About Krishna Bhavana

By Caitanya Candra dasa

I was visiting my brother who, like me, inhabits a body that is predominantly African-American. As such (and for reasons that I am unable to succinctly articulate), we share an ineffable affinity with others of similar hue. My sap-like spiritual awakening occurred simultaneously with my progressive understanding of the daily ramifications of race-consciousness in America, and of my belonging to a marginalized and resented part of that population. Understanding and managing an inbred, systemic, and crippling contempt towards one’s self and one’s “own,” produces a corrosive effect that is as alien to the perpetrator, as it is to the human condition, itself. This was our “surreality,” the constant reminder that we were the “perverted reflection” of Anglo perfection. With my parent’s help, I managed to avoid the pathological self-loathing that such systems foster in its victims. And, it was with no small satisfaction that I read Srila Prabhupada’s elucidation of the principle that we were, in fact, not these bodies.

I remember my first visits to the New Dwarka temple, in the early 1980’s. Unlike many of the religious institutions with which I was familiar, the Hare Krishna community was comprised of individuals from as diverse a swath of humanity as I had seen. And although I was not surprised to find a minority of “black-bodied” practitioners amongst the populace, I was impressed with the diversity of peoples at the weekly Sunday Feast, and by the easy and respectful manner with which Krishna devotees of all colors and cultures accorded one another.

One simple, yet poignant memory was the first time I attended mangla-arotik I stood outside the ornate wooden doors and listened to the call of the conch, and the indigenous rhythms of mrdanga, kartalas, and chanting inside. One or two devotees scurried past me, and into the temple. The opened doors momentarily emitted an eddy of transcendent sound, and a wave of aromatic patchouli. I was utterly dumbfounded. A soft, accented, and musical voice to my right aroused me from my reverie.

“Haribol, spirit soul, what is your name?”

I turned to see a bramachari of Jamaican origin. His entire face radiated peace, and he wore the most natural smile. Unlike other devotees, he had a full-head of thick wooly hair. His age could have been thirty, or it could have been fifty—it was impossible to tell. I don’t recall the particulars of our brief conversation, but I explained that I had read the Bhagavad Gita, and that I had begun chanting the maha mantra. He asked me if I had any japa mala. My quizzical countenance answered, and in no time, he produced a set of japa beads and instructed me in their use. He told me his name was Krishna Bhavana, and he guided me through the protocols of entering the temple.

After I joined the New Dwarka community, my younger brothers Jeffery and Jarrett visited periodically. Adolescents at the time, one was admittedly more interested in the prasadam, and the other, in the bramacharinis than either was in the philosophy. Still, I thought it important that they experience a truly integrated environment where one was not automatically categorized on the basis of one’s body. I made a point to introduce them to Krishna Bhavna. He welcomed them as “young prabhus,” and they basked in the warm approval of this gentle soul.

During the seven years that I lived in New Dwarka, it was only natural to see Krishna Bhavana regularly. We did not form the kind of close bond that I had with my sankirtan god-brothers. This was due, in part, to the respect with which I always accorded him. As time and circumstance required many from that era to leave the comfort of bramacharya, and embrace the duty of the grihasta ashram, so too did Krishna Bhavana and I, each in our own time.

So there I was, twenty-five years later, visiting my brother, (the one interested in the bramacharinis). He lives in a predominantly ethnic part of Los Angeles, known to many as “the hood.” We were famished at the time, and my brother mentioned that there was a Hare Krishna restaurant on Slauson, near his apartment. I found this difficult to believe, but as we wound our way to the location, there it was: a small preaching center and restaurant right in the heart of the “the hood.” The owner-operator was none other than Krishna Bhavana. The only evidence of age was the whitening of his beard and full head of woolen hair. His nonchalant smile recognized us as we entered, and we knew that we were as at home there as we were in New Dwarka.

He served us generous portions of Caribbean-styled vegetarian “soul-food.” As we reconnected and shared our respective circumstances, he explained that Krishna had guided his endeavors, and that he had been fortunate enough able to render “some small service to Srila Prabhupada.” With unassuming dignity and quiet wisdom, he had brought a little piece of New Dwarka to the African-American community where my brother and I had come of age. I was humbled that this simple soul had remained quietly committed to living the principles of bhakti yoga, honestly and without pretense. As important was the realization that, if practiced with grace and humility, Prabupada’s prescription for perfection is open equally to all, regardless of their ethnicity, gender, culture, race, education, or social status. I cannot think of one other secular or religious institution that has accomplished half as much.