Ramanasramam’s bookstore stocks many excellent titles published by its imprint. Two essential volumes by Arthur Osborne combined to give me a wealth of honestly rendered perspective: Ramana Maharshi and the Path of Self-Knowledge and My Life and Quest (the autobiography of the founding editor of the ashram’s journal Mountain Path that was published three decades after his death, when his daughter Kitty chanced upon it among his papers). Later still, I enquired and made my way to the bungalow that had been his home, clutching strands of mallipoo to lay at the Englishman’s grave and that of his Polish wife Lucia. What drew them to Tiruvannamalai and kept them here?
There is so much that may be said about the lodestone that is Ramanasramam that it cannot possibly fit into a short column. Conversely, it is hard to find the right words to describe the experience that is Ramanasramam. Stepping into the ashram feels like an act of leaving the world and its cares behind. Inclusion defines life within. Cows, peacocks, dogs and birds belong, too. I am not a solo traveller here. I merely am.
Lush oasis
The ashram’s cluster of simple buildings is simultaneously bustling and tranquil, especially during the day. But no matter how industrious the foot of the hill gets, the climb to Skandashram comes wrapped in solitude. I have noticed that even groups ascending together tend to fall silent, as if absorbing the almost primordial hush on the mountain. The austere rooms fronting the cave where Ramana spent years meditating is part of a small, lush oasis, fed by a brook in the otherwise stony russet of Arunachala. The bench overlooking a panoramic view of the magnificent temple below is one of my favourite places in the world.
To me, Ramana is here, in the steady flame of the earthen lamp by his picture, in the old dining areas down in the ashram where simple food is served so generously, in the prayers resonating from the samadhi hall, in the fathomless calm of the meditation room, in the clean water of the well and the immaculate surrounds, in the nippy wind of a December evening and the flowers from the ashram’s gardens.
One of the advantages of travelling alone is the extemporaneity it affords but I have made some foolish plans as a consequence.
Taking a bus out of Chennai to Tiruvannamalai early one morning, I planned on returning the same night after a few precious hours at the ashram. I wanted to catch the Karthigai deepam lit atop Arunachala for 11 days. I had to exit around sunset if I was to return home before midnight. The deepam hadn’t been lit yet despite the dark horizon. As the bus rattled its way down the straight road that leads away from Arunachala, past terrain so flat that you can see the sacred mountain for miles, the jyoti was lit. I could see it burning bright for several long minutes, a beacon that showed me the way back home.
In this series, the writer explores travelling as a pilgrim, often alone
