I GO TO AMERICA
“America! Surely these people are Americans!” This was my thought
as a panoramic vision of Western faces passed before my inward
view.
Immersed in meditation, I was sitting behind some dusty boxes in
the storeroom of the Ranchi school. A private spot was difficult
to find during those busy years with the youngsters!
The vision continued; a vast multitude, {FN37-1} gazing at me
intently, swept actorlike across the stage of consciousness.
The storeroom door opened; as usual, one of the young lads had
discovered my hiding place.
“Come here, Bimal,” I cried gaily. “I have news for you: the Lord
is calling me to America!”
“To America?” The boy echoed my words in a tone that implied I had
said “to the moon.”
“Yes! I am going forth to discover America, like Columbus. He
thought he had found India; surely there is a karmic link between
those two lands!”
Bimal scampered away; soon the whole school was informed by the
two-legged newspaper. {FN37-2} I summoned the bewildered faculty
and gave the school into its charge.
“I know you will keep Lahiri Mahasaya’s yoga ideals of education ever
to the fore,” I said. “I shall write you frequently; God willing,
someday I shall be back.”
Tears stood in my eyes as I cast a last look at the little boys
and the sunny acres of Ranchi. A definite epoch in my life had now
closed, I knew; henceforth I would dwell in far lands. I entrained
for Calcutta a few hours after my vision. The following day I
received an invitation to serve as the delegate from India to an
International Congress of Religious Liberals in America. It was
to convene that year in Boston, under the auspices of the American
Unitarian Association.
My head in a whirl, I sought out Sri Yukteswar in Serampore.
“Guruji, I have just been invited to address a religious congress
in America. Shall I go?”
“All doors are open for you,” Master replied simply. “It is now or
never.”
“But, sir,” I said in dismay, “what do I know about public speaking?
Seldom have I given a lecture, and never in English.”
“English or no English, your words on yoga shall be heard in the
West.”
I laughed. “Well, dear guruji, I hardly think the Americans will
learn Bengali! Please bless me with a push over the hurdles of the
English language.” {FN37-3}
When I broke the news of my plans to Father, he was utterly taken
aback. To him America seemed incredibly remote; he feared he might
never see me again.
“How can you go?” he asked sternly. “Who will finance you?” As he
had affectionately borne the expenses of my education and whole
life, he doubtless hoped that his question would bring my project
to an embarrassing halt.
“The Lord will surely finance me.” As I made this reply, I thought
of the similar one I had given long ago to my brother Ananta in
Agra. Without very much guile, I added, “Father, perhaps God will
put it into your mind to help me.”
“No, never!” He glanced at me piteously.
I was astounded, therefore, when Father handed me, the following
day, a check made out for a large amount.
“I give you this money,” he said, “not in my capacity as a father,
but as a faithful disciple of Lahiri Mahasaya. Go then to that far
Western land; spread there the creedless teachings of KRIYA YOGA.”
I was immensely touched at the selfless spirit in which Father
had been able to quickly put aside his personal desires. The just
realization had come to him during the preceding night that no
ordinary desire for foreign travel was motivating my voyage.
“Perhaps we shall not meet again in this life.” Father, who was
sixty-seven at this time, spoke sadly.
An intuitive conviction prompted me to reply, “Surely the Lord will
bring us together once more.”
As I went about my preparations to leave Master and my native
land for the unknown shores of America, I experienced not a little
trepidation. I had heard many stories about the materialistic
Western atmosphere, one very different from the spiritual background
of India, pervaded with the centuried aura of saints. “An Oriental
teacher who will dare the Western airs,” I thought, “must be hardy
beyond the trials of any Himalayan cold!”
One early morning I began to pray, with an adamant determination
to continue, to even die praying, until I heard the voice of God.
I wanted His blessing and assurance that I would not lose myself
in the fogs of modern utilitarianism. My heart was set to go to
America, but even more strongly was it resolved to hear the solace
of divine permission.
I prayed and prayed, muffling my sobs. No answer came. My silent
petition increased in excruciating crescendo until, at noon, I had
reached a zenith; my brain could no longer withstand the pressure
of my agonies. If I cried once more with an increased depth of my
inner passion, I felt as though my brain would split. At that moment
there came a knock outside the vestibule adjoining the Gurpar Road
room in which I was sitting. Opening the door, I saw a young man
in the scanty garb of a renunciate. He came in, closed the door
behind him and, refusing my request to sit down, indicated with a
gesture that he wished to talk to me while standing.
“He must be Babaji!” I thought, dazed, because the man before me
had the features of a younger Lahiri Mahasaya.
He answered my thought. “Yes, I am Babaji.” He spoke melodiously
in Hindi. “Our Heavenly Father has heard your prayer. He commands
me to tell you: Follow the behests of your guru and go to America.
Fear not; you will be protected.”
After a vibrant pause, Babaji addressed me again. “You are the one
I have chosen to spread the message of KRIYA YOGA in the West. Long
ago I met your guru Yukteswar at a KUMBHA MELA; I told him then I
would send you to him for training.”
I was speechless, choked with devotional awe at his presence, and
deeply touched to hear from his own lips that he had guided me
to Sri Yukteswar. I lay prostrate before the deathless guru. He
graciously lifted me from the floor. Telling me many things about
my life, he then gave me some personal instruction, and uttered a
few secret prophecies.
“KRIYA YOGA, the scientific technique of God-realization,” he finally
said with solemnity, “will ultimately spread in all lands, and aid
in harmonizing the nations through man’s personal, transcendental
perception of the Infinite Father.”
With a gaze of majestic power, the master electrified me by a
glimpse of his cosmic consciousness. In a short while he started
toward the door.
“Do not try to follow me,” he said. “You will not be able to do
so.”
“Please, Babaji, don’t go away!” I cried repeatedly. “Take me with
you!”
Looking back, he replied, “Not now. Some other time.”
Overcome by emotion, I disregarded his warning. As I tried to pursue
him, I discovered that my feet were firmly rooted to the floor.
From the door, Babaji gave me a last affectionate glance. He raised
his hand by way of benediction and walked away, my eyes fixed on
him longingly.
After a few minutes my feet were free. I sat down and went into a
deep meditation, unceasingly thanking God not only for answering my
prayer but for blessing me by a meeting with Babaji. My whole body
seemed sanctified through the touch of the ancient, ever-youthful
master. Long had it been my burning desire to behold him.
Until now, I have never recounted to anyone this story of my meeting
with Babaji. Holding it as the most sacred of my human experiences,
I have hidden it in my heart. But the thought occurred to me that
readers of this autobiography may be more inclined to believe in
the reality of the secluded Babaji and his world interests if I
relate that I saw him with my own eyes. I have helped an artist to
draw a true picture of the great Yogi-Christ of modern India; it
appears in this book.
The eve of my departure for the United States found me in Sri
Yukteswar’s holy presence.
“Forget you were born a Hindu, and don’t be an American. Take the
best of them both,” Master said in his calm way of wisdom. “Be your
true self, a child of God. Seek and incorporate into your being
the best qualities of all your brothers, scattered over the earth
in various races.”
Then he blessed me: “All those who come to you with faith, seeking
God, will be helped. As you look at them, the spiritual current
emanating from your eyes will enter into their brains and change
their material habits, making them more God-conscious.”
He went on, “Your lot to attract sincere souls is very good.
Everywhere you go, even in a wilderness, you will find friends.”
Both of his blessings have been amply demonstrated. I came alone
to America, into a wilderness without a single friend, but there
I found thousands ready to receive the time-tested soul-teachings.
I left India in August, 1920, on THE CITY OF SPARTA, the first
passenger boat sailing for America after the close of World War
I. I had been able to book passage only after the removal, in ways
fairly miraculous, of many “red-tape” difficulties concerned with
the granting of my passport.
During the two-months’ voyage a fellow passenger found out that I
was the Indian delegate to the Boston congress.
“Swami Yogananda,” he said, with the first of many quaint
pronunciations by which I was later to hear my name spoken by the
Americans, “please favor the passengers with a lecture next Thursday
night. I think we would all benefit by a talk on ‘The Battle of
Life and How to Fight It.’”
Alas! I had to fight the battle of my own life, I discovered on
Wednesday. Desperately trying to organize my ideas into a lecture
in English, I finally abandoned all preparations; my thoughts, like
a wild colt eyeing a saddle, refused any cooperation with the laws
of English grammar. Fully trusting in Master’s past assurances,
however, I appeared before my Thursday audience in the saloon of
the steamer. No eloquence rose to my lips; speechlessly I stood
before the assemblage. After an endurance contest lasting ten
minutes, the audience realized my predicament and began to laugh.
The situation was not funny to me at the moment; indignantly I sent
a silent prayer to Master.
“You CAN! Speak!” His voice sounded instantly within my consciousness.
My thoughts fell at once into a friendly relation with the English
language. Forty-five minutes later the audience was still attentive.
The talk won me a number of invitations to lecture later before
various groups in America.
I never could remember, afterward, a word that I had spoken. By
discreet inquiry I learned from a number of passengers: “You gave
an inspiring lecture in stirring and correct English.” At this
delightful news I humbly thanked my guru for his timely help,
realizing anew that he was ever with me, setting at naught all
barriers of time and space.
Once in awhile, during the remainder of the ocean trip, I experienced
a few apprehensive twinges about the coming English-lecture ordeal
at the Boston congress.
“Lord,” I prayed, “please let my inspiration be Thyself, and not
again the laughter-bombs of the audience!”
[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]
THE CITY OF SPARTA docked near Boston in late September. On the
sixth of October I addressed the congress with my maiden speech in
America. It was well received; I sighed in relief. The magnanimous
secretary of the American Unitarian Association wrote the following
comment in a published account {FN37-4} of the congress proceedings:
“Swami Yogananda, delegate from the Brahmacharya Ashram of Ranchi,
India, brought the greetings of his Association to the Congress.
In fluent English and a forcible delivery he gave an address of
a philosophical character on ‘The Science of Religion,’ which has
been printed in pamphlet form for a wider distribution. Religion,
he maintained, is universal and it is one. We cannot possibly
universalize particular customs and convictions, but the common
element in religion can be universalized, and we can ask all alike
to follow and obey it.”
Due to Father’s generous check, I was able to remain in America
after the congress was over. Four happy years were spent in humble
circumstances in Boston. I gave public lectures, taught classes,
and wrote a book of poems, SONGS OF THE SOUL, with a preface by
Dr. Frederick B. Robinson, president of the College of the City
of New York. {FN37-5}
Starting a transcontinental tour in the summer of 1924, I spoke
before thousands in the principal cities, ending my western trip
with a vacation in the beautiful Alaskan north.
With the help of large-hearted students, by the end of 1925 I had
established an American headquarters on the Mount Washington Estates
in Los Angeles. The building is the one I had seen years before in
my vision at Kashmir. I hastened to send Sri Yukteswar pictures of
these distant American activities. He replied with a postcard in
Bengali, which I here translate:
11th August, 1926
Child of my heart, O Yogananda!
Seeing the photos of your school and students, what joy comes in
my life I cannot express in words. I am melting in joy to see your
yoga students of different cities. Beholding your methods in chant
affirmations, healing vibrations, and divine healing prayers, I
cannot refrain from thanking you from my heart. Seeing the gate,
the winding hilly way upward, and the beautiful scenery spread out
beneath the Mount Washington Estates, I yearn to behold it all with
my own eyes.
Everything here is going on well. Through the grace of God, may
you ever be in bliss.
SRI YUKTESWAR GIRI
[Illustration: Main building at the Mount Washington Estates in
Los Angeles, established in 1925 as American headquarters for the
Self-Realization Fellowship.—see mtwash.jpg]
Years sped by. I lectured in every part of my new land, and
addressed hundreds of clubs, colleges, churches, and groups of
every denomination.
[Illustration: I stand on the dais before one of my classes
in America. This class of a thousand yoga students was held in
Washington, D.C.—see dc.jpg]
Tens of thousands of Americans received yoga initiation. To them all
I dedicated a new book of prayer thoughts in 1929-WHISPERS FROM
ETERNITY, with a preface by Amelita Galli-Curci. {FN37-6} I give here,
from the book, a poem entitled “God! God! God!”, composed one night as
I stood on a lecture platform:
From the depths of slumber,
As I ascend the spiral stairway of wakefulness,
I whisper:
God! God! God!
Thou art the food, and when I break my fast
Of nightly separation from Thee,
I taste Thee, and mentally say:
God! God! God!
No matter where I go, the spotlight of my mind
Ever keeps turning on Thee;
And in the battle din of activity
My silent war cry is ever: God! God! God!
When boisterous storms of trials shriek,
And when worries howl at me,
I drown their clamor, loudly chanting:
God! God! God!
When my mind weaves dreams
With threads of memories,
Then on that magic cloth I find embossed:
God! God! God!
Every night, in time of deepest sleep,
My peace dreams and calls, Joy! Joy! Joy!
And my joy comes singing evermore:
God! God! God!
In waking, eating, working, dreaming, sleeping,
Serving, meditating, chanting, divinely loving,
My soul constantly hums, unheard by any:
God! God! God!
Sometimes-usually on the first of the month when the bills rolled
in for upkeep of the Mount Washington and other Self-Realization
Fellowship centers!-I thought longingly of the simple peace of
India. But daily I saw a widening understanding between West and
East; my soul rejoiced.
I have found the great heart of America expressed in the wondrous
lines by Emma Lazarus, carved at the base of the Statue of Liberty,
the “Mother of Exiles”:
From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door.
{FN37-1} Many of those faces I have since seen in the West, and
instantly recognized..
{FN37-2} Swami Premananda, now the leader of the Self-Realization
Church of All Religions in Washington, D.C., was one of the students
at the Ranchi school at the time I left there for America. (He was
then Brahmachari Jotin.)
{FN37-3} Sri Yukteswar and I ordinarily conversed in Bengali.
{FN37-4} NEW PILGRIMAGES OF THE SPIRIT (Boston: Beacon Press, 1921).
{FN37-5} Dr. and Mrs. Robinson visited India in 1939, and were
honored guests at the Ranchi school.
{FN37-6} Mme. Galli-Curci and her husband, Homer Samuels,
the pianist, have been Kriya Yoga students for twenty years. The
inspiring story of the famous prima donna’s years of music has been
recently published (GALLI-CURCI’S LIFE OF SONG, by C. E. LeMassena,
Paebar Co., New York, 1945).