saint guru chod (1900-1988)

Saint Guru Chod's redis­covered yogic tech­nology ushers a renaissance in mystical asceticism. It is also at the cutting edge of thera­peutic strategies. Comprehending Guru Chod's crucial findings and their single-handed re-presentation to the world is tantamount to grasping his unimpeachable sainthood. And yet these notes must in no way be viewed or heard as the 'hagiographical singing of the glories.' This study is an accurate historical depiction of the man and his teaching, as none but the present writer is capable of establishing.

Accordingly, this project is guided by four clear-cut aims throughout. First and foremost is to honour Saint Guru Chod (1900-1988), modern Thailand's seminal yoga master. Second is to document a five-year period of personally private training undergone with Saint Guru Chod himself. Third is to document the radical restoration of Guru Chod's rediscovered ascetic principles, as marked by tremendous beauty and grace. Fourth is to survey, examine and rearticulate what the present writer has come to understand as the rediscovered yoga of our present era, disburdened of its useless cultural accretions.

These notes may be seen as an accompanying module to my earlier published Yoga Sritantra (2002) and other forthcoming notes and articles of which I have reprinted some passages herein.

[Note: For most recent edition see pdf file saint guru chod (1900-1988).]

Guru Chod was modern Thailand's pioneer yoga master. At the ripe old age of 88 years he was still teaching daily at his small conservatoire. Though students and patrons came from all walks of life, Guru Chod was nothing less than The Royal Guru, having taught Their Royal Highnesses the Queen and Princess of Thailand within the walls of the Chitralada Palace. He also instructed important members of the Buddhist clergy, but this too always remained confidential. Indeed, most who sought the guru help were of Thailand's highest social rung and typically arrived at the celebrated ashram in their chauffeur-driven Mercedes-Benzes. But he looked to all with equal vision...

Chod was born at the turn of the Twentieth Century in the Royal Siamese capital of Krungthep, modern-day Bangkok. His father was a kind of liege official to King Chulalongkorn (1868-1910). Thus was he given a favored posting on the Andaman Sea island of Phuket, an important Siamese trading port of the time. It was thus amid the tropical splendor of Phuket that Chod gained his earliest childhood memories.

Chod received an early British education, first in Penang and then in Bombay. He eventually studied at Trinity College, Cambridge. After graduation he worked many years as a reporter both in Europe and India. With the late 1930's came the imminent outbreak of war in Europe. This, combined with severe health problems, forced the bachelor journalist to the Himalayan foothills. There he lived throughout the war-years with Swami Sivananda on the banks of the Ganges. It was there that Chod gained initiation to the order of svāmins and undertook to master the science of yoga.

After the war he returned to Thailand and quickly established himself as a prominent national news editor, sometimes running two papers at once. He also took a sixteen-year-old girl for his wife and turned his house into a yoga institute. This was not done commercially, but in the spirit of social service. There was never any need to advertise either. "When a flower blossoms," his guru had told him, "it does not send out invitation cards. The bees come by themselves." Thus he normally conducted morning yoga sessions and went to the newsroom after lunch.

Only at the age of seventy-five did the Master retire altogether from journalism and establish his yoga conservatoire. The demand was enormous and he faced the challenge squarely. He displayed such unswerving stamina and force that the people around him were often astounded. "It's a good occupation for an old man," he said. "I like to be useful."

In fact, even well into his eighty-eighth year the again bachelor guru was surrounded by beautiful women: sparkling young college girls, ravishing airhostesses, fashion models, call girls and other sophisticated professional types. Yet road-tattered Western yoginīs came as well, aglow from extended journeys east, having heard along the way of a certain living legend. This is probably what kept him teaching so long.

"But everybody has to die," he often declared. And he certainly gave us all fair warning. True to prediction, on his 88th birthday he stretched out on the floor and merged with the white clouds.

[Note: For most recent edition see pdf file saint guru chod (1900-1988).]

Childhood in Pukhet

By way of a preface and in rather broad strokes, I have begun to paint a picture of Guru Chod's familial background. His father, as a liege official obedient to Chulalongkorn, the Fifth Rama King, found grace with his sovereign and gained favoured posting on the tranquil Andaman Sea island of Phuket, an important Siamese trading port of the day. It was here amid the tropical splendor of Koh-Phuket that the saint retained his earliest memories.

The Wide-Open Universe

One fine morning just before his passing I visited Guru Chod's garden ashram, as I did so often in those coolest hours, sitting at his feet and practicing the various articulate yogas. Now it just so happened that on this day the master told a story from his distant childhood. The anecdote related to a pivotal event towards the child's conversion to the philosophical life.

This event took place in the very early years of the twentieth century when again – we repeat – the child was living on the island of Phuket off the southwest coast of the kingdom of Siam. Here is the story that Guru Chod told:

One afternoon when I was still a little boy attending the local temple school, the teacher started telling the class about a mysterious thing called the "Universe." But it wasn't easy for us eight-year olds to understand. The teacher then pointed to the big world map that was hanging on the wall with the Kingdom of Siam right in the centre.

Next the teacher tried to make us understand how small we were compared to the "Universe." He said, "Listen. If the Sun were the size of a watermelon, then the Earth would only be the size of a pea." Then he paused. "So tell me then," he said. "If the Sun was the size of a watermelon and Earth was only the size of a pea..., then how big would you be?"

Answers from the class were not forthcoming. There was even a long unsettling silence.

"Never mind," he told us. "I'll just let you think about it." Then he laughed to himself and let us go home early.

Later that night, though, while lying in my bed, I began to ponder what our teacher had said. I tried with all my might to comprehend the "Universe." I reasoned like this: "If the Sun were the size of a watermelon and the Earth were only the size of a pea, then I must be smaller than a tiny speck of dust. A tiny speck of dust," I tried to imagine that, "compared to the whole wide open Universe!... 'That means I'm not "important at all,' I thought to myself. 'That means I'm nothing!'"

The old man smiled, even beamed with delight having finished recounting his precious little tale. Then he rose to his feet and casually said to me, "You can write that in your book."

'My book?' I thought with a quizzical look. A prudent pause of silence followed. Then he smiled at me again, and with a raised brow of knowing said,

"You can put it in the preface."

British Education

Guru Chod's father held a very high esteem for western education and accordingly sent the child away to boarding school on the nearby island of Penang – "The Pearl of the Orient. " Penang was at that time was a part of British-ruled Malaya. There the young Chod obtained his middle-school education at the British founded Free School in Georgetown. Later for demanding prep-school studies the academic teen was sent overseas, to Bombay, India where he entered the British public school. That was around the year 1916.

"The journey by steamer took nearly a month," the Master told me one quiet morning. "It was odd," he said. "Indian students weren't allowed to study in the British schools in India at that time; but for some reason Siamese students were. But there were only about five of us studying in India then. Occasionally we would meet, but we had to travel far because some were studying in Darjeeling, some in Madras, and other places. Travelling by train wasn't easy in those days. It's the same today. You know what I mean."

After completing his studies in Bombay, Chod set sail for the British Isles where he had won admission to Trinity College, Cambridge.

Mahārāja or Street Beggar

His work in journalism taught him to view all levels of society with equal vision. "In the morning I would interview the Mahārāja of Hyderabad," he said. "That same afternoon I would start a story on local street beggars and scavengers. To write a good story on scavengers and beggars you have to mix with them for a couple of weeks."

By observing first hand the appalling inequities that still continue to plague modern India, Chod arrived to his ethical outlook on life. "Everybody is looking for the same thing," he told me. "Everybody is looking for happiness. But don't mistake ethics for morality." He cautioned. "Ethics is concerned with one question only: What is happiness."

World Congress of Faiths

By 1936 Chod was back in England to attend the highly publicized World Congress of Faiths, which convened at University College, London from July 3-18 that same year, and where the illustrious Indian scholar Sarvepalli Radhakrishnan (1888-1975) was a principal speaker.

In the later part of the following year the journalist also met Theos Bernard, the daring young American traveller-cum-writer who gave a public talk in London. Bernard was on his return voyage to America after completing an extensive tour of India and Tibet. The Master recounted this meeting for me. He described how Bernard had come to the talk "oddly dressed in traditional Tibetan clothes." He related with humor how Bernard had reproved a panel of journalists when they "incorrectly" referred to him as an American. "I am not an American," Bernard insisted. "I am a Tibetan!"

While touring Tibet, Bernard apparently received confirmation from certain high lamas that he was the tulku or "saintly-reincarnation" of the extremely revered eighth-century teacher named Padmasambhāva. Padmasambhāva is adored as nothing less than the Father of Tantra in the Land of Tibet, where tradition has it he was solely responsible for introducing the sacred tantric texts from India. One can only infer that this was the reason why Bernard so insistently maintained he was not an American, but a Tibetan. Though a comical irony emerges from the fact that Padmasambhāva was not Tibetan, but Indian!

Hitler's Rise

Already, however, by 1933 an ambitious young German named Adolf Hitler had cunningly hijacked the German State. For the next six years he managed to keep his neighbours and the whole wide world in a constant state of astonishment. On March 10, 1939 German troops quietly annexed Czechoslovakia. Now for documentation purposes they brought along their film crews, and just like that a monochromatic spell of surreality was cast across the European continent. Regional leaders were loath to take action and responded like somnambulists shackled to the nightmare. It ultimately took the September 1st 1939 invasion of Poland to rouse them up from their collective stupor. The Führer could no longer be taken lightly; nor was he about to be humoured. Alarms were sounding... Fuelled by deranged utopian visions of a German National Socialist World Order, the whole of Europe was poised to be sucked into a grisly Theatre of the Holocaust. Xenophobic sentiment was steadily on the rise: those with money and a prudent sense of self-preservation conveyed themselves accordingly.

The Master himself had already beheld the phenomenon of Hitler addressing a massive Nazi Party rally in Berlin. "I went there on assignment," he told me one day. "I was standing so far back in the crowd that Hitler was just a tiny speck. But I could hear him very well because they had excellent loudspeakers."

Now, one should also be reminded that Chod was no descendent of Nordic folk. To make things worse, the foreign scribe's health was teetering at the brink of utter ruin. At nearly forty years of age, the roaring years of his bachelor youth were apparently catching up with him fast. He was already suffering from acute diabetes. Then a doctor in London diagnosed a fistula and rheumatism. In fact, there were also signs that he might become the victim of coronary thrombosis if he wasn't extremely careful. But when the doctor advised him to enter a hospital and undergo surgery for the fistula, Chod grew apprehensive and refused the operation. And besides, with Hitler intent on keeping his promise to unleash his bombers on the British capitol, it was hardly the time to be confined to hospital. There was one more hitch as well. Though a resident of Britain, Chod was not a British subject; a fact that was was rudely brought to bear while suffering two days of interrogation as a suspected enemy spy. Now one thing was clear: it was time to leave Europe. But where could he go? Timing was crucial.

[Note: For most recent edition see pdf file saint guru chod (1900-1988).]

London to Paris

Early in the morning of May 14th, 1940 Chod packed his belongings and headed by taxi for London's Victoria Station. He was lucky to get a ticket all the way to Genoa.

Departing from London was the point of no return. Everything from there would depend on luck. From Genoa his plan was to book his passage on the Nederland Royal Mail Line all the way to Bombay. But he fretted over whether or not he could get there in time to book his passagae. The only thing he knew was that the ship sailed once a fortnight.

London to Paris was an all day journey. As may still be done today, one first went to Dover by rail, and then crossed the English Channel by steamer to Calais, France. From there one reboarded a train bound for Paris...

There would have to be a 20 hour wait in Paris for the next available train to Genova. He was not too put off by the layover, though, because he had an old friend that was living in Paris. With luck he would be at home.

He arrived to Paris at Gare du Nord. It was just about midnight and he phoned his friend immediately.

"Why didn't you tell me you were coming?" said the friend. "I could have met you at the station!"

"There wasn't any time," Chod replied.

"Never mind," said the friend. "But I have to tell you that I'm leaving tomorrow for Italy."

" – Italy!" Chod said. "So am I!"

"Come by taxi. We'll talk when you get here."

Ex-Pats in Paris

The taxi dropped him off on Boulevard Saint-Germain. From there it was a short but exhausting walk as he lugged the awkward and heavy trunk on a shoulder down Rue di Buci, to its intersection with Rue de Seine. From there he headed in the direction of the river to his friend's apartment on the slender Rue Visconti.

The two friends greeted with beaming smiles that come from years of separation. They especially enjoyed talking in their native tongue. When pulling out their tickets they responded with amazement to see that they had booked the same exact train. But his friend had onward booking to Rome.

They had both been among the Siamese elite who with Royal Assistance were sent to study in Europe. While one group of students was sent to England, the other had gone to study in France. Completing their studies, nearly all of them returned to Siam to take up comfortable government appointments.

It was the gifted students from Paris, in fact, who had recently exerted such tremendous influence on the course of modern Siamese political history. So enamored by the philosophy of democratic freedom, they were able to convince certain discontented military leaders of the need for radical political reforms. This led to a 1932 bloodless coup d'état which relieved the absolute power of the King in favor of a constitutional monarchy. Unfortunately, however, these changes led to the swift degeneration of Siamese politics, transforming into a thinly veiled system of dictatorship by military coup.

In lieu of returning to what some then regarded as an intellectually stifling political climate, a few rare Siamese chose to live abroad. And such was the case of the Paris-based compatriot who, since his early years at the esteemed Sorbonne, had come to feel at home among the intellectual circles of his adopted foreign city; and for reasons quite similar to his British-schooled compatriot, took up writing as a means of earning a living.

"So what's going on in Rome?" he asked his host.

"I'm joining a group of international journalists with the prospects of meeting Benito Mussolini. It's an obvious propaganda event. I simply got a call from the Siamese Consular who extended the invitation on Italy's behalf. But hey, you know what? He was even asking if I knew of someone else. There's a vacant invitation. What do you say we call him in the morning? Maybe we can go together! But wait... I haven't even asked you why you're going to Genova."

"To catch a Dutch liner," Chod sighed with frustration. "But I can't find out which days it sails."

"Then we phone the Dutch Embassy, what's the problem? You're looking terribly ill, you know. I think you need some rest. We can finish this discussion in the morning."

Morning Rue de Seine

In thoughtful silence they ambled their way up Rue de Seine until they found a sunny table in view of the open market. Two quick calls had just been placed and the stage was set for the ailing journalist to meet the Italian leader face to face.

"But the Consular warned me," remarked the Paris-resident as they had took their seats in the glistening sun.

"Warned you of what?" said Chod.

"Of the Ducca's tenuous sanity," he said. "And of all the reports of his furtive behaviour, both official and private..." He paused as the waiter brought coffee with croissant. "So no guarantee how it's going to turn out... But no matter what happens on the journalistic front, the consul assures us we'll be treated like diplomats and heaped with all manner of Roman indulgence. You know, la dolce vita. I can hardly wait!"

His listener responded with sombre impassivity. "So where will you be heading after Rome then?" he asked.

"Good question," Chod replied.

"The consul also warned me of that. These gathering clouds of war over Europe."

"Exactly," Chod affirmed, and paused before adding: "How strange that things can appear so clear, yet those with real voices refuse to spell it out. It's as if they imagine it will just go away."

"Do you believe the rumours of Nazi persecution then?"

"Gypsies, Jews, and left-wing intellectuals." Chod remarked with pain.

They paused and took their first sips of coffee. An inscrutable silence followed. Cheerful girls in skirts passed by; the shouts of fish vendors were not far away.

"Hey. By the way," the host chimed in, "you haven't even told me where you're sailing to yet."

"Bombay."

"Bombay?"

"You thought I was returning to Bangkok?" Chod said.

"Well..."

"Listen," said Chod. "Just one week ago the Japanese government aligned themselves with the North-South Axis. And I'll tell you something. The Japanese are even more ambitious than the Germans. Mark my words: They will terrorize the whole of Southeast Asia before this war is finished."

"Siam too?"

"No. The Thais will continue to spare themselves by bowing their heads to the Imperial Army and treating them as honoured guests" spoke Chod.

"My!" said his colleague somewhat jolted. "If not optimistic, yours is certainly a compelling forecast... But perhaps you're right. I mean it really is strange this new mentality gripping the souls of Siam's leadership, and whose sympathies and tastes are unmincingly Fascist. But if I understand you right, you're assuming that neither the Germans nor the Japs will overrun India?"

"Impossible," said Chod. "India is the freest place in the world. It will always be that way. The Moguls ruled it for five hundred years and the shaping of popular Hinduism was the outcome. The British have committed the most heinous crimes there, ravaging the place for its material riches. But they failed in overlooking Her most precious treasure; the jewel of spiritual freedom... And even should opposing armies make incursions, the Himalayan ranges will always offer sanctuary. No. Definitely not. No foreign force will never take India."

"Fine, then, my friend, perhaps you're right. But with your failing health – can you take India?"

"That's the question."

Rome to Genova: A Mussolini of the Mind

...Bidding their adieus at Rome Central Station, the two friends parted company. The ailing reporter now proceeded back northward to Italy's chief port city of Genova. He was counting on getting aboard the Nederland Royal Mail Line, scheduled to arrive the following evening from Algiers....

The previous day's barrage of meetings and engagements had engorged him with a flood of awesome experience, and his mind now found itself drowning in the resonance of grandiose thoughts and quandaries. It was no means merely the pompous backdrop of architectural majesty that rendered the pressman's sentiments reeling: marble palaces of Titan dimension sumptuously decked with treasures of art. Nor the detail paid to the ritual splendour in which the Leader ever sought to enshroud himself. Nor the debonair ranks of uniformed sycophants, each one responding to a higher up's finger snap, descending from the pinnacle seat of power. Indeed, it was the callous embodiment of tyranny itself whose strangely riveting magnetic spell had awed the foreign scribe so profoundly.

"I met Mussolini face to face," Guru Chod recalled to the present writer.

It was from this intense and up close encounter with the virtual designer of the modern fascist state that Chod developed his ideas of the nature and properties of charisma.

Embarking from Genova

He halted one night and two full days at Italy's chief port city of Genoa. He rested in his room at the Hotel Miramara and whimsically explored the often-steep streets and quaint narrow alleyways. He reached outlying places of interest by convenient city tram. He took the cable railway to the top of the Righi for an excellent view of the harbor. He also came to be reminded that Genova was the birthplace of Christopher Columbus.

Early in the evening of May 17th he passed through Italian Immigration. As he walked along the quay to board the ship, he stopped at a kiosk to check the latest headlines: German Troops Invade France.

Once on board he took to his journal, making liberal use of the complimentary companion guide:[1]

After all the passengers had finally boarded ship and the cargoes were stowed into the depths of the hull, a couple of tug boats slowly towed the great Dutch liner away from its berth into the deeper waters of the outer harbor. The waters teemed with those lovely little rowing boats, rowed by a single man while standing.

Setting a south-easterly course for the Strait of Messina the ship sailed unhampered along the mountainous west coast of peninsular Italy... Among the passengers talk was rife on the sudden outbreak of war in Europe... Anxious thoughts refused to let him sleep. He opened his journal and began to write:

The truculent Hitler has proved himself again no match when preying on the fears of bourgeois democracies. It is the Soviets alone who up until now have displayed the will to respond with equal force to this woefully destructive adversary. How much longer can the other nations wait... averting war at the Jew's expense...? Failures to react will only embolden him.

The sleepless voyager found himself on deck with the bright clear moonlit sky above. He enjoyed the feel of warm spring air as it blew across the sea and ruffled his hair.

The Ship's First Officer

The following evening in the dining salon the journalist gained the distinctive privilege of sharing a table with the ship's first officer, an urbane, travel-wise English-Dutch dual national who, like his guest, was a product of the British public school. That was in Christchurch on England's mild southern coast. After some studies in marine biology the officer decided on a maritime career. It was after all an obvious course to follow. His father, born in Amsterdam, had also sailed the high seas. Diligently passing from ship boy to bursar he worked his way up the mariner's ranks. But he eventually re-settled back on land with the pretty young bride he had met while on tour of the Isle of Wight, the maiden's native home. His great turn of fortune came when he secured the mortgage enabling him to purchase the controlling interest of the Royal Line shipping franchise, making him England's sole authorized agent for the mailship's voyages out of South­ampton. By then his lovely offices, Messr. Harden & Co., 21/22 Queen's Terrace, were favorably located in view of Queens Park just a five minute stroll from the railway station.

Yet who could have foreseen that by September of that same year German air raids would bring utter devastation to this town? With his next visit home he would find his father's premises reduced to piles of rubble.

Being by nature a loquacious spirit, the gentlemanly officer would in the weeks to come prove to be an invaluable source of information, both trivial and otherwise.

Between savoury bites of spinach terrine the officer shared some childhood memories of idyllic days in Hampshire County. He also knew something of local history. "Well protected by the Isle of Wight," he said, "the town of Southampton, one of England's oldest, has been a port of major importance since the beginning of the Middle Ages. In the early part of the 12th century it was the place of embarkation for zealous crusaders under patronage of King Richard the Lion-Hearted. The port also thrived commercially in those days. Its trade in English wool for Bordeaux wine was alone enough to keep the town in good financial stead. But its importance declined in the 17th and 18th centuries," he explained. "But then that got reversed with the completion of the London-Southampton Railway in 1840 and the parallel development of steam powered ocean liners."

Proceeding to the diminutive yet artfully prepared dessert dish, the officer peered with considerable intent into the sparkling crystal bowl. "Ah!" he gasped, "What do we have here? It looks like bananas with chopped figs, doesn't it." Bringing silver spoon to expectant mouth, he pondered some moments, before remarking,

"Brilliant! We must have picked these up in Algiers."

"Tasty indeed," the journalist affirmed.

"Indeed!" replied the officer. "But a little bit dainty on the serving, wouldn't you say?"

"Actually my appetite hasn't been all that good lately."

The officer took the man's words to heart. Reaching in the pocket of his formal white dinner jacket, the clean-shaven gentleman withdrew a silver cigarette case, and in favor of his guest asked, "Fancy a postpradinal puff?"

"Why thank you," he smiling reply.

"So you're on your way to India then," the officer vented, blowing out the match which had lit their two cigarettes. "I suppose you're on assignment there?" He spoke in a coaxing, questioning tone.

"I'm a free-lance journalist," the writer replied. "I write wherever I go."

"Writing," remarked the officer sorely. "It must be lonely work. I've never been much of a writer myself. In fact, handling a pen is probably the most stressful part of my duties. But I can manage in four different languages when necessary!... All the same, I'm an avid reader. Plenty of time for that with a job like mine, I assure you!... I'm especially fond of literature," he said. "I like to take my time with a book – you know – to let the resonance of my own inner voice and imaginative landscape participate in the writer's effort. For me, you see, it's not enough just to slip into a state of suspend my disbelief. I mean; the point isn't merely to be taken for a ride... So I really like an author who subtly affirms this is after all only literature, and that the actual point is something more[3]. With all the time people spend reading these days for the sake of apparent mindless diversion, no creative demand is placed on the audiance. It's as if the reader were rudely brushed aside! – But oh..." and he hesitated. "Please don't take this personally. I'm afraid my thoughts have become abstruse. I mean, I'm sure you're a thoroughly engaging writer – a journalist, isn't it?"

"Yes, that's right."

"But what I really want to say is that a writer... – I mean, a writer who's an artist – should never attempt to persuade his audience, but to purify, enlighten and transpose."

Carried adrift on his own stream of thought the officer flicked his lengthy grey ash into the ashtray the two of them shared.

"But that new machine!" He spoke of a sudden, as if picking up the flow of his thought down stream – "That's really going to change our perceptions of the world! You know what I'm talking about, don't you?..." He inclined his head toward the journalist and paused. "I mean the wireless radio. It's certainly proving to be a revolutionary contraption. Oh, and by the way..." He grinnled like a boy." Have you had a chance to hear any of Klatenborn's Crisis Reports?" The journalist's brow was made to rise. "They say his transmissions can be heard across the Atlantic in America. Imagine that!" The officer shook his head. "Let me invite you for a listen. The ship has a splendid radio you know. Just wander across to the officers mess in about an hour – you'll get a cup of coffee. The broadcast begins at nine o'clock sharp. See you there?"

"By all means."

Along the Calabrian Coast

The second night aboard the Royal Mail Ship found the voyager again all alone on the deck in the light of the midnight moon. As the ship sailed closely to the small and nub-like volcanic isle of Strombli, he witnessed the utterly fantastic sight of fiery magma flowing down its steep incandescent slopes.

An owl suddenly appeared out the lonely night sky and came to a perch on the railing near by. It folded its wings and calmly set its gaze towards the coast of Calabria. Then, in a slow and impassive manner, the owl turned its head in favour of the passenger. They looked to each other with empathy. Then the wise owl blinked and returned its gaze toward the coast again, to the beam of the lighthouse of Capo Vaticano. The curious encounter made the scribe recall the ancient belief in bird omens he had read of as a boy in his Illustrated Odyssey. He further reflected that the ship was now approaching 'those treacherous waters known since ancient times for their shifting currents and visible whirlpools: the Scilla and Charybdis of Homer's grand epic.' As the beacon of the lighthouse came nearer to view he was stirred to reflect on the portent of the owl. Could the refugee guru-to-be possibly have imagined as he silently peered from the deck of the ship, that a half-century later his principal disciples would be living on those same bucolic coasts subsisting on crudities of wild fruits and herbs like feral rishis free as the breeze?....Suddenly the owl enacted flight and disappeared into the darkness of night.

The ship soon entered the narrow Messina Strait that separates the toe of peninsular Italy from the myth-bound isle of Sicily. Then the first nudging tints of dawn light appeared to infuse the emergent landscape with rouge. Due to the numbers of ships that converged there, considerable caution was demanded in passing. Eventually the engine room was told to slacken speed to avert collision.

After re-establishing the Mail Ship's bearing the navigator set a new course heading true south. Flickering lights from the old town of Reggio caught the passengers attention. With the aid of a telescope he was able to discern the fishing port's brisk dawn activity. On starboard he gained the breathtaking view of volcanic Mt. Etna, its lofty summit still capped with snow and a stream of smoke billowing up from its crater.

At daybreak the lighthouse of Capo del Armi came into view at the tip of the toe of Italy's boot. The rustic scenery was marvellous there, with rugged houses standing out clearly against steep hillsides rich in spring growth. From there the new easterly course was set towards Crete and the next port of call at Beirut.

On the following day, as the guidebook informed him, the snow topped mountains of Crete could be seen, then the small barren offshore island of Gavado. From there it was nothing but sea and sky for another whole day until the Island of Cyprus appeared on the horizon...then the Lebanese Mountains and the port of Beirut.

The Grotto of the Virgin

Due to a minor mechanical dysfunction the captain announced that the normally scheduled five-hour halt would regrettably be extended to one whole day; the necessary time to complete the repairs and fully insure unhindered sailing for the balance of the voyage.

Checking in with his officer-informant the journalist was told (though "strictly off the record") that the ship's repairs would actually take three days. The officer explained: "The captain's version is a a matter of policy, a discrete form of protocol; a way to avoid depleting morale and keeping the passengers from straying too far from port."

Yet speaking one seasoned traveller to another, the officer suggested that the writer take a jaunt and see a bit of the Holy Land. He offered to provide him with guidebooks and maps. Chod was filled with incredible joy and immediately decided to visit the town of Bethlehem. He began his pilgrimage by hired car, going south along the warm coastal road through Palestine. He stopped in Jerusalem and found a room for night. Then the following morning he drove a little further to the grotto where the Virgin gave birth to the Christ.

Port Said

Soon however he was back aboard the Mail Ship sailing due south for Port Said, Egypt, the actual beginning of the Suez Canal. This is where the ship would begin its slow 160-kilometre journey through the Suez Canal to the Red Sea.

After numerous tours through the world's most vital transit point, the writer still found Port Said full of character. In many ways the town marks the beginning and the end: the vestibule separating Orient from Occident.

'The ship was moored right in front of the Customs Office, and then the passengers slowly filed down the gangway to the rusty pontoon and finally set foot on dry land again.' But as soon as the foreigners pass through customs

there suddenly appeared on the quayage before them a gesticulating committee of turbaned merchants avidly soliciting their new found friends with a polyglot barrage of proverbs and various other suggestions.

the timid Europeans inched their way through an apparent gauntlet of local entrepreneurs dressed in their commodious ankle-length kaftans, and among whom there is sure be found an assortment of conjurers and cigarette factory representatives.

"Well in my view the art lies in defusing such encounters; but always in a way that dignity reigns. But the best thing is knowing how to elude such situations. You get a lot of practice in India. But then I'm also not a European either."

"Ah," said the officer, having overlooked the fact. "I suppose it's a different perspective then?"

"You better believe it."

Dashing to Giza

Again the first officer proved himself to be an unequalled source of pertinent information. He told the pressman of a newly laid rail line that made it now feasible for passengers to see the Great Pyramids and the Sphinx at Giza in just enough time to rejoin the ship at the canal's southern terminus town of Port Tawfiq.

The suggestion struck the writer like a beam of healing light.

"Now, we would hardly encourage our normal clients to strike off on such a risky jaunt," said the officer cringing comically. "So please do keep it to yourself old boy. You know, it's problem enough just letting them loose in the relative tameness of little Port Said. – Oh yes! You'd be shocked at all the horror stories we get from them; stories of being befriended by local acquaintances and then led through the narrow dark lanes of the Arab Quarter. It's basically the case of letting curiosity get the upper hand on prudence, I suppose. Though it has to be admitted that those large standing water pipes do have a certain allurement. Wouldn't you say?"

"I would," said the scribe, "And Egyptian hospitality is as unrefusable as it is impeccable."

"Yes, yes; a man of experience, I'm sure."

"All in the line of research," he said.

"So you can very well imagine, then, the scenario yourself where having once accepted a few cool draws... "

"Well that's really all it takes, isn't it?"

"Depending on the substance smoked, one would think."

"Granted." Chod nodded.

"And you can easily imagine how an unbewitting smoker would drift away dreamily in a well stuffed chair while seated in one of those ghoraz style coffee houses perfectly oblivious to the three loud blasts that are sounded by the ship to announce its launch. Which leaves the captain with no other option than to leave the intoxicated stragglers behind – forsaken lotus eaters fallen to the forgetfulness of their dainty viands." The officer waxed Homerically[4]. "But regarding Giza," he returned with some urgency, "there is just enough time to do it justice. You can survey the environs and get some strong impressions. – But you've got to go quickly! See you tomorrow down south in Port Tawfiq."

The journalist quickly returned to his cabin and then set off down the gangway to the quay. He passed through customs and headed for the train, a five-minute jog from the ship.

Worship of the Sun

Leaving Port Said the sidetrack railway travelled right along the canal heading south. It occasionally passed a ship on the way, which gave a strange impression of a ship that was sailing across a flat sea of sand. Seventy-eight kilometres into the journey they came to the town of Ismaila. From there the train proceeded due west to the town of Zagazig before finally arriving at Cairo Station. The entire 233 kilometre trip taking about 4 hours. From the city of Cairo the final destination was reached by a short tramline.

Immediately arriving at the plateau of Giza, Egypt's most famous pharaonic site, the traveller was struck by the phenomenal size of those four-and-a-half-millennia-old remains and veritable wonders in public works. 'What faith-inspiring conceptions of life,' he mused, 'could possibly have compelled an ancient people to carry so many stones and bricks to its monuments?'

He began to interpret the massive physical scale and arrangement in accordance with the primordial conception of a north-south axis, logistically aligned between the other chief Egyptian theological centres of Onu and Memphis. Onu was established north of Giza. The Greeks knew it as Heliopolis, "City of the Sun." Onu was the Ancient World's leading healing center. It was also the seat of the Royal Cult of Ra (or Re) the Universal Sun God. But in the New Kingdom Period the conception of Ra was supplanted by the emerging priest craft at Thebes. This is when Ra received a re-elaboration along the lines of Amun-Ra. In the later Amarna Period (ca. 1500 BC), King Akenaten achieved a revolution and the cult of Re became overshadowed by the worship of a single god Aten, arguably the world's first monotheistic deity. It is for these reasons that Diffusionist scholars accredit all religions, and monotheism in particular, to have their origins in the worship of the Sun[5].

Health at the fragile edge

Travelling back to rejoin the ship (now well on its way through the canal to Suez) the train again passed through the town of Ismaila on the shores of Lake Timsah. From there it veered south to the town of Suez, then beyond to Port Tawfiq where the canal actually opens to the Gulf of Suez.

With ample stores of water and provisions for the two-week voyage that lied ahead, the Dutch flag vessel recommenced its course sailing South through the turquoise waters of the Gulf. While talking together on the bridge of the ship, the voyager asked his officer-informant why the Red Sea after all rarely looked red?

"Ah!" said the uniformed offiscer smiling broadly, "You won't find that in your complimentary guidebook, will you! Now poets have suggested that the name of these waters comes from the beautiful cast of the sun when silkily reflectant at dusk or dawn. But as a former student of marine biology I assure you that scientists hold another view. And they would have us believe that the redness of the sea is actually caused by the microscopic blooms of a phycoerythrin-rich species of cyanobacteria!"

Images of Europe began to fade and the journalist felt as if a great dark weight had been lifted from his shoulders. After two days at sea, they made a brief call at Jeddah, the gateway port to nearby Mecca; that most cherished pilgrimage in all of Islam; the global hub to where the faithful direct their five times daily prayers. From there they continued their southerly course and entered the narrow Strait of Bab el-Mandeb as the opposing desert coasts of Djibouti and Yemen came clearly into view. With these separated continents situated both but fifteen miles from the passing vessel, the extreme strategic importance of the strait becomes evident.

The ship then entered the Gulf of Aden and the warm blue waters of the Arabian Sea. From there a new easterly course was set that virtually retraced an old East African trade route. There were seven more days of open sea in which temperatures soared. An agonizing dullness beleaguered his mind. He passed time lounging in a shaded deckchair, staring out blankly to the pale blue expanse. He also took rest in his private cabin, jotting down notes in his current logbook. The flight from Europe and the ensuing weeks of transit had pushed his health to a frayed and fragile edge. And having grown quite accustomed to the comforts of Europe, the inevitable harshness that India implied would pose the greatest test his still-young life.

A few days later he lands at Bombay. He steps from the ship to Imperial India and is greeted by swarms of coolies and street kids imploring him for coins and other foreign blessings. He darts through the crowded lanes in a rickshaw and suddenly spots a makeshift newsstand. He immediately tells the driver to stop and calls to the vendor for a Statesman.

"Yes sahib!" the paper-walla shouts.

He was stoical. Those headlines came as no surprise. HITLER TAKES PARIS. GERMAN TROOPS MARCH DOWN CHAMPS-ELYSÉES.

To Rishikesh

Returned to the elemental rawness of India the writer could see that things were very different now. He could also sense that his personal life was poised for a defining change of course. For the first time ever in his professional career he was forced to stop looking to the world around him as an endless source of extraneous news events. Required of him now at the age of forty was to hone the keenness of his vision inward. He had returned to India a critically ill man no longer in search of an imaginative feature story, but for a place of personal sanctuary; no longer seeking professional gain, but a cure to his gravely ill body.

By now the condition of his ailing pancreas had become so severe that injections of insulin were not even able to keep his diabetes in check. "I would have died!" he touchingly confided one day. "That is, if not for yoga."

Yoga Hits Bangkok

As previously mentioned (Sritantra, 2002c), in 1902 when the monarch passed the Sangha Act, an "official" form of standardized Buddhism was imposed over the whole of Siam's extended realm. One by one, the various kingdoms came increasingly under the centralized control of Bangkok's religious authorities. Political changes followed as well. With the bloodless revolution of 1932, Thailand ceased to be an absolute monarchy and established its present day constitutional monarchy along lines similar to the British model. Consequently, royalty has staunchly remained as a sacrosanct pillar of the Thai Triumvirate. This is institutionally ritualised in the cult of the Devarāja as adopted by Siamese kings from their royal Khmer predecessors as early as the 14th century.

The Path of Facing Life's Difficulties

The master resettled in the city of his birth, that "Venice of the East," Bangkok, Thailand. He set aside all ostentatious dress and firmly resolved to earn his living. He had already lived that marginal life of 'a hermit buried in meditation, keeping his body and soul together with scraggly morsels. He had actually found it quite an easy thing to retire from the world to the safe, though comfortless seclusion of a cave. He also understood that for some this indeed was the necessary path for which they should be respected and revered, so long as they are willing and able to abandon every form of social responsibility. But such a form of yoga is really quite different from the yoga of those who choose the path of facing life's difficulties and troubles without evading them'[15].

Guru Chod was fond of the writer Sir Paul Dukes who, echoing the sentiments of Rudyard Kipling, soundly expressed his own heart-felt conviction.

Yoga in its highest sense teaches us how to face up to life, surmount its trials and tribulations, unenslaved by its transient treasures and meretricious delights. It trains us not to shirk emergency, but 'to meet triumph and disaster and treat those two impostors just the same.' On this high level, Yoga shows us how to be in the world and yet not of it. This is the true sense in which one should retire from the world. The goal of all yoga, wherever and in whatever form one practices it, is self-conquest, the mastery of thought and emotion[16].

With his decades of experience in international journalism, the talented newsman found that he was able to quite literally "write his own ticket" in Bangkok. He quickly took on demanding posts as editor-in-chief of prominent Thai and English language newspapers, sometimes running two papers at once. He made the Thai capital his vocational base for the next four decades to come.

It was during the period following his return that the master took a sixteen-year-old girl for his wife. He also opened his house – at that time located on Soi Wattanayothin – to the public as a type of Yoga Institute. This was not done commercially, but in the spirit of social service. There was never any need to advertise either. "When a flower blooms," his guru had told him, "it does not send out invitation cards. The bees come by themselves." Mornings he directed open asana sessions and attended to those in need of special therapy. He accepted people without obligation and allowed them to come whenever they liked.

This double occupation as conservator and editor was faithfully maintained for twenty-five years. But pressing deadlines and assignments abroad often forced his yoga to take a back seat. For example, every fourth year he dispatched himself to Washington to cover the United States presidential elections. "It was nice," he said. "I was able to travel wherever I liked. I just took a camera and wrote a story." A notable example was in 1959 when thousands of Tibetans were fleeing across the Himalayan ranges in advance of invading Chinese troops. And there was the master in Dehra Dun, India, waiting to receive the young Dalai Lama.

After his lunch, he would drive to the office. He had to take care not to let his love for yoga interfere with his duties as a leading national editor. For professional negligence decreed dire consequence. "The hardest thing about being an editor" he said, "was making sure that my reporters didn't write anything disrespectful about the Royal Family or the Government. Because if they did they'd go to jail – and I'd have to go to jail with them! Ha!" Then he let loose a great big belly laugh. "But none of my reporters ever went to jail." He affirmed with resumed composure.

Chod maintained his correspondent's status throughout his decades of family life. He filed reports with Associated Press and other distinguished international agencies. Such lofty credentials were able to gain him passage through many a well-sealed door. He extensively explored the Southeast Asian region and learned to read it like the back of his hand. He wove and shuttled from country to country making such romantically evocative cities as Mandalay, Luang Prabang, Phnom Penh and Angkor Vat his frequent haunts of fascination. His unimpeded access to the Indo-China states throughout the brutal years of French and American warfare yielded him perspectives unattainable to most. This accounts for his amassing an exceptional archive pertaining to that twenty-year "post-war conflict," which finally ended with the 1975 flight of the defeated Americans from Saigon.

His professional travels had a lighter side as well. He was especially enamoured by the northern Burmese City of Mandalay. "I went to Mandalay about twenty times," he told me. This was the day before my own scheduled flight to Rangoon.

"Twenty times?" The present writer echoed his words.

"Yes," he replied and smiled very broadly. "I had a good friend there with a beautiful house."

Then the master turned wistful and with a tinge of resignation, said: "I'm too old to travel now though. But if I were younger I would go along with you."

My eyes grew tearful. I could not answer. The master was in his eighty-seventh year.

[Note: For most recent edition see pdf file saint guru chod (1900-1988).]

Not until the spry age of seventy-five years did the Master retire altogether from journalism. It was therefore around the year 1975 that the saint began his full-time private practice. Though demand was enormous, he met the challenge squarely, displaying such unwavering stamina and force that the people around him were often astounded. "It's a good occupation for an old man," he said. "I like to be useful."

Therapeutics

In the early 1980's Thai Television came to the ashram and interviewed Guru Chod. The old man spoke with unrivaled authority concerning the therapeutic science of yoga. For once thing, he explained how 'yogis knew about the circulation of the blood in the human body long before the so-called discovery was made in the West by Dr. William Harvey, the brilliant 17th century English physician. Harvey studied medicine at Padua, Italy and wrote his famous findings in Latin, An Anatomical Experiment Concerning the Movement of the Heart but often called De motu cordis for short. It was actually published in Frankfurt am Main in 1628. But yogis already knew about this,' Guru Chod explained. 'They also knew that the pulse beats were generated by the heart and had discovered that these pulse beats could be made stronger or weaker by controlling the breathing. They knew that the nerves could also be excited or slowed down through the conscious control of the mind.'

"The discovery of the thyroid gland" Chod told the interviewer, "and recent experiments concerning its function is nothing new to yogis. They were fully aware of its existence and function – and the others glands too – long before western science found these things out. Only the ancient sages gave different names to these glands. For example the pituitary gland was called the 'nectar-rayed moon' and the pineal gland was called the 'eye of Śiva,' and so on."

Yet no matter how comparable yoga may be with so-called modern medical science, yoga is not to be viewed as a medicine. Why? Because yoga is something far better than medicine. And if any good comparison is ever drawn between the science of yoga and allopathic medicine, yoga should be viewed as a preventative form of medicine. Doubtless, yoga has profound healing qualities, and within the realm of the healing arts its validity is unparalleled. This is why many chronic disorders be cured through the yoga. Through regular practice one derives a lightness of body, renewed vitality, and splendid health. A brilliance of complexion and eyes will be noticed. One experiences a positive outlook on life; one will always be cheerful and filled with a sense of inner well-being. It's even contagious!

Extolling the glories of self-reliance, yoga teaches people how to cure themselves.

Sitting right in front of the television camera the Master explained how all these things became known to him as he advanced to the higher forms of yoga, sometimes also called tantra yoga.

'Yogis also had an intimate knowledge of the nervous system and the spinal cord,' Guru Chod explined. 'They gave their own names to the various parts of the nervous system and knew more about their function than western science has yet discovered.' Simply stated, 'yogis knew that by developing the health of the physical body, its organs and fluids, and by bringing it under the intelligent control of the mind, they could at will slow these processes down and regulate or stop the flow of certain fluids to cure any disease in the body.'

"I spent five years in Rishikesh" he said, "and then I stayed three more for special training."

Cured indeed. "I have not suffered any disease in forty years," Guru Chod affirmed in his eighty-fourth year.

Awed by such a statement the interviewer asked him, "Not even a headache?"

"He wants to show people how to alleviate problems and difficulties through yoga," she thoughtfully observed. "When he talks, he brims with health and happiness. But in an interview, the Guru will evade all questions concerning self, that is, anything about his personal history."

"That's old hat now," he frankly told her. "People already know me. Editors of books and magazines have interviewed me. Television stations have sent their crews to film me. I've been doing it so long! I'd rather give your readers tips on how to stay healthy and young."

She was charmed by his simple and open manner.

He talks to you—to me, to friends, to strangers and wandering travelers, all with equal respect. The gates of his home are always open. As he talks, he either sits casually or walks back and forth to the other room where two or three women are practicing yoga. One woman is standing on her head in the śirsha pose, and he gives her moral support by counting the seconds.

"Life can be compared to a boxing arena," the Master remarked, "but in the boxing arena, you have only one opponent. In life there are many more. Even if you lose, you will still have to fight."

"What does yoga do to help?" she asked.

"Yoga eliminates fear," he told her, "and lays the groundwork for samādhi, or concentration, which leads to peace of mind."

"But literally, how can you eliminate fear by simply lifting up your hands or standing on your head?"

"You are not just lifting up your hands or merely standing on your head," he explained. "You are practicing the āsana (physical posture) as your mind concentrates on prānāyāma or the regulation of breath. At a more advanced stage, the practitioner will actually meditate while performing the āsanas."

"But when you are suffering from stress, wouldn't it be better to take a vacation?"

"That's the Western concept of alleviating problems," he replied. "Taking a vacation or going to the cinema is merely a diversion. In the long run, the person has to come back to face up to the circumstances anyway, that is, if he is a responsible person. In the Buddhist faith, you learn to avoid the consequences brought about by complications; but in yoga, you learn to confront them. In yoga you learn to analyse the suffering."

Religion of the Heart

Throughout Guru Chod's more than forty-year career, he initiated thousands in the Timeless Yoga. He furthermore imbued his precious teaching with a cogent appraisal of the ancient Buddha-Dharma, the religious culture in which he was born. For the Guru was by no means a divisive rebel. It is in fact incumbent on any individual who has managed that leap beyond the quagmire of nescience, to stand as a glowing illustration of the clear cut fact that the whole of humankind belongs to one great religion, the religion of the heart.

–Many factors.

Enlightenment

[Note: For most recent edition see pdf file saint guru chod (1900-1988).]

1. We assume the publication of "The Nederland," apparently an on-board complimentary guidebook alluded to in the Master's own notes. I have found the ca. 1920 publication of Travel guide of the Nederland Royal Mail Line. Route Amsterdam to Batavia. Two volumes. Amsterdam, Bound. 56 + 68 p. Ills. With 25 double pages colored, drawings in text by Willy Sluiter, 16 blank pages at end for passenger's notes.

2. Encyclopedia Judaica (Jerusalem, 1972).

3. Ten years earlier Martin Secker Ltd. had brought out the English translation of Hermann Hesse's Steppenwolf, a book which the officer was currently reading. There was a passage he found to be particularly enthralling and which he avidly read and reread many times:

The delusion rests simply upon a false analogy. As a body everyone is single, as a soul never… In literature too, even in its most sophisticated achievement we find this customary concern with apparently whole and single personalities. Of all literature up to our days the drama has been the most highly prized by writers and critics, and rightly, since it offers (or might offer) the greatest possibilities of representing the ego as a manifold entity, but for the optical illusion which makes us believe that the characters of the play are one-fold entities by lodging each one in an undeniable body, singly, separately and once and for all.

5. There is a something in Guru Chod's rediscovered tantra (teaching) that is strongly redolent of royal Egypt; cobras conferring kingship and that sort of thing. In ancient Egyptian religion the creator of all things was either Re, Amun, Ptah, Khnum or Aten, depending on which version of the myth was currently in use. Re, the sun god, took on many forms, and transcended most of the borders that contained the other gods. The actual shape of the sun, the disk (or, aten), was deified into another god, Aten. For a Indo-European cultural comparativistic scrutiny of this early human conception compare Pāli attan and ātta (Vedic, ātman) – not from Greek/Latin animus, but "steam" – and Egyptian aten, universal spirit, god, Old High German atum and Modern German, atem: breath. Compare also tuma (n), most likely the apostrophe form of Pāli atuma = atta: Sanskrit: ātman, higher "self." See Appendix: Bhucha Phra-Athit present work.

6. Autobiography of Swami Sivananda (1983), 14.

7. Swami Krishnananda, "Sivananda: The Fire of Sannyasa" (1992).

8. Ibid., pp. 24-3.

9. Or "Sumeru" as the Buddhist tradition knows it.

10. Hiranya means "gold," garba means "womb." According to legendary tradition, the philosophy of yoga was first communicated by Hiranyagarbha in his equine (vājin) form to the semi-legendary sage Yājñavalkya (ca. 700-300 BCE). In turn, Yājñavalkya is said to have imparted the teachings to King Janaka of Videha (present-day Janakpur, Nepal). King Janaka, by the way, is the legendary father of Sītā (or Janaki) who was wed to the Hindu god Rāma of Ayodhyā as described in the epic poem Rāmāyana. Yājñavalkya is also believed to be the author of the "White" Yajur Vedā. There are actually two different Yajur Vedā collections (samhitā). Both contain the same material but are differently arranged. The Taittirīya Samhitā is the older of the two. It is also called the "Black" Yajur Vedā because of its dour inscrutability. The second Yajur Vedā, called Vājasaneyī Samhitā, is arranged in a way that brings order, method and light to the teaching and is therefore called the "White."

11. See "Anuloma Viloma Pranayama (Alternate Nostril Breathing)",in Five Verbatim Teachings of Saint Guru Chod http://fiveverbatimteachings.blogspot.com/ 2006.

12. Theos Bernard, Land of a Thousand Buddhas (1940).

13. Ken Winkler, A Thousand Journeys: A Biography of Lama Anāgārika Govinda (1990).

14. Theos Bernard, Hatha Yoga: The Report of a Personal Experience (1944).

[Note: For most recent edition see pdf file saint guru chod (1900-1988).]

Bernard, Theos 1940. Heaven Lies Within Us. New York.

Bernard, Theos 1940. Land of a Thousand Buddhas. New York. Bernard, Theos 1944. Hatha Yoga: The Report of a Personal Experience. New York.

Chod, Guru 2006. "Performing Bhucha Phra-Athit," in Five Verbatim Teachings of Saint Guru Chod http://fiveverbatimteachings.blogspot.com/.

Dukes, Sir Paul 1960. The Yoga of Health, Youth and Joy. London: Cassell and Co.

Durrell, Lawrence 1984. Quinx. New York.

Hackett, Paul G. 2004. The Life and Works of Theos Bernard. Columbia 250.

Hesse, Hermann 1929. Steppenwolf. Trans. by Basil Creighton London: Martin Secker.

Horner, I.B. 1951. Trans. Mahāvagga. London: The Pāli Text Society.

Krishnananda, Swami 1992. "Sivananda: The Fire of Sannyasa." Published as chapter 6 in the author's Spiritual Import of Religious Festivals. Rishikesh: Divine Life Society. A discourse delivered on the 1st of June, 1972 at The Sannyasa Anniversary of Sri Swami Sivanandaji Maharaj http://www.swami-krishnananda.org/fest/fest_06.html.Pramualratana.

Pramualratana, Promporn 1987. "Confronting Life's Problems Through Yoga." Bangkok Post, Sunday supplement, 12 July.

Sivananda, Swami 1983. Autobiography of Swami Sivananda. Rishikesh: Divine Life Society http://www.thedivinelifesociety.org/download/autobio.htm.

Sritantra 2006a. Buddhism & Yoga http://buddhism-and-yoga.blogspot.com/. Oringinally published in German translation as "Buddhismus und Yoga," trans. by Anneli Sartiono, Der Mittlere Weg. Hannover: Buddhistischer Bund Hannover, e.V., Autumn, 1997.

Sritantra 2006b. Editor, Five Verbatim Teachings of Saint Guru Chod http://fiveverbatimteachings.blogspot.com/.

Sritantra 2006c. The Khmer Contribution http://the-khmer-contribution.blogspot.com/.

Sritantra 2002. Yoga Sritantra http://sritantra.co.uk/.

Wigoder, Geoffrey 1972-72. Editor-in-chief. Encyclopedia Judaica. New York: Macmillan.

Winkler, Ken 1990. A Thousand Journeys: A Biography of Lama Anāgārika Govinda. London.