On the 10th floor of the hotel listening to
incessant beeping of horns and gazing into a grey mess of buildings. For the wealthiest city of India, it’s
got a lot of dirt, the usual folks sleeping on the medians and sidewalks at
night, and puddles of unknown origin everywhere. I am reminded that humans make a mess. We have fluids and solids to expel,
points to prove. Money is a fluid
solid like any other and can mask a mess well, but Mumbai reminds: the truth of
humanity swirls in the puddles and dustpans of our lives.
Interestingly enough, Ragunath Swami spoke later this day
about the sewage project going on at the ISKCON “Eco-farm” project outside of
Mumbai. (ISKCON: International Society for Krishna
Consciousness). The PHD who came
to do his thesis project on natural wastewater treatment created a deep reservoir,
which filters the dirty water through layers of earth until it is clean, and
the pool itself becomes a lush water garden of flowering plants. This is like, said Ragunath Swami, the
way sadhana purifies our hearts, taking our waste and dirt and making flowers. “It gives me hope,” he said, touching
fingertips to his heart. The PHD
now stands for Purifyer of Human Dung.
That gives me hope, as one living in Boston, center of academia.
I do keep coming here for these reminders. Waste can become a garden, impurities
change to beauty, and the sadhana I learn from this culture, the arts of yoga
and devotion, well, it works.
And so I am here again, to immerse in the land where
yoga predominates. Mumbai: the construction of high-rise apartments appears to be of
the essence, three are there on this cityscape alone. Towels, tunics, and dhotis hang drying from every railing up
and down the side of the tall buildings, making the city of Mumbai look like a
long, stained drying rack. Something
like a metal curtain rod flies through the air, hits the side of the building
with a crack, and continues down to the street. Closer to the ground, the haze and muddle of brown rooftops
remind me of a vision I had from the window of the Shanghai airport. In and out of the streets walk modern
and good looking folk, weaving through the old and poor, who spit betel nut on
the tar. We walk through with yoga
tights and mats on our way to the ashram for practice, where the walls are made
of smooth, cool, cow dung.
Ragunath Swami, an Italian American by birth, has the
interesting karma of stewarding a large Krishna ashram on prime real estate
here at the Chowpatty Beach area, and this is where the Yatris stay. We practiced primary series this
morning in a room beneath the main hall where the deities are. The morning darshan was rollicking
above as the students took rest.
The sounds of stomping feet, dancing, drums, and singing were there from
7:30AM. The adjoining restaurant,
Govinda’s, is famous for its authentic brick oven pizzas, installed in Italian
American fashion by the swami.
Yatris reflected at lunch yesterday how the Indian
traditions seem to have returned to paramount status after traveling to the
west and back again. An American
swami in Mumbai, who knew? Men in
nice shirts and slacks tour about the grounds, with one hand inside the
characteristic Krishna sack containing the mala beads. Everyone is chanting the name of
Krishna. I wonder if the men in
slacks do this, and carry the bag only when they are here, like how New
Englanders go for a week-end to the Kripalu center for a workshop with Krishna
Das and bust out our white flowing clothing. There are the Brahmacharis in faded orange dhotis and kirtas,
devotees who live here and serve the Lord, work in the ashram and renounce the comforts
of civilian life for the comforts of spiritual life. I see outside each room, a top, a dhoti, and a towel, all
orange, and I wonder how much else they own. In this moment, I feel thankful for my stuff. Truly, after so many of shirking it, I
like my stuff. Wealth and
spirituality both make you rich.
That we know. Finding that
middle road where I feel rich- whatever that happens to look like, well that’s
the journey these days.
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