CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

Boston
May 1968

THE APARTMENT WAS near the elevated train line in a rough lower-class neighborhood of Boston. But it was the best Satsvarūpa could afford. Just before Śrīla Prabhupāda had left for India on July 24, 1967, he had sent Satsvarūpa here to Boston, affectionately rubbing his hand up and down Satsvarūpa’s back as a blessing.

At first Satsvarūpa had been alone, working full time at the Welfare Department, hoping to find a storefront suitable for a center. Then Haṁsadūta and his wife, Himavatī, had joined him, as had Jadurāṇī, who had been having difficulty doing her artwork in the New York temple. Haṁsadūta cooked, Himavatī helped him and did the housecleaning, Jadurāṇī painted, and Satsvarūpa went to his job. On Sundays they would chant on the Boston Common.

In September Śrīla Prabhupāda wrote from Vṛndāvana, expressing pleasure that even in his absence his disciples had opened a Kṛṣṇa consciousness center in Boston. “Physically I may be present or not,” he wrote, “but the work must continue … . Kindly make the Boston center very nice.” He closed, “The prospect there is very good due to the large number of students.”

The Boston devotees considered Prabhupāda’s letter very important, and as they studied and quoted the letter, it strengthened their convictions. While cooking, Haṁsadūta would think about what Prabhupāda had said in his letter; Satsvarūpa would meditate on the letter while riding to work on the train and chanting on his beads; and the women, who sometimes quarreled – usually about why Jadurāṇī didn’t keep her room clean – would improve the quality of their conversation by referring to Prabhupāda’s recent letter.

After a couple of months in Boston, Satsvarūpa found a tiny storefront for rent. Even before he was able to get a key and see inside, he wrote Prabhupāda about the little storefront situated among student apartment buildings near Boston University.

When Satsvarūpa had gained entrance to the storefront for the first time, he had come alone and had checked out the bare front room, the basement, and the oil burner. Just as he was about to leave, however, he spotted a blue aerogram on the floor. Although it lay only a few feet from the door, he hadn’t noticed it on entering. Picking the aerogram up, he saw that it was from Swamiji in Calcutta. It was as if Swamiji were there to greet him – a miracle!

As Satsvarūpa tore open the blue aerogram, he considered how it had traveled from hand to hand, originating with Swamiji in his room in Calcutta, and had flown to America, mixed in with thousands of other letters in a large mail bag, and had been separated and brought here to a building where no one lived. Yet the mailman had put it through the chute, and it had glided a few feet and landed on the floor, where it had sat for days. This was, of course, no more than the miracle of the postal service. But what the postman could not have possibly appreciated was that so much was being carried in that lightweight aerogram. Sitting on the window shelf, Satsvarūpa read Swamiji’s words.

Satsvarūpa took the letter as confirmation that they should take this building. But as there was little space and no hot water, and as Himavatī was pregnant, Haṁsadūta decided to move with his wife to the Montreal temple. At the same time, however, another disciple, Pradyumna, moved to Boston. So Satsvarūpa, Jadurāṇī, and Pradyumna moved into the little storefront.

A famous Sanskrit professor, in his cubbyhole within the Widener Library, gave half an hour to hearing from Satsvarūpa about the swami and talking to him about the Vedas. But the professor was unable to sign a letter requesting that the swami come to America.

Finally, after several days at Harvard, Satsvarūpa managed to reserve a hall in a fraternity house for a single evening in November. The most difficult part was to persuade the house clerk to type a letter on the fraternity’s letterhead acknowledging that Swami Bhaktivedanta would lecture at the hall for one night in November. Although it was only a tiny victory, Satsvarūpa was pleased nevertheless. He sent the “Harvard” letter to Swamiji, who gratefully acknowledged it but added that an appointment as lecturer would have been better.

November came, and Swamiji was still in India. So Satsvarūpa, Pradyumna, and Jadurāṇī attended the engagement themselves, handling lively debates with the students. The Harvard Crimson printed a picture of the devotees, describing them as prophets. Śrīla Prabhupāda said he liked that in his absence his disciples were acting as prophets of Kṛṣṇa consciousness.

One night about two weeks before Prabhupāda left India for San Francisco, Satsvarūpa dreamed that Swamiji had already come to Boston. When he wrote Prabhupāda about this, Prabhupāda replied,

On December 14, 1967, Śrīla Prabhupāda arrived in San Francisco. The next day a devotee there phoned the devotees in Boston and told them details of Swamiji’s arrival. He said he might even be able to arrange for Swamiji to speak to them on the phone; at least he would try.

Then one night the phone rang in the Boston storefront … and it was Swamiji! Jadurāṇī, who answered, said she had heard that Swamiji had looked very healthy at the airport and that he had been walking quickly and was tanned from the sun. When Prabhupāda mentioned that he had traveled all the way from India by himself, Jadurāṇī corrected, “But Kṛṣṇa was with you.” Satsvarūpa was next. “Swamiji,” he began, “we miss you very much.” And Prabhupāda replied, “Yes, and I am hearing you also.” Then Pradyumna spoke to Prabhupāda, explaining how he was trying to advertise Śrīmad-Bhāgavatam.

Afterwards, each devotee related to the others what Swamiji had said. Each admitted to having said at least one very foolish thing to Swamiji; but they agreed that everything Swamiji had said had been wonderful. Satsvarūpa’s and Pradyumna’s happiness became so great that they couldn’t restrain themselves from rolling on the floor.

On the phone Prabhupāda had said that when he had left America he had had very little hope of returning. But Kṛṣṇa had informed him that he was not going to die immediately, so he had returned. He had said that he was getting inspiration in Kṛṣṇa consciousness from his own disciples, whom he considered to be “good souls.”

Prabhupāda later wrote the Boston devotees from San Francisco.

He told them that although they were only three devotees, they should each work for three hundred. A Kṛṣṇa conscious person, Prabhupāda explained, is never tired of working. Prabhupāda saw this as a symptom of spiritual advancement in his disciples, many of whom never tired of devotional service and always wanted to be overloaded with more and more work.

Since Jadurāṇī didn’t have much art training, her first paintings had been crude, and Prabhupāda had sometimes laughed to see a picture’s defects. But he had been pleased with Jadurāṇī, who chanted Hare Kṛṣṇa while she worked and executed each painting just according to his instructions. If she stayed absorbed in painting, Prabhupāda said, then wherever she lived would be as good as Vṛndāvana.

Prabhupāda wrote to Jadurāṇī, asking her to gather other female disciples interested in art, form an art department, and flood the world with paintings of Kṛṣṇa. The paintings, he said, were like windows to the spiritual world. He instructed her in many of the details of painting.

In depicting the fight between the boar incarnation of Lord Kṛṣṇa and the demon Hiraṇyākṣa, Prabhupāda gave specific instructions.

Eager to improve her art, Jadurāṇī began studying the great masters. But when she painted Nārada Muni after the style of Raphael, Prabhupāda said that Nārada looked too sensuous. He said he preferred her first painting of Nārada, although it had not been much more than a stick figure, because she had carefully tried to follow a print he had given her. Seeing the new sensuous Nārada and hearing of Jadurāṇī’s plans to study art and sell her paintings, Prabhupāda replied critically.

Jadurāṇī became despondent. Feeling like a fool and a deviant disciple, she wrote Prabhupāda only a brief reply. For several days she moped, considering her situation hopeless. Then she received another letter.

Taking heart, Jadurāṇī continued to turn out more new paintings until there was scarcely room enough in the storefront to hang another.

Prabhupāda was pleased with Pradyumna’s work, and this inspired Pradyumna to work more and more. But when Pradyumna sent a list of books he wanted to read to Prabhupāda for his approval, Prabhupāda, although interested in Pradyumna’s scholarship, warned him of the dangers.

When Prabhupāda noticed spelling errors in the Sanskrit words in Back to Godhead magazine, he asked that Pradyumna standardize the Sanskrit transliterations. Pradyumna had the aptitude, and Prabhupāda hoped he would become a successful scholar.

Satsvarūpa’s special assignment was typing and editing Prabhupāda’s Śrīmad-Bhāgavatam dictations. Prabhupāda had first given Satsvarūpa this assignment in New York in 1966, and Satsvarūpa had continued when Prabhupāda had gone to San Francisco early in 1967. Later that same year, when Prabhupāda fell ill and stopped dictating, there had been no more tapes for Satsvarūpa to type. But as soon as Prabhupāda had returned from India, he had again begun translating Śrīmad-Bhāgavatam. He had written Satsvarūpa in Boston, asking him to rent a dictating machine: “As soon as you let me know that you have one dictaphone there, I will send you the tapes regularly.”

By the end of December the tapes had begun arriving at the Boston temple – plastic reels, Grundig dictation tapes, wrapped in a simple business envelope, stapled and addressed in Swamiji’s own hand. First they had come at the rate of one a week, then more quickly – two or three a week. Satsvarūpa had set aside the early morning hours for typing, before going to work, even before the others had risen from bed. He would sit on the kitchen floor listening to Prabhupāda’s voice through earphones and typing. “This is better than getting a letter,” he would think. It was Swamiji himself teaching the philosophy of Kṛṣṇa consciousness.

Satsvarūpa became so attached to his service that his whole existence began to revolve around it. He would feel a pang of love for every U.S. mailman he saw in the city, because it was the mailmen who delivered Swamiji’s tapes.

Although Satsvarūpa considered himself expert in hearing Swamiji’s voice, on one tape there was one word he couldn’t understand. Prabhupāda was describing the demon Hiraṇyākṣa’s birth from Diti, and to Satsvarūpa it sounded like “by the pores of the pregnancy of Diti, the whole universe went dark.” How could Diti’s pregnancy have pores? Prabhupāda wrote back that it was “force,” not “pores.” Prabhupāda wrote, “The best thing will be as soon as you typewrite the tapes send me one copy after editing. I will keep one copy with me, you keep one copy with you.”

Sometimes, while riding on the bus to work, Satsvarūpa would fall asleep and dream of hearing Swamiji’s voice in his ears and himself rapidly typing. It was a very personal service. Prabhupāda had nine tapes, and he wanted to keep track of how many were with Satsvarūpa and how many were on their way back to him. “I have sent one tape this morning,” Prabhupāda wrote. “Probably you are getting it tomorrow. So far I received your edited copy of Śrīmad-Bhāgavatam, and it is nicely done.”

Since the arrival of winter’s snow and ice in Boston, not many people had been coming by the storefront in the evenings. And the devotees were content to stay indoors, working at their respective tasks. Each of them was satisfied that his engagement was perfect.

Prabhupāda had fixed the date of his arrival in Boston for May 1, and he asked Satsvarūpa to begin arranging lectures for him in Boston’s many universities. When the devotees sent Prabhupāda a few photographs of the storefront interior, he wrote back, “It gives me a nice idea.” Although the photos showed only a small empty room with an unfinished altar, Prabhupāda had not been looking with the eyes of an interior decorator. Rather, his “nice idea” was that his disciples in Boston were engaging in Kṛṣṇa consciousness to the best of their ability. The important thing was that they were serving Kṛṣṇa. By adding Kṛṣṇa consciousness, anything material could become valuable.

When Pradyumna had to enter the hospital for a hernia operation, Satsvarūpa didn’t know how they would pay for it. Pradyumna’s parents had refused. Having no one else to turn to, Satsvarūpa wrote Prabhupāda, asking him if he could pay the bill. Just as a dependent child, fearful of the world, turns always to his protective parents, Satsvarūpa had faith that Swamiji knew everything and could decide everything. And besides, no one else cared about Pradyumna or how the Boston center for Kṛṣṇa consciousness would pay a five-hundred-dollar hospital bill. Satsvarūpa concluded that if Swamiji thought it wrong for him to ask for the money, then he would tell them that also.

Śrīla Prabhupāda considered the hospital bill a botheration. Why should he have to worry about every item of business in ten different centers around the world? Although he assured Satsvarūpa that if necessary he would send the money for Pradyumna’s bill, he suggested that his disciples form a governing board to manage such problems. His growing institution had to be properly managed – and not entirely by him. He should be left to carry on the duties proper for the spiritual master, not that he should have to be simultaneously treasurer, chairman, troubleshooter, and counselor for each problem of each devotee in each center. And yet that was happening as he accepted more disciples. They were turning to him for everything: medical advice, marriage counseling, financial assistance, as well as transcendental knowledge. Prabhupāda said it gave him a headache.

After Pradyumna’s successful surgery, Prabhupāda wrote, congratulating him.

As the time grew nearer for Prabhupāda’s arrival, Satsvarūpa, Pradyumna, and Jadurāṇī arranged for his living accommodation. When they wrote to Prabhupāda in New York candidly telling him what they had and asking if it was good enough, he replied that he didn’t mind walking the nine blocks from the storefront to the house as long as there were no hills. And he didn’t mind how many devotees stayed with him at the apartment, but he must have a separate, silent place. As for college lecture engagements, he said whether they were big or small, he was always “prepared to serve.” “Probably you are making fine arrangements,” he wrote. “Many will come to the temple to hear me. So in that case I must come.”

May 1, 1968
  The first devotee to meet Prabhupāda in Boston was Jadurāṇī, walking forward at the airport with a flower garland for her spiritual master. As they rode in the taxi together back to the temple, Prabhupāda asked Jadurāṇī about her painting. She complained that in preparing for his visit she had had to sew material for the altar, put up curtains, and make posters and post them all over the city – because the men in the temple were working at their office jobs. Consequently, she hadn’t been able to do her real service of painting. “Don’t worry,” Prabhupāda said, “I won’t stay long.”

The taxi stopped at Prabhupāda’s house on Chester Street. It was a two-story building, the first floor being Prabhupāda’s apartment. Upstairs were some Boston University students, who had agreed to play their music softly while the swami was visiting; their motorcycles were parked beside the house. Walking slowly up the wooden stairs and across the front porch, Prabhupāda entered his apartment. Prabhupāda found Satsvarūpa in the kitchen, standing over the stove, cooking. Satsvarūpa offered obeisances and immediately returned to his cooking, apologizing that he hadn’t been able to meet Swamiji at the airport. He had three burners going at once, and he appeared both very happy and very nervous.

“What are you cooking?” Prabhupāda asked.

“Sweetrice, halavā, purīs, and a vegetable,” Satsvarūpa replied, stirring the sweet rice and watching over the other preparations as he spoke. It was more like the Sunday feast than Swamiji’s daily fare of rice, dāl, and capātīs. But these rich dishes were all Satsvarūpa knew how to cook.

Prabhupāda smiled. Looking around the kitchen, he saw against the window a poster: “The Spiritual Master of the Holy Name is Coming to Boston.” It was a photo of Swamiji with a list of speaking engagements at various universities. As Prabhupāda read it his face brightened. “You have given me a full month’s engagement!” he said. Then he walked leisurely out of the kitchen, leaving Satsvarūpa anxiously trying to hurry lunch without burning anything.

Prabhupāda entered his room and took a seat at the low desk, leaning his back against the pillow. “Why don’t you take some rest now?” Jadurāṇī suggested.

“I rested on the plane,” Prabhupāda replied.

“Well,” Jadurāṇī persisted, “you could rest some more.”

Prabhupāda turned his head slightly away from her and said softly, “I am not meant for resting all day and night.”

Prabhupāda asked to see Satsvarūpa. Gaurasundara went to fetch him but returned saying that Satsvarūpa couldn’t come; he was too busy cooking.

When Prabhupāda’s lunch finally arrived, the devotees in his room excused themselves and left Prabhupāda alone. Most of the devotees – including several guests and visitors from New York – having stayed up all night preparing Swamiji’s apartment, fell asleep on the floor in various rooms throughout the apartment. Prabhupāda could hear their snoring, and after finishing his lunch he went out and looked from room to room without waking anyone. In the living room, he sat down on the couch, and soon the devotees awoke and joined him.

Prabhupāda began talking about Kṛṣṇa in Vṛndāvana. “Vṛndāvana,” he said, “is the kingdom of Rādhārāṇī. In Vṛndāvana, if someone wanted to visit me” – he looked behind him down the long hallway toward the door at the rear of the apartment – “they would call ‘Jaya Rādhe!’ ” Prabhupāda called out loudly, as if he were a visitor at the back door. “And I would call back” – he looked again toward the rear door – “ ‘Jaya Rādhe!’ Kṛṣṇa is very strict, and Rādhā is very nice. A woman, unless she is unnatural, is very soft-hearted and very kindhearted. And Rādhārāṇī is not unnatural.”

Later Jadurāṇī apologized to Swamiji for foolishly complaining to him in the car. He had said to her, “Don’t worry, I won’t stay long,” but actually she wanted him to stay permanently. She didn’t want him to think that his presence was an inconvenience. She had complained because she was in anxiety about neglecting the service that Prabhupāda had directly given to her. Whenever Satsvarūpa gave her service to do other than painting, she would become confused about the priority. Prabhupāda heard her patiently, clearly understanding the heart of her inquiry. “The direct order of the spiritual master,” he said, “is the most important thing to do, except in an emergency.”

At the entranceway to one of the main buildings was a large bronze statue of a dog, a husky, Northeastern’s mascot. Prabhupāda became amused. Some of the older disciples knew that Swamiji was sarcastically humorous about Americans’ attachment to their dogs. Because now people have no interest in God, he would say, therefore they have become devoted to dog. Instead of worshiping G-O-D, materialistic people had become enamored with D-O-G and considered him man’s best friend. Some of Prabhupāda’s disciples had told him strange stories of how Americans pampered their dogs so much that dogs sometimes sit at the dinner table with their masters or receive their master’s property through the master’s will. Pausing silently, regarding the almost deified form of the dog, Prabhupāda scored an unspoken criticism of Western values.

About two hundred students and a few teachers crowded into the pews of the small chapel. While Prabhupāda sat cross-legged on a cloth-covered table, Satsvarūpa led the kīrtana, playing on a one-headed drum.

After the kīrtana, Prabhupāda leaned forward to the microphone: “Thank you for giving me this opportunity to glorify the Supreme Personality of Godhead.” And he began to lecture about the three aspects of the Absolute Truth, which he compared to the three aspects of the sun: the sunshine, the sun globe, and the sun-god. Although the Absolute Truth is one, some persons see Him as impersonal, all-pervading light; some see Him as the localized Supersoul in the heart of all beings; and some see Him as Bhagavān, the Supreme Personality of Godhead. Prabhupāda’s talk was very philosophical.

Digressing, Prabhupāda began talking more about the sun. He said that on the sun there was a presiding deity, Vivasvān. “You can’t disbelieve it,” Prabhupāda said. And he quoted the Mahābhārata that on the sun are living entities with bodies of fire. Just as certain living entities have bodies adapted to living in water, so there are living entities that live in fire.

The big noonday crowd listened politely. Prabhupāda concluded his half-hour lecture by explaining God, the Supreme Being, as the origin of the material (external) and spiritual (internal) energies. We living entities, although spiritual, have marginal position; all of us in this material world are covered by the external energy. The prayer of “Hare Kṛṣṇa” means, “O my dear Lord, I am Your part and parcel eternally, but some way or other I have fallen in this ignorance of material energy. Kindly lift me up to the spiritual energy.”

Although Prabhupāda invited the audience to stay afterward and speak with his disciples, when the bell rang, the lecture abruptly ended, and most of the students immediately left the chapel to make room for the next group of students. It was the academic factory; class was over, and Swamiji and his followers should now leave.

As Prabhupāda was walking down the hall, the wife of one of the college administrators joined him, walking at his side and chatting pleasantly and effusively, assuring him that everyone at the university was very glad he had come. She walked with him to the door and then shook his hand. Turning to Satsvarūpa, she exclaimed that everything had gone beautifully, that Swamiji had spoken wonderfully, and that she would send the hundred-dollar honorarium in the mail. Feeling excited and successful, the devotees accompanied Prabhupāda to the car. Riding back to his house, Prabhupāda agreed it had been a successful engagement.

The Boston University engagement in spacious Marsh Chapel was poorly attended. Despite thousands of students riding the trolleys and going in and out of the luncheonettes and big gray buildings that lined both sides of Commonwealth Avenue for blocks, only half a dozen came to Marsh Chapel to hear Swamiji. The devotees, pained and embarrassed, criticized Satsvarūpa for the turnout. Even the onstage arrangements were poor, with Prabhupāda seated on a too-high, rickety table.

Yet without hesitation, Prabhupāda held a full program, beginning with a kīrtana that lasted almost an hour. He requested Brahmānanda, visiting from New York, to give an introductory speech. Then Prabhupāda spoke, his voice reverberating over the sound system throughout the cavernous empty chapel.

After the lecture, Prabhupāda called for questions. A boy, standing at his seat and shouting to make himself heard, asked, “Is this advaita philosophy?” A challenge. The devotees could tell that this student had come with his own ideas about yoga and “advaita.”

“Do you know what is advaita philosophy?” Prabhupāda asked.

“All is One,” the boy replied. “Just as the rivers enter into the ocean, so we all enter into the Ultimate Oneness.”

Śrīla Prabhupāda replied that although the river goes to the ocean, its place in the ocean is not permanent. Again that water evaporates into the sky, forms clouds, and falls back onto the land. To argue that spiritually everything becomes one as the rivers go to the ocean, then the boy would have to accept the actual conclusion: the water again falls back onto the land. Similarly, those spirit souls who try to merge into the Absolute must again fall back into the material world. Prabhupāda thoroughly defeated the impersonal notion of oneness. The boy sat down silent. There were no other questions.

Talking with his disciples afterwards, Prabhupāda said sarcastically, “People today do not even know how to ask a good question. These impersonalists always ask the same hackneyed question about the river going into the ocean.”

On the way back to the temple, some of the devotees continued to grumble about Swamiji’s having to go to an engagement with such a poor turnout. Brahmānanda warned Satsvarūpa that the next engagement had better not be like this one.

Although it was time for the lecture to begin, the devotees had still not arrived with the paraphernalia. There was no flower garland for Prabhupāda, no painting of Kṛṣṇa, and no sign with the mahā-mantra. The audience waited.

In anxiety, Satsvarūpa asked Prabhupāda, “Can you begin without the painting?” Looking at the large, momentous gathering, Śrīla Prabhupāda said simply, “Painting is not important.” He sat on the plain wooden platform and, since the musical instruments had not arrived, asked one of the devotees to play the Hare Kṛṣṇa album. Prabhupāda sat clapping his hands in time and listening.

Prabhupāda spoke boldly, challenging the very concepts underlying MIT. Where in this big university, he asked, is a department for studying the technology of the soul, for understanding that principle which distinguishes a living body from a dead body, that principle which when present in the body gives life and when absent brings death? Where is the science to study this all-important principle of life? Although scientists consider life to be merely chemicals or electric impulses, he argued, still they are unable to assemble the chemicals and produce life. Why? There is no department in this university for answering this question, and therefore people are in ignorance. They don’t know the self or the next life or the purpose of human life beyond animal activities. This science, however, is taught in the Bhagavad-gītā.

After the lecture there were many questions. “What is the symbolism,” one student asked, “of that object behind you on the stage?” Prabhupāda turned and beheld a bare U-shaped metal stand – compliments of the janitor – for holding the painting of Kṛṣṇa that never arrived.

“This?” Prabhupāda frowned. “I do not know what this is. This is some kind of technological symbol.”

Another student asked, “Why do you wear that marking on your forehead?”

“Why do you wear that necktie around your neck?” Prabhupāda snapped back, annoyed with the question. The student sat down, looking at his necktie, and Prabhupāda explained to him that questions about why people dress a certain way are trivial, especially considering the gravity of the present subject matter.

When the question-and-answer period ended, Satsvarūpa stood and briefly addressed the students, inviting them to attend other college lectures by Śrīla Prabhupāda or to come hear him at the temple. “Wherever a saintly person goes,” Satsvarūpa said, “becomes a tīrtha, or holy place. And now for the month of May, Boston is a tīrtha, so please take advantage of it.”

As Śrīla Prabhupāda was leaving with his disciples, a group of Indian faculty members and students came and stood around him, speaking rapidly, challenging him. One student, espousing the philosophy of monism, asserted that the highest expression of the Absolute Truth was that “All is One.” Prabhupāda tried to make him understand that simply oneness was a rudimentary idea, because from that “one” come so many variegated manifestations. But the man would not accept defeat, and Prabhupāda became excited arguing with him. Taking the man by the shirt collar, Prabhupāda shouted, “You say everything is one! But is this cotton shirt the same as a cotton ball? Why don’t you wear a cotton ball instead of this shirt?”

The Indian technologists surrounded Prabhupāda, raising their voices and arguing, while Prabhupāda’s disciples looked on anxiously. Govinda dāsī warned the devotees about Swamiji’s health, and Brahmānanda and the others smoldered at the offensive Indians. This wasn’t the way to speak with a sādhu.

Meanwhile, a devotee reported that Prabhupāda’s car had broken down, and someone ran out into the street to get a taxi. The arguing continued. When a taxi finally arrived, a few disciples pushed through the arguers, insisting, “Swamiji, please, your taxi is waiting. It can’t wait any longer. You have to go.” And they disengaged their spiritual master from the mass of arguing technologists. Prabhupāda considered the evening a success.

Prabhupāda, arriving half an hour later than scheduled, led the audience in kīrtana and began his talk. He praised the Harvard students as fortunate, citing that according to Vedic literature, aristocratic birth, good education, beauty, and wealth are the four chief material opulences. Compared to others in the world, he said, the students at Harvard had all these opulences. If, however, they could increase their good fortune by adding Kṛṣṇa consciousness, then that would be their perfection. For example, gold is certainly very valuable. But if gold were to have a pleasant fragrance, then it would be even more valuable. Similarly, if these materially fortunate persons could add the spiritual fortune of Kṛṣṇa consciousness to their life, then that life would be successful.

After Prabhupāda’s talk, Mr. Matthews thanked him for his discourse on Hindu philosophy. But immediately Prabhupāda interrupted: “Actually, we are not Hindu.” And Prabhupāda explained the universality of Kṛṣṇa consciousness.

As the meeting broke, some interested students came forward for more discussion with Swamiji. One Sanskrit student asked, “How can a brahmacārī be expected to understand the Gīta-govinda, since it deals in so many intricacies of man-woman relationships and love affairs?”

Śrīla Prabhupāda replied, “Only a brahmacārī can understand Gīta-govinda, because it is not about mundane sexuality. It is the highest spiritual technology of Rādhā and Kṛṣṇa.”

Prabhupāda was especially pleased about his Harvard lecture. The next morning Satsvarūpa went to see him with a check for $125 from Harvard. “That was a very good meeting last night,” Prabhupāda said.

It seemed to the devotees accompanying Prabhupāda from one speaking engagement to another that they were the real audience, the ones to whom Prabhupāda was speaking. It was for them that he had come to Boston, more than for the two hundred students who sat in the chapel at Northeastern until the bell rang, or the technologists in the lounge at MIT who left after the lecture for the movies and the bars. Prabhupāda was setting the example of how to preach. It was for them – the ones who would have to carry on the mission in his absence.

From morning until night, Prabhupāda spoke about Kṛṣṇa. Although yogīs sometimes take a vow of silence to avoid useless, frivolous talk, he said, one who knows Kṛṣṇa wants to speak twenty-four hours a day. “When you love God, you want to tell others about Him. And automatically you write volumes and volumes of books.”

Of course, many times in the day Prabhupāda was actually silent, alone in his room. But that “silence” was also Kṛṣṇa conscious. Sometimes Govinda dāsī would peek in and find him reading the Sanskrit Bhāgavatam commentaries, chanting on his beads, or dozing briefly at his desk after lunch. Sometimes he would sing verses from Caitanya-caritāmṛta or walk around the apartment with his hand in his bead bag, chanting to himself and observing his assistants.

Govinda dāsī: In Boston Swamiji would sing for hours from Caitanya-caritāmṛta or Śrīmad-Bhāgavatam – just singing with the most feeling all by himself in his room. And I would peek in the keyhole to see how he was. Sometimes I would go in and check on him when he would pause. I would try not to disturb him – “Just checking.” I would just go in to see if he needed anything. Sometimes I would peek in and simply think, “Who is he? Nobody knows who he really is or where he really came from or how great he really is.” Especially in Boston I began to feel very strongly that he was such a great personality and that I was viewing only a very, very minute glimpse of him, and that actually much, much more was going on than I could realize.

A devotee might go in to ask Swamiji what he wanted for lunch or to check on his travel schedule or to get advice on some business item, but the talk would almost invariably turn to Kṛṣṇa conscious philosophy once matters at hand had been dealt with. What Swamiji wanted for lunch might bring him to talk about what Kṛṣṇa liked for lunch, or how great devotees went without eating, or how the modern-day civilization was demoniac for killing helpless cows. And whoever entered Prabhupāda’s room might find himself being pressed to argue against the existence of God and then be defeated by Prabhupāda. Or Prabhupāda might start talking – even to a disciple who came to replace a burned-out bulb – about how he wanted to one day introduce the Kṛṣṇa conscious social order, varṇāśrama-dharma, all over the world.

Sometimes a lone devotee sitting with Prabhupāda as he spoke so profoundly would feel guilty: “If instead of talking just to me he were translating his books, then everyone could benefit. I shouldn’t be taking up his time in this way.” Once Jadurāṇī expressed the sentiment, “Swamiji, maybe you should save your strength for translating.”

“If you love someone,” Prabhupāda replied, raising his head back while looking at Jadurāṇī, “you like to hear him speak.”

More often, however, once a devotee got into Prabhupāda’s room he wouldn’t leave until Govinda dāsī came in, dropping broad hints or pointing to her watch and signalling from the doorway. In fact, the devotees took up so much of Prabhupāda’s time that Gaurasundara and Govinda dāsī complained to Satsvarūpa. Swamiji was being disturbed more in Boston than he had been in any other place, they said, and he was getting very little translating done. Alarmed that Boston was becoming inconvenient for Swamiji, Satsvarūpa agreed to restrict devotees from seeing Prabhupāda in his room. He informed the devotees that they could accompany Prabhupāda on his walk, but that they should not follow him back to his house.

Satsvarūpa: Following my instruction the next morning everyone stopped at the bottom of the porch; Swamiji alone walked up the steps to his house. When he got to the top step, he turned around to see us all standing there, and he waved to us, “Come on.” Everyone immediately ran up the stairs and joined him in his room.

Feeling guilty that we were taking up his time, I made an attempt to terminate the discussion in his room. Bowing my head to the floor in a gesture of leaving, I announced to Śrīla Prabhupāda, “We will leave you now and let you do your work.” But Swamiji checked me as presumptuous. “You think I am not working now? Do you think this is not work?” He said, “You do not know what work is. This is also work.” And he talked on.

Śrīla Prabhupāda spoke to eradicate the ignorance of whoever would hear him – whether a crowd of thousands or a single disciple in his room. Although he was especially interested in addressing the younger generation – the older was too biased – the number of listeners wasn’t important. After the first meeting in the temple, when the attendance had dropped, Prabhupāda had said that it didn’t mean he should stop speaking. He gave the example of a university in Calcutta that had kept classes open although only two students had enrolled in one course and only one student in another. And this, Śrīla Prabhupāda said, should certainly be the standard with transcendental education; if only one person learned it, he could do good to many others.

Early one morning as Śrīla Prabhupāda walked through the neighborhood of Allston with Satsvarūpa and Gaurasundara, Satsvarūpa mentioned that a famous swami had recently given a talk at Arlington Street Church, where Prabhupāda was also scheduled to speak. “What does he say?” Prabhupāda asked. Satsvarūpa said that he had heard that the swami had said he was God. Immediately Prabhupāda began to argue, destroying the swami’s alleged claim to be God.

“They say they are God and the dog is God,” Prabhupāda began. As he spoke, Satsvarūpa and Gaurasundara walked beside him, sometimes holding back a low tree branch or watching on Prabhupāda’s behalf for traffic at the street crossings. But mostly they were concentrating on Prabhupāda’s words. Satsvarūpa could understand that Swamiji was expending energy just to instruct him, to equip him to defeat such arguments. He tried to remember every word exactly as Swamiji was speaking it.

“If everyone is God,” Prabhupāda continued, “then why is God worshiped all over the world in temples and churches, and why are these ‘Gods’ shoe-kicking each other? Do they know what God is that they say they are God? Do they have an idea of what God is? God is the controller. Are they controlling the universe? Ask them these questions. Are they omnipotent and omniscient? These are qualities of God. If you are God, do you know what I am thinking? – because God is all-knowing. They should not be allowed to say these things. They should be curbed with these questions.”

Prabhupāda punctuated his talk by sudden stops. He was angry. It was as if he were charging his disciples for allowing this nonsense “I am God” talk to go on unchecked. Why didn’t they stop these rascals? He looked at them with eyes flashing. Were they meeting the challenges of the atheists? They should be. They should be fighting. And these were the arguments they should use. They shouldn’t doubt.

“We understand God is vast,” Prabhupāda continued. “We are similar to Him in quality, but we are infinitesimal. If they are God, then how is it they have come to this doggish state? You may be God, but for the present moment they are not God. They will admit that for the present moment they are not God, but that they will become God in the future. But what kind of God is this? And how have they fallen under illusion? That means illusion is stronger than God – that they have come under illusion. So the God then is māyā, or not God. They may be God, but they are not the paraṁ brahman, the supreme God. We have the definition of God – that He is all-powerful. This swami is not all-powerful. If some poor fellow came to him on the street, he could not stop from getting a beating. And if he got a toothache, he would be ruined as God. God is all-wealthy. This swami is begging for money, and he is God? God is all-knowing. They are not even intelligent. To surrender to Kṛṣṇa is intelligent. They are kicking each other, and they are fallen in the conditioned state. And they say they are God! These questions should be put to them. They cannot answer them.”

Prabhupāda continued his walk through a neighborhood of automobile showrooms, hamburger luncheonettes not yet opened, and bus stops crowded with workers who stared at the elderly Swami passing with his young followers.

“The devotees,” Prabhupāda said, “are more interested in talking about Kṛṣṇa and in chanting His name than in arguing. But because so many godless parties come forward and challenge, a Vaiṣṇava must be able to argue on the basis of śāstra and sound logic.”

Mr. Matthews, the Harvard graduate student of Vaiṣṇavism, visited Prabhupāda at his apartment one evening. Prabhupāda explained that if one is inquisitive not about temporary things but about the Absolute, then he must go to a guru. Mr. Matthews asked whether sannyāsa was necessary.

According to Bhagavad-gītā, Prabhupāda replied, a sannyāsī is one who has given everything to the service of Kṛṣṇa. The dress and social standing are not important. While Mr. Matthews posed intricate questions about the contemporary situation of spiritual masters in India, Śrīla Prabhupāda explained that a true spiritual master must be in disciplic succession and must strictly follow the regulative principles of Vaiṣṇava behavior. The current family custom in India of having a family guru was foolishness. The guru was not a family commodity or a pet.

Mr. Matthews was trying to make the point that Prabhupāda was not the only spiritual master and that there were many pure devotees in places like Vṛndāvana who did not necessarily go out for preaching but who preached to whoever came to them.

“Lord Caitanya,” said Śrīla Prabhupāda, “ordered to go out and preach Kṛṣṇa consciousness. Not that I stay in Vṛndāvana, and if anyone comes to me, I will teach. We must go out and go to them. Caitanya Mahāprabhu ordered like that. He is the authority. We don’t serve this or that. We serve Kṛṣṇa and nothing else: ‘I am a servant of Kṛṣṇa.’ And the best position for preaching is sannyāsa, because he doesn’t have to send money to his family or go back to his wife at a certain hour. But everything is for Kṛṣṇa. This is the attractive background for preaching. The dress is not important.”

Mr. Matthews disagreed that a spiritual master had to be a sannyāsī or a renounced preacher. After about an hour, Mr. Matthews checked his watch and became alarmed: “Oh, my goodness. It’s late. I am having guests over, and my wife is cooking a dinner for them. I have to go.”

“You see?” Prabhupāda said. “This proves my point.”

Late in May, Prabhupāda held a public lecture at the Arlington Street Church, a well-known landmark in the heart of downtown Boston. With many respectable-looking older people as well as young people in the audience, the meeting was well attended. Śrīla Prabhupāda spoke on yoga as Lord Kṛṣṇa explains it in Bhagavad-gītā. Prabhupāda emphasized that Kṛṣṇa chose Arjuna as the recipient of the knowledge of yoga.

Why Arjuna? Arjuna, Śrīla Prabhupāda explained, wasn’t a sannyāsī, he was a family man. He wasn’t a scholar. And so many big scholars were present at the time. He wasn’t a haṭha-yogī or even a brāhmaṇa. So why was he picked? Prabhupāda shouted into the microphone: “Bhakto ’si me!… Bhakto ’si me sakhā ceti. Because you are My devotee!”

Afterward, Prabhupāda asked for questions.

“There are different levels of yoga,” someone asked, “so you can take any yoga and then go further up?”

“Step by step you can go up – that is your option. But bhakti-yoga is to take the life immediately. ‘One who is thinking always of Me within his heart and is engaged in My service with faith and devotion – he is a first-class yogī of all yogīs.’ Yoga means to contact the Supreme Personality of Godhead. If by some process you can at once contact, that is first class. Why not try it? Try chanting Hare Kṛṣṇa. Try this process.”

“Does devotion come first and then awareness, or awareness first?”

Prabhupāda: “First devotion, then awareness. If you do not labor for passing exam, how you can pass? The primary rule is to chant. Just see. We have a little faith in the beginning, a little respect. We think, ‘Let me see what is this Kṛṣṇa consciousness.’ If we think it is nice, then we come again and associate. These boys did not accept in the beginning, but they came and advanced. For others, it is hackneyed. But these boys have become purified and they have a taste. They cannot give it up. It is ecstasy. So there is gradual process of love of God.”

The next morning three disciples of Swami Satchidananda visited Śrīla Prabhupāda. Accompanying him on his morning walk, they asked many questions.

They were young men like Prabhupāda’s disciples. One of them was a hairdresser named Bob. “If they are already disciples of a guru,” Satsvarūpa thought, “then why are they so curious about another guru’s process?”

Bob asked, “Don’t you need to practice haṭha-yoga in order to purify the body so that eventually you can purify the higher self within?”

“Cleanse the mind and the intelligence,” Prabhupāda replied, “and the body is automatically cleansed. Haṭha-yoga is for those in the gross bodily concept of life. In the second chapter of Bhagavad-gītā, Kṛṣṇa says that a wise man doesn’t place much importance on the body. The haṭha-yogī’s main concentration is this body. By bodily exercise he wants to have Kṛṣṇa’s love. If this were possible, all wrestlers and athletes would have achieved Kṛṣṇa’s love. Lord Caitanya’s program of chanting begins with the cleansing of the mind, and this takes care of cleansing the body.”

Yoga student: “What about sex desire? I want the spiritual, but I have such a strong desire for sex.”

Prabhupāda: “Haṭha-yoga is also for controlling sex desire. If you have such desire, you are making no progress.”

Yoga student: “How does a devotee of Kṛṣṇa control sex desire?”

Prabhupāda: “Automatically. Kṛṣṇa is so beautiful. We are accustomed to this habit for a very long time. Become sincere, and Kṛṣṇa will protect you.”

Yoga student: “Sometimes I have a sex urge …”

Prabhupāda: “What? You? Everybody! In birds, beasts, demigods – the binding force is sex. The material life means sex desire. Free from sex desire means advancing in spiritual desire. If you have a strong sex desire, pray to Kṛṣṇa. Know that this is the attack of māyā. Pray, and māyā will go away. You cannot fight with māyā with your own energy. Māyā is presenting herself more beautiful than Kṛṣṇa. But Kṛṣṇa is more beautiful.”

Yoga student: “How soon before I could get initiated by you?”

Prabhupāda: “The first initiation is to understand the philosophy. Actually, one should be initiated after hearing for one year.”

Yoga student: “How can you tell a Kṛṣṇa conscious holy man from an ordinary holy man?”

Prabhupāda: “He is always thinking about Kṛṣṇa. Not even a moment without thinking about Kṛṣṇa.”

Yoga student: “Can māyā have a hold on a man who’s dedicated to selflessness, even if he doesn’t take to Kṛṣṇa?”

Prabhupāda: “Yes, māyā is always holding you. Unless you surrender to Kṛṣṇa, some way māyā has you. God says, ‘Here I am.’ But you say God is somewhere else. You are searching after God, and you cannot see when He comes before you. Then you are in māyā. Why don’t you accept Kṛṣṇa as God?”

Yoga student: “What is the nature of a devotee? Is he always in ecstasy?”

Prabhupāda: “Yes, always in ecstasy. He’s always feeling separation: ‘I could not serve Kṛṣṇa.’ This is nice.”

Yoga student: “Does it actually say anywhere in the scriptures that you have to come back to the material world if you don’t worship Kṛṣṇa? Does it actually say it?”

Prabhupāda: “Yes, yes: āruhya kṛcchreṇa paraṁ padaṁ tataḥ patanty adho ’nādṛta-yuṣmad-aṅghrayaḥ. ‘By neglecting Your lotus feet he has to come down again.’ ‘Feet’ means He is a person.”

These yoga students were attracted to Prabhupāda’s teachings. They began to act like his followers, attending his kīrtanas and lectures, offering obeisances to him.

One day after a morning walk, Prabhupāda, accompanied by some of his disciples and the yoga students, returned to his room. When Prabhupāda noticed that his secretary, Gaurasundara, was absent, he called for him. Gaurasundara came to the door, and Prabhupāda asked why he was not attending the talk. He was busy working in another room, Gaurasundara explained. “Do you think that these talks I give are just for new men?” Prabhupāda asked angrily. “You don’t have to hear? Do you think that you are so advanced? This is not good. You should always hear when your spiritual master speaks.”

After several days, the haṭha-yoga students stopped coming. “They appeared so devoted,” Prabhupāda remarked casually. “That one boy was even helping me with my shoes.”

Prabhupāda continued attending the storefront three nights a week. Wearing his swami cap, with its hanging straps, he looked like a rugged aviator. Entering the room, he would look around to see who was there, walk forward to the altar, offer his obeisances to the picture of Kṛṣṇa, and ascend to the raised platform to speak.

One night, while Prabhupāda was down on his hands and knees before the altar, just about to rise up after offering obeisances, he began to carefully scrutinize a picture one of the devotees had recently placed on the altar. The picture showed a young woman handing baby Kṛṣṇa to His father Vasudeva; both Vasudeva and the young woman were standing in a river. The devotees didn’t know the meaning of the picture or who the woman was, so one of them asked Prabhupāda about it.

While Prabhupāda and half a dozen devotees remained on the floor on their hands and knees, Prabhupāda told them the story. Kṛṣṇa’s father Vasudeva had been carrying Him across the Yamunā when Kṛṣṇa had fallen in. In great anxiety, Vasudeva had searched within the water for his son. The Yamunā River personified (the young woman in the picture) had then risen out of the water and handed Kṛṣṇa to Vasudeva, saying, “I just wanted to play with Him for a while.”

One night after his lecture, while Prabhupāda sat conversing with disciples, Govinda dāsī handed him an advertisement Rāya Rāma had designed for Back to Godhead magazine. The ad featured several pictures of Prabhupāda and the headline “This Man Has Changed the History of the World.” The devotees were proud of the ad, which was supposed to be in accordance with the latest graphic and advertising trends. Prabhupāda, however, held the ad in his hand silently. Finally, someone asked him what he thought of it, and Prabhupāda replied, “This is not good. It is not considered respectful to call the spiritual master by the term ‘man.’ ” This shows the state of consciousness of the disciple, he explained. Frowning, he handed back the ad.

Several times one evening, children screaming and rapping on the window panes interrupted Prabhupāda’s lecture. After several interruptions, Prabhupāda shook his head and said that these children had no training, which was the fault of modern society. A man in the audience objected: “But children are known as the divine folk.”

“What is that?” Prabhupāda asked.

“These children are supposed to be divine.”

Prabhupāda looked at the man. “Supposed to be,” he said dryly. “That’s all right.”

One evening after the lecture, Prabhupāda toured the small storefront. One of the main features he noted was the abundance of paintings by Jadurāṇī, and he looked at each one with pleasure.

When he went downstairs to the basement and saw the devotees’ austere living and bathing conditions, for which some people had criticized them, he was not disturbed. He inspected the oil burner and asked if it worked all right. There was little for Satsvarūpa to show him in the tiny building, so Prabhupāda saw everything in only a few minutes. Yet because it was Kṛṣṇa’s center and they were Kṛṣṇa’s devotees, Prabhupāda’s brief tour made everything seem important and worthwhile.

It came as a surprise to everyone when one day Prabhupāda said that he would be giving some of his disciples brāhmaṇa, or second, initiation; he would award the Gāyatrī mantra and sacred thread to those men who had been initiated for at least one year. The devotees wanted to know more about the initiation, and Prabhupāda said he would explain everything at the ceremony. The ceremony, he said, would be in the temple, and there should be a sacrificial fire just as at any other initiation. He invited Mr. Matthews from Harvard as the guest of honor.

On the day of the initiation, everyone crowded into the temple room around the mound of earth where the sacred fire would soon be blazing. The half a dozen male disciples whom Śrīla Prabhupāda had selected to receive brahminical initiation took their seats.

Prabhupāda entered. Taking his seat on the pillow on the floor directly before the mound of earth, he began to explain how his spiritual master, Śrīla Bhaktisiddhānta Sarasvatī, had introduced brahminical initiation for disciples not born of brāhmaṇa families. He said the Vedic scriptures offered much evidence that by associating with pure devotees, anyone could become a brāhmaṇa. In fact, the scriptures said that if one born in a brāhmaṇa family did not behave as a brāhmaṇa, then he should not be accepted as a brāhmaṇa. So it was in following his spiritual master and the Vedic scriptures that Śrīla Prabhupāda was now going to give brahminical initiation to his disciples.

Addressing Mr. Matthews as “Professor Matthews,” Prabhupāda asked whether he had any questions about the procedure. Mr. Matthews laughed and said he was not a professor yet. He asked whether the Gāyatrī mantra was more important than the Hare Kṛṣṇa mantra. Prabhupāda replied that the Hare Kṛṣṇa mantra was sufficient in itself for delivering the disciple back to Godhead; nevertheless, the Gāyatrī mantra would increase the Kṛṣṇa consciousness of the disciple.

Mr. Matthews: “Do these disciples take on any new vows, such as fasting?”

Prabhupāda: “No, there is no new vow. As far as fasting is concerned, people take to fasting because generally they eat all nonsense all week. So for one day they stop eating in order to purify themselves. But the devotees are always eating kṛṣṇa-prasādam, which is sanctified. So even by eating, they are fasting.”

Later in the ceremony, the boys went, one by one, and sat beside Śrīla Prabhupāda, who placed a sacred white thread over their bare shoulders and chest and showed them how to count the mantras on their fingers.

While the sacrificial fire was blazing and the devotees were chanting mantras and throwing grains in the flames, the landlord’s wife suddenly intruded. She was middle-aged, intoxicated, disheveled – a grotesque alcoholic tottering in the doorway. Striding into the room, she shouted, “God damn this house!” and then turned and left, slamming the door. Prabhupāda looked up innocently. “What did she say? Did she say that this is the house of God?”

“She’s just drunk,” Satsvarūpa said.

Govinda dāsī hadn’t gone to the initiation, excusing herself as ill. Although she hadn’t told Prabhupāda, she was upset that he wasn’t giving brahminical initiation to women. Disappointed, she had stayed at Swamiji’s apartment, crying. After an hour, however, she decided that by behaving so foolishly she was missing out on Prabhupāda’s talk. So she hurried out of the house and ran all the way to the temple, arriving near the end of the ceremony. As she entered, Prabhupāda looked up. “Oh,” he said, “I was just thinking, ‘Where is that girl?’ and Kṛṣṇa has sent.”

After the ceremony Govinda dāsī conferred with Jadurāṇī, who also felt slighted. Prabhupāda could detect their mentality, although they didn’t openly voice their complaints. The next morning he told Gaurasundara and Govinda dāsī that he saw no harm in offering the Gayātrī mantra to women – but they could not receive the sacred thread. That very night, he held a separate ceremony, initiating Govinda dāsī and Jadurāṇī into the Gāyatrī mantra.

A few days later a group of devotees came from New York and Prabhupāda initiated more brāhmaṇas. One morning, when he saw a group of new brāhmaṇa initiates coming to join him on his walk, he said, “Oh, here come the brāhmaṇas. But now don’t be brāhmaṇas in name only.”

The bus was painted green, had a cracked windshield, no seats, and a dubious engine. It was unregistered and uninsured. Haṁsadūta, who had received the bus as a donation, planned to use it for the world-touring saṅkīrtana party Prabhupāda had asked him to form. Before Śrīla Prabhupāda and a gathering of devotees in Prabhupāda’s room, Haṁsadūta talked enthusiastically about the newly donated bus. Prabhupāda asked to go for a ride.

Rohiṇī-kumāra: This bus was so horrible. It was in terrible condition and rattling so much. It was on the verge of breaking down at any minute. The only seat on the bus was the driver’s seat, so someone got a chair from the house for Swamiji to sit on. He sat in front like the captain of a ship. He was completely transcendental to the whole horrible situation. And I felt very bad. I thought, “Oh, Swamiji shouldn’t have to ride in such a horrible bus.”

What began as a group of devotees taking their spiritual master on a short ride suddenly changed when, after going a block, Prabhupāda began giving the driver directions: “Go to the right, turn left, turn here, now go here.” With the bus’s engine coughing sporadically, the ride remained rough and rickety, despite several men pooling their weight against the legs of the chair. But by following Prabhupāda’s directions, they soon arrived at the waterfront. Prabhupāda said he wanted to go to Commonwealth Pier, the first place he had come in America when, in September of 1965, he had arrived from India aboard the Jaladuta. The boys marvelled as Prabhupāda continued to direct them to Commonwealth Pier.

“I first came here,” Prabhupāda said, as he walked along the pier with his disciples. “I thought, ‘I don’t know why I have come here. The language is different, the idea is different. They are all after sense gratification. I don’t know why I’ve come here.’ But now I have got some boys, and even if I am not here, it will go on.”

As the devotees walked beside Prabhupāda, trying to hear him speak, they could see the city skyline nearby. One large building was being torn down, and new ones were going up. “So many strong buildings,” Prabhupāda said, “being torn down and then rebuilt. There is no pleasure in it, neither in building nor in tearing down. Nobody is happy. It is like with a small child. He is happy to get a toy, and then he is happy to break it. But there is no real happiness. Just like the boy and girl – they come together in union, and then they separate, divorce. There is no real happiness in the union or in the separation. Real happiness is in union with Kṛṣṇa and separation from māyā. But it is māyā that again and again causes this union and separation in the material world.”

As they walked together under a steel bridge, Prabhupāda pointed upward with his walking cane, “Look” – a sign under the bridge read UNALLOYED STEEL – “they have unalloyed steel, and we have unalloyed devotional service.”

“What if people don’t want to hear our message?” Pradyumna asked.

“The people might not understand our message, but Kṛṣṇa will be pleased,” Prabhupāda replied. “And that is our mission. They thought Jesus Christ’s mission was stopped. They killed him. But his mission was attained. He preached three years only, but so many followers. He pleased Kṛṣṇa. We must not be disappointed that no one is hearing Kṛṣṇa consciousness. We will say it to the moon and stars and all directions. We will cry in the wilderness, because Kṛṣṇa is everywhere. We want to get a certificate from Kṛṣṇa that, ‘This man has done something for Me.’ Not popularity. If a pack of asses says you are good, what is that? We have to please Kṛṣṇa’s senses with purified senses.”

For an hour Prabhupāda led them up and down the unattractive, historic pier. Finally, he stood by the bus about to return. “All religion is useless,” he said, “until we know that this world is useless. It is not wanted. That is real knowledge. And when you know this, then there is no attachment. And then immediately no hankering and loss. But now they are hankering, ‘I have no girlfriend’ and then ‘I’ve lost my girlfriend.’ ”

Vāmanadeva had trouble starting the engine, and even after he got it started, it stalled several times on the way back to Chester Street. When Prabhupāda arrived at his house, he said they should sell the bus. Such vehicles presented a bad public image. Having a bus was a good idea, but not a bus like that.

With Prabhupāda’s permission, the devotees scheduled him for the all-night Uncle Jay Show, a talk show on radio station WMEX. At 11:00 P.M. three devotees – Satsvarūpa and Pradyumna, in suits and ties, and Jadurāṇī in a sārī – went on the air. Prabhupāda was scheduled to join them at 3 o’clock.

“I have before me in the studio tonight,” Uncle Jay began, “two nice young men and a young woman who have normal American names like Steve and Paul and Judy. And when you hear them speak, they sound like normal Americans. But if you could see them – they look a little unusual. Down the front of their noses they have some white paint. … ”

Uncle Jay’s listeners began calling in questions, and although most of the questions were trivial, the devotees got many good opportunities to talk about Kṛṣṇa consciousness. Finally, around 3:00 A.M. Śrīla Prabhupāda arrived. He had risen according to his usual schedule and had come directly to the station. Impressed by Prabhupāda, Uncle Jay received him politely and had him sit down and begin answering questions.

Question: “I heard a swami can’t pass over water, so how did you get to the U.S.A.?”

Prabhupāda: “No, why not? That is superstition. Lord Caitanya said to spread this philosophy all over the world, in every town and village. So He certainly knew I would have to cross over the water.”

Question: “How did you become a swami?”

Prabhupāda: “Everyone is expected to become a swami. Suppose one lives a hundred years. The fourth state is to renounce and completely be engaged in controlling the senses. So it takes seventy-five years to become a swami.”

Question: “Did you give up your wife?”

Prabhupāda: “Woman is not given up. She is always dependent – on her father as a young girl and then on her husband, then on her children, older sons. I was in India recently and my son saw me, but my wife could not see me.”

Question: “In this country we would call that desertion.”

Prabhupāda: “No, it is a question of progress. There is no divorce. She’s a devotee of another swami. The wife generally is not allowed to be the student of her husband who has become a swami.”

Question: “Do you believe the soul is immortal?”

Prabhupāda: “Yes, you know the soul is immortal. Immortality is not a question of belief. It is a fact. You know what you were in your childhood and your youth … ”

Question: “What does it mean in the Bible, ‘The soul that sinneth also dieth’?”

Uncle Jay interrupted and said that since this was a question about the Bible, the caller should ask his priest and not trouble the Swami.

But Prabhupāda interrupted: “No, we can answer this. He who identifies with the body commits practical suicide. He forgets himself. Those who are sinful forget their spiritual identity, and they have to take another body.”

Question: “What impelled you to take sannyāsa?”

Prabhupāda: “Routine work. One has to become a swami. It is not a hobby. Because they don’t take sannyāsa, they suffer.”

Question: “You say meditation is very difficult. How does chanting make it easier?”

Prabhupāda: “At the present moment, meditation in its pure form is not possible. To do it properly, one has to control the senses, follow the rules, practice the sitting posture, thinking, feeling, become absorbed in thought. But chanting – as soon as you hear ‘Kṛṣṇa,’ immediately the mind is attracted. There is no necessity of prequalification. Anyone in any country can sit down and chant Hare Kṛṣṇa, and he will find himself in complete meditation.”

Uncle Jay: “So Maharishi’s transcendental meditation is nothing new?”

Prabhupāda: “No. He says to go and enjoy and simply pay him thirty-five dollars. But you have to control your senses, or how can you meditate? Because you do not want to practice, you do not want to follow. I was surprised that people in America and Western Europe took these cheap things. You don’t want the real thing. These yogīs never restrict their students. If they restrict their students, the students do not come and pay the fees.”

Uncle Jay: “When I was small, I read a book about swamis who slept on beds of nails. Are you that kind of swami?”

Prabhupāda: “That is just a trick. That is not perfection.”

Uncle Jay: “Do you mean when you say swami means ‘control of the senses’ that if I cut you, you won’t feel pain?”

Prabhupāda: “That is not perfection. If you take even chloroform, then you will not feel pain – as in a surgical operation. Control of the senses means that I can be in the midst of beautiful women, but I will feel no desire for sex. I have got sufficient strength, but I have no desire for this. That is real control of the senses.”

And so it went until five in the morning.

On the way home, Śrīla Prabhupāda rode in the front seat of the taxi beside the driver. Understanding he had an unusual passenger, the driver – who had been listening to the Uncle Jay Show – asked Prabhupāda, “Are you similar to that transcendental meditation swami?”

“We are similar,” Prabhupāda said, “in that he is a Hindu sage and we are a Hindu sage. But his method, meditation, is actually a very difficult process. But ours is very easy – chanting.”

The children on Chester Street would call out “Hare Kṛṣṇa!” whenever they saw Prabhupāda come out of his apartment. They were making fun, but Prabhupāda liked it. Once when a devotee tried to stop the children, Prabhupāda said, “Oh, no, they are chanting Hare Kṛṣṇa. That’s all right.” He said Chester Street should now be called Hare Kṛṣṇa Street.

It was in Swamiji’s room one day on Hare Kṛṣṇa Street that he accepted the name Prabhupāda. While Govinda dāsī was taking dictation, Prabhupāda mentioned that the affix “ji” was a third-class address.

“Then why do we call you Swami-ji?” she asked. “What should we call you?” “A spiritual master,” Prabhupāda replied, “is usually addressed by names like Gurudeva, Viṣṇupāda, or Prabhupāda.” “May we call you Prabhupāda?” she asked. “Yes.” And Govinda dāsī told the others. At first some of the devotees were reluctant to give up the long-cherished “Swamiji,” which for them was a name of affection. “I heard we shouldn’t use the name Swamiji anymore,” one of the boys asked one morning on a walk. “Who said?” Prabhupāda replied quickly. “They said you said it was third class, and we shouldn’t say it.”

“I never said that.” “Then we can use it?” “Yes, that is all right.” But “Swamiji” soon disappeared. Rāya Rāma even printed an explanation in Back to Godhead.

Prabhupāda’s next destination was fixed for Montreal. Satsvarūpa, Pradyumna, and Jadurāṇī, all of whom had drunk deeply of Prabhupāda’s personal association, got their last bearings directly from him.

“I am scheduled to leave for Montreal in two days,” Prabhupāda said to Satsvarūpa on a morning walk. “Is that all right?” Satsvarūpa felt strange that Prabhupāda would ask him for permission to leave. He also felt sad. But he could think of no way to detain him.

As they walked, they passed a toy store displaying guns and battleships in the window.

“This is the kind of thing we grew up with,” Satsvarūpa told Prabhupāda. “But you grew up with Rādhā-Kṛṣṇa Deities. Does this still affect us?”

“Yes,” Prabhupāda said, “the impression is still there.”

“Prabhupāda,” Satsvarūpa asked, “now that you are with us, we can ask you any necessary direction. But in the future, when you are not always with us, how can we get direction from you?”

“Kṛṣṇa’s name is not different than Kṛṣṇa. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Satsvarūpa replied. But he knew his understanding was only theoretical. He knew he would have to think more deeply on Prabhupāda’s answer. Prabhupāda was indicating that by chanting Hare Kṛṣṇa, Kṛṣṇa Himself would be present, so the disciple could get direction from Him, by the grace of the spiritual master.

In Jadurāṇī’s case there was no doubt that she should continue painting. She had often gone to Prabhupāda’s house for detailed instructions. When she had shown him a just-completed portrait of his own spiritual master sitting amidst trees and greenery, Prabhupāda had commented, “You have put my Guru Mahārāja in the American forest! He was never in such a forest.” He told her to paint Lord Caitanya in a garden scene but not to copy the Indian print showing an Oṁ sign and Rādhā and Kṛṣṇa above Lord Caitanya’s head. “That is an artist’s imagination,” Prabhupāda said. “This is the way Lord Caitanya appeared in Navadvīpa. Don’t change anything. And Yaśodā and Nanda Mahārāja should be colored as Indians are generally – a light brown, tan like wheat. Balarāmajī is colored milk white with little bluish tint and rosy luster.”

Prabhupāda also encouraged Pradyumna, telling him just what he wanted to hear: he should continue studying Sanskrit so that he could make transliterations for all of Prabhupāda’s work and eventually come to the standard of a good Sanskrit scholar for the Kṛṣṇa consciousness movement. Pradyumna asked to come to Montreal with Prabhupāda and learn more things from him. Prabhupāda agreed.

When the day came for Prabhupāda’s departure, the devotees accompanied him to the airport. In the departure lounge, an unknown boy suddenly appeared and sat at Prabhupāda’s feet. “Can you see God?” the boy asked.

“Yes,” Prabhupāda replied. “At every moment.”

“Are you liberated?”

“Yes.”

“Then, if you’re liberated,” the boy challenged, “why don’t you go back to the spiritual world – right now?”

“Don’t be crazy,” said Prabhupāda. “We go when Kṛṣṇa desires. We have already surrendered. So we shall go when Kṛṣṇa desires. We have just bought tickets for Montreal, so we are assured of going there. But it is not that as soon as we buy the tickets, we turn and say, ‘Where is Montreal?’ No. Everything will happen in due course. We have bought the tickets. We are waiting. Soon the plane will leave.”

Prabhupāda advised the boy to stay with the devotees in the Boston temple and hear from them. In time, he said, the boy would be able to understand.

Jadurāṇī: Govinda dāsī and I got on the plane with Prabhupāda, just so we could see him up to the last minute. His last words to us were from the Bhāgavatam. He quoted two verses: vāsudeva-parā vedā vāsudevaparā yogā/ vāsudeva-paraṁ jñānam … . This means that Kṛṣṇa is the goal of yoga, He is the benefactor of fruitive activities, He is the cause of the Vedas – Kṛṣṇa is everything. And I began to cry because Prabhupāda was leaving. He reached over and passed his hand over my face. I asked him, “Śrīla Prabhupāda, sometimes when we ask you something and you give us permission, are you being like the Supersoul? Are you just giving us sanction for what we want?”

Śrīla Prabhupāda replied, “When the spiritual master speaks, it is Kṛṣṇa speaking.”

When Prabhupāda got to Montreal he wrote me a letter within a day or two, saying, “I am simply remembering your face when you were crying in the plane.” And then he gave me an order: “Please don’t be agitated in any way. Kṛṣṇa is always with you, and He is always your friend. So many disturbing elements may enter into your life, but a devotee is never agitated.”