Autobiography of a Yogi. Paramahansa Yogananda

to slay us all. Thoughtless is the man who buries his ideals, surrendering to the common fate. Can he seem other than impotent, wooden, ignominious?"

      "Respected Sir, have you no sympathy for the bewildered masses?"

      The sage was silent for a moment, then answered obliquely.

      "To love both the invisible God, Repository of All Virtues, and visible man, apparently possessed of none, is often baffling! But ingenuity is equal to the maze. Inner research soon exposes a unity in all human minds-the stalwart kinship of selfish motive. In one sense at least, the brotherhood of man stands revealed. An aghast humility follows this leveling discovery. It ripens into compassion for one's fellows, blind to the healing potencies of the soul awaiting exploration."

      "The saints of every age, sir, have felt like yourself for the sorrows of the world."

      "Only the shallow man loses responsiveness to the woes of others' lives, as he sinks into narrow suffering of his own." The SADHU'S austere face was noticeably softened. "The one who practices a scalpel self-dissection will know an expansion of universal pity. Release is given him from the deafening demands of his ego. The love of God flowers on such soil. The creature finally turns to his Creator, if for no other reason than to ask in anguish: 'Why, Lord, why?' By ignoble whips of pain, man is driven at last into the Infinite Presence, whose beauty alone should lure him."

      The sage and I were present in Calcutta's Kalighat Temple, whither I had gone to view its famed magnificence. With a sweeping gesture, my chance companion dismissed the ornate dignity.

      "Bricks and mortar sing us no audible tune; the heart opens only to the human chant of being."

      We strolled to the inviting sunshine at the entrance, where throngs of devotees were passing to and fro.

      "You are young." The sage surveyed me thoughtfully. "India too is young. The ancient rishis ^5–3 laid down ineradicable patterns of spiritual living. Their hoary dictums suffice for this day and land. Not outmoded, not unsophisticated against the guiles of materialism, the disciplinary precepts mold India still. By millenniums-more than embarrassed scholars care to compute!-the skeptic Time has validated Vedic worth. Take it for your heritage."

      As I was reverently bidding farewell to the eloquent sadhu, he revealed a clairvoyant perception:

      "After you leave here today, an unusual experience will come your way."

      I quitted the temple precincts and wandered along aimlessly. Turning a corner, I ran into an old acquaintance-one of those long-winded fellows whose conversational powers ignore time and embrace eternity.

      "I will let you go in a very short while, if you will tell me all that has happened during the six years of our separation."

      "What a paradox! I must leave you now."

      But he held me by the hand, forcing out tidbits of information. He was like a ravenous wolf, I thought in amusement; the longer I spoke, the more hungrily he sniffed for news. Inwardly I petitioned the Goddess Kali to devise a graceful means of escape.

      My companion left me abruptly. I sighed with relief and doubled my pace, dreading any relapse into the garrulous fever. Hearing rapid footsteps behind me, I quickened my speed. I dared not look back. But with a bound, the youth rejoined me, jovially clasping my shoulder.

      "I forgot to tell you of Gandha Baba (Perfume Saint), who is gracing yonder house." He pointed to a dwelling a few yards distant. "Do meet him; he is interesting. You may have an unusual experience. Good-by," and he actually left me.

      The similarly worded prediction of the sadhu at Kalighat Temple flashed to my mind. Definitely intrigued, I entered the house and was ushered into a commodious parlor. A crowd of people were sitting, Orient-wise, here and there on a thick orange-colored carpet. An awed whisper reached my ear:

      "Behold Gandha Baba on the leopard skin. He can give the natural perfume of any flower to a scentless one, or revive a wilted blossom, or make a person's skin exude delightful fragrance."

      I looked directly at the saint; his quick gaze rested on mine. He was plump and bearded, with dark skin and large, gleaming eyes.

      "Son, I am glad to see you. Say what you want. Would you like some perfume?"

      "What for?" I thought his remark rather childish.

      "To experience the miraculous way of enjoying perfumes."

      "Harnessing God to make odors?"

      "What of it? God makes perfume anyway."

      "Yes, but He fashions frail bottles of petals for fresh use and discard. Can you materialize flowers?"

      "I materialize perfumes, little friend."

      "Then scent factories will go out of business."

      "I will permit them to keep their trade! My own purpose is to demonstrate the power of God."

      "Sir, is it necessary to prove God? Isn't He performing miracles in everything, everywhere?"

      "Yes, but we too should manifest some of His infinite creative variety."

      "How long did it take to master your art?"

      "Twelve years."

      "For manufacturing scents by astral means! It seems, my honored saint, you have been wasting a dozen years for fragrances which you can obtain with a few rupees from a florist's shop."

      "Perfumes fade with flowers."

      "Perfumes fade with death. Why should I desire that which pleases the body only?"

      "Mr. Philosopher, you please my mind. Now, stretch forth your right hand." He made a gesture of blessing.

      I was a few feet away from Gandha Baba; no one else was near enough to contact my body. I extended my hand, which the yogi did not touch.

      "What perfume do you want?"

      "Rose."

      "Be it so."

      To my great surprise, the charming fragrance of rose was wafted strongly from the center of my palm. I smilingly took a large white scentless flower from a near-by vase.

      "Can this odorless blossom be permeated with jasmine?"

      "Be it so."

      A jasmine fragrance instantly shot from the petals. I thanked the wonder-worker and seated myself by one of his students. He informed me that Gandha Baba, whose proper name was Vishudhananda, had learned many astonishing yoga secrets from a master in Tibet. The Tibetan yogi, I was assured, had attained the age of over a thousand years.

      "His disciple Gandha Baba does not always perform his perfume-feats in the simple verbal manner you have just witnessed." The student spoke with obvious pride in his master. "His procedure differs widely, to accord with diversity in temperaments. He is marvelous! Many members of the Calcutta intelligentsia are among his followers."

      I inwardly resolved not to add myself to their number. A guru too literally "marvelous" was not to my liking. With polite thanks to Gandha Baba, I departed. Sauntering home, I reflected on the three varied encounters the day had brought forth.

      My sister Uma met me as I entered our Gurpar Road door.

      "You are getting quite stylish, using perfumes!"

      Without a word, I motioned her to smell my hand.

      "What an attractive rose fragrance! It is unusually strong!"

      Thinking it was "strongly unusual," I silently placed the astrally scented blossom under her nostrils.

      "Oh, I love jasmine!" She seized the flower. A ludicrous bafflement passed over her face as she repeatedly sniffed the odor of jasmine from a type of flower she well knew to be scentless. Her reactions disarmed my suspicion that Gandha Baba had induced an auto-suggestive state whereby