Paramahansa Yogananda’s memoir unfolds like a tapestry woven from both verifiable detail and devotional color. The snapshots of late-19th–early-20th-century India—village rituals, guru-disciple ceremonies, Kumbh Mela pilgrimages—line up neatly with anthropological accounts and family traditions still alive today. British-ruled Calcutta’s social fabric and the broader backdrop of World War I and the 1918 influenza pandemic make authentic cameos, even if precise dates occasionally blur at the edges.

Encounters with figures such as Lahiri Mahasaya and Swami Sri Yukteswar rest on solid biographical records, though they draw on oral histories that can’t be footnoted in a Western academic sense. Mystical episodes—levitation, healing miracles and the like—add a dash of poetic license, more devotional flourish than vetted history. Yet the core teaching of Kriya Yoga, its lineage rituals and Sanskrit mantras remain faithful to traditional practices still taught by Yogananda’s SRF lineage today.

In a time when headlines are dominated by mindfulness apps and neuroimaging studies of meditation, Yogananda’s rich cultural backdrop feels like a lost treasure chest rediscovered. Modern yoga studios that chant ancient Vedic mantras owe a debt to this blend of vivid storytelling and cultural accuracy. Scholars of religion might raise an eyebrow at the miraculous claims, but cultural anthropologists nod in appreciation: this memoir played a starring role in broadening Western perspectives on Eastern spirituality.

At its heart, the work balances a historian’s canvas with a devotee’s heart—rarely sticking to a strict play-by-play but never straying so far that the historical and cultural essence gets lost.