At the feet of Yogi Ramsuratkumar Makarand PARANJAPE

Pranams at the Lotus Feet of Yogi P Ramsuratkumar, who fans the flame of Self- Knowledge with the melodious japam of Ramnam!

Pranams to Ma Devaki, whose purity and grace remind us that realization is best expressed through devotion and service.

Worldly people puff up with self-importance when they know some one, "big and powerful"; they keep boasting about and (mis)using their "contacts". God's beggars, also feel "proud " of their "contacts". For instance, look at this stupid fool called Makarand Paranjape : how happy, blessed and privileged he is to "know" the great Yogi of Tiruvannamalai-- there, where the sacred Arunachala dwells in all his majesty as the ego-slayer!

Makarand Paranjape, through divine contact, finds himself not puffing up, but collapsing, like a pricked balloon. The ego is air; when touched by the self- realised soul, it is reduced to its true state of insubstantiality.

Tiruvannamalai, which is already so pure with the tapas of so many self-realized souls, both visible and invisible, both in the physical and in the subtle bodies, is now bearing witness to another miracle -- the rapid rising up of Bhagavan's ashram. What a great and noble piece of divine magic and mischief it is, this grand habitation for the "dirty beggar". Oh Bhagavan, it must be so much fun to put us all to work, keeping us out of our stupidities and selfishness. For a God-intoxicated soul, who spent years as a homeless wanderer, sleeping at the doorsteps of shops or under trees, how fumy it must be to build a grand ashram. Make no mistake, friends this ashram is the fulfilment of our own prayers, which Bhagavan in his kindness has granted. Here, several generations of seekers, tired and weary from the stress and fatigue of the world, will come to find their true selves. Those who have laboured day and night to build this hymn of concrete and steel are true karmayogis, whose sadhana has flowered under Bhagavan's own special and strict guidance. Whatever Bhagavan does is for our good; we may think we are serving Him, doing His work in the world, but actually, all this is for our own spiritual development and perfection. The burden of sins of several lives is lightened by the glance of a holy man- - such is our traditional belief. The presence in this fallen time and age of Godmen like Bhagavan allows the rest of us to glimpse our potential, to strive to cleanse ourselves of our egos, to offer ourselves whole heartedly to the Divine. For without such a transformation of consciousness, the world will never be changed.

When Justice Arunachalam telephoned me from Madras, conveying to me Bhagavan's command to write this article for His Souvenir, a thrill of both joy and fear ran through my being. Joy because Bhagavan had remembered me, unworthy though 1 am. How generous and loving of Him! First to give me a place in his heart and in his thoughts, and then to give me a place in the souvenir for His Ashram.

What a privilege. But I was also afraid- would I be able to do justice to Him ? What could 1 write, 1 whose mind and intellect are both weak and corrupted by the world ? Even with my limited awareness 1 knew that the life of a saint or sage can never be written or told because it is beyond words and speech. Sri Aurobindo once said something to this effect: "No one can write about my life because it has not been on the surface for man to see." Similarly, no one can write the life of Yogi Ramsuratkumar. The late and revered Paramacharya of Kanchi, Swami Chandrasekara Saraswati, had once observed cryptically, "He belongs to Suryalokha". What is the true nature of these great souls ? Where do they come from? What is their role in this world ? No one can answer these questions.
Despite these fears I was not worried. Who, after all, was the writer of this very article ? Was "I" writing it or was it being written through me ? Behind the limited mind and intellect is the unlimited power of Godhead. If so, Bhagavan Himself was writing this article through me. I said to myself," Why should I worry ? Let Bhagavan do what lie wishes." Of course, this doesn't mean that my innumerable faults and sins can be forgotten or overlooked; they are for me to rectify and correct, with Bhagavan's grace, of course.

One's first meeting with Bhagavan is always memorable. Mine took place quite unexpectedly, one afternoon in November 1992. Two days earlier, I was visiting Sri Aurobindo Ashram, Pondicherry, for the first lime. Though I had a booking at their International Guest House, I had arrived too late to avail of it. The manager had left and the man in his place was unable to give me my room. Worried, I looked for alternate accommodation. I was told that the only thing available at that hour -- it was 7:00 pm. -- was dormitory lodging at Samarpan. Samarpan, the name of the guesthouse, was also my state of mind. Surrender, surrender. Because we ourselves cannot know what is best for us. Il was in this dormitory that I met someone from Tiravannamalai. Just the name of the Holy Hill sent shivers down my spine. He invited me to sec him there. I was already a captive of Arunachala and of Bhagavan Ramana. So a visit was indeed inevitable.

I finally visited my friend. It must have been about 4.30 p.m. I had to take a bus back to Pondicherry not later than 6.30 pm. We bowed at the gates of the Big Temple, resolving to enter some other time. Then my friend took me to the little house behind the Temple where Bhagavan then lived. There was a crowd of urchins at the door." Look, it's Ilayaraja", my friend exclaimed. A cream colored contessa just passed us. When we came to the house, Ilayaraja was already inside. The room was full and no one else was to be allowed inside.

I stood on the steps, my meagre offerings of fruit in hand, awaiting for the door to open. In the mean- while, the street urchins were really making a nuisance of themselves, scrambling up to the windows, screaming and shouting, trying to get a look at the famous Yogi and the famous music director. Twice, some one came out to shoo them away. I was afraid, I too might be asked to leave or that their misbehaviour would some how affect the way I might be received.

Nothing of the kind happened. After a while, Ilayaraja came out. I was asked to enter. We passed each other on the steps. Something made me to hesitate to greet him, to tell him how much 1 admired his music. That moment passed. I was in and Ilayaraja was back in his car. I was told that his movie was to be released the next day and that he had come to seek Bhagavan's blessings.

The room was dark. Behind me were some ladies, singing. One of them, I would later identify as Ma Devaki. There were other devotees beside Bhagavan. But, wonder of wonders, he was smoking! I was surprised. There were packets of Charminar cigarettes lying strewn about near him. There were also heaps of flowers and fruit. I made my pranams and my offerings. Bhagavan did not seem much interested in me. He was speaking to some other devotees in Tamil, frequently punctuating his remarks with "seri". He would also burst out laughing, in a happy and child like glee, from time to time. His face, hidden behind a white beard was radiant and his eyes shone with merriment. He would ask other people to read to him and he would ask them questions every now and then. One young man entered, prostrated, left a card at His feet, and went away. When it was read, it turned out to be an invitation to his impending wedding! Before Bhagavan could properly bless him, lie had disappeared. Everyone laughed.

Bhagavan now turned to me . His gestures were unhurried and measured, as if he had all the time in the world.

Bhagavan: "What is your name?"
I: "Makarand Paranjape."
Bhagavan: "Makarand Paranjape, Makaran Paranjape. Seri."
Then he paused before asking : "What are you doing?"
I: "I am writing a book on Sarojini Naidu"
Bhagavan: "Sarojini Naidu. Good. Very great lady."

He gave me an apple and said, "Makarand Paranjape, My Father blesses you.You may go now."

I prostrated before him. He patted me hard on my back twice and laughed in happiness. That was all. My first encounter was very simple, but it was special. I was filled with a surge of power. I felt light hearted and happy. I had observed Bhagavan minutely. When lie raised his hands to bless anyone, the whole air seemed to hum with a strange electricity. It was like a current of Grace. Later, Ma Devaki told me that I was very lucky to have recognized it during the very first encounter. Outside, I thanked my friend for taking me to the GREAT YOGI and I ate the prasad, seeds and all.

Afterwards, I kept sending Bhagavan copies of my books. I did this because I felt that I would get a lot of luck if Bhagavan so much as even glanced at these books. I was right. There was one book of short stories of which one, "The Sufi," got so much of His grace. It was this story that drew me to Bhagavan again because he asked Devaki Ma to write to me.

This is the brief story of my contact with Bhagavan. There are many other incidents which I haven't recounted for reasons of space. Perhaps, another occasion will afford itself to fill in these gaps. I can' only say that Bhagavan to me is an embodiment of love and grace. He showers his blessings on all alike, regardless of their capacity to deserve them or absorb them. I have always prayed to him to give me the courage and knowledge to remember myself and to be myself in all times and under all circumstances. The Guru's grace is constant; it is only our capacity to absorb it that wavers and flickers, like an unsteady flame. But if we pray hard enough, perhaps even we may be blessed to surrender more and more fully, to open ourselves to His everlasting grace, so that gradually, even without being aware of it, we become less and less like ourselves and more and more like 1-lim- - loving, forgiving and compassionate to all. The Guru is, alter all like the paras-mani, that turns the base metal of common humanity into the gold of divinity.

Makarand Paranjape, a poet, critic, and novelist, is Associate Professor in Humanities and Social Sciences at Indian Institute of Technology, Delhi.