Autobiography of a Yogi
“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