Last Days with my Guru

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 of 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 RUMs 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 tri Yuctaswarre'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 wandered at his silence, realizing that he was unemotional and self contained. Yet sometimes I feared I had been unsuccessful and 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 and Calcutta, Shrilluctasois consented to sit beside me on the platform with the Maharaja of Saintoche and the Mayor of Calcutta. Though the 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 class mates, and as they gazed on their own, mad monk,

tears of joy showed unashamedly. My silver tongued professor of philosophy, Doctor Gosal, 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 Serampo Hermitage.

As always, Sriuctaswa's disciples gathered from far and near, devotional San Kirtan's solos in the nectar sweet voice of Christo d'ar a feast served by young disciples, masters, profoundly moving discourse under the stars in the thronged court yard of the Ashram. Memories, memories, joyous festivals of years long past to night. 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 only present 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, Shiyyuctasis called me to the same bedroom were once only after a fest of my early years, I had been permitted to sleep on his wooden bed to night. My Guru was sitting there quietly, a semi circle of disciples at his feet. He smiled as I quickly entered the room. Yugananda, are you leaving now for Kalkatta? Please return here tomorrow. I have certain things to tell

you the next afternoon. Of the few simple words of blessing, Shri Yukta Swa bestowed on me the further monastic title of Paramahansa. It now formerly 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 some one to take charge of our Ashraminpuri. Shriyutta Swa 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 swamis Sebananda, and sent him to Puri to assume the hermitage duties. Later, my Guru discussed with me

the legal details of settling his estate. He was anxious to prevent the possibility of litigation my 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 Kittopour, but he fell 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, Shouldiuctasi only replied,

I shall go to Kiopour. No more for a moment. Master trembled like a frightened child, attachment to bodily residence, springing up of its own nature. I 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, Kuruji, I entreated him with a sob don't say that, Never utter those words to me. Triuctu Swaz'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 Kumbamela 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 Yukta swasra reluctance to have me leave him, I went on, once you beheld the blessed sight of Babijee 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 a Lahabad the following day of the small group, Master blessed me quietly in his usual manner. Apparently I was remaining oblivious to the implications in sriut t Swa'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 Kumbameila on January twenty third, nineteen thirty six. 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 sadus 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 loomin 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. The first day was spent by a group in sheers staring. Here were countless bathers dipping in the holy river for remission of sins. There we saw some 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 thraje put on our camels far by, or a quaint religious parade of naked sadus waving scepters of gold and silver, or f lags and streamers of silken velvet. Anchorites 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 sandalward paste. Shaven headed swamis appeared by the thousands, oka 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. Here and there, under the trees, around huge piles of burning logs, were picturesque saddus, 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 gri grotusquely aloft ramachari's carrying meditation, elbow props, humble sages whose solemnity hidden in a bliss high above the din.

We heard the ceaseless summons of the temple bells. On our second Malor day, My companions and I entered various ushrams and temporary huts, offering pronams to saintly personages. We received the blessing of the leader of the Giddy 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 fruterarian diet on

the central dyas. On the ashram hall sat a blind Sadu Pragholochakshu, profoundly learned in the Shastras and highly revered by all sects. After I had given a brief discourse in Hindian Vedanta, our group left the peaceful hermitage to greet a nearby Swami Krishnananda, a handsome monk with rosy cheeks and impressive shoulders, reclining near him as 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 Swamis taught the tawny headed beasts to utter rn in a deep, attractive growl a cat devotee. Our next encounter, an interview with a learned young Sadu, is well described by mister Wright's

sparkling travel diary. We rode in the ford, across the very low gunges on a creaking pontum bridge, crawling snake light, through the crowds, and over narrow, twisting lanes, passing the site on the river bank, which Yugananda Jee pointed out to me as the meeting place of Babajee and Shri Yukta Swajee. Alighting from the car a short time later, we walked some distance through the thickening smoke of the Sadu's fires and owe 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 Cutty, a young wondering Sodow noted for his exceptional intelligence. There he sat cross legged on a pile of straw, his only covering and incidently his only possession being an oqua cloth

draped over his shoulders. Truly a divine face smiled at us after we had crawled on all fours into the hut and pronomned 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 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 warriors, 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 Aimee degree and the title of Shastri Master of scriptures from Benara's 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 Karapatri 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 my memory those people who wish to hear me, What else do you do? I rum by the gungges At these quiet words, I was overpowered by 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, rubbing by the Ganges is not for you. After the sid who had told me a few of his spiritual realizations, 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 awhile in meditative silence. After we had left his sacred presence. I said to mister Wright, he is a king sitting on a throne of gordon straw. We had our dinner that night on the mail of 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 Cumba. Then northwest along the Jumna banks to Agra. Once again I I gazed at the taj Mahal in memory the tender stood by my

side or by the dream in marble. Then on to the Brinda Barashram of Swami Koshebananda. My object in seeking out Koshebananda was connected with his book. I had never forgotten Shri yet to Swa's request that I write the life of Lahei Mahassia. 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 or letters and documents.

My Laheri Mahassia 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 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, Punchanon Butacharia had

once remarked to me. Other close disciples were similarly satisfied to keep the Jogo vittar hidden in their hearts as the deathless Preceptor. Nevertheless, mindful of Lahari ma Hussia's prediction about his biography, I spared no effort to secure and substantiate the facts of his outward life. Swamy Kaschebanin agreeted our party warmly at Brindeban in his Katayani pythe Ashrum, 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 Lahii ma Hussaia's picture. The Swami was approaching the age of ninety, but his muscular body radiated its 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 and my book on Indian masters. Please tell me about your earlier life, I smiled entreatingly.

Great Yogas often uncommunicative, Kashebanander 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 quart cave to another. For a while, I maintained a small ashramat side 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.

Kshevanander chuckled. Later, a ganji'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. Kshebanander 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 chakled is made occasionally. I left my seclusion to visit my guru imbarares. He is to joke with me over my ceaseless travels in the Himalayan wilderness. You have the mark of a wanderlust in your foot, he told me once. I am glad that the sacred Himalayas are extensive enough to engross you many times. Kashabanander went on, both before and after his passing, Lahidi Mahasayah has appeared bodily before me. For him, no Himalayan heightis inaccessible. Two

hours later, he led us to a dining patio. I sighed in silent dismay another fifteen coarse meal, less than the ear 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 wild 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 plant to visit Kashabananda. While roaming last year in the northern Himalayas near Badrina Ran, 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. Wandering about the occupant of this lonely retreat, I sat near the fire, my gaze fixed

on the sunlit entrance to the cave. Kieshebananda. I am glad you are here. These words came from behind me. I turned startled and was dazzled to behold Barbiji, 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, Barbaji 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 spirtual 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 Lahidi 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 Kushabananda's lips this consoling

promise from Babajee. A certain hurt in my heart vanished. I grieved no longer that, even as Shri Utretois had hinted, Babaji did not appear at the Kumbamela. Spending one night, as guests of the Ashrama party set out the following afternoon for Kolkatta. 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 chad Shri Krishna. Here he engaged with innocent sweetness in his Leela's plays with the gopis maids, 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 allegorias baffle 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's poem by a Western writer. He afterwards built a heart 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

Greek Kabir. One of Ravidas's exalted jellas was the Rani of Chitu. 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 founded his side the form of Ravidas. This mass vision accomplished a widespread spiritual revival in Chuttur. In a few days, our little group reached Calcutta. Eager to

see Sri Yuktaswar. I was disappointed to hear that he had left Serampur 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 eighth by a brother disciple to Utal Chandra roy Chadhri, one of Master's cellas in Kolkata. News of the message reached my ears. Anguished at its implications, I dropped 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 Puria 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 Yukta Swar 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 has 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 poor hermitage, I was nearing collapse. The inner voice was tenderly repeating, collect yourself, be calm. I entered the ushrum 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 Gudo 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 tranquility. He had consciously relinquished his body at the hour of mystic's the line of Bengal is gone.

I cried. In a days I conducted the solemn rites. On March tenth, Shriyukta Swa 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 honor their Guru at a vernal equinox memorial service. The Amrita Bazar Patrica, leading newspaper of Calkata carried his picture and the following report. The death boundra ceremony for Shrimat Swami Shri Yukta Swaghiri Maharaj, aged eighty one, took place at

Puri on March twenty first. Many disciples came down to Puri for the rites. One of the greatest expounders of the Baghwarghita, Swami Maharaj was a great disciple of Yogaraj Shri Shyami charan Lahedi Mahasaya of Benares. Swami Maharaj was the founder of several Yugodas, Satsanga saf 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 Yukta Swadji'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 Baghwargita and other scriptures testify to the depth of Shri Yukta Swardi's command of philosophy. Both Eastern and Western and remain as an eye opener for the unity before orient and occident. As he believed

in the unity of all religious faiths. Shri Yukta Swamaharaj established Sadu Saba Society of Saints with the corporation of leaders of various sects and faiths 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 Sadu Saba. India is really poorer today by the passing of such great man. May all fortunate enough to come near him, inculcating themselves the true spirit of India's culture

and Sadna which was personified in him. I returned to Calcutta, not trusting myself as yet to go to the Sarampur hermitage with its sacred memories. I summoned Prafula, Sri Yuktaswa's little disciple in Sarampur and made arrangements for him to enter the Ranchi school. The morning he left for the Allahabad miller, Prafula told me Master dropped heavily on the davenport. Yoga Nanda is gone. He cried, Yoga Nanda is gone, he added cryptically, I shall have to tell him some

other way. He sat then for hours in silence. My days were Filbert 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 ener of bliss, which for so many years have 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 serrempoor mansion. My heart lamented. No longer may you bring your friends to meet him, or proudly say behold there sits India's jan Avatar. Mister 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, mister Wright and myself left in the Ford for Bombay. On our arrival a ship, authorities asked us to counsel our passage as no room could be found for the ford, which we would need again in Europe. Never mind, I said gloomily to mister Wright. I want to return once more to Puri. I silently added, let my tears once again water the grave of my Guru.

End of Chapter forty two