Tirtha in Prison Softly

The people around you do not understand what you are mumbling about. Softly murmuring a chant of some sort, prayers perhaps. A few look your way and laugh. You know what they think. The fellow is probably crazy.

You are in a large, smoke filled room. Incredibly, nine of every ten men there are smoking, adding to the already stifling situation. You find it increasingly difficult to breathe. The walls are yellowed, stained from years of tobacco smoke. In one filthy corner, a broken, overflowing toilet. One facility for over 200 men.

All along the room's perimeter a steel bench is tightly bolted into the floor and wall. Men stand all along and on top of the bench, but none sit down. No one wants to be caught sitting down if something bad jumps off.

People are sweating, yelling at one another, trying to be heard above the man made roar. Oxygen depravation begins to set in. Your eyes burn, your head throbs. A collective groan ensues as ten more men are pushed into the steaming caldron of flesh and bones.

You finger your beads, a cheap plastic rosary you found laying discarded on the floor. One man's garbage is another's sacred treasure.

You push inward, trying to focus, praying for each syllable to resonate clearly. If you were completely honest with yourself you'd be wondering how it is that any spark of desire could remain for you to chant at all. So many offenses. So much sahajia activity. But today you still remain mainly unaware. Illusional thoughts of how the life of a martyr is difficult beyond your dreams.

You continue chanting, praying, "Dear Lord Krsna, please help me." Your concentration is suddenly broken as somehow the tightly packed crowd parts while two men kick and swing their fists at each other. Your new neighbors are restless. You know this is not going to be an easy road to travel. You later recall asking someone that first day, wondering if it was always like that in the L.A. Criminal Courts Building. Mondays, you learn, are the worst. People from the entire weekend are crushed together then. It becomes twice as bad. You find that difficult to comprehend. Some months pass and somehow you have acclimated to your hellish environment. People can be resilient when the need arises.

The echoes of those who called you a hero have long since faded. A nagging, recurring voice interrupts to whisper that this all has something to do with karma. Even so, it isn't quite what you want to hear just now. Accepting that would mean rethinking your entire position. Each day you chant in your small jail cell, chanting ever so softly, not wishing to disturb your neighbors who might awaken and not understand. Softly the mantra issues forth, your cell nearly dark, your mind fighting to shut out thoughts of anything else.'

Sometimes you receive a letter of encouragement, telling you what a strong and determined devotee you are. There are times when you are not so sure. Sometimes your mind plays tricks on you, reminding you of past deeds that were not in keeping with your earlier vows as a devotee. Even worse, attitudes of arrogance and cynicism. A soft voice, a hint that your mind carried you away into the realm of the doomed. Thoughts preceding deeds.

"A materialist has to perform prayascitta and repent bitterly if he commits sin. But if he commits sin on the purifying strength of the holy name, then even prayascitta is futile. He faces certain ruination. Even after untold retribution in hell, he'll not be absolved from this namaparadha. Just the inclination to sin itself results in enough tribulation for the soul; if he further compounds his difficulties by deliberately committing sin on the strength of chanting, his fate is most lamentable." (Karinama Cintamani 68-69)

You read this verse and are struck by its abrupt message. Surely, you think, "this can't be me." Softly again the voice whispers. Slowly your worst fears are becoming realized.

Though you surely do not deserve it, some devotees remain concerned for you. But they know your insanity has not fully abated. You still maintain an illusion that you are advancing and even have some standing in Krsna consciousness. So when they speak to you they are always careful.

They take care to flatter and praise you, always telling you how wonderfully you are holding up. The years continue to pass. You know that your progress is checked, for you haven't felt any real change in your feelings in some years. Surely you should be advancing, moving on to higher realizations. But no. Everything remains a struggle. You battle your mind and senses daily. Why have I not captured some glimpse of new hope?

The years have worn on you. Your hair showing signs of grey. You slowly begin to understand how it is to be caught in limbo, stagnation because of previous unresolved offenses. You ponder the meaning of all this, your mind still holding out for some small bit of pride.

The voice speaks so softly. You must be very still if you will hear its message. Softly, you take a step deeper into its meaning. You begin to realize how many devotees you may have knowingly and unknowingly offended. You are frightened by the prospect of such terrible deeds. You reflect on what a dull mind you possess. So tortured in hell and still unable to see the true reason why. You think about hell and heaven, their relative positions for the conditioned soul. You ask yourself what it is that you truly want.

You know somehow you must resolve your offenses with all devotees. So many offenses you can't possibly remember them all. Still, you must try. Your heart opens up and you weep bitterly. You acknowledge the soft voice within. Yes, I am a fool. So many years, just a fool. You slowly begin to feel the weight of your burden lift, if only slightly. A small glimpse of hope for a soul otherwise doomed. Memories you can not dismiss, remaining with you each day, reminding you as you first touch your beads each morning. Softly, ever softly as you begin to chant anew.

Your worthless servant,
Tirtha dasa