VRINDAVAN. ANTICIPATION FILLED MY HEART. With each step I trod on the eight mile stretch, I was thrilled. Lining the asphalt road were huge tamarind trees and spacious fields. A bullock cart overloaded with straw passed slowly by, its wooden wheels creaking, while the team of oxen strained, snorting foam from their nostrils and clacking their hooves over the asphalt. A jalopy of a bus approached from behind and halted. The door swung open, and the driver, beaming a semi-toothless smile, beckoned me to climb aboard for a free ride. How could I refuse such hospitality? The driver wore the visible markers of a religious life: a shaved head with a tuft of hair at the back and sheet of cloth wrapped around his waist. When we arrived in the town of Vrindavan, I asked him where the river was, and he pointed the way.
A few steps later, a farmer stood blocking my path, his palms pressed together in supplication. Gleefully, he exclaimed, “Welcome to Vrindavan. Whoever comes here is Lord Krishna’s special guest.” Clasping my hands, he effused, “I am a Vrajabasi, a resident of Vrindavan. It is my duty to make you happy. Let me arrange food and accommodation for you.”
“Thank you very much, but I’ll be happy to sleep on the bank of the river and beg for food.”
Casting his head down, he grew desperate. “Please accept my humble service. If you do not, how can I show myself before my Krishna?”
His humility was too difficult to deny. I instantly loved this Vrajabasi, feeling him to be a family member welcoming me home. He arranged my stay at the ashram of an old blind swami and departed.
That afternoon I left behind the crowded ashram to roam into one of the lush forests of Vrindavan. As I walked, I pressed my feet into the soft, fine sands, strolling among ancient trees whose trunks swirled upward, each one cloaked with white, orange, and yellow flowers, and shining green leaves. A sweet lowing attracted my eyes to a herd of white cows grazing on the shrubs. With wide glistening eyes, they gazed at me as if they had always known me. Strangely, I felt the same for them. I walked on. A startling, protracted caw rang out, and I turned to see a peacock, the plumes of his brilliant tail fanned out and his iridescent neck, moving gracefully back and forth. Next, a deep resonant ‘mmm’ drew me to a huge white bull that loped along the pathway chewing lazily on scattered shrubs. Looking up into the trees, I saw a flock of bright green parrots with curving orange beaks and bright red eyes. They chattered to one another, took note of me, and then soared off into the sky. Monkeys with brown fur, pink faces, and green eyes swung from branch to branch like mischievous children, all the while screaming, “Cheee cheee.” Through the treetops, I could hear the rumbling of monsoon clouds. Perfumed by blossoming flowers, the breeze carried a cool mist that caressed my skin.
But of all of the lovely sights and sounds, it was the song of devotees chanting hymns that most lifted my heart. Small girls balanced clay water pots on their heads as they sang “Radhey, Radhey” and danced down the sandy pathway lined with forest, shrines, ashrams, and thatched houses. I followed the children until we reached a clearing. There, I beheld the river Yamuna, winding with a gentle majesty through the forest.
Wooden rowboats plied along, transporting ladies dressed in colorful saris, men with white turbans casually wrapped around their heads, and talkative children whose skinny, restless legs splashed in the water. Lining the riverbank were medieval domes of intricately carved red stone, under which Vrajabasis gathered for shelter from the sun and rain, all the while chanting Krishna’s names. As temple bells resounded in the distance, my heart swelled with surprise and gratitude. After more than a year of wandering, I felt that I had finally found home again.
I saw a sadhu sitting in the hollow of a tree near the riverbank whom, I was told, was a hundred and ten years old. He wore only a burlap loincloth and his matted hair wrapped his head like a crown. His aged face drooped with folds of skin and he had to lift his heavy eyelids with his fingers in order to see. With a stroke of the hand, he beckoned me. I soon discovered that he was a mauni baba, one who has taken a vow never to speak, and his only means of communication was a piece of broken slate and a clump of chalk. As I squatted down beside him, he scratched two large words on the ten-inch slate: “People think.” Then he erased the words with his bare fingers and continued writing, “that the people,” he erased again and wrote, “of Vrindavan”—erase—“are crazy,”—erase. “It is true”—erase. “We are crazy”—erase. Then he wrote in big letters, “for Krishna.” This, too, he erased, then wrote, again in sections, “If you stay here you will become crazy, too.” Then he smiled, as if he knew something I didn’t.
The next day, Gary and I met again. With huge festival crowds congesting the town, Gary longed to escape to a quiet place in the Himalayas, but the mystical forest of Vrindavan was pulling me and I decided to remain a few more days. Gary would go on ahead, we agreed, and in five short days, we would meet at the Brahma Ghat in Hardwar to carry on our pilgrimage to Amarnath. Sure we would see each other soon, we said goodbye easily.
In those few days, I saw no foreigners in Vrindavan. Indeed, it appeared that Vrindavan’s charm was hidden from the West. I rejoiced, for I had observed that when Westerners frequented any place in India, commercialism tended to spread like an epidemic. Affected by the atmosphere, a longing to learn about Krishna awakened in my heart. Since that day they had been stolen from me on a Delhi street corner, I no longer had any books to refer to. When I asked a local man where I could find books in English about Krishna, he directed me to the Ramakrishna Hospital.
Reaching the neatly-kept one story building, I entered and inquired about books. Nurses and housekeepers stared curiously. They brought me to the director of the hospital, Shakti Maharaja, a disciple of the famous yogi Sri Ramakrishna. Just then, a mutilated woman was hurried in. She had been hit by a bus right outside the gate and was a bloody mess. The staff frantically assembled to save her. Preoccupied by the crisis, still Shakti Maharaja turned to me and asked, “How may I help you?”
I knew it wasn’t good timing, and was myself stricken by the crisis, but asked anyway. “Maharaja, do you have any books about Krishna in English?”
He stared at me in disbelief, “This is a hospital, not a library. Come back if you’re sick.”
“I’m sorry. I will go.”
He reached out and touched my forearm. “No, stay,” he said. Offering me a seat, he promised to return in a few minutes. When he returned, he drew a map and explained, “You should go toward the temple of Madan Mohan. Everyone knows where it is. Close by is the ashram of Swami Bon Maharaja. They will have English books.”
I followed the map, walking along various roads and pathways. On top of a grassy hill overlooking the Yamuna River was one of the most beautiful sights my eyes had ever beheld. An intricately carved temple of red sandstone, it was an octagonal spire that rose about sixty feet into the sky then tapered and again, widening at the top to form a huge, flowerlike disk. This was the 450-year-old temple of Madan Mohan. It evoked more than just the power and reverence of a grand religious monument, but a feeling of intimacy that touched my soul.
Climbing down the hill and through a narrow lane, I approached the ashram and, unlatching the gate, entered a quaint courtyard. To my right was a temple of Krishna, to my left a small temple of Lord Shiva and a flourishing garden of tulasi bushes. Tulasi, in the botanical family of basil, is widely considered sacred to Hindus. A young Bengali sadhu appeared from the kitchen dusting flour from his apron. “I welcome you,” he said, introducing himself as Gopesh Krishna. Little did I know then that in years to come this simple cook would become the guru of that mission. He led me into a small office where he offered me some water and an English book about Krishna before returning to the kitchen.
I read for several hours. Then, returning the book to the bookcase, I set out for the Yamuna. But at the main gate I encountered a man in his mid-twenties with sparkling blue eyes and white skin. He had a shaven head and clad in saffron robes. “My name is Asim Krishna Das.” He smiled. “Welcome to Vrindavan.”
Offering me a seat, he excused himself for a moment and returned with a plate of fluffy rice and spiced vegetables. Eating eagerly, I asked him how he came to live in India. He told me that his given name was Alan Shapiro and was from New York. He had traveled through Europe and Israel, and ultimately his search for spirituality brought him to India. In the Punjab state, he said, he met a saint named Mukunda Hari who advised him, “Go to Vrindavan, there you will find everything.” Asim smiled. “His words were prophetic.” As I was leaving, he offered, “If there’s anything I can do to serve you; that will be my greatest joy.”
The following day I roamed alone in the forest and eventually returned to the riverbank just beneath the hill of Madan Mohan Temple. I was to leave early the next morning for Hardwar, where Gary was waiting for me. When night fell, I offered my farewell to the land of Vrindavan. But my mind was divided. Lying down to sleep on the earthen riverbank, I thought, Vrindavan is attracting my heart like no other place. What is happening to me? Please reveal Your divine will. With this prayer, I drifted off to sleep.
Before dawn, I awoke to the ringing of temple bells, signaling that it was time to begin my journey to Hardwar. But my body lay there like a corpse. Gasping in pain, I couldn’t move. A blazing fever consumed me from within, and under the spell of unbearable nausea, my stomach churned. Like a hostage, I lay on that riverbank. As the sun rose, celebrating a new day, I felt my life force sinking. Death that morning would have been a welcome relief. Hours passed. At noon, I still lay there. This fever will surely kill me, I thought.
Just when I felt it couldn’t get any worse, I saw in the overcast sky something that chilled my heart. Vultures circled above, their keen sights focused on me. It seemed the fever was cooking me for their lunch, and they were just waiting until I was well done. They hovered lower and lower. One swooped to the ground, a huge black and white bird with a long, curving neck and sloping beak. It stared, sizing up my condition, then jabbed its pointed beak into my ribcage. My body recoiled, my mind screamed, and my eyes stared back at my assailant, seeking pity. The vulture flapped its gigantic wings and rejoined its fellow predators circling above. On the damp soil, I gazed up at the birds as they soared in impatient circles. Suddenly, my vision blurred and I momentarily blacked out. When I came to, I felt I was burning alive from inside out. Perspiring, trembling, and gagging, I gave up all hope.
Suddenly, I heard footsteps approaching. A local farmer herding his cows noticed me and took pity. Pressing the back of his hand to my forehead, he looked skyward toward the vultures and, understanding my predicament, lifted me onto a bullock cart. As we jostled along the muddy paths, the vultures followed overhead.
The farmer entrusted me to a charitable hospital where the attendants placed me in the free ward. Eight beds lined each side of the room. The impoverished and sadhu patients alike occupied all sixteen beds. For hours, I lay unattended in a bed near the entrance. Finally that evening the doctor came and, after performing a series of tests, concluded that I was suffering from severe typhoid fever and dehydration. In a matter-of-fact tone, he said, “You will likely die, but we will try to save your life.”
Taking the thermometer out of my mouth, he read it and pronounced, “No solid food for the next week. Your diet will be glucose water only.”
With those words, he departed. Overcome by fever and nausea, with no strength in my body and teetering between life and death, I lay there. There was little money to treat the patients in this charitable ward, so we received only the crude basics. Once a day, the doctor made the rounds, giving a few minutes to each patient. Nurses appeared from time to time, but not a single one spoke English. Other patients wailed in agony all night long. The first night I was there, one man died. And death would have been a blessing to an emaciated old man in the bed next to mine. Silently bearing his miseries, he would lean over to pass red urine in a small pot kept on his bed. He coughed blood constantly, often spraying my face. One sweltering night, as I lay immobilized in anguish, patients throughout the room howled, moaned, and screamed in agony amid a stench of sweat, mold, and excrement. Why am I here? Why did I leave my home and family and friends in Highland Park? And what about poor Gary? He’ll never know why I didn’t meet him. Placing my life in the hands of God, I prayed, I am yours, please do with me what you will. All night long, I softly chanted the words that had begun to bring me solace in the most troubled moments. “Hare Krishna Hare Krishna Krishna Krishna Hare Hare, Hare Rama Hare Rama Rama Rama Hare Hare.”
The next morning, having somehow heard news that I was ill, Asim came to visit me. Accompanying him was a beautiful old man whose eyes glistened with spiritual love. “This is one of the greatest saints in all of Vrindavan,” Asim said. “His name is Krishnadas Babaji.” Babaji wore only a simple white cloth around his waist. It extended just above his knees. Another piece of cloth draped around the back of his neck and hung over his chest. His head and face sprouted bright white hairs. With indescribable compassion, the elderly Babaji gazed upon me. Then, reaching out, he patted my head and burst out, “Hare Krishna!” Every day they both came to bless me. And every day, Babaji filled my heart with a healing joy and his laughter sprang from the bliss of his soul.
One day two young doctors in training came to my bed and took turns firing off a litany of questions. But I had one question for them. “What disease does that man in the next bed have?”
One of them stared blankly and replied, “Contagious tuberculosis.” He added, “Please be careful, sir. If you inhale his cough or if one drop of his blood falls in your mouth, you will catch it, too.”
“What, then why is he kept in a crowded room?”
“It is our policy. No one is quarantined unless the laboratory tests return positive. Unfortunately, our laboratory is closed because the technician is sick with tuberculosis. Therefore no quarantines are permitted.” Lifting his umbrella, he strutted toward the door, and turned to me. “It is certain that the man beside you has the contagious germ, so please be careful. It was pleasant to meet you. Good day, sir.” A few days later, the poor soul died before my eyes.
One day, sitting on my hospital bed, I wrote these words to my family:
Where there is faith, fear cannot exist. May you all be blessed with good health, happy lives, peace of mind, and love for God.
Richard
Vrindavan, September 1971
After about ten days, the doctor released me with the instruction, “You must not travel for one month.” Pointing his finger into my face, he warned, “The way you sadhus travel, you will not survive. Stay in one place and eat simple rice.” The news that I was not to leave troubled me. My first thoughts were of poor Gary. What had he thought when I did not meet him in Hardwar? After tearing him away from all his friends, now I had abandoned him alone in India. Would we ever meet again? But part of me was happy to stay and discover what more Vrindavan held for me.