by Karen Jonson
Swamiji’s emphasis on Radha, gopis, and an amorous Krishna would take on a new meaning for me years later.
22
The Tea Towel Incident
A Ritual Restored
SWAMIJI ESCHEWED MOST of the traditional Hindu rituals.
In fact, he would often mock the sacred religious customs of the different branches of his faith, such as praying with japa beads (prayer beads on a string) and worshipping multiple forms of God, but only in private. However, he had his own rituals that required exacting execution.
On my first visit to Barsana Dham, Swamiji did not appear to have much to do, but what he did do seemed to be on a generally predictable schedule. He spent the majority of each day in his bedroom with a few devotees, including his assistant, Vishi, and his first preacher, Sureshwari (originally called Meera Devi). I later learned he watched a lot of TV and Hindu films, especially Bollywood musicals. He also had several favorite American TV shows, like Gilligan’s Island and Columbo.
Twice a day, he walked down the hallway in the mornings and evenings to make an appearance for the last few minutes satsang. Typically, Vishi and Sureshwari would enter the prayer hall with him. He also came down to the breezeway on the first floor twice a day for his meals, during which time devotees would gather around him and have his darshan while he ate. A few times a day he would ride around the property in his golf cart.
Whenever he entered a room all eyes were on him. Devotees would sit on the floor facing him, focused on him. Swamiji would either sit quietly “in his own devotional bhao,” as we were told, or would give some short spiritual message, ask people questions, or entertain his captivated students with amusing stories, which were often his own version of some recent or past incident.
While his daily patterns looked relaxed to the casual observer, in reality, his life was extremely ritualized. Each of his daily habits required precise execution, even when he was served a cup of tea or a bowl of fruit. His food had to be cooked and served in a specific manner. For example, his rice had to be skimmed off the top of the pot, because he preferred the slightly crunchier rice on top, rather than the more moist rice underneath. All of his food had to be served in precise proportions and on fine china. His clothing had to be sewn in a specific fashion and dyed a specific shade of orange. His living quarters had to be cleaned a certain way.
Also during his meals everything had to be just so, including the size and height of his custom-made folding table, the pile of small pillows placed behind him, the position of the package of toothpicks he used after every meal, as well as the placement of the tea towel he used to cover his lap while he ate. I learned the hard way how grave a mistake it was to mess up any of his requirements. I was the target of a severe lesson one day when he sat down on his couch for dinner and there was no tea towel beside him.
As I sat on the floor staring up at him, he seemed agitated. I knew from experience it was just a waiting game until he blew up. This was not unusual, because he would often become upset over little, unremarkable things. Like the time he threw a fit because he could smell room freshener that had been sprayed in another room about 200 yards away. He said, “It hurts my nose” (meaning it smelled badly). For a while after that, canned air fresheners were banned from the ashram.
However, the tea towel incident still took me by surprise.
“Where’s my towel?” he barked. In his anger, it was difficult to understand him. His accent was always thickest when he was mad. Everyone sat frozen, not knowing what to do.
“My towel, my towel. Where is it?” he growled, gesturing to the place on the couch where his tea towel normally sat. Unfortunately, that day I was sitting closest to the stairs up to his kitchen where his towels and other belongings were stored.
“I’ll go find it, Swamiji,” I said jumping up and running up the stairs two at a time.
Vishi was in the little kitchen in the old stone building where she prepared Swamiji’s meals. She was serving his freshly cooked rice, dal, and vegetables on a set of china placed on his oversized serving tray.
“Swamiji needs a towel,” I said frantically. “There’s none on his couch and he wants it now.”
She set the pot down and hurried to the storage area, grabbed a towel, and held it out to me, fear clearly evident on her face. She knew the drill. I ran back down the stairs.
“Here Swamiji,” I said, placing the cloth on his couch, retreated to the floor. He continued to fume.
Shortly, Vishi came down the stairs carrying his tray. She placed it cautiously in front of him, careful not to slip-up and add fuel to the fire.
“My towel wasn’t here,” he snapped at her.
She looked around at us. “Who’s responsible for Swamiji’s towel?” she asked.
No one said anything.
“Someone has to take responsibility and make sure Swamiji’s towel is there every time,” she ordered, sounding disgusted.
It turned out that no one was in charge of this particular seva. But after this incident, an older devotee woman was given the responsibility of preparing Swamiji’s sitting area for his meals.
From that day on, he never sat down to eat without his tea towel sitting beside him in the exact right spot.
23
The Guru’s Playground
Thrill Rides on His Golf Cart
SWAMIJI LOVED HIS GOLF CART—and every devotee loved to ride with him.
Right after ISDL purchased the 200 acres of land for the ashram, Swamiji drove around the property in an old van. One day someone suggested getting him a golf cart. From the minute he hit the gas on his first “trolley” (as he called them), he could regularly be seen driving on and off the dirt roads that circumnavigated the property, or racing the cart across a field, crushing weeds, flowers, and small shrubs as he drove as fast as the cart would allow, bumps be damned. I’m sure at some point over the years most of the accessible ground on the property had felt the weight of his golf cart’s four stubby wheels as he barreled over it.
One day in late 1992, he told his followers to build a hill behind the site for the new temple. He said it was going to be a replica of Govardhan Hill in northern India. Govardhan Hill is a place of worship because, according to Hindu scriptures, Krishna convinced the local residents to worship the hill instead of Indra, the god of thunder and rain. Krishna had seen the local villagers making regular offerings to Indra and told them they should concentrate on farming and protecting their cattle, not worshipping gods of natural phenomena.
The villagers were convinced. But when they did not proceed with the next special prayer service to Indra, the god, in his fury made it rain for seven days and seven nights until it flooded the region. In response, Krishna lifted Govardhan Hill up into the air, giving shelter to all the animals and people from the rain. Indra finally accepted defeat and recognized Krishna as the supreme form of God. The point of this Hindu fable is that people should divert their senses away from the world and toward Krishna—and then he will protect them.
Govardhan Hill is roughly shaped like a long, fat, hand-rolled cigarette—wide in the middle and tapered at the ends. While the actual Govardhan Hill is several miles long, Barsana Dham’s replica was only about twenty yards long. To build it, boulders from around the property were moved onto the hill’s location, which was chosen by Swamiji. Then dirt was hauled in to cover the rocks. Next, a variety of flowers and bushes were planted over the mound of dirt.
Whenever there was a project underway, Swamiji always showed up at the scene several times to survey the progress and bark orders from his perch behind the wheel of his golf cart. He was usually accompanied by two or three of his preachers or his favorite female devotees.
A seat on Swamiji’s golf cart was a coveted position. There was room for three passengers, but people would often crowd in, sitting on each other’s laps or standing while holding onto the sides or roof. Sometimes he would take off in a flourish, flooring the gas pedal and causing everyone on board to scream
with delight. Many times he would load up all the children present—as many as one dozen at a time, some barely hanging on—and take off, the cart rocking and wheezing from the weight. Many devotees would stand gazing at the joyous scene. I longed to be with him on his cart, and other devotees told me they did too. Most of us only got a precious few opportunities.
One of mine occurred one evening as I was walking around the ashram in the dark after satsang. Swamiji pulled up beside me with Vishi and one of his favorite female devotees. “Who’s that?” he said.
“It’s me, Karen, Swamiji,” I replied.
“Oh. Get on.”
I jumped onto the back seat next to Jenifer, not believing my luck for being in the right place at the right time. He drove down to the river, where he commented on the few fireflies flitting about.
“Look at the lightening bugs,” he said. “I want to see more,” he demanded, like a petulant child. We all laughed.
“They might be closer to the water, Swamiji,” Jenifer offered.
He started driving along the riverbank.
“I don’t see any,” he pouted.
We all frantically searched the darkness, hoping to be the one to make him happy by finding more fireflies. Then I remembered having seen several the night before during my walk up by the main road. “Swamiji, there were a bunch of fireflies by the front gate last night,” I said, nervously.
“Where?” he demanded.
“Near the entrance to the ashram.”
He stepped on the gas pedal, spun the cart in the opposite direction, and suddenly we were sailing through the warm night air, giddy with the wind whipping our hair. We were alone in the dark with our guru at the wheel—just the three of us—and it was glorious. I was drunk with happiness.
As we approached the area, I directed him to the place where I’d seen the fireflies the previous night. I was fearful the trip would not be fruitful and I might get in trouble. But we were not disappointed. There were several dozen fireflies darting about under the oak and cedar trees, their tails luminous in the darkness.
Swamiji was happy and all was right with the world at that moment.
24
Building the Temple
Witnessing a “Divine” Creation
JUST BEFORE I MOVED TO Barsana Dham, they had broken ground on the enormous temple that would one day be the central focus of the ashram.
A devotee showed me a photo she took of the first shovel-full of dirt being scooped from the Earth with a large backhoe. It was a dramatic scene with the metal claw of the massive piece of machinery ripping and shredding the hard ground. A cylindrical cloud of dust circled up from the bone-dry Texas hardpan, swirling around like a dust devil. I felt a rush of pride that I was one of the select few mortals on Earth who would witness to the creation of what we all believed would be one of the most important spiritual structures in the U.S.—if not the most important.
We were all excited to watch the progress of the building—from a hole in the ground to a slab of cement to a steel beam skeleton to a finished building, and finally an ornately decorated edifice. During the two years of its construction, we were excited by the prospect of one day doing devotions in the temple. I imagined myself sitting in the prayer hall of the massive building, staring up at the life-size deity of Radha-Krishna, and weeping with joy at my great luck to have found such a special spiritual path.
Swamiji told us this temple would play a vital role in the spread of his teachings. “It will be a divine light for true devotees for generations to come. We’re building it to last a thousand years.” Devotees reveled in his pronouncements, believing themselves to be the lucky chosen ones to participate in something rare and divine.
By this time, Swamiji had become more visible in Barsana Dham, staying for longer periods of time instead of hurrying back to India. Rather than staying tucked away in his bedroom for most of the day, he regularly visited the temple worksite to oversee the building’s progress and view the architectural drawings. After his morning and evening meals, he would often sit in the breezeway studying blueprints and discussing issues with the construction team. I was fascinated by the temple project and watched in awe as Swamiji oversaw every decision, no matter how seemingly inconsequential. He said the building’s design was a mixture of ancient and modern Indian architecture, and said it came to him in a dream.
The largest and most labor-intensive part of the construction was a 90-foot high pink-and-gray granite tower, positioned directly over the temple’s shrine where the deities would be on display. Once finished, the tower was visible from a couple of miles in two directions. I always thought it looked out of place amidst the rolling hills of the Texas Hill Country, where barbeque restaurants and country stores were the norm.
When the construction was halfway finished, Swamiji asked the devotees to submit suggestions for the new temple’s name. The devotees came up with a wide range of possibilities, but, in the end, he chose it himself: the Shree Raseshwari Radha Rani Temple. I assumed he knew all along what he was going to call it, but had generously given us a chance to feel involved in the project that, otherwise, most of us had very little to do with.
Raseshwari is one of the names of Radha, derived from the fact that she initiates the sacred maharas leela (dance) between Krishna and the gopis.
In October 1995, Barsana Dham hosted an elaborate show for the temple’s establishment ceremony. Several gurus from around the world were invited as guest speakers. A helicopter was hired to drop dozens of bags of marigolds grown on the property onto the temple’s steeple. Hours of dances and skits were performed by groups of children and adults. A devotional procession (called parikrama) from the front gates of the ashram to the temple doors kicked off the event. When it reached the front of the temple, Swamiji and the other gurus danced in a circle as devotees crowded around. One of my proudest mementos from the event was a photograph of this dance from overhead, with me dancing right behind Swamiji wearing a pink sari.
Just prior to the ceremony, I was asked by one of the preachers to write an article about Barsana Dham for Hinduism Today. At one point, I quoted Swamiji: “The time has now come when faithful souls will receive the path of Krishna-love, provided they are not possessed with the intellectual fancy of instant enlightenment and keep their hearts and minds open to receive this message. Krishna-ras is bliss. Just drink.” Ras literally means nectar or juice, but here it means “grace.”
I believed his words with all my heart and was thrilled to be one of the few souls present in the place where the divine ras seemed to be pouring down on us.
25
The Guru’s Rules
Law of the Land
IN THE ASHRAM, WOMEN WERE NOT allowed to show their legs or the top of their arms.
It was just one of Swamiji’s many rules. We had to wear skirts or dresses that fell at least to midcalf. And our shirts had to have sleeves to the middle of our forearm at a minimum. No sleeveless tops were allowed. Also, our skirts could not be see-through. As a result, most women wore slips—an unwelcome extra layer on many hot, steamy Texas summer days.
Shorts were not allowed either, or of course bathing suits. When we went swimming we had to wear t-shirts and long pants. We could wear pants around the ashram, but not into the prayer hall. Men also did not wear shorts or sleeveless shirts. It was all part of a forced modesty to promote pure spiritual living and discourage sexual energy.
This dress code was not cited in Swamiji’s “Guidelines and Disciplines for a Devotee of Radha-Krishna,” yet it was most definitely part of the “law of the land” as governed by the guru. In an effort to further reduce sexual excitement among followers, he instructed single women and men not to talk to each other or engage in work projects around the ashram together. This rule was documented.
Rule 24: “Sometime, attraction to the opposite sex becomes the main cause for a devotee to fall from his devotions. Specially [sic], for a single devotee, it is most important that he must keep hims
elf away from such situations, association, and attractions. Even a moments [sic] mistake may prove disastrous. If he is doing any service in the temple or ashram, he should not share his services with a person of the opposite sex. Men should work with men, and women with women.”
Some of us made an effort to abide by this rule. But, practically speaking, it was impossible to uphold. Among the fifty or so adults, there were about a dozen single women and eight single men. As much as we tried, we could not live in such close quarters without coming into verbal contact with members of the opposite sex. So most of us just did the best we could to limit our interaction.
Other rules included:
Rule 9: “A human mind more naturally leans towards more bodily comfort, laziness, gossiping, and prideful talks. A devotee should observe his own weaknesses of this kind and try to overcome them.”
Rule 18: “Ashram living is different than individual living. In the ashram you have to be much more tolerant and more accommodating and cooperative with other devotees. Never pick on the faults of others. Even if some devotee opposes you, you have to be tolerant and forgiving. This habit will improve your devotion and bring you closer to your Master.”
Rule 23: “If you make a mistake, tell it to your Master before it is too late to rectify. Holding it back may be disastrous.”
Like the clothing rule, there were many other rules not officially listed, like “silent dining.” Swamiji instructed us to eat our meals without talking, so we could use the time to meditate on God. Signs were placed all over the dining hall to remind us. Over the years, the devotees tried to follow this rule, but could rarely make it stick. Periodically the preachers would remind us we needed to work harder to maintain silent dining and the devotees would spend a week or two trying. But our resolve would break down and we would revert back to our old habits. Not even the preachers ate in silence all the time.