Autobiography of a Yogi
“Cheer up, Mukunda.” Sri Yukteswar’s tones were light and unconcerned.
He pointed to the blue vault of the heavens. “It is more possible
for the sun and moon to interchange their positions in space than
it is for you to fail in getting your degree!”
I left the hermitage in a more tranquil mood, though it seemed
mathematically inconceivable that I could pass. I looked once or
twice apprehensively into the sky; the Lord of Day appeared to be
securely anchored in his customary orbit!
As I reached the PANTHI, I overheard a classmate’s remark: “I
have just learned that this year, for the first time, the required
passing mark in English literature has been lowered.”
I entered the boy’s room with such speed that he looked up in alarm.
I questioned him eagerly.
“Long-haired monk,” he said laughingly, “why this sudden interest
in scholastic matters? Why cry in the eleventh hour? But it is true
that the passing mark has just been lowered to 33 points.”
A few joyous leaps took me into my own room, where I sank to my
knees and praised the mathematical perfections of my Divine Father.
Every day I thrilled with the consciousness of a spiritual presence
that I clearly felt to be guiding me through Romesh. A significant
incident occurred in connection with the examination in Bengali.
Romesh, who had touched little on that subject, called me back
one morning as I was leaving the boardinghouse on my way to the
examination hall.
“There is Romesh shouting for you,” a classmate said to me impatiently.
“Don’t return; we shall be late at the hall.”
Ignoring the advice, I ran back to the house.
“The Bengali examination is usually easily passed by our Bengali
boys,” Romesh told me. “But I have just had a hunch that this
year the professors have planned to massacre the students by asking
questions from our ancient literature.” My friend then briefly outlined
two stories from the life of Vidyasagar, a renowned philanthropist.
I thanked Romesh and quickly bicycled to the college hall.
The examination sheet in Bengali proved to contain two parts. The
first instruction was: “Write two instances of the charities of
Vidyasagar.” As I transferred to the paper the lore that I had so
recently acquired, I whispered a few words of thanksgiving that
I had heeded Romesh’s last-minute summons. Had I been ignorant of
Vidyasagar’s benefactions to mankind (including ultimately myself),
I could not have passed the Bengali examination. Failing in one
subject, I would have been forced to stand examination anew in all
subjects the following year. Such a prospect was understandably
abhorrent.
The second instruction on the sheet read: “Write an essay in Bengali
on the life of the man who has most inspired you.” Gentle reader,
I need not inform you what man I chose for my theme. As I covered
page after page with praise of my guru, I smiled to realize that
my muttered prediction was coming true: “I will fill up the sheets
with your teachings!”
I had not felt inclined to question Romesh about my course in
philosophy. Trusting my long training under Sri Yukteswar, I safely
disregarded the textbook explanations. The highest mark given to
any of my papers was the one in philosophy. My score in all other
subjects was just barely within the passing mark.
It is a pleasure to record that my unselfish friend Romesh received
his own degree CUM LAUDE.
Father was wreathed in smiles at my graduation. “I hardly thought
you would pass, Mukunda,” he confessed. “You spend so much time
with your guru.” Master had indeed correctly detected the unspoken
criticism of my father.
For years I had been uncertain that I would ever see the day
when an A.B. would follow my name. I seldom use the title without
reflecting that it was a divine gift, conferred on me for reasons
somewhat obscure. Occasionally I hear college men remark that
very little of their crammed knowledge remained with them after
graduation. That admission consoles me a bit for my undoubted
academic deficiencies.
On the day I received my degree from Calcutta University, I knelt
at my guru’s feet and thanked him for all the blessings flowing
from his life into mine.
“Get up, Mukunda,” he said indulgently. “The Lord simply found it
more convenient to make you a graduate than to rearrange the sun
and moon!”
{FN23-1} I must do Professor Ghoshal the justice of admitting
that the strained relationship between us was not due to any fault
of his, but solely to my absences from classes and inattention
in them. Professor Ghoshal was, and is, a remarkable orator with
vast philosophical knowledge. In later years we came to a cordial
understanding..
{FN23-2} Although my cousin and I have the same family name of
Ghosh, Prabhas has accustomed himself to transliterating his name
in English as Ghose; therefore I follow his own spelling here.
{FN23-3} A disciple always removes his shoes in an Indian hermitage.
{FN23-4} MATTHEW 6:33.
CHAPTER: 24
I BECOME A MONK OF THE SWAMI ORDER
“Master, my father has been anxious for me to accept an executive
position with the Bengal-Nagpur Railway. But I have definitely
refused it.” I added hopefully, “Sir, will you not make me a monk of
the Swami Order?” I looked pleadingly at my guru. During preceding
years, in order to test the depth of my determination, he had
refused this same request. Today, however, he smiled graciously.
“Very well; tomorrow I will initiate you into swamiship.” He went
on quietly, “I am happy that you have persisted in your desire to
be a monk. Lahiri Mahasaya often said: ‘If you don’t invite God to
be your summer Guest, He won’t come in the winter of your life.’”
“Dear master, I could never falter in my goal to belong to the Swami
Order like your revered self.” I smiled at him with measureless
affection.
“He that is unmarried careth for the things that belong to the Lord,
how he may please the Lord: but he that is married careth for the
things of the world, how he may please his wife.” {FN24-1} I had
analyzed the lives of many of my friends who, after undergoing
certain spiritual discipline, had then married. Launched on the sea
of worldly responsibilities, they had forgotten their resolutions
to meditate deeply.
To allot God a secondary place in life was, to me, inconceivable.
Though He is the sole Owner of the cosmos, silently showering us
with gifts from life to life, one thing yet remains which He does
not own, and which each human heart is empowered to withhold or
bestow-man’s love. The Creator, in taking infinite pains to shroud
with mystery His presence in every atom of creation, could have had
but one motive-a sensitive desire that men seek Him only through
free will. With what velvet glove of every humility has He not
covered the iron hand of omnipotence!
The following day was one of the most memorable in my life. It
was a sunny Thursday, I remember, in July, 1914, a few weeks after
my graduation from college. On the inner balcony of his Serampore
hermitage, Master dipped a new piece of white silk into a dye of
ocher, the traditional color of the Swami Order. After the cloth
had dried, my guru draped it around me as a renunciate’s robe.
“Someday you will go to the West, where silk is preferred,” he said.
“As a symbol, I have chosen for you this silk material instead of
the customary cotton.”
In India, where monks embrace the ideal of poverty, a silk-clad
swami is an unusual sight. Many yogis, however, wear garments of
silk, which preserves certain subtle bodily currents better than
cotton.
“I am averse to ceremonies,” Sri Yukteswar remarked. “I will make
you a swami in the BIDWAT (non-ceremonious) manner.”
The BIBIDISA or elaborate initiation into swamiship includes a fire
ceremony, during which symbolical funeral rites are performed. The
physical body of the disciple is represented as dead, cremated in
the flame of wisdom. The newly-made swami is then given a chant,
such as: “This ATMA is Brahma” {FN24-2} or “Thou art That” or “I am
He.” Sri Yukteswar, however, with his love of simplicity, dispensed
with all formal rites and merely asked me to select a new name.
“I will give you the privilege of choosing it yourself,” he said,
smiling.
“Yogananda,” I replied, after a moment’s thought. The name literally
means “Bliss (ANANDA) through divine union (YOGA).”
“Be it so. Forsaking your family name of Mukunda Lal Ghosh,
henceforth you shall be called Yogananda of the Giri branch of the
Swami Order.”
As I knelt before Sri Yukteswar, and for the first time heard him
pronounce my new name, my heart overflowed with gratitude. How
lovingly and tirelessly had he labored, that the boy Mukunda be
someday transformed into the monk Yogananda! I joyfully sang a few
verses from the long Sanskrit chant of Lord Shankara:
“Mind, nor intellect, nor ego, feeling;
Sky nor earth nor metals am I.
I am He, I am He, Blessed Spirit, I am He!
No birth, no death, no caste have I;
Father, mother, have I none.
I am He, I am He, Blessed Spirit, I am He!
Beyond the flights of fancy, formless am I,
Permeating the limbs of all life;
Bondage I do not fear; I am free, ever free,
I am He, I am He, Blessed Spirit, I am He!”
Every swami belongs to the ancient monastic order which was organized
in its present form by Shankara. {FN24-3} Because it is a formal
order, with an unbroken line of saintly representatives serving
as active leaders, no man can give himself the title of swami.
He rightfully receives it only from another swami; all monks thus
trace their spiritual lineage to one common guru, Lord Shankara. By
vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience to the spiritual teacher,
many Catholic Christian monastic orders resemble the Order of
Swamis.
In addition to his new name, usually ending in ANANDA, the swami
takes a title which indicates his formal connection with one of
the ten subdivisions of the Swami Order. These DASANAMIS or ten
agnomens include the GIRI (mountain), to which Sri Yukteswar, and
hence myself, belong. Among the other branches are the SAGAR (sea),
BHARATI (land), ARANYA (forest), PURI (tract), TIRTHA (place of
pilgrimage), and SARASWATI (wisdom of nature).
The new name received by a swami thus has a twofold significance,
and represents the attainment of supreme bliss (ANANDA) through some
divine quality or state-love, wisdom, devotion, service, yoga-and
through a harmony with nature, as expressed in her infinite vastness
of oceans, mountains, skies.
The ideal of selfless service to all mankind, and of renunciation
of personal ties and ambitions, leads the majority of swamis to
engage actively in humanitarian and educational work in India, or
occasionally in foreign lands. Ignoring all prejudices of caste,
creed, class, color, sex, or race, a swami follows the precepts of
human brotherhood. His goal is absolute unity with Spirit. Imbuing
his waking and sleeping consciousness with the thought, “I am He,”
he roams contentedly, in the world but not of it. Thus only may
he justify his title of swami-one who seeks to achieve union with
the SWA or Self. It is needless to add that not all formally titled
swamis are equally successful in reaching their high goal.