Years in My Master’s Hermitage — Autobiography of a Yogi — SRF Teachings Portal
12.Years in My Master’s Hermitage
Paramahansa Yogananda·~46 min
YYears in My Master's Hermitage
"You have come." Sri Yukteswar greeted me from a tiger skin on the floor of a balconied sitting room. His voice was cold, his manner unemotional.
"Yes, dear Master, I am here to follow you." Kneeling, I touched his feet.
"How can that be? You ignore my wishes."
"No longer, Guruji! Your wish shall be my law."
"That is better! Now I can assume responsibility for your life."
"I willingly transfer the burden, Master."
"My first request, then, is that you return home to your family. I want you to enter college in Calcutta. Your education should be continued."
"Very well, sir." I hid my consternation. Would importunate books pursue me down the years? First Father, now Sri Yukteswar!
"Someday you will go to the West. Its people will be more receptive to India's ancient wisdom if the strange Hindu teacher has a university degree."
"You know best, Guruji." My gloom departed. The reference to the West I found puzzling, remote; but my opportunity to please Master by obedience was vitally immediate.
"You will be near in Calcutta; come here whenever you find time."
"Every day if possible, Master! Gratefully I accept your authority in every detail of my life — on one condition."
"Yes?"
"That you promise to reveal God to me!"
An hour-long verbal tussle ensued. A master's word cannot be falsified; it is not lightly given. The implications in the pledge open out vast metaphysical vistas. A guru must be on intimate terms indeed with the Creator before he can obligate Him to appear! I sensed Sri Yukteswar's divine unity, and was determined, as his disciple, to press my advantage.
"You are of exacting disposition." Then Master's consent rang out with compassionate finality:
"Let your wish be my wish."
A lifelong shadow lifted from my heart; the vague search, hither and yon, was over. I had found eternal shelter in a true guru.
"Come, I will show you the hermitage." Master rose from his tiger mat. In glancing about I noticed, on a wall, a picture that was garlanded with a spray of jasmine.
"Lahiri Mahasaya!" I said in astonishment.
"Yes, my divine guru." Sri Yukteswar's tone was reverently vibrant. "Greater he was, as man and yogi, than any other teacher whose life came within the range of my investigations."
Silently I bowed before the familiar picture. Soul homage sped to the peerless master who, blessing my infancy, had guided my steps to this hour.
Led by my guru, I strolled about the house and its grounds. Large, ancient, and well built, the massive-pillared hermitage surrounded a courtyard. Outer walls were moss-covered; pigeons fluttered over the flat gray roof, unceremoniously sharing the ashram quarters. A rear garden was pleasant with jackfruit, mango, and plantain trees. Balustraded balconies of upper rooms in the two-storied building faced the courtyard from three sides. A spacious ground-floor hall, with high ceiling supported by colonnades, was used, Master said, chiefly during the annual festivities of Durgapuja.¹ A narrow stairway led to Sri Yukteswar's sitting room, whose small balcony overlooked the street. The ashram was plainly furnished; everything was simple, clean, and utilitarian. Several Western-style chairs, benches, and tables were in evidence.
Master invited me to stay overnight. A supper of vegetable curry was served by two young disciples who were receiving hermitage training.
"Guruji, please tell me something of your life." I was squatting on a straw mat near his tiger skin. The friendly stars were very close, it seemed, beyond the balcony.
"My family name was Priya Nath Karar. I was born² here in Serampore, where Father was a wealthy businessman. He left me this ancestral mansion, now my hermitage. My formal schooling was little; I found it slow and shallow. In early manhood, I undertook the responsibilities of a householder, and have one daughter, now married. My middle life was blessed with the guidance of Lahiri Mahasaya. After my wife died, I joined the Swami Order and received the new name of Sri Yukteswar Giri.² Such are my simple annals."
Master smiled at my eager face. Like all biographical sketches, his words had given the outward facts without revealing the inner man.
"Guruji, I would like to hear some stories of your childhood."
"I will tell you a few — each one with a moral!" Sri Yukteswar's eyes twinkled with his warning. "My mother once tried to frighten me with an appalling story of a ghost in a dark chamber. I went there immediately, and expressed my disappointment at having missed the ghost. Mother never told me another horror tale. Moral: Look fear in the face and it will cease to trouble you.
"Another early memory is my wish for an ugly dog belonging to a neighbor. I kept my household in turmoil for weeks to get that dog. My ears were deaf to offers of pets with more prepossessing appearance. Moral: Attachment is blinding; it lends an imaginary halo of attractiveness to the object of desire.
"A third story concerns the plasticity of the youthful mind. I heard my mother remark occasionally: 'A man who accepts a job under anyone is a slave.' That impression became so indelibly fixed that even after my marriage I refused all positions. I met expenses by investing my family endowment in land. Moral: Good and positive suggestions should instruct the sensitive ears of children. Their early ideas long remain sharply etched."
Master fell into tranquil silence. Around midnight he led me to a narrow cot. Sleep was sound and sweet the first night under my guru's roof.
Sri Yukteswar chose the following morning to grant me his Kriya Yoga initiation. The technique I had already received from two disciples of Lahiri Mahasaya — Father and my tutor, Swami Kebalananda. But Master possessed a transforming power; at his touch a great light broke upon my being, like the glory of countless suns blazing together. A flood of ineffable bliss overwhelmed my heart to an innermost core.
It was late in the afternoon of the following day before I could bring myself to leave the hermitage.
"You will return in thirty days." As I entered the door of my Calcutta home, the fulfillment of Master's prediction entered with me. None of my relatives made the pointed remarks I had feared about the reappearance of the "soaring bird."
I climbed to my little attic and bestowed affectionate glances, as though on a living presence. "You have witnessed my meditations, and the tears and storms of my sadhana. Now I have reached the harbor of my divine teacher."
"Son, I am happy for us both." Father and I sat together in the evening calm. "You have found your guru, as in miraculous fashion I once found my own. The holy hand of Lahiri Mahasaya is guarding our lives. Your master has proved to be no inaccessible Himalayan saint, but one nearby. My prayers have been answered: in your search for God you have not been permanently removed from my sight."
Father was also pleased that my formal studies would be resumed; he made suitable arrangements. I was enrolled the following day at nearby Scottish Church College in Calcutta.
Happy months sped by. My readers have doubtless made the perspicacious surmise that I was little seen in the college classrooms. The Serampore hermitage held a lure too irresistible. Master accepted my constant presence without comment. To my relief, he seldom referred to the halls of learning. Though it was plain to all that I was never cut out for a scholar, I managed to attain minimum passing grades from time to time.
Daily life at the ashram flowed smoothly, infrequently varied. My guru awoke before dawn. Lying down, or sometimes sitting on the bed, he entered a state of samadhi.⁴ It was simplicity itself to discover when Master had awakened: abrupt halt of stupendous snores.² A sigh or two; perhaps a bodily movement. Then a soundless state of breathlessness: he was in deep yogic joy.
Breakfast did not follow; first came a long walk by the Ganges. Those morning strolls with my guru — how real and vivid still in the easy resurrection of memory, I often find myself by his side. The early sun is warming the river; his voice rings out, rich with the authenticity of wisdom.
A bath, then the midday meal. Its preparation, according to Master's daily directions, had been the careful task of young disciples. My guru was a vegetarian. Before embracing monkhood, however, he had eaten eggs and fish. His advice to students was to follow any simple diet which proved suited to one's constitution.
Master ate little; often rice, colored with turmeric or juice of beets or spinach and lightly sprinkled with buffalo ghee or melted butter. Another day he might have lentil-dal or channa⁶ curry with vegetables. For dessert, mangoes or oranges with rice pudding, or jackfruit juice.
Visitors appeared in the afternoons. A steady stream poured from the world into the tranquil hermitage. My guru treated all guests with courtesy and kindness. A master — one who has realized himself as the omnipresent soul, not the body or the ego — perceives in all men a striking similarity.
The impartiality of saints is rooted in wisdom. They are no longer influenced by the alternating faces of maya, no longer subject to the likes and dislikes that confuse the judgment of unenlightened men. Sri Yukteswar showed no special consideration to those who were powerful, rich, or accomplished; neither did he slight others for their poverty or illiteracy. He would listen respectfully to words of truth from a child; and, on occasion, would openly ignore a conceited pundit.
Eight o'clock was the supper hour, and sometimes found lingering guests. My guru would not excuse himself to eat alone; none left his ashram hungry or dissatisfied. Sri Yukteswar was never at a loss, never dismayed by unexpected visitors; under his resourceful directions to the disciples, scanty food would emerge a banquet. Yet he was economical; his modest funds went far. "Be comfortable within your purse," he often said. "Extravagance will bring you discomfort." Whether in the details of hermitage entertainment or of building and repair work or of other practical concerns, Master manifested the originality of a creative spirit.
Quiet evening hours often brought one of my guru's discourses: treasures against time. His every utterance was chiseled by wisdom. A sublime self-assurance marked his mode of expression: it was unique. He spoke as none other in my experience ever spoke. His thoughts were weighed in a delicate balance of discrimination before he permitted them the outward garb of speech. The essence of truth, all-pervasive with even a physiological aspect, came from him like a fragrant exudation of the soul. I was conscious always that I was in the presence of a living manifestation of God. The weight of his divinity automatically bowed my head before him.
If guests detected that Sri Yukteswar was becoming engrossed with the Infinite, he quickly engaged them in conversation. He was incapable of striking a pose or of flaunting his inner withdrawal. Always one with the Lord, he needed no separate time for communion. A Self-realized master has already left behind the steppingstone of meditation. "The flower falls when the fruit appears." But saints often cling to spiritual forms in order to set an example for disciples.
As midnight approached, my guru might fall into a doze with the naturalness of a child. There was no fuss about bedding. He often lay down, without even a pillow, on a narrow davenport which was the background for his customary tiger-skin seat.
A night-long philosophical discussion was not rare; any disciple could summon it by intensity of interest. I felt no tiredness then, no desire for sleep; Master's living words were sufficient. "Oh, it is dawn! Let us walk by the Ganges." So ended many of my periods of nocturnal edification.
My early months with Sri Yukteswar culminated in a useful lesson: "How to Outwit a Mosquito." At home my family always used protective curtains at night. I was dismayed to discover that in the Serampore hermitage this prudent custom was honored in the breach. Yet the insects were in full residence; I was bitten from head to foot. My guru took pity on me.
"Buy yourself a curtain, and also one for me." He laughed and added, "If you buy only one, for yourself, all mosquitoes will concentrate on me!"
I was more than thankful to comply. On every night that I spent in Serampore, my guru would ask me to arrange the bedtime curtains.
One night, when a cloud of mosquitoes surrounded us, Master failed to issue his usual instructions. I listened nervously to the anticipatory hum of the insects. Getting into bed, I threw a propitiatory prayer in their general direction. A half hour later, I coughed pretentiously to attract my guru's attention. I thought I would go mad with the bites and especially the singing drone as the mosquitoes celebrated bloodthirsty rites.
No responsive stir from Master; I approached him cautiously. He was not breathing. This was my first close observation of him in the yogic trance; it filled me with fright.
"His heart must have failed!" I placed a mirror under his nose; no breath vapor appeared. To make doubly certain, for minutes I closed his mouth and nostrils with my fingers. His body was cold and motionless. In a daze, I turned toward the door to summon help.
"So! A budding experimentalist! My poor nose!" Master's voice was shaky with laughter. "Why don't you go to bed? Is the whole world going to change for you? Change yourself: be rid of the mosquito consciousness."
Meekly I returned to my bed. Not one insect ventured near. I realized that my guru had previously agreed to the curtains only to please me; he had had no fear of mosquitoes. By yogic power he could prevent them from biting him; or, if he chose, he could escape to an inner invulnerability.
"He was giving me a demonstration," I thought. "That is the yogic state I must strive to attain." A true yogi is able to pass into and maintain the superconscious state, regardless of multitudinous distractions never absent from this earth — the buzz of insects! the pervasive glare of daylight! In the first state of samadhi (sabikalpa), the devotee shuts off all sensory testimony of the outer world. He is rewarded then by sounds and scenes of inner realms fairer than the pristine Eden.⁷
The instructive mosquitoes served for another early lesson at the ashram. It was the gentle hour of dusk. My guru was matchlessly interpreting the ancient texts. At his feet, I was in perfect peace. A rude mosquito entered the idyl and competed for my attention. As it dug a poisonous "hypodermic needle" into my thigh, I automatically raised an avenging hand. Reprieve from impending execution! An opportune memory had come to me of Patanjali's aphorism on ahimsa (harmlessness).⁸
"Why didn't you finish the job?"
"Master! Do you advocate taking life?"
"No, but in your mind you had already struck the deathblow."
"I don't understand."
"By ahimsa Patanjali meant removal of the desire to kill." Sri Yukteswar had found my mental processes an open book. "This world is inconveniently arranged for a literal practice of ahimsa. Man may be compelled to exterminate harmful creatures. He is not under a similar compulsion to feel anger or animosity. All forms of life have an equal right to the air of maya. The saint who uncovers the secret of creation will be in harmony with Nature's countless bewildering expressions. All men may understand this truth by overcoming the passion for destruction."
"Guruji, should one offer himself a sacrifice rather than kill a wild beast?"
"No, man's body is precious. It has the highest evolutionary value because of unique brain and spinal centers. These enable the advanced devotee fully to grasp and express the loftiest aspects of divinity. No lower form is so equipped. It is true that a man incurs the debt of a minor sin if he is forced to kill an animal or any other living thing. But the holy shastras teach that wanton loss of a human body is a serious transgression against the karmic law."
I sighed in relief; scriptural reinforcement of one's natural instincts is not always forthcoming.
Master, so far as I know, was never at close quarters with a leopard or a tiger. But a deadly cobra once confronted him, only to be conquered by his love. The encounter took place in Puri, where my guru had a seaside hermitage. Prafulla, a young disciple of Sri Yukteswar's later years, was with Master on this occasion.
"We were seated outdoors near the ashram," Prafulla told me. "A cobra appeared nearby, a four-foot length of sheer terror. Its hood was angrily expanded as it raced toward us. Master gave a welcoming chuckle, as though to a child. I was filled with consternation to see Sri Yukteswarji engage in a rhythmical clapping of hands.⁹ He was entertaining the dread visitor! I remained completely quiet, inwardly ejaculating fervent prayers. The serpent, very close to Master, was now motionless, seemingly magnetized by his caressing attitude. The frightful hood gradually contracted; the snake slithered between Sri Yukteswarji's feet and disappeared into the bushes.
"Why Master would move his hands and why the cobra would not strike them were inexplicable to me then," Prafulla concluded. "I have since come to realize that our divine guru is beyond fear of hurt from any creature."
One afternoon during my early months at the ashram, I found Sri Yukteswar's eyes fixed on me piercingly.
"You are too thin, Mukunda."
His remark struck a sensitive point; my sunken eyes and emaciated appearance were not to my liking. Chronic dyspepsia had afflicted me since childhood. Many bottles of tonics stood on a shelf in my room at home; none had helped me. Occasionally I would sadly ask myself if life were worthwhile with a body so unsound.
"Medicines have limitations; the divine creative life force has none. Believe that: you shall be well and strong."
Master's words instantly convinced me that I could successfully apply their truth in my own life. No other healer (and I had tried many) had been able to arouse in me such profound faith.
Day by day I waxed in health and strength. Through Sri Yukteswar's hidden blessing, in two weeks I gained the weight that I had vainly sought in the past. My stomach ailments vanished permanently.
On later occasions I was privileged to witness my guru's divine healings of persons suffering from diabetes, epilepsy, tuberculosis, or paralysis.
"Years ago, I, too, was anxious to put on weight," Master told me shortly after he had healed me. "During convalescence after a severe illness, I visited Lahiri Mahasaya in Banaras.
"'Sir,' I said, 'I have been very sick and have lost many pounds.' "'I see, Yukteswar,¹⁰ you made yourself unwell, and now you think you are thin.'
"This reply was far from the one I had expected; my guru, however, added encouragingly:
"'Let me see; I am sure you ought to feel better tomorrow.'
"My receptive mind accepted his words as a hint that he was secretly healing me. The next morning I sought him out and exclaimed exultingly, 'Sir, I feel much better today.'
"'Indeed! Today you invigorate yourself.'
"'No, Master!' I protested. 'It is you who have helped me; this is the first time in weeks that I have had any energy.'
"'Oh, yes! Your malady has been quite serious. Your body is frail yet; who can say how it will be tomorrow?'
"The thought of a possible return of my weakness brought me a shudder of cold fear. The following morning I could hardly drag myself to Lahiri Mahasaya's home.
"'Sir, I am ailing again.'
"My guru's glance was quizzical. 'So! Once more you indispose yourself.'
"My patience was exhausted. 'Gurudeva,' I said, 'I realize now that day by day you have been ridiculing me. I don't understand why you disbelieve my truthful reports.' "Really, it has been your thoughts that have made you feel alternately weak and strong.' My guru looked at me affectionately. 'You have seen how your health has exactly followed your subconscious expectations. Thought is a force, even as electricity or gravitation. The human mind is a spark of the almighty consciousness of God. I could show you that whatever your powerful mind believes very intensely would instantly come to pass.'
"Knowing that Lahiri Mahasaya never spoke idly, I addressed him with great awe and gratitude: 'Master, if I think that I am well and that I have regained my former weight, shall those things come to pass?'
"'It is so, even at this moment.' My guru spoke gravely, his gaze concentrated on my eyes.
"I instantly felt an increase not only of strength but of weight. Lahiri Mahasaya retreated into silence. After a few hours at his feet, I returned to my mother's house, where I stayed during my visits to Banaras.
"'My son! What is the matter? Are you swelling with dropsy?' Mother could hardly believe her eyes. My body was now as full and robust as it had been before my illness.
"I weighed myself and found that in one day I had gained fifty pounds; they have remained permanently. Friends and acquaintances who had seen my thin figure were overcome with amazement. A number of them changed their mode of life and became disciples of Lahiri Mahasaya as a result of this miracle.
"My guru, awake in God, knew this world to be nothing but an objectivized dream of the Creator. Because he was completely aware of his unity with the Divine Dreamer, Lahiri Mahasaya could materialize or dematerialize or make any other change he wished in the dream atoms of the phenomenal world."¹¹
"All creation is governed by law," Sri Yukteswar concluded. "The principles that operate in the outer universe, discoverable by scientists, are called natural laws. But there are subtler laws that rule the hidden spiritual planes and the inner realm of consciousness; these principles are knowable through the science of yoga. It is not the physicist but the Self-realized master who comprehends the true nature of matter. By such knowledge Christ was able to restore the servant's ear after it had been severed by one of the disciples."¹²
My guru was a peerless interpreter of the scriptures. Many of my happiest memories are centered in his discourses. But his jeweled thoughts were not cast into the ashes of heedlessness or stupidity. One restless movement of my body, or my slight lapse into absentmindedness, would suffice to put an abrupt period to Master's exposition.
"You are not here." Sri Yukteswar interrupted himself one afternoon with this observation. As usual, he was keeping relentless track of my attention.
"Guruji!" My tone was a protest. "I have not stirred; my eyelids have not moved; I can repeat each word you have uttered!"
"Nevertheless you were not fully with me. Your objection forces me to remark that in your mental background you were creating three institutions. One was a sylvan retreat on a plain, another on a hilltop, still another by the ocean."
Those vaguely formulated thoughts had indeed been present almost subconsciously. I glanced at him apologetically.
"What can I do with such a master — one who penetrates my random musings?"
"You have given me that right. The subtle truths I am expounding cannot be grasped without your complete concentration. Unless necessary I do not invade the seclusion of others' minds. Man has the natural privilege of roaming secretly among his thoughts. The unbidden Lord does not enter there; neither do I venture intrusion."
"You are ever welcome, Master!"
"Your architectural dreams will materialize later. Now is the time for study!"
Thus incidentally, in his simple way, my guru revealed his knowledge of the coming of three important events in my life. Since early youth I had had enigmatic glimpses of three buildings, each in a different setting. In the exact sequence Sri Yukteswar had indicated, these visions took ultimate form. First came my founding of a boys' yoga school on a plain in Ranchi, then an American headquarters on a Los Angeles hilltop, and then a hermitage in Encinitas, California, overlooking the vast Pacific.
Master never arrogantly said: "I prophesy that such and such an event shall occur!" He would rather hint: "Don't you think it may happen?" But his simple speech hid vatic power. There was no recanting; never did his slightly veiled predictions prove false.
Sri Yukteswar was reserved and matter-of-fact in demeanor. There was naught of the vague or daft visionary about him. His feet were firm on the earth, his head in the heaven of heaven. Practical people aroused his admiration. "Saintliness is not dumbness! Divine perceptions are not incapacitating!" he would say. "The active expression of virtue gives rise to the keenest intelligence."
My guru was reluctant to discuss the superphysical realms. His only "marvelous" aura was that of perfect simplicity. In conversation he avoided startling references; in action he was freely expressive. Many teachers talked of miracles but could manifest nothing; Sri Yukteswar seldom mentioned the subtle laws but secretly operated them at will.
"A man of realization does not perform any miracle until he receives an inward sanction," Master explained. "God does not wish the secrets of His creation revealed promiscuously.¹² Also, every individual in the world has an inalienable right to his free will. A saint will not encroach on that independence."
The silence habitual to Sri Yukteswar was caused by his deep perceptions of the Infinite. No time remained for the interminable "revelations" that occupy the days of teachers without Self-realization. A saying from the Hindu scriptures is: "In shallow men the fish of little thoughts cause much commotion. In oceanic minds the whales of inspiration make hardly a ruffle."
Because of my guru's unspectacular guise, only a few of his contemporaries recognized him as a superman. The adage: "He is a fool that cannot conceal his wisdom," could never be applied to my profound and quiet master.
Though born a mortal like all others, Sri Yukteswar achieved identity with the Ruler of time and space. Master found no insuperable obstacle to the mergence of human and Divine. No such barrier exists, I came to understand, save in man's spiritual unadventurousness.
I always thrilled at the touch of Sri Yukteswar's holy feet. A disciple is spiritually magnetized by reverent contact with a master; a subtle current is generated. The devotee's undesirable habit-mechanisms in the brain are often as if cauterized; the grooves of his worldly tendencies are beneficially disturbed. Momentarily at least he may find the secret veils of maya lifting, and glimpse the reality of bliss. My whole body responded with a liberating glow whenever I knelt in the Indian fashion before my guru.
"Even when Lahiri Mahasaya was silent," Master told me, "or when he conversed on other than strictly religious topics, I discovered that nonetheless he had transmitted to me ineffable knowledge."
Sri Yukteswar affected me similarly. If I entered the hermitage in a worried or indifferent frame of mind, my attitude imperceptibly changed. A healing calm descended at the mere sight of my guru. Each day with him was a new experience in joy, peace, and wisdom. Never did I find him deluded or emotionally intoxicated with greed, anger, or human attachment.
"The darkness of maya is silently approaching. Let us hie homeward within." With these cautionary words Master constantly reminded his disciples of their need for Kriya Yoga. A new student occasionally expressed doubts regarding his own worthiness to engage in yoga practice.
"Forget the past," Sri Yukteswar would console him. "The vanished lives of all men are dark with many shames. Human conduct is ever unreliable until man is anchored in the Divine. Everything in future will improve if you are making a spiritual effort now."
Master always had young chelas (disciples) in his ashram. Their intellectual and spiritual education was his lifelong interest. Even shortly before he passed on, he accepted, as hermitage residents, two six-year-old boys and a youth of sixteen. All those in his charge were carefully trained; "disciple" and "discipline" are etymologically and practically related.
The ashram residents loved and revered their guru; a slight clap of his hands sufficed to bring them eagerly to his side.
When his mood was silent and withdrawn, no one ventured to speak; when his laugh rang jovially, children looked upon him as their own.
Sri Yukteswar seldom asked others to render him a personal service, nor would he accept a chela's help unless it was offered cheerfully. Master himself would wash his clothes if the disciples forgot the privileged task.
His usual garment was the traditional ocher-colored swami robe. For indoor use he wore laceless shoes that had been made, in accordance with yogi-custom, of tiger or deer skin.
Sri Yukteswar spoke fluent English, French, Bengali, and Hindi; his Sanskrit was fair. He patiently instructed his young disciples by certain shortcuts that he had ingeniously devised for the study of English and Sanskrit.
Master was not solicitously attached to his body, but he was cautious of it. The Divine, he pointed out, is properly manifested through physical and mental soundness. He discountenanced all extremes. To a disciple who wanted to fast for a long period, my guru said laughingly, "Why not throw the dog a bone?"14
Sri Yukteswar's health was excellent; I never saw him unwell.15 To show respect for a worldly custom he permitted his students, if they wished, to consult doctors. "Physicians," he said, "should carry on their work of healing through God's laws as applied to matter." But he extolled the superiority of mental therapy, and often repeated: "Wisdom is the greatest cleanser." He told his chelas:
"The body is a treacherous friend. Give it its due; no more. Pain and pleasure are transitory; endure all dualities with calmness, trying at the same time to remove yourself beyond their power. Imagination is the door through which disease as well as healing enters. Disbelieve in the reality of sickness even when you are ill; an unrecognized visitor will flee!"
Master numbered many doctors among his disciples. "Those who have studied physiology should go further and investigate the science of the soul," he told them. "A subtle spiritual structure is hidden just behind the bodily mechanism."¹⁶
Sri Yukteswar counseled his students to be living liaisons of Western and Eastern virtues. Himself an executive Occidental in outer habits, inwardly he was the spiritual Oriental. He praised the progressive, resourceful, and hygienic ways of the West, and the religious ideals that give a centuried halo to the East.
Discipline had not been unknown to me; at home Father was strict, Ananta often severe. But Sri Yukteswar's training may not be described as other than drastic. A perfectionist, my guru was hypercritical of his disciples, whether in matters of moment or in the subtle nuances of ordinary behavior.
"Good manners without sincerity are like a beautiful dead lady," he remarked on suitable occasion. "Straightforwardness without civility is like a surgeon's knife, effective but unpleasant. Candor with courtesy is helpful and admirable."
Master was apparently satisfied with my spiritual progress, for he seldom referred to it; in other matters my ears were no strangers to reproof. My chief offenses were absentmindedness, intermittent indulgence in sad moods, nonobservance of certain rules of etiquette, and occasional unmethodical ways.
"Observe how the activities of your father Bhagabati are well organized and well balanced," my guru pointed out. The two disciples of Lahiri Mahasaya had met, soon after my first visit to the Serampore hermitage. Father and Master deeply admired each other. Both had built a beautiful inner life on foundations of spiritual granite, insoluble against the ages.
From a transient teacher of my earlier life I had imbibed a few erroneous lessons. A chela, I had been told, need not concern himself strenuously with worldly duties; when I had neglected or carelessly performed my tasks, I had not been chastised. Human nature finds such instruction very easy of assimilation. Under Master's unsparing rod, however, I soon recovered from the agreeable delusions of irresponsibility.
"Those who are too good for this world are adorning some other," Sri Yukteswar remarked one day. "So long as you breathe the free air of earth, you are under obligation to render grateful service. Only he who has fully mastered the breathless state¹⁷ is freed from cosmic imperatives." He added dryly, "I shall not fail to let you know when you have attained the final perfection."
My guru could not be bribed, even by love. He showed no leniency to anyone who, like myself, had willingly offered to become a disciple. Whether Master and I were surrounded by his students or by strangers, or were alone together, he always spoke plainly and upbraided sharply. No trifling lapse into shallowness or inconsistency escaped his rebuke. This flattening-to-the-ego treatment was hard to endure, but my unchangeable resolve was to allow Sri Yukteswar to iron out all of my psychological kinks. As he labored at this titanic transformation, I shook many times under the weight of his disciplinary hammer.
"If you don't like my words, you are at liberty to leave at any time," Master assured me. "I want nothing from you but your own improvement. Stay only if you feel benefited."
I am immeasurably grateful for the humbling blows he dealt my vanity. I sometimes felt that, metaphorically, he was discovering and uprooting every diseased tooth in my jaw. The hard core of egotism is difficult to dislodge except rudely. With its departure, the Divine finds at last an unobstructed channel. In vain It seeks to percolate through flinty hearts of selfishness.
Sri Yukteswar's intuition was penetrating; heedless of remarks, he often replied to one's unexpressed thoughts. The words a person uses, and the actual thoughts behind them, may be poles apart. "By calmness," my guru said, "try to feel the thoughts behind the confusion of men's verbiage."
The disclosures of divine insight are often painful to worldly ears; Master was not popular with superficial students. The wise, always few in number, deeply revered him.
I daresay Sri Yukteswar would have been the most sought-after guru in India had his speech not been so candid and so censorious.
"I am hard on those who come for my training," he admitted to me. "That is my way. Take it or leave it; I never compromise. But you will be much kinder to your disciples; that is your way. I try to purify only in fires of severity; these are searing beyond the average toleration. The gentle approach of love is also transfiguring. The inflexible and the yielding methods are equally effective if applied with wisdom." He added, "You will go to foreign lands, where blunt assaults on the ego are not appreciated. A teacher could not spread India's message in the West without an ample fund of accommodative patience and forbearance." (I refuse to say how often, in America, I have remembered Master's words!)
Though my guru's undissembling speech prevented a large following during his years on earth, nevertheless, through an ever-growing number of sincere students of his teachings, his spirit lives on in the world today. Warriors like Alexander the Great seek sovereignty over the soil; masters like Sri Yukteswar win a farther dominion — in men's souls.
It was Master's practice to point out the simple, negligible shortcomings of his disciples with an air of portentous gravity. One day my father visited Serampore to pay his respects to Sri Yukteswar. My parent expected, very likely, to hear some words in my praise. He was shocked to be given a long account of my imperfections. He rushed to see me.
"From your guru's remarks I thought to find you a complete wreck!" My parent was between tears and laughter.
The only cause of Sri Yukteswar's displeasure at the time was that I had been trying, against his gentle hint, to convert a certain man to the spiritual path.
With indignant speed I sought out my guru. He received me with downcast eyes, as though conscious of guilt. It was the only time I ever saw the divine lion meek before me. The unique moment was savored to the full.
"Sir, why did you judge me so mercilessly before my astounded father? Was that just?"
"I will not do it again." Sri Yukteswar's tone was apologetic. Instantly I was disarmed. How readily had the great man admitted a fault! Though he never again upset Father's peace of mind, Master relentlessly continued to dissect me whenever and wherever he chose.
New disciples often joined Sri Yukteswar in exhaustive criticism of others. Wise like the guru! Models of flawless discrimination! But he who takes the offensive should not be defenseless. The carping students themselves fled precipitantly as soon as Master publicly unloosed in their direction a few shafts from his analytical quiver.
"Tender inner weaknesses, revolting at mild touches of censure, are like diseased parts of the body, recoiling before even delicate handling." This was Sri Yukteswar's amused comment on the flighty ones.
Many disciples have a preconceived image of a guru, by which they judge his words and actions. Such persons often complained that they did not understand Sri Yukteswar.
"Neither do you understand God!" I retorted on one occasion. "If a saint were clear to you, you would be one!" Among the trillion mysteries, breathing every second the inexplicable air, may one venture to ask that the fathomless nature of a master be instantly grasped?
Students came, and generally went. Those who craved an easy path — that of instant sympathy and comforting recognitions of one's merits — did not find it at the hermitage. Master offered his disciples shelter and shepherding for the aeons, but many students miserly demanded ego-balm as well. They departed; preferring, before any humility, life's countless humiliations. Sri Yukteswar's blazing rays, the open penetrating sunshine of his wisdom, were too powerful for their spiritual sickness.
They sought out some lesser teacher, who, shading them with flattery, permitted the fitful sleep of ignorance.
During my early months with Master I experienced a sensitive fear of his reprimands. I soon saw that his verbal vivisections were performed only on persons who, like myself, had asked him to discipline them. If any writhing student made a protest, Sri Yukteswar, unoffended, would fall into silence. His words were never wrathful, but impersonal with wisdom.
Master's rebukes were not aimed at casual visitors; he seldom remarked on their defects, even if conspicuous. But toward students who sought his counsel, Sri Yukteswar felt a serious responsibility. Brave indeed is the guru who undertakes to transform the crude ore of ego-permeated humanity! A saint's courage is rooted in his compassion for maya-bewildered men, the stumbling eyeless of the world.
After I had abandoned underlying resentment, I found a marked decrease in my chastisement. In a very subtle way, Master melted into comparative clemency. In time I demolished every wall of rationalization and subconscious reservation behind which the human personality generally shields itself. The reward was an effortless harmony with my guru. I discovered him then to be trusting, considerate, and silently loving. Undemonstrative, however, he bestowed no word of affection.
My own temperament is principally devotional. It was disconcerting at first to find that my guru, saturated with jnana but seemingly dry of bhakti,¹² expressed himself chiefly in terms of cold spiritual mathematics. But, as I attuned myself to his nature, I discovered no diminution but rather an increase in my devotional approach to God. A Self-realized master is fully able to guide his various disciples along the natural lines of their essential bias.
My relationship with Sri Yukteswar was somewhat inarticulate, yet possessed a hidden eloquence. Often I found his silent signature on my thoughts, rendering speech inutile. Quietly sitting beside him, I would feel his bounty pouring peacefully over my being.
Master's impartial justice was notably demonstrated during the summer vacation of my first college year. I had been looking forward to uninterrupted months in Serampore with my guru.
"You may be in charge of the hermitage." Sri Yukteswar was pleased over my enthusiastic arrival. "Your duties will be the reception of guests, and supervision of the work of the other disciples."
Kumar, a young villager from east Bengal, was accepted a fortnight later for ashram training. Remarkably intelligent, he quickly won Master's affection. For some unfathomable reason, Sri Yukteswar adopted an uncritical attitude toward the new resident.
"Mukunda, let Kumar assume your duties. Employ your own time in sweeping and cooking." Master issued these instructions after the new boy had been with us for a month.
Exalted to leadership, Kumar exercised a petty household tyranny. In silent mutiny, the other disciples continued to seek me out for daily counsel. This situation continued for three weeks; then I overheard a conversation between Kumar and Master.
"Mukunda is impossible!" the boy said. "You made me supervisor, yet the others go to him and obey him."
"That's why I assigned him to the kitchen and you to the parlor — so you might come to realize that a worthy leader has the desire to serve, not to dominate." Sri Yukteswar's withering tones were new to Kumar. "You wanted Mukunda's position, but could not maintain it by merit. Return now to your earlier work as cook's assistant."
After this humbling incident, Master resumed toward Kumar a former attitude of unwonted indulgence. Who may solve the mystery of attraction? In Kumar our guru discovered a charming fount — one, however, that did not spurt for the fellow disciples. Though the new boy was obviously Sri Yukteswar's favorite, I felt no dismay. Personal idiosyncrasies, possessed even by masters, lend a rich complexity to the pattern of life. My nature is seldom commandeered by a detail; I was seeking from Sri Yukteswar a higher benefit than outward praise.
Kumar spoke venomously to me one day without reason; I was deeply hurt.
"Your head is swelling to the bursting point!" I added a warning whose truth I felt intuitively: "Unless you mend your ways, someday you will be asked to leave this ashram."
Laughing sarcastically, Kumar repeated my remark to our guru, who had just entered the room. Fully expecting to be scolded, I retired meekly to a corner.
"Maybe Mukunda is right." Master's reply to the boy came with unusual coldness.
A year later, Kumar set out for a visit to his childhood home. He ignored the quiet disapproval of Sri Yukteswar, who never authoritatively controlled his disciples' movements. On the boy's return to Serampore in a few months, a change was unpleasantly apparent. Gone was the stately Kumar with serenely glowing face. Only an undistinguished peasant stood before us, one who had lately acquired a number of evil habits.
Master summoned me and brokenheartedly discussed the fact that the boy was now unsuited to the monastic hermitage life.
"Mukunda, I will leave it to you to instruct Kumar to leave the ashram tomorrow; I can't do it!" Tears stood in Sri Yukteswar's eyes, but he controlled himself quickly. "The boy would never have fallen to these depths had he listened to me and not gone away to mix with undesirable companions. He has rejected my protection; the callous world must be his guru still."
Kumar's departure brought me no elation; sadly I wondered how one with the power to win a master's love could readily respond to worldly allures. Enjoyments of wine and sex are rooted in the natural man; to appreciate them one requires no delicacy of perception. Sense wiles are comparable to the evergreen oleander, fragrant with its rosy-colored flowers: every part of the plant is poisonous.²² The land of healing lies within, radiant with the happiness that is blindly sought in a thousand outer directions.
"Keen intelligence is two-edged," Master once remarked in reference to Kumar's brilliant mind. "It may be used constructively or destructively, like a knife, either to cut the boil of ignorance, or to decapitate oneself. Intelligence is rightly guided only after the mind has acknowledged the inescapability of spiritual law."
My guru mixed freely with men and women disciples, treating all as his children. Perceiving their soul equality, he made no distinction and showed no partiality.
"In sleep, you do not know whether you are a man or a woman," he said. "Just as a man, impersonating a woman, does not become one, so the soul, impersonating both man and woman, remains changeless. The soul is the immutable, unqualified image of God."
Sri Yukteswar never avoided or blamed women as the cause of "man's downfall." He pointed out that women, too, have to face temptation from the opposite sex. I once asked Master why a great ancient saint had called women "the door to hell."
"A girl must have proved very troublesome to his peace of mind in his early life," my guru answered caustically. "Otherwise he would have denounced, not woman, but some imperfection in his own self-control."
If a visitor dared to relate a suggestive story in the hermitage, Master would maintain an unresponsive silence. "Do not allow yourself to be thrashed by the provoking whip of a beautiful face," he told the disciples. "How can sense slaves enjoy the world? Its subtle flavors escape them while they grovel in primal mud. All nice discriminations are lost to the man of elemental lusts."
Students seeking to escape from the maya-induced sex delusion received from Sri Yukteswar patient and understanding counsel.
"Just as hunger, not greed, has a legitimate purpose, so the sexual instinct has been implanted by Nature solely for the propagation of the species, not for the kindling of insatiable longings," he said. "Destroy wrong desires now; otherwise they will remain with you after the astral body has been separated from its physical casing. Even when the flesh is weak, the mind should be constantly resistant. If temptation assails you with cruel force, overcome it by impersonal analysis and indomitable will. Every natural passion can be mastered.
"Conserve your powers. Be like the capacious ocean, absorbing quietly all the tributary rivers of the senses. Daily renewed sense yearnings sap your inner peace; they are like openings in a reservoir that permit vital waters to be wasted in the desert soil of materialism. The forceful, activating impulse of wrong desire is the greatest enemy to the happiness of man. Roam in the world as a lion of self-control; don't let the frogs of sense weakness kick you around!"
A true devotee is finally freed from all instinctive compulsions. He transforms his need for human affection into aspiration for God alone — a love solitary because omnipresent.
Sri Yukteswar's mother lived in the Rana Mahal district of Banaras where I had first visited my guru. Gracious and kindly, she was yet a woman of very decided opinions. I stood on her balcony one day and watched mother and son talking together. In his quiet, sensible way, Master was trying to convince her about something. He was apparently unsuccessful, for she shook her head with great vigor.
"Nay, nay, my son, go away now! Your wise words are not for me! I am not your disciple!"
Sri Yukteswar backed away without further argument, like a scolded child. I was touched at his great respect for his mother even in her unreasonable moods. She saw him only as her little boy, not as a sage. There was a charm about the trifling incident; it supplied a sidelight on my guru's unusual nature, inwardly humble and outwardly unbendable.
The monastic regulations do not permit a swami to retain connection with worldly ties after their formal severance. He may not perform the ceremonial family rites that are obligatory on the householder. Yet Shankara, reorganizer of the ancient Swami Order, disregarded the injunctions. After the death of his beloved mother, he cremated her body with heavenly fire that he caused to spurt from his upraised hand.
Sri Yukteswar also ignored the restrictions — in a fashion less spectacular. When his mother passed on, he arranged for crematory services by the holy Ganges in Banaras and fed many Brahmins, in conformance with householder customs.
The shastric prohibitions were intended to help swamis to overcome narrow identifications. Shankara and Sri Yukteswar had wholly merged their being in the Impersonal Spirit; they needed no rescue by rule. Sometimes, too, a master purposely ignores a canon in order to uphold its principle as superior to and independent of form. Thus Jesus plucked ears of corn on the day of rest. To the inevitable critics he said: "The sabbath was made for man, and not man for the sabbath."²¹
With the exception of the scriptures, Sri Yukteswar read little. Yet he was invariably acquainted with the latest scientific discoveries and other advancements of knowledge.22 A brilliant conversationalist, he enjoyed an exchange of views on countless topics with his guests. My guru's ready wit and rollicking laugh enlivened every discussion. Often grave, Master was never gloomy. "To seek the Lord, men need not 'disfigure their faces,'" he would say, quoting from the Bible.23 "Remember that finding God will mean the funeral of all sorrows."
Among the philosophers, professors, lawyers, and scientists who came to the hermitage, a number arrived for their first visit with the thought of meeting an orthodox religionist. Occasionally a supercilious smile or a glance of amused tolerance would betray that the newcomers expected nothing more than a few pious platitudes. After talking with Sri Yukteswar and discovering that he possessed precise insight into their specialized fields of knowledge, the visitors would depart reluctantly.
My guru ordinarily was gentle and affable to guests; his welcome was given with charming cordiality. Yet inveterate egotists sometimes suffered an invigorating shock. They confronted in Master either a frigid indifference or a formidable opposition: ice or iron!
A noted chemist once crossed swords with Sri Yukteswar. The visitor would not admit the existence of God, inasmuch as science has devised no means of detecting Him.
"So you have inexplicably failed to isolate the Supreme Power in your test tubes!" Master's gaze was stern. "I recommend a new experiment: examine your thoughts unremittingly for twenty-four hours. Then wonder no longer at God's absence."
A celebrated scholar received a similar jolt. It came during his first visit to the ashram. The rafters resounded as the guest recited passages from the Mahabharata, Upanishads,²⁴ and bhasyas (commentaries) of Shankara.
"I am waiting to hear you." Sri Yukteswar's tone was inquiring, as though silence had reigned. The pundit was puzzled.
"Quotations there have been, in superabundance." Master's words convulsed me with mirth, as I squatted in my corner at a respectful distance from the visitor. "But what original commentary can you supply, from the uniqueness of your particular life? What holy text have you absorbed and made your own? In what ways have these timeless truths renovated your nature? Are you content to be a hollow victrola, mechanically repeating the words of other men?"
"I give up!" The scholar's chagrin was comical. "I have no inner realization."
For the first time, perhaps, he understood that discerning placement of a comma does not atone for a spiritual coma.
"These bloodless pedants smell unduly of the lamp," my guru remarked after the departure of the chastened one. "They consider philosophy to be a gentle intellectual setting-up exercise. Their elevated thoughts are carefully unrelated either to the crudity of outward action or to any scourging inner discipline!"
Master stressed on other occasions the futility of mere book learning.
"Do not confuse understanding with a larger vocabulary," he remarked. "Sacred writings are beneficial in stimulating desire for inward realization, if one stanza at a time is slowly assimilated. Otherwise, continual intellectual study may result in vanity, false satisfaction, and undigested knowledge."
Sri Yukteswar related one of his own experiences in scriptural edification. The scene was a forest hermitage in eastern Bengal, where he observed the procedure of a renowned teacher, Dabru Ballav. His method, at once simple and difficult, was common in ancient India.
Dabru Ballav had gathered his disciples around him in the sylvan solitudes. The holy Bhagavad Gita was open before them. Steadfastly they looked at one passage for half an hour, then closed their eyes. Another half hour slipped away. The master gave a brief comment. Motionless, they meditated again for an hour. Finally the guru spoke.
"Do you now understand the stanza?"
"Yes, sir." One in the group ventured this assertion.
"No, not fully. Seek the spiritual vitality that has given these words the power to rejuvenate India century after century." Another hour passed in silence. The master dismissed the students, and turned to Sri Yukteswar.
"Do you know the Bhagavad Gita?"
"No, sir, not really; though my eyes and mind have run through its pages many times."
"Hundreds have replied to me differently!" The great sage smiled at Master in blessing. "If one busies himself with an outer display of scriptural wealth, what time is left for silent inward diving after the priceless pearls?"
Sri Yukteswar directed the study of his own disciples by the same intensive method of one-pointedness. "Wisdom is not assimilated with the eyes, but with the atoms," he said. "When your conviction of a truth is not merely in your brain but in your being, you may diffidently vouch for its meaning." He discouraged any tendency a student might have to consider book knowledge a necessary step to spiritual realization.
"The rishis wrote in one sentence profundities that commentating scholars busy themselves over for generations," he said. "Endless literary controversy is for sluggard minds. What more quickly liberating thought than 'God is'—nay, 'God'?"
But man does not easily return to simplicity. It is seldom "God" for an intellectualist, but rather learned pomposities. His ego is pleased, that he can grasp such erudition.
Men who were pridefully conscious of their wealth or worldly position were likely, in Master's presence, to add humility to their other possessions. On one occasion a local magistrate requested an interview at the seaside hermitage in Puri. The man, who was reputed to be ruthless, had it well within his power to dispossess us of the ashram. I mentioned this fact to my guru. But he seated himself with an uncompromising air, and did not rise to greet the visitor.
Slightly nervous, I squatted near the door. Sri Yukteswar failed to ask me to fetch a chair for the magistrate, who had to be content with a wooden box. There was no fulfillment of the man's obvious expectation that his importance would be ceremoniously acknowledged.
A metaphysical discussion ensued. The guest blundered through misinterpretations of the scriptures. As his accuracy sank, his ire rose.
"Do you know that I stood first in the M.A. examination?" Reason had forsaken him, but he could still shout.
"Mr. Magistrate, you forget that this is not your courtroom," Master replied evenly. "From your childish remarks one would surmise that your college career had been unremarkable. A university degree, in any case, is not related to Vedic realization. Saints are not produced in batches every semester like accountants."
After a stunned silence, the visitor laughed heartily. "This is my first encounter with a heavenly magistrate," he said. Later he made a formal request, couched in the legal terms that were evidently part and parcel of his being, to be accepted as a "probationary" disciple.
On several occasions Sri Yukteswar, like Lahiri Mahasaya, discouraged "unripe" students who wished to join the Swami
Order. "To wear the other robe when one lacks God-realization is misleading to society," the two masters said. "Forget the outward symbols of renunciation, which may injure you by inducing a false pride. Nothing matters except your steady, daily spiritual advancement; for that, use Kriya Yoga."
In measuring the worth of a man, a saint employs an invariable criterion, one far different from the shifting yardsticks of the world. Humanity — so variegated in its own eyes! — is seen by a master to be divided into only two classes: ignorant men who are not seeking God, and wise men who are.
My guru personally attended to the details connected with the management of his property. Unscrupulous persons on various occasions attempted to secure possession of Master's ancestral land. With determination and even by instigating lawsuits, Sri Yukteswar outwitted every opponent. He underwent these painful experiences from a desire never to be a begging guru, or a burden on his disciples.
His financial independence was one reason why my alarmingly outspoken master was innocent of the cunnings of diplomacy. Unlike teachers who have to flatter their supporters, my guru was impervious to the influences, open or subtle, of others' wealth. Never did I hear him ask or even hint for money for any purpose. His hermitage training was given free to all disciples.
A court deputy arrived one day at the Serampore ashram to serve a legal summons. A disciple named Kanai and I ushered the man into Master's presence.
The officer's attitude toward Sri Yukteswar was offensive. "It will do you good to leave the shadows of your hermitage and breathe the honest air of a courtroom," he said contemptuously.
I could not contain myself. "Another word of your insolence and you will be on the floor!" I advanced threateningly.
Kanai, also, was shouting at the deputy. "You wretch! Dare you bring your blasphemies into this sacred ashram?"
But Master stood protectingly in front of his abuser. "Don't get excited over nothing. This man is only doing his rightful duty."
The officer, dazed at his varying reception, respectfully offered a word of apology and sped away.
Amazing it was to find that a master with such a fiery will could be so calm within. He fitted the Vedic definition of a man of God: "Softer than the flower, where kindness is concerned; stronger than the thunder, where principles are at stake."
There are always those in this world who, in Browning's words, "endure no light, being themselves obscure." Occasionally an outsider, fevered over some imaginary grievance, would berate Sri Yukteswar. My imperturbable guru would listen politely, analyzing himself to see if any shred of truth lay within the denunciation. These scenes would bring to my mind one of Master's inimitable observations: "Some people try to be tall by cutting off the heads of others!"
The unfailing composure of a saint is impressive beyond any sermon. "He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city."25
I often reflected that my majestic master could easily have been an emperor or world-shaking warrior had his mind been centered on fame or worldly achievement. He had chosen instead to storm those inner citadels of wrath and egotism whose fall is the height of a man.
Swami Sri Yukteswar Meditation Temple, dedicated in 1977, on site of his ashram in Serampore. Several bricks from the original ashram were used in its construction. The temple architecture is patterned after a design by Paramahansa Yogananda.
5 Snoring, according to physiologists, is an indication of perfect relaxation.
6 Dal is a thick soup made from split peas or other pulses. Channa is a cheese of fresh milk, curdled; often cubed and curried with potatoes.
7 The omnipresent powers of a yogi, whereby he sees, tastes, smells, touches, and hears without the use of outward sensory organs, have been described as follows in Taittirīya Aranyaka: "The blind man pierced the pearl; the fingerless put a thread through it; the neckless wore it; and the tongueless praised it."
8 "In the presence of a man perfected in ahimsa (nonviolence), enmity [in any creature] does not arise." — Yoga Sutras II:35.
9 The cobra swiftly strikes at any moving object within its range. In most cases, complete immobility is one's sole hope of safety.
The cobra is much feared in India, where it causes annually about five thousand deaths.
10 Lahiri Mahasaya actually said "Priya" (Master's first name), not "Yukteswar" (monastic name, not taken by my guru during Lahiri Mahasaya's lifetime). "Yukteswar" is substituted here and in a few other places in this book in order to avoid the confusion of two names.
11 "What things soever ye desire, when ye pray, believe that ye receive them, and ye shall have them." — Mark 11:24. God-united masters are truly able to transfer their divine realizations to advanced disciples, as Lahiri Mahasaya did for Sri Yukteswar on this occasion.
12 "And one of them smote the servant of the high priest, and cut off his right ear. And Jesus answered and said, Suffer ye thus far. And he touched his ear and healed him." — Luke 22:50–51.
13 "Give not that which is holy unto the dogs, neither cast ye your pearls before swine, lest they trample them under their feet, and turn again and rend you." — Matthew 7:6.
14 My guru approved of fasting as the ideal natural cleansing method; but that particular disciple was overly preoccupied with his body.
15 He was once ill in Kashmir, when I was absent from him.
16 A courageous medical man, Charles Robert Richet, awarded the Nobel Prize in physiology, wrote as follows: "Metaphysics is not yet officially a science, recognized as such. But it is going to be....At Edinburgh, I was able to affirm before 100 physiologists that our five senses are not our only means of knowledge and that a fragment of reality sometimes reaches the intelligence in other ways....Because a fact is rare is no reason that it does not exist. Because a study is difficult, is that a reason for not understanding it?...Those who have railed at metaphysics as an occult science will be as ashamed of themselves as those who railed at chemistry on the ground that pursuit of the philosophers' stone was illusory....In the matter of principles there are only those of Lavoisier, Claude Bernard, and Pasteur — the experimental everywhere and always. Greetings, then, to the new science which is going to change the orientation of human thought."
17 Samādhi: superconsciousness.
18 "Our conscious and subconscious being is crowned by a superconsciousness," Rabbi Israel H. Levinthal pointed out in a lecture in New York. "Many years ago the English psychologist, F. W. H. Myers, suggested that 'hidden in the deep of our being is a rubbish heap as well as a treasure house.' In contrast to the psychology that centers all its researches on the subconscious in man's nature, the new psychology of the superconscious focuses its attention upon the treasure house — the region that alone can explain the great, unselfish, heroic deeds of men."
19 Jnana, wisdom; and bhakti, devotion: two of the main paths to God.
20 "Man in his waking state puts forth innumerable efforts for experiencing sensual pleasures; when the entire group of sensory organs is fatigued, he forgets even the pleasure on hand and goes to sleep in order to enjoy rest in the soul, his own nature," Shankara, the great Vedantist, has written. "Ultrasensual bliss is thus extremely easy of attainment and is far superior to sense delights, which always end in disgust."
21 Mark 2:27.
22 When he so desired, Master could instantly attune himself to the mind of any man (a yogic power mentioned in Patanjali's Yoga Sutras III:19). His powers as a human radio, and the nature of thoughts, are explained here.
23 Matthew 6:16.
24 The Upanishads or Vedanta (lit., "end of the Vedas"), which occur in certain parts of the four Vedas, are essential summaries that form the doctrinal basis of the Hindu religion. Schopenhauer praised their "deep, original, and sublime thoughts," and said: "Access to the Vedas [through Western translations of the Upanishads] is, in my eyes, the greatest privilege this century may claim over all previous centuries."