More from Aisvarya
Power also brings pride to the fighting arts. I'll never forget the appearance of one fellow who was getting into his bright yellow sports car neat Taipei. He looked like he had just steppedoff of the movie set; "the Seven Samurai". He was small, buff, wore shiny clothing, had sideburns, his normally hairy forehead and cap, neatly shaved, and on top of all this he had the most intense stare. All that was missing was a larger-than-life battleaxe. Actually, even though he had a certain demonic demeanor, something was telling me he had a big heart.
All over Taiwan are places where pan is sold. It's a low-class thing, as you never see gentlemen, monks or even businessmen take the stuff. Mainly you will find truck drivers, laborers, and the odd fighting man chewing on a hit or two. It's difficult to make these guys laugh, not that they won't – they readily will – but when they open their mouths for darshan you can't help but focus on ground-zero in there; devastated, black, and with bits still glowing red between those crumbling teeth. It's highly disturbing.
So after initially trying to ignore my attempts to befriend him, my Samurai friend finally succumbed and launched into a big A-bomb smile. I took two steps back for fear of radioactivity. But it was all worth it as he had a huge nuclear generator of a heart behind the debris, he got the book!
From the powerful to the meek – that's the inherent opulence of KC over everything else; there's no limit. Death is close at hand as there's always danger at every step, but with some piety and a little humility we may receive some sobriety in old age. Lord Nrsimhadeva is mrtyu mrtyum, the death of death. If He enters the scene by His own sweet will and we try to catch hold of His lotus feet then, bhavambudhir vatsa-padam, this material ocean becomes like the water contained in the hoof print of a calf and death is of no more significance.
This is what I think about whenever I remember a certain older couple in their shop near Taichung. That "sobriety" in this case took the form of one of Srila Rupa Goswami's works, Sri Upadesamrta, which was handled with great reverence by those very fortunate souls. They were so sweet and so respectful to this fake monk – that had clamored oh so unceremoniously into their store – that my stone like heart had simply melted and all I could do was just watch, relish, and nod in affirmation as they carefully turned the leaves of that sublime literature and gushed over it while occasionally gesturing to me.
I'm serious here. I don't even want to mention the part about the soft stream of light entering through the open door and illuminating them, as that would only add to how far-fetched this already sounds. I'm not a sentimental person but I was taken aback by their qualities. I had been offered a humble seat of veneration and was looked upon as some holy emissary bringing forth some great treasure – which they relished and eventually kept with gratitude. I'm sure that Srila Rupa Goswami and Srila Prabhupada will eventually extinguish the forest fire of their material existence.
