Past midnight, I stumbled in after a late event, half-asleep, and headed straight for the āśrama. At 4.00am, life kicks off again—late nights and early mornings are not ideal. As I ascended the staircase, I glanced sideways down the echoey corridor and was forced to stop. A figure caught my eye. At this hour? Dressed in white, crouched over, gently swaying in prayer, pulsating with intensity, and oblivious to the world: Mother Kulangana. First out of the blocks: “What is night for all beings is the time of awakening for the introspective sage.” (Bhagavad-gītā 2.69). Over the years, I’d have had this privileged sight multiple times. While the world slept, she was preparing for what comes next. No pretence or performance. After all, this was the business end of life. Standing there, I forgot my sleepiness, at least for the time being. She was the embodiment of everything I had been speaking about that evening. A living theology.

1932, Poland. That’s where her story begins—and it already tells you much. Mother Kulangana lived through a war-torn Warsaw: bombings, scarcity, constant threat, and uneasy proximity to death. As a young girl, she was separated from her mother. For us who’ve lived sheltered lives, it’s a story we can’t really inhabit. Somehow, she survived it all—illumined by witnessing the full range of the “dark side.” Later, she effortlessly renounced everything, dedicating her life in selfless service to Kṛṣṇa. Mother Kulangana showed up every day, for over four decades, right till the last breath. She was the quintessential wise elder, stronger than a thunderbolt, and softer than a rose. Lived experience, wise in scripture, and a heart devoid of envy—what a combination! I braved a question now and again, and always left the conversation enriched. There was weight behind each word, and every answer left a resounding echo. The insights of elders tend to keep returning, reminding us of what we didn’t grasp the first time around.

Mother Kulangana reminded me of Kuntīdevī from the Bhāgavata. Consider Kuntī’s trajectory: she loses her firstborn soon after delivery; shortly after marriage, her husband dies; she raises five sons amid toxic family intrigue; her own relatives conspire to dispossess them; she endures thirteen years of separation from her children; and after all that, a fratricidal war annihilates most of her family. Against that backdrop, her prayers shine even brighter. She asks that calamities come “again and again,” seeing them as a catalyst for intensity and intimacy with God. She values “material exhaustion,” recognising that comfort and extravagance can blunt one’s sincerity. She wishes all worldly attachments to be severed, envisioning her attraction flowing toward God “like the Ganga to the ocean” (Bhāgavata Purāṇa 1.8.24-44).

What is a community without elders? Some see the passage of years as a decline, but perhaps it’s a maturation—like a ripened fruit whose fullest flavour emerges. Life, in its later stages, can yield its most distilled insight. We equate reduced energy with diminished value, a bias shaped by a culture that prioritises productivity over depth. Yet those who no longer produce or perform at speed often contribute at a higher level: clarity, judgment, and hard-won wisdom. To ignore those who came before us is to divorce ourselves from accumulated insight. No generation discovers truth entirely anew; it inherits, contextualises, and rearticulates in ways that speak to its own time and language. As Newton observed, “If I have seen further, it is by standing on the shoulders of giants.” Mother Kulangana was one such giant.

What goes through the mind of God? Few would dare to ask such a question, yet Kṛṣṇadāsa Kavirāja Gosvāmī pursues it relentlessly in his magnum opus, Caitanya-caritāmṛta, revealing the inner life of God. That book sits before me as I write. Three weeks prior to my spiritual master’s departure from the world, he called me into his room. “I am not leaving you anything in my will,” he said. “Only service.” Pointing to his desk—where the Caitanya-caritāmṛta rested—he told me to take it, study it deeply, and write about it. The world must know this book. It was a gift—beautiful, but weighty. It lifts me each morning, and then makes me bow in feelings of insignificance. In recent months, I’ve been spending the early hours with the Caitanya-caritāmṛta. Such texts must reveal themselves; we can only offer rapt attention and wait patiently for an audience. Day by day, periodic glimpses illuminate the landscape of my life. Recently, it occurred to me that something I received forty-five years ago had already foretold this.

April, May, June—three months, three milestones. In May ‘81, my material birth gave me the name Sandeep. In April ‘08, my spiritual birth gave me Sutapā dāsa. In June ‘22, my social death—entry into the renounced order—gave me S.B. Keśava Swami. A name is only letters, yet it carries hidden blessings and a deep meditation. On these days, nothing changes—and everything changes. Each name has shaped me, and I always assumed the spiritual ones mattered most. My initiated name speaks of austerity—never trade what you want most for what feels good now. My sannyāsa name turns the mind toward Kṛṣṇa— the goal, sustainer, master, witness, refuge, and most dear friend. Without Him, nothing makes sense. I carried the name Sandeep (Sanskrit: Sandīpa) for sixteen years before grasping its literal meaning—“complete illumination.” Only recently has its full weight begun to land.

The fourth verse of the Caitanya-caritāmṛta, considered foundational, distils the book’s ultimate aim. It invites us to seat the golden Lord—Śrī Kṛṣṇa appearing as Śrī Caitanya—within the innermost chamber of the heart. There, radiant and resplendent, He dispels all darkness and grants complete illumination. There it is! Sandīpa. In my earlier pride, which tends to persist, I assumed Sandīpa meant one who offers illumination. Here, the Caitanya-caritāmṛta calls each of us to become completely illumined (sandīpitaḥ). The verse reads as follows:

hariḥ puraṭa-sundara-dyuti-kadamba-sandīpitaḥ

sadā hṛdaya-kandaresphuratu vaḥ śacī-nandanaḥ

(Caitanya-caritāmṛta 1.1.4)

The plot thickens: kadamba-sandīpitaḥ. On its own, it reads: “one completely illumined by Kadamba.” My mind moves to my spiritual master, Kadamba Kānana Swami, who handed me the book and masterplanned my life. Perhaps the Caitanya-caritāmṛta will be the fulfilment of my birth name. It binds me to the text—and clarifies my place before it. To not read simply to write; to read to be set right. Complete illumination. Sandīpa. Kadamba-sandīpitaḥ. I sit, focus and pray that the text may speak to me. It has become my study, my meditation, and my daily wonder. Nowadays, I browse many books and turn many pages, but the Caitanya-caritāmṛta is where I return, eager to see what will unfold. Tony K. Stewart wrote his thesis on the Caitanya-caritāmṛta and titled it The Final Word. That phrase speaks on multiple levels. But in the ultimate sense, once one has entered the mind of God, what else remains to be said? Where else is there to go? Caitanya-caritāmṛta—"the immortal acts of Śrī Caitanya”—isn’t a book that you finish, but a world that you disappear into.

On April Fools’ Day, 1976, two college dropouts set up shop in a garage in suburban Los Altos. Fifty years later, that venture has become an iconic tech brand valued at a staggering $4 trillion. Apple’s founders—Steve Jobs and Steve Wozniak—were ahead of their time. They built products people hadn’t yet imagined—and then they ignited the need for them! However you see it, they had a rare ability to turn the unfamiliar into the indispensable. Even a renounced monk, who was always more Android than Apple, now carries an iPhone. Jobs’ innovations permeate our lives; he dared to be different, overturned convention, and redefined the modus operandi. He was also reflective. In seminars, I still play his famous Stanford speech: “Your time is limited, so don’t waste it living someone else’s life. Don’t be trapped by dogma—which is living with the results of other people’s thinking. Don’t let the noise of others’ opinions drown out your own inner voice.” He was a disruptor.

Nowadays, I try to invite healthy disruption into my life—perhaps being at Harvard is part of that. New environments, diverse people, fresh perspectives, interesting conversations. Yesterday, I sat through an uncomfortable discussion on patriarchy and its insidious effects. I thought I was beyond that critique—it was humbling. Disruptive. We can move through the world somewhat oblivious to what’s around us—and to our own behaviours, attitudes, and ingrained ways of thinking. When I first encountered disruption through spiritual teachers whose “bombs” of wisdom shook my world, long-held aspirations dramatically fell away, and the landscape of my life was reconstructed. I felt as though I had arrived. I thought I was done. I had, after all, woken up. I now realise I have to keep waking up, every single day. I still need to be disrupted.

Of all teachers, Śrīla Prabhupāda left the deepest impression—the consummate spiritual disruptor. I found him challenging, counterintuitive, unapologetically candid, yet deeply compassionate. His words made me uncomfortable. They still do. Spiritual disruptors operate from an entirely different plane of consciousness, offering perspectives which are fundamentally destabilising. Material disruptors search for better ways to do things. Spiritual disruptors flip the game and ask: are there better things we could be doing? Material disruptors find novel solutions to the problems. Spiritual disruptors problematise the problem and uncover a deeper issue that needs resolution. Material disruptors fixate on the how and the what, while spiritual disruptors intensely interrogate the why. Material disruptors innovate products and processes. Spiritual disruptors reshape philosophy—the foundation of truth, the architecture of meaning, and the core of what we accept to be real and valuable.

After nine months away, I’ve evolved—progressively disrupted in ways I’m still computing. Soon I’ll return—to familiar spaces, relationships, and responsibilities. It’s beautiful—I’m deeply grateful and excited—but I’m also weary about settling back into old patterns. When I emailed a mentor, he responded with thoughts that disrupted me further: “Once you step onto the stage again, the other actors will launch lines at you, and you’ll be absorbed in delivering your best lines back. And so the show goes on. But who is writing your script? Is it basically reactive? Image-based, and maybe not your identity? Has the culture of our community made space for deep spiritual needs, or are we a bit result oriented—numbers, achievements, events, celebrity hits, likes, and followers. It might be that you can write your script. Might you be one who is called to redefine the balance simply by leading a life that includes high thinking fueled by taking the time it takes to think? That would be interesting indeed.”

I’m sitting with these thoughts, inviting you into reflection with me: Who has progressively disrupted your life? More urgently, who is spiritually disrupting you right now?

“The child is a realist, the young man an idealist, the adult a cynic, and the old man a mystic.” (Unknown)

As we grow older, we look back and see a plan, a path we were walking all along, for the most part unknowingly. At forty-four, in the youth of old age, it’s obvious to me that something more was transpiring in my life beyond just randomness and chance. There were decisions, but also destiny; free will, yet an undeniable element of fate. I’m convinced there was a mystical movement behind everything that happened. What is that force, who is behind it, and how do we figure it all out? The number one question is usually “Why is this happening to me?” Coming in a close second is the insecurity question: “What will happen to me?” We all need clarity. Otherwise, life feels frustrating, confusing and downright unfair.

I recently completed the manuscript of a new book: Decoding Karma: Personal Journals of a Monk-in-Progress. People see us in saffron robes and assume we’re superhuman, beyond the dualities and disappointments of life, completely at peace with everything around us. Not always. Monks, at least some of them, have much work to do. They are humans with weaknesses, souls on a journey, individuals who are trying to discover, uncover and recover their innate spirituality, just like everyone else. In this book, I share my private journals for the first time, revealing the inner life of a soul striving to rise in the skies of spirituality amid life’s shifting winds. These are the honest thoughts, feelings and experiences of a monk-in-progress, navigating the world in search of hidden messages and deeper lessons. If it inspires you to rise higher, I’ll consider my humble effort a profound success.

Learning through experience lies at the heart of Eastern thought. Among Buddhists, Hindus, and other dharmic traditions, karma stands as a core tenet, offering insight into an often perplexing existence. It suggests events and experiences of the present are not random, but intricately connected to our past, and carefully engineered to empower our future. At first glance, however, it can provoke a flurry of questions: Why do bad things happen to good people? Why can’t I recall the actions behind present outcomes? Who created karma, and why does it exist? Can we break free of it, or is everything predestined? Do we truly possess free will, or are our choices governed by unseen forces? How do we compute acute suffering, which often feels disproportionate and callous? How does karma account for widespread tragedy?

Decoding Karma addresses these questions. It’s designed to help you see karma unfolding, so you can find connection in chaos. After each journal entry, you are invited to reflect, questioning what it all means for you. Together—author and reader—we become more thoughtful, conscious, and attentive to life. We exercise our reflective superpower. Up to the age of twenty-five, wisdom grows with age, since structured education shapes our learning. Beyond that, however, age no longer guarantees wisdom. A sixty-year-old is not necessarily wiser than a thirty-year-old. Why? In adult life, having graduated from formal education, we learn through experience—but more specifically, experience that has been meaningfully reflected upon. The wisest are not the oldest, but those who are consistently thoughtful and reflective, drawing inspiration and insight from life’s most persistent teacher: karma.

P.S. If you know of any potential publishers, please contact us at team@keshavaswami.com.

Old pictures take you back in time, inviting the opportunity to philosophise. Who was I? Where was I? What brought me here? Could it have been any other way? The photo album is not merely sentimental; it is the site of curiosity. We are a series of revisions—erasures, additions, and erasures again, beneath which the soul persists—time doesn’t take away everything from us, it takes away everything that’s not us. The philosopher pursues the timeless, but also grapples with the transient. Yesterday, I looked through photos from earlier monastic years. Much has changed. For over two decades, I lived alongside more than a hundred monks from endlessly diverse backgrounds. We argued, laughed, and served, chasing mystical adventures alongside the ordinary pulse of close communal life. Our paths have diverged—some towards public life, others into family life, still others into a quieter life. Alas, some have passed into another life, each on a unique trajectory. The Upaniṣads call it the “great transit.”

People assume that monastic life, and indeed spiritual life, kills personality; it’s the polar opposite. It actually exposes the scarce individuality we began with—how much of our identity is inheritance, imitation or adaptation to trend and tradition? People seek visible individuality—on the surface, and in the grammar of possession and display. The risk of showy expression is to lose essence, and in endless variation, we may never find depth. Simplicity beckons a deeper exploration. In relative silence, the monk refuses to be unconsciously shaped, daring to challenge everything the world demands of us. That invitation extends to each one of us—the call to spiritual formation. This mystical process awakens truth, goodness and beauty, guiding us to the life worth living. If you can, don’t hesitate. Do it. Stop, step away and stay still for some time.

The Greeks called it paideia: education beyond the intellect, shaping emotions, engineering habits, refining desires, and, most importantly, clarifying the calling. Its older Vedic counterpart—brahmacarya—demanded a celibate, monastic life, where one “immerses in the spirit.” Parents obsess over careers, yet neglect the education of life itself. They teach earning, not living. Monastic training restores our lost participation in the eternal. This is not a spiritual holiday, but a serious withdrawal—a disciplined refusal to be hurried into inauthentic life. To stop, even though everyone else is running. The monk cultivates the courage to think critically—to resist mindless conformity and quiet complicity. Priceless. Consider how much we sacrifice for securing a livelihood, and then calculate how little we invest—time, energy and passion—in understanding ourselves, discerning purpose, and encountering the divine. To expect grace without sacrifice is not just naïve—it’s audacious.

The monk, however, must avoid another naïveté: entry into the monastery is an opportunity, not a guarantee. The “inner monk” must awaken, opening the door to the contemplative life—alert to what the world overlooks. Those with the vision of eternity re-enter the arena of life, situating every event, experience, and emotion within the master plan of Divinity. And what of those who cannot withdraw from the world, renounce its demands, or practise brahmacarya? To disconnect, disappear and periodically deprovincialise is available to all—in a park, a faraway place, or in the margins of everyday life. Stop, step away and stay still. Observe the game, don’t just chase the ball. The “inner monastery” need not be bound by walls or vows, inviting one to do the inner work in order to live the good life.

Pride (dambhaḥ), arrogance (darpaḥ), ego (abhimānaḥ), anger (krodaḥ) and ignorance (ajñānam) are enemies that invite misery. Kṛṣṇa then adds another—harshness (pāruṣyam). It’s disturbingly pervasive in today’s world; among the hardest to detect in ourselves, yet the most painful to bear when coming from others. It cuts across every sphere of life—from ghosting and road rage to ‘cancel’ culture, family feuds, and military retaliation. Harshness expresses itself through actions which are impulsive, sceptical, disproportionate and counter-productive. Behaviour which lacks wisdom and heart. Responding with measure is grace in action; quiet, well-thought and radically powerful. While researching a paper this week, I encountered two stories in which destructive harshness is met with inestimable grace. These accounts are simultaneously breathtaking and heartbreaking, almost incomprehensible, at least from my current stage of spiritual evolution. I sat patiently with them, wondering what they might mean for my life.

Case one. In October 2006, a gunman entered a quiet, withdrawn Amish village and mercilessly killed ten schoolgirls, aged 6 to 13. He then shot himself. The gunman’s daughter had died at birth, and his grief became a desire for revenge on God. This is how he did it. The massacre became national news, and so did the response of the community. That same afternoon, the grandfather of one of the victims went to the gunman’s family home and prayed with the family, offering comfort in their pain. The Amish invited the family to the funerals of their own children. They also attended the funeral of the gunman. Ironically, the Amish attendees at his funeral outnumbered his own family. Though the gunman could not forgive God nine years after his daughter’s departure, the community had forgiven him in a day.

Case Two. During the Holocaust, millions were murdered in concentration camps. Among them was the notorious Ravensbrück, where 92,000 women and children were tortured and gassed. On one particular day, while clearing the area, a prayer was found written on a piece of wrapping paper beside the corpse of a child. It was likely penned in their final moments. It read: “O Lord, remember not only the men and women of good will, but also those of evil will. But do not remember all the suffering they have inflicted upon us; remember the fruits we have borne thanks to this suffering—our comradeship, our loyalty, our humility, our courage, our generosity, the greatness of heart which has grown out of all this; and when they come to the judgement, let all the fruits that we have borne be their forgiveness. Amen.”

I still struggle to process this. These stories reveal the stark continuum of brutality and beauty that defines our world. How are individuals capable of such apocalyptic hate and harshness, and how can others respond with such radical forgiveness and grace? How do we translate this? Injustices demand attention, and exploitation cannot go unchallenged; we must stand up and redress the wrongs. Yet these accounts challenge us to ask: what does spirituality do to elevate our approach? Do these stories highlight an inner emotional stability that each of us must find, even when on the receiving end of harshness? How may harshness appear in the lives of even well-meaning, justice-seeking individuals? Closer to home: when is my own harshness triggered, and how may this be damaging the beauty that surrounds me? Today I have more questions than answers. This topic is not intellectual. Philosophy only goes so far. This is all deeply personal, and a harsh reality we all have to wrestle with.

On 10 March 2020, my mentor and inspiration, HG Śrutidharma Dāsa, departed this world. Three years later, on 9 March 2023, my spiritual master, HH Kadamba Kānana Swami, also left. These calendar dates confront me in every cycle, inviting me to reflect. Sitting in the library, I watched the final rites of Kadamba Kānana Swami (click here) and wrote some thoughts.

Dear Mahārāja,

As a species of the cautious and careful, I was heading for a life of conformity. Left to my own devices, escape from the insulated world of the known was near impossible. Finding comfort and fitting in would have become the gold standard of success. How boring! Worse than physical expiry is what decays inside of us while we’re alive—the death of curiosity, creativity and adventure.

I was resuscitated to life by Śrīla Prabhupāda and you, his living representative. You disrupted, deprovincialised and displaced me from the narrow path that I thought was the entirety of life. You said I became your disciple because I was shy and you were bold. “I am going to push you, and it won’t be easy,” you said, “but it will be fun.” How could I resist? You never asked me to do anything you hadn’t done yourself. You took a bullet for Kṛṣṇa and proved you were ready to lay it all down. You embraced every risk and responsibility that landed at your doorstep. You conquered me by your care, and you took a personal interest even though I was so impersonal. Your uncompromising push was empowered by heartwarming love.

We live in times of great sensitivity, where cynicism pervades the air. Questionable leaders claim more authority than they deserve, demanding obedience that causes harm and hurt. The charismatic push has damaged and disoriented people’s lives. In this climate, teachers now assume the role of friendly advisors, requestors, counsellors and coaches. It’s safer, leaving a healthy responsibility on the student’s side. That said, I can’t help but think something beautiful has been lost. Without your spiritually dynamic push, I’d be nowhere that exciting. Who will push me now?

Bhakti Tīrtha Swami once returned to see Śrīla Prabhupāda after risking his life behind the Iron Curtain. Prabhupāda was overjoyed and affectionately rubbed his head, shedding tears of joy. “Your life is successful,” he said. Mahārāja replied, “Prabhupāda, we only do these things because you force us. Otherwise, how can we do anything?” Weak in body but fierce in spirit, Prabhupāda’s voice intensified: “Yes—and that is paramparā. My guru forced me, and I am forcing you, and that is how things are going on.”

Śrīla Prabhupāda called this a “pushing” movement. We push it forward, but we need to be pushed ourselves. Who will push me now? Who will confront me with a bigger vision and a bolder instruction? Who will stop the slide into laziness and comfort? I must stay connected—deeply—through your teachings, your representatives, your divine arrangements. Let me never fall for the illusion that I’ve made it—that the pushing is done and the destination reached. Keep reminding how much more there is to do—bigger dreams and discoveries on the horizon. Wake me up to the reality that we’re just getting started here. I’ll wait for the good push, listen deeply for the call, and rise when it comes. I know it won’t be easy, but as you said, it will surely be transcendentally fun.

Your servant, S.B. Keśava Swami

It is the turn of the fifteenth century. A punishing heat settles over Bengal, yet the marketplace buzzes, oblivious to the sun’s tyranny. Every other stall offers food; some display cloth or spices on woven mats. In the background, the echoing call to prayer rises from a nearby mosque. Goats wander, children chase one another, women fill baskets and balance them on their heads, while merchants count coins with rapt attention. Suddenly, a sound displaces the steady pulse of the market. From the narrow lanes, emerges a colourful procession: immaculately coordinated, armed with drums and cymbals, smiling faces alight with delight. They sing sweetly, leaping off the ground, drawing gasps from bemused onlookers. The tempo surges and the line between procession and public blurs. Bystanders enter the commotion, inhibitions dissolve, and their bodies sway in free-flowing ecstasy. The rhythm pounds through the market, demanding the attention of all, as the instrumentalists escalate their energy yet remain perfectly harmonised. Voices amplify, emotions intensify, fellowship solidifies… the cymbals crash and the spectacle reaches a crescendo! In these moments, the sun, the marketplace and all daily affairs disappear into insignificance.

These are the followers of Śrī Caitanya, and this is the saṅkīrtana movement. Kṛṣṇa descends as the golden apostle of love, confronting spiritual apathy and ushering heartfelt devotion into the public sphere. His message: to encounter God, simply call on His Name with love. Everything else is secondary. This phenomenon of nagara-saṅkīrtana—public chanting—continues to spread across the world: kīrtana is performed in high streets, shopping malls, train stations, theatre halls and even nightclubs. Śrī Caitanya boldly prophesied that Kṛṣṇa’s names would resound in every town and village on earth. It’s happening. It’s exciting. It’s infectious. Nearly forty years ago, I was a kid, visiting Amsterdam with my family. On a cold, rainy, weekday morning near Dam Square, a party of Hare Kṛṣṇas swept by. From a side street, I saw them—faithful, colourful, joyful… utterly unusual. It left a deep impression. When I visit Amsterdam, it hits me like a flashback—I know the exact spot from where I watched them. Once the name descends, life is never the same.

The explosive missionary fire of Śrī Caitanya’s ministry of sound is accompanied by a mystical inner dimension. He is a theological enigma, unparalleled in history. When a devotee cries for God, it is touching. When God cries for his devotee, it is beautiful. But when God, utterly captivated by the love of his devotees, is impelled to become a devotee to experience that cry for himself, it is unprecedented. This is Śrī Caitanya: God who surrenders dominion to taste the soul’s cry. He enters the world not as overlord, but incognito and undercover. In doing so, he teaches us how to really cry. We have shed countless tears—some visible, many silent—over loss, longing, and painful letdown. One poet says the accumulated tears spilled in many lifetimes of material frustration would be enough to fill oceans. Śrī Caitanya inspires an entirely different cry, channelled through chanting the Name. The loving cry in the company of saints, without a trace of ego, devoid of material attachment, brings a welcome end to all futility. The syllables invite one into the endless world of song and dance.

To inspire your cry, I share a beautiful poem from Śacīnandana Swami, entitled “The Road of Tears”:

The disappointed disciple with a heavy heart speaks:

“Who can say I’ve never tried?

All those mantras I’ve chanted…

All those vows that kept me awake for so many lonely nights…

All those pilgrimages, sacrifices, holy baths in ice-cold water…

What to speak of persistently ignoring the requests of my mind and senses

to do what is most dear to them!

The result?

NOTHING!

All this has brought me to, at present, is desperation.

The old emptiness in the heart has only become greater!”

The guru replies:

“It seems you have done your best

to come before the Divine Couple.

But have you ever tried to act in such a way

that They can come before you?

Have you yet built

your road for Them?

The road of tears?”

Disciple:

“The road of tears?

What tears?”

Guru:

“Tears of the soul.

There are different kinds of tears –

‘body tears’

we cry in physical pain;

‘mind tears’

we cry when emotionally hurt;

and sweet tears

that come from the soul

as it awakens to its only real need.

The soul’s need is to enter into the One relationship.

“And this road of tears can’t be found on any map.

It begins from your own heart.

But it is so attractive to the Divine Couple

that They cannot even imagine ignoring it.

Just to begin building this road

makes Them feel They must come before you!”

The disciple:

“Does this road need many tears?

I have cried all my tears for other things.

I am completely empty inside.

How can I possibly build this road?”

The guru, enthusiastically:

“Don’t worry!

There are oceans of tears

arrested in your heart.

You only need to learn

to direct them to the right cause…

Then they become released.

But before a downpour,

there is a flash of lightning.

Similarly, there has to be a divine revelation -

the golden Radha, and

the cloud-blue Krishna

have to appear in the heart.

Then the water gushes forth.

Sweet tears of longing for the Lord,

whom you once gave up.”

On Tuesday, 3rd March, we celebrate Gaura Pūrṇimā, the full-moon anniversary of Śrī Caitanya’s appearance in 1486. Learn more about his life in Caitanya-caritāmṛta Compact

Although haṭha-yoga has been reimagined into a user-friendly wellness routine, its classical form is anything but. Postural practices, in their original architecture, were antithetical to everyday comfort, material wellness, and bodily indulgence. In the Yoga Sūtras, Patañjali clearly states the bold mission: yogaś citta-vṛtti-nirodhaḥ—the stilling of all thoughts through a rigorous practice of mind control. Haṭha-yoga is serious business—an ascetic project that requires the severing of worldly ties, remote isolation, uncompromising detachment, and strict discipline. Āsana—which occupies only one percent of the sūtras—is not the culmination but the preparation. Postures discipline the vessel into balance. The body is steadied so the mind can be confronted, subdued, dismantled, and ultimately mastered.

Pātañjali’s paradigm makes a brief appearance in the Bhagavad-gītā. There, Arjuna listens, considers—and then hesitates. Confronted with the expectation of absolute mental restraint, he writes it off as impractical, admitting that the mind “is more difficult to control than the wind” (BG 6.34). Yoga āsanas were never taught as lifestyle accessories. In their classical framing, they don’t supplement an existing way of life; they demand its entire reorientation. The question, then, is who can make such a commitment? Who will turn away from the world? The reality: very few. Thus, most embrace the domesticated yoga and its peripheral benefits, deferring the real project of spiritualising the mind, and returning to “business as usual” after an hour on the yoga mat.

Thankfully, the Bhagavad-gītā doesn’t leave the aspirant stranded. Kṛṣṇa reveals an underrated alternative—a user-friendly yoga practice, seamlessly compatible with worldly life, powerful and charmingly unassuming. It’s called karma-yoga. Little needs to change externally; one continues their social, professional, and familial roles. What needs shifting are two crucial mindsets: how one acts and what they do with the outcomes. In any sphere—career, study, family life, or otherwise—the karma-yogi acts without ego or pride, recognising that all they control is the opportunity to make the best effort. Your endeavour defines you, not the result. When results do come—wealth, status, influence, or recognition—these are utilised in the service of God and creation, not just banked as personal assets. Success used selfishly will surely make you miserable. These two adjustments are absolute game-changers; making money can become a yogic practice—simply earn it with integrity, and utilise it with generosity. Though karma-yoga lacks the dramatic heroism of monastic renunciation, it’s no less glorious. Everyday activities become yogic disciplines. The world becomes a sacrificial arena. Ordinary people become urban monks.

The detached mindset of the karma-yogī quietens the mind. When we’re no longer driven and defined by results, it’s radically liberating. Everyone lives under relentless pressure and expectation—a charged energy that can deflate, depress and quietly destroy. Family, peers, society, the media—they set the metrics of success, and we scramble to measure up. We ache to be seen, to be affirmed, so we obsess over achievements that will entice the world to look our way. The karma-yogī retires from that game. When we go to bed at night knowing we tried our best and emptied the tank, nothing else really matters. If results flood in, we receive them with gratitude—as opportunities to serve, not trophies to display. Success never degenerates into complacency or pride. And when outcomes dry up, what the world deems failure, we stay steady—determined, hopeful, trusting that a deeper order is unfolding. Absence of result never spirals into self-doubt or lonely despair. The karma-yogī, Kṛṣṇa says, becomes a sage of a steady mind.

I see it now: when my mum said, “Try your best,” she was transmitting a compact philosophy with profound implications.

Plato’s Republic is renowned in the world of philosophy and political theory. His project is audacious: to model the “ideal city.” Within the dialogue, Plato depicts the “tripartite soul,” dividing the human psyche into three: reason (logos), which seeks truth and knowledge; spirit (thumos), which seeks honour and self-worth; and appetite (eros), which craves bodily pleasure—food, sex, and money. All goes well, in city and soul, when reason rules, supported by spirit, keeping appetite carefully in check. To preserve this harmony, the Republic is strictly governed, with prohibitions, regulations and aggressive protection against destabilising forces. Amongst banned things, one is striking: the flute! Yes—you heard it right—the flute! For Plato, it’s not a trivial target. The flute’s emotional intensity, he says, can weaken character, trigger moral decay, and “bewitch” the soul into rebellion against the rational order.

For Kṛṣṇa lovers, Plato’s policy is unthinkable, yet its underlying intuition is remarkably perceptive. The father of Western philosophy was onto something! The Bhāgavata Purāṇa describes the commotion that ensues from Kṛṣṇa’s flute song. The instrument is radically simple—a humble hollow stick—yet through it, Kṛṣṇa exerts extraordinary power. Its unearthly melody insists everyone stop, turn around, and rush back towards the source. The sound is disruptive, divisive, and destructive—in the most beautiful way. It fractures the foundations of humdrum life, bringing ordinary activity to a standstill, eclipsing all competing claims on desire and attention. In that sound, natural laws fall away, reversing the predictable movements of man and matter. Kṛṣṇa’s flute stuns and then invites the world to dance.

Bhāva—spiritual emotion—lies at the very heart of the Bhāgavata. When founded upon immaculate spiritual purity, it represents the soul’s most intense encounter with God. Emotion without purity can damage and destabilise, spiralling into a downward trajectory. Purity without emotion, however, remains inert and bland, failing to satisfy the soul’s irrepressible hunger for love. Plato’s policies, while excising the risks of emotion, also eliminate the ecstasy of bhāva. Reason alone won’t do! While it’s essential for balanced, ordered life—what Vedic teachers call dharma—Kṛṣṇa’s devotees, in complete purity, abandon even this anchor in the pursuit of loving devotion (bhakti). The image of Kṛṣṇa with a conch evokes his Bhagavad-gītā call to achieve mastery over the lower nature. Yet when Kṛṣṇa exchanges that conch for a flute, something inexplicably wonderful occurs: the soul awakens to spiritual emotion and the ineffable dynamics of pure love.

Plato’s story, however, doesn’t end with the ban. A recently deciphered scroll portrays the philosopher on his deathbed. In that decisive, life-defining hour, he is said to have requested a single sound as the last he would hear. Plato called for a flute player! The instrument he banished returned at the hour of death! May we, too, also hear that call—and have the courage to follow it. Below is a short flute meditation (headphones recommended). May it offer you some respite from the turbulence of the world and a tiny glimpse of what lies beyond the immediate drama that is “my life.” May you disconnect and remember… it’s all but a flash in eternity… just passing through…

(Credit: Flute narration adapted from “Without Krishna there is no Song” by David Kinsley)

I’m currently studying the Upaniṣads—esoteric narratives that carry cryptic and hidden meanings, largely inaccessible to the casual reader. These works are dense, paradoxical, and at times agonisingly confusing. Earlier Vedic literature deals with religious piety and worldly prosperity, catering to the endless cravings that most people can’t shake off. The Upaniṣads are on a mission to radically expose the emptiness of it all. They elevate the discourse. Stereotyped into life’s monotonous cycles, good people toil hard, sacrifice endlessly, remain bravely hopeful, only to be frustrated in a game they can’t win. Worse still, a game they just can’t give up. Material happiness is an oxymoron. Chewing the chewed and writing new versions of the same story. Stringent laws of nature dictate the rising and setting of the sun, soon bringing our small lives to an abrupt end. Adding insult to injury, nobody remembers—not you, not them, not the world. Material life must transition into its next cycle. All that remains is a long list of names in the annals of history that nobody really references again. We did it yesterday; we’ve been doing this for lifetimes. Will this cycle ever end? Who will expose the madness? What will wake us up? The Vaiṣṇava commentators illuminate beauty beyond the illusion.

The etymology of Upaniṣad is itself instructive. Interpretations include: “to sit down near someone”; “confidential or secret session”; “beneath a higher authority”; and “teaching, instruction or command.” There is a thread here. Each one reveals the centrality of the teacher-student bond, dismantling the modern fantasy of self-mastery. The depressing fate of the noble soul can’t be circumvented by a heroic solo effort. We need knowledge, and we need it from a living embodiment. Thus, students would “sit close by,” while Upaniṣadic wisdom would flow into their consciousness through meaningful encounters with a guru. This is a mystical, subtle epistemology. True learning doesn’t simply draw from the head, but absorbs the invisible from the heart. The saintly souls convey way more than just information—they pulsate with faith, humility, strength, enthusiasm, and realisation. The student who “sits close by” gets infected. This is a delicate, almost surgical, cultivation and sensitising of consciousness. Spiritual formation.

In the Kaṭha Upaniṣad, Naciketas is granted three boons by Yama and saves the final one to ask the most crucial question of all: what becomes of a person after death? In Chāndogya Upaniṣad’s exchange between Śvetaketu and Uddālaka, the boy returns home after twelve years of study, self-assured and polished, only to be stumped by a simple question from his guru. Exposure precedes insight; he must begin again. The account of Satyakāma approaching Gautama reminds us that entry into Upaniṣadic knowledge is not by birthright but by unwavering honesty. In the Bṛhad-āraṇyaka Upaniṣad, King Janaka, the powerful sovereign, sits next to Yājñavalkya, who interrogates him: what light sustains us when the sun has set, the moon has vanished, and all fire is extinguished? Indra and Virocana both approach Prajāpati eager to learn, yet they depart with radically different conclusions, receiving only what they’re ready for.

Fascinating interactions! And what about today? Modern education becomes increasingly impersonal, shifting from one-to-one to one-to-many. Personalism evaporates, and learning starts looking very transactional. These interactions are then mediated by devices which obliterate presence, while emerging tech tries to banish the living teacher altogether. Can we still, in any meaningful way, “sit close by”? The realities of life may preclude physical proximity, yet the distance cannot endure: a meeting of hearts is required. To move beyond formality and convention, to listen more deeply than words, to respond beyond duty and expectation. The student must connect—deeply, genuinely. Without this, education risks becoming efficient, entertaining, engaging and eloquent—and, in the end, quite empty. And so, before an Upaniṣadic reading, we pray:

Oṁ saha nāv avatu saha nau bhunaktu saha vīryaṁ karavāvahai

tejasvi nāv adhītam astu mā vidviṣāvahai oṁ śāntiḥ śāntiḥ śāntiḥ

Oṁ. May He protect both teacher and student. May He nourish us both. May we work together with great energy and vigor. May our study be luminous and enlightening. May we never be hostile toward one another. Oṁ. Peace, peace, peace.

I stepped out the day after landing in Boston, and the city was unrecognisable. Cars, dustbins, parking meters and benches—everything buried beneath two feet of snow. The urban machine was brought to an abrupt halt. I saw a simpler world, a cleaner world, a less busy one… a beautiful world. In the so-called age of the Anthropocene—where humans believe they run the planet—it felt good to witness a force far beyond us. I wandered the abandoned streets, jumping into frozen puddles and cracking their icy top layer. Innocent mischief, meaningful message. Srila Prabhupada told us the nature of water is to flow; its frozen state a distortion and suspension of its essence. A single strike of his cane, and fluidity would return. Following in his footsteps, however modestly, the chilly walk became an empowering meditation. In the grip of freezing temperatures, I asked: how can I re-enter flow state?

The masters of flow don’t preoccupy themselves with watching everyone else—they know their business and get down to work. No time for complaining, no energy wasted on comparison—stay in lane and honour your journey. Along that path, success and victory emerge, yet they never bask in the glory or get distracted by applause. Every achievement simply a platform for heightened selflessness. These people live integrated lives where every effort compounds and every action adds value. Energy is relentlessly invested in a single, focused direction. Most fascinating is how these souls align with the divine. The mystic contemplatives hear the voice of intuition—a superconscious current guiding them from within. In flow, they may not even consciously register the divine dictation which gives them a strength and certainty that logic can’t explain. Instruments of grace in the theatre of divine drama. On all counts, Srila Prabhupada was the superlative master of flow.

But flow isn’t free; it requires a series of deliberate shifts. We must move from imitating to honouring—recognising that each of us carries a distinct temperament that can be refined into a unique superpower. Next, a hard pivot from “I, me, and mine” to “us, we, and ours,” reorienting ourselves from self-obsession to selfless service. When credit no longer concerns us and contribution takes the lead, something magical transpires. We also move from rigidity to flexibility, accepting that divine plans are constantly evolving. Instead of resisting and resenting, we know when one door shuts, another three are opening up. Take a “no” with style, keep on searching. Finally, we emerge from fearfulness into fearlessness. We can’t annihilate fear, but we can discover something so compelling that fear no longer has the final say.

I walked over an icy Boston bridge and saw the frozen river. Let it flow, let it go! The Bhāgavata depicts the saintly souls as flowing rivers. They don’t collide with the world, but gracefully navigate past every obstacle with quiet determination. As they flow, they generate a resonant, pleasing sound—one that pacifies the hearts of those they encounter. These saintly rivers leave everything they touch better than they found it—rocks are smoothed, the environment cleansed. The river effortlessly carries others forward by its own momentum. They never slow down, but speed everyone else up. The saints take everyone on the adventure with them.

In term one, I tried to Rise in the Fall. In term two, may I learn to Flow in the Freeze.

The leaves have turned red, yellow and orange, now lying in scattered piles along the road. As the fall term wraps up, this will be my final post of the year. Thanks for your attention—your energy and encouragement have been palpable. I wanted to connect, and felt writing was the most authentic way. Less views, less likes, less virality, but perhaps a little more heart. Slower and quieter, inviting more presence and depth. Life doesn’t always have to be led by analytics and reach. This space helps me turn inward and decode. I’m now working on a new book, Decoding Karma: The Personal Journals of a Monk-in Progress. Nothing is random and chance is a myth. Behind every occurrence is karma, the cosmic order which bridges our knowledge-gap through vivid, tailor-made lessons. Karma is life’s most persistent, powerful and profound teacher. But we need to stop and decode.

In the jam-packed library, students are decoding their learnings and finishing final papers. And me too. This fall, I travelled through many worlds: the Aztecs of Mesoamerica, the Afro-American civil rights movement, the Greco-Romans and their philosophers. I confronted the Holocaust in detail for the first time—it stirred many emotions. I moved from the rationalists to the empiricists, from the Stoics to the Cynics, from Kant to Kierkegaard, Saint Anselm to Socrates. I went from the Yoga Sūtras and the poetry of Kabir to the hymns of the Ṛg Veda and the terse codes of the Upaniṣads. We zoomed in and zoomed out—examining how these thinkers and traditions interrelate and contrast in worldview. What a world it is—and behind it is Kṛṣṇa, the flute-player, quietly orchestrating the grand drama. Now comes the real work: to distil the essential lessons and translate them into service. Knowledge must serve a noble cause in bringing spirituality to the world.

It’s December, darkness settles in earlier each evening, temperatures drop, the Harvard campus slowly empties, and another year in the material world draws to a close. Twenty-five years have elapsed since the turn of the millennium. That’s one whole generation! As I walked home, a school bus went by, the children’s faces pressed to the windows looking out at life. I saw their innocent faces and wondered what kind of world they will inherit. Everything is changing. And yet, as I walked on, it dawned on me: nothing is changing. They will grapple with the same questions, study the same philosophers, recount the same history. They’ll take all the lessons I did, and then face the same existential choices: how best to spend their time here. Amidst everything they’ll surely hear, I hope they will also hear the flute call.

I ended the term in the very same lecture hall where I began over three months ago—the one where Kṛṣṇa appeared on day one. For the final class, Professor Carrasco, with his powerful and inspiring presence, invited me to share reflections on how monks confront mortality. I spoke about JD—living theology always hits the spot. At the close of the lecture, he asked everyone to rise for a final meditation. Then, the flute-player appeared again (see below). He gets the first and last word.

Signing out—and looking forward to more adventures in 2026.

This picture captures my final interaction with JD—I had no idea he would leave the world soon after. He was thanking me, and I was assuring him everything would be all good. In hindsight, it should have been the other way around. A priceless picture—JD’s final sentiments were full of positivity, gratitude, love and fighting spirit. Teaching till the end, and concluding with absolute grace. The Bhagavad-gītā emphasises non-enviousness, tolerance, humility and universal friendliness—qualities which JD effortlessly exuded. He possessed a childlike innocence and an acute aversion to criticism or complaint. He just didn’t go there. JD embodied everything I aspire to be, and each year I reread the book I wrote about him (available here) to recalibrate my priorities. Spiritual practitioners meditate on death; through JD’s life, it becomes an inspiring meditation. His cancer journey was brutal, beautiful and everything in between.

Philosophers have long grappled with human mortality. Socrates regarded the self as immaterial and had no inhibitions when sentenced to death, whilst Aristotle saw death as a natural conclusion and instead focused on eudaimonia (flourishing in life). Epicurus mitigated the fear of death by claiming we’re not there to experience it, and it’s therefore irrelevant. The Stoics discouraged people from focusing on things beyond their control and suggested that emotions are not forced upon us, but are chosen by us. Christian thinkers like Aquinas and Augustine viewed death as the opportune transition towards eternal life, while Heidegger stressed that authentic awareness of mortality confers heightened significance upon existence. Cicero said that to philosophise is to learn how to die. JD computed it all through the Bhagavad-gītā and when the notice of death landed at his door, he embraced it with style. For him, it was another adventure. No frustration, bitterness or regret.

As I relived JD’s story this time, I couldn’t deny my feelings of regret. I could have done better; more importantly, I should have been better. In his book, The Soul of Care, medical anthropologist Arthur Kleinman reveals the humanity that is born from serving loved ones in times of crisis. Care, he says, is not simply a civic duty or social culture, but a defining opportunity for the moral and emotional formation of a human being. In assisting JD through his months of physical decline, I saw the emergence of innate qualities which often remain dormant within us: love, patience, and vulnerability. To be a caregiver challenges one to find their own heart, and the accompanying humility, empathy and endurance, without which care cannot happen. Care forces you to become personal.

But an uncomfortable reality dawned upon me. JD and I were active, mission-driven monks, jumping from one project to the next. His sudden diagnosis beckoned me to step away from it all and be with him. Pausing my engaged life to assume the role of caregiver brought existential angst. My life was about productivity, achievement and impact, my sense of self-worth founded upon that. Caregiving meant setting everything aside. Since his physical decline coincided with Covid, the world situation made the decision for me, and so I moved in with him. But I can’t deny the hesitation and inner conflict I felt in being a caregiver and stopping my active life. It brought a deep regret. I realised how self-absorbed I had become, losing sight of what truly matters amidst the pursuit of activities and achievements. My life was built on the care of others, yet I had grown so uncaring myself. I was humbled. How the passionate movement of the world can steal our humanity!

I could have done better; more importantly, I should have been better. May the soul of care always remain alive within us.

I lecture to serve a need beyond myself; I write to meet a need within myself. Tracing it all back, the seed of many public teachings begins as a simple written reflection. In that sense, the blog and journal are my fields: places where “idea seeds” are planted and nurtured, eventually ripening into “fruits of realisation” that energise my journey—and, perhaps, others as well. It all begins in the writing lab, where I engage in deeper dialogue with tattva. Here, I put the scriptural word into conversation with lived reality, waiting for spiritual chemistry. There are moments of chain reaction, breathtaking fusion, and other times when I’ve had to regroup, think more deeply, pray and be patient. The versatility and enduring depth of scripture are fascinating. These are exciting times in the writing lab, where wisdom breathes and it all comes alive. Many have asked what I’ve been working on. Alongside several long-term projects (which I’m happily getting lost in), these are the papers I’ve written this term:

• The Name is One: Why Nāma is Ascribed Primacy in Kali-yuga

• Spiritual Vision or Social Cry: Reflections on Rabindranath Tagore’s Dramatic Awakening

• Just for Fun: Homo Ludens and the Playground of God

• On the Streets of Navadvīpa: Underlying Theological Dimensions of nagara-saṅkīrtana

• Yoga Psychology & Fear: Therapeutic Mindsets from the Bhagavad-gītā

• The Ultimate Liminality: Religious Dimensions in Human Mortality

A friend once told me that writing is “perspiration, inspiration, perspiration.” It’s profoundly true. Each time I sit to write, I confront my haphazard thoughts, jumbled and confused. Sometimes I’m staring at the page with nothing substantial to express, faced with my superficiality and shallowness. I close my eyes, dig deeper and meditate on the scriptural truths I’ve received. I slowly scribe some words, revise and reshape, repair the mistakes, clarify the meaning and streamline the flow. One idea latches onto another, a spark of inspiration ignited, a train of thought is triggered, and mystical things start to transpire. Scripture comes alive and makes itself known! As I edit the text, I feel as though I’m editing my own consciousness. I begin to see what I never saw before.

The writing lab: lonely, demanding, and alive with learning. This is HQ. For me, writing is, by far, the most authentic means of communication. It’s expression and discovery, it encompasses truth and emotion, it’s succinct yet multi-layered and it allows me to be alone and simultaneously with many. Writing allows for inner meditation and mass communication, it’s impactful without being intrusive, it reverberates beyond the moment and it captures a snapshot of the inner world that the eyes can’t access. I lecture to serve a need beyond myself; I write to meet a need within myself.

I often return to my journals to read what I wrote on a given day ten years earlier. It’s humbling and also hope-giving. People see us in saffron robes and assume we are superhuman—beyond the dualities and disappointments of life, completely at peace with everything around us. Well, not always; some monks have work to do. They are humans with weaknesses, souls on a journey, individuals trying to discover, uncover and recover pure spiritual consciousness, just like everyone else.

Today, I’ll share with you what I wrote in my Blog exactly ten years ago. We were on a mission—and somehow we succeeded!

I’ll be heading back to the UK soon and can’t wait to be out there on ground zero again.

Street Spirituality

High streets are intriguing places; a microcosm of modern life. It’s where people descend in their thousands, searching for something extra to enrich their existence. These urban hubs are a melting pot of entertainers, campaigners, shoppers, beggars and advertisers, a marketplace for the latest commodities and ideas, a space for meeting, sharing and exploring. Here you’ll find people from every imaginable socio-economic background, swarming like bees around a hive.

Enter the monks. Yes, you read it right. Crazy as it may sound, this is where we spend many days and weeks: standing on street corners, speaking to random people, and showing them spiritual books. It’s quite a task to stop someone in their tracks, cut through the myriad of thoughts, penetrate the bubble of their life and begin a dialogue about deeper subject matter. Some people naturally tune in to the concept of spirituality and wisdom, while others are sceptical, uninterested and otherwise-engaged. Either way, we always have a laugh, a smile and learn something from each other!

Amongst whatever else I do in life, this simple and sublime activity is what I relish most. It’s a humble attempt to positively contribute to the world, and something which reconnects me with my calling. Sometimes it’s agonizingly difficult, and other times it feels like a mystical drama being orchestrated by higher powers. Either way, it’s where I feel at home. My most memorable, magical and moving experiences in life have been in bustling high streets, sharing spirituality with people. With the arrival of the festive season, we embark upon another month-long marathon. This year, it’s a special effort, and everyone’s invited to get involved.

Orange robes are loud, and when you’re six feet tall, there’s really no hiding. “Why become a monk?” students ask. Instead of a fixed response, I try tuning into the intent behind the question, seeking a point of connection or an aspect of my story that may resonate. Most assume I was an inquisitive soul looking for God. Definitely not. I was a young man sitting with a big fear: the future. Time passes quickly, crossroads appear, decisions are to be made, and we soon create a life—no turning back. But what kind of life? Is it a prison or a playground? Confinement or empowerment? I feared the future, what direction to take, clueless about what success was, and to find real answers, I had to retrace my steps. I found myself reverting to deeper, bigger, more fundamental, existential questions. While backtracking, at one point, you confront the biggest question. You can’t avoid it. What to do with God?

I wanted answers. I also wanted authenticity. If I failed to exit the theatre of performances, I knew life would become too tiring. It’s amazing—being yourself is life’s simplest aspiration and its most formidable challenge. Simultaneously the easiest and hardest thing in the world. I didn’t want to be myself for part of the week—the whole week, every day, and nothing less. Finally, I wanted adventure. A monk told me early on, “either you fill your life with things to show, or with stories to tell.” It’s a big world out there, full of people and places, and a limitless world inside, just close your eyes and dive in. Adventuring into these spaces moved me more than the metrics of position, power, prestige and profit. We lose it all, ruthlessly stripped, leaving only that which resides in the innermost chambers. Finding that treasure—now that’s real adventure.

I became a monk—I found answers, authenticity, and adventure. I still do, and so I’m still a monk, because for me, these three constitute the most powerful life compass. Yet I take no credit, because alone I would have been a lost cause—everything unfolded in community. The people around me were my saving grace, for no one is self-made. These gracious souls wanted me to be better than them, though they were way wiser and more spiritually accomplished. They could have sped ahead and left me behind; instead, they stayed back, took me with them, and reminded me, “We’re in it together.” Community and kindness don’t just guide your journey; they carry you the whole way and beyond.

Let’s create community—to find answers, authenticity and adventure, whatever life path we’re on. If we find good coaches, sincere explorers, and a mission worth losing sleep over, the magic unfolds. This is the vision behind Wisdom that Breathes—a space to learn together, unleash our potential, and launch initiatives that bring spiritual beauty back to the world. Let’s become conscious changemakers. Who knows how far the vision will reach? We may not change the entire world, but perhaps we can change one person’s world. That would mean the world to them. We’ll try to create a space, inspired by the great teacher Śrīla Prabhupāda, which is inclusive, inspiring, empowering and accessible. We’re in it together. If you feel moved to, you’re welcome to join us:

www.wisdomthatbreathes.com

Not everything needs a reason—sometimes we do it “just for fun.” This playful dimension, however, may warrant serious attention. We are classified as Homo Sapiens, highlighting our capacity for discernment, wisdom, and rational thought. We’ve also been identified as Homo Economicus (”economic” man), Homo Faber (man “the maker”), Homo Religiosus (“religious” man), Homo Technologicus (“technological” man). Johan Huizinga, in his famous book, posits that underlying all these identities is Homo Ludens (”playing” man). He argues that play is older than culture, predating any particular stage of civilisation and fundamental to all living beings, always. Play is observable even among animals, who require no societal structure or defined culture to learn it. There is something profoundly visceral about this appetite—we love to play.

Huizinga asserts that “You can deny, if you like, nearly all abstractions: justice, beauty, truth, goodness, mind, God. You can deny seriousness, but not play.” A compelling observation: no child requires instruction in how to play, and this instinctive drive persists throughout life, albeit in increasingly complex, demanding, and circuitous forms. The Industrial Revolution, along with the growing complexity of modern survival, means strenuous labour is often a precondition for the privilege of play. We diligently operate in this world out of duty, responsibility, necessity and complexity. Because of unlimited desires, we’re like a spider who creates a web and then gets entangled within it. Thus, we keep ourselves busy in the hamster wheel of life, working hard, pushing to get something or reach somewhere. The net result—all work and no play.

We live serious lives. Modern society conditions us to be calculative, discerning, shrewd, responsible, and judicious. The vibrant, carefree spirit of youth is steadily dismantled, replaced by the structures and strictures of adulthood, distancing us from our innate playful nature. To spiritually grow up is to become a child again, where life is play and play is life. The individual soul is described in the Vedāntic expression ānandamayo ‘bhyāsāt: “composed entirely of bliss.” Spiritual play, in its deepest manifestation, is not incidental, supplemental or peripheral, but the very heartbeat of existence. The Sanskrit terms krīḍā and vihāra convey notions of leisure and recreation, but play attains its fullest realisation in the drama of līlā.

In the transcendent domain, all activity is līlā—divine, purposeless play that evokes rasa, the aesthetic experience of relish and delight. For the perfected soul who enters this līlā dimension, everything is perfect, just as it is. We are exactly where we are meant to be; activities have no extraneous goal. Everything is done “just for fun.” The soul possesses three intrinsic qualities: eternality, sentience, and bliss. When fairy tales conclude with the phrase “they lived happily ever after,” they unwittingly allude to these inherent attributes: cit (lived), ānanda (happily), and sat (ever after). The fulfilment of humanity’s deepest and most enduring aspiration—the prospect of eternal play—lies in the reorientation of the self toward this eternal, spiritual reality. As C.S. Lewis insightfully observed, “Creatures are not born with desires unless satisfaction for those desires exists… If I find in myself a desire which no experience in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that I was made for another world.”

Can you read this?

If so, you (and I) are deeply fortunate. Reading is the first lesson at school, yet millions of kids never step into a classroom—deprived of education and denied the simple power to read. It happens to this day, often out of poverty, sometimes due to sheer discrimination. Toni Morrison, activist and truth-teller, recalls racialised times when African Americans were forbidden from reading. To touch a book and seek knowledge was illegal. They resisted in silence, learning in secret, with hunger and heart, until language became the medium of freedom. Morrison remembers days in the library, reading with insatiable hunger, devouring book after book. “I’m not a writer who reads,” she once said, “I’m a reader who writes.” Reading was not mere preparation but genesis—the heart of spiritual formation. What she wrote emerged from the overflow of a mind that bathed in learning.

To read—what a gift! An indescribable profundity in the still, slow, solitary communion between reader and text. The wise safeguard this sacred right amidst the passions of the modern world. Enchanted, we gravitate towards screens, dazzled by entertainment, swiping from one moment to the next. Media has its moments, yet it rarely captures the depth of a book. A simple truth endures: when knowledge enters too swiftly, it rarely penetrates deeply. Keep books close. Dwelling in the forests of Vraja, Sanātana Goswāmī carried the Bhāgavata as his constant companion. He called it his closest friend, his guru, his source of joy and the power that uplifted him every day. He carried the Bhāgavata, and it carried him through this world and beyond.

Nowadays, I turn from one page to the next, journeying through the world of books and papers—some that inspire, others that perplex, many that intrigue and occasionally those that challenge. We keep pace with focused reading, quick assimilation, critical analysis and conscious joining of the dots. At a recent gathering, we slowed the pace, setting aside the intellectual sprint for an encounter with contemplative reading—lectio divina. This Christian discipline, shaped by Origen, Benedict, Guigo and others, turns away from analysis and critique toward the deeper act of entering the text and finding communion. This mystical approach mirrors the Vedic pedagogy: śravaṇam—absorbed reception; mananam—thoughtful reflection; and nididhyāsanam—intentional embodiment.

We were given a sheet containing ten single-paragraph excerpts and invited to select the one that quietly drew us in. Then, the practice began. Lectio—to read, slowly, attentively, respectfully. Meditatio—to locate and sit with a single word or sentence that resonates or intrigues. Oratio—to pray, entering dialogue with God about how that detail has spoken to us. Contemplatio—to rest in loving silence within that conversation, without analysing or concluding. A candle was passed around. The first participant shared their chosen line, then lit the candle of the person beside them. They did the same; the light moved around the circle, each flame accompanied by a voice adding to the collective wisdom. The candle came to me and I read my line—drawn from Ralph Waldo Emerson’s Divinity School Address of 1838. Perhaps you may want to take a moment, to sit in meditation, enter the dialogue, and see if it moves you:

“Through the transparent darkness the stars pour out their almost spiritual rays. Man under them seems a young child, and his huge globe a toy.”

Though physically distant, I walk the dusty tracks of Vṛndāvana in the theatre of my mind, holding last year’s parikramā journal as my companion. Wonderful memories that may become a book one day. My working title was Circling Eternity, since parikramā literally means “to walk around.” Still, it lacked resonance—to “circle” could mean to skirt the periphery, observe from a distance and hold something back. My new title is Entering Eternity, for to ‘enter’ is to close that gap, leave all else behind, and become a participant in the mystical drama. Now that resonates. Into the twelfth day of parikramā, the pilgrims reach Kāmyavana, and I share my entry from the mystical “forest of desire.” I invite you to walk with me, wherever you are. Perhaps you will feel what I felt, and maybe even more.

We’ve arrived in beautiful Kāmyavana, the forest of desire. No struggle is as profound as the struggle with our own desires. Ironically, desire also sits at the essence of our being—it gets us up every morning. The secret is not to chase the loudest desires, but to listen closely, attentively, patiently, to the deepest ones. We stay focused on what we truly seek, rather than the empty promises of immediate gratification. Easier said than done! Kāmyavana, however, invites the prospect of a unique solution: what if we could amplify our deepest desires so they become our loudest desires. No more battles, no more struggles—every desire that shouts to us also leads us to spiritual joy. Go with the flow. This is real spiritual life—it’s not meant to be a fight.

Our wandering brings us to Caraṇa-pahāḍī, the beautiful (and steep) hill transformed by Kṛṣṇa’s touch. One day, his enchanting flute-song held everyone spellbound, compelling them to stop, turn around, and rush back towards the unearthly melody. In that sound, natural laws fall away, unsettling the predictable movements of man and matter. Witnessing the transcendental commotion, the hill itself was overcome with ecstasy and softened, causing Kṛṣṇa’s divine footprints to sink deep within its stone. In the surrounding area, other stones experienced the same, and now mystically preserve the clear impressions of cowherd companions and calves that grazed there, visible even millennia later. Krishna’s flute stuns, and then invites the world to dance.

The sweetness is interrupted by scepticism. Stones bearing Kṛṣṇa’s footprint? Circular monuments within which he danced? Trees from which he jumped? How seriously do we take it all? Are these fanciful claims, perhaps even strategic embellishments, intended to boost tourism and economy? Maybe. Maybe not. Ultimately, every worldview is anchored in some epistemological framework, and those who ascribe to one interpretive lens will almost inevitably regard other perspectives with a degree of scepticism. These landmarks serve less as empirical proofs to validate faith and more as spiritual stimulants, capable of igniting bhāva. The genuine aspirant’s focus isn’t on historical verification but on allowing these encounters to deeply nourish their unfolding inner spiritual journey.

The evening progresses, the sun gracefully disappears, and I write alone here at Vimala-kuṇḍa. We are nearly at the halfway mark: What learnings do I carry with me? Is the spirit of Vṛndāvana hijacking my heart? Yes, we are restless pilgrims and we are eagerly seeking breakthrough! People have heart attacks in Vṛndāvana—not just physical ones, but spiritual ones too. These forests are imbued with a divine potency which defeats material desires and draws the seeker, imperceptibly and unexpectedly, toward transcendence. Only two weeks left. Will it be a heart attack or will this stubborn, steel-framed heart return home intact? Fear not, there is hope; sacred impressions are seeping in. Even if my material defences resist a heart attack, the consolotion prize is a heart attract.