We Visit Kashmir
"You are strong enough now to travel. I will accompany you to Kashmir," Sri Yukteswar informed me two days after my miraculous recovery from Asiatic cholera. That evening our party of six entrained for the north. Our first leisurely stop was at Simla, a queenly city resting on the throne of Himalayan hills. We strolled over the steep streets, admiring the magnificent views. "English strawberries for sale," cried an old woman, squatting in a picturesque open marketplace.
Master was curious about the strange little red fruits. He bought a large basket of them and offered it to Kanai and me, who were nearby. I tasted one berry but spat it hastily on the ground. "Sir, what a sour fruit! I could never like strawberries!" My guru laughed. "Oh, you will like them — in America. At a dinner there, your hostess will serve them with sugar and cream. After she has mashed the berries with a fork, you will taste them and say: 'What delicious strawberries!' Then you will remember this day in Simla."
(Sri Yukteswar's forecast vanished from my mind, but reappeared there many years later, shortly after my arrival in America. I was a dinner guest at the home of Mrs. Alice T. Hasey [Sister Yogmata] in West Somerville, Massachusetts. When a dessert of strawberries was put on the table, my hostess picked up a fork and mashed my berries, adding cream and sugar. "The fruit is rather tart; I think you will like it fixed this way," she remarked. I took a mouthful. "What delicious strawberries!" I exclaimed. At once my guru's prediction in Simla emerged from the fathomless cave of memory. I was awestruck to realize that long ago his God-tuned mind had detected the program of karmic events wandering in the ether of futurity.)
Our party soon left Simla and entrained for Rawalpindi. There we hired a large closed-top landau, drawn by two horses, for a seven-day trip to Srinagar, capital of Kashmir. The second day of our northbound journey brought into view the true Himalayan vastness. As the iron wheels of our carriage creaked along the hot, stony roads, we were enraptured with changing vistas of mountainous grandeur. "Sir," Auddy said to Master, "I am greatly enjoying these glorious scenes in your holy company."
I felt a throb of pleasure at Auddy's appreciation, for I was acting as host on this trip. Sri Yukteswar caught my thought; he turned to me and whispered: "Don't flatter yourself; Auddy is not nearly as entranced with the scenery as he is with the prospect of leaving us long enough to have a cigarette."¹ I was shocked. "Sir," I said in an undertone, "please do not break our harmony by these unpleasant words. I can hardly believe that Auddy is hankering for a smoke." I looked apprehensively at my usually irrepressible guru.
"Very well, I won't say anything to Auddy." Master chuckled. "But you will soon see, when the landau halts, that he is quick to seize his opportunity." The carriage arrived at a small caravanserai. As our horses were led to be watered, Auddy inquired, "Sir, do you mind if I ride a while with the driver? I would like to get a little outside air." Sri Yukteswar gave permission, but remarked to me, "He wants fresh smoke and not fresh air."
The landau resumed its noisy progress over the dusty roads. Master's eyes were twinkling; he instructed me: "Crane up your neck through the carriage door and see what Auddy is doing with the air." I obeyed, and was startled to observe Auddy in the act of exhaling rings of cigarette smoke. My glance toward Sri Yukteswar was apologetic. "You are right, as always, sir. Auddy is enjoying a puff along with a panorama." I surmised that my friend had received a gift from the cab driver; I knew that Auddy had not carried any cigarettes from Calcutta.
We continued on the labyrinthine way, delighting in views of rivers, valleys, precipitous crags, and multitudinous mountain tiers. Each night we stopped at a rustic inn and cooked our food. Sri Yukteswar took special care of my diet, insisting that I have lime juice at all meals. I was still weak, but daily improving, though the rattling carriage had been strictly designed for discomfort. Joyous anticipations filled our hearts as we neared central Kashmir: paradise land of lotus lakes, floating gardens, gaily canopied houseboats, the many-bridged Jhelum River, and flower-strewn pastures, all encircled by the Himalayas.
Our approach to Srinagar was through an avenue of tall, welcoming trees. We engaged rooms at a double-storied inn overlooking the noble hills. No running water was available; we drew our supply from a nearby well. The summer weather was ideal: warm days and slightly cold nights. We made a pilgrimage to an ancient Srinagar temple dedicated to Swami Shankara. As I gazed upon the mountain-peak hermitage, bold against the sky, I fell into an ecstatic trance. A vision appeared of a hilltop mansion in a distant land; the lofty Shankara temple in Srinagar became transformed into the edifice where, years later, I established Self-Realization Fellowship headquarters in America. (When I first visited Los Angeles, and saw the large building on the crest of Mount Washington, I recognized it at once from my long-past visions in Kashmir and elsewhere.)
A few days in Srinagar; then on to Gulmarg ("mountain paths of flowers"); eighty-five hundred feet high. There I had my first ride on a large horse. Rajendra mounted a small trotter, one whose heart was fired by ambition for speed. We ventured onto the very steep Khilanmarg; the path led through a dense forest, abounding in tree mushrooms, where the mist-shrouded trails were often precarious. But Rajendra's little animal never permitted my oversized steed a moment's rest, even at the most perilous turns. On, on, untiringly came Rajendra's horse, oblivious to all but the joy of competition.
Our strenuous race was rewarded by a breathtaking view. For the first time in this life, I gazed in all directions at sublime snowcapped Himalayas, lying tier upon tier like silhouettes of huge polar bears. My eyes feasted exultingly on endless reaches of icy mountains against sunny blue skies. I rolled merrily with my young companions, all wearing overcoats, on the sparkling white slopes. On our downward trip we saw afar a vast carpet of yellow flowers, wholly transfiguring the bleak hills.
Our next excursions were to the famous "pleasure gardens" of Emperor Jehangir at Shalimar and Nishat Bagh. The ancient palace at Nishat Bagh is built directly over a natural waterfall. Rushing down from the mountains, the torrent has been regulated through ingenious contrivances to flow over colorful terraces and to gush into fountains amidst the dazzling flower-beds. The stream also enters several of the palace rooms, ultimately dropping fairylike into the lake below. The immense gardens are riotous with color — roses, jasmine, lilies, snapdragons, pansies, lavender, poppies. An emerald encirclement is formed by symmetrical rows of chinars,² cypresses, cherry trees; beyond them tower the white austerities of the Himalayas.
So-called Kashmir grapes are considered a rare delicacy in Calcutta. Rajendra, who had been talking about the grape feast awaiting us in Kashmir, was disappointed to find there no large vineyards. Now and then I chaffed him over his baseless anticipation. "Oh, I have become so much gorged with grapes I can't walk!" I would say. "The invisible grapes are brewing within me!" Later we heard that sweet grapes grow abundantly in Kabul, west of Kashmir. We consoled ourselves with ice cream made of rabri (heavily condensed milk), flavored with whole pistachio nuts.
We took several trips in shikaras, small boats shaded by red-embroidered canopies, coursing along the intricate channels of Dal Lake — a network of canals like a watery spider web. Here the numerous floating gardens, crudely improvised with logs and earth, strike one with amazement, so incongruous is the first sight of vegetables and melons growing in the midst of vast waters. Occasionally one sees a peasant, disdaining to be "rooted to the soil," towing his square plot of "land" to a new location in the many-fingered lake.
In this storied vale one finds an epitome of all the earth's beauties. The Lady of Kashmir is mountain-crowned, lake-garlanded, and flower-shod. In later years, after I had toured many countries, I understood why Kashmir is often called the world's most scenic spot. It possesses some of the charms of the Swiss Alps, and of Loch Lomond in Scotland, and of the exquisite English lakes. An American traveler in Kashmir finds much to remind him of the rugged grandeur of Alaska and of Pikes Peak near Denver.
As entries in a scenic beauty contest, I offer for first prize either the gorgeous view of Xochimilco in Mexico, where skies, mountains, and poplars are reflected, amid playful fish, in myriad lanes of water; or the lakes of Kashmir, guarded like beautiful maidens by the stern surveillance of the Himalayas. These two places stand out in my memory as the loveliest spots on earth. Yet I was awed also when I beheld the wonders of Yellowstone National Park, and of the Grand Canyon of the Colorado, and of Alaska. Yellowstone is perhaps the only region on earth where one may see numerous geysers erupting high in the air with almost clocklike regularity. In this volcanic area Nature has left a specimen of an earlier creation: hot sulphurous springs, opal- and sapphire-colored pools, violent geysers, and freely roaming bears, wolves, bison, and other wild creatures. Motoring along the roads of Wyoming to the "Devil's Paint Pot" of bubbling hot mud, observing the gurgling springs, spouting geysers, and vaporous fountains, I was disposed to say that Yellowstone deserves a special prize for uniqueness.
At Yosemite Park in California the ancient majestic sequoias, stretching huge columns far into the sky, are green natural cathedrals designed with skill divine. Though there are wonderful falls in the Orient, none match the torrential beauty of Niagara in New York on the Canadian border. Mammoth Cave in Kentucky and Carlsbad Caverns in New Mexico are strange fairylands. Long stalactites, hanging from cave ceilings and mirrored in underground waters, present a glimpse of other worlds as fancied by man.
In Kashmir a large number of the people, world-famed for their beauty, are as white as Europeans and have similar features and bone structure; many are blue-eyed and blonde-haired. Dressed in Western clothes they look like Americans. The coldness of the Himalayas affords the Kashmiris relief from the sultry sun and preserves their light complexions. As one travels south to the tropical latitudes of India, he finds progressively that the people are darker and darker.
After spending happy weeks in Kashmir, I was forced to make preparations to return to Bengal for the fall term of Serampore College. Sri Yukteswar, Kanai, and Auddy were to remain in Srinagar a while longer. Shortly before I departed, Master hinted that his body would be subject to suffering in Kashmir. "Sir, you look a picture of health," I protested. "There is a chance that I may even leave this earth." "Guruji!" I fell at his feet with an imploring gesture. "Please promise that you won't leave your body now. I am utterly unprepared to carry on without you."
Sri Yukteswar was silent, but smiled at me so compassionately that I felt reassured. Reluctantly I left him. "Master dangerously ill." This telegram from Auddy reached me shortly after my return to Serampore. "Sir," I wired my guru frantically, "I asked for your promise not to leave me. Please keep your body; otherwise, I also shall die." "Be it as you wish." This was Master's reply from Kashmir. A letter from Auddy arrived in a few days, informing me that Master had recovered. On his return to Serampore during the next fortnight, I was grieved to find my guru's body reduced to half its usual weight.
Fortunately for his disciples, Sri Yukteswar burned many of their sins in the fire of his severe fever in Kashmir. The metaphysical method of physical transfer of disease is known to highly advanced yogis. A strong man may assist a weak one by helping the latter to carry a heavy load; a spiritual superman is able to minimize the physical and mental troubles of his disciples by assuming a part of their karmic burdens. Just as a rich man relinquishes some money when he pays off a large debt for his prodigal son, who is thus saved from the dire consequences of his folly, so a master willingly sacrifices a portion of his bodily wealth to lighten the misery of disciples.²
By a secret yogic method, the saint unites his mind and astral vehicle with those of a suffering individual; the disease is conveyed, wholly or in part, to the yogi's fleshly form. Having harvested God on the physical field, a master is no longer concerned with his body. Though he may allow it to become diseased in order to relieve other persons, his mind, unpollutable, is not affected. He considers himself fortunate in being able to render such aid. To achieve final salvation in the Lord is indeed to find that the human body has completely fulfilled its purpose; a master then uses it in any way he deems fit.
A guru's work in the world is to alleviate the sorrows of mankind, whether through spiritual means or intellectual counsel or will power or physical transfer of disease. Escaping to the superconsciousness whenever he so desires, a master can become oblivious of physical illness; sometimes, to set an example for disciples, he chooses to bear bodily pain stoically. By putting on the ailments of others, a yogi can satisfy, for them, the karmic law of cause and effect. This law is mechanically or mathematically operative; its workings may be scientifically manipulated by men of divine wisdom.
The spiritual law does not require a master to become ill whenever he heals another person. Healings ordinarily take place through the saint's knowledge of various methods of instantaneous cure in which no hurt to the spiritual healer is involved. On rare occasions, however, a master who wishes to quicken greatly his disciples' evolution may then voluntarily work out on his own body a large measure of their undesirable karma. Jesus signified himself as a ransom for the sins of many. With his divine powers,¹ Christ could never have been subjected to death by crucifixion if he had not willingly cooperated with the subtle cosmic law of cause and effect. He thus took on himself the consequences of others' karma, especially that of his disciples. In this manner they were highly purified and made fit to receive the omnipresent consciousness or Holy Ghost that later descended upon them.²
Only a Self-realized master can transfer his life force or convey into his own body the diseases of others. An ordinary man cannot employ this yogic method of cure; nor is it desirable that he should do so, because an unsound physical instrument is a hindrance to deep meditation. The Hindu scriptures teach that an imperative duty of man is to keep his body in good condition; otherwise his mind is unable to remain fixed in devotional concentration.
A very strong mind, however, can transcend all physical difficulties and attain to God-realization. Many saints have ignored illness and succeeded in their divine quest. St. Francis of Assisi, himself severely afflicted with ailments, healed other men, and even raised the dead. I once knew an Indian saint, half of whose body, in his earlier years, had been covered with sores. His diabetic illness had been so acute that he had found it difficult to sit still at one time for more than fifteen minutes. But his spiritual aspiration had been undeterrable. "Lord," he had prayed, "wilt Thou come into my broken temple?" With ceaseless command of will, the saint had gradually become able to sit in the lotus posture daily for eighteen hours, engrossed in the ecstatic trance. "And," he told me, "at the end of three years I found the Infinite Light blazing within me. Rejoicing in Its splendor, I forgot the body. Later I saw that it had become whole through the Divine Mercy."
A historical healing incident concerns King Baber (1483-1530), founder of the Mogul empire in India. His son Humayun⁶ became gravely ill. The father prayed with anguished determination that he receive the malady and that his son be spared. Humayun recovered; Baber immediately fell sick and died of the same disease that had stricken his son. Many persons believe that a great master should have the health and strength of a Sandow.⁷ The assumption is unfounded. A sickly body does not indicate that a guru is lacking in divine powers, any more than lifelong health necessarily indicates inner illumination. The distinguishing qualifications of a master are not physical but spiritual.
Numerous bewildered seekers in the West erroneously think that an eloquent speaker or writer on metaphysics must be a master. Proof that one is a master, however, is supplied only by the ability to enter at will the breathless state (sabikalpa samadhi) and by the attainment of immutable bliss (nirbikalpa samadhi). The rishis have pointed out that solely by these achievements may a human being demonstrate that he has mastered maya, the dualistic cosmic delusion. He alone may say from the depths of realization: "Ekam sat" ("Only One exists").
"When there is duality because of ignorance, one sees all things as distinct from the Self," Shankara, the great monist has written. "When everything is known as the Self, not even an atom is seen as other than the Self....As soon as knowledge of the Reality has sprung up, there can be no fruits of past actions to be experienced, owing to the unreality of the body, just as there can be no dream after waking."
Only great gurus are able to assume the karma of disciples. Sri Yukteswar would not have suffered in Srinagar unless he had received permission from the Spirit within him to help his disciples in that strange way. Few saints were ever more sensitively equipped with wisdom to carry out divine commands than my God-tuned Master. When I ventured a few words of sympathy over his emaciated figure, my guru said gaily: "It has its good points; I am able now to get into some small ganjis (undershirts) that I haven't worn for years!"
Listening to Master's jovial laugh, I remembered the words of St. Francis de Sales: "A saint that is sad is a sad saint!"
Brother Chidananda, an SRF/YSS monastic for over 40 years, is the current president and spiritual head of SRF/YSS. For more information on the SRF/YSS lineage and leadership, please visit our website, www.yogananda.org. Asoka's vast palace at Pataliputra (modern Patna), tells us the structure was of such incredible beauty in its architecture and decorative sculpture that it "could have been the work of no mortal hands."