Autobiography of A Yogi
by Paramahansa Yogananda
By W. Y. EVANS-WENTZ, M.A., D.Litt., D.Sc.
Jesus College, Oxford
The value of Yogananda’s AUTOBIOGRAPHY is
greatly enhanced by the fact that it is one of the few
books in English about the wise men of India which
has been written, not by a journalist or foreigner,
but by one of their own race and training–in short, a
book ABOUT yogis BY a yogi. As an eyewitness recountal of the
extraordinary lives and powers of modern Hindu saints,
the book has importance both timely and timeless. To its
illustrious author, whom I have had the pleasure of knowing
both in India and America, may every reader render due
appreciation and gratitude. His unusual life-document is certainly
one of the most revealing of the depths of the Hindu mind and heart,
and of the spiritual wealth of India, ever to be published in the West.
It has been my privilege to have met one of the sages whose
life-history is herein narrated-Sri Yukteswar Giri. A likeness
of the venerable saint appeared as part of the frontispiece
of my TIBETAN YOGA AND SECRET DOCTRINES. It was at
Puri, in Orissa, on the Bay of Bengal, that I encountered
Sri Yukteswar. He was then the head of a quiet ashrama
near the seashore there and was chiefly occupied in the
spiritual training of a group of youthful disciples.
He expressed keen interest in the welfare of the people
of the United States and of all the Americas, and of England,
too, and questioned me concerning the distant activities, particularly
those in California, of his chief disciple, Paramhansa
Yogananda, whom he dearly loved, and whom he had sent,
in 1920, as his emissary to the West.
Sri Yukteswar was of gentle mien and voice, of pleasing presence,
and worthy of the veneration which his followers spontaneously accorded to
him. Every person who knew him, whether of his own community
or not, held him in the highest esteem. I vividly recall
his tall, straight, ascetic figure, garbed in the saffron-colored
garb of one who has renounced worldly quests, as he stood
at the entrance of the hermitage to give me welcome. His
hair was long and somewhat curly, and his face bearded.
His body was muscularly firm but slender and well-formed,
and his step energetic. He had chosen as his place of earthly abode
the holy city of Puri, whither multitudes of pious Hindus,
a representative of every province of India, come daily on pilgrimage
to the famed Temple of Jagannath, ”
Lord of the World.” It was at Puri that Sri Yukteswar
closed his mortal eyes, in 1936, to the scenes of this transitory
state of being and passed on, knowing that his incarnation
had been carried to a triumphant completion. I am glad, indeed,
to be able to record this testimony to the high character and holiness
of Sri Yukteswar. Content to remain afar from the multitude,
he gave himself unreservedly and in tranquillity to that
ideal life which Paramhansa Yogananda, his disciple,
has now described for the ages.
W. Y. EVANS-WENTZ
Chapter 1 – My Parents and Early Life
” To their joy, he initiated your parents in the
spiritual practice of KRIYA YOGA. Your father and
I, as brother disciples, have been close friends
since the memorable day of the vision. Lahiri Mahasaya
took a definite interestin your own birth.
Your life shall surely be linked with his own: the master’s
blessing never fails.”
Lahiri Mahasaya left this world shortly after I had entered
it. His picture, in an ornate frame, always graced our
family altar in the various cities to which Father was transferred
by his office. Many a morning and evening found Mother and me
meditating before an improvised shrine, offering flowers
dipped in fragrant sandalwood paste. With frankincense and
myrrh as well as our united devotions, we honored the divinity
which had found full expression in Lahiri Mahasaya.
His picture had a surpassing influence over my life. As
I grew, the thought of the master grew with me. In meditation
I would often see his photographic image emerge from its
small frame and, taking a living form, sit before me. When
I attempted to touch the feet of his luminous body, it would
change and again become the picture. As childhood slipped
into boyhood, I found Lahiri Mahasaya transformed in my
mind from a little image, cribbed in a frame, to a living,
enlightening presence. I frequently prayed to him in moments
of trial or confusion, finding within me his solacing direction.
At first, I grieved because he was no longer physically living.
As I began to discover his secret omnipresence, I lamented
no more. He had often written to those of his disciples
who were over-anxious to see him: “Why come to
view my bones and flesh, when I am ever within range of
your KUTASTHA (spiritual sight)?”
I was blessed about the age of eight with a wonderful healing
through the photograph of Lahiri Mahasaya. This experience
gave intensification to my love. While at our family estate
in Ichapur, Bengal, I was stricken with Asiatic cholera. My
life was despaired of; the doctors could do nothing. At my
bedside, Mother frantically motioned me to look at Lahiri
Mahasaya’s picture on the wall above my head.
“Bow to him mentally!” She knew I was
too feeble even to lift my hands in salutation. “If
you really show your devotion and inwardly kneel before him,
your life will be spared!”
I gazed at his photograph and saw there a blinding light,
enveloping my body and the entire room. My nausea and other
uncontrollable symptoms disappeared; I was well. At once
I felt strong enough to bend over and touch Mother’s feet
in appreciation of her immeasurable faith in her guru.
Mother pressed her head repeatedly against the little picture.
“O Omnipresent Master, I thank thee that thy light
hath healed my son!”
I realized that she too had witnessed the luminous blaze
through which I had instantly recovered from a usually fatal
One of my most precious possessions is that same photograph.
Given to Father by Lahiri Mahasaya himself, it carries
a holy vibration. The picture had a miraculous origin. I
heard the story from Father’s brother disciple, Kali Kumar Roy.
It appears that the master had an aversion to being photographed.
Over his protest, a group picture was once taken of him and
a cluster of devotees, including Kali Kumar Roy. It was an
amazed photographer who discovered that the plate which
had clear images of all the disciples, revealed nothing more than
a blank space in the center where he had reasonably expected
to find the outlines of Lahiri Mahasaya. The phenomenon was
A certain student and expert photographer, Ganga Dhar Babu,
boasted that the fugitive figure would not escape him.
The next morning, as the guru sat in lotus posture on a wooden
bench with a screen behind him, Ganga Dhar Babu arrived with
his equipment. Taking every precaution for success, he greedily exposed
twelve plates. On each one he soon found the imprint of the
wooden bench and screen, but once again the master’s form was missing.
With tears and shattered pride, Ganga Dhar Babu sought out
his guru. It was many hours before Lahiri Mahasaya broke
his silence with a pregnant comment:
“I am Spirit. Can your camera reflect the omnipresent Invisible?”
“I see it cannot! But, Holy Sir, I lovingly desire
a picture of the bodily temple where alone, to my narrow
vision, that Spirit appears fully to dwell.”
“Come, then, tomorrow morning. I will pose for you.”
Again the photographer focused his camera. This time the
sacred figure, not cloaked with mysterious imperceptibility,
was sharp on the plate. The master never posed for another
picture; at least, I have seen none.
The photograph is reproduced in this book. Lahiri Mahasaya’s
fair features, of a universal cast, hardly suggest to what
race he belonged. His intense joy of God-communion is slightly
revealed in a somewhat enigmatic smile. His eyes, half-open
to denote a nominal direction on the outer world, are half
closed also. Completely oblivious to the poor lures of the
earth, he was fully awake at all times to the spiritual problems
of seekers who approached for his bounty.
Shortly after my healing through the potency of the guru’s
picture, I had an influential spiritual vision. Sitting
on my bed one morning, I fell into a deep reverie.
“What is behind the darkness of closed eyes?” This
probing thought came powerfully into my mind. An immense
flash of light at once manifested to my inward gaze. Divine
shapes of saints, sitting in meditation posture in mountain
caves, formed like miniature cinema pictures on the large
screen of radiance within my forehead.
“Who are you?” I spoke aloud.
“We are the Himalayan yogis.” The celestial
response is difficult to describe; my heart was thrilled.
“Ah, I long to go to the Himalayas and become like
you!” The vision vanished, but the silvery beams
expanded in ever-widening circles to infinity.
“What is this wondrous glow?”
“I am Iswara. 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.
Chapter 7 – The Levitating Saint
“I saw a yogi remain in the air, several feet above
the ground, last night at a group meeting.” My friend,
Upendra Mohun Chowdhury, spoke impressively.
I gave him an enthusiastic smile. “Perhaps I
can guess his name. Was it Bhaduri Mahasaya, of Upper
Upendra nodded, a little crestfallen not to be a news-bearer.
My inquisitiveness about saints was well-known among my
friends; they delighted in setting me on a fresh track.
“The yogi lives so close to my home that I often
visit him.” My words brought keen interest to Upendra’s
face, and I made a further confidence.
“I have seen him in remarkable feats. He has
expertly mastered the various PRANAYAMAS of the ancient
eightfold yoga outlined by Patanjali. Once Bhaduri
Mahasaya performed the BHASTRIKA PRANAYAMA before me with such
amazing force that it seemed an actual storm had arisen in the
room! Then he extinguished the thundering breath and remained motionless
in a high state of superconsciousness. The aura of peace
after the storm was vivid beyond forgetting.”
“I heard that the saint never leaves his home.” Upendra’s
tone was a trifle incredulous.
“Indeed it is true! He has lived indoors for
the past twenty years. He slightly relaxes his self-imposed
rule at the times of our holy festivals, when he goes as
far as his front sidewalk! The beggars gather there, because
Saint Bhaduri is known for his tender heart.”
“How does he remain in the air, defying the law of gravitation?”
“A yogi’s body loses its grossness after use
of certain PRANAYAMAS. Then it will levitate or hop about
like a leaping frog. Even saints who do not practice a formal yoga have
been known to levitate during a state of intense devotion
“I would like to know more of this sage. Do you
attend his evening meetings?” Upendra’s eyes
were sparkling with curiosity.
“Yes, I go often. I am vastly entertained by
the wit in his wisdom. Occasionally my prolonged laughter
mars the solemnity of his gatherings. The saint is not
displeased, but his disciples look daggers!”
On my way home from school that afternoon, I passed Bhaduri
Mahasaya’s cloister and decided on a visit. The yogi was inaccessible
to the general public. A lone disciple, occupying the ground
floor, guarded his master’s privacy. The student was something
of a martinet; he now inquired formally if I had an “engagement.”
His guru put in an appearance just in time to save me from a summary
“Let Mukunda come when he will.” The
sage’s eyes twinkled. “My rule of seclusion is
not for my own comfort, but for that of others. Worldly
people do not like the candor which shatters their delusions.
Saints are not only rare but disconcerting. Even in scripture,
they are often found embarrassing!”
I followed Bhaduri Mahasaya to his austere quarters on
the top floor, from which he seldom stirred. Masters often
ignore the panorama of the world’s ado, out of focus till
centered in the ages. The contemporaries of a sage are
not alone those of the narrow present.
“Maharishi, you are the first yogi I have
known who always stays indoors.”
“God plants his saints sometimes in unexpected
soil, lest we think we may reduce Him to a rule!”
The sage locked his vibrant body in the lotus posture.
In his seventies, he displayed no unpleasing signs of age
or sedentary life. Stalwart and straight, he was ideal in
every respect. His face was that of a RISHI, as described
in the ancient texts. Noble-headed, abundantly bearded,
he always sat firmly upright, his quiet eyes fixed on Omnipresence.
The saint and I entered the meditative state. After an
hour, his gentle voice roused me.
“You go often into the silence, but have you developed
ANUBHAVA?” He was reminding me to love God more than
meditation. “Do not mistake the technique for
He offered me some mangoes. With that good-humored wit
that I found so delightful in his grave nature, he remarked, “People
in general are more fond of JALA YOGA (union with food)
than of DHYANA YOGA (union with God).”
His yogic pun affected me uproariously.
“What a laugh you have!” An affectionate
gleam came into his gaze. His own face was always serious,
yet touched with an ecstatic smile. His large, lotus eyes held
a hidden divine laughter.
“Those letters come from far-off America.” The
sage indicated several thick envelopes on a table. “I
correspond with a few societies there whose members are
interested in yoga. They are discovering India anew, with
a better sense of direction than Columbus! I am glad to
help them. The knowledge of yoga is free to all who will
receive, like the ungarnishable daylight.
“What RISHIS perceived as essential for human
salvation need not be diluted for the West. Alike in
soul though diverse in outer experience, neither West
nor East will flourish if some form
of disciplinary yoga be not practiced.”
The saint held me with his tranquil eyes. I did not realize
that his speech was a veiled prophetic guidance. It is
only now, as I write these words, that I understand the
full meaning in the casual intimations he often gave me
that someday I would carry India’s teachings to America.
“Maharishi, I wish you would write a book on
yoga for the benefit of the world.”
“I am training disciples. They and their students
will be living volumes, proof against the natural disintegrations
of time and the unnatural interpretations of the critics.” Bhaduri’s
wit put me into another gale of laughter.
I remained alone with the yogi until his disciples arrived
in the evening. Bhaduri Mahasaya entered one of his inimitable
discourses. Like a peaceful flood, he swept away the mental
debris of his listeners, floating them Godward. His striking
parables were expressed in a flawless Bengali.
This evening Bhaduri expounded various philosophical points
connected with the life of Mirabai, a medieval Rajputani
princess who abandoned her court life to seek the company
of sadhus. One great-sannyasi refused to receive her because she was
a woman; her reply brought him humbly to her feet.
“Tell the master,” she had said, “that
I did not know there was any Male in the universe save
God; are we all not females before Him?” (A scriptural
conception of the Lord as the only Positive Creative Principle,
His creation being naught but a passive MAYA.)
Mirabai composed many ecstatic songs which are still treasured
in India; I translate one of them here:
“If by bathing daily God could be realized
Sooner would I be a whale in the deep;
If by eating roots and fruits He could be known
Gladly would I choose the form of a goat;
If the counting of rosaries uncovered Him
I would say my prayers on mammoth beads;
If bowing before stone images unveiled Him
A flinty mountain I would humbly worship;
If by drinking milk the Lord could be imbibed
Many calves and children would know Him;
If abandoning one’s wife would summon God
Would not thousands be eunuchs?
Mirabai knows that to find the Divine One
The only indispensable is Love.”
Several students put rupees in Bhaduri’s slippers which
lay by his side as he sat in yoga posture. This respectful
offering, customary in India, indicates that the disciple
places his material goods at the guru’s feet. Grateful
friends are only the Lord in disguise, looking after His
“Master, you are wonderful!” A student, taking
his leave, gazed ardently at the patriarchal sage. “You
have renounced riches and comforts to seek God and teach
us wisdom!” It was well-known that Bhaduri Mahasaya had
forsaken great family wealth in his early childhood, when
single-mindedly he entered the yogic path.
“You are reversing the case!” The saint’s face
held a mild rebuke. ” I have left a few paltry
rupees, a few petty pleasures, for a cosmic empire of endless
How then have I denied myself anything? I know the joy
of sharing the treasure. Is that a sacrifice?
The shortsighted worldly folk are verily the real renunciates!
They relinquish an unparalleled divine possession for a
poor handful of earthly toys!”
I chuckled over this paradoxical view of renunciation-one
which puts the cap of Croesus on any saintly beggar, whilst
transforming all proud millionaires into unconscious martyrs.
“The divine order arranges our future more wisely
than any insurance company.” The master’s concluding
words were the realized creed of his faith. “The
world is full of uneasy believers in an outward security.
Their bitter thoughts are like scars on their foreheads. The
One who gave us air and milk from our first breath knows
how to provide day by day for His devotees.”
I continued my after-school pilgrimages to the saint’s
door. With silent zeal he aided me to attain ANUBHAVA.
One day he moved to Ram Mohan Roy Road, away from the
neighborhood of my Gurpar Road home. His loving disciples
had built him a new hermitage, known as ” Nagendra Math.”
Although it throws me ahead of my story by a number of
years, I will recount here the last words given to me by
Bhaduri Mahasaya. Shortly before I embarked for the West,
I sought him out and humbly knelt for his farewell blessing:
“Son, go to America. Take the dignity of hoary India
for your shield. Victory is written on your brow; the noble
distant people will well receive you.”
– I Meet My Master, Sri Yukteswar
“Faith in God can produce any miracle except
one – passing an examination without study.” Distastefully
I closed the book I had picked up in an idle moment.
“The writer’s exception shows his complete lack of
faith,” I thought. ” Poor chap, he has
great respect for the midnight oil!”
My promise to Father had been that I would complete my
high school studies. I cannot pretend to diligence. The
passing months found me less frequently in the classroom than in
secluded spots along the Calcutta bathing GHATS. The adjoining crematory
grounds, especially gruesome at night, are considered highly
attractive by the yogi. He who would find the Deathless
Essence must not be dismayed by a few unadorned skulls.
Human inadequacy becomes clear in the gloomy abode of
miscellaneous bones. My midnight vigils were thus of a
different nature from the scholar’s.
* * * * * * * *
In my new dignity, I was now openly planning to leave
home. Together with a young friend, Jitendra Mazumdar, I
decided to join a Mahamandal hermitage in Benares, and
receive its spiritual discipline.
A desolation fell over me one morning at thought of separation
from my family. Since Mother’s death, my affection had grown
especially tender for my two younger brothers, Sananda and Bishnu.
I rushed to my retreat, the little attic which had witnessed
so many scenes in my turbulent SADHANA. After a
two-hour flood of tears, I felt singularly transformed,
as by some alchemical cleanser. All attachment
disappeared; my resolution to seek God as the Friend of
friends set like granite within me. I quickly completed
my travel preparations.
“I make one last plea.” Father
was distressed as I stood before him for final blessing. “Do
not forsake me and your grieving brothers and sisters.”
“Revered Father, how
can I tell my love for you! But even greater is my love
the Heavenly Father, who has given me the gift of a perfect
father on earth. Let me go, that I someday return with
a more divine understanding.”
With reluctant parental consent,
I set out to join Jitendra, already in Benares at the hermitage.
On my arrival the young head
swami, Dyananda, greeted me cordially. Tall and thin, of
thoughtful mien, he impressed me favorably. His fair face
had a Buddhalike
* * * * * * * *
The sole treasure which had
accompanied me from Calcutta was the SADHU’S silver amulet
bequeathed to me by Mother. Guarding
it for years, I now had it carefully hidden in my ashram
room. To renew my joy in the talismanic testimony, one
morning I opened the locked box. The sealed covering untouched,
lo! the amulet was gone. Mournfully I tore open its envelope and made
unmistakably sure. It had vanished, in accordance with
the SADHU’S prediction, into the ether whence he had summoned it.
My relationship with Dyananda’s
followers grew steadily worse. The household was alienated,
hurt by my determined aloofness.
My strict adherence to meditation on the very Ideal for which
I had left home and all worldly ambitions called forth
shallow criticism on all sides.
Torn by spiritual anguish,
I entered the attic one dawn, resolved to pray until answer
“Merciful Mother of
the Universe, teach me Thyself through visions, or through
guru sent by Thee!”
The passing hours found my
sobbing pleas without response. Suddenly I felt lifted as
though bodily to a sphere uncircumscribed.
“Thy Master cometh today!” A
divine womanly voice came from everywhere
This supernal experience was
pierced by a shout from a definite locale. A young priest
nicknamed Habu was calling me from the downstairs kitchen.
“Mukunda, enough of
meditation! You are needed for an errand.”
Another day I might have replied
impatiently; now I wiped my tear-swollen face and meekly
obeyed the summons. Together Habu and I set out for a distant
market place in the Bengali section of Benares. The ungentle
Indian sun was not yet at zenith as we made our purchases
in the bazaars. We pushed our way through the colorful
medley of housewives, guides, priests, simply-clad widows,
dignified Brahmins, and the ubiquitous holy bulls. Passing
an inconspicuous lane, I turned my head and surveyed the
A Christlike man in the ocher
robes of a swami stood motionless at the end of the road.
Instantly and anciently familiar he seemed; my gaze fed hungrily
for a trice. Then doubt assailed me.
“You are confusing this wandering monk with someone known to you,”
I thought. “Dreamer, walk on.”
After ten minutes, I felt heavy
numbness in my feet. As though turned to stone, they were
unable to carry me farther. Laboriously I turned around;
my feet regained normalcy. I faced the opposite direction;
again the curious weight oppressed me.
“The saint is magnetically drawing me to him!” With
this thought, I heaped my parcels into the arms of Habu.
He had been observing my erratic footwork with amazement,
and now burst into laughter.
“What ails you? Are you crazy?”
My tumultuous emotion prevented any retort; I sped silently away.
Retracing my steps as though wing-shod, I reached the narrow lane.
My quick glance revealed the quiet figure, steadily gazing
in my direction. A few eager steps and I was at his feet.
divine face was none other than he of my thousand visions.
These halcyon eyes, in leonine head with pointed beard
and flowing locks, had oft peered through gloom of my nocturnal reveries,
holding a promise I had not fully understood.
“O my own, you have come
to me!” My
guru uttered the words again and again in Bengali, his
voice tremulous with joy. “How
many years I have waited for you!”
We entered a oneness of silence; words seemed the rankest superfluities.
Eloquence flowed in soundless chant from heart of master to disciple. With
an antenna of irrefragable insight I sensed that my guru
knew God, and would lead me to Him. The obscuration of
this life disappeared in a fragile dawn of prenatal memories.
Dramatic time! Past, present, and future are its cycling
scenes. This was not the first sun to find me at these holy
My hand in his, my guru led me to his temporary residence in
the Rana Mahal section of the city. His athletic figure moved
with firm tread. Tall, erect, about fifty-five at this time,
he was active and vigorous as a young man. His dark eyes
were large, beautiful with plumbless wisdom. Slightly curly
hair softened a face of striking power. Strength mingled
subtly with gentleness.
As we made our way to the stone balcony of a house overlooking
the Ganges, he said affectionately:
“I will give you my hermitages and all I possess.”
“Sir, I come for wisdom and God-contact.
Those are your treasure-troves I am after!”
The swift Indian twilight had dropped its half-curtain before my
master spoke again. His eyes held unfathomable tenderness.
“I give you my unconditional love.”
Precious words! A quarter-century
elapsed before I had another auricular proof of his love.
His lips were strange to ardor; silence became his oceanic
“Will you give me the
same unconditional love?” He
gazed at me with childlike trust.
“I will love you eternally, Gurudeva!”
“Ordinary love is selfish,
darkly rooted in desires and satisfactions. Divine love
is without condition, without boundary, without change.
The flux of the human heart is gone forever at the transfixing
touch of pure love.” He added humbly, “If ever you find me falling
from a state of God-realization, please promise to put my head on
your lap and help to bring me back to the Cosmic Beloved we both worship.”
He rose then in the gathering darkness and guided me to an inner room.
As we ate mangoes and almond sweetmeats, he unobtrusively wove
into his conversation an intimate knowledge of my nature. I was awe-struck at
the grandeur of his wisdom, exquisitely blended with an innate humility.
“Do not grieve for your amulet. It has served its purpose.” Like a divine
mirror, my guru apparently had caught a reflection of my whole
“The living reality of your presence, Master, is joy beyond any symbol.”
“It is time for a change, inasmuch as you are unhappily situated in the
I had made no references to my life; they now seemed superfluous!
By his natural, unemphatic manner, I understood that he wished no
astonished ejaculations at his clairvoyance.
“You should go back to Calcutta. Why exclude relatives from your love of humanity?”
His suggestion dismayed me. My family was predicting my return,
though I had been unresponsive to many pleas by letter. “Let
the young bird fly in the metaphysical skies,” Ananta
had remarked. ” His wings will tire in the heavy atmosphere.
We shall yet see him swoop toward home, fold his pinions,
and humbly rest in our family nest.” This discouraging simile
fresh in my mind, I was determined to do no “swooping” in the direction
“Sir, I am not returning
home. But I will follow you anywhere. Please give me your
address, and your name.”
“Swami Sri Yukteswar Giri. My chief hermitage is in Serampore, on Rai Ghat
Lane. I am visiting my mother here for only a few days.”
I wondered at God’s intricate
play with His devotees. Serampore is but twelve miles from
Calcutta, yet in those regions I had never caught a glimpse of my guru.
We had had to travel for our meeting to the ancient city of Kasi (Benares),
hallowed by memories of Lahiri Mahasaya. Here too the feet of Buddha,
Shankaracharya and other Yogi–Christs had blessed the soil.
“You will come to me in four weeks.” For
the first time, Sri Yukteswar’s voice was stern. “Now
I have told my eternal affection, and have shown my happiness
at finding you-that is why you disregard my request. The
next time we meet, you will have to reawaken my interest:
I won’t accept you as a disciple easily. There must be
complete surrender by obedience to my strict training.”
I remained obstinately silent.
My guru easily penetrated my difficulty.
“Do you think your
relatives will laugh at you?”
“I will not return.”
“You will return in
“Never.” Bowing reverently
at his feet, I departed without lightening the controversial
tension. As I made my way in the midnight darkness, I wondered
why the miraculous meeting had ended on an inharmonious
note. The dual scales of MAYA, that balance every joy with
grief! My young heart was not yet malleable to the transforming
fingers of my guru.
The next morning I noticed increased hostility in the attitude of
the hermitage members. My days became spiked with invariable
rudeness. In three weeks, Dyananda left the ashram to attend a conference in
Bombay; pandemonium broke over my hapless head.
“Mukunda is a parasite,
accepting hermitage hospitality without making proper return.”
Overhearing this remark, I regretted for the first time that I had
obeyed the request to send back my money to Father. With
heavy heart, I sought out my sole friend, Jitendra.
“I am leaving. Please
convey my respectful regrets to Dyanandaji when he returns.”
“I will leave also! My
attempts to meditate here meet with no more favor than your
own.” Jitendra spoke with determination.
“I have met a Christlike
saint. Let us visit him in Serampore.”
And so the “bird” prepared to “swoop” perilously
close to Calcutta!
Chapter 37 – I Go to America
eve of my departure for the United States found me in Sri Yukteswar’s
“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
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
[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]
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.