About the Book
The book chronicles the life and teachings of Sri Ramanuja in extensive detail, spanning multiple chapters. It delves into his early years, initiation, discipleship, and philosophical contributions. The narrative explores key moments, including his conflicts, conversions, and spiritual journeys. Through anecdotes and teachings, it illustrates Ramanuja's impact on Carnatic music and Hindu philosophy. The text also examines his disciples and philosophical hierarchy. With rich historical insights and spiritual depth, it offers a comprehensive portrayal of Ramanuja's life, teachings, and legacy, enriching our understanding of Vaishnavism and Indian spirituality.
About the Author
C. R. Srinivasa Iyengar, a prominent figure in Carnatic music, remains shrouded in mystery despite his significant contributions. Graduating from Saidapet Teachers' College in the 1880s, he later taught at SPG College Trichy and Sanskrit College, Madras. Renowned for his expertise in Jayadeva and Tyagaraja's compositions, he served as The Hindu's music critic. Notable for his meticulous notation of Tyagaraja's songs, he earned titles like Abhinava Tyagabrahma and Kirtanacharya, leaving a lasting legacy in music. He is known to have organised music concerts at the Madhava Perumal Temple, Mylapore in the 1930s. By the late 1930s he was ill and passed away shortly thereafter. His book Indian Dance (Natya & Nrtya) was published posthumously in 1948.
Preface
It was night, and silence still reigned over the place-silence in the author's study, save for the tickings of the clock on the mantel piece, the ominous heart-beats of Father Time: silence without, save for the sighing breeze, wafting through the open window the distant hum of the busy city, as, like a wilful child, it sobbed itself to sleep.
In his den the author sat, his legs on the table before him, and his chair tilted back, in Yankee fashion, at an angle that was dangerously close to the line of equilibrium. He was in a fix, the author; before him, on the table, lay the last letter from his patient, long-suffering publisher, calling, in no gentle tones, for the promised preface that never came. And yet, for the life of him, he could not manage to extract one from his poor over-worked brain. With closed eyes and fingers tightly clasped around his head he sat, as if he would force the unwilling one from out of its dark abode. And upon him thus wrestling with his stubborn Muse, the silent hours stole on. The table lamp flared up, as if in angry protest at being kept awake so late to no purpose; and close upon it the clock struck the hour of midnight.
The last stroke was still upon the air, when there came a knock at the study door, and roused the author from his deep reverie, back to the world and its sorrows. "One more hour," cried he, "another messenger of Time, posting from the dark realms of the Future, on to the regions of the Dead Past. The world has grown older by an hour and I no wiser." With that, there strode into the room, all unbidden, the impatient visitor.
