Shore of Peace

I was bathing my son at the very edge of the shallow end of some kind of pool. Water lapped at his soft, pale skin and his brown eyes gazed into mine with unwavering trust. 

I turned to retrieve some kind of soap, and in a second he had slipped from my hands. My whole body lit fire with absolute terror - I watched my son sink below the dark blue water, his glowing form vanishing so quickly into the depths. His gaze still held mine - the gaze of trust. 

Thoughts chased through my mind within those horror-stricken milliseconds - 

Dive down, now! Quickly, there's still time! 

     But how will I find him in the darkness?

Just keep your eyes open!

    How deep is this water? What if I run out of air?

Then come back up to the surface and keep diving until you find him! 

    What if he slips out of my hands? He's so small, so slippery. 

Do it now, Bhakti! 

And then, within the chaos of those thoughts, a shrapnel of light pierced my consciousness:

I could plunge into the chaos and the drama of desperately trying to rescue my son - 

Or I could wake up. 

Wake up from this dream. 

Do it now, Bhakti. 

I dragged myself from the depths of that dream, washing ashore to consciousness. I laid in bed, taking deep breaths, and I glanced over to see my baby boy sleeping beside me, his face angelic, his breathing steady. 

A strange, grounded peace permeated my body. One could say that I had just experienced a nightmare that could haunt me for years to come. But I saw it for what it was - a nightmare. No more substance than a ghost. I had chosen to disentangle myself from the drama of something that never happened. 

I had chosen reality.  

I've heard all my life from the scriptures that this material world is compared to a dream, and lying in bed that night I realized that teaching deep within my heart. I can get so caught up in the drama of this world, entangling myself in pain and sorrow. But there is a spiritual reality to wake up to. A place where I belong, a place where there is no drama, only the electrifying wonder of living out my soul's purpose of serving and loving God and others. 

I have had nightmares regarding the health and safety of my child since the day he was born. Sometimes they feel so real I wake up saying things to my husband and he just has to realize that I am half sleep talking. Maybe this is a phenomenon other mothers can attest to. 

And you know what? Maybe even swapping tales of nightmares would be strangely gratifying. 

But it's all drama.  

Because none of them were real. 

So what IS real? What to talk about instead? What to absorb my mind in instead? 

I realize that those questions are the ones that lead me to God, because He is real and above this nightmare. He is the shore of peace. 

athato brahma jijnasa 

"Now is the time [in this human form of life] to inquire into the Absolute Truth" 

I Can't Help Falling In Love With You

Like a river flows
surely to the sea
darling so it goes
some things
are meant to be...

I can't help falling in love with you. 

I'm on the subway, listening to this song, and in the darkness of my closed eyelids, a glowing image emerges.

And while yes, that song does conjure up images of my beloved husband, Ghanashyam, another images always comes to the forefront.

My body goes still.

An image of statues emerges in the dark - one is of a young woman, the other a young man - and they're standing side by side, wearing lovely, draping silks. They glow. The woman is an iridescent, pearly white marble, her eyes luminous. The young man is of ebony marble, his arms forever poised to play a flute, his eyes reaching out through time and space. Their gazes touch mine.

A wave of emotion rolls over me and tears flow from my eyes.

The short song ends, I open my eyes to tap repeat on my phone and the wave of emotion dissipates. Then, the guitar begins, I close my eyes, and in the darkness of my closed eyelids, the glowing image emerges again.

I can't help it.

I just can't.

I can't help falling in love with you, God.

Radha and Krishna - Radhe Shyam.

Ever since I was a little girl, I've been gazing up at deities of Radha and Krishna, and in the eyes of an innocent girl the statues on the altar were simply God. There were no mind games and philosophical manipulations to wonder how God could fit on an altar and be four feet tall. God stood on that altar because that way we could see each other, and that reason made the most sense in the world to a little girl.

And to the woman I am now, I guess it still makes sense.

Now the altar is in my mind, and I can't help falling in love with those smiles. Those eyes.

When my stop comes, I open my eyes and the lights of 181st Street Station spill into my brain. I ride the wave of people who disembark the train. I wipe my cheeks of the wetness from the tears.

Unbidden, my mind jumps to the moment when I shall leave this world, and a profound peace falls over me. For maybe when I close my eyes for the last time, the image of Radhe Shyam shall be imprinted upon my closed eyelids.

God is magnificent, God is great, God is powerful. God makes the mountains tremble and the tsunamis crash and the earth spin and the sun blaze.

But God is also this beautiful boy along with a beautiful girl who smile at me in the dark and make me weep at their beauty. Krishna makes me fall in love with him, even in some underground tunnel riding a train.

So take my hand
Take my whole life too
For I can't help 
Falling in love 
With you

https://youtu.be/D8pCv-eivqM

An Old Friend

"The bus is only two stops away, honey," Ghanashyam said, glancing at his phone. "I've got to go."

"Yes, yes, coming!" I poured hot soup into my husband's thermos and twisted on a cap with shaking hands. I slid the thermos into his lunchbox and handed it over.

"Thank you!" he said, then dashed away out the door. I took a deep sigh and began to clean up the kitchen. I turned around to face another counter and my heart dropped. The inner cap of Ghanashyam's thermos. This would mean his lunch would be cold and worse, the soup would spill everywhere. I hadn't woken up at 5:45am to make fresh soup for this!

I grabbed the cap and raced to the door. "Ghanashyam!" I called out into the hallway. Silence. I prayed that he hadn't left on the elevator yet. Frantic, I took several steps into the hallway.

The door behind me closed with a thump that echoed off the walls.

I spun around. I stared at the closed door, frozen.

Oh no.

I was in my pajamas and a robe, barefoot, holding a thermos cap. It was 6 o'clock in the morning in winter, the world still dark and asleep.

If Ghanashyam hasn't caught his bus yet, he could give me his key! I thought. Without many other options, I raced down the hallway, the elevator, and through the cavernous front lobby, my robes flying about me.

I dashed right out into the streets.

Barefoot, in pajamas, in the cold, dark morning.

Man, I must've looked like a lunatic!

I sprinted to the end of the block and glanced at the bus stop across the street. No Ghanashyam. Oh dear. So I padded back to our building. I had closed the front apartment building door carefully so that I could still get back inside. Once inside though, I realized I had looked at the bus stop for buses going in the wrong direction! So I RAN BACK OUTSIDE - barefoot, in pajamas, to search the OTHER, correct bus stop.

No go.

This time, though, I hadn't shut the front apartment building door so carefully and it had shut (and locked) behind me.

Great.

Now I was locked OUTSIDE in the cold, dark morning, barefoot, in my pajamas and robe. With a thermos cap!

So I waited and waited, but it wasn't too long before a lady came out the door on her way to work and I got inside.

So what to do?

The building superintendent. Maybe he had a spare key to our apartment. But it was so early, surely he was sleeping. I had no phone to call him, I didn't know which apartment he lived in. Barely anyone was out and about at this hour, and I did not want to feel like a crazy woman, tapping on my neighbors' shoulders begging for our super's phone number.

So I went up to our hallway and thought, hm, I could ask Eddie for help, our friendly neighbor in the apartment directly above ours. But it was just too early for EVERYBODY.

So what to do??

Wait.

I slid to the floor outside my door, the tile cold against my seat and feet. I put the thermos cap up on the doorknob to keep it off the floor and out of my hands. I took a deep breath and, keeping count on my fingers, I began to chant, "Hare Krishna Hare Krishna..."

It was a strange feeling, to be stripped of absolutely everything except the clothes on my back (and a thermos cap). I had nothing and no one to turn to in the world, everyone was out of reach. And yet what could never be taken away from me was the holy name. The holy name was there for me to keep me company. The holy name didn't care whether I was a billionaire in a mansion or some young woman with only the clothes on her back.

The holy name was simply my friend, unconditionally.

In the dark and quiet morning in our hallway, I chanted for about an hour and a half. I would regularly check the sky to see if the sun had come up yet. At last, I figured it was early but not too extreme, so I walked upstairs and rang Eddie's doorbell. Sure enough it took two times, as he was scrambling to wake up and answer the door. He called and texted the super to no avail, then he suggested going through the fire escape as long as my window was open.

Eddie climbed down to my place, opened my window, climbed through and opened my front door. When he did so, the thermos cap came tumbling into the hallway from its perch on the doorknob.

So there you go.

That was my morning.

When I settled once again on the warm couch in my cozy apartment, I reflected how in the chaos of the morning, I had experienced a glimpse of magic. I had connected with an old and beautiful friend who was right there in my heart and would be there until the ultimate moment when all trappings of this material world would be stripped away - death. He would be there even if I couldn't physically bring His name to my lips.

My dear Krishna, O Holy Name, thank you for being there, thank you for being my friend. Unconditionally.   

Krishna Kid

The rhythm of the mridanga drum is in my bones. The harmonium is an extension of my hand. The Hare Krishna mantra runs through my veins.

In the morning I swim in a bikini. In the evening I dance in a sari. I pack for an international trip in two days, I stay with people I've never met before.

I have deep shallow friends all over the world. Within hours we've connected, like two plugs in the same wall socket, getting a jolt of electricity to be together, and then we've disconnected. Oftentimes, we're disconnected for months and years and years. But we always remember what it felt like to be jolted by the same electricity of connection. Maybe it was Krishna, or Prabhupad, or crazy good prasadam, or an electric kirtan.

We never forget.

I've traveled around the world and never paid for a hotel. I've lived on different continents with different communities with different cultures and friends and services. I have found found Home. I'm still searching for Home. Terminal wanderlust.

I want a competitive salary, to wear clothes from Ann Taylor, be LEGIT. I want to belong in the material world. I do. I want accolades, recognition, credibility. I want degrees. I do.

I want to live in the spiritual world. I don't want to GO there. I want joy, good food, music and dance all in praise of God. I want deep connection and love. I want to serve. I want to twirl in kirtan with a sea of ladies until our skirts all fan open like flowers. I want to throw my arms in the air and call out God's name among an ocean of voices. I don't want to go to the spiritual world.

I want to live there.

Bikinis and saris, degrees and initiation vows, traveling the world and finding home, belting out Beyonce and calling out to God. Sometimes it's all a traffic jam in my heart. Sometimes I'm lost, really lost.

When I look out and see other Krishna kids and Krishna devotees lost - sometimes painfully lost, sometimes joyfully lost - in the traffic jam of our desires and our lives, I don't feel so lost.

Family.

When you're leaving this world, I'll sing Krishna's name for you. You will be in my mind, in the temple of my heart. I may be across the world, I may have never met you, but I'll be there for you.

When I am leaving this world, I know you'll be there for me. You will sing for me, you will pray for me, I will be in the temple of your heart. Even though you're across the world, even though you may have never met me, you'll be there for me.

With you,

I am found. 

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. 

Valentine Prayer

"For the living, death is certain; for the dead, birth is certain." - Bhagavad Gita

Radhanath Swami wants his students to learn how to serve someone who is dying. So he asked Barbara Slaine and Henry Weiss to please allow those who serve at The Bhakti Center to participate in their "death doula" training program. Ghanashyam signed up.

For the past three days, Ghanashyam has shared with me stories and points of the training that have brought me to tears, all showing the power and beauty of death.

Today, Ghanashyam called me. "Bhakti," he said, "Today we were given an assignment,"

"Oh really?"

"Yes, we were put into groups and were given the assignment to choose someone in our lives whom we love and to design a way to facilitate their passing from this world. It's called an 'advance directive.' So... I chose you,"

"Really? How so?"

"Well, how we're planning our wedding, I'm discovering so much of what you love. So I said that I would put lots of beautiful draping cloth from the ceiling in warm colors. The bedspread would be in that Jaipur block print that you love.

"Then, when people enter the room they would all be required to approach deities of Radha and Krishna and to bow down and offer respects, no matter who they were. We've been told that when people know that when something pleases the person who is dying, everyone is happy to do what he or she wants. So religion doesn't matter. I was thinking how you love deities and would want everyone to offer their respects as the first thing that they do when they come into the room,"

Tears filled my eyes. I pictured Ragunath's deities, Radha Madan Mohan, in that room.

"Then I was thinking how you love to write, this is a part of your legacy. Maybe some of your writings of your choosing from your blog could be compiled and given to guests, and maybe on beautiful stationery,"

Tears flowed.

"Then I was thinking how when everyone comes out of the room they would all take prasad, and what's more they would serve each other. You love to take prasad and for everyone to serve each other. You would want that.

"And then in the room, there could be a point where we all surround you on the bed and share some words of appreciation, or a special story in honor of you. That's your style - you love these community type of events where everyone must do something, there's no slipping away, for everyone to bond.

"It was beautiful, because when I shared all of these ideas with the whole group, everyone was fascinated. People kept exclaiming how beautiful this all seemed, how special I must be, and 'wow, you really love your fiancee. I feel like I know her so well, I wish I could be there!'"

"Well, hopefully not yet," and we both laughed.

"The people in my group were fascinated by how you love saris," Ghanashyam continued, "and then one of them even suggested that maybe you wear your favorite sari,"

Immediately I thought of my initiation sari - the ivory one with the gold border.

"And there could be a corner where kirtan and bhajans are going on, so that people could go and sing the holy name,"

Tears flowed down my face and I had the most curious experience of being so deeply loved. Ghanashyam knows me on the soul level. He loves me on the soul level.

"Ghanashyam," I said, "This is the most beautiful Valentine's Day gift I could have ever received. Everything you said... this is exactly how I would want to leave this world. With your words and description, I feel unafraid of death, that I will be surrounded by love and my next destination is auspicious.

"Ghanashyam, I want to also meditate on how to facilitate your leaving this world,"

"Yes, it is a beautiful meditation," he said.

Several hours have passed and I realize that if I was to leave the world in such a loving way, the fear of being a nobody has faded away. The burning desire to be world famous or rich or accomplished has vanished. I don't need to be remembered for eons and put down in the annals of history.

All I want is to be surrounded by loved ones and the holy name, to leave a legacy of love. And soon those people who remembered me will pass from this world and no one will actually remember me or mark my space in history.

And that is okay.

Because my soul has moved onward in the journey of love. That is all that matters.

Whichever one of us leaves first, I only hope that I may journey with Ghanashyam towards Krishna even beyond this lifetime. That is my Valentine prayer.

Throwdown with Fear

Just beyond the pools of light, the wall of black began and continued on for eternity. Fanged wolves and slithering snakes lurked just beyond my vision.

At night in my room when the night swallowed up the world, just outside the window could be a thief. A murderer could be tiptoeing just beyond the bushes, a curved knife in hand.

The dark.

The dark - fear would strike my heart and course through my veins when I needed to go to sleep at night, or dash through a dark patch from one building to another, or walk through the woods on a moonless night. Horror movies and news stories had taught me that the greatest fear was not some twisted monster, but an evil-hearted human. Someone who killed without reason, someone with hatred in his or her heart.

So my fear grew and grew beyond my childhood, and as I got older, the scheme of just WHO was waiting out there in the darkness became even more twisted and terrifying.

One night when I was fifteen, I had to run an errand from one building to another. My destination was down the hill, through a lawn, beyond a row of trees. A sea of total and complete pitch black stood between me and my goal. I had no flashlight. I had to go. Now.

My heart pounded, adrenaline coursing through my veins.

I took a deep breath.

I ran.

I ran down the hill, past the trees, and suddenly I halted and knelt down on the grass and fell over my legs, my arms outstretched in some kind of strange obeisance. I took deep breaths, the scent of grass filling my nostrils. The world seemed to whirl unsteadily beneath me.

I'm fed up with you, fear of the dark. 

So sick of you. 

I'm done. 

I sang the Nrisimhadeva Prayers in my mind, which call out to the Lord for protection in body and heart from evil.

I lay there, the seconds growing to minutes. The breeze rustled by and caused the banana leaves to chatter and murmur. Crickets hummed. The wind sighed. The grass was cool beneath my fingers, arms, body.

No one attacked me.

Ummmm....

Duh.

And if anyone DID, I was still protected, for even if my body was hurt, my spirit never would be.

In one breath, I rose to my feet and dusted off the blades of grass stuck to my palms. I looked around at the pitch black, determined where I needed to go, and strode in that direction.

I never feared the dark again.

Even when I went to a haunted house for Halloween. Kind of a bummer. 

Flower Whispers

(To know more about this Duet, click here. We have switched and now I am writing first, Rukmini doing art in response.)

Art & Words Duet: Day 8

Flower Whispers

slender and graceful with flared petals, like a lady going to a ball
fireworks of color
considered weeds but look like queens
bold artists who paint petals in broad strokes
tiny painters with tiny portraits
grow out of the filth but are never touched by it
grow in tame rows in gardens and fields
grow out of cracks in cement
and in the windowsills of highrises
perched in millions of glass vases
or up high in trees
surrounded by guardians of thorns
or moats of lakes
or fierce scents
each and every one who ever lived
opens her mouth
and whispers silent words,
"glorious and beautiful I am
for hours and days,
but offer me to God
and I will live forever."

An Inevitable Occasion

Several days ago I chanted one round of japa with a group of ladies and I suddenly became conscious of the moment of my death. One day death will come, just as my 28th birthday came this year. Just as there's this strange jump of time to ten years ago when I was 18, I felt this jump in time to those moments when I'm leaving this world.

Inevitably, that day will come.

All that mattered was the holy name. I felt so loved unconditionally. Even though all of these offenses that can be committed to the holy name are there in my heart, somehow none of them mattered at the time of death. NONE of them. None. Krishna was there for me. It was an amazing experience how the holy name was all that existed and I felt safe.

I had no idea what was coming next, but that was okay. I felt no fear. I felt so loved, that was the surprising thing. No matter what I'd done or said or in my life, Krishna's holy name was there. If at my time of death I can chant the holy name, then my life is complete.

And if I can't chant, the holy name will come for me.

“My dear Lord Krishna, how will it be possible for me to remember You at the time of death, when my throat will be choked up with mucus, bile, and air? O my Lord, may I leave this world at this very moment when I am healthy and conscious; let the royal swan of my mind enter the tangled stems of the lotus of Your feet." - Prayers by King Kulashekhara

Glorious Moment

I have sat in front of the deities of Radha and Krishna many, many times with only the walls as witness. I would sit in front of the harmonium and sing the holy name or a bhajan in a random way, just let the notes flow like a river and take me on a journey. Sometimes the notes start to flow and move in a pattern, and a melody forms.

One such melody seems to flow in and out of my life. I often forget it exists and can't remember it, like a distance place I've visited but can't place on a map. I've never sung it in a group kirtan; it always seems to rise to the surface in the quiet times.

The final day of class for Kirtan Connection, I sat at the harmonium while students arrived and took their seats. I had an agenda for the day, and yet there was something unplanned that needed to unfold. So I sang. This melody emerged, the one of the quiet times, the one of spending time with Krishna.

Students boarded the vessel of the holy name and we all journeyed together down this river. All voices intertwined and separated in undulating waves. Each person was wordlessly invited to lead us all in singing one mantra. Each person who sang seemed to express the inner jewel of his or her heart. I felt honored, moved with emotion. 

Being immersed in the holy name, I was surrounded by this sense that, "This is the perfection of life." I could leave this world in this very moment and be at peace. The holy name is my shelter, those who are singing the holy name are my refuge. I am safe. 

I kept playing the harmonium and shared with students to envision those inevitable moments of leaving this world. As Srila Prabhupada said, death should be glorious. So sing as if these are your final moments in this world. 

Our voices joined in a final wave. Tears streamed down my face and others' faces.

Gratitude to Srila Prabhupada suddenly filled my heart. He was the one who sacrificed everything to give the holy name to each of us. Fifty years later, we continue on his legacy. And when that inevitable day comes, may the holy name and Srila Prabupada fill the soul of each and every one of us. May that moment be glorious. 

Two Wondrous Aspects

Tonight I went to Bhagavad Gita class at the Bhakti Center, and we are in the midst of the 10th chapter, which describes the opulence of God.

This is God:

I am adventure. 

I am the beginning, the middle, the end. 

Of bodies of water, I am the ocean. 

I am all-devouring death. 

I am the generating force of all that is yet to be. 

I am the taste of water. 

Of secrets, I am silence. 

Of immovable things, I am the Himalayas. 

Of all sacrifices, I am the chanting of the holy name. 

Know that all beautiful and glorious creations spring from but a spark of My splendor.

God is so great. I can choose to see Him in every moment, every breath, every step I take in this world. He is everywhere. He is so amazing, so beautiful, so perfect.

Although He is so vast and great, I also know that Krishna is a simple, lovely boy who takes care of cows and steals butter. 

Combine these two aspects - the awe-inspiring universal form and the heart-melting lovable cowboy - and my heart surrenders to Krishna. I just want to love Him and serve him every day of my life.

Chant the Holy Name

*name has been changed in this post for privacy

"May I help you in some way?" I asked the customer who had just walked into La Maison du Chocolat.

"Sure," she replied, "I'm looking for a gift for a friend,"

"Okay, sure, what would you be looking for? Your budget?"

"Well, she is very sick,"

I was taken aback for a moment, then I laughed, "I see, and chocolate is the medication,"

"I mean, she is very... very sick,"

I grew sober, "Ah, I see." I continued to guide the customer to a collection of chocolates that was beautiful and was in her budget. I wrapped the gift and asked, "Would you like a blank message card?"

"Oh no, I have a big card here," and she pointed to a giant card in its envelope. "You see, my friend, she's sick... yes, the "C" word,"

I continued to listen with my eyes while I packed up the gift. She handed me a collection of bills of different amounts.

"She's only in her 30s, and last year she was diagnosed with breast cancer and she has been in treatment. Last month, though, they found some cancer in her brain. Stage 4."

"Oh wow,"

"Yes, so everyone at work has all pitched in to pay for a personal chef for the next month for her and her husband, and also to get these chocolates. Everyone signed this card. We just want her to take care of herself,"

"I see. I shall pray for your friend, may I ask her name?"

"Diana*,"

"I will pray for Diana, that she moves through this with grace,"

"Thank you so much Carmen [my legal name]," the woman responded. I handed her the beautiful gift bag of chocolates and we exchanged smiles. Then she left.

I was shaken.

Here was a woman on a crash course with death. There were so many people who loved her, but they had no idea what to do for someone about to die. They just wanted to comfort her, make her path a little smoother, a little more enjoyable.

But who cares about a personal chef and gourmet chocolate when you're about to die? From what I've heard and experienced for myself, when faced with death food tastes like cardboard.

When faced with death, I want solace. I want meaning to this life that seems so meaningless. I want truth. I want to know who I am and where the hell I'm going (hopefully not hell!).

Diana's coworkers meant well. They love her, they want to express that love. Nevertheless, all I can think is that if I was faced with Stage 4 brain cancer, I would just want people to chant the holy name for me, chant the holy name for me, chant the holy name for me. Pray that I take shelter's in Krishna's holy name.

If you are reading this, please chant the holy name for Diana, pray that the Lord protects her heart from all fear and carries her beyond this world of pain and death. May she go with God. 

Live on Purpose

I read the above sign on the train when I sat down. The message registered as barely a blip, like all other advertising in New York City. Then I opened my book and began to read; the train picked up speed, heading to the next stop.

Suddenly, two uniformed police officers strode through the train, guided by an older man. I looked up from my book. The man pointed at a backpack that was on the ground right across from me.

"Is this anyone's bag?" The officer's voice rang out in the train.

Everyone fell quiet, shaking their heads. The women who were sitting on the seat nearby the abandoned backpack scooted away.

The officers looked around, confirming that no one owned the bag. I watched the scene unfold, my heart pounding a bit. It's true, the bag had just been sitting there. It was some cutesy backpack, a leopard print I believe. But the two officers surrounded it now, their energy taut like wires. Definitely not cutesy now.

I resisted the urge to scramble away, walk away, run away. But what could I do? I was on this moving train. In those few moments when the officers examined the bag, I had this realization that maybe there was a bomb in there, about to explode at any moment.

There was nothing I could do about it. Although I experienced fear, I also experienced this eerie calm, that somehow if this is my fate, it is what it is.

When the train slowed to a stop, one officer stepped out of the train and the other cautiously unzipped the bag, as if touching a wild tiger. I could feel all the passengers watching, holding their breaths.

The officer unzipped the bag with one final tug.

Sneakers.

Everyone let out a collective breath. The officer carried the bag out of the train, joining her comrade. Then the train boarded more passengers and we moved on.

It was not a laughing matter about this leopard-print backpack - after all, there have been numerous incidents of such episodes that involved an abandoned bag which were deadly.

There is a verse in the scripture Srimad Bhagavatam that describes how in this material world there is danger at every step. I had no idea that when I got onto the train that day that maybe that day was my last. I am sure that anyone who has ever been involved in a lethal terrorist attack, or a plane accident, or even a car accident had no idea that that day was the last day of their lives.

Sometimes it takes danger or an accident to stop living on accident and start living on purpose. Every day, may I and may we live on purpose.

And may the owner of that bag and those sneakers get her stuff back. It was a cute bag. 

Reflections on the Soul

January 3rd, 2013

Today I went to Tim Carter's ash immersion ceremony.

Our small party took a boat to the other side of the sacred river Ganga. When the actual ceremony began, Tim's family members gathered around and the ashes were brought out. I had been asked to lead everyone in singing, so I began to sing the Hare Krishna melody that Lilananda Prabhu had composed in honor of Tim. Seeing those ashes of Tim felt strange. The pile of ashes was gray and formless.

Those ashes couldn't be Tim. They couldn't.

Tim was in the melody I was singing.

Nevertheless, there was something so complete and powerful about the ceremony, recognizing this deep need for closure, to release a soul to Krishna. When Jananivas Prabhu packed mud around the ashes and poured and sprinkled different substances on the ashes, I felt as though Tim was getting cooled from a high fever. Like, "Ahhh... at last, you're letting me go."

There was a timeless moment when I stood on the banks of the river, the wind blew my sari, and the sun glinted off the water and shone on my face. I watched the sacred ceremony unfold to put Tim to rest. I had a moment of realizing that we will all die, our bodies will all become ash one day. Memories of us will also fade.

There must be a soul. There must be a soul, an eternal soul that is bright and beautiful and eternal.

On Love

For the past 8 months or so, I have been in a relationship with a wonderful man by the name of Ghanashyam. He has met my parents and sister, and I've met his parents, siblings, and extended family in the US. The other day, he told me that his grandparents wanted to meet me.

So we hopped on a train to go meet them in New Jersey.

Ghanashyam's grandparents have been married for 69 years.

Sixty-nine years.

I don't think I have ever met anyone who has been married for 69 years. 

Sometimes when people say that "we'll be married forever" it almost seems like too long. I can't wrap my brain around forever.

But I can wrap my brain around 69 years because I witnessed it the other day. I witnessed two people at the age of 91 who have love, respect, and affection for each other.

I asked Ghanashyam's grandma the secret for such a long, healthy marriage. She replied, "Patience. Lots of patience." I wonder what this means because it can mean so many things. I'll stay in this question. 

I asked Ghanashyam's grandpa the secret for such a long, healthy marriage. He replied, "We like each other."

I found that profound. These two people simply like each other. They like each other's company, each other's sense of humor, each other's rhythms. Loving someone can be a little fickle, but liking someone seems to be a steady truth. 

I walked away from our lovely afternoon quite pensive. One day the grandfather or grandmother will pass away. It's hard to imagine being married for 69 years, but it's harder to imagine being married for 69 years and then one day that person is gone. So many journeys, so many lessons of love - so much so that the souls seemed to have intertwined. 

Then bam, gone. 

I feel a cavernous hole in my chest just to think about it. 

I resolve that along with cultivating my relationship with my partner in life I want to cultivate my relationship with God, with Krishna. Allow the three of us to intertwine. We'll be patient with each other. We'll like each other. We'll love each other. 

Then whether my partner and I are married for 69 years or 69 hours before death comes for one or both of us, there is no cavernous hole of sorrow but an overflowing cup of joy. I pray that we may be carried beyond these material bodies by the Lord to a place where love never ends. 

Pleading My Case

Last year in Mayapur...

The cold seeped into my fingers. I stitched away at the delicate needlework on the piece of cloth I was embroidering with beads. Other Mayapur Academy students were bent over looms, huddled in their sweaters.

Keshavi Mataji came around to clusters of students. She gathered several of us and said, "So, you are now going to write. You are having a conversation with Lord Chaitanya. You want to go back to the spiritual world, but He is skeptical. So have a conversation where you convince Him that you want to go back." Keshavi Mataji handed us lined pieces of paper, then moved on to the next cluster of students.

I stared at the blank sheet of paper, then went back to my needlework. How would I ever convince someone that I wanted to go back to the spiritual world when really I didn't care about going back? What was the big deal, anyway? Why can't we just live and love here? The spiritual world doesn't only have to exist when I die.

Time was ticking. Finally, I set aside my needlework and picked up a pen. I wrote the following conversation:

Me: You came for me, Mahaprabhu!
Lord Chaitanya: Yes. I only want to know how and why you want to come with me.
Me: This world... this place is not my home.
Chaitanya: You often forget that.
Me: I am realizing that the only place I can give love with no fear, with all my heart, is with You.
Chaitanya: Nice words. How about showing them?
Me: I have been on this path to You my whole life, Mahaprabhu. Lifetimes, actually.
Chaitanya: This qualifies you to come back to the spiritual world?
Me: No. I have no qualification.
Chaitanya: Then tell me how you can come with Me.
Me: Because You love me unconditionally, especially because I have no qualification.
Chaitanya: You're tugging at my mercy, Bhakti lata.
Me: Exactly. I am an impudent beggar. I have no right to beg, to be hanging onto the hem of Your dhoti.
Chaitanya: Indeed.
Me: I am demanding the highest gift, even though I have no right to demand. But I am lost without You. I beg You take me home.
Chaitanya: You don't need to beg, my dear Bhakti lata dasi.
Me: Really?
Chaitanya: I have wanted you to come home with Me for thousands of lifetimes. I just wanted to hear from YOU.
      Come [holds out hand], let's go home.

***

When I recited this conversation out at the end of class to my fellow students, my voice broke at the end. A hush had fallen over everyone during these readings, and a hush fell over my own heart.

Take me home. Please. 

Shelter

Growing up, I had intense issues with my skin. Rashes, lesions, weeping. One evening when I was around 14 or so, I ate something that disturbed my system, and the next day my face, neck, and chest were covered in searing rashes.

The pain was immense. Stinging, stabbing, red knives. I was screaming and crying, and my mother was also freaking out. I tried to drink water, I tried various salves on my skin, but each salve only escalated the pain. I tried ice, I tried showers. I may have tried some over-the-counter drug.

My mother was on the verge of calling the hospital.

Then something happened, and the moment is forever imprinted upon my memory. I was drinking a glass of water, and at the very bottom of the glass there was a black speck that was slowly, slowly drifting down.

I even stopped drinking - I just watched the speck drift. In those moments, I accepted my pain. The whirlwinds seemed to still be going on, my mother was still trying to call the hospital, but I became still.

My mother came over to see me and my face was utterly calm. She was bewildered at my shift in mood.

"Do you still want me to call the hospital?"

"No, mom, it's okay,"

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, it's okay."

The rest of the day I was nearly silent. When the stabs of pain would come, I would let them come. I didn't fight them. Just accept. I felt like in that strange moment of watching the speck float in my water glass, the Lord had given me a moment to regain some sanity.

This was not the last time I was faced with intense and powerful pain on my skin. I faced a similar trauma several years later - my whole face swelled, and I didn't even look like me. The pain, the sores, and the weeping lasted for several unending days. Drugs and cold baths and salves didn't work.

Only silence. And accepting the pain. Sometimes I would cry, but it would hurt to cry. So I just let it be.

I am realizing so much in my life now that when I surrender to what is going on for me, observing the motions of my life and heart and those around me, I find peace. I feel like the Lord in my heart protects me in those moments, he holds me and carries me

I want to take shelter of Him so much more. Every day. Not just for the pain, but for the joy and the peace and the love.

The Critical Moment

In the valley community of Nova Gokula in Brazil, electricity had been out all evening. I had just put my journal aside for the night and was about to blow out my candle. I looked at the flimsy column of wax and felt a flutter of unease. How easy to knock this candle over, I thought. I carefully waved my hand to extinguish the little flame and the room fell dark.

My mind was drifting off to sleep when bloodcurdling screams shattered the night. Shrieks, one after another after another.

I jumped out of bed, flung open my door. Across the way in the other half of the guesthouse, a woman burst from her door, screaming. Powerful orange flames poured from the door and window.

The woman dashed away and up the hill towards the temple.

The candles, I thought.

Immediately, instinctively, I knew that this fire was all-consuming. I gaped in disbelief. Parama Karuna, the gurukuli who owned the guesthouse, had also emerged from his room in his pajamas. It took several moments for the sight to register. Then, “No, no, no!! Senor Supremo, no!” he cried out. He tried to retrieve a water hose, but it was puny. I sensed that even if we had had fire extinguishers, they would have been useless.

I dashed back into my room, heart pounding. I grabbed my purse, chanting beads, passport – go, go, go, stuff my things in my suitcase and drag it out to the lawn. The flames climbed higher and higher and began to devour neighboring rooms. Wooden rafters began to cave and the ceramic roof tiles collapsed in crashes. 

Parama and his wife Katyayani began to dump out mattresses from the rooms. I also grabbed mattresses and whatever else I could. “Oh, Senor Supremo!” Parama kept crying out. He had grown up for some time here in Nova Gokula, Brazil. Only one week before, he and his wife had worked so, so hard to renovate this place as a service to the community. For a week straight they had worked sometimes 15 hours a day, painting, cleaning, buying everything brand new and beautiful.

And now… ashes.

From up the hill at the temple, repeated cries of the conch shell rang out throughout the valley. Help, help. Soon enough, devotees in their pajamas came running, their faces a mixture of shock and determination to help.

I was immobile. I stood at a distance in awe and fear at the awesome sight of the all-devouring inferno. The smoke and flames reached high into the black sky. I was standing so far away but still I could feel the heat on my skin.

I had these moments in the escape and in observing this fire that this is my moment of death. The house is my body, the flames of death are approaching.

The fear goes to the core.

I had had time to save my things tonight, but with death I can save nothing. Nothing. Death is unstoppable, there is nothing and no one for me at that time.

Only Krishna.

Soon enough, I was shaken from my reverie and I dove into the salvage efforts. By the time firefighters arrived, the fire had smoldered down to coals, leaving only a broken shell of what this place used to be.

***

NOTE: The fire had started from leaving a candle unattended. No one got hurt. 

Parama Karuna and his wife Katyayani are in the process of rebuilding the guesthouse. Their deep intention is to usher in fresh hope and energy to Nova Gokula in service of Srila Prabhupad. 

They will be rebuilding the guesthouse in a similar way as ISKCON's Life Membership program - people can invest in the guesthouse and stay for a portion of the year every year. If you are interested in this investment, please contact Vaikuntha Murti Prabhu at vaikmurti@hotmail.com.

Visions

I had a chronic illness when I was 13 that lasted for five years. I went to many doctors but none could figure it out. I faced many possibilities - invasive surgery, death, but nothing was certain.

So for five years I saw through the vision of death. Not every day, but many days. Even when my illness went away, this vision persisted. I often had this sense that my life would be over in mere seconds, everyone and everything around me would be devoured by time. It was a terrible vision; a gift and a burden.

I remember many years ago how I left my house in Alachua carrying my suitcase at night. I was on my way to join the Winter Bus Tour to Mexico, which would last for 3 adventurous weeks.

I walked down the faded blue front steps and the vision fell over me - all too soon I would be returning to these blue front steps with my bags in hand, the Winter Bus Tour but a memory. Gone. Like sand through my fingers. Just gone.

This happened countless times - carrying my suitcase down those blue front steps, off to my next destination, and then returning. From being gone a couple days to being gone an entire year - it didn't matter.

Time passed.

During that time, I would see my friends and parents through the lens of death - soon they would all be gone. And who knows - tomorrow God may take me. God takes thousands of people every day - every moment - without any warning.

When I was about 14, I read a verse in the Bhagavad Gita where Krishna says, "I am Time, the great destroyer of the worlds." Krishna gave divine eyes to Arjuna so that His friend could witness Krishna's universal form. Arjuna witnessed armies and worlds being devoured, the cosmos spinning, everything whirling and whirling and whirling... at last Arjuna cried out, "Stop, please, stop."

He continued, "Please... show me Your form as Krishna, my friend, the one who plays the flute. The one whom I can offer my love to."

So Krishna showed His form as Krishna. Just Krishna.

Timeless Krishna.

That is the vision I want. I just want Krishna. I want Krishna when He plays His flute, someone I can cook for, put to bed and read to Him at night, someone I can bathe and dress and murmur to, "How are you today?"

I hope one day that I can feel Krishna put His arms around me and hold me. That is all I want.

Making Peace with Anger

I remember growing up how my family seemed to be on fire with anger. Heated fights with sharp words sometimes seemed the only way we could communicate with one another.

When I got older, at times I faced an anger so deep that fire seemed to course through my veins. I would shake, tears would stream from my eyes. I would fling words like knives from my mouth. Afterwards I felt like a monster, for surely I had betrayed the trust of those around me. How could anyone love me again?

Through emotional education with Satvatove Institute and my own exploration over the years, I have been on a long, painful and beautiful path of healing. I have learned so much about the dynamics of anger, being in integrity, and being assertive. I would say that I had made a tentative peace with anger.

Then, about a month and a half ago, I was tested. For the upcoming drama here in Mayapur, I was asked to play the part or Lord Narasimha. Lord Narasimha is God in His most ferocious, terrible form as the personification of anger to protect His devotee.

I agreed to play the part.

This particular production was unique, for we would be portraying Lord Narasimha with four people, to represent the aspect that God is everywhere. In practice, I would roar and kill and destroy, my rage filling the entire auditorium.All four of us girls seemed to go deeper and deeper into the experience of divine anger.

But as practices wore on, I would sometimes leave late at night feeling so exhausted and empty. For a week or so I lost my voice so profoundly that my words came out in squeaks. I was supposed to be a lion but I felt like a kitten!

The day of the performance, the director kept insisting on using dramatic bloody guts that I would rip out of the abdomen of the demon I was killing. At her insistence, inside of my chest I felt a brick wall come up.

No.

I wouldn’t do it.

I said I didn’t want to because I had never practiced the whole killing scene before. There were so many other things that were last minute. I didn’t want to ruin my entire costume.

Etc. Etc.

Deep down, I knew the reason why I didn’t want to rip out the demon’s guts.

I was scared.

I was scared of my own anger, of expressing anger to that utter point of rage. In practice, I had always mimed ripping out the demons heart and placing his intestines around my neck. But to actually have blood on my hands, for blood to fly everywhere…

I cowered inside.

That was taking anger too far.

When I was having my lion face make-up done, I remembered the story of how Jadurani dasi had been painting this same killing scene with Lord Narasimha and the demon, Hiranyakashipu. The original painting had had a few drops of blood here and there. Srila Prabhupad had frowned and then ordered her to paint blood and gore everywhere. So she did. Only then was Prabhupad satisfied.

If this is what Srila Prabhupad would want, I thought, then my resistance to this violence is only out of my own personal fears.

Just before the crowds started to arrive, we went on stage and practiced ripping open the armor. I went through the practice with tight lips and a frowning face. Clammy hands.

There was no backing out now. After the practice, I nodded curtly, silently, that I would do it.

The drama began. Scene after dramatic scene, I could feel the tension building. The demon Hiranyakashipu kept trying to kill his son, Prahlad, but the Lord kept coming to protect the little boy. Prahlad's demon father was at wit's end.

The finale scene came. A giant, Styrofoam pillar was moved onstage. We four Lord Narasimhas lined up behind the pillar, and I stepped inside the pillar itself. I could feel the entire auditorium watching us on the other side of the styrofoam walls. The air seemed to crackle with electricity.

I turned to the other Narasimhas and whispered, “Let us pray. Let us pray to Lord Narasimha that we may represent Him as a service to the devotees,” All of our faces became grave and we folded our palms.

I turned back around, folded my palms, and closed my eyes. I felt feverish. I murmured over and over again, “Jai Nrisimha, Sri Nrisimha, Jai Jai Nrisimhadeva,” I could hear my voice echo off of the pillar walls. 

Something curious happened. Chills went up and down my whole body.Then suddenly, a deep calm settled over my entire body. I stopped murmuring out loud. I opened my eyes.

Hiranyakashipu shouted, “If He is everywhere, even in this pillar, then I shall kill Him!” and struck the styrofoam walls.

I reached one hand through the crack. Then the other hand. With one move, I tore the pillar to both sides of the stage, leapt out of the pillar and roared from a place deep within. The roar of all four of us filled the auditorium. Cheers joined our roars.

As Lord Narasimha, I killed the demons one by one, like crushing insects. My heart pounded. I went through the motions of how we had done it in practice two dozen times, but suddenly this didn’t feel like practice anymore.

This was real.

We fought and danced through the fight scene. At last the moment came when I placed the demon into a backbend over my knee. I drew my claws and the demon screamed when he looked up at me.

My eyes were fire. My mind spun with the emotions, but mostly with the words: How dare you?

How dare you? 

I plunged my hands into the demon’s armor, wrestled with the saran wrap that covered the blood soaked garlands. I lifted the garlands out and suddenly blood exploded everywhere. The audience roared. I kept ripping the garland and then slammed the pieces to the side of the stage.

I drank the demon’s blood. In one final move I mimed placing his intestines around my neck. In deep disgust, I looked down at the demon’s broken body and flung him away. I roared twice more until my entire body shook.

When the play continued, I saw that blood had gotten all over the entire stage.

I only ceased my anger when the boy, Prahlad, came to offer his prayers. My face slowly softened, my claws slowly relaxed. At last I gestured to the boy to come close and I petted him with tender affection.

The fire had left my body and my heart.

When I got backstage, I saw that I had gotten blood not only all over my costume, but the other three Narasimhas as well. What I had feared the most had happened. A part of me wondered if others would shy away from me after witnessing such ferocity.

But there was no fall-out. In fact, all the other actors and the audience was delighted that blood had gotten all over everything. I was shocked. I kept insisting on somehow or other washing out the stains.

I walked home, quietly reeling from what had just happened. I went to sleep that night exhausted to the bone, as if I had just fought a war.

The next morning I woke up deeply reflective. I began my spiritual practice of chanting God’s holy name, and images from the night before began to flash before my mind’s eye. The demon, the four Narasimhas, the roars, the blood flying everywhere. Everywhere.

As I continued to chant and the images wheeled through me faster and faster, my body was swept with chills.

At last. At last I had not only faced my anger, God had given me the opportunity to purify that anger. God had allowed me to channel His anger as a service.

Gratitude rolled through my body in waves.

Days went by and men, women, and children in the Mayapur community approached me. They expressed their gratitude that I had portrayed such a ferocious form of Lord Narasimha. I could only bow and quietly offer their appreciation to Lord Narasimha.

Thank you, Lord Narasimha. Thank you. Thank you. May Your divine anger purify my heart.

ugram viram maha-vishnum 

jvalantam sarvato mukham 

nrisimham bhishanam bhadram 

mrityur mrityum namamy aham 

"May my head be protected by the moon colored one, who is the greatest among humans. My obeisance unto the ferocious and powerful, the great Vishnu, the fiery one, whose faces are on all sides; the fearful one, Nrsimha, who causes the death of even death personified."