The Woman Yogi who Never Eats (Giri Bala)

chapter forty six of autobiography of a yogi this is a librivox recording all librivox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit librivox dot org autobiography of a yogi by paramhans yoganand sir whither are we bound this morning mr wright was driving the ford he took his eyes off the road long enough to gaze at me with a questioning twinkle from day to day he seldom knew what part of bengal he would be discovering next god willing i repeat it devoutly we are on our way to see an eighth wonder of the world a woman saint whose diet is thin air.

Repetition of wonders after Therese Newman. But Mr. Wright laughed eagerly just the same. He even accelerated the speed of the car. More extraordinary grist for his travel diary. Not one of an average tourist, that. The Rachi school had just been left behind us we had risen before the sun besides my secretary and myself three bengali friends were in-shouldered bullocks, inclined to dispute the road with a honking interloper. Sir, we would like to know more of the fasting saint. Her name is Giribala, I informed my companions.

I first heard about her years ago from a scholarly gentleman, Stithilal Nandi. He often came to the Gurpar Road home to tutor my brother, Vishnunu i know giribala well stithibabu told me she employs a certain yoga technique which enables her to live without eating i was her close neighbor in nawabganj near itchapur to watch her closely. Never did I find evidence that she was taking either food or drink. My interest finally mounted so high that I approached the Maharaj of Bhardwan and asked him to conduct an investigation.

Astounded at the story, he invited her to his palace. She agreed to a test and lived for two months locked up in a small section of his home. Later she returned for a palace visit of twenty days, and then for a third test of fifteen days. The Maharaja himself told me that these three rigorous scrutinies had convinced him beyond doubt of a non-eating state. This story of Stithibabu's has remained in my mind for over twenty-five years i concluded sometimes in america i wondered if the river of time would not swallow the yogini before i could meet her she must be quite aged now i do not even know where or if she lives her brother has a home there by ten thirty our little group was conversing with the brother lambadar dey a lawyer of purulia yes my sister is living she sometimes stays with me here but at present she is at our family home in the Ford.

I hardly think, Swamiji, that any automobile has ever penetrated into the interior as far as Beur. It might be best if you all resign yourselves to the ancient jolt of the bullock cart. As one voice, our party pledged loyalty to the pride of Detroit. The Ford comes from America, I told the lawyer. It would be a shame to deprive it of an opportunity to get acquainted with the heart of Bengal. May Ganesh go with you. Lambadar Babu said laughing. He added courteously, If you ever get there, I am sure Giribala will be glad to see you.

She is approaching her seventies, but continues in excellent health. Please tell me, sir, if it is absolutely true that she eats nothing? I looked directly into his eyes, those tell-tale windows of the mind. It is true. His gaze was open and honorable. In more than five decades, I have never seen her eat a morsel. If the world suddenly came to an end, I could not be more astonished than by the sight of my sisters taking food. We chuckled together over the improbability of these two cosmic events.

Giribala has never sought an inaccessible solitude for her yoga practices, Lambadar Babu went on. She has lived her entire life surrounded by her family and friends. They are all well accustomed now to her strange state, not one of them who would be stupefied if Giribala suddenly decided to eat anything. Sister is naturally retiring, as befits a Hindu widow, but our little circle in Purulia and in Beur all know that she is literally an exceptional woman. The brother's sincerity was manifest our little party thanked him warmly and set out toward beurre we stopped at a street shop for curry and lucches attracting a swarm of urchins who gathered round to watch mr wright eating with his fingers in the simple hindoo manner an afternoon which unknown at the moment was to prove fairly laborious.

Our way now led east through sun-baked rice fields into the Bardhwan section of Bengal. On through roads lined with dense vegetation, the songs of the miners and the striped-throated bulbults streamed out from trees with huge umbrella-like branches. A bullock cart now and then, the rinny-rinny-manju-manju squeak of its axle, and iron-shod wooden wheels contrasting sharply in mind with the swish-swish of auto-tyres over the aristocratic asphalt of the cities. Dick, halt! my sudden request brought a jolting protest from the Ford. That overburdened mango-tree is fairly shouting an invitation the five of us dashed like children to the mango strewn earth the tree had benevolently shed its fruits as they had ripened full many a mango is born to lie unseen i paraphrased and waste its sweetness on the stony ground nothing like this in america swamiji eh laughed sail laughed Sailesh Mazumdar, one of my Bengali students.

No, I admitted, covered with mango juice and contentment. How I have missed this fruit in the West! A Hindu's heaven without mangoes is inconceivable. I picked up a rock and downed a proud beauty hidden on the highest limb. Dig, I asked between bites of ambrosia, warm with the tropical sun, are all the cameras in the car? Yes, sir, in the baggage compartment. If Giribala proves to be a true saint, I want to write about her in the West. A Hindu yogini with such inspiring powers should not live and die unknown, like most of these mangoes.

Half an hour later I was still strolling in the sylvan peace. Sir, Mr. Wright embarked, we should reach Giribala before the sun sets, to have enough light for photographs. He added with a grin, the Westerners are a sceptical lot. We can't expect them to believe in the lady without any pictures. This bit of wisdom was indisputable. I turned my back on temptation and re-entered the car you are right dick i sighed as we sp boils of hardened clay the sad infirmities of old age our group dismounted occasionally to allow mr wright to more easily manoeuvre the ford which the four of us pushed from behind acknowledged.

The car is not carrying us. We are carrying the car. Our climb-in, climb-out, auto-tedium was beguiled ever and anon by the appearance of a village, each one a scene of quaint simplicity. Our way twisted and turned through groves of palms, among ancient, unspoiled villages nestling in the forest shade. Mr. Wright has recorded in his travel diary, under date of May 5, 1936, Very fascinating are these clusters of thatched mud huts, decorated with one of the names of God on the door, many small naked children innocently playing about, pausing to stare or run wildly from this big black, bullet-less carriage, tearing madly through their village.

The women merely peeped from the shadows, while the men lazily lolled beneath the trees along the roadside, curious beneath their nonchalance. In one place, all the villagers were gaily bathing in the large tank in their garments, changing by draping dry cloths around their bodies, dropping the wet ones. Women bearing water to their homes in huge brass jars. The road led us a merry chase over mountain ridge. We bounced and tossed, dipped into small streams, detoured around an unfinished causeway, slithered across dry sandy riverbeds, and finally, about 5 p.m., we were close to our destination beurre this minute village in the interior of bankura district hidden in the protection of denseantily clad lads who clambered on the sides of the car eager to conduct us to we had reached it, the ford was momentarily tipped at a dangerous angle, tossed up and dropped down.

The narrow trail led around trees and tank, over ridges, into holes and deep ruts. The car became anchored on a clump of bushes, then grounded on a hillock, requiring a lift of earth clods. On we proceeded slowly and carefully. Suddenly the way was stopped by a mass of brush in the middle of the cart track necessitating a detour down a precipitous ledge into a dry tank rescue from which demanded some scraping adzing and shoveling but the pilgrimage must go on. Obliging lads fetched spades and demolished the obstacles, shades of Ganesh, while hundreds of children and parents stared.

Soon we were threading our way along the two ruts of antiquity, women gazing wide-eyed from their hut doors, men trailing alongside and behind us, children scampering to swell the procession ours was perhaps the first auto to traverse these roads the bullock cart union must be omnipotent here what a sensation we created a group piloted by an american and pioneering in a snorting car right into their hamlet fastness invading the ancient privacy and sanctity. Halting by a narrow land, we found ourselves within a hundred feet of Giribala's ancestral home.

We felt the thrill of fulfillment after the long road struggle, crowned by a rough finish. We approached a large two-storied building of brick and plaster, dominating the surrounding adobe huts. The house was under the process of repair, for around it was the characteristically tropical framework of bamboos with feverish anticipation and suppressed rejoicing we stood before the open doors of the one blessed by the lord's hungerless touch Bare and dressed, women aloof somewhat, but inquisitive too, men and boys unabashedly at our heels as they gazed on this unprecedented spectacle.

Soon a short figure came into view in the doorway. Giribala. She was swathed in a cloth of dull goldish silk. In typically Indian fashion, she drew forward modestly and hesitatingly, peering slightly from beneath the upper fold of her swadeshi cloth her eyes glistened like smouldering embers in the shadow of her headpiece we were enamoured by a most benevolent and kindly face a face of realisation and understanding free from the taint of earthly attachment. Meekly she approached and silently assented to us, snapping a number of pictures with our still and movie cameras.

Patiently and shyly she endured our photo techniques of posture adjustment and light arrangement. Finally, we had recorded for posterity many photographs of the only woman in the world who is known to have lived without food or drink for over fifty years. Therese Newman, of course, has fasted since 1923. Most motherly was Giribala's expression, as she stood before us, completely covered in the loose flowing cloth, nothing of her body visible but her face with its downcast eyes, her hands and her tiny feet, a face of rare peace and innocent poise, a wide, childlike, quivering lip, a feminine nose, narrow, sparkling eyes, and a wistful smile.

Mr. Wright's impression of Giribala was shared by myself, spiritually enfolded her, like her gently shining veil. She pronomed before me in the customary gesture of greeting from a householder to a monk her simple charm and quiet smile gave us a welcome beyond that of honeyed oratory forgotten was our difficult dusty trip the little saint seated herself cross-legged on the verandah though bearing the scars of age she was not emaciated her olive-coloured skin had remained clear and healthy in tone mother i said in bengali forganj during those years i have crossed the oceans but i never forgot my early plan to some day see you the saint lifted her eyes for a minute smiling with serene interest baba honoured father knows best she answered meekly i was happy that she had taken no offence one never knows how great yogis or yoginis will react to the thought of publicity they shun it as a rule wishing to pursue in silence the profound soul research an inner sanction comes to them when the proper time arrives to display their lives openly for the benefit of seeking minds shall understand your silence also.

She spread her hands in a gracious gesture. I am glad to reply, in so far as an insignificant person like myself can give satisfactory answers. Oh, no, not insignificant, I protested sincerely. You are a great soul. I am the humble servant of all, she added quaintly. I love to cook and feed people a strange pastime i thought for a non-eating saint tell me mother from your own lips do you live without food that is true she was silent for a few moments From the age of twelve years, four months, down to my present age of sixty-eight, a period of over fifty-six years, I have not eaten food or taken liquids.

Are you never tempted to eat? If I felt a craving for food, I would have to eat. Simply yet regally she stated this axiomatic truth, one known too well by a world revolving around three meals a day. But do eat something i torn held a note of remonstrance of course she smiled in swift understanding your nourishment derives from the finer energies of the air and sunlight and from the cosmic power which recharges your body through the medulla oblongata baba knows again she acquiesced her manner soothing and unemphatic mother please tell me about your early life it holds a deep interest for all of india and even for our brothers and sisters beyond the seas relaxing into a conversational mood so be it her voice was low and firm i was born in these forest regions my childhood was unremarkable save that i was possessed by an insatiable appetite i had been betrothed in early years Try to control your greed.

When the time comes for you to live among strangers in your husband's family, what will they think of you if your days are spent in nothing but eating? The calamity she had foreseen came to pass. I was only twelve when I joined my husband's people in Nawabganj. My mother-in-law shamed me morning, noon and night about my gluttonous habits. Her scoldings were a blessing in disguise, however. They aroused my dormant spiritual tendencies one morning her ridicule was merciless i shall soon prove to you i said stung to the quick that i shall never touch food again as long as i live my mother-in-law laughed in derision so she said how can you live without eating when you cannot live without overeating this remark was unanswerable yet an iron resolution scaffolded my spirit in a secluded spot i sought my heavenly father lord i prayed incessantly please send me a guru who can teach me to live by thy light and not by food?

A divine ecstasy fell over me. Led by a beatific spell, I set out for the Nawabganj cart on the Ganges. On the way I encountered the priest of my husband's family. Venerable sir, I said trustingly, kindly tell me how to live without eating. He stared at me without reply. Finally he spoke in a consoling manner child he said come to the temple this evening i will conduct a special vedic ceremony for you myself in the Ganges as though for a sacred initiation. As I left the river bank, my wet cloth around me, in the broad glare of day my master materialized himself before me.

Dear little one, he said in a voice of loving compassion, I am the guru sent here by God to fulfill your urgent prayer. He was deeply touched by its very unusual nature. From today you shall live by the astral light, your bodily atoms fed from the infinite current. Giribala fell into silence. I took Mr. Wright's pencil and pad and translated into English a few items for his information. The saint resumed her tale, her gentle voice barely audible the ghat was deserted but my guru cast around us an aura of guarding light that no stray bathers later disturb us the technique includes the use of a certain mantra and a breathing exercise more difficult than the average person could perform no medicine or magic is involved nothing beyond the in the manner of the american newspaper reporter who had unknowingly taught me his procedure i questioned giriballa on many matters which i thought would be of interest to the world she gave me bit by season to season.

I have never been sick or experienced any diseases. I feel only slight pain when accidentally injured. I have no bodily excretions. I can control my heart and breathing. I often see my guru, as well as other great souls in vision. Mother, I asked, why don't you teach others the method of living without food? My ambitious hopes for the world's starving people were nipped in the bud. No, I was strictly commanded by my guru not to divulge the secret. It is not his wish to tamper with God's drama of creation.

The farmers would not thank me if I taught many people to live without eating. The luscious fruits would lie useless on the ground. It appears that misery, starvation, and disease are whips of our karma, which ultimately drive us to seek the true meaning of life. Mother, I said slowly, what is the use of your having been singled out to live without eating? To prove that man is spirit, her face lit with wisdom, to demonstrate that by divine advancement he can gradually learn to live by the eternal light and not by food.

The saint sank into a deep meditative state. Her gaze was directed inward. The gentle depths of her eyes became expressionless. She gave a certain sigh, the prelude to her eyes became expressionless. She gave a certain sigh, the prelude to the ecstatic breathless trance. For a time she had fled to the questionless realm, the heaven of inner joy. The tropical darkness had fallen. The light of a small kerosene lamp flickered fitfully over the faces of a score of villagers squatting silently in the shadows the darting glow-worms and distant oil lanterns of the huts wove bright eerie patterns into the velvet night i said as the saint opened her eyes please give me a keepsake a strip of one of your saris she soon returned with a piece of bernarda's silk extending it in her hand as she suddenly prostrated herself on the ground mother i said reverently rather let me touch your blessed feet chapter forty six