Autobiography of a Yogi (Unabridged Edition) E-Book

Paramhansa Yogananda

• Herausgeber: Stargatebook
• Kategorie: Religion und Spiritualität
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

The ORIGINAL edition of YOGANANDA'S MASTERPIECE.

There are books that have the power to transform existence. Books capable of opening wide the windows of the soul. Rare books like this one. Ranked among the one hundred most important works of spiritual content of the twentieth century, Paramhansa Yogananda's "Autobiography of a Yogi" conveys to its readers the powerful vibrations of an enlightened Master who transformed and inspired millions with his own life. It is an exciting spiritual adventure, discovering the secrets of the ancient science of Kriya Yoga and the deepest truths of our soul. Yogananda worked on his work for twenty-five years so that every word would faithfully reflect his spirit and consciousness.

This edition contains the purity and vibrancy of the original version, which Yogananda personally edited.

Leseprobe

AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A YOGI

Paramhansa Yogananda

 

 

Edition 2024 by Stargatebook

All rights are reserved

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Contents

Preface

Acknowledgements by the author

1. My parents and my early life

2. My mother's death and the mystic amulet

3. The Saint with two bodies

4. My aborted flight to the Himalayas

5. A 'Perfume Saint' shows his wonders

6. The Tiger Swami

7. The levitating saint

8. The great scientist of India, J.C. Bose

9. The Blessed Devotee and his Cosmic Love Story

10. I meet my Master, Sri Yukteswar

11. Two penniless boys in Brindaban

12. Years in my master's hermitage

13. The Sleepless Saint

14. An experience of cosmic consciousness

15. The cauliflower robbery

16. Overcoming the stars

17. Sasi and the three sapphires

18. A Mohammedan Wonderworker

19. My Master, in Calcutta, appears in Serampore

20. We do not visit Kashmir

21. We visit Kashmir

22. The heart of a stone Image

23. I receive my university degree

24. I become a monk of the Swami Order

25. Brother Ananta and Sister Nalini

26. The Science of Kriya Yoga

27. Founding a yoga school in Ranchi

28. Kashi, reborn and rediscovered

29. Rabindranath Tagore and I compare schools

30. The Law of Miracles

31. Interview with the Holy Mother

32. Rama is raised from the dead

33. Babaji, the Yogi-Christ of modern Indi

34. Materialisation of a palace in the Himalayas

35. The Christic Life of Lahiri Mahasaya

36. Babaji's interest in the West

37. Going to America

38. Luther Burbank -- A saint among roses

39. Therese Neumann, The Catholic Stigmatiser

40. Return to India

41. An idyll in South India

42. The last days with my guru

43. The Resurrection of Sri Yukteswar

44. With Mahatma Gandhi in Wardha

45. The Bengali mother 'imbued with joy

46. The yogi woman who never eats

47. Return to the West

48. In Encinitas, California

 

 

Preface

The value of Yogananda's Autobiography is greatly enhanced by the fact that it is one of the few books in English on the sages of India written not by a journalist or a foreigner, but by one of their own race and background: in short, a book about yogis written by a yogi. As an eyewitness to the lives and extraordinary powers of modern Hindu saints, the book is as relevant as it is timeless. To the distinguished author, whom I had the pleasure of meeting both in India and America, every reader can express their appreciation and gratitude. His unusual life-document is certainly one of the most revealing insights into the depths of the Hindu mind and heart, and the spiritual richness of India, ever published in the West.

I had the privilege of meeting one of the sages whose life story is recounted here: Sri Yukteswar Giri. An image of the venerable saint appeared as part of the title page of my Tibetan Yoga and Secret Doctrines. It was in Puri, Orissa, on the Bay of Bengal, that I met Sri Yukteswar. He was then the head of a quiet ashrama near the seashore and was mainly concerned with the spiritual training of a group of young disciples. He expressed a keen interest in the welfare of the people of the United States and all the Americas, as well as England, and questioned me about the distant activities, particularly those in California, of his principal disciple, Paramhansa Yogananda, whom he loved very much and had sent as his emissary to the West in 1920.

Sri Yukteswar was of gentle appearance and voice, of pleasant presence and worthy of the veneration that his followers spontaneously accorded him. Every person who knew him, whether he belonged to his community or not, held him in the highest esteem. I vividly remember his tall, straight and ascetic figure, dressed in the saffron-coloured habit of one who has renounced worldly pursuits, as he stood at the entrance of the hermitage to welcome me.

He had long, slightly curly hair and a bearded face. His body was muscular, but slender and well-formed, and his gait energetic. He had chosen as his earthly abode the holy city of Puri, where multitudes of pious Hindus, representing every province of India, make daily pilgrimages to the famous temple of Jagannath, 'Lord of the World'.

It was in Puri that Sri Yukteswar closed his mortal eyes, in 1936, to the scenes of this transient state of being and passed on, knowing that his incarnation had been triumphantly completed. I am very happy to be able to record this testimony of Sri Yukteswar's high character and holiness. Content to remain apart from the multitude, he devoted himself unreservedly and quietly to that ideal life that Paramhansa Yogananda, his disciple, described for the ages.

W. Y. EVANS-WENTZ

Acknowledgements by the author

I am deeply indebted to Miss L. V. Pratt for her long editorial work on the manuscript of this book. I also thank Miss Ruth Zahn for preparing the index, Mr C. Richard Wright for permission to use extracts from his Indian travelogue, and Dr W. Y. Evans-Wentz for suggestions and encouragement.

PARAMHANSA YOGANANDA

28 October 1945

Encinitas, California

1. My parents and my early life

The hallmark of Indian culture has long been the search for ultimate truth and the concomitant disciple-guru relationship. My path led me to a Christ-like sage, whose beautiful life has been carved out for centuries. He was one of the great teachers who are the only wealth left in India. Emerging in every generation, they defended their land from the fate of Babylon and Egypt.

My earliest memories cover the anachronistic features of a previous incarnation. Clear memories came to me of a distant life, a yogi in the snows of the Himalayas. These glimpses of the past, for some dimensionless link, also allowed me a glimpse of the future.

The humiliations of childhood were not banished from my mind. I was resentfully aware of not being able to walk or express myself freely. Prayer arose in me when I realised my bodily helplessness. My strong emotional life took silent form as words in many languages. Amidst the inner confusion of languages, my ear gradually became accustomed to the Bengali syllables of my people. The scope of a child's mind, which adults consider limited to toys and toes.

The psychological turmoil and my unresponsive body led to much obstinate crying. I remember the family's general dismay at my distress. Even the happiest memories crowd in on me: my mother's caresses, my first attempts at lisping and toddling. These early triumphs, usually quickly forgotten, are nevertheless a natural foundation of self-confidence.

My far-reaching memories are not unique. Many yogis are known to have maintained self-awareness without interruption in the dramatic passage to and from 'life' and 'death'. If man is only a body, its loss really does put the last period on identity. But if the prophets over the millennia have spoken the truth, man is essentially incorporeal in nature. The persistent core of human egoity is only temporarily bound to sense perception.

However strange, clear memories of childhood are not extremely rare. During my travels in numerous lands, I have heard the first memories from the lips of sincere men and women.

I was born in the last decade of the 19th century and spent my first eight years in Gorakhpur. This was my hometown in the United Provinces of north-east India. We were eight children: four boys and four girls. I, Mukunda Lal Ghosh, was the second son and the fourth child.

His father and mother were Bengalis, of Kshatriya caste. Both were blessed with a holy nature. Their love for each other, quiet and dignified, was never expressed frivolously. Perfect parental harmony was the centre of calm for the revolving turmoil of eight young lives.

The father, Bhagabati Charan Ghosh, was kind, serious, sometimes stern. Although we loved him dearly, we children observed a certain reverential distance. An outstanding mathematician and logician, he was guided mainly by his intellect. But Mother was a queen of hearts and taught us only through love. After his death, Father showed more of his inner tenderness. I noticed then that his gaze often changed to that of my mother.

In the presence of the Mother we savoured our first bittersweet acquaintance with the scriptures. Tales from the mahabharata and ramayana were evoked with great skill to meet the demands of discipline. Instruction and chastisement went hand in hand.

A daily gesture of respect towards Dad was that Mum would carefully dress us in the afternoon to welcome him home from the office. His position was similar to that of a vice-president of the Bengal-Nagpur Railway, one of the big Indian companies. His job involved travelling and our family lived in different cities during my childhood.

The mother held an open hand towards the needy. The father was also well disposed, but his respect for law and order extended to the budget. In a fortnight, the mother spent more than the father's monthly income to feed the poor.

"All I ask is that you please keep your charity within a reasonable limit." Even a gentle rebuke from her husband was painful for their mother. She ordered a hired carriage, without mentioning any disagreement to her children.

"Goodbye; I'm going to my mother's house". Ancient ultimatum!

A stunned cry broke out. The maternal uncle arrived at the right moment and whispered some wise advice to Dad, no doubt gathered over the centuries. After the father made some conciliatory remarks, the mother happily dismissed the taxi. Thus ended the only problem I noticed between my parents. But I do remember one characteristic discussion.

"Please give me ten rupees for an unfortunate woman who has just arrived home". The mother's smile had its own persuasive force.

"Why ten rupees? One is enough'. The father added a justification: "When my father and grandparents died suddenly, I had my first taste of poverty. My only breakfast, before walking miles to school, was a small banana. Later, at university, I was so needy that I asked a wealthy judge for one rupee a month. He refused, observing that even a rupee is important.

"How bitterly do you remember the denial of that rupee!" The mother's heart had an instant logic. "Do you also want this woman to remember with sorrow your denial of ten rupees that she urgently needs?"

"You win!" With the immemorial gesture of defeated husbands, he opened his wallet. "Here is a ten-rupee note. Give it to him with my goodwill."

The father tended to first say 'no' to any new proposal. His attitude towards the strange woman who had so readily attracted his mother's sympathy was an example of his usual caution. The aversion to immediate acceptance - typical of the French mentality in the West - is really only the honour of the principle of 'due reflection'. I always found Dad reasonable and balanced in his judgements. If I could back up my numerous requests with one or two good arguments, he invariably put the desired goal within my reach, whether it was a holiday trip or a new motorbike.

The father was a strict disciplinarian towards his children in their early years, but his attitude towards himself was very Spartan. He never went to the theatre, for example, but sought his leisure in various spiritual practices and reading the Bhagavad gita. Shunning all luxuries, he clung to an old pair of shoes to the point of uselessness. His sons bought cars after they became popular, but Father was always content with the trolleybus for his daily journey to the office. The accumulation of money for power was alien to his nature. Once, after organising the Calcutta Urban Bank, he refused to benefit from owning shares. He simply wanted to fulfil a civic duty in his spare time.

A few years after the father had retired, an English accountant arrived to examine the books of the Bengal-Nagpur Railway Company. The astonished investigator discovered that the father had never claimed back bonuses.

"He did the work of three men!" the accountant told the company. "He is owed 125,000 rupees (about $41,250) as back pay." The officials presented Father with a cheque for this amount. He thought so little of it that he neglected to talk about it with his family. Much later he was questioned by my younger brother Bishnu, who noticed the large deposit on a bank statement.

"Why be euphoric for material gain?" The Father replied. "He who pursues a goal of equity neither rejoices over gain nor is depressed over loss. He knows that man arrives penniless in this world and leaves without a single rupee."

Early in their married life, my parents became disciples of a great master, Lahiri Mahasaya of Benares. This contact strengthened father's naturally ascetic temperament. My mother made a remarkable admission to my elder sister Roma: 'Your father and I live together as husband and wife only once a year, for the purpose of having children.

Father first met Lahiri Mahasaya through Abinash Babu, a clerk at the Gorakhpur office of the Bengal-Nagpur railway. Abinash instructed my young ears with captivating tales of many Indian saints. He invariably concluded with a tribute to the superior glories of his own guru.

"Have you ever heard of the extraordinary circumstances under which your father became a disciple of Lahiri Mahasaya?"

It was on a lazy summer afternoon, as Abinash and I sat together in the enclosure of my house, that he asked me this intriguing question. I shook my head with an expectant smile.

"Years ago, before you were born, I asked my superior officer - your father - to grant me a week's leave from my duties in Gorakhpur to visit my guru in Benares. Your father ridiculed my plan.

"Are you going to become a religious fanatic?" he asked. 'Concentrate on your office work if you want to get ahead'.

"That day, on my way home along a forest path, I met your father in a palanquin. He dismissed his servants and his carriage and came to my side. Trying to console me, he pointed out the advantages of striving for worldly success. But I listened to him listlessly. My heart repeated, "Lahiri Mahasaya! I cannot live without seeing you!"

"Our path took us to the edge of a quiet field, where the rays of the late afternoon sun were still crowning the tall undulating wild grass. We stopped in admiration. There in the field, a few metres away from us, suddenly appeared the form of my great guru!

"Bhagabati, you are too hard on your employee!" His voice rang in our astonished ears. He disappeared as mysteriously as he had come. On my knees I exclaimed, "Lahiri Mahasaya! Lahiri Mahasaya!" Your father remained motionless and stupefied for a few moments.

"'Abinash, I not only give you permission, but I give myself permission to leave for Benares tomorrow. I must meet this great Lahiri Mahasaya, who is able to materialise at will to intercede for you! I will take my wife and ask this master to initiate us on his spiritual path. Will she guide us to him?"

"'Of course'. Joy filled me at the miraculous answer to my prayer and the swift and favourable turn of events.

"The next evening your parents and I left for Benares. The next day we took a horse-drawn cart and walked through narrow alleys to my guru's isolated house. Entering his parlour, we bowed before the master, ensconced in his customary lotus position. He blinked his piercing eyes and pointed them at your father.

"Bhagabati, you are too hard on your employee!" His words were the same as those he had used two days earlier in the Gorakhpur camp. He added: "I am happy that you allowed Abinash to visit me and that you and your wife accompanied him.

"With their joy, he initiated your parents into 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 great interest in your birth. Your life will surely be linked to his: the master's blessing never fails.

Lahiri Mahasaya left this world shortly after I entered. Her image, in an ornate frame, has always graced our family altar in the various cities to which Dad has been transferred from his office. Many mornings and evenings found Mum and me meditating in front of an improvised shrine, offering flowers dipped in fragrant sandalwood paste. With incense and myrrh and with our devotions united, we honoured the deity who had found full expression in Lahiri Mahasaya.

His image exerted an extraordinary influence on my life. As I grew older, the thought of the master grew with me. In meditation I often saw his photographic image emerge from its small frame and, taking on a living form, sit before me. When I tried to touch the feet of his luminous body, it would transform and become the image again. As childhood slipped into boyhood, Lahiri Mahasaya transformed in my mind from a small image, imprinted in a frame, to a living, illuminating presence. I often prayed to him in times of trial or confusion, finding his reassuring direction in me. At first I was saddened because he was no longer physically alive. When I began to discover his secret omnipresence, I had no more regrets. He had often written to his disciples who were too eager to see him: "Why come to see my bones and flesh when I am always within reach of your kutastha (spiritual sight)?"

At the age of eight, I was blessed with a wonderful healing through the photography of Lahiri Mahasaya. This experience intensified my love. While at the family estate in Ichapur, Bengal, I was struck by Asian cholera. My life was desperate; the doctors could do nothing. At my bedside, my mother frantically invited me to look at the image of Lahiri Mahasaya hanging on the wall above my head.

"Bow to him mentally!" He knew I was too weak to even raise my hands in greeting. "If you truly show your devotion and inwardly kneel before him, your life will be spared!"

I looked at his photograph and saw a blinding light enveloping my body and the whole room. The nausea and other uncontrollable symptoms disappeared; I was fine. Immediately I felt strong enough to bend down and touch Mother's feet to appreciate her immeasurable faith in her guru. The Mother repeatedly pressed her head against the small image.

"O omnipresent Master, I thank you that your light has healed my son!"

I realised that she too had witnessed the bright blaze thanks to which I was instantly cured of a usually fatal illness.

One of my most precious possessions is that very photograph. Donated to the Father by Lahiri Mahasaya himself, it carries a sacred vibration. The image had a miraculous origin. I heard the story from Father's brother disciple, Kali Kumar Roy.

Apparently, the master had an aversion to being photographed. Following his protest, a group photo was once taken of him and a group of devotees, including Kali Kumar Roy. It was an astonished photographer who discovered that the plate, which contained clear pictures of all the disciples, revealed nothing but an empty space in the middle, where he had reasonably expected to find the outlines of Lahiri Mahasaya. The phenomenon was widely discussed.

A certain student and experienced photographer, Ganga Dhar Babu, boasted that the fugitive figure would not escape him. The next morning, as the guru sat in the lotus position on a wooden bench with a screen behind him, Ganga Dhar Babu arrived with his equipment. Taking every precaution for success, he eagerly exposed twelve plates. On each one he immediately found the imprint of the wooden bench and the screen, but once again the master's form was missing.

With tears and shattered pride, Ganga Dhar Babu sought out his guru. Many hours passed before Lahiri Mahasaya broke the silence with a poignant comment:

"I am Spirit. Can your camera reflect the omnipresent Invisible?".

"I see that it cannot! But, Holy Lord, I long for an image of the bodily temple in which alone, to my narrow vision, the Spirit seems to dwell fully'.

"Come, then, tomorrow morning. I will pose for you".

The photographer focused his camera again. This time the sacred figure, not cloaked in mysterious imperceptibility, was sharp on the plate. The master never posed for another photo; at least, I did not see any.

The photograph is reproduced in this book. Lahiri Mahasaya's clear, universal features hardly suggest to which race he belonged. His intense joy at communion with God is slightly revealed in a somewhat enigmatic smile. His eyes, half-open to indicate a nominal direction to the outside world, are also half-closed. Completely unaware of earth's poor attractions, he was always perfectly awake to the spiritual problems of seekers who approached his grace.

Shortly after my recovery through the power of the guru's image, I had an influential spiritual vision. One morning, sitting on my bed, I fell into a deep reverie.

"What is behind the darkness of closed eyes?" This thought forcefully penetrated my mind. An immense flash of light immediately manifested itself to my inner gaze. Divine forms of saints, sitting in meditation postures in mountain caves, formed like miniature film images on the large screen of radiance in my forehead.

"Who are you?" I spoke out loud.

"We are the yogis of the Himalayas". The heavenly response is hard to describe; my heart was thrilled.

"Ah, I wish to go to the Himalayas and become like you!" The vision vanished, but the silvery rays expanded in ever-widening circles to infinity.

"What is this wonderful glow?"

"I am Iswara. I am the Light. The voice was like a murmur of clouds.

"I want to be one with You!".

Since the slow fading of my divine ecstasy, I have recovered a permanent legacy of inspiration to seek God. "He is the eternal, ever new Joy!". This memory remained long after the day of ecstasy.

Another early memory is exceptional; and literally so, because I still carry the scar to this day. My elder sister Uma and I were sitting early in the morning under a neem tree in our house in Gorakhpur. She was helping me write a Bengali text, when I could look away from the nearby parrots eating the ripe fruits of the margosa. Uma complained of a pimple on her leg and took a jar of ointment. I smeared some of the ointment on my forearm.

"Why do you use medicine on a healthy arm?".

"Well, sister, I feel that tomorrow I will get a boil. I am trying your ointment on the spot where the pimple will appear."

"You little liar!"

"Sister, don't call me a liar until you see what happens in the morning." Indignation filled me.

Uma was not impressed and repeated her provocation three times. An unshakable resolution resounded in my voice as I responded slowly.

"By the force of will in me, I say that tomorrow I will have a rather large pimple on this exact spot on my arm; and your pimple will swell to twice its present size!"

In the morning I found myself with a sturdy pimple in the indicated spot; the size of Uma's pimple had doubled. With a scream, my sister rushed to Mama. "Mukunda has become a necromancer!" Mama sternly instructed me never to use the power of words to do harm. I always remembered her advice and followed it.

My boil was treated surgically. Today there is a noticeable scar left by the doctor's incision. On my right forearm is a constant reminder of the power of man's word.

Those simple and seemingly harmless phrases addressed to Uma, uttered with deep concentration, had possessed enough hidden power to explode like bombs and produce definite, though damaging, effects. I realised, later, that the explosive vibratory power of speech could be wisely directed to free one's life from difficulties, and thus operate without scars or reproaches.

Our family moved to Lahore, Punjab. There I acquired an image of the Divine Mother in the form of Goddess Kali. She sanctified a small informal shrine on the balcony of our house. An unequivocal conviction came over me that fulfilment would crown every prayer I uttered in that sacred place. One day, standing there with Uma, I observed two kites flying over the roofs of the buildings on the opposite side of the small street.

"Why are you so quiet?" Uma pushed me playfully.

"I'm thinking how wonderful it is that the Divine Mother gives me whatever I ask for".

"I suppose she would give you those two kites!" My sister laughed mockingly.

"Why not?" I began to pray silently for their possession.

In India, matches are played with kites whose strings are covered with glue and frosted glass. Each player tries to cut the opponent's string. A freed kite flies over the rooftops; it is great fun to catch it. As Uma and I were on the balcony, it seemed impossible that a liberated kite could reach our hands; its string naturally dangled above the rooftops.

The players on the other side of the lane started their game. A string was cut; immediately the kite floated in my direction. It remained stationary for a moment, thanks to a sudden drop in the breeze, which was enough to get the string firmly entangled with a cactus plant on top of the house opposite. A perfect loop was formed for my seizure. I handed the prize to Uma.

"It was just an extraordinary accident, and not an answer to your prayer. If the other kite comes to you, then I will believe". The sister's dark eyes convey more astonishment than her words.

I continued to pray with increasing intensity. A forced tug from the other player led to the abrupt loss of his kite. He headed towards me, dancing in the wind. My helpful assistant, the cactus plant, fastened the kite string back into the loop needed to catch it. I handed my second trophy to Uma.

"Indeed, the Divine Mother hears you! It's all too strange for me!" The sister ran away like a frightened fawn.

2. My mother's death and the mystic amulet

My mother's greatest wish was the marriage of my elder brother. "Ah, when I see the face of Ananta's wife, I will find paradise on this earth!" I often heard my mother express in these words her strong Indian feeling for family continuity.

I was about eleven years old at the time of Ananta's engagement. Mum was in Calcutta, happily supervising the wedding preparations. Dad and I were left alone in our house in Bareilly, North India, from where he had been transferred after two years in Lahore.

Previously I had witnessed the splendour of the wedding rites of my two older sisters, Roma and Uma; but for Ananta, as the eldest son, the plans were really elaborate. Mother was welcoming numerous relatives, who arrived daily in Calcutta from distant homes. She comfortably housed them in a large house she had just purchased at 50 Amherst Street. Everything was ready: the banquet delicacies, the cheerful throne on which the Brother would be carried to the home of the bride-to-be, the rows of coloured lights, the mammoth cardboard elephants and camels, the English, Scottish and Indian orchestras, the professional entertainers, the priests for the ancient rites.

My father and I, in good spirits, thought we would reach the family in time for the ceremony. Just before the big day, however, I had a disturbing vision.

It was midnight in Bareilly. As I slept beside my father on the square of our bungalow, I was woken by a strange fluttering of the mosquito net above the bed. The flimsy curtains opened and I saw the beloved form of my mother.

"Wake up your father!" His voice was only a whisper. "Take the first train available, four o'clock this morning. Run to Calcutta if you want to see me!" The enveloping figure vanished.

"Father, Father! Mother is dying!" The terror in my tone aroused him instantly. I broke the fatal news to him with a sob.

"Forget this hallucination of yours". The father made his characteristic denial to a new situation. "Your mother is in very good health. If we get bad news, we will leave tomorrow."

"You will never forgive yourself for not starting now!" Anguish made me bitterly add: "Nor will I ever forgive you!".

The melancholic morning came with explicit words: 'Mother dangerously ill; marriage postponed; come now'.

My father and I set off absent-mindedly. One of my uncles met us along the way at a transfer point. A train thundered towards us, looming with a telescopic rise. From my inner turmoil arose an abrupt determination to throw myself onto the railway tracks. Already bereft, in my opinion, of my mother, I could not bear a world suddenly barren to the bone. I loved my mother as my dearest friend on earth. Her black, reassuring eyes had been my safest refuge in the insignificant tragedies of childhood.

"Does he still live?" I paused for one last question to my uncle.

"Of course she is alive!" He was quick to interpret the despair on my face. But I almost didn't believe him.

When we reached our home in Calcutta, it was only to face the astonishing mystery of death. I collapsed into an almost lifeless state. Years passed before any reconciliation entered my heart. Storming the gates of heaven, my cries finally summoned the Divine Mother. Her words brought definitive healing to my suppurating wounds:

"It is I who have watched over you, life after life, in the tenderness of so many mothers! See in My gaze the two black eyes, the beautiful lost eyes, that you seek!"

My father and I returned to Bareilly immediately after the cremation ritual for our loved one. Every early morning I would make a pathetic memorial pilgrimage to a large sheoli tree that shaded the smooth, golden-green lawn in front of our bungalow. In poetic moments, I would think that the white sheoli blossoms lay with willing devotion on the grassy altar. Mixing tears with dew, I often watched a strange, otherworldly light emerge from the dawn. Intense pangs of longing for God assailed me. I felt strongly drawn to the Himalayas.

One of my cousins, back from a stint in the sacred hills, visited us in Bareilly. I listened with interest to his stories about the high mountain abode of yogis and swamis.

"Let us escape to the Himalayas". My suggestion one day to Dwarka Prasad, the young son of our landlord in Bareilly, fell on indifferent ears. He revealed my plan to my elder brother, who had just arrived to see my father. Instead of laughing lightly at this impractical plan of a young boy, Ananta forced himself to ridicule me.

"Where is your orange robe? You cannot be a swami without it!".

But his words inexplicably thrilled me. They made me clearly imagine myself walking around India as a monk. Perhaps they awakened memories of a past life; in any case, I began to see how naturally I would wear the habit of that ancient monastic order.

Chatting one morning with Dwarka, I felt love for God descend with avalutative force. My companion was only partially attentive to the resulting eloquence, but I listened with all my heart myself.

That afternoon I fled towards Naini Tal, in the foothills of the Himalayas. Ananta pursued me with determination; I was forced to return sadly to Bareilly. The only pilgrimage I was allowed was the customary dawn pilgrimage to the sheoli tree. My heart wept for the lost Mothers, human and divine.

The void left in the family fabric by the death of his mother was irreparable. The father never remarried during the almost forty years he had left to live. Taking on the difficult role of father-mother to his small flock, he became noticeably softer, more approachable. With calmness and insight, he solved the various family problems. After working hours, he would retire like a hermit to the cell of his room, practising Kriya Yoga in sweet serenity. Long after Mum's death, I tried to hire an English nurse to take care of the details that would make my parents' lives more comfortable. But Dad shook his head.

"The service for me ended with your mother". Her eyes were remote, with a lifelong devotion. "I will not accept the care of any other woman."

Fourteen months after Mother's death, I learnt that she had left me an important message. Ananta was present on her deathbed and had recorded her words. Although she had asked that the revelation be made to me within a year, my brother delayed. Soon he would leave Bareilly for Calcutta to marry the girl the Mother had chosen for him. One evening he called me to his side.

"Mukunda, I have been reluctant to give you strange news." Ananta's tone had a note of resignation. "My fear was to inflame your desire to leave the house. But in any case you are full of divine ardour. When I recently caught you on your way to the Himalayas, I made a final decision. I must not postpone the fulfilment of my solemn promise any longer. My brother handed me a small box and handed me the Mother's message.

"May these words be my last blessing, my beloved son Mukunda!" The Mother had said. "The time has come to recount a series of phenomenal events that followed your birth. I first knew your destiny when you were just a newborn in my arms. I took you then to my guru's house in Benares. Almost hidden behind a crowd of disciples, I could barely see Lahiri Mahasaya as he sat in deep meditation.

"As I caressed you, I prayed that the great guru would notice you and give you a blessing. As my silent devotional request grew in intensity, he opened his eyes and beckoned me to approach. The others led the way; I bowed at his sacred feet. My master made you sit on his lap and placed his hand on your forehead to baptise you spiritually.

"'Little mother, your son will be a yogi. As a spiritual engine, he will bring many souls into the kingdom of God'.

"My heart leapt with joy to see my secret prayer answered by the all-knowing guru. Shortly before your birth, he had told me that you would follow his path.

"Later, my son, your vision of the Great Light was known to me and to your sister Rome, for from the next room we watched you motionless on the bed. Your little face was illuminated; your voice resounded with an iron determination when you spoke of going to the Himalayas in search of the Divine.

"In this way, dear son, I realised that your path is far from worldly ambitions. The most singular event of my life has brought further confirmation, an event that now pushes my message to the point of death.

"It was an interview with a wise man from Punjab. While our family was living in Lahore, one morning the servant rushed into my room.

"'Mistress, a strange sadhu is here. He insists on 'seeing Mukunda's mother'".

"These simple words struck me deeply and I immediately went to greet the visitor. Bowing at his feet, I felt that before me stood a true man of God.

"Mother," he said, "the great masters wish you to know that your stay on earth will not be long. Your next illness will be your last. There was a silence, during which I felt no alarm but only a vibration of great peace. Finally he turned to me again:

"'You will be the keeper of a certain silver amulet. I will not give it to you today; to prove the truth of my words, the talisman will materialise in your hands tomorrow while you meditate. On your deathbed, you will have to order your eldest son Ananta to keep the amulet for a year and then give it to your second son. Mukunda will understand the meaning of the talisman from the eldest. He should receive it at a time when he is ready to renounce all worldly hopes and begin his vital search for God. When he has kept the amulet for a few years and has fulfilled his purpose, it will disappear. Even if kept in the most secret place, it will return from whence it came".

"I offered alms to the saint and bowed before him with great reverence. Not accepting the offering, he left with a blessing. The next evening, as I sat with folded hands in meditation, a silver amulet materialised between my palms, as the sadhu had promised. It manifested with a cold, soft touch. I have jealously guarded it for more than two years and now leave it in the custody of Ananta. Do not grieve for me, for my great guru has accompanied me into the arms of the Infinite. Farewell, my child; the Cosmic Mother will protect you.

The possession of the amulet brightened my day and awakened many dormant memories. The talisman, round and ancient, was covered with Sanskrit characters. I understood that it came from masters of past lives, invisibly guiding my steps. Indeed, there was an ulterior meaning; but one cannot fully reveal the heart of an amulet.

It is not possible to recount in this chapter how the talisman finally disappeared in profoundly unhappy circumstances of my life and how its loss was the harbinger of a guru's conquest.

But the little boy, thwarted in his attempts to reach the Himalayas, travelled far on the wings of his amulet every day.

3. The Saint with two bodies

"Father, if I promise to return home without coercion, can I go on a sightseeing trip to Benares?"

My love of travelling was rarely hindered by Dad. He allowed me, even though I was only a boy, to visit many cities and places of pilgrimage. Usually one or more friends accompanied me; we travelled comfortably with first-class tickets provided by Dad. His position as a railway official was fully satisfying for the nomads in the family.

The father promised to consider my request. The next day he summoned me and handed me a return ticket from Bareilly to Benares, some rupee notes and two letters.

"I have to propose a business matter to a friend in Benares, Kedar Nath Babu. Unfortunately I have lost his address. But I believe you will be able to get this letter to him through our mutual friend, Swami Pranabananda. The Swami, my brother disciple, has attained a high spiritual stature. You will benefit from his company; this second note will serve as your introduction.

The father's eyes twinkled when he added: 'Take care, no more flights from home!

I set out with the enthusiasm of my twelve years (although time has never dimmed my enjoyment of new scenes and unfamiliar faces). Arriving in Benares, I immediately went to the swami's residence. The front door was open; I walked towards a long hall on the second floor. A rather stout man, wearing only a loincloth, was sitting in a lotus position on a slightly raised platform. His head and unruffled face were shaven; a beatific smile lit his lips. To dispel my thought of intrusion, he greeted me like an old friend.

"Baba anand (bliss to my darling)". His welcome was given heartily in a childlike voice. I knelt down and touched his feet.

"Are you Swami Pranabananda?".

He nodded, "Are you Bhagabati's son?" His words were spoken before I had time to take my father's letter from my pocket. In astonishment, I handed him the note, which now seemed superfluous.

"Of course I will locate Kedar Nath Babu for you". The saint once again surprised me with his clairvoyance. He glanced at the letter and made some affectionate references to my parent.

"You know, I am enjoying two pensions. One was recommended by your father, for whom I once worked at the railway office. The other is by recommendation of my Heavenly Father, for whom I have conscientiously finished my earthly duties in life".

I found this remark very obscure. "What kind of pension, sir, do you receive from your heavenly Father? Does he drop money in your lap?"

He laughed. "I mean a pension of unfathomable peace, a reward for many years of deep meditation. Now I no longer desire money. My few material needs are amply satisfied. Later you will understand the meaning of a second pension".

Having abruptly ended our conversation, the saint became gravely immobile. A sphinx-like air enveloped him. At first his eyes sparkled, as if observing something interesting, then faded away. I felt embarrassed by his pauciloquy; he had not yet told me how I could meet Father's friend. A little uneasy, I looked around the bare room, empty except for the two of us. My idle gaze lingered on his wooden sandals, which lay under the platform seat.

"Little sir, don't worry. The man you wish to see will be with you in half an hour". The yogi was reading my mind - not too difficult a task at that time!

Again I fell into an inscrutable silence. The clock informed me that thirty minutes had passed.

The swami awoke. "I think Kedar Nath Babu is approaching the door."

I heard someone coming up the stairs. An astonished incomprehension suddenly arose; my thoughts ran confused: "How is it possible that the Father's friend was summoned to this place without the help of a messenger? The Swami has not spoken to anyone but myself since I arrived!".

Suddenly I left the room and went down the steps. Halfway down I met a thin, fair-skinned man of medium height. He seemed to be in a hurry.

"Are you Kedar Nath Babu?" Excitement coloured my voice.

"Yes. Are you not the son of Bhagabati who waited here to meet me?" He smiled in a friendly manner.

"Sir, why did you come here?" I felt a disconcerting resentment at his inexplicable presence.

"Today everything is mysterious! Less than an hour ago I had just finished my bath in the Ganges when Swami Pranabananda approached me. I have no idea how he knew I was there at that moment.

'Bhagabati's son is waiting for you in my flat,' he said. 'Will you come with me?' I gladly accepted. As we proceeded hand in hand, the swami, in his wooden sandals, strangely managed to walk past me, even though I was wearing these sturdy walking shoes.

"How long will it take you to get to my house?" Pranabanandaji suddenly stopped to ask me this question.

"About half an hour.

"I have other things to do at the moment." He gave me an enigmatic look. 'I must leave you behind. You can join me at my house, where Bhagabati's son and I are waiting for you'.

"Before I could retort, he passed me quickly and disappeared into the crowd. I got here as fast as I could."

This explanation only increased my bewilderment. I wondered how long he had known the swami.

"We met a few times last year, but not recently. I was very pleased to see him again today at the bathing ghat."

"I can't believe my ears! Am I losing my mind? Have you met him in a vision or have you really seen him, touched his hand and heard the sound of his feet?"

"I don't know what you're getting at!" He blushed angrily. "I am not lying to you. Can't you understand that only through the swami could I have known that you were waiting for me in this place?"

"That man, Swami Pranabananda, has never let me out of his sight since I arrived about an hour ago. I blurted out the whole story.

His eyes opened wide. "Are we living in this material age or are we dreaming? I never expected to witness such a miracle in my life! I thought this swami was just an ordinary man, and now I find that he can materialise an extra body and work through it!" Together we entered the saint's room.

"Look, those are the very sandals he was wearing at the ghat," whispered Kedar Nath Babu. "He was dressed only in a loincloth, just as I see him now."

As the visitor bowed before him, the saint turned to me with a questioning smile.

"Why are you amazed by all this? The subtle unity of the phenomenal world is not hidden from true yogis. I see and speak instantaneously with my disciples in distant Calcutta. They too can transcend at will every obstacle of gross matter.

It was probably in an attempt to arouse spiritual ardour in my young bosom that the swami had the foresight to speak to me of his powers of astral radio and television. 20 But instead of enthusiasm, I felt only a frightful fear.

Since I was destined to undertake my divine quest through a particular guru - Sri Yukteswar, whom I had not yet met - I felt no inclination to accept Pranabananda as my teacher.

I looked at him doubtfully, wondering if it was him or his counterpart before me.

The teacher tried to banish my restlessness with a soul-awakening gaze and some inspiring words about his guru.

"Lahiri Mahasaya was the greatest yogi I have ever known. He was Divinity itself in the form of flesh'.

If a disciple, I reflected, could materialise an extra-carnal form at will, what miracles could his master be precluded from performing?

"I will tell you how invaluable the help of a guru is. I used to meditate with another disciple for eight hours every evening. During the day we had to work at the railway office. Having difficulty in my duties as a clerk, I wanted to devote all my time to God. For eight years I persevered, meditating half the night. I had wonderful results; tremendous spiritual perceptions illuminated my mind. But a small veil always remained between me and the Infinite. Even with superhuman effort, I was denied the final and irrevocable union. One evening I visited Lahiri Mahasaya and implored his divine intercession. My entreaties continued throughout the night.

"Angelic Guru, my spiritual anguish is such that I can no longer endure my life without meeting the Great Beloved face to face!"

"'What can I do? You must meditate more deeply'.

"I turn to Thee, O God, my Master! I see Thee materialised before me in a physical body; bless me that I may perceive Thee in Thy infinite form!"

' Lahiri Mahasaya extended his hand in a benevolent gesture. 'Now you can go and meditate. I have interceded for you with Brahma'.

"Immensely relieved, I returned to my home. That night, in meditation, I reached the most ardent goal of my life. Now I enjoy spiritual retirement unceasingly. Since that day, the blessed Creator has never been hidden from my eyes behind a screen of illusion".

Pranabananda's face was suffused with divine light. The peace of another world entered my heart; all fear had disappeared. The saint made a further confidence.

"A few months later I went back to Lahiri Mahasaya and tried to thank him for giving me an infinite gift. Then I mentioned another matter.

"'Divine Guru, I can no longer work in the office. Please free me. Brahma keeps me continuously intoxicated'.

'Ask your company for a pension'.

"What reason should I give, so early in my service?"

"'Say what you feel'.

"The next day I made my request. The doctor asked the reasons for my premature request.

"At work, an oppressive feeling rises up my spine. 22 It permeates my whole body, making me unfit to perform my tasks".

"Without further questions, the doctor strongly recommended me for a pension, which I soon received. I know that the divine will of Lahiri Mahasaya worked through the doctor and the railway officials, including your father. Automatically they obeyed the great guru's spiritual direction and freed me for a life of uninterrupted communion with the Beloved. 23

After this extraordinary revelation, Swami Pranabananda withdrew into one of his long silences. As I took my leave, reverently touching his feet, he gave me his blessing:

"Your life belongs to the path of renunciation and yoga. I will see you again later, with your father". The years led to the realisation of both predictions.

Kedar Nath Babu walked beside me in the growing darkness. I handed him the letter from his father, which my companion read under a lamppost.

"Your father suggests that I accept a position in the Calcutta office of his railway company. How nice to be able to hope for at least one of the pensions Swami Pranabananda enjoys! But it is impossible; I cannot leave Benares. Alas, two bodies are not for me yet!".

4. My aborted flight to the Himalayas

"Leave your class on a futile pretext and take a hired carriage. Stop in an alley where no one in my house can see you."

These were my final instructions to Amar Mitter, a high school friend who was planning to accompany me to the Himalayas. We had chosen the following day for the flight. Precautions were necessary, as Ananta exercised a watchful eye. He was determined to foil the escape plans he suspected were uppermost in my mind. The amulet, like a spiritual yeast, was silently at work within me. In the snows of the Himalayas, I hoped to find the master whose face often appeared to me in visions.

The family now lived in Calcutta, where the father had been permanently transferred. Following the Indian patriarchal custom, Ananta had brought his bride to live in our house, now at number 4 Gurpar Road. There, in a small attic room, I devoted myself to daily meditations and prepared my mind for the divine quest.

The momentous morning came with an ominous rain. Hearing the wheels of Amar's carriage on the road, I hastily put together a blanket, a pair of sandals, Lahiri Mahasaya's photo, a copy of the Bhagavad Gita, a string of prayer beads and two loincloths. I threw this bundle out of the third floor window. I ran down the stairs and passed my uncle buying fish at the door.

"What's exciting?" His gaze wandered suspiciously over my person.

I gave him a noncommittal smile and walked towards the lane. Retrieving my bundle, I joined Amar with conspiratorial caution. We went to Chadni Chowk, a shopping mall. For months we had been saving our tiffin money to buy English clothes. Knowing that my brother, who was very intelligent, could easily play the part of the detective, we thought of outdoing him with European clothes.

On the way to the station, we stopped at my cousin, Jotin Ghosh, whom I called Jatinda. He was a new convert, looking for a guru in the Himalayas. He wore the new suit we had prepared. We hoped he would be well camouflaged! A deep euphoria took possession of our hearts.

"Now we only need canvas shoes". I led my companions to a shop displaying rubber-soled shoes. "Leather articles, obtained only through the slaughter of animals, must be absent on this sacred journey". I stopped on the way to remove the leather cover from my Bhagavad Gita and the leather straps from my English-made topee (helmet).

At the station we bought tickets for Burdwan, where we had planned to transfer to Hardwar in the foothills of the Himalayas. As soon as the train, like us, was in the air, I voiced some of my glorious expectations.

"Imagine!" I ejaculated. "We will be initiated by the masters and experience the trance of cosmic consciousness. Our flesh will be charged with such magnetism that the wild animals of the Himalayas will meekly approach us. Tigers will be nothing more than docile house cats waiting for our caresses!"

This observation, depicting a perspective I considered fascinating, both metaphorically and literally, elicited an enthusiastic smile from Amar. But Jatinda averted his gaze, directing it through the window towards the moving landscape.

"Let the money be divided into three parts". Jatinda broke a long silence with this suggestion. "Each of us should buy our own ticket in Burdwan. That way no one at the station will suspect that we are running away together."

I, unaware, accepted. At dusk our train stopped at Burdwan. Jatinda entered the ticket office; Amar and I sat on the platform. We waited a quarter of an hour, then made fruitless searches. Searching in all directions, we shouted Jatinda's name with the urgency of fear. But he had disappeared into the unknown darkness surrounding the small station.

I was completely unnerved, shocked into a peculiar stupor. May God have tolerated this depressing episode! The romantic occasion of my first carefully planned flight after Him was cruelly ruined.

"Amar, we have to go home." I cried like a child. "Jatinda's callous departure is a bad omen. This journey is doomed to failure."

"Is this your love for the Lord? Can you not bear the small trial of a treacherous companion?".

Thanks to Amar's suggestion of a divine test, my heart stabilised. We feasted on Burdwan's famous sweets, sitabhog (food for the goddess) and motichur (sweet pearl nuggets). In a few hours we embarked for Hardwar, via Bareilly. Changing trains at Moghul Serai, we discussed a vital matter while waiting on the platform.

"Amar, we may soon be closely questioned by railway officials. I am not underestimating my brother's ingenuity! Whatever the outcome, I will not tell the truth."

"All I ask of you, Mukunda, is to be still. Do not laugh or smile while I am talking."

At that moment, an agent from the European station approached me. He waved a telegram, the importance of which I immediately grasped.

"Are you running away from home in anger?"

"No!" I was happy that his choice of words allowed me to respond emphatically. Not anger, but 'more divine melancholy' was responsible, I knew, for my unconventional behaviour.

The official turned to Amar. The duel of wits that followed barely allowed me to maintain the recommended stoic gravity.

"Where is the third boy?" The man injected a sound full of authority into his voice. "Come on, tell the truth!"

"Sir, I notice you're wearing glasses. Can't you see that there are only two of us?" Amar smiled impudently. "I am not a magician; I cannot summon a third companion."

The official, greatly disconcerted by this impertinence, sought a new field of attack.

"What is your name?"

"My name is Thomas. I am the son of an English mother and an Indian Christian convert father'.

"What is your friend's name?"

"I call him Thompson.

At this point my inner cheerfulness had reached its zenith; I started unceremoniously towards the train, whistling for departure. Amar followed me with the official, who was gullible and kind enough to put us in a European compartment. It evidently pained him to think of two half-English boys travelling in the section assigned to the natives. After his polite exit, I lay down on the seat and burst out laughing uncontrollably. My friend had an expression of cheerful satisfaction at having surpassed a veteran European official.

On the platform I was able to read the telegram. From my brother, it read as follows: 'Three Bengali boys in British clothes fleeing from home to Hardwar via Moghul Serai. Please detain them until my arrival. Ample reward for your services'.

"Amar, I told you not to leave marked times at home." My look was one of reproach. "Brother must have found one there."

My friend sheepishly acknowledged the push. We stopped briefly at Bareilly, where Dwarka Prasad was waiting for us with a telegram from Ananta. My old friend tried valiantly to hold us back; I convinced him that our escape had not been undertaken lightly. As on another occasion, Dwarka refused my invitation to leave for the Himalayas.

That night, while our train was stopped at a station and I was half asleep, Amar was woken up by another official questioning him. He too fell victim to the hybrid charm of "Thomas" and "Thompson". The train took us triumphantly towards our arrival in Hardwar at dawn. The majestic mountains loomed invitingly in the distance. We crossed the station and entered the freedom of the city crowd. Our first act was to change into our native costume, as Ananta had somehow penetrated our European disguise. A presentiment of capture weighed on my mind.

Seeing it fit to leave Hardwar immediately, we bought tickets to head north to Rishikesh, a land long hallowed by the feet of many a master. I had already boarded the train, while Amar lingered on the platform. A policeman's shout stopped him abruptly. Our unwelcome guard escorted us to a station bungalow and took our money. He politely explained that it was his duty to detain us until my elder brother arrived.

Learning that the destination of the absentees was the Himalayas, the officer told a strange story.

"I see you're crazy about saints! You will never meet a greater man of God than the one I saw only yesterday. My brother officer and I met him for the first time five days ago. We were on patrol along the Ganges, looking for a certain assassin. Our instructions were to capture him, dead or alive. He was known to be masquerading as a sadhu in order to rob pilgrims. Just before us, we spotted a figure resembling the description of the criminal. He ignored our order to stop; we ran to overpower him. Approaching his back, I brandished my axe with tremendous force; the man's right arm was severed almost completely from his body.

"Without shouting or looking at the horrendous wound, the stranger surprisingly continued his fast pace. When we jumped in front of him, he spoke in a low voice.

"I am not the murderer you are looking for".

"I was deeply mortified to see that I had injured the person of a divine-looking sage. Prostrating myself at his feet, I begged his forgiveness and offered my turban to stop the heavy jets of blood.

"Son, it was just an understandable mistake on your part." The saint looked at me kindly. 'Go ahead, and do not reproach yourself. The beloved Mother takes care of me'. He pushed his dangling arm into his stump and it adhered; the blood inexplicably stopped flowing.

"'Come to me under that tree in three days' time and you will find me completely healed. Then you will feel no remorse'.

"Yesterday my brother officer and I eagerly went to the designated place. The sadhu was there and allowed us to examine his arm. He bore no scar or trace of injury!

"I am leaving Rishikesh for the solitudes of the Himalayas". He blessed us as he left quickly. I feel that my life has been uplifted by his holiness".

The officer concluded with a pious ejaculation; his experience had evidently pushed him beyond his usual depth. With an impressive gesture, he handed me a newspaper clipping about the miracle. In the usual confused manner of sensational newspapers (which are not lacking, alas, even in India), the journalist's version was slightly exaggerated: it indicated that the sadhu had almost been decapitated!

Amar and I lamented losing the great yogi who could forgive his persecutor in such a Christ-like manner. India, materially poor for the past two centuries, nevertheless has an inexhaustible fund of divine wealth; spiritual 'skyscrapers' can occasionally be encountered on the street, even by worldly men like this policeman.

We thanked the officer for relieving our boredom with his wonderful story. He probably meant that he was luckier than us: he had met an effortlessly enlightened saint; our dogged search had ended not at the feet of a master, but in a crude police station!

So close to the Himalayas and yet, in our captivity, so far away, I told Amar that I felt doubly driven to seek freedom.

"When there is an opportunity, we will slip away. We can walk to the sacred Rishikesh." I smiled encouragingly.

But my companion had become pessimistic as soon as the strong support of our money had been taken away from us.

"If we started out on such a dangerous jungle land, we should end up not in the city of saints, but in the stomachs of tigers!"

Ananta and Amar's brother arrived after three days. Amar greeted his relative with affectionate relief. I was not reconciled; Ananta got nothing but a stern rebuke from me.

"I understand how you feel". My brother spoke in a reassuring tone. "All I ask is that you accompany me to Benares to meet a certain saint, and continue on to Calcutta to visit your grieving father for a few days. Then you can resume your search for a master here".

At this point Amar inserted himself into the conversation to deny his intention to return to Hardwar with me. He was enjoying the familiar warmth. But I knew I would never abandon the search for my guru.

Our group embarked for Benares. There I had a singular and immediate answer to my prayers.

Ananta had concocted an ingenious plan. Before seeing me in Hardwar, he had stopped in Benares to ask a certain scriptural authority to interview me later. Both the pundit and his son had promised to undertake to dissuade me from the path of sannyasi.

Ananta took me to their house. Her son, a lively young man, welcomed me into the courtyard. He engaged me in a long philosophical discourse. Claiming to have clairvoyant knowledge of my future, he discredited my idea of being a monk.

"You will encounter constant misfortunes and fail to find God if you insist on deserting your ordinary responsibilities! You cannot process your past karma without earthly experiences.

Krishna's immortal words came to my lips in reply: "Even he who has the worst of karmas and who meditates incessantly on Me quickly loses the effects of his past evil deeds. Becoming a high-minded being, he soon attains everlasting peace. Arjuna, know this for certain: the devotee who places his trust in Me never perishes!"

But the young man's strong predictions had slightly shaken my confidence. With all the fervour of my heart I silently prayed to God: