Memories of the Dhama -

A few folks responded to the poll about favorite practices by saying that the dhama was the most potent and accessible anga for them. So let's hear examples of events, interactions, and feelings that make the dhama such a potent force in our lives.

My son, "Nodie," reminded me of an event the other day. I don't recall how the conversation started but at one point he suddenly said, "Why did that lady give us candy?" I had to rack my brain to figure out what he was talking about but as the context was Vrindavan, I remembered an incident when we were at Varsana. He hadn't been feeling well that day and we soon lost the parikrama party along the paths as he needed to "use the facilities," which was an event in itself due to the lack of walls and roof and the presence of goats, hogs and monkeys. We heard the kirtan off in the distance for some time but then it stopped and we couldn't tell whether they had gone to Mor Kutir, Man Mandir, or had visited them already and headed straight through. So we set about wandering the paths alone. It was quite hot and he was incapable of walking so it wasn't a meditative parikrama. But as we wandered alone the beauty started to seep in. We reached that small group of kutirs along the central path and an old Vaisnavi was outside making a fire to cook. She took one look at my son and started to chuckle warmly, moving over towards us as quickly as she could with her bent frame and aged legs. She caressed his face, smiling broadly, and said, "Radhe Radhe" many times. After beckoning us to wait, she went inside her small hut and returned with an old can. She scooped out the contents of the can and placed the rock candy into our hands. It tasted like rust but the sweetness of her gesture was so touching.

What more could you want in life than the kindness of the ladies of Varsana?

Actually many years prior to this I recall visiting Radha Gopinatha mandir in Vrindavan and receiving an insight into bhakti from another wonderful old Vaisnavi. I entered the temple and found it deserted apart from one very old lady standing slightly to the side of the altar. With an aged and broken voice, she was singing her heart out to Radha and Gopinatha. After a few moments, her intensity and purity hit me. I distinctly remember feeling so foolish dressed in saffron cloth and wearing the arrogance of youth and a little learning. That which I held in such high esteem suddenly seemed like a burden. I didn't know the song that she was singing--not just the words, but the language.

I am too inattentive to my memories. There are, of course, so many. The most important for me, I think, is that when I was ill with malaria in Puchari, I had a dream vision of my guru and Bhaktivinoda Thakur coming to encourage me. This was approximately at the time of my guru's disappearance from the planet.

Of course, that happened a long time ago. Those kinds of events need to be renewed. Even the greatest epiphanies can become stale, forgotten or dead.

QUOTE

What more could you want in life than the kindness of the ladies of Varsana?

Last spring, Madhava and Malatilata guided us through Varsana, it was my daughters’ first visit to the area. The kind young lady of Varsana (and Radhakunda) in my daughter’s memories will always be Malatilata. Her effortless, gentle devotion for the dham made an impression on the children that will undoubtedly remain. They felt their guide wanted to share with them the sweetness she herself experiences as a resident of the dham. This genuine act of giving inspired gratitude, and gratitude then takes care of keeping the memory alive. Thank you Malati, especially for that little dance at each corner of the kunda...

I don't know if my feelings for the Dham center so much on a metaphysical or serendipitous experience there, though I had a couple, or more on a day to day season to season relationship to a place where everywhere one turns is the smiling face of the Thakurji, and every dusty village and pond holds some mark of His prescence 5000 years ago.

The freshness of the spring with it's festive mood and the scent of baela. The summer when the heat drives most visitors away, and all is peaceful. The monsoon when the aroma of kadamba flowers scents the air and black rainclouds blow in on a cool breeze. The magical energy of Kartik and its throngs of pilgrims. The cool serenity of Winter when it is pleasant to wander outdoors all day.

The beautiful trees. The sweet bhajans wafting through the air as one wanders. The hazy, mystical sunsets and sunrises. The sight of countless bhaktas and sadhus of all types. What to speak of Girirajji!
I think, to set foot in the Dhama and simply look around is itself smaranam. It's to be inundated with Krsna at every moment, while awake or asleep, pure or impure, learned or foolish.

If it wasn't for the Dham I would have little faith in Krsna I think.

I thought I would come back from the Dham
enlivened and spiritually renewed.
I have come back an alien more than ever.

I have been preaching that after the great mystical
experience, one comes back into the world,
imbued with divine sight, radiating love.

Like the gopis after the Rasa dance,
whose husbands would have had the illusion
that they had never left, so was it to be for me.

But the world is now to me like a thousand scorpions;
the prospect of living without the clanging bells
of a mangal arati in the near distance,

of wailing chants of Gita or some sect's songs
bundled in the mist of crows calling and
peacocks miauling and morose dogs yelping,

seems like an unending burden of emptiness.
The world is empty without you, Govinda.
In your absence, the world is empty.

Michael Cassidy (Mangalananda das) –

Oh Govinda

Oh Lord the sun's effulgence hides Your face

Your blissful form lies far beyond my eyes

But now Your wonders call my heart's embrace

As dawn displays your beauty in the sky

The rainbow shows the colors of Your dress

The movements of the moon reflect Your mind

Your smiling is the cause of happiness

And love exists because You are so kind

Oh Govinda within my heart, Celestial herdsman lotus eyed one

Your precious gift of love impart, Oh you who stand behind the sun

You're the one, You're the one in my heart

Rolling rivers flow forth from your veins

The clouds that fill the sky come from Your hair

The seeds of life are watered by Your rains

And from Your breathing blows the might air

My Lord you are the source of all I see

Your movements are the passing days of time

You are the resting place of all that be

And love exists because you are so kind

Oh Govinda within my heart, Celestial herdsman lotus eyed one

Your precious gift of love impart, Oh you who stand behind the sun

You're the one, You're the one in my heart

On my recent visit to Radhakunda I was fortunate to have had the direct darshan of Ananta Das Baba. He was naturally very kind to me and in his presence I felt sheltered and welcomed. His sweetness was exhilarating - very attractive, but like a self conscious fly I felt the need to remain in my place, did not want to fabricate any closeness by any degree of assumption. He made himself available as much as he could. It was Advaita Acarya’s appearance day and I asked Baba if, on praying to Krsna to descend to this world, Advaita Acarya knew he was not getting Krsna really, but Caitanya Mahaprabhu instead. I asked if Advaita Acarya knew he was receiving more than he had “bargained for”. Baba replied that indeed the great Acarya prayed for Krsna but received Caitanya Mahaprabhu. “Was then he surprised by Caitanya Mahaprabhu’s descent?" I asked. And Baba confirmed, “Yes, he was surprised”, completing the answer with a smile.

QUOTE(Anand @ Jun 15 2005, 10:37 AM)

Oh- chills!

I feel a poem coming on
it’s a throwback to those prehistoric beatnik poet days
of lugubrious self-indulgence
those golden black days of streams of consciousness
all that missing the point without missing a beat
dripping humid in the foggy dark night of the soul.

Oh yes, all that crucifixion residue
and public self-flagellation--nothing new.

So unlike Braj.

Where the gopis
     seem ever-playful even in the darkest times--
     they imitate Krishna’s pastimes.
They sing the blues
          the deep dark blues of the Yamuna's waves,
          the deep dark hues of Krishna’s skin.

[indent=45px]They suffer their dark nights
with the moon turning the black waters gold
     and the sands silver.

Their agony turns into a game
of mime and mimicking Krishna’s works.
Heroically laughing and calling to their friends,
     “Have no fear, I am Krishna.
     I’ll protect you from the storm;
     It’s to save you from all this pain that I was born!

     Don’t worry about the viraha flame that burns your core—
          I’ll swallow it, like I did twice before."

They mock the trees and vines,
Though they need to know where Krishna’s gone,
they know he’s under every stone,
they know he peeks from just beyond.

And those are songs they sing, not cries for pity,
they are acting out skits
and testing their wits.
They cry, but in each other’s arms,
and where’s the pain for all of that?

     They have found a new way of doing pain
     that looks as fertile as the summer rain.

They had that moment, which they lost for pride,
but was their moment, however brief, not worth that pride?

There they are, filling the Dham-shaped black hole I have inside
     with their golden drops of worthy pride.

I felt a poem coming on
     T'was to have been a Ginsbergian
          Ferlinghettiesque
               Kerouwhacky sort of thing

T'was to have been a howl, going on and on,
But now, I'm glad, that urge is gone.

[/indent]

QUOTE(Jagat @ Jun 13 2005, 04:32 PM)

.....
Even the greatest epiphanies can become stale, forgotten or dead.

"Epiphanies" do not die
Only those who bury them
Forgotten

I mostly remember
the train ride
from Tundla to Burdwan.

Warm with the glow of Braja,
I stood between bogeys,
the door open, hanging in the wind,
my japa beads in my hand,

watching the morning breezes
as Bihar and Jharkhand
go trundling by.

The barren, stoney hills,
the villagers shamelessly
crouching bare-assed
in their bare fields.

The tal trees,
the gleaming white turret
of Mahavir's birthplace,

All rolling by
in the long, clear, sunny sky,
into busy Durgapur

and the endless green
rice fields, banana bagans,
and coconut trees of Bengal.

The excitement
of coming home
to Gaura Dham.