By Bhaktimarga Swami
I picked up a pair of new shoes, Ky boots, compliments of Jagannatha Misra. To acquire them, I took to the GO commuter train. When going to the ticket wicket, I asked for a Senior’s Day Pass, my first time at taking advantage of reaching 65. There was some disbelief that I was that age. The ticket seller doubted. I reached for my passport, but before I was able to pull it out, she said, “No! No! It’s okay!”
Thanks for the compliment, I thought.
There was also uncertainty in the looks of the passengers on the train, whether I was in Hallowe’en costume or not. Half of them were in some kind of unique apparel. When exiting the train, I asked a young man for directions. I don’t normally use the train, and Union Station, to me, is a big and crazy network of people going every which way.
I received good pointers on where to go, and after that, the fellow asked, “By the way, are you an actual…?”
“Yes, I’m the real thing—a Hare Krishna monk.”
“Cause I was just in Tibet.”
“Our order is rooted in India where it all started–the notion of devotion.”
Grateful, he was happy to have met a monastic person. I was happy to meet him, a new person, a new contact, perhaps, a new spiritual seeker, perhaps, otherwise why would he go to Tibet and widen his eyes at the mere appearance of a monk. Well, let’s say I’m trying to be. I feel as long as I’m regulating my life in abstinence with no meat diet, no gambling, and no substance abuse, while trying to do a meagre service, I’m in, somehow.
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