The Journey Home: Autobiography of an American Swami

by Radhanath Swami

whispered,

swung

shoved

mumbled.

ominously

slaughter

Nazis.

stocky

and a half smile that gave me chills. I felt utterly

dough

Gerald

forbade.

graduated.

downtrodden.

voyages,

transcendental

inseparable

stench

oppressors

whispered

indignation

despised.

jeopardy.”

experience.

squealing.

wrestled

babbling

jolted

stewardess

swapped

condemnation,

hostesses,

obliv...

Frank emerged from the tent, pale and tormented.

pondered

concoction dripped down my arms, I stood there perplexed. “What do I do now?” I asked. “Eat it!” He laughed, taking his leave. Little did I know that destiny would have us meet again, thousands of miles away in a setting beyond my wildest imagination. Gary and I were making friends from the world over. But pleasant as it was, I was distracted. Something I could not comprehend was calling me. I found myself retreating to museums to contemplate religious art or to Vondel Park to meditate and study spiritual books. But my favorite place was sitting over a canal. While the city might rage with a passion for power, wealth, and a multitude of pleasures, and while fashions and fads changed like the seasons, the cool water of the canals seemed at total peace as it flowed through it all. I would sit for hours watching the water, wondering where the current of my life was leading me. We continued our expedition. Using a little bit of the money we had saved for boat fares, we hitchhiked to the Hook of Holland and took a huge ferry across the English Channel to the United Kingdom. Gray clouds discharged a misty

inclination

vague

preserver

funneled

canvas shoes. A raggedy old U.S. Army surplus backpack and sleeping bag were strapped to his shoulders. As for me, despite my long hair, my childish face could not for the life of it grow a mustache or beard. I wore gray pinstriped jeans, a gray turtleneck, and a black vest. For those who knew me, this simple black vest had become my trademark; I wore it every day for well over a year. A faded brown duffle bag and sleeping bag were slung over my shoulder, and moccasins covered my feet. Standing in line, we were the targets of unsavory stares and comments by government officials. When we reached the desk, we meekly held out our U.S. passports only to be pulled into a room. Minutes later, two customs officials and a bobby entered, staring us down. The leader wore a gray suit and brown tie. He commanded, “Search them for drugs.” Dumping the contents of my bag on the table, the officer found nothing but one green T-shirt, a pair of underpants, a toothbrush, hairbrush, a bar of soap, the Bible, and the little pamphlet from Randall’s Island. The man grimaced. “That’s all you have?” Timidly I responded, “That’s it, sir, besides this.” I held out my harmonica. Gary,

wrath.

reddened.

sp...

scalp.”

seared

stricken,

writhed

disillusioned

flamboyant