Devotees of all walks of life appeared at Bhagavan’s feet seeking solutions to life’s many challenges. Some only passed through, receiving in one, two, or a few meetings all they needed to carry them along life’s way.
This brings to mind the young British police officer, Frank Humphreys who was stationed in India and, with the help of Pravananda and Ganapathi Muni, was able to meet with Bhagavan in 1910 when the Maharshi was still living on the slopes of Arunachala.
Nearly forty years later, another young Britisher came to Bhagavan. His single visit was brief but impactful. Colin Turnbull, later to become the world-renowned anthropologist, came to see Bhagavan in the New Hall in late 1949, just before Bhagavan, owing to declining health, was confined to the Nirvana room.
A young student at the time, Turnbull had taken up the spiritual search which he combined with his academic interests, studying Indian religion and philosophy at Banaras Hindu University.
Born to an upper-class family in London in 1924, Turnbull was educated at Westminster School and went on to study politics and philosophy at Magdalen College, Oxford. During World War II he served in the Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve. The war experience proved traumatic and a tranche of existential questions would accompany him throughout his life, leading him ultimately to be ordained in his 60s as a Buddhist monk, taking the name, Lobsang Ridgol.
Once having come to India, he had a life-changing experience at the feet of Anandamayi Ma. Not long after this he travelled south to meet Bhagavan. A year later, in 1951, he completed his studies at Benares, earning him a master’s degree. He then travelled to the Belgian Congo with Newton Beal, an American schoolteacher he met in India. The trip inspired him. During this period, he took on an unusual “odd job” in support of film producer Sam Spiegel: assisting in building and transporting a boat used in on-location production for The African Queen (1951).
Turnbull then spent a year in Yellowknife in the Northwest Territories of Canada working as a geologist and gold miner. He returned to Oxford in 1954, shifting his scholarly focus decisively toward African anthropology. Fieldwork followed—especially in the Congo in 1957–58, and later in Uganda—and he completed a doctorate in anthropology at Oxford in 1964.
Turnbull’s first major success came with The Forest People, a deeply sympathetic account of the Mbuti pygmies of the Ituri Forest[1] of the Belgian Congo. Published in 1961, it was written in vivid, accessible prose and portrayed the people he had studied as egalitarian and spiritually attuned, living with skill and joy amid the forest’s challenges. Based on three years of immersive fieldwork, the book became a bestseller and long remained assigned reading in schools and universities.
The Forest People describes daily life, rituals, and music, highlighting the Mbuti’s humanity, and wisdom. The book celebrated a vanishing world while blending scientific insight with profound emotional understanding. It also contributed to a popular, mid-century view of certain foraging societies as relatively harmonious and morally instructive, counterpoints to Western industrial life.
Turnbull’s Diary
During formative years in Banaras (1949–1951), Turnbull kept a journal while residing at Anandamayi Ma’s ashram in Shivala, along the banks of the Ganga. What struck him first was the sharp contrast between the ashram’s modest surroundings—busy, narrow lanes teeming with activity—and the deep quiet that prevailed within. At the back, a terrace opened onto the river, creating a space of calm and beauty, where people of all backgrounds gathered around the saint.
When Turnbull first beheld Anandamayi Ma, he felt an immediate inward stillness. Troubled by the thought that his journey to India might signify a rejection of the family tradition and his duty to his parents, he sought her counsel. She gently assured him that while filial duty is sacred, the quest for truth stands above all—a reassurance that strengthened his resolve.
Though he did not understand Bengali, he felt inwardly compelled to remain. Anandamayi Ma gave him the name Premananda (“bliss of love”), by which he became known. She discouraged any formal conversion, instead emphasizing the deeper unity underlying all paths.
Despite her inclusive vision, the ashram largely followed Brahmin customs, and Westerners were often regarded as outsiders. Yet a few, including Turnbull and the Austrian devotee Atmananda, were allowed to stay.
Atmananda—a concert pianist who came to India in 1925 as a spiritual seeker and teacher at the Krishnamurthi school in Rajghat, lived out her monastic vocation as a devotee of Sri Anandamayi Ma. She acted as Turnbull’s interpreter and companion, recording in her diary his sincerity, simplicity, and spiritual openness. Ma once quietly urged Atmananda, “Look after him”. [2]
Under Ma’s influence, Turnbull came to appreciate both the shared essence of humanity and the richness of its cultural expressions. Social distinctions, Ma demonstrated, were ultimately superficial. At times she even asked Brahmins to serve others as a gesture of equality. Her teaching emphasized inner discovery—that identity is fluid, and that truth and beauty can emerge from the most ordinary conditions.
This vision profoundly shaped Turnbull’s later anthropological approach, in which he sought to immerse himself fully in other cultures.[3]
Turnbull maintained a lifelong devotion to Ma, keeping her photograph beside his mother’s and later enshrining it in his home.
In the “Acknowledgements” section of his renowned work, The Forest People, he placed Anandamayi Ma at the top. Though he met other spiritual figures, none influenced him as deeply. By the time he met Bhagavan Ramana, he had already pledged his loyalty to Anandamayi Ma.
Meeting at Sri Ramanasramam
This very readable (and as yet unpublished) diary[4] narrating Turnbull’s experiences in India in his mid-20s centres on the spiritual search and his encounter with Anandamayi Ma. It is the source by which we come to know the details of his brief encounter with Bhagavan Ramana. This took place only some months before the Maharshi’s Mahanirvana, hence Turnbull had been aware of the sage’s declining health.
The account is rich and colourful and the reader can see from the beginning that this is someone destined to become a writer. The narrative about his trip to Ramanasramam begins with a reference to one “David” which could possibly refer to David McIver[5], then living just opposite the Ashram. Turnbull begins:
It was quite dark when we reached Tiruvannamalai. When the bus stopped David and I transferred into a small covered cart known locally as a “jet”, because of the lightning speed with which the one old bullock pulls it. We left the town and skirted the foot of the hill for a couple of miles before coming to the ashram. It was too late to think of disturbing anyone that night so David volunteered to put me up in his room. This was on the other side of the road from the Ashram compound, and was at the end of a small, low building. Tired by the hot and wretched journey, it did not take long for me to get to sleep.
When I woke in the morning I was completely refreshed. Even the great bulk of Arunachala seemed more friendly, and my delight knew no bounds when I emerged from the room and walked over to the Ashram, for here was something which might well have been the Ashram of one of the ancient sages. A pleasant stone temple in the middle of a shady compound was surrounded by thatched huts, and nowhere was the hand of modern civilisation to be seen. The trees waved, the birds sung and even old Arunachala seemed to smile in the morning sun.
Turnbull was led to the rear of the Ashram where three huts stood, each consisting of a single room. He continues:
One of these was to be mine while I stayed at the Ashram, and going inside I found a simple square room with a wooden bed standing on a tiled floor. Nearby was the dining room with kitchens attached. Orthodoxy again intervened; a partition down the centre of the dining hall divided Brahmins from non-Brahmins. I was taking coffee from a brass bowl when a message came that the Maharshi was in the main hall and would see me.
As I left the dining room and crossed the gravel yard towards the temple, knowing that the Maharshi spoke some English, I framed to myself the way in which I would greet the sage, and the questions I would ask. I was led through an immense stone doorway to the hall, and then left there alone. To one side a small area was railed off, and in this was a large stone couch with a bed in front on which lay the Maharshi. A brazier burned on a stand beside him, and from this a stream of incense smoke trailed up to the ceiling. Two attendants gently massaged the limbs of the old [sage], who still continued to look away from me.
I was about to take a step forward, when the Maharshi turned his head and looked at me with an expression which I have never seen before nor expect to see again. There can be no comparing of the degree of greatness of these spiritual giants, but the quality in all of them seemed different. Anandamayi, Sivananda, Krishnamurthy, Aurobindo, and now Maharshi.
Maharshi turned his grey head and gave a smile of greeting which was at the same time warm and empty. The warmth lay in its sincerity; the emptiness in the fact that the Maharshi was utterly detached from the world around him […]. His arm twitched with pain, but his expression remained unaltered, sublime. As soon as I could pull myself together, I turned tail and made my exit as quickly as possible without even so much as uttering one of the fine words I had prepared.
Second Darshan
Not long after this, the public were admitted into the hall, and this time Turnbull slipped in at the rear and sat down inconspicuously, leaning against one of the pillars. His account continues:
One side of the hall opened into the temple, and from there came the sound of priests chanting Vedic hymns. This continued to the end of the allotted hour when we were all ushered out. We had to remain outside until evening, when once again the doors were opened for an hour.
In the evenings the Maharshi was awake and would look around the hall or gaze outside through the open doors to the countryside beyond. He seldom looked at anyone directly and seldom spoke, and while he was awake his expression never changed.
Sri Ramanasramam seemed an ideal place for quiet meditation and it seemed to derive this atmosphere from the rugged hill behind and from the ancient temple, [and no doubt, from the Maharshi himself]. Those wishing to lead a life of contemplation came for this reason and also because they received strength and help from the presence of the Maharshi.
The Maharshi gave no instructions, and the host of books available were reports of the sayings of the sage. In earlier days he had frequently talked with disciples, but now he was [ill] and spoke to [few] except his oldest followers.
Third Darshan
The day before leaving, Turnbull asked if he could meet with Bhagavan before his departure, and the next morning, one of the attendants signalled to him to remain behind after the others had gone out of the hall:
I went up to the couch and sat down beside it. Without thinking I rested my arm on the coverings, and the disciple who was massaging the Maharshi made to move me further away. Perhaps he was jealous that a newcomer should be accorded the privilege of an interview, or he may have been annoyed that anyone should disregard the doctors who had advised against any more private discussions. But the Maharshi made it plain that I was to come as close as I wished, and he then talked to me for half an hour, sometimes in English and sometimes in Tamil which was translated for me. It was a [fractured] conversation, for each time I used the words “you” and “I”, the sage would smile and ask:
“Who is ‘I’? Who are ‘you’?”
For him there were no such distinctions; he could see only the one Self, the Divine Presence in all. That, he said, was the reality; the differences and distinctions which make up every minute of our waking lives are self-created, illusory, the result of ignorance. By constant meditation, constant inquiry into the true nature of things, he said, this one Self becomes apparent, and when that happens there is no need for conversation.
I asked him why he allowed his body to suffer if, having reached this state of spiritual development, he had the power to heal it. He replied that the body was a shell; in the light of the ultimate reality, it was an illusion. There was no point in his interfering—he felt no pain. All this time his body was twitching and jerking, yet his face betrayed no symptoms of suffering. I [pleaded]:
“Even if you feel no pain yourself, is it fair to allow those who [revere] you to suffer, as they do just through seeing your body in this condition?”
He looked at me with a smile [as if he had not understood me].
“What are all these ‘you’s’ and ‘me’s.”
I [did not know how to answer] if these pronouns were to be [omitted], but the Maharshi put out his hand to touch me and told me it was no good his trying to explain in words matters which were beyond description. He said that the only way to know that state was to experience it, and to experience it, one had to get rid of all false notions of difference between individual “selves.” It does not matter whether we lose ourselves through contemplation of the problem as such or through a merging of ourselves with the image of our beloved. As soon as we finally lose all sense of identity, then the great Truth becomes apparent and That alone exists.
Conclusion
During this short visit, Turnbull says he was not in the position to benefit fully from the comments made by Bhagavan:
When I left, I was conscious only of his beaming smile and his extraordinary selfless character. It was disappointing not to have received more concrete instruction, I thought, from such a renowned sage. He sank back on the cushions, and lay there, gazing out of the open doors and over the Ashram compound, to the country beyond. His eyes saw I know not what but I felt it was not the same as what my eyes saw. For the Maharshi there was no conflict or opposition, joy or sadness, life or death. At that time, I did not fully understand this apparent emptiness.
I took my leave and left the sage on his couch, smiling into the temple hall, attendants massaging his arms and legs.
Not many months later he “died”, if one can use such an expression. He is probably as much there as he ever was, only now there is no body to tempt one into judging him as a common mortal.
Out in the courtyard I put my bedroll into a cart and bade my farewells, and was carried slowly out into the blazing sun and down to Tiruvannamalai. Even when I was on the train I was unwilling to go, and leaned out of the window until the Holy Mount of Siva was out of sight and the shrine below but a memory.[6] —
[1] An ethnography of this Congolese tribe.
[2] Death Must Die: Shree Anandamayee Ma and The Guru-Disciple Relationship: A Devotee’s Journey, p. 379.
[3] This section is freely adapted from a summary of the diary:
<https://www.anandamayi.org/ashram/Turnbull.pdf >
[4] See “The Flute of Krishna”, a manuscript housed in Boston University’s archives, <https://tinyurl.com/jkmc5ehf>).
[5] More likely, it refers to David Mirer, an American who Colin knew from Ma’s ashram and who spent time in Tiruvannamalai around this same period. He was also with Colin in Pondicherry. Of course, only David McIver is known to have stayed long-term in Tiruvannamalai (from 1938-1950).
[6] See also, In the Arms of Africa: The Life of Colin M. Turnbull, Prof. Roy Richard Grinker, Anthropology and International Affairs, George Washington University.
