Moonwashed Journey – Guru Purnima

Travel in Hawaii is dramatic. There are fourteen different climate zones on the Big Island; the towns are very unique, the people different in each one. So when I proposed to my mom to cross the island to attend Guru Purnima in Hilo, believe me, it was a big deal. Considering gas is 4.69, we decided to do the eco-friendly thing and hop on a bus. And so our day began with the sunrise.
We walked everywhere (4 miles, according to my pedometer). And when we were relaxing in the cafe I used to work at when I attended University of Hawaii, I saw branches of this fruit (lychee) lying on the sidewalk. Hawaii’s a bit like that. The exotic is normal.

This path to the river is so deep I found the sign comical.

Approaching the temple at Godruma Gardens…

Above, Bodhayan Maharaj speaks on the occasion of Guru Purnima. Below, the melodious Chandra Kantha leads us in kirtan.
My first kirtan in two months, I could not resist dancing… in my limping way, I still encouraged all the other women to join in. Meanwhile, everyone offered overflowing flowers to the acaryas in our line. I meditated on my own spiritual master, Radhanath Swami, and offered him my respects.

I remember dressing the deities on the left, Sri Radhika Raman, many years ago with Mulaprakriti. Her enthusiasm and sincerity was contagious. I came away in stitches with laughter and also a sweeter appreciation for deities of Radha and Krishna.

Srila Prabhupad’s vision was so powerful, so immense, that it has even touched this little town of Hilo. With profound gratitude, I offer my deep, humble respects to this beautiful personality.
Sri Mahotsava Guru Purnima ki, Jai!

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Return to Freedom

The day before my foot surgery, I grabbed my chance at my last adventure before looong days of sitting around [sigh] recovering. So I hopped on my bike and criss-crossed and wove down the mountain with the wind in my hair to the beach.

These rocks lay on the margins of the ocean and create tidepools. Over time, the ocean has carved little holes (about the size of your fingertip) into the porous rock.

He’s long gone, but his shell still ponders in the tidepools.

Wild mangoes.
Average roadside banyan.

This very white guy (haole as we say learned to make these traditional palm baskets from Hawaiian elders because he… well, really wanted to know how to do it. He told me they last for 70 years once dried out. I found it amazing that someone can take to a culture so readily and so beautifully that is not one’s own. I guess, maybe, that was the scenario of devotees in the 70′s – they went against all norms to pursue the essence. Very huge kudos to them. I don’t know if I would have had it in me.

A tourist couple stopped while we were chatting, and the wife asked for a flower on her basket. So he made one right in front of us.

I find there is beauty in the patterns of nature and people and life. Like breathing.

My cast comes off tomorrow.

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Time Machine

Preface: I have long considered my journal a window to which I can glimpse a world that has already passed. Places long ago visited, people at certain ages or even people who have passed away (such as Mulaprakriti), events, and down to the very feelings I was experiencing. Five years ago, I wrote the following journal entry at the age of 16, which takes place in Hilo, Hawaii. I felt so transported by reading it, I wanted to share it with all of you.

Mula, Gopa, and Shravan are having breakfast on the porch. I come over, grab a seat, and immediately I’m doubled over in uncontrollable laughter at Mula’s hilarious tale about Gopa and their wayward cow, Govardhani. As soon as I catch my breath, Mula and I jump right into raw food preparation.

When I return from dashing downtown to the farmer’s market, that silence – that warm hush – has settled over the grounds. I step into a sea of green, plushy, spiky grass, feet tingling. I cross the street – it is silent. I approach the stairs to reach Godruma Gardens and a grandfather banyan soars above my head, enveloping the entire world in green and dangling roots.

Banana grasses and lush foliage greet me at the top of the stairs, and a sweeping lawn rolls to my left as I turn right for the kitchen. I sit down on a counter, and as Mula and I talk in this twilight-like hour (it’s only 3pm), the fan whirs overhead in this humming, gray-warm air.

After the evening program, as everyone’s winding down, I flip the raw cookies from the dehydrator and lose my breath laughing once again… Mula is so incredibly hilarious! We sample some of our weird concoctions – actually pretty tasty.

When Mula heads off to conk out and I’m done in the kitchen, I decide to head off to conk out myself with a grin as everyone else chills in the templeroom, learning mridanga or just chatting.

After such a twisting and turning day, I appreciate the silence and solitude the guest house offers. I’m just about to write in here – cozy after a cold shower – when Kisore clomps up the stairs, loaded down with a sleeping bag, pillow, bags… As we’re settling down, we discuss Bhagavad-Gita and philosophy and how to apply it to out lives.

And then, “Giriraj! Oh, Giriraj! Where are you?” Gopa calls out for her seven-year-old nephew, far away.

We shrug and Kisore says, “Well, at least it’s Krishna’s name,”

The blood slows in our veins and our muscles relax… I can’t help but smile, like I’ve done the entire day.

“GIRIRAJ, WHERE ARE YOU?” Gopa cries again.

Kisore shoots up. “I’m getting worried. What happened? I’m going down there,” she says.

Govinda and Radhika huff up the stairs just then. “Have you seen Giriraj?”

“No, what happened?”

“We were upstairs at Jagadhatri’s talking when we saw Giriraj slip out the door. We thought he was just going downstairs to Kamalakshi’s. Then we realized how quiet it was. We went down to check on Giriraj. Nobody was home.”

“But what about Gaurangi [his mother]?”

“She had left ten minutes earlier – we don’t think it’s possible that it would take her that long to leave. And it was so quiet.“

“Oh my god, is there anything we can do to help?” Kisore gasps.

“I-I guess. We have to look for him again… we already searched the neighborhood and my mom checked downtown,” Govinda says, twisting the edge of her shawl.

“You can’t get a hold of Gaurangi?” I ask, concerned but still a little skeptical.

“No, I don’t think she’s home yet,” Govinda replies.

So I stumble out the door in half-on tennis shoes, pajamas, and a chaddar, incredulous and sighing. What could I possibly do? But it would be unspeakably rude to roll my eyes and just go back to bed.

At Jagadhatri’s, the air is filled with stifled panic. Shikandi, Giriraj’s grandmother, shrieks to “call 911!” as she gets in the car with Gopa to search the neighborhood. That scream jolts me and shoots adrenaline to my toes and fingertips.

Soon, the cops arrive… and more cops arrive. Neighbor by neighbor, three blocks have switched on their lights, asking what he looks like, learning to pronounce his name, some even grabbing flashlights to join in on the search as two ambulances arrive and even a firetruck. Why on earth we would need a firetruck for a missing child baffles me and awes me at the same time.

It’s been an hour… two hours… they still can’t get hold of Gaurangi. They send the cops to their house, which is over an hour away.

It’s around 11:30pm and I’m downstairs at Jagadhatri’s, alone and in my pajamas. Forty policemen are combing the area for the fifth time, the entire neighborhood calling out “Giriraj! Giriraj!” and I hear that they’re going to send for a helicopter to search the river if nothing happens soon.

And then, from upstairs: “Sridham?” I sit up, tense. Sridham is Giriraj’s father. “What? He’s with you? Okay…”

I jump with a whoop and this huge sensation of relief.

“WE FOUND HIM!!” Gopa cries out from above me on the porch as I dash to the street. I’m bent on finding Kisore and dragging her gleefully back to the guest house to JUST GO TO BED!

As I reach the street, I stop dead, a horrific, horrific sense of embarrassment flooding me.

Oh. My. God. The entire neighborhood.

“The entire neighborhood!” I exclaim, making my way up to Kisore, who keeps calling out to people, “Sorry! Sorry! Goodnight!!” I want to strangle her! Now we REALLY sound like two hare-brained flops of teenagers who don’t have a CLUE.

But I’m grinning the whole way, “I’m not related, I’m not related…”

The stars twinkle bright as we collapse onto our bed, hot and awake. How crazy! We stay up a bit more, discussing what happened and the insanity of it all.

I can only talk about it with her… and laugh, like I have all day.

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Temple of My Heart

on the road to Mauna Kea

The following is taken straight out of my journal as I headed up to the summit of Mauna Kea, the highest mountain in the world (vs. tallest, aka Mt. Everest)

I am ascending into heaven, right now.

The road is gravel. It’s like traversing another planet. We’re above the cloud line. I’m peering out into an ocean… oceans and oceans of pure milky clouds. They blush pink in the setting sun.

Truly, I don’t think I have ever felt so breathtaken by nature’s majesty in… years? My life?

Oceans and oceans… swirling and swirling… and aquamarine and pure pure white…. we climb higher and higher…

The world is going dark… hopefully we make it in time to catch the sun.

We’re driving along the edge of the world.

We have arrived. I step out of the warm Jeep and gasp. Breath from an ice-god whips my hair and chadar up here.

There, an eyelash of a moon. The clouds are now rivers in the valleys, the sky blended magnificently in rich rose and royal blue. A star shimmers above me, the first. My racing blood calms as I stand in awe of this splendor. And then, I begin to sing…

“Mama mana mandire…”

Oh Krishna, may You always reside in the temple of my heart.

This is your temple.

Note: There was a point in Hawaii where I did not visit a temple of Srila Prabhupad’s for a year and a half. For five years I lived with zero Krishna culture – no devotees, temples, festivals, bhajans, kirtans, feasts, and even classes – and no way to access any of it. I coped by finding Krishna’s temple in nature… so thus I began to sing the bhajan Mama mana mandire when nature’s beauty took my breath away… and reminded me that Krishna is everywhere… if only I seek Him out.

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Views From Paradise

Srila Prabhupad once said that Hawaii is a remnant left over from the previous Yuga.

I believe he has a point.

The view from our house.

Sri Sri Radha Raman, my parent’s Deities.

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