Sevak

Subway Saviors by Muralivadaka Dasa

Subway Saviors by Muralivadaka Dasa

Muralivadaka Dasa
At Christmastime these kids go underground to give the gift of love.

The screeching of the subway car announces our arrival at the next station. "Gentlemen, this is it!" I say, lifting a box of Back to Godhead magazines as I get up. The subway grinds to a halt, and seven young men surge toward the sliding doors. As we step onto the platform, a disembodied voice crackles: "Thirty-fourth Street-Harold Square Macy's. Have a nice holiday."

"Is this where we distribute?" Nine-year-old Jaya Saci, the youngest member of our intrepid band, is on his first Christmas book-distribution marathon in New York City.

"No, not here. We go upstairs to the next level. It's much better there!" replies fourteen-year-old Kirtana, veteran of four subway campaigns. Kirtana is not only the senior "man" in distribution experience, but his hard work and enthusiasm over the years have established him as one of the best. In fact, he wasn't even scheduled to go this year, but he begged his parents and his teacher, me, to allow him to come.

Moving amid the bustling crowd and incessant noise of the subways, I remember the beginning of last year's marathon. When we first arrived, a New York City policeman began to stare intently at us. He pointed and waved, indicating that someone should come over. As I started toward him, I noticed he was pointing vigorously to someone other than me. He called out, "You! You!" He wanted Kirtana.

Glancing apprehensively at me for permission. Kirtana slowly went over to the officer. Engrossed, we all watched as the policeman and Kirtana had a short, animated conversation. Suddenly the officer grabbed Kirtana by the arm and began shaking his hand. Both of them broke into huge smiles.
Kirtana came running back. "Muralivadaka Prabhu, you know what happened? When I got over there, the policeman said, 'I know you, young man. Isn't your name Kirtana? I remember you from last year.' Then he grabbed my hand and started shaking it, saying, 'Keep up the good work. son!' "

Thirty-fourth Street station is well patrolled by police, who have always looked kindly on our efforts to distribute our Society's literature here every Christmas. That's one reason I keep bringing the boys back here. And because the station is underground, the boys are sheltered from the inclement weather.

Coming to the top of the stairs, we're greeted by the acrid smell of perspiration and urine.
"Look! Look!" says Jaya Saci, pointing to two vagrants sleeping atop sheets of cardboard and covered with an assortment of coats long ago discarded by their original owners. "Do they live here?" His innocence contrasts sharply with the callous, unseeing attitude of the New Yorkers racing past the prostrate figures.

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