Scenes in Vrindavan, from left: hare
Krishnas dance in a temple; the courtyard of the ashram; the streets of the village.
in any of the six languages he speaks — English, Spanish, German, Portuguese, Swedish and Hindi — and posted them on the Web. Certain blogs catalogued my uncle’s travel schedule, allowing devotees to plan their movement ac- cordingly. YouTube videos charted al- most every minute that Paramadvaiti danced, sang, lectured, debated, smiled or hoisted darling infants into the air to bless them. From the moment I arrived, Para-
madvaiti’s devotees welcomed me with great interest. For several reasons, I was a novelty. I more or less found the world tolerable. I view my own reli- gion, Judaism (the faith I took from my mother), as a small part of my identity, not as the basis for my existence. Most of the devotees assumed that a spiri- tual emptiness had driven me to India, and even when I rejected this notion, they responded, without fail, that Lord Krishna could work in mysterious ways, and that I should just trust his will and thank him for bringing me. “You know, you have a very special person as an uncle,” one devotee, a Chilean named Paramananda Das, would later tell me. “When I have trouble, the first person I think of is your uncle.” “How many devotees does he have?”
I asked. Long pause. “Ten thousand, I’d say.”
There was some whispered discussion in Spanish with another devotee, then a confirmation.
“First time I met him, when he
crossed through the door of my temple [in Chile], I thought, ‘Krishna is com- ing. Krishna is coming.’ He is not a rich man hiding poor. He has honesty and faith. All grace. His face makes you hap- py. Guru Maharaj makes me happy. Not materially happy. Completely happy.” When Paramadvaiti began his lecture
on this particular morning, the devotees — barefoot, legs crossed — gazed up at my uncle in a way that kind of made me think of baby birds in a nest. My uncle began his lectures, I later learned, with no particular direction in mind, calling only on the wisdom of Lord Krishna to guide him. As such, these morning ses- sions sometimes included tangents re- garding organic farming, ancient Vedic underwater bridges, carbon footprints, harmony fairs, monoculture cropping, childhood stories, vegetarianism and the shortsightedness of marriage, be- cause no union between human beings can replace the need of service to God. “You can only find grace by attach-
ing yourself to a fountain of unlimited grace,” he said. “I had many friends be- fore this, and they disappeared. They disappeared easily. … There’s too much ego in family. That’s why we renounce the family. You need a higher, universal family.” At moments like this, when my uncle
wanted profundity, he reached deep into some reservoir no other Harlan could access. His voice worked like a
bagpipe, rich with crashing lows, lilting thrusts and pauses just long enough to let everybody brace for a tumble of wis- dom. Depending on his mood, he could speak faster or slower than anybody else I knew. He had a habit of remov- ing his glasses to punctuate a point. He also had a curious method, I realized, of winding his lectures back to their start- ing point. “We are not here to stay,” he said. Again, with feeling: “We are not here
to stay!” He flung his right hand from his
body. “Like the soul and the body. Like the
nose and the mucus. Yes, it’s the same region, the same part of the body, but the mucus, it needs to get out. Everything in your body eventually withdraws. Your health withdraws. Your beloved with- draw. All matter withdraws.”
Midway through my stay, Parama-
dvaiti decided to acquaint me with India by way of a shopping trip. “Come, I’m taking you on a tour,” he said. His eyes glowed with mischievous-
ness, and we headed toward the Vrin- davan bazaars. My uncle moved down the cobblestone streets, through all the human and bovine traffic, with the sort of relaxed, dignified majesty that I can only call papal. He greeted just about everybody with an obliging half-bow, hands clasped in thanks, and wore the usual robe and greenish Crocs. His
may 16, 2010 | The WashingTon PosT Magazine
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