In the last segment, Balarama Reddy recounts how he settled near Palakottu in the late 1930s, and how he received advice from Bhagavan following thefts from his hut. A major turning point came with his father's sudden death in 1939. The timing of Reddy's return home, just days before, strengthened his faith in Bhagavan's unseen guidance.

Reddy's vignettes illuminated Bhagavan's inner state—his wakeful sleep, his absorption during Vedic chanting, his tender handling of Reddy's Sanskrit verse, and his delight in a Bhagavatam passage describing the jnani's indifference to the body. Encounters with scholars and swamis showed that Bhagavan neither courted reputation nor argued doctrine.

Reddy shows how Bhagavan functioned flawlessly in the world while remaining inwardly untouched—a mystery of grace that transformed lives without ever demanding belief or recognition.

Now we pick up where we left off, recounting a visit by an eminent Western bhakta Reddy had met on pilgrimage to north India years earlier.

Krishnaprem's Visit
Krishnaprem—Ronald Nixon, the British co-founder of an ashram in Almora—had often expressed his intention to visit Tiruvannamalai to meet Bhagavan and to see Balarama Reddy. After many cancelled plans, one December morning in 1948 when Reddy was seated near Bhagavan with eyes closed on the veranda, he opened them to find Krishnaprem before him. Krishnaprem had been embarrassed by his many postponements, and thus, had left off writing to announce his arrival. His sudden appearance caused considerable excitement among devotees.

Krishnaprem was a Vaishnavite who saw everything as pervaded by Lord Vasudeva. Quoting sarvam Vasudevamayam jagat, he asked Bhagavan: 'Is not this the highest ideal?' Bhagavan nodded in agreement and said:

Yes, yes! It is an exalted state of Consciousness. The Vaishnava cult is based on this. Yet, who is it that thinks 'all that is perceived is Vasudeva?' Is it not you, yourself? Do any of the things perceived come forward announcing themselves as Vasudeva? While seeing the earth, trees and plants as Vasudeva, don't you wish to see yourself as He? If you who see everything as Vasudeva learn to see yourself as Vasudeva, you will become Vasudeva Himself. After that there will be no need to specially perceive everything as His Form. If he who sees is transformed into Vasudeva, then that which is seen automatically becomes Vasudeva! Infusing perception with jnana is simply this.¹

Devotees in the hall were amazed at Bhagavan's words, as was Krishnaprem.

Skandasramam
Reddy wanted to show his guest around, including a visit to Skandasramam:
I asked Viswanathan to accompany us, and Harindranath Chattopadyaya—the versatile writer, poet, and musician—also joined. As we were leaving, Bhagavan called me aside and asked that I report to him on our return. Such a request was unusual and has stayed with me. We walked up to Skandasramam, spent about two hours there reciting hymns and singing bhajans, and then returned. That evening Krishnaprem was invited to sing bhajans before Bhagavan. A harmonium was brought to the veranda, where about seventy-five devotees had gathered. He sang with deep genuine devotion, even pronouncing the words with an Indian accent, and all were deeply moved. After he finished, Harindranath, uninvited, began to perform, displaying great skill, but his efforts fell flat beside the natural power of Krishnaprem's devotion. Bhagavan later remarked, "Here is one Westerner who embodies the intensity and devotion of a true Indian bhakta."

The Sands of Kanyakumari
Reddy made plans to take Krishnaprem South, visiting sacred sites and temples:
After lunch I approached Bhagavan to take leave. He had just finished eating and was massaging his rheumatic knees before his walk. I prostrated and told him of my departure. He already knew the details, including my plan to visit Kanyakumari. He remarked that the management had written to an advocate-devotee in Nagerkoil to send the three different coloured sands from Kanyakumari needed for the Matrubhuteswara Temple Kumbhabhishekam, but that nothing had arrived. Though he did not ask me directly, I understood his meaning. This was his usual way—indirectly conveying what he wished to be done.

When Reddy reached Kanyakumari, he discovered a serious obstacle:
The government had prohibited removing sand from the beach, as uranium had been found there. Still, I decided to take the risk and secretly collected the three different sands, filling three bags and hiding them in my bedroll. At the railway station I hired a porter. At the gate, the ticket collector was checking tickets while two policemen searched baggage for illegal sand. I asked the man to stop and silently prayed to Bhagavan: "You wanted this sand— now there are police. What am I to do?" At once, for no apparent reason, the policemen walked away. I told the porter, "Let's go," and we passed through and boarded the train.

Back at the ashram, I brought the sand to Bhagavan, who called others to see it. Later, the sand sent by the advocate arrived by post, but the bags had broken and the sands were mixed and thus, rendered useless for ceremonial purposes. Hearing this, Bhagavan remarked, "If Balarama Reddy had not brought these sands, how would we have obtained a fresh consignment in time for the consecration?"

Bhagavan as Guru
Reddy illustrates the potency of the guru's grace through small but decisive incidents:
Once, when I was in my village pursuing sadhana, I was troubled by thoughts of the opposite sex. I wrote to Bhagavan through Major Chadwick. Bhagavan read the letter without comment, and at that very moment the troubling thoughts left me. Such small incidents reveal the power of the guru—always present for us to turn to. Yet we approached him with care, waiting until he seemed ready.

At times his gaze was distant, or he was so absorbed that none would think of disturbing him:
Most of us were simply in awe of him and found it difficult to start up a conversation or ask a question. But what questions could we ask? Did we not have faith in him, and wasn't that what mattered most? And what instructions were we to ask? We knew what we had to do.

Those who had come had already undergone the basic spiritual practices. Reddy comments:
Undergraduate or post-graduate students may ask questions of their professor. But those who are working on their Ph.D. are quietly occupied with their research and, on rare occasions, meet and consult their guides. The serious aspirants that came to Bhagavan were like Ph.D. candidates.

Reddy recalls a doubt he openly expressed to Bhagavan:
Why, for no apparent reason, one sometimes feels composed and cheerful, sometimes restless and unusually active, and at other times lazy and languid. Bhagavan replied: "In man the three gunas of nature are in constant movement. When sattva comes to the fore, one is quiet and cheerful; when rajas predominates, one is restless; when tamas is uppermost, one is languid and cheerless." "How to overcome their influence?" I asked. "By becoming a gunatita (one who has transcended the gunas)", he replied. "How to become a gunatita?" "By realising the Self," Bhagavan concluded.

Life in the Hall
In the hall, Reddy comments, devotees were usually engaged in one of three activities—silent meditation with eyes closed, quiet gazing upon Bhagavan's form, or posing questions to Bhagavan. Other activities required permission from the office. Lectures were rare, Reddy tells us. However, he recalls one instance when T. M. P. Mahadevan, the scholar and professor from Madras, returned from the West, having delivered lectures on Bhagavan there. Devotees asked to hear a sample. Permission was given, and Mahadevan spoke on Bhagavan's teaching.

Kirtan and Silent Upadesa
Singing and kirtan in the hall were also not frequent, except for daily parayana. Permission was required. Reddy himself preferred quiet sitting, feeling it yielded greater benefit than any devotional performance. Yet he recounts a lively episode in the dining hall:
Daivarata, the great devotee of Gokarna, had been living in the north for some years. He had just returned for a visit after a long absence. Among other things, he was known for his enthusiastic kirtan and dancing. He used to perform in earlier years in the presence of the Maharshi, and while doing pradakshina of Arunachala. Some devotees expressed a desire to see him perform. It was arranged in the dining hall. Bhagavan sat at his usual mealtime place and we all sat in rows. Daivarata began singing and dancing up and down the rows with great enthusiasm. He also sang Ganapati Muni's Chatvarimsat in his own melody, dancing with the tune.

One poignant meeting saw Bhagavan display the full force of his silence. The private secretary to the Governor of Pondicherry arrived for darshan:
He entered the hall carrying a large sheet covered with elaborate questions written in complex French. Handing it to Bhagavan, he sat on the windowsill opposite the couch. Seeing the language, Bhagavan asked me to translate. I struggled, going word by word, until Bhagavan said gently, "That's not necessary—just give me the gist." Scanning the page, I explained that the man did not seek verbal answers but an experience. Bhagavan paused, then slowly turned and fixed his gaze on him. After about thirty seconds, the man began to tremble, soon shaking violently, and cried out, "Oh no, Bhagavan, not now! Please, not now!"

I was standing a little to the side of Bhagavan, watching this extraordinary scene and wondering what a being this Bhagavan was. He was a storehouse of power, but so kind, gentle and compassionate. Despite all this grandeur, he always seemed so human and natural, even laughing and joking with us on occasion.

Reddy also recounted lighter moments in the hall:
Sometimes a tiger-skin was spread on Bhagavan's couch. The head of the tiger would hang over the armrest, seemingly, staring straight at me. One day Chadwick was sitting in the hall at the western end. He usually followed a punctual schedule. At exactly 7am he rose to leave. On his way out he walked up behind me and whispered in my ear, "Do you see? That's Chinnaswami, the ashram tiger, staring straight at you." We both chuckled at the joke. When Chadwick went out, Bhagavan asked me what he had said to me. When I repeated it, Bhagavan enjoyed the humour and we both laughed.

Service
Reddy records how Mahatma Gandhi's senior staff—Rajendra Prasad, Jamnalal Bajaj, and Sankarlal Banker—came to the Ashram. Gandhi himself had advised them to visit Bhagavan and spend time in his presence. Their interest, Reddy felt, was not merely social or political but genuinely spiritual.

Reddy concluded that service could purify the mind. But a refined mind must also be directed toward a clear and direct method. Bhagavan's teaching was uncompromising on this point. Only a jnani is a true karma yogi, because only one established in the Self knows there are no "others." Who gives to whom? And yet Bhagavan's own life was continuous giving— every act spontaneous, selfless, and unowned, moved not by the iindividual will but by Ishwara.

Reddy emphasized Bhagavan's insistence on addressing the root of suffering. Social service may relieve distress temporarily, but suffering will return in other forms, in this or future births, unless the fundamental delusion—the mistaken identity with the body-mind—is destroyed. Bhagavan's mission was precisely this: to uproot ignorance through Self-enquiry, surrender, sustained presence, and silent grace.

Madhava Swami
A sobering illustration followed. Madhava, the pious attendant who had served Bhagavan faithfully for nearly ten years, suddenly became restless and asked Reddy for money to travel to Yogi Ramiah's ashram in Andhra Pradesh. Everyone regarded Madhava as a model devotee, so Reddy was startled. Madhava claimed Bhagavan and Chinnaswami had approved his departure, but Reddy later learned this was not true. Bhagavan had merely advised him to stop working for a while, eat in the ashram, and rest—free of responsibility. Madhava ignored this counsel, left, returned to find his role reassigned, grew unsettled, departed again, returned wearing ochre robes and finally died under obscure circumstances in Kumbakonam.

Reddy draws a stark lesson: not all who come remain steady. Only those who persevere to the end— through practice, devotion, and faith—reach the goal. Still, Bhagavan's helping hand never withdraws from sincere seekers.

Silent Guidance
Reddy offers two incidents to show how Bhagavan's silence served as guidance:
Once the Sarvadhikari asked me to set my alarm for 2am, as it was discovered that Bhagavan rose at that hour and walked alone to the latrine near the gosala while the attendants slept. Fearing a fall or mishap, he asked me to be nearby. When I awoke, Bhagavan was reclining on the veranda couch. Seeing me, he quietly rose, took a flashlight, and walked toward the latrine. I followed. No words passed between us. It was clear that Bhagavan understood why I was there and accepted it without comment. In such moments, silence itself conveyed approval. When he was displeased, however, he never hesitated to correct us. Thus, we learned to remain alert and attentive to his unspoken will.

A Letter
One day Reddy received a letter from his family informing him that they were travelling to Tirupati:
They requested me to meet them there. When Bhagavan was returning from his walk and was near the well, I mentioned the details of the letter to him. He kept silent. Now, how could I just leave? Normally, he would indicate his approval by asking questions or commenting, or in some manner making it clear that it was all right to go ahead. In this instance, he said nothing and just kept walking. The very next day I received another letter from my family informing me that the trip had been cancelled. How do we explain this? Was it a siddhi, a miracle, or what? Everything happened naturally in Bhagavan's presence, and he was always so unassuming.

The Unveiling
Reddy's account darkens with the onset of Bhagavan's illness. In February 1949 a small growth appeared above Bhagavan's left elbow. The ashram doctors removed it, unaware it was sarcoma. Though the wound seemed to heal, the tumour soon returned. Further surgeries followed, radium treatments and Ayurvedic remedies were tried, but Bhagavan's strength steadily declined.

After the first operation, Reddy returned to his village. When the tumour reappeared, Viswanatha Swami urgently called him back. By then Bhagavan had moved into the New Hall, and after the final operation the Nirvana Room became his permanent residence.

Reddy describes Bhagavan's growing frailty. At times he shook violently on rising, frightening devotees, whom he reassured with humour: "Look at me—I am dancing." He never treated illness seriously.

Asked about his health, he would retort, "What of that?" Yet he was tender toward distressed devotees, dismissing illness as irrelevant to the Self.

One incident vividly embodied his teaching. When doctors wished to surgically remove some tissue for testing, Bhagavan refused anaesthetic. The doctors protested, explaining to Bhagavan that the pain would be severe. Bhagavan again refused the anaesthetic and told them to just do it. They cut into the tumour and Bhagavan winced. The doctors said, 'Bhagavan, we told you it would be painful.' Bhagavan replied, 'Yes, the body experienced pain. But am I the body?'

Though Bhagavan cooperated with treatment— including surgery under local anaesthetic in August 1949— he firmly refused amputation when it was proposed.

On 19th December, after the fourth and final operation, devotees waited anxiously north of the Nirvana Room. Doraiswamy Iyer, who had been influential in bringing together prominent physicians for the two major surgeries, announced that success could only be known after three months. Reddy recalls:
Bhagavan remained in the dispensary for eighteen days, recovering from the operation. Then around midnight, he shifted to the Nirvana Room. One day, when he was still convalescing in the dispensary, Chadwick and I were standing nearby when one of Bhagavan's attendants approached us and inquired if we wanted to come in and see Bhagavan. This was not the usual procedure—having a personal audience with Bhagavan while he was ill—nevertheless, we jumped at the opportunity. Moving quickly into Bhagavan's room, we stood at his bedside and simply rested our eyes on him. No words passed between us, but I can never forget those cool, compassionate eyes that opened and bathed us in peace and love.

This small event may seem insignificant to the onlooker. Yet, that one look, soaked with immeasurable peace and grace, filled us with a sense of total security and the confidence that his blessings would always be with us. Even now, more than forty years after he left his body, I feel that this same grace is flowing, enveloping me, guiding me. How can it be described in words?

Final Days
In the last stages, Bhagavan insisted on giving darshan twice daily. A reclining chair was placed in the passage before the Nirvana Room. He faced west toward the Mother's Temple veranda. Devotees sat or stood there silently. Private bedside meetings were restricted. Reddy, feeling he should not trouble Bhagavan, avoided requesting entry:
Yet, one day I received a message from the office that I should accompany the doctors to Bhagavan's room when they went again to clean his wound and change his bandages. I do not know why I was asked to do this. Perhaps Bhagavan didn't see me at darshan and inquired about me, or perhaps the Sarvadhikari had his own reason. When I walked into the Nirvana Room, Bhagavan simply rested his benevolent gaze on me and said nothing. Then he slowly stretched out his left arm, and the doctors began their work. The bandage was drenched with blood. The wound was large and pitiful to look at. The pain must have been extreme. Bhagavan calmly turned his head to the side, and the doctors went about their business. I was amazed to observe his total detachment. It seemed to me that he looked on this painful affair as if it was happening to a body other than his own. I can never forget that sight.

Reddy's sister visited with her infant. Reddy gained permission for a rare meeting. In the room, the baby cried. Bhagavan, with great difficulty, leaned over to make endearing sounds—like a mother soothing her child. Reddy was astonished to see that in extreme debility, tenderness still flowed.

The tumour now resembled a cauliflower—blood oozed, the arm had blackened. A doctor friend told Reddy the pain would have been like a loaded lorry running over one's arm. Even so, radiance filled the room.

A visiting minister from Madras, Sitarama Reddy, independently asked about the brilliance pervading the room—confirming it was not merely Reddy's imagination. Reddy recalled a verse from Muni's Chatvarimsat:
His beatific effulgence is hidden by the sheath of the gross body, like the blazing sun hidden behind the clouds.

As the mortal sheath broke down, the effulgence appeared to release itself.
Crowds swelled as word got out about Bhagavan's failing health. Thousands arrived for the final darshan. On 14th April, the office issued a bulletin saying Bhagavan was no longer giving darshan, hoping crowds would disperse. When Bhagavan heard this, he ordered the bulletin be withdrawn. He would not refuse devotees. Even on his last day, in the throes of death, he insisted darshan proceed as usual from 5 to 6 pm. That final evening, thousands gathered outside:
A gloomy mood enveloped the area, as Bhagavan's end was anticipated at any moment. The fan being waved over Bhagavan's body by the attendant was visible through the door, and all eyes were fixed on it, knowing that when it ceased moving, Bhagavan's heart would no longer be beating. Mrs. Taleyarkhan, a devotee influential with the administration in those days, obtained permission to go into the Nirvana Room and have her last darshan at 7 pm. She approached me and asked me to join her. I quietly stood there thinking, and then replied, 'No. You please go ahead. I cannot go.' During that year I had seen Bhagavan's body suffer enough. I could not bear to see any more.

Shortly thereafter, the fan stopped, the meteor slowly glided across the heavens, and it was all over. The light that illumined the earth as Bhagavan Sri Ramana Maharshi had now merged with the Eternal Light, the source of all creation.

Epilogue: Why Doubt It?
Balarama Reddy ends his memoir recalling a luminous exchange in the hall:
On one occasion G. V. Subbaramayya questioned Bhagavan about his song, 'Atma Vidya,' which begins: 'Self-knowledge is an easy thing, the easiest thing there is.' Subbaramayya wondered why, if it was so easy, we hadn't realised it. This was something we all wondered about.

I then quoted to Bhagavan verse three, chapter seven, of the Bhagavad Gita, wherein Sri Krishna says, "Of thousands of men, some rare soul strives to realise Me; of those striving yogis, again, some rare one—devoting himself exclusively to me—knows Me in reality." I thought if Self-knowledge was so easy, as Bhagavan's song suggests, why did Krishna make this declaration in the Gita? Bhagavan looked at us with compassion and, smiling confidently, said, "What is written in Atma Vidya is true. Why do you doubt it? It is as clear as a gooseberry in the palm of your hand."

When he spoke to us like this, with such certitude and conviction, we were filled with unflinching faith and self-confidence in our ability to attain the ideal he taught us. Moreover, he sat before us as the living example of that ideal, a perfected soul, absorbed in the purity and peace of the Absolute Reality. What more did we need in life? ²—
(series concluded)

As we move into the New Year, some devotees worry about what 2026 and the years ahead will bring. Over the last decade, Aldous Huxley's coinage, "brave new world," has become a familiar slogan as the pace of change around the world ramps up. As we look toward a rapidly changing future, we worry if it may come to us at a hefty price.

Huxley's 1932 dystopian novel describes an established order designed to solve humanity's perennial problems---poverty, disease, and social conflict. In the course of its making, the utopian vision lost sight of key human values, not least of all, meaning, depth and the interior life.

In the decades since, the phrase "brave new world" has come to refer to an inherently dehumanizing realm where the vision of a bright future rooted in material progress has the unintended effect of displacing what makes us fully human. While Huxley's book is written as science fiction, it highlights a contemporary preoccupation: curating a better future by any means. Yet, too much longing to improve the world almost guarantees mixed results.¹

In the 21st century we notice the growing fear that large-scale technological innovation---especially automation, robotics, and artificial intelligence---may lead to widespread job loss and cultural dislocation.² Unlike earlier waves of mechanization, which mainly replaced physical labour, today's technologies encroach on work once thought to be immune, namely, professions that are cognitive in nature.³ The prospect of cognitive work being overtaken by machines lends a marked degree of apprehension among career counsellors advising college students.

And yet, the "jobocalypse"⁴ anxiety is not limited to unemployment but raises deeper questions about meaning. Modern society has always linked personal identity, dignity, and social worth to paid employment. If machines begin performing tasks faster, cheaper, and more reliably than humans, how will we understand our place in the world? Indeed, who will we be when the world no longer needs us?

Optimists argue that new technologies will create new kinds of work, as they have done in the past. Others counter that the scale and speed of change may overwhelm the labour market's ability to adapt, producing permanent under-employment rather than a mere temporary disruption.⁵

The jobocalypse debate raises a burning question, namely, to what extent is human value reducible to economic utility?⁶ And can we imagine forms of meaning, contribution, and dignity that do not depend on traditional employment? This discussion leads to something much more concerning and immediate, namely, how expectations about a hugely different human future which may already be unfolding is linked to uncertainty in general and rising rates of anxiety and mental health conditions among youth.

Here the psychological and developmental cost of continuous, accelerating change comes to the fore. Some fear that long before humanity faces AI-driven economic redundancy, it may suffer widespread mental health challenges.

Reports from religious leaders, educators, clinicians, and public health bodies such as the World Health Organization indicate that emotional distress among adolescents and young adults has increased sharply over the past two decades, with the trend accelerating.⁷

The scale, intensity, and early onset of mental health struggles are alarming. Many experience a persistent sense of insecurity about the future, coupled with feelings of inadequacy and isolation---the feeling that the future may not offer stable ground on which to stand.

In the late twentieth century, young people enjoyed a set of givens: education leading to work, work to independence, independence to social belonging and a place in the world.

Today, effort no longer guarantees outcomes, eroding the most basic psychological resource essential for resilience, namely, hope. When such concerns deepen into despair, they can contribute to rising rates of suicide, one of the leading causes of death among young people in certain regions of the world.⁸

When large numbers of young people experience helplessness and hopelessness, it may signal not individual pathology but a collective intuition that something is not okay.

Just as animals can sense environmental danger before it is tangibly observed, youth may be responding to subtle but pervasive cues. Young people fear that the structures meant to receive them may no longer exist in recognizable form. When the imagination cannot picture a liveable future, motivation collapses. From this angle, despair is not irrational. It is an adaptive response to a world whose promises no longer hold true.

Too Much Too Fast

Human nervous systems evolved for environments that changed slowly and locally. Customs, roles, identities, and skills were once transmitted across generations with relative stability. The digital era has ruptured this rhythm. Today, young people must ever adapt to shifting norms---often before they have found their place in the world. As the demand for adaptation accelerates, it exhausts inner resources---after all, the human nervous system is not built to face constant change.

Too much change too fast erodes what psychologists call predictive stability, namely, the ability to form reliable expectations about the future. Without this, the mind may remain in a state of low-grade alert, which can manifest as chronic anxiety, sleep disruption, difficulty concentrating, emotional dysregulation, confusion, lethargy, and restlessness. When efforts no longer seem to yield intelligible outcomes, depression can set in.

The central challenge of the digital era is not whether humans will be replaced by machines, but whether we can remain psychologically intact amidst relentless transformation. The task ahead may be less about building smarter systems and more about restoring rhythms of continuity---conditions under which human beings can metabolize change without falling apart.

When addressing the mental-health crisis of the twenty-first century, some highlight the contention and division dominating the public sphere as the result of moral failure, i.e. bad choices made by ill-intentioned individuals. In doing so, we mistake symptoms for cause. Polarization, division, social fragmentation and public displays of ill-will are not the origins of the crisis but its visible expressions. Opportunists are sure to take advantage of the collective vulnerability, but beyond that, the collective psyche needs addressing as well, imperilled as it is by rapid, unprecedented technological innovation.

Neurological Balance

Only in recent years has the psychiatric and neuroscientific community begun to appreciate the extent to which digital technologies are reshaping human neurology. One of the more subtle yet far-reaching effects is a growing bias toward left-hemisphere modes of functioning---those associated with analysis, task completion, information processing, and control. These capacities are indispensable yet, when they dominate, other dimensions of human functioning are weakened.

One this that is diminished is the social engagement system: the network of neural and physiological processes that support connection, and emotional regulation through eye contact, facial expression, vocal tone, listening, and responsive presence.⁹ When this system is insufficiently exercised, the nervous system tends to drift toward heightened states of alert. Sympathetic "fight-or-flight" responses become more prominent, while parasympathetic "rest-and-digest" functions lose some of their stabilising influence. Over time, this imbalance may affect emotional steadiness, learning, creativity, and the capacity for relational attunement.

What is often experienced subjectively as anxiety, agitation, or mental fatigue may therefore reflect not merely psychological distress but a deeper pattern of physiological dysregulation. This helps explain why many young people feel persistently unsettled even when no immediate external threat is present---their nervous systems are primed for vigilance in an environment that rarely allows them to settle.

Concerns about learning and cognition bring this issue into sharper focus. The cognitive neuroscientist Jared Cooney Horvath has observed that recent generations, beginning with Gen Z, appear to be the first in modern history to under-perform their parents across a range of cognitive measures, despite spending more time in formal education.¹⁰ Large-scale data suggest that this decline coincides with the widespread adoption of digital technologies in classrooms. Students who rely heavily on screens for learning tend to perform less well than those whose education remains largely non-digital.

Horvath's explanation is not primarily pedagogical but biological. Human beings evolved to learn in the presence of other human beings. Learning is not simply the transmission of information but unfolds within relational contexts involving shared attention, emotional signalling, and subtle forms of co-regulation. When learning is mediated primarily through screens, many of these supporting conditions are absent. In this light, efforts to reshape education so that it conforms more easily to digital tools risk adapting human development to technology rather than evaluating technology in light of human needs.

From a physiological standpoint, this distinction matters. Digital device use tends to activate sympathetic hyperarousal, keeping the organism in a state of low-grade vigilance. In such a state, the nervous system remains oriented toward monitoring potential threat, while the neural circuits associated with integration, reflection, and creativity are less accessible.

Face-to-face interaction, by contrast, supports what stress researchers describe as social buffering: the calming of physiological arousal through the presence of trusted others.¹¹

When the neural circuits that support direct human engagement are underused, stress and anxiety become harder to resolve. Seen this way, the widespread prevalence of anxiety and stress in contemporary life cannot be explained solely in cultural or psychological terms. It may also reflect a more fundamental neurological shift associated with digitally mediated patterns of living.

The importance of social connection for psychological and physiological stability is not a recent discovery. Several landmark studies from the mid-twentieth century illustrate this with particular clarity.

During the Second World War, British authorities evacuated children from London to protect them from bombing raids. The assumption was that physical safety would reduce psychological harm. Yet post-war research by Anna Freud showed that many evacuated children were more traumatised than those who remained in the city. Separation from parents and familiar relationships proved more damaging than exposure to physical danger.¹²

An even more sobering insight came from the work of René Spitz, who studied infants raised in institutional settings. These babies received adequate nutrition, hygiene, and medical care, yet lacked consistent emotional contact. Spitz documented a predictable pattern: initial protest followed by withdrawal, weight loss, listlessness, and developmental delay. Many infants developed what he termed anaclitic depression, and in some institutions nearly forty percent of the infants died. Physical care alone was insufficient, and the absence of responsive human presence proved devastating.¹³

Subsequent work by John Bowlby clarified the mechanisms involved. Bowlby showed that what he called "attachment" is not merely an emotional bond but a biological system essential for survival.¹⁴

Later researchers, including Bessel van der Kolk and Stephen Porges, provided neurobiological accounts of how unbuffered stress and a chronically activated sympathetic nervous system affects the developing brain. Infants are not equipped to regulate themselves independently but must "borrow" regulation from the face, voice, and touch of another human being. When this co-regulation is absent, physiological stability becomes difficult to maintain, especially for babies born prematurely.¹⁵

These findings have relevance for the digitally mediated mental health crisis we find ourselves in. What killed those infants is not so different from what is quietly exhausting the nervous systems of digitally isolated youth today. Contemporary youth, though surrounded by stimulation, may nonetheless be deprived of sustained, embodied relational contact. Research in stress physiology links social disconnection with disrupted cortisol rhythms, sleep disturbance, and increased vulnerability to mental-health disorders.¹⁶ Sleep disruption, in turn, is increasingly recognised as a contributing factor in psychiatric conditions even the most severe.¹⁷

Seen in this light, the challenge before us is not simply technological but relational. If three-dimensional, face-to-face sociality has been partially displaced by two-dimensional, screen-mediated interaction, the cost may be paid in diminished learning, rising anxiety, lack of depth, and a thinning of spiritual coherence. Restoring conditions that support healthy nervous system balance---through presence, continuity, and relational depth---may therefore be essential not only for mental health, but for the wider human hope of seeking wholeness.

Bhagavan's Devotees

Ramana devotees whose children are suffering anxiety, stress or other mental health challenges may misconstrue their children's hardship as a failure to adequately embrace the teaching. But a historically unprecedented mental health climate is the true culprit.

If we point to modernisation and rapid urbanisation as significant factors, this would not be out of place. But what seems to tilt the scale is the digitally dominated social sphere.

Our collective psychic space has narrowed, and the emerging digital culture has become increasingly stimulus-driven, strategic, and self-referential, because we have quietly forfeited a basic human virtue: relationality. Time once given to family, neighbours, community, and the ordinary obligations of society is now diverted into virtual pastimes.

The trade-offs are seductive. Devices liberate us from the delicate demands of face-to-face encounter---tone, timing, restraint, and etiquette. They are compliant companions: always available, rarely contradicting us, and quick to supply affirmation. But the bargain is costly. When the adhesive bonds of human belonging are neglected, we drift into the vastness of online space---untethered and oddly alone. The appropriate response draws on the first principles of sadhana: admitting our powerlessness before habit and compulsion, and then practising restraint---again and again---until balance is reclaimed.

At first glance, the monk in the cave seems to refute all this. Is he not withdrawn from social life? Yet authentic renunciation is not a rejection of relationship so much as a refinement of it. Contemplation and meditation redirects connection inward, and in doing so it can strengthen the very capacities that make human co-regulation possible. This speaks to Bhagavan Ramana's own life. In meditation, the monk is, in effect, engaging the parasympathetic "rest-and-digest" response, restoring balance to the autonomic nervous system.

Solitude emptied of inwardness, however, is something else entirely. A monk scrolling endlessly on a phone in his cave would be no better off than the rest of us. Solitude is not the same as isolation. Inwardness and inquiry cultivate resilience and integration; digital isolation entrenches reactivity, vigilance, and threat-orientation. Renunciation, properly understood, is not the absence of relationship, but the discovery of a deeper, more stabilizing form of connection---one that modern distraction steadily erodes.¹⁸

Surrender and Inquiry

The problem is not resistance to truth, but psychic exhaustion. From the point of view of the autonomic nervous system, coming free of the sense of threat is the most pressing need we have. Faith in the teaching cannot fully function when the psyche is under siege. Bhagavan points out that inquiry may not always be the appropriate next response:

Bhagavan's surrender means releasing everything---including concern for the future. But youth today are being asked to make leaps in faith that only wise elders could do in former generations. And yet, how else will today's youth greet the enormous challenges facing them?

The most effective intervention for parents is not instruction but presence. To reach the heart, one must first be willing to stand inside the child's suffering, not above it. The child does not need answers; he or she needs empathy, i.e. to be truly seen and accepted. The job of surrendering is ours. Bhagavan gives suggestions as to how we optimise our chances of being useful to them:

Deep listening may be the only form our surrender can take---not the child's surrender to the teaching, but the parent's surrender of the impulse to control outcomes. What makes these interventions difficult is that parents are trying to offer something they themselves have been progressively deprived of. The digital environment has not only affected children. It has reshaped adult consciousness as well.

To come to their children's aid, parents may sense that something deeper is being called for. Yet their own nervous systems---shaped by speed, distraction, and constant cognitive demand---struggle to access the slower, receptive states from which genuine attunement flows. Right-hemisphere listening requires patience and emotional tolerance. This cannot be engineered but hinges on a deeper encounter with the Ramana path. The task of inquiry is to discover that which does not rise and fall or come and go. Bhagavan gives us direction:

On the Bright Side

One of the positive features of the current crisis is seeing how Bhagvan's devotees are overcoming the stigma surrounding mental health issues. They are now better able to speak about what is going on in their families. This is new. When we openly express the difficulties that our families are facing, relatives and fellow devotees alike can enter in as support, and those suffering begin to see that what they are going through need not be concealed but is worthy of collective concern.

What is mentionable is manageable, goes a saying. By contrast, what we fear to speak about will be hard to get at. Concealing our suffering invariably results in pushing it deeper into the recesses of the heart, beyond the reach of our sadhana. Such concealment disallows any remedial measure, and in effect makes the condition seemed constant and immutable.

Born of the fear that our wounding is an expression of some firm ill-begotten entity within, we imagine the ego as destiny, unchanging, condemning ourselves to an inner prison of the egoic status quo. If we are living out a self-fulfilling prophecy rooted in a misunderstanding about the nature of destiny, fate and our karmic inheritance, it is because we truly believe that the ego is real and that it is permanent. Bhagavan comes to our rescue:

Our refusal to inquire into karmic fragments is no doubt born of the pain they cause us. Such refusal may also be rooted in not wanting to upset the egoic agenda, after all, ego's trickery knows no bounds. But Bhagavan wants us to inquire all the way down, leaving no stone unturned. If karmic "stones" sometimes conceal terrifying monsters, our work can be hair-raising. Yet, opting for short-term comfort only yields long-term misery. When we discover that samsara is tied to the illusory notions of ego as solid and karma as fixed, we come to see that the inner work is not optional. Bhagavan illumines this point:

Conclusion

It is hard to know with certainty what is going on in the "brave new world". While the digital revolution has given us unprecedented access to information and the ability to connect across vast distances, the sheer quantity of connection often comes at the cost of depth and quality.

We must be honest about our compulsion toward device use and attend to the overstimulated nervous system it produces. This is no small task, for the first time in history humanity has become collectively habituated to a single, pervasive activity. As a result, it may fall to a quiet minority---including sadhakas and devotees of Bhagavan---to exercise restraint and discernment without much support from the surrounding culture.

Spiritual communities worldwide are inundated with seekers, while the psychiatric profession is stretched thin, struggling to keep pace with rapidly escalating mental-health challenges. From the standpoint of sadhana, however, the task may be simpler. By turning to Bhagavan's vichara, we uncover what lies buried within---including our vulnerability to addictive patterns---and gradually loosen the grip of ego through awareness and surrender. Emerson reminds us:

To see far enough today means moderating our immersion in screens. If earlier generations were spiritual beings attending their material needs, in the digital era we have become material beings at pains to attend our spiritual needs.²⁵

If we cannot cross the threshold into the Heart for our own sake, we do it for the sake of our children, after all, they are being asked to carry burdens that previous generations failed to address.

Serving them may require reclaiming our own relational capacities. By stepping back from excessive device use, we re-enter a mode of human connection that modern life has steadily eroded.

And yet, how do we realistically meet the digital deluge? By becoming more human. The future can still be bright if we aim for the Heart.

Bhagavan has given us a wider lens through which to view every crisis. Our task is to make use of it. Only from that ground can our empathy become credible, our listening become healing, and the shared field of trust slowly be restored. ---

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Endnotes

• 1 Cherished Memories , Smt. T.R. Kanakammal, pp. 110-112.
• 2

  These interviews were conducted by Dennis Hartel in Ramanas­ramam over a period of two weeks in 1993. They were then com­piled and published as a series in the New York Ashram's publica­tion, The Maharshi.
  Not long after this, Balarama Reddy fell sick and family mem­bers urged him to go to Bangalore for medical testing. Accompa­nied by Venkatoo's attendant Natesan, Reddy underwent a battery tests which gave favourable results. That night Balarama Reddy and Natesan lay sleeping, having planned to return to the Ashram the following day. When Balarama Reddy woke in the night, he told Natesan that Bhagavan was standing in the corner beckoning him to come. Natesan said, "Sir, all the tests were favourable, why should Bhagavan be calling you home now?" Some hours later, Balarama Reddy passed away quietly.
  The series from The Maharshi was compiled and published post­humously by Ramanasramam as My Reminiscences.