Post by Sumi on Jan 13, 2012 12:07:25 GMT 5.5
Courtesy: Shri Sundararajan
Source: www.periva.org
Here is a first hand write up of the meeting of Sree Paul Bruntan. This will appear in parts as per the suggestion of the moderator
Paul Brunton’s search for his Master<http://mahaperiyavaa.wordpress.com/2011/03/15/paul-bruntons-search-fo...>
Source: www.scribd.com/full/32932002?access_key=key-p1hlknsquce8fyorlqi
About the time of tiffin, that is, tea and biscuits, the servant announces
a visitor. The latter proves to be a fellow member of the ink-stained
fraternity, to wit, the writer Venkataramani. Several letters of
introduction lie where I have thrown them, at the bottom of my trunk. I
have no desire to use them. This is in response to a curious whim that it
might be better to tempt whatever gods there be to do their best – or
worst. However, I used one in Bombay, preparatory to beginning my quest,
and I used another in Madras because I have been charged to deliver a
personal message with it. And thus, this second note has brought
Venkataramani to my door. He is a member of the Senate of Madras
University, but he is better known as the author of talented essays and
novels of village life. He is the first Hindu writer in Madras
Presidency, who uses the medium of English, to be publicly presented with
an inscribed ivory shield because of his services to literature.
He writes in a delicate style of such merit as to win high commendation
from Rabindranath Tagore in India and from the late Lord Haldane in
England. His prose is piled with beautiful metaphors, but his stories tell
of the melancholy life of neglected villages.
As he enters the room I look at his tall, lean person, his small head with
its tiny tuft of hair, his small chin and bespectacled eyes. They are the
eyes of a thinker, an idealist and a poet combined. Yet the sorrows of
suffering peasants are reflected in their sad irises. We soon find
ourselves on several paths of common interest. After we have compared notes
about most things, after we have contemptuously pulled politics to pieces
and swung the censers of adoration before our favourite authors, I am
suddenly impressed to reveal to him the real reason of my Indian visit. I
tell him with perfect frankness what my object is; I ask him about the
whereabouts of any real Yogis who possess demonstrable attainments; and I
warn him that I am not especially interested in meeting dirt-besmeared
ascetics or juggling faqueers.
He bows his head and then shakes it negatively. ” India is no longer the
land of such men. With the increasing materialism of our country, its wide
degeneration on one hand and the impact of unspiritual Western culture
on the other, the men you are seeking, the great masters, have all but
disappeared. Yet I firmly believe that some exist in retirement, in lonely
forests perhaps, but unless you devote a whole lifetime to the search, you
will find them with the greatest difficulty. When my fellow Indians
undertake such a quest as yours, they have to roam far and wide nowadays.
Then how much harder will it be for a European?”
“Then you hold out little hope?” I ask.
“Well, one cannot say. You may be fortunate.”
Something moves me to put a sudden question:
“Have you heard of a master who lives in the mountains of North Arcot?”
He shakes his head. Our talk wanders back to literary topics. I offer him a
cigarette, but he excuses himself from smoking. I light one for myself and
while I inhale the fragrant smoke of the Turkish weed, Venkataramani pours
out his heart in passionate praise of the fast disappearing ideals of old
Hindu culture. He makes reference to such ideas as simplicity of living,
service of the community, leisurely existence and spiritual aims. He wants
to lop off parasitic stupidities which grow on the body of Indian society.
The biggest thing in his mind, however, is his vision of saving the
half-million villages of India from becoming mere recruiting centres for
the slums of large industrialized towns. Though this menace is more remote
than real, his prophetic insight and memory of Western industrial history
sees this as a certain result of present day
trends. Venkataramani tells me that he was born in a family with a property
near one of the oldest villages of South India, and he greatly lamented the
cultural decay and material poverty into which village life had fallen. He
loves to hatch out schemes for the betterment of the simple village folk,
and he refuses to be happy whilst they are unhappy. I listen quietly in the
attempt to understand his viewpoint. Finally, he rises to go and I watch
his tall thin form disappear down the road.
to be continued
Sundararajan
Yogah karmasu kausalam - Gita 2-50
Source: www.periva.org
Here is a first hand write up of the meeting of Sree Paul Bruntan. This will appear in parts as per the suggestion of the moderator
Paul Brunton’s search for his Master<http://mahaperiyavaa.wordpress.com/2011/03/15/paul-bruntons-search-fo...>
Source: www.scribd.com/full/32932002?access_key=key-p1hlknsquce8fyorlqi
About the time of tiffin, that is, tea and biscuits, the servant announces
a visitor. The latter proves to be a fellow member of the ink-stained
fraternity, to wit, the writer Venkataramani. Several letters of
introduction lie where I have thrown them, at the bottom of my trunk. I
have no desire to use them. This is in response to a curious whim that it
might be better to tempt whatever gods there be to do their best – or
worst. However, I used one in Bombay, preparatory to beginning my quest,
and I used another in Madras because I have been charged to deliver a
personal message with it. And thus, this second note has brought
Venkataramani to my door. He is a member of the Senate of Madras
University, but he is better known as the author of talented essays and
novels of village life. He is the first Hindu writer in Madras
Presidency, who uses the medium of English, to be publicly presented with
an inscribed ivory shield because of his services to literature.
He writes in a delicate style of such merit as to win high commendation
from Rabindranath Tagore in India and from the late Lord Haldane in
England. His prose is piled with beautiful metaphors, but his stories tell
of the melancholy life of neglected villages.
As he enters the room I look at his tall, lean person, his small head with
its tiny tuft of hair, his small chin and bespectacled eyes. They are the
eyes of a thinker, an idealist and a poet combined. Yet the sorrows of
suffering peasants are reflected in their sad irises. We soon find
ourselves on several paths of common interest. After we have compared notes
about most things, after we have contemptuously pulled politics to pieces
and swung the censers of adoration before our favourite authors, I am
suddenly impressed to reveal to him the real reason of my Indian visit. I
tell him with perfect frankness what my object is; I ask him about the
whereabouts of any real Yogis who possess demonstrable attainments; and I
warn him that I am not especially interested in meeting dirt-besmeared
ascetics or juggling faqueers.
He bows his head and then shakes it negatively. ” India is no longer the
land of such men. With the increasing materialism of our country, its wide
degeneration on one hand and the impact of unspiritual Western culture
on the other, the men you are seeking, the great masters, have all but
disappeared. Yet I firmly believe that some exist in retirement, in lonely
forests perhaps, but unless you devote a whole lifetime to the search, you
will find them with the greatest difficulty. When my fellow Indians
undertake such a quest as yours, they have to roam far and wide nowadays.
Then how much harder will it be for a European?”
“Then you hold out little hope?” I ask.
“Well, one cannot say. You may be fortunate.”
Something moves me to put a sudden question:
“Have you heard of a master who lives in the mountains of North Arcot?”
He shakes his head. Our talk wanders back to literary topics. I offer him a
cigarette, but he excuses himself from smoking. I light one for myself and
while I inhale the fragrant smoke of the Turkish weed, Venkataramani pours
out his heart in passionate praise of the fast disappearing ideals of old
Hindu culture. He makes reference to such ideas as simplicity of living,
service of the community, leisurely existence and spiritual aims. He wants
to lop off parasitic stupidities which grow on the body of Indian society.
The biggest thing in his mind, however, is his vision of saving the
half-million villages of India from becoming mere recruiting centres for
the slums of large industrialized towns. Though this menace is more remote
than real, his prophetic insight and memory of Western industrial history
sees this as a certain result of present day
trends. Venkataramani tells me that he was born in a family with a property
near one of the oldest villages of South India, and he greatly lamented the
cultural decay and material poverty into which village life had fallen. He
loves to hatch out schemes for the betterment of the simple village folk,
and he refuses to be happy whilst they are unhappy. I listen quietly in the
attempt to understand his viewpoint. Finally, he rises to go and I watch
his tall thin form disappear down the road.
to be continued
Sundararajan
Yogah karmasu kausalam - Gita 2-50