DYSENTERY, AN ALL TOO COMMON malady for foreigners in India, soon struck me down again. Weakness, nausea, and repeated dashes to the latrine became my daily reality. Without the selfless care of my friend Asim, it would have been far more difficult. He often reassured me, “Bhakti means to serve with love and devotion.” While I lay on the floor, Asim brought boiled rice, yoghurt, and flea seed husk. Each time he visited, he would share his love for Krishna and Vrindavan. In this way, my sickness became just another episode that helped to cement our friendship.
Early one morning, I had regained my health and Asim invited me to join him on a journey into the inner villages around Vrindavan. He told me that Vraja was the name for the whole area around the town of Vrindavan, and that Krishna had performed His pastimes in this area. Vraja consists of about eighty miles of forests, fields, and villages, and over 5,000 temples of Krishna—some the largest in all of India and others quite quaint. “You’ll be fascinated by the Vrajabasis’ natural love for Krishna.” His blue eyes widened with enthusiasm. “Shall we go?”
A few minutes later we were bouncing and creaking along in a dilapidated local bus. Fields of golden wheat and mustard, its yellow flowers bending in the wind, stretched out on all sides. Every so often, poor farmers on the side of the road would flag down the bus and climb aboard. Their clothes were ragged, some of them suffered cataracts, skin diseases, or untreated infections. But they were blissful as they sang devotional songs, clapped their hands, and danced on the moving bus. Old women with wrinkles creviced into their dark, leathery skin spontaneously rose to their feet, raised their arms, and danced while shyly covering their heads with tattered saris. They beamed with the exuberance of children.
In the villages, the Vrajabasis, although poor, smiled radiantly and greeted one another with “Jaya Radhey,” the name of the compassionate, feminine aspect of Krishna. They loved God not just as the Supreme Creator but also as an intimate neighbor in their village. The women drew water from a well and carried it on top of their heads in round, clay pots, smiling at me as they passed chanting “Radhey, Radhey.” From their clay stoves the pungent smell of burning, dried cow-dung paddies drifted in the air. The men of the village shaved their heads each month as an offering of devotion and spent their days herding cows, plowing fields with their oxen, or selling their wares along the footpath. The skinny children, eyes sparkling, jumped about, playing with sticks and balls. Everybody, man, woman, and child smiled at me and called out “Radhey Radhey” as I passed. I observed hundreds of villagers coming to the temples with offerings of milk, butter, and sweets, some praying and others singing and dancing for the pleasure of their Lord. Walking through this other world, I reflected, The religion of these people is not reserved for Sundays or holidays but is intrinsic to every aspect of their daily lives. It is utterly spontaneous.
One afternoon Asim and I were relaxing on the hill of Madan Mohan Temple overlooking the river Yamuna. Sitting in the grass as black bees hummed a meditative drone around us, I stretched my legs and leaned back against a boundary wall of red stone. There I revealed my mind. “Asim,” I asked, “could you explain your understanding of deity worship?” I told him of how, in my travels through India, I’d found almost everybody worshiping the carved image of the Lord. The Yogis and Shivaites worshipped the Shiva Lingam or statues of Lord Shiva, and the Buddhists made elaborate offerings to the Deity of Lord Buddha. “Some people from Western religions condemn all this as idolatry,” I said. “But Christians offer prayers to statues or paintings of Jesus as well as to the Holy Crucifix.” I told him about how, when I was in Italy, I had visited the Convent of Saint Damiano in Assisi where Jesus spoke to Saint Francis from the wooden crucifix on the altar and ordered him to restore His church. “And Jews offer articles of veneration to the Torah, while Muslims, too, who condemn idol worship, bow repeatedly to the Ka’aba in Holy Mecca.” I knew there were differences in explanations as to the meaning of these forms of worship, but I saw the common idea they shared, to focus on a form or sound that connects our consciousness to the divinity. I wondered what Asim’s impressions were as they related to Krishna worship.
At that moment, Krishnadas Babaji strolled by and erupted into his trademark and blissful, “Hare Krishna.” We bowed in joy as he passed.
Although it was I who’d asked him the question, I realized that Asim was giving me the gift of coming to some of my own conclusions. “You know,” I went on, “when I see the unbelievable devotion of devotees like Krishnadas Babaji, while they worship the deity, I can’t dismiss it as idol worship. When I see such high moral and spiritual character, I can’t dismiss these people as idolaters. They seem to be experiencing love of God in their worship. Didn’t Jesus say you could judge a tree by its fruit?”
Asim smiled with the reassurance of an elder brother, then leaned forward and prompted, “Yes, go on.”
I told him how, when I first saw deity worship in India, it had repelled me a little, striking me as strange and superstitious. “But after spending so much time with holy people who naturally accept their deity as a form through which to communicate with the one God, I have come to accept deity worship as beautiful. Now I want to understand the scriptural philosophy behind it. Can you help me?”
Asim sat up near a patch of tulasi bushes, rubbed his chin in deep thought and took a moment before replying. “Really, I’m not qualified to explain these things, but I’ll share what I heard from my guru and what I’ve read in the Vedic Scriptures.” As the bees moved from flower to flower, collecting nectar, I drank in his words. “God is unlimited and independent,” Asim began. “To say He cannot appear in the deity form is to limit Him. The Vedas also condemn idol worship. Historically, there were traditions in both East and West where people concocted forms and worshipped them out of superstition with no clear conception of the one God. Quite often, they had selfish or evil motives. It is this type of idolatry that has been condemned through the ages. In the age of the Bible and Koran, it was common among non-believers. But this is not the type of deity worship approved of by the Vedas. Legitimate deity worship, according to the Vedas, is a science in which the Lord is called with devotional rites to appear in designated forms. In these forms He accepts our devotional offerings, all for the purpose of purifying the worshippers’ body, mind, and words by fixing in us the remembrance of the Lord. The aim is to please the Lord through surrender and love.”
A butterfly with iridescent purple, red, and yellow wings fluttered by and landed on Asim’s thigh. He sat still, appreciating its beauty. “Just look,” he said, his voice overflowing with happiness. “Creation is a gallery of art with a masterpiece wherever we look. I long to meet the artist. Everything emanates from the Lord. All material elements are the Lord’s energy. By His will He may choose to appear in His own energy as a deity to help us focus our minds and senses in loving servitude. Just as electricity manifests in a light bulb to radiate light, so God can permeate the deity with His presence. Electricity is invisible to the naked eye and the bulb by itself gives light only when the electrical energy infuses the bulb with its presence. Then we can see and feel the light. In a similar way the Lord may appear in the tangible form of a deity to help us see and feel His presence and reciprocate with our love.” Smiling, he asked me if he had made sense.
I nodded, a feeling of calm permeating my heart.
That year, after an abundant monsoon season of rains, Vrindavan was filled with lush forests and pastures. It was autumn and the days were warm while the nights grew cold. I watched in fascination as the residents of Vrindavan were preparing to celebrate one of their holiest festivals. Followers on the path of Bhakti celebrate God’s love with the joy of their own love and the festivals are rich with sponateity. Wherever I wandered, everyone anticipated the full moon night of October. According to the scripture, Srimad Bhagavatam, this was the night when Lord Krishna performed the Rasa dance. Profusely glorified in art, poetry, and drama, the Rasa dance, I would learn, is one of the deepest revelations of spiritual love. The whole of Vrindavan was buzzing with excitement, and the markets bustled with devotees who were purchasing decorations for their temples, ornaments for their deities, and food for the feasts. On this night, all of the five thousand temples in the region arranged to host a celebration. Just before sunset, a group of disciples assembled around Bon Maharaja in the courtyard to hear him explain the meaning of the Rasa dance.
“This is not like any worldly dance wherein people try to satisfy their material senses,” he began. “While the gopis live as cowherd maids, they embody the highest expression of the soul’s love for God, for pleasing the Lord is their exclusive aspiration. This dance represents the most perfect intimacy between the soul and God, free of any tinge of selfish desire but charged with the fullest bliss. On this night, when Krishna called them from their homes with the sweet song of His flute, the gopis forsook everything they had and risked dangers and social rejection all to satisfy the Lord. When they reached Krishna, the Supreme Lord, He admitted that in the span of creation He had no power to sufficiently repay the gopis for their pure devotion. But in reciprocation He expanded Himself to dance simultaneously with each gopi in their eternal spiritual bodies, for a night of endless joy.” Bon Maharaja turned his face toward the sinking sun and the rose colored light glinted in his eyes he concluded, “In a few minutes, we will celebrate, praying to someday follow the lead of the gopis.”
In the tulasi garden of Bon Maharaja’s temple, the devotees had worked all day constructing a throne by weaving together thousands of tiny fragrant flowers. Now, as the time for celebration arrived, they ceremoniously carried the deities from the altar to the throne amid offerings of sweets and savories. The moon rose in the east, full and golden. In Vrindavan, this Rasa Purnima moon is celebrated as the most beautiful moon of the year. Devotees welcome it with songs composed specially for this occasion. As the moon climbed higher, its golden light illuminated the four directions. All the while, Krishnadas Babaji sang with deep emotion while everyone else blissfully chanted in response.
Joining them, I fixed my mind on the enchanting vision of Radha and Krishna in the moonlit flower forest of Vrindavan. As the moon ascended still higher, it spread its silvery hue on every leaf and flower. Mother earth seemed lit up by its touch. Bathed in the sweetness of that pearl moon, everyone was beaming—the deities, the forest, and we who worshipped. In this way, we sang late into the night for the Lord’s pleasure.
How deeply my time in Vrindavan was affecting my heart. In the sweetness of those moments, I thought how unconditional spiritual love for God was a higher experience than attaining mystic powers wherein one could perform supernatural feats or even liberation wherein one was freed of all sufferings and anxieties. In spiritual love, like that of the gopis, a devotee fully gives his or herself for the pleasure of the Lord and can fully relish the intimacy of God’s love.
On another such moonlit night, as the night birds crooned in the temple garden, Swami Bon Maharaja, sitting back on his wooden chair, gazed at me intently. “I have been carefully examining you, Richard.” He paused to prepare me for what was to come. “Tonight I would like to initiate you as my disciple.” He held up a string of prayer beads carved from the wood of tulasi. “I have sanctified these for you. Are you willing to accept?”
A chilly breeze whisked across the courtyard. My mind swung between gratitude and pain. I was honored to be asked by him, yet I dreaded the thought of disappointing him. I couldn’t accept without sufficient conviction. “I am indebted to you,” I replied in a frail voice, “for all the inspiration you’ve showered on me. But I have vowed not to accept initiation from any guru until I have confidence that I will remain faithful throughout my life. I believe it would be an act of disrespect toward your holiness for me to make such a commitment without appropriate sincerity.”
Tears welled in Bon Maharaja’s eyes as he patted my head and spoke. “I’m pleased by your sincerity. I will put no pressure on you. You must follow your heart. The members of the ashram would like to call you by a spiritual name, so if you permit me, I’ll give you a name, not an initiation name but an affectionate name. You may use this name until you decide to accept initiation.” I nodded in agreement. “We’ll call you Ratheen Krishna Das. Ratheen Krishna means Krishna who is the charioteer of Arjuna and Das means you are His servant.”
I bowed my head in gratitude.
“There is one problem.” His eyes narrowed. “Everyone is complaining about your long, unkempt hair. Why don’t you shave your head like the other ashramites?”
I pleaded, “To me, shaving the head represents surrendering to a mentor. Until that decision is made, I will not do it superficially.”
“Then will you at least cut it shorter? Our guests do not appreciate it.”
“If it pleases you, Maharaja, I will cut it shorter.” My desire to please him overshadowed any other concerns.
That night, out of curiosity, I looked into a mirror. It had been a long time since I had last seen my reflection or used a comb for that matter. Hanging halfway to my waist, my mane was quite matted. The next morning Bon Maharaja instructed Asim, “Bring our Ratheen Krishna Das to the barber.”
Asim chuckled while leading me toward the barbershop, a warped and rotting wooden shack hardly big enough for four people to sit in. As I took my seat on a heavy wooden chair, the barber gawked at my matted locks. He was a skinny little man in his mid fifties, bare-chested, and wore only a checkered cotton cloth around his waist that extended to just above his knees. “How to cut such hair?” he muttered. He desperately attempted with every variety of scissors he had, but none could penetrate. Finally, he called an open-air conference in the lane with other local barbers. “How to cut such hair?” they repeated again and again. After much deliberation, they decided to call for a gardener.
The gardener arrived—a muscular, heavy-set man with a thick black mustache wearing loose cotton clothes soiled with a mixture of dirt and sweat. He evaluated my head for some time and then left for his storehouse to fetch the proper equipment. He returned with a rusted set of loppers used for cutting bushes. The tool was shaped like a gigantic pair of scissors. My haircut was becoming an elaborate project, and the gardener, the self-acclaimed foreman of the site. Pointing his stubby finger, which was caked with dirt under his uncut nails, he dictated orders. “Grab his hair and pull backward,” he said to his assistant. “Pull harder—harder. Yes, now hold it as tight as you can.” Canvassing a passerby, he instructed, “You hold this sadhu down on the chair, and don’t let him move.” Then he ordered the barber, “You grab the bottom of the cutter with both hands and push up. I’ll push the top of the cutter down.” With great seriousness, the four men assembled, each in his strategic position. The gardener and the barber strained, groaned, and perspired, using all their body weight as they pushed the cutter from both directions. Dozens of passersby stopped to gawk at the spectacle. A few more even joined in the effort, each one pushing his weight into the bush cutter. Whatever came of this one big cut would be my new hairstyle. There would be no second cut.
Everyone in the crew was moaning and sweating in the struggle to penetrate my hair. Little by little, I felt the blades biting into my locks as hundreds of hairs snapped out from my scalp. The whole while, my friend Asim laughed so hard that tears streamed down his cheeks.
Finally, after a very long few minutes of pushing and tugging, the two blades of the bush cutter snapped together. It was done. Strewn on the floor like trash was my precious hair. It had once represented my revolt against war, prejudice, and the superficialities of society, all my ideals that I held sacred. Now the barbers trampled it beneath their sandals with no mind. What little remained on my head hung to just below my neck. It was perhaps the sloppiest haircut in modern history. But it was done. The gardener and the barber proudly held up a mirror. “It is complete. Please see. Please see.” With joined palms, I thanked them. But I preferred not to see.
Back at the ashram gate, two interesting Americans appeared. One was David, a sincere and intelligent man who had recently acted as a personal secretary and friend of Alan Watts, the famous author of books that blended Eastern mysticism and Western logic. David and I instantly bonded and shared many hours of soul-searching conversation. David, like Asim, spoke from his heart and was an excellent listener.
One day, five of Bon Maharaja’s prominent disciples arrived from East Bengal. Their leader, Jagannath, served as both the principal of a school and the head of his town. He was tall, well groomed, and walked with the poise of total confidence. Yet he was humble and respectful to all. Although he was older than my father, we became close friends. One morning, Jagannath and his companions saw David with a camera in hand. “Sir, please take our group photo,” one said, while they all posed in front of the temple.
David turned to me and whispered. “There is only one more shot in the film. It’s my last roll. I was saving this shot for something special. What should I do? They’re posing.” We decided to pretend to take their photo by imitating a clicking sound as they posed. Then, without thinking twice about this deception, we went about our duties.
The next day, I was taken aback to see Jagannath standing alone, silently crying. “Why is he in such distress?” I asked his friend.
He sizzled me with his stare. “Because of what you did.”
“What did I do?” I replied, bewildered.
“Yesterday you pretended to take our photograph while we posed. This was duplicitous. Shame on you for insulting us.”
I darted over to where Jagannath stood and begged forgiveness, but he said nothing. The next day, again I pleaded for him to excuse my foolishness. He fixed my eyes in his sad stare. “You are a devotee of Krishna,” he said. “How could you treat another human being with such indignity? Don’t you know that Lord Chaitanya taught us to be humble like a blade of grass and offer all respect to others? Duplicity is a terrible disease.” Tears welled in his eyes as he turned his head away from me. Gazing skyward, he said, “I trusted you as a devotee but you have disappointed my expectations. Therefore I cry. I cry for you, my friend, because you know so little. A real devotee would never treat anyone so cheaply.” Then he embraced me and walked away.
Pacing to the riverbank, ashamed of my insensitivity, I tried to make sense of all this. In ordinary society, I reflected:
Such an insignificant transgression would be hardly noticed. But in a devotional culture, soft-heartedness and integrity are held sacred. What really is the culture of devotion? It is so very subtle, but it fertilizes the field of the heart so that the seed of true love may grow.
I had passed more than two months in the pleasant company of Asim, Krishnadas Babaji, and Bon Maharaja. Bon Maharaja never pressed me to initiate. However, there was one monk at the ashram who could not tolerate that I had refused initiation. One day he called me to his room and with scorn written on his face, preached fire and brimstone. “Look at you,” he chastised. “You gave up material life to live as an ascetic. But until you take initiation from a guru, you have no spiritual life.” His eyes narrowed to slits and his voice quivered. “Do you know what happens to one who dies not having either material or spiritual life?” I looked at him in silence. “Do you know?”
“No,” I replied timidly.
He sprung up from his seat and pointed his finger into my face. “He becomes a ghost. I’m talking about you. You’re living as a ghost. If uncertain death comes, you will suffer miserably for thousands of years, wandering as a ghost.” He stared at me. “Why do you take our guru’s mercy so cheaply? You must surrender or leave.”
Saddened, I looked down to the floor and replied, “I’m sorry. I will go.” Walking out his door I gathered up my cloth bag and begging bowl and proceeded to leave the ashram. On the way out, I noticed Bon Maharaja sitting in the courtyard, so I prostrated myself at his feet and asked for his blessings to leave.
His eyes shot open with surprise to hear my words. “Why are you leaving us?”
“Maharaja, I wish not to offend you.” I went on to paraphrase the sermon I had just heard.
His expression soured with disgust. “Who has spoken this nonsense?” he asked. I informed him. Then, with the tenderness of a loving father, he spoke these words. “I never thought such things about you. You are a sincere devotee. I love you like my son. You have not offended me. Rather, you bring me joy. I welcome you to stay here as long as you wish. I assure you, there will never be such pressure again.”
I was grateful for Bon Maharaja’s kindness. Still, considering this episode, I felt it was time to move on. I did not wish to disrupt his disciples’ minds. After all, I was still searching, and residence in the ashram was for dedicated disciples. In respect for the affection and wisdom Swami Bon Maharaja always showered upon me, I remained a few more days. Then, receiving his blessings, I departed for the forests of Vrindavan.