FROM HALFWAY ACROSS THE WORLD, I could feel the anguish of my parents, helpless as they were to communicate their feelings to me. In the year and a half I had been traveling, it was very rare that I stayed in a place long enough to send my family a note with a return address. So it had been a long time since I had had any news from them. In a recent letter, I had shared my experiences in Vrindavan and included a return address. I awaited their replies.
One afternoon, Asim Krishna handed me three letters. Sensing the content, I brought them to the bank of the Yamuna. The first letter was from my father. Tears from his eyes had washed away words and whole passages. Just holding the paper in my hands, I could feel his pain. What have I done to my father and mother, who have dedicated their lives to my welfare? In every line, my father pleaded for me to come home. “Every day,” he said, “seems to last forever in guilt and worry. What horrible things have I done to you that you have rejected me?” he wrote. “How can I live knowing my son to be living in jungle caves, alone with no money?” It was signed, “your brokenhearted father.” Gazing out across the graceful current of the Yamuna, I felt my heart breaking with his. Then I opened the second envelope. It was from my mother. She longed to know, “Why are you in a foreign land for so long? Haven’t you found what you’re looking for yet? What are you wearing and eating? How is your health?” Throughout she reiterated her love.
The third letter was from Larry, my younger brother and dear friend. Larry was an honest and simple person, so I knew that whatever he said would be true. He described the perpetual worry into which I had cast my entire family. Of my mother he wrote, “Don’t you understand a mother’s love? Mom is in a state of confusion. She helplessly worries day and night about your safety.” Then he described my father’s condition. “Our father’s hair is graying. He has aged years since you abandoned us. He stares blindly at a wall lost in grief. Thinking of you, all alone living in caves and jungles, he cries. Do you want to kill your own father? Is this your idea of religion? Maybe you don’t care if he lives or dies, but we love him. If you don’t come home, you will be held responsible for his death.”
My heart pounding, I silently prayed for guidance. As I gazed into the gentle, flowing waters of Yamuna, my whole life played before my mind’s eye. I felt so grateful for my family’s affection and hated to cause them pain, but this burning in my heart for God’s love was stronger than anything else. I could not expect them to understand. I recalled my readings about great persons who, in their dedication to God, had borne the suffering of breaking loved ones’ hearts. Upon hearing the call of God, Abraham was willing to sacrifice Isaac, his beloved son. Hearing his calling at Gethsemane, Lord Jesus accepted crucifixion while his mother Mary wept bitterly beneath the cross. His apostles, too, left everything behind to heed His call. Hearing that same inner call, Prince Siddhartha Gautama left his loving family in tears as he disappeared into the forest to travel the path of becoming the Buddha. When the inner voice of God called for him, Sankaracarya, the greatest proponent of the path of non-dualism, left home, breaking his poor mother’s heart. And for our sake, Lord Chaitanya left his widowed mother in pools of tears. These saints and avatars are great, I thought, and I am small. Yet a calling, this longing for the Divine, has overcome me. I spent the day on the bank of the Yamuna praying for my family and praying for guidance.
The next morning in the temple courtyard, I sat at the feet of Bon Maharaja and presented him the letters. Tears welled in his eyes as he read them. For a long time, he stared across the courtyard, lost in thought. Then he turned to me and spoke. “Long ago, when I was about your age, I accepted a life of renunciation. This caused my father and mother unbearable pain. It was a great test in my life. To break the hearts of your loved ones is often a price you must pay to accept a life of exclusive devotion. But you will see, in the passing of time they will understand and appreciate your life. In fact, they will be proud of you. In the meantime, there is no restriction in a sadhu meeting his father or mother. You must search your own heart.”
In my reply to father, I wrote:
On receiving your last letter dated September 14, 1971, a painful sensation melted into my heart. Listen to what I say, not with ears, but with your tender heart: Each man must choose what he believes to be the most sacred path to follow in his life. If a man does not follow what he truly believes in, his life will have little meaning. With all my heart and all my soul, I believe that the highest purpose in life is to live a life devoted to the one God who lovingly rules over us all. We are servants of the same Lord. I believe that the root of all man’s quarrel and sufferings is his forgetting that highest truth.
Since ancient times, there have always been politicians, businessman, soldiers, etc., and along with these there have always been those treading the path of truth and living a religious life. But today, everyone has become so engrossed in satisfying his material hunger that God has been all but forgotten.
Is it not true that the noblest man is he who is humble, honest, righteous, and respectful to all fellow beings? This is religious life in its truest sense. I believe that this is the life that I must lead. Please trust that all I am doing is striving to lead a life free of malice. For a man of my temperament to enter into the business world would result in a life of no meaning or satisfaction. For when a man fights his own inner nature, he ruins himself. At present I am rather unsettled.
Please, I beg you to give me a little more time to secure my convictions. At that time we will arrange to unite once more.
I will keep in touch with you. In America, many parents of sons are suffering the great pain of separation to the army for 2 to 4 years, where their son endangers his life for a cause rooted in hate. I pray to you only to have faith that what I seek is for the good of all.
Bless you my loving father, Bless your tender heart.
I will soon tell you my plans, very soon.
Richard
Vrindavan India
Sept.30, 1971
To my mother, I wrote a letter describing my eating habits and what I was wearing, assuring her I was in fine health, and trying to explain my choice to search for the meaning of life. I thanked her for her loving concern and wished her peace.
I knew they could not comprehend my calling. My naive words certainly perpetuated their grief. But I had a simple faith that God understood my heart and would extend his loving hand to help them.