Vrindaban Days
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Vrindaban Days Memories of an Indian Holy Town By Hayagriva Swami Table of Contents: Acknowledgements! 4 CHAPTER 1. Indraprastha! 5 CHAPTER 2. Road to Mathura! 10 CHAPTER 3. A Brief History! 16 CHAPTER 4. Road to Vrindaban! 22 CHAPTER 5. Srila Prabhupada at Radha Damodar! 27 CHAPTER 6. Darshan! 38 CHAPTER 7. On the Rooftop! 42 CHAPTER 8. Vrindaban Morn! 46 CHAPTER 9. Madana Mohana and Govindaji! 53 CHAPTER 10. Radha Damodar Pastimes! 62 CHAPTER 11. Raman Reti! 71 CHAPTER 12. The Kesi Ghat Palace! 78 CHAPTER 13. The Rasa-Lila Grounds! 84 CHAPTER 14. The Dance! 90 CHAPTER 15. The Parikrama! 95 CHAPTER 16. Touring Vrindaban’s Temples! 102 CHAPTER 17. A Pilgrimage of Braja Mandala! 111 CHAPTER 18. Radha Kund! 125 CHAPTER 19. Mathura Pilgrimage! 131 CHAPTER 20. Govardhan Puja! 140 CHAPTER 21. The Silver Swing! 146 CHAPTER 22. The Siege! 153 CHAPTER 23. Reconciliation! 157 CHAPTER 24. Last Days! 164 CHAPTER 25. Departure! 169 More Free Downloads at: www.krishnapath.org This transcendental land of Vrindaban is populated by goddesses of fortune, who manifest as milkmaids and love Krishna above everything. The trees here fulfill all desires, and the waters of immortality flow through land made of philosopher’s stone. Here, all speech is song, all walking is dancing and the flute is the Lord’s constant companion. Cows flood the land with abundant milk, and everything is self-luminous, like the sun. Since every moment in Vrindaban is spent in loving service to Krishna, there is no past, present, or future. —Brahma Samhita Acknowledgements Thanks go to Dr. P. S. Hari Prasad (Shyamkunda Das) for taking me to many places in Braja and patiently explaining much that was incomprehensible. Thanks also go to Yamuna Devi Dasi and Guru Kripa Prabhu for their talks, and to the publication staff. Paramahamsa Krishna Swami, production; Indra Pramada Prabhu, cover and photo layout; Kalki Avatar Prabhu and Gadadhar Prabhu, typesetting, and Rukmini Devi Dasi, proofreading. CHAPTER 1. Indraprastha October 20, 1972 As dawn brightens the horizon, the Boeing 747 circles New Delhi. The Indo-Gangetic plain spreads beneath us, and the misty earth assumes the shapes and colors of a land marked by man’s toil: a vast network of roads and buildings, and, on the city’s outskirts, the green and ocher patches of small farms. With seven thousand people per square mile, this is one of the world’s most densely populated areas. In the capital itself are some four million people, most now joined in the bonds of sleep. This is a fertile country, though subject to periodic droughts. It’s parched by the sun in May and June and flooded by monsoons in July and August. During monsoons, great river systems carry silt from the Himalayas to fertilize the soil and feed India’s millions. These are the sacred rivers: the Ganges—flowing from the lotus feet of Vishnu and down the hair of Shiva—and the Jamuna, flowing past Indraprastha, Mathura, and Vrindaban, the abode of Krishna. Ancient texts call this land Bharatavarsa, kingdom of Emperor Bharata. Empires have flourished here from time immemorial, composed of people as varied as the Pandavas and Kauravas, Dravidians and Aryans, Mauryans and Guptas, Muslims and British. Five thousand years ago, Lord Krishna, demigods, demons, and warriors chose it as their stage for both spiritual and military exploits. At that time, Delhi was named Indraprastha and was celebrated as the capital of Yudhisthira Maharaj. Lord Krishna Himself helped Yudhisthira regain his kingdom during the Battle of Kurukshetra, fought on the plains about ninety miles north of here. Lost across centuries now are those battlecries, the rattling of chariots, galloping of horses, and blowing of conchshells. No signs of any cataclysm have ever been unearthed at Kurukshetra, although tradition says that thirty million soldiers died there in 3138 B.C. “At that time, Krishna, smiling, in the midst of both the armies, consoled the grief- stricken Arjuna.” I can see Palam Airport’s blue lights, which disappear momentarily as our wings tilt. The plane descends onto the runway, its wheels bouncing lightly. The engines reverse and cabin lights flash on. “Please remain seated until the aircraft has come to a complete halt …” I gather up my handluggage—camera, film, shaving kit, notebooks, Bhagavad Gita, japa- beads—and file out onto the portable staircase leading down to the terminal buses. A hundred scents assail me, conjuring images of my first trip seven years ago: the smell of cowdung fires, of banyan, of wild date palm, mango, eucalyptus and margosa, of cardamom and turmeric; pungent smoke from fried chili and cumin sauce and bidi cigarets; car and bus fumes, and the peppermint smell of pan-betel nuts that stain the mouth red-whiffs of jasmine and henna incense, and nameless odors that evoke memories. The bus shuttles us across the tarmac to the main terminal, where passports are stamped and visas checked by drowsy officials. Luggage from previous arrivals is thrown everywhere. Tired and irritable travelers search out their bags, shoving and shouting. The conveyor belt is stuck, and our luggage is thrown about by workers to whom nothing is fragile. My duffel bag is tossed on one of the heaps, and I start pushing my way forward. I secure my bags, then stand helpless. It’s impossible for me to carry all my luggage. Before me appears a round, dark face with big eyes outlined with kajal mascara. A piece of burlap is wrapped around the head, coolie-style. He places one small, grimy hand on my duffel bag. “Porter, sahib? I carry?” He’s about eighteen, short and wiry, dressed in a dhoti and wearing a T-shirt saying “I can be your super-everything.” With all his strength, he heaves the duffel bag onto his shoulder and then onto the burlap head-pad. There’s a sudden bond between us: out of 600 million Indians, he’s the first to speak to me. He staggers a bit, then regains his balance. The dark eyes plead: “One dollar, sahib.” His forehead wrinkles under the load. His neck veins bulge. “Oh no,” I say. “No American money.” “One dollar, sahib,” the boy repeats, moving as if to set the bag down. But I know he won’t, after the struggle to lift it. “Two rupees,” I insist. Despite the load, he manages to waggle his head from side to side in that typical Indian gesture of assent. We push our way to the customs counter, where a uniformed official asks what’s in the duffel bag. “Personal belongings,” I answer, and he motions for the coolie to pass on. Changing dollars at the Bank of India exchange counter is a slow process, involving quadruplicate forms. I finally get a fistful of rupees, then follow my coolie out of the terminal doors. A ten-foot fence protects me from a mob of shouting cabbies. “Right here, sir. I take you to good hotel close by. Twenty rupees only. Just see. Come. My taxi just here, sahib. Pay whatever you like. Best five-star hotel, sahib, air-condition, close by … I’m too exhausted to haggle, and they know it. For me, instead of six a.m. Thursday, Delhi time, it’s six p.m. Wednesday night. It will take some days to reset my metabolism. The airport has a taxi-booking counter which is supposed to keep foreigners from being cheated and prevent taxi drivers from killing one another to get to them. However, once again I find myself confronted with quadruplicate forms. “Where do you want to go?” a chubby woman asks. “I don’t know,” I reply. “You must have a destination,” she says. “I don’t know,” I repeat. “You can’t book a taxi without some destination,” she insists. “Connaught Place, then,” I say, naming Delhi’s commercial center. “Best you go to Hotel Moti Mahal,” she says. “That’s near Connaught Circle. Twelve rupees.” I pay, then hurry across the parking lot, following my coolie. He finds my assigned taxi, number 40002. A turbaned Sikh driver collects my booking receipt and begins to argue in Hindi with the coolie. All I can catch are the words “Moti Mahal.” My duffel bag is finally dumped in the trunk, and I offer the coolie his two rupees. This he declines, holding up five fingers. “Five rupee,” he says. I put four rupees into his shirt pocket and get in the cab. The coolie shouts, and the Sikh shouts back, defending me now that I’m his client. We drive away, and I look back to see the coolie counting his rupees and smiling. Apart from the taxis coming in from the airport, the city’s streets are vacant. A few homeless families sleep on sidewalks, beside fences and gates, in open parks, on grass plots, in doorways, on traffic circles before the massive Parliament Building, at the feet of Victorian monuments, and beneath the sundial and surreal pinkish obelisks of the Jantar Mantar Observatory. Now, a few people begin to stir, their woolen blankets still wrapped around them despite the pleasant October morning. The comer pan, cigaret, and chai stands, always first to open, are still closed. My driver takes advantage of the scant traffic, running red lights joyfully. “From which country you are coming, sir?” he asks. Our eyes meet in the rearview mirror. Even for a middle-aged Sikh, he’s a fatso. The hairnet covering his beard makes him look like a turbaned panda. “U.S.A.,” I answer. “You Essay,” he repeats. “America. Too much rich country, no?” “India’s also a rich country,” I say.