Windows to Chowpatty

These snippets are from my journal, and as I am a little at a loss for words, I think you will enjoy peering through these little windows to be transported… if just for a couple moments.

*

So here I am in the temple, writing in soft golden light. Someone just turned the overhead lights off in anticipation of Sayana Arati. High-speed fans and hums of voices fill the air. When I glance back, I see a little sea of faces, all turned to the altar, waiting.

*

I went down to Chowpatty beach today, and although it was quite filthy, I just stood on the shore and listened to the sea. Such a great, wild sound, so unlike human noises. The great sea air tangled through my hair and pressed on my sari. And I wonder what it must have been like in ancient times to stand on that beach.

*

So Harinam and I turned a corner… and there was Ban Ganga – a vast ghat that is fed by a crystal clear spring. We walked down the steps and crouched before the water. I felt so at peace there, watching the wind create ripples on the water. The world seemed to quiet a little. Various temples by various sampradayas (lineages) encircled the ghat, their architecture carving the sky like they had been for hundreds of years.

*

I am writing this in my room in Chowpatty; the fan is whirling above me, and rain pours in heavy whispers outside. Metallic drips sound through the window as water falls from the roof. A picture of Radha Gopinath is hung on the wall above me, and They seem to give Their blessings. And an old maroon copy of Srila Prabhupada’s Lilamrita sits on the bottom shelf of my bookshelf, quietly telling me Srila Prabhupada’s story, and that he is the reason I am even here.

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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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Your Shore

Your Shore
dedicated to Radhanath Swami

Your shelter soothes me
moves me
like the moon
on the tides.
Your guidance shines on me
and aligns me
like the sun
on the earth.
Your example
is my compass
my North.
And if one day
alas
I fall away from you
spin away
unalign
Please allow me
one day
to wash upon your shore
once more.

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Join Me On My Meander

(This is an entry for taking photos – in your mind. Taken straight from my Mexico journal, the following post is simply here to transport you…)

We near our destination as the sun turns golden and begins its descent. We abandoned civilization a long time ago; our bus zigzags on a crazy mountain road through ash-green forests. At one point, the ocean reveals herself in a staggering, breathtaking view – in which the entire Tour gasps – and then we’re plunged back into the roads.

We reach the bottom of the mountain, pass a security checkpoint (military men stomp in and stomp out in their boots, then direct us to the nearest beach with a grin and a wave), and we then drive down some even MORE outlandishly OUT-THERE roads. And all this is going on in a surreal golden light, as if we’re in a dream.

We pull in. When I climb out, Manu calls, “Go, go! You only have two hours ’til the sun sets, then we gotta go! Use your time wisely,”

I am greeted by a villager pulling water from his stone well for his vibrant, pushy goats. Chickens dash about. Thatched huts surround me in a sweeping semicircle.
I hear the waves crash in the distance and the salt on my skin and tongue. I walk to the ocean, feeling the cool sand in my toes, the wind in my hair. As I emerge from the little village of thatched houses, my jaw softly drops in wonder.

The ocean. The mountains. The setting sun. The beach stretches off to my left to meet the towering mountain in the distance – the one we just drove down – and to my right the sun sets on another majestic mountain. And here we are in the valley, facing out to the deep blue Pacific and her shimmering waves.

After so many straight days of traveling, I feel peace flow through my veins. I dash into the amazing water, then take off sprinting. I run and run amongst the waves until I bend over catching my breath, laughing.

I look back to everyone else swimming, tiny figures in the distance. The sun is setting behind them, and I revel how the misty air seems suffused with gold, silhouetting those who walk amidst the sand.

I continue on, breathing in… breathing out, soaking in every moment. I know: soon it will be back to the bus and more traveling.

I then observe a fascinating work of art in nature, forming before my very eyes. As the wind blows across the sand, ripples and rivulets form. I watch, entranced, as the sand then channels through these rivulets like sashes of gold, whispering, rising to life then melting away.

As I continue on my japa walk, two villagers on horses – riding bareback – gallop past me, their shirts clinging to their chests, the horses’ manes and tails streaming behind them like banners. They ride off into the distance, becoming tiny figures then finally disappearing. I wonder what it would be like to be that free – the villager OR the horse. Imagine living so deeply in nature.

When I return from my very long meander down the beach, the sun has set and the valley is filled with a soft twilight glow. Everyone has left the beach except for a crew of jolly potwashers. I join their company and capture some photos, laughing and chatting, and I feel my spirit soften after such intensity of this first week of the Tour.

As we board the rumbling bus in the cool, soft blue evening, I turn around to gaze out over the thatched roofs to the empty sky that hovers over the sand and ocean, the stars emerging. A thought runs through me like a current: I’ll be back. One day, I’ll return. It will be years from now, but one day I’ll stand on this ocean again, appreciating nature and revelling in life.

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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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