Autobiography of a Yogi
“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