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The Hidden History of Kusakratha das

Oct 11, USA (SUN) — Part One

In 1956, I moved from one area of Brooklyn (near the temple) to the Bensonhurst area,
where I entered fifth grade. Peter Viggiani (a.k.a. Kusakratha) was in my class for the next
two years. He also attended the same junior high as I, and we shared some of the same
classes. For approximately 5 years we were good friends. He was always quite eccentric and
didn’t appear to have many other friends.

Those who knew “ Kusa” found him to be a bit of an avadhuta, and he was no less so in his
early days. There was one other odd fellow who was an artist. We would sometimes associate,
and together we once built a sculpture in his yard composed completely of old wire coat
hangers. Predictably, other kids would pick on Peter. They would walk by and punch him in
the shoulder or hurl some insult his way, but he tolerated it. Although I had varieties of
associates, he was a loner as his aspirations were distinctly loftier than the average Jewish-
Italian neighbor. Out of thousands and thousands of kids growing up in Brooklyn at the time it
would not be possible to find someone similar to him.

He had a younger sister, Rosemary. Although her bodily features resembled his in many ways,
I recall that they were distant. He seemed to be a bit distant from all of his family members-
perhaps because his parents were a bit older than others. His mother once threw an open box
of crayons at me, and loudly blamed me for being a bad influence on her son, because he was
constantly doodling in his smaller-than-average loose leaf book.

As someone who had taken special art classes in early childhood and visited museums
regularly, I can say that these “doodles” were not ordinary. They were amazing and
unforgettable. His wonderful and original conceptions remain with me still. How I wish those
sketches had been preserved! No doubt the world of art has been deprived of a great genius.
The figurative drawings swirled, lifelike, drawing the consciousness into the page more and
more. The notes were barely detectable amidst the free unprecedented expressions
decorating the pages. A few times I asked him to draw people congregating nearby in Central
Park. With astonishing ease, capturing the gesture in perfect proportion, figures would
manifest on the paper.

When sometimes the opportunity for an illustrated school project arose, he would stun the
entire school, teachers and students alike, by utilizing his skill at watercolor and pencil
drawings. In the sixth grade, who among us was able to paint the billowing sails of
Columbus’s ships plying the waves in perfect perspective?

His talents were not restricted to the art world. His compositions were not to be rivaled in our
tiny circle. Of course, the spelling and grammar were never faulty, but his wit was prodigious
and while reading his compositions the teacher would sometimes laugh out loud. After all, by
seventh grade he was already writing 60,000 word poems. Yin-Yang is one that I remember.

Kusa had zero desire to engage in sports like all the rest of us. As we rolled by quickly on our
bikes, or skates, he was often seated on a bench in front of his house pouring over philosophy
and poetry books. He would make his way to the main Library near Prospect Park, which was
quite some distance by public transport. There he would take out as many books as they
allowed, and then scrutinize them. They would range from the writings of the Ancient Greeks
such as Homer, Socrates, and Virgil to modern existentialists such as Sarte and Camus.
Kirkegaard, Kafka, and Pound are also some of the names that come to mind

All of this extra study never prevented him from effortlessly getting the top marks in school.
It was always “O” for outstanding, except for maybe P.E., and cleanliness. Whenever there
was an oral quiz, Peter was the first one with his hand up, enthusiastically waving his hand,
unable to contain himself. He was called on when no one else could answer. It was a
syndrome; he would blurt out the answer, neglecting to stand, the teacher would admonish
him for not standing, and then he would lean on the desk. When the teacher chastised him for
leaning on the desk he would stand, and his pants would begin to fall. He was then instructed
to pull up his pants midst the chuckles of the other students. Kusa was the kind of guy that

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needed a shave even in the fifth grade, which added to his slovenly appearance. His dirty
handkerchief hanging out of his pocket, waiting for his next amplified nose blow was another
colorful feature.

At that time, I was often penalized for misbehavior and was sometimes locked in the
principal’s office. On one occasion I had a chance to peak through the file cabinets. I checked
up on everyone’s I.Q. score. Kusa’s was definitely the highest at about 158.At around 12 we
were making trips to Manhattan to attend Ginsberg and other “beat” poetry readings and
meeting off-beat artists in the “Village”. At that time he decided he would not touch money, so
I was carried the subways tokens and change.

On one memorable occasion in about 1962 when I realized I would never be able to read all
the books that he had, I pointedly asked him which books he considered to be the most
important. He immediately replied,” Just read Bhagavad Gita. You don’t need any other
books.”

By tenth grade I had moved to another neighborhood, and rarely saw him. He attended a
local Brooklyn high school, Lafayette. During the U.S. attempted invasion of Cuba, the
students at his school were required to salute the flag, but he and another boy defiantly spit
on it whereupon they were attacked by other students. This incident actually made the
newspapers and appeared on the front page border of the New York World Telegram-long
defunct. After this period he attended college( Goddard ?) for some time, although he never
graduated.

I remember seeing him once at an anti-Vietnam war rally in front of the U.N. He was
continually jumping up and down holding hands with an odd woman. I was trying to
communicate with him when the police started unceremoniously dispersing the crowd by
beating us with their lead- filled clubs.

Some years ago I asked him about some symphonies he had composed and he said that he
had never actually heard them played.

From the earliest time that I remember he was practicing hatha yoga asanas, although I don’t
really know how he learned them. Sometimes when I dropped in he would be sitting in a lotus
position which seemed pretty odd at the time, even to me. He would be listening to a stereo
that he had assembled.

I came to the L.A. temple via “Sai” in Hawaii sometime in October 1970. Besides chanting and
other service I was engaged, by Karandhar, in painting sets of the parampara for temples on
the west coast. One day Karandhar told me he thought I might like to join the other artists
who had recently moved from Boston to New York. Anxious to see me, my parents arranged a
ticket and I was on my way back to New York. Somewhere in the darkness a chilling
premonition came over me. Someone I knew would be at the temple in Brooklyn. Then it
came to me-it must be Peter. I reasoned, where else could such a person be?

After my arrival, at about 10:00 p.m., and an almost sleepless night, I was abruptly woken by
a loudspeaker blaring Prabhupada singing and sat up for some minutes, groggily in an almost
amnesiac daze. Somebody directed me to the tiny laundry room where there was a tangled
merge of clean clothes in a few baskets. Standing there was Bhakta Peter attempting to
disentangle some extremely knotted wrinkled clothes. He appeared only mildly surprised to
see me and I was half expecting to see him anyway. He asked me how I came to join, and I
told him about joining in Hawaii with Sai. He asked in his kind of high pitched voice, “How is
Sai?” We both seemed to adjust rather quickly to this “surprise” encounter.

….to be continued.

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