Himalayan Christmas Gift

[Guest guest]

Haribol Maharaj,

 

Long time, very long time, no hear. This is Raghunatha Anudasa--former

Vrindavan Gurukuli. Just wanted to say hari bol since I came across your

name here on the net.

 

Raghunatha Anudasa

 

Here's the latest on the writing side from me. I thought you might like

it. There's a little surprise in the end about the Himalaya's.

 

 

Himalayan Christmas Gift

 

Written By Maddy Brinkman

Story By John 'Raghu' Giuffre

Raghu (AT) ROOPA (DOT) org

 

 

That time of year when dads get to spend money blew into town faster

this year. I had been up to the hills and cut a tree for the living

room. The usual stocking hung above the fireplace. In a few years, they

would become my son's acne-fertilizer. But not yet.

 

I carefully climbed the stairs without a sound. The house still smelled

of baking: pies, cookies, bread. I love the smell of fresh baking. There

is something very homely about baking. From the top of the stairs, the

living room looked ready. There was a satisfactory clutter of odd shapes

under the tree. Tomorrow there would be a space. But not yet.

 

Upstairs, I pulled myself up through a trapdoor into the attic. My son

had asked me to surprise him this year. No playstation. No bike.

Nothing. Just a smile when I asked him what he wanted: "Surprise me."

there was snow in the forecast. But none yet.

 

I rummaged around the attic. The dust made me sneeze and I cursed the

few sharp objects I bumped into. Where was that damn light switch? There

it is. Light. 40 watts. I looked at the cobwebbed storage space and my

hopes fled. After combing the malls and variety stores, what did I think

I was going to find in my attic. A broken pool stick? Some moth-eaten

ski pants? That would be a surprise. And not a good one. It was cold up

here. I kept expecting a rat to pounce. I'll just poke around and leave

quickly. It was time for bed.

 

I moved to the pool table stacked high with National Geo. mags. No

National Geo. this year. I crossed the tricycle and my leg caught,

launching me into the corner. I clutched at the old clothes rack and it

came down on top of me. I lay in the dust laughing. I have got to be as

clumsy as the abominable snowman. I turned over and looked around the

corner. The light barely made it this far. I pushed the clothes rack off

me and dusted off the old trunk.

 

It was an old battered trunk that had been my grandfathers. I had kept

it because I was too lazy to lug it down for a yard sale. I had opened

it years ago. It was full of books, papers, charts of stuff and some

orange cloaks. There were also some small nature paintings.

 

I ran a finger through the layer of dust on the trunk top. I opened it

and the hinges squeaked. Yup. Papers and a cloak. I picked up one of the

books. The pages had warped and yellowed with age. I tried to open it

and half of the pages fell out. They looked like diary pages, though the

ink was faded. I bent down for a better look. It was in German. I

realized it had been 3 years since I last spoke German. But here, I read

it in sheer disbelief.

 

 

 

November 27th 1789

 

We finally made it to the valley by sundown after a week of camping and

hiking. I feel I have made solid friendships with our pack-mules. The

monks here seem friendly. My interpreter told them I was here to map and

paint the area. Mapping pays the bills, but it is painting that makes

them worth paying. The monks understand. The Himalayas are beautiful and

need to be shared with other 'red faces.' I don't know what I think

about that. I told my interpreter to tell them they had no noses and

that their eyes were small but he discouraged this line of friendship.

One of the monks brought me some soup. He says it will help me

acclimatize. I'm looking forward to some sleep.

 

November 28th 1789

 

I managed to sleep in, in spite of the early prayers. Breakfast took

some getting use to. We sat on the floor and the food was spicy. I'll be

regretting it more later. I'm going to strike out this morning on my

own. I had not expected this much lush greenery this high up in the

mountains.

 

November 29th 1789

 

This place is incredible. The sheer vastness of the mountain range is

breathtaking. Humbling. The monks warned me not to shout while in the

gorges for fear of causing an avalanche. I was just trying out the echo.

I made some charcoal sketches of the local flora and fauna. Lots of deer

here. Surprisingly friendly. Last night I sat around a fire with the

local children for dinner. They all decided to take turns telling me

stories. I understood what they were telling me. Not exactly their words

of course but their meaning was lucid. Their pure excitement and joy of

life was clear and they communicated that. Joy is pretty universal. I

felt very peaceful, just sitting in the middle of their life. They had

let me be a part of them for the evening.

 

November 30th 1789

 

Just got up from a nap. I had been up early to watch the monks do their

morning services. The main shrine resounded like a beehive with their

murmurous chants. The monks are completely bald and wear dark orange

robes. Some robes are more faded than others. I have never seen such an

array of bald heads. Not all were perfectly round. Some were oval.

Others were square and there was the odd coconut protruding back head.

Happy faces, grave faces and yes, I caught a couple of sleeping faces.

The abbot wears a long fancy hat-looks almost Greek. I will see if I can

sketch him while I'm here.

 

I found out the name of the monk who brought me the soup. His name is

Sunta Ram. I can't seem to get rid of him. He is very curious and

shadows me trying to help me do things I am not trying to do. My

interpreter says 'Sunta' means saint. Ram was a very energetic saint.

 

December 1st 1789

 

Sunta Ram has decided I must learn to meditate and will not be

dissuaded. I couldn't get painting until late afternoon. We are

expecting a caravan to come up from Kullu with supplies. So far, I

haven't needed paint or charcoal but I do need some toilet cloth.

 

I have a cloth merchant that keeps me in supply. He makes me rolls of

cloth six inches wide and I take it on my excursions. The natives do

something with a mug of water to clean themselves when they go. But it

can't be good hygiene. As a result, my cloth merchant makes me toilet

cloth and thinks Germans are filthy.

 

December 7th 1789

 

Sunta Ram took me up to the waterfalls. The icy water falls two fifty

meters into a rock pool. The spray creates multiple rainbows. I sketched

the beginnings of a waterfall series I want to paint. I can't wait to

get home and show off some of these painting. I have never painted like

this before. Colors, life, beauty.

 

Sunta Ram continues his mission to teach me meditation. I had my

interpreter ask him to stop but it is useless. He has decided I need

discipline. As if sleeping on the floor and having diarrhea isn't

enough.

 

December 8th 1789

 

The caravan arrived. The children were fascinated with the supplies. I

lit up some gunpowder for them and they danced around with glee. One of

them ran off with my new spectacles and it took me an hour to get them

off him. I swear they like monkeys. Sunta Ram thought the whole thing

was hilarious and told me I should just stay up here forever. He thinks

I have a way with the kids. My interpreter told me Sunta Ram thinks that

when I am with the children I am not sad.

 

December 9th 1789

 

Woke up to a commotion in the monastery courtyard. The kids had gotten

into my supplies and taken my toilet cloth. It lined the courtyard like

festoons. A group of them were on the roof throwing them off into the

air to unravel. Some of it had been fashioned into tails for their

kites. They make some beautiful kites.

 

When I had been shouting out of my window at them for fifteen minutes,

Sunta Ram showed up. Everyone was laughing about it. I complained about

the inconvenience this was going to cause and he took me by the hand and

led me down to the courtyard. "Look how happy they are." He told me. And

something I took to mean that I had forgotten how to be happy. I made a

face and he slapped me on the back. He gathered the children in a corner

of the courtyard and gave them sticks. For the next hour the kids drove

around and raced each other on their new 'horses.' "You see?" Sunta Ram

said. "A child is happy inside. A stick is a horse and he is happy. When

you grow older, the happiness inside goes and we look everywhere outside

to find it. But it is not outside." He then repeated that I needed to

spend more time with the children.

 

December 18th 1789

 

I haven't been able to paint in a week. I haven't even been able to

sketch anything. It seems forced now. I have been feeling beautiful.

Looking outward to arbitrarily capture beauty seems pointless. What I

keep inside me is only what my mind can remember.

 

Sunta Ram and I took the children out for the day. We gave one boy a

tree and told him it was his kingdom. Rule well, we told him. Another

boy was given charge of the river. He promptly set up tax and charged

everyone a round stone to swim. Then the deer found their queen in one

of the youngest girls. She ruled and protected them from the enemy Tree

King.

 

Before we came home, all the children teamed up and threw me in the

river. It was freezing. They think I smell bad because they never see me

bathe. The water made me aware of how much of me there was alive to feel

that cold water everywhere. I was very wide-awake. The kids were rolling

on the ground at my indignation. I chased them all around for a bit and

then sat down laughing. A bit of cold, for all that fun was definitely

worth it.

 

Sunta Ram let me wear his orange-robe for the walk back to the

monastery. It keeps falling off. I have not developed my robe technique

I guess. I have been dubbed: "Suntlaal" for the walk home. 'Laal' means

red in their language. So, I am the red saint. I guess they don't have a

word for pink. I think they see my white skin as pink. It must be rather

funny sight. Their eyes were as wide as guavas when I took my wet shirt

off when I got out. The pink man has a pink torso -- how funny and

surprising.

 

December 19th 1789

 

I had a sleepy grin on my face as I lay in bed last night. I was

exhausted after the day running with the children. Exhausted and

content. The last shout of "Goodbed Suntlaal" floated through the

window. I tried to teach them how to say 'goodnight' and 'go to bed' in

English and they came up with their own version. They did the same thing

with 'see you tomorrow'. They wound me up with 'threemorrow',

'fourmorrow', "see you fivemorrow." It was silly but I liked it.

 

They were helping me. I'm feeling free and happy, unexplainably. They

need so little. I realized that back in Germany we sometimes forget that

in order for our children to be happy we just have to get out of the way

and let them be kids.

 

December 24th 1789

 

I haven't seen the children today. I have been down in the shrine room

with Sunta Ram and the other monks making kites for the children.

Tomorrow is a festival. We will be honoring a saint. Sunta Ram said his

name is Isa. According to legend, a young saint came hundreds of years

ago from the west. He would go from village to village telling stories

to children. He was always surrounded by children. I can see why.

 

December 25th 1789

 

Today was one of the happiest and saddest day of my life. In the

morning, the monks insisted I put on one of their dark orange robes. We

then took the children out to the forest to feed the deer. While we were

out there, the little girl who was queen of the deer pointed at the

abbot's hat, pointed at me, and then giggled. I snuck up, grabbed the

abbot's hat, put it on, and danced a little jig. The little girl was

almost choking she was laughing so much. It is a good thing too because

I later found out that it was very disrespectful of me. Initially the

monks had tried to look outraged but the girl laughed so much that even

the abbot broke into laughter. I had only meant a bit of mischief but

custom prohibited the abbot from wearing the hat again. I was told I

could keep it.

 

When we got back, we passed out the kites we had made for them.

Instantly the sky was alive with forty-five odd kites. I was surrounded

by shrieks of glee and shiny eyes. This is heaven.

 

Then an old woman came out of the monastery. I didn't even realize that

she must have been the only woman there. She walked over to one of the

younger boys and led him back into the monastery. All the children and

turned. They watched. The kites tangled and fell. No one spoke. And I

realized with a shock something that was obvious but had not struck me

before. I turned to Sunta Ram and asked about the other boys in a

whisper. "No. They don't have family. That is why they stay here. That

is why we make kites every year. And they fly." Yes they fly.

 

And I knew I had to go. I had to go home to Germany. There are so many

children. So many children who need to fly.

 

 

December 25th 1790

 

After a year of gathering and making toys, I was able to spread festive

cheer to the children of Hamburg. It is invigorating to bring them

something. I have been wearing Sunta Ram's orange robes and the abbot's

hat. The children love it although their parents might be a little

spooked. I tell them my name is Nicholas. Sunta Nicholas. I tell them I

come from way up in the Himalayas where it is very cold. I tell them of

the carefree children and the deer and the rainbows and the river and

the kites. And I tell them the toys are sent by all the monks who work

to make them. And I promise to bring them more presents next year if

they are well behaved. Some of the parents tell them to stay away from

me. Next year I may have to sneak their gifts to them. In honor of the

young saint Isa and Jesus, the kids must feel joy. They must all fly.

Fly like kites.

 

 

I closed, put down the diary pages and picked up the orange robe. Under

it lay a dusty painting of a little girl laughing uncontrollably. The

painting was signed 'Klaus.' "He's Santa?! We're related to Santa

Klaus?!" I had a surprise for Junior all right. Tomorrow was going to be

Christmas proper.

 

Other writings by Raghu

www.ROOPA.org

C March 2001

 

 

 

 

ISKCON.India (AT) pamho (DOT) net [iSKCON.India (AT) pamho (DOT) net] On Behalf

Of Mahavishnu Swami (ACBSP) (Bangladesh / Nepal)

Thursday, December 13, 2001 8:05 AM

Ananda Tirtha (das) PVS (Mayapur Gurukula, SRPV - IN); Vidvan

Gauranga (das) JPS (Mayapur - IN); FFL (Food For Life)

Cc: Bhakti Vikasa Swami; Jayadvaita Swami; Basu Ghosh (das) ACBSP

(Baroda - IN); Jasomatinandan (das) ACBSP (Gujarat - IN); Tattvavit

(das) ACBSP (NE-BBT); Bhadra Balaram (das) JPS (Mayapur - IN); GBC

Unmoderated; India (Continental Committee) Open (Forum); (Temple)

Presidents

In light of this, what to make of all the earthquake relief?

 

Dear Priyavrata Prabhu, Maharajas,Prabhus,

 

Please accept my humble obeisances!All Glories to Srila Prabhupada!Hare

Krishna!All Glories to Srila Prabhupada!

 

My comment was really out of context.Actually I was just trying to reach

Priyavrata Prabhu to get advice from him about setting up separate FFL

departments in some African Temples.As he had discontinued his PAMHO

subscription I thought I could reach him via the FFL conference.My

mistake.Sorry if I may have created some confusion.

 

Your servant,Mahavishnu Swami.