To Where Cabbages Were
The invitation was on for lunch at the home of two pujaris, priests, by the names of Rupa and Sanatana. They have this old Victorian home renovated into a gorgeous house in what’s called Cabbagetown. I decided to walk there to greet fellow ashram monks. They drove.
In the course of my walk, a mere 3.9 kilometres, one man on a park bench spoke. “This is a religion?”
“An old tradition is what I follow, with roots from India. I’m a monk, a Hare Krishna monk. Here’s my card and a mantra for protection.”
I moved on, and on Parliament Street four men were on a bench. One of them stopped me with his question. “Where can I get a set of clothes like that?”
“I’ll have to take you to India to get a batch.”
That drew a great amount of laughter from all four. Two of them offered pranams—palms together—knowing the gesture.
“They are comfortable. You’ll like them. Are you sure I can’t take you there?”
“I’m not going to be able to.”
“You never know.”
I arrived at the house at the same time as the monks who drove. Walking is always superior. You meet people. You chant in peace. You admire plants and buildings. There’s much excitement in the air.
The meal was to die for. Thanks Rupa and Sanatana!
May the Source be with you!