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Contents |
Preface 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39 | 40: 41 | 42 | 43 | 44 | 45 | 46 | 47 | 48 |
Autobiography of a Yogi by Paramhansa Yogananda
Chapter 42: Last Days with my Guru"Guruji, I am glad to find you alone this morning." I had just arrived at the Serampore hermitage, carrying a fragrant burden of fruit and roses. Sri Yukteswar glanced at me meekly.
"What is your question?" Master looked about the room as though he were seeking escape.
"Guruji, I came to you as a high-school youth; now I am a grown man, even with a gray hair or two. Though you have showered me with silent affection from the first hour to this, do you realize that once only, on the day of meeting, have you ever said, 'I love you'?" I looked at him pleadingly.
Master lowered his gaze. "Yogananda, must I bring out into the cold realms of speech the warm sentiments best guarded by the wordless heart?"
"Guruji, I know you love me, but my mortal ears ache to hear you say so."
"Be it as you wish. During my married life I often yearned for a son, to train in the yogic path. But when you came into my life, I was content; in you I have found my son." Two clear teardrops stood in Sri Yukteswar's eyes. "Yogananda, I love you always."
"Your answer is my passport to heaven." I felt a weight lift from my heart, dissolved forever at his words. Often had I wondered at his silence. Realizing that he was unemotional and self-contained, yet sometimes I feared I had been unsuccessful in fully satisfying him. His was a strange nature, never utterly to be known; a nature deep and still, unfathomable to the outer world, whose values he had long transcended.
A few days later, when I spoke before a huge audience at Albert Hall in Calcutta, Sri Yukteswar consented to sit beside me on the platform, with the Maharaja of Santosh and the Mayor of Calcutta. Though Master made no remark to me, I glanced at him from time to time during my address, and thought I detected a pleased twinkle in his eyes.
Then came a talk before the alumni of Serampore College. As I gazed upon my old classmates, and as they gazed on their own "Mad Monk," tears of joy showed unashamedly. My silver-tongued professor of philosophy, Dr. Ghoshal, came forward to greet me, all our past misunderstandings dissolved by the alchemist Time.
A
Winter Solstice Festival was celebrated at the end of December in
the Serampore hermitage. As always, Sri Yukteswar's disciples gathered
from far and near. Devotional sankirtans, solos in the nectar-sweet
voice of Kristo-da, a feast served by young disciples, Master's
profoundly moving discourse under the stars in the thronged courtyard
of the ashrammemories, memories! Joyous festivals of years long
past! Tonight, however, there was to be a new feature.
"Yogananda,
please address the assemblagein English." Master's eyes were
twinkling as he made this doubly unusual request; was he thinking
of the shipboard predicament that had preceded my first lecture
in English? I told the story to my audience of brother disciples,
ending with a fervent tribute to our guru.
"His omnipresent
guidance was with me not alone on the ocean steamer," I concluded,
"but daily throughout my fifteen years in the vast and hospitable
land of America."
After the guests
had departed, Sri Yukteswar called me to the same bedroom whereonce
only, after a festival of my early yearsI had been permitted to
sleep on his wooden bed. Tonight my guru was sitting there quietly,
a semicircle of disciples at his feet. He smiled as I quickly entered
the room.
"Yogananda,
are you leaving now for Calcutta? Please return here tomorrow. I
have certain things to tell you."
The next afternoon, with a few simple words of blessing, Sri Yukteswar bestowed on me the further monastic title of Paramhansa.1
"It
now formally supersedes your former title of swami,"
he said as I knelt before him. With a silent chuckle I thought of
the struggle which my American students would undergo over the pronunciation
of Paramhansaji.2
The
following day I summoned from Ranchi a disciple, Swami Sebananda,
and sent him to Puri to assume the hermitage duties.3
Later my guru
discussed with me the legal details of settling his estate; he was
anxious to prevent the possibility of litigation by relatives, after
his death, for possession of his two hermitages and other properties,
which he wished to be deeded over solely for charitable purposes.
"Arrangements
were recently made for Master to visit Kidderpore,4
but he failed to go." Amulaya Babu, a brother disciple, made
this remark to me one afternoon; I felt a cold wave of premonition.
To my pressing inquiries, Sri Yukteswar only replied, "I shall
go to Kidderpore no more." For a moment, Master trembled like
a frightened child.
("Attachment
to bodily residence, springing up of its own nature [i.e., arising
from immemorial roots, past experiences of death]," Patanjali
wrote,5
"is present in slight degree even in great saints." In
some of his discourses on death, my guru had been wont to add: "Just
as a long-caged bird hesitates to leave its accustomed home when
the door is opened.")
"Sir, the Kumbha Mela is convening this month at Allahabad."
I showed Master the mela dates in a Bengali almanac.6
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."
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.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.
Here
and there under the trees, around huge piles of burning logs, were
picturesque sadhus,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
throngbeggars, 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 Ordera 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
charmnot, 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 growla cat devotee!
"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.
"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."
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.
One
of our party asked the swami how he had protected himself against
the Himalayan tigers.9
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. 10
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 skya 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:
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.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.
I
conducted the solemn rites on March 10th. Sri Yukteswar was buried12
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.
"The
morning you left for the Allahabad mela," Prafulla told
me, "Master dropped heavily on the davenport.
"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!'"
"My task
on earth is now finished; you must carry on." Master spoke
quietly, his eyes calm and gentle. My heart was palpitating in fear.
"Please
send someone to take charge of our ashram at Puri," Sri Yukteswar
went on. "I leave everything in your hands. You will be able
to successfully sail the boat of your life and that of the organization
to the divine shores."
In tears, I
was embracing his feet; he rose and blessed me endearingly.
"Guruji,"
I entreated him with a sob, "don't say that! Never utter those
words to me!"
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.
"Do you
really want to go?"
"I do not
think you will meet him there." My guru then fell into silence,
not wishing to obstruct my plans.
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.
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 coveringand incidentally
his only possessionbeing an ocher cloth draped over his shoulders.
"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.
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."
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."
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 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!"
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.'"
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 he 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?"
"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 posturea 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 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.
"'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."
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."
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.
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2
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."
They have generally evaded the difficulty by addressing me as sir.
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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.
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4
A section of Calcutta.
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5
Aphorisms: II:9.
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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 4th century).
The Chinese author relates: "Throughout the country no one
kills any living thing, nor drinks wine. . . . They do not keep
pigs or fowl; there are no dealings in cattle, no butchers' shops
or distilleries. Rooms with beds and mattresses, food and clothes,
are provided for resident and traveling priests without fail, and
this is the same in all places. The priests occupy themselves with
benevolent ministrations and with chanting liturgies; or they sit
in meditation." Fa-Hsien tells us the Indian people were happy
and honest; capital punishment was unknown.
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7
I was not present at the deaths of my mother, elder brother Ananta,
eldest sister Roma, Master, Father, or of several close disciples.
(Father passed on at Calcutta in 1942, at the age of eighty-nine.)
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8
The hundreds of thousands of Indian sadhus are controlled by an
executive committee of seven leaders, representing seven large sections
of India. The present mahamandaleswar or president is Joyendra Puri.
This saintly man is extremely reserved, often confining his speech
to three words-Truth, Love, and Work. A sufficient conversation!
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9
There are many methods, it appears, for outwitting a tiger. An Australian
explorer, Francis Birtles, has recounted that he found the Indian
jungles "varied, beautiful, and safe." His safety charm
was flypaper. "Every night I spread a quantity of sheets around
my camp and was never disturbed," he explained. "The reason
is psychological. The tiger is an animal of great conscious dignity.
He prowls around and challenges man until he comes to the flypaper;
he then slinks away. No dignified tiger would dare face a human
being after squatting down upon a sticky flypaper!"
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10
After I returned to America I took off sixty-five pounds.
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11
Sri Yukteswar passed at this hour-7:00 P.M., March 9, 1936.
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12
Funeral customs in India require cremation for householders; swamis
and monks of other orders are not cremated, but buried. (There are
occasional exceptions.) The bodies of monks are symbolically considered
to have undergone cremation in the fire of wisdom at the time of
taking the monastic vow.
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Contents |
Preface
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2 |
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