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Autobiography of a YOGI

P >> Paramhansa Yogananda >> Autobiography of a YOGI




"What is this wondrous glow?"

"I am Iswara.{FN1-11} I am Light." The voice was as murmuring
clouds.

"I want to be one with Thee!"

Out of the slow dwindling of my divine ecstasy, I salvaged a permanent
legacy of inspiration to seek God. "He is eternal, ever-new Joy!"
This memory persisted long after the day of rapture.

Another early recollection is outstanding; and literally so, for
I bear the scar to this day. My elder sister Uma and I were seated
in the early morning under a NEEM tree in our Gorakhpur compound.
She was helping me with a Bengali primer, what time I could spare
my gaze from the near-by parrots eating ripe margosa fruit. Uma
complained of a boil on her leg, and fetched a jar of ointment. I
smeared a bit of the salve on my forearm.

"Why do you use medicine on a healthy arm?"

"Well, Sis, I feel I am going to have a boil tomorrow. I am testing
your ointment on the spot where the boil will appear."

"You little liar!"

"Sis, don't call me a liar until you see what happens in the
morning." Indignation filled me.

Uma was unimpressed, and thrice repeated her taunt. An adamant
resolution sounded in my voice as I made slow reply.

"By the power of will in me, I say that tomorrow I shall have
a fairly large boil in this exact place on my arm; and YOUR boil
shall swell to twice its present size!"

Morning found me with a stalwart boil on the indicated spot; the
dimensions of Uma's boil had doubled. With a shriek, my sister
rushed to Mother. "Mukunda has become a necromancer!" Gravely,
Mother instructed me never to use the power of words for doing
harm. I have always remembered her counsel, and followed it.

My boil was surgically treated. A noticeable scar, left by
the doctor's incision, is present today. On my right forearm is a
constant reminder of the power in man's sheer word.

Those simple and apparently harmless phrases to Uma, spoken
with deep concentration, had possessed sufficient hidden force to
explode like bombs and produce definite, though injurious, effects.
I understood, later, that the explosive vibratory power in speech
could be wisely directed to free one's life from difficulties, and
thus operate without scar or rebuke. {FN1-12}

Our family moved to Lahore in the Punjab. There I acquired a picture
of the Divine Mother in the form of the Goddess Kali. {FN1-13} It
sanctified a small informal shrine on the balcony of our home. An
unequivocal conviction came over me that fulfillment would crown any
of my prayers uttered in that sacred spot. Standing there with Uma
one day, I watched two kites flying over the roofs of the buildings
on the opposite side of the very narrow lane.

"Why are you so quiet?" Uma pushed me playfully.

"I am just thinking how wonderful it is that Divine Mother gives
me whatever I ask."

"I suppose She would give you those two kites!" My sister laughed
derisively.

"Why not?" I began silent prayers for their possession.

Matches are played in India with kites whose strings are covered
with glue and ground glass. Each player attempts to sever the string
of his opponent. A freed kite sails over the roofs; there is great
fun in catching it. Inasmuch as Uma and I were on the balcony, it
seemed impossible that any loosed kite could come into our hands;
its string would naturally dangle over the roofs.

The players across the lane began their match. One string was cut;
immediately the kite floated in my direction. It was stationary
for a moment, through sudden abatement of breeze, which sufficed
to firmly entangle the string with a cactus plant on top of the
opposite house. A perfect loop was formed for my seizure. I handed
the prize to Uma.

"It was just an extraordinary accident, and not an answer to your
prayer. If the other kite comes to you, then I shall believe."
Sister's dark eyes conveyed more amazement than her words.

I continued my prayers with a crescendo intensity. A forcible tug
by the other player resulted in the abrupt loss of his kite. It
headed toward me, dancing in the wind. My helpful assistant, the
cactus plant, again secured the kite string in the necessary loop
by which I could grasp it. I presented my second trophy to Uma.

"Indeed, Divine Mother listens to you! This is all too uncanny for
me!" Sister bolted away like a frightened fawn.

{FN1-2} Spiritual teacher; from Sanskrit root GUR, to raise, to
uplift.

{FN1-3} A practitioner of yoga, "union," ancient Indian science of
meditation on God.

{FN1-4} My name was changed to Yogananda when I entered the ancient
monastic Swami Order in 1914. My guru bestowed the religious title
of PARAMHANSA on me in 1935 (see ../chapters 24 and 42).

{FN1-5} Traditionally, the second caste of warriors and rulers.

{FN1-6} These ancient epics are the hoard of India's history,
mythology, and philosophy. An "Everyman's Library" volume, RAMAYANA
AND MAHABHARATA, is a condensation in English verse by Romesh Dutt
(New York: E. P. Dutton).

{FN1-7} This noble Sanskrit poem, which occurs as part of the
MAHABHARATA epic, is the Hindu Bible. The most poetical English
translation is Edwin Arnold's THE SONG CELESTIAL (Philadelphia:
David McKay, 75 cents). One of the best translations with detailed
commentary is Sri Aurobindo's MESSAGE OF THE GITA (Jupiter Press,
16 Semudoss St., Madras, India, $3.50).

{FN1-8} BABU (Mister) is placed in Bengali names at the end.

{FN1-9} The phenomenal powers possessed by great masters are
explained in chapter 30, "The Law of Miracles."

{FN1-10} A yogic technique whereby the sensory tumult is stilled,
permitting man to achieve an ever-increasing identity with cosmic
consciousness. (See p. 243.)

{FN1-11} A Sanskrit name for God as Ruler of the universe; from
the root IS, to rule. There are 108 names for God in the Hindu
scriptures, each one carrying a different shade of philosophical
meaning.

{FN1-12} The infinite potencies of sound derive from the Creative
Word, AUM, the cosmic vibratory power behind all atomic energies.
Any word spoken with clear realization and deep concentration
has a materializing value. Loud or silent repetition of inspiring
words has been found effective in Coueism and similar systems of
psychotherapy; the secret lies in the stepping-up of the mind's
vibratory rate. The poet Tennyson has left us, in his MEMOIRS, an
account of his repetitious device for passing beyond the conscious
mind into superconsciousness:

"A kind of waking trance-this for lack of a better word-I have
frequently had, quite up from boyhood, when I have been all alone,"
Tennyson wrote. "This has come upon me through REPEATING my own
name to myself silently, till all at once, as it were out of the
intensity of the consciousness of individuality, individuality itself
seemed to dissolve and fade away into boundless being, and this not
a confused state but the clearest, the surest of the surest, utterly
beyond words-where death was an almost laughable impossibility-the
loss of personality (if so it were) seeming no extinction, but the
only true life." He wrote further: "It is no nebulous ecstasy, but
a state of transcendent wonder, associated with absolute clearness
of mind."

{FN1-13} Kali is a symbol of God in the aspect of eternal Mother
Nature.



CHAPTER: 2

MY MOTHER'S DEATH AND THE MYSTIC AMULET

My mother's greatest desire was the marriage of my elder brother.
"Ah, when I behold the face of Ananta's wife, I shall find heaven
on this earth!" I frequently heard Mother express in these words
her strong Indian sentiment for family continuity.

I was about eleven years old at the time of Ananta's betrothal.
Mother was in Calcutta, joyously supervising the wedding preparations.
Father and I alone remained at our home in Bareilly in northern
India, whence Father had been transferred after two years at Lahore.

I had previously witnessed the splendor of nuptial rites for my
two elder sisters, Roma and Uma; but for Ananta, as the eldest son,
plans were truly elaborate. Mother was welcoming numerous relatives,
daily arriving in Calcutta from distant homes. She lodged them
comfortably in a large, newly acquired house at 50 Amherst Street.
Everything was in readiness-the banquet delicacies, the gay throne
on which Brother was to be carried to the home of the bride-to-be,
the rows of colorful lights, the mammoth cardboard elephants and
camels, the English, Scottish and Indian orchestras, the professional
entertainers, the priests for the ancient rituals.

Father and I, in gala spirits, were planning to join the family
in time for the ceremony. Shortly before the great day, however,
I had an ominous vision.

It was in Bareilly on a midnight. As I slept beside Father on the
piazza of our bungalow, I was awakened by a peculiar flutter of
the mosquito netting over the bed. The flimsy curtains parted and
I saw the beloved form of my mother.

"Awaken your father!" Her voice was only a whisper. "Take the first
available train, at four o'clock this morning. Rush to Calcutta if
you would see me!" The wraithlike figure vanished.

"Father, Father! Mother is dying!" The terror in my tone aroused
him instantly. I sobbed out the fatal tidings.

"Never mind that hallucination of yours." Father gave his characteristic
negation to a new situation. "Your mother is in excellent health.
If we get any bad news, we shall leave tomorrow."

"You shall never forgive yourself for not starting now!" Anguish
caused me to add bitterly, "Nor shall I ever forgive you!"

The melancholy morning came with explicit words: "Mother dangerously
ill; marriage postponed; come at once."

Father and I left distractedly. One of my uncles met us en route
at a transfer point. A train thundered toward us, looming with
telescopic increase. From my inner tumult, an abrupt determination
arose to hurl myself on the railroad tracks. Already bereft, I
felt, of my mother, I could not endure a world suddenly barren to
the bone. I loved Mother as my dearest friend on earth. Her solacing
black eyes had been my surest refuge in the trifling tragedies of
childhood.

"Does she yet live?" I stopped for one last question to my uncle.

"Of course she is alive!" He was not slow to interpret the desperation
in my face. But I scarcely believed him.

When we reached our Calcutta home, it was only to confront the
stunning mystery of death. I collapsed into an almost lifeless
state. Years passed before any reconciliation entered my heart.
Storming the very gates of heaven, my cries at last summoned the
Divine Mother. Her words brought final healing to my suppurating
wounds:

"It is I who have watched over thee, life after life, in the
tenderness of many mothers! See in My gaze the two black eyes, the
lost beautiful eyes, thou seekest!"

Father and I returned to Bareilly soon after the crematory
rites for the well-beloved. Early every morning I made a pathetic
memorial--pilgrimage to a large SHEOLI tree which shaded the
smooth, green-gold lawn before our bungalow. In poetical moments,
I thought that the white SHEOLI flowers were strewing themselves
with a willing devotion over the grassy altar. Mingling tears with
the dew, I often observed a strange other-worldly light emerging
from the dawn. Intense pangs of longing for God assailed me. I felt
powerfully drawn to the Himalayas.

One of my cousins, fresh from a period of travel in the holy hills,
visited us in Bareilly. I listened eagerly to his tales about the
high mountain abode of yogis and swamis. {FN2-1}

"Let us run away to the Himalayas." My suggestion one day to
Dwarka Prasad, the young son of our landlord in Bareilly, fell on
unsympathetic ears. He revealed my plan to my elder brother, who
had just arrived to see Father. Instead of laughing lightly over
this impractical scheme of a small boy, Ananta made it a definite
point to ridicule me.

"Where is your orange robe? You can't be a swami without that!"

But I was inexplicably thrilled by his words. They brought a clear
picture of myself roaming about India as a monk. Perhaps they
awakened memories of a past life; in any case, I began to see with
what natural ease I would wear the garb of that anciently-founded
monastic order.

Chatting one morning with Dwarka, I felt a love for God descending
with avalanchic force. My companion was only partly attentive to
the ensuing eloquence, but I was wholeheartedly listening to myself.

I fled that afternoon toward Naini Tal in the Himalayan foothills.
Ananta gave determined chase; I was forced to return sadly to
Bareilly. The only pilgrimage permitted me was the customary one
at dawn to the SHEOLI tree. My heart wept for the lost Mothers,
human and divine.

The rent left in the family fabric by Mother's death was irreparable.
Father never remarried during his nearly forty remaining years.
Assuming the difficult role of Father-Mother to his little flock,
he grew noticeably more tender, more approachable. With calmness
and insight, he solved the various family problems. After office
hours he retired like a hermit to the cell of his room, practicing
KRIYA YOGA in a sweet serenity. Long after Mother's death, I attempted
to engage an English nurse to attend to details that would make my
parent's life more comfortable. But Father shook his head.

[Illustration: My Mother, A Disciple of Lahiri Mahasaya--see
mother.jpg]

"Service to me ended with your mother." His eyes were remote with
a lifelong devotion. "I will not accept ministrations from any
other woman."

Fourteen months after Mother's passing, I learned that she had left
me a momentous message. Ananta was present at her deathbed and had
recorded her words. Although she had asked that the disclosure be
made to me in one year, my brother delayed. He was soon to leave
Bareilly for Calcutta, to marry the girl Mother had chosen for him.
{FN2-2} One evening he summoned me to his side.

"Mukunda, I have been reluctant to give you strange tidings."
Ananta's tone held a note of resignation. "My fear was to inflame
your desire to leave home. But in any case you are bristling with
divine ardor. When I captured you recently on your way to the
Himalayas, I came to a definite resolve. I must not further postpone
the fulfillment of my solemn promise." My brother handed me a small
box, and delivered Mother's message.

"Let these words be my final blessing, my beloved son Mukunda!"
Mother had said. "The hour is here when I must relate a number of
phenomenal events following your birth. I first knew your destined
path when you were but a babe in my arms. I carried you then to
the home of my guru in Benares. Almost hidden behind a throng of
disciples, I could barely see Lahiri Mahasaya as he sat in deep
meditation.

"While I patted you, I was praying that the great guru take
notice and bestow a blessing. As my silent devotional demand grew
in intensity, he opened his eyes and beckoned me to approach. The
others made a way for me; I bowed at the sacred feet. My master
seated you on his lap, placing his hand on your forehead by way of
spiritually baptizing you.

"'Little mother, thy son will be a yogi. As a spiritual engine, he
will carry many souls to God's kingdom.'

"My heart leaped with joy to find my secret prayer granted by the
omniscient guru. Shortly before your birth, he had told me you
would follow his path.

"Later, my son, your vision of the Great Light was known to me and
your sister Roma, as from the next room we observed you motionless
on the bed. Your little face was illuminated; your voice rang with
iron resolve as you spoke of going to the Himalayas in quest of
the Divine.

"In these ways, dear son, I came to know that your road lies far
from worldly ambitions. The most singular event in my life brought
further confirmation-an event which now impels my deathbed message.

"It was an interview with a sage in the Punjab. While our family
was living in Lahore, one morning the servant came precipitantly
into my room.

"'Mistress, a strange SADHU {FN2-3} is here. He insists that he
"see the mother of Mukunda."'

"These simple words struck a profound chord within me; I went at
once to greet the visitor. Bowing at his feet, I sensed that before
me was a true man of God.

"'Mother,' he said, 'the great masters wish you to know that your
stay on earth will not be long. Your next illness shall prove to
be your last.' {FN2-4} There was a silence, during which I felt no
alarm but only a vibration of great peace. Finally he addressed me
again:

"'You are to be the custodian of a certain silver amulet. I will
not give it to you today; to demonstrate the truth in my words, the
talisman shall materialize in your hands tomorrow as you meditate.
On your deathbed, you must instruct your eldest son Ananta to keep
the amulet for one year and then to hand it over to your second
son. Mukunda will understand the meaning of the talisman from the
great ones. He should receive it about the time he is ready to
renounce all worldly hopes and start his vital search for God. When
he has retained the amulet for some years, and when it has served
its purpose, it shall vanish. Even if kept in the most secret spot,
it shall return whence it came.'

"I proffered alms {FN2-5} to the saint, and bowed before him
in great reverence. Not taking the offering, he departed with a
blessing. The next evening, as I sat with folded hands in meditation,
a silver amulet materialized between my palms, even as the SADHU
had promised. It made itself known by a cold, smooth touch. I
have jealously guarded it for more than two years, and now leave
it in Ananta's keeping. Do not grieve for me, as I shall have been
ushered by my great guru into the arms of the Infinite. Farewell,
my child; the Cosmic Mother will protect you."

A blaze of illumination came over me with possession of the amulet;
many dormant memories awakened. The talisman, round and anciently
quaint, was covered with Sanskrit characters. I understood that it
came from teachers of past lives, who were invisibly guiding my
steps. A further significance there was, indeed; but one does not
reveal fully the heart of an amulet.

How the talisman finally vanished amidst deeply unhappy circumstances
of my life; and how its loss was a herald of my gain of a guru,
cannot be told in this chapter.

But the small boy, thwarted in his attempts to reach the Himalayas,
daily traveled far on the wings of his amulet.

{FN2-1} Sanskrit root meaning of SWAMI is "he who is one with his
Self (SWA)." Applied to a member of the Indian order of monks, the
title has the formal respect of "the reverend."

{FN2-2} The Indian custom, whereby parents choose the life-partner
for their child, has resisted the blunt assaults of time. The
percentage is high of happy Indian marriages.

{FN2-3} An anchorite; one who pursues a SADHANA or path of spiritual
discipline.

{FN2-4} When I discovered by these words that Mother had possessed
secret knowledge of a short life, I understood for the first time
why she had been insistent on hastening the plans for Ananta's
marriage. Though she died before the wedding, her natural maternal
wish had been to witness the rites.

{FN2-5} A customary gesture of respect to SADHUS.



CHAPTER: 3

THE SAINT WITH TWO BODIES

"Father, if I promise to return home without coercion, may I take
a sight-seeing trip to Benares?"

My keen love of travel was seldom hindered by Father. He permitted
me, even as a mere boy, to visit many cities and pilgrimage spots.
Usually one or more of my friends accompanied me; we would travel
comfortably on first-class passes provided by Father. His position
as a railroad official was fully satisfactory to the nomads in the
family.

Father promised to give my request due consideration. The next
day he summoned me and held out a round-trip pass from Bareilly to
Benares, a number of rupee notes, and two letters.

"I have a business matter to propose to a Benares friend, Kedar
Nath Babu. Unfortunately I have lost his address. But I believe you
will be able to get this letter to him through our common friend,
Swami Pranabananda. The swami, my brother disciple, has attained
an exalted spiritual stature. You will benefit by his company; this
second note will serve as your introduction."


Father's eyes twinkled as he added, "Mind, no more flights from
home!"

I set forth with the zest of my twelve years (though time has
never dimmed my delight in new scenes and strange faces). Reaching
Benares, I proceeded immediately to the swami's residence. The
front door was open; I made my way to a long, hall-like room on
the second floor. A rather stout man, wearing only a loincloth, was
seated in lotus posture on a slightly raised platform. His head and
unwrinkled face were clean-shaven; a beatific smile played about
his lips. To dispel my thought that I had intruded, he greeted me
as an old friend.

"BABA ANAND (bliss to my dear one)." His welcome was given heartily
in a childlike voice. I knelt and touched his feet.

"Are you Swami Pranabananda?"

He nodded. "Are you Bhagabati's son?" His words were out before I
had had time to get Father's letter from my pocket. In astonishment,
I handed him the note of introduction, which now seemed superfluous.

"Of course I will locate Kedar Nath Babu for you." The saint again
surprised me by his clairvoyance. He glanced at the letter, and
made a few affectionate references to my parent.

"You know, I am enjoying two pensions. One is by the recommendation
of your father, for whom I once worked in the railroad office. The
other is by the recommendation of my Heavenly Father, for whom I
have conscientiously finished my earthly duties in life."

I found this remark very obscure. "What kind of pension, sir, do
you receive from the Heavenly Father? Does He drop money in your
lap?"

He laughed. "I mean a pension of fathomless peace-a reward for many
years of deep meditation. I never crave money now. My few material
needs are amply provided for. Later you will understand the
significance of a second pension."

Abruptly terminating our conversation, the saint became gravely
motionless. A sphinxlike air enveloped him. At first his eyes
sparkled, as if observing something of interest, then grew dull. I
felt abashed at his pauciloquy; he had not yet told me how I could
meet Father's friend. A trifle restlessly, I looked about me in
the bare room, empty except for us two. My idle gaze took in his
wooden sandals, lying under the platform seat.

"Little sir, {FN3-1} don't get worried. The man you wish to see
will be with you in half an hour." The yogi was reading my mind-a
feat not too difficult at the moment!

Again he fell into inscrutable silence. My watch informed me that
thirty minutes had elapsed.

The swami aroused himself. "I think Kedar Nath Babu is nearing the
door."

I heard somebody coming up the stairs. An amazed incomprehension
arose suddenly; my thoughts raced in confusion: "How is it possible
that Father's friend has been summoned to this place without the
help of a messenger? The swami has spoken to no one but myself
since my arrival!"

Abruptly I quitted the room and descended the steps. Halfway down
I met a thin, fair-skinned man of medium height. He appeared to be
in a hurry.

"Are you Kedar Nath Babu?" Excitement colored my voice.

"Yes. Are you not Bhagabati's son who has been waiting here to meet
me?" He smiled in friendly fashion.

"Sir, how do you happen to come here?" I felt baffled resentment
over his inexplicable presence.

"Everything is mysterious today! Less than an hour ago I had just
finished my bath in the Ganges when Swami Pranabananda approached
me. I have no idea how he knew I was there at that time.

"'Bhagabati's son is waiting for you in my apartment,' he said.
'Will you come with me?' I gladly agreed. As we proceeded hand in
hand, the swami in his wooden sandals was strangely able to outpace
me, though I wore these stout walking shoes.

"'How long will it take you to reach my place?' Pranabanandaji
suddenly halted to ask me this question.

"'About half an hour.'

"'I have something else to do at present.' He gave me an enigmatical
glance. 'I must leave you behind. You can join me in my house,
where Bhagabati's son and I will be awaiting you.'

"Before I could remonstrate, he dashed swiftly past me and disappeared
in the crowd. I walked here as fast as possible."

This explanation only increased my bewilderment. I inquired how
long he had known the swami.

"We met a few times last year, but not recently. I was very glad
to see him again today at the bathing GHAT."

"I cannot believe my ears! Am I losing my mind? Did you meet him
in a vision, or did you actually see him, touch his hand, and hear
the sound of his feet?"

"I don't know what you're driving at!" He flushed angrily. "I am
not lying to you. Can't you understand that only through the swami
could I have known you were waiting at this place for me?"

"Why, that man, Swami Pranabananda, has not left my sight a moment
since I first came about an hour ago." I blurted out the whole
story.

His eyes opened widely. "Are we living in this material age, or
are we dreaming? I never expected to witness such a miracle in my
life! I thought this swami was just an ordinary man, and now I find
he can materialize an extra body and work through it!" Together we
entered the saint's room.

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