As I sat in the weekly satsangs on Ramana Maharshi, Bhagavan’s question echoed within me:
“When are you coming to Tiruvannamalai?”
That question did not remain a question for long. It ripened itself. The long vigil of Maha Shivaratri, chanting the Ramana Tamil parayanam and the 26th chapter of the Ribhu Gita, deepened the saṅkalpa into something steady and irreversible.
After a week-long Vedanta camp in Rishikesh, the journey unfolded almost on its own. Flights were booked. A car was arranged from Chennai. For the first time, plans were made not for the world or family, but for the Self. And in that sincerity, something remarkable happened: the universe did not resist. No one in the family objected. It was as if life itself stepped aside.
Despite war and unrest disrupting travel across the world, when asked, “Are you still going?” the response arose effortlessly:
“If it has to happen, it will.”
In the bustle of Rishikesh, the mind wandered through sense objects, as it always does. Yet, by the quiet grace of Ganges River, thoughts softened, settling into a gentle rhythm. The teachings of the Kathopanishad and a verse from Chandogya Upanishad, ‘Āchāryavān Puruṣo Veda’ became living reflections rather than distant ideas.
One evening, by the banks of the Ganga, a seeker from Brazil sat beside me. On his T-shirt was a single word: Arunachala.
A conversation began without effort. He had just spent 22 days in Tiruvannamalai and had come to Rishikesh after. My journey was the reverse. We shared, we listened, and quietly marveled at how Bhagavan weaves unseen threads between strangers.
After eight days of immersive study, the mind felt ready to dissolve into silence.
The journey, however, had its own lessons. A delayed flight from Dehradun. Long, waiting hours at Delhi airport. Each moment whispered a single teaching: surrender is not an idea; it is a practice lived in uncertainty day after day.
The next day, the road to Tiruvannamalai began.
As the heat of Arunachala touched the skin, something softened within. At Sri Ramanasramam, kindness flowed effortlessly through the staff, expressed in simple gestures and quiet smiles. I was given a small room in the monkey garden, tucked away at the back of the ashram.
Walking past the cottages of devotees like Major Chadwick, Yogi Ramaiya, and Vedaraja Mudaliyar, it felt as though they had never left. The air itself carried their presence, welcoming yet another passing traveler.
The room spoke its own teaching:
A roof above, a little bhiksha for the body. What more is truly needed?
Why then this endless chase?
Friday evening parayanam unfolded like a quiet revelation. The works of Adi Shankaracharya, which I had long studied, seemed to dissolve into the simple clarity of Bhagavan’s Tamil verses. The Dakshinamurthy Stotram, Atma Bodha, and Hastamalaka Stotram were no longer texts to understand, but truths quietly revealed.
When the chanting ended, silence did not feel like an absence of words. It felt like a presence that swallowed everything.
I met a woman who visits the ashram every year. She walked with crutches. She asked if I could get her some apples. I brought them to her room, and the doctor in me asked what had happened.
She said calmly that it was due to polio from childhood.
I offered a few suggestions to help with balance. As we spoke, I learned that she had lost her daughter in a road accident while studying in medical college.
In that moment, something deeper unfolded.
Here I was, having lost my only brother in a road accident, having witnessed my parents’ grief, having just performed annadanam in Rishikesh on his death day, now standing before her as a doctor.
Roles rose and fell in an instant. Questions arise.
Am I a doctor?
Am I a daughter?
Am I a sister?
Am I a seeker?
Who am I?
The question did not demand an answer.
It deepened the stillness from which it arose.
In that same stillness, a podcast series on Who am I? was recorded, right there, in the quiet presence of Bhagavan.
The next morning began with the chanting of Aksharamanamalai. Devotion and surrender flowed naturally, spontaneously, and effortlessly.
Soon after, the climb to Virupaksha Cave and Skandashram began. The rocky steps spoke in the language of the Kathopanishad: the path is as sharp as a razor’s edge.
Yet Bhagavan’s assurance echoed alongside: ‘Ati sulabham’
Along the way, monkeys snatched bags from unsuspecting pilgrims. One such moment unfolded before me. A woman, startled, let go instantly. The monkey searched for food, found none, and simply left.
It took nothing it did not need.
A quiet mirror appeared: Take only what is necessary. Stop the ‘Catch, kill and conquer mentality’.
Silent meditation at the cave was powerful. Knowledge does not happen through words. It happens in the silence between words.
Afternoons melted into quiet reading at the ashram library, surrounded by timeless words that pointed beyond themselves. Saturday evening parayanam soothed the heart.
The stay was brief, but its imprint was strong.
As the keys were returned and the car left the ashram,, there was no sense of departure. Only a quiet knowing remained:
Nothing to do.
Nowhere to go.
Just be.
'Summa iru'.
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