Autobiography of a Yogi | Page 9

listening to myself.
I fled that afternoon toward Naini Tal in the Himalayan foothills.
Ananta gave determined chase; I was forced to return sadly to Bareilly.
The only pilgrimage permitted me was the customary one at dawn to
the SHEOLI tree. My heart wept for the lost Mothers, human and
divine.
The rent left in the family fabric by Mother's death was irreparable.
Father never remarried during his nearly forty remaining years.
Assuming the difficult role of Father-Mother to his little flock, he grew
noticeably more tender, more approachable. With calmness and insight,
he solved the various family problems. After office hours he retired like
a hermit to the cell of his room, practicing KRIYA YOGA in a sweet
serenity. Long after Mother's death, I attempted to engage an English
nurse to attend to details that would make my parent's life more
comfortable. But Father shook his head.

[Illustration: My Mother, A Disciple of Lahiri Mahasaya--see
mother.jpg]
"Service to me ended with your mother." His eyes were remote with a
lifelong devotion. "I will not accept ministrations from any other
woman."
Fourteen months after Mother's passing, I learned that she had left me a
momentous message. Ananta was present at her deathbed and had
recorded her words. Although she had asked that the disclosure be
made to me in one year, my brother delayed. He was soon to leave
Bareilly for Calcutta, to marry the girl Mother had chosen for him.
{FN2-2} One evening he summoned me to his side.
"Mukunda, I have been reluctant to give you strange tidings." Ananta's
tone held a note of resignation. "My fear was to inflame your desire to
leave home. But in any case you are bristling with divine ardor. When I
captured you recently on your way to the Himalayas, I came to a
definite resolve. I must not further postpone the fulfillment of my
solemn promise." My brother handed me a small box, and delivered
Mother's message.
"Let these words be my final blessing, my beloved son Mukunda!"
Mother had said. "The hour is here when I must relate a number of
phenomenal events following your birth. I first knew your destined
path when you were but a babe in my arms. I carried you then to the
home of my guru in Benares. Almost hidden behind a throng of
disciples, I could barely see Lahiri Mahasaya as he sat in deep
meditation.
"While I patted you, I was praying that the great guru take notice and
bestow a blessing. As my silent devotional demand grew in intensity,
he opened his eyes and beckoned me to approach. The others made a
way for me; I bowed at the sacred feet. My master seated you on his lap,
placing his hand on your forehead by way of spiritually baptizing you.
"'Little mother, thy son will be a yogi. As a spiritual engine, he will
carry many souls to God's kingdom.'

"My heart leaped with joy to find my secret prayer granted by the
omniscient guru. Shortly before your birth, he had told me you would
follow his path.
"Later, my son, your vision of the Great Light was known to me and
your sister Roma, as from the next room we observed you motionless
on the bed. Your little face was illuminated; your voice rang with iron
resolve as you spoke of going to the Himalayas in quest of the Divine.
"In these ways, dear son, I came to know that your road lies far from
worldly ambitions. The most singular event in my life brought further
confirmation-an event which now impels my deathbed message.
"It was an interview with a sage in the Punjab. While our family was
living in Lahore, one morning the servant came precipitantly into my
room.
"'Mistress, a strange SADHU {FN2-3} is here. He insists that he "see
the mother of Mukunda."'
"These simple words struck a profound chord within me; I went at once
to greet the visitor. Bowing at his feet, I sensed that before me was 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 shall prove to be your last.'
{FN2-4} There was a silence, during which I felt no alarm but only a
vibration of great peace. Finally he addressed me again:
"'You are to be the custodian of a certain silver amulet. I will not give it
to you today; to demonstrate the truth in my words, the talisman shall
materialize in your hands tomorrow as you meditate. On your deathbed,
you must instruct your eldest son Ananta to keep the amulet for one
year and then to hand it over to your second son. Mukunda will
understand the meaning of the talisman from the