Don’t Make Me Chant in Public. I Might Enjoy It, and That Would Spoil My Bad Mood.

Notes from Chowpatty, Mumbai, Radha-Gopinath temple

This morning, I got a surprise when it was time for Srimad-Bhagavatam class: there wasn’t any. Bewildered, I asked somebody what was up. He said, “It’s Monday. Harinam.”

“Harinam? What about Srimad-Bhagavatam class?” I thought. “Well! (huff of righteous indignation) since I wasn’t informed about this well ahead of time, I’m certainly not prepared to go. But God bless those devotees for going on harinam. I’ll finish my rounds, maybe write something. . .”

As I was retrieving my beads, determined to not break out of my inertia for any reason, I heard the whompers, drum, and the singer’s megaphone-enhanced voice already bouncing off the lacquered sandstone walls of the temple courtyard. I peeked down over the railing to see how many devotees were going out. The brahmacari dancing with the megaphone looked up and seemed to motion me down Indian style—with upraised arm and fingers gently flapping downwards like a baby waving goodbye.

“He can’t be flapping his fingers at me,” I thought. “Surely he means the guy next to me, who’s probably an old friend of his. I’m just visiting here anyway—how can I be expected to just drop everything and go out on harinam? I don’t even know where they’re going, or how long they’re going out for. What if this is an all-day event? Even if I did go, I’d have to go all the way back to my room first, put on socks and shoes, and explain to my wife that there’s no class. Probably she’ll just be getting around and won’t have the slightest interest in going out either, and by that time all the devotees will be long gone and forget I ever existed. . .”

As the kirtan crew began a carefree sashay around the front of the building. I decided to at least walk with them towards my guest room. I chanted one mantra with them, just so I could say that technically I had been on harinam. Then I broke ranks and took the elevator up to our room.

“Oh, I was just getting ready to go over for class,” my wife said, surprised to see me return from the temple earlier than expected.

“No class today; harinam,” said I, with a hint of bitterness.

After an “I-spent-all-this-time-dressing-up-to-go-somewhere-I’m not-going-now” look quickly passed over her face, she said, “So, you wanna go?”

“Sure,” I said, as if I’d been planning to all along. “I just have to put on socks.”

“These guys have got it goin’ on!” she said, grabbing her video camera. “You go down and see where they’re going, so we don’t miss them.”

I headed down the stairs to the now empty courtyard. The kirtan party was within earshot, but with the sound reverberating off all the buildings in the neighborhood, it was hard to figure out where to go.

“Which way harinam?” I asked the security guard in front. He pointed right. I stood in the street and watched devotees file out on their way to join the party, and waited for my darling wife, who seemed like she was taking forever to make it down the elevator shaft.

She finally emerged and I indicated the direction of sankirtan action, like an airport landing strip traffic director, whereupon she began practically running. I had to walk fast just to keep up. We found the kirtan down Munshi Marg and across the divided road near the banana salesmen. Traffic wasn’t so thick, so we were able to cross and join them within a couple of minutes.

The sankirtan party consisted of about twenty-five men and only two women, my wife and Madhavi-sakhi dasi, from Germany, whom we’d just met the day before. We were probably the oldest people there. As the kirtan leader moved down the street, I made up my mind to dance the whole way, thereby increasing my energy. I was determined to keep up a good public face, dance like a silly person, and have a good time showing the Mumbai-ites that white men can indeed boogie and chant Hare Krishna.

The streets at eight a.m. seemed mostly quiet, though we did pass plenty of cars as we walked and danced toward the bay. I tried to catch people’s eyes as they drove by, and wave to them. I made eye contact with one security guard at a high rise apartment building. I raised my arms in a two-handed wave, and he waved back. Success!
We stopped at one corner and a mother was driving a late model Toyota Corolla with her two elementary school age daughters in the back seat. They had the windows rolled up, no doubt enjoying the air conditioning, but the girls’ eyes got big as they stopped at the corner our kirtan was. I smiled at them and waved as mom hit the gas and drove past us.

I felt no inhibition about dancing as crazy as I liked. I pulled out every Krishna Kripa move I could think of, every swilk (a combination of swimming and walking) I knew, every arm movement that came to mind I employed in the service of harinama sankirtan. And I felt great. It had been a long time since my last street kirtan. I wondered if the devotees brought any mantra cards out, but I didn’t see anyone passing any out.

As it turns out, the devotees chose a circular path leading back to the temple, mostly passing through residential back roads. We passed people getting into their cars, strapping on their scooter helmets, opening up their shops. Security guards with apparently nothing else to do watched us pass by. I attempted to beguile their minds by enlisting my arms in every conceivable arm dance. I thought of how, when I was fourteen and fifteen, I’d dance so crazy at punk clubs that people would come up and compliment me. Finally I was putting that energy to work for a higher purpose.

I’d already had breakfast, so once I was in gear I was prepared to be out for hours. I had kirtan melodies picked out and ready on the off, off chance someone invited me to lead. But as soon as it had started, it was over, and we paid our obeisances in the temple courtyard after one final crescendo.

We arrived back at the temple way too soon, as far as I was concerned.

“That was sweet.” I told Tulasi-priya dasi. “short, but sweet.”

“Yeah!,” she said. “Who says a kirtan has to go on for more than an hour?”

I do, I thought.