Visakha: My first meeting with Srila Prabhupada was in March of 1971. I had a friend, John, who is now Yadubara das, who had majored in photography at the same college that I attended. I was an undergraduate and he was a graduate student. John had decided to do his Masters thesis on the Hare Krishna people and had gone to India in the winter of 1970. After he had been there for a few months, he wrote and asked me to join him there. That’s why I arrived in Bombay in March 1971. In college I had a done a term project on close-up photography. I had taken that term project to a publisher in New York, and it gradually evolved into a small specialty book about close-up photography. When I went to India, I took that book with me, and about a day after I had arrived in Bombay, John said, “We should go and meet Prabhupada.” So we went to the temple, which was on the seventh floor of an apartment building called Akash Ganga, right by the ocean. Prabhupada’s room was simple, spacious, and airy because the windows were open and the sea breeze was blowing through it. It had a lot of natural light. Prabhupada, very relaxed, sat on a white cushion behind a low table as he traditionally did. John introduced me and then took my book, which I had under my arm, and gave it to Prabhupada saying, “She has done this.” Prabhupada graciously and gentlemanly took the book and thumbed through the pages for a minute. Then he handed it back and said, “We do not know much about these things.” When I brought the book to the temple I had thought, “Here is a saintly person. Why should I show such a person a book about close-up photography?” It didn’t seem appropriate. So, when Prabhupada said what he did, I felt that he confirmed my thought. I left with the impression of a very peaceful, I wouldn’t say transcendental, because I wasn’t thinking in that way, but a peaceful person and one who was pleasant to be around.
My initiation took place early in the morning on November 29, 1971. At the time Prabhupada had taken a group of devotees to Vrindavan, India, where he personally gave us a wonderful tour of the different holy places. He took us to Varshana, where the devotees carried him on a palanquin around the area. He took us to Govardhan Hill. He bathed with us in the Yamuna and led us in circumambulating Radha Kund. It was an extraordinary time. At this ceremony, which was in Saraf Bhavan in Vrindavan, Yadubara and I were going to be married, and I was going to be initiated. It so happened that there was another couple in Vrindavan at the time who also wanted to get married at the same ceremony. Unfortunately though, the husband-to-be had already been married to a devotee and had left that woman. And his proposed new wife was already pregnant. So it was a dishonorable circumstance. How could Prabhupada agree to such a thing? But from another point of view Prabhupada couldn’t say no, either. After all, the first wife was already gone and the second proposed wife was already pregnant. So, how could he say no? It was an enigma that Prabhupada brilliantly resolved. Prabhupada told Gurudas, who was performing the fire yajna, to do the entire ceremony for this other couple first, from the mantras to the achman to the bananas in the fire to tying the cloth together. When it was complete, Gurudas got up, moved over a few steps, and started a second, separate fire sacrifice for my initiation and our wedding. At that point, Prabhupada came out of his room and sat on his vyasasana. So without saying anything, Srila Prabhupada made a clear statement. It was an ingenious solution to an uncomfortable situation. Our ceremony went on, and for my initiation Prabhupada asked me the four rules and regulations. I had rehearsed that, so I managed to say them without a problem. Then he said, “How many rounds will you chant every day?” With confidence, because I had rehearsed that part too, I said, “Sixteen.” At that juncture, Prabhupada looked at me right in the eyes and, although we had looked at each other before this, this was the first time at such a close distance. We were a couple of feet apart. It was a most memorable experience. Prabhupada’s eyes were dark, and they seemed bottomless. I felt that he saw way past the obvious, way past the body and even past the mind. He could actually perceive my consciousness, which was discomforting because my consciousness was far from what it should have been. You can say his was a penetrating look. But ordinarily the word penetrating implies a critical or judgmental or harsh look. Prabhupada’s look was none of those things. It was a caring, gentle, concerned, and perceptive look. At that time, since it was the first of several times I would experience this, I was quite surprised by how perceptive I felt he was. In the months and years that followed, when he looked at me, my reaction would always be that I was not where I should be in terms of my Krishna consciousness. But rather than being discouraged with my lacking, I wanted to improve, to become more Krishna conscious, just to please him. So when I said, “Sixteen,” and we were practically eye-to-eye, Prabhupada gravely said, “That is the minimum.” Right away I was sobered. After that it was time for him to give me a name. I was the only initiate so he hadn’t bothered to think of a name. It was rather insignificant. He looked at me for a moment and then quietly asked Shyamasundar, “Do we have a Visakha?” Shyamasundar went to another room where he apparently had some record of all the initiates. He came back and told Prabhupada, “There was a Visakha, but she’s left.” Prabhupada turned to me and said, “Your name is Visakha.”
In our young and idealistic minds, John and I had hatched the brilliant idea of doing a photo essay about a quaint Indian village. We wanted to make a wonderful cultural presentation to help people appreciate traditional life. The problem was that there are thousands upon thousands of villages in India, and we had no idea which one would be suitable for our project. John said, “Srila Prabhupada has traveled extensively in India, so we should ask him where to go.” We presented our idea to Prabhupada when he was in his room in the Akash Ganga Building. Prabhupada saw us, flushed with the fervor of youthful enthusiasm, and said, “You do not speak the language. Wherever you go they will simply cheat you and steal your cameras.” We were silent and crestfallen. There was a pregnant pause as Prabhupada observed our reaction to his words. Then he said, “Best that you go to Vrindavan and do your photo essay there.” So some four or five months later we did that. When Srila Prabhupada told us to go to Vrindavan it was only the second time he had seen me, and he knew nothing about me. My background was completely atheistic. My parents were atheists, and until I went to the ISKCON temple in New York, about a year or so before I met Srila Prabhupada, I had never been inside any church, synagogue, or a temple of any sort . . . not even to see the stained glass. It was by Srila Prabhupada’s instruction that John and I went to Vrindavan, and now looking back on it three decades later, Srila Prabhupada could not have given me more appropriate guidance. The month that we spent in Vrindavan transformed me. For weeks I wandered the Vrindavan streets and gradually became moved by the devotion of the Vaishnavas there, who were ever ready with the friendly greeting, “Jai Radhe!” Foremost in their simple lives was faith in and service to Radha-Krishna. Prabhupada’s instruction to live in that divine environment was perfect for me.
In those times our Calcutta temple had many problems. For instance, the temple was not very clean. The city of Calcutta itself is not clean, and unfortunately that uncleanliness infiltrated into the temple. Also, the prasadam was substandard, the devotees’ health was not good, and there was tension between the men and the women. Besides all that, there was a sannyasi in the Calcutta temple that was very particular about how the various instruments were played during kirtan. If he didn’t like the way an instrument was being played, he would walk up to the devotee playing it and say, “Give me that thing,” and forcibly take it away from the person. Perhaps because of these problems and because of being away from their own culture, the Western devotees fought amongst themselves regularly, which was yet another problem. In those days to go from the temple office to the prasadam area, which was on the veranda, one had to walk through the temple room. One of my early memories is of the GBC and the temple president walking through the temple room arguing with each other. Such was the temple atmosphere. During my stay at this time I was regularly thinking, “I don’t need this in my life. I have other things to do. I have a life to live.” What stopped me from leaving the temple for good was a mantra. Not the maha-mantra, but the mantra, “Prabhupada is coming. Prabhupada is coming. You can’t leave now. He will be here very soon.” Day by day I was hanging on by a thin thread. Then finally in October 1971, Prabhupada came. Prabhupada immediately assessed the situation and called for an istagosthi. Everyone in the temple went to his room. To this day when I go into Prabhupada’s room in the Calcutta temple—it’s now the office of the temple president—I still remember that istagosthi and where Prabhupada sat and where all the devotees sat and where I sat. Prabhupada gave a most deeply inspiring talk. I’d never been so affected by someone’s talk as I was on that day. It wasn’t taped, and I didn’t take notes, but basically he spoke about tolerance, friendship among devotees, enthusiasm, patience, and transcending problems. At one point he gave an example from his own life. He said that when he came to New York, he was staying with someone who kept meat in his refrigerator. He said the word meat with such disgust that it made me realize for the first time how austere that must have been for him, for a person of such caliber. When I walked out of the room after the istagosthi was over, I felt physically lighter, as if a burden had been lifted from me. By his transcendental words, Prabhupada transformed my consciousness.
Since the conditions in the Calcutta temple were poor, John and I were not comfortable living in the temple. So once, when we were in Prabhupada’s room, John said to Prabhupada, “Perhaps we should live outside and just come to the temple for the programs. In that way we could avoid the problems in the temple.” Prabhupada said, “Yes, you can do that. That is all right. But even though there’re so many problems in the temple, still it is better living in the temple than outside.” That may have been especially true in Calcutta, but perhaps that can be said of any temple in any city.
When we traveled with Prabhupada to Jaipur we were hosted at some of the various Gaudiya Maths there. Once we attended a noon arati at one of the Maths. While the pujari offered the arati, Prabhupada stood fairly close to the altar, and the devotees were somewhat back having kirtan. I was photographing Prabhupada at that time, and I noticed that he was looking around trying to catch someone’s attention. The devotees were absorbed in the kirtan and didn’t notice him, so he caught my eye and called me over. I went close to him. Since the kirtan was loud I had to put my ear next to his mouth to hear him. He said, “Do you have any rupees?” I put my mouth next to his ear and I said, “No, but I can get some. How much?” He thought for a second, put his mouth near my ear, and said, “Ten.” I walked away and found a devotee who was a little on the side, not participating in the kirtan, and said, “Prabhupada wants ten rupees.” Immediately he gave me a ten-rupee note. I returned to Prabhupada and handed it to him. Prabhupada carefully folded it in half, folded it in a quarter, and then kept it within his joined palms for the rest of the arati. Then, when the pujari blew the conch shell signaling the end of the arati, Prabhupada took that tenrupee note and put it the donation box that was in front of the altar. After I saw him do that I remembered having read that when one comes before the Deities one should make some offering. That afternoon Prabhupada observed that standard.
Srila Prabhupada was sitting on the vyasasana in the Los Angeles temple room, and I was sitting on the floor in front of him, photographing. Ramesvara, the head of the BBT at the time, had told me to take pictures of Srila Prabhupada with his eyes open. These photographs were to be published in the various Caitanya-caritamrtas and Srimad-Bhagavatams, and Ramesvara was convinced that Prabhupada should be shown with his eyes open. I wouldn’t take pictures during Prabhupada’s lectures, because the light from the flash and sound of the shutter disturbed him, so I only took photographs while Prabhupada sang the Jaya Radha-Madhava prayer. On this particular day, Prabhupada had his eyes shut. Ramesvara’s instruction was in my mind, so I sat still, waiting for Prabhupada to open his eyes. Prabhupada had his eyes closed for many verses, so I sat for a long time. Then unexpectedly, I felt a strong thump on my backside. I looked around, and a sannyasi had hit me with his danda, indicating that I had been there too long, and I should move on. After all, I was sitting at Prabhupada’s feet, which was the spot the sannyasis considered theirs. I looked up at Prabhupada, and he had opened his eyes. He had seen this little drama, and he gave this sannyasi a harsh, stern look. It was the look of a very displeased father. I was grateful that look had not been cast upon me, because it was withering. Then Prabhupada looked at me, I took some photographs, and left. Amazingly enough, although the temple room was packed shoulder-to-shoulder with devotees and guests who had come from all over the west side of America for the occasion, no one remarked at this incident. It had happened in a large room filled with hundreds of people, but mystically it was only between the three of us.
In the early 1970s in Bombay, Prabhupada would regularly leave for his morning walk on Juhu Beach just before dawn when it was still quite dark. Every day as he came down the stairs of the house where he was living, I would meet him to join him on the walk. One morning I was sitting on a landing, chanting and waiting for Prabhupada to come. It was dark so I couldn’t see very well, and Prabhupada came very softly, so I couldn’t hear him either. As he passed right in front of me, less than an arm’s reach away, he said in a baritone voice and with complete gravity, “Thank you very much.” All I was doing was chanting japa. Prabhupada was so appreciative and encouraging of the smallest effort.
In Bombay, a woman Life Member took a small group of us to a pleasant area for Prabhupada’s morning walk. After the walk, we all piled back in her car, and, as happens often in India, a destitute-looking woman carrying a small child and surrounded by a few other children came to the car and begged. Srila Prabhupada gave some paisa to the woman and to each child. I had some doubt about giving to beggars, because in Bhagavad-gita Krishna says that charity given to an unworthy person is in the mode of ignorance. Somehow I had the audacity to ask Srila Prabhupada, “Why are we giving Krishna’s money to beggars?” Prabhupada didn’t say anything. I immediately worried that I had been offensive. Since he was silent I tried to answer my own question. I said, “Is it because it is prasadam?” He gravely said, “Yes.” Of course, paisa coming from Prabhupada’s hand, from the hand of the pure devotee, may be in a different category than paisa coming from someone else’s hand. But nonetheless it was a wonderfully instructive moment.
Prabhupada spent hours looking for suitable land for our temple in Bombay. At that time he was living at the home of a wonderful Life Member family, the Mahadevias, who gave Srila Prabhupada all facility. In the evening, Prabhupada lectured in the Mahadevia’s home and occasionally, besides the regular devotees, guests would come. Once, a person who presented himself as a sadhu came. I noticed Prabhupada observing this person, and I also noticed that this person was looking at Prabhupada’s female disciples. It wasn’t overt, but it was there. So, in the course of his lecture, Prabhupada recited a Sanskrit prayer of King Kulashekar’s, that “after I’ve been engaged in the loving service of Sri Sri Radha and Krishna, when I think of sex life my face turns and I spit on the thought.”
