Autobiography of a Yogi
“‘This ball of gold is my sole material wealth; it can be of no
interest to a FAKIR. I implore you, sir, to heal my limp.’
“I touched the ball and walked away without reply. The old man
hobbled after me. He soon raised an outcry: ‘My gold is gone!’
“As I paid no attention, he suddenly spoke in a stentorian voice
that issued oddly from his frail body:
“‘Do you not recognize me?’
“I stood speechless, aghast at the belated discovery that this
unimpressive old cripple was none other than the great saint who,
long, long ago, had initiated me into yoga. He straightened himself;
his body instantly became strong and youthful.
“‘So!’ My guru’s glance was fiery. ‘I see with my own eyes that
you use your powers, not to help suffering humanity, but to prey
on it like a common thief! I withdraw your occult gifts; Hazrat is
now freed from you. No longer shall you be a terror in Bengal!’
“I called on Hazrat in anguished tones; for the first time, he did
not appear to my inner sight. But some dark veil suddenly lifted
within me; I saw clearly the blasphemy of my life.
“‘My guru, I thank you for coming to banish my long delusion.’ I
was sobbing at his feet. ‘I promise to forsake my worldly ambitions.
I will retire to the mountains for lonely meditation on God, hoping
to atone for my evil past.’
“My master regarded me with silent compassion. ‘I feel your
sincerity,’ he said finally. ‘Because of your earlier years of
strict obedience, and because of your present repentance, I will
grant you one boon. Your other powers are now gone, but whenever
food and clothing are needed, you may still call successfully on
Hazrat to supply them. Devote yourself wholeheartedly to divine
understanding in the mountain solitudes.’
“My guru then vanished; I was left to my tears and reflections.
Farewell, world! I go to seek the forgiveness of the Cosmic Beloved.”
{FN18-1} A Moslem yogi; from the Arabic FAQIR, poor; originally
applied to dervishes under a vow of poverty.
{FN18-2} My father later told me that his company, the Bengal-Nagpur
Railway, had been one of the firms victimized by Afzal Khan.
{FN18-3} I do not recall the name of Sri Yukteswar’s friend, and
must refer to him simply as “Babu” (Mister).
CHAPTER: 19
MY MASTER, IN CALCUTTA, APPEARS IN SERAMPORE
“I am often beset by atheistic doubts. Yet a torturing surmise
sometimes haunts me: may not untapped soul possibilities exist? Is
man not missing his real destiny if he fails to explore them?”
These remarks of Dijen Babu, my roommate at the PANTHI boardinghouse,
were called forth by my invitation that he meet my guru.
“Sri Yukteswarji will initiate you into KRIYA YOGA,” I replied.
“It calms the dualistic turmoil by a divine inner certainty.”
That evening Dijen accompanied me to the hermitage. In Master’s
presence my friend received such spiritual peace that he was soon
a constant visitor. The trivial preoccupations of daily life are not
enough for man; wisdom too is a native hunger. In Sri Yukteswar’s
words Dijen found an incentive to those attempts-first painful,
then effortlessly liberating-to locate a realer self within his
bosom than the humiliating ego of a temporary birth, seldom ample
enough for the Spirit.
As Dijen and I were both pursuing the A.B. course at Serampore
College, we got into the habit of walking together to the ashram
as soon as classes were over. We would often see Sri Yukteswar
standing on his second-floor balcony, welcoming our approach with
a smile.
One afternoon Kanai, a young hermitage resident, met Dijen and me
at the door with disappointing news.
“Master is not here; he was summoned to Calcutta by an urgent note.”
The following day I received a post card from my guru. “I shall
leave Calcutta Wednesday morning,” he had written. “You and Dijen
meet the nine o’clock train at Serampore station.”
About eight-thirty on Wednesday morning, a telepathic message from
Sri Yukteswar flashed insistently to my mind: “I am delayed; don’t
meet the nine o’clock train.”
I conveyed the latest instructions to Dijen, who was already dressed
for departure.
“You and your intuition!” My friend’s voice was edged in scorn. “I
prefer to trust Master’s written word.”
I shrugged my shoulders and seated myself with quiet finality.
Muttering angrily, Dijen made for the door and closed it noisily
behind him.
As the room was rather dark, I moved nearer to the window overlooking
the street. The scant sunlight suddenly increased to an intense
brilliancy in which the iron-barred window completely vanished.
Against this dazzling background appeared the clearly materialized
figure of Sri Yukteswar!
Bewildered to the point of shock, I rose from my chair and knelt
before him. With my customary gesture of respectful greeting at
my guru’s feet, I touched his shoes. These were a pair familiar to
me, of orange-dyed canvas, soled with rope. His ocher swami cloth
brushed against me; I distinctly felt not only the texture of his
robe, but also the gritty surface of the shoes, and the pressure of
his toes within them. Too much astounded to utter a word, I stood
up and gazed at him questioningly.
“I was pleased that you got my telepathic message.” Master’s voice
was calm, entirely normal. “I have now finished my business in
Calcutta, and shall arrive in Serampore by the ten o’clock train.”
As I still stared mutely, Sri Yukteswar went on, “This is not
an apparition, but my flesh and blood form. I have been divinely
commanded to give you this experience, rare to achieve on earth.
Meet me at the station; you and Dijen will see me coming toward you,
dressed as I am now. I shall be preceded by a fellow passenger-a
little boy carrying a silver jug.”
My guru placed both hands on my head, with a murmured blessing. As
he concluded with the words, “TABA ASI,” {FN19-1} I heard a peculiar
rumbling sound. {FN19-2} His body began to melt gradually within
the piercing light. First his feet and legs vanished, then his
torso and head, like a scroll being rolled up. To the very last, I
could feel his fingers resting lightly on my hair. The effulgence
faded; nothing remained before me but the barred window and a pale
stream of sunlight.
I remained in a half-stupor of confusion, questioning whether I had
not been the victim of a hallucination. A crestfallen Dijen soon
entered the room.
“Master was not on the nine o’clock train, nor even the nine-thirty.”
My friend made his announcement with a slightly apologetic air.
“Come then; I know he will arrive at ten o’clock.” I took Dijen’s
hand and rushed him forcibly along with me, heedless of his protests.
In about ten minutes we entered the station, where the train was
already puffing to a halt.
“The whole train is filled with the light of Master’s aura! He is
there!” I exclaimed joyfully.
“You dream so?” Dijen laughed mockingly.
“Let us wait here.” I told my friend details of the way in which our
guru would approach us. As I finished my description, Sri Yukteswar
came into view, wearing the same clothes I had seen a short time
earlier. He walked slowly in the wake of a small lad bearing a
silver jug.
For a moment a wave of cold fear passed through me, at the
unprecedented strangeness of my experience. I felt the materialistic,
twentieth-century world slipping from me; was I back in the ancient
days when Jesus appeared before Peter on the sea?
As Sri Yukteswar, a modern Yogi-Christ, reached the spot where
Dijen and I were speechlessly rooted, Master smiled at my friend
and remarked:
“I sent you a message too, but you were unable to grasp it.”
Dijen was silent, but glared at me suspiciously. After we
had escorted our guru to his hermitage, my friend and I proceeded
toward Serampore College. Dijen halted in the street, indignation
streaming from his every pore.
“So! Master sent me a message! Yet you concealed it! I demand an
explanation!”
“Can I help it if your mental mirror oscillates with such restlessness
that you cannot register our guru’s instructions?” I retorted.
The anger vanished from Dijen’s face. “I see what you mean,” he
said ruefully. “But please explain how you could know about the
child with the jug.”
By the time I had finished the story of Master’s phenomenal
appearance at the boardinghouse that morning, my friend and I had
reached Serampore College.
“The account I have just heard of our guru’s powers,” Dijen said,
“makes me feel that any university in the world is only a kindergarten.”
{FN19-1} The Bengali “Good-by”; literally, it is a hopeful paradox:
“Then I come.”
{FN19-2} The characteristic sound of dematerialization of bodily
atoms.
CHAPTER: 20
WE DO NOT VISIT KASHMIR
“Father, I want to invite Master and four friends to accompany me
to the Himalayan foothills during my summer vacation. May I have
six train passes to Kashmir and enough money to cover our travel
expenses?”
As I had expected, Father laughed heartily. “This is the third time
you have given me the same cock-and-bull story. Didn’t you make a
similar request last summer, and the year before that? At the last
moment, Sri Yukteswarji refuses to go.”
“It is true, Father; I don’t know why my guru will not give me his
definite word about Kashmir. {FN20-1} But if I tell him that I have
already secured the passes from you, somehow I think that this time
he will consent to make the journey.”
Father was unconvinced at the moment, but the following day, after
some good-humored gibes, he handed me six passes and a roll of
ten-rupee bills.
“I hardly think your theoretical trip needs such practical props,”
he remarked, “but here they are.”
That afternoon I exhibited my booty to Sri Yukteswar. Though he
smiled at my enthusiasm, his words were noncommittal: “I would like
to go; we shall see.” He made no comment when I asked his little
hermitage disciple, Kanai, to accompany us. I also invited three
other friends—Rajendra Nath Mitra, Jotin Auddy, and one other boy.
Our date of departure was set for the following Monday.
On Saturday and Sunday I stayed in Calcutta, where marriage rites
for a cousin were being celebrated at my family home. I arrived in
Serampore with my luggage early Monday morning. Rajendra met me at
the hermitage door.
“Master is out, walking. He has refused to go.”
I was equally grieved and obdurate. “I will not give Father a third
chance to ridicule my chimerical plans for Kashmir. Come; the rest
of us will go anyhow.”
Rajendra agreed; I left the ashram to find a servant. Kanai, I knew,
would not take the trip without Master, and someone was needed to
look after the luggage. I bethought myself of Behari, previously
a servant in my family home, who was now employed by a Serampore
schoolmaster. As I walked along briskly, I met my guru in front
of the Christian church near Serampore Courthouse.
“Where are you going?” Sri Yukteswar’s face was unsmiling.
“Sir, I hear that you and Kanai will not take the trip we have been
planning. I am seeking Behari. You will recall that last year he
was so anxious to see Kashmir that he even offered to serve without
pay.”
“I remember. Nevertheless, I don’t think Behari will be willing to
go.”
I was exasperated. “He is just eagerly waiting for this opportunity!”
My guru silently resumed his walk; I soon reached the schoolmaster’s
house. Behari, in the courtyard, greeted me with a friendly warmth
that abruptly vanished as soon as I mentioned Kashmir. With a murmured
word of apology, the servant left me and entered his employer’s
house. I waited half an hour, nervously assuring myself that
Behari’s delay was being caused by preparations for his trip.
Finally I knocked at the front door.
“Behari left by the back stairs about thirty minutes ago,” a man