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Autobiography of a YOGI

P >> Paramhansa Yogananda >> Autobiography of a YOGI




At the end of the first year at Ranchi, applications for admission
reached two thousand. But the school, which at that time was solely
residential, could accommodate only about one hundred. Instruction
for day students was soon added.

In the VIDYALAYA I had to play father-mother to the little children,
and to cope with many organizational difficulties. I often remembered
Christ's words: "Verily I say unto you, There is no man that hath
left house, or brethren or sisters, or father, or mother, or wife,
or children, or lands, for my sake, and the gospel's, but he shall
receive an hundredfold now in this time, houses and brethren, and
sisters, and mothers, and children, and lands, with persecutions;
and in the world to come eternal life." {FN27-3} Sri Yukteswar had
interpreted these words: "The devotee who forgoes the life-experiences
of marriage and family, and exchanges the problems of a small
household and limited activities for the larger responsibilities
of service to society in general, is undertaking a task which is
often accompanied by persecution from a misunderstanding world,
but also by a divine inner contentment."

[Illustration: Yogoda Math, beautiful hermitage of Self-Realization
Fellowship at Dakshineswar on the Ganges. Founded in 1938 as a yoga
retreat for students of East and West.--see math.jpg]

[Illustration: Central building of the Yogoda Sat-Sanga Brahmacharya
Vidyalaya at Ranchi, Bihar, established in 1918 as a yoga school
for boys, with grammar and high school education. Connected with
it is the philanthropic Lahiri Mahasaya Mission.--see ranchi.jpg]

One day my father arrived in Ranchi to bestow a paternal blessing,
long withheld because I had hurt him by refusing his offer of a
position with the Bengal-Nagpur Railway.

"Son," he said, "I am now reconciled to your choice in life. It gives
me joy to see you amidst these happy, eager youngsters; you belong
here rather than with the lifeless figures of railroad timetables."
He waved toward a group of a dozen little ones who were tagging at
my heels. "I had only eight children," he observed with twinkling
eyes, "but I can feel for you!"

With a large fruit orchard and twenty-five fertile acres at our
disposal, the students, teachers, and myself enjoyed many happy
hours of outdoor labor in these ideal surroundings. We had many pets,
including a young deer who was fairly idolized by the children. I
too loved the fawn so much that I allowed it to sleep in my room.
At the light of dawn, the little creature would toddle over to my
bed for a morning caress.

One day I fed the pet earlier than usual, as I had to attend to
some business in the town of Ranchi. Although I cautioned the boys
not to feed the fawn until my return, one of them was disobedient,
and gave the baby deer a large quantity of milk. When I came back
in the evening, sad news greeted me: "The little fawn is nearly
dead, through over feeding."

In tears, I placed the apparently lifeless pet on my lap. I prayed
piteously to God to spare its life. Hours later, the small creature
opened its eyes, stood up, and walked feebly. The whole school
shouted for joy.

But a deep lesson came to me that night, one I can never forget.
I stayed up with the fawn until two o'clock, when I fell asleep.
The deer appeared in a dream, and spoke to me:

"You are holding me back. Please let me go; let me go!"

"All right," I answered in the dream.

I awoke immediately, and cried out, "Boys, the deer is dying!" The
children rushed to my side.


I ran to the corner of the room where I had placed the pet. It
made a last effort to rise, stumbled toward me, then dropped at my
feet, dead.

According to the mass karma which guides and regulates the destinies
of animals, the deer's life was over, and it was ready to progress
to a higher form. But by my deep attachment, which I later realized
was selfish, and by my fervent prayers, I had been able to hold
it in the limitations of the animal form from which the soul was
struggling for release. The soul of the deer made its plea in a
dream because, without my loving permission, it either would not
or could not go. As soon as I agreed, it departed.

All sorrow left me; I realized anew that God wants His children to
love everything as a part of Him, and not to feel delusively that
death ends all. The ignorant man sees only the unsurmountable wall
of death, hiding, seemingly forever, his cherished friends. But
the man of unattachment, he who loves others as expressions of the
Lord, understands that at death the dear ones have only returned
for a breathing-space of joy in Him.

The Ranchi school grew from small and simple beginnings to an
institution now well-known in India. Many departments of the school
are supported by voluntary contributions from those who rejoice in
perpetuating the educational ideals of the rishis. Under the general
name of YOGODA SAT-SANGA, {FN27-4} flourishing branch schools have
been established at Midnapore, Lakshmanpur, and Puri.

The Ranchi headquarters maintains a Medical Department where
medicines and the services of doctors are supplied freely to the
poor of the locality. The number treated has averaged more than
18,000 persons a year. The VIDYALAYA has made its mark, too, in
Indian competitive sports, and in the scholastic field, where many
Ranchi alumni have distinguished themselves in later university
life.

The school, now in its twenty-eighth year and the center of many
activities, {FN27-5} has been honored by visits of eminent men
from the East and the West. One of the earliest great figures to
inspect the VIDYALAYA in its first year was Swami Pranabananda,
the Benares "saint with two bodies." As the great master viewed
the picturesque outdoor classes, held under the trees, and saw in
the evening that young boys were sitting motionless for hours in
yoga meditation, he was profoundly moved.

"Joy comes to my heart," he said, "to see that Lahiri Mahasaya's
ideals for the proper training of youth are being carried on in
this institution. My guru's blessings be on it."

A young lad sitting by my side ventured to ask the great yogi a
question.

"Sir," he said, "shall I be a monk? Is my life only for God?"

Though Swami Pranabananda smiled gently, his eyes were piercing
the future.

"Child," he replied, "when you grow up, there is a beautiful bride
waiting for you." The boy did eventually marry, after having planned
for years to enter the Swami Order.

Sometime after Swami Pranabananda had visited Ranchi, I accompanied
my father to the Calcutta house where the yogi was temporarily
staying. Pranabananda's prediction, made to me so many years before,
came rushing to my mind: "I shall see you, with your father, later
on."

As Father entered the swami's room, the great yogi rose from his
seat and embraced my parent with loving respect.

"Bhagabati," he said, "what are you doing about yourself? Don't you
see your son racing to the Infinite?" I blushed to hear his praise
before my father. The swami went on, "You recall how often our
blessed guru used to say: 'BANAT, BANAT, BAN JAI.' {FN26-6} So keep
up KRIYA YOGA ceaselessly, and reach the divine portals quickly."

The body of Pranabananda, which had appeared so well and strong
during my amazing first visit to him in Benares, now showed definite
aging, though his posture was still admirably erect.

"Swamiji," I inquired, looking straight into his eyes, "please tell
me the truth: Aren't you feeling the advance of age? As the body
is weakening, are your perceptions of God suffering any diminution?"

He smiled angelically. "The Beloved is more than ever with me now."
His complete conviction overwhelmed my mind and soul. He went on,
"I am still enjoying the two pensions-one from Bhagabati here, and
one from above." Pointing his finger heavenward, the saint fell
into an ecstasy, his face lit with a divine glow-an ample answer
to my question.

Noticing that Pranabananda's room contained many plants and packages
of seed, I asked their purpose.

"I have left Benares permanently," he said, "and am now on my way
to the Himalayas. There I shall open an ashram for my disciples.
These seeds will produce spinach and a few other vegetables. My dear
ones will live simply, spending their time in blissful God-union.
Nothing else is necessary."

Father asked his brother disciple when he would return to Calcutta.

"Never again," the saint replied. "This year is the one in which
Lahiri Mahasaya told me I would leave my beloved Benares forever
and go to the Himalayas, there to throw off my mortal frame."

My eyes filled with tears at his words, but the swami smiled
tranquilly. He reminded me of a little heavenly child, sitting
securely on the lap of the Divine Mother. The burden of the years
has no ill effect on a great yogi's full possession of supreme
spiritual powers. He is able to renew his body at will; yet sometimes
he does not care to retard the aging process, but allows his karma
to work itself out on the physical plane, using his old body as a
time-saving device to exclude the necessity of working out karma
in a new incarnation.


Months later I met an old friend, Sanandan, who was one of
Pranabananda's close disciples.

"My adorable guru is gone," he told me, amidst sobs. "He established
a hermitage near Rishikesh, and gave us loving training. When we
were pretty well settled, and making rapid spiritual progress in his
company, he proposed one day to feed a huge crowd from Rishikesh.
I inquired why he wanted such a large number.

"'This is my last festival ceremony,' he said. I did not understand
the full implications of his words.

"Pranabanandaji helped with the cooking of great amounts of food.
We fed about 2000 guests. After the feast, he sat on a high platform
and gave an inspired sermon on the Infinite. At the end, before
the gaze of thousands, he turned to me, as I sat beside him on the
dais, and spoke with unusual force.

"'Sanandan, be prepared; I am going to kick the frame.' {FN27-7}

"After a stunned silence, I cried loudly, 'Master, don't do it!
Please, please, don't do it!' The crowd was tongue-tied, watching
us curiously. My guru smiled at me, but his solemn gaze was already
fixed on Eternity.

"'Be not selfish,' he said, 'nor grieve for me. I have been long
cheerfully serving you all; now rejoice and wish me Godspeed. I
go to meet my Cosmic Beloved.' In a whisper, Pranabanandaji added,
'I shall be reborn shortly. After enjoying a short period of the
Infinite Bliss, I shall return to earth and join Babaji. {FN27-8}
You shall soon know when and where my soul has been encased in a
new body.'

"He cried again, 'Sanandan, here I kick the frame by the second
KRIYA YOGA.' {FN27-9}

"He looked at the sea of faces before us, and gave a blessing.
Directing his gaze inwardly to the spiritual eye, he became immobile.
While the bewildered crowd thought he was meditating in an ecstatic
state, he had already left the tabernacle of flesh and plunged
his soul into the cosmic vastness. The disciples touched his body,
seated in the lotus posture, but it was no longer the warm flesh.
Only a stiffened frame remained; the tenant had fled to the immortal
shore."

I inquired where Pranabananda was to be reborn.

"That's a sacred trust I cannot divulge to anyone," Sanandan replied.
"Perhaps you may find out some other way."

Years later I discovered from Swami Keshabananda {FN27-10} that
Pranabananda, a few years after his birth in a new body, had gone
to Badrinarayan in the Himalayas, and there joined the group of
saints around the great Babaji.

{FN27-1} VIDYALAYA, school. BRAHMACHARYA here refers to one of the
four stages in the Vedic plan for man's life, as comprising that
of (1) the celibate student (BRAHMACHARI); (2) the householder with
worldly responsibilities (GRIHASTHA); (3) the hermit (VANAPRASTHA);
(4) the forest dweller or wanderer, free from all earthly concerns
(SANNYASI). This ideal scheme of life, while not widely observed
in modern India, still has many devout followers. The four stages
are carried out religiously under the lifelong direction of a guru.

{FN27-2} A number of American students also have mastered various
ASANAS or postures, including Bernard Cole, an instructor in Los
Angeles of the Self-Realization Fellowship teachings.

{FN27-3} MARK 10:29-30..

{FN27-4} Yogoda: YOGA, union, harmony, equilibrium; DA, that which
imparts. Sat-Sanga: SAT, truth; SANGA, fellowship. In the West,
to avoid the use of a Sanskrit name, the YOGODA SAT-SANGA movement
has been called the SELF-REALIZATION FELLOWSHIP.

{FN27-5} The activities at Ranchi are described more fully in
chapter 40. The Lakshmanpur school is in the capable charge of Mr.
G. C. Dey, B.A. The medical department is ably supervised by Dr.
S. N. Pal and Sasi Bhusan Mullick.

{FN27-6} One of Lahiri Mahasaya's favorite remarks, given as
encouragement for his students' perseverance. A free translation
is: "Striving, striving, one day behold! the Divine Goal!"

{FN27-7} i.e., give up the body.

{FN27-8} Lahiri Mahasaya's guru, who is still living. (See chapter
33.)

{FN27-9} The second KRIYA, as taught by Lahiri Mahasaya, enables
the devotee that has mastered it to leave and return to the
body consciously at any time. Advanced yogis use the second Kriya
technique during the last exit of death, a moment they invariably
know beforehand.

{FN27-10} My meeting with Keshabananda is described in chapter 42.



CHAPTER: 28

KASHI, REBORN AND REDISCOVERED

"Please do not go into the water. Let us bathe by dipping our
buckets."

I was addressing the young Ranchi students who were accompanying
me on an eight-mile hike to a neighboring hill. The pond before
us was inviting, but a distaste for it had arisen in my mind. The
group around me followed my example of dipping buckets, but a few
lads yielded to the temptation of the cool waters. No sooner had
they dived than large water snakes wiggled around them. The boys
came out of the pond with comical alacrity.

We enjoyed a picnic lunch after we reached our destination. I sat
under a tree, surrounded by a group of students. Finding me in an
inspirational mood, they plied me with questions.

"Please tell me, sir," one youth inquired, "if I shall always stay
with you in the path of renunciation."

"Ah, no," I replied, "you will be forcibly taken away to your home,
and later you will marry."

Incredulous, he made a vehement protest. "Only if I am dead can I
be carried home." But in a few months, his parents arrived to take
him away, in spite of his tearful resistance; some years later, he
did marry.

After answering many questions, I was addressed by a lad named
Kashi. He was about twelve years old, a brilliant student, and
beloved by all.

"Sir," he said, "what will be my fate?"

"You shall soon be dead." The reply came from my lips with an
irresistible force.

This unexpected disclosure shocked and grieved me as well as
everyone present. Silently rebuking myself as an ENFANT TERRIBLE,
I refused to answer further questions.

On our return to the school, Kashi came to my room.

"If I die, will you find me when I am reborn, and bring me again
to the spiritual path?" He sobbed.

I felt constrained to refuse this difficult occult responsibility.
But for weeks afterward, Kashi pressed me doggedly. Seeing him
unnerved to the breaking point, I finally consoled him.

"Yes," I promised. "If the Heavenly Father lends His aid, I will
try to find you."

During the summer vacation, I started on a short trip. Regretting
that I could not take Kashi with me, I called him to my room
before leaving, and carefully instructed him to remain, against
all persuasion, in the spiritual vibrations of the school. Somehow
I felt that if he did not go home, he might avoid the impending
calamity.

No sooner had I left than Kashi's father arrived in Ranchi. For
fifteen days he tried to break the will of his son, explaining that
if Kashi would go to Calcutta for only four days to see his mother,
he could then return. Kashi persistently refused. The father finally
said he would take the boy away with the help of the police. The
threat disturbed Kashi, who was unwilling to be the cause of any
unfavorable publicity to the school. He saw no choice but to go.

I returned to Ranchi a few days later. When I heard how Kashi had
been removed, I entrained at once for Calcutta. There I engaged a
horse cab. Very strangely, as the vehicle passed beyond the Howrah
bridge over the Ganges, I beheld Kashi's father and other relatives
in mourning clothes. Shouting to my driver to stop, I rushed out
and glared at the unfortunate father.

"Mr. Murderer," I cried somewhat unreasonably, "you have killed my
boy!"

The father had already realized the wrong he had done in forcibly
bringing Kashi to Calcutta. During the few days the boy had been
there, he had eaten contaminated food, contracted cholera, and
passed on.

My love for Kashi, and the pledge to find him after death, night and
day haunted me. No matter where I went, his face loomed up before
me. I began a memorable search for him, even as long ago I had
searched for my lost mother.

[Illustration: Kashi, lost and rediscovered--see kashi.jpg]

[Illustration: My brother Bishnu; Motilal Mukherji of Serampore, a
highly advanced disciple of Sri Yukteswar; my father; Mr. Wright;
myself; Tulsi Narayan Bose; Swami Satyananda of Ranchi--see
bishnu.jpg]

[Illustration: A group of delegates to the 1920 International
Congress of Religious Liberals at Boston, where I gave my maiden
speech in America. (Left to Right) Rev. Clay MacCauley, Rev. T.
Rhondda Williams, Prof. S. Ushigasaki, Rev. Jabez T. Sunderland,
myself, Rev. Chas. W. Wendte, Rev. Samuel A. Eliot, Rev. Basil
Martin, Rev. Christopher J. Street, Rev. Samuel M. Crothers.--see
congress.jpg]

I felt that inasmuch as God had given me the faculty of reason, I
must utilize it and tax my powers to the utmost in order to discover
the subtle laws by which I could know the boy's astral whereabouts.
He was a soul vibrating with unfulfilled desires, I realized-a mass
of light floating somewhere amidst millions of luminous souls in
the astral regions. How was I to tune in with him, among so many
vibrating lights of other souls?

Using a secret yoga technique, I broadcasted my love to Kashi's
soul through the microphone of the spiritual eye, the inner point
between the eyebrows. With the antenna of upraised hands and
fingers, I often turned myself round and round, trying to locate
the direction in which he had been reborn as an embryo. I hoped to
receive response from him in the concentration-tuned radio of my
heart. {FN28-1}

I intuitively felt that Kashi would soon return to the earth, and
that if I kept unceasingly broadcasting my call to him, his soul
would reply. I knew that the slightest impulse sent by Kashi would
be felt in my fingers, hands, arms, spine, and nerves.

With undiminished zeal, I practiced the yoga method steadily for
about six months after Kashi's death. Walking with a few friends
one morning in the crowded Bowbazar section of Calcutta, I lifted
my hands in the usual manner. For the first time, there was response.
I thrilled to detect electrical impulses trickling down my fingers
and palms. These currents translated themselves into one overpowering
thought from a deep recess of my consciousness: "I am Kashi; I am
Kashi; come to me!"

The thought became almost audible as I concentrated on my heart
radio. In the characteristic, slightly hoarse whisper of Kashi,
{FN28-2} I heard his summons again and again. I seized the arm
of one of my companions, Prokash Das, {FN28-3} and smiled at him
joyfully.

"It looks as though I have located Kashi!"

I began to turn round and round, to the undisguised amusement of
my friends and the passing throng. The electrical impulses tingled
through my fingers only when I faced toward a near-by path, aptly
named "Serpentine Lane." The astral currents disappeared when I
turned in other directions.

"Ah," I exclaimed, "Kashi's soul must be living in the womb of some
mother whose home is in this lane."

My companions and I approached closer to Serpentine Lane; the
vibrations in my upraised hands grew stronger, more pronounced.
As if by a magnet, I was pulled toward the right side of the road.
Reaching the entrance of a certain house, I was astounded to find
myself transfixed. I knocked at the door in a state of intense
excitement, holding my very breath. I felt that the successful end
had come for my long, arduous, and certainly unusual quest!

The door was opened by a servant, who told me her master was at
home. He descended the stairway from the second floor and smiled
at me inquiringly. I hardly knew how to frame my question, at once
pertinent and impertinent.

"Please tell me, sir, if you and your wife have been expecting a
child for about six months?"

"Yes, it is so." Seeing that I was a swami, a renunciate attired
in the traditional orange cloth, he added politely, "Pray inform
me how you know my affairs."

When he heard about Kashi and the promise I had given, the astonished
man believed my story.

"A male child of fair complexion will be born to you," I told him.
"He will have a broad face, with a cowlick atop his forehead. His
disposition will be notably spiritual." I felt certain that the
coming child would bear these resemblances to Kashi.

Later I visited the child, whose parents had given him his old name
of Kashi. Even in infancy he was strikingly similar in appearance
to my dear Ranchi student. The child showed me an instantaneous
affection; the attraction of the past awoke with redoubled intensity.

Years later the teen-age boy wrote me, during my stay in America.
He explained his deep longing to follow the path of a renunciate.
I directed him to a Himalayan master who, to this day, guides the
reborn Kashi.

{FN28-1} The will, projected from the point between the eyebrows,
is known by yogis as the broadcasting apparatus of thought. When the
feeling is calmly concentrated on the heart, it acts as a mental
radio, and can receive the messages of others from far or near.
In telepathy the fine vibrations of thoughts in one person's mind
are transmitted through the subtle vibrations of astral ether and
then through the grosser earthly ether, creating electrical waves
which, in turn, translate themselves into thought waves in the mind
of the other person.

{FN28-2} Every soul in its pure state is omniscient. Kashi's soul
remembered all the characteristics of Kashi, the boy, and therefore
mimicked his hoarse voice in order to stir my recognition.

{FN28-3} Prokash Das is the present director of our Yogoda Math
(hermitage) at Dakshineswar in Bengal.



CHAPTER: 29

RABINDRANATH TAGORE AND I COMPARE SCHOOLS

"Rabindranath Tagore taught us to sing, as a natural form of
self-expression, like the birds."

Bhola Nath, a bright fourteen-year-old lad at my Ranchi school,
gave me this explanation after I had complimented him one morning
on his melodious outbursts. With or without provocation, the boy
poured forth a tuneful stream. He had previously attended the famous
Tagore school of "Santiniketan" (Haven of Peace) at Bolpur.

"The songs of Rabindranath have been on my lips since early youth,"
I told my companion. "All Bengal, even the unlettered peasants,
delights in his lofty verse."

Bhola and I sang together a few refrains from Tagore, who has set
to music thousands of Indian poems, some original and others of
hoary antiquity.

"I met Rabindranath soon after he had received the Nobel Prize
for literature," I remarked after our vocalizing. "I was drawn to
visit him because I admired his undiplomatic courage in disposing
of his literary critics." I chuckled.

Bhola curiously inquired the story.

"The scholars severely flayed Tagore for introducing a new style
into Bengali poetry," I began. "He mixed colloquial and classical
expressions, ignoring all the prescribed limitations dear to
the pundits' hearts. His songs embody deep philosophic truth in
emotionally appealing terms, with little regard for the accepted
literary forms.

"One influential critic slightingly referred to Rabindranath
as a 'pigeon-poet who sold his cooings in print for a rupee.' But
Tagore's revenge was at hand; the whole Western world paid homage
at his feet soon after he had translated into English his GITANJALI
('Song Offerings'). A trainload of pundits, including his one-time
critics, went to Santiniketan to offer their congratulations.

"Rabindranath received his guests only after an intentionally long
delay, and then heard their praise in stoic silence. Finally he
turned against them their own habitual weapons of criticism.

"'Gentlemen,' he said, 'the fragrant honors you here bestow are
incongruously mingled with the putrid odors of your past contempt.
Is there possibly any connection between my award of the Nobel
Prize, and your suddenly acute powers of appreciation? I am still
the same poet who displeased you when I first offered my humble
flowers at the shrine of Bengal.'

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