Appreciation for a Vaishnava

Last night I slipped out of the Bus Tour party at Shanti’s to visit Radhe Shyam. As I parked and walked to the temple in the steaming night, the stars shimmering above, I felt so at home, so at peace. I offered my obeisance to Srila Prabhupad, then began to put mats away, the mic away, and adjust the lights, ever the custodian.

Just as the conch shell blew, Bali walked in. Slightly surprised to see him, we smiled and hugged. I settled down with the harmonium, and as Bali sat next to me with a mridanga, he said softly, “I can only play softly; my shoulder hurts,”

“Still?” I asked, a flutter of worry crossing my chest. I remembered it had been paining him at LA Rathayatra.

“Yes.”

The curtains opened, and I offered my obeisance to my beautiful Radhe Shyam and Gaura Nitai. I began to sing. Bali played softly. As I picked up the pace of the bhajan, there was a point where Bali had to stop playing drum to massage his shoulder. But he jumped back in again, although very softly.

I usually don’t hear Bali sing in the response during kirtan, but last night, he sang.

After the arati, I approached him, “Thank you, Bali, for playing mridanga. I know that to play is painful for you and you played anyway even though you didn’t have to.” I asked him about his shoulder, “Is it from playing mridanga?”

“Oh, I know it’s from playing mridanga,” he said despondently.

“You know, I can empathize because I twisted a bone in my foot and to dance now is painful at times. I just think, ‘Oh Krishna, why? To dance is to live!’”

“I don’t even want to think about it,” he responded, turning away. “I don’t know what I’ll do. This is the end of my devotional life, I swear,”

We bid goodnight, and he walked away chanting japa.

Bali’s indomitable spirit has inspired me in so many ways, and to see him dejected has affected me. In the past, I actually wondered sometimes what Bali would do if he could not play mridanga any more, for it has been a part of his identity his entire life. I even asked Bali himself what he would do. And yet he had replied, “I would be devastated, but life goes on.” He had paused. “I would find another way to serve the Vaishnavas,”

I pray that his shoulder heals and that this will all just be a memory. I remember in LA when I had lead the kirtan during the Santa Monica harinam, and he had been right by my side, the heartbeat of the kirtan, serving the Vaishnavas.

Thank you, Balaram Chandra, for inspiring me.

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Money and a Deadline

[The following is an essay that I wrote for an Honors scholarship application. I addressed the prompt: "Describe your most exciting and rewarding educational experience." My Honors professor chuckled and remarked, "Well, there's nothing like money and a deadline for inspiration." Wish me luck. I'll find out if I've been awarded mid-July.]

Essay – Bhakti Roberto (0700-6689)

I have never taken a music lesson in my life. And yet, here I am facing nine expressionless teenage girls… and they’re my students. For an entire semester, I’m going to teach them the basics of singing and rhythm. But as of right now I realize I’m getting something I hadn’t bargained for – these girls are going to teach me what it takes to reach them.

What have I gotten myself into?

We commence class, and as I outline my curriculum, my stomach sinks slowly, gazing out to listless faces. “Any questions?” I ask rather nervously. Silence. I try a new angle. “Um, does anyone have any experience in leading kirtan before?” [Kirtan is a form of worship singing call-and-response.]

One girl tentatively raises her hand.

I smile. “Nice, Nanda.” I pause and mischief flickers across my mind. I challenge on the spot, “By the end of this semester, each of you will have lead at least one kirtan,” Gasps go round the circle.

“But, we can’t – can’t do that!” one girl stammers.

I grin. “Oh yes you can.”

So begins the most exciting and rewarding educational experience of my life. Teaching isn’t like being a radio, broadcasting information. Rather, I have found, teaching is a bit like playing basketball, and the ball gets passed from one player to another… and I’m the coach. The players create their game, and I help them play their best.

But coaches aren’t born – they’re made. One day I show up late, and the entire class is scattered. I’ve learned a lesson. From then on, I show up ten minutes early, every class. I learn that no relationship grows without respect.

One day I coax and cajole a girl to sing but she refuses like a mule. I stay after class with her to chat and laugh with her, barely discussing music. Lo and behold, our very next class… she sings. I learn that no joy of knowledge from a student grows without friendship with the teacher.

The last day of class, I glance around at these girls who I have grown to love, and that they will soon scatter to all corners of the world. Who knows when I’ll see or sing with them again? I learn acceptance.

The day several of my students will be graduating, I’m rushing about finishing their end-of-semester project. I arrive late. Too late. I’ve missed the graduation ceremony. When I arrive, one girl rushes up to me and gives me a huge hug. “Hey, Bhakti, you missed the graduation!” she exclaims.

“I know,” I say glumly. “I’m so sorry.”

“You know, Nanda mentioned you in her graduating speech,” she says.

“What?” I ask, astonished.

“She said that through your music class, she learned to sing through having you as a friend,” she smiles. “You made an impact, Bhakti.”

I pause and feel tingles spiral down my spine. I close my eyes for a moment. An impact.

“Yeah, and you missed it!” she adds, grinning. I laugh and punch her on the shoulder, and then we run over to where all the girls are. I hug every one, especially Nanda.

Now, it’s tradition at this school that they throw the graduating girls into the pool, sari and finery and all. When every one of those freshly graduated girls, shrieking and on the verge of tears, are dragged into the pool, they turn renegade and cry out, “The teachers! The teachers!”

Eyes turn to me. Oh god. Help me.

I’m attacked! Chased down, five girls finally capture me, kicking and screaming. They haul me to the edge of the pool, and with one final scream they dump me into the water in my beautiful, new, red sari.

When I reach the surface I glare scathingly at my students laughing from the edges of the pool and those next to me… and break out laughing and smiling, exhilarated. Well, I did kind of deserve it for missing the graduation.

I learn that love comes in unexpected ways.

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Reminisce…

Sometimes my mind turns to Mexico and the beauty and adventure of such a vivid country. The photos transport me right back there, so here is a little photo essay to glimpse into the eye of the winter 2005 – 06 Bus Tour.
Group shot at Mexico city temple. I believe one of my coolest experiences in Krishna Consciousness happened here. After the Sunday Feast kirtan, most of the Bus Tour troupe left during Bhagavad-Gita class for the simple fact that, well, it was in Spanish. And yet I stayed… and understood every word. I sat there, utterly enthralled. I experienced – didn’t just read about – that Krishna philosophy reaches into every corner of the world, no matter the culture or language. Srila Prabhupada ki, jai!On top of the Pyramid of the Sun, you can see the Pyramid of the Moon over our shoulders. Yeah, this WOULD be those ghastly pyramids where they sacrificed millions of people to the Sun God, believing the sun would not rise if they didn’t do so (which I think is a load of B.S. … I think the priests were power-tripping.)“This New Year’s harinam is INSANE!!!” We rocked it out in La Plaza de Los Toros in Mexico City. In about twenty minutes, hundreds of people in the Plaza were dancing and smiling with us. We were already 45 minutes into 2006 before I glanced at the giant clock and realized it was a New Year. That’s how amazing this was.
A clearer idea of the insanity. And no, that’s not really Bus Tour or Mexico devotees. Those are the Mexicans.

These little Mexican village boys were hilarious! (Spiderman? Batman?) They joined us for campfire bhajans and absolutely LOVED us.Turns out they loved Lord Jagannath, too. Check out the boy in the striped shirt’s expression.

I sang in the shade, closing my eyes, listening to the ocean and feeling the breezy shade of the waving palm tree above me. Then, a boy I had been playing chess with earlier made his way over (and eventually his papa and uncle). I then smiled and shared in my halfway-Spanish the beauty of chanting. I have no idea who caught this gentle moment. Christmas Day in Mexico, and we got some snow… well, from a distance. We shared our realizations of Christmas and feeling humble while in the presence of this breathtaking mountain, El Popo.
This sunset in Acupulco stole my breath away. I went on a long walk away from the crowds and the soccer games that lined the entire beach. I hummed, and then finally sang at the top of my voice, when not a soul was in sight, Mama Mana Mandire.

“Oh, please, Krishna Murari, may you always reside in the temple of my heart.”

(This was just a tiny, tiny glimpse of Mexico. I can post more if someone is interested.)

Guess what? We’re doing it again. Winter Bus Tour, 2007-08, Mexico. Stay posted to Krishna.com/bustour or contact me.

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Storm of Inspiration

I just got back from some rocking Wednesday bhajans. Every single person in Shanti’s packed living room sang at the top of their lungs, clapping and crying out “Radhe! Radhe!”

I can feel the energy in the air, building and building like a storm for the event to come… AlachuaMela. I have no idea how it’s going to happen, but I only know this: when you throw together a couple hundred inspired gurukulis, something happens.

That something is inspiration, and it’s taking the world by storm… I can feel it.

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