Sri Ramana Maharshi

Sri Ramana MaharshiQuotesBooksPhotosSelf-enquiryTeachings

Ramana Maharshi Biography

In the final days of December 1879, the little town Tiruchuzhi in South India was in a festive mood. The sound of chanting devotees filled the streets that night, mixed with bells and drums, as a special festival to worship Lord Shiva was taking place. Just after midnight during this auspicious celebration, Bhagavan Sri Ramana Maharshi was born on 30 December 1879, the second son of Sundaram Iyer and Alagammal. His parents named him Venkataraman. His elder brother was Nagaswami, his younger brother was Nagasundaram, and Alamelu was their sister. He grew up happily with his three siblings.

Venkataraman followed primary education in his birth town Tiruchuzhi and Dindukkal. When he was twelve, his father passed away. As his mother was unable to take care of all her children, Venkataraman and his elder brother were offered to live at their paternal uncle’s house to continue their higher education at the American Mission High School in Madurai, which is famous for the Meenakshi Temple.

Though he had a clear and sharp mind and a good memory, he had little interest in school and applied hardly any effort. However he managed average results thanks to his ability to remember things easily by just reading them once.

He enjoyed a healthy body and loved to play ball, wrestle with his classmates and was an excellent swimmer, winning all the races in the Vaigai River. He was good in every sport and no-one would dare to challenge him.

Sometimes his friends played tricks on him when he was asleep. They would carry him out of his bed and outside, made loud noises but failed in waking him up through any effort. The next day he would not even remember what has happened to his body.

At the age of 16, Venkataraman happened to read ‘Periyapuranam’, a book about the lives of 63 saints who lived in South India. He was deeply touched by the saints who lived their life in joyous devotion to God, serving and singing for him.

In November 1895, shortly before his sixteenth birthday, he heard the name Arunachala for the first time. As an elderly relative spoke in praise of the holy mountain, Venkataraman’s heart was filled with joy and wonder. The name resonated deeply within, connected with a feeling of home, and the young boy was stunned that this feeling, this name, existed as an actual place on this earth.

Both of these events might have awoken something in Venkataraman, activated a seed which blossomed up later in the year.

The Great Divine Change

It was on a day in the middle of July in 1896. Venkataraman was sitting alone in a small room upstairs. Though he was not physically ill, a great fear arose in him that he would die. This was not just an imagined or superficial fear, but an actual experience of death. He did not let it worry him. He did not even inform anyone about it. He boldly welcomed the impending death and dared to examine it and find the result of that examination for himself.

“Yes, death has come; let it come. What is death? To whom does he come? To me. Who am I? What is it that dies? Yes, it is this body that dies; let it die”: with this resolution He lay down and stretched out His arms and legs. He closed His lips tightly and remained speechless and breathless, focusing His attention entirely on Himself. He experienced death! What was He becoming aware of at that moment? “Very well, this body is dead. Now it will be taken to the cremation ground and burnt. It will be reduced to ashes. But with the destruction of this body, am I also destroyed? Am I really this body? Untouched by this death that has turned the body into a corpse, I still exist and shine here and now! Then I am not this perishable body. I and it are different. I am the indestructible ‘I’ (Self). Of all things, only I, unbound by the body, am real. The body and the world are destined only for destruction, but I, transcending the body, am the eternal Supreme Thing!”

This true realisation of the Self (atma-jnana) lit up in him as a direct experience, and the fear of death that had risen in him disappeared once and for all. From that time onwards, this state of self-awareness constantly shone in Him as His natural state, unbound by time and space and without increase or decrease. From that moment on the Divine worked through him to remove the suffering of all beings.

Transformation after the awakening

The desire to play, which once appealed to him so much, also disappeared completely from his mind. Love and attachment to friends and relatives also dwindled, as did interest in food and worldly activities. He, who had always fought for right in the past, now became indifferent and no longer reacted in any way to any kind of wrong or right. His earlier way of reacting with harsh blows when someone scolded Him changed, and now a sweet smile of forgiveness and indifference appeared on His face in response! What a wonderful change! Self-awareness transformed Him into a perfect Sadhu. Love, non-violence, patience, compassion, forgiveness, control over the senses, humility, fearlessness – all these divine qualities settled naturally and completely in Him, not as a result of practice, but as a result of self-awareness. For Him, a life of worldly activities was now meaningless, dry and unreal, just as a dream is useless, empty and unreal to the one who has awakened from it.

He was often seen sitting in solitude, absorbed and wallowing in himself. In truth, the former Venkataraman was no more, and Bhagavan Ramana alone shone! An incident that gave a hint of this self-absorption even at the age of twelve occurred in Dindukkal when Venkataraman was studying there, but those who were around Him at that time did not realise its significance and preciousness. One day, when His relatives had gone out, Venkataraman was lying on His bed after locking the house from inside. When they returned, though they knocked on the door and called Him loudly, the door was not opened. After finding another way to enter the house, they again tried to wake Him from His deep sleep by shaking, rolling and beating His body violently. But all in vain, Venkataraman would not wake up! After some time, however, He woke up of His own accord.

Setting off for Arunachala

One day, his teacher asked him to copy an English grammar lesson three times as a punishment. It was Saturday, 29 August 1896. After writing it out twice, Venkataraman put down his pencil, closed his eyes and became absorbed within. His elder brother, Nagaswami, reproached him, questioning the point of keeping up the life of a student when his interests had turned elsewhere. On this occasion, the remark struck home. Venkataraman recognised that it was time to leave. The name Arunachala arose within him, and his decision was made.

As he got up and set out, Nagaswami asked him to fetch five rupees from his aunt to pay his college fees. Sri Ramana Maharshi consulted an old map of the Madras Presidency, which unfortunately did not show the branch line from Villupuram to Katpadi, on whose middle route Tiruvannamalai is situated; hence he thought that Tindivanam was the nearest station to Tiruvannamalai. Of the five rupees his aunt had given him, he took only three. He hurriedly wrote a note and left the house along with the remaining two rupees.

The Journey to Arunachala

With his farewell note left behind, Venkataraman walked to Madurai railway station. He had only a few rupees and an old map to guide him. His destination was Arunachala, the mountain whose name had awakened such a deep recognition in his heart.

The journey was less straightforward than he had imagined. The map did not show the railway connection he needed, and he travelled first towards Villupuram. From there, trains and stretches on foot brought him through unfamiliar towns, with little money left for food. At Arayaninallur he entered the temple and experienced a powerful light, an event he later recalled when speaking about his journey. Near Tirukovilur, he pledged his earrings to obtain the money for the final train. The receipt that might have enabled him to recover them was discarded. His former life was falling away.¹

On the morning of 1 September 1896, the sixteen-year-old arrived in Tiruvannamalai. He walked directly to the great Arunachaleswarar Temple and entered its inner precincts.

The journey from Madurai was over. Before him stood the mountain that had drawn him there. For the remainder of his life, Arunachala would be his home.²

Absorbed in the Self

Soon after his arrival, Venkataraman had his head shaved and gave up his remaining money. He kept only the simplest clothing. With no arrangements for shelter or regular meals, he stayed within the temple grounds, deeply absorbed in the Self.

At first he sat in the thousand-pillared hall. When boys disturbed him, he withdrew into the underground Patala Lingam shrine. There, in the darkness, he remained so unaware of his surroundings that insects bit his legs and wounds developed. The young sadhu depended on others to notice his condition and care for him.

Seshadri Swami, an unusual and much-revered saint already living in Tiruvannamalai, recognised something extraordinary in the boy. He helped protect him, while other devotees brought food and eventually carried him out of the underground shrine.³

Looking back on these years, devotees saw the depth of Ramana's absorption. The photographs and recollections also remind us how young he was. Around this almost silent boy, a small circle of practical care began to form.

Gurumurtam and the First Attendant

During the following months, he stayed in different shrines and gardens. People called him Brahmana Swami. He spoke little, although he had taken no formal vow of silence. Conversation simply held little attraction for him in those early years.

In 1897 he moved to Gurumurtam, a small shrine outside the town. Here Palaniswami became his devoted attendant. Palaniswami watched over him, obtained food and helped protect the quiet in which he lived. His service continued for many years.

Later they stayed in a nearby mango orchard. Visitors were beginning to seek out the young Swami, and news of his whereabouts finally reached his family. An uncle came, hoping to persuade him to return. He found his nephew greatly changed, living with an inward certainty that no family argument could reach.⁴

The outward circumstances remained extremely simple: a little food, somewhere to sit, someone willing to help. Yet people increasingly felt that they had encountered a presence of unusual depth.

A Mother's Plea

In December 1898, his mother Alagammal came to Tiruvannamalai with his elder brother. Ramana was then staying at Pavalakkunru, a small temple on a rocky spur of the hill.

For a mother who had lost her husband and then her son to an unknown destination, the reunion carried years of anxiety. She pleaded with him to come home. He remained silent. Eventually, at another person's request, he wrote a reply.

Its message was uncompromising: events unfold according to a power beyond the individual's control, and peace is found through stillness and acceptance. He did not agree to return.⁵

Alagammal left without him. Their story, however, was far from finished. In time she would return to Arunachala, live beside him and become one of those most closely transformed by his presence. The relationship that began as a mother's longing to recover her son would deepen into the relationship between a devotee and her Guru.

Seventeen Years in Virupaksha Cave

In 1899 Ramana moved onto Arunachala itself. For about seventeen years, Virupaksha Cave became his principal dwelling, with other nearby shelters used at different times.

The cave looks out from the hillside above the town. People climbed the paths to sit near him, bringing questions, food or simply the wish to be quiet in his presence. Gradually, the almost speechless young ascetic became more available to those around him. He answered questions, listened to spiritual texts and explained passages that visitors found difficult.²

His awakening had preceded any systematic study of philosophy. Later, when he encountered the language of Advaita Vedanta, he recognised descriptions of what he already knew directly. The ancient teachings gave words to his experience and a familiar point of entry for those who approached him.⁵

A visitor might come expecting an impressive religious performance. Instead, there was a young man sitting on a hillside, living with remarkable simplicity. The encounter invited a different kind of attention: a willingness to pause and discover what remained when the usual activity of the mind grew quiet.

Who Am I?

Among those who came to the cave was Sivaprakasam Pillai. Around 1902, he put a series of questions to Ramana about the nature of the Self. The answers he preserved became the small work known as Who Am I?

Its central instruction was wonderfully direct. When a thought arises, notice to whom it has appeared. The answer is “to me”. Then turn towards this sense of “me” and enquire, “Who am I?”

The enquiry invites attention to return to the one who is thinking. Instead of following every thought into another story, the seeker becomes interested in the source from which the sense of being a separate person arises.

Ramana taught that the Self is already present. It does not have to be manufactured through spiritual effort. What obscures it is our identification with the body and the restless movement of thought. Self-Enquiry turns attention back towards the simple awareness in which both are known.⁶

The question that had opened so suddenly in a room in Madurai was now being offered to others as a path they could follow for themselves.

How He Became Ramana Maharshi

On 18 November 1907, the Sanskrit scholar and poet Ganapati Muni approached him at Virupaksha Cave. The Muni had studied deeply and practised with great intensity, yet felt that the essential meaning of tapas, spiritual austerity, still eluded him.

He laid his difficulty before the young Swami. Ramana directed him towards the source of the “I”. If the mind turns towards that source and becomes absorbed there, he explained, that is tapas. Similarly, when repeating a mantra, attention can return to the source from which its sound arises.

Ganapati Muni felt that the answer resolved something his learning and effort had left untouched. He recognised the Swami as his Guru and began calling him Bhagavan Sri Ramana Maharshi.⁷

“Ramana” was a shortened form of Venkataraman. “Maharshi” means a great rishi or seer. The name soon spread among devotees, while many continued to address him simply as Bhagavan, a name expressing their love and reverence.

Those Who Came with Grief

Some visitors arrived carrying sorrow that no philosophical explanation could relieve. Echammal had suffered devastating losses in her family before coming to the young sage. Her grief had made ordinary life almost unbearable.

The account preserved by her family describes a profound quietening when she stood before him. She settled in Tiruvannamalai in 1907 and began bringing food to Ramana and those staying with him. This service continued for decades.⁸

Her story reveals something intimate about the community gathering around him. People brought bereavement, fear, devotion, intellectual uncertainty and the small difficulties of daily life. Their meetings with Ramana often found expression afterwards in very practical ways: preparing a meal, carrying provisions uphill or caring for another devotee.

The life around him was sustained by such offerings. Behind the familiar photograph of the solitary sage were many people whose love took the form of quiet, persistent service.

Arunachala, the Beloved

Although Ramana is especially associated with Self-Enquiry, devotion flowed through his life. Arunachala was his Guru and the visible form of the Divine to which he had surrendered everything.

During the Virupaksha years, around 1914–15, he composed Aksharamanamalai, usually translated as The Marital Garland of Letters. Its beginnings were connected with a practical request: his companions wanted a song to sing while going into town for food. What emerged was a garland of 108 verses addressed to Arunachala.

The poem gives voice to longing, surrender and the intimacy of love for the Divine. Its language can be tender, insistent and playful. The devotee asks Arunachala to draw the mind inward and bring separation to an end.⁹

These verses help us feel the warmth within Ramana's teaching. The enquiry into the Self and the surrender of the heart meet in the same inward movement. To those who sing the refrain “Arunachala Siva”, the mountain becomes much more than a place on a map.

Skandashram and His Mother's Return

In 1916 Ramana moved higher up the hillside to Skandashram. His mother had returned to Tiruvannamalai, determined to spend the rest of her life near him. His younger brother, Nagasundaram, also joined the community and later became known as Niranjanananda Swami, or Chinnaswami.

At Skandashram, Alagammal began cooking for the small gathering. The boy who had left his family was now living beside his mother again, under circumstances neither could have imagined at their earlier reunion.

As her health declined, Ramana cared for her closely. On 19 May 1922 he sat beside her during her final hours, resting his hands on her head and heart. Devotees remember this as the completion of her spiritual journey, and Ramana regarded her as liberated.

Her body was buried at the foot of Arunachala. The small shrine established there became the beginning of Sri Ramanasramam.¹⁰

Alagammal's presence remains woven into the history of the ashram. The mother who had once climbed the hill to bring her son home became central to the home that formed around him.

The Beginning of Sri Ramanasramam

Ramana continued visiting his mother's shrine from Skandashram. Towards the end of 1922, he came down the hill and remained there. Those around him began making the simplest arrangements for food and shelter.

There was no grand opening. A place to sit, a thatched shelter and the need to feed whoever came were enough to begin. The community grew around these ordinary necessities. In later years, Ramana described his move as something brought about by a power beyond his personal will.¹¹

Over time, the modest settlement became Sri Ramanasramam. His brother Chinnaswami took on the demanding work of administration. A hall, kitchen, dining facilities and other buildings developed as more people arrived. In 1949, the temple over his mother's samadhi was consecrated.¹⁰

The setting had changed greatly from the caves, yet the centre of life remained a meeting with Bhagavan. People came to sit near him, ask a question, bring an offering or spend some time in the stillness they associated with his presence.

A Teaching Beyond Words

The Old Hall became the place most closely associated with his daily life. Visitors sat on the floor before his couch. Some asked questions; others remained silent.

Ramana valued silence as a direct expression of the Self. He taught that the Guru's deepest work takes place inwardly, and that Grace is already present within the seeker. Many devotees described their minds becoming quiet as they sat near him, even when no instruction had been spoken.¹²

He also answered questions with patience and precision. His words met the person before him: a scholar might receive an explanation through scripture, while another visitor might be asked to examine the simple feeling of being “I”.

This gave the meetings an unusual intimacy. There was room for an honest question and also room to let the question rest. The same man who could explain a subtle point of Advaita could sit quietly while a visitor discovered that the urgency of a problem had softened.

Bhagavan in the Kitchen

Alongside the quiet of the hall was the activity of feeding the community. Ramana took a close interest in the kitchen. He prepared vegetables, helped with cooking and paid attention to details others might overlook.

Sampurnamma, who worked with him, remembered how much she learnt through this shared work. He knew how ingredients should be prepared and allowed very little to be wasted. Even a grain of rice mattered. Vegetables peeled and spices ground before daybreak could be waiting when the kitchen workers arrived.

For those beside him, cooking became a form of spiritual training. Attention, patience and care for others were present in the preparation of an everyday meal.¹³

These recollections bring a human warmth to the familiar image of the Maharshi. A visitor might remember his penetrating gaze; someone in the kitchen might remember the way he rescued an ingredient from being thrown away. Both belonged to the same life. His concern extended into the work through which everyone was fed.

Lakshmi and the Other Devotees

Animals were part of that life too. Photographs and films show Ramana with cows, monkeys and other creatures. Their presence adds something tender to the record of a sage whose teaching spoke of the one Self in all beings.

Among them, the cow Lakshmi held a special place. Ramana visited and caressed her, and devotees remembered the closeness between them. When she died on 18 June 1948, she was given a ceremonial burial within the ashram. Ramana composed an epitaph affirming that she had attained liberation.¹⁴

This is how the event is understood within the ashram tradition. The surviving photographs also preserve something immediately recognisable: affection between a human being and an animal, without distance or ceremony.

For those who lived around Bhagavan, such moments belonged naturally beside meditation and discussion. Care was expressed through noticing another being's needs, making space and responding with tenderness.

The Poet Beside the Sage

In September 1923, the Tamil poet Muruganar came to see Ramana. He brought a poem as an offering and was so moved during the encounter that he could not finish presenting it. His devotion subsequently found expression in a vast body of verse.¹⁵

Muruganar also played an important part in drawing forth Ramana's own writings. At his request, Bhagavan composed Upadesa Undiyar in 1927, later rendered in Sanskrit as Upadesa Saram. Its thirty verses lead the reader through action, devotion, meditation and enquiry towards the recognition of the Self.¹⁶

Other compact works, including Ulladu Narpadu, the Forty Verses on Reality, became central texts for those studying his teaching.²

The conversations in the hall could meet a passing question. The poems and short works gave later generations something to return to slowly. A few lines might be read many times, their meaning becoming clearer through practice and reflection. Around Ramana's silence, a literature of considerable depth was taking shape.

Seekers from Far Away

As the years passed, news of Ramana travelled far beyond South India. The British writer Paul Brunton visited in 1931 and described his meetings with the Maharshi in A Search in Secret India, published in 1934.

Brunton's account brought many new readers into contact with a teacher who had made no journeys to attract them. It conveyed the impression of a search reaching a moment of deep stillness in Ramana's presence.¹⁷

Among those drawn by the book was Major A. W. Chadwick. He arrived in November 1935, settled near Bhagavan and became known as Sadhu Arunachala. He remained associated with the ashram for the rest of his life.¹⁸

People crossed languages, cultures and religious backgrounds to come to this small town. Their reasons varied, as did their experiences. What united many of their recollections was a feeling of coming close to something they had long sought: a peace that could be recognised directly, even before it could be explained.

Papaji Meets His Master

In 1944, H. W. L. Poonja, later known as Papaji, came to Ramanasramam. His spiritual life had been shaped by intense devotion to Krishna, and he approached Ramana with the wish to see God.

In his later recollections, Papaji described how Bhagavan turned his attention towards the one who sees. Even a radiant vision appears and disappears; Ramana's invitation was to discover the awareness in which the vision is known.

Papaji did not immediately embrace the instruction. His account includes resistance, further devotional practice and a return to the Maharshi when his familiar efforts no longer worked in the same way. Under Bhagavan's silent gaze, he recalled, the sense of a separate “I” fell away and his spiritual search came to an end.¹⁹

Through Papaji, many later seekers encountered the direct invitation to be still and recognise the Self. His story is one among many that carry Ramana's influence beyond the people who could physically sit in the Old Hall.

His Final Years

By the late 1940s, Ramana's body was visibly ageing. During 1949 he underwent treatment for a malignant tumour in his left arm. Operations and other medical efforts failed to prevent its return.

Devotees struggled with the thought of losing him. His replies continued to point towards the distinction between the body and the Self. One reassurance was remembered with particular love:

“Where could I go? I am here.”²⁰

On the evening of 14 April 1950, people gathered outside the small room where he lay. They began singing “Arunachala Siva”. Those present recalled his eyes opening, a tender smile and tears at the sound of the hymn. His breathing grew quiet, and at 8:47 p.m. it ceased.²¹

Accounts from that night also describe a bright meteor crossing the sky towards Arunachala. Devotees understood it as an auspicious sign accompanying his passing, an image that became closely associated with their memory of the event.²⁰

Ramana Maharshi was seventy years old. Since arriving as a sixteen-year-old boy in September 1896, he had spent the remaining fifty-four years of his life at Arunachala.²

The Presence That Remains

His body was laid to rest at Ramanasramam, where a shrine marks his samadhi. Visitors continue to sit in the Old Hall, visit the room in which he spent his final days and walk the paths towards Virupaksha Cave and Skandashram.²²

The places make the outline of his life tangible: the great temple, the hillside shelters, his mother's shrine and the hall in which so many conversations unfolded. Yet the teaching brings attention back to something available wherever the seeker may be.

His life continues to bring people to the practices of enquiry and surrender: turning inward, becoming quiet and opening the heart.

The boy who left Madurai had carried very little with him. The legacy of his life is equally direct. Pause, become still and attend to the simple awareness of being. The question remains open for each of us: Who am I?