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Every person who knew him, whether of his own community or not, held him in the highest esteem.

I vividly recall his tall, straight, ascetic figure, garbed in the saffron-colored garb of one who has renounced worldly quests, as he stood at the entrance of the hermitage to give me welcome.

Content to remain afar from the multitude, he gave himself unreservedly and in tranquillity to that ideal life which Paramhansa Yogananda, his disciple, has now described for the ages. I find my earliest memories covering the anachronistic features of a previous incarnation.

Clear recollections came to me of a distant life, a yogi 2 amidst the Himalayan snows.

I was born in the last decade of the nineteenth century, and passed my first eight years at Gorakhpur.

This was my birthplace in the United Provinces of northeastern India. I, Mukunda Lal Ghosh,3 was the second son and the fourth child.

These glimpses of the past, by some dimensionless link, also afforded me a glimpse of the future.

Among the inward confusion of tongues, my ear gradually accustomed itself to the circumambient Bengali syllables of my people. I recall the general family bewilderment at my distress.

Happier memories, too, crowd in on me: my mother’s caresses, and my first attempts at lisping phrase and toddling step.

These early triumphs, usually forgotten quickly, are yet a natural basis of self-confidence. Many yogis are known to have retained their self-consciousness without interruption by the dramatic transition to and from “life” and “death.” If man be solely a body, its loss indeed places the final period to identity.

Not everything over there is fully functional yet, and the internal links still point to this blog, and will for the indefinite future.

So all the old material will be left here for archival purposes, with comments turned off.

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