"A Day with Maharaj," by Milo Clark
"Maharaj," to me, was just a temporal title of an Indian potentate until I met this lineage holder of a spiritual title [in the Navnath sampradaya], which, in this man's case suggests nothing regal, encompassing no estates, grants no domain. His physical circumstances are very simple yet apparently lacking nothing to him. The bulk of his being is entrusted to a small room, perhaps 10 by 15 feet in size, and filled with objects related to his being there as Sri Nisargadatta Maharaj. The entitlement brought no affectations, only some objects related to the linkage which he did not seek. Along with the other tenants of Vanmali Bhavan (the name of the building on Tenth Lane in the Khetwadi district of Bombay, where Maharaj lives with his family), he walks down the long hall to the far end of the building to use the communal toilet faculties. With a mischievous twinkle rarely absent from his unusually bright eyes, he scoffs at all the guru business and trappings. With a sweeping wave of his hands, he says that when he goes about he is just an old man out for a walk so nobody bothers him and he can go as he pleases.
Maharaj, as most of the Westerners in attendance called him, holds court in his little room much of the day and evening. The room is reached by a small, steep ladder which looks like a fold-up attic ladder from the Indian equivalent of Sears Roebuck. He will be found near the top—to the right side in the morning and to the left later in the day. On approaching a spiritual master of a Hindu tradition, one customarily touches head to floor in respect for the tradition bearer. Given the space involved and the immediate proximity of Maharaj to the top of the ladder, a rather adept maneuver is required to bring this off with some sense of grace and proportion. A visitor learns to keep legs in the stairwell and to execute the bow on emerging. Any alternative method requires a suppleness of spine worthy of an inchworm.
The space is no more than six feet high and was created many years ago by dividing the front room of this two-room suite in half vertically. There are numerous opportunities to impale one's head. A heavy central beam, at least six by six inches, has three heavy books for hanging large bells during ceremonies. On the side of the beam facing Tenth Lane, there is a metal rod, perhaps half an inch in diameter, extending from one side of the room to another. From this rod, at its easternmost end toward the outside wall of Vanmali Bhavan, hangs a heavy brass with a base diameter of about six inches. This bell would swell the chest of any respectable yachtsman. We shall hear more about this later.
I do not know how long Maharaj has been in this space, but it feels like a very long time. Maybe as long as 50 years, since this is also the location of his beedie shop, now boarded up below, which was his business before his spiritual enlightenment and, I understand, for some years afterwards. Beedies are very potent Indian cigarettes with an acrid, quite vile-smelling smoke. They are made by rolling some crumbled tobacco in a small leaf finished off with a wisp of colored string which also clues the addict as to which end to light while holding the whole thing together. In honor of his former trade or, perhaps more accurately, in testimony to the addictive powers of the beedie, Maharaj chain-smokes the little devils. It was hinted that Maharaj still helps out on beedie rolling now and then. His son carries on the family trade in a tiny alcove shop just down the alley to the east before the tea shop on the corner.
Maharaj states his age (at the time of my visit) as 82 years of suffering in this body. He says so or, more correctly, is translated as having said so in his native Marathi, with a wry smile and toss of his eyebrows, hinting that it may not have been all that bad.
The room has a patina and shine coming from much rubbing and wiping on its objects and surfaces. The floor is covered with a collection of rugs and carpets typical of the "as-is" section of a Goodwill store. My guess, nevertheless, is that a shrewd rug merchant would be delighted with some of them.
There are two low windows, one to the south facing Tenth Lane and the other in the eastern wall about two thirds back into the room. This latter opening is to a narrow space between buildings. The view includes a bit of rusted-through, corrugated roofing fallen from the adjacent building, some crumbling masonry, and various metal-reinforcing rods festooned with bits of cloth of indeterminate ancestry and circumstance. The windows are masked on the inside by heavy wire mesh. Both walls, what little is uncovered, and wire mesh were painted the same bilious green once dear to American hospitals. On opposite sides of the room about three feet or so back from the front wall along the longer side walls are two quite old appearing but once fine mirrors now losing their silvering here and there. By carefully placing oneself, there are reflections of a multitude of self-images.
At the far interior end of the room is a wooden case and chest of drawers laden with important-looking articles and secret recesses containing items for ceremonies and Maharaj's personal needs. Toward the side and above the low windows can be found a set of cushions, a backrest and two folded animal skins lined with velvet cloth. I have not seen this group of articles used during my visits, and sense that these were used during the late-night sessions, which were attended primarily by Maharaj's Indian devotees and conducted in Marathi with no translation offered.
By the center of the wall, also on top of the case mentioned above, is an elaborate (for these circumstances) altar arrangement backed by a large, silver-framed picture or a stern-visaged Indian of apparent importance garbed in a richly decorated uniform of Western cut. My impression was that this was a previous lineage holder of the Maharaj title now held by Nisargadatta. The altar itself has many silver pieces of differing sizes and shapes. A small flame burns continuously in a tall stand centered on the picture. There are two impressive lions on duty flanking the altar and heavy drapings along the edges of the frame. The base and panels are deeply embossed silver of complex designs and reliefs. There is no doubt that this altar arrangement holds significance to those who regularly attend Maharaj in this space.
Around the perimeter, in those areas not occupied by mirrors, altar and throne cushions, a wainscoting runs along about four feet above the floor. Oh, yes, I must also mention two formidable oil paintings of the current Maharaj. One is placed to the interior side of the altar arrangement mentioned. Under this portrait and between the altar case and a big dark wooden armoire is a tiny square of floor that became my refuge and support during the painful hours spent on that hard floor. The second portrait hangs on the interior (western) wall between the mirror and the front wall. Against the opposite wall lies a pile of cushions. Upon and above the wainscoting is a collection of framed representations of human faces and bodies, mostly photographs of various vintages. I recognized several that would be of Maharaj, and one of Ramana Maharshi. Another, more a drawing than a photograph (but who is to know?), conveys the impression of Babaji, the Avatar dear to Yogananda (Founder of the Self-Realization Fellowship). The others were unknown to me and ranged from additional figures in fancy dress similar to the distinguished gentleman over the altar to those in simple dhoti or loincloth pictured in various yogic poses with faces composed in samadhi or spiritual rest. When, during a slack moment, I ventured to ask the translator whom some of these visages may represent, Maharaj (who purports to know no English) sternly wagged his finger at me, fixed me with one of his dark looks of great import and let lose a torrent of words which were translated as, "When you know who you are, you will know who they are!" That was followed instantly, if not simultaneously—so quick are his changes—by the kind of merry twinkle old Saint Nick is supposed to have given before laying finger to nose and disappearing up the chimney with a "Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night."
Minor details abound. There is a trap door with counter-weight which folds up to the interior wall. Above the trap door is a small railing to warn the unwary. At the head of the ladder, high on the wall right under the central beam, is a round, brass-cased doorbell button. This button, when pushed, rings a buzzer down in the living quarters below. Maharaj, at the start of bhajans (the chanting ceremonies), would stalk about the room banging cymbals mightily and glaring at the head of the ladder in expectation of the desired attendance of his family. They would hardly ever put in an appearance, but Maharaj would scowl and go over to push many times upon the button. Sometimes his [last surviving] daughter would come up and join in and, satisfied, Maharaj would go back to intent concentration on his cymbals.
To the front left are some small shelves with items related to housekeeping. You should also know that Maharaj sleeps in this room. The pile of cushions in the eastern corner conceals the bedding and frame which are brought out and assembled by his daughter for the afternoon nap and nighttime sleep. And, on the two window sills, both about eight inches deep (the thickness of the walls), are flower vases, water pitchers, metal stands, trays, and ashtrays. Yes, holy ashtrays (sounds like something from "L'il Orphan Annie" or "Batman" comics). Maharaj's endless succession of beedies comes out of a silver box kept by his side. The silver looks almost worn through to the wood of the box. He seemingly is involved with lighting a beedie or new stick of incense almost all the time. He used one of those Ronson type coffee-table butane lighters (given to him by some admirer) with a childlike fascination in its workings yet carried off with a casual aplomb.
I was there during a better part of the year, I was told, yet the air in Bombay, at least during my visit, averaged a stage-two smog alert by Los Angeles standards. Maharaj carefully keeps ten or more sticks of incense burning from his seven incense holders. His favorites seemed to be "pacholi" and "Everest." At times other than discourses—i.e., bhajans, readings, puja (worship)— additional incense would be lit before the altar and at other places in the room. As though that were not enough, ritual camphor was burned at least three times daily. All of this contributes richly to the patina constantly applied and dutifully rubbed. Needless to say, the reek of Maharaj's omnipresent beedies was well camouflaged.
- Milo Clark, A Day with Maharaj
