To the Land of my Guru: Pilgrimage to the Himalayas

“You are very lucky,” one of the disciples told me as I examined the large metal box where his body spent the winters. “Except for a few words, he has not spoken for fifteen years.” Already feeling blessed by his generous hospitality, these words made my spirit soar. What a rare privilege to be among the first to hear him break his long silence! But even if he had not spoken, his holy vibrations were so palpable, we could not fail to absorb them. We met two other saints on our descent. Enlightened as they were, their auras paled beside Baxa Wale's.

“I was conscious always that I was in the presence of a living manifestation of God. The weight of his divinity automatically bowed my head before him.”

Yogananda on Sri Yukteswar, Autobiography of a Yogi

While meeting living saints is a rare honor, the greatest rewards of pilgrimage lie within one's own consciousness. Like the rishis who have long inhabited these soaring mountains, we took every opportunity to meditate in their cave-shrines.

The first was in the village of Mana, accessible only by foot, near the Tibetan border. A sign at the cave's entrance declared it to be the erstwhile writing-place of Vyasa, author of the Mahabarata, over 5000 years ago. Only about a dozen people could fit inside at a time, so we took turns imbibing its holy vibrations.

Having already enjoyed visions of Ganesha and my beloved Yogananda while meditating at the temple that morning, I was now able to concentrate more deeply than I had in years, and was rewarded with a vision of a gigantic peacock climbing the hill. Our guide told me this beautiful bird was the transport of a Hindu god, symbolizing prosperity and health, and reminded me that Lord Krishna wore a peacock feather to represent the Spiritual Eye.

Still reeling from this marvelous vision, I hardly anticipated the greater wonders ahead: the magnificent source of the Saraswati River, thundering from between huge boulders into its short bed below us, surrounded on all sides by the great Himalayas. We had already seen dozens of gorgeous waterfalls as we drove north, but this one, spraying rainbows as it cascaded over the crags, overwhelmed us with its beauty.

From this vantage point, we viewed the whole northern course of the Saraswati before it plunges underground, to emerge 300 km south at Allahabad. The natural bridge led us to yet another fabled site: the Stairway to Heaven leading to the snow-covered Neelkanth mountain, where the Pandavas exited at the end of the Mahabarata. Here, our leaders regaled us with Indian folklore as we drank in the majesties of this hallowed land.

Another cave-Ganesha's-awaited us as we walked back through Mana. It happened to be his birthday that day, so monks were celebrating with gay chants and flowers as pilgrims squeezed between its hallowed walls.

Outward and inward glories

Glorious as were the mountains the most beautiful I had ever seen-even more so were the inward glories I discovered in the depths of my own being. With each successive cave-meditation, my spirit ascended higher still: Adi Shankaracharya's at Josimath boasts the 2500-year-old mulberry tree under which he attained enlightenment; I could have spent days there. Inside Vaishistha's cave near an ashram outside Rishikesh-where I could have settled forever--the spirits of many rishis ushered me past layer after layer of useless karma, washing away the dross of the past, carrying me to the shores of bliss. Here I learned not to get caught up in the visions, fascinating as they were, but to keep moving beyond them.

Rishikesh, “the Mecca of Yoga,” is the home of many ashrams, including a round Kriya Yoga center still being constructed by Swami Shankarananda, a spiritual “cousin” to us Yogananda devotees. A few miles away, we visited the “granddaddy” of the ashrams, the Divine Light Society of Swami Sivananda, the great sage who revived the neglected town in the 20th century. Both of these beautiful structures proved ideal for meditation.

One evening I asked [Mr. Wright, his American secretary] a question.

“Dick, what is your impression of India?”

“Peace,” he said thoughtfully. “The racial aura is peace.” Yogananda, ibid

Before ending our pilgrimage, we went shopping in Rishikesh's teeming marketplace. Crossing the footbridge, the first person I saw was a street vendor covered in peacock-feather fans. Recalling my vision in Vyasa's cave (and seeking respite from the sweltering heat!), I had to add one to my souvenirs of this never-to-be-forgotten trip. Completing the transaction, I noticed the rest of our party had gone ahead without me, leaving me alone in the crowd.

Being abandoned in a foreign country would once have filled me with dread; but now I felt not the least fearful, sure I would soon catch up with my companions. This sense of safety, I realized, was enticing evidence of how the trip was changing me. Never had I felt such sustained calmness in unfamiliar circumstances. It had lasted the entire pilgrimage - and beyond! Impatience, also, had dissolved. To cement my newfound confidence, I later spent two more hours alone exploring Rishikesh by foot, auto-rickshaw and boat.

By the time we boarded the evening train back to Delhi, we felt an eternal bond as disciples of one of the greatest masters India had ever produced: our own Parmahansa Yogananda, sent to America by Babaji in 1920. Both are dearer to me now that I have been to India-cherished memories that will feed my soul for the rest of my life. The trip exceeded my high expectations-except one: to ride a decorated Indian elephant. Ah well, maybe next time…

Where Ganges, woods, Himalayan caves and men dream God, I am hallowed; my body touched that sod. Last words of Yogananda, from his poem “My India”