LAST DAYS WITH MY GURU
“Guruji, I am glad to find you alone this morning.” I had just
arrived at the Serampore hermitage, carrying a fragrant burden of
fruit and roses. Sri Yukteswar glanced at me meekly.
“What is your question?” Master looked about the room as though he
were seeking escape.
“Guruji, I came to you as a high-school youth; now I am a grown
man, even with a gray hair or two. Though you have showered me with
silent affection from the first hour to this, do you realize that
once only, on the day of meeting, have you ever said, ‘I love you’?”
I looked at him pleadingly.
Master lowered his gaze. “Yogananda, must I bring out into the cold
realms of speech the warm sentiments best guarded by the wordless
heart?”
“Guruji, I know you love me, but my mortal ears ache to hear you
say so.”
“Be it as you wish. During my married life I often yearned for a
son, to train in the yogic path. But when you came into my life,
I was content; in you I have found my son.” Two clear teardrops
stood in Sri Yukteswar’s eyes. “Yogananda, I love you always.”
“Your answer is my passport to heaven.” I felt a weight lift from
my heart, dissolved forever at his words. Often had I wondered at
his silence. Realizing that he was unemotional and self-contained,
yet sometimes I feared I had been unsuccessful in fully satisfying
him. His was a strange nature, never utterly to be known; a nature
deep and still, unfathomable to the outer world, whose values he
had long transcended.
A few days later, when I spoke before a huge audience at Albert
Hall in Calcutta, Sri Yukteswar consented to sit beside me on the
platform, with the Maharaja of Santosh and the Mayor of Calcutta.
Though Master made no remark to me, I glanced at him from time to
time during my address, and thought I detected a pleased twinkle
in his eyes.
Then came a talk before the alumni of Serampore College. As I gazed
upon my old classmates, and as they gazed on their own “Mad Monk,”
tears of joy showed unashamedly. My silver-tongued professor of
philosophy, Dr. Ghoshal, came forward to greet me, all our past
misunderstandings dissolved by the alchemist Time.
A Winter Solstice Festival was celebrated at the end of December
in the Serampore hermitage. As always, Sri Yukteswar’s disciples
gathered from far and near. Devotional SANKIRTANS, solos in the
nectar-sweet voice of Kristo-da, a feast served by young disciples,
Master’s profoundly moving discourse under the stars in the thronged
courtyard of the ashram-memories, memories! Joyous festivals of
years long past! Tonight, however, there was to be a new feature.
[Illustration: Last Solstice Festival celebrated by Sri Yukteswar,
December, 1935. My Guru is seated in the center; I am at his
right, in the large courtyard of his hermitage in Serampore.—see
festival.jpg]
“Yogananda, please address the assemblage-in English.” Master’s
eyes were twinkling as he made this doubly unusual request; was he
thinking of the shipboard predicament that had preceded my first
lecture in English? I told the story to my audience of brother
disciples, ending with a fervent tribute to our guru.
“His omnipresent guidance was with me not alone on the ocean
steamer,” I concluded, “but daily throughout my fifteen years in
the vast and hospitable land of America.”
After the guests had departed, Sri Yukteswar called me to the same
bedroom where-once only, after a festival of my early years-I had
been permitted to sleep on his wooden bed. Tonight my guru was
sitting there quietly, a semicircle of disciples at his feet. He
smiled as I quickly entered the room.
“Yogananda, are you leaving now for Calcutta? Please return here
tomorrow. I have certain things to tell you.”
The next afternoon, with a few simple words of blessing, Sri Yukteswar
bestowed on me the further monastic title of PARAMHANSA. {FN42-1}
“It now formally supersedes your former title of SWAMI,” he said as
I knelt before him. With a silent chuckle I thought of the struggle
which my American students would undergo over the pronunciation of
PARAMHANSAJI. {FN42-2}
“My task on earth is now finished; you must carry on.” Master
spoke quietly, his eyes calm and gentle. My heart was palpitating
in fear.
“Please send someone to take charge of our ashram at Puri,” Sri
Yukteswar went on. “I leave everything in your hands. You will be
able to successfully sail the boat of your life and that of the
organization to the divine shores.”
In tears, I was embracing his feet; he rose and blessed me endearingly.
The following day I summoned from Ranchi a disciple, Swami Sebananda,
and sent him to Puri to assume the hermitage duties. {FN42-3}
Later my guru discussed with me the legal details of settling his
estate; he was anxious to prevent the possibility of litigation by
relatives, after his death, for possession of his two hermitages
and other properties, which he wished to be deeded over solely for
charitable purposes.
“Arrangements were recently made for Master to visit Kidderpore,
{FN42-4} but he failed to go.” Amulaya Babu, a brother disciple, made
this remark to me one afternoon; I felt a cold wave of premonition.
To my pressing inquiries, Sri Yukteswar only replied, “I shall
go to Kidderpore no more.” For a moment, Master trembled like a
frightened child.
(“Attachment to bodily residence, springing up of its own nature
[i.e., arising from immemorial roots, past experiences of death],”
Patanjali wrote, {FN42-5} “is present in slight degree even in great
saints.” In some of his discourses on death, my guru had been wont
to add: “Just as a long-caged bird hesitates to leave its accustomed
home when the door is opened.”)
“Guruji,” I entreated him with a sob, “don’t say that! Never utter
those words to me!”
Sri Yukteswar’s face relaxed in a peaceful smile. Though nearing
his eighty-first birthday, he looked well and strong.
Basking day by day in the sunshine of my guru’s love, unspoken but
keenly felt, I banished from my conscious mind the various hints
he had given of his approaching passing.
“Sir, the KUMBHA MELA is convening this month at Allahabad.” I
showed Master the MELA dates in a Bengali almanac. {FN42-6}
“Do you really want to go?”
Not sensing Sri Yukteswar’s reluctance to have me leave him, I went
on, “Once you beheld the blessed sight of Babaji at an Allahabad
KUMBHA. Perhaps this time I shall be fortunate enough to see him.”
“I do not think you will meet him there.” My guru then fell into
silence, not wishing to obstruct my plans.
When I set out for Allahabad the following day with a small group,
Master blessed me quietly in his usual manner. Apparently I was
remaining oblivious to implications in Sri Yukteswar’s attitude
because the Lord wished to spare me the experience of being forced,
helplessly, to witness my guru’s passing. It has always happened in
my life that, at the death of those dearly beloved by me, God has
compassionately arranged that I be distant from the scene. {FN42-7}
Our party reached the KUMBHA MELA on January 23, 1936. The surging
crowd of nearly two million persons was an impressive sight, even
an overwhelming one. The peculiar genius of the Indian people is
the reverence innate in even the lowliest peasant for the worth of
the Spirit, and for the monks and sadhus who have forsaken worldly
ties to seek a diviner anchorage. Imposters and hypocrites there
are indeed, but India respects all for the sake of the few who
illumine the whole land with supernal blessings. Westerners who
were viewing the vast spectacle had a unique opportunity to feel
the pulse of the land, the spiritual ardor to which India owes her
quenchless vitality before the blows of time.
[Illustration: The woman yogi, Shankari Mai Jiew, only living
disciple of the great Trailanga Swami. The turbaned figure seated
directly beside her is Swami Benoyananda, a director of our Ranchi
yoga school for boys in Bihar. The picture was taken at the Hardwar
Kumbha Mela in 1938; the woman saint was then 112 years old.—see
majiew.jpg]
[Illustration: Second-floor dining patio of Sri Yukteswar’s
Serampore hermitage. I am seated (in center) at my guru’s feet.—see
serampore.jpg]
The first day was spent by our group in sheer staring. Here were
countless bathers, dipping in the holy river for remission of sins;
there we saw solemn rituals of worship; yonder were devotional
offerings being strewn at the dusty feet of saints; a turn of our
heads, and a line of elephants, caparisoned horses and slow-paced
Rajputana camels filed by, or a quaint religious parade of naked
sadhus, waving scepters of gold and silver, or flags and streamers
of silken velvet.
Anchorites wearing only loincloths sat quietly in little groups,
their bodies besmeared with the ashes that protect them from the
heat and cold. The spiritual eye was vividly represented on their
foreheads by a single spot of sandalwood paste. Shaven-headed swamis
appeared by the thousands, ocher-robed and carrying their bamboo
staff and begging bowl. Their faces beamed with the renunciate’s
peace as they walked about or held philosophical discussions with
disciples.
Here and there under the trees, around huge piles of burning logs,
were picturesque sadhus, {FN42-8} their hair braided and massed in
coils on top of their heads. Some wore beards several feet in length,
curled and tied in a knot. They meditated quietly, or extended
their hands in blessing to the passing throng-beggars, maharajas on
elephants, women in multicolored SARIS—their bangles and anklets
tinkling, FAKIRS with thin arms held grotesquely aloft, BRAHMACHARIS
carrying meditation elbow-props, humble sages whose solemnity hid
an inner bliss. High above the din we heard the ceaseless summons
of the temple bells.
On our second MELA day my companions and I entered various ashrams
and temporary huts, offering PRONAMS to saintly personages. We
received the blessing of the leader of the GIRI branch of the Swami
Order-a thin, ascetical monk with eyes of smiling fire. Our next
visit took us to a hermitage whose guru had observed for the past
nine years the vows of silence and a strict fruitarian diet. On the
central dais in the ashram hall sat a blind sadhu, Pragla Chakshu,
profoundly learned in the SHASTRAS and highly revered by all sects.
After I had given a brief discourse in Hindi on VEDANTA, our group
left the peaceful hermitage to greet a near-by swami, Krishnananda,
a handsome monk with rosy cheeks and impressive shoulders. Reclining
near him was a tame lioness. Succumbing to the monk’s spiritual
charm—not, I am sure, to his powerful physique!-the jungle animal
refuses all meat in favor of rice and milk. The swami has taught
the tawny-haired beast to utter “AUM” in a deep, attractive growl-a
cat devotee!
[Illustration: Krishnananda, at the 1936 Allahabad Kumbha Mela,
with his tame vegetarian lioness.—see lion.jpg]
Our next encounter, an interview with a learned young sadhu, is
well described in Mr. Wright’s sparkling travel diary.
“We rode in the Ford across the very low Ganges on a creaking
pontoon bridge, crawling snakelike through the crowds and over
narrow, twisting lanes, passing the site on the river bank which
Yoganandaji pointed out to me as the meeting place of Babaji and
Sri Yukteswarji. Alighting from the car a short time later, we
walked some distance through the thickening smoke of the sadhus’
fires and over the slippery sands to reach a cluster of tiny,
very modest mud-and-straw huts. We halted in front of one of these
insignificant temporary dwellings, with a pygmy doorless entrance,
the shelter of Kara Patri, a young wandering sadhu noted for his
exceptional intelligence. There he sat, cross-legged on a pile of
straw, his only covering-and incidentally his only possession-being
an ocher cloth draped over his shoulders.
“Truly a divine face smiled at us after we had crawled on all fours
into the hut and PRONAMED at the feet of this enlightened soul,
while the kerosene lantern at the entrance flickered weird, dancing
shadows on the thatched walls. His face, especially his eyes
and perfect teeth, beamed and glistened. Although I was puzzled
by the Hindi, his expressions were very revealing; he was full of
enthusiasm, love, spiritual glory. No one could be mistaken as to
his greatness.
“Imagine the happy life of one unattached to the material world;
free of the clothing problem; free of food craving, never begging,
never touching cooked food except on alternate days, never carrying
a begging bowl; free of all money entanglements, never handling
money, never storing things away, always trusting in God; free
of transportation worries, never riding in vehicles, but always
walking on the banks of the sacred rivers; never remaining in one
place longer than a week in order to avoid any growth of attachment.
“Such a modest soul! unusually learned in the VEDAS, and possessing
an M.A. degree and the title of SHASTRI (master of scriptures) from
Benares University. A sublime feeling pervaded me as I sat at his
feet; it all seemed to be an answer to my desire to see the real,
the ancient India, for he is a true representative of this land of
spiritual giants.”
I questioned Kara Patri about his wandering life. “Don’t you have
any extra clothes for winter?”
“No, this is enough.”
“Do you carry any books?”
“No, I teach from memory those people who wish to hear me.”
“What else do you do?”
“I roam by the Ganges.”
At these quiet words, I was overpowered by a yearning for the simplicity
of his life. I remembered America, and all the responsibilities
that lay on my shoulders.
“No, Yogananda,” I thought, sadly for a moment, “in this life
roaming by the Ganges is not for you.”
After the sadhu had told me a few of his spiritual realizations,
I shot an abrupt question.
“Are you giving these descriptions from scriptural lore, or from
inward experience?”
“Half from book learning,” he answered with a straightforward smile,
“and half from experience.”
We sat happily awhile in meditative silence. After we had left his
sacred presence, I said to Mr. Wright, “He is a king sitting on a
throne of golden straw.”
We had our dinner that night on the MELA grounds under the stars,
eating from leaf plates pinned together with sticks. Dishwashings
in India are reduced to a minimum!
Two more days of the fascinating KUMBHA; then northwest along the
Jumna banks to Agra. Once again I gazed on the Taj Mahal; in memory
Jitendra stood by my side, awed by the dream in marble. Then on to
the Brindaban ashram of Swami Keshabananda.
[Illustration: My companions and I pose before the “dream in marble,”
the Taj Mahal at Agra.—see taj.jpg]
My object in seeking out Keshabananda was connected with this book.
I had never forgotten Sri Yukteswar’s request that I write the life
of Lahiri Mahasaya. During my stay in India I was taking every
opportunity of contacting direct disciples and relatives of the
Yogavatar. Recording their conversations in voluminous notes, I
verified facts and dates, and collected photographs, old letters,
and documents. My Lahiri Mahasaya portfolio began to swell; I realized
with dismay that ahead of me lay arduous labors in authorship.
I prayed that I might be equal to my role as biographer of the
colossal guru. Several of his disciples feared that in a written
account their master might be belittled or misinterpreted.
“One can hardly do justice in cold words to the life of a divine
incarnation,” Panchanon Bhattacharya had once remarked to me.
Other close disciples were similarly satisfied to keep the Yogavatar
hidden in their hearts as the deathless preceptor. Nevertheless,
mindful of Lahiri Mahasaya’s prediction about his biography, I spared
no effort to secure and substantiate the facts of his outward life.
[Illustration: Mr. Wright and I pose with the venerable Swami
Keshabananda and a disciple at the stately hermitage in Brindaban—see
keshabananda.jpg]
Swami Keshabananda greeted our party warmly at Brindaban in his
Katayani Peith Ashram, an imposing brick building with massive
black pillars, set in a beautiful garden. He ushered us at once
into a sitting room adorned with an enlargement of Lahiri Mahasaya’s
picture. The swami was approaching the age of ninety, but his
muscular body radiated strength and health. With long hair and
a snow-white beard, eyes twinkling with joy, he was a veritable
patriarchal embodiment. I informed him that I wanted to mention
his name in my book on India’s masters.
“Please tell me about your earlier life.” I smiled entreatingly;
great yogis are often uncommunicative.
Keshabananda made a gesture of humility. “There is little of external
moment. Practically my whole life has been spent in the Himalayan
solitudes, traveling on foot from one quiet cave to another. For
a while I maintained a small ashram outside Hardwar, surrounded on
all sides by a grove of tall trees. It was a peaceful spot little
visited by travelers, owing to the ubiquitous presence of cobras.”
Keshabananda chuckled. “Later a Ganges flood washed away the
hermitage and cobras alike. My disciples then helped me to build
this Brindaban ashram.”
One of our party asked the swami how he had protected himself
against the Himalayan tigers. {FN42-9}
Keshabananda shook his head. “In those high spiritual altitudes,”
he said, “wild beasts seldom molest the yogis. Once in the jungle
I encountered a tiger face-to-face. At my sudden ejaculation, the
animal was transfixed as though turned to stone.” Again the swami
chuckled at his memories.
“Occasionally I left my seclusion to visit my guru in Benares. He
used to joke with me over my ceaseless travels in the Himalayan
wilderness.
“‘You have the mark of wanderlust on your foot,’ he told me once.
‘I am glad that the sacred Himalayas are extensive enough to engross
you.’
“Many times,” Keshabananda went on, “both before and after his
passing, Lahiri Mahasaya has appeared bodily before me. For him no
Himalayan height is inaccessible!”
Two hours later he led us to a dining patio. I sighed in silent
dismay. Another fifteen-course meal! Less than a year of Indian
hospitality, and I had gained fifty pounds! Yet it would have been
considered the height of rudeness to refuse any of the dishes,
carefully prepared for the endless banquets in my honor. In India
(nowhere else, alas!) a well-padded swami is considered a delightful
sight. {FN42-10}
After dinner, Keshabananda led me to a secluded nook.
“Your arrival is not unexpected,” he said. “I have a message for
you.”
I was surprised; no one had known of my plan to visit Keshabananda.
“While roaming last year in the northern Himalayas near Badrinarayan,”
the swami continued, “I lost my way. Shelter appeared in a spacious
cave, which was empty, though the embers of a fire glowed in a hole
in the rocky floor. Wondering about the occupant of this lonely
retreat, I sat near the fire, my gaze fixed on the sunlit entrance
to the cave.
“‘Keshabananda, I am glad you are here.’ These words came from
behind me. I turned, startled, and was dazzled to behold Babaji!
The great guru had materialized himself in a recess of the cave.
Overjoyed to see him again after many years, I prostrated myself
at his holy feet.
“‘I called you here,’ Babaji went on. ‘That is why you lost your
way and were led to my temporary abode in this cave. It is a long
time since our last meeting; I am pleased to greet you once more.’
“The deathless master blessed me with some words of spiritual help,
then added: ‘I give you a message for Yogananda. He will pay you a
visit on his return to India. Many matters connected with his guru
and with the surviving disciples of Lahiri will keep Yogananda
fully occupied. Tell him, then, that I won’t see him this time, as
he is eagerly hoping; but I shall see him on some other occasion.’”
I was deeply touched to receive from Keshabananda’s lips this
consoling promise from Babaji. A certain hurt in my heart vanished;
I grieved no longer that, even as Sri Yukteswar had hinted, Babaji
did not appear at the KUMBHA MELA.
Spending one night as guests of the ashram, our party set out the
following afternoon for Calcutta. Riding over a bridge of the Jumna
River, we enjoyed a magnificent view of the skyline of Brindaban
just as the sun set fire to the sky-a veritable furnace of Vulcan
in color, reflected below us in the still waters.
The Jumna beach is hallowed by memories of the child Sri Krishna.
Here he engaged with innocent sweetness in his LILAS (plays)
with the GOPIS (maids), exemplifying the supernal love which ever
exists between a divine incarnation and his devotees. The life of
Lord Krishna has been misunderstood by many Western commentators.
Scriptural allegory is baffling to literal minds. A hilarious blunder
by a translator will illustrate this point. The story concerns an
inspired medieval saint, the cobbler Ravidas, who sang in the simple
terms of his own trade of the spiritual glory hidden in all mankind:
Under the vast vault of blue
Lives the divinity clothed in hide.
One turns aside to hide a smile on hearing the pedestrian interpretation
given to Ravidas’ poem by a Western writer:
“He afterwards built a hut, set up in it an idol which he made from
a hide, and applied himself to its worship.”
Ravidas was a brother disciple of the great Kabir. One of Ravidas’
exalted chelas was the Rani of Chitor. She invited a large number
of Brahmins to a feast in honor of her teacher, but they refused to
eat with a lowly cobbler. As they sat down in dignified aloofness
to eat their own uncontaminated meal, lo! each Brahmin found at his
side the form of Ravidas. This mass vision accomplished a widespread
spiritual revival in Chitor.
In a few days our little group reached Calcutta. Eager to see Sri
Yukteswar, I was disappointed to hear that he had left Serampore
and was now in Puri, about three hundred miles to the south.
“Come to Puri ashram at once.” This telegram was sent on March 8th
by a brother disciple to Atul Chandra Roy Chowdhry, one of Master’s
chelas in Calcutta. News of the message reached my ears; anguished
at its implications, I dropped to my knees and implored God that
my guru’s life be spared. As I was about to leave Father’s home
for the train, a divine voice spoke within.
“Do not go to Puri tonight. Thy prayer cannot be granted.”
“Lord,” I said, grief-stricken, “Thou dost not wish to engage
with me in a ‘tug of war’ at Puri, where Thou wilt have to deny
my incessant prayers for Master’s life. Must he, then, depart for
higher duties at Thy behest?”
In obedience to the inward command, I did not leave that night for
Puri. The following evening I set out for the train; on the way,
at seven o’clock, a black astral cloud suddenly covered the sky.
{FN42-11} Later, while the train roared toward Puri, a vision of
Sri Yukteswar appeared before me. He was sitting, very grave of
countenance, with a light on each side.
“Is it all over?” I lifted my arms beseechingly.
He nodded, then slowly vanished.
As I stood on the Puri train platform the following morning, still
hoping against hope, an unknown man approached me.
“Have you heard that your Master is gone?” He left me without another
word; I never discovered who he was nor how he had known where to
find me.
Stunned, I swayed against the platform wall, realizing that in
diverse ways my guru was trying to convey to me the devastating
news. Seething with rebellion, my soul was like a volcano. By the
time I reached the Puri hermitage I was nearing collapse. The inner
voice was tenderly repeating: “Collect yourself. Be calm.”
I entered the ashram room where Master’s body, unimaginably lifelike,
was sitting in the lotus posture-a picture of health and loveliness.
A short time before his passing, my guru had been slightly ill with
fever, but before the day of his ascension into the Infinite, his
body had become completely well. No matter how often I looked at
his dear form I could not realize that its life had departed. His
skin was smooth and soft; in his face was a beatific expression of
tranquillity. He had consciously relinquished his body at the hour
of mystic summoning.
“The Lion of Bengal is gone!” I cried in a daze.
I conducted the solemn rites on March 10th. Sri Yukteswar was buried
{FN42-12} with the ancient rituals of the swamis in the garden of
his Puri ashram. His disciples later arrived from far and near to
honor their guru at a vernal equinox memorial service. The AMRITA
BAZAR PATRIKA, leading newspaper of Calcutta, carried his picture
and the following report:
The death BHANDARA ceremony for Srimat Swami Sri Yukteswar Giri
Maharaj, aged 81, took place at Puri on March 21. Many disciples
came down to Puri for the rites.
One of the greatest expounders of the BHAGAVAD GITA, Swami Maharaj
was a great disciple of Yogiraj Sri Shyama Charan Lahiri Mahasaya
of Benares. Swami Maharaj was the founder of several Yogoda Sat-Sanga
(Self-Realization Fellowship) centers in India, and was the great
inspiration behind the yoga movement which was carried to the West
by Swami Yogananda, his principal disciple. It was Sri Yukteswarji’s
prophetic powers and deep realization that inspired Swami Yogananda
to cross the oceans and spread in America the message of the masters
of India.
His interpretations of the BHAGAVAD GITA and other scriptures testify
to the depth of Sri Yukteswarji’s command of the philosophy, both
Eastern and Western, and remain as an eye-opener for the unity
between Orient and Occident. As he believed in the unity of all
religious faiths, Sri Yukteswar Maharaj established SADHU SABHA
(Society of Saints) with the cooperation of leaders of various
sects and faiths, for the inculcation of a scientific spirit in
religion. At the time of his demise he nominated Swami Yogananda
his successor as the president of SADHU SABHA.
India is really poorer today by the passing of such a great man. May
all fortunate enough to have come near him inculcate in themselves
the true spirit of India’s culture and SADHANA which was personified
in him.
I returned to Calcutta. Not trusting myself as yet to go to the
Serampore hermitage with its sacred memories, I summoned Prafulla,
Sri Yukteswar’s little disciple in Serampore, and made arrangements
for him to enter the Ranchi school.
“The morning you left for the Allahabad MELA,” Prafulla told me,
“Master dropped heavily on the davenport.
“‘Yogananda is gone!’ he cried. ‘Yogananda is gone!’ He added
cryptically, ‘I shall have to tell him some other way.’ He sat then
for hours in silence.”
My days were filled with lectures, classes, interviews, and reunions
with old friends. Beneath a hollow smile and a life of ceaseless
activity, a stream of black brooding polluted the inner river of
bliss which for so many years had meandered under the sands of all
my perceptions.
“Where has that divine sage gone?” I cried silently from the depths
of a tormented spirit.
No answer came.
“It is best that Master has completed his union with the Cosmic
Beloved,” my mind assured me. “He is eternally glowing in the
dominion of deathlessness.”
“Never again may you see him in the old Serampore mansion,” my
heart lamented. “No longer may you bring your friends to meet him,
or proudly say: ‘Behold, there sits India’s JNANAVATAR!’”
Mr. Wright made arrangements for our party to sail from Bombay
for the West in early June. After a fortnight in May of farewell
banquets and speeches at Calcutta, Miss Bletch, Mr. Wright and myself
left in the Ford for Bombay. On our arrival, the ship authorities
asked us to cancel our passage, as no room could be found for the
Ford, which we would need again in Europe.
“Never mind,” I said gloomily to Mr. Wright. “I want to return once
more to Puri.” I silently added, “Let my tears once again water
the grave of my guru.”
{FN42-1} Literally, PARAM, highest; HANSA, swan. The HANSA is
represented in scriptural lore as the vehicle of Brahma, Supreme
Spirit; as the symbol of discrimination, the white HANSA swan is
thought of as able to separate the true SOMA nectar from a mixture
of milk and water. HAM-SA (pronounced HONG-SAU) are two sacred
Sanskrit chant words possessing a vibratory connection with the
incoming and outgoing breath. AHAM-SA is literally “I am He.”
{FN42-2} They have generally evaded the difficulty by addressing
me as SIR.
{FN42-3} At the Puri ashram, Swami Sebananda is still conducting
a small, flourishing yoga school for boys, and meditation groups
for adults. Meetings of saints and pundits convene there periodically.
{FN42-4} A section of Calcutta.
{FN42-5} APHORISMS: II:9.
{FN42-6} Religious MELAS are mentioned in the ancient MAHABHARATA.
The Chinese traveler Hieuen Tsiang has left an account of a vast
KUMBHA MELA held in A.D. 644 at Allahabad. The largest MELA is held
every twelfth year; the next largest (ARDHA or half) KUMBHA occurs
every sixth year. Smaller MELAS convene every third year, attracting
about a million devotees. The four sacred MELA cities are Allahabad,
Hardwar, Nasik, and Ujjain.
Early Chinese travelers have left us many striking pictures of
Indian society. The Chinese priest, Fa-Hsien, wrote an account of
his eleven years in India during the reign of Chandragupta II (early
4th century). The Chinese author relates: “Throughout the country
no one kills any living thing, nor drinks wine. . . . They do not
keep pigs or fowl; there are no dealings in cattle, no butchers’
shops or distilleries. Rooms with beds and mattresses, food and
clothes, are provided for resident and traveling priests without fail,
and this is the same in all places. The priests occupy themselves
with benevolent ministrations and with chanting liturgies; or they
sit in meditation.” Fa-Hsien tells us the Indian people were happy
and honest; capital punishment was unknown.
{FN42-7} I was not present at the deaths of my mother, elder
brother Ananta, eldest sister Roma, Master, Father, or of several
close disciples.
(Father passed on at Calcutta in 1942, at the age of eighty-nine.)
{FN42-8} The hundreds of thousands of Indian sadhus are controlled
by an executive committee of seven leaders, representing seven
large sections of India. The present MAHAMANDALESWAR or president
is Joyendra Puri. This saintly man is extremely reserved, often
confining his speech to three words-Truth, Love, and Work. A
sufficient conversation!
{FN42-9} There are many methods, it appears, for outwitting a
tiger. An Australian explorer, Francis Birtles, has recounted that
he found the Indian jungles “varied, beautiful, and safe.” His
safety charm was flypaper. “Every night I spread a quantity of
sheets around my camp and was never disturbed,” he explained. “The
reason is psychological. The tiger is an animal of great conscious
dignity. He prowls around and challenges man until he comes to the
flypaper; he then slinks away. No dignified tiger would dare face
a human being after squatting down upon a sticky flypaper!”
{FN42-10} After I returned to America I took off sixty-five pounds.
{FN42-11} Sri Yukteswar passed at this hour-7:00 P.M., March 9,
1936.
{FN42-12} Funeral customs in India require cremation for householders;
swamis and monks of other orders are not cremated, but buried. (There
are occasional exceptions.) The bodies of monks are symbolically
considered to have undergone cremation in the fire of wisdom at
the time of taking the monastic vow.