Autobiography of a Yogi
Sri Yukteswar’s face relaxed in a peaceful smile. Though nearing
his eighty-first birthday, he looked well and strong.
Basking day by day in the sunshine of my guru’s love, unspoken but
keenly felt, I banished from my conscious mind the various hints
he had given of his approaching passing.
“Sir, the KUMBHA MELA is convening this month at Allahabad.” I
showed Master the MELA dates in a Bengali almanac. {FN42-6}
“Do you really want to go?”
Not sensing Sri Yukteswar’s reluctance to have me leave him, I went
on, “Once you beheld the blessed sight of Babaji at an Allahabad
KUMBHA. Perhaps this time I shall be fortunate enough to see him.”
“I do not think you will meet him there.” My guru then fell into
silence, not wishing to obstruct my plans.
When I set out for Allahabad the following day with a small group,
Master blessed me quietly in his usual manner. Apparently I was
remaining oblivious to implications in Sri Yukteswar’s attitude
because the Lord wished to spare me the experience of being forced,
helplessly, to witness my guru’s passing. It has always happened in
my life that, at the death of those dearly beloved by me, God has
compassionately arranged that I be distant from the scene. {FN42-7}
Our party reached the KUMBHA MELA on January 23, 1936. The surging
crowd of nearly two million persons was an impressive sight, even
an overwhelming one. The peculiar genius of the Indian people is
the reverence innate in even the lowliest peasant for the worth of
the Spirit, and for the monks and sadhus who have forsaken worldly
ties to seek a diviner anchorage. Imposters and hypocrites there
are indeed, but India respects all for the sake of the few who
illumine the whole land with supernal blessings. Westerners who
were viewing the vast spectacle had a unique opportunity to feel
the pulse of the land, the spiritual ardor to which India owes her
quenchless vitality before the blows of time.
The first day was spent by our group in sheer staring. Here were
countless bathers, dipping in the holy river for remission of sins;
there we saw solemn rituals of worship; yonder were devotional
offerings being strewn at the dusty feet of saints; a turn of our
heads, and a line of elephants, caparisoned horses and slow-paced
Rajputana camels filed by, or a quaint religious parade of naked
sadhus, waving scepters of gold and silver, or flags and streamers
of silken velvet.
Anchorites wearing only loincloths sat quietly in little groups,
their bodies besmeared with the ashes that protect them from the
heat and cold. The spiritual eye was vividly represented on their
foreheads by a single spot of sandalwood paste. Shaven-headed swamis
appeared by the thousands, ocher-robed and carrying their bamboo
staff and begging bowl. Their faces beamed with the renunciate’s
peace as they walked about or held philosophical discussions with
disciples.
Here and there under the trees, around huge piles of burning logs,
were picturesque sadhus, {FN42-8} their hair braided and massed in
coils on top of their heads. Some wore beards several feet in length,
curled and tied in a knot. They meditated quietly, or extended
their hands in blessing to the passing throng-beggars, maharajas on
elephants, women in multicolored SARIS—their bangles and anklets
tinkling, FAKIRS with thin arms held grotesquely aloft, BRAHMACHARIS
carrying meditation elbow-props, humble sages whose solemnity hid
an inner bliss. High above the din we heard the ceaseless summons
of the temple bells.
On our second MELA day my companions and I entered various ashrams
and temporary huts, offering PRONAMS to saintly personages. We
received the blessing of the leader of the GIRI branch of the Swami
Order-a thin, ascetical monk with eyes of smiling fire. Our next
visit took us to a hermitage whose guru had observed for the past
nine years the vows of silence and a strict fruitarian diet. On the
central dais in the ashram hall sat a blind sadhu, Pragla Chakshu,
profoundly learned in the SHASTRAS and highly revered by all sects.
After I had given a brief discourse in Hindi on VEDANTA, our group
left the peaceful hermitage to greet a near-by swami, Krishnananda,
a handsome monk with rosy cheeks and impressive shoulders. Reclining
near him was a tame lioness. Succumbing to the monk’s spiritual
charm—not, I am sure, to his powerful physique!-the jungle animal
refuses all meat in favor of rice and milk. The swami has taught
the tawny-haired beast to utter “AUM” in a deep, attractive growl-a
cat devotee!
Our next encounter, an interview with a learned young sadhu, is
well described in Mr. Wright’s sparkling travel diary.
“We rode in the Ford across the very low Ganges on a creaking
pontoon bridge, crawling snakelike through the crowds and over
narrow, twisting lanes, passing the site on the river bank which
Yoganandaji pointed out to me as the meeting place of Babaji and
Sri Yukteswarji. Alighting from the car a short time later, we
walked some distance through the thickening smoke of the sadhus’
fires and over the slippery sands to reach a cluster of tiny,
very modest mud-and-straw huts. We halted in front of one of these
insignificant temporary dwellings, with a pygmy doorless entrance,
the shelter of Kara Patri, a young wandering sadhu noted for his
exceptional intelligence. There he sat, cross-legged on a pile of
straw, his only covering-and incidentally his only possession-being
an ocher cloth draped over his shoulders.
“Truly a divine face smiled at us after we had crawled on all fours
into the hut and PRONAMED at the feet of this enlightened soul,
while the kerosene lantern at the entrance flickered weird, dancing
shadows on the thatched walls. His face, especially his eyes
and perfect teeth, beamed and glistened. Although I was puzzled
by the Hindi, his expressions were very revealing; he was full of
enthusiasm, love, spiritual glory. No one could be mistaken as to
his greatness.
“Imagine the happy life of one unattached to the material world;
free of the clothing problem; free of food craving, never begging,
never touching cooked food except on alternate days, never carrying
a begging bowl; free of all money entanglements, never handling
money, never storing things away, always trusting in God; free
of transportation worries, never riding in vehicles, but always
walking on the banks of the sacred rivers; never remaining in one
place longer than a week in order to avoid any growth of attachment.
“Such a modest soul! unusually learned in the VEDAS, and possessing
an M.A. degree and the title of SHASTRI (master of scriptures) from
Benares University. A sublime feeling pervaded me as I sat at his
feet; it all seemed to be an answer to my desire to see the real,
the ancient India, for he is a true representative of this land of
spiritual giants.”
I questioned Kara Patri about his wandering life. “Don’t you have
any extra clothes for winter?”
“No, this is enough.”
“Do you carry any books?”
“No, I teach from memory those people who wish to hear me.”
“What else do you do?”
“I roam by the Ganges.”
At these quiet words, I was overpowered by a yearning for the simplicity
of his life. I remembered America, and all the responsibilities
that lay on my shoulders.
“No, Yogananda,” I thought, sadly for a moment, “in this life
roaming by the Ganges is not for you.”
After the sadhu had told me a few of his spiritual realizations,
I shot an abrupt question.
“Are you giving these descriptions from scriptural lore, or from
inward experience?”
“Half from book learning,” he answered with a straightforward smile,
“and half from experience.”
We sat happily awhile in meditative silence. After we had left his
sacred presence, I said to Mr. Wright, “He is a king sitting on a
throne of golden straw.”
We had our dinner that night on the MELA grounds under the stars,
eating from leaf plates pinned together with sticks. Dishwashings
in India are reduced to a minimum!
Two more days of the fascinating KUMBHA; then northwest along the
Jumna banks to Agra. Once again I gazed on the Taj Mahal; in memory
Jitendra stood by my side, awed by the dream in marble. Then on to
the Brindaban ashram of Swami Keshabananda.
My object in seeking out Keshabananda was connected with this book.
I had never forgotten Sri Yukteswar’s request that I write the life
of Lahiri Mahasaya. During my stay in India I was taking every
opportunity of contacting direct disciples and relatives of the
Yogavatar. Recording their conversations in voluminous notes, I
verified facts and dates, and collected photographs, old letters,
and documents. My Lahiri Mahasaya portfolio began to swell; I realized
with dismay that ahead of me lay arduous labors in authorship.
I prayed that I might be equal to my role as biographer of the
colossal guru. Several of his disciples feared that in a written
account their master might be belittled or misinterpreted.
“One can hardly do justice in cold words to the life of a divine
incarnation,” Panchanon Bhattacharya had once remarked to me.
Other close disciples were similarly satisfied to keep the Yogavatar
hidden in their hearts as the deathless preceptor. Nevertheless,
mindful of Lahiri Mahasaya’s prediction about his biography, I spared
no effort to secure and substantiate the facts of his outward life.
Swami Keshabananda greeted our party warmly at Brindaban in his
Katayani Peith Ashram, an imposing brick building with massive
black pillars, set in a beautiful garden. He ushered us at once
into a sitting room adorned with an enlargement of Lahiri Mahasaya’s
picture. The swami was approaching the age of ninety, but his
muscular body radiated strength and health. With long hair and
a snow-white beard, eyes twinkling with joy, he was a veritable
patriarchal embodiment. I informed him that I wanted to mention
his name in my book on India’s masters.
“Please tell me about your earlier life.” I smiled entreatingly;
great yogis are often uncommunicative.
Keshabananda made a gesture of humility. “There is little of external
moment. Practically my whole life has been spent in the Himalayan
solitudes, traveling on foot from one quiet cave to another. For
a while I maintained a small ashram outside Hardwar, surrounded on
all sides by a grove of tall trees. It was a peaceful spot little
visited by travelers, owing to the ubiquitous presence of cobras.”
Keshabananda chuckled. “Later a Ganges flood washed away the
hermitage and cobras alike. My disciples then helped me to build
this Brindaban ashram.”
One of our party asked the swami how he had protected himself
against the Himalayan tigers. {FN42-9}
Keshabananda shook his head. “In those high spiritual altitudes,”
he said, “wild beasts seldom molest the yogis. Once in the jungle
I encountered a tiger face-to-face. At my sudden ejaculation, the
animal was transfixed as though turned to stone.” Again the swami