Last Days with my Guru

her. Last days with my guru. Guruji, I am glad to find you alone this morning. I had just arrived at the Sarampur 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 was seeking escape. Guruji, I came to you as a high school youth. Now I am a grown man, even with a grey 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 then you came into my life.

I was content. In you I have found my son. Two clear tear-drops 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 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 unashamedly my silver-tongued professor of philosophy dr gursal came forward to greet me all are past misunderstandings dissolved by the alchemist time a winter solstice festival was celebrated at the end of december in the serampo 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. 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 y Yukteswar bestowed on me the further monastic title of Paramahansa. 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 Paramahansaji.

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 in puri sri uttaswa went on you will be able to successfully sail the boat of your life and that of the organization details of settling his estate. He was anxious to prevent the possibility of litigation by relatives after his death, per 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 Kittapur, 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 Kirupur 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 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 Kumba Mela is convening this month in Allahabad. I showed master the Mela dates in a Bengali almanac. 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 Kumba. 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 the 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 our party reached the kumbha m for the worth of the spirit, and for the monks and sadhus who have forsaken worldly ties to seek diviner anchorage. Impostors 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 ard to which india owes her quenchless vitality before the blows of time a turn of our heads and a line of elephants caparisoned horsesites wearing only loincloths sat quietly in little groups, their bodies smeared 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, ochre-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 the disciples 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 multicoloured saris, their bangles and anklets tinkling, fakirs with thin arms held grotesquely aloft, brahmacharis carrying meditation elbow-props, humble sages whose solemnity hidden in a bliss high above the din we heard the ceaseless summons 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 on the ashram hall sat a blind sadhu, Pragalachakshu, 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 peacefulamis taught the tawny-haired beast to utter om in a deep attractive growl a cat devotee our next encounter an interview with a learned young sadhu is well described by mr wright's sparkling travel diary we rode in the ford across the very low ganges on a creaking pont time later we walked some distance through the thickening smoke of the sadhu's fires and over the slippery sands to reach a cluster of tiny very modest mud and incident his only possession being an ochre cloth drapedindi his expressions were very revealing he was full of enthusiasm love story.

No one could be mistaken as to his greatness. Imagine the happy life of one unattached, 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 M.A. degree, and the title of Shastri, Master of Scriptures, from Banaras 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 carapatri about his wandering life don't you have any extra clothes for winter no this is enough that lay on my shoulders no yogananda i thought sadly for a moment in this life roaming by the ganges is not for you I shot an abrupt question.

Are you giving these descriptions from scriptural law, or from inward experience? Half from book learning, he answered with a straightforward smile, and half from experience. We sat happily a while 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 maila grounds under the stars eating from leaf plates pinned together with sticks dish washings in india are reduced to a minimum two more days of the fascinating kumba then north-west along the jumla banks to agra once again i gazed at the taj mahal memory, Jitendra stood by my side, awed by the dream in marble.

Then on to the Brindabar Ashram of Swami Kishabananda. My object in seeking out Kishabananda was connected with his 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 and authorship.

I prayed that I might be equal to my role as biographer of the colossal guru several of lahiri mahasaya's prediction about his biography Swami Keshavananda greeted our party warmly at Vrindaban in his Katiyani Paith Ashram, an imposing brick building with massive black pillars, sat 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 twinklinginkling with joy he was a veritable patriarchal embodiment i informed him that i wanted to mention his name in my book on indian masters please tell me about your earlier life i smiled entreatingly often uncommunicative.

Keshavananda made a gesture of humility. There is little of external moment. Practically my whole life has been spent in the Himalayan solitudes, travelling 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 travellers, owing to the ubiquitous presence of cobras. Kesavananda chuckled. Later Aganji's 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. Kesavananda shook his head. In those high spiritual altitudes, he said said wild beasts seldom molest the yogis once in the jungle i encountered a tiger face to face at my sudden benares he used to joke with me over my 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 honour in india nowhere else alas a well-padded swami is considered a delightful sight after dinner kashabananda 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 kshabananda while roaming last year in the northern himalayas near badrinahiran the swami continued i lost my way shelter appeared in a spacious cave which was empty about the occupant of this lonely retreat, I sat near the fire, my gaze fixed on the sunlit entrance to the cave.

Keshub Ananda, 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 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 Kshabanha's lips this consoling promise from babaji a certain hurt in my heart vanished i grieved no us in the still waters the jumna beach is hallowed by memories of the child sri krishna innocent sweetness in his lilas , exemplifying the supernal love which ever exists between a divine incarnation of his devotees.

The life of Lord Krishna has been misunderstood by many Western commentators. Scriptural allegory is baffled to literal minds. A hilarious blunder by a translator will illustrate this point. The story concerns an inspired medieval saint, the coler ravidas who sang in the simple terms of his own trade of the spiritual in it an idol which he made from a hide and applied himself to its worship she invited a large number of brahmins to a feast in honour of her teacher but they refused to eat with the lowly cobbler as they sat down in dignified aloofness to eat their own uncontaminated meal each brahmin found at his side the form of ravidas this mass vision accomplished a widespread spiritual revival in chittoor 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 the Puri ashram at once. This telegram was sent on March 8th by a brother disciple to Atalchandra Roy Chowdhury, 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 to Puri to-night.

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 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 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 when 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 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 tranquility. He had consciously relinquished his body at the hour of mystic summoning. The line of Bengal is gone! I cried in a daze. I conducted the solemn rites on March 10th. Sri Yukteswar was buried, with the ancient rituals of the Swamis, in the garden of his Puri ashram. His disciples later arrived from far and near to honour their guru at a vernal equinox memorial service.

The Amrita Bazaar Patrika, leading newspaper of Calcutta, carried his picture and the following report. The death bandra ceremony for Sri Matswami Sri Yukteswar Gedi 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 Yogaraj Sri Shyamicharan Lahiri Mahasaya of Benares. Swami Maharaj was the founder of several Yogoda Satsanga, 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 philosophy both eastern and western and remain as an eye-opener for the inculcation of a scientific spirit and religion at the time of his demise he nominated swami yogananda his successor as the president of sadhusab of india's culture and sadhana which was personified in him i returned to calcutta little disciple in serampore and made arrangements for him to enter the ranchi school the morning you left for the allahabad miller prafula told me master dropped heavily on the davenport away.

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 sounds of all my perceptions. Where has the 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 Serampua mansion, my heart lamented. No longer may you bring your friends to meet him, or proudly say, behold, there sits India's young avatar. 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.