In the last segment, Balarama Reddy recounts how he settled near Palakottu in the late 1930s, and how he received advice from Bhagavan following thefts from his hut. A major turning point came with his father’s sudden death in 1939. The timing of Reddy’s return home, just days before, strengthened his faith in Bhagavan’s unseen guidance.
Reddy’s vignettes illuminated Bhagavan’s inner state—his wakeful sleep, his absorption during Vedic chanting, his tender handling of Reddy’s Sanskrit verse, and his delight in a Bhagavatam passage describing the jnani’s indifference to the body. Encounters with scholars and swamis showed that Bhagavan neither courted reputation nor argued doctrine.
Reddy shows how Bhagavan functioned flawlessly in the world while remaining inwardly untouched—a mystery of grace that transformed lives without ever demanding belief or recognition.
Now we pick up where we left off, recounting a visit by an eminent Western bhakta Reddy had met on pilgrimage to north India years earlier.
Krishnaprem’s Visit
Krishnaprem—Ronald Nixon, the British co-founder of an ashram in Almora—had often expressed his intention to visit Tiruvannamalai to meet Bhagavan and to see Balarama Reddy. After many cancelled plans, one December morning in 1948 when Reddy was seated near Bhagavan with eyes closed on the veranda, he opened them to find Krishnaprem before him. Krishnaprem had been embarrassed by his many postponements, and thus, had left off writing to announce his arrival. His sudden appearance caused considerable excitement among devotees.
Krishnaprem was a Vaishnavite who saw everything as pervaded by Lord Vasudeva. Quoting sarvam Vasudevamayam jagat, he asked Bhagavan: ‘Is not this the highest ideal?’ Bhagavan nodded in agreement and said:
Yes, yes! It is an exalted state of Consciousness. The Vaishnava cult is based on this. Yet, who is it that thinks ‘all that is perceived is Vasudeva?’ Is it not you, yourself? Do any of the things perceived come forward announcing themselves as Vasudeva? While seeing the earth, trees and plants as Vasudeva, don’t you wish to see yourself as He? If you who see everything as Vasudeva learn to see yourself as Vasudeva, you will become Vasudeva Himself. After that there will be no need to specially perceive everything as His Form. If he who sees is transformed into Vasudeva, then that which is seen automatically becomes Vasudeva! Infusing perception with jnana is simply this.[1]
Devotees in the hall were amazed at Bhagavan’s words, as was Krishnaprem.
Skandasramam
Reddy wanted to show his guest around, including a visit to Skandasramam:
I asked Viswanathan to accompany us, and Harindranath Chattopadyaya—the versatile writer, poet, and musician—also joined. As we were leaving, Bhagavan called me aside and asked that I report to him on our return. Such a request was unusual and has stayed with me. We walked up to Skandasramam, spent about two hours there reciting hymns and singing bhajans, and then returned. That evening Krishnaprem was invited to sing bhajans before Bhagavan. A harmonium was brought to the veranda, where about seventy-five devotees had gathered. He sang with deep genuine devotion, even pronouncing the words with an Indian accent, and all were deeply moved. After he finished, Harindranath, uninvited, began to perform, displaying great skill, but his efforts fell flat beside the natural power of Krishnaprem’s devotion. Bhagavan later remarked, “Here is one Westerner who embodies the intensity and devotion of a true Indian bhakta.”
The Sands of Kanyakumari
Reddy made plans to take Krishnaprem South, visiting sacred sites and temples:
After lunch I approached Bhagavan to take leave. He had just finished eating and was massaging his rheumatic knees before his walk. I prostrated and told him of my departure. He already knew the details, including my plan to visit Kanyakumari. He remarked that the management had written to an advocate-devotee in Nagerkoil to send the three different coloured sands from Kanyakumari needed for the Matrubhuteswara Temple Kumbhabhishekam, but that nothing had arrived. Though he did not ask me directly, I understood his meaning. This was his usual way—indirectly conveying what he wished to be done.
When Reddy reached Kanyakumari, he discovered a serious obstacle:
The government had prohibited removing sand from the beach, as uranium had been found there. Still, I decided to take the risk and secretly collected the three different sands, filling three bags and hiding them in my bedroll. At the railway station I hired a porter. At the gate, the ticket collector was checking tickets while two policemen searched baggage for illegal sand. I asked the man to stop and silently prayed to Bhagavan: “You wanted this sand—now there are police. What am I to do?” At once, for no apparent reason, the policemen walked away. I told the porter, “Let’s go,” and we passed through and boarded the train.
Back at the ashram, I brought the sand to Bhagavan, who called others to see it. Later, the sand sent by the advocate arrived by post, but the bags had broken and the sands were mixed and thus, rendered useless for ceremonial purposes. Hearing this, Bhagavan remarked, “If Balarama Reddy had not brought these sands, how would we have obtained a fresh consignment in time for the consecration?”
Bhagavan as Guru
Reddy illustrates the potency of the guru’s grace through small but decisive incidents:
Once, when I was in my village pursuing sadhana, I was troubled by thoughts of the opposite sex. I wrote to Bhagavan through Major Chadwick. Bhagavan read the letter without comment, and at that very moment the troubling thoughts left me. Such small incidents reveal the power of the guru—always present for us to turn to. Yet we approached him with care, waiting until he seemed ready.
At times his gaze was distant, or he was so absorbed that none would think of disturbing him:
Most of us were simply in awe of him and found it difficult to start up a conversation or ask a question. But what questions could we ask? Did we not have faith in him, and wasn’t that what mattered most? And what instructions were we to ask? We knew what we had to do.
Those who had come had already undergone the basic spiritual practices. Reddy comments:
Undergraduate or post-graduate students may ask questions of their professor. But those who are working on their Ph.D. are quietly occupied with their research and, on rare occasions, meet and consult their guides. The serious aspirants that came to Bhagavan were like Ph.D. candidates.
Reddy recalls a doubt he openly expressed to Bhagavan:
Why, for no apparent reason, one sometimes feels composed and cheerful, sometimes restless and unusually active, and at other times lazy and languid. Bhagavan replied: “In man the three gunas of nature are in constant movement. When sattva comes to the fore, one is quiet and cheerful; when rajas predominates, one is restless; when tamas is uppermost, one is languid and cheerless.” “How to overcome their influence?” I asked. “By becoming a gunatita (one who has transcended the gunas)”, he replied. “How to become a gunatita?” “By realising the Self,” Bhagavan concluded.
Life in the Hall
In the hall, Reddy comments, devotees were usually engaged in one of three activities—silent meditation with eyes closed, quiet gazing upon Bhagavan’s form, or posing questions to Bhagavan. Other activities required permission from the office. Lectures were rare, Reddy tells us. However, he recalls one instance when T. M. P. Mahadevan, the scholar and professor from Madras, returned from the West, having delivered lectures on Bhagavan there. Devotees asked to hear a sample. Permission was given, and Mahadevan spoke on Bhagavan’s teaching.
Kirtan and Silent Upadesa
Singing and kirtan in the hall were also not frequent, except for daily parayana. Permission was required. Reddy himself preferred quiet sitting, feeling it yielded greater benefit than any devotional performance. Yet he recounts a lively episode in the dining hall:
Daivarata, the great devotee of Gokarna, had been living in the north for some years. He had just returned for a visit after a long absence. Among other things, he was known for his enthusiastic kirtan and dancing. He used to perform in earlier years in the presence of the Maharshi, and while doing pradakshina of Arunachala. Some devotees expressed a desire to see him perform. It was arranged in the dining hall. Bhagavan sat at his usual mealtime place and we all sat in rows. Daivarata began singing and dancing up and down the rows with great enthusiasm. He also sang Ganapati Muni’s Chatvarimsat in his own melody, dancing with the tune.
One poignant meeting saw Bhagavan display the full force of his silence. The private secretary to the Governor of Pondicherry arrived for darshan:
He entered the hall carrying a large sheet covered with elaborate questions written in complex French. Handing it to Bhagavan, he sat on the windowsill opposite the couch. Seeing the language, Bhagavan asked me to translate. I struggled, going word by word, until Bhagavan said gently, “That’s not necessary—just give me the gist.” Scanning the page, I explained that the man did not seek verbal answers but an experience. Bhagavan paused, then slowly turned and fixed his gaze on him. After about thirty seconds, the man began to tremble, soon shaking violently, and cried out, “Oh no, Bhagavan, not now! Please, not now!”
I was standing a little to the side of Bhagavan, watching this extraordinary scene and wondering what a being this Bhagavan was. He was a storehouse of power, but so kind, gentle and compassionate. Despite all this grandeur, he always seemed so human and natural, even laughing and joking with us on occasion.
Reddy also recounted lighter moments in the hall:
Sometimes a tiger-skin was spread on Bhagavan’s couch. The head of the tiger would hang over the armrest, seemingly, staring straight at me. One day Chadwick was sitting in the hall at the western end. He usually followed a punctual schedule. At exactly 7am he rose to leave. On his way out he walked up behind me and whispered in my ear, “Do you see? That’s Chinnaswami, the ashram tiger, staring straight at you.” We both chuckled at the joke. When Chadwick went out, Bhagavan asked me what he had said to me. When I repeated it, Bhagavan enjoyed the humour and we both laughed.
Service
Reddy records how Mahatma Gandhi’s senior staff—Rajendra Prasad, Jamnalal Bajaj, and Sankarlal Banker—came to the Ashram. Gandhi himself had advised them to visit Bhagavan and spend time in his presence. Their interest, Reddy felt, was not merely social or political but genuinely spiritual.
Reddy concluded that service could purify the mind. But a refined mind must also be directed toward a clear and direct method. Bhagavan’s teaching was uncompromising on this point. Only a jnani is a true karma yogi, because only one established in the Self knows there are no “others.” Who gives to whom? And yet Bhagavan’s own life was continuous giving—every act spontaneous, selfless, and unowned, moved not by the iindividual will but by Ishwara.
Reddy emphasized Bhagavan’s insistence on addressing the root of suffering. Social service may relieve distress temporarily, but suffering will return in other forms, in this or future births, unless the fundamental delusion—the mistaken identity with the body-mind—is destroyed. Bhagavan’s mission was precisely this: to uproot ignorance through Self-enquiry, surrender, sustained presence, and silent grace.
Madhava Swami
A sobering illustration followed. Madhava, the pious attendant who had served Bhagavan faithfully for nearly ten years, suddenly became restless and asked Reddy for money to travel to Yogi Ramiah’s ashram in Andhra Pradesh. Everyone regarded Madhava as a model devotee, so Reddy was startled. Madhava claimed Bhagavan and Chinnaswami had approved his departure, but Reddy later learned this was not true. Bhagavan had merely advised him to stop working for a while, eat in the ashram, and rest—free of responsibility. Madhava ignored this counsel, left, returned to find his role reassigned, grew unsettled, departed again, returned wearing ochre robes and finally died under obscure circumstances in Kumbakonam.
Reddy draws a stark lesson: not all who come remain steady. Only those who persevere to the end—through practice, devotion, and faith—reach the goal. Still, Bhagavan’s helping hand never withdraws from sincere seekers.
Silent Guidance
Reddy offers two incidents to show how Bhagavan’s silence served as guidance:
Once the Sarvadhikari asked me to set my alarm for 2am, as it was discovered that Bhagavan rose at that hour and walked alone to the latrine near the gosala while the attendants slept. Fearing a fall or mishap, he asked me to be nearby. When I awoke, Bhagavan was reclining on the veranda couch. Seeing me, he quietly rose, took a flashlight, and walked toward the latrine. I followed. No words passed between us. It was clear that Bhagavan understood why I was there and accepted it without comment. In such moments, silence itself conveyed approval. When he was displeased, however, he never hesitated to correct us. Thus, we learned to remain alert and attentive to his unspoken will.
A Letter
One day Reddy received a letter from his family informing him that they were travelling to Tirupati:
They requested me to meet them there. When Bhagavan was returning from his walk and was near the well, I mentioned the details of the letter to him. He kept silent. Now, how could I just leave? Normally, he would indicate his approval by asking questions or commenting, or in some manner making it clear that it was all right to go ahead. In this instance, he said nothing and just kept walking. The very next day I received another letter from my family informing me that the trip had been cancelled. How do we explain this? Was it a siddhi, a miracle, or what? Everything happened naturally in Bhagavan’s presence, and he was always so unassuming.
The Unveiling
Reddy’s account darkens with the onset of Bhagavan’s illness. In February 1949 a small growth appeared above Bhagavan’s left elbow. The ashram doctors removed it, unaware it was sarcoma. Though the wound seemed to heal, the tumour soon returned. Further surgeries followed, radium treatments and Ayurvedic remedies were tried, but Bhagavan’s strength steadily declined.
After the first operation, Reddy returned to his village. When the tumour reappeared, Viswanatha Swami urgently called him back. By then Bhagavan had moved into the New Hall, and after the final operation the Nirvana Room became his permanent residence.
Reddy describes Bhagavan’s growing frailty. At times he shook violently on rising, frightening devotees, whom he reassured with humour: “Look at me—I am dancing.” He never treated illness seriously.
Asked about his health, he would retort, “What of that?” Yet he was tender toward distressed devotees, dismissing illness as irrelevant to the Self.
One incident vividly embodied his teaching. When doctors wished to surgically remove some tissue for testing, Bhagavan refused anaesthetic. The doctors protested, explaining to Bhagavan that the pain would be severe. Bhagavan again refused the anaesthetic and told them to just do it. They cut into the tumour and Bhagavan winced. The doctors said, ‘Bhagavan, we told you it would be painful.’ Bhagavan replied, ‘Yes, the body experienced pain. But am I the body?’
Though Bhagavan cooperated with treatment—including surgery under local anaesthetic in August 1949—he firmly refused amputation when it was proposed.
On 19th December, after the fourth and final operation, devotees waited anxiously north of the Nirvana Room. Doraiswamy Iyer, who had been influential in bringing together prominent physicians for the two major surgeries, announced that success could only be known after three months. Reddy recalls:
Bhagavan remained in the dispensary for eighteen days, recovering from the operation. Then around midnight, he shifted to the Nirvana Room. One day, when he was still convalescing in the dispensary, Chadwick and I were standing nearby when one of Bhagavan’s attendants approached us and inquired if we wanted to come in and see Bhagavan. This was not the usual procedure—having a personal audience with Bhagavan while he was ill—nevertheless, we jumped at the opportunity. Moving quickly into Bhagavan’s room, we stood at his bedside and simply rested our eyes on him. No words passed between us, but I can never forget those cool, compassionate eyes that opened and bathed us in peace and love.
This small event may seem insignificant to the onlooker. Yet, that one look, soaked with immeasurable peace and grace, filled us with a sense of total security and the confidence that his blessings would always be with us. Even now, more than forty years after he left his body, I feel that this same grace is flowing, enveloping me, guiding me. How can it be described in words?
Final Days
In the last stages, Bhagavan insisted on giving darshan twice daily. A reclining chair was placed in the passage before the Nirvana Room. He faced west toward the Mother’s Temple veranda. Devotees sat or stood there silently. Private bedside meetings were restricted. Reddy, feeling he should not trouble Bhagavan, avoided requesting entry:
Yet, one day I received a message from the office that I should accompany the doctors to Bhagavan’s room when they went again to clean his wound and change his bandages. I do not know why I was asked to do this. Perhaps Bhagavan didn’t see me at darshan and inquired about me, or perhaps the Sarvadhikari had his own reason. When I walked into the Nirvana Room, Bhagavan simply rested his benevolent gaze on me and said nothing. Then he slowly stretched out his left arm, and the doctors began their work. The bandage was drenched with blood. The wound was large and pitiful to look at. The pain must have been extreme. Bhagavan calmly turned his head to the side, and the doctors went about their business. I was amazed to observe his total detachment. It seemed to me that he looked on this painful affair as if it was happening to a body other than his own. I can never forget that sight.
Reddy’s sister visited with her infant. Reddy gained permission for a rare meeting. In the room, the baby cried. Bhagavan, with great difficulty, leaned over to make endearing sounds—like a mother soothing her child. Reddy was astonished to see that in extreme debility, tenderness still flowed.
The tumour now resembled a cauliflower—blood oozed, the arm had blackened. A doctor friend told Reddy the pain would have been like a loaded lorry running over one’s arm. Even so, radiance filled the room.
A visiting minister from Madras, Sitarama Reddy, independently asked about the brilliance pervading the room—confirming it was not merely Reddy’s imagination. Reddy recalled a verse from Muni’s Chatvarimsat:
His beatific effulgence is hidden by the sheath of the gross body, like the blazing sun hidden behind the clouds.
As the mortal sheath broke down, the effulgence appeared to release itself.
Crowds swelled as word got out about Bhagavan’s failing health. Thousands arrived for the final darshan. On 14th April, the office issued a bulletin saying Bhagavan was no longer giving darshan, hoping crowds would disperse. When Bhagavan heard this, he ordered the bulletin be withdrawn. He would not refuse devotees. Even on his last day, in the throes of death, he insisted darshan proceed as usual from 5 to 6 pm. That final evening, thousands gathered outside:
A gloomy mood enveloped the area, as Bhagavan’s end was anticipated at any moment. The fan being waved over Bhagavan’s body by the attendant was visible through the door, and all eyes were fixed on it, knowing that when it ceased moving, Bhagavan’s heart would no longer be beating. Mrs. Taleyarkhan, a devotee influential with the administration in those days, obtained permission to go into the Nirvana Room and have her last darshan at 7 pm. She approached me and asked me to join her. I quietly stood there thinking, and then replied, ‘No. You please go ahead. I cannot go.’ During that year I had seen Bhagavan’s body suffer enough. I could not bear to see any more.
Shortly thereafter, the fan stopped, the meteor slowly glided across the heavens, and it was all over. The light that illumined the earth as Bhagavan Sri Ramana Maharshi had now merged with the Eternal Light, the source of all creation.
Epilogue: Why Doubt It?
Balarama Reddy ends his memoir recalling a luminous exchange in the hall:
On one occasion G. V. Subbaramayya questioned Bhagavan about his song, ‘Atma Vidya,’ which begins: ‘Self-knowledge is an easy thing, the easiest thing there is.’ Subbaramayya wondered why, if it was so easy, we hadn’t realised it. This was something we all wondered about.
I then quoted to Bhagavan verse three, chapter seven, of the Bhagavad Gita, wherein Sri Krishna says, “Of thousands of men, some rare soul strives to realise Me; of those striving yogis, again, some rare one—devoting himself exclusively to me—knows Me in reality.” I thought if Self-knowledge was so easy, as Bhagavan’s song suggests, why did Krishna make this declaration in the Gita?
Bhagavan looked at us with compassion and, smiling confidently, said, “What is written in Atma Vidya is true. Why do you doubt it? It is as clear as a gooseberry in the palm of your hand.”
When he spoke to us like this, with such certitude and conviction, we were filled with unflinching faith and self-confidence in our ability to attain the ideal he taught us. Moreover, he sat before us as the living example of that ideal, a perfected soul, absorbed in the purity and peace of the Absolute Reality. What more did we need in life? [2] —
(series concluded)
Footnotes and References for Further Reading
[1] Cherished Memories, Smt. T.R. Kanakammal, pp. 110-112.
[2] These interviews were conducted by Dennis Hartel in Ramanasramam over a period of two weeks in 1993. They were then compiled and published as a series in the New York Ashram’s publication, The Maharshi.
Balarama Reddy, when asked by the then Ramanasramam President, V.S. Ramanan, about his final resting place, told Sundaranna that if he passed away in Ramanasramam, it meant that Bhagavan would prefer that his remains be buried there. If, on the other hand, he were to pass away elsewhere, then Bhagavan would have Reddy’s remains be interred in his native village.
Not long after this, Balarama Reddy fell sick and family members urged him to go to Bangalore for medical testing. Accompanied by Venkatoo’s attendant Natesan, Reddy underwent a battery of tests which gave favourable results. That night Balarama Reddy and Natesan lay sleeping, having planned to return to the Ashram the following day. When Reddy woke in the night, he told Natesan that Bhagavan was standing in the corner beckoning him to come. Natesan said, “Sir, all the tests were favourable, why should Bhagavan be calling you home now?” Some hours later, Balarama Reddy passed away quietly.
When receiving the news from Natesan, Sundaranna made the trip to Bangalore and accompanied the body to Reddy’s native village in Andra Pradesh where he was interred.
The series published in The Maharshi was then compiled and published posthumously by Ramanasramam as My Reminiscences by N. Balarama Reddy.
