Later that day, when I tried to resume my chanting, I found that I could not repeat the name of Krishna any more. Somehow, my mind refused to cooperate.

I couldn’t read any of my spiritual books either. My mind, thought-­free and quiet, refused to concentrate on or pay attention to any of the spiritual objects I tried to put in front of it. It was all very mystifying. For a quarter of a century the divine name had been flowing effortlessly through my mind; now I couldn’t even utter it once.

I immediately went to see the head of the Ramakrishna Mission in Madras, a man called Swami Kailasananda, and told him that I was having problems with my sadhana. I ex­plained that I had been chanting the name of God for years and that I had also been reading many spiritual books. Now, I told him, no matter how hard I try, my mind will not focus on anything to do with God.

Swami Kailasananda responded by telling me that this was what Christian mystics call ‘the dark night of the soul’. It is a stage in sadhana, he said, in which the practitioner finds, after years of effort, that practice suddenly becomes very hard or unrewarding. After asking me not to give up trying, he told me to come and attend the regular satsangs which were being held at the Mission because he felt that in such an atmosphere I might find it easier to resume my thoughts of God. I didn’t find his advice very satisfactory. I never went back, nor did I ever attend any meetings. I went to several other well-known swamis in Madras, but they all told me more or less the same thing: ‘Don’t give up trying, attend our satsangs, and we are sure that the prob­lem will soon go away.’

I never attended any of these meetings, partly because I didn’t think much of the advice, and partly because I didn’t think that these people were qualified to advise me. Though I could see that they were quite good sadhaks, I also felt that they had not had a direct experience of God, an ex­perience which would, in my opinion, have made them more qualified to pass judgement on my case.

My thoughts turned once more to the Maharshi in Tiruvannamalai. I had recently had a vision of him in my puja room in which he had stood smiling before me.

He had not said anything to me and at the time I had not at­tributed much significance to the appearance. Now I began to revise my opinion.

This man,’ I thought, ‘came all the way to the Punjab in some form, appeared at my door and directed me to come and see him at Tiruvannamalai. I went there and got a very good experience when I sat with him. This man must be qualified to advise me. Perhaps his appearance in my room here means that he wants me to go and see him again in Tiruvannamalai. Anyway, since there is no one else in Madras whose opinion I value, I may as well go to him and see what he has to say.’ I still had no interest in his philosophy, but I did recollect that I had been quite attracted by his personality and presence.