[Andavan Pichai was a remarkable 20th century saint and composer, a housewife from Chennai, whose spiritual experiences were profoundly deepened following a vision of Bhagavan Ramana Maharshi. This vision became her initiation into the Gayatri mantra and imparted to her the knowledge of Vedanta, elevating her to the state of realization, where she experienced the unity of the jiva and Brahman. Although her devotion to Lord Muruga since girlhood remained unwavering, she embraced the path of knowledge under the guidance of Bhagavan Ramana while her heart continued singing the praises of Lord Muruga.

For Ramana devotees, there was no conflict in this dual devotion, as they considered their guru an incarnation of Lord Muruga or Lord Subramanya. Many reported visions of Sri Ramana as Lord Muruga and readily surrendered their lives to him. Others had dreams wherein Lord Subramanya appeared and directed them to seek out Bhagavan. Even Bhagavan himself reported dreaming of Lord Subramanya—particularly the deities of Pazhani and Tiruchendur temples. Andavan Pichai's life, as we shall see, was a testament to the harmony between bhakti and jnana, complementary paths leading to the same goal.]

On 6th September 1899, the home of Venkatasubbiar was filled with joy. An emerald idol of Devi Maragatham, gifted by the Venkatagiri Raja as legal fees to Venkatasubbiar, was being installed in the family's puja room. Venkatasubbiar and his younger brother, T. Sankaranarayana Sastri, lived together. Around 8 pm, as the installation ceremony was concluding, news arrived that Sitalakshmi, Sankaranarayana's wife, had given birth to a baby girl at her father's house in Mylapore. Venkatasubbiar was delighted and declared that Mahadevi had been born into their family. However, Tiruvottiyur Swami, who was present at the ceremony, lamented that the child was a girl, interpreting it as a sign she was destined for sannyas. Nonetheless, the family named her Maragathavalli, believing her birth at such an auspicious time was a blessing and that her life would be touched by divine grace. But little did they know that the child would grow into a spiritual figure revered by the great saints of the time.

Maragathavalli was Sitalakshmi's second child. Her first was a boy named Srinivasan, born in 1897. In March 1901, eighteen months after Maragathavalli's birth, Sitalakshmi gave birth to another son, Subramanyam. Tragically, Sitalakshmi passed away a year later when Maragathavalli was only three years old. The girl's father, Sankaranarayana remarried but remained ever absorbed in his studies and spiritual practices, neglecting his new wife and the orphaned children. Sankaranarayana's brother, Venkatasubbiar, however, loved the motherless children as his own, doting on Maragatham perhaps even more than on his own daughter. Nevertheless, their aunt resented the orphans and ill-treated them. Maragatham and her two siblings remember being scared and dejected during this period and regularly would console each other, saying, "Be quiet. We have no mother to protect us."

Maragatham's father engaged a private tutor to educate her, but she showed little interest in formal education, preferring instead to retreat into her inner world of devotion. Suffering from a speech impediment that caused her to speak with a lisp, Maragathavalli was quiet and shy. Steadfastly avoiding her studies, her father nicknamed her Nirakshara Kukshi, meaning "one who knows not even a single syllable."¹

The family had a rich social, cultural, and spiritual background, with its members well-versed in Sanskrit, English, and Tamil. The two brothers were prominent lawyers, with Sankaranarayana specializing in civil cases and Venkatasubbiar in criminal law. Sankaranarayana was a talented artist, creating large paintings of deities like Nataraja, Rajarajeswari, and Gayatri. A scholar in Sanskrit, having studied under Pundit Bhatta Sri Narayana Sastri, he spent most of his time in his extensive library, immersed in study and meditation. Venkatasubbiar, on the other hand, was a devoted bhakta and musician, often performing Harikatha Kalakshepam on festival days. He was generous and supported many students financially, ensuring they were well-educated.

Maragatham's grandfather, Tandalam Ramakrishna Sastri, was a Vedic scholar and recipient of the title of Veda Nipuna. He had initially intended to remain unmarried, but his guru persuaded him to marry his daughter, Sundari. Despite the significant age difference between them, they were happy and well-off, with properties along the Palar River.²

One day, during a flood, Ramakrishna discovered a palmyra box floating down the river. Inside, he found idols of Lord Venkatesvara, Sridevi, Bhudevi, and several Saligrams. He considered these as divine gifts and began worshiping them, a practice that continues even now.

From her early years, Maragatham exhibited a natural inclination towards religious matters and little interest in worldly matters. However, when she was still a child, a relative on her mother's side named Guruswamy, promised Maragatham's grandfather that he would marry her to his own son, Narasimhan. Although Narasimhan was reluctant, he agreed due to his father's promise, and they were married in April 1908 when Maragatham was not yet nine years old. While child brides often remained with their parents until puberty, Maragatham immediately joined her husband's household. Despite her timidity, Maragatham dutifully fulfilled her role as a daughter-in-law. On the wedding day, her father adorned her from head to feet with jewellery and gave her advice on how to conduct herself in her new home. She was also given a dowry of two bungalows.³

First Vision
Six months later during the Navaratri celebrations of 1908, Maragatham was taken to her father's house, where her grandmother, a great devotee of Tiruttani Muruga, also lived. Throughout her childhood Maragatham had listened to her grandmother's tales of the greatness concerning Lord Muruga. One day, while lying beside her grandmother, Maragatham had a vision of the Lord as a twelve-year-old boy, who approached her slowly, playing with His peacock. He took her hand lovingly, assured her of His affection, and initiated her into the Shadakshari Mantra⁴, writing 'OM' on her tongue with His Vel (spear, Lord Muruga's signature weapon). He vanished, promising to meet her again, leaving her with an overwhelming sense of His presence in her heart.

When Maragatham recounted the experience to her grandmother, she was instructed to keep it a secret from her in-laws. However, her grandmother was delighted to see her speak and sing so fluently, a great contrast to the young girl who previously struggled to speak at all. Her grandmother then sent her to her father, who was surprised and overjoyed to hear his daughter speak free of any speech impediment. Her biographer describes the moment:

Sankaranarayana Sastri was in his library, deeply absorbed in his studies, when his attention was diverted by the unusual occurrence of someone entering the room, for nobody disturbed him when he was working. Looking up, he saw his daughter Maragatham standing by his side, looking uncharacteristically serious. Sastri was puzzled and asked her what the matter was. Maragatham replied not in words but with a song. The strangeness of her behaviour was overridden by the profound meaning of the song she had sung. The scholarly Sastri understood the eternal truth implicit in the lyrics of the song, the truth sought by spiritual seekers and saints. When her song ended Sastri said to his daughter, "Brilliantly composed and beautifully rendered. Tell me, when and where did you learn this song?" She told him, "It was that payyan ('boy') whom they all worshipped as Lord Muruga. He appeared in my dream last night and graced me. The song came into my mind on its own," she replied simply.⁵

The first line of the song Maragatham sang to her father was:
In the beginning, there was only one. It became two and then three and then many.
Her father understood the meaning. 'One' represented the eternal reality, Brahman; 'two' represented Siva and Vishnu; 'three', the addition of Brahma, the creator; and 'many' symbolised the different forms of God.

With her lisp now gone, Maragatham's speech became poetry, and she was recognised for her eloquence as a poet-saint. Her father asked her to compose and sing songs, which she did spontaneously, impressing the family with profound and beautiful compositions. She was nicknamed Valli, after Lord Muruga's consort, and her devotion to Lord Muruga deepened with each passing day. She began composing songs in His praise, which flowed effortlessly from her heart. One of her earliest compositions reflected her deep yearning for Muruga, whom she likened to a precious pearl found in the ocean of wisdom. She sang of her fear that the five senses, the illusions of life, or the destructive ego might take this pearl away from her. She implored Muruga to guard the pearl and keep it locked within her heart. In her own words:

I was not even nine years old then and could not even speak clearly. But once Muruga took me into His fold with abundant love, He saw to it that songs came out every day to be offered unto Him.

On some occasions, the garland of songs would be colourful and long. He had entered my heart long before this body was given in marriage. The heart was ever with my Lord secretly enjoying His blissful presence. Once the Lord entered the secret chamber of my heart, there was no room there for anything else, like father, mother, husband, family, relations, name and fame, joy and sorrow, love and hatred, anger and greed and jealousy. This experience of mine found expression in a song.⁶

Family Life
Maragatham's family life was not easy. Despite being married into a large, wealthy family, she bore many burdens. When at the age of thirteen, her first child was stillborn, the doctor predicted she would never have children again. There were calls for Narasimhan to take a second wife, but he refused, saying, "Children or no children, I will never marry a second time."

By God's grace, five years later in 1917, Maragatham's first son Guruswamy was born. Her father adored the child. When Guruswamy was ten months old, Maragatham's father fell seriously ill, and asked for his grandson to be brought to him. So, Maragatham took the child to her father, not realising the seriousness of his condition. He asked her to stay with him overnight:

Early the next day, he leaned against the pillow on his bed, from where he could see the first rays of the rising sun streaming in through the window. He gazed at the sun for a while and then explained to Amma that the sun, who got his light from the source behind him, namely Lord Narayana, could be seen even with the naked eye, if one was in union with the Supreme, the Light of lights. He repeated the Gayatri, extolling Lord Narayana enthroned in the sun and asked her to repeat the same. He smiled, and with open eyes and looking straight at the sun, left his mortal coil.

More children followed: Shankar in 1919, Kalpagam in 1921, Ganapathy in 1923, and Seshagiri in 1924. In 1924, after giving birth to Seshagiri, Maragatham fell seriously ill. Despite her weakened state, she had a vision of Bala Muruga on the night of Skanda Shashti. In the vision, she embraced a beautiful child who identified himself as "Mal-Marugan," the nephew of Lord Vishnu. This vision inspired her to compose over six hundred songs in praise of Muruga. However, her mother-in-law, concerned that the songs about "Aandi" (the manifestation of Lord Muruga as a beggar) would bring poverty to the family, forced her to take an oath not to sing or write about Muruga. Although Maragatham obeyed, she continued to feel Muruga's presence in her heart. ⁷ —

(to be continued)

In the previous issue of Saranagati, we completed a four-part series on simplicity and self-emptying. However, certain key aspects deserve further elaboration. This postscript aims to revisit and deepen our understanding of the reflections shared earlier, emphasizing the ultimate goal: embodying Bhagavan's simplicity—a heart and mind free from the agitations of vasanas, samskaras, and other afflictions

Bhagavan's teaching and the example of his daily life illustrate that perfection is not about acquiring more but about stripping away the unnecessary and healing the heart and mind from their afflictions. This process is internal and has nothing to do with external accumulation. The allure of acquiring more—whether material possessions or intellectual knowledge— rests on the flawed assumption that 'more is better.' Spiritual freedom demands letting go, particularly of unresolved internal issues.

In today's world, addressing what we metaphorically call the 'black bag' is more challenging than ever. But what exactly is this black bag?

It can be thought of as the blind spot of the psyche, a hidden force that influences our hearts and minds without our conscious awareness. Despite its hidden nature, its impact should not be underestimated. It stands as an obstacle on the path because it enfolds the Self, yet remains unseen. Why is it unseen? Because its sources—early life wounds or samskaras from a time before birth—are not conscious. This is how we manage to deny its presence; yet it is the proverbial elephant in the room, an amalgamation of samskaras with the grammatical 'I' as its moderator.

As the saying goes, a house divided against itself cannot stand.¹ The black bag symbolizes our separation from the Heart, ever grasping for an independent status and calling itself 'I'. This division is an obstacle on the path to the Self, and penetrating the small self 's defences is essential for personal growth. As long as it remains unchallenged, true integration of the psyche is impossible. The black bag projects its distortions onto the world, leading to false perceptions, anxiety, and low self-esteem. The small self exerts a powerful influence, imagining through magical thinking that it does not need the help of the Self within but can function independently.

Discriminating the True from the False
Bhagavan's inquiry helps us discriminate the true from the false, distinguishing the samskaras of the black bag from the wisdom of the Heart trapped within. Samskaras and vasanas are the result of past wounds. The pain of the black bag may drive us to the path, but we often mistakenly search outwardly, hoping to escape the very thing we need to confront. Bhagavan warns against this outward search, emphasizing that it leads to lives of futility and frustration. The Katha Upanishad echoes this sentiment when it refers to the Divine as having placed Itself at the centre of our being, and directed the six sense doors outwards, almost dooming us to search in all the wrong places:

The Self is difficult to see, hidden in the secret place of the heart, residing in the deep cave of the intellect, ancient. By knowing it through meditation and the practice of self-discipline, the wise person overcomes both joy and sorrow.²

The Greek tragedian of antiquity, Aeschylus, was aware of the dynamic of the black bag. He wrote, "The Lord would have us suffer into Truth."³ Bhagavan reflected this idea when he told Swami Yogananda that suffering is the way to Realisation.⁴ What does it mean? Suffering can lead to perfect wisdom if we are willing to sift through the samskaras that envelop the Self, a process that inevitably involves discomfort.

The Call to Inwardness
Samskaras adhere to the heart because they are wounds of the heart. The fairy tale about the princess kissing the frog signifies becoming intimate with the ugly to recover our wounded innocence and gain freedom. In contrast, when we push unpleasantness into the black bag, we deceive ourselves into thinking we have discarded evil and darkness—thrown them away. But where is this 'away' to which we imagine these things disappear? It can only be in the recesses of the heart. This child-like impulse to make unpleasant things go away is the root mechanism of the black bag.

As we saw in the last two segments, the black bag contains early life wounds that, if ignored, can distort our perception of the world. Fear, anxiety, stress, and anger may arise in response to benign circumstances as the wounded psyche projects its unresolved issues onto the world outside. This can preclude higher brain functions like compassion, forgiveness, and empathy. For example, infant neglect can disrupt the development of reward centres in the brain, leading to long-term changes in how the body processes stress and reward, resulting in hypervigilance⁵ and a predisposition to anxiety. Such samskaras may impair the brain's ability to regulate mood,⁶ predisposing us to depression and too, compulsive behaviours as we need more stimulation to gain a sense of ease and well-being. These impairments are healable if recognized, though they may require sustained interventions, including regular meditation practice. Modern brain science notes the brain's remarkable ability to rewire itself. ⁷ Regular inquiry, practiced in a supportive setting, can assist in healing samskaras and reducing their influence on us.

Healing Unwholesome Mental States
Bhagavan's inquiry is about not letting anything remain hidden from awareness. It helps us see through the aversion that resides in the black bag. When aversive states arise, they are often misattributed to external causes, but inquiry reveals their true origin, namely, mental states born of samskaric imprinting. When aggravations leak out and are projected onto the world, ignorance appears yet again, imagining that others need reforming when it is our heart that needs attention. Clarity here means decoupling the link between unhappy mental states and some object in the world they are being associated with. These could be sounds, sights, mental images or the faces of people we know.

Self-emptying as inquiry involves applying awareness to demystify the mechanisms of externalization. Seeing through the made-up self means recognizing it as just another projection of the black bag. Looking outside for someone to blame our suffering on is part of the root ignorance that sustains the small self. Bhagavan teaches us that our problems can only be resolved within.

The black bag has a replicating power, generating fresh samskaras through unhealthy mental states. This complicates the karmic picture as we are responsible for the contents of our mind and heart moment by moment. An old text reads: nothing that enters one from outside can defile us; but the things that come out from within are what defile us.⁸ We increase karmic liabilities by continually pushing down samskaras of the black bag. When negative mental states arise, it is our responsibility to identify them and bring awareness to them. Unhealed samskaras demand a mature response—bringing the light of neutral awareness to them through inquiry. A 20th-century sage aptly said, if you kill out of anger, your enemies will be never-ending; if you kill your anger, all your enemies are killed once for all.⁹

The more we deny the black bag, the more destructive it becomes. Attributing our unwanted traits to others is called scapegoating. This is where we blame a person or group of persons for the problems we suffer. Externalizing internal conflicts, fears, and frustrations prevents any true resolution of them and perpetuates the cycle of suffering and conflict. Those who habitually engage in scapegoating are characterized by the saying, instead of clearing his own heart, the zealot tries to clear the world.¹⁰ Nietzsche commented on this same black bag dynamic: Beware that in your zeal to rid the world of monsters, you don't become a monster yourself.

The Black Bag in the Digital Era
One aspect overlooked in the first four parts is the interface between the neglected black bag and the algorithm-driven digital world, where AI-monitored device use magnifies the vulnerabilities of a wounded heart. Algorithms—AI's instructions for directing online media searches, among other things—are designed to exploit psychological weaknesses. They present us with content that intensifies the stress of the black bag. Algorithms leverage our cognitive biases, emotions, and behavioural patterns to keep us engaged, often leading us into echo chambers that reinforce our views and exacerbate our wounds. AI analyses our preferences and interactions to tailor content that resonates with and reinforces our views, keeping us engaged. Targeted content can trigger emotional responses that make us more likely to click, share, and spend more time online.

For those with a congested black bag, the high-speed digital marketing of click-rate and views can be particularly problematic. Algorithms can foster extreme views by continuously recommending content based on past interactions, where increasingly extreme material is suggested. Isolation from balanced perspectives fuels the black bag's scapegoating mechanism, making it difficult to discern between authentic and sensationalized information.

The Crisis of Consistency
The agitations of the black bag often manifest as unexplained emotional turmoil. When we experience strong emotions without a clear cause, we may fear some deep flaw within us. To maintain appearances, we say the right thing but feel completely differently. The inconsistency causes inner conflict. Privately, we lament our perceived hypocrisy, imagining it to be intrinsic.

Integrating the disparate aspects of the black bag is crucial for achieving balance. This involves identifying and accepting the samskaras within, leading to greater self-awareness and inner strength. Assimilation allows for a more complete self, resulting in a deeper understanding and more harmonious life. We heal the black bag by being present to internal conditions, neither pampering ourselves nor being overly harsh in our inward search. Silence is not merely the absence of speech, nor is simplicity merely the wearing of a kaupina. Bhagavan's Silence and simplicity arise from a Heart fully known, seen, empty, and clean.

Acceptance
Paradoxically, when we accept ourselves just as we are, we are enabled to change.¹¹ When we accept our unwholesomeness, seeing and knowing it as it is, without rejecting or judging it, it becomes manageable. In contrast, features of the heart and mind we push away are magnified. Our task is to make peace with the darkness within.

A Tibetan monk once shared that in Tibet, it was a tradition to ceremonially appease the fiercest and most evil of demons in an annual ritual. When this practice was discontinued in the late 1940s, it was only a few years later that the Chinese army invaded Tibet. The monk believed the two events were directly linked.

This story underscores the importance of confronting inner demons rather than ignoring them.

We remember how in the Devi Bhagavatam¹² the gods and demons in their quest to obtain amrita, churned the ocean of milk. As they churned, many things emerged, including the deadly poison which threatened to destroy the world. Lord Siva, in his compassion, drank the poison to save the world.

The symbols of this great story have relevance for our discussion. The ocean is the unconscious; the milk, a symbol of the mother, of earthly manifestation and earthly life; amrita is the elixir of life, namely, immortality; and the poison represents the cycle of samsara, the darkness of ignorance and death. Our hubris leads us to seek immortality, aiming to be Mahadeva Himself. In seeking higher truth, we must first confront and assimilate the poisons, namely, the samskaras that arise from the depths of the heart. Swallowing the poison means becoming one with what is most feared, namely, the defilements of the heart, in order to become One with the Supreme.
Goethe once said, where there is much light, the shadows are deepest. In trying to create a world composed purely of light, we must acknowledge the darkness that accompanies it. The darkness must go somewhere but not knowing where it has gone is the danger. The samskaras of darkness relegated to the depths of the black bag, cover the Self. Bhagavan writes:
A lamp shines, destroying darkness, with its light. So too destroying the enveloping darkness arising from inexplicable ignorance, the Self, the pure light of knowledge, shines. ¹³
Refusing to confront the darkness within, refusing to accept ourselves as we are is where our trouble begins. The Hungarian physician, Hans Selye remarked that the greatest stress and source of exhaustion in our world comes from trying to be someone other than who we are.
Ahimsa as a Spiritual Practice
The path to the Self requires a deep encounter with the heart unburdened by samskaras. If we harbour unhealthy feelings—hatred, anger, resentment—our hearts are weighed down. Non-harming or ahimsa involves clearing the heart through wholesome intentions. But how do we root out unhealthy intentions? By recognizing them and naming them nonjudgmentally. If we act harshly toward others or indulge in gossip, our meditation will be impacted. Non-harming is not just a social remedy; it is a personal, moral, and spiritual practice essential for any serious inquiry. If our minds are awash with ill-will, no meditation is possible, and Bhagavan's inquiry will ever elude us. Unwholesome actions— whether bodily, verbal or mental—generate negative samskaras, while a life lived endeavouring to cultivate good will and favourable motivations helps us grow an inquiry practice that resolves the by-products of early life and transgenerational wounding. The first step in this work is acknowledging the non-necessity of unhealthy mental states and refusing to believe everything that the thinking mind comes up with.

We take up this practice intentionally, not trying to get rid of hateful thoughts all in one go, but gradually and non-coercively, naming them when they occur. This requires great care so that the mind does not become aversive toward itself. All moments of aversion are to be noted neutrally and acknowledged without any tinge of judgment. A simple antidote to aversion is inserting a wholesome intention in its place, like, for example, wishing well someone who has been a positive force in our life.

Etty Hillesum, the Dutch Jewish writer who perished in Auschwitz, offers a profound example of ahimsa. She refused to denounce her persecutors and, before her death, said:

As long as we go on condemning others, there will be no end to the evil in this world. Instead, each of us must turn inward to root out all the rottenness there, to destroy in ourselves all that we think

we ought to destroy in others. I no longer believe that we can change anything in the world until we first change ourselves.¹⁴

When we witness violence in the world, our response should be to root out every trace of violence within our hearts. The black bag is born of concretized pain longing to escape the traumatized psyche. If we see only hatred in the world, it means we have not completed the work within. The pain is great because we ignore it, pushing it down. In extreme cases, this leads to inflicting pain on others, which may grant some momentary reprieve in a primitive form of empathy. In such instances, however, we need to learn how to be patient with and forgiving of ourselves knowing that other mammals do this too. For example, it has been observed that a rat that receives an electric shock and bites an innocent neighbouring rat in response does not manifest symptoms of stress. Studies reveal that we are hard-wired to off-load pain in order to avoid emotional stress.¹⁵ But even if scapegoating has a biological basis and brings relief in the short run, it has disadvantageous effects in the long run. Humans as collaborative beings multiply their karmic liabilities when aggressing on innocent others.

If we see the world as cruel, it is our vision clouded by the dilemma within. The world is as it is; it is our perception that is distorted. We create a world according to prior knowledge and experiences, a reflection of the samskaras within. Only when the black bag is empty can the world be seen as it is. Bhagavan tells us:

If you consider yourself the body, the world appears to be external. But when you are the Self, the world appears as Brahman.¹⁶

If our black bag continues to grow, it is likely we are blaming others for the pain it causes us. The real culprit is not our spouse, children, neighbours, local leaders or the people who live in another part of the city, no matter how strong the appearance. The true thief is the one that has taken charge of our heart and buried the Self in darkness. Bhagavan assures us:
When knowledge destroys ignorance, like the light of dawn scattering the darkness of night, the Self will rise like the sun in all its glory.¹⁷
Digital Nomads
A thousand likes and views on Facebook are not worth one quality face-to-face encounter with another genuine person. And yet, increasingly, we are unwilling to make time for face-to-face encounters. Perhaps two or three thousand likes and views will solve it? We are reminded of the beggar begging for copper coins not noticing that his hefty, tarnished begging bowl is fashioned from pure gold. We—digital nomads that we are—roam the vast reaches of cyberspace searching for what already lies hidden within us.

Conclusion
If we examine the salt doll of the Yoga Vashishta, we see how her story reflects a spirituality of subtraction, a willingness to descend into what is hidden to know it truly. Facing fears, inner conflicts, and unresolved wounds comes only by confronting the contents of the black bag. This is how we gain self-awareness and understanding leading to their mending and release. Our ascent is born from the insights gained through this descent, harmonizing the hidden with the revealed.

An old saying goes, the darkness of ten thousand years is banished by a single flame. The age-old darkness of the black bag is resolved by the light of awareness. Inquiry means shining the wisdom light of the Self on the ignorance of the ego, thus rapidly mending the samskaras that compose it. How is that possible? Aren't samskaras debts to be paid from the ancient past? How can all the sins and wrongdoings from countless births be set right merely by looking at them?

Sin confessed is sin no more,¹⁸ goes a saying. Transgressions grow by neglect and denial. The light of awareness born of Bhagavan's inquiry not only scours the darkness but also wields the power of repentance. If we inquire into darkness with the desire for it to be revealed, seen and known as it is,¹⁹ this is already repentance. Willingness to make amends for past mistakes is what allows for honest investigation in the first place. As we have seen, Bhagavan teaches us that knowledge destroys ignorance as surely as light does darkness.²⁰

Samskaras and vasanas accrue to the ego, whereas the Self shines of its own, free from karmic accretions. Freedom lies in uncovering what has been hidden for countless eons, clarifying our sight through the wisdom of the Self, which remains buried—intact and unsullied—at the heart of the black bag. We remember how Bhagavan responded when the Maharani Saheba asked if surrender could undo destiny. Bhagavan said, Oh, yes! It can.²¹ In other words, that part of destiny that most needs changing for us to progress toward the Self is alterable.

All roads lead to Arunachala, but none bypasses the black bag. If we avoid Bhagavan's vichara and surrender, avoid intensive meditation practice, avoid carefully examining our motivations, intentions and unhealthy mental states moment by moment, it is because we don't want to make the descent into the black bag. The Ramana way, however, is an interior path that leads us into the black bag, where we will encounter all that lies hidden there, including the Pearl of Great Price at its core.

Might we learn to be patient enough to stop and observe our reactivity, to cultivate sankalpas that pierce what lies hidden within, to be grateful our samskaras are healable, to hone our intentions, to align body and mind, to regulate our device use, to bring awareness to moments of indulging sense stimulation, to practice daily gratitude, and to give increased time to meditation and inquiry practice.

Desperate measures are called for in desperate times. These times of significant change across the spectrum of human experience call on us to make a supreme effort. In a world of contention that sometimes feels like it is reaching the breaking point, the organs of distraction are so powerful that we could easily carry on covering over the black bag till the end of time. But we do so at an exacting price, namely, surcharging our internal uneasiness born of samskaric accumulation.

The stakes have never been higher. We must meet the demands being made on us with firm conviction and follow Bhagavan's path like sadhakas of old who vowed to give it their all until the last breath without regard for life and limb.

It has been said that the privilege of a lifetime is to become who we truly are.²² When we become non-excitable and non-reactive, we are at peace with the world and the black bag at last becomes wieldy. Even death loses its sharp edge and the projections of separateness born of unhealed samskaras no longer menace us. The addiction to quantity, which just means excessive attention to short-term pleasures and whatever can be gained through the senses, begins to drop away. The qualitative, the bliss of being, emerges for the first time and the need to want or reject anything slowly fades away. Here we begin to emulate the wise king of the Mahabharata who, upon hearing that a foreign army had just invaded the realm, was unmoved and simply carried on with what he was doing. Half an hour later, upon hearing that the earlier report was a false alarm, the king was unmoved and simply carried on with what he was doing.²³

As we do this work, we grieve for what has been lost— the many years, and we might say, many lifetimes. We redouble our efforts, first to save ourselves, knowing that when we break the chains of blame, shame, and judgment within, the collective is transformed as well. Bhagavan tells us, the journey to Self-realization is the greatest service we can render the world.²⁴

By taking up this work, even just a little, the Ramana path becomes more familiar—something that belongs to us, something we belong to—and serves as a solemn initiation into the life of faith where we bear witness to a world searching feverishly for this treasure road to simplicity. —

(series concluded)

• 1 The Gift of God or Andavan Pichhai, Krishna Rao, Smt. Radha and Dr., Divine Life Society, Sivanandanagar, U.P., 1983, p. 2.
• 2 The Gift of God, p. 4.
• 3 The Gift of God or Andavan Pichhai, Krishna Rao, Smt. Radha and Dr., Divine Life Society, Sivanandanagar, U.P., 1983, p. 2.
  
• 4 In the Siva Purana, it is Krishna who teaches the six-syllable mantra, Aum Namah Sivaya.
• 5 The Gift of God, p. 6.
• 6 The Gift of God, from 'Foreword II' by Andavan Pichai, pp. x-xi.
• 7 The Gift of God, p.8

• 1Matthew 12.25.
• 2The Katha Upanishad, Chapter 2, Section 1, Verse 12.
• 3Agamemnon.
• 4Talks §107.
• 5In hypervigilance the brain is wired to expect danger, causing the adrenal glands to remain in a state of readiness, constantly releasing stress hormones like adrenaline. This leads to a heightened state of alertness, where the body is always prepared for a threat, even in be­nign circumstances. Over time, this can result in anxiety disorders and difficulty relaxing or feeling secure. The mechanism for this, experts tell us, is the brain's hypothalamic-pituitary-adrenal (HPA) axis becoming overactive, leading to prolonged cortisol release.
• 6Early life wounding or neglect can cause inadequate dopamine and endorphin receptor formation.
• 7Called neuroplasticity.
• 8Mark 7: 15.
• 9Dilgo Khentse Rinpoche.
• 10Joseph Campbell.
• 11Quoted in the last issue from Carl Rogers, On Becoming a Person, chapter 41.
• 12And also in the Vishnu Purana.
• 13Atma Sakshatkara, §50, from Collected Works, p. 160.
• 14Etty Hillesum.
• 15Studies at Stanford University led by Robert Sapolsky.
• 16Talks §272.
• 17Atma Bodha §3, from Collected Works, p. 198.
• 18A common saying among Christians, drawing from 1 John 1:9.
• 19Traumatologists point out that strong emotionality from early life samskaras may cause periods of neurological dysregulation and emo­tional flashbacks, i.e. intense, sudden re-experiencing of emotional states from unconscious early life events. Neurological dysregulation refers to the impaired ability of the nervous system to regulate itself, exacerbating the experience, making it harder to manage emotions and return to a state of calm. This cycle can contribute to chronic stress, anxiety, and difficulties in daily functioning, and calls for simple daily neurological re-regulation exercises which include special breath exercises, writing exercises, somatic healing, etc., though speaking about such experiences alone may not prove as therapeutically effica­cious as previously imagined since these 'memories' are pre-verbal.
• 20Atma Bodha §3.
• 21See Saranagati, April 2023, p. 12, see also the August issue, 2024.
• 22From Joseph Campbell, though sometimes attributed to C.G. Jung.
• 23King Janaka of Mithila, from the Shanti Parva, the 12th book of the Mahabharata.
• 24Stated in various ways in the following: Call Divine, vol. 10, p. 592, vol. 11, p. 286, vol. 12., p. 156.