The other side of Tipu Sultan:

Rohan: Dadu, everyone in Delhi calls Tipu Sultan a hero. They say he fought the British till his last breath. But you’ve written something completely different. Why?

Ananda Chandra: (smiling faintly) Ah, Rohan… history is like a river. It flows differently depending on who builds the banks. Sit down, my boy. Let me tell you about the other side of Tipu — the side you won’t find in your schoolbooks.

Rohan: I’m listening, Dadu.

Ananda Chandra: When Hyder Ali died, Tipu took the throne of Mysore and made his first declaration: “I will convert every kafir in my kingdom to Islam.” Those were his own words. From that moment, terror began.

Rohan: But are these real records, Dadu? Or British propaganda?

Ananda Chandra: Real, my boy. Very real. There’s an anthology — “Tipu Sultan: Villain or Hero?” published by Voice of India. It contains documents, eyewitness accounts, letters written by Tipu himself. Not gossip — history.

Rohan: (leaning forward) Letters written by Tipu himself?

Ananda Chandra: Yes. For instance — March 22, 1788 — Tipu wrote to one of his officers, Abdul Qadir:

> “Over twelve thousand Hindus, mostly Namboodiri Brahmins, have been converted to Islam. None must be spared.”

Then, in December of the same year, he wrote another letter to his commander in Calicut:

> “Capture all Hindus. Those below twenty must be converted. The rest must be executed. If they accept Islam, release them.”

Rohan: (shocked) He actually wrote that?

Ananda Chandra: (nods slowly) Yes. And these aren’t just letters. Portuguese historian Fra Bartholomew, who witnessed his campaign, wrote in A Voyage to the East Indies:

> “In Calicut, Tipu hanged mothers and children from the same rope. His soldiers trampled men under elephants. He burned temples, palaces, and ancient monuments.”

Rohan: Dadu… that sounds monstrous.

Ananda Chandra: It was. He destroyed over eight thousand temples across Mysore, Kerala, and Tamil Nadu. Two million Hindus — men, women, and children — were converted by force.

Rohan: Two million? That’s hard to even imagine.

Ananda Chandra: The cruelty went beyond numbers. In Melkote, a small village near Bangalore, on a Diwali night — he hanged eight hundred Iyengar Brahmins for refusing to convert. To this day, the villagers of Melkote do not celebrate Diwali. They turn off every lamp and mourn their ancestors in silence.

Rohan: (whispering) I never knew that… no one ever told us.

Ananda Chandra: Of course not. The historians who glorified Tipu never walked through Melkote’s darkness. They never listened to the silence of the temples he burned.

Rohan: But he still fought the British, didn’t he? Doesn’t that make him a patriot?

Ananda Chandra: (leans back) Rohan, fighting the British doesn’t automatically make a man noble. Tipu fought them to save his kingdom — not his people. His wars were political, not patriotic. When he lost the Third Anglo-Mysore War, he even sent his own sons as hostages to the British.

Rohan: I didn’t know that either.

Ananda Chandra: Few do. To gain sympathy, he made small donations to temples like the Sringeri Mutt and Srirangam temple. Some historians later used those acts to call him “secular.” But Hyavadana C. Rao, one of the finest researchers of Mysore’s history, wrote clearly — “Tipu’s charity toward Hindus was political and ostentatious, not born of tolerance.”

Rohan: (thoughtfully) So he wasn’t fighting for India, but for power.

Ananda Chandra: Exactly. Even in his sword was engraved the prayer: “O Lord, grant me strength to destroy all infidels.” Does that sound like a freedom fighter to you?

Rohan: (silent for a moment) Then why, Dadu, do so many still call him a hero?

Ananda Chandra: Because politics needs symbols. Every ideology wants its saints — even if they are made of blood. People forget what really happened; they remember only what suits their belief.

Rohan: (quietly) And you — what do you remember, Dadu?

Ananda Chandra: I remember the old people of Melkote. I went there once, years ago. They told me stories of their ancestors — how children were tied with their mothers and hung together. I remember their eyes when they said, “We still don’t light lamps on Diwali.” That silence told me more truth than any textbook ever could.

Rohan: (after a pause) Dadu, you’ve carried all this for so long. Doesn’t it make you bitter?

Ananda Chandra: No, my boy. Not bitter — awake. History is not about hate; it’s about remembering what really happened. Tipu was brave, yes. But bravery without compassion is not greatness.

Rohan: (softly) You’ve changed everything I thought I knew.

Ananda Chandra: That’s what truth does, Rohan. It doesn’t flatter — it transforms.

Rohan: What should I write, then? My editor wants a story titled “Tipu: The National Hero.”

Ananda Chandra: Write the truth. Tell them he was brave, brilliant, but blinded by fanaticism. Tell them his sword cut not just enemies — but innocents. Let your words be the light that Melkote never lights on Diwali.

Rohan: (looking at his grandfather with deep respect) Dadu… someday, people will thank you for preserving this truth.

Ananda Chandra: (smiling faintly) I don’t need thanks, my boy. I only need one promise — that you’ll never let politics bury history.

(A long silence. The rain continues outside. The lamp flickers softly. Rohan takes one of the old letters from the table and folds it carefully.)

Rohan: I promise, Dadu.

(The scene ends with Rohan looking at the old manuscript, his face half-lit by the fading lamp — between light and shadow, like the truth of history itself.)

Siraj: Between the Throne and the Truth”A Dialogue Between a Freedom Fighter and a JournalistBy Tarashis Gangopadhyay

2012 সালের ফেসবুকের পাতা থেকে ফিরে দেখা যাক ইতিহাসের এক সত্যিকারের প্রতিবিম্ব - যা আমরা ইতিহাস ভাবি তা যে অনেক সময়েই তৈরী করা ঘটনা তার প্রতিফলন পাবেন এই লেখাটায়। সিরাজ কি সত্যিই ইতিহাসের কথামত ছিলেন নায়ক? নাকি ছিলেন এক জঘন্য নারীলোলুপ,হিংস্র চরিত্র যাকে হটিয়ে মীর জাফর, জগৎশেঠ, রাজা কৃষ্ণচন্দ্র বাংলাকে বাঁচাতে চেয়েছিলেন? জানতে হলে পড়বেন লেখাটি।

“Siraj: Between the Throne and the Truth”

A Dialogue Between a Freedom Fighter and a Journalist

By Tarashis Gangopadhyay 

(In a  shaded veranda of an old north Kolkata house, a journalist, Rohan, sits with his recorder beside an aged freedom fighter, Ananda Chandra, whose eyes have seen both the empire’s end and the confusion that followed independence)

Journalist (Rohan):

Dada, lately there’s a fierce debate on social media. Many say Siraj-ud-Daulah wasn’t the hero we were taught to admire. They quote Vidyasagar, Golam Hossain, even French writers like Jean Law. What’s your view? Was Siraj truly a patriot—or just another tyrant?

Freedom Fighter (Ananda Chandra):

(leans back slowly)

History, my boy, is like a battlefield long after the soldiers are gone—still filled with smoke. You see what you wish to see. But I must tell you, what you read in your schoolbooks was not the full story.

Rohan:

So… you mean the textbooks lied?

Ananda Chandra:

Not lied—simplified. In our youth, the British had already written most of our history. Later, our nationalist writers wanted heroes—men who stood against foreign power. Siraj was convenient for that role. A young nawab who opposed the English—what better symbol? But beneath that banner of rebellion lay a man far from noble.

Rohan:

You’re referring to Vidyasagar’s account?

Ananda Chandra:

Yes. Vidyasagar himself wrote that Siraj dismissed his grandfather’s loyal officers, surrounded himself with corrupt flatterers, and plunged Bengal into moral chaos. Property and honour were unsafe under him. Even women bathing in the Ganges feared his gaze. That is not the mark of a hero—it’s the mark of decay.

Rohan:

But then… why do so many still glorify him?

Ananda Chandra:

Because we have inherited confusion. Our colonial wounds made us desperate for pride. We painted even the cruel with patriotic colours, to prove that we had warriors of our own. But pride built on illusion is dangerous.

Rohan:

(scribbling quickly)

Golam Hossain, in Sair-ul-Mutakhkhirin, also called him cruel and woman-hungry, didn’t he?

Ananda Chandra:

Indeed. His contemporaries—like Golam Hossain, in Sair-ul-Mutakhkhirin—described him as lustful, greedy, and violent.

Rohan:

But we grew up thinking he was a ruler who cared for his people!

Ananda:

That’s what the colonial textbooks told you. And later, nationalist historians repeated it, wanting a hero against the British. But the record says otherwise. Even his contemporaries—like Golam Hossain, in Sair-ul-Mutakhkhirin—described him as lustful, greedy, and violent. He wrote that Siraj’s cruelty made even his own courtiers tremble. He seized wealth without reason, and women without consent. Bengal’s heart bled long before the British cannon fired.

Rohan:

I read something about Mohanlal’s sister—Madhabi?

Ananda:

Yes. A story rarely told in our books. Mohanlal, his most trusted general, had a sister named Madhabi—some called her Hira. Siraj forced himself upon her, even before marriage. She became pregnant. When she sought justice, Siraj mocked her. He tied the newborn to a horse and whipped it forward—watching, amused, as the helpless child cried.

It was Mohanlal who rescued the baby, running after the horse, tears streaming down his face. Only after Alivardi Khan intervened did Siraj marry Madhabi—after forcing her to convert. That marriage was not love; it was an act of shame covered in ritual.

Rohan:

There was also something about Rani Bhavani’s relative—Tarasundari?

Ananda:

Yes. Tarasundari Devi—believed to be Rani Bhavani’s widowed daughter or a close relative. Siraj’s lustful eyes fell upon her after seeing her once during a religious gathering. She fled to a hermitage for safety. The monks hid her. Siraj’s soldiers, acting on his orders, raided the ashram, beat the saints, and tore down sacred places searching for her.

Rani Bhavani had to secretly send Tarasundari away to Jessore to protect her. Even then, Siraj’s men continued their rampage. Such was his madness for domination—no woman, no sanctum was sacred.

Rohan:

(appalled)

And yet he’s called a martyr for Bengal!

Ananda:

(smiles sadly)

Martyrdom doesn’t erase cruelty. It is possible to fight a foreign power and still destroy your own people. Siraj’s rule proved that.

Rohan:

So those stories about his men capturing bathing women from the Ganges—they’re true?

Ananda:

They are. The French officer Jean Law wrote it himself. He said Siraj’s men would roam the Ganges in boats, looking for beautiful women bathing. They would abduct them and present them to the Nawab as “gifts.”

Jean Law called him “one of the most cruel and depraved characters of all time.” He described how Siraj took delight in drowning boats during floods, watching the panic of women and children struggling in the waters.

Rohan:

That’s... horrific. Why wasn’t this ever taught to us?

Ananda:

Because, my boy, we have rewritten history for comfort. We needed villains to hate—like Mir Jafar—and heroes to worship—like Siraj. But the truth is, Mir Jafar and others like Jagat Seth and Raja Krishnachandra revolted not out of greed alone. They were suffocating under Siraj’s tyranny. They wanted to save their people, their women, their faith.

Rohan:

So when we say Mir Jafar betrayed Bengal—

Ananda:

(interrupting gently)

He betrayed a tyrant, not Bengal. But we, blinded by patriotic pride, turned him into the symbol of betrayal. Remember, before the British, we were already enslaved—only by different masters.

Rohan:

Then Plassey wasn’t the start of our slavery—it was a transfer of it?

Ananda:

Exactly. As S. I. Saraswati wrote, “After Plassey, Bengal did not become enslaved—it only changed masters. From the cruel hand of the Middle-Eastern rulers to the polished hand of the English.”

Our bondage changed language and flag, not essence.

Rohan:

That’s a painful way to see it.

Ananda Chandra:

Painful, yes—but true. Real freedom did not come till 1947, and even then, not for all. Our minds are still enslaved by borrowed histories. We glorify tyrants and forget sages.

Rohan:

Then what should we, the new generation, do?

Ananda Chandra:

Read everything, not just what’s approved. Question your heroes, question your textbooks, question me if you must. Only then will the fog of illusion lift. 

Rohan:

(pauses, voice quiet)

So Siraj wasn’t the villain or hero—just a mirror of his times?

Ananda Chandra:

Exactly. A product of decadence, not deliverance. We can learn from him—not to repeat his arrogance, nor to hate him—but to understand how ignorance and moral decay invite foreign rule.

Rohan:

(silent for a moment)

Then, Dada, how should we remember Siraj today?

Ananda:

With honesty. Neither with hatred nor blind pride. Siraj was not a hero; he was a warning. He shows us how moral corruption within makes a nation fall from within. When rulers dishonour women, silence saints, and trample their own people, they invite invasion—not by fate, but by consequence.

Rohan:

So, the fall of Plassey was not British conspiracy—it was divine justice?

Ananda:

Perhaps. Or perhaps it was history balancing its scales. But we must learn from it. We must not worship those who lost their humanity simply because they lost their throne.

Rohan:

(quietly closes his notebook)

Thank you, Dada. You’ve given me something no textbook ever did—context.

Ananda:

(smiles faintly)

Then write it truthfully, Rohan. Let the youth know that Bengal’s freedom was not stolen in a single night—it was eroded, drop by drop, by men who forgot dharma for desire.

Only when we learn to see through illusion will our history begin to heal.

Autobiography Of A Kriya-Yogi (chapter one second part)by Tarashis Gangopadhyay

     One (continued)

I was born at the Shishu Mangal Hospital of the Ramakrishna Mission, under the blessings of Thakur Sri Ramakrishna. Even after my birth, my mother—whom I lovingly call Ma—and I remained in the hospital for five or six days, a precaution the doctors deemed necessary for my fragile beginning. Ma later told me that I had spent most of that time in a deep, undisturbed sleep, as if the world had held its breath, letting me rest in a quiet cocoon of beginnings. Yet, even in slumber, my tiny hands would rise above my head on their own.

Observing this, the nurse in charge said to ma, “Sister, your child sleeps with both hands raised in the pose of  Sri Gauranga. Surely, even in sleep, he is immersed in the consciousness of past lives. Perhaps, unnoticed, he chants the holy names of Hari. You should name him Gauranga.”

Yet this suggestion was soon set aside. How could Ma, a teacher of Bengali, name her dark-complexioned son Gauranga? Thus began the long deliberation over my naming. But the matter found little progress with my father—whom I lovingly call Baba. At first glance, with a quiet certainty that left no room for argument, he declared, “My son’s name shall be Tarashis. He is born under the blessings of Goddess Mother Tara. What better name could there be? Even the incarnation of Shiva Himself—Sri Sri Bamakhyapa—had once said, 'A child named after the Mother Tara will prosper in every aspect of life. Tara Herself will protect him from all perils, guide him through every trial, grant him success in his great endeavors, and, at the end, lead him to the realm of immortality.'

He paused for a moment, as though his words were weaving a divine destiny. “This child shall be named Tarashis,” he declared, his eyes gleaming with the fire of vision. “In the sacred vow of world welfare that I have now embraced, he too shall one day take part—not only for his own liberation, but for the welfare of the world and all living beings. Therefore, his name shall forever remain united with that of Ma Tara—a sacred thread binding him to the path of devotion and service to humanity.”

Thus, I was named Tarashis. Whereas other children are given nicknames in addition to their formal names, my Baba permitted none. He said, “There is only one Ma Tara, radiant and eternal, yet She manifests in countless forms throughout the boundless universe. For the soul whose name is linked with Hers, no other name is needed.” Thus all other names had dissolved into silence, leaving only the sacred echo of ‘Tarashis’—a name that vibrated with surrender, devotion, and the boundless grace of Ma Tara.

Baba had kept his word. From that sacred day, I was known to all as Tarashis—the child consecrated in the name of the Divine Mother. And in the days that followed, the prophecy ripened into truth, for Mahakal Himself bore witness to the destiny hidden within that name.

According to sacred tradition, a boy’s first rite of impurity—the Atur—is performed on the twenty-first day after birth. So it was with me. And when that brief shadow had passed, she came—a sannyasini, serene and radiant, her presence as gentle as moonlight on still water. It seemed as though purity itself had returned, not through ritual, but through her silent grace.

At that time, my maternal  house was in Chakraberia Kolkata. There resided my maternal grandfather, Shri Manoranjan Mukhopadhyay, whom I fondly called Dadabhai. Beside him was my grandmother, Smt. Asharani Mukhopadhyay, known to me as Didima, whose gentle presence radiated warmth and care. My eldest maternal uncle, Shri Bishwanath Mukhopadhyay, or Baromama as I called him, was the steadfast pillar of the household—serious and hardworking, yet with a heart full of quiet affection. His younger brother, Shri Shivnath Mukhopadhyay, whom I knew as Chhotomama, was calm, solemn, and nearly silent, wrapped in a stillness that seemed to hold thoughts meant only for himself. And then there was my maternal aunt, Smt. Rina Mukhopadhyay, simply Masi to me, who filled the house with her tender care.

My mother was also there during her pregnancy, and I was brought from the hospital to that house. In the upper room of the Chakraberia residence, I was laid on a cot near the window. Mother later told me that I spent most of that time asleep. If I did wake, my astonished eyes would gaze intently at the world beyond the window, as if I were quietly trying to acquaint myself with this new world.

It is here that I must introduce Dadabhai and Didima. Both were disciples of the Namavatar Sitaramdas Omkarnathji, and both practiced the mantras imparted by their Guru with unwavering diligence. Dadabhai was associated with P.G. Hospital, and though he rose in the sacred stillness of Brahmamuhurta to chant his Guru-given mantra and study the Gita, the relentless demands of worldly duties often kept him from fully immersing himself in the luminous presence of a Guru. Yet Didima, through steadfast devotion and silent, ceaseless practice, compensated for this absence. She sought the company of her Guru whenever possible and attended satsangs or Bhagavat recitations wherever they were held nearby, letting her heart dwell perpetually in the orbit of divine guidance.

There, she listened with an undisturbed heart each word, each note of sacred sound sank gently into her being, quietly transforming her. Over time, the light of their wisdom began to shine through her every action and every breath of her daily life.

It was at such a Bhagbat satsang that she met Sandhya Devi, and the two became inseparable friends. Henceforth, I called her Sandhya Didima, and she showered affection upon me, as though I was her own grandchild.

Sandhya Didima’s Guruma was a revered sannyasini of the spiritual world, one who had devoted many years to intense sadhana in Nepal and maintained an ashram in Patna. By chance, she had come to Kolkata on some errand. Knowing my didima's heart—ever devoted to the company and service of saints—Sandhya Didima spoke with quiet certainty, “I shall bring my Guruma to your house one day.” The words hung in the air like a gentle promise, as if destiny itself had quietly spoken.

My didima, however, spoke with gentle concern, “But we are still observing ritual impurity. Our elder daughter has just delivered our first grandchild. The atur’s impurity will end on the twenty-first day—that is, June 26. You should come only after that.”

Sandhya didima replied, “But she will return to her Patna ashram the very next day. Will she then have time to visit your house?”

Sandhya didima conveyed this to her guruma. She  replied, “What does it matter? If the ritual impurity ends that day, I shall go to their house then. And I shall also see the newborn child.”

True to her word, Sandhya didima’s guruma arrived at my maternal house on the appointed day, after the atur’s impurity had passed. Ma later told me she had a gentle and serene presence, her head completely shaved, wearing ochre robes, with a veil of the same cloth over her head.

Ma recounted the scene: that day was bathed in rain. Having just given me my atur bath, she laid me on the designated cot in the upper room. As soon as I was placed there, I raised my hands above my head and immersed myself in the worship of the goddess of sleep. At that very moment, Sandhya Didima and her Guruma arrived, escorted by my own didima to the upper room. Seeing me lying there, Guruma lifted me in her arms. For a minute or so, she gazed at my face, then looked toward my didima and said, “Asha, this grandchild of yours was not born to be a householder.”

Hearing this, didima was deeply perturbed. Though herself a practitioner of the spiritual path and devoted to the company of sages, the idea that her grandchild would not lead a householder’s life seemed unsettling. Yet she could not contradict the Guruma without showing disrespect. So she said calmly, “What do you mean? He is the beloved child of my eldest daughter. Should he not be destined for a householder’s life, my daughter would feel great grief.”

 Guruma smiled gently. “I have seen what is written on his forehead. I spoke only what I saw. He is not for worldly life; he is for us. Do not fear—this child will not abandon household duties to grieve his mother. He will live in the household, yet his heart will be that of a renunciate.” Saying this, she showered me with great affection. Ma later told me that my sleep had been broken by her tender care. Normally, if anyone disturbed my sleep, I would cry in protest—but in her arms, I did not weep. Instead, a gentle smile bloomed upon my lips.

Even today, when I sit in meditation, retracing the memories of those lost days, the image of an unknown elderly sannyasini often rises before my eyes. Perhaps she was Sandhya Didima’s Guruma. Why my lips had formed that faint smile at her presence that day—after forty-three years, I cannot say. Was there some connection with a past life, or had my inner deity given me a premonition that one day I too must tread her path? At that time, I lacked the physical ability to offer formal salutations. Was that gentle smile my silent offering of homage to that exalted sannyasini? My intellect has never answered, yet my heart perhaps has—within the question itself.

#KriyaYogaJourney

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Autobiography Of A Kriya-Yogi (chapter one -1st part)

Autobiography Of A Kriya-Yogi

 By Tarashis Gangopadhyay 

One

Our life resembles the flow of a river. In the secret recesses of a glacier, it takes shape unseen and begins its timeless voyage. Each day, however slight its progress, it moves toward the ocean, following its own rhythm and carrying the emotions of its being. Along its path, the river’s bosom gives rise to countless waves, and within it stir the turbulent whirlpools of relationships and the hidden pangs of the heart. In its course, the laughter of joy mingles with the tears of sorrow, becoming its very sustenance. Bearing all these smiles and cries, it dances in a lilting rhythm, enchanting every heart, and flows toward the confluence in the ecstasy of devotion, with the supreme aim of offering its journey at the feet of the Divine Life. Along the way, it meets many tributaries and mighty rivers. Filled with the affection and gifts of all, the river flows onward, immersed in its own rapture.

I, too, am such a river. I have emerged from the source of the infinite sky, and I shall merge into the boundless ocean. It is within this middle course that I pause, to reflect upon the memories gathered along the way. My friends, devotees, and readers have long urged me to unfold, through the fragrance of my words, the memories of my lost days—the days whose subtle sweetness led me to the path of spiritual practice—so that this sweetness may be shared with all. And I realized—I am a wanderer in the world of life; the jewels I have gathered along the way lose their delight if not shared. For I am a believer in sharing. This sharing alone is my virtue. Moreover, the joy that comes from offering what one has gathered is a joy unmatched, and it is this joy that forms the very essence of my being.

Readers may ask—have I received only joy from life? Has sorrow never touched me? Have wounds never struck my heart? I humbly answer—they surely have. Life has given me happiness, yet I have endured suffering. I have laughed much, and I have wept too. Yet I bear no regret. For one cannot take only joy from God while evading sorrow; to feel the blessing of pure sunlight, one must also bear the lash of storms and the flash of lightning. Every experience of joy, sorrow, laughter, and tears is a supreme gift, for it is through savoring each element that the resonance of true delight arises in life. And that delight propels us from life toward the Life Divine.

Yet the journey from life to the Life Divine is not accomplished in a single day; it is nurtured through the discipline of countless births. Such an opportunity comes only after crossing eighty-four lakh forms of life; only when these eighty-four lakh stages are transcended does the soul enter the human birth. From this human birth alone, the soul receives the opportunity for spiritual practice.

Yet even in this birth, the longing for the Life Divine does not awaken easily. From the very moment of attaining human life, the conflict between the wisdom of Mahamaya and the ignorance of Mohomaya stirs within us. In this struggle, we initially forget the Mahamaya and become absorbed in illusion and attachment. Consequently, we receive countless blows from worldly life. Yet even these blows are necessary—they embitter the mind toward worldly existence and broaden the path of spiritual ascent. Through such suffering, realization gradually dawns: that which we see in this world is not the ultimate truth, and that which is true remains unseen. Then arises the urgent desire to know oneself; waves of questioning surge—Who am I? From where have I come? Why am I here? And where shall I go from here? These questions drive the mind along the spiritual path. And it is at such a time that the guru appears, taking our hand and leading us toward the chosen path. But this journey does not end in a single birth. It continues across lifetimes. In accordance with the merits of previous births, the soul takes new forms in new bodies, receiving family and lineage as deserved.

Guided by the merits of my previous lives, I was perhaps granted this birth into a family of siddhas. I was born into the lineage of Shri Shri Loknath Brahmachari’s spiritual master, Shri Shri Bhagaban Gangopadhyay. Yet being born into a siddha family does not guarantee one’s spiritual ascent. It is said that the dormant spiritual power within the blood of siddhas tests its heirs through life’s trials—the tests of suffering, of illusion, of attachment. Those who cultivate virtue, truthfulness, and self-discipline, controlling the six enemies of the mind with care and devotion, gradually awaken the dormant seeds of siddha blood in their lineage. Those who succumb to falsehood, deceit, arrogance, anger, envy, and resentment toward others fall upon the path of destruction. Thus, even children of the same father in a siddha lineage follow different destinies. Birth in a siddha family is a vast examination—success brings supreme attainment; failure brings utter downfall. Every step in such a lineage must be taken with utmost care. It may be said that this birth, bestowed after the tender passage through many deaths across lifetimes, is God’s gift—an invitation to walk the Divine path through the purifying fire of trial. How I employ this opportunity will shape the course of my eternal destiny.

It is also essential to speak of my parents. My father, Sri Bipul Kumar Gangopadhyay, in his early childhood, received his namdiksha from Sri Ram Thakur, an incarnation of Satyanarayan. Thus, he was always connected to the spiritual world. In society, he was primarily known as a writer and the editor of the journal Anandam. Yet all this was only the mask of his outer life. Deep within, he bore the dormant seed of Tara sadhana. Perhaps it was by fate alone that he moved from the world of literature into the sacred path of spiritual practice. He had gone to Tarapith at the challenge of Sri Chandratapan Bandyopadhyay, the eminent tantric of Behala. The tantric had said that within the great cremation ground of Tarapith there exists a distinguished siddhasana, where one who sits alone without desire never returns. My father accepted this challenge, and on the new moon of the fourth day of Poush, 1969, he sat upon that siddhasana, immersed in sadhana throughout the night. That single night of miraculous vision bestowed upon him the touch of siddhi. He was transformed from a literary man into a practitioner, experiencing a spiritual rebirth. Soon after, he began composing his great work, Mahapith Tarapith. The story of his experience has already been recorded in my book Atindriya Jagater Ahban, so I shall not repeat its details here.

On the other hand, I must speak of my mother, known as Gopalsadhika, Smt. Meera Gangopadhyay. Having completed her honours in Bengali and a B.T. degree, she taught at a government school. Yet, as a daughter of a spiritually inclined family, from her childhood she had performed puja and rituals. And indeed, she received their fruits in due course. Sri Krishna had silently blessed her. Even before completing her B.A., one day an unknown sage appeared to her and said,

“Ma, I have a picture of Sri Krishna. My Lord wishes to come to you. Will you receive Him?”

My mother replied joyfully, “Certainly, I shall. If the Lord wishes to come to me, it is my supreme fortune. But may I know why He wishes to come?”

The sage smiled gently, “Mother, does He ever act without reason? And He alone knows the purpose of His works.”

The very next day, the sage gave her a framed photo of Sri KrishnaGopal from the Chittagong Sri Krishnananda Math. In my maternal household, this Sri KrishnaGopal had been worshipped for many years; presently, He is venerated in our ashram temple. Who can say—it may have been to prepare my mother for the great work she would later undertake, and to awaken her spiritual strength, that Sri KrishnaGopal appeared in such a miraculous manner that day. Astonishingly, the sage accepted no payment for delivering the photo, and afterward my mother never saw him again. It was as if his sole purpose had been the service of delivering that photo.

The two streams of my father’s and mother’s lives first converged at a wedding. My father had come with his mother, and my mother with hers. It was at that wedding that my grandmother first saw her and felt a quiet fondness bloom in her heart. In time, that tender feeling grew into a bond—my grandparents chose her for my father, and their marriage was soon arranged under the blessings of both families.

At that time, my mother was a government school teacher, earning a comfortable salary. Yet when my father, thinking of my upbringing, asked her to give up the job, she renounced that golden opportunity and chose instead to dedicate herself entirely to the home. Later, my father once told me,

“At a time when many women, enamoured by modernity, were breaking joint families, drawing their husbands away from their roots, and neglecting their aged in-laws, your mother gave up a secure government post to nurture the well-being of both you and me. It was through her quiet sacrifice that our home found its lasting harmony. Truly, behind every man’s rise stands the unseen labor and silent grace of a noble woman. Your mother’s sacrifice has been immensely influential in shaping your growth.”

Even today, I realize the full truth of his words.

At last, June 5, 1972, arrived. At 9:58 p.m., when the moon lingered at the end of Purvabhadrapada in Pisces, I was born—a humble soul descending from the eternal world of bliss into this fleeting, sorrow-laden earth, from the loving embrace of the Goddess Mother Tara into the veiled realm of human ignorance.

The night was stormy, with wind howling through the trees and torrential rain beating against the earth, as if the world itself paused to witness this quiet arrival. Lightning flashed across the darkened sky, and thunder rumbled like the distant voice of eternity. Amid this fierce symphony, a gentle hush seemed to bless the beginning of life. In that fragile moment, I entered a world of impermanence, yet carried within me the unseen echo of the eternal—a spark from which all my days would unfold, a quiet light amid the storm.

   (To be Continued)

Autobiography Of A Kriya-Yogi by Tarashis Gangopadhyay

Autobiography Of A Kriya-Yogi

     By Tarashis Gangopadhyay

Preface 

  By Sri Bipul Kumar Gangopadhyay 

By the infinite grace of Sri Sri Tara Ma, the Mother of the Three Worlds—the creatrix, sustainer, and dissolver of the universe—everything in existence stands ordained by the supreme Divine Will. Whatever unfolds in this world is woven by that Eternal Design. It is through the merit of noble thoughts and selfless deeds in lives gone by that one is blessed in this life with the company of saints, holy discourse, and the vision of sacred places.

Through the compassion of Trilokeswari Tara Ma, Tarashis too has been the receiver of that divine fruit. The spiritual treasures gathered through his past austerities, saintly association, and pure intentions have ripened into this life with joy. From childhood itself, as if guided by an unseen hand, he came under the sanctified presence and blessings of many perfected beings—graces that few souls encounter even once in their lifetime.

What is wondrous is that these great saints, at the mere sight of little Tarashis, would take him into their arms, shower him with love, and utter words of prophecy touched with divine insight. Once, the hundred-and-thirty-six-year-old Sri Sri Ramanath Aghori Baba, chief of the Nath Sampradaya and a direct disciple of Sri Sri Bamakhyapa, the living incarnation of Shiva and the presiding saint of Mahapith Tarapith, took Tarashis into his lap and said to me, “Bipul Babu, this little Tarashis will one day shine resplendently in the spiritual world.”

Similarly, the two-hundred-and-twenty-five-year-old Sri Sri Bahera Baba, the renowned Mahayogi of Gyanganj, the Guru of Maharshi Debendranath Tagore, (father of the world-poet Rabindranath Tagore) fondly embraced the two-year-old Tarashis and said, “Yogi Baba, your son Tarashis too shall one day become a yogi.”

During the twenty-five long years of writing my five-volume work, “Mahapith Tarapith,” hundreds of realized saints and accomplished beings visited our Tarabam Sevashram, drawn not by invitation but by divine will. Each of them, in their own illumined way, blessed Tarashis and uttered predictions radiant with spiritual light. Among them were saints from every stream of Indian realization—Shakta, Shaiva, Vaishnava, Brahmavid, and even the mystic Bauls and Auls. Thus, Tarashis grew up in an atmosphere charged with sacred vibration, nourished by the fragrance of the Infinite. Gradually, through his life, the words of those seers began to take living form.

Today, Tarashis is known both in India and abroad as a writer of luminous depth, a yogi, and a spiritual philosopher of international repute. His disciples, devotees, and admirers are countless. At their earnest request, he has now begun to record, in this work—“Autobiography Of A Kriya-yogi”—the sacred memories, prophecies, and blessings of those realized beings.Written in serene, flowing language and with gentle continuity, this book shall become, for countless seekers, a lamp of guidance, solace, and awakening along the path of the spirit.

May, by the infinite grace of Tara Ma, Gopal Sona, and Sri Sri Bhamakhyapa, Tarashis’s life blossom into the Life Divine—becoming a radiant flame to illumine the hearts of countless men and women. With this prayer, I bow in blissful devotion at the lotus feet of the Supreme Mother, Sri Sri Tara Ma, the ever-joyous, ever-compassionate sovereign of the Universe.

—Shri Bipul Kumar Gangopadhyay

A Few Words

Every human life is a single act in the vast cosmic play—a brief descent from the eternal realm into the flowing stream of time,

a momentary sojourn in the world of change,

and then, the return once more to our Divine Source.

Yet behind this fleeting drama lies a divine intent—

a hidden melody in the Creator’s own Lila. For we are all children of the Supreme Self, offspring of immortality. We come into this world carrying within us the essence of that eternal Being. But upon our arrival, Maya veils our true nature, and we forget who we are. Forgetting the Divine, we become lost in the perishable and mistake shadow for substance. We forget that we are neither body nor mind, but the ever-pure, ever-conscious, ever-blissful Self.

Thus, the purpose of human birth is to awaken from this dream of illusion—

to reclaim the forgotten radiance of our own true nature. When we know the Self, we know God; for the Self, the Divine, and the universe are one. Then the individual soul unites with the Supreme—and that journey of union is what I call the path of the Divine Life: the pilgrimage from life entangled in illusion to life awakened in truth.

We descend again and again into this mortal plane to continue that journey— from birth to birth, from life to life, through timeless ages.

In this lifetime too, I have come as an eternal traveler, resuming the path from where it was left before. On this road I have gained and I have lost,

but what I have gained outweighs all loss;

and in that gain, my being has found fulfilment.

From the dawn of this life, by the grace of my Guru, I was guided toward the goal for which I was born.

Along that sacred path, I discovered my own Self—and with it, the sweetness of my beloved Deity’s boundless grace.

For long, my dear readers have wished for a book that would reveal the inner story of my spiritual journey. They have asked what unseen power or divine wonder could so transform an ordinary life with such waves of grace. Moved by their love, I now take up my pen to share the luminous experiences that have marked my passage from the mundane rhythms of life to the luminous realm of the Life Divine.

I know that some truths are beyond words—many visions are too subtle, too sacred to be expressed. Yet there are still those experiences

that have shaped me into a pilgrim of the Infinite, touches of divine grace that lit my way toward immortality. If the fragrance of those experiences can awaken even a single reader to the joy of the Great Life, then I shall know this offering has found its fulfilment.

—Tarashis Gangopadhyay

(To be continued)

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