Autobiography of a Yogi
informed me. A slight smile hovered about his lips.
I departed sadly, wondering whether my invitation had been too
coercive or whether Master’s unseen influence were at work. Passing
the Christian church, again I saw my guru walking slowly toward
me. Without waiting to hear my report, he exclaimed:
“So Behari would not go! Now, what are your plans?”
I felt like a recalcitrant child who is determined to defy his
masterful father. “Sir, I am going to ask my uncle to lend me his
servant, Lal Dhari.”
“See your uncle if you want to,” Sri Yukteswar replied with a
chuckle. “But I hardly think you will enjoy the visit.”
Apprehensive but rebellious, I left my guru and entered Serampore
Courthouse. My paternal uncle, Sarada Ghosh, a government attorney,
welcomed me affectionately.
“I am leaving today with some friends for Kashmir,” I told him.
“For years I have been looking forward to this Himalayan trip.”
“I am happy for you, Mukunda. Is there anything I can do to make
your journey more comfortable?”
These kind words gave me a lift of encouragement. “Dear uncle,” I
said, “could you possibly spare me your servant, Lal Dhari?”
My simple request had the effect of an earthquake. Uncle jumped so
violently that his chair overturned, the papers on the desk flew in
every direction, and his pipe, a long, coconut-stemmed hubble-bubble,
fell to the floor with a great clatter.
“You selfish young man,” he shouted, quivering with wrath, “what a
preposterous idea! Who will look after me, if you take my servant
on one of your pleasure jaunts?”
I concealed my surprise, reflecting that my amiable uncle’s sudden
change of front was only one more enigma in a day fully devoted
to incomprehensibility. My retreat from the courthouse office was
more alacritous than dignified.
I returned to the hermitage, where my friends were expectantly
gathered. Conviction was growing on me that some sufficient if
exceedingly recondite motive was behind Master’s attitude. Remorse
seized me that I had been trying to thwart my guru’s will.
“Mukunda, wouldn’t you like to stay awhile longer with me?” Sri
Yukteswar inquired. “Rajendra and the others can go ahead now, and
wait for you at Calcutta. There will be plenty of time to catch
the last evening train leaving Calcutta for Kashmir.”
“Sir, I don’t care to go without you,” I said mournfully.
My friends paid not the slightest attention to my remark. They
summoned a hackney carriage and departed with all the luggage.
Kanai and I sat quietly at our guru’s feet. After a half hour of
complete silence, Master rose and walked toward the second-floor
dining patio.
“Kanai, please serve Mukunda’s food. His train leaves soon.”
Getting up from my blanket seat, I staggered suddenly with nausea
and a ghastly churning sensation in my stomach. The stabbing pain
was so intense that I felt I had been abruptly hurled into some
violent hell. Groping blindly toward my guru, I collapsed before
him, attacked by all symptoms of the dread Asiatic cholera. Sri
Yukteswar and Kanai carried me to the sitting room.
Racked with agony, I cried, “Master, I surrender my life to you;”
for I believed it was indeed fast ebbing from the shores of my
body.
Sri Yukteswar put my head on his lap, stroking my forehead with
angelic tenderness.
“You see now what would have happened if you were at the station
with your friends,” he said. “I had to look after you in this strange
way, because you chose to doubt my judgment about taking the trip
at this particular time.”
I understood at last. Inasmuch as great masters seldom see fit to
display their powers openly, a casual observer of the day’s events
would have imagined that their sequence was quite natural. My guru’s
intervention had been too subtle to be suspected. He had worked
his will through Behari and my Uncle Sarada and Rajendra and the
others in such an inconspicuous manner that probably everyone but
myself thought the situations had been logically normal.
As Sri Yukteswar never failed to observe his social obligations,
he instructed Kanai to go for a specialist, and to notify my uncle.
“Master,” I protested, “only you can heal me. I am too far gone
for any doctor.”
“Child, you are protected by the Divine Mercy. Don’t worry about
the doctor; he will not find you in this state. You are already
healed.”
With my guru’s words, the excruciating suffering left me. I sat up
feebly. A doctor soon arrived and examined me carefully.
“You appear to have passed through the worst,” he said. “I will
take some specimens with me for laboratory tests.”
The following morning the physician arrived hurriedly. I was sitting
up, in good spirits.
“Well, well, here you are, smiling and chatting as though you had
had no close call with death.” He patted my hand gently. “I hardly
expected to find you alive, after I had discovered from the specimens
that your disease was Asiatic cholera. You are fortunate, young
man, to have a guru with divine healing powers! I am convinced of
it!”
I agreed wholeheartedly. As the doctor was preparing to leave,
Rajendra and Auddy appeared at the door. The resentment in their
faces changed into sympathy as they glanced at the physician and
then at my somewhat wan countenance.
“We were angry when you didn’t turn up as agreed at the Calcutta
train. You have been sick?”
“Yes.” I could not help laughing as my friends placed the luggage
in the same corner it had occupied yesterday. I quoted: “There was
a ship that went to Spain; when it arrived, it came back again!”
Master entered the room. I permitted myself a convalescent’s liberty,
and captured his hand lovingly.
“Guruji,” I said, “from my twelfth year on, I have made many
unsuccessful attempts to reach the Himalayas. I am finally convinced
that without your blessings the Goddess Parvati {FN20-2} will not
receive me!”
{FN20-1} Although Master failed to make any explanation, his
reluctance to visit Kashmir during those two summers may have been
a foreknowledge that the time was not ripe for his illness there
(see chapter 22).
{FN20-2} Literally, “of the mountains.” Parvati, mythologically
represented as a daughter of Himavat or the sacred mountains, is
a name given to the SHAKTI or “consort” of Shiva.
CHAPTER: 21
WE VISIT KASHMIR
“You are strong enough now to travel. I will accompany you to
Kashmir,” Sri Yukteswar informed me two days after my miraculous
recovery from Asiatic cholera.
That evening our party of six entrained for the north. Our first
leisurely stop was at Simla, a queenly city resting on the throne
of Himalayan hills. We strolled over the steep streets, admiring
the magnificent views.
“English strawberries for sale,” cried an old woman, squatting in
a picturesque open market place.
Master was curious about the strange little red fruits. He bought
a basketful and offered it to Kanai and myself, who were near-by.
I tasted one berry but spat it hastily on the ground.
“Sir, what a sour fruit! I could never like strawberries!”
My guru laughed. “Oh, you will like them-in America. At a dinner
there, your hostess will serve them with sugar and cream. After she
has mashed the berries with a fork, you will taste them and say:
‘What delicious strawberries!’ Then you will remember this day in
Simla.”
Sri Yukteswar’s forecast vanished from my mind, but reappeared
there many years later, shortly after my arrival in America. I was
a dinner guest at the home of Mrs. Alice T. Hasey (Sister Yogmata)
in West Somerville, Massachusetts. When a dessert of strawberries
was put on the table, my hostess picked up her fork and mashed my
berries, adding cream and sugar. “The fruit is rather tart; I think
you will like it fixed this way,” she remarked.
I took a mouthful. “What delicious strawberries!” I exclaimed.
At once my guru’s prediction in Simla emerged from the fathomless
cave of memory. It was staggering to realize that long ago Sri
Yukteswar’s God-tuned mind had sensitively detected the program of
karmic events wandering in the ether of futurity.
Our party soon left Simla and entrained for Rawalpindi. There
we hired a large landau, drawn by two horses, in which we started
a seven-day trip to Srinagar, capital city of Kashmir. The second
day of our northbound journey brought into view the true Himalayan
vastness. As the iron wheels of our carriage creaked along the hot,
stony roads, we were enraptured with changing vistas of mountainous
grandeur.
“Sir,” Auddy said to Master, “I am greatly enjoying these glorious
scenes in your holy company.”
I felt a throb of pleasure at Auddy’s appreciation, for I was acting
as host on this trip. Sri Yukteswar caught my thought; he turned
to me and whispered:
“Don’t flatter yourself; Auddy is not nearly as entranced with the
scenery as he is with the prospect of leaving us long enough to
have a cigaret.”
I was shocked. “Sir,” I said in an undertone, “please do not break
our harmony by these unpleasant words. I can hardly believe that
Auddy is hankering for a smoke.” {FN21-1} I looked apprehensively
at my usually irrepressible guru.
“Very well; I won’t say anything to Auddy.” Master chuckled. “But
you will soon see, when the landau halts, that Auddy is quick to
seize his opportunity.”
The carriage arrived at a small caravanserai. As our horses were led
to be watered, Auddy inquired, “Sir, do you mind if I ride awhile
with the driver? I would like to get a little outside air.”
Sri Yukteswar gave permission, but remarked to me, “He wants fresh
smoke and not fresh air.”
The landau resumed its noisy progress over the dusty roads. Master’s
eyes were twinkling; he instructed me, “Crane up your neck through
the carriage door and see what Auddy is doing with the air.”
I obeyed, and was astounded to observe Auddy in the act of exhaling
rings of cigaret smoke. My glance toward Sri Yukteswar was apologetic.
“You are right, as always, sir. Auddy is enjoying a puff along with
a panorama.” I surmised that my friend had received a gift from the
cab driver; I knew Auddy had not carried any cigarets from Calcutta.
We continued on the labyrinthine way, adorned by views of rivers,
valleys, precipitous crags, and multitudinous mountain tiers.
Every night we stopped at rustic inns, and prepared our own food.
Sri Yukteswar took special care of my diet, insisting that I have
lime juice at all meals. I was still weak, but daily improving,
though the rattling carriage was strictly designed for discomfort.
Joyous anticipations filled our hearts as we neared central Kashmir,
paradise land of lotus lakes, floating gardens, gaily canopied
houseboats, the many-bridged Jhelum River, and flower-strewn
pastures, all ringed round by the Himalayan majesty. Our approach
to Srinagar was through an avenue of tall, welcoming trees. We
engaged rooms at a double-storied inn overlooking the noble hills.
No running water was available; we drew our supply from a near-by
well. The summer weather was ideal, with warm days and slightly
cold nights.
We made a pilgrimage to the ancient Srinagar temple of Swami
Shankara. As I gazed upon the mountain-peak hermitage, standing
bold against the sky, I fell into an ecstatic trance. A vision
appeared of a hilltop mansion in a distant land. The lofty Shankara
ashram before me was transformed into the structure where, years
later, I established the Self-Realization Fellowship headquarters
in America. When I first visited Los Angeles, and saw the large
building on the crest of Mount Washington, I recognized it at once
from my long-past visions in Kashmir and elsewhere.
A few days at Srinagar; then on to Gulmarg (“mountain paths of
flowers”), elevated by six thousand feet. There I had my first ride