Balarama Reddy first met Bhagavan in the 1930s and later reflected on his extraordinary fortune in spending many years in the Sage’s presence. He was gifted in storytelling and skill of the written word. In Bhagavan’s time he was already called on to assist in translation work. In 1993 he narrated his story to Dennis Hartel as would a loving grandfather to the youngsters in his midst. Let us start at the beginning.

On a sunny March morning in 1933, Balarama Reddy first walked into Sri Ramanasramam. It was just before breakfast. The dining “hall” was then, he says, only a small thatched shed south of the Old Hall, serving by turns as kitchen, office and even as Bhagavan’s bathroom. He narrates the moment:

  I was asked to sit behind a leaf plate, and, to my surprise, I found myself seated immediately to Bhagavan’s right. The scene was simple, intimate, informal. Brahmins sat behind a low partition, others around me. What struck me most, however, was not the outer scene, but the penetrating silence in the air. It seemed to press my mind inward, deeper into a still centre.

  Food was served. Bhagavan turned his head, nodded slightly, and that gesture was the signal to begin eating. With that nod my mind seemed to sink still further into wordless quiet.

  After breakfast I sat in the Old Hall, waiting for Bhagavan. I had read and heard from others that he rarely put  questions to visitors, so I was not surprised when he returned, took his seat on the couch, and remained silent. I too was not inclined to speak. It felt perfectly natural to sit quietly in his presence.

At 11 a.m. the lunch bell rang and once again Reddy was seated near Bhagavan, which he came to learn was something that happened on occasion with newcomers. At about 1 p.m., he tells us, a long-standing devotee arrived, prostrated, lay down near the couch and immediately fell fast asleep:

I thought to myself: “This Maharshi is accessible at all hours; his presence evokes a deep stillness; everything is serene, natural, informal. There is something unique here.”

That evening I had to catch the train back to Pondicherry. I approached Bhagavan to take leave. He asked where I had come from. Since he had begun speaking, I ventured to ask a couple of questions. I now remember only one:

“There is a teacher and his disciples. The teacher gives the same instruction to all. How is it that some disciples make quick progress, while others, hearing the same teaching, make little or none?”

Bhagavan replied, “Some must have followed that line of teaching in previous lives, while others may have just begun. Also, some are born more advanced and fit than others.”

Thus ended my first visit in 1933, when I was twenty-four. Though I did not return for two years, I now feel that during that time Bhagavan’s unseen force was quietly working within me.

Bhagavan often quoted a verse of Saint Tayumanavar in praise of the Guru: “Oh Lord! Coming with me along all the births, never abandoning me and finally rescuing me!”

I feel this verse perfectly expresses my relationship with Bhagavan.

Early Life and Search

Balarama Reddy was spiritually inclined from his earliest youth. His father practised austerities and even once observed a year of mauna. After a long pilgrimage to the Himalayas, his father chose the life of a householder but never abandoned spiritual ideals. The home revolved around the life of faith.

Reddy was born on 30th October 1908. From the beginning his father endeavoured to give precedence to spiritual values over worldly pursuits.

In his teens Reddy fell under the influence of Gandhi-ji. During the Salt Satyagraha of 1930, he was a postgraduate student at Benares Hindu University. When back home in Nellore that summer, the district Congress president was arrested and jailed. The committee asked Balarama Reddy to take his place. When he accepted, the police promptly arrested him and he remained in prison for the next four and a half months. In close quarters with other freedom fighters, he was surprised that they were not more spiritually inclined. He recalls:

In prison I had a disappointing awakening to the real nature of many of these jailed nationalists. I soon became disenchanted with the ideal of political activity for attaining freedom, especially when I arrived at the understanding that spiritual freedom, or Self-realisation, was the highest goal of life and political freedom would not actually change us spiritually.

Halfway through his master’s degree at Benares, his conviction became firm: the purpose of life is not worldly achievement but God-realisation. Reddy  thus withdrew from activism and made a decision to leave University and dedicate himself to the spiritual path. He narrates:

All the scriptures insisted on the necessity of a Guru. I, too, felt I must find one. I travelled through North India, visiting saints and yogis, spending days or weeks in their ashrams, yet none inspired me to surrender completely. I even stayed three days at the Radhaswami centre and was invited to take initiation; but I declined, feeling the time had not yet come. The head of the ashram agreed, saying it had taken him twenty years to find his own Guru.

Aurobindo Ashram

In the years before he learned of Sri Bhagavan, Balarama Reddy went to stay with Sri Aurobindo, the Indian nationalist, philosopher and yogi who settled in Pondicherry in 1910. Drawn by what he had read and heard, he felt blessed to have the teacher’s darshan on 15th August 1931. Life at the Sri Aurobindo Ashram was simple and disciplined. Reddy worked a couple of hours each day, usually gardening, reading Sri Aurobindo’s writings and attending darshan of the Mother.

When he periodically returned to his own village near Nellore to visit his family, he would stay in a small hut away from the main house, doing sadhana in solitude. Thus, he moved between Pondicherry and his native village, earnestly pursuing spiritual practice.

Visits to Ramanasramam

While at Aurobindo Ashram Reddy got to know Kapali Sastri, a disciple of both Sri Aurobindo and Ganapati Muni. Sastri occasionally visited Ramanasramam and described the Maharshi and the ashram in glowing terms. Along with B. V. Narasimhaswami’s biography of Bhagavan, Self-Realisation, Reddy was inspired to make his first visit to Bhagavan in 1933. When he returned in March 1935, he stayed three days. The journey from Pondicherry to Tiruvannamalai took nine hours by train, though the distance was only about 100km.

Reddy was introduced to Bhagavan by Yogi Ramaiah, the saint Paul Brunton had written of in his A Search in Secret India (1934). At that time Yogi Ramaiah was observing silence, but with gestures and Reddy’s explanations the two conveyed their Andhra connection to Bhagavan.

During these visits to the Ashram,  Reddy experienced a sense of freedom and naturalness in Bhagavan’s presence, quite different from the regulated life in Pondicherry. Bhagavan’s deep, penetrating silence drew his mind inward, and he gradually lost interest in everything except being in Bhagavan’s presence. By the end of the second visit, he began to believe that his place was with Sri Bhagavan. He narrates:

On taking leave, I approached Bhagavan as he sat on a couch outside on the veranda, his feet resting softly on the ground. Aware of the ashram rule not to touch him, I prostrated with some distance. As I lowered my head, in the twinkling of an eye, Bhagavan’s feet rose gently and the big toe of each foot very lightly touched my closed eyelids. It was over in an instant, but I was thrilled beyond words.

A year later, in June 1936, Balarama Reddy returned for a longer stay and was lodged in a cottage near Palakottu. One afternoon he walked out of the back gate and looked up at Holy Arunachala. A strong desire arose in him to climb the hill straight up from where he stood. With youthful confidence he drew an imaginary straight line up the steep face and started walking.

Halfway up, some village women carrying firewood warned him of the danger: strong winds, perilous slopes, no path. But the young seeker refused to give up and continued undeterred. Soon the climb became extremely steep. Reddy narrates:

I came to a point where I had to pull myself up on a narrow ledge. Sitting on that ledge facing the plains, I realised that I was unable to stand without losing my balance. In other words, I could not continue my ascent from where I was. On one side there was a dangerously steep precipice of more than one thousand feet. On the other side I saw an insurmountable vertical wall of rock. Then, to my great dismay, I realised that not only was I prevented from standing, but also, I was so precariously positioned on this ledge that it was impossible for me to retrace my steps downward without tumbling head over heels to my death. To top off all this distress, my sandals were now causing me to slip from the very ledge I was clinging to for dear life. I carefully removed the sandals and let them fall. Sitting with my knees close to my chest and my feet up against my buttocks, I pondered my ill fate. I soon lost all hope of coming out of this ordeal alive. Closing my eyes I began to think of Sri Bhagavan and the Mother of Aurobindo Ashram. For about ten minutes I sat in this sad condition. While my eyes were closed, my head involuntarily turned to the left. I opened my eyes and saw a clump of vegetation firmly rooted between some rocks. I looked at it and thought that perhaps I could grab onto that vegetation and pull myself up to a standing position. I caught hold of the growth and, to my surprise, executed the feat without much difficulty. When I stood up and looked over this ledge, I was utterly amazed to see that I had reached the summit. Slowly I pulled myself up onto the summit and immediately exhaled a thankful sigh of relief.

Now safe at the top and with a good view from all sides, Reddy identified an easy, well-trodden path going down and returned to the ashram just as the evening meal was being served. He told no one what had happened. But inwardly he knew a divine hand had intervened, and this incident became a milestone in his life of faith:

During that stay I observed ashram life closely and thought seriously about living there permanently. The attraction of Bhagavan’s presence, his quiet majesty and grace, became irresistible. I resolved to return to Aurobindo Ashram, settle my affairs, receive the blessings of Sri Aurobindo and the Mother, and then move to Ramanasramam for good.

Leaving Aurobindo Ashram

He had been with Sri Aurobindo for five years. Out of gratitude and respect he felt bound to seek their permission before leaving. Disciples customarily wrote letters to Aurobindo, which he answered at night in consultation with the Mother. Reddy wrote, explaining his desire to live with Ramana Maharshi whose sole emphasis was Self-realisation, the very beginning of their yoga.

Aurobindo’s answer was affectionate but firm: Self-realisation and the supramental could both be attained in Aurobindo Ashram, thus, there was no need to go elsewhere. Reddy became restless and dissatisfied. Two further letters followed over several months, and both times permission was refused.

At last, after about five months, they relented, perhaps perceiving that his resolve was unshakeable. In his final letter Aurobindo wrote, “Since you are determined to follow a path in which you can achieve only partial realisation, we give you our blessings, though we believe it would be better if you stayed on here.”

Settling at Sri Ramanasramam

On 5th January 1937, the day after Bhagavan’s fifty-seventh birthday, Reddy arrived at Ramanasramam to stay. For some time, he lodged in the common guest room, then in Yogi Ramiah’s cottage. After a month, the management told him gently that it was not the ashram’s policy to give permanent accommodation and asked him to find a place outside within fifteen days.

At that time there were no houses near the ashram, so he found an upstairs room near the big temple. He cooked there or obtained food outside, managing without difficulty. He would rise at 3 or 4 am, walk to the ashram, sit in the Hall until about 10 am, return to town, then come again at 3 pm and stay until 8 pm. This continued for about a year:

I always tried to sit as near Bhagavan as possible, to hear every word. Shortly after settling in Tiruvannamalai, I wrote out in English a long, detailed account of my life, poured out my heart, and handed it to Bhagavan. He read it carefully and returned it without comment.

  For the first few months, he would often begin speaking to me without any prompting. He would explain some verse, some philosophical point, or some aspect of practice. This went on so much that S. S. Cohen once joked, “Why do you always make Bhagavan talk? I’m getting jealous.” I replied truthfully, “I am not making him talk. For some reason he looks at me and starts.”

    Sri Aurobindo’s philosophy naturally came into these discussions. Sometimes Cohen and Chadwick joined and critiqued it, and I found myself defending it. With Bhagavan, however, I could not argue. Whatever he said carried a weight beyond dispute.

  Once he read a detailed review of Sri Aurobindo’s The Synthesis of Yoga or Light on Yoga in a newspaper. He took great interest, occasionally stopping to comment. On learning that I had the book, he asked to see it and read it late into the night by the light of a small oil lamp. The next day he discussed it with me at length, showing how certain terms corresponded to ancient concepts. It was clear he thoroughly understood Sri Aurobindo’s system, both conceptually and experientially.

  At one point I remarked that one of the major attractions of Sri Aurobindo’s path was the promise of physical immortality. Bhagavan said nothing. The next afternoon, as soon as I entered the Hall, he began: “In Kumbhakonam there was a yogi, C. V. V. Rao, who proclaimed the doctrine of immortality of the body. He even declared that Dr. Annie Besant would have to come to him to learn how to make her body immortal. Before he could meet her, he died.” The point needed no further explanation.

  Later I showed him Sri Aurobindo’s final letter about “partial realisation” and read it aloud. When I came to that phrase, Bhagavan stopped me: “Partial realisation? If it is partial, it is not realisation; and if it is realisation, it is not partial.” That single observation dissolved the last of my doubts.

Over time Reddy saw that Bhagavan never openly assumed the role of Guru. He observed that Bhagavan would even make remarks that sounded just the opposite. For close devotees, Reddy said, there was no question: Bhagavan was their Guru. He loved them like a mother, protected them like a father, guided them like a teacher and moved among them as a friend. Reddy narrates:

Many small incidents revealed his subtle guidance. In my early days I attended both morning and afternoon sessions. Later I began skipping the afternoons, preferring to meditate quietly in my room. One day, when G. V. Subbaramayya came and failed to see me, he asked Bhagavan where I was.

  The next morning, as I folded Bhagavan’s shawl which I did each day at that time, he casually mentioned, “Subbaramayya was asking about you yesterday.” I understood that Bhagavan wanted me to come in the afternoons too, but I still stayed away that afternoon.

  Next morning, when I reached for his shawl to fold it as usual, he quietly folded it himself and did not let me help. I understood his gentle rebuke and resumed my afternoon visits. From this I learnt that he truly wanted his devotees to benefit from his company, though he would rarely say so directly.

On another occasion he asked Reddy to fetch a particular book from the almirah. Failing to find it, he returned and sat near the south wall. Bhagavan then rose, walked majestically to the cupboard, at once located the book, and instead of returning to the couch came and sat down on the floor right next to Reddy. He opened the book to the desired page, held it in his right hand directly in front of his face and asked him to read:

His body was very close to mine. I then understood what devotees meant when they said that his body was like a furnace. I felt a palpable spiritual power radiating from him, like an immense dynamo. That moment remains vivid in my heart.

In the Domain of the Maharshi

Bhagavan’s uniqueness, Reddy felt, lay above all in the power of his presence. His verbal teaching was in line with the ancient tradition and can be found, in principle, in the scriptures. But the force of Reality that poured through him was something extraordinary:

Entering the Old Hall, one immediately felt one had stepped into a different plane of being. Bhagavan’s other-worldly yet utterly natural presence pervaded the atmosphere. When we left the Hall, the familiar world returned. This contrast was unmistakable. He did not ask us to open schools or hospitals or launch philanthropic works. He insisted on one task alone: to know the Self. He believed this to be the panacea for all suffering and the true goal of life. Yet we are often diverted by notions of “helping the world.” He would ask, “Where is this world, and who are you?” It was always a call to inquiry.

Swami Ramdas and Ananda Ashram

In 1937, Reddy spent a month with Swami Ramdas at Ananda Ashram in Kanhangad. He describes the place:

Ramdas moved freely among family members and devotees with natural affection and complete detachment, never putting on airs of a renunciate.

  He would sit with anyone and narrate one story after another from his own life. He told me how he had once come to Arunachala, stood before Bhagavan and felt grace pouring into him through Bhagavan’s eyes. Afterwards he went up the hill, stayed in a cave and performed continuous japa. After about two weeks he lost the ordinary mind and had the Universal Vision of God—seeing everything as God. From then on, he said, he had been living in Ram.

  He had received the Ram mantra from his father and was one of those rare souls who completed their sadhana without the aid of a physical Guru. Mother Krishnabai, his chief disciple, narrated stories from her life. Later, Ananda Ashram asked me to write in English all I had heard from her; this account was included in her biography. From Ananda Ashram they began a tradition of sending offerings to Ramanasramam, especially for Bhagavan’s Jayanti—banana chips, gruel and other items.

This practice continues even up to the present day.

Mauna

Not long after he began staying with S. S. Cohen in Palakottu, one night around 9 pm Reddy felt a strong impulse to go on giri pradakshina. Near the spot known as “Bhagavan’s Bridge”, he paused, gazed at the Hill, serene and silent in the night sky. Suddenly the urge arose from deep within to take a vow of mauna. There and then Reddy resolved not to speak to anyone except Bhagavan:

Next morning Cohen spoke to me as usual, but I answered by writing on a piece of paper that I had taken a vow of silence. News quickly spread. Swami Viswanathan, who was corresponding with Ananda Ashram, mentioned it to them. In reply, Swami Ramdas wrote, “Balarama Reddy is observing mauna? That is very good. He is a pure soul.”

  A day or two after this letter arrived, I was entering the ashram at 5 a.m. by the north steps. At the top I met Bhagavan and his attendant coming down. Standing aside, I saluted. Bhagavan looked at me and said, “Viswanathan received a letter from Swami Ramdas: ‘Balarama Reddy is observing mauna? That is very good. He is a pure soul.’” He repeated the sentence in English. I took this as confirmation that my vow was acceptable.

   I maintained silence from June 1938 to September 1939. Bhagavan rarely interfered in our outward lives, but if we were attentive, we would receive subtle indications of his approval or disapproval.

  One September evening in the hall at about 7pm, I opened my eyes and saw sitting before me T. L. Vaswani and his nephew, J. P. Vaswani. T. L. Vaswani recognized me and I joined my palms and saluted him in greeting. As I was still observing mauna, I didn’t say anything to him. Next morning, after they had left, I told Bhagavan who our visitor had been and lamented that I had not spoken to him or introduced him to others. Bhagavan replied, “You could have said something yesterday.” From this I understood that my silence had served its purpose and that Bhagavan now preferred me to relinquish it. I ended my mauna and later wrote to Vaswani explaining the situation. He replied, praising Bhagavan and remarking how blessed I was to sit at such a sage’s feet. —

             (to be continued)