Can I Give You a Hug?

“Can I Give You a Hug?” I stared at the American girl who had asked me this question with a bright smile on her face. I had just finished giving a class at a university in Dallas, Texas. Toward the end of the class, she had asked me, “Why do religions fight among each other?” While answering her question, I had drawn on the Bhagavad Gita’s framework of the three modes of nature. The higher mode of goodness seeks to resolve differences through discussion, whereas the lower mode of passion seeks domination and the lowest mode of ignorance seeks destruction. Because these modes characterize human nature across religious traditions, extremists can exist in every tradition. I went into a few more details and examples, but overall, I could see that my answer satisfied her. After the class, she approached me and said, “This question had been burdening me for a long time, and I have asked it to many people. I found your answer the most satisfactory. It has relieved a big burden from my heart. I am so grateful.” Then came the question I wasn’t expecting. “Can I give you a hug?” As a celibate monk, I am expected to follow certain standards, including minimizing physical contact with women. A hug, no matter how well-meaning, was completely out of bounds. Yet her appreciation was so sincere that I didn’t want to respond with a blunt no and risk hurting her. The host of the program was standing next to me. I conveyed a silent SOS signal to him with my eyes: Help me. He promptly stepped forward to help—but in a way I hadn’t expected. “He’s a monk,” he told her. “On his behalf, you can hug me.” I was taken aback. That was certainly not the kind of help I had expected. His wife, who was standing right beside him, immediately stepped forward. “I am his wife,” she said. “On his behalf, you can hug me.” The student seemed a little bemused by this unexpected turn of events, but she hugged my hostess. Whenever I have narrated this incident, either in a formal class or in an informal discussion, it has always evoked laughter. But when I narrated it to one of my spiritual guides, who has helped me considerably in understanding Western culture, he responded seriously. “By offering you a hug, she was expressing her appreciation for what she had received from you,” he explained. “As a monk, you cannot accept her specific expression of appreciation. But as a spiritual teacher, you cannot altogether reject that expression either. You need to find an intelligent way to honor both your identities.” “Can you suggest some ways to do that?” I asked. “The best is to fold your hands,” he replied. “People are culturally sensitive nowadays, and they will usually respond appropriately. Even if someone still comes forward and hugs you, you can prayerfully accept the hug with your folded hands in front of you, which will also minimize the physical contact.” His point about honoring both identities helped me see that interaction in a deeper light. I appreciated that the challenge was not merely cultural—how to respond to a hug. It was also conceptual—how to respond when different identities that I inhabited pulled me in opposing directions. “Is That a Compliment or a Criticism?” As I thought about this conceptual challenge of multiple identities, I was reminded of another interaction, this time at a contemporary outreach center in Florida. After I had given a talk there, the organizer—a senior spiritual leader with more than five decades of experience in outreach in America—spoke appreciatively about my presentation. “You will do well in Western outreach,” he said. Encouraged, I asked, “Can I know why you think so?” I expected him to say that my analytical way of presenting would appeal to Western audiences, or that my contemporary examples made spiritual concepts easier to understand. Perhaps he had noticed my effort to avoid insider jargon and use language that was more broadly intelligible. Instead, he said, “You are not uncomfortable around women.” I had to think about that for a few moments. Then, feeling slightly disquieted, I asked, “Is that a compliment or a criticism?” He smiled reassuringly. “Of course it’s a compliment. I don’t mean that you are flirtatious or familiar with women. When some of the female students here approached you, you didn’t see a temptation to be avoided. You saw a person with a question.” After a pause, he continued. “Some monks who come from India are reluctant to talk with women and want to end the interaction as quickly as possible. Western women are very sensitive to that. Nobody likes talking with someone who seems eager to stop talking with them. After the class, I saw that you unhurriedly answered the questions of all the students, including the female students. Hence my compliment.” Remembering his comment made me think more carefully about the difference between identity and identification. Objectively, I have many identities; subjectively, I identify with some of them more than others. When people see me, they generally notice two of my identities. Seeing my saffron robes, they think of me as a monk; seeing me with crutches, they think of me as physically disabled. Yet neither identity occupies much headspace within me. The identities I inhabit much more naturally are those of a thinker, an author and a teacher. Perhaps my strong identification with being a teacher explained my responses in those two incidents. When the female students in Florida approached me, the teacher in me simply saw people with questions and answered those questions accordingly. I hadn’t even thought about whether I was comfortable or uncomfortable with them until the leader of the community brought that consideration to my attention. Though the teacher in me is prominent, that doesn’t mean the monk in me is dormant. That part of me was culturally jolted when the student in Texas offered to hug me. But the teacher in me ensured that I did not recoil in shock or anger from someone who was simply trying to express heartfelt appreciation. From Present Identity to Permanent Identity As I thought about my various identities, a more fundamental question arose within me: Which of my identities should I identify with? Philosophically, I knew the standard answer. I am not ultimately any of these things. I am an eternal, indestructible soul, as the Bhagavad Gita explains in 2.13. My thoughts went to the very next verse and to a point in that verse that I had spoken about for over a decade. Just after asserting Arjuna’s spiritual identity, Krishna refers to him by two material identities: Kaunteya, the son of Kunti, and Bhārata, a descendant of the illustrious King Bharata. I contemplated how Krishna’s use of these forms of address was neither incidental nor merely conventional; it was intentional. By reminding Arjuna of his illustrious family and lineage, Krishna was calling him to act honorably in a way befitting that heritage. On the battlefield, acting honorably meant that Arjuna needed to do his duty of fighting, even if it meant tolerating the distress of fighting against revered elders such as Bhishma and Drona. It struck me that Krishna’s use of those forms of address illuminated my own question about identity. I couldn’t—and needn’t—wish away my present identities simply because they were temporary. I could utilize them in my service to Krishna. That thought sent a bolt of joy through me as it struck me that I was already doing so—or, more accurately, Krishna was already helping me to do so. I have felt closest to Krishna when I have been thinking, writing or speaking. Sometimes while reciting a Bhagavad Gita verse and contemplating its meaning, a striking new understanding has suddenly emerged. At other times, while writing or speaking, words have come together in a memorable way to express a familiar or novel insight. In such moments, I have sometimes felt a kind of divine thrill rush through my entire being. I live for such moments. It struck me that Krishna was meeting me where I was. When I used my present identity to try to serve Him wholeheartedly, He was reciprocating by blessing me with wisdom and with words to express that wisdom. Through my present identity, He was leading me toward my permanent identity. Feeling deeply grateful, I offered a prayer: My dear Lord, You are so merciful that You meet me through my present identity and lead me toward my permanent identity. As I progress toward You, help me avoid both extremes: absolutizing my present identity and letting it obscure my permanent identity as Your part, or trivializing my present identity because it is temporary. Let me instead utilize my present identity in a mood of service to come closer to You. *** 02.13 As the embodied soul continuously passes, in this body, from boyhood to youth to old age, the soul similarly passes into another body at death. A sober person is not bewildered by such a change. The post Can I Give You a Hug? first appeared on Chaitanya Charan Das, Bhagavad Gita ISKCON .