Swamiji’s Genius

It was a sign of Swamiji’s genius to bring together simple instruments that everyone could play.  Just as in a kindergarten music class not a single instrument requires one to be a musician – there are blocks, triangles, cymbals, a drum, clackers – so was Swamiji’s genius to bring together all those instruments and hand them out to the children to play.  The only instruction was, “one-two-three, one-two-three.”

The naked light, the back bars on the window behind the Swami.  Some girls from the Lower East Side coming in with motivations other than to participate in Hare Krishna.  New brahmacaris, protective of our celibacy … guys with big, bushy beards reminding us of what we used to be.

Each in our own small space, a box within a box.  In a small room with a lot of people, we have to manoeuvre while dancing and moving around.  There’s room for everyone.  Shoes in the back, smelly.  Back to Godhead with many concentric circles on the cover – stencilled, mimeographed copies.  A hand-cranked mimeograph machine in one corner.  Gargamuni with long hair parted in the middle, looking wistful with his double strand of red japa beads wrapped around his neck.  And Swamiji in the center of it all, his pointy white shoes at the door where he left them when he came in.