Saranagati October 2026 — Sri Ramanasramam eNewsletter

As K. K. Nambiar’s devotion to Bhagavan deepened, the emphasis of his spiritual life gradually shifted from ritual worship towards the conviction that God dwells within the Heart. Bhagavan’s guidance seemed to accompany Nambiar everywhere. We saw last time how during a dangerous crossing of a flooded causeway, Nambiar inwardly invoked Bhagavan and crossed safely. Later, dreams appeared to anticipate important events, including the correction of an engineering error and an unexpected transfer to Madras, where he would serve for the next fifteen years. Nambiar increasingly interpreted these events as signs of Bhagavan’s grace.

We read in the last issue the story about a playful “wager” over whether Bhagavan would assist him with a suitable train accommodation and the unusual discovery of an empty first-class carriage.

We read about how his foreign deputation in 1946 led him to England where he met the elderly devotee Mrs. Victoria Doe, whose intense love for Bhagavan deeply moved him. In California he visited Eleanor Pauline Noye, with whom he experienced a powerful sense of Bhagavan’s presence despite being thousands of miles from Tiruvannamalai. Striking was the chance meeting with Aurobindo Bose in a New York hotel, which for Nambiar was yet another instance of Bhagavan’s guidance.

Through all these experiences, one conviction steadily matured: Bhagavan was not confined to his physical form. His true dwelling place was the Heart of the devotee. Let us continue our account.

A Gramophone Record from Chicago

While in Chicago in September 1946, Nambiar recorded four Sanskrit slokas in praise of Bhagavan on a gramophone disc and mailed it to Sri Ramanasramam. At the same time, he sent another recording to his wife and children in Madras. Strangely, the record addressed to the Ashram arrived safely, while the one intended for his family never reached them.

When he returned to India in 1947, Nambiar learned that Bhagavan had listened to his recording several times in the hall with the devotees. The thin vinyl disc tended to slip while playing, distorting the sound, and Bhagavan himself suggested fastening it to a heavier record to keep it steady. He also identified for those present the different sources from which the four verses had been taken.

Return to India

Nambiar’s official assignment in America had originally been due to end in October 1946, but just as the delegation was preparing to return home, Nambiar received instructions to remain abroad and undertake another assignment. Following the collapse of a building in Madras, deficiencies had been discovered in the city’s municipal building regulations. He was therefore asked to study the building codes of American and British cities and help prepare a modern code for Madras.

The work involved extensive travel in America and England, meetings with officials and attendance at conferences. Travelling alone was not always easy, particularly in places where racial prejudice remained strong. Yet throughout this period Nambiar felt that Bhagavan was with him, guiding and protecting him. He finally returned to India towards the end of February 1947.

His first desire after being reunited with his family was, naturally, to go to Tiruvannamalai and see Bhagavan:

During the years 1947–50, Nambiar visited the Ashram frequently and became involved in the design and construction of the hall adjoining the Matrubhutesvara Shrine. Sri Vaidyanatha Sthapati, who supervised the stonework and sculpture, kept closely in touch with Nambiar. Bhagavan himself followed the progress of construction and occasionally questioned Nambiar about structural details.

The Yogasana

Aurobindo Bose had arranged for a black granite couch to be made for Bhagavan. It occurred to Nambiar that he could provide the mattress and backrest cushion:

During these years Nambiar acted as an Ashram agent in Madras, obtaining construction materials, paper and other supplies. Bhagavan seemed fully aware of these activities. He would ask why certain materials had been ordered and listen patiently while Nambiar explained their purpose.

Bhagavan showed the same interest in Nambiar’s official career:

A Direct Route to the Heart

Bhagavan also guided Nambiar whenever doubts arose in his spiritual practice.

At one time Nambiar became uncertain about the proper locus to meditate upon. Ashram publications spoke of the Heart on the right side of the chest, but books on yoga described concentration on such centres as the muladhara, the tip of the nose or the point between the eyebrows. He had also read of Ramakrishna’s guru, Totapuri Maharaj directing Sri Ramakrishna’s attention to the space between the eyebrows. One day, finding Bhagavan alone in the Hall, Nambiar put his doubt before him:

Bhagavan’s Solicitude

For nearly twenty years Nambiar had suffered from a persistent patch of eczema on his ankle. One day Nambiar’s sister mentioned it to Bhagavan. He simply said, “It will go by itself.” After some time it disappeared.

On another occasion Chinnaswami had kept Nambiar occupied with Ashram work all morning, leaving him almost no opportunity to sit with Bhagavan. After lunch the hall was closed while Bhagavan rested, so Nambiar sat outside on the steps and meditated:

Bhagavan’s Illness

Towards the end of 1948, a small growth appeared behind Bhagavan’s left elbow. It was removed on 9th February 1949, but soon returned. In March, shortly after the Mahakumbhabhishekam of the Matrubhutesvara Temple, a second operation was performed. The growth was diagnosed as sarcoma.

The temple consecration took place from 14th-17th March. On the final day Bhagavan, already physically weak, wished to witness the abhishekam of the temple tower. Nambiar had the privilege of helping him rise from the couch and walk into the garden. With his arm around Bhagavan’s waist, he supported Bhagavan until he was seated in a manner suitable for viewing the ceremony.

That evening elaborate worship of the newly installed Meru Chakra continued beyond the expected hour. The temporary dining hall was already packed with devotees waiting for Bhagavan before the meal could begin. Chinnaswami asked Nambiar to persuade Bhagavan to leave the ritual and go for dinner, which, of course, Bhagavan declined.

As 1949 progressed, Bhagavan’s condition worsened. A third operation was performed in August. Although the wound initially healed, the growth soon returned higher on the arm.

One day, while Nambiar was engaged in work elsewhere in the Ashram, Bhagavan’s bandage was being changed. When the malignant growth was exposed, Bhagavan said, “Let Nambiar come and see it.” Nambiar hurried to the hall:

Let All This Subside

During the final stage of Bhagavan’s illness, Nambiar once mentioned to him a prediction in the Bhrigu Nadi suggesting that he might prolong his life through yogic powers. Nambiar’s sister, Madhavi Amma had likewise written asking Bhagavan to cure himself for the sake of his devotees.

Bhagavan smiled. He remembered the reading and said he would like to see it again. Beyond that, he remained silent.

On 12th April 1950, two days before Bhagavan’s Mahasamadhi, Nambiar was at the Ashram. He had built a new house in Gandhinagar, Madras, and the house-entering ceremony was fixed for the following day, Tamil New Year. He wished to receive Bhagavan’s blessings before returning.

That day Bhagavan declined his usual medicine. Sri Niranjanananda Swami asked Nambiar to see whether he could persuade Bhagavan to take it.

Bhagavan lay reclining with his eyes half closed, occasionally troubled by hiccups. Nambiar raised the cup to his lips. Bhagavan made an effort to open his mouth, and some of the medicine flowed down the side of his face.

In a faint voice Bhagavan said in Malayalam:

Etellam adangatte—“Let all this subside.”

Those were the last words Bhagavan spoke to Nambiar. Nambiar never made out whether Bhagavan meant simply, “Let these hiccups subside,” or whether the words carried a deeper meaning: let all this—the body, the breath, the pranas themselves—come to rest.

Nambiar returned to Madras that afternoon.

Mahasamadhi

On 13th April, a letter arrived from Sri Niranjanananda Swami conveying Bhagavan’s blessings for Nambiar’s house-entering ceremony.

The following evening, 14th April, Nambiar and his wife hung a large photograph of Bhagavan seated in padmasana in the drawing room of their new home. At about 8.45 that night, after dinner, they were standing in the courtyard with their children.

Nambiar’s younger son suddenly pointed towards the sky: “Papa, look! What is that? A big star?”

They saw an extraordinarily bright object moving across the heavens. It travelled too slowly to be a shooting star and too rapidly to be an aircraft.

Nambiar’s intuition was to attribute it to Bhagavan.

“It is Bhagavan passing away,” he exclaimed, and began reciting one of the Sanskrit verses he had recorded for Bhagavan years earlier in Chicago. They watched the luminous object move across the sky until it disappeared towards the eastern horizon. The time was approximately 8.47 pm.

Nambiar told his wife that he should leave immediately for Tiruvannamalai. Soon afterwards a telephone message confirmed that Bhagavan had passed away. Nambiar packed some clothes and set out around midnight, driving through the night. He reached the Ashram in the early morning.

The Site of the Samadhi

At the Ashram gate Nambiar was met by Sri Thoppiah Mudaliar. Mudaliar told him that they had been waiting for his arrival because a dispute had arisen concerning the exact location of Bhagavan’s Samadhi.

Years earlier, while the Matrubhutesvara Shrine and adjoining hall were under construction, the working assumption had been that Bhagavan’s eventual samadhi would be placed beside the Mother’s Shrine, so that devotees could worship both at once. Nambiar had even made certain structural provisions for such an arrangement.

But something had happened shortly before Bhagavan’s passing which had disturbed his confidence in that plan.

On 2nd April 1950, Nambiar had a vivid dream:

But on the night of Bhagavan’s Mahasamadhi, townspeople and devotees strongly objected to placing Bhagavan’s shrine in a subsidiary position beside the Mother’s Temple. Bhagavan, they insisted, must have a shrine and hall at least equal in dignity and dimensions to that of the Mother.

The place they demanded was precisely the place indicated in Nambiar’s dream. After considerable argument, Chinnaswami finally yielded.

When Nambiar arrived the following morning, excavation had already begun. He checked the dimensions carefully and shifted the centre slightly northward so that the new shrine could have the same interior width as the Matrubhutesvara Shrine. Space permitted nothing larger.

Throughout the day Nambiar remained occupied with preparations for the interment. A central pit was prepared, together with the substances traditionally placed within a samadhi. Amid continuous chanting, Bhagavan’s body, seated in padmasana, was lowered into the place that had been prepared.

The rectangle Bhagavan had traced with his walking stick in Nambiar’s dream had become his earthly resting place.

Bhagavan’s Continuing Presence

Nambiar’s association with Ramanasramam did not end with Bhagavan’s physical departure. On the contrary, his participation in its affairs continued without interruption.

For Nambiar, Bhagavan’s physical absence never constituted a real separation. The same presence that seemed to guide him during his years abroad, that watched over his professional and family life, corrected his spiritual doubts, accepted his service and drew him again and again to Tiruvannamalai, did not disappear on 14th April 1950.

Bhagavan continued to make his presence felt—in dreams, intuitions, unexpected guidance and innumerable incidents that Nambiar felt could not easily be explained in ordinary terms.

Looking back, the outward events of those years seemed almost secondary: journeys across continents, engineering work, temple construction, photographs and films, illnesses and medical treatments. What gave them meaning was the unseen thread running through them all—the conviction, repeatedly confirmed in Nambiar’s experience, that Bhagavan’s grace was quietly arranging circumstances and drawing devotees inward.

Even while Bhagavan lived in the body, his teaching had always pointed beyond the body. Bhagavan’s illness made this especially clear. While those around him struggled desperately to save his physical form, he remained the detached witness, allowing events to proceed without identifying himself with the suffering body.

His final words to Nambiar—“Let all this subside”—therefore remained deeply significant to him. Whether Bhagavan referred merely to his hiccups or to the final subsiding of bodily life, the words seemed in retrospect to express his entire teaching: that all movements ultimately return to the stillness from which they arise.

The body disappeared, but the Guru, the Self, did not. —

(series concluded)

[Editor’s note: This series is taken from the Sri Ramanasramam publication of Nambiar’s account of his life with Bhagavan, entitled, The Guiding Presence of Sri Ramana.]

In the first segment we saw how vichara need not remain confined to formal meditation. Bhagavan’s own decisive enquiry arose spontaneously in response to the fear of death, suggesting that life itself can become the field of enquiry. It is worth noting that Bhagavan had only a few years earlier lost his father, suffered the uprooting of the family, and relocated to Madurai. Bhagavan never commented on whether these were factors in the spontaneous vichara that arose in him in the upper room at Madurai in July 1896, but in general, the death of a parent may profoundly affect a young person. We recall how Ramakrishna once said that the loss of his father at an early age drove him toward God.

The contrasts and disruptions of earthly life can force a deeper questioning, especially when they occur early on. Even ordinary reactions—fear, disappointment, praise, blame, loneliness and frustration—reveal how we repeatedly construct and defend identity in order to gain stability. Portable vichara helps us examine moods, habits, impulses and assumptions, so that we can look beneath the adaptive response rather than seek fulfilment outwardly.

Enquiry turns attention toward the Heart and ultimately toward the one to whom reactions arise. Vichara’s purpose is therefore to weaken identification and reveal that the apparently continuous ego is only a succession of changing mental states.

Feeling States

Portable vichara begins in recognising a feeling: “This is fear.” “This is anger.” “This is yearning.” The purpose is not labelling for its own sake, but distinguishing a passing condition from identity. Fear is present, but fear is not the Self. The difficulty lies in confusing a mental event with an entity called “me.” Bhagavan says:

Attention Matters

Whatever we repeatedly attend to gathers strength. Rehearsing an insult strengthens resentment; replaying humiliation reinforces shame; imagining a feared future intensifies anxiety. A useful micro-vichara question might be: If I respond this way, what will increase?

We become interested in the contents of thought only insofar as they reveal conditioning and weaken the assumption that thought is “me.” Bhagavan gives the essential admonition:

Suppose someone criticises us. Pain may arise, followed perhaps by anger and mental agitation. Vichara does not require us to deny that the other person behaved badly. Instead, it asks us to discover the point at which pain becomes identity, i.e. the one who has been mistreated. Bhagavan asks:

Which part belongs to the actual event, and which part is added by memory, imagination, resistance and self-defence? We need not immediately call it “my pain.” Pain can be present without becoming an ego.

Changing the Story

The quality of our questions matters. Ignorance often speaks through unskilful enquiries such as, “Why am I always like this?” Such questions transform a passing condition into an identity, as though it were permanent.

Micro-vichara observes thoughts and feelings as conditioned states. Instead of “my anxiety,” we recognise anxiety; instead of “my anger,” anger is present. Even small adjustments in language and our internal conversation can weaken the reflex by which every experience becomes part of the story of “me.”

There is also a distinction between awareness and the direction given to awareness. We may know perfectly well that anger is present while continuing to rehearse every reason why we are justified in being angry. In this instance, awareness alone cannot free us. Micro-vichara asks: What follows if I continue attending in this way?

Attachment can be explored similarly. Praise may bring pleasure and validation, but dependence upon praise makes us hostage to other people’s opinions. The problem is not praise itself, but forming an identity around it.

Bare attention is not always sufficient. If anger has become intense, we may need to redirect attention, e.g. recalling the good qualities of the person involved, remembering those who have shown us kindness, or recollecting the blessing of Bhagavan’s grace. This need not be a departure from enquiry if it can help to loosen the mental condition preventing clear seeing.

Becoming Somebody

Portable vichara applies not only to momentary emotions but also to broader identities and assumptions. The egoic project is often driven by the feeling that we must become somebody—wiser, purer, more accomplished, admired, spiritual, or knowledgeable.

Even wholesome aspirations can be appropriated by ego. In spiritual life we may construct an image of who we imagine we ought to be and spend decades trying to become that person. Bhagavan repeatedly warns against assuming that perfection consists in adding something new to ourselves. Rather, freedom lies in removing what is extraneous. He says:

Spiritual knowledge is not exempt. We can become attached to philosophical positions, insights, interpretations and knowledge of the path. Knowledge that becomes “what I know” and therefore “who I am” can reinforce precisely the structure enquiry is designed to dissolve.

As mentioned above, Bhagavan tells us that whatever is gained afresh in time will eventually be lost in time. True knowledge is not acquired but uncovered through the removal of ignorance. In Ulladu Narpadu, Bhagavan says:

And again:

The purpose of vichara is therefore not to build a more sophisticated ego but to loosen the strands that give ego apparent solidity. Desires, fears, memories, self-images and narratives seem to temporarily complete what feels incomplete. Because they cannot provide lasting fulfilment, the egoic project must begin again and again.

Inner and outer life are not separate in this respect. What remains unexamined within inevitably shapes our speech, actions and relationships. Enquiry gradually brings greater congruence between what we understand inwardly and how we live from day to day.

Human beings appear to possess innate capacities for relationship and belonging. Social forces are powerful, so much so that when we act in ways that challenge the harmony of the collective, the disturbance often registers inwardly as unease, regret or remorse. Portable vichara helps restore equilibrium, within and without.⁷

Lost

Non-vichara shows up in great stories from the past which often turn upon a violation of expectation. The world’s children’s stories often focus on a crisis, for example, a child getting lost in the woods and experiencing intense fear, confusion, and bewilderment. Of course, such disorientation greets the grown-up as well, forcing the question: Where am I, and what can truly be relied upon?

David Wagoner’s poem “Lost” gives a simple instruction for those moments when we are discombobulated, unable to find our way through the forest of life:

The terror of being lost arises from not knowing and not seeing. Yet the poem reverses the perspective: the forest is not lost; the disorientation lies within. If we are continually trying to escape from here, then we are truly lost. When we encounter a here that is unfamiliar or painful and respond by fleeing from it, we set ourselves up for a lifetime of running.

Here is where we meet the Heart amid the apparent imperfections of experience. This is the place where vichara can teach us how to override the impulse to avoid, resist or escape present conditions. Portable vichara reminds us that here is where the work is to be done, where all will be decided.

And yet, even if we find ourselves running, each moment offers the opportunity to stand still—to observe and register our discomfort without immediately reacting to it, to renew our commitment to the work of knowing ourselves. In this sense, Bhagavan’s silence is equivalent to standing still.

Standing still exposes the mechanisms of identification and turns attention towards that which is neither born nor dies. Things are as they are, and inward order begins when we cease demanding that reality conform to our preferences. If we blame our surroundings or fail to appreciate that the forest knows where we are, we are likely to find ourselves exiled from the spiritual Heart. Stated briefly, everywhere is our home and being “lost” is only a passing mental state born of the inner estrangement. The poet continues:

In other words, nothing is alien to Raven and Wren, nor is anything grasped as the familiar place called home. Raven and Wren are not merely at home—they embody home, the belonging we previously imagined could only be found outside ourselves. The poet concludes:

Clinging to Home

There’s another children’s story about home as the place of safety. Three little pigs build three houses—one of straw, one of wood and one of brick. When the hungry wolf comes to the house of straw and cries, “Little pig, let me in!”, the little pig refuses. The wolf huffs and puffs and blows the house down. He then goes to the house made of wood. When the little pig refuses to let him in, he huffs and puffs and blows the house down. The frightened pigs flee to their brother’s brick house but when the wolf huffs and puffs with all his might, the house does not come down. At last, defeated, the wolf gives up and goes away.

At one level, this story is a parable about establishing a secure place of safety in life, a refuge from danger. Viewed through the lens of Bhagavan’s vichara, however, it could be read as a parable of egoic security: taking refuge in walls behind which the separate “me” finds protection from the threatening gaze of the world. Home becomes a sanctuary from everything outside us, a place that can be called “mine”. In truth, home is not a place, just as rest is not mere sleep. Rest is contentment in the Heart—an inward ease independent of circumstances. Home is the capacity to be at ease wherever we find ourselves.

The sense of being lost arises from the tenuous nature of identification with a separate self. Once we perceive ourselves as separate from the world, we experience the world as something other than ourselves and therefore threatening. Wagoner’s poem points us in another direction: “Wherever you are is called here”, in other words, wherever you find yourself is home.

“No two trees are the same to Raven. /No two branches are the same to Wren.” Raven and Wren do not divide experience into familiar and strange, self and other, home and alien. Each tree and branch is simply encountered as it is, without reference to a private story related to belonging or estrangement.

“If what a tree or a bush does is lost on you, / You are surely lost.” If we inwardly banish any part of experience—whether within ourselves or in the world—we become divided against ourselves, fragmented and ill at ease, inhabiting a way of looking that makes every here appear insufficient.

The desire for home is in part related to the ego’s need for secrecy, born of the fear about what others might think if they could see us and know us fully. Raven and Wren have no such fear, no self-image to curate, conceal or protect, no psychological fortress to defend.

In the Dark Wood

Children’s stories about being lost always contain an element of darkness. Darkness highlights not merely losing one’s bearings but losing touch with oneself. Dante famously begins his journey:

Again, the clue here is that home does not lie somewhere outside us even if this is where we spend all our time and energy. Bhagavan reminds us what our task is and how it can be accomplished:

The way out of the dark wood is knowing ourselves directly. To acquire something of the freedom of Raven and Wren, we range the forest of life without imagining that a home must be secured elsewhere. Non-vichara is the root of our dislocation; portable vichara is the means of finding our way again—not by solving a geographical problem, but by correcting a deeper confusion within.

Vichara frees us from endless preoccupation with externals and directs attention towards something more subtle. If being lost is born of inattention, traditions down through the ages have offered hints. The Buddha taught, appamaado amatapadam—“heedfulness is the path to the Deathless.”¹² The Christian tradition always called the disciple to wakefulness: “keep watch with lamps alight,”¹³ awaiting the bridegroom.

Ramana vichara is likewise focused on the orientation of vigilance. Its eye is centred on wakefulness and wise attention as a means of releasing us from the illusion that here is alien.

The Twenty-First-Century Labyrinth

In the contemporary era, we find ourselves wandering through a dark wood. Earlier generations inherited relatively stable cultural and spiritual reference points. Whether or not those structures were adequate, they nevertheless provided frameworks wherein questions of meaning, authority and depth could be approached.

The 21st century is more fragmented. Competing voices, interpretations and technologies constantly solicit our attention. Within the Ramana tradition there is an additional difficulty: Bhagavan left no successor, nor has any authoritative voice of interpretation emerged. The devotees who spent long decades in the Master’s presence are all but gone now. Worse still, those of little dust, i.e. those free of dehatmabuddhi, are hard to come by. Vichara and surrender therefore remain our sole points of reference.

This places a particular responsibility upon the seeker. How do we know whether we have understood the teaching correctly or are following the path wisely? Ultimately, the teaching directs us back to enquiry. Rather than relying upon external authority, we test our assumptions in the light of sustained attention, humility and inward honesty, and share openly with one another what we find, checking each other to see where we fall short.

Conclusion

Vichara can be a portable spiritual practice. Formal meditation establishes an orientation that can gradually accompany us into ordinary activity. The 17th-century French Carmelite monk Brother Lawrence taught that even the most commonplace tasks can become occasions for “practising the presence of God.” Portable vichara carries something of the same spirit.

Daily life becomes the field of practice, and attention becomes the doorway to transformation.

If we preserve something of the silence discovered on the meditation cushion, portable vichara gradually becomes a form of prayer and the cultivation of living intelligence. An alert spiritual presence, we become aware how attention is being used: what identity is being constructed, what desire demands fulfilment, what fear seeks protection, and what narrative is being mistaken for reality.

Vichara’s effects are cumulative. Each moment of clear seeing weakens the reflex of identification. Over time, our lucidity becomes more continuous. When enquiry is accompanied by courage, patience and non-judgement, conditioned patterns can be seen without self-condemnation. Here narcissistic delusion gradually loses its hold. Vichara then becomes less a technique than a way of life, meeting every here with sustained inward attention and repeatedly returning to the fundamental question, “To whom does this arise?”

Again and again, enquiry turns us away from the content of the egoic story and towards the one who appears to be living it. In scrutinising that one, the presumed entity becomes increasingly difficult to locate. What we find instead are just the stories, names, memories, sensations, ideas and passing forms, all resting on something greater that lies deeper within.

As the process becomes natural, daily life itself becomes the field of enquiry. Every reaction, attachment, disappointment, or dark wood points us back towards the source. What once reinforced the sense of a separate self becomes the means for seeing through it.

These are the first steps in developing a portable vichara practice. —

(to be continued)