KRISHNA’S GARDEN

For a brief moment, I wished I had taken one of those Young at Heart Tours, promising adventure for the over 50 set, with everything planned, from transportation to meal times to tour guides. It would be nice not to have to think. I could relax a little and go with the flow. Eventually, however, on an 8 hour bus ride in the middle of the night, my bus buddy would start complaining about the air conditioning, Mr Businessman from Milwuakee would be on his phone the whole time, and Miss Yoga Teacher from California would start complaining about the lack of gluten free food options, and I would wish I was on my own.

Like now. In Vrindivan. Looking for Krishna's Garden.

I had heard about the mythical garden many times and had set out from my air conditioned room at the Tara Palace to brave the sweltering mid day heat of India to find it. I walked through the busy market place, past the stalls of colorful sari's and the men beckoning with “Best price!” I hurried past the stall with the sad chickens cramped into little cages. The butcher, a woman with no teeth and a blood splattered apron, looked at me and smiled, as she plucked the feathers from a dead chicken.

After 20 minutes of wandering, I felt the panic creep in. The narrow streets all seemed to lead back into each other and I was trapped in this maze, overwhelmed by the smells of curry and cow dung. I stopped at a stall to buy a cold bottle of Pani.

“New bottle? Never opened?” I asked.

“No madam, never opened. Good for Westerners.”

I held the cold bottle of water against my forehead and felt the coolness before cracking it open.

Relax, I told myself. Take a deep breath. This is another experience. Being present. Getting lost. All good.

India was a challenge to be sure, and sometimes it took all my courage just to walk out of my hotel. I had no map, and no real agenda, just a desire to see Krishnas Garden. I had always enjoyed wandering, but this felt different. Between the oppressive heat and my internal anxiety, it was getting harder to breathe.

I was lost.

I looked up and there she was again, the Happy Butcher with her dead chickens and the sad ones waiting for the knife. It broke my heart. Maybe this search wasn't worth it. I was losing my will.

“Madame, I can take you.” A man appeared out of the shadows, hunched over like a question mark, his black hair slicked back with a pint of Argan oil. He had dark skin and dark eyes. He wore a sweat stained light blue cotton shirt with all but 2 buttons missing, dusty brown pants and no shoes.

“Madame, I am here to take you to Krishna's Garden.”

“What?!” I stammered. “How did you? I mean what makes you think? Um.. I don't have any rupees...” I said defiantely.

I was tired of haggling and getting scammed and swindled and not about to let it happen again. So I laid down the law.

“No, madame, no rupees, let me show you. I am Mohan your guide.”

It took me a minute to gather my wits. This was an amazing coincidence or small miracle, or was it? I had been to India before and considered myself a savy budget traveler. People were really poor here and sometimes desperate. When they saw a Westerner it meant money. And the word “guide” usually meant parting with rupees.

But I had also expereienced the flip side of that coin and I also knew their kindness and warmth. And I really wated to see Krishnas Garden. I took it as a sign and took a chance.

“Okay, but nahi rupees. I mean it.” I said with as much authority as I could muster.

“No madame, just follow Mohan.”

He lead me down a narrow street that opened into a plaza. At the far end of the plaza was an old temple. The Babas, in their orange turbans, lined the steps, silver pails in hand, waiting to be served the afternoon meal of daal and roti. Monkeys paced back and forth on the wall behind them. Naughty Bandars. The Babas would feed them and the monkeys would steal the left overs.

“This way, please.” Mohan made a quick right and there it was.

Krishna's Garden. I felt a small sense of pride in that I had been so close on my own.

“Madame, shoes please.” Mohan pointed to the shoe rack.

There was a handpainted sign written in Hindi and English above the turnstile entrance asking for an entrance fee. One price for Indians and higher price for tourists. Mohan took me by the hand and waved to the man at the entrance.

“No fee,” Mohan said and the man waved us on.

“Welcome to Krishna's home!” Mohan said reverently. “Late at night, when there are no people in the garden, Krishna comes to dance with his Gopis.”

We followed a dusty path that lead between a forest of gnarled leafless cypress trees. This was not what I had expected. I had pictured a lush green garden with peacocks and waterfalls. Still, there was something magical about this dusty little forest. If I squinted my eyes , and looked at the trees long enough, I could almost imagine them dancing like Krishnas Gopis.

Mohan lead me to a shrine. A young Indian boy sat in lotus position in front of the open door. The Gate Keeper. He pointed to the donation basket at his feet.

"Madame must respect Krishna," Mohan said.

I fumbled in my travel satchel, donated a few rupees. and was invited to look inside the room. It was brightly painted in blue and gold, and in the center was a large bed with a lavish satin bed spread. Mohan came up behind me and whispered in my ear.

“This is where Krishna and Radha meet at night to, you know.....” He smiled mischeviously and started pressing his palms together.

“Oh, yes, yes, I get it,” I said uncomfortably, wishing he would stop.

“This is where they make the sex.” Mohan grinned.

“Yes, I got it the first time. Thank you, Mohan. Well, this has been lovely. Thank you so much.”

I was starting to feel a little uncomfortable and decided now would be a good time to make my exit.

“Snap, Madame? Photo?”

“Oh yes, please, that would be great,” because there is always time for a picture.

I covered my head with an orange prayer shawl and stood smiling in front of Krishna's sex palace while Mohan took my picture.

“You want to stay with Mohan in the garden for a little while and see what happens?”he joked.

“No! I mean, you've been so nice, thank you, but I have to go” I said.

I grabbed my camera and headed for the exit. Mohan caught up to me and jumped in front of the exit turnstile.

“Madame is unhappy with Krishna's Garden?”

“No, it's been great.”

“Madame are you unhappy with Mohan?”

“No. Not at all. You have been so lovely and I am grateful. But I thought I made myself clear at the beginning, that I was not going to pay any rupees.”

He held out his hand, palm up.

“Madame, you needed a guide and Mohan appeared. Be grateful for who comes to you, because each has been sent as a guide from beyond.”

I looked at his dirty clothes, his bare feet and she thought about what his life must be like. Maybe he had a wife and kids, maybe he wanted to go to school, maybe he had no home to go to except a straw mat outside the garden, maybe he was just trying to make a buck, or maybe he was a scoundrel.

Damn! Damn! Damn! I softened, opened my back pack and handed him 300 rupees, barely four US dollars. He stepped aside and we passed through the turnstile. I slipped into my dusty sandals and turned to Mohan one more time. He bowed his head, hands in prayer, and said,

“Namaste.”

The Light in me, sees the light in you.

“Namaste” I said.

He walked across the plaza, and slipped into the shadows, ready to appear to the next lost tourist as the magical guide Mohan.