I usually dedicate one night in the week to meditation as a kind of.
continuation of our evening meditations in the presence of Maharshi. I do not write them down, for they are all similar and difficult to put into words. I can only say that they are an attempt to lift up my consciousness to the sphere where life alone reigns, with no forms and no veils. In the preliminary stage there is always a kind of struggle with all that prevents me from stepping out from the realm of thought; after that, like a film on a screen, appear the pictures of my past, and finally—usually about dawn—comes a moment of peace.
One July night however, I shall never forget, and its essence is expressed by the title of this chapter, for the period of my earthly life was buried definitely forever. This life which until then, had usually claimed my attention and retrospective examination, quietly disappeared, swallowed up by that ocean of the unreal to which it has always belonged.
I did not then realize that only the present is existent, and that constantly returning to the past is equivalent to temporary suicide.
First I remembered a passage from a book based on the Hebrew Kabbalah, which many years ago had fascinated me with its mystery, but to the real meaning of which I could never find the key.
'... And the pupil entered the shrine of his heart. An altar was there and on it two lights were burning.
'He understood that these were the lights of his own life. They were himself. The flame of the nearer one was many-hued, pulsat-ing with a richness of colour, and emanating a slight smoke. He recognized it to be his thoughts and emotions by the very familiar rhythm of their vibrations.
'The second and farther light was colourless, but its rays were pervading everything and penetrating through the changing hues of the first one. Immovable in its pristine purity it was quietly burning, breathing a peace as great as eternity itself.
'Then a Rabbi dressed in white appeared, took both the lights in his hands and changed their places. "From this moment you will look through the light of eternity on that of the fleeting life, instead of looking, as you
112 experiences in a condensed and extremely rapid way. I sensed that I had the power to destroy this illusory picture by an effort of will, for it was weighing on me unpleasantly. And I also knew that it was not advisable to allow those illusory, non-existent things to enter into my consciousness.
But this time a voice which I had to obey told me to look at the 'film'.
Before me unrolled the years of my youth, with their foolish-ness and dash, instinctive life with its almost animal selfishness; circumstances and people, who at the time had played a great role in my life, loves and hates, noble and mean impulses, a search for something which was always evading my touch and which, when it seemed near, was continually slipping out of my hands. Mo- ments of despair which seemed fathomless, hopeless, and without issue; moments of tremendous, one could almost say boundless 'happiness'—all passed before my eyes. The physical figure, so well known, gradually changing with the flow of years, now con-densed, passed before me with all its hopes and dreams and endeavours of which nothing now remained. The years of the first and second world wars, the interval of peace, my plunge into occult studies where highest achievements seemed to lie, cosmo-con cep tions gradually changing through contact with new theories and their authors.
I felt it all like a dense dark cloud descending upon my con-sciousness ; I was seeking an issue; intuitively I felt that it must exist, that now, when I stood on the threshold of a new life, I could not return to those ghosts. experiences, foolish endeavours, aimless thoughts, changing feelings and moods, and all the rest that some time ago had seemed to constitute 'Me'.
I could now criticize and help others to criticize this 'person', a thing which
113
I had formerly vividly resented, but which I could now do freely. Why? It was not the mind that was responsible, but this peace, this merging into the translucent, immaterial Self, and perhaps—the pushing to the second plane of the 'first light', according to the Hebrew tale.
All my attempts to find reasons have now no meaning. I have lost all interest in these definitions and explanations. Life has proved to be quite different from current conceptions about it—yes, it has proved rather to be the denial of them.
'Whosoever shall seek to save his life shall lose it; and whoso-ever shall lose his life shall preserve it'. These words of the Great Teacher, once so mysterious and incomprehensible, are now a bright and radiant truth, in spite of the fact that they were pronounced two thousand years ago. It is little wonder that one also remembers:
'Heaven and earth shall pass away: but my words shall not pass away'.
In the silence which followed this more 'active' part of my meditation, hours passed unnoticed. I began to hear sounds from without, the voices of some wild animals approaching the Ash-ram's compound during the night, when no human being was about. I opened my eyes to look out of the window, and through the iron bars and wire net, I saw a big hairy head; it was a monkey, who, awakened by the approaching dawn, had come here from the Hill in search of mango peelings.
The day is beginning, a new day in this peaceful corner of the world, at the foot of the sacred Hill of Arunachala, chosen by the Master as his life's abode. It is true that here nature itself seems to assist human beings in their endeavours, for in spite of being in the tropics, it does not hinder one by causing excessive physical ex-haustion. Is it the influence of the dry climate, or of the mysterious magnetism about which one hears so much? I do not know. I can only say that from the spiritual side, I have never met in my life with such suitable and helpful surroundings, and such a wonderful atmosphere radiating everywhere.
I begin to feel almost instinctively that the time is nearing when I shall not be able to benefit any more from this immediate and marvellous influence. Hence I am trying to get 'rooted' as deeply as possible in this spiritual soil, to take it with me for my further wanderings throughout the world.
114
I listen carefully to the melodies of the evening songs of medi-tation, Unking them up with my present inner experiences. It may help me afterwards when, surrounded by an utterly different atmosphere, I try to live the same kind of life as now—at the feet of Maharshi. Intuition says that it is advisable to find some points of support which will prove useful, when in the very midst of the haste and noise of the Western world, I shall have to withdraw from it and return to the kingdom of silence.
But is not the best of all means already at my disposal? And Maharshi, whose very remembrance brings peace—can I ever for-get the expression of his eyes during meditations in the temple?
Now when I write these lines in my cell during the hottest hours of the day, when all life seems to stand still, a mere word about Maharshi suffices to evoke his figure before my eyes, and all thoughts stop.
With this my writing must also stop.
115