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Autobiography of a YOGI

P >> Paramhansa Yogananda >> Autobiography of a YOGI




"I am going to meditate now. Do not worry about your lunch," I
replied sharply. "Divine Mother will look after it."

"I don't trust Divine Mother to do a single thing for me. But I do
hold you responsible for my food." Satish's tones were threatening.

I proceeded alone to the colonnaded hall which fronts the large
temple of Kali, or Mother Nature. Selecting a shady spot near one
of the pillars, I arranged my body in the lotus posture. Although
it was only about seven o'clock, the morning sun would soon be
oppressive.

The world receded as I became devotionally entranced. My mind was
concentrated on Goddess Kali, whose image at Dakshineswar had been
the special object of adoration by the great master, Sri Ramakrishna
Paramhansa. In answer to his anguished demands, the stone image of
this very temple had often taken a living form and conversed with
him.

"Silent Mother with stony heart," I prayed, "Thou becamest filled
with life at the request of Thy beloved devotee Ramakrishna; why
dost Thou not also heed the wails of this yearning son of Thine?"

My aspiring zeal increased boundlessly, accompanied by a divine
peace. Yet, when five hours had passed, and the Goddess whom
I was inwardly visualizing had made no response, I felt slightly
disheartened. Sometimes it is a test by God to delay the fulfillment
of prayers. But He eventually appears to the persistent devotee
in whatever form he holds dear. A devout Christian sees Jesus; a
Hindu beholds Krishna, or the Goddess Kali, or an expanding Light
if his worship takes an impersonal turn.

Reluctantly I opened my eyes, and saw that the temple doors were
being locked by a priest, in conformance with a noon-hour custom.
I rose from my secluded seat under the open, roofed hall, and stepped
into the courtyard. Its stone floor was scorching under the midday
sun; my bare feet were painfully burned.

"Divine Mother," I silently remonstrated, "Thou didst not come to
me in vision, and now Thou art hidden in the temple behind closed
doors. I wanted to offer a special prayer to Thee today on behalf
of my brother-in-law."

My inward petition was instantly acknowledged. First, a delightful
cold wave descended over my back and under my feet, banishing
all discomfort. Then, to my amazement, the temple became greatly
magnified. Its large door slowly opened, revealing the stone figure
of Goddess Kali. Gradually it changed into a living form, smilingly
nodding in greeting, thrilling me with joy indescribable. As if by
a mystic syringe, the breath was withdrawn from my lungs; my body
became very still, though not inert.

An ecstatic enlargement of consciousness followed. I could see
clearly for several miles over the Ganges River to my left, and
beyond the temple into the entire Dakshineswar precincts. The walls
of all buildings glimmered transparently; through them I observed
people walking to and fro over distant acres.

Though I was breathless and my body in a strangely quiet state, yet
I was able to move my hands and feet freely. For several minutes
I experimented in closing and opening my eyes; in either state I
saw distinctly the whole Dakshineswar panorama.

Spiritual sight, x-raylike, penetrates into all matter; the divine
eye is center everywhere, circumference nowhere. I realized anew,
standing there in the sunny courtyard, that when man ceases to be a
prodigal child of God, engrossed in a physical world indeed dream,
baseless as a bubble, he reinherits his eternal realms. If "escapism"
be a need of man, cramped in his narrow personality, can any escape
compare with the majesty of omnipresence?

In my sacred experience at Dakshineswar, the only extraordinarily-enlarged
objects were the temple and the form of the Goddess. Everything
else appeared in its normal dimensions, although each was enclosed
in a halo of mellow light-white, blue, and pastel rainbow hues. My
body seemed to be of ethereal substance, ready to levitate. Fully
conscious of my material surroundings, I was looking about me and
taking a few steps without disturbing the continuity of the blissful
vision.

Behind the temple walls I suddenly glimpsed my brother-in-law
as he sat under the thorny branches of a sacred BEL tree. I could
effortlessly discern the course of his thoughts. Somewhat uplifted
under the holy influence of Dakshineswar, his mind yet held unkind
reflections about me. I turned directly to the gracious form of
the Goddess.

"Divine Mother," I prayed, "wilt Thou not spiritually change my
sister's husband?"


The beautiful figure, hitherto silent, spoke at last: "Thy wish is
granted!"

I looked happily at Satish. As though instinctively aware that some
spiritual power was at work, he rose resentfully from his seat on
the ground. I saw him running behind the temple; he approached me,
shaking his fist.

The all-embracing vision disappeared. No longer could I see the
glorious Goddess; the towering temple was reduced to its ordinary
size, minus its transparency. Again my body sweltered under the
fierce rays of the sun. I jumped to the shelter of the pillared
hall, where Satish pursued me angrily. I looked at my watch. It
was one o'clock; the divine vision had lasted an hour.

"You little fool," my brother-in-law blurted out, "you have been
sitting there cross-legged and cross-eyed for six hours. I have
gone back and forth watching you. Where is my food? Now the temple
is closed; you failed to notify the authorities; we are left without
lunch!"

The exaltation I had felt at the Goddess' presence was still vibrant
within my heart. I was emboldened to exclaim, "Divine Mother will
feed us!"

Satish was beside himself with rage. "Once and for all," he shouted,
"I would like to see your Divine Mother giving us food here without
prior arrangements!"

His words were hardly uttered when a temple priest crossed the
courtyard and joined us.

"Son," he addressed me, "I have been observing your face serenely
glowing during hours of meditation. I saw the arrival of your party
this morning, and felt a desire to put aside ample food for your
lunch. It is against the temple rules to feed those who do not make
a request beforehand, but I have made an exception for you."

I thanked him, and gazed straight into Satish's eyes. He flushed
with emotion, lowering his gaze in silent repentance. When we were
served a lavish meal, including out-of-season mangoes, I noticed
that my brother-in-law's appetite was meager. He was bewildered,
diving deep into the ocean of thought. On the return journey to
Calcutta, Satish, with softened expression, occasionally glanced at
me pleadingly. But he did not speak a single word after the moment
the priest had appeared to invite us to lunch, as though in direct
answer to Satish's challenge.

The following afternoon I visited my sister at her home. She greeted
me affectionately.

"Dear brother," she cried, "what a miracle! Last evening my husband
wept openly before me.

"'Beloved DEVI,' {FN22-1} he said, 'I am happy beyond expression
that this reforming scheme of your brother's has wrought a
transformation. I am going to undo every wrong I have done you. From
tonight we will use our large bedroom only as a place of worship;
your small meditation room shall be changed into our sleeping
quarters. I am sincerely sorry that I have ridiculed your brother.
For the shameful way I have been acting, I will punish myself by
not talking to Mukunda until I have progressed in the spiritual
path. Deeply I will seek the Divine Mother from now on; someday I
must surely find Her!'"

Years later, I visited my brother-in-law in Delhi. I was overjoyed
to perceive that he had developed highly in self-realization, and
had been blessed by the vision of Divine Mother. During my stay
with him, I noticed that Satish secretly spent the greater part
of every night in divine meditation, though he was suffering from
a serious ailment, and was engaged during the day at his office.

The thought came to me that my brother-in-law's life span would
not be a long one. Roma must have read my mind.

"Dear brother," she said, "I am well, and my husband is sick.
Nevertheless, I want you to know that, as a devoted Hindu wife, I
am going to be the first one to die. {FN22-2} It won't be long now
before I pass on."

Taken aback at her ominous words, I yet realized their sting of
truth. I was in America when my sister died, about a year after
her prediction. My youngest brother Bishnu later gave me the details.

"Roma and Satish were in Calcutta at the time of her death," Bishnu
told me. "That morning she dressed herself in her bridal finery.

"'Why this special costume?' Satish inquired.

"'This is my last day of service to you on earth,' Roma replied.
A short time later she had a heart attack. As her son was rushing
out for aid, she said:

"'Son, do not leave me. It is no use; I shall be gone before a
doctor could arrive.' Ten minutes later, holding the feet of her
husband in reverence, Roma consciously left her body, happily and
without suffering.

"Satish became very reclusive after his wife's death," Bishnu
continued. "One day he and I were looking at a large smiling
photograph of Roma.

"'Why do you smile?' Satish suddenly exclaimed, as though his wife
were present. 'You think you were clever in arranging to go before
me. I shall prove that you cannot long remain away from me; soon
I shall join you.'

"Although at this time Satish had fully recovered from his sickness,
and was enjoying excellent health, he died without apparent cause
shortly after his strange remark before the photograph."

Thus prophetically passed my dearly beloved eldest sister Roma, and
her husband Satish-he who changed at Dakshineswar from an ordinary
worldly man to a silent saint.

{FN22-1} Goddess.

{FN22-2} The Hindu wife believes it is a sign of spiritual advancement
if she dies before her husband, as a proof of her loyal service to
him, or "dying in harness."



CHAPTER: 23

I RECEIVE MY UNIVERSITY DEGREE

"You ignore your textbook assignments in philosophy. No doubt you
are depending on an unlaborious 'intuition' to get you through the
examinations. But unless you apply yourself in a more scholarly
manner, I shall see to it that you don't pass this course."

Professor D. C. Ghoshal of Serampore College was addressing me
sternly. If I failed to pass his final written classroom test, I
would be ineligible to take the conclusive examinations. These are
formulated by the faculty of Calcutta University, which numbers
Serampore College among its affiliated branches. A student in Indian
universities who is unsuccessful in one subject in the A.B. finals
must be examined anew in ALL his subjects the following year.

My instructors at Serampore College usually treated me with kindness,
not untinged by an amused tolerance. "Mukunda is a bit over-drunk
with religion." Thus summing me up, they tactfully spared me the
embarrassment of answering classroom questions; they trusted the
final written tests to eliminate me from the list of A.B. candidates.
The judgment passed by my fellow students was expressed in their
nickname for me-"Mad Monk."

I took an ingenious step to nullify Professor Ghoshal's threat to
me of failure in philosophy. When the results of the final tests
were about to be publicly announced, I asked a classmate to accompany
me to the professor's study.

"Come along; I want a witness," I told my companion. "I shall be
very much disappointed if I have not succeeded in outwitting the
instructor."

Professor Ghoshal shook his head after I had inquired what rating
he had given my paper.

"You are not among those who have passed," he said in triumph. He
hunted through a large pile on his desk. "Your paper isn't here at
all; you have failed, in any case, through non-appearance at the
examination."

I chuckled. "Sir, I was there. May I look through the stack myself?"

The professor, nonplused, gave his permission; I quickly found my
paper, where I had carefully omitted any identification mark except
my roll call number. Unwarned by the "red flag" of my name, the
instructor had given a high rating to my answers even though they
were unembellished by textbook quotations. {FN23-1}

Seeing through my trick, he now thundered, "Sheer brazen luck!" He
added hopefully, "You are sure to fail in the A.B. finals."

For the tests in my other subjects, I received some coaching,
particularly from my dear friend and cousin, Prabhas Chandra
Ghose, {FN23-2} son of my Uncle Sarada. I staggered painfully but
successfully-with the lowest possible passing marks-through all my
final tests.

Now, after four years of college, I was eligible to sit for the
A.B. examinations. Nevertheless, I hardly expected to avail myself
of the privilege. The Serampore College finals were child's play
compared to the stiff ones which would be set by Calcutta University
for the A.B. degree. My almost daily visits to Sri Yukteswar had
left me little time to enter the college halls. There it was my
presence rather than my absence that brought forth ejaculations of
amazement from my classmates!

My customary routine was to set out on my bicycle about nine-thirty
in the morning. In one hand I would carry an offering for my guru-a
few flowers from the garden of my PANTHI boardinghouse. Greeting
me affably, Master would invite me to lunch. I invariably accepted
with alacrity, glad to banish the thought of college for the day.
After hours with Sri Yukteswar, listening to his incomparable flow of
wisdom, or helping with ashram duties, I would reluctantly depart
around midnight for the PANTHI. Occasionally I stayed all night with
my guru, so happily engrossed in his conversation that I scarcely
noticed when darkness changed into dawn.

One night about eleven o'clock, as I was putting on my shoes
{FN23-3} in preparation for the ride to the boardinghouse, Master
questioned me gravely.

"When do your A.B. examinations start?"

"Five days hence, sir."

"I hope you are in readiness for them."

Transfixed with alarm, I held one shoe in the air. "Sir," I
protested, "you know how my days have been passed with you rather
than with the professors. How can I enact a farce by appearing for
those difficult finals?"

Sri Yukteswar's eyes were turned piercingly on mine. "You must
appear." His tone was coldly peremptory. "We should not give cause
for your father and other relatives to criticize your preference
for ashram life. Just promise me that you will be present for the
examinations; answer them the best way you can."

Uncontrollable tears were coursing down my face. I felt that
Master's command was unreasonable, and that his interest was, to
say the least, belated.

"I will appear if you wish it," I said amidst sobs. "But no time
remains for proper preparation." Under my breath I muttered, "I will
fill up the sheets with your teachings in answer to the questions!"

When I entered the hermitage the following day at my usual hour,
I presented my bouquet with a certain mournful solemnity. Sri
Yukteswar laughed at my woebegone air.

"Mukunda, has the Lord ever failed you, at an examination or
elsewhere?"

"No, sir," I responded warmly. Grateful memories came in a revivifying
flood.

"Not laziness but burning zeal for God has prevented you from
seeking college honors," my guru said kindly. After a silence, he
quoted, "'Seek ye first the kingdom of God, and His righteousness;
and all these things shall be added unto you.'" {FN23-4}

For the thousandth time, I felt my burdens lifted in Master's
presence. When we had finished our early lunch, he suggested that
I return to the PANTHI.

"Does your friend, Romesh Chandra Dutt, still live in your
boardinghouse?"

"Yes, sir."

"Get in touch with him; the Lord will inspire him to help you with
the examinations."

"Very well, sir; but Romesh is unusually busy. He is the honor man
in our class, and carries a heavier course than the others."

Master waved aside my objections. "Romesh will find time for you.
Now go."

I bicycled back to the PANTHI. The first person I met in the
boardinghouse compound was the scholarly Romesh. As though his days
were quite free, he obligingly agreed to my diffident request.

"Of course; I am at your service." He spent several hours of that
afternoon and of succeeding days in coaching me in my various
subjects.

"I believe many questions in English literature will be centered
in the route of Childe Harold," he told me. "We must get an atlas
at once."

I hastened to the home of my Uncle Sarada and borrowed an atlas.
Romesh marked the European map at the places visited by Byron's
romantic traveler.

A few classmates had gathered around to listen to the tutoring.
"Romesh is advising you wrongly," one of them commented to me at
the end of a session. "Usually only fifty per cent of the questions
are about the books; the other half will involve the authors'
lives."

When I sat for the examination in English literature the following
day, my first glance at the questions caused tears of gratitude
to pour forth, wetting my paper. The classroom monitor came to my
desk and made a sympathetic inquiry.

"My guru foretold that Romesh would help me," I explained. "Look;
the very questions dictated to me by Romesh are here on the examination
sheet! Fortunately for me, there are very few questions this year
on English authors, whose lives are wrapped in deep mystery so far
as I am concerned!"

My boardinghouse was in an uproar when I returned. The boys who
had been ridiculing Romesh's method of coaching looked at me in
awe, almost deafening me with congratulations. During the week of
the examinations, I spent many hours with Romesh, who formulated
questions that he thought were likely to be set by the professors.
Day by day, Romesh's questions appeared in almost the same form on
the examination sheets.

The news was widely circulated in the college that something resembling
a miracle was occurring, and that success seemed probable for the
absent-minded "Mad Monk." I made no attempt to hide the facts of the
case. The local professors were powerless to alter the questions,
which had been arranged by Calcutta University.

Thinking over the examination in English literature, I realized
one morning that I had made a serious error. One section of the
questions had been divided into two parts of A or B, and C or D.
Instead of answering one question from each part, I had carelessly
answered both questions in Group I, and had failed to consider
anything in Group II. The best mark I could score in that paper
would be 33, three less than the passing mark of 36. I rushed to
Master and poured out my troubles.

"Sir, I have made an unpardonable blunder. I don't deserve the
divine blessings through Romesh; I am quite unworthy."

"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!

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