Autobiography of a Yogi
by Paramhansa Yogananda
Original First Edition, Copyright 1946,
by Paramhansa Yogananda
First Online Edition
Chapter 23
I Receive My University Degree
"You ignore your textbook assignments in philosophy. No doubt you
are depending on an unlaborious 'intuition' to get you through the
examinations. But unless you apply yourself in a more scholarly manner, I shall
see to it that you don't pass this course."
Professor D. C. Ghoshal of Serampore College was addressing me
sternly. If I failed to pass his final written classroom test, I would be
ineligible to take the conclusive examinations. These are formulated by the
faculty of Calcutta University, which numbers Serampore College among its
affiliated branches. A student in Indian universities who is unsuccessful in
one subject in the A.B. finals must be examined anew in all his subjects the
following year.
My instructors at Serampore College usually treated me with
kindness, not untinged by an amused tolerance. "Mukunda is a bit over-drunk
with religion." Thus summing me up, they tactfully spared me the embarrassment
of answering classroom questions; they trusted the final written tests to
eliminate me from the list of A.B. candidates. The judgment passed by my fellow
students was expressed in their nickname for me"Mad Monk."
I took an ingenious step to nullify Professor Ghoshal's threat to
me of failure in philosophy. When the results of the final tests were about to
be publicly announced, I asked a classmate to accompany me to the professor's
study.
"Come along; I want a witness," I told my companion. "I shall be
very much disappointed if I have not succeeded in outwitting the instructor."
Professor Ghoshal shook his head after I had inquired what rating
he had given my paper.
"You are not among those who have passed," he said in triumph. He
hunted through a large pile on his desk. "Your paper isn't here at all; you
have failed, in any case, through non-appearance at the examination."
I chuckled. "Sir, I was there. May I look through the stack
myself?"
The professor, nonplused, gave his permission; I quickly found my
paper, where I had carefully omitted any identification mark except my roll
call number. Unwarned by the "red flag" of my name, the instructor had given a
high rating to my answers even though they were unembellished by textbook
quotations.1
Seeing through my trick, he now thundered, "Sheer brazen luck!" He
added hopefully, "You are sure to fail in the A.B. finals."
For the tests in my other subjects, I received some coaching,
particularly from my dear friend and cousin, Prabhas Chandra Ghose,2 son of my
Uncle Sarada. I staggered painfully but successfullywith the lowest possible
passing marksthrough all my final tests.
Now, after four years of college, I was eligible to sit for the
A.B. examinations. Nevertheless, I hardly expected to avail myself of the
privilege. The Serampore College finals were child's play compared to the stiff
ones which would be set by Calcutta University for the A.B. degree. My almost
daily visits to Sri Yukteswar had left me little time to enter the college
halls. There it was my presence rather than my absence that brought forth
ejaculations of amazement from my classmates!
My customary routine was to set out on my bicycle about nine-thirty
in the morning. In one hand I would carry an offering for my gurua few flowers
from the garden of my Panthi boardinghouse. Greeting me affably, Master would
invite me to lunch. I invariably accepted with alacrity, glad to banish the
thought of college for the day. After hours with Sri Yukteswar, listening to
his incomparable flow of wisdom, or helping with ashram duties, I would
reluctantly depart around midnight for the Panthi. Occasionally I stayed all
night with my guru, so happily engrossed in his conversation that I scarcely
noticed when darkness changed into dawn.
One night about eleven o'clock, as I was putting on my shoes 3 in
preparation for the ride to the boardinghouse, Master questioned me gravely.
"When do your A.B. examinations start?"
"Five days hence, sir."
"I hope you are in readiness for them."
Transfixed with alarm, I held one shoe in the air. "Sir," I
protested, "you know how my days have been passed with you rather than with the
professors. How can I enact a farce by appearing for those difficult finals?"
Sri Yukteswar's eyes were turned piercingly on mine. "You must
appear." His tone was coldly peremptory. "We should not give cause for your
father and other relatives to criticize your preference for ashram life. Just
promise me that you will be present for the examinations; answer them the best
way you can."
Uncontrollable tears were coursing down my face. I felt that
Master's command was unreasonable, and that his interest was, to say the least,
belated.
"I will appear if you wish it," I said amidst sobs. "But no time
remains for proper preparation." Under my breath I muttered, "I will fill up
the sheets with your teachings in answer to the questions!"
When I entered the hermitage the following day at my usual hour, I
presented my bouquet with a certain mournful solemnity. Sri Yukteswar laughed
at my woebegone air.
"Mukunda, has the Lord ever failed you, at an examination or
elsewhere?"
"No, sir," I responded warmly. Grateful memories came in a
revivifying flood.
"Not laziness but burning zeal for God has prevented you from
seeking college honors," my guru said kindly. After a silence, he quoted,
"'Seek ye first the kingdom of God, and His righteousness; and all these things
shall be added unto you.'"4
For the thousandth time, I felt my burdens lifted in Master's
presence. When we had finished our early lunch, he suggested that I return to
the Panthi.
"Does your friend, Romesh Chandra Dutt, still live in your
boardinghouse?"
"Yes, sir."
"Get in touch with him; the Lord will inspire him to help you with
the examinations."
"Very well, sir; but Romesh is unusually busy. He is the honor man
in our class, and carries a heavier course than the others."
Master waved aside my objections. "Romesh will find time for you.
Now go."
I bicycled back to the Panthi. The first person I met in the
boardinghouse compound was the scholarly Romesh. As though his days were quite
free, he obligingly agreed to my diffident request.
"Of course; I am at your service." He spent several hours of that
afternoon and of succeeding days in coaching me in my various subjects.
"I believe many questions in English literature will be centered in
the route of Childe Harold," he told me. "We must get an atlas at once."
I hastened to the home of my Uncle Sarada and borrowed an atlas.
Romesh marked the European map at the places visited by Byron's romantic
traveler.
A few classmates had gathered around to listen to the tutoring.
"Romesh is advising you wrongly," one of them commented to me at the end of a
session. "Usually only fifty per cent of the questions are about the books; the
other half will involve the authors' lives."
When I sat for the examination in English literature the following
day, my first glance at the questions caused tears of gratitude to pour forth,
wetting my paper. The classroom monitor came to my desk and made a sympathetic
inquiry.
"My guru foretold that Romesh would help me," I explained. "Look;
the very questions dictated to me by Romesh are here on the examination sheet!
Fortunately for me, there are very few questions this year on English authors,
whose lives are wrapped in deep mystery so far as I am concerned!"
My boardinghouse was in an uproar when I returned. The boys who had
been ridiculing Romesh's method of coaching looked at me in awe, almost
deafening me with congratulations. During the week of the examinations, I spent
many hours with Romesh, who formulated questions that he thought were likely to
be set by the professors. Day by day, Romesh's questions appeared in almost the
same form on the examination sheets.
The news was widely circulated in the college that something
resembling a miracle was occurring, and that success seemed probable for the
absent-minded "Mad Monk." I made no attempt to hide the facts of the case. The
local professors were powerless to alter the questions, which had been arranged
by Calcutta University.
Thinking over the examination in English literature, I realized one
morning that I had made a serious error. One section of the questions had been
divided into two parts of A or B, and C or D. Instead of answering one question
from each part, I had carelessly answered both questions in Group I, and had
failed to consider anything in Group II. The best mark I could score in that
paper would be 33, three less than the passing mark of 36. I rushed to Master
and poured out my troubles.
"Sir, I have made an unpardonable blunder. I don't deserve the
divine blessings through Romesh; I am quite unworthy."
"Cheer up, Mukunda." Sri Yukteswar's tones were light and
unconcerned. He pointed to the blue vault of the heavens. "It is more possible
for the sun and moon to interchange their positions in space than it is for you
to fail in getting your degree!"
I left the hermitage in a more tranquil mood, though it seemed
mathematically inconceivable that I could pass. I looked once or twice
apprehensively into the sky; the Lord of Day appeared to be securely anchored
in his customary orbit!
As I reached the Panthi, I overheard a classmate's remark: "I have
just learned that this year, for the first time, the required passing mark in
English literature has been lowered."
I entered the boy's room with such speed that he looked up in
alarm. I questioned him eagerly.
"Long-haired monk," he said laughingly, "why this sudden interest
in scholastic matters? Why cry in the eleventh hour? But it is true that the
passing mark has just been lowered to 33 points."
A few joyous leaps took me into my own room, where I sank to my
knees and praised the mathematical perfections of my Divine Father.
Every day I thrilled with the consciousness of a spiritual presence
that I clearly felt to be guiding me through Romesh. A significant incident
occurred in connection with the examination in Bengali. Romesh, who had touched
little on that subject, called me back one morning as I was leaving the
boardinghouse on my way to the examination hall.
"There is Romesh shouting for you," a classmate said to me
impatiently. "Don't return; we shall be late at the hall."
Ignoring the advice, I ran back to the house.
"The Bengali examination is usually easily passed by our Bengali
boys," Romesh told me. "But I have just had a hunch that this year the
professors have planned to massacre the students by asking questions from our
ancient literature." My friend then briefly outlined two stories from the life
of Vidyasagar, a renowned philanthropist.
I thanked Romesh and quickly bicycled to the college hall. The
examination sheet in Bengali proved to contain two parts. The first instruction
was: "Write two instances of the charities of Vidyasagar." As I transferred to
the paper the lore that I had so recently acquired, I whispered a few words of
thanksgiving that I had heeded Romesh's last-minute summons. Had I been
ignorant of Vidyasagar's benefactions to mankind (including ultimately myself),
I could not have passed the Bengali examination. Failing in one subject, I
would have been forced to stand examination anew in all subjects the following
year. Such a prospect was understandably abhorrent.
The second instruction on the sheet read: "Write an essay in
Bengali on the life of the man who has most inspired you." Gentle reader, I
need not inform you what man I chose for my theme. As I covered page after page
with praise of my guru, I smiled to realize that my muttered prediction was
coming true: "I will fill up the sheets with your teachings!"
I had not felt inclined to question Romesh about my course in
philosophy. Trusting my long training under Sri Yukteswar, I safely disregarded
the textbook explanations. The highest mark given to any of my papers was the
one in philosophy. My score in all other subjects was just barely within the
passing mark.
It is a pleasure to record that my unselfish friend Romesh received
his own degree cum laude.
Father was wreathed in smiles at my graduation. "I hardly thought
you would pass, Mukunda," he confessed. "You spend so much time with your
guru." Master had indeed correctly detected the unspoken criticism of my
father.
For years I had been uncertain that I would ever see the day when
an A.B. would follow my name. I seldom use the title without reflecting that it
was a divine gift, conferred on me for reasons somewhat obscure. Occasionally I
hear college men remark that very little of their crammed knowledge remained
with them after graduation. That admission consoles me a bit for my undoubted
academic deficiencies.
On the day I received my degree from Calcutta University, I knelt
at my guru's feet and thanked him for all the blessings flowing from his life
into mine.
"Get up, Mukunda," he said indulgently. "The Lord simply found it
more convenient to make you a graduate than to rearrange the sun and moon!"
1 I must do Professor Ghoshal the justice of admitting that the
strained relationship between us was not due to any fault of his, but solely to
my absences from classes and inattention in them. Professor Ghoshal was, and
is, a remarkable orator with vast philosophical knowledge. In later years we
came to a cordial understanding.
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2 Although my cousin and I have the same family name of Ghosh,
Prabhas has accustomed himself to transliterating his name in English as Ghose;
therefore I follow his own spelling here.
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3 A disciple always removes his shoes in an Indian hermitage.
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4 Matthew 6:33.
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