A life in the day

Meditation, chanting and ancient scripture define the routine of Krishna devotees

Devotees of Krishna start their day so outrageously early, it's still the middle of the night before. When London’s clubbers are emptying out onto the streets, the members of the Krishna temple down in Soho are already up. Some roll out of bed at 2.30am and some at 3.00. Minutes later they’ve had a warm shower finished with an icy splash to wake them up.

The women wear traditional sarees – nine yards of riotous colour, and the men tie their saffron or white cotton cloth into dhotis and finish the look off with a long shirt, or kurta. In keeping with many religions, the Krishna wardrobe is frozen in history. Round about the Middle Ages to be precise.

They then make up a thin paste of yellow clay in their left hand and apply a "U" shape on the forehead with their right hand, terminated with a leaf-shape on the nose. This, together with the three strands of neck beads made of sacred tulasi wood is the marking of a Vaishnava, one who is dedicating their life to Vishnu or Krishna.

The devotees then gather before the shrine bearing the beautiful white marble forms of Krishna and Radha on the first floor of the London temple. So energetic and musically contagious is the kirtan, or rhythmic chanting and dancing with drums and cymbals, that returning revellers have been known to knock on the door downstairs trying to get in, convinced there’s a party going on.

At 5.00 begins a 90-minute period of cross-legged and determined meditation. Vaishnavas meditate not on the sound of one hand clapping (they prefer two hands) or on silence, or the breath, but on the sound of the maha-mantra.

The Sanskrit words indicating the Infinite are said to be infused with spiritual power and when recited awaken the inner self to higher realisation and pleasure. Maha means ‘great’ and mantra is a compound of the word mana (mind) and trayate (to free). So the Hare Krishna, Hare Rama chant is that sound which provides great freedom for the mind. Both Krishna and Hare are names for God as is Rama which means "the Source of all Pleasure". At only 32 syllables it is quite short by mantra standards, but powerful with it.

The proof of the pudding, however, is in the chanting. Try it at home – around 5.00 on a Sunday morning of course – and see the results for yourself:

Hare Krishna Hare Krishna
Krishna Krishna Hare Hare
Hare Rama Hare Rama
Rama Rama Hare Hare

After another exuberant kirtan, by this time in a packed temple room, there comes scripture study (svadhyaya). The books the Krishna devotees read and discuss at this time are 3,000 years older than the Dead Sea Scrolls. Written in Sanskrit, the ancient mother-tongue, they describe a broad and universalistic philosophy, science, history, culture and art, and have been studied like this every morning in India for thousands of years by millions of people.

In the morning the Srimad Bhagavatam – one of the Puranas, or histories, is discussed, and in the evening, the Bhagavad-gita. At 18,000 and 700 verses respectively, there’s enough philosophy there to keep anyone happy.

At 8.30 it's time for something the Krishna people do rather well: vegetarian food. At least customers at the Govinda’s Pure Vegetarian Restaurant downstairs think so. The place is always busy and has been for the past 25 years. Even without an alcohol licence they serve hundreds of meals to happy customers every day. Breakfast at the Krishna temple is quite an event, and well worth getting up early for. The food – no meat or meat products, fish, or eggs – is always "offered to Krishna" or blessed before being given to customers or guests. That ritual turns it into Prasad or "grace". Devotees say that it enhances the taste and contributes to the spiritual experience.

And by then the working day has begun. So how does a Krishna devotee fill eight hours in the day? Well, there’s as many ways as there are people. For a small self-supporting monastic community there’s always so much to do that’s purely practical. Anyone who’s watched The Monastery on television will know that monks (or nuns) can’t walk around praying and contemplating all day. Who is going to peel the potatoes or clean the floor? So it is at the Krishna temple. Except with one important difference. The Krishna temple is completely open to the public at all times and so all visitors must be offered the best hospitality. There’s tuition, counselling, guidance and opportunities to join in worship, prayer and ritual. All these activities are shared out amongst the devotees there.

Every day for the past eight years, around 300 homeless people have been served a hot, nutritious meal in one of four or five locations throughout London. The Krishna devotees work together with the Salvation Army and other groups and agencies to provide this service, and many former homeless people have sworn their undying support to the Krishnas for helping them when they were down.

And then, of course, there is the street chanting party. Every day, as regular as Big Ben, those "orange bed sheets" with their shaven heads (except for a single lock at the back for the men) can be seen and heard jingling, singing and pounding their musical way down Oxford Street. Books are distributed and invitation flyers passed out and as a result of this outreach an endless stream of visitors come to the temple. One West End advertising agency said: “We can’t think of a more mind-grabbing ad campaign than men with no hair wearing orange sheets singing in the streets – no wonder people come and join you.”

Throughout the Vaishnava year, there are many colourful festivals involving celebrations and ceremonies, flowers, incense, theatre, and grand processions. The largest is "The Festival of the Chariots" in the summer, when three red, yellow and black 50-foot high chariots with huge mirrored wheels are pulled from Hyde Park to Trafalgar Square. 10,000 people attend this one and everyone gets at least one full plate of hot Krishna food.

The aim of this entire endeavour is to fulfil a prophecy made 500 years ago in India; that the chanting of the holy names of Krishna would one day be heard around the world. With devotees of Krishna in every major city of the world passing on their peaceful message, it’s easy to see this becoming a reality.

Raised a Methodist in a small seaside village down in deepest Cornwall, Kripamoya Das met the founder of the Hare Krishna movement and became his student in 1975. He is a qualified Hindu priest.
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For the first time in my life I have a sworn enemy – and I don’t even know her name

The cyclist, though, was enraged. “THAT’S CLEVER, ISN’T IT?” she yelled. “WALKING IN THE ROAD!”

Last month, I made an enemy. I do not say this lightly, and I certainly don’t say it with pride, as a more aggressive male might. Throughout my life I have avoided confrontation with a scrupulousness that an unkind observer would call out-and-out cowardice. A waiter could bring the wrong order, cold and crawling with maggots, and in response to “How is everything?” I’d still manage a grin and a “lovely, thanks”.

On the Underground, I’m so wary of being a bad citizen that I often give up my seat to people who aren’t pregnant, aren’t significantly older than me, and in some cases are far better equipped to stand than I am. If there’s one thing I am not, it’s any sort of provocateur. And yet now this: a feud.

And I don’t even know my enemy’s name.

She was on a bike when I accidentally entered her life. I was pushing a buggy and I wandered – rashly, in her view – into her path. There’s little doubt that I was to blame: walking on the road while in charge of a minor is not something encouraged by the Highway Code. In my defence, it was a quiet, suburban street; the cyclist was the only vehicle of any kind; and I was half a street’s length away from physically colliding with her. It was the misjudgment of a sleep-deprived parent rather than an act of malice.

The cyclist, though, was enraged. “THAT’S CLEVER, ISN’T IT?” she yelled. “WALKING IN THE ROAD!”

I was stung by what someone on The Apprentice might refer to as her negative feedback, and walked on with a redoubled sense of the parental inadequacy that is my default state even at the best of times.

A sad little incident, but a one-off, you would think. Only a week later, though, I was walking in a different part of town, this time without the toddler and engrossed in my phone. Again, I accept my culpability in crossing the road without paying due attention; again, I have to point out that it was only a “close shave” in the sense that meteorites are sometimes reported to have “narrowly missed crashing into the Earth” by 50,000 miles. It might have merited, at worst, a reproving ting of the bell. Instead came a familiar voice. “IT’S YOU AGAIN!” she yelled, wrathfully.

This time the shock brought a retort out of me, probably the harshest thing I have ever shouted at a stranger: “WHY ARE YOU SO UNPLEASANT?”

None of this is X-rated stuff, but it adds up to what I can only call a vendetta – something I never expected to pick up on the way to Waitrose. So I am writing this, as much as anything, in the spirit of rapprochement. I really believe that our third meeting, whenever it comes, can be a much happier affair. People can change. Who knows: maybe I’ll even be walking on the pavement

Mark Watson is a stand-up comedian and novelist. His most recent book, Crap at the Environment, follows his own efforts to halve his carbon footprint over one year.

This article first appeared in the 20 October 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Brothers in blood