Buddhist
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Former Chief Minister of Tamil Nadu Dr. M G Ramachandran was cremated
at this spot. MGR was a very popular Film Hero and was fondly called
Puratchi Thalaivar ( Revolutionary Leader) by his fans for his People
friendly reforms.
Edit: I got the idea of the new title when typing out this reply. The old title was "MGR Samadhi Silhouette".
The Samadhi Hall at Sri Ramanasramam in Tiruvannamalai, India, houses the physical resting place (samadhi) of the revered 20th-century sage, Sri Ramana Maharshi. Built at the foothills of the holy Arunachala hill, the serene hall is designed with polished black granite pillars and a white marble lotus topped by a sacred Shiva Lingam.
"... be as scary as my sister!"
This is one of our boarders at work. I took two photos of her - this is NOT the photo I sent to her dad. When I asked him about Samadhi in order to feature her on social media, he said that she loves people and is the sweetest cat. In fact, "she is as sweet as her sister is devilish". Yikes.
Happy Caturday: If I could, then I would
As the Mughal Empire crumbled, various regional leaders declared their independence from the empire and established their autonomous principalities. The Sikhs in the northwestern region of the empire became self-governing, yet competitive rulers. Maharajah Ranjit Singh united the quarreling Sikh fiefdoms and established the Sikh Empire in 1799 with Lahore being its capital. The Sikh Empire came to an end in 1849, after being defeated and annexed by the British Empire.
The Samadhi is the temple where some of Ranjit Singh's ashes are enshrined, thus being a major monument of the Sikh religion. It is located adjacent to the Badshahi Mosque and the Lahore Fort.
Take then the music, plunge in the thickest of it,
Thickest, darkest, richest: call it a forest,
A million boles of trees, with leaves, leaves,
Golden and green, flashing like scales in the sun...
-- Conrad Aiken
at the tomb / shrine of Sri Ramana Maharshi
in the preceding picture one of the vedic school boys drives the dog out...
"When the Buddha had finished preaching this Sutra, he sat with his legs crossed in lotus position and entered into the samadhi of the place of immeasurable meanings, his body and mind never moving. At that time heaven rained down mandarava flowers, great mandarava flowers, manjushaka flowers, and great manjushaka flowers, scattering them over the Buddha and over the great assembly, and everywhere the Buddha world quaked and trembled in six different ways."
--
Zenit 12XP
Helios 44M-4
Kentmere 100
The bell fades.
No one chases it.
Steam rises from the cup
and forgets its shape.
Children shout in the distance —
Alive! Alive!
The raven stands
where the path narrows.
I breathe.
The world breathes.
Nothing attained.
Everything here.
No thunder,
just the quiet fall of breath.
Blanket wrapped,
thoughts drip away.
Last night’s laughter
still echoes in the hall —
gentle rain,
gentle heart,
and the cheering crowd
fading into peace.
Whatever happens, let it happen; whatever does not happen, let it not happen. A mind with this attitude will be well established in the Self.
(Padamalai 109)
Evening Puja at the inner sanctum of Matrubhuteshvara Temple, the samadhi (shrine/grave) of the mother of Sri Ramana Maharshi. January 2012
Of what avail is knowing things
Other than the Self? And the Self being known,
What other thing is there to know?
That one light that shines as many selves,
Seeing this Self within
As Awareness' lighting flash;
The play of Grace; the ego's death;
The blossoming of Bliss.
from Atma Vidya (Self Knowledge) of Sri Ramana Maharshi
statue of Sri Ramana in the samadhi hall
Breathing in, I touch the sorrow I have caused.
Breathing out, I hold it with compassion.
Breathing in, I smile at the miracle of being.
Breathing out, I ask—why not joy?
Desire rises
before the name for it—
a red thread
drawn through darkness.
I follow it nowhere.
Breath enters the hara.
White light
opens without a door.
For a moment
the koan has no words,
the body no boundary.
Then the thread loosens.
Morning waits
on the other side
of the bell.
The bell fades.
No one chases it.
Steam rises from the cup
and forgets its shape.
Children shout in the distance —
Alive! Alive!
The raven stands
where the path narrows.
I breathe.
The world breathes.
Nothing attained.
Everything here.
Sound opened like a wound;
I looked — and found my face.
May I meet the one I resist with open hands.
Sound fell away; only light remained.
“Everything that we call invention, discovery in the highest sense, is an outward manifestation, the realization of the original sense of truth, which, having developed long ago in silence, unexpectedly, with lightning speed, leads to fruitful cognition. It is on external things from within a developing revelation that gives a person a premonition of his god-likeness. This is a synthesis of the world and spirit, giving the most blissful confidence in the eternal harmony of being.”
Goethe's “doctrine of color. Theory of Knowledge
Beauty appears
when nothing is held—
dew on the grass,
the day already leaving.
Life moves like this:
entering, departing,
the same wind through different doors—
no need to ask its name.
Black ink, white page—
the sword pauses mid-stroke.
In the space between yes and no,
a sparrow lands.
Night insists on enemies.
Snow forgets their names.
What does not choose a side
lays down every weapon.
in the quietest breath
the body forgets itself
words crumble
like shells dissolving in tide pools
nothing to think
nothing to hold—
just the faint pulse
of someone sitting
alive
and free.
Before the word
a door of water.
Before the door
white emptiness turning.
Breath enters
the nameless place—
and returns
wearing no face.
Somewhere
a bell becomes silence.
Nothing crosses.
Still,
the river moves.
Before the word
a door of water.
Before the door
white emptiness turning.
Breath enters
the nameless place—
and returns
wearing no face.
Somewhere
a bell becomes silence.
Nothing crosses.
Still,
the river moves.
No road beneath these folded legs.
No summit hidden in the mist.
The crow laughs.
The kite circles.
Breath enters,
breath leaves.
The mountain does not meditate.
The river does not awaken.
Just this cushion.
Just this breath.
When the bell falls silent,
even silence
keeps sitting.
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Breathing in sorrow,
breathing out joy—
the lungs become prayer wheels.
Mind says nonsense.
You laugh.
Even absurdity
is carried kindly
through the chest.