Autobiography of a Yogi
“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