IT WAS APRIL OF 1972 and almost four months had passed since Srila Prabhupada’s departure from Vrindavan. Since he’d left, I had been absorbed in my spiritual practices in quiet forests and in spending time visiting the people and temples I had come to love so dearly.
I hoped to stay forever, but, my visa was soon to expire and the day of my departure from Vrindavan and from India drew closer. It seemed like so long ago, while enroute to the Himalayas, that I had found myself mysteriously stranded here on the day of Lord Krishna’s birth. What I had longed for—my spiritual path and my beloved guru—had been revealed here.
In the final days before leaving, I bowed my head to the forest and all the temples and people who captured my heart. I counted each moment that remained as an undeserved fortune.
One morning, just days before my departure, I was sitting with Ghanashyam and some of our friends in his closet-room temple, where they showered me with kindness and gifts to help me remember Vrindavan. A devoted Australian woman named Radha Dasi, who was a follower of Sripad Baba and the only other Westerner in Vrindavan beside Asim and myself, painted different scenes of Vrindavan in a notebook as a gift to help me feel at home while away.
On the day before my departure, Asim and I visited a place very dear to us, Govardhan Hill. For millennia, pilgrims and saints had circumambulated this mountain and honored even the smallest stone from its ground, for here the most intimate pastimes of love had been enacted between Radha and Krishna. When only seven years old, Krishna had effortlessly lifted this mountain and held it, with a single finger, like an umbrella to protect his devotees from a devastating rain, for seven days. Amid tranquil forests, lakes, cows, and hundreds of devoted pilgrims, we walked the fourteen miles around Govardhan Hill feeling both joy and sorrow, for the next day I would be gone.
Returning to Vrindavan village, I roamed about to the places I treasured most. Collecting dusty soil at each place, I sprinkled it into a small cloth pouch so that I could bring Vrindavan with me wherever I was destined to be. I prayed to Krishna, Wherever life takes me, please allow me to always keep You in my heart. That night, on the bank of Yamuna, I sat in the starlight chanting my mantra.
At sunrise the next morning, Asim accompanied me to the Vrindavan railway station where we boarded a train to Mathura. Once on board, we shared our hearts and our favorite food, Vraja rotis and gur. My eyes teared thinking how I would miss this food of the poor farmers. “I don’t know when I’ll ever see Vraja rotis and gur again.”
Asim smiled and handed me a cloth bag. “Please open it.” It was filled with a couple dozen thick Vraja rotis and a lump of gur.
At the Mathura railway station, we disembarked and stood waiting for the train that would carry me out of India and into Nepal. There on that railway platform, I bade farewell to my friend and brother. Together we had shared unforgettable experiences. As the train lumbered into the station, I struggled to control my emotions. I couldn’t believe I had to leave the place I loved so dearly, the place where Krishna had answered my prayers. Tears streamed down my face. Asim clasped my hand in reassurance. He smiled through his tears and spoke a blessing. “Krishnadas, wherever you remember Krishna, you will find Vrindavan. I will be praying for your return.”
I could not speak, for already I was overwhelmed by the grief of separation. With joined palms, we exchanged pranams. “Thank you for everything,” I said softly and climbed aboard. I bade farewell to Vrindavan, my spiritual home, as the locomotive chugged away.
I traveled on to Kathmandu wondering if there would be something waiting for me at the American Express Office. There was. Although I had written to him that I could find my way back on my own, my father, eager to see me, had wired a three hundred and fifty dollar money order for my airfare. At the Indian Embassy in Kathmandu, I was issued a new two-week transit visa for India where I would catch my plane and fly from New Delhi to Belgium, and then on to the U.S.
Prior to my departure from Kathmandu, I took a nostalgic walk to Swayambhunath and gazed out at that fateful rice paddy where I had been reunited with Gary. I missed my old friend. So many dramatic events had unfolded in my life since our paths diverged, and I longed to share them with him. I am still living as a homeless wanderer. Is he? It would take another miracle for us to meet again.
I then wandered along the bank of the Bagmati river to Pashupatinath. Sitting on the riverbank in the moonlit night, I recalled the tears of longing I had shed here a year before and the many blessings I had received since that night. In the morning, I bade farewell and, solitary wanderer that I had become, boarded the back of a truck to the Pokhara Valley, one of the most beautiful of routes back toward India.
The valley was surrounded by snow-clad Himalayan peaks. I found a place to stay in a cave hidden on the face of a steep cliff, high above a river. For the next seven days, I rowed a canoe to the center of Phewala Lake where I performed my meditations from sunrise to sunset. During that week, I hardly saw a soul except for an occasional farmer or fisherman. On the seventh day, two days before my Nepali visa was to expire, I spoke softly to the mountains, sky, and water, “I say goodbye to you, beautiful Pokhara. Tomorrow I must depart.” After rowing to the shore, I laid the oar across my canoe, and in the last light of day walked across the fields.
In a remote forest, as I crossed a dark, lonely road and began the descent back to my cave, a bus jostled by. With my first step down the cliff, I suddenly heard a strange scream. Curious, I turned. The bus momentarily halted about twenty yards away then drove off. Out from the growing darkness a ghostly figure scurried toward me. Am I being attacked? Should I flee? As the shadow advanced, I strained to make out who this was. Step by step, the silhouette was becoming clearer. Could it be? My God, it is.
“Gary!” I leaped in the air and dashed to meet him. Wild with joy, grateful beyond words, we embraced. Stunned, we could only repeat, “It’s God’s will.”
Behind Gary was another familiar form running in from the dark. Who could this be? Impossible. It was our friend Hackett from Brooklyn. It had been at Hackett’s home that I received Gary’s call, the call that catapulted my journey. The words Hackett had spoken on hearing that we were going to Europe now rung in my heart: “I’ll track you guys down in heaven or hell, mark my words.” Sure enough, he’d tracked us down 2,700 feet above sea level in the heaven of a Himalayan valley. Now, nearly two years later, the three of us stood mesmerized under the stars on that remote mountainside in Nepal.
I invited them to spend the night with me. They followed behind as I climbed down the steep cliff and onto the plateau outside my cave. My two friends stood amazed to see my residence, a primitive cave in the wall of a cliff, in the middle of nowhere. Together, we sat on the stone floor. As hospitality, I offered them chipped rice and creek water with some of my remaining Vraja rotis and gur. Without utensils, they resorted to eating with their bare fingers.
Putting down his wooden bowl, Gary said, “We left Kathmandu on the bus this morning on our way for a trek in the mountains.” He scratched his head, still staggered by our reunion. “Monk, or Richard, or what is your name now?”
“Some people call me Krishna Das.”
“Well, Krishnadas, I was sleeping on the moving bus and just as I opened my eyes I caught a glimpse of the headlights momentarily flashing on you as you were climbing down a cliff. I screamed out for the bus to stop and jumped out, in the middle of nowhere.” Gary grinned. “No one will ever believe this.”
Hackett couldn’t contain himself. Dropping his bowl to the floor he exclaimed, “I’m an eyewitness and even I don’t believe it.” His eyes flashed in thought. “I guess you’re right. There must be a God.”
We fell silent at the wonder of it all. From our little shelf high above the river, we stared dreamily at silhouettes of mountains far across the valley. Finally, I broke the silence. “I’m very sorry to say it, but I have to leave tomorrow at sunrise.”
Still, we had the whole moonlit night before us. Hackett was dead tired from the arduous bus journey, so despite his struggle to stay awake, he soon fell asleep. Gary and I, meanwhile, had catching up to do. Gary told me about how he, too, had lived as a sadhu, visiting ashrams and holy places, and I told him about Vrindavan. When he considered my present predicament, he grinned. “Who can understand you, Krishnadas? You now have money that your father sent you and still you choose to live in a forest cave. Amazing.”
I hadn’t even thought about this until he mentioned it. “Yes,” I admitted, “it’s been so long, Gary, I’ve forgotten how to spend money.”
In that mystical place overlooking the river valley, we shared the experiences and realizations of our respective quests. All night long, we gazed out across the valley, watching the moon spread silvery light on the nearby mountains. Below us, the song of the river sounded steadily.
Over the years, Gary had witnessed the transformations of my life. As small children, we played together, went to school together, got in trouble together. As teenagers, we rebelled against the social norms and entered the counterculture. In Europe, we explored the arts and cultures of new places. He had watched as my spiritual yearnings gradually shaped my destiny. We traveled together as my calling drew me to prayer in synagogues, monasteries, and cathedrals, and meditation in caves and mountains. From a cave in Crete, I left to follow that inner call. Then a year later in a rice paddy in Nepal, he found me as a hardcore renunciant seasoned by a life of asceticism with yogis and lamas. At that time, I was still longing, still searching for my path and my guru. Tonight he found his old friend fixed in dedication to a path revealed by the One God. The Lord had led me to my beloved spiritual father, Srila Prabhupada, whose divine grace attracted my faith and love. Now with a whole heart I was striving to develop humility, love for Krishna, and a genuine spirit of service to mankind.
As the sun was rising, a tear streamed down Gary’s cheek and dropped into his beard. He whispered, “I’m happy for you, my brother. God has fulfilled your prayers.” Gary smiled. “It’s been an amazing journey.”
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. It was time to say goodbye again. We gave each other bear hugs and wished each other safe travels. Smiling, I turned and climbed the steep hill toward the road.
“My brother,” Gary called to me.
From halfway up the mountain cliff, I grasped onto a rock for support and looked down at the plateau where Gary stood. A lost look covered his face and tears welled in his eyes. Rubbing his beard, he called out, “I wonder if we’ll ever meet again?”
I looked on the Himalayan cave that had given me shelter and listened to the enchanting song of the river below. With tears of gratitude, I called out to Gary, “I believe we will, if we continue to follow the inner call.”
At the New Delhi Airport, I boarded an Air India flight to Aston, Belgium. Dressed in the robes of a mendicant and carrying for my baggage only a cloth bag around my shoulder and a metal begging pot, I was a strange sight among international tourists and businessmen. An Irishman seated next to me in economy class puffed incessantly on one cigarette after another. The smoke burned my eyes and suffocated my breath, but the smoker seemed not the least concerned. The challenge of returning to the West had already begun.
Seeing the hostess serving meals sparked my memory. In my bag was a treasure that could transform this airplane into a spiritual oasis—my dear brother Asim’s gift of Vraja rotis and gur. They may have been old and dry, but they were utterly delectable to me. On that flight, 35,000 feet in the sky, I jubilantly ate my Vraja rotis and gur while absorbed in remembrance of my spiritual home.
From Belgium, I hitchhiked to Holland to visit the first friends Gary and I had met in Europe. Traveling to Kosmos’ place in Abcoude, I learned from his mother that he had moved to Amsterdam. When I arrived at their apartment unexpectedly, Kosmos, Chooch, and their friends leaped up and rushed to the door to greet me. Loud rock and roll music blared as some drank beer while others puffed on marijuana. In the cloud of smoke, men and women lay in passionate embraces.
My heart was sinking.
Just two days before, I had been living with sages in a holy forest in India and now here I stood in the midst of this party scene in my sadhu robes with my prayer beads and begging bowl. Disoriented, I contemplated, what has happened to my dear friends? Then I remembered my encounter with Sean in Connaught Circus and it dawned on me. The real question is—What has happened to me? We spoke for a couple of hours, then I politely bade them farewell.
Entering into the streets of Amsterdam, the entire environment seemed so foreign. How people dressed and related to one another seemed strange. Evening came, so I checked into a youth hostel where I was given the bottom bed of a bunk in a common room. Maybe while I lie quietly in bed, I thought, I can adjust my mind to these drastic changes.
Only a day before, I had been in a quiet holy place on the banks of a sacred river. Now I was in Amsterdam. Weary from my journey, I drifted into sound sleep. Suddenly, in the darkness of the night, my bed began to rattle and shake. As I bounced about, I wondered if this were an earthquake. Then I understood. From the bunk bed above came the sounds of passionate moans and groans of a young man and woman. I was not ready for this cultural adjustment. Where am I? Why am I here? Where is my sleeping place at the bank of a holy river? I slipped out of the hostel and walked the streets until morning. When morning came, I sat in a small park to eat my remaining Vraja rotis and gur. Later that day, I wrote a letter to my parents explaining that I wouldn’t be flying home right away. I needed a little more time to readjust to the Western world.
Back in Amsterdam, I ate a diet of peanuts mixed with yoghurt. I didn’t know how to be a vegetarian in the West, but I did like my simple diet very much.
One night, I visited the Cosmos. This was the nightclub where I first met that strange looking man with a shaved head and ponytail who poured the ladle of runny fruit salad into my palms. And that same man, Shyamasundar, had appeared again in Bombay and Vrindavan to become my dear friend. I marveled at the twists and turns of my life, feeling myself to be completing a circle.
It was about eleven o’clock on a Saturday night when I left and inadvertently found myself walking along a main street rowdy with hundreds of American sailors and flashing with neon lights. On both sides were overcrowded discotheques, pubs, nightclubs, and brothels. Live music blared from all sides and the smell of liquor and burning animal flesh filled in the air. I still wore the garb of a sadhu. A heavily perfumed prostitute with shiny red lips and thick mascara grabbed my hand to drag me away, but I resisted. A gang of drunken sailors surrounded me. They yelled, “What kind of freak are you?” and shoved me back and forth to one another. While one pinned me across the chest, another howled with laughter. “Have a drink buddy,” he said and poured a gallon pitcher of cold beer over my head. What planet had I landed on? Finally, they released me.
Now I found myself roaming aimlessly in a jungle with predators more intimidating to my mind than the leopards, elephants, and serpents of the Himalayas. Wandering desperately in that vast city I found myself on a narrow lane in the red light district. Brothels lined both sides of the street and rats scampered in the shadows. From inside picture windows, prostitutes posed in various states of undress trying to seduce customers. A sign over one storefront advertised in large letters, “Sex Shop.” To the left of the sex shop was a garage door with a smaller door carved into it. Above it read a sign, “Radha Krishna Temple.”
Could this be? I knocked. Opening it, a smiling devotee exclaimed, “Please come in and make yourself at home.” After taking a shower, I sat down to recover. Sweet spiritual music played softly. Religious art with scenes of Radha and Krishna in Vrindavan decorated the walls. Musk-scented incense filled the air. “Have some hot milk,” said the devotee. The steaming milk was lightly flavored with banana and cardamom. In great relief, I looked around. I felt I’d come out of a vast desert and entered an oasis. And then, on the wall, I saw a painting of Srila Prabhupada, gently smiling he seemed to be once again welcoming me home. Silently, I thanked him for making the trip from India, on that cargo ship, so many years back. As a result of his efforts, hundreds of such oases were later to be established throughout the world.
From Amsterdam, I went to London where I spent some time in an ashram near the British Museum. Then I boarded a flight to New York. On reaching the U.S. immigration desk, I was greeted by a female officer who scrutinized every page of my passport. She called someone on the phone and then stamped one of the pages. As I walked forward, two big men in business suits stepped in front of me. They looked frighteningly official as they flashed a badge in my face.
They confiscated my passport. “We are federal agents. Come with us.” They led me to a private room and stared me down. An agent declared, “You’re being held for smuggling illegal narcotics into the United States. If you voluntarily surrender and cooperate with us, your punishment will be reduced.”
“I have no narcotics,” I replied meekly.
“We know for certain that you do. Surrender them or we’ll find them.” He slammed his fist against a hardwood table. “I warn you, don’t make us angry.”
They thoroughly searched my bag. Finding the small pouches filled with my collection of Vrindavan dirt, they elated. Dangling it in my face, an agent challenged, “What is this?”
“It’s dirt from a holy place.”
He carefully examined the dirt, rubbing it with his fingers and smelling it. Disappointed, he closed the pouch and put it aside.
One of the agents frisked my body. Suddenly, his eyes lit up as he slapped his hands together in a fit of excitement. “I found it. I found it. The dope is here.” He felt a hard lump at the base of my back. “What is this?” he shouted.
“It’s my loincloth.” They had obviously never seen a sadhu’s loincloth.
“Strip off your clothes,” they demanded. I took everything off except the loincloth. “What’s that?” shouted an agent. Taken aback, the leader mocked, “It sure ain’t Fruit of the Loom.” They examined my loincloth, which was stained by hundreds of baths in muddy rivers and ponds. “Put your clothes on,” they said. Then, with an official politeness, one agent explained that the stamps from Afghanistan, Pakistan, and Nepal on my passport were red flags for narcotics import. He apologized, “We’re sorry for the inconvenience, but please understand, it’s our duty to protect America.” Handing me my passport, they escorted me through U.S. Customs to the door.
I had left home as a teenage student going for a summer vacation to Europe and returned two years later as an ascetic following an ancient spiritual path. By the time I returned, my family had sold our home in Highland Park and bought an apartment in Miami Beach, Florida. From JFK, I caught a domestic flight to Miami. My father, on crutches with a broken leg, came with my little brother Larry to the airport. They found me sitting on the floor, meditating with closed eyes, holding nothing but a faded cotton bag and metal begging pot. My father, choked up with excitement, burst out, “Son, thank God, you’re finally home.”
I jumped up to greet him. His eyes welled with tears as he wrapped his arms around me in a tight embrace. He sighed, as if years of pain were finally being lifted. Thrilled, little brother Larry, now seventeen, smiled as we shared a brotherly hug. He stared at me as if I were some kind of a returning hero.
As we entered our new apartment, my mother ran to the door and cried out, “Richard, how we missed you.” She wept tears I will never forget, embracing me and kissing my forehead. “You’ve become so thin,” she said, and then went on. “Look, I’m learning vegetarian cooking just for you.” There on the kitchen counter I saw a small library of vegetarian cookbooks. Hoping only to please me, she immediately served us a dinner of soup, salad, stir fried vegetables, a baked casserole, rice, and apple strudel for dessert.
The phone rang, and it was my elder brother Marty calling from his college in Arizona to welcome me home as well. I was overwhelmed at the lengths my parents would go to in order to make me happy. As difficult as my choice had been and would continue to be for them, they strived to understand and accept my way of life. I sincerely tried to express my love for them while upholding the ideals I held sacred. Although our lives were worlds apart, the affection and respect we shared remained prominent. Through the practice of devotion to God, I was coming to learn that preserving loving relations in this world required much forgiveness, tolerance, patience, gratitude, and humility. An essential virtue of humility is to accept others for what they are, despite differences. I contemplated again how the tendency to judge others is often a symptom of insecurity, immaturity, or selfishness, and I yearned to rise above it. Everyone is a child of God. God loves all of His children. If I wish to love God, I must learn to love those whom He loves.
We all knew that I wouldn’t be home for long. While my mother had a beautiful room prepared for me, I chose to sleep on a cement patio that extended from our fifth floor apartment. From there, in the quiet hours before the dawn, I gazed out past a vacant swimming pool toward a bay lined with palm and eucalyptus trees that swayed in the breeze. As I meditated, the faint song of the sea whispered from a distance, I felt the patio transform into my cherished rock in the Ganges. While quietly chanting the divine mantra I had received from the river, in my mind’s eye I could see the river Ganges flowing effortlessly into the same sea that now spread out before me. I felt Vrindavan, my Guru and my Lord to be indescribably present, beyond time and space. I took a deep breath of the salty air, and gratitude filled my heart. I smiled, folded my palms, and whispered, “It has been an unbelievable journey and you have answered my prayers. Wherever I remember you I feel at home.”