted. Yet he has refused to

formulate any systematic teaching. The gist of his message i s :

"Pursue the enquiry 'Who am I ? ' relentlessly. Analyse

your entire personality. Try to find out where the I-thought

begins. Go on with your meditations. Keep turning your

attention within. One day the wheel of thought will slow down

and an intuition will mysteriously arise. Follow that intuition,

let your thinking stop, and it will eventually lead you to the

goal."

I struggle daily with my thoughts and cut my way slowly

into the inner recesses of mind. In the helpful proximity of the

Maharishee, my meditations and self-soliloquies become

increasingly less tiring and more effective. A strong expectancy

and sense of being guided inspire my constantly repeated efforts.

There are strange hours when I am clearly conscious of the

unseen power of the sage being powerfully impacted on my

mentality, with the result that I penetrate a little deeper still

into the shrouded borderland of being which surrounds the

human mind.

The close of every evening sees the emptying of the hall as

the sage, his disciples and visitors, adjourn for supper to the

dining-room. As I do not care for their food and will not

trouble to prepare my own, I usually remain alone and await

their return. However, there is one item of the hermitage diet

which I find attractive and palatable, and that is curds. The

Maharishee, having discovered my fondness for it, usually asks

the cook to bring me a cupful of the drink each night.

About half an hour after their return, the inmates of the

hermitage, together with those visitors who have remained,

wrap themselves up in sheets or thin cotton blankets and retire

to sleep on the tiled floor of the hall. The sage himself uses

his divan as a bed. Before he finally covers himself with the

white sheets, his faithful attendant thoroughly massages his

limbs with oil.

I take up a glazed iron lantern when leaving the hall and set

out on my lonely walk to the hut. Countless fireflies move

amongst the flowers and plants and trees in the garden com-

pound. Once, when I am two or three hours later than usual

and midnight is approaching, I observe these strange insects

put out their weird lights. Often they are just as numerous

294 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

among the thick growths of bush and cactus through which I

have later to pass. One has to be careful not to tread on scor-

pions or snakes in the dark. Sometimes the current of medita-

tion has seized me so profoundly that I am unable and unwilling

to stop it, so that I pay little heed to the narrow path of lighted

ground upon which I walk. And so I retire to my modest hut,

close the tightly fitting heavy door, and draw the shutters over

glassless windows to keep out unwelcome animal intruders.

My last glimpse is of a thicket of palm trees which stands on

one side of my clearing in the bush, the silver moonlight

coming in streams over their interlaced feathery tops.

CHAPTER XVII

TABLETS OF FORGOTTEN TRUTH

ONE afternoon I notice a new visitor walk with dignified

step into the hall and take his seat quite close to the

Maharishee's couch. He is extremely dark-skinned,

but otherwise his face is highly refined. He makes no attempt

to speak, but the Maharishee immediately gives him a

welcoming smile.

The man's personality makes a powerful impression upon

me. He looks like a graven Buddha. Extraordinary tranquil-

lity is deeply charactered on his face. When our eyes meet

eventually, he gazes for a long time at me until I turn away dis-

quieted. Throughout the afternoon he does not utter a single

word.

My next contact with him comes the following day and in a

totally unexpected manner. I leave the hall and return to my

hut to prepare tea, as the servant Rajoo has gone off to the

township for some things. Unlocking the heavy door I am

about to step on the threshold, when something moves across

the floor and stops within a few inches of my feet. Its furtive

gliding motion and the faint hissing which I fancy I can hear

warn me almost before I see it that a snake is in the room. For

the moment I am so struck with horror at my escape from the

death which lurks underfoot, that I am at a complete loss what

to do. The creature holds my fascinated gaze . . . and yet it

terrifies me. My nerves are strung to their highest pitch of

tension. Horror and loathing rise up in the depths of my heart,

but my eyes remain staring at the handsome shapely head of the

creature. The surprise encounter has quite overwhelmed me.

The malevolent reptile continues to watch me in a cold-blooded

way, its hood raised around its sinewy neck and its sinister

eyes fixed upon mine.

At last I manage to recover my senses and draw back with a

rush. I am about to go off for a heavy stick with which to

break its spine, when the figure of yesterday's new visitor

295

296 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

appears in the clearing. His noble face, with its habitual look

of dignified reflection, slightly restores my calm. He approaches

my hut, takes the situation in at a glance, and imperturbably

begins to enter the room. I shout a warning to him, but he

takes no notice. Once more I am distinctly unnerved. For,

weaponless as he is, he holds both hands out towards the

snake!

Its forked tongue moves about in its open mouth, but it does

not attempt to attack him. Just then two men, attracted by the

sound of my shout, come hurrying to the hut from the pool

where they have been washing themselves. Before they reach

us, the strange visitor stands quite close to the snake, which

bends its head before him, and then he gently strokes its tail!

The fangs cease their sinister movement in the handsome,

but venomous, head until the arrival of the other two men.

Then the supple body of the snake begins to move with a quick

writhing movement as it seems to recollect itself and, before

four pairs of eyes, it slithers quickly out of the hut into the safe

refuge of the jungle undergrowth.

" I t is a young cobra," remarks one of the late arrivals, who

is a leading merchant in the township, and who often comes to

pay his respects to the sage or to have a chat with me.

I express my astonishment at the fearless way in which my

first visitor handled the snake.

"Ah, that is Yogi Ramiah," replies the merchant when I ask

for an explanation. " H e is one of the most advanced disciples

of the Maharishee. A remarkable m a n ! "

It is not possible to enter into conversation with the Yogi

because I discover that part of the special discipline which he

has imposed upon himself consists in keeping strict silence, and

because he comes from a Telegu-speaking district. His

acquaintance with English is as limited as mine with Telegu;

that is, almost nil. I learn also that he maintains an almost

complete reserve and does not associate with the others in the

place, as a rule; that he stays in a small stone shelter which he

has had constructed under the shadow of some huge boulders

on the other side of the pool; and that he has been a disciple

of the Maharishee's for ten years.

The gap between us is bridged, however, soon after. I meet

him at the pool, whither he has come with a brass pitcher for

water. His darkly mysterious, but benignant, countenance

again attracts me and, as I happen to have a camera in my

pocket, I request him by means of gestures to pose for his

photograph. He offers no objection, and even follows me to

TABLETS OF FORGOTTEN TRUTH 297

the hut after it is taken. There we encounter the ex-station-

master, who is squatting outside my door and awaiting my

arrival.

In the result I discover that the old man knows Telegu almost

as well as he knows English and is quite agreeable to play the

interpreter between us, with pencilled notes as a substitute for

vocal speech. The Yogi is not very communicative and

evidently dislikes being interviewed, but I manage to elicit a

few more facts about him.

Ramiah is still on the right side of forty. He owns some

landed property in the Nellore district, and although he has not

formally renounced the world, he lets his family carry on the

active control of his estates so that he can give more time to

his Yoga interests. He has a group of his own disciples in

Nellore, but once every year he leaves them to visit the Maha-

rishee, with whom he stays for two or three months at a

time.

He has made an extensive tour of South India in his younger

days, when he sought actively for a master in Yoga. He has

studied under different teachers and developed some excep-

tional faculties and powers. Breathing exercises and meditation

practices come easily to him. He appears to have outstripped

his teachers, because he obtained experiences which they could

not explain satisfactorily to him. As a consequence he came at

last to the Maharishee, who quickly provided him with the

correct explanation and assisted his further course.

Yogi Ramiah tells me that he has come to stay for two

months, bringing his own personal servant with him, and that

he has been glad to find a Westerner taking an interest in the

ancient wisdom of the East. I show him an illustrated English

magazine and he makes a curious commentary upon one of the

pictures.

"When your wise men in the West leave off trying to make

engines run faster than those which they already have and

begin to look into their own selves, your race may then find

more real happiness. Can you say that your people become

more contented each time they discover something that enables

them to travel more quickly?"

Before he leaves me I question him about the incident with

the young cobra. He smilingly scribbles a reply:

"What have I to be afraid of? I approached it without

hatred and with love for all beings in my heart."

I fancy that there is more behind the Yogi's words than his

somewhat sentimental explanation implies, but without further

298 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

questioning I let him return to his lonely dwelling across the

pool.

During the weeks which succeed my first meeting with

Ramiah, I come to know him a little better. We meet fre-

quently in the little clearing around my hut, or at the pool-side,

or even outside his own dwelling. I find in his outlook some-

thing which is conformable to my own temperament, while his

large dark eyes possess a tranquillity which is singularly

attractive. We strike up a strange kind of silent friendship,

which culminates one day when he gives me his blessing by

stroking my head and then clasping each hand in his own. Aside

from a few pencilled notes in Telegu which the old man

translates for me, no word is spoken during the whole of our

association. Yet I feel that something is being built up between

Ramiah and me which can never be broken down. From time

to time I accompany him on short walks through the jungle

areas, and once or twice we toil up the rugged hillside amid

great boulders, but wherever we go he is always a serene

dignified figure whose noble carriage I cannot help but admire.

It is not long, however, before I receive another striking

revelation of his extraordinary power. A letter has found its

way to me, bringing extremely bad news. It means, so far as I

can see, that my financial fuel will unexpectedly run so low

soon that my stay in India must be cut short. I can, of course,

enjoy the protracted hospitality of the Maharishee's hermitage

which the disciples will doubtless offer, but such a position

would go right against the grain of my nature. And in any case

the matter is settled for me by certain obligations which I con-

sider it my duty faithfully to meet, and which can now be met

only through the resumption of activities in the West.

The news provides an excellent test of the mental and

spiritual training which I have been undergoing, and so poor is

my material that I emerge quite uncreditably. I feel badly

shaken. I am unable to effect my usual inner contact with the

Maharishee in the hall, and leave him abruptly after a short

visit. For the rest of the day I wander about somewhat discon-

solate, a silent rebel against the crushing power of fate, which

can upset all one's plans by a single blow.

I turn into the hut and fling a weary body and wearier mind

upon the blanket. Some kind of deep reverie must have super-

vened, for, a while later, I start with sudden shock at a gentle

tap on the door. I bid the visitor enter. Very slowly the door

opens and to my surprise Ramiah's figure enters the hut.

I rise hastily and then, when he squats down, do the same

TABLETS OF FORGOTTEN TRUTH 299

facing him. He looks intently at me, a questioning expression

in his eyes. I am alone with a man whose tongue I cannot

speak and who cannot speak a word of English. Yet a queer

feeling impels me to address him in my tongue which is so

alien to him, in the almost fantastic expectation that he will

catch my thoughts, though he fail to catch my words! And so,

in a few jerky phrases, I hint at the difficulties which have

suddenly dropped out of the skies upon me, and supplement

my speech with gestures of defeat and expressions of disgust.

Ramiah listens quietly. When I finish he nods his head

gravely in sympathetic response. A little later he rises and,

with signs and gestures, invites me to follow him outside. Our

path lies through shaded jungle, but before long emerges in a

large dusty open space, where we are exposed to the full glare

of the afternoon sun. I continue to follow him for about half

an hour, when I seek the shelter of a banyan tree which then

lends its protecting shade to my overheated body. After a

short rest we travel on for another half-hour, again crossing a

patch of scrub jungle, and ultimately wander down to a great

pool by a route with which Ramiah appears to be familiar. Our

feet sink deeply into its soft, sandy bank as we walk up to a patch

of water which is overgrown with coloured lotuses.

The Yogi selects the shade of an exceptionally low tree and

seats himself beneath it. I drop to the sand and squat beside

him. The tufted head of the palmyra is spread out above us

like a green umbrella. We seem to be entirely alone in this

quiet corner of our turning globe, for a bare deserted landscape

stretches away for a couple of miles until it meets dense hilly

jungle again.

Ramiah crosses his legs and folds his feet under him in his

customary meditation posture. He beckons me with his finger

to approach a trifle closer. Then his placid face turns to the

front and his eyes gaze steadily across the water, and he quickly

sinks into a condition of profound meditation.

The minutes which seem so slow creep past, but Ramiah

remains quite motionless, with his face as tranquil as the surface

of the pool beside which we squat, and with his body fitting into

Nature's landscape like a tree unstirred by the slightest wind.

A half-hour passes, yet he still sits under the palmyra, very

strange and very quiet, wrapt in introspective silence. His

face now seems transfigured by a profounder peace than usual,

and his rigid eyes are fixed either in vacancy or on the distant

hills - I do not know which.

It is not much longer before I become acutely susceptible to

300 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

the silence of our lonely surroundings and to the amazing calm

of my companion. Little by little, with an insidious but persis-

tent gentleness, peace weaves itself into the texture of my soul.

The mood of serene triumph over personal distresses, which

I could not reach before, now comes to me more easily. In his

own mysterious way the Yogi is helping me; I cannot

doubt that. Barely a breath comes from his quiet form, so

sunk is he in deepest contemplation. What is the secret of his

sublime condition? What is the source of this beneficent

radiation which emanates from him?

The heat is lessening with the approach of evening, and the

baked sand begins to cool. A ray of vivid gold from the

westering sun falls on the Yogi's face, turning his motionless

body for the nonce into a haloed idol. I let go of him in thought

that I may turn again to enjoy the increasing peace which is

flowing in waves over my being. The changes and chances of

mundane existence now take their fit proportions, as I begin to

live in my own diviner depths. I perceive with startling clarity

that a man can look serenely upon his tribulations, if only he

can find the standpoint of his deeper self; that it is foolish to

cling to the transient comfort of worldly hopes when the

unchanging certainty of a diviner protection awaits his accep-

tance; and that the reason why the wise Galilean told his dis-

ciples to take no thought for the morrow was because a higher

power had taken thought for them. I perceive, too, that once a

man accepts this invitation to place his confidence in the

prophetic element within his being, he may pass through the

vicissitudes of human life in this world without fear and without

faltering. And I feel that somewhere close at hand there is the

fundamental value of life, in whose calm air no cares may exist.

Thus the burden which lay so heavy on my mind vanishes with

this change of spiritual atmosphere.

I reck little of time during this beautiful experience, and I do

not know how one can satisfactorily explain the mystery of the

divine within-ness and its independence of any temporal sense.

Twilight falls upon the vivid scene. Somewhere in the dim

recesses of memory I am aware that night comes in these tropic

parts with surprising quickness, yet I feel no concern about the

matter. It is enough that this wonderful man at my side is

content to stay and lead me inwards to the sovereign good,

serenity.

When at length he lightly touches my arm as a signal to rise,

the darkness is complete. Hand in hand we wander into the

night through this lonely and desolate region, making the

TABLETS OF FORGOTTEN TRUTH 301

homeward journey without light and without track, guided

only by Yogi Ramiah's uncanny sense of location. At any

other time this place would have filled me with unpleasant

fears, for past experience of the jungle at night has left eerie

memories; one felt that a world of unseen living forms was

close at hand, with animals moving hither and thither. And

for a moment or two there flashes across my mind's eye a

picture of Jackie, the dog which often companions my walks

in the district and my meals at the hut, with the two scars

around his throat from cheetah-bites, and of his unfortunate

brother who was captured by the same cheetah and never seen

again. Perchance I, too, may see the glowing jade-green eyes

of a prowling, hungry cheetah, or tread unwittingly in the

darkness on a cobra lying coiled up on the ground, or even

touch a king scorpion, that deadly, little white monster, with

my sandalled foot. But, almost immediately afterwards, I

feel ashamed of these thoughts in the Yogi's fearless presence

and at once resign myself to his protective aura, which I

somehow feel is enfolding me.

The strange chorus of nature which begins with the Indian

dawn is now being rivalled by the stranger chorus which

begins when the night is somewhat advanced. A jackal

sounds repeatedly in the distance, and once there comes the

ominous echo of a wild beast's snarl, and when we near the

pool which divides our respective dwellings the croaks of frogs,

lizards and bats come to our ears. . . .

In the morning I open my eyes on a sunny universe and my

heart to its sunny message.

§

My pen would wander on into some account of the scenic

life around me, and into further record of many talks with the

Maharishee, but it is now time to draw this chronicle to a close.

I study him intently and gradually come to see in him the

child of a remote Past, when the discovery of spiritual truth

was reckoned of no less value than is the discovery of a gold

mine to-day. It dawns upon me with increasing force that in

this quiet and obscure corner of South India, I have been led

to one of the last of India's spiritual supermen. The serene

figure of this living sage brings the legendary figures of his

country's ancient Rishees nearer to me. One senses that the

most wonderful part of this man is withheld. His deepest

302 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

soul, which one instinctively recognizes as being loaded with

rich wisdom, eludes one. At times he still remains curiously

aloof, and at other times the kindly benediction of his interior

grace binds me to him with hoops of steel. I learn to submit

to the enigma of his personality, and to accept him as I find

him. But if, humanly speaking, he is well insulated against

outside contacts, whoever discovers the requisite Ariadne's

thread can walk the inner path leading to spiritual contact

with him. And I like him greatly because he is so simple and

modest, when an atmosphere of authentic greatness lies so

palpably around him; because he makes no claims to occult

powers and hierophantic knowledge to impress the mystery-

loving nature of his countrymen; and because he is so totally

without any traces of pretension that he strongly resists every

effort to canonize him during his lifetime.

It seems to me that the presence of men like the Maharishee

ensures the continuity down history of a divine message from

regions not easily accessible to us all. It seems to me, further,

that one must accept the fact that such a sage comes to reveal

something to us, not to argue anything with us. At any rate,

his teachings make a strong appeal to me for his personal

attitude and practical method, when understood, are quite

scientific in their way. He brings in no supernatural power and

demands no blind religious faith. The sublime spirituality of

the Maharishee's atmosphere and the rational self-questioning

of his philosophy find but a faint echo in yonder temple.

Even the word " God " is rarely on his lips. He avoids the

dark and debatable waters of wizardry, in which so many

promising voyages have ended in shipwreck. He simply puts

forward a way of self-analysis, which can be practised

irrespective of any ancient or modern theories and beliefs

which one may hold, a way that will finally lead man to

true self-understanding.

I follow this process of self-divestment in the effort to arrive

at pure integral being. Again and again I am aware that the

Maharishee's mind is imparting something to my own, though

no words may be passing between us. The shadow of im-

pending departure hangs over my efforts, yet I spin out my

stay until bad health takes a renewed hand in the game and

accelerates an irrevocable decision to go. Indeed, out of the

deep inner 'urgency which drew me here, has come enough

will power to overthrow the plaints of a tired sick body and a

weary brain and to enable me to maintain residence in this

hot static air. But Nature will not be defeated for long and

TABLETS OF FORGOTTEN T R U T H 303

before long a physical breakdown becomes threateningly

imminent. Spiritually my life is nearing its peak, but - strange

paradox! - physically it is slipping downwards to a point lower

than it has hitherto touched. For a few hours before the arrival

of the culminating experience of my contact with the Maha-

rishee, I start to shiver violently and to perspire with abnormal

profuseness - intimations of coming fever.

I return hastily from an exploration of some usually veiled

sanctuaries of the great temple and enter the hall when the

evening meditation period has run out half its life. I slip

quietly to the floor and straightway assume my regular medita-

tion posture. In a few seconds I compose myself and bring

all wandering thoughts to a strong centre. An intense

interiorization of consciousness comes with the closing of eyes.

The Maharishee's seated form floats in a vivid manner

before my mind's eye. Following his frequently repeated

instruction I endeavour to pierce through the mental picture

into that which is formless, his real being and inner nature, his

soul. To my surprise the effort meets with almost instantaneous

success and the picture disappears again, leaving me with

nothing more than a strongly felt sense of his intimate presence.

The mental questionings which have marked most of my

earlier meditations have lately begun to cease. I have repeatedly

interrogated my consciousness of physical, emotional and

mental sensations in turn, but, dissatisfied in the quest of self,

have eventually left them all. I have then applied the attention

of consciousness to its own centre, striving to become aware of

its place of origin. Now comes the supreme moment. In

that concentration of stillness, the mind withdrawn into itself,

one's familiar world begins to fade off into shadowy vagueness.

One is apparently environed for a while by sheer nothingness,

having arrived at a kind of mental blank wall. And one has

to be as intense as possible to maintain one's fixed attention.

But how hard to leave the lazy dalliance of our surface life and

draw the mind inwards to a pin-point of concentration!

To-night I flash swiftly to this point, with barely a skirmish

against the continuous sequence of thoughts which usually

play the prelude to its arrival. Some new and powerful force

comes into dynamic action within my inner world and bears

me inwards with resistless speed. The first great battle is

over, almost without a stroke, and a pleasurable, happy, easeful

feeling succeeds its high tension.

In the next stage I stand apart from the intellect, conscious

that it is thinking, but warned by an intuitive voice that it is

304 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

merely an instrument. I watch these thoughts with a weird

detachment. The power to think, which has hitherto been a

matter for merely ordinary pride, now becomes a thing from

which to escape, for I perceive with startling clarity that I have

been its unconscious captive. There follows the sudden

desire to stand outside the intellect and just be. I want to dive

into a place deeper than thought. I want to know what it will

feel like to deliver myself from the constant bondage of the

brain, but to do so with all my attention awake and alert.

It is strange enough to be able to stand aside and watch the

very action of the brain as though it were someone else's, and

to see how thoughts take their rise and then die, but it is

stranger still to realize intuitively that one is about to penetrate

into the mysteries which hide the innermost recesses of man's

soul. I feel like some Columbus about to land on an uncharted

continent. A perfectly controlled and subdued anticipation

quietly thrills me.

But how divorce oneself from the age-old tyranny of

thoughts? I remember that the Maharishee has never

suggested that I should attempt to force the stoppage of thinking.

"Trace thought to its place of origin," is his reiterated

counsel, "watch for the real self to reveal itself, and then

your thoughts will die down of their own accord." So, feeling

that I have found the birthplace of thinking, I let go of the

powerfully positive attitude which has brought my attention

to this point and surrender myself to complete passivity, yet

still keeping as intently watchful as a snake of its prey.

This poised condition reigns until I discover the correctness

of the sage's prophecy. The waves of thought naturally begin

to diminish. The workings of logical rational sense drop

towards zero point. The strangest sensation I have experienced

till now grips me. Time seems to reel dizzily as the antennas

of my rapidly growing intuition begin to reach out into the

unknown. The reports of my bodily senses are no longer

heard, felt, remembered. I know that at any moment I shall

be standing outside things, on the very edge of the world's

secret. . . .

Finally it happens. Thought is extinguished like a snuffed

candle. The intellect withdraws into its real ground, that is,

consciousness working unhindered by thoughts. I perceive,

what I have suspected for some time and what the Maharishee

has confidently affirmed, that the mind takes its rise in a

transcendental source. The brain has passed into a state of

complete suspension, as it does in deep sleep, yet there is

TABLETS OF FORGOTTEN TRUTH 305

not the slightest loss of consciousness. I remain perfectly

calm and fully aware of who I am and what is occurring. Yet

my sense of awareness has been drawn out of the narrow

confines of the separate personality; it has turned into some-

thing sublimely all-embracing. Self still exists, but it is a

changed, radiant self. For something that is far superior to

the unimportant personality which was I, some deeper, diviner

being rises into consciousness and becomes me. With it arrives

an amazing new sense of absolute freedom, for thought is like

a loom-shuttle which is always going to and fro, and to be

freed from its tyrannical motion is to step out of prison into

the open air.

I find myself outside the rim of world consciousness. The

planet which has so far harboured me, disappears. I am in the

midst of an ocean of blazing light. The latter, I feel rather

than think, is the primeval stuff out of which worlds are

created, the first state of matter. It stretches away into

unreliable infinite space, incredibly alive.

I touch, as in a flash, the meaning of this mysterious universal

drama which is being enacted in space, and then return to the

primal point of my being. I, the new I, rest in the lap of holy

bliss. I have drunk the Platonic Cup of Lethe, so that yester-

day's bitter memories and to-morrow's anxious cares have

disappeared completely. I have attained a divine liberty and

an almost indescribable felicity. My arms embrace all creation

with profound sympathy, for I understand in the deepest

possible way that to know all is not merely to pardon all, but

to love all. My heart is remoulded in rapture.

How shall I record these experiences through which I next

pass, when they are too delicate for the touch of my pen?

Yet the starry truths which I learn may be translated into the

language of earth, and the effort will not be a vain one. So I

seek, all too roughly, to bring back some memorials of the

wonderful archaic world which stretches out, untracked and

unpathed, behind the human mind.

§

* Man is grandly related and a greater Being suckled him than

his mother. In his wiser moments he may come to know this.

* Once, in the far days of his own past, man took an oath of

lofty allegiance and walked, turbaned in divine grandeur, with

306 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

the gods. If to-day the busy world calls to him with imperious

demand and he gives himself up to it, there are those who have not

forgotten his oath and he shall be reminded of it at the appropriate

hour.

* There is That in man which belongs to an imperishable race. He

neglects his true self almost completely, but his neglect can never

affect or alter its shining greatness. He may forget it and entirely

go to sleep in the senses, yet on the day when it stretches forth its

hand and touches him, he shall remember who he is and recover

his soul.

* Man does not put the true value upon himself because he has lost

the divine sense. Therefore he runs after another man's opinion,

when he could find complete certitude more surely in the spiritually

authoritative centre of his own being. The Sphinx surveys no

earthly landscape. Its unflinching gaze is always directed

inwards, and the secret of its inscrutable smile is self-knowledge.

* He who looks within himself and perceives only discontent,

frailty, darkness and fear, need not curl his lip in mocking doubt.

Let him look deeper and longer, deeper and longer, until he

presently becomes aware of faint tokens and breath-like indications

which appear when the heart is still. Let him heed them well, for

they will take life and grow into high thoughts that will cross the

threshold of his mind like wandering angels, and these again shall

become forerunners of a voice which will come later - the voice of a

hidden, recondite and mysterious being who inhabits his centre, who

is his own ancient self

* The divine nature reveals itself anew in every human life, but if

a man walk indifferently by, then the revelation is as seed on stony

ground. No one is excluded from this divine consciousness; it is

man who excludes himself. Men make formal and pretentious

enquiry into the mystery and meaning of life, when all the while

each bird perched upon a green bough, each child holding its fond

mother's hand, has solved the riddle and carries the answer in its

TABLETS OF FORGOTTEN TRUTH 307

face. That Life which brought you to birth, O Man! is nobler and

greater than your farthest thought; believe in its beneficent inten-

tion towards you and obey its subtle injunctions whispered to your

heart in half-felt intuitions.

* The man who thinks he may live as freely as his unconsidered

desires prompt him and yet not carry the burden of an eventual

reckoning, is binding his life to a hollow dream. Whoever sins

against his fellows or against himself pronounces his own sentence

thereby. He may hide his sins from the sight of others, but he

cannot hide them from the all-recording eyes of the gods. Justice

still rules the world with inexorable weight, though its operations

are often unseen and though it is not always to be found in stone-

built courts of law. Whoever escapes from paying the legal

penalties of earth can never escape from paying the just penalties

which the gods impose. Nemesis - remorseless and implacable -

holds such a man in jeopardy every hour.

* Those who have been held under the bitter waters of sorrow, those

who have moved through shadowed years in the mist of tears, will

be somewhat readier to receive the truth which life, is ever silently

voicing. If they can perceive nothing else, they can perceive the

tragical transience which attends the smiles of fortune. Those who

refuse to be deluded by their brighter hours will not suffer so

greatly from their darker ones. There is no life that is not made

up of the warp of pleasure and the woof of suffering. Therefore

no man can afford to walk with proud and pontifical air. He who

does so takes his perambulation at a grave peril. For humility is

the only befitting robe to wear in the presence of the unseen gods,

who may remove in a few days what has been acquired during

many years. The fate of all things moves in cycles and only the

thoughtless observer can fail to note this fact. Even in the

universe it may be seen that every perihelion is succeeded by an

aphelion. So in the life and fortunes of man, the flood of pros-

perity may be succeeded by the ebb of privation, health may be

a fickle guest, while love may come only to wander again. But

308 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

when the night of protracted agony dies, the dawn of new-found

wisdom glimmers. The last lesson of these things is that the

eternal refuge in man, unnoticed and unsought as it may be, must

become what it was once - his solace, or disappointment and

suffering will periodically conspire to drive him in upon it. No

man is so lucky that the gods permit him to avoid these two great

tutors of the race.

* A man will feel safe, protected, secure, only when he discovers

that the radiant wings of sublimity enfold him. While he persists

in remaining unillumined his best inventions shall become his worst

impediments, and everything that draws him closer to the material

frame of things shall become another knot he must later untie. For

he is inseparably allied to his ancient past, he stands always in the

presence of his inner divinity and cannot shake it off. Let him,

then, not remain unwitting of this fact but deliver himself, his

worldly cares and secret burdens, into the beautiful care of his

better self and it shall not fail him. Let him do this, if he would

live with gracious peace and die with fearless dignity.

* He who has once seen his real self will never again hate another

There is no sin greater than hatred, no sorrow worse than the

legacy of lands splashed with blood which it inevitably bestows, no

result more certain than that it will recoil on those who send it

forth. Though none can hope to pass beyond their sight, the gods

themselves stand unseen as silent witnesses of man's awful handi-

work. A moaning world lies in woe all around them, yet sublime

peace is close at hand for all; weary men, tried by sorrow and

torn by doubts, stumble and grope their way through the darkened

streets of life, yet a great light beats down upon the paving-stones

before them. Hate will pass from the world only when man learns

to see the faces of his fellows, not merely by the ordinary light of

day, but by the transfiguring light of their divine possibilities;

when he can regard them with the reverence they deserve as the

faces of beings in whose hearts dwells an element akin to that

Power which men name God.

TABLETS OF FORGOTTEN TRUTH 309

* All that is truly grand in Nature and inspiringly beautiful in the

arts speaks to man of himself. Where the priest has failed his

people the illumined artist takes up his forgotten message and pro-

cures hints of the soul for them. Whoever can recall rare moments

when beauty made him a dweller amid the eternities should,

whenever the world tires him, turn memory into a spur and seek out

the sanctuary within. Thither he should wander for a little peace,

a flush of strength and a glimmer of light, confident that the

moment he succeeds in touching his true selfhood he will draw

infinite support and find perfect compensation. Scholars may

burrow like moles among the growing piles of modern books and

ancient manuscripts which line the walls of the house of learning,

but they can learn no deeper secret than this, no higher truth than

the supreme truth that man's very self is divine. The wistful hopes

of man may wane as the years pass, but the hope of undying life,

the hope of perfect love, and the hope of assured happiness, shall

ultimately find a certain fulfilment; for they constitute prophetic

instincts of an ineluctable destiny which can in no way be

avoided.

* The world looks to ancient prophets for its finest thoughts and

cringes before dusty eras for its noblest ethics. But when a man

receives the august revelation of his own starry nature, he is over-

whelmed. All that is worthy in thought and feeling now comes

unsought to his feet. Inside the cloistral quiet of his mind arise

visions not less sacred than those of the Hebrew and Arab seers,

who reminded their race of its divine source. By this same auroral

light Buddha understood and brought news of Nirvana to men.

And such is the all-embracing love which this understanding

awakens, that Mary Magdalene wept out her soiled life at the feet

of Jesus.

* No dust can ever settle on the grave grandeur of these ancient

truths, though they have lain in time since the early days of our

race. No people has ever existed but has also received intimations

of this deeper life which is open to man. Whoever is ready to

310 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

accept them must not only apprehend these truths with his intelli-

gence, until they sparkle among his thoughts like stars among the

asteroids, but must appropriate them with his heart until they

inspire him to diviner action.

§

I return to this mundane sphere impelled by a force which I

cannot resist. By slow unhurried stages I become aware of my

surroundings. I discover that I am still sitting in the hall of

the Maharishee and that it is apparently deserted. My eyes

catch sight of the hermitage clock and I realize that the inmates

must be in the dining-room at their evening meal. And then I

become aware of someone on my left. It is the seventy-five-

year-old ex-stationmaster, who is squatting close beside me on

the floor with his gaze turned benevolently on me.

"You have been in a spiritual trance for nearly two hours,"

he informs me. His face, seamed with years and lined with old

cares, breaks into smiles as though he rejoices in my own

happiness.1

I endeavour to make some reply, but discover to my astonish-

ment that my power of speech has gone. Not for almost fifteen

minutes do I recover it. Meanwhile the old man supplements

the further statement:

" T h e Maharishee watched you closely all the time. I

believe his thoughts guided you."

When the sage returns to the hall, those who follow him take

up their positions for the short interval which precedes the final

retirement for the night. He raises himself up on the divan

and crosses his legs; then, resting an elbow on the right thigh,

he holds his chin within the upright hand, two fingers covering

his cheek. Our eyes meet across the intervening space and he

continues to look intently at me.

1 T h e reade r should not be misled into believing that such an experience re-

mains continuous and permanent; it is only a temporary but valuable raising of

consciousness which passes away. It is of the category which I have called

"Moments of Illumination." T h e nature of such a glimpse is explained in the last chapter of my book The Spiritual Crisis of Man. To establish oneself on, and keep this high level it is essential in most cases to work on oneself and develop

the right conditions within oneself. For the philosophical enlightenment see

The Hidden Teaching Beyond Yoga and The Wisdom of the Overself.

TABLETS OF FORGOTTEN TRUTH 311

And when the attendant lowers the wicks of the hall's lamps,

following the customary nightly practice, I am struck once again

by the strange lustre in the Maharishee's calm eyes. They

glow like twin stars through the half-darkness. I remind myself

that never have I met in any man eyes as remarkable as those of

this last descendant of India's Rishees. In so far as the human

eyes can mirror divine power, it is a fact that the sage's do that.

The heavily scented incense smoke rises in soft spirals the

while I watch those eyes that never flicker. During the forty

minutes which pass so strangely, I say nothing to him and he

says nothing to me. What use are words? We now understand

each other better without them, for in this profound silence our

minds approach a beautiful harmony, and in this optic tele-

graphy I receive a clear unuttered message. Now that I have

caught a wonderful and memorable glimpse of the Maharishee's

view-point on life, my own inner life has begun to mingle with

his.

* .

I fight the oncoming fever during the two days which follow

and manage to keep it at bay.

The old man approaches my hut in the afternoon.

"Your stay among us draws to an end, my brother," he says

regretfully. "But you will surely return to us one d a y ? "

"Most surely!" I echo confidently.

When he leaves me I stand at the door and look up at the

Hill of the Holy Beacon - Arunachala, the Sacred Red Moun-

tain, as the people of the countryside prefer to call it. It has

become the colourful background of all my existence; always I

have but to raise my eyes from whatever I am doing, whether

eating, walking, talking or meditating, and there is its strange,

flat-headed shape confronting me in the open or through a

window. It is somehow inescapable in this place, but the

strange spell it throws over me is more inescapable still. I

begin to wonder whether this queer, solitary peak has enchanted

me. There is a local tradition that it is entirely hollow and that

in its interior dwell several great spiritual beings who are

invisible to mortal gaze, but I disdain the story as a childish

legend. And yet this lonely hill holds me in a powerful thrall,

despite the fact that I have seen others infinitely more attrac-

tive. This rugged piece of Nature, with its red laterite boulders

312 A SEARCH IN SECRET INDIA

tumbled about in disorderly masses and glowing like dull fire

in the sunlight, possesses a strong personality which emanates a

palpable awe-creating influence.

With the fall of dusk I take my farewells of everyone except

the Maharishee. I feel quietly content because my battle for

spiritual certitude has been won, and because I have won it

without sacrificing my dearly held rationalism for a blind

credulity. Yet when the Maharishee comes to the courtyard

with me a little later, my contentment suddenly deserts me.

This man has strangely conquered me and it deeply affects my

feelings to leave him. He has grappled me to his own soul

with unseen hooks which are harder than steel, although he has

sought only to restore a man to himself, to set him free and not

to enslave him. He has taken me into the benign presence of

my spiritual self and helped me, dull Westerner that I am, to

translate a meaningless term into a living and blissful experience.

I linger over our parting, unable to express the profound

emotions which move me. The indigo sky is strewn with stars,

which cluster in countless thousands close over our heads. The

rising moon is a thin crescent disc of silver light. On our left

the evening fireflies are making the compound grove radiant,

and above them the plumed heads of tall palms stand out in

black silhouette against the sky.

My adventure in self-metamorphosis is over, but the turning

axle of time will bring me back to this place, I know. I raise

my palms and close them together in the customary salutation

and then mutter a brief good-bye. The sage smiles and looks

at me fixedly, but says not a word.

One last look towards the Maharishee, one last glimpse by

dim lantern light of a tall copper-skinned figure with lustrous

eyes, another farewell gesture on my part, a slight wave of his

right hand in response, and we part.

I climb into the waiting bullock-cart, the driver swishes his

whip, the obedient creatures turn out of the courtyard into the

rough path and then trot briskly away into the jasmine-scented

tropic night.

THE END

Table of Contents

CHAPTER PAGE

CHAPTER I