Happy Blogiversary!

Blogs are contagious. Say there’s a blog out there that's kinda cool, and you read it on a regular basis. You admire that it’s creative, it’s self-expressive, it’s international, and best of all it’s free. I can guarantee, before long, you’ll want to start your own.

That’s what happened to me.

A little over two years ago, I began reading a blog written by a couple of guys to document their journey to Vrindavan. When their trip ended, so did their blog, but the seed of inspiration was planted. I had caught the blog bug.

So on March 28^th, 2007, I wrote my first blog post.

Two years and 130 blog posts later, I’m still writing. I hope I continue to summon the courage to keep going. Blogs – for all of their ease to begin – are tough to maintain. Ultimately, steady readers are the key to inspiration. 

Thus you, my dear reader, inspire me to continue on with Seed of Devotion. Thank you.

So maybe you'll catch the blog bug, too... and when you do, let me know your URL. 

Some Seed of Devotion stats:

* over 11,000 hits

* visits from over 100 countries

* around 60 subscribers

* over 100 comments

* most popular post: Liberation at 21 (over 1000 hits)

* post with most comments: take a wild guess

My Life Is Like a Sari

My Life is Like a Sari

a birthday poem

My life is like a sari

My breaths

are the threads

woven in thousands of rows

upon the loom

of my body.

My life is like a sari

the first thread

and the last thread

          my first breath

          and my last breath

touch but in one moment

one moment

when the sariweaver

cuts me from the loom

and presses the edges

of my life together

My life is like a sari

I pray 

that the final thread 

is woven in the design 

of the name 

of God.

photos courtesy of blue mango india and sarisafari.com

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.”

Portraits of the Brajabasi: at prayer

 Portraits of the Brajabasi: at prayer

"Bombay is my office, Mayapur is my place of worship, and Vrindavan is my home."

- Srila Prabhupada, 1977

Three: The Musician

Touch of the Brajabasi: The Musician

Read the Introduction and Prologue

One: The Mukutwalla

Two: The Mendicant

Three: The Musician

Epilogue

In Vrindavan, I had a policy: don’t give to beggars. I envisioned that if I gave to one, I would be swarmed with beggars from the entire street demanding their share. 

So I just didn’t give. I had lived in Vrindavan for over a month and I had not given a single rupee to a single beggar. I had planned to keep it that way. 

One amber afternoon, I climbed off the rickshaw and turned down the side alley of the Krishna Balaram Temple, on a mission to visit Srila Prabhupad's rooms for the first time. All was empty, all was quiet… except for a beggar.  

I had seen the beggar many times before; he sits in front of the security gate to the Krishna Balaram temple. He wears faded orange renunciate clothes, sings from a book opened on the cloth where he sits, plays a simple stringed gourd instrument with his right hand and with his left he keeps rhythm by tapping the gourd with fingers circled with bells. 

Before, the streets had always been a chaos, so I hadn’t stopped to listen. But now, in this empty, warmth-infused alley, I slowed as I approached him. I stood off to the side and observed the beggar – but no, I realized with a jolt, that wasn’t the word. He was a musician. He sang with such clarity, such rhythm... such depth. 

I felt a little nervous to be observing a beggar so much – surely he would turn to me and ask for money. But he never did. He just kept singing, gently rocking back and forth, absorbed in his prayers.

And then, I had an urge that I had not felt my entire time in the holy dham, my entire time in India: I wanted to give this man something. I reached into my purse – I had enough for lunch and the rickshaw ride home. 

I considered for a moment, and then I took the fifty-rupee note – my lunch money – and walked forward to place it in the musician’s tin. For a beggar, fifty rupees is a lot, but he simply nodded to me and continued on with his music. 

I continued on my way through the security gate, pondering music and beggars. 

But then my mind turned to Srila Prabhupad as, for the first time, I quietly stepped into his sacred rooms. I then settled down before the murti (statue) of Srila Prabhupad writing at his desk. The creamy light shone through the window and fell upon the murti and I could almost imagine that Srila Prabhupad was actually sitting there, writing his books. 

I closed my eyes, enveloped in peace to be here in Vrindavan, in the rooms of my savior, at the foot of the bed where he had left this world. 

And then, in that stillness, music wafted in through the window. 

The musician. 

I listened to the faint melody and tap of the gourd. With a blossom of realization, I realized that the musician from the street sang for Srila Prabhupad all day, every day. People would come and go – like me – but the musician would remain there, singing for Srila Prabhupad here, in his room. I imagined Krishna Himself to be so pleased with this musician who sang all day for the pleasure of His dear devotee, Srila Prabhupad. He sang without pride and without expectation of admiration… or even livelihood. 

My spiritual master often says that the Brajabasis are no ordinary people. Each and every one – from the beggars to the monkeys – are special and must be respected above all. 

I folded my palms together, closed my eyes, bowed my head and softly sang the classic verse of respect to the Vaishnavas, 

“vancha-kalpatarubhyash cha 

kripa-sindubhya eva cha

patitanam pavanabhyo

vaishnavebhyo namo namaha,

I offer my respects unto all devotees of the Lord. They are like desire trees which fulfill the desires of everyone, and are full of compassion for the fallen conditioned souls.” 

Maybe if you, my dear reader, one day go to Vrindavan, you’ll make your way to Srila Prabhupad’s rooms on a soft afternoon. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll hear prayers drift through the window to where both you and Srila Prabhupada are listening. 

Portraits of the Brajabasi: at rest

  Portraits of the Brajabasi: at rest

Krishna is joyful. I am part and parcel of Krishna; therefore I must be also joyful. That is natural. If my father is black, then I am also black. So our father, the supreme father Krishna, is joyful. He is not engaged in some industrial work or heavy machine making. He is simply playing on His flute, and Radharani is there. That is joyful nature. 

- Srila Prabhupada, March 21, 1969

Two: The Mendicant

Touch of the Brajabasi: The Mendicant

Read the Introduction and Prologue

One: The Mukutwalla

Two: The Mendicant

Three: The Musician

Epilogue

"Like all great travelers, I have seen more than I remember, and remember more than I have seen." ~ Benjamin Disraeli

One day, I and my two traveling companions set off to perform pilgrimage of Varsana (India) – the holy land of Sri Radha. As we traveled, I saw my two companions, Bhanu Nandini and Rangadevi, give money to pujaris (caretakers) and to temples. I gave none. I saw my two companions engage in friendly rapport with the natives. I remained silent. I saw them glance compassionately upon beggars. I did not. I stuck to my attitude that I had to be the tough one for all of us. As we were obviously Westerners, to show kindness would be a weakness, instantly exploited. I refused to be naïve. 

And then… she came.

It was mid-afternoon, and our traveling party was traversing a forest path strewn with ancient temples. We rounded a bend, and opposite the path of a quaint temple, an old woman sat on an upraised platform on the hillside. She wore a faded white sari wrapped like a toga and sat behind a little stand that held a large, ancient book. Her eyes were luminous behind her thick glasses. She softly sang from her book.

Ever the photographer, I whipped out my camera. As we approached, the old woman looked up. “No photo!” She scolded and hid her face with her sari. She then hefted her monkey stick and brandished it at me. “No photo!” I gasped and fumbled to stow my camera back in my bag. Let’s get out of here! 

Bhanu and Rangadevi had other plans. They walked right up to the old woman and offered her some money to put in her battered beggar’s can. She accepted it warily. I held back in silence, still standing on the path while the two climbed up to the hillside where she sat. Okay, guys… time to go now. She's still holding the monkey stick…

Bhanu then began to attempt conversation in her broken, spirited Hindi. 

I remembered the way the woman had sung from her book... and suddenly I decided to open up, just a little. Soften, just a little. If Bhanu could, if Rangadevi could, certainly I could.  

“Can we – listen – you sing?” I asked, miming. If anything could unite adversaries, it was the songs of God. The old woman looked at me with mistrust written all over her face. She bobbed her head curtly, and the three of us sat across from her. 

“What is that?” Rangadevi asked, gesturing to the ancient book on its stand. 

The woman seemed to soften. “Ramayan,” she replied. 

The story of Lord Rama? I wonder why she reads Ramayan when she resides in Varsana, the land of Sri Radha.

“Mandir – “ she pointed to the little temple across the path. “Ramchandra,” 

I was still a little mystified, but who says devotion to God must be restrained by time or place? “You – sing?” I ventured. I pointed to the book.

She hesitated, and then looked down to the ancient pages and found her place with her finger.

She began to recite the Ramayan. Her ancient voice transported me to ancient places and ancient people. I absorbed every sensation – how the golden sun infused her sitting place with light, the soft green of the trees, the dappled white and blue wall behind her that brought out her tattered white sari and dark leathery skin. 

She continued to sing and sing, as if she couldn’t help herself, as if the three of us weren’t there listening. I closed my eyes and listened to the rhythm of Sanskrit. Her devotion to Lord Rama seemed to flow all around me and soften my heart. 

Suddenly she stopped her recitation. I opened my eyes. She looked at me and said, “You – photo,” 

My jaw dropped. “What, photo? Me?” 

She nodded. I glanced to my companions and they only nodded vigorously, too. In shock, I fumbled with my bag and brought out my camera. The woman sat a little straighter and continued to recite. In her serenity, I took her picture. 

A long time passed as we sat there and listened to the old woman sing the Ramayan. She did this all day, every day, and she would probably do so until she left this world. We had stumbled across her for only a window of time, catching a glimpse of her life, a drop of her devotion.

When Rangadevi softly interrupted that we needed to continue on our way, she nodded. I walked over and showed her the pictures of her that I had taken. She smiled, then, a wide, beautiful smile. I smiled back. Bhanu asked for blessings. The woman placed her hand on each of our heads, and she lingered on mine. I knelt to the ground and offered her my respects. I lingered, deeply humbled.

When our traveling party had moved on, I glanced back. And there she sat in the golden afternoon sun, singing to Lord Rama.   

"Bhakti," Bhanu murmured. "You were melting back there,"

"I know." I shook my head.

"I know."

Note: In the holy dham, there is a tradition that one may build a little stone house. This signifies that although the devotee cannot physically reside in the holy dham, s/he can build a house that his/her heart can reside in. I built the one below in Varsana, after encountering the Brajabasi in this story. I pray for my heart to reside in Varsana.