“May He be glorious and happy—He who is the resort of all, who is the son of Devakī, who is the guide of the Yadu dynasty, whose mighty arms chastise the adharmic people, who clears away the ill fortune of all, and whose enchanting, smiling face increases the lust of the gopīs.”

An hour later the community has assembled in the temple, which is illuminated only by ghee lights, with men on one side, women on the other. Everyone is in traditional dress. I am in Kurmagrama, a traditional village in Andhra Pradesh.²

The ceremony is thousands of years old, rooted in the ancient Vedas. It is patterned after the greeting of a king or an honored guest because we are in the court of the king and queen of the community—Rādhā and Kṛṣṇa.  

The priest makes the traditional offerings to the sacred pictures and images on the altar. He offers incense, lights, water to wash the feet, a cloth to dry, flowers, a fan to cool, and yak tail to drive away the insects.

We dance and sing the greeting song.

After the arati ceremony, we give a similar greeting to Tulasi, the sacred plant. Tulasi is worshiped all over India by millions. Plants like Tulasi and kuśa grass as well as trees like the banyan and ashvatta are revered in the culture. Certain animals, like cows, monkeys, rats, and others, are considered especially connected with the demigods and the Supreme God of gods.

Unfortunately, Western traditions have long rejected the soul in nature, but here it is preserved. The Gītā says that a wise person sees a cow, dog, dog eater, a gentle brāhmaṇa, and an elephant as equal souls.³ Of course, those are given as examples. All souls are equal.⁴

After the singing, we sit and chant softly on beads in the temple, where the darkness is tamed by the burning lights placed throughout. The collective sound, the incense, the flames, the altar, and the companionship create an atmosphere that is meditative, sublime, and subtly joyful.

In time, there is a lecture, in Telugu, the local language, Hindi, the national language, or English, the global language. Normally, the speaker discusses the Śrīmad-Bhāgavatam, the most important of the principal eighteen Purāṇas. This incredible work, filled with stories interwoven with philosophy, has 18,000 verses along with commentaries by exalted devotees, some recent and some from hundreds of years ago. There is plenty to talk about.

The stories are the basis of art, architecture, dance, drama, music, and discourse, forming much of the rich culture that is followed by hundreds of millions over thousands of years.

And then the moment we have all been awaiting. Prasādam. We are going to have breakfast. We are not so otherworldly that we have renounced all thought of eating. After spending more than four hours in the morning program, everyone is eager for the meal. (Or perhaps there are one or two among us who are eager to overcome the demands of tongue and belly to spend more time chanting.)

But the ancients anticipated our sense desires. The teachings of the Gītā, and indeed, any higher form of yoga, say that we should transfer our focus on the sense objects to the soul and the Supreme Soul. That is why we have prasādam. It is food offered to Kṛṣṇa, for His pleasure before ours. And then we may partake. As the roots are watered to nourish the tree, so do we offer our food to Kṛṣṇa, the root of existence, so that we may be nourished.

That is a wonderful way to connect with the Supreme. And it is characteristic of the entire process, which seeks to engage the senses to reunite with the Supreme. Some who seek transcendence try to quiet the demands of the senses, as in meditation.

However, the bhakti-yoga system is designed to work with the senses, mind, and body in a practical way. That system uses the temporal vehicle to focus attention on the soul.

Why then, one might ask, can we not use all vehicles to connect with the soul, vehicles like airplanes, automobiles, telescopes, etc?⁵ The answer is that the sages recommend not extending the reach of the senses too far. The senses are already enamored by and magnetically attracted to their objects—tongue to good food, eyes to beautiful scenes, nose to fragrances, and so on. We are already bound. There is no need to seek extensions to further bind us to this world.

That is one of the themes of Kurmagrama—freedom from bondage of the world to achieve self or soul realization.

In that sweet village, the residents work in a natural setting to minimize the demands of the senses. Of course, the basic demands must be met. That is why we have prasādam.

But let us satisfy our necessities in a way that does not distract us away from the soul.

The Kurmagram residents do not visit the temple to ask God for cars, houses, and airplanes. They don’t even pray for their daily bread. After growing wheat, they make bread and offer it to Kṛṣṇa and eat what remains. That is the tradition.

After breakfast, we go about our daily duties.

The brahmacārīs take me on a tour of the community. I see their quarters, where they sleep on thin mats on the ground. The floor looks like packed dirt, but it is also mixed with cow dung, which has a purifying effect.

Outside, there is an area for washing clothes with a well to bring up the groundwater.

Some are weaving cloth for the community, and some are in the fields plowing with oxen, planting, pruning, and doing all the magic needed to produce prasādam.

In modern society, we fight with nature. We kill. Every one of us. We are guilty of being part of the wrong kind of civilization.

If we are to awaken, we must seek a place like Kurmagrama to find our way.

Here, instead of the insidious stream of new technologies, the residents are satisfied with traditional methods of living. Even if we cannot live the way they do, we still have much to learn from them about satisfaction and enjoyment.

For example, they are not so restless and dissatisfied that they require a stream of new movies, regular sports, and overbearing music. They are more than satisfied with dramas from the ancient histories, like the Mahābhārata, with singing and dancing throughout. And I have witnessed them crying during a particularly poignant scene, even though they have seen it a hundred times before. 

What, therefore, is the need for those costly, destructive modern forms of entertainment?

After visiting the quarters of the single, celibate young men, we go to the family section. It is an area with several apartments or villas. I meet a man, his wife, and daughter, who used to live in Houston. He tells me that he was tired of working long hours to maintain the American way of life and keep the wheels turning in the IT company so that managers and shareholders could accumulate wealth.

What is it used for? The Vedas say that harvest, produce, and money should be used for self-realization.⁶ But in America, almost everyone is enslaved to lives that cause undue suffering. Their illusory enjoyment causes misfortune to others and to posterity. Moreover, karma says they will also suffer.⁷

After visiting the simple, yet charming, villas, we look at the vegetable fields: squash, millet, bananas, and mangoes. We go for a drive around the property. It is fortunate for me that they have a couple of cars, although, as a young man, I once took an oxcart 30 miles from one village to another. That ride was a delightful, real-world experience, eye-opening. It struck me then that more than half of the earth’s population live simple, satisfying rural lives.

Of course, the world has changed since the 1970s, but not so much that it is not possible to consider the two realities—urban and rural.

We drive past their cashew trees that they inherited from the previous owners. When guests visit, as many do, they are asked to collect the valuable cashew crop. It’s a perfect occupation. Immersion in the culture is the best way to learn about it.

If you wish to visit, you can send a text to +91 77320 75607 or look up Kurmagrama on the internet. I highly recommend the experience.