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Autobiography of a Yogi von Yogananda, Paramahansa (eBook)

  • Erscheinungsdatum: 14.08.2016
  • Verlag: anboco
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Autobiography of a Yogi

My Parents and Early Life Mother's Death and the Amulet The Saint with Two Bodies (Swami Pranabananda) My Interrupted Flight Toward the Himalaya A 'Perfume Saint' Performs his Wonders The Tiger Swami The Levitating Saint (Nagendra Nath Bhaduri) India's Great Scientist and Inventor, Jagadis Chandra Bose The Blissful Devotee and his Cosmic Romance (Master Mahasaya) I Meet my Master, Sri Yukteswar Two Penniless Boys in Brindaban Years in my Master's Hermitage The Sleepless Saint (Ram Gopal Muzumdar) An Experience in Cosmic Consciousness The Cauliflower Robbery Outwitting the Stars Sasi and the Three Sapphires A Mohammedan Wonder-Worker (Afzal Khan) My Guru Appears Simultaneously in Calcutta and Serampore We Do Not Visit Kashmir We Visit Kashmir The Heart of a Stone Image My University Degree I Become a Monk of the Swami Order Brother Ananta and Sister Nalini The Science of Kriya Yoga Founding of a Yoga School at Ranchi Kashi, Reborn and Rediscovered Rabindranath Tagore and I Compare Schools The Law of Miracles An Interview with the Sacred Mother (Kashi Moni Lahiri) Rama is Raised from the Dead Babaji, the Yogi-Christ of Modern India Materializing a Palace in the Himalayas The Christlike Life of Lahiri Mahasaya Babaji's Interest in the West I Go to America Luther Burbank -- An American Saint Therese Neumann, the Catholic Stigmatist of Bavaria I Return to India An Idyl in South India Last Days with my Guru The Resurrection of Sri Yukteswar With Mahatma Gandhi at Wardha The Bengali 'Joy-Permeated Mother' (Ananda Moyi Ma) The Woman Yogi who Never Eats (Giri Bala) I Return to the West At Encinitas in California


    Format: ePUB
    Kopierschutz: watermark
    Seitenzahl: 500
    Erscheinungsdatum: 14.08.2016
    Sprache: Englisch
    ISBN: 9783736408661
    Verlag: anboco
    Größe: 1734 kBytes
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Autobiography of a Yogi


My Mother's Death And The Mystic Amulet

My mother's greatest desire was the marriage of my elder brother. "Ah, when I behold the face of Ananta's wife, I shall find heaven on this earth!" I frequently heard Mother express in these words her strong Indian sentiment for family continuity.

I was about eleven years old at the time of Ananta's betrothal. Mother was in Calcutta, joyously supervising the wedding preparations. Father and I alone remained at our home in Bareilly in northern India, whence Father had been transferred after two years at Lahore.

I had previously witnessed the splendor of nuptial rites for my two elder sisters, Roma and Uma; but for Ananta, as the eldest son, plans were truly elaborate. Mother was welcoming numerous relatives, daily arriving in Calcutta from distant homes. She lodged them comfortably in a large, newly acquired house at 50 Amherst Street. Everything was in readiness-the banquet delicacies, the gay throne on which Brother was to be carried to the home of the bride-to-be, the rows of colorful lights, the mammoth cardboard elephants and camels, the English, Scottish and Indian orchestras, the professional entertainers, the priests for the ancient rituals.

Father and I, in gala spirits, were planning to join the family in time for the ceremony. Shortly before the great day, however, I had an ominous vision.

It was in Bareilly on a midnight. As I slept beside Father on the piazza of our bungalow, I was awakened by a peculiar flutter of the mosquito netting over the bed. The flimsy curtains parted and I saw the beloved form of my mother.

"Awaken your father!" Her voice was only a whisper. "Take the first available train, at four o'clock this morning. Rush to Calcutta if you would see me!" The wraithlike figure vanished.

"Father, Father! Mother is dying!" The terror in my tone aroused him instantly. I sobbed out the fatal tidings.

"Never mind that hallucination of yours." Father gave his characteristic negation to a new situation. "Your mother is in excellent health. If we get any bad news, we shall leave tomorrow."

"You shall never forgive yourself for not starting now!" Anguish caused me to add bitterly, "Nor shall I ever forgive you!"

The melancholy morning came with explicit words: "Mother dangerously ill; marriage postponed; come at once."

Father and I left distractedly. One of my uncles met us en route at a transfer point. A train thundered toward us, looming with telescopic increase. From my inner tumult, an abrupt determination arose to hurl myself on the railroad tracks. Already bereft, I felt, of my mother, I could not endure a world suddenly barren to the bone. I loved Mother as my dearest friend on earth. Her solacing black eyes had been my surest refuge in the trifling tragedies of childhood.

"Does she yet live?" I stopped for one last question to my uncle.

"Of course she is alive!" He was not slow to interpret the desperation in my face. But I scarcely believed him.

When we reached our Calcutta home, it was only to confront the stunning mystery of death. I collapsed into an almost lifeless state. Years passed before any reconciliation entered my heart. Storming the very gates of heaven, my cries at last summoned the Divine Mother. Her words brought final healing to my suppurating wounds:

"It is I who have watched over thee, life after life, in the tenderness of many mothers! See in My gaze the two black eyes, the lost beautiful eyes, thou seekest!"

Father and I returned to Bareilly soon after the crematory rites for the well-beloved. Early every morning I made a pathetic memorial- pilgrimage to a large sheoli tree which shaded the smooth, green-gold lawn before our bungalow. In poetical moments, I thought that the white sheoli flowers were strewing themselves with a willing devotion over the grassy altar. Mingling tears wi

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