“‘He must be Babaji!’ I thought, dazed, because the man before me had the features of a younger Lahiri Mahasaya. He answered my thought. ‘Yes, I am Babaji.’ He spoke melodiously in Hindi. ‘Our Heavenly Father has heard Your prayer. He commands me to tell You: Follow the behests of Your guru and go to America. Fear not; you will be protected.’
After a vibrant pause, Babaji addressed me again. ‘You are the one I have chosen to spread the message of Kriya Yoga in the West. Long ago I met Your guru Yukteswar at a Kumbh Mela; I told Him then I would send you to Him for training.’
I was speechless, choked with devotional awe at His presence, and deeply touched to hear from His own lips that He had guided me to Sri Yukteswar. I lay prostrate before the deathless guru. He graciously lifted me from the floor. Telling me many things about my life, He then gave me some personal instruction and uttered a few secret prophecies.
‘Kriya Yoga, the scientific technique of God-realization,’ He finally said with solemnity, ‘will ultimately spread in all lands, and aid in harmonizing the nations through man’s personal, transcendental perception of the Infinite Father.’
With a gaze of majestic power, the Master electrified me by a glimpse of His cosmic consciousness. In a short while, He started toward the door.
‘Do not try to follow me,’ He said. ‘You will not be able to do so.’
‘Please, Babaji, don’t go away!’ I cried repeatedly. ‘Take me with you!’
Looking back, He replied, “Not now. Some other time.”
Overcome by emotion, I disregarded His warning. As I tried to pursue Him, I discovered that my feet were firmly rooted to the floor. From the door, Babaji gave me a last affectionate glance. He raised His hand by way of benediction and walked away, my eyes fixed on Him longingly.
After a few minutes, my feet were free. I sat down and went into a deep meditation, unceasingly thanking God not only for answering my prayer but for blessing me by a meeting with Babaji. My whole body seemed sanctifed through the touch of the ancient, ever-youthful master. Long had it been my burning desire to behold Him.
Until now, I have never recounted to anyone this story of my meeting with Babaji. Holding it as the most sacred of my human experiences, I have hidden it in my heart. But the thought occurred to me that readers of this autobiography may be more inclined to believe in the reality of the secluded Babaji and His world interests if I relate that I saw Him with my own eyes. I have helped an artist to draw a true picture of the great Yogi-Christ of modern India; it appears in this book.
The eve of my departure for the United States found me in Sri Yukteswar’s holy presence. ‘Forget You were born a Hindu, and don’t be an American. Take the best of them both,’ Master said in His calm way of wisdom. ‘Be Your true self, a child of God. Seek and incorporate into Your being the best qualities of all Your brothers, scattered over the Earth in various races.”
Then He blessed me: ‘All those who come to You with faith, seeking God, will be helped. As You look at them, the spiritual current emanating from Your eyes will enter into their brains and change their material habits, making them more God-conscious.’
He went on, ‘Your lot to attract sincere souls is very good. Everywhere you go, even in a wilderness, You will find friends.”
Both of His blessings have been amply demonstrated. I came alone to America, into a wilderness without a single friend, but there I found thousands ready to receive the time-tested soul-teachings.
I left India in August 1920, on ‘The City Of Sparta,’ the first passenger boat sailing for America after the close of World War I. I had been able to book passage only after the removal, in ways fairly miraculous, of many ‘red-tape’ difficulties concerned with the granting of my passport.
During the two-month voyage, a fellow passenger found out that I was the Indian delegate to the Boston congress. ‘Swami Yogananda,’ he said, with the first of many quaint pronunciations by which I was later to hear my name spoken by the Americans, ‘please favor the passengers with a lecture next Thursday night. I think we would all benefit by a talk on “The Battle of Life and How to Fight It.”’
Alas! I had to fight the battle of my own life, I discovered on Wednesday. Desperately trying to organize my ideas into a lecture in English, I finally abandoned all preparations; my thoughts, like a wild colt eyeing a saddle, refused any cooperation with the laws of English grammar. Fully trusting in Master’s past assurances, however, I appeared before my Thursday audience in the saloon of the steamer. No eloquence rose to my lips; speechlessly, I stood before the assemblage. After an endurance contest lasting ten minutes, the audience realized my predicament and began to laugh.
The situation was not funny to me at the moment; indignantly, I sent a silent prayer to Master.
‘You can! Speak!’ His voice sounded instantly within my consciousness. My thoughts fell at once into a friendly relation with the English language. Forty-five minutes later, the audience was still attentive. The talk won me a number of invitations to lecture later before various groups in America.
I never could remember, afterward, a word that I had spoken. By discreet inquiry, I learned from a number of passengers: ‘You gave an inspiring lecture in stirring and correct English.’ At this delightful news, I humbly thanked my guru for His timely help, realizing anew that He was ever with me, setting at naught all barriers of time and space.”
