"Why don't you go to bed? Is the whole world
going to change for you? Change yourself: be rid of the mosquito
consciousness."
Meekly I returned to my bed. Not one insect ventured near. I realized
that my guru had previously agreed to the curtains only to please
me; he had no fear of mosquitoes. His yogic power was such that
he either could will them not to bite, or could escape to an inner
invulnerability.
"He was giving me a demonstration," I thought. "That is the yogic
state I must strive to attain." A yogi must be able to pass into,
and continue in, the superconsciousness, regardless of multitudinous
distractions never absent from this earth. Whether in the buzz of
insects or the pervasive glare of daylight, the testimony of the
senses must be barred. Sound and sight come then indeed, but to
worlds fairer than the banished Eden. {FN12-7}
The instructive mosquitoes served for another early lesson at the
ashram. It was the gentle hour of dusk. My guru was matchlessly
interpreting the ancient texts. At his feet, I was in perfect peace.
A rude mosquito entered the idyl and competed for my attention. As
it dug a poisonous hypodermic needle into my thigh, I automatically
raised an avenging hand. Reprieve from impending execution! An
opportune memory came to me of one of Patanjali's yoga aphorisms-that
on AHIMSA (harmlessness).
"Why didn't you finish the job?"
"Master! Do you advocate taking life?"
"No; but the deathblow already had been struck in your mind.
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