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.

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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)