Chapter 7

By the end of July 1971, Hansadutta and Himavatī were back in Hamburg. The temple was in difficulty. Debts had accumulated, and Kṛṣṇadāsa and Yogeśvara and his wife had gone back to the States. Maṇḍalibhadra tried to organize the temple, but that interfered with his translation work and slowed it down considerably. Nevertheless, a magazine was being published regularly, and just a few months before, the German translation of Śrī Īśopaniṣad had been sent to New York to be printed by ISKCON Press. The devotees eagerly expected the first shipment of books to arrive any day.

Hansadutta informed Śrīla Prabhupāda about the delicate situation and said that the devotees needed to take jobs to ease the financial pressure. Prabhupāda himself had once suggested work as a legitimate method of fundraising, but by this time experience in America and England had shown that the distribution of books and magazines could maintain the temples. In a series of letters written only a few days apart, Prabhupāda conveyed his analysis and instructions to Hansadutta: I am glad to learn that you have now come back to Hamburg. Originally you were there for organizing our movement in central Europe. Now, because of your absence so many things have happened. Krishna Das has left. Your duty is here in Europe. Whatever is done is done. You organize there nicely, and stick to that place.

For the time being this measure of taking outside work may be taken up but the principle is that everyone should engage full time for various propaganda work of the Krishna Consciousness Movement and maintain themselves by the little profit made by book selling and literature distribution. Now we have got Isopanisad in German language. The devotees can better be engaged in distributing these books.

In your last letter to me you tried to impress me that everyone should go to work. That is not our principle. Our principle is not to work like the karmi or under a karmi. We are not sudras. Sudras are meant for working under somebody, not brahmanas. If you do not know this principle, you should know it now. All our men living in the temple are basically brahmanas. Otherwise, why they are offered sacred thread?

We should live on the paltry income, whatever we receive, by selling our magazines, but in dire necessity when there is no other way we may accept some service temporarily. But on principle we should go on Sankirtana, not work, and whatever Krishna gives us we should accept on that principle.

Stress on Sankirtana performance and distribution of BTG. Our program is simple. You are a senior member of our society. So if you strictly follow our rules and regulations, chanting regularly 16 rounds, going for Sankirtana on the street and distributing prasadam, automatically our movement will advance. So far work is concerned, when it is absolutely necessary it can be done. But as far as possible we should work in our own field and on the basis of our principles.

I have received the German magazine and it appears very nice. Of course, I could not read a single letter, but it doesn’t matter. It was looking very nice. Getting out of debt was not easy. The rent was burdensome, and devotees were inexperienced at distributing books and magazines. Hansadutta worked as a dishwasher, and he asked Śivānanda in Berlin for support. Another possibility, he thought, was performing in clubs as the RadhaKrishna Temple had done. But Hansadutta wasn’t sure whether all these plans would work. Maybe the solution was to close the temple. Or maybe he should leave the management in the hands of somebody else and take sannyāsa, as some of his godbrothers had done, and just travel and preach, free of the encumbrances of temple management. He again consulted Śrīla Prabhupāda, who advised him: I am in due receipt of your two letters dated 27th and 28th August, 1971 respectively and have noted the contents. In one letter you decide to close Hamburg center and in the next letter you change your decision. So my decision is that, at any cost, Hamburg center must be maintained, and you cannot go to nightclubs.

Going to nightclubs will deteriorate the quality of our transcendental chanting. Please do not do this. Stick to Hamburg temple and maintain it somehow or other. Of course, touring from city to city is nice program, but not in the clubs.

Our only program should be having Sankirtana on the streets, and if somebody calls, then at their home, and we should distribute our literatures. You say that there is a very good demand for Isopanisad, German edition, so why not stress on selling this book and maintain in that way?

Hansadutta accepted Prabhupāda’s words with full faith and immediately focused all his energy on saṅkīrtana and book distribution. He went daily with the devotees to the center of Hamburg to hold kīrtana and offer literature to passers-by. As the devotees gained more experience and confidence, their collections gradually increased. After a month, there seemed to be a light at the end of the tunnel, and Hansadutta gave his spiritual master an encouraging report. Prabhupāda was pleased, and he impressed on Hansadutta the necessity of depending wholly and solely on transcendental book distribution to achieve all success, spiritually and materially: I am very glad that you are now getting strength. So now you have got 1,800 books and are getting more. There is good demand. So Krishna has solved all your problems. Print books and sell and get rich; that’s all. We have got asset, our books, so where is the question of poverty? So don’t be disheartened at any circumstance. Depend on Krishna. After all this is the kingdom of maya. She is always peeping to take the opportunity of attacking us, but if we fix up our attention on the Lotus Feet of Krishna, maya cannot even touch us.

So let Mandali Bhadra be seriously engaged in translating work and recruit some German devotees to help him so that we can print all our books in German language and you can develop the Hamburg center very nicely. You know very well that I went to India this time empty-handed, but we spent there not less than five lakhs Rupees during my 10 month stay, and all the money was collected simply on the strength of our books and literatures. So when you have got literature and books, there is no question of poverty in our society. Simply we have to organize things nicely and manage carefully. I hope henceforward you will not feel at all discouraged. All of you there, push on this movement in Germany which is the best country in Europe. The most intelligent class of men are there. Try to convince them about our philosophy. The German scholars are especially inclined toward Indian philosophy. There are many learned scholars well versed in Sanskrit. So our books with diacritic marks and original Sanskrit verses must be very much appreciated by all schools, colleges, libraries, and the general public. So develop the press there very nicely. The press already has been declared as the greater mridanga.

The winds were changing. Once the devotees gained strength and enthusiasm, they began to see a lot of new faces at the temple.

AṢṬARATHA DĀSA: In 1967, when I was seventeen years old, I began developing an interest in alternative lifestyles. I became a vegetarian and practiced hatha-yoga, then traveled during the following years to Finland and the south of France, where I helped out at communities that were trying to implement natural living. When I returned to Munich I took a job as a gardener. In the autumn of 1969, when there was a draft, I volunteered to work for an organization similar to the Peace Corps— Aktion Sühnezeichen—which gave me an assignment with an educational project in America.

Before leaving, though, in the winter of 1969, I traveled to London. One Saturday I strolled down Portobello Road, the heart of the hippie scene, and because it was market day all the Bohemians were there: Donovan-type guitar players, mimes, people performing street theater. All of a sudden, everything stopped. People had focused their attention on a group of exotic-looking men and women chanting and dancing down the road. It was the first time I saw devotees, but I immediately knew that this is what I wanted to do. Still, I didn’t pursue it right away because I had committed myself to go to the U.S.

At the beginning of 1970, I arrived in Washington, D.C. I worked for a church near Capitol Hill, supervising its kindergarten in the afternoon and the youth center in the evening.

One Sunday morning during the summer, while I had something to do in Georgetown, I met the devotees again. Dāmodara Dāsa gave me a copy of Kṛṣṇa Consciousness: The Topmost Yoga System and invited me to their Sunday feast. I read the book as soon as I got home, and in the late afternoon, I went to the temple. The big plate of prasādam, with pakoras, samosas, puris, halavā, and sweet rice, acted like a bomb detonating in my digestive system; I had been on a macrobiotic diet. But I still loved it. There were no Deities at the temple, just pictures of the guruparamparā and Pañca-tattva. Dāmodara lectured about the ācāryas and Lord Caitanya. Looking at the pictures of the disciplic succession I was particularly impressed by Bhaktivinoda Ṭhākura’s imposing demeanor. After the talk, it was clear to me that this was what I had been looking for. But I still hesitated. I would have to give up everything—my yoga, my macrobiotics—to practice Kṛṣṇa consciousness. So I didn’t go back to the temple for three months.

During my vacation, I went to the West Virginia National Park, where I lived alone for two weeks in a tent. I used most of my time to study a German translation of the Bhagavad-gītā. Although I didn’t understand much, I sensed that I was going in the right direction, and thus I decided to go back to the city and visit the temple. Bhagavad-gītā classes were held on Tuesday and Friday evenings, and I wanted to attend regularly. I had heard that one should bring a gift when visiting a temple, so when I arrived there one Tuesday evening I brought some flowers. To my surprise, one of the women gave me a vase and told me to put the flowers on the altar. Although I didn’t understand exactly what was going on, I sensed that putting something on the altar was special.

Then I was told that there was no Bhagavad-gītā class that evening because the devotees were going to a preaching program at Georgetown University. Suddenly I found myself in a van with a whole bunch of brahmacārīs, and an hour later I was on a stage taking part in kīrtana before a large crowd of students.

We came back late, and someone suggested, “Why don’t you stay overnight?” So I did. In the morning I attended maṅgala-ārati, chanted japa, and went to class, and after breakfast prasādam I was told, “Now we’ll go on saṅkīrtana.” So I went with the devotees to chant in front of the White House, and after an hour or so I took a bus to my workplace. The experience of a day in the life of the devotees was ecstatic. From that day on I visited the temple regularly until after a few weeks the devotees asked me why I didn’t stay at the temple and go to work from there. I gladly accepted although it was not at all practical. My apartment was only five minutes from the church, whereas the temple was on the other side of town. Every evening I had to take a bus, and it was late, around eleven o’clock, when I finally arrived at the temple. Everyone was already asleep. The devotees would leave the door open and put some prasādam aside for me, but to eat so late and then get up with everyone at 3 a.m. put a great strain on my health. Sometimes I was so tired that I bumped into a wall while chanting japa. And on my way to work I usually fell asleep as soon as the bus started to move, and more than once I missed the stop where I had to get off and woke up much later.

After some time, I shaved my head and went to work with dhotī and tilaka. Fortunately, my superiors didn’t mind. They were satisfied with my work, and besides that, I was a foreigner. So they didn’t bother me. *** Śrīla Prabhupāda had not been to New York for more than a year. In 1971 he returned to America after a ten-month preaching tour in India, and the devotees at the Brooklyn temple were more than eager to receive him. As news spread of his imminent arrival—this was mid-July—all the nearby temples, including Buffalo, Boston, Philadelphia, Baltimore, and Washington, made preparations to visit New York.

AṢṬARATHA DĀSA: We awaited Prabhupāda’s arrival at the Brooklyn temple, and when he stepped out of the car, he appeared to me like a demigod; it seemed as if he were floating. I was overwhelmed by his spiritual presence, and any last doubts lingering in my mind were extinguished. As soon as I saw Prabhupāda, I knew: Here is my spiritual master.

Prabhupāda stayed for two weeks in New York, and during the first week, he performed initiations every morning—for each temple on a different day. In the afternoons, different saṅkīrtana parties went to different parts of downtown, and in the evening they all converged for a mahā-harināma on Broadway. When it rained we donned bright orange and yellow plastic coats, and the chanting party looked like a flock of exotic birds. We attracted literally hundreds of people. Pañcaratna used to lead kīrtana, and once in a while, he stopped to address the crowd. He was in so much ecstasy that he sometimes jumped up and down even while speaking.

There was a tremendous spirit in those days, but also many devotees had pretty far-out conceptions. Once, being a new devotee, I wanted to know something and approached a Mātājī to ask her. Immediately one of the brahmacārīs came over and reprimanded me: “Don’t talk with the gopīs!”

On the third day of Prabhupāda’s arrival, it was our temple’s turn for initiation, and I was recommended. While Rūpānuga prepared the fire sacrifice, Prabhupāda sat on the vyāsāsana and chanted one round of the Hare Kṛṣṇa mahā-mantra on each candidate’s beads. This went on for hours, and it created a special feeling to observe Prabhupāda fingering one’s beads. While chanting on my beads he suddenly stopped and looked at the mālā for some time. I was sitting on needles, and my mind told me, “Now Kṛṣṇa will tell Prabhupāda that I am not qualified and that he shouldn’t initiate me.” But after a minute or two of total anxiety on my part, he simply continued to chant.

We had been told that Prabhupāda would ask us something when handing us our beads, so I memorized all the rules and regulations listed in The Nectar of Devotion—the ten offenses, the sixty-four items of devotional service, etc.—and I went over them until the last minute, just to make sure that I didn’t forget anything. Finally, when I sat before Śrīla Prabhupāda, he asked me, “You know all the regulations?”

“Yes,” I replied. Handing me my beads, he simply said, “Just go on like this.”

JAYAGOURA DĀSA: In December 1970 I visited the temple for the first time, and during the Easter holidays of 1971 I stayed for three weeks to see for myself whether I could follow the temple routine. During those weeks it became clear to me that I wanted to stay, but I was underage, and my parents became upset. One night around midnight two policemen came to the temple and took me to Hamburg’s prison for minors. There my beads were taken away from me and I was given only pea soup with sausage to eat, so I took out the meat and ate the soup.

After a day or so, my mother came to get me out of custody. Then, while she did some shopping, I ran away and made it back to the temple. Fortunately, I reached a settlement with my parents: They would let me stay at the temple if I agreed to finish school. So for the next nine months, I attended classes after going to our morning program and chanting sixteen rounds, and on my way to school and during the breaks I chanted another sixteen rounds.

After some time I shaved my head and went to school dressed in a dhotī. Many teachers thought I had gone crazy. A few years earlier I had been one of the first boys to sport long hair; now I was bald. But some teachers and classmates were curious, and I had many opportunities to preach. Sometimes during German class, we exchanged philosophical questions and answers, and it continued for more than two hours, into the break. But some participants, those who were politically active and leaned toward communism, became agitated by so much talk about God and spiritual life. They began to interrupt and challenge my talks, so I adopted a lower profile. I stopped preaching publicly. But when somebody approached me during breaks, I explained Kṛṣṇa consciousness. A few of these persons became devotees—Uthāla, Ātmavidyā, Hṛmātī—and some simply became favorable and still visit the temple today.

At the beginning of the summer, I heard that all the Hamburg devotees planned to go to London on July 4 for a Ratha-yātrā festival. They invited me to go along. This was before the temple got out of financial trouble. Because income was scarce, the basic expenditures for rent and maintenance had caused debts. Seeing no solution, Yogeśvara, the temple president, wanted to close the temple and bring the Deities to London. We built a palanquin for Their Lordships and during our ferry journey conducted all the regular worship until we reached Bury Place.

*** ŚACĪNANDANA SWAMI: Śrīla Prabhupāda says in one purport that it is good to remember what we were before coming to Kṛṣṇa consciousness because then we will be grateful that we are allowed to take part in this wonderful movement and for the opportunity to engage in devotional service. When we remember how fallen we were in material life and how merciful the Lord was to save us by sending us Śrīla Prabhupāda, we will be able to appreciate Kṛṣṇa consciousness in a better way.

When I was about sixteen, I felt like I was waking from a dream composed of unending material desires, protest against society, insecurity about what to do with my life, attraction to the counterculture, artistic pursuits—the list is endless. At that time a friend of mine had an accident and died. When I stood at his grave looking down at the coffin, I was overcome by deep doubts about the value of material life. It became clear to me that all of us are walking on thin ice, and that sooner or later our bodies will end up in the grave. Even then I realized what Prabhupāda says about death: “The body is still there, but the person has gone.” My friend had just died, and I wanted to know where he had gone, but my relatives and friends had no answers.

My next key experience was meeting Ravi Shankar, who gave a sitar concert at the art center at Hamburg University in the summer of 1969. I found his technique and ability to improvise breathtaking, and after the concert, I talked with him and asked how I could learn to play like that. I was playing violin and guitar. “You will have to read our books,” he said. “Read the Bhagavad-gītā, if you can get hold of one.” So I went to the bookstores, but the only edition I could find was a German translation of the verses. They were composed poetically, and I was touched by the Gītā’s spirit, but I felt that it was not possible to live according to some poetic ideal.

In the autumn of 1969, I saw the devotees for the first time, on a German TV show called Beat Club. Just before their appearance, the show featured a farewell concert by the Rolling Stones for Brian Jones, their guitarist, who had been found dead in his swimming pool. The program showed the musicians in Hyde Park, and then came a cut, and the new guitarist was introduced. I thought, “How cruel life is. One exits—you think he’s important—and a new person replaces him. One day I will also make this exit. I will work my whole life, perhaps even becoming rich or attaining a good position in society, and then I will just move out and someone else will take my place. How meaningless it is.”

While I was still absorbed in thoughts about the ill-fated Brian Jones, the devotees appeared on the screen. Radha Krishna Temple was the name of the band. Mukunda, Gurudāsa, Yamunā, Śyāmasundara, Mālatī, Kulaśekhara, and others had just recorded the Hare Kṛṣṇa mantra with George Harrison. They were sitting on a lawn with a harmonium and chanting Hare Kṛṣṇa. I immediately knew this was the answer. I realized: “These people are walking the path of eternity! They are leaving this miserable theater of material existence. They are on their way to a place of no return.”

The next time I saw devotees was in the spring of 1970, in Hamburg. They were doing kīrtana on Mönckebergstrasse, the main shopping street, and I listened to them for quite some time. I even approached one of them and asked what they were doing. He told me they were singing the names of God. When I inquired further— “God? Who is God for you?”—he gave me a short explanation of Kṛṣṇa’s transcendental position. Later I had a dream in which this devotee’s face appeared like a moon coming into my dark life.

One day, while again looking at books in my favorite bookstore, I found an edition of Bhagavad-gītā that I hadn’t seen before: the abridged version of Bhagavad-gītā As It Is, by Swami A. C. Bhaktivedanta. The book was in English. Its purple cover caught my attention, and as I skimmed its pages, I became fascinated. I found myself wishing I could live according to this book one day, but I had my doubts about whether it would ever be possible. Then, as I lifted my eyes and gazed thoughtfully through the shop window, something incredible happened. Three monks passed by. I took it as a divine sign. They were the proof that it is possible to live according to spiritual teachings. I ran out to the street and looked in the direction the monks had gone, but they had disappeared.

I met the devotees again in the autumn of 1970. They were doing harināma on Jungfernstieg, and I felt immediately attracted yet also afraid. So I bought a newspaper and went to the other side of the street. I sat down on a bench with my back to the devotees and pretended to read the paper. I was actually listening to the kīrtana. I listened for as long as the devotees sang, and when they left I continued to sit, there absorbed in thought. I knew I would live like them one day. But I was afraid. I would have to give up so many things. I knew I didn’t want to.

This internal struggle went on for more than half a year. I felt attracted to the devotees—and I would often listen to the mahā-mantra at home— but I was afraid to become more involved with them. Whenever I recorded songs from the radio and the mahā-mantra came on, I immediately recorded it. I continued to record it even though I already had about twenty-five copies. Occasionally I would darken my room, lock the door, light a stick of incense, close my eyes, and sing Hare Kṛṣṇa to the recordings. But despite a strong attraction to the chanting, I still couldn’t give up my independence.

The next important incident took place near Dammtor. I was in a hurry to get home and was running to catch my train, so I neither heard nor saw the devotees chanting near the entrance to the S-Bahn station; otherwise, I might have got out of their way. But I was running without looking left or right, and so it happened that I bumped into Haripriyā, Maṇḍalibhadra’s wife. I was running so fast that I knocked her down and fell over her. It was embarrassing. I wanted to get up immediately and run away, but when I saw the expression of pain on her face, I felt I should at least help her to her feet. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you,” I apologized. She looked at me with a bright smile and said, “I know. Otherwise, you would have taken a turn to avoid us, yes?” I felt even more embarrassed. “What is she talking about?” I wondered. “She is speaking as if she knows me. This is too much.” I became defensive and said, “You people look so strange, and you are strange. Any sensible person would take a turn to avoid you.” She just smiled. Knowing exactly what was going on she said, “Well, I think you are attracted to Kṛṣṇa consciousness. The other day I saw you on the bench pretending to read a newspaper, but you were actually listening to the Hare Kṛṣṇa mahā-mantra the whole time.” I was flabbergasted. “Wow,” I told myself, “this must be somebody special.” She suggested I read their magazine and find out what it was all about so that I could form a clear opinion. She handed me a copy of Zurück zur Gottheit. I hesitated to take it because I had only two Marks, which I needed for my ticket, but in the end, I parted with them and took the magazine.

What a disappointment when I began to read it. I couldn’t figure out what they were talking about! I was totally unsettled for the whole week. I wanted to find out what Kṛṣṇa consciousness was, but I couldn’t grasp the philosophy. I was too covered. For instance, I tried to understand Prabhupāda’s article, “The Peace Formula,” in which he writes that we have to understand three things in order to have peace in this world: 1. Kṛṣṇa is the supreme owner of everything.

2. Kṛṣṇa is the supreme enjoyer of everything.

3. Kṛṣṇa is the well-wishing friend of everyone.

Being politically oriented I simply couldn’t understand what these things had to do with war and peace. Again and again, I tried to understand them, but I couldn’t. So it became clear to me that if I ever wanted to know what these devotees were up to and what Kṛṣṇa consciousness meant, I had to visit them again and see the temple. But this was exactly what I was afraid of.

But I finally decided to go and talk to the devotees. I had to find out what Kṛṣṇa consciousness was all about. But I made up my mind that once I found out their secret I would practice it, but not at a temple. I would not join. I would do my own thing and at the same time practice Kṛṣṇa consciousness.

One Sunday afternoon I arrived at Bartelsstrasse, but while I stood in front of the yard, my fear became so strong that I passed the temple and went into a park. There I sat down on a bench and thought deeply about my life—my friends, my hopes for a bright future, my plans for a revolution to make this planet a better place to live, my girlfriend, money, my violin. I knew that if I went to the temple, my material life would be finished, and I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to say goodbye just yet. Absorbed in watching my mental river of material objects float by, I suddenly heard a voice: “Hare Kṛṣṇa!” I turned around and there was Smita Kṛṣṇa, a devotee I remembered from the saṅkīrtana party. He looked at me with a knowing smile, like a Buddha, and said, “I’m going to the temple. Would you like to come with me?” In theory, I had already accepted that Kṛṣṇa is the supreme controller of my life. So I said, “Yes, I would very much like to go with you.” At the same time, I thought, “Kṛṣṇa got me! My independence is going down the drain.” Anyway, I went with him, and he was nice and talked pleasantly. I couldn’t understand exactly what he said because he spoke a weird mishmash of Swedish, English, and German, quite unlike anything I had heard before, but I knew it was something nice. That was all I needed—some soothing sound vibration. He kept saying to me, “Verstehen Sie Deutsch? (Do you understand German?)” because I just looked happy without understanding anything. So I said, “Yes, but you don’t speak Deutsch.”

As soon as we arrived at the temple, my sense of smell was captivated by a special fragrant mixture of ghee, spices, sabjī, and incense—heavy, almost intoxicating. The Sunday feast program had already started. Smita Kṛṣṇa showed me the entrance to the temple room. I went in and sat down at the back against the wall and just looked at everything. There were these wonderful monks and a truly divine atmosphere. The front of the room was colorful. I didn’t see that there were Deities; I just saw flowers. The devotees were singing, but I must admit that I felt rather uncomfortable because I was so nervous, and yet at the same time everything I saw made a pleasant impression on me.

When I saw the vyāsāsana my first reaction was to remember a picture from the magazine they had given me. I felt the presence of strong authority, something I didn’t like so much because my attitude was completely anti-authoritarian. The vyāsāsana made me uneasy; you don’t set a picture on a special seat if it doesn’t mean you respect that personality. Then a devotee gave a strong, philosophical lecture about the spiritual master. I didn’t understand much, but I remember that he compared people who climb a mountain and need a guide to those who want to make spiritual advancement. He said you have to be careful not to step on socalled snow bridges because they appear solid but will break and you might fall into a chasm. You need a guide.

After the lecture and more chanting, prasādam was served, and this is how Kṛṣṇa really hooked me. When I tasted halavā for the first time, I became totally blissed out. I had never eaten anything like it. I asked for seconds and thirds. Finally, the devotees told me, “Sorry, but we have to serve others also.” Then they took the halavā pot out of the room to serve the servers. I just followed the pot and sat down in line with the servers, and they said, “Sorry, but we’ve given you three helpings, and everyone else has been given only two.” I apologized, but said, “But it’s so good! Please give me more.”

“All right,” the devotee serving the halavā said, “but no more after this. Take your halavā and get lost.”

“All right, then please give me a lot of halavā, or whatever it is, because then I will get lost faster.”

After the feast, down in the courtyard, one of the guests suggested that we “smoke to digest all this.” I replied that I had found something better. I was totally sure that Kṛṣṇa consciousness was my way. I was no longer afraid. I knew I would never smoke again. I already knew the four rules and regulations from the magazine, and I decided to follow them. Then I went home.

Two weeks passed before my next visit. It was on a weekday, and the devotees were too busy to meet me. So I waited on the sofa in the reception room. Finally, Maṇḍalibhadra came in and told me, “Sorry we don’t have much time today. Please come back on Sunday.” I was disappointed. I said, “But I’ve come all the way just to find out what this Kṛṣṇa consciousness is.” He answered, “Kṛṣṇa consciousness means to be aware that God is everywhere.” Then the telephone rang, and he had to go. I was left sitting on the sofa, thinking, “God is everywhere.” When he came back he continued. “Yes, He is Paramātmā, the Supersoul. He has four hands and a crown.”

Far-out! I liked the idea immediately. Then he had to go again because his wife was calling him. I was sitting there thinking, “God is everywhere.” Then he came back and said, “By the way, when I said everywhere, I meant everywhere. He’s in every atom and in between every atom.” Then he had to go again after just one or two sentences.

Wow, amazing! Next to me, there was a metal filing cabinet, and I thought, “He is in that filing cabinet, but not inside. He’s in the atoms and in between the atoms of that cabinet.” I had never thought such a thought. Then Maṇḍalibhadra came back and said, “I’m sorry. I hope you don’t mind, but there is so much going on today. Can’t you come back Sunday? We really have no time.”

“No problem,” I said, “I have enough to think about.”

On my way to the S-Bahn station, I was thinking, “God is everywhere! He’s in the hearts of all these people. He’s in the air. He’s in the S-Bahn construction. He’s everywhere!” Then I don’t know what happened. It was as if from everywhere I heard the sound of the holy name, like a soft whispering: Hare Kṛṣṇa Hare Kṛṣṇa, Kṛṣṇa Kṛṣṇa Hare Hare/ Hare Rāma Hare Rāma, Rāma Rāma Hare Hare. The entire atmosphere seemed to vibrate with the holy name, like a cosmic symphony. Ecstasy! My first ecstatic experience in Kṛṣṇa consciousness! I sat down at the train station and even missed my train. I was thinking, “Kṛṣṇa is everywhere, and I have finally found a way to Him.”

Later, I worked part-time as a gardener and supported the temple with donations. One day the devotees told me that Prabhupāda would be in London. As soon as I heard this, I wanted to go and see him. Then, sometime later, one of them asked me directly, “We want to go to London, but we don’t have the money. Can you help us?” I had my plans for the money I had been saving, but then I thought, “They want to see Prabhupāda and I want to see Prabhupāda,” so I emptied my bank account and gave everything to the temple.

We took the temple’s Rādhā-Kṛṣṇa Deities with us. On the ferry, we gave Them a cabin of Their own, and we would always hold kīrtana on deck, even in a storm. We were young and liked adventure. We sang, and it was the nicest sea journey I’ve ever made.

On the evening of Prabhupāda’s London arrival, the devotees all went to the airport to meet him, but his flight from New York was delayed and it got to be quite late, so most of the devotees went back to the temple. I stayed. Prabhupāda’s flight landed around midnight.

The majority of us were resting on seats in the waiting lounge when suddenly a few devotees standing watch near the customs area began to shout “Jaya Prabhupāda!” These magical words brought us immediately to our feet. For me, the sound of Prabhupāda’s name and his imminent arrival transformed the airport. A mystical light seemed to be illuminating everything.

One devotee began to chant, and the kīrtana soon grew more intense. Then Prabhupāda appeared. My first reaction was “Oh, he is so small!” But then I thought, “But he is great in spiritual power.” As he came toward us, I threw myself down (as did the other devotees) on the floor of Heathrow Airport. I had only just shaved up—I saw it as a present to Prabhupāda— and now, my shaved head offered at his feet, I waited for him to pass. Once I thought he had passed I lifted my head, but to my surprise, I saw his slippers before me. I looked up and looked right into Prabhupāda’s eyes. He seemed to welcome me into his family. I was overwhelmed, and at that moment something transpired between Kṛṣṇa’s pure devotee and this fallen soul: I could feel his immense potency in attracting souls to Kṛṣṇa. When I saw Prabhupāda standing before me, aglow with spiritual mercy, I felt much attraction to his lotus feet. It became clear to me that I should surrender to him. And I knew he recognized me and would accept me. On the way back to the temple at Bury Place, I remembered something I had read in one of Śrīla Prabhupāda’s books: “By this Kṛṣṇa consciousness movement, we are trying to give information of how one can be transferred directly to the Goloka Vṛndāvana planet, Kṛṣṇaloka. That is our mission.” I felt happy and secure under the shelter of Prabhupāda’s lotus feet.

When he lectured, his eyes would wander over the audience while he explained Kṛṣṇa consciousness. You felt that he was preaching directly to you. One incident showed me how a pure devotee can infuse a receptive soul with conviction and spiritual strength. The devotees were going to Oxford Street to chant and distribute magazines. I was standing outside wondering whether I should go with the saṅkīrtana party or stay back and study Prabhupāda’s books. I looked up at his window and he appeared there, looking down at the harināma party. Pleased at the sight, he smiled broadly. Immediately it was clear what I should do.

I remember that day well. Prabhupāda’s glance and smile had made me so enthusiastic that even after the party returned I went back out with Vāsudeva, and we just continued to chant and dance through the streets of London and distribute Back to Godhead magazines. We felt so inspired by Prabhupāda’s presence and spiritual potency that we didn’t care for anything else in the world. Just as Lord Caitanya would give people spiritual energy simply by looking at them or embracing them, so Prabhupāda empowered his followers.

SURABHĪ DEVĪ DĀSĪ: I was born in Australia, but in my late teens I developed the desire to go to England. In 1971, I decided to make the journey by ship, and thus I began to work in Sidney to get the money for the trip. One day, a friend of mine met the Hare Kṛṣṇas on the street, and they invited her to the Sunday Feast at the temple. She asked me to come with her, and we arrived at the temple the next Sunday. The first thing I saw when entering the temple room was a picture of a man on a cushion and another picture of Kṛṣṇa with a cow. Earlier my mother had warned me about sectarian religious groups saying that there are men who say that they are God. So, when I saw the picture on the cushion I thought, “Uh, this must be one of those men my mother was talking about.”

Then the feast was served, and I really enjoyed it, especially the sweet rice, and then there was chanting which I also liked, but I didn’t really understand what it was all about. That was my first encounter with the devotees.

Some months later, I arrived in England and from there I went to Amsterdam and other places in Europe. At that time, George Harrison’s “My Sweet Lord” had just come out, and I really loved this song. In Amsterdam, someone told me about the Cosmos, a meditation center where young people gathered and bands were playing psychedelic music. So I went there, and there I met the devotees again. They used to go to the Cosmos three times a week to chant Hare Krsna and distribute prasādam. That’s when I tasted halavā for the first time which was an incredible experience.

One evening, the devotees made an announcement asking for help to organize a festival at their temple on Bethanienstraat. I really liked the devotees, so I went there and was greeted by Kiśorī and Bhūmadeva. Kisorī gave me prasādam and Bhūmadeva sat down with me and spoke about Kṛṣṇa consciousness. From that day on, I used to got the temple regularly, and one day Bhūmadeva told me about mangala-ārati, how wonderful this ceremony is, at 4:40 in the morning, so then I began going to mangala-ārati every day. In this way, my life began to change.

Some weeks later, I packed all my bags and presented myself at the temple. The devotee who opened the door said, “Oh, you’re coming for mangala-ārati.” “Yes”, I said, “and I am coming to stay forever”. This was in June 1971, and thus I stayed in Amsterdam for eight months, and I absolutely loved it. All the brahmacārīs were like my elder brothers and we used to go out on saṅkīrtana every day.

In July we heard that Prabhupāda was coming to London for the Ratha-yatra festival, and the devotees were all excited about it and they wanted to go, but they were lamenting that they couldn’t afford the fare. I had some money in the bank, so I offered to pay for everyone’s fare. But then we learned that Prabhupāda was sick and wouldn’t come in July but later. He came in August and we all went to London to be with him. And there I got initiated. On the day of initiation, I was really nervous, and Prabhupāda could see that. When he gave me my name, he said: “Your name is Surabhī Devī Dāsī, the name of a transcendental cow who gives an abundance of milk.” Then he added: “Don’t be afraid. If you follow these principles, you will go back to Godhead in this lifetime.”

I stayed in Amsterdam for another six months, and then I was asked to go to Germany because in Hamburg they needed a cook. While on the train, I really felt sad and even cried a few times, because the devotees in Amsterdam had been like family to me, and now I was on my way to an unknown place.

But Kṛṣṇa was very kind to me. Hansadutta and Himavatī were in charge of the Hamburg temple, and they took care of me in such a wonderful way, like a father and mother, that I soon forgot my misery. *** CAKRAVARTĪ DĀSA: In my early youth, I was born in 1950 in Germany, I was steeped in the Christian faith, studying the Bible regularly, but by the mid-‘60s other influences had become more prominent, and at one point I felt that I had become an atheist. This thought was deeply troubling to me because in the Gospel of John Jesus says, “Those who follow me shall never perish; no one can snatch them out of my Father’s hand.” If this was true, then why had I been snatched out of God’s hand? After all, I had been faithfully praying for many years. Why was I now an atheist? This should not have happened. So, I blamed God.

In 1971, while I was living in Hamburg, I saw the devotees for the first time. They happened to chant near the Grünspan, a music club where I usually went on weekends to hang out and listen to live bands playing. My first impression was that these people are weirdoes, and thus I went to the other side of the street to avoid a direct encounter.

But then a decisive event changed my life. After watching repeatedly a movie about a poet who was searching after God, I very much identified with this person and adopted his prayer like a mantra. Again and again, I prayed, “God, if You exist, please give me a sign.” Shortly after that, while walking through an Underground station, I noticed a display on the wall, which had a picture of Kṛṣṇa holding a calf. There was no explanatory text, not even the mahā-mantra, only an address and an invitation to the Sunday Feast.

I noted down the address and the next Sunday I went to the temple at Bartelsstrasse. When I heard Maṇḍalibhadra give class, I was deeply impressed by the way he presented the philosophy and his obvious conviction. I intuitively knew that what he said was not speculation but the absolute truth. The next thing that made a lasting impression was the ārati ceremony. The pūjārī offered ārati to the Deities with such devotion that I took this experience as the sign I had been waiting for. From that day on I visited the temple regularly, and it was Smita Kṛṣṇa who always took care of me. He did not preach much philosophy but simply told stories from Kṛṣṇa Book. While doing this he was smiling all the time, as his name indicates: Smita Kṛṣṇa Dāsa, “the servant of the smiling Kṛṣṇa”. His presence made me realize that only somebody who experiences real love could be so happy.

All this made such a strong impression on me that I understood, “If I keep coming, one day I will stay”, which frightened me. So I stopped coming. But after six weeks I couldn’t bear it anymore and began to visit again.

The living conditions at Bartelsstrasse were austere. Because it was an old warehouse, there was no bathroom. There was a small toilet with a sink, and there was another sink in the kitchen. Every morning, instead of a shower, the devotees’ wash was a lick and a promise, and once a week they went to a public bath to take a full shower.

In those days, the devotees were very poor and had accumulated substantial debt. They had fallen behind in their rent payment, so much so that the owner was threatening to obtain an action of eviction. Fortunately, I had a good job and was thus able to help out to some extent. At the beginning of the summer, word came to us that Śrīla Prabhupāda was coming to London for the Ratha-yatra festival in July. When I heard that he needed a new recording machine for his translations, I bought an Uher tape recorder, a state-of-the-art recording machine that in the early ‘70s was used even by the FBI, governments and radio stations all over the world.

The devotees wanted to go to England, of course, but there was no money. So, I paid for everyone’s ticket and wanted to go with them. As was common in those days, I had long hair, and I was told that I could not come in front of Śrīla Prabhupāda like that. Reluctantly, I agreed that Avināścandra shave me up. However, when we got to London, we were told that Prabhupāda wasn’t coming until August. Therefore, after a week or so we returned to Germany.

Once back in Hamburg, my parents found out about my new lifestyle and tried to get me back. Therefore, Mandalibhadra suggested that I go to Berlin to join Śivānanda and Avināścandra, which I did. During my stay, Avināścandra sent a letter to Prabhupāda together with 1 kg of marzipan and a postcard showing the Gedächtniskirche, a famous spot in the center of Berlin where we were doing harināma every day. After one month or so, a letter came from Prabhupāda wherein he thanked for the marzipan saying that it was similar to a Bengali sweet and he also included the postcard with a note saying that we should buy the church.

While I was in Berlin, Hansadutta took over as temple president in Hamburg. He negotiated with the landlady and thus avoided the eviction, and he asked the devotees to find work to pay off the debt. When he informed Śrīla Prabhupāda about it, he received the following reply: My Dear Hansadutta, Please accept my blessings. I am in due receipt of your letter dated 10th August 1971 and have noted the contents. For the time being this measure of taking outside work may be taken up but the principle is that everyone should engage full time for various propaganda work of the Krishna Consciousness Movement and maintain themselves by the little profit made by book selling and literature distribution. Now we have got Isopanisad in German language. The devotees can better be engaged in distributing these books.

Therefore, after a few months, the devotees gave up their jobs again, but we had at least some funds and thus we could print invitation cards. When we distributed these cards, we asked people for a contribution of 1 Pfennig (less than a 1 cent in those days), to cover the printing cost, and of course, people would give more, at least 10 Pfennig or even 50 or 1 DM. In this way, the cornerstone for future book distribution was laid.

In the summer of 1971, we received a shipment of the first edition of the German Īśopaniṣad that had been printed by ISKCON Press in New York. At the beginning of 1972, we got our first VW van, and in March we drove down to Munich to celebrate Gaura Purnima with 2.000 Īśopaniṣads and 16 devotees all packed in that van. We also did harināma in the city and tried to distribute the books but without much success. By Kṛṣṇa’s arrangement, one of the guests who came to the temple was a professional salesman. When he learned that we had thousands of books for sale, he explained to Hansadutta the five principles of a successful sale: to get attention, to arouse interest, to awaken the desire to have the product, to overcome objections, and to close the sale. Hansadutta picked up this technique and put it into practice with immediate success. As far as I know, he presented it during the next GBC meeting, and this is how book distribution in ISKCON began.

VĀSUDEVA DĀSA: As soon as I heard that Prabhupāda would come to London and we would go there to see him, I painted a miniature of the Six Gosvāmīs for him. When I presented my little gift in the presence of a few other devotees, he was so moved that tears began gliding down his cheeks. For many years, he had lived next to Rūpa Gosvāmī’s samādhi in Vṛndāvana, and his spontaneous reaction showed me that he was undoubtedly a very intimate associate of the direct disciples of Śrī Caitanya Mahāprabhu.

Shortly after his arrival, Prabhupāda asked me to touch up the Deities at Bury Place, Śrī Śrī Rādhā-Londonīśvara. He stood behind me to supervise the work, and he was quite specific about Śrīmatī Rādhārāṇī’s smile. Although it was intense to work under the watchful eye of the spiritual master, I felt doubly rewarded once the retouching was successfully completed.

A few days later, Prabhupāda called me to his room and explained in detail another project he wanted me to get involved in: the design of the temple in Māyāpur. His enthusiasm was fresh and contagious, like that of a child, and I became so inspired that for weeks I slept only a few hours a night. I wanted to spend as much time as possible on the drawing board. *** As soon as the first acres of land in Māyāpur had been put into ISKCON’s name in May, Prabhupāda had begun making concrete plans to develop the project. He had asked Acyutānanda Swami, who was in charge of supervising the preliminary work of fencing and building a straw hut, to submit a weekly progress report. Now, as the first sketches of the future temple were being done, Prabhupāda informed his managers in India of the development. To Girirāja in Bombay he wrote: I have already engaged Nara Narayana, Vasudeva and Ranchor to prepare a grand scale plan for the Mayapur land, and as soon as it is prepared, Nara Narayana will go there.

To Tamal Krishna, who was now the GBC for India, Prabhupāda wrote: We are making a very gorgeous plan for Mayapur, and if you all together can give shape to this plan, it will be unique—if not in the whole world, then at least in all of India. I am giving instruction to all the workers here and they are doing nicely, I think when Bhavananda and Nara Narayana go to India, they will carry the plans with them.

VĀSUDEVA DĀSA: I used to sleep in front of Prabhupāda’s door, and sometimes he came out in the middle of the night just to discuss a new concept. He envisioned exactly where paintings of kṛṣṇa-līlā and caitanyalīlā should be displayed. Again and again, he came up with new ideas, changed them back and forth, and even did some drawings himself. It became obvious to me that the construction of a wonderful temple at Śrī Caitanya Mahāprabhu’s birthplace was one of Prabhupāda’s most cherished dreams.

ŚACĪNANDANA SWAMI: I was fortunate enough to take part in some preaching programs the devotees had arranged in London. Prabhupāda would sit on his vyāsāsana and preach with great concentration. At the end of the talk, he would invite everybody to join in the kīrtana. One evening, during kīrtana, he suddenly stepped down from his vyāsāsana with great dignity and began to dance. Naturally, when Prabhupāda danced, all the devotees also danced, and the whole audience also danced in ecstasy. On some days Prabhupāda went to the temple room while everyone else was taking breakfast prasādam. He would stand in front of the Deities for a long time, apparently absorbed in prayer and direct communion with Śrī Śrī Rādhā-Londonīśvara.

One incident reveals how I came to understand that the pure devotee is in touch with Kṛṣṇa and that Kṛṣṇa tells him everything. I used to wash the Deity plates after the morning offering, and I didn’t like this service at all. One day, the temple president came into the kitchen and declared, “Prabhupāda says that the Deity plates are dirty. Kṛṣṇa has told him. He requests that this be corrected immediately.” I thought, “Oh, no, this is my fault; I didn’t wash them carefully enough.”

Although after Prabhupāda’s arrival I felt blissful in Kṛṣṇa consciousness, I later found myself tossing in an ocean of doubt. Māyā had come to test me. She confronted me with my attachments: friends, schoolmates, band members, my girlfriend—all of them had come to London to take me from the temple. Even my grandfather, on his deathbed in Hamburg, was asking for me. I became weak. I became resistant to Prabhupāda. I thought, “I’ll leave this movement. There is simply too much to give up.” But I needed a reason to leave, so I decided to catch Prabhupāda in a contradiction by asking him a question. I foolishly wanted to show him my superiority.

The next morning after the lecture I challenged, “If Kṛṣṇa is all good, and if He is the creator of everything, why has He made this material world, which is full of troubles for us conditioned souls?” At first, Prabhupāda didn’t seem to understand me. I had to ask my question a second time. But again he said, “What is it?” I already felt a little miserable. The third time I asked it, Prabhupāda acknowledged my question and replied forcefully: “Not Kṛṣṇa has created māyā, you have created māyā!” His strong words blasted my rebellious mind like a bomb. Kṛṣṇa was not at fault. I was!

In this way Prabhupāda saved me. That was enough. I decided not to leave. I surrendered. I had already packed my things, but I unpacked them again while thinking, “I will stay in this movement no matter what. I may make it in this lifetime or it may take me many lives.” Prabhupāda blessed me with his mercy.”

*** BHAKTI-BHŪṢAṆA SWAMI: Kṛṣṇadāsa arranged for me to get married in Berlin, and I returned to Hamburg late in the summer of 1971. Soon I had to get a job to maintain myself and help clear the temple’s debt. But then everybody stopped working, and I wrote a letter to Śrīla Prabhupāda explaining to him that I was frustrated being employed by non-devotees and would rather go somewhere and preach, leaving my pregnant wife in the care of the temple. Prabhupāda didn’t approve of my idea: Your duty is to take charge of your wife. So you can stick to your job and maintain your wife and family and give as much as possible to the Hamburg temple. You cannot be irresponsible to your wife and child. That is not allowed.

*** Over the years, Prabhupāda would be confronted with similar situations a number of times, because some of his male disciples realized soon after getting married that accepting a wife was a serious responsibility and often more of a burden than a source of enjoyment. And he went to great lengths to impress upon his young followers that he expected them to be responsible. A striking example is the following extensive instructive letter to one of his male disciples. There Prabhupāda goes into great detail explaining the scope of responsibility that gṛhastha life entails: Simply get married without considering what is the serious nature of married life, then if there is little disturbance, or if I do not like my wife or my husband, let me go away, everyone else is doing like that. So in this way the whole thing is becoming a farce. You say that your "association together was hindering your advancement." But Krsna consciousness marriage system should not be taken in that way, that if there is any botheration that means something is hindering my spiritual progress, no. Once it is adopted, the grhastha life, even it may be troublesome at times, it must be fulfilled as my occupational duty. Of course, it is better to remain unmarried, celibate. But so many women are coming, we cannot reject them. If someone comes to Krsna it is our duty to give them protection. Krsna has informed us in Bhagavad-gita that even women and sudras and others inferior class of men can take refuge in Him. So the problem is there, the women must have a husband to give protection. Of course, if the women can remain unmarried, and if there is suitable arrangement for the temple to protect them, just like in the Christian Church there is nunnery for systematic program of engaging the ladies and protecting them, that is also nice. But if there is sex desire, how to control it? Women are normally very lusty, more lusty than men, and they are weaker sex, it is difficult for them to make spiritual advancement without the help of husband. For so many reasons, our women must have husband. That's all right, but if once they have got a husband he goes away so quickly, that will not be very much happy for them.

Now I do not know the situation in your particular case, I am simply giving you the general policy or background understanding. We should never think of our so-called advancement as being conditioned by or dependent upon some set of material circumstances such as marriage, vanaprastha, or this or that. Mature understanding of Krsna consciousness means that whatever condition of life I am in at present, that is Krsna's special mercy upon me, therefore let me take advantage in the best way possible to spread this Krsna consciousness movement and conduct my spiritual master's mission. If I consider my own personal progress or happiness or any other thing personal, that is material consideration. If there was unhappy adjustment for becoming married, why you got married at all? Whatever is done, is done, that is a fact, but I am only pointing out that once before you did something without proper study of your real responsibility, now you are contemplating again some drastic action in a similar manner. Therefore consider it carefully in this light. There is one verse from Bhagavad-gita: yasman nodvijate loko lokan nodvijate ca yah/harsamarsa-bhayodvegair mukto yah sa ca me priyah, "He for whom no one is put into difficulty and who is not disturbed by anxiety, who is steady in happiness and distress, is very dear to Me." (12.15) One mistake of judgment often made by the neophyte devotees is that any time there is some disturbance or some difficulty they are considering that the conditions or the external circumstances under which the difficulty took place are the cause of the difficulty itself. That is not the fact. In this material world there is always some difficulty, no matter in this situation or that situation. Therefore simply by changing my status of occupation or my status of life, that will not help anything. Because the real fact is that if there is any difficulty with others, that is my lack of Krsna consciousness, not theirs. Is this clear? Krsna says that His dearest devotee is one who does not put others into difficulty, in fact, who puts no one other into difficulty. So try to judge the matter on these points, whether or not you are putting either your wife or yourself into some difficulty.

The right understanding of Bhagavad-gita is Arjuna's understanding. In other words, Arjuna came to the conclusion that he must perform his occupational duty, not as a material obligation, for reasons of wife, family, friends, reputation, professional integrity, like that—no. Rather he must conduct the functions of his station of life only as a devotional service performed for Krsna. That means that devotional service is what is important, not my occupational duty. But it does not mean that because occupation duty is not the real consideration, that I should give it up and do something else, thinking that devotional service may be carried on under whatever circumstances which I may whimsically decide. Krsna recommended Arjuna to remain as he was, not to disrupt the order of society and go against his own nature just for convenience sake. Our occupational duty is not arbitrary, that means once we have taken up some field of action, if we are advanced in our understanding, then we shall not change it for another. Rather our devotion is the important factor, so what does it matter what I am doing so long my work and energy are completely devoted to Krsna?

Just like Krsna, He is the Supreme Personality of Godhead, He has no work, neither He has anything to do, still He comes here to teach us this lesson. He accepts not only His occupational duty as cowherd boy, royal prince, but also He accepts married life, He enters politics, He is philosopher, He is even chariot driver during a great battle, He does not give example of Himself avoiding His occupational duty. So if Krsna Himself is exhibiting by His own conduct what is the perfection of existence, then we should heed such example if we are intelligent. Even supposing there is wife at home, with children, that does not matter, that is no hindrance to our spiritual life. And once we have accepted these things, occupational duties, we should not lightly give them up. That is the point.

Of course, our occupational duty is as preachers of Krsna consciousness. So we must stick to that business under all circumstances, that is the main thing. Therefore married, unmarried, divorced, whatever condition of life, my preaching mission does not depend on these things. The varnasramadharma system is scientifically arranged by Krsna to provide facility for delivering the fallen souls back to home, back to Godhead. And if we make a mockery of this system by whimsically disrupting the order, that we must consider. That will not be a very good example if so many young boys and girls so casually become married and then go away from each other, and the wife is little unhappy, the husband is neglecting her in so many ways, like that. If we set this example, then how the thing will go on properly? Householder life means wife, children, home, these things are understood by everyone, why our devotees have taken it as something different? They simply have some sex desire, get themselves married, and when the matter does not fulfill their expectations, immediately there is separation—these things are just like material activities, prostitution. The wife is left without husband, and sometimes there is child to be raised, in so many ways the proposition that you, and some others also, are making becomes distasteful. We cannot expect that our temples will become places of shelter for so many widows and rejected wives, that will be a great burden and we shall become the laughingstock in the society. There will be unwanted progeny also. And there will be illicit sex life, that we are seeing already. And being the weaker sex, women require to have a husband who is strong in Krsna consciousness so that they may take advantage and make progress by sticking tightly to his feet. If their husband goes away from them, what will they do? So many instances are already there in our Society, so many frustrated girls and boys.

So I have introduced this marriage system in your Western countries because there is custom of freely intermingling male and female. Therefore marriage required just to engage the boys and girls in devotional service, never mind distinction of living status. But our marriage system is little different than in your country, we do not sanction the policy of quick divorce. We are supposed to take husband or wife as eternal companion or assistant in Krsna consciousness service, and there is promise never to separate. Of course if there is any instance of very advanced disciples, married couple, and they have agreed that the husband shall now take sannyasa or renounced order of life, being mutually very happy by that arrangement, then there is ground for such separation. But even in those cases there is no question of separation, the husband, even he is sannyasa, he must be certain his wife will be taken care of nicely and protected in his absence. Now so many cases are there of unhappiness by the wife who has been abandoned by her husband against her wishes. So how can I sanction such thing? I want to avoid setting any bad example for future generations, therefore I am so much cautiously considering your request. But if it becomes so easy for me to get married and then leave my wife, under excuse of married life being an impediment to my own spiritual progress, that will not be very good at all. That is misunderstanding of what is advancement in spiritual life. Occupational duty must be there, either this one or that one, but once I am engaged in something occupational duty, then I should not change that or give it up, that is the worst mistake. Devotional service is not bound up by such designations. Therefore once I have chosen, it is better to stick in that way and develop my devotional attitude into fullblown love of Godhead. That is Arjuna's understanding.

BHAKTI-BHŪṢAṆA SWAMI : Then I made friends with a hippie visiting our temple in Hamburg. He was from Munich. He lived in a commune on the outskirts of the city. He invited the devotees to come, and I thought I should go there and live with him. I could take my wife with me. The Hamburg devotees thought it was a great idea because in this way they would get rid of me—after all, householders were a burden for the temple. The Munich commune was in a two-story house, and I moved in with my friend. I was shaven-headed, with tilaka, and wore a dhotī, as usual, and the first thing I did was hold kīrtana and afterward cut up prasādam apples and pass them out. In the beginning, everybody came and took part out of curiosity, but later they began to lose interest.

Every day I went out on harināma with my wife. We put down a straw mat on the sidewalk on one of the busy shopping streets in Munich and chanted with a small pair of karatālas. I would place a poster of Śrīla Prabhupāda in front of me, along with a sign that read, “I am a disciple of His Divine Grace A. C. Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupāda. I have come to your city to open a Rādhā-Kṛṣṇa temple. Please help me.” People would throw coins into a basket, and from time to time I would stop chanting and give a short explanation of Kṛṣṇa consciousness, inviting interested persons to come to see me.

A few persons visited me at the commune, some of them well-dressed in suits and ties and carrying briefcases. The commune members became uneasy having all these visitors, so they had me shift to the basement to a dark room painted black. A red light bulb hung from the ceiling. I knew it was time for a change.

Fortunately, I had been introduced to a couple living in the city, and they invited me to their home. There I held programs and distributed prasādam. When I asked them to help me find a place for a temple, the woman told me that there was a storefront for rent across the street from their house.

I moved in. It was an old building, and the part I rented consisted of one long room and a bathroom. I partitioned the room with curtains— one part for a temple room, one part kitchen, one part my wife’s room, and so forth. I put two copies of the Īśopaniṣad in the window—one showing the cover and the other open so people could read a verse and purport. Many people stopped to look.

It was an old house, and there was an open exit in the back of my room, leading to a staircase. After a short while, our neighbors began to freak out because of the early morning kīrtanas and the clouds of incense and coughinducing masala regularly wafting through the vents. In fact, every day when one resident came down the stairs to go to work, he mockingly repeated the last line of one of our chants: “Jaya jagadīśa hare! Jaya jagadīśa hare!”

We received a case of Īśopaniṣads, but we didn’t know how to distribute books, so I would sit on my mat, put the books in front of me with a sign next to them—5 DM—and wait for somebody to pick up a copy from the stack and give the requested donation. The result was very meager, but all that changed as soon as Hansadutta came to Munich with the Hamburg devotees and showed us how to do saṅkīrtana. He taught us to put a magazine into a person’s hand, show a picture of the devotees, and say, “This is us. This is our magazine. This is me. We are doing this and that.” After the devotees learned the technique, our distribution increased beyond our wildest expectations.”

*** When Prabhupāda received Sucandra’s progress report on the preaching in Munich, he assured him of Kṛṣṇa’s help if he simply dedicated himself to canvassing on behalf of the Supreme Lord: I am very glad to know that you are working sincerely to distribute this great science to the people of Germany. Not only the people in Germany, but all over the world, people are suffering due to lack of this knowledge. When the son is suffering, the father is also afflicted. So Krishna, the Supreme Father, does not like to see his parts and parcels suffering in the material world. To deliver the fallen souls, He gives His instruction, He sends His representatives, and sometimes He even comes Himself just for the benefit of all the living entities. So it is our duty, as His representative, to canvass, “Please take this knowledge and make your life successful.” So all of you continue to push on this movement with ever-increasing enthusiasm, and Krishna will help you.

*** AṢṬARATHA DĀSA: In the late summer of 1971 I returned to Germany. When I arrived at the Frankfurt airport, I called the Hamburg temple, but no one answered. Later I found out that the devotees had lost the phone line because they couldn’t pay the bill. I took an overnight train to Hamburg and a taxi from the central station to Bartelsstrasse. We drove up and down the street several times, unable to find number 65; there was no sign, no picture, no mahā-mantra, nothing to indicate the existence of a temple. Finally, after asking someone, I found the warehouse in the backyard. That was a sobering experience. The run-down building was a stark contrast to the temples I had known in America.

The devotees had just received the first printing of Śrī Īśopaniṣad, but no one knew how to distribute books. I had a little experience from doing saṅkīrtana in Washington, D. C., and when I passed out twelve books in one day, the devotees couldn’t believe it.

But as time went on, the others gained experience‚ and soon my saṅkīrtana results were rather mediocre. So I became the cook, treasurer (for one day), temple commander, saṅkīrtana leader, and finally, pūjārī. The standard of Deity worship was extremely simple. We didn’t know anything about chanting special mantras. While chanting Hare Kṛṣṇa, we simply poured a loṭā of warm water over the Deities. The paraphernalia was kept on one of the shelves of a cupboard in the prasādam room, where the devotees kept their bowls. Rādhā and Kṛṣṇa had five outfits and Lord Jagannātha three. Every morning I stood before the little drawer with the Deity clothes and thought, “My God, which outfit shall I put on today?” At the very beginning, we used the same garlands for several days. In the evening they were put into water to keep them fresh until the next morning.

The bhoga was simple, but Himavatī was such an expert cook that she always managed to cook tasty preparations even from the most basic ingredients. We never went to a grocer or supermarket to buy anything; instead, we went to the wholesale market once a week and begged from the merchants or picked through the half-rotten produce they had thrown out. Because the entrance to the market was restricted to professionals, we had to climb over a barbed-wire fence.

One Sunday morning, Śacīnandana and I went, and we got only a box of coconuts and a bag of potatoes. Thus during the whole week, we had only coconuts and potatoes: fried coconut with mashed potatoes, grated coconut with boiled potatoes, sliced coconut with roasted potatoes… Apart from the toilet, there was only one sink in the whole temple. It was located in the prasādam room, and it served all our purposes. We used it to wash pots, dishes, clean ārati paraphernalia, shower, and wash clothes. Before taking a shower you filled the sink with water—cold water because there was no hot running water—and then you climbed into a plastic tub in front of the sink and fetched water from the sink with a plastic measuring cup. We had no curtains, but later we got a second tub, and while one person soaped himself, another rinsed himself.

In the beginning of winter, I remember Śacīnandana, who suffered from poor circulation, turn blue when he was taking his showers—it was so cold. Even hours later his skin color did not return to normal. Despite all these hardships, he was always enthusiastic to preach. Whenever he had the opportunity, he lectured or spoke to guests.

BHAKTI GAURAVANI GOSWAMI (formally known as Vedavyas Das): 1968, the year Śivānanda arrived in Germany, was an extraordinary time for Europe’s youth. We’d just experienced what came to be known as the “Paris Spring” and the “Prague Spring”, attempts by the younger generation to change the existing establishment. Burning barricades and violent clashes between students and police were still fresh in our memories, To my parent’s dismay, I sympathized with the New Left and participated in protest marches against the Vietnam War chanting “Ho Ho Ho Chi Minh” and waving a poster of Che Guevara.

For many of us, 1969 was the year we first experienced psychedelics. Soon my interest shifted from an external revolution to an internal transformation. Herbert Marcuse was replaced by Hermann Hesse. In his book Siddhartha I encountered the names “Kṛṣṇa” and “Govinda” for the first time. I felt an inexplicable attraction—those names sounded beautiful—but I had merely an aesthetic appreciation for them.

In the fall of 1969, a schoolmate played for me a record produced by George Harrison on the Beatles’ new Apple label. The singers were presented as “Radha Krishna Temple (London)”. I envisioned a temple as it is described in history books, carved stone pillars and high ceilings, being unaware of the fact that any building devotees use for worshipping the Lord is transformed into a temple. George Harrison was known for being eccentric, but this was really far-out. Because I hardly ever listen to the radio, I did not know that the Hare Kṛṣṇa mantra was famous all over Europe. The album didn’t impress me as something I would want to listen to over and over again. I preferred the more ethereal music of Pink Floyd and Ravi Shankar.

What my schoolmate and most of the people around me didn’t know was that since the spring I had been taking LSD and following Timothy Leary’s philosophy. During our trips, my friends and I tried to tear down the walls of so-called reality and attain a continuous state of higher awareness.

But Kṛṣṇa didn’t let go. During the summer of 1970, my favorite record was an album by Quintessence. The inside of the album cover displayed an intriguing collage. One photo showed an altar, with paintings of Jesus, Buddha, Viṣṇu, and others, and another showed a banner of the Hare Kṛṣṇa mantra and people chanting. As my interest in everything from India grew, I eventually bought a sitar and tablas and began reading Ramakrishna and Vivekananda. I was on my way to becoming a fullfledged impersonalist.

In January 1971 I was drafted into the army and was stationed at Buxtehude, a small town not far from Hamburg. On most weekends I visited my family and friends in Düsseldorf, but sometimes I took the train to Hamburg and spent the weekend there.

Thus it happened that one sunny July morning, as I walked down Hamburg’s Mönckebergstrasse, a young man dressed like a monk handed me a leaflet and asked for a donation. I gave him only a few coins, saying I was a poor soldier, but he didn’t seem to mind and let me keep the leaflet. After a while, approaching Dammtor, I heard music and singing that sounded Eastern. As I drew nearer I was struck by a peculiar sight. On a small bridge leading to a park, five figures were swaying back and forth, their arms up, singing to the lively rhythm of hand cymbals and drums. These people, with strange hats covering their bald heads, looked like visitors from another planet. I was intrigued and slowly approached. One devotee, who was handing out magazines to the crowd, approached me. We got into a conversation. And when he mentioned bhakti-yoga and the names “Kṛṣṇa” and “Rāma,” I smiled knowingly. “Oh, I am also into this,” I said as if I knew exactly what I was talking about. “My favorite books are Jnāna-yoga and Bhakti-yoga, by Ramakrishna.” We didn’t get into an argument, as far as I remember. Rather, the devotee simply handed me a card showing me how to get to their temple near Sternschanze and invited me to come to the feast that afternoon. I assured him I would drop by. In the late afternoon, I took the S-Bahn to Sternschanze. It was easy to find Bartelsstrasse, but at number 65 there was no building, only a wall with a gate leading to a yard. I entered and looked around. I had been invited to come to the temple, and I was envisioning some majestic, pillared building, but there was nothing of the kind, only an old, rundown warehouse. Was this the right address? Then, next to an open door, I saw a sign that read: Internationale Gesellschaft für Krischna Bewusstsein, e.V. Following an arrow, I climbed two flights of stairs and was soon greeted by the aromas typical to any ISKCON temple: the transcendental fragrances of incense and prasādam.

A young brahmacārī let me in. His bright, smiling face, his radiant, clean-shaven head, and his saffron robes seemed to belong to another world. I was engrossed in material consciousness, but somehow I could appreciate that this person, who introduced himself as Aṣṭaratha Dāsa, was on a higher level, something I would have to endeavor for. Years later I would read in Kṛṣṇa, the Supreme Personality of Godhead: During the rainy season, all living entities, in the land, sky and water, become very refreshed, exactly like one who engages in the transcendental loving service of the Lord. We have practical experience of this with our students in the International Society for Krishna Consciousness. Before becoming students, they were dirty-looking, although they had naturally beautiful personal features; because of having no information of Kṛṣṇa consciousness they appeared very dirty and wretched. Since they have taken to Kṛṣṇa consciousness, their health has improved, and by their following the rules and regulations, their bodily luster has increased. When they are dressed with saffron-colored cloth, with tilaka on their foreheads and beads in their hands and on their necks, they look exactly as if they come directly from Vaikuṇṭha.

After we had exchanged some introductory words, the devotee asked me to wait—he would get me some prasādam, spiritual food. He came back with a plate of wet cauliflower, the only preparation that was left. I had come late. I relished the small yellow pieces, sprinkled with toasted cumin seeds. They tasted exotic, unlike any other food I’d ever tasted. How could a simple vegetable be so delicious? After my humble meal, I bought a magazine and a package of Spiritual Sky incense and thought about leaving. Then I was told there would soon be a ceremony in the temple. I sat down against the back wall and skimmed through the pages of Zurück zur Gottheit.

After some time, one devotee after another entered, bowed down, and offered prayers. That they touched their heads to the floor and remained in that position while murmuring something unintelligible struck me as weird, but stranger things were to come. While ārati was being offered my attention rested on the young men and women swaying to and fro, their eyes sometimes closed, arms raised, as if in a trance. I was oblivious to the altar holding the small Deities of Rādhā-Kṛṣṇa and Lord Jagannātha. Looking at these people in another world made me feel out of place. Philosophy was one thing, but emotional trance? This wasn’t for me. The next weekend I was back with my friends in Düsseldorf again— exploring the universe. I didn’t talk much about my experience at the temple, except to say that I had found good incense for our sessions. On the back of the incense packet was a picture of the universal form that impressed me. I accepted the impersonal concept, tat tvam asi, “You are that,” as the last word of transcendental knowledge. I identified with the central figure from whom everything emanated. I was everything and everything was me.

But doubts lingered. I had been told that everything I saw existed only because it was in my mind; it had no separate existence outside my consciousness. But did that mean that when I left a place the place ceased to exist until I returned? Then how was it that in the meantime changes took place? Changes were possible only if a place continued to exist during my absence. Something was amiss about this philosophy.

During the next months I visited the Hamburg temple occasionally, but mainly to purchase incense. One Sunday in late autumn, however, everything changed. The devotees presented me with the first book published in German: Śrī Īśopaniṣad. I started to read it that same night, and the invocation and Prabhupāda’s purport to it shook my impersonal conception to its foundation: The complete whole, or the Supreme Absolute Truth, is the complete Personality of Godhead. Realization of impersonal Brahman or of Paramātmā, the Supersoul, is incomplete realization of the Absolute Complete. The Supreme Personality of Godhead is sac-cid-ānandavigraha, and impersonal Brahman realization is the realization of His sat feature, or His aspect of eternity, and Paramātmā or Supersoul realization is the realization of His sat and cit features, His two aspects of eternity and knowledge. Realization of the Personality of Godhead, however, is realization of all the transcendental features: sat, cit, and ānanda, bliss. When one realizes the Supreme Person, he realizes these aspects in complete form (vigraha). Thus the complete whole is not formless. If He were formless, or if He were any less than His creation in any way, He could not be complete. The complete whole must contain everything both within and beyond our experience, otherwise He cannot be complete. I wasn’t absolutely convinced immediately, but I kept reading. An inner voice told me I was on the right track. Prabhupāda’s powerful words chiseled away at my stonelike ignorance. Ramakrishna also spoke about bhakti-yoga, but he described the devotee’s remaining separate in relation to the Absolute as a matter of choice—and not one he favored. He said it was as if a salt puppet preferred to remain at the shore of the ocean instead of entering into the water, dissolving itself, and becoming one with everything. Prabhupāda smashed this conception: Mental speculators do not know that Kṛṣṇa is the Absolute Personality of Godhead, that the impersonal Brahman is the glaring effulgence of His transcendental body and that Paramātmā, the Supersoul, is His allpervading representation. Nor do they know that Kṛṣṇa has His eternal form with its transcendental qualities of eternal bliss and knowledge. The dependent demigods and great sages imperfectly consider Him to be a powerful demigod, and they consider the Brahman effulgence to be the Absolute Truth. Kṛṣṇa’s devotees who surrender unto Him in unalloyed devotion, however, can know that He is the Absolute Person and that everything emanates from Him. Such devotees continuously render loving service unto Kṛṣṇa, the fountainhead of everything.

This was the true meaning of bhakti-yoga: the part that emanated from the Absolute Person rendering loving service unto Him. By December it was clear to me that I had come to a crossroads. Prabhupāda was calling me, but the voice of attachment seemed equally strong. If I accepted Kṛṣṇa consciousness, I would have to give up doing my own thing, my hippie friends, my psychedelics, and countless other dear things. I would have to surrender. That night I hardly slept. In my mind, I was debating the issue. When the first light of day appeared, I concluded there was no other choice: I had to surrender. Truth is truth—there was no way around it. I still had half a year of military service ahead of me, but I was eager to apply Kṛṣṇa consciousness in my life as far as possible. The Hamburg devotees supplied me with all the necessary paraphernalia to begin spiritual life: a set of japa beads, a beautiful Indian poster of Kṛṣṇa as Murālimanohara, tapes of Prabhupāda’s lectures, and a service. When Hansadutta learned that I had graduated with good scores in English and German, he asked if I would like to translate Prabhupāda’s books into German. I readily agreed and was given a copy of “The First Step in God Realization,” the first chapter of the Second Canto of ŚrīmadBhāgavatam, which at that time was being published chapter by chapter. In the military, I had plenty of time, because I usually stayed in a communications tower waiting for Morse code messages. Writing by hand on the backs of the message-pad paper, I began what was to become my main service for the rest of my life: translating and producing Śrīla Prabhupāda’s books.

*** Although Hansadutta ’s return to Germany had changed the way the winds were blowing and book distribution was continuously increasing, Śrī Īśopaniṣad was the only book the devotees had to offer people. It was the same situation in Holland and France, and Prabhupāda noted that the slow production of books was hampering the overall effect of his preaching mission. He had hoped that ISKCON Press Europa, the multilingual translation department in Hamburg, would regularly produce literature in German, French, and Dutch. But the project had fallen apart.

Yogeśvara was now working at ISKCON Press in Brooklyn, New York, and was trying from there to prepare publications for Europe. At the end of 1971, when Prabhupāda received a copy of a Dutch Back to Godhead, he thanked his disciple and encouraged him to continue, but he also made it clear that he expected more: I am very pleased to see that the foreign literature is being produced nicely under your enthusiastic supervision. Just try to increase more and more our output of such books and magazines in many languages. Otherwise how will preaching go on in these places? Though we have been settled in European countries for many years now, only now you are printing the first book in French language, and there is only one book done in German language. So the record has not been good, therefore our preaching work in these countries has not been going very well, and I think now things are not going too well in France and Germany centers. So if somehow or other you can produce profuse books for these places, spend your all time translating, organizing, printing, and distributing such books in foreign languages, then I think you will be able to improve the situation there. If there are amply books, everything else will succeed. Practically our Society is built on books. One book is not very impressive. Still, a blind uncle is better than no uncle at all, so it is very nice that one book has appeared, and that BTG is appearing at least several issues in other languages. But now try to produce at least four or five new books per year in several languages, plus regularly BTG every month. That will be your success. Two weeks later, he emphasized the same point to Hansadutta: I am always wondering why after so many years nothing can be done to print profusely my books and literatures in European languages.

Translators are there, all facilities of German first-class printing machines are there—simply we are not serious to do it. Now you and Krishna das work combinedly to arrange for printing of so many books in Germany, French, and other languages. That will be a great help to me.

Krishnadas had already left Germany out of frustration with the seemingly hopeless situation, but when he learned that things were improving under Hansadutta’s leadership, he reconsidered his decision and returned to Hamburg. Prabhupāda urged him to print and distribute more books: Distributing literatures in German language is the most important task ahead, and it is very good your proposal to print locally—but why it was not done before? Anything locally available is better, if the supply is regular. If you can arrange for that, then do it. I do not know why in Europe nothing has been done to print books. So many years you have been there, and still there is no literature in European languages. Why is it that you cannot find out some formula for printing nicely? I think there is no shortage of translators. Better if you turn your attention to this project immediately.

“Whenever you get money, print books!” Prabhupāda had made these words of Bhaktisiddhānta Sarasvatī his life and soul, and he was firmly convinced that all success would come if he simply tried to carry out this instruction of his Guru Mahārāja. Consequently, he urged his disciples to follow in his footsteps and help him fulfill his spiritual master’s order. Prabhupāda was so keen on getting his message across that he didn’t limit his instructions to Hansadutta, who was now in charge of Germany in Kṛṣṇadāsa’s absence; he repeated the instructions to all his disciples responsible for pushing forward the preaching: Śivānanda, Maṇḍalibhadra, and Sucandra.

When Maṇḍalibhadra assured Prabhupāda that he was dedicated to translating his books into German, Prabhupāda acknowledged his goodwill but again stressed the point of increasing the so-far meager results: My first concern is that my books shall be published and distributed profusely all over the world. Practically, books are the basis of our Movement. Without our books, our preaching will have no effect. So I am so much engladdened that you are enthusiastic to please me in this way, and that you are very determined to continue translating profusely. If you can increase translating more and more, that will advance you more and more in spiritual life. Krishna will give you all help.