consciousness, to god. “Not my will, but thy
will be done.”
In the holy places of India, towns and
villages permeated with devotion, magic
is a daily occurrence. Perception shifts
like clouds moving across the sun. When
the aroma of God’s name wafts down
a village street we can suddenly ind
ourselves walking in the ancient footsteps
of Ram and Sita, or Hanuman, or Radha
and Krishna. Throughout the day, we hear
bells ringing, mantras being uttered from
every doorway, kirtans bursting from the
primitive loudspeakers. We smell incense
and lower oferings. We catch glimpses of
gods and goddesses around every corner.
Doing pilgrimage to the sacred shrines is an
invitation to the mystical breath of Bhakti.
Place of worship
The ancient village of Vrindavan, the town
that was home to the young Lord Krishna
and his beloved Radha, is one of these
great sanctuaries, imbued with worship. The
lines between the past and the present, the
astral and the concrete, are very thin, and
pilgrims come from all over India to partake
of the nectar of Rasa, or divine emotion,
that colours the town. When I irst visited
Vrindavan in 1971, I was absolutely stunned
by the sheer quantity of living temples. It
seemed that literally every other building
was a holy shrine, and the sound of god’s
names reverberated from wall to wall, street
to street, crumbling alley to archaic temple.
One day I was walking along Parikrama
Road, a path that circumambulates the
village. Devotees walk this dusty path
(approximately ive miles) as an act of
worship, feeling that they are ‘Gopis’, circling
the body of their lover, Krishna. Walking
around Parikrama you see ancient India,
priests chanting the Vedas, pilgrims weeping,
sadhus gathered around their ‘dhunis’
swaying to the driving rhythms of a kirtan
chant, peacocks, cows, on and on. I used to
take this walk every morning before dawn,
timing it so I could have my irst chai of the
day watching the blood red sun rise over
the Yamuna river. As the sun climbed into
the sky my heart never failed to melt at the
passionate cries of ‘Radhe’ or ‘Hare Krishna’
that echoed through the misty morning air.
What peace
On this particular day, as I was walking
away from the river I heard a horriic racket.
A young sadhu, covered with white paste,
and wearing a simple cloth around his waist
was sitting on a small stone wall, banging
cymbals together and screaming ‘Radhe
Shyam Radhe Shyam Radhe Shyam’ at the
om spirit
top of his lungs. Instantly my ‘shanti’ was
shattered. The cymbals seemed louder
than the rock concerts I’d left back home
in the States. And his raspy voice was like
sandpaper to the inside of my brain. Where
was the blissful India that I loved?
I hurried my steps and tried to get past
him without being noticed. But just then, an
old old man in orange robes, bent with age,
sporting long dreadlocks, stepped out of the
little hut adjacent to the path. The young
sadhu became stunningly silent as his ancient
guru ofered me tea and cookies. We sat
and sipped the steaming chai, watching the
brilliant emerald parrots ly from tree to tree,
sinking into a deep, heavenly meditation,
listening to the distant strains of kirtan
loating on the gentle wind. What peace.Grace & beauty
But, as all things must pass, the chai was
inished, the cookies were gone, and the
old man dismissed me with a soft smile.
I touched his ancient, cracked feet and
continued my walk. At that moment the
racket began anew. Clang! Clang! Clang! The
horrible cymbals! The hoarse, screaming
voice! But as I turned around for a last
pained look, the magic descended. This oldman, who seemed barely able to walk, was
dancing in the doorway of his hut. Suddenly
his crooked body was illed with the grace
and beauty of a young maiden. His delicate
swaying hips, his beatiic smile, his long
lowing hair; the old sadhu had transformed
into Radha, the goddess of love! And
to complete the mysterious change in
awareness, the young sadhu’s kirtan was
now the sound of angels singing. His terrible
cymbals had transformed into a divine
orchestra of tinkling bells and chimes. My
heart stopped beating, tears sprung from my
eyes. Here was Radha Rani, dancing her love
for Krishna, amidst the gardens of Vrindavan.
When it seemed the world would end in an
ecstasy of love, the old man simply stepped
inside, leaving me to the heat and dust, and
the sadhu’s cacophonous song. But my mind
was quiet and my heart was full as I continued
down the path. I had been given yet another
reminder to see beyond the surface reality
into what is hidden; to trust the perceptions
of the heart before those of the judging mind.
I had been given a few drops of grace from
the vast ocean of Bhakti.Jai Uttal is a kirtan artist, multi-
instrumentalist, and ecstatic vocalist.“Kirtan is part of an ancient form of yoga known
as Bhakti, or the yoga of devotion. But in Bhakti
we redeine ‘devotion’, we expand the meaning
to include every shade of colour in the palette of
human emotion, turned towards god through song,
dance, and worship.”