In2-MeC

IBSA (ISKCON Bhaktivedanta Sadhana Asrama), Govardhana, India
15 January 2004

Sketches of a Devotee's Pre-Krsna Conscious Life in India

Back in the late 1980's I tape-recorded a series of interesting stories told me by an Indian devotee, whom I shall not name to protect his privacy. These stories relate his life as a young man from a South Indian smarta brahmin family, and trace how he gradually turned away from material life to Krsna consciousness. What you will read below begins in Salem, Tamil Nadu, while he was working in a branch of the TV Sundaram company.

It was the end of June, 1974. As per a recent agreement with the workers' union, the company was to dispense a semi-annual cash bonus along with this month's regular pay allotment.

Our department's job was to do the calculation of each employee's bonus percentage. But two of our men had gone on leave. SVS was in a fix--how would all this work be finished before payday, tomorrow?

I bailed him out by working late, doing the jobs of three men, including the arithmetic, the counting of the cash and the sorting of the pay envelopes. Shortly before ten o'clock, the night watchman came by the office and looked in.

"How can you finish all this tonight? It is that you're not coming to work tomorrow?"

I brushed him off with a confident grin, assuring him that I was nearly done and there were no problems. Nodding, he ambled out. But his suggestion that I would not work here tomorrow sunk in.

Right then and there my determination to go on with life as I'd been living it crumbled around me. The falldown with the prostitute gnawed at my heart; it had become just the first of a string of transactions with women of the night. Yet I continued to keep up an image of myself as a mystic. My mother was fed up with me. She had tried to arrange a marriage for me, but I had made such a bad impression upon the girl's family the arrangement was scotched in the egg. And on top of that, here I was, caged like a wild beast in the TVS organization. I wanted out.

I completed the work at ten. I signed the register for my own pay envelope and pocketed it. The watchman let me out of the building and through the security gate onto the street. I stood in front of the factory for a moment, gazing at its monolithic bulk that seemed to glow a sinister dull red under the harsh spotlights. "Not in this lifetime again", I swore under my breath.

I took an autorickshaw to my apartment in a low-class part of town, where I had lived since the business with Mani and the prostitute. My roommate at this time, Mr. Joseph, was the headmaster of a Christian school. It was his habit to drink whiskey every evening, and this evening he was dead drunk. I found the door to the apartment ajar, and him sprawled out on the floor with a bottle still clutched in his fist.

I left a note on my bedroom mirror to whomever would come looking for me on behalf of the company: "Please don't look further. I have left Salem. If I ever become useful I will come back. " I extracted ten 20-Rupee notes from my pay envelope and on the back of it scribbled a message for Mr. Joseph: "Please send this money to my mother. " Pocketing the Rs. 200, I lay the envelope and my apartment key on the floor mattress in his room; I knew this was one task old Mr. Joseph could be trusted with. After all, he was a good Christian.

I tiptoed around his snoring form and exited the apartment, closing the door softly behind me. It was almost eleven. The front door of the rooming house faced a through-city highway on which express busses to Madras drove. Waiting under a flickering defective neon tube struggling for its life amidst a swirling cloud of bugs, I was lost in my thoughts.

Soon a bus came and I stepped out into the street and waved it down. A skinny wooly-headed conductor with a few days growth of beard opened the rear door. I tried to enter but he blocked my way. "What's your destination?"

I asked back, "Well, where does the bus go?" He repeated his question and I repeated mine.

He cursed and shouted, "What a stupid conversation for this time of night! Just get in here!" I boarded and the bus roared off. After half an hour of eyeing me strangely at a distance, the conductor sat down on the next seat and said with a nervous laugh, "Now are you ready to tell me where you're going?" In a wooden voice I replied, "I'm still asking you where this bus is going. " He shook his head, muttered something to himself and then said wearily, "This bus goes as far as Arakkonam. " I paid the fare without further comment.

We pulled into Arakkonam shortly before dawn and I disembarked in front of the railway station. Nearby I saw a hotel. The only availability was a single room with a common bath and toilet across the hall from it. I took it.

I had no luggage with me, just the pants, kurta and slip-on shoes I was wearing, and my money. Dazed from the night journey and my own inner distress, I sat listlessly in the dingy room for a while. Soon I had to go to the bathroom. Stepping out into the hall, I noticed that a light was on in the room opposite mine. I heard a mother talking with her son and daughter inside--and I recognized the voices. This was the family of my uncle Balasubramanian from Kerala!

I froze, my heart pounding. Listening at their door, I could understand they were on their way to the pilgrimage town of Tirupathi to visit the famous Venkateshwara Swami temple, some seventy-five kilometers north of here. They would soon depart the hotel by car and would pay a quick visit to a Karttikeya temple just beyond Arrakonam at a place called Tiruthani. If they saw me now, my plan of leaving everything would fail. I withdrew silently into my room. Sitting on the edge of the bed in total anxiety, I said over and over to myself, "Why did I come to this town? Why did I take this lodge?"

At seven o'clock I heard them leave. With a bursting bladder I rushed into the bathroom and relieved myself. I immediately went downstairs and told the man at the desk, "I'm vacating. " His jaw dropped. "What! You just arrived!" I paid and walked out onto the sunlit street. Arrakonam, a small country town, had come to life with jingling bicycles, honking traffic and a group of marching pilgrims singing songs in praise of Karttikeya.

These pilgrims were villagers on their way to Tiruthani. Some of them carried kaveri, gaily decorated boxlike structures made from light wood. These they supported on their shoulders to ceremonially transport brass pots of water or milk meant for offering to the murti. I apathetically fell in step with them, having nothing else to do. Singing and dancing around me, they swept me along.

It wasn't many minutes before we had left Arrakonam behind. The pilgrims kept up their celebrations as we trekked across the arid, treeless and generally flat landscape. Sometimes the asphalt road we followed brought us near hills of huge boulders that reared a hundred meters or so up into the brilliant morning sky. But there were no houses. The countryside appeared uninhabited.

After about an hour we came to Tiruthani Temple, situated on the peak of a rocky hill. A big stone stairway rose majestically from the roadside to the entrance gate. The temple was crowned by a distinctively-shaped vimana (main tower). The shape signified that the deity within is Karttikeya. Around the building stood a high wall painted with red and white vertical stripes, a usual feature of temples in Tamil Nadu.

Tiruthani means "the lord's garden". Lord Karttikeya is believed to have landed here from Kailash (the heavenly abode of his father Shiva) and taken a little rest in a garden at the top of this hill. After that he went to the ocean shore at Tiruchendur and killed the demon Surapadma.

As I climbed up the stairs with my companions, they sang prayers asking favors from the murti. I was numb, almost catatonic when I got to the top. "What is my life for?", I moaned half-audibly.

At this point religion, philosophy and mysticism meant nothing to me, despite all my high-flown pretentions of the past. Utterly frustrated with myself, I would have welcomed death had I believed it would really end my existence forever. But I feared rebirth even more. I yearned for something to lift me out of my private hell. But at the same time I doubted there was any hope for me.

Now inside the temple's dark, massivly-pillared interior, the pilgrims fell respectfully silent. I shuffled listlessly before the murti of Kartikkeya. He stood between his two wives Valli and Devasena, the three of them black and glistening in the flickering lamplight. The priest chanted a prayer that said "May all the bad results of sinful deeds be destroyed by your spear. " With my eyes shut tight in desperation and my palms pressed together before my face, I prayed: "Please give me some direction. "

I stumbled out into the bright sunshine with a buzzing head and wearily started down the stairs. At a small mandapa I saw an wizened old begger sitting in the shade. I sat down next to him and we started talking. He asked me "Where are you going?", just as I asked him, "Where should I go?"

He looked at me a little startled, working his toothless jaws. "You're asking me where you should go?"

"Yes. I don't know where I should go at this point in my life. Give me a sign. "

"Then go to Tirupathi. "

"No, I don't think I should go to that place because someone who will spoil my plan has just left for there. "

"No, no, don't worry about that!" he snorted. His conviction caught my attention. "You must go there. Your plan will become successful; no one will stop you. " He then quoted a poetic couplet: "'When Kartikkeya was dissatisfied by not getting the fruit, he came to the south. '" This referred to Kartikkeya's losing a test of wits to his brother Ganesh, who received as a prize a fruit from the hand of the sage Narada; in frustration, Karttikeya retired from Kailash to Tiruthani, in South India.

"Karttikeya went south," the old beggar continued, "but you--you go north. "

I gave him a few coins and walked to the bottom of the stairs. Boarding a northbound bus, I rode across the Tamil Nadu-Andhra Pradesh border to Tirupathi. All the way I glumly mulled over why I was bothering to make yet another pilgrimage to another hilltop temple to see one more mute stone idol.

Venkateshwara Swami is one of India's most popular Vishnu murtis. He is known by the name Sri Balaji to pilgrims from North India, but Srinivasa is the name South Indians prefer. Srinivasa means "the Abode of Sri", Sri being Lakshmi, the Goddess of Fortune.

Venkateshwara Swami is one of India's most popular Vishnu murtis. He is known by the name Sri Balaji to pilgrims from North India, but Srinivasa is the name we southerners prefer. Srinivasa means "the Abode of Sri", Sri being Lakshmi, the Goddess of Fortune.

According to the Ramayana and the Puranas, in ancient times Lord Vishnu descended to earth from the spiritual realm as Prince Ramachandra. His consort Lakshmi descended as the beautiful Sita, Rama's wife. When the demon-king Ravana attempted to kidnap Sita, the fire-god Agni tricked him by substituting Vedavati for Rama's spouse. Thus Ravana took Vedavati with him to his island kingdom of Lanka, thinking she was Sita.

Vedavati is actually an illusory form of Lakshmi. She had previously appeared as a Himalayan yogini over whom Ravana had lusted; she flung herself into fire rather than endure the demon's attentions. As she disappeared into the flames, Vedavati placed a curse on Ravana, telling him she would return to destroy him and his dynasty. As Lord Visnu's divine energy, she could not be burned. The fire-god Agni kept Vedavati with him. Together they waited for Ravana to make his move against Sita. Disguised as a sage, Ravana enticed Sita to step out of a magical protective ring of fire so that he could abduct her. But as she stepped across the fire, Agni switched Sita for Vedavati. The real Sita was then sequestered with Agni.

It was Rama's purpose all along to destroy Ravana and his race of man-eaters. Accepting the mood of a husband whose beloved wife was in great peril, Rama attacked Lanka and destroyed Ravana and his kinsmen. But after recovering the illusory Sita, Rama ordered her to enter fire, as she had been defiled by the touch of a sinful demon.

Ever-faithful, she did as she was told--and Agni emerged from the flames bringing with him both Sita and Vedavati. Though Agni requested Rama to accept Vedavati as a second wife, Rama refused, saying, "I have vowed in this descent to have only one wife. I will accept Vedavati when I appear on earth as Srinivasa. She will then be known as Padmavati and be My bride. "

As Srinivasa, Vishnu wed Padmavati. But Lakshmi (Sri) came to disturb the marriage, claiming it was invalid because Srinivasa is always hers. As Sri and Padmavati quarreled, Srinivasa took seven steps back and became a murti. The heartbroken goddesses wailed in sorrow, but Srinivasa consoled them by telling them that they were both expansions of the same spiritual potency, the Vishnu-shakti. The two goddesses embraced each other and then stood on either side of Srinivasa. Indeed, Lakshmi and Padmavati assumed murti forms themselves.

The Venkateshwara temple is a religious magnet that yearly draws millions of pilgrims from all corners of India. A common sacrifice these pilgrims make is head-shaving, which is done by man, woman and child alike. The temple yearly collects millions of rupees in donations; much of this money is used to help the poor and provide facilities for pilgrims.

But in my dejected cynicism I wondered, "How is it that a stone in Tirupathi can attract so many pilgrims? Someone was really clever to think up this money-making gimmick. "

I arrived in Tirupathi around noon. I boarded a bus that ferried pilgrims to and from the top of Tirumala hill, where the temple and the surrounding complex is situated. The complex is truly a city in itself, for a staff of thousands--priests, administrators, workers and their families--permanently resides there. In addition, there are never less than five thousand visiting pilgrims, and often many more.

After leaving the Tirumala bus stop and walking past by well- kept blocks of adminstrative offices and pilgrims' guest houses, I turned down a wide paved promenade lined by stalls proffering all sorts of goods for sale. At the end of this bustling bazaar loomed the gopuram, an ornately carved tower that soared high over the front gate of the temple.

A queue of pilgrims stretched from the cavernous temple entrance around the side of the building and back into a series of waiting halls, all filled. I took my place at the end. It was two and a half hours before I got to the Deity.

But in spite of the long wait, I felt my despair fade as I slowly traversed a vast courtyard lined with row after row of ancient, intricately carved stone columns, on my way to the sanctorum sanctorum. As I ascended the few stone steps leading to the doorway of the Deity's residence, the excitement of the devotees burst around me in chants of "Govinda! Govinda!" We quickly moved through the crowded entrance area and down the right side of a long corridor that led directly to Srinivasa, suddenly visible over the heads of the throng in front of me.

The line moved swiftly forward. I kept my eyes fixed on the Deity and felt that whatever was drawing me closer was much more than the physical factors of the forward motion of the crowd. I was entering into an intense personal exchange with Transcendence.

At the end of the corridor was the darshan or viewing area. Now I stood directly before Srinivasa, black in color and bedecked with silver, gold and jewel-encrusted ornaments. The upper portion of the Deity's face was covered by Vishnu tilak, a U- shaped white marking worn on the forehead. The bottom of the "U" should normally just fill the space between the eyebrows, but a distinctive feature of this murti is that the tilak is oversized and covers the eyes. He wore a high conical silver crown topped by a rounded peak. His decorations shimmered prismatically in the light of the votary lamps.

A verse from the Bhagavad-gita crossed my mind: "Abandon all varieties of religion and just surrender unto Me. I shall deliver you from all sinful reaction. Do not fear. "

In the brief moment I stood before Srinivasa, I was moved by the remembrance of my mother's exclusive and abiding devotion to Vishnu as the complete form of the Supreme Truth, which other forms like Siva and Durga only partially represent. A verse from the Bhagavad-gita crossed my mind: "Abandon all varieties of religion and just surrender unto Me. I shall deliver you from all sinful reaction. Do not fear. "

The darshan area was supervised by young but stern-looking ladies who briskly ushered the pilgrims past the Deity, sometimes with shoves between the shoulder blades of those who lingered too long. I dared not tarry. I turned and followed the queue back up the other side of the long corridor to the exit, looking over my shoulder to get yet another glimpse of Srinivasa. Leaving the residence as quickly as we had entered it, the queue continued on its route through the temple compound to the front gate.

Coming out of the temple from beneath the gopuram, I wandered into the bazaar again. Jostled by the teeming shoppers, I reviewed the emptiness of my life. "Just as I'm being pushed to and fro in this marketplace, so I've been pushed from one fruitless pursuit to another, with nothing to show for it. " Remembering the Bhagavad-gita again, I decided I must attain that state of deliverance from all reactions to my foolish deeds. I would surrender myself to spiritual life and become a sadhu, a wandering holy man.

From a stall dealing in North Indian clothing I bought a lenga (loose-fitting pyjama-like trousers), a gamcha (a single piece of cloth that is wrapped about the waist as a bathing suit) and a four-meter length of cotton cloth. From another place I got some turmeric. Then I went to the Swami Pushkarini, the large sacred bathing pool next to the temple. Using the turmeric as dye, I colored the lenga and long cloth yellow and set them out to dry.

I got my head shaved by one of the straight-razor barbers squatting on the concrete steps around the pool. Removing my clothing, I put on the gamcha and dipped thrice into the holy waters. As I came out, a man passing by paused to apply a dab of moist white clay from a small brass bowl in his hand to my forehead, deftly making the tilak mark with one stroke of a finger. I took this as a sign of the Lord's acknowledgment of my desire to surrender.

After I and my yellow-dyed clothing had dried, I donned the lenga and wrapped my head turban-style with the middle part of the long cloth, bringing the two lengths of excess down from the back of my neck over the top of each shoulder. I crossed the lengths at the chest and tied them around my waist.

I placed my old shirt and pants in the bag I'd gotten from the cloth stall and left my slippers at the pool. I still had 150 rupies. I decided to donate this to Srinivasa.

At the temple entrance, I saw the counter for the "special darshan" costing twenty-five rupees. This allowed one to cut his waiting time in the queue to around a quarter of an hour. I decided to have six special darshans and exhaust my money.

Coming before Srinivasa the sixth time, I noticed that I was still carrying the bag of old cloth in my hand. In my mind I asked the murti, "You are known as Hari, 'He who takes away our material attachments'. How will You take this bag from me?"

As I exited the long corridor and entered the front room of the residence, I noticed a bearded brahmin sitting in a cordoned-off area there. He was stockily-built and bare-chested. His forehead, torso, arms and spine were adorned with twelve tilak marks, signifying him to be a temple priest.

As I exited the long corridor and entered the front room of the residence, I noticed a bearded brahmin sitting in a cordoned-off area there. He was stockily-built and bare-chested. His forehead, torso, arms and spine were adorned with twelve tilak marks, signifying him to be a temple priest. He was grinding paste from a block of moist sandalwood by rubbing it on piece of flat sandstone. I broke from the line and kneeled down near him to watch. The sweet-scented sandalwood paste mixed with a little saffron or camphor was applied to the body of the murti as a refreshing cosmetic. But the paste was usually smeared on the Deity just after the early morning bathing ceremony; it was strange that he prepared it in the mid-afternoon.

I was just going to ask him if there was a special puja (worship) about to happen when he looked up at me and asked, "What do you have in that bag?"

"Oh, just some clothing," I said, opening the bag so that he could see.

Noticing my old kurta, a style of shirt not often seen in South India, he said, "This shirt is very nice. If you're not needing it anymore, can you give it to me?"

I protested, not wanting to give a temple priest my old castoffs. But he was so insistent that I relented on the condition that he arrange a special darshan of Srinivasa for me, one in which I could stand as long as I liked before the Deity.

He readily agreed. He set the bag on a nearby shelf and took me firmly by the hand, leading me through the crowd to the long corridor.

The length of the corridor was divided down the middle by a special aisle about one meter wide that was sectioned off from the rest of the corridor by metal hand rails. This served a double purpose: it separated the incoming queue from the outgoing and allowed authorized persons a free route to the darshan area. One could enter this aisle through a metal gate where the donation box stood. A police guard in an olive drab uniform and beret was posted nearby.

The big bearded brahmin unlocked the gate with a key dangling at his waste and led me into the aisle between the rails. He strode ahead, pulling me behind him until we came to the darshan area where the pilgrims passed between us and the Deity.

He stood next to me while I viewed Srinvasa to my heart's content. I wanted to indelibly impress my mind with the form of the Lord, so I began by meditatively studying each part of that form, beginning with the feet. I gradually brought my eyes up to the Lord's two hands, the left one held in the mudra of pushing down misery, and the right one in the mudra of benediction. Just above shoulder level another two hands held the symbols of Vishnu (the disc and the conch). I studied the slightly smiling expression on Srinivasa's face and wondered if it indicated satisfaction or amusement, or perhaps something even deeper. Again I moved my eyes back to the feet of the Lord and repeated my meditation twice over.

After that I studied Sri on the Lord's right and Padmavati on His left. And then I took in the whole scene, including the backdrop of the sanctum sactorum and its floor and ceiling. I estimated I'd stood there for five or six minutes.

Finally I looked at the brahmin. He nodded his head and turned. Halfway back to the gate he motioned that I should slip over the handrail and leave with the line of exiting pilgrims. I did so, and he went ahead to the gate and let himself out.

When I got to the front room, I went back to his place, wanting to thank him before I left. But he was not there. Nor was my bag on the shelf. Nor was there even any evidence that he'd been making sandalwood paste some minutes before.

A little confused, I went to two other brahmins who were sitting nearby. "Excuse me," I spoke politely, "where is the bearded brahmin who was here a short while ago?"

They eyed me a bit strangely. "Bearded brahmin?" snorted one. The other laughed, "You think this is a Shiva temple?" True, I reminded myself, Vaishnava brahmins don't wear beards.

"He was making sandalwood paste over there," I pointed. One of the brahmins shook his head. "No, that's not done at this time. You'll have to come back at six tomorrow morning if you want to meet the brahmin who does that duty. He's gone home hours ago. "

Was I was dreaming now, or had been dreaming when I was with the man with the beard? "But he took me to have darshan through the gate. Didn't you see me?"

They both looked at each other and chuckled. One said, "We couldn't help but see you, because we've been here the whole time. You went through the darshan queue again and again. We thought you were mad. But you were not with a bearded brahmin, and you did not go through the gate. "

Leaving them joking merrily between themselves, I went to the guard and asked him if he'd seen me go through the gate. "Don't waste time here!" he shouted in Telegu. "Move along!"

"Please, just give me a moment," I implored. "I was brought through this gate a few minutes ago by a brahmin, and you were standing right here. Didn't you notice us?"

"And who do you think you are, the peshkar (head priest)?" he sneered. "It's my job to make sure only VIP's get through this gate. And you don't look like a VIP to me. "

"Well, in that case I think a miracle has happened," I gulped. He motioned me to the door and told me brusquely, "People have visions here every day. That's nothing special. Go home and don't worry about it. "

I came out of the residence in a daze.

Passing through the pavilion where prasadam (the sanctified food remnants of the Deity) is distributed, I accepted a plate of rice topped with dahl beans as my first bhiksha, or begged meal. I vowed from then on to live only by begging, and named myself Swami Atmananda.

After leaving the temple compound I returned to the bazaar, moving in the direction of the bus stand. I had to push through swarms of newly-arrived pilgrims excitedly rushing to the darshan queue. Finally I reached the thoroughfare where I saw some share taxis picking up passengers for the ride downhill.

There were eight people in a car closeby; a man called to me from the back seat and asked, "Would you like a ride down with us?" "Yes I would," I answered, "but I have no money. " He waved me over as the door opened: "I'll pay your fare, just come. "

I had to admit that despite all my doubts this clever trickster Lord Srinivasa had definitly changed my life for the better. I felt spiritually purified, completely refreshed and, for the first time in quite a while, optimistic.

I squeezed in and we started down the winding road to Tirupathi. All the way I was absorbed in deep contemplation on what had happened to me in the temple. I asked myself who the bearded brahmin could have been: "Perhaps Srinivasa come in disguise?" I doubted that. He surely wouldn't personally look after such a wretch as I.

My old skepticism reasserted itself: "The whole thing was imagination. " But I clearly remembered standing before the sanctum sanctorum for several minutes. So many pilgrims passed between where I was standing and the murti, and I could still see these people in my mind's eye--many with shaven heads, dressed in styles of clothing from all over India, all being hurried along by the female attendents. As I mused this over, I realized another very strange thing: I couldn't remember the form of Srinivasa at all. Just the silver conch and disc. The rest was. . . blocked.

'Well, maybe I didn't really stand there so long,' I ventured. But I simply could not convince my intelligence that it did not happen. After all, the bag full of clothing was gone. I recalled how I had mentally challenged Srinivasa to take even that last possession away; mysteriously, my challenge had been met.

At last I just shook my head and smiled to myself. 'It may be impossible to explain how it happened,' I told myself, 'but today I've been liberated. ' I had to admit that despite all my doubts this clever trickster Lord Srinivasa had definitly changed my life for the better. I felt spiritually purified, completely refreshed and, for the first time in quite a while, optimistic.

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