S.B. Keshava Swami's Blog: Tattva | S.B. Keshava Swami

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.

“My tradition stands unmatched.”

How do we manage this? On one hand, a natural sentiment—without it, why would we walk our path at all? We have been moved, and that awakens wholehearted commitment, serving as our existential foundation. It’s beautiful—but beware—it could also be loaded. More crucial than the sentiment is what follows and where it leads. If it closes our eyes to the goodness found elsewhere, or worse, hardens the heart into a dismissiveness and disregard, then the beauty goes bad. There’s no monopoly in play here, ample scope to appreciate the spiritual, scholarly and secular alike. Now I’m not suggesting we oscillate to an all-embracing, immature universalism, flattening all things into a sentimental sameness. Easy on. We need balance. That means a deep honour for our own path, yet remaining open to intelligently respecting the powerful learnings around us.

Will insular thinking really nourish our devotion? In expressing appreciation for that beyond one’s tradition, some feel it to be a wholesale endorsement. Not so. I won’t insult your intelligence by problematising the tiny world of “all or nothing.” Those same individuals may perceive such appreciation as a declaration, direct or subtle, of diminished faith in one’s own path. Again, not so. To find wonder elsewhere does not destabilise the beauty we hold dear. Rather than resting in the overconfidence of belonging to what we deem “the best,” we may turn to a more crucial concern: am I bringing the best of myself to this path? The deficit lies not in my tradition, but in my capacity to receive and reciprocate with the gifts. In negotiating that deficit, learning across boundaries can be hugely rewarding.

Boundaries are healthy lines we draw with care, honouring the spaces and domains that define our existential world. Borders, by contrast, are walls built from insecurity, uninviting and defensive, marking “us” and “them” in ways that divide and estrange. Borders accentuate separation and invoke suspicion. In the first lines of the Gita, Dhṛtarāṣṭra erects a border and “others” the Pāṇḍavas— māmakāḥ pāṇḍavāś caiva. This mood of “us and them” seems to ripple through human consciousness, and even subtly in the minds of good people. May we dwell with joy and gratitude within our boundaries, and when called, gracefully venture across to be inspired and edified.

Put simply: It is not a competition.

“If one goes to another place of worship, one should think, ‘The people here are worshipping my Lord, but in a different way; because of my different training, I cannot properly comprehend this system of worship. However, through this experience, I can deepen my appreciation for my own system of worship. The Lord is only one, not two. Therefore, I offer my respect to the form I see here and pray to the Lord in this new form that He may increase my love for Him in the form to which I am accustomed’. Those who do not follow this procedure, but who instead criticise other systems of worship and who show envy, hatred and violence are worthless and foolish. The more they indulge in such useless quarrelling, the more they betray the very goal of their own religious system’‘ (Bhaktivinoda Ṭhākura, Śrī Caitanya-śikṣāmṛta)

(Pictured above with the Archbishop of Canterbury in 2010, as he shares a beautiful story about “stillness”)

The sacred month of Kārtika dawns upon us. Pilgrims journey towards Vṛndāvana, sacrificing time, expense, energy, and comfort—not merely to witness landmarks, but to inhabit its emotions; not just to click pictures, but to glimpse beyond the material veil; not to relax and unwind, but to reconnect and intertwine. They move on parikramā, with the aim to be moved within. “I lost my heart in Vṛndāvana” a t-shirt says, highlighting the gold standard of a successful trip. My thoughts flow there, though many miles away. Vṛndāvana also dwells inside; we live there in consciousness, knowing that all other places are but pauses along the way. When the time is right, we’ll reenter that playground.

The pilgrim’s journey, however, is not an easy one. In leaving the safety of ‘home’, they confront dissonance, difficulty and disorientation. Ejected from the familiar rhythms of daily life, they enter a mystical threshold which invites further exploration. The goal is profound re-orientation—what the historian Charles Long calls “coming to terms with the ultimate significance of one’s place in the world.” The steady routines of life must sometimes be interrupted with creativity; without that, we inhabit only the narrow architecture of our present narrative, living only a shadow of what we might become. The intrepid pilgrim ventures into the magical space of liminality.

Anthropologists have long explored the phenomena of transition—socially and psychologically, and for our purposes, spiritually. Victor Turner emphasised liminality, a life space in which participants exist “in-between” identities, withdrawn from the normal modes of social life. The liminal stage is one of “not anymore” and simultaneously “not yet.” Within it, social structures are temporarily dissolved and everyone is equalised—you no longer rest in the comfort of previous identities. Liminality can bring confusion, but it also brings a fluidity, a malleability, that gives birth to the new. It’s a humbling stage, but allies appear to keep you motivated. A dramatic unfolding to awaken dormant potential. Studying these topics last week, images of Vṛndāvana parikramā resurfaced; intense, humbling, challenging, and hugely life-affirming. Liminality, at its best. Of course, Vṛndāvana is not just liminal, but eternal. Not just a tīrtha (“crossing place”), but a dhāma (“eternal resting place”). If that spiritual vision hasn’t matured, the liminality of Vṛndāvana acts as a catalyst.

Today, in quiet reflection, I realise that even here, in the midst of university life, I inhabit the very same liminality. This is pilgrimage—a creative interval, where the familiar loosens its hold and the next chapter awaits, currently beyond reach. Long-standing structures are temporarily dismantled, inviting new discoveries. I’m no longer a teacher, just an inquisitive student; no longer a leader, happy to follow the program; no longer a traveller, nowadays timetables dictate my movements; yes, a Swami, though it doesn’t really count here. This is the anti-structure, and at this stage, it’s just what I need. Liminality invites the opening of a new chapter. May the pilgrims journey on, seek the liminal, embrace the disorientation—and, ultimately, re-orientate to Vṛndāvana, the land of unlimited possibility.

Each day begins with a singular focus, a dedication of the intellect that quietens all other concerns. This is my world, at least for now; grappling with questions, clarifying ideas, piecing the puzzle together, and reflecting on what it all means in real life. I’m drawn into a unique absorption. Education is meditation! In an age where attention fractures into a thousand fleeting fragments, there is profound beauty in focus: the slow, deep, deliberate work of learning. We venture beyond hollow memorisation and premature certainty, realising there’s no room for overconfidence in learning. The journey is cyclical: fascination often turns to confusion, confusion to assimilation, and then fascination anew - day after day, an intellectual rollercoaster.

This is the life of the scholar. They spend years unravelling the intricacies of a specialised field, systematically dissecting the subject and unravelling the unknown story behind it all. Yesterday I spoke to an ethnographer who transplanted himself into a foreign community for four years to write one book. He journeys to the physical space, gradually penetrating the hearts and minds of the people, tracing rituals, observing behaviours, and discerning beliefs, painstakingly weaving together a tapestry of meaning. This study is devotion – the sheer patience to embrace the fullness of complexity without reduction or haste. Learning, real learning, takes time.

Depth, however, is one element of the equation. Friedrich Schleiermacher, the father of modern hermeneutics, offered his framework for interpreting information – literary, historical, spiritual or otherwise. He proposes the hermeneutic circle: we can only understand the whole through its parts, and the parts through the whole. To grasp a single word, we are called to situate it within the landscape of the text; to grasp the text, we attend carefully to every word. Meanings emerge within this dynamic tension, a continual movement between precision and perspective. Zooming in and zooming out.

Here lies a profound truth: plunge too deeply, and one risks drowning in an ocean of particulars; rise too far above, and one is alienated from the subtle texture of a single leaf. Scholars tend to be precisionists, pleasured by the depths of detail. Spiritualists tend to be essentialists, rising to the ultimate, or getting to the ‘bottom line.’ The danger of scholasticism is to become so engrossed in detail that the larger contextualisation and conclusiveness never occurs. The danger of religion may be to grasp at the “big picture” so swiftly that we neglect the patient investigation that reveals the beauty of expression and hidden meanings that charm the heart. We reach the conclusion but forget to relish.

When the scholar and the spiritualist converge, zooming in and zooming out, it’s a match made in heaven.

In this chapter, the academy has become my monastery – a haven of study, absorption, and meditation, building bridges between the spiritual and the intellectual. I recently discovered I’m not alone. Hurrying toward a lecture, I was unexpectedly delayed – in the best possible way – by a Franciscan monk. He seemed completely out of place in that university passageway, and perhaps he felt the very same about me; a natural curiosity drew us together. We exchanged pleasantries, and his introduction got me intrigued. Firmly shaking my hand, he said, “I’m a poet, priest, and parrot.” The first two were clear, while the third hovered like a riddle.

My thoughts went to the saintly parrot from ancient times, Śukadeva, guardian of sacred tales. Perched upon the tree of Vedic wisdom, his beak delighting in the juicy fruit of the Bhāgavata, sharing it with the world – unchanged, unspoiled, rather made all the sweeter by his own relish. Was he referring to the sacred repetition of the “good word” which flows in every generation through the mouths of the saintly?

Not so. My new Franciscan friend meant something quite different. “I grew up a lover of poetry,” he said. “The beauty of words and wisdom led me to God. I entered the monastery; I became a priest. But in recent times, I have felt myself become a parrot – mechanical repeating, imitating, echoing – I have lost my voice, my creativity and artistry. I’m here to find myself again.” It was a striking opening line, eloquent in its brevity, clarity and honesty. “You still sound like a poet to me,” I said, even though I sensed his silent regret. I could relate. It’s not uncommon for the sanctuary to become a cage, where prayers feel like scripts not of our own making. At times, our own voice fades into the chorus of tradition, our individuality buried under the weight of collective expectation. He loved his community, his practices, his call to serve. Yet he understood that God’s laws were meant to awaken spontaneity, not supress it. “I’m eager to return” he said with a smile, “but this time as the poet.”

This is what true spirituality demands! Bhakti is art! To emulate and replicate is craft; to create afresh with authenticity is art. All art requires craft, but not all craft rises to the level of art. The artist – like the craftsman – patiently learns technique, refines it meticulously, invests hours of disciplined practice and becomes a student of the masters. Taking that, the artist then finds a spontaneous voice that is unmistakably their own. Deep spirituality calls us to find our singular expression within a world of infinite possibility. Perhaps the monk’s story mirrors that of many a spiritualist: those who, having found themselves, lose themselves again. If we are to be parrots, let us not be the mindless, imitative kind, but the poetic ones, who repeat sacredly with realisation and relish.

May the poet who became a priest return, once more, to being a poet – a profound poet.

During a morning walk in 1976, Srila Prabhupada paused, held up a flower, and remarked, “See the minute fibres in this flower. Can anyone manufacture this in a factory — such small fibres? And how brilliant the colour is! If you study only one flower, you become God conscious.”

I’m no botanist, but the beauty of the foliage and flowers carries a soft power, lifting your spirits. Three weeks in and the paths become familiar; the basic campus geography etched into my mind, allowing me to absorb more subtle details on my walks. Reading is much the same. Once the structure and flow settle in, you see the subtlety, nuance, and layered meanings hidden between words and lines. But I’m not just here to familiarise myself with the grounds or the textbooks; I’m eager to understand people. Wednesday is the first “Noon Service” – a gathering where different spiritual traditions open doors, inviting us into their world. This week, it’s the Unitarian Universalist Ministry, leading a service entitled “Flower Communion.” I decide to attend.

Out on the green, I am seated next to George, a Catholic from Boston Theological Seminary, pursuing a PhD in the comparative religious lives of Hindus and Christians. It’s fitting; he asks me about the Trimurti, and I ask him about the Trinity. Conversations here naturally flow to the metaphysical, needing no preface. They bloom of their own accord, like the flowers we were handed as we arrived. People’s search for understanding feels real, lived, embodied, and not merely studied. Everyone is on a journey.

George hands me a song sheet. Today, he says, is special. We’re soon invited to place the flower we were given at the start on a communal “flower wall.” We sing together, a variety of voices that balance and refine each other, after which we’re asked to return to the wall and choose a different flower – one that now calls to us. As we sit back down, sunlight pours over the gathering like a quiet blessing. The leader of the service invites us to gaze at the flower in our hand, leading us into a meditation: What drew you to this flower? Why do you find it beautiful? What details surprise you? Can you visualise its journey? What message does it carry? How does it make you feel, here and now? Does this flower elevate you in any way? To pause – letting all thoughts rest in one thing. Powerful.

We’re then asked to lift our flowers high and look around the assembly. "This," the speaker says, "is the beauty of the world we live in – so much variety, so much individuality." The world, a garden of flowers. Prabhupada’s words echo within: “If you study only one flower, you become God conscious.” I first heard that more than twenty years ago. But today – only today – did I truly pause to study a flower with care. The spiritual practices of others can awaken a forgotten discipline within our own tradition. To be intentional, present, deeply conscious, and quietly absorbed in remembrance – what the university has come to call the contemplative sciences. As a monk, I thought, I should learn that. Today I came to the “Flower Communion”, not just to learn about other traditions, but to learn from other traditions.

Time carries memory. Location carries energy.

I wandered over to Boston’s Commonwealth Pier, where Srila Prabhupada first set foot on American soil, exactly sixty years ago. Inhabiting that space, I remembered his journey, drawing the energy, allowing myself to be challenged. Comfort or aspiration? Peace or progress? Control or surrender? Giving in or breaking out? What will my life be defined by? At age twelve, Prabhupada climbed the bamboo scaffolding, 300 feet to the top of the Victoria Memorial in Kolkata. When devotees praised his courage, he replied: “I was brave then, and I’m still brave – otherwise how could I have come to your country at 70 years old?”

Dear Srila Prabhupada, when family life obstructed your spiritual calling, you walked away and became a lone mendicant in Vrindavana… a journey into the unknown. When repeated dreams came, urging you towards sannyasa, though horrifying and daunting, you accepted with grace… a journey into the unknown. When doors opened to the Western world, others trembled with doubt, but you heard the call… a journey into the unknown. When Butler, with its gentle American charm, no longer served your missionary purpose, you turned to the urban wilds of hedonism, the Big Apple… a journey into the unknown. When Misra’s Uptown apartment proved fruitless, you descended to the Lower East Side, the skid row, lowest of the low… a journey into the unknown.

O Prabhupada, grace me with one drop of your fearlessness! Help me rise above the crippling anxiety of embarrassment or failure. Immunize me against the disease of conformity, which confines us within the boundaries of safety and sameness. Rescue me from the trenches of mechanical practice and the dull ache of mediocrity. Open my heart so I can absorb the inspiration of the Vaishnavas and make their words my North Star. Bless me to embody your spirit and marry the mission of Sri Caitanya Mahaprabhu. Insignificant as I am, I’ll try to step up into the unknown… eagerly anticipating the prospect of meeting you on the other side.

It’s my first university lecture in more than twenty years. I take a seat in the middle rows, students file into the theatre, and the Professor soon shows up. Carrasco is his name – David Carrasco. Of Latino descent, he’s well-built and carries himself with conviction. His course, “Religious Dimensions of Human Experience,” didn’t jump out to me, but after a three-minute pitch he did last week, with palpable charisma and passion, I was sold. Carrasco begins by recounting his academic formation at the renowned Chicago Divinity School in 1968, after which he shares his spiritual experience of meeting a Mexican angel called Niño Fidencio Constantino in an Attic on “18th Street.” He eulogises his teachers and mentors, particularly Mircea Eliade. “You may want to write this down” he says with a sparkle in his eye, quoting Eliade: “the sacred is an element in the structure of consciousness and not a moment in the history of consciousness.” It made me smile.

Beyond the sociological, psychological and historical dimensions of religion, we’re looking for something more. I became a monk to find God. Secular scholarship often reduces religion to a social phenomenon – a force that played a role in the annals of history, but one that humanity has since outgrown. Émile Durkheim speaks of a “collective effervescence” that is generated in religious gatherings which gives people an illusory sense of divine experience. In actuality, he says, it’s just the overflow of collective human energy; humans worshipping themselves. Teachers like Eliade, however, argue that the hunger and drive to encounter the sacred is inherent within each being, a perennial search actualised in different ways. That Church attendance declines doesn’t mean religion declines – people just search for God in other ways. He tells of hierophanies, or defining moments in which the sacred reveals itself to humans. We discussed how religion is defined, why it continues to play such a pervasive role in society, what it means to encounter the divine, and how such experiences are expressed. Yet the best was still to come.

The night before, I had written my last blog post, concluding it with a parting thought: “Maybe I’ll meet Krishna in unique ways along the journey.” Now, here I am in my very first lecture. As we near the end, Carrasco asks everyone to stand, reminding us that his course is more than academic, quoting a former student who said, “Your life will never be the same again.” He then invites us for a spiritual meditation accompanied by a music video – and to my surprise, he plays “My Sweet Lord.” As Krishna’s name reverberates throughout the lecture theatre, I’m somewhat stunned. It’s a memorable moment in which everything seems to converge: my reflection from the night before, Eliade’s concept of hierophanies, and the hunger to encounter the sacred.

I guess Krishna showed up… even in a Harvard lecture theatre! At the end, I went up to Professor Carrasco to thank him. As I approached, he smiled warmly, and before I could speak, he shook my hand and said, “Thanks for coming, Swami.” I thanked him for reminding me of Krishna, and he replied with a grin, “We’re gonna have a fun semester.”

(Below is a video of the moment)

Years ago, I was visiting Wembley – a museum of memories – flipping through old university folders in the bedroom of the suburban house I grew up in. I found my dissertation: “The Individual in the Information Age.” I was impressed by how many books I read and the hoops I jumped through to get that degree. More amazing is that I’ve forgotten practically everything I learnt! As I browsed through those folders of notes, they felt like distant relics from another lifetime. The handwriting, unmistakably my own, was familiar but strangely foreign, so unrelated to my present life. Did I really write all that? At University I mastered the mechanical art of storing, memorising, regurgitating and formatting. The question in class was always “will this be in the exam?” Beyond that, the material carried little lasting meaning.

Well, I’m back at university after 25 years to give it another go. Back then I was studying out of convention, this time I’m studying for a challenge. Previously I studied to fit in and find comfort, now I’m actively and positively disrupting myself. In my youth, it was more social than studious, now I have concrete spiritual aspirations to share and serve. I’m happy to have another shot; I don’t feel I was a good student the first time around. When I was leaving London one of the monks asked me what I’d be teaching here – I told him I’ve come to be a student. Curiosity is the fire and fuel; it ignites our journey and sustains it too. Living means learning; learning means living. Perhaps that’s why the very first aphorism of Vedanta reminds us to be passionately curious - athāto brahma jijñāsā.

So here I am in the Widener Library, one of the most iconic places in Harvard – 3.5 million books on 57 miles of shelving. It was donated by the mother of a Harvard student who died in the Titanic disaster. Legend says, upon donation, she set the condition that every Harvard student must learn to swim before graduating. Though that tradition died in the 1970s, it looks like I have no choice – coming back to university after 25 years feels like jumping in the proverbial deep end! Sitting here in Boston I’m swimming through these books – bridges to different times, portals to people’s minds and opportunities for divine signs. Books! For monks, libraries are a playground of wisdom where time flies by. But it’s not just intellectual – that wisdom must breathe and be compassionately communicated for the benefit of others. I hope I’ll catch some jewels, and maybe I’ll meet Krishna in unique ways along the journey.

Dear Srila Prabhupada,

Placing my head at your lotus feet again and again, please accept these humble words of gratitude.

The Touchstone

Srila Bhaktivinoda Thakur explains that the ultimate confirmation of Sri Caitanya Mahaprabhu’s divinity lies in the transcendental love that He exuded and was able to awaken within others. The Lord, and those empowered by Him, have unfathomable transformative power. They turn people’s lives downside-up, shift their paradigms by quantum leaps and awaken qualities within them they never knew they had. When asked what miracle you could show, you pointed at all your disciples and beamed “they are my miracle!”

Vaisnavas are more valuable than gold. They are the touchstones which turn everything into gold. Perhaps they are even more valuable; special touchstones that transform others into touchstones. I was touched by you, touched by your example, touched by your vision and continue to be touched by your glorious movement.

Your teachings have touched my life. Every day, they bring a shy, introverted, and reserved personality to life. I never envisaged being a public speaker, but your teachings are so powerful that even a quiet individual who lacks confidence finds the drive and desire to share this wisdom with the world. I’m ready to go anywhere, enter any arena and speak to anyone. Nobody can argue with these teachings, even when delivered by an imperfect instrument. Just too good.

Your mission has touched my life. I was heading for the monotonous, run-of-the-mill, humdrum existence, where fitting in and finding comfort is the gold standard of success. Who dares to veer away from the prevailing narrative? When I heard of your sacrifice, your willingness to shed gallons of blood for the upliftment of others, it awakened me to a life of transcendental adventure and excitement. You activated me in this electrifying movement. It wakes me up every morning – purpose is the best alarm clock in the world.

Your gift of book distribution has touched my life. Being on the street, up and down the country, every town and village, rain or shine, meeting people from practically every walk of life, dealing with disappointment and rejection, and simultaneously seeing the miracles and magic before our eyes, changed my life. This simple adventure, what I call the ‘school of life,’ turned an impractical person into someone who learnt deep lessons about commitment, communication and kindness. Sometimes I close my eyes, think of mystical moments on book distribution and become emotional. This activity has softened my heart like none other.

Your followers have touched my life. I was so impressed when I saw them, working hard day and night, ready to go the extra mile with no time to waste. These were individuals who believed in something! Finally… someone who really believes in what they do! They were bold but also humble, smart but also simple, charismatic but also deep, transcendental but also completely down-to-earth. These saintly individuals had been touched by you, and they touched me by their dedication. They instilled within me a desire to touch the hearts of others. Bhakti awakens bhakti, heart to heart.

Your kirtan touched my life. I still remember that mystical, deep, resonant voice, magically descending from another dimension of reality. This wasn’t music, but more like a cry of love. That melody, the one everyone sings, emanating from underneath the tree at Tompkins Square Park, continues to reverberate around the world, reaching the most remote places. The eternal vibration echoes through your sincere followers, and their kirtan makes me dance. That’s a miracle – I was never one for dancing! The holy name touches our hearts and takes us beyond our mind.

Srila Prabhupada, you turn crows into swans. You’re a spiritual disruptor, a game-changer and a transcendental magician of the highest calibre. I’ll consider my life a success if I can touch many people’s hearts, just as you have touched my heart. May I always be in touch with you, the transcendental touchstone whose spiritual status is untouchable and incomparable.

Your servant,
S.B. Keshava Swami