“My father and the coach at UCLA were pleased with my volleyball successes, and my mother was satisfied with my academic work. But I wondered if Krishna was pleased.”
I was born in Los Angeles in 1949. My parents were avid volleyball players. My father had been one of America’s best, and my mother had been a third-team All-American. I started playing volleyball when I was four. I passed through school easily. Sports dominated my free hours, and generally my childhood was a happy one. With adolescence came dating and more sports, and I left high school with a scholarship to UCLA.
In college my motto was “Success,” and my main ambition was simply to enjoy life. My grandfather had confided once to me that “Money is God.” I wasn’t sure about that, but neither was I sure about God. I evolved to agnosticism.
One warm Friday evening, June 9 1970, as I strolled through the campus village, I heard someone call my name. I looked around and didn’t see anyone I knew. Continuing on my way, I heard someone call again. I focused on the only possible source of the sound a saffron-robed, shaven-headed, bespectacled man about my age standing alone between a restaurant and a cinema.
Somewhat startled, I answered, “Yes?” to which he replied, “Don’t you recognise me?”
Straining to get a closer look, I realised who it was.
“Beard! Beard, is that you?” I cried.
“It’s me,” he said reassuringly.
Bob Searight was his real name; Beard was the nickname he’d caught during his volleyball career at UCLA for sporting an extraordinary long black beard. I had just completed my third year, and he had graduated the year before in engineering. His way of life had been awfully similar to mine; in fact, I had last seen him six months before at the beach with two girlfriends.
“What in the world happened to you?” I asked.
“I joined the Hare Krishna movement three months ago,” he said.
“My God, I don’t believe it!” I responded candidly.
Up to that time, my encounters with Hare Krishna were the musical play Hair and the occasional sight of a group of them dancing and chanting on Hollywood Boulevard. My date and I had chuckled as we passed the small clan of cymbal- and drum-playing devotees, who we guessed were burning incense to enhance their drug experiences. I just couldn’t have cared less about them.
Bob serenely explained how he had experienced a higher consciousness that led him naturally to renounce material pursuits, epitomised by meat-eating, intoxication, illicit sex, and gambling.
I couldn’t believe Beard was saying these things. I challenged his newly discovered denials. Especially dubious was the sex stricture.
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