CHAPTER NINE

#by Ranchor Prime

A new musical called Hair was attracting record audiences in London. It had originated in New York off Broadway as a protest against the Vietnam War. It told the story of a hippie tribe’s search for happiness and peace, ending with one of them being forced into the army and killed in Vietnam. Such stories were a reality for peace-loving young Americans, including a good number who aspired to be Hare Kṛṣṇa devotees. A high point in the musical was a choreographed version of the Hare Kṛṣṇa mantra performed by the whole cast. Hair was a sensation on both sides of the Atlantic and was popularizing the mantra. It was all make-believe – the hippies on stage were professional actors – but it expressed a real yearning that existed among young people for spiritual revolution and for the dawn of a new age – the Age of Aquarius.

The devotees chanted nightly to the crowds on the pavement outside the Shaftesbury Theatre, where Hair was showing. They were not actors; they were the real thing – dedicated to their search for truth and peace. One night the members of the cast invited them in to chant on stage.

The cast of Hair performed the Hare Kṛṣṇa chant each night, but they did so while naked. A cultural revolution was in progress. Its intention was to change people’s consciousness. John Lennon had just written its anthem, his song “Revolution,” in which he sang that, while people say they want to change the constitution, “You’d better free your mind instead.”

In this time of self-discovery and spiritual adventure the Beatles were leaders of the revolution. If they became Kṛṣṇa conscious, others would surely follow.

The Beatles were looking for new talent. They had been exploited by the corporate music world, so now, following the untimely death of Brian Epstein, they had started Apple Corps to support independent artistic expression. “Send us your ideas,” they announced.

Taking them at their word the devotees launched a campaign to get the Beatles’ attention. They sent them a gift each day for a week – a photo of the New York devotees, arms upraised and with smiling faces, and the invitation, “Come sing with us!”; the Prahlāda story and Yamunā’s IT cover; then a walking clockwork apple with the Hare Kṛṣṇa mantra painted on it and a home-baked apple pie. The gifts got through with the help of an American girl working as George Harrison’s secretary. Finally, hoping they had excited some curiosity, they delivered their demo tape of the Brahma-saṁhitā prayers and a photograph of themselves.

They had no way of knowing if their campaign had been fruitful, but the opportunity to find out came in early December when Śyāmasundara received an unexpected phone call.

“Hi, I’m at the airport with some friends. Can you come and get us?” It was Rock Scully from San Francisco. Years before, he and Śyāmasundara had shared a room as Fulbright scholars in Switzerland. Later in California, when Rock was managing the Grateful Dead, he had helped Śyāmasundara put on the Mantra-Rock Dance.

Śyāmasundara drove to the airport, and three hours later the aging Ford Popular rounded the corner into Betterton Street crammed with passengers and laden with two Harley-Davidson machines. The whole party trooped upstairs, and after removing their heavy leather boots, settled down to a hearty meal. The two Hells Angels – their friend from San Francisco, Sonny Barger, and his mate Frenchy – had come to pay a visit to George Harrison in response to the invitation they claimed he had given them the previous year in Haight-Ashbury. Rock Scully had organized the expedition and Ken Kesey had come along for the ride.

Gurudāsa had been friends with Kesey previous to meeting the devotees. As author of the cult novel One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest Kesey was a folk hero of sixties America. The two of them spent the evening discussing philosophy, while the other guests, having feasted, fell into a deep sleep on the floor. When they awoke it was evening and they wanted to explore the city. Kicking their Harley-Davidsons into life, they roared off into the night. A few days later Rock called Śyāmasundara again.

“We’ve got an appointment to meet George Harrison tomorrow. You can come too.”

Bringing another apple pie, Śyāmasundara walked to Savile Row, home of Apple Records. Rock’s party was already inside causing the peaceable Apple staff a good deal of apprehension. Śyāmasundara, whose name was not on the list, was having trouble persuading the doormen to let him in. Just then Yoko Ono arrived and recognized him from the Arts Lab.

“You must be a friend of George’s,” she said kindly. “Come in with me.”

Once in the crowded foyer he delivered his pie to the receptionist, who promised to pass it on to George, then found somewhere to sit. The room was filled with the noisy visitors from California, so Śyāmasundara decided to stay quietly in a corner and chant on his beads. Word came that all four Beatles were in a meeting. Time passed, and then one by one, John, Paul, and Ringo emerged and hastened to the exit without acknowledging the visitors. The party became restless and some left. Finally, when the foyer was half empty, George appeared. He looked round the room, spotted Śyāmasundara, and came straight over to him.

“Where have you been?” he exclaimed.

George sat down beside Śyāmasundara. “I’ve been waiting ages to meet you. I’ve seen Kṛṣṇa people in America, but I couldn’t just go up and talk to them. Then a friend gave me Bhaktivedanta Swami’s record. I can’t stop listening to his voice. I started chanting Hare Kṛṣṇa along with him. I’ve listened so many times I’ve worn the record out.”

Śyāmasundara listened in amazement as George told him how he had not only learned the chant but had listened carefully to Prabhupāda’s recorded explanation of Kṛṣṇa consciousness. He had even taught the mantra to John Lennon, and together they had chanted Hare Kṛṣṇa on a yacht in the Greek islands.

“We carried on until our jaws ached. As soon as we stopped chanting, it was like the lights went out. It was amazing.”

Śyāmasundara asked if George had received any of their gifts.

“Oh, yeah, we got everything. And more than a year ago I got a letter from one of you guys in San Francisco. I’m sorry I didn’t reply – there’s been too much happening. I’ve just been waiting for the chance to meet you.”

“Well, Kṛṣṇa seems to have arranged that,” laughed Śyāmasundara.

“So where is Bhaktivedanta Swami now?”

“He’s in Los Angeles, but he’ll come to London soon.”

“I feel like I already know him – I’ve heard his voice so much. I really want to meet him. And I want to talk more with you. Can you make it out to my place this Sunday afternoon? Then we can spend as much time as we like and we can chant together.” George drew a map to his house, and after thanking Śyāmasundara for coming, saw him to the door.

Śyāmasundara rang George’s doorbell. He carried a parcel of savories and sweets specially prepared by Yamunā. George opened the door and invited him in. While George’s wife Pattie took the delicacies to the kitchen, George led his guest into a spacious room decorated with paintings of Hindu deities: Śiva performing his cosmic dance, the benign elephant-headed Gaṇeśa, and Sarasvatī, goddess of the arts, holding her stringed vina. On the mantelpiece sat framed photos of George’s yoga masters, Yogananda and Yukteswar, with incense burning before them, and a picture of Prabhupāda.

George was no stranger to the yoga path or to chanting mantras. Three years earlier he had met Ravi Shankar and gone to India to study sitar with him. Then he had met Maharishi, and for three months in early 1968 he had stayed at Maharishi’s ashram in Rishikesh to learn mantra meditation. George had lots of questions, and Śyāmasundara did his best to answer them. George especially wanted to know more about Bhaktivedanta Swami.

“Śrīla Prabhupāda represents an unbroken line of teachers that stretches back thousands of years,” explained Śyāmasundara. “Although he is deeply learned and has written several books, he thinks of himself as everyone’s servant. He always says that his qualification to be a guru is that he is teaching us exactly what he has heard from his own guru. He hasn’t added anything or taken anything away. That’s why we trust him.” George listened.

“The essence of Kṛṣṇa consciousness is to love Kṛṣṇa. We do that by serving Kṛṣṇa in everything we do and by chanting Kṛṣṇa’s names. Prabhupāda says the name of God and God himself are nondifferent. When you chant Kṛṣṇa’s name Kṛṣṇa dances on your tongue.”

“But how do you avoid being distracted by māyā?” George knew about māyā, the illusion of material life, and how hard it could be to follow the yoga path when you are surrounded by people intent on other goals.

“That’s the power of chanting,” Śyāmasundara replied, and he described how as long as you chanted Kṛṣṇa’s name you were with Kṛṣṇa. Consequently māyā had no power over you. Prabhupāda had written all about this in his edition of the Bhagavad-gītā, he said. “It has just been published in New York, and soon we’ll have copies here in London. I’ll give you one.”

“Yes, I’d like that very much,” said George. “But why do you only chant to Kṛṣṇa? What about Śiva or Sarasvatī?”

“Our spiritual master says that Kṛṣṇa is the origin of all other forms of God. He is the original candle from whom all other candles have been lit: each candle has equal brightness, but the first candle is the source of all the others. So Kṛṣṇa includes all other deities – there is no need for us to chant to them separately. We depend on Kṛṣṇa for everything.”

They talked for a long time, then began to chant together, George playing his Indian harmonium, Śyāmasundara keeping time with the karatālas. Pattie joined in. When the afternoon ended, George knew he had found someone he could talk to frankly and openly about his spiritual path. He became thoughtful. George wanted to meet and chant with the rest of the devotees, and he had developed a taste for their cooking. So it was agreed that in a week or two, as soon as he could get free, he would visit their temple in Covent Garden.

“See you soon, then,” said Śyāmasundara as he climbed into his car. “Hare Kṛṣṇa!”

“Hare Kṛṣṇa!” answered George, waving goodbye. They each felt they had found a friend.

At George’s home George showed the devotees his studio and introduced them to Billy Preston, a brilliant young keyboard player he had brought over from America. The devotees got out their instruments and settled down with a sense of anticipation for the main event – the kīrtana.

Billy Preston played the electric organ, George sat at his white upright harmonium to begin with, then picked up a bass guitar, Mukunda beat the mṛdaṅga, Colin played George’s tablas, Śyāmasundara the esaraj, Gurudāsa the tambura, and Jānakī and Mālatī the karatālas. Yamunā sang the lead, at times calling “Haribol!” at the top of her lungs. They chanted for an hour or so, switched instruments, and chanted again. For three hours the chant went on – long, deep, and languorous. George had learned to love chanting by hearing Prabhupāda’s album, and now that he had others to share the chanting with he didn’t want to stop.

That night, after chanting together for hours, something changed. A deep connection was forged between them, a sense of spiritual community that transcended any differences they might have on the material plane. At the end, as the devotees were preparing to leave, George spoke the words that were on everyone’s mind.

“We have to make a record.”

This was what the devotees had longed for. Even back in San Francisco they had sometimes dreamed of what it would be like to record the Hare Kṛṣṇa mantra with the Beatles. Now, without artifice, the door was opening. It was more of Kṛṣṇa’s magic.

As Colin left George came up to him. “I saw how much you enjoyed the tablas,” he said. “They’re yours, man. Look after them.” And George handed him the drums.

A week later George came round to the temple. He had just been to Spain. “I wrote a song about you guys,” he said. “It’s called ‘Here Comes the Sun.’ “ After that George became a regular visitor at the temple, and the devotees sometimes went to his home.

A light drizzle fell from a gray sky as Prabhupāda descended the steps from the plane at Heathrow. He was met by an immigration official and a policeman, whose job it was to take him directly to the VIP lounge. From behind a barrier his disciples waved and called. With his escort Prabhupāda broke away from the huddle of disembarking passengers and came straight over to them.

Once in the VIP lounge they enthroned him before the waiting press, garlanded him, and sat at his feet. He was swathed in saffron and heaped with flowers. Prabhupāda began to chant, playing his karatālas and singing with abandon. When he finished, Mukunda stood and invited the reporters’ questions.

“I am trying to teach what you have forgotten,” began Prabhupāda, addressing the newsmen. These words, delivered with an urgency and conviction the reporters did not expect, opened his mission to the people of England. The press conference, organized with Apple’s help, was his first face-to-face encounter on English soil with the people whose culture and ideas had dominated his childhood. He went straight to the heart of what he had to teach.

“Some of you are saying there is no God or that God is dead, and some of you are saying that God is impersonal or void. I want to teach that there is God. It is a challenge to the atheistic people. There is God.”

The British Empire had dominated India for close to two hundred years, including the first fifty years of Prabhupāda’s life. During that time the British had imposed their ideas on India; now he would not compromise in what he had to tell them.

“As we are sitting here face to face, similarly you can see God face to face if you are serious and sincere.”

Around forty journalists had come to meet the Beatles’ new guru. George Harrison had given the public something unexpected – a mantra, the “Hare Kṛṣṇa Mantra,” released on the Apple label by a group calling themselves the Rādhā Kṛṣṇa Temple. Their chanting was so magical, so different, that it had captivated London. The reporters wanted to know what it was all about. Prabhupāda was there to tell them.

“Unfortunately we are trying to forget God. Therefore we are embracing so many miseries. I am simply teaching that you be Kṛṣṇa conscious and be happy. Don’t be swayed away by the waves of illusion.”

Two years earlier the Beatles had met Mahesh Yogi, known as the Maharishi. For a few months, Maharishi’s long hair and beard, beatific smile, and armfuls of flowers had represented, in the eyes of the Western media, the archetypal image of an Indian guru. But Prabhupāda was a different kind of guru. He was no trendy swami; he was penetrating and intense, and he demanded to be taken seriously. One of the reporters spoke up.

“Sir, is this singing essential to the sustenance of your faith?”

“This singing is the process for clearing the dust accumulated on the heart. Our relationship with God is eternal and cannot be broken. Due to contact with māyā we are trying to forget Him, but if we chant this holy name of God, Hare Kṛṣṇa, then māyā will not act and we shall very quickly understand our relationship with God.”

He cited several Sanskrit verses that explained the qualifications one needed to become Kṛṣṇa conscious. But he was not here to convert the British to his religion; he was not concerned with such sectarian ideas. When a reporter asked about the fighting between Christian denominations in Ireland, which by 1969 had reached new levels of violence, Prabhupāda did not hesitate. “We are not Christians or Hindus or Muslims. We are God’s servants. Among God’s servants there is no disagreement. First-class religion teaches how to love God. It doesn’t matter if it is Christian or Muslim or Hindu. If you are Christian and you have developed your sense of loving God, then you are perfect.”

“These are not ordinary boys and girls,” Prabhupāda then said, indicating his disciples. “They are very elevated. Their qualities are greater than any mundane scholar’s. For anyone who has developed love of Kṛṣṇa, all good qualities will automatically arise in them. Let anyone come and test these people and you shall see.”

Prabhupāda had good reason to be proud of his young followers, for they had succeeded in laying a foundation for Kṛṣṇa consciousness in Britain where, thirty-five years earlier, his seasoned godbrothers had failed. They had succeeded because they loved to sing Hare Kṛṣṇa and they loved their teacher and wanted to do whatever they could to please him. They were not driven by ambition; they simply wanted to make their teacher happy. That made them happy, and their happiness communicated itself to those around them.

Once the questions were over the devotees led Prabhupāda to the waiting Rolls Royce. The driver helped him into the car, and as they looked lovingly at Prabhupāda, who appeared so wonderful sitting alone in the back seat, the car glided away. Only then did they realize that no one had accompanied him. The car and driver had been sent by John Lennon. For nearly two weeks the devotees had been living at Tittenhurst and preparing for Prabhupāda’s stay.

John Lennon had kept the devotees busy as soon as they had arrived at Tittenhurst. Slacking was not allowed. Their first job had been to assist John and Yoko to move in. Then they had begun to redecorate the main house. John had wanted it stripped of unnecessary furniture and carpeting and painted white. There was much to be done in the garden too.

Near the main house was the gallery, originally a music room, with a high ceiling and good acoustics. John let the devotees use this room as their temple for as long as they were at Tittenhurst.

In those first few days before Prabhupāda arrived they had started meeting in the new temple morning and evening for kīrtana and class. John and Yoko had attended a few times and sat at the back listening, with John occasionally joining in the chanting. Once, George had come down with Pattie, and he too had chanted with the devotees.

The chauffeur drove on in silence. From the spacious back seat of the car, Prabhupāda saw a green, undulating landscape, whose sandy soil supported woods of pine and oak, interspersed with fern and gorse, and patches of grass where wild deer grazed. After only a few miles they reached the gates of Tittenhurst Park.

During the nineteenth century Tittenhurst Park had belonged to the great philanthropist Thomas Holloway. Like Holloway, John Lennon wanted to leave his mark on the world – but by promoting peace and bringing about a revolution in consciousness. Yet although he was lavishing money on renovating Tittenhurst, he no longer felt comfortable in England. America was safer from reporters and lawyers. But the American government refused him a visa. So he and Yoko, with her six-year-old daughter, sought sanctuary at Tittenhurst instead. The place suited him for the same reason it suited his predecessors: it was secluded but within easy reach of London, and it was close to Heathrow Airport. It was somewhere he could retreat with his new family, entertain friends, compose and record his own music without corporate interference – and have time to think. A temporary refuge for a troubled genius.

Tittenhurst would also serve as a retreat for Prabhupāda; it was a place where he could live quietly for a few weeks with his disciples. The two contrasting figures, John and Prabhupāda, were both only passing through Tittenhurst, and though they would share its cedar groves they would hardly meet. John, when he was not away recording the Beatles’ last album at Abbey Road or working on his solo music with Yoko, ranged through his mansion’s empty rooms, while Prabhupāda lived quietly in the cottage or walked among the trees with his disciples in the early mornings.

Still, John was deeply intrigued by Prabhupāda. He had met Prabhupāda’s disciples and engaged them in serious discussions enough times to know that Prabhupāda was a man to be taken seriously. He was not going to be like the Maharishi, whom John had found disappointing. John had a serious nature – he liked to ask penetrating questions and then to hear, carefully, what people had to say. After hearing he would make up his own mind about life and say what he thought without compromise.

Having watched Prabhupāda’s car leave the airport the devotees scrambled into their Land Rover, borrowed from John, and set off in pursuit. They hoped to arrive ahead of Prabhupāda so they could show him to his quarters. But when they reached Tittenhurst they found him standing alone in the driveway with his luggage. The rain had stopped and he waited patiently.

“Where should I go?” he asked in a relaxed mood.

Gurudāsa led the way down the path to Prabhupāda’s cottage, through an arched front door, and up bare wooden stairs to a suite of two small rooms. The front room was a bedroom that overlooked the entrance courtyard; in the rear, with its small adjoining bathroom, was a cozy square sitting room with a high ceiling and a view across the garden. Apart from a set of shelves for his books, a low table for his desk, a cushion for his seat, and a borrowed carpet, the room was empty. This was how he liked to live: simply, as a sannyāsī.

As soon as Prabhupāda’s luggage was deposited in his rooms he wanted to see the temple room. The devotees went with him and crowded in.

“Yamunā? Come and lead a kīrtana.”

Yamunā sat on the floor in the middle of the room with the harmonium and sang. It was a wonderful moment. For a full year Prabhupāda’s emissaries had labored to serve him in London. Now, with their new British brothers and sisters gathered round them, they were reunited with their master in kīrtana. The chanting swelled and Prabhupāda smiled with pleasure. After half an hour he brought the kīrtana to a close and began to speak.

George Harrison had come down to Tittenhurst and had arranged with John that they would see Prabhupāda together. While Prabhupāda returned to his rooms, John and George joined the devotees for a late lunch. It was a moment of friendship and informality before the serious meeting that would follow.

When the meal was over, John, Yoko, and George made their way with Śyāmasundara down the path to Prabhupāda’s cottage and into his small sitting room. Fortune had arranged this encounter, in this secluded spot amid the shifting landscapes of the late sixties, bringing two of the most influential young men of their generation together with Kṛṣṇa’s personal envoy.

Prabhupāda smiled benevolently as his guests settled themselves and Śyāmasundara garlanded each of them. John and George sat facing Prabhupāda. John wanted a role in the world beyond being a musician, to make a difference, with his declarations for Revolution, for Love, Not War, and his challenges to the establishment. That was why he had asked Prabhupāda and the devotees to come and stay. He recognized them as comrades from whom he might learn, and he wanted to help them bring their change in their way. All this was apparent to Prabhupāda.

“By the grace of Kṛṣṇa you are leaders,” he began, addressing John and George together. “Thousands of young men follow you. They like you. If you give them something nice, the face of the world will change.”

Prabhupāda’s voice was soft and amiable as he spoke of Kṛṣṇa as the universal father. “We are all Kṛṣṇa’s children,” he said, quoting the Bhagavad-gītā. “If we think of him, we chant Hare Kṛṣṇa, we will have everything to gain and nothing to lose. Chant Hare Kṛṣṇa, everyone. Dance in ecstasy. My request is that you try to understand this Kṛṣṇa consciousness philosophy and make your own judgement.

“You want peace – I have read your statements,” he spoke directly to John. “But we must know the process. Kṛṣṇa says, ‘I am the enjoyer, I am the owner, I am the friend.’ “ These were the words Prabhupāda always referred to as the “Peace Formula.”

“Why do we claim ‘This is mine?’ Kṛṣṇa is the Lord of every place. We come here in the kingdom of God and we claim, ‘This is my property.’ Is it not insanity?” He smiled at John, and looked around him and out of the window at the beautiful gardens. John, whose claim to Tittenhurst was the obvious example, remained silent.

“Kṛṣṇa is the friend of everyone. He is such a nice friend that He is living with me in my heart. Therefore I think people should have one God, Kṛṣṇa; one scripture, the Bhagavad-gītā; one mantra, Hare Kṛṣṇa; and one activity, to serve Kṛṣṇa. Then there will be peace all over the world.”

Had John read his edition of Bhagavad-gītā, Prabhupāda asked. John murmured that he had dipped into the Gītā during his three-month stay at Maharishi’s ashram in Rishikesh but had not read Prabhupāda’s commentary.

“We want people to be happy,” continued Prabhupāda. “Be happy and make all others happy – that is Kṛṣṇa consciousness. But here in the material world you cannot be happy because everything is temporary.”

This was something John could understand. He had achieved immense success, but he was at odds with the world and tortured by drug addiction. Prabhupāda’s words were self-evident, and John listened closely as he explained that the soul, which is eternal, cannot find happiness in a temporary world. The solution, Prabhupāda said, was to go to the eternal world to be with Kṛṣṇa.

Understanding that his guests were musicians, Prabhupāda wanted them to hear Vedic mantras, so he chanted some verses from the Śrīmad-Bhāgavatam. His voice filled the room with deep and melodious tones. The verses said that people addicted to material life, to “chewing the already chewed,” were not attracted to Kṛṣṇa. They were like the blind following the blind, misled and bound by miseries, and their only hope of freedom was to find the shelter of a pure devotee of God.

“You don’t have to understand the words,” he assured them. “Just hear the sound vibration and it will benefit you. All Sanskrit verses – for example, the verses of the Bhagavad-gītā – are mantras that can be sung like this.” He encouraged them to use such verses to create sacred music.