Los Angeles
January 6, 1968

The building at 5364 West Pico Boulevard was a small storefront in a middle-class black neighborhood of Los Angeles. With his key, Aniruddha opened the rear door, and Śrīla Prabhupāda entered, followed by a few disciples.

The room was stark. A Brijabasi print of Lord Kṛṣṇa sat atop the altar, which was no more than two orange crates covered with an old madras. A tamboura and a mṛdaṅga on end stood in one corner, and a curtain hung over the front window. Prabhupāda’s seat, a simple raised platform, was the only furniture.

Prabhupāda, dressed in saffron robes and walking with a cane, crossed the room, opened the front door, and stepped outside. Glancing up and down the street, he saw small, run-down houses. It was a quiet, out-of-the-way neighborhood, unlike the more vital locations his disciples had found in San Francisco’s Haight-Ashbury and Manhattan’s Lower East Side. But it was a place in Los Angeles, a start.

Prabhupāda stepped back inside and shut the door. Aniruddha, Dayānanda, his wife Nandarāṇī, and their three-week-old daughter Candramukhī were there – the members of the Los Angeles temple. Several other devotees who had driven down a few days earlier from San Francisco were also there and stood anxiously around Prabhupāda, waiting to hear what he would say.

Prabhupāda looked around carefully. “All right,” he said, “let us have kīrtana. And picking up the mṛdaṅga, he sat down on the small platform while his disciples sat down before him on the floor.

No sooner had he begun to play, however, when Jānakī rushed over to him, carrying the tamboura. “Swamiji,” she said, “you can’t play the drum! You’re not well enough! Play this.” Her reprimand was motherly. Prabhupāda was seventy-two and only six months ago had been hospitalized after a heart attack and stroke. He had only recently returned from India, where he had gone to recuperate. Naturally his disciples were concerned about his health.

“All right.” Prabhupāda smiled, trading instruments with Jānakī. “Then I will play tamboura.”

As Śrīla Prabhupāda softly plucked the metal strings, his disciples clapped the one-two-three rhythm. Prabhupāda chanted: “Hare Kṛṣṇa, Hare Kṛṣṇa, Kṛṣṇa Kṛṣṇa, Hare Hare / Hare Rāma, Hare Rāma, Rāma Rāma, Hare Hare.” With his traditional Bengali melody he led the singing, joining with his disciples on the chorus.

As Prabhupāda’s disciples sat earnestly chanting before him – some of them looking up to him, others singing with eyes closed – he looked at each disciple. Nervous, timid Aniruddha was there; he blushed easily, and his bespectacled eyes squinted when he smiled. Tall, lean Dayānanda was there; he had a good job as a computer technician for RCA, and he was giving two hundred dollars monthly to support the temple he and his wife had started.

Śrīla Prabhupāda had been in India when Dayānanda and Nandarāṇī had moved to Los Angeles and found this little storefront. Immediately, they had written to him about the new “temple” and the warm, sunny Los Angeles climate, which they said would be good for his health. He had expressed his eagerness to join them.

Dayānanda and Nandarāṇī had written to Prabhupāda that people in Los Angeles weren’t as receptive as in San Francisco and New York, but Prabhupāda had assured them that if they chanted with devotion, success would come. Kṛṣṇa would help them.

In his room at the Rādhā-Dāmodara temple in Vṛndāvana, Prabhupāda had meditated on sending young men and women like Dayānanda and Nandarāṇī all over the world to open Kṛṣṇa conscious centers. Despite old age and ill health, this was his life’s ambition, his single dominating desire. And in whatever time he had left, he wanted to establish the Kṛṣṇa consciousness movement worldwide. His success in America over the past two years had given him hope. Mukunda had begun a temple in San Francisco, Kīrtanānanda had begun one in Montreal, Satsvarūpa in Boston, Subala in Santa Fe, and Brahmānanda had stayed in New York. These temples were storefronts only, and the leaders young, inexperienced men. But the Western youth were showing interest. There was great potential.

After the kīrtana, Dayānanda drove Prabhupāda to his apartment two miles away. It was small – a front room, a kitchenette, a back room with a tiny bathroom – and noisy. Aniruddha had arranged for Gaurasundara and his wife, Govinda dāsī, who were acting as Prabhupāda’s servant and secretary, to stay in the front room.

Prabhupāda said his health was still not good. His sleep was often disturbed, and he spoke of a “gong-gong-gong” sound in his head. He had occasional headaches and a ringing in his left ear. An Ayurvedic doctor in India had told him to take cinnamon buds, and he had seen a doctor in San Francisco. But the doctors’ prescriptions had not helped.

Prabhupāda was in good spirits, however, despite his age and lingering sickness. He appeared strong, and six months in India had tanned him a golden, healthy hue. He always sat straight and smiled often. He walked with a cane, yet upright, with a quick step, tiring his young disciples who attempted to keep up with him. He even mentioned that if his inability to sleep continued, he would have more time for writing his books.

Gone was the mindlessness of his young followers who had previously thought that Swamiji, because he was a pure devotee, should be let to do any strenuous activities he liked, working all night or singing and playing the mṛdaṅga for hours in the park. Now the devotees had become concerned and protective, trying always to arrange for his ease, suggesting when they thought something was too strenuous for him. Usually, however, Prabhupāda would give the last word on what he would or would not do. When Yamunā and Jānakī arrived from San Francisco, they decided that if Swamiji were to get well he would require a special diet. So they devised a regimen featuring small servings of boiled vegetables without salt, spices, or ghee. At first Prabhupāda gently submitted to their requests. But on trying their meals, he commented, “These vegetables are nasty. They are not fit for eating.” After three days, when Govinda dāsī told him of some new reductions in his diet, he roared, “Let the starvation committee go to hell! You feed me.”

Again Prabhupāda began taking his regular lunch – dāl, rice, capātīs, and a couple of sabjīs with ghee. One day when Govinda dāsī brought him his lunch, he commented, “Oh, this is very nice. When I was in India everyone told me, ‘Oh, Swamiji, you cannot go to America. You will starve there. They have no food. They eat only meats and potatoes.’ So I said, ‘What is that? I shall live on bread and potatoes. There is no problem. I can survive on bread and potatoes.’ So I was thinking like that when I came to your country – that I shall live on bread and potatoes. But now I have come here, and Kṛṣṇa is so kind. He has not only given me everything in the way of nice food, but you are also cooking all sorts of nice vegetable preparations – capātīs, dāl, rice. Everything is there. So this is Kṛṣṇa’s kindness.”

Although when Prabhupāda had first arrived in America he had been alone and had had difficulty finding even a single sincere person, now he was surrounded by sincere students eager to learn from him. Still, he accepted this new position in the same spirit as he had accepted the lonely months in New York City. He was doing his beloved duty to his spiritual master: writing books, seeking to engage others in the Kṛṣṇa consciousness mission, and speaking about Kṛṣṇa always.

Sometimes, as Prabhupāda would shuffle through the apartment in his slippers, he would see Gaurasundara and Govinda dāsī seated at the kitchen table practicing their first lessons in the Bengali alphabet. He had given them a Bengali verse from Caitanya-caritāmṛta to memorize, and regularly he would drill them to see if they knew it.

Looking over their shoulders, Prabhupāda remarked, “This is very nice. Just like a child is learning to write. His writing may not be perfect. It may be crooked or imperfect. But the teacher wants to see that the students are trying. It doesn’t matter how well they are doing, but just that they are fully engaged. So it is just like our service to Kṛṣṇa. What can we do for Kṛṣṇa? Kṛṣṇa is everything. He doesn’t need our service. But He wants to see that we are trying – we are trying a little bit to give Him service. That is the whole idea.”

It was only four days after Prabhupāda’s arrival. He had just risen from an afternoon’s rest, walked into the front room … and there was Subala. Prabhupāda was surprised. Subala was supposed to be in Santa Fe.

“My wife has left me,” Subala burst out. And a sad tale followed. Subala told how he had left his wife, Kṛṣṇā-devī dāsī, alone at the Santa Fe temple for a few days and gone to New York to visit his parents. Meanwhile, Kṛṣṇā-devī had run away with a boy who had been visiting the temple; and she had decided to stay with him and give up her husband.

“Don’t worry,” Prabhupāda told Subala, “everything will be all right. I will write a letter to Kṛṣṇā-devī and tell her to come back to you. You can go back to Santa Fe tomorrow, and everything will be all right.”

Subala left the next morning for Santa Fe, and Prabhupāda, although calm in Subala’s presence, began to show deep disturbance over the sordid affair. Kṛṣṇā-devī was his disciple, and he had performed the sacred marriage ceremony for her and Subala. He had asked them to be an ideal couple, cooperating together in Kṛṣṇa consciousness. Together they had gone to start the center in New Mexico. “Don’t be discouraged,” he told them. “Even though no one may come to hear you, still you chant and hear.” But now Kṛṣṇā-devī had simply left the temple and her husband.

When Subala arrived in Santa Fe, he found that Kṛṣṇā-devī and her boyfriend, Randy, had left town. Meanwhile, in Los Angeles Prabhupāda received a letter from Kṛṣṇā-devī. She said she wanted to stay in Kṛṣṇa consciousness – but with her new boyfriend. “This is all nonsense,” Prabhupāda exclaimed. “I will simply go back to Vṛndāvana and sit and chant Hare Kṛṣṇa. Why should I do this? Why should I deal with this quarrel between husband and wife? This is not the business of a sannyāsī.”

Prabhupāda wrote a letter to Kṛṣṇā-devī in care of the Santa Fe temple.

To Subala, Prabhupāda wrote,

But before Prabhupāda’s letter arrived, Subala had already left Santa Fe for Los Angeles, thinking, “I can’t take this anymore. I’m going back to Swamiji.”

Sitting on his porch taking his noontime massage, Prabhupāda suddenly saw Subala, looking more miserable than ever, coming up the sidewalk. “Subala,” Prabhupāda called out, remaining seated. Subala approached and offered obeisances before Śrīla Prabhupāda, who sat in the California sunshine and dressed only in an Indian gamchā, while Gaurasundara massaged him with mustard oil. “You did not get my letter?” Prabhupāda asked.

“No,” Subala replied.

“Yes.” Prabhupāda nodded. “You have got my letter. I have written you and told you that if you are feeling too heavy-hearted, you may come here and live with me for some time.”

Subala: So I moved into the crowded front room of Swamiji’s apartment. I slept in the living room, right outside of Swamiji’s room, and there was only a curtain separating us. At night I could hear him dictating Śrīmad-Bhāgavatam.

He asked me to carve some Rādhā-Kṛṣṇa Deities for him. I had already carved some Jagannātha deities, and now Swamiji said he wanted Rādhā-Kṛṣṇa Deities carved. So I bought a block of mahagony and began carving Rādhā-Kṛṣṇa.

Prabhupāda received word from Rāya Rāma in New York that his editing of the Bhagavad-gītā manuscript was “nearing completion.” When Prabhupāda read Rāya Rāma’s letter, he exploded: “Nearing completion! I heard this before I started for India.” Rāya Rāma’s slow editing was delaying the manuscript too much. Although the contract with Macmillan Company had already been signed, the manuscript had still not been submitted. Seeing Rāya Rāma’s editing as a perpetual delay, Prabhupāda decided Rāya Rāma should immediately stop all other duties and come to Los Angeles.

After a few days, Rāya Rāma arrived. He, too, settled into the crowded front room of Swamiji’s tiny apartment, picking a corner for himself where he could work on the Bhagavad-gītā manuscript. After having spoken in the temple in Swamiji’s presence one night, Rāya Rāma wrote home to the devotees in New York,

One day on a walk, Prabhupāda discovered a special place across the street from his apartment. There on a neighbor’s front lawn stood a broad, tall tree. Taking a few disciples with him, Prabhupāda went over and sat down beneath the tree. On a warm Los Angeles afternoon, this was a great but simple luxury, sitting in the pleasant sunny atmosphere beneath the shade tree. Rāya Rāma considered the occasion something to write to the devotees in New York about.

Swamiji said that saintly persons in India often sat under trees and even lived there with no other shelter. The six Gosvāmīs, who wrote books under the order of Lord Caitanya, lived this way in Vṛndāvana, staying each night under a different tree and compiling sublime Sanskrit literatures. Hearing Swamiji speak on such transcendental subjects in this setting fit perfectly the devotees’ ideal notions of the guru beneath an ancient towering banyan tree in India. It didn’t seem to them that they were sitting in an ordinary neighborhood of Los Angeles. Often Aniruddha would return to the apartment after shopping or errands, and he would see from afar “this gorgeous-looking, saffron-robed person sitting there on the grassy lawn.”

One day as Subala, Govinda dāsī, Rāya Rāma, and others sat with Prabhupāda in the shade, Prabhupāda observed a pair of white butterflies. “Just see these worms,” he said, pointing to the butterflies. “Here also there is husband and wife. The whole world is in this bondage.”

Knowing Subala was still lamenting, Prabhupāda continued to speak about the topic on both their minds. “It is not so wonderful that Kṛṣṇā-devī has left,” he said. “What is wonderful is that we are able to stay and serve Kṛṣṇa. The māyā is so strong. It is Kṛṣṇa’s divine energy. And for someone to actually stay engaged in Kṛṣṇa’s service is very rare. The living entity is practically helpless under the sway of māyā’s power and can only cry out to Kṛṣṇa for help. But we have to pray at every moment that the power of māyā does not disturb us.”

Subala continued to live with Prabhupāda, cooking for him, tending to his personal needs, and carving Deities of Rādhā and Kṛṣṇa. Prabhupāda wrote Kṛṣṇā-devī again.

One day after a walk, Prabhupāda told Aniruddha that Los Angeles reminded him of Bombay and that he wanted to build a very big temple in Los Angeles. Although Aniruddha was not one to endeavor hard for building a big temple, Prabhupāda still told him his vision. Another day Prabhupāda called Aniruddha in and showed him the Deity of Rādhā and Kṛṣṇa that Gaurasundara and Subala had carved. Prabhupāda’s eyes were shining. “I want to have Rādhā-Kṛṣṇa Deities in everyone’s home,” he said. Aniruddha was amazed by the joyful expression on Prabhupāda’s face.

“What can I do?” Aniruddha asked.

“I want you to go to different foundries and find out the cost of casting Deities.”

Aniruddha and Subala then phoned and visited various foundries in the Los Angeles area, returning with information. But their investigations were unbusinesslike and not well thought out. Knowing this, Prabhupāda smiled and asked, “So, what intelligent news do you have for me today?” Aniruddha knew Prabhupāda was criticizing him, but he could only giggle in return. He loved it.

One morning Aniruddha went to see Prabhupāda with what he considered a frightening story. Before dawn he had been out in the park collecting eucalyptus twigs for Prabhupāda to use as toothbrushes. He had been standing on a park bench cutting the branch of a tree with his knife when a police car had suddenly pulled up and a policeman had rushed out of the car. “What are you doing?” the policeman demanded. Aniruddha explained that he was getting toothbrushes for his spiritual master. The policeman had said, “Don’t you know that these trees belong to the city? They belong to the people of California.” He had said that Aniruddha could be arrested for carrying an open knife. When he had asked Aniruddha what was in the bag around his neck, Aniruddha had shown him his beads. The policeman had then asked if Aniruddha had come from a mental institution.

Prabhupāda smiled to hear the story and inquired, “Did you ask him if he was crazy?”

Govinda dāsī had been complaining to Aniruddha that Swamiji’s apartment was too noisy and crowded and that there were no private bathroom facilities for Swamiji. She kept insisting Aniruddha find a better place. Aniruddha, however, was getting only two hundred dollars a month from Dayānanda, and with Prabhupāda plus so many visitors, there was a financial strain. “Swamiji is very uncomfortable,” Govinda dāsī nagged. But Aniruddha didn’t know what to do.

When Aniruddha asked Prabhupāda if the place was all right, he said it was. Aniruddha explained that more devotees were eager to visit from San Francisco and would probably want to stay in the apartment. “Personally,” Prabhupāda said, “I have no suggestion myself. It is up to them, whatever they decide.”

Prabhupāda had his translating to do, but he also wanted to see his disciples. For Aniruddha, however, the prospect of more devotees coming to visit was a cause of anxiety. Finally, he and Dayānanda found a larger apartment for Swamiji.

The new apartment was four rooms over a private garage in the rear of an apartment complex. Aniruddha painted, and some of the other devotees helped prepare the apartment as comfortably as possible for Prabhupāda. Then they moved him in.

The landlord, a small Japanese man, came by and, seeing Prabhupāda seated on the floor behind his trunk, asked, “Where’s your furniture?” He seemed suspicious.

Prabhupāda smiled, thanked him, and said it was all right.

“We can sit down anywhere,” Prabhupāda explained. “We are mendicant.” But after leaving, the landlord kept standing outside on the landing, peeking through the window. “Tell him to go away,” Prabhupāda said to Aniruddha.

At the temple during the evening program, Śrīla Prabhupāda would sometimes ask one of his disciples to speak after the kīrtana.

Dayānanda: One night as I was driving Swamiji to the temple, he asked me to speak. I immediately thought I would rather not. Although in Swamiji’s absence his other disciples had given talks, I had never given even an informal talk. So I told Swamiji I preferred to hear him speak, but he said he preferred to hear me. So it was settled.

At the temple we had kīrtana as usual, and then I began to speak. I was speaking on the validity of God, trying to prove that God’s existence was logical and scientifically reasonable. Such a talk should have been given with reference to the Vedic literature, but my fund of knowledge was not embellished by verses from the scripture, nor was it even adequately based on basic Kṛṣṇa conscious philosophy. I was aware that my talk wasn’t adequate, a fact that Prabhupāda himself brought home in the sweetest possible way.

When at one point I made a mistake and said the wrong thing altogether, Prabhupāda matter-of-factly interrupted, explaining the point I had misstated. He then motioned me to go on. I continued without any loss of face. I was being corrected in public, but without the embarrassment that a chastisement might cause. Swamiji’s correction was always based on love and sincerity – in relation to the goal rather than to the ego.

On the appearance day of Śrīla Prabhupāda’s spiritual master, Śrīla Bhaktisiddhānta Sarasvatī, Prabhupāda gathered some of his disciples – Aniruddha, Govinda dāsī, Gaurasundara, Nandarāṇī, and a boy named Saṅkarṣaṇa – for a special celebration. In the kitchen of his apartment, Prabhupāda cooked a feast for his spiritual master. Nandarāṇī brought flowers, and Prabhupāda led the devotees in a ceremony of offering flowers and chanting prayers in honor of Śrīla Bhaktisiddhānta Sarasvatī.

Nandarāṇī: I had my daughter, Candramukhī, with me then. She was about two months old and was sitting very quietly in a little basket in a corner of the room. After the ceremony, Swamiji gathered a handful of flowers, walked over to the basket where Candramukhī was lying, and placed the flowers around her head. He smiled and said, “One day I will take you to India with me.”

After the feast the devotees followed Prabhupāda into his room. He sat at his desk and read letters aloud to the small gathering of his disciples seated on the floor before him. The letters were of appreciation. And these letters became Śrīla Prabhupāda’s offering to his spiritual master. Prabhupāda read aloud statements like, “We really like chanting,” “We’re happy since we met you,” “We’re trying to teach other people how to chant Hare Kṛṣṇa” – simple sentiments.

Reading the letters, Prabhupāda became very happy. He then put the letters along with the flowers before the picture of Śrīla Bhaktisiddhānta Sarasvatī. Then looking at Nandarāṇī, he asked, “Have you become happy since you have been chanting Hare Kṛṣṇa?”

“Oh, yes,” Nandarāṇī replied, “my life is wonderful.”

Looking at the others, Prabhupāda asked, “And what about you? Do you feel more satisfied since you have been chanting Hare Kṛṣṇa?” They all answered yes.

“Then I have only one request,” Prabhupāda continued. “Whatever happiness you have felt, you simply tell someone else about that. That is all you have to do. You don’t need to teach anything. You don’t need to teach the philosophy. You just explain to people that because you chant Hare Kṛṣṇa you have become happy, and if they chant, they will become happy. Then I will be satisfied, and my spiritual master will be satisfied.”

As Śrīla Prabhupāda entered the storefront one evening, he was surprised to find Umāpati there to greet him. Umāpati had left Kṛṣṇa consciousness almost a year ago, and Prabhupāda had not seen him since. Spontaneously, Prabhupāda went forward and embraced Umāpati. A few months before, Umāpati had written, indicating that he was thinking of returning; so his arrival was not a complete surprise to Śrīla Prabhupāda. As Prabhupāda took his seat, he asked Umāpati about the devotees in New York. Briefly Prabhupāda reminisced how he had begun his movement in New York and how boys like Umāpati had helped him.

Later that evening, back at the apartment, Prabhupāda expressed sadness that some of his disciples had left Kṛṣṇa consciousness. He told Umāpati that when the wife of one of the sannyāsī disciples of Śrīla Bhaktisiddhānta Sarasvatī had forcibly dragged her husband away, Bhaktisiddhānta Sarasvatī had shed tears over his inability to save the disciple. A disciple, due to māyā’s influence, may fall away, Prabhupāda said, but the spiritual master will never forsake him.

Umāpati had left Kṛṣṇa consciousness because of intellectual doubts. Having been an eclectic follower of Buddhism, he had objected to Prabhupāda’s explanations of Buddhism. On leaving Kṛṣṇa consciousness, however, he had simply returned to his old job in a radio station, grown back his beard, and reverted to his old habits. “Whenever I saw someone doing something wrong, like eating meat,” Umāpati explained to Prabhupāda, “I would think, ‘My spiritual master said this is bad.’ ”

“When you think like that,” Prabhupāda said, “your life at once becomes sublime.”

Several other devotees entered Prabhupāda’s room as Prabhupāda talked. As a person becomes more Kṛṣṇa conscious, Prabhupāda explained, he becomes concerned not to cause suffering to other living beings. He doesn’t want to cause suffering, even to a small insect. “Don’t you feel?” Prabhupāda asked, imploring them with his eyes to understand the nonviolence of the devotee.

Seeing that Prabhupāda was almost constantly occupied by various disciples, Līlāvatī, one of the girls visiting from San Francisco, decided not to take up her spiritual master’s time unnecessarily. Prabhupāda noticed her frequent absence from the gatherings at his apartment. When she finally visited him, he asked her, “Why are you not coming?”

“Oh, Swamiji,” Līlāvatī said, “you must do your translating work. I don’t think you’re getting your work done.”

“No, you don’t know?” Prabhupāda corrected her mistake. “Don’t you know my disciples are my work?”

Prabhupāda said he would go to as many speaking engagements as Aniruddha could obtain. Aniruddha got engagements, but there were many difficulties. On two occasions, Prabhupāda, Subala, and Aniruddha were on their way to an engagement at a college when their car broke down. Another time, a policeman arrested Subala for not having a driver’s license, and Prabhupāda, accompanied by his servant, had to walk back to his apartment. At an engagement at the U.C.L.A. Student Center, not a single student attended; Prabhupāda sat waiting for ten minutes and then turned to Aniruddha: “So, what happened?” At an outdoor engagement at Long Beach State College, there was no seat for Prabhupāda, and Aniruddha had to run and find an umbrella to shade Prabhupāda from the sun. “Aniruddha, this is not very nice,” Prabhupāda remarked from the podium.

But there were successes also. Mukunda dāsa arranged for Prabhupāda to appear on national television on the Les Crane Show. He also arranged for Prabhupāda to appear on the Joe Pyne Show, as well as on several radio programs. And Life magazine featured Prabhupāda’s picture and an accompanying story as part of an article, “The Year of the Guru.”

Although Aniruddha was prepared to arrange preaching engagements for Prabhupāda for as long as he would stay, the devotees in San Francisco, New York, Montreal, and Boston had repeatedly asked Prabhupāda to visit them. He had gone to India in July 1967, returning to San Francisco December 14. He had stayed in San Francisco three weeks and in Los Angeles two months. So while his disciples in San Francisco and Los Angeles had seen him, the others had been waiting for more than eight months. It was time to move on.

On March 7, the day Prabhupāda left Los Angeles, he thanked Aniruddha for his service in maintaining the center.

“Despite my ill health,” he said, “I was very comfortably situated. Kṛṣṇa will bless you.”

“Actually, what did I do?” Aniruddha replied. “Everything was a mistake. All the engagements were messed up.”

“No,” Prabhupāda said, “that’s all right. You tried your best.”

As Prabhupāda was leaving for the airport, he had to walk from his apartment to the car. It was raining, and he had no umbrella or raincoat. Govinda dāsī frantically ran into the bathroom, tore down the shower curtain, and wrapped it around her spiritual master to protect him from the rain.

Prabhupāda had unlimited plans for expansion – a big city like Los Angeles deserved a big temple, organized distribution of books on Kṛṣṇa consciousness, and sophisticated cultural programs. And there should be Deities of Rādhā and Kṛṣṇa in every home. Yet while enthusiastically planning to make everyone and everything Kṛṣṇa conscious, Prabhupāda waited patiently to see if a stray disciple like Kṛṣṇā-devī would return. Prabhupāda was ready to appear on television or meet boldly with any challenger or travel anywhere in the world, and yet he allowed Govinda dāsī to cover him with a shower curtain against the rain.

The Los Angeles temple would become a great Kṛṣṇa conscious success only with hard work and sincerity. And that, Prabhupāda knew, would take time. His disciples were not yet so well trained as to make formidable advances for Kṛṣṇa against the forces of māyā. Yet by his staying for two months in Los Angeles, he was strengthening his disciples’ Kṛṣṇa consciousness. And they would continue to progress. ISKCON L.A. was now a little stronger. A few devotees were going to stay and help. He would come back when they had done more.

San Francisco
March 8, 1968
  Śrīla Prabhupāda flew from Los Angeles to San Francisco. After the slower pace of the Los Angeles center, the activities in San Francisco encouraged Prabhupāda.

The morning and evening meetings drew crowds of interested young people, and Śrīla Prabhupāda observed: “Dancing in ecstasy is often exhibited to the transcendental pleasure of everyone present.”

Prabhupāda was witnessing the success of the saṅkīrtana movement. He had planted the seed, and now the plant of kṛṣṇa-bhakti was flowering. To revisit a center and see that his disciples, by sincerely following his orders, were advancing in Kṛṣṇa consciousness increased Prabhupāda’s bliss and satisfaction. He was witnessing the power of kīrtana to transform the fallen souls. And to see his smile of approval increased the ecstasy of the devotees.

Gurudāsa reviewed the slides. Sure enough, Kartā Mahāśaya had become bluer and plumper. “Has He been painted or anything?” Umāpati asked. Gurudāsa said they hadn’t done anything to Him.

“You have been taking care of Him,” Prabhupāda affirmed.

Bhakti-yoga was a scientific law; as one approached Kṛṣṇa, He reciprocated. Wherever Prabhupāda’s disciples were following the process carefully, he saw the improvement. Kṛṣṇa consciousness, he said, was a treatment of the diseased soul by medicine and diet. The medicine was chanting Hare Kṛṣṇa, and the diet was prasādam. If one followed this program, he would be rejuvenated; if one neglected it, he would relapse. Śrīla Prabhupāda found both health and illness.

Upendra, Prabhupāda’s personal servant in San Francisco, came before Prabhupāda crying. He said he couldn’t overcome his sex urge. He had engaged in illicit sex. When he asked if Kṛṣṇa forgives offenses, Prabhupāda consoled him: “Yes, Kṛṣṇa forgives.” Upendra asked if he could overcome his lust by getting married. “No, you are too young,” Prabhupāda said. “You should stay away from rich food. Eat starvishly.” He told Upendra to take unspiced dāl and capātīs without butter.

After a few weeks in San Francisco, Śrīla Prabhupāda flew to New York, where the devotees greeted him with a grand airport reception. A city newspaper ran an article “Guru Returns.” The New York center at 26 Second Avenue had improved, and there were new faces and enthusiastic kīrtanas.

Prabhupāda stayed in his old rooms at 26 Second Avenue. Although there had been talk of getting him another residence, everything had been too expensive. Prabhupāda had assured Brahmānanda, “I would like to stay in my apartment. If it is silent and solitary I feel pleasure to live there, better than elsewhere.” Although Śrīla Prabhupāda’s plans were to stay in New York less than two weeks, he talked of staying longer – if his disciples could arrange for him to work steadily at his translating and would help him publish his books one after another. Prabhupāda had written Brahmānanda,

One day, while Prabhupāda was sitting in his room receiving his massage, he began talking and laughing. As he sat on the floor with one leg tucked under his body and one leg outstretched before him, he told the two or three devotees present how Kṛṣṇa, carrying the lunch His mother had packed for Him, would go to the forest with His cowherd boyfriends, who were also carrying lunches from home. Kṛṣṇa and His friends would all sit together sharing their lunch, and Kṛṣṇa always had the best laḍḍus and kacaurīs. Prabhupāda’s eyes flashed, and he rubbed his hands together, smiling. “I simply want to go to Kṛṣṇaloka so I can have some of Kṛṣṇa’s laḍḍu and kacaurīs. I do not have any great diversion from this. I simply want to go there so that I can enjoy eating laḍḍus and kacaurīs with Kṛṣṇa and the cowherd boys.” Opening his eyes widely, he glanced at Devānanda, who was massaging him, and at the others in the room. “Oh,” he said to them, “if you will give me laḍḍus and kacaurīs, then I will bless you.”

“Swamiji, please teach us how to make laḍḍus and kacaurīs,” the devotees replied excitedly. “We will definitely make them for you!”

“Yes,” Prabhupāda assured them, “I shall show you. I shall teach you.” And he went on talking in a jovial way.

Newcomers in New York wanted to be initiated. One boy had seen Prabhupāda’s picture in Life magazine, cut it out, and put it in his high school locker. A boy named Jay, after having read about Prabhupāda and the devotees in Evergreen Review, had visited the temple and found that everyone was devoted to Prabhupāda. Some disciples whom Prabhupāda had initiated by mail – like Indirā and Ekāyanī, two sisters still in high school and living at home – were meeting their spiritual master for the first time. Prabhupāda initiated all the eligible newcomers.

The day before Prabhupāda left for Boston, he lectured at the New York State University at Stonybrook, a two-hour drive from the temple.

Brahmānanda: The engagement was in a huge auditorium with rows of seats. And the house was full. The bleachers were completely packed when we came in. It was dark, just some spotlights on us and everything else was dark. The rows of seats went back and up, and we could hardly see the audience. First we held kīrtana and then Prabhupāda spoke. As Prabhupāda was speaking, we could hear the sound of chairs popping up as the students were getting up and leaving. But Prabhupāda just went right on lecturing, as if he weren’t aware of it. By the time the lecture was over, there were only about two dozen people left.

After the program, the devotees discovered that the car Prabhupāda was supposed to ride in had already left. A student stepped forward, however, and offered his Triumph sports car, a tiny two-seater. Prabhupāda didn’t like the car, but it was the only thing available. So Brahmānanda drove Prabhupāda back to Manhattan.

Around midnight, Prabhupāda dozed while Brahmānanda speeded, hurrying to get back to the temple as soon as possible. Prabhupāda was dozing peacefully when Brahmānanda hit a large pothole, and Prabhupāda struck his head on the metal bar on the roof of the car.

When finally they returned to the Lower East Side it was past midnight, and there would only be a few hours for resting before Prabhupāda would have to catch his 9:00 A.M. flight to Boston. Although Prabhupāda rose that morning on schedule, most of the devotees were still asleep when he left his apartment. At the airport Prabhupāda commented that his disciples, rather than simply praising him, should try to follow his example and rise early.