Autobiography of a Yogi
Master Mahasaya possessed control over the flood-gates of my soul:
again I plunged prostrate at his feet. But this time my tears welled
from a bliss, and not a pain, past bearing.
“Think you that your devotion did not touch the Infinite Mercy?
The Motherhood of God, that you have worshiped in forms both human
and divine, could never fail to answer your forsaken cry.”
Who was this simple saint, whose least request to the Universal Spirit
met with sweet acquiescence? His role in the world was humble, as
befitted the greatest man of humility I ever knew. In this Amherst
Street house, Master Mahasaya {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.