Fill the Hole

Yesterday I was walking to Whole Foods Market to drink a kombucha and write in my journal. I felt tired, aimless. My chest felt cold and empty, like a hearth where the fire has gone out.

"Bhakti, hey, nice to see you!"

I looked up and saw Hema, a beautiful young lady I got to be acquainted with at the Bhakti Center.

I smiled. "Oh, Hema! Nice to see you, too," I replied.

"Hey, are you tired? Sad?"

I laughed sardonically. "Not tired. More... aimless."

"Yes, that's it, that's what I see on your face. Well, I'm headed over to Atma's evening program over at 26 2nd Avenue, you want to come with me?"

I hesitated. "What's the program?"

"I wasn't even going to go, but a friend of mine asked if I was coming. She said there was a special speaker tonight. There'll be kirtan,"

"And prasadam?"

"Yes, and prasadam,"

I grinned, "Okay, let's go,"

We set off to the small storefront that was the place where the International Society for Krishna Consciousness all began. I felt like a newbie off the street, coming to this whole Krishna world for the first time.

We walked into the packed room and wove our way to the front. Romapada Swami was the special guest, but sigh, just our luck he had just finished speaking. Kirtan soon began. I felt skeptical, a little dry. Amazing how I felt like a newcomer.

Different singers came forward to sing, and with each kirtan I paid more and more attention. Then, the last kirtan was lead by a spunky lady and yoga teacher here in the city. Somehow her raw kirtan just pierced right to the emptiness in my heart. I sang in response and the words kept passing like signs through my mind, "Fill the hole, fill the hole,"

I felt the hole get filled. Actually. For those couple minutes with closed eyes singing the holy name, I felt the hole get filled.

After the kirtan, I helped serve prasadam and I interacted so lovingly with other seekers of God.

Within another hour or so, though, my heart emptied out again.

This is my life lately. Emptiness. Then the hole fills with the next kirtan. Or conscious bite of prasadam. Or the moment I tuck the deity form of the Lord into bed. Or a soul-moving conversation with a devotee. Each time this happens, I just pause in wonder and awe. Then, soon after, my heart empties.

Crazy how in New York City I feel this raw, raw need for God as a person in my life.

[I just saw this picture and it seems to capture the essence of the title of this post.]

Searching, Searching

When I was in India and I got homesick for America, I would have a very specific daydream:

The library.

Wander into a beautiful library with vast ceilings, shelves filled with books and books, immerse myself in the mystical mood of knowledge and inquiry. And of course, AC. Then, I would settle into a nook and read lovely children's picture books. 

So yesterday I caught the F train to the New York Library on Fifth Avenue, one of the most famous and magnificent libraries in the world.

(photo by flickr.com)

I wandered vast marble halls and passed giant oak doors with gilt metal handles. I made my way to the children's section and read lovely children's picture books. And there was AC!

I stayed for awhile.

Nice. Yeah. I wandered back out onto Fifth Avenue, the buildings stretching to the sky, rivers of people moving along the sidewalks. I walked into Zara to admire clothes. Within minutes, I walked out. I picked a direction and eventually came to a bookstore, but even there I felt the fever of everyone around me to buy, buy, buy.

I felt the energy pulsate in the air of everyone searching for something, searching, searching. 

Including me. 

At last, a little dizzy, I took the F train back to the Bhakti Center.

Recently, I received brahmin initiation, which allows me the responsibility and privilege to worship the Lord in His deity form on the altar. That evening, I was scheduled to receive training to put Radha Murlidhar to rest.

When I came back from my city sojourns, I showered and put on a sari. I entered the templeroom and a whoosh of quiet fell over me. Soon, my teacher greeted me with a smile and training began. We prepared a tray of cookies, fruit, and milk in shining silver bowls, and I offered a short altar service of incense and flowers. Several people came to sing evening lullabies for the Lord.

The cold and hard edges of the entire day seemed to soften.

We closed the curtains. I moved to place the small brass deities of Radha Murlidhar into Their wooden bed. I moved Them with such tenderness, like a mother tucking her children into bed. I stepped back to look at Them sleeping and I sighed.

How many times must I lose Krishna to realize that He is to be found within my own heart?

(photo by Alex Vaishnava)

An Official Mystery

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

"Why, sure!" I replied.

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

I nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ah, this is called Prabhudatta Desha,"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Manhattan skyline the morning I arrived

Union Square Park harinam

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."

Let Go

A rope extended from my chest and my harness tightened. Underneath my helmet, I was sweating. My hands shook.

"Okay, slowly walk backwards," the guide said to me. "You're at the top of the cliff now, so when you start feeling the rocks slope sharply down, lean back. I know it sounds counterintuitive, but trust me. Lean back, and you can then walk along the cliff, your body parallel with the ground." 

I nodded, eyes wide. I gripped the rope extending from my chest and then slowly let the rope out from beneath my rear with my right hand. I took one last look at my friends still on the cliff - they grinned and waved at me. I felt sick. 

I rappelled my way across the top of the cliff and lost sight of my friends. The rocks sloped sharply down and then - I will never forget that moment - I gritted my teeth and leaned back. My stomach seemed to flip upside down. Suddenly I was walking down the face of a cliff, parallel with the ground. Above, I could hear distant whoops and shouts from my friends. 

I didn't feel victorious. I just wanted solid ground beneath my feet. 

Then, the next most scary moment came when I needed to let go of the cliff, for there was no more cliff. Just mid air. I needed to rappel through 50 feet of silent air. 

I let go. 

I looked down at the tiny people on the ground waiting for me. Gulp. I felt miserable, and I rappelled through the air, arm shaking even more.

Then, I stopped. I just stopped. I took a deep, deep breath and looked around. I was suspended in the middle of two giant, carved golden cliffs. Above the canyon, the early evening sky was a royal blue, clean and vast and eternal. Below, rivers of sand flowed between the cliffs. A light breeze whispered across my skin. In such profound silence, I could feel the pounding of my heart.  

My mouth broke into a small smile. 

With a reluctant sigh, I began to rappel again. When my feet touched the sand, the guide gathered me up and began to unharness me. My body was jelly. A friend ran up to congratulate me. "Insane, huh?" he said. I grinned. 

I craned my neck to look up at the undulating golden cliffs and the rich blue sky. I pictured myself suspended between the cliffs ad I shook my head in awe. 

This happened on the summer Bus Tour almost seven years ago, but today this memory came to me unbidden. I have been reflecting why, why would I think of rappelling down a cliff? 

I realize that right now in my life, I feel like I'm in that harness, sweating under that helmet. I wonder what my next step in life is going to be. Everything seems to be up in the air, everything unsettled. Where will I study, teach, live? Where will I travel, how will I serve, who will I marry? 

Right now, it's like Krishna is my guide and He's saying, "Okay, now when the rocks slope down, lean back, trust me, lean back." 

Let go.

Quiet

Quiet. I have found quiet. The sound of my fingers hitting the keys sound like the clicking of palm tree leaves in the breeze. Fans whir above my head in soft murmurs. The afternoon air is velvet on my skin. I'm surrounded by blue, chalky walls, and when I glance up from this screen I see a black chalkboard covered in algebra equations.

Be present. Write what you know. All week long, I have been coaching and drilling and testing my middle school English students to be present, use their senses, just write write write. Let expression emerge by movement of the pen.

So right now, I'm letting expression emerge by movement of my fingers. I just concluded my second week of teaching, ever. For two weeks I have been amazed, humiliated, surprised, exasperated, and utterly absorbed. Although I am surrounded by whirls of activities and noise and meetings and lessons, I have rarely ever felt so quiet in my life.

Quiet.

Just quiet.

I am doing my duty. With that comes this quiet inside. Even in my depths of discouragement in teaching, I always conclude: where else would I be? What else would I be doing?

My teaching needs a lot of improvement. A lot. Yet Krishna says in the Bhagavad Gita: "Better to do one's own duty poorly than another's duty well."

I had found quiet in this computer lab, and now boys have filled the room, their voices reverberating off the walls in discussion of fight scene choreography. Laughter rises. There - a boy just rang the bell that hangs on the tree outside - bong bong bong bong. The boys filter out of the room, chatting.

Class begins soon.

Once again I can hear the clicking of my fingers moving across this keyboard, like palm tree leaves moving in the breeze. All is quiet.   

A Quiet, Epic Moment

"What is the most honored profession in Japan?" I asked my 7th grade boys class. Today was my first day of school as a teacher at Sri Mayapur International School in Mayapur, India, and I had just reviewed my discipline system, reading, writing, and homework system.

"Anime drawer!" a boy quipped.

"Anime? No," I said.

"Noodle-maker?"

I laughed. "No, not a noodle-maker. Come on, the most honorable profession?"

"How about someone who figures out earthquakes and tsunamis?" one kid offered.

"Nice try, but no,"

One kid raised his hand. His name was Balaram, and I'll never forget that moment. He said, "A teacher?"

The moment hung in the air. I was deeply moved. I looked at Balaram and said, "Yes, yes, a teacher,"

"A teacher, ha!" some kids laughed, some snickered a little incredulously.

"Why?" I asked. "Why is a teacher the most honored profession in Japan?"

"Because they do what nobody else wants to do," one kid said.

"Not quite," I said.

Balaram said, "Because they give knowledge and stuff,"

"Yes. Teachers are the heads of society, they give culture and knowledge.

"You see," I continued, "When I was in 7th grade, one day my English teacher asked this question to the class. My classmates said, 'doctor,' 'lawyer,' 'firefighter,' but my teacher said no to all of them. But then I raised my hand, 'a teacher?' and my teacher said, 'Yes, a teacher is the most honored profession in Japan. They give knowledge and are the heads of society.'

"That was the moment I decided that I wanted to be a high school English teacher. I was 12, not even in high school yet, but I knew what I wanted to be.

"So I find it very curious that although I wanted to teach high school, today is my first official day of teaching, and I'm teaching a 7th grade English class, the very grade I had made my life choice to become a teacher. I feel honored to share with you that after all these years, 13 years later, my desire is finally coming to pass and I get to teach you."

Some kids started applauding and some said, "Way to go, Mataji!"

A little surprised, I then smiled and did a little curtsy. "Thank you. Maybe one day, one of you will be inspired to become a teacher."

I looked at Balaram and gave a nod.

(*2019 update: Balaram's elder brother - who I also taught that year - went on to become a teacher.)