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.

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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.

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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!

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