Waves of Devotion

Quandary IV: If the Śrīmad-Bhāgavatam is the foundation of all Vaiṣṇava literature, why does it describe Krishna’s pastimes with the gopīs in so little detail? The five chapters on the rāsa-līlā, the rāsa-pañcādhyāyī, have only 172 verses, yet later writings expand them into thousands. If the Bhāgavatam is our main pramāṇa (means of evidence) in krishna-bhakti, why doesn’t it elaborate on these pastimes itself, and where does all that later detail come from?

Response:

Our tradition has thousands of volumes describing Rādhā and Krishna’s forms, qualities, and pastimes, and all of them trace back to the Śrīmad-Bhāgavatam. Yet in the Bhāgavatam itself, Śrīmatī Rādhārāṇī is not even named.

So who supplied all the detail, and on what authority? And that raises a second question: how much of the later elaboration simply reflects the culture of the times in which it was written?

These are fair questions. But to answer them properly, we first have to understand what the Bhāgavatam is.

The Bhāgavatam is Krishna

God is absolute, and therefore He is nondifferent from His name and from the descriptions of Him. The Bhāgavatam is not just a book about Krishna. The message is Krishna!

Understanding that the Bhāgavatam is a person changes how we approach it, for a person can never be known by analysis alone. A person is known only when they choose to open their heart to us, and that happens because of our service and affection, not our intellectual analysis. It is the same with the Bhāgavatam. It reveals itself to those who approach it with humility and a mood of service.

This doesn’t mean we should put our intelligence aside. It means we use it in Krishna’s service, knowing that the deepest meanings of the text are revealed, not simply extracted.

This explains how the great body of literature on Rādhā and Krishna came about, a literature that far exceeds what is written in the text. Our ācāryas were scholars, but they were more than that. They were great devotees who prayed to and meditated on every word of the Bhāgavatam, and so, by the mercy of the Bhāgavatam, whole worlds of meaning opened to them from its concise verses. What they wrote in their commentaries and other works was both an explanation of the text and an expression of what the text had revealed to them.

That is why our line has such a remarkably consistent understanding of Krishna and His pastimes. Our great Vaiṣṇava scholars were not speculating. The text was revealing its true nature to each of them independently.

The limitation is in us

The real question, therefore, is not whether the Bhāgavatam adequately describes Krishna. It does, for He is fully manifest in it. If we find any inadequacy in the description, it rests not in the Bhāgavatam but in us.

Our vision is clouded by an intelligence shaped by mundane conceptions, attachments, and assumptions. I think this is why the Bhāgavatam can be so concise — even rudimentary — in certain places. Even if it described everything in elaborate detail, we would not necessarily hear the truth it conveys, because of our own impurities. Its terse outward descriptions instead push the sincere reader beyond the limits of their own understanding and toward devotion. In this sense, what may appear to be a lack of detail is itself part of how the Bhāgavatam reveals the truth.

What about historical influence?

Our ācāryas teach that the Bhāgavatam, and their portrayal of Krishna’s pastimes in their commentaries, describe the spiritual world exactly as it is. At the same time, whenever realization is shared, it must be expressed through language and images that the audience can understand. The expression may vary; the reality does not.

Paintings of Krishna are a good example. One artist paints His complexion one shade of blue, another a different shade, each according to their own artistic vocabulary. But no one paints Him red or yellow. He remains the color of a fresh monsoon cloud. And if we accept that with faith, Krishna’s transcendental blue color will eventually be revealed to us.

I think we can understand the literature about Krishna’s form and pastimes in the same way. Different authors emphasize different aspects and express their realizations in the idiom of their time. But what they are describing, according to our understanding, is Krishna as He actually is.

So, why no detail?

The Bhāgavatam does not lack detail. Its depths just aren’t available to the casual reader. The fuller revelation of Krishna, and especially of His most intimate life, comes to us through the realized devotees who have opened the Bhāgavatam, and through those who humbly follow them.

Its verses lack nothing. They are seeds of the full reality, and they can blossom on the page at once for one who approaches them humbly and with full devotion.

As Krishna Himself says:

“To those who are constantly devoted to serving Me with love, I give the understanding by which they can come to Me.” (Bhagavad-gītā 10.10)

And sometimes a single verse is enough to give us a glimpse of what such a seed contains:

“Wearing a peacock-feather ornament upon His head, yellow karṇikāra flowers on His ears, a yellow garment as brilliant as gold, and the vaijayantī garland, Lord Krishna exhibited His transcendental form as the greatest of dancers as He entered the forest of Vṛndāvana, beautifying it with the marks of His footprints. He filled the holes of His flute with the nectar of His lips, and the cowherd boys sang His glories.” (Śrīmad-Bhāgavatam 10.21.5)

Are the cultural forms that Śrīla Prabhupāda brought from India essential to the cultivation of krishna-bhakti? Or can we separate bhakti from the culture in which it has traditionally been expressed and simply translate its essential principles into whatever cultural forms are most familiar to us?

Before answering that question, we need to clarify what we mean by “Indian culture.”

Some use the term to refer simply to the behaviors and customs that developed in India over the course of history. From this perspective, Indian culture is essentially historical: it is the way a particular people, in a particular place, have organized and expressed their lives.

But there is another way to understand it. Śrīla Prabhupāda taught that genuine spiritual knowledge is not an evolutionary product of a particular society. It is veda — eternal knowledge that becomes manifest in the world at creation. In this sense, what we call “Indian culture” — at least some of the things Śrīla Prabhupāda emphasized — can be understood as an expression of eternal spiritual principles.

I think this distinction is crucial.

When Śrīla Prabhupāda spoke of “Indian culture,” he was not simply referring to the culture in which he happened to be raised. He was also presenting something deeper: cultural principles rooted in an eternal spiritual reality.

The real question, therefore, is not simply whether we should preserve “Indian culture” or replace it with “Western culture.” The more important question is:

Which aspects of the culture Śrīla Prabhupāda brought to the West express eternal principles of bhakti, and which are historical forms that can legitimately be adjusted — or even set aside?

In answering this question, we should avoid two extremes. One is to assume that every cultural form is essential and must therefore be reproduced exactly as it was practiced in India. The other is to regard all cultural forms as merely superficial, with no meaningful connection to spiritual life.

I believe Śrīla Prabhupāda’s teachings point toward a position between these extremes.

Bhakti Is Personal

We worship Krishna, who is a person. And because Krishna is a person, He has His own nature, tastes, and preferences. Those preferences include how He dresses, how He is worshiped, and the kinds of music through which His devotees express their love for Him.

The devotional culture Śrīla Prabhupāda brought, therefore, is not simply an arbitrary collection of historical customs. These forms have a spiritual history and have been adopted because they are suited to expressing and cultivating devotion to Krishna. There are enduring principles within devotional culture.

At the same time, theological discernment requires us to distinguish among three things: cultural forms that embody principles essential to the tradition and therefore should be preserved even when the tradition is transplanted outside India; principles that can be expressed equally well, or perhaps even more effectively, through another cultural form; and practices that are primarily historical or geographical customs rather than expressions of eternal principles. Making these distinctions is essential if we are to determine which forms Śrīla Prabhupāda brought with him are intrinsic to the tradition and which may legitimately be adapted or left aside in a particular cultural context.

To examine this question more concretely, let us consider two of the most visible cultural forms Śrīla Prabhupāda brought to the West: music and dress.

The Music of Bhakti

First, I want to be clear: I am not suggesting that other musical expressions cannot beautifully convey devotion. Rather, I am arguing that certain traditional forms have qualities that are integral to the musical legacy Śrīla Prabhupāda brought and should not be casually discarded.

To better understand this principle, I will again relate a discussion I had with Dr. Eben Graves, program director at the Yale Insitute of Sacred Music. Dr. Graves earned his PhD in ethnomusicology studying the history and contemporary forms of Bengali kirtan. He is also a percussionist and teaches mṛdaṅga, or śrī khol.

I asked him specifically about the role of the mṛdaṅga within the Gauḍīya Vaiṣṇava musical tradition. His response helped clarify the distinction between the spiritual principle and the cultural form through which that principle is expressed — and, importantly, when a traditional form should be preserved as far as possible, even when Krishna consciousness is transplanted into another culture. I think his research is particularly relevant to this discussion.

Traditional South Asian and Gauḍīya Vaiṣṇava music is centered on the voice. The purpose of the accompanying instruments is to support the essential devotional practice expressed through nama-kirtan and līlā-kirtan.

The original instruments associated with Krishna’s pastimes — such as the vīṇā, bamboo flute, and mṛdaṅga (śrī khol) — are particularly suited to this purpose. Although these are premodern instruments, they possess musical qualities that support the expression of Radha-Krishna devotion in ways that are not easily duplicated by instruments introduced to India later.

In padavali kirtan and other traditional Bengali forms, for example, the mṛdaṅga, together with kartālas, supports the singing of devotional lyrics, which remains at the heart of the performance.

Other percussion instruments can keep time, but they do not necessarily have the particular timbre of the clay mṛdaṅga, nor can they necessarily produce the same intricate rhythmic patterns that facilitate the emotional expression of krishna-bhakti. These techniques have been revealed, refined, and developed by generations of practitioners of bhakti over hundreds of years.

Dr. Graves therefore considers the mṛdaṅga essential to traditional forms of Gauḍīya kirtan, while instruments adopted later — such as the harmonium, despite its widespread acceptance and appreciation — remain optional.

What I took from this discussion is significant.

The principle is not simply, “Use Indian instruments.” The principle is to support the expression of devotion in a way that is faithful to the tradition.

Traditional instruments have particular qualities that serve this purpose. Modern instruments can also be used when they are appropriate and genuinely enhance the expression of krishna-bhakti. The harmonium, for example, has clearly found a legitimate place in Gauḍīya devotional music, even though it was first invented and named in eighteenth-century France and was not adopted into the form commonly used in kirtan until the early twentieth century in India. Its acceptance, especially by Śrīla Prabhupāda, demonstrates that a devotional instrument need not originate in India to become part of the tradition. At the same time, we should recognize that some traditional instruments used in the expression of vraja-bhakti possess distinctive qualities that cannot be fully duplicated by modern substitutes.

So, adapting local instruments to express devotion is certainly possible. But such adaptation should be thoughtful.

We should first understand what the traditional form is accomplishing before deciding that another form can accomplish the same thing. Otherwise, in the name of cultural adaptation, we may discard something whose spiritual function we have never taken the time to understand.

The Spiritual Meaning of Dress

Do the same principles apply to devotional dress? In other words, are dhotis and saris spiritually significant, or are they simply historical clothing from the time and place in which Krishna consciousness developed?

Although I don’t believe dress is as essential to the tradition of bhakti as the tradition of music, I believe it is more than an arbitrary cultural artifact.

The word dhoti, the traditional dress Śrīla Prabhupāda introduced to his male disciples, literally means “to cleanse” or “wash,” suggesting a simple, sattvic garment that can easily be washed after each wearing.[1]

There may be variations in how this type of garment has been worn throughout Indian history, as well as in traditional cultures outside India. Nevertheless, clothing resembling the dhoti is mentioned in descriptions of both krishna-līlā and gaura-līlā and depicted in paintings under the direction of self-realized Vaiṣṇavas for generations. In that sense, it is not merely an Indian fashion. It is associated with the devotional world we are trying to enter.

Its simplicity and sattvic nature are favorable to devotional life, and its association with Krishna and Caitanya’s pastimes gives it another important function: it reminds us of who we are trying to become.

The same principle that applies to the music Śrīla Prabhupāda brought also applies to devotional clothing: these forms have a practical utility in spiritual life that does not necessarily disappear when bhakti is transplanted into another culture.

But does this mean that devotees must always or mostly wear traditional Indian clothing?

Absolutely not.

A person can practice bhakti while wearing the clothing customary to his or her own culture. There are also circumstances in which traditional Indian dress may interfere with preaching. If people become preoccupied with the unfamiliar external appearance of devotees, they may have difficulty hearing the eternal message being presented.

We also do not go to work in traditional devotional dress, and we may reasonably adjust our clothing according to the weather, occupation, and social circumstances in which we live.

But acknowledging the legitimacy of adaptation should not lead us to dismiss devotional dress as irrelevant.

What we wear affects how we identify ourselves.

Wearing devotional dress can invoke an identification with krishna-bhakti. It can remind us of our spiritual aspiration and signal to others the tradition to which we belong. The clothing is also naturally modest and easy to clean, qualities that can be favorable to the cultivation of bhakti.

My personal experience in the West is that almost all devotees have made some form of practical cultural adaptation in dress, especially as they no longer live in an ashram.  Even preachers in the West may prefer, in many or most circumstances, that devotees do not wear traditional garb, as this can project a sense of wearing vestments and communicate that we are a movement of ministers rather than laypeople. At the same time, there is certainly nothing that is divisive for spiritual leaders to wear traditional garb, since religions in the West often have spiritual leaders who wear vestments, especially monks.

I can also respect those whose vision of preaching involves approaching the public in traditional dress for the purpose of identification, especially when the men are neatly dressed in clean, pressed devotional garb of a uniform color and are properly guided in how to conduct themselves in public. I personally don’t think this should be the primary image we project to the public.

Regarding preaching in devotional garb, a friend just showed me an Instagram post by a devotee influencer representing an ISKCON sustainable eco-village in Tennessee. He is dressed in our devotional garb and produces excellent, high-quality posts, many of which receive close to half a million views and hundreds of favorable comments. In that situation, it would be hard to claim that the way he dressed prevented or made communication difficult.

Ultimately, I don’t think the question is whether bhakti must remain culturally Indian or become culturally Western. The real question is whether we can distinguish the eternal principles of bhakti from the particular cultural forms through which those principles have traditionally been expressed. We shouldn’t preserve traditional forms simply because they are traditional, but neither should we discard them simply because they are unfamiliar to us. We should try to understand what these forms contribute to our devotional life and then, with thoughtful consideration, determine to what extent a tradition should be maintained as it has been received and to what extent it can legitimately be adapted according to where it is transplanted. In this way, we can honor what Śrīla Prabhupāda brought us while allowing krishna-bhakti to take genuine root wherever it is practiced.

[1] I found in Bhanu Swami’s translation of the Bhakti-rasāmṛta-sindhu at least two verses (BRS 2.1.351 and BRS 3.4.31) in which Krishna’s dress is described as dhati and translated as “dhoti.” David Haberman, a noted scholar who translated the Bhakti-rasāmṛta-sindhu, also translates it in this way. Finally, I consulted Nityananda das, one of the editors of a forthcoming Bhaktivedanta Book Trust translation of the Bhakti-rasāmṛta-sindhu. He wrote: “The word dhati literally means loincloth, but in context of those verses it can only refer to something like a dhoti. There is a great chance that the word dhoti came from dhati, as Bengalis pronounce the short ‘a’ as ‘oh.’”

Even if one objects that Krishna’s wearing of a wrapped cloth simply reflects the historical period in which the story is set, there is remarkable consistency in Krishna’s appearance through the ages as represented by devotee artists and approved by what the tradition accepts as realized souls. At the very least, those within the tradition can say with confidence that the eternal Krishna is traditionally understood to wear a dhoti.

Pradyumna was Śrīla Prabhupāda’s Sanskrit editor and was affectionately known by him as “Paṇḍitajī.” Twenty-five years ago, he needed a ride to upstate New York to meet a friend, so I was happy to oblige.

We were driving peacefully on the scenic Taconic State Parkway when, out of nowhere, he turned to me and said, “You better start saving your grains!” What?!  He then quoted a verse from the Caitanya-caritāmṛta:

eka janāra doṣe saba deśa ujāḍaya — “For the offense to one person, the entire place is laid waste.” Antya-līlā 3.164

I recognized that verse from the story of Rāmacandra Khān. He insulted Lord Nityānanda. Soon after, his whole village was destroyed by Muslim soldiers. Kṛṣṇa Dāsa then offered the cause of the pillage of the village, and with it, this caustic warning to those who offend an advanced Vaiṣṇava.

I looked at Pradyumna, still puzzled. He explained further.

Arundhatī, his wife, had heard that Bhakti Vaibhava Puri Mahārāja had been invited by the temple president of the Towaco temple to speak on Rādhāṣṭamī, which had been celebrated about two weeks before our conversation. Of all the godbrothers of Śrīla Prabhupāda, Pradyumna shared, Puri Mahārāja may have been the most supportive of Śrīla Prabhupāda’s preaching mission. Having had so much association with Śrīla Prabhupāda, Arundhatī was really missing the association of such a senior Vaiṣṇava. She had also visited Mahārāja’s ashram with Śrīla Prabhupāda and remembered his generous hospitality.[1]

When she arrived for the lecture, however, even though Mahārāja had been invited to give the lecture, some other sannyāsī was already sitting on the lecture seat. Evidently, when some leaders above the temple president found out they conspired to stop Mahārāja from speaking. She was so disappointed. After telling me this, Pradyumna again turned to me and repeated his cryptic warning.

“You better start collecting grains!”

I now understood his enigmatic message. It was his way of indicating that by the great offense to this venerable Vaiṣṇava, the metropolitan area would be destroyed and that you had better collect something to eat. I was living in New York City at the time.

I’m not sure how much he believed that literally, but he was Paṇḍitajī and the śāstra was clear. He was, however, emphasizing the seriousness of the offense against a senior Vaiṣṇava. He repeated his pramāṇa for his concern about what had transpired:

eka janāra doṣe saba deśa ujāḍaya — “For the offense to one person, the entire place is laid waste.”

Evidently, the authorities above the temple president were fearful of very senior and advanced Vaiṣṇavas speaking at their temple, so they arranged for another sannyāsī from their organization to be seated there. It’s a horrible thing to do to any invited speaker, but especially a serious offense to a very senior Vaiṣṇava.

My drive Upstate with Pradyumna was September 8, 2001. Three days later, the Twin Towers fell!

Because something comes after something doesn’t mean that it caused it. All Pradyumna was doing, however, was quoting śāstra. At the least, we can say that a person who was śāstra-vit (a knower of śāstra) was emphasizing from our sacred texts the seriousness of Vaiṣṇava aparādha.

I also had come to hear Śrīla Bhakti Vaibhava Puri speak that day and I was disappointed that he was treated this way. It just didn’t seem right. But Puri Mahārāja was a pure Vaiṣṇava and didn’t seem overly disturbed, although that doesn’t excuse the offense. He simply asked his followers — and I don’t know why — to take him to the World Trade Center.

I watched the video afterwards.[2] He did kīrtana all the way to the top and on the observation deck. Knowing what was about to happen, it was amazing to watch. On the ascent, the elevator stopped on various floors, and many of the people who were soon to perish heard the holy name.

I was also in New York on the Lower East Side when the towers fell. I could see them fall and stood on Second Avenue watching the horrible sight of throngs of people, devastated and covered in ash, marching down Second Avenue looking for shelter. I remember that at the time I couldn’t get Pradyumna’s eerie, prophetic warning out of my head:

eka janāra doṣe saba deśa ujāḍaya — “For the offense to one person, the entire place is laid waste.”

[1] This my recollection to the best of my ability of a conversion that took place exactly 25 years ago.

[2] I watched the video many years ago. I tried but couldn’t locate it again. I did find an historical documentation of the event: “One of the most memorable events of the 2001 World Tour occurred on Saturday, August 25, 2001. On that day, Srīla Puri Maharaj and over a dozen devotees visited the top floor of World Trade Center Tower 2 and conducted a short nagar-sankirtana event…” (https://wikibin.org/articles/bhakti-vaibhava-puri-goswami.html)

A friend recently shared with me an excerpt from a book he was reading on one of his favorite subjects: the realizations of the Greek Stoics. It really struck a chord.

“Listen, as the saying goes, it’s crisis time: make a last desperate effort to gain freedom and tranquility — to be a Stoic. Lift up your head, like a person finally released from slavery. Dare to face God and say, ‘From now on, use me as you like. I am of one mind with you, I am your peer.’ Whatever you decide, I will not shrink from it. You may put me where you like, in any role regardless: officer or citizen, rich man or pauper, here or overseas. They are all just so many opportunities to justify your ways to man, by showing just how little circumstances amount to.” (Epictetus, Discourses and Selected Writings, translated by Robert Dobbin, p. 116)

Could I throw my hands in the air, “dare to face God,” and say, as the best of the Stoics do, “From now on, use me as you like”?

It is one thing to say this when life serves our wishes. It is another to say it when circumstance ask something of us that we would rather not do. Could I really say, “Whatever you decide, I will do,” if what God asked of me was difficult or inconvenient?

I think this gets to the heart of why the simple process of bhakti, which has no rigid prerequisites, can be even more challenging than the path of jñāna with all its harsh austerities.

Bhakti is simple, all we have to do is sincerely serve the will of God and leave the results up to Him. Anyone, in any condition or station in life, can advance on the path of devotion.

Bhakti is difficult — even a simple act of service can suddenly seem like the most arduous task when it doesn’t conform to our desires. For those of us who are self-centered, relinquishing control and acquiescing to do something we would not have chosen for ourselves is hell.

This “Stoic” acquiescence to a higher truth is also called surrender. And surrender is the foundation of devotion.

I have written before how, in the wrong cultural context, surrender is misunderstood. It is not following a madman. It is submission to a worthy object of devotion out of affection, where the satisfaction of our beloved becomes our greatest joy because it fills our heart with devotion.

Therefore, in this context, without surrender — selflessness — we can never enter the door of bhakti or, for that matter, experience any sincere loving relationship. Our hearts can never be truly satisfied.

Therefore, as we go deeper into any path of devotion, we will inevitably encounter a barrier if we want to get deeper. At some point, an inner voice will challenge us:

“If you want the highest love, you have to fully surrender!”

The Stoics had it right.

Are we ready to meet The Krishna Challenge and boldly declare:

“From now on, use me as you like!”