Radhanath swami [Official] - THE JOURNEY HOME, An Autobiography of An American Swami

In Kandahar, people greeted Radhanath Swami warmly and one man in particular, Hariz. Tall and well groomed, he was an educated man who had acquired wealth and respect in the trading business. Through his economic ventures and holidays, he frequently traveled abroad. After guiding Radhanath Swami on a tour of Kandahar, Hariz invited him into his spacious home. One quiet night while they sat on his rooftop terrace engaged in a philosophical discussion, Hariz calmly said, "Mr. Richard (Radhanath Swami's earlier name), please excuse me for a brief moment, I have an obligation to attend to."

Suddenly, he jumped up from his chair, cocked his head to the moon and began to howl like a wolf, "Assuuuwww, aaauuuwww, aaauuuwww." What was going on? Had this distinguished gentleman gone mad? He grabbed a long rope with a loop at the end, raced to the edge of his rooftop and hurled it down to the road. What in the world was he doing? With rapt attention, he slowly reeled the rope in. To Richard's amazement, he had fished up a wriggling rodent the size and shape of a ferret. Richard watched in wonder. That was a mongoose, which, it turned out, wandered the town by day, and each evening, responded to Hariz's howl, by crawling into the loop of the rope, where he was hoisted up, and spent the night on the roof. As they resumed speaking, Richard felt the mongoose scaling up his back with sharp pointed claws. Creature crawled under his long hair until it reached his head. There, it burrowed itself in the thick hair locks, making it a nest, and went to sleep. Feeling its warm body deeply breathing on head, he experienced another kind of culture shock.

Richard looked to his host for help. "What do I do now?"
His friend laughed. "Mr. Richard, it found a good nest in your hair."
His neck felt as it were breaking from the weight. "Please take him off"

Hariz became serious. Under the starlit night, he sipped his tea and narrowed his eyes, warning him, "There is an ancient truth: Never wake a sleeping mongoose." He set the teacup on the table and told me that the animal was scared to the ancient Egyptians. "The mongoose is a ferocious killer when angered. In battle, a mongoose will slay the cobra, the deadliest of serpents and symbol of death." Hariz sipped his tea again and leaned back, "If you suddenly wake him, he may tear your head to shreds. Mr. Richard, do not even slightly move until he leaves on his own."

Hours passed as Richard sat motionless, fearing for life. From time to time, the mongoose moved, digging its claws into his scalp. Hariz could no longer stay awake, so with many apologies, he left to sleep. Richard sat alone now. That dark sleepless night in Kandahar seemed never to end. His neck throbbed with pain, but he was too terrified to move. The mongoose on his head was like a time bomb that could explode at any second. He was quickly losing the attachment he had to his long hair. If only the immigration officers in England had acted on their threat to shave his head, life would be so much safer that night.

DEPARTING FROM THE CAVES of Mahavirdas Tat Walla Baba, Radhanath Swami lived again as a wandering mendicant. The winter was coming to a close. As the sun shone warmer, the days grew longer and spring buds appeared in the trees and bushes. One day, as Radhanath Swami walked along a jungle pathway headed north, Radhanath Swami came to the Laxman Jhulan, a long suspension bridge that crosses high over the river Ganges. Standing in the gently swaying middle, Radhanath Swami beheld the Ganges descending from the Himalayas, ornamented on either side by temples, ashrams, and rishis performing their rituals.

Radhanath Swami crossed the bridge and walked along a dirt pathway and into the forest. Suddenly Radhanath Swami froze, unable to bear the chilling sight before him. Dying people, some naked, others in filthy rags, were wailing in agony, their faces shriveled and deformed, their noses melted away, their hands and feet mangled with bloody stubs instead of fingers or toes. Emaciated from starvation, people lay in holes in the ground that served as beds and buried their bodies with blankets of dirt against the cold. All of them were pleading to him through desperate eyes. Radhanath Swami was horrified. He had stumbled into a leper colony.

Dozens of lepers surrounded Radhanath Swami, crying out, "Baksheesh! Baksheesh! Baksheesh!" Pressing their bodies against Radhanath Swami's, they stuck their mangled, bloody hands into his face and demanded charity. But Radhanath Swami had nothing to give and, imprisoned by a wall of putrefied flesh, couldn't move a single step. They refused to leave Radhanath Swami. "Baksheesh! Baksheesh! Baksheesh!" The mob shoved so tightly around Radhanath Swami that he was being smothered. Radhanath Swami could not escape the stench of their breath and oozing, rotting flesh. "Baksheesh," they screamed. Radhanath Swami's mind reeled in confusion, struck by ambivalence. On the one hand, Radhanath Swami was outraged to be so accosted. On the other hand, He pitied them, granting that their misery justified their behavior.

An endless twenty minutes passed. Agonizing, Radhanath Swami tried to come to grips with what was happening. Leprosy is contagious, Radhanath Swami thought. Will he be afflicted to suffer and die with them? Will this mob ever release him? Screaming "Baksheesh," the lepers tugged and shoved one another in a desperate skirmish. Their eyes seared Radhanath Swami with stares of anguish. Finally, they patted Radhanath Swami down for valuables. What Radhanath Swami didn't give, they were determined to take by force. When they realized that Radhanath Swami didn't have anything, they dispersed.

One last evening in Kandahar, while in a dim crowded tea stall, Radhanath Swami squatted on the floor with the locals. Suddenly everyone's attention focused on a blind boy who stumbled in carrying a rustic wooden instrument with a single string nailed across it. He was perhaps sixteen years old, and like the others, wore soiled rags that loosely covered his emaciated body.

Radhanath Swami's heart quaked-nothing covered his blinded, disfigured eyes. Despite his extreme poverty, blind boy smiled radiantly as he poured his heart into singing songs in praise of Almighty Allah as he thumped that one-stringed instrument. His sweet voice and sincere emotion hypnotized all who were crowded in the tiny shack. An hour passed as the spontaneous joy of that blind boy lit up the room with a supernatural joy. He plucked upon his one string and cried in praise of God.

Radhanath Swami was moved. This boy was homeless, blind, illiterate, and poverty stricken. Yet, even in his humbled state, he sang of the vast treasure of joy he had found within his heart: his love of God.

Kandahar had been extraordinary. From a mongoose, Radhanath Swami had learned patience; from a den of hashish addicts, temperance; and from a blind boy, spiritual joy. Radhanath Swami felt grateful for all had learned in the city, and he bade it farewell.