Sruti Rupa: We were sitting next to the two flames of the Indian gas burner with all the spices and vegetables ready. Prabhupada sat down, and while he casually talked to Bhagaji in Hindi, he put the spices in, this spice and that spice. Then he put in this vegetable and that vegetable. Then he turned, looked at Bhagaji, and said, “So simple, still they cannot do.” We just sat there while Prabhupada continued chatting with Bhagaji. Palika was concerned that the flame was too high, so she turned it down. Prabhupada turned it back up. He didn’t say anything but went on chatting. Palika turned the flame down again, and Prabhupada turned it up. This happened three times. Prabhupada turned around and said, “Ah, baba, why are you messing?” Then we stood back. Prabhupada looked at Bhagaji and said, “In forty-five minutes I can make full prasadam for one-hundred people with these two burners.” Bhagaji gave a look saying “Impossible.” Prabhupada said, “I’ll bet you.” Bhagaji said, “Yeah, kichari.” Prabhupada said, “No, full prasadam in forty-five minutes,” and they started speaking in Hindi again. Bhagaji said, “Impossible.” Prabhupada said, “I’ll bet you one lakh of rupees.” Bhagaji laughed and said, “Prabhupada, if I win or lose, you’ll take the money anyway.” Prabhupada laughed, stood up without another word, and said, “It’s finished” and walked out. That was the first time Prabhupada had come into the kitchen when I was there.
When Pishima brought Prabhupada prasadam that she’d made in her home, the taste was exquisite. Nothing ever tasted as good as her cooking, because she made the dishes in mustard oil. Prabhupada said that if you want to eat for taste, you cook with mustard oil. If you want to eat for health, you cook with ghee. We never could duplicate the things that came from Pishima’s hands.
Pishima didn’t use mustard oil, but she ground lots of mustard seeds to a paste, and that brought out a mustard flavor. After two weeks of this, Prabhupada’s hands and feet started swelling and he told me, “Don’t let Pishima make this, and don’t let her make that.” I was trying to tell her, “Pishima, you can’t do this, you can’t do that,” but if she didn’t grind the mustard seeds, they were floating on all her dishes. The third day Prabhupada looked at me and said, “Do not let her in the kitchen.” I didn’t have the heart to tell her she couldn’t come in the kitchen. I loved her dearly, and she adored Prabhupada. The next morning, there was Pishima in the kitchen, and we sat down to begin. Each morning I took an extra hour and a half to grind spices, because Prabhupada wanted everything fresh. I would line up katoris of ginger paste, chili paste, black pepper paste, cumin paste, posta, and so on. Pishima was getting her vegetables together and when she asked me for mustard seeds I said, “Pishima, Prabhupada bolo nahi [said no].” She looked at me with her big cow eyes, and I could hardly resist her. I went to my katori and took one seed and said, “Pishima, baas [enough].” She couldn’t believe I was being so cruel, but she took it and we started laughing. She took that one seed, threw a little water, and began to grind. Somehow or other she got something to put in the dish.
For two weeks I hadn’t seen Prabhupada, and when I saw him I was shocked. He was sitting with his knee up, he didn’t have his kurta on, and he was so thin that his collarbone was jutting out. His voice was weak, so to hear him I moved closer, but I still couldn’t hear him. I had to come five inches from his face before I could hear him. He looked at me and said, “I’ve not eaten anything solid for two weeks.” I started to cry. Tears were coming down my face. Prabhupada saw that and said, “But I’m eating this singhara [samosa].” Tamal Krishna Maharaj, Bhakti Caru, and Upendra were there, and they all roared and said, “Jaya, Prabhupada!” I smiled and Prabhupada looked at me and said, “So, you can cook?” I sat back on my knees, and he said, “But you must shop, you must cook, and you must clean, and you must have no assistance.” Then his voice softened, and he said, “Is that all right?” I smiled and said, “Of course, Srila Prabhupada.” Prabhupada looked around at the men and said, “And no men are to be in the kitchen when she’s there.” He looked at Abhirama and said, “If you need assistance, your husband can do.”
After Prabhupada ate, he wanted his remnants distributed, and he’d ask me daily if I was distributing them. Truthfully, I disliked that part of my service because everybody was fussy about what they wanted, so it took quite some time. I’d put everything on a plate and walk the two floors of the building where Prabhupada stayed. Devotees would say, “Oh, give me this. No I don’t want that,” and some of the men fought over certain things. It was a trip. The devotees knew when Prabhupada finished, and they’d wander out of their rooms into the halls waiting for this plate. Then one day Prabhupada said to me, “You are distributing?” I said “Yes, Prabhupada.” He said, “I want you to mix everything.” I said “Oh, okay.” I didn’t only mix it, I kneaded it. Everything—the shukta, the sweet rice, the raita, the dahl, the sandesh—I mixed as if I were making dough. And nobody wanted it. After two or three days not a soul was in the halls waiting. I was done in two minutes. And if a devotee were there he’d say, “Oh, just a little bit.” Since I couldn’t distribute it, I would eat the whole thing myself, and it was as sweet as nectar. I loved it. It was divine. After about four days Prabhupada said, “So? You are mixing?” I said, “Yes, Prabhupada I am mixing. This is a very good system.” I ended up getting the mercy because nobody else wanted it, and I relished that very much.
Tamal Krishna Maharaj came in with the green card and said, “Prabhupada, America is waiting for you. Customs is ready; immigration is ready. Everything is cleared.” Prabhupada immediately began to cry. He said, “I am so indebted to America. America has given me so much. It’s given me men, money. I am so indebted.” Prabhupada showed softness. Tamal Krishna Maharaj said, “Prabhupada, once you said that you were like a cow and wherever your devotees led you, you would go there and give milk. But there’s one thing I don’t understand. Somehow or other you never dry up, you are always giving.” Prabhupada smiled and said, “Yes, that is because I am a surabhi cow.” We all started to laugh.
I was with Prabhupada in January 1977 at a very significant Kumbha-mela at the confluence of the Sarasvati, Yamuna, and Ganga Rivers near Allahabad. The area became a city of tents, with millions and millions of people. Prabhupada had a tent, the ladies had a tent, and the men had a tent. There were big mud fires for the main cooking for distribution and for the devotees. A little square box made from aluminum sidings served as Prabhupada’s shower, which was by his tent. The sidings didn’t go down to the ground but only to Prabhupada’s knees. His kitchen, which was right next to his shower, was the same thing, aluminum siding around mud stoves. It was very cold and windy, and there was nothing but sand on the banks of the rivers. I am the type that always wants to be purified, to do what’s right, to get liberation. I wanted to participate in the Kumbha-mela. At 11:20 a.m. on a certain day everybody was supposed to bathe, and everybody from our camp went except Prabhupada’s servant, Hari Sauri, and Prabhupada’s cook. At that time, Palika and I were cooking together, and so the three of us stayed back. Part of me was lamenting because I wanted to be in the water at that moment of purification, and for about four days I was meditating on this one thing. Every day Prabhupada would have his massage. He kept his routine no matter where he was. After that he would have a shower. My sink was two feet from his shower stall, and every day I’d be washing either a pot or vegetables when Prabhupada would come, take off his slippers, open the door, and go into the shower. Every day after his shower he’d have to turn his shoes around with his foot because they were facing the opposite direction from when he walked in. He’d put them on, open the door and walk out. For a few days I had the idea to put his shoes on. I was a bit nervous, but I thought, “Well, today I’m going to do it.” Everybody had gone bathing, and I was watching out of the corner of my eye for that foot to start turning the shoes around. I could have just turned them around, but I also wanted to put them on him. So when I saw the foot I immediately said, “Prabhupada, I’ll do it.” I turned the shoes around, but then I thought they were reversed, and as I switched them Prabhupada was already stepping. He stepped on my arm and pinned me to the ground. His foot was on the middle of my palm to the middle of my forearm, so I couldn’t bend. Usually if you touch someone, you automatically move back, but Prabhupada didn’t move. He didn’t get off for what seemed like an eternity. He put all his weight on that one leg, not saying a word, took his other foot, moved it to the shoe that I had switched, put his foot in that shoe, and then slowly shifted his weight to the other foot, lifted it up, put on the other shoe, opened the door, and walked out. He didn’t say a word. He was composed. I was waiting to get kicked in the head. I thought, “Oh, you fool!” When he walked by me it was like a golden light had passed by. Palika was in shock at what I had done. She ran over, took my arm, and put it to her head. I thought, “Sruti Rupa, here you’re wanting the mercy of Kumbha-mela, and the pure devotee has just stepped on you. You’re wondering where the mercy is? Hello; it’s right here!” I couldn’t wait to tell the devotees when they came back. It made me see the real blessings were at home.
