Autobiography

of a Yogi

By

Paramhansa Yogananda

CHAPTER: 1
My Parents and Early Life

The characteristic features of Indian culture have long been a search for
ultimate verities and the concomitant disciple-guru relationship. My own path
led me to a Christlike sage whose beautiful life was chiseled for the ages. He
was one of the great masters who are India's sole remaining wealth. Emerging
in every generation, they have bulwarked their land against the fate of
Babylon and Egypt.
I find my earliest memories covering the anachronistic features of a
previous incarnation. Clear recollections came to me of a distant life, a yogi
amidst the Himalayan snows. These glimpses of the past, by some
dimensionless link, also afforded me a glimpse of the future.
The helpless humiliations of infancy are not banished from my mind. I was
resentfully conscious of not being able to walk or express myself freely.
Prayerful surges arose within me as I realized my bodily impotence. My
strong emotional life took silent form as words in many languages. Among the
inward confusion of tongues, my ear gradually accustomed itself to the
circumambient Bengali syllables of my people. The beguiling scope of an
infant's mind! adultly considered limited to toys and toes.
Psychological ferment and my unresponsive body brought me to many
obstinate crying-spells. I recall the general family bewilderment at my distress.
Happier memories, too, crowd in on me: my mother's caresses, and my first
attempts at lisping phrase and toddling step. These early triumphs, usually
forgotten quickly, are yet a natural basis of self-confidence.
My far-reaching memories are not unique. Many yogis are known to have
retained their self-consciousness without interruption by the dramatic
transition to and from "life" and "death." If man be solely a body, its loss
indeed places the final period to identity. But if prophets down the
millenniums spake with truth, man is essentially of incorporeal nature. The
persistent core of human egoity is only temporarily allied with sense
perception.
Although odd, clear memories of infancy are not extremely rare. During
travels in numerous lands, I have listened to early recollections from the lips
of veracious men and women.
I was born in the last decade of the nineteenth century, and passed my first
eight years at Gorakhpur. This was my birthplace in the United Provinces of
northeastern India. We were eight children: four boys and four girls. I,
Mukunda Lal Ghosh, was the second son and the fourth child.
Father and Mother were Bengalis, of the kshatriya caste. Both were blessed
with saintly nature. Their mutual love, tranquil and dignified, never expressed
itself frivolously. A perfect parental harmony was the calm center for the
revolving tumult of eight young lives.
Father, Bhagabati Charan Ghosh, was kind, grave, at times stern. Loving
him dearly, we children yet observed a certain reverential distance. An
outstanding mathematician and logician, he was guided principally by his
intellect. But Mother was a queen of hearts, and taught us only through love.
After her death, Father displayed more of his inner tenderness. I noticed then
that his gaze often metamorphosed into my mother's.
In Mother's presence we tasted our earliest bitter-sweet acquaintance with
the scriptures. Tales from the mahabharata and ramayana were resourcefully
summoned to meet the exigencies of discipline. Instruction and chastisement
went hand in hand.
A daily gesture of respect to Father was given by Mother's dressing us
carefully in the afternoons to welcome him home from the office. His position
was similar to that of a vice-president, in the Bengal-Nagpur Railway, one of
India's large companies. His work involved traveling, and our family lived in
several cities during my childhood.
Mother held an open hand toward the needy. Father was also kindly
disposed, but his respect for law and order extended to the budget. One
fortnight Mother spent, in feeding the poor, more than Father's monthly
income.
"All I ask, please, is to keep your charities within a reasonable limit." Even
a gentle rebuke from her husband was grievous to Mother. She ordered a
hackney carriage, not hinting to the children at any disagreement.
"Good-by; I am going away to my mother's home." Ancient ultimatum!
We broke into astounded lamentations. Our maternal uncle arrived
opportunely; he whispered to Father some sage counsel, garnered no doubt
from the ages. After Father had made a few conciliatory remarks, Mother
happily dismissed the cab. Thus ended the only trouble I ever noticed between
my parents. But I recall a characteristic discussion.
"Please give me ten rupees for a hapless woman who has just arrived at the
house." Mother's smile had its own persuasion.
"Why ten rupees? One is enough." Father added a justification: "When my
father and grandparents died suddenly, I had my first taste of poverty. My only
breakfast, before walking miles to my school, was a small banana. Later, at the
university, I was in such need that I applied to a wealthy judge for aid of one
rupee per month. He declined, remarking that even a rupee is important."
"How bitterly you recall the denial of that rupee!" Mother's heart had an
instant logic. "Do you want this woman also to remember painfully your
refusal of ten rupees which she needs urgently?"
"You win!" With the immemorial gesture of vanquished husbands, he
opened his wallet. "Here is a ten-rupee note. Give it to her with my good will."
Father tended to first say "No" to any new proposal. His attitude toward
the strange woman who so readily enlisted Mother's sympathy was an example
of his customary caution. Aversion to instant acceptance- typical of the French
mind in the West-is really only honoring the principle of "due reflection." I
always found Father reasonable and evenly balanced in his judgments. If I
could bolster up my numerous requests with one or two good arguments, he
invariably put the coveted goal within my reach, whether it were a vacation
trip or a new motorcycle.
Father was a strict disciplinarian to his children in their early years, but his
attitude toward himself was truly Spartan. He never visited the theater, for
instance, but sought his recreation in various spiritual practices and in reading
the bhagavad gita. Shunning all luxuries, he would cling to one old pair of
shoes until they were useless. His sons bought automobiles after they came
into popular use, but Father was always content with the trolley car for his
daily ride to the office. The accumulation of money for the sake of power was
alien to his nature. Once, after organizing the Calcutta Urban Bank, he refused
to benefit himself by holding any of its shares. He had simply wished to
perform a civic duty in his spare time.
Several years after Father had retired on a pension, an English accountant
arrived to examine the books of the Bengal-Nagpur Railway Company. The
amazed investigator discovered that Father had never applied for overdue
bonuses.
"He did the work of three men!" the accountant told the company. "He has
rupees 125,000 (about $41,250.) owing to him as back compensation." The
officials presented Father with a check for this amount. He thought so little
about it that he overlooked any mention to the family. Much later he was
questioned by my youngest brother Bishnu, who noticed the large deposit on a
bank statement.
"Why be elated by material profit?" Father replied. "The one who pursues
a goal of evenmindedness is neither jubilant with gain nor depressed by loss.
He knows that man arrives penniless in this world, and departs without a
single rupee."
 Early in their married life, my parents became disciples of a great master,
Lahiri Mahasaya of Benares. This contact strengthened Father's naturally
ascetical temperament. Mother made a remarkable admission to my eldest
sister Roma: "Your father and myself live together as man and wife only once
a year, for the purpose of having children."
Father first met Lahiri Mahasaya through Abinash Babu, an employee in
the Gorakhpur office of the Bengal-Nagpur Railway. Abinash instructed my
young ears with engrossing tales of many Indian saints. He invariably
concluded with a tribute to the superior glories of his own guru.
"Did you ever hear of the extraordinary circumstances under which your
father became a disciple of Lahiri Mahasaya?"
It was on a lazy summer afternoon, as Abinash and I sat together in the
compound of my home, that he put this intriguing question. I shook my head
with a smile of anticipation.
"Years ago, before you were born, I asked my superior officer-your father-
to give me a week's leave from my Gorakhpur duties in order to visit my guru
in Benares. Your father ridiculed my plan.
"'Are you going to become a religious fanatic?' he inquired. 'Concentrate
on your office work if you want to forge ahead.'
"Sadly walking home along a woodland path that day, I met your father in
a palanquin. He dismissed his servants and conveyance, and fell into step
beside me. Seeking to console me, he pointed out the advantages of striving
for worldly success. But I heard him listlessly. My heart was repeating: 'Lahiri
Mahasaya! I cannot live without seeing you!'
"Our path took us to the edge of a tranquil field, where the rays of the late
afternoon sun were still crowning the tall ripple of the wild grass. We paused
in admiration. There in the field, only a few yards from us, the form of my
great guru suddenly appeared!
"'Bhagabati, you are too hard on your employee!' His voice was resonant in
our astounded ears. He vanished as mysteriously as he had come. On my
knees I was exclaiming, 'Lahiri Mahasaya! Lahiri Mahasaya!' Your father was
motionless with stupefaction for a few moments.
"'Abinash, not only do I give you leave, but I give myself leave to start for
Benares tomorrow. I must know this great Lahiri Mahasaya, who is able to
materialize himself at will in order to intercede for you! I will take my wife
and ask this master to initiate us in his spiritual path. Will you guide us to
him?'
"'Of course.' Joy filled me at the miraculous answer to my prayer, and the
quick, favorable turn of events.
"The next evening your parents and I entrained for Benares. We took a
horse cart the following day, and then had to walk through narrow lanes to my
guru's secluded home. Entering his little parlor, we bowed before the master,
enlocked in his habitual lotus posture. He blinked his piercing eyes and
leveled them on your father.
"'Bhagabati, you are too hard on your employee!' His words were the same
as those he had used two days before in the Gorakhpur field. He added, 'I am
glad that you have allowed Abinash to visit me, and that you and your wife
have accompanied him.'
"To their joy, he initiated your parents in the spiritual practice of Kriya
Yoga. Your father and I, as brother disciples, have been close friends since the
memorable day of the vision. Lahiri Mahasaya took a definite interest in your
own birth. Your life shall surely be linked with his own: the master's blessing
never fails."
Lahiri Mahasaya left this world shortly after I had entered it. His picture, in
an ornate frame, always graced our family altar in the various cities to which
Father was transferred by his office. Many a morning and evening found
Mother and me meditating before an improvised shrine, offering flowers
dipped in fragrant sandalwood paste. With frankincense and myrrh as well as
our united devotions, we honored the divinity which had found full expression
in Lahiri Mahasaya.
His picture had a surpassing influence over my life. As I grew, the thought
of the master grew with me. In meditation I would often see his photographic
image emerge from its small frame and, taking a living form, sit before me.
When I attempted to touch the feet of his luminous body, it would change and
again become the picture. As childhood slipped into boyhood, I found Lahiri
Mahasaya transformed in my mind from a little image, cribbed in a frame, to a
living, enlightening presence. I frequently prayed to him in moments of trial or
confusion, finding within me his solacing direction. At first I grieved because
he was no longer physically living. As I began to discover his secret
omnipresence, I lamented no more. He had often written to those of his
disciples who were over-anxious to see him: "Why come to view my bones
and flesh, when I am ever within range of your kutastha (spiritual sight)?"
I was blessed about the age of eight with a wonderful healing through the
photograph of Lahiri Mahasaya. This experience gave intensification to my
love. While at our family estate in Ichapur, Bengal, I was stricken with Asiatic
cholera. My life was despaired of; the doctors could do nothing. At my
bedside, Mother frantically motioned me to look at Lahiri Mahasaya's picture
on the wall above my head.
 "Bow to him mentally!" She knew I was too feeble even to lift my hands in
salutation. "If you really show your devotion and inwardly kneel before him,
your life will be spared!"
I gazed at his photograph and saw there a blinding light, enveloping my
body and the entire room. My nausea and other uncontrollable symptoms
disappeared; I was well. At once I felt strong enough to bend over and touch
Mother's feet in appreciation of her immeasurable faith in her guru. Mother
pressed her head repeatedly against the little picture.
"O Omnipresent Master, I thank thee that thy light hath healed my son!"
I realized that she too had witnessed the luminous blaze through which I
had instantly recovered from a usually fatal disease.
One of my most precious possessions is that same photograph. Given to
Father by Lahiri Mahasaya himself, it carries a holy vibration. The picture had
a miraculous origin. I heard the story from Father's brother disciple, Kali
Kumar Roy.
It appears that the master had an aversion to being photographed. Over his
protest, a group picture was once taken of him and a cluster of devotees,
including Kali Kumar Roy. It was an amazed photographer who discovered
that the plate which had clear images of all the disciples, revealed nothing
more than a blank space in the center where he had reasonably expected to
find the outlines of Lahiri Mahasaya. The phenomenon was widely discussed.
A certain student and expert photographer, Ganga Dhar Babu, boasted that
the fugitive figure would not escape him. The next morning, as the guru sat in
lotus posture on a wooden bench with a screen behind him, Ganga Dhar Babu
arrived with his equipment. Taking every precaution for success, he greedily
exposed twelve plates. On each one he soon found the imprint of the wooden
bench and screen, but once again the master's form was missing.
With tears and shattered pride, Ganga Dhar Babu sought out his guru. It
was many hours before Lahiri Mahasaya broke his silence with a pregnant
comment:
"I am Spirit. Can your camera reflect the omnipresent Invisible?"
"I see it cannot! But, Holy Sir, I lovingly desire a picture of the bodily
temple where alone, to my narrow vision, that Spirit appears fully to dwell."
"Come, then, tomorrow morning. I will pose for you."
Again the photographer focused his camera. This time the sacred figure,
not cloaked with mysterious imperceptibility, was sharp on the plate. The
master never posed for another picture; at least, I have seen none.
 The photograph is reproduced in this book. Lahiri Mahasaya's fair features,
of a universal cast, hardly suggest to what race he belonged. His intense joy of
God-communion is slightly revealed in a somewhat enigmatic smile. His eyes,
half open to denote a nominal direction on the outer world, are half closed
also. Completely oblivious to the poor lures of the earth, he was fully awake at
all times to the spiritual problems of seekers who approached for his bounty.
Shortly after my healing through the potency of the guru's picture, I had an
influential spiritual vision. Sitting on my bed one morning, I fell into a deep
reverie.
"What is behind the darkness of closed eyes?" This probing thought came
powerfully into my mind. An immense flash of light at once manifested to my
inward gaze. Divine shapes of saints, sitting in meditation posture in mountain
caves, formed like miniature cinema pictures on the large screen of radiance
within my forehead.
"Who are you?" I spoke aloud.
"We are the Himalayan yogis." The celestial response is difficult to
describe; my heart was thrilled.
"Ah, I long to go to the Himalayas and become like you!" The vision
vanished, but the silvery beams expanded in ever-widening circles to infinity.
"What is this wondrous glow?"
"I am Iswara. I am Light." The voice was as murmuring clouds.
"I want to be one with Thee!"
Out of the slow dwindling of my divine ecstasy, I salvaged a permanent
legacy of inspiration to seek God. "He is eternal, ever-new Joy!" This memory
persisted long after the day of rapture.
Another early recollection is outstanding; and literally so, for I bear the
scar to this day. My elder sister Uma and I were seated in the early morning
under a neem tree in our Gorakhpur compound. She was helping me with a
Bengali primer, what time I could spare my gaze from the near-by parrots
eating ripe margosa fruit. Uma complained of a boil on her leg, and fetched a
jar of ointment. I smeared a bit of the salve on my forearm.
"Why do you use medicine on a healthy arm?"
"Well, Sis, I feel I am going to have a boil tomorrow. I am testing your
ointment on the spot where the boil will appear."
"You little liar!"
"Sis, don't call me a liar until you see what happens in the morning."
Indignation filled me.
Uma was unimpressed, and thrice repeated her taunt. An adamant
resolution sounded in my voice as I made slow reply.
"By the power of will in me, I say that tomorrow I shall have a fairly large
boil in this exact place on my arm; and your boil shall swell to twice its
present size!"
Morning found me with a stalwart boil on the indicated spot; the
dimensions of Uma's boil had doubled. With a shriek, my sister rushed to
Mother. "Mukunda has become a necromancer!" Gravely, Mother instructed
me never to use the power of words for doing harm. I have always
remembered her counsel, and followed it.
My boil was surgically treated. A noticeable scar, left by the doctor's
incision, is present today. On my right forearm is a constant reminder of the
power in man's sheer word.
Those simple and apparently harmless phrases to Uma, spoken with deep
concentration, had possessed sufficient hidden force to explode like bombs
and produce definite, though injurious, effects. I understood, later, that the
explosive vibratory power in speech could be wisely directed to free one's life
from difficulties, and thus operate without scar or rebuke.
Our family moved to Lahore in the Punjab. There I acquired a picture of
the Divine Mother in the form of the Goddess Kali. It sanctified a small
informal shrine on the balcony of our home. An unequivocal conviction came
over me that fulfillment would crown any of my prayers uttered in that sacred
spot. Standing there with Uma one day, I watched two kites flying over the
roofs of the buildings on the opposite side of the very narrow lane.
"Why are you so quiet?" Uma pushed me playfully.
"I am just thinking how wonderful it is that Divine Mother gives me
whatever I ask."
"I suppose She would give you those two kites!" My sister laughed
derisively.
"Why not?" I began silent prayers for their possession.
Matches are played in India with kites whose strings are covered with glue
and ground glass. Each player attempts to sever the string of his opponent. A
freed kite sails over the roofs; there is great fun in catching it. Inasmuch as
Uma and I were on the balcony, it seemed impossible that any loosed kite
could come into our hands; its string would naturally dangle over the roofs.
The players across the lane began their match. One string was cut;
immediately the kite floated in my direction. It was stationary for a moment,
through sudden abatement of breeze, which sufficed to firmly entangle the
string with a cactus plant on top of the opposite house. A perfect loop was
formed for my seizure. I handed the prize to Uma.
"It was just an extraordinary accident, and not an answer to your prayer. If
the other kite comes to you, then I shall believe." Sister's dark eyes conveyed
more amazement than her words.
I continued my prayers with a crescendo intensity. A forcible tug by the
other player resulted in the abrupt loss of his kite. It headed toward me,
dancing in the wind. My helpful assistant, the cactus plant, again secured the
kite string in the necessary loop by which I could grasp it. I presented my
second trophy to Uma.
"Indeed, Divine Mother listens to you! This is all too uncanny for me!"
Sister bolted away like a frightened fawn.

CHAPTER: 2
My Mother's Death And The Mystic Amulet

My mother's greatest desire was the marriage of my elder brother. "Ah,

when I behold the face of Ananta's wife, I shall find heaven on this earth!" I
frequently heard Mother express in these words her strong Indian sentiment
for family continuity.
I was about eleven years old at the time of Ananta's betrothal. Mother was
in Calcutta, joyously supervising the wedding preparations. Father and I alone
remained at our home in Bareilly in northern India, whence Father had been
transferred after two years at Lahore.
I had previously witnessed the splendor of nuptial rites for my two elder
sisters, Roma and Uma; but for Ananta, as the eldest son, plans were truly
elaborate. Mother was welcoming numerous relatives, daily arriving in
Calcutta from distant homes. She lodged them comfortably in a large, newly
acquired house at 50 Amherst Street. Everything was in readiness-the banquet
delicacies, the gay throne on which Brother was to be carried to the home of
the bride-to-be, the rows of colorful lights, the mammoth cardboard elephants
and camels, the English, Scottish and Indian orchestras, the professional
entertainers, the priests for the ancient rituals.
Father and I, in gala spirits, were planning to join the family in time for the
ceremony. Shortly before the great day, however, I had an ominous vision.
 It was in Bareilly on a midnight. As I slept beside Father on the piazza of
our bungalow, I was awakened by a peculiar flutter of the mosquito netting
over the bed. The flimsy curtains parted and I saw the beloved form of my
mother.
"Awaken your father!" Her voice was only a whisper. "Take the first
available train, at four o'clock this morning. Rush to Calcutta if you would see
me!" The wraithlike figure vanished.
"Father, Father! Mother is dying!" The terror in my tone aroused him
instantly. I sobbed out the fatal tidings.
"Never mind that hallucination of yours." Father gave his characteristic
negation to a new situation. "Your mother is in excellent health. If we get any
bad news, we shall leave tomorrow."
"You shall never forgive yourself for not starting now!" Anguish caused
me to add bitterly, "Nor shall I ever forgive you!"
The melancholy morning came with explicit words: "Mother dangerously
ill; marriage postponed; come at once."
Father and I left distractedly. One of my uncles met us en route at a
transfer point. A train thundered toward us, looming with telescopic increase.
From my inner tumult, an abrupt determination arose to hurl myself on the
railroad tracks. Already bereft, I felt, of my mother, I could not endure a world
suddenly barren to the bone. I loved Mother as my dearest friend on earth. Her
solacing black eyes had been my surest refuge in the trifling tragedies of
childhood.
"Does she yet live?" I stopped for one last question to my uncle.
"Of course she is alive!" He was not slow to interpret the desperation in
my face. But I scarcely believed him.
When we reached our Calcutta home, it was only to confront the stunning
mystery of death. I collapsed into an almost lifeless state. Years passed before
any reconciliation entered my heart. Storming the very gates of heaven, my
cries at last summoned the Divine Mother. Her words brought final healing to
my suppurating wounds:
"It is I who have watched over thee, life after life, in the tenderness of
many mothers! See in My gaze the two black eyes, the lost beautiful eyes,
thou seekest!"
Father and I returned to Bareilly soon after the crematory rites for the well-
beloved. Early every morning I made a pathetic memorial- pilgrimage to a
large sheoli tree which shaded the smooth, green-gold lawn before our
bungalow. In poetical moments, I thought that the white sheoli flowers were
strewing themselves with a willing devotion over the grassy altar. Mingling
tears with the dew, I often observed a strange other-worldly light emerging
from the dawn. Intense pangs of longing for God assailed me. I felt powerfully
drawn to the Himalayas.
One of my cousins, fresh from a period of travel in the holy hills, visited us
in Bareilly. I listened eagerly to his tales about the high mountain abode of
yogis and swamis.
"Let us run away to the Himalayas." My suggestion one day to Dwarka
Prasad, the young son of our landlord in Bareilly, fell on unsympathetic ears.
He revealed my plan to my elder brother, who had just arrived to see Father.
Instead of laughing lightly over this impractical scheme of a small boy, Ananta
made it a definite point to ridicule me.
"Where is your orange robe? You can't be a swami without that!"
But I was inexplicably thrilled by his words. They brought a clear picture
of myself roaming about India as a monk. Perhaps they awakened memories
of a past life; in any case, I began to see with what natural ease I would wear
the garb of that anciently-founded monastic order.
Chatting one morning with Dwarka, I felt a love for God descending with
avalanchic force. My companion was only partly attentive to the ensuing
eloquence, but I was wholeheartedly listening to myself.
I fled that afternoon toward Naini Tal in the Himalayan foothills. Ananta
gave determined chase; I was forced to return sadly to Bareilly. The only
pilgrimage permitted me was the customary one at dawn to the sheoli tree. My
heart wept for the lost Mothers, human and divine.
The rent left in the family fabric by Mother's death was irreparable. Father
never remarried during his nearly forty remaining years. Assuming the
difficult role of Father-Mother to his little flock, he grew noticeably more
tender, more approachable. With calmness and insight, he solved the various
family problems. After office hours he retired like a hermit to the cell of his
room, practicing Kriya Yoga in a sweet serenity. Long after Mother's death, I
attempted to engage an English nurse to attend to details that would make my
parent's life more comfortable. But Father shook his head.
"Service to me ended with your mother." His eyes were remote with a
lifelong devotion. "I will not accept ministrations from any other woman."
Fourteen months after Mother's passing, I learned that she had left me a
momentous message. Ananta was present at her deathbed and had recorded
her words. Although she had asked that the disclosure be made to me in one
year, my brother delayed. He was soon to leave Bareilly for Calcutta, to marry
the girl Mother had chosen for him. One evening he summoned me to his side.
"Mukunda, I have been reluctant to give you strange tidings." Ananta's
tone held a note of resignation. "My fear was to inflame your desire to leave
home. But in any case you are bristling with divine ardor. When I captured
you recently on your way to the Himalayas, I came to a definite resolve. I
must not further postpone the fulfillment of my solemn promise." My brother
handed me a small box, and delivered Mother's message.
"Let these words be my final blessing, my beloved son Mukunda!" Mother
had said. "The hour is here when I must relate a number of phenomenal events
following your birth. I first knew your destined path when you were but a babe
in my arms. I carried you then to the home of my guru in Benares. Almost
hidden behind a throng of disciples, I could barely see Lahiri Mahasaya as he
sat in deep meditation.
"While I patted you, I was praying that the great guru take notice and
bestow a blessing. As my silent devotional demand grew in intensity, he
opened his eyes and beckoned me to approach. The others made a way for me;
I bowed at the sacred feet. My master seated you on his lap, placing his hand
on your forehead by way of spiritually baptizing you.
"'Little mother, thy son will be a yogi. As a spiritual engine, he will carry
many souls to God's kingdom.'
"My heart leaped with joy to find my secret prayer granted by the
omniscient guru. Shortly before your birth, he had told me you would follow
his path.
"Later, my son, your vision of the Great Light was known to me and your
sister Roma, as from the next room we observed you motionless on the bed.
Your little face was illuminated; your voice rang with iron resolve as you
spoke of going to the Himalayas in quest of the Divine.
"In these ways, dear son, I came to know that your road lies far from
worldly ambitions. The most singular event in my life brought further
confirmation-an event which now impels my deathbed message.
"It was an interview with a sage in the Punjab. While our family was living
in Lahore, one morning the servant came precipitantly into my room.
"'Mistress, a strange sadhu is here. He insists that he "see the mother of
Mukunda."'
"These simple words struck a profound chord within me; I went at once to
greet the visitor. Bowing at his feet, I sensed that before me was a true man of
God.
"'Mother,' he said, 'the great masters wish you to know that your stay on
earth will not be long. Your next illness shall prove to be your last.' There was
a silence, during which I felt no alarm but only a vibration of great peace.
Finally he addressed me again:
"'You are to be the custodian of a certain silver amulet. I will not give it to
you today; to demonstrate the truth in my words, the talisman shall materialize
in your hands tomorrow as you meditate. On your deathbed, you must instruct
your eldest son Ananta to keep the amulet for one year and then to hand it over
to your second son. Mukunda will understand the meaning of the talisman
from the great ones. He should receive it about the time he is ready to
renounce all worldly hopes and start his vital search for God. When he has
retained the amulet for some years, and when it has served its purpose, it shall
vanish. Even if kept in the most secret spot, it shall return whence it came.'
"I proffered alms to the saint, and bowed before him in great reverence.
Not taking the offering, he departed with a blessing. The next evening, as I sat
with folded hands in meditation, a silver amulet materialized between my
palms, even as the sadhu had promised. It made itself known by a cold,
smooth touch. I have jealously guarded it for more than two years, and now
leave it in Ananta's keeping. Do not grieve for me, as I shall have been
ushered by my great guru into the arms of the Infinite. Farewell, my child; the
Cosmic Mother will protect you."
A blaze of illumination came over me with possession of the amulet; many
dormant memories awakened. The talisman, round and anciently quaint, was
covered with Sanskrit characters. I understood that it came from teachers of
past lives, who were invisibly guiding my steps. A further significance there
was, indeed; but one does not reveal fully the heart of an amulet.
How the talisman finally vanished amidst deeply unhappy circumstances
of my life; and how its loss was a herald of my gain of a guru, cannot be told
in this chapter.
But the small boy, thwarted in his attempts to reach the Himalayas, daily
traveled far on the wings of his amulet.

CHAPTER: 3
The Saint With Two Bodies

"Father, if I promise to return home without coercion, may I take a sight-

seeing trip to Benares?"
My keen love of travel was seldom hindered by Father. He permitted me,
even as a mere boy, to visit many cities and pilgrimage spots. Usually one or
more of my friends accompanied me; we would travel comfortably on first-
class passes provided by Father. His position as a railroad official was fully
satisfactory to the nomads in the family.
Father promised to give my request due consideration. The next day he
summoned me and held out a round-trip pass from Bareilly to Benares, a
number of rupee notes, and two letters.
"I have a business matter to propose to a Benares friend, Kedar Nath Babu.
Unfortunately I have lost his address. But I believe you will be able to get this
letter to him through our common friend, Swami Pranabananda. The swami,
my brother disciple, has attained an exalted spiritual stature. You will benefit
by his company; this second note will serve as your introduction."
Father's eyes twinkled as he added, "Mind, no more flights from home!"
I set forth with the zest of my twelve years (though time has never dimmed
my delight in new scenes and strange faces). Reaching Benares, I proceeded
immediately to the swami's residence. The front door was open; I made my
way to a long, hall-like room on the second floor. A rather stout man, wearing
only a loincloth, was seated in lotus posture on a slightly raised platform. His
head and unwrinkled face were clean-shaven; a beatific smile played about his
lips. To dispel my thought that I had intruded, he greeted me as an old friend.
"Baba anand (bliss to my dear one)." His welcome was given heartily in a
childlike voice. I knelt and touched his feet.
"Are you Swami Pranabananda?"
He nodded. "Are you Bhagabati's son?" His words were out before I had
had time to get Father's letter from my pocket. In astonishment, I handed him
the note of introduction, which now seemed superfluous.
"Of course I will locate Kedar Nath Babu for you." The saint again
surprised me by his clairvoyance. He glanced at the letter, and made a few
affectionate references to my parent.
"You know, I am enjoying two pensions. One is by the recommendation of
your father, for whom I once worked in the railroad office. The other is by the
recommendation of my Heavenly Father, for whom I have conscientiously
finished my earthly duties in life."
I found this remark very obscure. "What kind of pension, sir, do you
receive from the Heavenly Father? Does He drop money in your lap?"
He laughed. "I mean a pension of fathomless peace-a reward for many
years of deep meditation. I never crave money now. My few material needs
are amply provided for. Later you will understand the significance of a second
pension."
Abruptly terminating our conversation, the saint became gravely
motionless. A sphinxlike air enveloped him. At first his eyes sparkled, as if
observing something of interest, then grew dull. I felt abashed at his
pauciloquy; he had not yet told me how I could meet Father's friend. A trifle
restlessly, I looked about me in the bare room, empty except for us two. My
idle gaze took in his wooden sandals, lying under the platform seat.
"Little sir, don't get worried. The man you wish to see will be with you in
half an hour." The yogi was reading my mind-a feat not too difficult at the
moment!
Again he fell into inscrutable silence. My watch informed me that thirty
minutes had elapsed.
The swami aroused himself. "I think Kedar Nath Babu is nearing the door."
I heard somebody coming up the stairs. An amazed incomprehension arose
suddenly; my thoughts raced in confusion: "How is it possible that Father's
friend has been summoned to this place without the help of a messenger? The
swami has spoken to no one but myself since my arrival!"
Abruptly I quitted the room and descended the steps. Halfway down I met
a thin, fair-skinned man of medium height. He appeared to be in a hurry.
"Are you Kedar Nath Babu?" Excitement colored my voice.
"Yes. Are you not Bhagabati's son who has been waiting here to meet me?"
He smiled in friendly fashion.
"Sir, how do you happen to come here?" I felt baffled resentment over his
inexplicable presence.
"Everything is mysterious today! Less than an hour ago I had just finished
my bath in the Ganges when Swami Pranabananda approached me. I have no
idea how he knew I was there at that time.
"'Bhagabati's son is waiting for you in my apartment,' he said. 'Will you
come with me?' I gladly agreed. As we proceeded hand in hand, the swami in
his wooden sandals was strangely able to outpace me, though I wore these
stout walking shoes.
"'How long will it take you to reach my place?' Pranabanandaji suddenly
halted to ask me this question.
"'About half an hour.'
"'I have something else to do at present.' He gave me an enigmatical
glance. 'I must leave you behind. You can join me in my house, where
Bhagabati's son and I will be awaiting you.'
"Before I could remonstrate, he dashed swiftly past me and disappeared in
the crowd. I walked here as fast as possible."
This explanation only increased my bewilderment. I inquired how long he
had known the swami.
"We met a few times last year, but not recently. I was very glad to see him
again today at the bathing ghat ."
"I cannot believe my ears! Am I losing my mind? Did you meet him in a
vision, or did you actually see him, touch his hand, and hear the sound of his
feet?"
"I don't know what you're driving at!" He flushed angrily. "I am not lying
to you. Can't you understand that only through the swami could I have known
you were waiting at this place for me?"
"Why, that man, Swami Pranabananda, has not left my sight a moment
since I first came about an hour ago." I blurted out the whole story.
His eyes opened widely. "Are we living in this material age, or are we
dreaming? I never expected to witness such a miracle in my life! I thought this
swami was just an ordinary man, and now I find he can materialize an extra
body and work through it!" Together we entered the saint's room.
"Look, those are the very sandals he was wearing at the ghat ," Kedar Nath
Babu whispered. "He was clad only in a loincloth, just as I see him now."
As the visitor bowed before him, the saint turned to me with a quizzical
smile.
"Why are you stupefied at all this? The subtle unity of the phenomenal
world is not hidden from true yogis. I instantly see and converse with my
disciples in distant Calcutta. They can similarly transcend at will every
obstacle of gross matter."
It was probably in an effort to stir spiritual ardor in my young breast that
the swami had condescended to tell me of his powers of astral radio and
television. But instead of enthusiasm, I experienced only an awe-stricken fear.
Inasmuch as I was destined to undertake my divine search through one
particular guru-Sri Yukteswar, whom I had not yet met-I felt no inclination to
accept Pranabananda as my teacher. I glanced at him doubtfully, wondering if
it were he or his counterpart before me.
The master sought to banish my disquietude by bestowing a soul-
awakening gaze, and by some inspiring words about his guru.
"Lahiri Mahasaya was the greatest yogi I ever knew. He was Divinity Itself
in the form of flesh."
If a disciple, I reflected, could materialize an extra fleshly form at will,
what miracles indeed could be barred to his master?
"I will tell you how priceless is a guru's help. I used to meditate with
another disciple for eight hours every night. We had to work at the railroad
office during the day. Finding difficulty in carrying on my clerical duties, I
desired to devote my whole time to God. For eight years I persevered,
meditating half the night. I had wonderful results; tremendous spiritual
perceptions illumined my mind. But a little veil always remained between me
and the Infinite. Even with super-human earnestness, I found the final
irrevocable union to be denied me. One evening I paid a visit to Lahiri
Mahasaya and pleaded for his divine intercession. My importunities continued
during the entire night.
"'Angelic Guru, my spiritual anguish is such that I can no longer bear my
life without meeting the Great Beloved face to face!'
"'What can I do? You must meditate more profoundly.'
"'I am appealing to Thee, O God my Master! I see Thee materialized
before me in a physical body; bless me that I may perceive Thee in Thine
infinite form!'
"Lahiri Mahasaya extended his hand in a benign gesture. 'You may go now
and meditate. I have interceded for you with Brahma.'
"Immeasurably uplifted, I returned to my home. In meditation that night,
the burning Goal of my life was achieved. Now I ceaselessly enjoy the
spiritual pension. Never from that day has the Blissful Creator remained
hidden from my eyes behind any screen of delusion."
Pranabananda's face was suffused with divine light. The peace of another
world entered my heart; all fear had fled. The saint made a further confidence.
"Some months later I returned to Lahiri Mahasaya and tried to thank him
for his bestowal of the infinite gift. Then I mentioned another matter.
"'Divine Guru, I can no longer work in the office. Please release me.
Brahma keeps me continuously intoxicated.'
"'Apply for a pension from your company.'
"'What reason shall I give, so early in my service?'
"'Say what you feel.'
"The next day I made my application. The doctor inquired the grounds for
my premature request.
 "'At work, I find an overpowering sensation rising in my spine. It
permeates my whole body, unfitting me for the performance of my duties.'
"Without further questioning the physician recommended me highly for a
pension, which I soon received. I know the divine will of Lahiri Mahasaya
worked through the doctor and the railroad officials, including your father.
Automatically they obeyed the great guru's spiritual direction, and freed me
for a life of unbroken communion with the Beloved."
After this extraordinary revelation, Swami Pranabananda retired into one
of his long silences. As I was taking leave, touching his feet reverently, he
gave me his blessing:
"Your life belongs to the path of renunciation and yoga. I shall see you
again, with your father, later on." The years brought fulfillment to both these
predictions.
Kedar Nath Babu walked by my side in the gathering darkness. I delivered
Father's letter, which my companion read under a street lamp.
"Your father suggests that I take a position in the Calcutta office of his
railroad company. How pleasant to look forward to at least one of the pensions
that Swami Pranabananda enjoys! But it is impossible; I cannot leave Benares.
Alas, two bodies are not yet for me!"

CHAPTER: 4

My Interrupted Flight Toward The Himalayas

"Leave your classroom on some trifling pretext, and engage a hackney
carriage. Stop in the lane where no one in my house can see you."
These were my final instructions to Amar Mitter, a high school friend who
planned to accompany me to the Himalayas. We had chosen the following day
for our flight. Precautions were necessary, as Ananta exercised a vigilant eye.
He was determined to foil the plans of escape which he suspected were
uppermost in my mind. The amulet, like a spiritual yeast, was silently at work
within me. Amidst the Himalayan snows, I hoped to find the master whose
face often appeared to me in visions.
The family was living now in Calcutta, where Father had been
permanently transferred. Following the patriarchal Indian custom, Ananta had
brought his bride to live in our home, now at 4 Gurpar Road. There in a small
attic room I engaged in daily meditations and prepared my mind for the divine
search.
 The memorable morning arrived with inauspicious rain. Hearing the
wheels of Amar's carriage in the road, I hastily tied together a blanket, a pair
of sandals, Lahiri Mahasaya's picture, a copy of the Bhagavad Gita, a string of
prayer beads, and two loincloths. This bundle I threw from my third-story
window. I ran down the steps and passed my uncle, buying fish at the door.
"What is the excitement?" His gaze roved suspiciously over my person.
I gave him a noncommittal smile and walked to the lane. Retrieving my
bundle, I joined Amar with conspiratorial caution. We drove to Chadni
Chowk, a merchandise center. For months we had been saving our tiffin
money to buy English clothes. Knowing that my clever brother could easily
play the part of a detective, we thought to outwit him by European garb.
On the way to the station, we stopped for my cousin, Jotin Ghosh, whom I
called Jatinda. He was a new convert, longing for a guru in the Himalayas. He
donned the new suit we had in readiness. Well- camouflaged, we hoped! A
deep elation possessed our hearts.
"All we need now are canvas shoes." I led my companions to a shop
displaying rubber-soled footwear. "Articles of leather, gotten only through the
slaughter of animals, must be absent on this holy trip." I halted on the street to
remove the leather cover from my Bhagavad Gita, and the leather straps from
my English-made sola topee (helmet).
At the station we bought tickets to Burdwan, where we planned to transfer
for Hardwar in the Himalayan foothills. As soon as the train, like ourselves,
was in flight, I gave utterance to a few of my glorious anticipations.
"Just imagine!" I ejaculated. "We shall be initiated by the masters and
experience the trance of cosmic consciousness. Our flesh will be charged with
such magnetism that wild animals of the Himalayas will come tamely near us.
Tigers will be no more than meek house cats awaiting our caresses!"
This remark-picturing a prospect I considered entrancing, both
metaphorically and literally-brought an enthusiastic smile from Amar. But
Jatinda averted his gaze, directing it through the window at the scampering
landscape.
"Let the money be divided in three portions." Jatinda broke a long silence
with this suggestion. "Each of us should buy his own ticket at Burdwan. Thus
no one at the station will surmise that we are running away together."
I unsuspectingly agreed. At dusk our train stopped at Burdwan. Jatinda
entered the ticket office; Amar and I sat on the platform. We waited fifteen
minutes, then made unavailing inquiries. Searching in all directions, we
shouted Jatinda's name with the urgency of fright. But he had faded into the
dark unknown surrounding the little station.
I was completely unnerved, shocked to a peculiar numbness. That God
would countenance this depressing episode! The romantic occasion of my first
carefully-planned flight after Him was cruelly marred.
"Amar, we must return home." I was weeping like a child. "Jatinda's
callous departure is an ill omen. This trip is doomed to failure."
"Is this your love for the Lord? Can't you stand the little test of a
treacherous companion?"
Through Amar's suggestion of a divine test, my heart steadied itself. We
refreshed ourselves with famous Burdwan sweetmeats, sitabhog (food for the
goddess) and motichur (nuggets of sweet pearl). In a few hours, we entrained
for Hardwar, via Bareilly. Changing trains at Moghul Serai, we discussed a
vital matter as we waited on the platform.
"Amar, we may soon be closely questioned by railroad officials. I am not
underrating my brother's ingenuity! No matter what the outcome, I will not
speak untruth."
"All I ask of you, Mukunda, is to keep still. Don't laugh or grin while I am
talking."
At this moment, a European station agent accosted me. He waved a
telegram whose import I immediately grasped.
"Are you running away from home in anger?"
"No!" I was glad his choice of words permitted me to make emphatic reply.
Not anger but "divinest melancholy" was responsible, I knew, for my
unconventional behavior.
The official then turned to Amar. The duel of wits that followed hardly
permitted me to maintain the counseled stoic gravity.
"Where is the third boy?" The man injected a full ring of authority into his
voice. "Come on; speak the truth!"
"Sir, I notice you are wearing eyeglasses. Can't you see that we are only
two?" Amar smiled impudently. "I am not a magician; I can't conjure up a
third companion."
The official, noticeably disconcerted by this impertinence, sought a new
field of attack.
"What is your name?"
"I am called Thomas. I am the son of an English mother and a converted
Christian Indian father."
 "What is your friend's name?"
"I call him Thompson."
By this time my inward mirth had reached a zenith; I unceremoniously
made for the train, whistling for departure. Amar followed with the official,
who was credulous and obliging enough to put us into a European
compartment. It evidently pained him to think of two half- English boys
traveling in the section allotted to natives. After his polite exit, I lay back on
the seat and laughed uncontrollably. My friend wore an expression of blithe
satisfaction at having outwitted a veteran European official.
On the platform I had contrived to read the telegram. From my brother, it
went thus: "Three Bengali boys in English clothes running away from home
toward Hardwar via Moghul Serai. Please detain them until my arrival. Ample
reward for your services."
"Amar, I told you not to leave marked timetables in your home." My
glance was reproachful. "Brother must have found one there."
My friend sheepishly acknowledged the thrust. We halted briefly in
Bareilly, where Dwarka Prasad awaited us with a telegram from Ananta. My
old friend tried valiantly to detain us; I convinced him that our flight had not
been undertaken lightly. As on a previous occasion, Dwarka refused my
invitation to set forth to the Himalayas.
While our train stood in a station that night, and I was half asleep, Amar
was awakened by another questioning official. He, too, fell a victim to the
hybrid charms of "Thomas" and "Thompson." The train bore us triumphantly
into a dawn arrival at Hardwar. The majestic mountains loomed invitingly in
the distance. We dashed through the station and entered the freedom of city
crowds. Our first act was to change into native costume, as Ananta had
somehow penetrated our European disguise. A premonition of capture
weighed on my mind.
Deeming it advisable to leave Hardwar at once, we bought tickets to
proceed north to Rishikesh, a soil long hallowed by feet of many masters. I
had already boarded the train, while Amar lagged on the platform. He was
brought to an abrupt halt by a shout from a policeman. Our unwelcome
guardian escorted us to a station bungalow and took charge of our money. He
explained courteously that it was his duty to hold us until my elder brother
arrived.
Learning that the truants' destination had been the Himalayas, the officer
related a strange story.
"I see you are crazy about saints! You will never meet a greater man of
God than the one I saw only yesterday. My brother officer and I first
encountered him five days ago. We were patrolling by the Ganges, on a sharp
lookout for a certain murderer. Our instructions were to capture him, alive or
dead. He was known to be masquerading as a sadhu in order to rob pilgrims. A
short way before us, we spied a figure which resembled the description of the
criminal. He ignored our command to stop; we ran to overpower him.
Approaching his back, I wielded my ax with tremendous force; the man's right
arm was severed almost completely from his body.
"Without outcry or any glance at the ghastly wound, the stranger
astonishingly continued his swift pace. As we jumped in front of him, he
spoke quietly.
"'I am not the murderer you are seeking.'
"I was deeply mortified to see I had injured the person of a divine- looking
sage. Prostrating myself at his feet, I implored his pardon, and offered my
turban-cloth to staunch the heavy spurts of blood.
"'Son, that was just an understandable mistake on your part.' The saint
regarded me kindly. 'Run along, and don't reproach yourself. The Beloved
Mother is taking care of me.' He pushed his dangling arm into its stump and
lo! it adhered; the blood inexplicably ceased to flow.
"'Come to me under yonder tree in three days and you will find me fully
healed. Thus you will feel no remorse.'
"Yesterday my brother officer and I went eagerly to the designated spot.
The sadhu was there and allowed us to examine his arm. It bore no scar or
trace of hurt!
"'I am going via Rishikesh to the Himalayan solitudes.' He blessed us as he
departed quickly. I feel that my life has been uplifted through his sanctity."
The officer concluded with a pious ejaculation; his experience had
obviously moved him beyond his usual depths. With an impressive gesture, he
handed me a printed clipping about the miracle. In the usual garbled manner of
the sensational type of newspaper (not missing, alas! even in India), the
reporter's version was slightly exaggerated: it indicated that the sadhu had
been almost decapitated!
Amar and I lamented that we had missed the great yogi who could forgive
his persecutor in such a Christlike way. India, materially poor for the last two
centuries, yet has an inexhaustible fund of divine wealth; spiritual
"skyscrapers" may occasionally be encountered by the wayside, even by
worldly men like this policeman.
We thanked the officer for relieving our tedium with his marvelous story.
He was probably intimating that he was more fortunate than we: he had met an
illumined saint without effort; our earnest search had ended, not at the feet of a
master, but in a coarse police station!
So near the Himalayas and yet, in our captivity, so far, I told Amar I felt
doubly impelled to seek freedom.
"Let us slip away when opportunity offers. We can go on foot to holy
Rishikesh." I smiled encouragingly.
But my companion had turned pessimist as soon as the stalwart prop of our
money had been taken from us.
"If we started a trek over such dangerous jungle land, we should finish, not
in the city of saints, but in the stomachs of tigers!"
Ananta and Amar's brother arrived after three days. Amar greeted his
relative with affectionate relief. I was unreconciled; Ananta got no more from
me than a severe upbraiding.
"I understand how you feel." My brother spoke soothingly. "All I ask of
you is to accompany me to Benares to meet a certain saint, and go on to
Calcutta to visit your grieving father for a few days. Then you can resume
your search here for a master."
Amar entered the conversation at this point to disclaim any intention of
returning to Hardwar with me. He was enjoying the familial warmth. But I
knew I would never abandon the quest for my guru.
Our party entrained for Benares. There I had a singular and instant
response to my prayers.
A clever scheme had been prearranged by Ananta. Before seeing me at
Hardwar, he had stopped in Benares to ask a certain scriptural authority to
interview me later. Both the pundit and his son had promised to undertake my
dissuasion from the path of a sannyasi.
Ananta took me to their home. The son, a young man of ebullient manner,
greeted me in the courtyard. He engaged me in a lengthy philosophic
discourse. Professing to have a clairvoyant knowledge of my future, he
discountenanced my idea of being a monk.
"You will meet continual misfortune, and be unable to find God, if you
insist on deserting your ordinary responsibilities! You cannot work out your
past karma without worldly experiences."
Krishna's immortal words rose to my lips in reply: "'Even he with the worst
of karma who ceaselessly meditates on Me quickly loses the effects of his past
bad actions. Becoming a high-souled being, he soon attains perennial peace.
Arjuna, know this for certain: the devotee who puts his trust in Me never
perishes!'"
But the forceful prognostications of the young man had slightly shaken my
confidence. With all the fervor of my heart I prayed silently to God:
"Please solve my bewilderment and answer me, right here and now, if
Thou dost desire me to lead the life of a renunciate or a worldly man!"
I noticed a sadhu of noble countenance standing just outside the compound
of the pundit's house. Evidently he had overheard the spirited conversation
between the self-styled clairvoyant and myself, for the stranger called me to
his side. I felt a tremendous power flowing from his calm eyes.
"Son, don't listen to that ignoramus. In response to your prayer, the Lord
tells me to assure you that your sole path in this life is that of the renunciate."
With astonishment as well as gratitude, I smiled happily at this decisive
message.
"Come away from that man!" The "ignoramus" was calling me from the
courtyard. My saintly guide raised his hand in blessing and slowly departed.
"That sadhu is just as crazy as you are." It was the hoary-headed pundit
who made this charming observation. He and his son were gazing at me
lugubriously. "I heard that he too has left his home in a vague search for God."
I turned away. To Ananta I remarked that I would not engage in further
discussion with our hosts. My brother agreed to an immediate departure; we
soon entrained for Calcutta.
Last Solstice Festival celebrated by Sri Yukteswar, December, 1935. My
Guru is seated in the center; I am at his right, in the large courtyard of his
hermitage in Serampore.
"Mr. Detective, how did you discover I had fled with two companions?" I
vented my lively curiosity to Ananta during our homeward journey. He smiled
mischievously.
"At your school, I found that Amar had left his classroom and had not
returned. I went to his home the next morning and unearthed a marked
timetable. Amar's father was just leaving by carriage and was talking to the
coachman.
"'My son will not ride with me to his school this morning. He has
disappeared!' the father moaned.
"'I heard from a brother coachman that your son and two others, dressed in
European suits, boarded the train at Howrah Station,' the man stated. 'They
made a present of their leather shoes to the cab driver.'
 "Thus I had three clues-the timetable, the trio of boys, and the English
clothing."
I was listening to Ananta's disclosures with mingled mirth and vexation.
Our generosity to the coachman had been slightly misplaced!
"Of course I rushed to send telegrams to station officials in all the cities
which Amar had underlined in the timetable. He had checked Bareilly, so I
wired your friend Dwarka there. After inquiries in our Calcutta neighborhood,
I learned that cousin Jatinda had been absent one night but had arrived home
the following morning in European garb. I sought him out and invited him to
dinner. He accepted, quite disarmed by my friendly manner. On the way I led
him unsuspectingly to a police station. He was surrounded by several officers
whom I had previously selected for their ferocious appearance. Under their
formidable gaze, Jatinda agreed to account for his mysterious conduct.
"'I started for the Himalayas in a buoyant spiritual mood,' he explained.
'Inspiration filled me at the prospect of meeting the masters. But as soon as
Mukunda said, "During our ecstasies in the Himalayan caves, tigers will be
spellbound and sit around us like tame pussies," my spirits froze; beads of
perspiration formed on my brow. "What then?" I thought. "If the vicious
nature of the tigers be not changed through the power of our spiritual trance,
shall they treat us with the kindness of house cats?" In my mind's eye, I
already saw myself the compulsory inmate of some tiger's stomach-entering
there not at once with the whole body, but by installments of its several parts!'"
My anger at Jatinda's vanishment was evaporated in laughter. The hilarious
sequel on the train was worth all the anguish he had caused me. I must confess
to a slight feeling of satisfaction: Jatinda too had not escaped an encounter
with the police!
"Ananta, you are a born sleuthhound!" My glance of amusement was not
without some exasperation. "And I shall tell Jatinda I am glad he was
prompted by no mood of treachery, as it appeared, but only by the prudent
instinct of self-preservation!"
At home in Calcutta, Father touchingly requested me to curb my roving
feet until, at least, the completion of my high school studies. In my absence, he
had lovingly hatched a plot by arranging for a saintly pundit, Swami
Kebalananda, to come regularly to the house.
"The sage will be your Sanskrit tutor," my parent announced confidently.
Father hoped to satisfy my religious yearnings by instructions from a
learned philosopher. But the tables were subtly turned: my new teacher, far
from offering intellectual aridities, fanned the embers of my God-aspiration.
Unknown to Father, Swami Kebalananda was an exalted disciple of Lahiri
Mahasaya. The peerless guru had possessed thousands of disciples, silently
drawn to him by the irresistibility of his divine magnetism. I learned later that
Lahiri Mahasaya had often characterized Kebalananda as rishi or illumined
sage.
Luxuriant curls framed my tutor's handsome face. His dark eyes were
guileless, with the transparency of a child's. All the movements of his slight
body were marked by a restful deliberation. Ever gentle and loving, he was
firmly established in the infinite consciousness. Many of our happy hours
together were spent in deep Kriya meditation.
Kebalananda was a noted authority on the ancient shastras or sacred books:
his erudition had earned him the title of "Shastri Mahasaya," by which he was
usually addressed. But my progress in Sanskrit scholarship was unnoteworthy.
I sought every opportunity to forsake prosaic grammar and to talk of yoga and
Lahiri Mahasaya. My tutor obliged me one day by telling me something of his
own life with the master.
"Rarely fortunate, I was able to remain near Lahiri Mahasaya for ten years.
His Benares home was my nightly goal of pilgrimage. The guru was always
present in a small front parlor on the first floor. As he sat in lotus posture on a
backless wooden seat, his disciples garlanded him in a semicircle. His eyes
sparkled and danced with the joy of the Divine. They were ever half closed,
peering through the inner telescopic orb into a sphere of eternal bliss. He
seldom spoke at length. Occasionally his gaze would focus on a student in
need of help; healing words poured then like an avalanche of light.
"An indescribable peace blossomed within me at the master's glance. I was
permeated with his fragrance, as though from a lotus of infinity. To be with
him, even without exchanging a word for days, was experience which changed
my entire being. If any invisible barrier rose in the path of my concentration, I
would meditate at the guru's feet. There the most tenuous states came easily
within my grasp. Such perceptions eluded me in the presence of lesser
teachers. The master was a living temple of God whose secret doors were open
to all disciples through devotion.
"Lahiri Mahasaya was no bookish interpreter of the scriptures. Effortlessly
he dipped into the 'divine library.' Foam of words and spray of thoughts
gushed from the fountain of his omniscience. He had the wondrous clavis
which unlocked the profound philosophical science embedded ages ago in the
Vedas. If asked to explain the different planes of consciousness mentioned in
the ancient texts, he would smilingly assent.
"'I will undergo those states, and presently tell you what I perceive.' He
was thus diametrically unlike the teachers who commit scripture to memory
and then give forth unrealized abstractions.
 "'Please expound the holy stanzas as the meaning occurs to you.' The
taciturn guru often gave this instruction to a near-by disciple. 'I will guide your
thoughts, that the right interpretation be uttered.' In this way many of Lahiri
Mahasaya's perceptions came to be recorded, with voluminous commentaries
by various students.
"The master never counseled slavish belief. 'Words are only shells,' he said.
'Win conviction of God's presence through your own joyous contact in
meditation.'
"No matter what the disciple's problem, the guru advised Kriya Yoga for its
solution.
"'The yogic key will not lose its efficiency when I am no longer present in
the body to guide you. This technique cannot be bound, filed, and forgotten, in
the manner of theoretical inspirations. Continue ceaselessly on your path to
liberation through Kriya, whose power lies in practice.'
"I myself consider Kriya the most effective device of salvation through
self-effort ever to be evolved in man's search for the Infinite." Kebalananda
concluded with this earnest testimony. "Through its use, the omnipotent God,
hidden in all men, became visibly incarnated in the flesh of Lahiri Mahasaya
and a number of his disciples."
A Christlike miracle by Lahiri Mahasaya took place in Kebalananda's
presence. My saintly tutor recounted the story one day, his eyes remote from
the Sanskrit texts before us.
"A blind disciple, Ramu, aroused my active pity. Should he have no light in
his eyes, when he faithfully served our master, in whom the Divine was fully
blazing? One morning I sought to speak to Ramu, but he sat for patient hours
fanning the guru with a hand-made palm-leaf punkha. When the devotee
finally left the room, I followed him.
"'Ramu, how long have you been blind?'
"'From my birth, sir! Never have my eyes been blessed with a glimpse of
the sun.'
"'Our omnipotent guru can help you. Please make a supplication.'
"The following day Ramu diffidently approached Lahiri Mahasaya. The
disciple felt almost ashamed to ask that physical wealth be added to his
spiritual superabundance.
"'Master, the Illuminator of the cosmos is in you. I pray you to bring His
light into my eyes, that I perceive the sun's lesser glow.'
"'Ramu, someone has connived to put me in a difficult position. I have no
healing power.'
"'Sir, the Infinite One within you can certainly heal.'
"'That is indeed different, Ramu. God's limit is nowhere! He who ignites
the stars and the cells of flesh with mysterious life- effulgence can surely bring
luster of vision into your eyes.'
"The master touched Ramu's forehead at the point between the eyebrows.
"'Keep your mind concentrated there, and frequently chant the name of the
prophet Rama for seven days. The splendor of the sun shall have a special
dawn for you.'
"Lo! in one week it was so. For the first time, Ramu beheld the fair face of
nature. The Omniscient One had unerringly directed his disciple to repeat the
name of Rama, adored by him above all other saints. Ramu's faith was the
devotionally ploughed soil in which the guru's powerful seed of permanent
healing sprouted." Kebalananda was silent for a moment, then paid a further
tribute to his guru.
"It was evident in all miracles performed by Lahiri Mahasaya that he never
allowed the ego-principle to consider itself a causative force. By perfection of
resistless surrender, the master enabled the Prime Healing Power to flow
freely through him.
"The numerous bodies which were spectacularly healed through Lahiri
Mahasaya eventually had to feed the flames of cremation. But the silent
spiritual awakenings he effected, the Christlike disciples he fashioned, are his
imperishable miracles."
I never became a Sanskrit scholar; Kebalananda taught me a diviner
syntax.

CHAPTER: 5
A "Perfume Saint" Displays His Wonders

"To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the
heaven."
I did not have this wisdom of Solomon to comfort me; I gazed searchingly
about me, on any excursion from home, for the face of my destined guru. But
my path did not cross his own until after the completion of my high school
studies.
Two years elapsed between my flight with Amar toward the Himalayas,
and the great day of Sri Yukteswar's arrival into my life. During that interim I
met a number of sages-the "Perfume Saint," the "Tiger Swami," Nagendra
Nath Bhaduri, Master Mahasaya, and the famous Bengali scientist, Jagadis
Chandra Bose.
My encounter with the "Perfume Saint" had two preambles, one
harmonious and the other humorous.
"God is simple. Everything else is complex. Do not seek absolute values in
the relative world of nature."
These philosophical finalities gently entered my ear as I stood silently
before a temple image of Kali. Turning, I confronted a tall man whose garb, or
lack of it, revealed him a wandering sadhu.
"You have indeed penetrated the bewilderment of my thoughts!" I smiled
gratefully. "The confusion of benign and terrible aspects in nature, as
symbolized by Kali, has puzzled wiser heads than mine!"
"Few there be who solve her mystery! Good and evil is the challenging
riddle which life places sphinxlike before every intelligence. Attempting no
solution, most men pay forfeit with their lives, penalty now even as in the days
of Thebes. Here and there, a towering lonely figure never cries defeat. From
the maya of duality he plucks the cleaveless truth of unity."
"You speak with conviction, sir."
"I have long exercised an honest introspection, the exquisitely painful
approach to wisdom. Self-scrutiny, relentless observance of one's thoughts, is
a stark and shattering experience. It pulverizes the stoutest ego. But true self-
analysis mathematically operates to produce seers. The way of 'self-
expression,' individual acknowledgments, results in egotists, sure of the right
to their private interpretations of God and the universe."
"Truth humbly retires, no doubt, before such arrogant originality." I was
enjoying the discussion.
"Man can understand no eternal verity until he has freed himself from
pretensions. The human mind, bared to a centuried slime, is teeming with
repulsive life of countless world-delusions. Struggles of the battlefields pale
into insignificance here, when man first contends with inward enemies! No
mortal foes these, to be overcome by harrowing array of might! Omnipresent,
unresting, pursuing man even in sleep, subtly equipped with a miasmic
weapon, these soldiers of ignorant lusts seek to slay us all. Thoughtless is the
man who buries his ideals, surrendering to the common fate. Can he seem
other than impotent, wooden, ignominious?"
"Respected Sir, have you no sympathy for the bewildered masses?"
 The sage was silent for a moment, then answered obliquely.
"To love both the invisible God, Repository of All Virtues, and visible
man, apparently possessed of none, is often baffling! But ingenuity is equal to
the maze. Inner research soon exposes a unity in all human minds-the stalwart
kinship of selfish motive. In one sense at least, the brotherhood of man stands
revealed. An aghast humility follows this leveling discovery. It ripens into
compassion for one's fellows, blind to the healing potencies of the soul
awaiting exploration."
"The saints of every age, sir, have felt like yourself for the sorrows of the
world."
"Only the shallow man loses responsiveness to the woes of others' lives, as
he sinks into narrow suffering of his own." The SADHU'S austere face was
noticeably softened. "The one who practices a scalpel self-dissection will
know an expansion of universal pity. Release is given him from the deafening
demands of his ego. The love of God flowers on such soil. The creature finally
turns to his Creator, if for no other reason than to ask in anguish: 'Why, Lord,
why?' By ignoble whips of pain, man is driven at last into the Infinite
Presence, whose beauty alone should lure him."
The sage and I were present in Calcutta's Kalighat Temple, whither I had
gone to view its famed magnificence. With a sweeping gesture, my chance
companion dismissed the ornate dignity.
"Bricks and mortar sing us no audible tune; the heart opens only to the
human chant of being."
We strolled to the inviting sunshine at the entrance, where throngs of
devotees were passing to and fro.
"You are young." The sage surveyed me thoughtfully. "India too is young.
The ancient rishis laid down ineradicable patterns of spiritual living. Their
hoary dictums suffice for this day and land. Not outmoded, not
unsophisticated against the guiles of materialism, the disciplinary precepts
mold India still. By millenniums-more than embarrassed scholars care to
compute!-the skeptic Time has validated Vedic worth. Take it for your
heritage."
As I was reverently bidding farewell to the eloquent sadhu, he revealed a
clairvoyant perception:
"After you leave here today, an unusual experience will come your way."
I quitted the temple precincts and wandered along aimlessly. Turning a
corner, I ran into an old acquaintance-one of those long-winded fellows whose
conversational powers ignore time and embrace eternity.
 "I will let you go in a very short while, if you will tell me all that has
happened during the six years of our separation."
"What a paradox! I must leave you now."
But he held me by the hand, forcing out tidbits of information. He was like
a ravenous wolf, I thought in amusement; the longer I spoke, the more
hungrily he sniffed for news. Inwardly I petitioned the Goddess Kali to devise
a graceful means of escape.
My companion left me abruptly. I sighed with relief and doubled my pace,
dreading any relapse into the garrulous fever. Hearing rapid footsteps behind
me, I quickened my speed. I dared not look back. But with a bound, the youth
rejoined me, jovially clasping my shoulder.
"I forgot to tell you of Gandha Baba (Perfume Saint), who is gracing
yonder house." He pointed to a dwelling a few yards distant. "Do meet him; he
is interesting. You may have an unusual experience. Good-by," and he actually
left me.
The similarly worded prediction of the sadhu at Kalighat Temple flashed to
my mind. Definitely intrigued, I entered the house and was ushered into a
commodious parlor. A crowd of people were sitting, Orient-wise, here and
there on a thick orange-colored carpet. An awed whisper reached my ear:
"Behold Gandha Baba on the leopard skin. He can give the natural
perfume of any flower to a scentless one, or revive a wilted blossom, or make
a person's skin exude delightful fragrance."
I looked directly at the saint; his quick gaze rested on mine. He was plump
and bearded, with dark skin and large, gleaming eyes.
"Son, I am glad to see you. Say what you want. Would you like some
perfume?"
"What for?" I thought his remark rather childish.
"To experience the miraculous way of enjoying perfumes."
"Harnessing God to make odors?"
"What of it? God makes perfume anyway."
"Yes, but He fashions frail bottles of petals for fresh use and discard. Can
you materialize flowers?"
"I materialize perfumes, little friend."
"Then scent factories will go out of business."
"I will permit them to keep their trade! My own purpose is to demonstrate
the power of God."
"Sir, is it necessary to prove God? Isn't He performing miracles in
everything, everywhere?"
"Yes, but we too should manifest some of His infinite creative variety."
"How long did it take to master your art?"
"Twelve years."
"For manufacturing scents by astral means! It seems, my honored saint,
you have been wasting a dozen years for fragrances which you can obtain with
a few rupees from a florist's shop."
"Perfumes fade with flowers."
"Perfumes fade with death. Why should I desire that which pleases the
body only?"
"Mr. Philosopher, you please my mind. Now, stretch forth your right
hand." He made a gesture of blessing.
I was a few feet away from Gandha Baba; no one else was near enough to
contact my body. I extended my hand, which the yogi did not touch.
"What perfume do you want?"
"Rose."
"Be it so."
To my great surprise, the charming fragrance of rose was wafted strongly
from the center of my palm. I smilingly took a large white scentless flower
from a near-by vase.
"Can this odorless blossom be permeated with jasmine?"
"Be it so."
A jasmine fragrance instantly shot from the petals. I thanked the wonder-
worker and seated myself by one of his students. He informed me that Gandha
Baba, whose proper name was Vishudhananda, had learned many astonishing
yoga secrets from a master in Tibet. The Tibetan yogi, I was assured, had
attained the age of over a thousand years.
"His disciple Gandha Baba does not always perform his perfume-feats in
the simple verbal manner you have just witnessed." The student spoke with
obvious pride in his master. "His procedure differs widely, to accord with
diversity in temperaments. He is marvelous! Many members of the Calcutta
intelligentsia are among his followers."
 I inwardly resolved not to add myself to their number. A guru too literally
"marvelous" was not to my liking. With polite thanks to Gandha Baba, I
departed. Sauntering home, I reflected on the three varied encounters the day
had brought forth.
My sister Uma met me as I entered our Gurpar Road door.
"You are getting quite stylish, using perfumes!"
Without a word, I motioned her to smell my hand.
"What an attractive rose fragrance! It is unusually strong!"
Thinking it was "strongly unusual," I silently placed the astrally scented
blossom under her nostrils.
"Oh, I love jasmine!" She seized the flower. A ludicrous bafflement passed
over her face as she repeatedly sniffed the odor of jasmine from a type of
flower she well knew to be scentless. Her reactions disarmed my suspicion
that Gandha Baba had induced an auto-suggestive state whereby I alone could
detect the fragrances.
Later I heard from a friend, Alakananda, that the "Perfume Saint" had a
power which I wish were possessed by the starving millions of Asia and,
today, of Europe as well.
"I was present with a hundred other guests at Gandha Baba's home in
Burdwan," Alakananda told me. "It was a gala occasion. Because the yogi was
reputed to have the power of extracting objects out of thin air, I laughingly
requested him to materialize some out-of-season tangerines. Immediately the
luchis which were present on all the banana-leaf plates became puffed up.
Each of the bread-envelopes proved to contain a peeled tangerine. I bit into my
own with some trepidation, but found it delicious."
Years later I understood by inner realization how Gandha Baba
accomplished his materializations. The method, alas! is beyond the reach of
the world's hungry hordes.
The different sensory stimuli to which man reacts-tactual, visual, gustatory,
auditory, and olfactory-are produced by vibratory variations in electrons and
protons. The vibrations in turn are regulated by "lifetrons," subtle life forces or
finer-than-atomic energies intelligently charged with the five distinctive
sensory idea- substances.
Gandha Baba, tuning himself with the cosmic force by certain yogic
practices, was able to guide the lifetrons to rearrange their vibratory structure
and objectivize the desired result. His perfume, fruit and other miracles were
actual materializations of mundane vibrations, and not inner sensations
hypnotically produced.
 Performances of miracles such as shown by the "Perfume Saint" are
spectacular but spiritually useless. Having little purpose beyond entertainment,
they are digressions from a serious search for God.
Hypnotism has been used by physicians in minor operations as a sort of
psychical chloroform for persons who might be endangered by an anesthetic.
But a hypnotic state is harmful to those often subjected to it; a negative
psychological effect ensues which in time deranges the brain cells. Hypnotism
is trespass into the territory of another's consciousness. Its temporary
phenomena have nothing in common with the miracles performed by men of
divine realization. Awake in God, true saints effect changes in this dream-
world by means of a will harmoniously attuned to the Creative Cosmic
Dreamer.
Ostentatious display of unusual powers are decried by masters. The Persian
mystic, Abu Said, once laughed at certain fakirs who were proud of their
miraculous powers over water, air, and space.
"A frog is also at home in the water!" Abu Said pointed out in gentle scorn.
"The crow and the vulture easily fly in the air; the Devil is simultaneously
present in the East and in the West! A true man is he who dwells in
righteousness among his fellow men, who buys and sells, yet is never for a
single instant forgetful of God!" On another occasion the great Persian teacher
gave his views on the religious life thus: "To lay aside what you have in your
head (selfish desires and ambitions); to freely bestow what you have in your
hand; and never to flinch from the blows of adversity!"
Neither the impartial sage at Kalighat Temple nor the Tibetan-trained yogi
had satisfied my yearning for a guru. My heart needed no tutor for its
recognitions, and cried its own "Bravos!" the more resoundingly because
unoften summoned from silence. When I finally met my master, he taught me
by sublimity of example alone the measure of a true man.

CHAPTER: 6
The Tiger Swami

"I have discovered the Tiger Swami's address. Let us visit him tomorrow."
This welcome suggestion came from Chandi, one of my high school
friends. I was eager to meet the saint who, in his premonastic life, had caught
and fought tigers with his naked hands. A boyish enthusiasm over such
remarkable feats was strong within me.
 The next day dawned wintry cold, but Chandi and I sallied forth gaily.
After much vain hunting in Bhowanipur, outside Calcutta, we arrived at the
right house. The door held two iron rings, which I sounded piercingly.
Notwithstanding the clamor, a servant approached with leisurely gait. His
ironical smile implied that visitors, despite their noise, were powerless to
disturb the calmness of a saint's home.
Feeling the silent rebuke, my companion and I were thankful to be invited
into the parlor. Our long wait there caused uncomfortable misgivings. India's
unwritten law for the truth seeker is patience; a master may purposely make a
test of one's eagerness to meet him. This psychological ruse is freely employed
in the West by doctors and dentists!
Finally summoned by the servant, Chandi and I entered a sleeping
apartment. The famous Sohong Swami was seated on his bed. The sight of his
tremendous body affected us strangely. With bulging eyes, we stood
speechless. We had never before seen such a chest or such football-like biceps.
On an immense neck, the swami's fierce yet calm face was adorned with
flowing locks, beard and moustache. A hint of dovelike and tigerlike qualities
shone in his dark eyes. He was unclothed, save for a tiger skin about his
muscular waist.
Finding our voices, my friend and I greeted the monk, expressing our
admiration for his prowess in the extraordinary feline arena.
"Will you not tell us, please, how it is possible to subdue with bare fists the
most ferocious of jungle beasts, the royal Bengals?"
"My sons, it is nothing to me to fight tigers. I could do it today if
necessary." He gave a childlike laugh. "You look upon tigers as tigers; I know
them as pussycats."
"Swamiji, I think I could impress my subconsciousness with the thought
that tigers are pussycats, but could I make tigers believe it?"
"Of course strength also is necessary! One cannot expect victory from a
baby who imagines a tiger to be a house cat! Powerful hands are my sufficient
weapon."
He asked us to follow him to the patio, where he struck the edge of a wall.
A brick crashed to the floor; the sky peered boldly through the gaping lost
tooth of the wall. I fairly staggered in astonishment; he who can remove
mortared bricks from a solid wall with one blow, I thought, must surely be
able to displace the teeth of tigers!
"A number of men have physical power such as mine, but still lack in cool
confidence. Those who are bodily but not mentally stalwart may find
themselves fainting at mere sight of a wild beast bounding freely in the jungle.
The tiger in its natural ferocity and habitat is vastly different from the opium-
fed circus animal!
"Many a man with herculean strength has nonetheless been terrorized into
abject helplessness before the onslaught of a royal Bengal. Thus the tiger has
converted the man, in his own mind, to a state as nerveless as the pussycat's. It
is possible for a man, owning a fairly strong body and an immensely strong
determination, to turn the tables on the tiger, and force it to a conviction of
pussycat defenselessness. How often I have done just that!"
I was quite willing to believe that the titan before me was able to perform
the tiger-pussycat metamorphosis. He seemed in a didactic mood; Chandi and
I listened respectfully.
"Mind is the wielder of muscles. The force of a hammer blow depends on
the energy applied; the power expressed by a man's bodily instrument depends
on his aggressive will and courage. The body is literally manufactured and
sustained by mind. Through pressure of instincts from past lives, strengths or
weaknesses percolate gradually into human consciousness. They express as
habits, which in turn ossify into a desirable or an undesirable body. Outward
frailty has mental origin; in a vicious circle, the habit-bound body thwarts the
mind. If the master allows himself to be commanded by a servant, the latter
becomes autocratic; the mind is similarly enslaved by submitting to bodily
dictation."
At our entreaty, the impressive swami consented to tell us something of his
own life.
"My earliest ambition was to fight tigers. My will was mighty, but my
body was feeble."
An ejaculation of surprise broke from me. It appeared incredible that this
man, now "with Atlantean shoulders, fit to bear," could ever have known
weakness.
"It was by indomitable persistency in thoughts of health and strength that I
overcame my handicap. I have every reason to extol the compelling mental
vigor which I found to be the real subduer of royal Bengals."
"Do you think, revered swami, that I could ever fight tigers?" This was the
first, and the last, time that the bizarre ambition ever visited my mind!
"Yes." He was smiling. "But there are many kinds of tigers; some roam in
jungles of human desires. No spiritual benefit accrues by knocking beasts
unconscious. Rather be victor over the inner prowlers."
"May we hear, sir, how you changed from a tamer of wild tigers to a tamer
of wild passions?"
The Tiger Swami fell into silence. Remoteness came into his gaze,
summoning visions of bygone years. I discerned his slight mental struggle to
decide whether to grant my request. Finally he smiled in acquiescence.
"When my fame reached a zenith, it brought the intoxication of pride. I
decided not only to fight tigers but to display them in various tricks. My
ambition was to force savage beasts to behave like domesticated ones. I began
to perform my feats publicly, with gratifying success.
"One evening my father entered my room in pensive mood.
"'Son, I have words of warning. I would save you from coming ills,
produced by the grinding wheels of cause and effect.'
"'Are you a fatalist, Father? Should superstition be allowed to discolor the
powerful waters or my activities?'
"'I am no fatalist, son. But I believe in the just law of retribution, as taught
in the holy scriptures. There is resentment against you in the jungle family;
sometime it may act to your cost.'
"'Father, you astonish me! You well know what tigers are-beautiful but
merciless! Even immediately after an enormous meal of some hapless
creature, a tiger is fired with fresh lust at sight of new prey. It may be a joyous
gazelle, frisking over the jungle grass. Capturing it and biting an opening in
the soft throat, the malevolent beast tastes only a little of the mutely crying
blood, and goes its wanton way.
"'Tigers are the most contemptible of the jungle breed! Who knows? my
blows may inject some slight sanity of consideration into their thick heads. I
am headmaster in a forest finishing school, to teach them gentle manners!
"'Please, Father, think of me as tiger tamer and never as tiger killer. How
could my good actions bring ill upon me? I beg you not to impose any
command that I change my way of life.'"
Chandi and I were all attention, understanding the past dilemma. In India a
child does not lightly disobey his parents' wishes.
"In stoic silence Father listened to my explanation. He followed it with a
disclosure which he uttered gravely.
"'Son, you compel me to relate an ominous prediction from the lips of a
saint. He approached me yesterday as I sat on the veranda in my daily
meditation.
"'"Dear friend, I come with a message for your belligerent son. Let him
cease his savage activities. Otherwise, his next tiger-encounter shall result in
his severe wounds, followed by six months of deathly sickness. He shall then
forsake his former ways and become a monk."'
"This tale did not impress me. I considered that Father had been the
credulous victim of a deluded fanatic."
The Tiger Swami made this confession with an impatient gesture, as
though at some stupidity. Grimly silent for a long time, he seemed oblivious of
our presence. When he took up the dangling thread of his narrative, it was
suddenly, with subdued voice.
"Not long after Father's warning, I visited the capital city of Cooch Behar.
The picturesque territory was new to me, and I expected a restful change. As
usual everywhere, a curious crowd followed me on the streets. I would catch
bits of whispered comment:
"'This is the man who fights wild tigers.'
"'Has he legs, or tree-trunks?'
"'Look at his face! He must be an incarnation of the king of tigers himself!'
"You know how village urchins function like final editions of a newspaper!
With what speed do the even-later speech-bulletins of the women circulate
from house to house! Within a few hours, the whole city was in a state of
excitement over my presence.
"I was relaxing quietly in the evening, when I heard the hoofbeats of
galloping horses. They stopped in front of my dwelling place. In came a
number of tall, turbaned policemen.
"I was taken aback. 'All things are possible unto these creatures of human
law,' I thought. 'I wonder if they are going to take me to task about matters
utterly unknown to me.' But the officers bowed with unwonted courtesy.
"'Honored Sir, we are sent to welcome you on behalf of the Prince of
Cooch Behar. He is pleased to invite you to his palace tomorrow morning.'
"I speculated awhile on the prospect. For some obscure reason I felt sharp
regret at this interruption in my quiet trip. But the suppliant manner of the
policemen moved me; I agreed to go.
"I was bewildered the next day to be obsequiously escorted from my door
into a magnificent coach drawn by four horses. A servant held an ornate
umbrella to protect me from the scorching sunlight. I enjoyed the pleasant ride
through the city and its woodland outskirts. The royal scion himself was at the
palace door to welcome me. He proffered his own gold-brocaded seat,
smilingly placing himself in a chair of simpler design.
"'All this politeness is certainly going to cost me something!' I thought in
mounting astonishment. The prince's motive emerged after a few casual
remarks.
"'My city is filled with the rumor that you can fight wild tigers with
nothing more than your naked hands. Is it a fact?'
"'It is quite true.'
"'I can scarcely believe it! You are a Calcutta Bengali, nurtured on the
white rice of city folk. Be frank, please; have you not been fighting only
spineless, opium-fed animals?' His voice was loud and sarcastic, tinged with
provincial accent.
"I vouchsafed no reply to his insulting question.
"'I challenge you to fight my newly-caught tiger, Raja Begum. If you can
successfully resist him, bind him with a chain, and leave his cage in a
conscious state, you shall have this royal Bengal! Several thousand rupees and
many other gifts shall also be bestowed. If you refuse to meet him in combat, I
shall blazon your name throughout the state as an impostor!'
"His insolent words struck me like a volley of bullets. I shot an angry
acceptance. Half risen from the chair in his excitement, the prince sank back
with a sadistic smile. I was reminded of the Roman emperors who delighted in
setting Christians in bestial arenas.
"'The match will be set for a week hence. I regret that I cannot give you
permission to view the tiger in advance.'
"Whether the prince feared I might seek to hypnotize the beast, or secretly
feed him opium, I know not!
"I left the palace, noting with amusement that the royal umbrella and
panoplied coach were now missing.
"The following week I methodically prepared my mind and body for the
coming ordeal. Through my servant I learned of fantastic tales. The saint's
direful prediction to my father had somehow got abroad, enlarging as it ran.
Many simple villagers believed that an evil spirit, cursed by the gods, had
reincarnated as a tiger which took various demoniac forms at night, but
remained a striped animal during the day. This demon-tiger was supposed to
be the one sent to humble me.
"Another imaginative version was that animal prayers to Tiger Heaven had
achieved a response in the shape of Raja Begum. He was to be the instrument
to punish me-the audacious biped, so insulting to the entire tiger species! A
furless, fangless man daring to challenge a claw-armed, sturdy-limbed tiger!
The concentrated venom of all humiliated tigers-the villagers declared-had
gathered momentum sufficient to operate hidden laws and bring about the fall
of the proud tiger tamer.
"My servant further apprized me that the prince was in his element as
manager of the bout between man and beast. He had supervised the erection of
a storm-proof pavilion, designed to accommodate thousands. Its center held
Raja Begum in an enormous iron cage, surrounded by an outer safety room.
The captive emitted a ceaseless series of blood- curdling roars. He was fed
sparingly, to kindle a wrathful appetite. Perhaps the prince expected me to be
the meal of reward!
"Crowds from the city and suburbs bought tickets eagerly in response to
the beat of drums announcing the unique contest. The day of battle saw
hundreds turned away for lack of seats. Many men broke through the tent
openings, or crowded any space below the galleries."
As the Tiger Swami's story approached a climax, my excitement mounted
with it; Chandi also was raptly mute.
"Amidst piercing sound-explosions from Raja Begum, and the hubbub of
the somewhat terrified crowd, I quietly made my appearance. Scantily clad
around the waist, I was otherwise unprotected by clothing. I opened the bolt
on the door of the safety room and calmly locked it behind me. The tiger
sensed blood. Leaping with a thunderous crash on his bars, he sent forth a
fearsome welcome. The audience was hushed with pitiful fear; I seemed a
meek lamb before the raging beast.
"In a trice I was within the cage; but as I slammed the door, Raja Begum
was headlong upon me. My right hand was desperately torn. Human blood, the
greatest treat a tiger can know, fell in appalling streams. The prophecy of the
saint seemed about to be fulfilled.
"I rallied instantly from the shock of the first serious injury I had ever
received. Banishing the sight of my gory fingers by thrusting them beneath my
waist cloth, I swung my left arm in a bone-cracking blow. The beast reeled
back, swirled around the rear of the cage, and sprang forward convulsively.
My famous fistic punishment rained on his head.
"But Raja Begum's taste of blood had acted like the maddening first sip of
wine to a dipsomaniac long-deprived. Punctuated by deafening roar, the
brute's assaults grew in fury. My inadequate defense of only one hand left me
vulnerable before claws and fangs. But I dealt out dazing retribution. Mutually
ensanguined, we struggled as to the death. The cage was pandemonium, as
blood splashed in all directions, and blasts of pain and lethal lust came from
the bestial throat.
"'Shoot him!' 'Kill the tiger!' Shrieks arose from the audience. So fast did
man and beast move, that a guard's bullet went amiss. I mustered all my will
force, bellowed fiercely, and landed a final concussive blow. The tiger
collapsed and lay quietly.
"Like a pussycat!" I interjected.
The swami laughed in hearty appreciation, then continued the engrossing
tale.
"Raja Begum was vanquished at last. His royal pride was further humbled:
with my lacerated hands, I audaciously forced open his jaws. For a dramatic
moment, I held my head within the yawning deathtrap. I looked around for a
chain. Pulling one from a pile on the floor, I bound the tiger by his neck to the
cage bars. In triumph I moved toward the door.
"But that fiend incarnate, Raja Begum, had stamina worthy of his supposed
demoniac origin. With an incredible lunge, he snapped the chain and leaped on
my back. My shoulder fast in his jaws, I fell violently. But in a trice I had him
pinned beneath me. Under merciless blows, the treacherous animal sank into
semiconsciousness. This time I secured him more carefully. Slowly I left the
cage.
"I found myself in a new uproar, this time one of delight. The crowd's
cheer broke as though from a single gigantic throat. Disastrously mauled, I had
yet fulfilled the three conditions of the fight-stunning the tiger, binding him
with a chain, and leaving him without requiring assistance for myself. In
addition, I had so drastically injured and frightened the aggressive beast that
he had been content to overlook the opportune prize of my head in his mouth!
"After my wounds were treated, I was honored and garlanded; hundreds of
gold pieces showered at my feet. The whole city entered a holiday period.
Endless discussions were heard on all sides about my victory over one of the
largest and most savage tigers ever seen. Raja Begum was presented to me, as
promised, but I felt no elation. A spiritual change had entered my heart. It
seemed that with my final exit from the cage I had also closed the door on my
worldly ambitions.
"A woeful period followed. For six months I lay near death from blood
poisoning. As soon as I was well enough to leave Cooch Behar, I returned to
my native town.
"'I know now that my teacher is the holy man who gave the wise warning.'
I humbly made this confession to my father. 'Oh, if I could only find him!' My
longing was sincere, for one day the saint arrived unheralded.
"'Enough of tiger taming.' He spoke with calm assurance. 'Come with me; I
will teach you to subdue the beasts of ignorance roaming in jungles of the
human mind. You are used to an audience: let it be a galaxy of angels,
entertained by your thrilling mastery of yoga!'
"I was initiated into the spiritual path by my saintly guru. He opened my
soul-doors, rusty and resistant with long disuse. Hand in hand, we soon set out
for my training in the Himalayas."
Chandi and I bowed at the swami's feet, grateful for his vivid outline of a
life truly cyclonic. I felt amply repaid for the long probationary wait in the
cold parlor!

CHAPTER: 7
The Levitating Saint

"I saw a yogi remain in the air, several feet above the ground, last night at a
group meeting." My friend, Upendra Mohun Chowdhury, spoke impressively.
I gave him an enthusiastic smile. "Perhaps I can guess his name. Was it
Bhaduri Mahasaya, of Upper Circular Road?"
Upendra nodded, a little crestfallen not to be a news-bearer. My
inquisitiveness about saints was well-known among my friends; they delighted
in setting me on a fresh track.
"The yogi lives so close to my home that I often visit him." My words
brought keen interest to Upendra's face, and I made a further confidence.
"I have seen him in remarkable feats. He has expertly mastered the various
pranayamas of the ancient eightfold yoga outlined by Patanjali. Once Bhaduri
Mahasaya performed the Bhastrika Pranayama before me with such amazing
force that it seemed an actual storm had arisen in the room! Then he
extinguished the thundering breath and remained motionless in a high state of
superconsciousness. The aura of peace after the storm was vivid beyond
forgetting."
"I heard that the saint never leaves his home." Upendra's tone was a trifle
incredulous.
"Indeed it is true! He has lived indoors for the past twenty years. He
slightly relaxes his self-imposed rule at the times of our holy festivals, when
he goes as far as his front sidewalk! The beggars gather there, because Saint
Bhaduri is known for his tender heart."
"How does he remain in the air, defying the law of gravitation?"
"A yogi's body loses its grossness after use of certain pranayamas. Then it
will levitate or hop about like a leaping frog. Even saints who do not practice a
formal yoga have been known to levitate during a state of intense devotion to
God."
"I would like to know more of this sage. Do you attend his evening
meetings?" Upendra's eyes were sparkling with curiosity.
"Yes, I go often. I am vastly entertained by the wit in his wisdom.
Occasionally my prolonged laughter mars the solemnity of his gatherings. The
saint is not displeased, but his disciples look daggers!"
On my way home from school that afternoon, I passed Bhaduri Mahasaya's
cloister and decided on a visit. The yogi was inaccessible to the general public.
A lone disciple, occupying the ground floor, guarded his master's privacy. The
student was something of a martinet; he now inquired formally if I had an
"engagement." His guru put in an appearance just in time to save me from
summary ejection.
"Let Mukunda come when he will." The sage's eyes twinkled. "My rule of
seclusion is not for my own comfort, but for that of others. Worldly people do
not like the candor which shatters their delusions. Saints are not only rare but
disconcerting. Even in scripture, they are often found embarrassing!"
I followed Bhaduri Mahasaya to his austere quarters on the top floor, from
which he seldom stirred. Masters often ignore the panorama of the world's
ado, out of focus till centered in the ages. The contemporaries of a sage are not
alone those of the narrow present.
"Maharishi, you are the first yogi I have known who always stays indoors."
"God plants his saints sometimes in unexpected soil, lest we think we may
reduce Him to a rule!"
The sage locked his vibrant body in the lotus posture. In his seventies, he
displayed no unpleasing signs of age or sedentary life. Stalwart and straight,
he was ideal in every respect. His face was that of a rishi, as described in the
ancient texts. Noble-headed, abundantly bearded, he always sat firmly upright,
his quiet eyes fixed on Omnipresence.
The saint and I entered the meditative state. After an hour, his gentle voice
roused me.
"You go often into the silence, but have you developed anubhava?" He was
reminding me to love God more than meditation. "Do not mistake the
technique for the Goal."
He offered me some mangoes. With that good-humored wit that I found so
delightful in his grave nature, he remarked, "People in general are more fond
of Jala Yoga (union with food) than of Dhyana Yoga (union with God)."
 His yogic pun affected me uproariously.
"What a laugh you have!" An affectionate gleam came into his gaze. His
own face was always serious, yet touched with an ecstatic smile. His large,
lotus eyes held a hidden divine laughter.
"Those letters come from far-off America." The sage indicated several
thick envelopes on a table. "I correspond with a few societies there whose
members are interested in yoga. They are discovering India anew, with a better
sense of direction than Columbus! I am glad to help them. The knowledge of
yoga is free to all who will receive, like the ungarnishable daylight.
"What rishis perceived as essential for human salvation need not be diluted
for the West. Alike in soul though diverse in outer experience, neither West
nor East will flourish if some form of disciplinary yoga be not practiced."
The saint held me with his tranquil eyes. I did not realize that his speech
was a veiled prophetic guidance. It is only now, as I write these words, that I
understand the full meaning in the casual intimations he often gave me that
someday I would carry India's teachings to America.
"Sir," I inquired, "why do you not write a book on yoga for the benefit of
the world?"
"I am training disciples," He replied. "They and their students will be
living volumes, proof against the natural disintegrations of time and the
unnatural interpretations of the critics."
"Maharishi, I wish you would write a book on yoga for the benefit of the
world."
"I am training disciples. They and their students will be living volumes,
proof against the natural disintegrations of time and the unnatural
interpretations of the critics." Bhaduri's wit put me into another gale of
laughter.
I remained alone with the yogi until his disciples arrived in the evening.
Bhaduri Mahasaya entered one of his inimitable discourses. Like a peaceful
flood, he swept away the mental debris of his listeners, floating them
Godward. His striking parables were expressed in a flawless Bengali.
This evening Bhaduri expounded various philosophical points connected
with the life of Mirabai, a medieval Rajputani princess who abandoned her
court life to seek the company of sadhus. One great-sannyasi refused to
receive her because she was a woman; her reply brought him humbly to her
feet.
"Tell the master," she had said, "that I did not know there was any Male in
the universe save God; are we all not females before Him?" (A scriptural
conception of the Lord as the only Positive Creative Principle, His creation
being naught but a passive maya.)
Mirabai composed many ecstatic songs which are still treasured in India; I
translate one of them here:
"If by bathing daily God could be realized
Sooner would I be a whale in the deep;
If by eating roots and fruits He could be known
Gladly would I choose the form of a goat;
If the counting of rosaries uncovered Him
I would say my prayers on mammoth beads;
If bowing before stone images unveiled Him
A flinty mountain I would humbly worship;
If by drinking milk the Lord could be imbibed
Many calves and children would know Him;
If abandoning one's wife would summon God
Would not thousands be eunuchs?
Mirabai knows that to find the Divine One
The only indispensable is Love."
Several students put rupees in Bhaduri's slippers which lay by his side as
he sat in yoga posture. This respectful offering, customary in India, indicates
that the disciple places his material goods at the guru's feet. Grateful friends
are only the Lord in disguise, looking after His own.
"Master, you are wonderful!" A student, taking his leave, gazed ardently at
the patriarchal sage. "You have renounced riches and comforts to seek God
and teach us wisdom!" It was well-known that Bhaduri Mahasaya had
forsaken great family wealth in his early childhood, when single-mindedly he
entered the yogic path.
"You are reversing the case!" The saint's face held a mild rebuke. "I have
left a few paltry rupees, a few petty pleasures, for a cosmic empire of endless
bliss. How then have I denied myself anything? I know the joy of sharing the
treasure. Is that a sacrifice? The shortsighted worldly folk are verily the real
renunciates! They relinquish an unparalleled divine possession for a poor
handful of earthly toys!"
I chuckled over this paradoxical view of renunciation-one which puts the
cap of Croesus on any saintly beggar, whilst transforming all proud
millionaires into unconscious martyrs.
"The divine order arranges our future more wisely than any insurance
company." The master's concluding words were the realized creed of his faith.
"The world is full of uneasy believers in an outward security. Their bitter
thoughts are like scars on their foreheads. The One who gave us air and milk
from our first breath knows how to provide day by day for His devotees."
I continued my after-school pilgrimages to the saint's door. With silent zeal
he aided me to attain anubhava. One day he moved to Ram Mohan Roy Road,
away from the neighborhood of my Gurpar Road home. His loving disciples
had built him a new hermitage, known as "Nagendra Math."
Although it throws me ahead of my story by a number of years, I will
recount here the last words given to me by Bhaduri Mahasaya. Shortly before I
embarked for the West, I sought him out and humbly knelt for his farewell
blessing:
"Son, go to America. Take the dignity of hoary India for your shield.
Victory is written on your brow; the noble distant people will well receive
you."

CHAPTER: 8
India's Great Scientist, J.C. Bose

"Jagadis Chandra Bose's wireless inventions antedated those of Marconi."

Overhearing this provocative remark, I walked closer to a sidewalk group
of professors engaged in scientific discussion. If my motive in joining them
was racial pride, I regret it. I cannot deny my keen interest in evidence that
India can play a leading part in physics, and not metaphysics alone.
"What do you mean, sir?"
The professor obligingly explained. "Bose was the first one to invent a
wireless coherer and an instrument for indicating the refraction of electric
waves. But the Indian scientist did not exploit his inventions commercially. He
soon turned his attention from the inorganic to the organic world. His
revolutionary discoveries as a plant physiologist are outpacing even his radical
achievements as a physicist."
I politely thanked my mentor. He added, "The great scientist is one of my
brother professors at Presidency College."
 I paid a visit the next day to the sage at his home, which was close to mine
on Gurpar Road. I had long admired him from a respectful distance. The grave
and retiring botanist greeted me graciously. He was a handsome, robust man in
his fifties, with thick hair, broad forehead, and the abstracted eyes of a
dreamer. The precision in his tones revealed the lifelong scientific habit.
"I have recently returned from an expedition to scientific societies of the
West. Their members exhibited intense interest in delicate instruments of my
invention which demonstrate the indivisible unity of all life. The Bose
crescograph has the enormity of ten million magnifications. The microscope
enlarges only a few thousand times; yet it brought vital impetus to biological
science. The crescograph opens incalculable vistas."
"You have done much, sir, to hasten the embrace of East and West in the
impersonal arms of science."
"I was educated at Cambridge. How admirable is the Western method of
submitting all theory to scrupulous experimental verification! That empirical
procedure has gone hand in hand with the gift for introspection which is my
Eastern heritage. Together they have enabled me to sunder the silences of
natural realms long uncommunicative. The telltale charts of my crescograph
are evidence for the most skeptical that plants have a sensitive nervous system
and a varied emotional life. Love, hate, joy, fear, pleasure, pain, excitability,
stupor, and countless appropriate responses to stimuli are as universal in plants
as in animals."
"The unique throb of life in all creation could seem only poetic imagery
before your advent, Professor! A saint I once knew would never pluck flowers.
'Shall I rob the rosebush of its pride in beauty? Shall I cruelly affront its
dignity by my rude divestment?' His sympathetic words are verified literally
through your discoveries!"
"The poet is intimate with truth, while the scientist approaches awkwardly.
Come someday to my laboratory and see the unequivocable testimony of the
crescograph."
Gratefully I accepted the invitation, and took my departure. I heard later
that the botanist had left Presidency College, and was planning a research
center in Calcutta.
When the Bose Institute was opened, I attended the dedicatory services.
Enthusiastic hundreds strolled over the premises. I was charmed with the
artistry and spiritual symbolism of the new home of science. Its front gate, I
noted, was a centuried relic from a distant shrine. Behind the lotus fountain, a
sculptured female figure with a torch conveyed the Indian respect for woman
as the immortal light-bearer. The garden held a small temple consecrated to
the Noumenon beyond phenomena. Thought of the divine incorporeity was
suggested by absence of any altar-image.
Bose's speech on this great occasion might have issued from the lips of one
of the inspired ancient rishis.
"I dedicate today this Institute as not merely a laboratory but a temple."
His reverent solemnity stole like an unseen cloak over the crowded
auditorium. "In the pursuit of my investigations I was unconsciously led into
the border region of physics and physiology. To my amazement, I found
boundary lines vanishing, and points of contact emerging, between the realms
of the living and the non-living. Inorganic matter was perceived as anything
but inert; it was athrill under the action of multitudinous forces.
"A universal reaction seemed to bring metal, plant and animal under a
common law. They all exhibited essentially the same phenomena of fatigue
and depression, with possibilities of recovery and of exaltation, as well as the
permanent irresponsiveness associated with death. Filled with awe at this
stupendous generalization, it was with great hope that I announced my results
before the Royal Society- results demonstrated by experiments. But the
physiologists present advised me to confine myself to physical investigations,
in which my success had been assured, rather than encroach on their preserves.
I had unwittingly strayed into the domain of an unfamiliar caste system and so
offended its etiquette.
"An unconscious theological bias was also present, which confounds
ignorance with faith. It is often forgotten that He who surrounded us with this
ever-evolving mystery of creation has also implanted in us the desire to
question and understand. Through many years of miscomprehension, I came to
know that the life of a devotee of science is inevitably filled with unending
struggle. It is for him to cast his life as an ardent offering-regarding gain and
loss, success and failure, as one.
"In time the leading scientific societies of the world accepted my theories
and results, and recognized the importance of the Indian contribution to
science. Can anything small or circumscribed ever satisfy the mind of India?
By a continuous living tradition, and a vital power of rejuvenescence, this land
has readjusted itself through unnumbered transformations. Indians have
always arisen who, discarding the immediate and absorbing prize of the hour,
have sought for the realization of the highest ideals in life-not through passive
renunciation, but through active struggle. The weakling who has refused the
conflict, acquiring nothing, has had nothing to renounce. He alone who has
striven and won can enrich the world by bestowing the fruits of his victorious
experience.
"The work already carried out in the Bose laboratory on the response of
matter, and the unexpected revelations in plant life, have opened out very
extended regions of inquiry in physics, in physiology, in medicine, in
agriculture, and even in psychology. Problems hitherto regarded as insoluble
have now been brought within the sphere of experimental investigation.
"But high success is not to be obtained without rigid exactitude. Hence the
long battery of super-sensitive instruments and apparatus of my design, which
stand before you today in their cases in the entrance hall. They tell you of the
protracted efforts to get behind the deceptive seeming into the reality that
remains unseen, of the continuous toil and persistence and resourcefulness
called forth to overcome human limitations. All creative scientists know that
the true laboratory is the mind, where behind illusions they uncover the laws
of truth.
"The lectures given here will not be mere repetitions of second-hand
knowledge. They will announce new discoveries, demonstrated for the first
time in these halls. Through regular publication of the work of the Institute,
these Indian contributions will reach the whole world. They will become
public property. No patents will ever be taken. The spirit of our national
culture demands that we should forever be free from the desecration of
utilizing knowledge only for personal gain.
"It is my further wish that the facilities of this Institute be available, so far
as possible, to workers from all countries. In this I am attempting to carry on
the traditions of my country. So far back as twenty-five centuries, India
welcomed to its ancient universities, at Nalanda and Taxila, scholars from all
parts of the world.
"Although science is neither of the East nor of the West but rather
international in its universality, yet India is specially fitted to make great
contributions. The burning Indian imagination, which can extort new order out
of a mass of apparently contradictory facts, is held in check by the habit of
concentration. This restraint confers the power to hold the mind to the pursuit
of truth with an infinite patience."
Tears stood in my eyes at the scientist's concluding words. Is "patience"
not indeed a synonym of India, confounding Time and the historians alike?
I visited the research center again, soon after the day of opening. The great
botanist, mindful of his promise, took me to his quiet laboratory.
"I will attach the crescograph to this fern; the magnification is tremendous.
If a snail's crawl were enlarged in the same proportion, the creature would
appear to be traveling like an express train!"
My gaze was fixed eagerly on the screen which reflected the magnified
fern-shadow. Minute life-movements were now clearly perceptible; the plant
was growing very slowly before my fascinated eyes. The scientist touched the
tip of the fern with a small metal bar. The developing pantomime came to an
abrupt halt, resuming the eloquent rhythms as soon as the rod was withdrawn.
"You saw how any slight outside interference is detrimental to the sensitive
tissues," Bose remarked. "Watch; I will now administer chloroform, and then
give an antidote."
The effect of the chloroform discontinued all growth; the antidote was
revivifying. The evolutionary gestures on the screen held me more raptly than
a "movie" plot. My companion (here in the role of villain) thrust a sharp
instrument through a part of the fern; pain was indicated by spasmodic flutters.
When he passed a razor partially through the stem, the shadow was violently
agitated, then stilled itself with the final punctuation of death.
"By first chloroforming a huge tree, I achieved a successful
transplantation. Usually, such monarchs of the forest die very quickly after
being moved." Jagadis smiled happily as he recounted the life- saving
maneuver. "Graphs of my delicate apparatus have proved that trees possess a
circulatory system; their sap movements correspond to the blood pressure of
animal bodies. The ascent of sap is not explicable on the mechanical grounds
ordinarily advanced, such as capillary attraction. The phenomenon has been
solved through the crescograph as the activity of living cells. Peristaltic waves
issue from a cylindrical tube which extends down a tree and serves as an
actual heart! The more deeply we perceive, the more striking becomes the
evidence that a uniform plan links every form in manifold nature."
The great scientist pointed to another Bose instrument.
"I will show you experiments on a piece of tin. The life-force in metals
responds adversely or beneficially to stimuli. Ink markings will register the
various reactions."
Deeply engrossed, I watched the graph which recorded the characteristic
waves of atomic structure. When the professor applied chloroform to the tin,
the vibratory writings stopped. They recommenced as the metal slowly
regained its normal state. My companion dispensed a poisonous chemical.
Simultaneous with the quivering end of the tin, the needle dramatically wrote
on the chart a death-notice.
"Bose instruments have demonstrated that metals, such as the steel used in
scissors and machinery, are subject to fatigue, and regain efficiency by
periodic rest. The life-pulse in metals is seriously harmed or even extinguished
through the application of electric currents or heavy pressure."
I looked around the room at the numerous inventions, eloquent testimony
of a tireless ingenuity.
 "Sir, it is lamentable that mass agricultural development is not speeded by
fuller use of your marvelous mechanisms. Would it not be easily possible to
employ some of them in quick laboratory experiments to indicate the influence
of various types of fertilizers on plant growth?"
"You are right. Countless uses of Bose instruments will be made by future
generations. The scientist seldom knows contemporaneous reward; it is
enough to possess the joy of creative service."
With expressions of unreserved gratitude to the indefatigable sage, I took
my leave. "Can the astonishing fertility of his genius ever be exhausted?" I
thought.
No diminution came with the years. Inventing an intricate instrument, the
"Resonant Cardiograph," Bose then pursued extensive researches on
innumerable Indian plants. An enormous unsuspected pharmacopoeia of
useful drugs was revealed. The cardiograph is constructed with an unerring
accuracy by which a one-hundredth part of a second is indicated on a graph.
Resonant records measure infinitesimal pulsations in plant, animal and human
structure. The great botanist predicted that use of his cardiograph will lead to
vivisection on plants instead of animals.
"Side by side recordings of the effects of a medicine given simultaneously
to a plant and an animal have shown astounding unanimity in result," he
pointed out. "Everything in man has been foreshadowed in the plant.
Experimentation on vegetation will contribute to lessening of human
suffering."
Years later Bose's pioneer plant findings were substantiated by other
scientists. Work done in 1938 at Columbia University was reported by The
New York Times as follows:
It has been determined within the past few years that when the nerves
transmit messages between the brain and other parts of the body, tiny electrical
impulses are being generated. These impulses have been measured by delicate
galvanometers and magnified millions of times by modern amplifying
apparatus. Until now no satisfactory method had been found to study the
passages of the impulses along the nerve fibers in living animals or man
because of the great speed with which these impulses travel.
Drs. K. S. Cole and H. J. Curtis reported having discovered that the long
single cells of the fresh-water plant nitella, used frequently in goldfish bowls,
are virtually identical with those of single nerve fibers. Furthermore, they
found that nitella fibers, on being excited, propagate electrical waves that are
similar in every way, except velocity, to those of the nerve fibers in animals
and man. The electrical nerve impulses in the plant were found to be much
slower than those in animals. This discovery was therefore seized upon by the
Columbia workers as a means for taking slow motion pictures of the passage
of the electrical impulses in nerves.
The nitella plant thus may become a sort of Rosetta stone for deciphering
the closely guarded secrets close to the very borderland of mind and matter.
The poet Rabindranath Tagore was a stalwart friend of India's idealistic
scientist. To him, the sweet Bengali singer addressed the following lines:
O Hermit, call thou in the authentic words
Of that old hymn called sama; "Rise! Awake!"
Call to the man who boasts his shastric lore
From vain pedantic wranglings profitless,
Call to that foolish braggart to come forth
Out on the face of nature, this broad earth,
Send forth this call unto thy scholar band;
Together round thy sacrifice of fire
Let them all gather. So may our India,
Our ancient land unto herself return
O once again return to steadfast work,
To duty and devotion, to her trance
Of earnest meditation; let her sit
Once more unruffled, greedless, strifeless, pure,
O once again upon her lofty seat
And platform, teacher of all lands.

CHAPTER: 9
The Blissful Devotee And His Cosmic Romance

"Little sir, please be seated. I am talking to my Divine Mother."

Silently I had entered the room in great awe. The angelic appearance of
Master Mahasaya fairly dazzled me. With silky white beard and large lustrous
eyes, he seemed an incarnation of purity. His upraised chin and folded hands
apprized me that my first visit had disturbed him in the midst of his devotions.
His simple words of greeting produced the most violent effect my nature
had so far experienced. The bitter separation of my mother's death I had
thought the measure of all anguish. Now an agony at separation from my
Divine Mother was an indescribable torture of the spirit. I fell moaning to the
floor.
"Little sir, quiet yourself!" The saint was sympathetically distressed.
Abandoned in some oceanic desolation, I clutched his feet as the sole raft
of my rescue.
"Holy sir, thy intercession! Ask Divine Mother if I find any favor in Her
sight!"
This promise is one not easily bestowed; the master was constrained to
silence.
Beyond reach of doubt, I was convinced that Master Mahasaya was in
intimate converse with the Universal Mother. It was deep humiliation to
realize that my eyes were blind to Her who even at this moment was
perceptible to the faultless gaze of the saint. Shamelessly gripping his feet,
deaf to his gentle remonstrances, I besought him again and again for his
intervening grace.
"I will make your plea to the Beloved." The master's capitulation came
with a slow, compassionate smile.
What power in those few words, that my being should know release from
its stormy exile?
"Sir, remember your pledge! I shall return soon for Her message!" Joyful
anticipation rang in my voice that only a moment ago had been sobbing in
sorrow.
Descending the long stairway, I was overwhelmed by memories. This
house at 50 Amherst Street, now the residence of Master Mahasaya, had once
been my family home, scene of my mother's death. Here my human heart had
broken for the vanished mother; and here today my spirit had been as though
crucified by absence of the Divine Mother. Hallowed walls, silent witness of
my grievous hurts and final healing!
My steps were eager as I returned to my Gurpar Road home. Seeking the
seclusion of my small attic, I remained in meditation until ten o'clock. The
darkness of the warm Indian night was suddenly lit with a wondrous vision.
Haloed in splendor, the Divine Mother stood before me. Her face, tenderly
smiling, was beauty itself.
 "Always have I loved thee! Ever shall I love thee!"
The celestial tones still ringing in the air, She disappeared.
The sun on the following morning had hardly risen to an angle of decorum
when I paid my second visit to Master Mahasaya. Climbing the staircase in the
house of poignant memories, I reached his fourth- floor room. The knob of the
closed door was wrapped around with a cloth; a hint, I felt, that the saint
desired privacy. As I stood irresolutely on the landing, the door was opened by
the master's welcoming hand. I knelt at his holy feet. In a playful mood, I wore
a solemn mask over my face, hiding the divine elation.
"Sir, I have come-very early, I confess!-for your message. Did the Beloved
Mother say anything about me?"
"Mischievous little sir!"
Not another remark would he make. Apparently my assumed gravity was
unimpressive.
"Why so mysterious, so evasive? Do saints never speak plainly?" Perhaps I
was a little provoked.
"Must you test me?" His calm eyes were full of understanding. "Could I
add a single word this morning to the assurance you received last night at ten
o'clock from the Beautiful Mother Herself?"
Master Mahasaya possessed control over the flood-gates of my soul: again
I plunged prostrate at his feet. But this time my tears welled from a bliss, and
not a pain, past bearing.
"Think you that your devotion did not touch the Infinite Mercy? The
Motherhood of God, that you have worshiped in forms both human and divine,
could never fail to answer your forsaken cry."
Who was this simple saint, whose least request to the Universal Spirit met
with sweet acquiescence? His role in the world was humble, as befitted the
greatest man of humility I ever knew. In this Amherst Street house, Master
Mahasaya conducted a small high school for boys. No words of chastisement
passed his lips; no rule and ferule maintained his discipline. Higher
mathematics indeed were taught in these modest classrooms, and a chemistry
of love absent from the textbooks. He spread his wisdom by spiritual
contagion rather than impermeable precept. Consumed by an unsophisticated
passion for the Divine Mother, the saint no more demanded the outward forms
of respect than a child.
"I am not your guru; he shall come a little later," he told me. "Through his
guidance, your experiences of the Divine in terms of love and devotion shall
be translated into his terms of fathomless wisdom."
 Every late afternoon, I betook myself to Amherst Street. I sought Master
Mahasaya's divine cup, so full that its drops daily overflowed on my being.
Never before had I bowed in utter reverence; now I felt it an immeasurable
privilege even to tread the same ground which Master Mahasaya sanctified.
"Sir, please wear this champak garland I have fashioned especially for
you." I arrived one evening, holding my chain of flowers. But shyly he drew
away, repeatedly refusing the honor. Perceiving my hurt, he finally smiled
consent.
"Since we are both devotees of the Mother, you may put the garland on this
bodily temple, as offering to Her who dwells within." His vast nature lacked
space in which any egotistical consideration could gain foothold.
Ever engrossed in his blissful cosmic romance.
"Let us go tomorrow to the Dakshineswar Temple, forever hallowed by my
guru." Master Mahasaya was a disciple of a Christlike master, Sri
Ramakrishna Paramhansa.
The four-mile journey on the following morning was taken by boat on the
Ganges. We entered the nine-domed Temple of Kali, where the figures of the
Divine Mother and Shiva rest on a burnished silver lotus, its thousand petals
meticulously chiseled. Master Mahasaya beamed in enchantment. He was
engaged in his inexhaustible romance with the Beloved. As he chanted Her
name, my enraptured heart seemed shattered into a thousand pieces.
We strolled later through the sacred precincts, halting in a tamarisk grove.
The manna characteristically exuded by this tree was symbolic of the heavenly
food Master Mahasaya was bestowing. His divine invocations continued. I sat
rigidly motionless on the grass amid the pink feathery tamarisk flowers.
Temporarily absent from the body, I soared in a supernal visit.
This was the first of many pilgrimages to Dakshineswar with the holy
teacher. From him I learned the sweetness of God in the aspect of Mother, or
Divine Mercy. The childlike saint found little appeal in the Father aspect, or
Divine Justice. Stern, exacting, mathematical judgment was alien to his gentle
nature.
"He can serve as an earthly prototype for the very angels of heaven!" I
thought fondly, watching him one day at his prayers. Without a breath of
censure or criticism, he surveyed the world with eyes long familiar with the
Primal Purity. His body, mind, speech, and actions were effortlessly
harmonized with his soul's simplicity.
"My Master told me so." Shrinking from personal assertion, the saint
ended any sage counsel with this invariable tribute. So deep was his identity
with Sri Ramakrishna that Master Mahasaya no longer considered his thoughts
as his own.
Hand in hand, the saint and I walked one evening on the block of his
school. My joy was dimmed by the arrival of a conceited acquaintance who
burdened us with a lengthy discourse.
"I see this man doesn't please you." The saint's whisper to me was unheard
by the egotist, spellbound by his own monologue. "I have spoken to Divine
Mother about it; She realizes our sad predicament. As soon as we get to
yonder red house, She has promised to remind him of more urgent business."
My eyes were glued to the site of salvation. Reaching its red gate, the man
unaccountably turned and departed, neither finishing his sentence nor saying
good-by. The assaulted air was comforted with peace.
Another day found me walking alone near the Howrah railway station. I
stood for a moment by a temple, silently criticizing a small group of men with
drum and cymbals who were violently reciting a chant.
"How undevotionally they use the Lord's divine name in mechanical
repetition," I reflected. My gaze was astonished by the rapid approach of
Master Mahasaya. "Sir, how come you here?"
The saint, ignoring my question, answered my thought. "Isn't it true, little
sir, that the Beloved's name sounds sweet from all lips, ignorant or wise?" He
passed his arm around me affectionately; I found myself carried on his magic
carpet to the Merciful Presence.
"Would you like to see some bioscopes?" This question one afternoon from
Master Mahasaya was mystifying; the term was then used in India to signify
motion pictures. I agreed, glad to be in his company in any circumstances. A
brisk walk brought us to the garden fronting Calcutta University. My
companion indicated a bench near the goldighi or pond.
"Let us sit here for a few minutes. My Master always asked me to meditate
whenever I saw an expanse of water. Here its placidity reminds us of the vast
calmness of God. As all things can be reflected in water, so the whole universe
is mirrored in the lake of the Cosmic Mind. So my gurudeva often said."
Soon we entered a university hall where a lecture was in progress. It
proved abysmally dull, though varied occasionally by lantern slide
illustrations, equally uninteresting.
"So this is the kind of bioscope the master wanted me to see!" My thought
was impatient, yet I would not hurt the saint by revealing boredom in my face.
But he leaned toward me confidentially.
"I see, little sir, that you don't like this bioscope. I have mentioned it to
Divine Mother; She is in full sympathy with us both. She tells me that the
electric lights will now go out, and won't be relit until we have a chance to
leave the room."
As his whisper ended, the hall was plunged into darkness. The professor's
strident voice was stilled in astonishment, then remarked, "The electrical
system of this hall appears to be defective." By this time, Master Mahasaya
and I were safely across the threshold. Glancing back from the corridor, I saw
that the scene of our martyrdom had again become illuminated.
"Little sir, you were disappointed in that bioscope, but I think you will like
a different one." The saint and I were standing on the sidewalk in front of the
university building. He gently slapped my chest over the heart.
A transforming silence ensued. Just as the modern "talkies" become
inaudible motion pictures when the sound apparatus goes out of order, so the
Divine Hand, by some strange miracle, stifled the earthly bustle. The
pedestrians as well as the passing trolley cars, automobiles, bullock carts, and
iron-wheeled hackney carriages were all in noiseless transit. As though
possessing an omnipresent eye, I beheld the scenes which were behind me,
and to each side, as easily as those in front. The whole spectacle of activity in
that small section of Calcutta passed before me without a sound. Like a glow
of fire dimly seen beneath a thin coat of ashes, a mellow luminescence
permeated the panoramic view.
My own body seemed nothing more than one of the many shadows, though
it was motionless, while the others flitted mutely to and fro. Several boys,
friends of mine, approached and passed on; though they had looked directly at
me, it was without recognition.
The unique pantomime brought me an inexpressible ecstasy. I drank deep
from some blissful fount. Suddenly my chest received another soft blow from
Master Mahasaya. The pandemonium of the world burst upon my unwilling
ears. I staggered, as though harshly awakened from a gossamer dream. The
transcendental wine removed beyond my reach.
"Little sir, I see you found the second bioscope to your liking." The saint
was smiling; I started to drop in gratitude on the ground before him. "You can't
do that to me now; you know God is in your temple also! I won't let Divine
Mother touch my feet through your hands!"
If anyone observed the unpretentious master and myself as we walked
away from the crowded pavement, the onlooker surely suspected us of
intoxication. I felt that the falling shades of evening were sympathetically
drunk with God. When darkness recovered from its nightly swoon, I faced the
new morning bereft of my ecstatic mood. But ever enshrined in memory is the
seraphic son of Divine Mother-Master Mahasaya!
Trying with poor words to do justice to his benignity, I wonder if Master
Mahasaya, and others among the deep-visioned saints whose paths crossed
mine, knew that years later, in a Western land, I would be writing about their
lives as divine devotees. Their foreknowledge would not surprise me nor, I
hope, my readers, who have come thus far with me.

CHAPTER: 10
I Meet My Master, Sri Yukteswar

"Faith in God can produce any miracle except one-passing an examination

without study." Distastefully I closed the book I had picked up in an idle
moment.
"The writer's exception shows his complete lack of faith," I thought. "Poor
chap, he has great respect for the midnight oil!"
My promise to Father had been that I would complete my high school
studies. I cannot pretend to diligence. The passing months found me less
frequently in the classroom than in secluded spots along the Calcutta bathing
ghats. The adjoining crematory grounds, especially gruesome at night, are
considered highly attractive by the yogi. He who would find the Deathless
Essence must not be dismayed by a few unadorned skulls. Human inadequacy
becomes clear in the gloomy abode of miscellaneous bones. My midnight
vigils were thus of a different nature from the scholar's.
The week of final examinations at the Hindu High School was fast
approaching. This interrogatory period, like the sepulchral haunts, inspires a
well-known terror. My mind was nevertheless at peace. Braving the ghouls, I
was exhuming a knowledge not found in lecture halls. But it lacked the art of
Swami Pranabananda, who easily appeared in two places at one time. My
educational dilemma was plainly a matter for the Infinite Ingenuity. This was
my reasoning, though to many it seems illogic. The devotee's irrationality
springs from a thousand inexplicable demonstrations of God's instancy in
trouble.
"Hello, Mukunda! I catch hardly a glimpse of you these days!" A classmate
accosted me one afternoon on Gurpar Road.
"Hello, Nantu! My invisibility at school has actually placed me there in a
decidedly awkward position." I unburdened myself under his friendly gaze.
Nantu, who was a brilliant student, laughed heartily; my predicament was
not without a comic aspect.
"You are utterly unprepared for the finals! I suppose it is up to me to help
you!"
The simple words conveyed divine promise to my ears; with alacrity I
visited my friend's home. He kindly outlined the solutions to various problems
he considered likely to be set by the instructors.
"These questions are the bait which will catch many trusting boys in the
examination trap. Remember my answers, and you will escape without injury."
The night was far gone when I departed. Bursting with unseasoned
erudition, I devoutly prayed it would remain for the next few critical days.
Nantu had coached me in my various subjects but, under press of time, had
forgotten my course in Sanskrit. Fervently I reminded God of the oversight.
I set out on a short walk the next morning, assimilating my new knowledge
to the rhythm of swinging footsteps. As I took a short cut through the weeds of
a corner lot, my eye fell on a few loose printed sheets. A triumphant pounce
proved them to be Sanskrit verse. I sought out a pundit for aid in my stumbling
interpretation. His rich voice filled the air with the edgeless, honeyed beauty
of the ancient tongue.
"These exceptional stanzas cannot possibly be of aid in your Sanskrit test."
The scholar dismissed them skeptically.
But familiarity with that particular poem enabled me on the following day
to pass the Sanskrit examination. Through the discerning help Nantu had
given, I also attained the minimum grade for success in all my other subjects.
Father was pleased that I had kept my word and concluded my secondary
school course. My gratitude sped to the Lord, whose sole guidance I perceived
in my visit to Nantu and my walk by the unhabitual route of the debris-filled
lot. Playfully He had given a dual expression to His timely design for my
rescue.
I came across the discarded book whose author had denied God precedence
in the examination halls. I could not restrain a chuckle at my own silent
comment:
"It would only add to this fellow's confusion, if I were to tell him that
divine meditation among the cadavers is a short cut to a high school diploma!"
In my new dignity, I was now openly planning to leave home. Together
with a young friend, Jitendra Mazumdar, I decided to join a Mahamandal
hermitage in Benares, and receive its spiritual discipline.
A desolation fell over me one morning at thought of separation from my
family. Since Mother's death, my affection had grown especially tender for my
two younger brothers, Sananda and Bishnu. I rushed to my retreat, the little
attic which had witnessed so many scenes in my turbulent sadhana. After a
two-hour flood of tears, I felt singularly transformed, as by some alchemical
cleanser. All attachment disappeared; my resolution to seek God as the Friend
of friends set like granite within me. I quickly completed my travel
preparations.
"I make one last plea." Father was distressed as I stood before him for final
blessing. "Do not forsake me and your grieving brothers and sisters."
"Revered Father, how can I tell my love for you! But even greater is my
love for the Heavenly Father, who has given me the gift of a perfect father on
earth. Let me go, that I someday return with a more divine understanding."
With reluctant parental consent, I set out to join Jitendra, already in
Benares at the hermitage. On my arrival the young head swami, Dyananda,
greeted me cordially. Tall and thin, of thoughtful mien, he impressed me
favorably. His fair face had a Buddhalike composure.
I was pleased that my new home possessed an attic, where I managed to
spend the dawn and morning hours. The ashram members, knowing little of
meditation practices, thought I should employ my whole time in
organizational duties. They gave me praise for my afternoon work in their
office.
"Don't try to catch God so soon!" This ridicule from a fellow resident
accompanied one of my early departures toward the attic. I went to Dyananda,
busy in his small sanctum overlooking the Ganges.
"Swamiji, I don't understand what is required of me here. I am seeking
direct perception of God. Without Him, I cannot be satisfied with affiliation or
creed or performance of good works."
The orange-robed ecclesiastic gave me an affectionate pat. Staging a mock
rebuke, he admonished a few near-by disciples. "Don't bother Mukunda. He
will learn our ways."
I politely concealed my doubt. The students left the room, not overly bent
with their chastisement. Dyananda had further words for me.
"Mukunda, I see your father is regularly sending you money. Please return
it to him; you require none here. A second injunction for your discipline
concerns food. Even when you feel hunger, don't mention it."
Whether famishment gleamed in my eye, I knew not. That I was hungry, I
knew only too well. The invariable hour for the first hermitage meal was
twelve noon. I had been accustomed in my own home to a large breakfast at
nine o'clock.
The three-hour gap became daily more interminable. Gone were the
Calcutta years when I could rebuke the cook for a ten-minute delay. Now I
tried to control my appetite; one day I undertook a twenty-four hour fast. With
double zest I awaited the following midday.
"Dyanandaji's train is late; we are not going to eat until he arrives."
Jitendra brought me this devastating news. As gesture of welcome to the
swami, who had been absent for two weeks, many delicacies were in
readiness. An appetizing aroma filled the air. Nothing else offering, what else
could be swallowed except pride over yesterday's achievement of a fast?
"Lord hasten the train!" The Heavenly Provider, I thought, was hardly
included in the interdiction with which Dyananda had silenced me. Divine
Attention was elsewhere, however; the plodding clock covered the hours.
Darkness was descending as our leader entered the door. My greeting was one
of unfeigned joy.
"Dyanandaji will bathe and meditate before we can serve food." Jitendra
approached me again as a bird of ill omen.
I was in near-collapse. My young stomach, new to deprivation, protested
with gnawing vigor. Pictures I had seen of famine victims passed wraithlike
before me.
"The next Benares death from starvation is due at once in this hermitage," I
thought. Impending doom averted at nine o'clock. Ambrosial summons! In
memory that meal is vivid as one of life's perfect hours.
Intense absorption yet permitted me to observe that Dyananda ate absent-
mindedly. He was apparently above my gross pleasures.
"Swamiji, weren't you hungry?" Happily surfeited, I was alone with the
leader in his study.
"O yes! I have spent the last four days without food or drink. I never eat on
trains, filled with the heterogenous vibrations of worldly people. Strictly I
observe the shastric rules for monks of my particular order.
"Certain problems of our organizational work lie on my mind. Tonight at
home I neglected my dinner. What's the hurry? Tomorrow I'll make it a point
to have a proper meal." He laughed merrily.
Shame spread within me like a suffocation. But the past day of my torture
was not easily forgotten; I ventured a further remark.
"Swamiji, I am puzzled. Following your instruction, suppose I never asked
for food, and nobody gives me any. I should starve to death."
 "Die then!" This alarming counsel split the air. "Die if you must Mukunda!
Never admit that you live by the power of food and not by the power of God!
He who has created every form of nourishment, He who has bestowed
appetite, will certainly see that His devotee is sustained! Do not imagine that
rice maintains you, or that money or men support you! Could they aid if the
Lord withdraws your life-breath? They are His indirect instruments merely. Is
it by any skill of yours that food digests in your stomach? Use the sword of
your discrimination, Mukunda! Cut through the chains of agency and perceive
the Single Cause!"
I found his incisive words entering some deep marrow. Gone was an age-
old delusion by which bodily imperatives outwit the soul. There and then I
tasted the Spirit's all-sufficiency. In how many strange cities, in my later life of
ceaseless travel, did occasion arise to prove the serviceability of this lesson in
a Benares hermitage!
The sole treasure which had accompanied me from Calcutta was the
SADHU'S silver amulet bequeathed to me by Mother. Guarding it for years, I
now had it carefully hidden in my ashram room. To renew my joy in the
talismanic testimony, one morning I opened the locked box. The sealed
covering untouched, lo! the amulet was gone. Mournfully I tore open its
envelope and made unmistakably sure. It had vanished, in accordance with the
SADHU'S prediction, into the ether whence he had summoned it.
My relationship with Dyananda's followers grew steadily worse. The
household was alienated, hurt by my determined aloofness. My strict
adherence to meditation on the very Ideal for which I had left home and all
worldly ambitions called forth shallow criticism on all sides.
Torn by spiritual anguish, I entered the attic one dawn, resolved to pray
until answer was vouchsafed.
"Merciful Mother of the Universe, teach me Thyself through visions, or
through a guru sent by Thee!"
The passing hours found my sobbing pleas without response. Suddenly I
felt lifted as though bodily to a sphere uncircumscribed.
"Thy Master cometh today!" A divine womanly voice came from
everywhere and nowhere.
This supernal experience was pierced by a shout from a definite locale. A
young priest nicknamed Habu was calling me from the downstairs kitchen.
"Mukunda, enough of meditation! You are needed for an errand."
Another day I might have replied impatiently; now I wiped my tear-
swollen face and meekly obeyed the summons. Together Habu and I set out
for a distant market place in the Bengali section of Benares. The ungentle
Indian sun was not yet at zenith as we made our purchases in the bazaars. We
pushed our way through the colorful medley of housewives, guides, priests,
simply-clad widows, dignified Brahmins, and the ubiquitous holy bulls.
Passing an inconspicuous lane, I turned my head and surveyed the narrow
length.
A Christlike man in the ocher robes of a swami stood motionless at the end
of the road. Instantly and anciently familiar he seemed; my gaze fed hungrily
for a trice. Then doubt assailed me.
"You are confusing this wandering monk with someone known to you," I
thought. "Dreamer, walk on."
After ten minutes, I felt heavy numbness in my feet. As though turned to
stone, they were unable to carry me farther. Laboriously I turned around; my
feet regained normalcy. I faced the opposite direction; again the curious
weight oppressed me.
"The saint is magnetically drawing me to him!" With this thought, I heaped
my parcels into the arms of Habu. He had been observing my erratic footwork
with amazement, and now burst into laughter.
"What ails you? Are you crazy?"
My tumultuous emotion prevented any retort; I sped silently away.
Retracing my steps as though wing-shod, I reached the narrow lane. My
quick glance revealed the quiet figure, steadily gazing in my direction. A few
eager steps and I was at his feet.
"Gurudeva!" The divine face was none other than he of my thousand
visions. These halcyon eyes, in leonine head with pointed beard and flowing
locks, had oft peered through gloom of my nocturnal reveries, holding a
promise I had not fully understood.
"O my own, you have come to me!" My guru uttered the words again and
again in Bengali, his voice tremulous with joy. "How many years I have
waited for you!"
We entered a oneness of silence; words seemed the rankest superfluities.
Eloquence flowed in soundless chant from heart of master to disciple. With an
antenna of irrefragable insight I sensed that my guru knew God, and would
lead me to Him. The obscuration of this life disappeared in a fragile dawn of
prenatal memories. Dramatic time! Past, present, and future are its cycling
scenes. This was not the first sun to find me at these holy feet!
My hand in his, my guru led me to his temporary residence in the Rana
Mahal section of the city. His athletic figure moved with firm tread. Tall, erect,
about fifty-five at this time, he was active and vigorous as a young man. His
dark eyes were large, beautiful with plumbless wisdom. Slightly curly hair
softened a face of striking power. Strength mingled subtly with gentleness.
As we made our way to the stone balcony of a house overlooking the
Ganges, he said affectionately:
"I will give you my hermitages and all I possess."
"Sir, I come for wisdom and God-contact. Those are your treasure- troves I
am after!"
The swift Indian twilight had dropped its half-curtain before my master
spoke again. His eyes held unfathomable tenderness.
"I give you my unconditional love."
Precious words! A quarter-century elapsed before I had another auricular
proof of his love. His lips were strange to ardor; silence became his oceanic
heart.
"Will you give me the same unconditional love?" He gazed at me with
childlike trust.
"I will love you eternally, Gurudeva!"
"Ordinary love is selfish, darkly rooted in desires and satisfactions. Divine
love is without condition, without boundary, without change. The flux of the
human heart is gone forever at the transfixing touch of pure love." He added
humbly, "If ever you find me falling from a state of God-realization, please
promise to put my head on your lap and help to bring me back to the Cosmic
Beloved we both worship."
He rose then in the gathering darkness and guided me to an inner room. As
we ate mangoes and almond sweetmeats, he unobtrusively wove into his
conversation an intimate knowledge of my nature. I was awe-struck at the
grandeur of his wisdom, exquisitely blended with an innate humility.
"Do not grieve for your amulet. It has served its purpose." Like a divine
mirror, my guru apparently had caught a reflection of my whole life.
"The living reality of your presence, Master, is joy beyond any symbol."
"It is time for a change, inasmuch as you are unhappily situated in the
hermitage."
I had made no references to my life; they now seemed superfluous! By his
natural, unemphatic manner, I understood that he wished no astonished
ejaculations at his clairvoyance.
"You should go back to Calcutta. Why exclude relatives from your love of
humanity?"
His suggestion dismayed me. My family was predicting my return, though
I had been unresponsive to many pleas by letter. "Let the young bird fly in the
metaphysical skies," Ananta had remarked. "His wings will tire in the heavy
atmosphere. We shall yet see him swoop toward home, fold his pinions, and
humbly rest in our family nest." This discouraging simile fresh in my mind, I
was determined to do no "swooping" in the direction of Calcutta.
"Sir, I am not returning home. But I will follow you anywhere. Please give
me your address, and your name."
"Swami Sri Yukteswar Giri. My chief hermitage is in Serampore, on Rai
Ghat Lane. I am visiting my mother here for only a few days."
I wondered at God's intricate play with His devotees. Serampore is but
twelve miles from Calcutta, yet in those regions I had never caught a glimpse
of my guru. We had had to travel for our meeting to the ancient city of Kasi
(Benares), hallowed by memories of Lahiri Mahasaya. Here too the feet of
Buddha, Shankaracharya and other Yogi- Christs had blessed the soil.
"You will come to me in four weeks." For the first time, Sri Yukteswar's
voice was stern. "Now I have told my eternal affection, and have shown my
happiness at finding you-that is why you disregard my request. The next time
we meet, you will have to reawaken my interest: I won't accept you as a
disciple easily. There must be complete surrender by obedience to my strict
training."
I remained obstinately silent. My guru easily penetrated my difficulty.
"Do you think your relatives will laugh at you?"
"I will not return."
"You will return in thirty days."
"Never." Bowing reverently at his feet, I departed without lightening the
controversial tension. As I made my way in the midnight darkness, I wondered
why the miraculous meeting had ended on an inharmonious note. The dual
scales of maya, that balance every joy with a grief! My young heart was not
yet malleable to the transforming fingers of my guru.
The next morning I noticed increased hostility in the attitude of the
hermitage members. My days became spiked with invariable rudeness. In
three weeks, Dyananda left the ashram to attend a conference in Bombay;
pandemonium broke over my hapless head.
"Mukunda is a parasite, accepting hermitage hospitality without making
proper return." Overhearing this remark, I regretted for the first time that I had
obeyed the request to send back my money to Father. With heavy heart, I
sought out my sole friend, Jitendra.
"I am leaving. Please convey my respectful regrets to Dyanandaji when he
returns."
"I will leave also! My attempts to meditate here meet with no more favor
than your own." Jitendra spoke with determination.
"I have met a Christlike saint. Let us visit him in Serampore."
And so the "bird" prepared to "swoop" perilously close to Calcutta!

CHAPTER: 11
Two Penniless Boys In Brindaban

"It would serve you right if Father disinherited you, Mukunda! How
foolishly you are throwing away your life!" An elder-brother sermon was
assaulting my ears.
Jitendra and I, fresh from the train (a figure of speech merely; we were
covered with dust), had just arrived at the home of Ananta, recently transferred
from Calcutta to the ancient city of Agra. Brother was a supervising
accountant for the Bengal-Nagpur Railway.
"You well know, Ananta, I seek my inheritance from the Heavenly Father."
"Money first; God can come later! Who knows? Life may be too long."
"God first; money is His slave! Who can tell? Life may be too short."
My retort was summoned by the exigencies of the moment, and held no
presentiment. Yet the leaves of time unfolded to early finality for Ananta; a
few years later he entered the land where bank notes avail neither first nor
last.
"Wisdom from the hermitage, I suppose! But I see you have left Benares."
Ananta's eyes gleamed with satisfaction; he yet hoped to secure my pinions in
the family nest.
"My sojourn in Benares was not in vain! I found there everything my heart
had been longing for! You may be sure it was not your pundit or his son!"
Ananta joined me in reminiscent laughter; he had had to admit that the
Benares "clairvoyant" he selected was a shortsighted one.
"What are your plans, my wandering brother?"
 "Jitendra persuaded me to Agra. We shall view the beauties of the Taj
Mahal here," I explained. "Then we are going to my newly-found guru, who
has a hermitage in Serampore."
Ananta hospitably arranged for our comfort. Several times during the
evening I noticed his eyes fixed on me reflectively.
"I know that look!" I thought. "A plot is brewing!"
The denouement took place during our early breakfast.
"So you feel quite independent of Father's wealth." Ananta's gaze was
innocent as he resumed the barbs of yesterday's conversation.
"I am conscious of my dependence on God."
"Words are cheap! Life has shielded you thus far! What a plight if you
were forced to look to the Invisible Hand for your food and shelter! You
would soon be begging on the streets!"
"Never! I would not put faith in passers-by rather than God! He can devise
for His devotee a thousand resources besides the begging-bowl!"
"More rhetoric! Suppose I suggest that your vaunted philosophy be put to a
test in this tangible world?"
"I would agree! Do you confine God to a speculative world?"
"We shall see; today you shall have opportunity either to enlarge or to
confirm my own views!" Ananta paused for a dramatic moment; then spoke
slowly and seriously.
"I propose that I send you and your fellow disciple Jitendra this morning to
the near-by city of Brindaban. You must not take a single rupee; you must not
beg, either for food or money; you must not reveal your predicament to
anyone; you must not go without your meals; and you must not be stranded in
Brindaban. If you return to my bungalow here before twelve o'clock tonight,
without having broken any rule of the test, I shall be the most astonished man
in Agra!"
"I accept the challenge." No hesitation was in my words or in my heart.
Grateful memories flashed of the Instant Beneficence: my healing of deadly
cholera through appeal to Lahiri Mahasaya's picture; the playful gift of the two
kites on the Lahore roof with Uma; the opportune amulet amidst my
discouragement; the decisive message through the unknown Benares sadhu
outside the compound of the pundit's home; the vision of Divine Mother and
Her majestic words of love; Her swift heed through Master Mahasaya to my
trifling embarrassments; the last-minute guidance which materialized my high
school diploma; and the ultimate boon, my living Master from the mist of
lifelong dreams. Never could I admit my "philosophy" unequal to any tussle
on the world's harsh proving ground!
"Your willingness does you credit. I'll escort you to the train at once."
Ananta turned to the openmouthed Jitendra. "You must go along as a witness
and, very likely, a fellow victim!"
A half hour later Jitendra and I were in possession of one-way tickets for
our impromptu trip. We submitted, in a secluded corner of the station, to a
search of our persons. Ananta was quickly satisfied that we were carrying no
hidden hoard; our simple dhotis concealed nothing more than was necessary.
As faith invaded the serious realms of finance, my friend spoke
protestingly. "Ananta, give me one or two rupees as a safeguard. Then I can
telegraph you in case of misfortune."
"Jitendra!" My ejaculation was sharply reproachful. "I will not proceed
with the test if you take any money as final security."
"There is something reassuring about the clink of coins." Jitendra said no
more as I regarded him sternly.
"Mukunda, I am not heartless." A hint of humility had crept into Ananta's
voice. It may be that his conscience was smiting him; perhaps for sending two
insolvent boys to a strange city; perhaps for his own religious skepticism. "If
by any chance or grace you pass successfully through the Brindaban ordeal, I
shall ask you to initiate me as your disciple."
This promise had a certain irregularity, in keeping with the unconventional
occasion. The eldest brother in an Indian family seldom bows before his
juniors; he receives respect and obedience second only to a father. But no time
remained for my comment; our train was at point of departure.
Jitendra maintained a lugubrious silence as our train covered the miles.
Finally he bestirred himself; leaning over, he pinched me painfully at an
awkward spot.
"I see no sign that God is going to supply our next meal!"
"Be quiet, doubting Thomas; the Lord is working with us."
"Can you also arrange that He hurry? Already I am famished merely at the
prospect before us. I left Benares to view the Taj's mausoleum, not to enter my
own!"
"Cheer up, Jitendra! Are we not to have our first glimpse of the sacred
wonders of Brindaban? I am in deep joy at thought of treading the ground
hallowed by feet of Lord Krishna."
The door of our compartment opened; two men seated themselves. The
next train stop would be the last.
"Young lads, do you have friends in Brindaban?" The stranger opposite me
was taking a surprising interest.
"None of your business!" Rudely I averted my gaze.
"You are probably flying away from your families under the enchantment
of the Stealer of Hearts. I am of devotional temperament myself. I will make
it my positive duty to see that you receive food, and shelter from this
overpowering heat."
"No, sir, let us alone. You are very kind; but you are mistaken in judging us
to be truants from home."
No further conversation ensued; the train came to a halt. As Jitendra and I
descended to the platform, our chance companions linked arms with us and
summoned a horse cab.
We alit before a stately hermitage, set amidst the evergreen trees of well-
kept grounds. Our benefactors were evidently known here; a smiling lad led us
without comment to a parlor. We were soon joined by an elderly woman of
dignified bearing.
"Gauri Ma, the princes could not come." One of the men addressed the
ashram hostess. "At the last moment their plans went awry; they send deep
regrets. But we have brought two other guests. As soon as we met on the train,
I felt drawn to them as devotees of Lord Krishna."
One of the caves occupied by Babaji in the Drongiri Mountains near
Ranikhet in the Himalayas. A grandson of Lahiri Mahasaya, Ananda Mohan
Lahiri (second from right, in white), and three other devotees are visiting the
sacred spot.
"Good-by, young friends." Our two acquaintances walked to the door. "We
shall meet again, if God be willing."
"You are welcome here." Gauri Ma smiled in motherly fashion on her two
unexpected charges. "You could not have come on a better day. I was
expecting two royal patrons of this hermitage. What a shame if my cooking
had found none to appreciate it!"
These appetizing words had disastrous effect on Jitendra: he burst into
tears. The "prospect" he had feared in Brindaban was turning out as royal
entertainment; his sudden mental adjustment proved too much for him. Our
hostess looked at him with curiosity, but without remark; perhaps she was
familiar with adolescent quirks.
Lunch was announced; Gauri Ma led the way to a dining patio, spicy with
savory odors. She vanished into an adjoining kitchen.
I had been premeditating this moment. Selecting the appropriate spot on
Jitendra's anatomy, I administered a pinch as resounding as the one he had
given me on the train.
"Doubting Thomas, the Lord works-in a hurry, too!"
The hostess reentered with a punkha. She steadily fanned us in the Oriental
fashion as we squatted on ornate blanket-seats. Ashram disciples passed to and
fro with some thirty courses. Rather than "meal," the description can only be
"sumptuous repast." Since arriving on this planet, Jitendra and I had never
before tasted such delicacies.
"Dishes fit for princes indeed, Honored Mother! What your royal patrons
could have found more urgent than attending this banquet, I cannot imagine!
You have given us a memory for a lifetime!"
Silenced as we were by Ananta's requirement, we could not explain to the
gracious lady that our thanks held a double significance. Our sincerity at least
was patent. We departed with her blessing and an attractive invitation to revisit
the hermitage.
The heat outdoors was merciless. My friend and I made for the shelter of a
lordly cadamba tree at the ashram gate. Sharp words followed; once again
Jitendra was beset with misgivings.
"A fine mess you have got me into! Our luncheon was only accidental
good fortune! How can we see the sights of this city, without a single pice
between us? And how on earth are you going to take me back to Ananta's?"
"You forget God quickly, now that your stomach is filled." My words, not
bitter, were accusatory. How short is human memory for divine favors! No
man lives who has not seen certain of his prayers granted.
"I am not likely to forget my folly in venturing out with a madcap like
you!"
"Be quiet, Jitendra! The same Lord who fed us will show us Brindaban,
and return us to Agra."
A slight young man of pleasing countenance approached at rapid pace.
Halting under our tree, he bowed before me.
"Dear friend, you and your companion must be strangers here. Permit me
to be your host and guide."
It is scarcely possible for an Indian to pale, but Jitendra's face was
suddenly sickly. I politely declined the offer.
 "You are surely not banishing me?" The stranger's alarm would have been
comic in any other circumstances.
"Why not?"
"You are my guru." His eyes sought mine trustfully. "During my midday
devotions, the blessed Lord Krishna appeared in a vision. He showed me two
forsaken figures under this very tree. One face was yours, my master! Often
have I seen it in meditation! What joy if you accept my humble services!"
"I too am glad you have found me. Neither God nor man has forsaken us!"
Though I was motionless, smiling at the eager face before me, an inward
obeisance cast me at the Divine Feet.
"Dear friends, will you not honor my home for a visit?"
"You are kind; but the plan is unfeasible. Already we are guests of my
brother in Agra."
"At least give me memories of touring Brindaban with you."
I gladly consented. The young man, who said his name was Pratap
Chatterji, hailed a horse carriage. We visited Madanamohana Temple and
other Krishna shrines. Night descended while we were at our temple
devotions.
"Excuse me while I get sandesh." Pratap entered a shop near the railroad
station. Jitendra and I sauntered along the wide street, crowded now in the
comparative coolness. Our friend was absent for some time, but finally
returned with gifts of many sweetmeats.
"Please allow me to gain this religious merit." Pratap smiled pleadingly as
he held out a bundle of rupee notes and two tickets, just purchased, to Agra.
The reverence of my acceptance was for the Invisible Hand. Scoffed at by
Ananta, had Its bounty not far exceeded necessity?
We sought out a secluded spot near the station.
"Pratap, I will instruct you in the Kriya of Lahiri Mahasaya, the greatest
yogi of modern times. His technique will be your guru."
The initiation was concluded in a half hour. "Kriya is your chintamani," I
told the new student. "The technique, which as you see is simple, embodies
the art of quickening man's spiritual evolution. Hindu scriptures teach that the
incarnating ego requires a million years to obtain liberation from maya. This
natural period is greatly shortened through Kriya Yoga. Just as Jagadis
Chandra Bose has demonstrated that plant growth can be accelerated far
beyond its normal rate, so man's psychological development can be also
speeded by an inner science. Be faithful in your practice; you will approach
the Guru of all gurus."
"I am transported to find this yogic key, long sought!" Pratap spoke
thoughtfully. "Its unshackling effect on my sensory bonds will free me for
higher spheres. The vision today of Lord Krishna could only mean my highest
good."
We sat awhile in silent understanding, then walked slowly to the station.
Joy was within me as I boarded the train, but this was Jitendra's day for tears.
My affectionate farewell to Pratap had been punctuated by stifled sobs from
both my companions. The journey once more found Jitendra in a welter of
grief. Not for himself this time, but against himself.
"How shallow my trust! My heart has been stone! Never in future shall I
doubt God's protection!"
Midnight was approaching. The two "Cinderellas," sent forth penniless,
entered Ananta's bedroom. His face, as he had promised, was a study in
astonishment. Silently I showered the table with rupees.
"Jitendra, the truth!" Ananta's tone was jocular. "Has not this youngster
been staging a holdup?"
But as the tale was unfolded, my brother turned sober, then solemn.
"The law of demand and supply reaches into subtler realms than I had
supposed." Ananta spoke with a spiritual enthusiasm never before noticeable.
"I understand for the first time your indifference to the vaults and vulgar
accumulations of the world."
Late as it was, my brother insisted that he receive diksha into Kriya Yoga.
The "guru" Mukunda had to shoulder the responsibility of two unsought
disciples in one day.
Breakfast the following morning was eaten in a harmony absent the day
before. I smiled at Jitendra.
"You shall not be cheated of the Taj. Let us view it before starting for
Serampore."
Bidding farewell to Ananta, my friend and I were soon before the glory of
Agra, the Taj Mahal. White marble dazzling in the sun, it stands a vision of
pure symmetry. The perfect setting is dark cypress, glossy lawn, and tranquil
lagoon. The interior is exquisite with lacelike carvings inlaid with
semiprecious stones. Delicate wreaths and scrolls emerge intricately from
marbles, brown and violet. Illumination from the dome falls on the cenotaphs
of Emperor Shah-Jahan and Mumtaz Mahall, queen of his realm and his heart.
Enough of sight-seeing! I was longing for my guru. Jitendra and I were
shortly traveling south by train toward Bengal.
"Mukunda, I have not seen my family in months. I have changed my mind;
perhaps later I shall visit your master in Serampore."
My friend, who may mildly be described as vacillating in temperament,
left me in Calcutta. By local train I soon reached Serampore, twelve miles to
the north.
A throb of wonderment stole over me as I realized that twenty-eight days
had elapsed since the Benares meeting with my guru. "You will come to me in
four weeks!" Here I was, heart pounding, standing within his courtyard on
quiet Rai Ghat Lane. I entered for the first time the hermitage where I was to
spend the best part of the next ten years with India's Jyanavatar, "incarnation
of wisdom."

CHAPTER: 12
Years In My Master's Hermitage

"You have come." Sri Yukteswar greeted me from a tiger skin on the floor
of a balconied sitting room. His voice was cold, his manner unemotional.
"Yes, dear Master, I am here to follow you." Kneeling, I touched his feet.
"How can that be? You ignore my wishes."
"No longer, Guruji! Your wish shall be my law!"
"That is better! Now I can assume responsibility for your life."
"I willingly transfer the burden, Master."
"My first request, then, is that you return home to your family. I want you
to enter college in Calcutta. Your education should be continued."
"Very well, sir." I hid my consternation. Would importunate books pursue
me down the years? First Father, now Sri Yukteswar!
"Someday you will go to the West. Its people will lend ears more receptive
to India's ancient wisdom if the strange Hindu teacher has a university
degree."
"You know best, Guruji." My gloom departed. The reference to the West I
found puzzling, remote; but my opportunity to please Master by obedience
was vitally immediate.
"You will be near in Calcutta; come here whenever you find time."
 "Every day if possible, Master! Gratefully I accept your authority in every
detail of my life-on one condition."
"Yes?"
"That you promise to reveal God to me!"
An hour-long verbal tussle ensued. A master's word cannot be falsified; it
is not lightly given. The implications in the pledge open out vast metaphysical
vistas. A guru must be on intimate terms indeed with the Creator before he can
obligate Him to appear! I sensed Sri Yukteswar's divine unity, and was
determined, as his disciple, to press my advantage.
"You are of exacting disposition!" Then Master's consent rang out with
compassionate finality:
"Let your wish be my wish."
Lifelong shadow lifted from my heart; the vague search, hither and yon,
was over. I had found eternal shelter in a true guru.
"Come; I will show you the hermitage." Master rose from his tiger mat. I
glanced about me; my gaze fell with astonishment on a wall picture, garlanded
with a spray of jasmine.
"Lahiri Mahasaya!"
"Yes, my divine guru." Sri Yukteswar's tone was reverently vibrant.
"Greater he was, as man and yogi, than any other teacher whose life came
within the range of my investigations."
Silently I bowed before the familiar picture. Soul-homage sped to the
peerless master who, blessing my infancy, had guided my steps to this hour.
Led by my guru, I strolled over the house and its grounds. Large, ancient
and well-built, the hermitage was surrounded by a massive- pillared courtyard.
Outer walls were moss-covered; pigeons fluttered over the flat gray roof,
unceremoniously sharing the ashram quarters. A rear garden was pleasant with
jackfruit, mango, and plantain trees. Balustraded balconies of upper rooms in
the two-storied building faced the courtyard from three sides. A spacious
ground-floor hall, with high ceiling supported by colonnades, was used,
Master said, chiefly during the annual festivities of Durgapuja. A narrow
stairway led to Sri Yukteswar's sitting room, whose small balcony overlooked
the street. The ashram was plainly furnished; everything was simple, clean,
and utilitarian. Several Western styled chairs, benches, and tables were in
evidence.
Master invited me to stay overnight. A supper of vegetable curry was
served by two young disciples who were receiving hermitage training.
 "Guruji, please tell me something of your life." I was squatting on a straw
mat near his tiger skin. The friendly stars were very close, it seemed, beyond
the balcony.
"My family name was Priya Nath Karar. I was born here in Serampore,
where Father was a wealthy businessman. He left me this ancestral mansion,
now my hermitage. My formal schooling was little; I found it slow and
shallow. In early manhood, I undertook the responsibilities of a householder,
and have one daughter, now married. My middle life was blessed with the
guidance of Lahiri Mahasaya. After my wife died, I joined the Swami Order
and received the new name of Sri Yukteswar Giri. Such are my simple annals."
Master smiled at my eager face. Like all biographical sketches, his words
had given the outward facts without revealing the inner man.
"Guruji, I would like to hear some stories of your childhood."
"I will tell you a few-each one with a moral!" Sri Yukteswar's eyes
twinkled with his warning. "My mother once tried to frighten me with an
appalling story of a ghost in a dark chamber. I went there immediately, and
expressed my disappointment at having missed the ghost. Mother never told
me another horror-tale. Moral: Look fear in the face and it will cease to trouble
you.
"Another early memory is my wish for an ugly dog belonging to a
neighbor. I kept my household in turmoil for weeks to get that dog. My ears
were deaf to offers of pets with more prepossessing appearance. Moral:
Attachment is blinding; it lends an imaginary halo of attractiveness to the
object of desire.
"A third story concerns the plasticity of the youthful mind. I heard my
mother remark occasionally: 'A man who accepts a job under anyone is a
slave.' That impression became so indelibly fixed that even after my marriage
I refused all positions. I met expenses by investing my family endowment in
land. Moral: Good and positive suggestions should instruct the sensitive ears
of children. Their early ideas long remain sharply etched."
Master fell into tranquil silence. Around midnight he led me to a narrow
cot. Sleep was sound and sweet the first night under my guru's roof.
Sri Yukteswar chose the following morning to grant me his Kriya Yoga
initiation. The technique I had already received from two disciples of Lahiri
Mahasaya-Father and my tutor, Swami Kebalananda-but in Master's presence I
felt transforming power. At his touch, a great light broke upon my being, like
glory of countless suns blazing together. A flood of ineffable bliss,
overwhelming my heart to an innermost core, continued during the following
day. It was late that afternoon before I could bring myself to leave the
hermitage.
"You will return in thirty days." As I reached my Calcutta home, the
fulfillment of Master's prediction entered with me. None of my relatives made
the pointed remarks I had feared about the reappearance of the "soaring bird."
I climbed to my little attic and bestowed affectionate glances, as though on
a living presence. "You have witnessed my meditations, and the tears and
storms of my sadhana. Now I have reached the harbor of my divine teacher."
"Son, I am happy for us both." Father and I sat together in the evening
calm. "You have found your guru, as in miraculous fashion I once found my
own. The holy hand of Lahiri Mahasaya is guarding our lives. Your master has
proved no inaccessible Himalayan saint, but one near-by. My prayers have
been answered: you have not in your search for God been permanently
removed from my sight."
Father was also pleased that my formal studies would be resumed; he made
suitable arrangements. I was enrolled the following day at the Scottish Church
College in Calcutta.
Happy months sped by. My readers have doubtless made the perspicacious
surmise that I was little seen in the college classrooms. The Serampore
hermitage held a lure too irresistible. Master accepted my ubiquitous presence
without comment. To my relief, he seldom referred to the halls of learning.
Though it was plain to all that I was never cut out for a scholar, I managed to
attain minimum passing grades from time to time.
Daily life at the ashram flowed smoothly, infrequently varied. My guru
awoke before dawn. Lying down, or sometimes sitting on the bed, he entered a
state of samadhi. It was simplicity itself to discover when Master had
awakened: abrupt halt of stupendous snores. A sigh or two; perhaps a bodily
movement. Then a soundless state of breathlessness: he was in deep yogic joy.
Breakfast did not follow; first came a long walk by the Ganges. Those
morning strolls with my guru-how real and vivid still! In the easy resurrection
of memory, I often find myself by his side: the early sun is warming the river.
His voice rings out, rich with the authenticity of wisdom.
A bath; then the midday meal. Its preparation, according to Master's daily
directions, had been the careful task of young disciples. My guru was a
vegetarian. Before embracing monkhood, however, he had eaten eggs and fish.
His advice to students was to follow any simple diet which proved suited to
one's constitution.
Master ate little; often rice, colored with turmeric or juice of beets or
spinach and lightly sprinkled with buffalo ghee or melted butter. Another day
he might have lentil-dhal or channa curry with vegetables. For dessert,
mangoes or oranges with rice pudding, or jackfruit juice.
Visitors appeared in the afternoons. A steady stream poured from the world
into the hermitage tranquillity. Everyone found in Master an equal courtesy
and kindness. To a man who has realized himself as a soul, not the body or the
ego, the rest of humanity assumes a striking similarity of aspect.
The impartiality of saints is rooted in wisdom. Masters have escaped maya;
its alternating faces of intellect and idiocy no longer cast an influential glance.
Sri Yukteswar showed no special consideration to those who happened to be
powerful or accomplished; neither did he slight others for their poverty or
illiteracy. He would listen respectfully to words of truth from a child, and
openly ignore a conceited pundit.
Eight o'clock was the supper hour, and sometimes found lingering guests.
My guru would not excuse himself to eat alone; none left his ashram hungry or
dissatisfied. Sri Yukteswar was never at a loss, never dismayed by unexpected
visitors; scanty food would emerge a banquet under his resourceful direction.
Yet he was economical; his modest funds went far. "Be comfortable within
your purse," he often said. "Extravagance will buy you discomfort." Whether
in the details of hermitage entertainment, or his building and repair work, or
other practical concerns, Master manifested the originality of a creative spirit.
Quiet evening hours often brought one of my guru's discourses, treasures
against time. His every utterance was measured and chiseled by wisdom. A
sublime self-assurance marked his mode of expression: it was unique. He
spoke as none other in my experience ever spoke. His thoughts were weighed
in a delicate balance of discrimination before he permitted them an outward
garb. The essence of truth, all-pervasive with even a physiological aspect,
came from him like a fragrant exudation of the soul. I was conscious always
that I was in the presence of a living manifestation of God. The weight of his
divinity automatically bowed my head before him.
If late guests detected that Sri Yukteswar was becoming engrossed with the
Infinite, he quickly engaged them in conversation. He was incapable of
striking a pose, or of flaunting his inner withdrawal. Always one with the
Lord, he needed no separate time for communion. A self-realized master has
already left behind the stepping stone of meditation. "The flower falls when
the fruit appears." But saints often cling to spiritual forms for the
encouragement of disciples.
As midnight approached, my guru might fall into a doze with the
naturalness of a child. There was no fuss about bedding. He often lay down,
without even a pillow, on a narrow davenport which was the background for
his customary tiger-skin seat.
 A night-long philosophical discussion was not rare; any disciple could
summon it by intensity of interest. I felt no tiredness then, no desire for sleep;
Master's living words were sufficient. "Oh, it is dawn! Let us walk by the
Ganges." So ended many of my periods of nocturnal edification.
My early months with Sri Yukteswar culminated in a useful lesson-"How
to Outwit a Mosquito." At home my family always used protective curtains at
night. I was dismayed to discover that in the Serampore hermitage this prudent
custom was honored in the breach. Yet the insects were in full residency; I was
bitten from head to foot. My guru took pity on me.
"Buy yourself a curtain, and also one for me." He laughed and added, "If
you buy only one, for yourself, all mosquitoes will concentrate on me!"
I was more than thankful to comply. Every night that I spent in Serampore,
my guru would ask me to arrange the bedtime curtains.
The mosquitoes one evening were especially virulent. But Master failed to
issue his usual instructions. I listened nervously to the anticipatory hum of the
insects. Getting into bed, I threw a propitiatory prayer in their general
direction. A half hour later, I coughed pretentiously to attract my guru's
attention. I thought I would go mad with the bites and especially the singing
drone as the mosquitoes celebrated bloodthirsty rites.
No responsive stir from Master; I approached him cautiously. He was not
breathing. This was my first observation of him in the yogic trance; it filled
me with fright.
"His heart must have failed!" I placed a mirror under his nose; no breath-
vapor appeared. To make doubly certain, for minutes I closed his mouth and
nostrils with my fingers. His body was cold and motionless. In a daze, I turned
toward the door to summon help.
"So! A budding experimentalist! My poor nose!" Master's voice was shaky
with laughter. "Why don't you go to bed? Is the whole world going to change
for you? Change yourself: be rid of the mosquito consciousness."
Meekly I returned to my bed. Not one insect ventured near. I realized that
my guru had previously agreed to the curtains only to please me; he had no
fear of mosquitoes. His yogic power was such that he either could will them
not to bite, or could escape to an inner invulnerability.
"He was giving me a demonstration," I thought. "That is the yogic state I
must strive to attain." A yogi must be able to pass into, and continue in, the
superconsciousness, regardless of multitudinous distractions never absent from
this earth. Whether in the buzz of insects or the pervasive glare of daylight, the
testimony of the senses must be barred. Sound and sight come then indeed, but
to worlds fairer than the banished Eden.
The instructive mosquitoes served for another early lesson at the ashram. It
was the gentle hour of dusk. My guru was matchlessly interpreting the ancient
texts. At his feet, I was in perfect peace. A rude mosquito entered the idyl and
competed for my attention. As it dug a poisonous hypodermic needle into my
thigh, I automatically raised an avenging hand. Reprieve from impending
execution! An opportune memory came to me of one of Patanjali's yoga
aphorisms-that on ahimsa (harmlessness).
"Why didn't you finish the job?"
"Master! Do you advocate taking life?"
"No; but the deathblow already had been struck in your mind."
"I don't understand."
"Patanjali's meaning was the removal of desire to kill." Sri Yukteswar had
found my mental processes an open book. "This world is inconveniently
arranged for a literal practice of ahimsa. Man may be compelled to
exterminate harmful creatures. He is not under similar compulsion to feel
anger or animosity. All forms of life have equal right to the air of maya. The
saint who uncovers the secret of creation will be in harmony with its countless
bewildering expressions. All men may approach that understanding who curb
the inner passion for destruction."
"Guruji, should one offer himself a sacrifice rather than kill a wild beast?"
"No; man's body is precious. It has the highest evolutionary value because
of unique brain and spinal centers. These enable the advanced devotee to fully
grasp and express the loftiest aspects of divinity. No lower form is so
equipped. It is true that one incurs the debt of a minor sin if he is forced to kill
an animal or any living thing. But the Vedas teach that wanton loss of a human
body is a serious transgression against the karmic law."
I sighed in relief; scriptural reinforcement of one's natural instincts is not
always forthcoming.
It so happened that I never saw Master at close quarters with a leopard or a
tiger. But a deadly cobra once confronted him, only to be conquered by my
guru's love. This variety of snake is much feared in India, where it causes
more than five thousand deaths annually. The dangerous encounter took place
at Puri, where Sri Yukteswar had a second hermitage, charmingly situated near
the Bay of Bengal. Prafulla, a young disciple of later years, was with Master
on this occasion.
"We were seated outdoors near the ashram," Prafulla told me. "A cobra
appeared near-by, a four-foot length of sheer terror. Its hood was angrily
expanded as it raced toward us. My guru gave a welcoming chuckle, as though
to a child. I was beside myself with consternation to see Master engage in a
rhythmical clapping of hands. He was entertaining the dread visitor! I
remained absolutely quiet, inwardly ejaculating what fervent prayers I could
muster. The serpent, very close to my guru, was now motionless, seemingly
magnetized by his caressing attitude. The frightful hood gradually contracted;
the snake slithered between Master's feet and disappeared into the bushes.
"Why my guru would move his hands, and why the cobra would not strike
them, were inexplicable to me then," Prafulla concluded. "I have since come to
realize that my divine master is beyond fear of hurt from any living creature."
One afternoon during my early months at the ashram, found Sri
Yukteswar's eyes fixed on me piercingly.
"You are too thin, Mukunda."
His remark struck a sensitive point. That my sunken eyes and emaciated
appearance were far from my liking was testified to by rows of tonics in my
room at Calcutta. Nothing availed; chronic dyspepsia had pursued me since
childhood. My despair reached an occasional zenith when I asked myself if it
were worth-while to carry on this life with a body so unsound.
"Medicines have limitations; the creative life-force has none. Believe that:
you shall be well and strong."
Sri Yukteswar's words aroused a conviction of personally-applicable truth
which no other healer-and I had tried many!-had been able to summon within
me.
Day by day, behold! I waxed. Two weeks after Master's hidden blessing, I
had accumulated the invigorating weight which eluded me in the past. My
persistent stomach ailments vanished with a lifelong permanency. On later
occasions I witnessed my guru's instantaneous divine healings of persons
suffering from ominous disease-tuberculosis, diabetes, epilepsy, or paralysis.
Not one could have been more grateful for his cure than I was at sudden
freedom from my cadaverous aspect.
"Years ago, I too was anxious to put on weight," Sri Yukteswar told me.
"During convalescence after a severe illness, I visited Lahiri Mahasaya in
Benares.
"'Sir, I have been very sick and lost many pounds.'
"'I see, Yukteswar, you made yourself unwell, and now you think you are
thin.'
"This reply was far from the one I had expected; my guru, however, added
encouragingly:
 "'Let me see; I am sure you ought to feel better tomorrow.'
"Taking his words as a gesture of secret healing toward my receptive mind,
I was not surprised the next morning at a welcome accession of strength. I
sought out my master and exclaimed exultingly, 'Sir, I feel much better today.'
"'Indeed! Today you invigorate yourself.'
"'No, master!' I protested. 'It was you who helped me; this is the first time
in weeks that I have had any energy.'
"'O yes! Your malady has been quite serious. Your body is frail yet; who
can say how it will be tomorrow?'
"The thought of possible return of my weakness brought me a shudder of
cold fear. The following morning I could hardly drag myself to Lahiri
Mahasaya's home.
"'Sir, I am ailing again.'
"My guru's glance was quizzical. 'So! Once more you indispose yourself.'
"'Gurudeva, I realize now that day by day you have been ridiculing me.'
My patience was exhausted. 'I don't understand why you disbelieve my
truthful reports.'
"'Really, it has been your thoughts that have made you feel alternately
weak and strong.' My master looked at me affectionately. 'You have seen how
your health has exactly followed your expectations. Thought is a force, even
as electricity or gravitation. The human mind is a spark of the almighty
consciousness of God. I could show you that whatever your powerful mind
believes very intensely would instantly come to pass.'
"Knowing that Lahiri Mahasaya never spoke idly, I addressed him with
great awe and gratitude: 'Master, if I think I am well and have regained my
former weight, shall that happen?'
"'It is so, even at this moment.' My guru spoke gravely, his gaze
concentrated on my eyes.
"Lo! I felt an increase not alone of strength but of weight. Lahiri Mahasaya
retreated into silence. After a few hours at his feet, I returned to my mother's
home, where I stayed during my visits to Benares.
"'My son! What is the matter? Are you swelling with dropsy?' Mother
could hardly believe her eyes. My body was now of the same robust
dimensions it had possessed before my illness.
"I weighed myself and found that in one day I had gained fifty pounds;
they remained with me permanently. Friends and acquaintances who had seen
my thin figure were aghast with wonderment. A number of them changed their
mode of life and became disciples of Lahiri Mahasaya as a result of this
miracle.
"My guru, awake in God, knew this world to be nothing but an
objectivized dream of the Creator. Because he was completely aware of his
unity with the Divine Dreamer, Lahiri Mahasaya could materialize or
dematerialize or make any change he wished in the cosmic vision.
"All creation is governed by law," Sri Yukteswar concluded. "The ones
which manifest in the outer universe, discoverable by scientists, are called
natural laws. But there are subtler laws ruling the realms of consciousness
which can be known only through the inner science of yoga. The hidden
spiritual planes also have their natural and lawful principles of operation. It is
not the physical scientist but the fully self-realized master who comprehends
the true nature of matter. Thus Christ was able to restore the servant's ear after
it had been severed by one of the disciples."
Sri Yukteswar was a peerless interpreter of the scriptures. Many of my
happiest memories are centered in his discourses. But his jeweled thoughts
were not cast into ashes of heedlessness or stupidity. One restless movement
of my body, or my slight lapse into absent- mindedness, sufficed to put an
abrupt period to Master's exposition.
"You are not here." Master interrupted himself one afternoon with this
disclosure. As usual, he was keeping track of my attention with a devastating
immediacy.
"Guruji!" My tone was a protest. "I have not stirred; my eyelids have not
moved; I can repeat each word you have uttered!"
"Nevertheless you were not fully with me. Your objection forces me to
remark that in your mental background you were creating three institutions.
One was a sylvan retreat on a plain, another on a hilltop, a third by the ocean."
Those vaguely formulated thoughts had indeed been present almost
subconsciously. I glanced at him apologetically.
"What can I do with such a master, who penetrates my random musings?"
"You have given me that right. The subtle truths I am expounding cannot
be grasped without your complete concentration. Unless necessary I do not
invade the seclusion of others' minds. Man has the natural privilege of
roaming secretly among his thoughts. The unbidden Lord does not enter there;
neither do I venture intrusion."
"You are ever welcome, Master!"
"Your architectural dreams will materialize later. Now is the time for
study!"
Thus incidentally my guru revealed in his simple way the coming of three
great events in my life. Since early youth I had had enigmatic glimpses of
three buildings, each in a different setting. In the exact sequence Sri Yukteswar
had indicated, these visions took ultimate form. First came my founding of a
boys' yoga school on a Ranchi plain, then my American headquarters on a Los
Angeles hilltop, finally a hermitage in southern California by the vast Pacific.
Master never arrogantly asserted: "I prophesy that such and such an event
shall occur!" He would rather hint: "Don't you think it may happen?" But his
simple speech hid vatic power. There was no recanting; never did his slightly
veiled words prove false.
Sri Yukteswar was reserved and matter-of-fact in demeanor. There was
naught of the vague or daft visionary about him. His feet were firm on the
earth, his head in the haven of heaven. Practical people aroused his
admiration. "Saintliness is not dumbness! Divine perceptions are not
incapacitating!" he would say. "The active expression of virtue gives rise to
the keenest intelligence."
In Master's life I fully discovered the cleavage between spiritual realism
and the obscure mysticism that spuriously passes as a counterpart. My guru
was reluctant to discuss the superphysical realms. His only "marvelous" aura
was one of perfect simplicity. In conversation he avoided startling references;
in action he was freely expressive. Others talked of miracles but could
manifest nothing; Sri Yukteswar seldom mentioned the subtle laws but secretly
operated them at will.
"A man of realization does not perform any miracle until he receives an
inward sanction," Master explained. "God does not wish the secrets of His
creation revealed promiscuously. Also, every individual in the world has
inalienable right to his free will. A saint will not encroach upon that
independence."
The silence habitual to Sri Yukteswar was caused by his deep perceptions
of the Infinite. No time remained for the interminable "revelations" that
occupy the days of teachers without self- realization. "In shallow men the fish
of little thoughts cause much commotion. In oceanic minds the whales of
inspiration make hardly a ruffle." This observation from the Hindu scriptures
is not without discerning humor.
Because of my guru's unspectacular guise, only a few of his
contemporaries recognized him as a superman. The popular adage: "He is a
fool that cannot conceal his wisdom," could never be applied to Sri Yukteswar.
Though born a mortal like all others, Master had achieved identity with the
Ruler of time and space. In his life I perceived a godlike unity. He had not
found any insuperable obstacle to mergence of human with Divine. No such
barrier exists, I came to understand, save in man's spiritual unadventurousness.
I always thrilled at the touch of Sri Yukteswar's holy feet. Yogis teach that
a disciple is spiritually magnetized by reverent contact with a master; a subtle
current is generated. The devotee's undesirable habit-mechanisms in the brain
are often cauterized; the groove of his worldly tendencies beneficially
disturbed. Momentarily at least he may find the secret veils of maya lifting,
and glimpse the reality of bliss. My whole body responded with a liberating
glow whenever I knelt in the Indian fashion before my guru.
"Even when Lahiri Mahasaya was silent," Master told me, "or when he
conversed on other than strictly religious topics, I discovered that nonetheless
he had transmitted to me ineffable knowledge."
Sri Yukteswar affected me similarly. If I entered the hermitage in a worried
or indifferent frame of mind, my attitude imperceptibly changed. A healing
calm descended at mere sight of my guru. Every day with him was a new
experience in joy, peace, and wisdom. Never did I find him deluded or
intoxicated with greed or emotion or anger or any human attachment.
"The darkness of maya is silently approaching. Let us hie homeward
within." With these words at dusk Master constantly reminded his disciples of
their need for Kriya Yoga. A new student occasionally expressed doubts
regarding his own worthiness to engage in yoga practice.
"Forget the past," Sri Yukteswar would console him. "The vanished lives
of all men are dark with many shames. Human conduct is ever unreliable until
anchored in the Divine. Everything in future will improve if you are making a
spiritual effort now."
Master always had young chelas in his hermitage. Their spiritual and
intellectual education was his lifelong interest: even shortly before he passed
on, he accepted for training two six-year-old boys and one youth of sixteen.
He directed their minds and lives with that careful discipline in which the
word "disciple" is etymologically rooted. The ashram residents loved and
revered their guru; a slight clap of his hands sufficed to bring them eagerly to
his side. When his mood was silent and withdrawn, no one ventured to speak;
when his laugh rang jovially, children looked upon him as their own.
Master seldom asked others to render him a personal service, nor would he
accept help from a student unless the willingness were sincere. My guru
quietly washed his clothes if the disciples overlooked that privileged task. Sri
Yukteswar wore the traditional ocher-colored swami robe; his laceless shoes,
in accordance with yogi custom, were of tiger or deer skin.
 Master spoke fluent English, French, Hindi, and Bengali; his Sanskrit was
fair. He patiently instructed his young disciples by certain short cuts which he
had ingeniously devised for the study of English and Sanskrit.
Master was cautious of his body, while withholding solicitous attachment.
The Infinite, he pointed out, properly manifests through physical and mental
soundness. He discountenanced any extremes. A disciple once started a long
fast. My guru only laughed: "Why not throw the dog a bone?"
Sri Yukteswar's health was excellent; I never saw him unwell. He
permitted students to consult doctors if it seemed advisable. His purpose was
to give respect to the worldly custom: "Physicians must carry on their work of
healing through God's laws as applied to matter." But he extolled the
superiority of mental therapy, and often repeated: "Wisdom is the greatest
cleanser."
"The body is a treacherous friend. Give it its due; no more," he said. "Pain
and pleasure are transitory; endure all dualities with calmness, while trying at
the same time to remove their hold. Imagination is the door through which
disease as well as healing enters. Disbelieve in the reality of sickness even
when you are ill; an unrecognized visitor will flee!"
Master numbered many doctors among his disciples. "Those who have
ferreted out the physical laws can easily investigate the science of the soul," he
told them. "A subtle spiritual mechanism is hidden just behind the bodily
structure."
Sri Yukteswar counseled his students to be living liaisons of Western and
Eastern virtues. Himself an executive Occidental in outer habits, inwardly he
was the spiritual Oriental. He praised the progressive, resourceful and hygienic
habits of the West, and the religious ideals which give a centuried halo to the
East.
Discipline had not been unknown to me: at home Father was strict, Ananta
often severe. But Sri Yukteswar's training cannot be described as other than
drastic. A perfectionist, my guru was hypercritical of his disciples, whether in
matters of moment or in the subtle nuances of behavior.
"Good manners without sincerity are like a beautiful dead lady," he
remarked on suitable occasion. "Straightforwardness without civility is like a
surgeon's knife, effective but unpleasant. Candor with courtesy is helpful and
admirable."
Master was apparently satisfied with my spiritual progress, for he seldom
referred to it; in other matters my ears were no strangers to reproof. My chief
offenses were absentmindedness, intermittent indulgence in sad moods, non-
observance of certain rules of etiquette, and occasional unmethodical ways.
 "Observe how the activities of your father Bhagabati are well- organized
and balanced in every way," my guru pointed out. The two disciples of Lahiri
Mahasaya had met, soon after I began my pilgrimages to Serampore. Father
and Sri Yukteswar admiringly evaluated the other's worth. Both had built an
inner life of spiritual granite, insoluble against the ages.
From transient teachers of my earlier life I had imbibed a few erroneous
lessons. A chela, I was told, need not concern himself strenuously over
worldly duties; when I had neglected or carelessly performed my tasks, I was
not chastised. Human nature finds such instruction very easy of assimilation.
Under Master's unsparing rod, however, I soon recovered from the agreeable
delusions of irresponsibility.
"Those who are too good for this world are adorning some other," Sri
Yukteswar remarked. "So long as you breathe the free air of earth, you are
under obligation to render grateful service. He alone who has fully mastered
the breathless state is freed from cosmic imperatives. I will not fail to let you
know when you have attained the final perfection."
My guru could never be bribed, even by love. He showed no leniency to
anyone who, like myself, willingly offered to be his disciple. Whether Master
and I were surrounded by his students or by strangers, or were alone together,
he always spoke plainly and upbraided sharply. No trifling lapse into
shallowness or inconsistency escaped his rebuke. This flattening treatment was
hard to endure, but my resolve was to allow Sri Yukteswar to iron out each of
my psychological kinks. As he labored at this titanic transformation, I shook
many times under the weight of his disciplinary hammer.
"If you don't like my words, you are at liberty to leave at any time," Master
assured me. "I want nothing from you but your own improvement. Stay only if
you feel benefited."
For every humbling blow he dealt my vanity, for every tooth in my
metaphorical jaw he knocked loose with stunning aim, I am grateful beyond
any facility of expression. The hard core of human egotism is hardly to be
dislodged except rudely. With its departure, the Divine finds at last an
unobstructed channel. In vain It seeks to percolate through flinty hearts of
selfishness.
Sri Yukteswar's wisdom was so penetrating that, heedless of remarks, he
often replied to one's unspoken observation. "What a person imagines he
hears, and what the speaker has really implied, may be poles apart," he said.
"Try to feel the thoughts behind the confusion of men's verbiage."
But divine insight is painful to worldly ears; Master was not popular with
superficial students. The wise, always few in number, deeply revered him. I
daresay Sri Yukteswar would have been the most sought- after guru in India
had his words not been so candid and so censorious.
"I am hard on those who come for my training," he admitted to me. "That
is my way; take it or leave it. I will never compromise. But you will be much
kinder to your disciples; that is your way. I try to purify only in the fires of
severity, searing beyond the average toleration. The gentle approach of love is
also transfiguring. The inflexible and the yielding methods are equally
effective if applied with wisdom. You will go to foreign lands, where blunt
assaults on the ego are not appreciated. A teacher could not spread India's
message in the West without an ample fund of accommodative patience and
forbearance." I refuse to state the amount of truth I later came to find in
Master's words!
Though Sri Yukteswar's undissembling speech prevented a large following
during his years on earth, nevertheless his living spirit manifests today over
the world, through sincere students of his Kriya Yoga and other teachings. He
has further dominion in men's souls than ever Alexander dreamed of in the
soil.
Father arrived one day to pay his respects to Sri Yukteswar. My parent
expected, very likely, to hear some words in my praise. He was shocked to be
given a long account of my imperfections. It was Master's practice to recount
simple, negligible shortcomings with an air of portentous gravity. Father
rushed to see me. "From your guru's remarks I thought to find you a complete
wreck!" My parent was between tears and laughter.
The only cause of Sri Yukteswar's displeasure at the time was that I had
been trying, against his gentle hint, to convert a certain man to the spiritual
path.
With indignant speed I sought out my guru. He received me with downcast
eyes, as though conscious of guilt. It was the only time I ever saw the divine
lion meek before me. The unique moment was savored to the full.
"Sir, why did you judge me so mercilessly before my astounded father?
Was that just?"
"I will not do it again." Master's tone was apologetic.
Instantly I was disarmed. How readily the great man admitted his fault!
Though he never again upset Father's peace of mind, Master relentlessly
continued to dissect me whenever and wherever he chose.
New disciples often joined Sri Yukteswar in exhaustive criticism of others.
Wise like the guru! Models of flawless discrimination! But he who takes the
offensive must not be defenseless. The same carping students fled
precipitantly as soon as Master publicly unloosed in their direction a few
shafts from his analytical quiver.
"Tender inner weaknesses, revolting at mild touches of censure, are like
diseased parts of the body, recoiling before even delicate handling." This was
Sri Yukteswar's amused comment on the flighty ones.
There are disciples who seek a guru made in their own image. Such
students often complained that they did not understand Sri Yukteswar.
"Neither do you comprehend God!" I retorted on one occasion. "When a
saint is clear to you, you will be one." Among the trillion mysteries, breathing
every second the inexplicable air, who may venture to ask that the fathomless
nature of a master be instantly grasped?
Students came, and generally went. Those who craved a path of oily
sympathy and comfortable recognitions did not find it at the hermitage. Master
offered shelter and shepherding for the aeons, but many disciples miserly
demanded ego-balm as well. They departed, preferring life's countless
humiliations before any humility. Master's blazing rays, the open penetrating
sunshine of his wisdom, were too powerful for their spiritual sickness. They
sought some lesser teacher who, shading them with flattery, permitted the
fitful sleep of ignorance.
During my early months with Master, I had experienced a sensitive fear of
his reprimands. These were reserved, I soon saw, for disciples who had asked
for his verbal vivisection. If any writhing student made a protest, Sri
Yukteswar would become unoffendedly silent. His words were never wrathful,
but impersonal with wisdom.
Master's insight was not for the unprepared ears of casual visitors; he
seldom remarked on their defects, even if conspicuous. But toward students
who sought his counsel, Sri Yukteswar felt a serious responsibility. Brave
indeed is the guru who undertakes to transform the crude ore of ego-permeated
humanity! A saint's courage roots in his compassion for the stumbling eyeless
of this world.
When I had abandoned underlying resentment, I found a marked decrease
in my chastisement. In a very subtle way, Master melted into comparative
clemency. In time I demolished every wall of rationalization and subconscious
reservation behind which the human personality generally shields itself. The
reward was an effortless harmony with my guru. I discovered him then to be
trusting, considerate, and silently loving. Undemonstrative, however, he
bestowed no word of affection.
My own temperament is principally devotional. It was disconcerting at first
to find that my guru, saturated with jnana but seemingly dry of bhakti,
expressed himself only in terms of cold spiritual mathematics. But as I tuned
myself to his nature, I discovered no diminution but rather increase in my
devotional approach to God. A self-realized master is fully able to guide his
various disciples along natural lines of their essential bias.
My relationship with Sri Yukteswar, somewhat inarticulate, nonetheless
possessed all eloquence. Often I found his silent signature on my thoughts,
rendering speech inutile. Quietly sitting beside him, I felt his bounty pouring
peacefully over my being.
Sri Yukteswar's impartial justice was notably demonstrated during the
summer vacation of my first college year. I welcomed the opportunity to spend
uninterrupted months at Serampore with my guru.
"You may be in charge of the hermitage." Master was pleased over my
enthusiastic arrival. "Your duties will be the reception of guests, and
supervision of the work of the other disciples."
Kumar, a young villager from east Bengal, was accepted a fortnight later
for hermitage training. Remarkably intelligent, he quickly won Sri Yukteswar's
affection. For some unfathomable reason, Master was very lenient to the new
resident.
"Mukunda, let Kumar assume your duties. Employ your own time in
sweeping and cooking." Master issued these instructions after the new boy had
been with us for a month.
Exalted to leadership, Kumar exercised a petty household tyranny. In silent
mutiny, the other disciples continued to seek me out for daily counsel.
"Mukunda is impossible! You made me supervisor, yet the others go to him
and obey him." Three weeks later Kumar was complaining to our guru. I
overheard him from an adjoining room.
"That's why I assigned him to the kitchen and you to the parlor." Sri
Yukteswar's withering tones were new to Kumar. "In this way you have come
to realize that a worthy leader has the desire to serve, and not to dominate. You
wanted Mukunda's position, but could not maintain it by merit. Return now to
your earlier work as cook's assistant."
After this humbling incident, Master resumed toward Kumar a former
attitude of unwonted indulgence. Who can solve the mystery of attraction? In
Kumar our guru discovered a charming fount which did not spurt for the
fellow disciples. Though the new boy was obviously Sri Yukteswar's favorite,
I felt no dismay. Personal idiosyncrasies, possessed even by masters, lend a
rich complexity to the pattern of life. My nature is seldom commandeered by a
detail; I was seeking from Sri Yukteswar a more inaccessible benefit than an
outward praise.
Kumar spoke venomously to me one day without reason; I was deeply
hurt.
"Your head is swelling to the bursting point!" I added a warning whose
truth I felt intuitively: "Unless you mend your ways, someday you will be
asked to leave this ashram."
Laughing sarcastically, Kumar repeated my remark to our guru, who had
just entered the room. Fully expecting to be scolded, I retired meekly to a
corner.
"Maybe Mukunda is right." Master's reply to the boy came with unusual
coldness. I escaped without castigation.
A year later, Kumar set out for a visit to his childhood home. He ignored
the quiet disapproval of Sri Yukteswar, who never authoritatively controlled
his disciples' movements. On the boy's return to Serampore in a few months, a
change was unpleasantly apparent. Gone was the stately Kumar with serenely
glowing face. Only an undistinguished peasant stood before us, one who had
lately acquired a number of evil habits.
Master summoned me and brokenheartedly discussed the fact that the boy
was now unsuited to the monastic hermitage life.
"Mukunda, I will leave it to you to instruct Kumar to leave the ashram
tomorrow; I can't do it!" Tears stood in Sri Yukteswar's eyes, but he controlled
himself quickly. "The boy would never have fallen to these depths had he
listened to me and not gone away to mix with undesirable companions. He has
rejected my protection; the callous world must be his guru still."
Kumar's departure brought me no elation; sadly I wondered how one with
power to win a master's love could ever respond to cheaper allures. Enjoyment
of wine and sex are rooted in the natural man, and require no delicacies of
perception for their appreciation. Sense wiles are comparable to the evergreen
oleander, fragrant with its multicolored flowers: every part of the plant is
poisonous. The land of healing lies within, radiant with that happiness blindly
sought in a thousand misdirections.
"Keen intelligence is two-edged," Master once remarked in reference to
Kumar's brilliant mind. "It may be used constructively or destructively like a
knife, either to cut the boil of ignorance, or to decapitate one's self.
Intelligence is rightly guided only after the mind has acknowledged the
inescapability of spiritual law."
My guru mixed freely with men and women disciples, treating all as his
children. Perceiving their soul equality, he showed no distinction or partiality.
 "In sleep, you do not know whether you are a man or a woman," he said.
"Just as a man, impersonating a woman, does not become one, so the soul,
impersonating both man and woman, has no sex. The soul is the pure,
changeless image of God."
Sri Yukteswar never avoided or blamed women as objects of seduction.
Men, he said, were also a temptation to women. I once inquired of my guru
why a great ancient saint had called women "the door to hell."
"A girl must have proved very troublesome to his peace of mind in his
early life," my guru answered causticly. "Otherwise he would have denounced,
not woman, but some imperfection in his own self-control."
If a visitor dared to relate a suggestive story in the hermitage, Master
would maintain an unresponsive silence. "Do not allow yourself to be thrashed
by the provoking whip of a beautiful face," he told the disciples. "How can
sense slaves enjoy the world? Its subtle flavors escape them while they grovel
in primal mud. All nice discriminations are lost to the man of elemental lusts."
Students seeking to escape from the dualistic maya delusion received from
Sri Yukteswar patient and understanding counsel.
"Just as the purpose of eating is to satisfy hunger, not greed, so the sex
instinct is designed for the propagation of the species according to natural law,
never for the kindling of insatiable longings," he said. "Destroy wrong desires
now; otherwise they will follow you after the astral body is torn from its
physical casing. Even when the flesh is weak, the mind should be constantly
resistant. If temptation assails you with cruel force, overcome it by impersonal
analysis and indomitable will. Every natural passion can be mastered.
"Conserve your powers. Be like the capacious ocean, absorbing within all
the tributary rivers of the senses. Small yearnings are openings in the reservoir
of your inner peace, permitting healing waters to be wasted in the desert soil
of materialism. The forceful activating impulse of wrong desire is the greatest
enemy to the happiness of man. Roam in the world as a lion of self-control;
see that the frogs of weakness don't kick you around."
The devotee is finally freed from all instinctive compulsions. He
transforms his need for human affection into aspiration for God alone, a love
solitary because omnipresent.
Sri Yukteswar's mother lived in the Rana Mahal district of Benares where I
had first visited my guru. Gracious and kindly, she was yet a woman of very
decided opinions. I stood on her balcony one day and watched mother and son
talking together. In his quiet, sensible way, Master was trying to convince her
about something. He was apparently unsuccessful, for she shook her head with
great vigor.
 "Nay, nay, my son, go away now! Your wise words are not for me! I am
not your disciple!"
Sri Yukteswar backed away without further argument, like a scolded child.
I was touched at his great respect for his mother even in her unreasonable
moods. She saw him only as her little boy, not as a sage. There was a charm
about the trifling incident; it supplied a sidelight on my guru's unusual nature,
inwardly humble and outwardly unbendable.
The monastic regulations do not allow a swami to retain connection with
worldly ties after their formal severance. He cannot perform the ceremonial
family rites which are obligatory on the householder. Yet Shankara, the ancient
founder of the Swami Order, disregarded the injunctions. At the death of his
beloved mother, he cremated her body with heavenly fire which he caused to
spurt from his upraised hand.
Sri Yukteswar also ignored the restrictions, in a fashion less spectacular.
When his mother passed on, he arranged the crematory services by the holy
Ganges in Benares, and fed many Brahmins in conformance with age-old
custom.
The shastric prohibitions were intended to help swamis overcome narrow
identifications. Shankara and Sri Yukteswar had wholly merged their beings in
the Impersonal Spirit; they needed no rescue by rule. Sometimes, too, a master
purposely ignores a canon in order to uphold its principle as superior to and
independent of form. Thus Jesus plucked ears of corn on the day of rest. To
the inevitable critics he said: "The sabbath was made for man, and not man for
the sabbath."
Outside of the scriptures, seldom was a book honored by Sri Yukteswar's
perusal. Yet he was invariably acquainted with the latest scientific discoveries
and other advancements of knowledge. A brilliant conversationalist, he
enjoyed an exchange of views on countless topics with his guests. My guru's
ready wit and rollicking laugh enlivened every discussion. Often grave, Master
was never gloomy. "To seek the Lord, one need not disfigure his face," he
would remark. "Remember that finding God will mean the funeral of all
sorrows."
Among the philosophers, professors, lawyers and scientists who came to
the hermitage, a number arrived for their first visit with the expectation of
meeting an orthodox religionist. A supercilious smile or a glance of amused
tolerance occasionally betrayed that the newcomers anticipated nothing more
than a few pious platitudes. Yet their reluctant departure would bring an
expressed conviction that Sri Yukteswar had shown precise insight into their
specialized fields.
 My guru ordinarily was gentle and affable to guests; his welcome was
given with charming cordiality. Yet inveterate egotists sometimes suffered an
invigorating shock. They confronted in Master either a frigid indifference or a
formidable opposition: ice or iron!
A noted chemist once crossed swords with Sri Yukteswar. The visitor
would not admit the existence of God, inasmuch as science has devised no
means of detecting Him.
"So you have inexplicably failed to isolate the Supreme Power in your test
tubes!" Master's gaze was stern. "I recommend an unheard-of experiment.
Examine your thoughts unremittingly for twenty-four hours. Then wonder no
longer at God's absence."
A celebrated pundit received a similar jolt. With ostentatious zeal, the
scholar shook the ashram rafters with scriptural lore. Resounding passages
poured from the Mahabharata, the Upanishads, the Bhasyas of Shankara.
"I am waiting to hear you." Sri Yukteswar's tone was inquiring, as though
utter silence had reigned. The pundit was puzzled.
"Quotations there have been, in superabundance." Master's words
convulsed me with mirth, as I squatted in my corner, at a respectful distance
from the visitor. "But what original commentary can you supply, from the
uniqueness of your particular life? What holy text have you absorbed and
made your own? In what ways have these timeless truths renovated your
nature? Are you content to be a hollow victrola, mechanically repeating the
words of other men?"
"I give up!" The scholar's chagrin was comical. "I have no inner
realization."
For the first time, perhaps, he understood that discerning placement of the
comma does not atone for a spiritual coma.
"These bloodless pedants smell unduly of the lamp," my guru remarked
after the departure of the chastened one. "They prefer philosophy to be a
gentle intellectual setting-up exercise. Their elevated thoughts are carefully
unrelated either to the crudity of outward action or to any scourging inner
discipline!"
Master stressed on other occasions the futility of mere book learning.
"Do not confuse understanding with a larger vocabulary," he remarked.
"Sacred writings are beneficial in stimulating desire for inward realization, if
one stanza at a time is slowly assimilated. Continual intellectual study results
in vanity and the false satisfaction of an undigested knowledge."
Sri Yukteswar related one of his own experiences in scriptural edification.
The scene was a forest hermitage in eastern Bengal, where he observed the
procedure of a renowned teacher, Dabru Ballav. His method, at once simple
and difficult, was common in ancient India.
Dabru Ballav had gathered his disciples around him in the sylvan solitudes.
The holy Bhagavad Gita was open before them. Steadfastly they looked at one
passage for half an hour, then closed their eyes. Another half hour slipped
away. The master gave a brief comment. Motionless, they meditated again for
an hour. Finally the guru spoke.
"Have you understood?"
"Yes, sir." One in the group ventured this assertion.
"No; not fully. Seek the spiritual vitality that has given these words the
power to rejuvenate India century after century." Another hour disappeared in
silence. The master dismissed the students, and turned to Sri Yukteswar.
"Do you know the Bhagavad Gita?"
"No, sir, not really; though my eyes and mind have run through its pages
many times."
"Thousands have replied to me differently!" The great sage smiled at
Master in blessing. "If one busies himself with an outer display of scriptural
wealth, what time is left for silent inward diving after the priceless pearls?"
Sri Yukteswar directed the study of his own disciples by the same intensive
method of one-pointedness. "Wisdom is not assimilated with the eyes, but
with the atoms," he said. "When your conviction of a truth is not merely in
your brain but in your being, you may diffidently vouch for its meaning." He
discouraged any tendency a student might have to construe book-knowledge
as a necessary step to spiritual realization.
"The rishis wrote in one sentence profundities that commentating scholars
busy themselves over for generations," he remarked. "Endless literary
controversy is for sluggard minds. What more liberating thought than 'God is'-
nay, 'God'?"
But man does not easily return to simplicity. It is seldom "God" for him,
but rather learned pomposities. His ego is pleased, that he can grasp such
erudition.
Men who were pridefully conscious of high worldly position were likely,
in Master's presence, to add humility to their other possessions. A local
magistrate once arrived for an interview at the seaside hermitage in Puri. The
man, who held a reputation for ruthlessness, had it well within his power to
oust us from the ashram. I cautioned my guru about the despotic possibilities.
But he seated himself with an uncompromising air, and did not rise to greet the
visitor. Slightly nervous, I squatted near the door. The man had to content
himself with a wooden box; my guru did not request me to fetch a chair. There
was no fulfillment of the magistrate's obvious expectation that his importance
would be ceremoniously acknowledged.
A metaphysical discussion ensued. The guest blundered through
misinterpretations of the scriptures. As his accuracy sank, his ire rose.
"Do you know that I stood first in the M. A. examination?" Reason had
forsaken him, but he could still shout.
"Mr. Magistrate, you forget that this is not your courtroom," Master replied
evenly. "From your childish remarks I would have surmised that your college
career was unremarkable. A university degree, in any case, is not remotely
related to Vedic realization. Saints are not produced in batches every semester
like accountants."
After a stunned silence, the visitor laughed heartily.
"This is my first encounter with a heavenly magistrate," he said. Later he
made a formal request, couched in the legal terms which were evidently part
and parcel of his being, to be accepted as a "probationary" disciple.
My guru personally attended to the details connected with the management
of his property. Unscrupulous persons on various occasions attempted to
secure possession of Master's ancestral land. With determination and even by
instigating lawsuits, Sri Yukteswar outwitted every opponent. He underwent
these painful experiences from a desire never to be a begging guru, or a
burden on his disciples.
His financial independence was one reason why my alarmingly outspoken
Master was innocent of the cunnings of diplomacy. Unlike those teachers who
have to flatter their supporters, my guru was impervious to the influences,
open or subtle, of others' wealth. Never did I hear him ask or even hint for
money for any purpose. His hermitage training was given free and freely to all
disciples.
An insolent court deputy arrived one day at the Serampore ashram to serve
Sri Yukteswar with a legal summons. A disciple named Kanai and myself were
also present. The officer's attitude toward Master was offensive.
"It will do you good to leave the shadows of your hermitage and breathe
the honest air of a courtroom." The deputy grinned contemptuously. I could
not contain myself.
"Another word of your impudence and you will be on the floor!" I
advanced threateningly.
"You wretch!" Kanai's shout was simultaneous with my own. "Dare you
bring your blasphemies into this sacred ashram?"
But Master stood protectingly in front of his abuser. "Don't get excited
over nothing. This man is only doing his rightful duty."
The officer, dazed at his varying reception, respectfully offered a word of
apology and sped away.
Amazing it was to find that a master with such a fiery will could be so
calm within. He fitted the Vedic definition of a man of God: "Softer than the
flower, where kindness is concerned; stronger than the thunder, where
principles are at stake."
There are always those in this world who, in Browning's words, "endure no
light, being themselves obscure." An outsider occasionally berated Sri
Yukteswar for an imaginary grievance. My imperturbable guru listened
politely, analyzing himself to see if any shred of truth lay within the
denunciation. These scenes would bring to my mind one of Master's inimitable
observations: "Some people try to be tall by cutting off the heads of others!"
The unfailing composure of a saint is impressive beyond any sermon. "He
that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that ruleth his spirit than
he that taketh a city."
I often reflected that my majestic Master could easily have been an
emperor or world-shaking warrior had his mind been centered on fame or
worldly achievement. He had chosen instead to storm those inner citadels of
wrath and egotism whose fall is the height of a man.

CHAPTER: 13
The Sleepless Saint

"Please permit me to go to the Himalayas. I hope in unbroken solitude to

achieve continuous divine communion."
I actually once addressed these ungrateful words to my Master. Seized by
one of the unpredictable delusions which occasionally assail the devotee, I felt
a growing impatience with hermitage duties and college studies. A feebly
extenuating circumstance is that my proposal was made when I had been only
six months with Sri Yukteswar. Not yet had I fully surveyed his towering
stature.
"Many hillmen live in the Himalayas, yet possess no God-perception." My
guru's answer came slowly and simply. "Wisdom is better sought from a man
of realization than from an inert mountain."
Ignoring Master's plain hint that he, and not a hill, was my teacher, I
repeated my plea. Sri Yukteswar vouchsafed no reply. I took his silence for
consent, a precarious interpretation readily accepted at one's convenience.
In my Calcutta home that evening, I busied myself with travel
preparations. Tying a few articles inside a blanket, I remembered a similar
bundle, surreptitiously dropped from my attic window a few years earlier. I
wondered if this were to be another ill-starred flight toward the Himalayas.
The first time my spiritual elation had been high; tonight conscience smote
heavily at thought of leaving my guru.
The following morning I sought out Behari Pundit, my Sanskrit professor
at Scottish Church College.
"Sir, you have told me of your friendship with a great disciple of Lahiri
Mahasaya. Please give me his address."
"You mean Ram Gopal Muzumdar. I call him the 'sleepless saint.' He is
always awake in an ecstatic consciousness. His home is at Ranbajpur, near
Tarakeswar."
I thanked the pundit, and entrained immediately for Tarakeswar. I hoped to
silence my misgivings by wringing a sanction from the "sleepless saint" to
engage myself in lonely Himalayan meditation. Behari's friend, I heard, had
received illumination after many years of Kriya Yoga practice in isolated
caves.
At Tarakeswar I approached a famous shrine. Hindus regard it with the
same veneration that Catholics give to the Lourdes sanctuary in France.
Innumerable healing miracles have occurred at Tarakeswar, including one for
a member of my family.
"I sat in the temple there for a week," my eldest aunt once told me.
"Observing a complete fast, I prayed for the recovery of your Uncle Sarada
from a chronic malady. On the seventh day I found a herb materialized in my
hand! I made a brew from the leaves, and gave it to your uncle. His disease
vanished at once, and has never reappeared."
I entered the sacred Tarakeswar shrine; the altar contains nothing but a
round stone. Its circumference, beginningless and endless, makes it aptly
significant of the Infinite. Cosmic abstractions are not alien even to the
humblest Indian peasant; he has been accused by Westerners, in fact, of living
on abstractions!
My own mood at the moment was so austere that I felt disinclined to bow
before the stone symbol. God should be sought, I reflected, only within the
soul.
I left the temple without genuflection and walked briskly toward the
outlying village of Ranbajpur. My appeal to a passer-by for guidance caused
him to sink into long cogitation.
"When you come to a crossroad, turn right and keep going," he finally
pronounced oracularly.
Obeying the directions, I wended my way alongside the banks of a canal.
Darkness fell; the outskirts of the jungle village were alive with winking
fireflies and the howls of near-by jackals. The moonlight was too faint to
supply any reassurance; I stumbled on for two hours.
Welcome clang of a cowbell! My repeated shouts eventually brought a
peasant to my side.
"I am looking for Ram Gopal Babu."
"No such person lives in our village." The man's tone was surly. "You are
probably a lying detective."
Hoping to allay suspicion in his politically troubled mind, I touchingly
explained my predicament. He took me to his home and offered a hospitable
welcome.
"Ranbajpur is far from here," he remarked. "At the crossroad, you should
have turned left, not right."
My earlier informant, I thought sadly, was a distinct menace to travelers.
After a relishable meal of coarse rice, lentil-dhal , and curry of potatoes with
raw bananas, I retired to a small hut adjoining the courtyard. In the distance,
villagers were singing to the loud accompaniment of mridangas and cymbals.
Sleep was inconsiderable that night; I prayed deeply to be directed to the
secret yogi, Ram Gopal.
As the first streaks of dawn penetrated the fissures of my dark room, I set
out for Ranbajpur. Crossing rough paddy fields, I trudged over sickled stumps
of the prickly plant and mounds of dried clay. An occasionally-met peasant
would inform me, invariably, that my destination was "only a krosha (two
miles)." In six hours the sun traveled victoriously from horizon to meridian,
but I began to feel that I would ever be distant from Ranbajpur by one krosha .
At midafternoon my world was still an endless paddy field. Heat pouring
from the avoidless sky was bringing me to near-collapse. As a man
approached at leisurely pace, I hardly dared utter my usual question, lest it
summon the monotonous: "Just a krosha ."
The stranger halted beside me. Short and slight, he was physically
unimpressive save for an extraordinary pair of piercing dark eyes.
"I was planning to leave Ranbajpur, but your purpose was good, so I
awaited you." He shook his finger in my astounded face. "Aren't you clever to
think that, unannounced, you could pounce on me? That professor Behari had
no right to give you my address."
Considering that introduction of myself would be mere verbosity in the
presence of this master, I stood speechless, somewhat hurt at my reception.
His next remark was abruptly put.
"Tell me; where do you think God is?"
"Why, He is within me and everywhere." I doubtless looked as bewildered
as I felt.
"All-pervading, eh?" The saint chuckled. "Then why, young sir, did you
fail to bow before the Infinite in the stone symbol at the Tarakeswar temple
yesterday? Your pride caused you the punishment of being misdirected by the
passer-by who was not bothered by fine distinctions of left and right. Today,
too, you have had a fairly uncomfortable time of it!"
I agreed wholeheartedly, wonder-struck that an omniscient eye hid within
the unremarkable body before me. Healing strength emanated from the yogi; I
was instantly refreshed in the scorching field.
"The devotee inclines to think his path to God is the only way," he said.
"Yoga, through which divinity is found within, is doubtless the highest road:
so Lahiri Mahasaya has told us. But discovering the Lord within, we soon
perceive Him without. Holy shrines at Tarakeswar and elsewhere are rightly
venerated as nuclear centers of spiritual power."
The saint's censorious attitude vanished; his eyes became compassionately
soft. He patted my shoulder.
"Young yogi, I see you are running away from your master. He has
everything you need; you must return to him. Mountains cannot be your guru."
Ram Gopal was repeating the same thought which Sri Yukteswar had
expressed at our last meeting.
"Masters are under no cosmic compulsion to limit their residence." My
companion glanced at me quizzically. "The Himalayas in India and Tibet have
no monopoly on saints. What one does not trouble to find within will not be
discovered by transporting the body hither and yon. As soon as the devotee is
willing to go even to the ends of the earth for spiritual enlightenment, his guru
appears near-by."
I silently agreed, recalling my prayer in the Benares hermitage, followed
by the meeting with Sri Yukteswar in a crowded lane.
 "Are you able to have a little room where you can close the door and be
alone?"
"Yes." I reflected that this saint descended from the general to the
particular with disconcerting speed.
"That is your cave." The yogi bestowed on me a gaze of illumination
which I have never forgotten. "That is your sacred mountain. That is where
you will find the kingdom of God."
His simple words instantaneously banished my lifelong obsession for the
Himalayas. In a burning paddy field I awoke from the monticolous dreams of
eternal snows.
"Young sir, your divine thirst is laudable. I feel great love for you." Ram
Gopal took my hand and led me to a quaint hamlet. The adobe houses were
covered with coconut leaves and adorned with rustic entrances.
The saint seated me on the umbrageous bamboo platform of his small
cottage. After giving me sweetened lime juice and a piece of rock candy, he
entered his patio and assumed the lotus posture. In about four hours I opened
my meditative eyes and saw that the moonlit figure of the yogi was still
motionless. As I was sternly reminding my stomach that man does not live by
bread alone, Ram Gopal approached me.
"I see you are famished; food will be ready soon."
A fire was kindled under a clay oven on the patio; rice and dhal were
quickly served on large banana leaves. My host courteously refused my aid in
all cooking chores. "The guest is God," a Hindu proverb, has commanded
devout observance from time immemorial. In my later world travels, I was
charmed to see that a similar respect for visitors is manifested in rural sections
of many countries. The city dweller finds the keen edge of hospitality blunted
by superabundance of strange faces.
The marts of men seemed remotely dim as I squatted by the yogi in the
isolation of the tiny jungle village. The cottage room was mysterious with a
mellow light. Ram Gopal arranged some torn blankets on the floor for my bed,
and seated himself on a straw mat. Overwhelmed by his spiritual magnetism, I
ventured a request.
"Sir, why don't you grant me a samadhi ?"
"Dear one, I would be glad to convey the divine contact, but it is not my
place to do so." The saint looked at me with half-closed eyes. "Your master
will bestow that experience shortly. Your body is not tuned just yet. As a small
lamp cannot withstand excessive electrical voltage, so your nerves are unready
for the cosmic current. If I gave you the infinite ecstasy right now, you would
burn as if every cell were on fire.
"You are asking illumination from me," the yogi continued musingly,
"while I am wondering-inconsiderable as I am, and with the little meditation I
have done-if I have succeeded in pleasing God, and what worth I may find in
His eyes at the final reckoning."
"Sir, have you not been singleheartedly seeking God for a long time?"
"I have not done much. Behari must have told you something of my life.
For twenty years I occupied a secret grotto, meditating eighteen hours a day.
Then I moved to a more inaccessible cave and remained there for twenty-five
years, entering the yoga union for twenty hours daily. I did not need sleep, for
I was ever with God. My body was more rested in the complete calmness of
the superconsciousness than it could be by the partial peace of the ordinary
subconscious state.
"The muscles relax during sleep, but the heart, lungs, and circulatory
system are constantly at work; they get no rest. In superconsciousness, the
internal organs remain in a state of suspended animation, electrified by the
cosmic energy. By such means I have found it unnecessary to sleep for years.
The time will come when you too will dispense with sleep."
"My goodness, you have meditated for so long and yet are unsure of the
Lord's favor!" I gazed at him in astonishment. "Then what about us poor
mortals?"
"Well, don't you see, my dear boy, that God is Eternity Itself? To assume
that one can fully know Him by forty-five years of meditation is rather a
preposterous expectation. Babaji assures us, however, that even a little
meditation saves one from the dire fear of death and after-death states. Do not
fix your spiritual ideal on a small mountain, but hitch it to the star of
unqualified divine attainment. If you work hard, you will get there."
Enthralled by the prospect, I asked him for further enlightening words. He
related a wondrous story of his first meeting with Lahiri Mahasaya's guru,
Babaji. Around midnight Ram Gopal fell into silence, and I lay down on my
blankets. Closing my eyes, I saw flashes of lightning; the vast space within me
was a chamber of molten light. I opened my eyes and observed the same
dazzling radiance. The room became a part of that infinite vault which I
beheld with interior vision.
"Why don't you go to sleep?"
"Sir, how can I sleep in the presence of lightning, blazing whether my eyes
are shut or open?"
"You are blessed to have this experience; the spiritual radiations are not
easily seen." The saint added a few words of affection.
At dawn Ram Gopal gave me rock candies and said I must depart. I felt
such reluctance to bid him farewell that tears coursed down my cheeks.
"I will not let you go empty-handed." The yogi spoke tenderly. "I will do
something for you."
He smiled and looked at me steadfastly. I stood rooted to the ground, peace
rushing like a mighty flood through the gates of my eyes. I was
instantaneously healed of a pain in my back, which had troubled me
intermittently for years. Renewed, bathed in a sea of luminous joy, I wept no
more. After touching the saint's feet, I sauntered into the jungle, making my
way through its tropical tangle until I reached Tarakeswar.
There I made a second pilgrimage to the famous shrine, and prostrated
myself fully before the altar. The round stone enlarged before my inner vision
until it became the cosmical spheres, ring within ring, zone after zone, all
dowered with divinity.
I entrained happily an hour later for Calcutta. My travels ended, not in the
lofty mountains, but in the Himalayan presence of my Master.

CHAPTER: 14
An Experience In Cosmic Consciousness

"I am here, Guruji." My shamefacedness spoke more eloquently for me.

"Let us go to the kitchen and find something to eat." Sri Yukteswar's
manner was as natural as if hours and not days had separated us.
"Master, I must have disappointed you by my abrupt departure from my
duties here; I thought you might be angry with me."
"No, of course not! Wrath springs only from thwarted desires. I do not
expect anything from others, so their actions cannot be in opposition to wishes
of mine. I would not use you for my own ends; I am happy only in your own
true happiness."
"Sir, one hears of divine love in a vague way, but for the first time I am
having a concrete example in your angelic self! In the world, even a father
does not easily forgive his son if he leaves his parent's business without
warning. But you show not the slightest vexation, though you must have been
put to great inconvenience by the many unfinished tasks I left behind."
 We looked into each other's eyes, where tears were shining. A blissful
wave engulfed me; I was conscious that the Lord, in the form of my guru, was
expanding the small ardors of my heart into the incompressible reaches of
cosmic love.
A few mornings later I made my way to Master's empty sitting room. I
planned to meditate, but my laudable purpose was unshared by disobedient
thoughts. They scattered like birds before the hunter.
"Mukunda!" Sri Yukteswar's voice sounded from a distant inner balcony.
I felt as rebellious as my thoughts. "Master always urges me to meditate," I
muttered to myself. "He should not disturb me when he knows why I came to
his room."
He summoned me again; I remained obstinately silent. The third time his
tone held rebuke.
"Sir, I am meditating," I shouted protestingly.
"I know how you are meditating," my guru called out, "with your mind
distributed like leaves in a storm! Come here to me."
Snubbed and exposed, I made my way sadly to his side.
"Poor boy, the mountains couldn't give what you wanted." Master spoke
caressively, comfortingly. His calm gaze was unfathomable. "Your heart's
desire shall be fulfilled."
Sri Yukteswar seldom indulged in riddles; I was bewildered. He struck
gently on my chest above the heart.
My body became immovably rooted; breath was drawn out of my lungs as
if by some huge magnet. Soul and mind instantly lost their physical bondage,
and streamed out like a fluid piercing light from my every pore. The flesh was
as though dead, yet in my intense awareness I knew that never before had I
been fully alive. My sense of identity was no longer narrowly confined to a
body, but embraced the circumambient atoms. People on distant streets
seemed to be moving gently over my own remote periphery. The roots of
plants and trees appeared through a dim transparency of the soil; I discerned
the inward flow of their sap.
The whole vicinity lay bare before me. My ordinary frontal vision was now
changed to a vast spherical sight, simultaneously all-perceptive. Through the
back of my head I saw men strolling far down Rai Ghat Road, and noticed also
a white cow who was leisurely approaching. When she reached the space in
front of the open ashram gate, I observed her with my two physical eyes. As
she passed by, behind the brick wall, I saw her clearly still.
 All objects within my panoramic gaze trembled and vibrated like quick
motion pictures. My body, Master's, the pillared courtyard, the furniture and
floor, the trees and sunshine, occasionally became violently agitated, until all
melted into a luminescent sea; even as sugar crystals, thrown into a glass of
water, dissolve after being shaken. The unifying light alternated with
materializations of form, the metamorphoses revealing the law of cause and
effect in creation.
An oceanic joy broke upon calm endless shores of my soul. The Spirit of
God, I realized, is exhaustless Bliss; His body is countless tissues of light. A
swelling glory within me began to envelop towns, continents, the earth, solar
and stellar systems, tenuous nebulae, and floating universes. The entire
cosmos, gently luminous, like a city seen afar at night, glimmered within the
infinitude of my being. The sharply etched global outlines faded somewhat at
the farthest edges; there I could see a mellow radiance, ever-undiminished. It
was indescribably subtle; the planetary pictures were formed of a grosser light.
The divine dispersion of rays poured from an Eternal Source, blazing into
galaxies, transfigured with ineffable auras. Again and again I saw the creative
beams condense into constellations, then resolve into sheets of transparent
flame. By rhythmic reversion, sextillion worlds passed into diaphanous luster;
fire became firmament.
I cognized the center of the empyrean as a point of intuitive perception in
my heart. Irradiating splendor issued from my nucleus to every part of the
universal structure. Blissful amrita , the nectar of immortality, pulsed through
me with a quicksilverlike fluidity. The creative voice of God I heard
resounding as Aum , the vibration of the Cosmic Motor.
Suddenly the breath returned to my lungs. With a disappointment almost
unbearable, I realized that my infinite immensity was lost. Once more I was
limited to the humiliating cage of a body, not easily accommodative to the
Spirit. Like a prodigal child, I had run away from my macrocosmic home and
imprisoned myself in a narrow microcosm.
My guru was standing motionless before me; I started to drop at his holy
feet in gratitude for the experience in cosmic consciousness which I had long
passionately sought. He held me upright, and spoke calmly, unpretentiously.
"You must not get overdrunk with ecstasy. Much work yet remains for you
in the world. Come; let us sweep the balcony floor; then we shall walk by the
Ganges."
I fetched a broom; Master, I knew, was teaching me the secret of balanced
living. The soul must stretch over the cosmogonic abysses, while the body
performs its daily duties. When we set out later for a stroll, I was still
entranced in unspeakable rapture. I saw our bodies as two astral pictures,
moving over a road by the river whose essence was sheer light.
"It is the Spirit of God that actively sustains every form and force in the
universe; yet He is transcendental and aloof in the blissful uncreated void
beyond the worlds of vibratory phenomena," Master explained. "Saints who
realize their divinity even while in the flesh know a similar twofold existence.
Conscientiously engaging in earthly work, they yet remain immersed in an
inward beatitude. The Lord has created all men from the limitless joy of His
being. Though they are painfully cramped by the body, God nevertheless
expects that souls made in His image shall ultimately rise above all sense
identifications and reunite with Him."
The cosmic vision left many permanent lessons. By daily stilling my
thoughts, I could win release from the delusive conviction that my body was a
mass of flesh and bones, traversing the hard soil of matter. The breath and the
restless mind, I saw, were like storms which lashed the ocean of light into
waves of material forms-earth, sky, human beings, animals, birds, trees. No
perception of the Infinite as One Light could be had except by calming those
storms. As often as I silenced the two natural tumults, I beheld the
multitudinous waves of creation melt into one lucent sea, even as the waves of
the ocean, their tempests subsiding, serenely dissolve into unity.
A master bestows the divine experience of cosmic consciousness when his
disciple, by meditation, has strengthened his mind to a degree where the vast
vistas would not overwhelm him. The experience can never be given through
one's mere intellectual willingness or open- mindedness. Only adequate
enlargement by yoga practice and devotional bhakti can prepare the mind to
absorb the liberating shock of omnipresence. It comes with a natural
inevitability to the sincere devotee. His intense craving begins to pull at God
with an irresistible force. The Lord, as the Cosmic Vision, is drawn by the
seeker's magnetic ardor into his range of consciousness.
I wrote, in my later years, the following poem, "Samadhi," endeavoring to
convey the glory of its cosmic state:
Vanished the veils of light and shade,
Lifted every vapor of sorrow,
Sailed away all dawns of fleeting joy,
Gone the dim sensory mirage.
Love, hate, health, disease, life, death,
Perished these false shadows on the screen of duality.
Waves of laughter, scyllas of sarcasm, melancholic whirlpools,
 Melting in the vast sea of bliss.
The storm of maya stilled
By magic wand of intuition deep.
The universe, forgotten dream, subconsciously lurks,
Ready to invade my newly-wakened memory divine.
I live without the cosmic shadow,
But it is not, bereft of me;
As the sea exists without the waves,
But they breathe not without the sea.
Dreams, wakings, states of deep turia sleep,
Present, past, future, no more for me,
But ever-present, all-flowing I, I, everywhere.
Planets, stars, stardust, earth,
Volcanic bursts of doomsday cataclysms,
Creation's molding furnace,
Glaciers of silent x-rays, burning electron floods,
Thoughts of all men, past, present, to come,
Every blade of grass, myself, mankind,
Each particle of universal dust,
Anger, greed, good, bad, salvation, lust,
I swallowed, transmuted all
Into a vast ocean of blood of my own one Being!
Smoldering joy, oft-puffed by meditation
Blinding my tearful eyes,
Burst into immortal flames of bliss,
Consumed my tears, my frame, my all.
Thou art I, I am Thou,
Knowing, Knower, Known, as One!
Tranquilled, unbroken thrill, eternally living, ever-new peace!
Enjoyable beyond imagination of expectancy, samadhi bliss!
 Not an unconscious state
Or mental chloroform without wilful return,
Samadhi but extends my conscious realm
Beyond limits of the mortal frame
To farthest boundary of eternity
Where I, the Cosmic Sea,
Watch the little ego floating in Me.
The sparrow, each grain of sand, fall not without My sight.
All space floats like an iceberg in My mental sea.
Colossal Container, I, of all things made.
By deeper, longer, thirsty, guru-given meditation
Comes this celestial samadhi .
Mobile murmurs of atoms are heard,
The dark earth, mountains, vales, lo! molten liquid!
Flowing seas change into vapors of nebulae!
Aum blows upon vapors, opening wondrously their veils,
Oceans stand revealed, shining electrons,
Till, at last sound of the cosmic drum,
Vanish the grosser lights into eternal rays
Of all-pervading bliss.
From joy I came, for joy I live, in sacred joy I melt.
Ocean of mind, I drink all creation's waves.
Four veils of solid, liquid, vapor, light,
Lift aright.
Myself, in everything, enters the Great Myself.
Gone forever, fitful, flickering shadows of mortal memory.
Spotless is my mental sky, below, ahead, and high above.
Eternity and I, one united ray.
A tiny bubble of laughter, I
Am become the Sea of Mirth Itself.
 Sri Yukteswar taught me how to summon the blessed experience at will,
and also how to transmit it to others if their intuitive channels were developed.
For months I entered the ecstatic union, comprehending why the Upanishads
say God is rasa , "the most relishable." One day, however, I took a problem to
Master.
"I want to know, sir-when shall I find God?"
"You have found Him."
"O no, sir, I don't think so!"
My guru was smiling. "I am sure you aren't expecting a venerable
Personage, adorning a throne in some antiseptic corner of the cosmos! I see,
however, that you are imagining that the possession of miraculous powers is
knowledge of God. One might have the whole universe, and find the Lord
elusive still! Spiritual advancement is not measured by one's outward powers,
but only by the depth of his bliss in meditation.
"Ever-new Joy Is God. He is inexhaustible; as you continue your
meditations during the years, He will beguile you with an infinite ingenuity.
Devotees like yourself who have found the way to God never dream of
exchanging Him for any other happiness; He is seductive beyond thought of
competition.
"How quickly we weary of earthly pleasures! Desire for material things is
endless; man is never satisfied completely, and pursues one goal after another.
The 'something else' he seeks is the Lord, who alone can grant lasting joy.
"Outward longings drive us from the Eden within; they offer false
pleasures which only impersonate soul-happiness. The lost paradise is quickly
regained through divine meditation. As God is unanticipatory Ever-Newness,
we never tire of Him. Can we be surfeited with bliss, delightfully varied
throughout eternity?"
"I understand now, sir, why saints call the Lord unfathomable. Even
everlasting life could not suffice to appraise Him."
"That is true; but He is also near and dear. After the mind has been cleared
by Kriya Yoga of sensory obstacles, meditation furnishes a twofold proof of
God. Ever-new joy is evidence of His existence, convincing to our very atoms.
Also, in meditation one finds His instant guidance, His adequate response to
every difficulty."
"I see, Guruji; you have solved my problem." I smiled gratefully. "I do
realize now that I have found God, for whenever the joy of meditation has
returned subconsciously during my active hours, I have been subtly directed to
adopt the right course in everything, even details."
 "Human life is beset with sorrow until we know how to tune in with the
Divine Will, whose 'right course' is often baffling to the egoistic intelligence.
God bears the burden of the cosmos; He alone can give unerring counsel."

CHAPTER: 15
The Cauliflower Robbery

"Master, a gift for you! These six huge cauliflowers were planted with my
hands; I have watched over their growth with the tender care of a mother
nursing her child." I presented the basket of vegetables with a ceremonial
flourish.
"Thank you!" Sri Yukteswar's smile was warm with appreciation. "Please
keep them in your room; I shall need them tomorrow for a special dinner."
I had just arrived in Puri to spend my college summer vacation with my
guru at his seaside hermitage. Built by Master and his disciples, the cheerful
little two-storied retreat fronts on the Bay of Bengal.
I awoke early the following morning, refreshed by the salty sea breezes
and the charm of my surroundings. Sri Yukteswar's melodious voice was
calling; I took a look at my cherished cauliflowers and stowed them neatly
under my bed.
"Come, let us go to the beach." Master led the way; several young disciples
and myself followed in a scattered group. Our guru surveyed us in mild
criticism.
"When our Western brothers walk, they usually take pride in unison. Now,
please march in two rows; keep rhythmic step with one another." Sri
Yukteswar watched as we obeyed; he began to sing: "Boys go to and fro, in a
pretty little row." I could not but admire the ease with which Master was able
to match the brisk pace of his young students.
"Halt!" My guru's eyes sought mine. "Did you remember to lock the back
door of the hermitage?"
A steady stream of visitors poured from the world into the hermitage
tranquillity. A number of learned men came with the expectation of meeting an
orthodox religionist. A supercilious smile or a glance of amused tolerance
occasionally betrayed that the newcomers anticipated nothing more than a few
pious platitudes. Yet their reluctant departure would bring an expressed
conviction that Sri Yukteswar had shown precise insight into their specialized
fields of knowledge.
 My guru always had young resident disciples in his hermitage. He directed
their minds and lives with that careful discipline in which the word "disciple"
is etymologically rooted.
"I think so, sir."
Sri Yukteswar was silent for a few minutes, a half-suppressed smile on his
lips. "No, you forgot," he said finally. "Divine contemplation must not be
made an excuse for material carelessness. You have neglected your duty in
safeguarding the ashram; you must be punished."
I thought he was obscurely joking when he added: "Your six cauliflowers
will soon be only five."
We turned around at Master's orders and marched back until we were close
to the hermitage.
"Rest awhile. Mukunda, look across the compound on our left; observe the
road beyond. A certain man will arrive there presently; he will be the means of
your chastisement."
I concealed my vexation at these incomprehensible remarks. A peasant
soon appeared on the road; he was dancing grotesquely and flinging his arms
about with meaningless gestures. Almost paralyzed with curiosity, I glued my
eyes on the hilarious spectacle. As the man reached a point in the road where
he would vanish from our view, Sri Yukteswar said, "Now, he will return."
The peasant at once changed his direction and made for the rear of the
ashram. Crossing a sandy tract, he entered the building by the back door. I had
left it unlocked, even as my guru had said. The man emerged shortly, holding
one of my prized cauliflowers. He now strode along respectably, invested with
the dignity of possession.
The unfolding farce, in which my role appeared to be that of bewildered
victim, was not so disconcerting that I failed in indignant pursuit. I was
halfway to the road when Master recalled me. He was shaking from head to
foot with laughter.
"That poor crazy man has been longing for a cauliflower," he explained
between outbursts of mirth. "I thought it would be a good idea if he got one of
yours, so ill-guarded!"
I dashed to my room, where I found that the thief, evidently one with a
vegetable fixation, had left untouched my gold rings, watch, and money, all
lying openly on the blanket. He had crawled instead under the bed where,
completely hidden from casual sight, one of my cauliflowers had aroused his
singlehearted desire.
I asked Sri Yukteswar that evening to explain the incident which had, I
thought, a few baffling features.
My guru shook his head slowly. "You will understand it someday. Science
will soon discover a few of these hidden laws."
When the wonders of radio burst some years later on an astounded world, I
remembered Master's prediction. Age-old concepts of time and space were
annihilated; no peasant's home so narrow that London or Calcutta could not
enter! The dullest intelligence enlarged before indisputable proof of one aspect
of man's omnipresence.
The "plot" of the cauliflower comedy can be best understood by a radio
analogy. Sri Yukteswar was a perfect human radio. Thoughts are no more than
very gentle vibrations moving in the ether. Just as a sensitized radio picks up a
desired musical number out of thousands of other programs from every
direction, so my guru had been able to catch the thought of the half-witted
man who hankered for a cauliflower, out of the countless thoughts of
broadcasting human wills in the world. By his powerful will, Master was also
a human broadcasting station, and had successfully directed the peasant to
reverse his steps and go to a certain room for a single cauliflower.
Intuition is soul guidance, appearing naturally in man during those instants
when his mind is calm. Nearly everyone has had the experience of an
inexplicably correct "hunch," or has transferred his thoughts effectively to
another person.
The human mind, free from the static of restlessness, can perform through
its antenna of intuition all the functions of complicated radio mechanisms-
sending and receiving thoughts, and tuning out undesirable ones. As the power
of a radio depends on the amount of electrical current it can utilize, so the
human radio is energized according to the power of will possessed by each
individual.
All thoughts vibrate eternally in the cosmos. By deep concentration, a
master is able to detect the thoughts of any mind, living or dead. Thoughts are
universally and not individually rooted; a truth cannot be created, but only
perceived. The erroneous thoughts of man result from imperfections in his
discernment. The goal of yoga science is to calm the mind, that without
distortion it may mirror the divine vision in the universe.
Radio and television have brought the instantaneous sound and sight of
remote persons to the firesides of millions: the first faint scientific intimations
that man is an all-pervading spirit. Not a body confined to a point in space, but
the vast soul, which the ego in most barbaric modes conspires in vain to
cramp.
"Very strange, very wonderful, seemingly very improbable phenomena
may yet appear which, when once established, will not astonish us more than
we are now astonished at all that science has taught us during the last century,"
Charles Robert Richet, Nobel Prizeman in physiology, has declared. "It is
assumed that the phenomena which we now accept without surprise, do not
excite our astonishment because they are understood. But this is not the case.
If they do not surprise us it is not because they are understood, it is because
they are familiar; for if that which is not understood ought to surprise us, we
should be surprised at everything-the fall of a stone thrown into the air, the
acorn which becomes an oak, mercury which expands when it is heated, iron
attracted by a magnet, phosphorus which burns when it is rubbed. . . . The
science of today is a light matter; the revolutions and evolutions which it will
experience in a hundred thousand years will far exceed the most daring
anticipations. The truths-those surprising, amazing, unforeseen truths-which
our descendants will discover, are even now all around us, staring us in the
eyes, so to speak, and yet we do not see them. But it is not enough to say that
we do not see them; we do not wish to see them; for as soon as an unexpected
and unfamiliar fact appears, we try to fit it into the framework of the
commonplaces of acquired knowledge, and we are indignant that anyone
should dare to experiment further."
A humorous occurrence took place a few days after I had been so
implausibly robbed of a cauliflower. A certain kerosene lamp could not be
found. Having so lately witnessed my guru's omniscient insight, I thought he
would demonstrate that it was child's play to locate the lamp.
Master perceived my expectation. With exaggerated gravity he questioned
all ashram residents. A young disciple confessed that he had used the lamp to
go to the well in the back yard.
Sri Yukteswar gave the solemn counsel: "Seek the lamp near the well."
I rushed there; no lamp! Crestfallen, I returned to my guru. He was now
laughing heartily, without compunction for my disillusionment.
"Too bad I couldn't direct you to the vanished lamp; I am not a fortune
teller!" With twinkling eyes, he added, "I am not even a satisfactory Sherlock
Holmes!"
I realized that Master would never display his powers when challenged, or
for a triviality.
Delightful weeks sped by. Sri Yukteswar was planning a religious
procession. He asked me to lead the disciples over the town and beach of Puri.
The festive day dawned as one of the hottest of the summer.
"Guruji, how can I take the barefooted students over the fiery sands?" I
spoke despairingly.
 "I will tell you a secret," Master responded. "The Lord will send an
umbrella of clouds; you all shall walk in comfort."
I happily organized the procession; our group started from the ashram with
a Sat-Sanga banner. Designed by Sri Yukteswar, it bore the symbol of the
single eye, the telescopic gaze of intuition.
No sooner had we left the hermitage than the part of the sky which was
overhead became filled with clouds as though by magic. To the
accompaniment of astonished ejaculations from all sides, a very light shower
fell, cooling the city streets and the burning seashore. The soothing drops
descended during the two hours of the parade. The exact instant at which our
group returned to the ashram, the clouds and rain passed away tracelessly.
"You see how God feels for us," Master replied after I had expressed my
gratitude. "The Lord responds to all and works for all. Just as He sent rain at
my plea, so He fulfills any sincere desire of the devotee. Seldom do men
realize how often God heeds their prayers. He is not partial to a few, but
listens to everyone who approaches Him trustingly. His children should ever
have implicit faith in the loving-kindness of their Omnipresent Father."
Sri Yukteswar sponsored four yearly festivals, at the equinoxes and
solstices, when his students gathered from far and near. The winter solstice
celebration was held in Serampore; the first one I attended left me with a
permanent blessing.
The festivities started in the morning with a barefoot procession along the
streets. The voices of a hundred students rang out with sweet religious songs; a
few musicians played the flute and khol kartal (drums and cymbals).
Enthusiastic townspeople strewed the path with flowers, glad to be summoned
from prosaic tasks by our resounding praise of the Lord's blessed name. The
long tour ended in the courtyard of the hermitage. There we encircled our
guru, while students on upper balconies showered us with marigold blossoms.
Many guests went upstairs to receive a pudding of channa and oranges. I
made my way to a group of brother disciples who were serving today as
cooks. Food for such large gatherings had to be cooked outdoors in huge
cauldrons. The improvised wood-burning brick stoves were smoky and tear-
provoking, but we laughed merrily at our work. Religious festivals in India are
never considered troublesome; each one does his part, supplying money, rice,
vegetables, or his personal services.
Master was soon in our midst, supervising the details of the feast. Busy
every moment, he kept pace with the most energetic young student.
A sankirtan (group chanting), accompanied by the harmonium and hand-
played Indian drums, was in progress on the second floor. Sri Yukteswar
listened appreciatively; his musical sense was acutely perfect.
"They are off key!" Master left the cooks and joined the artists. The
melody was heard again, this time correctly rendered.
In India, music as well as painting and the drama is considered a divine art.
Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva-the Eternal Trinity-were the first musicians. The
Divine Dancer Shiva is scripturally represented as having worked out the
infinite modes of rhythm in His cosmic dance of universal creation,
preservation, and dissolution, while Brahma accentuated the time-beat with
the clanging cymbals, and Vishnu sounded the holy mridanga or drum.
Krishna, an incarnation of Vishnu, is always shown in Hindu art with a flute,
on which he plays the enrapturing song that recalls to their true home the
human souls wandering in maya -delusion. Saraswati, goddess of wisdom, is
symbolized as performing on the vina , mother of all stringed instruments. The
Sama Veda of India contains the world's earliest writings on musical science.
The foundation stone of Hindu music is the ragas or fixed melodic scales.
The six basic ragas branch out into 126 derivative raginis (wives) and putras
(sons). Each raga has a minimum of five notes: a leading note (vadi or king), a
secondary note (samavadi or prime minister), helping notes (anuvadi ,
attendants), and a dissonant note (vivadi , the enemy).
Each one of the six basic ragas has a natural correspondence with a certain
hour of the day, season of the year, and a presiding deity who bestows a
particular potency. Thus, (1) the Hindole Raga is heard only at dawn in the
spring, to evoke the mood of universal love; (2) Deepaka Raga is played
during the evening in summer, to arouse compassion; (3) Megha Raga is a
melody for midday in the rainy season, to summon courage; (4) Bhairava
Raga is played in the mornings of August, September, October, to achieve
tranquillity; (5) Sri Raga is reserved for autumn twilights, to attain pure love;
(6) Malkounsa Raga is heard at midnights in winter, for valor.
The ancient rishis discovered these laws of sound alliance between nature
and man. Because nature is an objectification of Aum , the Primal Sound or
Vibratory Word, man can obtain control over all natural manifestations
through the use of certain mantras or chants. Historical documents tell of the
remarkable powers possessed by Miyan Tan Sen, sixteenth century court
musician for Akbar the Great. Commanded by the Emperor to sing a night
raga while the sun was overhead, Tan Sen intoned a mantra which instantly
caused the whole palace precincts to become enveloped in darkness.
Indian music divides the octave into 22 srutis or demi-semitones. These
microtonal intervals permit fine shades of musical expression unattainable by
the Western chromatic scale of 12 semitones. Each one of the seven basic
notes of the octave is associated in Hindu mythology with a color, and the
natural cry of a bird or beast-Do with green, and the peacock; Re with red, and
the skylark; Mi with golden, and the goat; Fa with yellowish white, and the
heron; Sol with black, and the nightingale; La with yellow, and the horse; Si
with a combination of all colors, and the elephant.
Three scales-major, harmonic minor, melodic minor-are the only ones
which Occidental music employs, but Indian music outlines 72 thatas or
scales. The musician has a creative scope for endless improvisation around the
fixed traditional melody or raga ; he concentrates on the sentiment or
definitive mood of the structural theme and then embroiders it to the limits of
his own originality. The Hindu musician does not read set notes; he clothes
anew at each playing the bare skeleton of the raga , often confining himself to
a single melodic sequence, stressing by repetition all its subtle microtonal and
rhythmic variations. Bach, among Western composers, had an understanding
of the charm and power of repetitious sound slightly differentiated in a
hundred complex ways.
Ancient Sanskrit literature describes 120 talas or time-measures. The
traditional founder of Hindu music, Bharata, is said to have isolated 32 kinds
of tala in the song of a lark. The origin of tala or rhythm is rooted in human
movements-the double time of walking, and the triple time of respiration in
sleep, when inhalation is twice the length of exhalation. India has always
recognized the human voice as the most perfect instrument of sound. Hindu
music therefore largely confines itself to the voice range of three octaves. For
the same reason, melody (relation of successive notes) is stressed, rather than
harmony (relation of simultaneous notes).
The deeper aim of the early rishi-musicians was to blend the singer with
the Cosmic Song which can be heard through awakening of man's occult
spinal centers. Indian music is a subjective, spiritual, and individualistic art,
aiming not at symphonic brilliance but at personal harmony with the Oversoul.
The Sanskrit word for musician is bhagavathar , "he who sings the praises of
God." The sankirtans or musical gatherings are an effective form of yoga or
spiritual discipline, necessitating deep concentration, intense absorption in the
seed thought and sound. Because man himself is an expression of the Creative
Word, sound has the most potent and immediate effect on him, offering a way
to remembrance of his divine origin.
The sankirtan issuing from Sri Yukteswar's second-story sitting room on
the day of the festival was inspiring to the cooks amidst the steaming pots. My
brother disciples and I joyously sang the refrains, beating time with our hands.
By sunset we had served our hundreds of visitors with khichuri (rice and
lentils), vegetable curry, and rice pudding. We laid cotton blankets over the
courtyard; soon the assemblage was squatting under the starry vault, quietly
attentive to the wisdom pouring from Sri Yukteswar's lips. His public speeches
emphasized the value of Kriya Yoga, and a life of self-respect, calmness,
determination, simple diet, and regular exercise.
A group of very young disciples then chanted a few sacred hymns; the
meeting concluded with sankirtan . From ten o'clock until midnight, the
ashram residents washed pots and pans, and cleared the courtyard. My guru
called me to his side.
"I am pleased over your cheerful labors today and during the past week of
preparations. I want you with me; you may sleep in my bed tonight."
This was a privilege I had never thought would fall to my lot. We sat
awhile in a state of intense divine tranquillity. Hardly ten minutes after we had
gotten into bed, Master rose and began to dress.
"What is the matter, sir?" I felt a tinge of unreality in the unexpected joy of
sleeping beside my guru.
"I think that a few students who missed their proper train connections will
be here soon. Let us have some food ready."
"Guruji, no one would come at one o'clock in the morning!"
"Stay in bed; you have been working very hard. But I am going to cook."
At Sri Yukteswar's resolute tone, I jumped up and followed him to the
small daily-used kitchen adjacent to the second-floor inner balcony. Rice and
dhal were soon boiling.
My guru smiled affectionately. "Tonight you have conquered fatigue and
fear of hard work; you shall never be bothered by them in the future."
As he uttered these words of lifelong blessing, footsteps sounded in the
courtyard. I ran downstairs and admitted a group of students.
"Dear brother, how reluctant we are to disturb Master at this hour!" One
man addressed me apologetically. "We made a mistake about train schedules,
but felt we could not return home without a glimpse of our guru."
"He has been expecting you and is even now preparing your food."
Sri Yukteswar's welcoming voice rang out; I led the astonished visitors to
the kitchen. Master turned to me with twinkling eyes.
"Now that you have finished comparing notes, no doubt you are satisfied
that our guests really did miss their train!"
I followed him to his bedroom a half hour later, realizing fully that I was
about to sleep beside a godlike guru.



CHAPTER: 16
Outwitting The Stars

"Mukunda, why don't you get an astrological armlet?"

"Should I, Master? I don't believe in astrology."
"It is never a question of belief ; the only scientific attitude one can take on
any subject is whether it is true . The law of gravitation worked as efficiently
before Newton as after him. The cosmos would be fairly chaotic if its laws
could not operate without the sanction of human belief.
"Charlatans have brought the stellar science to its present state of
disrepute. Astrology is too vast, both mathematically and philosophically, to
be rightly grasped except by men of profound understanding. If ignoramuses
misread the heavens, and see there a scrawl instead of a script, that is to be
expected in this imperfect world. One should not dismiss the wisdom with the
'wise.'
"All parts of creation are linked together and interchange their influences.
The balanced rhythm of the universe is rooted in reciprocity," my guru
continued. "Man, in his human aspect, has to combat two sets of forces-first,
the tumults within his being, caused by the admixture of earth, water, fire, air,
and ethereal elements; second, the outer disintegrating powers of nature. So
long as man struggles with his mortality, he is affected by the myriad
mutations of heaven and earth.
"Astrology is the study of man's response to planetary stimuli. The stars
have no conscious benevolence or animosity; they merely send forth positive
and negative radiations. Of themselves, these do not help or harm humanity,
but offer a lawful channel for the outward operation of cause-effect
equilibriums which each man has set into motion in the past.
"A child is born on that day and at that hour when the celestial rays are in
mathematical harmony with his individual karma. His horoscope is a
challenging portrait, revealing his unalterable past and its probable future
results. But the natal chart can be rightly interpreted only by men of intuitive
wisdom: these are few.
"The message boldly blazoned across the heavens at the moment of birth is
not meant to emphasize fate-the result of past good and evil-but to arouse
man's will to escape from his universal thralldom. What he has done, he can
undo. None other than himself was the instigator of the causes of whatever
effects are now prevalent in his life. He can overcome any limitation, because
he created it by his own actions in the first place, and because he has spiritual
resources which are not subject to planetary pressure.
"Superstitious awe of astrology makes one an automaton, slavishly
dependent on mechanical guidance. The wise man defeats his planets- which
is to say, his past-by transferring his allegiance from the creation to the
Creator. The more he realizes his unity with Spirit, the less he can be
dominated by matter. The soul is ever-free; it is deathless because birthless. It
cannot be regimented by stars.
"Man is a soul, and has a body. When he properly places his sense of
identity, he leaves behind all compulsive patterns. So long as he remains
confused in his ordinary state of spiritual amnesia, he will know the subtle
fetters of environmental law.
"God is harmony; the devotee who attunes himself will never perform any
action amiss. His activities will be correctly and naturally timed to accord with
astrological law. After deep prayer and meditation he is in touch with his
divine consciousness; there is no greater power than that inward protection."
"Then, dear Master, why do you want me to wear an astrological bangle?"
I ventured this question after a long silence, during which I had tried to
assimilate Sri Yukteswar's noble exposition.
"It is only when a traveler has reached his goal that he is justified in
discarding his maps. During the journey, he takes advantage of any convenient
short cut. The ancient rishis discovered many ways to curtail the period of
man's exile in delusion. There are certain mechanical features in the law of
karma which can be skillfully adjusted by the fingers of wisdom.
"All human ills arise from some transgression of universal law. The
scriptures point out that man must satisfy the laws of nature, while not
discrediting the divine omnipotence. He should say: 'Lord, I trust in Thee, and
know Thou canst help me, but I too will do my best to undo any wrong I have
done.' By a number of means-by prayer, by will power, by yoga meditation, by
consultation with saints, by use of astrological bangles-the adverse effects of
past wrongs can be minimized or nullified.
"Just as a house can be fitted with a copper rod to absorb the shock of
lightning, so the bodily temple can be benefited by various protective
measures. Ages ago our yogis discovered that pure metals emit an astral light
which is powerfully counteractive to negative pulls of the planets. Subtle
electrical and magnetic radiations are constantly circulating in the universe;
when a man's body is being aided, he does not know it; when it is being
disintegrated, he is still in ignorance. Can he do anything about it?
"This problem received attention from our rishis; they found helpful not
only a combination of metals, but also of plants and-most effective of all-
faultless jewels of not less than two carats. The preventive uses of astrology
have seldom been seriously studied outside of India. One little-known fact is
that the proper jewels, metals, or plant preparations are valueless unless the
required weight is secured, and unless these remedial agents are worn next to
the skin."
"Sir, of course I shall take your advice and get a bangle. I am intrigued at
the thought of outwitting a planet!"
"For general purposes I counsel the use of an armlet made of gold, silver,
and copper. But for a specific purpose I want you to get one of silver and
lead." Sri Yukteswar added careful directions.
"Guruji, what 'specific purpose' do you mean?"
"The stars are about to take an unfriendly interest in you, Mukunda. Fear
not; you shall be protected. In about a month your liver will cause you much
trouble. The illness is scheduled to last for six months, but your use of an
astrological armlet will shorten the period to twenty-four days."
I sought out a jeweler the next day, and was soon wearing the bangle. My
health was excellent; Master's prediction slipped from my mind. He left
Serampore to visit Benares. Thirty days after our conversation, I felt a sudden
pain in the region of my liver. The following weeks were a nightmare of
excruciating pain. Reluctant to disturb my guru, I thought I would bravely
endure my trial alone.
But twenty-three days of torture weakened my resolution; I entrained for
Benares. There Sri Yukteswar greeted me with unusual warmth, but gave me
no opportunity to tell him my woes in private. Many devotees visited Master
that day, just for a darshan. Ill and neglected, I sat in a corner. It was not until
after the evening meal that all guests had departed. My guru summoned me to
the octagonal balcony of the house.
"You must have come about your liver disorder." Sri Yukteswar's gaze was
averted; he walked to and fro, occasionally intercepting the moonlight. "Let
me see; you have been ailing for twenty-four days, haven't you?"
"Yes, sir."
"Please do the stomach exercise I have taught you."
"If you knew the extent of my suffering, Master, you would not ask me to
exercise." Nevertheless I made a feeble attempt to obey him.
"You say you have pain; I say you have none. How can such contradictions
exist?" My guru looked at me inquiringly.
 I was dazed and then overcome with joyful relief. No longer could I feel
the continuous torment that had kept me nearly sleepless for weeks; at Sri
Yukteswar's words the agony vanished as though it had never been.
I started to kneel at his feet in gratitude, but he quickly prevented me.
"Don't be childish. Get up and enjoy the beauty of the moon over the
Ganges." But Master's eyes were twinkling happily as I stood in silence beside
him. I understood by his attitude that he wanted me to feel that not he, but
God, had been the Healer.
I wear even now the heavy silver and lead bangle, a memento of that day-
long-past, ever-cherished-when I found anew that I was living with a
personage indeed superhuman. On later occasions, when I brought my friends
to Sri Yukteswar for healing, he invariably recommended jewels or the bangle,
extolling their use as an act of astrological wisdom.
I had been prejudiced against astrology from my childhood, partly because
I observed that many people are sequaciously attached to it, and partly because
of a prediction made by our family astrologer: "You will marry three times,
being twice a widower." I brooded over the matter, feeling like a goat awaiting
sacrifice before the temple of triple matrimony.
"You may as well be resigned to your fate," my brother Ananta had
remarked. "Your written horoscope has correctly stated that you would fly
from home toward the Himalayas during your early years, but would be
forcibly returned. The forecast of your marriages is also bound to be true."
A clear intuition came to me one night that the prophecy was wholly false.
I set fire to the horoscope scroll, placing the ashes in a paper bag on which I
wrote: "Seeds of past karma cannot germinate if they are roasted in the divine
fires of wisdom." I put the bag in a conspicuous spot; Ananta immediately
read my defiant comment.
"You cannot destroy truth as easily as you have burnt this paper scroll."
My brother laughed scornfully.
It is a fact that on three occasions before I reached manhood, my family
tried to arrange my betrothal. Each time I refused to fall in with the plans,
knowing that my love for God was more overwhelming than any astrological
persuasion from the past.
"The deeper the self-realization of a man, the more he influences the whole
universe by his subtle spiritual vibrations, and the less he himself is affected
by the phenomenal flux." These words of Master's often returned inspiringly
to my mind.
Occasionally I told astrologers to select my worst periods, according to
planetary indications, and I would still accomplish whatever task I set myself.
It is true that my success at such times has been accompanied by extraordinary
difficulties. But my conviction has always been justified: faith in the divine
protection, and the right use of man's God-given will, are forces formidable
beyond any the "inverted bowl" can muster.
The starry inscription at one's birth, I came to understand, is not that man is
a puppet of his past. Its message is rather a prod to pride; the very heavens
seek to arouse man's determination to be free from every limitation. God
created each man as a soul, dowered with individuality, hence essential to the
universal structure, whether in the temporary role of pillar or parasite. His
freedom is final and immediate, if he so wills; it depends not on outer but
inner victories.
Sri Yukteswar discovered the mathematical application of a 24,000-year
equinoctial cycle to our present age. The cycle is divided into an Ascending
Arc and a Descending Arc, each of 12,000 years. Within each Arc fall four
Yugas or Ages, called Kali , Dwapara , Treta , and Satya , corresponding to the
Greek ideas of Iron, Bronze, Silver, and Golden Ages.
My guru determined by various calculations that the last Kali Yuga or Iron
Age, of the Ascending Arc, started about A.D. 500. The Iron Age, 1200 years
in duration, is a span of materialism; it ended about A.D. 1700. That year
ushered in Dwapara Yuga , a 2400-year period of electrical and atomic-energy
developments, the age of telegraph, radio, airplanes, and other space-
annihilators.
The 3600-year period of Treta Yuga will start in A.D. 4100; its age will be
marked by common knowledge of telepathic communications and other time-
annihilators. During the 4800 years of Satya Yuga , final age in an ascending
arc, the intelligence of a man will be completely developed; he will work in
harmony with the divine plan.
A descending arc of 12,000 years, starting with a descending Golden Age
of 4800 years, then begins for the world; man gradually sinks into ignorance.
These cycles are the eternal rounds of maya , the contrasts and relativities of
the phenomenal universe. Man, one by one, escapes from creation's prison of
duality as he awakens to consciousness of his inseverable divine unity with the
Creator.
Master enlarged my understanding not only of astrology but of the world's
scriptures. Placing the holy texts on the spotless table of his mind, he was able
to dissect them with the scalpel of intuitive reasoning, and to separate errors
and interpolations of scholars from the truths as originally expressed by the
prophets.
 "Fix one's vision on the end of the nose." This inaccurate interpretation of
a Bhagavad Gita stanza, widely accepted by Eastern pundits and Western
translators, used to arouse Master's droll criticism.
"The path of a yogi is singular enough as it is," he remarked. "Why counsel
him that he must also make himself cross-eyed? The true meaning of
nasikagram is 'origin of the nose, not 'end of the nose.' The nose begins at the
point between the two eyebrows, the seat of spiritual vision." Because of one
Sankhya aphorism, "Iswar-ashidha ,"-"A Lord of Creation cannot be deduced"
or "God is not proved," -many scholars call the whole philosophy atheistical.
"The verse is not nihilistic," Sri Yukteswar explained. "It merely signifies
that to the unenlightened man, dependent on his senses for all final judgments,
proof of God must remain unknown and therefore non-existent. True Sankhya
followers, with unshakable insight born of meditation, understand that the
Lord is both existent and knowable."
Master expounded the Christian Bible with a beautiful clarity. It was from
my Hindu guru, unknown to the roll call of Christian membership, that I
learned to perceive the deathless essence of the Bible, and to understand the
truth in Christ's assertion-surely the most thrillingly intransigent ever uttered:
"Heaven and earth shall pass away, but my words shall not pass away."
The great masters of India mold their lives by the same godly ideals which
animated Jesus; these men are his proclaimed kin: "Whosoever shall do the
will of my Father which is in heaven, the same is my brother, and sister, and
mother." "If ye continue in my word," Christ pointed out, "then are ye my
disciples indeed; and ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you
free." Freemen all, lords of themselves, the Yogi-Christs of India are part of
the immortal fraternity: those who have attained a liberating knowledge of the
One Father.
"The Adam and Eve story is incomprehensible to me!" I observed with
considerable heat one day in my early struggles with the allegory. "Why did
God punish not only the guilty pair, but also the innocent unborn
generations?"
Master was more amused by my vehemence than my ignorance. "Genesis
is deeply symbolic, and cannot be grasped by a literal interpretation," he
explained. "Its 'tree of life' is the human body. The spinal cord is like an
upturned tree, with man's hair as its roots, and afferent and efferent nerves as
branches. The tree of the nervous system bears many enjoyable fruits, or
sensations of sight, sound, smell, taste, and touch. In these, man may rightfully
indulge; but he was forbidden the experience of sex, the 'apple' at the center of
the bodily garden.
 "The 'serpent' represents the coiled-up spinal energy which stimulates the
sex nerves. 'Adam' is reason, and 'Eve' is feeling. When the emotion or Eve-
consciousness in any human being is overpowered by the sex impulse, his
reason or Adam also succumbs.
"God created the human species by materializing the bodies of man and
woman through the force of His will; He endowed the new species with the
power to create children in a similar 'immaculate' or divine manner. Because
His manifestation in the individualized soul had hitherto been limited to
animals, instinct-bound and lacking the potentialities of full reason, God made
the first human bodies, symbolically called Adam and Eve. To these, for
advantageous upward evolution, He transferred the souls or divine essence of
two animals. In Adam or man, reason predominated; in Eve or woman, feeling
was ascendant. Thus was expressed the duality or polarity which underlies the
phenomenal worlds. Reason and feeling remain in a heaven of cooperative joy
so long as the human mind is not tricked by the serpentine energy of animal
propensities.
"The human body was therefore not solely a result of evolution from
beasts, but was produced by an act of special creation by God. The animal
forms were too crude to express full divinity; the human being was uniquely
given a tremendous mental capacity-the 'thousand-petaled lotus' of the brain-as
well as acutely awakened occult centers in the spine.
"God, or the Divine Consciousness present within the first created pair,
counseled them to enjoy all human sensibilities, but not to put their
concentration on touch sensations. These were banned in order to avoid the
development of the sex organs, which would enmesh humanity in the inferior
animal method of propagation. The warning not to revive subconsciously-
present bestial memories was not heeded. Resuming the way of brute
procreation, Adam and Eve fell from the state of heavenly joy natural to the
original perfect man.
"Knowledge of 'good and evil' refers to the cosmic dualistic compulsion.
Falling under the sway of maya through misuse of his feeling and reason, or
Eve-and Adam-consciousness, man relinquishes his right to enter the heavenly
garden of divine self- sufficiency. The personal responsibility of every human
being is to restore his 'parents' or dual nature to a unified harmony or Eden."
As Sri Yukteswar ended his discourse, I glanced with new respect at the
pages of Genesis .
"Dear Master," I said, "for the first time I feel a proper filial obligation
toward Adam and Eve!"


 CHAPTER: 17
Sasi And The Three Sapphires

"Because you and my son think so highly of Swami Sri Yukteswar, I will
take a look at him." The tone of voice used by Dr. Narayan Chunder Roy
implied that he was humoring the whim of half-wits. I concealed my
indignation, in the best traditions of the proselyter.
My companion, a veterinary surgeon, was a confirmed agnostic. His young
son Santosh had implored me to take an interest in his father. So far my
invaluable aid had been a bit on the invisible side.
Dr. Roy accompanied me the following day to the Serampore hermitage.
After Master had granted him a brief interview, marked for the most part by
stoic silence on both sides, the visitor brusquely departed.
"Why bring a dead man to the ashram?" Sri Yukteswar looked at me
inquiringly as soon as the door had closed on the Calcutta skeptic.
"Sir! The doctor is very much alive!"
"But in a short time he will be dead."
I was shocked. "Sir, this will be a terrible blow to his son. Santosh yet
hopes for time to change his father's materialistic views. I beseech you,
Master, to help the man."
"Very well; for your sake." My guru's face was impassive. "The proud
horse doctor is far gone in diabetes, although he does not know it. In fifteen
days he will take to his bed. The physicians will give him up for lost; his
natural time to leave this earth is six weeks from today. Due to your
intercession, however, on that date he will recover. But there is one condition.
You must get him to wear an astrological bangle; he will doubtless object as
violently as one of his horses before an operation!" Master chuckled.
After a silence, during which I wondered how Santosh and I could best
employ the arts of cajolery on the recalcitrant doctor, Sri Yukteswar made
further disclosures.
"As soon as the man gets well, advise him not to eat meat. He will not heed
this counsel, however, and in six months, just as he is feeling at his best, he
will drop dead. Even that six-month extension of life is granted him only
because of your plea."
The following day I suggested to Santosh that he order an armlet at the
jeweler's. It was ready in a week, but Dr. Roy refused to put it on.
"I am in the best of health. You will never impress me with these
astrological superstitions." The doctor glanced at me belligerently.
I recalled with amusement that Master had justifiably compared the man to
a balky horse. Another seven days passed; the doctor, suddenly ill, meekly
consented to wear the bangle. Two weeks later the physician in attendance told
me that his patient's case was hopeless. He supplied harrowing details of the
ravages inflicted by diabetes.
I shook my head. "My guru has said that, after a sickness lasting one
month, Dr. Roy will be well."
The physician stared at me incredulously. But he sought me out a fortnight
later, with an apologetic air.
"Dr. Roy has made a complete recovery!" he exclaimed. "It is the most
amazing case in my experience. Never before have I seen a dying man show
such an inexplicable comeback. Your guru must indeed be a healing prophet!"
After one interview with Dr. Roy, during which I repeated Sri Yukteswar's
advice about a meatless diet, I did not see the man again for six months. He
stopped for a chat one evening as I sat on the piazza of my family home on
Gurpar Road.
"Tell your teacher that by eating meat frequently, I have wholly regained
my strength. His unscientific ideas on diet have not influenced me." It was true
that Dr. Roy looked a picture of health.
But the next day Santosh came running to me from his home on the next
block. "This morning Father dropped dead!"
This case was one of my strangest experiences with Master. He healed the
rebellious veterinary surgeon in spite of his disbelief, and extended the man's
natural term on earth by six months, just because of my earnest supplication.
Sri Yukteswar was boundless in his kindness when confronted by the urgent
prayer of a devotee.
It was my proudest privilege to bring college friends to meet my guru.
Many of them would lay aside-at least in the ashram!-their fashionable
academic cloak of religious skepticism.
One of my friends, Sasi, spent a number of happy week ends in Serampore.
Master became immensely fond of the boy, and lamented that his private life
was wild and disorderly.
"Sasi, unless you reform, one year hence you will be dangerously ill." Sri
Yukteswar gazed at my friend with affectionate exasperation. "Mukunda is the
witness: don't say later that I didn't warn you."
Sasi laughed. "Master, I will leave it to you to interest a sweet charity of
cosmos in my own sad case! My spirit is willing but my will is weak. You are
my only savior on earth; I believe in nothing else."
"At least you should wear a two-carat blue sapphire. It will help you."
"I can't afford one. Anyhow, dear guruji, if trouble comes, I fully believe
you will protect me."
"In a year you will bring three sapphires," Sri Yukteswar replied
cryptically. "They will be of no use then."
Variations on this conversation took place regularly. "I can't reform!" Sasi
would say in comical despair. "And my trust in you, Master, is more precious
to me than any stone!"
A year later I was visiting my guru at the Calcutta home of his disciple,
Naren Babu. About ten o'clock in the morning, as Sri Yukteswar and I were
sitting quietly in the second-floor parlor, I heard the front door open. Master
straightened stiffly.
"It is that Sasi," he remarked gravely. "The year is now up; both his lungs
are gone. He has ignored my counsel; tell him I don't want to see him."
Half stunned by Sri Yukteswar's sternness, I raced down the stairway. Sasi
was ascending.
"O Mukunda! I do hope Master is here; I had a hunch he might be."
"Yes, but he doesn't wish to be disturbed."
Sasi burst into tears and brushed past me. He threw himself at Sri
Yukteswar's feet, placing there three beautiful sapphires.
"Omniscient guru, the doctors say I have galloping tuberculosis! They give
me no longer than three more months! I humbly implore your aid; I know you
can heal me!"
"Isn't it a bit late now to be worrying over your life? Depart with your
jewels; their time of usefulness is past." Master then sat sphinxlike in an
unrelenting silence, punctuated by the boy's sobs for mercy.
An intuitive conviction came to me that Sri Yukteswar was merely testing
the depth of Sasi's faith in the divine healing power. I was not surprised a tense
hour later when Master turned a sympathetic gaze on my prostrate friend.
"Get up, Sasi; what a commotion you make in other people's houses!
Return your sapphires to the jeweler's; they are an unnecessary expense now.
But get an astrological bangle and wear it. Fear not; in a few weeks you shall
be well."
Sasi's smile illumined his tear-marred face like sudden sun over a sodden
landscape. "Beloved guru, shall I take the medicines prescribed by the
doctors?"
Sri Yukteswar's glance was longanimous. "Just as you wish-drink them or
discard them; it does not matter. It is more possible for the sun and moon to
interchange their positions than for you to die of tuberculosis." He added
abruptly, "Go now, before I change my mind!"
With an agitated bow, my friend hastily departed. I visited him several
times during the next few weeks, and was aghast to find his condition
increasingly worse.
"Sasi cannot last through the night." These words from his physician, and
the spectacle of my friend, now reduced almost to a skeleton, sent me
posthaste to Serampore. My guru listened coldly to my tearful report.
"Why do you come here to bother me? You have already heard me assure
Sasi of his recovery."
I bowed before him in great awe, and retreated to the door. Sri Yukteswar
said no parting word, but sank into silence, his unwinking eyes half-open, their
vision fled to another world.
I returned at once to Sasi's home in Calcutta. With astonishment I found
my friend sitting up, drinking milk.
"O Mukunda! What a miracle! Four hours ago I felt Master's presence in
the room; my terrible symptoms immediately disappeared. I feel that through
his grace I am entirely well."
In a few weeks Sasi was stouter and in better health than ever before. But
his singular reaction to his healing had an ungrateful tinge: he seldom visited
Sri Yukteswar again! My friend told me one day that he so deeply regretted his
previous mode of life that he was ashamed to face Master.
I could only conclude that Sasi's illness had had the contrasting effect of
stiffening his will and impairing his manners.
The first two years of my course at Scottish Church College were drawing
to a close. My classroom attendance had been very spasmodic; what little
studying I did was only to keep peace with my family. My two private tutors
came regularly to my house; I was regularly absent: I can discern at least this
one regularity in my scholastic career!
In India two successful years of college bring an Intermediate Arts
diploma; the student may then look forward to another two years and his A.B.
degree.
The Intermediate Arts final examinations loomed ominously ahead. I fled
to Puri, where my guru was spending a few weeks. Vaguely hoping that he
would sanction my nonappearance at the finals, I related my embarrassing
unpreparedness.
But Master smiled consolingly. "You have wholeheartedly pursued your
spiritual duties, and could not help neglecting your college work. Apply
yourself diligently to your books for the next week: you shall get through your
ordeal without failure."
I returned to Calcutta, firmly suppressing all reasonable doubts that
occasionally arose with unnerving ridicule. Surveying the mountain of books
on my table, I felt like a traveler lost in a wilderness. A long period of
meditation brought me a labor-saving inspiration. Opening each book at
random, I studied only those pages which lay thus exposed. Pursuing this
course during eighteen hours a day for a week, I considered myself entitled to
advise all succeeding generations on the art of cramming.
The following days in the examination halls were a justification of my
seemingly haphazard procedure. I passed all the tests, though by a hairbreadth.
The congratulations of my friends and family were ludicrously mixed with
ejaculations betraying their astonishment.
On his return from Puri, Sri Yukteswar gave me a pleasant surprise. "Your
Calcutta studies are now over. I will see that you pursue your last two years of
university work right here in Serampore."
I was puzzled. "Sir, there is no Bachelor of Arts course in this town."
Serampore College, the sole institution of higher learning, offered only a two-
year course in Intermediate Arts.
Master smiled mischievously. "I am too old to go about collecting
donations to establish an A.B. college for you. I guess I shall have to arrange
the matter through someone else."
Two months later Professor Howells, president of Serampore College,
publicly announced that he had succeeded in raising sufficient funds to offer a
four-year course. Serampore College became a branch affiliation of the
University of Calcutta. I was one of the first students to enroll in Serampore as
an A.B. candidate.
"Guruji, how kind you are to me! I have been longing to leave Calcutta and
be near you every day in Serampore. Professor Howells does not dream how
much he owes to your silent help!"
Sri Yukteswar gazed at me with mock severity. "Now you won't have to
spend so many hours on trains; what a lot of free time for your studies!
Perhaps you will become less of a last-minute crammer and more of a
scholar." But somehow his tone lacked conviction.

CHAPTER: 18
A Mohammedan Wonder-Worker

"Years ago, right in this very room you now occupy, a Mohammedan
wonder-worker performed four miracles before me!"
Sri Yukteswar made this surprising statement during his first visit to my
new quarters. Immediately after entering Serampore College, I had taken a
room in a near-by boardinghouse, called Panthi . It was an old- fashioned brick
mansion, fronting the Ganges.
"Master, what a coincidence! Are these newly decorated walls really
ancient with memories?" I looked around my simply furnished room with
awakened interest.
"It is a long story." My guru smiled reminiscently. "The name of the fakir
was Afzal Khan. He had acquired his extraordinary powers through a chance
encounter with a Hindu yogi.
"'Son, I am thirsty; fetch me some water.' A dust-covered sannyasi made
this request of Afzal one day during his early boyhood in a small village of
eastern Bengal.
"'Master, I am a Mohammedan. How could you, a Hindu, accept a drink
from my hands?'
"'Your truthfulness pleases me, my child. I do not observe the ostracizing
rules of ungodly sectarianism. Go; bring me water quickly.'
"Afzal's reverent obedience was rewarded by a loving glance from the
yogi.
"'You possess good karma from former lives,' he observed solemnly. 'I am
going to teach you a certain yoga method which will give you command over
one of the invisible realms. The great powers that will be yours should be
exercised for worthy ends; never employ them selfishly! I perceive, alas! that
you have brought over from the past some seeds of destructive tendencies. Do
not allow them to sprout by watering them with fresh evil actions. The
complexity of your previous karma is such that you must use this life to
reconcile your yogic accomplishments with the highest humanitarian goals.'
"After instructing the amazed boy in a complicated technique, the master
vanished.
 "Afzal faithfully followed his yoga exercise for twenty years. His
miraculous feats began to attract widespread attention. It seems that he was
always accompanied by a disembodied spirit whom he called 'Hazrat.' This
invisible entity was able to fulfill the FAKIR'S slightest wish.
"Ignoring his master's warning, Afzal began to misuse his powers.
Whatever object he touched and then replaced would soon disappear without a
trace. This disconcerting eventuality usually made the Mohammedan an
objectionable guest!
"He visited large jewelry stores in Calcutta from time to time, representing
himself as a possible purchaser. Any jewel he handled would vanish shortly
after he had left the shop.
"Afzal was often surrounded by several hundred students, attracted by the
hope of learning his secrets. The fakir occasionally invited them to travel with
him. At the railway station he would manage to touch a roll of tickets. These
he would return to the clerk, remarking: 'I have changed my mind, and won't
buy them now.' But when he boarded the train with his retinue, Afzal would be
in possession of the required tickets.
"These exploits created an indignant uproar; Bengali jewelers and ticket-
sellers were succumbing to nervous breakdowns! The police who sought to
arrest Afzal found themselves helpless; the fakir could remove incriminating
evidence merely by saying: 'Hazrat, take this away.'"
Sri Yukteswar rose from his seat and walked to the balcony of my room
which overlooked the Ganges. I followed him, eager to hear more of the
baffling Mohammedan Raffles.
"This Panthi house formerly belonged to a friend of mine. He became
acquainted with Afzal and asked him here. My friend also invited about
twenty neighbors, including myself. I was only a youth then, and felt a lively
curiosity about the notorious fakir ." Master laughed. "I took the precaution of
not wearing anything valuable! Afzal looked me over inquisitively, then
remarked:
"'You have powerful hands. Go downstairs to the garden; get a smooth
stone and write your name on it with chalk; then throw the stone as far as
possible into the Ganges.'
"I obeyed. As soon as the stone had vanished under distant waves, the
Mohammedan addressed me again:
"'Fill a pot with Ganges water near the front of this house.'
"After I had returned with a vessel of water, the fakir cried, 'Hazrat, put the
stone in the pot!'
 "The stone appeared at once. I pulled it from the vessel and found my
signature as legible as when I had written it.
"Babu, one of my friends in the room, was wearing a heavy antique gold
watch and chain. The fakir examined them with ominous admiration. Soon
they were missing!
"'Afzal, please return my prized heirloom!' Babu was nearly in tears.
"The Mohammedan was stoically silent for awhile, then said, 'You have
five hundred rupees in an iron safe. Bring them to me, and I will tell you
where to locate your timepiece.'
"The distraught Babu left immediately for his home. He came back shortly
and handed Afzal the required sum.
"'Go to the little bridge near your house,' the fakir instructed Babu. 'Call on
Hazrat to give you the watch and chain.'
"Babu rushed away. On his return, he was wearing a smile of relief and no
jewelry whatever.
"'When I commanded Hazrat as directed,' he announced, 'my watch came
tumbling down from the air into my right hand! You may be sure I locked the
heirloom in my safe before rejoining the group here!'
"Babu's friends, witnesses of the comicotragedy of the ransom for a watch,
were staring with resentment at Afzal. He now spoke placatingly.
"'Please name any drink you want; Hazrat will produce it.'
"A number asked for milk, others for fruit juices. I was not too much
shocked when the unnerved Babu requested whisky! The Mohammedan gave
an order; the obliging Hazrat sent sealed containers sailing down the air and
thudding to the floor. Each man found his desired beverage.
"The promise of the fourth spectacular feat of the day was doubtless
gratifying to our host: Afzal offered to supply an instantaneous lunch!
"'Let us order the most expensive dishes,' Babu suggested gloomily. 'I want
an elaborate meal for my five hundred rupees! Everything should be served on
gold plates!'
"As soon as each man had expressed his preferences, the fakir addressed
himself to the inexhaustible Hazrat. A great rattle ensued; gold platters filled
with intricately-prepared curries, hot luchis , and many out-of-season fruits,
landed from nowhere at our feet. All the food was delicious. After feasting for
an hour, we started to leave the room. A tremendous noise, as though dishes
were being piled up, caused us to turn around. Lo! there was no sign of the
glittering plates or the remnants of the meal."
 "Guruji," I interrupted, "if Afzal could easily secure such things as gold
dishes, why did he covet the property of others?"
"The fakir was not highly developed spiritually," Sri Yukteswar explained.
"His mastery of a certain yoga technique gave him access to an astral plane
where any desire is immediately materialized. Through the agency of an astral
being, Hazrat, the Mohammedan could summon the atoms of any object from
etheric energy by an act of powerful will. But such astrally-produced objects
are structurally evanescent; they cannot be long retained. Afzal still yearned
for worldly wealth which, though more hardly earned, has a more dependable
durability."
I laughed. "It too sometimes vanishes most unaccountably!"
"Afzal was not a man of God-realization," Master went on. "Miracles of a
permanent and beneficial nature are performed by true saints because they
have attuned themselves to the omnipotent Creator. Afzal was merely an
ordinary man with an extraordinary power of penetrating a subtle realm not
usually entered by mortals until death."
"I understand now, Guruji. The after-world appears to have some charming
features."
Master agreed. "I never saw Afzal after that day, but a few years later Babu
came to my home to show me a newspaper account of the Mohammedan's
public confession. From it I learned the facts I have just told you about Afzal's
early initiation from a Hindu guru."
The gist of the latter part of the published document, as recalled by Sri
Yukteswar, was as follows: "I, Afzal Khan, am writing these words as an act of
penance and as a warning to those who seek the possession of miraculous
powers. For years I have been misusing the wondrous abilities imparted to me
through the grace of God and my master. I became drunk with egotism, feeling
that I was beyond the ordinary laws of morality. My day of reckoning finally
arrived.
"Recently I met an old man on a road outside Calcutta. He limped along
painfully, carrying a shining object which looked like gold. I addressed him
with greed in my heart.
"'I am Afzal Khan, the great fakir . What have you there?'
"'This ball of gold is my sole material wealth; it can be of no interest to a
fakir . I implore you, sir, to heal my limp.'
"I touched the ball and walked away without reply. The old man hobbled
after me. He soon raised an outcry: 'My gold is gone!'
"As I paid no attention, he suddenly spoke in a stentorian voice that issued
oddly from his frail body:
"'Do you not recognize me?'
"I stood speechless, aghast at the belated discovery that this unimpressive
old cripple was none other than the great saint who, long, long ago, had
initiated me into yoga. He straightened himself; his body instantly became
strong and youthful.
"'So!' My guru's glance was fiery. 'I see with my own eyes that you use
your powers, not to help suffering humanity, but to prey on it like a common
thief! I withdraw your occult gifts; Hazrat is now freed from you. No longer
shall you be a terror in Bengal!'
"I called on Hazrat in anguished tones; for the first time, he did not appear
to my inner sight. But some dark veil suddenly lifted within me; I saw clearly
the blasphemy of my life.
"'My guru, I thank you for coming to banish my long delusion.' I was
sobbing at his feet. 'I promise to forsake my worldly ambitions. I will retire to
the mountains for lonely meditation on God, hoping to atone for my evil past.'
"My master regarded me with silent compassion. 'I feel your sincerity,' he
said finally. 'Because of your earlier years of strict obedience, and because of
your present repentance, I will grant you one boon. Your other powers are now
gone, but whenever food and clothing are needed, you may still call
successfully on Hazrat to supply them. Devote yourself wholeheartedly to
divine understanding in the mountain solitudes.'
"My guru then vanished; I was left to my tears and reflections. Farewell,
world! I go to seek the forgiveness of the Cosmic Beloved."

CHAPTER: 19
My Master, In Calcutta, Appears In Serampore

"I am often beset by atheistic doubts. Yet a torturing surmise sometimes

haunts me: may not untapped soul possibilities exist? Is man not missing his
real destiny if he fails to explore them?"
These remarks of Dijen Babu, my roommate at the Panthi boardinghouse,
were called forth by my invitation that he meet my guru.
"Sri Yukteswarji will initiate you into Kriya Yoga," I replied. "It calms the
dualistic turmoil by a divine inner certainty."
 That evening Dijen accompanied me to the hermitage. In Master's presence
my friend received such spiritual peace that he was soon a constant visitor.
The trivial preoccupations of daily life are not enough for man; wisdom too is
a native hunger. In Sri Yukteswar's words Dijen found an incentive to those
attempts-first painful, then effortlessly liberating-to locate a realer self within
his bosom than the humiliating ego of a temporary birth, seldom ample
enough for the Spirit.
As Dijen and I were both pursuing the A.B. course at Serampore College,
we got into the habit of walking together to the ashram as soon as classes were
over. We would often see Sri Yukteswar standing on his second-floor balcony,
welcoming our approach with a smile.
One afternoon Kanai, a young hermitage resident, met Dijen and me at the
door with disappointing news.
"Master is not here; he was summoned to Calcutta by an urgent note."
The following day I received a post card from my guru. "I shall leave
Calcutta Wednesday morning," he had written. "You and Dijen meet the nine
o'clock train at Serampore station."
About eight-thirty on Wednesday morning, a telepathic message from Sri
Yukteswar flashed insistently to my mind: "I am delayed; don't meet the nine
o'clock train."
I conveyed the latest instructions to Dijen, who was already dressed for
departure.
"You and your intuition!" My friend's voice was edged in scorn. "I prefer
to trust Master's written word."
I shrugged my shoulders and seated myself with quiet finality. Muttering
angrily, Dijen made for the door and closed it noisily behind him.
As the room was rather dark, I moved nearer to the window overlooking
the street. The scant sunlight suddenly increased to an intense brilliancy in
which the iron-barred window completely vanished. Against this dazzling
background appeared the clearly materialized figure of Sri Yukteswar!
Bewildered to the point of shock, I rose from my chair and knelt before
him. With my customary gesture of respectful greeting at my guru's feet, I
touched his shoes. These were a pair familiar to me, of orange-dyed canvas,
soled with rope. His ocher swami cloth brushed against me; I distinctly felt not
only the texture of his robe, but also the gritty surface of the shoes, and the
pressure of his toes within them. Too much astounded to utter a word, I stood
up and gazed at him questioningly.
"I was pleased that you got my telepathic message." Master's voice was
calm, entirely normal. "I have now finished my business in Calcutta, and shall
arrive in Serampore by the ten o'clock train."
As I still stared mutely, Sri Yukteswar went on, "This is not an apparition,
but my flesh and blood form. I have been divinely commanded to give you
this experience, rare to achieve on earth. Meet me at the station; you and Dijen
will see me coming toward you, dressed as I am now. I shall be preceded by a
fellow passenger-a little boy carrying a silver jug."
My guru placed both hands on my head, with a murmured blessing. As he
concluded with the words, "Taba Asi," I heard a peculiar rumbling sound. His
body began to melt gradually within the piercing light. First his feet and legs
vanished, then his torso and head, like a scroll being rolled up. To the very
last, I could feel his fingers resting lightly on my hair. The effulgence faded;
nothing remained before me but the barred window and a pale stream of
sunlight.
I remained in a half-stupor of confusion, questioning whether I had not
been the victim of a hallucination. A crestfallen Dijen soon entered the room.
"Master was not on the nine o'clock train, nor even the nine-thirty." My
friend made his announcement with a slightly apologetic air.
"Come then; I know he will arrive at ten o'clock." I took Dijen's hand and
rushed him forcibly along with me, heedless of his protests. In about ten
minutes we entered the station, where the train was already puffing to a halt.
"The whole train is filled with the light of Master's aura! He is there!" I
exclaimed joyfully.
"You dream so?" Dijen laughed mockingly.
"Let us wait here." I told my friend details of the way in which our guru
would approach us. As I finished my description, Sri Yukteswar came into
view, wearing the same clothes I had seen a short time earlier. He walked
slowly in the wake of a small lad bearing a silver jug.
For a moment a wave of cold fear passed through me, at the unprecedented
strangeness of my experience. I felt the materialistic, twentieth-century world
slipping from me; was I back in the ancient days when Jesus appeared before
Peter on the sea?
As Sri Yukteswar, a modern Yogi-Christ, reached the spot where Dijen and
I were speechlessly rooted, Master smiled at my friend and remarked:
"I sent you a message too, but you were unable to grasp it."
Dijen was silent, but glared at me suspiciously. After we had escorted our
guru to his hermitage, my friend and I proceeded toward Serampore College.
Dijen halted in the street, indignation streaming from his every pore.
"So! Master sent me a message! Yet you concealed it! I demand an
explanation!"
"Can I help it if your mental mirror oscillates with such restlessness that
you cannot register our guru's instructions?" I retorted.
The anger vanished from Dijen's face. "I see what you mean," he said
ruefully. "But please explain how you could know about the child with the
jug."
By the time I had finished the story of Master's phenomenal appearance at
the boardinghouse that morning, my friend and I had reached Serampore
College.
"The account I have just heard of our guru's powers," Dijen said, "makes
me feel that any university in the world is only a kindergarten."

CHAPTER: 20
We Do Not Visit Kashmir

"Father, I want to invite Master and four friends to accompany me to the

Himalayan foothills during my summer vacation. May I have six train passes
to Kashmir and enough money to cover our travel expenses?"
As I had expected, Father laughed heartily. "This is the third time you have
given me the same cock-and-bull story. Didn't you make a similar request last
summer, and the year before that? At the last moment, Sri Yukteswarji refuses
to go."
"It is true, Father; I don't know why my guru will not give me his definite
word about Kashmir. But if I tell him that I have already secured the passes
from you, somehow I think that this time he will consent to make the journey."
Father was unconvinced at the moment, but the following day, after some
good-humored gibes, he handed me six passes and a roll of ten- rupee bills.
"I hardly think your theoretical trip needs such practical props," he
remarked, "but here they are."
That afternoon I exhibited my booty to Sri Yukteswar. Though he smiled at
my enthusiasm, his words were noncommittal: "I would like to go; we shall
see." He made no comment when I asked his little hermitage disciple, Kanai,
to accompany us. I also invited three other friends- Rajendra Nath Mitra, Jotin
Auddy, and one other boy. Our date of departure was set for the following
Monday.
On Saturday and Sunday I stayed in Calcutta, where marriage rites for a
cousin were being celebrated at my family home. I arrived in Serampore with
my luggage early Monday morning. Rajendra met me at the hermitage door.
"Master is out, walking. He has refused to go."
I was equally grieved and obdurate. "I will not give Father a third chance
to ridicule my chimerical plans for Kashmir. Come; the rest of us will go
anyhow."
Rajendra agreed; I left the ashram to find a servant. Kanai, I knew, would
not take the trip without Master, and someone was needed to look after the
luggage. I bethought myself of Behari, previously a servant in my family
home, who was now employed by a Serampore schoolmaster. As I walked
along briskly, I met my guru in front of the Christian church near Serampore
Courthouse.
"Where are you going?" Sri Yukteswar's face was unsmiling.
"Sir, I hear that you and Kanai will not take the trip we have been
planning. I am seeking Behari. You will recall that last year he was so anxious
to see Kashmir that he even offered to serve without pay."
"I remember. Nevertheless, I don't think Behari will be willing to go."
I was exasperated. "He is just eagerly waiting for this opportunity!"
My guru silently resumed his walk; I soon reached the schoolmaster's
house. Behari, in the courtyard, greeted me with a friendly warmth that
abruptly vanished as soon as I mentioned Kashmir. With a murmured word of
apology, the servant left me and entered his employer's house. I waited half an
hour, nervously assuring myself that Behari's delay was being caused by
preparations for his trip. Finally I knocked at the front door.
"Behari left by the back stairs about thirty minutes ago," a man informed
me. A slight smile hovered about his lips.
I departed sadly, wondering whether my invitation had been too coercive
or whether Master's unseen influence were at work. Passing the Christian
church, again I saw my guru walking slowly toward me. Without waiting to
hear my report, he exclaimed:
"So Behari would not go! Now, what are your plans?"
I felt like a recalcitrant child who is determined to defy his masterful
father. "Sir, I am going to ask my uncle to lend me his servant, Lal Dhari."
 "See your uncle if you want to," Sri Yukteswar replied with a chuckle. "But
I hardly think you will enjoy the visit."
Apprehensive but rebellious, I left my guru and entered Serampore
Courthouse. My paternal uncle, Sarada Ghosh, a government attorney,
welcomed me affectionately.
"I am leaving today with some friends for Kashmir," I told him. "For years
I have been looking forward to this Himalayan trip."
"I am happy for you, Mukunda. Is there anything I can do to make your
journey more comfortable?"
These kind words gave me a lift of encouragement. "Dear uncle," I said,
"could you possibly spare me your servant, Lal Dhari?"
My simple request had the effect of an earthquake. Uncle jumped so
violently that his chair overturned, the papers on the desk flew in every
direction, and his pipe, a long, coconut-stemmed hubble-bubble, fell to the
floor with a great clatter.
"You selfish young man," he shouted, quivering with wrath, "what a
preposterous idea! Who will look after me, if you take my servant on one of
your pleasure jaunts?"
I concealed my surprise, reflecting that my amiable uncle's sudden change
of front was only one more enigma in a day fully devoted to
incomprehensibility. My retreat from the courthouse office was more
alacritous than dignified.
I returned to the hermitage, where my friends were expectantly gathered.
Conviction was growing on me that some sufficient if exceedingly recondite
motive was behind Master's attitude. Remorse seized me that I had been trying
to thwart my guru's will.
"Mukunda, wouldn't you like to stay awhile longer with me?" Sri
Yukteswar inquired. "Rajendra and the others can go ahead now, and wait for
you at Calcutta. There will be plenty of time to catch the last evening train
leaving Calcutta for Kashmir."
"Sir, I don't care to go without you," I said mournfully.
My friends paid not the slightest attention to my remark. They summoned
a hackney carriage and departed with all the luggage. Kanai and I sat quietly at
our guru's feet. After a half hour of complete silence, Master rose and walked
toward the second-floor dining patio.
"Kanai, please serve Mukunda's food. His train leaves soon."
Getting up from my blanket seat, I staggered suddenly with nausea and a
ghastly churning sensation in my stomach. The stabbing pain was so intense
that I felt I had been abruptly hurled into some violent hell. Groping blindly
toward my guru, I collapsed before him, attacked by all symptoms of the dread
Asiatic cholera. Sri Yukteswar and Kanai carried me to the sitting room.
Racked with agony, I cried, "Master, I surrender my life to you;" for I
believed it was indeed fast ebbing from the shores of my body.
Sri Yukteswar put my head on his lap, stroking my forehead with angelic
tenderness.
"You see now what would have happened if you were at the station with
your friends," he said. "I had to look after you in this strange way, because you
chose to doubt my judgment about taking the trip at this particular time."
I understood at last. Inasmuch as great masters seldom see fit to display
their powers openly, a casual observer of the day's events would have
imagined that their sequence was quite natural. My guru's intervention had
been too subtle to be suspected. He had worked his will through Behari and
my Uncle Sarada and Rajendra and the others in such an inconspicuous
manner that probably everyone but myself thought the situations had been
logically normal.
As Sri Yukteswar never failed to observe his social obligations, he
instructed Kanai to go for a specialist, and to notify my uncle.
"Master," I protested, "only you can heal me. I am too far gone for any
doctor."
"Child, you are protected by the Divine Mercy. Don't worry about the
doctor; he will not find you in this state. You are already healed."
With my guru's words, the excruciating suffering left me. I sat up feebly. A
doctor soon arrived and examined me carefully.
"You appear to have passed through the worst," he said. "I will take some
specimens with me for laboratory tests."
The following morning the physician arrived hurriedly. I was sitting up, in
good spirits.
"Well, well, here you are, smiling and chatting as though you had had no
close call with death." He patted my hand gently. "I hardly expected to find
you alive, after I had discovered from the specimens that your disease was
Asiatic cholera. You are fortunate, young man, to have a guru with divine
healing powers! I am convinced of it!"
I agreed wholeheartedly. As the doctor was preparing to leave, Rajendra
and Auddy appeared at the door. The resentment in their faces changed into
sympathy as they glanced at the physician and then at my somewhat wan
countenance.
"We were angry when you didn't turn up as agreed at the Calcutta train.
You have been sick?"
"Yes." I could not help laughing as my friends placed the luggage in the
same corner it had occupied yesterday. I quoted: "There was a ship that went
to Spain; when it arrived, it came back again!"
Master entered the room. I permitted myself a convalescent's liberty, and
captured his hand lovingly.
"Guruji," I said, "from my twelfth year on, I have made many unsuccessful
attempts to reach the Himalayas. I am finally convinced that without your
blessings the Goddess Parvati will not receive me!"

CHAPTER: 21
We Visit Kashmir

"You are strong enough now to travel. I will accompany you to Kashmir,"
Sri Yukteswar informed me two days after my miraculous recovery from
Asiatic cholera.
That evening our party of six entrained for the north. Our first leisurely
stop was at Simla, a queenly city resting on the throne of Himalayan hills. We
strolled over the steep streets, admiring the magnificent views.
"English strawberries for sale," cried an old woman, squatting in a
picturesque open market place.
Master was curious about the strange little red fruits. He bought a basketful
and offered it to Kanai and myself, who were near-by. I tasted one berry but
spat it hastily on the ground.
"Sir, what a sour fruit! I could never like strawberries!"
My guru laughed. "Oh, you will like them-in America. At a dinner there,
your hostess will serve them with sugar and cream. After she has mashed the
berries with a fork, you will taste them and say: 'What delicious strawberries!'
Then you will remember this day in Simla."
Sri Yukteswar's forecast vanished from my mind, but reappeared there
many years later, shortly after my arrival in America. I was a dinner guest at
the home of Mrs. Alice T. Hasey (Sister Yogmata) in West Somerville,
Massachusetts. When a dessert of strawberries was put on the table, my
hostess picked up her fork and mashed my berries, adding cream and sugar.
"The fruit is rather tart; I think you will like it fixed this way," she remarked.
I took a mouthful. "What delicious strawberries!" I exclaimed. At once my
guru's prediction in Simla emerged from the fathomless cave of memory. It
was staggering to realize that long ago Sri Yukteswar's God-tuned mind had
sensitively detected the program of karmic events wandering in the ether of
futurity.
Our party soon left Simla and entrained for Rawalpindi. There we hired a
large landau, drawn by two horses, in which we started a seven-day trip to
Srinagar, capital city of Kashmir. The second day of our northbound journey
brought into view the true Himalayan vastness. As the iron wheels of our
carriage creaked along the hot, stony roads, we were enraptured with changing
vistas of mountainous grandeur.
"Sir," Auddy said to Master, "I am greatly enjoying these glorious scenes
in your holy company."
I felt a throb of pleasure at Auddy's appreciation, for I was acting as host
on this trip. Sri Yukteswar caught my thought; he turned to me and whispered:
"Don't flatter yourself; Auddy is not nearly as entranced with the scenery
as he is with the prospect of leaving us long enough to have a cigaret."
I was shocked. "Sir," I said in an undertone, "please do not break our
harmony by these unpleasant words. I can hardly believe that Auddy is
hankering for a smoke." I looked apprehensively at my usually irrepressible
guru.
"Very well; I won't say anything to Auddy." Master chuckled. "But you
will soon see, when the landau halts, that Auddy is quick to seize his
opportunity."
The carriage arrived at a small caravanserai. As our horses were led to be
watered, Auddy inquired, "Sir, do you mind if I ride awhile with the driver? I
would like to get a little outside air."
Sri Yukteswar gave permission, but remarked to me, "He wants fresh
smoke and not fresh air."
The landau resumed its noisy progress over the dusty roads. Master's eyes
were twinkling; he instructed me, "Crane up your neck through the carriage
door and see what Auddy is doing with the air."
I obeyed, and was astounded to observe Auddy in the act of exhaling rings
of cigaret smoke. My glance toward Sri Yukteswar was apologetic.
 "You are right, as always, sir. Auddy is enjoying a puff along with a
panorama." I surmised that my friend had received a gift from the cab driver; I
knew Auddy had not carried any cigarets from Calcutta.
We continued on the labyrinthine way, adorned by views of rivers, valleys,
precipitous crags, and multitudinous mountain tiers. Every night we stopped at
rustic inns, and prepared our own food. Sri Yukteswar took special care of my
diet, insisting that I have lime juice at all meals. I was still weak, but daily
improving, though the rattling carriage was strictly designed for discomfort.
Joyous anticipations filled our hearts as we neared central Kashmir,
paradise land of lotus lakes, floating gardens, gaily canopied houseboats, the
many-bridged Jhelum River, and flower-strewn pastures, all ringed round by
the Himalayan majesty. Our approach to Srinagar was through an avenue of
tall, welcoming trees. We engaged rooms at a double-storied inn overlooking
the noble hills. No running water was available; we drew our supply from a
near-by well. The summer weather was ideal, with warm days and slightly
cold nights.
We made a pilgrimage to the ancient Srinagar temple of Swami Shankara.
As I gazed upon the mountain-peak hermitage, standing bold against the sky, I
fell into an ecstatic trance. A vision appeared of a hilltop mansion in a distant
land. The lofty Shankara ashram before me was transformed into the structure
where, years later, I established the Self-Realization Fellowship headquarters
in America. When I first visited Los Angeles, and saw the large building on
the crest of Mount Washington, I recognized it at once from my long-past
visions in Kashmir and elsewhere.
A few days at Srinagar; then on to Gulmarg ("mountain paths of flowers"),
elevated by six thousand feet. There I had my first ride on a large horse.
Rajendra mounted a small trotter, whose heart was fired with ambition for
speed. We ventured onto the very steep Khilanmarg; the path led through a
dense forest, abounding in tree-mushrooms, where the mist-shrouded trails
were often precarious. But Rajendra's little animal never permitted my
oversized steed a moment's rest, even at the most perilous turns. On, on,
untiringly came Rajendra's horse, oblivious to all but the joy of competition.
Our strenuous race was rewarded by a breath-taking view. For the first
time in this life, I gazed in all directions at sublime snow-capped Himalayas,
lying tier upon tier like silhouettes of huge polar bears. My eyes feasted
exultingly on endless reaches of icy mountains against sunny blue skies.
I rolled merrily with my young companions, all wearing overcoats, on the
sparkling white slopes. On our downward trip we saw afar a vast carpet of
yellow flowers, wholly transfiguring the bleak hills.
 Our next excursions were to the famous royal "pleasure gardens" of the
Emperor Jehangir, at Shalimar and Nishat Bagh. The ancient palace at Nishat
Bagh is built directly over a natural waterfall. Rushing down from the
mountains, the torrent has been regulated through ingenious contrivances to
flow over colorful terraces and to gush into fountains amidst the dazzling
flower-beds. The stream also enters several of the palace rooms, ultimately
dropping fairy like into the lake below. The immense gardens are riotous with
color- roses of a dozen hues, snapdragons, lavender, pansies, poppies. An
emerald enclosing outline is given by symmetrical rows of chinars , cypresses,
cherry trees; beyond them tower the white austerities of the Himalayas.
Kashmir grapes are considered a rare delicacy in Calcutta. Rajendra, who
had been promising himself a veritable feast on reaching Kashmir, was
disappointed to find there no large vineyards. Now and then I chaffed him
jocosely over his baseless anticipation.
"Oh, I have become so much gorged with grapes I can't walk!" I would say.
"The invisible grapes are brewing within me!" Later I heard that sweet grapes
grow abundantly in Kabul, west of Kashmir. We consoled ourselves with ice
cream made of rabri , a heavily condensed milk, and flavored with whole
pistachio nuts.
We took several trips in the shikaras or houseboats, shaded by red-
embroidered canopies, coursing along the intricate channels of Dal Lake, a
network of canals like a watery spider web. Here the numerous floating
gardens, crudely improvised with logs and earth, strike one with amazement,
so incongruous is the first sight of vegetables and melons growing in the midst
of vast waters. Occasionally one sees a peasant, disdaining to be "rooted to the
soil," towing his square plot of "land" to a new location in the many-fingered
lake.
In this storied vale one finds an epitome of all the earth's beauties. The
Lady of Kashmir is mountain-crowned, lake-garlanded, and flower- shod. In
later years, after I had toured many distant lands, I understood why Kashmir is
often called the world's most scenic spot. It possesses some of the charms of
the Swiss Alps, and of Loch Lomond in Scotland, and of the exquisite English
lakes. An American traveler in Kashmir finds much to remind him of the
rugged grandeur of Alaska and of Pikes Peak near Denver.
As entries in a scenic beauty contest, I offer for first prize either the
gorgeous view of Xochimilco in Mexico, where mountains, skies, and poplars
reflect themselves in myriad lanes of water amidst the playful fish, or the
jewel-like lakes of Kashmir, guarded like beautiful maidens by the stern
surveillance of the Himalayas. These two places stand out in my memory as
the loveliest spots on earth.
 Yet I was awed also when I first beheld the wonders of Yellowstone
National Park and of the Grand Canyon of the Colorado, and of Alaska.
Yellowstone Park is perhaps the only region where one can see innumerable
geysers shooting high into the air, performing year after year with clockwork
regularity. Its opal and sapphire pools and hot sulphurous springs, its bears and
wild creatures, remind one that here Nature left a specimen of her earliest
creation. Motoring along the roads of Wyoming to the "Devil's Paint Pot" of
hot bubbling mud, with gurgling springs, vaporous fountains, and spouting
geysers in all directions, I was disposed to say that Yellowstone deserves a
special prize for uniqueness.
The ancient majestic redwoods of Yosemite, stretching their huge columns
far into the unfathomable sky, are green natural cathedrals designed with skill
divine. Though there are wonderful falls in the Orient, none match the
torrential beauty of Niagara near the Canadian border. The Mammoth Caves of
Kentucky and the Carlsbad Caverns in New Mexico, with colorful iciclelike
formations, are stunning fairylands. Their long needles of stalactite spires,
hanging from cave ceilings and mirrored in underground waters, present a
glimpse of other worlds as fancied by man.
Most of the Hindus of Kashmir, world-famed for their beauty, are as white
as Europeans and have similar features and bone structure; many have blue
eyes and blonde hair. Dressed in Western clothes, they look like Americans.
The cold Himalayas protect the Kashmiris from the sultry sun and preserve
their light complexions. As one travels to the southern and tropical latitudes of
India, he finds progressively that the people become darker and darker.
After spending happy weeks in Kashmir, I was forced to return to Bengal
for the fall term of Serampore College. Sri Yukteswar remained in Srinagar,
with Kanai and Auddy. Before I departed, Master hinted that his body would
be subject to suffering in Kashmir.
"Sir, you look a picture of health," I protested.
"There is a chance that I may even leave this earth."
"Guruji!" I fell at his feet with an imploring gesture. "Please promise that
you won't leave your body now. I am utterly unprepared to carry on without
you."
Sri Yukteswar was silent, but smiled at me so compassionately that I felt
reassured. Reluctantly I left him.
"Master dangerously ill." This telegram from Auddy reached me shortly
after my return to Serampore.
"Sir," I wired my guru frantically, "I asked for your promise not to leave
me. Please keep your body; otherwise, I also shall die."
"Be it as you wish." This was Sri Yukteswar's reply from Kashmir.
A letter from Auddy arrived in a few days, informing me that Master had
recovered. On his return to Serampore during the next fortnight, I was grieved
to find my guru's body reduced to half its usual weight.
Fortunately for his disciples, Sri Yukteswar burned many of their sins in
the fire of his severe fever in Kashmir. The metaphysical method of physical
transfer of disease is known to highly advanced yogis. A strong man can assist
a weaker one by helping to carry his heavy load; a spiritual superman is able
to minimize his disciples' physical or mental burdens by sharing the karma of
their past actions. Just as a rich man loses some money when he pays off a
large debt for his prodigal son, who is thus saved from dire consequences of
his own folly, so a master willingly sacrifices a portion of his bodily wealth to
lighten the misery of disciples.
By a secret method, the yogi unites his mind and astral vehicle with those
of a suffering individual; the disease is conveyed, wholly or in part, to the
saint's body. Having harvested God on the physical field, a master no longer
cares what happens to that material form. Though he may allow it to register a
certain disease in order to relieve others, his mind is never affected; he
considers himself fortunate in being able to render such aid.
The devotee who has achieved final salvation in the Lord finds that his
body has completely fulfilled its purpose; he can then use it in any way he
deems fit. His work in the world is to alleviate the sorrows of mankind,
whether through spiritual means or by intellectual counsel or through will
power or by the physical transfer of disease. Escaping to the
superconsciousness whenever he so desires, a master can remain oblivious of
physical suffering; sometimes he chooses to bear bodily pain stoically, as an
example to disciples. By putting on the ailments of others, a yogi can satisfy,
for them, the karmic law of cause and effect. This law is mechanically or
mathematically operative; its workings can be scientifically manipulated by
men of divine wisdom.
The spiritual law does not require a master to become ill whenever he heals
another person. Healings ordinarily take place through the saint's knowledge
of various methods of instantaneous cure in which no hurt to the spiritual
healer is involved. On rare occasions, however, a master who wishes to greatly
quicken his disciples' evolution may then voluntarily work out on his own
body a large measure of their undesirable karma.
Jesus signified himself as a ransom for the sins of many. With his divine
powers, his body could never have been subjected to death by crucifixion if he
had not willingly cooperated with the subtle cosmic law of cause and effect.
He thus took on himself the consequences of others' karma, especially that of
his disciples. In this manner they were highly purified and made fit to receive
the omnipresent consciousness which later descended on them.
Only a self-realized master can transfer his life force, or convey into his
own body the diseases of others. An ordinary man cannot employ this yogic
method of cure, nor is it desirable that he should do so; for an unsound
physical instrument is a hindrance to God- meditation. The Hindu scriptures
teach that the first duty of man is to keep his body in good condition;
otherwise his mind is unable to remain fixed in devotional concentration.
A very strong mind, however, can transcend all physical difficulties and
attain to God-realization. Many saints have ignored illness and succeeded in
their divine quest. St. Francis of Assisi, severely afflicted with ailments,
healed others and even raised the dead.
I knew an Indian saint, half of whose body was once festering with sores.
His diabetic condition was so acute that under ordinary conditions he could
not sit still at one time for more than fifteen minutes. But his spiritual
aspiration was undeterrable. "Lord," he prayed, "wilt Thou come into my
broken temple?" With ceaseless command of will, the saint gradually became
able to sit daily in the lotus posture for eighteen continuous hours, engrossed
in the ecstatic trance.
"And," he told me, "at the end of three years, I found the Infinite Light
blazing within my shattered form. Rejoicing in the joyful splendour, I forgot
the body. Later I saw that it had become whole through the Divine Mercy."
A historical healing incident concerns King Baber (1483-1530), founder of
the Mogul empire in India. His son, Prince Humayun, was mortally ill. The
father prayed with anguished determination that he receive the sickness, and
that his son be spared. After all physicians had given up hope, Humayun
recovered. Baber immediately fell sick and died of the same disease which had
stricken his son. Humayun succeeded Baber as Emperor of Hindustan.
Many people imagine that every spiritual master has, or should have, the
health and strength of a Sandow. The assumption is unfounded. A sickly body
does not indicate that a guru is not in touch with divine powers, any more than
lifelong health necessarily indicates an inner illumination. The condition of the
physical body, in other words, cannot rightfully be made a test of a master. His
distinguishing qualifications must be sought in his own domain, the spiritual.
Numerous bewildered seekers in the West erroneously think that an
eloquent speaker or writer on metaphysics must be a master. The rishis,
however, have pointed out that the acid test of a master is a man's ability to
enter at will the breathless state, and to maintain the unbroken samadhi of
nirbikalpa . Only by these achievements can a human being prove that he has
"mastered" maya or the dualistic Cosmic Delusion. He alone can say from the
depths of realization: "Ekam sat ,"-"Only One exists."
"The Vedas declare that the ignorant man who rests content with making
the slightest distinction between the individual soul and the Supreme Self is
exposed to danger," Shankara the great monist has written. "Where there is
duality by virtue of ignorance, one sees all things as distinct from the Self.
When everything is seen as the Self, then there is not even an atom other than
the Self. . . .
"As soon as the knowledge of the Reality has sprung up, there can be no
fruits of past actions to be experienced, owing to the unreality of the body, in
the same way as there can be no dream after waking."
Only great gurus are able to assume the karma of disciples. Sri Yukteswar
would not have suffered in Kashmir unless he had received permission from
the Spirit within him to help his disciples in that strange way. Few saints were
ever more sensitively equipped with wisdom to carry out divine commands
than my God-tuned Master.
When I ventured a few words of sympathy over his emaciated figure, my
guru said gaily:
"It has its good points; I am able now to get into some small ganjis
(undershirts) that I haven't worn in years!"
Listening to Master's jovial laugh, I remembered the words of St. Francis
de Sales: "A saint that is sad is a sad saint!"

CHAPTER: 22
The Heart Of A Stone Image

"As a loyal Hindu wife, I do not wish to complain of my husband. But I

yearn to see him turn from his materialistic views. He delights in ridiculing the
pictures of saints in my meditation room. Dear brother, I have deep faith that
you can help him. Will you?"
My eldest sister Roma gazed beseechingly at me. I was paying a short visit
at her Calcutta home on Girish Vidyaratna Lane. Her plea touched me, for she
had exercised a profound spiritual influence over my early life, and had
lovingly tried to fill the void left in the family circle by Mother's death.
 "Beloved sister, of course I will do anything I can." I smiled, eager to lift
the gloom plainly visible on her face, in contrast to her usual calm and
cheerful expression.
Roma and I sat awhile in silent prayer for guidance. A year earlier, my
sister had asked me to initiate her into Kriya Yoga, in which she was making
notable progress.
An inspiration seized me. "Tomorrow," I said, "I am going to the
Dakshineswar temple. Please come with me, and persuade your husband to
accompany us. I feel that in the vibrations of that holy place, Divine Mother
will touch his heart. But don't disclose our object in wanting him to go."
Sister agreed hopefully. Very early the next morning I was pleased to find
that Roma and her husband were in readiness for the trip. As our hackney
carriage rattled along Upper Circular Road toward Dakshineswar, my brother-
in-law, Satish Chandra Bose, amused himself by deriding spiritual gurus of the
past, present, and future. I noticed that Roma was quietly weeping.
"Sister, cheer up!" I whispered. "Don't give your husband the satisfaction
of believing that we take his mockery seriously."
"Mukunda, how can you admire worthless humbugs?" Satish was saying.
"A SADHU'S very appearance is repulsive. He is either as thin as a skeleton,
or as unholily fat as an elephant!"
I shouted with laughter. My good-natured reaction was annoying to Satish;
he retired into sullen silence. As our cab entered the Dakshineswar grounds, he
grinned sarcastically.
"This excursion, I suppose, is a scheme to reform me?"
As I turned away without reply, he caught my arm. "Young Mr. Monk," he
said, "don't forget to make proper arrangements with the temple authorities to
provide for our noon meal."
"I am going to meditate now. Do not worry about your lunch," I replied
sharply. "Divine Mother will look after it."
"I don't trust Divine Mother to do a single thing for me. But I do hold you
responsible for my food." Satish's tones were threatening.
I proceeded alone to the colonnaded hall which fronts the large temple of
Kali, or Mother Nature. Selecting a shady spot near one of the pillars, I
arranged my body in the lotus posture. Although it was only about seven
o'clock, the morning sun would soon be oppressive.
The world receded as I became devotionally entranced. My mind was
concentrated on Goddess Kali, whose image at Dakshineswar had been the
special object of adoration by the great master, Sri Ramakrishna Paramhansa.
In answer to his anguished demands, the stone image of this very temple had
often taken a living form and conversed with him.
"Silent Mother with stony heart," I prayed, "Thou becamest filled with life
at the request of Thy beloved devotee Ramakrishna; why dost Thou not also
heed the wails of this yearning son of Thine?"
My aspiring zeal increased boundlessly, accompanied by a divine peace.
Yet, when five hours had passed, and the Goddess whom I was inwardly
visualizing had made no response, I felt slightly disheartened. Sometimes it is
a test by God to delay the fulfillment of prayers. But He eventually appears to
the persistent devotee in whatever form he holds dear. A devout Christian sees
Jesus; a Hindu beholds Krishna, or the Goddess Kali, or an expanding Light if
his worship takes an impersonal turn.
Reluctantly I opened my eyes, and saw that the temple doors were being
locked by a priest, in conformance with a noon-hour custom. I rose from my
secluded seat under the open, roofed hall, and stepped into the courtyard. Its
stone floor was scorching under the midday sun; my bare feet were painfully
burned.
"Divine Mother," I silently remonstrated, "Thou didst not come to me in
vision, and now Thou art hidden in the temple behind closed doors. I wanted
to offer a special prayer to Thee today on behalf of my brother-in-law."
My inward petition was instantly acknowledged. First, a delightful cold
wave descended over my back and under my feet, banishing all discomfort.
Then, to my amazement, the temple became greatly magnified. Its large door
slowly opened, revealing the stone figure of Goddess Kali. Gradually it
changed into a living form, smilingly nodding in greeting, thrilling me with
joy indescribable. As if by a mystic syringe, the breath was withdrawn from
my lungs; my body became very still, though not inert.
An ecstatic enlargement of consciousness followed. I could see clearly for
several miles over the Ganges River to my left, and beyond the temple into the
entire Dakshineswar precincts. The walls of all buildings glimmered
transparently; through them I observed people walking to and fro over distant
acres.
Though I was breathless and my body in a strangely quiet state, yet I was
able to move my hands and feet freely. For several minutes I experimented in
closing and opening my eyes; in either state I saw distinctly the whole
Dakshineswar panorama.
Spiritual sight, x-raylike, penetrates into all matter; the divine eye is center
everywhere, circumference nowhere. I realized anew, standing there in the
sunny courtyard, that when man ceases to be a prodigal child of God,
engrossed in a physical world indeed dream, baseless as a bubble, he reinherits
his eternal realms. If "escapism" be a need of man, cramped in his narrow
personality, can any escape compare with the majesty of omnipresence?
In my sacred experience at Dakshineswar, the only extraordinarily-
enlarged objects were the temple and the form of the Goddess. Everything else
appeared in its normal dimensions, although each was enclosed in a halo of
mellow light-white, blue, and pastel rainbow hues. My body seemed to be of
ethereal substance, ready to levitate. Fully conscious of my material
surroundings, I was looking about me and taking a few steps without
disturbing the continuity of the blissful vision.
Behind the temple walls I suddenly glimpsed my brother-in-law as he sat
under the thorny branches of a sacred bel tree. I could effortlessly discern the
course of his thoughts. Somewhat uplifted under the holy influence of
Dakshineswar, his mind yet held unkind reflections about me. I turned directly
to the gracious form of the Goddess.
"Divine Mother," I prayed, "wilt Thou not spiritually change my sister's
husband?"
The beautiful figure, hitherto silent, spoke at last: "Thy wish is granted!"
I looked happily at Satish. As though instinctively aware that some
spiritual power was at work, he rose resentfully from his seat on the ground. I
saw him running behind the temple; he approached me, shaking his fist.
The all-embracing vision disappeared. No longer could I see the glorious
Goddess; the towering temple was reduced to its ordinary size, minus its
transparency. Again my body sweltered under the fierce rays of the sun. I
jumped to the shelter of the pillared hall, where Satish pursued me angrily. I
looked at my watch. It was one o'clock; the divine vision had lasted an hour.
"You little fool," my brother-in-law blurted out, "you have been sitting
there cross-legged and cross-eyed for six hours. I have gone back and forth
watching you. Where is my food? Now the temple is closed; you failed to
notify the authorities; we are left without lunch!"
The exaltation I had felt at the Goddess' presence was still vibrant within
my heart. I was emboldened to exclaim, "Divine Mother will feed us!"
Satish was beside himself with rage. "Once and for all," he shouted, "I
would like to see your Divine Mother giving us food here without prior
arrangements!"
His words were hardly uttered when a temple priest crossed the courtyard
and joined us.
 "Son," he addressed me, "I have been observing your face serenely
glowing during hours of meditation. I saw the arrival of your party this
morning, and felt a desire to put aside ample food for your lunch. It is against
the temple rules to feed those who do not make a request beforehand, but I
have made an exception for you."
I thanked him, and gazed straight into Satish's eyes. He flushed with
emotion, lowering his gaze in silent repentance. When we were served a lavish
meal, including out-of-season mangoes, I noticed that my brother-in-law's
appetite was meager. He was bewildered, diving deep into the ocean of
thought. On the return journey to Calcutta, Satish, with softened expression,
occasionally glanced at me pleadingly. But he did not speak a single word
after the moment the priest had appeared to invite us to lunch, as though in
direct answer to Satish's challenge.
The following afternoon I visited my sister at her home. She greeted me
affectionately.
"Dear brother," she cried, "what a miracle! Last evening my husband wept
openly before me.
"'Beloved devi ,' he said, 'I am happy beyond expression that this
reforming scheme of your brother's has wrought a transformation. I am going
to undo every wrong I have done you. From tonight we will use our large
bedroom only as a place of worship; your small meditation room shall be
changed into our sleeping quarters. I am sincerely sorry that I have ridiculed
your brother. For the shameful way I have been acting, I will punish myself by
not talking to Mukunda until I have progressed in the spiritual path. Deeply I
will seek the Divine Mother from now on; someday I must surely find Her!'"
Years later, I visited my brother-in-law in Delhi. I was overjoyed to
perceive that he had developed highly in self-realization, and had been blessed
by the vision of Divine Mother. During my stay with him, I noticed that Satish
secretly spent the greater part of every night in divine meditation, though he
was suffering from a serious ailment, and was engaged during the day at his
office.
The thought came to me that my brother-in-law's life span would not be a
long one. Roma must have read my mind.
"Dear brother," she said, "I am well, and my husband is sick. Nevertheless,
I want you to know that, as a devoted Hindu wife, I am going to be the first
one to die. It won't be long now before I pass on."
Taken aback at her ominous words, I yet realized their sting of truth. I was
in America when my sister died, about a year after her prediction. My
youngest brother Bishnu later gave me the details.
 "Roma and Satish were in Calcutta at the time of her death," Bishnu told
me. "That morning she dressed herself in her bridal finery.
"'Why this special costume?' Satish inquired.
"'This is my last day of service to you on earth,' Roma replied. A short time
later she had a heart attack. As her son was rushing out for aid, she said:
"'Son, do not leave me. It is no use; I shall be gone before a doctor could
arrive.' Ten minutes later, holding the feet of her husband in reverence, Roma
consciously left her body, happily and without suffering.
"Satish became very reclusive after his wife's death," Bishnu continued.
"One day he and I were looking at a large smiling photograph of Roma.
"'Why do you smile?' Satish suddenly exclaimed, as though his wife were
present. 'You think you were clever in arranging to go before me. I shall prove
that you cannot long remain away from me; soon I shall join you.'
"Although at this time Satish had fully recovered from his sickness, and
was enjoying excellent health, he died without apparent cause shortly after his
strange remark before the photograph."
Thus prophetically passed my dearly beloved eldest sister Roma, and her
husband Satish-he who changed at Dakshineswar from an ordinary worldly
man to a silent saint.

CHAPTER: 23
I Receive My University Degree

"You ignore your textbook assignments in philosophy. No doubt you are

depending on an unlaborious 'intuition' to get you through the examinations.
But unless you apply yourself in a more scholarly manner, I shall see to it that
you don't pass this course."
Professor D. C. Ghoshal of Serampore College was addressing me sternly.
If I failed to pass his final written classroom test, I would be ineligible to take
the conclusive examinations. These are formulated by the faculty of Calcutta
University, which numbers Serampore College among its affiliated branches.
A student in Indian universities who is unsuccessful in one subject in the A.B.
finals must be examined anew in all his subjects the following year.
My instructors at Serampore College usually treated me with kindness, not
untinged by an amused tolerance. "Mukunda is a bit over-drunk with religion."
Thus summing me up, they tactfully spared me the embarrassment of
answering classroom questions; they trusted the final written tests to eliminate
me from the list of A.B. candidates. The judgment passed by my fellow
students was expressed in their nickname for me-"Mad Monk."
I took an ingenious step to nullify Professor Ghoshal's threat to me of
failure in philosophy. When the results of the final tests were about to be
publicly announced, I asked a classmate to accompany me to the professor's
study.
"Come along; I want a witness," I told my companion. "I shall be very
much disappointed if I have not succeeded in outwitting the instructor."
Professor Ghoshal shook his head after I had inquired what rating he had
given my paper.
"You are not among those who have passed," he said in triumph. He hunted
through a large pile on his desk. "Your paper isn't here at all; you have failed,
in any case, through non-appearance at the examination."
I chuckled. "Sir, I was there. May I look through the stack myself?"
The professor, nonplused, gave his permission; I quickly found my paper,
where I had carefully omitted any identification mark except my roll call
number. Unwarned by the "red flag" of my name, the instructor had given a
high rating to my answers even though they were unembellished by textbook
quotations.
Seeing through my trick, he now thundered, "Sheer brazen luck!" He
added hopefully, "You are sure to fail in the A.B. finals."
For the tests in my other subjects, I received some coaching, particularly
from my dear friend and cousin, Prabhas Chandra Ghose, son of my Uncle
Sarada. I staggered painfully but successfully-with the lowest possible passing
marks-through all my final tests.
Now, after four years of college, I was eligible to sit for the A.B.
examinations. Nevertheless, I hardly expected to avail myself of the privilege.
The Serampore College finals were child's play compared to the stiff ones
which would be set by Calcutta University for the A.B. degree. My almost
daily visits to Sri Yukteswar had left me little time to enter the college halls.
There it was my presence rather than my absence that brought forth
ejaculations of amazement from my classmates!
My customary routine was to set out on my bicycle about nine-thirty in the
morning. In one hand I would carry an offering for my guru-a few flowers
from the garden of my Panthi boardinghouse. Greeting me affably, Master
would invite me to lunch. I invariably accepted with alacrity, glad to banish
the thought of college for the day. After hours with Sri Yukteswar, listening to
his incomparable flow of wisdom, or helping with ashram duties, I would
reluctantly depart around midnight for the Panthi . Occasionally I stayed all
night with my guru, so happily engrossed in his conversation that I scarcely
noticed when darkness changed into dawn.
One night about eleven o'clock, as I was putting on my shoes in
preparation for the ride to the boardinghouse, Master questioned me gravely.
"When do your A.B. examinations start?"
"Five days hence, sir."
"I hope you are in readiness for them."
Transfixed with alarm, I held one shoe in the air. "Sir," I protested, "you
know how my days have been passed with you rather than with the professors.
How can I enact a farce by appearing for those difficult finals?"
Sri Yukteswar's eyes were turned piercingly on mine. "You must appear."
His tone was coldly peremptory. "We should not give cause for your father and
other relatives to criticize your preference for ashram life. Just promise me
that you will be present for the examinations; answer them the best way you
can."
Uncontrollable tears were coursing down my face. I felt that Master's
command was unreasonable, and that his interest was, to say the least, belated.
"I will appear if you wish it," I said amidst sobs. "But no time remains for
proper preparation." Under my breath I muttered, "I will fill up the sheets with
your teachings in answer to the questions!"
When I entered the hermitage the following day at my usual hour, I
presented my bouquet with a certain mournful solemnity. Sri Yukteswar
laughed at my woebegone air.
"Mukunda, has the Lord ever failed you, at an examination or elsewhere?"
"No, sir," I responded warmly. Grateful memories came in a revivifying
flood.
"Not laziness but burning zeal for God has prevented you from seeking
college honors," my guru said kindly. After a silence, he quoted, "'Seek ye first
the kingdom of God, and His righteousness; and all these things shall be added
unto you.'"
For the thousandth time, I felt my burdens lifted in Master's presence.
When we had finished our early lunch, he suggested that I return to the Panthi
.
"Does your friend, Romesh Chandra Dutt, still live in your
boardinghouse?"
"Yes, sir."
"Get in touch with him; the Lord will inspire him to help you with the
examinations."
"Very well, sir; but Romesh is unusually busy. He is the honor man in our
class, and carries a heavier course than the others."
Master waved aside my objections. "Romesh will find time for you. Now
go."
I bicycled back to the Panthi . The first person I met in the boardinghouse
compound was the scholarly Romesh. As though his days were quite free, he
obligingly agreed to my diffident request.
"Of course; I am at your service." He spent several hours of that afternoon
and of succeeding days in coaching me in my various subjects.
"I believe many questions in English literature will be centered in the route
of Childe Harold," he told me. "We must get an atlas at once."
I hastened to the home of my Uncle Sarada and borrowed an atlas. Romesh
marked the European map at the places visited by Byron's romantic traveler.
A few classmates had gathered around to listen to the tutoring. "Romesh is
advising you wrongly," one of them commented to me at the end of a session.
"Usually only fifty per cent of the questions are about the books; the other half
will involve the authors' lives."
When I sat for the examination in English literature the following day, my
first glance at the questions caused tears of gratitude to pour forth, wetting my
paper. The classroom monitor came to my desk and made a sympathetic
inquiry.
"My guru foretold that Romesh would help me," I explained. "Look; the
very questions dictated to me by Romesh are here on the examination sheet!
Fortunately for me, there are very few questions this year on English authors,
whose lives are wrapped in deep mystery so far as I am concerned!"
My boardinghouse was in an uproar when I returned. The boys who had
been ridiculing Romesh's method of coaching looked at me in awe, almost
deafening me with congratulations. During the week of the examinations, I
spent many hours with Romesh, who formulated questions that he thought
were likely to be set by the professors. Day by day, Romesh's questions
appeared in almost the same form on the examination sheets.
The news was widely circulated in the college that something resembling a
miracle was occurring, and that success seemed probable for the absent-
minded "Mad Monk." I made no attempt to hide the facts of the case. The
local professors were powerless to alter the questions, which had been
arranged by Calcutta University.
Thinking over the examination in English literature, I realized one morning
that I had made a serious error. One section of the questions had been divided
into two parts of A or B, and C or D. Instead of answering one question from
each part, I had carelessly answered both questions in Group I, and had failed
to consider anything in Group II. The best mark I could score in that paper
would be 33, three less than the passing mark of 36. I rushed to Master and
poured out my troubles.
"Sir, I have made an unpardonable blunder. I don't deserve the divine
blessings through Romesh; I am quite unworthy."
"Cheer up, Mukunda." Sri Yukteswar's tones were light and unconcerned.
He pointed to the blue vault of the heavens. "It is more possible for the sun
and moon to interchange their positions in space than it is for you to fail in
getting your degree!"
I left the hermitage in a more tranquil mood, though it seemed
mathematically inconceivable that I could pass. I looked once or twice
apprehensively into the sky; the Lord of Day appeared to be securely anchored
in his customary orbit!
As I reached the Panthi , I overheard a classmate's remark: "I have just
learned that this year, for the first time, the required passing mark in English
literature has been lowered."
I entered the boy's room with such speed that he looked up in alarm. I
questioned him eagerly.
"Long-haired monk," he said laughingly, "why this sudden interest in
scholastic matters? Why cry in the eleventh hour? But it is true that the
passing mark has just been lowered to 33 points."
A few joyous leaps took me into my own room, where I sank to my knees
and praised the mathematical perfections of my Divine Father.
Every day I thrilled with the consciousness of a spiritual presence that I
clearly felt to be guiding me through Romesh. A significant incident occurred
in connection with the examination in Bengali. Romesh, who had touched
little on that subject, called me back one morning as I was leaving the
boardinghouse on my way to the examination hall.
"There is Romesh shouting for you," a classmate said to me impatiently.
"Don't return; we shall be late at the hall."
Ignoring the advice, I ran back to the house.
 "The Bengali examination is usually easily passed by our Bengali boys,"
Romesh told me. "But I have just had a hunch that this year the professors
have planned to massacre the students by asking questions from our ancient
literature." My friend then briefly outlined two stories from the life of
Vidyasagar, a renowned philanthropist.
I thanked Romesh and quickly bicycled to the college hall. The
examination sheet in Bengali proved to contain two parts. The first instruction
was: "Write two instances of the charities of Vidyasagar." As I transferred to
the paper the lore that I had so recently acquired, I whispered a few words of
thanksgiving that I had heeded Romesh's last-minute summons. Had I been
ignorant of Vidyasagar's benefactions to mankind (including ultimately
myself), I could not have passed the Bengali examination. Failing in one
subject, I would have been forced to stand examination anew in all subjects
the following year. Such a prospect was understandably abhorrent.
The second instruction on the sheet read: "Write an essay in Bengali on the
life of the man who has most inspired you." Gentle reader, I need not inform
you what man I chose for my theme. As I covered page after page with praise
of my guru, I smiled to realize that my muttered prediction was coming true:
"I will fill up the sheets with your teachings!"
I had not felt inclined to question Romesh about my course in philosophy.
Trusting my long training under Sri Yukteswar, I safely disregarded the
textbook explanations. The highest mark given to any of my papers was the
one in philosophy. My score in all other subjects was just barely within the
passing mark.
It is a pleasure to record that my unselfish friend Romesh received his own
degree cum laude.
Father was wreathed in smiles at my graduation. "I hardly thought you
would pass, Mukunda," he confessed. "You spend so much time with your
guru." Master had indeed correctly detected the unspoken criticism of my
father.
For years I had been uncertain that I would ever see the day when an A.B.
would follow my name. I seldom use the title without reflecting that it was a
divine gift, conferred on me for reasons somewhat obscure. Occasionally I
hear college men remark that very little of their crammed knowledge remained
with them after graduation. That admission consoles me a bit for my
undoubted academic deficiencies.
On the day I received my degree from Calcutta University, I knelt at my
guru's feet and thanked him for all the blessings flowing from his life into
mine.
 "Get up, Mukunda," he said indulgently. "The Lord simply found it more
convenient to make you a graduate than to rearrange the sun and moon!"

CHAPTER: 24
I Become A Monk Of The Swami Order

"Master, my father has been anxious for me to accept an executive position

with the Bengal-Nagpur Railway. But I have definitely refused it." I added
hopefully, "Sir, will you not make me a monk of the Swami Order?" I looked
pleadingly at my guru. During preceding years, in order to test the depth of my
determination, he had refused this same request. Today, however, he smiled
graciously.
"Very well; tomorrow I will initiate you into swamiship." He went on
quietly, "I am happy that you have persisted in your desire to be a monk.
Lahiri Mahasaya often said: 'If you don't invite God to be your summer Guest,
He won't come in the winter of your life.'"
"Dear master, I could never falter in my goal to belong to the Swami Order
like your revered self." I smiled at him with measureless affection.
"He that is unmarried careth for the things that belong to the Lord, how he
may please the Lord: but he that is married careth for the things of the world,
how he may please his wife." I had analyzed the lives of many of my friends
who, after undergoing certain spiritual discipline, had then married. Launched
on the sea of worldly responsibilities, they had forgotten their resolutions to
meditate deeply.
To allot God a secondary place in life was, to me, inconceivable. Though
He is the sole Owner of the cosmos, silently showering us with gifts from life
to life, one thing yet remains which He does not own, and which each human
heart is empowered to withhold or bestow-man's love. The Creator, in taking
infinite pains to shroud with mystery His presence in every atom of creation,
could have had but one motive-a sensitive desire that men seek Him only
through free will. With what velvet glove of every humility has He not
covered the iron hand of omnipotence!
The following day was one of the most memorable in my life. It was a
sunny Thursday, I remember, in July, 1914, a few weeks after my graduation
from college. On the inner balcony of his Serampore hermitage, Master dipped
a new piece of white silk into a dye of ocher, the traditional color of the
Swami Order. After the cloth had dried, my guru draped it around me as a
renunciate's robe.
 "Someday you will go to the West, where silk is preferred," he said. "As a
symbol, I have chosen for you this silk material instead of the customary
cotton."
In India, where monks embrace the ideal of poverty, a silk-clad swami is
an unusual sight. Many yogis, however, wear garments of silk, which
preserves certain subtle bodily currents better than cotton.
"I am averse to ceremonies," Sri Yukteswar remarked. "I will make you a
swami in the bidwat (non-ceremonious) manner."
The bibidisa or elaborate initiation into swamiship includes a fire
ceremony, during which symbolical funeral rites are performed. The physical
body of the disciple is represented as dead, cremated in the flame of wisdom.
The newly-made swami is then given a chant, such as: "This atma is Brahma"
or "Thou art That" or "I am He." Sri Yukteswar, however, with his love of
simplicity, dispensed with all formal rites and merely asked me to select a new
name.
"I will give you the privilege of choosing it yourself," he said, smiling.
"Yogananda," I replied, after a moment's thought. The name literally means
"Bliss (ananda ) through divine union (yoga )."
"Be it so. Forsaking your family name of Mukunda Lal Ghosh, henceforth
you shall be called Yogananda of the Giri branch of the Swami Order."
As I knelt before Sri Yukteswar, and for the first time heard him pronounce
my new name, my heart overflowed with gratitude. How lovingly and
tirelessly had he labored, that the boy Mukunda be someday transformed into
the monk Yogananda! I joyfully sang a few verses from the long Sanskrit
chant of Lord Shankara:
"Mind, nor intellect, nor ego, feeling;
Sky nor earth nor metals am I.
I am He, I am He, Blessed Spirit, I am He!
No birth, no death, no caste have I;
Father, mother, have I none.
I am He, I am He, Blessed Spirit, I am He!
Beyond the flights of fancy, formless am I,
Permeating the limbs of all life;
Bondage I do not fear; I am free, ever free,
I am He, I am He, Blessed Spirit, I am He!"
 Every swami belongs to the ancient monastic order which was organized in
its present form by Shankara. Because it is a formal order, with an unbroken
line of saintly representatives serving as active leaders, no man can give
himself the title of swami. He rightfully receives it only from another swami;
all monks thus trace their spiritual lineage to one common guru, Lord
Shankara. By vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience to the spiritual teacher,
many Catholic Christian monastic orders resemble the Order of Swamis.
In addition to his new name, usually ending in ananda , the swami takes a
title which indicates his formal connection with one of the ten subdivisions of
the Swami Order. These dasanamis or ten agnomens include the Giri
(mountain), to which Sri Yukteswar, and hence myself, belong. Among the
other branches are the Sagar (sea), Bharati (land), Aranya (forest), Puri (tract),
Tirtha (place of pilgrimage), and Saraswati (wisdom of nature).
The new name received by a swami thus has a twofold significance, and
represents the attainment of supreme bliss (ananda ) through some divine
quality or state-love, wisdom, devotion, service, yoga-and through a harmony
with nature, as expressed in her infinite vastness of oceans, mountains, skies.
The ideal of selfless service to all mankind, and of renunciation of personal
ties and ambitions, leads the majority of swamis to engage actively in
humanitarian and educational work in India, or occasionally in foreign lands.
Ignoring all prejudices of caste, creed, class, color, sex, or race, a swami
follows the precepts of human brotherhood. His goal is absolute unity with
Spirit. Imbuing his waking and sleeping consciousness with the thought, "I am
He," he roams contentedly, in the world but not of it. Thus only may he justify
his title of swami-one who seeks to achieve union with the Swa or Self. It is
needless to add that not all formally titled swamis are equally successful in
reaching their high goal.
Sri Yukteswar was both a swami and a yogi. A swami, formally a monk by
virtue of his connection with the ancient order, is not always a yogi. Anyone
who practices a scientific technique of God-contact is a yogi; he may be either
married or unmarried, either a worldly man or one of formal religious ties. A
swami may conceivably follow only the path of dry reasoning, of cold
renunciation; but a yogi engages himself in a definite, step-by-step procedure
by which the body and mind are disciplined, and the soul liberated. Taking
nothing for granted on emotional grounds, or by faith, a yogi practices a
thoroughly tested series of exercises which were first mapped out by the early
rishis. Yoga has produced, in every age of India, men who became truly free,
truly Yogi-Christs.
Like any other science, yoga is applicable to people of every clime and
time. The theory advanced by certain ignorant writers that yoga is "unsuitable
for Westerners" is wholly false, and has lamentably prevented many sincere
students from seeking its manifold blessings. Yoga is a method for restraining
the natural turbulence of thoughts, which otherwise impartially prevent all
men, of all lands, from glimpsing their true nature of Spirit. Yoga cannot know
a barrier of East and West any more than does the healing and equitable light
of the sun. So long as man possesses a mind with its restless thoughts, so long
will there be a universal need for yoga or control.
Not a historical personage like Krishna, Shiva is the name given to God in
the last aspect of His threefold nature (Creator-Preserver-Destroyer). Shiva,
the Annihilator of maya or delusion, is symbolically represented in the
scriptures as the Lord of Renunciates, the King of Yogis. In Hindu art He is
always shown with the new moon in His hair, and wearing a garland of
hooded snakes, ancient emblem of evil overcome and perfect wisdom. The
"single" eye of omniscience is open on His forehead.
The ancient rishi Patanjali defines "yoga" as "control of the fluctuations of
the mind-stuff." His very short and masterly expositions, the Yoga Sutras ,
form one of the six systems of Hindu philosophy. In contradistinction to
Western philosophies, all six Hindu systems embody not only theoretical but
practical teachings. In addition to every conceivable ontological inquiry, the
six systems formulate six definite disciplines aimed at the permanent removal
of suffering and the attainment of timeless bliss.
The common thread linking all six systems is the declaration that no true
freedom for man is possible without knowledge of the ultimate Reality. The
later Upanishads uphold the Yoga Sutras , among the six systems, as
containing the most efficacious methods for achieving direct perception of
truth. Through the practical techniques of yoga, man leaves behind forever the
barren realms of speculation and cognizes in experience the veritable Essence.
The Yoga system as outlined by Patanjali is known as the Eightfold Path.
The first steps, (1) yama and (2) niyama , require observance of ten negative
and positive moralities-avoidance of injury to others, of untruthfulness, of
stealing, of incontinence, of gift-receiving (which brings obligations); and
purity of body and mind, contentment, self- discipline, study, and devotion to
God.
The next steps are (3) asana (right posture); the spinal column must be held
straight, and the body firm in a comfortable position for meditation; (4)
pranayama (control of prana , subtle life currents); and (5) pratyahara
(withdrawal of the senses from external objects).
The last steps are forms of yoga proper: (6) dharana (concentration);
holding the mind to one thought; (7) dhyana (meditation), and (8) samadhi
(superconscious perception). This is the Eightfold Path of Yoga which leads
one to the final goal of Kaivalya (Absoluteness), a term which might be more
comprehensibly put as "realization of the Truth beyond all intellectual
apprehension."
"Which is greater," one may ask, "a swami or a yogi?" If and when final
oneness with God is achieved, the distinctions of the various paths disappear.
The Bhagavad Gita, however, points out that the methods of yoga are all-
embracive. Its techniques are not meant only for certain types and
temperaments, such as those few who incline toward the monastic life; yoga
requires no formal allegiance. Because the yogic science satisfies a universal
need, it has a natural universal applicability.
A true yogi may remain dutifully in the world; there he is like butter on
water, and not like the easily-diluted milk of unchurned and undisciplined
humanity. To fulfill one's earthly responsibilities is indeed the higher path,
provided the yogi, maintaining a mental uninvolvement with egotistical
desires, plays his part as a willing instrument of God.
There are a number of great souls, living in American or European or other
non-Hindu bodies today who, though they may never have heard the words
yogi and swami , are yet true exemplars of those terms. Through their
disinterested service to mankind, or through their mastery over passions and
thoughts, or through their single hearted love of God, or through their great
powers of concentration, they are, in a sense, yogis; they have set themselves
the goal of yoga-self-control. These men could rise to even greater heights if
they were taught the definite science of yoga, which makes possible a more
conscious direction of one's mind and life.
Yoga has been superficially misunderstood by certain Western writers, but
its critics have never been its practitioners. Among many thoughtful tributes to
yoga may be mentioned one by Dr. C. G. Jung, the famous Swiss psychologist.
"When a religious method recommends itself as 'scientific,' it can be
certain of its public in the West. Yoga fulfills this expectation," Dr. Jung
writes. "Quite apart from the charm of the new, and the fascination of the half-
understood, there is good cause for Yoga to have many adherents. It offers the
possibility of controllable experience, and thus satisfies the scientific need of
'facts,' and besides this, by reason of its breadth and depth, its venerable age,
its doctrine and method, which include every phase of life, it promises
undreamed-of possibilities.
"Every religious or philosophical practice means a psychological
discipline, that is, a method of mental hygiene. The manifold, purely bodily
procedures of Yoga also mean a physiological hygiene which is superior to
ordinary gymnastics and breathing exercises, inasmuch as it is not merely
mechanistic and scientific, but also philosophical; in its training of the parts of
the body, it unites them with the whole of the spirit, as is quite clear, for
instance, in the Pranayama exercises where Prana is both the breath and the
universal dynamics of the cosmos.
"When the thing which the individual is doing is also a cosmic event, the
effect experienced in the body (the innervation), unites with the emotion of the
spirit (the universal idea), and out of this there develops a lively unity which
no technique, however scientific, can produce. Yoga practice is unthinkable,
and would also be ineffectual, without the concepts on which Yoga is based. It
combines the bodily and the spiritual with each other in an extraordinarily
complete way.
"In the East, where these ideas and practices have developed, and where
for several thousand years an unbroken tradition has created the necessary
spiritual foundations, Yoga is, as I can readily believe, the perfect and
appropriate method of fusing body and mind together so that they form a unity
which is scarcely to be questioned. This unity creates a psychological
disposition which makes possible intuitions that transcend consciousness."
The Western day is indeed nearing when the inner science of self- control
will be found as necessary as the outer conquest of nature. This new Atomic
Age will see men's minds sobered and broadened by the now scientifically
indisputable truth that matter is in reality a concentrate of energy. Finer forces
of the human mind can and must liberate energies greater than those within
stones and metals, lest the material atomic giant, newly unleashed, turn on the
world in mindless destruction.

CHAPTER: 25
Brother Ananta And Sister Nalini

"Ananta cannot live; the sands of his karma for this life have run out."
These inexorable words reached my inner consciousness as I sat one
morning in deep meditation. Shortly after I had entered the Swami Order, I
paid a visit to my birthplace, Gorakhpur, as a guest of my elder brother
Ananta. A sudden illness confined him to his bed; I nursed him lovingly.
The solemn inward pronouncement filled me with grief. I felt that I could
not bear to remain longer in Gorakhpur, only to see my brother removed
before my helpless gaze. Amidst uncomprehending criticism from my
relatives, I left India on the first available boat. It cruised along Burma and the
China Sea to Japan. I disembarked at Kobe, where I spent only a few days. My
heart was too heavy for sightseeing.
 On the return trip to India, the boat touched at Shanghai. There Dr. Misra,
the ship's physician, guided me to several curio shops, where I selected
various presents for Sri Yukteswar and my family and friends. For Ananta I
purchased a large carved bamboo piece. No sooner had the Chinese salesman
handed me the bamboo souvenir than I dropped it on the floor, crying out, "I
have bought this for my dear dead brother!"
A clear realization had swept over me that his soul was just being freed in
the Infinite. The souvenir was sharply and symbolically cracked by its fall;
amidst sobs, I wrote on the bamboo surface: "For my beloved Ananta, now
gone."
My companion, the doctor, was observing these proceedings with a
sardonic smile.
"Save your tears," he remarked. "Why shed them until you are sure he is
dead?"
When our boat reached Calcutta, Dr. Misra again accompanied me. My
youngest brother Bishnu was waiting to greet me at the dock.
"I know Ananta has departed this life," I said to Bishnu, before he had had
time to speak. "Please tell me, and the doctor here, when Ananta died."
Bishnu named the date, which was the very day that I had bought the
souvenirs in Shanghai.
"Look here!" Dr. Misra ejaculated. "Don't let any word of this get around!
The professors will be adding a year's study of mental telepathy to the medical
course, which is already long enough!"
Father embraced me warmly as I entered our Gurpar Road home. "You
have come," he said tenderly. Two large tears dropped from his eyes.
Ordinarily undemonstrative, he had never before shown me these signs of
affection. Outwardly the grave father, inwardly he possessed the melting heart
of a mother. In all his dealings with the family, his dual parental role was
distinctly manifest.
Soon after Ananta's passing, my younger sister Nalini was brought back
from death's door by a divine healing. Before relating the story, I will refer to a
few phases of her earlier life.
The childhood relationship between Nalini and myself had not been of the
happiest nature. I was very thin; she was thinner still. Through an unconscious
motive or "complex" which psychiatrists will have no difficulty in identifying,
I often used to tease my sister about her cadaverous appearance. Her retorts
were equally permeated with the callous frankness of extreme youth.
Sometimes Mother intervened, ending the childish quarrels, temporarily, by a
gentle box on my ear, as the elder ear.
Time passed; Nalini was betrothed to a young Calcutta physician,
Panchanon Bose. He received a generous dowry from Father, presumably (as I
remarked to Sister) to compensate the bridegroom-to-be for his fate in allying
himself with a human bean-pole.
Elaborate marriage rites were celebrated in due time. On the wedding
night, I joined the large and jovial group of relatives in the living room of our
Calcutta home. The bridegroom was leaning on an immense gold-brocaded
pillow, with Nalini at his side. A gorgeous purple silk sari could not, alas,
wholly hide her angularity. I sheltered myself behind the pillow of my new
brother-in-law and grinned at him in friendly fashion. He had never seen
Nalini until the day of the nuptial ceremony, when he finally learned what he
was getting in the matrimonial lottery.
Feeling my sympathy, Dr. Bose pointed unobtrusively to Nalini, and
whispered in my ear, "Say, what's this?"
"Why, Doctor," I replied, "it is a skeleton for your observation!"
Convulsed with mirth, my brother-in-law and I were hard put to it to
maintain the proper decorum before our assembled relatives.
As the years went on, Dr. Bose endeared himself to our family, who called
on him whenever illness arose. He and I became fast friends, often joking
together, usually with Nalini as our target.
"It is a medical curiosity," my brother-in-law remarked to me one day. "I
have tried everything on your lean sister-cod liver oil, butter, malt, honey, fish,
meat, eggs, tonics. Still she fails to bulge even one-hundredth of an inch." We
both chuckled.
A few days later I visited the Bose home. My errand there took only a few
minutes; I was leaving, unnoticed, I thought, by Nalini. As I reached the front
door, I heard her voice, cordial but commanding.
"Brother, come here. You are not going to give me the slip this time. I want
to talk to you."
I mounted the stairs to her room. To my surprise, she was in tears.
"Dear brother," she said, "let us bury the old hatchet. I see that your feet
are now firmly set on the spiritual path. I want to become like you in every
way." She added hopefully, "You are now robust in appearance; can you help
me? My husband does not come near me, and I love him so dearly! But still
more I want to progress in God- realization, even if I must remain thin and
unattractive."
 My heart was deeply touched at her plea. Our new friendship steadily
progressed; one day she asked to become my disciple.
"Train me in any way you like. I put my trust in God instead of tonics."
She gathered together an armful of medicines and poured them down the roof
drain.
As a test of her faith, I asked her to omit from her diet all fish, meat, and
eggs.
After several months, during which Nalini had strictly followed the various
rules I had outlined, and had adhered to her vegetarian diet in spite of
numerous difficulties, I paid her a visit.
"Sis, you have been conscientiously observing the spiritual injunctions;
your reward is near." I smiled mischievously. "How plump do you want to be-
as fat as our aunt who hasn't seen her feet in years?"
"No! But I long to be as stout as you are."
I replied solemnly. "By the grace of God, as I have spoken truth always, I
speak truly now. Through the divine blessings, your body shall verily change
from today; in one month it shall have the same weight as mine."
These words from my heart found fulfillment. In thirty days, Nalini's
weight equalled mine. The new roundness gave her beauty; her husband fell
deeply in love. Their marriage, begun so inauspiciously, turned out to be
ideally happy.
On my return from Japan, I learned that during my absence Nalini had
been stricken with typhoid fever. I rushed to her home, and was aghast to find
her reduced to a mere skeleton. She was in a coma.
"Before her mind became confused by illness," my brother-in-law told me,
"she often said: 'If brother Mukunda were here, I would not be faring thus.'"
He added despairingly, "The other doctors and myself see no hope. Blood
dysentery has set in, after her long bout with typhoid."
I began to move heaven and earth with my prayers. Engaging an Anglo-
Indian nurse, who gave me full cooperation, I applied to my sister various
yoga techniques of healing. The blood dysentery disappeared.
But Dr. Bose shook his head mournfully. "She simply has no more blood
left to shed."
"She will recover," I replied stoutly. "In seven days her fever will be gone."
A week later I was thrilled to see Nalini open her eyes and gaze at me with
loving recognition. From that day her recovery was swift. Although she
regained her usual weight, she bore one sad scar of her nearly fatal illness: her
legs were paralyzed. Indian and English specialists pronounced her a hopeless
cripple.
The incessant war for her life which I had waged by prayer had exhausted
me. I went to Serampore to ask Sri Yukteswar's help. His eyes expressed deep
sympathy as I told him of Nalini's plight.
"Your sister's legs will be normal at the end of one month." He added, "Let
her wear, next to her skin, a band with an unperforated two-carat pearl, held on
by a clasp."
I prostrated myself at his feet with joyful relief.
"Sir, you are a master; your word of her recovery is enough But if you
insist I shall immediately get her a pearl."
My guru nodded. "Yes, do that." He went on to correctly describe the
physical and mental characteristics of Nalini, whom he had never seen.
"Sir," I inquired, "is this an astrological analysis? You do not know her
birth day or hour."
Sri Yukteswar smiled. "There is a deeper astrology, not dependent on the
testimony of calendars and clocks. Each man is a part of the Creator, or
Cosmic Man; he has a heavenly body as well as one of earth. The human eye
sees the physical form, but the inward eye penetrates more profoundly, even to
the universal pattern of which each man is an integral and individual part."
I returned to Calcutta and purchased a pearl for Nalini. A month later, her
paralyzed legs were completely healed.
Sister asked me to convey her heartfelt gratitude to my guru. He listened to
her message in silence. But as I was taking my leave, he made a pregnant
comment.
"Your sister has been told by many doctors that she can never bear
children. Assure her that in a few years she will give birth to two daughters."
Some years later, to Nalini's joy, she bore a girl, followed in a few years by
another daughter.
"Your master has blessed our home, our entire family," my sister said. "The
presence of such a man is a sanctification on the whole of India. Dear brother,
please tell Sri Yukteswarji that, through you, I humbly count myself as one of
his Kriya Yoga disciples."

CHAPTER: 26
 The Science Of Kriya Yoga

The science of Kriya Yoga, mentioned so often in these pages, became

widely known in modern India through the instrumentality of Lahiri
Mahasaya, my guru's guru. The Sanskrit root of Kriya is kri, to do, to act and
react; the same root is found in the word karma, the natural principle of cause
and effect. Kriya Yoga is thus "union (yoga) with the Infinite through a certain
action or rite." A yogi who faithfully follows its technique is gradually freed
from karma or the universal chain of causation.
Because of certain ancient yogic injunctions, I cannot give a full
explanation of Kriya Yoga in the pages of a book intended for the general
public. The actual technique must be learned from a Kriyaban or Kriya Yogi;
here a broad reference must suffice.
Kriya Yoga is a simple, psychophysiological method by which the human
blood is decarbonized and recharged with oxygen. The atoms of this extra
oxygen are transmuted into life current to rejuvenate the brain and spinal
centers. By stopping the accumulation of venous blood, the yogi is able to
lessen or prevent the decay of tissues; the advanced yogi transmutes his cells
into pure energy. Elijah, Jesus, Kabir and other prophets were past masters in
the use of Kriya or a similar technique, by which they caused their bodies to
dematerialize at will.
Kriya is an ancient science. Lahiri Mahasaya received it from his guru,
Babaji, who rediscovered and clarified the technique after it had been lost in
the Dark Ages.
"The Kriya Yoga which I am giving to the world through you in this
nineteenth century," Babaji told Lahiri Mahasaya, "is a revival of the same
science which Krishna gave, millenniums ago, to Arjuna, and which was later
known to Patanjali, and to Christ, St. John, St. Paul, and other disciples."
Kriya Yoga is referred to by Krishna, India's greatest prophet, in a stanza
of the Bhagavad Gita: "Offering inhaling breath into the outgoing breath, and
offering the outgoing breath into the inhaling breath, the yogi neutralizes both
these breaths; he thus releases the life force from the heart and brings it under
his control." The interpretation is: "The yogi arrests decay in the body by an
addition of life force, and arrests the mutations of growth in the body by apan
(eliminating current). Thus neutralizing decay and growth, by quieting the
heart, the yogi learns life control."
Krishna also relates that it was he, in a former incarnation, who
communicated the indestructible yoga to an ancient illuminato, Vivasvat, who
gave it to Manu, the great legislator. He, in turn, instructed Ikshwaku, the
father of India's solar warrior dynasty. Passing thus from one to another, the
royal yoga was guarded by the rishis until the coming of the materialistic ages.
Then, due to priestly secrecy and man's indifference, the sacred knowledge
gradually became inaccessible.
Kriya Yoga is mentioned twice by the ancient sage Patanjali, foremost
exponent of yoga, who wrote: "Kriya Yoga consists of body discipline, mental
control, and meditating on Aum." Patanjali speaks of God as the actual
Cosmic Sound of Aum heard in meditation. Aum is the Creative Word, the
sound of the Vibratory Motor. Even the yoga-beginner soon inwardly hears the
wondrous sound of Aum. Receiving this blissful spiritual encouragement, the
devotee becomes assured that he is in actual touch with divine realms.
Patanjali refers a second time to the life-control or Kriya technique thus:
"Liberation can be accomplished by that pranayama which is attained by
disjoining the course of inspiration and expiration."
St. Paul knew Kriya Yoga, or a technique very similar to it, by which he
could switch life currents to and from the senses. He was therefore able to say:
"Verily, I protest by our rejoicing which I have in Christ, i die daily." By daily
withdrawing his bodily life force, he united it by yoga union with the rejoicing
(eternal bliss) of the Christ consciousness. In that felicitous state, he was
consciously aware of being dead to the delusive sensory world of maya.
In the initial states of God-contact (sabikalpa samadhi) the devotee's
consciousness merges with the Cosmic Spirit; his life force is withdrawn from
the body, which appears "dead," or motionless and rigid. The yogi is fully
aware of his bodily condition of suspended animation. As he progresses to
higher spiritual states (nirbikalpa samadhi), however, he communes with God
without bodily fixation, and in his ordinary waking consciousness, even in the
midst of exacting worldly duties.
"Kriya Yoga is an instrument through which human evolution can be
quickened," Sri Yukteswar explained to his students. "The ancient yogis
discovered that the secret of cosmic consciousness is intimately linked with
breath mastery. This is India's unique and deathless contribution to the world's
treasury of knowledge. The life force, which is ordinarily absorbed in
maintaining the heart-pump, must be freed for higher activities by a method of
calming and stilling the ceaseless demands of the breath."
The Kriya Yogi mentally directs his life energy to revolve, upward and
downward, around the six spinal centers (medullary, cervical, dorsal, lumbar,
sacral, and coccygeal plexuses) which correspond to the twelve astral signs of
the zodiac, the symbolic Cosmic Man. One-half minute of revolution of
energy around the sensitive spinal cord of man effects subtle progress in his
evolution; that half-minute of Kriya equals one year of natural spiritual
unfoldment.
The astral system of a human being, with six (twelve by polarity) inner
constellations revolving around the sun of the omniscient spiritual eye, is
interrelated with the physical sun and the twelve zodiacal signs. All men are
thus affected by an inner and an outer universe. The ancient rishis discovered
that man's earthly and heavenly environment, in twelve-year cycles, push him
forward on his natural path. The scriptures aver that man requires a million
years of normal, diseaseless evolution to perfect his human brain sufficiently
to express cosmic consciousness.
One thousand Kriya practiced in eight hours gives the yogi, in one day, the
equivalent of one thousand years of natural evolution: 365,000 years of
evolution in one year. In three years, a Kriya Yogi can thus accomplish by
intelligent self-effort the same result which nature brings to pass in a million
years. The Kriya short cut, of course, can be taken only by deeply developed
yogis. With the guidance of a guru, such yogis have carefully prepared their
bodies and brains to receive the power created by intensive practice.
The Kriya beginner employs his yogic exercise only fourteen to twenty-
eight times, twice daily. A number of yogis achieve emancipation in six or
twelve or twenty-four or forty-eight years. A yogi who dies before achieving
full realization carries with him the good karma of his past Kriya effort; in his
new life he is harmoniously propelled toward his Infinite Goal.
The body of the average man is like a fifty-watt lamp, which cannot
accommodate the billion watts of power roused by an excessive practice of
Kriya. Through gradual and regular increase of the simple and "foolproof"
methods of Kriya, man's body becomes astrally transformed day by day, and is
finally fitted to express the infinite potentials of cosmic energy-the first
materially active expression of Spirit.
Kriya Yoga has nothing in common with the unscientific breathing
exercises taught by a number of misguided zealots. Their attempts to forcibly
hold breath in the lungs is not only unnatural but decidedly unpleasant. Kriya,
on the other hand, is accompanied from the very beginning by an accession of
peace, and by soothing sensations of regenerative effect in the spine.
The ancient yogic technique converts the breath into mind. By spiritual
advancement, one is able to cognize the breath as an act of mind-a dream-
breath.
Many illustrations could be given of the mathematical relationship between
man's respiratory rate and the variations in his states of consciousness. A
person whose attention is wholly engrossed, as in following some closely knit
intellectual argument, or in attempting some delicate or difficult physical feat,
automatically breathes very slowly. Fixity of attention depends on slow
breathing; quick or uneven breaths are an inevitable accompaniment of
harmful emotional states: fear, lust, anger. The restless monkey breathes at the
rate of 32 times a minute, in contrast to man's average of 18 times. The
elephant, tortoise, snake and other animals noted for their longevity have a
respiratory rate which is less than man's. The tortoise, for instance, who may
attain the age of 300 years, breathes only 4 times per minute.
The rejuvenating effects of sleep are due to man's temporary unawareness
of body and breathing. The sleeping man becomes a yogi; each night he
unconsciously performs the yogic rite of releasing himself from bodily
identification, and of merging the life force with healing currents in the main
brain region and the six sub-dynamos of his spinal centers. The sleeper thus
dips unknowingly into the reservoir of cosmic energy which sustains all life.
The voluntary yogi performs a simple, natural process consciously, not
unconsciously like the slow-paced sleeper. The Kriya Yogi uses his technique
to saturate and feed all his physical cells with undecaying light and keep them
in a magnetized state. He scientifically makes breath unnecessary, without
producing the states of subconscious sleep or unconsciousness.
By Kriya, the outgoing life force is not wasted and abused in the senses,
but constrained to reunite with subtler spinal energies. By such reinforcement
of life, the yogi's body and brain cells are electrified with the spiritual elixir.
Thus he removes himself from studied observance of natural laws, which can
only take him-by circuitous means as given by proper food, sunlight, and
harmonious thoughts-to a million-year Goal. It needs twelve years of normal
healthful living to effect even slight perceptible change in brain structure, and
a million solar returns are exacted to sufficiently refine the cerebral tenement
for manifestation of cosmic consciousness.
Untying the cord of breath which binds the soul to the body, Kriya serves
to prolong life and enlarge the consciousness to infinity. The yoga method
overcomes the tug of war between the mind and the matter- bound senses, and
frees the devotee to reinherit his eternal kingdom. He knows his real nature is
bound neither by physical encasement nor by breath, symbol of the mortal
enslavement to air, to nature's elemental compulsions.
Introspection, or "sitting in the silence," is an unscientific way of trying to
force apart the mind and senses, tied together by the life force. The
contemplative mind, attempting its return to divinity, is constantly dragged
back toward the senses by the life currents. Kriya, controlling the mind
directly through the life force, is the easiest, most effective, and most scientific
avenue of approach to the Infinite. In contrast to the slow, uncertain "bullock
cart" theological path to God, Kriya may justly be called the "airplane" route.
 The yogic science is based on an empirical consideration of all forms of
concentration and meditation exercises. Yoga enables the devotee to switch off
or on, at will, life current from the five sense telephones of sight, sound, smell,
taste, and touch. Attaining this power of sense-disconnection, the yogi finds it
simple to unite his mind at will with divine realms or with the world of matter.
No longer is he unwillingly brought back by the life force to the mundane
sphere of rowdy sensations and restless thoughts. Master of his body and
mind, the Kriya Yogi ultimately achieves victory over the "last enemy," death.
So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men: And Death once dead,
there's no more dying then.
The life of an advanced Kriya Yogi is influenced, not by effects of past
actions, but solely by directions from the soul. The devotee thus avoids the
slow, evolutionary monitors of egoistic actions, good and bad, of common life,
cumbrous and snail-like to the eagle hearts.
The superior method of soul living frees the yogi who, shorn of his ego-
prison, tastes the deep air of omnipresence. The thralldom of natural living is,
in contrast, set in a pace humiliating. Conforming his life to the evolutionary
order, a man can command no concessionary haste from nature but, living
without error against the laws of his physical and mental endowment, still
requires about a million years of incarnating masquerades to know final
emancipation.
The telescopic methods of yogis, disengaging themselves from physical
and mental identifications in favor of soul-individuality, thus commend
themselves to those who eye with revolt a thousand thousand years. This
numerical periphery is enlarged for the ordinary man, who lives in harmony
not even with nature, let alone his soul, but pursues instead unnatural
complexities, thus offending in his body and thoughts the sweet sanities of
nature. For him, two times a million years can scarce suffice for liberation.
Gross man seldom or never realizes that his body is a kingdom, governed
by Emperor Soul on the throne of the cranium, with subsidiary regents in the
six spinal centers or spheres of consciousness. This theocracy extends over a
throng of obedient subjects: twenty-seven thousand billion cells-endowed with
a sure if automatic intelligence by which they perform all duties of bodily
growths, transformations, and dissolutions-and fifty million substratal
thoughts, emotions, and variations of alternating phases in man's
consciousness in an average life of sixty years. Any apparent insurrection of
bodily or cerebral cells toward Emperor Soul, manifesting as disease or
depression, is due to no disloyalty among the humble citizens, but to past or
present misuse by man of his individuality or free will, given to him
simultaneous with a soul, and revocable never.
 Identifying himself with a shallow ego, man takes for granted that it is he
who thinks, wills, feels, digests meals, and keeps himself alive, never
admitting through reflection (only a little would suffice!) that in his ordinary
life he is naught but a puppet of past actions (karma) and of nature or
environment. Each man's intellectual reactions, feelings, moods, and habits are
circumscribed by effects of past causes, whether of this or a prior life. Lofty
above such influences, however, is his regal soul. Spurning the transitory
truths and freedoms, the Kriya Yogi passes beyond all disillusionment into his
unfettered Being. All scriptures declare man to be not a corruptible body, but a
living soul; by Kriya he is given a method to prove the scriptural truth.
"Outward ritual cannot destroy ignorance, because they are not mutually
contradictory," wrote Shankara in his famous Century Of Verses. "Realized
knowledge alone destroys ignorance... Knowledge cannot spring up by any
other means than inquiry. 'Who am I? How was this universe born? Who is its
maker? What is its material cause?' This is the kind of inquiry referred to."
The intellect has no answer for these questions; hence the rishis evolved yoga
as the technique of spiritual inquiry.
Kriya Yoga is the real "fire rite" often extolled in the Bhagavad Gita. The
purifying fires of yoga bring eternal illumination, and thus differ much from
outward and little-effective religious fire ceremonies, where perception of
truth is oft burnt, to solemn chanted accompaniment, along with the incense!
The advanced yogi, withholding all his mind, will, and feeling from false
identification with bodily desires, uniting his mind with superconscious forces
in the spinal shrines, thus lives in this world as God hath planned, not impelled
by impulses from the past nor by new witlessnesses of fresh human
motivations. Such a yogi receives fulfillment of his Supreme Desire, safe in
the final haven of inexhaustibly blissful Spirit.
The yogi offers his labyrinthine human longings to a monotheistic bonfire
dedicated to the unparalleled God. This is indeed the true yogic fire ceremony,
in which all past and present desires are fuel consumed by love divine. The
Ultimate Flame receives the sacrifice of all human madness, and man is pure
of dross. His bones stripped of all desirous flesh, his karmic skeleton bleached
in the antiseptic suns of wisdom, he is clean at last, inoffensive before man
and Maker.
Referring to yoga's sure and methodical efficacy, Lord Krishna praises the
technological yogi in the following words: "The yogi is greater than body-
disciplining ascetics, greater even than the followers of the path of wisdom
(Jnana Yoga), or of the path of action (Karma Yoga); be thou, O disciple
Arjuna, a yogi!"



CHAPTER: 27
Founding A Yoga School At Ranchi

"Why are you averse to organizational work?"

Master's question startled me a bit. It is true that my private conviction at
the time was that organizations were "hornets' nests."
"It is a thankless task, sir," I answered. "No matter what the leader does or
does not, he is criticized."
"Do you want the whole divine channa (milk curd) for yourself alone?"
My guru's retort was accompanied by a stern glance. "Could you or anyone
else achieve God-contact through yoga if a line of generous- hearted masters
had not been willing to convey their knowledge to others?" He added, "God is
the Honey, organizations are the hives; both are necessary. Any form is
useless, of course, without the spirit, but why should you not start busy hives
full of the spiritual nectar?"
His counsel moved me deeply. Although I made no outward reply, an
adamant resolution arose in my breast: I would share with my fellows, so far
as lay in my power, the unshackling truths I had learned at my guru's feet.
"Lord," I prayed, "may Thy Love shine forever on the sanctuary of my
devotion, and may I be able to awaken that Love in other hearts."
On a previous occasion, before I had joined the monastic order, Sri
Yukteswar had made a most unexpected remark.
"How you will miss the companionship of a wife in your old age!" he had
said. "Do you not agree that the family man, engaged in useful work to
maintain his wife and children, thus plays a rewarding role in God's eyes?"
"Sir," I had protested in alarm, "you know that my desire in this life is to
espouse only the Cosmic Beloved."
Master had laughed so merrily that I understood his observation was made
merely as a test of my faith.
"Remember," he had said slowly, "that he who discards his worldly duties
can justify himself only by assuming some kind of responsibility toward a
much larger family."
The ideal of an all-sided education for youth had always been close to my
heart. I saw clearly the arid results of ordinary instruction, aimed only at the
development of body and intellect. Moral and spiritual values, without whose
appreciation no man can approach happiness, were yet lacking in the formal
curriculum. I determined to found a school where young boys could develop
to the full stature of manhood. My first step in that direction was made with
seven children at Dihika, a small country site in Bengal.
A year later, in 1918, through the generosity of Sir Manindra Chandra
Nundy, the Maharaja of Kasimbazar, I was able to transfer my fast- growing
group to Ranchi. This town in Bihar, about two hundred miles from Calcutta,
is blessed with one of the most healthful climates in India. The Kasimbazar
Palace at Ranchi was transformed into the headquarters for the new school,
which I called Brahmacharya Vidyalaya in accordance with the educational
ideals of the rishis. Their forest ashrams had been the ancient seats of learning,
secular and divine, for the youth of India.
At Ranchi I organized an educational program for both grammar and high
school grades. It included agricultural, industrial, commercial, and academic
subjects. The students were also taught yoga concentration and meditation,
and a unique system of physical development, "Yogoda," whose principles I
had discovered in 1916.
Realizing that man's body is like an electric battery, I reasoned that it could
be recharged with energy through the direct agency of the human will. As no
action, slight or large, is possible without willing, man can avail himself of his
prime mover, will, to renew his bodily tissues without burdensome apparatus
or mechanical exercises. I therefore taught the Ranchi students my simple
"Yogoda" techniques by which the life force, centred in man's medulla
oblongata, can be consciously and instantly recharged from the unlimited
supply of cosmic energy.
The boys responded wonderfully to this training, developing extraordinary
ability to shift the life energy from one part of the body to another part, and to
sit in perfect poise in difficult body postures. They performed feats of strength
and endurance which many powerful adults could not equal. My youngest
brother, Bishnu Charan Ghosh, joined the Ranchi school; he later became a
leading physical culturist in Bengal. He and one of his students traveled to
Europe and America, giving exhibitions of strength and skill which amazed
the university savants, including those at Columbia University in New York.
At the end of the first year at Ranchi, applications for admission reached
two thousand. But the school, which at that time was solely residential, could
accommodate only about one hundred. Instruction for day students was soon
added.
In the Vidyalaya I had to play father-mother to the little children, and to
cope with many organizational difficulties. I often remembered Christ's words:
"Verily I say unto you, There is no man that hath left house, or brethren or
sisters, or father, or mother, or wife, or children, or lands, for my sake, and the
gospel's, but he shall receive an hundredfold now in this time, houses and
brethren, and sisters, and mothers, and children, and lands, with persecutions;
and in the world to come eternal life." Sri Yukteswar had interpreted these
words: "The devotee who forgoes the life-experiences of marriage and family,
and exchanges the problems of a small household and limited activities for the
larger responsibilities of service to society in general, is undertaking a task
which is often accompanied by persecution from a misunderstanding world,
but also by a divine inner contentment."
Central building of the Yogoda Sat-Sanga Brahmacharya Vidyalaya at
Ranchi, Bihar, established in 1918 as a yoga school for boys, with grammar
and high school education. Connected with it is the philanthropic Lahiri
Mahasaya Mission.
One day my father arrived in Ranchi to bestow a paternal blessing, long
withheld because I had hurt him by refusing his offer of a position with the
Bengal-Nagpur Railway.
"Son," he said, "I am now reconciled to your choice in life. It gives me joy
to see you amidst these happy, eager youngsters; you belong here rather than
with the lifeless figures of railroad timetables." He waved toward a group of a
dozen little ones who were tagging at my heels. "I had only eight children," he
observed with twinkling eyes, "but I can feel for you!"
With a large fruit orchard and twenty-five fertile acres at our disposal, the
students, teachers, and myself enjoyed many happy hours of outdoor labor in
these ideal surroundings. We had many pets, including a young deer who was
fairly idolized by the children. I too loved the fawn so much that I allowed it
to sleep in my room. At the light of dawn, the little creature would toddle over
to my bed for a morning caress.
One day I fed the pet earlier than usual, as I had to attend to some business
in the town of Ranchi. Although I cautioned the boys not to feed the fawn until
my return, one of them was disobedient, and gave the baby deer a large
quantity of milk. When I came back in the evening, sad news greeted me:
"The little fawn is nearly dead, through over feeding."
In tears, I placed the apparently lifeless pet on my lap. I prayed piteously to
God to spare its life. Hours later, the small creature opened its eyes, stood up,
and walked feebly. The whole school shouted for joy.
But a deep lesson came to me that night, one I can never forget. I stayed up
with the fawn until two o'clock, when I fell asleep. The deer appeared in a
dream, and spoke to me:
"You are holding me back. Please let me go; let me go!"
 "All right," I answered in the dream.
I awoke immediately, and cried out, "Boys, the deer is dying!" The
children rushed to my side.
I ran to the corner of the room where I had placed the pet. It made a last
effort to rise, stumbled toward me, then dropped at my feet, dead.
According to the mass karma which guides and regulates the destinies of
animals, the deer's life was over, and it was ready to progress to a higher form.
But by my deep attachment, which I later realized was selfish, and by my
fervent prayers, I had been able to hold it in the limitations of the animal form
from which the soul was struggling for release. The soul of the deer made its
plea in a dream because, without my loving permission, it either would not or
could not go. As soon as I agreed, it departed.
All sorrow left me; I realized anew that God wants His children to love
everything as a part of Him, and not to feel delusively that death ends all. The
ignorant man sees only the unsurmountable wall of death, hiding, seemingly
forever, his cherished friends. But the man of unattachment, he who loves
others as expressions of the Lord, understands that at death the dear ones have
only returned for a breathing-space of joy in Him.
The Ranchi school grew from small and simple beginnings to an institution
now well-known in India. Many departments of the school are supported by
voluntary contributions from those who rejoice in perpetuating the educational
ideals of the rishis. Under the general name of Yogoda Sat-Sanga, flourishing
branch schools have been established at Midnapore, Lakshmanpur, and Puri.
The Ranchi headquarters maintains a Medical Department where
medicines and the services of doctors are supplied freely to the poor of the
locality. The number treated has averaged more than 18,000 persons a year.
The Vidyalaya has made its mark, too, in Indian competitive sports, and in the
scholastic field, where many Ranchi alumni have distinguished themselves in
later university life.
The school, now in its twenty-eighth year and the center of many activities,
has been honored by visits of eminent men from the East and the West. One of
the earliest great figures to inspect the Vidyalaya in its first year was Swami
Pranabananda, the Benares "saint with two bodies." As the great master
viewed the picturesque outdoor classes, held under the trees, and saw in the
evening that young boys were sitting motionless for hours in yoga meditation,
he was profoundly moved.
"Joy comes to my heart," he said, "to see that Lahiri Mahasaya's ideals for
the proper training of youth are being carried on in this institution. My guru's
blessings be on it."
 A young lad sitting by my side ventured to ask the great yogi a question.
"Sir," he said, "shall I be a monk? Is my life only for God?"
Though Swami Pranabananda smiled gently, his eyes were piercing the
future.
"Child," he replied, "when you grow up, there is a beautiful bride waiting
for you." The boy did eventually marry, after having planned for years to enter
the Swami Order.
Sometime after Swami Pranabananda had visited Ranchi, I accompanied
my father to the Calcutta house where the yogi was temporarily staying.
Pranabananda's prediction, made to me so many years before, came rushing to
my mind: "I shall see you, with your father, later on."
As Father entered the swami's room, the great yogi rose from his seat and
embraced my parent with loving respect.
"Bhagabati," he said, "what are you doing about yourself? Don't you see
your son racing to the Infinite?" I blushed to hear his praise before my father.
The swami went on, "You recall how often our blessed guru used to say:
'Banat, banat, ban jai.' So keep up Kriya Yoga ceaselessly, and reach the divine
portals quickly."
The body of Pranabananda, which had appeared so well and strong during
my amazing first visit to him in Benares, now showed definite aging, though
his posture was still admirably erect.
"Swamiji," I inquired, looking straight into his eyes, "please tell me the
truth: Aren't you feeling the advance of age? As the body is weakening, are
your perceptions of God suffering any diminution?"
He smiled angelically. "The Beloved is more than ever with me now." His
complete conviction overwhelmed my mind and soul. He went on, "I am still
enjoying the two pensions-one from Bhagabati here, and one from above."
Pointing his finger heavenward, the saint fell into an ecstasy, his face lit with a
divine glow-an ample answer to my question.
Noticing that Pranabananda's room contained many plants and packages of
seed, I asked their purpose.
"I have left Benares permanently," he said, "and am now on my way to the
Himalayas. There I shall open an ashram for my disciples. These seeds will
produce spinach and a few other vegetables. My dear ones will live simply,
spending their time in blissful God-union. Nothing else is necessary."
Father asked his brother disciple when he would return to Calcutta.
"Never again," the saint replied. "This year is the one in which Lahiri
Mahasaya told me I would leave my beloved Benares forever and go to the
Himalayas, there to throw off my mortal frame."
My eyes filled with tears at his words, but the swami smiled tranquilly. He
reminded me of a little heavenly child, sitting securely on the lap of the Divine
Mother. The burden of the years has no ill effect on a great yogi's full
possession of supreme spiritual powers. He is able to renew his body at will;
yet sometimes he does not care to retard the aging process, but allows his
karma to work itself out on the physical plane, using his old body as a time-
saving device to exclude the necessity of working out karma in a new
incarnation.
Months later I met an old friend, Sanandan, who was one of
Pranabananda's close disciples.
"My adorable guru is gone," he told me, amidst sobs. "He established a
hermitage near Rishikesh, and gave us loving training. When we were pretty
well settled, and making rapid spiritual progress in his company, he proposed
one day to feed a huge crowd from Rishikesh. I inquired why he wanted such
a large number.
"'This is my last festival ceremony,' he said. I did not understand the full
implications of his words.
"Pranabanandaji helped with the cooking of great amounts of food. We fed
about 2000 guests. After the feast, he sat on a high platform and gave an
inspired sermon on the Infinite. At the end, before the gaze of thousands, he
turned to me, as I sat beside him on the dais, and spoke with unusual force.
"'Sanandan, be prepared; I am going to kick the frame. '
"After a stunned silence, I cried loudly, 'Master, don't do it! Please, please,
don't do it!' The crowd was tongue-tied, watching us curiously. My guru
smiled at me, but his solemn gaze was already fixed on Eternity.
"'Be not selfish,' he said, 'nor grieve for me. I have been long cheerfully
serving you all; now rejoice and wish me Godspeed. I go to meet my Cosmic
Beloved.' In a whisper, Pranabanandaji added, 'I shall be reborn shortly. After
enjoying a short period of the Infinite Bliss, I shall return to earth and join
Babaji. You shall soon know when and where my soul has been encased in a
new body.'
"He cried again, 'Sanandan, here I kick the frame by the second Kriya
Yoga.'
"He looked at the sea of faces before us, and gave a blessing. Directing his
gaze inwardly to the spiritual eye, he became immobile. While the bewildered
crowd thought he was meditating in an ecstatic state, he had already left the
tabernacle of flesh and plunged his soul into the cosmic vastness. The
disciples touched his body, seated in the lotus posture, but it was no longer the
warm flesh. Only a stiffened frame remained; the tenant had fled to the
immortal shore."
I inquired where Pranabananda was to be reborn.
"That's a sacred trust I cannot divulge to anyone," Sanandan replied.
"Perhaps you may find out some other way."
Years later I discovered from Swami Keshabananda that Pranabananda, a
few years after his birth in a new body, had gone to Badrinarayan in the
Himalayas, and there joined the group of saints around the great Babaji.

CHAPTER: 28
Kashi, Reborn And Rediscovered

"Please do not go into the water. Let us bathe by dipping our buckets."
I was addressing the young Ranchi students who were accompanying me
on an eight-mile hike to a neighboring hill. The pond before us was inviting,
but a distaste for it had arisen in my mind. The group around me followed my
example of dipping buckets, but a few lads yielded to the temptation of the
cool waters. No sooner had they dived than large water snakes wiggled around
them. The boys came out of the pond with comical alacrity.
We enjoyed a picnic lunch after we reached our destination. I sat under a
tree, surrounded by a group of students. Finding me in an inspirational mood,
they plied me with questions.
"Please tell me, sir," one youth inquired, "if I shall always stay with you in
the path of renunciation."
"Ah, no," I replied, "you will be forcibly taken away to your home, and
later you will marry."
Incredulous, he made a vehement protest. "Only if I am dead can I be
carried home." But in a few months, his parents arrived to take him away, in
spite of his tearful resistance; some years later, he did marry.
After answering many questions, I was addressed by a lad named Kashi.
He was about twelve years old, a brilliant student, and beloved by all.
"Sir," he said, "what will be my fate?"
"You shall soon be dead." The reply came from my lips with an irresistible
force.
This unexpected disclosure shocked and grieved me as well as everyone
present. Silently rebuking myself as an enfant terrible, I refused to answer
further questions.
On our return to the school, Kashi came to my room.
"If I die, will you find me when I am reborn, and bring me again to the
spiritual path?" He sobbed.
I felt constrained to refuse this difficult occult responsibility. But for weeks
afterward, Kashi pressed me doggedly. Seeing him unnerved to the breaking
point, I finally consoled him.
"Yes," I promised. "If the Heavenly Father lends His aid, I will try to find
you."
During the summer vacation, I started on a short trip. Regretting that I
could not take Kashi with me, I called him to my room before leaving, and
carefully instructed him to remain, against all persuasion, in the spiritual
vibrations of the school. Somehow I felt that if he did not go home, he might
avoid the impending calamity.
No sooner had I left than Kashi's father arrived in Ranchi. For fifteen days
he tried to break the will of his son, explaining that if Kashi would go to
Calcutta for only four days to see his mother, he could then return. Kashi
persistently refused. The father finally said he would take the boy away with
the help of the police. The threat disturbed Kashi, who was unwilling to be the
cause of any unfavorable publicity to the school. He saw no choice but to go.
I returned to Ranchi a few days later. When I heard how Kashi had been
removed, I entrained at once for Calcutta. There I engaged a horse cab. Very
strangely, as the vehicle passed beyond the Howrah bridge over the Ganges, I
beheld Kashi's father and other relatives in mourning clothes. Shouting to my
driver to stop, I rushed out and glared at the unfortunate father.
"Mr. Murderer," I cried somewhat unreasonably, "you have killed my
boy!"
The father had already realized the wrong he had done in forcibly bringing
Kashi to Calcutta. During the few days the boy had been there, he had eaten
contaminated food, contracted cholera, and passed on.
My love for Kashi, and the pledge to find him after death, night and day
haunted me. No matter where I went, his face loomed up before me. I began a
memorable search for him, even as long ago I had searched for my lost
mother.
 A group of delegates to the 1920 International Congress of Religious
Liberals at Boston, where I gave my maiden speech in America. (Left to right)
Rev. Clay MacCauley, Rev. T. Rhondda Williams, Prof. S. Ushigasaki, Rev.
Jabez T. Sunderland, myself, Rev. Chas. W. Wendte, Rev. Samuel A. Eliot,
Rev. Basil Martin, Rev. Christopher J. Street, Rev. Samuel M. Crothers.
I felt that inasmuch as God had given me the faculty of reason, I must
utilize it and tax my powers to the utmost in order to discover the subtle laws
by which I could know the boy's astral whereabouts. He was a soul vibrating
with unfulfilled desires, I realized-a mass of light floating somewhere amidst
millions of luminous souls in the astral regions. How was I to tune in with
him, among so many vibrating lights of other souls?
Using a secret yoga technique, I broadcasted my love to Kashi's soul
through the microphone of the spiritual eye, the inner point between the
eyebrows. With the antenna of upraised hands and fingers, I often turned
myself round and round, trying to locate the direction in which he had been
reborn as an embryo. I hoped to receive response from him in the
concentration-tuned radio of my heart.
I intuitively felt that Kashi would soon return to the earth, and that if I kept
unceasingly broadcasting my call to him, his soul would reply. I knew that the
slightest impulse sent by Kashi would be felt in my fingers, hands, arms,
spine, and nerves.
With undiminished zeal, I practiced the yoga method steadily for about six
months after Kashi's death. Walking with a few friends one morning in the
crowded Bowbazar section of Calcutta, I lifted my hands in the usual manner.
For the first time, there was response. I thrilled to detect electrical impulses
trickling down my fingers and palms. These currents translated themselves
into one overpowering thought from a deep recess of my consciousness: "I am
Kashi; I am Kashi; come to me!"
The thought became almost audible as I concentrated on my heart radio. In
the characteristic, slightly hoarse whisper of Kashi, I heard his summons again
and again. I seized the arm of one of my companions, Prokash Das, and smiled
at him joyfully.
"It looks as though I have located Kashi!"
I began to turn round and round, to the undisguised amusement of my
friends and the passing throng. The electrical impulses tingled through my
fingers only when I faced toward a near-by path, aptly named "Serpentine
Lane." The astral currents disappeared when I turned in other directions.
"Ah," I exclaimed, "Kashi's soul must be living in the womb of some
mother whose home is in this lane."
 My companions and I approached closer to Serpentine Lane; the vibrations
in my upraised hands grew stronger, more pronounced. As if by a magnet, I
was pulled toward the right side of the road. Reaching the entrance of a certain
house, I was astounded to find myself transfixed. I knocked at the door in a
state of intense excitement, holding my very breath. I felt that the successful
end had come for my long, arduous, and certainly unusual quest!
The door was opened by a servant, who told me her master was at home.
He descended the stairway from the second floor and smiled at me inquiringly.
I hardly knew how to frame my question, at once pertinent and impertinent.
"Please tell me, sir, if you and your wife have been expecting a child for
about six months?"
"Yes, it is so." Seeing that I was a swami, a renunciate attired in the
traditional orange cloth, he added politely, "Pray inform me how you know my
affairs."
When he heard about Kashi and the promise I had given, the astonished
man believed my story.
"A male child of fair complexion will be born to you," I told him. "He will
have a broad face, with a cowlick atop his forehead. His disposition will be
notably spiritual." I felt certain that the coming child would bear these
resemblances to Kashi.
Later I visited the child, whose parents had given him his old name of
Kashi. Even in infancy he was strikingly similar in appearance to my dear
Ranchi student. The child showed me an instantaneous affection; the attraction
of the past awoke with redoubled intensity.
Years later the teen-age boy wrote me, during my stay in America. He
explained his deep longing to follow the path of a renunciate. I directed him to
a Himalayan master who, to this day, guides the reborn Kashi.
The will, projected from the point between the eyebrows, is known by
yogis as the broadcasting apparatus of thought. When the feeling is calmly
concentrated on the heart, it acts as a mental radio, and can receive the
messages of others from far or near. In telepathy the fine vibrations of
thoughts in one person's mind are transmitted through the subtle vibrations of
astral ether and then through the grosser earthly ether, creating electrical
waves which, in turn, translate themselves into thought waves in the mind of
the other person.

CHAPTER: 29
 Rabindranath Tagore And I Compare Schools

"Rabindranath Tagore taught us to sing, as a natural form of self-

expression, like the birds."
Bhola Nath, a bright fourteen-year-old lad at my Ranchi school, gave me
this explanation after I had complimented him one morning on his melodious
outbursts. With or without provocation, the boy poured forth a tuneful stream.
He had previously attended the famous Tagore school of "Santiniketan"
(Haven of Peace) at Bolpur.
"The songs of Rabindranath have been on my lips since early youth," I told
my companion. "All Bengal, even the unlettered peasants, delights in his lofty
verse."
Bhola and I sang together a few refrains from Tagore, who has set to music
thousands of Indian poems, some original and others of hoary antiquity.
"I met Rabindranath soon after he had received the Nobel Prize for
literature," I remarked after our vocalizing. "I was drawn to visit him because I
admired his undiplomatic courage in disposing of his literary critics." I
chuckled.
Bhola curiously inquired the story.
"The scholars severely flayed Tagore for introducing a new style into
Bengali poetry," I began. "He mixed colloquial and classical expressions,
ignoring all the prescribed limitations dear to the pundits' hearts. His songs
embody deep philosophic truth in emotionally appealing terms, with little
regard for the accepted literary forms.
"One influential critic slightingly referred to Rabindranath as a 'pigeon-
poet who sold his cooings in print for a rupee.' But Tagore's revenge was at
hand; the whole Western world paid homage at his feet soon after he had
translated into English his Gitanjali ("Song Offerings"). A trainload of pundits,
including his one-time critics, went to Santiniketan to offer their
congratulations.
"Rabindranath received his guests only after an intentionally long delay,
and then heard their praise in stoic silence. Finally he turned against them their
own habitual weapons of criticism.
"'Gentlemen,' he said, 'the fragrant honors you here bestow are
incongruously mingled with the putrid odors of your past contempt. Is there
possibly any connection between my award of the Nobel Prize, and your
suddenly acute powers of appreciation? I am still the same poet who
displeased you when I first offered my humble flowers at the shrine of
Bengal.'
"The newspapers published an account of the bold chastisement given by
Tagore. I admired the outspoken words of a man unhypnotized by flattery," I
went on. "I was introduced to Rabindranath in Calcutta by his secretary, Mr. C.
F. Andrews, who was simply attired in a Bengali dhoti. He referred lovingly to
Tagore as his gurudeva.
"Rabindranath received me graciously. He emanated a soothing aura of
charm, culture, and courtliness. Replying to my question about his literary
background, Tagore told me that one ancient source of his inspiration, besides
our religious epics, had been the classical poet, Bidyapati."
Inspired by these memories, I began to sing Tagore's version of an old
Bengali song, "Light the Lamp of Thy Love." Bhola and I chanted joyously as
we strolled over the Vidyalaya grounds.
About two years after founding the Ranchi school, I received an invitation
from Rabindranath to visit him at Santiniketan in order to discuss our
educational ideals. I went gladly. The poet was seated in his study when I
entered; I thought then, as at our first meeting, that he was as striking a model
of superb manhood as any painter could desire. His beautifully chiseled face,
nobly patrician, was framed in long hair and flowing beard. Large, melting
eyes; an angelic smile; and a voice of flutelike quality which was literally
enchanting. Stalwart, tall, and grave, he combined an almost womanly
tenderness with the delightful spontaneity of a child. No idealized conception
of a poet could find more suitable embodiment than in this gentle singer.
Tagore and I were soon deep in a comparative study of our schools, both
founded along unorthodox lines. We discovered many identical features-
outdoor instruction, simplicity, ample scope for the child's creative spirit.
Rabindranath, however, laid considerable stress on the study of literature and
poetry, and the self-expression through music and song which I had already
noted in the case of Bhola. The Santiniketan children observed periods of
silence, but were given no special yoga training.
The poet listened with flattering attention to my description of the
energizing "Yogoda" exercises and the yoga concentration techniques which
are taught to all students at Ranchi.
Tagore told me of his own early educational struggles. "I fled from school
after the fifth grade," he said, laughing. I could readily understand how his
innate poetic delicacy had been affronted by the dreary, disciplinary
atmosphere of a schoolroom.
"That is why I opened Santiniketan under the shady trees and the glories of
the sky." He motioned eloquently to a little group studying in the beautiful
garden. "A child is in his natural setting amidst the flowers and songbirds.
Only thus may he fully express the hidden wealth of his individual
endowment. True education can never be crammed and pumped from without;
rather it must aid in bringing spontaneously to the surface the infinite hoards
of wisdom within."
I agreed. "The idealistic and hero-worshiping instincts of the young are
starved on an exclusive diet of statistics and chronological eras."
The poet spoke lovingly of his father, Devendranath, who had inspired the
Santiniketan beginnings.
"Father presented me with this fertile land, where he had already built a
guest house and temple," Rabindranath told me. "I started my educational
experiment here in 1901, with only ten boys. The eight thousand pounds
which came with the Nobel Prize all went for the upkeep of the school."
The elder Tagore, Devendranath, known far and wide as "Maharishi," was
a very remarkable man, as one may discover from his Autobiography. Two
years of his manhood were spent in meditation in the Himalayas. In turn, his
father, Dwarkanath Tagore, had been celebrated throughout Bengal for his
munificent public benefactions. From this illustrious tree has sprung a family
of geniuses. Not Rabindranath alone; all his relatives have distinguished
themselves in creative expression. His brothers, Gogonendra and Abanindra,
are among the foremost artists of India; another brother, Dwijendra, is a deep-
seeing philosopher, at whose gentle call the birds and woodland creatures
respond.
Rabindranath invited me to stay overnight in the guest house. It was indeed
a charming spectacle, in the evening, to see the poet seated with a group in the
patio. Time unfolded backward: the scene before me was like that of an
ancient hermitage-the joyous singer encircled by his devotees, all aureoled in
divine love. Tagore knitted each tie with the cords of harmony. Never
assertive, he drew and captured the heart by an irresistible magnetism. Rare
blossom of poesy blooming in the garden of the Lord, attracting others by a
natural fragrance!
In his melodious voice, Rabindranath read to us a few of his exquisite
poems, newly created. Most of his songs and plays, written for the delectation
of his students, have been composed at Santiniketan. The beauty of his lines,
to me, lies in his art of referring to God in nearly every stanza, yet seldom
mentioning the sacred Name. "Drunk with the bliss of singing," he wrote, "I
forget myself and call thee friend who art my lord."
The following day, after lunch, I bade the poet a reluctant farewell. I
rejoice that his little school has now grown to an international university,
"Viswa-Bharati," where scholars of all lands have found an ideal setting.
"Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high;
Where knowledge is free;
Where the world has not been broken up into fragments by
narrow domestic walls;
Where words come out from the depth of truth;
Where tireless striving stretches its arms toward perfection;
Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the
dreary desert sand of dead habit;
Where the mind is led forward by Thee into ever-widening
thought and action;
Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country
awake!"
RABINDRANATH TAGORE

CHAPTER: 30
The Law Of Miracles

The great novelist Leo Tolstoy wrote a delightful story, The Three Hermits.
His friend Nicholas Roerich has summarized the tale, as follows:
"On an island there lived three old hermits. They were so simple that the
only prayer they used was: 'We are three; Thou art Three-have mercy on us!'
Great miracles were manifested during this naive prayer.
"The local bishop came to hear about the three hermits and their
inadmissible prayer, and decided to visit them in order to teach them the
canonical invocations. He arrived on the island, told the hermits that their
heavenly petition was undignified, and taught them many of the customary
prayers. The bishop then left on a boat. He saw, following the ship, a radiant
light. As it approached, he discerned the three hermits, who were holding
hands and running upon the waves in an effort to overtake the vessel.
"'We have forgotten the prayers you taught us,' they cried as they reached
the bishop, 'and have hastened to ask you to repeat them.' The awed bishop
shook his head.
 "'Dear ones,' he replied humbly, 'continue to live with your old prayer!'"
How did the three saints walk on the water?
How did Christ resurrect his crucified body?
How did Lahiri Mahasaya and Sri Yukteswar perform their miracles?
Modern science has, as yet, no answer; though with the advent of the
atomic bomb and the wonders of radar, the scope of the world-mind has been
abruptly enlarged. The word "impossible" is becoming less prominent in the
scientific vocabulary.
The ancient Vedic scriptures declare that the physical world operates under
one fundamental law of maya, the principle of relativity and duality. God, the
Sole Life, is an Absolute Unity; He cannot appear as the separate and diverse
manifestations of a creation except under a false or unreal veil. That cosmic
illusion is maya. Every great scientific discovery of modern times has served
as a confirmation of this simple pronouncement of the rishis.
Newton's Law of Motion is a law of maya: "To every action there is always
an equal and contrary reaction; the mutual actions of any two bodies are
always equal and oppositely directed." Action and reaction are thus exactly
equal. "To have a single force is impossible. There must be, and always is, a
pair of forces equal and opposite."
Fundamental natural activities all betray their mayic origin. Electricity, for
example, is a phenomenon of repulsion and attraction; its electrons and
protons are electrical opposites. Another example: the atom or final particle of
matter is, like the earth itself, a magnet with positive and negative poles. The
entire phenomenal world is under the inexorable sway of polarity; no law of
physics, chemistry, or any other science is ever found free from inherent
opposite or contrasted principles.
Physical science, then, cannot formulate laws outside of maya, the very
texture and structure of creation. Nature herself is maya; natural science must
perforce deal with her ineluctable quiddity. In her own domain, she is eternal
and inexhaustible; future scientists can do no more than probe one aspect after
another of her varied infinitude. Science thus remains in a perpetual flux,
unable to reach finality; fit indeed to formulate the laws of an already existing
and functioning cosmos, but powerless to detect the Law Framer and Sole
Operator. The majestic manifestations of gravitation and electricity have
become known, but what gravitation and electricity are, no mortal knoweth.
Forest hermitages were the ancient seats of learning, secular and divine, for
the youth of India. Here a venerable guru, leaning on a wooden meditation
elbow-prop, is initiating his disciple into the august mysteries of Spirit.
 To surmount maya was the task assigned to the human race by the
millennial prophets. To rise above the duality of creation and perceive the
unity of the Creator was conceived of as man's highest goal. Those who cling
to the cosmic illusion must accept its essential law of polarity: flow and ebb,
rise and fall, day and night, pleasure and pain, good and evil, birth and death.
This cyclic pattern assumes a certain anguishing monotony, after man has
gone through a few thousand human births; he begins to cast a hopeful eye
beyond the compulsions of maya.
To tear the veil of maya is to pierce the secret of creation. The yogi who
thus denudes the universe is the only true monotheist. All others are
worshiping heathen images. So long as man remains subject to the dualistic
delusions of nature, the Janus-faced Maya is his goddess; he cannot know the
one true God.
The world illusion, maya, is individually called avidya, literally, "not-
knowledge," ignorance, delusion. Maya or avidya can never be destroyed
through intellectual conviction or analysis, but solely through attaining the
interior state of nirbikalpa samadhi. The Old Testament prophets, and seers of
all lands and ages, spoke from that state of consciousness. Ezekiel says (43:1-
2): "Afterwards he brought me to the gate, even the gate that looketh toward
the east: and, behold, the glory of the God of Israel came from the way of the
east: and his voice was like a noise of many waters: and the earth shined with
his glory." Through the divine eye in the forehead (east), the yogi sails his
consciousness into omnipresence, hearing the Word or Aum, divine sound of
many waters or vibrations which is the sole reality of creation.
Among the trillion mysteries of the cosmos, the most phenomenal is light.
Unlike sound-waves, whose transmission requires air or other material media,
light-waves pass freely through the vacuum of interstellar space. Even the
hypothetical ether, held as the interplanetary medium of light in the undulatory
theory, can be discarded on the Einsteinian grounds that the geometrical
properties of space render the theory of ether unnecessary. Under either
hypothesis, light remains the most subtle, the freest from material dependence,
of any natural manifestation.
In the gigantic conceptions of Einstein, the velocity of light-186,000 miles
per second-dominates the whole Theory of Relativity. He proves
mathematically that the velocity of light is, so far as man's finite mind is
concerned, the only constant in a universe of unstayable flux. On the sole
absolute of light-velocity depend all human standards of time and space. Not
abstractly eternal as hitherto considered, time and space are relative and finite
factors, deriving their measurement validity only in reference to the yardstick
of light-velocity. In joining space as a dimensional relativity, time has
surrendered age- old claims to a changeless value. Time is now stripped to its
rightful nature-a simple essence of ambiguity! With a few equational strokes
of his pen, Einstein has banished from the cosmos every fixed reality except
that of light.
In a later development, his Unified Field Theory, the great physicist
embodies in one mathematical formula the laws of gravitation and of
electromagnetism. Reducing the cosmical structure to variations on a single
law, Einstein reaches across the ages to the rishis who proclaimed a sole
texture of creation-that of a protean maya.
On the epochal Theory of Relativity have arisen the mathematical
possibilities of exploring the ultimate atom. Great scientists are now boldly
asserting not only that the atom is energy rather than matter, but that atomic
energy is essentially mind-stuff.
"The frank realization that physical science is concerned with a world of
shadows is one of the most significant advances," Sir Arthur Stanley
Eddington writes in The Nature Of The Physical World. "In the world of
physics we watch a shadowgraph performance of the drama of familiar life.
The shadow of my elbow rests on the shadow table as the shadow ink flows
over the shadow paper. It is all symbolic, and as a symbol the physicist leaves
it. Then comes the alchemist Mind who transmutes the symbols. . . . To put the
conclusion crudely, the stuff of the world is mind-stuff. . . . The realistic matter
and fields of force of former physical theory are altogether irrelevant except in
so far as the mind-stuff has itself spun these imaginings. . . . The external
world has thus become a world of shadows. In removing our illusions we have
removed the substance, for indeed we have seen that substance is one of the
greatest of our illusions."
With the recent discovery of the electron microscope came definite proof
of the light-essence of atoms and of the inescapable duality of nature. The
New York Times gave the following report of a 1937 demonstration of the
electron microscope before a meeting of the American Association for the
Advancement of Science:
"The crystalline structure of tungsten, hitherto known only indirectly by
means of X-rays, stood outlined boldly on a fluorescent screen, showing nine
atoms in their correct positions in the space lattice, a cube, with one atom in
each corner and one in the center. The atoms in the crystal lattice of the
tungsten appeared on the fluorescent screen as points of light, arranged in
geometric pattern. Against this crystal cube of light the bombarding molecules
of air could be observed as dancing points of light, similar to points of sunlight
shimmering on moving waters. . . .
"The principle of the electron microscope was first discovered in 1927 by
Drs. Clinton J. Davisson and Lester H. Germer of the Bell Telephone
Laboratories, New York City, who found that the electron had a dual
personality partaking of the characteristic of both a particle and a wave. The
wave quality gave the electron the characteristic of light, and a search was
begun to devise means for 'focusing' electrons in a manner similar to the
focusing of light by means of a lens.
"For his discovery of the Jekyll-Hyde quality of the electron, which
corroborated the prediction made in 1924 by De Broglie, French Nobel Prize
winning physicist, and showed that the entire realm of physical nature had a
dual personality, Dr. Davisson also received the Nobel Prize in physics."
"The stream of knowledge," Sir James Jeans writes in The Mysterious
Universe, "is heading towards a non-mechanical reality; the universe begins to
look more like a great thought than like a great machine." Twentieth-century
science is thus sounding like a page from the hoary Vedas.
From science, then, if it must be so, let man learn the philosophic truth that
there is no material universe; its warp and woof is maya, illusion. Its mirages
of reality all break down under analysis. As one by one the reassuring props of
a physical cosmos crash beneath him, man dimly perceives his idolatrous
reliance, his past transgression of the divine command: "Thou shalt have no
other gods before Me."
In his famous equation outlining the equivalence of mass and energy,
Einstein proved that the energy in any particle of matter is equal to its mass or
weight multiplied by the square of the velocity of light. The release of the
atomic energies is brought about through the annihilation of the material
particles. The "death" of matter has been the "birth" of an Atomic Age.
Light-velocity is a mathematical standard or constant not because there is
an absolute value in 186,000 miles a second, but because no material body,
whose mass increases with its velocity, can ever attain the velocity of light.
Stated another way: only a material body whose mass is infinite could equal
the velocity of light.
This Conception Brings Us To The Law Of Miracles.
The masters who are able to materialize and dematerialize their bodies or
any other object, and to move with the velocity of light, and to utilize the
creative light-rays in bringing into instant visibility any physical
manifestation, have fulfilled the necessary Einsteinian condition: their mass is
infinite.
The consciousness of a perfected yogi is effortlessly identified, not with a
narrow body, but with the universal structure. Gravitation, whether the "force"
of Newton or the Einsteinian "manifestation of inertia," is powerless to compel
a master to exhibit the property of "weight" which is the distinguishing
gravitational condition of all material objects. He who knows himself as the
omnipresent Spirit is subject no longer to the rigidities of a body in time and
space. Their imprisoning "rings-pass-not" have yielded to the solvent: "I am
He."
"Fiat lux! And there was light." God's first command to His ordered
creation (Genesis 1:3) brought into being the only atomic reality: light. On the
beams of this immaterial medium occur all divine manifestations. Devotees of
every age testify to the appearance of God as flame and light. "The King of
kings, and Lord of lords; who only hath immortality, dwelling in the light
which no man can approach unto."
A yogi who through perfect meditation has merged his consciousness with
the Creator perceives the cosmical essence as light; to him there is no
difference between the light rays composing water and the light rays
composing land. Free from matter-consciousness, free from the three
dimensions of space and the fourth dimension of time, a master transfers his
body of light with equal ease over the light rays of earth, water, fire, or air.
Long concentration on the liberating spiritual eye has enabled the yogi to
destroy all delusions concerning matter and its gravitational weight;
thenceforth he sees the universe as an essentially undifferentiated mass of
light.
"Optical images," Dr. L. T. Troland of Harvard tells us, "are built up on the
same principle as the ordinary 'half-tone' engravings; that is, they are made up
of minute dottings or stripplings far too small to be detected by the eye. . . .
The sensitiveness of the retina is so great that a visual sensation can be
produced by relatively few Quanta of the right kind of light." Through a
master's divine knowledge of light phenomena, he can instantly project into
perceptible manifestation the ubiquitous light atoms. The actual form of the
projection-whether it be a tree, a medicine, a human body-is in conformance
with a yogi's powers of will and of visualization.
In man's dream-consciousness, where he has loosened in sleep his clutch
on the egoistic limitations that daily hem him round, the omnipotence of his
mind has a nightly demonstration. Lo! there in the dream stand the long-dead
friends, the remotest continents, the resurrected scenes of his childhood. With
that free and unconditioned consciousness, known to all men in the
phenomena of dreams, the God- tuned master has forged a never-severed link.
Innocent of all personal motives, and employing the creative will bestowed on
him by the Creator, a yogi rearranges the light atoms of the universe to satisfy
any sincere prayer of a devotee. For this purpose were man and creation made:
that he should rise up as master of maya, knowing his dominion over the
cosmos.
 "And God said, Let us make man in our image, after our likeness: and let
them have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and
over the cattle, and over all the earth, and over every creeping thing that
creepeth upon the earth."
In 1915, shortly after I had entered the Swami Order, I witnessed a vision
of violent contrasts. In it the relativity of human consciousness was vividly
established; I clearly perceived the unity of the Eternal Light behind the
painful dualities of maya. The vision descended on me as I sat one morning in
my little attic room in Father's Gurpar Road home. For months World War I
had been raging in Europe; I reflected sadly on the vast toll of death.
As I closed my eyes in meditation, my consciousness was suddenly
transferred to the body of a captain in command of a battleship. The thunder of
guns split the air as shots were exchanged between shore batteries and the
ship's cannons. A huge shell hit the powder magazine and tore my ship
asunder. I jumped into the water, together with the few sailors who had
survived the explosion.
Heart pounding, I reached the shore safely. But alas! a stray bullet ended
its furious flight in my chest. I fell groaning to the ground. My whole body
was paralyzed, yet I was aware of possessing it as one is conscious of a leg
gone to sleep.
"At last the mysterious footstep of Death has caught up with me," I
thought. With a final sigh, I was about to sink into unconsciousness when lo! I
found myself seated in the lotus posture in my Gurpar Road room.
Hysterical tears poured forth as I joyfully stroked and pinched my regained
possession-a body free from any bullet hole in the breast. I rocked to and fro,
inhaling and exhaling to assure myself that I was alive. Amidst these self-
congratulations, again I found my consciousness transferred to the captain's
dead body by the gory shore. Utter confusion of mind came upon me.
"Lord," I prayed, "am I dead or alive?"
A dazzling play of light filled the whole horizon. A soft rumbling vibration
formed itself into words:
"What has life or death to do with Light? In the image of My Light I have
made you. The relativities of life and death belong to the cosmic dream.
Behold your dreamless being! Awake, my child, awake!"
As steps in man's awakening, the Lord inspires scientists to discover, at the
right time and place, the secrets of His creation. Many modern discoveries
help men to apprehend the cosmos as a varied expression of one power-light,
guided by divine intelligence. The wonders of the motion picture, of radio, of
television, of radar, of the photo- electric cell-the all-seeing "electric eye," of
atomic energies, are all based on the electromagnetic phenomenon of light.
The motion picture art can portray any miracle. From the impressive visual
standpoint, no marvel is barred to trick photography. A man's transparent astral
body can be seen rising from his gross physical form, he can walk on the
water, resurrect the dead, reverse the natural sequence of developments, and
play havoc with time and space. Assembling the light images as he pleases,
the photographer achieves optical wonders which a true master produces with
actual light rays.
The lifelike images of the motion picture illustrate many truths concerning
creation. The Cosmic Director has written His own plays, and assembled the
tremendous casts for the pageant of the centuries. From the dark booth of
eternity, He pours His creative beam through the films of successive ages, and
the pictures are thrown on the screen of space. Just as the motion-picture
images appear to be real, but are only combinations of light and shade, so is
the universal variety a delusive seeming. The planetary spheres, with their
countless forms of life, are naught but figures in a cosmic motion picture,
temporarily true to five sense perceptions as the scenes are cast on the screen
of man's consciousness by the infinite creative beam.
A cinema audience can look up and see that all screen images are
appearing through the instrumentality of one imageless beam of light. The
colorful universal drama is similarly issuing from the single white light of a
Cosmic Source. With inconceivable ingenuity God is staging an entertainment
for His human children, making them actors as well as audience in His
planetary theater.
One day I entered a motion picture house to view a newsreel of the
European battlefields. World War I was still being waged in the West; the
newsreel recorded the carnage with such realism that I left the theater with a
troubled heart.
"Lord," I prayed, "why dost Thou permit such suffering?"
To my intense surprise, an instant answer came in the form of a vision of
the actual European battlefields. The horror of the struggle, filled with the
dead and dying, far surpassed in ferocity any representation of the newsreel.
"Look intently!" A gentle voice spoke to my inner consciousness. "You
will see that these scenes now being enacted in France are nothing but a play
of chiaroscuro. They are the cosmic motion picture, as real and as unreal as the
theater newsreel you have just seen-a play within a play."
My heart was still not comforted. The divine voice went on: "Creation is
light and shadow both, else no picture is possible. The good and evil of maya
must ever alternate in supremacy. If joy were ceaseless here in this world,
would man ever seek another? Without suffering he scarcely cares to recall
that he has forsaken his eternal home. Pain is a prod to remembrance. The way
of escape is through wisdom! The tragedy of death is unreal; those who
shudder at it are like an ignorant actor who dies of fright on the stage when
nothing more is fired at him than a blank cartridge. My sons are the children of
light; they will not sleep forever in delusion."
Although I had read scriptural accounts of maya, they had not given me the
deep insight that came with the personal visions and their accompanying
words of consolation. One's values are profoundly changed when he is finally
convinced that creation is only a vast motion picture, and that not in it, but
beyond it, lies his own reality.
As I finished writing this chapter, I sat on my bed in the lotus posture. My
room was dimly lit by two shaded lamps. Lifting my gaze, I noticed that the
ceiling was dotted with small mustard-colored lights, scintillating and
quivering with a radiumlike luster. Myriads of pencilled rays, like sheets of
rain, gathered into a transparent shaft and poured silently upon me.
At once my physical body lost its grossness and became metamorphosed
into astral texture. I felt a floating sensation as, barely touching the bed, the
weightless body shifted slightly and alternately to left and right. I looked
around the room; the furniture and walls were as usual, but the little mass of
light had so multiplied that the ceiling was invisible. I was wonder-struck.
"This is the cosmic motion picture mechanism." A voice spoke as though
from within the light. "Shedding its beam on the white screen of your bed
sheets, it is producing the picture of your body. Behold, your form is nothing
but light!"
I gazed at my arms and moved them back and forth, yet could not feel their
weight. An ecstatic joy overwhelmed me. This cosmic stem of light,
blossoming as my body, seemed a divine replica of the light beams streaming
out of the projection booth in a cinema house and manifesting as pictures on
the screen.
For a long time I experienced this motion picture of my body in the dimly
lighted theater of my own bedroom. Despite the many visions I have had, none
was ever more singular. As my illusion of a solid body was completely
dissipated, and my realization deepened that the essence of all objects is light,
I looked up to the throbbing stream of lifetrons and spoke entreatingly.
"Divine Light, please withdraw this, my humble bodily picture, into
Thyself, even as Elijah was drawn up to heaven by a flame."
This prayer was evidently startling; the beam disappeared. My body
resumed its normal weight and sank on the bed; the swarm of dazzling ceiling
lights flickered and vanished. My time to leave this earth had apparently not
arrived.
"Besides," I thought philosophically, "the prophet Elijah might well be
displeased at my presumption!"

CHAPTER: 31
An Interview With The Sacred Mother

"Reverend Mother, I was baptized in infancy by your prophet-husband. He

was the guru of my parents and of my own guru Sri Yukteswarji. Will you
therefore give me the privilege of hearing a few incidents in your sacred life?"
I was addressing Srimati Kashi Moni, the life-companion of Lahiri
Mahasaya. Finding myself in Benares for a short period, I was fulfilling a
long-felt desire to visit the venerable lady. She received me graciously at the
old Lahiri homestead in the Garudeswar Mohulla section of Benares.
Although aged, she was blooming like a lotus, silently emanating a spiritual
fragrance. She was of medium build, with a slender neck and fair skin. Large,
lustrous eyes softened her motherly face.
"Son, you are welcome here. Come upstairs."
Kashi Moni led the way to a very small room where, for a time, she had
lived with her husband. I felt honored to witness the shrine in which the
peerless master had condescended to play the human drama of matrimony. The
gentle lady motioned me to a pillow seat by her side.
"It was years before I came to realize the divine stature of my husband,"
she began. "One night, in this very room, I had a vivid dream. Glorious angels
floated in unimaginable grace above me. So realistic was the sight that I
awoke at once; the room was strangely enveloped in dazzling light.
"My husband, in lotus posture, was levitated in the center of the room,
surrounded by angels who were worshiping him with the supplicating dignity
of palm-folded hands. Astonished beyond measure, I was convinced that I was
still dreaming.
"'Woman,' Lahiri Mahasaya said, 'you are not dreaming. Forsake your
sleep forever and forever.' As he slowly descended to the floor, I prostrated
myself at his feet.
"'Master,' I cried, 'again and again I bow before you! Will you pardon me
for having considered you as my husband? I die with shame to realize that I
have remained asleep in ignorance by the side of one who is divinely
awakened. From this night, you are no longer my husband, but my guru. Will
you accept my insignificant self as your disciple?'
"The master touched me gently. 'Sacred soul, arise. You are accepted.' He
motioned toward the angels. 'Please bow in turn to each of these holy saints.'
"When I had finished my humble genuflections, the angelic voices
sounded together, like a chorus from an ancient scripture.
"'Consort of the Divine One, thou art blessed. We salute thee.' They bowed
at my feet and lo! their refulgent forms vanished. The room darkened.
"My guru asked me to receive initiation into Kriya Yoga.
"'Of course,' I responded. 'I am sorry not to have had its blessing earlier in
my life.'
"'The time was not ripe.' Lahiri Mahasaya smiled consolingly. 'Much of
your karma I have silently helped you to work out. Now you are willing and
ready.'
"He touched my forehead. Masses of whirling light appeared; the radiance
gradually formed itself into the opal-blue spiritual eye, ringed in gold and
centered with a white pentagonal star.
"'Penetrate your consciousness through the star into the kingdom of the
Infinite.' My guru's voice had a new note, soft like distant music.
"Vision after vision broke as oceanic surf on the shores of my soul. The
panoramic spheres finally melted in a sea of bliss. I lost myself in ever-surging
blessedness. When I returned hours later to awareness of this world, the master
gave me the technique of Kriya Yoga.
"From that night on, Lahiri Mahasaya never slept in my room again. Nor,
thereafter, did he ever sleep. He remained in the front room downstairs, in the
company of his disciples both by day and by night."
The illustrious lady fell into silence. Realizing the uniqueness of her
relationship with the sublime yogi, I finally ventured to ask for further
reminiscences.
"Son, you are greedy. Nevertheless you shall have one more story." She
smiled shyly. "I will confess a sin which I committed against my guru-
husband. Some months after my initiation, I began to feel forlorn and
neglected. One morning Lahiri Mahasaya entered this little room to fetch an
article; I quickly followed him. Overcome by violent delusion, I addressed
him scathingly.
 "'You spend all your time with the disciples. What about your
responsibilities for your wife and children? I regret that you do not interest
yourself in providing more money for the family.'
"The master glanced at me for a moment, then lo! he was gone. Awed and
frightened, I heard a voice resounding from every part of the room:
"'It is all nothing, don't you see? How could a nothing like me produce
riches for you?'
"'Guruji,' I cried, 'I implore pardon a million times! My sinful eyes can see
you no more; please appear in your sacred form.'
"'I am here.' This reply came from above me. I looked up and saw the
master materialize in the air, his head touching the ceiling. His eyes were like
blinding flames. Beside myself with fear, I lay sobbing at his feet after he had
quietly descended to the floor.
"'Woman,' he said, 'seek divine wealth, not the paltry tinsel of earth. After
acquiring inward treasure, you will find that outward supply is always
forthcoming.' He added, 'One of my spiritual sons will make provision for
you.'
"My guru's words naturally came true; a disciple did leave a considerable
sum for our family."
I thanked Kashi Moni for sharing with me her wondrous experiences. On
the following day I returned to her home and enjoyed several hours of
philosophical discussion with Tincouri and Ducouri Lahiri. These two saintly
sons of India's great yogi followed closely in his ideal footsteps. Both men
were fair, tall, stalwart, and heavily bearded, with soft voices and an old-
fashioned charm of manner.
His wife was not the only woman disciple of Lahiri Mahasaya; there were
hundreds of others, including my mother. A woman chela once asked the guru
for his photograph. He handed her a print, remarking, "If you deem it a
protection, then it is so; otherwise it is only a picture."
A few days later this woman and Lahiri Mahasaya's daughter-in-law
happened to be studying the Bhagavad Gita at a table behind which hung the
guru's photograph. An electrical storm broke out with great fury.
"Lahiri Mahasaya, protect us!" The women bowed before the picture.
Lightning struck the book which they had been reading, but the two devotees
were unhurt.
"I felt as though a sheet of ice had been placed around me to ward off the
scorching heat," the chela explained.
 Lahiri Mahasaya performed two miracles in connection with a woman
disciple, Abhoya. She and her husband, a Calcutta lawyer, started one day for
Benares to visit the guru. Their carriage was delayed by heavy traffic; they
reached the Howrah main station only to hear the Benares train whistling for
departure.
Abhoya, near the ticket office, stood quietly.
"Lahiri Mahasaya, I beseech thee to stop the train!" she silently prayed. "I
cannot suffer the pangs of delay in waiting another day to see thee."
The wheels of the snorting train continued to move round and round, but
there was no onward progress. The engineer and passengers descended to the
platform to view the phenomenon. An English railroad guard approached
Abhoya and her husband. Contrary to all precedent, he volunteered his
services.
"Babu," he said, "give me the money. I will buy your tickets while you get
aboard."
As soon as the couple was seated and had received the tickets, the train
slowly moved forward. In panic, the engineer and passengers clambered again
to their places, knowing neither how the train started, nor why it had stopped
in the first place.
Arriving at the home of Lahiri Mahasaya in Benares, Abhoya silently
prostrated herself before the master, and tried to touch his feet.
"Compose yourself, Abhoya," he remarked. "How you love to bother me!
As if you could not have come here by the next train!"
Abhoya visited Lahiri Mahasaya on another memorable occasion. This
time she wanted his intercession, not with a train, but with the stork.
"I pray you to bless me that my ninth child may live," she said. "Eight
babies have been born to me; all died soon after birth."
The master smiled sympathetically. "Your coming child will live. Please
follow my instructions carefully. The baby, a girl, will be born at night. See
that the oil lamp is kept burning until dawn. Do not fall asleep and thus allow
the light to become extinguished."
Abhoya's child was a daughter, born at night, exactly as foreseen by the
omniscient guru. The mother instructed her nurse to keep the lamp filled with
oil. Both women kept the urgent vigil far into the early morning hours, but
finally fell asleep. The lamp oil was almost gone; the light flickered feebly.
The bedroom door unlatched and flew open with a violent sound. The
startled women awoke. Their astonished eyes beheld the form of Lahiri
Mahasaya.
"Abhoya, behold, the light is almost gone!" He pointed to the lamp, which
the nurse hastened to refill. As soon as it burned again brightly, the master
vanished. The door closed; the latch was affixed without visible agency.
Abhoya's ninth child survived; in 1935, when I made inquiry, she was still
living.
One of Lahiri Mahasaya's disciples, the venerable Kali Kumar Roy, related
to me many fascinating details of his life with the master.
"I was often a guest at his Benares home for weeks at a time," Roy told
me. "I observed that many saintly figures, danda swamis, arrived in the quiet
of night to sit at the guru's feet. Sometimes they would engage in discussion of
meditational and philosophical points. At dawn the exalted guests would
depart. I found during my visits that Lahiri Mahasaya did not once lie down to
sleep.
"During an early period of my association with the master, I had to contend
with the opposition of my employer," Roy went on. "He was steeped in
materialism.
"'I don't want religious fanatics on my staff,' he would sneer. 'If I ever meet
your charlatan guru, I shall give him some words to remember.'
"This alarming threat failed to interrupt my regular program; I spent nearly
every evening in my guru's presence. One night my employer followed me and
rushed rudely into the parlor. He was doubtless fully bent on uttering the
pulverizing remarks he had promised. No sooner had the man seated himself
than Lahiri Mahasaya addressed the little group of about twelve disciples.
"'Would you all like to see a picture?'
"When we nodded, he asked us to darken the room. 'Sit behind one another
in a circle,' he said, 'and place your hands over the eyes of the man in front of
you.'
"I was not surprised to see that my employer also was following, albeit
unwillingly, the master's directions. In a few minutes Lahiri Mahasaya asked
us what we were seeing.
"'Sir,' I replied, 'a beautiful woman appears. She wears a red- bordered sari,
and stands near an elephant-ear plant.' All the other disciples gave the same
description. The master turned to my employer. 'Do you recognize that
woman?'
"'Yes.' The man was evidently struggling with emotions new to his nature.
'I have been foolishly spending my money on her, though I have a good wife. I
am ashamed of the motives which brought me here. Will you forgive me, and
receive me as a disciple?'
"'If you lead a good moral life for six months, I shall accept you.' The
master enigmatically added, 'Otherwise I won't have to initiate you.'
"For three months my employer refrained from temptation; then he
resumed his former relationship with the woman. Two months later he died.
Thus I came to understand my guru's veiled prophecy about the improbability
of the man's initiation."
Lahiri Mahasaya had a very famous friend, Swami Trailanga, who was
reputed to be over three hundred years old. The two yogis often sat together in
meditation. Trailanga's fame is so widespread that few Hindus would deny the
possibility of truth in any story of his astounding miracles. If Christ returned to
earth and walked the streets of New York, displaying his divine powers, it
would cause the same excitement that was created by Trailanga decades ago as
he passed through the crowded lanes of Benares.
On many occasions the swami was seen to drink, with no ill effect, the
most deadly poisons. Thousands of people, including a few who are still
living, have seen Trailanga floating on the Ganges. For days together he would
sit on top of the water, or remain hidden for very long periods under the
waves. A common sight at the Benares bathing ghats was the swami's
motionless body on the blistering stone slabs, wholly exposed to the merciless
Indian sun. By these feats Trailanga sought to teach men that a yogi's life does
not depend upon oxygen or ordinary conditions and precautions. Whether he
were above water or under it, and whether or not his body lay exposed to the
fierce solar rays, the master proved that he lived by divine consciousness:
death could not touch him.
The yogi was great not only spiritually, but physically. His weight
exceeded three hundred pounds: a pound for each year of his life! As he ate
very seldom, the mystery is increased. A master, however, easily ignores all
usual rules of health, when he desires to do so for some special reason, often a
subtle one known only to himself. Great saints who have awakened from the
cosmic mayic dream and realized this world as an idea in the Divine Mind,
can do as they wish with the body, knowing it to be only a manipulatable form
of condensed or frozen energy. Though physical scientists now understand that
matter is nothing but congealed energy, fully-illumined masters have long
passed from theory to practice in the field of matter-control.
Trailanga always remained completely nude. The harassed police of
Benares came to regard him as a baffling problem child. The natural swami,
like the early Adam in the garden of Eden, was utterly unconscious of his
nakedness. The police were quite conscious of it, however, and
unceremoniously committed him to jail. General embarrassment ensued; the
enormous body of Trailanga was soon seen, in its usual entirety, on the prison
roof. His cell, still securely locked, offered no clue to his mode of escape.
The discouraged officers of the law once more performed their duty. This
time a guard was posted before the swami's cell. Might again retired before
right. Trailanga was soon observed in his nonchalant stroll over the roof.
Justice is blind; the outwitted police decided to follow her example.
The great yogi preserved a habitual silence. In spite of his round face and
huge, barrel-like stomach, Trailanga ate only occasionally. After weeks
without food, he would break his fast with potfuls of clabbered milk offered to
him by devotees. A skeptic once determined to expose Trailanga as a
charlatan. A large bucket of calcium-lime mixture, used in whitewashing
walls, was placed before the swami.
"Master," the materialist said, in mock reverence, "I have brought you
some clabbered milk. Please drink it."
Trailanga unhesitatingly drained, to the last drop, the containerful of
burning lime. In a few minutes the evildoer fell to the ground in agony.
"Help, swami, help!" he cried. "I am on fire! Forgive my wicked test!"
The great yogi broke his habitual silence. "Scoffer," he said, "you did not
realize when you offered me poison that my life is one with your own. Except
for my knowledge that God is present in my stomach, as in every atom of
creation, the lime would have killed me. Now that you know the divine
meaning of boomerang, never again play tricks on anyone."
The well-purged sinner, healed by Trailanga's words, slunk feebly away.
The reversal of pain was not due to any volition of the master, but came
about through unerring application of the law of justice which upholds
creation's farthest swinging orb. Men of God-realization like Trailanga allow
the divine law to operate instantaneously; they have banished forever all
thwarting crosscurrents of ego.
The automatic adjustments of righteousness, often paid in an unexpected
coin as in the case of Trailanga and his would be murderer, assuage our hasty
indignance at human injustice. "Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the
Lord." What need for man's brief resources? the universe duly conspires for
retribution. Dull minds discredit the possibility of divine justice, love,
omniscience, immortality. "Airy scriptural conjectures!" This insensitive
viewpoint, aweless before the cosmic spectacle, arouses a train of events
which brings its own awakening.
The omnipotence of spiritual law was referred to by Christ on the occasion
of his triumphant entry into Jerusalem. As the disciples and the multitude
shouted for joy, and cried, "Peace in heaven, and glory in the highest," certain
Pharisees complained of the undignified spectacle. "Master," they protested,
"rebuke thy disciples."
"I tell you," Jesus replied, "that, if these should hold their peace, the stones
would immediately cry out."
In this reprimand to the Pharisees, Christ was pointing out that divine
justice is no figurative abstraction, and that a man of peace, though his tongue
be torn from its roots, will yet find his speech and his defense in the bedrock
of creation, the universal order itself.
"Think you," Jesus was saying, "to silence men of peace? As well may you
hope to throttle the voice of God, whose very stones sing His glory and His
omnipresence. Will you demand that men not celebrate in honor of the peace
in heaven, but should only gather together in multitudes to shout for war on
earth? Then make your preparations, O Pharisees, to overtopple the
foundations of the world; for it is not gentle men alone, but stones or earth,
and water and fire and air that will rise up against you, to bear witness of His
ordered harmony."
The grace of the Christlike yogi, Trailanga, was once bestowed on my sajo
mama (maternal uncle). One morning Uncle saw the master surrounded by a
crowd of devotees at a Benares ghat. He managed to edge his way close to
Trailanga, whose feet he touched humbly. Uncle was astonished to find
himself instantly freed from a painful chronic disease.
The only known living disciple of the great yogi is a woman, Shankari Mai
Jiew. Daughter of one of Trailanga's disciples, she received the swami's
training from her early childhood. She lived for forty years in a series of
lonely Himalayan caves near Badrinath, Kedarnath, Amarnath, and
Pasupatinath. The brahmacharini (woman ascetic), born in 1826, is now well
over the century mark. Not aged in appearance, however, she has retained her
black hair, sparkling teeth, and amazing energy. She comes out of her
seclusion every few years to attend the periodical melas or religious fairs.
This woman saint often visited Lahiri Mahasaya. She has related that one
day, in the Barackpur section near Calcutta, while she was sitting by Lahiri
Mahasaya's side, his great guru Babaji quietly entered the room and held
converse with them both.
On one occasion her master Trailanga, forsaking his usual silence, honored
Lahiri Mahasaya very pointedly in public. A Benares disciple objected.
"Sir," he said, "why do you, a swami and a renunciate, show such respect
to a householder?"
 "My son," Trailanga replied, "Lahiri Mahasaya is like a divine kitten,
remaining wherever the Cosmic Mother has placed him. While dutifully
playing the part of a worldly man, he has received that perfect self- realization
for which I have renounced even my loincloth!"

CHAPTER: 32
Rama Is Raised From The Dead

"Now a certain man was sick, named Lazarus. . . . When Jesus heard that,
he said, This sickness is not unto death, but for the glory of God, that the Son
of God might be glorified thereby.'"
Sri Yukteswar was expounding the Christian scriptures one sunny morning
on the balcony of his Serampore hermitage. Besides a few of Master's other
disciples, I was present with a small group of my Ranchi students.
"In this passage Jesus calls himself the Son of God. Though he was truly
united with God, his reference here has a deep impersonal significance," my
guru explained. "The Son of God is the Christ or Divine Consciousness in
man. No mortal can glorify God. The only honor that man can pay his Creator
is to seek Him; man cannot glorify an Abstraction that he does not know. The
'glory' or nimbus around the head of the saints is a symbolic witness of their
capacity to render divine homage."
Sri Yukteswar went on to read the marvelous story of Lazarus' resurrection.
At its conclusion Master fell into a long silence, the sacred book open on his
knee.
"I too was privileged to behold a similar miracle." My guru finally spoke
with solemn unction. "Lahiri Mahasaya resurrected one of my friends from the
dead."
The young lads at my side smiled with keen interest. There was enough of
the boy in me, too, to enjoy not only the philosophy but, in particular, any
story I could get Sri Yukteswar to relate about his wondrous experiences with
his guru.
"My friend Rama and I were inseparable," Master began. "Because he was
shy and reclusive, he chose to visit our guru Lahiri Mahasaya only during the
hours of midnight and dawn, when the crowd of daytime disciples was absent.
As Rama's closest friend, I served as a spiritual vent through which he let out
the wealth of his spiritual perceptions. I found inspiration in his ideal
companionship." My guru's face softened with memories.
 "Rama was suddenly put to a severe test," Sri Yukteswar continued. "He
contracted the disease of Asiatic cholera. As our master never objected to the
services of physicians at times of serious illness, two specialists were
summoned. Amidst the frantic rush of ministering to the stricken man, I was
deeply praying to Lahiri Mahasaya for help. I hurried to his home and sobbed
out the story.
"'The doctors are seeing Rama. He will be well.' My guru smiled jovially.
"I returned with a light heart to my friend's bedside, only to find him in a
dying state.
"'He cannot last more than one or two hours,' one of the physicians told me
with a gesture of despair. Once more I hastened to Lahiri Mahasaya.
"'The doctors are conscientious men. I am sure Rama will be well.' The
master dismissed me blithely.
"At Rama's place I found both doctors gone. One had left me a note: 'We
have done our best, but his case is hopeless.'
"My friend was indeed the picture of a dying man. I did not understand
how Lahiri Mahasaya's words could fail to come true, yet the sight of Rama's
rapidly ebbing life kept suggesting to my mind: 'All is over now.' Tossing thus
on the seas of faith and apprehensive doubt, I ministered to my friend as best I
could. He roused himself to cry out:
"'Yukteswar, run to Master and tell him I am gone. Ask him to bless my
body before its last rites.' With these words Rama sighed heavily and gave up
the ghost.
"I wept for an hour by his beloved form. Always a lover of quiet, now he
had attained the utter stillness of death. Another disciple came in; I asked him
to remain in the house until I returned. Half-dazed, I trudged back to my guru.
"'How is Rama now?' Lahiri Mahasaya's face was wreathed in smiles.
"'Sir, you will soon see how he is,' I blurted out emotionally. 'In a few
hours you will see his body, before it is carried to the crematory grounds.' I
broke down and moaned openly.
"'Yukteswar, control yourself. Sit calmly and meditate.' My guru retired
into samadhi. The afternoon and night passed in unbroken silence; I struggled
unsuccessfully to regain an inner composure.
"At dawn Lahiri Mahasaya glanced at me consolingly. 'I see you are still
disturbed. Why didn't you explain yesterday that you expected me to give
Rama tangible aid in the form of some medicine?' The master pointed to a
cup-shaped lamp containing crude castor oil. 'Fill a little bottle from the lamp;
put seven drops into Rama's mouth.'
"'Sir,' I remonstrated, 'he has been dead since yesterday noon. Of what use
is the oil now?'
"'Never mind; just do as I ask.' Lahiri Mahasaya's cheerful mood was
incomprehensible; I was still in the unassuaged agony of bereavement.
Pouring out a small amount of oil, I departed for Rama's house.
"I found my friend's body rigid in the death-clasp. Paying no attention to
his ghastly condition, I opened his lips with my right finger and managed, with
my left hand and the help of the cork, to put the oil drop by drop over his
clenched teeth.
"As the seventh drop touched his cold lips, Rama shivered violently. His
muscles vibrated from head to foot as he sat up wonderingly.
"'I saw Lahiri Mahasaya in a blaze of light,' he cried. 'He shone like the
sun. "Arise; forsake your sleep," he commanded me. "Come with Yukteswar to
see me."'
"I could scarcely believe my eyes when Rama dressed himself and was
strong enough after that fatal sickness to walk to the home of our guru. There
he prostrated himself before Lahiri Mahasaya with tears of gratitude.
"The master was beside himself with mirth. His eyes twinkled at me
mischievously.
"'Yukteswar,' he said, 'surely henceforth you will not fail to carry with you
a bottle of castor oil! Whenever you see a corpse, just administer the oil! Why,
seven drops of lamp oil must surely foil the power of Yama!'
"'Guruji, you are ridiculing me. I don't understand; please point out the
nature of my error.'
"'I told you twice that Rama would be well; yet you could not fully believe
me,' Lahiri Mahasaya explained. 'I did not mean the doctors would be able to
cure him; I remarked only that they were in attendance. There was no causal
connection between my two statements. I didn't want to interfere with the
physicians; they have to live, too.' In a voice resounding with joy, my guru
added, 'Always know that the inexhaustible Paramatman can heal anyone,
doctor or no doctor.'
"'I see my mistake,' I acknowledged remorsefully. 'I know now that your
simple word is binding on the whole cosmos.'"
As Sri Yukteswar finished the awesome story, one of the spellbound
listeners ventured a question that, from a child, was doubly understandable.
"Sir," he said, "why did your guru use castor oil?"
 "Child, giving the oil had no meaning except that I expected something
material and Lahiri Mahasaya chose the near-by oil as an objective symbol for
awakening my greater faith. The master allowed Rama to die, because I had
partially doubted. But the divine guru knew that inasmuch as he had said the
disciple would be well, the healing must take place, even though he had to
cure Rama of death, a disease usually final!"
Sri Yukteswar dismissed the little group, and motioned me to a blanket seat
at his feet.
"Yogananda," he said with unusual gravity, "you have been surrounded
from birth by direct disciples of Lahiri Mahasaya. The great master lived his
sublime life in partial seclusion, and steadfastly refused to permit his followers
to build any organization around his teachings. He made, nevertheless, a
significant prediction.
"'About fifty years after my passing,' he said, 'my life will be written
because of a deep interest in yoga which the West will manifest. The yogic
message will encircle the globe, and aid in establishing that brotherhood of
man which results from direct perception of the One Father.'
"My son Yogananda," Sri Yukteswar went on, "you must do your part in
spreading that message, and in writing that sacred life."
Fifty years after Lahiri Mahasaya's passing in 1895 culminated in 1945, the
year of completion of this present book. I cannot but be struck by the
coincidence that the year 1945 has also ushered in a new age-the era of
revolutionary atomic energies. All thoughtful minds turn as never before to the
urgent problems of peace and brotherhood, lest the continued use of physical
force banish all men along with the problems.
Though the human race and its works disappear tracelessly by time or
bomb, the sun does not falter in its course; the stars keep their invariable vigil.
Cosmic law cannot be stayed or changed, and man would do well to put
himself in harmony with it. If the cosmos is against might, if the sun wars not
with the planets but retires at dueful time to give the stars their little sway,
what avails our mailed fist? Shall any peace indeed come out of it? Not cruelty
but good will arms the universal sinews; a humanity at peace will know the
endless fruits of victory, sweeter to the taste than any nurtured on the soil of
blood.
The effective League of Nations will be a natural, nameless league of
human hearts. The broad sympathies and discerning insight needed for the
healing of earthly woes cannot flow from a mere intellectual consideration of
man's diversities, but from knowledge of man's sole unity-his kinship with
God. Toward realization of the world's highest ideal-peace through
brotherhood-may yoga, the science of personal contact with the Divine, spread
in time to all men in all lands.
Though India's civilization is ancient above any other, few historians have
noted that her feat of national survival is by no means an accident, but a
logical incident in the devotion to eternal verities which India has offered
through her best men in every generation. By sheer continuity of being, by
intransitivity before the ages-can dusty scholars truly tell us how many?-India
has given the worthiest answer of any people to the challenge of time.
The Biblical story of Abraham's plea to the Lord that the city of Sodom be
spared if ten righteous men could be found therein, and the divine reply: "I
will not destroy it for ten's sake," gains new meaning in the light of India's
escape from the oblivion of Babylon, Egypt and other mighty nations who
were once her contemporaries. The Lord's answer clearly shows that a land
lives, not by its material achievements, but in its masterpieces of man.
Let the divine words be heard again, in this twentieth century, twice dyed
in blood ere half over: No nation that can produce ten men, great in the eyes of
the Unbribable Judge, shall know extinction. Heeding such persuasions, India
has proved herself not witless against the thousand cunnings of time. Self-
realized masters in every century have hallowed her soil; modern Christlike
sages, like Lahiri Mahasaya and his disciple Sri Yukteswar, rise up to proclaim
that the science of yoga is more vital than any material advances to man's
happiness and to a nation's longevity.
Very scanty information about the life of Lahiri Mahasaya and his
universal doctrine has ever appeared in print. For three decades in India,
America, and Europe, I have found a deep and sincere interest in his message
of liberating yoga; a written account of the master's life, even as he foretold, is
now needed in the West, where lives of the great modern yogis are little
known.
Nothing but one or two small pamphlets in English has been written on the
guru's life. One biography in Bengali, Sri Sri Shyama Charan Lahiri
Mahasaya, appeared in 1941. It was written by my disciple, Swami
Satyananda, who for many years has been the acharya (spiritual preceptor) at
our Vidyalaya in Ranchi. I have translated a few passages from his book and
have incorporated them into this section devoted to Lahiri Mahasaya.
It was into a pious Brahmin family of ancient lineage that Lahiri Mahasaya
was born September 30, 1828. His birthplace was the village of Ghurni in the
Nadia district near Krishnagar, Bengal. He was the youngest son of
Muktakashi, the second wife of the esteemed Gaur Mohan Lahiri. (His first
wife, after the birth of three sons, had died during a pilgrimage.) The boy's
mother passed away during his childhood; little about her is known except the
revealing fact that she was an ardent devotee of Lord Shiva, scripturally
designated as the "King of Yogis."
The boy Lahiri, whose given name was Shyama Charan, spent his early
years in the ancestral home at Nadia. At the age of three or four he was often
observed sitting under the sands in the posture of a yogi, his body completely
hidden except for the head.
The Lahiri estate was destroyed in the winter of 1833, when the near- by
Jalangi River changed its course and disappeared into the depths of the
Ganges. One of the Shiva temples founded by the Lahiris went into the river
along with the family home. A devotee rescued the stone image of Lord Shiva
from the swirling waters and placed it in a new temple, now well-known as the
Ghurni Shiva Site.
Gaur Mohan Lahiri and his family left Nadia and became residents of
Benares, where the father immediately erected a Shiva temple. He conducted
his household along the lines of Vedic discipline, with regular observance of
ceremonial worship, acts of charity, and scriptural study. Just and open-
minded, however, he did not ignore the beneficial current of modern ideas.
The boy Lahiri took lessons in Hindi and Urdu in Benares study-groups.
He attended a school conducted by Joy Narayan Ghosal, receiving instruction
in Sanskrit, Bengali, French, and English. Applying himself to a close study of
the Vedas, the young yogi listened eagerly to scriptural discussions by learned
Brahmins, including a Marhatta pundit named Nag-Bhatta.
Shyama Charan was a kind, gentle, and courageous youth, beloved by all
his companions. With a well-proportioned, bright, and powerful body, he
excelled in swimming and in many skillful activities.
In 1846 Shyama Charan Lahiri was married to Srimati Kashi Moni,
daughter of Sri Debnarayan Sanyal. A model Indian housewife, Kashi Moni
cheerfully carried on her home duties and the traditional householder's
obligation to serve guests and the poor. Two saintly sons, Tincouri and
Ducouri, blessed the union.
At the age of 23, in 1851, Lahiri Mahasaya took the post of accountant in
the Military Engineering Department of the English government. He received
many promotions during the time of his service. Thus not only was he a
master before God's eyes, but also a success in the little human drama where
he played his given role as an office worker in the world.
As the offices of the Army Department were shifted, Lahiri Mahasaya was
transferred to Gazipur, Mirjapur, Danapur, Naini Tal, Benares, and other
localities. After the death of his father, Lahiri had to assume the entire
responsibility of his family, for whom he bought a quiet residence in the
Garudeswar Mohulla neighborhood of Benares.
It was in his thirty-third year that Lahiri Mahasaya saw fulfillment of the
purpose for which he had been reincarnated on earth. The ash- hidden flame,
long smouldering, received its opportunity to burst into flame. A divine
decree, resting beyond the gaze of human beings, works mysteriously to bring
all things into outer manifestation at the proper time. He met his great guru,
Babaji, near Ranikhet, and was initiated by him into Kriya Yoga.
This auspicious event did not happen to him alone; it was a fortunate
moment for all the human race, many of whom were later privileged to receive
the soul-awakening gift of Kriya. The lost, or long-vanished, highest art of
yoga was again being brought to light. Many spiritually thirsty men and
women eventually found their way to the cool waters of Kriya Yoga. Just as in
the Hindu legend, where Mother Ganges offers her divine draught to the
parched devotee Bhagirath, so the celestial flood of Kriya rolled from the
secret fastnesses of the Himalayas into the dusty haunts of men.

CHAPTER: 33
Babaji, The Yogi-Christ Of Modern India

The northern Himalayan crags near Badrinarayan are still blessed by the
living presence of Babaji, guru of Lahiri Mahasaya. The secluded master has
retained his physical form for centuries, perhaps for millenniums. The
deathless Babaji is an avatara. This Sanskrit word means "descent"; its roots
are ava, "down," and tri, "to pass." In the Hindu scriptures, avatara signifies
the descent of Divinity into flesh.
"Babaji's spiritual state is beyond human comprehension," Sri Yukteswar
explained to me. "The dwarfed vision of men cannot pierce to his
transcendental star. One attempts in vain even to picture the avatar's
attainment. It is inconceivable."
The Upanishads have minutely classified every stage of spiritual
advancement. A siddha ("perfected being") has progressed from the state of a
jivanmukta ("freed while living") to that of a paramukta ("supremely free"-full
power over death); the latter has completely escaped from the mayic thralldom
and its reincarnational round. The paramukta therefore seldom returns to a
physical body; if he does, he is an avatar, a divinely appointed medium of
supernal blessings on the world.
An avatar is unsubject to the universal economy; his pure body, visible as a
light image, is free from any debt to nature. The casual gaze may see nothing
extraordinary in an avatar's form but it casts no shadow nor makes any
footprint on the ground. These are outward symbolic proofs of an inward lack
of darkness and material bondage. Such a God-man alone knows the Truth
behind the relativities of life and death. Omar Khayyam, so grossly
misunderstood, sang of this liberated man in his immortal scripture, the
Rubaiyat:
"Ah, Moon of my Delight who know'st no wane, The Moon of Heav'n is
rising once again; How oft hereafter rising shall she look Through this same
Garden after me-in vain!"
The "Moon of Delight" is God, eternal Polaris, anachronous never. The
"Moon of Heav'n" is the outward cosmos, fettered to the law of periodic
recurrence. Its chains had been dissolved forever by the Persian seer through
his self-realization. "How oft hereafter rising shall she look . . . after me-in
vain!" What frustration of search by a frantic universe for an absolute
omission!
Christ expressed his freedom in another way: "And a certain scribe came,
and said unto him, Master, I will follow thee whithersoever thou goest. And
Jesus saith unto him, The foxes have holes, and the birds of the air have nests;
but the Son of man hath not where to lay his head."
Spacious with omnipresence, could Christ indeed be followed except in the
overarching Spirit?
Krishna, Rama, Buddha, and Patanjali were among the ancient Indian
avatars. A considerable poetic literature in Tamil has grown up around
Agastya, a South Indian avatar. He worked many miracles during the centuries
preceding and following the Christian era, and is credited with retaining his
physical form even to this day.
Babaji's mission in India has been to assist prophets in carrying out their
special dispensations. He thus qualifies for the scriptural classification of
Mahavatar (Great Avatar). He has stated that he gave yoga initiation to
Shankara, ancient founder of the Swami Order, and to Kabir, famous medieval
saint. His chief nineteenth-century disciple was, as we know, Lahiri Mahasaya,
revivalist of the lost Kriya art.
I have helped an artist to draw a true likeness of the great Yogi-Christ of
modern India.
The Mahavatar is in constant communion with Christ; together they send
out vibrations of redemption, and have planned the spiritual technique of
salvation for this age. The work of these two fully-illumined masters-one with
the body, and one without it-is to inspire the nations to forsake suicidal wars,
race hatreds, religious sectarianism, and the boomerang-evils of materialism.
Babaji is well aware of the trend of modern times, especially of the influence
and complexities of Western civilization, and realizes the necessity of
spreading the self-liberations of yoga equally in the West and in the East.
That there is no historical reference to Babaji need not surprise us. The
great guru has never openly appeared in any century; the misinterpreting glare
of publicity has no place in his millennial plans. Like the Creator, the sole but
silent Power, Babaji works in a humble obscurity.
Great prophets like Christ and Krishna come to earth for a specific and
spectacular purpose; they depart as soon as it is accomplished. Other avatars,
like Babaji, undertake work which is concerned more with the slow
evolutionary progress of man during the centuries than with any one
outstanding event of history. Such masters always veil themselves from the
gross public gaze, and have the power to become invisible at will. For these
reasons, and because they generally instruct their disciples to maintain silence
about them, a number of towering spiritual figures remain world-unknown. I
give in these pages on Babaji merely a hint of his life-only a few facts which
he deems it fit and helpful to be publicly imparted.
No limiting facts about Babaji's family or birthplace, dear to the annalist's
heart, have ever been discovered. His speech is generally in Hindi, but he
converses easily in any language. He has adopted the simple name of Babaji
(revered father); other titles of respect given him by Lahiri Mahasaya's
disciples are Mahamuni Babaji Maharaj (supreme ecstatic saint), Maha Yogi
(greatest of yogis), Trambak Baba and Shiva Baba (titles of avatars of Shiva).
Does it matter that we know not the patronymic of an earth-released master?
"Whenever anyone utters with reverence the name of Babaji," Lahiri
Mahasaya said, "that devotee attracts an instant spiritual blessing."
The deathless guru bears no marks of age on his body; he appears to be no
more than a youth of twenty-five. Fair-skinned, of medium build and height,
Babaji's beautiful, strong body radiates a perceptible glow. His eyes are dark,
calm, and tender; his long, lustrous hair is copper-colored. A very strange fact
is that Babaji bears an extraordinarily exact resemblance to his disciple Lahiri
Mahasaya. The similarity is so striking that, in his later years, Lahiri
Mahasaya might have passed as the father of the youthful-looking Babaji.
Swami Kebalananda, my saintly Sanskrit tutor, spent some time with
Babaji in the Himalayas.
"The peerless master moves with his group from place to place in the
mountains," Kebalananda told me. "His small band contains two highly
advanced American disciples. After Babaji has been in one locality for some
time, he says: 'Dera danda uthao.' ('Let us lift our camp and staff.') He carries a
symbolic danda (bamboo staff). His words are the signal for moving with his
group instantaneously to another place. He does not always employ this
method of astral travel; sometimes he goes on foot from peak to peak.
"Babaji can be seen or recognized by others only when he so desires. He is
known to have appeared in many slightly different forms to various devotees-
sometimes without beard and moustache, and sometimes with them. As his
undecaying body requires no food, the master seldom eats. As a social
courtesy to visiting disciples, he occasionally accepts fruits, or rice cooked in
milk and clarified butter.
"Two amazing incidents of Babaji's life are known to me," Kebalananda
went on. "His disciples were sitting one night around a huge fire which was
blazing for a sacred Vedic ceremony. The master suddenly seized a burning
log and lightly struck the bare shoulder of a chela who was close to the fire.
"'Sir, how cruel!' Lahiri Mahasaya, who was present, made this
remonstrance.
"'Would you rather have seen him burned to ashes before your eyes,
according to the decree of his past karma?'
"With these words Babaji placed his healing hand on the chela's disfigured
shoulder. 'I have freed you tonight from painful death. The karmic law has
been satisfied through your slight suffering by fire.'
"On another occasion Babaji's sacred circle was disturbed by the arrival of
a stranger. He had climbed with astonishing skill to the nearly inaccessible
ledge near the camp of the master.
"'Sir, you must be the great Babaji.' The man's face was lit with
inexpressible reverence. 'For months I have pursued a ceaseless search for you
among these forbidding crags. I implore you to accept me as a disciple.'
"When the great guru made no response, the man pointed to the rocky
chasm at his feet.
"'If you refuse me, I will jump from this mountain. Life has no further
value if I cannot win your guidance to the Divine.'
"'Jump then,' Babaji said unemotionally. 'I cannot accept you in your
present state of development.'
"The man immediately hurled himself over the cliff. Babaji instructed the
shocked disciples to fetch the stranger's body. When they returned with the
mangled form, the master placed his divine hand on the dead man. Lo! he
opened his eyes and prostrated himself humbly before the omnipotent one.
"'You are now ready for discipleship.' Babaji beamed lovingly on his
resurrected chela. 'You have courageously passed a difficult test. Death shall
not touch you again; now you are one of our immortal flock.' Then he spoke
his usual words of departure, 'Dera danda uthao'; the whole group vanished
from the mountain."
An avatar lives in the omnipresent Spirit; for him there is no distance
inverse to the square. Only one reason, therefore, can motivate Babaji in
maintaining his physical form from century to century: the desire to furnish
humanity with a concrete example of its own possibilities. Were man never
vouchsafed a glimpse of Divinity in the flesh, he would remain oppressed by
the heavy mayic delusion that he cannot transcend his mortality.
Jesus knew from the beginning the sequence of his life; he passed through
each event not for himself, not from any karmic compulsion, but solely for the
upliftment of reflective human beings. His four reporter-disciples-Matthew,
Mark, Luke, and John-recorded the ineffable drama for the benefit of later
generations.
For Babaji, also, there is no relativity of past, present, future; from the
beginning he has known all phases of his life. Yet, accommodating himself to
the limited understanding of men, he has played many acts of his divine life in
the presence of one or more witnesses. Thus it came about that a disciple of
Lahiri Mahasaya was present when Babaji deemed the time to be ripe for him
to proclaim the possibility of bodily immortality. He uttered this promise
before Ram Gopal Muzumdar, that it might finally become known for the
inspiration of other seeking hearts. The great ones speak their words and
participate in the seemingly natural course of events, solely for the good of
man, even as Christ said: "Father . . . I knew that thou hearest me always: but
because of the people which stand by i said it, that they may believe that thou
hast sent me." During my visit at Ranbajpur with Ram Gopal, "the sleepless
saint," he related the wondrous story of his first meeting with Babaji.
"I sometimes left my isolated cave to sit at Lahiri Mahasaya's feet in
Benares," Ram Gopal told me. "One midnight as I was silently meditating in a
group of his disciples, the master made a surprising request.
"'Ram Gopal,' he said, 'go at once to the Dasasamedh bathing ghat.'
"I soon reached the secluded spot. The night was bright with moonlight
and the glittering stars. After I had sat in patient silence for awhile, my
attention was drawn to a huge stone slab near my feet. It rose gradually,
revealing an underground cave. As the stone remained balanced in some
unknown manner, the draped form of a young and surpassingly lovely woman
was levitated from the cave high into the air. Surrounded by a soft halo, she
slowly descended in front of me and stood motionless, steeped in an inner
state of ecstasy. She finally stirred, and spoke gently.
 "'I am Mataji, the sister of Babaji. I have asked him and also Lahiri
Mahasaya to come to my cave tonight to discuss a matter of great importance.'
"A nebulous light was rapidly floating over the Ganges; the strange
luminescence was reflected in the opaque waters. It approached nearer and
nearer until, with a blinding flash, it appeared by the side of Mataji and
condensed itself instantly into the human form of Lahiri Mahasaya. He bowed
humbly at the feet of the woman saint.
"Before I had recovered from my bewilderment, I was further wonder-
struck to behold a circling mass of mystical light traveling in the sky.
Descending swiftly, the flaming whirlpool neared our group and materialized
itself into the body of a beautiful youth who, I understood at once, was Babaji.
He looked like Lahiri Mahasaya, the only difference being that Babaji
appeared much younger, and had long, bright hair.
"Lahiri Mahasaya, Mataji, and myself knelt at the guru's feet. An ethereal
sensation of beatific glory thrilled every fiber of my being as I touched his
divine flesh.
"'Blessed sister,' Babaji said, 'I am intending to shed my form and plunge
into the Infinite Current.'
"'I have already glimpsed your plan, beloved master. I wanted to discuss it
with you tonight. Why should you leave your body?' The glorious woman
looked at him beseechingly.
"'What is the difference if I wear a visible or invisible wave on the ocean
of my Spirit?'
"Mataji replied with a quaint flash of wit. 'Deathless guru, if it makes no
difference, then please do not ever relinquish your form.'
"'Be it so,' Babaji said solemnly. 'I will never leave my physical body. It
will always remain visible to at least a small number of people on this earth.
The Lord has spoken His own wish through your lips.'
"As I listened in awe to the conversation between these exalted beings, the
great guru turned to me with a benign gesture.
"'Fear not, Ram Gopal,' he said, 'you are blessed to be a witness at the
scene of this immortal promise.'
"As the sweet melody of Babaji's voice faded away, his form and that of
Lahiri Mahasaya slowly levitated and moved backward over the Ganges. An
aureole of dazzling light templed their bodies as they vanished into the night
sky. Mataji's form floated to the cave and descended; the stone slab closed of
itself, as if working on an invisible leverage.
 "Infinitely inspired, I wended my way back to Lahiri Mahasaya's place. As
I bowed before him in the early dawn, my guru smiled at me understandingly.
"'I am happy for you, Ram Gopal,' he said. 'The desire of meeting Babaji
and Mataji, which you have often expressed to me, has found at last a sacred
fulfillment.'
"My fellow disciples informed me that Lahiri Mahasaya had not moved
from his dais since early the preceding evening.
"'He gave a wonderful discourse on immortality after you had left for the
Dasasamedh ghat,' one of the chelas told me. For the first time I fully realized
the truth in the scriptural verses which state that a man of self-realization can
appear at different places in two or more bodies at the same time.
"Lahiri Mahasaya later explained to me many metaphysical points
concerning the hidden divine plan for this earth," Ram Gopal concluded.
"Babaji has been chosen by God to remain in his body for the duration of this
particular world cycle. Ages shall come and go- still the deathless master,
beholding the drama of the centuries, shall be present on this stage terrestrial."

CHAPTER: 34
Materializing A Palace In The Himalayas

"Babaji's first meeting with Lahiri Mahasaya is an enthralling story, and

one of the few which gives us a detailed glimpse of the deathless guru."
These words were Swami Kebalananda's preamble to a wondrous tale. The
first time he recounted it I was literally spellbound. On many other occasions I
coaxed my gentle Sanskrit tutor to repeat the story, which was later told me in
substantially the same words by Sri Yukteswar. Both these Lahiri Mahasaya
disciples had heard the awesome tale direct from the lips of their guru.
"My first meeting with Babaji took place in my thirty-third year," Lahiri
Mahasaya had said. "In the autumn of 1861 I was stationed in Danapur as a
government accountant in the Military Engineering Department. One morning
the office manager summoned me.
"'Lahiri,' he said, 'a telegram has just come from our main office. You are
to be transferred to Ranikhet, where an army post is now being established.'
"With one servant, I set out on the 500-mile trip. Traveling by horse and
buggy, we arrived in thirty days at the Himalayan site of Ranikhet.
"My office duties were not onerous; I was able to spend many hours
roaming in the magnificent hills. A rumor reached me that great saints blessed
the region with their presence; I felt a strong desire to see them. During a
ramble one early afternoon, I was astounded to hear a distant voice calling my
name. I continued my vigorous upward climb on Drongiri Mountain. A slight
uneasiness beset me at the thought that I might not be able to retrace my steps
before darkness had descended over the jungle.
"I finally reached a small clearing whose sides were dotted with caves. On
one of the rocky ledges stood a smiling young man, extending his hand in
welcome. I noticed with astonishment that, except for his copper-colored hair,
he bore a remarkable resemblance to myself.
"'Lahiri, you have come!' The saint addressed me affectionately in Hindi.
'Rest here in this cave. It was I who called you.'
"I entered a neat little grotto which contained several woolen blankets and
a few kamandulus (begging bowls).
"'Lahiri, do you remember that seat?' The yogi pointed to a folded blanket
in one corner.
"'No, sir.' Somewhat dazed at the strangeness of my adventure, I added, 'I
must leave now, before nightfall. I have business in the morning at my office.'
"The mysterious saint replied in English, 'The office was brought for you,
and not you for the office.'
"I was dumbfounded that this forest ascetic should not only speak English
but also paraphrase the words of Christ.
"'I see my telegram took effect.' The yogi's remark was incomprehensible
to me; I inquired his meaning.
"'I refer to the telegram that summoned you to these isolated parts. It was I
who silently suggested to the mind of your superior officer that you be
transferred to Ranikhet. When one feels his unity with mankind, all minds
become transmitting stations through which he can work at will.' He added
gently, 'Lahiri, surely this cave seems familiar to you?'
"As I maintained a bewildered silence, the saint approached and struck me
gently on the forehead. At his magnetic touch, a wondrous current swept
through my brain, releasing the sweet seed-memories of my previous life.
"'I remember!' My voice was half-choked with joyous sobs. 'You are my
guru Babaji, who has belonged to me always! Scenes of the past arise vividly
in my mind; here in this cave I spent many years of my last incarnation!' As
ineffable recollections overwhelmed me, I tearfully embraced my master's
feet.
 "'For more than three decades I have waited for you here-waited for you to
return to me!' Babaji's voice rang with celestial love. 'You slipped away and
vanished into the tumultuous waves of the life beyond death. The magic wand
of your karma touched you, and you were gone! Though you lost sight of me,
never did I lose sight of you! I pursued you over the luminescent astral sea
where the glorious angels sail. Through gloom, storm, upheaval, and light I
followed you, like a mother bird guarding her young. As you lived out your
human term of womb-life, and emerged a babe, my eye was ever on you.
When you covered your tiny form in the lotus posture under the Nadia sands
in your childhood, I was invisibly present! Patiently, month after month, year
after year, I have watched over you, waiting for this perfect day. Now you are
with me! Lo, here is your cave, loved of yore! I have kept it ever clean and
ready for you. Here is your hallowed asana- blanket, where you daily sat to fill
your expanding heart with God! Behold there your bowl, from which you
often drank the nectar prepared by me! See how I have kept the brass cup
brightly polished, that you might drink again therefrom! My own, do you now
understand?'
"'My guru, what can I say?' I murmured brokenly. 'Where has one ever
heard of such deathless love?' I gazed long and ecstatically on my eternal
treasure, my guru in life and death.
"'Lahiri, you need purification. Drink the oil in this bowl and lie down by
the river.' Babaji's practical wisdom, I reflected with a quick, reminiscent
smile, was ever to the fore.
"I obeyed his directions. Though the icy Himalayan night was descending,
a comforting warmth, an inner radiation, began to pulsate in every cell of my
body. I marveled. Was the unknown oil endued with a cosmical heat?
"Bitter winds whipped around me in the darkness, shrieking a fierce
challenge. The chill wavelets of the Gogash River lapped now and then over
my body, outstretched on the rocky bank. Tigers howled near-by, but my heart
was free of fear; the radiant force newly generated within me conveyed an
assurance of unassailable protection. Several hours passed swiftly; faded
memories of another life wove themselves into the present brilliant pattern of
reunion with my divine guru.
"My solitary musings were interrupted by the sound of approaching
footsteps. In the darkness, a man's hand gently helped me to my feet, and gave
me some dry clothing.
"'Come, brother,' my companion said. 'The master awaits you.'
"He led the way through the forest. The somber night was suddenly lit by a
steady luminosity in the distance.
 "'Can that be the sunrise?' I inquired. 'Surely the whole night has not
passed?'
"'The hour is midnight.' My guide laughed softly. 'Yonder light is the glow
of a golden palace, materialized here tonight by the peerless Babaji. In the dim
past, you once expressed a desire to enjoy the beauties of a palace. Our master
is now satisfying your wish, thus freeing you from the bonds of karma.' He
added, 'The magnificent palace will be the scene of your initiation tonight into
Kriya Yoga. All your brothers here join in a paean of welcome, rejoicing at the
end of your long exile. Behold!'
"A vast palace of dazzling gold stood before us. Studded with countless
jewels, and set amidst landscaped gardens, it presented a spectacle of
unparalleled grandeur. Saints of angelic countenance were stationed by
resplendent gates, half-reddened by the glitter of rubies. Diamonds, pearls,
sapphires, and emeralds of great size and luster were imbedded in the
decorative arches.
"I followed my companion into a spacious reception hall. The odor of
incense and of roses wafted through the air; dim lamps shed a multicolored
glow. Small groups of devotees, some fair, some dark- skinned, chanted
musically, or sat in the meditative posture, immersed in an inner peace. A
vibrant joy pervaded the atmosphere.
"'Feast your eyes; enjoy the artistic splendors of this palace, for it has been
brought into being solely in your honor.' My guide smiled sympathetically as I
uttered a few ejaculations of wonderment.
"'Brother,' I said, 'the beauty of this structure surpasses the bounds of
human imagination. Please tell me the mystery of its origin.'
"'I will gladly enlighten you.' My companion's dark eyes sparkled with
wisdom. 'In reality there is nothing inexplicable about this materialization. The
whole cosmos is a materialized thought of the Creator. This heavy, earthly
clod, floating in space, is a dream of God. He made all things out of His
consciousness, even as man in his dream consciousness reproduces and
vivifies a creation with its creatures.
"'God first created the earth as an idea. Then He quickened it; energy
atoms came into being. He coordinated the atoms into this solid sphere. All its
molecules are held together by the will of God. When He withdraws His will,
the earth again will disintegrate into energy. Energy will dissolve into
consciousness; the earth-idea will disappear from objectivity.
"'The substance of a dream is held in materialization by the subconscious
thought of the dreamer. When that cohesive thought is withdrawn in
wakefulness, the dream and its elements dissolve. A man closes his eyes and
erects a dream-creation which, on awakening, he effortlessly dematerializes.
He follows the divine archetypal pattern. Similarly, when he awakens in
cosmic consciousness, he will effortlessly dematerialize the illusions of the
cosmic dream.
"'Being one with the infinite all-accomplishing Will, Babaji can summon
the elemental atoms to combine and manifest themselves in any form. This
golden palace, instantaneously created, is real, even as this earth is real. Babaji
created this palatial mansion out of his mind and is holding its atoms together
by the power of his will, even as God created this earth and is maintaining it
intact.' He added, 'When this structure has served its purpose, Babaji will
dematerialize it.'
"As I remained silent in awe, my guide made a sweeping gesture. 'This
shimmering palace, superbly embellished with jewels, has not been built by
human effort or with laboriously mined gold and gems. It stands solidly, a
monumental challenge to man. Whoever realizes himself as a son of God,
even as Babaji has done, can reach any goal by the infinite powers hidden
within him. A common stone locks within itself the secret of stupendous
atomic energy; even so, a mortal is yet a powerhouse of divinity.'
"The sage picked up from a near-by table a graceful vase whose handle
was blazing with diamonds. 'Our great guru created this palace by solidifying
myriads of free cosmic rays,' he went on. 'Touch this vase and its diamonds;
they will satisfy all the tests of sensory experience.'
"I examined the vase, and passed my hand over the smooth room-walls,
thick with glistening gold. Each of the jewels scattered lavishly about was
worthy of a king's collection. Deep satisfaction spread over my mind. A
submerged desire, hidden in my subconsciousness from lives now gone,
seemed simultaneously gratified and extinguished.
"My stately companion led me through ornate arches and corridors into a
series of chambers richly furnished in the style of an emperor's palace. We
entered an immense hall. In the center stood a golden throne, encrusted with
jewels shedding a dazzling medley of colors. There, in lotus posture, sat the
supreme Babaji. I knelt on the shining floor at his feet.
"'Lahiri, are you still feasting on your dream desires for a golden palace?'
My guru's eyes were twinkling like his own sapphires. 'Wake! All your earthly
thirsts are about to be quenched forever.' He murmured some mystic words of
blessing. 'My son, arise. Receive your initiation into the kingdom of God
through Kriya Yoga.'
"Babaji stretched out his hand; a homa (sacrificial) fire appeared,
surrounded by fruits and flowers. I received the liberating yogic technique
before this flaming altar.
"The rites were completed in the early dawn. I felt no need for sleep in my
ecstatic state, and wandered around the palace, filled on all sides with
treasures and priceless objets d'art. Descending to the gorgeous gardens, I
noticed, near-by, the same caves and barren mountain ledges which yesterday
had boasted no adjacency to palace or flowered terrace.
"Reentering the palace, fabulously glistening in the cold Himalayan
sunlight, I sought the presence of my master. He was still enthroned,
surrounded by many quiet disciples.
"'Lahiri, you are hungry.' Babaji added, 'Close your eyes.'
"When I reopened them, the enchanting palace and its picturesque gardens
had disappeared. My own body and the forms of Babaji and the cluster of
chelas were all now seated on the bare ground at the exact site of the vanished
palace, not far from the sunlit entrances of the rocky grottos. I recalled that my
guide had remarked that the palace would be dematerialized, its captive atoms
released into the thought- essence from which it had sprung. Although
stunned, I looked trustingly at my guru. I knew not what to expect next on this
day of miracles.
"'The purpose for which the palace was created has now been served,'
Babaji explained. He lifted an earthen vessel from the ground. 'Put your hand
there and receive whatever food you desire.'
"As soon as I touched the broad, empty bowl, it became heaped with hot
butter-fried luchis, curry, and rare sweetmeats. I helped myself, observing that
the vessel was ever-filled. At the end of my meal I looked around for water.
My guru pointed to the bowl before me. Lo! the food had vanished; in its place
was water, clear as from a mountain stream.
"'Few mortals know that the kingdom of God includes the kingdom of
mundane fulfillments,' Babaji observed. 'The divine realm extends to the
earthly, but the latter, being illusory, cannot include the essence of reality.'
"'Beloved guru, last night you demonstrated for me the link of beauty in
heaven and earth!' I smiled at memories of the vanished palace; surely no
simple yogi had ever received initiation into the august mysteries of Spirit
amidst surroundings of more impressive luxury! I gazed tranquilly at the stark
contrast of the present scene. The gaunt ground, the skyey roof, the caves
offering primitive shelter-all seemed a gracious natural setting for the seraphic
saints around me.
"I sat that afternoon on my blanket, hallowed by associations of past- life
realizations. My divine guru approached and passed his hand over my head. I
entered the nirbikalpa samadhi state, remaining unbrokenly in its bliss for
seven days. Crossing the successive strata of self- knowledge, I penetrated the
deathless realms of reality. All delusive limitations dropped away; my soul
was fully established on the eternal altar of the Cosmic Spirit. On the eighth
day I fell at my guru's feet and implored him to keep me always near him in
this sacred wilderness.
"'My son,' Babaji said, embracing me, 'your role in this incarnation must be
played on an outward stage. Prenatally blessed by many lives of lonely
meditation, you must now mingle in the world of men.
"'A deep purpose underlay the fact that you did not meet me this time until
you were already a married man, with modest business responsibilities. You
must put aside your thoughts of joining our secret band in the Himalayas; your
life lies in the crowded marts, serving as an example of the ideal yogi-
householder.
"'The cries of many bewildered worldly men and women have not fallen
unheard on the ears of the Great Ones,' he went on. 'You have been chosen to
bring spiritual solace through Kriya Yoga to numerous earnest seekers. The
millions who are encumbered by family ties and heavy worldly duties will
take new heart from you, a householder like themselves. You must guide them
to see that the highest yogic attainments are not barred to the family man.
Even in the world, the yogi who faithfully discharges his responsibilities,
without personal motive or attachment, treads the sure path of enlightenment.
"'No necessity compels you to leave the world, for inwardly you have
already sundered its every karmic tie. Not of this world, you must yet be in it.
Many years still remain during which you must conscientiously fulfill your
family, business, civic, and spiritual duties. A sweet new breath of divine hope
will penetrate the arid hearts of worldly men. From your balanced life, they
will understand that liberation is dependent on inner, rather than outer,
renunciations.'
"How remote seemed my family, the office, the world, as I listened to my
guru in the high Himalayan solitudes. Yet adamantine truth rang in his words;
I submissively agreed to leave this blessed haven of peace. Babaji instructed
me in the ancient rigid rules which govern the transmission of the yogic art
from guru to disciple.
"'Bestow the Kriya key only on qualified chelas,' Babaji said. 'He who
vows to sacrifice all in the quest of the Divine is fit to unravel the final
mysteries of life through the science of meditation.'
"'Angelic guru, as you have already favored mankind by resurrecting the
lost Kriya art, will you not increase that benefit by relaxing the strict
requirements for discipleship?' I gazed beseechingly at Babaji. 'I pray that you
permit me to communicate Kriya to all seekers, even though at first they
cannot vow themselves to complete inner renunciation. The tortured men and
women of the world, pursued by the threefold suffering, need special
encouragement. They may never attempt the road to freedom if Kriya
initiation be withheld from them.'
"'Be it so. The divine wish has been expressed through you.' With these
simple words, the merciful guru banished the rigorous safeguards that for ages
had hidden Kriya from the world. 'Give Kriya freely to all who humbly ask for
help.'
"After a silence, Babaji added, 'Repeat to each of your disciples this
majestic promise from the Bhagavad Gita: "Swalpamasya Dharmasya, Trayata
Mahato Bhoyat"-"Even a little bit of the practice of this religion will save you
from dire fears and colossal sufferings."'
"As I knelt the next morning at my guru's feet for his farewell blessing, he
sensed my deep reluctance to leave him.
"'There is no separation for us, my beloved child.' He touched my shoulder
affectionately. 'Wherever you are, whenever you call me, I shall be with you
instantly.'
"Consoled by his wondrous promise, and rich with the newly found gold of
God-wisdom, I wended my way down the mountain. At the office I was
welcomed by my fellow employees, who for ten days had thought me lost in
the Himalayan jungles. A letter soon arrived from the head office.
"'Lahiri should return to the Danapur office,' it read. 'His transfer to
Ranikhet occurred by error. Another man should have been sent to assume the
Ranikhet duties.'
"I smiled, reflecting on the hidden crosscurrents in the events which had
led me to this furthermost spot of India.
"Before returning to Danapur, I spent a few days with a Bengali family at
Moradabad. A party of six friends gathered to greet me. As I turned the
conversation to spiritual subjects, my host observed gloomily:
"'Oh, in these days India is destitute of saints!'
"'Babu,' I protested warmly, 'of course there are still great masters in this
land!'
"In a mood of exalted fervor, I felt impelled to relate my miraculous
experiences in the Himalayas. The little company was politely incredulous.
"'Lahiri,' one man said soothingly, 'your mind has been under a strain in
those rarefied mountain airs. This is some daydream you have recounted.'
"Burning with the enthusiasm of truth, I spoke without due thought. 'If I
call him, my guru will appear right in this house.'
"Interest gleamed in every eye; it was no wonder that the group was eager
to behold a saint materialized in such a strange way. Half- reluctantly, I asked
for a quiet room and two new woolen blankets.
"'The master will materialize from the ether,' I said. 'Remain silently
outside the door; I shall soon call you.'
"I sank into the meditative state, humbly summoning my guru. The
darkened room soon filled with a dim aural moonlight; the luminous figure of
Babaji emerged.
"'Lahiri, do you call me for a trifle?' The master's gaze was stern. 'Truth is
for earnest seekers, not for those of idle curiosity. It is easy to believe when
one sees; there is nothing then to deny. Supersensual truth is deserved and
discovered by those who overcome their natural materialistic skepticism.' He
added gravely, 'Let me go!'
"I fell entreatingly at his feet. 'Holy guru, I realize my serious error; I
humbly ask pardon. It was to create faith in these spiritually blinded minds
that I ventured to call you. Because you have graciously appeared at my
prayer, please do not depart without bestowing a blessing on my friends.
Unbelievers though they be, at least they were willing to investigate the truth
of my strange assertions.'
"'Very well; I will stay awhile. I do not wish your word discredited before
your friends.' Babaji's face had softened, but he added gently, 'Henceforth, my
son, I shall come when you need me, and not always when you call me.'
"Tense silence reigned in the little group when I opened the door. As if
mistrusting their senses, my friends stared at the lustrous figure on the blanket
seat.
"'This is mass-hypnotism!' One man laughed blatantly. 'No one could
possibly have entered this room without our knowledge!'
"Babaji advanced smilingly and motioned to each one to touch the warm,
solid flesh of his body. Doubts dispelled, my friends prostrated themselves on
the floor in awed repentance.
"'Let halua be prepared.' Babaji made this request, I knew, to further assure
the group of his physical reality. While the porridge was boiling, the divine
guru chatted affably. Great was the metamorphosis of these doubting
Thomases into devout St. Pauls. After we had eaten, Babaji blessed each of us
in turn. There was a sudden flash; we witnessed the instantaneous
dechemicalization of the electronic elements of Babaji's body into a spreading
vaporous light. The God-tuned will power of the master had loosened its grasp
of the ether atoms held together as his body; forthwith the trillions of tiny
lifetronic sparks faded into the infinite reservoir.
"'With my own eyes I have seen the conqueror of death.' Maitra, one of the
group, spoke reverently. His face was transfigured with the joy of his recent
awakening. 'The supreme guru played with time and space, as a child plays
with bubbles. I have beheld one with the keys of heaven and earth.'
"I soon returned to Danapur. Firmly anchored in the Spirit, again I assumed
the manifold business and family obligations of a householder."
Lahiri Mahasaya also related to Swami Kebalananda and Sri Yukteswar the
story of another meeting with Babaji, under circumstances which recalled the
guru's promise: "I shall come whenever you need me."
"The scene was a Kumbha Mela at Allahabad," Lahiri Mahasaya told his
disciples. "I had gone there during a short vacation from my office duties. As I
wandered amidst the throng of monks and sadhus who had come from great
distances to attend the holy festival, I noticed an ash-smeared ascetic who was
holding a begging bowl. The thought arose in my mind that the man was
hypocritical, wearing the outward symbols of renunciation without a
corresponding inward grace.
"No sooner had I passed the ascetic than my astounded eye fell on Babaji.
He was kneeling in front of a matted-haired anchorite.
"'Guruji!' I hastened to his side. 'Sir, what are you doing here?'
"'I am washing the feet of this renunciate, and then I shall clean his
cooking utensils.' Babaji smiled at me like a little child; I knew he was
intimating that he wanted me to criticize no one, but to see the Lord as
residing equally in all body-temples, whether of superior or inferior men. The
great guru added, 'By serving wise and ignorant sadhus, I am learning the
greatest of virtues, pleasing to God above all others-humility.'"

CHAPTER: 35
The Christlike Life Of Lahiri Mahasaya

"Thus it becometh us to fulfill all righteousness." In these words to John

the Baptist, and in asking John to baptize him, Jesus was acknowledging the
divine rights of his guru.
 From a reverent study of the Bible from an Oriental viewpoint, and from
intuitional perception, I am convinced that John the Baptist was, in past lives,
the guru of Christ. There are numerous passages in the Bible which infer that
John and Jesus in their last incarnations were, respectively, Elijah and his
disciple Elisha. (These are the spellings in the Old Testament. The Greek
translators spelled the names as Elias and Eliseus; they reappear in the New
Testament in these changed forms.)
The very end of the Old Testament is a prediction of the reincarnation of
Elijah and Elisha: "Behold, I will send you Elijah the prophet before the
coming of the great and dreadful day of the Lord." Thus John (Elijah), sent
"before the coming . . . of the Lord," was born slightly earlier to serve as a
herald for Christ. An angel appeared to Zacharias the father to testify that his
coming son John would be no other than Elijah (Elias).
"But the angel said unto him, Fear not, Zacharias: for thy prayer is heard;
and thy wife Elisabeth shall bear thee a son, and thou shalt call his name John.
. . . And many of the children of Israel shall he turn to the Lord their God. And
he shall go before him in the spirit and power of Elias, to turn the hearts of the
fathers to the children, and the disobedient to the wisdom of the just; to make
ready a people prepared for the Lord." Jesus twice unequivocally identified
Elijah (Elias) as John: "Elias is come already, and they knew him not. . . .
Then the disciples understood that he spake unto them of John the Baptist."
Again, Christ says: "For all the prophets and the law prophesied until John.
And if ye will receive it, this is Elias, which was for to come." When John
denied that he was Elias (Elijah), he meant that in the humble garb of John he
came no longer in the outward elevation of Elijah the great guru. In his former
incarnation he had given the "mantle" of his glory and his spiritual wealth to
his disciple Elisha. "And Elisha said, I pray thee, let a double portion of thy
spirit be upon me. And he said, Thou hast asked a hard thing: nevertheless, if
thou see me when I am taken from thee, it shall be so unto thee. . . . And he
took the mantle of Elijah that fell from him."
The roles became reversed, because Elijah-John was no longer needed to
be the ostensible guru of Elisha-Jesus, now perfected in divine realization.
When Christ was transfigured on the mountain it was his guru Elias, with
Moses, whom he saw. Again, in his hour of extremity on the cross, Jesus cried
out the divine name: "Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani? that is to say, My God, my
God, why hast thou forsaken me? Some of them that stood there, when they
heard that, said, This man calleth for Elias. . . . Let us see whether Elias will
come to save him."
The eternal bond of guru and disciple that existed between John and Jesus
was present also for Babaji and Lahiri Mahasaya. With tender solicitude the
deathless guru swam the Lethean waters that swirled between the last two
lives of his chela, and guided the successive steps taken by the child and then
by the man Lahiri Mahasaya. It was not until the disciple had reached his
thirty-third year that Babaji deemed the time to be ripe to openly reestablish
the never-severed link. Then, after their brief meeting near Ranikhet, the
selfless master banished his dearly-beloved disciple from the little mountain
group, releasing him for an outward world mission. "My son, I shall come
whenever you need me." What mortal lover can bestow that infinite promise?
Unknown to society in general, a great spiritual renaissance began to flow
from a remote corner of Benares. Just as the fragrance of flowers cannot be
suppressed, so Lahiri Mahasaya, quietly living as an ideal householder, could
not hide his innate glory. Slowly, from every part of India, the devotee-bees
sought the divine nectar of the liberated master.
The English office superintendent was one of the first to notice a strange
transcendental change in his employee, whom he endearingly called "Ecstatic
Babu."
"Sir, you seem sad. What is the trouble?" Lahiri Mahasaya made this
sympathetic inquiry one morning to his employer.
"My wife in England is critically ill. I am torn by anxiety."
"I shall get you some word about her." Lahiri Mahasaya left the room and
sat for a short time in a secluded spot. On his return he smiled consolingly.
"Your wife is improving; she is now writing you a letter." The omniscient
yogi quoted some parts of the missive.
"Ecstatic Babu, I already know that you are no ordinary man. Yet I am
unable to believe that, at will, you can banish time and space!"
The promised letter finally arrived. The astounded superintendent found
that it contained not only the good news of his wife's recovery, but also the
same phrases which, weeks earlier, Lahiri Mahasaya had repeated.
The wife came to India some months later. She visited the office, where
Lahiri Mahasaya was quietly sitting at his desk. The woman approached him
reverently.
"Sir," she said, "it was your form, haloed in glorious light, that I beheld
months ago by my sickbed in London. At that moment I was completely
healed! Soon after, I was able to undertake the long ocean voyage to India."
Day after day, one or two devotees besought the sublime guru for Kriya
initiation. In addition to these spiritual duties, and to those of his business and
family life, the great master took an enthusiastic interest in education. He
organized many study groups, and played an active part in the growth of a
large high school in the Bengalitola section of Benares. His regular discourses
on the scriptures came to be called his "Gita Assembly," eagerly attended by
many truth-seekers.
By these manifold activities, Lahiri Mahasaya sought to answer the
common challenge: "After performing one's business and social duties, where
is the time for devotional meditation?" The harmoniously balanced life of the
great householder-guru became the silent inspiration of thousands of
questioning hearts. Earning only a modest salary, thrifty, unostentatious,
accessible to all, the master carried on naturally and happily in the path of
worldly life.
Though ensconced in the seat of the Supreme One, Lahiri Mahasaya
showed reverence to all men, irrespective of their differing merits. When his
devotees saluted him, he bowed in turn to them. With a childlike humility, the
master often touched the feet of others, but seldom allowed them to pay him
similar honor, even though such obeisance toward the guru is an ancient
Oriental custom.
A significant feature of Lahiri Mahasaya's life was his gift of Kriya
initiation to those of every faith. Not Hindus only, but Moslems and Christians
were among his foremost disciples. Monists and dualists, those of all faiths or
of no established faith, were impartially received and instructed by the
universal guru. One of his highly advanced chelas was Abdul Gufoor Khan, a
Mohammedan. It shows great courage on the part of Lahiri Mahasaya that,
although a high-caste Brahmin, he tried his utmost to dissolve the rigid caste
bigotry of his time. Those from every walk of life found shelter under the
master's omnipresent wings. Like all God-inspired prophets, Lahiri Mahasaya
gave new hope to the outcastes and down-trodden of society.
"Always remember that you belong to no one, and no one belongs to you.
Reflect that some day you will suddenly have to leave everything in this
world-so make the acquaintanceship of God now," the great guru told his
disciples. "Prepare yourself for the coming astral journey of death by daily
riding in the balloon of God-perception. Through delusion you are perceiving
yourself as a bundle of flesh and bones, which at best is a nest of troubles.
Meditate unceasingly, that you may quickly behold yourself as the Infinite
Essence, free from every form of misery. Cease being a prisoner of the body;
using the secret key of Kriya, learn to escape into Spirit."
The great guru encouraged his various students to adhere to the good
traditional discipline of their own faith. Stressing the all-inclusive nature of
Kriya as a practical technique of liberation, Lahiri Mahasaya then gave his
chelas liberty to express their lives in conformance with environment and up
bringing.
 "A Moslem should perform his namaj worship four times daily," the master
pointed out. "Four times daily a Hindu should sit in meditation. A Christian
should go down on his knees four times daily, praying to God and then reading
the Bible."
With wise discernment the guru guided his followers into the paths of
Bhakti (devotion), Karma (action), Jnana (wisdom), or Raja (royal or
complete) Yogas, according to each man's natural tendencies. The master, who
was slow to give his permission to devotees wishing to enter the formal path
of monkhood, always cautioned them to first reflect well on the austerities of
the monastic life.
The great guru taught his disciples to avoid theoretical discussion of the
scriptures. "He only is wise who devotes himself to realizing, not reading only,
the ancient revelations," he said. "Solve all your problems through meditation.
Exchange unprofitable religious speculations for actual God-contact. Clear
your mind of dogmatic theological debris; let in the fresh, healing waters of
direct perception. Attune yourself to the active inner Guidance; the Divine
Voice has the answer to every dilemma of life. Though man's ingenuity for
getting himself into trouble appears to be endless, the Infinite Succor is no less
resourceful."
The master's omnipresence was demonstrated one day before a group of
disciples who were listening to his exposition of the Bhagavad Gita. As he was
explaining the meaning of Kutastha Chaitanya or the Christ Consciousness in
all vibratory creation, Lahiri Mahasaya suddenly gasped and cried out:
"I am drowning in the bodies of many souls off the coast of Japan!"
The next morning the chelas read a newspaper account of the death of
many people whose ship had foundered the preceding day near Japan.
The distant disciples of Lahiri Mahasaya were often made aware of his
enfolding presence. "I am ever with those who practice Kriya," he said
consolingly to chelas who could not remain near him. "I will guide you to the
Cosmic Home through your enlarging perceptions."
Swami Satyananda was told by a devotee that, unable to go to Benares, the
man had nevertheless received precise Kriya initiation in a dream. Lahiri
Mahasaya had appeared to instruct the chela in answer to his prayers.
If a disciple neglected any of his worldly obligations, the master would
gently correct and discipline him.
"Lahiri Mahasaya's words were mild and healing, even when he was forced
to speak openly of a chela's faults," Sri Yukteswar once told me. He added
ruefully, "No disciple ever fled from our master's barbs." I could not help
laughing, but I truthfully assured Sri Yukteswar that, sharp or not, his every
word was music to my ears.
Lahiri Mahasaya carefully graded Kriya into four progressive initiations.
He bestowed the three higher techniques only after the devotee had manifested
definite spiritual progress. One day a certain chela, convinced that his worth
was not being duly evaluated, gave voice to his discontent.
"Master," he said, "surely I am ready now for the second initiation."
At this moment the door opened to admit a humble disciple, Brinda
Bhagat. He was a Benares postman.
"Brinda, sit by me here." The great guru smiled at him affectionately. "Tell
me, are you ready for the second technique of Kriya?"
The little postman folded his hands in supplication. "Gurudeva," he said in
alarm, "no more initiations, please! How can I assimilate any higher
teachings? I have come today to ask your blessings, because the first divine
Kriya has filled me with such intoxication that I cannot deliver my letters!"
"Already Brinda swims in the sea of Spirit." At these words from Lahiri
Mahasaya, his other disciple hung his head.
"Master," he said, "I see I have been a poor workman, finding fault with
my tools."
The postman, who was an uneducated man, later developed his insight
through Kriya to such an extent that scholars occasionally sought his
interpretation on involved scriptural points. Innocent alike of sin and syntax,
little Brinda won renown in the domain of learned pundits.
Besides the numerous Benares disciples of Lahiri Mahasaya, hundreds
came to him from distant parts of India. He himself traveled to Bengal on
several occasions, visiting at the homes of the fathers-in-law of his two sons.
Thus blessed by his presence, Bengal became honeycombed with small Kriya
groups. Particularly in the districts of Krishnagar and Bishnupur, many silent
devotees to this day have kept the invisible current of spiritual meditation
flowing.
Among many saints who received Kriya from Lahiri Mahasaya may be
mentioned the illustrious Swami Vhaskarananda Saraswati of Benares, and the
Deogarh ascetic of high stature, Balananda Brahmachari. For a time Lahiri
Mahasaya served as private tutor to the son of Maharaja Iswari Narayan Sinha
Bahadur of Benares. Recognizing the master's spiritual attainment, the
maharaja, as well as his son, sought Kriya initiation, as did the Maharaja
Jotindra Mohan Thakur.
A number of Lahiri Mahasaya's disciples with influential worldly position
were desirous of expanding the Kriya circle by publicity. The guru refused his
permission. One chela, the royal physician to the Lord of Benares, started an
organized effort to spread the master's name as "Kashi Baba" (Exalted One of
Benares). Again the guru forbade it.
"Let the fragrance of the Kriya flower be wafted naturally, without any
display," he said. "Its seeds will take root in the soil of spiritually fertile
hearts."
Although the great master did not adopt the system of preaching through
the modern medium of an organization, or through the printing press, he knew
that the power of his message would rise like a resistless flood, inundating by
its own force the banks of human minds. The changed and purified lives of
devotees were the simple guarantees of the deathless vitality of Kriya.
In 1886, twenty-five years after his Ranikhet initiation, Lahiri Mahasaya
was retired on a pension. With his availability in the daytime, disciples sought
him out in ever-increasing numbers. The great guru now sat in silence most of
the time, locked in the tranquil lotus posture. He seldom left his little parlor,
even for a walk or to visit other parts of the house. A quiet stream of chelas
arrived, almost ceaselessly, for a darshan (holy sight) of the guru.
To the awe of all beholders, Lahiri Mahasaya's habitual physiological state
exhibited the superhuman features of breathlessness, sleeplessness, cessation
of pulse and heartbeat, calm eyes unblinking for hours, and a profound aura of
peace. No visitors departed without upliftment of spirit; all knew they had
received the silent blessing of a true man of God.
The master now permitted his disciple, Panchanon Bhattacharya, to open
an "Arya Mission Institution" in Calcutta. Here the saintly disciple spread the
message of Kriya Yoga, and prepared for public benefit certain yogic herbal
medicines.
In accordance with ancient custom, the master gave to people in general a
neem oil for the cure of various diseases. When the guru requested a disciple
to distil the oil, he could easily accomplish the task. If anyone else tried, he
would encounter strange difficulties, finding that the medicinal oil had almost
evaporated after going through the required distilling processes. Evidently the
master's blessing was a necessary ingredient.
The Arya Mission Institution undertook the publication of many of the
guru's scriptural commentaries. Like Jesus and other great prophets, Lahiri
Mahasaya himself wrote no books, but his penetrating interpretations were
recorded and arranged by various disciples. Some of these voluntary
amanuenses were more discerning than others in correctly conveying the
profound insight of the guru; yet, on the whole, their efforts were successful.
Through their zeal, the world possesses unparalleled commentaries by Lahiri
Mahasaya on twenty-six ancient scriptures.
Sri Ananda Mohan Lahiri, a grandson of the master, has written an
interesting booklet on Kriya. "The text of the Bhagavad Gita is a part of the
great epic, the Mahabharata, which possesses several knot- points (vyas-
kutas)," Sri Ananda wrote. "Keep those knot-points unquestioned, and we find
nothing but mythical stories of a peculiar and easily-misunderstood type. Keep
those knot-points unexplained, and we have lost a science which the East has
preserved with superhuman patience after a quest of thousands of years of
experiment. It was the commentaries of Lahiri Mahasaya which brought to
light, clear of allegories, the very science of religion that had been so cleverly
put out of sight in the riddle of scriptural letters and imagery. No longer a mere
unintelligible jugglery of words, the otherwise unmeaning formulas of Vedic
worship have been proved by the master to be full of scientific significance. . .
.
"We know that man is usually helpless against the insurgent sway of evil
passions, but these are rendered powerless and man finds no motive in their
indulgence when there dawns on him a consciousness of superior and lasting
bliss through Kriya. Here the give-up, the negation of the lower passions,
synchronizes with a take-up, the assertion of a beatitude. Without such a
course, hundreds of moral maxims which run in mere negatives are useless to
us.
"Our eagerness for worldly activity kills in us the sense of spiritual awe.
We cannot comprehend the Great Life behind all names and forms, just
because science brings home to us how we can use the powers of nature; this
familiarity has bred a contempt for her ultimate secrets. Our relation with
nature is one of practical business. We tease her, so to speak, to know how she
can be used to serve our purposes; we make use of her energies, whose Source
yet remains unknown. In science our relation with nature is one that exists
between a man and his servant, or in a philosophical sense she is like a captive
in the witness box. We cross-examine her, challenge her, and minutely weigh
her evidence in human scales which cannot measure her hidden values. On the
other hand, when the self is in communion with a higher power, nature
automatically obeys, without stress or strain, the will of man. This effortless
command over nature is called 'miraculous' by the uncomprehending
materialist.
"The life of Lahiri Mahasaya set an example which changed the erroneous
notion that yoga is a mysterious practice. Every man may find a way through
Kriya to understand his proper relation with nature, and to feel spiritual
reverence for all phenomena, whether mystical or of everyday occurrence, in
spite of the matter-of-factness of physical science. We must bear in mind that
what was mystical a thousand years ago is no longer so, and what is
mysterious now may become lawfully intelligible a hundred years hence. It is
the Infinite, the Ocean of Power, that is at the back of all manifestations.
"The law of Kriya Yoga is eternal. It is true like mathematics; like the
simple rules of addition and subtraction, the law of Kriya can never be
destroyed. Burn to ashes all the books on mathematics, the logically-minded
will always rediscover such truths; destroy all the sacred books on yoga, its
fundamental laws will come out whenever there appears a true yogi who
comprises within himself pure devotion and consequently pure knowledge."
Just as Babaji is among the greatest of avatars, a Mahavatar, and Sri
Yukteswar a Jnanavatar or Incarnation of Wisdom, so Lahiri Mahasaya may
justly be called Yogavatar, or Incarnation of Yoga. By the standards of both
qualitative and quantitative good, he elevated the spiritual level of society. In
his power to raise his close disciples to Christlike stature and in his wide
dissemination of truth among the masses, Lahiri Mahasaya ranks among the
saviors of mankind.
His uniqueness as a prophet lies in his practical stress on a definite method,
Kriya, opening for the first time the doors of yoga freedom to all men. Apart
from the miracles of his own life, surely the Yogavatar reached the zenith of
all wonders in reducing the ancient complexities of yoga to an effective
simplicity not beyond the ordinary grasp.
In reference to miracles, Lahiri Mahasaya often said, "The operation of
subtle laws which are unknown to people in general should not be publicly
discussed or published without due discrimination." If in these pages I have
appeared to flout his cautionary words, it is because he has given me an
inward reassurance. Also, in recording the lives of Babaji, Lahiri Mahasaya,
and Sri Yukteswar, I have thought it advisable to omit many true miraculous
stories, which could hardly have been included without writing, also, an
explanatory volume of abstruse philosophy.
New hope for new men! "Divine union," the Yogavatar proclaimed, "is
possible through self-effort, and is not dependent on theological beliefs or on
the arbitrary will of a Cosmic Dictator."
Through use of the Kriya key, persons who cannot bring themselves to
believe in the divinity of any man will behold at last the full divinity of their
own selves.

CHAPTER: 36
Babaji's Interest In The West


"Master, did you ever meet Babaji?"

It was a calm summer night in Serampore; the large stars of the tropics
gleamed over our heads as I sat by Sri Yukteswar's side on the second-story
balcony of the hermitage.
"Yes." Master smiled at my direct question; his eyes lit with reverence.
"Three times I have been blessed by the sight of the deathless guru. Our first
meeting was in Allahabad at a Kumbha Mela."
The religious fairs held in India since time immemorial are known as
Kumbha Melas; they have kept spiritual goals in constant sight of the
multitude. Devout Hindus gather by the millions every six years to meet
thousands of sadhus, yogis, swamis, and ascetics of all kinds. Many are
hermits who never leave their secluded haunts except to attend the melas and
bestow their blessings on worldly men and women.
"I was not a swami at the time I met Babaji," Sri Yukteswar went on. "But
I had already received Kriya initiation from Lahiri Mahasaya. He encouraged
me to attend the mela which was convening in January, 1894 at Allahabad. It
was my first experience of a kumbha; I felt slightly dazed by the clamor and
surge of the crowd. In my searching gazes around I saw no illumined face of a
master. Passing a bridge on the bank of the Ganges, I noticed an acquaintance
standing near-by, his begging bowl extended.
"'Oh, this fair is nothing but a chaos of noise and beggars,' I thought in
disillusionment. 'I wonder if Western scientists, patiently enlarging the realms
of knowledge for the practical good of mankind, are not more pleasing to God
than these idlers who profess religion but concentrate on alms.'
"My smouldering reflections on social reform were interrupted by the
voice of a tall sannyasi who halted before me.
"'Sir,' he said, 'a saint is calling you.'
"'Who is he?'
"'Come and see for yourself.'
"Hesitantly following this laconic advice, I soon found myself near a tree
whose branches were sheltering a guru with an attractive group of disciples.
The master, a bright unusual figure, with sparkling dark eyes, rose at my
approach and embraced me.
"'Welcome, Swamiji,' he said affectionately.
"'Sir,' I replied emphatically, 'I am not a swami.'
"'Those on whom I am divinely directed to bestow the title of "swami"
never cast it off.' The saint addressed me simply, but deep conviction of truth
rang in his words; I was engulfed in an instant wave of spiritual blessing.
Smiling at my sudden elevation into the ancient monastic order, I bowed at the
feet of the obviously great and angelic being in human form who had thus
honored me.
"Babaji-for it was indeed he-motioned me to a seat near him under the tree.
He was strong and young, and looked like Lahiri Mahasaya; yet the
resemblance did not strike me, even though I had often heard of the
extraordinary similarities in the appearance of the two masters. Babaji
possesses a power by which he can prevent any specific thought from arising
in a person's mind. Evidently the great guru wished me to be perfectly natural
in his presence, not overawed by knowledge of his identity.
"'What do you think of the Kumbha Mela?'
"'I was greatly disappointed, sir.' I added hastily, 'Up until the time I met
you. Somehow saints and this commotion don't seem to belong together.'
"'Child,' the master said, though apparently I was nearly twice his own age,
'for the faults of the many, judge not the whole. Everything on earth is of
mixed character, like a mingling of sand and sugar. Be like the wise ant which
seizes only the sugar, and leaves the sand untouched. Though many sadhus
here still wander in delusion, yet the mela is blessed by a few men of God-
realization.'
"In view of my own meeting with this exalted master, I quickly agreed
with his observation.
"'Sir,' I commented, 'I have been thinking of the scientific men of the West,
greater by far in intelligence than most people congregated here, living in
distant Europe and America, professing different creeds, and ignorant of the
real values of such melas as the present one. They are the men who could
benefit greatly by meetings with India's masters. But, although high in
intellectual attainments, many Westerners are wedded to rank materialism.
Others, famous in science and philosophy, do not recognize the essential unity
in religion. Their creeds serve as insurmountable barriers that threaten to
separate them from us forever.'
"'I saw that you are interested in the West, as well as the East.' Babaji's face
beamed with approval. 'I felt the pangs of your heart, broad enough for all
men, whether Oriental or Occidental. That is why I summoned you here.
"'East and West must establish a golden middle path of activity and
spirituality combined,' he continued. 'India has much to learn from the West in
material development; in return, India can teach the universal methods by
which the West will be able to base its religious beliefs on the unshakable
foundations of yogic science.
"'You, Swamiji, have a part to play in the coming harmonious exchange
between Orient and Occident. Some years hence I shall send you a disciple
whom you can train for yoga dissemination in the West. The vibrations there
of many spiritually seeking souls come floodlike to me. I perceive potential
saints in America and Europe, waiting to be awakened.'"
At this point in his story, Sri Yukteswar turned his gaze fully on mine.
"My son," he said, smiling in the moonlight, "you are the disciple that,
years ago, Babaji promised to send me."
I was happy to learn that Babaji had directed my steps to Sri Yukteswar,
yet it was hard for me to visualize myself in the remote West, away from my
beloved guru and the simple hermitage peace.
"Babaji then spoke of the Bhagavad Gita," Sri Yukteswar went on. "To my
astonishment, he indicated by a few words of praise that he was aware of the
fact that I had written interpretations on various Gita chapters.
"'At my request, Swamiji, please undertake another task,' the great master
said. 'Will you not write a short book on the underlying basic unity between
the Christian and Hindu scriptures? Show by parallel references that the
inspired sons of God have spoken the same truths, now obscured by men's
sectarian differences.'
"'Maharaj,' I answered diffidently, 'what a command! Shall I be able to
fulfill it?'
"Babaji laughed softly. 'My son, why do you doubt?' he said reassuringly.
'Indeed, Whose work is all this, and Who is the Doer of all actions? Whatever
the Lord has made me say is bound to materialize as truth.'
"I deemed myself empowered by the blessings of the saint, and agreed to
write the book. Feeling reluctantly that the parting-hour had arrived, I rose
from my leafy seat.
"'Do you know Lahiri?' the master inquired. 'He is a great soul, isn't he?
Tell him of our meeting.' He then gave me a message for Lahiri Mahasaya.
"After I had bowed humbly in farewell, the saint smiled benignly. 'When
your book is finished, I shall pay you a visit,' he promised. 'Good-by for the
present.'
"I left Allahabad the following day and entrained for Benares. Reaching
my guru's home, I poured out the story of the wonderful saint at the Kumbha
Mela.
"'Oh, didn't you recognize him?' Lahiri Mahasaya's eyes were dancing with
laughter. 'I see you couldn't, for he prevented you. He is my incomparable
guru, the celestial Babaji!'
"'Babaji!' I repeated, awestruck. 'The Yogi-Christ Babaji! The invisible-
visible savior Babaji! Oh, if I could just recall the past and be once more in his
presence, to show my devotion at his lotus feet!'
"'Never mind,' Lahiri Mahasaya said consolingly. 'He has promised to see
you again.'
"'Gurudeva, the divine master asked me to give you a message. "Tell
Lahiri," he said, "that the stored-up power for this life now runs low; it is
nearly finished."'
"At my utterance of these enigmatic words, Lahiri Mahasaya's figure
trembled as though touched by a lightning current. In an instant everything
about him fell silent; his smiling countenance turned incredibly stern. Like a
wooden statue, somber and immovable in its seat, his body became colorless. I
was alarmed and bewildered. Never in my life had I seen this joyous soul
manifest such awful gravity. The other disciples present stared apprehensively.
"Three hours passed in utter silence. Then Lahiri Mahasaya resumed his
natural, cheerful demeanor, and spoke affectionately to each of the chelas.
Everyone sighed in relief.
"I realized by my master's reaction that Babaji's message had been an
unmistakable signal by which Lahiri Mahasaya understood that his body
would soon be untenanted. His awesome silence proved that my guru had
instantly controlled his being, cut his last cord of attachment to the material
world, and fled to his ever-living identity in Spirit. Babaji's remark had been
his way of saying: 'I shall be ever with you.'
"Though Babaji and Lahiri Mahasaya were omniscient, and had no need of
communicating with each other through me or any other intermediary, the
great ones often condescend to play a part in the human drama. Occasionally
they transmit their prophecies through messengers in an ordinary way, that the
final fulfillment of their words may infuse greater divine faith in a wide circle
of men who later learn the story.
"I soon left Benares, and set to work in Serampore on the scriptural
writings requested by Babaji," Sri Yukteswar continued. "No sooner had I
begun my task than I was able to compose a poem dedicated to the deathless
guru. The melodious lines flowed effortlessly from my pen, though never
before had I attempted Sanskrit poetry.
"In the quiet of night I busied myself over a comparison of the Bible and
the scriptures of Sanatan Dharma. Quoting the words of the blessed Lord
Jesus, I showed that his teachings were in essence one with the revelations of
the Vedas. To my relief, my book was finished in a short time; I realized that
this speedy blessing was due to the grace of my Param-Guru-Maharaj. The
chapters first appeared in the Sadhusambad journal; later they were privately
printed as a book by one of my Kidderpore disciples.
"The morning after I had concluded my literary efforts," Master continued,
"I went to the Rai Ghat here to bathe in the Ganges. The ghat was deserted; I
stood still for awhile, enjoying the sunny peace. After a dip in the sparkling
waters, I started for home. The only sound in the silence was that of my
Ganges-drenched cloth, swish- swashing with every step. As I passed beyond
the site of the large banyan tree near the river bank, a strong impulse urged me
to look back. There, under the shade of the banyan, and surrounded by a few
disciples, sat the great Babaji!
"'Greetings, Swamiji!' The beautiful voice of the master rang out to assure
me I was not dreaming. 'I see you have successfully completed your book. As
I promised, I am here to thank you.'
"With a fast-beating heart, I prostrated myself fully at his feet. 'Param-
guruji,' I said imploringly, 'will you and your chelas not honor my near-by
home with your presence?'
"The supreme guru smilingly declined. 'No, child,' he said, 'we are people
who like the shelter of trees; this spot is quite comfortable.'
"'Please tarry awhile, Master.' I gazed entreatingly at him. 'I shall be back
at once with some special sweetmeats.'
"When I returned in a few minutes with a dish of delicacies, lo! the lordly
banyan no longer sheltered the celestial troupe. I searched all around the ghat,
but in my heart I knew the little band had already fled on etheric wings.
"I was deeply hurt. 'Even if we meet again, I would not care to talk to him,'
I assured myself. 'He was unkind to leave me so suddenly.' This was a wrath of
love, of course, and nothing more.
"A few months later I visited Lahiri Mahasaya in Benares. As I entered his
little parlor, my guru smiled in greeting.
"'Welcome, Yukteswar,' he said. 'Did you just meet Babaji at the threshold
of my room?'
"'Why, no,' I answered in surprise.
"'Come here.' Lahiri Mahasaya touched me gently on the forehead; at once
I beheld, near the door, the form of Babaji, blooming like a perfect lotus.
"I remembered my old hurt, and did not bow. Lahiri Mahasaya looked at
me in astonishment.
"The divine guru gazed at me with fathomless eyes. 'You are annoyed with
me.'
"'Sir, why shouldn't I be?' I answered. 'Out of the air you came with your
magic group, and into the thin air you vanished.'
"'I told you I would see you, but didn't say how long I would remain.'
Babaji laughed softly. 'You were full of excitement. I assure you that I was
fairly extinguished in the ether by the gust of your restlessness.'
"I was instantly satisfied by this unflattering explanation. I knelt at his feet;
the supreme guru patted me kindly on the shoulder.
"'Child, you must meditate more,' he said. 'Your gaze is not yet faultless-
you could not see me hiding behind the sunlight.' With these words in the
voice of a celestial flute, Babaji disappeared into the hidden radiance.
"That was one of my last visits to Benares to see my guru," Sri Yukteswar
concluded. "Even as Babaji had foretold at the Kumbha Mela, the
householder-incarnation of Lahiri Mahasaya was drawing to a close. During
the summer of 1895 his stalwart body developed a small boil on the back. He
protested against lancing; he was working out in his own flesh the evil karma
of some of his disciples. Finally a few chelas became very insistent; the master
replied cryptically:
"'The body has to find a cause to go; I will be agreeable to whatever you
want to do.'
"A short time later the incomparable guru gave up his body in Benares. No
longer need I seek him out in his little parlor; I find every day of my life
blessed by his omnipresent guidance."
Years later, from the lips of Swami Keshabananda, an advanced disciple, I
heard many wonderful details about the passing of Lahiri Mahasaya.
"A few days before my guru relinquished his body," Keshabananda told
me, "he materialized himself before me as I sat in my hermitage at Hardwar.
"'Come at once to Benares.' With these words Lahiri Mahasaya vanished.
"I entrained immediately for Benares. At my guru's home I found many
disciples assembled. For hours that day the master expounded the Gita; then
he addressed us simply.
"'I am going home.'
"Sobs of anguish broke out like an irresistible torrent.
"'Be comforted; I shall rise again.' After this utterance Lahiri Mahasaya
thrice turned his body around in a circle, faced the north in his lotus posture,
and gloriously entered the final maha- samadhi.
"Lahiri Mahasaya's beautiful body, so dear to the devotees, was cremated
with solemn householder rites at Manikarnika Ghat by the holy Ganges,"
Keshabananda continued. "The following day, at ten o'clock in the morning,
while I was still in Benares, my room was suffused with a great light. Lo!
before me stood the flesh and blood form of Lahiri Mahasaya! It looked
exactly like his old body, except that it appeared younger and more radiant.
My divine guru spoke to me.
"'Keshabananda,' he said, 'it is I. From the disintegrated atoms of my
cremated body, I have resurrected a remodeled form. My householder work in
the world is done; but I do not leave the earth entirely. Henceforth I shall
spend some time with Babaji in the Himalayas, and with Babaji in the
cosmos.'
"With a few words of blessing to me, the transcendent master vanished.
Wondrous inspiration filled my heart; I was uplifted in Spirit even as were the
disciples of Christ and Kabir when they had gazed on their living gurus after
physical death.
"When I returned to my isolated Hardwar hermitage," Keshabananda went
on, "I carried with me the sacred ashes of my guru. I know he has escaped the
spatio-temporal cage; the bird of omnipresence is freed. Yet it comforted my
heart to enshrine his sacred remains."
Another disciple who was blessed by the sight of his resurrected guru was
the saintly Panchanon Bhattacharya, founder of the Calcutta Arya Mission
Institution.
I visited Panchanon at his Calcutta home, and listened with delight to the
story of his many years with the master. In conclusion, he told me of the most
marvelous event in his life.
"Here in Calcutta," Panchanon said, "at ten o'clock of the morning which
followed his cremation, Lahiri Mahasaya appeared before me in living glory."
Swami Pranabananda, the "saint with two bodies," also confided to me the
details of his own supernal experience.
"A few days before Lahiri Mahasaya left his body," Pranabananda told me
at the time he visited my Ranchi school, "I received a letter from him,
requesting me to come at once to Benares. I was delayed, however, and could
not leave immediately. As I was in the midst of my travel preparations, about
ten o'clock in the morning, I was suddenly overwhelmed with joy to see the
shining figure of my guru.
 "'Why hurry to Benares?' Lahiri Mahasaya said, smiling. 'You shall find
me there no longer.'
"As the import of his words dawned on me, I sobbed broken-heartedly,
believing that I was seeing him only in a vision.
"The master approached me comfortingly. 'Here, touch my flesh,' he said. 'I
am living, as always. Do not lament; am I not with you forever?'"
From the lips of these three great disciples, a story of wondrous truth has
emerged: At the morning hour of ten, on the day after the body of Lahiri
Mahasaya had been consigned to the flames, the resurrected master, in a real
but transfigured body, appeared before three disciples, each one in a different
city.
"So when this corruptible shall have put on incorruption, and this mortal
shall have put on immortality, then shall be brought to pass the saying that is
written, Death is swallowed up in victory. O death, where is thy sting? O
grave, where is thy victory?"

CHAPTER: 37
I Go To America

"America! Surely these people are Americans!" This was my thought as a

panoramic vision of Western faces passed before my inward view.
Immersed in meditation, I was sitting behind some dusty boxes in the
storeroom of the Ranchi school. A private spot was difficult to find during
those busy years with the youngsters!
The vision continued; a vast multitude, gazing at me intently, swept
actorlike across the stage of consciousness.
The storeroom door opened; as usual, one of the young lads had discovered
my hiding place.
"Come here, Bimal," I cried gaily. "I have news for you: the Lord is calling
me to America!"
"To America?" The boy echoed my words in a tone that implied I had said
"to the moon."
"Yes! I am going forth to discover America, like Columbus. He thought he
had found India; surely there is a karmic link between those two lands!"
Bimal scampered away; soon the whole school was informed by the two-
legged newspaper. I summoned the bewildered faculty and gave the school
into its charge.
"I know you will keep Lahiri Mahasaya's yoga ideals of education ever to
the fore," I said. "I shall write you frequently; God willing, someday I shall be
back."
Tears stood in my eyes as I cast a last look at the little boys and the sunny
acres of Ranchi. A definite epoch in my life had now closed, I knew;
henceforth I would dwell in far lands. I entrained for Calcutta a few hours
after my vision. The following day I received an invitation to serve as the
delegate from India to an International Congress of Religious Liberals in
America. It was to convene that year in Boston, under the auspices of the
American Unitarian Association.
My head in a whirl, I sought out Sri Yukteswar in Serampore.
"Guruji, I have just been invited to address a religious congress in
America. Shall I go?"
"All doors are open for you," Master replied simply. "It is now or never."
"But, sir," I said in dismay, "what do I know about public speaking?
Seldom have I given a lecture, and never in English."
"English or no English, your words on yoga shall be heard in the West."
I laughed. "Well, dear guruji, I hardly think the Americans will learn
Bengali! Please bless me with a push over the hurdles of the English
language."
When I broke the news of my plans to Father, he was utterly taken aback.
To him America seemed incredibly remote; he feared he might never see me
again.
"How can you go?" he asked sternly. "Who will finance you?" As he had
affectionately borne the expenses of my education and whole life, he doubtless
hoped that his question would bring my project to an embarrassing halt.
"The Lord will surely finance me." As I made this reply, I thought of the
similar one I had given long ago to my brother Ananta in Agra. Without very
much guile, I added, "Father, perhaps God will put it into your mind to help
me."
"No, never!" He glanced at me piteously.
I was astounded, therefore, when Father handed me, the following day, a
check made out for a large amount.
"I give you this money," he said, "not in my capacity as a father, but as a
faithful disciple of Lahiri Mahasaya. Go then to that far Western land; spread
there the creedless teachings of Kriya Yoga."
I was immensely touched at the selfless spirit in which Father had been
able to quickly put aside his personal desires. The just realization had come to
him during the preceding night that no ordinary desire for foreign travel was
motivating my voyage.
"Perhaps we shall not meet again in this life." Father, who was sixty- seven
at this time, spoke sadly.
An intuitive conviction prompted me to reply, "Surely the Lord will bring
us together once more."
As I went about my preparations to leave Master and my native land for
the unknown shores of America, I experienced not a little trepidation. I had
heard many stories about the materialistic Western atmosphere, one very
different from the spiritual background of India, pervaded with the centuried
aura of saints. "An Oriental teacher who will dare the Western airs," I thought,
"must be hardy beyond the trials of any Himalayan cold!"
One early morning I began to pray, with an adamant determination to
continue, to even die praying, until I heard the voice of God. I wanted His
blessing and assurance that I would not lose myself in the fogs of modern
utilitarianism. My heart was set to go to America, but even more strongly was
it resolved to hear the solace of divine permission.
I prayed and prayed, muffling my sobs. No answer came. My silent
petition increased in excruciating crescendo until, at noon, I had reached a
zenith; my brain could no longer withstand the pressure of my agonies. If I
cried once more with an increased depth of my inner passion, I felt as though
my brain would split. At that moment there came a knock outside the vestibule
adjoining the Gurpar Road room in which I was sitting. Opening the door, I
saw a young man in the scanty garb of a renunciate. He came in, closed the
door behind him and, refusing my request to sit down, indicated with a gesture
that he wished to talk to me while standing.
"He must be Babaji!" I thought, dazed, because the man before me had the
features of a younger Lahiri Mahasaya.
He answered my thought. "Yes, I am Babaji." He spoke melodiously in
Hindi. "Our Heavenly Father has heard your prayer. He commands me to tell
you: Follow the behests of your guru and go to America. Fear not; you will be
protected."
After a vibrant pause, Babaji addressed me again. "You are the one I have
chosen to spread the message of Kriya Yoga in the West. Long ago I met your
guru Yukteswar at a Kumbha Mela; I told him then I would send you to him
for training."
I was speechless, choked with devotional awe at his presence, and deeply
touched to hear from his own lips that he had guided me to Sri Yukteswar. I
lay prostrate before the deathless guru. He graciously lifted me from the floor.
Telling me many things about my life, he then gave me some personal
instruction, and uttered a few secret prophecies.
"Kriya Yoga, the scientific technique of God-realization," he finally said
with solemnity, "will ultimately spread in all lands, and aid in harmonizing the
nations through man's personal, transcendental perception of the Infinite
Father."
With a gaze of majestic power, the master electrified me by a glimpse of
his cosmic consciousness. In a short while he started toward the door.
"Do not try to follow me," he said. "You will not be able to do so."
"Please, Babaji, don't go away!" I cried repeatedly. "Take me with you!"
Looking back, he replied, "Not now. Some other time."
Overcome by emotion, I disregarded his warning. As I tried to pursue him,
I discovered that my feet were firmly rooted to the floor. From the door,
Babaji gave me a last affectionate glance. He raised his hand by way of
benediction and walked away, my eyes fixed on him longingly.
After a few minutes my feet were free. I sat down and went into a deep
meditation, unceasingly thanking God not only for answering my prayer but
for blessing me by a meeting with Babaji. My whole body seemed sanctified
through the touch of the ancient, ever-youthful master. Long had it been my
burning desire to behold him.
Until now, I have never recounted to anyone this story of my meeting with
Babaji. Holding it as the most sacred of my human experiences, I have hidden
it in my heart. But the thought occurred to me that readers of this
autobiography may be more inclined to believe in the reality of the secluded
Babaji and his world interests if I relate that I saw him with my own eyes. I
have helped an artist to draw a true picture of the great Yogi-Christ of modern
India; it appears in this book.
The eve of my departure for the United States found me in Sri Yukteswar's
holy presence.
"Forget you were born a Hindu, and don't be an American. Take the best of
them both," Master said in his calm way of wisdom. "Be your true self, a child
of God. Seek and incorporate into your being the best qualities of all your
brothers, scattered over the earth in various races."
 Then he blessed me: "All those who come to you with faith, seeking God,
will be helped. As you look at them, the spiritual current emanating from your
eyes will enter into their brains and change their material habits, making them
more God-conscious."
He went on, "Your lot to attract sincere souls is very good. Everywhere
you go, even in a wilderness, you will find friends."
Both of his blessings have been amply demonstrated. I came alone to
America, into a wilderness without a single friend, but there I found thousands
ready to receive the time-tested soul-teachings.
I left India in August, 1920, on The City Of Sparta, the first passenger boat
sailing for America after the close of World War I. I had been able to book
passage only after the removal, in ways fairly miraculous, of many "red-tape"
difficulties concerned with the granting of my passport.
During the two-months' voyage a fellow passenger found out that I was the
Indian delegate to the Boston congress.
"Swami Yogananda," he said, with the first of many quaint pronunciations
by which I was later to hear my name spoken by the Americans, "please favor
the passengers with a lecture next Thursday night. I think we would all benefit
by a talk on 'The Battle of Life and How to Fight It.'"
Alas! I had to fight the battle of my own life, I discovered on Wednesday.
Desperately trying to organize my ideas into a lecture in English, I finally
abandoned all preparations; my thoughts, like a wild colt eyeing a saddle,
refused any cooperation with the laws of English grammar. Fully trusting in
Master's past assurances, however, I appeared before my Thursday audience in
the saloon of the steamer. No eloquence rose to my lips; speechlessly I stood
before the assemblage. After an endurance contest lasting ten minutes, the
audience realized my predicament and began to laugh.
I stand on the dais before one of my classes in America. This class of a
thousand yoga students was held in Washington, D.C.
The situation was not funny to me at the moment; indignantly I sent a
silent prayer to Master.
"You can! Speak!" His voice sounded instantly within my consciousness.
My thoughts fell at once into a friendly relation with the English language.
Forty-five minutes later the audience was still attentive. The talk won me a
number of invitations to lecture later before various groups in America.
I never could remember, afterward, a word that I had spoken. By discreet
inquiry I learned from a number of passengers: "You gave an inspiring lecture
in stirring and correct English." At this delightful news I humbly thanked my
guru for his timely help, realizing anew that he was ever with me, setting at
naught all barriers of time and space.
Once in awhile, during the remainder of the ocean trip, I experienced a few
apprehensive twinges about the coming English-lecture ordeal at the Boston
congress.
"Lord," I prayed, "please let my inspiration be Thyself, and not again the
laughter-bombs of the audience!"
The City Of Sparta docked near Boston in late September. On the sixth of
October I addressed the congress with my maiden speech in America. It was
well received; I sighed in relief. The magnanimous secretary of the American
Unitarian Association wrote the following comment in a published account of
the congress proceedings:
"Swami Yogananda, delegate from the Brahmacharya Ashram of Ranchi,
India, brought the greetings of his Association to the Congress. In fluent
English and a forcible delivery he gave an address of a philosophical character
on 'The Science of Religion,' which has been printed in pamphlet form for a
wider distribution. Religion, he maintained, is universal and it is one. We
cannot possibly universalize particular customs and convictions, but the
common element in religion can be universalized, and we can ask all alike to
follow and obey it."
Due to Father's generous check, I was able to remain in America after the
congress was over. Four happy years were spent in humble circumstances in
Boston. I gave public lectures, taught classes, and wrote a book of poems,
Songs Of The Soul, with a preface by Dr. Frederick B. Robinson, president of
the College of the City of New York.
Starting a transcontinental tour in the summer of 1924, I spoke before
thousands in the principal cities, ending my western trip with a vacation in the
beautiful Alaskan north.
With the help of large-hearted students, by the end of 1925 I had
established an American headquarters on the Mount Washington Estates in
Los Angeles. The building is the one I had seen years before in my vision at
Kashmir. I hastened to send Sri Yukteswar pictures of these distant American
activities. He replied with a postcard in Bengali, which I here translate:
11th August, 1926
Child of my heart, O Yogananda!
Seeing the photos of your school and students, what joy comes in my life I
cannot express in words. I am melting in joy to see your yoga students of
different cities. Beholding your methods in chant affirmations, healing
vibrations, and divine healing prayers, I cannot refrain from thanking you
from my heart. Seeing the gate, the winding hilly way upward, and the
beautiful scenery spread out beneath the Mount Washington Estates, I yearn to
behold it all with my own eyes.
Everything here is going on well. Through the grace of God, may you ever
be in bliss.
SRI YUKTESWAR GIRI
Years sped by. I lectured in every part of my new land, and addressed
hundreds of clubs, colleges, churches, and groups of every denomination. Tens
of thousands of Americans received yoga initiation. To them all I dedicated a
new book of prayer thoughts in 1929-Whispers From Eternity, with a preface
by Amelita Galli-Curci. I give here, from the book, a poem entitled "God!
God! God!", composed one night as I stood on a lecture platform:
From the depths of slumber,
As I ascend the spiral stairway of wakefulness,
I whisper:
God! God! God!
Thou art the food, and when I break my fast
Of nightly separation from Thee,
I taste Thee, and mentally say:
God! God! God!
No matter where I go, the spotlight of my mind
Ever keeps turning on Thee;
And in the battle din of activity
My silent war cry is ever: God! God! God!
When boisterous storms of trials shriek,
And when worries howl at me,
I drown their clamor, loudly chanting:
God! God! God!
When my mind weaves dreams
With threads of memories,
Then on that magic cloth I find embossed:
 God! God! God!
Every night, in time of deepest sleep,
My peace dreams and calls, Joy! Joy! Joy!
And my joy comes singing evermore:
God! God! God!
In waking, eating, working, dreaming, sleeping,
Serving, meditating, chanting, divinely loving,
My soul constantly hums, unheard by any:
God! God! God!
Sometimes-usually on the first of the month when the bills rolled in for
upkeep of the Mount Washington and other Self-Realization Fellowship
centers!-I thought longingly of the simple peace of India. But daily I saw a
widening understanding between West and East; my soul rejoiced.
I have found the great heart of America expressed in the wondrous lines by
Emma Lazarus, carved at the base of the Statue of Liberty, the "Mother of
Exiles":
From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door.

CHAPTER: 38
Luther Burbank -- A Saint Amidst The Roses

"The secret of improved plant breeding, apart from scientific knowledge, is

love." Luther Burbank uttered this wisdom as I walked beside him in his Santa
Rosa garden. We halted near a bed of edible cacti.
"While I was conducting experiments to make 'spineless' cacti," he
continued, "I often talked to the plants to create a vibration of love. 'You have
nothing to fear,' I would tell them. 'You don't need your defensive thorns. I will
protect you.' Gradually the useful plant of the desert emerged in a thornless
variety."
I was charmed at this miracle. "Please, dear Luther, give me a few cacti
leaves to plant in my garden at Mount Washington."
A workman standing near-by started to strip off some leaves; Burbank
prevented him.
"I myself will pluck them for the swami." He handed me three leaves,
which later I planted, rejoicing as they grew to huge estate.
The great horticulturist told me that his first notable triumph was the large
potato, now known by his name. With the indefatigability of genius, he went
on to present the world with hundreds of crossed improvements on nature-his
new Burbank varieties of tomato, corn, squash, cherries, plums, nectarines,
berries, poppies, lilies, roses.
I focused my camera as Luther led me before the famous walnut tree by
which he had proved that natural evolution can be telescopically hastened.
"In only sixteen years," he said, "this walnut tree reached a state of
abundant nut production to which an unaided nature would have brought the
tree in twice that time."
"She is my human plant." Luther waved to her affectionately. "I see
humanity now as one vast plant, needing for its highest fulfillments only love,
the natural blessings of the great outdoors, and intelligent crossing and
selection. In the span of my own lifetime I have observed such wondrous
progress in plant evolution that I look forward optimistically to a healthy,
happy world as soon as its children are taught the principles of simple and
rational living. We must return to nature and nature's God."
"Luther, you would delight in my Ranchi school, with its outdoor classes,
and atmosphere of joy and simplicity."
My words touched the chord closest to Burbank's heart-child education. He
plied me with questions, interest gleaming from his deep, serene eyes.
"Swamiji," he said finally, "schools like yours are the only hope of a future
millennium. I am in revolt against the educational systems of our time, severed
from nature and stifling of all individuality. I am with you heart and soul in
your practical ideals of education."
 As I was taking leave of the gentle sage, he autographed a small volume
and presented it to me. "Here is my book on The Training Of The Human
Plant," he said. "New types of training are needed-fearless experiments. At
times the most daring trials have succeeded in bringing out the best in fruits
and flowers. Educational innovations for children should likewise become
more numerous, more courageous."
I read his little book that night with intense interest. His eye envisioning a
glorious future for the race, he wrote: "The most stubborn living thing in this
world, the most difficult to swerve, is a plant once fixed in certain habits. . . .
Remember that this plant has preserved its individuality all through the ages;
perhaps it is one which can be traced backward through eons of time in the
very rocks themselves, never having varied to any great extent in all these vast
periods. Do you suppose, after all these ages of repetition, the plant does not
become possessed of a will, if you so choose to call it, of unparalleled
tenacity? Indeed, there are plants, like certain of the palms, so persistent that
no human power has yet been able to change them. The human will is a weak
thing beside the will of a plant. But see how this whole plant's lifelong
stubbornness is broken simply by blending a new life with it, making, by
crossing, a complete and powerful change in its life. Then when the break
comes, fix it by these generations of patient supervision and selection, and the
new plant sets out upon its new way never again to return to the old, its
tenacious will broken and changed at last.
"When it comes to so sensitive and pliable a thing as the nature of a child,
the problem becomes vastly easier."
Magnetically drawn to this great American, I visited him again and again.
One morning I arrived at the same time as the postman, who deposited in
Burbank's study about a thousand letters. Horticulturists wrote him from all
parts of the world.
"Swamiji, your presence is just the excuse I need to get out into the
garden," Luther said gaily. He opened a large desk-drawer containing
hundreds of travel folders.
"See," he said, "this is how I do my traveling. Tied down by my plants and
correspondence, I satisfy my desire for foreign lands by a glance now and then
at these pictures."
My car was standing before his gate; Luther and I drove along the streets
of the little town, its gardens bright with his own varieties of Santa Rosa,
Peachblow, and Burbank roses.
"My friend Henry Ford and I both believe in the ancient theory of
reincarnation," Luther told me. "It sheds light on aspects of life otherwise
inexplicable. Memory is not a test of truth; just because man fails to remember
his past lives does not prove he never had them. Memory is blank concerning
his womb-life and infancy, too; but he probably passed through them!" He
chuckled.
The great scientist had received Kriya initiation during one of my earlier
visits. "I practice the technique devoutly, Swamiji," he said. After many
thoughtful questions to me about various aspects of yoga, Luther remarked
slowly:
"The East indeed possesses immense hoards of knowledge which the West
has scarcely begun to explore."
Intimate communion with nature, who unlocked to him many of her
jealously guarded secrets, had given Burbank a boundless spiritual reverence.
"Sometimes I feel very close to the Infinite Power," he confided shyly. His
sensitive, beautifully modeled face lit with his memories. "Then I have been
able to heal sick persons around me, as well as many ailing plants."
He told me of his mother, a sincere Christian. "Many times after her
death," Luther said, "I have been blessed by her appearance in visions; she has
spoken to me."
We drove back reluctantly toward his home and those waiting thousand
letters.
"Luther," I remarked, "next month I am starting a magazine to present the
truth-offerings of East and West. Please help me decide on a good name for
the journal."
We discussed titles for awhile, and finally agreed on East-West. After we
had reentered his study, Burbank gave me an article he had written on
"Science and Civilization."
"This will go in the first issue of East-West," I said gratefully.
As our friendship grew deeper, I called Burbank my "American saint."
"Behold a man," I quoted, "in whom there is no guile!" His heart was
fathomlessly deep, long acquainted with humility, patience, sacrifice. His little
home amidst the roses was austerely simple; he knew the worthlessness of
luxury, the joy of few possessions. The modesty with which he wore his
scientific fame repeatedly reminded me of the trees that bend low with the
burden of ripening fruits; it is the barren tree that lifts its head high in an
empty boast.
I was in New York when, in 1926, my dear friend passed away. In tears I
thought, "Oh, I would gladly walk all the way from here to Santa Rosa for one
more glimpse of him!" Locking myself away from secretaries and visitors, I
spent the next twenty-four hours in seclusion.
The following day I conducted a Vedic memorial rite around a large
picture of Luther. A group of my American students, garbed in Hindu
ceremonial clothes, chanted the ancient hymns as an offering was made of
flowers, water, and fire-symbols of the bodily elements and their release in the
Infinite Source.
Though the form of Burbank lies in Santa Rosa under a Lebanon cedar that
he planted years ago in his garden, his soul is enshrined for me in every wide-
eyed flower that blooms by the wayside. Withdrawn for a time into the
spacious spirit of nature, is that not Luther whispering in her winds, walking
her dawns?
His name has now passed into the heritage of common speech. Listing
"burbank" as a transitive verb, Webster's New International Dictionary defines
it: "To cross or graft (a plant). Hence, figuratively, to improve (anything, as a
process or institution) by selecting good features and rejecting bad, or by
adding good features."
"Beloved Burbank," I cried after reading the definition, "your very name is
now a synonym for goodness!"
LUTHER BURBANK
SANTA ROSA, CALIFORNIA
U.S.A.
December 22, 1924
I have examined the Yogoda system of Swami Yogananda and in my
opinion it is ideal for training and harmonizing man's physical, mental, and
spiritual natures. Swami's aim is to establish "How-to-Live" schools
throughout the world, wherein education will not confine itself to intellectual
development alone, but also training of the body, will, and feelings.
Through the Yogoda system of physical, mental, and spiritual unfoldment
by simple and scientific methods of concentration and meditation, most of the
complex problems of life may be solved, and peace and good-will come upon
earth. The Swami's idea of right education is plain commonsense, free from all
mysticism and non- praciticality; otherwise it would not have my approval.
I am glad to have this opportunity of heartily joining with the Swami in his
appeal for international schools on the art of living which, if established, will
come as near to bringing the millennium as anything with which I am
acquainted.
Luther Burbank signature


CHAPTER: 39
Therese Neumann, The Catholic Stigmatist

"Return to india. I have waited for you patiently for fifteen years. Soon I
shall swim out of the body and on to the Shining Abode. Yogananda, come!"
Sri Yukteswar's voice sounded startlingly in my inner ear as I sat in
meditation at my Mt. Washington headquarters. Traversing ten thousand miles
in the twinkling of an eye, his message penetrated my being like a flash of
lightning.
Fifteen years! Yes, I realized, now it is 1935; I have spent fifteen years in
spreading my guru's teachings in America. Now he recalls me.
That afternoon I recounted my experience to a visiting disciple. His
spiritual development under Kriya Yoga was so remarkable that I often called
him "saint," remembering Babaji's prophecy that America too would produce
men and women of divine realization through the ancient yogic path.
This disciple and a number of others generously insisted on making a
donation for my travels. The financial problem thus solved, I made
arrangements to sail, via Europe, for India. Busy weeks of preparations at
Mount Washington! In March, 1935 I had the Self- Realization Fellowship
chartered under the laws of the State of California as a non-profit corporation.
To this educational institution go all public donations as well as the revenue
from the sale of my books, magazine, written courses, class tuition, and every
other source of income.
"I shall be back," I told my students. "Never shall I forget America."
At a farewell banquet given to me in Los Angeles by loving friends, I
looked long at their faces and thought gratefully, "Lord, he who remembers
Thee as the Sole Giver will never lack the sweetness of friendship among
mortals."
I sailed from New York on June 9, 1935 in the Europa. Two students
accompanied me: my secretary, Mr. C. Richard Wright, and an elderly lady
from Cincinnati, Miss Ettie Bletch. We enjoyed the days of ocean peace, a
welcome contrast to the past hurried weeks. Our period of leisure was short-
lived; the speed of modern boats has some regrettable features!
Like any other group of inquisitive tourists, we walked around the huge
and ancient city of London. The following day I was invited to address a large
meeting in Caxton Hall, at which I was introduced to the London audience by
Sir Francis Younghusband. Our party spent a pleasant day as guests of Sir
Harry Lauder at his estate in Scotland. We soon crossed the English Channel
to the continent, for I wanted to make a special pilgrimage to Bavaria. This
would be my only chance, I felt, to visit the great Catholic mystic, Therese
Neumann of Konnersreuth.
Years earlier I had read an amazing account of Therese. Information given
in the article was as follows:
(1) Therese, born in 1898, had been injured in an accident at the age of
twenty; she became blind and paralyzed.
(2) She miraculously regained her sight in 1923 through prayers to St.
Teresa, "The Little Flower." Later Therese Neumann's limbs were
instantaneously healed.
(3) From 1923 onward, Therese has abstained completely from food and
drink, except for the daily swallowing of one small consecrated wafer.
(4) The stigmata, or sacred wounds of Christ, appeared in 1926 on
Therese's head, breast, hands, and feet. On Friday of every week thereafter,
she has passed through the Passion of Christ, suffering in her own body all his
historic agonies.
(5) Knowing ordinarily only the simple German of her village, during her
Friday trances Therese utters phrases which scholars have identified as ancient
Aramaic. At appropriate times in her vision, she speaks Hebrew or Greek.
(6) By ecclesiastical permission, Therese has several times been under
close scientific observation. Dr. Fritz Gerlick, editor of a Protestant German
newspaper, went to Konnersreuth to "expose the Catholic fraud," but ended up
by reverently writing her biography.
As always, whether in East or West, I was eager to meet a saint. I rejoiced
as our little party entered, on July 16th, the quaint village of Konnersreuth.
The Bavarian peasants exhibited lively interest in our Ford automobile
(brought with us from America) and its assorted group-an American young
man, an elderly lady, and an olive-hued Oriental with long hair tucked under
his coat collar.
Therese's little cottage, clean and neat, with geraniums blooming by a
primitive well, was alas! silently closed. The neighbors, and even the village
postman who passed by, could give us no information. Rain began to fall; my
companions suggested that we leave.
"No," I said stubbornly, "I will stay here until I find some clue leading to
Therese."
Two hours later we were still sitting in our car amidst the dismal rain.
"Lord," I sighed complainingly, "why didst Thou lead me here if she has
disappeared?"
An English-speaking man halted beside us, politely offering his aid.
"I don't know for certain where Therese is," he said, "but she often visits at
the home of Professor Wurz, a seminary master of Eichstatt, eighty miles from
here."
The following morning our party motored to the quiet village of Eichstatt,
narrowly lined with cobblestoned streets. Dr. Wurz greeted us cordially at his
home; "Yes, Therese is here." He sent her word of the visitors. A messenger
soon appeared with her reply.
"Though the bishop has asked me to see no one without his permission, I
will receive the man of God from India."
Deeply touched at these words, I followed Dr. Wurz upstairs to the sitting
room. Therese entered immediately, radiating an aura of peace and joy. She
wore a black gown and spotless white head dress. Although her age was thirty-
seven at this time, she seemed much younger, possessing indeed a childlike
freshness and charm. Healthy, well- formed, rosy-cheeked, and cheerful, this
is the saint that does not eat!
Therese greeted me with a very gentle handshaking. We both beamed in
silent communion, each knowing the other to be a lover of God.
Dr. Wurz kindly offered to serve as interpreter. As we seated ourselves, I
noticed that Therese was glancing at me with naive curiosity; evidently
Hindus had been rare in Bavaria.
"Don't you eat anything?" I wanted to hear the answer from her own lips.
"No, except a consecrated rice-flour wafer, once every morning at six
o'clock."
"How large is the wafer?"
"It is paper-thin, the size of a small coin." She added, "I take it for
sacramental reasons; if it is unconsecrated, I am unable to swallow it."
"Certainly you could not have lived on that, for twelve whole years?"
"I live by God's light." How simple her reply, how Einsteinian!
"I see you realize that energy flows to your body from the ether, sun, and
air."
A swift smile broke over her face. "I am so happy to know you understand
how I live."
 "Your sacred life is a daily demonstration of the truth uttered by Christ:
'Man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word that proceedeth out of
the mouth of God.'"
Again she showed joy at my explanation. "It is indeed so. One of the
reasons I am here on earth today is to prove that man can live by God's
invisible light, and not by food only."
"Can you teach others how to live without food?"
She appeared a trifle shocked. "I cannot do that; God does not wish it."
As my gaze fell on her strong, graceful hands, Therese showed me a little,
square, freshly healed wound on each of her palms. On the back of each hand,
she pointed out a smaller, crescent-shaped wound, freshly healed. Each wound
went straight through the hand. The sight brought to my mind distinct
recollection of the large square iron nails with crescent-tipped ends, still used
in the Orient, but which I do not recall having seen in the West.
The saint told me something of her weekly trances. "As a helpless
onlooker, I observe the whole Passion of Christ." Each week, from Thursday
midnight until Friday afternoon at one o'clock, her wounds open and bleed;
she loses ten pounds of her ordinary 121-pound weight. Suffering intensely in
her sympathetic love, Therese yet looks forward joyously to these weekly
visions of her Lord.
I realized at once that her strange life is intended by God to reassure all
Christians of the historical authenticity of Jesus' life and crucifixion as
recorded in the New Testament, and to dramatically display the ever-living
bond between the Galilean Master and his devotees.
Professor Wurz related some of his experiences with the saint.
"Several of us, including Therese, often travel for days on sight- seeing
trips throughout Germany," he told me. "It is a striking contrast-while we have
three meals a day, Therese eats nothing. She remains as fresh as a rose,
untouched by the fatigue which the trips cause us. As we grow hungry and
hunt for wayside inns, she laughs merrily."
The professor added some interesting physiological details: "Because
Therese takes no food, her stomach has shrunk. She has no excretions, but her
perspiration glands function; her skin is always soft and firm."
At the time of parting, I expressed to Therese my desire to be present at her
trance.
"Yes, please come to Konnersreuth next Friday," she said graciously. "The
bishop will give you a permit. I am very happy you sought me out in
Eichstatt."
 Therese shook hands gently, many times, and walked with our party to the
gate. Mr. Wright turned on the automobile radio; the saint examined it with
little enthusiastic chuckles. Such a large crowd of youngsters gathered that
Therese retreated into the house. We saw her at a window, where she peered at
us, childlike, waving her hand.
From a conversation the next day with two of Therese's brothers, very kind
and amiable, we learned that the saint sleeps only one or two hours at night. In
spite of the many wounds in her body, she is active and full of energy. She
loves birds, looks after an aquarium of fish, and works often in her garden.
Her correspondence is large; Catholic devotees write her for prayers and
healing blessings. Many seekers have been cured through her of serious
diseases.
Her brother Ferdinand, about twenty-three, explained that Therese has the
power, through prayer, of working out on her own body the ailments of others.
The saint's abstinence from food dates from a time when she prayed that the
throat disease of a young man of her parish, then preparing to enter holy
orders, be transferred to her own throat.
On Thursday afternoon our party drove to the home of the bishop, who
looked at my flowing locks with some surprise. He readily wrote out the
necessary permit. There was no fee; the rule made by the Church is simply to
protect Therese from the onrush of casual tourists, who in previous years had
flocked on Fridays by the thousands.
We arrived Friday morning about nine-thirty in Konnersreuth. I noticed
that Therese's little cottage possesses a special glass-roofed section to afford
her plenty of light. We were glad to see the doors no longer closed, but wide-
open in hospitable cheer. There was a line of about twenty visitors, armed with
their permits. Many had come from great distances to view the mystic trance.
Therese had passed my first test at the professor's house by her intuitive
knowledge that I wanted to see her for spiritual reasons, and not just to satisfy
a passing curiosity.
My second test was connected with the fact that, just before I went upstairs
to her room, I put myself into a yogic trance state in order to be one with her
in telepathic and televisic rapport. I entered her chamber, filled with visitors;
she was lying in a white robe on the bed. With Mr. Wright following closely
behind me, I halted just inside the threshold, awestruck at a strange and most
frightful spectacle.
Famous Catholic Stigmatist who inspired my 1935 pilgrimage to
Konnersreuth, Bavaria
Blood flowed thinly and continuously in an inch-wide stream from
Therese's lower eyelids. Her gaze was focused upward on the spiritual eye
within the central forehead. The cloth wrapped around her head was drenched
in blood from the stigmata wounds of the crown of thorns. The white garment
was redly splotched over her heart from the wound in her side at the spot
where Christ's body, long ages ago, had suffered the final indignity of the
soldier's spear-thrust.
Therese's hands were extended in a gesture maternal, pleading; her face
wore an expression both tortured and divine. She appeared thinner, changed in
many subtle as well as outward ways. Murmuring words in a foreign tongue,
she spoke with slightly quivering lips to persons visible before her inner sight.
As I was in attunement with her, I began to see the scenes of her vision.
She was watching Jesus as he carried the cross amidst the jeering multitude.
Suddenly she lifted her head in consternation: the Lord had fallen under the
cruel weight. The vision disappeared. In the exhaustion of fervid pity, Therese
sank heavily against her pillow.
At this moment I heard a loud thud behind me. Turning my head for a
second, I saw two men carrying out a prostrate body. But because I was
coming out of the deep superconscious state, I did not immediately recognize
the fallen person. Again I fixed my eyes on Therese's face, deathly pale under
the rivulets of blood, but now calm, radiating purity and holiness. I glanced
behind me later and saw Mr. Wright standing with his hand against his cheek,
from which blood was trickling.
"Dick," I inquired anxiously, "were you the one who fell?"
"Yes, I fainted at the terrifying spectacle."
"Well," I said consolingly, "you are brave to return and look upon the sight
again."
Remembering the patiently waiting line of pilgrims, Mr. Wright and I
silently bade farewell to Therese and left her sacred presence.
The following day our little group motored south, thankful that we were
not dependent on trains, but could stop the Ford wherever we chose
throughout the countryside. We enjoyed every minute of a tour through
Germany, Holland, France, and the Swiss Alps. In Italy we made a special trip
to Assisi to honor the apostle of humility, St. Francis. The European tour
ended in Greece, where we viewed the Athenian temples, and saw the prison
in which the gentle Socrates had drunk his death potion. One is filled with
admiration for the artistry with which the Greeks have everywhere wrought
their very fancies in alabaster.
We took ship over the sunny Mediterranean, disembarking at Palestine.
Wandering day after day over the Holy Land, I was more than ever convinced
of the value of pilgrimage. The spirit of Christ is all- pervasive in Palestine; I
walked reverently by his side at Bethlehem, Gethsemane, Calvary, the holy
Mount of Olives, and by the River Jordan and the Sea of Galilee.
Our little party visited the Birth Manger, Joseph's carpenter shop, the tomb
of Lazarus, the house of Martha and Mary, the hall of the Last Supper.
Antiquity unfolded; scene by scene, I saw the divine drama that Christ once
played for the ages.
On to Egypt, with its modern Cairo and ancient pyramids. Then a boat
down the narrow Red Sea, over the vasty Arabian Sea; lo, India!

CHAPTER: 40
I Return To India

Gratefully I was inhaling the blessed air of India. Our boat Rajputana
docked on August 22, 1935 in the huge harbor of Bombay. Even this, my first
day off the ship, was a foretaste of the year ahead-twelve months of ceaseless
activity. Friends had gathered at the dock with garlands and greetings; soon, at
our suite in the Taj Mahal Hotel, there was a stream of reporters and
photographers.
Bombay was a city new to me; I found it energetically modern, with many
innovations from the West. Palms line the spacious boulevards; magnificent
state structures vie for interest with ancient temples. Very little time was given
to sight-seeing, however; I was impatient, eager to see my beloved guru and
other dear ones. Consigning the Ford to a baggage car, our party was soon
speeding eastward by train toward Calcutta.
Our arrival at Howrah Station found such an immense crowd assembled to
greet us that for awhile we were unable to dismount from the train. The young
Maharaja of Kasimbazar and my brother Bishnu headed the reception
committee; I was unprepared for the warmth and magnitude of our welcome.
Preceded by a line of automobiles and motorcycles, and amidst the joyous
sound of drums and conch shells, Miss Bletch, Mr. Wright, and myself,
flower-garlanded from head to foot, drove slowly to my father's home.
My aged parent embraced me as one returning from the dead; long we
gazed on each other, speechless with joy. Brothers and sisters, uncles, aunts,
and cousins, students and friends of years long past were grouped around me,
not a dry eye among us. Passed now into the archives of memory, the scene of
loving reunion vividly endures, unforgettable in my heart.
As for my meeting with Sri Yukteswar, words fail me; let the following
description from my secretary suffice.
"Today, filled with the highest anticipations, I drove Yoganandaji from
Calcutta to Serampore," Mr. Wright recorded in his travel diary. "We passed
by quaint shops, one of them the favorite eating haunt of Yoganandaji during
his college days, and finally entered a narrow, walled lane. A sudden left turn,
and there before us towered the simple but inspiring two-story ashram, its
Spanish-style balcony jutting from the upper floor. The pervasive impression
was that of peaceful solitude.
"In grave humility I walked behind Yoganandaji into the courtyard within
the hermitage walls. Hearts beating fast, we proceeded up some old cement
steps, trod, no doubt, by myriads of truth-seekers. The tension grew keener
and keener as on we strode. Before us, near the head of the stairs, quietly
appeared the Great One, Swami Sri Yukteswarji, standing in the noble pose of
a sage.
"My heart heaved and swelled as I felt myself blessed by the privilege of
being in his sublime presence. Tears blurred my eager sight when Yoganandaji
dropped to his knees, and with bowed head offered his soul's gratitude and
greeting, touching with his hand his guru's feet and then, in humble obeisance,
his own head. He rose then and was embraced on both sides of the bosom by
Sri Yukteswarji.
"No words passed at the beginning, but the most intense feeling was
expressed in the mute phrases of the soul. How their eyes sparkled and were
fired with the warmth of renewed soul-union! A tender vibration surged
through the quiet patio, and even the sun eluded the clouds to add a sudden
blaze of glory.
"On bended knee before the master I gave my own unexpressed love and
thanks, touching his feet, calloused by time and service, and receiving his
blessing. I stood then and faced two beautiful deep eyes smouldering with
introspection, yet radiant with joy. We entered his sitting room, whose whole
side opened to the outer balcony first seen from the street. The master braced
himself against a worn davenport, sitting on a covered mattress on the cement
floor. Yoganandaji and I sat near the guru's feet, with orange-colored pillows
to lean against and ease our positions on the straw mat.
"I tried and tried to penetrate the Bengali conversation between the two
Swamijis-for English, I discovered, is null and void when they are together,
although Swamiji Maharaj, as the great guru is called by others, can and often
does speak it. But I perceived the saintliness of the Great One through his
heart-warming smile and twinkling eyes. One quality easily discernible in his
merry, serious conversation is a decided positiveness in statement-the mark of
a wise man, who knows he knows, because he knows God. His great wisdom,
strength of purpose, and determination are apparent in every way.
"Studying him reverently from time to time, I noted that he is of large,
athletic stature, hardened by the trials and sacrifices of renunciation. His poise
is majestic. A decidedly sloping forehead, as if seeking the heavens, dominates
his divine countenance. He has a rather large and homely nose, with which he
amuses himself in idle moments, flipping and wiggling it with his fingers, like
a child. His powerful dark eyes are haloed by an ethereal blue ring. His hair,
parted in the middle, begins as silver and changes to streaks of silvery-gold
and silvery-black, ending in ringlets at his shoulders. His beard and moustache
are scant or thinned out, yet seem to enhance his features and, like his
character, are deep and light at the same time.
"He has a jovial and rollicking laugh which comes from deep in his chest,
causing him to shake and quiver throughout his body-very cheerful and
sincere. His face and stature are striking in their power, as are his muscular
fingers. He moves with a dignified tread and erect posture.
"He was clad simply in the common dhoti and shirt, both once dyed a
strong ocher color, but now a faded orange.
"Glancing about, I observed that this rather dilapidated room suggested the
owner's non-attachment to material comforts. The weather-stained white walls
of the long chamber were streaked with fading blue plaster. At one end of the
room hung a picture of Lahiri Mahasaya, garlanded in simple devotion. There
was also an old picture showing Yoganandaji as he had first arrived in Boston,
standing with the other delegates to the Congress of Religions.
"I noted a quaint concurrence of modernity and antiquation. A huge, cut-
glass, candle-light chandelier was covered with cobwebs through disuse, and
on the wall was a bright, up-to-date calendar. The whole room emanated a
fragrance of peace and calmness. Beyond the balcony I could see coconut
trees towering over the hermitage in silent protection.
"It is interesting to observe that the master has merely to clap his hands
together and, before finishing, he is served or attended by some small disciple.
Incidentally, I am much attracted to one of them-a thin lad, named Prafulla,
with long black hair to his shoulders, a most penetrating pair of sparkling
black eyes, and a heavenly smile; his eyes twinkle, as the corners of his mouth
rise, like the stars and the crescent moon appearing at twilight.
"Swami Sri Yukteswarji's joy is obviously intense at the return of his
'product' (and he seems to be somewhat inquisitive about the 'product's
product'). However, predominance of the wisdom-aspect in the Great One's
nature hinders his outward expression of feeling.
"Yoganandaji presented him with some gifts, as is the custom when the
disciple returns to his guru. We sat down later to a simple but well- cooked
meal. All the dishes were vegetable and rice combinations. Sri Yukteswarji
was pleased at my use of a number of Indian customs, 'finger-eating' for
example.
"After several hours of flying Bengali phrases and the exchange of warm
smiles and joyful glances, we paid obeisance at his feet, bade adieu with a
pronam, and departed for Calcutta with an everlasting memory of a sacred
meeting and greeting. Although I write chiefly of my external impressions of
him, yet I was always conscious of the true basis of the saint-his spiritual
glory. I felt his power, and shall carry that feeling as my divine blessing."
From America, Europe, and Palestine I had brought many presents for Sri
Yukteswar. He received them smilingly, but without remark. For my own use,
I had bought in Germany a combination umbrella-cane. In India I decided to
give the cane to Master.
"This gift I appreciate indeed!" My guru's eyes were turned on me with
affectionate understanding as he made the unwonted comment. From all the
presents, it was the cane that he singled out to display to visitors.
"Master, please permit me to get a new carpet for the sitting room." I had
noticed that Sri Yukteswar's tiger skin was placed over a torn rug.
"Do so if it pleases you." My guru's voice was not enthusiastic. "Behold,
my tiger mat is nice and clean; I am monarch in my own little kingdom.
Beyond it is the vast world, interested only in externals."
As he uttered these words I felt the years roll back; once again I am a
young disciple, purified in the daily fires of chastisement!
As soon as I could tear myself away from Serampore and Calcutta, I set
out, with Mr. Wright, for Ranchi. What a welcome there, a veritable ovation!
Tears stood in my eyes as I embraced the selfless teachers who had kept the
banner of the school flying during my fifteen years' absence. The bright faces
and happy smiles of the residential and day students were ample testimony to
the worth of their many-sided school and yoga training.
Yet, alas! the Ranchi institution was in dire financial difficulties. Sir
Manindra Chandra Nundy, the old Maharaja whose Kasimbazar Palace had
been converted into the central school building, and who had made many
princely donations was now dead. Many free, benevolent features of the
school were now seriously endangered for lack of sufficient public support.
 I had not spent years in America without learning some of its practical
wisdom, its undaunted spirit before obstacles. For one week I remained in
Ranchi, wrestling with critical problems. Then came interviews in Calcutta
with prominent leaders and educators, a long talk with the young Maharaja of
Kasimbazar, a financial appeal to my father, and lo! the shaky foundations of
Ranchi began to be righted. Many donations including one huge check arrived
in the nick of time from my American students.
Within a few months after my arrival in India, I had the joy of seeing the
Ranchi school legally incorporated. My lifelong dream of a permanently
endowed yoga educational center stood fulfilled. That vision had guided me in
the humble beginnings in 1917 with a group of seven boys.
In the decade since 1935, Ranchi has enlarged its scope far beyond the
boys' school. Widespread humanitarian activities are now carried on there in
the Shyama Charan Lahiri Mahasaya Mission.
The school, or Yogoda Sat-Sanga Brahmacharya Vidyalaya, conducts
outdoor classes in grammar and high school subjects. The residential students
and day scholars also receive vocational training of some kind. The boys
themselves regulate most of their activities through autonomous committees.
Very early in my career as an educator I discovered that boys who impishly
delight in outwitting a teacher will cheerfully accept disciplinary rules that are
set by their fellow students. Never a model pupil myself, I had a ready
sympathy for all boyish pranks and problems.
Sports and games are encouraged; the fields resound with hockey and
football practice. Ranchi students often win the cup at competitive events. The
outdoor gymnasium is known far and wide. Muscle recharging through will
power is the Yogoda feature: mental direction of life energy to any part of the
body. The boys are also taught asanas (postures), sword and lathi (stick) play,
and jujitsu. The Yogoda Health Exhibitions at the Ranchi Vidyalaya have been
attended by thousands.
Instruction in primary subjects is given in Hindi to the Kols, Santals, and
Mundas, aboriginal tribes of the province. Classes for girls only have been
organized in near-by villages.
The unique feature at Ranchi is the initiation into Kriya Yoga. The boys
daily practice their spiritual exercises, engage in Gita chanting, and are taught
by precept and example the virtues of simplicity, self-sacrifice, honor, and
truth. Evil is pointed out to them as being that which produces misery; good as
those actions which result in true happiness. Evil may be compared to
poisoned honey, tempting but laden with death.
Overcoming restlessness of body and mind by concentration techniques
has achieved astonishing results: it is no novelty at Ranchi to see an appealing
little figure, aged nine or ten years, sitting for an hour or more in unbroken
poise, the unwinking gaze directed to the spiritual eye. Often the picture of
these Ranchi students has returned to my mind, as I observed collegians over
the world who are hardly able to sit still through one class period.
Ranchi lies 2000 feet above sea level; the climate is mild and equable. The
twenty-five acre site, by a large bathing pond, includes one of the finest
orchards in India-five hundred fruit trees-mango, guava, litchi, jackfruit, date.
The boys grow their own vegetables, and spin at their charkas.
A guest house is hospitably open for Western visitors. The Ranchi library
contains numerous magazines, and about a thousand volumes in English and
Bengali, donations from the West and the East. There is a collection of the
scriptures of the world. A well-classified museum displays archeological,
geological, and anthropological exhibits; trophies, to a great extent, of my
wanderings over the Lord's varied earth.
The charitable hospital and dispensary of the Lahiri Mahasaya Mission,
with many outdoor branches in distant villages, have already ministered to
150,000 of India's poor. The Ranchi students are trained in first aid, and have
given praiseworthy service to their province at tragic times of flood or famine.
In the orchard stands a Shiva temple, with a statue of the blessed master,
Lahiri Mahasaya. Daily prayers and scripture classes are held in the garden
under the mango bowers.
Branch high schools, with the residential and yoga features of Ranchi, have
been opened and are now flourishing. These are the Yogoda Sat- Sanga
Vidyapith (School) for Boys, at Lakshmanpur in Bihar; and the Yogoda Sat-
Sanga High School and hermitage at Ejmalichak in Midnapore.
A stately Yogoda Math was dedicated in 1939 at Dakshineswar, directly on
the Ganges. Only a few miles north of Calcutta, the new hermitage affords a
haven of peace for city dwellers. Suitable accommodations are available for
Western guests, and particularly for those seekers who are intensely dedicating
their lives to spiritual realization. The activities of the Yogoda Math include a
fortnightly mailing of Self- Realization Fellowship teachings to students in
various parts of India.
It is needless to say that all these educational and humanitarian activities
have required the self-sacrificing service and devotion of many teachers and
workers. I do not list their names here, because they are so numerous; but in
my heart each one has a lustrous niche. Inspired by the ideals of Lahiri
Mahasaya, these teachers have abandoned promising worldly goals to serve
humbly, to give greatly.
 Mr. Wright formed many fast friendships with Ranchi boys; clad in a
simple dhoti, he lived for awhile among them. At Ranchi, Calcutta,
Serampore, everywhere he went, my secretary, who has a vivid gift of
description, hauled out his travel diary to record his adventures. One evening I
asked him a question.
"Dick, what is your impression of India?"
"Peace," he said thoughtfully. "The racial aura is peace."

CHAPTER: 41
An Idyl In South India

"You are the first Westerner, Dick, ever to enter that shrine. Many others
have tried in vain."
At my words Mr. Wright looked startled, then pleased. We had just left the
beautiful Chamundi Temple in the hills overlooking Mysore in southern India.
There we had bowed before the gold and silver altars of the Goddess
Chamundi, patron deity of the family of the reigning maharaja.
"As a souvenir of the unique honor," Mr. Wright said, carefully stowing
away a few blessed rose petals, "I will always preserve this flower, sprinkled
by the priest with rose water."
My companion and I were spending the month of November, 1935, as
guests of the State of Mysore. The Maharaja, H.H. Sri Krishnaraja Wadiyar IV,
is a model prince with intelligent devotion to his people. A pious Hindu, the
Maharaja has empowered a Mohammedan, the able Mirza Ismail, as his
Dewan or Premier. Popular representation is given to the seven million
inhabitants of Mysore in both an Assembly and a Legislative Council.
The heir to the Maharaja, H.H. the Yuvaraja, Sir Sri Krishna Narasingharaj
Wadiyar, had invited my secretary and me to visit his enlightened and
progressive realm. During the past fortnight I had addressed thousands of
Mysore citizens and students, at the Town Hall, the Maharajah's College, the
University Medical School; and three mass meetings in Bangalore, at the
National High School, the Intermediate College, and the Chetty Town Hall
where over three thousand persons had assembled. Whether the eager listeners
had been able to credit the glowing picture I drew of America, I know not; but
the applause had always been loudest when I spoke of the mutual benefits that
could flow from exchange of the best features in East and West.
Mr. Wright and I were now relaxing in the tropical peace. His travel diary
gives the following account of his impressions of Mysore:
"Brilliantly green rice fields, varied by tasseled sugar cane patches, nestle
at the protective foot of rocky hills-hills dotting the emerald panorama like
excrescences of black stone-and the play of colors is enhanced by the sudden
and dramatic disappearance of the sun as it seeks rest behind the solemn hills.
"Many rapturous moments have been spent in gazing, almost absent-
mindedly, at the ever-changing canvas of God stretched across the firmament,
for His touch alone is able to produce colors that vibrate with the freshness of
life. That youth of colors is lost when man tries to imitate with mere pigments,
for the Lord resorts to a more simple and effective medium-oils that are
neither oils nor pigments, but mere rays of light. He tosses a splash of light
here, and it reflects red; He waves the brush again and it blends gradually into
orange and gold; then with a piercing thrust He stabs the clouds with a streak
of purple that leaves a ringlet or fringe of red oozing out of the wound in the
clouds; and so, on and on, He plays, night and morning alike, ever-changing,
ever-new, ever-fresh; no patterns, no duplicates, no colors just the same. The
beauty of the Indian change in day to night is beyond compare elsewhere;
often the sky looks as if God had taken all the colors in His kit and given them
one mighty kaleidoscopic toss into the heavens.
"I must relate the splendor of a twilight visit to the huge Krishnaraja Sagar
Dam, constructed twelve miles outside of Mysore. Yoganandaji and I boarded
a small bus and, with a small boy as official cranker or battery substitute,
started off over a smooth dirt road, just as the sun was setting on the horizon
and squashing like an overripe tomato.
"Our journey led past the omnipresent square rice fields, through a line of
comforting banyan trees, in between a grove of towering coconut palms, with
vegetation nearly as thick as in a jungle, and finally, approaching the crest of a
hill, we came face-to-face with an immense artificial lake, reflecting the stars
and fringe of palms and other trees, surrounded by lovely terraced gardens and
a row of electric lights on the brink of the dam-and below it our eyes met a
dazzling spectacle of colored beams playing on geyserlike fountains, like so
many streams of brilliant ink pouring forth-gorgeously blue waterfalls,
arresting red cataracts, green and yellow sprays, elephants spouting water, a
miniature of the Chicago World's Fair, and yet modernly outstanding in this
ancient land of paddy fields and simple people, who have given us such a
loving welcome that I fear it will take more than my strength to bring
Yoganandaji back to America.
"Another rare privilege-my first elephant ride. Yesterday the Yuvaraja
invited us to his summer palace to enjoy a ride on one of his elephants, an
enormous beast. I mounted a ladder provided to climb aloft to the howdah or
saddle, which is silk-cushioned and boxlike; and then for a rolling, tossing,
swaying, and heaving down into a gully, too much thrilled to worry or
exclaim, but hanging on for dear life!"
Southern India, rich with historical and archaeological remains, is a land of
definite and yet indefinable charm. To the north of Mysore is the largest native
state in India, Hyderabad, a picturesque plateau cut by the mighty Godavari
River. Broad fertile plains, the lovely Nilgiris or "Blue Mountains," other
regions with barren hills of limestone or granite. Hyderabad history is a long,
colorful story, starting three thousand years ago under the Andhra kings, and
continuing under Hindu dynasties until A.D. 1294, when it passed to a line of
Moslem rulers who reign to this day.
The most breath-taking display of architecture, sculpture, and painting in
all India is found at Hyderabad in the ancient rock- sculptured caves of Ellora
and Ajanta. The Kailasa at Ellora, a huge monolithic temple, possesses carved
figures of gods, men, and beasts in the stupendous proportions of a
Michelangelo. Ajanta is the site of five cathedrals and twenty-five
monasteries, all rock excavations maintained by tremendous frescoed pillars
on which artists and sculptors have immortalized their genius.
Hyderabad City is graced by the Osmania University and by the imposing
Mecca Masjid Mosque, where ten thousand Mohammedans may assemble for
prayer.
Mysore State too is a scenic wonderland, three thousand feet above sea
level, abounding in dense tropical forests, the home of wild elephants, bison,
bears, panthers, and tigers. Its two chief cities, Bangalore and Mysore, are
clean, attractive, with many parks and public gardens.
Hindu architecture and sculpture achieved their highest perfection in
Mysore under the patronage of Hindu kings from the eleventh to the fifteenth
centuries. The temple at Belur, an eleventh-century masterpiece completed
during the reign of King Vishnuvardhana, is unsurpassed in the world for its
delicacy of detail and exuberant imagery.
The rock pillars found in northern Mysore date from the third century B.C.,
illuminating the memory of King Asoka. He succeeded to the throne of the
Maurya dynasty then prevailing; his empire included nearly all of modern
India, Afghanistan, and Baluchistan. This illustrious emperor, considered even
by Western historians to have been an incomparable ruler, has left the
following wisdom on a rock memorial:
This religious inscription has been engraved in order that our sons and
grandsons may not think a new conquest is necessary; that they may not think
conquest by the sword deserves the name of conquest; that they may see in it
nothing but destruction and violence; that they may consider nothing as true
conquest save the conquest of religion. Such conquests have value in this
world and in the next.
My companions and I pose before the "dream in marble," the Taj Mahal at
Agra.
Asoka was a grandson of the formidable Chandragupta Maurya (known to
the Greeks as Sandrocottus), who in his youth had met Alexander the Great.
Later Chandragupta destroyed the Macedonian garrisons left in India, defeated
the invading Greek army of Seleucus in the Punjab, and then received at his
Patna court the Hellenic ambassador Megasthenes.
Intensely interesting stories have been minutely recorded by Greek
historians and others who accompanied or followed after Alexander in his
expedition to India. The narratives of Arrian, Diodoros, Plutarch, and Strabo
the geographer have been translated by Dr. J. W. M'Crindle to throw a shaft of
light on ancient India. The most admirable feature of Alexander's unsuccessful
invasion was the deep interest he displayed in Hindu philosophy and in the
yogis and holy men whom he encountered from time to time and whose
society he eagerly sought. Shortly after the Greek warrior had arrived in Taxila
in northern India, he sent a messenger, Onesikritos, a disciple of the Hellenic
school of Diogenes, to fetch an Indian teacher, Dandamis, a great sannyasi of
Taxila.
"Hail to thee, O teacher of Brahmins!" Onesikritos said after seeking out
Dandamis in his forest retreat. "The son of the mighty God Zeus, being
Alexander who is the Sovereign Lord of all men, asks you to go to him, and if
you comply, he will reward you with great gifts, but if you refuse, he will cut
off your head!"
The yogi received this fairly compulsive invitation calmly, and "did not so
much as lift up his head from his couch of leaves."
"I also am a son of Zeus, if Alexander be such," he commented. "I want
nothing that is Alexander's, for I am content with what I have, while I see that
he wanders with his men over sea and land for no advantage, and is never
coming to an end of his wanderings.
"Go and tell Alexander that God the Supreme King is never the Author of
insolent wrong, but is the Creator of light, of peace, of life, of water, of the
body of man and of souls; He receives all men when death sets them free,
being in no way subject to evil disease. He alone is the God of my homage,
who abhors slaughter and instigates no wars.
"Alexander is no god, since he must taste of death," continued the sage in
quiet scorn. "How can such as he be the world's master, when he has not yet
seated himself on a throne of inner universal dominion? Neither as yet has he
entered living into Hades, nor does he know the course of the sun through the
central regions of the earth, while the nations on its boundaries have not so
much as heard his name!"
After this chastisement, surely the most caustic ever sent to assault the ears
of the "Lord of the World," the sage added ironically, "If Alexander's present
dominions be not capacious enough for his desires, let him cross the Ganges
River; there he will find a region able to sustain all his men, if the country on
this side be too narrow to hold him.
"Know this, however, that what Alexander offers and the gifts he promises
are things to me utterly useless; the things I prize and find of real use and
worth are these leaves which are my house, these blooming plants which
supply me with daily food, and the water which is my drink; while all other
possessions which are amassed with anxious care are wont to prove ruinous to
those who gather them, and cause only sorrow and vexation, with which every
poor mortal is fully fraught. As for me, I lie upon the forest leaves, and having
nothing which requires guarding, close my eyes in tranquil slumber; whereas
had I anything to guard, that would banish sleep. The earth supplies me with
everything, even as a mother her child with milk. I go wherever I please, and
there are no cares with which I am forced to cumber myself.
"Should Alexander cut off my head, he cannot also destroy my soul. My
head alone, then silent, will remain, leaving the body like a torn garment upon
the earth, whence also it was taken. I then, becoming Spirit, shall ascend to my
God, who enclosed us all in flesh and left us upon earth to prove whether,
when here below, we shall live obedient to His ordinances and who also will
require of us all, when we depart hence to His presence, an account of our life,
since He is Judge of all proud wrongdoing; for the groans of the oppressed
become the punishment of the oppressor.
"Let Alexander then terrify with these threats those who wish for wealth
and who dread death, for against us these weapons are both alike powerless;
the Brahmins neither love gold nor fear death. Go then and tell Alexander this:
Dandamis has no need of aught that is yours, and therefore will not go to you,
and if you want anything from Dandamis, come you to him."
With close attention Alexander received through Onesikritos the message
from the yogi, and "felt a stronger desire than ever to see Dandamis who,
though old and naked, was the only antagonist in whom he, the conqueror of
many nations, had met more than his match."
Alexander invited to Taxila a number of Brahmin ascetics noted for their
skill in answering philosophical questions with pithy wisdom. An account of
the verbal skirmish is given by Plutarch; Alexander himself framed all the
questions.
"Which be the more numerous, the living or the dead?"
"The living, for the dead are not."
"Which breeds the larger animals, the sea or the land?"
"The land, for the sea is only a part of land."
"Which is the cleverest of beasts?"
"That one with which man is not yet acquainted." (Man fears the
unknown.)
"Which existed first, the day or the night?"
"The day was first by one day." This reply caused Alexander to betray
surprise; the Brahmin added: "Impossible questions require impossible
answers."
"How best may a man make himself beloved?"
"A man will be beloved if, possessed with great power, he still does not
make himself feared."
"How may a man become a god?"
"By doing that which it is impossible for a man to do."
"Which is stronger, life or death?"
"Life, because it bears so many evils."
Alexander succeeded in taking out of India, as his teacher, a true yogi. This
man was Swami Sphines, called "Kalanos" by the Greeks because the saint, a
devotee of God in the form of Kali, greeted everyone by pronouncing Her
auspicious name.
Kalanos accompanied Alexander to Persia. On a stated day, at Susa in
Persia, Kalanos gave up his aged body by entering a funeral pyre in view of
the whole Macedonian army. The historians record the astonishment of the
soldiers who observed that the yogi had no fear of pain or death, and who
never once moved from his position as he was consumed in the flames. Before
leaving for his cremation, Kalanos had embraced all his close companions, but
refrained from bidding farewell to Alexander, to whom the Hindu sage had
merely remarked:
"I shall see you shortly in Babylon."
Alexander left Persia, and died a year later in Babylon. His Indian guru's
words had been his way of saying he would be present with Alexander in life
and death.
The Greek historians have left us many vivid and inspiring pictures of
Indian society. Hindu law, Arrian tells us, protects the people and "ordains that
no one among them shall, under any circumstances, be a slave but that,
enjoying freedom themselves, they shall respect the equal right to it which all
possess. For those, they thought, who have learned neither to domineer over
nor cringe to others will attain the life best adapted for all vicissitudes of lot."
"The Indians," runs another text, "neither put out money at usury, nor know
how to borrow. It is contrary to established usage for an Indian either to do or
suffer a wrong, and therefore they neither make contracts nor require
securities." Healing, we are told, was by simple and natural means. "Cures are
effected rather by regulating diet than by the use of medicines. The remedies
most esteemed are ointments and plasters. All others are considered to be in
great measure pernicious." Engagement in war was restricted to the Kshatriyas
or warrior caste. "Nor would an enemy coming upon a husbandman at his
work on his land, do him any harm, for men of this class being regarded as
public benefactors, are protected from all injury. The land thus remaining
unravaged and producing heavy crops, supplies the inhabitants with the
requisites to make life enjoyable."
The Emperor Chandragupta who in 305 B.C. had defeated Alexander's
general, Seleucus, decided seven years later to hand over the reins of India's
government to his son. Traveling to South India, Chandragupta spent the last
twelve years of his life as a penniless ascetic, seeking self-realization in a
rocky cave at Sravanabelagola, now honored as a Mysore shrine. Near-by
stands the world's largest statue, carved out of an immense boulder by the
Jains in A.D. 983 to honor the saint Comateswara.
The ubiquitous religious shrines of Mysore are a constant reminder of the
many great saints of South India. One of these masters, Thayumanavar, has
left us the following challenging poem:
You can control a mad elephant;
You can shut the mouth of the bear and the tiger;
You can ride a lion;
You can play with the cobra;
By alchemy you can eke out your livelihood;
You can wander through the universe incognito;
You can make vassals of the gods;
You can be ever youthful;
 You can walk on water and live in fire;
But control of the mind is better and more difficult.
In the beautiful and fertile State of Travancore in the extreme south of
India, where traffic is conveyed over rivers and canals, the Maharaja assumes
every year a hereditary obligation to expiate the sin incurred by wars and the
annexation in the distant past of several petty states to Travancore. For fifty-
six days annually the Maharaja visits the temple thrice daily to hear Vedic
hymns and recitations; the expiation ceremony ends with the lakshadipam or
illumination of the temple by a hundred thousand lights.
The great Hindu lawgiver Manu has outlined the duties of a king. "He
should shower amenities like Indra (lord of the gods); collect taxes gently and
imperceptibly as the sun obtains vapor from water; enter into the life of his
subjects as the wind goes everywhere; mete out even justice to all like Yama
(god of death); bind transgressors in a noose like Varuna (Vedic deity of sky
and wind); please all like the moon, burn up vicious enemies like the god of
fire; and support all like the earth goddess.
"In war a king should not fight with poisonous or fiery weapons nor kill
weak or unready or weaponless foes or men who are in fear or who pray for
protection or who run away. War should be resorted to only as a last resort.
Results are always doubtful in war."
Madras Presidency on the southeast coast of India contains the flat,
spacious, sea-girt city of Madras, and Conjeeveram, the Golden City, capital
site of the Pallava dynasty whose kings ruled during the early centuries of the
Christian era. In modern Madras Presidency the nonviolent ideals of Mahatma
Gandhi have made great headway; the white distinguishing "Gandhi caps" are
seen everywhere. In the south generally the Mahatma has effected many
important temple reforms for "untouchables" as well as caste-system reforms.
The origin of the caste system, formulated by the great legislator Manu,
was admirable. He saw clearly that men are distinguished by natural evolution
into four great classes: those capable of offering service to society through
their bodily labor (Sudras); those who serve through mentality, skill,
agriculture, trade, commerce, business life in general (Vaisyas); those whose
talents are administrative, executive, and protective-rulers and warriors
(Kshatriyas); those of contemplative nature, spiritually inspired and inspiring
(Brahmins). "Neither birth nor sacraments nor study nor ancestry can decide
whether a person is twice-born (i.e., a Brahmin);" the Mahabharata declares,
"character and conduct only can decide." Manu instructed society to show
respect to its members insofar as they possessed wisdom, virtue, age, kinship
or, lastly, wealth. Riches in Vedic India were always despised if they were
hoarded or unavailable for charitable purposes. Ungenerous men of great
wealth were assigned a low rank in society.
Serious evils arose when the caste system became hardened through the
centuries into a hereditary halter. Social reformers like Gandhi and the
members of very numerous societies in India today are making slow but sure
progress in restoring the ancient values of caste, based solely on natural
qualification and not on birth. Every nation on earth has its own distinctive
misery-producing karma to deal with and remove; India, too, with her versatile
and invulnerable spirit, shall prove herself equal to the task of caste-
reformation.
So entrancing is southern India that Mr. Wright and I yearned to prolong
our idyl. But time, in its immemorial rudeness, dealt us no courteous
extensions. I was scheduled soon to address the concluding session of the
Indian Philosophical Congress at Calcutta University. At the end of the visit to
Mysore, I enjoyed a talk with Sir C. V. Raman, president of the Indian
Academy of Sciences. This brilliant Hindu physicist was awarded the Nobel
Prize in 1930 for his important discovery in the diffusion of light-the "Raman
Effect" now known to every schoolboy.
Waving a reluctant farewell to a crowd of Madras students and friends, Mr.
Wright and I set out for the north. On the way we stopped before a little shrine
sacred to the memory of Sadasiva Brahman, in whose eighteenth-century life
story miracles cluster thickly. A larger Sadasiva shrine at Nerur, erected by the
Raja of Pudukkottai, is a pilgrimage spot which has witnessed numerous
divine healings.
Many quaint stories of Sadasiva, a lovable and fully-illumined master, are
still current among the South Indian villagers. Immersed one day in samadhi
on the bank of the Kaveri River, Sadasiva was seen to be carried away by a
sudden flood. Weeks later he was found buried deep beneath a mound of earth.
As the villagers' shovels struck his body, the saint rose and walked briskly
away.
Sadasiva never spoke a word or wore a cloth. One morning the nude yogi
unceremoniously entered the tent of a Mohammedan chieftain. His ladies
screamed in alarm; the warrior dealt a savage sword thrust at Sadasiva, whose
arm was severed. The master departed unconcernedly. Overcome by remorse,
the Mohammedan picked up the arm from the floor and followed Sadasiva.
The yogi quietly inserted his arm into the bleeding stump. When the warrior
humbly asked for some spiritual instruction, Sadasiva wrote with his finger on
the sands:
"Do not do what you want, and then you may do what you like."
The Mohammedan was uplifted to an exalted state of mind, and
understood the saint's paradoxical advice to be a guide to soul freedom
through mastery of the ego.
The village children once expressed a desire in Sadasiva's presence to see
the Madura religious festival, 150 miles away. The yogi indicated to the little
ones that they should touch his body. Lo! instantly the whole group was
transported to Madura. The children wandered happily among the thousands
of pilgrims. In a few hours the yogi brought his small charges home by his
simple mode of transportation. The astonished parents heard the vivid tales of
the procession of images, and noted that several children were carrying bags
of Madura sweets.
An incredulous youth derided the saint and the story. The following
morning he approached Sadasiva.
"Master," he said scornfully, "why don't you take me to the festival, even
as you did yesterday for the other children?"
Sadasiva complied; the boy immediately found himself among the distant
city throng. But alas! where was the saint when the youth wanted to leave?
The weary boy reached his home by the ancient and prosaic method of foot
locomotion.

CHAPTER: 42
Last Days With My Guru

"Guruji, I am glad to find you alone this morning." I had just arrived at the
Serampore hermitage, carrying a fragrant burden of fruit and roses. Sri
Yukteswar glanced at me meekly.
"What is your question?" Master looked about the room as though he were
seeking escape.
"Guruji, I came to you as a high-school youth; now I am a grown man,
even with a gray hair or two. Though you have showered me with silent
affection from the first hour to this, do you realize that once only, on the day
of meeting, have you ever said, 'I love you'?" I looked at him pleadingly.
Master lowered his gaze. "Yogananda, must I bring out into the cold realms
of speech the warm sentiments best guarded by the wordless heart?"
"Guruji, I know you love me, but my mortal ears ache to hear you say so."
"Be it as you wish. During my married life I often yearned for a son, to
train in the yogic path. But when you came into my life, I was content; in you
I have found my son." Two clear teardrops stood in Sri Yukteswar's eyes.
"Yogananda, I love you always."
"Your answer is my passport to heaven." I felt a weight lift from my heart,
dissolved forever at his words. Often had I wondered at his silence. Realizing
that he was unemotional and self-contained, yet sometimes I feared I had been
unsuccessful in fully satisfying him. His was a strange nature, never utterly to
be known; a nature deep and still, unfathomable to the outer world, whose
values he had long transcended.
A few days later, when I spoke before a huge audience at Albert Hall in
Calcutta, Sri Yukteswar consented to sit beside me on the platform, with the
Maharaja of Santosh and the Mayor of Calcutta. Though Master made no
remark to me, I glanced at him from time to time during my address, and
thought I detected a pleased twinkle in his eyes.
Then came a talk before the alumni of Serampore College. As I gazed
upon my old classmates, and as they gazed on their own "Mad Monk," tears of
joy showed unashamedly. My silver-tongued professor of philosophy, Dr.
Ghoshal, came forward to greet me, all our past misunderstandings dissolved
by the alchemist Time.
A Winter Solstice Festival was celebrated at the end of December in the
Serampore hermitage. As always, Sri Yukteswar's disciples gathered from far
and near. Devotional sankirtans, solos in the nectar-sweet voice of Kristo-da, a
feast served by young disciples, Master's profoundly moving discourse under
the stars in the thronged courtyard of the ashram-memories, memories! Joyous
festivals of years long past! Tonight, however, there was to be a new feature.
"Yogananda, please address the assemblage-in English." Master's eyes
were twinkling as he made this doubly unusual request; was he thinking of the
shipboard predicament that had preceded my first lecture in English? I told the
story to my audience of brother disciples, ending with a fervent tribute to our
guru.
"His omnipresent guidance was with me not alone on the ocean steamer," I
concluded, "but daily throughout my fifteen years in the vast and hospitable
land of America."
After the guests had departed, Sri Yukteswar called me to the same
bedroom where-once only, after a festival of my early years-I had been
permitted to sleep on his wooden bed. Tonight my guru was sitting there
quietly, a semicircle of disciples at his feet. He smiled as I quickly entered the
room.
"Yogananda, are you leaving now for Calcutta? Please return here
tomorrow. I have certain things to tell you."
 The next afternoon, with a few simple words of blessing, Sri Yukteswar
bestowed on me the further monastic title of Paramhansa.
"It now formally supersedes your former title of swami," he said as I knelt
before him. With a silent chuckle I thought of the struggle which my
American students would undergo over the pronunciation of Paramhansaji.
"My task on earth is now finished; you must carry on." Master spoke
quietly, his eyes calm and gentle. My heart was palpitating in fear.
"Please send someone to take charge of our ashram at Puri," Sri Yukteswar
went on. "I leave everything in your hands. You will be able to successfully
sail the boat of your life and that of the organization to the divine shores."
In tears, I was embracing his feet; he rose and blessed me endearingly.
The following day I summoned from Ranchi a disciple, Swami Sebananda,
and sent him to Puri to assume the hermitage duties. Later my guru discussed
with me the legal details of settling his estate; he was anxious to prevent the
possibility of litigation by relatives, after his death, for possession of his two
hermitages and other properties, which he wished to be deeded over solely for
charitable purposes.
"Arrangements were recently made for Master to visit Kidderpore, but he
failed to go." Amulaya Babu, a brother disciple, made this remark to me one
afternoon; I felt a cold wave of premonition. To my pressing inquiries, Sri
Yukteswar only replied, "I shall go to Kidderpore no more." For a moment,
Master trembled like a frightened child.
("Attachment to bodily residence, springing up of its own nature [i.e.,
arising from immemorial roots, past experiences of death]," Patanjali wrote,
"is present in slight degree even in great saints." In some of his discourses on
death, my guru had been wont to add: "Just as a long-caged bird hesitates to
leave its accustomed home when the door is opened.")
"Guruji," I entreated him with a sob, "don't say that! Never utter those
words to me!"
Sri Yukteswar's face relaxed in a peaceful smile. Though nearing his
eighty-first birthday, he looked well and strong.
Basking day by day in the sunshine of my guru's love, unspoken but keenly
felt, I banished from my conscious mind the various hints he had given of his
approaching passing.
"Sir, the Kumbha Mela is convening this month at Allahabad." I showed
Master the mela dates in a Bengali almanac
"Do you really want to go?"
 Not sensing Sri Yukteswar's reluctance to have me leave him, I went on,
"Once you beheld the blessed sight of Babaji at an Allahabad kumbha.
Perhaps this time I shall be fortunate enough to see him."
"I do not think you will meet him there." My guru then fell into silence, not
wishing to obstruct my plans.
When I set out for Allahabad the following day with a small group, Master
blessed me quietly in his usual manner. Apparently I was remaining oblivious
to implications in Sri Yukteswar's attitude because the Lord wished to spare
me the experience of being forced, helplessly, to witness my guru's passing. It
has always happened in my life that, at the death of those dearly beloved by
me, God has compassionately arranged that I be distant from the scene.
Our party reached the Kumbha Mela on January 23, 1936. The surging
crowd of nearly two million persons was an impressive sight, even an
overwhelming one. The peculiar genius of the Indian people is the reverence
innate in even the lowliest peasant for the worth of the Spirit, and for the
monks and sadhus who have forsaken worldly ties to seek a diviner anchorage.
Imposters and hypocrites there are indeed, but India respects all for the sake of
the few who illumine the whole land with supernal blessings. Westerners who
were viewing the vast spectacle had a unique opportunity to feel the pulse of
the land, the spiritual ardor to which India owes her quenchless vitality before
the blows of time.
The first day was spent by our group in sheer staring. Here were countless
bathers, dipping in the holy river for remission of sins; there we saw solemn
rituals of worship; yonder were devotional offerings being strewn at the dusty
feet of saints; a turn of our heads, and a line of elephants, caparisoned horses
and slow-paced Rajputana camels filed by, or a quaint religious parade of
naked sadhus, waving scepters of gold and silver, or flags and streamers of
silken velvet.
Anchorites wearing only loincloths sat quietly in little groups, their bodies
besmeared with the ashes that protect them from the heat and cold. The
spiritual eye was vividly represented on their foreheads by a single spot of
sandalwood paste. Shaven-headed swamis appeared by the thousands, ocher-
robed and carrying their bamboo staff and begging bowl. Their faces beamed
with the renunciate's peace as they walked about or held philosophical
discussions with disciples.
Here and there under the trees, around huge piles of burning logs, were
picturesque sadhus, their hair braided and massed in coils on top of their
heads. Some wore beards several feet in length, curled and tied in a knot. They
meditated quietly, or extended their hands in blessing to the passing throng-
beggars, maharajas on elephants, women in multicolored saris- their bangles
and anklets tinkling, fakirs with thin arms held grotesquely aloft, brahmacharis
carrying meditation elbow-props, humble sages whose solemnity hid an inner
bliss. High above the din we heard the ceaseless summons of the temple bells.
On our second mela day my companions and I entered various ashrams
and temporary huts, offering pronams to saintly personages. We received the
blessing of the leader of the Giri branch of the Swami Order-a thin, ascetical
monk with eyes of smiling fire. Our next visit took us to a hermitage whose
guru had observed for the past nine years the vows of silence and a strict
fruitarian diet. On the central dais in the ashram hall sat a blind sadhu, Pragla
Chakshu, profoundly learned in the shastras and highly revered by all sects.
After I had given a brief discourse in Hindi on Vedanta, our group left the
peaceful hermitage to greet a near-by swami, Krishnananda, a handsome monk
with rosy cheeks and impressive shoulders. Reclining near him was a tame
lioness. Succumbing to the monk's spiritual charm- not, I am sure, to his
powerful physique!-the jungle animal refuses all meat in favor of rice and
milk. The swami has taught the tawny- haired beast to utter "Aum" in a deep,
attractive growl-a cat devotee!
Our next encounter, an interview with a learned young sadhu, is well
described in Mr. Wright's sparkling travel diary.
"We rode in the Ford across the very low Ganges on a creaking pontoon
bridge, crawling snakelike through the crowds and over narrow, twisting lanes,
passing the site on the river bank which Yoganandaji pointed out to me as the
meeting place of Babaji and Sri Yukteswarji. Alighting from the car a short
time later, we walked some distance through the thickening smoke of the
sadhus' fires and over the slippery sands to reach a cluster of tiny, very modest
mud-and-straw huts. We halted in front of one of these insignificant temporary
dwellings, with a pygmy doorless entrance, the shelter of Kara Patri, a young
wandering sadhu noted for his exceptional intelligence. There he sat, cross-
legged on a pile of straw, his only covering-and incidentally his only
possession-being an ocher cloth draped over his shoulders.
"Truly a divine face smiled at us after we had crawled on all fours into the
hut and pronamed at the feet of this enlightened soul, while the kerosene
lantern at the entrance flickered weird, dancing shadows on the thatched walls.
His face, especially his eyes and perfect teeth, beamed and glistened. Although
I was puzzled by the Hindi, his expressions were very revealing; he was full of
enthusiasm, love, spiritual glory. No one could be mistaken as to his greatness.
"Imagine the happy life of one unattached to the material world; free of the
clothing problem; free of food craving, never begging, never touching cooked
food except on alternate days, never carrying a begging bowl; free of all
money entanglements, never handling money, never storing things away,
always trusting in God; free of transportation worries, never riding in vehicles,
but always walking on the banks of the sacred rivers; never remaining in one
place longer than a week in order to avoid any growth of attachment.
"Such a modest soul! unusually learned in the Vedas, and possessing an
M.A. degree and the title of shastri (master of scriptures) from Benares
University. A sublime feeling pervaded me as I sat at his feet; it all seemed to
be an answer to my desire to see the real, the ancient India, for he is a true
representative of this land of spiritual giants."
I questioned Kara Patri about his wandering life. "Don't you have any extra
clothes for winter?"
"No, this is enough."
"Do you carry any books?"
"No, I teach from memory those people who wish to hear me."
"What else do you do?"
"I roam by the Ganges."
At these quiet words, I was overpowered by a yearning for the simplicity
of his life. I remembered America, and all the responsibilities that lay on my
shoulders.
"No, Yogananda," I thought, sadly for a moment, "in this life roaming by
the Ganges is not for you."
After the sadhu had told me a few of his spiritual realizations, I shot an
abrupt question.
"Are you giving these descriptions from scriptural lore, or from inward
experience?"
"Half from book learning," he answered with a straightforward smile, "and
half from experience."
We sat happily awhile in meditative silence. After we had left his sacred
presence, I said to Mr. Wright, "He is a king sitting on a throne of golden
straw."
We had our dinner that night on the mela grounds under the stars, eating
from leaf plates pinned together with sticks. Dishwashings in India are
reduced to a minimum!
Two more days of the fascinating kumbha; then northwest along the Jumna
banks to Agra. Once again I gazed on the Taj Mahal; in memory Jitendra stood
by my side, awed by the dream in marble. Then on to the Brindaban ashram of
Swami Keshabananda.
 My object in seeking out Keshabananda was connected with this book. I
had never forgotten Sri Yukteswar's request that I write the life of Lahiri
Mahasaya. During my stay in India I was taking every opportunity of
contacting direct disciples and relatives of the Yogavatar. Recording their
conversations in voluminous notes, I verified facts and dates, and collected
photographs, old letters, and documents. My Lahiri Mahasaya portfolio began
to swell; I realized with dismay that ahead of me lay arduous labors in
authorship. I prayed that I might be equal to my role as biographer of the
colossal guru. Several of his disciples feared that in a written account their
master might be belittled or misinterpreted.
"One can hardly do justice in cold words to the life of a divine
incarnation," Panchanon Bhattacharya had once remarked to me.
Other close disciples were similarly satisfied to keep the Yogavatar hidden
in their hearts as the deathless preceptor. Nevertheless, mindful of Lahiri
Mahasaya's prediction about his biography, I spared no effort to secure and
substantiate the facts of his outward life.
Swami Keshabananda greeted our party warmly at Brindaban in his
Katayani Peith Ashram, an imposing brick building with massive black pillars,
set in a beautiful garden. He ushered us at once into a sitting room adorned
with an enlargement of Lahiri Mahasaya's picture. The swami was
approaching the age of ninety, but his muscular body radiated strength and
health. With long hair and a snow-white beard, eyes twinkling with joy, he was
a veritable patriarchal embodiment. I informed him that I wanted to mention
his name in my book on India's masters.
"Please tell me about your earlier life." I smiled entreatingly; great yogis
are often uncommunicative.
Keshabananda made a gesture of humility. "There is little of external
moment. Practically my whole life has been spent in the Himalayan solitudes,
traveling on foot from one quiet cave to another. For a while I maintained a
small ashram outside Hardwar, surrounded on all sides by a grove of tall trees.
It was a peaceful spot little visited by travelers, owing to the ubiquitous
presence of cobras." Keshabananda chuckled. "Later a Ganges flood washed
away the hermitage and cobras alike. My disciples then helped me to build this
Brindaban ashram."
One of our party asked the swami how he had protected himself against the
Himalayan tigers.
Keshabananda shook his head. "In those high spiritual altitudes," he said,
"wild beasts seldom molest the yogis. Once in the jungle I encountered a tiger
face-to-face. At my sudden ejaculation, the animal was transfixed as though
turned to stone." Again the swami chuckled at his memories.
"Occasionally I left my seclusion to visit my guru in Benares. He used to
joke with me over my ceaseless travels in the Himalayan wilderness.
"'You have the mark of wanderlust on your foot,' he told me once. 'I am
glad that the sacred Himalayas are extensive enough to engross you.'
"Many times," Keshabananda went on, "both before and after his passing,
Lahiri Mahasaya has appeared bodily before me. For him no Himalayan height
is inaccessible!"
Two hours later he led us to a dining patio. I sighed in silent dismay.
Another fifteen-course meal! Less than a year of Indian hospitality, and I had
gained fifty pounds! Yet it would have been considered the height of rudeness
to refuse any of the dishes, carefully prepared for the endless banquets in my
honor. In India (nowhere else, alas!) a well-padded swami is considered a
delightful sight.
After dinner, Keshabananda led me to a secluded nook.
"Your arrival is not unexpected," he said. "I have a message for you."
I was surprised; no one had known of my plan to visit Keshabananda.
"While roaming last year in the northern Himalayas near Badrinarayan,"
the swami continued, "I lost my way. Shelter appeared in a spacious cave,
which was empty, though the embers of a fire glowed in a hole in the rocky
floor. Wondering about the occupant of this lonely retreat, I sat near the fire,
my gaze fixed on the sunlit entrance to the cave.
"'Keshabananda, I am glad you are here.' These words came from behind
me. I turned, startled, and was dazzled to behold Babaji! The great guru had
materialized himself in a recess of the cave. Overjoyed to see him again after
many years, I prostrated myself at his holy feet.
"'I called you here,' Babaji went on. 'That is why you lost your way and
were led to my temporary abode in this cave. It is a long time since our last
meeting; I am pleased to greet you once more.'
"The deathless master blessed me with some words of spiritual help, then
added: 'I give you a message for Yogananda. He will pay you a visit on his
return to India. Many matters connected with his guru and with the surviving
disciples of Lahiri will keep Yogananda fully occupied. Tell him, then, that I
won't see him this time, as he is eagerly hoping; but I shall see him on some
other occasion.'"
I was deeply touched to receive from Keshabananda's lips this consoling
promise from Babaji. A certain hurt in my heart vanished; I grieved no longer
that, even as Sri Yukteswar had hinted, Babaji did not appear at the Kumbha
Mela.
Spending one night as guests of the ashram, our party set out the following
afternoon for Calcutta. Riding over a bridge of the Jumna River, we enjoyed a
magnificent view of the skyline of Brindaban just as the sun set fire to the sky-
a veritable furnace of Vulcan in color, reflected below us in the still waters.
The Jumna beach is hallowed by memories of the child Sri Krishna. Here
he engaged with innocent sweetness in his lilas (plays) with the gopis (maids),
exemplifying the supernal love which ever exists between a divine incarnation
and his devotees. The life of Lord Krishna has been misunderstood by many
Western commentators. Scriptural allegory is baffling to literal minds. A
hilarious blunder by a translator will illustrate this point. The story concerns
an inspired medieval saint, the cobbler Ravidas, who sang in the simple terms
of his own trade of the spiritual glory hidden in all mankind:
Under the vast vault of blue
Lives the divinity clothed in hide.
One turns aside to hide a smile on hearing the pedestrian interpretation
given to Ravidas' poem by a Western writer:
"He afterwards built a hut, set up in it an idol which he made from a hide,
and applied himself to its worship."
Ravidas was a brother disciple of the great Kabir. One of Ravidas' exalted
chelas was the Rani of Chitor. She invited a large number of Brahmins to a
feast in honor of her teacher, but they refused to eat with a lowly cobbler. As
they sat down in dignified aloofness to eat their own uncontaminated meal, lo!
each Brahmin found at his side the form of Ravidas. This mass vision
accomplished a widespread spiritual revival in Chitor.
In a few days our little group reached Calcutta. Eager to see Sri Yukteswar,
I was disappointed to hear that he had left Serampore and was now in Puri,
about three hundred miles to the south.
"Come to Puri ashram at once." This telegram was sent on March 8th by a
brother disciple to Atul Chandra Roy Chowdhry, one of Master's chelas in
Calcutta. News of the message reached my ears; anguished at its implications,
I dropped to my knees and implored God that my guru's life be spared. As I
was about to leave Father's home for the train, a divine voice spoke within.
"Do not go to Puri tonight. Thy prayer cannot be granted."
"Lord," I said, grief-stricken, "Thou dost not wish to engage with me in a
'tug of war' at Puri, where Thou wilt have to deny my incessant prayers for
Master's life. Must he, then, depart for higher duties at Thy behest?"
 In obedience to the inward command, I did not leave that night for Puri.
The following evening I set out for the train; on the way, at seven o'clock, a
black astral cloud suddenly covered the sky. Later, while the train roared
toward Puri, a vision of Sri Yukteswar appeared before me. He was sitting,
very grave of countenance, with a light on each side.
"Is it all over?" I lifted my arms beseechingly.
He nodded, then slowly vanished.
As I stood on the Puri train platform the following morning, still hoping
against hope, an unknown man approached me.
"Have you heard that your Master is gone?" He left me without another
word; I never discovered who he was nor how he had known where to find
me.
Stunned, I swayed against the platform wall, realizing that in diverse ways
my guru was trying to convey to me the devastating news. Seething with
rebellion, my soul was like a volcano. By the time I reached the Puri
hermitage I was nearing collapse. The inner voice was tenderly repeating:
"Collect yourself. Be calm."
I entered the ashram room where Master's body, unimaginably lifelike, was
sitting in the lotus posture-a picture of health and loveliness. A short time
before his passing, my guru had been slightly ill with fever, but before the day
of his ascension into the Infinite, his body had become completely well. No
matter how often I looked at his dear form I could not realize that its life had
departed. His skin was smooth and soft; in his face was a beatific expression
of tranquillity. He had consciously relinquished his body at the hour of mystic
summoning.
"The Lion of Bengal is gone!" I cried in a daze.
I conducted the solemn rites on March 10th. Sri Yukteswar was buried with
the ancient rituals of the swamis in the garden of his Puri ashram. His disciples
later arrived from far and near to honor their guru at a vernal equinox
memorial service. The Amrita Bazar Patrika, leading newspaper of Calcutta,
carried his picture and the following report:
The death Bhandara ceremony for Srimat Swami Sri Yukteswar Giri
Maharaj, aged 81, took place at Puri on March 21. Many disciples came down
to Puri for the rites.
One of the greatest expounders of the Bhagavad Gita, Swami Maharaj was
a great disciple of Yogiraj Sri Shyama Charan Lahiri Mahasaya of Benares.
Swami Maharaj was the founder of several Yogoda Sat-Sanga (Self-
Realization Fellowship) centers in India, and was the great inspiration behind
the yoga movement which was carried to the West by Swami Yogananda, his
principal disciple. It was Sri Yukteswarji's prophetic powers and deep
realization that inspired Swami Yogananda to cross the oceans and spread in
America the message of the masters of India.
His interpretations of the Bhagavad Gita and other scriptures testify to the
depth of Sri Yukteswarji's command of the philosophy, both Eastern and
Western, and remain as an eye-opener for the unity between Orient and
Occident. As he believed in the unity of all religious faiths, Sri Yukteswar
Maharaj established Sadhu Sabha (Society of Saints) with the cooperation of
leaders of various sects and faiths, for the inculcation of a scientific spirit in
religion. At the time of his demise he nominated Swami Yogananda his
successor as the president of Sadhu Sabha.
India is really poorer today by the passing of such a great man. May all
fortunate enough to have come near him inculcate in themselves the true spirit
of India's culture and sadhana which was personified in him.
I returned to Calcutta. Not trusting myself as yet to go to the Serampore
hermitage with its sacred memories, I summoned Prafulla, Sri Yukteswar's
little disciple in Serampore, and made arrangements for him to enter the
Ranchi school.
"The morning you left for the Allahabad mela," Prafulla told me, "Master
dropped heavily on the davenport.
"'Yogananda is gone!' he cried. 'Yogananda is gone!' He added cryptically,
'I shall have to tell him some other way.' He sat then for hours in silence."
My days were filled with lectures, classes, interviews, and reunions with
old friends. Beneath a hollow smile and a life of ceaseless activity, a stream of
black brooding polluted the inner river of bliss which for so many years had
meandered under the sands of all my perceptions.
"Where has that divine sage gone?" I cried silently from the depths of a
tormented spirit.
No answer came.
"It is best that Master has completed his union with the Cosmic Beloved,"
my mind assured me. "He is eternally glowing in the dominion of
deathlessness."
"Never again may you see him in the old Serampore mansion," my heart
lamented. "No longer may you bring your friends to meet him, or proudly say:
'Behold, there sits India's Jnanavatar!'"
Mr. Wright made arrangements for our party to sail from Bombay for the
West in early June. After a fortnight in May of farewell banquets and speeches
at Calcutta, Miss Bletch, Mr. Wright and myself left in the Ford for Bombay.
On our arrival, the ship authorities asked us to cancel our passage, as no room
could be found for the Ford, which we would need again in Europe.
"Never mind," I said gloomily to Mr. Wright. "I want to return once more
to Puri." I silently added, "Let my tears once again water the grave of my
guru."

CHAPTER: 43
The Resurrection Of Sri Yukteswar

"Lord Krishna!" The glorious form of the avatar appeared in a shimmering

blaze as I sat in my room at the Regent Hotel in Bombay. Shining over the
roof of a high building across the street, the ineffable vision had suddenly
burst on my sight as I gazed out of my long open third-story window.
The divine figure waved to me, smiling and nodding in greeting. When I
could not understand the exact message of Lord Krishna, he departed with a
gesture of blessing. Wondrously uplifted, I felt that some spiritual event was
presaged.
My Western voyage had, for the time being, been cancelled. I was
scheduled for several public addresses in Bombay before leaving on a return
visit to Bengal.
Sitting on my bed in the Bombay hotel at three o'clock in the afternoon of
June 19, 1936-one week after the vision of Krishna-I was roused from my
meditation by a beatific light. Before my open and astonished eyes, the whole
room was transformed into a strange world, the sunlight transmuted into
supernal splendor.
Waves of rapture engulfed me as I beheld the flesh and blood form of Sri
Yukteswar!
"My son!" Master spoke tenderly, on his face an angel-bewitching smile.
For the first time in my life I did not kneel at his feet in greeting but
instantly advanced to gather him hungrily in my arms. Moment of moments!
The anguish of past months was toll I counted weightless against the torrential
bliss now descending.
"Master mine, beloved of my heart, why did you leave me?" I was
incoherent in an excess of joy. "Why did you let me go to the Kumbha Mela?
How bitterly have I blamed myself for leaving you!"
 A modern artist's conception of the divine teacher whose spiritual counsel
in the Bhagavad Gita has become the Hindu Bible. Krishna is portrayed in
Hindu art with a peacock feather in his hair (symbol of the Lord's lila, play or
creative sport), and carrying a flute, whose enrapturing notes awaken the
devotees, one by one, from their sleep of maya or cosmic delusion.
"I did not want to interfere with your happy anticipation of seeing the
pilgrimage spot where first I met Babaji. I left you only for a little while; am I
not with you again?"
"But is it you, Master, the same Lion of God? Are you wearing a body like
the one I buried beneath the cruel Puri sands?"
"Yes, my child, I am the same. This is a flesh and blood body. Though I see
it as ethereal, to your sight it is physical. From the cosmic atoms I created an
entirely new body, exactly like that cosmic-dream physical body which you
laid beneath the dream-sands at Puri in your dream-world. I am in truth
resurrected-not on earth but on an astral planet. Its inhabitants are better able
than earthly humanity to meet my lofty standards. There you and your exalted
loved ones shall someday come to be with me."
"Deathless guru, tell me more!"
Master gave a quick, mirthful chuckle. "Please, dear one," he said, "won't
you relax your hold a little?"
"Only a little!" I had been embracing him with an octopus grip. I could
detect the same faint, fragrant, natural odor which had been characteristic of
his body before. The thrilling touch of his divine flesh still persists around the
inner sides of my arms and in my palms whenever I recall those glorious
hours.
"As prophets are sent on earth to help men work out their physical karma,
so I have been directed by God to serve on an astral planet as a savior," Sri
Yukteswar explained. "It is called Hiranyaloka or 'Illumined Astral Planet.'
There I am aiding advanced beings to rid themselves of astral karma and thus
attain liberation from astral rebirths. The dwellers on Hiranyaloka are highly
developed spiritually; all of them had acquired, in their last earth- incarnation,
the meditation-given power of consciously leaving their physical bodies at
death. No one can enter Hiranyaloka unless he has passed on earth beyond the
state of sabikalpa samadhi into the higher state of nirbikalpa samadhi.
"The Hiranyaloka inhabitants have already passed through the ordinary
astral spheres, where nearly all beings from earth must go at death; there they
worked out many seeds of their past actions in the astral worlds. None but
advanced beings can perform such redemptive work effectually in the astral
worlds. Then, in order to free their souls more fully from the cocoon of karmic
traces lodged in their astral bodies, these higher beings were drawn by cosmic
law to be reborn with new astral bodies on Hiranyaloka, the astral sun or
heaven, where I have resurrected to help them. There are also highly advanced
beings on Hiranyaloka who have come from the superior, subtler, causal
world."
My mind was now in such perfect attunement with my guru's that he was
conveying his word-pictures to me partly by speech and partly by thought-
transference. I was thus quickly receiving his idea-tabloids.
"You have read in the scriptures," Master went on, "that God encased the
human soul successively in three bodies-the idea, or causal, body; the subtle
astral body, seat of man's mental and emotional natures; and the gross physical
body. On earth a man is equipped with his physical senses. An astral being
works with his consciousness and feelings and a body made of lifetrons. A
causal-bodied being remains in the blissful realm of ideas. My work is with
those astral beings who are preparing to enter the causal world."
"Adorable Master, please tell me more about the astral cosmos." Though I
had slightly relaxed my embrace at Sri Yukteswar's request, my arms were still
around him. Treasure beyond all treasures, my guru who had laughed at death
to reach me!
"There are many astral planets, teeming with astral beings," Master began.
"The inhabitants use astral planes, or masses of light, to travel from one planet
to another, faster than electricity and radioactive energies.
"The astral universe, made of various subtle vibrations of light and color, is
hundreds of times larger than the material cosmos. The entire physical creation
hangs like a little solid basket under the huge luminous balloon of the astral
sphere. Just as many physical suns and stars roam in space, so there are also
countless astral solar and stellar systems. Their planets have astral suns and
moons, more beautiful than the physical ones. The astral luminaries resemble
the aurora borealis-the sunny astral aurora being more dazzling than the mild-
rayed moon-aurora. The astral day and night are longer than those of earth.
"The astral world is infinitely beautiful, clean, pure, and orderly. There are
no dead planets or barren lands. The terrestrial blemishes- weeds, bacteria,
insects, snakes-are absent. Unlike the variable climates and seasons of the
earth, the astral planets maintain the even temperature of an eternal spring,
with occasional luminous white snow and rain of many-colored lights. Astral
planets abound in opal lakes and bright seas and rainbow rivers.
"The ordinary astral universe-not the subtler astral heaven of Hiranyaloka-
is peopled with millions of astral beings who have come, more or less recently,
from the earth, and also with myriads of fairies, mermaids, fishes, animals,
goblins, gnomes, demigods and spirits, all residing on different astral planets
in accordance with karmic qualifications. Various spheric mansions or
vibratory regions are provided for good and evil spirits. Good ones can travel
freely, but the evil spirits are confined to limited zones. In the same way that
human beings live on the surface of the earth, worms inside the soil, fish in
water, and birds in air, so astral beings of different grades are assigned to
suitable vibratory quarters.
"Among the fallen dark angels expelled from other worlds, friction and
war take place with lifetronic bombs or mental mantric vibratory rays. These
beings dwell in the gloom-drenched regions of the lower astral cosmos,
working out their evil karma.
"In the vast realms above the dark astral prison, all is shining and beautiful.
The astral cosmos is more naturally attuned than the earth to the divine will
and plan of perfection. Every astral object is manifested primarily by the will
of God, and partially by the will- call of astral beings. They possess the power
of modifying or enhancing the grace and form of anything already created by
the Lord. He has given His astral children the freedom and privilege of
changing or improving at will the astral cosmos. On earth a solid must be
transformed into liquid or other form through natural or chemical processes,
but astral solids are changed into astral liquids, gases, or energy solely and
instantly by the will of the inhabitants.
"The earth is dark with warfare and murder in the sea, land, and air," my
guru continued, "but the astral realms know a happy harmony and equality.
Astral beings dematerialize or materialize their forms at will. Flowers or fish
or animals can metamorphose themselves, for a time, into astral men. All
astral beings are free to assume any form, and can easily commune together.
No fixed, definite, natural law hems them round-any astral tree, for example,
can be successfully asked to produce an astral mango or other desired fruit,
flower, or indeed any other object. Certain karmic restrictions are present, but
there are no distinctions in the astral world about desirability of various forms.
Everything is vibrant with God's creative light.
"No one is born of woman; offspring are materialized by astral beings
through the help of their cosmic will into specially patterned, astrally
condensed forms. The recently physically disembodied being arrives in an
astral family through invitation, drawn by similar mental and spiritual
tendencies.
"The astral body is not subject to cold or heat or other natural conditions.
The anatomy includes an astral brain, or the thousand- petaled lotus of light,
and six awakened centers in the sushumna, or astral cerebro-spinal axis. The
heart draws cosmic energy as well as light from the astral brain, and pumps it
to the astral nerves and body cells, or lifetrons. Astral beings can affect their
bodies by lifetronic force or by mantric vibrations.
"The astral body is an exact counterpart of the last physical form. Astral
beings retain the same appearance which they possessed in youth in their
previous earthly sojourn; occasionally an astral being chooses, like myself, to
retain his old age appearance." Master, emanating the very essence of youth,
chuckled merrily.
"Unlike the spacial, three-dimensional physical world cognized only by the
five senses, the astral spheres are visible to the all-inclusive sixth sense-
intuition," Sri Yukteswar went on. "By sheer intuitional feeling, all astral
beings see, hear, smell, taste, and touch. They possess three eyes, two of which
are partly closed. The third and chief astral eye, vertically placed on the
forehead, is open. Astral beings have all the outer sensory organs-ears, eyes,
nose, tongue, and skin-but they employ the intuitional sense to experience
sensations through any part of the body; they can see through the ear, or nose,
or skin. They are able to hear through the eyes or tongue, and can taste
through the ears or skin, and so forth.
"Man's physical body is exposed to countless dangers, and is easily hurt or
maimed; the ethereal astral body may occasionally be cut or bruised but is
healed at once by mere willing."
"Gurudeva, are all astral persons beautiful?"
"Beauty in the astral world is known to be a spiritual quality, and not an
outward conformation," Sri Yukteswar replied. "Astral beings therefore attach
little importance to facial features. They have the privilege, however, of
costuming themselves at will with new, colorful, astrally materialized bodies.
Just as worldly men don new array for gala events, so astral beings find
occasions to bedeck themselves in specially designed forms.
"Joyous astral festivities on the higher astral planets like Hiranyaloka take
place when a being is liberated from the astral world through spiritual
advancement, and is therefore ready to enter the heaven of the causal world.
On such occasions the Invisible Heavenly Father, and the saints who are
merged in Him, materialize Themselves into bodies of Their own choice and
join the astral celebration. In order to please His beloved devotee, the Lord
takes any desired form. If the devotee worshiped through devotion, he sees
God as the Divine Mother. To Jesus, the Father-aspect of the Infinite One was
appealing beyond other conceptions. The individuality with which the Creator
has endowed each of His creatures makes every conceivable and
inconceivable demand on the Lord's versatility!" My guru and I laughed
happily together.
 "Friends of other lives easily recognize one another in the astral world," Sri
Yukteswar went on in his beautiful, flutelike voice. "Rejoicing at the
immortality of friendship, they realize the indestructibility of love, often
doubted at the time of the sad, delusive partings of earthly life.
"The intuition of astral beings pierces through the veil and observes human
activities on earth, but man cannot view the astral world unless his sixth sense
is somewhat developed. Thousands of earth-dwellers have momentarily
glimpsed an astral being or an astral world.
"The advanced beings on Hiranyaloka remain mostly awake in ecstasy
during the long astral day and night, helping to work out intricate problems of
cosmic government and the redemption of prodigal sons, earthbound souls.
When the Hiranyaloka beings sleep, they have occasional dreamlike astral
visions. Their minds are usually engrossed in the conscious state of highest
nirbikalpa bliss.
"Inhabitants in all parts of the astral worlds are still subject to mental
agonies. The sensitive minds of the higher beings on planets like Hiranyaloka
feel keen pain if any mistake is made in conduct or perception of truth. These
advanced beings endeavor to attune their every act and thought with the
perfection of spiritual law.
"Communication among the astral inhabitants is held entirely by astral
telepathy and television; there is none of the confusion and misunderstanding
of the written and spoken word which earth-dwellers must endure. Just as
persons on the cinema screen appear to move and act through a series of light
pictures, and do not actually breathe, so the astral beings walk and work as
intelligently guided and coordinated images of light, without the necessity of
drawing power from oxygen. Man depends upon solids, liquids, gases, and
energy for sustenance; astral beings sustain themselves principally by cosmic
light."
"Master mine, do astral beings eat anything?" I was drinking in his
marvelous elucidations with the receptivity of all my faculties-mind, heart,
soul. Superconscious perceptions of truth are permanently real and changeless,
while fleeting sense experiences and impressions are never more than
temporarily or relatively true, and soon lose in memory all their vividness. My
guru's words were so penetratingly imprinted on the parchment of my being
that at any time, by transferring my mind to the superconscious state, I can
clearly relive the divine experience.
"Luminous raylike vegetables abound in the astral soils," he answered.
"The astral beings consume vegetables, and drink a nectar flowing from
glorious fountains of light and from astral brooks and rivers. Just as invisible
images of persons on the earth can be dug out of the ether and made visible by
a television apparatus, later being dismissed again into space, so the God-
created, unseen astral blueprints of vegetables and plants floating in the ether
are precipitated on an astral planet by the will of its inhabitants. In the same
way, from the wildest fancy of these beings, whole gardens of fragrant flowers
are materialized, returning later to the etheric invisibility. Although dwellers
on the heavenly planets like Hiranyaloka are almost freed from any necessity
of eating, still higher is the unconditioned existence of almost completely
liberated souls in the causal world, who eat nothing save the manna of bliss.
"The earth-liberated astral being meets a multitude of relatives, fathers,
mothers, wives, husbands, and friends, acquired during different incarnations
on earth, as they appear from time to time in various parts of the astral realms.
He is therefore at a loss to understand whom to love especially; he learns in
this way to give a divine and equal love to all, as children and individualized
expressions of God. Though the outward appearance of loved ones may have
changed, more or less according to the development of new qualities in the
latest life of any particular soul, the astral being employs his unerring intuition
to recognize all those once dear to him in other planes of existence, and to
welcome them to their new astral home. Because every atom in creation is
inextinguishably dowered with individuality, an astral friend will be
recognized no matter what costume he may don, even as on earth an actor's
identity is discoverable by close observation despite any disguise.
"The span of life in the astral world is much longer than on earth. A normal
advanced astral being's average life period is from five hundred to one
thousand years, measured in accordance with earthly standards of time. As
certain redwood trees outlive most trees by millenniums, or as some yogis live
several hundred years though most men die before the age of sixty, so some
astral beings live much longer than the usual span of astral existence. Visitors
to the astral world dwell there for a longer or shorter period in accordance with
the weight of their physical karma, which draws them back to earth within a
specified time.
"The astral being does not have to contend painfully with death at the time
of shedding his luminous body. Many of these beings nevertheless feel slightly
nervous at the thought of dropping their astral form for the subtler causal one.
The astral world is free from unwilling death, disease, and old age. These three
dreads are the curse of earth, where man has allowed his consciousness to
identify itself almost wholly with a frail physical body requiring constant aid
from air, food, and sleep in order to exist at all.
"Physical death is attended by the disappearance of breath and the
disintegration of fleshly cells. Astral death consists of the dispersement of
lifetrons, those manifest units of energy which constitute the life of astral
beings. At physical death a being loses his consciousness of flesh and becomes
aware of his subtle body in the astral world. Experiencing astral death in due
time, a being thus passes from the consciousness of astral birth and death to
that of physical birth and death. These recurrent cycles of astral and physical
encasement are the ineluctable destiny of all unenlightened beings. Scriptural
definitions of heaven and hell sometimes stir man's deeper-than-subconscious
memories of his long series of experiences in the blithesome astral and
disappointing terrestrial worlds."
"Beloved Master," I asked, "will you please describe more in detail the
difference between rebirth on the earth and in the astral and causal spheres?"
"Man as an individualized soul is essentially causal-bodied," my guru
explained. "That body is a matrix of the thirty-five ideas required by God as
the basic or causal thought forces from which He later formed the subtle astral
body of nineteen elements and the gross physical body of sixteen elements.
"The nineteen elements of the astral body are mental, emotional, and
lifetronic. The nineteen components are intelligence; ego; feeling; mind
(sense-consciousness); five instruments of knowledge, the subtle counterparts
of the senses of sight, hearing, smell, taste, touch; five instruments of action,
the mental correspondence for the executive abilities to procreate, excrete,
talk, walk, and exercise manual skill; and five instruments of life force, those
empowered to perform the crystallizing, assimilating, eliminating,
metabolizing, and circulating functions of the body. This subtle astral
encasement of nineteen elements survives the death of the physical body,
which is made of sixteen gross metallic and nonmetallic elements.
"God thought out different ideas within Himself and projected them into
dreams. Lady Cosmic Dream thus sprang out decorated in all her colossal
endless ornaments of relativity.
"In thirty-five thought categories of the causal body, God elaborated all the
complexities of man's nineteen astral and sixteen physical counterparts. By
condensation of vibratory forces, first subtle, then gross, He produced man's
astral body and finally his physical form. According to the law of relativity, by
which the Prime Simplicity has become the bewildering manifold, the causal
cosmos and causal body are different from the astral cosmos and astral body;
the physical cosmos and physical body are likewise characteristically at
variance with the other forms of creation.
"The fleshly body is made of the fixed, objectified dreams of the Creator.
The dualities are ever-present on earth: disease and health, pain and pleasure,
loss and gain. Human beings find limitation and resistance in three-
dimensional matter. When man's desire to live is severely shaken by disease or
other causes, death arrives; the heavy overcoat of the flesh is temporarily shed.
The soul, however, remains encased in the astral and causal bodies. The
adhesive force by which all three bodies are held together is desire. The power
of unfulfilled desires is the root of all man's slavery.
"Physical desires are rooted in egotism and sense pleasures. The
compulsion or temptation of sensory experience is more powerful than the
desire-force connected with astral attachments or causal perceptions.
"Astral desires center around enjoyment in terms of vibration. Astral
beings enjoy the ethereal music of the spheres and are entranced by the sight
of all creation as exhaustless expressions of changing light. The astral beings
also smell, taste, and touch light. Astral desires are thus connected with an
astral being's power to precipitate all objects and experiences as forms of light
or as condensed thoughts or dreams.
"Causal desires are fulfilled by perception only. The nearly-free beings
who are encased only in the causal body see the whole universe as realizations
of the dream-ideas of God; they can materialize anything and everything in
sheer thought. Causal beings therefore consider the enjoyment of physical
sensations or astral delights as gross and suffocating to the soul's fine
sensibilities. Causal beings work out their desires by materializing them
instantly. Those who find themselves covered only by the delicate veil of the
causal body can bring universes into manifestation even as the Creator.
Because all creation is made of the cosmic dream-texture, the soul thinly
clothed in the causal has vast realizations of power.
"A soul, being invisible by nature, can be distinguished only by the
presence of its body or bodies. The mere presence of a body signifies that its
existence is made possible by unfulfilled desires.
"So long as the soul of man is encased in one, two, or three body-
containers, sealed tightly with the corks of ignorance and desires, he cannot
merge with the sea of Spirit. When the gross physical receptacle is destroyed
by the hammer of death, the other two coverings-astral and causal-still remain
to prevent the soul from consciously joining the Omnipresent Life. When
desirelessness is attained through wisdom, its power disintegrates the two
remaining vessels. The tiny human soul emerges, free at last; it is one with the
Measureless Amplitude."
I asked my divine guru to shed further light on the high and mysterious
causal world.
"The causal world is indescribably subtle," he replied. "In order to
understand it, one would have to possess such tremendous powers of
concentration that he could close his eyes and visualize the astral cosmos and
the physical cosmos in all their vastness-the luminous balloon with the solid
basket-as existing in ideas only. If by this superhuman concentration one
succeeded in converting or resolving the two cosmoses with all their
complexities into sheer ideas, he would then reach the causal world and stand
on the borderline of fusion between mind and matter. There one perceives all
created things- solids, liquids, gases, electricity, energy, all beings, gods, men,
animals, plants, bacteria-as forms of consciousness, just as a man can close his
eyes and realize that he exists, even though his body is invisible to his physical
eyes and is present only as an idea.
"Whatever a human being can do in fancy, a causal being can do in reality.
The most colossal imaginative human intelligence is able, in mind only, to
range from one extreme of thought to another, to skip mentally from planet to
planet, or tumble endlessly down a pit of eternity, or soar rocketlike into the
galaxied canopy, or scintillate like a searchlight over milky ways and the
starry spaces. But beings in the causal world have a much greater freedom,
and can effortlessly manifest their thoughts into instant objectivity, without
any material or astral obstruction or karmic limitation.
"Causal beings realize that the physical cosmos is not primarily
constructed of electrons, nor is the astral cosmos basically composed of
lifetrons-both in reality are created from the minutest particles of God-thought,
chopped and divided by maya, the law of relativity which intervenes to
apparently separate the Noumenon from His phenomena.
"Souls in the causal world recognize one another as individualized points
of joyous Spirit; their thought-things are the only objects which surround
them. Causal beings see the difference between their bodies and thoughts to be
merely ideas. As a man, closing his eyes, can visualize a dazzling white light
or a faint blue haze, so causal beings by thought alone are able to see, hear,
feel, taste, and touch; they create anything, or dissolve it, by the power of
cosmic mind.
"Both death and rebirth in the causal world are in thought. Causal- bodied
beings feast only on the ambrosia of eternally new knowledge. They drink
from the springs of peace, roam on the trackless soil of perceptions, swim in
the ocean-endlessness of bliss. Lo! see their bright thought-bodies zoom past
trillions of Spirit-created planets, fresh bubbles of universes, wisdom-stars,
spectral dreams of golden nebulae, all over the skiey blue bosom of Infinity!
"Many beings remain for thousands of years in the causal cosmos. By
deeper ecstasies the freed soul then withdraws itself from the little causal body
and puts on the vastness of the causal cosmos. All the separate eddies of ideas,
particularized waves of power, love, will, joy, peace, intuition, calmness, self-
control, and concentration melt into the ever-joyous Sea of Bliss. No longer
does the soul have to experience its joy as an individualized wave of
consciousness, but is merged in the One Cosmic Ocean, with all its waves-
eternal laughter, thrills, throbs.
"When a soul is out of the cocoon of the three bodies it escapes forever
from the law of relativity and becomes the ineffable Ever- Existent. Behold the
butterfly of Omnipresence, its wings etched with stars and moons and suns!
The soul expanded into Spirit remains alone in the region of lightless light,
darkless dark, thoughtless thought, intoxicated with its ecstasy of joy in God's
dream of cosmic creation."
"A free soul!" I ejaculated in awe.
"When a soul finally gets out of the three jars of bodily delusions," Master
continued, "it becomes one with the Infinite without any loss of individuality.
Christ had won this final freedom even before he was born as Jesus. In three
stages of his past, symbolized in his earth- life as the three days of his
experience of death and resurrection, he had attained the power to fully arise
in Spirit.
"The undeveloped man must undergo countless earthly and astral and
causal incarnations in order to emerge from his three bodies. A master who
achieves this final freedom may elect to return to earth as a prophet to bring
other human beings back to God, or like myself he may choose to reside in the
astral cosmos. There a savior assumes some of the burden of the inhabitants'
karma and thus helps them to terminate their cycle of reincarnation in the
astral cosmos and go on permanently to the causal spheres. Or a freed soul
may enter the causal world to aid its beings to shorten their span in the causal
body and thus attain the Absolute Freedom."
"Resurrected One, I want to know more about the karma which forces
souls to return to the three worlds." I could listen forever, I thought, to my
omniscient Master. Never in his earth-life had I been able at one time to
assimilate so much of his wisdom. Now for the first time I was receiving a
clear, definite insight into the enigmatic interspaces on the checkerboard of
life and death.
"The physical karma or desires of man must be completely worked out
before his permanent stay in astral worlds becomes possible," my guru
elucidated in his thrilling voice. "Two kinds of beings live in the astral
spheres. Those who still have earthly karma to dispose of and who must
therefore reinhabit a gross physical body in order to pay their karmic debts
could be classified, after physical death, as temporary visitors to the astral
world rather than as permanent residents.
"Beings with unredeemed earthly karma are not permitted after astral death
to go to the high causal sphere of cosmic ideas, but must shuttle to and fro
from the physical and astral worlds only, conscious successively of their
physical body of sixteen gross elements, and of their astral body of nineteen
subtle elements. After each loss of his physical body, however, an
undeveloped being from the earth remains for the most part in the deep stupor
of the death-sleep and is hardly conscious of the beautiful astral sphere. After
the astral rest, such a man returns to the material plane for further lessons,
gradually accustoming himself, through repeated journeys, to the worlds of
subtle astral texture.
"Normal or long-established residents of the astral universe, on the other
hand, are those who, freed forever from all material longings, need return no
more to the gross vibrations of earth. Such beings have only astral and causal
karma to work out. At astral death these beings pass to the infinitely finer and
more delicate causal world. Shedding the thought-form of the causal body at
the end of a certain span, determined by cosmic law, these advanced beings
then return to Hiranyaloka or a similar high astral planet, reborn in a new
astral body to work out their unredeemed astral karma.
"My son, you may now comprehend more fully that I am resurrected by
divine decree," Sri Yukteswar continued, "as a savior of astrally reincarnating
souls coming back from the causal sphere, in particular, rather than of those
astral beings who are coming up from the earth. Those from the earth, if they
still retain vestiges of material karma, do not rise to the very high astral
planets like Hiranyaloka.
"Just as most people on earth have not learned through meditation-
acquired vision to appreciate the superior joys and advantages of astral life and
thus, after death, desire to return to the limited, imperfect pleasures of earth, so
many astral beings, during the normal disintegration of their astral bodies, fail
to picture the advanced state of spiritual joy in the causal world and, dwelling
on thoughts of the more gross and gaudy astral happiness, yearn to revisit the
astral paradise. Heavy astral karma must be redeemed by such beings before
they can achieve after astral death a permanent stay in the causal thought-
world, so thinly partitioned from the Creator.
"Only when a being has no further desires for experiences in the pleasing-
to-the-eye astral cosmos, and cannot be tempted to go back there, does he
remain in the causal world. Completing there the work of redeeming all causal
karma or seeds of past desires, the confined soul thrusts out the last of the
three corks of ignorance and, emerging from the final jar of the causal body,
commingles with the Eternal.
"Now do you understand?" Master smiled so enchantingly!
"Yes, through your grace. I am speechless with joy and gratitude."
Never from song or story had I ever received such inspiring knowledge.
Though the Hindu scriptures refer to the causal and astral worlds and to man's
three bodies, how remote and meaningless those pages compared with the
warm authenticity of my resurrected Master! For him indeed existed not a
single "undiscover'd country from whose bourn no traveller returns"!
"The interpenetration of man's three bodies is expressed in many ways
through his threefold nature," my great guru went on. "In the wakeful state on
earth a human being is conscious more or less of his three vehicles. When he
is sensuously intent on tasting, smelling, touching, listening, or seeing, he is
working principally through his physical body. Visualizing or willing, he is
working mainly through his astral body. His causal medium finds expression
when man is thinking or diving deep in introspection or meditation; the
cosmical thoughts of genius come to the man who habitually contacts his
causal body. In this sense an individual may be classified broadly as 'a material
man,' 'an energetic man,' or 'an intellectual man.'
"A man identifies himself about sixteen hours daily with his physical
vehicle. Then he sleeps; if he dreams, he remains in his astral body,
effortlessly creating any object even as do the astral beings. If man's sleep be
deep and dreamless, for several hours he is able to transfer his consciousness,
or sense of I-ness, to the causal body; such sleep is revivifying. A dreamer is
contacting his astral and not his causal body; his sleep is not fully refreshing."
I had been lovingly observing Sri Yukteswar while he gave his wondrous
exposition.
"Angelic guru," I said, "your body looks exactly as it did when last I wept
over it in the Puri ashram."
"O yes, my new body is a perfect copy of the old one. I materialize or
dematerialize this form any time at will, much more frequently than I did
while on earth. By quick dematerialization, I now travel instantly by light
express from planet to planet or, indeed, from astral to causal or to physical
cosmos." My divine guru smiled. "Though you move about so fast these days,
I had no difficulty in finding you at Bombay!"
"O Master, I was grieving so deeply about your death!"
"Ah, wherein did I die? Isn't there some contradiction?" Sri Yukteswar's
eyes were twinkling with love and amusement.
"You were only dreaming on earth; on that earth you saw my dream-
body," he went on. "Later you buried that dream-image. Now my finer fleshly
body-which you behold and are even now embracing rather closely!-is
resurrected on another finer dream-planet of God. Someday that finer dream-
body and finer dream-planet will pass away; they too are not forever. All
dream-bubbles must eventually burst at a final wakeful touch. Differentiate,
my son Yogananda, between dreams and Reality!"
This idea of Vedantic resurrection struck me with wonder. I was ashamed
that I had pitied Master when I had seen his lifeless body at Puri. I
comprehended at last that my guru had always been fully awake in God,
perceiving his own life and passing on earth, and his present resurrection, as
nothing more than relativities of divine ideas in the cosmic dream.
"I have now told you, Yogananda, the truths of my life, death, and
resurrection. Grieve not for me; rather broadcast everywhere the story of my
resurrection from the God-dreamed earth of men to another God- dreamed
planet of astrally garbed souls! New hope will be infused into the hearts of
misery-mad, death-fearing dreamers of the world."
"Yes, Master!" How willingly would I share with others my joy at his
resurrection!
"On earth my standards were uncomfortably high, unsuited to the natures
of most men. Often I scolded you more than I should have. You passed my
test; your love shone through the clouds of all reprimands." He added tenderly,
"I have also come today to tell you: Never again shall I wear the stern gaze of
censure. I shall scold you no more."
How much I had missed the chastisements of my great guru! Each one had
been a guardian angel of protection.
"Dearest Master! Rebuke me a million times-do scold me now!"
"I shall chide you no more." His divine voice was grave, yet with an
undercurrent of laughter. "You and I shall smile together, so long as our two
forms appear different in the maya-dream of God. Finally we shall merge as
one in the Cosmic Beloved; our smiles shall be His smile, our unified song of
joy vibrating throughout eternity to be broadcast to God-tuned souls!"
Sri Yukteswar gave me light on certain matters which I cannot reveal here.
During the two hours that he spent with me in the Bombay hotel room he
answered my every question. A number of world prophecies uttered by him
that June day in 1936 have already come to pass.
"I leave you now, beloved one!" At these words I felt Master melting away
within my encircling arms.
"My child," his voice rang out, vibrating into my very soul-firmament,
"whenever you enter the door of nirbikalpa samadhi and call on me, I shall
come to you in flesh and blood, even as today."
With this celestial promise Sri Yukteswar vanished from my sight. A
cloud-voice repeated in musical thunder: "Tell all! Whosoever knows by
nirbikalpa realization that your earth is a dream of God can come to the finer
dream-created planet of Hiranyaloka, and there find me resurrected in a body
exactly like my earthly one. Yogananda, tell all!"
Gone was the sorrow of parting. The pity and grief for his death, long
robber of my peace, now fled in stark shame. Bliss poured forth like a fountain
through endless, newly opened soul-pores. Anciently clogged with disuse,
they now widened in purity at the driving flood of ecstasy. Subconscious
thoughts and feelings of my past incarnations shed their karmic taints,
lustrously renewed by Sri Yukteswar's divine visit.
In this chapter of my autobiography I have obeyed my guru's behest and
spread the glad tiding, though it confound once more an incurious generation.
Groveling, man knows well; despair is seldom alien; yet these are perversities,
no part of man's true lot. The day he wills, he is set on the path to freedom.
Too long has he hearkened to the dank pessimism of his "dust-thou-art"
counselors, heedless of the unconquerable soul.
I was not the only one privileged to behold the Resurrected Guru.
One of Sri Yukteswar's chelas was an aged woman, affectionately known
as Ma (Mother), whose home was close to the Puri hermitage. Master had
often stopped to chat with her during his morning walk. On the evening of
March 16, 1936, Ma arrived at the ashram and asked to see her guru.
"Why, Master died a week ago!" Swami Sebananda, now in charge of the
Puri hermitage, looked at her sadly.
"That's impossible!" She smiled a little. "Perhaps you are just trying to
protect the guru from insistent visitors?"
"No." Sebananda recounted details of the burial. "Come," he said, "I will
take you to the front garden to Sri Yukteswarji's grave."
Ma shook her head. "There is no grave for him! This morning at ten
o'clock he passed in his usual walk before my door! I talked to him for several
minutes in the bright outdoors.
"'Come this evening to the ashram,' he said.
"I am here! Blessings pour on this old gray head! The deathless guru
wanted me to understand in what transcendent body he had visited me this
morning!"
The astounded Sebananda knelt before her.
"Ma," he said, "what a weight of grief you lift from my heart! He is risen!"


 CHAPTER: 44
With Mahatma Gandhi At Wardha

"Welcome to Wardha!" Mahadev Desai, secretary to Mahatma Gandhi,

greeted Miss Bletch, Mr. Wright, and myself with these cordial words and the
gift of wreaths of khaddar (homespun cotton). Our little group had just
dismounted at the Wardha station on an early morning in August, glad to leave
the dust and heat of the train. Consigning our luggage to a bullock cart, we
entered an open motor car with Mr. Desai and his companions, Babasaheb
Deshmukh and Dr. Pingale. A short drive over the muddy country roads
brought us to Maganvadi, the ashram of India's political saint.
Mr. Desai led us at once to the writing room where, cross-legged, sat
Mahatma Gandhi. Pen in one hand and a scrap of paper in the other, on his
face a vast, winning, warm-hearted smile!
"Welcome!" he scribbled in Hindi; it was a Monday, his weekly day of
silence.
Though this was our first meeting, we beamed on each other affectionately.
In 1925 Mahatma Gandhi had honored the Ranchi school by a visit, and had
inscribed in its guest-book a gracious tribute.
The tiny 100-pound saint radiated physical, mental, and spiritual health.
His soft brown eyes shone with intelligence, sincerity, and discrimination; this
statesman has matched wits and emerged the victor in a thousand legal, social,
and political battles. No other leader in the world has attained the secure niche
in the hearts of his people that Gandhi occupies for India's unlettered millions.
Their spontaneous tribute is his famous title-Mahatma, "great soul." For them
alone Gandhi confines his attire to the widely-cartooned loincloth, symbol of
his oneness with the downtrodden masses who can afford no more.
"The ashram residents are wholly at your disposal; please call on them for
any service." With characteristic courtesy, the Mahatma handed me this
hastily-written note as Mr. Desai led our party from the writing room toward
the guest house.
Our guide led us through orchards and flowering fields to a tile- roofed
building with latticed windows. A front-yard well, twenty-five feet across, was
used, Mr. Desai said, for watering stock; near-by stood a revolving cement
wheel for threshing rice. Each of our small bedrooms proved to contain only
the irreducible minimum-a bed, handmade of rope. The whitewashed kitchen
boasted a faucet in one corner and a fire pit for cooking in another. Simple
Arcadian sounds reached our ears-the cries of crows and sparrows, the lowing
of cattle, and the rap of chisels being used to chip stones.
 Observing Mr. Wright's travel diary, Mr. Desai opened a page and wrote on
it a list of Satyagraha vows taken by all the Mahatma's strict followers
(satyagrahis):
"Nonviolence; Truth; Non-Stealing; Celibacy; Non-Possession; Body-
Labor; Control of the Palate; Fearlessness; Equal Respect for all Religions;
Swadeshi (use of home manufactures); Freedom from Untouchability. These
eleven should be observed as vows in a spirit of humility."
(Gandhi himself signed this page on the following day, giving the date
also-August 27, 1935.)
Two hours after our arrival my companions and I were summoned to
lunch. The Mahatma was already seated under the arcade of the ashram porch,
across the courtyard from his study. About twenty-five barefooted satyagrahis
were squatting before brass cups and plates. A community chorus of prayer;
then a meal served from large brass pots containing chapatis (whole-wheat
unleavened bread) sprinkled with ghee; talsari (boiled and diced vegetables),
and a lemon jam.
The Mahatma ate chapatis, boiled beets, some raw vegetables, and
oranges. On the side of his plate was a large lump of very bitter neem leaves, a
notable blood cleanser. With his spoon he separated a portion and placed it on
my dish. I bolted it down with water, remembering childhood days when
Mother had forced me to swallow the disagreeable dose. Gandhi, however, bit
by bit was eating the neem paste with as much relish as if it had been a
delicious sweetmeat.
In this trifling incident I noted the Mahatma's ability to detach his mind
from the senses at will. I recalled the famous appendectomy performed on him
some years ago. Refusing anesthetics, the saint had chatted cheerfully with his
disciples throughout the operation, his infectious smile revealing his
unawareness of pain.
The afternoon brought an opportunity for a chat with Gandhi's noted
disciple, daughter of an English admiral, Miss Madeleine Slade, now called
Mirabai. Her strong, calm face lit with enthusiasm as she told me, in flawless
Hindi, of her daily activities.
"Rural reconstruction work is rewarding! A group of us go every morning
at five o'clock to serve the near-by villagers and teach them simple hygiene.
We make it a point to clean their latrines and their mud-thatched huts. The
villagers are illiterate; they cannot be educated except by example!" She
laughed gaily.
I looked in admiration at this highborn Englishwoman whose true
Christian humility enables her to do the scavengering work usually performed
only by "untouchables."
"I came to India in 1925," she told me. "In this land I feel that I have 'come
back home.' Now I would never be willing to return to my old life and old
interests."
We discussed America for awhile. "I am always pleased and amazed," she
said, "to see the deep interest in spiritual subjects exhibited by the many
Americans who visit India."
Mirabai's hands were soon busy at the charka (spinning wheel),
omnipresent in all the ashram rooms and, indeed, due to the Mahatma,
omnipresent throughout rural India.
Gandhi has sound economic and cultural reasons for encouraging the
revival of cottage industries, but he does not counsel a fanatical repudiation of
all modern progress. Machinery, trains, automobiles, the telegraph have played
important parts in his own colossal life! Fifty years of public service, in prison
and out, wrestling daily with practical details and harsh realities in the political
world, have only increased his balance, open-mindedness, sanity, and
humorous appreciation of the quaint human spectacle.
Our trio enjoyed a six o'clock supper as guests of Babasaheb Deshmukh.
The 7:00 P.M. prayer hour found us back at the Maganvadi ashram, climbing
to the roof where thirty satyagrahis were grouped in a semicircle around
Gandhi. He was squatting on a straw mat, an ancient pocket watch propped up
before him. The fading sun cast a last gleam over the palms and banyans; the
hum of night and the crickets had started. The atmosphere was serenity itself; I
was enraptured.
A solemn chant led by Mr. Desai, with responses from the group; then a
Gita reading. The Mahatma motioned to me to give the concluding prayer.
Such divine unison of thought and aspiration! A memory forever: the Wardha
roof top meditation under the early stars.
Punctually at eight o'clock Gandhi ended his silence. The herculean labors
of his life require him to apportion his time minutely.
"Welcome, Swamiji!" The Mahatma's greeting this time was not via paper.
We had just descended from the roof to his writing room, simply furnished
with square mats (no chairs), a low desk with books, papers, and a few
ordinary pens (not fountain pens); a nondescript clock ticked in a corner. An
all-pervasive aura of peace and devotion. Gandhi was bestowing one of his
captivating, cavernous, almost toothless smiles.
"Years ago," he explained, "I started my weekly observance of a day of
silence as a means for gaining time to look after my correspondence. But now
those twenty-four hours have become a vital spiritual need. A periodical
decree of silence is not a torture but a blessing."
I agreed wholeheartedly. The Mahatma questioned me about America and
Europe; we discussed India and world conditions.
"Mahadev," Gandhi said as Mr. Desai entered the room, "please make
arrangements at Town Hall for Swamiji to speak there on yoga tomorrow
night."
As I was bidding the Mahatma good night, he considerately handed me a
bottle of citronella oil.
"The Wardha mosquitoes don't know a thing about ahimsa, Swamiji!" he
said, laughing.
The following morning our little group breakfasted early on a tasty wheat
porridge with molasses and milk. At ten-thirty we were called to the ashram
porch for lunch with Gandhi and the satyagrahis. Today the menu included
brown rice, a new selection of vegetables, and cardamom seeds.
Noon found me strolling about the ashram grounds, on to the grazing land
of a few imperturbable cows. The protection of cows is a passion with Gandhi.
"The cow to me means the entire sub-human world, extending man's
sympathies beyond his own species," the Mahatma has explained. "Man
through the cow is enjoined to realize his identity with all that lives. Why the
ancient rishis selected the cow for apotheosis is obvious to me. The cow in
India was the best comparison; she was the giver of plenty. Not only did she
give milk, but she also made agriculture possible. The cow is a poem of pity;
one reads pity in the gentle animal. She is the second mother to millions of
mankind. Protection of the cow means protection of the whole dumb creation
of God. The appeal of the lower order of creation is all the more forceful
because it is speechless."
Three daily rituals are enjoined on the orthodox Hindu. One is Bhuta
Yajna, an offering of food to the animal kingdom. This ceremony symbolizes
man's realization of his obligations to less evolved forms of creation,
instinctively tied to bodily identifications which also corrode human life, but
lacking in that quality of liberating reason which is peculiar to humanity.
Bhuta Yajna thus reinforces man's readiness to succor the weak, as he in turn
is comforted by countless solicitudes of higher unseen beings. Man is also
under bond for rejuvenating gifts of nature, prodigal in earth, sea, and sky. The
evolutionary barrier of incommunicability among nature, animals, man, and
astral angels is thus overcome by offices of silent love.
The other two daily yajnas are Pitri and Nri. Pitri Yajna is an offering of
oblations to ancestors, as a symbol of man's acknowledgment of his debt to the
past, essence of whose wisdom illumines humanity today. Nri Yajna is an
offering of food to strangers or the poor, symbol of the present responsibilities
of man, his duties to contemporaries.
In the early afternoon I fulfilled a neighborly Nri Yajna by a visit to
Gandhi's ashram for little girls. Mr. Wright accompanied me on the ten-minute
drive. Tiny young flowerlike faces atop the long-stemmed colorful saris! At
the end of a brief talk in Hindi which I was giving outdoors, the skies unloosed
a sudden downpour. Laughing, Mr. Wright and I climbed aboard the car and
sped back to Maganvadi amidst sheets of driving silver. Such tropical intensity
and splash!
Reentering the guest house I was struck anew by the stark simplicity and
evidences of self-sacrifice which are everywhere present. The Gandhi vow of
non-possession came early in his married life. Renouncing an extensive legal
practice which had been yielding him an annual income of more than $20,000,
the Mahatma dispersed all his wealth to the poor.
Sri Yukteswar used to poke gentle fun at the commonly inadequate
conceptions of renunciation.
"A beggar cannot renounce wealth," Master would say. "If a man laments:
'My business has failed; my wife has left me; I will renounce all and enter a
monastery,' to what worldly sacrifice is he referring? He did not renounce
wealth and love; they renounced him!"
Saints like Gandhi, on the other hand, have made not only tangible
material sacrifices, but also the more difficult renunciation of selfish motive
and private goal, merging their inmost being in the stream of humanity as a
whole.
The Mahatma's remarkable wife, Kasturabai, did not object when he failed
to set aside any part of his wealth for the use of herself and their children.
Married in early youth, Gandhi and his wife took the vow of celibacy after the
birth of several sons. A tranquil heroine in the intense drama that has been
their life together, Kasturabai has followed her husband to prison, shared his
three-week fasts, and fully borne her share of his endless responsibilities. She
has paid Gandhi the following tribute:
I thank you for having had the privilege of being your lifelong companion
and helpmate. I thank you for the most perfect marriage in the world, based on
brahmacharya (self-control) and not on sex. I thank you for having considered
me your equal in your life work for India. I thank you for not being one of
those husbands who spend their time in gambling, racing, women, wine, and
song, tiring of their wives and children as the little boy quickly tires of his
childhood toys. How thankful I am that you were not one of those husbands
who devote their time to growing rich on the exploitation of the labor of
others.
How thankful I am that you put God and country before bribes, that you
had the courage of your convictions and a complete and implicit faith in God.
How thankful I am for a husband that put God and his country before me. I am
grateful to you for your tolerance of me and my shortcomings of youth, when I
grumbled and rebelled against the change you made in our mode of living,
from so much to so little.
As a young child, I lived in your parents' home; your mother was a great
and good woman; she trained me, taught me how to be a brave, courageous
wife and how to keep the love and respect of her son, my future husband. As
the years passed and you became India's most beloved leader, I had none of
the fears that beset the wife who may be cast aside when her husband has
climbed the ladder of success, as so often happens in other countries. I knew
that death would still find us husband and wife.
For years Kasturabai performed the duties of treasurer of the public funds
which the idolized Mahatma is able to raise by the millions. There are many
humorous stories in Indian homes to the effect that husbands are nervous
about their wives' wearing any jewelry to a Gandhi meeting; the Mahatma's
magical tongue, pleading for the downtrodden, charms the gold bracelets and
diamond necklaces right off the arms and necks of the wealthy into the
collection basket!
One day the public treasurer, Kasturabai, could not account for a
disbursement of four rupees. Gandhi duly published an auditing in which he
inexorably pointed out his wife's four rupee discrepancy.
I had often told this story before classes of my American students. One
evening a woman in the hall had given an outraged gasp.
"Mahatma or no Mahatma," she had cried, "if he were my husband I would
have given him a black eye for such an unnecessary public insult!"
After some good-humored banter had passed between us on the subject of
American wives and Hindu wives, I had gone on to a fuller explanation.
"Mrs. Gandhi considers the Mahatma not as her husband but as her guru,
one who has the right to discipline her for even insignificant errors," I had
pointed out. "Sometime after Kasturabai had been publicly rebuked, Gandhi
was sentenced to prison on a political charge. As he was calmly bidding
farewell to his wife, she fell at his feet. 'Master,' she said humbly, 'if I have
ever offended you, please forgive me.'"
 At three o'clock that afternoon in Wardha, I betook myself, by previous
appointment, to the writing room of the saint who had been able to make an
unflinching disciple out of his own wife-rare miracle! Gandhi looked up with
his unforgettable smile.
"Mahatmaji," I said as I squatted beside him on the uncushioned mat,
"please tell me your definition of ahimsa."
"The avoidance of harm to any living creature in thought or deed."
"Beautiful ideal! But the world will always ask: May one not kill a cobra to
protect a child, or one's self?"
"I could not kill a cobra without violating two of my vows- fearlessness,
and non-killing. I would rather try inwardly to calm the snake by vibrations of
love. I cannot possibly lower my standards to suit my circumstances." With his
amazing candor, Gandhi added, "I must confess that I could not carry on this
conversation were I faced by a cobra!"
I remarked on several very recent Western books on diet which lay on his
desk.
"Yes, diet is important in the Satyagraha movement-as everywhere else,"
he said with a chuckle. "Because I advocate complete continence for
satyagrahis, I am always trying to find out the best diet for the celibate. One
must conquer the palate before he can control the procreative instinct. Semi-
starvation or unbalanced diets are not the answer. After overcoming the inward
greed for food, a satyagrahi must continue to follow a rational vegetarian diet
with all necessary vitamins, minerals, calories, and so forth. By inward and
outward wisdom in regard to eating, the SATYAGRAHI'S sexual fluid is
easily turned into vital energy for the whole body."
The Mahatma and I compared our knowledge of good meat-substitutes.
"The avocado is excellent," I said. "There are numerous avocado groves near
my center in California."
Gandhi's face lit with interest. "I wonder if they would grow in Wardha?
The satyagrahis would appreciate a new food."
"I will be sure to send some avocado plants from Los Angeles to Wardha."
I added, "Eggs are a high-protein food; are they forbidden to satyagrahis?"
"Not unfertilized eggs." The Mahatma laughed reminiscently. "For years I
would not countenance their use; even now I personally do not eat them. One
of my daughters-in-law was once dying of malnutrition; her doctor insisted on
eggs. I would not agree, and advised him to give her some egg-substitute.
"'Gandhiji,' the doctor said, 'unfertilized eggs contain no life sperm; no
killing is involved.'
 "I then gladly gave permission for my daughter-in-law to eat eggs; she was
soon restored to health."
On the previous night Gandhi had expressed a wish to receive the Kriya
Yoga of Lahiri Mahasaya. I was touched by the Mahatma's open- mindedness
and spirit of inquiry. He is childlike in his divine quest, revealing that pure
receptivity which Jesus praised in children, ". . . of such is the kingdom of
heaven."
The hour for my promised instruction had arrived; several satyagrahis now
entered the room-Mr. Desai, Dr. Pingale, and a few others who desired the
Kriya technique.
I first taught the little class the physical Yogoda exercises. The body is
visualized as divided into twenty parts; the will directs energy in turn to each
section. Soon everyone was vibrating before me like a human motor. It was
easy to observe the rippling effect on Gandhi's twenty body parts, at all times
completely exposed to view! Though very thin, he is not unpleasingly so; the
skin of his body is smooth and unwrinkled.
Later I initiated the group into the liberating technique of Kriya Yoga.
The Mahatma has reverently studied all world religions. The Jain
scriptures, the Biblical New Testament, and the sociological writings of
Tolstoy are the three main sources of Gandhi's nonviolent convictions. He has
stated his credo thus:
I believe the Bible, the Koran, and the Zend-Avesta to be as divinely
inspired as the Vedas. I believe in the institution of Gurus, but in this age
millions must go without a Guru, because it is a rare thing to find a
combination of perfect purity and perfect learning. But one need not despair of
ever knowing the truth of one's religion, because the fundamentals of
Hinduism as of every great religion are unchangeable, and easily understood.
I believe like every Hindu in God and His oneness, in rebirth and salvation.
. . . I can no more describe my feeling for Hinduism than for my own wife.
She moves me as no other woman in the world can. Not that she has no faults;
I daresay she has many more than I see myself. But the feeling of an
indissoluble bond is there. Even so I feel for and about Hinduism with all its
faults and limitations. Nothing delights me so much as the music of the Gita,
or the Ramayana by Tulsidas. When I fancied I was taking my last breath, the
Gita was my solace.
Hinduism is not an exclusive religion. In it there is room for the worship of
all the prophets of the world. It is not a missionary religion in the ordinary
sense of the term. It has no doubt absorbed many tribes in its fold, but this
absorption has been of an evolutionary, imperceptible character. Hinduism
tells each man to worship God according to his own faith or dharma, and so
lives at peace with all religions.
Of Christ, Gandhi has written: "I am sure that if He were living here now
among men, He would bless the lives of many who perhaps have never even
heard His name . . . just as it is written: 'Not every one that saith unto me,
Lord, Lord . . . but he that doeth the will of my Father.' In the lesson of His
own life, Jesus gave humanity the magnificent purpose and the single
objective toward which we all ought to aspire. I believe that He belongs not
solely to Christianity, but to the entire world, to all lands and races."
On my last evening in Wardha I addressed the meeting which had been
called by Mr. Desai in Town Hall. The room was thronged to the window sills
with about 400 people assembled to hear the talk on yoga. I spoke first in
Hindi, then in English. Our little group returned to the ashram in time for a
good-night glimpse of Gandhi, enfolded in peace and correspondence.
Night was still lingering when I rose at 5:00 A.M. Village life was already
stirring; first a bullock cart by the ashram gates, then a peasant with his huge
burden balanced precariously on his head. After breakfast our trio sought out
Gandhi for farewell pronams. The saint rises at four o'clock for his morning
prayer.
"Mahatmaji, good-by!" I knelt to touch his feet. "India is safe in your
keeping!"
Years have rolled by since the Wardha idyl; the earth, oceans, and skies
have darkened with a world at war. Alone among great leaders, Gandhi has
offered a practical nonviolent alternative to armed might. To redress
grievances and remove injustices, the Mahatma has employed nonviolent
means which again and again have proved their effectiveness. He states his
doctrine in these words:
I have found that life persists in the midst of destruction. Therefore there
must be a higher law than that of destruction. Only under that law would well-
ordered society be intelligible and life worth living.
If that is the law of life we must work it out in daily existence. Wherever
there are wars, wherever we are confronted with an opponent, conquer by
love. I have found that the certain law of love has answered in my own life as
the law of destruction has never done.
In India we have had an ocular demonstration of the operation of this law
on the widest scale possible. I don't claim that nonviolence has penetrated the
360,000,000 people in India, but I do claim it has penetrated deeper than any
other doctrine in an incredibly short time.
 It takes a fairly strenuous course of training to attain a mental state of
nonviolence. It is a disciplined life, like the life of a soldier. The perfect state
is reached only when the mind, body, and speech are in proper coordination.
Every problem would lend itself to solution if we determined to make the law
of truth and nonviolence the law of life.
Just as a scientist will work wonders out of various applications of the laws
of nature, a man who applies the laws of love with scientific precision can
work greater wonders. Nonviolence is infinitely more wonderful and subtle
than forces of nature like, for instance, electricity. The law of love is a far
greater science than any modern science.
Consulting history, one may reasonably state that the problems of mankind
have not been solved by the use of brute force. World War I produced a world-
chilling snowball of war karma that swelled into World War II. Only the
warmth of brotherhood can melt the present colossal snowball of war karma
which may otherwise grow into World War III. This unholy trinity will banish
forever the possibility of World War IV by a finality of atomic bombs. Use of
jungle logic instead of human reason in settling disputes will restore the earth
to a jungle. If brothers not in life, then brothers in violent death.
War and crime never pay. The billions of dollars that went up in the smoke
of explosive nothingness would have been sufficient to have made a new
world, one almost free from disease and completely free from poverty. Not an
earth of fear, chaos, famine, pestilence, the danse macabre, but one broad land
of peace, of prosperity, and of widening knowledge.
The nonviolent voice of Gandhi appeals to man's highest conscience. Let
nations ally themselves no longer with death, but with life; not with
destruction, but with construction; not with the Annihilator, but with the
Creator.
"One should forgive, under any injury," says the Mahabharata. "It hath
been said that the continuation of species is due to man's being forgiving.
Forgiveness is holiness; by forgiveness the universe is held together.
Forgiveness is the might of the mighty; forgiveness is sacrifice; forgiveness is
quiet of mind. Forgiveness and gentleness are the qualities of the self-
possessed. They represent eternal virtue."
Nonviolence is the natural outgrowth of the law of forgiveness and love.
"If loss of life becomes necessary in a righteous battle," Gandhi proclaims,
"one should be prepared, like Jesus, to shed his own, not others', blood.
Eventually there will be less blood spilt in the world."
Epics shall someday be written on the Indian satyagrahis who withstood
hate with love, violence with nonviolence, who allowed themselves to be
mercilessly slaughtered rather than retaliate. The result on certain historic
occasions was that the armed opponents threw down their guns and fled,
shamed, shaken to their depths by the sight of men who valued the life of
another above their own.
"I would wait, if need be for ages," Gandhi says, "rather than seek the
freedom of my country through bloody means." Never does the Mahatma
forget the majestic warning: "All they that take the sword shall perish with the
sword." Gandhi has written:
I call myself a nationalist, but my nationalism is as broad as the universe. It
includes in its sweep all the nations of the earth. My nationalism includes the
well-being of the whole world. I do not want my India to rise on the ashes of
other nations. I do not want India to exploit a single human being. I want India
to be strong in order that she can infect the other nations also with her
strength. Not so with a single nation in Europe today; they do not give strength
to the others.
President Wilson mentioned his beautiful fourteen points, but said: "After
all, if this endeavor of ours to arrive at peace fails, we have our armaments to
fall back upon." I want to reverse that position, and I say: "Our armaments
have failed already. Let us now be in search of something new; let us try the
force of love and God which is truth." When we have got that, we shall want
nothing else.
By the Mahatma's training of thousands of true satyagrahis (those who
have taken the eleven rigorous vows mentioned in the first part of this
chapter), who in turn spread the message; by patiently educating the Indian
masses to understand the spiritual and eventually material benefits of
nonviolence; by arming his people with nonviolent weapons- non-cooperation
with injustice, the willingness to endure indignities, prison, death itself rather
than resort to arms; by enlisting world sympathy through countless examples
of heroic martyrdom among satyagrahis, Gandhi has dramatically portrayed
the practical nature of nonviolence, its solemn power to settle disputes without
war.
Gandhi has already won through nonviolent means a greater number of
political concessions for his land than have ever been won by any leader of
any country except through bullets. Nonviolent methods for eradication of all
wrongs and evils have been strikingly applied not only in the political arena
but in the delicate and complicated field of Indian social reform. Gandhi and
his followers have removed many longstanding feuds between Hindus and
Mohammedans; hundreds of thousands of Moslems look to the Mahatma as
their leader. The untouchables have found in him their fearless and triumphant
champion. "If there be a rebirth in store for me," Gandhi wrote, "I wish to be
born a pariah in the midst of pariahs, because thereby I would be able to
render them more effective service."
The Mahatma is indeed a "great soul," but it was illiterate millions who
had the discernment to bestow the title. This gentle prophet is honored in his
own land. The lowly peasant has been able to rise to Gandhi's high challenge.
The Mahatma wholeheartedly believes in the inherent nobility of man. The
inevitable failures have never disillusioned him. "Even if the opponent plays
him false twenty times," he writes, "the satyagrahi is ready to trust him the
twenty- first time, for an implicit trust in human nature is the very essence of
the creed."
"Mahatmaji, you are an exceptional man. You must not expect the world to
act as you do." A critic once made this observation.
"It is curious how we delude ourselves, fancying that the body can be
improved, but that it is impossible to evoke the hidden powers of the soul,"
Gandhi replied. "I am engaged in trying to show that if I have any of those
powers, I am as frail a mortal as any of us and that I never had anything
extraordinary about me nor have I now. I am a simple individual liable to err
like any other fellow mortal. I own, however, that I have enough humility to
confess my errors and to retrace my steps. I own that I have an immovable
faith in God and His goodness, and an unconsumable passion for truth and
love. But is that not what every person has latent in him? If we are to make
progress, we must not repeat history but make new history. We must add to the
inheritance left by our ancestors. If we may make new discoveries and
inventions in the phenomenal world, must we declare our bankruptcy in the
spiritual domain? Is it impossible to multiply the exceptions so as to make
them the rule? Must man always be brute first and man after, if at all?"
Americans may well remember with pride the successful nonviolent
experiment of William Penn in founding his 17th century colony in
Pennsylvania. There were "no forts, no soldiers, no militia, even no arms."
Amidst the savage frontier wars and the butcheries that went on between the
new settlers and the Red Indians, the Quakers of Pennsylvania alone remained
unmolested. "Others were slain; others were massacred; but they were safe.
Not a Quaker woman suffered assault; not a Quaker child was slain, not a
Quaker man was tortured." When the Quakers were finally forced to give up
the government of the state, "war broke out, and some Pennsylvanians were
killed. But only three Quakers were killed, three who had so far fallen from
their faith as to carry weapons of defence."
"Resort to force in the Great War (I) failed to bring tranquillity," Franklin
D. Roosevelt has pointed out. "Victory and defeat were alike sterile. That
lesson the world should have learned."
 "The more weapons of violence, the more misery to mankind," Lao-tzu
taught. "The triumph of violence ends in a festival of mourning."
"I am fighting for nothing less than world peace," Gandhi has declared. "If
the Indian movement is carried to success on a nonviolent Satyagraha basis, it
will give a new meaning to patriotism and, if I may say so in all humility, to
life itself."
Before the West dismisses Gandhi's program as one of an impractical
dreamer, let it first reflect on a definition of Satyagraha by the Master of
Galilee:
"Ye have heard that it hath been said, An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a
tooth: but I say unto you, That ye resist not evil: but whosoever shall smite
thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also."
Gandhi's epoch has extended, with the beautiful precision of cosmic
timing, into a century already desolated and devastated by two World Wars. A
divine handwriting appears on the granite wall of his life: a warning against
the further shedding of blood among brothers.
Mahatma Gandhi visited my high school with yoga training at Ranchi. He
graciously wrote the above lines in the Ranchi guest-book. The translation is:
"This institution has deeply impressed my mind. I cherish high hopes that this
school will encourage the further practical use of the spinning wheel."
A national flag for India was designed in 1921 by Gandhi. The stripes are
saffron, white and green; the charka (spinning wheel) in the center is dark
blue. "The charka symbolizes energy," he wrote, "and reminds us that during
the past eras of prosperity in India's history, hand spinning and other domestic
crafts were prominent."

CHAPTER: 45
The Bengali "Joy-Permeated" Mother

"Sir, please do not leave India without a glimpse of Nirmala Devi. Her
sanctity is intense; she is known far and wide as Ananda Moyi Ma (Joy-
Permeated Mother)." My niece, Amiyo Bose, gazed at me earnestly.
"Of course! I want very much to see the woman saint." I added, "I have
read of her advanced state of God-realization. A little article about her
appeared years ago in East-West."
"I have met her," Amiyo went on. "She recently visited my own little town
of Jamshedpur. At the entreaty of a disciple, Ananda Moyi Ma went to the
home of a dying man. She stood by his bedside; as her hand touched his
forehead, his death-rattle ceased. The disease vanished at once; to the man's
glad astonishment, he was well."
A few days later I heard that the Blissful Mother was staying at the home
of a disciple in the Bhowanipur section of Calcutta. Mr. Wright and I set out
immediately from my father's Calcutta home. As the Ford neared the
Bhowanipur house, my companion and I observed an unusual street scene.
Ananda Moyi Ma was standing in an open-topped automobile, blessing a
throng of about one hundred disciples. She was evidently on the point of
departure. Mr. Wright parked the Ford some distance away, and accompanied
me on foot toward the quiet assemblage. The woman saint glanced in our
direction; she alit from her car and walked toward us.
"Father, you have come!" With these fervent words she put her arm around
my neck and her head on my shoulder. Mr. Wright, to whom I had just
remarked that I did not know the saint, was hugely enjoying this extraordinary
demonstration of welcome. The eyes of the one hundred chelas were also
fixed with some surprise on the affectionate tableau.
I had instantly seen that the saint was in a high state of samadhi. Utterly
oblivious to her outward garb as a woman, she knew herself as the changeless
soul; from that plane she was joyously greeting another devotee of God. She
led me by the hand into her automobile.
"Ananda Moyi Ma, I am delaying your journey!" I protested.
"Father, I am meeting you for the first time in this life, after ages!" she
said. "Please do not leave yet."
We sat together in the rear seats of the car. The Blissful Mother soon
entered the immobile ecstatic state. Her beautiful eyes glanced heavenward
and, half-opened, became stilled, gazing into the near-far inner Elysium. The
disciples chanted gently: "Victory to Mother Divine!"
I had found many men of God-realization in India, but never before had I
met such an exalted woman saint. Her gentle face was burnished with the
ineffable joy that had given her the name of Blissful Mother. Long black
tresses lay loosely behind her unveiled head. A red dot of sandalwood paste on
her forehead symbolized the spiritual eye, ever open within her. Tiny face, tiny
hands, tiny feet-a contrast to her spiritual magnitude!
I put some questions to a near-by woman chela while Ananda Moyi Ma
remained entranced.
"The Blissful Mother travels widely in India; in many parts she has
hundreds of disciples," the chela told me. "Her courageous efforts have
brought about many desirable social reforms. Although a Brahmin, the saint
recognizes no caste distinctions. A group of us always travel with her, looking
after her comforts. We have to mother her; she takes no notice of her body. If
no one gave her food, she would not eat, or make any inquiries. Even when
meals are placed before her, she does not touch them. To prevent her
disappearance from this world, we disciples feed her with our own hands. For
days together she often stays in the divine trance, scarcely breathing, her eyes
unwinking. One of her chief disciples is her husband. Many years ago, soon
after their marriage, he took the vow of silence."
The chela pointed to a broad-shouldered, fine-featured man with long hair
and hoary beard. He was standing quietly in the midst of the gathering, his
hands folded in a disciple's reverential attitude.
Refreshed by her dip in the Infinite, Ananda Moyi Ma was now focusing
her consciousness on the material world.
"Father, please tell me where you stay." Her voice was clear and
melodious.
"At present, in Calcutta or Ranchi; but soon I shall be returning to
America."
"America?"
"Yes. An Indian woman saint would be sincerely appreciated there by
spiritual seekers. Would you like to go?"
"If Father can take me, I will go."
This reply caused her near-by disciples to start in alarm.
"Twenty or more of us always travel with the Blissful Mother," one of
them told me firmly. "We could not live without her. Wherever she goes, we
must go."
Reluctantly I abandoned the plan, as possessing an impractical feature of
spontaneous enlargement!
"Please come at least to Ranchi, with your disciples," I said on taking leave
of the saint. "As a divine child yourself, you will enjoy the little ones in my
school."
"Whenever Father takes me, I will gladly go."
A short time later the Ranchi Vidyalaya was in gala array for the saint's
promised visit. The youngsters looked forward to any day of festivity-no
lessons, hours of music, and a feast for the climax!
 "Victory! Ananda Moyi Ma, ki jai!" This reiterated chant from scores of
enthusiastic little throats greeted the saint's party as it entered the school gates.
Showers of marigolds, tinkle of cymbals, lusty blowing of conch shells and
beat of the mridanga drum! The Blissful Mother wandered smilingly over the
sunny Vidyalaya grounds, ever carrying within her the portable paradise.
"It is beautiful here," Ananda Moyi Ma said graciously as I led her into the
main building. She seated herself with a childlike smile by my side. The
closest of dear friends, she made one feel, yet an aura of remoteness was ever
around her-the paradoxical isolation of Omnipresence.
"Please tell me something of your life."
"Father knows all about it; why repeat it?" She evidently felt that the
factual history of one short incarnation was beneath notice.
I laughed, gently repeating my question.
"Father, there is little to tell." She spread her graceful hands in a
deprecatory gesture. "My consciousness has never associated itself with this
temporary body. Before I came on this earth, Father, 'I was the same.' As a
little girl, 'I was the same.' I grew into womanhood, but still 'I was the same.'
When the family in which I had been born made arrangements to have this
body married, 'I was the same.' And when, passion-drunk, my husband came
to me and murmured endearing words, lightly touching my body, he received a
violent shock, as if struck by lightning, for even then 'I was the same.'
"My husband knelt before me, folded his hands, and implored my pardon.
"'Mother,' he said, 'because I have desecrated your bodily temple by
touching it with the thought of lust-not knowing that within it dwelt not my
wife but the Divine Mother-I take this solemn vow: I shall be your disciple, a
celibate follower, ever caring for you in silence as a servant, never speaking to
anyone again as long as I live. May I thus atone for the sin I have today
committed against you, my guru.'
"Even when I quietly accepted this proposal of my husband's, 'I was the
same.' And, Father, in front of you now, 'I am the same.' Ever afterward,
though the dance of creation change around me in the hall of eternity, 'I shall
be the same.'"
Ananda Moyi Ma sank into a deep meditative state. Her form was statue-
still; she had fled to her ever-calling kingdom. The dark pools of her eyes
appeared lifeless and glassy. This expression is often present when saints
remove their consciousness from the physical body, which is then hardly more
than a piece of soulless clay. We sat together for an hour in the ecstatic trance.
She returned to this world with a gay little laugh.
 "Please, Ananda Moyi Ma," I said, "come with me to the garden. Mr.
Wright will take some pictures."
"Of course, Father. Your will is my will." Her glorious eyes retained the
unchanging divine luster as she posed for many photographs.
Time for the feast! Ananda Moyi Ma squatted on her blanket-seat, a
disciple at her elbow to feed her. Like an infant, the saint obediently
swallowed the food after the chela had brought it to her lips. It was plain that
the Blissful Mother did not recognize any difference between curries and
sweetmeats!
As dusk approached, the saint left with her party amidst a shower of rose
petals, her hands raised in blessing on the little lads. Their faces shone with the
affection she had effortlessly awakened.
"Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul,
and with all thy mind, and with all thy strength:" Christ has proclaimed, "this
is the first commandment."
Casting aside every inferior attachment, Ananda Moyi Ma offers her sole
allegiance to the Lord. Not by the hairsplitting distinctions of scholars but by
the sure logic of faith, the childlike saint has solved the only problem in
human life-establishment of unity with God. Man has forgotten this stark
simplicity, now befogged by a million issues. Refusing a monotheistic love to
God, the nations disguise their infidelity by punctilious respect before the
outward shrines of charity. These humanitarian gestures are virtuous, because
for a moment they divert man's attention from himself, but they do not free
him from his single responsibility in life, referred to by Jesus as the first
commandment. The uplifting obligation to love God is assumed with man's
first breath of an air freely bestowed by his only Benefactor.
On one other occasion after her Ranchi visit I had opportunity to see
Ananda Moyi Ma. She stood among her disciples some months later on the
Serampore station platform, waiting for the train.
"Father, I am going to the Himalayas," she told me. "Generous disciples
have built me a hermitage in Dehra Dun."
As she boarded the train, I marveled to see that whether amidst a crowd, on
a train, feasting, or sitting in silence, her eyes never looked away from God.
Within me I still hear her voice, an echo of measureless sweetness:
"Behold, now and always one with the Eternal, 'I am ever the same.'"

CHAPTER: 46
 The Woman Yogi Who Never Eats

"Sir, whither are we bound this morning?" Mr. Wright was driving the
Ford; he took his eyes off the road long enough to gaze at me with a
questioning twinkle. From day to day he seldom knew what part of Bengal he
would be discovering next.
"God willing," I replied devoutly, "we are on our way to see an eighth
wonder of the world-a woman saint whose diet is thin air!"
"Repetition of wonders-after Therese Neumann." But Mr. Wright laughed
eagerly just the same; he even accelerated the speed of the car. More
extraordinary grist for his travel diary! Not one of an average tourist, that!
The Ranchi school had just been left behind us; we had risen before the
sun. Besides my secretary and myself, three Bengali friends were in the party.
We drank in the exhilarating air, the natural wine of the morning. Our driver
guided the car warily among the early peasants and the two-wheeled carts,
slowly drawn by yoked, hump-shouldered bullocks, inclined to dispute the
road with a honking interloper.
"Sir, we would like to know more of the fasting saint."
"Her name is Giri Bala," I informed my companions. "I first heard about
her years ago from a scholarly gentleman, Sthiti Lal Nundy. He often came to
the Gurpar Road home to tutor my brother Bishnu."
"'I know Giri Bala well,' Sthiti Babu told me. 'She employs a certain yoga
technique which enables her to live without eating. I was her close neighbor in
Nawabganj near Ichapur. I made it a point to watch her closely; never did I
find evidence that she was taking either food or drink. My interest finally
mounted so high that I approached the Maharaja of Burdwan and asked him to
conduct an investigation. Astounded at the story, he invited her to his palace.
She agreed to a test and lived for two months locked up in a small section of
his home. Later she returned for a palace visit of twenty days; and then for a
third test of fifteen days. The Maharaja himself told me that these three
rigorous scrutinies had convinced him beyond doubt of her non-eating state.'
"This story of Sthiti Babu's has remained in my mind for over twenty- five
years," I concluded. "Sometimes in America I wondered if the river of time
would not swallow the yogini before I could meet her. She must be quite aged
now. I do not even know where, or if, she lives. But in a few hours we shall
reach Purulia; her brother has a home there."
By ten-thirty our little group was conversing with the brother, Lambadar
Dey, a lawyer of Purulia.
 "Yes, my sister is living. She sometimes stays with me here, but at present
she is at our family home in Biur." Lambadar Babu glanced doubtfully at the
Ford. "I hardly think, Swamiji, that any automobile has ever penetrated into
the interior as far as Biur. It might be best if you all resign yourselves to the
ancient jolt of the bullock cart!"
As one voice our party pledged loyalty to the Pride of Detroit.
"The Ford comes from America," I told the lawyer. "It would be a shame
to deprive it of an opportunity to get acquainted with the heart of Bengal!"
"May Ganesh go with you!" Lambadar Babu said, laughing. He added
courteously, "If you ever get there, I am sure Giri Bala will be glad to see you.
She is approaching her seventies, but continues in excellent health."
"Please tell me, sir, if it is absolutely true that she eats nothing?" I looked
directly into his eyes, those telltale windows of the mind.
This great woman yogi has not taken food or drink since 1880. I am
pictured with her, in 1936, at her home in the isolated Bengal village of Biur.
Her non-eating state has been rigorously investigated by the Maharaja of
Burdwan. She employs a certain yoga technique to recharge her body with
cosmic energy from the ether, sun, and air.
"It is true." His gaze was open and honorable. "In more than five decades I
have never seen her eat a morsel. If the world suddenly came to an end, I
could not be more astonished than by the sight of my sister's taking food!"
We chuckled together over the improbability of these two cosmic events.
"Giri Bala has never sought an inaccessible solitude for her yoga
practices," Lambadar Babu went on. "She has lived her entire life surrounded
by her family and friends. They are all well accustomed now to her strange
state. Not one of them who would not be stupefied if Giri Bala suddenly
decided to eat anything! Sister is naturally retiring, as befits a Hindu widow,
but our little circle in Purulia and in Biur all know that she is literally an
'exceptional' woman."
The brother's sincerity was manifest. Our little party thanked him warmly
and set out toward Biur. We stopped at a street shop for curry and luchis,
attracting a swarm of urchins who gathered round to watch Mr. Wright eating
with his fingers in the simple Hindu manner. Hearty appetites caused us to
fortify ourselves against an afternoon which, unknown at the moment, was to
prove fairly laborious.
Our way now led east through sun-baked rice fields into the Burdwan
section of Bengal. On through roads lined with dense vegetation; the songs of
the maynas and the stripe-throated bulbuls streamed out from trees with huge,
umbrellalike branches. A bullock cart now and then, the rini, rini, manju,
manju squeak of its axle and iron-shod wooden wheels contrasting sharply in
mind with the swish, swish of auto tires over the aristocratic asphalt of the
cities.
"Dick, halt!" My sudden request brought a jolting protest from the Ford.
"That overburdened mango tree is fairly shouting an invitation!"
The five of us dashed like children to the mango-strewn earth; the tree had
benevolently shed its fruits as they had ripened.
"Full many a mango is born to lie unseen," I paraphrased, "and waste its
sweetness on the stony ground."
"Nothing like this in America, Swamiji, eh?" laughed Sailesh Mazumdar,
one of my Bengali students.
"No," I admitted, covered with mango juice and contentment. "How I have
missed this fruit in the West! A Hindu's heaven without mangoes is
inconceivable!"
I picked up a rock and downed a proud beauty hidden on the highest limb.
"Dick," I asked between bites of ambrosia, warm with the tropical sun, "are
all the cameras in the car?"
"Yes, sir; in the baggage compartment."
"If Giri Bala proves to be a true saint, I want to write about her in the West.
A Hindu yogini with such inspiring powers should not live and die unknown-
like most of these mangoes."
Half an hour later I was still strolling in the sylvan peace.
"Sir," Mr. Wright remarked, "we should reach Giri Bala before the sun sets,
to have enough light for photographs." He added with a grin, "The Westerners
are a skeptical lot; we can't expect them to believe in the lady without any
pictures!"
This bit of wisdom was indisputable; I turned my back on temptation and
reentered the car.
"You are right, Dick," I sighed as we sped along, "I sacrifice the mango
paradise on the altar of Western realism. Photographs we must have!"
The road became more and more sickly: wrinkles of ruts, boils of hardened
clay, the sad infirmities of old age! Our group dismounted occasionally to
allow Mr. Wright to more easily maneuver the Ford, which the four of us
pushed from behind.
"Lambadar Babu spoke truly," Sailesh acknowledged. "The car is not
carrying us; we are carrying the car!"
Our climb-in, climb-out auto tedium was beguiled ever and anon by the
appearance of a village, each one a scene of quaint simplicity.
"Our way twisted and turned through groves of palms among ancient,
unspoiled villages nestling in the forest shade," Mr. Wright has recorded in his
travel diary, under date of May 5, 1936. "Very fascinating are these clusters of
thatched mud huts, decorated with one of the names of God on the door; many
small, naked children innocently playing about, pausing to stare or run wildly
from this big, black, bullockless carriage tearing madly through their village.
The women merely peep from the shadows, while the men lazily loll beneath
the trees along the roadside, curious beneath their nonchalance. In one place,
all the villagers were gaily bathing in the large tank (in their garments,
changing by draping dry cloths around their bodies, dropping the wet ones).
Women bearing water to their homes, in huge brass jars.
"The road led us a merry chase over mount and ridge; we bounced and
tossed, dipped into small streams, detoured around an unfinished causeway,
slithered across dry, sandy river beds and finally, about 5:00 P.M., we were
close to our destination, Biur. This minute village in the interior of Bankura
District, hidden in the protection of dense foliage, is unapproachable by
travelers during the rainy season, when the streams are raging torrents and the
roads serpentlike spit the mud-venom.
"Asking for a guide among a group of worshipers on their way home from
a temple prayer (out in the lonely field), we were besieged by a dozen scantily
clad lads who clambered on the sides of the car, eager to conduct us to Giri
Bala.
"The road led toward a grove of date palms sheltering a group of mud huts,
but before we had reached it, the Ford was momentarily tipped at a dangerous
angle, tossed up and dropped down. The narrow trail led around trees and
tank, over ridges, into holes and deep ruts. The car became anchored on a
clump of bushes, then grounded on a hillock, requiring a lift of earth clods; on
we proceeded, slowly and carefully; suddenly the way was stopped by a mass
of brush in the middle of the cart track, necessitating a detour down a
precipitous ledge into a dry tank, rescue from which demanded some scraping,
adzing, and shoveling. Again and again the road seemed impassable, but the
pilgrimage must go on; obliging lads fetched spades and demolished the
obstacles (shades of Ganesh!) while hundreds of children and parents stared.
"Soon we were threading our way along the two ruts of antiquity, women
gazing wide-eyed from their hut doors, men trailing alongside and behind us,
children scampering to swell the procession. Ours was perhaps the first auto to
traverse these roads; the 'bullock cart union' must be omnipotent here! What a
sensation we created-a group piloted by an American and pioneering in a
snorting car right into their hamlet fastness, invading the ancient privacy and
sanctity!
"Halting by a narrow lane we found ourselves within a hundred feet of Giri
Bala's ancestral home. We felt the thrill of fulfillment after the long road
struggle crowned by a rough finish. We approached a large, two-storied
building of brick and plaster, dominating the surrounding adobe huts; the
house was under the process of repair, for around it was the characteristically
tropical framework of bamboos.
"With feverish anticipation and suppressed rejoicing we stood before the
open doors of the one blessed by the Lord's 'hungerless' touch. Constantly
agape were the villagers, young and old, bare and dressed, women aloof
somewhat but inquisitive too, men and boys unabashedly at our heels as they
gazed on this unprecedented spectacle.
"Soon a short figure came into view in the doorway-Giri Bala! She was
swathed in a cloth of dull, goldish silk; in typically Indian fashion, she drew
forward modestly and hesitatingly, peering slightly from beneath the upper
fold of her swadeshi cloth. Her eyes glistened like smouldering embers in the
shadow of her head piece; we were enamored by a most benevolent and kindly
face, a face of realization and understanding, free from the taint of earthly
attachment.
"Meekly she approached and silently assented to our snapping a number of
pictures with our 'still' and 'movie' cameras. Patiently and shyly she endured
our photo techniques of posture adjustment and light arrangement. Finally we
had recorded for posterity many photographs of the only woman in the world
who is known to have lived without food or drink for over fifty years.
(Therese Neumann, of course, has fasted since 1923.) Most motherly was Giri
Bala's expression as she stood before us, completely covered in the loose-
flowing cloth, nothing of her body visible but her face with its downcast eyes,
her hands, and her tiny feet. A face of rare peace and innocent poise-a wide,
childlike, quivering lip, a feminine nose, narrow, sparkling eyes, and a wistful
smile."
Mr. Wright's impression of Giri Bala was shared by myself; spirituality
enfolded her like her gently shining veil. She pronamed before me in the
customary gesture of greeting from a householder to a monk. Her simple
charm and quiet smile gave us a welcome beyond that of honeyed oratory;
forgotten was our difficult, dusty trip.
The little saint seated herself cross-legged on the verandah. Though
bearing the scars of age, she was not emaciated; her olive-colored skin had
remained clear and healthy in tone.
 "Mother," I said in Bengali, "for over twenty-five years I have thought
eagerly of this very pilgrimage! I heard about your sacred life from Sthiti Lal
Nundy Babu."
She nodded in acknowledgment. "Yes, my good neighbor in Nawabganj."
"During those years I have crossed the oceans, but I never forgot my early
plan to someday see you. The sublime drama that you are here playing so
inconspicuously should be blazoned before a world that has long forgotten the
inner food divine."
The saint lifted her eyes for a minute, smiling with serene interest.
"Baba (honored father) knows best," she answered meekly.
I was happy that she had taken no offense; one never knows how great
yogis or yoginis will react to the thought of publicity. They shun it, as a rule,
wishing to pursue in silence the profound soul research. An inner sanction
comes to them when the proper time arrives to display their lives openly for
the benefit of seeking minds.
"Mother," I went on, "please forgive me, then, for burdening you with
many questions. Kindly answer only those that please you; I shall understand
your silence, also."
She spread her hands in a gracious gesture. "I am glad to reply, insofar as
an insignificant person like myself can give satisfactory answers."
"Oh, no, not insignificant!" I protested sincerely. "You are a great soul."
"I am the humble servant of all." She added quaintly, "I love to cook and
feed people."
A strange pastime, I thought, for a non-eating saint!
"Tell me, Mother, from your own lips-do you live without food?"
"That is true." She was silent for a few moments; her next remark showed
that she had been struggling with mental arithmetic. "From the age of twelve
years four months down to my present age of sixty-eight- a period of over
fifty-six years-I have not eaten food or taken liquids."
"Are you never tempted to eat?"
"If I felt a craving for food, I would have to eat." Simply yet regally she
stated this axiomatic truth, one known too well by a world revolving around
three meals a day!
"But you do eat something!" My tone held a note of remonstrance.
"Of course!" She smiled in swift understanding.
 "Your nourishment derives from the finer energies of the air and sunlight,
and from the cosmic power which recharges your body through the medulla
oblongata."
"Baba knows." Again she acquiesced, her manner soothing and
unemphatic.
"Mother, please tell me about your early life. It holds a deep interest for all
of India, and even for our brothers and sisters beyond the seas."
Giri Bala put aside her habitual reserve, relaxing into a conversational
mood.
"So be it." Her voice was low and firm. "I was born in these forest regions.
My childhood was unremarkable save that I was possessed by an insatiable
appetite. I had been betrothed in early years.
"'Child,' my mother often warned me, 'try to control your greed. When the
time comes for you to live among strangers in your husband's family, what
will they think of you if your days are spent in nothing but eating?'
"The calamity she had foreseen came to pass. I was only twelve when I
joined my husband's people in Nawabganj. My mother-in-law shamed me
morning, noon, and night about my gluttonous habits. Her scoldings were a
blessing in disguise, however; they roused my dormant spiritual tendencies.
One morning her ridicule was merciless.
"'I shall soon prove to you,' I said, stung to the quick, 'that I shall never
touch food again as long as I live.'
"My mother-in-law laughed in derision. 'So!' she said, 'how can you live
without eating, when you cannot live without overeating?'
"This remark was unanswerable! Yet an iron resolution scaffolded my
spirit. In a secluded spot I sought my Heavenly Father.
"'Lord,' I prayed incessantly, 'please send me a guru, one who can teach me
to live by Thy light and not by food.'
"A divine ecstasy fell over me. Led by a beatific spell, I set out for the
Nawabganj ghat on the Ganges. On the way I encountered the priest of my
husband's family.
"'Venerable sir,' I said trustingly, 'kindly tell me how to live without eating.'
"He stared at me without reply. Finally he spoke in a consoling manner.
'Child,' he said, 'come to the temple this evening; I will conduct a special
Vedic ceremony for you.'
"This vague answer was not the one I was seeking; I continued toward the
ghat. The morning sun pierced the waters; I purified myself in the Ganges, as
though for a sacred initiation. As I left the river bank, my wet cloth around me,
in the broad glare of day my master materialized himself before me!
"'Dear little one,' he said in a voice of loving compassion, 'I am the guru
sent here by God to fulfill your urgent prayer. He was deeply touched by its
very unusual nature! From today you shall live by the astral light, your bodily
atoms fed from the infinite current.'"
Giri Bala fell into silence. I took Mr. Wright's pencil and pad and translated
into English a few items for his information.
The saint resumed the tale, her gentle voice barely audible. "The ghat was
deserted, but my guru cast round us an aura of guarding light, that no stray
bathers later disturb us. He initiated me into a kria technique which frees the
body from dependence on the gross food of mortals. The technique includes
the use of a certain mantra and a breathing exercise more difficult than the
average person could perform. No medicine or magic is involved; nothing
beyond the kria."
In the manner of the American newspaper reporter, who had unknowingly
taught me his procedure, I questioned Giri Bala on many matters which I
thought would be of interest to the world. She gave me, bit by bit, the
following information:
"I have never had any children; many years ago I became a widow. I sleep
very little, as sleep and waking are the same to me. I meditate at night,
attending to my domestic duties in the daytime. I slightly feel the change in
climate from season to season. I have never been sick or experienced any
disease. I feel only slight pain when accidentally injured. I have no bodily
excretions. I can control my heart and breathing. I often see my guru as well as
other great souls, in vision."
"Mother," I asked, "why don't you teach others the method of living
without food?"
My ambitious hopes for the world's starving millions were nipped in the
bud.
"No." She shook her head. "I was strictly commanded by my guru not to
divulge the secret. It is not his wish to tamper with God's drama of creation.
The farmers would not thank me if I taught many people to live without
eating! The luscious fruits would lie uselessly on the ground. It appears that
misery, starvation, and disease are whips of our karma which ultimately drive
us to seek the true meaning of life."
"Mother," I said slowly, "what is the use of your having been singled out to
live without eating?"
"To prove that man is Spirit." Her face lit with wisdom. "To demonstrate
that by divine advancement he can gradually learn to live by the Eternal Light
and not by food."
The saint sank into a deep meditative state. Her gaze was directed inward;
the gentle depths of her eyes became expressionless. She gave a certain sigh,
the prelude to the ecstatic breathless trance. For a time she had fled to the
questionless realm, the heaven of inner joy.
The tropical darkness had fallen. The light of a small kerosene lamp
flickered fitfully over the faces of a score of villagers squatting silently in the
shadows. The darting glowworms and distant oil lanterns of the huts wove
bright eerie patterns into the velvet night. It was the painful hour of parting; a
slow, tedious journey lay before our little party.
"Giri Bala," I said as the saint opened her eyes, "please give me a
keepsake-a strip of one of your saris."
She soon returned with a piece of Benares silk, extending it in her hand as
she suddenly prostrated herself on the ground.
"Mother," I said reverently, "rather let me touch your own blessed feet!"

CHAPTER: 47
I Return To The West

"I have given many yoga lessons in India and America; but I must confess
that, as a Hindu, I am unusually happy to be conducting a class for English
students."
My London class members laughed appreciatively; no political turmoils
ever disturbed our yoga peace.
India was now a hallowed memory. It is September, 1936; I am in England
to fulfill a promise, given sixteen months earlier, to lecture again in London.
England, too, is receptive to the timeless yoga message. Reporters and
newsreel cameramen swarmed over my quarters at Grosvenor House. The
British National Council of the World Fellowship of Faiths organized a
meeting on September 29th at Whitefield's Congregational Church where I
addressed the audience on the weighty subject of "How Faith in Fellowship
may Save Civilization." The eight o'clock lectures at Caxton Hall attracted
such crowds that on two nights the overflow waited in Windsor House
auditorium for my second talk at nine-thirty. Yoga classes during the following
weeks grew so large that Mr. Wright was obliged to arrange a transfer to
another hall.
The English tenacity has admirable expression in a spiritual relationship.
The London yoga students loyally organized themselves, after my departure,
into a Self-Realization Fellowship center, holding their meditation meetings
weekly throughout the bitter war years.
Unforgettable weeks in England; days of sight-seeing in London, then over
the beautiful countryside. Mr. Wright and I summoned the trusty Ford to visit
the birthplaces and tombs of the great poets and heroes of British history.
Our little party sailed from Southampton for America in late October on
the Bremen. The majestic Statue of Liberty in New York harbor brought a
joyous emotional gulp not only to the throats of Miss Bletch and Mr. Wright,
but to my own.
The Ford, a bit battered from struggles with ancient soils, was still
puissant; it now took in its stride the transcontinental trip to California. In late
1936, lo! Mount Washington.
The year-end holidays are celebrated annually at the Los Angeles center
with an eight-hour group meditation on December 24th (Spiritual Christmas),
followed the next day by a banquet (Social Christmas). The festivities this
year were augmented by the presence of dear friends and students from distant
cities who had arrived to welcome home the three world travelers.
The Christmas Day feast included delicacies brought fifteen thousand
miles for this glad occasion: gucchi mushrooms from Kashmir, canned
rasagulla and mango pulp, papar biscuits, and an oil of the Indian keora flower
which flavored our ice cream. The evening found us grouped around a huge
sparkling Christmas tree, the near-by fireplace crackling with logs of aromatic
cypress.
Gift-time! Presents from the earth's far corners-Palestine, Egypt, India,
England, France, Italy. How laboriously had Mr. Wright counted the trunks at
each foreign junction, that no pilfering hand receive the treasures intended for
loved ones in America! Plaques of the sacred olive tree from the Holy Land,
delicate laces and embroideries from Belgium and Holland, Persian carpets,
finely woven Kashmiri shawls, everlastingly fragrant sandalwood trays from
Mysore, Shiva "bull's eye" stones from Central Provinces, old Indian coins of
dynasties long fled, bejeweled vases and cups, miniatures, tapestries, temple
incense and perfumes, swadeshi cotton prints, lacquer work, Mysore ivory
carvings, Persian slippers with their inquisitive long toe, quaint old illuminated
manuscripts, velvets, brocades, Gandhi caps, potteries, tiles, brasswork, prayer
rugs-booty of three continents!
One by one I distributed the gaily wrapped packages from the immense
pile under the tree.
"Sister Gyanamata!" I handed a long box to the saintly American lady of
sweet visage and deep realization who, during my absence, had been in charge
at Mt. Washington. From the paper tissues she lifted a sari of golden Benares
silk.
"Thank you, sir; it brings the pageant of India before my eyes."
"Mr. Dickinson!" The next parcel contained a gift which I had bought in a
Calcutta bazaar. "Mr. Dickinson will like this," I had thought at the time. A
dearly beloved disciple, Mr. Dickinson had been present at every Christmas
festivity since the 1925 founding of Mt. Washington. At this eleventh annual
celebration, he was standing before me, untying the ribbons of his square little
package.
"The silver cup!" Struggling with emotion, he stared at the present, a tall
drinking cup. He seated himself some distance away, apparently in a daze. I
smiled at him affectionately before resuming my role as Santa Claus.
The ejaculatory evening closed with a prayer to the Giver of all gifts; then
a group singing of Christmas carols.
Mr. Dickinson and I were chatting together sometime later.
"Sir," he said, "please let me thank you now for the silver cup. I could not
find any words on Christmas night."
"I brought the gift especially for you."
"For forty-three years I have been waiting for that silver cup! It is a long
story, one I have kept hidden within me." Mr. Dickinson looked at me shyly.
"The beginning was dramatic: I was drowning. My older brother had playfully
pushed me into a fifteen-foot pool in a small town in Nebraska. I was only five
years old then. As I was about to sink for the second time under the water, a
dazzling multicolored light appeared, filling all space. In the midst was the
figure of a man with tranquil eyes and a reassuring smile. My body was
sinking for the third time when one of my brother's companions bent a tall
slender willow tree in such a low dip that I could grasp it with my desperate
fingers. The boys lifted me to the bank and successfully gave me first-aid
treatment.
"Twelve years later, a youth of seventeen, I visited Chicago with my
mother. It was 1893; the great World Parliament of Religions was in session.
Mother and I were walking down a main street, when again I saw the mighty
flash of light. A few paces away, strolling leisurely along, was the same man I
had seen years before in vision. He approached a large auditorium and
vanished within the door.
"'Mother,' I cried, 'that was the man who appeared at the time I was
drowning!'
"She and I hastened into the building; the man was seated on a lecture
platform. We soon learned that he was Swami Vivekananda of India. After he
had given a soul-stirring talk, I went forward to meet him. He smiled on me
graciously, as though we were old friends. I was so young that I did not know
how to give expression to my feelings, but in my heart I was hoping that he
would offer to be my teacher. He read my thought.
"'No, my son, I am not your guru.' Vivekananda gazed with his beautiful,
piercing eyes deep into my own. 'Your teacher will come later. He will give
you a silver cup.' After a little pause, he added, smiling, 'He will pour out to
you more blessings than you are now able to hold.'
"I left Chicago in a few days," Mr. Dickinson went on, "and never saw the
great Vivekananda again. But every word he had uttered was indelibly written
on my inmost consciousness. Years passed; no teacher appeared. One night in
1925 I prayed deeply that the Lord would send me my guru. A few hours later,
I was awakened from sleep by soft strains of melody. A band of celestial
beings, carrying flutes and other instruments, came before my view. After
filling the air with glorious music, the angels slowly vanished.
"The next evening I attended, for the first time, one of your lectures here in
Los Angeles, and knew then that my prayer had been granted."
We smiled at each other in silence.
"For eleven years now I have been your Kriya Yoga disciple," Mr.
Dickinson continued. "Sometimes I wondered about the silver cup; I had
almost persuaded myself that Vivekananda's words were only metaphorical.
But on Christmas night, as you handed me the square box by the tree, I saw,
for the third time in my life, the same dazzling flash of light. In another minute
I was gazing on my guru's gift which Vivekananda had foreseen for me forty-
three years earlier-a silver cup!"

CHAPTER: 48
At Encinitas In California

"A surprise, sir! During your absence abroad we have had this Encinitas
hermitage built; it is a 'welcome-home' gift!" Sister Gyanamata smilingly led
me through a gate and up a tree-shaded walk.
I saw a building jutting out like a great white ocean liner toward the blue
brine. First speechlessly, then with "Oh's!" and "Ah's!", finally with man's
insufficient vocabulary of joy and gratitude, I examined the ashram-sixteen
unusually large rooms, each one charmingly appointed.
The stately central hall, with immense ceiling-high windows, looks out on
a united altar of grass, ocean, sky-a symphony in emerald, opal, sapphire. A
mantle over the hall's huge fireplace holds the framed likeness of Lahiri
Mahasaya, smiling his blessing over this far Pacific heaven.
Directly below the hall, built into the very bluff, two solitary meditation
caves confront the infinities of sky and sea. Verandahs, sun-bathing nooks,
acres of orchard, a eucalypti grove, flagstone paths leading through roses and
lilies to quiet arbors, a long flight of stairs ending on an isolated beach and the
vast waters! Was dream ever more concrete?
"May the good and heroic and bountiful souls of the saints come here,"
reads "A Prayer for a Dwelling," from the Zend-Avesta, fastened on one of the
hermitage doors, "and may they go hand in hand with us, giving the healing
virtues of their blessed gifts as widespread as the earth, as far-flung as the
rivers, as high-reaching as the sun, for the furtherance of better men, for the
increase of abundance and glory.
"May obedience conquer disobedience within this house; may peace
triumph here over discord; free-hearted giving over avarice, truthful speech
over deceit, reverence over contempt. That our minds be delighted, and our
souls uplifted, let our bodies be glorified as well; and O Light Divine, may we
see Thee, and may we, approaching, come round about Thee, and attain unto
Thine entire companionship!"
This Self-Realization Fellowship ashram had been made possible through
the generosity of a few American disciples, American businessmen of endless
responsibilities who yet find time daily for their Kriya Yoga. Not a word of the
hermitage construction had been allowed to reach me during my stay in India
and Europe. Astonishment, delight!
During my earlier years in America I had combed the coast of California in
quest of a small site for a seaside ashram; whenever I had found a suitable
location, some obstacle had invariably arisen to thwart me. Gazing now over
the broad acres of Encinitas, humbly I saw the effortless fulfillment of Sri
Yukteswar's long-ago prophecy: "a hermitage by the ocean."
A few months later, Easter of 1937, I conducted on the smooth lawns at
Encinitas the first of many Sunrise Services. Like the magi of old, several
hundred students gazed in devotional awe at the daily miracle, the early solar
fire rite in the eastern sky. To the west lay the inexhaustible Pacific, booming
its solemn praise; in the distance, a tiny white sailing boat, and the lonely
flight of a seagull. "Christ, thou art risen!" Not alone with the vernal sun, but
in the eternal dawn of Spirit!
Many happy months sped by; in the peace of perfect beauty I was able to
complete at the hermitage a long-projected work, Cosmic Chants. I set to
English words and Western musical notation about forty songs, some original,
others my adaptations of ancient melodies. Included were the Shankara chant,
"No Birth, No Death"; two favorites of Sri Yukteswar's: "Wake, Yet Wake, O
my Saint!" and "Desire, my Great Enemy"; the hoary Sanskrit "Hymn to
Brahma"; old Bengali songs, "What Lightning Flash!" and "They Have Heard
Thy Name"; Tagore's "Who is in my Temple?"; and a number of my
compositions: "I Will be Thine Always," "In the Land Beyond my Dreams,"
"Come Out of the Silent Sky," "Listen to my Soul Call," "In the Temple of
Silence," and "Thou Art my Life."
For a preface to the songbook I recounted my first outstanding experience
with the receptivity of Westerners to the quaintly devotional airs of the East.
The occasion had been a public lecture; the time, April 18, 1926; the place,
Carnegie Hall in New York.
"Mr. Hunsicker," I had confided to an American student, "I am planning to
ask the audience to sing an ancient Hindu chant, 'O God Beautiful!'"
"Sir," Mr. Hunsicker had protested, "these Oriental songs are alien to
American understanding. What a shame if the lecture were to be marred by a
commentary of overripe tomatoes!"
I had laughingly disagreed. "Music is a universal language. Americans will
not fail to feel the soul-aspiration in this lofty chant."
During the lecture Mr. Hunsicker had sat behind me on the platform,
probably fearing for my safety. His doubts were groundless; not only had there
been an absence of unwelcome vegetables, but for one hour and twenty-five
minutes the strains of "O God Beautiful!" had sounded uninterruptedly from
three thousand throats. Blase' no longer, dear New Yorkers; your hearts had
soared out in a simple paean of rejoicing! Divine healings had taken place that
evening among the devotees chanting with love the Lord's blessed name.
The secluded life of a literary minstrel was not my role for long. Soon I
was dividing every fortnight between Los Angeles and Encinitas. Sunday
services, classes, lectures before clubs and colleges, interviews with students,
ceaseless streams of correspondence, articles for East-West, direction of
activities in India and numerous small centers in American cities. Much time
was given, also, to the arrangement of Kriya and other Self-Realization
Fellowship teachings into a series of studies for the distant yoga seekers whose
zeal recognized no limitation of space.
Joyous dedication of a Self-Realization Church of All Religions took place
in 1938 at Washington, D.C. Set amidst landscaped grounds, the stately church
stands in a section of the city aptly called "Friendship Heights." The
Washington leader is Swami Premananda, educated at the Ranchi school and
Calcutta University. I had summoned him in 1928 to assume leadership of the
Washington Self-Realization Fellowship center.
"Premananda," I told him during a visit to his new temple, "this Eastern
headquarters is a memorial in stone to your tireless devotion. Here in the
nation's capital you have held aloft the light of Lahiri Mahasaya's ideals."
Premananda accompanied me from Washington for a brief visit to the Self-
Realization Fellowship center in Boston. What joy to see again the Kriya Yoga
band who had remained steadfast since 1920! The Boston leader, Dr. M. W.
Lewis, lodged my companion and myself in a modern, artistically decorated
suite.
"Sir," Dr. Lewis said to me, smiling, "during your early years in America
you stayed in this city in a single room, without bath. I wanted you to know
that Boston possesses some luxurious apartments!"
The shadows of approaching carnage were lengthening over the world;
already the acute ear might hear the frightful drums of war. During interviews
with thousands in California, and through a world-wide correspondence, I
found that men and women were deeply searching their hearts; the tragic outer
insecurity had emphasized need for the Eternal Anchorage.
"We have indeed learned the value of meditation," the leader of the
London Self-Realization Fellowship center wrote me in 1941, "and know that
nothing can disturb our inner peace. In the last few weeks during the meetings
we have heard air-raid warnings and listened to the explosion of delayed-
action bombs, but our students still gather and thoroughly enjoy our beautiful
service."
Another letter reached me from war-torn England just before America
entered the conflict. In nobly pathetic words, Dr. L. Cranmer Byng, noted
editor of The Wisdom Of The East Series, wrote:
"When I read East-West I realized how far apart we seemed to be,
apparently living in two different worlds. Beauty, order, calm, and peace come
to me from Los Angeles, sailing into port as a vessel laden with the blessings
and comfort of the Holy Grail to a beleaguered city.
"I see as in a dream your palm tree grove, and the temple at Encinitas with
its ocean stretches and mountain views, and above all its fellowship of
spiritually minded men and women, a community comprehended in unity,
absorbed in creative work, and replenished in contemplation. It is the world of
my own vision, in the making of which I hoped to bear my little part, and now
. . .
"Perhaps in the body I shall never reach your golden shores nor worship in
your temple. But it is something and more, to have had the vision and know
that in the midst of war there is still a peace that abides in your harbors and
among your hills. Greetings to all the Fellowship from a common soldier,
written on the watchtower waiting for the dawn."
The war years brought a spiritual awakening among men whose diversions
had never before included a study of the New Testament. One sweet
distillment from the bitter herbs of war! To satisfy a growing need, an
inspiring little Self-Realization Church of All Religions was built and
dedicated in 1942 at Hollywood. The site faces Olive Hill and the distant Los
Angeles Planetarium. The church, finished in blue, white, and gold, is
reflected amidst the water hyacinths in a large pool. The gardens are gay with
flowers, a few startled stone deer, a stained- glass pergola, and a quaint
wishing well. Thrown in with the pennies and the kaleidoscopic wishes of man
has been many a pure aspiration for the sole treasure of Spirit! A universal
benignity flows from small niches with statues of Lahiri Mahasaya and Sri
Yukteswar, and of Krishna, Buddha, Confucius, St. Francis, and a beautiful
mother-of- pearl reproduction of Christ at the Last Supper.
Another Self-Realization Church of All Religions was founded in 1943 at
San Diego. A quiet hilltop temple, it stands in a sloping valley of eucalypti,
overlooking sparkling San Diego Bay.
Sitting one evening in this tranquil haven, I was pouring out my heart in
song. Under my fingers was the sweet-toned organ of the church, on my lips
the yearning plaint of an ancient Bengali devotee who had searched for eternal
solace:
In this world, Mother, none can love me;
In this world they do not know love divine.
Where is there pure loving love?
Where is there truly loving Thee?
There my heart longs to be.
My companion in the chapel, Dr. Lloyd Kennell, the San Diego center
leader, was smiling a little at the words of the song.
"Tell me truly, Paramhansaji, has it been worth it?" He gazed at me with an
earnest sincerity. I understood his laconic question: "Have you been happy in
America? What about the disillusionments, the heartaches, the center leaders
who could not lead, the students who could not be taught?"
"Blessed is the man whom the Lord doth test, Doctor! He has remembered
now and then to put a burden on me!" I thought, then, of all the faithful ones,
of the love and devotion and understanding that lay in the heart of America.
With slow emphasis I went on, "But my answer is: Yes, a thousand times yes!
It has been worth-while; it has been a constant inspiration, more than ever I
dreamed, to see West and East brought closer in the only lasting bond, the
spiritual!"
Silently I added a prayer: "May Babaji and Sri Yukteswarji feel that I have
done my part, not disappointing the high hope in which they sent me forth."
I turned again to the organ; this time my song was tinged with a martial
valor:
The grinding wheel of Time doth mar
Full many a life of moon and star
And many a brightly smiling morn-
But still my soul is marching on!
Darkness, death, and failures vied;
To block my path they fiercely tried;
My fight with jealous Nature's strong-
But still my soul is marching on!
New Year's week of 1945 found me at work in my Encinitas study, revising
the manuscript of this book.
"Paramhansaji, please come outdoors." Dr. Lewis, on a visit from Boston,
smiled at me pleadingly from outside my window. Soon we were strolling in
the sunshine. My companion pointed to new towers in process of construction
along the edge of the Fellowship property adjoining the coast highway.
"Sir, I see many improvements here since my last visit." Dr. Lewis comes
twice annually from Boston to Encinitas.
"Yes, Doctor, a project I have long considered is beginning to take definite
form. In these beautiful surroundings I have started a miniature world colony.
Brotherhood is an ideal better understood by example than precept! A small
harmonious group here may inspire other ideal communities over the earth."
"A splendid idea, sir! The colony will surely be a success if everyone
sincerely does his part!"
"'World' is a large term, but man must enlarge his allegiance, considering
himself in the light of a world citizen," I continued. "A person who truly feels:
'The world is my homeland; it is my America, my India, my Philippines, my
England, my Africa,' will never lack scope for a useful and happy life. His
natural local pride will know limitless expansion; he will be in touch with
creative universal currents."
Dr. Lewis and I halted above the lotus pool near the hermitage. Below us
lay the illimitable Pacific.
"These same waters break equally on the coasts of West and East, in
California and China." My companion threw a little stone into the first of the
oceanic seventy million square miles. "Encinitas is a symbolic spot for a world
colony."
"That is true, Doctor. We shall arrange here for many conferences and
Congresses of Religion, inviting delegates from all lands. Flags of the nations
will hang in our halls. Diminutive temples will be built over the grounds,
dedicated to the world's principal religions.
"As soon as possible," I went on, "I plan to open a Yoga Institute here. The
blessed role of Kriya Yoga in the West has hardly more than just begun. May
all men come to know that there is a definite, scientific technique of self-
realization for the overcoming of all human misery!"
Far into the night my dear friend-the first Kriya Yogi in America-
discussed with me the need for world colonies founded on a spiritual basis.
The ills attributed to an anthropomorphic abstraction called "society" may be
laid more realistically at the door of Everyman. Utopia must spring in the
private bosom before it can flower in civic virtue. Man is a soul, not an
institution; his inner reforms alone can lend permanence to outer ones. By
stress on spiritual values, self- realization, a colony exemplifying world
brotherhood is empowered to send inspiring vibrations far beyond its locale.
August 15, 1945, close of Global War II! End of a world; dawn of an
enigmatic Atomic Age! The hermitage residents gathered in the main hall for a
prayer of thanksgiving. "Heavenly Father, may never it be again! Thy children
go henceforth as brothers!"
Gone was the tension of war years; our spirits purred in the sun of peace. I
gazed happily at each of my American comrades.
"Lord," I thought gratefully, "Thou hast given this monk a large family!"