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Chapter20 Chapter21 Chapter22 Chapter23 | |
"Master,
a gift for you! These six huge cauliflowers were planted with my hands; I have watched
over their growth with the tender care of a mother nursing her child." I presented
the basket of vegetables with a ceremonial flourish. "Thank
you!" Sri Yukteswar's smile was warm with appreciation. "Please keep them in
your room; I shall need them tomorrow for a special dinner." I had just
arrived in Puri to spend my
college summer vacation with my guru at his seaside hermitage. Built by Master and his
disciples, the cheerful little two-storied retreat fronts on the Bay of Bengal. I awoke early
the following morning, refreshed by the salty sea breezes and the charm of my
surroundings. Sri Yukteswar's melodious voice was calling; I took a look at my cherished
cauliflowers and stowed them neatly under my bed. "Come,
let us go to the beach." Master led the way; several young disciples and myself
followed in a scattered group. Our guru surveyed us in mild criticism. "When
our Western brothers walk, they usually take pride in unison. Now, please march in two
rows; keep rhythmic step with one another." Sri Yukteswar watched as we obeyed; he
began to sing: "Boys go to and fro, in a pretty little row." I could not but
admire the ease with which Master was able to match the brisk pace of his young students. "Halt!"
My guru's eyes sought mine. "Did you remember to lock the back door of the
hermitage?" "I think
so, sir." Sri Yukteswar
was silent for a few minutes, a half-suppressed smile on his lips. "No, you
forgot," he said finally. "Divine contemplation must not be made an excuse for
material carelessness. You have neglected your duty in safeguarding the ashram; you must
be punished." I thought he
was obscurely joking when he added: "Your six cauliflowers will soon be only
five." We turned
around at Master's orders and marched back until we were close to the hermitage. "Rest
awhile. Mukunda, look across the compound on our left; observe the road beyond. A certain
man will arrive there presently; he will be the means of your chastisement." I concealed
my vexation at these incomprehensible remarks. A peasant soon appeared on the road; he was
dancing grotesquely and flinging his arms about with meaningless gestures. Almost
paralyzed with curiosity, I glued my eyes on the hilarious spectacle. As the man reached a
point in the road where he would vanish from our view, Sri Yukteswar said, "Now, he
will return." The peasant
at once changed his direction and made for the rear of the ashram. Crossing a sandy tract,
he entered the building by the back door. I had left it unlocked, even as my guru had
said. The man emerged shortly, holding one of my prized cauliflowers. He now strode along
respectably, invested with the dignity of possession. The unfolding
farce, in which my role appeared to be that of bewildered victim, was not so disconcerting
that I failed in indignant pursuit. I was halfway to the road when Master recalled me. He
was shaking from head to foot with laughter. "That
poor crazy man has been longing for a cauliflower," he explained between outbursts of
mirth. "I thought it would be a good idea if he got one of yours, so
ill-guarded!" I dashed to
my room, where I found that the thief, evidently one with a vegetable fixation, had left
untouched my gold rings, watch, and money, all lying openly on the blanket. He had crawled
instead under the bed where, completely hidden from casual sight, one of my cauliflowers
had aroused his singlehearted desire. I asked Sri
Yukteswar that evening to explain the incident which had, I thought, a few baffling
features. My guru shook
his head slowly. "You will understand it someday. Science will soon discover a few of
these hidden laws." When the
wonders of radio burst some years later on an astounded world, I remembered Master's
prediction. Age-old concepts of time and space were annihilated; no peasant's home so
narrow that London or Calcutta could not enter! The dullest intelligence enlarged before
indisputable proof of one aspect of man's omnipresence. The
"plot" of the cauliflower comedy can be best understood by a radio analogy. Sri
Yukteswar was a perfect human radio. Thoughts are no more than very gentle vibrations
moving in the ether. Just as a sensitized radio picks up a desired musical number out of
thousands of other programs from every direction, so my guru had been able to catch the
thought of the half-witted man who hankered for a cauliflower, out of the countless
thoughts of broadcasting human wills in the world. By his
powerful will, Master was also a human broadcasting station, and had successfully directed
the peasant to reverse his steps and go to a certain room for a single cauliflower. Intuition is
soul guidance, appearing naturally in man during those instants when his mind is calm.
Nearly everyone has had the experience of an inexplicably correct "hunch," or
has transferred his thoughts effectively to another person. The human
mind, free from the static of restlessness, can perform through its antenna of intuition
all the functions of complicated radio mechanisms—sending and receiving thoughts, and
tuning out undesirable ones. As the power of a radio depends on the amount of electrical
current it can utilize, so the human radio is energized according to the power of will
possessed by each individual. All thoughts
vibrate eternally in the cosmos. By deep concentration, a master is able to detect the
thoughts of any mind, living or dead. Thoughts are universally and not individually
rooted; a truth cannot be created, but only perceived. The erroneous thoughts of man
result from imperfections in his discernment. The goal of yoga science is to calm the
mind, that without distortion it may mirror the divine vision in the universe. Radio and
television have brought the instantaneous sound and sight of remote persons to the
firesides of millions: the first faint scientific intimations that man is an all-pervading
spirit. Not a body confined to a point in space, but the vast soul, which the ego in most
barbaric modes conspires in vain to cramp. "Very
strange, very wonderful, seemingly very improbable phenomena may yet appear which, when
once established, will not astonish us more than we are now astonished at all that science
has taught us during the last century," Charles Robert Richet, Nobel Prizeman in
physiology, has declared. "It is assumed that the phenomena which we now accept
without surprise, do not excite our astonishment because they are understood. But this is
not the case. If they do not surprise us it is not because they are understood, it is
because they are familiar; for if that which is not understood ought to surprise us, we
should be surprised at everything—the fall of a stone thrown into the air, the acorn
which becomes an oak, mercury which expands when it is heated, iron attracted by a magnet,
phosphorus which burns when it is rubbed. . . . The science of today is a light matter;
the revolutions and evolutions which it will experience in a hundred thousand years will
far exceed the most daring anticipations. The truths—those surprising, amazing,
unforeseen truths—which our descendants will discover, are even now all around us,
staring us in the eyes, so to speak, and yet we do not see them. But it is not enough to
say that we do not see them; we do not wish to see them; for as soon as an unexpected and
unfamiliar fact appears, we try to fit it into the framework of the commonplaces of
acquired knowledge, and we are indignant that anyone should dare to experiment
further." A humorous
occurrence took place a few days after I had been so implausibly robbed of a cauliflower.
A certain kerosene lamp could not be found. Having so lately witnessed my guru's
omniscient insight, I thought he would demonstrate that it was child's play to locate the
lamp. Master
perceived my expectation. With exaggerated gravity he questioned all ashram residents. A
young disciple confessed that he had used the lamp to go to the well in the back yard. Sri Yukteswar
gave the solemn counsel: "Seek the lamp near the well." I rushed
there; no lamp! Crestfallen, I returned to my guru. He was now laughing heartily, without
compunction for my disillusionment. "Too bad
I couldn't direct you to the vanished lamp; I am not a fortune teller!" With
twinkling eyes, he added, "I am not even a satisfactory Sherlock Holmes!" I realized
that Master would never display his powers when challenged, or for a triviality. Delightful
weeks sped by. Sri Yukteswar was planning a religious procession. He asked me to lead the
disciples over the town and beach of Puri. The festive day dawned as one of the hottest of
the summer. "Guruji,
how can I take the barefooted students over the fiery sands?" I spoke despairingly. "I will
tell you a secret," Master responded. "The Lord will send an umbrella of clouds;
you all shall walk in comfort." I happily
organized the procession; our group started from the ashram with a Sat-Sanga banner. Designed by
Sri Yukteswar, it bore the symbol of the single eye, the telescopic gaze of intuition.
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No
sooner had we left the hermitage than the part of the sky which was overhead became filled
with clouds as though by magic. To the accompaniment of astonished ejaculations from all
sides, a very light shower fell, cooling the city streets and the burning seashore. The
soothing drops descended during the two hours of the parade. The exact instant at which
our group returned to the ashram, the clouds and rain passed away tracelessly. "You see
how God feels for us," Master replied after I had expressed my gratitude. "The
Lord responds to all and works for all. Just as He sent rain at my plea, so He fulfills
any sincere desire of the devotee. Seldom do men realize how often God heeds their
prayers. He is not partial to a few, but listens to everyone who approaches Him
trustingly. His children should ever have implicit faith in the loving-kindness of their
Omnipresent Father." Sri Yukteswar
sponsored four yearly festivals, at the equinoxes and solstices, when his students
gathered from far and near. The winter solstice celebration was held in Serampore; the
first one I attended left me with a permanent blessing. The
festivities started in the morning with a barefoot procession along the streets. The
voices of a hundred students rang out with sweet religious songs; a few musicians played
the flute and khol kartal (drums and cymbals).
Enthusiastic townspeople strewed the path with flowers, glad to be summoned from prosaic
tasks by our resounding praise of the Lord's blessed name. The long tour ended in the
courtyard of the hermitage. There we encircled our guru, while students on upper balconies
showered us with marigold blossoms. Many guests
went upstairs to receive a pudding of channa and
oranges. I made my way to a group of brother disciples who were serving today as cooks.
Food for such large gatherings had to be cooked outdoors in huge cauldrons. The improvised
wood-burning brick stoves were smoky and tear-provoking, but we laughed merrily at our
work. Religious festivals in India are never considered troublesome; each one does his
part, supplying money, rice, vegetables, or his personal services. Master was
soon in our midst, supervising the details of the feast. Busy every moment, he kept pace
with the most energetic young student. A sankirtan (group chanting), accompanied by the
harmonium and hand-played Indian drums, was in progress on the second floor. Sri Yukteswar
listened appreciatively; his musical sense was acutely perfect. "They
are off key!" Master left the cooks and joined the artists. The melody was heard
again, this time correctly rendered. In India,
music as well as painting and the drama is considered a divine art. Brahma, Vishnu, and
Shiva—the Eternal Trinity—were the first musicians. The Divine Dancer Shiva is
scripturally represented as having worked out the infinite modes of rhythm in His cosmic
dance of universal creation, preservation, and dissolution, while Brahma accentuated the
time-beat with the clanging cymbals, and Vishnu sounded the holy mridanga or drum. Krishna, an incarnation of
Vishnu, is always shown in Hindu art with a flute, on which he plays the enrapturing song
that recalls to their true home the human souls wandering in maya-delusion. Saraswati, goddess of wisdom, is
symbolized as performing on the vina, mother of
all stringed instruments. The Sama Veda of India
contains the world's earliest writings on musical science. The
foundation stone of Hindu music is the ragas or
fixed melodic scales. The six basic ragas branch
out into 126 derivative raginis (wives) and putras (sons). Each raga has a minimum of five notes: a leading note (vadi or king), a secondary note (samavadi or prime minister), helping notes (anuvadi, attendants), and a dissonant note (vivadi, the enemy). Each one of
the six basic ragas has a natural correspondence
with a certain hour of the day, season of the year, and a presiding deity who bestows a
particular potency. Thus, (1) the Hindole Raga
is heard only at dawn in the spring, to evoke the mood of universal love; (2) Deepaka Raga is played during the evening in
summer, to arouse compassion; (3) Megha Raga is
a melody for midday in the rainy season, to summon courage; (4) Bhairava Raga is played in the mornings of August,
September, October, to achieve tranquillity; (5) Sri
Raga is reserved for autumn twilights, to attain pure love; (6) Malkounsa Raga is heard at midnights in winter,
for valor. The ancient
rishis discovered these laws of sound alliance between nature and man. Because nature is
an objectification of Aum, the Primal Sound or
Vibratory Word, man can obtain control over all natural manifestations through the use of
certain mantras or chants. Historical
documents tell of the remarkable powers possessed by Miyan Tan Sen, sixteenth century
court musician for Akbar the Great. Commanded by the Emperor to sing a night raga while the sun was overhead, Tan Sen intoned a mantra which instantly caused the whole palace
precincts to become enveloped in darkness. Indian music
divides the octave into 22 srutis or
demi-semitones. These microtonal intervals permit fine shades of musical expression
unattainable by the Western chromatic scale of 12 semitones. Each one of the seven basic
notes of the octave is associated in Hindu mythology with a color, and the natural cry of
a bird or beast—Do with green, and the
peacock; Re with red, and the skylark; Mi with golden, and the goat; Fa with yellowish white, and the heron; Sol with black, and the nightingale; La with yellow, and the horse; Si with a combination of all colors, and the
elephant. Three scales—major,
harmonic minor, melodic minor—are the only ones which Occidental music employs, but
Indian music outlines 72 thatas or scales. The
musician has a creative scope for endless improvisation around the fixed traditional
melody or raga; he concentrates on the sentiment
or definitive mood of the structural theme and then embroiders it to the limits of his own
originality. The Hindu musician does not read set notes; he clothes anew at each playing
the bare skeleton of the raga, often confining
himself to a single melodic sequence, stressing by repetition all its subtle microtonal
and rhythmic variations. Bach, among Western composers, had an understanding of the charm
and power of repetitious sound slightly differentiated in a hundred complex ways. Ancient
Sanskrit literature describes 120 talas or
time-measures. The traditional founder of Hindu music, Bharata, is said to have isolated
32 kinds of tala in the song of a lark. The
origin of tala or rhythm is rooted in human
movements—the double time of walking, and the triple time of respiration in sleep,
when inhalation is twice the length of exhalation. India has always recognized the human
voice as the most perfect instrument of sound. Hindu music therefore largely confines
itself to the voice range of three octaves. For the same reason, melody (relation of
successive notes) is stressed, rather than harmony (relation of simultaneous notes). The deeper
aim of the early rishi-musicians was to blend the singer with the Cosmic Song which can be
heard through awakening of man's occult spinal centers. Indian music is a subjective,
spiritual, and individualistic art, aiming not at symphonic brilliance but at personal
harmony with the Oversoul. The Sanskrit word for musician is bhagavathar, "he who sings the praises of
God." The sankirtans or musical gatherings
are an effective form of yoga or spiritual discipline, necessitating deep concentration,
intense absorption in the seed thought and sound. Because man himself is an expression of
the Creative Word, sound has the most potent and immediate effect on him, offering a way
to remembrance of his divine origin. The sankirtan issuing from Sri Yukteswar's
second-story sitting room on the day of the festival was inspiring to the cooks amidst the
steaming pots. My brother disciples and I joyously sang the refrains, beating time with
our hands. By sunset we
had served our hundreds of visitors with khichuri
(rice and lentils), vegetable curry, and rice pudding. We laid cotton blankets over the
courtyard; soon the assemblage was squatting under the starry vault, quietly attentive to
the wisdom pouring from Sri Yukteswar's lips. His public speeches emphasized the value of Kriya Yoga, and a life of self-respect, calmness,
determination, simple diet, and regular exercise. A group of
very young disciples then chanted a few sacred hymns; the meeting concluded with sankirtan. From ten o'clock until midnight, the
ashram residents washed pots and pans, and cleared the courtyard. My guru called me to his
side. "I am
pleased over your cheerful labors today and during the past week of preparations. I want
you with me; you may sleep in my bed tonight." This was a
privilege I had never thought would fall to my lot. We sat awhile in a state of intense
divine tranquillity. Hardly ten minutes after we had gotten into bed, Master rose and
began to dress. "What is
the matter, sir?" I felt a tinge of unreality in the unexpected joy of sleeping
beside my guru. "I think
that a few students who missed their proper train connections will be here soon. Let us
have some food ready." "Guruji,
no one would come at one o'clock in the morning!" "Stay in
bed; you have been working very hard. But I am going to cook." At Sri
Yukteswar's resolute tone, I jumped up and followed him to the small daily-used kitchen
adjacent to the second-floor inner balcony. Rice and
dhal were soon boiling. My guru
smiled affectionately. "Tonight you have conquered fatigue and fear of hard work; you
shall never be bothered by them in the future." As he uttered
these words of lifelong blessing, footsteps sounded in the courtyard. I ran downstairs and
admitted a group of students. "Dear
brother, how reluctant we are to disturb Master at this hour!" One man addressed me
apologetically. "We made a mistake about train schedules, but felt we could not
return home without a glimpse of our guru." "He has
been expecting you and is even now preparing your food." Sri
Yukteswar's welcoming voice rang out; I led the astonished visitors to the kitchen. Master
turned to me with twinkling eyes. "Now
that you have finished comparing notes, no doubt you are satisfied that our guests really
did miss their train!" I followed
him to his bedroom a half hour later, realizing fully that I was about to sleep beside a
godlike guru. |
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