death beyond death. 79
it is still a worthwhile risk. There is a passage in the scriptures which can be so in-
terpreted as to entitle a man like you to sannyasa,‘Whenever he renounces, he
should set out.’ This injunction does not necessarily refer to a Brahmin. I shall ini-
tiate you on the basis of this passage.”
I was struck with awe and supreme delight. Monks at Mayavati had quoted the
same passage—it is from a somewhat apocryphal Upanisad—but in a totally dif-
ferent context. They regarded it as a weapon against the challenge frequently put
forward by the more orthodox; that one has to go through three aframas (stages of
life) before one can enter sannyasa, the fourth and final stage.
I felt very humble and grateful. I did not ask any questions and sat with folded
hands; there was nobody around now except a few boatmen at some distance, smok-
ing their bidis.“I shall give you sannyasa on the day of the new moon, so you will
have to wait for a week. Meet me tomorrow for bhiksa[food donated to ascetics] and
bring some daksina[offering to a guru or priest]. My name is Vifvananda Bharati—
you have only to ask for the Swamiji from Madras at the Hanuman Ghat.”
I obtained half a dozen fresh plantains, a coconut, and some oranges. I performed
my meditation, attended the formal worship at the Vifvanath Temple, and kept a full
fast the next morning. As I crossed into the Ghat, a young, sturdy-looking man ap-
proached me— “Was I coming to see the sadhufrom Madras?” Indeed I was. The
man was the son of the Swami’s host, an old Banarsi family, originally from west-
ern India but settled for over three hundred years in the Holy City. Swami Vif-
vananda hailed from South India. In each generation of his family there had been a
monk, and Vifvananda himself took orders as a boy of eighteen, a week before he
was to have married. He studied at one of the head monasteries of the Dafanami
Order and meditated at Gangotri in the Himalayas for seven years. He had taken his
bath at four Kumbha Melas and had traveled the length and breadth of India several
times. He was equally conversant with Sanskrit, Hindi, Canarese, and his own
mother tongue Tamil, in which language, as well as in Sanskrit, he had composed
some exquisite religious treatises and hymns. Moreover, he could read English,
though he would not speak it. But when I entered his room at Hanuman Ghat and
prostrated myself before him, he put aside a copy of the English Amrita Bazar Pa-
trika, Allahabad edition, and took off his rimless spectacles. He beckoned me to sit
before him, offered me betel, which I thought rather strange on that occasion, and
said, “Don’t you think Bengal will go Communist in the elections?” I said I did not
think so, and, on his request, with some hesitation, I told him why I thought it im-
probable. He nodded, then asked abruptly, “Have you brought your daksina?”I
pointed to a piece of cloth in which I had the fruit. “I shall instruct you now until