It is now customary that, while still in the dark just before dawn, I go for a notable stroll with comrades, across the street from the temple, The usual features are there in that modest residential neighbourhood—the potholes in the road, half-built homes, and canines who bark and gather like a bunch of gangsters. They, the gangsters, are not much to worry about. They can be loud. They can come forward to huff and puff, but they are not a match for our bhakti brigade. We are merely walking and chanting softly on our beads. Sure, they are territorial, but we will let them live in their instinct, because let it be known, it is also an illusion. Territory belongs to the Supreme.
I look up. Perhaps my comrades are also looking at the sky and at a greater power—the moon. Now careful, we go on. The potholes are pools. We had several showers last night. Clouds had let loose their contents.
One more feature of this hood is that many of the homeowners happily like us. It is evident when the rare motorist comes by, or a homeowner greets us with a "Haribol," "Sita Rama" or even, "Hare Krishna." Hearing such terminology is relaxing and reassuring.
Incidentally, in the afternoon, a kirtan mela was held—an uproarious one—at the temple. Guru Prasad Swami also spoke about the value of sacred sound in the dark pit of Kali-yuga. I backed his remarks by saying that chanting dissolves that which is dark, spooky and threatening. https://youtu.be/eATyEBIoLyU
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