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)
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