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CHAPTER VII
AN INDIAN YOGI § 1
[165] IN my earliest days in India I had developed a particular
friendship for a certain Mr. K. Narayanaswami Aiyar, who
had been a High Court Advocate, but for some years had given
his time entirely to the activities of a travelling lecturer,
an avocation in which he had shown great ability and had
acquired a reputation all over the country. He looked the
part of a wandering religious teacher, having a very enthusiastic
and impulsive manner, a humorous and happy disposition,
long shaggy grey hair and beard, and a nose which had originally
been aquiline but had been flattened by an accident in his
younger days.
We once spent a considerable time together in Benares. It
was winter, and too cold in the north of India for the bare
feet usual in the south. To meet this contingency Narayanaswami
had bought a pair of yellow boots, with no idea as to fit.
They were altogether wrongly shaped for his unspoiled feet,
and too small for him anyhow. But he persevered in forcing
his feet into them, much to the entertainment of Babu Bhagavan
Das and myself, who were his particular friends. He made
a curious spectacle, with his yellow boots and his otherwise
yogi-like dress and countenance, but inside he could bear
pain as only yogis can.
Many times we walked together the whole length of the steps
and terraces of the Benares water-front, poking our noses
into everything, and learning much about the miscellaneous
Hindu life that finds its way to Benares. His favourite
spot on these walks was the burning-ghat. We would stand
for a long time watching the bodies being placed on the
pyres, covered with wood and finally enveloped in flames.
[166]
He used facetiously to remark that he wanted to get used
to this process before his own turn came. Perhaps there
was something of sincerity in that remark, however, for
it is consistent with a certain type of Indian mind to inure
themselves to trouble before it comes, like those perverted
yogis who hold their arms up until they wither, or sit on
beds of spikes, or surround themselves with fires in the
heat of summer under the blazing sun, and thus, in the brief
but expressive words of Sir Edwin Arnold, seek to "baulk
hell by self-kindled hells."
Narayanaswami was a man of great learning, and considerable
ability in the handling of the Sanskrit language, his subject
of especial interest being Yoga, and the study of the Minor
Upanishads in which there is much yogic lore.
One day he came to me at Adyar and told me that he and some
other friends had met a great yogi, who was actually one
of the Masters, who lived in a little cottage within a mile
of the railway station of Tiruvallam, about eighty miles
from Madras, on the line to Mysore and the west coast. He
proposed that we should go and talk with him. He was sure
that this was the great Master alluded to among the "star
names" as Jupiter, the Master of the Master who had
taught Mme Blavatsky and Colonel Olcott.
Mr. Leadbeater had often spoken to me and to others of a
great Master corresponding to this description. T. Subba
Row, an occultist of the preceding generation, now dead,
had taken Mr. Leadbeater one day to see that Master, and
he had explained some points and given him a diagram which
he had used in one of his books. Mr. Leadbeater did not
feel at liberty to say much about that Master. He did not
think that anyone could find him unless it was his desire.
At the time of his visit the Master occupied a little cottage
within a mile of the railway station, living as a small
landowner, his greatness unsuspected by the people, among
whom he moved freely. He was elderly, a little short of
stature, had a white beard and had lived there for a long
time.
I was decidedly open to conviction as regards both these
accounts, but I was always ready for experience, so one
morning Narayanaswami and I set off by train. We arrived
at the Tiruvallam railway station in the middle of the day,
walked across the fields along the little ridges of earth
which form the borders between the cultivated plots, and
came to the cottage, which stood on a little rising ground
beside the [167] main road leading from Madras to Calicut.
We found there only a very old woman, said to be over ninety,
who told us that the swami had gone some days before to
a certain village. We went there. He had moved on. In this
search we travelled in several ways-on the railway, in bullock
carts and on foot by both day and night.
At last we came upon him early one morning, sleeping in
the front room of a little house in the main street of Muttuku,
a large village. We sat quietly near his feet on the platform
on which he lay, and waited. Soon the old man awoke and
sat up. Narayanaswami said a few words to him in Tamil.
Then he spoke to us by name, told us that he had specially
waited in the village that night because he knew we were
on our way to see him, said he had seen us at the railway
station and in certain of the villages to which we had been-gave
us in fact quite a sketch of our wanderings in search of
him.
He was a blind man. When a little later on I stayed with
him for a week at his cottage, alone except for the old
woman, I used to see him groping his way round the walls
to find the doorway when he came in from the fields. Often
the old woman or I would lead him. Yet he had a little bullock
cart, in which he used to make long tourneys from one village
to another.
I can form no theory as to how he drove-perhaps the little
bull knew where he wanted to go and also knew the way-or
how he avoided the traffic on the roads, little as it was.
In all these accounts I am only recording what I have seen,
and rarely attempting explanations. I have not tried to
explain, for example, how it was that Mr. Leadbeater could
not converse with the dead boy because of the language barrier,
and yet could understand what people were saying in the
past lives, or how the student's father conversed with me
on his nocturnal visit though we had no language in common,
and spoke also to my Muhammadan friend under the same conditions.
The old gentleman spoke very freely of occult matters, talked
about the various Masters familiar to Theosophists, and
of the coming of a great teacher whom he called Nanjunda,
said that I would not leave India soon, as I expected to,
but only after Nanjunda came. He remarked: " Your pupil
will be your teacher," referring I supposed to Krishnamurti,
from whom in fact I did afterwards learn a good deal of
common sense, and whom I also came to regard as [168] much
more deep-sighted than either Mrs. Besant or Mr. Leadbeater-though
he would not pronounce himself to be or not to be the great
Teacher whose coming had been predicted, even when in 1928
to 1930 Mrs. Besant was publicly proclaiming him as such,
and saying that there had been a blending of the consciousness
of Krishnamurti and that of the Teacher.
Narayanaswami and I enjoyed conversation with the old gentleman
for an hour or two. He expressed great liking for me, presented
me with a string of beads (rudraksha berries) taken directly
from his own neck, and also his rather worn deer skin, and
sent us both off thinking that life was good, and was going
to be marvellous indeed in the future.
§ 2
A month or two afterwards, in the same year,
1910, I visited the old gentleman at his cottage and stayed
there about a week. The cottage-built of irregular pieces
of stone -consisted of one oblong room with a small portion
partitioned off by a low wall at one end. There were only
two doors, front and back, opposite each other in the middle
of the long sides. Between the doors, exactly in the centre
of the room, was a seat hung from the central beam by chains.
Hanging from one of the chains were a drum and a horn. The
old gentleman, whose name was Nagaratnaswami, though he
was usually known as the Kurruttu Paradeshi (meaning a blind
wanderer) or the Mottu Paradeshi (a wanderer living on a
mound), used generally to sit on that swing-like seat. For
food, the old woman would spread his leaf on the floor,
as she did mine also. For bathing, he would sit outside
and pour water over himself with one hand while he rubbed
himself with the other. The water-pots used while I was
there were very small, as there was quite a drought at the
time.
When I arrived, some villagers were digging a deep well
for him-really a large hole in the ground, a pit, perhaps
twenty-five feet in diameter, slightly narrowing as one
descended the circular pathway cut in the side. Several
men dug, while women carried up baskets of earth. In the
afternoon we went out to this well. My arrival had been
very auspicious; water had just been struck in one corner
of the excavation, so nothing would satisfy the Paradeshi
[169] but that I should be the first to bathe there, while
he and the workpeople and a few young men who had come up
from the village to satisfy their curiosity, sat on the
pathways on the shady side of the pit, which was opposite
to the little hole of extra depth, perhaps six feet in diameter,
where the water had been found.
Wearing a single loin cloth, I got down into the yellow
clayey water, splashed about in it and then sat on the side
of the hole. It was while I was sitting there that frogs
began to appear-any number of them and of various sizes.
Their inevitable appearance on such occasions is almost
as much a mystery as many of the occult happenings in India.
Although blind, the old gentleman laughed heartily when
the frogs began to jump on me, and called out with increased
amusement when one of them got itself entangled in my cloth.
I did not mind the contact at all. I had always liked frogs.
They had been frequent visitors, almost residents, in my
room in the quadrangle. There, in the nights, various kinds
of flying things would come in, seeking the light; then
lizards would come out of their corners and frogs would
hop in from outside, seeking the flying creatures which
would fall from the lamp or cluster on the shining parts
of the white-washed walls. Most people used to chase the
frogs away from their rooms, for they feared that snakes
would follow the frogs, as they sometimes did, though in
several years only about half a dozen ever came into my
room. Once I killed a snake which was on the window-sill,
by slamming the shutter so as to trap it and then beating
it with a stick. Never again! I thought the sight of that
unhappy snake would follow me to my dying day. Two or three
times a snake glided past my foot while I was sitting, once
actually touching it; but under such circumstances I think
they are quite harmless, as they are not aggressive. The
numerous cases of snake-bite in India are due to accidents.
A villager, working in a field or walking along a path or
a lane, happens to tread on one of them.
Only once I was in such danger. I had gone to my bathroom
in the night. There was bright moonlight outside- such as
I have seen only in India; one could read by its light,
and could see the colours of the leaves and flowers. Moonlight
can give colour when there is enough of it. But in the bathroom
there was only a glimmer of light coming [170] through the
slats of a Venetian window not perfectly closed. I put my
hand out to open the Venetians a little further, and rested
it quite firmly, though gently, as it fortunately happened,
on a snake which was lying along the cross-piece in the
middle of the shutter. I felt it, of course-very nice to
touch, smooth, cool and not damp. It moved very slightly.
I withdrew my hand gently, went back to my room, returned
with a lamp, and threw water from a tin dipper at the snake
until it took the hint to depart and slipped away between
the partially open slats. The student in whom I was interested
also once had a very narrow escape. He was going to take
dinner with the English Sub-Collector and his wife and had
dressed himself in European clothes for the occasion, and
was wearing boots. That was lucky for him as going along
the drive he happened to tread on a snake. But I was talking
about frogs in the new well at Tiruvallam.
While we were sitting in the pit the Paradeshi kept up a
running commentary of remarks, of which I have kept some
notes. ''Wood has come here because he is my brother. I
understand him when he speaks English. He was a king at
Hastinapura about eight hundred years ago, and I was his
son. He was then named Dharmaraja. His subtle body looks
like glass, without any dust; yours are full of dust. He
is all gold. I am having this well dug for him. I knew him
even before his birth. The northern people worship a white
Krishna. Colour of skin depends upon climate. There are
only four real spiritual gurus (teachers or guides) in the
world. Etc."
These remarks were spoken in Tamil and translated to me
by a young man from the village who happened to know English.
I stayed in that cottage simply waiting to see what would
happen. Sometimes the young man knowing English would come
up and then there would be conversation. One day I happened
to say some words of sympathy which drew forth an explanation
of the old gentleman's cheerfulness, which was constant,
notwithstanding the inconvenience of his poverty and blindness.
He laughed at me and said that my sympathy was wasted, for
he was a very happy man. He said that he knew the reason
for his blindness and poverty. In the past life which he
had mentioned, although I had been a good man he, succeeding
to my power and wealth, had been extremely selfish and had
used his position [171] to do injury to people whom he disliked.
His present difficulties were the outcome of those injuries
done to others. But it had all turned to good. The villagers
round about had been very kind to him and that was a happiness
beyond anything that material wealth could give. He had
come to learn to love others. If he had gone on as a rich
man he did not think that he would have changed his nature
voluntarily, but the law of karma had taught him.
§ 3
One afternoon, when I was alone with him, except for the
old woman hovering in the background over some household
task, the Paradeshi motioned to me to sit on the threshold
of the front door. I sat sideways, half inside and half
outside the door. He then established himself more carefully
than usual, cross-legged on his swinging seat, facing the
door. For perhaps half an hour he chanted verses, softly
at first and then in an increasingly loud voice, while I
sat wondering at this unusual procedure. Suddenly the verses
came to a halt. He unhooked the drum and beat upon it with
increasing force for a few minutes. Then he put the drum
aside, took up the horn and blew upon it a long loud blast.
At that moment rain began to fall, at first large heavy
drops, like pennies-as the children used to say in England-then
faster and faster until there was a steady shower, which
must have lasted from five to ten minutes. Abruptly it ceased
and the sun was shining as brazenly as before. The shower
appeared to have covered a large field at least. I went
out. Women had come from various cottages some way off,
and were filling little pots with water from the various
holes in the stony ground.
Another afternoon as I was lying on my mat spread on the
earthen floor of the cottage, waiting for the heat of the
day to pass, I had a striking vision. Up above me, at some
little distance in a sloping direction, I saw the form of
a young man of most serene and yet most positive aspect,
looking towards me. He stood in an aura of what I can call
only blue lightning. I cannot describe the impression of
power that it gave to me. I thought this might have been
the teacher Nanjunda, he whom Mrs. Besant and Mr. Leadbeater
called variously the World Teacher-a translation of the
term Jagatguru used in Hindu scriptures-the [172] Lord Maitreya-the
teacher to be successor to the Lord Buddha in Buddhist tradition-and
the Christ. When I got back to Adyar and told this to Mr.
Leadbeater, however, he did not agree with that idea, but
referred me to a description of another Master whom he called
the Lord of the World.
Towards the end of the week the Paradeshi told me that he
wanted me to stay there and take up the work that he had
been doing for many years, so that he could retire from
his old body. I asked him if that was the" Master's
wish. A bit huffily he told me that it was his own wish.
There were, he said, certain Bhairavas there-exactly what
he meant I do not know-and he had to look after them. He
was responsible in some way for quite a large territory.
Would I stay and take over the job and release him? I did
not understand the situation very clearly. I was not satisfied
that the interpreter was correctly explaining what he said.
I told the old gentleman that I would go back to Adyar and
come again with a friend.
I persuaded Subrahmanyam to accompany me on my third visit
to the Paradeshi, though he could spare only a single day.
Then I elicited the information that he had not told Narayanaswami
and others that he was the Master of the Master known to
Theosophists as the Master of Mme Blavatsky and Colonel
Olcott. They had misunderstood him; what he had said was
that that Master was his own Master. The same Master, he
said, was my Master. In that way we were brothers. According
to him the name of our Master was Sitaram Bhavaji. That
teacher had come to the south many years before. He had
visited a temple standing in the river bed not far away.
The Paradeshi had met him then, had become his disciple,
and had afterwards seen him and been instructed by him clairvoyantly.
That Master used to travel occasionally. He had been to
England about the year 1850. Working with him there was
a Kashmir Master, a younger man, who had been educated at
Oxford. There was also a greater Master living in the mountains
north of Tiruvallam, who was very rarely seen. Mme Blavatsky
and Colonel Olcott had both visited the Paradeshi. They
had "dragged him out of his obscurity," and it
was Colonel Olcott who had taught him to smoke cigars. I
explained to him that nothing but the Master's direct wish
could induce me to give up my present work; that I was sorry
to leave him but it simply had to be.
[173] When I told Narayanaswami and the other friends who
had been with him on his first visit to Tiruvallam that
the Paradeshi had explained to me that he was not the Master
of Sitaram Bhavaji, but that Sitaram Bhavaji was his Master,
they insisted that the mistake must be mine, and continued
in their conviction that they had met the great Master himself.
More then twenty years afterwards, in both 1933 and 1934,
I happened to pass that way by motor-car. I found that the
Paradeshi had died in the interval, and that some devotees
had built a shrine beside the old cottage, now tumbled down,
and were worshipping there the sandals, staff, drinking-pot
and other small articles which had been used by him when
alive. Sic transit gloria mundi. (Much the same was to be
done to Mrs. Besant later on.) But I saw no trace of any
successor who might be directing the "Bhairavas "
in that somewhat desolate spot.
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