Krishna Caused My Forgetfulness

Krishna Caused My Forgetfulness That was the reply I got from the young devotee who was supposed to have set up a projector for me for my class. I had sent a written WhatsApp message to the devotee organizing my program in that city, telling him that I needed a projector for my presentation. Because he had to leave town at the last moment for an urgent work engagement, he had asked this younger devotee to take over that service. I had forwarded the message to the younger devotee and had also reminded him about it a day before the program. Yet he had forgotten to set up the projector and had instead quoted Bhagavad Gita 15.15. I felt annoyed because not only had he been careless, but now he was justifying his carelessness by quoting a scriptural verse inappropriately. But noting that he was a younger devotee who might genuinely be misunderstanding the verse, I calmed myself and focused on giving the class. Later, as I contemplated the incident and the verse he had quoted about forgetfulness, my mind went back to another incident where forgetfulness had affected me much more dramatically. “Who Are You?” Several years earlier, I was traveling from Australia to America. A senior devotee who had previously been based in Hawaii suggested that I visit the island community. He mentioned that the temple there was going through difficult times and might not be able to finance my travel, but suggested that a visit would encourage the devotees. Wanting to be helpful without imposing any financial burden on them, I arranged my flight schedule so that I could stop there in transit. The senior devotee gave me the contact details of a leader in Hawaii. I contacted him, and he warmly welcomed the idea of my visiting. I told him my proposed dates, and he approved them. I then sent him my arrival details on WhatsApp. During my final days in Melbourne, I had many classes and meetings, and I forgot to reconnect with him before boarding my flight. After landing in Honolulu, I stood inside the terminal, looking out through the expansive glass windows at the famous lush greenery of the island framed by an immaculate tropical sky. Feeling upbeat and eager to begin the visit, I dialed his number. “I’ve arrived,” I said. “Who is coming to pick me up?” There was a pause. “Who are you?” I was taken aback. I reminded him of our previous conversation and the dates we had settled. “When are you coming?” he asked. “I am already here. At the airport.” “No,” his voice sounded completely flat and detached. “We never had any discussion about this. It will be difficult for me to organize any programs at the last moment. Anyway, you can take a cab and come to the temple, and I will see what accommodation I can arrange here.” He gave me the temple address and hung up. I didn’t know what to make of what had just happened. I was stranded at an airport 2,400 miles from the continental mainland. I booked a cab and, while waiting for it to arrive, sent him screenshots of the arrival details I had shared with him on WhatsApp. Finally, I reached out to the senior devotee who had originally encouraged the visit. “Yes, he is a dedicated devotee,” he told me gently. “But he is suffering from the onset of dementia and is in deep denial about it. I am so sorry this happened. I will arrange something right away.” My ordinary annoyance vanished. In its place came shock and sadness. Later, when I finally met the temple leader, he was profoundly apologetic. Seeing his sincere remorse, I felt bad that my arrival there had made him feel so bad. What had initially seemed to me like irresponsible forgetfulness now appeared completely different when I understood the reality of his condition. Having had polio since I was one year old, I have lived my entire life with a leg that does not function as intended. A damaged leg erodes one particular ability, but a damaged memory can erode my very sense of identity. Without my memories, who am I really? And beyond that, if I lost not just particular memories but the very capacity to remember, who would I be? The question he had asked me when I landed in Hawaii—“Who are you?”—came back to me now with a far more existential weight. Initially, the question had dismayed me because he had forgotten who I was. Now it unsettled me for a deeper reason: if my memories disappeared, how would I answer the question, “Who am I?” I felt the grave weight of that question as I contemplated the sheer fragility of my embodied existence. Another devotee hosted me at his home near the beach. That evening, I was scheduled to speak on Bhagavad Gita 15.15—the very verse on remembrance and forgetfulness. Before the class, I went for a walk along the shore. Where Does Memory Come From? For someone who had grown up in the landlocked portions of India, the sheer expansiveness of the Hawaiian Pacific was breathtaking. I have always found the sight of open water deeply calming. As I walked, I saw the sun overhead, the vast ocean stretching before me, the vegetation around me and birds flying through the sky. The incoming ocean breeze and the rhythmic cadence of the waves gradually calmed my mind. Those sights took my thoughts to the verses immediately preceding 15.15. Looking at the sun overhead, I remembered Krishna’s words in 15.12 that the splendor of the sun illuminating the whole world comes from Him. Seeing the vegetation around me reminded me of 15.13, where Krishna says that He enters the earth and nourishes all living beings. My thoughts then went to 15.14, where He says that He becomes the digestive fire within the bodies of living beings and digests the food they eat. And then came the verse I was going to speak on that evening: sarvasya cāhaṁ hṛdi sanniviṣṭo mattaḥ smṛtir jñānam apohanaṁ ca “I am seated in everyone’s heart, and from Me come remembrance, knowledge, and forgetfulness.” As I walked, something about that sequence began to register more personally. Krishna was describing His sustaining presence coming progressively closer to me. He sustains the cosmos through the light of the sun. He sustains life on earth by nourishing vegetation. He sustains my body through digestion. And then He comes still closer: He sustains my inner cognitive life through remembrance, knowledge and forgetfulness. The memory whose fragility had so unsettled me earlier that day was not something I had created. It was a faculty I had received. Of course, Bhagavad Gita 15.15 is subtle and can be understood at several levels. One traditional line of explanation connects Krishna’s giving of remembrance, knowledge and forgetfulness with the living being’s desires and previous actions. As I contemplated the verse in the light of what had happened that day, however, I found myself thinking especially about how Krishna sustains the faculties through which my embodied existence functions. An analogy came to mind. Krishna says that He provides the digestive fire, but that does not mean He chews my food for me. I still have to put the food in my mouth and chew it. Similarly, Krishna gives me the faculty of memory, but I still have to make the effort to remember—to pay attention, make notes, set reminders, repeat important information or do whatever else may be needed. I found it helpful to think of three dimensions: jīva, the individual living being with my choices and agency; jagat, the world with its mechanisms, laws and systems; and Jagadīśa, Krishna, the Lord and sustainer of both. My forgetting to reconfirm the visit involved me as the jīva. The temple leader’s inability to remember involved the deteriorating neurological mechanisms of the jagat. And behind both was Jagadīśa, the ultimate source of the mysterious faculty called memory. These different levels did not cancel each other. Recognizing that my memory ultimately came from Krishna did not mean that I could stop taking responsibility for using it properly. Just as dependence on Krishna for digestion does not mean that I stop chewing my food, dependence on Krishna for memory does not mean that I stop striving to remember. As I continued walking, I felt grateful—grateful that I still had the faculty of memory to a significant degree, grateful that this incident had helped me understand more clearly how that faculty came from Krishna while still requiring responsible effort from me, and grateful for one further thought: even if and when I forgot something, that forgetfulness itself could prompt me toward remembrance of my Lord. Forgetfulness could itself become a reminder to remember. When I eventually wrote down these reflections, I sent the article to the young devotee whose comment had first brought the incident back to my mind. He thanked me for sending it and apologized. “I didn’t mean to justify my mistake,” he explained. “I was anxious because I had been given an opportunity to serve a senior devotee, and when I realized that I had forgotten something important, I was just trying somehow to remain Krishna-conscious amid my mistake. That’s why those words came out. I take responsibility for what happened, and I will be more careful.” His reply helped me see his original comment differently. His understanding of the verse might have needed clarification, but his intention had not been simply to evade responsibility. In his own way, even amid his forgetfulness, he had been trying to remember Krishna. Contemplating all this, I offered a prayer: My dear Lord, help me to remember that Your words in Bhagavad Gita 15.15 are a reflection to inspire responsibility, not a license to justify irresponsibility. Help me to remember You, and to remember whatever I need to serve You and help others remember You. And even when I forget other things, whether through my own carelessness or through the inevitable deterioration caused by time, whatever else I may forget, may I never forget You. *** 15.15 I am seated in everyone’s heart, and from Me come remembrance, knowledge and forgetfulness. By all the Vedas, I am to be known. Indeed, I am the compiler of Vedānta, and I am the knower of the Vedas. The post Krishna Caused My Forgetfulness first appeared on Chaitanya Charan Das, Bhagavad Gita ISKCON .