Autobiography of a Yogi | Page 8

betrothal. Mother
was in Calcutta, joyously supervising the wedding preparations. Father
and I alone remained at our home in Bareilly in northern India, whence
Father had been transferred after two years at Lahore.
I had previously witnessed the splendor of nuptial rites for my two
elder sisters, Roma and Uma; but for Ananta, as the eldest son, plans
were truly elaborate. Mother was welcoming numerous relatives, daily
arriving in Calcutta from distant homes. She lodged them comfortably
in a large, newly acquired house at 50 Amherst Street. Everything was
in readiness-the banquet delicacies, the gay throne on which Brother
was to be carried to the home of the bride-to-be, the rows of colorful
lights, the mammoth cardboard elephants and camels, the English,
Scottish and Indian orchestras, the professional entertainers, the priests
for the ancient rituals.
Father and I, in gala spirits, were planning to join the family in time for
the ceremony. Shortly before the great day, however, I had an ominous
vision.
It was in Bareilly on a midnight. As I slept beside Father on the piazza
of our bungalow, I was awakened by a peculiar flutter of the mosquito
netting over the bed. The flimsy curtains parted and I saw the beloved
form of my mother.
"Awaken your father!" Her voice was only a whisper. "Take the first
available train, at four o'clock this morning. Rush to Calcutta if you
would see me!" The wraithlike figure vanished.
"Father, Father! Mother is dying!" The terror in my tone aroused him
instantly. I sobbed out the fatal tidings.
"Never mind that hallucination of yours." Father gave his characteristic
negation to a new situation. "Your mother is in excellent health. If we
get any bad news, we shall leave tomorrow."

"You shall never forgive yourself for not starting now!" Anguish
caused me to add bitterly, "Nor shall I ever forgive you!"
The melancholy morning came with explicit words: "Mother
dangerously ill; marriage postponed; come at once."
Father and I left distractedly. One of my uncles met us en route at a
transfer point. A train thundered toward us, looming with telescopic
increase. From my inner tumult, an abrupt determination arose to hurl
myself on the railroad tracks. Already bereft, I felt, of my mother, I
could not endure a world suddenly barren to the bone. I loved Mother
as my dearest friend on earth. Her solacing black eyes had been my
surest refuge in the trifling tragedies of childhood.
"Does she yet live?" I stopped for one last question to my uncle.
"Of course she is alive!" He was not slow to interpret the desperation in
my face. But I scarcely believed him.
When we reached our Calcutta home, it was only to confront the
stunning mystery of death. I collapsed into an almost lifeless state.
Years passed before any reconciliation entered my heart. Storming the
very gates of heaven, my cries at last summoned the Divine Mother.
Her words brought final healing to my suppurating wounds:
"It is I who have watched over thee, life after life, in the tenderness of
many mothers! See in My gaze the two black eyes, the lost beautiful
eyes, thou seekest!"
Father and I returned to Bareilly soon after the crematory rites for the
well-beloved. Early every morning I made a pathetic
memorial--pilgrimage to a large SHEOLI tree which shaded the smooth,
green-gold lawn before our bungalow. In poetical moments, I thought
that the white SHEOLI flowers were strewing themselves with a
willing devotion over the grassy altar. Mingling tears with the dew, I
often observed a strange other-worldly light emerging from the dawn.
Intense pangs of longing for God assailed me. I felt powerfully drawn
to the Himalayas.

One of my cousins, fresh from a period of travel in the holy hills,
visited us in Bareilly. I listened eagerly to his tales about the high
mountain abode of yogis and swamis. {FN2-1}
"Let us run away to the Himalayas." My suggestion one day to Dwarka
Prasad, the young son of our landlord in Bareilly, fell on unsympathetic
ears. He revealed my plan to my elder brother, who had just arrived to
see Father. Instead of laughing lightly over this impractical scheme of a
small boy, Ananta made it a definite point to ridicule me.
"Where is your orange robe? You can't be a swami without that!"
But I was inexplicably thrilled by his words. They brought a clear
picture of myself roaming about India as a monk. Perhaps they
awakened memories of a past life; in any case, I began to see with what
natural ease I would wear the garb of that anciently-founded monastic
order.
Chatting one morning with Dwarka, I felt a love for God descending
with avalanchic force. My companion was only partly attentive to the
ensuing eloquence, but I was wholeheartedly