Vrindavan Magic, Part 1 of 4

The sun rose on the eastern horizon. My taxi wound onward and onward through tiny villages of thatched huts and hand-painted advertisements towards the holy land of Vrindavan.

Five years.

Five years had spun by since I had last come to Vrindavan. My heart ached with prayers to see past the pollution and noise and Westernization to experience the essence of Vrindavan. The real Vrindavan. The sacred Vrindavan.

We edged closer and closer to Vrindavan and I folded my palms to sing and to pray. Tears came to my eyes. I wanted the real Vrindavan and yet I struggled with the possibility of what I was going to see. I would be in there for only three days, conducting both business and pilgrimage. Three days to get it all done, three days to get to the essence.

My second morning, I woke up scribbling shopping lists in my mind. By the time I walked over to the temple of Krishna Balaram for morning services, my mind was SWIMMING with stuff to get done in Loi Bazaar. I was eager to sit down and do a full inventory of all cash outflows on this trip, and my mind raced with plans.

While in the temple, I thought, "I know I have only chanted two rounds of japa meditation, but let me just spend an hour or two on this accounting first. Then my mind will be more at ease and I'll be able to be more focused in japa."

When I came back to my room, I felt: No.

Krishna is first. Krishna is priority. I must put Him first.

I decided to chant a minimum of eight rounds, sitting down, in my room, before doing anything else.

I realized that of course my mind is going to wander. I came back, came back to the sound. Every time I came back, there was this feeling of "whuuuumph" like my mind had been flying around and suddenly I was pulled down to land, whuuuuumph, back on the holy name. I could hear that whuuuuumph.

Shopping lists dissolved. My burning desire for that lovely scarf faded. 

I had thought that I had had important business to accomplish and to chant japa was a secondary chore. In those moments of listening to the sound of the holy name, I realized that chanting attentive japa actually empowers me to accomplish ten times what I thought I could ever accomplish.

Thus eight rounds became ten, ten became twelve.

In this simple effort of mine to chant the holy name and SHOW my sincerity, I believe that Krishna reciprocated tenfold and He gave me darshan - or divine vision - of Sri Vrindavan Dham.

Let Me Love the Way You Love (Part 2 of 4)

After chanting, my mind was razor sharp and I blazed through my accounting.

When I made my final calculation, I put down my pen and picked up my japa bag and headed down to visit the rooms of Srila Prabhupad. 

Whenever Srila Prabhupad came to Vrindavan in his later years, he would live in these rooms, and ultimately he left the world in these rooms. Just by walking through the doorway, my mind became as quiet and warm as when I was chanting the holy name.

Hung on the wall was a picture of Srila Prabhupad that sent chills racing through my body. 

Srila Prabhupad's body is emaciated, he is lying on his deathbed, which was in this very room, and a disciple holds a dictaphone to his mouth. He is giving commentary on the tenth canto of the Srimad Bhagavatam. 

In those final moments of his life, he was serving. Giving truth. Giving love.

Let me love the way you love, Srila Prabhupada.

I sat down to chant in front of his murti, or sacred statue, which was seated behind his original desk. In my short time there, I saw an elderly woman from Russia and a monk from India and a young couple from South America come to bow before him. I realized that his kind of love reached to every corner of the world. I want to love the way you love, Srila Prabhupad. 

Tingly Prayers (Part 3 of 4)

When I left Prabhupad's rooms, I ran into a girl I've known for several years now, her name is Indulekha. I got to connect in with the friends she was traveling with, as well as her mother.

We all ended up having lunch together at the MVT restaurant. At lunch, I was told that tomorrow was the celebration of Holi - the festival of throwing colors - and it would be impossible to do shopping in Loi Bazaar. It would be dangerous. Scary. They told stories that sent shivers down my spine.

No way was I stepping out tomorrow.  

It dawned on me that I needed to squeeze in not only the rest of my business but all of my pilgrimage goals into one evening. That evening. Oh boy.

In the late afternoon, we set out for Loi Bazaar, the four of us a motley crew - France, Russia, and the US all rolled into one spicy mixture. We whirled our way through various stores, on a quest to discover an elusive item. At last we were triumphant at the new Ganga Prasad shop near Radha Shyamasundar temple. We high-fived each other!

When I was paying for the bill, I took out my business binder to account for this expense. The pen that I fished out of my bag was this gold pen that  I had brought to India to write elegant thank you notes and such. I wrote the mundane financial equation out in the glittering gold ink and Veni Madhava commented, "Hm, a gold pen,"

"Oh yes," I smiled a little bashfully. I put it back in my bag and fished out a blue pen.

Since we were so close to Radha Damodar Mandir, I declared how much I wanted to go there, and the other ladies were happy to go too. We entered the busy temple, which was blasting with music from the musicians who had set up in the courtyard. Holi was getting into full swing. Radha Damodar were holding little metal Holi syringes, and the other Radha Krishna deities were holding plastic ones! Temple-goers were splashed in bright pink and green and yellow and danced in circles.

The four of us headed into Srila Prabhupad's  humble rooms. His murti was there, also seated behind a desk, studiously bent over with his hand poised holding a pen. We commenced to chant japa. Despite the deafening music, suddenly the room felt quiet, like we were in a cocoon.

When the music paused, I said, "Hey, you guys, lets do a little kirtan while they've stopped their music,"

So we all started singing together, and immediately the music started blasting away again, so we just sang louder. We sang at the top of our lungs!! I suddenly realized that we wouldn't have been singing at the top of our lungs with such abandon, grinning from ear to ear, our hearts pounding, if that loud music hadn't been there. And so inside my heart I offered my gratitude to the musicians, for they had provoked our wild enthusiasm and love for Prabhupad with our chant of "Jaya Prabhupada Jaya Prabhupada Jaya Prabhupada Jaya Prabhupada!!!"

When we had triumphantly concluded our brief kirtan, something curious happened. Veni Madhava said to me, "Why don't you give Prabhupad your gold pen, and take the one he's holding?"

I was astonished, surprised with this idea. 

"Really? But I've already written with the pen I have, is that okay?"

"Sure," she said.

So with a big smile, I crept forward and replaced Prabhupad's simple ballpoint pen with my gold pen.

The significance of this hit me after we left the temple, and for hours afterward. Prabhupad had somehow guided me so that I would be given his pen, and in his rooms at Radha Damodar where he wrote such powerful scripture in his meditation to save the fallen souls. I am praying that I may follow in his footsteps and write as a service to Krishna.

When my friends left the room, I lingered to offer prayers for a soulful wedding and marriage. When I went to join them, they weren't waiting at the temple entrance. I realized that maybe they had gone to Prabhupad's kitchen. So I headed back inside the temple. My friends weren't there; nevertheless I fell to my knees to offer obeisance.

Propped up against the wall is a picture of Srila Prabhupad quietly eating lunch, taken before he had traveled to the Western world. He is gazing out at the samadhi of Rupa Goswami and his expression conveys his meditation on how to fulfill the Goswami's wishes to share Krishna with the world. So I folded my palms and my prayer came out as a mantra, "The holy name, vaishnava culture, the holy name, vaishnava culture, holy name, vaishnava culture, holy name, vaishnava culture, holy name, vaishnava culture...." I was tingling all over.

The Magic Will Follow (Part 4 of 4)

When at last we all met up again, my friends said that they wanted to go to the temple of Radha Raman. Although Radha Raman was on my list of places to go, I hesitated because I still had much more shopping to do. But if I didn't go to Radha Raman today, NOW, I would not go at all.

Krishna first. Put Krishna first. Go with the devotees.

I looked at my binder, saw areas where I could adjust, snapped the binder shut and put it in my bag. "Let's go," I pronounced. 

Darkness had fallen, and our walk to the ancient temple via a shrouded alleyway was fraught with foreboding monkeys and streams of people shouting, their eyes wild and their clothes and faces splashed with crazy colors. 

When we reached the quiet and ancient temple, apprehension ran through my blood. When we approached the actual temple of Radha Raman, we saw that right outside of the temple entrance people were throwing color and immediately we were all like, "No way." Ruining our nice clothes was one thing. Possible assault was another. 

I folded my palms and called out, "I love you Radha Raman, I do, but this isn't going to work,"

I felt some disappointment but also relief that we were unanimous in turning around. But then Veni Madhava said, "Hey, I have a place to show you to get the special mercy,"

"Really? But how?" I said to her retreating back. 

She had turned down another dimly lit pathway. We all followed, dubious. Suddenly I could hear kirtan, and I was amazed. Were we coming into the temple the back way??

But no, we had come to a room that was full of babajis singing kirtan. This was Sri Gopal Bhatta Goswami's samadhi, the saint who had established this temple hundreds of years ago and had worshiped Sri Radha Raman with such love. The kirtan was so soulful, so straight-up Vrindavan. In those moments, I stepped through all of my painful surface notions of Vrindavan and entered deep into sacred Vrindavan. My friends circumambulated the altar. I sat down to absorb the singing.

Although we didn't get to see Sri Radha Raman, we got to offer our respects to His most beloved servant, and that was almost like we had taken darshan of Radha Raman Himself, as He is most pleased when His devotees are glorified.

Then we headed out to catch a rickshaw back to Krishna Balaram. We bartered with some of the wallahs there but they were all too expensive. At last, one younger man stepped forward and said that he would take us for 60 rupees. We agreed, and he lead us to a nice auto rickshaw that sat the four of us. Our driver was this old, old man with a turban on his head and a smile upon his bright and weathered face. Just by looking at him, one could see that he was a gentle, sweethearted Brajabasi.

The most amazing thing? He was taking us back to Krishna Balaram via the parikrama marg. This meant that we would have darshan of the sacred places of Imli Tala, Radha Madan Mohan, Kaliya Ghat, Yamuna devi, and so much more. We were being taken on pilgrimage by a true Brajabasi. All of us were so delighted and amazed at our good fortune. 

The whole way home we exclaimed over the various holy places and offered our respects as we drove by, the temples and the river all silhouettes in the moonlit night.

This was my Vrindavan day. I am still in wonder, total wonder that somehow, SOMEHOW, Krishna answered my prayers to experience the real Vrindavan. I could have never planned such a day in a million years. 

But somehow, each piece of the puzzle fell together, like magic, magic, magic.

I firmly believe, though, that it all began with a drop of sincerity to chant the holy name. Put Krishna first. The magic will follow. 

On the Precipice

About four years ago, I ventured into an ancient, mystical village in India called Varsana. Palaces, temples, and shrines adorn the hills like so many jewels. In one particular temple, I found a stick of incense on the floor.

I tucked the incense into my journal, waiting for the special moment to let it burn. 

In my current upheaval of moving out, I came upon that stick of incense. And so just now, 2:13am on August 21st, I placed a flame to the incense and I am now watching it burn. Scrolls of smoke dance into the air. I am mesmerized and quiet. The unique fragrance brings me to faraway lands and faraway memories.  

Four years later, in four hours I shall embark once again upon a journey into the world. 

My life as I've known it has been packed away into boxes and carried away into storage. I am equipped with only a suitcase and backpack; these two bags shall contain the elements of my life until next April. 

I'm still in disbelief. 

I feel as though I'm standing on the edge of a precipice, like one of the mountains I stood upon in Varsana that overlooks a vast landscape of villages that stretch into the horizon. The breezes from up here twine around my body, the echoes of the mountains call me to jump, jump. 

Jump. Krishna is your parachute.  

Service, adventure, the holy name, and love is calling.  

3am Pilgrimage

I am beginning to write this blog post at 2:39 in the morning. I hear the heater whooshing throughout the house, and I sit in a pool of soft light in my kitchen.

It's like this at the conclusion of almost every school semester - all the tension built up over months just whooshes out of me, and I end up feeling hummingly quiet and peaceful at some crazy hour in the night. I just want to write.

At times like these my mind wanders to my moments in India in the holy lands of Vrindavan and Mayapur. I feel as though I'm actually there.

In Vrindavan, I smell the tang of smoke and cow dung, a smell like no other place on earth. Temples rise from horizons in the rose-colored haze. In Mayapur, I gaze at a universe of stars, and the moon shines down upon fields of banana leaves and gilds them silver.

I sit here at my kitchen table in my pajamas, so far away from the holy lands, and yet I am so close. So close.

Vrindavan

Mayapur

 

The Song of the Gopis

"Tomorrow I will be visiting the holy land of Sri Vrindavan for the very first time," I told Radhanath Swami. We were sitting in his room on a bright morning in Mumbai. 

"The first time?" he inquired. I had grown up as a devotee of Krishna, and I imagine he found it surprising that I was 21 before I had finally come to make this pilgrimage.  

"Yes, Maharaj," I replied. "Would you please offer me some guidance on how I should approach the holy land?"

Radhanath Swami pondered for several long moments. Then his eyes held mine and he said in a deep tone, "Seek out those who live pure lives. You can socialize anywhere in the world, but the holy land is special. So seek the essence in your association." 

The very next day, the romantic vision of the holy land that I had grown up with came crashing all around me in a cold shock. One person who saved me was my friend Manjari. I lived with her for a month and a half, and on that fateful night of arrival, she welcomed me into the heart of Vrindavan.

Manjari is a beautiful young woman who long ago committed to the path of celibacy and has dedicated her entire being to the service of her spiritual master and to God. She is also an artist and a singer.

Many mornings, in the silky quiet, I would wake up to the soft, deep voice of Manjari in the room next to mine. She would be singing Gopi Gita, or "The Song of the Gopis". She would light two or three candles and sing to several sacred pictures. Then when she finished singing the Gopi Gita, she would fall into the resonant tones of chanting the Hare Krishna mantra.

During the day she would pour her soul onto canvas. For hours upon hours on end, she would immerse herself in the scene where Krishna comes to beg forgiveness from the gopis after they offer such heartfelt prayers.

I offer my deep gratitude to Manjari. She showed me a glimpse of Vrindavan that I never saw with my material eyes.

***

Below is a simple video I created that I have been meaning to publish for many months now in her honor.

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...

Mystic Moment

I sit upon the stone ledge in the temple of Radha Raman. The sun slants through the courtyard and holds my face. Incense fills the cool air, sweet and smoky. An old sadhu sings to his lord, Radha Raman. His voice spirals through the air like...

... like birds that loop through the sunset over the Yamuna River.

Amazing. I had just closed my eyes to find the words to describe the sadhu's singing. Suddenly, I felt something fall over my head. I jerked open my eyes.

A pujari had placed a garland from Radha Raman around my neck. The fragrance of roses encircled me in an embrace.

Every moment in Vrindavan is edged with the ethereal.

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.

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.

I chanted for awhile and was about to leave when a brahmachari came and turned on a CD of Srila Prabhupad singing the Brahma Samhita. Prabhupad's tone was so grave. The brahmachari set down an arati tray, and everyone stood up.

I decided to stay. I gazed upon Srila Prabhupad's writing murti, which captures the essence of his mood so exquisitely.

Then my eyes fell on several framed photos hung on the wall across the room. I believe they were all of Srila Prabhupad here in his house. In the photos he was singing, conversing, taking prasad...but the last photo of the series jarred me a little - it wasn't sweet, happy, or even meditative. It was actually stark and intense, and seemed out of place. It was a photo of Srila Prabhupad lying on his deathbed in this very room. He was covered in a blue blanket, his face was sunken, his eyes were closed, and two disciples were watching over him.

I crossed the room to get a closer look at the picture. I saw something close up that I had not seen from a distance.

A reference book lay open on the side table.

Someone was holding a dictophone up to his mouth.

Chills raced all up and down my body. That photo brought my heart to its knees. In that moment, I glimpsed just a spark of Prabhupad's purity and his beauty; he was thinking of all of us with his dying breaths. Tell me, who will pray for you when you are on your deathbed?

Tell me, who?

Tears were streaming down my face. I gazed and gazed at that picture, listening to the arati bell and Prabhupad's grave voice. In those moments, I felt as though I had been picked up and placed in the hands of Srila Prabhupad, and he would protect me forever.

Memo

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]

The Unfurling Flower

December 1st, 2008  

I feel the sweetness of Vrindavan emerging.

Two weeks have passed since the last night of the mayhem of the holy month of Kartik. Temples buzzed with activity from the wee hours in the morning to the wee hours at night. Pujaris worked 'round the clock, distributing mahaprasad or herding hundreds through their temple. All of Vrindavan bustled with thousands of people from every corner of the world eager to pay homage to the holy places of pilgrimage (and Loi Bazaar).

But in all that mayhem, the delicate sweetness of Vrindavan was lost to me.

And now, that sweetness is unfurling like a flower. I feel it in the way the villagers smile, the milk-seller invites me to sit and stay awhile, and suddenly I can see the devotees of Krishna praying so quietly in a temple or along the Yamuna River.

Vrindavan seems to beckon: come, stay awhile.

.

The Story of Bhelvan

[After I was transported to Vrindavan from Radhanath Swami’s class this past Sunday, I’ve been reading through my journals from my time in the holy dham, reflecting on my experience and my lessons. I wrote the following after I had been in the holy dham for one week.]

I shall now relate the story of Bhelvan, and the lesson of humility and surrender I learned about the holy land of Sri Vrindavan.

Along with forty other gurukulis on our Kartik Yatra, I jumped in one of three boats to ride and cross the Yamuna River. The sun rose higher and higher and the day got hotter and hotter, with no breeze. It was like getting roasted in an oven for two hours. When we landed on our shore, we trekked through sandy desert in the scalding sun until we reached the edge of the forest.

Man. We were on safari.

We all slowly trickled in to our destination – an ancient Laxmi temple shaded by banyan trees. We sang bhajan and kirtan, but everyone had rather wilted from the trek.

I looked upon the Laxmi deity and did not connect at ALL. I thought, She's just a statue worshiped for some superstitious, archaic reason.

But after kirtan, an elder Vaishnava who was our guide told us the story of this deity and of this temple. Laxmi devi is simply praying to enter the Rasa dance in Vrindavan. She cannot enter because she is the goddess of fortune - the requirement to enter the Rasa dance is simplicity, to abandon the riches of the world; be willing to make cow dung patties with bare hands. To renounce her post as the goddess of fortune was unthinkable for Laxmi devi, so she decided to pray here, at Bhelvan. She prays from this distance, so far away… and after thousands of years, she's still praying.

And I realized that the safari to come here was to impress upon me how far this place really was from Vrindavan… that this was the distance of Laxmi devi’s surrender, and her humility. She didn’t bang down the door of the Rasa dance, demanding entrance. She came here, to this tucked away forest, far across the Yamuna River, to pray.

I want this to be my mood. I cannot demand anything of Vrindavan. I can only simply pray from a distance to enter the holy dham. I can only pray that one day, I will surrender my life to the simplicity of love of God.

And maybe, the perfection is in that prayer.

The Most Beautiful Class

This morning, while I dressed Radha Madan Mohan, I decided to listen to a class by my guru maharaj, Radhanath Swami. I've listened to it many times, because I consider it one of the most beautiful classes I have ever heard.

By the time I finished dressing, I had laughed, wept, and felt a determination well in my heart to return to Vrindavan.

Maybe when you listen to the class, you will too.

Radhanath Swami, Vrindavan Yatra 2004

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Where Time Stands Still

23 Nov 2008

On this cool, beautiful morning, I sit on the grass on the top of the hill that overlooks Vrindavan. The temple of Radha Madan Mohan rises above me in all of its glory, glowing in the rising sun. The sounds of birds fill the air, and the breeze brushes past me in waves, up here where time stands still.

pilgrimage

I dedicate this video to Srila Prabhupad and Radhanath Swami. Without them, I would have never tasted any sweetness of Vrindavan. 

I present to you this humble offering.

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Touch of the Brajabasi: Epilogue

Touch of the Brajabasi: Epilogue

Read the Introduction and Prologue

One: The Mukutwalla

Two: The Mendicant 

Three: The Musician

serendipity, n. An unsought, unintended, or unexpected occurrence, made by chance and good fortune

The Yamuna River is an enigma to me. She is considered so holy, yet she is so polluted. It was a paradox I never came to peace with while I lived in Vrindavan – I never took achman (a reverent sip), definitely never took bath… and I never even offered my obeisance.  

Until my last day in Vrindavan.

If I had had it my way, I would have fulfilled my important mission down by the Yamuna River in the bright afternoon, protected by the safety of the sun. 

But I didn’t have it my way. One by one, twists of fate fell like dominos, until at last I found myself walking down Seva Kunja Gully in the twilight, heading for the River, determined to complete my mission. But I was nervous. Very nervous. A woman alone in the dark in India is a dangerous idea.   

I began to realize that I would be a fool to go to the river without a man to escort me. I would have to cancel my mission.  

And then, serendipity played her card.

Through the mazelike, dusky streets, I saw a man in a yellow shirt. As he drew closer, I squinted and called out, “Bhakti?” 

Bhakti Rasa, a gurukuli and a good friend who lives in Vrindavan, called back, “Oh hey, haribol Bhakti, what’s up?”

I gasped, “You’re a man.”

He grinned. “I noticed that.” 

“I can’t believe this. Bhakti, please tell me you’re not on some urgent mission,”

“I’m not,”

“Would you accompany me to the Yamuna River? I leave tomorrow at 4am and must do something there tonight.”

He thought for a moment and then said, “Sure, I can come with you,”

I sighed. “Sometimes it’s so tough to be a woman in India. Thanks, Bhakti,” 

In the deep blue evening, we made our way to Keshi Ghat. We maneuvered the maze of ancient stairwells and balconies and at last descended the wide stone steps which led right down to the river. The Yamuna was whisper-still. 

So. My mission. 

I brought out three sets of japa malas (meditation beads) from my sack and set them upon the stone steps. It is Vaishnava tradition to immerse prayer beads in holy water, and I had been searching for the perfect beads for my mother, my father, and for a friend. For a month and a half I had searched, but to no avail. 

But only hours before, on my last day in Vrindavan, on my last jaunt to Loi Bazaar, and down a street I didn't usually pass through, I found the perfect beads. The shopkeeper had had only three sets left. Three. I took it as a sign, as serendipity.  I took it as a sign to come to peace with the Yamuna River and with Vrindavan. 

And so, with a reverence I had never felt before, I slipped off my shoes and knelt before the softly flowing river to immerse each set of smooth sandalwood beads. I prayed for my mother. I prayed for my father. I prayed for my friend. And then, lastly, I immersed my own set of beads. The cool water flowed over and through my hands.   

 

I wound my beads back in their bag and then settled back on to the stone steps. I sang the maha mantra and allowed visions of Vrindavan sweep over me. Gratitude for Srila Prabhupada fell over me in waves - I could never have appreciated Vrindavan without his vision. Radhanath Swami was my guide, and the Brajabasis were my teachers. 

And with gratitude comes respect. I will never forget the sensation of cold stone on my toes, forearms and fingers as I knelt upon the steps of Keshi Ghat. The cold seeped through my sari to my knees and the cold, gritty stone pressed upon my forehead as I offered my first respects to Yamuna Devi.

I do not profess that I loved Vrindavan, only that I had learned some respect for the holy dham and those who lived there. And that is all that I had wanted. Respect is the foundation for love, after all. 

I rose from my obeisance. Now, only a faint blue glow glimmered on the horizon. The sky was painted with stars. The river murmured. My quiet and fateful companion, Bhakti Rasa, watched all.   

“You know, Bhakti Rasa… I have just prayed for something I have not prayed for in my entire time in Vrindavan.”

“What is that?”

“I prayed to return.”