He ushered us at once
into a sitting room adorned with an enlargement of Lahiri Mahasaya's
picture. The swami was approaching the age of ninety, but his
muscular body radiated strength and health. With long hair and
a snow-white beard, eyes twinkling with joy, he was a veritable
patriarchal embodiment. I informed him that I wanted to mention
his name in my book on India's masters.
"Please tell me about your earlier life." I smiled entreatingly;
great yogis are often uncommunicative.
Keshabananda made a gesture of humility. "There is little of external
moment. Practically my whole life has been spent in the Himalayan
solitudes, traveling on foot from one quiet cave to another. For
a while I maintained a small ashram outside Hardwar, surrounded on
all sides by a grove of tall trees. It was a peaceful spot little
visited by travelers, owing to the ubiquitous presence of cobras."
Keshabananda chuckled. "Later a Ganges flood washed away the
hermitage and cobras alike. My disciples then helped me to build
this Brindaban ashram."
One of our party asked the swami how he had protected himself
against the Himalayan tigers. {FN42-9}
Keshabananda shook his head. "In those high spiritual altitudes,"
he said, "wild beasts seldom molest the yogis. Once in the jungle
I encountered a tiger face-to-face. At my sudden ejaculation, the
animal was transfixed as though turned to stone." Again the swami
chuckled at his memories.
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