Ram Gopal - The Sleepless Saint

[Guest guest]

The Sleepless Saint

 

"Please permit me to go to the Himalayas. I hope in unbroken solitude

to achieve continuous divine communion."

I actually once addressed these ungrateful words to my Master. Seized

by one of the unpredictable delusions which occasionally assail the

devotee, I felt a growing impatience with hermitage duties and

college studies. A feebly extenuating circumstance is that my

proposal was made when I had been only six months with Sri Yukteswar.

Not yet had I fully surveyed his towering stature.

"Many hillmen live in the Himalayas, yet possess no God-perception."

My guru's answer came slowly and simply. "Wisdom is better sought

from a man of realization than from an inert mountain."

Ignoring Master's plain hint that he, and not a hill, was my teacher,

I repeated my plea. Sri Yukteswar vouchsafed no reply. I took his

silence for consent, a precarious interpretation readily accepted at

one's convenience.

In my Calcutta home that evening, I busied myself with travel

preparations. Tying a few articles inside a blanket, I remembered a

similar bundle, surreptitiously dropped from my attic window a few

years earlier. I wondered if this were to be another ill-starred

flight toward the Himalayas. The first time my spiritual elation had

been high; tonight conscience smote heavily at thought of leaving my

guru.

The following morning I sought out Behari Pundit, my Sanskrit

professor at Scottish Church College.

"Sir, you have told me of your friendship with a great disciple of

Lahiri Mahasaya. Please give me his address."

"You mean Ram Gopal Muzumdar. I call him the 'sleepless saint.' He is

always awake in an ecstatic consciousness. His home is at Ranbajpur,

near Tarakeswar."

I thanked the pundit, and entrained immediately for Tarakeswar. I

hoped to silence my misgivings by wringing a sanction from

the "sleepless saint" to engage myself in lonely Himalayan

meditation. Behari's friend, I heard, had received illumination after

many years of Kriya Yoga practice in isolated caves.

At Tarakeswar I approached a famous shrine. Hindus regard it with the

same veneration that Catholics give to the Lourdes sanctuary in

France. Innumerable healing miracles have occurred at Tarakeswar,

including one for a member of my family.

"I sat in the temple there for a week," my eldest aunt once told

me. "Observing a complete fast, I prayed for the recovery of your

Uncle Sarada from a chronic malady. On the seventh day I found a herb

materialized in my hand! I made a brew from the leaves, and gave it

to your uncle. His disease vanished at once, and has never

reappeared."

I entered the sacred Tarakeswar shrine; the altar contains nothing

but a round stone. Its circumference, beginningless and endless,

makes it aptly significant of the Infinite. Cosmic abstractions are

not alien even to the humblest Indian peasant; he has been accused by

Westerners, in fact, of living on abstractions!

My own mood at the moment was so austere that I felt disinclined to

bow before the stone symbol. God should be sought, I reflected, only

within the soul.

I left the temple without genuflection and walked briskly toward the

outlying village of Ranbajpur. My appeal to a passer-by for guidance

caused him to sink into long cogitation.

"When you come to a crossroad, turn right and keep going," he finally

pronounced oracularly.

Obeying the directions, I wended my way alongside the banks of a

canal. Darkness fell; the outskirts of the jungle village were alive

with winking fireflies and the howls of near-by jackals. The

moonlight was too faint to supply any reassurance; I stumbled on for

two hours.

Welcome clang of a cowbell! My repeated shouts eventually brought a

peasant to my side.

"I am looking for Ram Gopal Babu."

"No such person lives in our village." The man's tone was surly. "You

are probably a lying detective."

Hoping to allay suspicion in his politically troubled mind, I

touchingly explained my predicament. He took me to his home and

offered a hospitable welcome.

"Ranbajpur is far from here," he remarked. "At the crossroad, you

should have turned left, not right."

My earlier informant, I thought sadly, was a distinct menace to

travelers. After a relishable meal of coarse rice, lentil-dhal, and

curry of potatoes with raw bananas, I retired to a small hut

adjoining the courtyard. In the distance, villagers were singing to

the loud accompaniment of mridangas 1 and cymbals. Sleep was

inconsiderable that night; I prayed deeply to be directed to the

secret yogi, Ram Gopal.

As the first streaks of dawn penetrated the fissures of my dark room,

I set out for Ranbajpur. Crossing rough paddy fields, I trudged over

sickled stumps of the prickly plant and mounds of dried clay. An

occasionally-met peasant would inform me, invariably, that my

destination was "only a krosha (two miles)." In six hours the sun

traveled victoriously from horizon to meridian, but I began to feel

that I would ever be distant from Ranbajpur by one krosha.

At midafternoon my world was still an endless paddy field. Heat

pouring from the avoidless sky was bringing me to near-collapse. As a

man approached at leisurely pace, I hardly dared utter my usual

question, lest it summon the monotonous: "Just a krosha."

The stranger halted beside me. Short and slight, he was physically

unimpressive save for an extraordinary pair of piercing dark eyes.

"I was planning to leave Ranbajpur, but your purpose was good, so I

awaited you." He shook his finger in my astounded face. "Aren't you

clever to think that, unannounced, you could pounce on me? That

professor Behari had no right to give you my address."

Considering that introduction of myself would be mere verbosity in

the presence of this master, I stood speechless, somewhat hurt at my

reception. His next remark was abruptly put.

"Tell me; where do you think God is?"

"Why, He is within me and everywhere." I doubtless looked as

bewildered as I felt.

"All-pervading, eh?" The saint chuckled. "Then why, young sir, did

you fail to bow before the Infinite in the stone symbol at the

Tarakeswar temple yesterday?2 Your pride caused you the punishment of

being misdirected by the passer-by who was not bothered by fine

distinctions of left and right. Today, too, you have had a fairly

uncomfortable time of it!"

I agreed wholeheartedly, wonder-struck that an omniscient eye hid

within the unremarkable body before me. Healing strength emanated

from the yogi; I was instantly refreshed in the scorching field.

"The devotee inclines to think his path to God is the only way," he

said. "Yoga, through which divinity is found within, is doubtless the

highest road: so Lahiri Mahasaya has told us. But discovering the

Lord within, we soon perceive Him without. Holy shrines at Tarakeswar

and elsewhere are rightly venerated as nuclear centers of spiritual

power."

The saint's censorious attitude vanished; his eyes became

compassionately soft. He patted my shoulder.

"Young yogi, I see you are running away from your master. He has

everything you need; you must return to him. Mountains cannot be your

guru." Ram Gopal was repeating the same thought which Sri Yukteswar

had expressed at our last meeting.

"Masters are under no cosmic compulsion to limit their residence." My

companion glanced at me quizzically. "The Himalayas in India and

Tibet have no monopoly on saints. What one does not trouble to find

within will not be discovered by transporting the body hither and

yon. As soon as the devotee is willing to go even to the ends of the

earth for spiritual enlightenment, his guru appears near-by."

I silently agreed, recalling my prayer in the Benares hermitage,

followed by the meeting with Sri Yukteswar in a crowded lane.

"Are you able to have a little room where you can close the door and

be alone?"

"Yes." I reflected that this saint descended from the general to the

particular with disconcerting speed.

"That is your cave." The yogi bestowed on me a gaze of illumination

which I have never forgotten. "That is your sacred mountain. That is

where you will find the kingdom of God."

His simple words instantaneously banished my lifelong obsession for

the Himalayas. In a burning paddy field I awoke from the monticolous

dreams of eternal snows.

"Young sir, your divine thirst is laudable. I feel great love for

you." Ram Gopal took my hand and led me to a quaint hamlet. The adobe

houses were covered with coconut leaves and adorned with rustic

entrances.

The saint seated me on the umbrageous bamboo platform of his small

cottage. After giving me sweetened lime juice and a piece of rock

candy, he entered his patio and assumed the lotus posture. In about

four hours I opened my meditative eyes and saw that the moonlit

figure of the yogi was still motionless. As I was sternly reminding

my stomach that man does not live by bread alone, Ram Gopal

approached me.

"I see you are famished; food will be ready soon."

A fire was kindled under a clay oven on the patio; rice and dhal were

quickly served on large banana leaves. My host courteously refused my

aid in all cooking chores. "The guest is God," a Hindu proverb, has

commanded devout observance from time immemorial. In my later world

travels, I was charmed to see that a similar respect for visitors is

manifested in rural sections of many countries. The city dweller

finds the keen edge of hospitality blunted by superabundance of

strange faces.

The marts of men seemed remotely dim as I squatted by the yogi in the

isolation of the tiny jungle village. The cottage room was mysterious

with a mellow light. Ram Gopal arranged some torn blankets on the

floor for my bed, and seated himself on a straw mat. Overwhelmed by

his spiritual magnetism, I ventured a request.

"Sir, why don't you grant me a samadhi?"

"Dear one, I would be glad to convey the divine contact, but it is

not my place to do so." The saint looked at me with half-closed

eyes. "Your master will bestow that experience shortly. Your body is

not tuned just yet. As a small lamp cannot withstand excessive

electrical voltage, so your nerves are unready for the cosmic

current. If I gave you the infinite ecstasy right now, you would burn

as if every cell were on fire.

"You are asking illumination from me," the yogi continued

musingly, "while I am wondering—inconsiderable as I am, and with the

little meditation I have done—if I have succeeded in pleasing God,

and what worth I may find in His eyes at the final reckoning."

"Sir, have you not been singleheartedly seeking God for a long time?"

"I have not done much. Behari must have told you something of my

life. For twenty years I occupied a secret grotto, meditating

eighteen hours a day. Then I moved to a more inaccessible cave and

remained there for twenty-five years, entering the yoga union for

twenty hours daily. I did not need sleep, for I was ever with God. My

body was more rested in the complete calmness of the

superconsciousness than it could be by the partial peace of the

ordinary subconscious state.

"The muscles relax during sleep, but the heart, lungs, and

circulatory system are constantly at work; they get no rest. In

superconsciousness, the internal organs remain in a state of

suspended animation, electrified by the cosmic energy. By such means

I have found it unnecessary to sleep for years. The time will come

when you too will dispense with sleep."

"My goodness, you have meditated for so long and yet are unsure of

the Lord's favor!" I gazed at him in astonishment. "Then what about

us poor mortals?"

"Well, don't you see, my dear boy, that God is Eternity Itself? To

assume that one can fully know Him by forty-five years of meditation

is rather a preposterous expectation. Babaji assures us, however,

that even a little meditation saves one from the dire fear of death

and after-death states. Do not fix your spiritual ideal on a small

mountain, but hitch it to the star of unqualified divine attainment.

If you work hard, you will get there."

Enthralled by the prospect, I asked him for further enlightening

words. He related a wondrous story of his first meeting with Lahiri

Mahasaya's guru, Babaji.3 Around midnight Ram Gopal fell into

silence, and I lay down on my blankets. Closing my eyes, I saw

flashes of lightning; the vast space within me was a chamber of

molten light. I opened my eyes and observed the same dazzling

radiance. The room became a part of that infinite vault which I

beheld with interior vision.

"Why don't you go to sleep?"

"Sir, how can I sleep in the presence of lightning, blazing whether

my eyes are shut or open?"

"You are blessed to have this experience; the spiritual radiations

are not easily seen." The saint added a few words of affection.

At dawn Ram Gopal gave me rock candies and said I must depart. I felt

such reluctance to bid him farewell that tears coursed down my

cheeks.

"I will not let you go empty-handed." The yogi spoke tenderly. "I

will do something for you."

He smiled and looked at me steadfastly. I stood rooted to the ground,

peace rushing like a mighty flood through the gates of my eyes. I was

instantaneously healed of a pain in my back, which had troubled me

intermittently for years. Renewed, bathed in a sea of luminous joy, I

wept no more. After touching the saint's feet, I sauntered into the

jungle, making my way through its tropical tangle until I reached

Tarakeswar.

There I made a second pilgrimage to the famous shrine, and prostrated

myself fully before the altar. The round stone enlarged before my

inner vision until it became the cosmical spheres, ring within ring,

zone after zone, all dowered with divinity.

I entrained happily an hour later for Calcutta. My travels ended, not

in the lofty mountains, but in the Himalayan presence of my Master.

 

~Paramahansa Yogananda

 

 

LoveAlways,

 

Mazie

[Guest guest]

Thank you Mazie, for this and your other posts about Chitribanuji and Harsha.

The generosity of your sharing is our mana from heaven.

Much love,

Gloria

-

mazie_l

Sunday, September 08, 2002 9:52 PM

Ram Gopal - The Sleepless Saint

The Sleepless Saint"Please permit me to go to the Himalayas. I hope in

unbroken solitude to achieve continuous divine communion." I actually

once addressed these ungrateful words to my Master. Seized by one of

the unpredictable delusions which occasionally assail the devotee, I

felt a growing impatience with hermitage duties and college studies.

A feebly extenuating circumstance is that my proposal was made when I

had been only six months with Sri Yukteswar. Not yet had I fully

surveyed his towering stature. snip

[Guest guest]

, "Gloria Lee" <glee@c...> wrote:

> Thank you Mazie, for this and your other posts about Chitribanuji

and Harsha. The generosity of your sharing is our mana from heaven.

 

Much love,

Gloria

 

Dearest Gloriaji,

 

i tried to find a photo of Sri Chitrabhanuji but could not yet.

Perhaps you might know where to locate one. Your Kindness moves me to

tears Dearest Gloji. Here is something cool -

 

HAKUIN ZENJI - SONG OF ZAZEN

(Dharma poem by Hakuin Ekaku [1685-1768]. Read as part of the

ceremony at the end of the day during during sesshin.)

 

All beings by nature are Buddha,

as ice by nature is water;

apart from water there is no ice,

apart from beings no Buddha.

How sad that people ignore the near

and search for truth afar,

like someone in the midst of water

crying out in thirst,

like a child of a wealthy home

wandering among the poor.

Lost on dark paths of ignorance

we wander through the six worlds,

from dark path to dark path we wander,

when shall we be freed from birth and death?

For this the zazen of the Mahayana

deserves the highest praise:

offerings, precepts, paramitas,

Nembutsu, atonement, training--

the many other virtues--

all rise within zazen.

Even those with proud attainments

wipe away immeasurable crimes--

where are all the dark paths then?

the Pure Land itself is not far.

Those who hear this truth even once

and listen with a grateful heart,

treasuring it, revering it,

gain blessings without end.

Much more, if you dedicate yourself

and confirm your own self-nature--

that self-nature is no nature--

you are far beyond mere argument.

The oneness of cause and effect is clear,

not two, not three, the path is put right;

with form that is no form

going and coming--never astray,

with thought that is no thought

singing and dancing are the voice of the Law.

Boundless and free is the sky of samadhi,

bright the full moon of wisdom,

truly is anything missing now?

Nirvana is here, before your eyes,

this very place is the Lotus Land,

this very body the Buddha.

 

 

JUKAI DEDICATION

At Magadha, at this very place,

Deep into the sacred ground,

high into the empty sky,

broadly shading living things

the tree of wisdom thrives

by rain and soil and sunshine

and by your loving care that we maintain.

We dedicate the Prajna Paramita Heart Sutra, our ceremony of Jukai

and ourselves to you, Shakyamuni Buddha Dai Osho-,

we celebrate your sacred presence,

your boundless understanding, and your love.

Let your true Dharma continue,

and your Sangha relations become complete.

All Buddhas throughout space and time;

all Bodhisattvas, Mahasattvas,

the great Prajna Paramita.

 

VERSE OF THE HAN

(Incised on the han at Koko An)

Completely freed from yes and no;

great emptiness charged within;

no questions, no answers;

like a fish, like a fool.

 

 

THE GIDDY FISH

 

There was a bhikkhu who had great difficulty in keeping his senses

and passions under control; so, resolving to leave the Order, he came

to the Blessed One to ask him for a release from the vows. And the

Blessed One said to the bhikkhu: "Take heed, my son, lest thou fall a

prey to the passions of thy misguided heart. For I see that in former

existences, thou hast suffered much from the evil consequences of

lust, and unless thou learnest to conquer thy sensual desire, thou

wilt in this life be ruined through thy folly.

"Listen to a story of another existence of thine, as a fish. The fish

could be seen swimming lustily in the river, playing with his mate.

She, moving in front, suddenly perceived the meshes of a net, and

slipping around escaped the danger; but he, blinded by love, shot

eagerly after her and fell straight into the mouth of the net. The

fisherman pulled the net up, and the fish, who complained bitterly of

his sad fate, saying, 'this indeed is the bitter fruit of my folly,'

would surely have died if the Bodhisattva had not chanced to come by,

and, understanding the language of the fish, took pity on him. He

bought the poor creature and said to him: 'My good fish, had I not

caught sight of thee this day, thou wouldst have lost thy life. I

shall save thee, but henceforth avoid the evil of lust.' With these

words he threw the fish into the water.

"Make the best of the time of grace that is offered to thee in thy

present existence, and fear the dart of passion which, if thou guard

not thy senses, will lead thee to destruction."

 

LoveAlways,

 

Mazie

 

> -

> mazie_l

>

> Sunday, September 08, 2002 9:52 PM

> Ram Gopal - The Sleepless Saint

>

>

> The Sleepless Saint

>

> "Please permit me to go to the Himalayas. I hope in unbroken

solitude

> to achieve continuous divine communion."

> I actually once addressed these ungrateful words to my Master.

Seized

> by one of the unpredictable delusions which occasionally assail

the

> devotee, I felt a growing impatience with hermitage duties and

> college studies. A feebly extenuating circumstance is that my

> proposal was made when I had been only six months with Sri

Yukteswar.

> Not yet had I fully surveyed his towering stature.

> snip