Autobiography of a Yogi
was perhaps the first auto to traverse these roads; the ‘bullock
cart union’ must be omnipotent here! What a sensation we created-a
group piloted by an American and pioneering in a snorting car
right into their hamlet fastness, invading the ancient privacy and
sanctity!
“Halting by a narrow lane we found ourselves within a hundred feet
of Giri Bala’s ancestral home. We felt the thrill of fulfillment
after the long road struggle crowned by a rough finish. We approached
a large, two-storied building of brick and plaster, dominating the
surrounding adobe huts; the house was under the process of repair,
for around it was the characteristically tropical framework of
bamboos.
“With feverish anticipation and suppressed rejoicing we stood
before the open doors of the one blessed by the Lord’s ‘hungerless’
touch. Constantly agape were the villagers, young and old, bare
and dressed, women aloof somewhat but inquisitive too, men and
boys unabashedly at our heels as they gazed on this unprecedented
spectacle.
“Soon a short figure came into view in the doorway-Giri Bala! She
was swathed in a cloth of dull, goldish silk; in typically Indian
fashion, she drew forward modestly and hesitatingly, peering
slightly from beneath the upper fold of her SWADESHI cloth. Her
eyes glistened like smouldering embers in the shadow of her head
piece; we were enamored by a most benevolent and kindly face, a face
of realization and understanding, free from the taint of earthly
attachment.
“Meekly she approached and silently assented to our snapping a
number of pictures with our ‘still’ and ‘movie’ cameras. {FN46-6}
Patiently and shyly she endured our photo techniques of posture
adjustment and light arrangement. Finally we had recorded for
posterity many photographs of the only woman in the world who is
known to have lived without food or drink for over fifty years.
(Therese Neumann, of course, has fasted since 1923.) Most motherly
was Giri Bala’s expression as she stood before us, completely
covered in the loose-flowing cloth, nothing of her body visible
but her face with its downcast eyes, her hands, and her tiny feet.
A face of rare peace and innocent poise-a wide, childlike, quivering
lip, a feminine nose, narrow, sparkling eyes, and a wistful smile.”
Mr. Wright’s impression of Giri Bala was shared by myself; spirituality
enfolded her like her gently shining veil. She PRONAMED before me
in the customary gesture of greeting from a householder to a monk.
Her simple charm and quiet smile gave us a welcome beyond that of
honeyed oratory; forgotten was our difficult, dusty trip.
The little saint seated herself cross-legged on the verandah. Though
bearing the scars of age, she was not emaciated; her olive-colored
skin had remained clear and healthy in tone.
“Mother,” I said in Bengali, “for over twenty-five years I have
thought eagerly of this very pilgrimage! I heard about your sacred
life from Sthiti Lal Nundy Babu.”
She nodded in acknowledgment. “Yes, my good neighbor in Nawabganj.”
“During those years I have crossed the oceans, but I never forgot
my early plan to someday see you. The sublime drama that you are
here playing so inconspicuously should be blazoned before a world
that has long forgotten the inner food divine.”
The saint lifted her eyes for a minute, smiling with serene interest.
“Baba (honored father) knows best,” she answered meekly.
I was happy that she had taken no offense; one never knows how
great yogis or yoginis will react to the thought of publicity. They
shun it, as a rule, wishing to pursue in silence the profound soul
research. An inner sanction comes to them when the proper time
arrives to display their lives openly for the benefit of seeking
minds.
“Mother,” I went on, “please forgive me, then, for burdening you
with many questions. Kindly answer only those that please you; I
shall understand your silence, also.”
She spread her hands in a gracious gesture. “I am glad to reply,
insofar as an insignificant person like myself can give satisfactory
answers.”
“Oh, no, not insignificant!” I protested sincerely. “You are a
great soul.”
“I am the humble servant of all.” She added quaintly, “I love to
cook and feed people.”
A strange pastime, I thought, for a non-eating saint!
“Tell me, Mother, from your own lips-do you live without food?”
“That is true.” She was silent for a few moments; her next remark
showed that she had been struggling with mental arithmetic. “From
the age of twelve years four months down to my present age of
sixty-eight—a period of over fifty-six years—I have not eaten
food or taken liquids.”
“Are you never tempted to eat?”
“If I felt a craving for food, I would have to eat.” Simply yet
regally she stated this axiomatic truth, one known too well by a
world revolving around three meals a day!
“But you do eat something!” My tone held a note of remonstrance.
“Of course!” She smiled in swift understanding.
“Your nourishment derives from the finer energies of the air and
sunlight, {FN46-7} and from the cosmic power which recharges your
body through the medulla oblongata.”
“Baba knows.” Again she acquiesced, her manner soothing and
unemphatic.
“Mother, please tell me about your early life. It holds a deep
interest for all of India, and even for our brothers and sisters
beyond the seas.”
Giri Bala put aside her habitual reserve, relaxing into a conversational
mood.
“So be it.” Her voice was low and firm. “I was born in these forest
regions. My childhood was unremarkable save that I was possessed
by an insatiable appetite. I had been betrothed in early years.
“‘Child,’ my mother often warned me, ‘try to control your greed.
When the time comes for you to live among strangers in your husband’s
family, what will they think of you if your days are spent in
nothing but eating?’
“The calamity she had foreseen came to pass. I was only twelve
when I joined my husband’s people in Nawabganj. My mother-in-law
shamed me morning, noon, and night about my gluttonous habits.
Her scoldings were a blessing in disguise, however; they roused my
dormant spiritual tendencies. One morning her ridicule was merciless.
“‘I shall soon prove to you,’ I said, stung to the quick, ‘that I
shall never touch food again as long as I live.’
“My mother-in-law laughed in derision. ‘So!’ she said, ‘how can
you live without eating, when you cannot live without overeating?’
“This remark was unanswerable! Yet an iron resolution scaffolded
my spirit. In a secluded spot I sought my Heavenly Father.
“‘Lord,’ I prayed incessantly, ‘please send me a guru, one who can
teach me to live by Thy light and not by food.’
“A divine ecstasy fell over me. Led by a beatific spell, I set out
for the Nawabganj GHAT on the Ganges. On the way I encountered the
priest of my husband’s family.
“‘Venerable sir,’ I said trustingly, ‘kindly tell me how to live
without eating.’
“He stared at me without reply. Finally he spoke in a consoling
manner. ‘Child,’ he said, ‘come to the temple this evening; I will
conduct a special VEDIC ceremony for you.’
“This vague answer was not the one I was seeking; I continued toward
the GHAT. The morning sun pierced the waters; I purified myself in
the Ganges, as though for a sacred initiation. As I left the river
bank, my wet cloth around me, in the broad glare of day my master
materialized himself before me!
“‘Dear little one,’ he said in a voice of loving compassion, ‘I
am the guru sent here by God to fulfill your urgent prayer. He was
deeply touched by its very unusual nature! From today you shall
live by the astral light, your bodily atoms fed from the infinite
current.’”
Giri Bala fell into silence. I took Mr. Wright’s pencil and pad
and translated into English a few items for his information.
The saint resumed the tale, her gentle voice barely audible. “The
GHAT was deserted, but my guru cast round us an aura of guarding
light, that no stray bathers later disturb us. He initiated me
into a KRIA technique which frees the body from dependence on the
gross food of mortals. The technique includes the use of a certain
MANTRA {FN46-8} and a breathing exercise more difficult than the
average person could perform. No medicine or magic is involved;
nothing beyond the KRIA.”
In the manner of the American newspaper reporter, who had unknowingly
taught me his procedure, I questioned Giri Bala on many matters
which I thought would be of interest to the world. She gave me,
bit by bit, the following information:
“I have never had any children; many years ago I became a widow.
I sleep very little, as sleep and waking are the same to me. I
meditate at night, attending to my domestic duties in the daytime. I
slightly feel the change in climate from season to season. I have
never been sick or experienced any disease. I feel only slight
pain when accidentally injured. I have no bodily excretions. I
can control my heart and breathing. I often see my guru as well as
other great souls, in vision.”
“Mother,” I asked, “why don’t you teach others the method of living
without food?”
My ambitious hopes for the world’s starving millions were nipped
in the bud.
“No.” She shook her head. “I was strictly commanded by my guru
not to divulge the secret. It is not his wish to tamper with God’s
drama of creation. The farmers would not thank me if I taught
many people to live without eating! The luscious fruits would lie
uselessly on the ground. It appears that misery, starvation, and
disease are whips of our karma which ultimately drive us to seek
the true meaning of life.”
“Mother,” I said slowly, “what is the use of your having been
singled out to live without eating?”
“To prove that man is Spirit.” Her face lit with wisdom. “To
demonstrate that by divine advancement he can gradually learn to
live by the Eternal Light and not by food.”
The saint sank into a deep meditative state. Her gaze was directed
inward; the gentle depths of her eyes became expressionless. She
gave a certain sigh, the prelude to the ecstatic breathless trance.
For a time she had fled to the questionless realm, the heaven of
inner joy.
The tropical darkness had fallen. The light of a small kerosene
lamp flickered fitfully over the faces of a score of villagers
squatting silently in the shadows. The darting glowworms and distant
oil lanterns of the huts wove bright eerie patterns into the velvet
night. It was the painful hour of parting; a slow, tedious journey
lay before our little party.
“Giri Bala,” I said as the saint opened her eyes, “please give me
a keepsake-a strip of one of your SARIS.”
She soon returned with a piece of Benares silk, extending it in
her hand as she suddenly prostrated herself on the ground.
“Mother,” I said reverently, “rather let me touch your own blessed
feet!”
{FN46-1} In northern Bengal.
{FN46-2} H. H. Sir Bijay Chand Mahtab, now dead. His family doubtless
possesses some record of the Maharaja’s three investigations of
Giri Bala.
{FN46-3} Woman yogi.
{FN46-4} “Remover of Obstacles,” the god of good fortune.
{FN46-5} Sri Yukteswar used to say: “The Lord has given us the fruits
of the good earth. We like to see our food, to smell it, to taste
it—the Hindu likes also to touch it!” One does not mind HEARING
it, either, if no one else is present at the meal!
{FN46-6} Mr. Wright also took moving pictures of Sri Yukteswar
during his last Winter Solstice Festival in Serampore.
{FN46-7} “What we eat is radiation; our food is so much quanta
of energy,” Dr. George W. Crile of Cleveland told a gathering of
medical men on May 17, 1933 in Memphis. “This all-important radiation,
which releases electrical currents for the body’s electrical circuit,
the nervous system, is given to food by the sun’s rays. Atoms, Dr.