The name Vrindavan literally means ‘the forest of the Tulsi Devi tree’, but to millions of Indians, the word evokes tales of the idyllic childhood of Lord Krishna, that favourite of Hindu deities. Think Vrindavan, and you immediately imagine the forest where the young Krishna got into such mischief, the innocence of his childhood love, Radha, the idylls with the gopis — indeed, all the lost innocence of youth.
Then you look at the current town’s dusty streets, the new hotels and guest houses and yes, you could be forgiven for wondering if the place referred to in the Bhagvat Purana was a completely different place.
It’s not that there are no trees in the area today; they dot the landscape, interrupting lush fields of green crops. But there is nothing that would constitute a forest. The squat Tulsi Devi’s, with their twiggy branches, have been cordoned off behind a wall containing the Nidhival, a well Krishna is believed to have dug, using nothing but his flute. This small patch, somewhere in the chaos of the town’s narrow alleyways, is all that remains of the town’s former serenity.
Ask any of Vrindavan’s aged residents what has changed and the first thing they will mention is the disappearance of the forest. “Nature has been demolished. It’s totally gone, replaced by buildings,” laments Bansi Chaturvedi, who has spent his whole life in the former town and current city and has seen it grow. Every month, a hotel sprouts in some corner of the town. There are more than 600 of them already. Worse, every home wants to become a guest house, open internet cafes and run makeshift temples in an effort to grab a slice of the tourist dollars that pour in from all over the world.
Motilal Sharma, 82 years old, runs a local shop, barely more than a hole in the wall. “I’ve watched the forests shrink and the buildings grow,” he says. “When I was younger if a motorcycle came through these streets everyone would gather to look and now…” As if on cue, a Royal Enfield chugs past, its blaring horn drowning out his softly-spoken words.
The increase of industrial agricultural practices is one contributing factor to the changes in landscape. Udhav Singh has spent his days tilling the land around Vrindavan. “Urea and tractors are used now. I used to have five acres; now people have 500, an impossible amount of land to manage when manual methods were used,” he says.
Dr BB Chaturvedi, research and publications assistant at The Vrindavan Research Institute, which holds over 30,000 Braj manuscripts collected from surrounding Ashrams says: “Many outsiders have come and bought up the town’s land, making a business out of development.”
Of course, apart from being the place where Krishna grew up, Vrindavan has achieved notoriety since medieval India, when it became a place where widows were sent to live out their remaining years. “The City of Widows” lives up to its moniker: an approximate 16,000 dwell within its limits.
Theirs is a sorry existence: left destitute, cast out by their husbands’ families after their deaths, these poor women chant, almost as if possessed, for 12 hours a day in one of the town’s many ashrams. Drawn there in the hope of attaining moksha — and charity, in the form of a cup of rice, a scoop of dal, perhaps some ‘prasad’ and a little money — these white clad wraiths are an ubiquitous part of Vrindavan’s fabric. Many are simply forced to beg on the streets.
With development, there have been some positive changes — a growth in specialised shelters. Chairman of the Guild of Service NGO V. Mohini Giri has dedicated her life to the cause of abandoned widows.
In 1998, determined to improve their situation, she founded the Aamar Bari shelter; since then, the situation has changed dramatically. “I am so happy that this is my home!” proclaims Menka Mukherjee, 83, who has spent the last four years under The Guild’s care. The shelter has grown so much that it will be moving its 120 widows to a much bigger, new space, The Ma Dham (pilgrimage centre for mothers) Houses, with room for 500.
Good news, no doubt, but there is still a long way to go. Standing in one of Vrindavan’s Bhajan Ashrams, hundreds of widows fill hall after hall, tirelessly chanting. Some beat a drum, some ring bells, some even muster the strength to dance; but most just sit, staring into oblivion. The sun disappears — and with it, the solemness of the mantra. A mad scurry erupts as the line for the day’s meagre ration of food forms, stretching around all four corners of the temple in a matter of minutes. “Women in India are second-class citizens,” says Giri. “Only when they have the right to property and political reservation will they become equal to men.”
Infrastructure development is changing the landscape across India, and Vrindavan is no exception. What makes its growth different, however, is that it is driven by religious tourism, not business enterprise. “Sixty years ago, no one knew of Vrindavan, now foreigners come here in droves,” says Singh. “The city culture has come to Vrindavan; there are too many lights and some people even eat meat now,” laments Chaturvedi.
The focal point of Vrindavan is the palatial ISKCON (International Society for Krishna Consciousness) Ashram complex. Located at the centre of its main street, it has been the catalyst for the former town’s rapid growth. ISKCON is the legacy of AC Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada, the man responsible for spreading the Hare Krishna mantra to the West. Temple president Devamrita Dashas has no illusions about ISKCON’s impact on the town.
“When the temple was first established, there was hardly a thing in Vrindavan. It was not the bustling centre it is now. None of the present day shops, guest houses, hotels were here; there weren’t even toilets or drinking water.” Krishna worship is indeed the heart of this city: seven times a day Krishna must be offered food, and each time it comes adorned with Tulsi leaves.
The final irony: the trees are being rapidly destroyed to accommodate the growing number of worshipers.
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