I Receive My University Degree
"You ignore your textbook assignments in philosophy. No doubt you are depending on an unlaborious 'intuition' to get you through the examinations. But unless you apply yourself in a more scholarly manner, I shall see to it that you don't pass this course." Professor D. C. Ghoshal of Serampore College was addressing me sternly. If I failed to pass his final written classroom test, I would be ineligible to take the conclusive examinations. These are formulated by the faculty of Calcutta University, which numbers Serampore College among its affiliated branches. In Indian universities a student who is unsuccessful in one subject in the A.B. finals must be examined anew in all his subjects the following year.
My instructors at Serampore College usually treated me with kindness, not untinged with amusement. "Mukunda is a bit over-drunk with religion." Thus summing me up, they tactfully spared me the embarrassment of trying to answer classroom questions; they trusted the final written tests to eliminate me from the list of A.B. candidates. The judgment passed by my fellow students was expressed in their nickname for me — "Mad Monk." I took an ingenious step to nullify Professor Ghoshal's threat to me of failure in philosophy. When the results of the final test were about to be publicly announced, I asked a classmate to accompany me to the professor's study.
"Come along, I want a witness," I told my companion. "I shall be very much disappointed if I have not succeeded in outwitting the instructor." Professor Ghoshal shook his head after I had inquired what rating he had given my paper. "You are not among those who have passed," he said in triumph. He searched through a large pile of sheets on his desk. "Your paper isn't here at all; you have failed, in any case, through non-appearance at the examination."
I chuckled. "Sir, I was there. May I look through the stack myself?" The professor, nonplussed, gave his permission; I quickly found my paper, from which I had carefully omitted any identification mark except my roll-call number. Unwarned by the "red flag" of my name, the instructor had given a high rating to my answers even though they were unembellished by textbook quotations.¹ Seeing through my trick, he now thundered, "Sheer brazen luck!" He added hopefully, "You are sure to fail in the A.B. finals."
For the tests in my other subjects, I received some coaching, particularly from my dear friend and cousin, Prabhas Chandra Ghosh, son of my Uncle Sarada. I staggered painfully but successfully — with the lowest possible passing marks — through all my final tests.
Now, after four years of college, I was eligible to sit for the A.B. examinations. Nevertheless, I hardly expected to avail myself of the privilege. The Serampore College finals were child's play compared to the stiff ones that would be set by Calcutta University for the A.B degree. My almost daily visits to Sri Yukteswar had left me little time to enter the college halls. There my presence rather than my absence would cause my classmates to exclaim in surprise.
The routine I followed almost every day started with my setting out on a bicycle at nine-thirty in the morning. In one hand I would carry an offering for my guru — a few flowers from the garden of my Panthi boardinghouse. Greeting me affably, Master would invite me to lunch. I invariably accepted with alacrity, glad to banish the thought of college for the day. After hours with Sri Yukteswar, listening to his incomparable flow of wisdom or helping with ashram duties, I would reluctantly depart around midnight for the Panthi. Occasionally I stayed all night with my guru, so happily engrossed in his conversation that I scarcely noticed when darkness changed into dawn.
One night about eleven o'clock, as I was putting on my shoes² in preparation for the ride to the boardinghouse, Master questioned me gravely. "When do your A.B. examinations start?" "Five days hence, sir." "I hope you are in readiness for them." Transfixed with alarm, I held one shoe in the air. "Sir," I protested, "you know that my days have been passed with you rather than with the professors. How can I bring myself to enact a farce by appearing for those difficult finals?"
Sri Yukteswar's eyes were turned piercingly on mine. "You must appear." His tone was coldly peremptory. "We should not give cause for your father and other relatives to criticize your preference for ashram life. Just promise me that you will be present for the examinations; answer them the best way you can." Uncontrollable tears were coursing down my face. I felt that Master's command was unreasonable and that his interest was, to say the least, belated.
"I will appear if you wish it," I said with a sob. "But no time remains for proper preparation." To myself I muttered, "In answer to the questions, I will fill up the sheets with your teachings!" When I entered the hermitage the following day at my usual hour, I presented my bouquet mournfully to Sri Yukteswar. He laughed at my woebegone air. "Mukunda, has the Lord ever failed you, at an examination or elsewhere?"
"No, sir," I responded warmly. Grateful memories came in a revivifying flood. "Not laziness but burning zeal for God has prevented you from seeking college honors," my guru said kindly. After a silence, he quoted, "'Seek ye first the kingdom of God, and His righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you.'"³ For the thousandth time, I felt my burdens lifted in Master's presence. When we had finished our early lunch, he suggested that I return to the Panthi.
"Does your friend, Romesh Chandra Dutt, still live in your boardinghouse?" "Yes, sir." "Get in touch with him; the Lord will inspire him to help you with the examinations." "Very well, sir; but Romesh is unusually busy. He is the honor man in our class, and carries a heavier course than the others." Master waved aside my objections. "Romesh will find time for you. Now go." I bicycled back to the Panthi. The first person I met in the boardinghouse compound was the scholarly Romesh. As though his days were quite free, he obligingly agreed to my diffident request.
"Of course! I am at your service." He spent many hours of that day and of each of the next few days in coaching me in my various subjects. "I believe that many questions in the English literature examination will concern the route taken by Childe Harold," he told me. "We must get an atlas at once." I hastened to the home of Uncle Sarada and borrowed an atlas. Romesh marked the European map at the places visited by Byron's romantic traveler.
A few classmates had gathered around to listen to the tutoring. "Romesh is advising you wrongly," one of them commented to me at the end of a session. "Usually only fifty percent of the questions are about the books; the other half involve the authors' lives." When I sat for the examination in English literature, my first glance at the questions caused tears of gratitude to pour down my cheeks, wetting my paper. The classroom monitor came to my desk and made a sympathetic inquiry.
"My great guru foretold that Romesh would help me," I explained. "Look, the very questions suggested to me by Romesh are here on the examination sheet!" I added, "Fortunately for me, there are very few questions this year on British authors, whose lives are wrapped in deep mystery so far as I am concerned." My boardinghouse was in an uproar when I returned. The boys who had been ridiculing me for my faith in Romesh's coaching now almost deafened me with congratulations. During the week of the examinations I continued to spend as much time as possible with Romesh, who formulated questions that he thought were likely to be set by the professors. Day by day, Romesh's questions appeared in almost the same words on the examination sheets.
The news was widely circulated in the college that something resembling a miracle was occurring and that success seemed probable for the absentminded "Mad Monk." I made no attempt to hide the facts of the case. The local professors were powerless to alter the questions, which had been arranged by the faculty of Calcutta University. Thinking over the examination in English literature, I realized one morning that I had made a serious error. Certain questions had been divided into two parts: A or B, and C or D. Instead of considering one question in each part, I had answered both questions in the first section and had carelessly overlooked the second section. The best mark I could possibly score in that paper would be 33 — three points less than the passing mark of 36.
I rushed to Master and poured out my troubles. "Sir, I have made an unpardonable blunder. I don't deserve the divine blessings through Romesh; I am quite unworthy." "Cheer up, Mukunda." Sri Yukteswar's tones were light and unconcerned. He pointed to the blue vault of the heavens. "It is more likely that the sun and moon will interchange their positions in space than that you will fail to get your degree!" I left the hermitage in a more tranquil mood, though it seemed mathematically inconceivable that I could pass. I looked once or twice apprehensively into the sky; the Lord of Day appeared to be secure in his customary orbit.
As I reached the Panthi, I overheard a classmate's remark. "I have just learned that this year, for the first time, the required passing mark in English literature has been lowered." I entered the boy's room with such speed that he looked up in alarm. I questioned him eagerly. "Long-haired monk," he said laughingly, "why this sudden interest in scholastic matters? Why cry in the eleventh hour? But it is true that the passing mark has just been lowered to 33 points."
A few joyous leaps took me to my own room, where I sank to my knees and praised the mathematical perfections of my Divine Father. Each day I thrilled with the consciousness of a Spiritual Presence that I clearly felt to be guiding me through Romesh. A significant incident occurred in connection with my examination in the Bengali-language course. One morning Romesh, who had not coached me in that subject, called to me as I was leaving the boardinghouse on my way to the examination hall.
"There is Romesh shouting for you," a classmate said to me impatiently. "Don't return; we shall be late at the hall." Ignoring the advice, I ran back to the house. "Usually the Bengali examination is easily passed by our Bengali boys," Romesh said. "But I have just had a hunch that this year the professors have planned to 'massacre' the students by asking questions about the requiredreading books." He then outlined two stories from the life of Vidyasagar, a renowned Bengali philanthropist of the nineteenth century.
I thanked Romesh and quickly bicycled to the hall. There I found that the examination sheet in Bengali contained two parts. The first instruction was: "Give two instances of the charities of Vidyasagar."⁴ As I transferred to the paper the lore that I had so recently acquired, I whispered a few words of thanksgiving that I had heeded Romesh's last-minute summons. Had I been ignorant of Vidyasagar's benefactions (which now included one to me), I could not have passed the Bengali examination.
The second instruction on the sheet read: "Write an essay in Bengali on the life of the man who has most inspired you." Gentle reader, I need not inform you what man I chose for my theme. As I covered page after page with praise of my guru, I smiled to realize that my muttered prediction was coming true: "I will fill up the sheets with your teachings!" I had not felt inclined to question Romesh about my course in philosophy. Trusting my long training under Sri Yukteswar, I safely disregarded the textbook explanations. The highest mark given to any of my papers was the one in philosophy. My score in all other subjects was just barely within the passing mark.
It is a pleasure to record that my unselfish friend Romesh received his own degree cum laude. Father was wreathed in smiles at my graduation. "I hardly thought you would pass, Mukunda," he confessed. "You spend so much time with your guru." Master had indeed correctly detected the unspoken criticism of my father. For years I had been uncertain that I would ever see the day when an A.B. could follow my name. I seldom use the title without reflecting that it was a divine gift, conferred on me for reasons somewhat obscure. Occasionally I hear college men remark that very little of their crammed knowledge remained with them after graduation. That admission consoles me a bit for my undoubted academic deficiencies.
On the day in June 1915 that I received my degree from Calcutta University, I knelt at my guru's feet and thanked him for all the blessings flowing from his life² into mine. "Get up, Mukunda," he said indulgently. "The Lord simply found it more convenient to make you a graduate than to rearrange the sun and moon!"
1 I must do Professor Ghoshal the justice of admitting that the strained relations between us were not due to any fault of his, but solely to my absences from classes. Professor Ghoshal is a remarkable orator with vast philosophical knowledge. In later years we came to a cordial understanding. 2 A disciple always removes his shoes in an Indian hermitage. 3 Matthew 6:33. 4 I have forgotten the exact wording of the instruction, but I remember that it concerned the stories Romesh had just told me about Vidyasagar.
Because of his erudition Pundit Ishwar Chandra became widely known in Bengal simply by the title of Vidyasagar ("Ocean of Learning"). 5 The power of influencing others' minds and the course of events is a vibhuti (yogic power) mentioned in Patanjali's Yoga Sutras III:24, which explains it to be a result of "universal sympathy." [Two scholarly books on the Sutras are Yoga-System of Patanjali (Vol. 17, Oriental Series, Harvard Univ.) and Dasgupta's Yoga Philosophy (Trubner's, London).]
All scriptures proclaim that the Lord created man in His omnipotent image. Control over the universe appears to be supernatural, but in truth such power is inherent and natural in everyone who attains "right remembrance" of his divine origin. Men of God-realization like Sri Yukteswar are devoid of the ego-principle (ahamkara) and its upraisings of personal desires; the real masters are in effortless conformity with rita, natural righteousness. In Emerson's words, all great ones become "not virtuous, but Virtue; then is the end of the creation answered, and God is well pleased."
Any man of divine realization could perform miracles, because, like Christ, he understands the subtle laws of creation; but not all masters choose to exercise phenomenal powers. Each saint reflects God in his own way; the expression of individuality is basic in a world where not two grains of sand are exactly alike. Invariable rules may not be formulated about God-illumined saints: some perform miracles, others do not; some are inactive, while others (like King Janaka of ancient India and St. Teresa of Avila) are concerned with large affairs; some teach, travel, and accept disciples, while others pass their lives as silently and unobtrusively as a shadow. No worldly critic can read the secret scroll of karma (past actions) that unrolls for each saint a different script.