Vijayananda
In
The Steps of the Yogis
Published with the kind authorization of Bharatiya Vidya Bhavan, Mumbai (first edition 1978)
First
Part
The
Preparation
CHAPTER 1
PARIS 1945
June
the sixth, 1944. The marvellous news spread like wildfire; the Allies had
landed in Normandy; the German army was retreating in disorder. At last the
seeming impossible had come to pass. Then on August 15th, 1944 came
the attack on the Mediterranean coast; the country was free. At last we could
breathe easily again. It was like waking out of a long
nightmare.
I was a doctor, thirty years old at the time. Like everybody else I had
been called up. I asked to be attached to the F.E.F.E.O. the far Eastern
Expeditionary Force. The Japanese had not yet been brought to their knees, and
in the Far East fierce fighting still raged.
It was not that I had any ill
feeling towards* the Japanese. Far from it I had always had the highest
admiration for the culture of this great people. The indomitable courage and
chivalric spirit of their samurais, their delicate art, their ethics culminating
in the Zen branch of Buddhism, all these had compelled the respect of the entire
world.
But for me the F.E.F.E.O. Was a door to
the Far East .I had been promised a post at G.H.O. and Colombo was next door to
India. It was India, which drew me. India? Why India? The West can certainly
take pride in material civilisation and in the miracles that its scientists have
achieved, and in this field the East has almost nothing to teach us. Even on the
plane of ethical values. The moral code of the Jewish and Christian religious,
Roman law and the legislative systems of modern nations have achieved heights
that can hardly be surpassed.
But India, despite all the changes she has undergone, remains the
acknowledged centre of spiritual culture. An artist pursuing perfection in music
or in painting would go to Rome or to Florence; in medicine the ne plus ultra
of a student’s aspiration would be the Faculty of medicine in Paris;
chemistry would best be studied in Germany…and so it goes on. But to achieve
spiritual perfection it is to India that one most go to serve one’s
apprenticeship. It is quite unnecessary of course to adopt the Hindu religion
and customs. All that is called for is to study at the feet of a Master that
wisdom which pertains not to any single race or nation but to all humankind,
Whether it is called the Brahmagyan the Knowledge of the Self, the Gay Savoir or
any other name is no great matter.
However far back one goes into the history of India, one finds that
always, even in the darkest ages, the torch of this wisdom has been kept alive.
It would appear that there was always at least one wise man capable of handing
it on. The West has known
one Moses and one Christ lives according to their teachings. But in India every generation has had
its Christs and its Moses’, and some of them, perhaps, even greater than the
founders of the religions of the West.
For the time being, however, I was in Paris. After a period of training
at St Raphael and then in Algeria, I had been posted to the General Headquarters
of the Far East Expeditionary Corps.
But the atomic bomb had compelled the Japanese to surrender and so we
were waiting for our demobilisation.
Paris! I have always had a special corner in my heart for this great city
so misrepresented by foreigners. Certainly Paris has its dissipations and its
nightlife; but so have all the world's great cities.
It is not only for the beauty of its avenues, the sheer exuberance of its
architecture, the flair of its citizens and the elegance of their culture, that
I love Paris. In the whole wide world there is no town to equal it. The truth
is, it is not just a town, it is a world in itself. It represents the sum-total of all
Western culture for centuries past. Each quiet quarter bears its own stamp,
distinctive and unique. All spheres
of arts, of humanity and of science are represented in Paris, in their highest
form. But what is not generally known is that even to those who thirst for the
spiritual life, Paris has something to offer. And it was to this field of
research that I now decided to dedicate my spare time.
Among the first of my discoveries was Gurukrita, the wise man of
Saint-Mandé. Strange bonds of friendship link mystics to each other. It would
appear that an invisible power draws them together and creates a feeling of
mutual sympathy. How else could I explain my meeting at St Raphael with Doctor
M? Dr M. was a physician somewhat older than myself, a Buddhist and proud of the
fact. He was more inclined to the Tibetan forof Buddhism, to “Lamaism”. He knew
the Tibetan and Sanskrit languages and had translated Tibetan texts into
French. Additionally, he
had a long and serious experience of meditation. I listened to him admiringly
and asked advice of him as of an older brother. He spoke to me of his guru, his
spiritual guide, a true sage able to easily guide those whom he considered able
to receive his teachings". My heart
leaped with joy. Ever since I had
been 20 years old I had regarded the word guru as I would a magic formula. To utter it, or even merely to think it,
would bring tears to my eyes. But
what actually was a Guru? Did the
word suggest something outside the sphere of human
relations?
I was hardly four years old when my father died and I have no
recollection of feeling among my childhood memories. A psychoanalyst would say
that, having been deprived of paternal love, I had repressed and sublimated my
longing for it into a conscious search for a Guru, and perhaps there might be a
measure of truth in this. But
why to attach importance to the
opinions of a psychoanalyst? The
science of psychoanalysis is still in its infancy and has explored a tiny
portion only of the complexities of the human mind. But the mind is a whole, all
levels of which operate in relation to each other, and it can be known and
judged only if it is considered in its entirety.
Psychologists in the West are generally agreed that art, prayer, the love
of God and so on, are all sublimations of the sexual urge. But perhaps it would
be more correct to invert the terms of the relationship and to postulate that
sexual love is no more than degeneration and a false interpretation of the love
of the Divine. It is true that many of our actions and thoughts are symbolic
expressions of our sexual life. But
sex urge is not the last word. The sexual act itself is in effect, a symbolic
expression of something more fundamental still. The urge to reach the "Other" is rooted
in our instinctive awareness that we are "separated" from "something", and that
we long to become one with it again, to become one with the universal
consciousness. And it is the "Guru"
who serves as the links, which makes this union possible.
The physical Guru - I am talking of course of a true Guru - represents,
in some way, the knife-edge between human love and the love of the Divine. This is only one of his functions,
though not the least important. In the language of psychoanalysis, one might say
that he brings about an "affective transference". The truth is however, that the true Guru
is God himself or if one prefers, our luminous "I", the "Christos" of the
Gnostics. He takes concrete shape
in a visible form when we are spiritually mature enough for the inner
quest.
My friend, Dr. M. had
written to his master to introduce me, and one fine summer afternoon I took the
metro to Saint-Mandé. L'avenue Victor. Hugo.…..L'hospice
Lenoir-Joussereau... I asked
for doctor Goret... and I was led into his room. Imagine my surprise to find that it was
the room of an invalid! The doctor,
formerly a house physician in the Paris hospitals and holder of diploma in
psychiatry, had been bed-ridden for over 30 years. With no private means he was supported
by public welfare funds and lived the life of a veritable monk. It appeared that after an active life,
cerebellar complications following
a stroke had reduced him to this condition. An ordinary man would have a given
himself over to despair or might even have gone mad. But Doctor Goret, (Gurukrita, as he
called himself) was no ordinary man.
Hewas, to use his own words a "born ascetic". With his mind turned inward, he
had come to understand secrets and complexities of our thinking machine. He had then made an even greater
discovery, the discovery of something he called "the
beyond".
One day he had chanced upon certain books about Theravada Buddhism
and Vedanta and He had noticed that
his own ‘discovery’ matched perfectly with these teachings of the
great sages of India. Thus he called himself a Buddhist. However, the charge that a great master
of Zen Buddhism once brought against his disciple “there is too much Buddhism in
what you have said”, certainly could not be brought against Gurukrita, for his
teaching was very much applied to his life and ,and he used words drawn from
books only to communicate more easily with his interlocutors. Words, he said, are an "indispensable
intermediary". Buddhists in Paris
looked at him askance, for his views in their opinion were not always orthodox
and may even have been said, at times, to border on heresy.
His
teaching however, transcended all religious frameworks. Called "Ascetology", it wasa science which, if
not new, was at least congenial and adaptable to the modern mind. "Ascetology is areligious", he
said. He made important notes on
this science but refused to publish them and never shows them to sceptics or
disbelievers. They are reserved for
his disciples, a small and select band. He talked sometimes sitting up,
sometimes lying down, but was unable to leave his bed. Pencil in hand, he seemed interminably
to be making notes - notes of his interlocutor’s remarks andhis own
comments.
His serene, smiling old face was framed in a trim, grey beard. There was no sign whatever of that deep,
sad resignation that so often marks the face of people suffering from incurable
illness or of the inmates of old-age homes. His eyes, always upright, always alert,
take fleeting notes of an interesting reaction by his interlocutors or reflect a
careful awareness of his own mental responses. The most important thing of all
is never to lose one’s shanti
(one’s inner serenity)", he said.
I become his disciple.
Knowing that he had something to communicate and waseager to teach, he
requested pupils to be sent to him.
But he was fastidious in his acceptance of them. He had a preference for medical men as
he felt they responded favourably to the
"ascetological tests" which he made... Unknown to them. With me he began his lessons as a
schoolmaster would, insisting that I take notes. Before I leave he lends me the first
part of his manuscript on asset on a number of books out of a plentiful stalked
to border.
For five fears I studied under his guidance. It was an important stage in my
spiritual progress.
Another spiritual
teacher to whom my enquiries led me at the time was Monsieur Gurjieff, the
Russian "Master". What a strange person he was! " A "master" of the most unusual kind,
such as one encounters only rarely. That, at least, was how one of his chief disciple spoke of
him, before introducing me to the
"master” Once again, it was my
particular providence in this field - working through my friend Dr M. - which
took me into is the amazing world of Monsieur Gurdjieff. Dr M. himself was not in Paris at the
time but he had given me a letter of introduction to C. at the Pasteur
Institute; C. was my second link in the chain. The third was Mme de S. “the keeper of
the Gate".
Madame de S. was a big Russian lady with a majestic and
impressive countenance. Her large
eyes, looking penetratingly into yours, gave you the feeling that she might
mesmerise you if he felt so inclined.
She acted as an interpreter between Monsieur G. and his pupils, for the
Master’s French was somewhat elementary, even obscure and incomprehensible. It was she too, who communicated the
masters instructions and explained them; who seemed in fact, to bear almost the
entire responsibility for the spiritual and practical running of the
organisation. One had the
impression that it was she who was the real "master", that Gurdjieff was present
merely as a bantering spectator, watching the antics of human puppets, which he
might well manage himself if he would……….
In her flat on the Rue N. Mme de S. received me with great cordiality
From the start she adopted a tone of affectionate familiarity as trough I had
already been accepted into the circle of disciples. My first contact with the
“MASTER” would be an invitation to dine at his table. Regarding my self as an
almost unknown initiate, I was deeply moved by this great
honour.
And so on the appointed day I presented myself at the apartment on the
Rue N. and found myself face to face with the celebrated Russian Guru. G. was a
men of middle height inclined to
corpulence. He seemed quite old, probably past sixty, almost completely bald and
with a long, drooping moustache. Without pretentious, he gave not the slightest
indication of wishing to play the great man or to make an impression. He seemed to live in a permanent state of
relaxation, both physical and mental. He spoke a rudimentary French consisting
almost entirely of common nouns and adjectives, and frequently bare of verbs or
articles. From time to time he addressed himself in Russian to a compatriot
among his disciples who translated where necessary. He smiles almost all the
time but it is an ironic smile, perhaps even slightly
mocking.
I am introduced to the Master ……. He seemed to pronounce judgment upon me
in a few words the precise significance of which I did not grasp .I asked if he
would undertake the responsibility of guiding me in the world of the spirit. His
reply is a question:
“ Do you smoke?”
“No I don’t. At least only an occasional puff at a pipe, or an
exceedingly rare cigarette”
“Well, then” he said, “work out how much you have saved by not smoking,
give me the money and I will undertake to guide you”
Was he joking? Or could he be talking seriously? I prefered to regard it
as a joke, for I could have but a paltry respect for a “master” who was prepared
to trade his wisdom for money. Years later in India, I discovered that, viewed
within the framework of Hindu tradition; there was nothing offensive in such a
demand. It used to be the custom in earlier times to give the Guru “Dakshina”,
that it to say, a fee for his teaching. However I have never come across the
like among the great sages of today whom I have met.
Gurdjieff seemed to have done the cooking himself, or at least to
beconcerned with the finishing touches, as I saw him ladle in hand, stirring
something in a pot on the stove.
It was time to eat and we sat at the table. Besides the Master and Mme de
S. there were a number of people whom I did not know. From the start G. put
everyone at ease.
There was no formality, no ceremony of any
kind. I felt entirely at home. There were numerous little dishes, hors–d’oeuvres
and so on, most of which were delicious but quite new to me. Perhaps they were
Russian, Greek, or Caucasian dishes for the Master was in fact a Caucasian
Greek; or perhaps they were made from recipes that he had brought back from
India, Tibet or Mongolia.
What startled me however, and even shocked me, was the drink. It was
served in little glasses, rather like wine glasses in size. There was no water
on the table, nor even any wine, only this highly alcoholic potion. Vodka,
perhaps? In any case you might eat or not eat as you pleased, but drink you had
to. There was no escape. The Master himself took care that the glasses were
drained dry and immediately refilled. No recalcitrance was permitted.
I myself was a water drinker, though I did not feel it derogated in any
way from my character! On very rare occasions I took a little wine, but of
alcoholic drinks I had a horror; I had never been able to understand how anyone
could delight in this liquid which set the mouth on fire, induced painful
contraction in the oesophagus and resulted in choking and hiccups .On this
occasion I tried to manoeuvre, to evade the torment but the Master was
unbending. All that I managed to do was to skip an occasional round or to leave
a few drops in my glass.
However, despite my alcoholic inexperience I did not get drunk. I did not
even become talkative. Could it have been the influence of the Master? Or could
some kind of antidote have been added to the drinks? Perhaps it was simply that
I could carry alcohol better than I had imagined I could. Was this a deliberate element in the
Master’s technique to “alcoholize” a disciple or a newcomer, for alcohol induces
a mental relaxation and loquaciousness and so makes it easier to judge the
character and temperament of anyone under its influence.
At
each round we drank a toast. It was
no conventional banquet toast, however; it was a toast to “idiots”? Thus, for
example, some one would say, “I drink to the idiot without hope.’’ This is not as ridiculous as it sounds,
as the purpose of any spiritual discipline is after all, to transcend thought
and language and in the final count, to reduce the mind to silence. That is why
the spiritual “idiot’’ stands at the opposite extreme from his worldly
counterpart; for whereas the latter is at the foot of the social ladder the
former has reached the peak of spiritual realisation. Again, hope is the central
variable motivating our thinking. To give up all hope and all desire is to break
free of the shadows that delude. It is then that the Real which is Perfect
happiness, spontaneously reveals it self.
Dinner over, I took leave of the Master; but that evening there was to be
a meeting of the disciples to which I was invited.
First I went to Mme de S. where we gathered for spiritual exercise and
for instruction in such matters as the method of meditation. Then we went on to
G. ’s for the evening meeting.
I hardly know how to describe this meeting. It had absolutely no resemblance to any
other meeting I have attended or heard about. It was more like a cocktail party.
We stood around, walked about, talked laughed, joked… and had another drink. The
glasses were smaller this time but the liquor was stronger. Despite the hubbub
and confusion G. saw to it that the glasses were conscientiously drained. I took
advantage of a movement when his attention was otherwise engaged to fob off a
round on a neighbour who was more fond than in I was of this species of liquid,
but alas! The Master caught me in the act, and looked at me reprovingly. “I
wanted to include you in the esoteric circle, but now you will be only in the
exoteric”; he told me, or something to the same effect. And so I was demoted …
There were twenty or thirty of us in an ordinary apartment room. Almost all were
young; there were hardly any older people. Most of those present were unknown to
me but almost all seemed to be well-to-do. There were doctors, writers artists.
Some obviously had a deep faith in their Master, but most must have found
something congenial in his teaching since they came back to G. ’meeting s and
attended regularly.
The master was surrounded by a number of pretty girls. One, who was
particularly young (not more than eighteen) and particularly pretty seemed to be
the favourite. Gossip had it that the Master’s contacts with these “youthful
spirits” where not limited to the mystic or even platonic
spheres.
Alcohol and women? Was that what this section of Parisian high society
came here to seek? Certainly not, not that. Or, at least, not “only” that. There
were places in plenty in Paris where such commodities could be come by. Far be
it from me to pass judgement on the Russian Master. Indeed my contacts with him
were too brief to entitle me to do so, for after only a few days I beat a
retreat never to return. In matters
pertaining to the spiritual life I am, alas, only a vulgar conformist. My ideal
of the wise man is the classic type of the ascetic “pure as a dew drops ’’,
“luminous and transparent as a sapphire”. I have chosen to travel along the
highroad, the road leading through the purification and refinement of the spirit
until it loses itself in the Absolute.
It is true nevertheless that the Absolute transcends both good and evil
and there is a road to it which takes the negative way through our mind. Schools
of thought which have attempted to exploit the dynamism of sexual union in order
to enable us to transcend our human limitations have existed at all times.
The Bible tell us of the horrors of the cults of Beelzebub and of Moloch,
cults that the children of Israel were charged to root out in order to replace
them with the cults of the El-Elyon,
the supreme God. In ancient Greece the Dionysian and Apollonian paths
seem to have existed side by side. In our own time too a number of different
sects may be seen to be flourishing in India. The Vamachara is an offshoot of
the Shakta school. “This horrible Vamachara ” as Vivekananda called it, has
taken as objects of its worship all that orthodox India holds in abhorrence;
sexual union, alcohol and meat. It offers devotees, not renunciation of the
world as a means to Happiness and Liberation, but the Bhokti-Mukti, the joys of
the world and liberation, at one and the same time. The Aghorapanths are a sect
of Yogis among whom even cannibalism is not unknown; they are almost extinct
today, though some are still to be met in with in the mountain country of
Girnar. Another such sect the
Kartabhajas, also called Sahajikas, are associated with the Vaishnava school.
Among them, the disciples live together in the relationship of lover and
mistress, and when the Master asks a woman disciple, “Have you found your
Krishna?”, the implication is, “Have you found yourself a lover from among the
disciples?”
Most
members of such sects, if at all they succeed in rising above the animal
instincts, do so only in order to master debased magical arts, such at the arts
of seduction, or enslavement, of killing an enemy by supernatural means and so
on.
All
these paths are difficult and dangerous and unsuited to the Western mind. True, it cannot be disputed that a
master who is himself perfect is not subject to the conventional social criteria
of good and evil , or to moral and religious law; but identified as he is with
the “Perfect Good” he will as a
general rule, perform only actions
that are beyond reproach . On this subject Ramakrishna, in his usual homely
idioms had this comment to make: “A perfect dancer never puts a foot wrong ”;
and indeed neither in India nor in Ceylon have I ever know a perfect sage who
infringed the moral code dictated by social convention.
History and legend however, give account of Yogis who have freely
exercised their right to be “ beyond good and evil”. Vimalakiriti, one of the
lay disciples of the Buddha had –so the Vimalakirti Nirdesa tell us– attained such a
degree of perfection that he could with impunity, frequent taverns and other scenes of debauch. He was also
so skilled a dialectician that none of the Master‘s great disciples could hold
their own against him. Another instance is provided by Padma. Sambhava, one of
the founders of Lamaism in Tibet who, we are told, committed the most abominable
of forbidden acts, though always motivated by compassion for the victims.
Clearly however, the mere fact of violating the established moral code does not,
in itself, provide convincing evidence of perfect self-realisation. Such
evidence is to be sought in the Yogi’s power and in his recognition of the
truth. This is illustrated by the following amusing anecdote (adapted from “The
book of the Great Liberation” by Evan Wentz.):
One day a heruka (a naked ascetic) appeared in a little Indian town. It
was, in fact Padmasambhava who had assumed this form. He went straight to a tavern and
demanded wine, though for an Indian monk to drink wine was considered a very
grave fault. The landlady asked how much he wanted. ‘‘As much as you can supply
me with,” answered the monk. Since she had hundreds of casks in stock, the
landlady asked him if he could afford to pay for them all. The heruka replied
that he would do so, but only after sundown. Then he settled down to drinking
and drank without a pause, until soon all the casks were empty. He thereupon
sent the landlady out to look for wine in other taverns. By now the sun was
about to set but the monk laid his phurba (magic dagger) on the counter, half in
shade and half in sunshine and………. The sun halted its progress and stood still
in the sky.
This went
on for a couple of weeks. The sun never set and the monk went on drinking. The
heat become insufferable, rivers and ponds dried up and the ears of corn
withered in the fields. The country people complained bitterly, and, believing
that their misfortune was a punishment inflicted by the gods for misconduct of
the monk in the tavern, they requested the king to intervene. The king went down
to the tavern in person and reprimanded the monk severely, asking why he did not
leave off drinking. The heruka replied that he had promised to settle the bill
after sunset and that he did not have the wherewithal to pay. On hearing this,
the king paid the landlady in full, the heruka lifted his magic dagger off the
counter, the sun went down and everything returned to its former
state.
Another story tells of the great Shankaracharya famed for his wisdom and
purity. One day, wishing to teach his disciples a lesson, he took about a dozen
of them with him into a tavern, and ordered liquor. In India gurus are held in
deep veneration and Shankaracharya was considered to be a Master of the very
highest order, but the drinking of wine is considered a very gave fault even
among the laity, and the disciples wondered whether they should follow their
master’s example or not. A number of them, decided to drink but more experienced
abstained. Shankaracharya made no comment, and leaving the tavern, walked on,
surrounded, as always by his disciples. Then he stepped into a blacksmith’s
forge and began swallowing red-hot coals. Here however, none of his disciples
dared follow foot–steps!
On other occasion Shankaracharya proved indisputably that he had
transcended good and evil.
In order to accomplish his mission – the reestablishment of orthodox
Brahmanism in India, which was then undergoing Buddhist influence – Shankara
traversed the length and breadth of the country, engaging in religious
discussions with Buddhist monks and with representatives of other Hindu sects.
At that time there was often much more at stake in such discussion than a simple
josting with words. Not infrequently it happened that the loser was required to
drown himself in the sea.
One of these philosophical journeys took place one day with a famous
Brahmin called Madan Misra. The latter was a representative of the school of
Purva Mimansa which held that the performances of the sacrificial rites
prescribed by the Vedas was sufficient in itself for the attainment of the
supreme goal and that there was no need whatever for the renunciation of the
world which Shankaracharya preached.
The stake decided upon was as
follows: if Madan Mishra was overcome, he would have to give up the world,
become a monk (sanyasi) and live according to the teachings of the school of
Shankara. If on the contrary, the latter was defeated, he would renounce the
monastic discipline and lead a worldly life.
The oratorical battle was engaged for several days until finally Madan
Misra was compelled to admit defeat. His wife however – a very clever women –
intervened and claimed that Shankaracharya’s victory was not complete. A men and
his wife were one, she asserted, and Shankaracharya had yet to vanquish the
wife. Shankara accepted the
challenge. The woman turned the discussion on to the lines of the Kama Sutra
(which ruled sexual relations) and Shankara, who has always led a life of the
strictest chastity, was completely ignorant on the subject. Nevertheless, he
refused to admit defeat and demanded a deferment to permit him to inform
himself.
Shankara could not of
course, permit himself to have sexual relation; his physical body was the body
of a Yogi, pure from infancy. Moreover his prestige as a reformer would have
been considerably damaged. But he got around the difficulty. A neighbouring Raja
had just died. Leaving his physical bodyin the jungle under the guard of some of
his disciples, Shankara entered the body of the Raja. The surprise of the king’s
ministers and queens when they saw him revive at the very moment that the
funeral pyre was about to be set alight, can be imagined. But it was nothing to
their astonishment when they found that this king, who had been a very ordinary
man, now spoke and conducted himself like a great sage. It was not long before
they suspected the truth – that some Yogi had effected a spiritual transfer –
and as they were willing to pay any price to hold on to so exceptional a ruler,
soldiers were sent out with orders to search the countryside and, if they found
a human body lying lifeless, to burn it immediately.
Meanwhile the king, Shankara, enjoyed himself with his queens, tasted the
pleasures of the court and forgot completely what he had been in the
past.
The disciples, when their master failed to return, sent one of their
number in search of him. He succeeded in gaining entry into the palace, despite
the guards and recited to the king – Shankara – a hymn that the later himself
had composed on the glory of the Atman. Hearing it, Shankara recalled his true
identity and re-entered his body, which came to life again at the very moment
when the king’s soldiers who had found it were about to consign it to the
flames.
Now, thoroughly briefed on the subject of sexual relations, Shankara
returned to Madan Misra and took up the argument with his wife who was finally
overcome just as her husband had been. They both took the sannyas, the monastic
initiation, and came to be among the most ardent supporters of the Vedantic
movement.
In exceptional circumstances, a guru may sometimes have a disciple
perform or undergo a felonious act, which he considers indispensable to his
progress. This is illustrated by the two following tales:
The first is about the Master Chih-Yu (From Takakusu Tripitaka.
adapted from the English translation by Arthur Wadley).
The Master of the Law, Fa-Hui, was a Chinese Buddhist monk who had made
great progress in the world of the spirit. But he had not yet achieved complete
self-realisation.
One day a
nun advised him very earnestly to go to Kucha in the Turfan, to the monastery of
“the Golden Flower” where dwelt Chih-Yeh, a renowned Master whom she said, would
teach him the Supreme Dharma (wisdom).
Fa Hui followed her advice and went to Chih–Yeh who received him very
warmly. Offering him a pitcher full of wine, he invited him to drink. Fa-Hui
protested vehemently that he could not bring himself to swallow such impurity;
whereupon the Master Chih-Yeh took Fa-Hui by the shoulders, turned him about,
and without further ceremony, showed him the door. Still holding the pitcher,
Fa–Hui made his way to the cell which had been assigned to him. In this cell he
reflected on this wise man, “I’ve come all this way just to seek his advice
after all. It may be that there is something in his manner of setting about
things that I don’t understand. I think I’d better do as he has advised me”.
Thereupon he swallowed all the wine in the pitcher at one draught.
Completely drunk, sick and wretched, he finally lost
consciousness.
When
he had slept himself sober, he remembered that he had broken his monastic vows,
and in his overwhelming shame, began beating himself with his staff. Indeed he
was in such despair that he almost put an end to his life.
.
The final outcome to this state of despair however, was that he attained
the Anagami-Phala, the final stage, but one, of spiritual realisation mentioned
in the Buddhist scriptures. (The highest stage of all in the Arahant).
When he presented himself again before the Master Chi-Yueh, the latter
asked,
“Have you had it?”.
“Yes I’ve had it”, answered Fa-Hui.
The
second story makes the same point [1](From
the Udana–Sutra 22 23, adapted from the English translation by I.B.
Horner.) of Nanda, the cousin of the Buddha, who had assumed a monk’s robes, but
performed his exercises without enthusiasm and longed to return to the worldly
life. Hearing of this, the Buddha asked him if it was a fact that he wished to
revert to “the lower life “ and if so what his reason might be. “Venerable One”
answered Nanda, “the day I left home, a maiden from the land of the Sakyas (the kingdom ruled over by Gautama
Buddha’s father) the most beautiful maiden in the country, her hair half
unbound, turned round to see me go and said,” May you return soon, young
master”. I think about her all the time, Venerable One. That is why I have no
interest in spiritual exercises and I am considering giving them up in order to
return to the “lower life”.
Using his magical powers, the Master took Nanda by the arm and
transported him to the kingdom of Sakka, another name for Indra, the king of the
gods. There, five hundred Apsaras, nymphs of divine beauty, were serving the
king of the gods. They were called “those with the feet of doves”. The Buddha
asked Nanda if they were as beautiful as the Sakya girls. “Compared to these
nymphs”, replied Nanda, “the most beautiful of the Sakyas would look like a
monkey with its nose and ears cut off.” Taking Nanda back to earth, the Master
then promised him that if he performed his austerities conscientiously he would
win these divinely beautiful nymphs. Before long the other monks gathered that
the venerable Nanda was doing his religious exercise with a view to winning the
five hundred nymphs and he became an object of their derision. Sorrowful,
ashamed and disgruntled, Nanda lived in solitude and put all his fervour into
his spiritual exercise. Very rapidly he achieved final enlightenment, and
needless to say, he forget completely about the nymphs or the Sakya girl for,
compared to the joy of enlightenment, both earthly and celestial joys are as
nothing.
In the course of my exploration of the spiritual life of Paris, I also
discovered the Ramakrishna Mission. Here all was clear and straightforward in
the solidly based classical Vedantic tradition of India. The great sage
Ramakrishna who lived in the second half of the last century had opened up a new
era in relation between Hinduism and the Western world. He appeared to have been
the first great Hindu teacher to have clearly and openly recognised the
fundamental unity of all religions, serving as different paths to the same goal.
His disciple Vivekananda tried to go even further and undertook to spread the
wisdom of Indian, in the form of Vedanta over the entire globe.
Thus was born the Ramakrishna Mission, which today has centres in most of
the larger countries in the world.
It was the first time in history that Hinduism, a religion which is
fundamentally national and racial, had sent out missionaries to propagate its
teaching. The intention was not to convert or to Hinduise. The Vedanta was
propagated as a basis common to all religions, their joint esoteric foundation.
Vivekananda stressed that, “the
Vedanta did not require of the Christian or member of any other creed that he
become a Hindu, but tried to help him to become a better Christian or whatever
else he was… to understand his own
religion better”.
In 1945 the centre of the mission was at saint Mandé on the rue Alphand
in the apartment of Mme N. Her husband had been an ardent supporter of the
Vedantic movement in France and after his death she carried on the work which he
had begun.
Mme N. received me very cordially. It was she who was responsible for the
practical management of the Ramakrishna Mission in Paris. In keeping with a
custom practised in India she performed the function of the “mother” of the
Ashram. The Swami addressed her as Mataji (“mata” means mother, and “ji is a
suffix denoting respect).
The Swami responsible for the mission was a Hindu from South India, a
prince of the royal family of Cochin on the Malabar Coast. His monastic name was
Swami Siddeshwarananda. He was a disciple of Brahmananda, the greatest of the
immediate disciples of Ramakrishna, who at the suggestion of Vivekananda and
with the Master’s consent, his fellow disciples had surnamed Raja (their king).
Brahmananda had been the first spiritual head of the mission. He had the
reputation of being very exacting in his choice of disciples and granted
initiation only to the rare elect. Siddeshwarananda had been one of the elect.
A friend of mine, J.B., who worked at the national library and was a
long-standing disciple of Siddeshwarananda, introduced me to the Swami, who was
draped in ochre robe of the Sanyasi and wore a turban of the same colour. He was
above middle height with broad shoulders. Looking at him was difficult to
believe that he suffered from a heart ailment, which was to carry him off a few
years later.
Swami Siddeshwarananda had the gift of putting his auditors at ease from
the very first meeting. In common with many Hindu teachers, he radiated a warm
friendliness, the instinctive expression of a tender feeling for all humanity,
and very different from the merely conventional amiability of the well-bred
westerner. The Swami had learned French very quickly. He spoke it almost
fluently, made speeches, and even wrote books in the language. I wanted to ask
his advice and he was kind enough to accord me a private interview. He gave me a
mantra, a sacred formula, to repeat and showed me how to modulate the chant.
Then he provided me with some guideline on methods of meditation. By the cannon
of orthodox Hinduism our meeting was the equivalent of a diksha, a formal
initiation, and had I accepted it, the Swami would have taken on himself the
heavy responsibility of being my guru and I would have become his disciple. That is to say, we would have entered
into a relationship that could never have been broken even by death. The Swamis
of the Ramakrishna Mission however, do not grant initiation in their own
capacity but “in he name of Ramakrishna ’’, just as the disciples of Christ did
in days gone by.
In India a question frequently asked of a sadhaka, one following a
spiritual discipline, is, “Have you received diksha (initiation)? Who is your
guru?”
For thousand of years the spiritual tradition in this great country has
been handed down from master to disciple, from guru to shishya. In formal terms,
if the master, after the ceremonial rite, murmurs a mantra to the disciple, the
relationship of guru and shishya has been established. But in actual fact, it is
a much more complex matter. Real initiation is a transmission of power and the
result should be either a partial or total awakening of the kundalini, the power
lying dormant within each human being.
The mantra, the sacred formula is no more than a prop, a form of support,
certainly useful and indeed, indispensable for a guru of middling capacity. But
the simple communication of a mantra without the transmission of power is only a
semblance of initiation. Besides -
and this happens frequently with a great sage - the transmission of power can be
accomplished without a mantra, merely by a look, a touch, indeed even from a
distance.
Once awakened, the kundalini, the divine power – what does it matter what
one calls it? – is the power which guides the disciple. It is the inner guru, the Christos of
the Gnostics. The human guru will no longer intervene except if the disciple has
lost contact with this inner guide or if for some reason, his mind has becomes
bogged down. In fact the role of the human guru is to establish or re-establish
the connection between the spirit of the disciple and the inner
guru.
I saw the Swami on a later occasion at Marseilles and again at Gretz when
the Ramakrishna Mission was opened. I was in India when I heard the painful news
that Swami Siddeshwarananda had succumbed to a heart
attack.
And finally
in the course of my spiritual quest in Paris I made the acquaintance of “Les
Amis du Boudhisme”. Once again it was Dr. M., an eminent ember of this
organisation who introduced me into this circle of French Buddhists; for the
majority of the member are not solely “friends of Buddhism”, but profess and
practise Buddhism as a religion. Here, it is the doctrines of Theravada that are
followed and taught. Theravada is also called Hinayana (the lesser vehicle) or
the Buddhism of the South. It is
the doctrine taught in Ceylon, Burma and Thailand. The monks of this school
claim to be unique in having preservedpure and intact, the original teaching of
the Buddha. Other schools, the Buddhism of the North, are merely distortions or
aberrations reflecting the influence of the aboriginal
religions.
But the Buddhism of the North, also called the Mahayana (the greater
vehicle) claim that the rival sect of Theravada has conserved only the exoteric
teaching of the master and that there is a secret doctrine, which remains
unknown except to a few disciples.
However it may be, the doctrine of the great master is sincerely and
seriously practised, in the form taught in the Pali canon – the Ceylon school –
and the “triple refuge” is repeated with faith and
devotion:
Budham Sharanam Gaccami
Dhaamman Sharanam Gaccami
Shangam Sharanam Gaccami
I take refuge in the Buddha
I take refuge in the Doctrine
I take refuge in the congregation (of monks)
The organisation in Paris is affiliated to the world Association of
Buddhists. The soul of the Paris centre is beyond any doubt, Miss Lounsberry, an
English lady of great religious and philosophical erudition and with a serious
experience of meditation and of the spiritual life. She merits the highest
esteem because she has staked not merely all her energy and her future prospect,
but her health too on the creation of this organisation and the spread of the
doctrines of Buddhism in France.
She has written a number of useful books particularly on the method of
meditation in the South Buddhist school. Her second-in-command is Mme a Fuente,
descendant of an aristocratic Spanish family whose religious and philosophical
learning in no way falls short of hers. Mme La Fuente is also responsible for
the Association’s quarterly periodical “La Pensée
boudhique”.
Meetings were held in the evenings at 31, rue de Seine. There were
regular meditations and occasional discussions. The Buddhist festival of
Waishak, commemorating the birth of the Buddha was celebrated magnificently and
was generally attended by representatives from the embassies of Buddhist
countries.
In this particular year the association counted one more among its
member, for I had been registered as an active member of “Les Amis du Boudhisme”.
Before I end this account I must not omit to mention Mahesh; is there
anyone in Paris nowadays who does not know Mahesh? Anyone that is to say, among
those who are interested in Yoga or in Hinduism. I had met him around 1945 at
the outset of his career. He was a Hindu from Mysore, a Hath-yogi, a big man
with a marvellously proportioned physique, and himself a living example of the
effect of the science he taught.
His guru, he told me, was called Mrityungjaya. It is an epithet of Shiva,
a name like any other in India, but signifying ‘victory over death’ is and
entirely appropriate for a master of Hatha-Yoga. For the object of this science
is to maintain the body in a state of perfect health and equilibrium or to bring
it to such a state as a necessary preparation for the higher stage of
Yoga.
This is accomplished by means of a number of postures and any physical
and respiratory exercise. The exercises of have nothing in common with those of
western gymnastic for they are based on an anatomy and a physiology totally
different from those familiar to westerners.
They start out from the knowledge of the complex network of the seven
charkas, (Muladhara, Swadhistana, Manipura, Anahata, Vishuda, Ajna and
Sahashara), the psychic centres of the subtle body, and of the innumerable
nadis, (nervous psychic channels) of whichthe three principal ones are important
to mention; Ida, Pingala, and the Shushumna.
The postures (or asanas) and the respiratory exercise (pranayamas) aim at
storing vital force in one or more of the Charkas, and at opening or cleaning
out nadis which have been obstructed or congested. A Hatha Yogi in training
would not only enjoy good health but would have exceptional resistance to
illness, a tendency for wounds to heal rapidly, a digestion better than the
ordinary and a remarkable development of the intellectual faculties. In fact he
would enjoy an intensification of all his powers.
But this intensification will be felt also in his animal instincts, and
that is where moral discipline a sine-qua-non for the intensive practice of
Hatha Yoga. Without it, one lays on self-open to the gravest dangers, illness,
madness and even death. Certain
exercises however, decided upon by an informed instructor and practised in
moderation in order to maintain a state of good health may be performed without
danger.
There have been, and still are, schools for which Hatha Yoga is a total
Yoga, that is to say, Yoga directed towards the attainment of ultimate spiritual
enlightenment. The most well–known of these is that of the eighty-four
Maha-Sidhas, the “great magicians”, whose adventures and miracles recall the
tales of the 1001 nights. Mahesh was the first master to teach me the asanas. In
retrospect, I admire the caution and the wisdom with which he directed my first
steps. Later in India, I practised the majority of the asanas like an
expert.
CHAPTER II
PREPARATIONS FOR
DEPARTURE
The war was over, I was a civilian again and life slipped back into its
normal rhythm. Back home I once again took up my role as a member of the medical
profession.
Oh the medical profession…
The long days with hardly a moment to gulp down a meal, the bell jolting
you up at two in the morning when you were hoping for a little rest after an
exhausting day; the ungrateful patient who decides, after you have worn yourself
out trying to help him that he wants another doctor; the overwhelming heartache
of watching a baby die after all the resources of science have failed to save
him. And many more experience of the same kind.
Of course, it is not all drudgery and depression. The profession has its
big moments too. A mother’s smile of gratitude when her child has been brought
safely through a dangerous attack of bronchial pneumonia or typhoid will reward
you for all the moments of anxiety and care.
Perhaps we could say that the medical man is the priest of the modern
world, presiding over birth and death. Certainly, the practice of medicine is
priesthood or should be so. But it is hard, dealing with thirty or forty sick
people each day, to preserve a reverential attitude to human suffering. And what
about the fees? Money, in return for an act of devotion? Yet one has to earn a
living, somehow.
Besides, the medicine we practise is a science, which has not moved
completely out of the empirical stage. Of course we know the anatomy and
physiology of the human body and doctors have made amazing progress in the
sphere of healing. But the fundamental laws governing the functioning of the
human machine still evade us. We do not show sufficient awareness of the fact
that the body, the external world and the universe - the separate parts of which
interact harmoniously with each other. In trying to cure a serious illness, we
generally bombard the microbe with antibiotic, and ignore the basic cause. The
result is that, through the illness may be cured, the loss of equilibrium from
which it stems persists, perhaps even increase, and sooner or later break out
again to find expression in another illness or malfunctioning of the body. Is it
purely a matter of chance that the microbe has attacked the body, and is it
sufficient to destroy it for the patient to recover his health? Certainty not.
The germ has succeeded in multiplying only because it has found fertile soil in
which to do so. And this has came about in the wake of a disturbance in
equilibrium or of disharmony in the
nervous system, a disharmony not infrequently stemming from psychological roots.
An illness can be properly diagnosed and understood only if the patient is seen
as a single unit, body and spirit, having his own individuality certainly, but
constantly subject to external influences, social, climate, cosmic and
other.
Psychosomatic medicine, a relatively recent development, has drawn the
attention of medical men to the considerable influence exerted by psychological
disturbances upon the functioning of the physiological organism. The mind in
fact, is fundamentally nothing more then a structure set up for the functioning
and the protection of the body. Upon this basic structure rise superstructures
of increasing complexity and grandeur, but the living centre animating the whole
is the instinct of self-preservation, the primary mental vibration, which
energises the respiratory centre.
Our emotions are basically defence reactions against “micro-maladies” -
if I may use the term - slight malfunctioning of the body. A touch of mild
rhinitis or bronchitis, for instance, will create a state of irritability, which
under certain external circumstances, may be translated into anger. Sometimes
the individual may even be actively looking for such circumstances, without
being conscious of the fact. “He’s trying to pick a quarrel”, people say. The
surge of anger may lead to a momentary sensation of ease for it brings a flow of
nervous energy and a richer vascularisation to the infected spot. But more
frequently, it results in the rupture of a number of capillaries and the illness
come out into the open.
As a general rule emotional excitement stimulates or brings out the
micro–malady, transforming it into an illness that may be clinically diagnosed.
The self—control, which eliminates the pathological emotions, such as anger,
prevents the “micro-malady” from assuming major proportions so that it often
disappears even before coming into the open. As a rule, the more subtle the
sensations caused by the micro-malady, the more exaggerated and elaborate will
be the mental build up around a minimal incident. The very subtlety of the
sensations creations a vague feeling of restlessness which the subject himself
cannot explain, so that often when the illness definitely comes out into the
open, he experiences a sense of real relief at feeling he has discovered the
reasons for his restlessness. The “micro–malady ” starts out from a nerve
ganglion or nerve center before it reaches the mucous
membrane.
Those who practice Yoga assiduously can be conscious of the very moment
when illness touches the point of the nerve-ganglion. Such consciousness takes
the form of a disagreeable sensation in this particular spot accompanied by a
feeling of mental unease. There is an entire system of subjective psychology
known to the Yogis. Traditional systems of medicine, Ayurvedic, Chinese,
Hippocratic, seem to have had knowledge of these facts as well, but with the
passage of time their principles have been distorted or
misinterpreted.
Ayurvedic medicine postulates that the human body functions on the basic
of three nervous currents, or to be more precise, three currents of the life
force: Kapha, Pita and Vayu. Kapha
is the calming element, slowing down the bodily rhythm and lowering the
temperature. Pita is its reverse. It has an accelerating effect and warms the
body and the organs. As for Vayu it is the dynamic current responsible for
producing movement and energy. When these three forces interact harmoniously the
body is said to be in a state of health. If one of them becomes dominant or is
weakened, the lack of equilibrium manifests itself, to begin with, in warning
signals, and then when it localises itself in some particularly vulnerable
organ, the body is said to be in a state of illness. Treatment,therefore,
consists before all else, in the re–establishment of equilibrium between these
forces. A cold or an attack of
bronchitis, for instance, would be due to an excess of Kapha. The Vaidya
(Ayurvedic doctor) would therefore prescribe a medicine to reduce the flow of
Kapha or to increase that of its opposite, Pita.
In the West these principles have been ridiculed because they recall too
forcibly the theories of Molière’s doctor about bilious and phlegmatic
temperaments. The theories, however, were parts of the heritage of Hippocratic
medicine which, very likely, waere related to the Ayurvedic system. Molière gave
us a caricature of medicine, but the very fact of caricature implies the
existence of a norm.
It would appear that in Vedic times the true physician had to be at
the same time, a sage or a yogi.
What is called the Nadi-Vigyan was
an indispensable pre–condition of the practice of efficacious healing.
Nadi-Viyan is the science dealing with the knowledge of psychic nerves. There
are seventy-two thousand of these but it is enough to know the principal ones.
This anatamo-physiology can be learned only by subjective study and by personal
progress through the various channels of Yoga, such as moral discipline,
pranayama (breathing control), and so on.
But all this is not really important, for the fact is that these
principle are inapplicable to the hectic condition of life in our great modern
cities. It is enough for the doctor today to do his job conscientiously. To save
a human life … to alleviate suffering
… .these are worthy aims. Even if the suffering we alleviate, is very soon
replaced by fresh suffering and to save a life, is merely to grant a respite.
Everything that is born must die. That is an inescapable
law.
What should we do then? Should we be fatalistic and resigned? Is perfect
quietude the only way? Should we seek an escape into Nirvana or like the Yogi,
cut ourselves off from the world? That is what the man in the street will ask.
For it is the big things that are always easiest to
caricature.
Though most people know only this caricature, there does exist a path to
the transcendence of human limitations, to the conquest of suffering and death.
It is not the path referred to as “the opium of the people “, nor that of “
consolation for earthly misery in the hope of a heavenly
paradise”.
There are, living in our own world today, people who have sought this
path and found it. I have known some of them, lived among them and I am at
present under the spiritual direction of one of the greatest of them
all.
Is it Vedanta, or Yoga, or Buddhism? Or perhaps Kabalah, or Sufism, or
Theosophy? All these are mere words, labels on bottles, labels, which are often
false, if the bottles themselves are not empty. The solution to the problem lies
in ourselves. That which is real within us cannot die. The heart, which
constitutes the very centre of individual consciousness, is identical in all
beings. That which is the foundation and the support of all things, which cannot
be touched by suffering or death, is also the very essence of our individual
being.
But does one have to go all
the way to Ceylon or to India to find it? Certainly not. For myself though it
may have been my destiny to go to the land of the great masters. Perhaps too,
the external condition of life there, are more conducive to introspection, to a
life dedicated to the inner search. My immediate objective, in any case, was to
meet one of the great sages “who had succeeded” and to benefit from his counsel. My plan
was to go to Ceylon first and if possible, to spend a short time in a Buddhist
monastery. Then I meant to go on to India and probably remain in the South, for
the three renowned sages Ramana Maharshi, Ramdas and Aurobindo all lived in
South India. Moreover, the time at my disposal was limited - two or three month
in all.
It is no simple matter preparing to go abroad. For a man who in principle
could not afford more than a few months vacations, I seemed to be caught up in
endless formalities, complications and setbacks. First I had to get a visa, or
rather two, one for Ceylon and another for India; in order to get visas, I had
to find financial guarantors and the guarantors demanded letters of
recommendation and so on. Then there was the booking of the passage. This would
be on the “Felix-Roussel” through the Suez Canal. And finally come the
vaccination, bank formalities, letters of recommendation to monasteries and
ashram and so on.
In the summer of 1950 I had to appear in person at the Indian Embassy, so
I made a quick trip to Paris.
I
took the opportunity of seeing Swami Siddeshwarananda of the Ramakrishna Mission
again. The Mission had moved its
quarters and was now installed in a splendid edifice at Gretz. As always the
Swami was cordial and welcoming. He gave me some precious advice and a number of
letters of recommendation which were no less precious in my eyes: one letter for
the centres of the Ramakrishna Mission in India, one for Dilip Kumar Roy of
Pondichery – “the greatest musician in India”-- said the Swami and a few lines
to Kuvalayananda of Lonavala, near Bombay, one of the outstanding authorities on
the subject of Hatha Yoga, which he approaches from the angle of modern medical
science. Finally the Swami advised me to visit Ramdas, “a veritable
Jivan-Mukta”, he called him, (a living liberated soul). In the course of
conversation the Swami referred to the recent death of Ramana Maharshi in April
1950 as a fact, which he assumed I knew. I had been completely ignorant of this
sad news. For a few minutes I sat there open–mouthed, stunned into silence. It
was as though a relative or a very dear friend had abruptly taken leave of this
life, yet I had known the Maharshi through books alone.
I also took advantage of my stay in Paris to visit a number of scholars
in the field of Indian studies. In this field the object is not only to explore
the sacred Sanskrit texts, the religions of India and its civilisation, but also
to study the customs of the inhabitants of this huge country, including even
their eating habits. One of these scholars was particularly helpful and friendly
and I asked him what he would like me to bring back for him from India. For I
was planning to return within two or three month. For me going to India was like
going into a teeming treasure cave. There were the great sages and their
teachings to be received at the very source - the Yogis; the rare original
manuscripts of the sacred texts; the study of all forms of Yoga in the country
where they had come into being and where they had been taught for thousands of
years; and innumerable more treasures of a similar kind. As a token of my
gratitude I wished to bring back to my scholar friend one jewel out of this vast
treasure chamber. His immediate reply was negative, “No thank you. There is
nothing I need”, but on second thought he added, “Ah yes! You could, perhaps,
try to find out to what extent...…(here he gave the Latin name for a species of
lentil) enters into the diet of the Hindus of the South and if possible, bring
me back a little of the stuff”.
How strange human nature can be! Often, sitting in the presence of the
great teachers and watching the crowds of visitors file past, I have thought of
that scholar. Almost all the visitors had a wish or a petition on their lips or
in their hearts, but there were few indeed who sincerely desired the divine
wisdom which had incarnated itself before their very eyes. No, the vast majority
preferred to ask for some paltry favour – the curing of an illness, a promotion
in a job or some other such matter.
Latter I paid a brief visit to the headquarters of “Les Amis du
Boudhisme”. There I had the good fortune to meet Narada Thero, a well-known
Buddhist monk from Ceylon who happened to be passing through Paris. He made me a
gift – with his blessing – of a dry leaf from the Bo-Tree (Ficus Religious), the
tree under which Buddha had experienced his great enlightenment. The original
tree is, or rather, was at Buddha-Gaya, for the one that is pointed out to
pilgrims today has grown out of a branch of the earlier tree which withered long
ago. At Anuradhapura in Ceylon, there is another Bo-Tree, an offshoot of a
branch brought to the island by Mahinda, brother of the celebrated emperor
Ashoka and this branch had been broken off the ancient tree at Bodhgaya. The
leaf which Narada-Thero gave me probably came from Anuradhapura or perhaps from
Kalutra (near Galle in Ceylon) which also has a tree of its own. In Indian
language the Bo-Tree is called the ashwatha or pipal. It is the Ficus
Religious of the botanists, a very long-lived tree, which can attain giant
proportions. What a magnificent sight it would be to contemplate one of these
majestic pipals, so common on the plains of India! At times it is a parasitic
growth on another tree, at times it crops out of the wall of a house or
threatens some neighbouring structure with its roots. If this happens it
presents a serious problem, for the tree is sacred and may not be
destroyed.
Mme la Fuente provided me with letters of recommendation to monks and lay
Buddhist in Ceylon. The principle purpose of my visit to Ceylon was to spend a
few days at Island hermitage, the monastery of Nyanatiloka, a celebrated
Buddhist monk of German origin. In theory I viewed this as a short period of
probation during which I would find out whether I had it in me to be a monk – an
idea about which I had grave doubts. Hearing that a certain Mr. N. had spent
some time in this monastery and had just returned to France, I took his address
meaning to ask him for information on a few details.
I wrote to Mr. N. The letter that came in reply was, to say the least,
odd. He began with a few particulars about Island Hermitage, which did not
suggest enthusiasm. It was his fear of snakes and particularly of cobras, he
wrote, which had made him return to France. But it was the second part of the
letter, which was by far the more interesting. He informed me that he himself
was a bishop in a liberal church and that it was his mission to travel from town
to town, and from house to house, in order confer initiation and to “transmit
power” to those worthy of it… just as in the time of the apostles to Christ. He
suggested that he might initiate me or, at least, attempt do so. It may have
been curiosity on my part or the attraction of the unknown or quite simply
perhaps, the medical man’s attraction to an interesting “case”. The fact is that
I wrote inviting him to spend a few days with me.
I received him with all the ceremony due to a guest who happened also to
be a church dignitary. Mr. N. was tall and lean with the face of a dreamer. His
frequently absent gaze suggested absorption in an inner world. We spoke first
about Ceylon and the Buddhist monastery, but he clearly regarded the subject as
secondary. What mattered to him above all else, was his mission as an initiator.
He initiated his disciples as bishops, no less, and in their turn they were
empowered to initiate other. It was a kind of development in geometrical
progression, so to speak.
He
decided that I was worthy to receive the divine power and it was arranged that
the initiation ceremony should be performed that evening after dinner. Evening
came; it was almost ten o’clock. I waited for my old housekeeper to go up to her
room on the first floor for, if she were to see us, I doubted very much whether
she would appreciate the solemnity of the occasion.
The ceremony took place on the ground floor of the house in my dining
room. Mr. N. put out the lights, lit a few candles and held one in his hand. He
placed me at one end of the room and took up is position at the other. Then I
saw him performed various magical passes, gestures whose significance I could
not understand. He seemed to be murmuring certain formulas or spells. I watched
intently, curious to see what would happen.
“That’s it”, he said after a time. “I’ve managed. But it wasn’t
easy”.
I gathered that my “natal mystic centre” had offered fierce resistance to
the penetration of the power. But he had noticed certain lights around my head,
and had accomplished the transmission somehow. Behold me then, a bishop endowed
with initiatory powers and purified of all my sins.
“And now, sin no more”, he said. And again, a little later, “The fact is,
I don’t know why I’ve initiated you. You’re a better man than I
am”.
I must confess that I myself had “felt” nothing, before, during, or after
the ceremony. Mr. N. went back home and probably continued to perform his
mission of purification…What can one say? What conclusions can one draw? Is it
not the same Divinity which finds expression in all forms, in the wise and in
the foolish, in the pure and the impure, in the saint and in the
hypocrite?
“It is his Lila”, say the wise men of India. (Lila: Literally, ‘a
game’. A technical term used by the Vaishnava school to denote the manifestation
of the Divine in the universe.)
On December 12th 1950, I sailed away from Marseilles and from France, on board the “Félix-