CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

THE PLANE FLEW during the night and arrived in London by morning. Śrīla Prabhupāda had planned a stopover. He checked into an airport hotel, took his massage, and rested. In the afternoon he rose and bathed, and then he and Kīrtanānanda boarded their plane, bound for New Delhi via Moscow. While the plane was still on the ground, however, a crew member announced “a short delay due to health regulations.” A passenger who had disembarked earlier that day was now sick, apparently with smallpox, so the plane would have to be thoroughly fumigated. Prabhupāda and Kīrtanānanda stayed in a room at the Excelsior Hotel for the night.

Early the next morning, July 24, seated in his hotel room, complete with air conditioning and television, neither of which he had used, Śrīla Prabhupāda wrote a letter to Brahmānanda in New York.

Prabhupāda and Kīrtanānanda flew to Moscow. There they walked around the terminal, observing what Prabhupāda called “propaganda pictures.” After a one-hour stopover they reboarded and flew another eight hours, arriving in Delhi around midnight.

After Prabhupāda and Kīrtanānanda claimed their luggage and cleared customs, they stood on the sidewalk outside the terminal. Although Prabhupāda had removed his sweater, Kīrtanānanda stood sweltering in his black wool suit. It was 2 A.M. All around, passengers were meeting loved ones, who embraced them – sometimes even garlanded them – and helped them into cars or taxis. But no one was there for Prabhupāda. It was certainly different from the recent tearful airport scenes, where Prabhupāda had been with his loved ones. Now, instead of being surrounded by loving disciples, Prabhupāda was besieged by taxi drivers and porters wanting to carry his luggage for a fee. In Hindi Prabhupāda asked one of the drivers to take them to Chippiwada, in Old Delhi. The driver put their luggage in the trunk, and Prabhupāda and his disciple climbed into the back seat.

The small Ambassador taxi drove through streets well known to Śrīla Prabhupāda. Nighttime traffic was light – an occasional taxi or motor ricksha. Mostly the streets were empty and quiet, the shops closed, an occasional person or cow sleeping outdoors.

Just a few years before, Prabhupāda had sold Back to Godhead magazines, solicited donations, and printed his Śrīmad-Bhāgavatams here. In those days he had been alone, practically without money or residence. Yet he had been happy, completely dependent on Kṛṣṇa.

But India’s leaders were rejecting Vedic culture and imitating the West. Although some Indians still professed to follow Vedic culture, mostly they were victims of hodgepodge teachers who didn’t accept Kṛṣṇa as the Supreme Personality of Godhead. So he had felt obliged to leave – to go and transplant the Vedic culture in the West. He had held strictly to the vision of his predecessor spiritual masters, and he had been proven right: the West was a very good field for Kṛṣṇa consciousness.

As the taxi drove through Old Delhi and approached Chawri Bazaar, Prabhupāda saw the printing and paper shops, now closed for the night. And the usual dense traffic of human-hauled carts was now absent, though some laborers were sleeping on their carts till the morning, when they would bathe in an outdoor well and begin another day’s hauling. When Śrīla Prabhupāda had been overseeing the publishing of his first volumes of Śrīmad-Bhāgavatam, he had daily walked these streets, buying paper, picking up proofs from the printer, returning with the corrected proofs. His First Canto had been a triumph.

Chawri Bazaar led to side streets that led to the narrow lanes of Chippiwada, where upright metal posts blocked autos and rickshas from entering. The driver stopped the taxi on an empty road and turned for his payment. Prabhupāda took from his billfold forty rupees (the same forty rupees he had carried with him on the boat to America in 1965). But the driver took the entire forty rupees and said he would keep it all as the just fare. Prabhupāda protested; the fare should not be even half that! Loudly they argued back and forth in Hindi. The driver had pocketed the money and would give no change. Prabhupāda knew that to get a policeman at this hour would be very difficult. Finally, although this had been nothing less than a robbery, Prabhupāda let the man go. “He cheated me,” Prabhupāda said. He and Kīrtanānanda took their luggage and walked the last block, up to the door of the Chippiwada Rādhā-Kṛṣṇa temple.

It was locked. As they pounded loudly, Prabhupāda called out for Sri Krishna Pandit until a man came to the door, recognized Prabhupāda, and let them in. The man showed them upstairs and unlocked the door to Prabhupāda’s room. Prabhupāda turned on the light.

The room was bare and dusty, and the bulb hanging from the ceiling created stark light and shadows. On the floor was the three-foot-high cement dome indicating that directly below were the altar and the Deities of Rādhā and Kṛṣṇa. (The dome prevented anyone from accidentally committing the offense of walking directly above the Deities.) The closet was stacked with printed Śrīmad-Bhāgavatam pages, Śrīmad-Bhāgavatam dust jackets, and form letters to prospective members of the League of Devotees. Everything was just as Prabhupāda had left it.

“This is the room where I compiled Śrīmad-Bhāgavatam,” Śrīla Prabhupāda told Kīrtanānanda. “I slept here. And over here was my cooker and my typewriter. I would sleep and type and cook and type and sleep and type.” Kīrtanānanda was shocked to think of Swamiji living here in such a poor, humble place. It wasn’t even clean.

Although Kīrtanānanda was uncomfortable in his suit and wondered when he would be able to get rid of it, he managed to get a thin mattress for Swamiji. Two Ayurvedic doctors came. They both agreed that the trouble was Swamiji’s heart but that the danger was now past. They gave him medicines and advised him to keep to a regulated schedule of eating, resting, and working. Sri Krishna Pandit came by to sit and converse, and Prabhupāda told him of his success in America and of all the young devotees in New York and San Francisco. Prabhupāda played his record for Sri Krishna Pandit, and this drew a crowd of curious persons from other rooms in the temple.

In the afternoon Prabhupāda developed a cough. It didn’t seem serious, and he said he wanted to travel the next day to Vṛndāvana. But by evening the cough had become persistent; he couldn’t rest. Kīrtanānanda tried massages and the pills the Ayurvedic doctors had prescribed, but nothing worked; Prabhupāda remained awake all night, and when Kīrtanānanda touched him in the morning he was feverish.

The doctors came again. Prabhupāda’s temperature was over 104. They gave teas and Ayurvedic powders while Kīrtanānanda looked on skeptically. Because Prabhupāda was having a lot of difficulty breathing when he lay down, Kīrtanānanda thought it might be pneumonia. So Kīrtanānanda gave him penicillin, of which he had brought a supply. In the afternoon an elderly Sikh doctor who practiced Western medicine came by and gave Prabhupāda a penicillin injection. Prabhupāda then fell asleep and rested quietly for the first time in twenty-four hours.

While Prabhupāda slept, Kīrtanānanda wrote a letter to his Godbrothers in New York.

Kīrtanānanda also asked the New York devotees to call the devotees in San Francisco, Santa Fe, and Boston and have them continue chanting for Swamiji’s health. He reminded them to strictly follow all of Swamiji’s instructions.

The next day Śrīla Prabhupāda’s fever was down to 100.6. He was still sick, but he talked again of going to Vṛndāvana. He dictated a letter to his bookselling agents in Delhi, Atmarama & Sons, asking them for an up-to-date account of their sales of his Śrīmad-Bhāgavatam. Old acquaintances came by and were disappointed to find Swamiji unable to accept their invitations. Prabhupāda asked that they invite Kīrtanānanda in his stead.

For several days Kīrtanānanda visited the homes of these pious Hindus. He played the record on his portable phonograph, chanting along and dancing with his arms upraised. Then he would give a short speech. His hosts accepted him as a sādhu, fascinated that an American had taken so seriously to Kṛṣṇa consciousness.

On August 1, after six days in Delhi, Prabhupāda went to Vṛndāvana. Kīrtanānanda wrote back to New York:

In Delhi Prabhupāda had received a letter from Brahmānanda saying that the Macmillan Company was definitely interested in publishing the Bhagavad-gītā. In Vṛndāvana Prabhupāda wrote Brahmānanda to sign a contract at once on his behalf. Prabhupāda had been considering whether to print privately in Japan or India or to wait for Macmillan. He wasn’t concerned with the prestige and financial advantages of publishing through Macmillan; his first concern was to print as quickly as possible.

Temperatures rose to more than 110 degrees, and Prabhupāda and Kīrtanānanda had to stay inside with the doors shut and the overhead fan on. Although Kīrtanānanda could barely perform his duties, Prabhupāda found the heat bracing and said that it was restoring his health. Then, after the first week, the monsoon rains began, and the heat broke.

On August 10 Kīrtanānanda wrote home again.

Kīrtanānanda’s letter gave heart to the devotees back home and confirmed their suspicion: it was not Hinduism, not India – it was Swamiji and chanting Hare Kṛṣṇa that was sustaining their spiritual life.

Brahmānanda wrote from New York asking for an explanation of why Swamiji, a pure devotee, was suffering serious illness. Swamiji had explained that conditioned souls and even beginning devotees are “attacked by māyā.” But was Swamiji also being attacked by māyā? On August 14 Śrīla Prabhupāda replied.

Śrīla Prabhupāda envisioned an American House, a place where resident disciples could study Sanskrit and Vaiṣṇava literature in Vṛndāvana. When he had suffered his stroke he had said that Rāya Rāma should finish the translation of the Bhāgavatams. He had also requested Acyutānanda, Gaurasundara, and others to learn Sanskrit, Bengali, and Hindi so that if he did not recover they could carry on his work. And he hoped that some of his leading men, like Brahmānanda, Hayagrīva, and Rāya Rāma, would come to India, obtain property, and establish his American House. “Even if I am well,” he wrote on September 9, “it is not possible for me to look after the affairs of the American House.”

Prabhupāda decided to ask one of his Godbrothers, Swami B. H. Bon Mahārāja, to accommodate some students from America at his Institute of Oriental Philosophy. Swami Bon Mahārāja’s institute was a provincial college of about three hundred students, located in Vṛndāvana and affiliated with Agra University. It was what is known in India as a “degree college,” an institution geared toward improving the economic condition of its graduates by making them eligible for better jobs.

When Śrīla Prabhupāda and Kīrtanānanda visited Swami Bon Mahārāja at the Institute of Oriental Philosophy, Swami Bon received them in a clean parlor furnished with chairs, couches, and a radio. Swami Bon, wearing leather slippers, shorts visible through his thin dhotī, and an ironed shirt with brass studs, appeared suave and sophisticated – an educated man with straight, neatly parted graying hair. Although a resident of Vṛndāvana, in the 1930s he had spent several years in England, where he had been received by members of the royal family and had lectured at a number of colleges. But he had aroused no lasting interest. When Prabhupāda had been struggling alone in New York in 1965, he had written to Swami Bon asking for help. But Swami Bon had not responded. Even now, as Prabhupāda told him of the work in America, Bon Mahārāja didn’t have much to say. But he was interested in the prospect of Americans coming to live and study at his institute; foreign students would enhance the prestige of the institute in the eyes of the government. He said the students could possibly be accommodated free of charge.

Encouraged by the meeting with Bon Mahārāja, Prabhupāda wrote several letters to his disciples, inviting them to come and study Sanskrit.

On Janmāṣṭamī day, August 28, Śrīla Prabhupāda awarded the order of sannyāsa to Kīrtanānanda in a ceremony in the Rādhā-Dāmodara temple. Kīrtanānanda thus became Śrīla Prabhupāda’s first disciple to become a sannyāsī: Kīrtanānanda Swami. During the initiation hundreds of visitors were present observing the birthday of Lord Kṛṣṇa, and many of them came by to congratulate the young sannyāsī. Someone said he looked like Lord Caitanya. Śrīla Prabhupāda wrote,

Acyutānanda walked into Prabhupāda’s room and fell prostrate at his feet. “Oh,” Prabhupāda said, “you are here.” When Acyutānanda looked up he saw that Swamiji had a five-day beard and was wearing only one piece of cloth, wrapped around his waist from behind, crossed over his chest, and tied behind his neck. Prabhupāda smiled, apparently in good health.

Kīrtanānanda Swami also greeted Acyutānanda and showed him his new daṇḍa.

For Acyutānanda, the most wonderful thing about Swamiji in Vṛndāvana was the simplicity of his life. Although in New York Swamiji had worn simple robes, he had always been regal, a guru. But here he lived very simply and humbly. Once when he sat down on the veranda outside his room to wash his hands, his body instantly became covered with flies. Kīrtanānanda and Acyutānanda were always being bothered by the flies – this was the rainy season – but Prabhupāda scarcely noticed them and sat quietly washing his hands.

Kīrtanānanda and Acyutānanda agreed that Swamiji wasn’t just another Vṛndāvana bābājī. There was no one else like him. Certainly Gaurachand Goswami, proprietor of the Rādhā-Dāmodara temple, wasn’t like Swamiji. He wore thick glasses and could barely see, and when Kīrtanānanda and Acyutānanda went before the Deities in the temple, Gaurachand Goswami asked them loudly, “So how do you like ’em? Which one do you like the best?”

“I like them all,” said Acyutānanda.

“I like that big one on the end there,” said the priest, pointing in an offhand manner at the Deity of Kṛṣṇa. “It looks a bit like General Choudry.” The Swami’s boys exchanged looks – what kind of guys are these? – and went back to Swamiji for an explanation.

“They are caste gosvāmīs,” Prabhupāda explained. The original gosvāmīs, such as Jīva Gosvāmī, who established the Rādhā-Dāmodara temple, had engaged householders to worship the Deities. And these caste gosvāmīs were descendants of those first householder pūjārīs. Prabhupāda explained that the caste gosvāmīs were the proprietors of the temples and that they maintained the temples and ran the Deity worship as a business to support their families. Several years ago each of the Deities now on the altar had had His own temple, land, income, and priests. But for economy the gosvāmīs had sold the property, reduced the opulence of the worship, and amalgamated the Deities.

There were many other interesting characters: the old widow Sarajini, with bald head and śikhā and callused bare feet, who slept in a room by the gate of the temple and swept Swamiji’s kitchen and washed his clothes; Pancudas Goswami, the temple proprietor’s son, who always chewed pān and went around sleepy-eyed in a silk dhotī with a red-embroidered border; the dark old bābājī who came at night, who was constantly laughing, and who made sandalwood paste for Swamiji; the local herbal doctor, Vanamali Kaviraja, who presided, brightly smiling, from behind a desk in a tiny chamber filled from ceiling to floor with little bottles; and a famous paṇḍita who visited Swamiji and wore a gold-linked tulasī necklace and diamond rings. All of these persons were devotees, residents of holy Vṛndāvana. But no one was like Swamiji.

Kīrtanānanda Swami even became disappointed that no one else in Vṛndāvana was like Swamiji. In the land where everyone was an Indian and everyone was a devotee, Swamiji was still unique. No one else was so simple, so grave, so able to penetrate through falsity, so attractive to the heart, or so absolutely attached to Kṛṣṇa. No one else could lead them.

Śrīla Prabhupāda, accompanied by his two disciples, again visited Swami Bon. Riding to Swami Bon’s institute by ricksha, Prabhupāda told Acyutānanda that Swami Bon had started the institute as an academy of Vaiṣṇava studies but had affiliated with Agra University because the institute had not been bringing in any money. Now Swami Bon had money, but the institute had become an ordinary school, devoid of spiritual value.

As Śrīla Prabhupāda and his disciples sat in Swami Bon’s parlor, Bon Mahārāja made it clear that although he would not donate land for Prabhupāda’s American House, Prabhupāda’s students could come and study at his institution. Acyutānanda, he suggested, could be the first one.

Swami Bon then took them to the main building to visit a class in session. Instead of seeing paṇḍitas and brahmacārīs studying Sanskrit, as they had expected, Prabhupāda’s disciples saw boys with thin mustaches and giggling girls. Prabhupāda lectured and then asked Kīrtanānanda to play the Hare Kṛṣṇa record. After a few minutes, Bon Mahārāja told Kīrtanānanda to stop the record, but Kīrtanānanda, seeing Swamiji enjoying the record, let it play.

Acyutānanda: We walked around the place, and I thought, “This is just a mundane school. I don’t want to go here. If I could learn Sanskrit and live at the Rādhā-Dāmodara temple, then I could have a nice time in India.”

They continued their tour of the facilities, and after seeing the dormitory Prabhupāda doubted whether his American disciples could endure the austerity and the academic studies. It seemed that one of the two boys was always sick. First Kīrtanānanda Swami had gotten dysentery, then something had been wrong with Acyutānanda’s stomach, then they had both been exhausted from the heat. “On the whole,” Śrīla Prabhupāda wrote to Rūpānuga in New York, “the American boys who come here become first depressed, so I do not know how far our American House in Vrindaban will be successful.” His boys were not particularly studious or austere. Besides, both Kīrtanānanda Swami and Acyutānanda had developed a definite dislike for the rector of the Institute of Oriental Philosophy. And Śrīla Prabhupāda obviously had reservations about the place. “You can go and study there,” Prabhupāda told them, “but don’t live there. Live at the Rādhā-Dāmodara temple and go. You can get a bicycle and go there.”

Gradually, the idea of immediately acquiring an American House in Vṛndāvana began to dwindle. Prabhupāda needed his own place for his disciples, and that would take time.

With regular medication, massages, rest, and the heat of Vṛndāvana, Prabhupāda felt himself recovering. By mid-September he declared himself ninety percent fit to return to the United States. He predicted that he would be back there by the end of October.

B. R. Śrīdhara Mahārāja, Prabhupāda’s Godbrother, whose āśrama was in Navadvīpa, West Bengal, wrote to invite Prabhupāda to spend the month of Kārttika with him at the āśrama and join him for his Vyāsa-pūjā celebration. Śrīla Prabhupāda liked the idea of going to the holy land of Navadvīpa, where Lord Caitanya had spent His early years, and seeing his Godbrother. He also wanted to visit Delhi again and inquire about printing his books.

“Swamiji,” Acyutānanda asked, “when you go to Navadvīpa am I supposed to stay here in Vṛndāvana and study?”

“Don’t you want to see the birthplace of Lord Caitanya?” Prabhupāda asked.

Acyutānanda did, and Prabhupāda, Kīrtanānanda Swami, and Acyutānanda left Vṛndāvana together and returned to the Chippiwada temple in Delhi.

“Do they eat snakes?” Acyutānanda asked.

“They eat snakes,” said Śrīla Prabhupāda, “they eat garbage, they eat anything.” Prabhupāda, who regarded the heat, the lack of water, and even the mongoose as normal, was undisturbed. Several young Indian musicians in the adjacent room regularly played cinema music on their electric organ, bongo drums, and electric guitars, rehearsing for a dance. Prabhupāda tolerated it.

The Gaurī-Śaṅkara temple was on Chandi Chowk. After a short walk through some of the busiest, most congested streets of Old Delhi, Prabhupāda and Acyutānanda removed their shoes at the door and entered the temple. The main deity was Lord Śiva, but there were many others: Rāma, Durgā, Kālī, Rādhā-Kṛṣṇa, Hanumān. The crowds stood before the elaborate altars, viewing and petitioning the various deities.

Acyutānanda had learned about demigod worship from Prabhupāda at 26 Second Avenue. According to Bhagavad-gītā, demigods fulfill only material desires and are therefore worshiped by the less intelligent. A Vaiṣṇava, Prabhupāda had said, respects the demigods – in fact, he respects all living beings, even the ant – but he worships only the Supreme Personality of Godhead, Kṛṣṇa, or Viṣṇu.

Acyutānanda had already seen firsthand that impersonalists were misleading Indians to disavow the personal form of God and accept all methods of worship as equal. Most Indians had no clear understanding of Bhagavad-gītā or Kṛṣṇa. Acyutānanda kept this in mind as Prabhupāda led him in bowing down before a few of the demigods’ altars. Then Prabhupāda brought him before the Deity of Rādhā-Kṛṣṇa. “Just see,” Prabhupāda said, “Kṛṣṇa is just playing His flute. As for the demigods, someone is holding bows and arrows, someone is holding clubs, someone is holding weapons, but Rādhā and Kṛṣṇa are just dancing, and Kṛṣṇa is holding a flute. So He is the Supreme Lord.”

In one large room a heavyset man with a great white beard and wearing flower garlands sat on several pillows. Many people stood staring at him. He reminded Acyutānanda of Santa Claus. “Swamiji, who is that?” Acyutānanda asked.

“Some yogī,” Prabhupāda replied indifferently.

The main lecture hall had a large painting of Lord Śiva on the wall and was crowded with people – women in colored sārīs and many of the men in bright turbans. Amid such a welter of rituals and worshipers, Acyutānanda felt protected by Swamiji. They sat on the dais, and Sri Krishna Pandit introduced his friend Bhaktivedanta Swami to the crowd. Śrīla Prabhupāda spoke in Hindi for about an hour.

Walking back to Chippiwada, Acyutānanda wondered why Swamiji had gone to speak at a place with such hodgepodge worship. But without his asking, it occurred to him that Swamiji was willing to speak about Kṛṣṇa anywhere to anyone. Hadn’t he come to New York City? And what could be a more hodgepodge place than New York’s Lower East Side?

Prabhupāda said, “No.”

“Is he a swami?”

Prabhupāda said, “No.”

“Is he one of your relatives?”

“No.”

“Well, who was he?”

“He’s my friend!” Prabhupāda answered emphatically.

Chandrashekhar had known Prabhupāda for several years and was supposed to have been his secretary. But he was a drunkard. Prabhupāda suspected him of having stolen from his mailbox more than two thousand rupees during the past two years. Prabhupāda’s Chippiwada address was listed in his magazines and books, and people had been sending money for books and Back to Godhead subscriptions. Even in the past two months, Prabhupāda’s disciples had written that they were enclosing money in their letters, but Prabhupāda never found any. One day he caught sight of Chandrashekhar in the building and asked him, “Where is my mailbox key?”

“I believe you have it,” Chandrashekhar replied. “Or maybe Sri Krishna Pandit has it.” Chandrashekhar was drunk.

“Swamiji,” Acyutānanda said angrily, “maybe we should make a police case.”

Prabhupāda shook his head, “No.”

“Well,” Acyutānanda said, “if he’s not punished by the law, then in his next birth Kṛṣṇa will punish him.”

“That’s true,” Prabhupāda agreed. Chandrashekhar looked fearfully from Prabhupāda to his American disciple.

“Then there’s only one thing to do,” Acyutānanda said. “Shall I call the police?”

“No,” said Prabhupāda, “I forgive him.” Yet only a few days later Prabhupāda’s record player disappeared, and Prabhupāda suspected the drunkard, Chandrashekhar.

Prabhupāda went straight to the manager and complained. “Do you think,” Prabhupāda said, “because I am a sādhu I am to be regarded as a beggar?” Prabhupāda told the man of his organization in America and his account in the Bank of Baroda. The manager apologized and reprimanded the guard.

Śrīla Prabhupāda visited the wealthy Delhi industrialist Mr. Seth Dalmia to discuss plans for printing some of his books in India. Mr. Dalmia received him well but gave only vague promises of help. Prabhupāda also met with Hitsaran Sharma, Mr. Dalmia’s secretary, who worked closely with Hanuman Prasad Poddar of the popular religious publishing company Gita Press. Śrīla Prabhupāda was already acquainted with all three gentlemen, since they had all donated toward his first volume of Śrīmad-Bhāgavatam. Prabhupāda wanted Gita Press to publish his Gītopaniṣad and Śrīmad-Bhāgavatam. Hitsaran Sharma showed him an illustrated Gītā in Hindi poetry that he had recently published. “But my Gītā, my Bhāgavatam,” said Śrīla Prabhupāda, appearing disgusted, “is the description of God. It is the description of Kṛṣṇa.” Mr. Sharma said he couldn’t see how Gita Press could print Prabhupāda’s voluminous writings. Nevertheless, Prabhupāda still considered privately printing Gītopaniṣad, with Mr. Sharma as his agent.

On October 11, Prabhupāda wrote to Brahmānanda,

Devotees from America were regularly writing Swamiji, anxious to see him again in good health. But he didn’t want to leave India, he explained, until he personally saw that the printing of his Gītopaniṣad was under way. Printing Gītopaniṣad and obtaining approval for permanent residency in the U.S. were the two short-term goals he wished to achieve before returning. But he thought often of his return to America.

Śrīla Prabhupāda’s vision of a worldwide society of devotees preaching in temples and publishing books – a vision he had had even before he had gone to America – was now becoming manifest. But it was dependent on him. In his absence his disciples were sustained only by carrying out his orders and receiving his letters. When Dayānanda and Nandarāṇī had gone from the San Francisco temple to start a temple in Los Angeles, it had been Swamiji’s instructions that had sustained and guided them: “Wherever there is a new branch of our society for Krishna Consciousness I become very very happy. And my blessings in heart and soul are with you.” On receipt of Swamiji’s letter, they knew they had done the right thing. No matter that husband and wife sometimes quarreled and that there wasn’t enough money – the main thing was that Swamiji was pleased.

From Boston, Satsvarūpa wrote that he and the other devotees there were moving from an apartment to a rented storefront near Boston University. The first time Satsvarūpa entered the new storefront, he found on the floor an aerogram from Swamiji, dated October 6 from Delhi.

The letter was as good as Swamiji coming personally to open the storefront and begin the preaching. It gave Satsvarūpa full direction and inspiration. And it was personal. In that same letter, Prabhupāda had written:

In New Mexico, Subala was trying to arrange public speaking engagements for Prabhupāda’s return, and Prabhupāda was encouraging him: “If you think I can be on television by the first week in December, then you can arrange for it because I must be in your country by the middle of November.”

Śrīla Prabhupāda wrote to Janārdana in Montreal answering his philosophical doubts and encouraging him to be patient with his spiritually reluctant wife. And to Rāya Rāma, who was editing Back to Godhead magazine in New York, he gave another kind of thoughtful assurance.

On October 9, the day Prabhupāda started for Calcutta, he left behind a different kind of letter for Sri Krishna Pandit. Prabhupāda had been negotiating with Sri Krishna Pandit to purchase the Chippiwada temple for ISKCON or at least to rent the single room through a formal contract. Prabhupāda wanted the room as a Delhi headquarters for printing his books. On the day of his departure, however, Sri Krishna Pandit was unavailable, and Prabhupāda left him a short handwritten note.