I Return to the West

chapter forty seven of autobiography of a yogi by param hamsa yogananda i return to the west i have given many yoga lessons in india and america but i must confess that as a hindu i am unusually happy to be conducting a class for english students my london class laughed appreciatively. No political turmoils ever disturbed our yoga peace. India was now a hallowed memory. It is September 1936. I am in England to fulfil a promise given sixteen months earlier to lecture again in London. England, too, is receptive to the timeless yoga message yoga message reporters and newsreel cameramen swarmed over my quarters at grosvenor house the british national council of the world fellowship of faiths organized a meeting on september twenty ninth at whitefields congregational church where i addressed the audience on the weighty subject of How Faith in Fellowship May Save Civilization.

The eight o'clock lectures at Caxton Hall attracted such crowds that on two nights the overflow waited in Windsor House Auditorium for my second talk at 9.30. Yoga classes during the following weeks grew so large that mr wright was obliged to arrange transfer to another hall the english tenacity has admirable expression in a spiritual relationship the london yoga students loyally organized themselves after my departure into a self-realization fellowship centre holding their meditation meetings weekly throughout the bitter war years unforgettable weeks in england harbor brought a joyous emotional gulp not only to the throats of miss bletch and mr wright but to my own bit battered from struggles with ancient soils was still puissant it now took in its stride the transcontinental trip to california in late nineteen thirty six low mount washington eight-hour group meditation on december twenty fourth spiritual christmas followed the next day by a banquet social christmas the festivities this year were augmented by the presence of dear friends and students from distant cities who had arrived to welcome home the three world travelers Christmas Day feast included delicacies brought 15,000 miles for this glad occasion.

Gucci mushrooms from Kashmir, canned rasgulla and mango pulp, papar biscuits, and an oil of the Indian kewra flower which flavored our ice cream. The evening found us grouped around a huge sparkling Christmas tree, the nearby fireplace crackling with logs of aromatic cypress gift time presents from the earth's far corners palestine egypt india england france italy each for injunction that no pilfering hand receive the treasures intended for loved ones in america plaques of the sacred olive-tree from the holy land delicate laces and embroideries from belgium and holland persian carpets finely woven kashmiri shawls everlastingly fragrant sandalwood trays from mysore shiva bull's-eye stones from central provinces, old Indian coins of dynasties long fled, bejeweled vases and cups, miniatures, tapestries, temple incense and perfumes, Swadeshi cotton prints, lacquer work, Mysore ivory carvings, Persian slippers with their inquisitive long toe, quaint old manuscripts velvets brocades gandhi caps potteries tiles brasswork prayer rugs booty of three continents wrapped packages from the immense pile under the tree.

Sister Gyanamata, I handed a long box to the saintly American lady of sweet visage and deep realization who, during my absence, had been in charge at Mount Washington. From the paper tissues she lifted a sari of golden Banara silk. Thank you, sir. It brings the pageant of India before my eyes mr. Dickinson the next parcel contained a gift which I had bought in a Calcutta bazaar mr. Dickinson will like this I had thought at the time a dearly beloved disciple mr. Dickinson had been present at every Christmas festivities since the 1925 five founding of mount washington at this eleventh annual celebration he was standing before me untying the ribbons of his square little package at the present, a tall drinking-cup.

He seated himself some distance away, apparently in a daze. I smiled at him affectionately before resuming my role as Santa Claus. The ejaculatory evening closed with a prayer to the giver of all gifts, then a group singing of Christmas carols. Mr. Dickinson and I were chatting together some time later. Sir, he said, please let me thank you now for the silver cup. I could not find any words on Christmas night. I brought the gift especially for you. For forty-three years I have been waiting for that silver cup.

It is a long story, one I have kept hidden within me. Mr. Dickinson looked at me shyly. The beginning was dramatic. I was drowning. My older brother had playfully pushed me into a fifteen-foot pool in a small town in Nebraska. I was only five years old then. As I was about to sink for the second time under the water a dazzling multicolored light appeared filling all space in the midst was the figure of a man with tranquil eyes and a reassuring smile my body was sinking for the third time when one of my brother's companions bent a tall slender willow tree in such a low dip that i could grasp it with my desperate fingers.

The boys lifted me to the bank and successfully gave me first aid treatment. Twelve years later, a youth of seventeen, I visited Chicago with my mother. It was 1893. The great World Parliament of Religions was in session. Mother and I were walking down a main street when again i saw the mighty flash of light a few paces away strolling leisurely along was the same man i had seen years before in drowning. She and I hastened into the building. The man was seated on a lecture platform.

We soon learned that he was Swami Vivekananda of India. After he had given a soul-stirring talk, I went forward to meet him. He smiled on me graciously as though we were old friends. I was so young that I did not know how to give expression to my feelings, but in my heart I was hoping that he would offer to be my teacher. He read my thought. No, my son, I am not your guru. Vivekananda gazed with his beautiful piercing eyes deep into my own. Your teacher will come later.

He will give you a silver cup. After a little pause, he added, smiling, he will pour out to you more blessings than you are now able to hold. I left Chicago in a few days, Mr. Dickinson went on, and never saw the great Vivekananda again. But every word he had uttered was indelibly written on my inmost consciousness years passed no teacher appeared one night in 1925 I prayed deeply that the Lord would send me my guru a few hours later I was awakened from sleep by soft strains of melody a band of celestial beings carrying flutes and other instruments came before my view after filling the air with glorious music the angels slowly vanished here in los angeles and knew then that my prayer had been granted we smiled at each other in silence for eleven years now i have been your kriya-yoga disciple mr dickinson continued Vivekananda's words were only metaphorical.

But on Christmas night, as you handed me the square box by the tree, I saw, for the third time in my life, the same dazzling flash of light. In another minute I was gazing on my Guru's gift, which Vivekananda had foreseen for me forty-three years earlier, a silver cup.