I sit upon the stone ledge in the temple of Radha-ramana. The sun slants through the courtyard and holds my face. Incense fills the cool air, sweet and smoky. An old sadhu sings to his lord, Radha-ramana. His voice spirals through the air like . . .
. . . like birds that loop through the sunset over the Yamuna River.
Amazing. I had just closed my eyes to find the words to describe the sadhu’s singing. Suddenly, I felt something fall over my head. I jerked open my eyes.
A pujari had placed a garland from Radha-ramana around my neck. The fragrance of roses encircled me in an embrace.
I breathe in deep. Every moment in Vrindavana is edged with the ethereal.