Trifter

The characteristic features of Indian culture have long been a search for ultimate verities and the concomitant disciple-guru relationship…Though India possesses a civilization more ancient than that of any other country, few historians have noted that her feat of survival is by no means an accident, but a logical incident in the record of devotion to the eternal verities that India has offered through her best men to every generation.

Autobiography of a Yogi

I cannot count the number of times I have urged friends and students to partake of Yogananda’s timeless Autobiography. Often have I recounted how that book transformed my life.

After I devoted myself to his kriya yoga, worldly burdens and desires began to fall away. But one desire, implanted upon my first reading of Autobiography of a Yogi in 1988, remained and enlarged over the years: to make a pilgrimage to the holy land of my guru’s birth, which he described so tantalizingly it became irresistible. With each rereading, the conviction grew: that my physical presence in India would mark a milestone in my spiritual journey.

Wandering day after day over the Holy Land, I was more than ever convinced of the value of pilgrimage.

That desire to visit India with fellow kriyabans was finally fulfilled last September, when I joined 30 members of Swami Kriyananda’s Ananda community for an unforgettable journey to the storied Himalayas, those breathtaking mountains which beckoned Yognanda as he doggedly pursued his singular goal: to find God.

Now it was my turn to experience the treasures of India. After 19 years of fantasizing about it, I was finally being given the great privilege of experiencing the land of rishis firsthand-not as a tourist merely seeing the sights, but as a true pilgrim, joyously entering into divine fellowship with others whose love of God and guru matched my own.

I am very grateful that I passed up previous opportunities to visit India on cultural exchanges, suppressing my usual impatience until the trip of my dreams materialized. How fortunate I felt when the last available spot on the Ananda tour fell to me: an auspicious omen, surely!

When I began receiving emails weeks ahead of departure from tour leaders Keshava Taylor and his wife Daya of Ananda India, I knew I would be in good hands. Not only did they give details of our itinerary- Rishikesh, Badrinath, Devprayag and several holy shrines-they offered useful advice for adjusting to India, its customs, food, climate, roads, etc. They and their able co-leaders, Durga and Vidura Smallen, are to be commended for their thorough preparations that made this an unforgettably rich and precious experience for me and each of the others, half westerners and half Indians. In contrast to other situations in which strangers are thrown together, our little band got along so harmoniously, it seemed as if we had known and loved one another for years. The natives were especially accommodating to us “foreigners.”

Before heading north, we were treated to two unforgettable days at Ananda’s palatial ashram in Gurgaon, outside Delhi, which was celebrating Kriyananda’s 60th year of discipleship. I was transported by the chanting, moving discourse and discipleship vows at the morning puja, where I was captivated by one of the most angelic human beings I have ever seen: Brahmacharya Nirmala’s ageless face fairly glowed with the radiance of divine love, her sweet voice a melodious tribute to our Master’s teachings.

That night, the nearby community center was covered in garlands and silks to honor Swami Kriyanada, who gave a stirring talk about his remarkable journey and the great truths Yogananda had taught him. Amidst great revelry, the consummate disciple presented each of us with his just-completed supplement to his Bhagavad Gita commentaries.

Memorable as these Ananda events were, they were mere prelude to the wonders that awaited us to the north.

Baptism in the Ganges

A train carried us to Hardiwar, where we transferred to eight sturdy jeeps flying orange flags that would take us the rest of the way. The land grew ever more mountainous as our skilled drivers negotiated curvy, congested (sometimes washed-out) roads. It was nearly sunset when we arrived at the picturesque mountain village of Devprayag, where the Bhagirathi and Alaknanda Rivers meet to form the Ganges. This marked the site of “baptism.”

Happily crossing the footbridge, where a friendly tan cow nuzzled me, we ambled along the opposite banks by the gorgeous, swiftly flowing waters, thence down concrete steps into the actual confluence, enclosed by floating metal railings. Durga began chanting “Lord I am thine” to harmonium accompaniment, and soon had us all singing along as we entered the chilly water. Dhoti-clad priests recited incantations and blessings, as we allowed the sacred waters to work their magic.

Indian lore decrees that thrice immersing one’s body fully into these headwaters washes away sins and assures long life and prosperity. I was reluctant to go all the way under (“Wimpy Americans!”), but as I watched others doing so and happily emerge, I agreed to follow suit. With the Smallens holding my hands, I nervously took the plunge - once, then twice more.

Hesitation turned to joy, then exhilaration as I experienced the rejuvenating effects of this sacred ritual. Suddenly I felt like a child again, playfully splashing in the Hindus’ holiest river. The priests then presented us with tiny “boats” made of pipal leaves and filled with prasad, flower petals and lit candles, which we launched into the Ganges as a symbol of our reverence. What an awe-inspiring sight against the sun dipping behind the mountains!

The joy of this unexpected soaking lasted throughout the evening, when we gathered on the terrace of our riverside hotel for the first of twice-daily satsangs that would open us to even greater experiences. “It cannot but change you,” our leaders assured us. Indeed, was that not why we had come?

Following the Alaknanda the better part of the next day, ever higher we climbed until at last we reached Badrinath, one of India’s holiest pilgrimage sites. The long jeep rides, shared meals and walks gave us ample opportunity to get acquainted; how much deeper are the conversations of pilgrims, compared to ordinary tourists!

Long before sunrise next morning, we attended a puja in the temple, where an ancient statue of Badrinarayan, flanked by images of Ganesha and other Hindu deities, is enshrined in the gold-and-silver-encrusted inner sanctum. The long-winded rituals frankly left me cold, as we huddled together on the rough carpet in semi-darkness; but of course, devout Hindus who had traveled far for this 4-times-daily event were entranced. The following afternoon, we made our way through the bustling city to be received by the young head priest, who spoke animatedly about his training and duties and gave us each sanctified prasad wrapped in gauze, to be placed on our altars.

“Just look how I have changed Walter (Kriyananda)!” Yogananda, quoted in The Path, Swami Kriyananda’s autobiography. That line resounded repeatedly in my mind as we climbed the steep stone path above Badrinath that led to the remote abode of Baxa Wale Baba, a disciple of the deathless Mahavatar Babaji (reputedly the reincarnation of Lord Krishna). My intuition told me this long journey would change my consciousness almost as much as Yogananda’s autobiography had, and by the time we reached the saint’s rarefied peak, 11,000 feet above sea level, I was already feeling the subtle transformation within my being.

My soul leapt high in the presence of this holy man sitting serenely cross-legged beneath a tinsel-trimmed tarpaulin. This would mark the highlight of a journey filled with grace.

We were told that Baxa Wale had long observed silence, and communicated only by writing a few words on a slate beside him. During the icy Himalayan winters, when Badrinath was evacuated and closed down, he would go into samadhi and place his body in a metal box while his spirit reveled in the company of the great Babaji.

The renunciant lived very simply, but graciously followed the custom of offering sweetmeats to his guests. With a pair of his German disciples looking on, we exchanged a few pleasantries. As our Indian companions helpfully translated his written Hindi into English, we seemed to be feeling one another out. Was he really a highly enlightened being, as his reputation suggested? Were we truly sincere devotees of Yogananda?

Then came the “miracle:” the saint began to speak aloud! Satisfied perhaps with our devotional ardor, he treated us to a long, spirited discourse in English and Hindi about his own spiritual journey from intellectually aloof Sanskrit professor to bereaved widower to wandering ascetic seeking answers in the Himalayas. When he described how he met Babaji for the first time, his face glowed with emotion at the wondrous event. I felt his relived ecstasy welling up within me as, in trembling voice, hands over his heart, he spoke of the seven-foot tall, golden figure who appeared out of the Himalayan night to claim his disciple. It was he, said the saint, who inwardly commanded him to speak to us.

With a gaze of majestic power, the master electrified me with a glimpse of his cosmic consciousness… Yogananda describing his meeting with Babaji, ibid

Baxa Wale had already spent many years practicing extreme austerities under Babaji’s protection. 2007, he said, would be his last year before embarking on three more years of seclusion, after which he planned to move to Germany where he has a loyal following. In that year-2011-he indicated that those of us who have been praying for a glimpse of his elusive guru will finally get their wish!

“You are very lucky,” one of the disciples told me as I examined the large metal box where his body spent the winters. “Except for a few words, he has not spoken for fifteen years.” Already feeling blessed by his generous hospitality, these words made my spirit soar. What a rare privilege to be among the first to hear him break his long silence! But even if he had not spoken, his holy vibrations were so palpable, we could not fail to absorb them. We met two other saints on our descent. Enlightened as they were, their auras paled beside Baxa Wale’s.

“I was conscious always that I was in the presence of a living manifestation of God. The weight of his divinity automatically bowed my head before him.”

Yogananda on Sri Yukteswar, Autobiography of a Yogi

While meeting living saints is a rare honor, the greatest rewards of pilgrimage lie within one’s own consciousness. Like the rishis who have long inhabited these soaring mountains, we took every opportunity to meditate in their cave-shrines.

The first was in the village of Mana, accessible only by foot, near the Tibetan border. A sign at the cave’s entrance declared it to be the erstwhile writing-place of Vyasa, author of the Mahabarata, over 5000 years ago. Only about a dozen people could fit inside at a time, so we took turns imbibing its holy vibrations.

Having already enjoyed visions of Ganesha and my beloved Yogananda while meditating at the temple that morning, I was now able to concentrate more deeply than I had in years, and was rewarded with a vision of a gigantic peacock climbing the hill. Our guide told me this beautiful bird was the transport of a Hindu god, symbolizing prosperity and health, and reminded me that Lord Krishna wore a peacock feather to represent the Spiritual Eye.

Still reeling from this marvelous vision, I hardly anticipated the greater wonders ahead: the magnificent source of the Saraswati River, thundering from between huge boulders into its short bed below us, surrounded on all sides by the great Himalayas. We had already seen dozens of gorgeous waterfalls as we drove north, but this one, spraying rainbows as it cascaded over the crags, overwhelmed us with its beauty.

From this vantage point, we viewed the whole northern course of the Saraswati before it plunges underground, to emerge 300 km south at Allahabad. The natural bridge led us to yet another fabled site: the Stairway to Heaven leading to the snow-covered Neelkanth mountain, where the Pandavas exited at the end of the Mahabarata. Here, our leaders regaled us with Indian folklore as we drank in the majesties of this hallowed land.

Another cave-Ganesha’s-awaited us as we walked back through Mana. It happened to be his birthday that day, so monks were celebrating with gay chants and flowers as pilgrims squeezed between its hallowed walls.

Outward and inward glories

Glorious as were the mountains the most beautiful I had ever seen-even more so were the inward glories I discovered in the depths of my own being. With each successive cave-meditation, my spirit ascended higher still: Adi Shankaracharya’s at Josimath boasts the 2500-year-old mulberry tree under which he attained enlightenment; I could have spent days there. Inside Vaishistha’s cave near an ashram outside Rishikesh-where I could have settled forever–the spirits of many rishis ushered me past layer after layer of useless karma, washing away the dross of the past, carrying me to the shores of bliss. Here I learned not to get caught up in the visions, fascinating as they were, but to keep moving beyond them.

Rishikesh, “the Mecca of Yoga,” is the home of many ashrams, including a round Kriya Yoga center still being constructed by Swami Shankarananda, a spiritual “cousin” to us Yogananda devotees. A few miles away, we visited the “granddaddy” of the ashrams, the Divine Light Society of Swami Sivananda, the great sage who revived the neglected town in the 20th century. Both of these beautiful structures proved ideal for meditation.

One evening I asked [Mr. Wright, his American secretary] a question.

“Dick, what is your impression of India?”

“Peace,” he said thoughtfully. “The racial aura is peace.” Yogananda, ibid

Before ending our pilgrimage, we went shopping in Rishikesh’s teeming marketplace. Crossing the footbridge, the first person I saw was a street vendor covered in peacock-feather fans. Recalling my vision in Vyasa’s cave (and seeking respite from the sweltering heat!), I had to add one to my souvenirs of this never-to-be-forgotten trip. Completing the transaction, I noticed the rest of our party had gone ahead without me, leaving me alone in the crowd.

Being abandoned in a foreign country would once have filled me with dread; but now I felt not the least fearful, sure I would soon catch up with my companions. This sense of safety, I realized, was enticing evidence of how the trip was changing me. Never had I felt such sustained calmness in unfamiliar circumstances. It had lasted the entire pilgrimage - and beyond! Impatience, also, had dissolved. To cement my newfound confidence, I later spent two more hours alone exploring Rishikesh by foot, auto-rickshaw and boat.

By the time we boarded the evening train back to Delhi, we felt an eternal bond as disciples of one of the greatest masters India had ever produced: our own Parmahansa Yogananda, sent to America by Babaji in 1920. Both are dearer to me now that I have been to India-cherished memories that will feed my soul for the rest of my life. The trip exceeded my high expectations-except one: to ride a decorated Indian elephant. Ah well, maybe next time…

Where Ganges, woods, Himalayan caves and men dream God,
I am hallowed; my body touched that sod.
Last words of Yogananda, from his poem “My India”