Autobiography of a Yogi
were resourcefully summoned to meet the exigencies of discipline.
Instruction and chastisement went hand in hand.
A daily gesture of respect to Father was given by Mother’s dressing us
carefully in the afternoons to welcome him home from the office.
His position was similar to that of a vice-president, in the
Bengal-Nagpur Railway, one of India’s large companies. His work
involved traveling, and our family lived in several cities during
my childhood.
Mother held an open hand toward the needy. Father was also kindly
disposed, but his respect for law and order extended to the budget.
One fortnight Mother spent, in feeding the poor, more than Father’s
monthly income.
“All I ask, please, is to keep your charities within a reasonable
limit.” Even a gentle rebuke from her husband was grievous to Mother.
She ordered a hackney carriage, not hinting to the children at any
disagreement.
“Good-by; I am going away to my mother’s home.” Ancient ultimatum!
We broke into astounded lamentations. Our maternal uncle arrived
opportunely; he whispered to Father some sage counsel, garnered
no doubt from the ages. After Father had made a few conciliatory
remarks, Mother happily dismissed the cab. Thus ended the only trouble
I ever noticed between my parents. But I recall a characteristic
discussion.
“Please give me ten rupees for a hapless woman who has just arrived
at the house.” Mother’s smile had its own persuasion.
“Why ten rupees? One is enough.” Father added a justification: “When
my father and grandparents died suddenly, I had my first taste of
poverty. My only breakfast, before walking miles to my school, was
a small banana. Later, at the university, I was in such need that
I applied to a wealthy judge for aid of one rupee per month. He
declined, remarking that even a rupee is important.”
“How bitterly you recall the denial of that rupee!” Mother’s heart
had an instant logic. “Do you want this woman also to remember
painfully your refusal of ten rupees which she needs urgently?”
“You win!” With the immemorial gesture of vanquished husbands, he
opened his wallet. “Here is a ten-rupee note. Give it to her with
my good will.”
Father tended to first say “No” to any new proposal. His attitude
toward the strange woman who so readily enlisted Mother’s sympathy
was an example of his customary caution. Aversion to instant
acceptance—typical of the French mind in the West-is really only
honoring the principle of “due reflection.” I always found Father
reasonable and evenly balanced in his judgments. If I could bolster
up my numerous requests with one or two good arguments, he invariably
put the coveted goal within my reach, whether it were a vacation
trip or a new motorcycle.
Father was a strict disciplinarian to his children in their early
years, but his attitude toward himself was truly Spartan. He
never visited the theater, for instance, but sought his recreation
in various spiritual practices and in reading the BHAGAVAD GITA.
{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)?”
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: