Science Fiction Story Part III

Paradise Hotel Continued

Swami Bhaktivedanta, San Francisco, 1960s

It wasn’t so easy finding a flower. Haight Asbury in 1967 wasn’t exactly Norman Rockwell’s America. During the Summer of Love in San Francisco, the Radha Krishna Temple of the Hare Krishna movement was at 518 Frederick Street. It was close to the Pandhandle, the Haight Ashbury free clinic and the I-Thou coffee shop, next door to a place run by the Digger's, "Free Frame," and around the corner from the house where the Grateful Dead were staying.

Exploring sidewalks and storefronts near the temple, Hawk found himself lost in the summer of love. But where to find a flower? As the sun started dipping below the hills and the misty evening fog crept in, Hawk almost didn’t notice the park. He had walked only a few blocks, but through an alley where a drunken hippy lay clutching a bottle of Mendocino, Hawk stumbled on a trail leading to Buena Vista Park, an oasis of greenery in the midst of the city.

A light rain began to fall. The trail wound through live oaks where woodpeckers tapped out a beat. A falcon soared overhead. Through tall eucalyptus Hawk saw the city of San Francisco shining through the mist. A gopher popped up from below a root, and raced back into his hole. Squirrels chased each other up the oak trees. Hawk found wild roses growing in the shelter of a ponderosa pine and carefully picked a few. As he wound back up the path, he found fresh wildflowers.

As the rain continued, the park took on a mystic quality. Time was lost here. Returning with his roses, Hawk found the steps outside the main hall crowded with cast off shoes and sandals. As he entered he saw the main hall of the Radha Krishna temple packed with saffron-clad devotees, their shaved heads shining. Long-haired hippies and street people filled the room. Sweating bodies were rocking out to the Hare Krishna mantra, their musty aroma mixed with the heavy smell of the incense.

The strange music, Hawk later learned was called kirtan; the Krishna people played a kind of earthen hand drum, Indian style. With the patter of rain on the roof and the roaring kirtan inside, Hawk felt absorbed into the sound:

Hare Krishna Hare Krishna, Krishna Krishna Hare Hare

Hare Rama Hare Rama Rama Rama Hare Hare

Bells chimed. A conch blew. The mantra penetrated his being. Hawk looked at the magical figures on the colorful altar. He knew the central forms were of Radha, the Divine Feminine and Krishna, the playful flute-playing God of the Dance. Had he really traveled through time? But how? Was he losing his mind?

And what was he doing here?

The conch blew again and again. The curtains closed. What was next?

All at once, the Swami appeared from a side door and took his throne. He beamed a great smile at the Krishna people. Everyone stepped back in respect and bowed down. Was this some kind of strange cult?

Guests took their seats in the lotus position. The Swami spoke:

“My dear boys and girls,” he said, looking at the young people of San Francisco: “This Kṛṣṇa consciousness movement is not a religious type; it is a great culture for spiritual emancipation. Try to understand that in this world we find a combination of matter and spirit. Just like your body, this body is matter; but within this body, you, the spirit soul, is encaged or embodied. There are so many species of life; every species, every individual living entity is combination of spirit and matter. When the spirit is out of this body, then the body is matter only. Just like in your Bible also it is said, "Dust thou art, dust thou be-est." That dust is this body but not this spirit soul.”

As the Swami spoke on, he described the spiritual truths of the Vedas and asked everyone to go on chanting the mantra. Lulled by the his words, Hawk found himself in a trance. Nothing about him made any sense: Tokyo, 1970s San Francisco, time travel and quantum physics; but somehow the Swami’s words made perfect sense. He felt he was almost in a dream. As he came to, he looked up and the Swami had gone. A Krishna person was solemnly announcing something. Some people were leaving. Others formed rows, sitting in the lotus posture on the floor. All at once he was hungry. Hawk had never been so hungry in his life. He had time traveled nearly 50 years into the past. How long had it been since he had eaten? And in this strange environment, how would he eat?

The man droned on:
“O Lord, this material body is a lump of ignorance, and the senses are a network of paths to death.”

Hawk thought, “Death! Am I dead?” Hunger had overtaken him. He could barely concentrate on the man’s words. He sat in the lotus position as did the rest of the people there, wondering what would happen next. Would the Krishna people involve themselves in some strange ritual? Where would he find food? But, he could smell spices and hot soup. He listened as the Krishna man in saffron cloth spoke. The man said:

“Somehow, we have fallen into this ocean of material sense enjoyment, and of all the senses the tongue is most voracious and uncontrollable; it is very difficult to conquer the tongue in this world...”

As Hawk watched, servants appeared carrying large pots and began going down the rows with ladles. A paper plate was placed before him. As he looked around he noticed the tall girl and her blond friend, the hippy girls who had told him to bring the flower. He remembered he had offered the bouquet of wild roses at the Swami’s feet for good luck as he was told.

The man said, “But You, dear Krishna, are very kind to us and have given us such nice prasadam, just to control the tongue. Now we take thisprasadam to our full satisfaction and glorify Their Lordships Sri Sri Radha-Krishna, and in love call for the help of Lord Chaitanya and Lord Nityananda.”

A boy dressed in a saffron robe with a shaved head ladled orange rice onto his plate. The girl in the granny dress smiled. Hawk could feel his belly rumble. His hunger was explosive. Another Krishna person appeared and ladled soup into a paper cup. It was fragrant with curry from Bengal.

As Hawk watched, his plate filled up. There were pakoras, a kind of spicy tempura, samosas, like piroshkis or empanadas, flaky pastries fried in ghee, spiced and stuffed with curried peas and caulifower with a tamarind sauce. There were hot chappatis, Indian flat-bread, eggplant subji, and puris, hot puffy bread so light it floated in the air. There were sweet balls made of butter and sugar, called “simply wonderfuls” and tamarind tea and sweet rice with cardamon. There was a milk fudge called “burfee.” The food was sublime, it had a special perfume to it.

The whole temple smelled of Sandalwood incense mixed with jasmine incense mixed with strawberry incense. As Hawk looked around, he could see everyone savoring a special kind of deep spiritual satisfaction. Those who were not laughing and smiling outwardly were dancing in their hearts and smiling internally.

This was not some satanic cult: The Krishna people were joyful. They were mostly young people, but old souls. He felt perfectly safe. These people were kind truth-seekers with friendly, shining faces. While they had a philosophy, they weren't trying to jam a message down his throat.

Hawk felt permeated with transcendental spirituality. A sublime sense of divine wonder was in the fragrant air of the incense, the music of the kirtan, the rice, dahl and chipatties made by hand and prepared with love.

Hawk asked the Krishna person sitting next to him, “What is this?” and held up a paper cup of something sweet.

The boy smiled, “Oh, that’s preparation #39: Gentle--Honey in Saffron and Cream." Pointing to another, he said, that’s “Brahmananda's Midnight Dream.”

The light rain otuside had turned into a downpour. Most guests had finished eating and had left before the storm hit. There were only a few people left behind cleaning their plates. The devotees had stopped serving. Two women in saris began mopping the back of the hall.