CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

Montreal
June 3, 1968

IN MONTREAL PRABHUPĀDA often sang a Sanskrit prayer composed by a great Vaiṣṇava, King Kulaśekhara. While walking around his room, sitting at his desk, or roaming through the house, he would sing to himself, and the others would hear him. He would chant it – it is a Sanskrit mantra – but to a tune of his own in a voice that dropped to a deep, low tone at the end of a line.

In India almost twenty years ago, Prabhupāda had translated and written commentary on this and several other verses – “The Prayers of King Kulaśekhara” – for his Back to Godhead newspaper. Now, during the summer of 1968, while still recovering from his heart attack of a year ago, he sang this particular verse often. And several times he explained its meaning to the devotees gathered in his room in the evening.

“Swans have a proclivity to stick their long necks underwater and wrap them around the stem of the lotus flower. So King Kulaśekhara is praying, ‘My dear Kṛṣṇa, may the swan of my mind enter the network of the stem of Your lotus feet.’ He is praying to do so now, at the present moment, while he is healthy and can chant Hare Kṛṣṇa and entangle his mind in Kṛṣṇa thought. Therefore, King Kulaśekhara wishes that he may die immediately, because he fears that if he waits until later, when the time of death comes, he will be choking. The elements of his body will be disturbed, and there will be a death rattle, like ‘gar, gar.’ How will it be possible then to remember Kṛṣṇa?”

Prabhupāda’s health, however, had improved. Rising early, dictating Śrīmad-Bhāgavatam, going for morning walks, taking full lunch – he was the healthiest he had been in months. After lunch he would nap. (At least he would try, although many of the floorboards in the house would squeak loudly when stepped on.) Later in the afternoon he would often ask for watermelon or cantaloupe. And in the evening, either he would meet with devotees in his room or go to the temple for kīrtana and a lecture. After returning at night he would call for “that puffed rice set”: puffed rice, fried peanuts, fried potatoes, and slices of cucumber.

So Prabhupāda was well, yet more than once he remarked to his servants, “If I become sick, do not take me to the hospital. Simply let me chant Hare Kṛṣṇa and die.”

The summer of 1968 was a relaxed time, without many outside engagements. Prabhupāda would spend most of his time in his apartment on Prince Arthur Street, a five-minute walk from the temple. In his room he would often meet with disciples visiting from various centers in the United States. Sometimes he would sit in a chair on the front lawn, speaking to visitors, or in the later morning sit out back in the driveway, while Gaurasundara massaged him.

One day while Prabhupāda sat in the warm late-morning sun, some of his disciples came and sat on the ground at his feet. “The sunshine is so powerful,” Prabhupāda explained. “There are planets where the trees are miles tall, just being supported by the sunshine. And all the planets are supported by the sunshine. It is so powerful.”

One of Prabhupāda’s reasons for coming to Canada was to get permanent residency status in both Canada and the United States. While in Boston, he had received an “Order of Denial” from the Immigration Department, directing him to leave the country. For the past three years, except for his six months in India, Prabhupāda had managed to extend his stay in the U.S. by extending his temporary visa; but now, on a technicality, he had been denied permanent residency. From Montreal he wrote the district director of the U.S. Immigration in Boston.

Brahmānanda wrote Prabhupāda from New York explaining his plan to get a lawyer and to appeal. But Prabhupāda, now skeptical of U.S. lawyers, who took money and resolved nothing, chose instead to make a new application as religious minister for ISKCON. Although U.S. Immigration had denied his application, ostensibly on the grounds that he had been in the wrong immigration status, Śrīla Prabhupāda suspected that the State Department was not overly fond of Indian swamis.

Prabhupāda accepted the denial of permanent residency in the United States as Kṛṣṇa’s desire and blessing. Now, instead of returning to the U.S., he would go to London and the European continent. Mukunda, Śyāmasundara, and other disciples in San Francisco had asked Prabhupāda if they could open a center in London, and on June 7 Prabhupāda replied.

Prabhupāda’s plan was to travel and preach with a party of devotees who would support themselves by distributing Kṛṣṇa conscious literature. But as Śyāmasundara was already building a cart for the second annual Ratha-yātrā festival in San Francisco, and as his wife was pregnant, Prabhupāda advised him to wait. After the Ratha-yātrā festival and after his wife had delivered her baby and taken a month’s rest, Śyāmasundara and his family could go to England. Prabhupāda asked that Mukunda also go. “I shall go to England for the time being,” Prabhupāda wrote Mukunda, “and start a center there which is long overdue.”

But more important than traveling or obtaining permanent residency in the U.S. was the publication of Prabhupāda’s books. Prabhupāda felt that writing and printing books was his best contribution in executing his spiritual master’s order. So when Brahmānanda came to Montreal from New York with the printer’s galley proofs of Bhagavad-gītā and Teachings of Lord Caitanya, Prabhupāda was very pleased.

Macmillan Company was publishing Bhagavad-gītā, and Prabhupāda himself was publishing Teachings of Lord Caitanya through Dai Nippon in Japan. Because Brahmānanda had contacted the editors at Macmillan Company, Prabhupāda credited him with the success of the Gītā’s being published by such a famous company. Brahmānanda was also Prabhupāda’s man for dealing with Dai Nippon. Both books were on tight printing schedules, and Brahmānanda had to return quickly to New York with the corrected proofs.

Brahmānanda: I came up to show Prabhupāda the galley proofs for both Teachings of Lord Caitanya and Bhagavad-gītā As It Is. I just happened to have both galley proofs that had arrived. So it was a wonderful thing to bring these galley proofs to Prabhupāda for checking. I was there only for a few days, maybe a weekend or so. Prabhupāda personally read through the entire galleys and made notations in his own hand. He did the proofreading of the galleys. Everything was done by Śrīla Prabhupāda. It was a very personal kind of thing. Of course, that gave Prabhupāda great pleasure because he wanted his books published, and we had started to do it. So Prabhupāda took great pleasure in proofreading those galleys. And he handed them to me, and it was very wonderful.

“When one of my books is published,” Prabhupāda said, “I feel like I have conquered an empire.” Having books in print gave meaning to Prabhupāda’s fight for U.S. residency. And only with these books published could he tour Europe. Kṛṣṇa conscious literature was solid evidence that his movement was not a concocted, fly-by-night yogī’s dream. Let the government leaders and scholars read these books. Let the student community read them. Any intelligent man would be impressed. These books were the most enduring glorification of Kṛṣṇa and the most powerful propaganda for spreading Kṛṣṇa’s teachings throughout the world. Far from being the speculations of an ordinary, conditioned soul subject to mistakes and cheating, these books contained the teachings and activities of Lord Kṛṣṇa – the science of Kṛṣṇa consciousness – passed down by the great ācāryas. They were books of perfect knowledge.

Before Brahmānanda left Montreal, Prabhupāda asked him to send the Śrīmad-Bhāgavatam Second and Third Canto manuscripts from the closet in his New York apartment. By October, as soon as Teachings of Lord Caitanya was printed, he would have the manuscripts ready for Dai Nippon. Speaking to Brahmānanda and others in his room, Prabhupāda charged them with the organization of book sales. There would be no scarcity of books, but his disciples would have to sell them.

When Prabhupāda had been alone in India, he had printed, gathered statements from scholars, advertised, and distributed his books. But now he was depending on his disciples. They recognized the importance of his books, but they had no ideas or means for distributing them. Prabhupāda assured them, however, that by applying his instructions and trusting in Kṛṣṇa for results, they would be successful.

Prabhupāda and Brahmānanda discussed plans for starting their own printing press – perhaps in Montreal. With the costs of printing so high, Prabhupāda wanted some of his disciples to learn the techniques of book publication. He suggested that one of his disciples in New York learn to run a press and some of the girls learn to compose type. Thus in the future he might be able to start his own press in some convenient location.

Despite Prabhupāda’s plans for preaching in Europe, obtaining permanent residency in the United States and Canada, printing his books, and starting a press, his life remained regulated and simple. He would give Śrīmad-Bhāgavatam lectures in the temple and daily see guests in his room. Constantly thinking, writing, chanting, and speaking about Kṛṣṇa and how to spread Kṛṣṇa consciousness, Prabhupāda was the driving force of a revolutionary movement. Yet he mostly stayed at home, spending much of his time alone or in simple domestic dealings with his servants.

One quiet afternoon in Prabhupāda’s sitting room, Govinda dāsī was bringing Prabhupāda his prasādam when Prabhupāda spied a baby rat running across the floor. Immediately Govinda dāsī set the tray of prasādam down and tried to catch the rat as it darted toward Prabhupāda’s desk. Getting up quickly from his seat, Prabhupāda also joined excitedly in the chase. Then another rat appeared. When Harināma, visiting from San Francisco, heard the commotion, he came to the door and offered to help. Taking up a shoebox, he began chasing the rats, finally catching them both and letting them loose outside.

Later Prabhupāda walked into the room where Gaurasundara and Govinda dāsī were working and told them, “If you kept everything very clean, these rats wouldn’t come. If someone is very much attached to his dwelling, then he may take his next birth in that dwelling as a cockroach or a rat. These are sinful living entities, and they are taking their birth because of that attachment.” He then asked Śivānanda to seal up the cracks in the floor.

“Why are these peanuts black?” Prabhupāda asked as she served him his prasādam. “Why have you made them black?” When Govinda dāsī began to cry, Prabhupāda criticized her all the more: “Why are you crying? You are crying because you are angry. Why have you done this?” His stern and angry look made her tears come even harder.

“I am not angry,” she sobbed. “I am very sorry I made the peanuts too dark.”

Once Govinda dāsī lent the dictating machine to a Godsister, who broke it, and Prabhupāda became disgusted: “You American boys and girls! You are rich men’s sons, so you simply think you can break something and then throw it in the street and buy a new one. You do not take care of such things. Only one person should use a machine. You should not have allowed her to use it.” These words devastated Govinda dāsī, and she retired to cry for a while. But she soon recovered, and Prabhupāda acted as if the scene had never taken place. Govinda dāsī took the chastisement as a test of her sincerity. And she had learned that Prabhupāda’s thunderbolts were generally followed by his usual kindness and gentleness.

Prabhupāda rarely went anywhere alone. For his disciples it was unthinkable that he should go somewhere without one of them accompanying him to care for his needs or to confront whatever difficulties might arise. So when one afternoon Govinda dāsī looked in Prabhupāda’s room and found him gone, she became perplexed. Seeing that his shoes were gone, she ran out to the street. Unable to see him in either direction, she ran down to the corner, where she saw him in the distance, walking away. When she finally caught up to him, she asked in a voice distraught and breathless, “Where are you going? Why have you left?”

Prabhupāda laughed quietly as he walked erect with his cane, his movements flowing. “Oh,” he said, “I am just going to the bank. It’s all right. I’ll be back.”

Govinda dāsī apologized for being so demanding. “I just thought you shouldn’t go alone. Because you have been ill … ”

Prabhupāda snapped back, “What do you know? Physician, heal thyself.” And he walked on, leaving Govinda dāsī behind.

As far as Prabhupāda was concerned, it was Govinda dāsī who was sickly, not he. She was always bundled in sweaters and coats or blowing her nose. Once he had gone into the room where she and Gaurasundara worked, and it had been messy, with tissues thrown here and there. “This is why you are always getting sick,” he had said, “because of uncleanliness.”

Another day Prabhupāda, accompanied by Gaurasundara and Govinda dāsī, was walking out of the house on his way to the temple when he began laughing, saying, “Yes, Govinda dāsī, everything is nice! You are an excellent secretary, an excellent cook, and you are good at everything. Your only disqualification is that you are a woman. But don’t worry. Next life you shall be a brahmacārī!”

“Thank you, Śrīla Prabhupāda,” Govinda dāsī replied, enjoying Prabhupāda’s joking mood.

Often, Prabhupāda, taking the part of the Māyāvādī, would debate with Gaurasundara. Early one morning Śrīla Prabhupāda walked into the room where Gaurasundara was sleeping and woke him with an argument of Māyāvāda philosophy: “Kṛṣṇa’s personality must be a product of illusion, because the Absolute is defined as beyond personality.” And Gaurasundara had to immediately refute the argument.

Prabhupāda would sometimes remark that eventually Gaurasundara and Govinda dāsī should travel together to some part of the world and preach. Kṛṣṇa consciousness had to be introduced in so many places, and Prabhupāda envisioned that one day his servant and secretary would go off to open a new center. “Taking care of my body,” he said, “is not such an important thing.”

One day Prabhupāda and Gaurasundara were discussing philosophy while Govinda dāsī spent a long time in the kitchen washing pots and dishes. The noise of her cleaning carried into Prabhupāda’s room. “She has this cleanliness disease,” Prabhupāda warned. “My wife and daughter also had it. You should catch it while it is not developed. Otherwise it will get worse. I caught my daughter once – she was washing the electric sockets by splashing water into them. And I told her, ‘Do not ever do this again. If you do this, I will kill you!’ So she promised she would never do it again.”

While Prabhupāda was in Montreal, many of his disciples from the United States came to visit him. They were serving on his behalf, some of them thousands of miles away, and the urge to see him would grow until it impelled them to travel to Montreal. Sometimes these visitors would be newcomers who had joined one of Prabhupāda’s temples and had heard about him from his disciples but had never seen him. Prabhupāda was always happy, of course, when his disciples remained in their posts, executing their respective duties. But he was also glad when they came to visit him.

Nanda-kiśora: I walked into the room, and Śrīla Prabhupāda greeted me very enthusiastically with a smile and said, “American Vaiṣṇava.” I paid obeisances, sat down, and we began to talk. I had heard that Kṛṣṇa could be in the heart of every living entity at the same time, so I asked Prabhupāda how it was possible.

He began by saying, “Just try to understand.” So I tried. I strained and squinted to show that I was really trying to understand. And Prabhupāda continued, “Just like the sun is over your head and mine and is over the head of someone who may be a thousand miles away. That is because the sun is great. Similarly, Kṛṣṇa is so great that He is simultaneously in the hearts of all living entities.”

And I understood. He had said, “Try to understand,” and because I was hearing, I did understand. I was trying to understand, and I was hearing from the pure devotee. As I was leaving his room, he waved his right hand in the air, sitting back in a very relaxed way, smiling. He said, “Chant Hare Kṛṣṇa! Chant Hare Kṛṣṇa!”

Kṛṣṇadāsa: I had heard that Prabhupāda was planning to travel abroad and that he wanted to take several devotees with him and that whoever wanted to go should save his money. So I got a job with a jewelry firm. Then I had a vacation while Prabhupāda was in Montreal. Uddhava and I were having our vacation at the same time, and we decided over breakfast one morning to go see Prabhupāda in Montreal. In one hour we were packed.

Wearing suits, we hitchhiked from San Francisco to New York in three days. When we got to Montreal, Gaurasundara said, “Well, Prabhupāda is about to have lunch. Would you care to join him?” We said yes. Uddhava and I went in, and Prabhupāda was immediately very thankful that we had come so far to visit him.

But as we had come to lunch so late, there wasn’t really enough prasādam for two guests. So Gaurasundara first served Prabhupāda, and we sat there with our empty plates. Then Prabhupāda asked, “What about their food?” Govinda dāsī went to get something for us, and Prabhupāda said to me, “You are very thin. You look sickly. You should eat more.” So he proceeded to take food off his plate and put it on my empty plate. And he told me to eat. He said I should eat six capātīs a day. He gave me a whole diet to follow so I could gain weight.

During lunch a mouse came into the room, and Gaurasundara captured it. Prabhupāda joked about how the mouse had been a devotee in his past life and had come back in this life to eat prasādam off the floor. Afterwards we paid our obeisances. I touched my head to Prabhupāda’s foot, and he got up and walked over and rubbed our heads.

Jeffrey Hickey (Jagadīśa dāsa): When I entered Prabhupāda’s apartment, I got the most amazing feeling. Kīrtanānanda Mahārāja and Hayagrīva were there talking to Prabhupāda about New Vrindaban. They were saying that they had bought some land, and Prabhupāda was encouraging them. I just sat in the back and listened to what was going on.

Prabhupāda’s presence was very strong. I felt small. And I had the feeling that he knew everything about me and that I couldn’t pretend to be someone big – although previously I had always thought of myself as being a little advanced. But in Prabhupāda’s presence I couldn’t pose as anything because I understood that he knew everything about me and could understand my mentality. So I just sat with my face turned downwards. Once in a while I would look up at him.

I was in Prabhupāda’s room for about half an hour. I wanted to say something, but I didn’t know what to say. So at the end, while everyone was leaving, I bowed down and let the others leave first. Then as I was about to leave, I told Prabhupāda that I was chanting sixteen rounds daily and that I expected to get initiated later. He welcomed me to stay in the Montreal temple, and I fumbled some reply.

Vaikuṇṭhanātha: I was in great anxiety because I had just returned from my draft board physical. But as soon as I walked into Prabhupāda’s room, all my anxiety completely melted. As soon as I came into his presence, I thought, “How wonderful he is.” Spiritual truth became real in his presence.

Śivānanda: I had come to Montreal to visit Prabhupāda, but Gaurasundara and Govinda dāsī didn’t want many devotees going with him on the morning walk. One morning I was out for a walk by myself when I met Prabhupāda. He motioned to me and said, “Come on.” As we walked, I mentioned to Prabhupāda that I had traveled in various places in Europe and all over America, and he said, “Oh, yes, you must go to these places and open some temples.”

At that time the word was out that Prabhupāda wanted some of his disciples to go to London to open a temple there. So as I was walking along with Śrīla Prabhupāda – we were just about to cross the street – Prabhupāda turned to me and said, “Kṛṣṇa says in Bhagavad-gītā that ‘One who is spreading My teachings of Bhagavad-gītā to the devotees is the most dear to Me, and there is never one who is more dear.’ ” Then Prabhupāda added, “Our business is to become dear to Kṛṣṇa.” That started me thinking about opening a center somewhere.

Brahmānanda: Prabhupāda would just talk. Often there wouldn’t be any questions, and he would just get on a topic and talk, sitting casually. Sometimes it wouldn’t even be directly about Kṛṣṇa, but he would describe different things about life in India or some other topic. He would always make sure that everyone had some prasādam. One night he was explaining to a visitor that his disciples – “these American boys and girls” – were taking up Kṛṣṇa consciousness naturally, not artificially. He referred to his servant Gaurasundara: “Actually, he is doing so many nice things for me all day long because he loves me. It is not artificial.”

Govinda dāsī: One time there was an elaborate discussion about whether trains were better than buses or buses were better than trains. Another time Prabhupāda was talking about liquor, and I said, “Oh, Śrīla Prabhupāda, whiskey tastes awful!” He was shocked. He said, “Oh. You have tasted?” He was surprised that I had tasted liquor. He talked in detail about Bengal tigers and all sorts of other things.

Most of the devotees were not so astute – most of us were just recovering from being hippies and taking drugs – but everyone loved him very much. Actually, there was no name and fame. There was no money. There was no position. The center of our service, the motivating factor, was simply love of Śrīla Prabhupāda.

Nanda-kiśora: Prabhupāda explained how he had first seen snow when he had come to America. He said, “One day I looked out the window and I thought, ‘Oh, someone has taken lime and thrown it all over.’ And then I looked up at the sky and thought, ‘Oh, they are still throwing.’ ” And then he laughed. I could hardly believe he had never seen snow fall before. He was like a child. He said such things so beautifully, like an innocent child, that whatever doubt I had was just wiped away due to the beauty of his expression.

Satyabhāmā: Prabhupāda told a story about a man from Calcutta who could tell the make of any car just by hearing it. I think Prabhupāda was making an important philosophical point, but I forget the point. Anyway, this man’s friend wanted to test the other man’s ability to judge cars just by their sound. So together they went and stood on a street corner in Calcutta. The friend blindfolded the other man, and as each car passed by, the man would identify it: “That is a Cadillac …, that is a Buick …” Then a donkey came walking by, dragging some tin cans, and the man said, “Oh, that is a Ford.”

Kṛṣṇadāsa and Uddhava told Prabhupāda about the San Francisco Ratha-yātrā, and they handed him a newspaper clipping. Prabhupāda read the headline aloud: “S.F. Paraders Hail Hindu God Krishna.” After noting with pleasure the large photo of devotees pulling the ropes of the “2-ton wagon on long haul to celebrate Ratha-yātrā festival,” he handed the newspaper back to Kṛṣṇadāsa: “Read it.” After hearing the article, Prabhupāda praised the devotees – especially Śyāmasundara and Jayānanda – for constructing an attractive cart and holding such a successful festival.

Then Prabhupāda began to talk of other successes within his new movement. He had heard reports that in San Francisco Tamāla Kṛṣṇa had organized the devotees to go out and chant Hare Kṛṣṇa every day and that in one day they had sold a hundred copies of Back to Godhead. Devotees in New York and Boston, he said, were also going out and chanting, distributing magazines, and collecting as much as forty dollars in a day. He told the disciples gathered in his room that they should all expect to perform public kīrtana in the important cities of the world. Taking mṛdaṅgas and karatālas, they could perform kīrtana anywhere and get the blessings of Lord Caitanya. In this way their numbers would increase. Prabhupāda told them, “If you want to live alone in a secluded place and practice yoga for your own personal advantage, that is very good. But if you want to help others by spreading Kṛṣṇa consciousness, that is far better.”

Prabhupāda said that although a Kṛṣṇa conscious person is not anxious on his own behalf, he is anxious for those who are not Kṛṣṇa conscious, the mass of people who simply engage in sense gratification within a civilization of illusion. Quoting the great ācārya Jīva Gosvāmī, Prabhupāda said that a devotee who chooses to sit in Vṛndāvana and chant Hare Kṛṣṇa should make only one or two disciples; but a missionary, who preaches Kṛṣṇa consciousness all over the world, should make as many disciples as possible.

“So you are being initiated,” Prabhupāda addressed the devotees in his room, “therefore you should make it your responsibility and duty to spread this message – to follow the principles strictly and become pure Vaiṣṇavas and preach all over the world. Don’t worry about where you will sleep or eat, Kṛṣṇa will see to all these things. You simply have to become sincere in service. That’s all. Just be sincere.”

Govinda dāsī raised her hand. “Prabhupāda,” she asked, “what does it mean exactly to surrender?”

“Surrender,” Prabhupāda replied, “is to know that ‘I am nothing…’ ” As Prabhupāda spoke, Govinda dāsī, accustomed to taking dictation, wrote down the answer, while other devotees – some seated on the floor around Prabhupāda’s desk, some standing in the doorway – listened attentively. “I should know,” Prabhupāda continued, “I am less than the stool of a hog. And Kṛṣṇa – You are everything. That is very difficult. We can find millions of Isaac Newtons and Einsteins, but one very rare soul might be surrendered to Kṛṣṇa. Because it is very difficult. So as long as you are thinking that ‘He is more learned than me’ or ‘I am more learned than him’ – that is material. You must know that you are nothing and surrender.”

A new boy who had been attending Śrīla Prabhupāda’s classes asked, “Why is it that one time I feel this way, like you say, ‘surrendered,’ but at other times I forget?”

Prabhupāda: “That is māyā. That is our battle with māyā. We are in māyā’s kingdom, so we have to fight. It is like an ocean, birth and death. There are so many universes and so many species of life, and we are transmigrating birth after birth. It is like you are standing on the edge of a boat, and just a little shove and you may fall into the ocean. Then you do not know where you are going, here or there. So it is like that. If you want to keep back even one percent – to surrender all but one percent – then you have to stay here. Kṛṣṇa is so strict. If you have any desire for material enjoyment, you have to remain. Just one percent may take millions of years. So you have to surrender everything.

“Kṛṣṇa consciousness is already there within you and within everyone, but it has to be invoked. It is like a match, and if you rub it, fire comes out. And that rubbing process is chanting. So we have to inject Kṛṣṇa consciousness into the ear, and we have to go on injecting. Wherever you go, you have to chant – and without any motive.”

Gaurasundara brought in a plate of cut fruit, which Śrīla Prabhupāda distributed to each person. It was late, but Prabhupāda continued speaking: “People want to go on asking God for bread. But as soon as there is bread elsewhere, they won’t go to church. But if you teach people to love God – that they will never forget.” Prabhupāda smiled. Finally the devotees left him, satisfied. They would see him in the temple in the morning.

Montreal temple, established now for a year and a half, occupied a former bowling alley on the third floor of a building near McGill University. Although the gutters on either side of the eight bowling lanes had been filled in with wood, thus creating a smooth, level floor, the eight hardwood lanes were still prominent. An altar and vyāsāsana stood against one wall, and a temporary wall partitioned off the men’s quarters. There was also a kitchen and separate quarters for the women. With difficulty Prabhupāda would daily climb the two flights of stairs and enter the spacious temple room. On the day of his arrival in Montreal, several devotees had carried him up the stairs in a palanquin, but the winding staircase made that too difficult to do daily. So Prabhupāda chose to walk.

The original Montreal devotee was Janārdana, a Canadian attending McGill University. Janārdana wore a beard and long hair, even after his initiation, and lived in an apartment with his wife, who was staunchly opposed to Kṛṣṇa consciousness. Acknowledging Janārdana as an intellectual, Prabhupāda had written him long letters answering his philosophical doubts and requesting that he write essays and books on Kṛṣṇa consciousness.

When the temple had first opened, the McGill Daily had given Janārdana a full page to introduce Swami Bhaktivedanta and Kṛṣṇa consciousness. The headlines had read, “Mind Expansion Under Spiritual Guidance.” Montreal’s French daily newspaper, Le Nouveau Samedi, interviewed Janārdana and published an article: “They claim that the Hindu God Krishna is the Father of Christ and that the inhabitants of the moon are invisible.”

About a dozen members had joined the Montreal temple, but so far they had done little to spread Kṛṣṇa consciousness in Montreal. They had spent most of their energy maintaining themselves spiritually and financially. Although they had held some public kīrtanas at the 1967 World’s Fair, mostly they had concentrated on transforming the bowling alley, cleaning, cooking for Kṛṣṇa, and meeting together for classes and kīrtanas.

When Śrīla Prabhupāda saw Janārdana’s academic studies distracting him from temple management, he asked Janārdana to appoint a temple commander. One night when Prabhupāda came to the temple for his lecture, as soon as he sat on the vyāsāsana, he looked out to Janārdana and asked, “So, have you found a temple commander yet?”

“Oh, no,” Janārdana replied, “not yet.”

Prabhupāda then turned toward the altar and beheld the Deities. “That’s all right,” he said. “Lord Jagannātha is the temple commander. We are His servants.”

One evening in the temple, as Prabhupāda concluded his lecture about Prahlāda Mahārāja, he asked if there were any questions. Himavatī, one of the women disciples, raised her hand.

Prabhupāda: “Yes?”

Himavatī: “Prahlāda Mahārāja was such a great devotee that he said, ‘nothing is mine.’ But then why does he say ‘my God’? How could God become his? Why does he say that?”

Prabhupāda: “Then what shall he say?”

Himavatī: “I don’t understand. How can he say it? If you understand nothing belongs to you, then how can you say, ‘God is mine’?”

Prabhupāda: Kṛṣṇa is the Lord of everyone. Therefore everyone can say ‘my Lord.’ That does not mean if somebody says ‘my Lord,’ God becomes monopolized. You are speaking on the platform of monopolizing, ‘mine.’ But God is never monopolized. He is everyone’s. So everyone has the right to say ‘my God, my Lord.’ In the material sense, when I say, ‘It is my wife,’ that means she is not any other’s wife. But God is not like that. I can say ‘my God,’ but you can also say ‘my God,’ he can say ‘my God,’ everyone can say ‘my God.’ This is the absolute ‘mine.’

“Kṛṣṇa says, ‘All these living creatures are My parts and parcels.’ Mamaivāṁśo. Mama means ‘My.’ So why the living creatures shall not say ‘my God’? Do you follow? Kṛṣṇa says, ‘You are Mine.’ Why shall I not say, ‘Kṛṣṇa, You are mine’? Your husband says, ‘You are mine.’ Why shall you not say to him, ‘You are mine’? But don’t take it in the material sense. In material sense, as soon as I say, ‘This is mine,’ then it belongs to no one else. It is my property. But Kṛṣṇa is not like that. So you can say, ‘Kṛṣṇa is mine.’ There is no harm. Rather, if anyone wants to possess something as his, that position should be Kṛṣṇa’s. That is the ultimate conception of ‘mine.’ That is the perfection of the word ‘mine.’

“So this is quite nice, quite fit. In the Bhagavad-gītā Kṛṣṇa says, ‘He is Mine, and I am his.’ Kṛṣṇa says. So this is not wrong. And what is your idea? That because everything belongs to Kṛṣṇa therefore I shall not say ‘mine’? That’s your idea?”

Himavatī: “I didn’t understand this, that Kṛṣṇa is the Lord. So my Lord is everyone else’s Lord.”

Prabhupāda: “Yes.”

Himavatī: “He is the controller, and that’s why He is mine.”

Prabhupāda: “He’s mine, He’s yours, everyone’s. That’s all.”

Himavatī: “I can understand.”

Prabhupāda: “That’s all.”

Rukmiṇī: “I feel so far away from you, you know, when you are not here.”

Prabhupāda: “What is that? I can’t follow. Janārdana?”

Janārdana: “She is saying she felt so far away from you when you were not here.”

Prabhupāda: “Oh, that you should not think. There are two conceptions, the physical conception and the vibration conception. The physical conception is temporary, and the vibration conception is eternal. Just like we are relishing the vibration of Kṛṣṇa’s teaching. So my vibration is also present. As soon as we chant Hare Kṛṣṇa or chant Bhagavad-gītā or the Bhāgavata, so Kṛṣṇa is present immediately by vibration. He is absolute. Therefore vibration is more important than physical presence.

“When you feel separation from your spiritual master, you just try to remember his words and his instructions, and you will not feel separation. You will feel like he is with you. So we should associate by the vibration, not by the physical presence. That is real association – śabdād anavṛtti – by sound. Just like we are touching Kṛṣṇa immediately by sound. So we should give more stress on this sound vibration, either of Kṛṣṇa or of the spiritual master. Then we will feel happy and no separation.

“When Kṛṣṇa departed from this world, at that time Arjuna was overwhelmed with sorrow, and he began to remember the instruction of Bhagavad-gītā. Then he was pacified. Immediately he began to remember the teaching which was taught to him on the Battlefield of Kurukṣetra, and he was pacified. Kṛṣṇa was his constant friend, so when the Lord went to His abode, Arjuna was feeling overwhelmed. But he began to remember His teachings. So whenever we shall feel separation, the best thing is to remember the teachings. Then it will be very nice. Is that clear?”

Rukmiṇī: “Yes.”

One of the girls asked, “Prabhupāda, will you be our father eternally? Will you always be our spiritual master, eternally?”

Jokingly, Prabhupāda said, “Yes, I think so.” Then he quoted a verse, cakhudāna dilo yei, janme janme prabhu sei, but he said, “… janme janme pītā sei. The one who has opened my eyes – he is my father life after life.”

Prabhupāda was concerned about the weak financial condition of the Montreal temple. Although some of the devotees were employed, their work wasn’t very auspicious. One disciple had a job – at the No Sags Spring Factory – which Prabhupāda called “ugra-karma,” bitter, unwholesome labor. When Nanda-kiśora told Prabhupāda about his job as a busboy in a restaurant, Prabhupāda replied, “Oh, a blind uncle.” Nanda-kiśora looked puzzled. Prabhupāda told him the story of a boy who had no uncle. One day a blind man came to the boy’s home and said, “I will be your uncle.” “Well,” the boy replied, “a blind uncle is better than no uncle.” But when Nanda-kiśora told Prabhupāda the details of his work and that he was sometimes cooking meat, Prabhupāda remarked, “Oh, but not so blind.”

The question of financing the Montreal temple puzzled Prabhupāda, and he carefully analyzed the situation. There were two paths of Kṛṣṇa consciousness, he said: one for those who were renounced, eating fruits from the trees and living in caves; and the other for those who were married and honestly employed, like Kṛṣṇa’s friend Arjuna. Both paths were good, but the question for Prabhupāda was which path his disciples should take. If they attempted to take the path of ascetics like Śukadeva Gosvāmī, they would probably remain hippies, and Prabhupāda wanted many big centers with respectable guests coming to take prasādam. Yet if to maintain such temples the devotees had to engage in ugra-karma, then who would preach? It was a puzzle.

“I have either to stop this brahminical system,” Prabhupāda said, “or I have to have brāhmaṇas work.” He thought of starting his own business; he had had a little capital, and there was organization. Then he thought of enlisting the support of the Indians in Montreal.

Montreal had a large Indian community, and families were already attending the Sunday feast at the temple. Of those who came forward to meet Prabhupāda, the most promising was young Gopal Khana, a business major at McGill University. Although raised in an orthodox Hindu family, Gopal knew little of the Vaiṣṇava philosophy.

The day before Śrīla Prabhupāda had arrived in Montreal, Gopal had received an invitation card from a devotee. Because for the past year Gopal had been seriously wanting to understand God, he had been interested. In his spiritual search he had been attending services at a Hindu temple in Toronto as well as visiting various other churches and temples; he had given up meat-eating and smoking. On coming to the temple and seeing the excitement of the devotees in preparing for Prabhupāda’s arrival, Gopal had asked to help, so one of the devotees had instructed him to help clean Prabhupāda’s apartment. Prabhupāda had taken an interest in Gopal, who, although he had never met a sādhu before and didn’t know what to think at first, respected Prabhupāda.

A friend of Gopal’s, a Mr. Mukerjee from Calcutta, also began attending Prabhupāda’s lectures. Mr. Mukerjee, who claimed to have spiritual knowledge, told Gopal that, although he had touched the feet of many Indian sādhus throughout India, never had he met anyone as saintly as Prabhupāda. Gopal took his friend’s endorsement of Prabhupāda very seriously, and soon he was attending all the lectures in the temple and chanting Hare Kṛṣṇa on his beads, acting like a regular devotee. He would usually be the only Indian to remain through the kīrtana and lecture in the temple. Then afterwards he would stay and have hot milk with the devotees, returning home around nine-thirty.

Associating with the devotees and being of the same age as they, Gopal automatically included himself among the intimate disciples who regularly visited Prabhupāda at his apartment. Prabhupāda asked Gopal about his family and background in India and encouraged him to take up Kṛṣṇa consciousness. When Gopal told Prabhupāda that he had been chanting oṁ, Prabhupāda explained that by itself oṁ was incomplete. If he wanted to chant oṁ, Prabhupāda said, then he should chant oṁ kṛṣṇa.

One night Gopal was present as Prabhupāda discussed the financial problems of the Montreal temple. Although the temple rent was only $150 and expenses were minimal, the devotees were struggling. At one point in the discussion Prabhupāda turned to Gopal and asked, “So, Gopal, what is your solution to this financial problem?” Guessing that Prabhupāda might be hinting for him to contribute money, Gopal said he didn’t have a solution.

Prabhupāda lectured at a nearby Christian school, and Gopal and his friend Mr. Mukerjee attended. When, after the kīrtana and lecture, Prabhupāda asked if there were any questions, Mr. Mukerjee raised his hand, stood up, and, to the shock of the devotees, began insulting Prabhupāda.

“It is not a fact that Kṛṣṇa is the Supreme Personality of Godhead,” Mr. Mukerjee said before the hall filled with Christian students and ministers. “You should not speak like this in a church. Why do you say that Kṛṣṇa is the Supreme and that we should surrender to Him?”

Prabhupāda remained calm. Although the attending devotees, looking furiously at Mr. Mukerjee, could barely restrain themselves, Prabhupāda didn’t even speak. He simply called on someone else in the audience and allowed the unpleasant event to pass.

Some days later Prabhupāda asked Gopal about Mr. Mukerjee, who hadn’t come by recently. To Gopal’s surprise, Prabhupāda asked to see Mr. Mukerjee again. Gopal, considering Mr. Mukerjee too envious and blasphemous, advised Prabhupāda against it. “No, it does not matter,” Prabhupāda said. “I must have done something against him in my past life, and now he has taken his revenge. Please call him.”

Gradually some of the Indian visitors responded to Śrīla Prabhupāda and began to give money to support the temple. Most of them, however, were reluctant to spend money or time apart from their careers and families. Indian culture, Prabhupāda said, had completely fallen, due partly to foreign invasions into India and partly to India’s leaders’ madly abandoning their original culture in favor of Western materialism. “But still,” Prabhupāda told the devotees, “if there is any civilization left anywhere, it is in India. In India they are all originally Kṛṣṇa conscious, and with a little chanting and taking prasādam their material covering can be removed.”

Prabhupāda compared modern-day Indian civilization to a dead elephant. An elephant is such a valuable creature that even when dead, because of its tusks and hide, it remains almost as valuable as when alive and working. Similarly, although the Indian culture was practically dead, India still had great potential. Most Indians in the villages still retained a simple faith that their present suffering was due to karma of their past lives and that they would have to transmigrate to another body in their next life. That basic transcendental knowledge, commonly understood by the Indian masses, was unknown in the West even to the most sophisticated and advanced members of society.

But Prabhupāda was sorry to see the Indians in the West abandoning their piety and taking the cheap life of sense gratification. He compared the Indian immigrants to the “new crows.” When crows eat garbage, after a while they are full. But if a new crow arrives, he becomes especially eager. Similarly, many Indians, newly arrived in the West, were more eager for material advancement than the Westerners. Yet despite Prabhupāda’s criticism of Indians, whenever he met anyone of Indian birth – in the temple, in his room, or elsewhere – he seemed to become especially sympathetic and friendly, conversing with them in Hindi or Bengali as if talking with old, familiar friends.

Janārdana was concerned about presenting Kṛṣṇa consciousness to Montreal’s main religious contingent, the Catholics. Because he came from a French-Canadian Catholic family, Janārdana thought Prabhupāda and his disciples should learn to present Kṛṣṇa consciousness in terms of Biblical teachings. It was possible, Prabhupāda agreed, but it would require great expertise. It would be better, he said, to stress the universal, nonsectarian nature of Kṛṣṇa consciousness. Christianity, Hinduism, Islam, and all other religions had some idea of God, though not much realization of pure love for God. Kṛṣṇa consciousness, however, was like a postgraduate study for persons of all religions. Prabhupāda requested his disciples not to divert their attention to criticizing the Christian or any other sectarian faith. Rather, they should simply preach Bhagavad-gītā and Śrīmad-Bhāgavatam.

When Śivānanda and Nanda-kiśora brought an Indian Christian to Prabhupāda’s apartment, Prabhupāda demonstrated the art of preaching to a committed follower of a sectarian religious faith. “We don’t say you have to be this religion or that,” Prabhupāda told the man. “The real test of religion is how one is awakening his dormant love for God.” Prabhupāda went on – without attacking the man’s religious affiliation – to describe the degradation of Kali-yuga. “At the present moment,” he said, “never mind whether one is Christian, Hindu, Jew, or Muslim, most people are godless and don’t care for God. They simply take an official stand. But actually, in the depth of their heart, they have no idea what God is. If a Christian believes in God, let him love God more prominently than matter.” The man agreed.

Janārdana took Prabhupāda to see some of the great cathedrals in Montreal. Entering the spacious Notre Dame, Prabhupāda said, “Yes, this is worship of God as Lord Nārāyaṇa – in awe and reverence.” The church tour impressed Śrīla Prabhupāda, and the next day he revealed his thoughts in a letter to Aniruddha.

Prabhupāda and Janārdana visited another church, which displayed the relics of a saint who had been adept at healing. Walking through the exhibit of the saint’s clothing, desk, bed, and personal effects, Prabhupāda was unimpressed. “Just see,” he said. “They are adoring him for healing bodies that are now dead. But they do not take interest in the healing of a soul in his eternal situation.”

Questions about Christ and the Bible often arose after Prabhupāda’s classes in the temple. One night Prabhupāda explained that even the most learned man studies in terms of the body only. Although a person may have many Ph.D.’s and may be talking philosophy, when he is asked, “Do you know what the soul is?” he will stop.

A man raised his hand. “I have here a Holy Bible,” he began. “Yes,” Prabhupāda acknowledged.

“So the Holy Bible is also written by the Holy Spirit of mankind. Should we believe in the Bible or not?”

“You can say it is written by mankind, but so far as I know, those who wrote, wrote with revelation.”

“The Holy Spirit?”

“Yes,” Prabhupāda said. “Therefore, you should read. Otherwise, if a man writes a book on his own, he will write on his own experience. And it will be imperfect.”

“You were speaking about men only knowing the body. What about the body of Christ?”

“Body of Christ is not ordinary body,” Prabhupāda said. “That is spiritual body. Kṛṣṇa says in the Bhagavad-gītā: sambhavāmy-ātma-māyayā. So this is a very subtle point. One has to understand that when God comes or God’s son comes or God’s representative comes, they do not accept a body like us. They have their spiritual body.”

“Kṛṣṇa means Christ,” the man replied. “He’s the whole spirit. So we are also in the body of man. That is the body of God?”

“No,” Prabhupāda replied. “The body of man is not exactly the body of God. With God there is no difference between the body and the soul because He is all-spiritual. Just like if you have a golden body and a golden soul – then there is no difference between the soul and the body. But in our case, as we are, we are spirit soul, but the body is material. Therefore I am different from this body. But when we are liberated, we get a spiritual body like Kṛṣṇa’s. At the present moment there is a difference between our body and soul. Therefore, as soon as a soul goes away from the body, the body, being matter – ‘Dust thou art, dust thou be-est’ – mixes with the matter, and the soul takes another body. The whole problem is that we have to stop repetition of migration from one material body to another material body. That is the highest perfection of life.”

In his letter, Prabhupāda explained his personal background and mission. He then defined love of God (as it is explained in Śrīmad-Bhāgavatam) and stated that human life is especially meant for learning to love God. Noting that people were mostly interested in sense gratification, Prabhupāda remarked, “This tendency is very much deteriorating. Because Your Holiness is the Head of a great religious sect, I think we should meet together and chalk out a program for cooperation.”

Prabhupāda went on to describe some of the symptoms of society as degradation, including the pro-abortion movement within the Catholic faith. “I understand it from reliable sources,” Prabhupāda wrote, “that people are trying to get Your Holiness’s sanction for contraceptive method, which is certainly against any religion of the world. In the Hindu religion, such contraceptive method or abortion is considered equivalent to murder.” Prabhupāda said the same degradation was affecting India, and he suggested that the guardians of society treat this situation as a very serious one. Prabhupāda closed his letter, “If you think that a meeting with You will be beneficial for the human society at large, I shall be very much pleased if Your Holiness will grant me an interview.”

Janārdana mixed with many liberal, academic religionists interested in ecumenical aspects of religion, and he wanted to introduce Prabhupāda to these scholars of various faiths. He arranged a private get-together at a friend’s house, and Prabhupāda very willingly went and spoke about Kṛṣṇa consciousness. The next day he summarized his experience in a letter to Satsvarūpa.

Prabhupāda attended a more formal ecumenical meeting, a religious conference. About fifty people, including Prabhupāda and a group of his devotees, attended. A panel, representing various religions, honored Prabhupāda as the main speaker as well as a member of the panel. Prabhupāda lectured. After the lecture, a Catholic priest asked how Prabhupāda could be so sure of his statements about God.

“Why not?” Prabhupāda said. “What is the difficulty? I have consciousness. There is God. Now I have forgotten Him. I have to revive my consciousness of God. What is difficult in knowing that much?” The questioners were not his submissive young disciples, and this was not Prabhupāda relaxed and sitting back on a pillow in his room. He was alert, logical, and very sociable. But some of the panel were not satisfied with his presentation. The moderator took up their cause.

Moderator: “Are you saying that you are perfect?”

Prabhupāda: “I am imperfect – that’s all right. But I know what is perfection.”

Moderator: “But I cannot see that.”

Prabhupāda’s disciples laughed at this, and Prabhupāda turned to reprimand them: “Don’t laugh.” Then returning to his debate with the moderator: “Therefore, you are here. You have to go to London. If you have purchased a ticket for London and if you have gotten to the airplane, so even if you have not gone to London, you are sure that you are going to London.”

Moderator: “Yes, I can be sure. I understand that. I have no doubt about that. But how can your security – ”

Prabhupāda: “No, no. If I have understood that my destination is London, I feel secure that I am going to London. Then that is my happiness.”

Moderator: “So you are completely happy.”

Prabhupāda: “Yes, because I know that if I go to London I will be happy. And I am going there.”

Moderator: “But you’re not in London yet.”

Prabhupāda: “That’s all right!” Prabhupāda raised his voice confidently. “I have already told you that when you purchase a ticket and you understand that you are surely going to London – that is happiness.”

Moderator: “But then there is no question.”

Prabhupāda: “Hmm? But what is this? If my destination is London, why then question? There is no need of question.”

Moderator: “Well, then why a conference with men of other religions?” The other panel members listened intently as the moderator pursued a line of argument many of them empathized with. They wanted to see Prabhupāda defeated.

Prabhupāda: “That conference is used to consult together that London is the destination.”

Moderator: “But then you know the destination.”

Prabhupāda: “Right.”

Moderator: “The idea that you have behind your mind is to tell other people where the destination is.”

Prabhupāda: “Yes.”

Moderator: “Not to search for it with them.”

Prabhupāda: “No, I don’t say search. I have already searched out.”

Moderator: “Yeah. So then I feel myself that this is not a conference.”

Prabhupāda: “Hmm? Then if I have got some good news to tell you, it is not conference?” Prabhupāda’s disciples burst into laughter despite themselves. This time Prabhupāda did not check them. He was too busy, too alert with the debate, as several persons started talking at once.

Panel member: “As far as you are concerned, it may be London. As far as I am concerned, it may be Paris or Hawaii.”

Prabhupāda: “No, then we have to consider where is real happiness, whether it is in Hawaii or in Paris or – ”

Moderator: “You! But if you are not willing to concede” – the moderator could not help becoming accusative in his tone – “that it is not London, and if I say I am not going to that place – ”

Prabhupāda: “That is going on, that is going on. There are innumerable planets, and in the Bhagavad-gītā it is said: yānti deva-vratā devān pitṝn yānti pitṛ-vratāḥ. So if you think that London is not good for you, Paris is good for you, then it is good for you.”

Another panel member (with a German accent): “Well, therefore, conference is all useless.”

Prabhupāda: “No. If you don’t agree, if you do not understand what is the highest goal, then conference is useless. If you keep yourself to the understanding where you are, then there is no need of conference.” Several persons, some on the panel and some even in the audience, began to speak at once in protest of Prabhupāda’s remarks.

Prabhupāda: “That is conference – I want to convince you that London is the real place of happiness.”

Moderator: “But I think that I know better than you.”

Prabhupāda: “You may think, but you have to be convinced that your thinking is wrong.”

Moderator: “Or maybe I can convince you that your thinking is wrong.”

Prabhupāda: “That’s all right. Therefore, conference is required.” Prabhupāda began to laugh. Finally everyone laughed, and the tension that had been building to animosity relaxed. But the formal order of the conference had been lost, and now everyone began to speak at once.

Moderator: “Excuse me, Swamiji, but the time is running out … ”

Prabhupāda: “Yes.”

Moderator: “And I would like to thank you very much for coming.”

Prabhupāda: “Now you are convinced that conference is required?”

Moderator: “Yes.”

Prabhupāda: “You have to convince me, and I will have to convince you.”

Moderator: “And I think that’s true. These confrontations, these listenings, lead to further understanding.”

The program ended, and the crowd began dispersing, talking among themselves, moving out into the summer evening. The moderator, still intellectually piqued by Prabhupāda’s brand of ecumenicity, approached Prabhupāda amid the crowd moving toward the exit.

“The question is,” the young minister pursued, “where should we go, if you believe that you must go to London, yet I believe very strongly I must go to India, and I am convinced that, at least for me, India is wonderful?”

Prabhupāda: “No. If you are convinced that going to India is good for you, so similarly you must accept that going to London is also nice.”

Minister: “Yes. But so may you also be convinced that India is better than London.”

Prabhupāda: “Yes, if you can convince me.”

Minister: “But if you believe that you cannot be convinced … ”

Prabhupāda: “No. You can convince if we are reasonable.”

Minister: “But then we have to search together to become complete.”

Prabhupāda: “No, my version is complete.”

Minister: “Then I cannot convince you of anything.”

Prabhupāda: “No. Why not? You have got reason, I have got reason. You have to show me that there are favorable conditions in Paris or India … ”

Minister: “But how can I convince you, because you say that you cannot – ”

Prabhupāda: “No, no, no, no. Convince means you have to convince me with your reasoning power of presentation.”

August 1968
  Śrīla Prabhupāda was in his room with several devotees.

“Prabhupāda?” Śivānanda asked.

“Yes.”

“May I go to England?” Śivānanda had asked once before, and Prabhupāda had told him no, that he should stay in Montreal and help. He was only twenty, and his desire to go seemed to be mostly restlessness. He was sincere but inexperienced. But now he was asking again – and it was timely.

“My mother will give me money for the trip,” Śivānanda continued. “She says it’ll be all right as long as I go back to college after opening a temple there.”

Prabhupāda nodded. “Yes, that’s all right. You can go. You are sincere. But be careful. I was an old Calcutta boy, and so when I came to New York I never got cheated.”

Prabhupāda’s spiritual master, Śrīla Bhaktisiddhānta Sarasvatī, had wanted to spread Kṛṣṇa consciousness in Europe. He had sent his most experienced sannyāsīs, giving them financial support from India; but they had returned, accomplishing nothing. Perhaps these boys and girls could succeed where others had failed. Prabhupāda felt it was possible. He knew it would greatly please Śrīla Bhaktisiddhānta Sarasvatī.

Prabhupāda had faith that his disciples would be able to establish something in Europe, just as they had done in America. He gave the example that if someone finds a gourd lying on the road and picks it up and finds a wire and picks that up, although the two parts are in themselves useless, if he puts them together to make a vīṇā, he could play beautiful music. Similarly, Prabhupāda had come and found some hippies lying here and there, and he himself had been rejected by the people in New York City; but by Kṛṣṇa’s grace it had become a successful combination. If his disciples remained sincere and followed his orders, then they would be successful in Europe.

When the three married couples – Mukunda and Jānakī, Śyāmasundara and Mālatī, and Gurudāsa and Yamunā – arrived in Montreal, they created a new enthusiasm in the temple. These three couples had begun the temple in San Francisco and had had close association with Prabhupāda. They had helped Prabhupāda make kīrtana, feasting, and Ratha-yātrā successful among the hippies of Haight-Ashbury. Now they were eager to help Prabhupāda bring Kṛṣṇa consciousness to London.

It was an emotional reunion. Jānakī began crying, and Prabhupāda patted her head, saying, “There is no need.” When Prabhupāda saw Sarasvatī, Śyāmasundara and Mālatī’s daughter, he said, “I dreamed of that child last night, that exact child.” And he took the baby in his arms and gave her his garland. Prabhupāda laughed. “They will say, ‘What kind of sannyāsī is he?’ ”

Prabhupāda wanted these three couples to stay with him for a week or two so that he could train them to perform kīrtana very expertly. Of course, chanting Hare Kṛṣṇa was not a theatrical performance; it was an act of devotion. In fact, it could only be properly done by pure devotees – not by professional musicians. Yet if these disciples could learn the standard tunes and practice singing together, Londoners would better appreciate Kṛṣṇa consciousness.

Prabhupāda wanted to teach his London-bound disciples to sing and play instruments in a specific way. Someone should learn to play the harmonium properly – following the melody, not simply pumping it, as the devotees had been doing for years. And the Sanskrit mantras and bhajanas should be pronounced properly and the melodies sung correctly. Some melodies were to be sung in the morning, others in the evening. Each word was to be pronounced correctly and with the right intonation.

Prabhupāda liked Yamunā’s singing, and Mukunda was an expert musician for organizing the party. The spacious Montreal temple was a suitable place for them to practice. Ideally, Prabhupāda said, the party should have two mṛdaṅga players, one harmonium player, one tamboura player, and at least six karatāla players. He talked about sending the group not only to London but to the European continent and then to Asia also. So he wanted them to become expert at kīrtana.

“Can we put on plays and things like that?” Gurudāsa asked.

“Yes,” Prabhupāda said, “you can put on plays in the street with a Lord Nṛsiṁha mask and costumes and wigs. Or one boy can be dressed as Lord Caitanya, another as Lord Nityānanda, Gadādhara, Advaita with a white beard, and Śrīvāsa.”

Prabhupāda became ecstatic at the thought of his disciples performing kīrtana in England. They would become more popular than the yogīs with their gymnastics and impersonal meditation. Sometimes they could dramatize scenes from Śrīmad-Bhāgavatam, sometimes they could recite Sanskrit verses and explain them by singing in English. Now that the London program was a tangible fact, Prabhupāda voiced one visionary plan after another. To the devotees it seemed that Prabhupāda had already thought out in detail hundreds of plans for implementing Kṛṣṇa consciousness around the world and that all he needed were some willing helpers.

Prabhupāda began holding daily kīrtana rehearsals, teaching the devotees to chant Hare Kṛṣṇa, very slowly at first, gradually building the tempo. Regularly he would interrupt and have them begin again. As Yamunā led the singing, Prabhupāda would listen carefully, stopping her at times to correct her Sanskrit pronunciation.

The six London-bound devotees had arrived in Montreal only a few days before two of the biggest festival days of the year: Janmāṣṭamī, the appearance day of Lord Kṛṣṇa, and Vyāsa-pūjā, the appearance day of Śrīla Prabhupāda. Now, with the festival days approaching and devotees from other cities arriving to be with Prabhupāda, the usually quiet Montreal temple began to stir with activity. Cooking became so enthusiastic that it was like a big kīrtana in the kitchen. Prabhupāda supervised the cooking of some of the preparations and then returned to his apartment, where he personally cooked several special dishes.

The Janmāṣṭamī festival was scheduled to last all day and on through the night until midnight, the time of Lord Kṛṣṇa’s appearance, culminating in a midnight feast. Gopal had mailed invitations to many Indians and had made hundreds of phone calls. As a result, more than three hundred guests attended. Prabhupāda spoke in the evening before a distracted, talkative audience of Indian families with children. Afterwards he had Gaurasundara, Mukunda, and Yamunā speak in turn. Pleased by the large gathering of guests and devotees in the bowling-alley-turned-temple, Prabhupāda considered the Janmāṣṭamī festival the high point of his stay in Montreal.

After the midnight feasting, as Prabhupāda was leaving the temple, he stopped at the door and turned to Haṁsadūta, who had done most of the cooking. “The sweetballs were very good,” Prabhupāda said.

“Thank you, Prabhupāda.”

“But mine,” Prabhupāda smiled, “were better.”

The next day, Prabhupāda’s appearance day, the devotees gathered again, fasting until noon and then feasting. In the morning they offered little speeches in praise of their spiritual master. After most of the disciples had spoken, Prabhupāda turned to a new boy and indicated that he should speak. The boy stood and said that although he didn’t know much about Kṛṣṇa consciousness, he was serving Prabhupāda each day by rolling capātīs in the kitchen. He said he loved hearing Prabhupāda’s taped lectures and rolling capātīs and that he was satisfied and happy and simply wanted to go on eternally rolling capātīs and hearing his spiritual master’s tapes. This simple talk caused Prabhupāda to smile, and he thanked the boy for his realization.

Then Prabhupāda spoke, describing the spiritual master as a transcendental broker. The broker acts only on behalf of his firm, and the customer must deal with the firm through the broker. Approaching Kṛṣṇa through the spiritual master was like that.

The London party, now ready to go, went for a final meeting with Prabhupāda. He was sending them to start a center in London and thus fulfill his spiritual master’s dream. The sannyāsīs Śrīla Bhaktisiddhānta Sarasvatī had sent to London had lectured in a few places, posed for photos with lords and ladies, and then returned to India. But Prabhupāda said his disciples should boldly go out and chant the holy name and attract others to chant. Then, when those persons were practiced at chanting Hare Kṛṣṇa, they could continue on their own, and the devotees could move on to another place and chant. Prabhupāda was enthusiastic about London, and as he spoke he filled his disciples with the same enthusiasm.

When Mukunda asked Prabhupāda if he had any specific instructions, he replied with a story. In his youth, Prabhupāda said, he had seen a movie of Charlie Chaplin. The setting was a formal ball held outdoors, and off from the main dance arena were lanes with benches where couples sat. Some mischievous boys plastered glue on a bench, and a young man and his girlfriend came and sat down. “When the young man got up” – Prabhupāda laughed as he told the story, and his disciples, who could hardly believe their ears, were also laughing – “his tailing coats tore up the middle.”

The man and woman didn’t notice what had happened and returned to the dance, where they began to draw stares from the other dancers. Wondering why he was suddenly drawing so much attention, the young man went into the dressing room and saw in the mirror that his coattails were torn. Deliberately, he then tore his jacket all the way up to the collar, returned to his partner, and began dancing exuberantly.

Then another man decided to get into the spirit and, ripping his own coattails, began dancing with his partner almost in competition with the first couple. One by one, the other dancers all followed suit, ripping their coattails and dancing with abandon.

By the time Prabhupāda finished the story, the devotees in his room were all laughing, forgetting everything else. Then, as the laughter subsided and the meeting drew to an end, Mālatī asked, “Prabhupāda, I don’t think we can go to London unless we have the shelter of your lotus feet. May we kiss your lotus feet?”

The other devotees were taken aback at her sudden request. No one had ever done such a thing before. But neither her husband nor the others said anything to oppose her, and Prabhupāda consented. One by one, the six London-bound preachers came and offered their obeisances, kissing the bottom of their spiritual master’s feet.

Not until the devotees were already at the airport did Mukunda, talking with Śyāmasundara, begin to appreciate and marvel that Prabhupāda had expertly answered his question by telling the story of the ripped coattails.

Mukunda: I realized that Prabhupāda was telling us that preaching Kṛṣṇa consciousness may be difficult or unpopular in England at first. But if we preached boldly, enthusiastically, and purely, then everyone would follow.