A small rectangular acrylic picture fame, with a printed photo of Jayapataka Swami, my father’s guru, sits on my altar. A wad of yellow adhesive is stuck on the back where my father fixed it to the dashboard of his black Toyota Echo. The frame is yellowed around the edges, and the photo is suspended within. Pale skin with reddish undertones, saffron robes and a garland of lotus flowers around his neck, Jayapataka Swami sits squarely within the frame, eyes looking directly into the camera. He has round cheeks that lift toward his eyes as he smiles. To his right, I can make out the left arm and patterned sari of a child standing in the background, The edges of the paper are softened from time and obscure the identity of the girl. The left half of her body is cut out of the frame and the ink gradually lifts at the edge of the photograph as if she is merging in Bramha Jyoti, the light emanating from the Supreme Being. Her palo cascades over her right shoulder like the wing of an angel.

I remember when I last saw the swami. His energetic presence was so strong that it appeared to have shifted the atmosphere surrounding him. I perceived an effulgence emanating from him. This was before I was aware of the letters written by second generation youth describing their abuse in boardings schools that were under his jurisdiction, detailing his complacency. I believed in him, then. That he had the power in his protection to facilitate liberation and would accompany his disciples after death to reach Krsna. I wonder what my father thought when he glanced at the photo, driving down I-75. Perhaps Jayapataka Swami was the father he never had, who initiated him into a sense of belonging, giving him protection.

I’m not sure how I’ve managed to hold on to it for the past 15 years. The Toyota Echo has long been sold and is probably in a junk yard somewhere. My father is perhaps in another universe, dimension and body. Jayapataka Swami suffered from a massive stroke shortly after my father took his own life. My eyes ceased to perceive his luster and his gigantic presence. It is believed by some that Guru’s take on the karma from their disciple but perhaps there is only so much one person can do for another.

I am sitting at my writing desk, looking out into the night sky. I can hear the drone of traffic, seeping in through a crack in the window. The cry of a siren in the distance weaves through the low bass of truck engines driving down Metropolitan Avenue. I am surrounded by objects, made of matter. These physical manifestations are painted with time, and will dissolve in due course, like our bodies when we depart from this world. A quote from a lecture I heard this morning by Bhakti Tirtha Swami lingers as I hold the picture in my hand.

“Our bodies are an open door to liberation.”

My father is still present on this earth through my body, the imprint of his life held within my soul. I can hear the tone of his laughter in mine, the sharpness of his anger in my frustrations, and the heaviness of his pain in my grief. In my resilience, I feel his strength. My smile reflects his light.

Are life and death equal measures in eternity?

Vrndavana Lila Powell is a New York City-based musician, writer and visual artist. She is a songwriter and lead singer in the bands Sugar Milk, Deb, and Super Natural Psycho. She’s currently writing and recording her first solo ep. Her poetry has been published by Easy Village and appears in Come High Water by Reggie Mccafferty. Her drawings have been used in album art, teeshirt graphics and reside in private collections.