2013: His Final Year: Wrapping-Up the “Great Work” Assigned to Him By His Guru

The cast and crew of Finding Happiness, on set at the Empire Mine in Grass Valley, in early 1950s costume, to film the Garden Party scene where Paramhansa Yogananda declares that his words will “move the West!” and that world brotherhood colonies will become a new reality.

In January, for his vacation in Goa, Swamiji wanted only Narayani and Shurjo with him. Miriam was there, too, but at another hotel. She was always on call, and once a day came to check on him.

The same week that Swamiji went to Goa, I went to Los Angeles to see the director’s cut of the Ananda movie, now called Finding Happiness. When the music started, and there was nothing on the screen but the words Hansa Productions, I felt an overwhelming rush of joy, and the powerful thought, “This movie will change the lives of people all over the world.”

We had a long way to go before we had a finished film, but no one wanted to proceed without Swamiji’s input. I was on my way to India for a two-month lecture tour, but hadn’t planned to see him for several weeks. That was too long for the production schedule, and too long for Swamiji to wait. He agreed that I could come to Goa on the last day of his vacation.

Kirtani and Anand were also on holiday at a nearby hotel, so late in the afternoon on the day of my arrival, we walked over to where Swamiji was staying, movie in hand. It took some tinkering to set it up so we could watch it on the big television screen in his room, and he could listen through headphones. His hearing had been declining for years; recently even his good ear had taken a turn for the worse.

We planned to stop the film whenever Swamiji had a suggestion. I turned on a recorder and was ready to take notes, so nothing would be missed. Once the film started, though, we never paused. The few words Swamiji spoke were whispered superlatives. He is not given to hyperbole, so when I heard him say: “Fabulous.” “Fantastic.” “Perfect.” I knew he meant it. When I looked at his face, he was gazing at the screen with an expression of pure bliss.

When the movie ended, Swamiji was weeping; I was weeping; Kirtani, Anand, Narayani, and Shurjo were weeping. It was some moments before any of us could speak. Finally Narayani recovered enough to text Shivani, who was waiting breathlessly in Los Angeles to hear Swamiji’s response. He said, “I can’t think of any way to improve it. It is just perfect.”

One thing Swamiji particularly liked about the movie is that even though he plays a prominent role, the focus is dispersed among all the Ananda people.

“It’s a wrap!” With cast and crew members on the set of Finding Happiness. To his left, director Ted Nicolau and lead actress Elisabeth Rohm.

The next day he wrote, “I am still teary-eyed from the experience of watching Finding Happiness. I can’t begin to tell everyone how proud and happy I am for all of you. You were so natural, so eloquent, so intelligent! The most beautiful thing about the movie is that all of you were so YOU!!! It was completely genuine: not a false note throughout.

“I am not only proud of you for helping so outstandingly to bring Master’s vision to the world; with this movie I see the realization of Master’s prophecy that this ideal would spread like wildfire throughout the world. As an ancient prophecy foretold to me recently, ‘Ananda will become no longer a place: it will become an ideal.’

“May God bless everyone who had anything to do with this project. Its impact will be far-reaching and profound.”

***

Swamiji was making a multi-city tour of India, resting between events at his home in Pune. His body wasn’t up to this kind of travel so it would be his last tour. Everywhere, the halls were filled. In Bangalore, the only exit was through the auditorium. After the talk, when Swamiji started walking up the aisle, the crowd surrounded him, touching his feet, asking for his blessing. In years past, he would have stayed as long as needed to greet them all. Now his body was too weak.

When they finally reached the sidewalk, Shurjo knew that they couldn’t wait for their driver to bring the car around. He stepped into the street and opened the door of the first car he could reach. To the startled lady inside, he said, “Will you take Swami Kriyananda back to his hotel?” She had been at the lecture and was thrilled when Shurjo helped Swamiji into the front seat, and he and Narayani climbed into the back.

In Chennai, the auditorium had seating for fifteen hundred. Every seat, the aisles, and standing room in the back were filled. Hundreds more watched the video in the lobby, and many hundreds simply couldn’t get in. After the choir finished singing, there was no place for them to sit, so they went into the orchestra pit and sat on the floor.

One man said later that he was disappointed to find himself in the last row of the highest balcony. But when Swamiji began to speak, he felt him just inches away, as if he and Swamiji were the only ones in the auditorium.

The tour symbolically completed the circle that had been broken in 1962. Thousands of people came then to see the American swami. Now, with his books, television shows, and this tour, Swamiji was finishing what he started: to make Master’s name known in the land of his birth.

Kolkata was the final city, added at the last minute. The only hall available was small, just 400 seats, so publicity was reduced accordingly. Swamiji made a pilgrimage to 4 Garpar Road, Master’s boyhood home. When he first visited there in 1958, Master’s brother Sananda Ghosh, and his son, Harekrishna, were there to greet him. Now father and son were long gone; the house belonged to Sananda’s grandson, Somnath. He and his wife Sarita were loving hosts, serving lunch to Swamiji and the small group with him.

Access was difficult, but with help from Shurjo and Jyotish, Swamiji made it up the long steep flight of stairs to meditate, for the last time, in the small attic room where Master said, “I found God.”

***

While resting in Pune between his lectures, Swamiji decided to review all his songs. “The melodies were given to me,” he said, so there was nothing to adjust, but he made many small changes to the lyrics. They are poetry in themselves, so he put them into a book called A Tale of Songs, with a little history of where and why some of them were written.

“Someone once tried to figure out what I was going through emotionally when I wrote this song or that,” he said. “The truth is, all my songs come from spiritual, not from emotional experience. They don’t reflect any trauma I was undergoing at the time. Rather, they describe attitudes all men would be happier for developing in themselves.”

In the beginning, Swamiji sang alone with a guitar; but as the community developed, he wanted to get others into the act, so he wrote harmonies and choral pieces. “I saw that people’s lives were transformed from singing these songs,” he said, “so I rarely performed the music myself, wishing to give others a chance to sing.”

After he had written about a hundred songs, Swamiji realized that the transforming effect was not only the power of the words, but the sound of the music itself. So he started writing instrumentals. In total, he composed about 420 pieces of music. “All of them have come to me so effortlessly that I do not really consider myself to be their author. They were given to me from a higher source.”

When he was helping a pianist at Ananda learn to play his sonata, The Divine Romance, he went over it with her phrase by phrase, sometimes note by note. “I hear it in my soul. It isn’t a matter of style or interpretation; it is how the experience I had translates into music.”

A Tale of Songs included a recording of every song, in the same order as in the book. In the introduction, Swamiji says, “Sing these songs. You will become a happier, more harmonious, better, self-integrated person by singing them. The same has also proved true for persons who play the instrumental pieces. They are not mine. They came from God.”

Then he turned his mind in an entirely different direction.

Marie Corelli was a prolific author, very popular in the 1890s. All her novels have spiritual themes; Swamiji read and enjoyed many of them. The Life Everlasting is about soulmates. Master confirmed the reality of soulmates, but wrote about it only once. “If he had spoken about it more,” Swamiji said, “People would have abandoned the search for God in favor of looking for their soulmate on every street corner!”

Before final liberation, Master said, every soul must unite with its mate. Not in the romantic way that most people think; physical passion is an obstacle to the kind of soul union Master is speaking of. Your soulmate, he said, might even be on another planet, and union come in a vision.

In Corelli’s story, hero and heroine, after meeting and parting in many incarnations, stand on the threshold of soul union, with each other, and with God. It is a beautiful story, but the theme was a little beyond her understanding—the happy ending she wrote is the couple sailing forever on his luxurious yacht! Still, The Life Everlasting is said to be the only novel Master ever read all the way through.

Using Corelli’s plot and much of her beautiful, descriptive language, Swamiji rewrote the book completely to reflect his far deeper understanding of human and divine love. Rather than retiring to a self-enclosed world, in his version, the couple commit their lives to helping others. Swamiji called his book Love Perfected, Life Divine.       

“Everyone longs to be loved,” Swamiji said, “not just impersonally by God, but personally by one human being. God would not have placed that desire in our hearts if He didn’t intend also to fulfill it.”

The dedication reads: “This book is lovingly dedicated to Narayani Anaya for her years of selfless help to me in my old age, and for her encouragement in writing this story.”

***

At the end of February, Swamiji’s health took a sudden turn for the worse, and he had to spend several nights in the hospital. His pacemaker was now regulating his heartbeat ninety percent of the time. After he came home, pneumonia set in. Fortunately it was caught early, and within a few days he recovered.

Swamiji’s mood was deeply inward. Except for Narayani, and sometimes Shurjo, he spent most of his time alone, in silence. A few months earlier, he had written to a few friends, “I have always relaxed with a book in my hand. Now, I read almost nothing. For a bookworm like me, that’s quite a change. Instead, I meditate and send lots of prayers to everyone.”

The living room of his house in Pune had been designed to hold one hundred people for satsangs, so it was a bit cavernous when Swamiji was there by himself. I visited him in March. In memory, I see him at perfect ease, sitting in a soft blue chair by the window.

He had suggested I become Ananda’s global ambassador, traveling as much as I was able, sharing Master’s teachings. Now we talked about other projects for me: this book; perhaps a spiritual novel. “Often it is a novel that turns the tide in society,” Swamiji said. Then, “What about making a movie of Jon Parsons’ book, A Fight for Religious Freedom?”

Over the years, negative comments about Swamiji on the internet have become increasingly sophisticated. SRF has added to their website a series of articles justifying the many changes they have made to Master’s work since his passing, including their claim to be the “sole authorized channel” and the true heir to Master’s spiritual legacy. A movie of Jon’s book could go a long way toward setting the record straight.

“I’d love to make that movie,” I said.

“You could play the part of Daya Mata,” Swamiji suggested.

We both laughed, but I knew he wasn’t joking. It was a good idea! Jon’s book is a very nuanced story about the divine mission of an avatar. The movie has to be more than just propaganda for Ananda. The audience has to feel, not only our sincerity, but also that of SRF and its leaders. I, and others from Ananda—as fellow disciples of Master—could convey better than someone merely acting the part, the SRF leaders’ pure love for God.[1]

***

In the middle of March, Swamiji returned to Assisi. It had been his custom to invite friends over for tea almost every afternoon. Now he preferred to be mostly silent and alone, with only Narayani and Shurjo for company.

He spent a little time going over one of his earliest books, Cooperative Communities: How to Start Them, and Why. It was not a rewrite, just updating and clarifying. It turned out to be his final project. Except for emails, the afterword to that book was the last writing he did. It concludes:

“All that I have done has been for God and for my Guru. I have had no personal desire in anything that has been accomplished. This is all God’s dream, not my own. I am happy to have been of service to it, but in the end, that’s all it is: a dream. God is the only reality.”

***

Swamiji kept up an active email correspondence with many people all over the world. Every morning before breakfast, he would check his computer to see who had written during the night and might need his help now.

In letters to his closest friends, he often mentioned the increasing weakness of his body. “I’m happy that I can still be of service. It is just getting a little more difficult. Maybe my strength will come back. I’m willing that it should. But I’m equally willing that it shouldn’t. Maybe Master feels I have done enough now.”

Swamiji had always loved the famous tenor-bass duet in the French opera The Pearl Fishers. In the early years at Ananda he would play it during the Christmas meditation. Now he put new words to that beautiful melody. Swamiji is a bass, Shurjo is a tenor, so they sang it together:

Yes, it’s She,

The Divine Mother,

She Who made the universe!

Yes, it’s She,

The Divine Mother,

Ruler of every heart’s desire!

Love more ancient,

Bliss eternal,

May our hearts soon be merged in Thee!

In his Easter letter, Swamiji wrote, “Meditate on the photograph of Master titled The Last Smile. And consider this amazing fact: He knew that in just a few moments he would be leaving his physical body forever! There is no thought of self in his eyes, of personal regret, of sorrow. Clearly visible is his unconditional love for all mankind; his readiness to return ‘again and again,’ as he put it, as long as one stray brother sits weeping by the wayside.”

Then the letter became more personal. “The very hallmark of my nature has been enthusiasm. Suddenly, now, I feel bereft of that enthusiasm. Nothing in this world attracts me anymore. All the things I once considered pleasurable are to me, now, displeasing. I want only to merge in God. The only lingering thought is that I would like to bring all of you with me.”

A few days later, Shivani came to show Swamiji the final version of Finding Happiness, with the finished soundtrack of his melodies, and every frame polished to perfection. “This was my final gift to Swamiji,” she said. “His life’s work in review, so he could leave knowing that he had faithfully carried out his Guru’s commission, ‘You have a great work to do.’”

After watching the movie, Swamiji said, “Everything I hoped to accomplish. It is all there.”

***

Swamiji was feeling a little stronger and decided to go into town. He visited his favorite stores, and exchanged a few words with the shopkeepers who, over the years, had become his friends. On Saturday afternoon, April 20, he invited his closest friends to come for tea. Conversation was informal, but in the course of the hour they spent together, Shivani said later, he looked deeply into the eyes of each one.

Swamiji and Narayani usually meditated together at 6:00 a.m., but when she went to his room on Sunday morning, he was still asleep. The candle was lit in the meditation room, so she assumed he had gotten up earlier. Lately he had been having trouble sleeping and would sometimes meditate in the middle of the night before going back to bed.

Swami Kriyananda Moksha Mandir at Ananda Village, on the grounds of Crystal Hermitage.

When Miriam arrived at 7:00 a.m. to check in with him, Swamiji was still sleeping, so she went downstairs to confer with Narayani. A few minutes later, they heard him moving around so both went upstairs. Swamiji was sitting at the computer, checking his emails, wearing a light blue bathrobe over his pajamas. When Miriam asked her usual question, “Swamiji, how you are?” he didn’t answer, just shrugged his shoulders.

Jaidhara Sleighter, the young man who had taken Lila’s place as cook, was making pancakes for Swamiji’s breakfast. Miriam went to the kitchen to see him—but a moment later Narayani rushed in and asked her to come back. Something was wrong with Swamiji.

He was sitting at the table, waiting for his breakfast. When Miriam spoke to him, Swamiji wasn’t able to hear her. Looking at Narayani, he said, “What is she saying?”

Miriam asked if she could check his blood sugar, thinking he was having a hypoglycemic reaction. Swamiji said, “Anything.” This turned out to be the last word he spoke. A moment later, Swamiji had a small seizure. His jaw tightened, his arms and hands clenched up toward his chest, his face turned a dusty rose.

Narayani said she was most concerned about keeping his hands open, so that he would be able to type. It never crossed her mind that Swamiji was leaving. A few seconds later, his body relaxed, but he had stopped breathing, and there was no heartbeat. Jaidhara rushed to the Temple to get Anand and Kirtani.

“He’s dying,” Miriam said. “Perhaps if we chant AUM in his right ear, he will come back.” She tried, but her voice was choked with tears, so Shurjo began to chant. After a few seconds, Swamiji started to breathe again, his color returned, and Miriam felt a rapid heartbeat.

By the time Kirtani and Anand arrived, they had moved Swamiji to his bedroom and laid him on his back so he could breathe more easily. Shurjo continued to chant AUM in his right ear. Narayani was leaning over Swamiji, her face close to his. Miriam was saying, “Breathe, Swamiji, breathe.” She asked Kirtani to telephone Jyotish and Devi.

***

It was Sunday morning in Assisi; late Saturday night in California, where I was. Earlier that evening we had held our annual members’ party for the Palo Alto community, made unforgettable by the first private showing of Finding Happiness. I came home exhilarated, but exhausted, and slept for about an hour. At 11:00 p.m. I was wide awake, reading a book. I answered the phone on the first ring.

“Swamiji is having trouble breathing,” Devi said.

“What does that mean?” I asked in alarm.

“I don’t know,” Devi replied. “That’s all Kirtani said.”

***

Miriam thought Swamiji would be more responsive to Narayani’s voice. “Breathe, Swamiji,” Narayani said. He half opened his eyes, and from very far away, looked deeply into hers. Then his eyes closed; he took one more breath, followed by a long exhalation. After that: Stillness. Silence. Omnipresence.

Lakshman had heard what was happening, but selflessly stayed at his desk so he could send messages to the world. He wrote: “I just learned that Swamiji left his body. Please surround him in light and bliss as he returns home. He has been looking forward to this for a long time.”

Kirtani called me. She said, “Swamiji is free.”

 

 

[1] This movie has yet to be made. If you would like to help, contact the author.

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