Grandpa holding Lakshmana

by Tapati

Smiling faces show no traces of the evil that lurks within
Smiling faces, smiling faces sometimes
They don’t tell the truth
Smiling faces, smiling faces
Tell lies and I got proof –The Undisputed Truth, in Smiling Faces Sometimes

Aunt Gin had a serious look on her face and I thought, “Uh oh. What now?”

“I know your mom talked to you about your grandpa,” she began.

Oh no. I knew where this was going. Mom had talked to me but I had tried to forget what she’d said. I just assumed it was more of her drama. It couldn’t be true.

“Maybe you didn’t believe her,” she continued. “I know you don’t always get along. But I can tell you that everything she told you the other day is true. From the day your grandpa came to live with us he tried to get us to have sex with him.”

The ugly words came spilling out and I wanted to stop up my ears. I couldn’t match these words with the grandpa I knew. I couldn’t imagine him ever doing such a thing. He’d never done anything to me, that I knew for sure.

As if reading my mind, Aunt Gin continued, “We felt he’d never do anything to you because he thought of you as his granddaughter from the beginning.”

“So then why,” I thought, “are you both telling me?” I remembered the pictures of Grandpa in the bathtub with me back when I was a toddler. Why would mom let those pictures be taken, then? Why would she chance leaving me alone with him, if all of this is true?

“Even now, if he goes to give me a kiss he tries to give me tongue,” she continued, planting that nauseating image in my head for all time. This couldn’t be happening, these things couldn’t be true. Not my beloved grandpa!

“For years he’s told me that one day, he’s gonna get me.” Aunt Gin looked at me and frowned. “I know this must be a shock for you.”

I wanted to ask why they were telling me, and why now? There wasn’t anything I could do about it. My baby was a boy and therefore safe, right? We lived all the way in California. So why even tell me? But why did anybody in my family do anything? I was tired of trying to understand.

“We never told your grandma because it would destroy her. We’ve protected her all these years.”

In hindsight, I can’t imagine that he tried without success to molest his stepdaughters. Adults who want to do this and have that much access to children generally succeed. Since they hadn’t told, he had years to try. But that horrible thought didn’t occur to me then. I was in such shock that I wasn’t thinking clearly. I also didn’t know much about child sexual abuse back then.

I don’t remember how this conversation ended or even what I managed to say in response. I was in shock and just remember these statements, words that rocked my world. Grandpa was like a father to me. I idolized him all of my life. I followed him around on the farm, even up to the roof of the barn. We walked out to the pasture, each with our own walking sticks, to bring in the cows. I watched him build things and dig holes for the fence posts. He took me to the cattle auction and we always got a hamburger afterward. He was Grandpa. He was known to be a good man, a World War II veteran, and by this time mayor of Wayland, MO. He told funny stories and was kind to everyone he met. I don’t think he ever spoke a cross word to me.

How could this man that I knew so well do the things my mom and my aunt were telling me that he’d done? How could I imagine my grandpa talking this way—to his own stepdaughters? They were eleven and nine when he and Grandma got together.

It’s like we were talking about two different people entirely. I couldn’t bring the two images together to form one person.

But by this time, I had to believe what I was hearing because I couldn’t imagine both of them lying to me. There was no motive I could see and my aunt had never lied to me about something so serious. She might lie to keep Christmas secrets, perhaps, or tell little white lies, but not something vicious like this!

I remember I felt nauseated when she drove me back to Grandma’s and Grandpa’s house. I didn’t know how to act around him as I absorbed this information. I felt awkward and exposed. I was a nursing mother in a small cabin with nowhere private to nurse my child. Our mattress was in the living room, a few feet from Grandpa’s chair. Now I felt self-conscious nursing Lakshmana in front of Grandpa. Did he look at me differently now that I was an adult? Had he been restraining himself all of these years? I felt sad for Grandma, too, not knowing that her own girls were in danger, bravely trying to keep this secret that would blow apart her marriage. Now the secret was mine, an unwanted burden at a time when I just wanted to find joy in my beautiful little boy.

I tried my best to act normal for the next few days. I must have succeeded because no one seemed to notice anything wrong.

One evening Lakshmana developed a fever. He was fussy and the fever began to rise quickly. After talking it over we decided to take him to the hospital. Once they saw him and examined him, they told me he had an ear infection and needed to be admitted. By that time his fever was up to 103°F. Because I was breastfeeding they told me I could stay with him and they’d move a recliner into his room so I could get some rest.

Grandma got some quarters so I could use the pay phone to tell Mahasraya what was happening. Predictably, he was unhappy that I was resorting to Western or “allopathic” medicine. But even he admitted that where I was, without medicinal herbs or a “natural” doctor, I had no choice. I had emphasized what the doctor told me about a high fever being dangerous. We didn’t always agree on this subject so I was careful to state the dangers and make my case for going to the hospital.

I barely got any sleep on the recliner for the next two nights until the antibiotics kicked in. At times his fever went so high they gave him ice baths to get it down quickly. Sometimes they were reluctant to let me hold him because my body heat would reinforce his own, but they wanted me to nurse him for the benefit to his immune system. They were surprised a breast fed baby was even this sick.

He got so hot at times that it was uncomfortable to touch him and I felt the heat of his mouth like a burning ember at my breast. He was in pain and crying in a way that broke my heart. The highest his temperature went was, briefly, 105°F. The nurses told me that babies can tolerate a higher fever than adults can, though they were clearly concerned.

One morning his temperature began to go down and he even looked cheerful. I was so relieved, and happy to go call his dad to let him know. I didn’t realize how scared I was until it was over. Grandma came and we took some pictures.

Tapati and Lakshmana at the hospital

Soon we were leaving the hospital behind and headed to Grandma’s. It was almost time to go back home, in fact. Grandma had been busy while we were at the hospital—she’d made me some long skirts and matching blouses like she knew I wore when I didn’t wear a sari. They were really nice. Not for the first time I envied her sewing ability. I’d flunked sewing in home economics class.

I’d almost put the issue with Grandpa out of my mind while I was focused on Lakshmana’s fever, but here he was, acting the same as always, and I was confronted by the surreal nature of our lives as everyone who knew this secret pretended so well not to—and Grandpa pretended so well that he could never think of such things, much less act on them. I wanted to go home.

Soon we were on our way and I tried to put as much of this awkward trip behind me as I could. I had other things to think about and I couldn’t do anything about Grandpa or Dad or my frustrating relationship with Mom. I shoved them all to the back of my mind and looked forward to seeing Mahasraya. Home seemed almost peaceful.

Tapati McDaniels is a freelance writer who started a forum designed to meet the needs of former Hare Krishna devotees at http://www.gaudiya-repercussions.com.

She is working on a memoir and her personal blog can be found at http://tapati.livejournal.com.

Discuss this post on the NLQ forum!

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NLQ recommended reading:

‘Quivering Daughters‘ by Hillary McFarland

‘Quiverfull: Inside the Christian Patriarchy Movement‘ by Kathryn Joyce

Lakshmana visiting Great Grandma’s House

by Tapati

Lakshmana and I had a long trip to reach our family. First we took TWA to St. Louis and then we had a two hour layover before we connected with a propeller jet that took us to Quincy, IL. Grandma met us at Quincy and drove us to Wayland where she and Grandpa had a log cabin behind their antique shop. Just down the street her sister, Dorothy, and brother-in-law, Wayne, had their own antique shop. On the sides of barns around the area one could see the sign “Two antique shops in Wayland.” Above my grandparents’ shop was a one bedroom apartment where my mother lived. When my mom came back from her trip to see me in L.A. she urgently needed a place to live so she ended up there. Previously my cousin Teresa and her husband lived there but they had purchased a home nearby.

Knowing that I slept on the floor my grandparents had put a mattress in the living room for our use. I put my stuff nearby and listened as Grandma started to worry about dinner.

“I just don’t know what I’m going to feed you.” This was a common refrain no matter how many years I had been a vegetarian. It never varied and always carried a subtle dig that I was a bother and that I should just be like the rest of the family.

I told her not to worry; I had brought some things and could supplement them with vegetables from their garden or pantry. I cooked for myself although I offered to share.

Grandma took one look and said, “It looks like someone already ate it.”

If I remember correctly it was a lentils-and-rice dish. No messier than her pots of beans, but since I made it and I belonged to “that crazy religion” it must be awful. I got the same negative reaction to my blackberry herb tea.

I had already heard Grandma complain about how she had nearly passed out on the plane ride to Arizona where she had to meet my mom and drive her back. Mom saw some horrible accident and just broke down emotionally after viewing a mangled body. She called Grandma and told her she couldn’t drive back. I had long been pulled between them in their ongoing war, first on one side, then on the other. I had mostly sympathized with Grandma when I was having my own problems with Mom. It took several more years for me to begin to see Grandma’s part in their tortured relationship. At this point, however, I was outraged that Grandma had to risk her health and drive Mom home from a trip I thought she should never have made in the first place.

Somewhere along the way I heard Grandma’s most common complaint.

“I just worry all the time about you and your mom and your aunt Gin.” She would go over to the Serenity prayer plaques she had collected on one wall. “I just try to remember to accept the things I can’t change,” she continued, while making it obvious to everyone concerned that she did no such thing. “I don’t know why the Lord gives me so much to bear.” Obviously we were all supposed to feel very, very bad for making her worry so much.

I used to try to argue that I was just fine but I knew that would lead to an argument about my “crazy religion.” Previously I had pointed out that because of my religion I wasn’t using drugs or alcohol, behaving promiscuously, and so on. Shouldn’t she be glad I wasn’t doing those things? But that backfired as I had to hear that by rejecting “our Lord Jesus Christ” I was going to hell. I would protest that I had nothing against Christ, but that fell on deaf ears.

Grandma knew almost nothing about my religion, but that didn’t stop her from passing judgment. She also wouldn’t let me tell her anything. “I don’t want to know nothing about that crazy religion,” she would say.

When it came to baby food I had to put my foot down.

“Lakshmana can only have fruits and vegetables,” I said. “We have a ceremony at six months to introduce grains into his diet for the first time.”

I passed that warning on to Aunt Dorothy when we went over to visit. Their home was a part of the antique shop at that time. However, while I was distracted someone gave him a cracker and he already had some in his mouth before I realized. Half the cracker was gone so obviously Lakshmana swallowed some. I was so upset that his Annaprashan ceremony was ruined. It was akin to ruining someone’s christening ceremony or baptism. No one in my family took it seriously, of course. My religion had no meaning for them and my feelings about this moved them even less. After all, I was a brainwashed zombie in their eyes so my thoughts and feelings were dismissed as meaningless.

I was already beginning to regret coming to visit.

I had a packed schedule of visits planned, and first up after Grandma’s was Aunt Gin. Of all my relatives I got along with her the best. Grandma dropped me off the next day. Aunt Gin was happy to see me and we had a good time catching up. My grandpa Glen (my biological grandpa) had passed away recently and we went to visit his grave and bring flowers. She told me all about what happened because she was working as a nurse in the emergency room when he was brought in. An ulcer he didn’t even know he had punctured and he was bleeding internally. She said she knew from his low blood pressure that he wasn’t likely to survive. It was a huge shock.

“Your mom wrote him a letter a few weeks before he died, telling him off for everything he did that made her unhappy. That was the last he heard from her.” Aunt Gin sounded disappointed.

I thought to myself that after all I’d heard about his beatings, I couldn’t really blame her. It was just bad timing. How could my mom know that was going to happen?

“It’s too bad they didn’t get a chance to work it out before he died,” I said.

The conversation turned to my dad, not someone I wanted to talk about.

“So I heard from your dad that you’re going to see him while you’re here,” Aunt Gin said.

“Not exactly. I just told him that to get him off the phone.” My dad had called me after getting the phone number from my family. He saw Lakshmana’s birth announcement in the local paper. What a surprise that phone call was—first time I’d heard from him in years. Of course I felt like he only wanted to talk to me because I’d given birth to his first grandchild—a grandson. It didn’t make me feel like he cared about me at all. So I didn’t really want to see him.

“Don’t make your mother’s mistake,” Aunt Gin said. “You have a chance to see your dad while he’s still alive and you should take it.”

“It’s too late for me. He’s a stranger.” I didn’t even want to talk about him.

“I hope you don’t regret it,” she replied.

We moved on to other members of the family. But a few hours later, who should drive up but my dad, George McPherson. My heart sank. Obviously Aunt Gin was in on this. I couldn’t understand why—it’s not like he kept in touch with my family over the years. Maybe losing her own father was making her want to meddle with mine.

Feeling resigned I watched as she invited him in and he of course wanted to give me a hug like we had a relationship or something. He always did this when he saw me—acted like he always loved me and wanted to be around me, always giving me a big hug. Where this feeling was the rest of the time he was busy ignoring me, I’ll never know. It’s given me a life-long loathing for hypocrisy. I won’t so much as write “love” at the end of a letter unless I really feel it.

Having endured the awkward hug and the embarrassment of being caught in the act of ducking our proposed visit, I was pretty much forced to go home with him so he could visit with us and see Lakshmana. I don’t pretend to remember the conversation—it was so awkward that I have mercifully forgotten. Just imagine the most stilted, unnatural conversation with an incompatible stranger you’re supposed to be related to. We had a bit of a drive over the Mississippi to Hamilton, where he lived with his fourth wife. I’m ashamed to say I’ve totally forgotten her name, so let’s call her Helen. Why Helen? Because some guy on TV just mentioned Helen Mirren.

Helen turned out to be a godsend for me because we hit it off instantly and it saved me from being alone with my father. She was interested in astrology and so we launched into a conversation over dinner. My dad contented himself with paying attention to my son and that suited me just fine.

After dinner Dad was scheduled to be at a baseball game. He was very involved in the local baseball scene and had official duties of some kind—I wasn’t paying attention. He asked me if I’d like to go along and I declined, instead spending a quiet evening with my baby. Helen also had someplace to be. Obviously my visit was timed very well for them.

Later my dad got home and I drank some tea and suffered through another awkward conversation.

Suddenly he shocked me by directly addressing the elephant in the room.

“I know I haven’t been a good father,” he said.

There was a huge lump in my throat. I was trying not to cry, not in front of this stranger. I wanted to ask the question that had been haunting me for years but I couldn’t speak. My throat was still clogged with unshed tears. My brain screamed for me, “Why?” But no one heard.

The horrible moment passed when I didn’t respond, looking down at my son’s head, and my dad changed the subject. Looking back I’m surprised there wasn’t an “I’m sorry” or “I know my absence must have hurt you” or an excuse of some kind.

Soon I said I was tired and should put my son to bed and escaped to the guest room. The next morning nothing was mentioned and Helen was there to smooth it all over and take the only picture (I believe) that exists of my father and me.

Soon it was time for me to go. I said I wanted to call someone I knew locally to come and get me. I called my 8th grade science teacher, an old friend, and he came right away. Soon I had escaped the visit and was catching up with my friend, who I’ll call Fletcher. He drove me back to my aunt’s house where I let myself in and showed him a picture of my husband. Aunt Gin wasn’t home so after Fletcher left I had some quiet time to think about things. What a relief to have that visit behind me.

And the cat’s in the cradle and the silver spoon
Little boy blue and the man on the moon
When you comin’ home dad?
I don’t know when, but we’ll get together then son
You know we’ll have a good time then

I’ve long since retired, my son’s moved away
I called him up just the other day
I said, “I’d like to see you if you don’t mind”
He said, “I’d love to, Dad, if I can find the time
You see my new job’s a hassle and kids have the flu
But it’s sure nice talking to you, Dad
It’s been sure nice talking to you” –Harry and Sandy Chapin

Tapati McDaniels is a freelance writer who started a forum designed to meet the needs of former Hare Krishna devotees at http://www.gaudiya-repercussions.com.

She is working on a memoir and her personal blog can be found at http://tapati.livejournal.com.

Discuss this post on the NLQ forum!

Lakshmana at 4 months

The morning after I gave birth to my son, reality set in. I was so bruised inside I could hardly walk. I couldn’t get up from the floor using my own muscles without extreme pain so Mahasraya pulled me up as a dead weight. (I can’t say he never did anything nice for me!) That evening Srilekha and Mitravinda came over bearing food and supplies and I had to crawl over to the door to let them in. They did my laundry for me and brought me some hot food. This food was a godsend. They also gave me advice on the care of the umbilical cord stub and nursing, diaper changing and so on.

I was so amazed that I had received this miraculous gift of a beautiful son. I had feared that my illness and the meager food supply of the last few months would harm him, but my little boy was perfect. I named him Lakshmana. I had been reading the Ramayana and I knew his older half brother had been named Ramchandra. Since Lord Rama and Lakshmana were half brothers, I felt that it was appropriate to name Lakshmana in relation to his brother Rama, named Matt by his mother.

Grandma as I remember her from my childhood

I called my family to tell them all about Lakshmana’s birth. Although his name was two simple syllables (with a silent A on the end), Grandma decided it was too difficult to pronounce.

“I’m going to call him George,” she said.

Shocked and offended, I knew I had to draw the line right away.

“That’s not the name we gave him,” I replied. “Lakshmana is just two syllables. It isn’t that hard.”

“George is a good name. It would make your Uncle George happy.” It was as if she didn’t even hear me. George was also the name of my estranged father. I knew I had to be firm.

“You can call him George if you want but we won’t be coming to visit you if you can’t use the name we gave him.” Manipulation: the only language my family understood.

“How do you say that name?” Grandma asked, defeated. I repeated it a few times until she got it.

We discussed the details of my trip back to see the family. She had decided it was better to send me a ticket to come there so everyone could see him rather than her coming to see us. Her travel agency told her babies could fly for free up to a certain age. We decided when he was four months old I could make the trip and stay for a couple of weeks.

I had a difficult time recovering. I was white as a sheet and ten days following the birth I hadn’t stopped bleeding. I went to the pay phone nearby and called Aunt Gin, who was a nurse. She told me I should see a doctor as soon as possible. We didn’t have a doctor so we went to the ER, the same place I’d gone before. Mahasraya carried Lakshmana in his arms the whole way since we didn’t yet have a stroller. At the hospital we said he was “a friend” since I wasn’t supposed to be with my baby’s father while I was on welfare. I was examined and they decided to admit me and give me pitocin overnight to help my uterus clamp down. I saw the obstetrician who had done my prenatal exam and told him that the baby came too fast to get to the hospital—a transparent lie since he knew some devotee women were doing home births.

Lakshmana wasn’t allowed to stay with me because he hadn’t been born in that hospital, so Mahasraya took him home. I couldn’t imagine how he was going to cope and I was in shock at being away from my baby so soon and against my will. I had to express my milk, which seemed impossible with the little hand pump they gave me. I had little success and my breasts soon became hard as rock, engorged with milk.

My room mate had just had a mastectomy and I thought it was cruel to put me in the same room while she was mourning the loss of her breast. Here I was, huge and engorged with milk. The doctor was impatient with her grief and told her that she could have it worse—there are people who’ve lost their sight! As young as I was, I knew there was something wrong with this comparison. The suffering of others didn’t make her suffering any less painful. Despite the different phases of life we were in, we got along well and talked for quite awhile.

By the next morning my bleeding had stopped and I was allowed to go home. Mahasraya arrived by car with Revati and they took me home. Lakshmana had been given goat’s milk on the advice of a natural doctor Mahasraya had recently met named Steve. I was not to nurse him for another night in order to be sure the medication was out of my system. I continued to try to express my milk with little luck. I couldn’t wait to be able to relieve the awful pressure. It took a couple of days to get back to normal and I narrowly escaped an infection as one breast became red and painful in some areas. I applied moist heat as the nursing book advised and it improved.

Steve advised me to use protein powder to help regain my strength. Lakshmana lost a bit of weight at first but as I felt better and better my milk improved and he started gaining. Soon he was a roly-poly four-month-old, laughing and enjoying his teething toys. It was time to take him to visit my family.

Grandma lived in Wayland, Missouri and Mom was staying in the apartment above their antique store. We got tickets to St. Louis on TWA and a connecting flight to Quincy, IL on a prop jet. It was my first visit as an adult and I wondered how things would go. I hadn’t seen my mother since her sudden visit during the previous year. Still, I had a beautiful new baby to show off. That had to count for something. This time, I reminded myself, I was home on my own terms. No one could make me stay against my will. That thought calmed me as the plane brought me closer to my difficult family.

Cryin’ won’t help you, prayin’ won’t do you no good,
Now, cryin’ won’t help you, prayin’ won’t do you no good,
When the levee breaks, mama, you got to move.

—Led Zeppelin version, original lyrics by Kansas Joe McCoy and Memphis Minnie.

Previously some friends had offered me shelter at their cabin in Big Bear, a mountain community. I said a tearful goodbye to my husband Mike—now known as Mahasraya following our initiation.

Their cabin was cute and had an amazing view of the snowy landscape. The main living area contained the kitchen, dining room and living room in an open floor plan. I was to sleep downstairs where there was a separate bathroom. Jayasri and I enjoyed being two pregnant ladies, drinking our red raspberry leaf tea and comparing notes about how we felt and what names we were thinking of. She was further along than I was and we must have looked quite funny waddling around with our huge bellies.

They had a lot of good books and recommended The Lord of the Rings to me. I’d read The Hobbit years earlier so I was happy to indulge in this guilty pleasure. We weren’t supposed to read things that weren’t related to our devotional service but my friends were on the “fringes” of the movement at this point and lived a bit freer of such restrictions. The strait-laced devotees were scandalized by them, in fact. I certainly wasn’t inclined to feel critical of people who took me in when no one else offered!

Jayasri and her husband seemed to have a very pleasant and even playful relationship and I envied them. I remember one night they had fun cooking together, making something they called “love tarts.” These were small pastries made in muffin tins with a filling that reminded me of pecan pie without the nuts. Incredible!

Unfortunately this interlude would soon come to an end as Jayasri began to have Braxton Hicks contractions strong enough to make her think that she would soon be having her baby. We had agreed that when her time drew near I would leave, so I packed up my things. They encouraged me to take the books I was reading with me so I could continue on through The Lord of the Rings. I was hooked by that time!

My husband, Mahasraya, was staying in a laundry room beneath the apartment of his friend Bruce. They dropped me off there, apologetically. I looked around at this room in despair. There was a water heater in one corner, ugly institutional green walls, a cement floor and a gap under the only door to the room. There was one window. Laundry hookups protruded from the wall and the floor was strewn with boxes and Mahasraya’s sleeping bag, plus an old printing press that Mahasraya had acquired. Bruce had a few things stored there as well and they were pushed under the window. There was no heat and one light fixture overhead.

I laid out my sleeping bag and tried in vain to get comfortable on the cement floor. Periodically the November wind would blow leaves under the door and a chill would sweep the already frigid room. I was huddled under the sleeping bag and a wool blanket and yet still I was cold. My back hurt from carrying my unborn child and the hard floor wasn’t helping. My baby was kicking against the confines of my womb, already very large in these last months of my pregnancy. I had horrible acid indigestion every night, feeling the acid reach all the way to my throat. It was difficult to get any rest under these conditions.

In the morning we were able to shower upstairs in Bruce’s apartment. He didn’t have a refrigerator so we didn’t try to cook there. Instead I walked two miles to another friend’s home—Srilekha’s—and did our main cooking of the day there. In the afternoon or early evening we returned to our laundry room. During the day I offered massages to devotee women in return for $2.50 per hour. Sometimes they offered items from their own food cupboards or fed me lunch. I was also able to consult a devotee midwife, Manindra, and receive a basic physical exam from her. My baby’s heart beat was strong and everything seemed to be going well despite my living conditions.

Mahasraya was looking for work. After a couple of weeks he landed a job with a printer running an AB Dick printing press. He had claimed to know more about it than he did. He had learned a bit about running one in a graphics class he’d taken. But when it broke down he didn’t know how to fix it. The owner offered to bring someone in to train him the rest of the way but I guess he was so embarrassed at his deception being discovered that he couldn’t bear to stay. So he walked off the job. When he came home to tell me I couldn’t believe it. I was furious that he’d leave a job while we were homeless! He was counting on our welfare money to come and save us both.

Srila Prabhupada cooking for Krishna

On November 14, 1977, word circulated around the globe that our spiritual master, A.C. Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada, had passed away. The entire devotee community was plunged into mourning and uncertainty. How would we carry on without his guidance? How would future devotees be initiated? Who would lead our movement? Mahasraya and I gathered in the temple with the others, lost and wounded, knowing we would never see Srila Prabhupada again or speak to him personally as his earliest disciples had. We reminded ourselves of the inscription on Haridasa Thakura’s bhajana-kutira (meditation place):

He reasons ill who says that Vaisnavas die
When thou art living still in sound!
The Vaisnavas die to live, and living try
To spread the holy name around.

–Srila Bhaktivinoda Thakur

Our hearts were heavy now and only added to our stress level. For Mahasraya, this was the second serious loss in the same year. His temper was short and I never knew what might set him off. He would strike me on my arms or head with little or no warning. When he wasn’t hitting he was yelling or cutting me with sarcastic remarks and vulgar words. I didn’t know where the kind and gentle man I’d fallen in love with had gone but I rarely glimpsed him during these dark and cold days.

As our stay stretched past November to early December, Bruce took pity on me and gave me a foam cushion to sleep on. I overheard him saying to Mahasraya that he should get his wife a home before she had her baby.

At night my only toilet was a plastic milk jug with the top cut off. In the morning I would dump it in a corner of the yard and rinse it out. Balancing over this with my huge 8-months-pregnant-belly was quite a process, and in the dark, no less. I was so large one devotee woman told me she was saving her twin clothes for me!

Srilekha asked me to please come along and babysit her daughter Kishori while she taught Sunday school to the young children from Indian families. It was a program designed to affirm their spiritual heritage. On the way back the brahmacari who was driving our car rear-ended another vehicle and I and my friend Tribhuvanesvari were pretty banged up. I remember closing my eyes and chanting Hare Krishna, then boom! I was surprised to be alive when I opened my eyes.

I was terrified that something had happened to my baby. I didn’t feel any kicks for awhile after the crash. The paramedics checked me out and said I looked fine but suggested I go to the ER to be safe. I didn’t have insurance coverage yet so I said no thanks. Tribhuvanesvari couldn’t walk under her own power–it hurt too much. She needed an x-ray to make sure her legs weren’t broken. It turned out that they were badly bruised. We both hit our shins on the back of the front seats but hers were far worse than mine.

Finally my baby kicked and I was so relieved. I was limping heavily though. Srilekha offered to let me spend the night so I could have a chance to recover. The next day I felt like I’d been beaten and I had bruises all over. Srilekha told me that she and her husband, Sri Govinda, were going on a trip for a few days and Mahasraya and I could stay at her house.

When she returned things felt very strained between us and I wasn’t sure why—was she getting tired of my using her kitchen? I tried to help out by washing her dishes and cleaning up the stove and counters. It turned out that she was also thinking I should offer to clean the floors and bathroom but I hadn’t done so because I was so worn out and it just didn’t occur to me. I walked two miles just to get to her apartment and wasn’t sleeping well.

One morning I was quiet because I was angry at Mahasraya for not bringing back milk in time for breakfast. I had an upset stomach and hoped that food would settle it. I was probably frowning as I sat there waiting. Srilekha started yelling, telling me that I seemed so resentful no matter how much she did for me. She also complained about my not cleaning more. I was stunned, denying that I resented her in any way and offering to clean whatever she wanted me to clean. Mahasraya walked through the door and my grandma called just then. Everything was happening at once.

When I got on the phone with my grandma, she offered to fly me back home to have the baby. I burst into tears and gave Mahasraya the phone. I couldn’t talk. It took me awhile to calm down and tell everyone why I was crying. Srilekha was apologetic and I explained why I looked so unhappy at the breakfast table. I was so torn between going back home and having a roof over my head that didn’t include a cement floor, but I didn’t want to have my baby in a hospital or return to my family. I finally calmed down enough to talk to Grandma and let her know that I didn’t want to come home and that I’d be all right.

I realized that I couldn’t use Srilekha’s kitchen any more. Obviously she was feeling the strain of the arrangement and I didn’t want to inconvenience her anymore. Mahasraya agreed so we made the best of Bruce’s kitchen and got a little Styrofoam ice chest. I was getting a few bucks here and there from doing massage, he had his departing check from the printer job, and the BBT was sort of shamed by public opinion into giving us a bit of a settlement towards finding a new home. So we were able to buy potatoes, lentils, brown rice, milk and butter. Once in awhile we got a little cheese or made popcorn. Not the best diet for a pregnant mom but I had carbohydrates and protein at least.

Mahasraya began to talk about painting the walls of the laundry room and installing carpet and an electric heater. I looked at him like he was crazy! I stated as emphatically as possible: “I am NOT having my baby in a laundry room.” Yes I was afraid of him but I had my limits!

Bill Fregd, an old friend from Mahasraya’s Chicago days, arrived at the L.A. temple for the Sunday Feast. He was driving a sports car he’d purchased entirely with the money he made selling psilocybin mushrooms he picked in Florida. Of course Mahasraya was very excited. He never met a get-rich-quick-scheme he didn’t fall in love with! He started buying psilocybin identification books and bringing home toadstools to identify. The room reeked of mushroom odor and my sensitive nose and queasy stomach rebelled at this. To this day I can’t bear the odor of fresh mushrooms and try to avoid cooked mushrooms as much as possible.

Samples of psilocybin mushrooms

He never did find any psilocybin mushrooms but he read up on the methods for cultivating them. He decided that when we got a place to live he would send away for the mycelium needed to grow the mushrooms and start his business that way. I was not keen on this idea because I could so easily imagine getting busted and having my child taken away from me. Mahasraya was growing so volatile that I was afraid to argue the point.

I tried to keep myself together by reading incessantly. If I couldn’t get away from the laundry room any other way, I could enter another world by reading. I was absorbed in Frodo’s quest and the growing shadow of Mordor. Would Frodo throw the ring into the Crack of Mount Doom in time? Could Aragorn and Gandalf save Gondor, could Eowyn and Faramir find love and healing? Would we get an apartment before I gave birth? It all became linked in my mind. I read on, torn between hope and fear.

“There are some things that time cannot mend. Some hurts that go too deep…”

–Frodo, LOTR, JRR Tolkien

One ring to rule them all
and in the darkness bind them

Tapati McDaniels is a freelance writer who started a forum designed to meet the needs of former Hare Krishna devotees at http://www.gaudiya-repercussions.com.

She is working on a memoir and her personal blog can be found at http://tapati.livejournal.com. 

Discuss this post on the NLQ forum!

A typical Indian-inspired meal at our house

I am often asked why I’m still a vegetarian if I left the Hare Krishna Movement. The only way some people can make sense of being a vegetarian for thirty five years is if religious conviction is involved. It is rare to find a vegetarian for health reasons abstaining as strictly. Don’t we all lapse from our commitment to do certain things for our health? Who avoids sugar all the time, even when they’ve made a promise or a New Year’s Resolution?

My own vegetarianism came more from my upbringing on my grandparents’ farm than just from a rule given to me by ISKCON. While that helped me make the final commitment, I was thinking about becoming a vegetarian from the age of 8, when I saw my first cow slaughtered at the meat market in our trailer court. I stopped eating chicken altogether after seeing one killed on the farm. My mother fought this every step of the way, but even so there were very few types of meat I could bear to eat.

When I got older and learned about some of the abuses connected with factory farming and the process used to kill the animals—which doesn’t always worked—I decided that even if religion weren’t involved I wanted no part of this system.

As an Anthropology buff I realize that meat was one important component of the human diet. In some areas of the world, our ancestors wouldn’t have survived without eating meat. Currently there are people who need meat for various health reasons—allergies to vegetarian sources of protein or particular nutrition needs due to illness. In some areas people still hunt for food to survive. One can even get meat in health food stores from animals that are raised under more natural conditions and killed as humanely as possible. I don’t fault people for making these choices. These days I’m a pro-choice vegetarian.

My vegetarian chili in Mom’s old pot

What I do object to in modern life is the over-consumption of factory farmed animals. Humans are not meant to eat huge quantities of meat (or sugars, for that matter). I don’t believe we have the right to cause immense suffering to satisfy our palate. Some are boycotting producers who pen hogs in such tight quarters that they can’t move and create environmental hazards with the waste. I believe we all have a responsibility to think about where our food comes from.

Religious vegetarians normally condemn meat-eating for any reason unless one is starving and there is no other source of food. One might imagine a plane crash in the wilderness or similar situation. They are not all fanatical about it, but many can be just as dogmatic as any pro-life proponent standing outside an abortion clinic. If they could flash a picture of suffering animals and slaughterhouses at your dinner table, they would.

Of course, fanaticism about vegetarianism can also be found in the group PETA (People for Ethical Treatment of Animals) who stage in-your-face protests of any form of animal abuse and don’t care about the collateral damage. They’ve recently engaged in campaigns that indicate meat eating makes you (God forbid) fat. Those of us who are both vegetarian and fat of course protest this tactic.

If some religious or fanatical vegetarians had the power to outlaw meat eating, they would, just as the pro-life movement would like to overturn Roe v. Wade. I object to both efforts on religious grounds, namely that I should not be required to follow someone else’s religious convictions.

I try to avoid the subject of my vegetarianism most of the time. I have no desire to argue with anyone about what they should or shouldn’t eat. But when asked, I will briefly state my own reasons for being a vegetarian. I sometimes feel like one of the last vegetarians standing. My vegetarian friends are all eating meat now. The proliferation of vegetarian restaurants in the 1970s have dwindled to a very few. Health food stores used to be meat free but now I have to read carefully to discern which frozen or canned foods have real meat or “faux” meat. I don’t miss meat or have any trouble abstaining from it so I’ll just carry on, cooking what I cook and being amused when contestants on cooking shows freak out at the vegetarian cooking challenge and call leeks a protein just because they’ve made them look like scallops.*

*Recent challenge on Top Chef.

Tapati McDaniels is a freelance writer who started a forum designed to meet the needs of former Hare Krishna devotees at http://www.gaudiya-repercussions.com.

She is working on a memoir and her personal blog can be found at http://tapati.livejournal.com. 

Be sure to read Tapati’s NLQ series: “Patriarchy Across Cultures.”

Tapati’s altar
I was asked recently if I felt there was any hope that I might someday renew my desire to serve and unite with Krishna and engage in kirtan with others of a like mind in a non-denominational, low pressure environment. Following that, I was asked what I missed about the Hare Krishna Movement. Others wondered why I kept my initiated name, Tapati and made it my legal name.

I can imagine that my spiritual path seems confusing. From outside it might look like I have worshiped more than one God in my life: The Trinity of Catholicism, Krishna, myriad Goddesses, and Kuan Yin.

What I have been doing from my perspective is sorting through different cultural viewpoints while maintaining a relationship with the same entity all along. The one that I prayed to as a small child, as a troubled 13-year old, a troubled 15-year old, surrendered to at the temple, and lit candles to when my son was in a coma, it was all the same person in my mind.

While I don’t literally believe in any one cultural view of God, whether that is a Blue Cowherd Boy or is expressed as a Trinity, I believe that this Divine Presence can appear as any of these visions in order to enable the worshiper to relate.

So I can go to a temple and see the Deities and relate to the Divine Essence They represent. I can see a picture of Jesus and respectfully acknowledge the truths he was trying to convey. I can hear prayers to Allah and again, appreciate that they refer to the same Person I am trying to serve.

But I can no longer relate to the Indian vision enough to want to take up that form of worship again (too much emotional baggage for me personally) or want to be part of a group in any leadership capacity. I don’t want to impose my vision of spirit on others in any way. I trust that each person is capable of making those choices.

That’s not to say if some alliance of independent folks who are non-preaching-oriented were to throw a kirtan or festival, no pressures, I wouldn’t participate on a case by case basis. I love the music. I love the food. I love the Deities. I just don’t want to be preached to or pressured to conform. If I hear the word maya or karmi again I am likely to flee.

As for my name, I have used it since 1977 and prefer it to my birth name. It has a beautiful story attached, and people misspell it less often because they listen when I tell them how it is spelled. With my former name, Terilyn, I could be telling someone letter-by-letter and they insisted on adding extra Rs or Ns or splitting it in two.

Literally, Tapati means “warming” and she was the daughter of the Sun god and Moon goddess in Vedic literature. (I use lower-case “god” because in Vaishnavism they were viewed as demi-gods, sort of administrative servants of the Supreme God, Krishna.) She gave birth to Kuru, head of the dynasty in which Arjuna of the Bhagavad Gita later appeared.

I was originally named for two cousins, Teresa and Carolyn. They haven’t been on speaking terms with me for nearly twenty years now. I don’t really want to reclaim a name that relates to them. For a long time I have taken my mother’s former position as black sheep of the family. Asserting my own identity is one way of coping with that.

Tapati McDaniels is a freelance writer who started a forum designed to meet the needs of former Hare Krishna devotees at http://www.gaudiya-repercussions.com.

She is working on a memoir and her personal blog can be found at http://tapati.livejournal.com. 

Be sure to read Tapati’s NLQ series: “Patriarchy Across Cultures.”

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Temple Deities

In January of 1977 Mike and I were preparing to ask for initiation. We were carefully composing letters to Srila Prabhupada to indicate that we understood the commitment we were making and hoped that he would accept us as disciples. Mike shaved his head, something he’d avoided up until that point. He knew he would not get a recommendation for initiation from the temple authorities if he kept his hair shoulder length. Embarrassed, he wore a cap over his head until it grew out again. We were more strictly abstaining from sex as well, trying to genuinely follow the instructions we had received from Srila Prabhupada.

My initiation letter is dated February 2nd, 1977. We expected a wait before we heard whether or not we were accepted. Occasionally we knew that initiations were delayed, and Srila Prabhupada was said to be gravely ill. In March we were asked to pray for him and there were 24 hour a day kirtans on his behalf. He improved for awhile after that but remained ill and under medical guidance.

The day came when we heard that we were accepted, and Radhaballabha Dasa was informed by telegram that our names were to be Mahasraya* Dasa and Tapati* Dasi. We were ecstatic! Both of us felt like we had waited so long for this. Mahasraya had been involved in the movement for several years and I had first written to ISKCON members in 1974. We knew it was a big step and a huge commitment. We were agreeing to spend the rest of our lives in the service of our spiritual master and to follow the four regulative principles—no meat eating, intoxication, illicit sex life or gambling, plus we would be required to chant at least sixteen rounds of the mahamantra each day.

In mid-March there was an initiation ceremony in the temple and we received new japa beads that had been chanted on by Ramesvara Swami. In April the official letter arrived with our names signed not by Srila Prabhupada but by Tamal Krishna Swami. We understood that with his illness, our spiritual master (how exciting those words sounded to us) had been forced to delegate these duties.

Not long after our initiation an old correspondent from the registered membership program, Pastora Roldan, came to visit and stayed with us for a couple of days. She had tried to surrender twice before in London and Los Angeles and even considered coming to St. Louis, but didn’t seem to be able to adjust to life in the temple. I tried to show her that life could be pleasant if she gave it a chance and cooked for her and took her to the kirtans with me.

At the temple they showed some film of Srila Prabhupada that shocked us all and brought many to tears. He was very thin and frail-looking, lying in bed with a microphone held up to his mouth, still translating, desperately trying to finish Chaitanya Charitamrita, a multi-volume chronicle of the life and preaching of Lord Chaitanya in the 16th century. We took up our kirtan with renewed fervor, as if we could transfer our very life force to our Guru Maharaja. Devotees were saying that it was our sinful activities that contributed to his poor health, since he was taking on our karma. We hoped that pious activities would improve it.

When Pastora left, Mahasraya and I fell down from our lofty platform of compliance with the rules. After suppressing our desire for over a month we had sex, and our first child was conceived. Guilty we again resumed our chaste existence and it wasn’t long before I felt the first sign of nausea that soon told me I had conceived. I had also betrayed my vows, in my mind, because I knew that “illicit sex life” was supposed to mean even in marriage unless one chanted 50 rounds of the mahamantra and deliberately tried to conceive a child. This was to be a conflict for me the entire time we were married and I would go back and forth between resisting my desire to have sex and giving in. I was often consumed with guilt and felt like I was endangering Srila Prabhupada’s health with my weak will. At the same time, I was happy that I was going to have a baby—at least once the morning sickness had subsided. This part of the story is continued in “I Will Lay Me Down.”

*Tapati rhymes with cup o’ TEA.
*Mahasraya is pronounced Muh HAAH shray (rhymes with eye) uh

Tapati McDaniels is a freelance writer who started a forum designed to meet the needs of former Hare Krishna devotees at http://www.gaudiya-repercussions.com.

She is working on a memoir and her personal blog can be found at http://tapati.livejournal.com. 

Be sure to read Tapati’s NLQ series: “Patriarchy Across Cultures.”

My 18th birthday came and went in December. We didn’t celebrate birthdays, although I’d made a cake for Mike’s birthday in September. I was disappointed that he did nothing for mine. I was used to celebrating it every year in some way.

I began to talk about having a baby. It seemed like many of the women were having babies in New Dwaraka and the more time I spent with moms, the more I wanted a baby of my own. While there was no expectation that we would have lots of children, having children was the point of being householders. We were supposed to raise good devotee children, children who would be even more devoted than we were because they wanted to take birth as devotees while we were born karmis. These children would help change the world and bring about the Golden Age predicted by scriptures, an age where peace and devotion to Krishna would sweep the earth.

I wanted to conceive a child in the right way, by chanting 50 rounds of the Hare Krishna mahamantra–thereby calling a Krishna Conscious soul to take birth as our child. I was babysitting on Sunday mornings for Srilekha while she taught Sunday school to Indian children. Her little girl Kishori was conceived in this way. Kishori was a delightful little girl and spending time with her only increased my desire to have a child.

The Hare Krishna maha-mantra

Mike didn’t want to plan a child and so he wouldn’t agree to chanting 50 rounds. On the other hand, he didn’t want to use condoms or other birth control. I figured we’d end up having a baby anyway, though not the way I preferred to. We discussed this a few times but when he became frustrated and a little angry, I backed off. I didn’t want to inspire his anger because I was never sure where it would lead.

Early in 1977 my family told me my mom was going to have a coronary bypass operation. I had been out of touch with her ever since our fight in Chicago. In fact, I was a little cautious about writing to my family because soon after we arrived in Los Angeles a devotee named Kulapriya was kidnapped by her family when she told them she was getting married, and turned over to deprogrammers. I helped protest their actions by picketing.

My neighbor Sri Prada was a good friend of Kulapriya’s and was really anxious. We had heard the stories of attempted deprogramming, some attempts involving sexual assault and all of them involving blasphemy, efforts to get the devotee to eat meat or drink alcohol or otherwise break our rules, being kept awake for hours, blasting loud music, and other forms of manipulation and harassment. Devotees had learned to pretend to “break” and do whatever they had to do to get released and return to the safety of the temple.

Given that my grandma had cursed Makanlal to rot in hell and always referred to Gaudiya Vaishnavism as “that crazy religion” I had to wonder if she’d arrange to have me deprogrammed. She seemed to be all about controlling me throughout my teen years and I’m sure my mom would have been on board. In retrospect the only thing that stopped them was the expense and the fact that they might not have known any way to contact a deprogrammer.

I was leery of giving them my direct address and had them write to me care of the temple. We arranged on the day of the surgery for me to call them collect from the Millers’ residence. The Millers were very kind and concerned for me and graciously offered to help.

A coronary bypass graft

The night before Mom’s heart surgery I realized I was scared. Up until this point I really thought I hated my mom. I had spent all my energy trying to pull away from her and make my own life, and she had made that nearly impossible. I was filled with resentment—until I thought I might lose her forever! I was surprised at the panic I felt over the very idea that my mom might die and I might never be able to see her again. I realized I still loved her! I was genuinely surprised to realize this. I remember telling Mike.

“I’m afraid Mom might die—I still love her!” I said.

He looked at me like I was crazy. “Of course you do,” he replied.

“I didn’t think so, the way she’s treated me,” I said.

“You’ll always love your mom, no matter what.” He said wisely.

Mom did pull through her bypass surgery and I sent her a card. Our communication tentatively resumed, with sporadic letters. I was still trying to maintain a bit of distance between us. We never mentioned the fight, though she did complain about my taking the stainless steel cake pan. I told her I really needed it. (It was one half of a set.) I figured she didn’t bake layer cakes much anyway. It was one of our two “plates” and I also baked cakes and quick breads in it regularly.

Mike also reconnected with his dad. John had left when Mike was just two years old and had spent his life traveling around, getting women pregnant and then fleeing. Finally one young woman, my age at the time, had the baby and left her son with his father and disappeared herself! So John and his son Shawn traveled with his girlfriend Lori in a van, making a circuit between Vegas and Los Angeles and Sacramento where her parents lived. Lori was in her early twenties and was a more stable influence on his young son, becoming his de facto mother. We met them at the temple when John came to the feast, surprised to see his son there. They had last seen each other in Chicago after the birth of Mike’s first child. They looked a lot alike—only the eyes were different. Mike had his mother Patricia’s eyes.

masala dosa with coconut chutney

John and Lori would drop by every now and then, sleeping in their van, often coming for the Sunday Feast. The Sunday program drew members of the counterculture and other down and out people who were willing to hear a lecture and engage in kirtan before they ate. People would fill their plates to overflowing and go back for more until the prasadam (spiritual food) was gone. We enjoyed it as much as they did, of course. All of the best Indian dishes were cooked for the feasts, including pakoras and samosas, sought after fried foods often served at Indian restaurants.

In March of 1977 I got pregnant. Before I could even miss my cycle I became severely morning sick. As the sickness continued I needed no pregnancy test to realize what happened. I found out later that what I had was a condition called hyperemesis gravidarum. I couldn’t eat, couldn’t keep from vomiting even if I managed to choke a little food down, and grew weak and light-headed. I tried to drink liquids all day, teas and water, and struggled to keep them down. I tried to keep my mind off of how I felt by reading scripture.

We had many volumes and I began to read all day long. I wasn’t able to cook or do housework so I just kept reading, trying to push down the guilt. I felt like I was letting Mike down. I was supposed to be serving him, and here he was bringing me tea and trying to find things I could eat. He was really concerned about my health and very gentle with me during this time.

I read through our entire collection of Srimad Bhagavatam, one volume right after another. I would have vivid dreams about what I was reading, stories of demigods and the different incarnations of Krishna, hellish planets and heavenly realms, stories about the sage Narada Muni and his teachings and many other fantastic stories.

Narada Muni could travel to distant planets in the spiritual and material world.

Throughout them all was dharma, the righteous path that leads one to the ultimate goal of bhakti: pure love of God and therefore liberation from the material world of birth and death. I felt that I was having all kinds of spiritual realizations as I immersed myself in these books. When I wasn’t reading I was chanting and trying to imagine the Krishna conscious soul that was growing within my womb. I hoped that in spite of my inability to eat much that this little spirit soul was getting enough nourishment to grow. I was in awe of the process of creation taking place inside me.

In this way I passed two-and-a-half months, from mid-April to the end of June. Just as I began to feel a little better in early July we got word that Mike’s mom had been found dead in her car. This was quite unexpected and a huge shock, since Patricia was only 44 years old and we hadn’t been aware that she was ill. I vaguely knew she had a drinking problem but I didn’t realize how serious this could be. It turned out that she died from liver and kidney failure. If she had felt sick in the days before her death she hadn’t told anyone.

Mike was devastated, crying and berating himself for not writing to her, for being selfish and not taking care of her. He was inconsolable. I felt powerless to help him get through this awful tragedy. Just as we were welcoming a new person into our family, we were losing a grandma who would never get to see her grandchild. I kept thinking to myself: only 44 years old, just a few years older than my own mother. I pictured her body in her car, waiting to be discovered. We were forbidden to drink alcohol or take any other intoxicant, and now I understood the power of such things to destroy life itself.

When darkness comes
And pain is all around
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down

–Simon and Garfunkel

Shiva, the Destroyer

Tapati McDaniels is a freelance writer who started a forum designed to meet the needs of former Hare Krishna devotees at http://www.gaudiya-repercussions.com.

She is working on a memoir and her personal blog can be found at http://tapati.livejournal.com.

Discuss this post on the NLQ forums!

Kiss me once again
Don’t you never, never, never say that we we’re through
Cause I ain’t never, I ain’t never
I ain’t never, no, no, loved a man
The way that I, I love you

–Ronnie Shannon (sung by Aretha Franklin)

Sri Sri Rukmini-Dwarakadhish

Once we arrived at my mom’s apartment, our relationship was on fast forward. We spent a few weeks together every waking moment, with my mom at work and the run of the place. We cooked together, with Mike teaching me a lot about Indian cooking. He’d been hanging out around the temple for years and had learned a lot. He was four years older than me and seemed wise beyond his years. Like me he was raised by a single mom and had previously had a stepfather he despised. He told many stories of his life in Chicago and his travels, the concerts he’d seen, the martial arts he’d studied, his first marriage, the child he had as a result, and his “fall-down” into drugs and stealing. We talked about “surrendering” together and which temple we should move to. In a few months I’d be 18 and mom was even talking about signing the papers so we could get married.

I was so in love that I lost all my reservations about losing my virginity and we soon began a sexual relationship. Mike assured me that this was OK because in Vedic times there was something called “gandharva marriage” where a warrior would carry away a maiden and she would be considered his wife. I accepted this like I accepted many things in this whirlwind romance. I didn’t know about the heady cocktail of love chemicals that science has since discovered, but I was completely under their spell. I remember that summer Diana Ross released a song called Love Hangover that expressed my feelings exactly: If there’s a cure for this, I don’t want it, don’t want it.

Mike met the rest of my family and if they had doubts they didn’t say anything about them for once. My grandma did say “thank the Lord he’s white” because she had feared I would follow in Aunt Gin’s footsteps and marry a black man. I never ceased to be amazed at the racism of my grandma. I certainly hadn’t fallen for Mike based on his skin color!

My family did pressure him to apply at the local factory, Sheller Globe. They made automotive parts. My father and grandfather both worked there for many years. He put in an application and was hired, but lasted for a few days before he quit. He didn’t like the risks involved in working with chemicals. He decided there weren’t enough jobs in Keokuk and we talked about his return to Chicago where he would find a job and send for me. My mom agreed to sign the papers for us to get married once he had a job. She also pressured me to take the G.E.D. test so I could go to college. I went ahead and took it and passed.

I couldn’t stand to be away and after just a few weeks I wanted to join him. Mom decided to move to Chicago to be close to me. I tried to talk her out of this because she had a nice apartment and job in Keokuk and Mike and I were talking about moving to Los Angeles. She was determined, however, and quit her job and packed up her stuff. We were soon on our way to Chicago together.

It turned out that Mike’s mom wouldn’t let me stay at her house, so Mom and I ended up in a studio apartment together. It was the summer of 1976 and we attended the bicentennial fireworks display in the park. It was amazing!

Mike found a job and we hoped to move in together as soon as he had money for a place. Things were tense with my mom and it was clear I couldn’t stay with her much longer. She was moody and I never knew when she’d blow up at me, once trying to punch me in the head. Mike had taught me some martial arts and I blocked her, pushing her back away from me. I ran outside to cool down. Another time we came in to find that she’d broken the conch shell he’d given me to pieces. He’d modified it so I could blow it like they did in the temple, and we’d blown it once. Mom’s excuse for breaking it was that the neighbors might complain and get us thrown out of our apartment. Mike’s theory was that she was haunted by ghosts, because ghosts are driven away by the sound of a conch shell. They made her break it, he told me.

One night Mom was complaining to her friend about Mike and said something about him that really offended me. I don’t remember what but I was very angry. I had a handful of pennies I was counting and I threw them across the room, not directly at Mom but off to the side. I guess this embarrassed her. She just exploded in fury, yelling and trying to hit me. I blocked her and hit her back by reflex. This only enraged her further and she started pulling my hair, yelling, tearing at my shirt. I was mainly trying to stop her from pulling my hair out and pushing her away. Her friend was telling her to stop and I broke away, grabbed my purse, and ran out.

I was calling Mike on the pay phone in the lobby when Mom’s friend came in and offered me some money. I tried to turn it down but she insisted and of course I needed it for bus fare anyway. Mike told me to meet him at his mom’s. When I got there he told me he had a friend we could stay with. His mom still wouldn’t let me stay there. His friend, Rita, had told him she had a big apartment with an extra room and that he could stay there if he ever needed to.

We spent the rest of the summer with Rita and her boyfriend. Mike was at work during the day and I cooked dinner for him in the evening. We tried to get my stuff back while Mom was at work but she’d had the locks plugged and left me the following note saying I could pick up my things after she returned from work and that she’d talked to the police regarding her rights. She accused me of attacking her! Mike went with me and we got my suitcase and sleeping bag plus my Beatle albums while Mom looked on, grim-faced. I don’t remember if she said anything. I had never been as angry with her as I was after that fight. I didn’t care if I ever saw her again.

New Dwaraka (Los Angeles, CA)

Mike and I talked a lot about which temple we should go to and after meeting up with Swarupa as he went through Chicago on his way cross-country, we decided on Los Angeles—New Dwaraka as the temple community was named. We arrived by plane on August 11th, 1976. No one asked to see a marriage license. We were afraid if we told anyone we weren’t officially married they’d separate us for having a relationship that wasn’t arranged in a temple (maya, in other words). This robbed me of a wedding fire sacrifice according to Vedic custom. A fire sacrifice wedding is a very beautiful ceremony and I was sad not to have my own.

We spent a couple of nights with Swarupa and his family while he arranged for an apartment for us. The temple owned some apartment buildings and the devotees also rented from landlords who were friendly to us. Across Venice Blvd. there was a Spanish-style apartment building at 3816 Watseka, and a devotee named Nalinikanta and his wife Ratnesvari were moving out. Swarupa told us we could have that apartment and we met with the managers, Jack and Mary Miller, who were a little surprised that our stuff was already there. We’d assumed they already knew about us. Once we explained our confusion they understood that we’d meant no harm. They were always really sweet to us.

Mike found service with the Bhaktivedanta Book Trust, across the street from the temple. He would be doing computer typesetting at night while guarding the building. Srila Prabhupada was translating at a rapid pace, trying to complete the work on two multi-volume scriptures while his health deteriorated. The Book Trust felt that the only way to keep up was to have typesetting done night and day. For Mike’s service we received our rent and a $100.00 stipend per month to cover our expenses. I had been writing to registered members in Chicago and Swarupa arranged for me to meet with his boss and propose that I officially be given this service. He lobbied for me to also be paid but we were turned down.

Since we’d arrived with our clothes, sleeping bags, and little in the way of cookware, the $100.00 per month turned out to be difficult for us. We really didn’t have everything we needed to start out as householders. Perhaps we should have asked for a one-time allotment to get a few pots, a broom, and an iron. I remember cooking meals in our two quart saucepan. I’d make the dal, a split pea or lentil soup, first. Then I’d pour it into a large bowl and cook the rice. Our plates consisted of a stainless steel pie plate and cake pan. We had two spoons, butter knives, and forks, and I had one small paring knife to cut all my vegetables with. We had two stainless steel cups to drink from.

To match my husband’s schedule, I stayed up all night. We attended the morning program and then went to sleep. The evening program was our morning. It was completely the opposite of what everyone else was doing and this made our social life difficult. Still I managed to make a few friends and found old faces in the temple as Midwestern devotees joined the New Dwaraka community. Almost everyone in the building was a devotee.

3816 Watseka Ave.

I dived into domesticity and delighted in mending my husband’s clothes and other household arts. By night I wrote to new members and continued my correspondence with others, answering their questions and offering them spiritual counsel. I repeated the things Swarupa had once written to me or the things I had learned in my own reading of Bhagavad Gita and other scriptures. I sent recipes and shared bits of my life with them. It felt strange advising members, who were often older than I was, but I was firmly convinced of the truth and effectiveness of this yoga of devotion to Krishna, and I was moved to share it with others.

I missed Deity service, however. I couldn’t think of any way I could engage in service to Rukmini and Dwarakadhisa. I was sleeping all day—how could I do any of the tasks I had previously engaged in if I was not awake when others were? I never had quite the attachment to Rukmini-Dwarakadhish that I had felt for Kishora-Kishori. Also, at New Dwaraka women were relegated to the back of the temple, far away from the Deities.

About a month after we’d arrived in New Dwaraka, Mike’s friend Ken came to visit. He was thinking about joining the community but didn’t want to live directly in the brahmacari ashram. He stayed with us for a couple of weeks. This caused my first fight with Mike. We had a studio apartment and the strict rules of male-female relationships forbid me to be alone with a man who was not my husband. Yet Ken and I were sometimes alone at the apartment, and on more than one occasion one or the other of us needed to take a shower.

The dressing room and closet were just outside the bathroom, and we were not allowed to wear clothes that had been in the bathroom into the temple room in front of the Deities. However, the dressing room only had a curtain to separate it from the living room. I felt very self-conscious trying to dress and worry about the man on the other side of the curtain.

After a few days I thought that maybe I should just stay with the brahmacarinis until Ken found a place to stay. It seemed like the perfect solution and I figured the guys would be more comfortable that way. I got together some clothes and told Mike that I planned to sleep over there while Ken was apartment hunting.

Mike stormed over to me and knocked me down! Ken was there and looked at the floor, embarrassed to witness this altercation. As I started crying he left and Mike calmed down and apologized. I explained I wasn’t leaving him! I didn’t think it would be a big deal. I thought it would be better for everyone if I just slept somewhere else.

I was really shocked that he’d knocked me down but I thought it was a one time thing because he was afraid I was running out on him. I tried to put it out of my mind and concentrate on being a good, chaste wife according to the Vedic principles of our scriptures. I knew I had a lot to learn but I was head over heels in love with my husband and wanted to be the best wife I could be. I thought it was perfect that I was a virgin when I met him and that I would die having only ever been with him. I tried to behave without reproach when in the presence of other men. I wanted to do everything right.

We weren’t supposed to be having sex unless we wanted to conceive a child. I wavered between trying to follow this strictly and giving in to my good looking husband. I hated myself when I fell down from the ideal. I thought everyone else was able to do this but us. I can’t believe how naïve I was back then! Although I’ve met some former devotees who say they were chaste within marriage, most admit they weren’t. Of course Mike was having trouble with this too. Sometimes I’d wake up with him on top of me, pulling my panties aside, insistent on having sex. It was impossible to turn him away at that point.

As months passed we fell into a disturbing pattern. Mike would become distant and almost completely stop talking to me, absorbed in his books about living off the land, dropping out of society, herbal medicine or martial arts. I would try to get his attention until he became angry at me, hitting me several times with his fist. I learned to be wary of his temper yet I felt so abandoned that I would finally risk it.

He began to say I was haunted—that explained why I would bother him like that. We did a kind of exorcism with offered incense and chanting, ringing bells and blowing a conch. The cycle continued, and sometimes other things I did sparked violence. He would be very sad afterwards and apologize and ask me why I made him do it. At other times he could be so gentle and thoughtful and I was confused. How could the person who made me herbal teas when I had stomach pain be the same person who hit me with his fists or knocked me down?

The neighbors had to have heard it but said nothing. I was troubled and I remember reading a Reader’s Digest article about how marriages go through rough patches and you may feel like you no longer loved your husband, only to fall in love all over again. I was reassured by this and believed we’d make our marriage work. We didn’t believe in divorce and I didn’t want to follow in the footsteps of the women in my family.

Grandma had two husbands before she married my (step) Grandpa, Mom had two failed marriages and Aunt Gin had three. According to my religion, these marriages failed because the women weren’t submissive. If I could just be surrendered enough, my marriage would work. I just had to keep trying to be a better wife. My husband was my guru and I had to be a more submissive disciple. Then he would have no reason to hit me.

Looking back it is easy to see how much I had to learn about the dynamics of relationships, abuse, and how our respective dysfunctional families impacted our marriage. I was trying to figure it all out at the age of 17 with no previous experience with even a boyfriend, much less a husband. Neither of us knew the first thing about how to create a healthy relationship or get our needs met. We had no one to teach us these skills, either. We just muddled through on our own, looking to scripture and the public examples of other devotees as a guide.

Our first home

Tapati McDaniels is a freelance writer who started a forum designed to meet the needs of former Hare Krishna devotees at http://www.gaudiya-repercussions.com.

She is working on a memoir and her personal blog can be found at http://tapati.livejournal.com.

Discuss this post on the NLQ forums!

Chicago, Illinois

Cold late night so long ago
When I was not so strong you know
A pretty man came to me
Never seen eyes so blue
I could not run away
It seemed we’d seen each other in a dream
It seemed like he knew me
He looked right through me

–Heart

Previously I described how I left the Chicago Hare Krishna temple. I was headed for my friend Suprabha’s apartment. I had her phone number and address written down, and knew which El stop to look for. When I got off the El I called Suprabha and she gave me directions to her dad’s home. She’d told me that he traveled a lot and wouldn’t be around.

Suprabha greeted me warmly and we talked and cooked together and generally enjoyed hanging out. There was a George Harrison special on the radio, with interviews and music, and we taped it. I was given my own room in the large apartment and for the next several days I settled in to life in Chicago. Suprabha took me to visit a counselor at her college who gave me job referrals for child care. I met a couple of parents who were friends and was well on my way to getting a live-in job with a very nice Jewish couple. They invited me to dinner and were so respectful of my beliefs that they offered to leave the room while I offered my food—what a change from my family!

One day Suprabha told me a friend was coming over. It turned out to be Bhakta Mike, the new guy from the temple. It was a little awkward socializing with him since just a few days before I wasn’t supposed to give him the time of day. He seemed a bit shy too, though he and Suprabha got along well and had been spending time together. I wasn’t quite sure what their relationship was—were they a couple or just friends or something in between? It seemed rude to ask. We spent a few hours together and I enjoyed myself. Bhakta Mike had a good sense of humor and he seemed so nice after the cold and distant brahmacaris at the temple. We had fun listening to karmi music, something we couldn’t do at the temple. The three of us were dipping our toes into the pool of maya, trying to find some comfortable balance between devotee and karmi life. We didn’t want to get in too deep—but we weren’t ready to fully commit to the temple either.

Not long after this meeting Suprabha got a call from her dad. He was coming back soon. Suddenly she had to find another place for me to stay, and she remembered this Indian couple she’d met. She arranged for me to meet up with them because they’d offered once to let her stay with them. They were very nice and agreed to let me sleep there. I figured I would spend all day out of the apartment to give them some space. What I didn’t realize is that the wife hoped I would help around the house. She also planned to fix me up with her nephew, although that meeting didn’t go well. I thought I’d be polite and at least spend a little time with him, then tell her he wasn’t my type. He thought I’d be a loose American woman he could talk right into bed. I ended up having to just run out of there!

Her husband also began to get a little too friendly and at one point asked me to sit beside him on the bed as we talked. The arrangement wasn’t working out and Suprabha’s counselor gave me the number of the Salvation Army shelter for runaways. I called them and they had a bed available, so I moved in. They were wonderful; I can’t say enough about the Salvation Army in Chicago. I had my own room, a small allowance for transportation on the El and bus, and a nice common space with a pool table. I was nearing the time that I would likely be moving in with the Jewish family but this bridged the gap nicely. The only catch was that I had to let them contact my mother.

On Saturday of that week, Bhakta Mike called me just before I was leaving to go to Suprabha’s. He suggested we meet at the El stop and walk to her house together. I agreed, and met him at the bottom of the stairs. We walked towards Suprabha’s and got to talking. Instead of going right there, Bhakta Mike suggested we walk for a bit first, towards the lake. I was enjoying myself so I agreed. It was a beautiful day and we were engrossed in our conversation. We ended up at the lake, watching the waves, and I was startled when Mike put his arm around me. I thought he was gorgeous but I figured he was more attracted to Suprabha. She was much thinner than I was and I just assumed he’d prefer her. I felt guilty because I still didn’t know if they were a couple or not.

A beach in Chicago

This was a first: a boy I was attracted to returned the feeling! I had begun to think this would never happen and as a devotee I’d put the whole romance thing out of my mind. I wasn’t popular in school and the only people who were really interested in me were older men, not boys from my own class. I had a brief dating relationship with a younger boy, mainly to save face. I only liked him as a friend. This moment was a monumental shift and I felt like I was walking on air. Then he pulled me to face him and kissed me, and it was everything I’d imagined a kiss could be.

It was one of those moments where you’re tempted to pinch yourself. Is this really happening? I thought. Can this be true? We spent the rest of the day at the lake, talking, kissing, two people in love. I thought a few times about Suprabha, and Mike assured me that they weren’t serious about each other. I knew she expected us to show up at her house and that I’d have to call her. I had a lot of explaining to do.

Mike gave me the number to the brahmacari ashram and told me to say I was his mom if I called. He was still staying at the temple and doing some service there, but wasn’t “surrendered” completely and they expected him to spend some time outside every day. He walked me back to the El and when I reached the shelter I got a call from Suprabha. It turned out that her sister had seen us walking and had already told her. So I had a very tense conversation and tried to explain that all along I had thought we’d end up at her house and how surprised I was that he was interested in me. It had the virtue of being true, but that made it no less uncomfortable. She was more interested in him than she’d let on and I’d truly hurt her feelings. We agreed to meet the next day to talk about it.

The next day everything changed. I went to Suprabha’s, and we had a chance to talk and work through our feelings about my budding relationship with Mike. She was going to the Sunday feast, and although I’d been to the temple since I’d left I didn’t feel like going this time. I stayed behind and we were going to talk some more when she got back. I had a curfew but we had plenty of time.

When Suprabha got home I found out she had run into my mom at the temple! Apparently Mom got a letter from the temple inviting me to a festival and wondered why they’d be sending it if I was at the temple. She called them and was told that I’d left.

My mom, Bonnie McPherson in the late 60s with her trademark beehive and dyed-red hair.

Well, that sent her into hysterical overdrive! She imagined all sorts of horrible things happening to me in the big city, a city she’d lived briefly in years ago. So she called a newspaper and asked them if they could run an ad asking me to call her or if anyone had seen me. I had no idea—what 17-year-old reads anything in the paper but classifieds? Someone told Mom that Suprabha would know where I was, and so she had to tell Mom that I was at the shelter.

I began to panic. This was a catastrophe! Of course she would call the shelter and they had to tell her I was there. I hoped she would see that I had a job lined up and was doing fine. I knew, though, that in Illinois the law was no longer on my side. I’d already asked about that when I saw the counselor. Until I was 18 I was a minor and under my mother’s control if she chose to take me back.

With a knot in my stomach I made my way back to the Salvation Army shelter. I figured my mom would have called them by now. I was braced to hear that she would be coming to talk to me. But when I arrived it was worse than I thought: she was there, waiting for me. There was no one in the world I less wanted to see.

We had a tense meeting with the Salvation Army counselor. I tried to argue that I didn’t need or want to return to Iowa, where my mother was living once again. I had a job lined up and a wonderful family to live with. I could go to college if I wanted. I was close to a temple. It seemed obvious that I was ready and able to live on my own.

Mom, on the other hand, wanted another chance to make things work out between us. She wanted to know what it would take for me to be happy at home, she promised things would be better, and so on. I tried to explain, falsely, that it was not about our relationship. I was still trying to take care of her, to spare her feelings out of years of habit. She persisted and finally, out of desperation, I gave her a piece of the truth.

“I’m afraid of you!” I said.

“I wish you’d told me that! That’s what I needed to know to change.” Mom said, breaking into tears. “Now I have to insist that you come back with me so I can make things right.”

“But I just met someone, I’m in love, I can’t leave now!” I replied, desperately.

“Bring him along; I have an extra room he can stay in.” Mom said, willing to do anything at this point.

“I can ask but I don’t know what he’ll say.” I said, thinking this is crazy; we just kissed for the first time yesterday. There’s no way he’ll want to come to some little town in Iowa.

I could tell the counselor was sympathetic but her hands were tied, so I gathered my things and reluctantly accompanied my mom to her hotel. The next day I called the temple and asked for Mike. We met in an alley a few blocks away and I told him my mom was taking me to Iowa but said he could come along. I was braced for him to say no but to my surprise he was willing to come along. He just had to get his stuff first.

Soon we were all three on our way to Keokuk, Iowa. No matter how hard I tried to leave, I kept ending up back there with my mom, like some bad dream where you can never quite wake up. My only consolation was that I wouldn’t be living alone with mom and Mike and I would have a chance. I felt like we were meant to be together.

Come on home, girl mama cried on the phone
Too soon to lose my baby yet my girl should be at home!
But try to understand, try to understand
Try try try to understand
He’s a magic man, mama
He’s a magic man

–Heart

Bonnie and Terilyn (Tapati) in happier times

Tapati McDaniels is a freelance writer who started a forum designed to meet the needs of former Hare Krishna devotees at http://www.gaudiya-repercussions.com .

She is working on a memoir and her personal blog can be found at http://tapati.livejournal.com .

Discuss this post on the NLQ forums!