Dear Srila Prabhupada,
I wish to tell you about my journey to meet you—and how your journey to meet me was effective.
In my youth I aspired to attain perfect happiness, and soon I realized that such happiness could not be achieved materially but only spiritually. And, through reading spiritual books, I came to understand that to achieve spiritual perfection, I needed a guru. In fact, I read that I didn’t even have to choose the guru. He was already there; all I had to do was find him. So whenever I heard about a guru anywhere, even a thousand miles away, I would go to meet him.
One teacher I met was a Zen master, supposedly enlightened and certified by another enlightened master in Japan. I had read a book he had written, and when I heard he was holding a three-day retreat at his ashram in Rochester, New York, I went. Upon my arrival I found that his students were not very happy. But I thought, “Anyway, they’re just students. Let me meet the master.”
During the retreat he held meditation sessions in which everyone had to sit up straight and look at the wall, concentrating on some object he would give us. The master walked around with a stick, and if he thought any of us was falling asleep or that someone’s mind was wandering, he would hit the offender. After one such session, some of his students asked him about his recently having become angry. “Yes, it’s true,” he said. “I lost my temper; I shouldn’t have.” I started to doubt whether he was my guru. Still, I had read that a Zen master might appear ordinary and that one might not recognize him, so I thought, “Maybe this is part of it.” But my doubt remained. Later, he came to Boston, near Brandeis University, where I was studying. After his talk and demonstration, someone in the audience asked about Vedanta. “I have enough trouble keeping up with Zen,” he answered. “How do you expect me to know about Vedanta?” My previous doubt was confirmed: “He is not my perfect master.”
Then a hatha-yogi came to Brandeis to give a lecture. He had long hair and a beard and flowing robes. He said that by yoga you could attain complete mastery over your bodily functions, including the movements of the bowels. You could actually command your intestines: “Ascending colon, advance! Transverse colon, advance! Descending colon, advance!” and finally, “Rectum, pass!” I was really looking for a guru, so I thought, “Anyway, maybe.”
After the lecture, I tried to meet the swami, but he was leaving for the airport. I wanted to ride with him in his car, but there was no room, so I rode with some of his students. On the way, they discussed the various foods they missed since they had joined the ashram. So I started to have some doubts. But then I thought, “Anyway, they are just the students; the master may be on a much higher level.”
When we arrived at the airport, I beheld the swami. There he was—long flowing hair, beard, draping orange robes, a flower in his hair, a twinkle in his eyes—the very picture of Indian spirituality. But then I saw him tightly embracing his women disciples. And I knew: “He is not my perfect master. I have to keep looking.”
Next I heard of an “enlightened” psychology professor who was teaching at Antioch College, in Ohio, which was known as a progressive university, and I wanted to meet him immediately. Ready to do anything to find my guru, I got in my car and drove the seven hundred miles. When I arrived, with great anticipation and eagerness I searched out the professor’s office and inquired about him from his secretary. “He’s playing golf,” she informed me. “Playing golf?” I asked incredulously. “I thought he was supposed to be enlightened.” “That is his Zen,” she replied. “Oh, no!” I thought. “Playing golf? He is not my perfect master.”
Although I was disappointed about the professor, the Antioch campus was full of people interested in spiritual life, and while I was there I spoke with some of them. Some students in the Student Union told me about a guru who had recently visited the campus. “The guru is in the heart,” he had said, “where he sits on a lotus flower. You can actually see him and speak with him.” “Wow!” I thought; “that sounds attractive.” That night I tried to really focus on my heart. And indeed, I got a definite impression that there was a divine personality there, with whom I could have a sublime, personal relationship. And he seemed just about to speak. I was very excited, and I became eager to meet him.
Back at Brandeis, one of my psychology professors invited J. Krishnamurti to speak. I attended the lecture, and during a break I told my professor that I wanted to meet Krishnamurti. “Why?” my professor asked. “I may want him as my guru,” I replied. “Oh, he doesn’t accept disciples,” my professor said. “He doesn’t even touch money.” My professor was impressed. But I wasn’t. I thought, “If he is actually able to help people, why should he refuse? Just to be renounced? He is not my perfect master.”
I kept searching. I already had the idea that you don’t have to choose your guru, that he is already there. I even had a mental picture of what he looked like—and he didn’t have hair. All the swamis and yogis I had encountered had long hair and beards, so I was starting to despair: “How am I ever going to meet my guru?”
Then one day I saw a poster on campus: Lecture—Bhagavad-gita As It Is—Swami Bhaktivedanta. My friends and I were supposed to go to the movies that night, but I wanted to attend the lecture instead. When I suggested that, however, one friend in particular got really upset. “Why can’t you be normal like other people?” she complained. “All you want to do is see swamis and yogis.” And the argument became so intense that I decided not to go. I didn’t want to disappoint my friends, so I tried to go along with their idea. But something inside me was impelling me to go to the lecture. Finally I said, “Okay, let’s go to a later show. But first I have to go to the lecture by the swami. I promise, he will be the last one I go see.”
My friends reluctantly came along, but because we’d been arguing, we arrived at the auditorium late and missed the lecture.
Entering the auditorium, I beheld an elderly Indian gentleman—you—sitting on a cushion on stage. To the side, a young devotee (Satsvarupa dasa) sang into a microphone, and other devotees were dancing in a circle around you. Satsvarupa was singing right into the microphone, and the sound was reverberating off the bare brick walls. One by one, students from the audience jumped onto the stage and joined in. I also felt like going up, but I knew my friends wouldn’t approve; that would have been too much for them. More students were jumping up, climbing on the stage, and joining the circle, dancing. I kept trying to focus my eyes on you, but I couldn’t; your effulgence was too great.
When the kirtan ended, one of the devotees announced that they needed a lift to Harvard Square or to Boston. As my friends and I were still going to the movie and it was at Harvard Square, I invited the devotees to ride with us, and everyone piled into my station wagon. I was the driver, and also in front were two ladies. In the back seat were three or four devotees, and in the rear compartment were my friends and I don’t even know how many more—I don’t think we could have fit anyone else.
Satsvarupa was squeezed in the rear with my best friend, Gary. Because of our impersonal readings, my friend was saying that ultimately everything was void. And Satsvarupa was saying, “There is no void in the creation of God.” But my friend kept insisting: “Everything is ultimately void.” I was overhearing them from the front, and puffed up as I was, I thought, “Oh, how silly that they are arguing over this.” I thought I had it all figured out. So I turned to the back and announced something I had read in some Zen book: “It is not void, and it is not not-void, but to give it a name, we call it the void.” I thought I had resolved the whole controversy. But still, they kept arguing.
One of the ladies up front with me was Jahnava. I had been trying to understand all the different paths and philosophies, so I asked her about Zen. “This world seems real,” she said, “but it is illusory, like images on a movie screen. Now, if you withdraw your consciousness from the screen, you will find that there is a beam of light.” I thought, “This is the best explanation I’ve ever heard, even better than the Zen books.” “And if you keep following that beam of light back,” she continued, “you come to a point.” I thought, “Wow, this is getting to the void.” But then she said, “But behind that point there is a projector, and behind the projector there is a person.” Then I thought, “This philosophy encompasses everything that Zen does, and more.”
Then I asked her about Yogananda. She dismissed him out of hand: “Oh, he is just a shopkeeper. Whatever you want, he keeps in stock. You want yoga, he will give you that. Whatever you ask for, he pulls off the shelf.” Then she said, “At his ashram in California he has a Gandhi peace memorial. But Gandhi wasn’t a worker for world peace. He was a politician who wanted to drive the British out of India.” She just dismissed him: “He doesn’t even know who Gandhi is.”
“She is speaking with authority,” I thought. But I sensed that it couldn’t all be coming from her. How was it possible for a girl of only twenty or so to have so much knowledge and speak with such authority? But she did have authority. And I knew it wasn’t coming from her. Then I thought, “This must be coming from her teacher. I want to meet him.”
When we got to Harvard Square, I let the devotees out. But as I was driving away, I realized that I didn’t know how to get in touch with them. How would I meet the guru? I immediately stopped the car—at the center of Harvard Square—jumped out, and ran after them. I caught up to one, Patita Pavana. When he stopped, he turned his head and pointed to the crowd around us. “You see these people?” he said. “They’re all sleepwalkers. They don’t know what they’re doing, or why. They’re just conforming.” His words were so intriguing and deep; I wanted to hear more.
Suddenly I became aware of the honking of horns all around us. I’d left my car in the middle of the roundabout, and the traffic at Harvard Square was backed up. The honking kept getting louder. “I want to meet the Swami,” I said. “Quick, give me the address.” “Come at seven,” he said, “tomorrow night.” I could hardly wait.
The next evening when I arrived, the small storefront temple was packed with young people. You were sitting on a cushion at the far end. The walls were decorated with exotic paintings, and the aroma of incense filled the air. When you began speaking, I had difficulty understanding what you were saying. You had a thick Bengali accent, and the philosophy was new to me. But I did hear you say that out of many thousands of men, one would seek perfection. “That’s me!” I thought. “He’s talking about me!”
After the lecture, you called for questions. Someone asked, “Since everything comes from God, or Krishna, does maya also come from Krishna?” You replied that everything comes from Krishna, just like everything comes from the sun. The cloud also comes from the sun, although it covers our vision of the sun. But the sun is never covered by the cloud; only our vision is covered.
I was burning to ask my question. “There are so many swamis and yogis” I began, “and each recommends a different process of self-realization, and each says that his is the best. So how do I know which is actually best?”
You responded, “What is your goal? Do you want to serve God, or do you want to become God?” How brilliant—how perfect! I was asking about the means, but to determine the best means, we must first establish the end, the goal.
“When you seek after God, God, who is situated within your heart, will give you all facility. But if you want to become God, you will be cheated; you are cheating yourself. How you can become God? You are trying to become God, then how you became a dog? God cannot become a dog. God is always God.
“The Mayavadi philosopher says that ‘I am God, but by maya, I am thinking I am not God. So, by meditation I shall become God.’ But that means he is under the punishment of maya. God has come under the influence of maya? How is that? God is great, and if He is under the influence of maya, then maya becomes greater than God.
“So, the idea is that as long as we shall continue this hallucination that ‘I am God,’ there is no question of getting the favor of God. Then you do your own business, and try to find yourself whether you are God or something else. As soon as I think, ‘I am God,’ I am cheating myself. Who will help you? That is going on. Everyone is thinking, ‘I am God.’
“So, what you are thinking? You are trying to become God? What is your idea? Or you are thinking there is no God?”
“I am thinking that there is God,” I replied.
“There is God? You are thinking like that?”
But I knew that I couldn’t cheat you, so I replied, “Yes. But I can see that I was trying to become God.”
“So, you are trying to become God—that means you are not God. Is it not? How you became not-God? God is so great that He never becomes not-God. So, your conclusion should be that ‘I am not that God who is great. I am a different God who becomes sometimes not-God.’ Therefore you are a different God from that God who is great. Is it not?
“That is a fact. Because you are part and parcel of God, you are minute God; therefore you have the potency of becoming not-God. Just like a fire and a spark of the fire: A spark, when it is in the fire, is bright fire, but as soon as it goes out of the fire, it becomes extinguished. But the big fire never becomes extinguished. Similarly, you are not that big fire; you are that small spark. You have fallen down; therefore you are not God. Now you have to raise yourself again to the fire, you will again be a blazing spark.
“So, that is the difference. That is stated in the Vedic literature. Every living entity is Brahman, but the Supreme Brahman is Krishna. He never becomes not-God. We see in Krishna’s life, when He was a child on the lap of His mother, He was God. So many demons were killed. He didn’t have to meditate to become God. While He was playing, He was God, and when He was fighting on the Battlefield of Kurukshetra, He was God. That is God. Not that sometimes not-God, sometimes God. That is not God. God is always God, in any circumstance. That is God.”
As you were speaking, I got the clear impression that you knew everything about me, that you were seeing right into me, into Waltham, into my apartment, into my bathroom, right to the wall on which I had pasted a sign I had inscribed in beautiful ornate lettering: YOU ARE GOD.
My search was over. I offered my obeisances. I had found my spiritual master.
The devotees put their heads on the floor and offered obeisances. I also kept my head on the floor in surrender—for a long time. I felt so glad. I had finally found my perfect master and wanted to surrender fully. At the same time, I also felt ashamed and humiliated—my abominable desire to become God had been exposed; everyone there knew I had wanted to become God.
After some time, I heard sounds indicating that devotees were bringing plates of food, prasada, to their guests. Something inside prompted me to look up. I expected everyone would be glaring at me, but no. People were blissfully taking prasada, and when they saw me get up they simply smiled.
Moments earlier, when a devotee had offered you a large plate of prasada, you had responded, “I am not God; I cannot eat so much.”
The prasada I was given looked just like everything else in the temple—colorful, attractive, and variegated. Because of macrobiotics and other speculations, I never expected a feast. Where to begin? I picked up what must have been a cauliflower pakora, put it in my mouth, bit into it. . . and felt an explosion of taste. One by one, I sampled the preparations: bada, sweet rice—every taste new, incomparable. I thought everything was perfect: the guru, the prasada, the chanting.
I loved the chanting. The devotees had a sign with the Hare Krishna mantra written in Indian-style lettering. During the kirtan, as I was looking at the letters on the sign, they started to move, dissolve, form, and unform themselves. These were the signs I’d been looking for, and everything indicated that you were my spiritual master.
From the time you answered my question and I bowed my head, I surrendered. From that first meeting, my whole life’s purpose became to bring people to meet you. And I was able to do that for many years. But when you passed away, I wondered, What will be my service now? My whole service had been to bring people to you.
Now I understand that you are always present, and that by speaking of you, hearing about you, remembering you, and, most significantly, by studying your books and following your instructions, by practicing and preaching Krishna consciousness, serving your mission, we can experience your presence. So I can continue doing what I was doing when you were personally present—introducing souls to you—which is what I feel most natural doing. Because I know that somehow or other, if someone comes in touch with you, his life will be successful.
Hare Krishna.
Your eternal, humbled servant,
Giriraj Swami
[originally posted on 1-08-15]
By Bhakta George Pratt
By Yasoda-dulal Das
Srila Prabhupada, by your unreserved mercy we would like to take this opportunity to glorify you on your most divine appearance day and also present you with an offering updating you about your most important project in ISKCON, the Temple of the Vedic Planetarium at your World Headquarters and Place of Worship in Sridhama Mayapur.
Annada Ekadasi
Dayal Mora das: O hail to thee, lover of a tale from Canterbury. Hark! Lend thine ears! Listen to a tall tale that was many times told. A tale of war and peace, of crime and punishment and of a midsummer night's dream. Many a pilgrim has walked the road to Canterbury to visit the shrine of the Saint and Archbishop Thomas Becket. Even before Becket made his early exit, long before Brexit, he was the talk of the town for defying the crown. He is no less famous after over 800 years has passed. 
By Brahma Muhurta Das
By Chaitanya Charan das
By Indradyumna Swami
