Keshava: My first direct conversation with Prabhupada was in his quarters on Formosa Street before we had the big temple on Watseka Avenue. This was the day that Neil Armstrong was in the moon shot. Kartikeya was making hot chapatis, and he told me how much Prabhupada liked chapatis. Even though he was a small man, he could eat a dozen chapatis. When I went into Prabhupada’s room he looked directly at me and said, “According to your knowledge, what is God or who is God?” Having been brought up as a Catholic, I said, “The greatest Person.” He said, “God, Krishna, is the Person who no one is equal to or greater than. If you went everywhere throughout the universes, that would be your experience.” I left thinking, “Today I found out who God really is. He’s the Person who no one is equal to or greater than.” That was my first conversation with Prabhupada.
I was a sankirtan leader, but because others did not have a driver’s license, I was also selected to be Prabhupada’s chauffeur. My first opportunity to have a lot of private association with Srila Prabhupada was when I drove him to go on his morning walks. In those days the sankirtan party, led by Vishnujana Maharaj, came back at midnight or 1:00 a.m., and even later on the weekends, and everyone would get up late too. But I got up at 5:00 a.m. and, at ten minutes to 6:00, picked up Prabhupada in the temple’s little white Maverick. For several months I took Prabhupada alone on his walks because no one else got up early. Only Prabhupada was getting up early in those days, and Muralidhar, the artist, got up early because he didn’t go out on night sankirtan. He painted. I was the first person to see Prabhupada in the morning, and we would go out. Every day Prabhupada had something to talk about.
We usually drove down Venice Boulevard to Santa Monica Beach. Once I told Srila Prabhupada about the La Brea tar pits, and we went there for a walk. One morning about 6:00, there was not much traffic, and a biker with a shaved head on a Harley chopper was driving down Venice Boulevard. He looked in our car, saw that Prabhupada and I both had shaved heads, and started following us, signaling and trying to communicate with us. I was concerned. He followed us all the way to the beach, parked behind us, and asked if he could walk with us. Prabhupada said, “Yes.” There were many provoking or intimidating situations like this one, but Prabhupada always remained in control. I was thinking, “Oh, what’s this guy going to do?” But Prabhupada’s mood was, “Yes, you may walk with us. Please come.” When Prabhupada walked by the ocean, we had deep philosophical talks, stimulated by the elements, by the gigantic ocean. It was like being near Maha Vishnu, Kshirodakashayi Vishnu. The ocean walks brought out some of the best discussions. Prabhupada would walk holding his cane, occasionally stopping to look directly into your eyes when he made a point. On this particular morning Prabhupada explained how material civilization had sprung up and how the ocean had always been there. Barring some earthquake or disturbance, the ocean always came to about the same point on the beach, and civilization came to another point nearby. Prabhupada walked along explaining this to the biker and me, and it was incredible. About half way through the walk the guy turned around and left. Prabhupada just kept going.
Every night some other devotees sold Back to Godhead magazines, while I would invariably sell several of Prabhupada’s books. Although later on book distributors disguised themselves with western clothes and sometimes wigs, in those days we never thought about doing that. Prabhupada stayed up late, and sometimes when we came back at 11:30 p.m. Gargamuni would say to me, “Prabhupada wants to talk to you.” I would run to his room, and he would ask me, “How many books did you sell?” Or, “How did it go?” “Who were the people?” “What did you say to sell them the books?” He wanted to know precisely what I was telling people and how it was that I was able to move those books. He wanted to see if my technique lacked substance. I explained to him that I told people exactly what I had heard in the lectures, that these books were the Bible from India and they explained your past lives and true goals. I explained that I listened to the classes in the morning and repeated the things I heard. Prabhupada approved. He was a very specific, detailed person. Nothing escaped him.
There was a devotee in the Berkeley temple named Chandanacharya who was a householder, although almost everyone else in the temple was single. Chandanacharya could imitate Prabhupada’s voice so well that you thought you were talking to Prabhupada. On one occasion Shyamasundar called me from London to say that George Harrison had agreed to purchase a temple in England and to pay for publishing the Krishna Books. I was to immediately give the news to Srila Prabhupada. I was in San Francisco, and Prabhupada was in Berkeley, as was Chandanacharya. I called the Berkeley temple and said that I needed to talk to Prabhupada. Usually it would take a while for Prabhupada to come to the phone because the phone was downstairs and Prabhupada’s room was on the top floor. Immediately someone picked up the phone and said, “Yes. What is it?” I said, “Chandan, please! I am calling to talk to Prabhupada. Just get off the phone!” Prabhupada said, “What? What are you talking about?” I said, “Chandan, come on. This is serious.” Then Prabhupada got mad and yelled at me, “This is Prabhupada. This is A. C. Bhaktivedanta. What do you want to say?” I said, “Oh, excuse me, Prabhupada.” I told him the message and he said, “Oh, very good. That is very good.” I felt relieved, but, oh, like such an idiot.
When Prabhupada came to Ratha-yatra, I wanted to cook something very nice for him. His servant told me that he liked okra. A few of us, Bhutatma, Krishna das, some others and I started cooking. We made some special preparations. I made macadamia nut halava with cream, as well as a fancy rice with edible gold leaf on it, and, of course, okra. All the devotees were saying, “Wow! We can’t wait ‘till we get maha from this.” But Prabhupada’s plate came down empty. Prabhupada had really liked the preparations and had eaten everything. That was the apex of my life. I cooked, and it was good.
I was always amazed at how Prabhupada tuned right in and related to you and whoever was with you. I was a brahmachari for many years, but my real propensity wasn’t to be a brahmachari. That kind of advancement and detachment was wishful thinking for me. But in those days, if you expressed the idea that, “Maybe I should be married,” then you had someone talking you out of it. When I went to see Prabhupada, more than once he said, “Oh Keshavaji, where is your wife?” I said, “Prabhupada, I don’t have a wife.” He could see that I wasn’t a first class brahmachari. He was saying to me, “You’d better think about things a little bit.”
Prabhupada had a flight to catch, and the devotees figured out when to leave the temple to get Prabhupada to the airport on time, but Prabhupada insisted on leaving much earlier. The devotees wondered if something was wrong with Prabhupada because it was only twenty minutes to the airport, and Prabhupada was pushing Brahmananda out the door two hours before they even needed to be at the airport. Sure enough, there had been some bad accidents, and there was a big traffic problem on the road. Everyone was stuck. Prabhupada got to his flight in the nick of time. If he had left the temple even a few minutes later, he would have missed his flight, what to speak of if he had left at the normal time. Devotees realized that Prabhupada knew they had to go early, but how did he know?
Prabhupada had a special love for disciples and didn’t show favorites. Prabhupada got much satisfaction from a little child who brought a flower or the devotee that was humble and not in the front lines. I knew that his affection, his benediction, his blessings were evenly distributed.
