A Lovely Evening

In the hot summer evening, I stepped onto the cool marble. The cavernous, circular hall echoed with the soft tones of Bengali. Pillars ringed the hall, and the ceiling vaulted high, high up. I lifted my gaze up to the domed ceiling, which was decorated with mosaics depicting scenes of the life of the great saint and missionary, Srila Prabhupad. Below, in the center of this domed, cathedral-like space, stood the altar, which held a golden murti [sacred statue] of Srila Prabhupad.

I settled to a marble step and pulled out my long bamboo flute. I had been taking lessons, and I was such a novice. But here in this grand space, my simple flute playing echoed and echoed and filled the air and filled my body. The flute became my voice to sing a lullaby to Srila Prabhupad.

I had been living in the holy village of Mayapur in India for about 6 months, and recently I had begun to come every evening to the samadhi to play flute. Often, I would fall quiet and gaze up at the mosaics, lost in thought and lost in the glory of everything Srila Prabhupad had done for the world.

I prayed that somehow I would assist him in some way, even if small. But I was open to big, too!

I played my flute until the pujari swished closed the red velvet curtains. I took the flute from my lips, and in the sudden quiet I fell to my knees to the cool marble and offered my respects. The sound of the flute feathered away to silence.

A Long-Awaited Bath

June 20th, 2013

I lived in the holy village of Mayapur, India for 8 months and I had never taken a sacred bath in the waters of the River Ganga. My very last day in Mayapur, I was on a mission to submerge my chanting beads in the Ganga. I had thought that maybe I would also bathe, but now that time was ticking closer and closer to my departure, I started to chicken out. It was impractical; I would have wet clothes, I'd need to take a shower and pack up...

Finally, at 1 in the afternoon with the sun high in the sky, I made my way to Prabhupad Ghat between the tall waving grasses. I approached Mother Ganga reverently and offered my obeisance, the silky mud pressing against my knees, palms, and forehead. 

I stood up, folded my palms and offered prayers. Then I crouched down and submerged my beads in the river, chanting the holy name. I swished the beads in the golden brown water, the sun glinting off of the surface. Reverent pilgrims were offering beautiful Sanskrit prayers before bathing.

I prayed to Mother Ganga to please support me in my vows on the path to the Lord.

I waded my way out of the shallow water and stood on the bank, gazing at the beautiful, sacred river. My heart began to pound. I should just leave, it's too late now, too much of a hassle...

Then I thought, "I would never forgive myself if I had come all this way across the world, lived in Mayapur for 8 months, came to her waters the day I left... and never took bath."

With that, I set my beads aside on the bank, took off my shawl... and wearing my full salwar top and pants I waded into the waters. The water was cool and sweet. The mud squished between my toes.  I was grinning, giggling. 

When I reached a spot about hip-deep, I slid back and dunked all the way down! Woo-hoo!! Cool water washed over me. I dunked again. I was immersed in cool golden sunlight. I dunked a third time and came up, palms folded, grinning, laughing. Thank you! Thank you! Thank you for giving me the courage, thank you.

May I go out into the world now and share Your love. 

Snapshots and Huge Pictures

Have you ever noticed that I tend to write on my blog about "snapshot" experiences that somehow impact my heart?

Have you ever noticed that I rarely write about the "huge picture" experiences that impact my heart?

Maybe it's because the "snapshot" experiences can be shared simply enough as a full, complete picture.

Invariably, every time I want to write about a "huge picture" experience, I feel like I'm gushing: "Oh my god, it was unbelievable, amazing, I'm speechless, so profound and beautiful and amaaaaaaazing. Life transformative. Wow."

Seriously. That's pretty much how I want to describe Bus Tours, Satvatove seminars, festivals in Alachua, visiting Mayapur, Vrindavan, Mumbai, or South India, an encounter with Radhanath Swami, studying in India, the Mayapur Academy, attending a kirtan festival in Brazil, 24 Hour Kirtans...

All of these experiences are unbelievable, profound, life transformative, amaaaaaazing. They feel so vast though, I wonder where to begin, how I could possibly encompass such a powerful experience in a little blog post. It's as if I'm trying to fit all of those sky-wide emotions into a 300-word post with maybe a couple grainy cell phone pictures.

I'm sure you've had this experience, too - you'll have gone on a vacation and when you return people ask you, "So, how was it?"

What do you say? "It was great." And maybe, if you're like me, you'll say, "It was amaaaaaaazing. Beyond words."

I am having this dilemma in trying to describe the experience of teaching these two Kirtan Connection courses that just concluded. There were 15 people total in 2 levels, and we just had our epic graduation on Sunday. It wasn't a neat experience that I could describe in a couple hundred words.

But I will try. My next blog post I will dedicate to the experience in teaching Kirtan Connection, to honor those who saw me through - Ghanashyam, Dhira Govinda Prabhu, and Badahari Prabhu; those who graduated, and Srila Prabhupad.

Yes, it was a profound experience. Beyond words. At the same time, the service of the writer is to put the un-wordable experiences into words so that others may share in the beauty. That is what Srila Prabhupad did.

I'll do my humble best to share the "huge picture." 

Moments with the Moon

Moments of beauty flash before my eyes like someone spinning the Rolodex of my life. Choose one, Bhakti. Choose a moment. I close my eyes and the images speed up and whirl. 

Choose one.

There. 

My mind has landed upon one evening in the holy land of Mayapur in India. I'm wearing a light purple sari, and my bansuri flute is slung over my shoulder in its black case. Twilight has set in. I'm on the outskirts of Mayapur village, meandering my way home after a long day. I'm about to turn down my walkway when I halt in my tracks.

The moon. The moon hangs over a field of swaying green grasses; it seems to fill the horizon, full and golden. If I reached out my hand, maybe I could touch it. I've never seen such a moon.   

I slip off my shoes and walk out onto the dirt path that leads into the field. The dirt is soft powder between my toes. I walk out a ways and settle right to the ground. I pull out my flute. 

I play. I play to the moon. In my purple sari in the twilight surrounded by an ocean of grass, the moon is my giant companion. 

(photo by deityworship.tribe.net)

Journal Roulette

72 volumes. 72 volumes of putting my soul on paper. My journals now take up several shelves of a bookcase in my room, silently containing the history of my life since I was 11 years old.

I'm going to conduct a little experiment.

I'm going to open up several random journals and open to a random page. I'll then copy down a paragraph or two from those pages. Let's call it Journal Roulette, shall we?

You ready?

August 1st, 2011 (age 24)
Baja, Mexico [summer Bus Tour]
I write this late at night in the front seats of the bus. We're parked on the cliff, and the ocean waves crash far below in whispers. Everyone's sleeping.

December 24th, 2005 (age 18)
Oaxaca, Mexico [winter Bus Tour]
I pull plants out of the bag... and pull out the ugliest coconut head I have EVER laid eyes on. It's carved and painted to the likeness of a pirate with an eye-patch and an ugly grin.

I fight the urge to drop it and scream through the numbness. Hoots and raucous laughter erupt around the bus...

Why couldn't I have gotten a pair of earrings???

December ?, 2008 (age 21)
Tirupati, India
I stormed off to Brindavan, the mystical garden of Anantalvar, the place where his soul resides. There, I found my solace at the lake. A sadhu was chanting his gayatri on the ghat steps, and his presence soothed me. Otherwise the entire garden and ghat was empty in the cool evening.

November 1st, 2011 (age 24)
Gainesville, Florida
I'm sitting here in the eveningtime writing this on the Plaza of the Americas, and a young man just walked by me with a wave and a smile. [Puzzled], I called out to him, "Do I know you?"

He turned around and smiled. "No. You just look happy and peaceful. That's all."

I beamed. "Why, thank you!"

He waved again, turned around, and kept walking.

May 1st, 2013 (age 26)
Mayapur, India
Last night I spent time with Jahnavi at her place. We shared such deep secrets and realizations with each other. Shame, guilt... I feel so deeply grateful to have shared with someone this secret of shame that has been in my heart for many months now. We actually discussed it - not that I just said it and it was over. Wow. I feel like I was cleaning out and letting go of a burden. Last night I slept very peacefully; I had simple and peaceful dreams.

July 26th, 2001 (age 14)
Kailua-Kona, Hawaii
I have been through major ups and major downs, but you - a journal that reflects my own thoughts - are a patient friend who is always there to help me see the light. It is almost as if Krishna himself was guiding me. I could not have found anyone more dependable than a piece of paper, a pen, and my own soul.

An Official Mystery

"You want to walk with Radhanath Swami and me to the Union Square Park harinam?" Dhanurdhara Swami asked me. We were conversing in a hallway of the Bhakti Center in New York City.

"Why, sure!" I replied.

"Let me just go ask him, and I'll get back to you. We'll leave soon, so just stick around,"

I nodded.

I had just flown in from India that very morning after being gone from America for almost an entire year. I kid you not when I say that tears stung my eyes when I walked through the corridors of Newark Airport. I was on American "soil"! I felt unabashedly patriotic.

Today was also the day that I had officially moved into the Bhakti Center - to give this Center and this city a whirl in service for awhile, see how things go.

A half an hour later, Dhanurdhara Swami ushered me to join him and Radhanath Swami, but the time was running late so we hailed a cab. As usual, I felt nervous to be around my spiritual master, who is such a huge guiding force in my life. The two swamis got into the back and I got into the front. How surreal, I thought. I'm riding in a cab with such eminent personalities. 

When we got out of the cab at Union Square Park, I could hear the distant thrum of the mridanga drum and the soft 'ting' of the karatalas. We were getting closer to the harinam.

I circled around to join the two dignified Swamis in their flowing orange robes. Radhanath Swami caught my eye. A mysterious smile lit up his face and he intoned, "Bhakti lata, today I officially give to you New York City."

My eyes widened. "Really?" That sounded pretty important, but I was puzzled. "What does that mean?"

"In time, everything will be revealed," he replied enigmatically.

I knit my eyebrows. I turned to Dhanurdhara Swami, "Maharaj, what does that mean, that Radhanath Swami has officially given to me New York City?"

"Ah, this is called Prabhudatta Desha,"

"Prabhupada Desha?" I said, trying to clarify.

"No, Prabhudatta, with a 't.' Prabhudatta Desha,"

"Prabhudatta Desha," I said carefully. The three of us were now walking abreast, weaving through crowds, approaching the harinam.

"Yes," Dhanurdhara Swami said, "This means 'the place of residence that the guru gives to you as your main place of service,'"

I was stunned. I looked over to Radhanath Swami. He grinned. "I told you that everything would soon be revealed."

A week later and I am realizing that his words will take a lifetime to be revealed.

Manhattan skyline the morning I arrived

Union Square Park harinam

Birthday Prayer

Yesterday morning for my birthday, my friend Mandali and I took a rickshaw to Bhaktisiddhanta Saraswati Thakur's bhajan kutir. This is the place where the Thakur made a vow to chant one billion names of the Lord in prayer for the fallen souls of this age. He chanted for 9 years and 3 months.

I had wanted this quiet, meditative morning; obviously Lord Chaitanya had a different plan. Yesterday so happened to be the last day of Navadwip Mandala Parikrama! This is an organized pilgrimage that draws thousands of people from every corner of the world. Mandali and I were moving among rivers and rivers of people, their eyes glowing, faces bright. We kept shaking our heads and grinning, letting ourselves get carried with the current. 

The kutir itself is usually quiet, but yesterday thousands had gathered in the courtyard to sing kirtan and listen to saintly people speak about such a holy place. I felt moved by how the Lord has truly reciprocated with the Thakur's prayers to flood the world with love of God. 

This kutir is the place to pray to be empowered to give. I prayed that this year I can be strong and share with others the love that has been given to me by the great souls.

Bhaktisiddhanta Saraswati Thakur 

Srila Prabhupad 

my spiritual master, Radhanath Swami 

Gift of Fearlessness

I was trembling. My heart was pounding.

I squeezed my way through the train compartment, people shouting and moving in every square inch. The devotee from the temple who was helping me carry all of my luggage finally settled my stuff on my bunk, Number 15. Then with a smile he said, "Okay, Mataji, I go now,"

Don't go, please don't go, I pleaded in my mind, but I spoke the words, "Oh, okay, Haribol,"

The devotee waved, and then he disappeared into the mass of bodies. He was my last link with the world I knew. I just sat there on my bunk in shock. I looked around and I saw men - all men - looking at me. I was going to be on this 2nd class train for 36 hours from Mumbai to Kolkatta. Alone. I had no phone. No access to anyone. I was cut off from the world. Anything could happen.

My mind whirred - I could still get off the train. I had 16 minutes to change my mind - grab all my luggage and somehow find a phone and get back to the temple. This was madness.

Suddenly, the train flooded with loudly chattering village women. They filled the aisles until there was barely room to move. I sat there utterly stunned. These women were joking. No way could they be riding with us.

But they were. When the train began to move, the women settled to the floor where they would be sleeping the night. I looked on in shocked disbelief.

I slept with my passport tucked into my shirt that night, murmuring the Nrisimhadeva Prayers for protection.

***

By the next afternoon, I hadn't smiled or moved from my bunk in over 14 hours. I had adjusted to the intensity of the train ride by putting up energetic shields and retreating deep inside of myself.

Towards midday, I was reading a book about Srila Prabhupad. There was this little girl trying to squish into my bunk (along with two other women). I decided to soften up a bit and give the little girl some space to lean her back against my bunk wall.

Suddenly out of the corner of my eye, I saw this old guy across the aisle gesturing to the popcorn he had just bought, this big creepy smile on his face, trying to get the little girl to take some. She was refusing silently. He would reach towards her, and she shrank away.

I looked up from my book, sized up the situation, and stared daggers at the man. He still smiled, trying to get the girl to eat his popcorn. I said with knives in my voice, "Leave."

He smiled at me as if I was being silly - this little girl knew him.

So I turned to the little girl, gesturing, "Do you know him?"

She shook her head.

I turned back to the man and said in a deadly tone, "Leave her alone." It was incredible. I experienced profound and lethal anger surge inside of me. I suddenly found myself willing to fight for this little girl, and I didn't even know her name.

The other young girl on my bunk giggled at my intensity. I wondered for a moment if maybe I was mistaken - maybe the little girl did know the man and I was overreacting.

But I didn't care. I was doing my duty, since obviously no one else was protecting the little girl.

The man lost his smile and never bothered the girl again. I kept looking over at him, checking in to make sure, almost as if to say, "Just you DARE, you lowlife," But he never dared again.

Some time later, the little girl asked where I was from and where I was going, and I understood enough to respond simply.

But then I ended up connecting with the little girl, her name was Seetal, and the other young girl on my bunk, Kajal. I decided to teach these girls the most valuable thing I knew, so I taught them the Hare Krishna maha mantra. They soaked it up like sponges.

They chanted the mahamantra a few times. I could see delight shining on their faces, like they had just been given a special and mystical gift.

I explained in my limited Hindi that this mantra is bliss for the soul. And in a very grave tone, I also mimed that this mantra would give protection. When in fear, something frightful, chant this mantra. I thought of the lowlife man across the aisle who still sat there, and that there might be many more men like him in these girls' futures. I wouldn't always be there to protect them, maybe no one would be there. But if they remembered this mantra, maybe Krishna would be there.

The two girls took my explanation gravely and said the mantra again. Little Seetal said to me in English, "Thank you,"

I replied with a warm smile, "You are welcome."

I almost feel like those two girls were the reason I didn't get off the train last night. I was experiencing such fear at the beginning of this journey, fear of being alone, fear of being exploited. Everything had been stripped away from me on this train.

In the process of teaching these girls the mahamantra, I got in touch with the fearlessness in my own heart.

P.S. The next time I travel by train in India alone, First Class only!

A Moment of Rapture

December 11th, 2010

After more than 7 or 8 excruciating hours in the taxi from Delhi, the road sign finally came at around midnight: 

How does one have a highway sign for the holy land of Vrindavan? Vrindavan is not so much a geographic location as a place of the heart. So every time I see that sign, I never cease to shake my head in wonder.

Then we passed the magnificent Krishna Balaram temple, whose white marble spires seemed to glow against the black silk of the night sky. All was quiet. We turned down the tiny alley which leads to the MVT guesthouse and the taxi rumbled to a stop.

We all let out huge sighs, as if exhaling the 24 hours of travel in our blood.

I remember how long ago, I once envisioned that when I would finally enter Vrindavan for the first time, I would get out of the car and roll in the dust, weeping. That's the traditional vision of someone who has longed to visit the holy land and has finally arrived.

But when I came to Vrindavan for the first time two years ago, I was overwhelmed by the hustle and bustle and repulsed by all the noise and pollution. I thought, rolling on the ground is definitely reserved for the saints.

But tonight was quiet. When I stepped out of the taxi, I felt overcome by a spontaneous desire. I slipped off my shoes and knelt right there on the cobblestone ground. The cold of the stones seeped through my clothes and pressed against my fingers and forehead. I savored the chill. I breathed in deep - I could smell the rich scent of cow dung and dust and smoke in the ground.

I didn't want to get up. I just wanted to keep kneeling and keep breathing in the scent of Vrindavan.

***

Related Posts:
Mystic Moment: I sit upon the stone ledge in the temple of Radha Raman. The sun slants through the courtyard and holds my face...
Refuge: It was my last night in Vrindavan, and I wound my way through the bustling temple grounds to the rooms of Srila Prabhupad. When I entered, I felt washed with that clean scent of home; wherever Srila Prabhupad resides is where my heart finds refuge...

A Long-Awaited Photo Essay

My friend Balaram has been begging me to post my pictures from South India for the past seven months. I'm not kidding - 7 months. As a running joke, he has tried every trick in the book: random text messages, bribes, philosophical arguments, and just plain old-fashioned begging. 

Finally, this morning I just buckled down to edit and post them!  

Amazing how photos can transport us to another world, another time, another place. So I was quite stunned to find myself in India this morning. 

What pulled me there was the people; I experience the people in India as so unguarded. To lock eyes with total strangers is normal; laughter is full and rich; devotion is expressed openly. 

If you haven't noticed yet, my joy in photography is to capture the Incandescent Moment - the soft and unexpected moment of poetry. Just by being aware and observant, I get to distill the beauty and essence of life into an image. With photography, I get to view every moment of life as a work of art.  (You can view my Incandescent Moment photo essay here)

So thank you, Balaram, for encouraging me to revisit my surreal experience on the South India Yatra.

To conclude our joke, after I had posted this album, I asked him: "Okay, so where's my bribe money?"

He replied: "How can I pay you for something that is priceless?"

Bravo. Point taken.   

 

Radhanath Swami with the leaders of the Ramanujacharya line

one of my favorite places in South India, the Corridor of a Thousand Pillars

Related Posts:

Countdown of Fate - "This is a screenshot of the countdown gadget on my Google homepage. I put it there about 120 days ago..."

River of Prayer - "I sit in the corridor of a thousand pillars in the Ramanatha temple in Rameshvaram..."

Welcome to the South India Yatra

Once again I have forgotten to eat and sleep for days and I am glued to my computer - specifically my video editing program. I stayed up until 3am last night working on this video on the South India Yatra. Sometimes when a project consumes me, it consumes me. I am now utterly absorbed in the world of South India, the stunning beauty of the devotees on the Yatra, and the magic of listening to my beloved spiritual master.

I am such a novice, but I now offer this humble video to you with a grateful heart.

[e-mail subscribers follow the following link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZgUD0ge9hRE]

The Honey Jar

This is a copy of a map that Radhanath Swami drew in 2008 for some guests that were staying at the Chowpatty Temple in Mumbai. The little arrow points to a very special temple with very special deities who are close to Radhanath Swami's heart.

And so one cool Vrindavan morning, with map in hand, a group of us boarded rickshaws and made our way through the twisting back alleys towards Moti Kund. We deboarded at the vast and empty Moti Kund, and while the others sped ahead, I walked as slowly as I could. I breathed and soaked in the moment. Here I was, at last.

We walked around to the open metal gates, and entered a vast and quiet yard with a giant tree that loomed over the temple. Two boys greeted us - one was older (maybe 12), in his traditional clothes of kurta and lunghi, and the younger one (maybe 9) wore Western garb. The older boy seemed to be the pujari of the temple, because he ushered us inside, then circled around and opened the deity doors.

A picture of Ghanashyam Baba was on the altar, and the deities of Radha Gopijana Vallabha smiled upon us. I felt like I needed to sit and stay awhile, though, to reach any of the honey in this jar. So I asked if we could sing Jaya Radha Madhava, since one of the lines calls out "jaya gopi jana vallabha..."

After about five minutes, to our surprise, the two boys carried in an old, beat-up dholak drum and 3 pairs of kartals on tattered strings. The pujari boy asked me, "Harmonium?" Stunned, I bashfully said no. I continued to sing, this time playing the dholak. After quite some, everyone in the group moved on to visit the temple of Banke Bihari. Still, I was searching for the honey in the jar of this temple. So I stayed. I remained on the floor to chant japa.

From a nearby temple, blasted-out speakers played old recorded bhajans which spindled their way into the templeroom. The melody was beautiful. I kept glancing at the dholak. At last, I put aside my chanting beads and picked up the drum. I sang the the same tune that filled the air.

I got swept away. I sang and sang, and the walls of the vast, empty templeroom echoed back. I kept meaning to stop, because I had to meet up with the others again soon, but I didn't stop. I couldn't stop.

And then... the two boys entered the templeroom again.  The pujari boy unlocked the Deity gates and went right up to the altar and right up to the deities to do something. Then he stepped off the altar, locked the gates again, and walked right up to me.

He held a kanti mala, a pair of sacred neckbeads, in his hand. The other boy looked on with a wide smile.

I stopped singing and the templeroom fell quiet. "I... uh..." I placed my hand on my chest. "For me?"

The pujari boy nodded.

I reached out a hand, and into it he dropped the mala. The string seemed so delicate, each bead handmade. Right then and there, I slipped it over my head. The wood was scratchy against my neck. I folded my palms to both boys and smiled, and they folded their palms and grinned in return. They they dashed off.

I continued to sing, stunned.

In reflection, I feel like what the pujari boy did was something Ghanashyam Baba himself would have done. Ghanashyam would have been so overjoyed that someone - anyone - would come to see His beloved Radha Gopijana Vallabha that he would want to reciprocate in any soulful, humble way he could.

Thank you, Radhanath Swami, for guiding me to that cool and quiet morning in Vrindavan. Thank you for opening the jar.

River of Prayer

I sit in the corridor of a thousand pillars in the Ramanatha temple in Rameshvaram. I overlook a great pond which is filled with delicate pink lotuses. A cement platform extends out over the pond, and high up on the ledge, men toss down metal buckets into the water over and over again, reeling them up expertly. The men splash that holy water onto the heads of swarms of eager pilgrims who flow out onto the platform.

This is only one stop in the maze of 22 holy wells within the temple complex.

I feel like one of the columns here, watching and watching, very, very still. I have begun to see the moods of the variety of pilgrims who come - most people are rushed and a little frantic in their quest to visit all 22 holy wells; some arrive with creased eyebrows, some demand more water.

But every so often a group of Vaishnava devotees will come. They smile from ear to ear and chant Hare Krishna, sometimes with arms upraised or palms folded. Ha! A crowd of devotees just arrived, grinning and jumping, chanting "Haribol! Haribol! Haribol!" They are so happy, so in bliss! They receive the water on their heads and dash off with the cry, “JAI!!!"

Every day, day in and day out, people come to receive the holy water. The people change, but the lake remains, the columns remain. Upon closer inspection, I see that the columns are pockmarked with graffiti. I see names, numbers, dates... actually, the pillar in front of me has a faded heart with two names inside scrawled in Telugu.

Amazing. No matter the country or language or culture, people will graffiti monuments, buildings, trees, or even bathroom stalls and picnic tables. People want to leave a mark that will live on long after they're gone.

Isn't that the nature of the soul, to be eternal? It is so painful to die. We all want to live on forever.

But the truth is, we are all like someone in this river of pilgrims who come to receive their splash of water. Our time in this world is just for one fleeting minute. And some of us arrive with arms upraised or palms folded, smiling, chanting the Lord's name… and maybe that's all I can ask of this life.

Countdown of Fate

This is a screenshot of the countdown gadget on my Google homepage. I put it there about 120 days ago.

But today I looked at it, really looked at it.

I have often quoted the word “serendipity” in this blog because sometimes the little chances of life stack up like dominoes, and then there’s simply no other word to describe the beauty of adventure. When you unfurl the sails of travel, the winds of serendipity carry you to unknown shores.

This is why I have a countdown on my homepage...

***

On a soft June evening, I stood outside of the Columbus temple in a sarong and tank top, my skin brown from canoeing all day with 17 other girls. A big yellow schoolbus rumbled slowly down the street, and many hands stuck out the windows and waved furiously. Girls called out, “Bye, Bhakti! Bye!!! Hariboool!!”

I lifted my hand to wave in return, and unexpected tears stung my eyes. “Haribol,” I murmured. I savored the final moments of my summer travels, and how each of the girls on the Yatra had all moved me with their unique love for Krishna.

But my first semester at the University of Florida began in mere days, and I had to leave the Yatra early.

Now, for you to fully understand the serendipity of my story, I need to describe my stack of dominoes.

Several months ago, Festival of India published a tentative schedule which stated that Detroit Rathayatra would occur on June 19th. Kishori Yatra would follow Festival of India, so naturally we would be there that weekend. So I bought my plane ticket from Detroit.

Then, Festival of India changed their schedule.

But my flight could not change.

So Columbus became the closest city to leave the Yatra from. Then I would catch a Greyhound bus to Detroit to then catch my flight back to Florida...! (Dizzy yet?) And that is why I found myself in a sarong on a soft summer evening, watching a big yellow schoolbus disappear around a corner. I turned around to face the quiet, empty temple.

An hour later, I searched for Hari Venu, the kind, older gurukuli who was also in charge of the temple. But I couldn’t find him. I peered into the kitchen, where a lone young woman was busy cooking for the late evening offering.

“Excuse me,” I asked. “Do you know how I can reach Hari Venu?”

She turned around. “What for?”

“He said he would take me to the bus station tomorrow morning,”

“Oh, well I’ll take you,” she said.

I spluttered a moment. “Ah, are you sure?”

“Yes,”

“Well, ah, thank you. And what is your name?”

“Gokul Vilasini,” she replied.

“Nice to meet you, my name is Bhakti lata,” I said.

That evening, I sang for Sayana Arati for Sri Radha Natabara, and she offered arati. The next morning we went on a long japa walk down by the river. When we returned, we sat down to have breakfast and ended up talking until noon.

At one point, an elder Prabhupad disciple, Mother Kamagiri, came over to discuss travel arrangements, for she had decided to come on the South India Yatra. Gokul seemed to be in charge of a traveling party that was all leaving together in December.

While Mother Kamagiri and Gokul discussed the Yatra, I sat there in silence. I felt an odd desire blossom inside me.

I wish I could go.

A little later, Gokul drove me to the bus station, and she came in to wait with me. In the midst of our enthusiastic conversation, I said, "You know what, Gokul? We should travel together."

"Yes, let's do it," she said.

"Yes! Let's go to Vrindavan, Mayapur, Chowpatty...."

"What about South India?"

"Oh, definitely South India! South India is lovely. So I'm thinking India 2012, when I graduate. Take a year off before I start teaching, you know? What about you?"

"Isn't that a bit far in the future?"

"Yeah, well, it's tough to travel when you're a student. Believe me, I've thought the possibilities through. I want to go back to India so much."

"Well what about the South India Yatra?"

"This December?"

"Yeah."

"Oh," I laughed. "It's the dilemma of the starving student - no money. Besides, I'm going on the Winter Bus Tour. I've already saved up for it."

"But would you go if you could?"

"Well, it's not really my style. I like to spend time in one place, especially in India - really soak it in. But the South India Yatra does sound pretty cool."

"What if I found you a sponsor?"

I stared at Gokul. "Excuse me?"

"What if I found you a sponsor? Would you go?"

I was silent. Then I laughed. "Well...! Maybe!"

"Well, noodle over it," she smiled and pointed to her head. "Think about it. I'll e-mail you in a couple days to confirm about a sponsor."

We hugged goodbye and I got onto my bus, completely derailed. On the bus ride to Detroit, I wondered at how the dominoes of fate had led me to this moment - Kishori Yatra. My school schedule. The change of dates. The bus ride. That conversation with Mother Kamagiri. The ride to the bus station. One slight shift in events and none of this would have happened.

It was an incredible idea, but the possibility that Gokul would find a sponsor for me seemed nil. So I just reveled in the possibility, amazed that someone would even offer such generosity, amazed that the Lord would arrange such a meeting.

Three days later, Gokul e-mailed me. "I found you a sponsor. You decide if you want to come."

All of my indecision melted in that moment. I replied: "Yes!  I'll come."

That was around 120 days ago.

I have 30 days to go.

My gratitude goes out to my dear godsister, Gokul Vilasini, and the anonymous devotee who has offered me such unconditional generosity to experience the holy dham. Amazing how with one drop of grace, the Lord can alter our lives in 24 hours.

Voyage to India

Several days ago, my father sent me a rough draft CD that he recently recorded of his bansuri flute ragas. When I heard the first note, memories of growing up with my father's flute-playing washed over my mind in soft waves.

I realize that Vrindavan draws me more powerfully than any other holy place in the world because of my father's flute. Often he would play a full moon raga on the porch as I fell asleep, or he would bring his flute to play in a bamboo forest, or I would hear the echoes of his bansuri in an empty templeroom.

Each and every time I heard my father play, my thoughts would wander to my mind's vision of Vrindavan... to a little blue boy playing his flute along the banks of a sacred river.

In 2008, I visited India - and Vrindavan - for the first time in my life. I don't know when I'll return, but I hope that when I do, I'll return with my father and listen to him play along the banks of the Yamuna.

Below is a slideshow of my photography while in India, accompanied by the music and poetry of my father. [e-mail subscribers need to click through to seedofdevotion.blogspot.com, or visit: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_Z5OImiB9uM]

Don't Walk. Run.

One cool morning in Varsana, India, four people set out to climb a mountain.

“Are we going to make it for Mangala Arati?” I asked my friend Bhanu.

“If we rush,” she said.

I looked up, where perched on the mountain was a temple, more like a palace, glittering with lights in the night. The sight held me in pause – just a few moments, because my companions were swift in their quest.

We wound our way through the silent village streets, and then began to scale the seemingly endless mountain stairs. One foot… in front of the other… keep going… I was so absorbed in the climb that when I finally looked up, we had reached the stone arc which lead to Sriji Mandir.

We emerged upon a platform lit by lights, and one last set of steps stretched up to the entrance of the temple, where the giant wooden doors stood shut. Crowds of people spilled upon the steps.

Our crew walked up and settled down as close to the door as we could get. “Get ready, Bhakti,” Bhanu said. “When the door opens, don’t think, just run. Run into the temple! There will be a stampede. If you don’t run, you won’t get in to see the Deity,”

“Okay, I’ll run,” I took deep breaths, my body tingling.

In a pavilion down the steps and on the edge of the cliff, a group of villagers sang bhajans; the drum matched the patter of my heart. The voices of the singers spiraled through the night. I looked out onto the sleeping village of Varsana – lights spread out like a glittering web, and I could see the spires of some temples lit up in the night. The breeze brushed past me up here, up on the mountain.

I whipped out my poetry journal and began to compose a poem.

Suddenly, Bhanu yelled, “Run!”

In one moment, all the villagers had jumped to their feet. I slammed my book shut. I too jumped to my feet and ran through the outer temple doors, which the pujari had not even finished opening yet. I kicked off my shoes and as I ran I stuffed my journal into my pack.

I couldn’t help grinning and laughing – for several moments I matched pace with an old woman in a colorful sari. At one point, our eyes met. Our eyes sparkled.

I dashed through into the open courtyard of Sriji Mandir and over to the main sanctum of the temple. Sriji Mandir is a bit unusual for a temple in India, for in this temple, women stand at the front, and men stand at the back. A banister separates the two sections.

So women began to push and gather in the front section. I dove in. I jockeyed my way to the center of the crowd and faced the altar straight-on. The curtains had not opened yet, but to the side the pujari waited in silence. I gathered many grins of complaints from the villagers, for I stood out like a beanstalk. I ducked a little, but I refused to move.

Women began to squeeze in… squeeze… in…

I spied my friend off to the side. “Bhanu!” I called out. “I can’t breathe!” The push and the crush was so strong, I didn’t even have room to bring my arms up to shield my chest. Panic rose.

“Just get through it. You’ll be glad you did,” she called back over the melee.

I took as deep a breath I could and wanted to laugh in amazement. But I didn’t have the breath to laugh.

When the curtains opened, a wave of emotion swept over the crowd. I felt like a stone in the middle of a river – still and observant of the roar of water. Everyone sang Hare Krishna in unison at the top of their lungs. I sang, too - I couldn't even hear my own voice.

I decided the crush on my lungs was worth the view, was worth this moment.

When the arati ended, the curtains closed and the people dispersed to the courtyard to circumambulate Tulasi Devi in dizzy circles. I settled to the back steps of the courtyard, just to watch this world spin.

Bhanu sat next to me. “Amazing huh? My guru, Sacinandana Swami, says that we should be eager for Krishna like these Varsana-vasis.”

One year later, even as I live here in Alachua - a very mild, Western community -  if I'm approaching the temple and I hear an arati bell, I break into a run. I have realized that that morning in Varsana taught me to jump to my feet to see Krishna. Don’t walk.

Run.

Or you might miss Him.

So. My poem remains unfinished in my journal. I think I’ll leave it that way.

I heard this man's song last year, and it still brushes the edges of my heart. He sings after the Mangala Arati service every morning at Sriji Mandir. [e-mail subscribers can follow this link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lTkv-g7oufg]

Thoughts on Love

view from the mosque

A Muslim praying in the mosque next to the Taj Mahal. 

Which is real love - the monument or the prayer?

"If a person loves only one other person and is indifferent to his fellow men, his love is not love but a symbiotic attachment, or an enlarged egotism." 

- Erich Fromm 

When I first entered the gates and saw the Taj Mahal, the full impact of its glory didn't quite sink in. I had to sit down on a ledge for over five minutes to drink in the splendor. I analyzed lines and perfect arcs and the symmetry of the white marble against a pale blue sky. At one point I couldn't even analyze any more - it was just too beautiful.  

My awe was tingued with distaste, though. All this splendor... to house a dead body? And second, the nature of this king; he cut off the hands of the 300 artisans who had labored for 22 years to create this masterpiece, just so that the Taj could be unparalelled. Such violence just to protect his ego.

If that king truly loved anyone in this world, his love would extend to others. He would be a revered example of care and compassion. His "love" for Mumtaz was selfish, in the end, and he used that "love" as an excuse to glorify himself. 

Now consider the Palace of Gold in New Vrindavan, which has often been called the "Taj Mahal of the West". The Palace was a part of my childhood, and in growing up in New Vrindavan, I heard volumes of tales of the sacrifices that were poured into the building of this monument for Srila Prabhupad. 

(above photo courtesy of exploringsteubensville.wordpress.com)

And I realize that when we do something for God, or His devotees, no act of sacrifice or service, no expression of love is ever too great. We could dedicate every breath, every movement of our bodies, every thought in our minds to God and to His devotees, and still we could find more to give. That's the nature of love.