phillipahtmann

Vrindavan 2009

2009-12-02T13:04:00Z

Vrindavan is the name of the village where Krishna grew up some five thousand years ago. I’ve been back from Vrindavan, India since November 2nd, and have been in a wordless slump. I left for India on October 22nd, and hoped to stay at least until November 18th.

This trip was conceived about a year ago when Anita and I were having one our myriad bond smashing fights on our way home from Florida. After convincing one another that we were only obstacles to each other’s interests, I suggested that I go to Vrindavan in the summer, as soon as my job as a substitute teacher went on vacation.

Summer came, and I bought an airplane ticket; however, Anita begged and coerced me to stay until the fall, and I relented on consideration of her uneasiness and the discomfort of the Indian summer sun. The change in my itinerary cost me close to $300.00.

Ever since I met Anita in 1990, she has been telling me that she has known ever since her youth that she would die before she was sixty-three, the age at which her mother died. I have always told her that she would not die, but that instead she would develop a higher spiritual realization that transcended her previous understanding of herself. Anita was sixty-two last year, and in my saner moments I was thinking that I needed to be especially kind to her. We went to Puerto Rico for her daughter’s second wedding, to Miami to visit you, to Disney World, and to the Maharishi University of Management in Fairfield, Iowa. Whenever we would argue, she would remind me that she had only a few more months to live. Shortly after her sixty-third birthday on November 6th, I resolved that it was time to go.

Months earlier I was listening to a lecture on Shrimad Bhagavatam by Yogeshvara Vandana Das, president of the New Talavana (forest of palm trees) community and farm. He was saying that sometimes we may feel that Prabhupada is giving us some special instruction to go to Vrindavan. This made a very deep impression on me. After all, the ultimate purpose of chanting Hare Krishna is to return to Vrindavan or Krishna Loka (Krishna’s world) in the Paravyoma or Spritual Sky.

At last the appointed day for my pilgrimage arrived, and I hugged and kissed my wife good-bye at the New Orleans airport, with the promise that the time would pass quickly until my return. Somewhere in my heart, however, I was praying that I would be able to remain in Vrindavan and Bharata Varsha (India) eternally.

The flight to Chicago was uneventful. I arrived five hours before the scheduled departure of American Airlines flight to Delhi, India. I was sitting in the airport lounge, looking very much like an average westerner, when a saffron robed disciple of my Spiritual Master, A.C. Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada, along with two western attired friends arrived and sat down opposite me.

“Hare Krishna,” I said to them. They turned and saw me, with much surprise, sitting there with a japa bag (a small bag for holding chanting beads) in my right hand.

“Hare Krishna!” they replied with serendipitous delight, and sat down.

“My name is Madhavadasa Das,” I introduced myself. “And what is your good name, Prabhu?” I asked the benign being opposite me.

“Jivananda.” he replied. Jivananda is a name of Krishna; it means that He is the cause of endless bliss for the living entity.

One could instantly see that Jivananda Das was a simple, humble, and loving personality deeply steeped in Vaishnava (worshipers of Vishnu) tradition. He was wearing a brown beanie on his head, which I thought made him look rather like a nerd. I was wearing a rather worldly Tilly safari hat. Part of me was very glad to see him, and another part of me was thinking that I must have been very foolish indeed to ever want to look like him. But he was so pleasant to talk to that I soon forgot the negative side of my first impression. And much to my heart’s happiness, he removed his brown beanie, revealing his sober and smoothly shaved head.

He introduced his bearded friends, Jayananda and his wife Sabrina. With his short beard and haircut, Jayananda looked very much like my friend Mangalananda, my elder Godbrother, who with his wife Yamini, composes and performs Krishna conscious folk, country, rhythm and blues.

“You are Shrila Parabhupada’s disciple?” I asked him, almost certain that he was, judging from his demeanor.

He informed me that he was, and I soon discovered that he had been initiated shortly before I had been. His friends were disciples of one of Prabhupada’s disciples. I told him that I was certain that Krishna must have arranged our meeting.

“Yes,” he responded. “The more I get to know this transcendental trickster, Krishna, the more I like Him.”

We talked for some time. Jivananda felt that we had met before, and we talked about where we had been and when. We could not discover or recall any time that we might have met. I have so many Godbrothers who I do not know. The four of us were separated when we boarded the plane.

My seat was located in the center five rows at the back of the central blocks of seats. The young Indian businessman to my left introduced himself as Raj Nish. He was familiar with ISKCON (the International Society for Krishna Conswciousness) and we chatted pleasantly. Two of the five seats were vacant, so the flight attendant suggested that I move to the center so that we would each be one seat apart, and more comfortable.

Most of the fourteen and a half hour journey I chanted in my mind: Hare Krishna, Hare Krishna, Krishna Krishna, Hare Hare; Hare Rama, Hare Rama, Rama Rama, Hare Hare

I also memorized two shlokas (verses) from the Bhagavad Gita 8-8:

abhyasa-yoga-yuktena
cetasa nanya-gamina
paramam purusham divyam
yati parthanucintayan
SYNONYMS
abhyasa-yoga -- by practice; yuktena -- being engaged in meditation; cetasa -- by the mind and intelligence; na anya-gamina -- without their being deviated;paramam -- the Supreme; purusham -- Personality of Godhead; divyam -- transcendental; yati -- one achieves; partha -- O son of Pritha; anucintayan -- constantly thinking of.
TRANSLATION
He who meditates on Me as the Supreme Personality of Godhead, his mind constantly engaged in remembering Me, undeviated from the path, he, O Partha, is sure to reach Me.

The second verse I have forgotten.

Today is Monday, November 30, 2009. It has taken me since November 2nd to overcome the sorrow that began upon my leaving Vrindavan and begin this narrative.

The Hare Krishna Substitute

2009-10-12T18:53:01Z

I am substitute teaching today for a gym teacher. I watch the young high school students playing basket ball and wonder: does Krishna ever adopt inventions from the material world into the spiritual world?

Aghasura came to mind. When Krishna first saw Aghasura, a great mystic yogi who had transformed himself into a giant serpent seven (or so) miles long, He became momentarily amazed at how well the material energy was working.

The question is does Krishna ever import inventions of the material world, such as basketball, into the spiritual world? What if His devotes like to play basketball with each other for athletic exercise.

Therre are many forms of recreation mentioned in the Vedas. The cowherd boys would wrestle with each other and play various games among themselves, including a game of ball using a certain kind of hard fruit. Balarama played Chess against Shakuni. And Lord Chaitanya's pastimes are filled with dancing and chanting the mahamantra: HARE KRISHNA, HARE KRISHNA, KRISHNA, KRISHNA HARE HARE | HARE RAMA, HARE RAMA, RAMA RAMA, HARE HARE.

I did a lot of chanting today and time passes quickly. In the spiritual world time has no effect: one can stay in the moment forever, or move backwards or forwards in time. Time is conspicuous by the absence of its effect.

But this is not the case here in the material world. I have to stay here until at least 2:15 pm, even though I currently have no work to do. So I can write this journal, or meditate upon the mahamantra, or study Hindi, and compose this journal entry all from this computer. It’s now 1:20.

I am about to self publish a second novel which currently consists of a collection of thirteen short stories which chronolog my senior year in high school. It will be about one hundred pages long, but I may add more short stories to it from time to time.

Time, to time. Suddenly my mind takes me to another place which I shortly forget, just as dreams come and go in the night.

I have a journal which I call The Diary of a Semi-Automatic Writer. It consists of thoughts that flow into my mind as they occur, as well as contemplated and edited paragraphs. I am currently in the library, and I hear a loud African American voice from behind me talking about retiring. What I am looking for is that occupation from which I will never desire to retire. I like what I am doing now. I get paid as a substitute during which time I compose poems and journals. study Hindi and Bhagavad Gita (http://vedabase.net/bg/en), and have a lot of free time.

It is nearly 2:00.

Diabetes

2009-10-03T12:42:55Z

10/2/09

I have diabetes type two, so now I have got to go out and get exercise. I went for two short bike rides today. I will have to join a gym. I should not complain. Many people do these things for health and pleasure. It should also help me transcend my depression. So the diabetes is a good think if I can control it by exercise.

Laziness and depression are my old comrades. I am reluctant to let them go. But going blind with diabetes doesn’t sound appealing. The trick is to overcome the depression enough to get moving. The diabetes can be cured by exercise. It isn’t easy when the mind keeps accepting and rejecting ideas.

I went for a drive and chanted Hare Krishna. It was like going out and hanging out with old friends. Then I came back and watched the grandchildren play for a while. I meditated on how they are parts and parcels of Krishna in maya. Maya knows how to hold them, and all other conditioned souls in this world.

10/3/09 Yesterday I rode my bicycle for about 45 minutes and brought down my sugar level. Type 2 diabetes can be controlled by regular exercise, so I plan to get a athletic club membership.

In the Ishopanishad is the following statement:

vidyāḿ cāvidyāḿ ca yas

tad vedobhayaḿ saha

avidyayā mṛtyuḿ tīrtvā

vidyayāmṛtam aśnute

TRANSLATION – Text 11

Only one who can learn the process of nescience and that of transcendental knowledge side by side can transcend the influence of repeated birth and death and enjoy the full blessings of immortality.

Although we are eternal spirit soul, still we have to take care of the body.

A Brief Ski Over Coral

2009-09-27T13:21:57Z

I just finished the last short story of my collection of stories from Renaissance High. It took me a month to write it. I made two false starts, and could not go on. There was so much I wanted to say. You would think it would be easy then to write a long short story. But every time I sat down to write, my mind would just block.

Finally I just sat down and wrote a quick version of the story, just getting down the plot ideas, sort of making a long story short. That did the trick. Once I had my two and a half page story, I was able to go back and add details that demonstrated all the points that I wanted my story to tell. I ended up nwith just over four pages. The story is still turse and to the point, but it’s all there. I could go back and add lots of detailed description, but I believe that in its present form it expresses everything I wanted to say. The same can be said for all of my writing.

Rambeling

2009-09-18T20:05:34Z

I half heartedly swatted at a mosquito on my hand, not wanting to be bitten, not wanting to give some poor mosquito mind and body covered soul a bloody sqaushy death. The intricacies of Karma are very difficult to understand.

I could explain more, a great deal more. Ah, but are my readers ready for more? I think not, but they could be if they wanted to be.

I sit at my messy desk, the product of my random mind. Three murties great me. What is a murtie, and how do they greet me. I know. I could tell you. But I don’t think you want to know. You would call me a dreamer, or worse. So I won’t tell you now. You can Google it if you like, or you could write me.

I hope to build this site into a place where we actually exchange ideas about creative writing. That would be a nice profession.

That’s enough for now.

INAUGURATION

2009-09-14T21:58:38Z

Let us explore the art and science of fiction.
Let us implore the Muses of Antiquity to grace us with their glance.
Let us obeisance pay to wisdom
Let us all dance and chant our way back to the Absolute Romance.

Meal at the relatives

2009-09-12T23:22:19Z

Anita and I are at Jack's for dinner with the expanded family; no one here has read the cult teacher.

Lynn cooked portabello mushrooms for Anita and me, and cow and pig flesh for the retr of the family. The guy's are watching football, the ladies are chatting at the table. Lynn is cooking. I'm at the computer writing this facebook entry.

I make a lot more mistakes in my typing than I used to; it is probably the medication I am on.

Many authors would describe the colors of clothes, the sounds of the sizzeling flesh, the dimensions and appearance of the room, the strings of conversations from two sides of the room; to me, however, they are irrelevent.

What really counts is the level of consciousness within the gathering, and the level of consciousness of you the reader.

But who are you, the reader? I would love to hear from you. Perhaps you are confused or offended b my perspective, or perhaps you are enlightened, amused or sympathetic.

Let me know.

Phil

Squirrels, hummingbirds, and the slaughter house

2009-09-10T03:11:09Z

“Shantaram is a 2003 roman à clef written by Gregory David Roberts, a convicted Australian bank robber and heroin addict who escaped from Pentridge Prison and fled to India where he lived for 10 years.” Wikipedia

My wife and I ended up listening to the beginning of the fourth part of four sessions of Shantaram on our way from Ozark Folk Center State Park near Mountain View, Arkansas. We had listened to the first part of part three on our way from Fairfield, Iowa to Rolla, Missouri yesterday. But it gave me bad dreams about tortured prisoners.

Karma. The great equalizer. What man does to his fellow man is sometimes abominable. What he does to his fellow beasts is also abominable. And at the same time, all the so called niceties of sense gratification are being pursued by our fugitive human race.

It’s all very complicated. My wife and I went to a restaurant at the State Park. We were greeted with friendly smiles from customers and staff. There were various bird feeders positioned just outside the large glass windows that surrounded us in the dining room. Squirrels and birds competed for seeds that had been left for them. It all looked very cute. A few humming birds pirched on their feeders to enjoy fresh nectar left for them.

Inside, pleasant elderly couples feasted on the flesh of slaughtered pigs and cows, along with cakes, cobblers and vegetables. My wife and I shared a vegetarian burger and cooked vegetables over wild rice.

We talked about Pat Conroy’s book, Beach Music, which Anita was reading along the way. I read a few selections out loud to her. The protagonist, Jack, is a writer of travel and food journals. I was thinking that I could do the same. The big problem is that I have very little patience for mundane details. I told Anita (my wife) that I might be more enthused to write with as much detail if I could get someone with some credentials to write a review of my book, and then get my book publicized.

The Ozarks

2009-09-09T12:36:07Z

Just wanted to leave a note to keep myself warmed up. We went to Fairfield, Iowa, home of the Maharishi University of Management, to see and hear the Beach Boys perform a benefit concert to raise fund to teach TM in high schools around the country. They sounded better than ever, especially with the new high tech amplification. We kept running into Greg, our transcendental friend, and we spent some planned time with him too. My novel, The Cult Teacher is on sale at Revelations in the Revelations Cafe, but it hasn't sold.

We have been listening to Shana Ram, a novel about a nice criminal in India, but his life turns very sour around part three of four on the audio tape. Without Krishna, all of life's activities turn sour. He is the eternal transcendental element that gives meaning to everything we do. My wife is inclined to see Him as the Supersoul Who is located in the heart of every living being. I long to see Him as Shyamasundara, the trancendental cowherd boy whose complexion is like a monsoon rain cloud, and Who spots with His friends and lovers in Vrindavan.

I can't help it. Everywhere I go, everything I see, I am always missing Krishna. This winter I intend to increase my Sadhana.

phillipahtmann @ 2009-09-04T09:10:00

2009-09-04T14:12:35Z

Who knows what I will write today. Voice and silence rest already in the soul and Supersoul. I could write the epic of all time, but it is not likely. One must deserve before one can truly desire.

Post Flu

2009-09-02T23:15:48Z

I had the flu for the past two days, and today I just took it easy to be sure it's gone. For two days I had a wonderful excuse to do what I wanted to do: nothing. Pure consciousness is very blissful. It is a little boarding though after billions of years. A billion years, a mooment, they are not much different. Consider the time in an atom. How many spins does an electron do in a second? Millions? Trillions? Back in the consensus of what is called REALITY, I have not worked on the final installment of my new novel, and I have not done anything to promote my work. Anyone interested in the ABC's of writing a novel can go to www.PhillipAhtmann.webs.com. No really creative insights to share except this: If you meditate upon the all inclusive your are bound to become devoted. (Hare Krishna).

Morning Meditation

2009-08-30T14:08:09Z

My wife is still in meditation upon the flying mantra of the Maharishi's transcendental meditation. I have been awake since 3:00 am, meditating upon my lack of devotion at the lotus feet of Radha Radha Kantha.

Krishna is in everyone's heart as the Param Atma or Supersoul.

Long ago, in the days of constant flowing words, I lived in a hut of grass. There were no problems then, only the ananda of unlimited meditations.

Now I have come to the mud of mundane life
And I am disconnected from Eternity, Knowledge and Bliss
And am left with the bitter sweet memories of Krishna Lila which I no longer can enter into.

At some point, I will return to Vrndavan, I know, but it may be many lifetimes if I continue at the pace where now I sleep.

At any point, I can turn my life upwards; it only takes courage.
It does not require strength, it requires faith.
I am satisfied with the dim reflection of bhakti,
But I wish to share the very depth and fullness of it.

Madhavadasa Das

All Inclusive

2009-08-24T23:08:52Z

I have very little ambition to publicize my novel. If I had more, I would be pursuing reviews with more vigor and writing more for my second novel, now in progress.

I pause too often to think of what to say. Ah, for that sweet gift of inspiration which runs ahead of me and fills my mind with ideas that capture me and that I must share with my audience.

We are looking for those who are attracted to what is actually attractive.

What is actually attractive? What is actually attractive is attractive to all living beings throughout eternal time. Unfortunately, we have forgotten eternal time. For most people, the idea of an all attractive being is as fantastic as one who is all powerful, all knowing, all beautiful, renounced, wealthy, and all famous. Only God could be that opulent.

And that is why we are all so unwilling to believe. We are actually unwilling to perceive such a Personality, and that Personality withholds Himself for that reason.

I do not doubt it.

New Raman Reti Sunrise

2009-08-23T14:53:41Z

I awoke early this morning, but went back to sleep and re-awoke at around 4:00. After performing my morning ablutions, I dressed and went out to the farm.

I drove more slowly than usual, enjoying the tresses and the colors of dawn.

Thuderstorm

2009-08-21T19:55:54Z

Today there was a thunderstorm. I was thinking how nice it would be to have a short story to go with it. The bombastic thunder clasps rocked the house, and browned out the electricity for several moments. It was enough to shut my computer down. Anita was at the doctor's, waiting for the storm to subside. They always do subside. But there was close lightning and thunder here even after the rain stopped. I kept imagining that she would have gotten in the van after the rain stopped, only to be frightened suddenly by a nearby massive explosion of electricity. But she made it safe and sound.

Slow writer

2009-08-18T16:28:25Z

I am writing my memoirs. The past few sentences have taken a day. How can such simple rhetoric be so troublesome?

Up all night

2009-08-17T10:57:41Z

I was up all night lat night; now I want to sleep.
My mind was enlivened then, but now it's dull and deep.
Travel with me in my sight, dreams begin to flow.
I was up all night last night, but now I have to go.

Brahma Muhurta

2009-08-12T11:04:57Z

According to the Veda, the day is divided into thirty two muhurtas of 45 minutes, instead of twenty four hours of sixty minutes. The muhurta which begins 90 minutes before sunrise is called the Brahma Muhurta. It is the most auspicios time of the day to meditate or engage in spiritual activity. The Sunrises today at 6:24 where I am, so the Brahma Muhurta starts at 4:39 am and goes to 5:24.

I used to rise every day at 4:00 am, perform my ablutions, and chant auspicious blissful songs and mantras until about 8:30. During the day, my mind would often wander to transcendental happiness experienced in the para vyoma or spiritual abode where Radha and Krishna perform their loving pastimes.

Today, I woke up and wished I would do these things again, but I am on my own, and doing this alone for long periods of time is very difficult.

Sharing these thoughts with you all is non-different from participating in them.

Please comment or just write a note saying hello.

Thanks,
Phil

Writer's Block: Memo to Myself

2009-08-12T02:28:03Z

If you could travel back in time, what advice would you give to your younger self?

View 561 Answers

If I could travel back in time... Well, how far back in time? To which occasion?
I remember debating with myself for more than half an hour about whether or not I was going to buy a copy of Bhaktivedanta's Bhagavad Gita As It Is. I could see that if I bought the book, it would completely change my life, and I didn't think I was ready to have my life changed. But years later I read the book, and it changed my life completely, and I regretted not having purchased it earlier.

Moving ON

2009-08-10T10:52:04Z

My thoughts are only half formulated. Something about the creative impulse, and the desire to create meaning in life.

Life is already full of meaning. The only difficulty is that we are ignoring the meaning of life.

Athatho' brahma jijnyasa - Human life is meant for inquiry into the true spiritual nature that pervades all things.

I am not speaking from some background in theoretical philosophy. This is experiential. One can engage in meditation or devotional service to the Supreme and experience this. One of the factors that turns many people off about spiritual life is that so many religious people have a strong parochial attitude. They think that theirs is the only correct path, and that others are mislead or unsaved. They believe that they are forgiven for their transgressions, and that others are not.

Those who are wise see that all paths lead to the same goal.

Papaya

2009-08-09T17:07:15Z

I transplanted 16 papaya trees, in spite of my predilection to simply meditate upon the Paramatma or Nama Prabhu. I'm a most mystical fellow, doing nothing when I am busy, doing much when I'm at rest. What I am doing now, I am not sure.

"Sure" you say, "that's what everybody says."

"Are we not all part of everybody?" say I.

Please read my novel at www.TheCultTeacher.com.

Write me!

And now for a little spontaneous unedited flow of words that will take me to places I had not dreamt ever to go. Ever on into expanding Vaikuntha (place of no anxiety0 WE GO. hERE EVERY WORD IS MUSIC and every step a dance.

Stay in touch, whoever you are, with the sources of ever expanding bliss.

Let me know how you feeel in such consciousness!

Phil

Good Morning

2009-08-09T12:59:16Z

Once again I slept through the morning programs. Today I dreamt I was going back to St. John's College. Not nearly as nice as having a early morning spiritual program.

Back Again

2009-08-08T20:07:06Z

I shut down for a while, but my grand daughter suggested that I start up again, so here I am.

Read a chapter from The Cult Teacher

2009-03-20T00:52:46Z

Go to www.TheCultTeacher.com for more information.

THE CULT TEACHER (c) 2009 - Chapter Three - Celebration

Celebration

“There’s a nice restaurant in the French Quarter, next to the French Market, called Louisiana Pizza Kitchen that a friend of mine told me about. We have to go down Esplanade to get there, so we’ll pass the school where you’ll be teaching.” Abraham found the way on the map, and they were off. Esplanade Avenue was the site of beautiful mansions and awesome oaks. Mother Cabrina High School and Chapel were just acrossSt. John’s Bayou by the park. Its four-story-high white marble dome gave the neighborhood an air of timelessness and testimony to the nobler aspirations of the human sprit. The sidewalks where pedestrians walked vibrated with the mood of Tthe Big Easy that was New Orleans, a place to comfortably pursue the cheaper pleasures of the mind and senses. The Whole Earth grocery was also located at the park end of Esplanade, just a block south of Saint Cabrina’s Cathedral, and not far down the road was the Hare Krishna temple, which Abraham and Teresa had visited on Sunday. A few blocks southward was McDonough High. At the end of Esplanade was the French Quarter. Here the mansions on either side of the road had been mostly converted into apartments, and they seemed especially friendly. The brick walls seemed to invite chalk artwork, the landscaping in the median of Esplanade invited picnickers, and everything was harmonious. At the very end, before the tracks, where the classical imposing granite Old Mint building officiated among the other structures, they turned a long right around to Barracks street. The three–block, long French Market ended here. At this end, the vendors sold a motley of odds and ends beneath the wide canopy of what was once the railroad station. Across the street from the Old Mint and the French market, at the triangular end of the block on North Peters, sat the Louisiana Pizza Kitchen; Abraham directed Teresa to park across the street from the restaurant, by the old Mint.

The restaurant’s interior was lined with flattened olive oil cans that testified to the decades of the restaurant’s success and avant-garde atmosphere. On the wall hung oil paintings done by local artists, all the modern media of the abstract, impressionism, and surrealism. The menu itself, a work of modern art, offered a wide selection of vegetarian items along with the traditional fare.

“You know,” Teresa said, “I tried to become a vegetarian several times. The maharishi says it’s better for your consciousness. But my family wouldn’t allow it. But now that I’ve met you, I can’t even imagine eating meat anymore.”

“Once you’ve realized that the soul inhabits every form of life, you have to become vegetarian. People talk about the soul, but they don’t realize what the soul is. It’s the most important knowledge, but the modern lifestyle, with its artificial technology, misleads everyone. We can fly anywhere, see anywhere, lift anything, buy anything, so what need is there for spiritual perfection? That’s the illusion of this life. Happiness is here and now, and we’ll just forget about the eternal. Heaven can wait and will wait no matter what we do.” Through his nostrils, like a horse full of sense, Abraham puffed his laugh of rebuke.

A pretty young girl with a robust round face, long loosely hanging auburn hair, and a full-length cotton dress came to the table with the sleek menu. “Would you like something to drink before your meal?” she asked.

“I’d like some wine,” Teresa pleaded, “if you don’t mind.”

“I’d rather have some grass. But I guess I’ll have to settle for what is legal,” quipped Abraham.

The waitress blushed. “May I suggest a carafe of the house Merlot,” she said.

“That sounds fine.” Abraham played along. And the young girl smiled and flitted off.

“Don’t you think that it’s wonderful that you got a job so quickly?” Teresa said.

“And it’s near the Krishna temple. Now what are the chances of that happening? Krishna is giving me a sign that he’s pleased with my being here. Don’t you think?” asked Abraham.

“Oh, I’m sure. And you know,” she continued, “I had a friend who was a lawyer. Well, he was my boss actually, but we were friends, and I was his secretary. He was so sure that his business was coming apart. He hadn’t won a case in so long, and people weren’t paying, and this and that. He was sure he’d have to close his office and go out of business. But you know, I drafted collection letters to all those old clients, and I got his ledgers up-to-date. And he was doing better than he thought he was doing. ‘If you haven’t won any cases,’ I told him, ‘it’s only because you’ve taken on so many lost causes.’ And I got him turned around. And he has a wonderful practice now. I’d so love for you to meet him. Him name is Jerry Klinow, and he is one of the sweetest, kindest men you’d ever want to meet. He lives in Tampa, Florida. We should go down there sometime.”

“Are you ready to order?” asked the effulgent waitress.

“Yes,” Abraham responded. “We’ll have the wood-oven-cooked vegetarian pizza and the large Greek salad. Bring extra plates because we’re going to share everything.”

“I’ll bring you out a basket of rolls in just a minute,” said the shy young waitress.

“You would like Arnold,” said Teresa.

“Who is Arnold?”

“Oh, he was my first husband. Gerald and Stephanie are his children. He’s a nice person. You’d like him.”

“Then why did you two get divorced?”

“He drank too much,” Teresa said with finality.

“And then you married George,” Abraham humorously anthologized.

“That was George’s idea,” said Teresa. “He just kept encouraging me. Really, I didn’t want to marry him, but he kept insisting. I still don’t know why I married him. He wanted to marry me, well, ~~one,~~ because I was good looking—”

“Yes, I can believe that.”

“And he had two sons by his previous marriage. He thought I would be good for his sons. But when his oldest son was already fourteen, I was only thirty. Gerald was nine, and Stephanie was just four. Then Harold and Michael are George’s sons.”

Abraham summarized, “Let me see if I have this straight. You have a son and a daughter by your first marriage, two sons and two stepsons by your second. And I have two sons by my first marriage, so I suggest that we call it quits.”

“Oh no. I don’t want you to leave.” She suddenly panicked and took his hands.

“No, I just meant in the baby department.”

“Here’s your salad,” said the shy waitress. I’ll be right back with your pizza.”

“So how did you and Alexandra meet?” asked Teresa.

Abraham was chewing a red and green forkful of salad. He swallowed and had a sip of wine. “I was looking for a wife. At that time, I was living in the Krishna temple in Gainesville. Prabhupada had left the planet, and everyone was feeling a little lost.

The temple president was Mahendra Das. He was a big devotee, about six foot tall, and he weighed over two hundred. He was Jewish and had dark hair and thick eyelashes. And he always looked angry. His friend Adi Das was the temple commander. He was short and sleek and graceful. The two of them ruled the temple with almost absolute authority.

I went to them and told them I wanted to be married. “Madhava,” they told me, “you cannot be married. We couldn’t trust anyone in your care. You go to sleep in the middle of the day and go into a trance that no one can wake you from. How will you be able to support a wife? What kind of an example will you set for her?” Adi Das was quite sympathetic. “Believe me, Madhava, I would love to see you as a nice householder. But you have so much trouble controlling your own mind, imagine how you will feel when you have to be responsible for two. You’ll end up spending twice as much time lying on the floor, praying to leave your body.”

Mahendra drew the hard line. “Why don’t you just want to be a nice devotee and give up all of your strange behavior? Then we can talk about a wife.”

“Then let me find someone when I go out on sankirtana, distributing books. I can cultivate someone and bring her to the temple and devotional service,” I suggested. After some debate, they finally relented.

I was in the parking lot of Winn Dixie, collecting donations and giving out Back to Godhead magazines when I saw Alexandra. And I just knew, as if the Lord in my heart told me. “If you don’t marry this one, don’t bother me anymore about a wife.” And sure enough, she was very friendly. She liked the BTG magazine and gave me her phone number. So one thing led to another, and we got married. Then we got kidnapped and separated by the deprogrammers. She was never the same after that.”

“What happened when you were kidnapped?” Teresa was more than sympathetic, she was worried, as if the event was in the future instead of the past.

Abraham folded his hands on his lap, Buddha style, with the tips of his thumbs touching. “We had gone to visit my father in Ft. Lauderdale. After weeks of effort, I was convinced that we could not support ourselves begging small donations and giving out Prabhupada’s Back to Godhead magazines. I was thinking my father could help me get training in computers so I could get a good job.

“We didn’t know it, but Alexandra’s father had contacted my father about the same time with a plan to kidnap Alexandra and have her deprogrammed by a small bunch of working-class fanatics. My father took us out to Pennies to buy me a wardrobe that I believed would help me look the part of a computer programmer. I called the house from the store for some reason, and my mother, thinking it was my father, said, ‘OK, everything is ready, you can bring them back.’ When I was through talking, I was convinced there was a plot, so I called a friend of mine, but he wasn’t home.

“While my father was paying the bill for the new clothes, a business card with the name of the deprogrammers slipped out of his wallet, ‘What is this?’ I asked and held it up, but he demanded it back and shuffled it back into his wallet. ‘They’re planning to deprogram us,’ I said to Alexandra. But she was her usual Pollyanna self and just smiled and told me I was being paranoid.

“When we got home, the living room had been cleared of all ornamental trappings. I walked through the house, calling the deprogrammers out.

Abraham paused. He stared through the tabletop to the floor below and breathed deeply. Teresa reached out her hand, and he placed his hand in hers. “It was years ago,” she said.

“They came out of the woodwork and told me they wanted to talk to me. ‘I’m prepared to talk to you all night,’ I said. ‘We want you to come with us,’ they said. I refused, and they resorted to force. There were three big guys on me, and two on Alexandra. I tried to fight them off, but I wasn’t able.

“They took us to the house of one of the deprogrammers. His name was Kenneth Krammer. His daughter, Debbie Krammer, had been living in a Krishna temple when the deprogrammers approached her father and convinced him that Hare Krishna was an evil cult. Before that, he had actually been quite favorable. But they convinced him, and he had his daughter deprogrammed, and now the two of them were working with this bigoted vigilante troop.”

The waitress arrived with two large salad plates decorated with garnishing and spices. “Why don’t we enjoy our meal? We can talk later,” he said.

“Close your mouth when you chew.” Teresa was the guru of etiquette.

“It’s a New England Jewish trait. I do it unconsciously.” Abraham was struggling with his habits.

Teresa smiled. “Why don’t you put down your fork for a minute and tell me the rest of your story.”

Abraham picked up the glass of wine and stared into its deep burgundy aura. “They put Alexandra in one room and me in another. One of them brought me a quart of orange juice to drink.

“‘Do you think it’s drugged?’ he asked, ‘then I’ll drink it.’ Which he did. Then they brought in another quart, probably drugged, but I was hungry and thirsty. And I felt that sooner or later, I would have to take something, so I drank it.”

Abraham put down the glass. “They moved in real chummy. ‘What’s the real reason you chant Hare Krishna?’ they asked, as if I were collecting a bribe or being treated to beautiful women. ‘To please Krishna,’ I told them. But this only infuriated them. ‘You’re worshiping the devil,’ they said. My blood ran hot. I kicked one of them in the chest so hard, I found out later, I broke his rib. They kept attacking me with accusations, and I realized there was no escape. So I just started chanting Hare Krishna. Then they got out a water pistol and started squirting me. The more I chanted, the more they squirted me; but water was not as irritating as blasphemy.

“Eventually, I pretended to have gone crazy, so they put me in a hospital. But the psychiatrist they assigned me turned out to be the one who treated Debbie when they deprogrammed her. But that’s another story.”

Teresa reached across the table and took Abraham by the hands. “Can you let all of that go? Just let all of that go, and forgive them. They are just a bunch of ignorant people.”

“Sure, I don’t even know where they are. I might as well forgive them. I mean I can’t go and pour hot lead down their throats.”

Tears came to Teresa’s eyes and spread her mascara. “No, I mean can you just let go and really forgive them. They are just poor, misguided, and confused souls.”

“I’ll forgive them if you’ll chant Hare Krishna,” he told her.

“Hare Krishna, Hare Krishna,” she told him.

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Voice Post

2009-03-18T19:02:50Z