Widely regarded today as one of the preeminent spiritual figures of our time, Paramahansa Yogananda is author of the best-selling classic Autobiography of a Yogi, which this year celebrates its 60th anniversary in print. Born on January 5, 1893, in Gorakhpur, India, Sri Yogananda came to the United States as a young man in 1920, when he was invited to serve as a delegate to the International Congress of Religious Liberals convening in Boston. That same year he founded Self-Realization Fellowship to disseminate worldwide his teachings on India’s ancient philosophy of Yoga and its time-honored science of meditation.

This excerpt is reprinted from Autobiography of a Yogi by Paramahansa Yogananda, courtesy of Self-Realization Fellowship, Los Angeles, CA.

“America! Surely these people are Americans!” This was my thought as a panorama of Western faces passed before my inward view.

Immersed in meditation, I was sitting behind some dusty boxes in the storeroom of the Ranchi school. A private spot was difficult to find during those busy years with the youngsters!

The vision continued; a vast multitude, gazing at me intently, swept actorlike across the stage of consciousness.

The storeroom door opened; as usual, one of the young lads had discovered my hiding place.

“Come here, Bimal,” I cried gaily. “I have news for you: the Lord is calling me to America!”

“To America?” The boy echoed my words in a tone that implied I had said “to the moon.”

“Yes! I am going forth to discover America, like Columbus. He thought he had found India; surely there is a karmic link between those two lands!”

Bimal scampered away; soon the whole school was informed by the two-legged newspaper.

I summoned the bewildered faculty and gave the school into its charge.

“I know you will keep Lahiri Mahasaya’s (Yogananda’s guru’s guru) yoga ideals of education ever to the fore,” I said. “I shall write you frequently; God willing, someday I shall be back.”

Tears stood in my eyes as I cast a last look at the little boys and the sunny acres of Ranchi. A definite epoch in my life had now closed, I knew; henceforth I would dwell in far lands. I entrained for Calcutta a few hours after my vision. The following day I received an invitation to serve as the delegate from India to an International Congress of Religious Liberals in America. It was to convene that year in Boston, under the auspices of the American Unitarian Association.

My head in a whirl, I sought out Sri Yukteswar [Yogananda’s guru] in Serampore.
“Guruji, I have just been invited to address a religious congress in America. Shall I go?”

“All doors are open for you,” Master replied simply. “It is now or never.”

“But sir,” I said in dismay, “What do I know about public speaking? Seldom have I given a lecture, and never in English.”

“English or no English, your words on yoga shall be heard in the West.”

I laughed. “Well, dear Guruji, I hardly think the Americans will learn Bengali! Please bless me with a push over the hurdles of the English language.”

One early morning I began to pray, with an adamant determination to continue, even to die praying, until I heard the voice of God. I wanted His blessing and assurance that I would not lose myself in the fogs of modern utilitarianism. My heart was set to go to America, but even more strongly was it resolved to hear the solace of divine permission.

I prayed and prayed, muffling my sobs. No answer came. At noon I reached a zenith; my head was reeling under the pressure of my agonies. I felt that if I cried once more, increasing the depth of my inner passion, my brain would split.

At that moment there came a knock on the door of my Garpar Road home. Answering the summons, I beheld a young man in the scanty garb of a renunciant. He entered the house.

“He must be Babaji!” I thought, dazed, because the man before me had the features of a young Lahiri Mahasaya. He answered my thought. “Yes, I am Babaji.” He spoke melodiously in Hindi. “Our Heavenly Father has heard your prayer. He commands me to tell you: Follow the behests of your guru and go to America. Fear not; you shall be protected.”

After a vibrant pause, Babaji addressed me again. “You are the one I have chosen to spread the message of Kriya Yoga in the West. Long ago I met your guru Yukteswar at a Kumbha Mela; I told him then I would send you to him for training.”

I was speechless, choked with devotional awe at his presence, and deeply touched to hear from his own lips that he had guided me to Sri Yukteswar. I lay prostrate before the deathless guru. He graciously lifted me up. After telling me many things about my life, he gave me some personal instruction and uttered a few secret prophecies.

“Kriya Yoga, the scientific technique of God-realization,” he finally said with solemnity, “will ultimately spread in all lands, and aid in harmonizing the nations through man’s personal, transcendental perception of the Infinite Father.”

The eve of my departure for the United States found me in Sri Yukteswar’s holy presence. “Forget you were born among Hindus, and don’t adopt all the ways of the Americans. Take the best of both peoples,” he said in his calm way of wisdom. “Be your true self, a child of God. Seek and incorporate into your being the best qualities of all your brothers, scattered over the earth in various races.”

Then he blessed me: “All those who come to you with faith, seeking God, will be helped. As you look at them, the spiritual current emanating from your eyes will enter their brains and change their material habits, making them more God-conscious.” Smilingly, he added, “Your lot to attract sincere souls is very good. Everywhere you go, even in a wilderness, you will find friends.”

Both of Sri Yukteswar’s blessings have been amply demonstrated. I came alone to America, in which I had not a single friend; but there I found thousands ready to receive the timeless soul teachings.