Russia—: A Glimpse of Omniscience and the Return to Silence

Here is the paradox made flesh.
The sage who has died to the world, sits quietly reading its news.

Not to collect opinions, not to join the game of fear or excitement —
but simply because life brings a newspaper and the eyes are free to see.

It was the middle of the night — June 10, 1940.

The radio had just announced the fall of Paris to Germany and Italy’s entry into the war against the Allies. The world was cracking open.

“It was June 10, 1940. The radio announced the fall of Paris to Germany and the entry of Italy into the war against the Allies. At about 3 a.m., Bhagavan, Narayana Iyer and myself were at work in the grinding room. I had just heard a rumour that to counteract the action of Italy, Turkey had declared war on the side of the Allies. I asked Narayana Iyer, who was the latest arrival from the town whether he had heard any such announcement on the radio. Before Narayana Iyer could reply. Bhagavan Himself said ‘No, it cannot be true’. Narayana Iyer confirmed this rare reply of Bhagavan, and turning to me, observed ‘France, a first-rate Power has fallen in three days. Then do you think our Britain can hold out longer than three weeks at the most?’ Upon this, Bhagavan again observed ‘Um! – but Russia –’. Abruptly Bhagavan cut short his speech and resumed silence. Neither of us had the courage to ask Bhagavan what Russia was going to do, though it appeared strange that Bhagavan should mention Russia who was at that time friendly to Germany. It will be remembered that war broke out between Germany and Russia only one year afterwards, and it was in fact Germany’s attack on Russia that turned the tide of fortune in favour of the Allies. Here was afforded a peep into the Omniscience of this seeming recluse who was supposed to know nothing of the world.”
— My Reminiscences, G.V. Subbaramayya

 

Historical Background: June 1940

To feel the full weight of this moment, we must remember what June 1940 was like.

The Fall of France

France — considered one of the great military powers of the world — had been crushed in a matter of weeks by Germany’s blitzkrieg. Paris fell on June 10, and the French government was fleeing south. The sense of shock across the world was profound: if France could collapse so quickly, was anything secure?

Britain on the Brink

Britain was reeling from the evacuation of Dunkirk and bracing for invasion. Most observers believed Britain could hold out for only a few weeks without either surrendering or being overrun. Narayana Iyer’s remark to Subbaramayya — “Do you think our Britain can hold out longer than three weeks?” — was not exaggeration, but the common mood of the time.

Russia and Germany — Friends, Not Foes

At that moment, the Soviet Union was not the savior of Europe but Germany’s ally. The Molotov–Ribbentrop Pact had been signed less than a year earlier (August 1939), resulting in the joint invasion and partition of Poland. In September 1939, German and Soviet troops even held a joint military parade in Brest-Litovsk, a public celebration of their victory.
For Bhagavan to mention “Russia—” as the factor that would change the course of the war was therefore astonishing. To anyone following world news, Russia seemed firmly on Germany’s side and unlikely to intervene.

The Turning Point to Come

Yet, one year later, Germany launched Operation Barbarossa — the invasion of the Soviet Union — opening the Eastern Front and ultimately turning the tide of the war in favor of the Allies. Subbaramayya himself notes this in hindsight: Bhagavan’s single word was a glimpse of the future, spoken when that future was unimaginable.

The Abrupt Silence

More than the word itself — Russia — what lingers is the way Bhagavan stopped.
Subbaramayya notes that Bhagavan cut short his speech abruptly and returned to silence.

This was not a leisurely pause. It was as if a curtain was pulled shut in an instant.
The grinding room fell quiet, and neither Narayana Iyer nor Subbaramayya dared to ask for elaboration.

A Glimpse, Then the Door Closes

Bhagavan rarely commented on world events, and almost never made statements about the future. This single word felt like an overflow — a glimpse of knowledge from beyond the human perspective. But as soon as it came out, he seemed to recognize he had said enough. The door closed, leaving only silence.

Why the Silence Matters

This is perhaps the most important part of the incident. Bhagavan’s withdrawal was not evasion — it was teaching.

• It prevented curiosity from running wild and kept the minds of the listeners from clinging to prediction.

• It preserved humility, cutting off any sense that Bhagavan was displaying omniscience.

• It pointed back to the Self, where even knowledge of future events is secondary to stillness.

The silence was the true upadeśa — the real instruction.
It told the listeners, and us, that even when one knows the turnings of history, the highest state is to remain unmoved.

Lessons for the Sādhaka

What remains from this story is not the politics of 1940, nor the satisfaction that Bhagavan “knew” the future.
What remains is the way he stood in that moment — the poise, the clarity, the sudden return to silence.

Imagine yourself there: the night is heavy with war news, fear is in the air, the grinding stones are turning. Someone wonders aloud whether Britain can last three weeks. Bhagavan does not shrug it off, does not reassure, does not speculate. A single word rises: “Russia—”.
And then — nothing.
The room falls back into stillness.

This is the first lesson: to be steady when the world shakes.
Paris has fallen, and yet Bhagavan’s eyes do not flicker. Fear is a wave on the surface, but the depths remain calm. The sādhaka learns to stay in those depths, no matter how loud the headlines scream.

The second lesson comes with the word itself. It is not manufactured by thought — it comes unbidden, like a breeze through an open window. True knowing is spontaneous. When we are quiet enough, the right response rises on its own — not forced, not guessed, not argued into being.

The third lesson is in the cutting-off. The very moment he senses he has said enough, Bhagavan stops. Not gradually — abruptly. Speech is guarded like a sacred fire; if one spark too many flies out, the fire is closed. For us, this is a call to watch our own words, to notice when speech has begun to wander away from necessity.

The fourth lesson is subtle: the disciples do not press for more. They do not ask, “Bhagavan, what do you mean by Russia?” They know that to chase meaning now would be to cheapen the moment. Do not cling to predictions or build castles on intuition. Let the glimpse be enough, and turn back to your own sādhanā.

And finally, the deepest lesson: return to silence.
Everything begins in silence and ends in silence. Even the word that can change the course of history must dissolve back into stillness. This is where Bhagavan leaves us — not with a map of the future, but with the taste of the eternal present.

Closing Reflection

Each of us has our own June 1940.
Moments when the world seems to collapse — when Paris falls, when the future looks like three weeks of darkness at most.

In those moments, we can remember this scene:
a quiet room, a turning stone, a sage who does not look away.
A single word is spoken, then cut off, and the night is filled with silence.

This is the posture we are invited to take.
Not to predict the future or outguess destiny —
but to stand steady, let insight rise when it must,
and then let it go, falling back into stillness.

Empires may fall, wars may rage, the mind may tremble —
but there is something in us that does not move.
Bhagavan points to that, not with arguments but with silence.
And if we can stay there, just for a moment,
we will find that even our own private wars lose their power.