As we saw last time, when young Venkataraman arrived in Tiruvannamalai in 1896, the locals were struck by his radiant presence and ascetic demeanour, instinctively referring to him as Chinna Seshadri or "Little Seshadri." The name was an homage to the town's well-known saint, Seshadri Swami, who had already gained a reputation for his unorthodox but unmistakably profound spirituality. It was Seshadri who, upon encountering the young ascetic, recognized his spiritual depth, referring to him affectionately as "my child", affirming their divine connection.

As we saw in the last segment, Seshadri Swami was born in 1870, a decade before Bhagavan Ramana Maharshi, and from an early age displayed extraordinary spiritual inclinations. He absorbed the Vedas with remarkable ease and exhibited an innate devotion to Goddess Kamakshi. Endless hours of deep contemplation marked his childhood, and his devotion grew so intense that he would spontaneously enter trance-like states, lost in divine ecstasy.

Early Life and Renunciation
His father, a Sanskrit scholar, passed away while he was still a boy. This loss early in life deepened his detachment from worldly concerns, but it was the death of his mother a few years later that severed his last ties to domestic life. He withdrew further into sadhana, intensifying his japa and immersing himself in deep meditation. Even before physically setting foot in Tiruvannamalai, he had an inner connection with Arunachala. He sketched the sacred hill's five peaks and worshipped the drawing as if it were the hill itself, a premonition of his destined pilgrimage.

Breaking free of familial expectations, Seshadri wandered in search of spiritual fulfilment. He met the ascetic Balaji Swamigal, who recognized his potential and formally initiated him into sannyasa.

In 1889, Seshadri Swami arrived at Tiruvannamalai, a town that had drawn sages and seekers for centuries. His presence, at once striking and mysterious, caught the attention of the townspeople. Unlike other renunciants who adhered to predictable ascetic practices, Seshadri moved through the town in ways that bewildered and inspired in equal measure. He would enter shops, pick up items, and then suddenly leave without explanation, sometimes scattering food as offerings to unseen beings. He meditated in cremation grounds, unbothered by the presence of death. At times, he would remain in states of prolonged samadhi, oblivious to the world around him.

His unorthodox behaviour led some to dismiss him as a madman, but the more perceptive ones saw beyond appearances. Traders and merchants noticed that their businesses flourished after his visits. Devotees reported that a mere touch or glance from him could alter the course of their lives. He never sought disciples, nor did he establish any formal teachings, yet those who came near him felt the presence of an immense spiritual force.

When his relatives in Kanchipuram attempted to bring him back home, hoping he would return to a conventional life, he refused. His path was now aligned with Arunachala. He wandered the streets of Tiruvannamalai, outwardly aimless but inwardly absorbed in intense vairagya and ceaseless mantra. Within ten years, the transformative power of his austerities became evident, and he exhibited extraordinary spiritual abilities that only heightened the sense of mystery surrounding him.

Parallel Journeys
It is often said that true friendship can only arise among those who are inwardly free, as worldly attachments tend to erode ordinary human bonds. In the case of Seshadri Swami and Ramana Maharshi, this principle found its highest expression. Though their outward temperaments differed, their spiritual destinies seemed intertwined in profound ways. Both were Brahmin sadhus who had renounced worldly life in their late teens. Both had lost their fathers early in life. Both were drawn irresistibly to Arunachala from distant places, compelled by a force beyond rational comprehension. Upon becoming ascetics, both transcended caste distinctions, seeing only the Self in all beings. And both remained in Tiruvannamalai for the entirety of their remaining years, never once feeling the need to leave Arunachala.

Yet, there were striking differences as well. Seshadri was a learned scholar upon his arrival in Tiruvannamalai, well-versed in Sanskrit, the Vedas, astrology, and classical music. Ramana Maharshi, in contrast, had no formal education beyond his school years. Seshadri often displayed an outwardly eccentric and unpredictable nature—sometimes engaging in childlike play, at other times, suddenly scolding or blessing strangers without warning. This led many to regard him as crazy, an impression he occasionally encouraged to maintain his solitude. Ramana, on the other hand, observed a dignified silence that served a similar function, keeping away idle curiosity while silently guiding sincere seekers.

The Protector
Despite these differences, Seshadri Swami recognized the young Brahmana Swami as a fully realized being. He became one of Bhagavan Ramana's earliest protectors, shielding him from the harassment of mischievous boys and curious onlookers.

Ramana devotees recall an unsettling episode from the early days, as the young Brahmana Swami sat absorbed in deep meditation within the Thousand- Pillared complex. Without warning, stones began flying toward him. They whizzed past him, landing with dull thuds on the stone floor. The young ascetic, utterly absorbed in an inner realm beyond bodily concerns, remained unmoved.

A group of mischief-makers, emboldened by his lack of response, gathered at a distance near the Patala Lingam, a subterranean chamber beneath the temple complex where the boy sat in samadhi. Fearing to approach the dark pit directly, they resorted to flinging clay potsherds into its depths. The earthenware pieces shattered, echoing ominously in the enclosed space. Yet even this did not deter the more determined among them, who continued hurling stones, hoping to elicit a reaction.

Seshadri Swami, who had already recognized the young ascetic's spiritual depth, occasionally took it upon himself to keep watch over him. Sometimes Seshadri Swami would drive away troublemakers with a sudden outburst of laughter or a sharp rebuke. At other times, he would simply watch over the young sage, standing in silent vigilance.

A Fateful Encounter
One afternoon, Venkatachala Mudaliar, a devotee who frequently visited the temple, was walking toward the mantapam when he saw a group of boys gathered outside Patala Lingam, gleefully throwing stones into the chamber. A surge of anger overtook him. Picking up a large stick from the ground, he rushed toward them, shouting and brandishing it like a whip. The boys scattered in all directions, their laughter turning into startled yelps as they fled.

As the dust settled, a shadow emerged from within the mantapam. It was Seshadri Swami. His presence, as always, was sudden and enigmatic. Venkatachala, regaining his composure, asked if the boys had harmed him.
"Oh no," Seshadri replied with a cryptic smile. "But go and see Chinnaswami there."
He gestured toward the entrance of Patala Lingam and, without another word, walked away.

Curious, Venkatachala stepped inside. Coming from the bright midday sun, he was momentarily blinded by the thick darkness. As his eyes adjusted, the outline of the shrine's inner sanctum became visible. Then, in the pit behind the lingam, he saw a faint, motionless figure. A young ascetic, his face half-hidden in the shadows, sat in an unfathomable stillness.

The sight of this emaciated youth, so utterly absorbed in meditation, filled Venkatachala with awe and unease. He hesitated, then, feeling strangely overwhelmed, turned away and left. Walking into the adjacent flower garden, he tried to shake off the unsettling sensation.

Legacy of Divine Madness
Seshadri Swami was widely venerated, yet never sought followers. He appeared mad to the ordinary eye, yet his words carried profound wisdom. He wandered aimlessly, yet every step seemed guided by an inner certainty. His life was a living testimony to the unpredictable, unshackled nature of divine realization.

To those who knew him, Seshadri was not just another sadhu—he was a force of nature, an embodiment of Arunachala's mysterious grace. In many ways, he prepared the spiritual landscape of Tiruvannamalai for the advent of Bhagavan Sri Ramana Maharshi, much like a storm clearing the skies before the rising sun.

The Watchful Guardian
In the early years, when Ramana resided in Pavazhakkunru, Seshadri would regularly visit, watching over him from a distance. Later, as young Ramana moved to various caves on Arunachala, Seshadri continued to check in on him, occasionally sitting with him in silence or sharing food.

During those early years, Seshadri saw himself as a caretaker of the silent sage. In the early days, Brahmana Swami, lost in deep states of absorption, had no concern for his physical well-being. He remained unaware of hunger, thirst, or the need for protection. It was Seshadri who, time and again, intervened to shield him from harassment, ensuring that the young ascetic was not completely neglected. This protective relationship existed from the early days following Venkataraman's arrived in Tiruvannamalai. Even though Seshadri himself was a wandering sannyasa with no fixed abode, he never failed to look out for Ramana. It was he who led well- meaning devotees like Venkatachala and others to discover the young sage and offer him assistance.

Seshadri's Gratitude
Seshadri Swami's gratitude toward those who supported him, and Bhagavan Ramana was unwavering. He particularly cherished the generosity of individuals like Subramania Mudali of Tiruvalur, whose family had been feeding sadhus since 1908 and regularly brought meals to Sri Ramana Maharshi.

In 1910, Seshadri paid a visit to Mudali and, in his characteristic metaphorical style, urged him to prioritize spiritual realization. "Think of it as a salary," he said. "Rs. 10,000 for Ramana, Rs. 1,000 for myself, and at least Rs. 100 for you."

Mudali, preoccupied with his worldly responsibilities, dismissed the comparison. But when he later mentioned the conversation to Ramana, the Maharshi confirmed Seshadri's words, adding gravely, "Failing to realize the Self is akin to committing Brahma hatya—the sin of harming a Brahmin."

Solicitude for Ramana Devotees
Though Seshadri Swami was known for his unpredictability, he took a keen interest in Bhagavan Ramana's devotees, especially those who selflessly served Sri Ramana. One such devotee was Echammal, who had been providing food for Sri Ramana and his visitors since 1908. She often fed Seshadri as well, and he, in turn, cared for her in subtle ways.

Whenever he met her, he would inquire, "Has young Ramana eaten?" On occasion, he would escort her home at dusk, ensuring her safety. Though he rarely engaged in spiritual discourse, he made an exception for Echammal, delivering an unexpected yet profound exposition on the mahavakyas. Those who overheard him were astonished at the depth of his insight.

Once, Echammal sought his guidance on meditation. Instead of offering verbal instructions, Seshadri simply sat cross-legged and entered samadhi for four or five hours. When he opened his eyes, he looked at her and said, "Do you see, Echammal?" The silent demonstration spoke louder than words. His presence was a source of comfort for her, especially after the loss of her foster daughter, Chellammal.

Pickles of Liberation
On another occasion, a devotee carrying food for Bhagavan Ramana encountered Seshadri Swami near Anna Chatram. At that moment, a woman ascetic named Sadachiammal urged Seshadri to eat something. Instead of accepting, he made an enigmatic remark: "She served pickles to sadhus and attained moksha."

No one knew what he meant. But later that day, when Bhagavan Ramana and his devotees opened the vessel containing the food, they found it full of pickles. Ramana smiled and said, "Perhaps this is what Seshadri Swami meant."

Guardian without Chains
Seshadri Swami was a free spirit, moving as Divine will dictated, watching over Ramana with a love that sought nothing in return. Though many perceived him as an eccentric saint, his presence in Sri Ramana's early life was pivotal. He ensured that the young sage was not completely neglected, that food and care reached him when needed, and that those drawn to Sri Ramana's silent presence were guided in the right direction.

In his own unpredictable way, Seshadri played a crucial role in the unfolding of the great spiritual drama of Tiruvannamalai. His was the hand that pointed the way—sometimes with words, sometimes with actions, but most often, simply with the silent force of his being.

Seshadri Swami always encouraged seekers to remain steadfast in their chosen spiritual paths, offering guidance only when necessary. Though his words were often few, they left a profound impact on those who encountered him, shaping their spiritual journeys in subtle yet powerful ways.1 —
*(to be continued)

* This article is freely adapted from Seshadri Swami of Tiruvannamalai, S.A. Subramanian, 1998, and from the Ashram literature.

In the first segment, we began mapping the voyage from ignorance to clarity through Bhagavan's teachings. We likened ignorance to a magic show, which conceals and distorts reality, trapping us in egoically-driven existences. The magic show and the rope-snake analogy illustrate how samskaras alter our perception, leading to spiritual blindness. If Bhagavan Ramana emphasized self-enquiry (vichara) as the means to help seekers to slice through the veneer of maya and recognize the non-dual Self, then liberation demands piercing the veils of ignorance altogether. Stillness of the mind and confrontation of the heart's defilements are the means to free ourselves from the illusions that perpetuate samsara.

Holding an Arm in the Air
In the previous segment, we examined how holding an arm in the air for eleven years assumes that persistence is a great spiritual achievement. However, Bhagavan offered a deeper insight: rather than directing effort outwardly, one should focus inwardly—stilling the mind and unravelling the intricacies of egoic delusion. True progress, it could be said, does not arise from exertion alone but by disentangling the neuroses and narcissism of the small self. Regulating the use of the right arm is one thing; regulating the intentions of the heart and mind is another. Tapas aimed at the body may develop endurance, but it does not purify the heart. Why is this? It is because true purification requires working at the source of what we think, say, and do— the root of karma. The right arm, whether raised or lowered, remains neutral in karmic terms. Similarly, in all aspects of sadhana, the focus should be inward.

Vichara is a direct path because it targets the intentions of the heart, the place where karma originates. Spiritual purification is not just about working off old karma but avoiding creating any new karma.

Bhagavan's vichara is far more demanding than any physical austerity. It involves constant failure, such as revealing the inadequacies and duplicity within. True success lies in confronting the heart's hypocrisies, inner pain, and operative perceptual distortions. Physical endurance such as holding an arm in the air, while demanding, guarantees the appearance of success if maintained, but it bypasses the actual work of purification. Bhagavan comments:

If there is prolonged meditation that the worlds are an appearance in me, who am the plenary Reality, where can ignorance stand? ¹

Real transformation occurs only when we cultivate the courage to fail repeatedly. This means being willing to see ourselves in an unflattering light, unmask the ego's falsehoods and endure the discomfort of confronting internal deceptions. This sounds simple until we recognize how invested we are in maintaining misplaced narratives and inauthentic self-definitions. If the persistence applied to bodily mortification were redirected to enquiry, Bhagavan might tell us, the need for spiritual heroism would vanish, the ego would atrophy, the mind would become still, and the impulse to conceal inner contradictions born of ignorance would dissolve. Adi Shankara reflects:

There is no ignorance apart from the mind. It is the cause of the bondage of birth and death. With the emergence of the mind everything arises, and with its subsidence everything ceases. ²

The egoic magic show includes every form of self- deception. What makes the illusion disturbing is that even the performer is tricked—he believes in his own magic.

Naming the Demon
It has been said that the only demon that can harm us is the one we flee from. But a more insidious demon is the one we fail to name. If a demon remains unnamed, it means we are already running from it. And if we have failed to name it, it is because we have mistaken it for our very own self.

The same applies to defilements of the heart. The only defilement that can harm us is the one we unwittingly prop up. Any defilement that is seen through can be released and let go of under the penetrating influence of Bhagavan's vichara. If ignorance is a form of not knowing, more treacherous still is knowing wrongly— knowledge born from an unconscious impulse to bolster the ego. Bhagavan states:

Without knowing the Self that knows, to know all objects is not knowledge; it is only ignorance. Self, the ground of knowledge and the non-Self, being known, both knowledge and ignorance fall away. ³

But there is another kind of not-knowing—one born of enquiry. This may appear as helplessness but is, in fact, the bridge from the constructed "I" to what lies beneath it—below cognition, words, language, labels, and personality. This is the launching pad for vichara. In contrast, certitude is the hallmark of the ego.

What is Ignorance?
Ignorance gives rise to fear and anxiety and is itself a by-product of them. We may imagine that fragility and threat come from the outside, but they stem from within. Ego is a defence against perceived threats that, in truth, do not exist. Veils of ignorance arise from fear, worry, restlessness, and doubt—defences aimed at protection and insulation. Fear often originates from early life wounds, giving rise to the overactive mind. The cognitive mind, in its preoccupation with knowing, becomes a tool to soothe the nervous system's alarms. Yet, the cure for fear and anxiety does not lie in cognition alone. Their sources lie beneath the cognitive mind. If by asking "Who is afraid?", we shift our focus below the constructed "I," down to the primal fight-or-flight centre situated in the body, we have a chance of moderating our distress. Egoic narratives speak to, but are inadequate to address, the fundamental nervousness of a psyche operating under the weight of unresolved samskaras from the past.

Honesty and the Assault on the Ego
To pierce the veils of ignorance, we must muster the courage to investigate the hidden vaults of the heart. This is an act of bravery for the heart's recesses are filled with things we are in denial about and would prefer not to look at: hypocrisy, conceit, vanity, and delusion. Yet, our task is not self-condemnation but self-liberation which means taking stock of everything within. The Tao Te Ching reminds us:

If you want to awaken all of humanity, then awaken all of yourself.
Vichara is thus a process of disintegration—dismantling psychic, spiritual, and mental structures that no longer serve us. The sword of vichara pierces what is untrue, a process that is painful because we are deeply invested in our illusions. And yet, if we replace old delusions with new egoic constructs, we merely substitute one dictator for another.

Though probing the heart through enquiry can be painful, it also brings tremendous joy because in uncovering our foolishness, we are made freer. We let go of the impulse to belittle ourselves by virtue of the embarrassments we find within, after all, exposing inconsistency and foolishness is progressive and unidirectional. Stated differently, each illusion we unmask can never really be fully reinstated just as the observer who sneaks behind the scenes at the magic show to observe the magician's hidden holes, strings, and false bottoms can never really be fooled by the same magic tricks again. Uncovering self-orchestrated wiliness broadens our self-understanding that will stand the test of time. Bhagavan writes:

Owing to ignorance, the Self now appears to be covered up; on the removal of ignorance, the pure Self will shine forth of Itself, like the sun after the dispersal of clouds. ⁴

Amalgamating the Strands of the Heart
True reintegration allows what is real to shine forth, free of self-deception. Vichara demands a relentless scanning of the heart, discerning ego's tricks, and dismantling inner misconceptions. This requires diligent restraint and confidence, where we endeavour in a relaxed way, according to the prompting of an ancient sage, not to resist the changes that come our way but allow life to live through us. ⁵

Sifting through the tangle of past conditioning requires a willingness to face what is least flattering, namely, the fraudulence at our core. This process involves exposing the impulses, habits, and cunning strategies of the heart.

Amalgamation means consolidating the heart's fragmented aspects and harmonizing them into a unified whole. If ego is shameless—saying and doing whatever serves its interest—if it manipulates circumstances, presents different faces in different settings, forces smiles when the heart is heavy, fills the mind with distractions to avoid inner discomfort, these are to be viewed as the norm, as its custom and habit. Thoroughly deluded, ego is at a loss to do anything else.

When all that trends toward self-deception is compassionately unmasked, seen and known for what it is, the disparate strands of the heart begin to conjoin, and we feel whole again. The Gita comments:
One's own self is one's best friend; one's own self is one's greatest enemy.
When the heart is harmonized, self-deception dissolves, and we experience profound clarity and peace.

Non-Ignorance as an Expedient Means
In piercing the veils of ignorance, we come to recognize that spiritual knowledge is merely an expedient means. Its truth lies in expediency, in utility. How can this be? True wisdom cannot emerge in a psyche governed by ego. This means that the only clear path to truth and wisdom is one that leads us beyond egoic delusion. That is the categorical imperative rather than any kind of accumulated knowledge. Seeking ultimate, ontological truths is a fruitless endeavour if it does not aid us in the one endeavour that leads to spiritual progress. In other words, worldly knowledge, like holding the arm in the air, is not karmically or spiritually advantageous. Overcoming ignorance is therefore defined by what leads us closer to wisdom and freedom and not by its accuracy in respect of any mundane knowing.

The ultimate nature of empirical reality is indeterminate. Just as quantum physics shows that a photon can be both a particle and a wave, spiritual truth transcends ordinary human cognition. What determines truth is not philosophical precision but its capacity to heal and liberate.

When devotees asked Bhagavan about the ultimate nature of reality, he would respond, "Find out who you are first, then ask that question."

Ignorance, then, is not a question of not-knowing but wanting to know what lies beyond the necessary domain of a seeker. True knowledge is defined by its capacity to lead us toward wisdom, freedom, and wholeness.

Home is where the heart is
Ignorance is not knowing where one's true home lies. We carry our home within us—in the heart, in the Self.

We recall how Kandaswami laboured for ten years to fashion from pure rock Skandasramam to serve as Bhagavan's residence. But when the sadhus living there did not want mother to reside with them out of deference to traditional rules applying to renunciants, Bhagavan simply took his mother by the hand and, without the least care, made ready to go elsewhere.

This scene demonstrates that Bhagavan was not the least attached to his home, Skandasramam, because his true home was not a physical space but was within. Likewise, in the months leading up to Bhagavan's mahanirvana, we could see that he was not attached to his body, because his true home was still further in.

If we cling to physical spaces as home, we are still trapped in the ignorance of seeking permanence in form. The only true changeless reality lies beyond form. Ultimate non-ignorance is knowing where our true home lies.

Conclusion
Grasping or rejecting anything means ignorance is still at work in us. We observe our reactivity and resistance and pray for acceptance. We observe our grasping and clinging and pray for calmness. What we cling to or resist is conditional. The stillness of the Self is the only unconditioned reality.

Bhagavan teaches that in a still mind, no obstacles intrude, and no defilements can cloud our vision. Vichara is the process of dropping pretences, relinquishing ego's strongholds, and standing naked before Reality. When the final veil falls, Bhagavan tells us, only the Self remains. —

(series concluded)

• 1 Self-Enquiry, §40.
• 2 Vivekachudamani, from The Collected Works, p. 230
• 3 ‘Reality in Forty Verses’, v. 11, from The Collected Works, p. 117.
• 4 Atma Bodha §4.
• 5 Jalalaldin Rumi.