Legacy YM

Chapter 2 - My Mother's Death and the Mystic Amulet

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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 readinessthe 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.

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"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 with the dew, I often observed a strange other-worldly light emerging from the dawn.
Intense pangs of longing for God assailed me. I felt powerfully drawn to the Himalayas.

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One of my cousins, fresh from a period of travel in the holy hills, visited us in Bareilly. I listened
eagerly to his tales about the high mountain abode of yogis and swamis.1

"Let us run away to the Himalayas." My suggestion one day to Dwarka Prasad, the young son of our
landlord in Bareilly, fell on unsympathetic ears. He revealed my plan to my elder brother, who had just
arrived to see Father. Instead of laughing lightly over this impractical scheme of a small boy, Ananta
made it a definite point to ridicule me.

"Where is your orange robe? You can't be a swami without that!"

But I was inexplicably thrilled by his words. They brought a clear picture of myself roaming about
India as a monk. Perhaps they awakened memories of a past life; in any case, I began to see with what
natural ease I would wear the garb of that anciently-founded monastic order.

Chatting one morning with Dwarka, I felt a love for God descending with avalanchic force. My companion
was only partly attentive to the ensuing eloquence, but I was wholeheartedly listening to myself.

I fled that afternoon toward Naini Tal in the Himalayan foothills. Ananta gave determined chase; I was
forced to return sadly to Bareilly. The only pilgrimage permitted me was the customary one at dawn to
the sheoli tree. My heart wept for the lost Mothers, human and divine.

The rent left in the family fabric by Mother's death was irreparable. Father never remarried during his
nearly forty remaining years. Assuming the difficult role of Father-Mother to his little flock, he grew
noticeably more tender, more approachable. With calmness and insight, he solved the various family
problems. After office hours he retired like a hermit to the cell of his room, practicing Kriya
Yoga
in a sweet serenity. Long after Mother's death, I attempted to engage an English nurse to
attend to details that would make my parent's life more comfortable. But Father shook his head.

15

"Service to me ended with your mother." His eyes were remote with a lifelong devotion. "I will not
accept ministrations from any other woman."

Fourteen months after Mother's passing, I learned that she had left me a momentous
message. Ananta was present at her deathbed and had recorded her words. Although she had asked that the
disclosure be made to me in one year, my brother delayed. He was soon to leave Bareilly for Calcutta,
to marry the girl Mother had chosen for him.2 One evening he
summoned me to his side.

"Mukunda, I have been reluctant to give you strange tidings." Ananta's tone held a note of resignation.
"My fear was to inflame your desire to leave home. But in any case you are bristling with divine ardor.
When I captured you recently on your way to the Himalayas, I came to a definite resolve. I must not
further postpone the fulfillment of my solemn promise." My brother handed me a small box, and delivered
Mother's message.

"Let these words be my final blessing, my beloved son Mukunda!" Mother had said. "The hour is here when
I must relate a number of phenomenal events following your birth. I first knew your destined path when
you were but a babe in my arms. I carried you then to the home of my guru in Benares. Almost hidden
behind a throng of disciples, I could barely see Lahiri Mahasaya as he sat in deep meditation.

"While I patted you, I was praying that the great guru take notice and bestow a blessing. As my silent
devotional demand grew in intensity, he opened his eyes and beckoned me to approach. The others made a
way for me; I bowed at the sacred feet. My master seated you on his lap, placing his hand on your
forehead by way of spiritually baptizing you.

"'Little mother, thy son will be a yogi. As a spiritual engine, he will carry many souls to God's
kingdom.'

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"My heart leaped with joy to find my secret prayer granted by the omniscient guru. Shortly before your
birth, he had told me you would follow his path.

"Later, my son, your vision of the Great Light was known to me and your sister Roma, as from the next
room we observed you motionless on the bed. Your little face was illuminated; your voice rang with iron
resolve as you spoke of going to the Himalayas in quest of the Divine.

"In these ways, dear son, I came to know that your road lies far from worldly ambitions. The most
singular event in my life brought further confirmationan event which now impels my deathbed message.

"It was an interview with a sage in the Punjab. While our family was living in Lahore, one morning the
servant came precipitantly into my room.

"'Mistress, a strange sadhu3 is here. He insists that he
"see the mother of Mukunda."'

"These simple words struck a profound chord within me; I went at once to greet the
visitor. Bowing at his feet, I sensed that before me was a true man of God.

"'Mother,' he said, 'the great masters wish you to know that your stay on earth will not be long. Your
next illness shall prove to be your last.'4 There was a silence,
during which I felt no alarm but only a vibration of great peace. Finally he addressed me again:

"'You are to be the custodian of a certain silver amulet. I will not give it to you today; to
demonstrate the truth in my words, the talisman shall materialize in your hands tomorrow as you
meditate. On your deathbed, you must instruct your eldest son Ananta to keep the
amulet for one year and then to hand it over to your second son. Mukunda will understand the meaning of
the talisman from the great ones. He should receive it about the time he is ready to renounce all
worldly hopes and start his vital search for God. When he has retained the amulet for some years, and
when it has served its purpose, it shall vanish. Even if kept in the most secret spot, it shall return
whence it came.'

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"I proffered alms 5 to the saint, and bowed before him in great
reverence. Not taking the offering, he departed with a blessing. The next evening, as I sat with folded
hands in meditation, a silver amulet materialized between my palms, even as the sadhu had
promised. It made itself known by a cold, smooth touch. I have jealously guarded it for more than two
years, and now leave it in Ananta's keeping. Do not grieve for me, as I shall have been ushered by my
great guru into the arms of the Infinite. Farewell, my child; the Cosmic Mother will protect you."

A blaze of illumination came over me with possession of the amulet; many dormant memories awakened. The
talisman, round and anciently quaint, was covered with Sanskrit characters. I understood that it came
from teachers of past lives, who were invisibly guiding my steps. A further significance there was,
indeed; but one does not reveal fully the heart of an amulet.

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How the talisman finally vanished amidst deeply unhappy circumstances of my life; and how its loss was
a herald of my gain of a guru, cannot be told in this chapter.

But the small boy, thwarted in his attempts to reach the Himalayas, daily traveled far on the wings of
his amulet.


Chapter1 - My Parents and Early Life
Chapter2 - My Mother's Death and the Mystic Amulet
Chapter3 - The Saint With Two Bodies
Chapter4 - My Interrupted Flight Toward the Himalayas
Chapter5 - A "Perfume Saint" Displays His Wonders
Chapter6 - The Tiger Swami
Chapter7 - The Levitating Saint
Chapter8 - India's Great Scientist, J.C. Bose
Chapter9 - The Blissful Devotee and His Cosmic Romance
Chapter10 - I Meet My Master, Sri Yukteswar
Chapter11 - Two Penniless Boys in Brindaban
Chapter12 - Years in My Master's Hermitage
Chapter13 - The Sleepless Saint
Chapter14 - An Experience in Cosmic Consciousness
Chapter15 - The Cauliflower Robbery
Chapter16 - Outwitting the Stars
Chapter17 - Sasi and the Three Sapphires
Chapter18 - A Mohammedan Wonder-Worker
Chapter19 - My Master, in Calcutta, Appears in Serampore
Chapter20 - We Do Not Visit Kashmir
Chapter21 - We Visit Kashmir
Chapter22 - The Heart of a Stone Image
Chapter23 - I Receive My University Degree
Chapter24 - I Become a Monk of the Swami Order
Chapter25 - Brother Ananta and Sister Nalini
Chapter26 - The Science of Kriya Yoga
Chapter27 - Founding a Yoga School in Ranchi
Chapter28 - Kashi, Reborn and Rediscovered
Chapter29 - Rabindranath Tagore and I Compare Schools
Chapter30 - The Law of Miracles
Chapter31 - An Interview with the Sacred Mother
Chapter32 - Rama is Raised From the Dead
Chapter33 - Babaji, the Yogi-Christ of Modern India
Chapter34 - Materializing a Palace in the Himalaya
Chapter35 - The Christlike Life of Lahiri Mahasaya
Chapter36 - Babaji's Interest in the West
Chapter37 - I Go to America
Chapter38 - Luther Burbank -- A Saint Amidst the Roses
Chapter39 - Therese Neumann, the Catholic Stigmatist
Chapter40 - I Return to India
Chapter41 - An Idyll in South India
Chapter42 - Last Days With My Guru
Chapter43 - The Resurrection of Sri Yukteswar
Chapter44 - With Mahatma Gandhi in Wardha
Chapter45 - The Bengali "Joy-Permeated" Mother
Chapter46 - The Woman Yogi Who Never Eats
Chapter47 - I Return to the West
Chapter48 - At Encinitas in California
Chapter49 - The Years - 1940 - 1951

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