W. Y. Evans-Wentz, M. A., D. Litt., D. Sc


By Paramhansa Yogananda


W. Y. Evans-Wentz, M.A., D.Litt., D.Sc.





An American Saint

[Illustration: Map of India--see map.gif]


Preface, By W. Y. EVANS-WENTZ

List of Illustrations


1. My Parents and Early Life

2. Mother's Death and the Amulet

3. The Saint with Two Bodies (Swami Pranabananda)

4. My Interrupted Flight Toward the Himalaya

5. A "Perfume Saint" Performs his Wonders

6. The Tiger Swami

7. The Levitating Saint (Nagendra Nath Bhaduri)

8. India's Great Scientist and Inventor, Jagadis Chandra Bose

9. The Blissful Devotee and his Cosmic Romance (Master Mahasaya)

10. I Meet my Master, Sri Yukteswar

11. Two Penniless Boys in Brindaban

12. Years in my Master's Hermitage

13. The Sleepless Saint (Ram Gopal Muzumdar)

14. An Experience in Cosmic Consciousness

15. The Cauliflower Robbery

16. Outwitting the Stars

17. Sasi and the Three Sapphires

18. A Mohammedan Wonder-Worker (Afzal Khan)

19. My Guru Appears Simultaneously in Calcutta and Serampore

20. We Do Not Visit Kashmir

21. We Visit Kashmir

22. The Heart of a Stone Image

23. My University Degree

24. I Become a Monk of the Swami Order

25. Brother Ananta and Sister Nalini

26. The Science of Kriya Yoga

27. Founding of a Yoga School at Ranchi

28. Kashi, Reborn and Rediscovered

29. Rabindranath Tagore and I Compare Schools

30. The Law of Miracles

31. An Interview with the Sacred Mother (Kashi Moni Lahiri)

32. Rama is Raised from the Dead

33. Babaji, the Yogi-Christ of Modern India

34. Materializing a Palace in the Himalayas

35. The Christlike Life of Lahiri Mahasaya

36. Babaji's Interest in the West

37. I Go to America

38. Luther Burbank--An American Saint

39. Therese Neumann, the Catholic Stigmatist of Bavaria

40. I Return to India

41. An Idyl in South India

42. Last Days with my Guru

43. The Resurrection of Sri Yukteswar

44. With Mahatma Gandhi at Wardha

45. The Bengali "Joy-Permeated Mother" (Ananda Moyi Ma)

46. The Woman Yogi who Never Eats (Giri Bala)

47. I Return to the West

48. At Encinitas in California



Map of India

My Father, Bhagabati Charan Ghosh

My Mother

Swami Pranabananda, "The Saint With Two Bodies"

My Elder Brother, Ananta

Festival Gathering in the Courtyard of my Guru's Hermitage in


Nagendra Nath Bhaduri, "The Levitating Saint"

Myself at Age 6

Jagadis Chandra Bose, Famous Scientist

Two Brothers of Therese Neumann, at Konnersreuth

Master Mahasaya, the Blissful Devotee

Jitendra Mazumdar, my Companion on the "Penniless Test" at Brindaban

Ananda Moyi Ma, the "Joy-Permeated Mother"

Himalayan Cave Occupied by Babaji

Sri Yukteswar, My Master

Self-Realization Fellowship, Los Angeles Headquarters

Self-Realization Church of All Religions, Hollywood

My Guru's Seaside Hermitage at Puri

Self-Realization Church of All Religions, San Diego

My Sisters--Roma, Nalini, and Uma

My Sister Uma

The Lord in His Aspect as Shiva

Yogoda Math, Hermitage at Dakshineswar

Ranchi School, Main Building

Kashi, Reborn and Rediscovered

Bishnu, Motilal Mukherji, my Father, Mr. Wright, T.N. Bose, Swami


Group of Delegates to the International Congress of Religious

Liberals, Boston, 1920

A Guru and Disciple in an Ancient Hermitage

Babaji, the Yogi-Christ of Modern India

Lahiri Mahasaya

A Yoga Class in Washington, D.C.

Luther Burbank

Therese Neumann of Konnersreuth, Bavaria

The Taj Mahal at Agra

Shankari Mai Jiew, Only Living Disciple of the great Trailanga Swami

Krishnananda with his Tame Lioness

Group on the Dining Patio of my Guru's Serampore Hermitage

Miss Bletch, Mr. Wright, and myself--in Egypt

Rabindranath Tagore

Swami Keshabananda, at his Hermitage in Brindaban

Krishna, Ancient Prophet of India

Mahatma Gandhi, at Wardha

Giri Bala, the Woman Yogi Who Never Eats

Mr. E. E. Dickinson

My Guru and Myself

Ranchi Students


Conference in San Francisco

Swami Premananda

My Father


By W. Y. EVANS-WENTZ, M.A., D.Litt., D.Sc.

Jesus College, Oxford; Author of




The value of Yogananda's AUTOBIOGRAPHYis greatly enhanced by the

fact that it is one of the few books in English about the wise men

of India which has been written, not by a journalist or foreigner,

but by one of their own race and training--in short, a book ABOUT

yogis BY a yogi. As an eyewitness recountal of the extraordinary

lives and powers of modern Hindu saints, the book has importance

both timely and timeless. To its illustrious author, whom I have

had the pleasure of knowing both in India and America, may every

reader render due appreciation and gratitude. His unusual life-document

is certainly one of the most revealing of the depths of the Hindu

mind and heart, and of the spiritual wealth of India, ever to be

published in the West.

It has been my privilege to have met one of the sages whose

life-history is herein narrated-Sri Yukteswar Giri. A likeness of

the venerable saint appeared as part of the frontispiece of my TIBETAN

YOGA AND SECRET DOCTRINES. {FN1-1} It was at Puri, in Orissa, on

the Bay of Bengal, that I encountered Sri Yukteswar. He was then the

head of a quiet ashrama near the seashore there, and was chiefly

occupied in the spiritual training of a group of youthful disciples.

He expressed keen interest in the welfare of the people of the

United States and of all the Americas, and of England, too, and

questioned me concerning the distant activities, particularly those

in California, of his chief disciple, Paramhansa Yogananda, whom

he dearly loved, and whom he had sent, in 1920, as his emissary to

the West.

Sri Yukteswar was of gentle mien and voice, of pleasing presence,

and worthy of the veneration which his followers spontaneously

accorded to him. Every person who knew him, whether of his own

community or not, held him in the highest esteem. I vividly recall

his tall, straight, ascetic figure, garbed in the saffron-colored

garb of one who has renounced worldly quests, as he stood at the

entrance of the hermitage to give me welcome. His hair was long

and somewhat curly, and his face bearded. His body was muscularly

firm, but slender and well-formed, and his step energetic. He had

chosen as his place of earthly abode the holy city of Puri, whither

multitudes of pious Hindus, representative of every province of

India, come daily on pilgrimage to the famed Temple of Jagannath,

"Lord of the World." It was at Puri that Sri Yukteswar closed his

mortal eyes, in 1936, to the scenes of this transitory state of

being and passed on, knowing that his incarnation had been carried

to a triumphant completion. I am glad, indeed, to be able to record

this testimony to the high character and holiness of Sri Yukteswar.

Content to remain afar from the multitude, he gave himself unreservedly

and in tranquillity to that ideal life which Paramhansa Yogananda,

his disciple, has now described for the ages. W. Y. EVANS-WENTZ

{FN1-1} Oxford University Press, 1935.


I am deeply indebted to Miss L. V. Pratt for her long editorial

labors over the manuscript of this book. My thanks are due also

to Miss Ruth Zahn for preparation of the index, to Mr. C. Richard

Wright for permission to use extracts from his Indian travel diary,

and to Dr. W. Y. Evans-Wentz for suggestions and encouragement.


OCTOBER 28, 1945




The characteristic features of Indian culture have long been

a search for ultimate verities and the concomitant disciple-guru

{FN1-2} relationship. My own path led me to a Christlike sage whose

beautiful life was chiseled for the ages. He was one of the great

masters who are India's sole remaining wealth. Emerging in every

generation, they have bulwarked their land against the fate of

Babylon and Egypt.

I find my earliest memories covering the anachronistic features of

a previous incarnation. Clear recollections came to me of a distant

life, a yogi {FN1-3} amidst the Himalayan snows. These glimpses of

the past, by some dimensionless link, also afforded me a glimpse

of the future.

The helpless humiliations of infancy are not banished from my mind.

I was resentfully conscious of not being able to walk or express

myself freely. Prayerful surges arose within me as I realized

my bodily impotence. My strong emotional life took silent form as

words in many languages. Among the inward confusion of tongues,

my ear gradually accustomed itself to the circumambient Bengali

syllables of my people. The beguiling scope of an infant's mind!

adultly considered limited to toys and toes.

Psychological ferment and my unresponsive body brought me to many

obstinate crying-spells. I recall the general family bewilderment

at my distress. Happier memories, too, crowd in on me: my mother's

caresses, and my first attempts at lisping phrase and toddling

step. These early triumphs, usually forgotten quickly, are yet a

natural basis of self-confidence.

My far-reaching memories are not unique. Many yogis are known

to have retained their self-consciousness without interruption by

the dramatic transition to and from "life" and "death." If man be

solely a body, its loss indeed places the final period to identity.

But if prophets down the millenniums spake with truth, man is

essentially of incorporeal nature. The persistent core of human

egoity is only temporarily allied with sense perception.

Although odd, clear memories of infancy are not extremely rare. During

travels in numerous lands, I have listened to early recollections

from the lips of veracious men and women.

I was born in the last decade of the nineteenth century, and passed

my first eight years at Gorakhpur. This was my birthplace in the

United Provinces of northeastern India. We were eight children: four

boys and four girls. I, Mukunda Lal Ghosh {FN1-4}, was the second

son and the fourth child.

Father and Mother were Bengalis, of the KSHATRIYA caste. {FN1-5} Both

were blessed with saintly nature. Their mutual love, tranquil and

dignified, never expressed itself frivolously. A perfect parental

harmony was the calm center for the revolving tumult of eight young


Father, Bhagabati Charan Ghosh, was kind, grave, at times stern.

Loving him dearly, we children yet observed a certain reverential

distance. An outstanding mathematician and logician, he was guided

principally by his intellect. But Mother was a queen of hearts,

and taught us only through love. After her death, Father displayed

more of his inner tenderness. I noticed then that his gaze often

metamorphosed into my mother's.

In Mother's presence we tasted our earliest bitter-sweet acquaintance

with the scriptures. Tales from the MAHABHARATA and RAMAYANA {FN1-6}

were resourcefully summoned to meet the exigencies of discipline.

Instruction and chastisement went hand in hand.

A daily gesture of respect to Father was given by Mother's dressing us

carefully in the afternoons to welcome him home from the office.

His position was similar to that of a vice-president, in the

Bengal-Nagpur Railway, one of India's large companies. His work

involved traveling, and our family lived in several cities during

my childhood.

Mother held an open hand toward the needy. Father was also kindly

disposed, but his respect for law and order extended to the budget.

One fortnight Mother spent, in feeding the poor, more than Father's

monthly income.

"All I ask, please, is to keep your charities within a reasonable

limit." Even a gentle rebuke from her husband was grievous to Mother.

She ordered a hackney carriage, not hinting to the children at any


"Good-by; I am going away to my mother's home." Ancient ultimatum!

We broke into astounded lamentations. Our maternal uncle arrived

opportunely; he whispered to Father some sage counsel, garnered

no doubt from the ages. After Father had made a few conciliatory

remarks, Mother happily dismissed the cab. Thus ended the only trouble

I ever noticed between my parents. But I recall a characteristic


"Please give me ten rupees for a hapless woman who has just arrived

at the house." Mother's smile had its own persuasion.

"Why ten rupees? One is enough." Father added a justification: "When

my father and grandparents died suddenly, I had my first taste of

poverty. My only breakfast, before walking miles to my school, was

a small banana. Later, at the university, I was in such need that

I applied to a wealthy judge for aid of one rupee per month. He

declined, remarking that even a rupee is important."

"How bitterly you recall the denial of that rupee!" Mother's heart

had an instant logic. "Do you want this woman also to remember

painfully your refusal of ten rupees which she needs urgently?"

"You win!" With the immemorial gesture of vanquished husbands, he

opened his wallet. "Here is a ten-rupee note. Give it to her with

my good will."

Father tended to first say "No" to any new proposal. His attitude

toward the strange woman who so readily enlisted Mother's sympathy

was an example of his customary caution. Aversion to instant

acceptance--typical of the French mind in the West-is really only

honoring the principle of "due reflection." I always found Father

reasonable and evenly balanced in his judgments. If I could bolster

up my numerous requests with one or two good arguments, he invariably

put the coveted goal within my reach, whether it were a vacation

trip or a new motorcycle.

Father was a strict disciplinarian to his children in their early

years, but his attitude toward himself was truly Spartan. He

never visited the theater, for instance, but sought his recreation

in various spiritual practices and in reading the BHAGAVAD GITA.

{FN1-7} Shunning all luxuries, he would cling to one old pair of

shoes until they were useless. His sons bought automobiles after

they came into popular use, but Father was always content with the

trolley car for his daily ride to the office. The accumulation of

money for the sake of power was alien to his nature. Once, after

organizing the Calcutta Urban Bank, he refused to benefit himself

by holding any of its shares. He had simply wished to perform a

civic duty in his spare time.

Several years after Father had retired on a pension, an English

accountant arrived to examine the books of the Bengal-Nagpur Railway

Company. The amazed investigator discovered that Father had never

applied for overdue bonuses.

"He did the work of three men!" the accountant told the company.

"He has rupees 125,000 (about $41,250.) owing to him as back

compensation." The officials presented Father with a check for

this amount. He thought so little about it that he overlooked any

mention to the family. Much later he was questioned by my youngest

brother Bishnu, who noticed the large deposit on a bank statement.

"Why be elated by material profit?" Father replied. "The one who

pursues a goal of evenmindedness is neither jubilant with gain

nor depressed by loss. He knows that man arrives penniless in this

world, and departs without a single rupee."

[Illustration: MY FATHER, Bhagabati Charan Ghosh, A Disciple of

Lahiri Mahasaya--see father1.jpg]

Early in their married life, my parents became disciples of a

great master, Lahiri Mahasaya of Benares. This contact strengthened

Father's naturally ascetical temperament. Mother made a remarkable

admission to my eldest sister Roma: "Your father and myself live

together as man and wife only once a year, for the purpose of having


Father first met Lahiri Mahasaya through Abinash Babu, {FN1-8}

an employee in the Gorakhpur office of the Bengal-Nagpur Railway.

Abinash instructed my young ears with engrossing tales of many Indian

saints. He invariably concluded with a tribute to the superior

glories of his own guru.

"Did you ever hear of the extraordinary circumstances under which

your father became a disciple of Lahiri Mahasaya?"

It was on a lazy summer afternoon, as Abinash and I sat together

in the compound of my home, that he put this intriguing question.

I shook my head with a smile of anticipation.

"Years ago, before you were born, I asked my superior officer-your

father-to give me a week's leave from my Gorakhpur duties in order

to visit my guru in Benares. Your father ridiculed my plan.

"'Are you going to become a religious fanatic?' he inquired.

'Concentrate on your office work if you want to forge ahead.'

"Sadly walking home along a woodland path that day, I met your

father in a palanquin. He dismissed his servants and conveyance,

and fell into step beside me. Seeking to console me, he pointed

out the advantages of striving for worldly success. But I heard

him listlessly. My heart was repeating: 'Lahiri Mahasaya! I cannot

live without seeing you!'

"Our path took us to the edge of a tranquil field, where the rays

of the late afternoon sun were still crowning the tall ripple of

the wild grass. We paused in admiration. There in the field, only

a few yards from us, the form of my great guru suddenly appeared!


"'Bhagabati, you are too hard on your employee!' His voice was

resonant in our astounded ears. He vanished as mysteriously as he

had come. On my knees I was exclaiming, 'Lahiri Mahasaya! Lahiri

Mahasaya!' Your father was motionless with stupefaction for a few


"'Abinash, not only do I give YOU leave, but I give MYSELF leave to

start for Benares tomorrow. I must know this great Lahiri Mahasaya,

who is able to materialize himself at will in order to intercede

for you! I will take my wife and ask this master to initiate us in

his spiritual path. Will you guide us to him?'

"'Of course.' Joy filled me at the miraculous answer to my prayer,

and the quick, favorable turn of events.

"The next evening your parents and I entrained for Benares. We

took a horse cart the following day, and then had to walk through

narrow lanes to my guru's secluded home. Entering his little parlor,

we bowed before the master, enlocked in his habitual lotus posture.

He blinked his piercing eyes and leveled them on your father.

"'Bhagabati, you are too hard on your employee!' His words were the

same as those he had used two days before in the Gorakhpur field.

He added, 'I am glad that you have allowed Abinash to visit me,

and that you and your wife have accompanied him.'

"To their joy, he initiated your parents in the spiritual practice

of KRIYA YOGA. {FN1-10} Your father and I, as brother disciples,

have been close friends since the memorable day of the vision.

Lahiri Mahasaya took a definite interest in your own birth. Your

life shall surely be linked with his own: the master's blessing

never fails."

Lahiri Mahasaya left this world shortly after I had entered it.

His picture, in an ornate frame, always graced our family altar in

the various cities to which Father was transferred by his office.

Many a morning and evening found Mother and me meditating before an

improvised shrine, offering flowers dipped in fragrant sandalwood

paste. With frankincense and myrrh as well as our united devotions,

we honored the divinity which had found full expression in Lahiri


His picture had a surpassing influence over my life. As I grew,

the thought of the master grew with me. In meditation I would often

see his photographic image emerge from its small frame and, taking

a living form, sit before me. When I attempted to touch the feet

of his luminous body, it would change and again become the picture.

As childhood slipped into boyhood, I found Lahiri Mahasaya transformed

in my mind from a little image, cribbed in a frame, to a living,

enlightening presence. I frequently prayed to him in moments of

trial or confusion, finding within me his solacing direction. At

first I grieved because he was no longer physically living. As I

began to discover his secret omnipresence, I lamented no more. He

had often written to those of his disciples who were over-anxious

to see him: "Why come to view my bones and flesh, when I am ever

within range of your KUTASTHA (spiritual sight)?"

I was blessed about the age of eight with a wonderful healing

through the photograph of Lahiri Mahasaya. This experience gave

intensification to my love. While at our family estate in Ichapur,

Bengal, I was stricken with Asiatic cholera. My life was despaired

of; the doctors could do nothing. At my bedside, Mother frantically

motioned me to look at Lahiri Mahasaya's picture on the wall above

my head.

"Bow to him mentally!" She knew I was too feeble even to lift my

hands in salutation. "If you really show your devotion and inwardly

kneel before him, your life will be spared!"

I gazed at his photograph and saw there a blinding light, enveloping

my body and the entire room. My nausea and other uncontrollable

symptoms disappeared; I was well. At once I felt strong enough to

bend over and touch Mother's feet in appreciation of her immeasurable

faith in her guru. Mother pressed her head repeatedly against the

little picture.

"O Omnipresent Master, I thank thee that thy light hath healed my


I realized that she too had witnessed the luminous blaze through

which I had instantly recovered from a usually fatal disease.

One of my most precious possessions is that same photograph. Given

to Father by Lahiri Mahasaya himself, it carries a holy vibration.

The picture had a miraculous origin. I heard the story from Father's

brother disciple, Kali Kumar Roy.

It appears that the master had an aversion to being photographed.

Over his protest, a group picture was once taken of him and

a cluster of devotees, including Kali Kumar Roy. It was an amazed

photographer who discovered that the plate which had clear images

of all the disciples, revealed nothing more than a blank space in

the center where he had reasonably expected to find the outlines

of Lahiri Mahasaya. The phenomenon was widely discussed.

A certain student and expert photographer, Ganga Dhar Babu, boasted

that the fugitive figure would not escape him. The next morning,

as the guru sat in lotus posture on a wooden bench with a screen

behind him, Ganga Dhar Babu arrived with his equipment. Taking every

precaution for success, he greedily exposed twelve plates. On each

one he soon found the imprint of the wooden bench and screen, but

once again the master's form was missing.

With tears and shattered pride, Ganga Dhar Babu sought out his

guru. It was many hours before Lahiri Mahasaya broke his silence

with a pregnant comment:

"I am Spirit. Can your camera reflect the omnipresent Invisible?"

"I see it cannot! But, Holy Sir, I lovingly desire a picture of

the bodily temple where alone, to my narrow vision, that Spirit

appears fully to dwell."

"Come, then, tomorrow morning. I will pose for you."

Again the photographer focused his camera. This time the sacred

figure, not cloaked with mysterious imperceptibility, was sharp on

the plate. The master never posed for another picture; at least,

I have seen none.

The photograph is reproduced in this book. Lahiri Mahasaya's fair

features, of a universal cast, hardly suggest to what race he

belonged. His intense joy of God-communion is slightly revealed in

a somewhat enigmatic smile. His eyes, half open to denote a nominal

direction on the outer world, are half closed also. Completely

oblivious to the poor lures of the earth, he was fully awake at

all times to the spiritual problems of seekers who approached for

his bounty.

Shortly after my healing through the potency of the guru's picture,

I had an influential spiritual vision. Sitting on my bed one morning,

I fell into a deep reverie.

"What is behind the darkness of closed eyes?" This probing thought

came powerfully into my mind. An immense flash of light at once

manifested to my inward gaze. Divine shapes of saints, sitting in

meditation posture in mountain caves, formed like miniature cinema

pictures on the large screen of radiance within my forehead.

"Who are you?" I spoke aloud.

"We are the Himalayan yogis." The celestial response is difficult

to describe; my heart was thrilled.

"Ah, I long to go to the Himalayas and become like you!" The vision

vanished, but the silvery beams expanded in ever-widening circles

to infinity.

"What is this wondrous glow?"

"I am Iswara.{FN1-11} I am Light." The voice was as murmuring


"I want to be one with Thee!"

Out of the slow dwindling of my divine ecstasy, I salvaged a permanent

legacy of inspiration to seek God. "He is eternal, ever-new Joy!"

This memory persisted long after the day of rapture.

Another early recollection is outstanding; and literally so, for

I bear the scar to this day. My elder sister Uma and I were seated

in the early morning under a NEEM tree in our Gorakhpur compound.

She was helping me with a Bengali primer, what time I could spare

my gaze from the near-by parrots eating ripe margosa fruit. Uma

complained of a boil on her leg, and fetched a jar of ointment. I

smeared a bit of the salve on my forearm.

"Why do you use medicine on a healthy arm?"

"Well, Sis, I feel I am going to have a boil tomorrow. I am testing

your ointment on the spot where the boil will appear."

"You little liar!"

"Sis, don't call me a liar until you see what happens in the

morning." Indignation filled me.

Uma was unimpressed, and thrice repeated her taunt. An adamant

resolution sounded in my voice as I made slow reply.

"By the power of will in me, I say that tomorrow I shall have

a fairly large boil in this exact place on my arm; and YOUR boil

shall swell to twice its present size!"

Morning found me with a stalwart boil on the indicated spot; the

dimensions of Uma's boil had doubled. With a shriek, my sister

rushed to Mother. "Mukunda has become a necromancer!" Gravely,

Mother instructed me never to use the power of words for doing

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