
In January, Swamiji returned to India. The builders had been working feverishly for months to construct a house for him on the community land; just a few more weeks and it would be ready. The plan was for him to spend those weeks in Goa, and then move in. Before leaving on vacation, Swamiji wrote twenty-five pages of another movie script, this one entirely about Master, from childhood through Mahasamadhi. He called it The Wayshower. Two directors wanted to make movies; now he had a script for each of them.
In Goa, Swamiji had a favorite hotel, Taj Exotica, where he stayed every year. The staff welcomed him like a beloved member of the family. Usually he invited up to a dozen friends to come with him. This year, it was just four: Dharmadas, Nirmala, David, and me.
The hotel was spread out over several acres. Most years Swamiji could walk—slowly—from his room to the dining room on the ground floor, but to get to the lobby upstairs, he always took the elevator. On the rare occasions in the past when he did brave the stairs, he would collapse in a chair at the top, gasping for breath. Now he went up the stairs without even holding onto the banister, and walked through the lobby without a pause. All credit to Divine Mother and the miracle healing in June.
Sitting on the balcony one day, enjoying afternoon tea, watching the sun set over the ocean, Swamiji remarked, “How very human all of creation is, starting with the body itself, modeled after the spiritual eye. When you stand with arms outstretched and legs apart, the body forms the five points of the star you see at the center of the spiritual eye. Even on other planets, they have humanlike bodies, because everything emanates from the spiritual eye.
“Our human feelings, are, in fact, God’s feelings. Too often people on the spiritual path have a kind of lofty disdain for their own feelings, instead of treating themselves with divine sympathy, as God does. When we are sorrowful, God is not indifferent. He does not condescend to us. As Master says in his beautiful poem, When I Am Only a Dream, ‘I will weep through my eyes…and weep through your eyes…’
“God is very ‘childlike,’ because He is without expectations. He accepts everything as it is, without thought of what it could or should be. There is no reference to past or future. Only the Eternal Now.”
The bliss of Swamiji’s experience in Florence continued unabated. “Even in a crowd of people I’ve never met, they all seem like an old friends. I see everyone in terms of their consciousness—like hermit crabs, dragging their consciousness behind them!” An amusing, but profound image.
To a refined looking British man sitting nearby, Swamiji said, “You look so familiar; do I know you?” They had never met, but Swamiji sat and talked with him for a few minutes. “What do you do?” Swamiji asked. “I am an engineer,” the man replied. “You look like you should be a professor.” The man was startled, then responded thoughtfully, “I do like to teach.”
Seeing a thin woman with an obese husband and an already chubby child, he said compassionately, “She is overwhelmed by the situation she finds herself in.” About an Australian woman sitting nearby, “She is a fine soul.”
At dinner one night, there was a group from Iran at the next table: two couples and a single man. Hearing them speak a language he didn’t recognize, Swamiji walked over and introduced himself. The next day, he asked one of the women about an Iranian man he had known in college. “I wanted to know if he had become famous. He had that kind of magnetism.”
In fact, he was well known. “Was he a good man?” Swamiji asked.
“The people know him to be a good man, so the government calls him a bad man,” she said.
Swamiji told her about his experiences in Germany just before World War II, how painful it was to have people he knew to be good suddenly declared enemies. His voice choked with emotion, then he said, “When good people have a bad government, there is little we can do.”
The next day, Swamiji came to breakfast carrying a small package. He went over to the Iranians, sat with them for a few minutes, then returned without the package. He said, “I told them, ‘Since our countries have defined themselves as enemies, there isn’t much a private citizen can do. At least I can offer you this gift as a gesture of friendship between us.’” When Swamiji’s voice again choked with emotion, we all had tears in our eyes.
As individuals, we may feel powerless, but no act of love or kindness goes unnoticed by the Universe. All of creation is one interconnected web of consciousness. Darkness is merely the absence of light. It has no reality of its own. In his poem Samadhi, Master says, “Vanished the veils of light and shade…” not “light and darkness.” Shade happens when the light is blocked. No matter how dark or long-lasting the shade, remove the block, and the light shines as before.
***
When Swamiji returned from Goa, he moved into his new house. It was livable, but barely. The workmen walked out the back door just as he walked in the front. There was water, electricity, and plumbing—some of the time. Even that took constant attention, like when the washing machine in the kitchen drained into the dining room just as Swamiji was sitting down for breakfast.
Dharmadas and Nirmala’s newly built house, similar in condition to Swamji’s, also sheltered Lila and Miriam. “Since we didn’t have any furniture,” Nirmala said, “there was lots of space.” Miriam described those first days as “the most physically challenging, and the most blissful time of my life.” It was thrilling to be living, however primitively, in Ananda India’s first community.
Swamiji settled in without complaint and immediately went back to work on The Wayshower. He stayed only a week; then it was time to go to Gurgaon for a weekend program called Inner Renewal. Jyotish and Devi came from America to help with the teaching, supported now by about twenty Indian devotees who had gone through a teacher training program.
Swamiji always dressed in blue, and was frequently accompanied by other blue-clad nayaswamis. People recognized him from the television shows, and naturally asked him to explain his changed attire. It was the beginning of what Swamiji described in Renunciation for the New Age: the blue habit would gradually come to symbolize a new approach to spirituality.
Over three hundred people came for the weekend program, the Indians surrounding Swamiji so densely that he could hardly make his way through the crowd. A few days later, he dedicated the first Education for Life school for children, which one of the Indian devotees had started.
Then it was back to Pune for the Mahasamadhi weekend—the first retreat to be held on the land. There was now a thatched roof temple with screen walls, an outdoor dining area, and one of the existing buildings served as a kitchen. Most of the classes were held in Swamiji’s living room, which had been built extra large for that purpose.

His health was better, but he was far from well. Divine Mother had extended his life, but not indefinitely. He had persistent anemia, diabetes, weakness in the heart and lungs. Guru Kripa had air filters in every room, but whenever Swamiji went out, he had to breathe the polluted air of the city. Moving to the country, they expected clean, fresh air. Alas, the community was surrounded by agricultural land and villagers who burned their fields between plantings. Sometimes the community was covered in smoke. Miriam kept a constant watch over Swamiji.
***
When he wrote a book, Swamiji had complete control, especially since we have our own publishing company. Movies were entirely different. He had written the scripts, but to bring them to the screen involved dozens of other people. Movie people tend to think big, and some made promises that were more wishful thinking than an actual commitment.
Swamiji asked Nandini, Shivani, Vivek and Cecilia Sharma, and a few others to help turn his scripts into movies. Two directors had been interested, but for various reasons, others soon took their place. Swamiji found himself involved with a myriad of writers, producers, and directors. Dutifully, he revised and rewrote his scripts in accordance with their suggestions.
Swamiji thought Indian movie makers would be more in tune with the subject matter. Soon Nandini had some promising leads. One producer wanted to know, “Why is it important to make these films?”
“The greatest disease of modern times is indifference to truth and God,” Swamiji wrote, in answer to her question. “It breeds selfish competition, egotism, greed, and callousness to the sufferings of others. Because of greed, the world’s economies are collapsing, headed perhaps toward utter ruin. Because of selfishness and narrow self-interest, terrorism threatens to explode into world war. Because of man’s indifference to both truth and God, the universe itself may intervene with some major catastrophe—which Yogananda predicted.
“More than anything else, people need to awaken to their own deep need for higher ideals, and a higher direction in their lives. Issues such as ecology, though important in themselves, are side issues. Until God is brought back dynamically into people’s lives, this planet will see a constant increase of suffering. Man is getting out of tune with his own higher self.
“The more I can bring Divine Bliss into people’s lives, the more worthwhile my own life will have been for me. I don’t know how much longer God will give me to live, but I want to work for this cause to my last breath.”
***
In the middle of April, we received a surprise manuscript from Swamiji. In his cover letter he said, “Two weeks ago, just for fun, I started to read The Wizard of Oz. I got as far as the yellow brick road, when I had a sudden inspiration for a children’s story. I began writing with no clear idea of where I was headed, I just let the thoughts pour out as they would. The whole thing was handed to me as if on a silver platter.
“I didn’t get much sleep: I’d lie down, close my eyes, and suddenly get an idea for what to say next; leap up, and go to my computer; record the idea; lie down, eager to sleep; get another idea; leap up. It seemed to go on for a long time, but it was actually only two weeks.”
The manuscript was The Time Tunnel. Two young boys wandering in the hills of Transylvania come upon a mysterious wrecked laboratory, which leads to a tunnel that transports them forward and backward in time. The boys were Donny and Bobby, named after Swamiji and his brother. In real life they used to vacation with their parents in the place where the story is set.
One advantage of writing fiction is that intuition needs no objective support. “When I wanted to take the boys to Egypt,” Swamiji said, “I prayed to Master to tell me how the pyramids were built.” The result is a vivid description of stones being lifted by the power of sound. Backward in time to the continent of Atlantis, the boys see impressive technology paired with a frightening disregard for human values. Forward to higher ages, travel between planets is common, war is unknown, and window screens are not needed—all creatures, including insects, live harmoniously together, each in its own sphere.
***
In the Bhagavad Gita, Krishna explains that throughout time, the highest expressions of greatness are God Himself manifesting in that form. “Of sages, I am Brighu,” Krishna says, speaking in the voice of God.
Many years earlier, after his two Brighu readings, Swamiji wrote a small book about the sage and his prophecies, as one more proof of India’s past—and present—greatness. Increased respect for India, Swamiji felt, would bring increased respect for Master’s teachings. The predictions about his own life, he presented impersonally, as just part of the evidence.
At the end of April, friends in Delhi took Swamiji for a reading from another ancient book of prophecy: this one by the sage Agastya, who is believed to be amar—immortal—living even now in the Himalayas, like Babaji.
A favorite legend about Agastya is that once, in ancient times, all the rishis of India were called to a gathering in the Himalayas, at the northern border of the country. People became afraid: with so much spiritual greatness concentrated at one edge, the country might tip over! So Agastya alone stayed in the south—and India was saved.
What is called the book of Brighu, and that of Agastya, are actually many cloth-bound bundles of sheets of writing, which are stored with pundits in different parts of India. The pundits use various means to find the appropriate sheets. The Brighu pundits used astrology; the Agastya pundits used Swamiji’s right thumbprint. Sometimes a person’s page is found right away; sometimes there is no page. Not everyone who wants a reading receives one. Or a person finds his page with a different pundit, or when he returns to the same pundit on a different day.
At first, the Agastya pundits couldn’t find anything for Swamiji, so he agreed to come back the next day. By then, they had found it. They read it to him in the morning, and were so impressed, they insisted on coming to his house in the evening to read it again at the astrologically auspicious moment.
Just as they arrived at Guru Kripa, and lasting only for the duration of the reading, there was a sudden, violent wind and rain storm. When the pundits left, the streets were flooded. Giving readings was their livelihood, but they refused to accept any money from Swamiji. It was a spiritual privilege to serve him, they said, not a business relationship.
“We have never before given such a reading,” the pundits said.
Agastya praised Swamiji for his exemplary service to his Guru, calling him, “a blessing to the whole world.” Certain obstacles, though, had kept him from receiving the recognition he deserved. Now those obstacles were resolved, and he would be acclaimed as a leading light on the planet. The sage spoke not only of success in books and ashrams, but also in television and cinema. Most importantly, Agastya predicted ever-expanding inner bliss, and at the end of life, moksha.
Swamiji received many readings over the years. Brighu and Agastya were in a class by themselves, but there were also astrologers and several psychics whose readings, he said, “were confirmed by my own intuition.” Swamiji often shared these readings with his close friends, as evidence of a reality greater than the senses could perceive.
It was also a way to give us insight into his life and consciousness, without him having to declare it. He had great respect for our free will, and never misused his spiritual authority. Having others speak on his behalf left us free to accept or reject what they said, according to our own intuition.
***
In May, Swamiji went to Italy to launch the Italian edition of the original Autobiography of a Yogi. The program was in Milan, and started with several prominent authors telling how that book had changed their lives forever. Then, for over an hour, five hundred people sat with rapt attention as Swamiji told story after story about Master. Many were from his own experience; others Master had told to him. The stories were thrilling, Shivani said, and delightful; he was often interrupted by applause or laughter. But the real impact of his talk, she said, was “the aura of bliss that emanated from Swamiji, and the living presence of Master that flowed through him.”
A few days later, he was the keynote speaker for a large yoga festival in Rome. It was held in a park, with many booths surrounding an open-sided tent for the speakers. Swamiji began with music, and the melodies drew everyone from the booths into the tent—five hundred people sitting under the canopy, an equal number standing outside. When Swamiji asked for a show of hands—“How many of your lives have been touched by Autobiography of a Yogi?”—almost everyone raised a hand.
Swamiji emphasized the importance of the original version. He told his own dramatic story of finding the book in a miraculous way, spending most of three days and three nights reading it, then immediately taking a bus from New York City to Los Angeles. And then his immortal words to Master, “I want to be your disciple.” In 1948, when he read the book, there was only one version: the original. In the subsequent twelve editions, Swamiji said, SRF had so changed the emphasis from individual attunement to God, to attunement to God through the organization, that “I don’t think it would have inspired me in the same way. I had long since turned my back on institutional religion.”
Afterward, Swamiji said, “This was an important day.” To speak to so many people, at such an influential festival, would stimulate a new respect for Master throughout Italy, and a greater interest in the original Autobiography of a Yogi.
He told the audience, “The vibration of Master through that book can change your life and transform your consciousness.”
***
Master said that after his incarnation as William the Conqueror, he was a Spanish king who helped drive the Moors from that country. Master didn’t name the king, but when others showed Swamiji their careful research, he felt Master had been Ferdinand III (in Spanish, Fernando), known as The Saint, and that Swamiji was his son, Alphonso X, known as The Wise. Alphonso, like Henry, completed the work that his father started.
Alphonso was exceptionally well educated for the times, skilled in languages, astronomy, and music. He wrote over four hundred songs, mostly dedicated to the Virgin Mary. The system of law he developed was carried by the Spanish explorers to the New World, and was used throughout the American Southwest. When the United States government was formed, much of that system was adopted. Alphonso was so influential in the forming of the country, that his portrait hangs in the meeting hall of the United States House of Representatives, one of twenty-three men so honored.
Fernando’s body is entombed in the Cathedral of Seville in Spain. To this day, it remains incorrupt. Once a year, on May 30, the tomb is open to the public. Swamiji decided he wanted to go to Seville on that day, and see if he could feel in Fernando the consciousness of Master.
Narayani Anaya, a devotee from Spain, had become an unofficial member of Swamiji’s household. She first met him in Assisi, on her twenty-fourth birthday, in March 2003. The first time she saw Swamiji, her heart exclaimed, “My King!” Soon after, he said to her, “You feel like a daughter to me.” Narayani tells the moving story of her life with Swamiji in My Heart Remembers Swami Kriyananda.
When Swamiji moved to India, he asked Narayani to come live there, too. She quit her job, sold her apartment, and started following Swamiji around the world. Wherever he was, she was there, too. She helped Swamiji with his projects, but mostly she served him in personal ways, like cooking and taking care of his house. He found her company rejuvenating, and was always happy to see her.
When he decided to go to Seville, he asked Narayani to arrange the trip. Both felt they had been together in Spain when he was Alphonso. In that lifetime, in gratitude for loyal and faithful service, Alphonso gave to members of his family the town of Elche—the very town where Narayani was born, and lived all her life. “Growing up in Elche,” she said, “I got to know so many people from all areas of life, far more than my friends or family knew. I felt as if the whole town belonged to me.”
The purpose of going to Seville was to visit Fernando’s tomb, but Swamiji could also do some programs there, including launching the Spanish edition of the original Autobiography of a Yogi.
His health had again become precarious. From working so many hours at the computer, he had developed a contusion in his hip, which made walking difficult. In the middle of his back, just behind his heart, he had a constant, intense pain, which no doctor could diagnose or alleviate. He had difficulty sleeping, and was often awake most of the night.
All this he accepted with calm courage. He commented wryly, “Master said death would be my final sacrifice, so I have no reason to think it will get better before then!”
Arati Garcia-Davis, a Spanish devotee, wrote about his visit. “Despite his ill health, Swamiji was relaxed, blissful, flowing in an ocean of divine peace, laughing almost all the time. Spain, he said, ‘felt like home.’ His gaze was so deep, when I exchanged glances with him I felt he was breaking through all my delusions with his divine love and joy.
“About 150 people came to the launch. Afterward some sat in absolute, still silence. Others, magnetically drawn, followed Swamiji out of the room and into the street. He spoke what he called creative Spanish. Spanish, Italian, and occasional English, but with a little help from Narayani, we all understood.
“I felt so close to Swamiji, as if he were living inside my own heart. His message of truth, trust, love, and hope was a blessing not only for those present, but for all of Spain.”
Narayani arranged a private viewing of Fernando’s body. She, Miriam, and a few others sat a little distance away, while Swamiji stood alone by the tomb for about half an hour. Miriam wrote, “Swamiji laid his hands gently on the tomb, then stood unmoving, scarcely breathing, for all that time. There is a feeling in the chapel of immense power, with waves of divine vibrations coming from the body of Fernando. Afterward, Swamiji was silent for a long time.”
When he finally broke his silence, he said, “I felt Master’s presence. Fernando even looks like Master.”
On the last night in Seville, Swamiji asked Narayani, “Would you like to be my personal assistant? Many others are there to help me, but they all have other duties as well. For a long time, and increasingly as I grow older, I have needed someone whose only responsibility is to help me. You would be perfect.
“Standing by Fernando’s tomb, I prayed, ‘Is it right to have Narayani close to me?’ I prayed several times, and each time felt a wave of bliss in response.” For years she had been following him; now Narayani would travel with him as an official member of his staff.
Later Swamiji said to us, “All of you who are close to me love me not only for what you can give, but also for what you receive from me. It is appropriate for you to feel that way, and it is my joy to give. Narayani is unique. She thinks only of what she can give. In different roles, through many incarnations, she has come to help me. That is why I feel so comfortable with her. At this stage of my life, especially, it is very helpful to have her with me.”
When Swamiji said, “this stage of my life,” he was referring to more than just the age of his body; he also meant his expanding consciousness. From that day, until his last breath, Narayani was his constant companion. Swamiji soon turned over to her almost all decisions about whom he would meet, where he would travel, what talks he would give.
“He gave me the responsibility, and also the intuition to know what he would want,” Narayani said. “Rarely did I have to ask.” Her presence freed Swamiji from all practical concerns, allowing his spirit to soar in bliss.
***
In July, Swamiji returned to Ananda Village. He had been away so often and for so long, that many who lived there barely knew him. So every Thursday, he held a potluck dinner, inviting seventy people at time, until all three hundred residents had a chance to come. After dinner, he would read a P. G. Wodehouse story.
Master’s prescription for the spiritual life includes “to read one funny story a day.” In his advice to devotees, Swamiji wrote, “Take occasional breaks from serious activity. The search for God is the most serious activity of all, but even so, time should be set aside for fun, laughter, and happy relaxation. Since God is Bliss, one can (and indeed should) keep a sense of His presence even while enjoying life.”
After the story, Swamiji would invite people to ask questions. One evening, someone asked, “Of all the things you have accomplished, of what are you most proud?”
“I don’t feel I’ve accomplished anything,” Swamiji said. “God is the doer.” Then he added, “There is one thing: I am a disciple of Paramhansa Yogananda. Even then, proud doesn’t fit, because I don’t feel I even exist. Everyone has a secret. Mine is the power of the Guru.”
In a letter to a friend he wrote, “I have done my humble best to serve Master in this lifetime, and to the very best of my capacity. I do not consider that anything I have done is important, except as it has served to promote his message and his mission in the world.
“When I come before Master, after this life passes, the only question I expect him to ask me is, ‘Have you loved me?’ With all my heart I will say, ‘You are all I have ever loved.’”
When Swamiji left India in May, he said he would be back in September for his discipleship anniversary—“unless something happens with the movies.” There were ripples of interest from Hollywood, but nothing definite yet. At the end of August, he was going to Los Angeles for another big event at the Ford Amphitheatre. Perhaps after that something would come together.
There had been a change in leadership at the Ananda center there, and in the middle of July, Swamiji received a letter from the man who was now in charge. Instead of coming for just one event, the man wrote, perhaps Swamiji would want to consider moving to Los Angeles for an extended period of time. Several thousand people were expected for his talk in August; they had promising contacts in Hollywood for the movies; they were looking for land to start a retreat; a well-established bookstore was for sale that could be a perfect Ananda center.
Above all, the man said, SRF’s continuing, uncharitable behavior was hurting Master’s work. Another example was needed, one of kindness, compassion, lightness, humor, openness, and a minimum of rules. There were more disciples of Master in Los Angeles than anywhere else in the country, probably more than anywhere else in the world. On his own, the leader said, he could do good work, but if Swamiji were there—one of the last living disciples of Master—it would change everything.
After he read the letter, Swamiji wrote to India: “All plans are canceled.” Master was calling him to Los Angeles. He invited Jyotish, Devi, Durga, Vidura, and a whole singing group to come, too. Southern California is the heart of the entertainment industry; perhaps finally, his music could become known. Overnight, Ananda Los Angeles went from a staff of two, to more than a dozen.
Bharavi Kaz, a Los Angeles native and long-time supporter of Ananda’s work there, invited Swamiji, most of his staff, and Jyotish and Devi to move into her spacious home. There was a separate guest house where Swamiji could stay. A large house was rented nearby as an ashram for the rest of the devotees. Two halls were also rented: a large one for Swamiji’s weekly satsangs, and a smaller one for his Sunday services.
Moving to Los Angeles for Swamiji was all about SRF, especially Daya Mata. For the future of the work, and her spiritual well-being, he hoped to resolve the situation before she died. No one inside SRF dared to question her decisions, he said; “I am the only one who can speak frankly to her.” Perhaps it was futile, but he felt Master wanted him to try.
Immediately, he began to write a book called Rescuing Yogananda, later titled Yogananda for the World. He hoped to finish and publish it before he went to Los Angeles at the end of August.
As soon as he began to work on the book, the pain behind his heart intensified, until it was like a knife in his back. He described it as “the kind of pain that causes people to commit suicide.” Much of the time, he couldn’t sit at the computer, so he dictated his thoughts. For a few days at the beginning, I was there and typed for him.
When Swamiji was dictating, Narayani was always present, usually sitting off to the side, listening, meditating, praying. When the pain was too intense for him to concentrate through it, Swamiji asked her to rub his back.
Dr. Peter was concerned that Swamiji was driving himself so hard, he might collapse from the effort. So he came by often, just to see how Swamiji was doing. Then he would sit for a while, listening to him dictate.
We worked in Swamiji’s office at Crystal Hermitage, which is down the hall from his living quarters. It shares the same expansive view of the canyon; one entire side of the office is windows. The ceiling is high, the walls are painted white, the furniture is comfortable, the lighting excellent since he often worked late into the night.
But when I think about the hours I spent there, typing while Swamiji dictated Rescuing Yogananda, I remember the scene as dark, crowded, and smoky. I am not given to visions, nor to flights of fancy, but if I could have seen it, I believe the room was filled with demons, some of whom were stabbing Swamiji in the back. It was war on the causal plane over the future of Master’s work, and Swamiji was leading the charge.
The day before he was scheduled to leave for Los Angeles, Swamiji fell down in his living room, severely injuring his hip. He couldn’t get up from the floor. Paramedics were called, and he was taken by ambulance to the hospital in town. The hip wasn’t broken, just badly bruised, made worse by the blood thinners Swamiji had been taking ever since his heart operation. The doctors decided he could recover just as well at home, but travel was out of the question. The big event in Los Angeles was just a few days away.
Then there were further complications. Swamiji was given his usual insulin shot before breakfast, but then didn’t eat the meal. Miriam had already left; no one else understood how serious this was. He fell into a diabetic coma. Fortunately, Miriam was able quickly to reverse the condition; but it left Swamiji mentally clouded, and physically exhausted.
Through it all, though, Master was with him. Swamiji said, “The pain at times was almost unbearable, but so also was the bliss.”
On the morning of the big event, Swamiji was finally cleared to travel. “I want to be able to walk onto the stage,” he said, trying to stand on his own without help from the men supporting him on either side. But even his willpower could not prevail over the injury to his hip. That night, Jyotish brought him onto the stage in a wheelchair.
He was, after all, one of the last living disciples of Paramhansa Yogananda, and in the wheelchair he looked the part. But when he began to speak, he was, just as he described himself: “I feel ageless. I don’t feel me anymore. My personality is being chipped away by bliss.”
***
Just before his discipleship anniversary on September 12, Swamiji finished writing Rescuing Yogananda. The book was brutally frank, especially about Daya Mata. He sent it to a large mailing list, warning them, “This book is a bit of a bombshell. If I could think of a way to approach this subject gently, instead of as an exposé, I would certainly have taken that approach. I am deeply loyal to my Guru. I would not want to hurt the organization he founded. Still, my first loyalty is to truth.”
Rescuing Yogananda was posted on the internet, and rushed to the printer. When the first critical letters arrived from loyal SRF members, Swamiji wrote to one of them, “I am always particularly careful not to hurt the faith of anyone, even when I feel their loyalty is directed toward a false religion. I know in writing this book I have taken a risk. Do I feel wrong, then, in having written it? I have to say I felt guided by Master himself to write what I did. My supreme loyalty goes always to him and to the sanctity of his mission on earth.”
It wasn’t just SRF members who objected to the book; some people at Ananda were also dismayed by the tone and the contents. “Why must you speak so unfavorably about your gurubhais?” one asked.
Swamiji answered, “I know them to be good people, sincere disciples by their definition, and on their own terms, serving our Guru to the best of their ability. I did it in service to a larger cause and without rancor or emotion. Any emotions that I have felt in the past toward them, were transformed long ago into gratitude.”
The day after he finished the book, Swamiji had a session with a specialist in the Egoscue Method of physical therapy—a session the therapist had been trying to schedule for weeks. After a few days of the exercises she prescribed, the pain in his back had diminished to the point where it was no longer a burden on his consciousness.
Once the book was printed, Swamiji saw countless ways to improve it. He finished the second edition the morning of November 30. In the afternoon, word came that Daya Mata had left her body.
Swamiji wrote a personal, heartfelt note of condolence to everyone at SRF. He ordered a huge bouquet of flowers which he asked Narayani to take to Mount Washington. He wanted her to deliver it personally to the monk he felt to be a friend, the one he had tried to speak to at the Richmond Temple.
“When I walked into Mount Washington,” Narayani said, “holding the bouquet of flowers and the note from Swamiji, suddenly I was filled with bliss.” She came after the lawsuit years and had no relationship with SRF or anyone there. “It was not my own experience. I was acting on Swamiji’s behalf and my consciousness merged with his. It was his bliss I felt, his years there with Master, his love for Daya Mata, and all his brother and sister disciples. There was no trace of anger or regret. Only love. Only bliss.”
The nun at the reception desk was not willing to call the monk. Narayani had no choice but to leave the note and flowers with her, hoping she would give them to him.
One of the statements in Rescuing Yogananda, that even some of Swamiji’s closest friends thought a step too far, was his suggestion that when Daya Mata passed, he should be made president of SRF. Of all the direct disciples, Swamiji felt he was the most qualified. Until Tara Mata engineered his dismissal, he was the heir apparent: head monk, head minister, in charge of the center department, best known public speaker, most popular chant leader, first person to be put on the Board of Directors after Master’s passing, vice-president, and Daya Mata’s right-hand man.
A previously scheduled interview with the Los Angeles Times happened a few days after Daya Mata’s passing. The reporter was meeting Swamiji for the first time and knew nothing about the controversy with SRF. Swamiji was aware of that, but saw the article as a way to get his idea in front of SRF members. He told the reporter, “The SRF Board of Directors should elect me as the next president,” then listed the many reasons why he would be the best choice. The reporter felt Swamiji was “dancing on Daya Mata’s grave.” He was not favorably impressed and his article reflected that.
From SRF’s point of view, the only possible choice for president was Mrinalini Mata. In 1943, when she was thirteen, she came to Mount Washington with her mother, Meera Mata, who was also a disciple. Mrinalini had lived there as a nun ever since. She finished high school, but never went to college. She had never traveled and was proud of the fact that she’d never read any spiritual teachings but Master’s. As a disciple, her life was extraordinary. In terms of leading a worldwide mission, there was no comparison between what she could do and what Swamiji would bring to the presidency.
Swamiji was no fool; he knew how his suggestion would be received. “It is not dharma,” he said, “to refrain from a good action, merely because you fear others will not understand.”
Considering his age, health, and myriad other responsibilities, he didn’t put himself forward because of a desire for the position. For nearly half a century, SRF members had been conditioned to despise him. To be the leader under such circumstances, he said, would be a “horrible prospect.” Still, “My sense of duty to Master has no limits. My deepest desire in life is to see my Guru’s work flourish. I think the greatest thing toward that end would be a healing of the breach between SRF and Ananda.”
***
Swamiji earned the money to start Ananda by teaching classes in yoga and meditation. He suggested the Los Angeles center could be supported in the same way. “Those subjects are too common now,” the leader said. “We wouldn’t have the same success you did.” Swamiji then asked himself, “What subject can we teach that people need now?”
Master’s predictions about hard times were a constant concern. Why not teach people how to meet adversity with self-expansive, spiritual attitudes? He’d already written Material Success Through Yoga Principles, but in Los Angeles, he felt, something shorter and simpler was needed; perhaps a condensed version of what he wrote in India. He started to do that, but instead wrote something entirely new: AKASH: Ancient Keys to Attaining Success and Happiness. It was a six-week course, complete in itself, that could also lead people to the yearlong series of lessons.
With the contents clearly defined, many people could learn to teach it as well—not only in Los Angeles, but for Ananda everywhere. It could include several of Swamiji’s books: Money Magnetism, The Art of Supportive Leadership, Out of the Labyrinth, Cities of Light, Cooperative Communities. We could develop a whole department devoted to AKASH and the Material Success course.
Swamiji then wrote an essay, Economic Collapse—A Solution, which he recorded as a video and posted on the internet. “The direct cause of economic depressions is monetary greed,” he said. “The root cause of greed is an attitude of taking, not of giving and sharing.”
It may sound simplistic, he said, but the key to society is the individual. These problems will not be resolved from the top down, but from the bottom up. He urged people to take action, to follow Master’s recommendation to join with like-minded friends in small communities, growing your own food on your own land. He said, “You may not be able to change society—right away—but you can change your destiny, and the destiny of those around you.”
***
At one of the satsangs, someone asked Swamiji, “You say the goal of life is bliss. What exactly is bliss to you?”
“Bliss is the same thing for everybody. It is the absolute happiness of being who and what you are. It is the feeling that life is wonderful; that everything, even the sad things, lead to understanding and wisdom. That there really is no tragedy in life. The ups and downs of duality are an appearance, only. The end of every road is the certainty in yourself that you are perfect in yourself. There is nothing needed to achieve that perfection; it is your own self. It is not a definition, it is a feeling—a feeling that becomes so intense sometimes that you can hardly bear it. I have a hard time not weeping.”
It came over him in that moment, and he had to pause before going on. “In spite of all the pain, cynicism, and meanness in life, underneath it all, life is bliss. The goal of life is to achieve oneness with that bliss. You don’t define truth—you become it.”
***
Shivani and Nandini had moved from Assisi to Los Angeles to work on the movies. They were following every lead, “churning the ether” trying to make it happen. Nandini showed her usual genius for making friends and high-level contacts. Swamiji’s living room was abuzz with interesting visitors and potential leads: directors, screenwriters, producers, actors.
They were being helped by Roberto Bessi, an Italian movie producer who had also spent years working in Hollywood. He introduced Swamiji to Ted Nicolaou, a director and Roberto’s longtime friend and collaborator. There was instant rapport. Ted read many of Swamiji’s books, and started coming over once a week to talk about how The Answer could be made. Ted proposed a docudrama—part interviews with Swamiji, part dramatization of the stories he told.
Roberto agreed with Ted’s idea for The Answer, but felt The Wayshower should be a big budget, feature film. So Shivani and Nandini started looking for someone to fund it. Swamiji thought The Time Tunnel could also be a good movie, or even a TV series, and he began to write a script for that.
And, throughout it all, Swamiji was plagued by terrible insomnia. Many nights, Narayani was awake with him for hours, sometimes nearly till dawn—reading, meditating, talking, walking in the garden. But no matter how little Swamiji slept at night, he still couldn’t sleep in the daytime. Despite the strain on his body, Narayani said, “It was astonishing to see how Swamiji was able to carry on through one of the busiest periods of his life. Master sustained him.”
Sometimes Swamiji felt such a tremendous weight on his heart that he could barely breathe. It happened especially at night when he lay down, which made sleep almost impossible. No physical remedy had any effect on it. It was more than just tapasya for the work in Los Angeles. Swamiji said, “My heart is changing. God is drawing me closer to Him. That is why I am having these problems.”
In early December, a friend invited Swamiji to stay in her beautiful home in Hawaii. So he, Narayani, Lila, and Miriam went there for a much needed rest. As soon as he arrived, everything shifted. The insomnia, which had exacerbated every other weakness in his body, went away. His sleep pattern became normal. For now, the tapasya was over.
***
“Once I make up my mind, I’ll use all my willpower to accomplish my goal,” Swamiji said, “but if I see that I am wrong, I’ll change in an instant.” Even though many people tried to persuade Swamiji not to publish Rescuing Yogananda, he felt guided to do it. The second edition was online and the printing process underway.
Then, on December 31, he sent an email from Hawaii. “Last night I had a dream,” he said, “in which a saint, not from our line of gurus, said about the book, ‘It is not your place to judge.’ I replied, ‘It says things that need to be brought out.’ The saint agreed, then said, ‘But now, drop it. You be a child of God. Judgement is of the ego; divine acceptance of the soul. Forget the book now, and think only of Him.’
“The saint was severe, but also very sweet. I am deeply grateful and agree completely. My feeling from the dream was deep bliss.”
All remaining copies of the first edition of Rescuing Yogananda were recalled. Printing on the second was stopped, and the book was taken off the internet.