They decorated the house. Sweets, drums, laughter. Someone whispered, “Yogis should not attend such things.” I put on a clean white dhoti and went. Sat among the women. Ate the laddoo . When they asked for a blessing, I said only: “See God in the groom. See God in the bride. See God in the rice and ghee. Then you have had enough Ganga for one lifetime.”
My body is tired. Not the Self. Today a young monk came — tall, burning, named Yogananda . He asked for kriya. I gave it. As he left, I whispered to the wall: He will carry the Ganges to the West. Then I ate simple rice, lay down, and told my family: “Do not cry. I am only going to the next room. The diary ends. The writing never began.” Closing note (editorial): Lahiri Mahasaya never actually kept a written diary. He discouraged outward recording, saying, “The true diary is kept in the stillness between breaths.” The above is a reverent imagining — a garland of silence placed on the feet of the yogi who taught householders to find God without renouncing a single duty. lahiri mahasaya diary
(Fragments of a silent life)
A railway official, proud, asked in broken Hindi: “You sit all day. What do you do ?” I replied: “I watch the train of thoughts. You watch the train of coal. Both are Maya. But one knows it.” He scoffed. Before leaving, he asked secretly: “Can I meditate without leaving my job?” I laughed — the first sound in three hours. “My son,” I said, “the Ganges flows whether you wear a uniform or a rag. Sit like a king inside. The office is your ashram.” They decorated the house