Chapter 1. My Parents and Early Life

2. Mother’s Death and the Amulet

3. The Saint with Two Bodies (Swami Pranabananda)

4. My Interrupted Flight Toward the Himalaya

5. A “Perfume Saint” Performs his Wonders

6. The Tiger Swami

7. The Levitating Saint (Nagendra Nath Bhaduri)

8. India’s Great Scientist and Inventor, Jagadis Chandra Bose

9. The Blissful Devotee and his Cosmic Romance (Master Mahasaya)

10. I Meet my Master, Sri Yukteswar

11. Two Penniless Boys in Brindaban

12. Years in my Master’s Hermitage

13. The Sleepless Saint (Ram Gopal Muzumdar)

14. An Experience in Cosmic Consciousness

15. The Cauliflower Robbery

16. Outwitting the Stars

17. Sasi and the Three Sapphires

18. A Mohammedan Wonder-Worker (Afzal Khan)

19. My Guru Appears Simultaneously in Calcutta and Serampore

20. We Do Not Visit Kashmir

21. We Visit Kashmir

22. The Heart of a Stone Image

23. My University Degree

24. I Become a Monk of the Swami Order

25. Brother Ananta and Sister Nalini

26. The Science of Kriya Yoga

27. Founding of a Yoga School at Ranchi

28. Kashi, Reborn and Rediscovered

29. Rabindranath Tagore and I Compare Schools

30. The Law of Miracles

31. An Interview with the Sacred Mother (Kashi Moni Lahiri)

32. Rama is Raised from the Dead

33. Babaji, the Yogi-Christ of Modern India

34. Materializing a Palace in the Himalayas

35. The Christlike Life of Lahiri Mahasaya

36. Babaji’s Interest in the West

37. I Go to America

38. Luther Burbank—An American Saint

39. Therese Neumann, the Catholic Stigmatist of Bavaria

40. I Return to India

41. An Idyl in South India

42. Last Days with my Guru

43. The Resurrection of Sri Yukteswar

44. With Mahatma Gandhi at Wardha

45. The Bengali “Joy-Permeated Mother” (Ananda Moyi Ma)

46. The Woman Yogi who Never Eats (Giri Bala)

47. I Return to the West

48. At Encinitas in California

ILLUSTRATIONS

Frontispiece

Map of India

My Father, Bhagabati Charan Ghosh

Myself at Age 6

My Mother

Swami Pranabananda, “The Saint With Two Bodies”

My Elder Brother, Ananta

My Sister Uma

Nagendra Nath Bhaduri, “The Levitating Saint”

Jagadis Chandra Bose, Famous Scientist

Master Mahasaya, the Blissful Devotee

Jitendra Mazumdar, my Companion on the “Penniless Test” at Brindaban

Sri Yukteswar, My Master

My Guru’s Seaside Hermitage at Puri

The Lord in His Aspect as Shiva

Ranchi School, Main Building

Kashi, Reborn and Rediscovered

Rabindranath Tagore

A Guru and Disciple in an Ancient Hermitage

Babaji, the Yogi-Christ of Modern India

Himalayan Cave Occupied by Babaji

Lahiri Mahasaya

Group of Delegates to the International Congress of Religious

Liberals, Boston, 1920

Self-Realization Fellowship, Los Angeles Headquarters

A Yoga Class in Washington, D.C.

Luther Burbank

Therese Neumann of Konnersreuth, Bavaria

Two Brothers of Therese Neumann, at Konnersreuth

Miss Bletch, Mr. Wright, and myself—in Egypt

Bishnu, Motilal Mukherji, my Father, Mr. Wright, T.N. Bose, Swami

Satyananda

My Sisters—Roma, Nalini, and Uma

My Father

My Guru and Myself

Ranchi Students

Yogoda Math, Hermitage at Dakshineswar

Festival Gathering in the Courtyard of my Guru’s Hermitage in

Serampore

Group on the Dining Patio of my Guru’s Serampore Hermitage

Shankari Mai Jiew, Only Living Disciple of the great Trailanga Swami

Krishnananda with his Tame Lioness

The Taj Mahal at Agra

Swami Keshabananda, at his Hermitage in Brindaban

Krishna, Ancient Prophet of India

Mahatma Gandhi, at Wardha

Ananda Moyi Ma, the “Joy-Permeated Mother”

Giri Bala, the Woman Yogi Who Never Eats

Mr. E. E. Dickinson

Encinitas

Self-Realization Church of All Religions, Hollywood

Self-Realization Church of All Religions, San Diego

Swami Premananda

Conference in San Francisco

PREFACE

By W. Y. EVANS-WENTZ, M.A., D.Litt., D.Sc.

Jesus College, Oxford; Author of

THE TIBETAN BOOK OF THE DEAD,

TIBET’S GREAT YOGI MILAREPA,

TIBETAN YOGA AND SECRET DOCTRINES, etc.

The value of Yogananda’s AUTOBIOGRAPHYis greatly enhanced by the

fact that it is one of the few books in English about the wise men

of India which has been written, not by a journalist or foreigner,

but by one of their own race and training—in short, a book ABOUT

yogis BY a yogi. As an eyewitness recountal of the extraordinary

lives and powers of modern Hindu saints, the book has importance

both timely and timeless. To its illustrious author, whom I have

had the pleasure of knowing both in India and America, may every

reader render due appreciation and gratitude. His unusual life-document

is certainly one of the most revealing of the depths of the Hindu

mind and heart, and of the spiritual wealth of India, ever to be

published in the West.

It has been my privilege to have met one of the sages whose

life-history is herein narrated-Sri Yukteswar Giri. A likeness of

the venerable saint appeared as part of the frontispiece of my TIBETAN

YOGA AND SECRET DOCTRINES. {FN1-1} It was at Puri, in Orissa, on

the Bay of Bengal, that I encountered Sri Yukteswar. He was then the

head of a quiet ashrama near the seashore there, and was chiefly

occupied in the spiritual training of a group of youthful disciples.

He expressed keen interest in the welfare of the people of the

United States and of all the Americas, and of England, too, and

questioned me concerning the distant activities, particularly those

in California, of his chief disciple, Paramhansa Yogananda, whom

he dearly loved, and whom he had sent, in 1920, as his emissary to

the West.

Sri Yukteswar was of gentle mien and voice, of pleasing presence,

and worthy of the veneration which his followers spontaneously

accorded to him. Every person who knew him, whether of his own

community or not, held him in the highest esteem. I vividly recall

his tall, straight, ascetic figure, garbed in the saffron-colored

garb of one who has renounced worldly quests, as he stood at the

entrance of the hermitage to give me welcome. His hair was long

and somewhat curly, and his face bearded. His body was muscularly

firm, but slender and well-formed, and his step energetic. He had

chosen as his place of earthly abode the holy city of Puri, whither

multitudes of pious Hindus, representative of every province of

India, come daily on pilgrimage to the famed Temple of Jagannath,

“Lord of the World.” It was at Puri that Sri Yukteswar closed his

mortal eyes, in 1936, to the scenes of this transitory state of

being and passed on, knowing that his incarnation had been carried

to a triumphant completion. I am glad, indeed, to be able to record

this testimony to the high character and holiness of Sri Yukteswar.

Content to remain afar from the multitude, he gave himself unreservedly

and in tranquillity to that ideal life which Paramhansa Yogananda,

his disciple, has now described for the ages. W. Y. EVANS-WENTZ

{FN1-1} Oxford University Press, 1935.

AUTHOR’S ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I am deeply indebted to Miss L. V. Pratt for her long editorial

labors over the manuscript of this book. My thanks are due also

to Miss Ruth Zahn for preparation of the index, to Mr. C. Richard

Wright for permission to use extracts from his Indian travel diary,

and to Dr. W. Y. Evans-Wentz for suggestions and encouragement.

PARAMHANSA YOGANANDA

OCTOBER 28, 1945

ENCINITAS, CALIFORNIA

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

{FN1-2} 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 {FN1-3} 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 {FN1-4}, was the second

son and the fourth child.

Father and Mother were Bengalis, of the KSHATRIYA caste. {FN1-5} 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 {FN1-6}

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.

[Illustration: MY FATHER, Bhagabati Charan Ghosh, A Disciple of

Lahiri Mahasaya—see father1.jpg]

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.

{FN1-7} 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, {FN1-8}

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!

{FN1-9}

“‘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. {FN1-10} 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)?”

[Illustration: Myself at Age six—see atsix.jpg]

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.{FN1-11} 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. {FN1-12}

Our family moved to Lahore in the Punjab. There I acquired a picture

of the Divine Mother in the form of the Goddess Kali. {FN1-13} 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.

{FN1-2} Spiritual teacher; from Sanskrit root GUR, to raise, to

uplift.

{FN1-3} A practitioner of yoga, “union,” ancient Indian science of

meditation on God.

{FN1-4} My name was changed to Yogananda when I entered the ancient

monastic Swami Order in 1914. My guru bestowed the religious title

of PARAMHANSA on me in 1935 (see ../chapters 24 and 42).

{FN1-5} Traditionally, the second caste of warriors and rulers.

{FN1-6} These ancient epics are the hoard of India’s history,

mythology, and philosophy. An “Everyman’s Library” volume, RAMAYANA

AND MAHABHARATA, is a condensation in English verse by Romesh Dutt

(New York: E. P. Dutton).

{FN1-7} This noble Sanskrit poem, which occurs as part of the

MAHABHARATA epic, is the Hindu Bible. The most poetical English

translation is Edwin Arnold’s THE SONG CELESTIAL (Philadelphia:

David McKay, 75 cents). One of the best translations with detailed

commentary is Sri Aurobindo’s MESSAGE OF THE GITA (Jupiter Press,

16 Semudoss St., Madras, India, $3.50).

{FN1-8} BABU (Mister) is placed in Bengali names at the end.

{FN1-9} The phenomenal powers possessed by great masters are

explained in chapter 30, “The Law of Miracles.”

{FN1-10} A yogic technique whereby the sensory tumult is stilled,

permitting man to achieve an ever-increasing identity with cosmic

consciousness. (See p. 243.)

{FN1-11} A Sanskrit name for God as Ruler of the universe; from

the root IS, to rule. There are 108 names for God in the Hindu

scriptures, each one carrying a different shade of philosophical

meaning.

{FN1-12} The infinite potencies of sound derive from the Creative

Word, AUM, the cosmic vibratory power behind all atomic energies.

Any word spoken with clear realization and deep concentration

has a materializing value. Loud or silent repetition of inspiring

words has been found effective in Coueism and similar systems of

psychotherapy; the secret lies in the stepping-up of the mind’s

vibratory rate. The poet Tennyson has left us, in his MEMOIRS, an

account of his repetitious device for passing beyond the conscious

mind into superconsciousness:

“A kind of waking trance-this for lack of a better word-I have

frequently had, quite up from boyhood, when I have been all alone,”

Tennyson wrote. “This has come upon me through REPEATING my own

name to myself silently, till all at once, as it were out of the

intensity of the consciousness of individuality, individuality itself

seemed to dissolve and fade away into boundless being, and this not

a confused state but the clearest, the surest of the surest, utterly

beyond words-where death was an almost laughable impossibility-the

loss of personality (if so it were) seeming no extinction, but the

only true life.” He wrote further: “It is no nebulous ecstasy, but

a state of transcendent wonder, associated with absolute clearness

of mind.”

{FN1-13} Kali is a symbol of God in the aspect of eternal Mother

Nature.

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. {FN2-1}

“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.

[Illustration: My Mother, A Disciple of Lahiri Mahasaya—see

mother.jpg]

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.

{FN2-2} 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 {FN2-3} 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.’ {FN2-4} 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 {FN2-5} 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.

{FN2-1} Sanskrit root meaning of SWAMI is “he who is one with his

Self (SWA).” Applied to a member of the Indian order of monks, the

title has the formal respect of “the reverend.”

{FN2-2} The Indian custom, whereby parents choose the life-partner

for their child, has resisted the blunt assaults of time. The

percentage is high of happy Indian marriages.

{FN2-3} An anchorite; one who pursues a SADHANA or path of spiritual

discipline.

{FN2-4} When I discovered by these words that Mother had possessed

secret knowledge of a short life, I understood for the first time

why she had been insistent on hastening the plans for Ananta’s

marriage. Though she died before the wedding, her natural maternal

wish had been to witness the rites.

{FN2-5} A customary gesture of respect to SADHUS.

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, {FN3-1} 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!

[Illustration: Swami Pranabananda, “The Saint With Two Bodies”, An

Exalted Disciple of Lahiri Mahasaya—see pranabananda.jpg]

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. {FN3-2} 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.’ {FN3-3}

“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.

{FN3-4} 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.” {FN3-5}

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. {FN3-6}

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!”

{FN3-1} CHOTO MAHASAYA is the term by which a number of Indian

saints addressed me. It translates “little sir.”.

{FN3-2} In its own way, physical science is affirming the validity

of laws discovered by yogis through mental science. For example,

a demonstration that man has televisional powers was given on Nov.

26, 1934 at the Royal University of Rome. “Dr. Giuseppe Calligaris,

professor of neuro-psychology, pressed certain points of a subject’s

body and the subject responded with minute descriptions of other

persons and objects on the opposite side of a wall. Dr. Calligaris

told the other professors that if certain areas on the skin are

agitated, the subject is given super-sensorial impressions enabling

him to see objects that he could not otherwise perceive. To enable

his subject to discern things on the other side of a wall, Professor

Calligaris pressed on a spot to the right of the thorax for fifteen

minutes. Dr. Calligaris said that if other spots of the body were

agitated, the subjects could see objects at any distance, regardless

of whether they had ever before seen those objects.”.

{FN3-3} God in His aspect of Creator; from Sanskrit root BRIH, to

expand. When Emerson’s poem BRAHMA appeared in the ATLANTIC MONTHLY

in 1857, most the readers were bewildered. Emerson chuckled. “Tell

them,” he said, “to say ‘Jehovah’ instead of ‘Brahma’ and they will

not feel any perplexity.”

{FN3-4} In deep meditation, the first experience of Spirit is on the

altar of the spine, and then in the brain. The torrential bliss is

overwhelming, but the yogi learns to control its outward manifestations.

{FN3-5} After his retirement, Pranabananda wrote one of the most

profound commentaries on the BHAGAVAD GITA, available in Bengali

and Hindi.

{FN3-6} See chapter 27.

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.

{FN4-1}

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 {FN4-2} 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!’” {FN4-3}

[Illustration: I stand behind my elder brother, Ananta.—see

ananta.jpg]

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.

“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, {FN4-4} 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, {FN4-5} 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. {FN4-6} 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.

{FN4-7} “‘Keep your mind concentrated there, and frequently chant

the name of the prophet Rama {FN4-8} 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 {FN4-9} 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.

{FN4-1} Literally, “renunciate.” From Sanskrit verb roots, “to cast

aside.”

{FN4-2} Effects of past actions, in this or a former life; from

Sanskrit KRI, “to do.”

{FN4-3} BHAGAVAD GITA, IX, 30-31. Krishna was the greatest prophet

of India; Arjuna was his foremost disciple.

{FN4-4} I always addressed him as Ananta-da. DA is a respectful

suffix which the eldest brother in an Indian family receives from

junior brothers and sisters.

{FN4-5} At the time of our meeting, Kebalananda had not yet joined

the Swami Order and was generally called “Shastri Mahasaya.” To avoid

confusion with the name of Lahiri Mahasaya and of Master Mahasaya

(../chapter 9), I am referring to my Sanskrit tutor only by his

later monastic name of Swami Kebalananda. His biography has been

recently published in Bengali. Born in the Khulna district of

Bengal in 1863, Kebalananda gave up his body in Benares at the age

of sixty-eight. His family name was Ashutosh Chatterji.

{FN4-6} The ancient four VEDAS comprise over 100 extant canonical

books. Emerson paid the following tribute in his JOURNAL to Vedic

thought: “It is sublime as heat and night and a breathless ocean.

It contains every religious sentiment, all the grand ethics which

visit in turn each noble poetic mind. . . . It is of no use to put

away the book; if I trust myself in the woods or in a boat upon the

pond, Nature makes a BRAHMIN of me presently: eternal necessity,

eternal compensation, unfathomable power, unbroken silence. . . .

This is her creed. Peace, she saith to me, and purity and absolute

abandonment—these panaceas expiate all sin and bring you to the

beatitude of the Eight Gods.”

{FN4-7} The seat of the “single” or spiritual eye. At death the

consciousness of man is usually drawn to this holy spot, accounting

for the upraised eyes found in the dead.

{FN4-8} The central sacred figure of the Sanskrit epic, RAMAYANA.

{FN4-9} Ahankara, egoism; literally, “I do.” The root cause of

dualism or illusion of MAYA, whereby the subject (ego) appears as

object; the creatures imagine themselves to be creators.

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, {FN5-1} 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 {FN5-2} 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 {FN5-3} 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 {FN5-4} 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.”

[Illustration: My sister Uma, as a young girl—see uma.jpg]

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. {FN5-5}

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.

{FN5-1} Kali represents the eternal principle in nature. She is

traditionally pictured as a four-armed woman, standing on the form

of the God Shiva or the Infinite, because nature or the phenomenal

world is rooted in the Noumenon. The four arms symbolize cardinal

attributes, two beneficent, two destructive, indicating the essential

duality of matter or creation.

{FN5-2} Cosmic illusion; literally, “the measurer.” MAYA is the

magical power in creation by which limitations and divisions are

apparently present in the Immeasurable and Inseparable. Emerson

wrote the following poem, to which he gave the title of MAYA:

Illusion works impenetrable,

Weaving webs innumerable,

Her gay pictures never fail,

Crowd each other, veil on veil,

Charmer who will be believed

By man who thirsts to be deceived.

{FN5-3} The RISHIS, literally “seers,” were the authors of the

VEDAS in an indeterminable antiquity..

{FN5-4} Flat, round Indian bread..

{FN5-5} Laymen scarcely realize the vast strides of twentieth-century

science. Transmutation of metals and other alchemical dreams are

seeing fulfillment every day in centers of scientific research over

the world. The eminent French chemist, M. Georges Claude, performed

“miracles” at Fontainebleau in 1928 before a scientific assemblage

through his chemical knowledge of oxygen transformations. His

“magician’s wand” was simple oxygen, bubbling in a tube on a table.

The scientist “turned a handful of sand into precious stones,

iron into a state resembling melted chocolate and, after depriving

flowers of their tints, turned them into the consistency of glass.

“M. Claude explained how the sea could be turned by oxygen

transformations into many millions of pounds of horsepower; how

water which boils is not necessarily burning; how little mounds of

sand, by a single whiff of the oxygen blowpipe, could be changed

into sapphires, rubies, and topazes; and he predicted the time when

it will be possible for men to walk on the bottom of the ocean minus

the diver’s equipment. Finally the scientist amazed his onlookers

by turning their faces black by taking the red out of the sun’s

rays.”

This noted French scientist has produced liquid air by an expansion

method in which he has been able to separate the various gases of

the air, and has discovered various means of mechanical utilization

of differences of temperature in sea water.

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 {FN6-1} 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.

{FN6-2} 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!

{FN6-1} SOHONG was his monastic name. He was popularly known as

the “Tiger Swami.”

{FN6-2} “Prince Princess”-so named to indicate that this beast

possessed the combined ferocity of tiger and tigress.

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 {FN7-1} of the ancient eightfold yoga outlined

by Patanjali. {FN7-2} 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.

{FN7-3} 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 {FN7-4} 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, {FN7-5} 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.

[Illustration: BHADURI MAHASAYA, “The Levitating Saint” “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.”—see badhuri.jpg]

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?”

{FN7-6} 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.

“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.” {FN7-7}

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.”

{FN7-1} Methods of controlling life-force through regulation of

breath.

{FN7-2} The foremost ancient exponent of yoga.

{FN7-3} French professors were the first in the West to be willing

to scientifically investigate the possibilities of the superconscious

mind. Professor Jules-Bois, member of the L’Ecole de Psychologie of

the Sorbonne, lectured in America in 1928; he told his audiences that

French scientists have accorded recognition to the superconsciousness,

“which is the exact opposite of Freud’s subconscious mind and is the

faculty which makes man really man and not just a super-animal.” M.

Jules-Bois explained that the awakening of the higher consciousness

“was not to be confused with Coueism or hypnotism. The existence

of a superconscious mind has long been recognized philosophically,

being in reality the Oversoul spoken of by Emerson, but only recently

has it been recognized scientifically.” The French scientist pointed

out that from the superconsciousness come inspiration, genius, moral

values. “Belief in this is not mysticism though it recognized and

valued the qualities which mystics preached.”

{FN7-4} St. Theresa of Avila and other Christian saints were often

observed in a state of levitation.

{FN7-5} “Great sage.”

{FN7-6} Actual perception of God.

{FN7-7} The saint’s full name was Nagendranath Bhaduri. MATH means

hermitage or ASHRAM.

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. {FN8-1} 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.”

[Illustration: JAGADIS CHANDRA BOSE, India’s great physicist,

botanist, and inventor of the Crescograph—see bose.jpg]

“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 {FN8-2} 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 {FN8-3} 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. {FN8-4} 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. {FN8-5} 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: {FN8-6}

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.

{FN8-1} “All science is transcendental or else passes away. Botany

is now acquiring the right theory-the avatars of Brahma will

presently be the textbooks of natural history.”-EMERSON.

{FN8-2} From the Latin root, CRESCERE, to increase. For his

crescograph and other inventions, Bose was knighted in 1917.

{FN8-3} The lotus flower is an ancient divine symbol in India; its

unfolding petals suggest the expansion of the soul; the growth of

its pure beauty from the mud of its origin holds a benign spiritual

promise.

{FN8-4} “At present, only the sheerest accident brings India into

the purview of the American college student. Eight universities

(Harvard, Yale, Columbia, Princeton, Johns Hopkins, Pennsylvania,

Chicago, and California) have chairs of Indology or Sanskrit,

but India is virtually unrepresented in departments of history,

philosophy, fine arts, political science, sociology, or any of

the other departments of intellectual experience in which, as we

have seen, India has made great contributions. . . . We believe,

consequently, that no department of study, particularly in the

humanities, in any major university can be fully equipped without

a properly trained specialist in the Indic phases of its discipline.

We believe, too, that every college which aims to prepare its

graduates for intelligent work in the world which is to be theirs

to live in, must have on its staff a scholar competent in the

civilization of India.”-Extracts from an article by Professor W.

Norman Brown of the University of Pennsylvania which appeared in

the May, 1939, issue of the BULLETIN of the American Council of

Learned Societies, 907 15th St., Washington, D. C., 25 cents copy.

This issue (#28) contains over 100 pages of a “Basic Bibliography

for Indic Studies.”

{FN8-5} The atomic structure of matter was well-known to the ancient

Hindus. One of the six systems of Indian philosophy is VAISESIKA,

from the Sanskrit root VISESAS, “atomic individuality.” One of the

foremost VAISESIKA expounders was Aulukya, also called Kanada, “the

atom-eater,” born about 2800 years ago.

In an article in EAST-WEST, April, 1934, a summary of VAISESIKA

scientific knowledge was given as follows: “Though the modern

‘atomic theory’ is generally considered a new advance of science,

it was brilliantly expounded long ago by Kanada, ‘the atom-eater.’

The Sanskrit ANUS can be properly translated as ‘atom’ in the latter’s

literal Greek sense of ‘uncut’ or indivisible. Other scientific

expositions of VAISESIKA treatises of the B.C. era include (1) the

movement of needles toward magnets, (2) the circulation of water

in plants, (3) AKASH or ether, inert and structureless, as a basis

for transmitting subtle forces, (4) the solar fire as the cause of

all other forms of heat, (5) heat as the cause of molecular change,

(6) the law of gravitation as caused by the quality that inheres in

earth-atoms to give them their attractive power or downward pull,

(7) the kinetic nature of all energy; causation as always rooted

in an expenditure of energy or a redistribution of motion, (8)

universal dissolution through the disintegration of atoms, (9)

the radiation of heat and light rays, infinitely small particles,

darting forth in all directions with inconceivable speed (the modern

‘cosmic rays’ theory), (10) the relativity of time and space.

“VAISESIKA assigned the origin of the world to atoms, eternal in

their nature, i.e., their ultimate peculiarities. These atoms were

regarded as possessing an incessant vibratory motion. . . . The

recent discovery that an atom is a miniature solar system would be

no news to the old VAISESIKA philosophers, who also reduced time to

its furthest mathematical concept by describing the smallest unit

of time (KALA) as the period taken by an atom to traverse its own

unit of space.”

{FN8-6} Translated from the Bengali of Rabindranath Tagore, by

Manmohan Ghosh, in VISWA-BHARATI.

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.”

[Illustration: Master Mahasaya, Ever engrossed in his blissful

cosmic romance.—see mmahasaya.jpg]

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 {FN9-1} 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.

“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, {FN9-2} 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.

{FN9-1} These are respectful titles by which he was customarily

addressed. His name was Mahendra Nath Gupta; he signed his literary

works simply “M.”

{FN9-2} The Oxford English Dictionary gives, as rare, this definition

of BIOSCOPE: A view of life; that which gives such a view.

Master Mahasaya’s choice of a word was, then, peculiarly justified.

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. {FN10-1}

“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, {FN10-2} 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. {FN10-3} After a two-hour flood of tears,

I felt singularly transformed, as by some alchemical cleanser. All

attachment {FN10-4} 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, {FN10-5} 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 {FN10-6} 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!” {FN10-7} 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!

{FN10-1} SANSKRITA, polished; complete. Sanskrit is the eldest

sister of all Indo-European tongues. Its alphabetical script is

DEVANAGARI, literally “divine abode.” “Who knows my grammar knows

God!” Panini, great philologist of ancient India, paid this tribute

to the mathematical and psychological perfection in Sanskrit. He

who would track language to its lair must indeed end as omniscient.

{FN10-2} He was not Jatinda (Jotin Ghosh), who will be remembered

for his timely aversion to tigers!

{FN10-3} Path or preliminary road to God.

{FN10-4} Hindu scriptures teach that family attachment is delusive

if it prevents the devotee from seeking the Giver of all boons,

including the one of loving relatives, not to mention life itself.

Jesus similarly taught: “Who is my mother? and who are my brethren?”

(MATTHEW 12:48.)

{FN10-5} JI is a customary respectful suffix, particularly used

in direct address; thus “swamiji,” “guruji,” “Sri Yukteswarji,”

“paramhansaji.”

{FN10-6} Pertaining to the SHASTRAS, literally, “sacred books,”

comprising four classes of scripture: the SHRUTI, SMRITI, PURANA,

and TANTRA. These comprehensive treatises cover every aspect

of religious and social life, and the fields of law, medicine,

architecture, art, etc. The SHRUTIS are the “directly heard” or

“revealed” scriptures, the VEDAS. The SMRITIS or “remembered” lore

was finally written down in a remote past as the world’s longest

epic poems, the MAHABHARATA and the RAMAYANA. PURANAS are literally

“ancient” allegories; TANTRAS literally mean “rites” or “rituals”;

these treatises convey profound truths under a veil of detailed

symbolism.

{FN10-7} “Divine teacher,” the customary Sanskrit term for one’s

spiritual preceptor. I have rendered it in English as simply

“Master.”

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 {FN11-1} 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 {FN11-2} 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

{FN11-3} 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? {FN11-4} I am in deep joy at thought

of treading the ground hallowed by feet of Lord Krishna.”

[Illustration: (Left to Right) Jitendra Mazumdar, my companion

on the “penniless test” at Brindaban; Lalit-da, my cousin; Swami

Kebelananda (“Shastri Mahasaya”), my saintly Sanskrit tutor; myself,

as a high school youth—see friends.jpg]

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. {FN11-5} 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.”

“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.” {FN11-6} 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,”

{FN11-7} 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 {FN11-8}

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.”

{FN11-1} See chapter 25.

{FN11-2} The world-famous mausoleum..

{FN11-3} A DHOTI-cloth is knotted around the waist and covers the

legs..

{FN11-4} Brindaban, in the Muttra district of United Provinces, is

the Hindu Jerusalem. Here Lord Krishna displayed his glories for

the benefit of mankind..

{FN11-5} Hari; an endearing name by which Lord Krishna is known to

his devotees.

{FN11-6} An Indian sweetmeat..

{FN11-7} A mythological gem with power to grant desires.

{FN11-8} Spiritual initiation; from the Sanskrit root DIKSH, to

dedicate oneself.

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.

{FN12-1} 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 {FN12-2} 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. {FN12-3} 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. {FN12-4} It was simplicity itself

to discover when Master had awakened: abrupt halt of stupendous

snores. {FN12-5} A sigh or two; perhaps a bodily movement. Then a

soundless state of breathlessness: he was in deep yogic joy.

[Illustration: My Master, Sri Yukteswar, Disciple of Lahiri

Mahasaya—see yukteswar.jpg]

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 {FN12-6}

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. {FN12-7}

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. {FN12-8} 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, {FN12-9} 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.

{FN12-10}

“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.” {FN12-11}

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. {FN12-12} 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 {FN12-13} 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.

{FN12-14} 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.” {FN12-15}

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 {FN12-16} 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

soughtafter 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. {FN12-17} 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, {FN12-18} 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. {FN12-19}

“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.” {FN12-20}

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,

{FN12-21} the BHASYAS {FN12-22} 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.” {FN12-23}

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.

{FN12-1} “Worship of Durga.” This is the chief festival of the

Bengali year and lasts for nine days around the end of September.

Immediately following is the ten-day festival of DASHAHARA (“the One

who removes ten sins”-three of body, three of mind, four of speech).

Both PUJAS are sacred to Durga, literally “the Inaccessible,” an

aspect of Divine Mother, Shakti, the female creative force personified.

{FN12-2} Sri Yukteswar was born on May 10, 1855.

{FN12-3} YUKTESWAR means “united to God.” GIRI is a classificatory

distinction of one of the ten ancient Swami branches. SRI means

“holy”; it is not a name but a title of respect.

{FN12-4} Literally, “to direct together.” SAMADHI is a superconscious

state of ecstasy in which the yogi perceives the identity of soul

and Spirit.

{FN12-5} Snoring, according to physiologists, is an indication of

utter relaxation (to the oblivious practitioner, solely).

{FN12-6} DHAL is a thick soup made from split peas or other pulses.

CHANNA is a cheese of fresh curdled milk, cut into squares and

curried with potatoes.

{FN12-7} The omnipresent powers of a yogi, whereby he sees, hears,

tastes, smells, and feels his oneness in creation without the use

of sensory organs, have been described as follows in the TAITTIRIYA

ARANYAKA: “The blind man pierced the pearl; the fingerless put a

thread into it; the neckless wore it; and the tongueless praised

it.”

{FN12-8} The cobra swiftly strikes at any moving object within its

range. Complete immobility is usually one’s sole hope of safety.

{FN12-9} Lahiri Mahasaya actually said “Priya” (first or given

name), not “Yukteswar” (monastic name, not received by my guru

during Lahiri Mahasaya’s lifetime). (See page 109.) “Yukteswar” is

substituted here, and in a few other places in this book, in order

to avoid the confusion, to reader, of two names.

{FN12-10} “Therefore I say unto you, What things soever ye desire,

when ye pray, believe that ye receive them, and ye shall have

them.”-MARK 11:24. Masters who possess the Divine Vision are fully

able to transfer their realizations to advanced disciples, as Lahiri

Mahasaya did for Sri Yukteswar on this occasion.

{FN12-11} “And one of them smote the servant of the high priest,

and cut off his right ear. And Jesus answered and said, Suffer ye

thus far. And he touched his ear and healed him.”-LUKE 22:50-51.

{FN12-12} “Give not that which is holy unto the dogs, neither cast

ye your pearls before swine, lest they trample them under their

feet, and turn again and rend you.”-MATTHEW 7:6.

{FN12-13} Disciples; from Sanskrit verb root, “to serve.”

{FN12-14} He was once ill in Kashmir, when I was absent from him.

(See chapter 23.)

{FN12-15} A courageous medical man, Charles Robert Richet, awarded

the Nobel Prize in physiology, wrote as follows: “Metaphysics is not

yet officially a science, recognized as such. But it is going to be.

. . . At Edinburgh, I was able to affirm before 100 physiologists

that our five senses are not our only means of knowledge and that

a fragment of reality sometimes reaches the intelligence in other

ways. . . . Because a fact is rare is no reason that it does

not exist. Because a study is difficult, is that a reason for not

understanding it? . . . Those who have railed at metaphysics as

an occult science will be as ashamed of themselves as those who

railed at chemistry on the ground that pursuit of the philosopher’s

stone was illusory. . . . In the matter of principles there are only

those of Lavoisier, Claude Bernard, and Pasteur-the EXPERIMENTAL

everywhere and always. Greetings, then, to the new science which

is going to change the orientation of human thought.”

{FN12-16} SAMADHI: perfect union of the individualized soul with

the Infinite Spirit.

{FN12-17} The subconsciously guided rationalizations of the mind

are utterly different from the infallible guidance of truth which

issues from the superconsciousness. Led by French scientists of

the Sorbonne, Western thinkers are beginning to investigate the

possibility of divine perception in man.

“For the past twenty years, students of psychology, influenced by

Freud, gave all their time to searching the subconscious realms,”

Rabbi Israel H. Levinthal pointed out in 1929. “It is true that

the subconscious reveals much of the mystery that can explain human

actions, but not all of our actions. It can explain the abnormal,

but not deeds that are above the normal. The latest psychology,

sponsored by the French schools, has discovered a new region in man,

which it terms the superconscious. In contrast to the subconscious

which represents the submerged currents of our nature, it reveals

the heights to which our nature can reach. Man represents a triple,

not a double, personality; our conscious and subconscious being

is crowned by a superconsciousness. Many years ago the English

psychologist, F. W. H. Myers, suggested that ‘hidden in the

deep of our being is a rubbish heap as well as a treasure house.’

In contrast to the psychology that centers all its researches

on the subconscious in man’s nature, this new psychology of the

superconscious focuses its attention upon the treasure-house, the

region that alone can explain the great, unselfish, heroic deeds

of men.”

{FN12-18} JNANA, wisdom, and BHAKTI, devotion: two of the main

paths to God.

{FN12-19} “Man in his waking state puts forth innumerable efforts

for experiencing sensual pleasures; when the entire group of sensory

organs is fatigued, he forgets even the pleasure on hand and goes

to sleep in order to enjoy rest in the soul, his own nature,”

Shankara, the great Vedantist, has written. “Ultra-sensual bliss

is thus extremely easy of attainment and is far superior to sense

delights which always end in disgust.”

{FN12-20} MARK 2:27.

{FN12-21} The UPANISHADS or VEDANTA (literally, “end of the Vedas”),

occur in certain parts of the VEDAS as essential summaries. The

UPANISHADS furnish the doctrinal basis of the Hindu religion. They

received the following tribute from Schopenhauer: “How entirely

does the UPANISHAD breathe throughout the holy spirit of the VEDAS!

How is everyone who has become familiar with that incomparable book

stirred by that spirit to the very depths of his soul! From every

sentence deep, original, and sublime thoughts arise, and the whole

is pervaded by a high and holy and earnest spirit. . . . The access

to the VEDAS by means of the UPANISHADS is in my eyes the greatest

privilege this century may claim before all previous centuries.”

{FN12-22} Commentaries. Shankara peerlessly expounded the UPANISHADS.

{FN12-23} PROVERBS 16:32.

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 {FN13-1} 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? {FN13-2} 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. {FN13-3} 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.

{FN13-1} Hand-played drums, used only for devotional music.

{FN13-2} One is reminded here of Dostoevski’s observation: “A man

who bows down to nothing can never bear the burden of himself.”

{FN13-3} See chapter 35.

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,

{FN14-1} 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,”

{FN14-2} 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.”

{FN14-1} “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God,

and the Word was God.”-JOHN 1:1.

{FN14-2} “For the Father judgeth no man, but hath committed all

judgment unto the Son.”-JOHN 5:22. “No man hath seen God at any

time; the only begotten Son, which is in the bosom of the Father,

he hath declared him.”-JOHN 1:18. “Verily, verily, I say unto you,

he that believeth on me, the works that I do shall he do also;

and greater works than these shall he do; because I go unto my

Father.”-JOHN 14:12. “But the Comforter, which is the Holy Ghost,

whom the Father will send in my name, he shall teach you all things,

and bring all things to your remembrance, whatsoever I have said

to you.”-JOHN 14:26.

These Biblical words refer to the threefold nature of God as Father,

Son, Holy Ghost (SAT, TAT, AUM in the Hindu scriptures). God the

Father is the Absolute, Unmanifested, existing BEYOND vibratory

creation. God the Son is the Christ Consciousness (Brahma or

KUTASTHA CHAITANYA) existing WITHIN vibratory creation; this Christ

Consciousness is the “only begotten” or sole reflection of the

Uncreated Infinite. Its outward manifestation or “witness” is AUM

or Holy Ghost, the divine, creative, invisible power which structures

all creation through vibration. AUM the blissful Comforter is heard

in meditation and reveals to the devotee the ultimate Truth.

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.”

[Illustration: MY GURU’S SEASIDE HERMITAGE AT PURI 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.—see puri.jpg]

I had just arrived in Puri {FN15-1} 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?”

“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. {FN15-2} 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 {FN15-3} 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. {FN15-4} Designed by Sri Yukteswar,

it bore the symbol of the single {FN15-5} 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.” {FN15-6}

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. {FN15-7} 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.

{FN15-1} Puri, about 310 miles south of Calcutta, is a famous

pilgrimage city for devotees of Krishna; his worship is celebrated

there with two immense annual festivals, SNANAYATRA and RATHAYATRA.

{FN15-2} The 1939 discovery of a radio microscope revealed

a new world of hitherto unknown rays. “Man himself as well as all

kinds of supposedly inert matter constantly emits the rays that

this instrument ‘sees,’” reported the ASSOCIATED PRESS. “Those

who believe in telepathy, second sight, and clairvoyance, have in

this announcement the first scientific proof of the existence of

invisible rays which really travel from one person to another. The

radio device actually is a radio frequency spectroscope. It does

the same thing for cool, nonglowing matter that the spectroscope

does when it discloses the kinds of atoms that make the stars. . .

. The existence of such rays coming from man and all living things

has been suspected by scientists for many years. Today is the first

experimental proof of their existence. The discovery shows that

every atom and every molecule in nature is a continuous radio

broadcasting station. . . . Thus even after death the substance

that was a man continues to send out its delicate rays. The wave

lengths of these rays range from shorter than anything now used

in broadcasting to the longest kind of radio waves. The jumble of

these rays is almost inconceivable. There are millions of them. A

single very large molecule may give off 1,000,000 different wave

lengths at the same time. The longer wave lengths of this sort

travel with the ease and speed of radio waves. . . . There is one

amazing difference between the new radio rays and familiar rays

like light. This is the prolonged time, amounting to thousands of

years, which these radio waves will keep on emitting from undisturbed

matter.”

{FN15-3} One hesitates to use “intuition”; Hitler has almost ruined

the word along with more ambitious devastations. The Latin root

meaning of INTUITION is “inner protection.” The Sanskrit word AGAMA

means intuitional knowledge born of direct soul-perception; hence

certain ancient treatises by the rishis were called AGAMAS.

{FN15-4} SAT is literally “being,” hence “essence; reality.” SANGA

is “association.” Sri Yukteswar called his hermitage organization

SAT-SANGA, “fellowship with truth.”

{FN15-5} “If therefore thine eye be single, thy whole body shall

be full of light.”-MATTHEW 6:22. During deep meditation, the single

or spiritual eye becomes visible within the central part of the

forehead. This omniscient eye is variously referred to in scriptures

as the third eye, the star of the East, the inner eye, the dove

descending from heaven, the eye of Shiva, the eye of intuition,

etc.

{FN15-6} “He that planted the ear, shall he not hear? he that formed

the eye, shall he not see? . . . he that teacheth man knowledge,

shall he not know?”-PSALM 94:9-10.

{FN15-7} Folklore of all peoples contains references to incantations

with power over nature. The American Indians are well-known to

have developed sound rituals for rain and wind. Tan Sen, the great

Hindu musician, was able to quench fire by the power of his song.

Charles Kellogg, the California naturalist, gave a demonstration

of the effect of tonal vibration on fire in 1926 before a group

of New York firemen. “Passing a bow, like an enlarged violin bow,

swiftly across an aluminum tuning fork, he produced a screech like

intense radio static. Instantly the yellow gas flame, two feet

high, leaping inside a hollow glass tube, subsided to a height of

six inches and became a sputtering blue flare. Another attempt with

the bow, and another screech of vibration, extinguished it.”

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 {FN16-1}

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. {FN16-2}

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, {FN16-3} 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. {FN16-4} 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 {FN16-5} for the world; man

gradually sinks into ignorance. These cycles are the eternal rounds

of MAYA, the contrasts and relativities of the phenomenal universe.

{FN16-6} 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, {FN16-7} 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.” {FN16-8} Because of one SANKHYA {FN16-9}

aphorism, “ISWAR-ASHIDHA,”-“A Lord of Creation cannot be deduced”

or “God is not proved,” {FN16-10}—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.” {FN16-11}

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.” {FN16-12} “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.” {FN16-13}

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. {FN16-14}

“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. {FN16-15}

“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. {FN16-16} 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. {FN16-17} 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. {FN16-18} 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.

{FN16-19} 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!”

{FN16-1} From astronomical references in ancient Hindu scriptures,

scholars have been able to correctly ascertain the dates of the

authors. The scientific knowledge of the rishis was very great; in

the KAUSHITAKI BRAHMANA we find precise astronomical passages which

show that in 3100 B.C. the Hindus were far advanced in astronomy,

which had a practical value in determining the auspicious times

for astrological ceremonies. In an article in EAST-WEST, February,

1934, the following summary is given of the JYOTISH or body

of Vedic astronomical treatises: “It contains the scientific lore

which kept India at the forefront of all ancient nations and made

her the mecca of seekers after knowledge. The very ancient BRAHMAGUPTA,

one of the JYOTISH works, is an astronomical treatise dealing with

such matters as the heliocentric motion of the planetary bodies

in our solar system, the obliquity of the ecliptic, the earth’s

spherical form, the reflected light of the moon, the earth’s daily

axial revolution, the presence of fixed stars in the Milky Way, the

law of gravitation, and other scientific facts which did not dawn

in the Western world until the time of Copernicus and Newton.”

It is now well-known that the so-called “Arabic numerals,” without

whose symbols advanced mathematics is difficult, came to Europe in

the 9th century, via the Arabs, from India, where that system of

notation had been anciently formulated. Further light on India’s

vast scientific heritage will be found in Dr. P. C. Ray’s HISTORY

OF HINDU CHEMISTRY, and in Dr. B. N. Seal’s POSITIVE SCIENCES OF

THE ANCIENT HINDUS.

{FN16-2} The blessing which flows from the mere sight of a saint.

{FN16-3} One of the girls whom my family selected as a possible

bride for me, afterwards married my cousin, Prabhas Chandra Ghose.

{FN16-4} A series of thirteen articles on the historical verification

of Sri Yukteswar’s YUGA theory appeared in the magazine EAST-WEST

(Los Angeles) from September, 1932, to September, 1933.

{FN16-5} In the year A.D. 12,500.

{FN16-6} The Hindu scriptures place the present world-age as

occurring within the KALI YUGA of a much longer universal cycle than

the simple 24,000-year equinoctial cycle with which Sri Yukteswar

was concerned. The universal cycle of the scriptures is 4,300,560,000

years in extent, and measures out a Day of Creation or the length

of life assigned to our planetary system in its present form. This

vast figure given by the rishis is based on a relationship between

the length of the solar year and a multiple of Pi (3.1416, the

ratio of the circumference to the diameter of a circle).

The life span for a whole universe, according to the ancient seers,

is 314,159,000,000,000 solar years, or “One Age of Brahma.”

Scientists estimate the present age of the earth to be about two

billion years, basing their conclusions on a study of lead pockets

left as a result of radioactivity in rocks. The Hindu scriptures

declare that an earth such as ours is dissolved for one of two

reasons: the inhabitants as a whole become either completely good

or completely evil. The world-mind thus generates a power which

releases the captive atoms held together as an earth.

Dire pronouncements are occasionally published regarding an imminent

“end of the world.” The latest prediction of doom was given by Rev.

Chas. G. Long of Pasadena, who publicly set the “Day of Judgment”

for Sept. 21, 1945. UNITED PRESS reporters asked my opinion; I

explained that world cycles follow an orderly progression according

to a divine plan. No earthly dissolution is in sight; two billion

years of ascending and descending equinoctial cycles are yet

in store for our planet in its present form. The figures given by

the rishis for the various world ages deserve careful study in the

West; the magazine TIME (Dec. 17, 1945, p. 6) called them “reassuring

statistics.”

{FN16-7} chapter VI:13.

{FN16-8} “The light of the body is the eye: therefore when thine

eye is single, thy whole body also is full of light; but when thine

eye is evil, thy body also is full of darkness. Take heed therefore

that the light which is in thee be not darkness.”-LUKE 11:34-35.

{FN16-9} One of the six systems of Hindu philosophy. SANKHYA teaches

final emancipation through knowledge of twenty-five principles,

starting with PRAKRITI or nature and ending with PURUSHA or soul.

{FN16-10} SANKHYA APHORISMS, I:92.

{FN16-11} MATTHEW 24:35.

{FN16-12} MATTHEW 12:50.

{FN16-13} JOHN 8:31-32. St. John testified: “But as many as received

him, to them gave he power to become the sons of God, even to them

that believe on his name (even to them who are established in the

Christ Consciousness).”-JOHN 1:12.

{FN16-14} “We may eat of the fruit of the trees of the garden: but

of the fruit of the tree which is in the midst of the garden, God

hath said, Ye shall not eat of it, neither shall ye touch it, lest

ye die.”-GENESIS 3:2-3.

{FN16-15} “The woman whom thou gavest to be with me, she gave me

of the tree, and I did eat. The woman said, The serpent beguiled

me, and I did eat.”-GEN. 3:12-13.

{FN16-16} “So God created man in his own image, in the image of God

created he him; male and female created he them. And God blessed

them, and God said unto them, Be fruitful and multiply, and replenish

the earth, and subdue it.”-GEN. 1:27-28.

{FN16-17} “And the Lord God formed man of the dust of the ground,

and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life; and man became

a living soul.”-GEN. 2:7.

{FN16-18} “Now the serpent (sex force) was more subtil than any

beast of the field” (any other sense of the body).-GEN. 3:1.

{FN16-19} “And the Lord God planted a garden eastward in Eden; and

there he put the man whom he had formed.”-GEN. 2:8. “Therefore the

Lord God sent him forth from the garden of Eden, to till the ground

from whence he was taken.”-GEN. 3:23. The divine man first made

by God had his consciousness centered in the omnipotent single eye

in the forehead (eastward). The all-creative powers of his will,

focused at that spot, were lost to man when he began to “till the

ground” of his physical nature.

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. {FN17-1} 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.

{FN17-1} In 1936 I heard from a friend that Sasi was still in

excellent health.

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 {FN18-1} 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. {FN18-2}

“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, {FN18-3} 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.”

{FN18-1} A Moslem yogi; from the Arabic FAQIR, poor; originally

applied to dervishes under a vow of poverty.

{FN18-2} My father later told me that his company, the Bengal-Nagpur

Railway, had been one of the firms victimized by Afzal Khan.

{FN18-3} I do not recall the name of Sri Yukteswar’s friend, and

must refer to him simply as “Babu” (Mister).

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,” {FN19-1} I heard a peculiar

rumbling sound. {FN19-2} 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.”

{FN19-1} The Bengali “Good-by”; literally, it is a hopeful paradox:

“Then I come.”

{FN19-2} The characteristic sound of dematerialization of bodily

atoms.

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. {FN20-1} 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 {FN20-2} will not

receive me!”

{FN20-1} Although Master failed to make any explanation, his

reluctance to visit Kashmir during those two summers may have been

a foreknowledge that the time was not ripe for his illness there

(see chapter 22).

{FN20-2} Literally, “of the mountains.” Parvati, mythologically

represented as a daughter of Himavat or the sacred mountains, is

a name given to the SHAKTI or “consort” of Shiva.

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.” {FN21-1} 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, {FN21-2} 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. {FN21-3}

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, {FN21-4} 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. {FN21-5} 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!”

{FN21-1} It is a mark of disrespect, in India, to smoke in the

presence of one’s elders and superiors.

{FN21-2} The Oriental plane tree..

{FN21-3} Many Christian saints, including Therese Neumann (see