I will never be sure about the events I’m about to describe. For years the images have been like pieces of stained glass in a church window, and the more I try to fit the pieces together, the more I cut my hands. But they did happen.
In February 1970, shortly after joining the London Hare Krishna devotees in their temple off Oxford Street, we were visited by a warlock, a male witch. London had an active community of occultists in those days (the Swedenborg Society, for example, named after an 18th century Swedish spirit-channeler, had its offices just next door), and the Krishna temple attracted hundreds of unusual visitors including yogis, sorcerers, and ecstatics who would pretend to fall into a trance and roll around on the carpeted temple floor. Every day we received someone new and strange, but the male witch has remained in my memory as among the most bizarre.
Male witches are rumored to have originated in Scotland. Ours was a heavyset man who sat quietly during the Sunday dinner, then insinuated himself into a discussion a few of us were having about mystic powers. In the group was Digvijaya, the temple cook. When the witch learned Digvijaya came from Scotland, he announced that he would come back that night.
“I’ll show yah a thing or tew aboot mystic powers,” he boasted. We had no idea what he meant.
This particular Sunday, there were more guests than usual. Midnight came and went, and still there were pots to wash. Digvijaya’s dedication to kitchen duties inspired me to stay and help. I also loved hearing his accent: he spoke with a beautiful Scottish brogue, and if we were admiring the stars that evening, he might say, “Ach, Yogesvara (my initiated name), ‘tis a braw, bricht, moonlicht nicht.”
His humility was as impressive as his accent. I asked him once, “Why do you like cooking for Krishna so much?” He said, “Ach, I’m not advanced enough to coook fer Krishna, but I looove coooking fer His devotees.” That was quintessential Digvijaya.
Attached to the basement kitchen was an airshaft that rose up the side of the six-story building. Around 1:00 a.m., we heard a rumble that sounded like a big wave gathering offshore. The sound grew louder, and suddenly, the door to the airshaft burst open and a blast of freezing cold air circulated fast and furious around the kitchen. Pots flew through the air as though in a hurricane.
Digvijaya dove under a table, shouting “Krishna! Krishna!” over and over.
I crept along the base of the wall and worked my way over to the airshaft. When I reached the door, I jumped up, rammed it shut, and bolted the lock. Immediately, things subsided. The pots fell to the floor, and the kitchen grew warm again.
Digvijaya and I looked at one another in shock.
“Has anything like that ever happened before?” I asked him in a whisper.
“Nooo,” he said, catching his breath, “and I surely hoope it dunna happen again.”
“Do you think it was that man who came to the feast?”
“Could be,” Digvijaya said with a shrug. “But I have a moore important question.”
“What’s that?”
“Ah cannot finish cleaning the pots muhself. Ken ya stay and help muh?”
I haven’t spoken to Digvijaya in more than a half-century, but his steadfast dedication to cooking and cleaning continues to inspire me. Even airborne witches couldn’t distract him from his prescribed duties.
