I offer my respectful obeisances to my beloved spiritual master His Divine Grace A.C.

Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada. He has so mercifully extended his oceanic compassion to bring

the highest Love of the spiritual world into our lives. The fortune of serving his lotus feet is my

life and soul.

I offer my respectful obeisances unto the lotus feet of Lord Caitanya Mahaprabhu Lord

Nityananda Prabhu and Their beloved devotees. The treasure of Pure Spiritual Love is being made

available to all by Their mercy. I pray to forever cherish the ideal of being the servant of the

servant of Their servants.

I offer my respectful obeisances unto the lotus feet of my beloved Istadeva Sri Sri Radha Gopinath

who have so kindly appeared to capture our hearts with Their Causeless mercy.

I have no qualification to write on this subject. I pray that the Lord and His devotees do not

consider it impudent for me to write the story of my earlier life. On the order of many beloved

souls I will now begin a very rough draft of my insignificant narration.

In a peaceful village called Sherwood Forest in Highland Park, Illinois was my family home. It

was a sheltered place. Families from Chicago settled here to raise their families in a peaceful

environment. Free from the crime, pollution and immorality of the big city. My parents had a

simple, common house built here. It cost only $19,000. It had a grassy back and front yard for

playing. When the construction was complete, we moved from Chicago to Highland Park. That

was in 1955. I was four years old. Our neigborhood was a very quiet place with practically no

traffic. In the 14 years I lived there. I never heard of a single serious crime. In fact in my

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childhood, the only divorce I remember hearing of was Hollywoods Elizabeth Taylor. This was the

setting in which I grew up. I had dozens of close friends. As children, we played games like

baseball, football and a type of soccer called scrub. The young girls held their morality as sacred.

We all attended the West Ridge grade school from kindergarten through third grade. Summer

vacation was three months of play. The winters were severe. The frigid landscape was deeply

covered by snow and ice. Bitterly freezing winds blew from the ice-covered Lake Michigan. I

remember, as small children we stood together waiting for the school bus, in knee-deep snow. The

icy winds lashed upon us. Tormented we all cried. I prayed to God to help us. As a child I

especially liked to listen to the early music of Peter Paul and Mary. I believed their music had a

spiritual meaning. From fourth grade to eighth grade we attended the nearby Red Oak School. The

conservative teachers greatly emphasized development of good character as well as academics.

School was fun but we all awaited the joys of recess where we played in the vast fields of the

schoolyard. I clearly remember that historical day in November 1963. Our social studies class was

interrupted. Principal Neglys’ voice came on the PA system. With a choked words he announced,

“Boys and girls, I am heartbroken to inform you that our beloved President of the United States,

John F. Kennedy has been assassinated. He died in Dallas Texas. In sincere mourning school is

now dismissed for the next three days.” The teacher, all my classmates and myself wept bitterly

for a long time while sitting at our desks. We loved our President. The school bus was filled with

crying. Nobody spoke a word. Upon reaching home I found my mother weeping in sorrow. That

was the type of town Highland Park was. In 1965 myself, and all of my dear friends were sent to

Deerfield High School. Bob, Gary and I gradually turned to the counterculture. Although

materially, we lived in an idyllic environment, we were dissatisfied. We saw the society around us

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to be superficial and hypocritical. Peoples lives seemed empty of meaning. We asked, “Is this the

meaning of life, simply making money and raising a family with material objects? Those around

us who have everything are not really happy. There must be something more.” I took great

interest in the civil rights movement of Dr. Martin Luther King and Malcom X. I felt great

sympathy for the persecuted blacks. I had great fondness for them and their music. The Vietnam

War was escalating. All of us were threatened with being drafted into the war. To fight and die in a

war which we did not believe in. One winter day I received shaking news. My dear friend Steve

was killed. His car skid on ice, flying into Lake Michigan, he drowned at the age of sixteen. I was

supposed to be with him that day. Life seemed so uncertain. “What is the meaning of all this?” I

had many questions. Although I was often on the academic honor roll, I began to take more

interest in religious books and those of social reform. At times we experimented with mild drugs

with hope of inner peace and mind expansion. Like so many of the American youth of the time

my life took a serious turn. The peaceful comforts of Highland Park appeared like an empty shell,

without inner enlightenment. Living in a world of racism, corruption, suffering and war, how

could we relax in our little heaven? Our parents were struggling and toiling to support what we

interpreted as a hollow, superficial life. We loved them, but were not willing to adopt their values

and ways. I had to find myself. I was searching for a higher meaning of life. At the time of my

eighteenth birthday, it was required by law to register for the military draft. Driving to the local

draft board in Waukegan Illinois, I performed the formalities. A short time later, my selective

service registration card (draft card) arrived in the mail. I was confused seeing it. I was registered

with the birth date of December 12. My actual birth date was December 7, 1950. They had made a

mistake. I called the draft board and explained the problem. The secretary examined my file. She

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said, “You have written December 7 in your application. We have made a rare mistake. You are

registered for December 12. If you want to change it you must personally appear hear to again

present your proof of birth.” I replied, “But you made the mistake. Why should I have to drive all

the way there?” “That is our policy!” was her official words. I never bothered to go there. A few

months later came the draft lottery. The whole country was anxiously waiting. The 365 days of the

year were put into a barrel. They drew one at a time. The first date would be the number one draft

choice. That meant everyone born on that date would be called first, (Unless someone had a legal

deferment). The second birthdate drawn would be second draft choice and so on. The lower

numbers would definitely be drafted. Middle numbers, would likely be drafted. Higher numbers

would NOT be drafted into the military. December 7 was number 6. December 12 was number

350 (approximate numbers). By the unseen hand of fate, I was never called. I thought, “Maybe it

was not the draft boards mistake. Perhaps God has other plans for me.” After graduating High

School in 1969, my dear friends Bob, Gary, Steve and myself attended the Miami Dade Junior

College in Florida. We did not go seeking career education. We really did not know what we

wanted from college. It certainly was a welcome break from my eighteen Chicago winters. At first

we lived at Niles Garden, a large apartment building. It formed a large square with all doors facing

the giant court- yard and pool in the center. It was a place of varieties of parties, every night.

Practically anything a student desired for a good time, could be found somewhere in that building.

Actually, it was wild. One day, hearing screaming, we looked out our window. A student named

“Low Life” was frantically running naked through the courtyard. A screaming girl was chasing

behind with a butcher knife in her raised hand. The Mormons would come regularly to preach,

door to door. I took sincere interest in understanding their doctrine. For hours at a time they

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explained the history and teaching of their faith. Seeking a quiet place, we rented a house that had

previously been named, “the ash tray”. A longing was growing in my heart for inner

enlightenment. My personal study of the worlds’ religions engrossed my mind. Seeking inwardly,

I learned meditation. Meditation became the most important part of my life. Often friends would

come to visit me. My roomates pointed to my door. A sign read, “Meditating, do not disturb.”I had

become close friends with an Afro-American lady. She had been a close personal associate of Dr.

Martin Luther King. In the spirit of Dr. King, she dedicated her life as a leader of the civil rights

movement. Being, perhaps, in her late forties, she treated me like her son. I was eighteen. Deep

discussions ensued as we spoke about persecutions and injustices toward the black people. She

told me of the greatness of Dr. Kings’ vision and his sad assassination. Being a very religious

Baptist she was kind and gracious, yet fearlessly determined. She organized a civil rights march

through the city of Miami and invited me to participate. She was surprised to see that I actually

came. A white boy in a black march in the deep-south. She took me by the hand to march beside

her in the front. She was quite proud of me. Racist people threatened and jeered as we passed.

Sometimes throwing stones or bottles. They were especially appalled to see a white boy in a black

march. The police were of little help. She smiled as over three hundred marchers sang, “we shall

overcome.” At the end of the march was a rally in a park. Under a tree was a microphone. Chairs

were set up on the lawn. I sat beside my motherly friend. She was the first to speak. She spoke of

injustices upon her people. Urging, “a fearless uprising. Not with rioting and violence. That is to

degrade ourselves’ to the evil ways of our persecutors. We must be fearless to speak our minds and

demand our rights. Not with weapons and fire. With integrity and faith in the Almighty God. We

must bouycott where there is bigotry and fight for our God given freedom. This is America, the

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land of the free. We will not stop until the chains of slavery are broken forever. Free at last, free at

last. Free at last. Dr. King had a dream. He died for his dream. We will live for his dream.” There

were howls and cheers of appreciation. Taking her seat she whispered in my ear. “Did you like it,

son?” I did. A man stepped up to the microphone. He was a powerful, charismatic speaker. His

power controlled the audience. He was a revololutionary. He shouted, “The white man killed Dr.

King and the white man will kill you. All hope for a nonviolent solution ended when he was shot

dead. We must rise to arms. We must fight fire with fire. The freedom of this nation was won by

war, not peace. The white man wants us his slave forever. We must declare war.” He continued

with a most volatile aggression against the white race. He inspired hatred and revenge. Many of

his followers were present. They angrily cheered his every sentence. “They want to keep us

forever in the back of the buses. See, my brothers and sisters, how insidious the white man is.

Today, in OUR OWN march, a shameless white man walked in front leaving the niggers in the

back.” A crowd roared in anger. People stared at me as if I symbolised all the bigotry they

despised. Many of the peaceful people left in shame. He spoke on, inciting vengence. My motherly

friend firmly held my hand. With tears in her eyes she softly spoke to me. “Son, I’m sorry. I’m

terribly sorry. I brought you in front of the march and God knows that. This rally has gone

completely out of my control. It might become a riot. They could do anything to you. My son,

disappear from this place at once. Be careful. May God be with you”. Quietly and very meekly I

sneeked away, out of the park. My admiration for Dr. King and his followers grew much from this

experience. They relentlessly fought against opposition from both within and without.

During the summer vacation, I returned home to Highland Park. One day my college friend Don

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visited our home. He convinced me to hitchhike with him to New York to visit friends. On the

highway we were picked up by a young long-haired man. A soul searching conversation emerged

as we drove through the scenic Pennsylvania countryside. He invited us to spend the day at his

small cottage in a forest in Gettysburg. Abraham Lincoln once stood on this soil to deliver his

historic Gettysburg Address. Together we roamed about the area. Beholding the scenic beauty I

was delighted. It was a masterpiece of natural art. The trees appeared richly clothed in greenery.

The rolling green hills appeared to be gracefully dancing in the skyline. The meadows were

decorated with multicolored wild flowers. The sweetly singing birds created a symphony of

serenity. The freshness of the air was exhilarating. I silently reflected, “In this beautiful, God

given heaven, man had staged one of the ghastliest battles in world history. Agonizing bloodshed

and death was set to the musical score of horrific instruments of destruction. The American Civil

War tore our nation in two, brothers killing brothers.” My mind then wandered to the tropical

forests of Vietnam. “How beautiful they must be. Today man has made it into a passionate hell of

violence, fear and death”. Half-way around, the world the Vietnam War had torn the United States

in two. Those who supported it and those who passionately opposed it”. Jim expressed his

anguish. “I have been drafted into the military. I must either go to fight in Vietnam or go to jail.”

Only 19 years old, face filled with grief. He continued, “If I believed this war was right, I would

fight for my country as a patriot. The Vietnam War does not make sense. I am morally and

politically opposed to it. I will not go. My determination to resist the draft humiliated my parents,

they have rejected me”. Don spoke with a voice representing millions in our generation. They had

declared an idealogical war against the American establishment. Throughout the nation there were

protests against the war. Popular music, poetry and art were used as a pulpit to preach peace and

7
nonviolence. Some fueled resentment and anger. Massive peace marches spread throughout the

nation. Some took to the streets to retaliate with rioting. Burning of ones draft card became a

symbolic ritual. Radicals even bombed draft boards. At the Kent State University, teen-age girls

were amongst students killed by the bullets of our own National Guard. They systematically shot

into a crowd of college students, demonstrating for peace. “Remember Kent State,” became a

battle cry of the youth. The 1968 Democratic Convention in Chicago erupted into a horrible

spectacle of paranoia and brutality as Mayor Daley and the Chicago police waged war against

thousands of Americas’ youth. A generation rebelled. Millions dropped out of the existing society

to form the counterculture. Amongst them were the hippies. Their ideal was to tune in, turn on and

drop out. This was the setting we grew up in, America in the 1960’s.

We sat beside a beautiful flowing stream in the forest. The sweet sound of crystal water rushed

through a timeless array of rocks. It created a sweet and gentle song, giving relief to my weary

mind. John asked me what I was searching for in my life. I revealed my heart “I long for

enlightement. I need to find my own soul. Without inner peace there can be no real happiness. I

cannot sell my life to materialism.” John softly replied, “I hope you find your goal, my brother.”

The law forbids us from standing on the Interstate Highway. We hitchhiked from the entrance

ramp. Strangers would threaten, laugh, curse or ignore us as they drove by. Beer bottles were

among the articles thrown upon us as we stood in the rain and heat waiting for a sympathetic car to

pass. At times we stood nine hours with our thumbs upward with not a single ride. My solace was

8
my harmonica. I poured my secret feelings into its reeds expressing the most confidential joys and

sorrows of my heart. I played in the solitude of the roadside. The music was my humble longing

for Gods Grace. The harmonica was a gift to me by a dear friend, while I attended college in

Florida. There was a musical group named the Burning Waters Blues Band. The lead singer and

harmonica player was James (Jimmy the Bear) Harmon from Anniston Alabama. From his

childhood he was a professional musician traveling with musical bands. He witnessed how drugs

had destroyed the lives of many of the musicians around him. He was aggressively against all

drugs. At the time I knew him he was 26 years old with long brown hair held in place with a head-

band. His large size and robust personality put him in center stage wherever he was. In the

assembly of hippies he was always given prominence as he looked and acted “cooler” than all

others. Inevitably someone would offer him Marijuana, LSD, speed or the like. A formidable

thunderbolt of condemnation toward drugs came upon the unexpecting audience. James was

seriously concerned for our welfare. He had seen too much. The Bear had special brotherly

affection toward me. One day with great feeling he presented to me his own harmonica. “Brother,

I wanna teach you to play”. “But I don’t know music.” I replied. “You have deep feelings, that’s

what real music is about. To stir the soul.” From that day the harmonica was my constant

companion.

New York City

Coming from a small town in the Midwest, New York was a fascinating experience. While

walking through Manhatten Island it seemed that everywhere I cast my glance was a famous

landmark. The entertainment industry had established such a sensation. Crowds of people rushed

impatiently across endless pavement. Cars, buses and taxis struggled inch by inch into the

9
horizon. Skyscraper buildings reached up into a cloud of smog. Such wealth and luxury, I had

never seen. It was balanced with tenement slums and homeless beggars. I felt to be an insignificant

insect in an overpowering metropolis.

We roamed about Greenwich Village. We met poets, musicians, philosophers, beatniks and

hippies. Each person had a unique critique of reality. It was also a pilgrimage sight for young

confused souls searching for anything they could find. Hippies were experimenting with

Psychedelic drugs. Drug addicts were seen injecting heroine in the back alleys. We sat at a table

in a small night-club. It was lit by soft red light. Surrealistic art was placed on the brick walls. The

smell of a blend of marijuana and cigarette smoke filled the air. Two musicians stood on stage.

They played their acoustic guitars while singing folk music. The lyrics were thought provoking.

They sang against hatred, hypocracy, bigotry and war. We listened carefully, happy to be there.

In Brooklyn were several friends I knew from college. One was Steve. He had an uncanny sense

of humour. This soft-hearted soul was sincerely seaching into the 1960s counterculture for

friendship and meaning. Several humurous days were spent with him. He brought us to Coney

Island for a day to meet his friends there. We attended the Randalls Island Rock Festival. Several

famous musical groups played to a crowd of tens of thousands.

One evening I received a telephone call. It was Gary. Gary and I grew up from childhood

together. We were like inseperable brothers. We attended the same grade school, high school and

college. We shared the ambition to be loyal friends, eager to help others in any way we could. We

were eager to explore the worlds’ cultures and religions. In 1968 we spent the summer in

California, hitchiking up and down Highway One. Sometimes sleeping in the sands of Laguna

Beach. At other times mixing with the thousands of hippies near the Kaleidascope on Sunset Strip.

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We stayed for some time with Garys’ aunt Shelly and uncle Donald Sterling in their palatial

residence in Beverly Hills. Once while hitchhiking along Santa Monica Boulavard we were picked

up by two large men. As one drove, the other turned to us asking in a mysterious mood, “Are you

guys gay?” In our Midwest naivety we thought gay meant happy. We had never heard it used in

any other context. “Yes we are very gay tonight” I replied. He lustily smiled and rubbed Garys

hand. We were shocked. At the next stop-light we frantically escaped from the car, running down

the street.

I traveled alone to Northern California to visit chilhood friends in Newark. In San Francisco I

visited Haight Ashbury, the Mecca for the flower children of the counterculture. I was searching

for an environment to gain enlightenment. I met idealistic people who were very gentle and kind.

They had a genuine desire to bring peace to the world. Many hippies wore bell-bottom pants and

colorful paisley shirts. Some wore beads around their necks and flowers in their hair. Smiling, they

greeted each other with the peace sign. A gang of The Hells Angels appeared. Riding on their

customized Harley Davidson choppers. Their incredible motorcycles were obviously the pride of

their lives. The deep sound of their engines resounded as they rode up and down Haight Street. In

a night club a band played rock music with electrical guitars and drums. Irradescent black lights

illuminated psychedelic posters on the walls. At intervals, strobe lights beamed creating a dream

like state. Fragrant incense smoke filled the air. The amplified music was loud. Hippies danced

spontaneously or sat on cushions on the floor. I sat, observing carefully. As I walked the streets I

witnessed things that saddened me. I saw the sincere efforts of good people being exploited. Their

antimaterialistic ideals were plundered by materialistic businessmen. Ego, greed, hard drugs and

immorality had found their place. I saw the same type of selfish materialism that the hippies

11
rebelled against in a different packaging. The historical era of Haight Ashbury was coming to a

close. It was a valuable lesson. I returned to Gary. We spent the summer together and returned

home to Highland Park.

Gary was calling from the home of a common friend, Frank in Cherry Hill, New Jersey. They

appealed that I come immediately as they had an unbelievable proposal to discuss with me. Upon

my arrival they insisted that we go to Europe for the summer. I welcomed the opportunity. I

longed for a deeper spiritual insight into life. I dreamed of seeing other lands. I felt a great need to

experience cultures outside of my own. What were their beliefs, values and lifestyles? How did

they understand God? For greater spiritual depth,I longed to answer these questions. Immediately I

returned home to Highland Park to sell my belongings for the trip.

My Mother and father were seriously worried about my decision, however they granted their

blessings. Their lives were truly dedicated to the welfare of their children. They were willing to

give up their lives a million times a day for our well-being. They both came from poor Jewish

immigrant families. Their parents had come to America escaping religious persecution. Whichever

relatives could not escape were later murdered by the Nazi regime. I especially remember my

paternal grandfather. He was a kind-hearted soul. He had deep faith in the Judaic religion and

tradition. It was a wonder for me to witness how he so graciously endeavored to harmonize his

old world lifestyle with 20th century American society.

My mother would faithfully be there for her children 24 hours a day. She single handedly did all

the chores of the household while raising her children. Mother cooked a feast for the family every

evening. She always emphasized the virtue of gratitude. Painstakingly, she made sure that I

learned to offer thanks to whomever showed kindness to me. She was very attentive not to spoil us

12
by satisfying our whims. Time and again she stressed, “It’s the thought that counts”. Whether she

was given a gift of precious jewelery or I brought her a simple flower, she was equally thrilled.

With a loving smile she proclaimed, “It’s the thought that counts”. In this she taught me that

happiness comes not by the material thing, but by the love in which it is given. What immense

pride she took in seeing whatever good we did. When I suffered a dislocated shoulder mother was

there in moments to drive me to the hospital. After surgery the first thing I saw was mother at my

bedside. I told her that her cigarette was making me sick. As was the style for American women at

that time, she had been smoking 2 packs of cigarettes every day for over 15 years. When she heard

my appeal, she cried, having caused me pain. At that moment she vowed to never touch another

cigarette for the rest of her life. She never smoked again. Time and again she revealed her selfless

service to us. Both mother and father were especially careful not to show partiality to any one of

their three sons. They were equal in their love to all of us.

My father was a man who earnestly dedicated his life for the welfare of his family. Both he and

my mother had been brought up in the poverty of the great depression. He left school at an early

age due to shortage of food at home. He laboured greatly in his business pursuits. I saw how he

accepted the responsibility of financially maintaining his ageing parents and his sickly mother in

law. He was always there to provide for his brother and sister at time of need. In 1958, when I was

seven years old, he and my Uncle Irv invested everything they had in a promising business

venture. They became the largest automobile dealership in the Chicago area for a brand new line

of cars by Ford. It was the infamous Edsel, perhaps the greatest financial disaster in automobile

history. Father went into total bankruptcy. He lost everything. I silently watched how he struggled

to somehow protect us from poverty. When it was the age for me to enter Hebrew school he could

13
not afford to send me. When I turned 13 years old my father approached Rabbi Lipis, asking for a

simple Bar Mitzvah to bless me. The Rabbi gave me personal tutoring free of cost to teach me the

basic prayers. When I sincerely asked him the meaning of the prayers he became surprisingly

emotional. Embracing me like his own son he told, in all of the years he had been teaching, I was

the first child with a genuine interest to understand. From the time I was 15 years old I was

employed in various jobs. I worked after school and full time on weekends and during school

vacations. I felt guilty putting unnecessary financial burden on my parents for things I may want.

Father loved to play with us. He was especially fond of taking me to football and baseball games.

Due to his unrelenting dedication and hard work, fathers’ business pursuits became a great

success. He earned much wealth.

The day I was leaving for college my father sat down to have a serious talk with me. With tears in

his eyes he spoke words that greatly impacted my life. “Son, you should know that as long as I am

alive, I will always be there for you. There is nothing you could do to change that. I will always

love you and will always be ready to give my life for you. Even if you betray me, become a drug

addict or criminal. Know for certain that my love and help will always be there for you.” I cried as

I heard his words. He remained true to his promise. I was to test him beyond his farthest

expectations.

My elder brother Marty had a soft heart. He was the foremost troublemaker in our neighborhood.

Although his pranks were childish, it brought much embarassment to my conservative parents.

I shared a room with my younger brother Larry. He was gentle, humble and always kind hearted.

Because he was younger, I did not treat him as I should have. We were dear friends

Like in most American families, a popular member was our pet dog Kippy. He amazed us all as

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he would spontaneously pose, raising his head, to sing his heart out whenever a musical instrument

was played. I was thinking, perhaps he was a great opera singer in a past life.

When my dearest friends heard that I was leaving for Europe they arranged a gathering to say

goodbye. The gathering was at Steves home. He and his brother Mike and sisters Debbie and

Charlotte were a most special and affectionate family. Of course Bob was there. Bob and I were

reknowned as being loyal friends. We passed through all the transformational stages of youth as

the closest brothers. We shared everything we had. He was quite wild. Yet anyone who met him

thought him to be the nicest person in the world. We affectionately spoke of our plans when I

return at the end of the summer. After breakfast I had to leave to catch my flight. They all walked

me to the car. Bob drove. As we drove off I saw Charlotte leaning out from an upstairs window.

She smiled upon me with tears in her eyes. Tears filled my eyes, as I smiled back.

I boarded a flight from O’Hare Airport in Chicago. It was destined to JFK airport in New York. I

sat in the window seat assigned to me. Besides me was a conservative, middle aged woman. She

scornfully stared at me. It was a stare of utter disapproval toward my long hair. At that time long

hair was not simply a fashion. It was a symbol of revolt. Revolt against the norms of society. We

grew our hair long as a statement of disaproval toward materialistic ways of American society. It

was taken as an insult to the many who knew no other way. Feeling uncomfortable, I kept my gaze

out the window. Minutes later, my eyes met with a great surprise. Replacing the lady was a man

wearing all black. His long straight hair was shiny white, skin fair and eyes pinkish. It was Johnny

Winters the famous Rock and Roll Star. I had seen his concerts many times at the Rock Festivals.

He was one of my favorites. We greeted each other with the soul brothers hand-shake. It was a

relief for both of us to be together. In great joy, he shared amazing stories of his life, career and the

15
famous persons he had performed with. The delayed take off brought us hours of intimate

discussion. Johnny took note of the harmonica case on my belt. He took out his own Harmonica.

Smiling, he spoke in his charming southern accent, “Lets jam (play) brother. Lets jam! This plane

needs some life!” Beginning with “Mother in law Blues” by Little Junior Parker, we played on

together. Some passengers protested, however, the young airline hostesses were thrilled to be

attending a free concert by the famous star, Johnny Winters. We happily played together for over

an hour. Both of us were quite sad to see that the plane was soon to land.

Upon arrival, Johnny and I disembarked from the plane with arms around each others shoulders.

Waiting for him was a beautiful model from Denmark. Waiting for me was Gary and Frank.

We traveled on perhaps the worlds cheapest Airlines, Icelandic. For $65 we flew to Iceland with

continued journey to Luxembourg. Gary and I had very little money. We planned to live by the

simplest possible mode of survival. Frank had brought a fair amount of currency, to help us as

well. Not wanting to spend more than needed, we spent the first night in a free campground.

Nightime came soon after we arrived. Many young Europeans slept in tents. We rented a small

tent. As we laid to rest our hearts were filled with anticipation for what the next day would bring.

We woke in the morning, exhilarated. We were in Luxembourg, on the European continent. We

were teenagers on our own. It was the first day in our lives away from our native soil.

Overwhelmed with anticipation of the adventures ahead, we smiled uncontrollably. Moments later,

a cry of anguish, it was Frank. Disaster struck him down. He was robbed! All his money was

stolen. Seriously shaken by the event, our Frank took the next plane back to the USA. He was

astounded that Gary and I chose to stay.

In the campground we developed friendship with a group of young searchers from Holland. In

16
their Volkswagon Van, we travelled to Belgium and on to the Netherlands. On both sides of the

road were luxurious pasture grounds merging into the horizon. Robust cows with bountiful milk

bags peacefully grazed on the lush green grasses. The scene would change from time to time into

an expansive carpet of multicolored Tulips. What an awesome sight.

A boy named Kosmos brought us to his home near Abcoude. A quiet farm town decorated with

agricultural fields and cow pastures. His mother graciously welcomed us with a traditional Dutch

breakfast. Amongst his associates we spent happy days. Chooch, was an adventurous, kindhearted

soul. Their village girl friends, Marianna and Anja, kindly fed us grapes and other fruits. We

developed very happy relationships. They were our first friends oversees. Chooch brought us to

Amsterdam. Gary and I were now on our own. We learned how to survive with virtually no

money at all. We shared, what we considered to be a common sacred virtue. Wherever we may be,

we generate kindness and peace with whomever we meet. We were fascinated by the prospect of

studying the art, culture and people of foreign lands. In my heart, I longingly searched for God and

spiritual enlightenment. Each day, I would find a secluded place to meditate and pray.

Fantazio was a culture shock. Hundreds of hippies gathered in this old building. Live bands

played as everyone was openly smoking Hashish with Chillums (clay pipe). In the USA there was

constant paranoia of arrest for such behaviour. Here they were casually sitting or lying down with

no fear. Gary turned to me. “What if the police come?” At that moment a uniformed policeman

walked through the crowds, smiling and waving at the stoned hippies.

A small price was charged to sleep the night on the floor of Fantasio. After paying, the hand was

stamped with an ink insignia. Late at night, one person would pay and enter. He would secretly

move through the darkness to the battered garage doors that made the front wall of the building.

17
Defying the rules, he lifted the garage door upward. Just enough so that those without much

money could sneak their way in. Gary and I were there each night to accept this frugal

accomodation. The Amsterdam police would arrest anyone in the city sleeping outside. Thus we

felt justified. Early one morning, standing on a lonely side street, we wondered, “What will we

eat?” Gary mischievously pointed to a milk man delivering bottles at each doorstep. We took one

each. It was flock, a thick yellow milk drink. We took only one each from a different doorstep

each morning. With our limited funds we bought one loaf of bread each day. In the morning we

waited at a bakery until the bread came out of the oven. We purchased it fresh and hot. Dividing it

in half this was our daily subsistence. This became our tradition wherever we traveled. On special

occasions we may obtain a piece of cheese or butter.

Youth from various parts of the world joined their Dutch brothers and sisters to congregate at one

of four “hang outs.”Fantasio was the most primitive facility. Paradisio and Melkweg were larger

halls where well known local bands would play music. Cosmos was a center for spirituality.

Entering Cosmos, I found myself in a hippies paradise. Colored plastic beads formed curtains

across the doorways. Knitted cotton lampscreens hung from the ceiling. The rooms had tapestries

painted with stars and galaxies. Tibetan Mandalas and Eastern religious artwork hung from the

walls. The sweet smell of patchouly perfume and hashish mixed with the scent of fragrant incense.

Vegetarian food and herbal teas were sold at an affordable price. Purple, yellow and orange

mattresses scattered on the floor as sitting places. Everywhere, small groups of people were

absorbed in discussions. Some spoke on their psychedelic visions of reality. Others discussed their

revolutionary views of politics. The more sober talked about spiritual books they were reading or

their experiences in meditation and yoga. Halucinating on LSD or peyote, some took their trip

18
alone in a world of colors and sensations. Each night the Cosmos invited different spiritual groups

to do programs. We regularly attended. One night I spent some hours meditating in the meditation

room. As I came down the stairs I noticed that there was an advertisement for a spiritual

experience. I entered the room to find that the presentation had just ended. Two men with shaved

heads and pony-tails, wearing robes were about to depart. I was requested, “cup your hands”. A

large spoonful of fruit salad mixed with yoghurt was dropped into my cupped hands. It was

dripping down my arms. I was perplexed, “What do I do now?” “Eat it!” said the monks as they

walked out of door. Helplessly I stood alone, clumsily licking it from my hands up to my elbows.

Seeking to enrich our lives, we visited the art museums. It was our belief that great artists used

their art as a means to relay a spiritual message to the public. Meditation on art could lead us to

higher spiritual perceptions. We spent an entire day in each museum. Sometimes I would reflect

on different spiritual interpretations for a single painting for hours at a time.

One museum was dedicated to the art of Vincent Van Gogh. His paintings were exhibited

chronologically. I pondered, “He had such subtle perceptions of the most common objects.

According to the state of consciousness, each person perceives the world with different eyes.”

From room to room the artwork progressed in greater and greater degrees of expression. The final

painting of the exhibit: an incredibly vibrant hay field with black birds descending from the sky.

The birds represented death. After completeing this work Van Gogh took his life in that hay field.

This shook me. In my simple mind I reflected. “Perhaps he saw the world with far more sensitivity

than the common man. He was frustrated by the meaninglesness and futility of life. In such a state

of loneliness he called upon the birds of death to take him.” This striking experience provoked me

to gravely ponder the emptiness of life without spiritual enlightenment. We frequented the

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Cathedrals of Europe for study and prayer.

At Dam square and Vondel Park we met people from all over Europe and the Americas. It was of

great interest to study their values. Gary and I learned how to travel together and accommodate

both our similarities as well as differences. We were both fond of meeting new people and seeing

historic places. We shared an excitement to make people happy in every way we could. However I

had this deep longing to find a secluded place to meditate and pray. We would often wander in our

separate ways for hours or days. Then affectionately meet according to Gods plan.

Gary and I hitchiked from Amsterdam to the Hook of Holland. We boarded the ferry to cross the

English Channel. The large ferry was overcrowded with hundreds of people upon its tiered decks.

As we sailed across the channel, my mind began to sail back in time crossing lands and oceans.

As a small child I would be ashamed to have things that others did not. When my mother bought

new clothes. I would not wear them until she repeatedly washed away the newness. I would scrape

new shoes until the newness disappeared. When my parents bought expensive new cars I would

sit on the floor of the back seat. I refused to sit on a chair while eating, thus I would always stand

at the table while taking dinner with my family. When we went to a restaurant the waitress would

offer me a chair. My mother would inform her, “He is against chairs.” I did not know where these

strange qualities had come from. One day, when I was sixteen, the family went to a country club

restaurant for lunch. Suddenly I retreated to the parking lot to sit alone in the car. My affectionate

Grandfather, being worried, came to see what was troubling me. I revealed my heart to him, “The

busboy is my classmate and friend. I am ashamed to allow him to serve me.” Tears welled in

Grandfathers eyes as he embraced me, saying, “I am proud of you.” He returned to my familys’

table to defend my position. As a teenager I was quite popular amongst both boys and girls. Free

20
sex was a foundational pillar of the generation. One by one my friends were having girl friends. I

perceived it as an entanglement. Ones precious freedom was lost. Young girls sent me messages

that they liked me. I tried to be kind, but shyed away from their proposals. I would often cry

hearing music about broken hearts. I saw it time and again amongst my peers. I could not bear the

thought of hurting a girls’ heart in such away. Although some passion did reside in my mind, I

never had a girlfriend. For this reason, I sometimes felt embarrassment amongst the society of my

peers.

As I gazed into the waters of the English Channel I wondered, “Why am I so different? Where

could I have possibly gotten these ideas? Could it be from a past life? It seems as if an invisible

force was leading my life in a direction I could not comprehend. It seems that someone within me

was prohibiting me from being like others.”

Dover, England

Coming off of the boat we entered into the British Immigration. The officials took special note of

us. Gary had long hair hanging below his shoulders and a full beard. My hair extended down my

back. We were pushed into a private room, treated as criminals. Some time later, three officials

entered. They looked upon us with disgust. When they saw how little money we had they gazed

with wrath. The leader screamed in defiance, “We don’t want animals like you in our country! We

will beat the hell out of you and throw you in prison.” Turning to a bobby, “Get the scissors and

cut their filthy hair to their scalps.” To another, “Search these parasites for drugs.” We were

stripped of all clothes as they scrutinized each inch of our belongings. For the next hour they

emotionally tortured us with abusive interrogation. “You’re in big trouble, first your hair will be

cut, then jail. Whatever is left of you will be deported.” They stormed out of the room.

21
Disoriented, Gary and I could not speak a word to each other. If they wished to torment us with

fear, they had succeeded. Hours passed in isolation as we anxiously contemplated our uncertain

destiny. Abruptly, two bobbys aggressively grabbed each of us by the arms and pulled us through

a corridor. “We’re watching you. One wrong move and your in big trouble”. With these words

they pushed us through immigrations and stamped our passports. A sobering welcome into the

United Kingdom!

The Isle of Wight

We were searching for God and a higher reason to live. Rock musicians were considered the

prophets of the 60’s. Their music promised enlightenment into higher realms of reality. In 1968

and 1969 Gary and I traveled as pilgrims to several major Rock Festivals in the US. Woodstock

had consecrated the rock festival into a cultural pilgrimage for the counterculture.

The largest of such festivals in history was to take place on the Isle of Wight. Gary and I

hitchhiked down the coast and boarded a ferry. The Isle of Wight was an astounding picture of

natural scenic beauty. Hundreds and thousands of young seekers immerged upon the timeless

tranquility of this legendary British Isle. Plush hills and valleys created a panoramic landscape.

Gary and I purchased tickets to attend. To insure that everyone would pay, they had erected high

fences around the entire festival area. Hundreds of security police with dogs surrounded the site to

insure that all pay or go home. Radical activists called the crowds to hear their campaign. “These

greedy, money hungry capitalists are hijacking the ideals of our Peace Movement. Music and love

is free for all. Crash down the fences”. The police lined up with sticks in hand to defend.

Thousands of passionate idealists stormed the fence. The police beat a few then shaking their

heads, gave up. Days of such battles ensued. Announcements were continuosly pleading with the

22
crowds to pay for tickets or force the organizers into bankruptcy. At one point, the flustered

managers halfheartedly announced their defeat, “The festival is now free to everyone!” It was

advertised as a gathering of peace and love. About half a million youth gathered, seeking some

type of enlightenment. Almost every one of the biggest names in Rock Music gave legendary

performances. It went on practically 24 hours for 3 days. Gary and I found a hill outside the

festival to sleep on.

From the coast off the Isle of Wight we hitchhiked through the beautiful English countryside. We

gazed upon the expansive green fields and rolling hills. Giant ancient trees testified to the long

history of Great Britain. A Volkswagon Van picked us up. In fact the driver was picking up each

and every hippie hitchhiking on the roadside. About a dozen were packed in. I laid down on the

floor near the rear. Hours passed. I looked through my bag to find a small book. Recently, while in

New York, I attended the Randalls Island Music Festival. A shaved headed monk handed me a

book and asked for a donation. I was carrying no money. At that moment a drug dealer came to

sell me hashish. He called out, “Hashish”. The monk, disturbed by this intrusion stared at him and

yelled, “Krishna”. A two-worded argument ensued, “Hashish,” “Krishna,” “Hashish,” “Krishna”.

So absorbed in their defiance to each other, they both forgot about me and walked away. I was left

with the book. Discovering the book in my small bag, I read the cover, “Who is Crazy” and

“Krishna the Reservoir of Pleasure”. I turned the book to the back cover. I was overwhelmed upon

seeing the photograph. An elderly shaven headed yogi under a tree. His divine smile and radiant

eyes stirred my heart. He was from another world. I thought, “If anyone is in spiritual ecstasy it is

this man”. The music of the van was playing so loud I did not even attempt to read. Flat tire, no

spare, everyone out. The book was inadvertently left behind.

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After several rides we came to the town of Serbaton. Mark and Steve Touhy were two brothers we

met at the Isle of Wight. We became close friends with the British brothers. The coin operated

meter in their small apartment interested us. It provided electricity. Every few hours all electricity

went out. Upon placing a shilling in the meter box the lights and music would go on. One morning

Mark cried out “ No, no, it can’t be. Look! headline of a London Newspaper, JIMI HENDRIX

DEAD. It happened last night, very close to our house. He overdosed on Heroine.” At the Isle of

Wight, we saw his last major performance. Seriously startled, I reflected, “Jimi Hendrix was one

of the formost heroes of our generation. He was living in the peak of success. He had world fame

and fortune. Yet he lived in misery. What type of emptiness and frustration would lead one to an

overdose of heroine? My mind drifted back, standing with my friend Bob in the Fords Pharmacy

in Deerfield Illinois. We were shocked to tears to see the newspaper article describing the death of

Brian Jones of the Rolling Stones. He drowned in a swimming pool while overdosed on drugs and

alcohol. Blind Owl, singer and lead guitarist of the famous Canned Heat recently died of an

overdose of sleeping pills. Now the legendary Jimi Hendrix is dead. What is happening to our

generation? Could such confused, frustrated souls give enlightenment the world?” I cried in pity

for him. I prayed to God, “What is really success? Please guide my way.” The Isle of Wight was

the last Rock concert I ever attended.

London

Walking along the River Thames, gazing at Big Ben, the symbol of London, Gary and I were

thrilled by our adventure.

We found free residence in the basement of a church on Lambeth Road. It was across the River

Thames from the House of Parliament. A priest had sympathy for homeless young travelers. He

24
was kind and had an open mind. Freely, he gave counseling to all the confused ones who came to

him. Each night he opened the hall beneath the Church for one and all to sleep. We found a vacant

space on the floor.

In the royal opulence of Westminster Abbey we meditated and prayed. Each day, we spent

several hours meditating on the steps of Trafalger Square. Swarms of thousands of pigeons

covered the expansive pavement. It was their natural resting place. Elderly people fed the pigeons

with much feeling. This was their daily act of charity. Tourists from all parts the world snapped

photos of the towering Nelson Monument. The warm summer sky was overcast with the familiar

clouds of Great Britain. A constant noise and smell of traffic filled all directions. In the heart of all

of this, we silently meditated, entering into the world within. Crossing the street to St. Martin of

the Fields, we received free food at their charity booths. We visited the many museums of art and

history, hoping the experience would expand our consciousness.

Picadilly Circus was a scene for the counterculture. Hundreds of youth from London and the world

congregated each night. It was quite a scene. Under flashing neon lights they gathered, in a world

of their own. Dressed in bright multicolors they talked of peace, revolution, politics, Viet Nam and

music. Some hunted for sex partners. Drug pushers discreetly searched for customers. The

notorious skin heads walked by, threateningly scrowling at the hippies. Junkies shot up heroine in

the toilet stalls of the Underground Tube Station. The bobbies carefully watched, waiting for an

incident to occur. Pedestrians hurried by, each expressing a unique reaction to the scene. Gary and

I interacted, while observing, soaking in the unusual experience.

While trying to decide where to go next we came to the conclusion, “ We should surrender our

destiny to the Lord”. From that day on we defined our travel plans. When someone picked us up

25
while hitchhiking, they would always ask, “Where are you going?” We would reply,”Where are

you going?” Whatever they answered we happily replied, “That’s where we’re going”. Standing

on the side of the road our destiny was a mystery to be revealed by our next ride. We believed that

was where God wants us to go. From Dover, England we took a boat across the English Channel

to Calais France. We stopped in several small French towns and villages. Eagerness to see Paris

was growing in our minds. On the outskirts of this great city, we were picked up by a family

driving to Switzerland. On to Switzerland we went.

We walked higher and higher, exploring the grandeur of Mount Blanc in the French Alps. The

snow covered mountains of Switzerland majestically proclaim Gods magnificence. The Swiss

people were very pleasing and hospitable.

We were brought to a youth hostel near the beautiful Lake Geneva. We shared a large dormitory

with about 25 others. Jim had just received his honorable discharge from the US Army. He had

been stationed for the past 2 years in Germany. He invested a sizable amount of his savings in

German electronics he planned to sell in America. His car was loaded with all of his wealth. He set

out for Morocco via Italy. Jim invited Gary and I to accompany him. We accepted his proposal.

Italy

Each country of Europe appeared to possess a unique terrain, language and customs. For one

raised in North America the varieties of Europe were mind expanding. All my life I was

conditioned to see reality according to a particular social ego . I had felt culturally isolated. I was

eager to learn how people of other cultures viewed life, God and the world around us.

The graceful hills of Northern Italy charmed our minds. The hills were meticulously terraced,

lined with abundant crops. Genoa, the native city of Christopher Columbus. It was a historic center

26
for trade and culture. We glided in our vehicle down a sloping hill. A breathtaking sight thrilled

our hearts, the Mediterranean Sea. The afternoon sunshine jubilantly danced upon her deep blue

waters. It was a hot summer day. We parked the car on the roadside of a cliff. Excitedly, we

climbed down the steep mountainside leading to this place of ancient history. It was an

exhilerating experience. After a long swim, we laid under the sun atop gigantic rocks. I thanked

God for this experience. I felt as if I were absorbing sacred history. We were so happy, it was

difficult to leave those rocks to continue our journey. Thoroughly refreshed we climbed up the

cliff to be greeted by…shock. Windows were broken, theft. Everything in the car was gone. Jim

was devastated. He joined the army to earn and save money. All that he earned in two years, cash

and electronics, was stolen. He was pale in grief. He was literally penniless. Gary and I had

practically nothing to lose. We were greifstricken to see Jims plight. He cried. “Let’s report it to

the police”. We were in the town of Laspeza. From that lonely mountainside we drove to the

police station. At the desk we reported the facts. Suddenly we were escorted to a prison cell. “Your

under arrest”. As the door shut, the sound of crashing steel bewildered our minds. “Now what?”

Police officials screamed with a storm of rage. Not a word of English. They demanded answers

but we could not understand a word they spoke. This infuriated them all the more. After some time

an officer came who spoke basic English. “Two choices” he stated sternly. “Stay in jail or get out

of our town and never come back.” We chose the latter. An official police car escorted us up to the

city limits. We drove and drove until the gas tank was empty. This was our first day in Italy.

Jim apologized, he would return to Germany. The next morning he sent a telegram to an army

friend in Germany, asking to send by American Express, gas fare to return. Gary and I tried to

help.

27
Again we were on our own. Standing on the roadside, wondering, what was our destiny?

A family picked us up and dropped us at a small village. We were surprised to see decorations

everywhere. The atmosphere was surcharged with festivity. People were smiling and laughing as

they danced to traditional music, performed live. It was the annual wine festival, celebrating the

first harvest of their grapes. We were welcomed with smiles by all. Varieties of food as well as

glass after glass of their proud wine were freely given. They considered it a blessing of God that

foreigners had come to their village celebration.

Florence.

The most artistically beautiful city we had ever seen. All of the art was steeped in praise of God.

We studied the religious masterpieces of Michelangelo, Leonardo, Raphael and other such inspired

geniuses. We stayed in a traditional villa, transformed into a youth hostel. Many friends were

made. Everyone discussed their travels to different lands, social ideals, revolution or spirituality.

At times we would share Hashish or marijuana seeking higher conciousness. This was the social

life of such world travelers of the time.

My inner spiritual craving was intensifying like never before. At times I wondered astray from

Gary to visit monasteries to pray and discuss with the monks the Old and New Testaments. The

life and teachings of Jesus moved my heart to tears. His wisdom, compassion and love for God

deeply affected me.

Conflict struck my mind. I had gained precious spiritual inspiration studying the Torah and

Kaballah amongst other scriptures of the Jews. Was I betraying my Jewish ancestors by my love

for Jesus? Why did the Christians and Jews, historically, have such differences? I pondered this

dilemna and cried for answers. I revealed my mind to an old monk in the monastery. His words

28
touched my heart. “There is one God. All real religions teach us to love and obey Him. I believe

that Jesus is the Messiah. Perhaps it is Gods will to inspire devoted Jews with a different belief. It

is my belief that God wishes to preserve on this earth the sacred culture, rituals and spirituality of

the descendants of Abraham. Thus one path appears in two forms. The Kingdom of God is the

goal we share. Men of small minds create confusion. Do not be troubled my son, God will bless

you.” My mind was pacified. I appreciated his words.

The ? Cathedral was an awesome masterpiece of religious opulence. Most of my days were spent

in that Holy Cathedral or sitting on the steps outside. It was an awesome display of architecture

and sculptoring. The immense proportions of the domed sanctuary gave me a sense of the

greatness of God and how small I was in His presence. It was here that a dramatic transformation

came upon me. While immersed in prayer I was overcome with an inspiration that seemed to

engulf my entire being. It was as if I was paralyzed both within and without. From my heart

erupted a burning desire to commit my life exclusively to the path of spirituality. I silently offered

gratitude to the Lord. Now, I could not turn back from my search.

It was approaching the scheduled time for Gary and I to return to college. Our families and friends

at home were expecting us. However, we had changed. Our search was only beginning.

Our destiny led us to Rome. I was fascinated. A modern metropolis ornamented with ancient

historical ruins. The combination seemed surrealistic. On the outskirts of the city was an

impressive mansion turned into a youth hostel. We were told that it had previously been the

vacation home of Mousalinis’ mistress. Just behind the hostel was a forested hill. Gary and I

resided on that hill. So happy we were to sleep at night under the shelter of the starlit sky.

Sharing the hilltop with us was Jason. He was in his late twenties from New York. Jason traveled

29
on a BMW motorcycle. He carried a supply of foods, pots and cooking devices. Unlike us, he was

very mature and experienced in arranging material comforts while on the road. He had a keen,

critical intelligence. Each day Jason prepared breakfast and dinner as he shared his critique on

current events. He had great hopes that when the counterculture became the older generation, the

world would be an incredible place of peace, love and prosperity. His conviction struck us.

We toured the Forum, in the ancient city of Rome. I wondered, “Such a developed city, now

rubble. The power of time consumes the great and the small. Entire civilizations come and go.

Soon we and all around us will be reduced to dust. Where is the eternal truth, beyond time?”

We roamed through the ruins of the Coliseum. It is a magnificent architectural creation. I

imagined its’ glory thousands of years back. As the Roman Civilization degraded, the Coliseum

was the setting for terrible events. Cheering crowds enjoying the bloody deaths of gladiators,

slaves and Christians. Sitting on the steps, Gary and I reflected. “Bloodshed and war is the basis of

world history. What invokes such brutality in mankind? Unless we find true peace in ourselves, we

have nothing of value to offer humanity.”

We searched for enlightenment in Cathedrals, museums and monasteries. In one such monastery,

the monks were meditating in rooms filled with the bones of the dead bodies of their predecesors.

In some rooms hundreds of skeleton parts were piled high along the walls. In other rooms the

skeleton parts were artistically assembled to make floral designs, chandeliers etc. We asked an old

monk sitting beside us to explain. “This meditation helps us to realize the impermanence of the

body and all that it is attached to. We meditate and pray to God to help us to overcome the

temptations of sin. We seek refuge in the Kingdom of God.” We listened carefully. Deeper in the

catacombs was a group of skeletons, wearing monk robes. They were speaking to all visitors

30
through a sign they pointed to. It read, “As you are now, we used to be. As we are now, you will

be.”

In Vatican City we went on pilgrimage to The Bascillica of Saint Peter, the largest and most

opulent cathedral on earth. It is the world capital of the Catholic Church. St. Peter and the apostles

of Lord Jesus Christ were willing and grateful to accept persecution, torture and death to serve

God and man. As I stood before his tomb, I reflected, “What great faith and compassion he had.

Perhaps there is no such greater wealth”.

It was Sunday, thousands of people filled Vatican Square eager to hear from the Pope. He

appeared from a window overhead. Gary and I were present a he spoke his message of peace.

I returned to Gary in Rome. Outside of Rome, Gary and I stood on the side of the road for hours

without a ride. Two young American girls approached us. We had previously met them in

Florence. Anxiety covered their faces. Katheryn and Christina, from California, were hitchhiking

around Europe on a very low budget. They shared their grief with us. The truck drivers were

enamoured by their long blonde hair and youthful splendour. Time and again, they had to battle

against sexual molestation while confined to a truck at 100 kilometers per hour. They held their

morality as sacred. They pleaded with us, to each travel with one of them. We divided into two

groups. The plan was to meet at the youth hostel in Naples. Christina stood on the roadside. I was

a little out of sight. Upon seeing her, practically every truck that passed, slammed the brakes. She

was enthusiastically invited in. When they saw me, they yelled something and drove off, leaving

us both behind. Finally a truck agreed to give us a ride with the condition that Cynthia sat in the

middle. Within minutes his hand was upon her body. She screamed, I shouted, “My wife, my

wife,” he persisted. It was becoming quite outragious. There was a battle at 100 kilometers per

31
hour. When it was obvious to him we were not willing to pay our travel fare, he stopped and told

us to get out. As men, Gary and I could travel almost any where without much fear. Without a man

to protect them, women were in constant danger of being exploited by the “stronger sex”.

Late at night we arrived in Naples. We walked for miles to reach the youth hostel. The gate was

locked. No one heeded our calls. We walked into a peaceful residential area. In a scenic natural

setting we chose to sleep under a palm tree. She thanked me for protecting her. She slept under one

side of the tree, I under the other. It was a beautiful night. The refreshing ocean breeze was like a

musician playing sweet songs, as it blew upon the leaves of the tropical trees. The sky was

perfectly clear, a setting for countless sparkling stars. I felt as if I were in heaven as I drifted into

sleep. Suddenly I awoke to the cracking sound of thunder. I looked to see if Christina was alright.

We were soaking wet, bitterly trembling in freezing cold. We had nowhere to go. The hostel did

not open until 7:00am. Painful hours passed. Finally the first glimpses of sunshine appeared. A

lady saw us from her kitchen window. We were in her back yard. She was shocked. She screamed

in anger as she threw a cooking pot and then a rolling pin at me. Heaven had turned into hell.

Pompeii

Some days passed studying the wonderful city of Naples. Gary and I then hitchhiked to the

legendary city of Pompeii. At one time it was a thriving city. Mount Vesuvius showed great wrath

as volcanic eruptions utterly devastated everything. Centuries later the civilization was excavated

from layers of solidified lava. Perfect molds of human bodies were formed of the ashes and water.

Animals, artifacts, buildings and roads were preserved in the hardened lava. I reflected, “What is

the history of Pompeii teaching us. Perhaps that at any moment disaster could come upon anyone

at any time. In our complacency we fail to grasp the impermanence of all that is material. The

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bubonic plague killed half the population of Europe. The atomic bomb leveled Hiroshima.

Earthquake caused the city of San Francisco to crumble. Fire destroyed the city of Chicago. The

great depression of America suddenly cast an entire nation into poverty. The list does not end. The

powers of nature take everything away from us. Why procrastinate to seek the eternal jewel of

enlightenment? Now is the time.” Smiling, I recalled the night of the rainstorm in Naples, as a

small example.

From the port town of Brindisi we sailed on a boat to the Greek island Corfu. Corfu is the ancient

Corcyra written about by Homer in The Odyessy.

Searching for a place to spend the nights we discovered the wooden framework of a new house

under construction. Each night we slept on the roof, under the stars. It was near the port

overlooking the Ionian Sea. In the mornings some simple peasants would invite us to take

breakfast with them. We were offered fresh baked bread rolls covered with butter and honey.

Considering our regular diet of dividing one loaf of bread per day, this was the most delicious feast

we could imagine.

Each day I would wonder alone onto a mountain. It was abundant with olive and fig trees. High

up, overlooking the Ionian Sea, I sat each day under a pomegranate tree. There, I studied the

spiritual books procured during travel. I was eager to learn more and more. From various teachers,

philosophers and religious traditions, I would strive to understand the ultimate goal of life.

Breathing the fresh Meditteranean air inspired much contemplation.

Greece

Hitchiking on the mainland of Greece was a great adventure. One truck driver, a very friendly

man, suddenly offered salutations to a distant mountain. With great reverence, he pointed his

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finger exclaiming, “Mount Olympus, home of our Gods.”

Athens, named after the Goddess of wisdom.

We spent days at the Acropolis studying its history. There we saw the Parthenon and other

beautiful structures built around the 5th century BC.

Dear Family,

I now dwell in Athens, Greece, I am sorry that I did not write sooner but I was on an Island where

the post office was about a 15 mile walk from where I was, there were no cars or buses to take me.

I have been doing much reading and studying of eastern philosophy and religion. It is so beautiful

and so peaceful where I am that I am able to do much thinking. Without a doubt I am learning

more about the world and about myself than I ever was able to before. Traveling through these

countries is the most worthwhile thing that I have done in my life. I send my love to all of you. I

would like to end my letter with this thought. Regardless of how many miles apart you are we are

still together, for the closeness between us is in our hearts.

Love,

Richard

Athens, Greece

October, 1970

The Athens police held automatic machine guns while patrolling the streets. I had never before

seen such a thing. It was advisable that we stay at the Youth hostel rather than find a tree to sleep

under. But there was a problem. We had no more money. Although Youth Hostels were extremely

cheap, we could not afford it. Under such circumstances we turned to one of the traditional

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financial enterprises for travelers at that time. Donate blood at the government blood bank. The

primitive process used was extremely painful. We almost blacked out. It was the rule that each

donor was required to sit in a waiting room for a half hour after giving blood. Only after seeing

that one survived the painful ordeal did they pay the donor. In the waiting room Gary and I sat in

much pain. Gary exclaimed, “There must be a better way to make money than this.” We looked

around the room, there was a Frenchman with a guitar case in the same agony. A Swiss boy with a

violin case was holding his arm in misery. I always carried my harmonica on my belt. We all

looked at each other. Simultaneously we all had the same inspiration. Let us start a musical band!

The Swiss boy was trained from childhhood as a classical violinist. As a teen he chose to play the

blues. The French guitarist was trained in classical style but converted to Folk music. Together, we

went out into the street and began to play. Soon about a hundred people gathered around happily

dancing to our music. Gary had the brilliant idea to put a few coins in his hat and shake it. He

became our rythym section. So pleased with our performance the audience enthusiastically threw

drachmas (the Greek currency) into Garys’ hat. We formed a musical procession down the streets

of Athens. Crowds amusingly followed behind. When we stopped at a corner, hundreds

assembled. The hat filled with drachmas wherever we stopped. We were a sensation.

At the end of the day we divided our earnings and checked in the Youth Hostel. The next day we

took the city by storm. Wherever we went hundreds gathered around us in a circle. All were

smiling, clapping and dancing. They loved us. We were a hit. Suddenly, the crowd dispersed.

Surrounded by machine guns pointing into our faces. We were arrested and taken to the station.

The police confiscated whatever money they could find. We were warned to never commit such a

crime again. That was the beginning and the end of my musical career.

35
Athens was a fascinating city, however we longed for a more peaceful place to cultivate our

spirituality. We boarded a boat to the Isle of Crete. Arriving at the port of Iraklion on the Aegean

Sea we rode on the back of a truck to the islands southern coast. There we found residence in a

cave.

I had become obsessed with my thirst for enlightenment. Each day I would climb a secluded

mountain in the early morning. I sat in meditation and prayer from sunrise to sunset. Gary would

do the same on the seaside. After the sun had set we would meet in our cave to break our daylong

fast with some plain bread. We discussed our spiritual realizations of the day while falling asleep

on the caves stone floor. Contemplative weeks passed in this way. I felt as if I were being utterly

consumed by my yearning for God. It was as if I were being possessed by this one desire. In the

solitude of that mountaintop I found shelter. A shelter I would not trade for all of the riches on

earth.

On one day, I wept many tears, praying for direction. Everything in my life seemed to be

evaporating by the burning fire of this aspiration. The day was ending. I was thrilled to witness the

most beautiful sunset I had ever seen. On my right the sun appeared as a luminescent orb of soft

red descending into the sea. The waters of the Mediteranean appeared to be delicately veiled by a

rich golden aura. Her waves seemed to be jubilantly dancing with intoxicating light. To my left,

snow capped mountains were illuminated with a deep golden splendour. Above, the vast sky

glowed with brilliance. She appeared to be performing a grand finale for the pleasure of the

Supreme. It was breathtaking. In that blessed setting emerged a moment that would forever

change my life. Within my heart I heard a sweet but commanding voice that shook my very being.

“Go to India”. I firmly believed it to be the voice of the Lord, calling for me.

36
“With no money, how could I travel to India?” This question was of no relevance. I was

determined to leave at once. I returned to our cave.

Meeting with Gary, I shared my heart, “Something amazing has happened to me”.

Gary responded, “Something amazing happened to me.”

“Please tell me”.

Gary enthusiastically spoke with his eyes glistening, “At sunset I heard a voice”

“What did the voice say?” I inquired eagerly

As if in wonder, Gary revealed his secret, “It said…….‘Go to… Israel’”.

Astonished, I expressed, “He told me to go to India”.

Being utterly overwhelmed we silently gazed into the sky. No words were spoken for some time.

The sacred silence was then broken.

“ I must leave tomorrow, at sunrise”. I proclaimed.

Gary was overcome with shock upon hearing my words. He affectionately challenged, “How will

you get there, you have nothing. We should go to Israel together. After experiencing the Holy

Land, we could work on a Kabbutz and make some money. When you have travel fare you can go

to India. My brother, be reasonable. It is thousands of miles away. The middle-east is full of

dangers. Please wait”.

“ When God calls, I cannot delay.”

“How will you get there?”

“I do not know, but I have faith. If I continue to hitchhike in the eastern direction, someday, by

Gods mercy I will find India.”

Gary was devastated. He appealed, “You will be all alone. We began this trip together. How could

37
you suddenly leave me alone on this island?”

My silence answered his question. He could understand my heart. Tears flowed from his eyes as

he spoke these words. “Like Siddhartha, you must traverse your path, my brother, I will pray for

you.”

Early the next morning, Gary came to see me off. We stood amongst a few simple peasants,

waiting for their bus. We shared a rare brotherly love. From childhood, we passed through the

mysterious transitions of life. From the way we had traveled, grew a natural dependence on our

friendship and support. We shared much gratitude. The fateful moment had come. The delapitated,

time beaten bus was approaching. I wished to give Gary a gift, the best thing I had. Affectionately

I took of my old black vest and placed it in his hands. I had worn it every day for years. To those

who knew me it was an inseperable part of my identity. It was all I had. “The vest!” he exclaimed.

The exchange was deeply symbolic for both of us. We were both like leaves being carried by the

winds of destiny. Neither of us knew where or how that wind would blow us. We shook hands,

then embraced. With much emotion I said, “If it is Gods will, we will meet again.”

As the bus proceeded I looked back, Gary stood alone as if exiled into isolation. In my heart I

pondered, “giving away my vest was symbolic of shedding the identity of my past and present. My

journey to unknown India will be a search for my eternal identity.”

I found a fishing boat going from Iraklion (the northern port in Crete) to Athens. As I sat alone

gazing into the sea my mind wandered here and there. Mystery and uncertainty covered the secrets

of what the days ahead would bring. I was now 19 years old. I had never in my life met a person

from India. Besides being in the eastern direction, I had no idea where it was. I had no map. In

school I learned it was a place of poverty, disease, overpopulation and snake charmers. In my

38
studies, I had read that it is The Land of Religion and great rishis. “Will I live to meet these great

rishis?” This attempted journey was not as a tourist or a sightseer. I had an exclusive mission, to

search for spiritual enlightenment. I helplessly prayed to God to help me.

Athens.

In Athens I visited the Youth Hostel to inquire about the overland route to India. Several gathered

around me. They were adamant. “It is impossible, have you not seen the news everyday” An

English Newspaper was held up. The headlines read “Turkey stricken by Cholera, the worlds

deadliest epidemic of the century”. “You cannot reach India without traveling across all of Turkey.

The borders are closed.”

In Athens I happened to meet two men who were discussing traveling overland to India. Mark

was from Australia. He was in his late twenties and a seasoned world traveler. Jeff was from San

Diego, California. He was quite big, in his mid twenties and eager for adventure. “Let us go to the

Turkish Embassy and see if the borders are actually closed.” At the Turkish Embassy of Athens,

they seemed more interested in getting the Visa fees than giving us information. “Borders open,”

was the response to our inquiry. The next day we returned to pick up our visas to Turkey.

We would have to hitchhike, as Mark and Jeff had a small amount of money for absolute

necessities. They offered to help me as well. Travelers who had previously been to Turkey gave

us frightening warnings. “ The Istanbul black market is cruel and bloodthirsty. Beware, by all

means keep away from them. They will offer high price to you for a blood donation. They tie you

down, drain all your blood then throw your dead corpse in the Black Sea. No one will ever know.”

“ The ghettos of Istanbul have dangerous criminals who will kill you for a lire. Don’t go near

them”. “Don’t stop in Erzeram, there are many deadly tribals who may take your life”.

39
These were amongst the many warnings we received.

Hitchhiking up the eastern coast of Greece was a great challenge. Days went by without a single

ride. Finally we arrived in the Biblical city of Thessalonika. From there it was a grueling affair to

reach the border. The border was quite far from any town. We walked for hours to reach it. It

appeared to be in the middle of nowhere. There was a forbidding fence of steel. Barbed wire

covered the top. Military soldiers stood armed with automatic weapons. It appeared that Greece

and Turkey were not friendly neighbors. We asked a soldier “Where is immigration?” He pointed

to a simple shack near the wall of fencing. No one was there. Evening was approaching. Now

what. After repeated inquiries the immigration officer came out from a tea stall. “What do you

want?” he asked. “We want to cross the border to Turkey.” He looked at us in disbelief. “Are you

insane? Turkey has a cholera epidemic. All borders are closed going in and out. You cannot go.”

We replied, “The embassy told us it was open, we want to go.” His face filled with anger, he

chastised us, “If I let you through that fence, you cannot return. Our country has officially closed

all Turkish borders. Outside this fence is a no-mans land. You must cross this wilderness to reach

the Turkish border. It is a desert filled with poison snakes and hungry wolves. There is no food.

The Turkish border is closed. If you walk through that fence you cannot return. I give my word

that you will suffer and die helplessly in the wilderness. Go back or die! Make up your mind now.

I’m leaving in two minutes.”

The sun was about to set. We struggled for days to reach the border. The embassy told us the

border is open. Hastily we blurted, “We will go to Turkey.” He was outraged, we had defied his

direction. He ordered the military to open the gate. As we walked, he gave his ultimatum. “ You

will not return!” The formidable gate closed behind us as soldiers stood with rifles in hand.

40
We walked forward. The no mans land appeared to be the most desolate, dreary place I had ever

seen. A deserted wilderness used as a buffer between two inimical countries. The sun had set. A

serpent was seen slithering the dry ground. A few leafless trees bleakly stood on barren land. It

became darker and darker, wolves howled. A skeleton drearily laid about twenty feet to our left. I

dared not bring this to my companions’ attention. “What if the Turkish border is closed?” That

question had become a grim reality. The embassy told us it was open, but that was a week ago. It

became dark and extremely cold. Fearfully we walked forward in the darkness as the wolves

continued howling. “Will we die in this wilderness” was a silent thought. None of us dared to

speak a word. I prayed at every step. When it seemed to never end, a light appeared in the

distance, the border of Turkey. As we came closer, we saw a gate with the Turkish Flag,

surrounded by steel and barbed wire fencing. A heavily armed Turkish soldier stood guard inside

the large gate. We meekly drew his attention. His words brought shivers to our very being.

“BORDER CLOSED!” In desperation we begged him to reconsider. “Border Closed!” We had

nowhere to go. It was a matter of life or death. I felt like a prisoner in a concentration camp,

pleading for mercy. “Border closed”. This was his entire English vocabulary. He stormed away.

He returned to find us still standing like beggars outside the gate. He became impatient. I

wondered if he might shoot us. At that time his superior officer came to the scene. He spoke those

fateful words, “Border closed”. Seeing our desperation and unwillingness to go back, he put us in

a small wooden shack. All of our belongings were confiscated. He took our passports, money as

well as the clothes we were wearing and disappeared. We stood in the freezing cold in that isolated

border check post. We asked each other, “Now that he has taken everything will he leave us here

to die.” For about an hour we stood in suspense. He returned. Carefully examining our faces he

41
stamped our passports. With a smile he said, “Welcome to the great country of Turkey.”

We asked him the way to Istanbul. He pointed to a lonely country road. Hitchiking was not easy

as there were no vehicles. After only a few minutes, a very strange truck stopped for us. It was an

old flatbed truck. The trailer in the rear had no walls. Covering the deck were wooden benches.

Each extending its’ width. Seated on these benches were policemen. They allowed us to ride with

them. All were in uniform except one. That one whispered in my ear, “I want to buy hashish from

you. Sell to me. I am not a policeman.” I responded, “I do not have”. He demanded again and

again. Later he got off the truck. Put a police hat on and walked away.

Istanbul

We arrived in the middle of the night. The leading police officer asked where we would stay. Jeff

said the cheapest place possible. The officer spoke privately to a junior then told us to follow him.

As we walked the lonely streets we entered into more and more poverty. He had taken us into the

ghetto. It was the ghettos of Istanbul that were most infected by the cholera epidemic.

Occasionally the sound of someone crying in agony was heard. I was afraid to even breathe. He

brought us into an old building being used as a pool (billiard) hall. Half a dozen men were

smoking cigarettes while playing pool. We trembled to see them. They looked like the sleeziest

gangsters of the underworld. With no expression at all they stared upon us. Along with the

policeman we were taken to the back of the hall into a dark stairway. Each step was about one and

a half feet high and 2 feet wide, made of solid uneven rock. On one side was a stone wall. The

other had no railing, only a steep drop into a deep dark cellar. It was an exhausting endeavor. On

the top we passed through an eerie hallway leading to our room. There was no question of a

hospitable welcome. They aggressively demanded money. Jeff having no Turkish Lire asked the

42
exchange rate for US dollars. They offered us half the official bank rate. Generally the black

market offers substantially more. Jeff politely tried to bargain for a higher rate. The leader of the

gang became furious. He was somewhat small in size but very strong. He was passionate anger

personified. His eyes were fierce. I had never seen such cruelty in a mans’ eyes. Coldly staring, he

shouted threatening words. We looked to the police officer for help. The gang leader

commandingly shouted orders at the policeman. They took the money and left us in the prison of

our room.

What if they come to rob us or kill us? It was obviously their intention. We looked for an escape

route. There was none. Besides the door there was one window. From the window was a long

straight drop to a concrete alley. We were trapped. We locked the door. We pushed the old heavy

double bed against the door to protect them from entering while we slept. The doorknob was tied

with rope to the bedpost. Jeff and Mark layed on that bed. I was on a small bed against a wall. We

laid down in exhaustion. In anticipation we could not sleep.

An hour or so later we heard a key slowly turning the lock. It was now unlocked. Quietly the door

opened…then….the door hit the bed. Gently they pushed. The three of us squatted on the floor at

the other end of the bed. We pushed all of our weight into it. They pushed harder and harder.

Understanding that we prepared for their attack they were outraged. Screaming, they began

slamming their bodies against the door. As the door opened, we pushed all our weight against the

bed to close it. Both sides of this life and death competition were frantic. I jumped on the bed to

again tie the doorknob to the bedpost. A gruesome dagger was lunged toward me. They meant

business, to kill us. The battle continued. Unable to open the door, they retreated. We knew they

would return. Half an hour later they were back. They were determined. Many of them at a time

43
slammed into the door. As it was opening, we desperately pushed the bed to close it. Round two,

we somehow survived. Waiting for the next intrusion, I laid in my small bed. In immense anxiety,

I wondered. “What am I doing here? Helplessly trapped in the Cholera infested ghettos of Istanbul.

Target of the daggers of the underworld.” I thought of the peaceful, protected life I left in

Highland Park. “I am a simple Midwestern boy with a loving family and friends. Why did I leave?

I am here in search of God. In this hopeless predicament, only God can save us.” I prayed and

prayed.

Suddenly the door smashed the bed. The third round of the battle was being passionately fought.

They were shouting in wrath.

My need to pass urine had grown intolerable. It felt as if my bladder was about to burst. The only

toilet was outside the door. In utter desperation I climbed up to the windowsill. Responding to

natures screaming call I urinated down into the street. In a window across the alleyway was an old

Muslim woman, dressed in a black veil. She was outraged to see me. Utterly offended by my

exposed condition, she screamed harshly while throwing a shoe into my face. This was too much

for me. Closing the window, I jumped down. I had not finished. My bladder was bursting. “God

help me!” Then I saw the shoe. Aha the answer. I finished where I left off into the donated shoe.

After placing it in the desk drawer I reentered the battle. We held them off.

Time was on their side. We were trapped in their den of sin. We had no food or water. It was only

a matter of time. The light of dawn had appeared. We decided our only hope is to quietly escape

through the door between their attacks. If there is a guard at the door, we are dead. We slowly

opened the door, into pitch darkness. I could not see my hand before my face. As we slowly

tiptoed forward, the aged wooden floor loudly creaked. The creaking was reverberating in our

44
hearts with each step we took. In this darkness, will we walk right into one of them? We attained

that fearsome medieval staircase. In the darkness we leaned against the wall, in fear of falling off

the side into the unknown. It was agonizing. We made it to the dimly lit pool hall. The guard was

sleeping on a pool table. Holding our breath we crossed the room to the door. It was locked. The

latch would not open. We had never seen a door lock like this before. Bewildered, we desperately

tried and tried. The guard awoke. He called the others. From another set of stairs came the

horrifying sound of their footsteps. Futility we moved the lock in every possible way.……..Then,

it opened. Into the street we ran as we had never run before. From a distance behind they followed.

Not looking back, we jumped in a taxi. We knew of only one place in Istanbul. “Blue Mosque,

Blue Mosque.” We had escaped. Fearing they would search the city for us, we decided to

immediately depart. In the early morning we boarded a ferry to cross the Black Sea.

Our methods of traveling included hitchikiing, ferry boats, the back of trucks and the local buses

of the common people. We met many kind people in Turkey whom invited us in their homes and

shops to share their traditional flat bread with us. They were simple but cordial. It was vast

difference from our reception in Istanbul. I was fascinated to behold the exotic designs of the

many mosques we passed. I visited these mosques whenever possible. We stopped briefly in

Ankara. Then we entered into eastern Turkey.

There, I was victimized by severe dysentery. This intense infliction made it impossible to travel.

We had to stop in the town of Erzurum. We asked the local people for the cheapest possible place

to stay. We were brought to an isolated tea stall. It was on the outskirts of town. On the third floor

of this very old building was a room we were given. The toilet was down a flight of extremely

steep stone steps. A small partition of rotting wood enclosed a hole in the floor. There was no

45
semblance to plumbing. Human waste was left to pile up in the hole. The smell was obnoxious to

the extent of being intolerable. I practically lived in that latrine for days. After finishing my

business there, by the time I reached the top of the stairs, I urgently had to run back down. I was

overpowered by intense nausea, vomiting and constant loose motions. Mark and Jeff would go out

each day to explore the town. I was left alone in the room. One day a strange man came into our

room. He carefully searched through Marks backpack. Discovering a Swiss Army knife, he

announced, “Five Lire!” Putting down five lire, he walked out with the knife. It was worth at least

twenty times that. In service to my friend, I got up from bed, returned his five Lire and politely

insisted he give the knife back. “Please come back later and discuss with Mark,” I said. He said

nothing and left. A few minutes later I heard the tumult of a mob rushing up the steps. I was utterly

sick and exhausted. I really was not ready for this confrontation. They barged in the door. The man

who tried to take the knife was in front. He frantically pointed his finger at me and screamed,

“Pakistani, Pakistani, he is Pakistani”. The mob was outraged. They circled my bed holding clubs

and daggers. In a rage they shouted, “You Pakistani, you die! You Pakistani you die!” I was alone

and bewildered. I prayed to God. Their eyes were bloodthirsty, “You Pakistani, you die!” I hastily

held up my US passport saying, “I am American.” The leader took my passport and examined it.

“You are not Pakistani?” “ No.” “You are American?” “Yes,” I replied. He smiled and shook my

hand, “Very good, we like Americans. You give Turkey weapons.” Everyone offered respect and

left. A few minutes later I heard the mob rushing up the steps again. I could only pray. Again they

barged into my room. This time in their extremely rustic mannerisms they offered me flat bread

and tea. The leader spoke, “if you Pakistani we kill you. You American, very good. We sorry.

You eat!” I had no appetite at all. I knew if I took that bread and tea, I would spend hours in that

46
horrible latrine. What could I do? It may be an insult if I don’t eat it. Then what? This type of

hospitality was hard to refuse. I forcibly smiled and ate all of it in their presence. They were

satisfied. Soon after I paid the price. I believe it was a far less price than if I didn’t eat it.

One evening I took a walk along the dusty road. There was great poverty in that neighborhood of

Erzurum. Materially, the people lived extremely simple. It was far less than the poverty level of

the West (???).

I entered into the small teashop on the ground floor of our simple residence. Someone took me by

the arm and sat me down at his table. I could tell by the way people looked at him that he was

respected for his charisma (??? – why charisma? How did you know?). In his thirties, he was

strongly built with jet black hair and piercing black eyes. He gave me a cup of tea. They put no

milk or cream in their tea, only a cube of sugar. He spoke no English. He frighteningly stared into

my eyes as his lips and body trembled. He was intensity personified. His finger definitively

pointed to the Arabic script inscribed on the ring he was wearing. Like an angry lion he roared,

“Allah!”…He then aggressively pointed his finger in my face, demanding that I say the Name of

God. With sincere reverance I quietly spoke, “Allah.” Staring as if he wanted to burn me to ashes

by his glance, he trembled in rage. He smashed his fist against the table. The tea flew to the floor.

Everyone in the tea shop circled around us. He screamed with deafening volume, “NO!!!

ALLAH!!!!!” He violently pointed his finger in my face. Much louder I cried out, “Allah”. He

fumed. With terrible force he again smashed his fist against the table and screamed at the top of

his voice, “NO!!! ALLAH!!!!!!!!!” It was deafening. Everyone angrily stared at me as if I were an

offender to God. He sharply poked his powerful finger into my chest, demanding that I say it with

his fervour. I was severely intimidated. It was certainly a life and death situation. I prayed to

47
Almighty Allah to save me. I stood up, raised my arms and with all my might I loudly cried out

from my heart, “ALLAH!!!!!!!!!!!” He gazed into my eyes for a long time. There was complete

silence throughout the teashop. Gravely nodding with approval he walked out. The crowd diverted

back to their tables. I sat stunned. No one before had ever preached to me like that.

There was a counterculture of those who traveled the world, enduring the hardships of a very low

budget. Most were adventurous and spiritually inclined. We would unexpectedly meet these

friends from place to place. Mark and Jeff met some of these traveling brothers. They had

convinced a bus driver to let them ride for free. It was a company bus traveling to Tehran. The bus

was half filled with supplies and half empty. We were invited to join them. Crossing the border of

Turkey we entered Iran.

Iran

Walking into the impressive immigration building we took note of the wall size photograph of the

Shah of Iran. There was a large sign from the State Department of United States. In big letters it

read “Warning to American citizens: In Iran the penalty for possession, smuggling or selling of

any quantity of hashish or opium products is death. American citizens have been executed. The

state department has little or no influence to help.”

It was evening. The bus driver was being delayed by immigration formalities. We sat inside the

bus, waiting. A crowd of children gathered to see the strange foreigners through the bus window.

They were wearing ragged torn clothing. They were very beautiful children. I smiled at a small

child of about four year old. I will never forget that moment. He stared at me with such intense

hatred in his eyes that my heart shivered.

I was taken aback. “How is it possible for such a small child to possess such hate?” I was haunted

48
by repeated nightmares of that scene.

Iran was the center of the Great Persian Empire. It lives in history for its’ culture, art and

literature. We spent some time in Tabriz. The Blue Mosque was a magnificent testimony of

religious opulence. I carefully observed the hand stitching of the legendary Persian Rugs. One kind

family offered special hospitality to me. I was invited into their home. It was two room wooden

shack. They were painstakingly working on a single rug for years. Mother and daughters sat on the

floor of their simple hut creating precious art. The deep natural colors were bright with a life of

their own. Red, blue, green, orange, yellow and violet were but a few of the vibrant colors of the

wool they meticulously stitched. The intricate designs of this masterpiece may have two hundred

and fifty hand made knots per square inch. It was incredible. Such time consuming efforts produce

a priceless quality rare to find in the age of industry, electronics, supermarkets and labor unions. I

was seated with the men of the house. On the floor, I was graciously given a plate of flat bread and

a cup of tea. As I happily ate their homemade food, one of the sons entered the door. Smiling in

great pride, he held a great surprise in his clenched hands, Iranian dates. As he placed the

sumptuous dates on my plate, everyone exclaimed my good fortune. Observing the natural

simplicity of these humble souls my eyes filled with tears. I thanked God for this sweet

experience. I thanked this special family for their kindness upon this wayward stranger.

Iran was a beautiful country. We drove through vast deserts surrounded by majestic mountain

ranges. The terrain seemed magical to me. We drove in the cool parts of the day and all night. The

nights were enthralling. Never had I seen such clear skies. The multitude of sparkling stars

extended to the horizons on all sides. Countless stars were shining brightly like precious

diamonds. Crowning God’s creation, they twinkled enticingly, performing the supreme show of

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lights. I was mystified by this indescribable display of opulence. I recalled as a child reading of the

Persian nights, with fables of chivalry, romance and morality. I thanked God for this experience.

The travelers in the bus had known me from Europe. They requested me to play my harmonica.

Gazing through the window at the starlit sky I poured my heart into that instrument. It was a

spontaneous song of my sincere loneliness from God. The bus became totally silent. The tearful

song continued for hours. When it ended, all those in the bus exclaimed, “Wow!” I looked around,

everyone was weeping. I thanked God, knowing well, that I actually did not know how to properly

play.

While traveling across Iran, an overwhelming concern grew for my mother and father (???

Grammar?). They were expecting me home several weeks back. They had heard nothing from me.

They must be suffering miserably. My poor father, he must be beside himself in grief. While in

college I was to call at a set time each week. If I were late, he sleeplessly worried. Out of fatherly

affection, he could find no peace if not assured of his childrens welfare. Mother shared the same

concerns, however, due to the tragedies she endured in youth, she was able to conceal her

emotions. I delayed in writing simply because I did not know how to compose this letter. In

whatever way I try to explain my resolve, their hearts will be shattered. It broke my heart to cause

them pain. The dangers and uncertainties of my journey did not trouble my mind nearly as much

as hurting them. What could I do? My search for God had become the only thing I was living for.

If I were to neglect it, I would become a hollow shell. Without God consciousness, my life would

have no real purpose. There was a calling from within that I had no power to disobey.

I composed a letter reassuring them of my love. Written on a simple aerogram the letter read as

follows.

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My dear family,

Everything has been going well with me. Roads get bumpy at times but they are fine roads. I have

been doing much thinking and have found that now is the time when I will do something I have

been longing to do. Much thought and much contemplation has gone into making it clear that this

is the right way.

Through the world people look at life through several different windows. For almost twenty years

I have been seeing life through the eyes of a western man, from the western world. For several

months I have observing life in the European boundries. I have seen and experienced the laws,

philosophies, religions, arts and overall ways of life of the west. Now I will see how life is lived in

the east. As you know I have much concern for the east. The fact that I am going is more valuable

to me than becoming a multi-millionaire. I do this not to escpae my previous life, but to see

another. It is something I cannot see through schools because schools can only tell me about them

through slanted points of view. So I will be there and what greater education is there than that? I

am not doing this to worry you, so please don’t hurt yourselves by worrying. It is impossible to

write as often as you would like. Sometimes I simply cannot find a post office. Gary is no longer

traveling with me. He is in Israel. I always have companions. Give my love to all friends and

relatives.

Richard

The letter was postmarked Iran. It had no return address.

I could not ask them for money for something that they would not approve. I had to do it on my

own.

We passed through vast distances of desert land. The sandy desert seemed endless. Sometimes the

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vast wilderness was spotted with villages of earthen huts. Life giving date trees occasionally stood

beside the huts. Caravans of camels carrying heavy loads, was a common sight. In the heat of the

sun, nomadic men rode on camels. Their heads were dressed in tattered white turbans, stained by

sun and sand. The cargo camels carried large bunldles on their backs. They strutted forward with

an effortless natural grace. Their long necks slowly moved back and forth in perfect synchrony

with each other limb. Under the clear skies of the Iranian desert was a lifestyle so foreign from my

own. It was like going back into time. Such a simple life, my heart was charmed. The sun gently

set. The silent, starlit Persian night appeared. I was in another world. Suddenly, a radically

contrary world appeared. Huge modern signs were illuminated with bright flashing lights. They

proclaimed the international trademarks; “Mobil”, “Shell”, “Exxon” “Texaco” and “Standard

Oil”. We had come to the outskirts of Tehran. It seemed as if we passed through centuries in a

matter of minutes. It was fascinating but somewhat disappointing. The Shah of Iran had made

close economic allies with America and Europe. The oil companies developed sprawling

complexes. Mass wealth was invested in the economy of Tehran. Like an island this prosperous

city existed surrounded by a vast ocean of desert.

In Tehran, our friends arranged free rooms for us at the Hotel Amil Kabil (?). It was an

inexpensive place many foreigners stayed. The room was free because some European hippies

were renting it. They invited anyone who wanted to sleep on the floor. We were stunned upon

entering the room. Hippies from France, Germany and America were thoroughly stoned on

hashish. On the tables were several balls of hashish the size of softballs. They continually tore

chunks off and smoked it in chillums. We tried to express our shock, “There is capital punishment

for possession of one gram of hashish, you have kilos sitting in the open. Smoke is bellowing out

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of your door into the hallways. You could be killed for this.” Visibly disturbed by our intrusive

warning, they ignored us. A boy, eyes bloodshot red, replied, “Don’t be paranoid, man. Don’t try

to lay a bad trip on us, man! Either get high or get lost!” We decided to respect the warning of the

US State department. Immediately, we left that place. We found another room where we could

stay as law-abiding pilgrims. I reflected, “Such intoxication can stupefy a man into such ignorance

of his own well being. Yet people take it for enlightenment.”

While in Tehran I visited a Mosque. There I obtained an English translation of the Holy Koran.

Seeking the essence of religion I carefully studied it praying for understanding.

Traveling through the vast deserts of Iran we came to the Holy city of Mashhad. For the Shiite

Muslims, Masshad is a very sacred place of pilgrimage. Within a famous shrine is the burial place

of the Islamic saints Imam Reza and Harun al-Rashid. Thousands of pilgrims had come to

Masshad to observe the holy month of Ramadan, the ninth month of the Islamic calendar. I met a

very respected holy man. He kindly imparted to me the teachings of Islam. I was taught that the

prophet Mohammed received His first revelations of the Holy Koran during this month of

Ramadan. Along with the pilgrims I fasted from dawn to sunset, immersed in prayer and study of

the Holy Koran. Observing the seriousness of how these people focused their lives around their

religion made a striking impression in my mind. Jeff and Mark desired to depart. We planned to

meet in Kabul.

Herat, Afghanistan

The simple people of Afghanistan possessed a charming sense of cordiality. They were living in

the poorest conditions I had ever seen. Yet, everyone I passed offered such affectionate smiles. No

one asked for anything. They were eager to share whatever little they had. Each day, while in

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Herat, I was invited into different homes. Usually the family lived in a hut of one small room.

They offered their traditional flat bread and tea with a gracious smile. My hosts did not speak

English, as they were illiterate. Yet the communication of the heart was especially satisfying.

While sitting in a small tea stall I reassured my family of my safety in a letter.

Hello my family, how is life, I am now in Herat, Afghanistan. It is amazing to be here in a country

with people that are naturally friendly and humble, poor but peaceful.

I know it is late but I will still wish happy birthday to Dad and Larry

I wish you the very best of everything.

With love,

Richard

Heart, Afghanistan

December 1, 1970

One day, all alone, I explored the town. In the late morning I sat down on the side of a dusty road.

I observed the surroundings. Suddenly, like a high fever, I had been stricken by inundating case of

culture shock, like never before in my life. I could not grasp onto anything from my past identity.

Camel after camel slowly passed. People comfortably squatted on the road while conversing. The

shops and homes were made of simple earth. People dressed in their traditional Afghani clothing.

The unique style of their loosely fitting clothes was elegant though tattered with wear. Men wore

long sheets of cloth wrapped around their heads as turbans. Many had faces covered with the deep

blotches of small pox, from their past. Women wore black gowns that reached from the top of

their heads down to the ground beneath them. A fine black mesh covered their faces. No one was

to see a trace of their bodies. A blind man sat singing traditional devotional songs while playing a

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one stringed instrument. Old men sat on the roadside smoking from large water pipes. The sights,

smells, tastes and sounds were completely foreign to my senses. I urgently grasped to find

someone or something I could relate to. It was futile. It struck me like a thunderbolt. I was alone in

a culture where nothing existed which I could relate to. In this overwhelming experience I could

not trace my own identity. I was lost in a state of total disorientation. I had heard of culture shock.

Never did I believe it could have such an utterly devastating effect to the ego. Confusion pervaded

my reeling mind. I felt as if I was dying within. I sat motionless on that roadside like a lonely alien

in a distant universe. I prayed to God to save me. I wondered, “What is happening to me. What is

the cause of this bewilderment?” In contemplation I struggled to find myself. “From birth I have

identified my self with external surroundings. Never could I fathom to what extent I was

conditioned. The environment had thoroughly programmed my ego. The conceptions of my body

and mind had become my identity. Now, those familiar conceptions have evaporated, casting me

into a void. God help me. Who am I?” Enveloped by crises, I prayerfully searched within my

heart. There I discovered a precious truth, “I am the soul, distinct from the world of externals.”

The burning pain of this experience appeared like the sun dissipating the dense fog of

misconception. I felt liberated. With a grateful heart I thanked God for bringing me here. Herat

will always remain a special place on the map of my heart. As I stood up, an old man offered for

me to join him in smoking hashish in his waterpipe. Smiling, I politely declined. He (??? Who?)

had already given me a high I pray to never forget.

I was offered a ride by camel to a place where I could take the common peoples bus to Kandahara.

The desert of Afghanistan captured my attention. I was fascinated by the incredible formations of

the distant desert mountains. I was amazed at how much variety could exist within the vast desert

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terrain. The landscape of each middle east country was unique.

Every few hours the bus stopped, everyone got out. In the middle of the desert wilderness they

carefully placed their prayer rugs. Facing in the direction of the Holy City of Mecca they

performed their Namaz, offering prostrations and salutations to Allah and his Prophet,

Mohammed.

In Kandahar, the simple people greeted me warmly. An educated man who spoke fair English

guided me to the important places of Kandahara. In an ancient mosque we discussed the teachings

and lifestyle of Islam. He offered me the hospitality of his home. One night we discussed

philosophy, while sitting on his roof. Unexpectedly, he began to howl in a long high pitch. From

the rooftop he threw to the road a long rope with a loop at the end. I wondered, “What in the world

is he doing?” Gently, he pulled up the rope. To my amazement, a restless mongoose came up with

the rope. The mongoose wandered the town through the day. Each evening upon hearing this

affectionate call he crawled into the loop of the rope. As my friend and I were affectionately

speaking, I felt the mongoose crawling up my back with his claws. He crawled under my long

hair, reaching to my head. There, he burrowed himself within my thick brown locks of hair,

making it into his nest. Then he went to sleep. Feeling his warm body deeply breathing on my

head, I experienced another kind of culture shock. I looked to my friend for help. “What do I do

now”. My friend laughed. “He found a good nest in your hair.” My neck was breaking from his

weight. I pleaded, “Please take him off.” My host became alarmingly serious. He warned, “There

is an ancient truth: Never wake a sleeping mongoose. The mongoose is a ferocious killer when

angered. In battle the mongoose will violently kill the cobra, the deadliest of serpents and symbol

of death. If you suddenly awake him he may tear your head to pieces. Do not even slightly move

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until he leaves on his own.” Hour after hour passed as I sat motionless, fearing for my life. From

time to time the mongoose would move, scratching my scalp. Mohammed could no longer stay

awake. Apologizing, he left to sleep. I sat alone, that dark sleepless night in Kandahara seemed to

never end. As the sun was rising my uninvited guest awoke. Crawling down my back he jumped

onto the floor. The mongoose stared at me with an innocent affection that moved my heart. He

appeared grateful for my hospitality. Entering into the loop of the rope, Mohammed, (who had just

awakened), lowered him down to the street for another day. Mohammed smiled, “How was your

night?”

One evening I was walking along a quiet sidestreet. A simple cobbler wished to show me his

creative craftsmanship. His shop was filled with traditional Afghani shoes. The colors and designs

seemed to be of another world. He picked up a pair, opening the soles, he revealed secret

compartments in the soles for smuggling hashish. They were sewed closed so immigrations could

not detect. I could understand that the hashish plant had a significant role in the economy.

A simple man wearing a peasants turban invited me to see his working place. From the street we

descended into a mysterious basement cellar. The darkness of the room was dimly lit by the flames

of ancient lanterns. Being underground there was not a single window. The door was up a steep

flight of stone steps. A dozen very simple peasants squatted barefoot on the floor. They dressed in

old, tattered Afghani clothes with turbans. In the center of this midieval chamber was a hill of

hundreds of kilos of the famous Afghani Black Hashish. It was famous as the most expensive and

powerful hashish in the world. With their hands, they were shaping palm size paddies. At one end

of the room was a gigantic Hooka, (waterpipe). They loaded it with several kilos at a time. One

man lit it with a torch. Another stood up to approach the long upward curving smoke spout. With

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all of his strength he took a long, long forceful inhalation. Momentarily he removed his mouth

from the spout to exhale. Again and again and again he forcefully sucked in. It was beyond human

belief. The smoke was profusely pouring out of the spout. He kept puffing and puffing. It was

super human! Eventually he was overcome. Incessantly coughing, he fell to the ground. Rolling

and rolling, back and forth, he was coughing his guts out. I could not believe what I was seeing!

All others non-chalantly watched, as they rolled their hash paddies. The next man stepped up to

the ominous hooka and did the exact same thing. He sucked and sucked, perhaps 20 times. The

smoke was pouring out of the spout. Finally the climax, he fell to the earthen floor. Helplessly,

rolling and rolling and rolling, he was coughing out his guts. Uncontrollably, he seemed to never

stop rolling back and forth! All present in the room repeated the same unbelievable spectacle.

Upon gaining control of their coughing each man would join his brothers in squatting around the

Hashish pile, making paddies, as another stepped up to the formidable pipe. Each man took his

turn in rotation several times as kilos and kilos were fed into the pipe. The hippies in the west

could be likened to infantile upstarts in comparison. These men were seasoned hard-core stalwarts

in getting high. A dense cloud of hashish smoke permeated the unventilated cellar. Sitting in the

corner, just breathing, I had become more intoxicated than ever before in my life. They pulled me

up to the hooka to take my turn. A dense stream of hashish smoke was literally pouring out of the

wide spout. How to approach it? I was still over a foot away. While breathing normally, my lungs

bursted, uncontrollably coughing. Like I have never coughed before, I fell to the ground. I found

myself violently rolling and rolling, back and forth. Tears streamed from my eyes. I felt my lungs

and throat to be tearing apart by the intense coughing. Laughing loudly, they found much humor in

my inexperience. This was their nightly recreation. In a corner, I laid against the wall. Intense

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rushes of energy paralysed my every limb. In the vast smoke appeared endless hallucinations. All

sound was a strange music. My mind seemed to be whirling and whirling, beyond time and space.

I could not move. There was no place to go. I was thoroughly stoned, like never before in my life.

I reflected upon the times I had sought relief, happiness or meaning through intoxications. What

had I gained? I remembered the dear souls I had known, who had gone insane from taking too

much LSD. My mind wandered to the sight of the drug addicts and alcoholics I had encountered in

the skid rows of American cities. Even aquaintences in college had succumbed, living in helpless

slavery to their addiction. To be fashionable amongst my peers I had, at times, sought peace and

higher happiness in drugs and alcohol. It was an artificial happiness that drew me farther from my

hearts longing. Tonight, I felt it all to be a meaningless distraction from my spiritual aspirations.

Helplessly lying in that smoke filled cellar of Kandahara, I offered a lifelong vow before God. I

would never again indulge in the taking of intoxications.

One evening, while sitting in a dark, cave-like little tea stall, I squatted on the floor with the local

people. They wore raggedy cloth due to serious poverty. A blind boy stumbled in carrying an old

beaten one string musical instrument. He was perhaps 16 years old, wearing only rags. Smiling

effulgently, he loudly poured out his heart, singing prayers in praise of Almighty Allah. Everyone

was hypnotized by his sweet voice and sincere emotion. There were six of us, crowded in that tiny

shack. Engrossed in a moving religious experience, hours passed singing together. The

spontaneous smile of that blind boy lit up the room with a supernatural joy. He plucked upon his

one string as he cried in praise of God. I was moved. I could not remember seeing anyone as

happy as he. He was homeless, blind and poverty stricken. In his humbled state, he sang of the vast

treasure of joy he had found within his heart. His love for God.

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I traveled by the common peoples bus. We passed through the spacious terrain of Afghanistan,

destined for Kabul. Chickens, sheep and goats moved about within the crowded bus. Being the

only foreigner, I was the curious sight. According to religious timings, everyone departed from the

bus, laying their prayer carpets on the desert sands to offer prostrations and prayers toward Mecca.

Kabul was a beautiful city. High on a mountainous plateau surrounded by snow capped peaks.

Kabul is the capital and most important city of Afghanistan. Long ago it was the imperial capital

of the Mughal Empire. I visited the historical places, making friends with the local people.

Joyfully, I met with Jeff and Mark. We planned to travel together across the Khyber Pass into

Pakistan. They were eager to continue the journey to India. Having no money or companion I was

grateful to cross the Khyber Pass with them. Early one morning, we proceeded to the bus stand.

Jeff had purchased our tickets. The immigration officials were outside the bus to check the

documents of all passengers. Jeff and Mark stood before me in line. Passing through the

formalities they boarded the bus. As I was about to board, there came a stir of confusion. An

official grabbed my passport and escorted me to the immigration office. The bus departed without

me. Jeff and Mark were on the bus with my ticket. They were not aware that I had been left

behind. The immigration officer had mistakenly written the wrong date of my departure. The

corrections were made and I was respectfully released.

I was stranded alone in Kabul. The Khyber Pass had a reputation as one of the most notorious

places on earth. I heard frightening stories during my travels: Dangerous terrain of steep,

forbidding cliffs. It was the border between Afghanistan and Pakistan. We heard that the Khyber

Pass was inhabited by warlike tribes. They accepted no law. Neither Afghanistan nor Pakistan

could rule over them. Although technically part of Pakistan, unofficially they were left to rule over

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themselves. Like the old west of America, disputes were settled with loaded rifles and a shoot out.

Killing and banditry were acceptable ways of life. It was a lawless land. I was told that tourist

buses were blocked by gunpoint. Passengers were robbed, sometimes killed. Foreign bus

companies had to pay the tribal leaders to protect their busses from such violence. The people

hated intruders. I did not know how true these stories were. But certainly it was not a place to

hitchhike through. I had no money to purchase a bus ticket. Alone I walked the streets, wondering

about my destiny, praying to God.

The day passed in this way. With the night came the freezing cold. I had no warm clothes and

nowhere to go. I sat on a lonely roadside. In a prayerful mood I played upon my harmonica. A

beautiful young woman from Holland approached me. She looked at me with pity. She was about

25 years old and had been living in Kabul. Seeing my plight, she invited me to spend the night in

her home. The door led to a room with two beds. One faced the east. The other faced the north.

Sitting on one bed was huge man. His powerful body was dirty, unshaven and fearsome to say the

least. He really did resemble a gorilla. My hostess introduced him. “This is my bodyguard. He is

an Afghani warrior. Obedient to me, he will do anything I say.” She offered me some bread and

vegetables. “This will be your bed,” she sweetly said as she graciously entered another room. The

“Afghani warrior” was my roommate. The house was warm and comfortable. As I laid my weary

body in bed, I felt so fortunate. I was thinking, “How would I have survived the cold night if this

friendly Dutch girl did not take pity on me?” Minutes later she appeared from her private room.

Lighting incense, she turned on soft music. Wearing only a silken night gown she approached my

bed. Speaking sweet words, she gazed upon me. Her eyes were glazed with passion. Gracefully

slipping off her gown, she presented to me her naked beauty. Putting her arms around my body,

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she laid on top of me. I was bewildered. I was looking for God, not this. “ I am sorry, I do not want

this, please let me sleep,” I pleaded. Very experienced in this art, she tried in various ways to

arouse me. “Please leave me alone,” was my response. Building into a frenzy of passion she

whispered into my ear, “If you do not satisfy my desire, my bodyguard will beat you to death. You

cannot escape” Scorned by my resistance she summoned his help. He stood over us, growling in

anger. With piercing eyes he ordered me, “Submit, submit!” My mind was tormented by this

incomprehensible situation. I was overwhelmed by both fear and disgust. As she continued her

efforts to overcome me by her sexual prowess, I laid under her, trembling. The monstrous Afghani

warrior demanded, “Submit or die!” Questions filled my mind. “Was this a nightmare? Must I

surrender to her or die? Why is this happening to me? I must escape.” In desperation, I helplessly

prayed to God to save me.

Suddenly, with all my strength I pushed her off. Frantically, I ran to the door. She screamed. Her

bodyguard roared, while lunging to capture his prey. With all of my power I ran through that door.

I ran for blocks and blocks. Not once turning back. I had escaped.

It was the middle of the night. Alone, with nowhere to go, I wandered the deserted streets of

Kabul. The freezing cold night that I had previously dreaded, now provided me shelter. Walking

and walking with no direction, I felt freedom. I pondered, “The whole world is obsessed with the

pleasures of sex. Driven by this relentless drive, people can do anything to fulfill it. When it is

frustrated, people, like this nice girl, can lose all sense. The fascination of this pleasure makes the

world go round. Why through history, many great saints have taken the vow of celibacy. Why?” I

pondered throughout the night. I tried to answer my own question. “Perhaps they had seen it as a

distraction from their exclusive dedication to God. Perhaps they were determined to direct that

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powerful energy toward prayer and devotion. That is what I pray for.” The moon was full, shining

brightly above the majestic mountains. Tearfully gazing upon that rising moon over Kabul, I

offered a lifelong vow before God. “I will follow those great souls, on the path of celabacy. I am

Your property, my Lord. Please accept my vow of chastity.”

The next morning, I went to the bus stand. As per my hope, my friend Jeff had sent the ticket back

to me with the returning bus. A little money was included. While boarding the bus, I turned to the

great city of Kabul. With a tear in my eye, I offered thanks for the priceless lessons she taught me.

Khyber Pass

Many of the common peasants carried primitive rifles on their shoulders. Some had straps of

bullets around their chests. The terrain had a special natural beauty. There were frightening cliffs,

steep and impassable. Rugged desert mountains isolated the people into their own world. I saw

simple farmers toiling tirelessly to grow a few crops. Caravans of camels were carrying heavy

loads. We passed several large ammunition factories. These hardworking people looked weather

beaten by their tough struggle for survival. By dint of their austere lives, they appeared to carry a

certain type of grace.

The bus let us down in Peshawar, Pakistan. Walking along the road I was charmed to see a very

old lady sitting on the footpath. Her head covered with a black veil. She sold interesting trinkets

that were displayed on an old piece of cloth. I came closer to see what this motherly soul was

selling. I was shocked, brass knuckles! Studded with razor sharp spikes designed to deeply

penetrate flesh and rip it apart while coming out. Semi precious jewels ornamented this weapon of

cruelty. She directed me to press a hidden button on the brass knuckles. I cautiously touched..

whoosh… a deadly dagger shot out.

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She urged me to bargain with her. My head reeling, I politely went on my way. Overland, I

traveled to the ancient city of Lahore.

I was now only one country away from India, the land of yogis, lamas and sages. Months had

passed on the journey through the middle east. My heart was longing to attain the sacred soils of

India. It was Gods order that I find Him there. That was my faith. My heart was flying toward

India. I had lost my patience. Upon entering the Indian Embassy, my mind was uncontrollable in

anticipation (??? Grammar). I rejoiced upon receiving my Indian Visa.

I walked for many miles. Ahead I could see, the border of India. The border post was nothing

more than a table in a sparse forest, surrounded by military. Thousand of rigorous miles I had

traversed. I was now only footsteps away from my cherished destination. Tears of joy filled my

eyes. India was minutes away. It is said, that which is difficult to achieve is far greater appreciated.

My heart was pounding in anticipation.

A middle aged woman sat at the immigration desk. Soldiers with rifles stood at her sides. I

respectfully handed her my passport. She examined each and every page. With no expression, she

dictated, “show me how much money you have.” Nervously I reached in my simple cloth bag.

There were only coins to show her. She was visibly disturbed. Raising her voice, she demanded,

“you require five hundred dollars, minimum, to enter. Where is your money?” Timidly, I

responded, “This is all I have now.” Impatiently, she handed back my passport. “You cannot enter.

Go back to your own country.” Her words felt like an atomic bomb exploding in my poor heart,

“You cannot enter.” I became pale in distraught. My head was spinning, stomach nauseas. I

pleaded with her. “I’ve traveled overland for months, risking my life to see your great country. My

burning desire is to study your religions from the holy men. I have left the comforts of an

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American home out of love for India. Please, please give me a chance.” She coldly replied, “We

have enough beggars in India, we don’t want another one. You are rejected. You will not enter

India. Go back to where you came from. That is final. No more discussion.” I tried to appease her.

She totally ignored me. Her final words were a thunderbolt to my heart. The military ordered me

to leave at once. Bewildered, I walked back some distance. Under the shelter of a tree I sat. My

mind reeled. “Where to go? What to do? Must I go all the way back.” I prayed to God, “You have

brought me this far. What is your desire? Please help me to surrender to Your will.” I then

resolved. I would not turn back. I would sit under that tree until death if I were not given entry into

India. After an hour, I returned to the border. She totally ignored me. With all possible humilty, I

pleaded with her. Visibly irritated, she transformed into the goddess of anger. “I will not allow you

in my country. You are testing my patience. Go now and do not come back. Do not dare disturb

me again or I will have you beaten!” I turned back to my tree. The day passed in meditation and

prayer. As the sun was setting, I observed, at the immigration desk, a shift was about to take place.

An elderly man had come to relieve the lady from her duty. She angrily pointed to me, making

sure he understood, I was not to enter India. A jeep carried her home. I was resolved to never give

up. Praying, I meekly approached the new officer. Coldly he proclaimed, “No entry. Go back.”

Shedding genuine tears, I explained my life and my spiritual aspirations. “In search of Indias’

spiritual treasures, I have left behind the comforts of America. I have hitchhiked all the way from

London to reach your proud homeland. I long to find the path to truth. I yearn to find the way to

God. Please, please, please be kind to me.” Tears filled his eyes. “Give me your passport.” He

stamped it and handed it back. Gently smiling, he placed his hand on my head and spoke, “Son, I

give you my blessings. May you find the truth you are crying for. Welcome to Bharata Bhumi (the

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land of dharma).”

Expressing profuse gratitude to him for his kindness and blessings, I entered India. While

walking into the Indian countryside, an overwhelming feeling came upon me (??? Grammar). I felt

at home. As if I were meeting my eternal mother after untold years of separation. In my heart, I

was embracing the trees, the sky and the soil. “By the grace of God, I have come home. On my

own I could have never survived.”

I flagged down a car on the road and was brought to Firozepur, a town in the Punjab State. A

distinguished gentleman cordially greeted me. After a pleasant discussion he offered me railway

passage to Old Delhi. I did not have the opportunity of riding on a train in the course of my entire

journey. My means of travel was hitchhiking, backs of trucks, poor peoples buses, camels and

overcrowded fairies. A railway ticket was now being offered. I was expecting a restful trip. We

entered the railway platform. It was quite a scene. Vendors everywhere pushing their carts up and

down the platform. Each cart had its’ product. There were foods of all descriptions. Some were

being cooked on the cart itself. Fruits, biscuits, souvenirs, magazines, medicines, tea and clothes, it

was like a bazaar. Each vendor continuously called out loudly, announcing his product. Hundreds

of people were noisily conversing as they waited for the next train. Many families, sitting on the

floor, were having picnics. Porters were carrying heavy trunks on top of their heads. Poor beggars

displayed their heartbreaking deformities to each prospect. There were beggars who were blind, no

arms, no legs, invalid, burnt faces or deformed limbs. Those suffering leprosy put their rotting

fingers in persons’ faces, begging for charity. Mothers in rags carried babies whose eyes oozed

with pus and were covered by flies. They all moved from person to person. Constant

announcements were being made on the speaker system. The platform itself was spotted with spit

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of all descriptions. Through all of this, dozens of people peacefully slept on the floor. The speakers

blared, announcing the arrival of our train. Suddenly all passengers rose to their feet in a

commotion.

The whistle blew. Black smoke poured from the engines chimney. Steam hissed profusely. The

locomotive approached the platform. Suddenly, hundreds of people began running full speed along

side the moving train. My host yelled, ‘Follow me.” He also ran as fast as he could at the side of

the rapidly moving train. All at once, when the train slowed to a reasonable speed, everyone began

diving in the windows. My friend, while sprinting, threw his bag in a window. He leaped in

behind. I was running as fast as I could. He screamed at me, “now, before its’ too late”. I never

saw him again. This looked really dangerous, but everyone was doing it. I leaped, grabbing onto

the ledge of a window. Struggling and confused, I somehow pulled myself into the window and

onto the moving train. Within seconds, two others squeezed through the same window. Now

standing in the train I curiously looked around to see people diving and crawling into every

window. By the time the train had come to a halt, every compartment was so totally jammed

packed, no one else could possibly squeeze in. There was no question of a seat. On the wall was

posted, “maximum 60 passengers.” I couldn’t count but there was perhaps 300 crushed together.

There was no possibility of a conductor even attempting to check for tickets. Everyone rode for

free. This was the system for the third class compartments in the Indian Railways. There was a

price to pay, but not in rupees. The crowd was pushing and shoving. Surprisingly they all appeared

quite peaceful, it was there routine way of travel. People were still hanging partially outside, as the

train stormed ahead. They seemed quite composed. Looking up to the ceiling, I saw metal bars

used for baggage storage. Dozens of people were crushed in up there. There was an empty space

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of about three feet. I climbed up. Tightly curling my body, I somehow squeezed in. Looking down

at the densely packed crowd, I felt I was riding in luxury. I was so happy to be in India.

That old steam engine hissed and whistled throughout the night. In the darkness of the early

morning it arrived in Old Delhi. Not knowing where to go. I walked along the railway platform.

My name was called. It was two Frenchmen who I had known in Switzerland. I remembered, we

had discussed the Tibetan Book of the Dead on the shore of Lake Geneva. Joyfully greeting me,

they invited me to shower and rest at their place. By motor rickshaw we went to the New Crown

Hotel. It was a very inexpensive place. I took a shower then briefly rested on a veranda. The light

of dawn appeared. I awoke to see a monkey sitting at my side. He had brown hair covering his

body and a pink face. He looked at me. I looked at him. I had never imagined that wild monkeys

could roam freely in a crowded metropolitan city. 20 or 30 other monkeys were jumping, playing

or searching for food in the immediate area. They jumped from rooftop to rooftop. Shopkeepers

were just opening. They all had a special monkey scaring stick, always closeby.” My French

friends were leaving for Nepal. I said goodbye to them and the New Crown Hotel. It was my first

day in India. Excitement filled my heart. I was alone, in pursuit of my spiritual quest. Coming out

of the hotel I found myself in Chandi Chowk, an unbelievably crowded bazaar. The street was

lined with endless shops. Music resounded, incense burned and monkeys played. Bright colored

saris, turbans and decorations shone everywhere. Children played with their cricket bats while

cows gracefully strolled freely. All together this created a festival for the senses. After spending

months in the grave, stoic culture of the Middle East, India was like a celebration of life (???

Grammar?). I walked through the crowded street, observing and absorbing the experience.

An unknown person greeted me with a series of questions. “What is your name? From what

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country have you come? What are your educational qualifications? What is your purpose for

coming to India? How do you like my country?” We walked together as he listened to my answers.

“Would you like a refreshment?” He brought me into a small stall where an interesting cold drink

was being served. It was greenish in color. He told me, “Drink, it is a natural beverage, non

alcoholic and very healthy.” Politely accepting his hospitality I drank the glass. “What is it

called?” I inquired. He smiled and replied, “Bhang.” I had never heard the word before. He said

goodbye, I continued to walk down the bustling street. Suddenly, BOOM, I was totally

intoxicated. Everything seemed to be spinning around me. My body was having rushes of

trembling. Nausea overcame me. I was walking right into people. It appeared that everyone was

looking only at me. Bhang is an intoxicating drink derived from the Hashish plant. Thinking it a

harmless refreshment, I innocently drank it. I walked alone in this strange, unpleasant state. At the

end of the road I was struck with wonder to see the Red Fort. An incredible architectural wonder

carved in red sandstone. The surrounding wall is 110 feet high and 1.5 miles around. Entrance is

thru two massive gates, the Delhi Gate and Lahore Gate. It was the Palace of the Mughal Emperor

Shah Jahan in the seventeenth century. In the front was a large open area. I saw a crowd gathered.

In my delirious state I went to see. A simple man with a turban was sitting, blowing into an exotic

musical instrument. Surrounding him were about 15 hand woven baskets with lids. In came a big

man with a beard. He wore flowing traditional robes and a turban. As he opened each basket, the

crowd gasped. Poisonous cobras ominously appeared, raising their fearsome hoods. Forked

tongues were slithering in and out of their deadly mouths. They swayed side to side as if dancing

to the music. Other baskets were opened, revealing other varieties of snakes. The snake man lifted

out a huge serpent. Perhaps 12 feet long and 4 inches thick. The crowd stepped back. In a

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moment, he dashed toward me, placing the monstrous serpent around my neck. Immediately the

serpent coiled around my entire body, gently squeezing. My neck was encircled. The serpents face

was inches from mine. It stared into my eyes as its’ eerie tongue slithered in and out. This

spectacle drew a huge crowd. Hundreds of people formed a circle around me, curiously watching.

I was helplessly imprisoned in a serpents coil. The bearded snake man spoke threateningly to me

“500 rupees! 500 rupees!” Someone in the crowd explained. “He will only take the snake off if

you give him 500 rupees.” I had no rupees! The crowd became bigger and bigger. No one came

close. Still heavily under the influence of bhang, I really didn’t need this at all. “Why is this

happening to me?” My mind became blank. Fear, pain and utter humiliation filled my mind.

Everyone stared at this strange foreigner encircled by a snake. Perhaps they thought I was part of

the act. Hours passed, the snake constantly stared in my eyes. At times he tightened around my

neck leaving me semi- breathless. Throughout, the snake charmer played his exotic song and the

cobras danced. I prayed to God, “Please save me, Lord. Please save me.” An educated man

amidst the throngs of spectators questioned me. “Why do you not give him 500 rupees. He will

never release you until you give it.” “I don’t have any money” I explained. “You honestly have no

rupees. Then the snake will remain.” He then bargained with the snake man. This charitable soul

gave 20 rupees. The snake man chanted mantras inviting the serpent to enter his hands again. The

crowd clapped. Thanking the donor, I quickly departed across the street. I saw some men sitting

on wooden chairs curiously flipping red candy in their mouths. They asked if I wanted some.

Curious to experience the customs and foods of India I ate one. AHHHHH! My mouth blazed with

fire. Profusely perspiring, tears flowing from my eyes I grabbed for water and drank. It had the

effect of kerosene on fire, increasing the pain. It was a hot chili pepper. I had never seen or tasted

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one. Again a crowd circled around me. They stared curiously. I politely thanked them and went on

my way.

I returned to the main road of the Chandi Chowk Bazaar. Evening was approaching. The effects

of the bhang had finally disappeared. A middle aged gentleman warmly greeted me on the street.

He was very curious to know about me. He was thrilled to hear that I had come from so far to

understand his religion. He asked, “Have you eaten today?” “No, I haven’t.” “Please be my guest

for dinner.” He took me to a small restaurant on the main road. The front side of the restaurant

open was to the street. We sat at tables on the roadside. He was very eager to tell me about Indian

family customs. An enthralling sight captured my attention. It was a mother cow with her baby

calf. They were beautiful. Their color was pure white. So gentle was their demeanor. So graceful

was their movements. The innocence of their large beautiful eyes melted my heart. The mother

was so very concerned with the every movement of her child. As the calf sucked her milk, mother

licked her beloveds’ body. The Mother cow lay down, just close to our table. She sweetly played

with her calf. In it’s innocence the calf was helplessly depending on her mothers’ affection. I had

never before been so close to a cow. In America I only saw them in distant pastures as we drove

the highways. I was charmed. They were innocent, life loving people. Selfless love between parent

and child permeated their lives. It was a heartwarming, thrilling sight for me. My host continued

talking as we ate our dinner. “Would you like to know what this food is?” “Please.” “This is

chaval, rice. This is roti, wheat bread. This is subji, vegetables. This is dahl, lentil soup. This is

chutney, condiment.” Then he pointed to some small chunks on the rice. “This is beef.” These last

words exploded in my heart. I looked at the meat chunks. I looked over at my beloved cows. At

that moment the mother cow leaned over to affectionately lick my leg. My heart cried. It was the

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first time in my life I made the connection. “Such a beautiful life must be slaughtered to eat some

meat. In ignorance, I have committed this terrible deed. God please forgive me. Why can the world

not see this reality. She loves her child as my own mother loves me.” Losing my composure, I

cried. Thinking of the millions of cows killed every day broke my heart. My poor host could not

understand what was happening to me. In confusion he asked,“Is something wrong?” I was so

deeply moved with sorrow, I could barely speak. “Thank you for everything sir. Please excuse me,

I must go.” On my way out I patted the mother and her small calf, she turned and licked my hand.

I walked down the street with no plan or direction. I was overwhelmed with guilt and sorrow.

Thousands of people crowded the busy street. Surprisingly, there was Jeff and Mark, only a few

feet away. This unexpected reunion brought us great happiness. They invited me to stay with them.

It was a very simple, inexpensive place called the Shere Punjab Hotel. They had made a deal with

the owner to sleep on the open roof for 50 paise, (half rupee) per night. On the roof were 3 beds.

They were very old. Each had a wooden frame. Cheap brown rope was tied crisscross. We slept on

those ropes. Overhead was the starlit sky. I doze into sleep. The mother and baby cows appeared in

my dream. I saw them being killed for meat. It was a nightmare. I awoke in a state of unbearable

nausea. For relief, I rushed to the toilet. What a scene. There was a cement hole on the roof.

Barely surrounding it was crumbling brick walls and a metal ceiling. It was pitch dark. There was

no plumbing. The bhangis or street sweepers would empty the toilet with a shovel. They dug out

the contents and transferred it into a bucket. It would be carried on their heads to be emptied

somewhere. Unfortunately they were way overdue. The stool and urine had piled up above the

floor level. Having no control over my vomiting, I could not leave that latrine. The stench was

horrible. Insects buzzed around biting my skin. A creature occasionally crossed over my feet.

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Perspiring, I vomited again and again. My stomach was in turmoil. My head was spinning with

intolerable nausea. All the while, in my minds eye, I could only see those two cows gazing upon

me with their innocent eyes. In that dark, rooftop latrine in Old Delhi, I offered a lifelong vow

before God. I would never again eat meat.

In the morning Mark, Jeff and I had an affectionate discussion. I bid them goodbye. I was

destined to the Himalayas in pursuit of my spiritual quest. With sincere emotion, Jeff gave me a

small note. It read, “Its’ kinda sad in a way, we are each going his own way- in search for himself.

I’m sure you will find it. I just hope we meet again and see and communicate on a different level.

It’s best and supposed to happen. Love always, Jeff.” I was never to see them again.

Posted on a wall, I saw an advertisement: The International Yoga Conference in New Delhi. It

happened to begin that very day. Yogis, Gurus, Lamas and other such spiritual teachers were

giving lessons for seven days. From morning to night there were simultaneous darshans (spiritual

meetings). Each teacher was provided a separate room for their meetings. It was like a bazaar of

Gurus.

There was a special demonstration of the art and science of Hatha Yoga. A yogi from Hrishikesh

had his young disciples demonstrate various asanas (poses) as he explained the benefits. It was

quite incredible to see what the body could do under yogic discipline. They demonstrated from the

most elementary to the most difficult asanas. One sat comfortably with his legs wrapped behind

his neck. Another balanced on his forearms while his feet stretched backwards to rest on his head.

This was called the ‘scorpian pose.’ One swallowed a ten foot cloth strip, then pulled it out to

clean the stomach. A single thin rope was coming in the nose and out of the mouth. It was pulled

back and forth to clean the sinuses.

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I learned from masters of Kundalini Yoga, Raja Yoga, Shakti Yoga, Siva Yoga, Jnana Yoga,

Hatha Yoga and others. During this time I became very close friends with a Buddhist monk. His

name was Bhikku Vivekananda. He was the Abbot (spiritual leader) of a large monastery in

Thailand. We had very deep discussions about the goal of life. He taught me about the principles

of Buddhist philosophy and the lifestyle in his monastery. He took special interest in my spiritual

understandings. Together we attended lessons at the yoga conference. Each night I slept alone

under a tree. I awoke by the calling of a gigantic hawk. He spread his expansive wings from the

nest overhead and gracefully flew high into the sky. In the cold Delhi morning I sat in meditation

under the tree until the conference began.

Each day I attended the darshan with Swami Rama of the Himalayan Institute. He was born in a

village in the Himalayan Mountains. From his childhood he wandered the Himalayas as a sadhu

(mendicant). He lived amongst the great rishis. To share his knowledge and experience with the

world he founded the Himalayan Institute. Swami Rama spoke with eloquence. Professional

doctors from America had come with modern medical technology. They connected sophisticated

diagnostic devices to Swami Ramas head and body. He entered into yogic trance. The monitors

displayed supernatural changes in his brainwaves, heartbeat etc. Later, he explained that although

Yoga has been practiced since the most ancient times. It is the greatest of all sciences. It is not

based on superstition or sectarianism. People should understand that this subtle science

demonstrates evidence that modern scientists can see but not explain. Yoga is the science by which

one can realize the enlightened state within. He was kind enough to personally meet with me. He

explained, “The foundation of ones spiritual path is to keep the company of holy men. The

blessings of the sages will carry you across all obstacles on the path of enlightenment.” He

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described his own travels to the hermitages of the great rishis of India. With much affection, he

blessed me to succeed on my spiritual journey.

The final session of the conference was held in a large auditorium. Thousands of people

assembled seeking knowledge and blessings. The yogis were sitting on the stage in a row of chairs.

The convener was Christopher Hill, an American Yogi. He brought to our attention the great

fortune we had to be in the presence of so many great yogis in one room. In a world of conflict,

yoga and the great yogis give the world hope of peace and unity. He invited each yogi to give his

final message as a conclusion to the conference. He requested that everyone limit the talk to 5

minutes. The hall must be vacated promptly. If the speakers did not keep their time those at the

end would not speak at all. There were about 20 speakers. Almost all went overtime. Upon being

reminded of time, some became visibly annoyed or even critical. One yogi, going way overtime

was offended to the point of outrage when reminded of the time limit. “I am speaking the supreme

message, no one has a right to restrict me.” This provoked an angry dispute amongst several yogis.

They aggressively fought for the microphone. One grabbed it. As he began to speak another

grabbed it from him. It was really a battle on stage. The large crowd was confused and aghast.

Nobody knew what to do or what to think. Bhikku Vivekananda and myself looked at each other

in amazement. “Are these the men who are going to bring peace and harmony to the world?”

Swami Satcit (d???)ananda sat quietly on his chair, sorry to see this spectacle. He was a man of

venerable presence. His long white hair and beard and flowing saffron robes, made him appear to

be an ancient rishi of the Holy Scriptures. Like an empowered hero, he gracefully entered into the

battle and seized the microphone. He spoke a final message to the stunned audience. “I am sorry.

Please know that each person is on his own level on the path of yoga.”

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 After the program, I privately met Swami Sacitananda. He was very kind to me. He explained,

“Yoga means to unite with the Supreme consiciousness. If you want to succeed you must be very

sincere and disciplined in your practice. A true yogi is one who lives with the highest human

conduct. He is always immersed in the Divine.”

Following the yoga conference was a lecture series by J. Krishnamurti. It was held in a large

pandal (tent) near the grounds of the conference. I attended with Bhikku Vivekananda. The large

crowd was eagerly awaiting his appearance. I had carefully studied several of his books. When J.

Krishnamurti arrived everyone respectfully rose to their feet. He greeted us with folded palms. His

appearance was that of a very distinguished scholar. He graciously accepted his seat on the raised

dias. Although small in stature he spoke with great power. His intellect was piercing. His logic

was concise. His presentation left everyone speechless. He was asked to comment on the need for

ashrams and monasteries. He answered with stern conviction, “Ashrams and monasteries are

spiritual concentration camps. They imprison one in the illusion that you will find enlightenment

outside of yourself.” Bhikku Vivekananda, eyes wide, turned to me exclaiming, “What he says is

true!” I was amazed. Bhikku had lived in a monastery for 25 years. He was now the Abbot of one.

I asked him, “What will you do?” He replied, “I have to think about it.” This was the power of J.

Krishnamurtis presentation. He was born in Southern India. As a child, he was discovered by the

Theosophical Society. They believed him to be an incarnation of the divine person who would

give enlightenment to the world. They made him their world leader. Later he rejected the position

to teach independently.

I attended several of his lectures and darshans. In a personal meeting he graciously blessed me to

realize the goal of my quest. In an encouraging mood he warned me “Do not be distracted by over

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dependence on external rituals and forms.”

While sitting under a beautiful tree in a park I sent these words to my family.

The way India is affecting me is beyond words. This is all that could be said.

Deep love lies in my heart for all of you. I pray that you are well.

Richard

New Delhi, India

December, 1970

Connaught Place is the commercial center for New Delhi. Designed by the British it is laid out in

an immense circular shape surrounding a spacious park. Exploring the enclosed walkway, my

attention was drawn to a hand painted sign advertising “SS Brijabasi and Sons Religious

Artwork”. In a small stall beside the walkway was a large pile of 8x10 prints of religious figures.

The persons depicted fascinated me. The expressive colors and artistic designs lured me to look

closer. There were hundreds of prints. Some I recognized as being holy to the Christians and

Muslims. Others were incredible figures I had never seen. Each one was so beautiful. Looking in

my small bag, I had enough change to buy one. It was my wish to keep one as an object of my

meditation. I sat on the ground searching the selection for about an hour, struck with wonder.

Amongst the variety were beautiful ladies on tigers and lions with many arms holding weapons.

There was man with the head of an elephant sitting on a mouse. A handsome blue personality with

four arms decorated with elegant ornaments. Someone with snakes on his body and the moon on

his head was sitting in meditation. Another person held a spear while riding on a peacock. A

heroic monkey was carrying a mountain, flying in the sky. There was a person with many

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different species of heads and multiple arms. People were flying into his flaming mouths. This art

was beyond description. These figures were unbelievable. Was it from fairy tales or mythology? It

couldn’t’ be. The art was done with such sincere veneration. They appeared to be worshipful Gods

and Goddesses. I wondered how I could possibly choose only one. Suddenly, I was mesmerized.

The most beautiful person I had ever seen. My heart was overflowing with attraction. It was as if I

was controlled by this beautiful art print. This figure seemed to be calling me to Him. Who was

He? The name on the bottom was written in an ancient alphabet I could not read. This beautiful

person had a charming bluish complexion. He wore a peacock feather on His head. He posed

gracefully, playing on a flute. An innocent white cow lovingly stared upon Him from behind. The

full moon illuminated an enchanting forest. He smiled sweetly, beside a celestial river. I gave

whatever money I had to the shopkeeper. It was not enough. Smiling he gave me the picture

anyway. I privately kept that picture. Who was He? This remained a mystery for a long time.

I was being drawn to the Himalayas.

I wrote the following to my family in Highland Park.

My dear Family

Today I am leaving Delhi to go into the mountains to study. I do not know if I will be able to write

often where I am going. Please do not worry if I do not write for a while with God on my side

what can harm me?

With Love and thought

Richard

I met a sadhu at the New Delhi railway station. He taught me that sadhus (spiritual mendicants)

always ride for free in the third class compartments of the trains. “That is our tradition,” he

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boasted. Boarding a train, I reverently traveled to Haridwar. My journey to Rishikesh was by foot.

I believed that my pilgrimage toward God would truely begin only when I entered the Himalayan

Mountains.

Upon my first sight of the Himalayan foothills I was thrilled beyond imagination. Tears were

shed in gratitude. I fell on my knees in awe, contemplating the timeless history of great souls who

had taken shelter here. Walking ahead, I rejoiced. Before my eyes was the Holy River Ganges. I

hurried forward as if intoxicated with happiness. I shivered with thanks as my fingers touched the

cooling crystal waters. Sitting for several hours in that lonely place, I gazed upon the Ganges,

taking her deep into my heart. I felt unworthy to be in such a holy place. “I am a foolish

undeserving child. Why am I being allowed to be here? I cannot understand.” With folded hands I

thanked God again and again.

The Divine Life Mission was founded by Swami Sivananda. He was a medical doctor, living in

Malaysia. He had renounced the world at an early age to master the science of Yoga. His liberal

approach included all recognized yogic paths. The strict spiritual disciplines he followed won him

much esteem. His prolific writings, humanitarian efforts and personal example impressed the

hearts of many. Residing at his ashram, I studied his books and learned from his disciples. His

samadhi (burial place) was a very special place for meditation. Each morning a lesson was given

by Swami Cidananda Saraswati. Swami Sivananda chose him amongst his many accomplished

disciples to be his successor and President of the Divine Life Mission. He was highly revered by

the ascetics of Rishikesh. Several people from the west were amongst his students. Speaking

eloquent English, he explained to us charity in a spirit of unselfish compassion. Morality and high

ethics were inseparable limbs on the tree of yoga. He taught us in much detail the various systems

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of yoga. Hatha Yoga is the way of elevating the consciousness by yogic postures and breath

control. Jnana Yoga is the path of purification by knowledge and discrimination. Bhakti Yoga is

the science of awakening divine love through devotion to the worshipful Diety.

Although powerful and famous, I was impressed by his simplicity (???Grammar). One evening we

sat together in his room overlooking the Ganges. Amazingly, he could perceive exactly what was

in my mind. With supernatural accuracy he described my spiritual search and longing for God. He

spoke with great concern and feeling for my spiritual welfare. I thanked him for his blessings upon

this undeserving soul.

Sitting on the holy banks of the Ganges River, I composed a short letter to my mother.

My beloved Mother;

I now dwell near a town which is in the Himalaya Mountains of northern India. The name of the

town is Rishikesh. I am doing just what I think I should be doing here.

Rishikesh is a holy city on the banks of the Ganges River. I feel there is much to be learned in the

peace and tranquility I have found here.

I cannot express to you how pleased I was to hear from you. I received letter from you and Larry

at the American Express Office in New Delhi. The letters from you and Larry spread much

sunlight in my life. Larry’s letter was not only beautiful but poetic as well. It takes a soul of great

sensitivity to compose such a letter. I hope that you have become his friend as well as mother. As

he travels the path of life do not stand in front of him and try to block his road, but be by his side

and travel it with him. Give him love, give him companion ship do not try to give him a road to

follow, for as an individual he is entitled to choose his own road. It is quite difficult for me to tell

you what I have been doing. I am not so much a tourist or a sight-seer. I am more a seeker of my

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own soul, living in the east is an entirely different way of life than living in America or Europe.

Everything is completely different. It is very difficult to say when I will return. But I will say this:

I deeply miss all of my family and all of my friends and I long to see all of you. But you must

understand that I must carry out what I set east to do, find the true meaning of life.

Your loving son,

Richard

Rishikesh, Himalayas, India

January, 1971

To my brother I wrote,

My Friend and Brother,

Receiving your letter was truly a blessing, I believe that such words (as you wrote) could only

come out of a beautiful person. I am truly glad that your mediation is flowing, for meditation

means peace.

I have left all my traveling companions to live alone. For the past 3 weeks I have been living on

the bank of the holy river Ganges.

I have much feeling for you my brother, but few words.

Allow your humble heart to be your guide and you will be led to the eternal peace within.

Be still my brother,

Richard

In the early morning, I boarded a small boat to cross the Ganges. Large fish gathered beside the

boat. Breathing the fresh Himalayan breeze over the Ganges exhilarated the soul. We arrived at the

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Ghat (bathing place) near Swargashram. Students were reciting the Vedas on the riverbank. I

walked along the bank of the Ganges, seeking solitude. I found such a place. A sadhu saw me

sitting alone in meditation for several days. He was a kind hearted soul who long ago renounced

the pleasures of materialistic life. He had traveled to many holy places. He told me he was

observing me each day. He said he was very pleased to see my determination. He presented to me

the dress of a sadhu. He gave me two pieces of simple unsewn white cloth made of thin cotton. He

taught me how to wrap one piece around the lower part of my body (lunghi) and one around the

upper part (chaddar). Then he gave me a loin cloth (kaupin). I was honored to receive them. He

showed me the ashrams that freely fed sadhus every day. Understanding that I was seeking

solitude. He brought me into the beautiful Himalayan forest. Before departing he whispered softly

in my ear, “the Ganges will be a mother for you. She will reveal this in course of time.”

Veda Niketan was a small lonely ashram. Not far behind it I found a simple cave in the forest. I

made that my residence. Each morning before sunrise I walked to Mother Ganges bank. She

rushed very swiftly. Her riverbank was covered with soft silver-white sand. Smooth rounded rocks

were like Her jeweled ornaments. The rock sizes varied from tiny pebbles to boulders of hundreds

of pounds. At that spot Mother Ganges was over a hundred yards wide. Feeling unworthy of the

treasures I sought, I felt a desperate need for purification. I begged God for direction. For one

month, I resolved, I will sit in silence from sunrise to sunset. The time will be dedicated to

meditation and prayer. I prayed to Mother Ganges to reveal a place. Before my eyes was a series

of small rocks in the river that could be used as a bridge to a large semi-flat rock. In the river,

about 20 feet from the bank, this rock was a special place for worship. I sat on that rock every day

from sunrise to sunset. Surrounded on all sides by the forceful current of the Ganges, I sensed my

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insignificance. Each evening, as I returned to the cave, I passed an old man. He sat on the ground.

On top of a piece of burlap he sold miniature size carrots. He offered me one each evening as I

passed. Ganges water and that one carrot a day would be my only food for that month. !!!

The sweet solitude of that rock became my sacred shelter. I sat from dawn to dusk facing

upstream. To my right were the Himalayan Foothills. How incredibly beautiful was that sight. The

closest mountain had the shape of a heart at its’ very top. I gazed upon it for hours. I contemplated,

“This symbolizes to me, the heart of God. A heart that is unlimited, giving ultimate shelter to all

beings. It is majestic and yet beautiful. As in climbing this mountain we must leave behind the

earth. To reach the heart of God one must leave behind earthly attachments. Sincere spiritual

practice is an uphill climb. However many difficulties, we must continue looking upward for hope.

The mountain provides all support for those who strive to reach its’ top. Similarly if we are

sincere, God will bless us with the means to reach his Supremely Merciful Heart.”

At a distance, to my left, on the opposite bank, was an occasional yogi sitting in meditation.

All around was only Mother Ganges. Being winter, her complexion was a rich aqua blue. Her

stream of unlimited waves formed into masterpieces of artistic beauty. I contemplated, “No

human artist could truly capture even a moment of Her unending display. However, as Her art is

created, it simultaneously disappears. In this lesson she is teaching that all beautiful forms of this

world are in the process of transformation. Nothing is stable. With every moment our reality is

changing. All that we hold dear in this world is imperceptibly vanishing. We cannot cling to

anything. Mother Ganges is like nature. She is constant but no manifestation within Her remains.”

I sat a submissive student, trying to learn from my teacher. I reflected, “She begins her course

from high in the Himalayas. She flows incessantly to the sea. Innumerable obstacles may come

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before Her. Nothing will stop her journey to the sea. Huge rocks or sometimes mountains may

block her way. Gracefully She will flow over, under our around the obstacles. Mother Ganges is

here teaching us that if we want to attain the unlimited sea of spiritual bliss, we must relentlessly

persevere our goal. We should never be discouraged by the inevitable obstacles that will come on

our path. All impediments are like rocks in the river of life. Mother Ganges teaches us, we should

gracefully flow over under or around them. We must never give up. With Gods help, there is a

always a way.”

As I sat on that rock I envisioned watching the flow of the river is like watching the passing of

life. I observed, “If one is inside the river one is greatly affected by it. Sitting on the bank one can

observe with detachment. Mother Ganges is teaching us that if we learn to observe the mind,

senses and the world around us, we gain wisdom. If our ego is carried away by lifes changing

currents, we become endlessly confused and entangled.”

“Millions of years of history have been enacted on these banks. During the Vedic Age of the

Aryans, spirituality flourished. Alexander the Great came and went. Conquering Northern India,

the Mughal Empire ruled this land for centuries. The Mughals were vanquished by the British

Empire. The British came and went. Political parties, cultures, slavery and freedom have come and

gone. Mother Ganges keeps rolling along.”

The lesson I learned from this message is that truth is eternal. Whatever may happen in this world,

however dramatic, cannot phase the flow of truth. One who has attained wisdom, realizes the

eternal soul. Even death itself cannot phase one who is connected to the current of truth.

Observing, I witnessed many things pass me in the rivers current. There were uprooted trees,

leaves, flowers, human corpses, dead buffaloes, garbage and driftwood. If they simply remain in

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the rivers flow they will be carried to the sea. However, most of these things will be diverted to the

banks in due course. I reflected, “Similarly, Mother Ganges is like the Spiritual Teacher. If the

follower simply remains in the current of the Gurus teachings, he will be carried to the ocean of

spiritual truth. Many temptations and diversions will appear along the banks. Alluring us to leave

the river of Gurus Grace with promise of happiness. Very few will remain faithful. Only they will

reach the ocean of enlightenment.”

Day after day I contemplated the lessons of the river. In the solitude of that lonely rock I shared

my thoughts in a letter to my family.

All alone in the presence of the Lord.

The song of the river below, the flight of the butterfly.

All truth is contained in the song of river.

Wisdom is to cherish that very silence.

Listen if you can to the song of silence, as it is sung by the stars above.

Let us go beyond these empty words we use to show our vain pride. Let us take retreat into the

serene meadow of silent joy.

The butterfly knows listen as it is sung by the butterfly.

Two weeks had passed. Never before had my meditation brought me so inwardly deep.

I cherished every sacred moment of silence and solitude.

One day while in meditation, sweet harmonica melodies played my mind. My consciousness was

carried away. I found my thoughts composing concert after concert. An irresistible longing arose

in my mind and senses to be reunited with my harmonica. Like a lover for his beloved, a passion

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burned. That day, I left the rock and the river. Returning to the cave I collected the harmonica,

then returned to the Ganges. As I walked my impatient senses cried out again and again to play it.

Sitting on the rock, I gazed at the harmonica. It was an experience difficult to explain. I

contemplated, “How could a piece a metal and wood create such an emotional attachment? My

harmonica was like a best friend in whom I could honestly and freely pour out the most intimate

feelings of my heart. It translates my secret joys, sorrows and aspirations into a music that moves

peoples’ hearts. It is strange. Although I don’t know music, there is a special relationship of

spontaneous communication. Like lovers”

I interpreted this as a great test of my sincerity. It was my prayer that realization of God be my

wholehearted aspiration in life. Each time these spontaneous melodies appear in my mind, I long

to play them. My dear friend, the harmonica, has become a distraction from my cherished path. I

stood up on that rock, looking into the deep waters of the Ganges. I affectionately looked upon my

friend. Knowing there was no others like him within five thousand miles. “My dear friend, I thank

you for being my faithful companion all of these years. You have brought me solace and joy. How

patiently you shared my innermost prayers.” I began to cry, as I turned my eyes to the Holy River.

“Mother Ganges, in sacrificing this dear friend, I sincerely wish to offer my heart to God. Please

accept my love.” With these words I reverently made the offering. With both hands at my waist, I

tossed my harmonica into the air. As if in slow motion it floated gracefully upward, then down.

My emotions shivered at that moment, as it “plunked” and disappeared forever within the current

of Mother Ganges.

With eyes closed I sat day after day silently absorbed in the mantra of my meditation. Two weeks

passed sitting upon the sacred rock. One afternoon my awareness gracefully flowed toward the

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forceful but gentle song Mother Ganges. My attention was held captive by that sweet song. I sat

and listened. By natures’ course, this became my meditation. Simply hearing the song of the river.

As the Ganges flowed to the sea, her song seemed to be carrying my consciousness deeper and

deeper within. From dawn to dusk I silently listened. The sacred syllable OM emerged from Her

song. It sounded like thousands of celestial voices chanting in unison the Name of God. In the

book “Siddhartha” I had read of this experience. It was a beautiful reality. Such peace and joy as I

have never experienced. Early one afternoon, a blessing appeared, which I pray to never forget. I

sat in meditation on the endless chant of OM. By the grace of Mother Ganges, a choir of thousands

sang a song I could not remember ever hearing before. The beautiful voices resounded, “Hare

Krishna Hare Krishna Krishna Krishna Hare Hare Hare Rama Hare Rama Rama Rama Hare

Hare.” It captured my hearts full attention. For many days, I heard this mysterious chant. I found

myself singing it aloud with the choir of Mother Ganges. I did not understand what this song

meant but it was so pleasing to my heart.

What that sadhu had whispered in my ear had come to pass. The Ganges had become a loving

mother. She graciously nourished my body, mind and soul. Like a baby drinking the milk of its

mother. My body was being sustained by drinking Her life giving water. Her mysterious lessons

nourished the mind. Her sweet song nourished my soul.

At the conclusion of the month I planned to end my fast. I went to a shop near the Choti Walla

Restaurant at the Swargashram. He was selling peanuts in the shells. I had been given one rupee.

That was about twelve cents (US). I expected a few peanuts. When the shopkeeper saw one rupee,

his eyes lit up. He put together a bag made out of old newspapers. It was the size of a large

shopping bag. He filled it up with peanuts. It was a pleasant surprise. “Today I will feast!” I

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walked along a jungle path back to my cave. A big brown monkey blocked the path. Staring in my

eyes he growled angrily showing his pointed teeth. Suddenly, he leaped at me. In one motion he

seized the peanut bag while swiftly kicking my chest to catapult himself away. He disappeared

instantly into the jungle. Some of the peanuts had fallen on the ground through this ordeal. As I

was about to pick them up to break my fast, another monkey leaped from a tree, scooped up every

peanut and disappeared. I was not spared a single peanut.

I climbed a mountain at the far end of the Ganges bank in Rishikesh. On the top of that hill was

Sankaracarya Nagar, the ashram of Maharishi Mahesh Yogi. I remained there for some weeks.

What a beautiful place that was. It was a very quiet, peaceful hermitage. Between the forest trees

were pathways leading to simple places of residence. Under the Maharishis supervision, beautiful

little meditiation huts were being built along the forested pathways. There was a steep cliff at one

end of the property. Looking down was a spectacular view of the Ganges flowing in a semi-circle

around the hill. Near the edge of the cliff was the home of the Maharisihi. Entering his house was

a meditation and puja (worship) room. On the altar was a photo of the Maharishis Gurudeva,

Brahmananda Sarawati. He was an esteemed yogi who was awarded the post of Shankaracarya of

the the Himalayan region, Jyotirmath. In the morning and evening the ashram came together to

chant hymms and offer articles of worship. The ceremony concluded with group meditation. In the

basement was the place that the Maharishi would often meditate. It was like a dark cave. During

my stay not a soul went down there in fear of scorpians and snakes. That was the place I cherished

most. The Maharishi Mahesh Yogi taught us that

By practising transcendental meditation ones consciousness enters into finer and subtler states.

The goal was to enter that state beyond the subtlest existence of mind and ego. In that liberated

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state of pure being one experiences the eternal self. Under his inspiration I read his books “The

Science of Being and Art of Living” and six chapters of “Bhagavad Gita”. The leading sadhu of

the ashram was one of Maharishis close disciples, Bevin, from Australia. His simple hut was

elevated on stilts, we spent many hours together, hearing from reel to reel tapes of the Maharishi

and discussing his teachings. After some weeks I gratefully took my leave to return to my cave in

the jungle.

While walking along the bank of the Ganges, a sadhu from Nepal met with me. “Would you like

to meet with one of the greatest saint of Rishikesh? He lives in seclusion deep in the jungle.” He

guided me into the depths of the jungle. We came upon a steep mountain. Narrow steps were

carved into a vertical wall of stone. The steps led us into a dark cave. As we entered the cave, I

beheld an amzing sight. In the lotus posture with back erect sat an effulgent personality. His

thickly matted hair extended beyond his back and several feet onto the ground behind him. He

wore only a loincloth covering his groins. His eyes were closed in deep meditation. He seemed to

have entered into another world, a world far beyond time or space. An aura of indescribable

tranquility emanated from his motionless form. This was Mahavirdass Tat Walla Baba. We sat

beside him, patiently waiting. The sadhu told me that every day at this time he comes out of his

samadhi for only one hour. Silently, the great yogi opened his eyes. Gradually, he looked upon us.

His eyes were intense with yogic power. He spoke no English. My guide explained to him of my

spiritual search. The Baba spoke (translated), “The world is chasing the temporary. They are on

the road to death. Forget the joys of the senses. The ego must die. You have renounced the world.

This is very good. Do not go back. Yoga meditation will bring you supreme peace. Supreme bliss

is within.” We spent the hour hearing from him. He concluded. “Return tommorow and I will

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teach you more.” A lady came with his food. He ate once a day about a handful of rice. We left

with that lady. She brought us to her small hut in the forest. This gentle lady spoke with great awe

about her Guru. She gave me an unusual sweet made of green pumpkin. It was incredible. I had

never tasted anything like it. The next day I returned to the caves of Tat Walla Baba. He

instructed me through my Nepalese freind. Alone with him in his cave I sat in meditation. The

whole day passed, he did not move. His cave was high up from the ground. Sitting on a strip of

straw in that austere cave, I gazed into the beautiful Himalayan forests. From our caves, even the

leopards, snakes and wild elepahants appeared to be loving neighbors. Below were other caves

where several of his ascetic disciples resided. Tat Walla Baba urged me to spend the rest of my life

with him, seeking the eternal truth within. I sincerely considered his words. While he sat

motionless, immersed in yogic trance. I meditated beside him. Several days passed. One day,

while coming out of my meditation, I deeply pondered upon his proposal. “Tat Walla Baba is

inviting me to live with him. It would be a great benediction to live under the guidance of such a

holy man in this sanctified forest. However, I wish to find a master and a path that I can dedicate

my entire life to.” My mind inquired from my heart, “Am I certain that he is my master and this is

my path?” Moments of sincere thought passed, the answer came, “I am uncertain. I have a pulling

in my heart to meet the holy people of India and visit the sacred places. I feel a great calling to

experience many of the great spiritual paths. Then only do I feel I can honestly make this most

crucial decision of my life.” My mind rested, feeling that this was an honest approach. I had to be

very careful, I was not dealing with ordinary human beings. These were extraordinary men with

supernatural powers. Several days passed. In his company, my meditation brought indescribable

yogic experiences. One day I revealed my thoughts to him. The time had come for my search to

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continue. He stared at me gravely and extended his palm. “May you attain the supreme bliss! May

you realize the fruit of your goal!”

One day, as I walked along a jungle pathway going north, I came to the Laxman Jhulan. It was a

long suspension bridge that crossed high over the River Ganges. I desired to see this special view

of Mother Ganges. It was my first time in months to cross the river to the more populated side of

Rishikesh. Standing on the bridge, I beheld a breathtaking sight. Mother Ganges was gracefully

descending from the panoramic wonder of the Himalayas. Her natural beauty was ornamented

with sages and rishis performing their sacred baths and rituals on the ancient steps leading down to

the river. I felt blessed with indescribable good fortune. Crossing the bridge I walked along a dirt

pathway. Suddenly, I came upon a sight that chilled my heart. People were wailing in agony. Their

faces were shriveled and deformed. Their noses had horribly melted away. Absent of fingers and

toes, their hands and feet were grossly deformed. The poverty was horrific. Some of these dying

people were lying in holes in the ground as a bed. To tolerate the freezing cold they buried their

bodies with a blanket of dirt. Some were naked and emaciated, others in rags. All of these pitiable

souls stared at me in utter desperation. I was horrified. I realized where I had come, a leprosy

colony. Suddenly, I was surrounded by dozens of lepers. They cried out “Bakshsih!!! Bakshish!!!

Bakshish!!!” a cry for charity. I was totally surrounded. It was not possible to walk a single step.

They pushed their grossly deformed, bloody hands into my face. Their eyes were filled with

anguish. Screaming and crying, they demanded charity. I had no power to convince them that I

had nothing. They would not leave me. Bakshish!!! Bakshish!!! Bakshish!!! screamed the

passionate mob of lepers. My mind was reeling in confusion. I pondered, “Their aggression

repulses me. Yet their miserable desperation fully justified their behavior.” I was crying in pity for

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them and yet angered by their intense harassment upon this helpless soul. A half hour passed in

this state of horrid anarchy. My heart filled with fear, “Leprosy is a contagious disease, will I be

afflicted like them? Will this mob of suffering lepers ever let me go? Will I survive? Many were

angry. Will they kill me? God, please give me the power to forgive them and pray for them with

honest love and sympathy.” One of the lepers searched my body. When they realized I had no

money they dispersed. As I walked away I saw an old lady lying on the ground suffering miserably

from leprosy. We gazed in each others eyes. Her eyes were filled with motherly affection. She

folded her fingerless hands in respect for a sadhu. Then with tears in her eyes she put forward her

palm to bless me. I placed my head under her disease-smitten hand, to receive her heartfelt

blessing. She sincerely offered a prayer, “May God bless you.” Receiving her blessing, I felt that

the whole ordeal was worthwhile.

I traveled in the northern direction, entering into the higher realms of the Himalayas. Near Dev

Prayag I met Kailash Baba. He was a very large man. His long matted hair extended to the ground.

It was wrapped around his head in coils. Decades had passed since his beard had been cut. He

wore a single quilt garment that extended from his shoulders to his feet. He carried an iron trident

in his hand. Tied near the top of the trident was a huge din din drum. It had two heads opposite

each other. Each about twelve inches in diameter. They were connected by hollow acoustical

wood. A ball hung on string between the heads. When The Baba shook it, the ball flied back and

forth, loudly beating on the drums. His only other possesions were a metal begging bowl and an

old blanket. In his sixties, his beard and hair were graying. He left home for the ascetics life when

very young. Kailash Baba bestowed immense affection upon me. His heart was kind and gentle.

He cared for me as his own son. In the cold nights we would sleep on hillsides often overlooking a
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holy river. Being extremely cold he offered me his blanket. I refused to take it from him. He

insisted. From that night on we both slept under that one blanket. He was eager to train me in how

to live the life of an ascetic. Walking through the forest he identified the edible roots and leaves.

This was our food. When we came to a town he taught the proper behavior in which a sadhu begs,

with integrity. He only accepted chipped (flat dry) rice, wrapping it in cloth. Because it is the

cheapest food, any grain merchant will gladly give some. Its’ special quality is that it did not spoil.

It could sustain one in the jungle for weeks. Once a day we added some stream water to a portion

of the flat rice for our sustenance. He taught the proper consciousness in dealing with snakes,

scorpians and wild animals. When amongst other sadhus, he trained me in the etiquette of how to

address different sects and how to eat amongst them. He taught how to respect sacred rivers,

temples, the sun, moon, trees and the sacred fire. With the twig of the neem tree he taught how to

brush the teeth. Our soap was the mud from the riverbed. Traveling alone together, we had a

relationship like a father and son. Amazingly, we never spoke to each other. He spoke no English.

When there is affection of the heart, communication transcends all language barriers. Kailash

Baba worshipped Lord Siva. The mantra ‘Om Namah Sivaya’ was always on his lips. As we

walked along the pathway he would affectionately call out such names as, “ ‘Jai Sankar’, ‘Hey

Viswananth’, Hey Kedarnathji’, ‘Jai Pasupatinathji’, ‘Jai Sri Parvatey’, ‘Hey Uma Mata’, ‘Hey

Himavatimayee’ Amongst Sivaites (worshippers of Siva) we would loudly chant Sivas Names

and Glories. When the chanting came to a crescendo The Baba, in trance, played his din din drum.

That drum would make the sadhus wild with joy. They would madly shake their heads as their

matted hair flew side to side. Some clapped, others jumped up to perform a mystical dance. He

was highly respected amongst the homeless wandering mendicants. We met one old ascetic in the

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forest. He told me that Kailash Baba possessed supernatural yogic powers. He had seen them

many years ago. He said that as Baba grew older, he vowed to never speak of his powers or make

a show of them. He did not have disciples or an ashram. Without a home he quietly roamed the

forests of the Himalayas. Kailash Baba graciously blessed me when the time came for me to carry

on my search.

In a Himalayan forest I shared my heart in a letter to my family,

Better is it to live in poverty than to sell ones soul for an empty palace of Gold.

Better is it to live unknown than to sell ones soul for the empty and futile pleasures of admiration,

name and fame.

Where there is no inner freedom there is no life. Better is it to die at once than to be deprived of

seeking the ideal of ones life.

I have been doing what I consider to be invaluable studies with great men and places of the east.

Such a study, please understand takes vast expanses of time. I have barely begun to even approach

the beginning of such a vast study. I am selfish and egotistical. I am ignorant and blind of truth. I

am perhaps the farthest away from knowing God. So it is that such a fool as my self needs much

time to see the blissful light of supreme truth that shines within you and me.

Love,

Richard.

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I visited an ashram near Dehra Dun. A yogi appeared from the jungles. He wanted to demonstrate

the powers of Yogic practice. He called for any doctors of the town to assemble that evening. One

by one several doctors arrived. When asked, they claimed to have never been to the ashram before.

The yogi appeared. He challenged them. “By yogic power I will shut down all my life systems. By

your calculation, I will die. You test me by your medical techniques. In exactly thirty minutes. I

will rise from the dead.” Back erect, sitting in a lotus position, he inhaled and exhaled with great

force about 20 times. Then fully inhaling, his breathing stopped. He sat motionless. Each doctor

had his own stethascope. There was absolutely no heartbeat, breath or pulse that could be detected.

Astounded the doctors proclaimed, “He is clinically dead, we can trace no symptoms of life!”

Skeptical guests, including myself, checked his pulse and heartbeat. There was none. Exactly 30

minutes later he exhaled, opened his eyes and walked back into the jungles. He did not ask

anything from anyone. He simply wanted to show these materialistic people the power of yoga.

In Dehra Dun was the ashram of Anandamayee Ma. People spoke of her with great reverence. I

had read about her in ‘Autobiography of a Yogi’ by Paramhamsa Yogananda. I sat with her

followers, awaiting her appearance. She was small lady, dressed in a simple white sari. She

greeted us with folded palms. Her eyes glistened. She sat down and led everyone in chanting Gods

Names. She spoke words of love, wisdom, and selflessness. “Love is everlasting forgiveness.

Wisdom is to see everything in relation to the whole. If you understand that everything belongs to

Him, you will be free of all burdens. Meditation cleanses us within.” Her simple, unassuming

nature brought peace to my heart. Her gentle glance invoked faith and hope. Although considering

herself a child, all present accepted her as Mother. Her disciples were eager to translate for me as

she was not speaking in English. They told me about her life. She was born in East Bengal in the
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nineteenth century. From childhood she was indifferent to the dualities of the world. She was

always immersed in divinity. They spoke about her miracles and compassion. One day someone

asked about her past. She replied,“I have always been the same and will always be the same.” In

the weeks I spent there, I saw renounced sadhus, yogis and swamis, who have nothing to do with

women, sit at her feet seeking her blessings. One day I sat alone in the front courtyard of the

ashram. To my surprise she gracefully appeared. I reverentially touched her feet and placed the

dust on my head. She appeared quite embarrased that I had done that. I felt guilty. I should have

asked permission. Taking note of my disturbed condition, she sat down on a nearby chair and

smiled upon me. She then entered into a trance. The aura of her form radiated a gentle motherly

affection that seemed to engulf me. My heart had melted. It was as if a universal motherly energy

emanated from her, so powerful and real, yet so quiet and gentle. Coming again to this plane, she

smiled upon me and graciously walked away.

I traveled to Uttar Kashi. In the forest I meditated in a small cave. I often meditated on that picture

I received in New Delhi. My attraction grew for the beautiful boy playing the flute. I wondered

who this could be. I asked no one as I felt it should be revealed according to Gods plan. I found

great joy gazing into the forest. I saw a leopard fearlessly hunting for prey. There was a wild boar

moving about. Brown monkeys and white monkeys traveled in packs from branch to branch in the

ancient trees. Snakes such as the King Cobra slithered through the shrubs. They were my

neighbors. I was in their homeland. I prayed to God to help me be fearless.

In the seclusion of a small Himalayan temple, I shared my thoughts in a letter to my family.

Where for him to go who ever wanders in the wilderness of solitude?

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What for him to do who ever searches simplicity.

Who for him to play who is ever alone?

Not knowing God is why we suffer, not knowing ourselves is why we know not God.

Maybe it is because we are afraid to be true to thyself that we are ever strangers.

Lost in the dense jungle of our ego.

Ever we try to quench our fathomless thirst with salted water of sense enjoyment.

This earth is like a ripened tree on this universe.

Truth and virtue is the outer peel which protects it.

Love and kindness is its sweet flavour.

Divinity is the seed with in.

The clock of time clicks on but who listens.

Truly speaking, the only space between two men is that space between each man his soul.

But who am I to say these words, which are empty of realization? How is everything on that side

of mother earth? I think may be the more kind we are, the more kindness we will find everywhere

and the more good we are the more good we will see everywhere. A butterfly flutters by me. I sit

in a temple courtyard with a pen and aerogram in hand. I am reminded of a childhood backyard

which is far, far away. As I think of this, I become even more quiet in thought. I think that may be

I am not worthy of the feelings you have for me. I think that true love is something that can never

be lost to the birth and death of this world.

You have asked me in your letter about what I am doing and I have answered by writing what I

have been thinking and feeling. What is more significant of man, what he does with his body or

what he thinks with his mind and feels with his heart. Such is why my letters have been as they

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are. As perhaps you can see I am man of few words this is because constructing a statue of words

out of silent and serene feeling is an art which some man have mastered but I am not such a

person. Some people cherish their words plus some quiet people cherish their feelings. Whatever

TRULY brings a man closer to God is what he should cherish with all of his heart and soul.

Richard

One day I roamed to the outskirts of the town. There, I met a wandering sadhu. He was very

affectionate toward me. His name was Sadasiva Yogi. He took me from place to place. We spent

the night in the courtyard of a small temple. Sitting alone in the quiet of the early morning I

entered my meditative observation into my diary.

The birds surround the stillness of the courtyard with their song. In natural harmony with the grand

opera of silence can be heard the fluttering wings of passing birds, the slow gentle hum of the

lingering wasp, the spontaneous buzz of the fly.

The golden rooster cocks back his multicolored neck, releasing a call which serves as a reminder

of the inner awakening. The still clear sky contains all of the natural songs of creation. The wind

whistles gently as it thistles through leaf and bush. She sings a silent melody. A distant wall of

mountains, whose awesome form flows across the blue sky.

In yonder horizon the glitter of the pure white blanket of snow which ever covers distant peaks.

The cow lazily feeds from the vast plate of earth’s grassy soils. The graceful bamboo sways

yieldingly to the will of the mountain breeze.

The mountain steps lead upward to heavens golden gate. The cry of the babe calling for the
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presence of its mother. When will that day come when I may cry, like that babe, for my beloved

Lord.

The next morning I asked for his blessings to continue my spiritual journey. Sadasiva Yogi

insisted for me to come to a satsang (spiritual meeting) he was holding. I declined. Again and

again he pleaded with me to attend. I graciously accepted. A crowd of several hundred people

gathered. Sadasiva Yogi stood on a raised platform. I was requested to sit on a chair along the side

of the platform. He began by taking off his upper cloth. Next he opened his empty hand for all to

see. Closing his hand he went into a meditative state. To the crowds astonishment as he opened his

hand a Siva Linga appeared. It appeared to have grown right out from his hand. The Diety was

made of black stone. He placed it on the podium. By chanting mantras he induced ashes to

materialize from his right hand. The ashes were pouring profusely from his bare hand. He offered

a continuous shower of mystical ashes over the Siva Lingam. So much ash fell from his hand that

it completely buried the lingam in a hill of ashes. In thundering voice he explained, “What you

have seen is prapti siddhi. It is a yogic art. Anyone can do this if they know the science. What you

are seeing has been done by controlling the gross elements by mastery over the subtle elements.

You should know that what you are seeing is not spiritual. It is a material science. This power can

be attained through meditation and austerities. People are worshipped as God if they can do this.

That is ignorance. Simply ignorance. It is material. I am not God. I am an ordinary man with yogic

powers. Real spiritual life is to know that you are not your body and ego and realize the Atma

(soul) within.” As the crowd stood in line to receive his blessings Sadasiva Yogi thanked me for

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attending. “Are you happy you stayed?” He asked. “Yes thank you. I especially liked your

honesty. Please bless me to find my path to God.” He held open his hand to bless me. Then

gracefully closed it. Upon opening his hand, a sacred rudraksa bead covered with ashes appeared.

Smiling, he placed it in my hand as the gift of his vibhuti, blessing.

In the seclusion of my cherished cave, I entered the following words into my diary.

At times this world seems like an unending race away from our selves. We close our eyes and feel

the tranquility of silence only to be called back into illusions and ridiculous temptations. Ah! To

savour that nectarine flavour of solitude. To cherish with our being those lonely moments we pass

in the presence of the Lord. Across distant mountain ranges casting vision of a million miles we

see no one. But we feel something very strange within us telling us that we are only alone when

we forget ourselves to others. The mind is like a treacherous hurricane, until it is stilled by the

grace from above. Above and beyond all belief and disbelief. In the distant mountain peaks of our

consciousness. Here is where we will find our home. Home is not closer than the most distant star

yet it is not any farther than our own soul. But all these are but foolish words empty of realization

of what they truly mean.

I next traveled to Champa. When I arrived the police checked my legal documents. Foriegners

were rare in these parts. I was an especially warm greeting from the Himalayan tribal people. The

families were poor. They lived a hard life. The winters were cold and the terrain was rough. Each

day many of the townspeople gathered in a food stall for their traditional breakfast. I was invited.

We ate fresh hot jalebis (a sweet), hot puris(fried bread) and hot sweetened milk. After eating

chipped rice in the forest, this was a Himalayan feast I will never forget.
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On a lonely roadside along the Himalayan mountains, an amazing sight came before my eyes.

Rapidly approaching me was a tribe of the Naga Babas. They had long matted hair and beards.

Around the waist was a strand of coarse rope. Supported by the rope was a single strand of bright

red cloth that covered the groin. That was the only clothes they wore. Their dark bodies were fully

covered with gray ashes. The three-line tilak (symbol of Siva) was smeared on their forheads.

Rudraksa beads hung from their necks. Each of them carried an iron trident. The top of their

trident was ornamented with a real human skull. The only other possession they were allowed was

a begging bowl, made of hollowed gourd. They walked barefoot through the mountainous terrain.

I wondered, how they survived in the freezing winter of the Himalayas. They lived by strict vows.

In their life they could not wear any clothing except that red loin-cloth. They must never cut any

hair from the body. They vowed to never sleep indoors or on any surface but the hard ground. This

sect of Nagas could have no possessions but the trident and a begging bowl. They could never

marry or leave the company of Nagas. I was eager to observe their renunciation. They were

curiously surprised when I asked to travel with them. Immediately, they accepted me as a brother.

We walked many miles. On the bank of a river they set up camp. A priest amongst them named

the Dhooni Baba ceremoniously started a sacred fire. The Naga Babas sat around it. I innocently

approached the fire to sit among them. Suddenly a lightening bolt of shock came upon me. The

Dhooni Baba was ferocious with anger. Screaming in rage, he lifted his trident to attack me. He

was furious. His eyes blazed red, lips quivered and limbs trembled. Like death personified he

stood with the deadly trident looming over my head. The assembly of Nagas angrily shouted at

me. I was utterly bewildered. What did I do to deserve to die? Was my life to end by the trident of

the Naga Babas? I prayed to God, “What sin have I done. Please help me.” The one Naga who

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spoke English pointed to my rubber sandals. I hastily took them off and threw them far into the

jungle. An eerie stillness then pervaded as all the Nagas stared at me. I was in a horrible state,

awaiting my destiny. The Naga Babas then cordially welcomed me to sit amongst them. Taking a

breath of great relief, I took my seat on the cold ground. Suddenly, there was an uproar of hearty

laughter over the incident. Seeing my bewildered state, the one Naga who spoke some English

explained. “The sacred fire is our temple. No shoes are allowed. Actually, we were not really

angry. This is our method to teach you a lesson you will never forget. Dhuni Baba has given you

great mercy today!” I solemnly promised him, “I will never forget this lesson.” In fact I never

again wore shoes while living as a sadhu. An upright trident, representing Siva, was secured in the

center of the fire. Oblations of ghee (clarified butter) were offered while mantras were chanted. At

a certain stage of the ceremony a chillum (clay pipe) was presented before their altar. As Mantras

were being chanted it was ceremoniously filled with Ganja (marijuana). The senior member of the

Nagas was given first honors. Holding the chillum, he chanted the praise of Lord Siva and smoked

it. It was ritualistically passed around the fire to each Naga. Everyone reverentially chanted

mantras before inhaling. When it was passed to me, I declined. I had taken a vow in Kandahar to

never take intoxicants. Everyone sternly stared at me. They loudly exclaimed, “Mahaprasad,

Mahaprasad, Shankara Mahaprasad. (This is Sivas Great Mercy)” The Naga who spoke English

said, “This is Sivas Mercy. You must honor it with us. It will help you to meditate on the Infinite.”

They all stared at me. I was intimidated. “I have vowed to never take this,” I timidly said. He

translated. A hush of silence prevailed. One of the Nagas gathered wood and started another fire.

Pausing, he stared at me. My mind reeled, “What was next to come? Have I offended their

practices? Is that fire going to be my funeral pyre?” Reciting scriptures he placed an iron pot over

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the fire. They all smiled, expressing that they honored my vow to abstain from Ganja. The fire was

for cooking dinner. When the cooking was complete, he offered part of the preparation into the fire

while chanting mantras. It then became prasad (mercy). This preparation of rice and dahl (beans)

was served to the assembled Nagas. We all slept near the fire. In the morning after bathing in the

cold river, they smeared their bodies with the ashes of the sacred fire. Perhaps the bitter cold was a

reason that the fire was the most popular place to be. Many repeatedly smoked Ganja. Some

meditated the whole day. Others chanted mantras on their rudraksa beads. An elder Naga,

advanced in yoga discipline, sat legs crossed, motionless in meditation. I carefully observed as he

slowly levitated twelve inches above the ground. The other Nagas looked and paid no attention. It

was common practice to them. After some days we began our procession to another place. They

insisted that I take the vows of a Naga Baba and join them. They were prepared to bestow upon me

the red loin cloth, trident and skull. I politely explained that I was not ready. These Naga Babas

shared a rare comradery with each other. Their loyalty to the sect and to each other was real and

for life. They were wild, rough and adventurous. I reflected, by western calculation, they were like

the Hells Angels among the sadhus. After some days I bowed to the leader and asked leave. They

all smilingly offered their blessings.

For several days I traveled with a sadhu of the name Nagapati Maharaja. He immersed himself in

hours of silent meditation. Each day, I ate my chipped rice soaked in river water. I never saw him

eat anything. He only drank water from the Ganges. Once he effortlessly moved a big boulder

from our path. Curious, I pushed with all my might and could not budge it. One day I asked him,

“How do you have so much strength when you never eat?” He told me it was a secret, but he will

disclose it to me. “Through many lifetimes of yoga practice, I have learned to extract all my
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nourishment by breathing the subtle airs. If you become my disciple I will teach you.” He pressed

me repeatedly to accept initiation from him into his tantric sect. I was not willing to be his

disciple. I only wanted to learn and experience spiritual life in the company of holy people. I was

not ready to commit myself to a particular path. Respectfully, I asked leave to continue my

pilgrimage.

I desired to visit Badrinath. Being winter, the roads were blocked with snow. It was impossible. I

returned to Rishikesh. On the banks of the Ganges I watched a tribe of white monkeys drinking

water. The elders were the size of an adult human. Their fur was bright white, faces shiny black

and very long curling tails. I followed them into the forest. They were like a nation of nomads.

Babies tightly held onto their mothers as she jumped from branch to branch. Children played

together with great vigour. When a monkey was wounded the friends would attentively lick their

wounds to relieve the pain. Mothers nursed their children. Battles over food were common. A

single male predominated over his area of control. Might was right in these territorial conflicts. I

watched as another tribe of monkeys came into their territory. Leaders of both sides screamed,

showing their might. Usually they respected each others’ territorial rights. At times when the trees

were ripe with fruits, there was battle. I observed how desperately the males approached the

females to relieve the frustrations of their sexual drive. In such pursuit wild battles may ensue

between males over a single female. They screamed, threatened and showed the prowess of their

pointed teeth. Usually one became so intimidated he ran away. Seldom did they physically fight. It

was the art of psychological warfare. If they came to corporal battle it was with much passion. I

contemplated, “we can learn much about human behaviour by studying nature. The same animal

instincts I witness in these monkeys are the very basis of human society. The base instincts of
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these monkeys is grossly visible. Humans have created a very sophisticated culture for disguising

their animal instincts. Real evolution from the monkeys is to rise above these selfish animal

instincts by knowledge of God.”

I was invited to a special feast for the sadhus at the swargashram. Everyone sat together in lines to

honor the prasad (spiritual food). After the lunch, all the sadhus washed their hands and layed on

the floor on thier left sides. This was a traditional method for aiding digestion. After resting I

explored the area. Some wealthy pilgrims invited me to speak with them. They were fascinated

seeing a western boy living among the sadhus. We sat together on a pleasant veranda. It was now

early evening. A yogi approached my hosts. He was perhaps in his late thirties. He begged for

charity. My hosts ignored his request. The yogi stood on a chair. He reached up to unscrew the

glowing light bulb from its’ socket. Standing before the pilgrims he crushed the hot bulb with his

bare hand. With one hand he continually ground the bulb. When he opened his hand he showed us

a fine powder of glass. There was not a trace of blood or cut on his hand. That was only the

beginning of his performance. He then poured all the fine glass powder into his mouth. Drinking a

cup of Ganges water he swallowed all of it, right before our eyes. The wealthy pilgrims were

astounded. Reaching into their pockets they each gave him a very generous donation. They asked

him if he would show them more of his powers. Closeby, construction was going on. The yogi

picked up a long pole of steel rebar. He placed a piece of thin cloth over his eye. Then he balanced

one end of the metal pole against a wall and one against his thinly covered eye. The yogi slowly

walked forward, the metal pole bent more and more with each of his steps. As he approached the

wall the two ends of the pole practically touched. He then threw the bent steel aside and removed

the gauze from his eye. The eye was bright red with irritation but completely undamaged.
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Superman could only bend steel with his bare hands. This yogi could bend steel with his bare eye.

Lavishing more wealth upon him, the pilgrims asked how he gained these powers. He explained.

“For twenty years I lived with my guru in a Himalayan cave. He took note that I was using the

powers he taught me for material gain. Rejecting me, he ordered to go back into the materialistic

world. Now, I am raising money to marry a descent lady. Having only been trained as a yogi, this

is the only way I know to make a living.

One day, while in Rishikesh I returned to that dear rock in the Ganges. At this sacred place, I

collected many priceless jewels. Hearing the sweet song of Mother Ganges my mind flowed back

to my experiences in the Himalayas. That brief time seemed like a lifetime. There was so much for

me to digest. I loved my life as a sadhu. With a grateful heart I bid farewell to the Himalyan

Mountains, and all of their holy people. I softly spoke to Mother Ganges, “I pray to meet with you

again in Varanasi.”

In a third class train I was brought from the mountains into the plains of India. I stopped in Delhi.

After residing in serene ashrams and forests, the city of New Dehli was quite a culture shock. I

slept under a tree in the park of Connaught Place. In the morning I met a friend I had known while

traveling in Europe. He was from Canada. We had spent enjoyable times together. We had much

in common. Now, his language, mannerisms and values saddened me. Everything he said

completely bored me. I was both uninterested and growing impatient. I politely sat with him. It

was a serious culture shock. After spending time together, I politely said goodbye. I sat under a

tree to contemplate what just happened. Had he changed? No, he was exactly the same person.

Last year I felt joy to associate with him. Why does he seem so gross, frivolous and materialistic?

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Had I changed? Yes, my life in the Himalayas had transformed my values and perceptions. I was a

different person. I could not fathom this until I met my old friend. I felt affection toward him but

now we had nothing in common. From that day whenever I passed through New Delhi I stayed at

the Hanuman Temple near Connought Place in the company of sadhus.

Hearing that Anandamayee Ma was in Delhi, I went to meet her. She was especially happy to see

me. One day while there, secret service men and special police surrounded the ashram. Alarmed, I

wondered, “What was happening to this peaceful place?” The Prime Minister of India, Indira

Gandhi had come to seek advice and blessings from the Mother. Miss Gandhi had great trust in

Anandamayee Ma.

Enroute to Varanasi, my train stopped in Agra. Coming off the train, I traveled to the world

reknowned Taj Mahal. Taj Mahal has been glorified as one of the “wonders of the world.” Upon

entering through the massive outer gate one sees a long marble canal lined with cypress trees. On

all sides are flower filled Persian gardens. The waterfilled canal is ornamented with dozens of

fountains, in a row, spraying a shower of clear water. At the distant end of the fountains, stands the

historical masterpiece, the Taj Mahal. In the center of that water display is a raised marble lotus

tank. The tank was designed to perfectly reflect the image of the Taj Mahal in its’ water. The deep

blue sky and river Jamuna serve as Taj Mahals’ backdrop. This artistic wonder is constructed of

hand carved, pure white marble. Artistic inlay of semi precious jewels lavishly decorate it both

within and without. I spent hours carefully examining the beauty of this legendary masterpiece.

While sitting in the expansive garden, I read a book on its’ history. The fifth Moghul king, Shah

Jehan, inherited the powerful throne of the Mughal Empire. It ruled over a vast part of India. Upon

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the death of his favorite wife, Mumtaz Mahal, he built this monument. She bore him fourteen

children. It was completed in 1648. It took twenty thousand workmen and craftsmen twenty-two

years to complete. Her bodily remains are entombed in the awesome gandeur. In his latter life,

Shah Jehans’ third son Aurangzeb conquered the kingdom. Killed his brothers and imprisoned his

father. Reading this startling fact, I pondered, “How instructive is history! After spending his life

to construct maginificent palaces, forts, mosques and the Taj Mahal itself. This man was

conquered and imprisoned by his own son. In the misery of prison, he suffered seeing his own

sons battling and murdering each other. Such is the pitiful influence of the greed for power! In the

heart that harbours egoistic greed, the flower of love cannot exist. To conquer over ones own ego,

envy lust, and greed is the real victory in life. Then only can we reside in the eternal kingdom of

God.”

I traveled by third class train to the ancient city of Varanasi (Benares). It is glorified throughout

the Holy Scriptures of India by the name Kashi. Varanasi is considered the Holiest of all cities to

millions of Hindus. It is especially holy for those who worship God as Lord Siva. Coming from

the railway station I went directly to the river Ganges. It was a sight one can never forget. The sun

was just rising. The ancient Ghats (stone steps leading down to the river) extended in both

directions as far as the eyes could see. Tens of thousands of residents and pilgrims were gathered

to perform their worship. Hundreds of clouds of incense smoke ascended toward the heavens.

Hundreds of religious instruments played songs of devotion. The cymbals, bells, horns, drums,

flutes, and traditional stringed instruments merged together, permeating the atmosphere. Countless

flowers and garlands were offered into the Ganges current. In all directions songs, hymns, mantras

and scriptures were chanted. An endless array of colors shone brightly. The worshippers wore their
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most colorful saris, turbans and garments to honor Mother Ganges. Hills of multi colored powders

added to the spectacular sight. How many different rituals were performed was beyond ability to

count. Devotees offered incense, flaming lamps, conch shells, cloths, jewels and fans. Within the

river, thousands were crowded to offer prayers, oblations and rituals. Everyone was crowded

together to take the sacred bath. Men, women, children, cows, buffaloes, goats and elephants all

bathed together. Sacred food was given freely. Carts sold foods and religious articles everywhere.

It was a grand festival of religious fervour. Entering into the contagious fervor of the crowds, I

took my morning bath. From the Ganges I visited the Temple of Kashi Vishwanath. This ancient

temple is the very heart of Varanasi. Through timeless history saints, kings and common people

have made pilgrimage here. The scriptures tell that long ago Lord Siva and his consort Goddess

Parvati resided here. Centuries ago the Moghal conquerors, knowing its’ importance to the Hindus,

destroyed it and built a huge mosque in its place. At that time the Diety of Lord Siva was hidden.

Later the temple was reestablished. Each day tens of thousands come to worship. One day while

exploring Varanasi, I heard sober chanting blended with loud crying. It was a funeral procession,

passing through the narrow alleyways leading to the river. The corpse was laid on a bamboo

stretcher carried on the shoulders of his loved ones. Walking behind the body, were the males,

soberly restraining their emotions. The females followed, uncontrollably sobbing in sorrow. I wept

upon witnessing their suffering. I followed behind as we approached the funeral pyre. Deeply

contemplating inevitable death, I pondered its’ mysteries. Death is a mystery that philosophers

have tried to describe for millenniums. The world tries to turn their heads away from this

inevitable reality. With a hope to gain deeper knowledge and detachment I made a decision. From

sunrise to sunset I would sit on the bank of the Manikarnika Ghat (burning ghat) to meditate on

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death. Many Hindus believe that if one dies in Varanasi, near the Ganges, Lord Siva whispers the

Name of Rama in ones ear. This will assure ones liberation. For this reason many come to

Varanasi at the end of life. Sitting in a place just above the burning bodies I observed. First was

the sorrow of the loved ones as they unwillingly looked upon the mystery of death. The body was

placed on a pyre of wooden logs. Sacred objects were then placed upon the body. Sometimes

wood was placed on top as well. After the rituals were performed the eldest son or close relative

placed a flaming torch upon the pyre. The hungry flames gradually raged higher and higher. At

that time most loved ones offered sorrowful prayers and departed to bathe in another place. I

observed. The hair curled into nothing. The flesh shriveled away. In this way the entire body was

gradually consumed. In the end nothing remained but a pile of ashes. This was carefully swept into

the current of Mother Ganges. This was the grand finale of a persons’ life. I gravely reflected, “In

course of all devouring time the body will be placed in the earth or fire. If a body is the person

they love why do the loved ones destroy him or her. Death is when the eternal soul departs from

the body. The body is no more than a temporary vehicle. Without the soul the body is like a car

without a driver. I see through my eyes, smell through my nose, taste through my tongue, hear

through my ears, feel through my skin, think through my brain and love through my heart. Who

am I? Who is that witness, enjoyer and sufferer that activates my body? Where is this most

fundamental knowledge being taught? All of the pleasures and riches people strive for culminate

in death. The eternal treasure of the self is neglected and forgotten. The great souls have detached

themselves from bodily pleasures for the eternal joy within.” I sincerely contemplated these truths

as I witnessed body after body preparing to enter into the holy river. Regardless of race, sex,

nationality, education, wealth or religion, in due course, all bodies will be carried away in the river

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of time.

Bodha Gaya is the center of the universe for Buddhists all over the world. The Buddhist followers

worship Bodha Gaya as the holiest of all holy places on earth. 2,500 years ago Prince Siddhartha

Gautama left the luxuries of his royal palace to seek a solution to the sufferings of birth, old age,

disease and death. For six years he performed severe austerities in pursuit of enlightenment.

Ultimately He came to this place. Sakhyamuni Gautama sat down in the meditative lotus posture

under the sacred pipal tree. He vowed not to move from that place until his goal was attained.

Maya, the power of illusion tempted him in every possible way. He remained fixed in His resolve.

It was under this sacred pipal tree in Bodha Gaya that he became the Buddha, the enlightened one.

From that time the tree is worshipped as the Bodhi Tree, tree of enlightenment. In the third century

BC Emporer Ashoka converted, he proclaimed Buddhism as the State Religion. In glorification of

the birthplace of Buddhism, he built the Mahabodhi Temple at the place of the Bodhi Tree. While

in Bodha Gaya, I sat under the Bodhi tree studying the teachings of the Buddha. Most all Buddhist

nations of the world are represented by a monestery here.

Sitting alone under the sacred Bodhi tree I reassured my family that I was alive.

My dear Family,

All of life remains still as creation evolves within a cycle of ceaseless motion.

Sat-Chit-Ananda (Existence-Knowledge-Bliss). He who knows this knows all.

I am presently residing in Buddha Gaya India.

This is the place where Lord Buddha reached his enlightenment. There is great beauty here. With

each breath the body is nourished with tranquility – the color blue never boasted so proudly as in
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yonder sky.

My eyes rest casually on a distant green banana plantation. Sweet, sweet chirping fill my ears

with the soul soothing sound of black birds. My body’s pours offer drink to the burning thirst of

the Indian sun. A silent prayer to blessed India.

Amidst all we do lies love, pure and free.

Those who surrender wholly to love are granted eternal shelter.

Love to you my home and family.

Richard

Buddha Gaya

I learned of a highly elevated Zen Master who had come from Japan. He was teaching Zen

meditation at the Gandhi Ashram. Eagerly, I attended his courses. Head shaved, he wore the

traditional black robe of a Zen Master. “Strict discipline in ones life is the way of Zen,” he taught.

On the first day he gave an exhaustive lecture on the history and teachings of Zen. “The source of

all suffering is desire. Desire arises from the minds attachments to the senses. Satori or Nirvana is

to empty the mind of all thoughts and impressions. No mind, no thought is the liberated state of

perfect peace.”He then taught us the technique we were to follow. He taught us to sit in the cross

legged position, (lotus if possible) on the floor. With half closed eyes we must put our entire

attention on the intersection of the wall and the floor. We must empty our minds of everything by

putting our complete concentration on that crack between the wall and floor. During group

meditation we sat in a circle, everyone had thier back toward the group while facing the wall. Any

sound or movement was strictly forbidden. The meditation session was inaugurated when he rang

his Japanese bell. It continued for at least one hour. The master stood behind us, carefully
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observing. One day, my neck aching after 45 minutes of meditation, slightly moved. Whack!!! The

master whacked me with a bamboo stick. Another person moved a leg, Whack!!! Anyone who

moved any part of the body, even slightly was disciplined with the bamboo rod of chastisement. At

times our bodies were crying and howling to move. The pain was silently tolerated, while

concentrating on the crack between the floor and the wall. The ringing of the bell concluded the

session. The master then spoke elaborately on the way of Zen. Speaking philosophy, anecdotes,

logic and traditional Zen Koans he instructed us. He was a fascinating speaker. This group

meditation was held morning, noon and evening. During the evening the mosquitoes feasted upon

us. As they sucked our blood, we were not to move. I heard many Whacks of bamboo against flesh

at that time. Between sessions he expected us to be immersed in individual meditation the whole

day. On some days we were only allowed to eat raw barley soaked overnight in water. Each

mouthful took great energy and time to chew. Although we were disciplined quite strictly we all

had very valuable experiences and realizations. It was a beautiful place. The front of the ashram

had a grove of banana trees. At times we were allowed to pick bananas for breakfast. In that quiet

ashram we immersed ourselves in Zen meditation upto fourteen hours a day. When the fourteen

day course ended I departed. One day while sitting under the Bodhi tree, I met an American couple

that took the Zen meditation course with me. They told me startling news of what took place after

I left. She wept as she began her narration. “One western student came outside late one night to

use the toilet. He happened to see something strange. A young American girl, taking the course,

was entering the Masters quarters. She came out hours later. He observed this happening for

several nights. Telling the other western students, they interrogated the girl. She admitted he was

having sex with her each night. The students were stunned. They decided to test him according to

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their traditional hippie methodology. They secretly put LSD in his tea. Under the influence it was

revealed that he was a tyrant, mad with ego. ‘You must obey me or perish! I am the enlightened

one! All others are frauds! You must surrender to me or you are doomed! No one can dare

question my words or actions! I possess all power, SURRENDER TO ME!’ Seeing him in such a

state, all his students immediately rejected him and left. It was a real bad trip for him. Disgraced,

he returned to Japan. I felt very sorry hearing this alarming news. He was one of my teachers. I

thought, “Our Zen Master was extremely strict with his students, but not with himself.

Unfortunately, such hypocracy is often present in all the worlds’ great traditions. How essential is

to live what we believe. How vital it is to practice what we preach. See what pain his hypocracy

caused those who trusted him. See what it has done to his own life.”

In Bodha Gaya I attended a meditation course at the Burmese Buddhist Vihara (temple). It was

taught by the great master, Satya Narayana Goenka. Sri Goenkaji was of Indian descent, born in

Burma. At a young age he became a very successful industrialist. Sayagyu U Ba Khin, a

reknowned Buddhist teacher trained him in the science of Vippasana meditation. During the

military takeover of the Burmese government his businesses were taken away. He returned to

India in 1969 to teach Vipassana meditation. He taught us that this was the original meditation

taught by the Buddha. It was a non-sectarian science for self-realization. The intensive course was

ten days. No one was to speak or look at each other. During meditation there should be no

movement. Three times a day he would lead us in a group meditation. In the evenings he gave an

hour lecture. He was a very honest man with great intregrity. He gained our sincere trust and

respect. The meditation techiniques he taught had a powerful effect on all of us. There were only

about a dozen students. Sri Goenkaji was just beginning his mission. We learned to observe life
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within and without. We were taught how to witness life with neutrality. In our meditation we

were to objectively witness all experiences with detachment from the conceptions of pleasure or

pain, success or failure, happiness or distress. Gradually the mind finds subtler and subtler states of

peace. From peace awakens compassion. After the course I had a series of serious discussions with

Sri Goenkaji. Seeing how seriously I was practicing he invited me to Bombay. He was to hold

another series of courses there. The next several weeks I meditated under the sacred Bodhi Tree

from sunrise to sunset. Each day I prayed to the Golden Buddha in the temple for blessings to

follow the path of truth.

One day as I walked along the road, a Buddhist Monk invited me onto his riksaw. He was on his

way to the railway station. He explained that he was the leader of a large monastery in another

country. He was to stay in Bodha Gaya for six months but decided to leave after one week. I asked

why. He replied, “The quality of meat in India is very poor. I cannot tolerate it.” I was quite

stunned. I reflected, “The Buddha taught ahimsa, non violence and compassion for life. Why

would a Buddhist eat meat?”

From Bodha Gaya I traveled to Sarnath. This was the place that The Buddha began His teachings.

In Sarnath, ascetics taught him the path of severe disciplines. Unsatisfied with that path he

wandered to Bodh Gaya. There he attained enlightenment. He took the Bodhisattva vow to live in

compassionate service to others. The Buddha returned to Sarnath. In the Deer park he taught the

same ascetics the eight fold wheel of Dhamma. They became his first disciples. From here

Buddhism expanded in all directions. During the Buddhist era of India, Sarnath was a great center

for education and culture. Universities and monestaries were once abundant in this historical place.

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In Sarnath I tried to absorb myself in meditation and study of the Buddhist scriptures.

Climbing aboard a third class train I traveled to the Howrarh station in Calcutta. Howrah is an

enormous station, overcrowded and busy as could be. It seemed to be a city in itself. The

deformities and diseases of the countless beggars saddened my heart. I visited the famous Kali

Ghat. On the banks of the Ganges was the temple of the Goddess Kali. The diety was made of

black stone. A large golden tongue extended from her mouth. It was covered with blood. The

preists blessed the worshipers by placing a spot of this blood on their foreheads. In front of the

Kali deity, across a courtyard, were several altars, for animal sacrifices. Goats and buffaloes were

ceremoniously brought to these altars. The priest chanted mantras, then cut off the head of the

animal with the sacrificial chopper. The blood was collected and offered to the Goddess. I could

not bear to see this. It was unacceptable to my heart. I quickly departed. Sitting on the bank of the

Ganges, I reflected, “What a striking contrast between Kali Ghat and the compassionate, highly

realized sages I had met who follow the same Hindu religion. In every religion there are various

levels of morality, philosophy and realization. According to the level of a persons consciousness,

they worship accordingly.”

Eagerly, I approached the convent of Mother Theresa of Calcutta. An affectionate Catholic sister

brought me inside. She showed me the prayer room where Mother Theresa and the nuns perform

their worship every morning. I asked if I could meet the Holy Mother. She led me into the

complex. There I saw the internationally honored Mother Theresa unassumingly scrubbing a large

cooking pot with her own devoted hands. My heart melted. I was led into a small room. “Mother

Theresa will come shortly to meet you”, the sister said while offering me a seat. After a few

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minutes, Mother Theresa gracefully entered the room, she sat on a chair across from me. Her aged

physical form was very small and frail. Yet one could feel in her presence an immovable mountain

of determination. One could sense her oceanic dedication to the mission of Jesus Christ. Her face

had deep wrinkles from a life of severe austerities. Yet her eyes twinkled with childlike innocence.

She spoke with great compassion, “The greatest problem in this world is hunger. Not hunger of the

stomach but hunger of the heart. All over the world the rich and the poor are suffering. They are

lonely, starving for love. Only Gods love can satisfy the hunger of the heart. There is no other

way. Feeding the stomachs of the poor is easy. Feeding the starving hearts of humanity with Love

of God is a great challenge. When the diseased, impoverished people of Calcutta dies in my arms.

I see in their eyes a light of hope. I do not see this light in the eyes of the wealthy, powerful people

of the west. Real wealth is in hope and faith in the love of God. The world is in desperate need of

those who will give the poor hearted such hope.” Other people entered the room. One lady asked,

“Why do you wash the pots? Is there not someone else who can do this?” Mother Theresa replied,

“Serving God and humanity is an honor not a chore. All types of service to God is a blessing, there

is no high or low.” A man inquired, “Mother where do you get your strength from. Mother Theresa

held up her rosary, “All strength comes from the Lords Holy Names.” She informed me that she

had to perform her services. Thanking me for visiting her she graciously walked me to the door.

As she was giving her last blessing to me, a British lady approached. “Mother, thank you for your

great work.” Mother Theresa responded as a matter of fact, “It is Gods work, I am only a tiny

instrument.”

I traveled on a train to the city of Bombay. It took two and a half days to reach. In the crowded

marketplace of Bhulehwar I attended another course in Vippasanna meditation. It was being held
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in an old rented facility. There were only about 15 students attending. Sri S.N. Goenkaji put his

heart and soul into to helping us.

After 10 days of intensive meditation, I was overcome with the desire to take a long walk. For

several hours, I walked with no particular direction. My eyes looked up to see a curious sight.

High up on a prominent building I saw a gigantic billboard, the giant letters read, “HARE

KRISHA festival with A.C. Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada and his American and European

Bhaktas at Cross Maiden.” Interested in learning about different spiritual paths I went. Cross

Maidan is an expansive park in downtown Bombay. A gigantic pandal (tent) was erected on the

sight. As I entered, a long table displaying books stood before me. A fascinating moment took my

breath. Before my eyes laid a book that captured my complete attention. On the cover was a

beautiful personality holding a flute. His complexion was blue and a peacock feather adorned his

head. This was the same personality as in the picture I got in Delhi. Without knowing who He was,

I carried Him all over India. That same Personality who stole my heart has appeared again. This

time He was standing beside a most beautiful Goddess. The title of the book read “KRISHNA The

Supreme Personality of Godhead.” My treasured mystery was revealed. He was Krishna!!! I was

beside myself with joy. Eager to learn more about Him, I asked if I could see the book. A western

monk with shaved head and robes stood behind the table. Surprised, he asked, “Do you speak

English?” “I am from America.” I replied. “Really, are you a Sivaite?” he inquired. “I have lived

with Sivaites.” He opened the book to a chapter about the relation of Krishna and Siva. I wondered

why he was surprised to know I was from the west. Living in the holy places, I had not seen a

mirror in many months. My long hair had become matted. Having only one set of robes. I washed

them each day in rivers that were often muddy. I had not realized that I now looked like an Indian
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mendicant. With immense eagerness, I sat on the ground to read the Krishna Book. A young

American lady named Jamuna Devi sat on the stage singing beautiful devotional songs. Her voice

was saturated with devotion. I was absorbed in reading the Krishna Book while hearing the soul

stirring music. The devotee at the book table asked if I would like to perform devotional service. I

agreed. A devotee named Giriraj Das brought me to a table displaying the magazine, “Back to

Godhead.” I was to make a small hole in a corner of the magazine then tie it with string to the

table. This was to prevent them from being stolen. Giriraja das told me he was from a millionaire

family in Chicago. He left all his material wealth to live as a sadhu in the service of his Guru in

India. I was very impressed by his conviction and sincere dedication. As the evening approached

the pandal filled with over 20,000 people. Eager to hear the Guru speak, I sat in a corner of the

massive crowd near the rear. About twenty western devotees were chanting and dancing on the

stage. The men had shaved heads and wore traditional robes of a sadhu. The ladies wore colorful

saris. Tens of thousands anticipated the coming of the Guru, Srila A.C. Bhaktivedanta Swami

Prabhupada. To everyones much awaited satisfaction he gracefully appeared on the stage. He was

an effulgent personality. He walked with the grace a beautiful swan. His mannerisms had the

confidence of an aristocrat. His demeanor was meek and humble as of one seeing God. He

graciously welcomed the audience with folded palms then sat on an elevated seat. Being so far

back in the crowd, I longed be closer to him. On the stage one devotee was moving from side to

side taking photos. Srila Prabhupada called him to his side and spoke into his ear. The devotee

then looked into the massive crowd. He looked from side to side. Suddenly he found who he was

looking for. Again and again he signaled for someone to come onto the stage. Without success he

came down into the crowd. I observed as he painstakingly tried to pass through the tens of

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thousands of seated people. Astonishingly, with a beaming smile, he walked right up to me. He

blissfully spoke, “Srila Prabhupad wants you to sit with him on stage!” Stunned, I asked, “How

does he know, me.” He gave no reply. Affectionately taking me by the hand, he pulled me through

the masses and onto the stage. There he presented me before His Divine Grace. Srila Prabhupada

smiled upon me. That smile was oceanic. It seemed to be from a spriritual world. He graciously

motioned for me to sit near him. I took my seat. The devotees were jubilantly dancing and singing.

Their robes were clean and bright. Mine were tattered and stained by the mud of the rivers. The

men had fresh shaved heads and faces. I had not shaved or cut my hair in years. For months my

matted locks had not been combed. They danced jubilantly. I sat in silence. Having bathed in a

river or muddy pond each day, I appeared filthy in their presence. Sitting on a stage with tens and

thousands of people looking on was startling. I had lived in the seclusion of the forests. I felt

extremely out of place. Srila Prabhupada cast a loving smile upon me. Miraculously, I instantly

felt at home. “Why did Srila Prabhupada call me? Of all these people why did he call me?” I

pondered this mystery. Srila Prabhupada began to chant. My heart filled with joy. He chanted the

very same mantra I had heard from Mother Ganges. Hare Krishna Hare Krishna Krishna Krishna

Hare Hare Hare Rama Hare Rama Rama Rama Hare Hare. I had been chanting it each day since

that holy day in Rishikesh when Mother Ganges blessed me. Now I could understand. These were

the Names of that beautiful Person in the painting who stole my heart. I chanted the Mantra and

meditated on the photo, having no clue of the connection! Srila Prabhupada revealed to me these

sacred mysteries which I pondered for so long. I cried in sincere gratitude. Concluding the

chanting he delivered a lecture. I listened attentively. He explained how Bhagavat Dharma (true

religion) was not the property of any religion or caste. It is the eternal nature of every living being.

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Our nature is to love God. That love has been forgotten since time immemorable. In ignorance we

identify this temporary body with the self. Our true identity is the eternal soul. The soul is part and

parcel of the Supreme Soul. Our constitutional nature is that we are eternally the servant of

Krishna (God). The cause of all suffering is forgetfulness of our relationship with God. This

consciousness can be easily awakened by chanting of Gods Names. He then appealed to the

audience to take this message seriously. As Srila Prabhupada was speaking, I heard a voice within

my heart, “This is your Guru.” My mind could not accept this. It argued, “There are many great

Saints and Gurus which I have met in the past and I will meet more in the future. Do not be in

haste. This is the most important decision in my life. I must be absolutely sure before committing

myself to any particular path.” I dismissed the idea. As he was departing, he stopped directly in

front of me. I was on my knees. In gratitude I reached to touch his feet. Suddenly like a

thunderbolt, loud words crushed my heart. “No one touches Prabhupadas feet!!!” Ashamed with

guilt, I retracted my hand. Srila Prabhupada looked upon me and smiled. He gently spoke to me,

“You can touch my feet.” Feeling both relieved and immensely honored I placed the dust of his

feet on my head. Affectionately, he rubbed my head, inviting me to sit on the stage each morning

and evening for his lectures. I gratefully accepted his kind invitation. The next day after the

morning class, breakfast was being served. Many hundreds of people stood in line to receive

halava, a popular Indian sweet. I had not eaten in over a day. I eagerly waited in line for over an

hour. Finally I came to the front. A leaf cup brimming over with fresh hot halava was placed in my

hand. What a blessing, I was very hungry. Suddenly the halava was grabbed away. Startled, I

looked to see what just happened to me. There was the same devotee who brought me onto the

stage. His name was Gurudas, he held my halavah. “You’re not going to eat that are you?” he

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asked. “Yes, I was.” I sheepishly replied. “It is like eating motor oil,” he said, while giving my

long awaited breakfast to someone else. Taking me by the hand, he pulled, leading me to an

unknown destination. Bringing me behind the stage, he sat me down. A moment later an effulgent

young lady named Malati Devi placed a plate before me. It was an entire feast of sacred vegetarian

food. Beside me were two American devotees. One spoke, “This is Subal Swami and my name is

Shyamasundara das.” He nicely explained to me about the festival. Shyamasundara das was one of

the friendliest people I had ever met. Malati devi graciously brought more and more sacred food

until I begged her to stop.

One evening, as Srila Prabhupadas lectured, I was contemplating my future. At that moment he

sternly glanced at me. His piercing eyes seemed to penetrate my very soul. His eyes spoke directly

into my heart, “Do not waste time, surrender!”

The lecture series was to continue for 12 days. After which I decided to return to the Himalayas.

Overwhelmed by Srila Prabhupadas’ compassion and wisdom, I decided to buy the Krishna Book.

After many hours of humble begging on the street, I could afford to purchase it. This was brought

to Srila Prabhupadas’ attention. He was very pleased that I valued his book, enough to beg for it.

Smiling, with a tear in his eye, he patted my head. “Thank you very much,” he said.

From Bombay I traveled to Vajreshwari and Ganesh Puri. Three times a day I bathed in the hot

sulfur springs there. They were considered spiritually purifying as many holy men have bathed

there. I spent my days at the Samadhi (sacred tomb) of Nityananda Baba. In the states of

Maharastra and Karnataka millions of people worship him. Chanting was being performed twenty-

four hours a day by his followers. I became close with several of his immediate disciples. They
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explained to me in great length his life, teachings and miracles. In the latter half of the nineteenth

century a simple lady found an infant child in the jungle while collecting wood. She brought him

home and raised him as her own child. He was detached from the world from his earliest

childhood. At the age of ten he left his family to become a spiritual renunciate. He traveled far

and wide by foot, always eager to charitably serve those in need. His last years were passed in

Ganesh Puri. His disciples spoke of the miracles of kindness they witnessed. I strongly felt his

presence and blessings while meditating and chanting in his Samadhi. They told me that one of

his prominent disciples was building an ashram closeby. I was taken there. It was a small ashram

that was growing quite rapidly. The hall of worship was just on the roadside. It was filled with

perhaps 100 people. Among the Indians were disciples from many places of the world. Large

tambouras (string drone instrument made of gourd) mystically vibrated as everyone chanted in

unison “Om Namah Sivaya.” The mantra was sung in a hypnotically slow chant. The mystical

sound of the mantra absorbed my mind. I was then brought into a courtyard to hear their Guru

speak. His name was Swami Muktananda. Several western disciples sat at his feet. He spoke about

his many years of learning from his Guru, Nityananda Baba. With much emotion he described the

Saktipat initiation he received from him. Each day I attended his lectures. They were translated

into English. He spoke on the science of Siddha Yoga with stories to illustrate the lessons. One

day he spoke on the proper speech and behavior when living in the ashram. A disciple of

Nityananda Baba was always eager to bring me for personal meetings with Swami Muktananda. I

attentively heard his teachings. I was offered the Saktipat initiation. I explained to them that until I

was willing to settle down and commit my entire life to a Guru I was not ready to accept formal

initiation. Swami Muktananda was pleased by how seriously I took the commitment. To my great

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joy every morning and evening they chanted either Om Namah Sivaya or Hare Rama Hare Rama

Rama Rama Hare Hare Hare Krishna Hare Krishna Krishna Krishna Hare Hare.

My visa for India was soon to expire. I was told the best place to get an extension was Goa. From

Bombay I took a crowded boat along the coast of the Arabian Sea. The boat sailed for over twenty

four hours before reaching our destination. The coast of Goa has amongst the most beautiful,

spacious beaches in the world. In the city of Panjak I submitted my passport. I was told to return

after one week to receive my visa. To pass that week I traveled to Calangute Beach. It was a haven

for westerners. They rented beach houses and enjoyed the relaxed tropical environment. It was

simple, scenic and extremely cheap to live there. This added to its’ popularity. Men and women

freely mixed. Rock and Roll Music played. Drugs were openly used. There was much gossip about

subjects I considered irrelevant. The social scene had no appeal to me. Without speaking to anyone

I departed. I walked in the sand along the seaside. The next beach I came to was more depressing.

Westerners were openly sitting along the seashore injecting drugs with needles. I continued

walking. I came to a hill that ended the sandy beach. With difficulty I climbed around it. To my

great surprise, before my eyes was a tropical paradise. The soft white sand of the beach extended

hundreds of yards inland. Hundreds of coconut trees swayed in the wind. Not a single human

being was to be seen. This would be my home for the next week. Through the day I sat under a

coconut tree. My time was absorbed in study, meditation and prayer. In the early morning a few

poor fishermen rowed their boat into the sea. Beside that it was a deserted paradise. I climbed a

coconut tree to obtain my daily meal. In the morning I bathed in the sea. Under the shade of a

coconut tree I composed a letter to my family.

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My dear family, my dear relatives, my dear friends,

I sit upon a sandy beach, heat from the sun, breeze from the sea. A gull flies by bringing with it a

memory of a different age. An age left behind by the never ceasing vehicle of time. The mind

lingers for-ever within the realm of the present state. Often this state is forgotten due to memory.

As all the stars appear separate, they all exist in one sky.

So it is that as we appear to be separate, we exist in the oneness of love.

Bodies apart souls together.

What is the meaning of the word ‘relatives’?

That which is ‘relative’ cannot be separate. Are we not relatives (inseparable)?

Love cannot be put into letter and mailed like a package. Only words can be put into letters, words

mean nothing in themselves.

Faith is beyond words. For the truth of love eternally remains within the silence of the heart.

Richard

Anjuna Beach, Goa, India

At night I slept on the sand under the starlit sky. One evening as the sun was setting. I deeply

contemplated my spiritual direction. Initially my idea was to learn as much as possible from

various paths and teachers, then choose what was most effective and create my own path. This was

a popular idea. I sincerely pondered. “I have seen many spiritualists with that idea. The depth of

their realizations and characteristics did not impress me.. Those who were actually advanced had

surrendered to one path. Through genuine committment the greatest spiritual blessings were

attainable.” I now understood that my traveling from place to place and teacher to teacher had its’

limitation. It was a search for truth, however, I must decide which path to surrender my life. I
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pondered, “Which path should I follow? I was enlightened by the kindness, knowledge and

experiences of many. Was I to follow the path of Judaism, Christianity, or Islam. Or should I

dedicate my life to one of the many paths of Buddhism or Hinduism? Which teacher should I

follow? I saw spiritual beauty in all of them. Which direction should I go at this mysterious

crossroads in my life?” It was not possible for me to make a decision. I prayed for direction. In

that sincere mood of contemplation I drifted into sleep. In the middle of the night I awoke. As I

opened my eyes I witnessed a precious sight. The sky was dark. A crescent moon shone brightly.

A single star brilliantly sparkled just above the crescent of the moon. It was the sign of Islam

(submission to God). I stared in wonder. My heart was reassured. I accepted this as a sign from

God. “The mystery that I had contemplated, will be revealed”.

My heart drew me again to the Himalayas. I traveled by train to the town of Pathankote. From

there I traveled on the back of a truck to Dharamsalla. On a high mountain ridge was a Tibetan

refugee camp named Mcleod Ganja. This was the home of the Dalai Lama of Tibet. His house

was on a hill. It was surrounded by armed military. As a small child he was discovered to be the

reincarnation of a previous Dalai Lama. This was done through an ancient mystical science. He

became the spiritual and social leader of the nation of Tibet. High in the Himalayas, Tibet was

isolated from the modern world. Buddhism flourished as the way of life for an entire nation. The

Chinese military invaded these harmless people. To establish the communist regime, the Buddhist

faith was under attack. Brutal persecution was enacted. The Dalai Lama escaped over the terrible

terrain of the Himalayan Mountain peaks. Thousands of Tibetans followed him. Many died on the

journey. They were given shelter in India. The Indian government granted them land to form

refugee camps where they could develop their Tibetan culture. All the Tibetan people dressed in
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their traditional clothes. Like in Tibet a significant portion of the male population were Buddhist

monks. The buildings were built in the Tibetan style of architecture. Yaks grazed in the hills. The

food, language and customs made Mcleod Ganja into a little Tibet isolated in the shelter of the

Himalayas. In the center of the village was a large rectangular area surrounded by prayer wheels.

The faithful people would circumambulate it while spinning the prayer wheels one after another,

chanting the mantra, “Om Mani Padmi Om.” These simple people were perhaps the friendliest I

had met in all of my travels. Brightly smiling they welcomed me. Despite the hardships they

endured, they were cheerful. Although refugees in a foreign land they were at peace. There were

no beggars or cheaters. Everyone seemed content. I was welcomed into a small home and given

Thupka, a Tibetan noodle soup. They served me their traditional tea made with yaks butter and

salt. This was especially effective to keep one warm in the cold Himalayan nights. My heart was

charmed living amongst these people. Often I spent hours just watching them perform their daily

chores. It was especially educating. Not far from the Dalai Lamas house was the temple. I was

captivated by its’ traditional beauty. Inside was an awesome Diety of The Buddha. He sat in the

lotus posture holding a begging bowl while offering blessings. Both the monks and the common

people worshipped this beautiful golden form of the Buddha. With great sincerity they offered

incense, bells, lamps and other such gifts. The Puja (worship ceremony) was fascinating. The

monks sat in two lines facing one another. The Buddha sat in the center. They read from scriptures

which were scribed on hand made parched leaves. The unbound leaves were placed on top of the

previous as they chanted. At auspicious intervals long trumpet like horns were blown. Ritualistic

bells were rung. With long wooden mallets large gongs resounded. Matted sticks beat upon huge

drums and the sacred dorje was ceremoniously lifted. Tibetan tantras (artwork) decorated the

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walls. It depicted history and symbolism designed to aid in enlightenment. I studied under a

revered Lama (high priest). He explained their history, tradition, rituals, philosophy and

meditation. Sitting among the monks, I meditated on the Mandalas and chanted sacred mantras.

On a very special occasion I was brought to meet the Dalai Lama of Tibet. Never before had I seen

such security precautions. There was great fear that members of the Chinese government wished

him dead. India vowed to protect him. Fences and military guards surrounded his complex, which

rest upon a wooded hill. I was brought to the Dalai Lamas meeting place. When I arrived at his

house, my Lama teacher brought me in. The room was bright with traditional Tibetan colors. Hand

made paintings of Buddha and great Bodhisatvas decorated the walls. A beautiful metal diety of

Buddha sat upon a decorated altar. Brass lamps, bells and worship utensils were neatly placed.

Sweet incense smoke filled the atmosphere. The original traditions of Tibetan Buddhism

permeated the room. The Dalai Lama greeted me with exuberant joy. He affectionately took both

of my hands in his. He enthusiastically shook them again and again while laughingly welcoming

me. It was beautiful to witness his incredible joyful nature despite the oppression, persecution and

death threats he had survived. We sat down together. He breifly explained the persecution of the

Tibetan people. He told of his rigorous escape through the dangerous terrain of the Himalayas to

India. Many of his people died on the passage. Immense gratitude was offered to the leaders and

people of India. He spoke of The Buddhist Dharma. “The universal quality of true spirituality is

compassion to humanity. To sacrifice for the good of others is true dharma. Meditation, study and

worship give us the inner strength to live as kind and enlightened beings.” His sober message

provoked introspective thought. His majestic personality and mannerisms filled my mind with

sincere reverence. Yet his affectionate laughter and joyfulness made me feel like his intimate
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friend. Smiling brightly, he graciously placed a white silken shawl around my neck. It was

decorated with sacred Tibetan Mantras and designs. “It is my tradition to offer this sacred gift to

all my special guests”, he said. I felt utterly undeserving of his time and affection. In my heart, I

silently replied, “Your life is a sacred gift to the world.”

Some distance above the village I found a quite cave in the forest. Overlooking a steep valley, it

was an ideal place for my worship. The Tibetan monks taught me how they survived while

traveling or living in the forest. They carried a food called tsampa. It was a dry powder made of

roasted barley. It never spoiled. When water was added it became like porridge. This became my

diet. I lived in the mountain, coming down each day to learn from the Lama and monks. One night

as I lay on the ground, a gigantic spider crawled on the caves wall just inches from my face. Its

hairy black body moved slowly, lifting one leg at a time. He entered a hole about six inches from

my face. Every night, as I laid for sleep, he crawled across the wall and into his hole. In my

childhood I was very fearful of spiders. Never had I seen a fearsome creature like this. I

considered, “this is a test from God, I must overcome this fear”. From that night on we respectfully

shared the cave as roommates. Several cobras were seen slithering about in the area of my

residence. One night a huge scorpion fell from the ceiling. Inches away from me it wagged its’

deadly stinger from side to side. At that moment my only candle burned its last. The cave became

pitch black. In the total darkness I felt it unwise to move that night.

From within my secluded cave, within the forested mountainside, I wrote to my family:

The ere of spring-time unfolds with the blossoming of each flower.

The humming of the bee brings the mind to a state of tranquility.

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The wisdom of the butterfly allows the breeze to be its guide.

Above and beyond the realm of thought lies truth.

Its nature is pure, unlimited, boundless, peace.

It calls to us.

This small, quaint Tibetan village of upper Dharmsala is home of the Dalai Lama of Tibet. This is

where the letter is written. A letter which is inspired by the compassion of those who will receive

it. Be with the truth my family my friends my brothers.

The village I live nearby is called McClead Gunj in upper Dharmsala of the Himachal Pradesh

state of India. It is a small village inhabited by refugees of Tibet. Tibet was a country of great

spiritual peace. The people based their life on the word of Lord Buddha. Because of their purely

Buddhist non violent ways of life the country was easily taken over by communist China recently.

Thousands of Tibetans managed to escape the vicious Chinese armies and have taken refuge in

India. I am living about 3 kms out of town on a mountain in the forest. A 10 minute walk from, my

home is a Tibetan Buddhist monastry. That is where I get my water everyday. I have been here

about 3 weeks now.

Richard

To my father I wrote,

My beloved father, the gentle words which I found in your letter to me were absorbed directly by

the intimate depths of my heart. More precious to me than the rarest jewel is the sincerity of love

you behold. Most fortunate I am that the good Lord blessed me with such a loving and

understanding father. Whatever strength this love partakes in your heart the same is nurtured in my

own for you.

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Cherish this love within your heart and let this very love comfort you while I am abroad. Truth is

that this very love within you is where I truly reside. Let your meditation take you to the

understanding of this great compassion which you possess. I would like to offer to you a message

from my mind and ask something very dear of you. Much of the great compassion which you

possess is reflected from my great and beloved Grandpa Bill. I believe that the root of his

compassion and shining quality was embodied by his all embracing faith in the Hebrew religion.

Grandpa implanted within you his seed of love for his religion. Please nourish this holy seed. Do

not allow it to dissolve in your worldly life. With sincerity in heart practice the law of your faith.

Worship at a synagogue regularly to attain the inspiration of your faith. Not for social reasons but

with the soul motive of love for God and your religion. The sacred gift of meditation will give you

great insight to reach the depths of Judaism. Hebrew as well as the other great religions will take

one who follows, closer to the Lord.

Please carry on the inspiration of your father and forefathers. It is never too late. I believe this is

what you truly want.

Richard

McCleod Gunj, Dharamshala, Himachal Pradesh, India

May 2 1971

One sunny day, while sitting alone in the solitude of my mountain cave, I wrote the following in

my small diary.

In the mind of a hermit In the midst of troubled times, when a man is tired and weary, confused as

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to where he is going and what he has left to fall behind, not knowing whether to cling or to let go

forever to those things that still remain with him. Where for him to go who has forsaken friend and

home? What for him to do who wanders alone in the wilderness of his own solitude? Should he

break the walls which he has constructed around himself or should he build them stronger and

higher. He asks in a pleading tone “O lord where is there a guide who can show me the way unto

thee. Many I have seen but all were blemished by this doubting mind of mine. So this lonely

hermit sits alone speaking to no one. Only he prays that some day the sun will shine and dispel all

the darkness of his inner mind and asks himself ‘should I hide from the evil temptation of this

passionate world or should I look them in the eye and suffer not to yield to but a drop of its tasteful

poison.’ At each turn of this mans life there lies before him more questions to resolve. Sometimes

he sits in the midst of those who have forsaken all for the kingdom of God. At other times he sees

himself like an actor playing a social role in the midst of a confused society. Sometimes he sits

alone in the lonely jungle listening to the song of the wild birds and watching the play of monkeys.

Sometimes he sits alone in the midst of a vast sea, watching the unending sheet of water around

him. Sometimes in the dry hot deserts sands where even the camels feel thirsty. Sometimes in the

clutches of a hungry human city watching my foolish brothers feed themselves with their polluted

passions. Where shall such a homeless man reside who believes that home is not in this mortal

world. At times a joy arises from those silent chambers deep within. A sweet fruit of joy which

grows out from the roots of his very soul. At other times he is haunted by that which he ignorantly

partook of in his earlier years like Adam and Eve in the garden of Eden. All around him he sees

his brothers blindly moving about like the bat in the noon day sun, trying to quench their

fathomless thirst with the salted waters of the worldly ocean! Tossed about by this stormy ocean

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with no anchor to hold him stable. Such a hermit has but one friend which he can always turn to.

Always he can turn to his inner faith at the times of intense prayers to that all compassionate one

who is the treasure of every heart.

A distance away, in another such cavelike structure resided a reclusive Egyptian Mystic. From

time to time we discussed spiritual topics. Heralding from Egypt he was well versed in western

mysticism. One night, in his cave, he offered to read my destiny according to the Tarot. He

meticulously lined up the Tarot cards. He was a master at this science. With intense sincerity he

led me through the rituals. At the conclusion he exclaimed that “I have never given a reading like

this.” He described my spiritual longings as if the tarot cards could feel my heart and hear my

thoughts. His eyes were bright with concentration as he spoke. “Neither your mind or intelligence

will be able to discern the spiritual path you long to know. Very soon, the divine power will

mysteriously direct you. Like a puppet you will be led to the path of enlightenment you must

follow. Your master will come to you. By a power beyond your own, you will recognize him. You

must persevere with patience. The Tarot tells me that the path you will follow requires eating only

food that is sacred.”

Receiving the blessings from my Tibetan friends and teachers. I took the train from Pathankot to

Kuruksetra. Kuruksetra is one the most ancient Holy places of India. Here the historical battle of

the Mahabharat was fought. I visited Brahma Sarovara, the largest man made lake in all of Asia.

Here great religious sacrifices have been performed since ancient times. The heart of Kuruksetra is

Jyotisar. The great literature, Mahabharat speaks of a great battle between good and evil on this

battlefield of Kuruksetra. Between the two massive armies Lord Krishna, the charioteer of Arjuna

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placed the chariot. It was at Jyotisar, under a sacred banyan tree, that Lord Krishna spoke the

Bhagavad Gita to Arjuna. Bhagavad Gita is the most influential of all scriptures in the Vedic

Religion. The scientific philosophy of self-realization is most elaborately propounded in the Gita.

It is the essence of the vast body of Vedic literature. All of the greatest spiritual teachers of the

Vedic religion have worshipped this place. I sat under that sacred banyan tree immersed in study

of the Bhagavad Gita. I was given a small pocket edition printed by Gita Press. The words of Gita

had a profound effect in that sacred historical place. It was as if Krishna was personally speaking

to me on each page. Praying for mercy, I departed for the state of Himachal Pradesh.

My travels brought me into the beautiful Kulu Valley. While roaming through the mountains I

met two Christian preachers. They were of Indian origin from Madras, a city in South India. They

followed in the line of Saint Thomas. They explained the beginning of Christian history in India.

“Saint Thomas was one of the twelve apostles of Lord Jesus Christ. After the crucifiction and

resurrection of Jesus, His apostles were blessed by the Holy Spirit. It was their Masters order that

they spread His message of Peace to the world. Saint Thomas fearlessly traveled to India. In the

province of Kerala and Madras he preached, attracting many converts. He was cruelly persecuted.

Near Madras, he attained martyrdom”. They presented me a scripture that they worshipped with

their lives. It was the Gospel of Saint Thomas. “The life and teachings of Jesus Christ, according

to Saint Thomas.” They told me it was little known in the west as it was compiled in India. Sitting

on a mountainside I carefully studied it. One particular verse especially struck me. Lord Jesus

taught his followers, “This world is a bridge. Cross over it, but build no house upon it.” I

pondered again and again on this jewel of wisdom. “In this world we are born, grow older and

inevitably must die. We cannot take anything with us. There is a spiritual purpose to life. The
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world was created to grant the opportunity to progress from darkness to light, from illusion to

truth. If we lead a holy life we can cross the river of birth and death and enter into the eternal

Kingdom Of God. This is the universal principle of all religions. We should strive to attain that

supreme treasure. Unfortunately, people struggle their whole life building and maintaining their

house on the bridge of this world.”

Manali, where tall hills are covered with countless pine trees growing high into the sky. Snow

capped Himalayan Mountain peaks create a breathtaking backdrop. On a mountaintop, in a small

hut lived a Tibetan Buddhist Rimpoche, (very high order of priesthood). I visited him each day.

Through a translator he elaborately spoke on the teachings of the Buddha. He emphasized the great

need of living by these teachings. “One must be meek and humble. One must be detached from

possessiveness and ego. One must be diligent in ones meditation and worship. The Boddhisattva

lives to enlighten those who are suffering.” The Rimpoche taught me the process of

contemplation, visualization and meditation upon the tantras and mandalas. With his blessings I

departed.

One day, while roaming in a valley between two majestic mountain ranges, I was approached by

an interesting sadhu. He wore saffron cloth. He had long black hair and beard. With great

enthusiasm he reached into his cloth bag and handed me a magazine. I was honored. The manner

in which he presented it to me indicated the sanctity of this scripture. Interestingly, the cover read,

“The benefits of Wheatgrass” by Ann Wigmore. He preached to me the glories of the wheat grass

diet. He concluded by proclaiming, “I accept Ann Wigmore as my Guru.” I was impressed that

Ann Wigmores’ influence had made such a powerful effect in the remote forests of the Himalayas.

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One day I came upon an American traveler who I had met in Iran. At that time he was on his way

to India to study Tibetan Buddhism. I inquired if he had done so. He told me that he had spent

several months near a Tibetan monastery. His eyes rolled as if in a trance as he spoke. “I have

found the highest truth. God has appeared on earth. I saw him with these eyes. When he touched

me I was liberated. With his divine hand he gave me ‘the knowledge.’ My eyes saw Divine Light.

My body trembled in ecstasy. Divine sounds filled my ears. My nose smelled ambrosia and my

mouth filled with the taste of celestial nectar. You must go immediately, brother. Do not hesitate.

God as the Supreme Avatara has descended on earth. He has appeared as a thirteen year old boy.

His name is Guru Maharaji.” He insisted that I perfect my life by going to the ashram in Hardwar.

I did as he said. Upon entering the temple, I saw an interesting sight. A lifesize photo was on the

altar. It was Guru Maharaji standing in the pose of Krishna. Wearing a crown and peacock feather

he played a flute. He looked quite different than the painting I had. The disciples also swooned

when speaking of him. They said, “when Guru Maharaji opens your divine eye you can see all

avatars in him. He was soon leaving for his first trip abroad. At once, go to Delhi for his holy

darshan.” They arranged a ride for me. Thousands of his disciples were crowded to see him. He

was soon departing for the airport. I sat and watched. An elderly man who was a very influential

disciple spoke to me. Thinking me to be very serious he brought to one of the Mahantas. The

Mahantas were specially empowered to bestow Guru Maharajis ‘knowledge’. They decided I must

meet their Lord before he departs. They brought me to his room. It was filled with people taking

instructions and blessings. Guru Maharaji asked me to come with him. Together we departed from

the crowds and onto the roof. Alone we walked together back and forth on the rooftop. He asked

me many questions. He told me that in a few minutes he was leaving India for Denver Colorado in

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America. It was to be his first trip outside of India. He inquired if I desired to take initiation into

the ‘knowledge’. I explained that I must be completely convinced before taking a Guru or

initiation. “If you ever decide to receive initiation, you should come to me either in India, America

or London.” Just then a Mahant announced that he must immediately leave for the airport. As

thousands watched on, the two of us came down the stairs. He told me to meet his mother. He then

departed. The mahant explained that the final evidence to prove that Guru Maharaji is the Avatara

is the authority of the divine mother. I was brought before her. She sat on an elevated seat in a

crowded room. On either side she was fanned with peacock and yak tail wisks. She spoke to me

for some time about the importance of receiving initiation into ‘the knowledge’. I politely listened

to her speak for some time. Then departed to join the sadhus at the Hanuman Temple near

Connaught Circle.

In the course of my travels, I gathered a small library of spiritual books. They were carried in a

cloth bag. I walked extensively from place to place. Except for this heavy bag of books, I had no

possessions. It had become a great burden. I was determined to be relieved of the load. Many

times, I looked through the books trying to decide which ones to give away. Each one was so

special to me. I could not part with a single one. I struggled in my mind to relinquish at least a few.

Each book was so important. I may never find it again. In this way I lugged this heavy bag of

books wherever I went, often exhausted from the load. Near Connaught Place in New Delhi I set

the books down on the sidewalk for just a moment. When I turned to pick them up, they were

gone!!! I searched in the four directions, to no avail. Confusion filled my mind. I had to come to

grips with reality. They were stolen!!! Standing there I lamented. These precious books

enlightened me with knowledge and inspiration. They were an irreplaceable treasure in my life. I
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received them from the benevolent hands of my teachers. It was as if I had lost a dear friend. I was

cast in sorrow. With no hopes of their recovery, I walked away. Taking a few steps, I became

aware how easy it was to walk. The heavy burden that troubled me for so long was gone. I felt

liberated. Like having a new start in life. I joyously walked forward, reflecting, “The nature of the

mind is to interpret nonessentials to be essentials. Influenced by illusion the mind creates artificial

needs, believing I cannot live without them. In this way we carry a great burden of attachments

throughout our life. Attachment is itself is a great burden on our minds. If we find joy within our

hearts we can live a simple life, free of endless complications.”

After spending time in Varanasi, I arrived in Patna, a city in the state of Bihar. From the railway

station I walked to the river Ganges. As a mother puts her baby child to sleep, covering it with a

blanket. Night-time covered her children on earth with her blanket of darkness. I slept on the rivers

bank. Early in the morning I awakened to hundreds of people chanting mantras and singing songs

while preparing to take their sacred baths. This was the Collectory Ghat, a popular bathing place.

It was named so because of its’ location near the government collectors office. I lay there on the

earthen river-bank taking in this colorful display of religious ritual. Startled, I sensed someone

standing behind me. I rolled over. The stately figure of a man was towering over me. He was in his

seventees. His appearance was that of a classic sadhu. He had long white hair and beard. Three

vertical lines were drawn on his forhead (tilak). Two lines were white, the center line was red. He

spoke no English. By his gestures he invited me into his temple. The temple was directly on the

bank of the river. Two sides were open to the Ganges and the bathing ghat respectively. The two

walls and ceiling were made of solid gray stone. The temple was quite small, perhaps 20 feet by 20

feet. Inside were stone carved deities. A very elderly householder named Narayan Prasad entered
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soon after. He appeared in his early eighties. Speaking fluent English, he introduced me to the

sadhu. “ Please meet Rama Sevaka Swami. He is the Mahant (saint) of this small temple.”

Bringing me before the altar he explained. “These are our worshipable deities, Sita Rama. Rama is

one of the great incarnations of the Supreme Lord. Sita is His Divine energy and eternal consort.”

The Swami invited me to stay at the temple as long as I liked. Rama Sevaka Swami was one of the

most affectionate people I had ever met. Like a loving father he showed great concern for my

welfare. They were fascinated that a young American boy was living the life of a traditional Indian

sadhu. Each morning five sadhus would meet in the temple to read from The Ramayana, the

pastimes and teachings of Lord Rama. Not speaking the Hindi language I could not understand.

Narayan Prasad promised that he would tell me whatever was spoken after the session. For three

hours they were in rapt attention. As they read, wonderful emotions filled their hearts. According

to the story they reacted with spontaneous feeling. At times they blissfully laughed together.

Sometimes they cried tears of sorrow. At other times they wept with smiles of joy. At times of

suspense they sat motionless with fear or wonder upon their faces. I was immensely anxious to

hear this story. When the Katha (spiritual discussion) was complete, I begged Narayan Prasad,

“Please tell me everything that was spoken. I cannot contain my eagerness to hear.” We sat on the

bank of the Ganges. With great enthusiasm he explained. “One morning, when Lord Krishna was a

small baby, His mother Yasoda fed Him milk from her breast. Upon seeing milk on the stove

boiling over she ran to save it, after carefully putting baby Krishna in a safe place. Krishna did not

like that. To show that no one should make priorities above service to God, He broke a clay butter

pot and ate it. Making more trouble He entered another room of the house. Climbing on top of a

wooden grinding mortar, Krishna reached up to steal more butter from a clay pot hanging by ropes

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from the ceiling. After eating to His full satisfaction, He fed the contents to the local monkeys.

Yasoda searched for her child. She followed the tiny butter prints left by His feet. Upon seeing

Him fearfully glancing from side to side, while feeding the monkeys, she smiled. As she quietly

approached, Krishna ran in fear. Overwhelmed with motherly love she chased after Him. Pleased

to be conquered by His devotees love, Krishna agreed to be captured. His body trembled with

thought of punishment. Tears fell from His eyes. Pleading for mercy, He promised to not steal

butter again. Mother Yasoda had household chores to do. To protect Him from danger she lovingly

attempted to tie her baby with silk rope to the grinding mortar. The rope was two inches too short.

She tied more rope to the original one. It was still two inches too short. Her friends, the gopis

brought more and more rope. Still, it was two inches too short. Seeing His mothers’ loving

concern, Krishna agreed to be bound by her love. Krishna wanted to show us that He is only bound

by the love of His devotees.” I was overwhelmed with joy hearing this wonderful narration.

“Please tell me more.” I enthusiastically requested. “ That is all that we spoke today.” He replied.

“But the talk was over three hours. Please speak more.” “That’s all that was spoken!” he smilingly

concluded. The next day I was even more eager to hear. On the banks of the Ganges, Narayan

Prasad told me the same story of Krishna stealing butter. He would tell me no more. I begged him.

“With a mischievous smile he replied, “that is all that was spoken.” The next day the emotions of

the sadhus were wonderfully vibrant with devotion. “I must hear what was spoken.” Sitting on the

bank of Mother Ganges, Narayan Prasad narrated exactly the same story of Krishna stealing butter.

Becoming visually upset I respectfully challenged him. “Why are you doing this to me? Every day

the talk is for three hours, your story is only five minutes. Why do you deceive me?” “That is all

that was spoken,” he insisted. Becoming moved by anger I retorted, “Today, I listened carefully.

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Not once was the name Krishna or Yasoda spoken. Repeatedly I heard the words, Rama, Sita,

Laxman and Hanuman. Please, please tell me.” “We only discussed baby Krishna stealing butter.”

Tears filled my eyes, “You are all devotees of Ram. I long to hear of your devotion to Ram. Is it

that I am so fallen and unworthy that I am not permitted to hear?” Seeing my condition, Narayan

Prasad became very serious. A reverential mood of gravity covered his face. Gazing deeply into

my eyes he spoke. “Seeing your sincere tears, I will now tell you the reason. The first night that

you came here, Rama Sevaka Swami had a dream. Lord Rama appeared to him and spoke these

words. ‘This young boy is a devotee of Krishna but he does not know this. You must not speak

anything to him except the glories of Krishna. Vrindaban will be his place of worship. He will not

believe you if you tell him this. Someday he will understand.’ My Guru, Rama Sevaka Swami has

given me this order. I cannot speak to you about anyone except Krishna. All my life I have been a

devotee of Rama. The only story I know about Krishna is His stealing butter.” Reaching into his

bag he then presented to me a print of baby Krishna stealing butter. It charmed my heart. Still, I

could not accept what he spoke.

At night we slept on the jagged stone floor of the temple. Countless hungry mosquitoes tormented

me throughout the night. I felt as if I was being eaten alive. Constantly, loud buzzing swarmed

around my head. Then zeroing in, they profusely sucked my blood. It was impossible to sleep. In

distress I looked over at Rama Sevaka Swami and a visiting sadhu. They laid peacefully on the

rocks, sleeping soundly. Mosquitoes covered their bodies biting again and again. Theses sadhus

were completely oblivious. I prayed to God that someday I may be so detached from bodily

sufferings.

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One night, a visiting sadhu offered to cook for us. He went into the town to beg alms. Returning,

he made a fire with fuel of dried cow dung paddies. Crouching down, he cooked in a single pot on

a clay stove. The stove was nothing more than a small support for the pot to rest on. The fire

burned on the floor under the pot. After offering the food on the altar he served us. This sadhu had

very dark complexion. His hair and beard were matted. A loin-cloth was all that he wore. He was

overwhelmed with enthusiasm to serve us. The preparation was kitcheri (rice and mung beans).

Five other sadhus were invited. We sat on the floor in a row. He put a big ladle full on each plate.

Chanting songs in praise of Rama everyone prepared to begin. We ate with our hands from a leaf

plate. Ahhhh!!! The first bite was as hot as fire. It was as if he spiced the chilis with a little rice

and mung! I profusely perspired, my nose ran, tears flowed from my eyes. It felt as if the wax was

melting in my ears. According to sadhu custom one must complete what is on ones plate. I was in

excruciating pain. At that moment my only goal in life was to somehow finish my plate. Mouthful

after mouthful was sheer anguish. As I painfully finished my last portion, I felt hope of relief. My

mouth was on blazing fire. My whole body burned with it. Just then he came to give seconds.

Blocking my plate with my hands I desperately cried out, “Puran, Puran! (I am full, no more). He

smiled with the brimming-over ladle ready to fill my plate. “tora, tora, (little, take just little

more).” I felt as if I were standing before death personified, pleading for my life, “puran, puran.”

My hands protectively covered the plate. “tora, tora,” he hospitably replied. “No! No! No!” I cried.

With a sweet and gracious smile he performed that fateful deed. He dropped the contents of the

ladle upon my plate. With much suffering I completed it. Then, he was coming to give me thirds. I

didn’t believe I could survive another plate. I wanted to run away. I couldn’t, the etiquette among

sadhus is no one gets up until all others have completed. He filled that ladle with more. A vast

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ocean of chilis seemed to fill that spoon. He was so intent on pleasing us by his sincere service. I

did not have the heart to indicate the pain he was causing me. In great haste I lifted my leaf plate

and crumpled it into my hands. He smiled and went on to the next sadhu. I was amazed as I

watched all the others thoroughly enjoying helping after helping. Hours passed until I recovered

the trauma.

My dear friend Narayan Prasad was eager for me to meet a dear friend of his. He was a doctor who

operated an x-ray clinic. This cultured man was born a Hindu. Discouraged by the sectarian

prejudice against lower castes he voluntarily converted to Islam. He had become a scholar of the

Holy Koran. Although he accepted the teachings of the Bhagavad Gita, he could not affiliate with

a religion that discriminated against people on the basis of ones birth. We had hours of discussion

on the basis of true religion. We discussed the parallels of the Bhagavad Gita the Bible and the

Koran. Without bias or prejudice we shared enriching dialogue each time we met. In fact we

rejoiced by the inspiration we gained together. We parted as loving brothers.

I went to the foreign immigration office to extend my visa. It was an old wooden house. A simple

old man sat at a battered wooden desk. There were no filing cabinets. All papers and records were

in dozens of piles on his desk. Dozens more covered the majority of the floor. He searched through

these piles for two hours until he found an application form for me to fill out. Upon studying my

application and passport, he turned to me speaking authoritatively. “Your visa cannot be extended

beyond the current expiry date”. These words broke my heart. To leave India, my adopted

Motherland was unbearable. I pleaded with him again and again. Each time he repeated his official

response. It seemed to be a hopeless endeavor. I prayed to God to help me. “Please my Lord, my

life belongs to you. Please, on my knees I helplessly beg You. Please allow me to remain in this
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holy land in search of enlightenment.” At that moment I saw a painting of Lord Rama on the wall

behind him. I meekly addressed him, “Sir in the country I come from, everybody eats cows.”

Astonished he exclaimed, “What, killing our sacred cow. How horrible.” “Sir, in the country I am

from boys and girls live together without marriage.” “Uncivilised, simply uncivilized.” He gasped.

“In my country no one has ever even heard the name of Rama!” Shocked, he couldn’t believe his

ears. “You must never go back to that horrible place!!!” he emphatically exclaimed. “I have come

to India to seek shelter in Lord Rama. If you do not extend my visa I must go back to that place.”

Overcome with pity toward me he exclaimed, “I am a devotee of Rama. It is my duty to protect

you.” With these words he ceremoniously stamped a new visa upon my passport.

My heart was greatly moved seeing the devotion of Rama Sevak Swami. He lovingly bathed the

Dieties each day. In the morning he spent several hours alone chanting the names of Lord Rama on

his beads. He was so happy that I was there. I learned much about the behavior of a sincere Holy

man from him. His kindness upon me was overwhelming. I had sincere faith that he would do

anything within his power to help me. I was just a stranger who walked into his door a couple

weeks back. I could not speak his language. He had nothing material to gain from me. He

explained to me through Narayan Prasad, “my name means ‘one who serves Lord Rama.’ The

greatest service to Rama is to help others to know Him and love Him.” Through his words I

understood his selfless kindness. The day I was leaving, I bowed down seeking his blessings. He

wanted to give me a gift. Looking around he took note of his walking stick. With a tearful smile he

offered it to me. I was overcome with gratitude. It was nothing but an ordinary branch from a tree.

Being a gift of love it meant more to me than the fortune of the Rockefellers. Excitedly I accepted

his sacred gift. As a walking stick, it became my constant companion. This made him very happy.
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Sweetly laughing he remarked, “the scripture tells us; the stick of the mercy of a devotee can save

one from the greatest dangers.” This sweet exchange concluded my stay in Patna.

By train I traveled to Raxaul, the border town between India and Nepal. An old weathered cargo

truck agreed to bring me near Kathmandu. The back of the truck had an open top. It was filled

with large grain bags. On top of the bags stood his passengers. They included old peasant women,

poor farmers, several goats, chickens, and me. We literally rode on top of the truck. The view of

the Himalayas was awesome. Although the conveyance was not either comfortable or safe, there

could be no more panoramic view than we had. As we reached higher and higher levels, beautiful

green mountains and valleys extended in all directions. Behind were the towering snow capped

peaks of the highest place on earth. The truck dropped us outside of the city of Katmamdhu. It was

the middle of the night. I walked alone down a lonely dark street. Along the road were delapitated

wooden houses in a row. I heard the howling of dogs from a distance. I was warned that at night

on deserted streets packs of wild hungry dogs will kill and eat whatever they can find, including

humans. Many foam at the mouth plagued with rabbis. A mad dog spotted me, alone on a deserted

street. He viciously howled. Suddenly a pack of mad dogs were running at me. They barked

ferociously. There were about 10 of them. This pack of howling dogs viciously attacked me. It was

a helpless and hopeless situation. Their eyes were filled with angry passion. They intended to kill

me and tear my flesh apart. These mad dogs were fearless. All of them were foaming at the mouth.

Their bodies were 80% without hair. Never had I heard such a terrifying sound as their savage

bark. Their foaming mouths passionately snarled with deadly fangs. They were like a pack of

deadly wolves. I leaned my back against the wall of the row houses so that they could not surround

me. I prayed to God, “My life is Yours’. What shall I do?” By the Lords Mercy, I remembered my
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walking stick. I desperately swung it back and forth. They converged forming a semi-circle around

me, just a few feet away. As each mad dog jumped at me I wacked his face with the stick. I swung

with all my might. Just then another predator leaped at me growling ferociously, I wacked it. Each

dog I smashed with the stick fell back momentarily, then unfazed, it leaped again. Again and again

they madly leaped at me. Every time, I beat them off. They were becoming more and more

energized by the smell of my flesh and blood. I was thoroughly exhausted. I had no time to think.

At every second I had to swing with all my might. If one got through to me I would be instantly

covered by all of them. Was this my fate, to end my life as dog food. They saw that I was tiring.

They screamed louder. Their battle was almost won. I could feel their foul breath upon me. For a

moment I looked back. There was a closed door behind me. “Could it be opened?” It was my

singular hope of survival. As fast as possible I turned to the doorknob and turned it. The door

opened. Desperately I ran inside instantly slamming the door behind me. The furious dogs

screamed with wrath, leaping at the door. They would not leave me. I was in a pitch-dark room. I

had no idea where I was. Hearing me, someone hastily lit a lantern. It was a family sleeping on the

floor together. Thinking I was a burglar they demanded to know who I was. I could not speak their

language. Threatened by my unexpected intrusion they threw a stone at my head. Lifting a

sharpened sword, the keeper of the house heroically attacked me. I got on my knees with folded

palms, pleading for mercy. His heart slightly softened. He demanded that I leave at once. Hearing

the ferocious screams of the dogs, he understood that to go outside would mean death. He placed

down his sword and offered me a seat. Now he accepted me as a sadhu who had come to bless his

home, under extraordinary circumstances. They offered me bread and milk. In great relief I

accepted. While eating the bread I reflected, “As a young boy I could have never imagined that my

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training in little league baseball would save me from death!!!” I spent the night as their guest. The

pack of hungry dogs passionately barked outside the door until dawn. Laying down in great relief,

I contemplated. “If Rama Sevaka Swami had not given me that stick, I would have surely died

tonight. His words proved true, ‘the stick of the mercy of a devotee can save one from the greatest

dangers.’”

In the ancient city of Kathmandu I visited an awesome temple of Lord Vishnu. Sitting in an open

coutyard, with pen in hand, I shared the following words with my family.

Like a fountain of water turning water to a mist, time has turned the once flowing waters of India

to a sacred mist sealed eternally within my heart. A heart that truly belongs not to me, but to the

Blessed One.

India is for the present moment miles away. The kingdom of Nepal is where I now rest. I rest upon

the fertile soils of Kathmandu Valley.

Nepal is a small country between India and China. The chisel of the Gods carved this ancient

nation into the almighty abode of the Himalayas. Mount Everest the solemn King of all mountains

has taken Nepal as His kingdom.

OM

Richard

From Kathmandu I walked about eight kilometers east to Bodhanath. Bodhanath is a hill crowned

with an impressive Buddhist Temple. A large dome extends to cover the entire temple. On top of

the dome is a traditional Nepalese steeple. The base of the steeple was square in shape. On each of

the four sides are two mystical eyes. They represent the eight eyes of Buddha looking in the four
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directions. I resided near the Tibetan Buddhist monastery. I sat with the monks during their pujas

(worship ceremonies). The remainder of the days I was absorbed in study and meditation. Sitting

under the shade of a tree, overlooking an expansive rice paddy. I wrote a letter to my family.

My dear family,

“ This world is but a bridge. Cross over it but build no house upon it.”(New Testament)

The Lord gives us life, and we call it our own

The Lord gives a body and mind, and we call it our own.

The Lord gives food and shelter and wealth, and we call it our own.

The Lord gives a father and mother and brothers and sisters. We call them our own.

The lord gives us children, and we call them our own.

In truth, all that we are and all we think is ours, belong solely to Him.

Only those who forget His Holy Presence can believe that they can own anything.

Those people (forgetful as they are), are destined to suffer.

For out of the Lords’ mercy to man, He will take away all that man thinks is his own: wealth,

health, loved ones and bodily life. All to teach forgetful man the truth of his eternal identity.

To call us back to eternal life.

Richard

Kaupon, Baudhnath

(Kathmandu Valley)

Nepal

One still, silent night I sat in my small monastery room and composed another letter to my family:

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By candles flame and the song of the night crickets this letter will be written.

My loved family,

When this day was still young the glare of the clouded sky cast its face upon the paddies of rice. I

sat amongst in the solitude of thought.

What more can one accomplish in a life than devotional love for all humanity?

What greater virtue can one submit than devotional service in the name of God?

What higher word can one speak than the word of truth?

What wish can be nobler than devotion to the Lord and union with the essence of creation?

As the world stands today, what more is needed than those who can fulfill these sacred qualities.

The sacred attributes of the holy man is often seen to be beyond the distant horizon. But they lie

within each mans heart.

Love knows no distance.

Many miles apart are we, yet still the warmth of your tender care caresses an often weary soul and

gives comfort to an often lonely mind.

For one to forget his family is a sorrowful sin. Believe me that as long as I am nourished by breath

such forgetfulness will not arise.

Father, mother, Marty, Larry, hold nothing higher than love and faith for God. All else will perish.

Richard

Baudnath, Nepal

July 10, 1971.

One day I sat under a tree reading. A German man walked through the field carrying a large bag of

groceries. His physique was like that of a professional wrestler. He must have struggled and
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strained for years to develop such a powerful physique. He was well over six feet tall. His gigantic

muscles bulged from his T-shirt. Unexpectedly this giant he-man found himself surrounded by a

gang of brown monkeys. Although a fraction of his size, they caused him great fear. Snarling, the

monkeys showed their teeth. They threatened him with gestures indicating violent intent. Holding

his groceries in one of his massive arms, he picked up a sizeable rock with his other hand. He

yelled like a formidable warrior, threatening to pulverize the little monkeys with his rock. They

were not fazed by his threats. They growled louder, intent on instilling fear in his heart. They were

victorious. He was petrified with fear. He stood there trembling. One of the monkeys walked right

up to him and took the grocery bag from his hands. He did not even slightly resist. The monkeys

quickly gathered to eat the groceries, paying no relevance to him. He quickly escaped. It was

highway robbery! Seconds later a skinny little Nepalese boy of about seven years old appeared on

the scene. The gang of monkeys had just begun feasting on their booty. Upon seeing the tiny boy

they seemed alarmed. The child playfully ran toward them with a small stone in his hand. The

gang of formidable bandits appeared terrified. Suddenly abandoning the food they fled in all

directions. The little boy picked up the groceries. Nonchalantly he sat down to eat as the monkeys

reverentially watched from a distance. I was quite amazed. What just happened here? That playful

little boy was hardly the weight of one bicep of the Herculean German. I pondered this with much

interest. “It was not about strength, but fear. The monkeys were fearless of the threats of the giant

because they sensed his inner fear. They terribly feared the child because he possessed no fear of

them. It was an incredible display of mind over matter. One is especially vulnerable to defeat when

the mind succumbs to fear. It is said, ‘the only thing to fear is fear itself.’ What is the cause of

such fear? Monkeys were unknowned to the foriegner. The tiny Nepalese tot knew monkeys quite

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well. We fear the unknown. The world fears the monkey of death. Like a bandit he steals

everything away. The monkey of death leaves us with nothing. As long as one identifies the body

as the self, fear rules ones life. Ignorance is darkness. Knowledge is light. By sincere faith in God

one can overcome all fear. Oh my Lord, please bless me with such faith.” As I prayed the little boy

approached me. Smiling he offered me some bananas from the grocery bag. I witnessed the

monkeys become restless with excitement. They stared at me as a prospective victim. I politely

declined the bananas.

From Bodhanath I went to Swayambhunath. Surrounded by rice paddies this beautiful hill is

adorned with an ancient Buddhist temple. It is said, the temple was built two thousand years back.

On the base of the spire are the four eyes of Buddha observing the four directions. This temple is

famous as the Monkey Temple. One day, with no reason, I decided to walk to Kathmandu. After

walking through the city for a short time I commenced my journey back to Swayambhunath. The

heavenly Katmandu Valley was charming to behold. As I walked, I found myself surrounded by

miles and miles of rice paddies. The landscape was lavishly colored with rich green. Far in the

horizon were the Himalayan peaks, ever covered with snow. The highest point on earth, Mount

Everest was visible on a clear day. As I walked along the raised borders of the swampy paddy

fields, rain began to fall. I looked up. Deep blue monsoon rain clouds permeated all of the sky.

They were soon to shower the earth with a torrential monsoon storm. The drizzle rapidly increased

to a light rain. The dark clouds obscured the light of the sun. There was not a single tree to give

shelter from the imminent rainstorm. Endless rice paddies expanded into the horizons. At a

distance I beheld a man carrying an umbrella. He was the only soul to be seen in all directions. He

appeared to be an elderly man. Rapidly walking I endeavored to reach him. I hoped to share the
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shelter of his umbrella. With much effort I reached him from behind. Under the umbrella I

snuggled closely behind him. By the mysterious hand of destiny these two strangers walked alone

together through abandoned fields. Ten minutes passed. The rain subsided. As I prepared to turn to

the left, I graciously said, “Thank you.” The unknown personality slowly turned to me. Our eyes

met with incredible astonishment. This was unbelievable. It could not be true. This was a miracle.

It was Gary!!!!!!! my long lost brother. Our mouths dropped in wonder. Tears of joy filled our

unbelieving eyes. For a moment we stood motionless. Impelled by unexplainable joy, we

embraced. By the inconceivable grace of God we were reunited. From the time of that tearful

farewell on a Greek Island we traversed our separate paths. There could be no communication in

the ways we traveled. In an isolated rice paddy of Nepal we celebrated our reunion. A mystical

event orchestrated by the Divine Will.

Gary invited me to accompany him to his residence. As we walked, we exchanged our experiences

since we parted in Greece. Gary remained in Crete for some time. He worked on a boat for his

passage to Israel. After touring the holy places he worked on a traditional kibbutz for almost a

year. Saving money he set out for India. In Istanbul he boarded the Magic Bus. Hippies and low

budget travelers found this bus a blessing. Originating in Amsterdam it drove through Europe and

the Middle East. Its final destination was Old Delhi, India. Gary traveled with a group of friends

he had met in Israel (as well as the bus). They shared a rented house not far from

Swayambhunath. Gary could see the major transformations in my life. Coming to his home, I met

with his friends. Rock and Roll music played. Men and women flirted. Hashish pipes were passed

around. After some time I took Gary to a quiet place. I revealed my mind, “Gary, you have

traveled across the world to come to India. This is a land of spirituality. You have brought the
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hippie culture of the west with you. With all respect to your dear friends, you could live like this in

Chicago. Please, my brother, while in India try to experience the immense wealth of spirituality

here. Let us travel together. I will take you to the Holy Places and teach you the life of a sadhu.

Gary graciously agreed.

A sadhu informed me, “Thousands of Holy Men and devotees of Lord Siva will soon depart for a

sacred pilgrimage. The place is Amarnath, an ancient, historical site in the Himalayas of Kashmir.

One must walk for several days up high mountains to reach it. In a mountain cave is the timeless

Siva Lingam made of natural ice. Great spiritual merit is awarded to any fortunate soul who makes

this rigorous pilgrimage.” I was grateful for this opportunity. Alone I went to Pasupatinath to beg

for the Lords mercy. Pasupatinath is a temple of Lord Siva five kilometers east of Katmandu. It is

on the banks of the Bagmati River. The Diety has been worshipped there for thousands of years.

Foreigners are not allowed entrance. Taking a bath in the Holy River I stood outside of the temple

with folded hands and prayed, “Dear Lord, please bestow your mercy upon me. Please, please

show me the path which I may dedicate my life to You. Travelling place to place is a great joy.

Meeting great saints of various paths is enriching my life as I never expected. I am very happy

living this way. However, for me to realize the Supreme Truth, I must surrender to a path and a

teacher. Please guide me to You.” With tears flowing profusely I prayed again and again, “Please,

please guide me to You.”

Gary and I were together, on the road again. We rode in back of a truck from Katmandu to

Raxhaul. I brought Gary to meet Rama Sevak Swami and my dear friends in Patna.

In the morning sun, sitting in a lonely place on the bank of the holy river Ganges, I composed a

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letter to my family.

My dear family,

With these words I pray for the highest blessings upon you and the deepest love that I am able to

feel. The unforetold road of destiny has taken me back to the fertile soils of Mother India. Due to

bearing eyes still curtained by the veil of dillusion, I see not what lies before me. Someday,

following intense faith, all dillusion will dissolve in the transparent ocean of love. Each step taken

by these feet is taken in the direction of my home. A mans home is his heaven on earth. A place

where he can rest in peace with his loved ones. Before entering the front door of ones home one

should shed all grief and cleanse himself of all anxieties. The duty of each member of a household

is to share tenderly kindness with ones family. To those motivated by selfishness this is but an

ideal. To those worshipping the grace of God, this becomes reality.

Richard

Patna, Bihar state, India

July 23, 1971

From there we traveled by third class train to Varanasi. The monsoon rains flooded the Ganges.

From the bathing ghats, the river appeared to be a sea. It was, perhaps, miles wide. After taking a

sacred bath in the Ganges I visited the temple of Kasi Viswanath. I again offered my prayer,

“Please Lord, show me the path of surrender to You. I am helpless without Your mercy.” Jumping

through the window of the train, we were now destined for Amarnath. The train was unbearably

crowded. People were literally crushed together. It was burning hot with hardly air to breath. Due

to heavy monsoon rains the tracks were sometimes flooded. At such times the train would wait for

hours in an agricultural field, waiting for the rain to subside. For about forty hours we stood in one
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place being pushed from side to side with the crowd. Alas the train halted at a station. We were

determined to get out for at least a minute to move and breath. We had to climb over peoples heads

to reach a window for escape onto the railway platform. Unexpectedly, within seconds, the whistle

blew, steam hissed and the locomotive pulled the train forward. Frantically we jumped into our

window. Inside was a wall of human bodies. We could not penetrate it. Window after window and

door after door we struggled to get in. Each time we were pushed out by the teeming mass of

people. The train was gone. We were stranded in an unknown place. Several sadhus stood along

the railway platform. I asked, “Where are we?” A sadhu smiled, “This is Mathura, Krishnas’

Birthplace! Today is Janmastami, Krishnas’ Birthday!”

The sadhus brought us to the Janmastan. This is the specific place where Lord Krishna appeared in

this world five thousand years ago. I was surprised to see the setting. A towering Islamic Mosque

stood in prominence. Just beneath it was a small underground temple for Lord Krishna. I learned

that previously this was the place of the Adi Kesava Temple one of the greatest Temples in the

world. The Moghal Emperor Aurangzeb destroyed it and built a Mosque in its’ place. This was

his fanatical method of showing the superiority of his religion. Lines of tens of thousands stood in

line to enter the small underground temple of Lord Krishna. In a vast courtyard hundreds of

thousands of people were gathered to celebrate. Throughout the day there was congregational

chanting. Thousands chanted Krishnas glories while jubilantly dancing. Elderly scholars delivered

lectures glorifying Krishnas pastimes and teachings. Dramatic performances depicted the story of

Krishnas advent into the world. The actors were dressed in elaborate costumes. With the chanting

of mantras from the Vedas, oblations of clarified butter was continuously offered into sacred fires.

It was a joyful occasion filled with spontaneous devotional enthusiasm. Many were fasting until
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midnight. As midnight approached, a mass of countless people proceeded to the Vishram Ghat on

the banks of the Holy Jamuna River. Many took a sacred bath. Everyone filed into the famous

Dwarkadish Temple to worship Lord Krishna at midnight. According to the scriptures Lord

Krishna appeared at midnight in the Holy City of Mathura. Gary and I had never in our lives seen

such a crowd. Although the temple was packed full with thousands, a steady flow of thousands

more streamed through the door. The police used long bamboo sticks to somehow try to control

the massive crowd. Gary and I climbed up two respective pillars in the temple hall. Looking down

upon the scene was overwhelming. At midnight the doors to the altar were opened. The beautiful

Diety of Krishna revealed Himself to His devotees. An uncontrollable uproar of joy resounded in

all directions. It was a festival like none I had ever seen.

It was about 3:00 am when we left the temple. We found a place to sleep on the bank of the river

Jamuna. The next day some local people called us over to a tea stall where they sat. They were

very eager for us to meet their Guru. He was a Sivaite, devotee of Lord Siva. His head was shaven

and his robes were the saffron color of a sannyasi (renuncate). The Guru was a very educated man

perhaps in his fifties. He invited us to reside in his temple for the duration of our visit to Mathura.

An arched dome with a trident on the top signified that the temple was in honor of Lord Siva. The

small structure housed one small temple room. In the center was a Siva Lingam (Diety of Lord

Siva). Behind the Siva Lingam was an iron trident. It stood upright in the ashes of a sacred fire pit.

He brought us a vegetarian dinner and carefully saw to our needs. When the night came the Swami

offered Gary a straw mat on the floor to sleep. He insisted I sleep on an elevated wooden slab. The

swami laid beside me. I considered this an honor, I did not deserve. To sleep on the same level as

this revered sadhu. In the quiet of the night I felt his hands massaging my body. I asked him,“Why
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are you doing this?” “This is our custom for serving guests,” he replied. Not wanting to be

ungrateful I said nothing. His hands slowly reached the private part of my body. I became terribly

confused about this custom. I pushed his hands away. After a few minutes he repeated the same

act. Pushing his hands away I meekly protested, “Please do not massage me. I do not like this.” “I

am giving you Gods blessing. It is not me that is doing. I am Gods instrument. You must not

resist.” The room was very dark and very hot. Greatly disturbed I lay there. I feared that if I

disappoint him, he may severely punish me with his iron trident. I had never been in a situation

like this in my life. Each time he attempted, I pushed his hands away. Naïve to such behavior, I

was terribly confused. “Was this really a custom for showing hospitality?” He became more

aggressive in his unsuccessful attempts. “I will not allow this.” I insisted. Perspiring profusely

from the heat I prayed to God. “Please my Lord save me from this horrible situation. I do not wish

to offend this Swami, but I will not perform this sin. Please help me.” I then made up my mind.

“Even if it means being killed by him. I will not submit!” With these words I hastily got up from

the platform. He tried to stop me. I pushed him away, and rushed out of the door. My friend Gary

slept peacefully through all of this. From a distance I secretly watched through the open doorway.

Making sure he did not offer this type of ‘hospitality’ to Gary. He didn’t. As I quietly guarded my

friend, I pondered. “In every religion there are those who are true and those who are false.

Saintliness is not determined by ones title, dress, hair-style or place of residence. This man has the

title of swami, shaved head and the robes of a sadhu. He has disciples who revere him and is the

high priest of this temple. Yet he tried to exploit me for satisfying his selfish passion. Real

saintliness must be understood by the behavior of a person. One who honestly walks in the

pathway of Gods will. Using spiritual authority to exploit the innocent is a grave injustice. Please,

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my Lord, protect me from allowing this trauma to create doubt in my mind toward your true

devotees.”

Gary and I planned to depart for Amarnath immediately after Janmastami. A special pulling in my

heart directed me to first visit the Holy village of Vrindaban for a few days. Gary agreed to meet

me there. I walked along the roadside from Mathura to Vrindaban. A local bus stopped. The bus

driver had a shaved head, sikha(tuft of hair representing servant of God) and traditional dhoti

(robes). He enthusiastically invited me to ride for free. How could I turn down such affectionate

hospitality. I boarded the old creaking bus although I really wanted to walk. Upon arriving in

Vrindaban I asked, “Where is Jamuna River?” Someone pointed the way. Whenever I came to a

holy place I would walk to the holy river. I never knew where else to go. As I walked, within a

minute a blissful personality stopped me. “Welcome to Sri Vrindaban Dham. Anyone who comes

here is Lord Krishnas special guest. I am a Brijabasi (resident of Vrindaban). It is my duty to

make sure you are happy. I will arrange food and accomadation for you, please come with me.” He

saw that I was a sadhu with no possessions. His service was selfless. I appealed, “I wish to sleep

on the bank of the river and beg for food”. Tears came to his eyes as he spoke with a choked voice,

“please accept my humble service. If you do not, how can I show myself before my Krishna.” My

heart melted upon seeing his sincere humility. I instantly felt such special love for this Brijabasi. It

was as if he were a family member welcoming me home. Nowhere in the world had I received

such an intimately loving welcome. For several hours he painstakingly took me from one ashram

to another. Being two days after Janmastami (Krishnas Birthday) every place was overcrowded.

Finally he found an ashram that would accommodate me. The Guru was a blind man with long

white hair and beard. The Brijabasi spoke these parting words, “I am thankful to you, baba, for
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accepting my service. I beg permission from you to tend to my family duties.” I thanked him again

and again but I was unable to properly express my gratitude.

I walked through a beautiful forest. The ground was of soft fine sand. It was especially pleasing to

walk upon. Beautiful white cows with elegant eyes slowly moved about grazing on the shrubs.

They gracefully looked at me as if they had always known me. The forest had charming trees

ornamented by plush green leaves of all shapes and sizes. The branches were the residence of

bright green parrots. They mystically captivated my attention. They had curved orange beaks and

red eyes. Monkeys played together, jumping from branch to branch. Then appeared the symbol of

natural beauty, a peacock. His long blue neck shone with splendour as it moved back and forth.

He proudly displayed the artistic opulence of his fabled tail while loudly calling out his sweet

song. Sweet melodious chanting of Krishnas glories filled the atmosphere. Small girls carrying

trays of cow dung on their heads smiled at me singing, “Radhey, Radhey.” I walk along a sandy

pathway. Before my eyes appeared the magnificent River Jamuna. She flowed gracefully, curving

through the forest of Vrindaban. Being the monsoon rainy season her dark blue water was very

deep. Simple wooden rowboats carried the Brijabasis to their destinations. Along the Jamunas

bank were medieval domes of intricately carved red stone. The people gathered underneath them

for shelter from the sun and rain. Temple bells and gongs resounded from a distance. The forest of

Vrindaban appeared sheltered under the deep blue monsoon rain clouds in the sky. My heart

melted with affection. My heart was thrilled with gratitude. I truly felt that I had found my home.

An old sadhu sat in the forest, along the riverbank. With his hand he motioned for me to come. He

had long matted hair tied like a crown on the top of his head. He wore only a simple loin cloth. He

was a mauni baba (one who takes a vow to never speak a single word). A jagged piece of a broken
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slate and chalk was the way he communicated. In English he wrote on the six-inch slate.

“Everyone thinks” this filled his slate. He erased it and continued, “that the people” he erased and

continued, “of Vrindaban” erase “are crazy” erase “It is true” erase “we are crazy” erase “for

Krishna” erase “If you stay here” erase “you will become crazy too.”

The next day my lifelong friend Gary arrived in Vrindaban. By the mysterious ways of God, we

met within minutes of his arrival. Janmastami attracted large crowds to Vrindaban. Gary desired to

go to a quiet place in the Himalayas. My heart impelled me to remain in Vrindaban for a little

more time. We planned to meet at the Brahma Ghat in Hardwar after five days. Then we would

proceed to the pilgrimage in Amarnath. We parted in joy as we were to be reunited in only a few

days.

Not a single foriegner was to be seen. It appeared that Vrindabans charming atmosphere was

hidden from the west. This made me quite happy. I had witnessed that when westerners frequent

any place in India, commercialism becomes prominent. By Vrindabans natural influence a sincere

desire to learn about Krishna awakened in my heart. I lost all of my books some time back. I

asked a local man where I could find English books about Krishna. He directed me to the

Ramakrishna Hospital. I walked along the Mathura Vrindaban road. A sign read, ‘Ramakrishna

Sevashram’. Entering I inquired about books. Everyone stared curiously. I was brought to the

director of the hospital, Sakti Maharaja. I inquired, “Do you have books about Krishna in the

English language.” He appeared quite impatient with my question. “This is a hospital, not a

library! Come back if you are sick!” “Do you know of any place?” On a piece of paper he drew a

map, then explained. “You should walk toward the temple of Madan Mohan. Everyone knows

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where it is. Close by is the ashram of Swami Bon Maharaja. They will have English books.” I

walked along the roads and pathways, following his direction. My heart filled with serene joy as I

gazed upon a magnificent temple like no other. On top of a hill overlooking the Jamuna River was

the Temple of Madan Mohan. Intricately carved of red sandstone, it was a masterpiece of

devotional art, a worshipful Diety in the form of a temple. Madan Mohans’ captivating presence

gently presided over the Land of Krishna. The ashram was beside a small lane. To the right of the

courtyard was a temple of Krishna. To the left was a small temple of Lord Siva. Beside that was a

garden of flourishing tulasi plants. In front was the office and residences for the devotees. It was a

very small, intimate ashram setting. A young Bengali sadhu graciously introduced himself as

Gopesh Krishna Das. He courteously sat me down in a small office. Within moments an American

Swami entered. He introduced himself as Lalitanada Swami. He told that previously he was the

leader of a well-known rock and roll band in England and America. He played with many famous

names. Renouncing his promising career he surrendered his life to serving his Guru. He informed

me that his guru was presently not in town. Otherwise I could meet him. He showed me an English

book I could read. Bidding me farewell, he departed for Bombay to collect funds. I sat and read for

several hours. Putting the book in the bookcase I commenced my walk to the Jamuna River. While

passing through the ashram courtyard an effulgent personality greeted me as he walked into the

main gate. He was an American. He was shaven headed and clad in saffron. His blissful smile

caused me to feel at home. He introduced himself as Asim Krishna Das Brahmacari. Born and

raised near New York as Alan Shapiro he traveled to India on a spiritual search. In the Punjab state

he met a saint of the name Mukunda Hari Maharaj. From him he was inspired to come to

Vrindaban. Alan became the initiated disciple of Swami Bon Maharaja, thus receiving his spiritual

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name. Offering a seat to me, he offered me delicious sacred food. A wonderful friendship

awakened within moments. I told him I was going to stay on the bank of the river and leave in two

days for Amarnath. He graciously offered any help if I required. The next day after bathing in the

sacred Jamuna, I roamed alone in a quiet forest. Sitting on the river bank, just beneath the hill of

Madan Mohan Temple, I sat in silent meditation. When nighttime appeared I offered my farewell

to the beautiful Land of Vrindaban. I was to leave very early the next morning to catch the

Mathura train to Hardwar. I contemplated. “Gary will be waiting to meet me on the bank of the

Ganges at Brahma ghat. I will leave tomorrow morning. But how could I leave this most

wonderful place? Perhaps someday I may return.” While laying to sleep on the riverbank, I prayed,

“My dear Lord, Your lovely land of Vrindaban is attracting my heart like no other place. The

simple people, beautiful animals, and charming forests have moved my heart in a way I cannot

comprehend. I am feeling Your presence here in such a special way. The mystifying atmosphere of

Vrindaban has entered into my heart in such a way that I am not able to understand. What is

happening? Shall I leave according to my plan? I pray, please reveal Your Divine Will to your

lost child.” With this prayer I fell asleep. Early in the morning, I awoke by the ringing of temple

bells. Burning fever raged!!! The fire was consuming my body. I was paralyzed. I had no strength

to move a single limb. My head spun into a dizzy. A headache split my head apart as my stomach

felt to be churning bitter poison, relentlessly. I lied there alone and helpless. Death would have

been a welcome relief. A Brijabasi herding a few cows saw me lying in this hopeless condition on

Jamunas bank. He took pity on me. Feeling my high fever he brought me by rickshaw to a

charitable hospital. The hospital attendants placed me in the charitable ward. Ten beds on one side

of the room and ten beds on the other side. Every bed was occupied with penniless sadhus and the

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impoverished. My bed was at the end near the entrance. An intelligent young man introduced

himself as my doctor, I will be treating your disease”. After a series of tests he concluded with

great conviction, “You are suffering from Typhoid Fever. Many die of this disease. We will try to

save your life. No food for the next week. Your diet will be glucose water.” With those words he

departed. I lie there like the living dead. No strength. Overcome by fever and nausea. There was

very little money to treat the patients in the charitable ward. It was the crude basics. Once a day

the doctor made the rounds giving a few seconds to each patient. Nurses appeared from time to

time. Not a single one spoke English. All night long suffering souls cried out in agony. The first

night two people died. The old man inches from me was in a piteous condition. He was emaciated,

constantly crying in pain. Leaning over he passed red urine in a small pot kept on his bed.

Constantly he coughed blood. Often the blood of that morbid cough sprinkled onto my face. I

could not sleep for days. If I had a drop of strength I would escape this horrid place. One hot,

humid monsoon night I lie in hopelessness. Throughout the room people were howling, moaning

and screaming in agony. Within my troubled mind, I contemplated, “Why am I here? What

illnesses will I contract in this disease-infested hell. Why did I leave my comfortable home in

Highland Park? Why did I leave my loving protective parents, family and friends? What am I

doing here? I am alone and helpless.” Placing my life in the hands of God, I prayed for mercy.

“Vrindaban is Krishnas’ home. In my helpless state I have no other shelter than you my Lord. This

is a great blessing. Thank you my Lord.” All night long I softly chanted Hare Krishna Hare

Krishna Krishna Krishna Krishna Hare Hare, Hare Rama Hare Rama Rama Rama Hare Hare.

The next morning Asim Krishna Das, hearing news that I was ill came to visit me. Accompaning

him was an effulgent person whose eyes glistened with spiritual love. Asim introduced him, “This
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is Krishnadas Babaji Maharaja. He is one of the greatest saints in all of Vrindaban.” Babaji

Maharaja looked at me with compassionate tears filling his eyes. He patted me on the head loudly

chanting ‘Hare Krishna’. Every day the two of them came to bless me. Babaji Maharaja filled my

heart with joy as he spontaneously laughed, chanting, ‘Hare Krishna’. His laughter was so

genuine. It seemed to naturally flow from the eternally blissful state of his soul.

One day two young doctors in training came to my bed. They asked, “What is your name good sir?

From what country did you come? Are you married? What is your educational qualification? What

is your fathers’ good name? What is the reason you have come to India?” After dealing with these

formalities, I put forth a serious question on my mind. “What disease does the man next to me

have?” With no expression, they gave their official reply, “He has contagious tuburculosis. Please

be careful sir. If you inhale his cough or if one drop of his blood falls on you, you will catch it

also!!!” I was quite startled, “Why is he in a room crowded with twenty patients?” This seemed to

be the logical question to ask. “It is our policy, no one is put into quarantee unless our laboratory

tests positive. Our laboratory is closed due to the technician sick with tuberculosis. Therefore no

one can be put in quarantee. But it is for 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.

After some days I gained the strength to sit up. Sitting on my hospital bed, I entered into deep

thought. I wrote these words in a letter to my family:

Perhaps it is true: that at the root of what seems to be even the most negative circumstance lays

the seed of a positive cause. So fortunate is one who can realize this at the very moment of crisis.
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What is fear but a self-destructive creation of the unstable imagination. 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

Vrindaban, September 1971

After about ten days the doctor released me. He instructed, “You must not travel for minimum one

month. The way you sadhus travel you will not survive in your condition. You eat kicherie (rice

and beans) and stay in one place. Krishnadas Babaji Maharaj and Asim Krishna Das kindly

brought me to their ashram to recuperate. I was given a place on the floor of a hall above the

office. I rested that day. The next morning Asim Krishna inquired, “would you like to meet my

Guru Maharaj?” “I will be most grateful, please.” In a courtyard of tulasi, on a simple chair, sat the

spritual master. He sat with closed eyes lovingly chanting on prayer beads. He wore a simple t-

shirt and the traditional cloth of a sannyasi. He appeared to be in his mid seventies. Upon hearing

us approaching he turned to us. Asim Krishna took my hand and introduced me, “This is my Guru

Maharaja, His Divine Grace Swami Bhakti Hridaya Bon Maharaja.” His eyes looked upon me

with deep compassion. A warm smile illuminated his gentle face. He softly spoke with the

dignified voice of an erudite scholar. “Goloka Vrindaban is the highest realm of the spiritual

world. The Supreme abode has descended into this world as Gokula Vrindaban. It is not by chance

that you have come here. It is due to the causeless mercy of Lord Krishna. This is your eternal

home. We welcome you to Vrindaban and our simple ashram.” With much concern he inquired

about my past. I respectfully explained. He graciously continued. “You may stay with us as long

as you like. I will arrange our brahmacaris to take care of you. Asim will oversee. You will gain

great spiritual benefits if you spend your mornings chanting with Krishnadas Babaji Maharaj in
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our temple. He is a great paramhamsa (perfected soul). He is absorbed in chanting Krishnas Holy

Names, day and night. His pure love is a great inspiration to all of us. In the afternoons you may

walk through the forests of Vrindaban and experience the divine atmosphere. There will be no

pressure on you. For those who are residing in the ashram, there are very strict rules. They must

stay here all day performing their devotional duties. You are my special guest, you may come and

go as you please. Please be comfortable and happy. Each morning I am sitting here. You are

always welcome to talk with me.” Thanking him I bowed down to his feet.

Asim Krishna informed me, “every morning I will leave the ashram for my service. I assist my

Guru Maharaja at the university he founded. It is called ‘The Institute for Oriental Philosophy.’

Swami Bon Maharaja established it so that the Brijabasis do not have to leave Vrindaban for

higher education. He also made it a facility for scholars from all over the world to come for

research and be purified by the holy atmosphere of Vrindaban Dham”. He departed. I then entered

the temple.

In the temple were the deities of Radha Govinda and Lord Caitanya. Sitting alone in the temple

room was Srila Krishna das Babaji. He sat on the floor with eyes gazing upon the beautiful forms

of Radha Govinda. Those eyes glistened radiantly with spiritual intensity. He appeared to be

struggling to hold back the tears of his love as he chanted Krishnas names. Playing on a simple

mrdanga (two headed clay drum), he sang traditional prayers in praise of Krishna. His voice was

simple yet saturated with a devotional power that entered deeply into my heart. His natural love to

sing Krishnas Names stimulated devotion within everyones heart. Babaji Maharaja sat alone in the

temple singing from 8:00am to 12:30pm every day. He graciously allowed me to sit close to him.

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I derived indescribable inspiration from this great soul. Every day for several months I was blessed

in this way with his precious association. Each morning at 4:30am was the mangal arati, morning

service. Krishnadas Babaji Maharaja was always given the honor of singing the prayers while

playing his mrdanga (drum). At the beginning all the assembled brahmacaris (renounced monks)

stood prayerfully while singing to Radha Govinda. As the Kirtan (devotional chanting) progressed

everyone danced with joy, led by the elderly Babaji himself. Babaji Maharaja danced into the

courtyard, everyone followed him. In the Siva Temple he sang for Gopeswara Mahadevas pleasure

as devotees danced while ringing the bell. Around the tulasi garden we danced, circumambulating

the holy Tulasi. The grand finale of the morning kirtan was performed back in the temple room.

Dancing and singing with joyous religious fervour. Babaji Maharaja then offered salutations to the

Lord and His beloved devotees as we all prostrated in obeisance. One time I had dysentery. In the

middle of the night I rushed to the latrine. I heard Babaji Maharaja chanting the Maha Mantra on

his beads. From that night I took great interest, did he ever stop chanting Gods Names. Anytime I

awoke at night I quietly wandered outside the window of his room. Never was there silence. In the

seclusion of his personal love he chanted Krishnas Names day and night. No one in the ashram

could trace when he slept. He shaved his head and face once a month. The duration of the month

his face and head were covered with bright white hair. He wore only a simple white cloth around

his waist. It extended to just above his knees. A similar piece of cloth hung around the back of his

neck and down his chest. Babaji Maharaja was a small, thin elderly man yet he was energized by

spiritual power to constantly chant with perpetual enthusiasm. For over a month he never spoke

anything to me except his devotional outburst of “Hare Krishna.” It was quite obvious that he did

not speak English. One morning I did not attend the morning worship. I was taking my bath at the

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asharm well. First I tossed the bucket down. After it filled up I pulled it up with a rope. Crouching

down, with a lota (small brass vessel) I gathered the water and poured it over my body. As I was

performing this ceremonial bath, I was startled. A voice abruptly chastised me with the words

“Where were you for Mangal Arati?” I looked around. There was no one except Krishna das

Babaji standing nearby. Confused I continued my bath. Again the words resounded, “Where were

you for Mangal Arati?” Searching for the source of the voice I found no clue. There was only

Babaji Maharaja. I looked to him thinking maybe he knew who was speaking. Compassionately

staring into my eyes, he inquired, “Why do you not answer my question?” Shaken by surprise, I

blurted, “Babaji Maharaja, I did not know you spoke English.” “That does not answer my

question!” From that day he spoke to me in perfect English. Although ninety five percent of his

dialogue was “Hare Krishna.” This event had an impression on me. In India if anyone knew even a

word of English they would proudly show off what they knew to a westerner and those around

them. Babaji Maharaj spoke fluent English yet he never spoke a word to me. Not a trace of false

ego could be detected in him. For this reason he was empowered to chant the Holy Names

constantly. He only spoke when necessary in the service of the Lord and His devotees. In the

many temples Babaji Maharaja was invited to lead the kirtan whenever there was a special

function. Being a senior disciple of Srila Bhaktisiddhanta Saraswati Prabhupada, he was given

much honor. Sometimes Babaji Maharaja would take me with him to such functions. On one such

occasion, hundreds of people were gathered. A wonderful kirtan was taking place. Hundreds were

absorbed in chanting and dancing. Entering the crowded temple Babaji Maharaj quietly stood in

the rear, immensely enjoying the congregational chant. Within seconds he was noticed, the kirtan

stopped, all persons welcomed him with folded palms. The acraya (Guru, Bhakti Vilas Tirtha

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Maharaja) of that temple personally came forward and placed the mrdanga around Babaji

Maharajs’ neck. Everyone pleaded with him to lead the chanting. With the first beat of the

mrdanga, the crowd was ecstatic. I contemplated, “If one has no desire for adoration, that person is

truly qualified to receive it!” On the holy day of Ekadasi, a sacred fast day which is observed twice

a month, Krishnadas Babaji would spend the entire night under a sacred tree (Imli Tal). There he

would intensely sing Krishnas Names from sunset to sunrise. I struggled to stay awake. Observing

him I was amazed. He showed no symptoms of fatigue. I concluded, “For Babaji this not a

discipline or austerity. It was simply the natural expression of his love for Krishna.”

Swami Bon Maharaja was the son of an orthodox Brahman in East Bengal. He told me that his

father was so strict that if the shadow of an untouchable person touched his house. His father

would empty all water in the house and wash the entire house with cow dung mixed with water,

for purification. Highly educated and distinguished in his charater he was the pride of his family.

At about 20 years old he met with Srila Bhaktisiddhanta Saraswati Thakur. Hearing his powerful

preaching and seeing his spotless character, he surrendered his life. His family was devastated by

this. His father was not favorable to Srila Bhaktisidhanta Saraswati Thakur because he was giving

the sacred thread and gayatri mantra to persons of lower castes. Bhaktisiddanta Saraswati boldly

preached that no one should be categorized on the basis of birth. People must be respected

according to their personal qualities, not birth. He strongly preached against the modern perversion

of the caste system to the dismay of many caste Brahmins. At the age of 23 Bon Maharaja took the

sacred vows of a sannyasi. He preached throughout India. He was the first person His Guru

Maharaj sent to the west to preach. He preached in England and Germany.

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At about 6:00am Asim Krishna and myself would sit at the feet of Swami Bon Maharaja in the

temple courtyard. All the other devotees in the ashram were busy in their services. He would

personally discuss the philosophy of Lord Caitanya and the glories of Vrindaban with us.

My journey from home began when I was nineteen years old. In my life I had never been abroad.

Now, after a long time I had a return address to send my family. From half way across the world I

could feel the anguish in their hearts. They were helpless to communicate their feelings to me.

When I traveled through Europe, the Middle East and India I regularly sent them aerograms

(cheapest type of postage). Out of affection I wanted to let them know that I was still alive. Were

they still alive? There was no way for me to know. While sitting in a garden of holy tulasi plants, I

wrote to them, inviting them to reply:

Children of God, dear family of one who searches,

I will share the religious vibrations of Vrindaban.

Vrindaban is the abode of the eternal lilas of Lord Krishna. To the devotees of Lord Krishna there

is no higher or Holier place in all the worlds. Vrindaban is a simple, quiet forest village on the

banks of Yamuna River, yet within its boundaries lies over 5000 temples of God. Striking green

parrots, radiant peacocks, frolicking monkeys and scores of Indian white cows roam freely and

fearlessly amongst green forest, village streets and temple grounds.

I am now living in a little ashram (temple) which is under the blessings of a great and loving

Hindu saint renowned as one who has the received the Lords infinite grace. In the 71 years of his

life he has preached the word of God throughout the world. To his devoted disciples he is an

embodiment of all spiritual wisdom. His name is Tridandi – Swami Bhakti Hrdaya Bon Maharaj.

The Swami is aiding me each day in my spiritual search.

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With a humble heart I ask family and friends to write to me here. So rarely am I settled down in a

single place where you can write to me. I would appreciate receiving a letter from each who wish

to write to me. Write as soon as possible for I know not how long I will be here.

Words are incapable of expressing that which the heart truly feels. But words of kindness have the

power of soothing ones soul when spoken from the heart. I wait your words.

May God bless you,

Richard

That fateful day came. Asim Krishna Prabhu handed me three letters. With the letters in my hands

I impatiently walked to the banks of the holy river Jamuna. I prayed to Lord Krishna to give me

the strength to read them. The first was from my father. My heart broke by just seeing his

handwriting. It was not the handwriting of the father I knew. It was the scribbling of one whose

hand was trembling uncontrollably. Teardrops from my fathers eyes fell profusely upon his words.

His sad tears left parts of his message unreadable. Just holding this letter in my hands I could feel

his anguish. My heart was breaking. What have I done to my father and mother. They have

dedicated their lives for my welfare. I trembled as I held the letter. With a heavy heart I began to

read my fathers words. In every line he begged and pleaded with me to come home. He declared

himself helplessly plagued with worry and grief. He felt death fast approaching in his tragic

suffering. He inquired, “What horrible things have I done to you that you have rejected me?” He

wrote that every miserable day seemed to last forever in loneliness, guilt and worry. He offered to

come to wherever in the world I was if I were not willing to come home. He signed the letter:

‘your broken hearted father’. My heart broke. Knowing my fathers heart, his desperate words were

neither a ploy nor an exaggeration. He was honestly revealing his heart. I gazed upon the graceful

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current of Jamuna. With a sober prayer I opened the second envelope. It was from my mother.

Like all mothers she longed to know, “Why are you in a foreign land for so long? Haven’t you

found what your looking for yet? What are you wearing and eating. How is your health?” The

next letter was written by Larry, my younger brother. We were always dear friends. He was an

honest and simple boy. What ever he said would be true. He described the torment I had cast my

entire family into. Everyone helplessly worried day and night. He described my mothers condition,

“Do you not understand a mothers love. Mom is in a state of confusion. She helplessly worryies

day and night about your safety.” Then he described my fathers condition. “Our fathers hair is

graying every day in his plight. He has aged twenty years since the time you have abandoned us.

Often he blindly stares into a wall lost in grief. Thinking of you, all alone living in caves and

jungles, he silently cries in anguish. 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. You are killing him. We are

unable to tolerate seeing his suffering. We will hold you fully responsible for the murder of our

father if you do not come home.” Silently I prayed for guidance. As I gazed into the gently flowing

waters of Jamuna, my whole life came before my minds eye. My childhood, friends, games,

school, joys and sorrows, all the phases of growing up, they passed before me like the current of

the Jamuna. The love and care my family extended over the years. I had never been so grateful to

them as now. I do not wish to cause them pain. Yet this calling for God is burning in my heart. I

cannot expect them to understand the purpose of life I hold sacred. I have read of saints of all

religions who bore this suffering. The suffering of breaking loved ones hearts in their sacrifice to

God. Abraham was willing to sacrifice his beloved son Isaac, upon hearing the calling of God.

Heeding to the call of His Eternal Father, Jesus volunteered to be crucified. He watched his poor,

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loving mother suffer beneath the cross. His apostles left everything to heed His call. Hearing that

inner calling, Prince Siddhartha Gautama left his loving family to cry helplessly as he disappeared

into the forest to travel the path of Buddhahood. Sankaracarya left his widowed mother to cry

when that inner voice of God called for Him. These saints and avatars are great. I am very small.

Yet that calling, that longing for the Divine has overcome me.” I spent the day on the bank of the

Jamuna praying for my family and praying for guidance. The next morning sitting at his feet, I

presented the letters to Swami Bon Maharaja. Tears filled his eyes as he carefully read them. He

remained silent. As if lost in thought. He turned to me and spoke these words of wisdom. “Long

ago, when I was about your age I took to the life of renunciation. My father suffered unbearable

pain. His heart was broken. It was a great test in my life. This is the price one must pay to live the

life of a renunciate, to break the hearts of your loved ones. To see ones father suffer is perhaps the

most difficult test on the path of exclusive dedication. Even if you take to the path of renunciation

there is no harm in meeting ones father or mother. After accepting sannyasa, Lord Caitanya met

His beloved mother. You must search your own heart. Either you return home or you may invite

him here. Your father will benefit greatly if he comes to Vrindaban.”

Meditating upon his words I sat in the temple room. Praying to Radha Govinda I composed a

letter.

My Dear Father,

On receiving your last letter dated September 14 a painful ere melted into my heart. Listen to what

I say not with ears but with the great sensitivity of 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

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all my soul I believe that the highest purpose in life is to live a life devoted to the one God whom

lovingly rules over us all. We are servants of the same Lord. I believe that the root of all mans

quarrel and sufferings is due to him forgetting that highest truth.

Since ancient times there has always been politicians, businessman, soldiers etc. and along with

these there has always been those treading the path of truth and living a religious life. For one

living in America this is difficult to understand, for truly religious people barely exist in that land.

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 true 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 cause a life of no meaning and 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 and in a short time we will arrange to meet. In America, many

parents of sons are suffering the great pain of separation to the army for 2-4 years. Where their son

endangers his life for a cause rooted by 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,

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Richard

Vrindaban India

Sept.30, 1971

To my mother, I wrote: My

dear Mother, Warmth and

joy filled my heart as I read the kind and comforting words which I found in the several letters I

received. Rare do I read your words but not rare is the remembrance. So many questions there

were in your letter regarding my physical body and relative dealings. All the physical things of this

ever-changing relative world are not what my soul is seeking refuge in. For seeking peace in the

transient can lead, at the highest, to transient peace. This transient peace comes and goes with the

tides of this ever-changing world. True and pure peace can be found only in spiritual love. This is

love with no motives or conditions. Pure love is eternal. Oh, how my heart longs for this eternal

love for the Lord. But

since you long to know what I eat, what I wear, who I am traveling with and my state of health, I

will not keep your mind wondering. Since I have set

foot upon Indian soils 9 months ago I have been traveling alone. Now and then I travel with others

but my road always leads back to the lone path. In Nepal about two and half months ago, as I

walked along a lonely earthen path during a monsoon rain by Gods loving grace my brother Gary

Liss appeared before me. Unbounded silent joy filled our eyes as we crossed trails again after ten

months of no communication, (except that of the heart.) Together we spent through Nepal,

together we traveled into India, after almost 2 months the inevitable fork in our path came about.

With love in our hearts we exchanged blessings for both of us chose the lone path. The food a son

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eats is always the utmost concern on the mothers mind. I eat the very simple traditional Indian

foods. The basic meal which I take regularly consists of Rice, Chappati (flat round unlevend

Bread), Dal (a lentil sauce), and Subji (Indian prepared vegetables). This meal would generally

cost about 1 or 1.5 Rupees (10-15 cents). In ashrams this is always the staple meal (ashram

provide food plus board with no charge). I try to take Dahi (curd) regularly. Since coming to the

east I have taken the vow of vegetarianism (no meat, fish, eggs, drugs or alcohol). My dress is very

simple. I wear a simple white cloth around my lower body and the same around the upper body.

My health is alright at the present.

You also asked in the letter if I have not already found what I am seeking.

What I search for is something that has been the highest quest since ancient times- the ultimate

meaning of life. Through the ages great men have devoted all the years of their lives to this highest

search. It has been sought in uncountable different ways. I have barely approached the beginning

of this path to God. With every step in the direction, life unfolds unthinkably greater harmony. It is

ultimately not in the hands of the man to attain highest wisdom, but it is in the mercy of God.

Mans role is to preserve earnesty, become pure and worthy of the Lords Divine Grace.

One can be a spiritual aspirant in whatever walk of life one endeavors. Be it monk or householder,

fieldworker, housewife, student or businessman. But one must do his or her duty as an act of

worship, with love as the sole motive. In this way we can all find peace.

May peace be upon you.

Richard

Vrindaban, India September 12, 1971

My brother Larry did express his sincere desire for a spiritual life in a separate letter. I replied to

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him.

As I read your words my brother, my heart wept with an inner joy. A hue of light shown as I

learned of a desire to live a spiritual life. Brother there is no higher or nobler purpose in life than

the quest for the Lord’s divine grace. To seek inner peace is the divine search. To love and serve

the Lord and all creation is the crest jewel of existence. What bliss overwhelms my inner being to

know that you have this blessed seed within?

It is easy to write that Love is the essence of existence but to realize this takes a pure and devoted

heart. Much, much practice is required to reach this holy state.

I am not worthy of saying much in the line of advice, but perhaps you will accept an offering of a

little:

The society of the west has been perverted to the extent that it is praising sin and worshipping that

which gives pleasure to the senses and ego. Often the rare one who wishes to live a pure and holy

life is laughed at and trampled by the masses. In most cases he is lured into leading the same dark

and selfish lives of the masses. Be pure my brother, don’t allow Maya to lead you astray into the

dark pit of illusion.

The positive power of purity and righteousness is far beyond our comprehension. The negative

power of sin, anger, lust, greed, hate and the like is far, far beyond our comprehension. To find

right association is so important to us for we are easily led astray. Seek association with the pure in

heart and those who wish sincerely to attain spiritual peace. Be earnest in your will to serve the

Lord with a pure and simple heart.

In my travels I have met so many people who have been traveling this globe many, many years.

Few have the inner insights into life that I found in your letter.

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You see much my brother, you see much. One need not travel the world to find what is within

ones own heart.

Have faith, have patience, we are put where we are for a reason. Life itself, in whatever form it

appears is one of our greatest teachers.

Bless you Larry, may God bless you

Richard

In the afternoons I walked through the lanes and forests of Vrindaban. The Brijabasis were

thrilled that a foreigner was taking interest in their proud home. Often, I was invited into their

simple homes and offered generous hospitality. Overjoyed with my interest they brought me to the

places where Krishna performed His pastimes long ago.

Each night, weather permitting, I slept on the rooftop of the ashram. I gazed upon the beautiful

starlit nights of Vrindaban. From a distance was the calling of peacocks to one another. In a

similar manner the night guards of Vrindaban called to one another. In my youth I heard of British

guards checking on one another at night by calling out, “twelve o’clock and all is well.” “One

o’clock and all is well” etc. Here in Vrindaban they have sweetly spiritualised this system. From

nearby, a night guard called out, “Radheeeeeey Shyam.” From a distance was the response,

“Radheeeeey Shyam.” From a farther distance was the reply, “Radheeeeey Shyam.” In this way,

throughout the night, the names of God were being chanted. Although these night guards only had

a bamboo stick in hand to defend, I felt completely protected by their sincere chanting of Gods

Names. From a long distance away could be heard a beautiful melody, chanting the Hare Krishna

Mantra. The chant was amplified through a simple speaker system. The song continued throughout
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the night, every night. The devotional voices of an old lady and an old man alternated chanting the

sacred mantra. Gazing upon the stars and hearing this symphony of Divine sound, my heart was

charmed. “How grateful I am to be here.”

One night I performed the Vrindaban Parikrama, circumambulation of the Vrindaban area. As I

walked in the moonlight I heard that enchanting mantra which was sung throughout each night.

Excited with anticipation, the song was becoming louder as I became closer. Alas, I found the

origin of that sweet kirtan to be in a small temple of Hanuman on the outskirts of the village. Two

simple Brijabasis, an old man and his wife were hired to chant throughout the night. Sitting beside

them, I chanted the familiar melody that charmed me to sleep each night. I was invited to return

for lunch prasadam the next day. The next day I returned. While sitting in the small roadside

temple, a man politely approached me, “Gurudeva wants to meet you.” I inquired, “How does he

know me?” “He knows all about you,” was the reply. “Please tell me who is your respected

Gurudeva”, I asked. With great reverence he proclaimed, “My Gurudeva is Neem Karoli Baba. He

is a great devotee of Hanuman and possesses miraculous powers.” In my travels in the Himalayas I

had heard of him and his ashram in the holy town of Nandital. Nandital is a place many people go

enroute to Mount Kailash the Sacred Mountain of Lord Siva. I asked him to tell me about his

Gurudeva. “Long ago, Gurudeva was traveling on a train. The ticket master removed him for not

having a proper ticket to travel. Gurudeva peacefully sat on the railway platform. When it came for

the train to depart, it did not move. There was a great uproar as no reason could be traced out for

the calamaty. Finally, one passenger cried out, ‘Because you offended that sadhu the train will not

move.’ Crowds of passengers agreed in protest. The conductor fell at his feet begging forgiveness.

He pleaded with Gurudeva to ride freely on the train. When he boarded, the train moved
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effortlessly to its’ destination. The name of that railway station was Karoli. Since then people call

him Neem Karoli Baba. In his liberated state he is sometimes very playful.”

We entered into an open courtyard. On a simple wooden platform sat the famous Neem Karoli

Baba. His legs were crossed. An old checkered wool blanket was wrapped around his body. With

squinted eyes he penetratingly gazed into mine. He then smiled and welcomed me. I bowed down

and he blessed me. A few of his Indian disciples sat at his feet. He spoke in the Hindi language. He

seemed to be a man of few words. He spoke on the need to chant Gods Names in a mood of

surrender and service. He gave different devotees a particular God or Goddess to worship and a

corresponding mantra to chant. “All lead to the ONE” he taught. Neem Karoli Baba showed

special affection to me by his glances and kind words. After the darshan (spiritual meeting) He

invited us to lunch prasad. The food was amazingly opulent. Varieties of vegetables, savories and

sweets were served each day. On his request I came often to meet with him. His simplicity and

renunciation endeared him to his followers. He spoke often to us about seva or selfless service. He

encouraged his followers to help those in need both physically and spiritually. “We should not sit

back while others are suffering. We should serve them. This is the spirit of Hanuman. This is the

way to Rama.” In this spirit I witnessed how he gave each of his disciples the title “das,” servant

of God. One day while I sat in his darshan a very special guest arrived, Baba Ramadas. He was

incredibly well known in the 1960’s counterculture. Previously he was a professor at Harvard

University. His name was Dr. Richard Alpert. He and Dr. Timothy Leary popularized the

hallucinogenic drug LSD as a means of expanding ones consciousness. LSD had become a fad that

swept across America and Europe. The young generation was frustrated and bored with the

materialistic norms of society. Millions of young people took their “trips” on LSD, in search of a
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higher reality. Realizing the limitations of chemical spirituality, Richard Alpert visited India in

search of higher truth. In the Himalayas he met with Neem Karoli Baba. To his great astonishment

Baba mystically told Dr Alpert what was in his mind as well as confidential details of his past. He

wished to record the effects of LSD on a yogi. Neem Karoli Baba accepted a large dose. To Dr.

Alperts great surprise the LSD had no effect on him. The conclusion was that he was beyond LSD.

In course of time he accepted Neem Karoli Baba as his Guru and was given the name Ramadas.

Baba Ramadas came to Vrindaban with a small group of western friends. I showed him and his

friends some of the holy places in Vrindaban. He had heard that the famous Anandamayee Ma had

come to Vrindaban. He was eager to see her. Together we walked from the Hanuman Temple to

the spacious ashram of Anandamayee Ma. It was on the main Mathura Vrindaban Road. We sat

together in a crowd of hundreds as The Mother appeared. In her simple white sari she sat upon a

chair and graciously led a kirtan singing the name of Gopal. After speaking a few words she led us

in a kirtan chanting the names of Caitanya and Nityananda. When the program ended, Baba

Ramadas and I discussed God, the soul and enlightenment. As evening was approaching he invited

me to continue the discussion in his room the next afternoon. Baba Ramadas was residing in the

Jaipur Dharamsala (guest house) on a busy lane in the town of Vrindaban. When I arrived he was

alone. Gracioulsy he welcomed me into his small room. We sat crossed legged facing each other

on the wooden bed near a window. The long graying hair from his balding head, draped down his

back and shoulders. With his graying beard and sadhu robes he appeared to be an ancient sage. His

glowing blue eyes gazed deeply into mine. For a long time we silently stared into each others

hearts through the channel of the eyes. I was experiencing amazing hallucinations upon sitting

with him. I pondered, “Does he have this special power or is it my sensitivity or my imagination?”

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We shared in-depth discussions on spirituality. He shared with me his experiences on the path of

life. He told me of his career as a professor and his LSD journey with Timothy Leary. He told me

of the Holy People he had met and about the mercy of his Guru. He spoke of a project, “I am

working on a book. I will entitle it, “Be Here Now”. I am hoping that through this book I could

share my experiences and realizations for the spiritual benefit of the world.” He was very

interested to hear of my travels and experiences. We spoke on philosophy for many hours. At the

conclusion of our discussion, I expressed a grave concern. “I have given my heart to Mother India.

I fear my visa extension will be denied and I will have to leave.” Baba Ramadas closed his eyes in

deep thought. Looking into my eyes he responded, gravely, “You may have to leave the

geographical land of India. However you will never have to leave Bharata, the spirit of India

within.”

Each day in the early morning Asim Krishnadas and myself sat with Swami Bon Maharaja

discussing the philosophy of Vaisnavism, devotion to a personal God. He shared very intimately

his realizations and personal experiences. Often he quoted from the Holy scriptures. After which I

sat with Srila Krishnadas Babaji Maharaj until the afternoon. It was then that I was given the

blessing of exploring Vrindaban.”

Asim Krishnadas and I traveled by local bus to Govardhan and Barsana. Asim smiled, “Today

we will enter the inner villages of Vraja. Vrindaban is one of the twelve forests of Vraja. In these

twelve forests Krishna performs His pastimes with his intimate devotees. The local people have

natural faith and love for Krishna. You will see the common farmer has shaved head, the clothes

and signs of a devotee.” As we rode on this old delapitated bus, simple villagers boarded. They

wore rags for clothing. There were obvious diseases many suffered. Cataracts, skin disease and
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infections were left untreated due to poverty. Yet they were naturally blissful. They sang sweet

devotional songs while clapping their hands. How blissful they were to sing of their love for

Krishna. Elderly ladies spontaneously rose to jubilantly dance on the moving bus. Their tattered

saris covered their heads in shyness. Just riding on the bus to work was a joyous festival of spirit

for the Brajabasis. After visiting these holy places we returned to the village of Vrindaban.

Everyones hearts swelled with anticipation for the coming full moon. It was the festival of Rasa

Purnima. On this night all of the five thousand temples of Vrindaban have a joyous celebration. It

is the night commemorating Radha and Krishnas Rasa Dance. Swami Bon Maharaja explained,

“This is not an ordinary dance. It is the expression of the purest selfless love between God,

Krishna and His most exalted devotees, the Gopies.” In the courtyard of our temple a charming

throne of fragrant flowers was constructed. Thousands of small flowers were delicately woven

together to create a mind-enchanting decor. The sweet fragrance was overwhelming. A garden of

holy tulasi trees created a most sacred forest setting. The deities of Radha Govinda were brought

from the temple to sit on Their flower throne. An offering of dozens of sweet preparations

surrounded the Lords throne of flowers. The full moon shone brightly, illuminating all directions.

In Vrindaban this celebrated as the the most beautiful moon of the year. Appearing with a heart

enchanting golden form the full moon rose from the eastern horizon. All the devotees welcomed

the rising moon with sweet songs specially sung for this unique occasion. Swami Bon Maharaja

played upon the harmonium singing songs of love for the pleasure of the Lord. Krishnadas Babaji

Maharaja sang with deep emotion. Sincere spiritual emotions we had never seen. In such Divine

serenity all of us cried out the praise of the Radha Govinda. There were about twenty of us

gathered together. Everyones minds were fixed on the unparalleld sight of Radha and Krishna in
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the moonlit flower-forest of Vrindaban. As the full moon rose higher into the sky he took on the

garb of brilliant white. Crystal colored moon-rays illuminated every leaf and flower. Sri Radha

Govinda were beaming as if personally bathing in the sweetness of the moonlight. Till late in the

night we sang for the Lords pleasure. I intensely pondered, “How deeply this Vrindaban

meditation is affecting my heart. Spiritual love is higher than mystic power or even liberation.”

One moonlit night in the temple garden I sat at the feet of Swami Bon Maharaja. He offered to

initiate me into the sacred chanting of Gods Holy Names. He had a special set of sanctified beads

in his hands. I graciously declined. “I have vowed not to accept initiation from a Guru until I am

convinced that I will never betray him. That would be worse than death. I would be disrespectful

to your Holiness if I take sacred vows without such genuine surrender. I have met many saintly

people, yet have never formally accepted any as my Guru. Please forgive me.” Tears came to his

eyes. He spoke, “I am 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. If you permit

me I will give you a name. Not an initiation name but an affectionate name. You may use this

name until you decide to accept initiation from someone.” I accepted. “We will call you Rathin

Krishna Das.” He proclaimed. “This means the servant of Krishna who is the charioteer of

Arjuna.”

Swami Bon continued, “Our guests and the members of the ashram are complaining about your

long matted hair. Why do you not shave your head like the other ashramites?” Nervously, I tried to

honestly reveal my heart to him. “To me, shaving the head represents surrendering to a Guru. Until

I make that decision I cannot shave my head. I do not have the heart to do it superficially.” He

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responded, “Will you at least cut it shorter. Our guests do not appreciate it.” I agreed. My hair had

become naturally matted from not combing it for over a year. It now extended down my back,

approaching my waist. The next morning Swami Bon instructed Asim Krishnadas to bring me to a

barber. The barber shop was a small wooden stall. The wood frame of the stall was rotting and

peeling. It was hardly big enough for one person to sit. I took my seat on an old wooden chair. The

barber looked upon me in utter confusion. “How to cut such hair?” He desperately attempted with

every variety of scissors he had. None could penetrate. He was a small thin man wearing only a

simple cloth around his waist. A conference ensued with other local barbers. “How to cut such

hair?” After much deliberation they devised a plan. They called for a gardener. He evaluated my

head for some time. Then he left for his storehouse to bring the proper equipment. He returned

with a dull, rusted bush cutter. It was shaped like a gigantic scissors for cutting bushes and tree

branches. This endeavor had become an elaborate project. The gardener was the foreman. He

ordered his assistant, “Pull his hair backward and hold it as tight as you can.” He ordered the

barber, “You hold the bottom of the cutter with both hands and push up. I will push the top of the

cutter, down.” They all assembled in their strategic positions. It was a formidable challenge. They

strained and groaned as they fervently pushed the cutters from both directions. All their bodily

weight was being utilized. Dozens of passersby gazed upon this spectacle in astonishment. A few

people from the street joined in the project all pushing their weight into the bush cutter. The entire

operation was to be one big huge cut. There would not be a second. I felt it little by little

penetrating my locks. Hundreds of hairs were being pulled out of my scalp by the pressure. It was

a human torture. The whole while my dear Asim Krishnadas was laughing aloud. Being from New

York, this was really a ludicrous affair for him to witness. An endless ten minutes elapsed,

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finally….the two blades of the cutters met. It was done. My hair level was now just below my

neck. There was probably no two hairs the same length. It was perhaps the sloppiest haircut in

modern history. But it was done. The gardener and the barber proudly held up a mirror. “Please

see!!!! Please see!!!!!” With folded palms, I thanked them. But, I prefered not to see.

One day, two unlikely Americans appeared at the gate of the ashram. David was a very sincere

intelligent man. For years he had acted as the personal secretary and friend of the famous author

Alan Watts. Alan Watts’ books had become very popular in the counterculture of America. He

blended Eastern Mysticism and Western logic to create writings that significantly influenced

thousands of persons’ lives. David played an important role in these writings. By the influence of

his correspondence with Swami Bon Maharaja he decided to visit Vrindaban. Since I had

previously read several of the books of Alan Watts, we had soul-searching discussions. I

remember sharing with him a conclusion I had come to, “In my travels I have found that the most

enlightened beings are those who are faithfully dedicated to the traditions of an ancient path. The

substance of their realizations is most profound. Those whom I have met who follow the flowery

words of new spiritual processes or the mixture of many traditional ideas rarely go beyond the

sentimental or mental platform. Surrender to spiritual authority with traditional roots is a fearful

and often unpopular idea. Yet it appears to be the required price of true enlightenment. How

unfortunate it is that hypocracy and arrogance have tarnished the image of true spirituality all over

the world.” I was very eager to share with David my deep appreciation for Vrindaban and the path

of devotion. Asim Krishnadas and I spent several days bringing him to the holy places. While the

rest of us were immersed in our worship, Davids’ friend would enthusiastically perform his

meditation. Flying a kite along the banks of the Jamuna. He was quite a large size man with a
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light complexion and bearded face. His peaceful, mild mannered nature made him very popular

amongst the villagers. He fascinated them. They named him “Kite Man”.

From East Bengal came a small group of Swami Bon Maharajas’ principle disciples. The leader

was a very distinguished gentleman. He was the principal of a school and leader of his town in

East Bengal. I learned much from their refined mannerisms and orthodox adherence to the path of

devotion. Although he was older than my father, we became very close friends. One day in front of

the temple David had his camera in hand. “Please take our group photo”, one of these men

requested. Together the five men posed. David turned to me, “There is only one more shot in this

film. It is my last role. I planned to take another important photograph. What should I do? They

are posing!” We decided to pretend to take their photo. We imitated a clicking sound as they

posed. Without thinking twice about it we went about our duties. The next day I saw this dignified

leader silently crying. I asked his friend, “Why is he in such distress?” He replied, “Yesterday you

duplicitously pretended to take our photogragh as we posed. You have insulted our integrity.” I

felt utterfully ashamed. I had made my noble hearted friend cry. With folded hands, I begged

forgiveness. His tearful eyes painfully looked at me. He said nothing. I felt lower than a venomous

serpent. The next day I again begged for him to forgive me. He stared in my eyes and spoke

words that shook my heart, “You are a devotee of Krishna. How could you treat another human

being with such insensitivity. Lord Caitanya taught us to respect all others with humility. Duplicity

is a material disease. My heart is broken because I loved and trusted you as a devotee of God. You

disappointed my expectations. I cry seeing how little you understand the proper behavior of a

devotee. A real devotee will never treat anyone so cheaply.” He then embraced me and walked

away. Sitting on the earthen bank of the Jamuna River, I wept, pondering this lesson for the rest of
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the day. “How gross and harsh is my hard heart. In the western culture such an insignificant

transgression would not even be considered. In a devotional culture, soft heartedness and integrity

are held sacred. What really is the culture of devotion? It is so very fine and subtle yet it fertilises

the field of the heart so that the seed of true love may grow.”

After some days, David and Kite Man departed. On another occasion a scholar from America

came to visit Vrindaban. The primitive facilities of Vrindaban were difficult for him. He longed to

get out. However he was waiting for an urgent letter to arrive. “This letter determines the future of

my life and career. I must act upon the contents immediately. I will stay in Vrindaban until it

arrives. Then I will go.” Every day he impatiently went to the post office beside the famous Banke

Behari Temple. Alas, after waiting almost a week the fateful letter arrived. The post office area

was congested and noisy with hundreds of people hurrying in and out of the temple. He trembled

as he held it to his heart. “I will read it later in a quiet place.” I asked him if he would like to read

it in a very quiet holy place. He agreed. We entered the sacred precincts of Seva Kunja, an

enchanting garden of sacred trees wherein Radha Krishna perform Their eternal loving pastimes.

The scholar was eager to read the letter. He looked at it with such intensity I had to hold back my

laughter. Suddenly, a monkey ripped the letter from his hand and jumped into a tree. The man was

outraged. He desparately screamed threats as he attempted to climb the tree. The monkey seemed

to be laughing at him. He shook the letter while jumping up and down, making ridiculing sounds.

Our monkey jumped to another tree, another tree, and another tree till he was out of sight, forever,

with the letter. The man crying in desperation, immediately left Vrindaban. I sat under a tree in

Seva Kunja and reflected, “Vrindaban is not an ordinary place. This is Krishnas Land, a place for

purification and detachment. It is not a place for making material arrangements. How wonderful.”
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Swami Bon Maharaja told a story, “A German scholar took very serious interest in the religion of

Vrindaban. After many years of preparation he commenced his sacred pilgrimage. He took an

airplane from Frankfurt to Delhi. From Delhi he took a train to Mathrura. At Mathura he boarded a

horse drawn carriage (tonga) toward Vrindaban. As he approached the outskirts of Vrindaban

village he witnessed many cows on the streets. Pies of cow dung were seen both on the road and

all around. Compared to the sanitation standards of Germany, this was primitive and intolerable.

Immediately he turned the tonga back to Mathura. Boarded the next train to Delhi. That night he

took the first possible flight back to Frankfurt.” Swamiji continued, “We cannot understand a holy

place like Vrindaban with material vision. We must see with the eyes of faith. Faith in the words

of God and the self realized souls.”

A monk in the temple could not tolerate that I was living in the ashram without taking initiation.

He sat me down to convince me. “Look at you, living as an ascetic, you have given up material

life. However until you accept initiation from a Guru, you have no spiritual life. Do you know

what happens to one who dies not having either a material or spiritual life? Do you know? He

becomes a ghost!!! Death could come at any moment. You are living as a ghost! If uncertain death

comes, you will suffer miserably for thousands of years. Wandering about as a ghost! Why take

our Gurus mercy but not accept initiation. This is offensive. You should surrender or leave.”

Saddened by his stern reprimand, I replied, “I am sorry”. Picking up my small cloth bag I

proceeded to leave the ashram at that moment. Swami Bon Maharaja was sitting in the courtyard.

I bowed in prostration at his feet and begged for his blessings to leave. Surprised to hear these

words he inquired. “Why have you decided to leave us?” “I wish not to offend you.” I explained

the sermon I had just heard. He became upset to hear this. With great sincerity he spoke these
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words. “I never thought these things about you. You are a sincere devotee. I love you as a father

for a son. You have not offended me. Rather, you bring me joy. I welcome you to stay here as long

as you wish. There will never be such pressure again.” He then called for the monk, to strongly

admonish him. In order to respect his kindness I remained for a few more days. I did not wish to

disrupt the devotees’ minds. I was still searching. Residence in the ashram was for dedicated

disciples. I received his blessings to live as a sadhu in the forests of Vrindaban.

“I will reside on the sacred banks of the holy river Jamuna!!!” With this anticipation I once again

became a homeless wanderer, sleeping under a different tree every night. Often I slept near the

Chira Ghat on the bank of the Jamuna. There was an ancient Kadamba tree. The brijabasis worship

this tree as the place to abandon all false ego and unconditionally surrender to the loving service of

Lord Krishna. Each night I kneeled down under this tree praying helplessly for this spirit of

humility and devotion. Then I went to sleep. I had no type of bedding. I laid my body directly on

the sacred earth, right at the bank of the river. The blessed companion of solitude inspired my

mind into constant prayer. In the early morning at 4:00, I awoke with the ringing of distant temple

bells. I only had one set of traditional robes. There was one unstitched cloth I wrapped around my

waist to cover the lower part of my body and the same for the upper part. In the darkness of the

early morning I arose. The earthen river-bank where I slept was only inches from the flowing

waters of the Jamuna. I bowed down in gratitude then entered into the river for a holy bath. The

water was very cold. I remembered a song I had learned as a child. “The river Jordan is chilly and

cold. It chills the body but warms the soul.” After submerging myself again and again, I stood in

the river with water up to my chest. In that dark and lonely place I offered prayers. A sacred bath

is to purify the body, mind and soul. I tried to pray from the very core of my heart. I prayed to
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Jamuna to please purify my heart. I begged Sri Radha for pure faith and love. In that holy

meditation I felt so personally close to God. With reverence, I climbed onto the riverbank. Ringing

the water from the clothes I had bathed in, I put them back on. Sitting in that divine place I

meditated on the chanting of Gods Holy Names. After bowing down in gratitude, I would go to the

Radha Raman Temple for the morning worship. This was how I began each day. I pray that I may

never forget this experience.

One beautiful afternoon, I sat under a sacred kadamba tree on the bank of the river Jamuna. I

composed a letter to my greifstriken father.

My dear Father,

My long search has led me to Vrindaban. I have at last found something that attracts my heart as

pure truth. It has taken until now to find the conditions I think and that I have been seeking. I have

just in the past 2 weeks realized the great jewel which is to be learned in Vrindaban. To leave at

once would render so much of my search in vain.

If you can be patient and wait for about month I will tell you definite plans. At that time I will tell

you when I will return or where you could meet with me in India.

Believe me when I tell you that I am not here for any pleasure or leisure. I am here with all

earnestness and sincerity to carry out a mission that I cannot neglect. You know that in all my life I

have never willfully hurt you. Please believe the importance of this journey to my life.

Love,

Richard Vrindaban,

October, 1971

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Asim Krishnadas also left the ashram to live as a mendicant in Vrindaban. One day Asim

Krishnadas and myself were sitting on the banks of the Jamuna River in a serenely forested grove

on the outskirts of the village. A simple Brijabasi farmer approached us with folded palms. With a

charming smile he spoke in the local Brijabasa language, “Sripada Baba wants to meet you, please

come.” The Brijabasi led us into the forest. Sitting serenely under a sprawling banyan tree was

Sripad Baba. He appeared simultaneously aged and youthful. His semi-matted hair reached his

neck. He wore a single garment that covered his upper and lower body. The garment was made of

old, faded white cotton. His bearded face smiled upon us as he spoke, “Sri Vrindaban is the eternal

forest of ambrosial sweetness. The mysteries of this holy land are only revealed to one whom Sri

Radharani blesses. Come with me.” We followed behind as he strolled through the woods along

the banks of the river. Wherever we roamed the local people and temple priests offered him great

honor and respect. Sripad Baba was eager to show us the mystical holy places of Vrindaban. He

simply lived to glorify Vrindaban. No one knew where he resided. He was a homeless mendicant.

He would mystically appear at the least expected moment and show us a special holy place.

Suddenly he was gone. He never said goodbye. We seldom saw him either come or go. He seemed

to just appear and disappear when Asim Krishnadas and I were together.

One day Sripad Baba appeared as I sat on the bank of the Jamuna. He said, “Asim Krishnadas and

others are waiting for you at Behariji Temple.” I turned around and he was gone. Upon my arrival

at Banke Bihari Temple I witnessed the beautiful night worship ceremony. Sripad Baba then

appeared with with a large clay pot filled with Banke Beharis prasad (sacred food). Together we

strolled to a secluded forest on the sacred banks of the river Jamuna. There were six of us. We all

sat down on the earthen bank, facing the river. Tulasi leaf prasad was given to each of us. The
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time was now about nine thirty. The beautiful Vrindaban night made her mystical appearance. A

sadhu of distinguished characteristics sat beside me. He had a hand carved sitar (classical stringed

musical instrument) hanging on his back from his shoulder. Sripad Baba introduced him. “He is a

master sitarist. He was a pupil of the same teacher as the famous Ravi Shankar. He had become a

sadhu and now only plays in the glorification of Radha and Krishna.” The saintly musicians’

humble and unassuming smile beamed upon me. He then closed his eyes in meditation. We sat in

the serenity of silence. The sky appeared as a deep black backdrop to the shining silver moon.

Radiant stars illuminated our hearts as they sweetly twinkled, as if speaking the inner secrets of the

soul. An enchanting mirror reflection of the bejeweled sky appeared to be dancing upon the

graceful current of Jamuna. The charming sight thrilled our hearts. Upon the branches of nearby

kadamba trees, the night birds softly sang their sweet songs. Distant peacocks called. The gentle

breeze carried the intoxicating aroma of blooming night jasmine flowers. The sanctified taste of

tulasi filled our mouths. The mystical influence of Vrindaban carried our minds deeper and deeper

into the heart. We blissfully sat in a timeless silence. I pondered, “What more beautiful spiritual

experience could I pray for? Thank you, Sri Radha.” From this sacred silence, gently emerged the

sweet sound of the sitar. Long weeping notes perfectly harmonized with the natural symphony of

the Vrindaban forest. Each note of the ancient raga expressed his feelings of loving seperation

from God. I silently cried in gratitude. An overwhelming experience came upon me. I felt so very

far from Krishna. There was no true love in my heart. I longed for that love. I cried for that love. I

helplessly prayed for that love. All of creation seemed irrelevant in the absence of that love. His

sitar seemed to be crying in perfect harmony with my heart. All of our senses seemed to have

become entrances into the land of eternal devotion. From the timeless weeping of the blessed sitar

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emerged a melody that was very dear to the Brijabasis. We all sweetly sang in harmony, “Jai

Radhey Jai Radhey Radhey Jai Radhey Jai Sri Radhey, Syama Gauri Nitya Kishori Pritama Jori

Sri Radhey” His weeping sitar carried our prayers deeper into our hearts, like a lotus flower

carried by the gentle current of Yamuna into the forest of Vrindaban. “Jai Krishna Jai Krishna

Krishna Jai Krishna Jai Sri Krishna, Rasika Rasilo Chaila Chabilo Guna Garvilo Sri Krishna”. My

heart crying, I sincerely prayed, “Dear Radha, Dear Krishna, please bless me that I may live

forever in Your beloved Vrindaban forest”.

Several hours passed, the kirtan (chanting) concluded. On that moonlit night in the scented forest,

we reverently shared the nectarean prasad (spiritual food) of Banke Behari (Krishna). Our leaf

plates rested upon the bank of the river. They were covered with small pieces of sanctified

savories and sweets. In the silvery moonlight we bowed down in gratitude. Then we began the

circumambulation (parikrama) of Vrindaban. Continuously singing the Names of Radha and

Krishna we wandered along the bank of the Jamuna and into the starlit forests. Passing Chir Ghat,

my favorite sleeping place, we entered into a narrow passageway underneath an ancient palace.

Solid stone, centuries old, surrounded us as we carefully walked single file through the pitch-dark

passage. We could neither see ahead or behind. The air was stagnant, its smell was thick and very

old. Our only reality was the reverberating sound of our chanting. Although walking in pitch

darkness, in a place one has never been, usually stimulates fear, we were blissfully immersed in

chanting. My heart was filled with suspense, “what is next to come?” Coming out from the cave-

like passageway we were greeted by a beautiful spectacle. The moonlight illuminated the vast sky.

As far as the eyes could see were expansive rows of stone steps, carved centuries ago, leading

down to the river Jamuna. Ancient domes decoratively carved in red sandstone created a magical
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effect. We rested upon the steps as Sripad Baba spoke, “This is Keshi Ghat, the most popular

bathing ghat in Vrindaban. It was here that long ago that Lord Krishna liberated the cruel demon,

Keshi. Keshi had supernatural powers. Taking the form of a gigantic horse he galloped into

Vrindaban causing earthquakes. His mission was to kill all the residents including Krishna.

Krishna, who always protects His devotees, effortlessly placed his lotus like hand in the gaping

mouth of the charging demon. The Lords hand became unbearably hot. It expanded more and

more, Keshi fell to the ground, kicking his legs he gave up his life. Krishna mercifully bestowed

liberation upon the soul of this cruel murderer. Concluding this adventure, Krishna took his bath

here.” As the sitar played and the devotees chanted prayers, my mind peacefully drifted into

thought. “My mind is like this Keshi, trying to appear as someone great. The mind is eager to find

faults with others to demonstrate superiority. To shelter egoistic falt finding is like attacking

Krishna within my heart. Please, my Lord, liberate me from this false pride. Please allow me to

bathe in the Yamuna of Your mercy. Please cleanse my heart of this ego.” On that moonlit night, I

could feel Krishna had appeared in His Holy Names to bathe my heart. Gratefully chanting with

my friends, I was given a glimpse of realization of how many thousands of such holy baths I may

require to be worthy of Gods Love.

One day while I was sitting in prayer under a holy kadamba tree, an elderly gentleman inquired

about my life. In a very caring voice, he said, “ People call me Panditji, I would like to take you to

meet one of the greatest saints. His deep love will overpower your soul. He is not much known to

the public but the true saints revere him. Please come.” Together we walked along the sandy

pathways. Blessed white cows, peacocks, monkeys and parrots ornamented the serene forest. We

came to a lovely courtyard. Panditji asked me to wait. Moments later he brought me into a small
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house. We entered a simple room. Panditji affectionately spoke to me, “I am honored to introduce

you to Vishaka Baba.” Vishaka Baba sat on a simple wooden bed raised about twelve inches from

the floor. Five elderly holy men sat on the floor, eager to hear from him. His head and face were

shaven as an expression of detachment from egoistic pursuits. A small tuft of hair on the back of

his shaved head represented servitude to God. He was very elderly, in his eighties. His eyes were

soft and gentle. His glance brought peace and comfort to my heart. He smiled affectionately upon

me. I was taken aback, he welcomed me as if I was an exalted soul and he was my servant.

Speaking no English he requested Panditji to translate his words. “Please allow me to serve you.

Radharani is the supreme lover of Lord Krishna. All spiritual love is Her property. If we please

Her by our sincerity, She will reveal Gods Love in our hearts. She is the Goddess of Vrindaban.

Sri Radha will specially favor one who comes here begging for devotion.” With his palms folded

at his forehead he continued, “we welcome you into our family, whatever I have is yours.”

Every afternoon at four o’clock, this small group of five sadhus would sit with Vishaka Baba to

discuss spiritual truths. Each day I walked along the sandy forest pathway to attend. As soon as he

heard that I had come, he jubilantly came out to the courtyard to greet me. He offered a straw mat

for me to sit upon. In great excitement he offered me roti (flat homemade bread) and gur (crude

extract from sugar cane). This was the poorest persons food in Vrindaban. Due to his old age,

Vishaka Baba did not leave his simple house (kutir). A Sadhu would beg each day and bring him

some roti and gur. It was his joy to share it with me. As I was finishing he would hurriedly bring

me more. Although four times my age, a scholar and worshipable saint amongst saints, he served

me with a genuine compassion that left me speechless. With tears in his eyes he daily inquired if I

was happy. His humble unassuming nature reflected his love for God. In the Himalayas I had lived
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amongst holy men who practiced severe indifference to the world. I had witnessed many displays

of supernatural powers beyond the realm of what was conceivably possible. Vishaka Baba neither

displayed such miracles nor tortured his body. He was simply absorbed in loving service. When he

spoke of Sri Radhas’ love and Lord Krishnas’ pastimes, he was like an innocent child who was

unaware that he had the authority of a great king. He shyly hid his internal spiritual love as he

served in a most humble and ordinary way. His company drew a love from my heart I could not

recognize or understand. After he served me prasadam (spiritually blessed food) Vishaka Baba

spoke with his sincere audience for about an hour. One day he explained to me. “This area of

Vrindaban is called Raman Reti because of the elegant soft sands. Krishna and His brother

Balarama come here each day to herd their cows. Innumerable pastimes of Radha and Krishna are

forever performed here. When our hearts become purified by devotion these pastimes may be

revealed to us.”

One day when I sat in his courtyard, Vishaka Baba appeared especially excited. He served the

common rotis (bread). That day he was especially blissful. He appeared to have a priceless

treasure to give. It was cooked spiced vegetables, (subji), a rare delicacy for mendicants. He was

so proud to offer this, rather than coarse gur, the poor mans food. As I ate it, he was wondering

why I did not look so happy. “Is there anything you would like?” he inquired. Very shyly, I

inquired, “Do you not have gur today?” Upon hearing my words, Vishaka Baba erupted into

laughter. He personally begged gur for me, from a neighbors house. With great satisfaction he

narrated a story to me. “Once there was a drought in Vrindaban. The Brijabasis approached

Krishna in great distress. ‘Because there has been no rain there is no gur. Brijabasis cannot live

without gur. Please save us, dear Gopal.’ Gopal, who was overcome with concern exclaimed,
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‘How will you live? How will I live without gur???’ Profuse rains then fell from the sky.” As

Vishaka Baba told this story he laughed heartedly. “Although he is the Supreme Controller of all

the universes. In Vrindaban He appears as a intimate friend, son or lover to his devotees.”

One afternoon when I entered the room for the satsang (spiritual meeting). Vishaka Baba and the

sadhus were gathered around a radio. Their ancient radio appeared to have been made in the

1930s. The sound was crackling with continuous static. Panditji explained to me. “India and

Pakistan have declared war against each other. It is very serious. They are bombing territory and

attacking with military troops. India is not a safe place. There will be black outs to protect us from

bombings at night. The electricitiy will be cut off. Vrindaban, being close to a military station in

Mathura and between the capital, New Delhi and the military cantonment of Agra is vulnerable to

be bombed. But we have nothing to fear, even death itself, if we remember Krishnas Name.”

Every day they attentively listened to the evening news, concerned about the war. They were

visibly affected by the violence, danger and bloodshed taking place so very close by. Vishaka

Baba and his friends would sincerely discuss the turmoil of war in a spirit of compassion for the

peoples well being. After turning off the radio they immersed themselves in discussing the eternal

nature of the soul and the pastimes of the Lord. They were in great bliss. I was struck to witness

the balance they carried in the face of two opposite situations. They were simultaneously

distressed by the human suffering of this world and blissfully absorbed in a spiritual reality beyond

birth and death.

Due to the war, the electricity was cut. At nighttime the people covered their windows to hide the

light of lanterns or candles. It was feared that Pakistani warplanes may fly overhead in the

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darkness to drop bombs upon them. Although in the midst of war on their own native soil, the

Brijabasis went on with their daily lives, with an innocent trust in Krishna, their God.

I had taken inner vows to renounce the materialistic ways of the world. To these things I could not

turn back. The intensity of my longing for dedication to the path of devotion had consumed my

will. I must follow the calling of my heart. However, I did not wish to unnecessarily torture my

parents in my young age. News of the war had spread throughout the world. This would certainly

multiply my parents’ worry about their wayward son. Trying to appease their minds I composed a

letter. It was my twenty first birthday.

My family, The Lord dwells in our hearts, but where are we? We are lost in a forgetful state of

eternity.

The wars on earth are but a manifestation of the battle within mans’ mind.

We enter into the battle zone the moment we forget the Lord.

By taking shelter in the shadow cast by the divine grace of our all-loving Lord we truly find peace

– for no sword can penetrate the prayerful heart.

Today there is war in Vietnam, in Israel, and now between India and Pakistan.

As long as we are prisoners of our minds passions we are in each of these battlefields.

Let us take cooling dip in the ocean of prayer and refresh ourselves of our mind created tensions.

Rain falls like sweet nectar from clouded heavens, each flower is saturated by Mother Nature’s

divine fragrance, birds are singing to us of joy. The breeze is whispering to us the secret of being

free. Vrindaban is not involved in any of

this fighting. I am safe.

Be kind,
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Richard Vrindaban

December 7, 1971

One day while Asim Krishna Das and myself were roaming the village of Vrindaban, Sripad Baba

invited us to follow him to a very special temple. We followed him to an isolated place behind a

large ancient temple. We came upon a dilapidated footpath about five feet wide that quickly

reached a dead end. It was bordered by an open sewerage canal about two feet wide. The thick,

bubbling sewerage was deep black in color. It slowly flowed to an unknown destination. The foul

smell of human excrement caused my head to reel. I had thought that I was quite accustomed to

the poverty of India. A family of hogs found this to be an especially attractive place. The large

mother and her small children drank from that sewerage canal with the enthusiasm of drinking

nectar. Faces dripping, they eagerly snorted in joy. Squeezing past the hogs we stepped upon a

single rock used as a bridge to cross the canal. It led us to a door in a row of simple residences. We

entered this primitive home. Children noisily played while the mother squatted on the floor

cooking with the dried dung of cows as fuel. We entered into a small courtyard. I was wondering,

“What kind of temple could this be?” We then came upon a beautiful sight. In an open closet

were beautiful deities of Radha and Krishna. They stood about two and a half feet high. Krishna

was of black stone. Radha was of shining bell metal. The deities looked ancient. The few people

there seemed utterly indifferent to the temple in their home. Coming closer we saw an unassuming

old man devotedly fanning the Lord, his eyes filled with tears. Upon noticing us, he excitedly

came out of the closet to greet us. To my amazement he humbly bowed to each of our feet. On his

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knees he welcomed us again and again.. Sincere tears filled his eyes. His simplicity and humility

greatly affected my heart. With a faltering voice he softly spoke, “I am your insignificant servant

Ghanashyam das, please be merciful and bless me to serve the Lord with love. This is Radha

Gopijanavallabha, because you are His dear friends He has called you today. I am not His friend, I

am only his lowly servant. My greatest fortune is to serve His friends. Please allow me to serve

you.” We sat together for some time singing devotional songs. Seeing us with his Krishna,

Ghanashyam das was filled with bliss. I felt an upsurge of admiration for this humble soul. He

was a very small thin man in his seventies. His eyes were very soft. There were very few teethe in

his mouth. He would shave his head on each full moon day as is the tradition of many devotees.

He wore only torn cloth for upper and lower garments. From that day I visited Ghanashyam das

every morning at about 9:00. Each day I came he would graciously welcome me with deep

affection. “I am your obedient servant,” he would proclaim with a moving spirit of sincerity.

One day Ghanashyam and I sat alone. I asked him how he had come to Vrindaban. He narrated

his story. “I was born in a wealthy aristocratic family. When I was a young man my pious family

came to Vrindaban on pilgrimage. I had an overwhelming spiritual experience. I felt such deep

emotions toward Radharani and Her abode of Vrindaban that it was not possible to leave. My

family insisted that I leave with them. I was married and had a prosperous future. However,

Vrindaban had conquered my heart. I was unable to leave. Angered, my parents departed. They

threatened to give me no support, hoping I would return home. I was living in Vrindaban as a

penniless mendicant. I had no place or possessions. I slept on the ground and begged for dry bread

from the homes of the Brijabasis. I never missed my wealth, I was grateful to serve Krishna in His

beloved home. One day while sitting under a tree near the Jamuna I desired to worship a diety. The
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Lord is not different from His Name. With my finger I etched the Name ‘Sri Radha’ in the dust of

the soft ground. The whole day I worshipped the Diety of Her Name. At the time of sunset I erased

Radhas Name with my hand. As I rubbed away Her Holy Name I was stunned to see something

golden where Her Name was. Being in poverty, I was attracted. I decided to come back to dig

when no one else was around.” Ghanasyama das’ eyes filled with tears. His voice became choked

up as he continued. “That golden object was the top of the head my supremely compassionate

Radharani. Her diety appeared to me from the earth. Beside Her was a black diety of Lord

Krishna. At His base was written, ‘Gopijanavallabha.’ I had nothing, what could I offer Them?

They had put Themselves under my care. I served Them day and night. Passersby would offer

some food for Their offering. For a long time I worshipped them under that tree. Feeling sympathy

seeing Radha Gopijanavallbha without a home, the forefathers of this family offered their closet as

a temple. I have worshipped them here for the past fifty years.”

Each day I felt great happiness in his company. “I am your obedient (servant), I am your

obedient.” With these words he was eager to give me everything he had. We would sing for

Gopijanaballabha together. He would give me a fan to fan them. Each day he insisted that I eat the

Lords sacred food (prasadam). He offered me three Brijarotis. This is the most common food for

the people of Vrindaban. The simple farmers harvest wheat, then hand grind it with a heavy stone

grinding mortar. This circular stone wheat grinder is in almost every home. Water is added to this

coarse flour. Balls are made and hand rolled into thick round paddies. This is cooked on a metal

dish over an open fire. Dry cow dung paddies are the fuel. The poorest people, beggars and

mendicants live on these Brajrotis. Cooked and offered to Krishna by the loving hands of a

devotee they are considered the holiest blessing of all food. With great joy I honored the Brajrotis
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of Ghanashyama.

One day, while sitting amongst a group of sadhus, I was reprimanded. “Ghanashyama has not

eaten in days, because of you!” “What? I do not understand.” I anxiously responded. The sadhus

continued, “One Brijabasi brings him three rotis every day. It is the only food he has. Each day

you are eating his only food!”

The next day Ghanashyama sat me down on the floor of his simple dwelling. Lovingly he served

me the Brajrotis. I affirmatively spoke “I am not hungry today, I will not eat.” Ghanashyama was

stricken with sorrow hearing my words. “You must eat, this is Gopijanavallabhas food. He has

saved it only for you.” I refused. With folded palms he pleaded, “Is it because of my sins that you

will not accept my service? Please accept my rotis.” “Ghanashyama, You have not eaten in many

days because I am eating all of your rotis. I can get rotis wherever I travel, but you never leave the

service of your deities.” Alarmed by my words Ghanashama insisted, “I have so many rotis, there

is no shortage. You please eat and enjoy.” I challenged, “If you have more rotis show them to me.”

He replied, “No need, No need.” “I refuse to accept until you show me” “No need, No need. They

are in that room.” I got up, thoroughly searched the room. “Ghanashyama, there are no rotis here.

You have been starving because of me. Please, please you eat these rotis”. Ghanashyamas eyes

filled with tears as he revealed his precious heart, “You are Gopijanaballabas friend, I am only the

obedient servant of His servants. My only happiness in life is in serving devotees. Please do not

deprive me of my service. I beg you to enjoy these rotis.” I cried upon witnessing his selfless love.

One night I visited Ghanashyam das. He was overjoyed. He had a bed for the deities but in his old

age was too weak to lift them. He humbly appealed to me to help him put the deities into Their
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bed. I considered this to be a very great honor and fortune. As I was departing he inquired. “Where

will you rest tonight?” “I sleep each night on the bank of the Jamuna.” With a fatherly affection

he responded, “It is the freezing winter. You must sleep hear tonight.” “But Ghanashyam, I sleep

there every night.” “Tonight you please sleep here.” He slept on the floor in the small hallway

outside of the closet. It was used as a fareway to go in and out of the house. Members of the large

joint family frequently walked over Ghanashama. As I laid down on the floor, Ghanashyam placed

his only blanket over me. I revolted, “This is your blanket, you must use it.” “No need, No need.”

“I am young, you are an old man. You must use it.” An argument ensued. When he insisted I

threatened, “Then I will sleep on the riverbank.” With these words I got up to leave. Alarmed by

my threat he cried out, “No need, no need, I will use the blanket.” I laid down beside him, curled

up to keep warm and fell asleep. Some time later I awoke, I wandered how it had become so

warm. I looked over to see Ghanashyama lying on the floor trembling from the cold like a leaf in a

windstorm. There was no blanket on him. Suddenly I realized that he had quietly placed it over me

when I had fallen asleep. Very quietly, I proceeded to place it over him. As soon as the blanket

touched him, he leaped up and shouted, “No need, no need! You are Krishnas friend, you must

enjoy good sleep.” “Then I will go to the Jamuna”, I spoke as I walked to the door. Again he

agreed to accept the blanket. Later that night I awoke, feeling quite warm. There was my dear

Ghanashyamdas, his frail old body violently shivering in the cold. I tried again to place the blanket

upon him. “No need, No need.” Again I rushed to the door. We spent the whole night in this way.

Ghanashyam was like this with everyone he came in contact with. In fifty years he never left that

small temple area. He would never leave his worshipable deities. He truly dedicated his life and

soul to the service of his Lord. One night I informed him, “I am going to Barsana the home of

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Radharani.” He softly spoke, while crying in love. “Please tell Radha that her lowly servant

Ghanashyam wishes to see Her.” My heart was deeply influenced by this utterly unknown, simple

old man. He was a true saint. He was not a learned scholar, a famous Guru or a powerful mystic

yogi. He simply loved God. His humility was a genuine expression of that love. To selflessly serve

others was his hearts only joy.

On one of the small back lanes of Vrindaban was the tiny residence of Heynath. He was a jolly

sadhu with a medium frame, long grayish black hair and beard. He had resolved that the Hare

Krishna Mantra would be continually chanted in his small house twenty four hours a day for the

rest of his life. He invited sadhus to voluntarily participate. Sadhus were always coming and going.

If no one came, he would chant by himself. He was so committed to the Holy Name that the

chanting had not stopped (for even a moment) in over ten years. He would freely give rotis to

anyone who came. One day, after chanting with him for several hours, I sat on the ground to eat

the rotis. In a flash, a monkey dove down from above, stole everything from my leaf plate, and

disappeared. Heynath smiled, “We cannot be attached to anything in this world but the Holy Name

of God.” I was taken aback by the profound faith in which he spoke these words. Serving me

another plate of rotis he stood at my side with a bamboo stick in his hand. Throughout my meal he

carefully guarded me, scaring away one thieving monkey after another.

Roaming through Vrindaban was quite an adventure at every moment. In this simple town there

are over five thousand temples of the Lord. Even in the most remote alleyways we find people

intensely immersed in devotional activities. Every day I would discover intimate groups of

dedicated souls gathered together to worship, chant and pray. One day Sripad Baba took us to the

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Ban Behari ashram in Raman Reti, a quite place surrounded by pastures and ashrams. In a

beautiful garden filled with auspicious trees and fragrant flowers was a small stage. Local children

were decoratively dressed as Radha Krishna and Their associates. With beautiful singing, dancing

and musical accompaniment, they dramatically performed the Lords pastimes. It was mind

enchanting. Over a hundred devotees sat on the soft, sandy ground, enthralled by the performance.

So absorbed was the audience, they laughed, howled and cried. These little children were expertly

trained in the minutest details of drama. They enacted a different performance every afternoon for

about two hours. I found many such children dramas simultaneous in various places. Different

groups performed the Lords pastimes in such places as majestic temples, ashram gardens, on the

banks of the Jamuna river, in boats or in peoples simple homes. Off stage, these children were

often quite mischievous. They were fearless to do any prank of their whims. The people could not

help but identify them with their role as Radha and Krishna. They smiled upon these children,

whatever they would do, feeling it inappropriate to discipline them.

Sitting in a pasture, surrounded by gentle cows I shared my thought in a short letter to my family.

In the gratitude of divine silence the nectar like sound of His flute may be heard. The divine flute

is calling home all lost souls. O Lord when will I dance in bliss to the joyous melody of your

calling flute?

Jai Sri Radha, Jai Sri Krishna, Jai Sri Vrindaban. My heart is calling out to you my Lord.

Richard Decemeber 27,

1971 Vrindaban, India

Barsana is worshipped as the eternal home of Radharani, the Lords female aspect, the potency of

love and compassion. It is about thirty kilometers from the town of Vrindaban. What a mystifying
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sight. There were beautiful rolling hills of sacred forests and lakes. Atop each mountain is a

temple. I was enthralled by this panoramic vision. On the highest of the mountains is a gigantic

temple with three towering domes. This temple is an artistic masterpiece. Intricately carved in pink

sandstone, the arches and domes bring the mind to a state of timelessness. A wide staircase of

hundreds of stone steps gracefully winds like a serpent up the steep mountain. It brings the eager

pilgrim into a magnificent temple gate. Beside this mountain is another hill. Here rests another

architectural masterpiece, a massive temple that appears to be an ancient palace. The entire

complex is artistically carved in red sandstone. Its’ gates, arches and domes bring ones mind to

another world. Each temple accommodates thousands of devotees to worship their Lord. Resting

on the top of the other mountains are smaller charming temples. Elegant pathways wind through a

forest of trees and lakes to bring the pilgrim from one temple to the other. Countless peacocks

roam wild, decorating the forest with their elegant beauty. At the base of the hills is a simple

village. The people are materially very poor but smile radiantly as they greet each other with Jaya

Radhey (all glories to Radha). In their spontaneous devotion they seem to love God not as the

Supreme Creator and Destroyer but as an intimate neighbor of their village. The ladies, in their

tattered saris, draw water from a well. They carry it in round clay pots on the top of their heads.

All smile upon me as they pass, chanting “Radhey, Radhey.” The common men of the village

shave their heads each month as an offering of devotion. They are seen plowing their fields with

oxen, herding their cows or selling their wares in shops along the footpath. The little children jump

about the road, playing with simple sticks and balls. All smile and welcome me with, “Radhey

Radhey.” Each person seemed to know exactly how to melt my heart. I reflected, “ The religion of

these people was not reserved for Sundays or holidays. It was naturally intrinsic in every aspect of

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their lives”.

With great effort I climbed the steps to the main temple, Sriji Mandir. I was told, “The deities have

been worshipped here for thousands of years.” Hundreds of simple villagers came with offerings

of milk, butter and sweets. With folded hands they humbly prayed. Others joyfully sang and

danced for the pleasure of their Lord.

Swami Bon Maharaja had advised that I visit a venerable saint while in Barsana. He lived as an

ascetic on top of the farthest and most remote of the mountains. I walked from one mountain to the

next along an earthen pathway. Before my eyes appeared an enchanting forest. One like I had

never seen. The trees appeared timeless. Their trunks and branches twisted in such a way that they

appeared to be ecstatically dancing. Brown monkeys mischievously leaped from branch to branch.

One peacock after another fanned their colorful tails as if to greet me. A gentle breeze carried the

sweet fragrance of blooming jasmine flowers. The rocks on the hillside appeared to be alive with

spiritual energy. My mind was transported to another realm. While passing through this charming

forest, I came upon the sacred mountain. I began to climb. The stairs were extremely steep. They

were made of large uneven rocks placed side by side. I struggled much to climb that hill. On the

top I found a small ancient temple and a simple space for living. These one story structures formed

into an L shape. They were crumbling due to age. Dusty earth was the flooring. It was literally a

scene of ancient ruins. Complete silence pervaded this remote place. The chirping of the bright

green parrots or the cawing of the peacocks occasionally harmonized with the precious silence.

There was no one to be seen. I sat alone for some time in prayer and meditation. Curiosity brought

me into one of the ruins. A serpent passed, slithering into a hole in the wall. I found a very simple

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alter made of wood. On it was only a faded picture. Silently sitting to the side was a man who

seemed to be an embodiment of peace. His head was shaven. He was of medium height. His limbs

were thin while his large belly protruded. His body was naked except for a simple loincloth over

his groins. His eyes seemed to be seeing into another world. He appeared to be pleasantly

surprised upon seeing me. With much affection he offered his welcome. To my surprise this

primitive looking sage fluently spoke in Kings English. He explained the picture on the altar.

“This sacred mountain is named Man Garh, the mountain of loving anger. Here Sri Radha assumes

a mood of anger toward Krishna. She will not look at Krishna or even speak to Him. Here Krishna

comes like a begger to plead for Radhas love.” With great emotion he continued, “This is the

highest spiritual truth, Love is Supreme, it conquers the Beloved. The Supreme God begs for the

pure love of His devotee. Sri Radha is the supreme embodiment of that love. If we pray for Her

service, She will bless us with spiritual Love.” He welcomed me to live with him for as long as I

desired. Then he introduced himself, “My name is Radha Charan das but people call me Ramesh.”

The evening soon came. About twenty children came from a small village behind the hill. They

were small and skinny, wearing torn, faded clothing. We all climbed the steep stone steps to the

rooftop of an aged one-story structure. Ramesh Baba began to sing while playing the harmonium

(a small acoustic keyboard). Extrordinary musical scales emanated from his mouth. He sang with

the musical precision of a master. He perfectly sang the praise of Radha Krishna in classical ragas

(melodies) in a way that only one trained by a master could sing. I pondered, “He is vastly learned

and could be rich and famous with such a voice. Yet he has chosen to live such a reclusive and

harshly austere life.” The small children enthusiastically sang with him. When the singing grew in

tempo the children enthusiastically rose to their feet. They danced wildly. One boy beat a native

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drum with two tree branches. Another resounded a metal gong with a wooden mallet. Others

played hand cymbals. Under the starlit sky they danced and sang Gods praise with spontaneous

joy. Their resounding voices filled the atmosphere, echoing through the hills and valleys. Suddenly

the Baba rose from his seat and danced with the children. He danced with the grace and dignity

one highly accomplished in the art. As the radiant moon rose higher and higher into the firmament

the tumultuous chanting grew in intensity. Suddenly the chanting ended. On that beautiful moonlit

night the Baba again took his seat. Surrounded by the children, he sang the Names of God in a

slow, soul stirring melody. The chanting ended as we all sat in serene silence. One small boy,

perhaps seven years old, took me by the hand. He led me to a place that was obviously very dear to

him. On top of the roof was an altar made by the boys. It was made of nothing more than straw

tied in places with twine. Built like a small hut it housed a poster picture of Krishna with a cow.

The child looked upon me. His deep black eyes glistened in the moonlight. “This is my God!!!” he

spoke with a proud smile. He stood with me for some time then ran away to join his playful

friends. I stood speechless. His words were spoken with absolute certainty. His expression

embodied implicit faith. It was a type of faith that rare souls have aspired to gain by scrutinized

study of the scriptures or years of spiritual practice. I remembered the words of Lord Jesus.

“Unless one becomes like this child, one cannot enter into the Kingdom of God.” In the presence

of that child I felt my faith to be likened to an agnostic. Gazing at that picture of Krishna I

sincerely prayed, “Will I ever be blessed with such faith?” I will never forget that small childs’

words, “This is my God!”

One day I inquired from Ramesh Baba, “How did you first come to this holy place?” He narrated

his story, “I was born in Allahabad, the Holy place of the Kumbha Mela. I was a student of
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Sanskrit and philosophy. When I was only twelve years old I won the All India Competition for

Music. My instrument was my voice. As a child I had no leanings toward material life. Many

times I unsuccessfully tried to run away from home to live as a sadhu in a holy place. In my teens I

became a successful preacher of religion. Wherever I was invited thousands of people would

gather to hear my lectures. Often I would speak to ten such gatherings a day. Once a man asked

me a question. I answered according to the holy scriptures. However in my heart I pondered.

‘What is the value of preaching if I have not realized the eternal love of the soul.’ With this

thought I came to Vrindaban. I met my Guru at the Govardhan Mountain and served him there. I

came to this place in 1950. I was about sixteen. At that time this was an isolated jungle with wild

animals like leopards roaming about. This was a hideout for murderers and thieves. I have never

left this holy place. I remain here crying out for the shelter of the lotus feet of Sri Radha Krishna

as my life and soul.” Over the years he had become respected as one of the most revered saints of

the Vrindaban area. He was the only son of his widowed mother. Years later she accepted a simple

cottage at the foot of the mountain to be near her beloved son. She took to the life of a renounced

widow. Absorbing herself day and night in the worship of Radha and Krishna.

One other sadhu of the name Sakhi Sharan Baba lived there with him. On the mountain there was

no water or food. Every day we would climb to the bottom of the steep mountain to gather water

from a small lake. It was to be for drinking and bathing. Sakhi Sharan and myself would each

carry one bucket. It was a treacherous climb in the scorching heat. We had to rest every few steps.

At noon we climbed down the back side of the mountain. There was a small village named

Manpur. Sakhi Charan Baba and myself begged door to door for food. Unlike the west, for a

religious mendicant to beg in this way is considered to be a most honorable way of life. The homes
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were huts made of a mixture of clay and cow dung. The people were all simple farmers. We came

to one house. They were so very honored that we had come. The lady blew a conchshell. Soon the

husband, sons, daughters and other relatives came in from the agricultural fields where they were

working. They all sat down to sing the praise of God for us. The father lead the chant playing an

old harmonium (Acoustic keyboard). A small child of about six played the two headed Dolak

drum with incredible expertise. Other children played the hand cymbals. The ladies clapped their

hands as they enthusiastically sang for about half an hour. The family then placed a scripture

before my begging partner requesting him to give a lecture to enlighten them. He spoke in the

local Hindi language as they all gratefully listened in rapt attention. They then filled our begging

bowls with their thick coarse Brijrotis (flat bread). This was their daily lives. I was pleasingly

astonished to witness the devotional culture of these simple farmers. Every day each family made

extra rotis with hope that a sadhu will come to bless their home. We brought our rotis to the top of

the hill where Ramesh Baba was absorbed in his prayer and meditation. We presented what we

received to him. Together we sat down on the earthen floor as he shared the rotis with us for our

daily meal.

Gangs of ruffians from a nearby area were against the loud chanting of the Holy Names. They

threatened Ramesh Babas’ life if he continued. While I resided there, death threats were coming

regularly. Ramesh Baba was not disturbed. “I am chanting Gods name according to the scriptures.

If the Lord is pleased with me, I do not mind what they do!” We slept on a cement platform under

the starlight each night. It was just outside of the temple. One night I took note that Ramesh Baba

laid down to sleep with a small stick by his side. I inquired, “I have never seen you sleep with a

stick, is there a reason?” He nonchalantly replied, “The villagers have reported that there is a man
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eating leopard in the area. He has already killed people. This evening he was seen climbing our

mountain. This stick is to protect us.” Struck with wonder, I exclaimed, “What will that small stick

do to protect us from a leopard?” He smiled and replied, “Nothing, only the Lord can protect us.

However it is our duty to show Krishna that we are doing our part!” I slept well that night,

encouraged by his faith. The Lord did protect us.

The summers were burning sometimes 110 degrees farenheit. The winters were frigid. He

peacefully absorbed himself in his worship day and night without either a fan or a heater. There

was no semblance to plumbing in that secluded forest. To respond to natures call we would walk a

distance from the temple into the forest carrying a small container of water. We would squat and

evacuate on the ground then clean ourselves with the water. Afterwards we would take a full bath.

In fact this is the way I performed these bodily duties practically everywhere I resided in India. It

is the sadhus’ way. Hungry hogs would often appear to eagerly devour it. They were the local

sanitation department. One day, I was at the bottom of the hill. I was suffering from dysentery. I

entered into a forest and squatted down to respond to the screaming call of nature. Suddenly, a

terrible venomous serpent crawled out of a bush. It gruesomely slithered to where I was squatting

down. “What will be my destiny?” I wondered. The large serpent was greenesh with black spots. It

was perhaps eight feet long and three inches wide. Its deadly head was triangular. It crawled upon

me, covering my bare feet with its’ eerie cold body. It decided to rest on top of my feet. I was

squatted in the process of evacuating. I dared not move. I tried to hold my breath. I feared that it

may be startled by the uncontrollable pounding of my heart. I contemplated, “Death can come at

the least expected moment. Is this the inglorious way I must die, while evacuating?” By the

pounding of my heart and reeling of my mind I realized how very far I have to go before I am
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really surrendered to the Lord. I was humbled. Death personified was lying before me and I was

fearful and helpless. With my heart and soul I silently chanted, Hare Krishna Hare Krishna

Krishna Krishna Hare Hare, Hare Rama Hare Rama Rama Rama Hare Hare again and again. By

the inconceivable power of the mantra I felt peace and detachment. I felt the snake to be a friend.

All fear had dissipated in the presence of the Lords Name. After some time the serpent turned his

head to look into my eyes, then slithered away into the bushes. I reflected, “the Lord has today

revealed to me what an insignificant tiny child I am on the spiritual path. When a helpless, tiny

child is in danger his only shelter is appealing for the kindness of his mother and father. What a

miraculous power the medicine of the Holy Name of God has to transform ones consciousness.”

Feeling relieved, I got up to go. Looking behind me, I was shocked. My excrement was comprised

of eighty percent living worms. Although dismayed by the sight, I thanked the Lord. These

hundreds of worms were not near as intimidating as their bigger crawling brother, who had just

departed. With some medicine they also departed.

One day as we shared rotis together, Ramesh Baba inquired. “From which place in America do

you come from?” “a small town near Chicago,” I replied. He became very grave. Tears came to his

eyes as he spoke with compassion, “That is a place of the impious deed of killing many cows.” At

the time the union stockyards on the south side of Chicago was one of the largest slaughterhouses

in the world. I was amazed that while living in recluse, for decades, on that solitary mountain, he

was aware of this. With much hope to return to this sacred place, I returned to the village of

Vrindaban.

On a small alleyway behind the Banke Behari Temple was the home of a lady named Yogamaya.

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She was an affluent resident of New Delhi. Being deeply religious she spent much of her time in

Vrindaban serving the holy people. Personally, she cooked wonderful preparations every day and

lovingly served them to all guests who came to her home. There were many. She had great

devotion to Krishna and His devotees. Her small two-room house was always busy with

devotional activities. Each evening she invited devotees for chanting the glories of the Lord. I

often attended. One particular evening was very special. When I arrived, I was introduced to three

professional musicians. One was an elderly man with a clean-shaven face and silver hair neatly

combed backward. He dressed in bright yellow robes. Although an accomplished professional

flutist, his hearts desire was to play in praise of Krishna. A man with long black hair and beard

was renowned as an expert player of the tablas (a classical Indian drum). Next was a child of only

twelve years old. He had won every possible competition for playing classical Indian violin.

Presently he was on tour. He was highly regarded as a master. In New Delhi, Yogamaya invited

them to her home in Vrindaban. They humbly bowed down to all who were present. They

expressed “We wish only to accompany your chanting, for our purification.” About eight of us

filled the small room. One local man began singing traditional devotional songs. Everyone sang

along with him. The musicians were happy just to chant. At Yogamayas request they accompanied

the chant. A heavenly sound permeated the atmosphere. The sweet flute was played with deep

emotion. His devotional expressions penetrated deep into our hearts. Hours passed in great

happiness. We then sang a beautiful song of longing in seperation from Radha Krishna. “I am a

fallen sinner, but you Sri Radha are supremely kind. I have been fruitlessly trying to enjoy this

world for countless births. My heart is longing for Your divine service. Please, Please, accept my

life as your own.” It was a slow, soulful song. Our young violinist accompanied with such

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immense feeling that all singing and instrumentation spontaneously stopped just to hear him. What

a rare and beautiful instrumental he played. He poured his heart into each stroke of the bow. His

violin was no longer a wooden instrument, it was the voice of his heart. It was weeping and

weeping with spiritual feeling. We were mystified. The room was dimly lit with a single lantern.

Fragrant incense filled the air. The child maestro enchanted our hearts. He played long crying

notes that controlled our minds. It was as if our hearts had become the strings he played. The

whole night passed, absorbed in the boys prayerful solo. He concluded with a crescendo of

emotion. When the final note ended. Everyone spontaneously leaped to their feet to embrace him

in profound gratitude. The humble child folded his hands, sincerely begging all people present for

the blessing of pure love.

One cold winter evening, I sat alone under a sacred kadamba tree on the bank of the river Jamuna.

The stars and gentle moonlight sweetly reflected upon her mirror like surface. Birds of the night

sweetly sang their nocturnal songs. Distant night blooming flowers gently scented the air. My

mind effortlessly wandered to my playful childhood, with all of its’ joys and sorrows. Then it

drifted to the challenges of youth with its’ pressures of school and the vast influence of social

expectations. To my wonderful friends, we were sincerely dedicated to each other. To my loving

and protecting family, my parents lived only for the happiness of their children. My mind then

passed through that era of teenage rebellion. I played the role convincingly, but in my heart, I

never really fit in. I was searching for a higher meaning in life. The starlit riverside invoked much

introspection. Like a cinema screen my mind watched the events of my life. Gary and I,

surcharged with energetic youth, left our homeland in search of freedom and truth. We fearlessly

roamed Europe seeing sights, making friends and soaking in our every possible experience.
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Through it all was my longing for God. It had become an obsession. Where did it come from? I

did not know. Seeking answers I studied religions and philosophies. I meditated and prayed in the

monasteries, cathedrals and synagogues. My mind drifted to that fateful sunset on the Island of

Crete where I resolved to embark upon my pilgrimage to India. I witnessed the severe tests that

came before my path as I traveled across the middle-east. Danger and disease often plagued me as

I studied the Holy Koran in this fascinating land. As I gazed into the river, my minds eye could see

the panoramic beauty of the Himalayas. I envisioned the great rishis, mystics, ascetics, sages and

lamas whom I so eagerly learned from. They were so kind to me. In my heart I thanked each of

them. Then I witnessed the miraculous reunion with Gary in that isolated rice paddy of Nepal. I

wondered, ‘Where is Gary now? Is he still in India? Is he well? We were mysteriously separated

by the unseen will of providence.’ On that riverbank, I could hear the incessant prayers I had

offered, prayers of longing that my spiritual path be revealed to me. Then I was mystically brought

to Vrindaban. The magical influence of Vrindaban had transformed my life. By my analysis of

comparative philosophy and the experience of Vrindabans treasures, I had accepted devotion to

Krishna as the path of my spiritual life. I had accepted that pure love of God was a higher

aspiration than mystic powers or even liberation. But there was emptiness inside of me. I knew

that I must accept a Guru I could dedicate my life to. This was the tradition and the word of the

holy scriptures. To harmonize ones life in the service of a Gurus teaching is the path the

enlightened souls had followed. I had learned from many Gurus. I loved them and they showed

such special love for me. I prayed for the mercy of Sri Radha to guide me.

It was now late at night. With these thoughts in my mind I laid down to sleep on the earthen

riverbank. During the night I had an alarming dream. I was in a comfortable house in the USA.
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People were gossiping about frivolous things. A television was playing in the backyard. I was

dismayed. “Why did I leave Vrindaban?” I asked myself. “Why did I leave Vrindaban and come

back here?” Startled by the experience, I awoke. With a pained heart I repeatedly asked, “Why did

I leave Vrindaban? Why did I leave Vrindaban?” as I rolled about. I then recognized the river

Jamuna and the Kadamba Tree. “I am still in Vrindaban!!!” I rejoiced. I gratefully caressed the

cold earth beneath me. I reflected, “this cold, dusty riverbank is more precious to me than a

palatial mansion in Beverly Hills.” I sincerely thanked God for my good fortune.

One day, I was walking down a narrow lane near the Banke Behari Temple. A beautiful white cow

gracefully layed there blocking the path. I somehow walked around her. To my surprise, walking

in my direction was a western monk in the saffron robes of a renunciate. It was Sudama Vipra. We

were overjoyed to meet each other. He was a disciple the Guru of the Hare Krishna movement. I

had spent time with him at their festival in Bombay. It was the first time I had ever seen one of

these devotees in Vrindaban. We smiled and embraced. He jubilantly exclaimed, “Srila

Prabhupada is coming tomorrow. He will be so happy to see you here. We all wondered where you

could be.” He had to hurry off as he had just come that day to prepare for his Gurus arrival.

It was December of 1971. Saraf Bhavan was the residence of a pious man from New Delhi. That

was the scene of a transformation that dramatically changed my life. A bus pulled up. It was filled

with about thirty American and European devotees. The simple people of Vrindaban had never

before seen the like of this. Behind the bus was a simple Indian made Ambassador car. Inside sat

Srila Prabhupada. From a distance I observed. The devotees joyfully came out of the bus. It was

their first visit to Vrindaban. I took note that some devotees in renounced robes carried cameras

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and tape recorders. In all of my travels with sadhus, I had never seen such a thing. In my mind I

questioned the authenticity of their renunciation. That evening I returned to hear the class by Srila

Prabhupada. He spoke with great compassion, “There is an urgent need in the world for people to

awaken their original natural consciousness or Krishna (God) Consciousness. This consciousness

is dormant in every living being. It has been forgotten. By chanting Gods Names this

consciousness can be revived. Krishna Consciousness is not a sectarian movement. It is the

essence of all religions. We honor all religions that bring their devotees to love God and follow

His commandments.” He quoted from the Holy Scriptures, telling how love of God is the Supreme

Goal of life and the only true happiness. “Everyone is searching for pleasure. People are seeking

happiness through the body and mind. The body and mind are temporary vehicles in which the

soul resides. Like a car and the driver. The soul is the living force that animates the body. The

nature of the soul is that it is eternal full of knowledge and full of bliss. Our nature is to love God

unconditionally. Through devotional service to the Lord that love is naturally awakened. This is

the happiness everyone is hankering for.” Looking upon the audience he continued, “God has

mercifully appeared in many incarnations through the ages. 5,000 years ago he appeared in His

original form in Vrindaban. Here He performed beautiful spiritual pastimes to attract our hearts to

His eternal loving service. For those with spiritual vision those pastimes can be seen even today.”

The sincere compassion in which he spoke struck my heart. I had spent two weeks with him in

Bombay. That was nine months before. Many experiences have passed since then. Now I found

myself to be seeing him through different eyes and hearing through different ears. The devotees

invited me to stay with them at Saraf Bhavan. I politely declined, returning to my precious resting

place at the bank of the Jamuna River. Each day after taking my early morning bath in the Jamuna

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and visiting several places of worship, I returned to hear Srila Prabhupada give his morning class.

Although I was somewhat skeptical about his disciples, I was deeply impressed by his knowledge

and devotion. He was gifted with the art of explaining even the most intricate philosophical points

with such simplicity. Even a common person could understand it as common sense. After the class

was breakfast. Then, each day, Srila Prabhupada personally took all of us on a tour to the holy

places in Vrindaban. He lovingly explained each place so beautifully. Every afternoon I sat in his

room as he would meet guests for several hours. Although I was too shy to personally ask

questions, I listened attentively. One day as I gratefully sat at his feet. One of the managers entered

the room. He sternly rebuked me. “The rule is all devotees must do service at this time. This

meeting is only for guests, you must leave.” Although I did not have a shaved head like all others,

I was the only westerner besides the immediate disciples. He did not see me as a guest. I held a

lock of my hair in my hand and replied, “But I am not a devotee.” He anxiously looked to Srila

Prabhupada for direction. Srila Prabhupad smiled at me. Laughing, he replied, “He is not a

devotee, let him stay.” He made me feel so very comfortable in that intimate exchange.

One I day met Krishnadas Babaji Maharaja in a temple. I informed him that Srila Prabhupada had

come to Vrindaban. Overjoyed, he exclaimed, “Please take me to see my dear Godbrother!”

Together we walked through the door of Srila Prabhupadas room. He was sitting on a cushion on

the floor, speaking to about a dozen guests. When these two great souls saw each other the whole

room was filled with their unimaginable joy. With broad smiles they each exclaimed, “Hare

Krishna!” Srila Prabhupada leaped from his seat to greet Babaji Maharaja. In the center of the

room they ecstatically embraced. Tears of happiness filled their eyes. Srila Prabhupada escorted

Babaji to sit on the same cushion together. For the next hour they jubilantly laughed together.
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Intimately speaking in their native Bengali language. They were oblivious to all others in the

room. I sat in a corner watching in amazement. “What love and respect they have for each other.

They bring each other such amazing happiness. What an incredible spiritual relationship. Today I

am gaining a glimpse into the spiritual world.”

Srila Prabhupada was born in 1896. In 1922 he first met his Guru, Srila Bhaktisiddhanta Saraswati

Thakur. During that meeting he was instructed to teach the message of pure love of Godhead in the

English language all over the world. He was unable to do so at that time as he had a wife and

family to support. However the compassionate mission he was given always burned in his heart. In

1954 he retired from family life to reside as a renunciate in Vrindaban. In a beautiful sacred temple

he translated the holy Sanskrit scriptures into English. At the age of sixty nine he left his blessed

home in Vrindaban to fulfill his lifes mission. In Bombay, he was given free passage on an old

cargo ship. He was seventy years old and suffered two heart attacks in the rough passage across

the sea. Alone he arrived in New York City with only seven dollars. He did not know a single soul.

His only possessions were his profound faith and compassion. With great sacrifice he struggled

alone. His personal qualities and vast knowledge gradually transformed the hearts of the American

youth. After only a few years he had established a worldwide movement. Now, for the first time

he was bringing a group of his eager disciples to his home, Vrindaban.

The people of Vrindaban were extremely proud. They witnessed men and women from all over the

world accepting the worship of their Krishna. A special ceremony was held wherein the Mayor

and major dignitaries of the town proudly welcomed Srila Prabhupada with great honors. He was

even offered land to build a temple. Srila Prabhupad was now recognized as a world Acarya

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(spiritual teacher). Yet he was extraordinarily simple and humble. He gave all credit to the mercy

of his Guru. I was especially impressed to see how Srila Prabhupad was so carefully representing

the ancient knowledge and culture of Bhagavad Gita. He would not invent anything for his

popularity.

Several devotees aggressively preached to me, “it is not right that you are living in Vrindaban.

You should join our movement and travel with us.” I was discouraged. I thought, “Perhaps they do

not understand how holy this place is!” One day Srila Prabhupad was walking through a garden, I

bowed down to him. He stopped, as I knelt before him. His demeanor was grave. He inquired from

me, “How long have you been living in Vrindaban?” In fear and dismay I thought, “Oh no, will he

now chastise me for being here.” With a faltering voice I replied, “About six months Srila

Prabhupada.” His compassionate eyes deeply gazed into mine. I felt as if he was looking directly

into my very soul. He seemed to know everything about me. His concern for me deeply penetrated

my being. I was speechless. Perhaps a minute passed. His face then blossomed into a beautiful

smile as he spoke, “Very good, Vrindaban is such a wonderful place.” Affectionately rubbing my

head he walked away. I was filled with happiness. He was so kind. He knew just how to capture a

persons’ heart with love and compassion.

Often, I was haunted by a serious philosophical question that had lingered in my mind for a long

time. I sat at the holy feet of many great masters. I had engrossed my mind in studying many

spiritual books. There was a serious contradiction I could not reconcile. Some professed that

ultimately God is impersonal and formless. When the impersonal absolute enters this world He

accepts a temporary material form as an avatara for the benefit of all beings. After accomplishing

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His mission He again merges into His eternal existence. All form and personality are ultimate a

product of material illusion. In the final state of liberation the soul sheds its’ temporary identity

and becomes one with God, merging into the all pervading spiritual existence. Other great teachers

profess that God is the Supreme Person. His spiritual form is eternal, full of knowledge and bliss.

At the time of liberation, the soul enters into the kingdom of God. There we eternally serve the

Personality of God in pure love. I often pondered upon these apparent contradictions. “How could

they both be right? God must ultimately be one or the other. Either He must be eternally

impersonal or eternally personal. Out of respect, it was difficult for me to see my beloved teachers

as wrong. Yet they often defended their position with strong arguments.” One day a guest asked

Srila Prabhupada this very question. I was especially attentive to hear his answer. He quoted from

scripture then explained. “The Absolute Truth is simultaneously personal and impersonal

eternally. Brahman, the impersonal existence of the Lord is His all pervading energy. The

Supreme Personality of Godhead is the energetic source. Take for example the sun. The sun is the

source of the sunlight. The sunlight is the all pervading formless energy of the sun planet.

Similarly Gods’ eternal form is supremely attractive. Brahman, or the impersonal light is eternally

existing as His energy. The soul is eternally part and parcel of the Lord, simultaneously one and

different from the Lord. The soul is qualitatively one with God being eternal full of knowledge and

bliss. Quantitatively we are a fragmental part. Just as the sunray is but a tiny part of the sun yet

has the same qualities as the sun. We are eternally both one with God and different from God.

There are two classes of transcendentalists. The personalists and the impersonalists. Liberation for

the impersonalsts is to merge into the impersonal existence of God. Liberation for the personalists

is to enter into the Kingdom of God where we eternally engage in His loving service. Both schools

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of thought are transcendentalists however their destination is different. The Personality of

Godhead is the possessor of all beauty, all knowledge, all strength, all fame, all wealth and all

renunciation. Therefore He is All Attractive. The Name Krishna literally means All Attractive. It is

not a sectarian name of God. Krishna is the ultimate object of our love. His form is the source of

all beauty. It is a mistake to misconceive that His eternal form is a product of maya, illusion. When

we hear about Him or chant His Name our souls natural love awakens”. As I listened, tears of

appreciation flowed from my eyes. In simple words based on scripture, philosophy and logic he

harmonized two apparently opposing views.

In one class he explained, “Everything is potentially spiritual as everything that exists is the Lords

energy. Material consciousness is to forget a things relationship with the Lord. Spiritual

consciousness is to see everything in relationship. To give up something material is renunciation.

However a higher form of renunciation is to use it in the service of the Lord, without selfish ego.

Let us take this microphone for example. If it is used to sing film songs it is material. If it is used

to preach the glories of the Lord it is spiritual. It is a matter of consciousness. We want to use

everything for enlightening people to love Krishna. Krishna Consciousness is the art of

transforming material energy into spiritual energy.” I listened carefully. My doubts and criticism

of the devotees using cameras and tape recorders was herein resolved.

Radha and Krishna eternally exist in the highest realm of the spiritual world. There They enjoy

eternal pastimes of love with Their devotees. These pastimes were enacted 5,000 years ago in

Vrindaban just to attract our hearts. The one absolute truth has divided into two, Radha Krishna for

the sake of pastimes of supreme love. Just five hundred years ago, Krishna appeared with the

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loving sentiments of Radha to give Their love to the world. That is Lord Chaitanya. He appeared

in the guise of devotees to teach the world how to develop love of God by his own example.

Krishna is so merciful. He has appeared in the role of His own devotee to teach us the path of pure

love. Lord Chaitanya inaugurated the congregational chanting of Krishnas Holy Names as the

easiest and most sublime method of self-realization. This has been clearly predicted in the ancient

scriptures.

Early one morning I awoke from sleep. I was under a kadamba tree on the bank of the Jamuna

River. With much reverence I entered into her frigid waters. After my bath I stood with body half

submerged in prayer. The soft moonlight gently illuminated the silhouettes of distant ancient

temples. Silence filled the ether. Solitude was my companion. Trembling in the cold, I prayed to

Sri Radha and Krishna for mercy. With folded palms I sincerely pleaded again and again for

guidance on the spiritual path. Climbing onto the riverbank I squeezed the water from my clothes.

While uncontrollably shaking in the cold I put them back on. Sitting down, I chanted the Holy

Names of the Lord on wooden prayer beads. Today, Srila Prabhupada was to depart from

Vrindaban. I eagerly strolled through the dark lanes to attend his morning class. The room was

filled with eager disciples and guests. Coming out of his room he sat upon his raised dias. The soft

rays of the rising winter sun seemed to bathe his form. The sweet song of the parrots softly filled

the room. He began the class by playing a pair of brass hand cymbals. With his eyes closed he

began to sing a beautiful devotional prayer. Struck with wonder, I silently observed, “The depth of

his love of God has conquered my heart. His teachings are so vast and inclusive that they contain

all others. Srila Prabhupada has truly sacrificed his entire being in compassion for the suffering.

He is the very embodiment of love and compassion.” At that moment, an extraordinary

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experience emerged. It was an experience that would change the course of my life. From the very

core of my heart emerged a spirit of unconditional surrender. An overwhelming wave of faith

seemed to be engulfing me. A voice echoed through my entire being, “He is your Guru! Yes, He is

your Guru!” I felt to be drowning in an ocean of gratitude. Waves of joy filled my heart. My

arduous journey in search of my path had finally bourn fruit. The infinitely merciful Lord had

answered my prayers.

Sitting at his feet, I longed to assist him in his compassionate mission. I felt no greater goal in life

than to help him to give Gods love to the world. My mind became still in gratitude. Gradually

thoughts arose. “Alas, my Guru and my path have been revealed. I wish to present my life as an

offering to him.” From that euphoric state, my mind was startled by serious questions. “Can I

actually follow him throughout my life? I am filled with weaknesses, can I remain faithful to his

teachings. The world is full of endless temptations. Will I have the strength to not disgrace him?

His western disciples are so very different than me. Can I live amongst them? I have great faith in

him but serious doubt in myself. Am I honestly qualified to be his disciple?” I did not believe

myself to be qualified. I thought, “In the passing of time I will endeavor to prepare myself.”

As the devotees prepared to depart a leading disciple spoke to me, “Srila Prabhupadas servants are

always getting sick in India. You seem to know how to live here. If you travel with us we can train

you to be his personal assistant.” The offer was extremely appealing but I did not feel qualified for

such an exalted service. A large gathering assembled to bid Srila Prabhupada and his disciples

farewell. The devotees boarded the bus. Srila Prabhupada graciously bid farewell to his friends and

admirers as he stepped into his car. They drove into the horizon. I remained in Vrindaban. I loved

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Vrindaban. I resolved, “Perhaps when he opens his temple, I could serve him here.”

It was necessary that I extend my visa. Some of the distinguished spiritual leaders of Vrindaban

wrote recommendations. I applied in the nearby city of Mathura. They sent the application to New

Delhi. The receipt of my application served as my legal visa until the reply. Months passed with

no reply. A letter finally came stating that it is the policy that I must apply for such a visa outside

of India. I must report to the office in Mathura. It was delivered to an ashram. The receiver never

informed me, in fact he lost the letter. The immigration agent in charge of my case was outraged.

He felt I was purposefully disregarding his authority by not reporting. Innocently, I continued my

worship unaware that anything was wrong. One day while meditating in a temple, a local priest

approached me. He looked terribly serious. From his mouth came the first words I had heard on

this subject. “A local CID is hunting for you. He believes you have defied his authority. In the

morning he came here searching for you. He loudly broadcasted that he will cast you in prison and

severely beat you. Then you will be deported. I know this man. He is cruel and corrupt. In fact he

is mad with a violent ego. We fear him more than the local criminals. He can do anything. Please

be careful.” I was alarmed. India had become my spiritual homeland. I carefully followed all the

laws. The thought of being deported and not being allowed to return was devastating. Wherever I

went the people told me he had come hunting for me. Dozens of Brijabasis (local people) and

sadhus were praying for my protection. I inquired, “What could be done?” Many of my concerned

friends discussed the situation. One evening Sripad Baba met with me. He brought me to

Yogamayas house. A very distinguished gentleman from New Delhi was present. Because he was

an engineer by profession, the inhabitants of Vrindaban called him by the name, ‘Engineer’. He

was tall with medium build. His black hair was neatly combed. His face was clean-shaven save his
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mustache. He was perhaps forty years old. His nature was very sweet. He was a very gentle soul

and a dedicated devotee of Krishna. Every possible opportunity he visited Vrindaban. He

sympathetically heard my case. Engineer felt that he may be able to normalize my immigration

status in New Delhi. It was decided that we depart at once. In the darkness of night we walked

through the small lanes. Arriving at the Vrindaban bus station we stood in line to purchase our

tickets. Suddenly, a commotion erupted. A harrowing voice resounded, “Arrest him!!!” In a flash,

a hand tightly clasped my neck then slammed me against the wall. It was the CID agent. He

screamed in anger, “I will torture you in prison then deport you forever. You have defied me!!!”

His eyes were saturated with cruelty. He was an egoistic madman, empowered with the authority

of the government. Engineer tried to logically explain the miscommunication. Violently, he

slapped Engineer in the face again and again. Pushing him against a wall he threatened, “You dare

to defy my authority. If you speak another word you will be beaten and arrested.” Two police

constables stood beside him with sticks, preventing anyone from interfering with his activities. He

then dragged me away. The local people were horrified. They cried out, “He is a sadhu do not hurt

him, do not hurt this boy.” I was abruptly dragged into the local bus for Mathura. He ordered the

policemen, “I don’t need your help for this boy. You stay here.” I was forced to sit on the front

seat, in the clutches of my captor. He was strongly built with disheveled hair and beard. He

screamed threats at me constantly. “I will torture you in jail.” I thought, “This man is mad. What

could I do?” As he was barraging me with harsh words, I closed my eyes praying to God while

softly chanting the mantra. The overcrowded bus commenced its journey. Screaming came from

the rear of the bus. A fight had broken out between two farmers. My captor seized this opportunity

to display his prowess. He harshly ordered the bus driver to watch over me. We were traveling full

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speed on a highway. Where could I go? He then rushed to the back of the bus. Roaring, he

mercilessly beat the two simple farmers. I thought, “The next few seconds may be my only chance

to escape.” I desperately prayed to God for direction. An idea came to my mind. I rushed up to the

driver and cried out, “pani, pani, pani” (meaning, I had to pass urine). Disturbed, he ordered me to

sit back down. I jumped up and down as if in desperation crying out, “Pani, pani!!!” Again he

ordered me to sit. I took note that he was driving with bare feet. I screamed as if I could not

possibly control my bladder. It was an emergency, I had to do something radical. Squatting down

beside the drivers seat I actually passed urine on the buses floorboard. I carefully aimed it in such

a way that it would rickochet onto his bare feet. Feeling my warm urine sprinkling upon his feet.

He was shocked. I am sure that in thirty years as a bus driver he never encountered anything like

this. Confused and disorientated he slammed on the brakes, opened the door and ordered, “Do it

outside.” I ran out like the wind. Surprisingly the bus drove forward. I ran into the agricultural

fields. Hiding in some bushes, I watched. The bus stopped, backed up. In the darkness of the

night that agent came outside running frantically in search of me. It was a dark and isolated

highway. Frustrated with rage he entered the bus and returned to Mathura. Passing through fields,

forest and back alleyways I went to Yogamayas house. Engineer was there. He had already

narrated my dilemna to the devotees. In grave concern they were praying and chanting all night for

my protection. They did not know what else to do. When I entered the door they were astounded,

“How could you have possibly escaped.” I told them it was Krishnas mercy. I was ashamed to

describe my unconventional methods.

Later passengers on the bus described what happened after I escaped. He was outraged. An elderly

woman ridiculed him. “You think you are so great. You couldn’t even control that skinny little
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sadhu.” Everyone in the bus laughed at him. He was utterly humiliated. In defense of his honor he

publicly broadcast his vow to severely avenge me. From that day on he was obsessed to seek

revenge. He spent every day hunting for his prey. As he investigated, the Brijabasis gave him

wrong leads, to protect me. I learned the back alleys very well. I dared not step on a main road. I

now lived like a fugitive with an insane law enforcement officer vowed to catch me.

At 4:30 one morning I was praying in the Radha Raman Temple. With folded hands and tears in

my eyes I prayed. “If I try to leave India with an invalid visa I will never be allowed to return. If I

stay, it is only a matter of time till I am apprehended, then deported forever. Vrindaban is my

home. I helplessly give my life to You. Whatever is Your wish my Lord, I will gratefully accept.”

In the darkness of the early morning I proceeded to the Radha Vallabha Temple. Very rapidly, I

walked down a lonely narrow lane. Suddenly I heard an eerie howling in the night. The next

moment I felt the sharp fangs of a beast plunge into my right leg. In those formidable jaws I

helplessly fell to the ground. I looked back and saw only darkness. Whatever it was, had

disappeared into the night. In great pain I limped to the temple. Later that morning I sat with

Ghanashyam and two other sadhus in his temple. Ghanashyam saw that my leg was bleeding.

“What has happened to your leg?” He exclaimed. I narrated the story. They were greatly alarmed.

“In this place, any mad dog that bites has rabbis. You must immediately get treatment.” Feeling

somewhat dejected, I replied, “Better that I die in Vrindaban than get sent away.” They urgently

retorted, “Rabbis makes you mad. You cannot think of Krishna when dying of rabbis!!! We insist,

you must get proper treatment.” The free medical stall was a small wooden shack on a main road.

The detective was hunting for me. It was especially dangerous for me to be there. I took my

chances. Dozens of poverty-stricken people stood in line. Flies swarmed everywhere. The doctor
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had very limited medicines. I watched as he gave a diseased person an injection, swished the

needle in a bottle of alcohol then used it for the next person and the next person and the next

person. The doctor was visibly alarmed as he diagnosed my leg. “You must have rabbis,” he

exclaimed. He had me lay on a bare wooden table. Searching through a metal box he brought out a

huge needle. It looked as if it hadn’t been used in years. It was tarnished and bent. Before my eyes,

he tried to sharpen it with a file. Carefully he put the serum into the syringe. He warned, “I must

inject you in the stomach, this will be very painful.” His words were a gross underestimation. The

needle was not sharp enough to penetrate my stomach. He stabbed it into my stomach with greater

and greater force. “I must get this serum into you or you will die.” Raising the syringe, with both

hands, he thrust the needle down. It was indescribably painful. Still, it did not sufficiently

penetrate. With great force he stabbed my stomach again and again. My entire body bounced from

the table with each attempt. It was human torture. I was sincerely chanting. Finally it penetrated,

enough to inject the serum. “You must come here the next fourteen days for injections.” He

insisted. Physically devastated by the ordeal, I replied, “it is not possible for me to return.” “You

must or you will surely die.” I explained my complex situation. “If I come on this main road every

day, I will surely be caught beaten and imprisoned.” As we spoke he developed special affection

for me. With great assurance he spoke these words, “I am a government doctor. I will write a letter

with government stamp. You take it to Delhi and they must give you a valid visa!” The next day

my entire stomach was brutally bruised with purple black swelling. The same painful ordeal was

repeated. The poor doctor was earnestly trying to do the best he could with what he had. I boarded

a third class train to New Delhi. At the home Ministers Office I was brought to a high official, as

mine was a special case. He gravely read the doctors’ note, “To whom it may concern, this young

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man has rabbis from the bite of a dog. He will die without proper treatment. I demand he be given

valid visa to the extent of proper treatment. It is an urgent matter of life or death.” The

immigration official gazed into my eyes. Then he spoke, “I will not be able to sleep at night if I

know that I am the cause of your death.” He had my files brought in. With great care he

regularized my immigration status. “Now you are completely legal. There is no longer any

problem. No one can bother you. The visa I give you will expire in twenty days.” With these

auspicious words he stamped my passport. I expressed my deep gratitude, “Krishna is protecting

me through your kindness.” He smiled and bid me farewell. I gratefully returned to Vrindaban to

endure the remaining rabbi injections. I was told, later, that the CID agent was investigated by the

government and found guilty of corruption and abuse of authority. He was punished and fired. For

economical survival he was seen on a footpath cooking a pot of tea, trying to sell a cup to the

passersby.

The moment of departure was approaching. It was my resolve that I reside in Vrindaban for the

rest of my life. However, the Lord had other plans for me. What they were, I did not know. I

desired to assist Srila Prabhupada, my beloved Guru in his efforts here. However, was that the

wish of Krishna? I prayed, “Please my Lord allow me to surrender to Your will.” According to

law, with the exception of a two week transit visa, I had to wait six months before another tourist

visa would be issued to me. “Where will I go? Everything will unfold in time.” My friends in

Vrindaban offered profuse blessings as I tearfully departed.

I traveled by third class train across India to the Nepalese border. Ascending the Himalayan

ranges, I found shelter in the Kathmandu Valley. There, I wrote a letter to my parents. I letter that

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would certainly pacify their worried hearts.

OM

Array the sails of life’s ship and sail to the sacred soil of loves abode.

The gentle breeze of faith will lead us onward to our destination across the worlds’ sea. Thus, we

shall sail on this great inner voyage.

When we arrive we will be greeted by a freshly scented garland, by He who sent for us.

A tear will spill from each eye for we will know that we have alas found our home.

My family, my journey back to you has begun. I can come across the world in 2 ways: I can travel

west overland. It will take at least three months. If you prefer me to be home sooner you can wire

to me about $300 and I will fly west. I will be happy going either way so I leave the decision to

you.

Please wire your choice to c/o American express, Kathmandu Nepal.

Wire it with or without the currency, as you like I will do.

My humble love to you all. A gentle wish for your well being.

Richard

Near Kathmandu is Pasupatinath, one of the great holy places of Lord Siva. In the forest of

Pasupatinath I lived on the bank of the Bagmati River. One day while bathing in the river I was

blessed with a special surprise. On a nearby hill was my dear friend, Kailash Baba. While living in

the Himalayas it was he who lovingly trained me in the life of an acsetic. He was overjoyed to see

me. When he took note that I had dedicated my life in the service of Krishna, his heart filled with

joy. Together we roamed through the forests, visiting the hermitages of sages. We slept on
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hillsides. In the cold nights he invited me to sleep on the ground beside him sharing his only

blanket. Siva Ratri was approaching. This is a very sacred holiday, especially in Pasuptinath.

Thousands of pilgrims gathered. On that night, I had a great longing to worship the Lord in the

temple. I climbed up the stone steps leading to the ancient temple. As I approached the entrance

gate, I was abruptly stopped by the security. The superintendant of police then appeared. With

stick in hand he pointed to the sign. “No Foreigners or non Hindus allowed entrance.” In no

uncertain terms he emphasized that I would not be allowed entry. “Do not try again or you will be

punished!” He ordered the security police to be vigilant. It was my deep desire to worship the Lord

this night. I had prayed to Siva (at Pasupatinath and Varanasi) for direction in a time of great need.

I believed it was His blessing that mystically brought me to my worshipable home, Vrindaban. I

wished to offer my gratitude. I returned to the bank of the Bagmati River. There I saw sadhus

worshipping the sacred fire. It was tradition among certain sects of ascetics to cover their bodies

with sacred ashes after taking bath. An idea arose in my mind. I covered my whole body with a

thick coating of ashes. Having semi matted hair and only a begging pot, perhaps I would not be

recognized as a foreigner. Apprehensively, I approached the gate. The same security guards were

present with sticks in hand. They did not even look twice at me. Now I was in the complex. It was

a vast open courtyard surrounding the ancient temple altar. “If I am caught in here I will surely be

beaten.” There was a line of perhaps a thousand people waiting to see the altar. Only one person

was allowed at a time. I patiently stood in the rear of the line, gradually moving forward. By the

will of fate the superintendant of police happened to pass. Praying to Lord Siva I turned the other

way. Deliberately, he stepped in front of me. Staring into my ash covered face he asked me a

question in the local Hindi language. I could not understand a word he said. If I speak even a

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single word of English, I don’t know what will happen. I knew no other language. Receiving no

reply, he stared in my eyes and asked his questions in a louder voice. I pondered, “He is trained to

detect things that are not right. Does he detect me? Dear Lord Siva please allow me to honor you

tonight.” An idea came to my mind. I placed one palm over my mouth and waved my other hand

back and forth. Those who vow to never speak, (mauni babas) often express their vow in this way.

Clasping my arm he took me away. “Where was he taking me? Was he arresting me?” He brought

me across the line of pilgrims. They were waiting hours to see the Lord. To my great surprise he

led me directly to the altar. He dramatically held up his stick! “Is he going to beat me publicly

before the altar???” With the stick he stopped all others from coming forward. On his order the

priest honored me with garlands, sandalwood and special gifts. The superintendent of police then

reverentially touched my feet, offered salutations and departed. Standing before the sacred altar I

offered my deepest gratitude. I did not deserve any of this but the Lord is merciful. I was humbled.

While I was living in Vrindaban, one revered sadhu spoke these words, “If you must leave India,

go to Janakpur, in Nepal. It is the home of Sita the consort of Lord Rama. It is a very peaceful

place. You will find it like the Barsana of Ramas pastimes. At Vihar Kunda, is a great saint named

Sri Vedji, please meet him.” From Kathmandu I was given passage on a primitive bus destined for

Janakpur. We descended the Himalayan Mountains. The panoramic beauty was breathtaking. After

reaching the plains we passed through dense jungle. At a distance I saw a wild rhinoceros grazing

on the rich foliage. Hours passed, we arrived in Janakpur. At Vihar Kund I was brought before

the guru Sri Vedji. I delivered to him a letter from a sadhu in Vrindaban. He was especially kind.

So kind, I was overwhelmed. He appealed that I reside in his sadhu ashram with meals each day

(rice and dal (mung soup). I accepted. Janakpur is a very holy place. In the holy scriptures it is
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called Mithila. The great King Janak was ploughing the earth for a special religious function. It

was here that the Goddess of fortune, Sita appeared from the earth. She was known as Janaki, the

daughter of King Janak. The great spiritual epic Ramayana speaks much of the glories of Mithila.

It is the place where Sita and Rama were married. Sri Vedji, out of the kindness of heart, presented

to me two books in the English language. The Ramayana by Valmiki Muni and Ramacharitamanas

by Tulasidas. They were very thick volumes containing the full texts. Printed by the Gita Press in

Gorakhpur, affordable to any interested reader. The festival of the appearance of Lord Rama was

coming in only a month. To prepare myself I resolved to read the entire Ramayan. Early morning I

rose at about 3:00. After taking a bath in the nearby lake, I meditated on the Lords Holy Names

with my sacred beads. After the sun rose I began my study. The story of Lord Rama enthralled my

heart. Filled with emotion, I read the entire day. From sunrise till after sunset I read. The Guru of

the ashram was so pleased. With tears of affection in his eyes he regularly thanked me for

appreciating his beloved Lord Rama with such interest. The Ramayan was captivating. Everything

was there, adventure, romance, tragedy, heroism, horror, humor, and war. All these attributes are

harmonized in a spirit of devotion to awaken Love of God in the heart of the reader. With the

grace of the Lord, I completed the entire Ramayan. I inquired from Sri Vedji if I could offer any

service in his ashram. He smiled, “Your chanting, reading and accepting our prasad (sacred food)

is purifying my heart. What greater service can I ask you for!” I felt humbled. In my mind I

thought, “Such is the quality of the Lords beloved devotees.”

Sitting on the banks of Vihar Kund (lake), I entered the following words into my diary.

The sun is setting over yonder horizon casting a mystical aura of gentle colour over the placid

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waters before me. Birds are all around filling my ears with a song of serene joy. In the sacred soils

of Janakpur dham one can feel in the atmosphere the ever-present devotion to the compassionate

Lord Sri Rama, for it is here that He ever casts the spell of divine love upon His devotees.

In these moments my heart opens like the blossoming petals of the lotus flower in the moonlit

autumn night as I think of Your mercy, my Lord, upon this lost child.

With great excitement I anticipated the celebration of Lord Ramachandras descent into this world.

Tens of thousands of people gathered from the surrounding towns and villages. On decorated

stages, dramas were perfomed by children and adults alike. Hundreds of groups were

enthusiastically dancing while chanting the Names and glories of Sita Rama. The temples were

lavishly ornamented. Countless multicolored flowers were strung together to create multiple

designs. There were flower canopies, arches and gateways. Flowers were decoratively wrapped

around pillars. Pilgrim ladies wore multicolored saris. It was the birthday of their beloved Lord.

Even the simple village ladies wore intricately woven fine flowers in their hair. Some even wore

golden ornaments. All the elephants, cows, and buffaloes wore flower crowns and garlands. I even

saw a stray street dog proudly strutting about with flowers garlanding his neck. Everyone smiled,

singing the names and glories of Lord Rama. Brahmans loudly chanted sacred mantras while

performing fire sacrifices. Learned scholars vigorously spoke from Ramayana, surrounded by

thousands of eager devotees. Many grave, austere sadhus of all sects were seen losing their

composure while dancing and singing. It was the one day of the year when Lord Ramas’ devotees

put everything aside to glorify their beloved. Everyone happily fasted till noon. The noon worship

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ceremony at every temple was performed with great festivity. Thousands of pilgrims crowded in,

to participate. The faithful had come from far and wide on this sacred pilgrimage. It was a glorious

event of devotion. Today was the long awaited festival of Lord Rama coming to the world to

mercifully attract our hearts to His infinite love. The joyous festival concluded with elaborate

feasts of sacred food distributed to the masses. By western comparison, Rama Navami was like

Christmas in Janakpurdham.

Janakpur was a simple village, very quiet and peaceful. One day I sat on a main road. It was

simply a dusty path. The entire day passed and I saw not a single car. In place of trucks were giant

Nepalese elephants, the common form of transport. On the back of the elephant was a very large

basket or box. It was held by rope, which wrapped down and around the body. This is what carried

the cargo. Sitting on the elephants’ neck, just behind the head, was the driver holding a stick. A

small boy commonly assumed this role. Hanging from around the elephants neck was a large bell

that continuously rang, swinging from side to side. Elephant after elephant passed. On the road,

with the elephants were goods carried in bullock carts pulled by either oxen or water buffalo.

Ladies passed carrying either baskets or earthen pots on the top of their heads. It was balanced by

one hand. Sometimes large heavy loads were effortlessly carried on the head of a small girl. Their

posture was perfect. They walked with the grace of a swan. As these girls and ladies carried their

loads they blissfully chanted together the glories of Sita Rama. Such a peaceful life these people

lived. It soothed my heart. Certainly modern technology has its’ value but the beauty of such

simplicity has been extinguished from all but a few places on earth. I prayed that this charming

Janakpur would never change.

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In the heart of Janakpur was a sacred lake. There were many temples. Two were prominent. One

was called Janaki Mandir the other was called Rama Mandir. One day I sat in the courtyard of

Rama Mandir. Sitting on a raised platform beside the temple was a sadhu perhaps in his fiftees. He

appeared very peaceful and holy. He had long matted hair, beard and the robes of a mendicant.

Hundreds of people stood in line to receive his blessings. With his open palm he graciously

blessed them. Desiring his holy blessing I joined the line. Upon approaching him I bowed down

like all the others. Surprised to see me, he motioned for me to sit beside him. I felt especially

privileged. While giving his blessings to his admirers he inquired from me. “Where do you come

from?” “America.” “Why have you come from your rich country to the poverty of India?” “In

search of God.” “Why have you become a sadhu?” “In search of God.” Hearing my words, his

facial expression dramatically changed. His lips curled in repulsion. His whole face was filled

with disgust. I was shocked by this reaction. In a repulsive voice he chastised me, “You are a fool!

You are simply a fool! A fool.” I knew that I was a fool. Perhaps he wished to enlighten me. I

inquired, “Your Holiness, please instruct me.” He flew into a tantrum. “I have been living as a

sadhu for thirty years. Do you know what I have attained? Rice and dal (mung soup). That’s right,

rice and dal. All I’ve attained in all these years is rice and dal. America is a land of riches.

America has the most beautiful women to enjoy. America has big comfortable houses and autos to

enjoy. America has fine clothes, delicious food and drink to enjoy. America has the best movies

and television to enjoy. I long for the pleasures of America. You have given it all up!!! For

what??? Rice and dal! rice and dal! I am sick of rice and dal. I hate rice and dal. You have come to

this miserable place of poverty to search for God. You are a fool! There is NO God. There is NO

God. Do you hear me! There is NO God!!! Go back to your great land to enjoy. If you do not obey

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me you will lead a despisable life. All you will attain is the misery of eating only rice and dal!!!”

As he was speaking these words of utter atheism hundreds of his admirers worshipped him. They

did not understand a word of English. The whole while he chastised me, his open palm was

blessing these innocent, God-fearing people. It was quite a scene. They were begging him for

Gods blessings unaware that as he was decrying Gods existence. They honored him an enlightened

being as he was speaking of the miserable futility of his life. I thanked him for his time and

respectfully departed from the scene. In a daze, I walked away. My mind struggled to understand

what the Lord had just revealed to me. I pondered, “One cannot judge a book by looking at its’

cover. There is always the real and the counterfeit. A holy person cannot be understood by

external appearance. Bhagavad Gita teaches that renunciation is not for a lazy man who does no

work, but to work in a spirit of devotion. If this man wants to enjoy material life, why doesn’t he

get a job and be honest. Instead he poses as a saint to cheat the innocent. Hypocracy in religion has

crippled peoples’ faith throughout history. As I had heard from Srila Prabhupada, ‘better to be a

sincere sweeper of the street than a charlatan meditator.’”

I was often invited to feasts specifically for the sadhus. At such events only sadhus are allowed to

cook the food or serve it. Hundreds of sadhus belonging to dozens of sects would gather to sing

the Names of God and jubilantly honor sacred food. Their forehead and bodies were marked with

their particular sect. There were an incredible variety of ascetics. Some held tridents, some held

bags with prayer beads. All had their particular type of begging bowl. They were made of wood,

metal, gourd or even human skull. Some wore saffron, others white, bright red, yellow and others

wore no clothes at all. We all sat on the ground in lines. The food was served on plates made of a
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single banana leaf. The servers went down the lines, each with a bucket of sacred food. No one

was allowed to begin until everyone was fully served. While waiting, there was jubilant chanting

of a song composed especially for the occasion of a feast. They all jubilantly chanted in

unison,“Sriya! Hari Narayana Govindey, Sri Rama Krishna Govindey! Sriya! Hari Narayana

Govindey, Sri Rama Krishna Govindey!” After everone was fully served the seniormost sadhu

would begin to eat. All others would first honor the Lords mercy by putting the first morsel to their

bowed head. Then all began to eat. When these austere ascetics partook of a sacred feast, there was

total absorbtion. It was an intense meditation. There were no utensils. Everyone ate with their bare

hands with great enthusiasm. When everyone had completed the meal, everyone loudly chanted

Ramas Name together. Then we would all rise to wash. That is their culture. At one such event I

met a young Indian sadhu. He was very thin with shaved head. His body was decorated with the

markings of a devotee of Rama. What made him so special to me was that he was about twenty

five years old. I was twenty one at that time. This was very rare. We became friends and traveled

together to many holy places in the Janakpur area. I was greatly impressed by his devotional

demeanor. He fervently prayed in the temples, intensely gazing upon the diety. With great emotion

he narrated the pastimes of Rama to me. This he did both both day and night. When he heard the

glories of Rama he would cry. Observing him, I prayed to someday have such devotion. I had

learned that we become like those who we associate with. I was hoping that spending time with

him would influence me with pure feelings toward God. One afternoon we sat in the courtyard of

the Rama Mandir (temple). It was a sadhus feast. Throughout the meal he spoke about Lord Rama,

I happily listened. At the end of the meal, as we were about to get up, he asked me, “Do you know

why I chant the Names and glories of Rama constantly day and night?” I replied, “Please tell me.”

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He then spoke words that shook my heart. “It is because I want to merge and become Rama!”

These words startled my heart. I reflected, “I long to love Rama and serve Him for all eternity. The

thought of becoming Rama is unpalatable to my heart. How could this be? Pure devotion is not to

strive to be God but to eternally offer loving service to God. This is a striking lesson on the

difference in realization of the personalists and impersonalists. One strives for mukti (liberation),

one strives for Prema (pure love). I remember, in my beloved home of Vrindaban, Srila

Prabhupada explained. There are two types of transcendentalists, the impersonalists and the

personalists. Their goals are for two levels of realization of the one absolute truth. Prema (pure

love) is full realization thus it includes mukti (liberation). Although mukti is the happiness of

eternal cessation of all suffering, prema is not included. Naturally each will hold his own

aspiration to be supreme.” I realized the effect living in Vrindaban had on me. I pondered,“This

young sadhu does not pray, worship and cry for eternal love for God. He does it all to ultimately

become God. Ritual is a means in which we express our aspirations. The ideal one aspires for is

all-important. I have given my life to the path of Love, as the eternal servant of the Lord.”

In a forest on the outskirts of Janakpur was a sect of naga babas. They wore bright red loincloths

and carried iron tridents. All had long matted hair and beards, bodies covered with ashes. They all

gathered around sacred fires. Most were smoking hashish, passing around the chillum (clay pipe).

They hoped that I would join their sect, thus they eagerly brought me to meet their Guru. The Guru

did not smoke hashish. He was an extremely powerful yogi immersed in meditation and

ascetisism. His huge body sat in the lotus posture. He looked like a human mountain emanating

with yogic power. Perhaps in his sixties his long matted hair was wrapped in a coil above his head.

His eyes were closed in deep contemplation. The nagas informed him of my arrival. He slowly
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opened his eyes. Without blinking he stared into my eyes. The intensity of his stare was

supernatural, as if erupting with yogic fire. It was not a stare of spiritual love but that of spiritual

power. All the nagas gathered around to witness the event. With a coarse deep voice that

resounded like thunder he spoke, “ASTAN? (which holy place do you reside?)” Shaking in his

immense presence, I replied, “Vrindaban”. His deep thunderous voice bellowed out,

“VRINDABAN!!!” Then his voice changed to a high pitch sound, as he mimicked a dainty little

girl, “Radhey Radhey, Radhey Radhey!” His deep thunderous voice then echoed, “NO!!!!! YOU

BECOME NAGA, NAGA IS A MAN, YOU BECOME NAGA, NOW!!!” His disciples stood

around me with iron tridents in hand. I wondered, “What will they do if I offend him by

disobeying his order? They may kill me.” The Naga Guru penetrated my being with his burning

stare. His eyes appeared to have the power to burn me to ashes if I offend him. He awaited my

answer, as did they all. I helplessly prayed, “Dearest Radha Krishna. I have given my heart to you

and your beloved Srila Prabhupada. Please save me.” Again his thunderous voice roared, “YOU

BECOME NAGA, NOW!!! (This was quite an interfaith experience). I silently chanted in my

heart. I was utterly speechless, uncertain about what was to come. The Naga Guru seemed to see

into my heart. Raising his powerful hand, he offered me his blessings, while closing his eyes as he

entered into deep meditation. Some of the Naga Babas praised my good fortune. All went back to

their worship. My heart felt love and respect for that Naga Guru. He was genuine follower on his

path. Also, he did bless me. But I longed for the sweet love of Vrindaban.

In a lonely temple in the forest I met two very special sadhus. One had hair to his shoulders and a

beard. He wore a simple one-piece pullover that extended from his neck to his ankles. He looked

to be in his fiftees. His name was Sita Rama Baba. The other was clean shaven, perhaps in his
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forties. He appeared very scholarly. His name was Sri Rama. I cannot express the kindness they

showed to me. The elder sadhu immediately treated me with the love of a father to a son. His

affection was unconditional. What could he get from me? He was soft and gentle and a very pure

hearted devotee of Rama. He deeply believed that Rama was the Supreme Person and aspired for

eternal service. He followed extremely severe vows his whole life. He vowed strict celibacy as do

many sadhus. Another vow was, he would never either sit or lay down. In other words he never

came off his feet. He had followed this vow since he was fifteen years old, when he first became a

sadhu. That was forty years before. With simple cloth he tied wooden splints around his ankles for

support. Besides his begging pot and prayer beads, he carried a rope and a wooden plank about

two feet long and one foot wide. With the rope he would hang the wooden plank from a tree

branch. It was like a swing. Leaning on this, while standing, he would rest at night. He also vowed

to never sleep inside any construction that had walls. Another vow he strictly adhered to was never

to eat grains or beans. Of course he was a strict vegetarian. I witnessed the severity of this vow.

Wandering mendicants subsist on either rice, dal (beans) or rotis (flat bread) as food. These are the

cheapest foods that are generally given to wandering mendicants. Every day he would blissfully

beg, for me. He begged for rice and dal. He made a tiny stove on the ground, out of clay. Then he

would collect wood and start a fire. Taking his partners pot he would cook the rice and dal with

great care. All the while standing, while strenuously bending down. When it was complete, he

lovingly offered the cooked food to a picture of his beloved Lord Rama with prayers and mantras.

Then he blissfully served it to his companion and myself. Again and again he insisted that we take

more. What did he eat? During my stay with him I never saw him eat anything more than some

cheap peanuts that were given to him while begging. That’s all he could get according to his

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avowed diet. Yet he was so very happy to take great pains to feed us nicely. As we traveled

through villages, fields and forests, his life and soul was to make me happy. Continually he

expressed that to show love for God one must affectionately serve the devotees. One day he

received a few vegetables while begging door to door. I was so happy. Finally there is something

for him to eat besides raw peanuts. When he served our meal, I found all of the vegetables in our

rice and dal. He kept nothing for himself. This humble soul served us with such joy. I observed

him carefully. I saw nothing artificial in him. He was genuinely sincere in his devotion. One day I

asked him, “Why do you follow such difficult vows?” In a very meek voice he replied, “It is my

atonement for many lifetimes of sins.” He was constantly chanting the Holy Names in joy. Either

he was singing, or chanting on his beads. I contemplated, “I cannot understand these very strange

vows. They seem excessive and unnecessary. It is said that artificial austerity makes the heart hard.

However his soft heart is filled with humility, compassion and devotion. Lord Jesus said, ‘you

could judge a tree by its’ fruit’. His is a very strange tree but the ripened fruits are very sweet.”

Sita Rama Babas companion Sri Rama also lived by an unusual vow. Every morning he sat cross-

legged on the ground. In front of him he placed a silken cloth. He placed several pictures on top.

One was his Guru and the others were prints of the pastimes of Lord Rama. With incense, lamps

and flowers he performed worship to his simple altar. Next he melodiously chanted Vedic mantras

for about fifteen minutes. What I witnessed next was extraordinary. It was something I can never

forget in this life. He blew into a conchshell while meditating on the story of Ramayan. His

meditation began with the birth of Rama and chronologically passed through all the recorded

major events of His life. Totally absorbed in this meditation, he resounded one continuous blow on

the conchshell. This one blow seemed endless. His cheeks looked like bagpipes. They puffed up
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and deflated into the conch. Simultaneously, he inhaled through his nose. That air again filled his

mouth as his cheeks inflated while simultaneously blowing. In that continuous blow he poured out

his heart. His subtlest emotions resounded through the conchshell song. The whole while his eyes

remained fixed, gazing at the pictures of Rama. They did not move. The song resounded with joy

at Ramas birth. It pitifully wept when the Lord was banished to the forest. The song trembled with

chivalry at the times of battle. After some days I could clearly understand what scene of Ramayan

he was meditating upon simply by the sound of his conch. As Sita Rama Baba listened, he would

be thrilled with emotion. He played with immense skill and feeling. This extraordinary offering of

devotion continued for over one hour. He vowed to perform this worship every day of his life.

One morning, while sitting alone beside a still lake, I was approached by a very peculiar sadhu. In

perfect English he inquired about my life. We became good friends. It was his wish to travel by

foot to a holy place that was a three-day walk. After spending a day together in the town of

Janakpur, we commenced our pilgrimage. He was in his early thirtees and especially handsome.

His mannerisms were refined, in fact aristocratic. He was highly educated in material as well as

spiritual subjects. His jet black hair was long and neatly combed. He wore the robes of a

mendicant. They were immaculately clean. In my travels, I had never met a wandering mendicant

like this. His name was Vasudeva, he was a devotee of Krishna. Whoever we met were charmed

by his gentle and kind nature. The whole of our journey was through peaceful, secluded

countryside. Each day we received some rice and dal through begging. He insisted on doing all the

cooking. Two rocks were found to form a stove. The pot balanced between them. I collected wood

for the fire. He cooked the rice and dal with precision attention then made it an offering to

Krishna. As we walked we discussed many subjects. He seemed to know about everything. As the
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days of our pilgrimage passed, something puzzled me. He looked so unhappy. He seemed to be

tormented by his thoughts. He appeared miserable with his lifestyle. As far as possible, he tried to

hide his inner suffering. At times I saw him struggling to hold his tears. Vasudeva did not fit the

role of a wandering sadhu. However his sweet nature and sincere devotion to the Lord were very

pleasing. My sympathetic affection for him grew each day. We reached our destination. It was a

historical rock in an abandoned field. In the evening the wind blew especially strong. We found a

small structure made of stone. It had been abandoned long ago. We decided to rest on its’ earthen

floor that night. As we entered several bats hanging from the ceiling, hastily flew outside. This

house of ruins was one room about ten feet by ten feet. The stone walls were crumbling. One

opening formed a window and one a door. Moss and cobwebs were its only furnishings. Vasudeva

trusted me. Humbly, he asked if he could pour out the turmoil of his heart. I was honored that he

had such trust in me. He narrated the story of his life. “I was born in a wealthy family in Calcutta.

In my studies I was always the top in my class. After graduating from college I got a prestigious

post as a professor. I earned many awards for my teaching skills. I was especially popular in the

society. Meeting devotees of Krishna, I accepted His devotion as my religion. One day, two

distinguished persons visited my office. They brought gifts and food saying it was sent by their

guru. After several such visits they invited me to meet their guru. I went. The guru knew

everything about my life, even private details. He seemed to read my mind. I was astounded. He

invited me to visit him regularly, which I did. On one occasion he revealed his mind. ‘I have been

carefully examining you. You are young, popular and very intelligent. I need your to help. I wish

to initiate you into our rites.’” Vasudeva continued, “I told him I will think about it. I then did

careful research. I was horrified. He was the leader a powerful sect. He was a master in the tantric

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arts. Do you know about tantrics?” I replied, “Not very much.” Vasudeva trembled. With a

faltering voice he continued. “Tantric mysticism is extremely powerful. It could be beneficial or

very dangerous. There are white tantrics who use their powers to serve mankind. Then there are

the black tantrics. They use their supernatural powers to control peoples lives for their diabolical

purposes. Through unspeakable sacrifices, tantric sex rites and yoga they gain terrible influence.

This man was an extremely powerful black tantric. I discovered his unethical lifestyle. He had the

power to control peoples minds and lives. At the time of the black rites of initiation he gained

control over that soul for many lifetimes to come. I never went back. However, his disciples daily

harassed me. In my office, home or any event I attended, I could not escape. It was intolerable.

One day they came with the guru. He ordered them to wait outside. With great force he spoke,

‘You must surrender to me or your life will be ruined. Your soul is my property. You cannot

escape.’ I refused. Outraged he left. One day when I returned home to my widowed mother, she

scolded me. ‘Why have you offended that religious man’. You must become his disciple’. I was

shocked. I tried to explain but she would not listen. They controlled her. After some days she

ordered, ‘I will not be party to your offence. Get out of this house!’ The president of my college

threatened, ‘If you continue to offend this great yogi. You will be fired!’ I lost my job. His

followers followed me wherever I went. They even influenced the police, who refused to protect

me. I left Calcutta. This black tantric had supernatural powers. He knew wherever I went and sent

his followers to harass me. Any job I got, they convinced my employer to fire me. Every room I

rented, the landlord kicked me away. I went to a newspaper but they would not believe me. My

life was in turmoil. The black tantric was outraged. He decided to kill me with his tantric powers.

Through mantra he created an invisible weapon that separates the soul from the gross body. In

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other words it kills one. At the interim between life and death the black tantric gains control of the

soul. My body and mind were paralyzed with pain. I helplessly chanted the name of God. As long

as the Name was in my mind the invisible weapon could not kill me. For a full day that weapon

agonized me. The pain was indescribable. I knew if I ceased to remember the Name for a moment

I would meet a fate worse than death. I chanted ceaselessly. The weapon was powerless to kill me

in the presence of Gods Name. If a Tantric weapon cannot kill its victim it must return to kill its’

sender. The black tantric was stricken dead. Killed by his own creation. Gods Name saved me.

However, this incredibly powerful mystic exists without a gross body. He controls his disciples

from an astral plane. He constantly seeks revenge. I cannot settle in any one place. Within matter

of weeks they come to harass me. They will not allow me to keep a job or any place of residence.

It is for this reason that I have become a homeless mendicant. Wandering against my will. I know

that if I genuinely surrender to God he will protect me. Until that day comes I must run and hide

in the guise of a holy man.” Vasudeva looked deeply into my eyes, “I am sorry to tell you this. I

had to tell someone. Please pray for me.” We sat in silence for some time. I could not speak a

word. Vasudeva then laid down to sleep. Sleep was far from my mind. I sat as if stunned by what I

had heard. My mind reeled. “Could this story be true? Is he running from the law? This is not

likely as he was friends with the police superintendant in Janakpur. I had seen.” In the darkness of

the night I gazed into the stars from an opening in the wall. I pondered, “Am I prepared to be

implicated in the horrifying complexities of his life. If so will these black tantrics come after me?”

The thought caused me to shiver. I concluded, “I can think of no other way to help him except to

pray. That is all he asked of me. I will sincerely pray.” As he slept, I silently walked into the night.

I walked all night long, in prayer. Never again did I see dear Vasudeva.

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Wandering through the rural villages was a wonderful experience. Many wonderful people showed

great kindness to this lone mendicant. With a pen in hand I wrote these words to my family.

Children of God, Untold

centuries pass waiting for no one.

The reality of time is timelessness. I sit in a

temple porch way, observing a simple little village in the rural country of southeast Nepal. Before

me are the mud huts with straw roof tops inhabited by the villagers. The soils are ripened by the

presence of the banana trees, mango tree, palm tree and various other gracefully structured trees.

So green are yonder rice paddies in contrast with the earthen colored houses. To my left passes a

mounted elephant, a bell is hanging around his massive neck. It rings as he slowly struts along the

earthen roads. The white cow which is so holy to the Hindus lies lazily under the shade of the

chuha tree. About a 15 mile walk from this village is the town of Janakpur. This was the great

kingdom of King Janak father of Goddess Sita. It is here that Lord Rama displayed his unbounded

divinity. It is here that all compassionate Lord Rama took the hand of Sita in Holy matrimony. Jai

Sita Rama. I have left from Kathmandu valley through several hundred miles of mountain and

dense jungle to arrive at the holy city of Janakpur. Janakpur is a great place of pilgrimage at this

time of the year. I have been walking for the past week through these sparse country villages

surrounding Janakpur. I have been sleeping and taking whatever food is given to me by the temple

priest. This letter cannot me mailed for at least another week because there are no mail-boxes until

I return to Janakpur. Because I am the only foreigner within many hundred miles of Janakpur the

local people have requested me to remain for a short time to speak to the local students. I cannot

express the great treasure which I have found in the east. The people have given to me more than I
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have ever imagined could be given. Infinitely more than I am worthy. So I am yielding to the

request of the villagers, to help in a small way. In about 30 days I will return to India to make

arrangements for departure west. Because of the geographical location of Nepal, I found that

arrangements cannot be made from here. In India I will have all things arranged within the two

weeks my Visa will grant to me. I send my deepest love, I pray

for the well being of you all. Please believe me that I mean no harm to any one. I only want to give

all my heart to love and compassion for all. My heart is like a piece of petrified stone until it is

softer and more tender than the fragile flower petal I can give nothing. All of this time is taken to

melt this heart of stone into the nectarine ocean of compassion. Love for God is the only love

which is pure. Love for God is the only love which includes all creatures, excluding none. Love

for God is the ripe fruit which is blessed upon he who has been given to the highest realization.

Life is a series of hardships and sorrow until we truly remember the name of the Lord. The sole

duty of Human life is to realize God, serve God, and love God and all of His creation. I cannot

expect you to understand what I am doing or why, but I must do so. If we only think of being kind

to all beings at all times, we will perhaps begin to understand the purpose of life.

Bless you all Richard

Janakpur March 1972

Returning to Janakpur I was greeted by my kind hearted friends. They were all approximately the

age of my grandfather.

Wh

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ile at the Janaki Mandir (temple) I was approached by a young student of about 21 years old. He

was fascinated that a western youth had taken to the life of a sadhu. Perhaps it was the first to be

seen in Janakpur. His name was Visnu Prasad Subedi. We spoke about spiritual life for several

hours. He invited me to his home. Together we rode in a bus to the village of Brahmapur. Only

brahmins resided there. His home was like a beautiful ashram. They had good wealth. His mother

and father cordially greeted me. I was given a wonderful meal of spiritual food. I happily spent

several days there. The culture of the family was very impressive. The children respectfully

touched the feet of their parents when first meeting in the morning. In return the parents offered

blessings. The children of all ages were naturally obedient to the parents. Especially the teen agers.

Having been brought up in the 1960’s in America this was quite a culture shock. It was a

household permeated with respect for one another. The eldest son was honored by the younger as

the representative of the parents. Uncles, aunts and cousins all lived under one roof. Every inch of

the home was immaculately clean. In the days I spent, I never heard a voice raised. In the center of

the home was a small temple of Lord Rama. All family members joined for worship ceremonies

both morning and evening. During the day the women performed various devotional offerings in

the temple. The fathers name was Tara Prasad Subedi. He was a pure Brahmin and a very learned

scholar of religious scripture. In a charming garden I sat with him along with Vishnu Prasad the

eldest son. We asked questions. He fluently quoted scripture to satisfy our queries. One day I

asked him to tell the story of the origin of the River Ganges. Citing scriptures he explained in great

detail. For well over an hour he enlightened us. Vishnu Prasad had become a very dear friend. One

day he brought me to meet his Guru. That was very special. I found only happiness in his home. I

learned much about the spiritual culture of family life in the east. However, I had chosen the life of

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an ascetic. It was time for me to go. The whole family saw me to the gate. They were crying as I

left. So was I.

In Janakpur, I sat in a temple near a beautiful lake. It was made holy, long ago, in another age. To

win the hand of Sita in marriage, Sri Rama broke the mighty bow of Lord Siva. Part of Sivas bow

fell here. Alone in deep thought, I composed a letter to my family.

OM

Jai Sri Radharani Jai Sri Krishna

Where for him to go who ever wanders in the wilderness of his inner solitude?

Not knowing God is why we are not so happy; not knowing ourselves is why we know not God.

Maybe because we are afraid to be true to ourselves that we ever remain strangers with our self.

We are lost in the vicious jungle of our own ego. We ever tried to quench our fathomless thirst

with the salted water of sense enjoyment. We turn our back to the fresh spring watered ocean of

nectarine love that is within.

This earth is like a ripened fruit on the tree of this universe.

Truth and virtue is the outer peel which protects it.

Love and kindness is the sweet flavor. Divinity is the

seed within it.

The clock of time ticks on but who listens?

How is everything on that side of the mother earth? I think that may be the more kind we are the

more kindness we will find everywhere; and the more true we are, the more truth we will see

everywhere.

A butterfly flutters by me as I sit in temple porch way with a pen and aerogram in my hands. I am

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reminded of a childhood backyard which is far far away; and as I think of this I become very quiet

in thought. I think that may be I am not worthy of the feelings you have for me. I think that love is

something that can never be lost to the loss and gain of this ever-changing world.

You have asked me in your letters about what I have been doing and I have answered by telling

you what I have been thinking and feeling. What is more significant of a man what he does with

his body or what he thinks in his mind and feels in his heart? Such is why my letters have been as

they are. As perhaps you can see I am man of few words. Constructing a beautiful statue of words

out of a silent and serene feeling is an act which some men have mastered, I am not such an artist,

so I have little to say. Some people cherish there words while some quiet people cherish their

feelings. Whatever truely brings man closer to God is what that man should cherish with all his

heart and soul

Richard.

In about 10 days I will return to India for short time to arrange my journey back to you.

The Grace of Lord Rama fills the entire atmosphere of Janakpur Dham with a feeling of longing to

see the all-beautiful Lord.

The heart weeps longing to see the Lord.

Tears fill the eyes with those sacred drops which water ones love for God.

Where art thou, O Lord?

Where art thou?

I will ever feel alone without the sight of You, Beloved Lord.

I returned to Kathmandu. I was quite sure something would be waiting for me at the American

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Express Office. There it was. My father telegrammed a money order with money to pay for my

plane ticket back to the USA. My mother and father were so kind. It would take me years to

understand the pains and sacrifices they made for me. I guess that is the nature of youth. At the

Indian Embassy I was told that the rule was one must stay out of the country at least six months

before issuing another tourist visa. However, they were happy issue a two-week transit visa. My

flight was from New Delhi.

Sitting in an ancient temple of Lord Krishna, I wrote these words to my family.

Better is it to live in poverty than to sell ones soul for an empty palace of Gold.

Better is it to live unknown than to sell ones soul for the empty and futile admiration of name and

fame.

Where there is no inner freedom there is no life. Better is it to die at once than to be deprived of

seeking the ideal of ones life.

I have just now returned to Kathmandu from Janakpur Dham.

I hope you received my letters from there for I have heard that its mailing service is very slow.

I request you to do one thing (very important), for me: Please investigate to find out what is my

present situation with the draft board. If they called me while I was away I am probably wanted by

the Federal Government. Perhaps you can run a check on me through the federal police or some

similar procedure. I should know my situation before I reach the border. Please mail or wire what

you find out to American Express, NewDelhi, India.

I have been doing what I consider to be invaluable studies with great men and places of the east.

Please understand, such a study takes vast expanses of time. I have barely begun to even approach

the beginning of such a vast study. I am selfish and egotistical. I am ignorant and blind of truth. I

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am perhaps the farthest away from knowing God. So it is that such a fool as my self needs much

time to see the blissful light of supreme truth which shines within you and me.

Love,

Richard.

As I was departing from Kathmandu, I remembered that miraculous meeting with Gary in the

nearby rice paddy. I wondered where he could be. So many dramatic events took place in my life

since we were separated. I longed to share them with him. I was living as a homeless wanderer.

Likely, he was the same. I affectionately thought to myself, “It will take another miracle for us to

meet agian.” Bidding farewell to Kathmandu, this solitary wanderer boarded a bus to the Pokhara

Valley.

Pokhara is acclaimed to be one of the most picturesque places on earth. This is not at all an

exaggeration. From there one can witness the majestic presence of the historic Annapurna

mountain range. Snow capped mountain peaks tower into the vast sky. Mount Machhapuchre is an

awesome masterpiece of natural beauty. Gazing upon this panoramic paradise one feels a sense of

peace beyond the realm of time. I saw not a single tourist. Only a few brave souls eager to trek the

Himalayan Mountains. The heroic Gurkha warriors hail from this beautiful but rough terrain.

Mules struggled up and down the hills, carrying heavy loads. Farmers toiled in their fields.

Everything was very simple. I walked aimlessly, intoxicated by the natural beauty. From a lonely

one-lane road, I heard a sound that attracted my heart. The distant song of a flowing river. “Let me

reside on the bank of this river!” To reach it I had to climb down an extremely steep hill. The

hillside was a forest of numberless trees. As I was climbing I realized the hill was turning into a
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cliff. I could climb no longer. I noticed a small plateau, about ten feet wide. I went to rest. There I

found an incredible cave. It was about fifteene feet long and six feet wide. Just outside, facing into

the caves were ancient stone carved deities of Sita, Rama Laxman and Hanuman. They were

perhaps two feet high. It appeared that generations had passed since this forgotten place had been

seen by human eyes. Rejoicing, I made this my home. Early each morning I walked to the Phewala

Lake. Seeing me a sadhu, a local farmer offered me his canoe. It was really rustic. Carved out of a

tree trunk it could accomodate only one person. With a single oar I rowed my way to the center.

Within the lake was a scenic pagoda. I rowed closer. A larger canoe with three people and a goat

rapidly passed me. They brought the goat into the temple. I rowed closer, hearing mantras being

chanted. It was the temple of Goddess Barahi, a form of Durga. In that spectacular setting of

natural beauty, I smelled the stench of blood. Confused, I entered the temple. They had offered the

goat as an animal sacrifice. I was repulsed. I wished not to judge these simple people but I could

not relate to such worship. Rowing my boat far into the center of the lake I found complete

seclusion. I chanted the Lords Name till afternoon. In that magnificent lake surrounded by the

awesome snow covered Himalayas I absorbed myself in reading Bhagavad Gita. The sunset was

beyond words can describe. The snow capped peaks radiated in molten gold. The soft golden rays

of the sun danced whimsically with the lakes waves. The pure Himalayan sky was illuminated

with radiant colors. I felt so small, but so fortunate. In deep gratitude I chanted Hare Krishna Hare

Krishna Krishna Krishna Hare Hare Hare Rama Hare Rama Rama Rama Hare Hare until twilight.

I then returned to my haven, the cave. Sitting into the night I chanted. The sweet song of the river

below was my constant friend.

Sitting in the solitude of my cave, in the presence of the rivers symphony, I wrote a letter to a dear
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friend in Vrindaban.

I sit alone atop a massive rock in the river cavern in Pokhara Valley Nepal. The river fills my ears

with an endless melody. At times the song of the river sounds like a gentle whisper.

At other times it sounds like a perfectly harmonious choir chanting the holy syllable OM. As I

meditate deeper on the song of the river it secretly sings the name Radha, Radha, Radha, Radha.

The river knows.

I spent over one month in the blessed presence of Janakpur dham. Ramnavmi was a blessed day of

much darshan in the sacred temples. so much grace in the holy dham.

All of the letters sent to me in Kathmandu I just received a few days on my return.

Letter to a resident of Vrndavan from Pokhara ValleyNepal

What a blessing for someone like me to have such associates as those of Vraja.

Nay, no one could be lowlier than this wretched creature I so foolishly call myself. My mind is

like an open toilet pit. Which gathers all the filth of the 3 gates to hell ( viz. passion,anger,greed)

My selfish passions are like the towering Mount Everest while my devotion is like a single grain

of sand beneath a vast ocean of conceit.

And you my beloved brother can see something pure in me inspite of my passion. There is a

beautifully blossomed fragrant rose of divine love in the hearts of all beings. You, my brother are

like the skilled gardener who can see this rose while in the midst of a jungle of hideous thorns in

the form of my mind.

Your letter was very beautiful. I cherished each word you used to describe the Holy and the
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auspicious events of Vrajadham. So much I am overjoyed to receive any sort of message from a

devotee of lila bhumi. I thrill to think that in the midst of those sacred soils some one can think for

even a moment of me.

Radha, Radha, Radha, Radha, Radha, Radha, Radha, Radha… so blessed is this name. So much

mercy and so much grace does it contains. Let my entire being completely dive into the nectar of

prema. How impudent am I to have such high ambitions. I am like the lamed flea which dreams of

flying to most distant stars in the heavens.

O Radha please save your poor lost lamb whose caught in the midst of a pack of hungry wolves.

Only you Radha can bless a mortal with immortality.

O Radha please save your poor lost lamb whose caught in the midst of a pack of hungry wolves.

Only you Radha can bless a mortal with immortality.

Your insignificant servant,

Pokhara Valley, Nepal

For the next seven days I rowed my canoe to the center of the Phewala Lake. From sunrise to

sunset I prayed, chanted and studied Bhagavad Gita. During those days I hardly saw a soul, except

an occasional farmer or fisherman. On the seventh day as the sun was setting I softly spoke, “I say

goodbye to you, oh beautiful Pokhara. Tomorrow I must depart. How to leave such a place? I have

no choice, my Nepalese visa will expire the next day. Thank you for giving me such wonderful

inspiration to remember my beloved Krishna.” With these words I rowed to the shore. In the

twilight I walked through the seclusion of the fields. Crossing that lonely road I began the descent

to my cave. A common Nepalese bus passed behind me. I took my first step down the cliff.

Suddenly, I heard my name called. I thought, “Am I imagining this?” I turned around to see, the
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bus had stopped. Someone was running toward me. In the darkness of twilight I could not

recognize who it was. Standing still, I stared as this mysterious form ran toward me. I gasped, now

I could see. I leaped in the air in joy. It was Gary!!! Another miracle of God. Filled with joy I ran

toward him. In joy beyond bounds we embraced. We were together again!!! Tears of gratitude

filled our eyes. This shocking experience left us speechless. We could only repeat, “It is Gods

will!” Running behind was another familiar face. It was Steve, a roommate in college. I was living

in his home in Brooklyn when I received that fateful phone call from Gary, inviting me to Europe.

From that call my mysterious journey began. The three of us, mesmerized, stood under the stars on

that completely isolated hillside. I invited them to spend the night with me. They followed behind

as I climbed down the steep cliff. They were pleasantly amazed to see my residence. We sat

together on the earth floor of the cave. Gary told me, “we left Kathmandu this morning by bus. We

have come to Pokhara to trek in the beautiful mountains. Completely amazed, I saw you from the

bus window. I can’t believe we have met in this completely isolated place!” I exclaimed, “If your

bus would have passed ten seconds before or after it did. You could have never seen me! God has

miraculously brought us together again. I am very sorry but I must leave tomorrow at sunrise.” We

joyfully spoke together. Being exhausted, Steve went to sleep. Gary and I remained awake. We

had much to share. He also had lived as a sadhu, visiting ashrams and Holy Places. Gary was taken

aback, “Your father has sent you money. You are carrying hundreds of dollars. Still you choose to

live in a lonely forest cave.” His words inspired a realization in my heart. “It had been so long, I

had forgotten how to spend money!” On that moonlit night we shared our experiences and

realizations. It was such a mystifying setting. The silhouette of nearby mountain peaks bathed in

the moonlight. The constant song of the river below was background music to our words. We

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spoke until the rising of the sun. The moment had come that I must depart. With tears in our eyes

we embraced. Gary affectionately spoke, “May God continue to guide and protect you. I wonder if

we will ever meet again?” I gently replied, “If it is the will of God.” With these words I departed.

Boarding a peasants bus, I descended into the plains of Nepal. I spent the remainder of the day in

Lumbini, the birthplace of the Buddha. The next day I crossed the border into India. Although I

now had some money, I chose to remain as a mendicant. I knew no other way. By train I traveled

to Prayag, (modern day Allahabad). It was a dream to come here someday. This is the place of the

Kumbha Mela. Tens of millions of people gather to worship the Lord. I had read the glories of this

place in the scriptures. Here is the confluence of the holy rivers Ganges, Jamuna and Saraswati.

Coming off the train I asked a local man the way to the sangam (confluence). I reached the river

Ganges. I sat on her sandy bank, remembering the first days of my life in India. While sitting on

that rock in Rishikesh, Mother Ganges taught me lessons that molded my life. In Her eternal song,

I first heard the Maha Mantra, the chant that has become my very life and soul. I knew that if I

simply follow her sacred current, I will witness Her meeting with Jamuna and Saraswati (at the

confluence). The white sand was soft and fine. It was now noon. The burning summer sun seemed

to light the sand on raging fire. Long ago I had renounced the wearing of shoes. My bare feet were

scorched. The sand had become like blazing fire. It seemed impossible to continue. But I did,

loudly chanting Gods Holy Names. Every few minutes I bathed in the Ganges. Not only to purify

my life, also to cool my blistering feet. The walk seemed endless. Over an hour passed. Then, a

beautiful sight came before my eyes. I saw River Jamuna coming from Vrindaban. I bowed down,

remembering how she gave me sweet shelter in Vrindaban. I had prayed to never leave Her, but

Krishna had another plan. Jamuna wore the complexion of deep blue. Ganges was whitish. As
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they embraced, Saraswati joined them from below. Due to the burning heat of the summer sun,

there was not a soul to be seen. I left my few belongings on the riverbank. Reverentially, I entered

the sacred waters. After bathing, I offered prayers. A wave of youthful enthusiasm overcame me. I

wished to stay inside the water as long as possible. I did not know if I would ever come here again.

I decided to benefit from every part of the confluence by swimming across to the other side. The

flow of the Ganges was forceful, the Jamuna, gentle. The confluence was over a hundred yards

wide. As I swam, the force of the Ganges brought me to the other side. I came out of the water to

rest. I stepped onto the sandy bank. Helplessly, I began to sink deeper and deeper into the sand. It

was quicksand!!! I struggled for my life. I could not pull my legs out. They had sunk several

inches above my ankles. Gradually going deeper and deeper. With all my strength I struggled, in

vain. By Gods grace there was a bush within my reach. I grabbed it for my life. It was a thorn

bush. I clasped it with all my might. With bleeding hands, I pulled that branch, struggling to free

my legs. One was free. It immediately sank into its’ next step. With a great struggle, I somehow

released myself. Just enough to dive into the rivers. I was utterly exhausted, but free. In that part of

the confluence, I had to swim across Jamunas mild current and against the mighty flow of Ganges.

Mother Ganges was forcefully pushing me back, toward the quicksand. I swam with all my

strength, slowly moving forward. Exhaustion overwhelmed me. I could not compete with the

Ganges current. I was getting weaker and weaker. Despite all my efforts I was moving backwards,

toward the quicksand. My body was frantically struggling. My mind helplessly prayed. Suddenly,

hope appeared. A small fishing boat passed about two hundred feet ahead. An old man with a red

turban stood on the deck. While frantically swimming against the current, I screamed and

screamed for help. “Will he hear me?” Intensely praying, I cried out for help. He saw me. With a

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smile on his face he waved his hand in a forward direction. Then he passed right by me. Leaving

me to drown. There was no more hope to save my body from unconquerable fate. I thought, “It is

better to drown in a holy river than in that quicksand.” I gave up all hope of surviving. Chanting

the Hare Krishna Mantra I resigned to die in a holy place. The mantra brought me into a state of

peace beyond fear. Like the rising sun, a thought appeared in my mind. “Why did that fisherman

wave his hand forward? What did it mean? Yes, now I understand. He was saying, ‘do not go fight

against Mother Ganges. Go across her current by swimming with the current of the Jamuna.’ In

my passion, I never thought of that.” That fishermans wave of hand saved my life. As I was

carried across Ganges by Jamunas’ current, a startling thought came to my mind. “My passport

and all the money were left alone on the other side of the rivers bank. Now I am swimming in an

opposite direction. Will it be there when I return?” In the evening, hours later, I made it back to

that place. Hundreds of people were bathing. My belongings sat in their midst, untouched. I sat

down, surrounded by noisy crowds. My mind contemplated, “Before drowning in the river of time,

let me strive to drown in the ocean of Gods Love. I am so far away from that Love. Thank you

God for this lesson. It was not an easy lesson to learn. Hopefully, it will not be easily forgotten.”

That night I left Prayag by train. In the morning I arrived in the holy city of Ayodhya. Ayodhya is

the birthplace of Lord Rama. When I first arrived in this holy place I felt as if I had entered into a

royal kingdom. In the Ramayan the glories of Ayodhya are profusely extolled. Great saints and

sages have worshipped this place since ancient times. There were thousands of ashrams and

temples visited by pilgrims from all parts of India. On a hill, was an ancient temple of Hanuman.

There I met with a group of elderly devotees of Rama. Together, we sat for the whole day chanting

the Holy Names. It was a beautiful experience. I made my residence on the beautiful bank of the
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river Sarayu. The next morning, after bath I sat on the riverbank chanting on my prayer beads and

studying Ramayan. Then, with great eagerness, I walked to the site of Lord Ramas birth. What I

saw there was quite a shock. Barbed wire fencing was patrolled by dozens of armed military

soldiers. Inside the barbed wire was an abandoned Islamic Mosque. Outside was a platform with

about twenty sadhus chanting the Holy Names of Lord Rama. I inquired, “What is happening

here?” They did not speak English. I was confused. One of them gave me an English pamphlet. I

carefully read it. It told the story of this place. ‘Long ago a magnificent temple of Lord Rama

stood here. A Moghul conquerer named Babar tore it down and built a mosque in its’ place. The

Hindus consider this to be one of the holiest places on earth. Over the centuries Hindus and

Muslims have fought violently over the proprietorship of this land. Thousands of people were

killed.’ To subdue the conflict the government had taken control. Today, guarded by heavily

armed military no one is allowed entrance into the area. These sadhus have vowed to loudly sing

the Holy Names of Rama, twenty four hours a day until the Hindus are given control of their

sacred place. They were relentless in their mission. The government was adamant to protect the

public from the threat of communal violence. For generations this has been a bed of politics,

sectarianism, hatred and bloodshed. I contemplated, “In my travels I have discovered a unique

beauty in all of the worlds great religions. The essence is one, unconditional love of God. The

symptoms of any true follower are faith, self-control, love and compassion. Hatred and aggression

in the name of God is the sad reality of this world. It is the way of those attached to external forms

without understanding the essence.” Looking through the barbed wire I saw a wooden table at the

entrance to the abandoned mosque. On it was a picture of Lord Rama, garlanded with flowers, by

one of the soldiers.

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Ayodhya, the kingdom of Rama has a deep spiritual impact on the sincere pilgrims. I worshipped

the Lord on the bank of the holy Sarayu River. “Thank you, O holy Ayodhya. With your

permission, I will now return to my home, Vrindaban.” My heart was always yearning to return to

Vrindaban. I boarded an overnight train to Mathura. At Mathura I worshipped Lord Krishnas

birthplace with prayers. At Visram Ghat I gratefully bathed in the Jamuna. Visram Ghat is the

place Lord Krishna bathed after he liberated the cruel demon Kamsa. I walked along the banks of

the Jamuna for the eight mile distance to Vrindaban. While walking along bathing ghats, fields and

forests my heart was beating with anticipation, soon I will be home. From a distance I saw a

magnificent sight, the tower of Madan Mohan Temple. With folded palms I bowed. I had only

seven days before I was destined to return to the western world. My friends in Vrindaban were so

kind to me. They greeted me with great affection. I was told that two disciples of Srila Prabhupada

were now living in the Radha Damodara Temple. I eagerly went to visit them. Walking through

the stone carved gateway I entered a courtyard then the temple. The beautiful temple is the home

of Radha Damodar. Dieties worshipped four hundred and fifty years before by the great saint Jiva

Goswami. He is honored as one of the greatest philosophers who ever lived. He wrote many

books. They were based on the authority of the Vedic scriptures. Through philosophy, logic the

authority of the Vedic scriptures. He proclaimed to the world the science of pure love of God. His

writings on the philosophy and pastimes of Radha Krishna in Vrindaban have been the basis of

countless peoples spiritual lives through the ages. Behind the temple are the samadhis (sacred

tombs of many of the greatest saints in Vrindabans history. I inquired from the temple priest about

Srila Prabhupadas disciple. He brought me up a narrow stone stairway. I entered their room. I was

so very happy to see Gurudas and his wife Jamuna dasi. It was Gurudas who picked me out of a

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crowd of twenty thousand people and brought me to that stage in Bombay. That was the cherished

event when I first met Srila Prabhupad. Jamuna dasis’ devotional singing simply captured the

heart. George Harrison of the Beatles was greatly moved by her deep devotional musical talents.

George was very dear to Srila Prabhupada. He deeply believed in Srila Prabhupadas teachings.

George was eager to assist the Hare Krishna Movement in many valuable ways. He paid for the

printing of one of Srila Prabhpadas most important books. He later donated a mansion near

London to be a Krishna temple and Srila Prabhupada European headquarters. George produced a

record with Jamuna dasi singing the Maha Mantra on Apple Records. The song became the

number one song (on the pop charts) in Europe. All the devotees loved George and he loved them.

Gurudas and Jamuna graciously welcomed me. Srila Prabhupad had put them in charge of the

temple that was soon to be built in Vrindaban. I was deeply influenced by their love for their Guru.

They were constantly immersed in serving his instructions. They were eagerly willing to accept

any difficult task if it would please Srila Prabhupada. Their influence affected my heart. I

pondered, “Dedicating ones self to assisting ones Guru is the real substance of the devotion. I am

wandering around according to my own wishes, as a sadhu. This man and wife are showing me

what it really means to serve with love. They offered me lunch. On that day I discovered that

Jamuna dasi was one of the worlds best cooks. With little money or ingredients she could prepare

simple but incredible spiritual food. Where there is devotional enthusiasm great wonders can take

place. After completing my meal Gurudas brought me downstairs. We sat in a small simple room.

Its’ walls and floor were clay. Gurudas explained, “Srila Prabhupada had lived in this room from

1959 to 1965. In this simple room he worshipped Radha Krishna and his Guru with selfless love.

Here he translated and commented the first canto of the Srimad Bhagavatam, the essence of all

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Vedic scriptures. In 1965 he left Vrindaban with nothing more than his books and his spirit of

compassion. Now he is building a beautiful temple in Vrindaban. It will be a temple that will

attract people from all over the world to learn the science of loving Krishna. He has asked my wife

and I to oversee the project.” Jamuna dasi came to the door, informing Gurudas of urgent service

waiting. They departed. With a grateful heart I sat in Srila Prabhupadas room. I pondered the

purity of his love for God. I reflected on his immense compassion. How much he sacrificed his life

for the sake of lost souls. I meditated on his expertise to present profound philosophical ideas with

such simplicity. I had never met anyone quite like him.” In that room, a burning desire grew in my

heart to assist him in his mission.”

One day I was sitting with dear Ghanashyam in his simple temple. Three Brijabasis were also

present. The topic was that I was soon leaving Vrindaban. They offered very special gifts of

pictures and deities sacred articles to help me remember Vrindaban while I was away. One sadhu

told me, “Prabhupada has told us that he has started a New Vrindaban in America. He said that it

is not different from Vrindaban. Everyone is serving Radha Krishna and chanting Their Names. If

you must leave Vrindaban you should go to New Vrindaban and be a pujari (temple preist).”

My imminent departure was coming near. It was my wish that the last day I circumambulate the

Govardhan Mountain. My very dear friend Asim Krishnadas blissfully brought me by bus to this

most holy place. We began by purifying ourselves by bathing in the Manasa Ganga. Asim

explained to me, “When Krishna saw that the residents of Vrindaban wished to go on pilgrimage

to the Ganges. He brought the Ganges here by His minds desire.” Govardhan Hill is considered the

most sacred place in Vrindaban. Krishna effortlessly lifted this mountain with his left hand for

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seven days and nights to protect His devotees from a devastating rainfall. Radha Krishna and the

gopies (cowherd girls) eternally enjoy the purist pastimes of spiritual love at this place. By His

inconceivable power Krishna personally assumed the form of this hill to please His devotees.

While constantly chanting Krishnas Names Asim Krishnadas and I began the circumambulation.

We stopped at various holy sights to discuss the pastimes that Radha and Krishna performed there.

Hundreds of people could be seen circumambulating Govardhan. Such spontaneous devotion is

rare to be seen. Groups from local villages blissfully walked together while singing songs of

devotion. Both young and old, everyones hearts were united in worshipping Govardhan Hill. We

saw men and women bowing down in full prostration beside Govardhan. Stepping to where there

hands touched they would prostrate again and again and again. They were vowed to

circumamblate the entire Hill in this way. Govardhan Hill is 14 miles around. It will take them

months to complete. Others bowed in full prostration 108 times before taking the next step.

Perhaps this will take years. These simple people had such great faith. They were not idol

worshipers. With the support of scriptural philosophy they lovingly worshipped the all-attractive

Lord of their hearts. Cows, peacocks and monkeys roamed freely on the hill. Night came. The

moonlight was beautifully glistening upon the enchanting stones. Large stones that reveal the

charming opulence of Govardhan. I was mystified. The spiritual experience was sublime. Being

nighttime Asim Krishnadas and myself decided to rest on the banks of Radha Kunda. This is

considered to be the most sacred place of Govardhan. The water in this small lake is described in

scriptures to be the nectar of Radhas Supreme Love for Krishna. For hundreds of years great saints

have perfomed there worship on the banks of Radha Kunda. We visited the samadhi (sacred tomb)

of Raghunath das Goswami. Asim Krishna was overwhelmed with excitement to share what he

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had read about this extraordiray saint. “Raghunath das Goswami came from a loving, aristocratic

family. They possessed immense wealth and influence. He was the only heir to everything a

person could want in this world. He was young, handsome and had unimaginable luxuries to

enjoy. He left everything behind to come here to worship Radha Krishna with his life and soul. His

humility and simplicity were extraordinary. He was constantly absorbed in chanting the Holy

names and meditating on Radha Krishna. He only slept at most one and half hours a day. He ate

only a palmful of buttermilk in a day. He wore only a loincloth of discarded cloth. Yet his eyes

were always filled tears of love. He is the personification of the highest state of ecstacy.” We

chanted and prayed there in great reverence. The moonlight gently illuminated the sacred waters of

Radha Kund. We prayed and laid down to rest. An elderly sadhu sat beside us. He graciously

invited us to spend the night in his small room. His name was Krishnadas Baba. He hailed from

Kerala state in South India. He had come to Radha Kund long ago to dedicate his life to prayer and

devotion. We chanted the maha mantra together for some time. He boiled the peel from an orange

and added gur (unrefined sugar). He served that to us as tea, so simple yet so satisfying. After our

morning prayers we departed. We came upon an incredible palace. This was Kusam Sarovar.

Several hundred years ago this was built from intricately carved red sandstone. Perhaps the most

beautiful monument I had seen in all of my life. In front of it was a gigantic lake. Wide stone steps

surrounded the lake on four sides. The lake reflected the sprawling archetechtual masterpiece as a

mirror image. This is a place where Radha picks fragrant flowers for Krishnas pleasure. We sat

down. Struck with wonder I contemplated, “What a beautiful culture. Throughout history, love and

devotion to God has inspired the most wonderful gifts of the world.” We joyfully completed the

circumambulation and returned to Vrindaban. Alone I roamed about to the places most dear to my

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heart. I collected dust from the earth at each place, keeping it in a small cloth pouch. I felt that

with this pouch I can bring Vrindaban with me wherever I am destined to be. (This pouch was

given by a Tibetan Buddhist monk in the Himalayas.) I prayed to Krishna, “Wherever life takes

me, please allow me to always keep Vrindaban in my heart”. The next morning, Asim Krishnadas

accompanied me to the Vrindaban train station. There was only one train a day that went as far as

Mathura. On the train we discussed the glories of Vrindaban. We shared our favorite food,

Brajarotis and gur (unrefined sugar). The food of the common of peasants. Tears came to my eyes

as I revealed my heart to Asim, “I do not know when I will ever see Brajarotis and gur again?”

Smiling, he handed me a cloth bag. “Please open it.” I found it was filled with a dozen Brajarotis

and a large lump of gur. He knew my heart. At the Mathura railway station we stood together

waiting for my train to Delhi. On that railway platform I bid farewell to my dear friend. Together

we had shared unforgettable spiritual experiences. He was a true friend and brother. As I boarded,

tears filled my eyes. Asim smiled, “Vrindaban is Krishnas abode. If you keep Krishna in your

heart, your heart will be Vrindaban. I will always be praying for your return.” With folded palms

we parted with the words “Hare Krishna”. The train moved forward. I offered my deepest

gratitude to the Holy Land of Vrindaban, my spritual home.

In New Delhi, the evening before my departure, I sat in the Hanuman Temple. There I composed

a letter to my family.

Sri Radha

My dear family,

In a world limited by time and space one must cultivate patience. For until we can transcend all

this limitation we must endure all the trials of life. This world is like the sea and we are fishes
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swimming therein. The objects of the world are like the beautiful tender, delicious worm

gracefully tempting us to enjoy him. The wise fish has realized that there is an unseen hook that

waits to trap him and never let him free. So the wise fish sees the worm but indifferently swims by

freely. Then along comes the common fish, who sees no more than with his material eyes. When

he comes across the tempting worm his passions enslave his reasoning. His mouth waters and his

eyes passionately become fixed on the teasing movements of the worm. This poor fish plunges

forward and eagerly swallows Maya’s deceiving bait. No longer is he free, no longer has he a will

of his own, there can be no true happiness, no true peace, as long we allow this vicious hook to

enslave us. The Lord has the power to free us from all such sufferings if we only turn to him

truthfully and inwardly.

I have traveled many miles in the past 2 weeks. Bus after Bus and train after train. There was little

time between. This body feels tired and somewhat weary it tells me to take rest in a quiet forest for

some time but I have come to this noisy and agitated city to make some arrangements which I

must carry out in thought of those abroad. So I will do so.

How I long to live but a simple and quite life in constant remembrance of Our Graceful Lord who

ever plays with His Beloved playmates. Until that is given to me, patience and trust must be my

refuge. Devotion must be my only joy.

Be calm and let the river of life flow on. All that happens is for our eventual well being. I will see

you soon. Please, we must see more than what is in our minds. For the free will of one who

searches peace is his most precious possession. To try to deprive him of this is to try to empty him

of all lifes meaning.

Jai Radhey, Jai Krishna, Jai Vrindaban

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Love

Richard

I received your telegram and I will be soon be on my way.

At the New Delhi Airport I boarded an Air India flight to Aston, Belgium. I was not at all a

common sight for the passengers. I wore the simple robes of a mendicant. My baggage consisted

of a cloth bag around my shoulder and a metal begging pot. I sat in economy class. I was given a

window seat. The man beside me was from France. He was a chain smoker. He smoked his

cigarettes through the entire flight. I had not smelled a cigarette in years. I was choking. The

culture shock of returning to the west had already begun! When I saw the hostess serving the

meals I remembered the treasure in my bag, Brajarotis and gur. On that flight 15000 feet in the sky

I happily ate my Brajarotis and gur. Absorbed in remembrance of my spiritual home.

While in Brussels I took note of something very different. I saw men with business suits and

briefcases wearing long hair. In the 1960’s to wear long hair was an idealogical statement. It was

public display of being a radical member of the counterculture. Which rejected the establishment

and its’ norms. To wear long hair in the 60s’ was seen as a threat to conventional society. Those

choosing to do so were often scorned by the conservative. In places I had been persecuted simply

for my hair. I was seriously harrased by police on a number of occasions. It was common to

receive abusive words and threats. Something like, being an Afro-American in the south. The

difference was that we could cut our hair any time, if we so desired. Now long hair had now

become nothing more than a fashion. How things have changed since my departure from the west.

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It was my sincere desire to visit my friends in Holland. We shared many happy days together when

I was last there. I traveled to Abcoude, that simple farm town. My friend Kosmos lived there.

Upon my arrival his mother informed me that he had moved to Amsterdam. She wrote down his

address. My friends were very surprised with their unexpected guest. There was Kosmos, Chooch

and several more of my old friends. They joyfully greeted me with hand shakes and embraces.

Loud rock and roll music was blaring. A thin cloud of marijuana filled the room. Men and women

were laying together in passionate embrace. Some were drinking beer some were smoking

marijuana. An old friend offered me a joint (cigarette of marijuana). I sat there with my sadhu

robes, prayer beads and begging pot. My heart sank. I politely refused. Just one day before I was

living with holy men in Vrindaban. In this state of disorientation I contemplated, “What has

happened to my dear friends. How has their lives degressed to live like this?” Then I realized,

“Actually it is I that has changed. I am a different person. Our lives have gone in two very

opposite directions.” For about two hours we spoke together in the midst of that scene. They

cordially invited me to stay with them. Politely, I told them that I had to go. I walked into the

streets of Amsterdam. The entire environment seemed so foreign to me. How people dressed and

related to one another seemed so strange. I realized I was in a state of culture shock. Evening came

and I checked into a Youth Hostel. I was given the bottom bed of a bunkbed bed in a common

room. I laid in bed trying to adjust my mind to this drastic change. One day before I was in a quiet

holy place on the banks of a sacred river. Suddenly 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 was the striking of an earthquake. Then I understood. From

the bunkbed above came the sounds of passionate moans and groans. A young man and woman

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were aggressively having sex. 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?” Quietly, I left the hostel into the

streets. I walked the streets until morning. I sat in a small park to eat my remaining Brajarotis and

gur. In a bookstoree I saw Back to Godhead Magazine of the Hare Krishna Movement. In the back

was a list of their centers. At the top was Amsterdam. I noted the address. It was on the outskirts of

the city on Frankenstraat (street). Hitchiking, it took me several hours to reach. It was in an

apartment in a high-rise. With great relief and eagerness I knocked on the door. The man who

answered held a baby in one hand and a can of beer in the other. I smelled meat cooking in the

kitchen. Perplexed I thought, “Is this the way Hare Krishnas live in the west?” The man was quite

annoyed by this strange intruder. He sternly inquired something in Dutch. I meekly replied, “Is this

the Hare Krishna Temple?” Obviously disturbed, he replied, “He moved out of this place!” A bit

dismayed, I hitchhiked back to Amsterdam. I wrote a letter to my parents explaining to that I need

some time to adjust to the western world:

Hare Krishna OM Hari Bol

In the presence of Infinite grace we limit ourselves to these tiny minds that we call ourselves. But

the Lords flute forever calls us to His Eternal home.

An iron bird with a hideous roar has taken me from a blessed land and dropped me in a strange,

strange land. It appears to be a lost land of towering ego and incessant passions. I think back but

one week and recall a place where innocence and humble living was the crown of life. But now I

see the people seem to be selling out all sense of purity to selfishly arose the passions of their

brothers, to feed their own thirst. I have just come from a place where material resources were, by

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our standards “primitive” but the people of this place still cherished the purity and high thinking of

an ancient tradition. Here, in this western city I see highly intricate material resources but most

people live in crude consciousness. So it will take time for this mind to get adjusted to this strange

change of surrounding. The land road would have been a gradual change. But airplane change was

too sudden. But all will be well. The mind is bound to confusion the moment it begins to think

separate from God. The Lord protects those who, with a humble heart turn to Him. But because

this concrete heart of mine knows no humbleness I am exposed to all the strange phenomena of

this material life. We must strive to be humble. We must relinquish the ego of all we call our own.

Thus we may return to a humble state of love for God.

So I will rest here in Europe for a short while to adjust this mind and rest this tired body. Then I

will visit you beloved people.

All things are well in the long run. So rest your mind from all these grievances of the world. For

only then can we truly accomplish something worthwhile.

All love and all happiness are in turning to God for happiness.

I am only a few hours distant from you, so with love, I say that I will enjoy your presence soon.

Richard

Not knowing how to be a vegetarian in the west, I lived eating simply peanuts mixed with

yoghurt. Actually, I liked it very much. Because of the vagrancy laws I had to find various

secluded places to sleep. One day a very friendly hippie girl approached me on the street. Her

smile was beaming as she sweetly inquired, “Are you a Hare Krishna? I love your temple.” I told

her that I had just come from India and was looking for the temple. She wrote the address for me.
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The temple was on a narrow lane named Bethtanasrtaat. It was the red light district. On the lane

were prostitute houses. From inside picture windows the prostitutes tried to seduce passersby into

customers. A sign advertised in large letters, “SEX SHOP.” It sold paraphernalia for the cause.

This was a major change from the Himalayan forests. To the left was a garage door with a door

carved into it. Above it read a sign. “Hare Krishna Temple.” This was the first Hare Krishna

Temple I had ever visited. The devotees greeted me warmly. The president, Aksaya das spoke to

me. He could understand from looking at me that I had just come from India. He invited me to stay

at their temple until I returned to America. I graciously accepted. The cook was a French lady

named Kishori dasi. She was a master cook. Each day she prepared an incredible feast for all of

the devotees. I was extremely pleased to note how perfectly they had imbibed the culture of

devotion (Vaisnavism). They followed the same philosophy and lifestyle that great devotees have

followed through history. Each day we chanted in the streets. One day a passerby declared we

were a cult. I wondered, “Why does he speak such things. These people are strictly following a

religious tradition with scriptures over five thousand years old. I have seen with my own eyes,

millions of people following these ancient religious traditions. I have read the profound books of

this tradition written centuries before by greatly heralded saints. However, it certainly must look

foreign in the west.” One night about ten devotees went to the Cosmos (a spirtual center). We had

a slide show, lecture and chanting. Afterwards, the devotees left, unaware that they had left me

behind. I was speaking to a guest. I had a general idea how to walk back to the temple, but was not

sure. As I walked, I found myself on a main street. It was about 11:00 at night. The whole street

was lit up with neon signs. On both sides were discotheques, bars, night-clubs and houses of

prostitution. Hundreds of American sailors lined the streets. Live music blared from all sides. A

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prostitute grabbed my hand to take me away. I resisted. A group of drunken sailors surrounded me.

Seeing me as something strange. They ridiculed me with obscenities. Roughly they pushed me

back and forth with one another. In the meanwile one loudly laughed while pouring a pitcher of

cold beer over my head. I was alone in a very strange land. Finally they released me. I was in the

wrong place at the wrong time. It was a massive party scene, as roudy as it could be. I was utterly

lost. Rapidly I walked forward just to get away. Unexpectidly, I came to a lane. The street sign

read Bethanastraat. Down the block was the temple. The door was locked. I knocked. Opening the

door a smiling devotee exclaimed, “We have been waiting up for you.” I sat down to recover.

Sweet spiritual music played softly. Religious art decorated the walls. Fragrant incense mildly

filled the air. “Have some hot milk,” said the devotee. The milk was lightly flavored with banana.

In great relief, I looked around and thought, “I have come to an oasis in a spiritual desert.”

From Amsterdam I visited London. On 7 Bury Place near the British Museum, was the temple of

Krishna. It was buzzing with enthusiasm. They showed great kindness to me. I was impressed to

witness the genuine dedication these British devotees had. I spent about a week with them. I then

boarded my flight to New York City. When I came to the U.S. immigration desk a lady officer

carefully examined every page of my passport. She spoke to someone on the phone then stamped

the passport. As I walked forward, two large men with business suits stepped in front of me. They

looked frighteningly official. They flashed a wallet with a badge in my face then confiscated my

passport. In a deep commanding voice they ordered, “ We are federal agents, Come with us.”

They led me to a small private room. They stared at me as if I were a hardened criminal. With

intense authority one spoke, “You are being apprehended for smuggling illegal narcotics. If you

voluntarily surrender them and inform us where you got them, your punishment will be reduced!”
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I was not expecting this. I meekly replied, “I have no narcotics.” “We know for certain that you

do, surrender them or we will search you to find them. I warn you, do not make us angry!” They

began the search, thoroughly examining my bag. Finding the small pouch of Vrindaban dirt I

collected, they became excited. “What is this?” “It is dirt from a holy place.” He carefully

examined the dirt, rubbing it with his fingers and smelling it. Dissapointed he closed the pouch

and put it aside. One of the agents began a thorough frisk of my body. With great excitement he

loudly proclaimed, “I found them! I found them! The dope is here.” He felt a hard lump at to the

base of my back. “What is this he shouted in defiance?” “It is my loin cloth,” I replied. They had

obviously never seen a sadhus loin cloth. “Take off your clothes,” they demanded. I took

everything off except the loin-cloth. They were taken aback. They examined it carefully. “Put your

clothes on.” Politely, but very official, one of them spoke, “Sorry for the trouble. You have

Afghanistan, Pakistan and Nepal stamped on your passport. They are the largest producers of

opium and hashish. Naturally we are suspicious. It is our duty to protect America.” Handing me

my passport they escorted me through the customs, to the door. This was the welcome I received

after a long journey away from the USA, my homeland.

In North Miami, Florida I was reunited with my family. I left home as a teenage student going for

a summer vacation to Europe. I returned, years later, as a renounced monk, strictly following an

ancient eastern spiritual path. It was a wonderful reunion. My mother and father went out of their

way to show affection. Although not easy, they sincerely tried to understand my beliefs and way of

life. I sincerely tried to express my gratitude and love for them while upholding the values I held

sacred. Although our lives were very different, the love and respect we shared remained

prominent. Preserving loving relations in this world requires much forgiveness, tolerance,
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patience, gratitude and humility. I realized that I could not control them to be what I want them to

be. They realized they could not change me to live their lifestyle. I had grown up and found my

own path in life. I gradually learned that a virtue of humility is to love others for what they are,

despite differences. Judgementalism is often a symptom of insecurity, immaturity or egotism. I

learned from this experience that we should respect one another as children of God. God loves all

of His children. If I wish to love God, I must love those he loves. This is the universal spirit of all

the great saints. This sacred principle culminated in my life upon being the object of Srila

Prabhupadas’ compassion.

Let us pray to be compassionate well-wishers to those who may be different from ourselves. We

should try to enlighten others in a spirit of compassion rather than with a heart plagued with

hatred. We may dislike a disease, but should love the diseased. Every living being is part of God.

The potential to love God is in every heart. The propensity to be egotistic and sinful is a disease.

With prayer and compassion we can actually help others come to their original state of spiritual

health. I witnessed this quality in the great souls I had read about and personally met. We cannot

really give love unless we learn to love. Pure love emanates from the soul in a pure heart. That

love naturally flows toward the souls of others, despite external differences. Jesus taught that we

should even forgive our enemies with love. My coming home was a God given lesson on my

spiritual journey.

Srila Prabhupada embodied this sacred quality of compassionate love. After much searching,

studying and praying I had firmly decided to give my life to assist him in his mission. By His

Divine Grace, I realized that Vrindaban, (the kingdom of God) is a state of heart. Whether living

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in a holy place in India or a congested city in America if we harmonize our lives in the loving

service of the Lord, we can realize the eternal treasure of spiritual love.

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