Balarama Reddy first met Bhagavan in the 1930s and later reflected on his extraordinary fortune in spending many years in the Sage's presence. He was gifted in storytelling and skill of the written word. In Bhagavan's time he was already called on to assist in translation work. In 1993 he narrated his story to Dennis Hartel as would a loving grandfather to the youngsters in his midst. Let us start at the beginning.

On a sunny March morning in 1933, Balarama Reddy first walked into Sri Ramanasramam. It was just before breakfast. The dining "hall" was then, he says, only a small thatched shed south of the Old Hall, serving by turns as kitchen, office and even as Bhagavan's bathroom. He narrates the moment:

After breakfast I sat in the Old Hall, waiting for Bhagavan. I had read and heard from others that he rarely put questions to visitors, so I was not surprised when he returned, took his seat on the couch, and remained silent. I too was not inclined to speak. It felt perfectly natural to sit quietly in his presence.

At 11 a.m. the lunch bell rang and once again Reddy was seated near Bhagavan, which he came to learn was something that happened on occasion with newcomers. At about 1 p.m., he tells us, a long-standing devotee arrived, prostrated, lay down near the couch and immediately fell fast asleep:
I thought to myself: "This Maharshi is accessible at all hours; his presence evokes a deep stillness; everything is serene, natural, informal. There is something unique here."

That evening I had to catch the train back to Pondicherry. I approached Bhagavan to take leave. He asked where I had come from. Since he had begun speaking, I ventured to ask a couple of questions. I now remember only one:

Thus ended my first visit in 1933, when I was twenty-four. Though I did not return for two years, I now feel that during that time Bhagavan's unseen force was quietly working within me.

Bhagavan often quoted a verse of Saint Tayumanavar in praise of the Guru: "Oh Lord! Coming with me along all the births, never abandoning me and finally rescuing me!"
I feel this verse perfectly expresses my relationship with Bhagavan.

Early Life and Search

Balarama Reddy was spiritually inclined from his earliest youth. His father practised austerities and even once observed a year of mauna. After a long pilgrimage to the Himalayas, his father chose the life of a householder but never abandoned spiritual ideals. The home revolved around the life of faith.

Reddy was born on 30th October 1908. From the beginning his father endeavoured to give precedence to spiritual values over worldly pursuits.
In his teens Reddy fell under the influence of Gandhi-ji. During the Salt Satyagraha of 1930, he was a postgraduate student at Benares Hindu University. When back home in Nellore that summer, the district Congress president was arrested and jailed. The committee asked Balarama Reddy to take his place. When he accepted, the police promptly arrested him and he remained in prison for the next four and a half months. In close quarters with other freedom fighters, he was surprised that they were not more spiritually inclined. He recalls:

In prison I had a disappointing awakening to the real nature of many of these jailed nationalists. I soon became disenchanted with the ideal of political activity for attaining freedom, especially when I arrived at the understanding that spiritual freedom, or Self-realisation, was the highest goal of life and political freedom would not actually change us spiritually.

Halfway through his master's degree at Benares, his conviction became firm: the purpose of life is not worldly achievement but God-realisation. Reddy thus withdrew from activism and made a decision to leave University and dedicate himself to the spiritual path. He narrates:

Aurobindo Ashram

In the years before he learned of Sri Bhagavan, Balarama Reddy went to stay with Sri Aurobindo, the Indian nationalist, philosopher and yogi who settled in Pondicherry in 1910. Drawn by what he had read and heard, he felt blessed to have the teacher's darshan on 15th August 1931. Life at the Sri Aurobindo Ashram was simple and disciplined. Reddy worked a couple of hours each day, usually gardening, reading Sri Aurobindo's writings and attending darshan of the Mother.

When he periodically returned to his own village near Nellore to visit his family, he would stay in a small hut away from the main house, doing sadhana in solitude. Thus, he moved between Pondicherry and his native village, earnestly pursuing spiritual practice.

Visits to Ramanasramam

While at Aurobindo Ashram Reddy got to know Kapali Sastri, a disciple of both Sri Aurobindo and Ganapati Muni. Sastri occasionally visited Ramanasramam and described the Maharshi and the ashram in glowing terms. Along with B. V. Narasimhaswami's biography of Bhagavan, Self-Realisation, Reddy was inspired to make his first visit to Bhagavan in 1933. When he returned in March 1935, he stayed three days. The journey from Pondicherry to Tiruvannamalai took nine hours by train, though the distance was only about 100km.

Reddy was introduced to Bhagavan by Yogi Ramaiah, the saint Paul Brunton had written of in his A Search in Secret India (1934). At that time Yogi Ramaiah was observing silence, but with gestures and Reddy's explanations the two conveyed their Andhra connection to Bhagavan.

During these visits to the Ashram, Reddy experienced a sense of freedom and naturalness in Bhagavan's presence, quite different from the regulated life in Pondicherry. Bhagavan's deep, penetrating silence drew his mind inward, and he gradually lost interest in everything except being in Bhagavan's presence. By the end of the second visit, he began to believe that his place was with Sri Bhagavan. He narrates:

A year later, in June 1936, Balarama Reddy returned for a longer stay and was lodged in a cottage near Palakottu. One afternoon he walked out of the back gate and looked up at Holy Arunachala. A strong desire arose in him to climb the hill straight up from where he stood. With youthful confidence he drew an imaginary straight line up the steep face and started walking.

Halfway up, some village women carrying firewood warned him of the danger: strong winds, perilous slopes, no path. But the young seeker refused to give up and continued undeterred. Soon the climb became extremely steep. Reddy narrates:

I came to a point where I had to pull myself up on a narrow ledge. Sitting on that ledge facing the plains, I realised that I was unable to stand without losing my balance. In other words, I could not continue my ascent from where I was. On one side there was a dangerously steep precipice of more than one thousand feet. On the other side I saw an insurmountable vertical wall of rock. Then, to my great dismay, I realised that not only was I prevented from standing, but also, I was so precariously positioned on this ledge that it was impossible for me to retrace my steps downward without tumbling head over heels to my death. To top off all this distress, my sandals were now causing me to slip from the very ledge I was clinging to for dear life. I carefully removed the sandals and let them fall. Sitting with my knees close to my chest and my feet up against my buttocks, I pondered my ill fate. I soon lost all hope of coming out of this ordeal alive. Closing my eyes I began to think of Sri Bhagavan and the Mother of Aurobindo Ashram. For about ten minutes I sat in this sad condition. While my eyes were closed, my head involuntarily turned to the left. I opened my eyes and saw a clump of vegetation firmly rooted between some rocks. I looked at it and thought that perhaps I could grab onto that vegetation and pull myself up to a standing position. I caught hold of the growth and, to my surprise, executed the feat without much difficulty. When I stood up and looked over this ledge, I was utterly amazed to see that I had reached the summit. Slowly I pulled myself up onto the summit and immediately exhaled a thankful sigh of relief.

Now safe at the top and with a good view from all sides, Reddy identified an easy, well-trodden path going down and returned to the ashram just as the evening meal was being served. He told no one what had happened. But inwardly he knew a divine hand had intervened, and this incident became a milestone in his life of faith:

During that stay I observed ashram life closely and thought seriously about living there permanently. The attraction of Bhagavan's presence, his quiet majesty and grace, became irresistible. I resolved to return to Aurobindo Ashram, settle my affairs, receive the blessings of Sri Aurobindo and the Mother, and then move to Ramanasramam for good.

Leaving Aurobindo Ashram

He had been with Sri Aurobindo for five years. Out of gratitude and respect he felt bound to seek their permission before leaving. Disciples customarily wrote letters to Aurobindo, which he answered at night in consultation with the Mother. Reddy wrote, explaining his desire to live with Ramana Maharshi whose sole emphasis was Self-realisation, the very beginning of their yoga.

Aurobindo's answer was affectionate but firm: Self-realisation and the supramental could both be attained in Aurobindo Ashram, thus, there was no need to go elsewhere. Reddy became restless and dissatisfied. Two further letters followed over several months, and both times permission was refused.

At last, after about five months, they relented, perhaps perceiving that his resolve was unshakeable. In his final letter Aurobindo wrote, "Since you are determined to follow a path in which you can achieve only partial realisation, we give you our blessings, though we believe it would be better if you stayed on here."

Settling at Sri Ramanasramam

On 5th January 1937, the day after Bhagavan's fifty-seventh birthday, Reddy arrived at Ramanasramam to stay. For some time, he lodged in the common guest room, then in Yogi Ramiah's cottage. After a month, the management told him gently that it was not the ashram's policy to give permanent accommodation and asked him to find a place outside within fifteen days.

At that time there were no houses near the ashram, so he found an upstairs room near the big temple. He cooked there or obtained food outside, managing without difficulty. He would rise at 3 or 4 am, walk to the ashram, sit in the Hall until about 10 am, return to town, then come again at 3 pm and stay until 8 pm. This continued for about a year:

I always tried to sit as near Bhagavan as possible, to hear every word. Shortly after settling in Tiruvannamalai, I wrote out in English a long, detailed account of my life, poured out my heart, and handed it to Bhagavan. He read it carefully and returned it without comment.
For the first few months, he would often begin speaking to me without any prompting. He would explain some verse, some philosophical point, or some aspect of practice. This went on so much that S. S. Cohen once joked, "Why do you always make Bhagavan talk? I'm getting jealous." I replied truthfully, "I am not making him talk. For some reason he looks at me and starts." Sri Aurobindo's philosophy naturally came into these discussions. Sometimes Cohen and Chadwick joined and critiqued it, and I found myself defending it. With Bhagavan, however, I could not argue. Whatever he said carried a weight beyond dispute.

Once he read a detailed review of Sri Aurobindo's The Synthesis of Yoga or Light on Yoga in a newspaper. He took great interest, occasionally stopping to comment. On learning that I had the book, he asked to see it and read it late into the night by the light of a small oil lamp. The next day he discussed it with me at length, showing how certain terms corresponded to ancient concepts. It was clear he thoroughly understood Sri Aurobindo's system, both conceptually and experientially.

At one point I remarked that one of the major attractions of Sri Aurobindo's path was the promise of physical immortality. Bhagavan said nothing. The next afternoon, as soon as I entered the Hall, he began: "In Kumbhakonam there was a yogi, C. V. V. Rao, who proclaimed the doctrine of immortality of the body. He even declared that Dr. Annie Besant would have to come to him to learn how to make her body immortal. Before he could meet her, he died." The point needed no further explanation.

Later I showed him Sri Aurobindo's final letter about "partial realisation" and read it aloud. When I came to that phrase, Bhagavan stopped me: "Partial realisation? If it is partial, it is not realisation; and if it is realisation, it is not partial." That single observation dissolved the last of my doubts.

Over time Reddy saw that Bhagavan never openly assumed the role of Guru. He observed that Bhagavan would even make remarks that sounded just the opposite. For close devotees, Reddy said, there was no question: Bhagavan was their Guru. He loved them like a mother, protected them like a father, guided them like a teacher and moved among them as a friend. Reddy narrates:

On another occasion he asked Reddy to fetch a particular book from the almirah. Failing to find it, he returned and sat near the south wall. Bhagavan then rose, walked majestically to the cupboard, at once located the book, and instead of returning to the couch came and sat down on the floor right next to Reddy. He opened the book to the desired page, held it in his right hand directly in front of his face and asked him to read:

His body was very close to mine. I then understood what devotees meant when they said that his body was like a furnace. I felt a palpable spiritual power radiating from him, like an immense dynamo. That moment remains vivid in my heart.

In the Domain of the Maharshi

Bhagavan's uniqueness, Reddy felt, lay above all in the power of his presence. His verbal teaching was in line with the ancient tradition and can be found, in principle, in the scriptures. But the force of Reality that poured through him was something extraordinary:

Entering the Old Hall, one immediately felt one had stepped into a different plane of being. Bhagavan's other-worldly yet utterly natural presence pervaded the atmosphere. When we left the Hall, the familiar world returned. This contrast was unmistakable. He did not ask us to open schools or hospitals or launch philanthropic works. He insisted on one task alone: to know the Self. He believed this to be the panacea for all suffering and the true goal of life. Yet we are often diverted by notions of "helping the world." He would ask, "Where is this world, and who are you?" It was always a call to inquiry.

Swami Ramdas and Ananda Ashram

In 1937, Reddy spent a month with Swami Ramdas at Ananda Ashram in Kanhangad. He describes the place:

Ramdas moved freely among family members and devotees with natural affection and complete detachment, never putting on airs of a renunciate. He would sit with anyone and narrate one story after another from his own life. He told me how he had once come to Arunachala, stood before Bhagavan and felt grace pouring into him through Bhagavan's eyes. Afterwards he went up the hill, stayed in a cave and performed continuous japa. After about two weeks he lost the ordinary mind and had the Universal Vision of God—seeing everything as God. From then on, he said, he had been living in Ram.

He had received the Ram mantra from his father and was one of those rare souls who completed their sadhana without the aid of a physical Guru. Mother Krishnabai, his chief disciple, narrated stories from her life. Later, Ananda Ashram asked me to write in English all I had heard from her; this account was included in her biography. From Ananda Ashram they began a tradition of sending offerings to Ramanasramam, especially for Bhagavan's Jayanti—banana chips, gruel and other items.
This practice continues even up to the present day.

Mauna

Not long after he began staying with S. S. Cohen in Palakottu, one night around 9 pm Reddy felt a strong impulse to go on giri pradakshina. Near the spot known as "Bhagavan's Bridge", he paused, gazed at the Hill, serene and silent in the night sky. Suddenly the urge arose from deep within to take a vow of mauna. There and then Reddy resolved not to speak to anyone except Bhagavan:

One September evening in the hall at about 7pm, I opened my eyes and saw sitting before me T. L. Vaswani and his nephew, J. P. Vaswani. T. L. Vaswani recognized me and I joined my palms and saluted him in greeting. As I was still observing mauna, I didn't say anything to him. Next morning, after they had left, I told Bhagavan who our visitor had been and lamented that I had not spoken to him or introduced him to others. Bhagavan replied, "You could have said something yesterday." From this I understood that my silence had served its purpose and that Bhagavan now preferred me to relinquish it. I ended my mauna and later wrote to Vaswani explaining the situation. He replied, praising Bhagavan and remarking how blessed I was to sit at such a sage's feet. —
(to be continued)

In the first segment we saw how Bhagavan's summa u—"Be still"—is the essential path to peace. Stillness cultivated through Bhagavan's vichara is born of an inward-turning inquiry that calms thought, quietens the senses and leads to the state of being awake while asleep, i.e. a mind that is alert yet thought- free. Entering silence, however, can be unsettling. We moderns live oblivious to the forgotten inner world, the life of the heart—its neglected memories, hidden wounds, and unexamined intentions.

In the last segment, we saw how genuine transformation requires first "becoming one", i.e. bringing coherence to thought, speech, intention, and action—so that we can relinquish mental compulsions and allow the heart and mind to rest in their natural clarity. The Upanishad says, when the knot of the heart is cut asunder, all doubts are resolved.¹

The chief resistance is the ego, which resists the realm of zero because, we might imagine, it fears its own dissolution. Modern life reinforces this resistance through perpetual running—busyness, distraction, and compulsive engagement. Running masks inner discomforts and creates a false sense of worth rooted in performance over presence. Stillness can thus be seen as both courage and cure. If our outward motion has become habitual, turning inward feels foreign, even threatening. But Bhagavan Ramana points out:
The mind turned outward becomes the world; the mind turned inward becomes the Self.²

In the contemporary era, stillness is a rarity. If the disembodying effects of virtual living leave us pining for the ground—for context and a more substantive way of living and relating—we have to wonder why we would not automatically gravitate toward a stillness practice like Bhagavan's vichara. The fact is, we avoid it vigorously. Ego, born of hidden afflictions, loathes the realm of stillness because it sees stillness as a danger. Therefore, we convince ourselves that we are too busy to take the time to sit in stillness. Bhagavan comments:

Ego's nature is agitation. It thrives on knowing, collecting, judging—anything to fill the space within. Ego's swirl born of internal discomfort resists the dark colouring of karmic inheritance. To offset the discomfort of looking within, it consumes and regurgitates. If knowledge is ignorance,⁴ as Bhagavan once said, our obsession with knowing is just ego's compulsion to fill the gap. Craving the next object of experience is born of the same restlessness. Once the desired object is acquired, the momentary relief is mistaken for happiness, and our attachment deepens. Bhagavan warns:

Pleasures are but the absence of pain. Happiness is not to be sought outside. You have only to remove the thoughts which conceal it.⁵

Craving and clinging, taken to be the Self, can never provide long-standing release. Our lives play themselves out in just such a pursuit, namely, of acquiring what we crave and attempting to sustain it. But Bhagavan tells us that craving and clinging and the 'I' they engender can never save us. Only by letting go of attachments can freedom emerge.

Stillness gets a bad rap, gets blamed for the discomfort that arises in meditation. But the pain does not come from silence; silence is merely the lamp that illumines what has long been buried.⁶ When in the realm of stillness, painful unresolved grief from the past may arise. We assign the discomfort to stillness itself, whereas in reality, stillness is only the portal for unresolved discomforts to be revealed and released. Kabir once said, Open the door of your heart; the Lord is there.

We fear stillness because it confronts us with the persona we have crafted—the simulated personality we present to the world. The observer in inquiry is not the same as the persona observed. Through inquiry we discover, often painfully, that the persona is a construction. We fear becoming who we truly are, seeking ever to be someone else—someone better, more interesting, more likeable. It takes time before inquiry practice reveals that the one we truly are is the best version of ourselves, and all other versions pale in comparison. A saint once said:
People shed their outer clothes before entering the Ganges, but few shed the clothing of their false personality before entering the heart.⁷

When hidden karmic afflictions surface in the realm of zero and are seen clearly, their hold weakens. Patient inquiry dissolves the 'I'-thought and opens a vast intuitive realm beyond the rational mind. The neurotic ego experiences this as annihilation. Yet, when Bhagavan speaks of what lies beyond, he says:
It is not light, it is not darkness. It is only as it is. It cannot be defined. The best definition is 'I am that I am'.⁸

Often devotees resisting the inner work say, "I am just not a meditator". But it is not a matter of being a meditator or a non-meditator but rather, a matter of cultivating the willingness to face inner conditions. Resisting the life of the heart is common, for in truth, fear of the heart is the greatest of all human fears. But our refusal must eventually be challenged for any lasting change to take place, otherwise, the egoic status quo will maintain itself indefinitely. To be sure, courage is required. The Taittiriya comments:
In the cave of the heart shines the One to be sought. Let the seeker enter there with courage.⁹

Ancestral Affliction

The desire to flee the realm of stillness may not just be the fear of past actions, but also ancestral pains born of the actions of our forefathers—what tradition calls pitru dosha. This refers to unresolved karmic debts that are transmitted down through the generations. The tradition reminds us to be ever grateful for the gift of life passed on to us by our ancestors. If the lives of our ancestors ended with a sense of dissatisfaction, incompleteness or neglect, the pitru ghosts will have found their way to the subsequent generation. And yet, what is the curse of our ancestors? It is a debt to them born of not heeding the primordial call within, not listening, not hearing, not seeing and knowing the legacy handed down from previous generations.

In the sadhana of our spiritual life we are asked to remember what was said and done long ago.¹⁰ This refers not just to wrongful actions committed by us (or by our ancestors) but the laments of what we (and they) suffered. By remembrance, unhappy karma is cleansed. The ancestors, after all, are archetypes expressing a karmic legacy. They ask to be acknowledged. The Mahabharata says:
By remembrance, the pitrusare gladdened; by forgetfulness they feel abandoned and forgotten and thus, remain dissatisfied.¹¹

One of the key principles in psychoanalytic theory is understanding that what we repress will come back to haunt us in another guise.¹² Healing is a matter of calling to mind what has been denied. Pitru doshas and unhappy purva samskaras manifest as ghosts from our ancestors and the family habit of keeping features of its legacy concealed. Unresolved karmas transmitted in the family lineage manifest as familial discord, delayed marriage, childlessness, recurring misfortune or a perpetual anguish, worry and foreboding.

These ghosts in the nursery ensure that each generation repeats the patterns of the last, keeping hidden what had already been obscured.¹³ Ritual propitiation—tarpana, pitru paksha—is a way of honouring and releasing such residues. But Bhagavan tells us that inquiry—the deliberate and sustained investigation within—can serve as a potent remedy to any unresolved elements handed down in the family line. Bhagavan's inquiry can help us bring to light what had been concealed. This is because—as the Yoga Vashishtha tells us—awareness is the fire that burns away the seeds of karma.¹⁴ In other words, clear seeing is inherently liberating.

Being present in an ongoing way to the life below the threshold of the busy thinking mind helps us uncover and integrate what is hidden. A mind that conceals and distorts is an enemy; but a mind that illumines and uncovers is a great ally. If that which is unexamined becomes binding, awareness can be called upon to loosen the knots carried across the generations.
But how could clear seeing relieve the suffering of relatives and ancestors?

For a wound shared across generations, clarity in one member of the lineage helps dissolve the spell in others. Inquiry thus becomes an offering—not only for our own freedom but for the peace of those whose unfinished lives we carry within us. A theme in Tayumanavar's work goes something like: One who is freed within frees a thousand without.

Transgenerational Wounding

In modern psychological language, pitru dosha corresponds to what clinicians call transgenerational wounding. It shows up as impaired infant-mother relationships. If the family culture tends to replicate itself, it is because mothers and fathers unconsciously imitate the patterns they were shaped by.

Developmental psychologists tell us that if the atmosphere of early family life lacks steadiness and emotional warmth, the effects will extend far beneath the surface of the personality. The very architecture of the developing brain is sculpted by the quality of care the child receives in early life. Children who grow up amid instability, emotional neglect, or the unspoken grief of their caregivers often develop inner dynamics suited more for survival than for natural flourishing.

One such expression—known now to neuro-science—is the insufficient development of dopamine receptors, the small gates in the brain's reward system through which delight and well-being flow. When these are sparse, the child carries an unnameable sense that something essential is missing.

A child absorbs not only a parent's behaviour but also their unspoken fears, private sorrows, and survival strategies. A grandparent's traumas, a mother's anxieties, a father's unresolved grief—all may imprint themselves on the subtle body of the child. Their inner equilibrium remains fragile. Agitation and restlessness arise without clear cause. Habit patterns may express themselves in compulsive consuming, relentless work, digital overstimulation, or even an excessive spiritual striving—all of which are makeshift strategies to soothe the nervous system. Such tendencies are not moral failings. They are the mind-body's adaptive response to early misattunement.

Compulsive behaviours such as incessant device use can deplete dopamine receptors. Experts tell us that a brain flooded repeatedly with high stimulation reduces receptor density to protect its equilibrium. Thus, tolerance develops, and when the stimulation is withdrawn, one experiences the familiar ache of withdrawal—fatigue, irritability, and disconnection ¹⁵ With fewer internal resources—fewer receptors, less relational safety—individuals suffering early wounding or pitru-laden vulnerabilities are more susceptible to compulsive behaviours.

Seen through a gentler lens, our compulsions are not weakness but the expression of a long struggle to feel grounded and whole. Healing, as Bhagavan hints, begins not with force but with stillness. Bhagavan who declared, "Grace is the Self "¹⁶ repeatedly reminded devotees, "Be still… that is all."¹⁷ He then adds:
The expanding mind will attain peace, becoming still of its own accord, if it is deprived of something to hold on to, just as fire gets extinguished gradually if not fed with fuel.¹⁸

The biographies of saints often speak of early loss. Sri Ramakrishna lost his father early in life and often said that his childhood bereavement carved in him a vast inner need that only God could fill.¹⁹ Likewise, the young Jnanesvar, orphaned and outcast, entered profound states of absorption before the age of ten.²⁰ Mirabai once said, the wound in my heart was made before this body was born.²¹

The early wounds of these spiritual luminaries became openings—porous portals through which divine grace would enter.

In a traumatized age, many who take up meditation practice report formidable obstacles. But one of the more gnarly hurdles for contemporary meditators is simply boredom. And yet, what is boredom? —It is restlessness. However, restlessness in the guise of boredom is merely one of the guardians at the gate. It is the withdrawal tremor of a mind accustomed to constant stimulation in response to suffering. As stillness deepens, the mind's dependence on stimulation slowly dissolves and boredom ceases to menace us. Bhagavan comments:
That which results in peace is the highest perfection (siddhi). The mind is by nature restless. Begin liberating it from its restlessness—give it peace, make it free from distractions, and train it to look inward. ²²

Conclusion

Whether our resistance to stillness arises from pitru dosha, early childhood wounding, infant–maternal misattunement, developmental scarcity, egoic fear of annihilation, old purva samskaras, or boredom, we can still cultivate stillness. The essential question is not, "Can I still my mind?" but rather, "Can I allow myself to fail at stillness"? — Gently and repeatedly.

If we can become curious about what stands between us and silence, we have already stepped into silence. But if we try and force-march ourselves into quietude, we are sure to remain in the realm of agitation.

Tea meditation—the simple act of sitting quietly with a cup of tea, without devices or tasks—is for many a radical gesture. Courage is often small, quiet, and unadorned. Rather than applying force, we allow inquiry to express itself as presence. If presence is not forthcoming, we inquire into the one who fears the quiet: Who is this 'I' afraid of?

Whatever impedes access to stillness is itself in need of healing. And stillness is the healer. We need not be experts in developmental psychology or karma theory. All we need to do is work patiently with the remedy Bhagavan Ramana assigned us. The only urgency is becoming more sincere in the undertaking, ever seeking to cultivate the ability to feel our way into this work with ever greater sensitivity.

Stillness is thus both method and goal, means and end. The cure for non-stillness—and its many causes—is stillness itself. In stillness all the aches of the heart begin to dissipate. Avudai Akkal once sang: When the knot of the heart melts and dissolves in the Light, the many bonds dissolve of themselves.²³ In other words, when the realm of zero is made our home, all the complications of our lives are moderated all at once. Bhagavan adds:
Paroxysms of joy are in fact as painful as those of pain, and both are accompanied by ruffled breaths. Peace is [the only true] happiness. The mind improves by practice and becomes finer just as the razor's edge is sharpened by stropping. The [still] mind is [then] better equipped to tackle internal [and] external conditions.²⁴

Our work is baby stepping our way into the realm of stillness. As we make our way, we note our resistances—patiently and compassionately—gently nudging ourselves onward and inward, trusting that Bhagavan will not deceive us but will faithfully guide our every step. If we find there is no reception committee on the other side to warmly welcome us, we do not mind. Our hearts are journeying toward ease—at last—and we find that this is more than enough reward for our unrelenting effort to find our way home to stillness. —

Bhagavan’s 146th Jayanti falls on the morning 4th January 2026 (IST) to be celebrated in Sri Ramanasramam and that evening, celebrated around the world online. For those unable to attend the function in person at Ramanasramam, they can join the programme on morning of the 4th at https://youtube.com/SriRamanasramam/live.

For the global online programme, go to:
Watch Global Program —

• 1. Mundaka Upanisad 2.2.8.
• 2. Maharshi's Gospel, book 2, ch 4.
• 3. Atma Vidya, verse 5, in Collected Works, p. 135.
• 4. Guru Vachaka Kovai, §538.
• 5. Talks, §17, 24th January 1935.
• 6. Here psychoanalysis speaks of transference, in this instance, 'transferring' unhappy unresolved memories onto our encounter with stillness.
• 7. A paraphrase of comments by Sri Ramakrishna.
• 8. Talks, §122, 1st January 1936.
• 9. Taittiriya Aranyaka 10.12.1.
• 10. Gautama Buddha's admonition in respect of sati (awareness) is found in various places in the Nikayas.
• 11. Mahabharata 13.92.11; also 13.90.2: The ancestors rejoice when their lineage lives in purity, and when they are remembered with gratitude.
• 12. This line from the work of Sigmund Freud.
• 13. This section is inspired by the ground-breaking article, "Ghosts in the Nursery: A Psychoanalytic Approach to the Problems of Impaired Infant-Mother Relationships", by Selma Fraiberg, Edna Adelson, and Vivian Shapiro, in the Journal of American Academy of Child Psychiatry, 14(3): pp. 387-421.
• 14. Yoga Vasistha (Nirvana Prakarana, Uttara), 48.25; see also, Yoga Vasistha (Nirvana Prakarana, Uttara), 98.12: By the fire of wisdom the seed of samsara is burnt; and Utpatti Prakarana, 1.8.5: The fire of Self-knowledge burns all karmas to ashes.
• 15. This section gleaned from Dr. Gabor Mate's In the Realm of Hungry Ghosts, pp. 23-27.
• 16. Talks, §29, 4th February 1935.
• 17. Talks, §634, 23rd February 1939.
• 18. Devikalottara, §30, in Collected Works, p. 177.
• 19. Sri Ramakrishna the Great Master, pt 2, ch 1.
• 20. Swami Kripananda, Jnanesvar, The Life and Works (SUNY Press)
• 21. From The Poems of Mirabai, A.J. Alston.
• 22. Talks, §20, 30th January 1935.
• 23. Avudai Akkal, Padalkal, verse 54, Gnanananda Niketan edition.
• 24. Talks, §27, 4th February 1935.