Autobiography of a Yogi
chuckled at his memories.
“Occasionally I left my seclusion to visit my guru in Benares. He
used to joke with me over my ceaseless travels in the Himalayan
wilderness.
“‘You have the mark of wanderlust on your foot,’ he told me once.
‘I am glad that the sacred Himalayas are extensive enough to engross
you.’
“Many times,” Keshabananda went on, “both before and after his
passing, Lahiri Mahasaya has appeared bodily before me. For him no
Himalayan height is inaccessible!”
Two hours later he led us to a dining patio. I sighed in silent
dismay. Another fifteen-course meal! Less than a year of Indian
hospitality, and I had gained fifty pounds! Yet it would have been
considered the height of rudeness to refuse any of the dishes,
carefully prepared for the endless banquets in my honor. In India
(nowhere else, alas!) a well-padded swami is considered a delightful
sight. {FN42-10}
After dinner, Keshabananda led me to a secluded nook.
“Your arrival is not unexpected,” he said. “I have a message for
you.”
I was surprised; no one had known of my plan to visit Keshabananda.
“While roaming last year in the northern Himalayas near Badrinarayan,”
the swami continued, “I lost my way. Shelter appeared in a spacious
cave, which was empty, though the embers of a fire glowed in a hole
in the rocky floor. Wondering about the occupant of this lonely
retreat, I sat near the fire, my gaze fixed on the sunlit entrance
to the cave.
“‘Keshabananda, I am glad you are here.’ These words came from
behind me. I turned, startled, and was dazzled to behold Babaji!
The great guru had materialized himself in a recess of the cave.
Overjoyed to see him again after many years, I prostrated myself
at his holy feet.
“‘I called you here,’ Babaji went on. ‘That is why you lost your
way and were led to my temporary abode in this cave. It is a long
time since our last meeting; I am pleased to greet you once more.’
“The deathless master blessed me with some words of spiritual help,
then added: ‘I give you a message for Yogananda. He will pay you a
visit on his return to India. Many matters connected with his guru
and with the surviving disciples of Lahiri will keep Yogananda
fully occupied. Tell him, then, that I won’t see him this time, as
he is eagerly hoping; but I shall see him on some other occasion.’”
I was deeply touched to receive from Keshabananda’s lips this
consoling promise from Babaji. A certain hurt in my heart vanished;
I grieved no longer that, even as Sri Yukteswar had hinted, Babaji
did not appear at the KUMBHA MELA.
Spending one night as guests of the ashram, our party set out the
following afternoon for Calcutta. Riding over a bridge of the Jumna
River, we enjoyed a magnificent view of the skyline of Brindaban
just as the sun set fire to the sky-a veritable furnace of Vulcan
in color, reflected below us in the still waters.
The Jumna beach is hallowed by memories of the child Sri Krishna.
Here he engaged with innocent sweetness in his LILAS (plays)
with the GOPIS (maids), exemplifying the supernal love which ever
exists between a divine incarnation and his devotees. The life of
Lord Krishna has been misunderstood by many Western commentators.
Scriptural allegory is baffling to literal minds. A hilarious blunder
by a translator will illustrate this point. The story concerns an
inspired medieval saint, the cobbler Ravidas, who sang in the simple
terms of his own trade of the spiritual glory hidden in all mankind:
Under the vast vault of blue
Lives the divinity clothed in hide.
One turns aside to hide a smile on hearing the pedestrian interpretation
given to Ravidas’ poem by a Western writer:
“He afterwards built a hut, set up in it an idol which he made from
a hide, and applied himself to its worship.”
Ravidas was a brother disciple of the great Kabir. One of Ravidas’
exalted chelas was the Rani of Chitor. She invited a large number
of Brahmins to a feast in honor of her teacher, but they refused to
eat with a lowly cobbler. As they sat down in dignified aloofness
to eat their own uncontaminated meal, lo! each Brahmin found at his
side the form of Ravidas. This mass vision accomplished a widespread
spiritual revival in Chitor.
In a few days our little group reached Calcutta. Eager to see Sri
Yukteswar, I was disappointed to hear that he had left Serampore
and was now in Puri, about three hundred miles to the south.
“Come to Puri ashram at once.” This telegram was sent on March 8th
by a brother disciple to Atul Chandra Roy Chowdhry, one of Master’s
chelas in Calcutta. News of the message reached my ears; anguished
at its implications, I dropped to my knees and implored God that
my guru’s life be spared. As I was about to leave Father’s home
for the train, a divine voice spoke within.
“Do not go to Puri tonight. Thy prayer cannot be granted.”
“Lord,” I said, grief-stricken, “Thou dost not wish to engage
with me in a ‘tug of war’ at Puri, where Thou wilt have to deny
my incessant prayers for Master’s life. Must he, then, depart for
higher duties at Thy behest?”
In obedience to the inward command, I did not leave that night for
Puri. The following evening I set out for the train; on the way,
at seven o’clock, a black astral cloud suddenly covered the sky.
{FN42-11} Later, while the train roared toward Puri, a vision of
Sri Yukteswar appeared before me. He was sitting, very grave of
countenance, with a light on each side.
“Is it all over?” I lifted my arms beseechingly.
He nodded, then slowly vanished.
As I stood on the Puri train platform the following morning, still
hoping against hope, an unknown man approached me.
“Have you heard that your Master is gone?” He left me without another
word; I never discovered who he was nor how he had known where to
find me.
Stunned, I swayed against the platform wall, realizing that in
diverse ways my guru was trying to convey to me the devastating
news. Seething with rebellion, my soul was like a volcano. By the
time I reached the Puri hermitage I was nearing collapse. The inner
voice was tenderly repeating: “Collect yourself. Be calm.”
I entered the ashram room where Master’s body, unimaginably lifelike,
was sitting in the lotus posture-a picture of health and loveliness.
A short time before his passing, my guru had been slightly ill with
fever, but before the day of his ascension into the Infinite, his
body had become completely well. No matter how often I looked at
his dear form I could not realize that its life had departed. His
skin was smooth and soft; in his face was a beatific expression of
tranquillity. He had consciously relinquished his body at the hour
of mystic summoning.
“The Lion of Bengal is gone!” I cried in a daze.
I conducted the solemn rites on March 10th. Sri Yukteswar was buried
{FN42-12} with the ancient rituals of the swamis in the garden of
his Puri ashram. His disciples later arrived from far and near to
honor their guru at a vernal equinox memorial service. The AMRITA
BAZAR PATRIKA, leading newspaper of Calcutta, carried his picture
and the following report:
The death BHANDARA ceremony for Srimat Swami Sri Yukteswar Giri
Maharaj, aged 81, took place at Puri on March 21. Many disciples
came down to Puri for the rites.
One of the greatest expounders of the BHAGAVAD GITA, Swami Maharaj
was a great disciple of Yogiraj Sri Shyama Charan Lahiri Mahasaya
of Benares. Swami Maharaj was the founder of several Yogoda Sat-Sanga
(Self-Realization Fellowship) centers in India, and was the great
inspiration behind the yoga movement which was carried to the West
by Swami Yogananda, his principal disciple. It was Sri Yukteswarji’s
prophetic powers and deep realization that inspired Swami Yogananda
to cross the oceans and spread in America the message of the masters
of India.
His interpretations of the BHAGAVAD GITA and other scriptures testify
to the depth of Sri Yukteswarji’s command of the philosophy, both
Eastern and Western, and remain as an eye-opener for the unity
between Orient and Occident. As he believed in the unity of all
religious faiths, Sri Yukteswar Maharaj established SADHU SABHA
(Society of Saints) with the cooperation of leaders of various
sects and faiths, for the inculcation of a scientific spirit in
religion. At the time of his demise he nominated Swami Yogananda
his successor as the president of SADHU SABHA.
India is really poorer today by the passing of such a great man. May
all fortunate enough to have come near him inculcate in themselves
the true spirit of India’s culture and SADHANA which was personified
in him.
I returned to Calcutta. Not trusting myself as yet to go to the
Serampore hermitage with its sacred memories, I summoned Prafulla,
Sri Yukteswar’s little disciple in Serampore, and made arrangements
for him to enter the Ranchi school.
“The morning you left for the Allahabad MELA,” Prafulla told me,
“Master dropped heavily on the davenport.
“‘Yogananda is gone!’ he cried. ‘Yogananda is gone!’ He added
cryptically, ‘I shall have to tell him some other way.’ He sat then
for hours in silence.”
My days were filled with lectures, classes, interviews, and reunions
with old friends. Beneath a hollow smile and a life of ceaseless
activity, a stream of black brooding polluted the inner river of
bliss which for so many years had meandered under the sands of all
my perceptions.
“Where has that divine sage gone?” I cried silently from the depths
of a tormented spirit.
No answer came.
“It is best that Master has completed his union with the Cosmic
Beloved,” my mind assured me. “He is eternally glowing in the
dominion of deathlessness.”
“Never again may you see him in the old Serampore mansion,” my
heart lamented. “No longer may you bring your friends to meet him,
or proudly say: ‘Behold, there sits India’s JNANAVATAR!’”
Mr. Wright made arrangements for our party to sail from Bombay
for the West in early June. After a fortnight in May of farewell
banquets and speeches at Calcutta, Miss Bletch, Mr. Wright and myself
left in the Ford for Bombay. On our arrival, the ship authorities
asked us to cancel our passage, as no room could be found for the
Ford, which we would need again in Europe.
“Never mind,” I said gloomily to Mr. Wright. “I want to return once
more to Puri.” I silently added, “Let my tears once again water
the grave of my guru.”
{FN42-1} Literally, PARAM, highest; HANSA, swan. The HANSA is
represented in scriptural lore as the vehicle of Brahma, Supreme
Spirit; as the symbol of discrimination, the white HANSA swan is
thought of as able to separate the true SOMA nectar from a mixture
of milk and water. HAM-SA (pronounced HONG-SAU) are two sacred
Sanskrit chant words possessing a vibratory connection with the
incoming and outgoing breath. AHAM-SA is literally “I am He.”
{FN42-2} They have generally evaded the difficulty by addressing
me as SIR.
{FN42-3} At the Puri ashram, Swami Sebananda is still conducting
a small, flourishing yoga school for boys, and meditation groups
for adults. Meetings of saints and pundits convene there periodically.
{FN42-4} A section of Calcutta.
{FN42-5} APHORISMS: II:9.
{FN42-6} Religious MELAS are mentioned in the ancient MAHABHARATA.
The Chinese traveler Hieuen Tsiang has left an account of a vast
KUMBHA MELA held in A.D. 644 at Allahabad. The largest MELA is held
every twelfth year; the next largest (ARDHA or half) KUMBHA occurs
every sixth year. Smaller MELAS convene every third year, attracting
about a million devotees. The four sacred MELA cities are Allahabad,
Hardwar, Nasik, and Ujjain.
Early Chinese travelers have left us many striking pictures of
Indian society. The Chinese priest, Fa-Hsien, wrote an account of
his eleven years in India during the reign of Chandragupta II (early