The Twist of Mind
I had been feeling foggy and wanting to go on a solo trip. “To the mountains”, I had been telling myself. But in a sudden twist, as I was about to book my tickets, a last minute voice from within said “Vrindavan”.
I’m not a religious person, and all I wanted was a change of scene. I wanted to go to some place serene & remote. But isn’t Vrindavan the opposite of all that?
Naturally, I felt conflicted. Regardless, I went.
Instant Regret
I love going to new places without any elaborate plans. I believe it satisfies my exploration-hungry soul. I knew absolutely nothing about this place as well.
As soon as I got off the bus, I was lost.
Which direction to go in? All these auto-wallas were yelling something or the other. One said something I didn’t catch, but I nodded just to get out of this mess. Was I regretting coming here two minutes after getting off the bus? A bit.
After fifteen minutes and a very bumpy ride later, I was dropped in the middle of the loudest and the most chaotic place I’d seen in a while.
The Shift
It was a Sunday night when I arrived at that bazaar. Loudspeakers blasting devotional music, people shouting to be heard, cars and bikes honking.
As I walked through the bazaar, I came across a street band of Westerners singing a Kirtan. Banjo, guitar, shakers, harmonium, all blending into something unexpectedly beautiful.
“Hare Krishna”, they sang.
“Not my genre, but uplifting,” I thought. I stood there for a bit and clapped along and smiled. Not a bad start. Gradually, the chaos stopped bothering me.
By the end of the trip, I realised that Vrindavan is a place of contradictions, and somewhere within those contradictions lie lessons for life.
I walked further, absorbing everything. A series of statues of ancient saints caught my attention, and I lingered there for a while.
Now it was late, and I hadn’t even found a place to stay. After some searching, I found a room and called it a day.
Oneness
From one point of view, there was chaos, filth, nothing conventionally aesthetic in the streets of Vrindavan. From another, it didn’t seem to matter. There was a quiet, pervading calm. Maybe ‘dirty’ is just a construct; maybe things don’t matter in quite the way we assume.
Vrindavan nudges you, gently, toward that possibility.
As I wandered through these narrow, twisted streets, passing by ashrams and temples, one Hanuman temple stood out. From outside, it looked frozen in time. Chipped walls. A tiny, dimly-lit shop selling flowers and prasad. Cow dung nearby, a monkey by a bicycle, and a pile of garbage. And yet, somehow, none of it mattered.
I went inside, removed my shoes, washed my hands, and sat down. An old pujari sat on a takhat, reading what looked like the Bhagavad Gita. As I settled in, a deep serenity took over, almost unexpectedly. I closed my eyes, and it felt easy to meditate, easy to get lost.
That, I realised, was the beauty of this place, far beyond material aesthetics.
Across the city, cows roam freely, a monkey might come from nowhere and sit beside you, sadhus wander, and temples hide in obscure streets. Together it all feels like one continuous stream of consciousness, existing beyond time.
Picture: The outside wall of the temple
2,500 Rupees
After sitting in that temple for an hour, I stepped out. It was burning hot, the streets almost empty. I started walking without any destination in mind. A frail voice came from behind.
“Garmi mein sar dhak kar chala karo beta”
There was an old lady, probably in her 60s, behind me. She further said, “Itni dopahar mein kyu ghoomte ho, araam kar lo”. It was unexpectedly kind, warm, and almost maternal.
We spoke for a while. She told me she had moved here 15 years ago, lives alone, and walks two hours every day for work.
She told me she needs just ₹2,500 a month to get by, and that she’s content, deeply thankful to God, who, she believes, protects her and arranges things so she can earn her daily bread.
Around me, people earn that in an hour and are entangled in a never ending cycle of wanting more, including myself, I thought. I don’t know what exactly I learnt from that encounter, but her empathy and simplicity is something I’d remember for a long time.
I wish I would’ve walked a bit more to accompany her and listen to her speak. It was the best conversation I’d had all day.
Picture: One of the many streets I roamed
Countenance
Back in the temple, sitting on the floor, I’d often glance at the sadhu absorbed in his meditation. Unfazed by the heat or the occasional chatter, he moved between reading the scripture and slipping into stillness. And whenever he opened his eyes, there was a certain gravitas.
I came across many sadhus in Vrindavan, some meditating alone in temples and ashrams, some walking barefoot to somewhere, some drinking tea and chatting with locals.
Most of them shared something, beyond their frugality and simplicity: a quiet wisdom in their presence. You’d feel drawn to them: maybe to listen, maybe to ask something, or maybe just to talk about something ordinary.
This Shit isn’t Real
I’ve met many people in Europe who are drawn to Vedic teachings; familiar with Yoga, the Bhagwad Gita, and the teachings of monks like Vivekananda and Ramana Maharshi.
Here too, many wander through the streets, temples, and ashrams, draped in kurtas and sarees, embracing something far removed from where they come from.
One day, I met a man from Estonia. We felt an instant connection, and ended up spending an entire afternoon together. We shared long conversations and quiet pauses.
“Europe is a comfortable place,” he uttered quietly, “but I come to India to experience my inner self”.
“Being here is a constant reminder that everything is part of a higher consciousness”.
“Meditation makes me feel like having a nice cup of coffee. Calm but alert”.
He was spiritual, yet deeply practical. I’d never heard meditation described that way.
Behind us was a large, very dirty pond. I later learned it was called Davanal Kund, tied to one of Krishna’s many leelas. An old shop stood in the distance, and a large tree shielded us from the sun.
Then, suddenly, a massive dump of shit landed on my jeans. My mood flipped. A couple of f-bombs slipped out. He on the other hand, burst out laughing, then suggested I clean it with leaves by the pond.
When I came back, he told me how a monkey had urinated on him twice in an ashram, and laughed about it for a full minute.
Isn’t most of life just about how we react? Is it really possible to live with a heightened sense of equanimity? If yes, how do we achieve that?
In a later conversation, he shared that he had lost his brother during Covid, right in front of him. As he spoke, his eyes filled up. And yet, there was almost always a quiet smile resting on his face.
Beautiful green eyes. A quiet smile. And a deeply humble presence.
I didn’t ask for his contact, I don’t know why. But I’ll always remember Heler.
Picture: The pond besides which I had these heartfelt conversations
Sweet Boondi and Lullabies
The next day, bored of walking aimlessly, I called for an e-rickshaw and asked to be dropped at any ashram nearby. After one of the bumpiest rides of my life, I reached a Neem Karoli Baba Ashram.
As I put off my shoes to enter, the hot cement floor immediately burned my bare feet and that stung for a while. Once I was inside, though, I immediately liked the vibe. I sat down in the shade.
It was 2 PM. I had overheard that there would be a ‘tea prasad’ distribution at 4 PM. So, I had two hours to kill before I’d get a free cup of tea. Yay!
I explored a bit. Inside one room, people were meditating. Then there was this small temple. Inside it, three women were singing “Hare Krishna, Hare Rama”. One on the dhol, one on the manjira, and another one singing, while the other two harmonised.
I closed my eyes and got lost in it. I even recorded it, thinking I might need it someday.
After a while, I went back in the courtyard, and dozed off for a few minutes. When I woke up, it was time for prasad. I could smell the sweetness around me.
And then at 4 PM, in that quiet ashram, as I ate in a pattal, some warm and sweet boondi made in ghee, using my hands, and sipped the hot tea, I felt deeply nourished. It felt like heaven!
The prasad, people say, is a great healer. Maybe. Simplicity definitely is.
After listening to the three ladies, having a mini nap, and eating the prasad, I felt completely recharged. I knew that it was time to depart.
Picture: The Ashram view from where I sat and had sweet boondi and tea, absorbing the serenity
Karma Yoga
I’ve often been critical of the place of religion in the modern world.
However, I have benefited a bit from the teachings from some scriptures. The concept of Karma Yoga is something that resonates with me.
It’s a message that Krishna passes on to Arjuna: to act in the face of doubt, fear, and consequence, without attachment to the outcome. In a way, we’re all modern-day Arjunas: stressed, confused, unsure of where we’re headed, and still, we have to keep doing what needs to be done.
At a Kirtan, I found myself wondering why people chant Krishna’s name. It always felt a bit dogmatic to me.
“Maybe it’s not just a word. Maybe it carries stories. Of love, duty, and friendship. And ideas about consciousness. Maybe chanting is a way of reconnecting with those ideas, even subconsciously”.
In that temple, with people singing and dancing, something shifted for me as these thoughts arrived. This was the last lesson of this trip.
Coming Back to Life
As long as we know why we do what we do, that’s enough, I think. And maybe even when we don’t, that’s fine too. Who are we to qualify it anyway?
I came back a little tired, but more grounded: ready to return to the grind, with something shifted within. A bit more clarity. A quieter, steadier sense of Karma Yoga for the road ahead.
Sometimes it feels like life is a bit like Vrindavan: messy, humbling, not quite what it seems. And, in the end, unknowable.
