Dinadayadri: During an ecstatic kirtan in the Los Angeles temple Srila Prabhupada was laughing. Afterwards a devotee asked why he had been laughing and Prabhupada said, “I was laughing to see Narada Muni.” The devotee said, “Narada Muni?” “Yes, Narada Muni was there.” “What was Narada Muni doing?” Prabhupada said, “He was laughing.” The devotee said, “Why was he laughing?” “He was laughing when he saw the mlecchas and chandalas dancing and chanting Hare Krishna.”
I was living in Washington, D.C. in early 1970, distributing Back to Godhead magazines and giving out incense on a college campus. It was around the time that the National Guards had shot at students at Kent State University, and there was unrest and a tense atmosphere on the campuses. Back then, it was a big deal to sell a few magazines for a quarter each, but I was upset because the students were so agitated that they weren’t interested in the magazine. Then a newspaper reporter from the Washington Post asked if he could interview me, and I said, “Sure.” He asked what I had done before I’d joined the movement, and I told him how I’d lived on a hippie farm and had became discouraged with that philosophy. I said, “I was being misled by false rascals like Timothy Leary.” I had studied some of Timothy Leary’s books and I felt betrayed and disillusioned when I realized he was saying, “Have great sex, take LSD and see God.” I wanted knowledge of the Absolute Truth and what Leary was saying was material—it had to do not with spiritual knowledge but with the physical body. In those days, devotees were badly misquoted in newspaper articles. The reporters didn’t understand what we were talking about, and they’d write some nonsense about Hinduism. This Washington Post article was one of the first ones where we were accurately quoted. It was long, with good quotes from a lot of devotees and because it was accurate—my exact words were in the paper—it had some particular potency. My quote was at the beginning, on the front page of the Washington Post’s Style section, along with a big photograph of my face. I’m camera-shy and not usually photogenic, but by Krishna’s mercy I looked nice in the photograph, wearing a nose ring with a chain going to my ear. When Prabhupada read my comments about Timothy Leary being a “false rascal,” which was Prabhupada’s terminology, he said, “George Harrison has given me nineteen thousand dollars for printing the Krishna book, but by her statement this girl has given me nineteen thousand million dollars.” I can’t tell you how encouraged I was when I heard that. I was a young devotee and perhaps Prabhupada mercifully said it to encourage me. I wasn’t parroting his words because I did have that realization about Leary, but it was definitely Prabhupada’s inspiration that made me say it. Prabhupada would inspire us and if we surrendered to his inspiration, there would be a reciprocal exchange between him and us—the guru and the disciple—that was esoteric and inexplicable. Most of us understood that exchange from our personal experience.
Prabhupada liked to take his morning walks on the beautiful white sand of Juhu Beach and once, when we were walking there, Srila Prabhupada looked at the ocean and said, “What is that water?” Nobody said anything for a while. I thought, “It’s Krishna’s energy,” but I was too shy to speak. Finally my husband said, “Prabhupada, it’s the Arabian Sea.” Lightning bolts shot out of Prabhupada’s eyes, “Do you think your spiritual master is so nonsense that he doesn’t know that’s the Arabian Sea?” Obviously that wasn’t the answer he was looking for. Then Satsvarupa said, “It’s Krishna’s energy.” “Yes,” and Prabhupada explained how, instead of inundating the land and flooding everything, the ocean waves stop at a certain point and how nature works under Krishna’s laws. It was very instructive. When Srila Prabhupada chastised, you didn’t feel bad about yourself, you felt cleansed. Prabhupada didn’t give you low self-esteem but he gave a valuable lesson. Whether he chastised or praised, it was all growth and encouragement.
At the entrance to the property there were huge wooden gates that were kept closed at night. But one morning around 6:00 a.m., when Srila Prabhupada came to those gates on his morning walk, they were still closed. Srila Prabhupada was livid. He said, “Why are the gates closed? Do you think mangal arati is just for you? No, it is for everyone. You must open these gates so the villagers can come to mangal arati.” He was angry that we were so thoughtless and self-centered. He was always teaching us to think of others, giving Krishna consciousness to others, and that way we would save ourselves. By trying to save others, we would save ourselves. The idea of being concerned for our own advancement and to hell with everybody else wasn’t Prabhupada’s way.
I told Srila Prabhupada that I was having such a severe problem with an abusive marriage partner that I was suicidal. I didn’t know what else to do so I blurted out, “Srila Prabhupada, I can’t be Krishna conscious. I feel like I’m going to commit suicide.” Srila Prabhupada paused and looked off thoughtfully. He was detached, not sentimental—“Oh, you poor little thing”—but he took me seriously. I didn’t ask for a divorce or to marry someone else but I asked to live separately from my husband so I could be free of the stress of that situation and continue in the movement. Prabhupada’s eyes opened wide, he looked me right in the eye and said, “There will not be other men?” “No, no, Srila Prabhupada.” That was the last thing on my mind. I was at the stage where the thought of malefemale relationships made me spit—not from spiritual realization but because on the mundane platform I was unbearably miserable. Srila Prabhupada said, “You will stay in our temple?” “Yes, Srila Prabhupada.” He wasn’t going to sanction a divorce and remarriage, but when I agreed to those two things he said, “All right, you may stay here and assist Palika.” And that was it.
When my parents met Srila Prabhupada, my mother took a photograph of Srila Prabhupada sitting on the floor behind his desk with my dad sitting cross-legged in front of him. They’re both looking at the camera and have the same effulgent smile. I call that picture “my two fathers.” It’s as if my material father is reflecting the effulgent smile of my spiritual father. My parents thanked Srila Prabhupada for saving me from drugs and a degraded hippie life. Srila Prabhupada smiled and said, “Yes, many parents thank me.” They also told him that they were concerned about me because it was difficult for them to communicate with me since I was in India. Srila Prabhupada said, “Yes, I am also concerned about my children.” He chatted with my parents on a parental level, he gave them some prasadam from his plate, and he showered them with mercy. Srila Prabhupada knew how to relate with everybody.
At the first Mayapur festival in 1972, when the cornerstone was laid, devotees were learning so-called Bengali-style chanting, which was quite different from the chanting Srila Prabhupada had taught us. The Bengali melodies, rather than being completely transcendental, were a form of traditional folk entertainment. When, instead of simply absorbing Srila Prabhupada’s example and trying to emulate that, the devotees imbibed these Indian styles, techniques and drumbeats. Prabhupada expressed some displeasure especially in the beginning when they weren’t good at it. Achyutananda Maharaj had been in India for some time, learned these styles from some of Prabhupada’s God-brothers in the Gaudiya Math and had started teaching others. Maharaj was a bit arrogant about it, “You don’t know how to chant. I’ll teach you how you should be chanting. In India you have to do it this way.” Some devotees fell for it because the drumbeats and tunes were catchy. But the devotees weren’t good at it, so the result was a cacophony of unpleasant sounds—a mess—rather than the beautiful, angelic chanting that we did under Prabhupada’s tutelage. When Prabhupada heard those kirtans from his thatched hut he’d make a face and say, “It is a pinching sound,” and he would close his windows to reduce the volume. When the kirtan ended he’d say, “Thank goodness it’s over.”
