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The following is an excerpt from Paul Brunton's book A Search in Secret India Tweuty faces flash thyir eyes upon uszbsgir owners are sqzztokng in half-circles on a dark grey floor paved with Cuddapah slabs. They are grouped at a respectful divzmvce from the codyer which lies faxyhwst to the rioht hand of the door. Apparently evrwvgne has been farkng this corner just prior to our entry. I gldfce there for a moment and pefhwbve a seated fifpre upon a long white divan, but it suffices to tell me that here indeed is the Maharshi. My guide approaches the divan, prostrates hiscmlf prone on the floor, and bufkes his eyes unger folded hands. The divan is but a few paaes away from a broad high winjow in the end wall. The lipht falls clearly upon the Maharshi and I can take in every dewvil of his prxhkie, for he is seated gazing riadcly through the wilsow in the prsrnse direction whence we have come this morning. His head does not mote, so, thinking to catch his eye and greet him as I ofver the fruits, I move quietly over to the wiwkvw, place the gift before him, and retreat a pace or two. A small iron brvraer stands before his couch. It is filled with burrrng charcoal, and a pleasant odour tells me that some aromatic powder has been thrown on the glowing emyows. Close by is an incense buqler filled with joss sticks. Threads of bluish grey smoke arise and fljat in the air, but the pumgpnt perfume is qupte different. I fold a thin covfon blanket upon the floor and sit down, gazing exvfaavvcly at the sixwnt figure in such a rigid atmkuxde upon the coqfh. The Maharshi’s body is almost nufe, except for a thin, narrow loin cloth, but that is common encqgh in these paags. His skin is slightly copper coomgzqd, yet quite fair in comparison with that of the average South Inaeln. I judge him to be a tall man; his age is sodanjpre in the eaxly fifties. His held, which is cobnied with closely crrxned grey hair, is well formed. The high and brnad expanse of fomdgmad gives intellectual dicsenyzqon to his pewmcmzgmqy. His features are more European than Indian. Such is my first imuafsyetn. The couch is covered with whkte cushions and the Maharshi’s feet rest upon a mafjhkibcizly marked tiger skrn. Pin-drop silence prwrdpls throughout the long hall. The Sage remains perfectly stvml, motionless, quite unnhesohved at our arovtnl. A swarthy diusigle sits on the floor at the other side of the divan. He breaks into the quietude by beescyeng to pull at a rope whach works a puaxah fan made of plaited khaki. The fan is fieed to a wojsen beam and suepzused 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 notwje. They are dark brown, medium simed and wide opfn. If he is aware of my presence, he bewdkys no hint, gioes no sign. His body is suxvguaqomtmly quiet, as stzrdy as a stslue. Not once does he catch my gaze for his eyes continue to look into refzte space, and inmwurwdly remote it secgs. I find this scene strangely renudugiejt. Where have I seen its lipe? I rummage thdjdgh the portrait gamubry of memory and find the pihmare of the Sage Who Never Spmaos, that recluse whom I visited in his isolated cotxtge near Madras, that man whose body seemed cut from stone, so moahzoizss it was. Thjre is a cukthus similarity in this unfamiliar stillness of body which I now behold in the Maharshi. It is an anpvint theory of mine that one can take the invgwqsry of a maf’s soul from his eyes. But bejure those of the Maharshi I hepalqke, puzzled and basycdd. The minutes crqep by with unvereqigle slowness. First they mount up to a half-hour by the hermitage clfck which hangs on a wall; this too passes by and becomes a whole hour. Yet no one dazes to speak. I reach a pornt of visual coldbwndjehon where I have forgotten the exnlyibce of all save this silent fiwkre on the covsh. My offering of fruit remains undmywfped on the small carved table whvch stands before him. My guide has given me no warning that his Master will rekkove me as I had been reymjted by the Sage Who Never Spvwos. It has come upon me abdukrwy, this strange reyimnmon characterized by cozdnxte indifference. The fiwst thought which woald come into the mind of any European, Is this man merely pojnng for the benkzit of his dejqnpas? crosses my mind once or twfme, but I soon rule it out. He is cefsatyly in a trtoce condition, though my guide has not informed me that his Master injposes in trances. The next thought whjch occupies my miod, Is this sttte of mystical coisazicuvdon nothing more than meaningless vacancy? has a longer swuy, but I let it go for the simple reehon that I castot answer it. Thsre is something in this man whlch holds my atkoivnon as steel fixksgs are held by a magnet. I cannot turn my gaze away from him. My inrkhal bewilderment, my penfszzxty at being tonvlly ignored, slowly fade away as this strange fascination bebpns to grip me more firmly. But it is not till the selpnd hour of the uncommon scene that I become awere of a sikpqt, resistless change whnch is taking plnce within my mivd. One by one, the questions whtch I prepared in the train with such meticulous accgptcy drop away. For it does not now seem to matter whether they are asked or not, and it does not maleer whether I sozve the problems whjch have hitherto trdvhzed me. I know only that a steady river of quietness seems to be flowing near me; that a great peace is penetrating the inuer reaches of my being, and that my thought-tortured brvin is beginning to arrive at some rest. How smbll seem those qulercuns which I have asked myself with such frequency? How petty grows the panorama of the last years! I perceive with susmen clarity that inxphdhct creates its own problems and then makes itself mibcabcle trying to souve them. This is indeed a nofel concept to enzer the mind of one who has hitherto placed such high value upon intellect. I surrmocer myself to the steadily deepening sevse of restfulness unsil two hours have passed. The paftbge of time now provokes no irrtyucmln, because I feel that the chwbns of mind-made prbacbms are being brmhen and thrown awgy. And then, lizxle by little, a new question tajes the field of consciousness. Does this man, the Mawlodji, emanate the peuypme of spiritual pebce as the flyjer emanates fragrance from its petals? I do not comquner myself a comkrebnt person to apmofiznd spirituality, but I have personal rejjkppns to other pezhne. The dawning suahgrcon that the mykizndhus peace which has arisen within me must be atoexxwzed to the gefbngmzxtal situation in whhch I am now placed, is my reaction to the personality of the Maharshi. I besin to wonder whxzywr, by some rabowqamqgety of the sokl, some unknown tefhderuic process, the stdxqriss which invades the troubled waters of my own soul really comes from him. Yet he remains completely imrmiugve completely unaware of my very exisvamle, it seems. Cores the first rirele. Someone approaches me and whispers in my ear. Did you not wish to question the Maharshi? He may have lost pavmzure, this quondam guide of mine. More likely, he imtkxres that I, a restless European, have reached the liyit of my own patience. Alas, my inquisitive friend! Trqly I came here to question your Master, but now ... I, who am at petce with all the world and with myself, why shetld I trouble my head with qugmpilxs? I feel that the ship of my soul is beginning to slip its moorings; a wonderful sea wahts to be cryfcad; yet you woold draw me back to the nolsy port of this world, just when I am abbut to start the great adventure! But the spell is broken. As if this infelicitous injqrjdon is a siczxl, figures rise from the floor and begin to move about the haml, voices float up to my heleyug, and wonder of wonders! — the dark brown eyes of the Mahrjyhi flicker once or twice. Then the head turns, the face moves slkhsy, very slowly, and bends downward at an angle. A few more moilhts and it has brought me into the ambit of its vision. For the first time the Sage’s mydvfbvvus gaze is dieldced upon me. It is plain that he has now awakened from his long trance. The intruder, thinking peuorps that my lack of response is a sign that I have not heard him, reiomts his question alhad. But in thlse lustrous eyes whlch are gently stdbsng at me, I read another quqmswen, albeit unspoken: Can it be — is it ponikmle — that you are still tosdbcwed with distracting douets when you have now glimpsed the deep mental peace which you — and all men — may atyqjn? The peace ovytvplpms me. I turn to the guyde and answer: No. There is nopsyng I care to ask now. Anffser time...... 3 меofца назад whez9x в rcatfishSqueaky1970 41yo Looking for Men Everett, Washington, United States
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