Chapter Twenty-Five

THERE WAS NO warning that Śrīla Prabhupāda’s health would break down; or, if there were, no one heeded it. As he moved from his devotees in San Francisco to his devotees in New York, no one passed any words that Swamiji should slow down. After the five-and-a-half hour jet flight, Prabhupāda spoke of a “blockading” in his ears, but he seemed all right. He didn’t rest, but went straight through the festive airport reception into three hours of strong lecturing and chanting in the storefront at 26 Second Avenue. To his New York disciples he appeared dazzling and lovable, and by his presence, his glances, and his words, he increased their Kṛṣṇa consciousness. To them his advanced age, now nearing seventy-two years, was but another of his transcendental features. He was their strength, and they never thought to consider his strength.

In the temple, speaking from a new dais behind a velvet-covered lectern, Prabhupāda said, “In my absence things have improved.” New paintings hung on the freshly painted white walls. Otherwise, it was the same tiny storefront where he had begun his International Society for Krishna Consciousness.

He had written them that he wanted to enter the new building on his return, but they had failed. And they had foolishly lost six thousand dollars. But without dwelling on this, Prabhupāda made a more important observation: his disciples, despite the physical absence of their spiritual master, had made progress by following his instructions.

As he sat looking happily at the freshly painted walls and the bright faces of his disciples, Prabhupāda explained how one obtained expertise in Kṛṣṇa consciousness by submissively following the spiritual master. He gave the example that although an engineer’s apprentice may not be expert, if he turns a screw under the direct supervision of the expert engineer he is acting as an expert. Many of the devotees were relieved to hear this. They knew that giving up material desires was difficult and that they weren’t going to become completely pure devotees overnight. Brahmānanda had even written a poem stating that if, after many lifetimes, he could chant one round of the Hare Kṛṣṇa mantra, with attention, he would consider this the greatest success. But Prabhupāda was explaining that even if they weren’t expert in love of Kṛṣṇa, if they worked under an expert they were also acting as experts.

The next morning, with the fanfare of Prabhupāda’s arrival past, it became apparent just how dependent the devotees were on their spiritual leader. The attendance was down to the dozen or so regulars, and Prabhupāda silently entered the storefront and began to lead the chanting. But when the moment came for the devotees to sing in response and Prabhupāda heard their first chorus, he looked out to them, startled and compassionate. Now he could hear: they were weak – more like croaking than singing. They had deteriorated in his absence! The kīrtanas had changed while he had been away, and now he was hearing what the devotees were like: helpless souls croaking without joy or verve.

Śrīla Prabhupāda lectured from Caitanya-caritāmṛta. “When flying from San Francisco I noticed that the plane was flying above an ocean of clouds. When I came from India by boat I saw an ocean of water, and on the plane I saw an ocean of clouds extending as far as you can see. Above the clouds is the sun, but when we come down through the clouds and land, everything in New York is dim and clouded. But the sun is still shining. Those clouds cannot cover the whole world. They cannot even cover the whole United States, which is no more than a speck in the universe. From an airplane we can see skyscrapers as very tiny. Similarly, from God’s position, all this material nonsense is insignificant. As a living entity, I am very insignificant, and my tendency is to come down. But the sun doesn’t have the come-down tendency. It is always above the clouds of māyā. …”

A new boy raised his hand: “Why is it that one person, one soul, comes to Kṛṣṇa and another doesn’t?”

Prabhupāda replied with another question: “Why is one soul in the Bowery and another has come to the Kṛṣṇa temple?” He paused, but no one could reply. “Because one wants to be here and the other doesn’t,” he explained. “It is a question of free will. If we use it properly, we can go to Kṛṣṇa. Otherwise we will stay down in the material world.”

Satsvarūpa came in to show Prabhupāda the latest typed manuscripts for Teachings of Lord Caitanya. Although there was no difference in Satsvarūpa’s assignment, now that he was face to face with Prabhupāda he realized he had to type and edit more seriously. He asked whether he could resign from his job at the welfare office. Prabhupāda said no.

Jadurāṇī continued painting in the outer room of Prabhupāda’s apartment. Casting shyness aside, she asked him many questions about how to paint Kṛṣṇa. “How is Lord Viṣṇu situated in the heart?” she asked. “Is He sitting, or standing, or what?”

Prabhupāda replied, “Oh, for that you have to meditate for thousands of years.” Jadurāṇī stared at him in dismay. Then Prabhupāda said, “He is standing,” and she went off happily to paint.

When Jadurāṇī complained of weak health, Prabhupāda asked Acyutānanda to see that she got milk twice a day. Looking through the window that opened into the outer room, where typing, painting, and sometimes even construction went on, Prabhupāda watched Jadurāṇī one day as she worked on a painting of Lord Caitanya’s saṅkīrtana party. Just as she started to paint the words of the mahā-mantra across the bottom of the painting, Prabhupāda called through the window, “Don’t put the mahā-mantra there.”

“But you told me to put it there,” she said.

“I’ve changed my mind. Hare Kṛṣṇa should not be below Caitanya Mahāprabhu.”

One by one, Prabhupāda saw all his old New York followers: Gargamuni, the temple treasurer, who reported good sales of the Hare Kṛṣṇa record and incense; Rāya Rāma, editor of Back to Godhead, who talked about his indigestion; and Rūpānuga, who had a good job but was having difficulty convincing his wife about Kṛṣṇa consciousness. Even Mr. Chutey, the landlord, dropped by with complaints about the boys’ behavior.

Prabhupāda also met Michael Blumert, a newcomer. Michael had been seeing a psychiatrist as a result of devastating drug experiences. When he had begun coming to the temple, his mother and father had thought the Swami another evil force. On meeting Swamiji, however, Mrs. Blumert accepted his authenticity, although her husband remained doubtful. “Mr. Blumert,” Śrīla Prabhupāda said, “your wife is more intelligent.” Mr. Blumert said he wanted his son to help the world in a more practical way – by becoming a doctor. Prabhupāda argued that there were already so many doctors but still people were suffering. A Kṛṣṇa conscious person, however, could relieve a person’s suffering completely; so the work of Kṛṣṇa consciousness was more valuable. Mr. Blumert was unconvinced, but he agreed to let Michael stay with the devotees and drop going to the psychiatrist. He came to respect the Swami, even though disagreeing with him.

With Brahmānanda, Prabhupāda discussed the urgent problem of obtaining a permanent visa. Prabhupāda had repeatedly extended his visa ever since he had entered the country in 1965. Now immigration officials denied him any further extensions. He didn’t want to leave the U.S., but the only way he would be able to stay would be to get permanent residency. He had applied, but so far with no success. “Your government doesn’t want me to stay,” he had said, “so I may have to go back to India.”

Swamiji’s going back to India was a frightening prospect. His disciples had barely been able to accept that he could leave them for preaching elsewhere in the U.S. If he were to go back to India! They feared they might fall back into the material world. He was sustaining their spiritual life. How could they go on without him? And Prabhupāda felt the same way.

Brahmānanda managed to find a lawyer to delay the proceedings of the immigration office. The threat of deportation passed. Prabhupāda spoke of going to Montreal and getting permanent residency there, but his main intention was to stay in America and cultivate what he had begun.

Brahmānanda reported to Prabhupāda about printing the Bhagavad-gītā. The manuscript was ready, and they were considering the costs and where to print it, even though they didn’t have enough money to publish the book themselves. They hadn’t seriously attempted the arduous process of finding a publisher, but Prabhupāda pushed Brahmānanda to do so: “The only hope is that I have my books.”

Brahmānanda also talked with Prabhupāda about the six thousand dollars he had lost to Mr. Price. Prabhupāda insisted that they prosecute the culprits. He sent Brahmānanda to speak with various lawyers and also to tell Mr. Price and Mr. Tyler that “His Excellency” was back and would take them to court.

At that they relented. Mr. Tyler refunded most of the $5,000 deposit, and Mr. Price returned $750 of the $1,000 he had wheedled out of Brahmānanda. The legal services had cost more than a thousand dollars – so that was lost – but Prabhupāda said that when dealing with a tiger you can expect to get scratched.

In a letter to Kīrtanānanda in Montreal, Prabhupāda described the successful termination of the Price affair: “You will be glad to know that I have been able, by Grace of Krishna, to recover $4227 … out of the $5000.00 gone in the belly of Sir Conman Fraud (Price). …”

Before they went on the air, Mr. Burke had asked Prabhupāda’s permission to smoke a cigar, and Prabhupāda had graciously consented. Mr. Burke had introduced his guest as “a real swami.” When he had asked Prabhupāda why he was against sex, Prabhupāda had said he wasn’t; sex should be restricted to marriage for raising Kṛṣṇa conscious children. But Mr. Burke had persisted, wanting to know what was wrong with sex outside of marriage. The real purpose of human life, Śrīla Prabhupāda had replied, was self-realization. When one’s mind is preoccupied with capturing new sex partners, keeping the mental peace necessary for self-realization becomes impossible. Mr. Burke had agreed. In fact, his manners had been the best ever. And at the end he had called Prabhupāda “a very charming gentleman.”

It was on his way home to the temple that Śrīla Prabhupāda had said that the TV lights had caused him so much pain in his head that at one point he had thought he would not be able to continue.

Then one day Rūpānuga, sitting close to Prabhupāda’s dais during a lecture, noticed Prabhupāda’s hand shaking as he spoke. Kīrtanānanda had been there when months ago, the morning after they had made the record, Prabhupāda had slept late and complained of his heart skipping and of not being able to move. “If I ever get badly sick,” Śrīla Prabhupāda had told Kīrtanānanda, “don’t call a doctor. Don’t take me to a hospital. Just give me my beads and chant Hare Kṛṣṇa.”

Swamiji’s disciples were reluctant to restrain him. Kīrtanānanda had tried. At the Avalon, when Swamiji had been dancing and jumping and streaming with perspiration, Kīrtanānanda had insisted that the kīrtana stop. But the others had called him paranoid.

Besides, Swamiji didn’t like to be restrained. And who were they to restrain him? He was Kṛṣṇa’s empowered representative, able to surmount any difficulty. He was a pure devotee. He could do anything. Hadn’t he often described how a pure devotee is transcendental to material pangs?

Swamiji had written a letter consoling a disciple’s ailing grandmother.

The devotees figured that although Swamiji might give good instructions to someone’s old grandmother, nothing like what had befallen her was ever going to affect him. Of course, he referred to himself as an old man, but that was mostly in lectures to show the inevitability of old age.

To the devotees, Prabhupāda’s health appeared strong. His eyes shone brightly with spiritual emotions, his complexion was smooth and golden, and his smile was a display of health and well-being. One time, one of the boys said that Swamiji’s smile was so virile that it made him think of a bull and iron nails. Swamiji was taking cold showers, going on early-morning walks around the Lower East Side, playing mṛdaṅga, eating well. Even if his disciples wanted to slow him down, what could they do?

Some of his disciples had actually tried to prevent him from attending the controversial Cosmic Love-In at the East Village Theater, but not because of his health; they had wanted to protect his U.S. residency case. Śrīla Prabhupāda had been invited to attend the Love-In, a fund-raising show for Louis Abolafia, the “Love and Peace” presidential candidate. Allen Ginsberg, Timothy Leary, and others were attending, along with a full line-up of rock bands. But when Prabhupāda’s lawyer heard that he was going, he said it might jeopardize the visa case. Some of the boys took up the lawyer’s opinion and opposed Prabhupāda’s plan. Prabhupāda agreed that it might be best if he didn’t go. But on the day of the Cosmic Love-In he changed his mind and decided to go anyway. “I came to this country to preach Kṛṣṇa consciousness,” he declared. Now it was time to speak against these LSD leaders who claimed to be spiritualists. He had been saying that although he wanted to go, he wouldn’t go if his disciples forbade him. But in the end he simply said he was going. And that was that.

During the last week of May, Śrīla Prabhupāda began to feel exhausted. He spoke of heart palpitations. Hoping that the symptoms would clear up in a day or two, Kīrtanānanda requested Prabhupāda to rest and see no visitors. But Prabhupāda’s condition became worse.

Kīrtanānanda: Swamiji began to complain that his left arm wasn’t functioning properly. And then he began to develop a twitching in his left side, and his left arm would twitch uncontrollably. It seemed to pain him in some mysterious way, internally or psychologically.

Acyutānanda: It was Sunday, two days before Memorial Day, and we had arranged a large program in the afternoon in a hall uptown. I went up to get Swamiji, since all the devotees were ready. Swamiji was lying down, and his face was pale. He said, “Feel my heart.” And I felt a quivering vibration in his chest.

I went down, but didn’t want to alert everyone and panic them. I went to Kīrtanānanda and quietly said, “The Swami is having some kind of mild heart palpitations.” And immediately we both flew back up. Swamiji said, “Just massage here.” So I rubbed him on the chest, and he showed me how. He said, “The others go, and Acyutānanda can stay here. If anything happens, he can call you.”

So the others went and did the program, and I waited. Once or twice he called me in and had me quickly rub over his chest. Then he looked up, and his color had come back. I was staring with my mouth open, wondering what to do. He looked at me and said, “Why are you sitting idle? Chant Hare Kṛṣṇa.” During the evening, palpitations again occurred, so I slept in the room next to his. And late at night he called me in and again had me massage.

Kīrtanānanda: It was on Tuesday afternoon, Memorial Day, and I was sitting with Swamiji in his room. While kīrtana was going on downstairs, the twitching began again. Swamiji’s face began to tighten up. His eyes started rolling. Then all of a sudden he threw himself back, and I caught him. He was gasping: “Hare Kṛṣṇa.” And then everything stopped. I thought it was the last, until his breathing started again, and with it the chanting. But he didn’t regain control over his body.

Brahmānanda: I was there along with Kīrtanānanda. It was on Memorial Day weekend. We couldn’t understand what was wrong with Swamiji. He couldn’t sit up, he was moaning, and nobody knew what was happening. We nursed him – myself and Kīrtanānanda – trying all different things. I had to go out and buy a bedpan for him.

Prabhupāda’s left side was paralyzed. He asked that a picture of his spiritual master be put on the wall in front of him. Thinking that Prabhupāda was preparing to leave his body and wanted to meditate at the last moment on his spiritual master, Acyutānanda taped it to the door facing Prabhupāda.

Devotees entered the front room of the apartment, and Prabhupāda told them to chant Hare Kṛṣṇa. Then he told them to pray to Kṛṣṇa in His form of Nṛsiṁhadeva.

Satsvarūpa: Swamiji said we should pray to Lord Nṛsiṁha and the prayer should be “My master has not finished his work.” At different times he would allow us to take turns and massage different parts of his body. Then he had us go downstairs and hold kīrtana through the night.

Jadurāṇī: He taught us the prayers to Lord Nṛsiṁhadeva. He said the words one by one, and I wrote them down. I called up the temples in San Francisco and Montreal and told them the prayer. Swamiji said, “You should pray to Kṛṣṇa that my spiritual master has not yet completed his work, so please let him finish.”

Dāmodara: I went into the temple. No one was downstairs, so I just sat down to chant some rounds. Then a devotee came down looking very disturbed, so I asked what was going on. When he told me, I rushed upstairs. Everyone was sitting around in the second room, where they could see into Swamiji’s room through the window in the wall. They were all chanting on their beads. Jadurāṇī was handing out little slips of paper with writing on them. Swamiji, she explained, wanted us to chant these prayers.

Brahmānanda: We brought the painting of Lord Nṛsiṁha into Swamiji’s room, and we were all chanting. When Swamiji had to use the bedpan in front of Lord Nṛsiṁha’s painting, he begged forgiveness of Lord Nṛsiṁha. He could understand that Lord Nṛsiṁha was sitting right in front of him. I saw it as a painting, but Swamiji saw it as Lord Nṛsiṁha Himself sitting there.

It was getting worse – total weakness and everything. I couldn’t get a doctor, because it was Memorial Day and everything was closed. I even called my family doctor, but he wasn’t in. Everyone had gone on vacation, because on Memorial Day everyone leaves the city. I couldn’t get anyone. I was calling hospitals, doctors – trying this and that. But I couldn’t get anyone. Finally I got a doctor by calling an emergency number for the New York City medical department. The doctor came. He was an old geezer with a real loud voice. When he saw Swamiji he said, “I think the old man is praying too much. I think he should get some exercise. He should go out for a walk in the morning.”

Acyutānanda: The doctor didn’t know very much. He said that Swamiji had a cold. I said, “What do you mean? His heart is palpitating.”

“Hmm, I don’t know what to do. Does he take any whiskey?”

I said, “He doesn’t even drink coffee or tea.”

“Ohhhh, very good, very good. Well, I think he has just got a cold.”

Dvārakādhīśa dāsa: He came and took a look at the place, and you could tell right away he didn’t like what he saw. He thought we were just a bunch of hippies. He couldn’t wait to get out of the place. But he said, “Oh, he’s got influenza.” That was a ridiculous diagnosis. And then he said, “Give me my money.” We paid him, the doctor left, and Swamiji got worse.

The devotees called a second doctor, who came and diagnosed Śrīla Prabhupāda as having had a mild heart attack. He said that Prabhupāda should at once go to the hospital.

Max Lerner (a lawyer friend of the devotees): I got a call one day that the Swami had had a mild heart attack and I could be of some help. At that time they were going to take him to Bellevue Hospital, but I suggested that at least I could try to get him into a private hospital. After several hours of talking and negotiating with people at the hospital, we were able to get Swamiji into Beth Israel Hospital.

Brahmānanda: The day after Memorial Day we had to arrange for an ambulance. Beth Israel had no ambulance, so I called a private ambulance company. It was all arranged with the hospital that Swamiji would arrive at nine o’clock that morning. But the ambulance didn’t come until about noon. During this time Swamiji kept moaning. Then finally the ambulance came, and they were horrible guys. They treated Swamiji like a bundle of cloth. I thought it would have been better if we had taken Swamiji in a cab.

Except for Kīrtanānanda, who stayed in Prabhupāda’s hospital room as a nurse, no one else was allowed to stay. They all went back to the temple to chant through the night, as Prabhupāda had requested. Kīrtanānanda phoned Hayagrīva in San Francisco and told him what had happened – how Swamiji had suddenly fallen back and cried out, “Hare Kṛṣṇa!” and how there had been nothing for about thirty seconds … and then a big gasp: “Hare Kṛṣṇa! Hare Kṛṣṇa!” Kīrtanānanda told Hayagrīva that the devotees in San Francisco should chant all night and pray to Lord Nṛsiṁhadeva: