— Radhanath Swami's Journey

Radhanath Swami Meeting With Gary again

Radhanath Swami NEXT ROAMED ON TO SWAYAMBHUNATH, which lies three kilometers west of Kathmandu. Surrounded by a vast expanse of rice paddies, this beautiful hill is crowned with the Monkey Temple, an ancient Buddhist temple covered by a wide dome called a stupa and said to be built two thousand years ago. The eight eyes of Buddha on the base of the spire observed the four directions. Those eyes were about to see something amazing.

For no apparent reason, one morning Radhanath Swami had an urge to walk to Kathmandu, so Radhanath Swami left his reclusive abode on the mountain, wandered on foot to the city, and meandered through the streets and markets for a short time. Then he began to walk back to Swayambhunath through a long stretch of rice paddies. With its rich greenery and snowy Himalayan peaks piercing the skies, Kathmandu Valley is like a heaven on earth. As Radhanath Swami walked along the narrow bank that enclosed the swampy paddy fields, tiny raindrops began to fall.

Dark blue monsoon clouds thickened in the sky, obscuring the sun and promising to send down torrents. As the drizzle grew to a light rain, Radhanath Swami looked around for a shelter but saw not a single tree. Nothing but rice paddies stretched in all directions. Then, at a distance, he beheld the figure of what appeared to be an elderly man carrying an umbrella over his head. Hoping to share his umbrella, Radhanath Swami scurried along the thin paddy border to catch up with him. The path was narrow and slippery, so Radhanath Swami could not walk beside him; instead he nestled in behind. Struggling to keep under the umbrella, He repeatedly slipped down toward the soupy mud of the paddy. Meanwhile, the umbrella carrier never once turned around. Perhaps that man was intimidated by Radhanath Swami’s intrusion, or maybe he was concentrating on not falling into the pools of mud. In this anonymous way, the two strangers walked along together through the deserted and soggy fields for some time. Two men alone in a vast paddy field, they shared a single umbrella as the monsoon poured down torrents.

Ten minutes later, when the storm subsided, Radhanath Swami offered thanks to the stranger. He turned around now for the first time to have a look at Radhanath Swami’s face. Their eyes met. They were thunderstruck. Their mouths dropped open and their eyes filled with tears. How could this be? For a moment, they stood motionless in a place outside of time. The umbrella dropped into the mud. “Gary!” Radhanath Swami cried. “Monk!” Under the monsoon sky, hearts bursting with joy, they embraced. “We’re together again!” Radhanath Swami said. There they stood, alone in a vast Himalayan valley, thrilled by the mysteries of life. From the time of their sad farewell on the Isle of Crete, they had walked their respective paths. Inseparable childhood friends, they’d been separated by destiny and today that invisible puppeteer had pulled them together in an isolated rice paddy in Nepal.

Reeling from joy, they strolled through the paddy fields toward the place Gary was staying, all the while exchanging their experiences since parting. Slipping and sliding on the narrow paddy bank, Gary walked in front and Radhanath Swami close behind. “Did you ever make it to Israel?” He turned to Radhanath Swami and stroked his beard, which had grown several inches since they last parted eleven months before. “After you left Crete,” Gary explained, “I worked on a fishing boat for my passage to Israel. I worked on a kibbutz for a while. Then with some money in my pocket, I set out for India.” “How did you get here?” “I took the Magic Bus.” He paused for a moment and began walking again. He described the cheap bus for down and out travelers that ran from Europe to India. After returning from Israel, Gary had boarded in Istanbul, crossed the Middle East, and got off at the end of the line in Old Delhi. “And what brought you to this uninhabited rice paddy?” Radhanath Swami asked him.

“The sweltering heat of Delhi was too much,” Gary told Radhanath Swami, still trembling with excitement. “So, with some friends from the Magic Bus, I came up to Kathmandu Valley and found a little house in the countryside.” They approached the village and left behind the narrow boarders of the rice paddies. Radhanath Swami walked side by side with his old friend. A water buffalo trudged toward them on the sodden path, so they stepped aside to let her pass. “Monk,” Gary continued, “I came to India with a hope to find you, but seeing the hundreds of millions of people in this vast land I concluded it was impossible. I knew you would never be in the hangouts where travelers make the scene. I figured you were in some cave or secluded ashram. I never thought I’d see you again.” Gary stopped and turned, his eyes widened. “Nobody will believe this story. Nobody.”

It was August of 1971. Almost a year had passed since they’d parted in Crete. By Radhanath Swami’s appearance, Gary could see that he had adopted the life of a sadhu. The arduous journey across the Middle East, the time spent in the company of enlightened yogis, and the many months in seclusion had left him as a seasoned ascetic. For good reason, Gary was hesitant to bring him to the place he was crashing with his friends. What happens when a Nepalese village home is rented to hippies of the West? As they entered the little structure, rock and roll music blared, men and women danced seductively, and opium pipes were passed around in a cloud of smoke. Gary introduced him to his friends, all of whom Radhanath Swami greeted politely. To say Radhanath Swami could no longer identify with this scene was an understatement. He just stood on the sidelines and watched.

After some time, Radhanath Swami took Gary aside, escorting him to a quiet place in an open field where they sat under a banana tree. A blanket of hovering clouds released a mist of cooling droplets. They breathed deeply the fresh mountain air, a welcome relief from the opium cloud inside. Although Radhanath Swami feared being judgmental, He spoke openly to his friend. “Gary, you have traveled across the world to come here. This is a land of spirituality. Yet you have brought the hippie culture of the West with you. You could live like this in Chicago. You’re just doing the same old things and more in a different setting. How will you grow? What will you gain?” Radhanath Swami pleaded with him in earnest, “Please, my brother, while you’re in this part of the world, try to experience the wealth of spirituality here. If you agree, I’ll take you to the holy places and teach you the life of a sadhu.” Gary looked far away into the horizon. “Let me think about it.” “Come on, Gary,” Radhanath Swami pressed. “Don’t you remember when you begged me to go to Europe with you? I dropped all my plans and did it. Now I’m pleading with you to come to the holy places with me.”

Radhanath Swami loved his friend and it pained him to see that he came so far and was missing this precious opportunity. The next day, Gary said goodbye to his friends and entered into the school of spiritual mendicants. Together again, they began exploring the meaning of life by meeting new people in new places. But this time they followed traditions that were long ago established by enlightened beings. Day by day, Radhanath Swami taught his old friend how to survive in India as a spiritual seeker. How amazed Gary was to learn the method for hitchhiking in India—jumping into the window of a moving third class train. Radhanath Swami also shared with him the art of begging for simple food and dressing like a sadhu. An elderly swami informed them about a pilgrimage to Amarnath, a famous cave situated high in the Himalayas of Kashmir. Swami said that any soul fortunate enough to complete the rigorous pilgrimage would be awarded great spiritual merit. Gary was ripe and ready for the adventure and so was Radhanath Swami. They set off.

On the road again from Kathmandu, they returned to India riding in the back of a truck to Raxaul and then on to Patna, where Radhanath Swami introduced Gary to Rama Sevaka Swami. Swami was thrilled to see Radhanath Swami again and still carrying the stick he gave him. Gary looked on in wonder, amazed by the kind of friends Radhanath Swami was keeping. From Patna they traveled west by train. Gary was especially eager for a tour of Varanasi from a sadhu’s perspective. While there, they visited the famous temple of Kasi Viswanath in the early morning. Brass bells were ringing, hymns were chanted by the temple priests, and swirling pillars of incense smoke rose and dissipated into the air. Radhanath Swami prayed, My Lord, I long to know You and to love You. Please, show me the path I must follow. Something happened to Radhanath Swami at that moment. Radhanath Swami was overwhelmed with a feeling of hope he thought, that if “I only humble myself before the Lord, everything would be revealed”. Radhanath Swami felt that Lord’s hand was reaching out to him and that something very special was about to happen in Radhanath Swami’s life.

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