Day 182 – remembering Krishna

I am still sick. I spent most of the night tossing and turning from the strength of the fever. My whole body is aching and I have to go and teach yoga. Nobody can cover this class for me as all the other teachers are in the same workshop. I manage to pull myself together for the class and for a moment feel like maybe I could work tonight. But, no, quite lucky I already called in sick because I really do need another day in bed. I have barely slept and I am exhausted and weak. As I teach, I feel a moment of dizziness and I am scared that I am about to faint. Luckily the class is already in Savasana and I can steady myself against a wall and slowly sit down. The soft music suddenly drifts through my fuzzy brain and I hear Wah! singing Hare Krishna. Suddenly I am filled with this beautiful sensation of light and love. It is like Krishna has appeared to say, “hey, remember me? All you have to do is chant my name and I will be there for you.” I repeat his holy mantra in my head until the feeling of dizziness passes and before bringing the students out of their conscious relaxation, I bow my head to the floor, offering gratitude to Jai Krishna. Did I forget you? You, who was so present for me in India. You, whose home I prayed in. You, whose name first appeared to me before I even knew what yoga was. You, who danced on the head of the serpent in the Yamuna river. You, who has come to me now as I sit weakly pushing myself further than I should. Shall I put all my faith and trust in your grace and allow your name, your sacred mantra to heal me from within? Yes! The answer is always Yes.

Hare Krishna, Hare Krishna. Krishna Krishna, Hare Hare. Hare Rama, Hare Rama. Rama Rama, Hare Hare.

Day 125 – the beauty of Vrindavan, Agra and Miss India

After the continental hotel breakfast, Pri and her friend Ashley and I leave Delhi. I have missed hotel food like this but I can’t help but feel guilty that I get to enjoy this luxury. It feels so far from my spiritual purpose and from the rest of India.

We stop in Vrindavan to see a 400-year-old Govinda temple where we have to keep our glasses in our pockets. The guide has told us that the monkeys will take our eyewear straight off our faces, so as we enter the temple he grabs a 3-metre pole to keep the primates at bay. The guide then leads us to the Yamuna River and speaks quickly about its significance. We ask to get closer to see it and maybe put our hands in it and although he says yes, he turns around and takes us straight back into the home of Krishna where we wash our hands with the water from the holy Yamuna River anyway. We don’t buy the garland of jasmine flowers, but continue in through the tiled walls. Each tile is inscribed with the names of families that have made considerable donations to the temple. The guide leads us in a prayer at a non-descript corner and then into the room where Krishna apparently rested after battling the cobra in the Yamuna river. In this room, a priest sitting before a curtain speaks in a barely audible whisper in what we believe is a prayer. Suddenly, in one swift dramatic gesture, he flings back the sparkling curtain, revealing a setting of statues that include the baby Krishna, his parents Vasudheva and Yusodra and the black-faced incarnation of Yamuna. The priest then he pulls out his receipt book and is asking our names. I am so grateful Pri is sitting next to me; she is switched on enough to realise exactly what he is doing. He is trying to get us to repeat that we will donate over 11,600Rs ($232 USD) for our own family tiles. He tells us that the donation will go to the widows home, feeding them while they pray endlessly over the inscriptions of our names. I start to feel guilty that I haven’t brought my wallet with me (who thinks to bring a wallet to the temple), so that I can’t even make a small donation but the priest quickly becomes frustrated when Pri refuses to agree to pay the 11,600Rs. He becomes argumentative before reluctantly finishing the blessing, tossing a jasmine garland over our heads and giving us a small spoon of sugar to eat. He all but kicks us out of the holy home of Krishna. As we re-emerge into the street amid the stalls hawking images of the young blue god and his trademark flute, the smells of open sewerage and the roaming gangs of monkeys, Pri tells the guide as he walks too quickly that Hinduism is not about that. The guide seems annoyed and as we get caught behind a rickshaw, we lose him for a moment in the winding back streets. He finally turns around and yells at us to keep walking through the crowd. We hurry back to the car. Apparently it is too late in the day to stop at Mathura, so we leave immediately for Agra and I am glad to be leaving Vrindavan.

As we enter the city of Agra, I am suddenly filled with this overwhelming feeling of pure love. I am about to see the Taj Mahal, one of the Seven Wonders of the World, one of the greatest monuments of marital devotion and the image of which I have been staring at in travel magazines for years. Here I am, entering Agra, about to see this incredible building. I almost want to cry with joy. The white dome comes into view in the distance. Although it looks like a mosque, it is actually a tomb for the second wife of Emperor Shah Jahan, Mumtaz Mahal who died giving birth to their 14th child.

At the hotel, we see a sign that says Miss India will be visiting so we make a point to dress up and then smiling at the concierge at the door, end up inside the private party. We accidentally sit in the VIP section and with a mouthful of free samosa we have to answer an official about which group we are with. Trying to think quickly, I say we are journalists and Ashley mentions the name of an American magazine. It seems her English has momentarily confused the official, who politely asks us to move to the media section. We endure the painful dance routine, wait through the short fashion show and the awkward silences on stage before Miss India finally emerges in a long sparkling purple gown. We take a photo of her and then move on to dinner as the real media circle the stage.

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