One last evening in Kandahar, while in a dim crowded tea stall, Radhanath Swami squatted on the floor with the locals. Suddenly everyone’s attention focused on a blind boy who stumbled in carrying a rustic wooden instrument with a single string nailed across it. He was perhaps sixteen years old, and like the others, wore soiled rags that loosely covered his emaciated body.
Radhanath Swami’s heart quaked—nothing covered his blinded, disfigured eyes. Despite his extreme poverty, he smiled radiantly as he poured his heart into singing songs in praise of Almighty Allah as he thumped that one-stringed instrument. His sweet voice and sincere emotion hypnotized all six of us crowded in the tiny shack. An hour passed as the spontaneous joy of that blind boy lit up the room with a supernatural joy. He plucked upon his one string and cried in praise of God.
Radhanath Swami was moved. He was homeless, blind, illiterate, and poverty stricken. Yet, even in his humbled state, he sang of the vast treasure of joy he had found within his heart: his love of God.
Kandahar had been extraordinary. From a mongoose, Radhanath Swami had learned patience; from a den of hashish addicts, temperance; and from a blind boy, spiritual joy. Grateful for all Radhanath Swami had learned in the city, and he bade it farewell
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