Autobiography of a Yogi
on a large horse. Rajendra mounted a small trotter, whose heart
was fired with ambition for speed. We ventured onto the very steep
Khilanmarg; the path led through a dense forest, abounding in
tree-mushrooms, where the mist-shrouded trails were often precarious.
But Rajendra’s little animal never permitted my oversized steed a
moment’s rest, even at the most perilous turns. On, on, untiringly
came Rajendra’s horse, oblivious to all but the joy of competition.
Our strenuous race was rewarded by a breath-taking view. For
the first time in this life, I gazed in all directions at sublime
snow-capped Himalayas, lying tier upon tier like silhouettes of
huge polar bears. My eyes feasted exultingly on endless reaches
of icy mountains against sunny blue skies.
I rolled merrily with my young companions, all wearing overcoats,
on the sparkling white slopes. On our downward trip we saw afar a
vast carpet of yellow flowers, wholly transfiguring the bleak hills.
Our next excursions were to the famous royal “pleasure gardens”
of the Emperor Jehangir, at Shalimar and Nishat Bagh. The ancient
palace at Nishat Bagh is built directly over a natural waterfall.
Rushing down from the mountains, the torrent has been regulated
through ingenious contrivances to flow over colorful terraces and
to gush into fountains amidst the dazzling flower-beds. The stream
also enters several of the palace rooms, ultimately dropping fairy
like into the lake below. The immense gardens are riotous with
color—roses of a dozen hues, snapdragons, lavender, pansies,
poppies. An emerald enclosing outline is given by symmetrical rows
of CHINARS, {FN21-2} cypresses, cherry trees; beyond them tower
the white austerities of the Himalayas.
Kashmir grapes are considered a rare delicacy in Calcutta. Rajendra,
who had been promising himself a veritable feast on reaching Kashmir,
was disappointed to find there no large vineyards. Now and then I
chaffed him jocosely over his baseless anticipation.
“Oh, I have become so much gorged with grapes I can’t walk!” I
would say. “The invisible grapes are brewing within me!” Later I
heard that sweet grapes grow abundantly in Kabul, west of Kashmir.
We consoled ourselves with ice cream made of RABRI, a heavily
condensed milk, and flavored with whole pistachio nuts.
We took several trips in the SHIKARAS or houseboats, shaded by
red-embroidered canopies, coursing along the intricate channels of
Dal Lake, a network of canals like a watery spider web. Here the
numerous floating gardens, crudely improvised with logs and earth,
strike one with amazement, so incongruous is the first sight of
vegetables and melons growing in the midst of vast waters. Occasionally
one sees a peasant, disdaining to be “rooted to the soil,” towing
his square plot of “land” to a new location in the many-fingered
lake.
In this storied vale one finds an epitome of all the earth’s
beauties. The Lady of Kashmir is mountain-crowned, lake-garlanded,
and flower-shod. In later years, after I had toured many distant
lands, I understood why Kashmir is often called the world’s most
scenic spot. It possesses some of the charms of the Swiss Alps,
and of Loch Lomond in Scotland, and of the exquisite English lakes.
An American traveler in Kashmir finds much to remind him of the
rugged grandeur of Alaska and of Pikes Peak near Denver.
As entries in a scenic beauty contest, I offer for first prize
either the gorgeous view of Xochimilco in Mexico, where mountains,
skies, and poplars reflect themselves in myriad lanes of water amidst
the playful fish, or the jewel-like lakes of Kashmir, guarded like
beautiful maidens by the stern surveillance of the Himalayas. These
two places stand out in my memory as the loveliest spots on earth.
Yet I was awed also when I first beheld the wonders of Yellowstone
National Park and of the Grand Canyon of the Colorado, and of
Alaska. Yellowstone Park is perhaps the only region where one can
see innumerable geysers shooting high into the air, performing year
after year with clockwork regularity. Its opal and sapphire pools
and hot sulphurous springs, its bears and wild creatures, remind
one that here Nature left a specimen of her earliest creation.
Motoring along the roads of Wyoming to the “Devil’s Paint Pot” of
hot bubbling mud, with gurgling springs, vaporous fountains, and
spouting geysers in all directions, I was disposed to say that
Yellowstone deserves a special prize for uniqueness.
The ancient majestic redwoods of Yosemite, stretching their huge
columns far into the unfathomable sky, are green natural cathedrals
designed with skill divine. Though there are wonderful falls in
the Orient, none match the torrential beauty of Niagara near the
Canadian border. The Mammoth Caves of Kentucky and the Carlsbad
Caverns in New Mexico, with colorful iciclelike formations, are
stunning fairylands. Their long needles of stalactite spires,
hanging from cave ceilings and mirrored in underground waters,
present a glimpse of other worlds as fancied by man.
Most of the Hindus of Kashmir, world-famed for their beauty, are
as white as Europeans and have similar features and bone structure;
many have blue eyes and blonde hair. Dressed in Western clothes,
they look like Americans. The cold Himalayas protect the Kashmiris
from the sultry sun and preserve their light complexions. As one
travels to the southern and tropical latitudes of India, he finds
progressively that the people become darker and darker.
After spending happy weeks in Kashmir, I was forced to return to
Bengal for the fall term of Serampore College. Sri Yukteswar remained
in Srinagar, with Kanai and Auddy. Before I departed, Master hinted
that his body would be subject to suffering in Kashmir.
“Sir, you look a picture of health,” I protested.
“There is a chance that I may even leave this earth.”
“Guruji!” I fell at his feet with an imploring gesture. “Please
promise that you won’t leave your body now. I am utterly unprepared
to carry on without you.”
Sri Yukteswar was silent, but smiled at me so compassionately that
I felt reassured. Reluctantly I left him.
“Master dangerously ill.” This telegram from Auddy reached me
shortly after my return to Serampore.
“Sir,” I wired my guru frantically, “I asked for your promise not
to leave me. Please keep your body; otherwise, I also shall die.”
“Be it as you wish.” This was Sri Yukteswar’s reply from Kashmir.
A letter from Auddy arrived in a few days, informing me that
Master had recovered. On his return to Serampore during the next
fortnight, I was grieved to find my guru’s body reduced to half
its usual weight.
Fortunately for his disciples, Sri Yukteswar burned many of their
sins in the fire of his severe fever in Kashmir. The metaphysical
method of physical transfer of disease is known to highly advanced
yogis. A strong man can assist a weaker one by helping to carry his
heavy load; a spiritual superman is able to minimize his disciples’
physical or mental burdens by sharing the karma of their past actions.
Just as a rich man loses some money when he pays off a large debt
for his prodigal son, who is thus saved from dire consequences of
his own folly, so a master willingly sacrifices a portion of his
bodily wealth to lighten the misery of disciples. {FN21-3}
By a secret method, the yogi unites his mind and astral vehicle
with those of a suffering individual; the disease is conveyed,
wholly or in part, to the saint’s body. Having harvested God on
the physical field, a master no longer cares what happens to that
material form. Though he may allow it to register a certain disease
in order to relieve others, his mind is never affected; he considers
himself fortunate in being able to render such aid.
The devotee who has achieved final salvation in the Lord finds that
his body has completely fulfilled its purpose; he can then use it
in any way he deems fit. His work in the world is to alleviate the
sorrows of mankind, whether through spiritual means or by intellectual
counsel or through will power or by the physical transfer of disease.
Escaping to the superconsciousness whenever he so desires, a master
can remain oblivious of physical suffering; sometimes he chooses to
bear bodily pain stoically, as an example to disciples. By putting
on the ailments of others, a yogi can satisfy, for them, the karmic
law of cause and effect. This law is mechanically or mathematically
operative; its workings can be scientifically manipulated by men
of divine wisdom.
The spiritual law does not require a master to become ill whenever
he heals another person. Healings ordinarily take place through
the saint’s knowledge of various methods of instantaneous cure in
which no hurt to the spiritual healer is involved. On rare occasions,
however, a master who wishes to greatly quicken his disciples’
evolution may then voluntarily work out on his own body a large
measure of their undesirable karma.
Jesus signified himself as a ransom for the sins of many. With his
divine powers, {FN21-4} his body could never have been subjected
to death by crucifixion if he had not willingly cooperated with
the subtle cosmic law of cause and effect. He thus took on himself
the consequences of others’ karma, especially that of his disciples.
In this manner they were highly purified and made fit to receive
the omnipresent consciousness which later descended on them.
Only a self-realized master can transfer his life force, or convey
into his own body the diseases of others. An ordinary man cannot
employ this yogic method of cure, nor is it desirable that he
should do so; for an unsound physical instrument is a hindrance to
God—meditation. The Hindu scriptures teach that the first duty of
man is to keep his body in good condition; otherwise his mind is
unable to remain fixed in devotional concentration.
A very strong mind, however, can transcend all physical difficulties
and attain to God-realization. Many saints have ignored illness and
succeeded in their divine quest. St. Francis of Assisi, severely
afflicted with ailments, healed others and even raised the dead.
I knew an Indian saint, half of whose body was once festering with
sores. His diabetic condition was so acute that under ordinary
conditions he could not sit still at one time for more than fifteen
minutes. But his spiritual aspiration was undeterrable. “Lord,”
he prayed, “wilt Thou come into my broken temple?” With ceaseless
command of will, the saint gradually became able to sit daily in
the lotus posture for eighteen continuous hours, engrossed in the
ecstatic trance.
“And,” he told me, “at the end of three years, I found the Infinite
Light blazing within my shattered form. Rejoicing in the joyful
splendour, I forgot the body. Later I saw that it had become whole
through the Divine Mercy.”
A historical healing incident concerns King Baber (1483-1530),
founder of the Mogul empire in India. His son, Prince Humayun, was
mortally ill. The father prayed with anguished determination that
he receive the sickness, and that his son be spared. After all
physicians had given up hope, Humayun recovered. Baber immediately
fell sick and died of the same disease which had stricken his son.
Humayun succeeded Baber as Emperor of Hindustan.
Many people imagine that every spiritual master has, or should have,
the health and strength of a Sandow. The assumption is unfounded.
A sickly body does not indicate that a guru is not in touch with
divine powers, any more than lifelong health necessarily indicates an
inner illumination. The condition of the physical body, in other
words, cannot rightfully be made a test of a master. His distinguishing
qualifications must be sought in his own domain, the spiritual.