The mystery of grace: One existence, countless expressions

On January 10 this year, Yogi Ramsuratkumar played a prank on me. I was trying to reach his birthplace, Nardara, which some biographies placed in Bihar, others in Uttar Pradesh. From Patna airport, I set out in a comfortable Innova, relying on my Google Maps. A few kilometres out of Patna, we had a flat. As the driver changed the back tyre, I saw ragged children playing on the streets, with hardly any clothes on. 

We went through Bihta and Arrah towards Chamarpur. At that point, I lost contact with the caretaker of the shrine. Gradually, the roads disappeared. I ended up in the middle of mustard fields surrounded by curious villagers, and lengthening shadows, utterly lost. Ahead was the mighty Ganga, with no bridge across. We had to backtrack to Mahuli Ghat, cross a pontoon bridge, traverse broken roads and dirt tracks, groping through the gloom towards Sati Ghat, finally to Nardara. What if we had another puncture? There was nothing in the vicinity for miles—no village, no petrol pump, no shop, no sign of human habitation —and no stepny. 

Yogi Ramsuratkumar, Yogi Ramsuratkumar, Yogi Ramsuratkumar, Jaya Guru Raya. What an adventure reaching Yogi’s native place! Was there a hidden purpose? You have to be taken to the edge of the known, right to the yawning abyss — before a leap of faith may occur. Devoid of all other refuge or recourse, just one supreme consciousness remains, “Father alone exists, nothing else, no one else” — as Yogi himself often said. Such a great soul born in such a backward place?” His springing forth from this remote place is surely a lesson that the Divine is suffused in every atom of India’s soil, waiting to be released, to manifest, to shine. The tremendous odds that Ramsuratkumar overcame to become a Yogi meant that we, who had far fewer obstacles to cross, might try it too. But how many of us were willing?

Tiruvannamalai. The abode of the Hill of Fire, already hallowed by the presence of the great sage of modern India, Ramana Maharshi. There, in the presence of Yogi Ramsuratkumar I experienced a strange alchemy. I did not stir outside the ashram, but the busy bazaars, the blaring songs, gentle, dignified, and cultured people in white dhotis, strong and proud working women, clean houses with kolam in the courtyard, smell and sight of flowers in white, fragrant garlands for the deities in the temples or in the black tresses of the women, and ochre-clad mendicants wandering about the town, ash-smeared, with rudraksha beads and kamandalus—all were not outside, but within me. And, above all, the hill, symbol of the self, beyond sense or thought, the timeless ground of being.

It was Ramana who had jolted me out of the prison-house of conditioning. “Who am I?” The seemingly simple question had unsettled me. I was a person, I had a past. True. But I was also awareness who could see that same person as apart from myself. I had a past, but awareness had no history, no past, no future. Awareness was not a person or a thing. Nor was it a filter or medium. It simply was. If awareness had no beginning and no end, did that mean that “I” too had no beginning and no end?

Yogi arrived in Tiruvannamalai in 1959 after wandering all over India for 7 years. Earlier, he had apprenticed at Anandashram, Kerala, with his Guru, Papa Ramdas and the latter’s associate Ma Krishnabai. In Tiruvannamalai, Yogi lived practically in the streets for decades, referring to himself as a “dirty beggar.” Then he moved to a small house in Sannidhi Street, near the great Arunachaleshwara Temple. In the early 1990s, no longer a “hidden saint,” he permitted an ashram in his name to come up in Agrahara Collai. 

Rishis, sages, saints, mahatmas, so full of compassion, create traditions, institutions, disciplines, and modes of self-transformation—just for our benefit, just so that we can realise ourselves. Because of their irresistible will, many thousands join their effort for the public good. It is India, more than any other country in the world, that is fortunate to be blessed with their presence since times immemorial. India, because of them, is the land of soul-making. 

Today, the Yogi Ramsuratkumar Ashram is grandly decorated and lit up, streaming with people from all over the world, for it is on this day that he was born in Nardara in 1918. December 1, 2018, is his 100th Jayanti or birth anniversary. Thousands are being fed. Prayers, chants, lectures, and performances are going on all day. It is a happy carnival of faith, food, fun, frolic, family, and friends. I feel blessed to be here. Happy birthday Yogi Ramsuratkumar!

Author is Director, IIAS, Shimla 
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