Waves of Devotion

Are the cultural forms that Śrīla Prabhupāda brought from India essential to the cultivation of krishna-bhakti? Or can we separate bhakti from the culture in which it has traditionally been expressed and simply translate its essential principles into whatever cultural forms are most familiar to us?

Before answering that question, we need to clarify what we mean by “Indian culture.”

Some use the term to refer simply to the behaviors and customs that developed in India over the course of history. From this perspective, Indian culture is essentially historical: it is the way a particular people, in a particular place, have organized and expressed their lives.

But there is another way to understand it. Śrīla Prabhupāda taught that genuine spiritual knowledge is not an evolutionary product of a particular society. It is veda — eternal knowledge that becomes manifest in the world at creation. In this sense, what we call “Indian culture” — at least some of the things Śrīla Prabhupāda emphasized — can be understood as an expression of eternal spiritual principles.

I think this distinction is crucial.

When Śrīla Prabhupāda spoke of “Indian culture,” he was not simply referring to the culture in which he happened to be raised. He was also presenting something deeper: cultural principles rooted in an eternal spiritual reality.

The real question, therefore, is not simply whether we should preserve “Indian culture” or replace it with “Western culture.” The more important question is:

Which aspects of the culture Śrīla Prabhupāda brought to the West express eternal principles of bhakti, and which are historical forms that can legitimately be adjusted — or even set aside?

In answering this question, we should avoid two extremes. One is to assume that every cultural form is essential and must therefore be reproduced exactly as it was practiced in India. The other is to regard all cultural forms as merely superficial, with no meaningful connection to spiritual life.

I believe Śrīla Prabhupāda’s teachings point toward a position between these extremes.

Bhakti Is Personal

We worship Krishna, who is a person. And because Krishna is a person, He has His own nature, tastes, and preferences. Those preferences include how He dresses, how He is worshiped, and the kinds of music through which His devotees express their love for Him.

The devotional culture Śrīla Prabhupāda brought, therefore, is not simply an arbitrary collection of historical customs. These forms have a spiritual history and have been adopted because they are suited to expressing and cultivating devotion to Krishna. There are enduring principles within devotional culture.

At the same time, theological discernment requires us to distinguish among three things: cultural forms that embody principles essential to the tradition and therefore should be preserved even when the tradition is transplanted outside India; principles that can be expressed equally well, or perhaps even more effectively, through another cultural form; and practices that are primarily historical or geographical customs rather than expressions of eternal principles. Making these distinctions is essential if we are to determine which forms Śrīla Prabhupāda brought with him are intrinsic to the tradition and which may legitimately be adapted or left aside in a particular cultural context.

To examine this question more concretely, let us consider two of the most visible cultural forms Śrīla Prabhupāda brought to the West: music and dress.

The Music of Bhakti

First, I want to be clear: I am not suggesting that other musical expressions cannot beautifully convey devotion. Rather, I am arguing that certain traditional forms have qualities that are integral to the musical legacy Śrīla Prabhupāda brought and should not be casually discarded.

To better understand this principle, I will again relate a discussion I had with Dr. Eben Graves, program director at the Yale Insitute of Sacred Music. Dr. Graves earned his PhD in ethnomusicology studying the history and contemporary forms of Bengali kirtan. He is also a percussionist and teaches mṛdaṅga, or śrī khol.

I asked him specifically about the role of the mṛdaṅga within the Gauḍīya Vaiṣṇava musical tradition. His response helped clarify the distinction between the spiritual principle and the cultural form through which that principle is expressed — and, importantly, when a traditional form should be preserved as far as possible, even when Krishna consciousness is transplanted into another culture. I think his research is particularly relevant to this discussion.

Traditional South Asian and Gauḍīya Vaiṣṇava music is centered on the voice. The purpose of the accompanying instruments is to support the essential devotional practice expressed through nama-kirtan and līlā-kirtan.

The original instruments associated with Krishna’s pastimes — such as the vīṇā, bamboo flute, and mṛdaṅga (śrī khol) — are particularly suited to this purpose. Although these are premodern instruments, they possess musical qualities that support the expression of Radha-Krishna devotion in ways that are not easily duplicated by instruments introduced to India later.

In padavali kirtan and other traditional Bengali forms, for example, the mṛdaṅga, together with kartālas, supports the singing of devotional lyrics, which remains at the heart of the performance.

Other percussion instruments can keep time, but they do not necessarily have the particular timbre of the clay mṛdaṅga, nor can they necessarily produce the same intricate rhythmic patterns that facilitate the emotional expression of krishna-bhakti. These techniques have been revealed, refined, and developed by generations of practitioners of bhakti over hundreds of years.

Dr. Graves therefore considers the mṛdaṅga essential to traditional forms of Gauḍīya kirtan, while instruments adopted later — such as the harmonium, despite its widespread acceptance and appreciation — remain optional.

What I took from this discussion is significant.

The principle is not simply, “Use Indian instruments.” The principle is to support the expression of devotion in a way that is faithful to the tradition.

Traditional instruments have particular qualities that serve this purpose. Modern instruments can also be used when they are appropriate and genuinely enhance the expression of krishna-bhakti. The harmonium, for example, has clearly found a legitimate place in Gauḍīya devotional music, even though it was first invented and named in eighteenth-century France and was not adopted into the form commonly used in kirtan until the early twentieth century in India. Its acceptance, especially by Śrīla Prabhupāda, demonstrates that a devotional instrument need not originate in India to become part of the tradition. At the same time, we should recognize that some traditional instruments used in the expression of vraja-bhakti possess distinctive qualities that cannot be fully duplicated by modern substitutes.

So, adapting local instruments to express devotion is certainly possible. But such adaptation should be thoughtful.

We should first understand what the traditional form is accomplishing before deciding that another form can accomplish the same thing. Otherwise, in the name of cultural adaptation, we may discard something whose spiritual function we have never taken the time to understand.

The Spiritual Meaning of Dress

Do the same principles apply to devotional dress? In other words, are dhotis and saris spiritually significant, or are they simply historical clothing from the time and place in which Krishna consciousness developed?

Although I don’t believe dress is as essential to the tradition of bhakti as the tradition of music, I believe it is more than an arbitrary cultural artifact.

The word dhoti, the traditional dress Śrīla Prabhupāda introduced to his male disciples, literally means “to cleanse” or “wash,” suggesting a simple, sattvic garment that can easily be washed after each wearing.[1]

There may be variations in how this type of garment has been worn throughout Indian history, as well as in traditional cultures outside India. Nevertheless, clothing resembling the dhoti is mentioned in descriptions of both krishna-līlā and gaura-līlā and depicted in paintings under the direction of self-realized Vaiṣṇavas for generations. In that sense, it is not merely an Indian fashion. It is associated with the devotional world we are trying to enter.

Its simplicity and sattvic nature are favorable to devotional life, and its association with Krishna and Caitanya’s pastimes gives it another important function: it reminds us of who we are trying to become.

The same principle that applies to the music Śrīla Prabhupāda brought also applies to devotional clothing: these forms have a practical utility in spiritual life that does not necessarily disappear when bhakti is transplanted into another culture.

But does this mean that devotees must always or mostly wear traditional Indian clothing?

Absolutely not.

A person can practice bhakti while wearing the clothing customary to his or her own culture. There are also circumstances in which traditional Indian dress may interfere with preaching. If people become preoccupied with the unfamiliar external appearance of devotees, they may have difficulty hearing the eternal message being presented.

We also do not go to work in traditional devotional dress, and we may reasonably adjust our clothing according to the weather, occupation, and social circumstances in which we live.

But acknowledging the legitimacy of adaptation should not lead us to dismiss devotional dress as irrelevant.

What we wear affects how we identify ourselves.

Wearing devotional dress can invoke an identification with krishna-bhakti. It can remind us of our spiritual aspiration and signal to others the tradition to which we belong. The clothing is also naturally modest and easy to clean, qualities that can be favorable to the cultivation of bhakti.

My personal experience in the West is that almost all devotees have made some form of practical cultural adaptation in dress, especially as they no longer live in an ashram.  Even preachers in the West may prefer, in many or most circumstances, that devotees do not wear traditional garb, as this can project a sense of wearing vestments and communicate that we are a movement of ministers rather than laypeople. At the same time, there is certainly nothing that is divisive for spiritual leaders to wear traditional garb, since religions in the West often have spiritual leaders who wear vestments, especially monks.

I can also respect those whose vision of preaching involves approaching the public in traditional dress for the purpose of identification, especially when the men are neatly dressed in clean, pressed devotional garb of a uniform color and are properly guided in how to conduct themselves in public. I personally don’t think this should be the primary image we project to the public.

Regarding preaching in devotional garb, a friend just showed me an Instagram post by a devotee influencer representing an ISKCON sustainable eco-village in Tennessee. He is dressed in our devotional garb and produces excellent, high-quality posts, many of which receive close to half a million views and hundreds of favorable comments. In that situation, it would be hard to claim that the way he dressed prevented or made communication difficult.

Ultimately, I don’t think the question is whether bhakti must remain culturally Indian or become culturally Western. The real question is whether we can distinguish the eternal principles of bhakti from the particular cultural forms through which those principles have traditionally been expressed. We shouldn’t preserve traditional forms simply because they are traditional, but neither should we discard them simply because they are unfamiliar to us. We should try to understand what these forms contribute to our devotional life and then, with thoughtful consideration, determine to what extent a tradition should be maintained as it has been received and to what extent it can legitimately be adapted according to where it is transplanted. In this way, we can honor what Śrīla Prabhupāda brought us while allowing krishna-bhakti to take genuine root wherever it is practiced.

[1] I found in Bhanu Swami’s translation of the Bhakti-rasāmṛta-sindhu at least two verses (BRS 2.1.351 and BRS 3.4.31) in which Krishna’s dress is described as dhati and translated as “dhoti.” David Haberman, a noted scholar who translated the Bhakti-rasāmṛta-sindhu, also translates it in this way. Finally, I consulted Nityananda das, one of the editors of a forthcoming Bhaktivedanta Book Trust translation of the Bhakti-rasāmṛta-sindhu. He wrote: “The word dhati literally means loincloth, but in context of those verses it can only refer to something like a dhoti. There is a great chance that the word dhoti came from dhati, as Bengalis pronounce the short ‘a’ as ‘oh.’”

Even if one objects that Krishna’s wearing of a wrapped cloth simply reflects the historical period in which the story is set, there is remarkable consistency in Krishna’s appearance through the ages as represented by devotee artists and approved by what the tradition accepts as realized souls. At the very least, those within the tradition can say with confidence that the eternal Krishna is traditionally understood to wear a dhoti.

Pradyumna was Śrīla Prabhupāda’s Sanskrit editor and was affectionately known by him as “Paṇḍitajī.” Twenty-five years ago, he needed a ride to upstate New York to meet a friend, so I was happy to oblige.

We were driving peacefully on the scenic Taconic State Parkway when, out of nowhere, he turned to me and said, “You better start saving your grains!” What?!  He then quoted a verse from the Caitanya-caritāmṛta:

eka janāra doṣe saba deśa ujāḍaya — “For the offense to one person, the entire place is laid waste.” Antya-līlā 3.164

I recognized that verse from the story of Rāmacandra Khān. He insulted Lord Nityānanda. Soon after, his whole village was destroyed by Muslim soldiers. Kṛṣṇa Dāsa then offered the cause of the pillage of the village, and with it, this caustic warning to those who offend an advanced Vaiṣṇava.

I looked at Pradyumna, still puzzled. He explained further.

Arundhatī, his wife, had heard that Bhakti Vaibhava Puri Mahārāja had been invited by the temple president of the Towaco temple to speak on Rādhāṣṭamī, which had been celebrated about two weeks before our conversation. Of all the godbrothers of Śrīla Prabhupāda, Pradyumna shared, Puri Mahārāja may have been the most supportive of Śrīla Prabhupāda’s preaching mission. Having had so much association with Śrīla Prabhupāda, Arundhatī was really missing the association of such a senior Vaiṣṇava. She had also visited Mahārāja’s ashram with Śrīla Prabhupāda and remembered his generous hospitality.[1]

When she arrived for the lecture, however, even though Mahārāja had been invited to give the lecture, some other sannyāsī was already sitting on the lecture seat. Evidently, when some leaders above the temple president found out they conspired to stop Mahārāja from speaking. She was so disappointed. After telling me this, Pradyumna again turned to me and repeated his cryptic warning.

“You better start collecting grains!”

I now understood his enigmatic message. It was his way of indicating that by the great offense to this venerable Vaiṣṇava, the metropolitan area would be destroyed and that you had better collect something to eat. I was living in New York City at the time.

I’m not sure how much he believed that literally, but he was Paṇḍitajī and the śāstra was clear. He was, however, emphasizing the seriousness of the offense against a senior Vaiṣṇava. He repeated his pramāṇa for his concern about what had transpired:

eka janāra doṣe saba deśa ujāḍaya — “For the offense to one person, the entire place is laid waste.”

Evidently, the authorities above the temple president were fearful of very senior and advanced Vaiṣṇavas speaking at their temple, so they arranged for another sannyāsī from their organization to be seated there. It’s a horrible thing to do to any invited speaker, but especially a serious offense to a very senior Vaiṣṇava.

My drive Upstate with Pradyumna was September 8, 2001. Three days later, the Twin Towers fell!

Because something comes after something doesn’t mean that it caused it. All Pradyumna was doing, however, was quoting śāstra. At the least, we can say that a person who was śāstra-vit (a knower of śāstra) was emphasizing from our sacred texts the seriousness of Vaiṣṇava aparādha.

I also had come to hear Śrīla Bhakti Vaibhava Puri speak that day and I was disappointed that he was treated this way. It just didn’t seem right. But Puri Mahārāja was a pure Vaiṣṇava and didn’t seem overly disturbed, although that doesn’t excuse the offense. He simply asked his followers — and I don’t know why — to take him to the World Trade Center.

I watched the video afterwards.[2] He did kīrtana all the way to the top and on the observation deck. Knowing what was about to happen, it was amazing to watch. On the ascent, the elevator stopped on various floors, and many of the people who were soon to perish heard the holy name.

I was also in New York on the Lower East Side when the towers fell. I could see them fall and stood on Second Avenue watching the horrible sight of throngs of people, devastated and covered in ash, marching down Second Avenue looking for shelter. I remember that at the time I couldn’t get Pradyumna’s eerie, prophetic warning out of my head:

eka janāra doṣe saba deśa ujāḍaya — “For the offense to one person, the entire place is laid waste.”

[1] This my recollection to the best of my ability of a conversion that took place exactly 25 years ago.

[2] I watched the video many years ago. I tried but couldn’t locate it again. I did find an historical documentation of the event: “One of the most memorable events of the 2001 World Tour occurred on Saturday, August 25, 2001. On that day, Srīla Puri Maharaj and over a dozen devotees visited the top floor of World Trade Center Tower 2 and conducted a short nagar-sankirtana event…” (https://wikibin.org/articles/bhakti-vaibhava-puri-goswami.html)

A friend recently shared with me an excerpt from a book he was reading on one of his favorite subjects: the realizations of the Greek Stoics. It really struck a chord.

“Listen, as the saying goes, it’s crisis time: make a last desperate effort to gain freedom and tranquility — to be a Stoic. Lift up your head, like a person finally released from slavery. Dare to face God and say, ‘From now on, use me as you like. I am of one mind with you, I am your peer.’ Whatever you decide, I will not shrink from it. You may put me where you like, in any role regardless: officer or citizen, rich man or pauper, here or overseas. They are all just so many opportunities to justify your ways to man, by showing just how little circumstances amount to.” (Epictetus, Discourses and Selected Writings, translated by Robert Dobbin, p. 116)

Could I throw my hands in the air, “dare to face God,” and say, as the best of the Stoics do, “From now on, use me as you like”?

It is one thing to say this when life serves our wishes. It is another to say it when circumstance ask something of us that we would rather not do. Could I really say, “Whatever you decide, I will do,” if what God asked of me was difficult or inconvenient?

I think this gets to the heart of why the simple process of bhakti, which has no rigid prerequisites, can be even more challenging than the path of jñāna with all its harsh austerities.

Bhakti is simple, all we have to do is sincerely serve the will of God and leave the results up to Him. Anyone, in any condition or station in life, can advance on the path of devotion.

Bhakti is difficult — even a simple act of service can suddenly seem like the most arduous task when it doesn’t conform to our desires. For those of us who are self-centered, relinquishing control and acquiescing to do something we would not have chosen for ourselves is hell.

This “Stoic” acquiescence to a higher truth is also called surrender. And surrender is the foundation of devotion.

I have written before how, in the wrong cultural context, surrender is misunderstood. It is not following a madman. It is submission to a worthy object of devotion out of affection, where the satisfaction of our beloved becomes our greatest joy because it fills our heart with devotion.

Therefore, in this context, without surrender — selflessness — we can never enter the door of bhakti or, for that matter, experience any sincere loving relationship. Our hearts can never be truly satisfied.

Therefore, as we go deeper into any path of devotion, we will inevitably encounter a barrier if we want to get deeper. At some point, an inner voice will challenge us:

“If you want the highest love, you have to fully surrender!”

The Stoics had it right.

Are we ready to meet The Krishna Challenge and boldly declare:

“From now on, use me as you like!”

“You are so optimistic that you could be falling out of the Empire State Building and, at the 50th floor, say, ‘So far, so good.’”

Suhotra Swami once told me this. He was a very dedicated and learned disciple of Śrīla Prabhupāda and a friend of mine. He was also a bit eccentric, with a great sense of humor. It may seem strange, but he once showed me a book of 101 insults and pointed out this one specifically for me.

I loved it.

Unfortunately, he passed away. But his joke has stayed with me because it captured something I recognized in myself: I am an optimist.

But I have come to see that optimism can have two very different sides.

One is psychological. It is simply a tendency to look at the bright side, to avoid dwelling on what is painful, and to believe that things will somehow work out. Like anything born of the modes of nature, this tendency has its strengths, but it also has its pitfalls.

The other kind of optimism is spiritual. It is not based on the conviction that life will become easier or that circumstances will improve. It is born of spiritual knowledge and realization. It is the optimism of faith — the conviction that God is present in everything and that His hand is working to bring us closer to Him.

I like how Śrīla Bhakti Rakṣaka Śrīdhara put it: “If you’re not an optimist, you’re an atheist.”

Shouldn’t we see God’s hand in everything, working to bring us closer to Him?

Richard Rohr, in his book Discovering the Enneagram, describes St. Francis as the patron saint of the redeemed optimists, which is personality type seven in the Enneagram.[1] Growing up, he was known for his carousing, parties, and beautiful clothes. After his conversion, he realized that joy doesn’t require the continuous promise of something more, but that the same nature of positivity can arise from presence, gratitude, relationship with God, and surrender.

An optimist can also use his tendency to look at the bright side of things by seeing the good in others, allowing him to encourage and empower them. And when that optimism is redeemed, his joie de vivre on the spiritual side can become an inspiration to others.

But I have also experienced that anything born of the modes of nature, such as one’s psychology, has its pitfalls. Optimism can have many, but I’ll focus on one because it relates most directly to spiritual life — and because having a bit of this nature is something I’ve realized I must confront in myself.

The underlying psychological drive to avoid pain, which often characterizes the optimist, can lead to a form of escapism: a tendency to avoid confronting the things within oneself and in the world that one needs to face to grow and serve.

Everything is not OK.

Of course, a leader, a teacher, must make corrections in others to help them. In fact, the first thing Krishna says to Arjuna after he becomes his student is to find his fault.

“While speaking learned words, you are a fool because you are mourning for what is not worthy of grief. Those who are wise lament neither for the living nor the dead.” Gītā 2.11

But more detrimental than not correcting others when needed is not seeing the fault in oneself.

I remember once while chanting, some mistakes I had made came up in my mind. Somehow, that day I had the clarity to see my mind desperately looking to escape my accountability by rationalization.

Fortunately, I had read something the previous day that checked my escape: the story of the wives of the brāhmaṇas.

When the yajñic brāhmaṇas realized how spiritually evolved their wives were by observing their wives’ faith in Krishna, and how foolish in contrast they were for neglecting Him, they lamented and repented.

I noted that the Sanskrit word for remorse in the word-for-word translation was tapa, which also means heat or austerity. I realized then that remorse (tapa) burns (tapa) the false ego.

Thinking like this, rather than avoiding the pain of a diminished false ego, I let acknowledgment of my fault and a sense of remorse burn the false ego.

It was so clear. Superficial joy is not always the best option.

Chanting this morning, I also noticed that if we allow chanting to cleanse the heart, we will have to see our true nature. And it is not pretty.

It’s hard to be optimistic when it is revealed how far we are from the goal.

The truth about our failings is painful. But that pain is also our first impetus for taking shelter of God and seeking His mercy.

So what, then, is there to be optimistic about?

It’s not that life will get better, nor that things will go the way we want, nor even that our circumstances will improve.

The deeper optimism is that whatever happens, God’s mercy is there. And if we are sincere, even the painful things can bring us closer to Him.

It struck an important message in the heart of this recovering optimist:

“Hope is not believing that life will go as we wish; it is believing that God’s mercy will never fail.” Author Unknown

[1] Richard Rohr didn’t specifically use the word optimist to describe Enneagram personality type seven. He described it as “the need to be happy”. But he did deem St. Francis the patron saint of personality type seven which is very much the description of an optimist.

I recently watched a podcast in which a devotee talked about ayahuasca as a legitimate means of elevating consciousness. He supported his claim by quoting the Yoga-sūtras 4.1.

My purpose here is not to invalidate a person’s experience. Honestly, I don’t know enough about shamanistic practices to comment on that.[1]

I do know, however, the Yoga-sūtras. A close analysis of the text does not support the claim that drugs (herbal or chemical) are a legitimate means of yogic attainment. Here is the verse:

“Accomplishments (siddhis) arise from birth, auṣadhi (healing herb), mantra, austerity, and samādhi.”

The important thing here is to pay close attention to what Patañjali actually says.

He is not saying that auṣadhi elevates or purifies consciousness. All that he is saying is that siddhis (extraordinary accomplishments or powers) can arise from various sources such as birth, auṣadhi, mantra, austerity and samādhi.

What are these astonishing powers? They are certainly extraordinary, involving various ways of altering consciousness, but they remain material. This becomes clearer in the ancient commentator Vyāsa’s commentary on this verse. In his discussion of preparations that produce special abilities, Vyāsa includes asuras—beings who can acquire such powers through substances.

Vyāsa clearly is making the important distinction between mystic power (siddhis) and spiritual advancement. If an extraordinary capacity can be obtained through a substance, and even an asura can possess it, then the possession of that capacity cannot by itself be evidence of spiritual realization.

This is consistent with something Patañjali says earlier in the Yoga-sūtras.

“These powers may be accomplishments for the outward-moving mind, yet they become obstacles to the stillness of samādhi.” Y.S. 3.37

In other words, siddhi, meaning perfection or power, can entice the mind outward into the realm of prakṛti for wonder and pleasure, rather than encouraging it to withdraw from prakṛti, or material nature. In this way, siddhis can become obstacles to the attainment of samādhi.

But why, then, does Patañjali introduce the fourth pāda of the Yoga-sūtras, the Kaivalya Pāda, by discussing the causes of siddhis in its first sūtra, when kaivalya literally refers to the final stage of liberation, in which the soul becomes free from the fetters of matter, especially when the first sūtra of a chapter usually indicates its theme?

To answer this, you must return to the previous chapter, the Vibhūti Pāda, which concerns extraordinary powers. There, Patañjali seeks both to inform and encourage the yogi: advanced yoga can produce siddhis that transform consciousness in extraordinary ways, but these powers should not be mistaken for the ultimate purpose of yoga, which is to withdraw the mind from external distractions and turn it inward toward liberation.[2]

Patañjali therefore begins the fourth and final chapter, on kaivalya (liberation), by returning to the subject of siddhis discussed in the previous chapter, precisely to distinguish extraordinary accomplishments from liberation. In doing so, he clears away a potential confusion: altering consciousness is not necessarily the same as liberating consciousness. Having clarified this distinction, he then turns to the subject of the final pāda and the ultimate goal of yoga: the nature of kaivalya itself.[3]

As my writing is grounded in the bhakti perspective of my own tradition, let me conclude by approaching this subject from a devotional viewpoint. Although heightened awareness and the perception of God in nature can certainly support the path of devotion, the devotee never seeks siddhis for their own sake, nor is the goal merely to attain some extraordinary state of awareness. The devotee’s single focus is a transformation of the heart—to become more humble, more compassionate, more eager to serve, and, ultimately, to awaken one’s loving relationship with God. Thus, in a manner consistent with Patañjali’s treatment of the subject, the devotee does not regard the experience of auṣadhi as an ultimate attainment.

[1] Also, there are aspects of shamanistic meditation that seem consistent with certain elements of the Gauḍīya tradition, particularly the cultivation of an awareness of God’s presence within nature. This is something I am sure many of us feel the need to cultivate more deeply. As Śrī Nārada says:

“One can reach perfection by honoring even a blade of grass—provided one sees within it the presence of the Supreme Lord…” Bṛhad-bhāgavatāmṛta 2.4.210

[2] Although Patañjali warns that any outward awareness, however wondrous, can become an obstacle to yoga, the text does not treat every awareness produced by siddhis as categorically dangerous. Indeed, 1.35 explicitly develops a meditation technique from recognizing the utility of certain siddhi-born forms of awareness as the very object (ālambana) of continued meditation.

[3] Although the profound alteration of ordinary consciousness produced by auṣadhi can be risky, it may also have an indirect spiritual effect by revealing to the user that ordinary perception does not exhaust the possibilities of experience, thereby opening the consciousness to the search for a more spiritual approach to life. For example, many older devotees have credited their experiences with LSD as impelling them to seek a mystical approach to life and ultimately leading them toward the path of bhakti.

Kaniṣṭha, Madhyam, and Uttama Eating[1]

The first and lowest stage of consciousness, which represents the karmic or selfish mind, is called anna-moya. It’s the consciousness of an animal who sees things mostly in terms of eating. Therefore, for one who is serious about elevating one’s consciousness, controlling one’s eating is a priority.

It is no wonder that one of the six main obstacles on the path of bhakti-yoga is called atyāhāra — ati – extreme, āhāra – eating. Interestingly, although atyāhāra literally means “overeating,” the term is used primarily in a generic way to indicate the excessive increase of material demands. It shows how much improper eating is a feature of lower consciousness and why dealing with eating properly is so essential in spiritual life.

I have divided eating into three levels according to its effect on consciousness. The terms kaniṣṭha (neophyte), madhyam (middling), and uttama (topmost) are generic terms used to indicate the level of one’s qualification for practicing devotion. I am using these terms here to indicate the relative levels in the ways people approach eating.

Kaniṣṭha (Restaurant Eating)

I am using the term restaurant eating to refer to eating food that was cooked to accrue profit and not cooked for one personally and lovingly. The experience of eating such food is simply sensual. As the activity of the eater is not sacrificial, but selfish, there is karmic reaction for such eating, even if one is a vegan.

“ […] Others [those who don’t offer food first for sacrifice], who prepare food for personal enjoyment, verily eat sin.” (Bhagavad-gītā 3.13)

Madhyam (Home Cooking)

I am using the term home cooking to refer to food that was cooked with love for one’s family, such as food cooked by a loving mother for her children. Taking such food is therefore not just a sensual experience, but also an emotional one, as the taste of the food is an expression of the cook’s love for the person being served. I have written about this before in terms of how much of today’s mental disease, such as depression and anxiety, is caused by a lack of affection in one’s formative years, a nurturing that was mostly communicated through the food cooked by one’s mother.[2]

It is, therefore, a sad time now in modern society. There is no culture at home of family meals. One thus mostly fends for oneself through restaurants, take-out, frozen meals, and snacking. Contrast that with high-end Bengali culture. If even two people are taking a meal together, one person will lovingly serve it.

Still, if the food is not offered in sacrifice there is a karmic reaction.

Uttama (Prasādam)

Prasādam literally means “grace.” It is the spiritual tradition in Indian eating. One’s food is lovingly cooked and offered to God and only taken in a mood of honoring Krishna’s mercy. It is thus also karma-free, because the cooking, serving, and eating is done with devotion. Nārada, the most famous Vaiṣṇava saint, describes his experience of taking prasādam from the plate of his teacher:

“Once only, by their permission, I took the remnants of their food, and by so doing all my sins were at once eradicated.” (Bhāgavatam 1.5.25)

Properly honoring prasādam is thus uttama eating, a sensual, emotional, and spiritual experience. And one can’t underestimate how important it is for one dedicated to the elevation of consciousness to be vigilant in this regard. As the famous saying goes, and how much more it is applicable to those on the path of devotion:

“Tell me what you eat and I will tell you what you are.”[3]

[1] This is substantial re-written post from January 18, 2002.

[2] https://wavesofdevotion.com/2021/06/21/the-mother-the-mind-and-food-3/

[3] In 1826, French gastronome Jean Anthelme Brillat-Savarin wrote “Dis-moi ce que tu manges, je te dirai ce que tu es.”(Tell me what you eat and I will tell you what you are.) in his book Physiologie du Goût (The Physiology of Taste).

Misconception I: You Cannot Act for Mercy

Mercy is undeserved kindness. Therefore, some conclude that we cannot do anything to receive mercy, because the moment we act for it, it is no longer undeserved. We have done something to obtain it.

But is that conclusion correct?

If bhakti is the path of grace, and we can do nothing to attract mercy, then why practice Krishna consciousness at all?

A simple analogy helps resolve this apparent contradiction.

Imagine you are caught in a violent storm, and your life is in danger. You are in an isolated area and see a lone farmhouse. Desperate for shelter, you run to the door and knock. The owner opens the door and invites you inside.

Did your knocking negate the owner’s mercy?

Of course not.

It was never your house. You had no claim to enter. You were admitted solely because the owner chose to be merciful. Your knocking did not earn you shelter. It simply expressed your need and gave the owner the opportunity to extend his kindness.

Now take the analogy one step further.

Suppose the owner is initially suspicious. Seeing a stranger at his door, he fears you may be a thief and refuses to let you in. You continue pleading, and he hears the sincerity and desperation in your voice. Moved by your earnest appeal, the owner opens the door.

Did your pleading earn you the right to enter?

No.

You still had no claim upon the house. Your word did not create his kindness or force him to help you. But your sincere appeal attracted his mercy.

The same principle applies to bhakti.

By sincerely practicing devotional service, and especially by earnestly begging for the mercy of the holy name, we are not trying to earn our relationship with Krishna. Rather, we are acknowledging that we cannot attain Krishna by our own strength. We are admitting our dependence and appealing for the mercy that only He can give.

Therefore, it is a misconception to say that we cannot act for mercy. We can never earn Krishna’s mercy through our actions, but through our sincere efforts we can place ourselves in the position to receive and attract that mercy.

Misconception II: It Is Possible to Not Get God’s Mercy No Matter What We Do

If God were obligated to show us mercy because of something we did, it would no longer be mercy, but something deserved. It would then seem reasonable to conclude that it is possible never to receive God’s mercy, no matter what we do. But in coming to that conclusion, we overlook a very simple point.

If mercy is intrinsic to God’s nature, and God is infinite, then His mercy must also be infinite. If His mercy could ever be exhausted or withheld from even one soul, it would no longer be infinite.

In other words, mercy is not something external that God occasionally dispenses. It is an intrinsic aspect of His very nature. Since nothing exists outside of Him, there is no one beyond the reach of His mercy. His mercy is therefore unlimited, ever-present, and available to everyone — not because He is obligated by some external force, but because it is His very nature to be merciful.

It is therefore not possible for any soul to be bereft of God’s mercy.

One way to understand this is by considering the law of karma. Everyone is subject to karma, yet karma is ultimately meant to purify the soul and bring it back to God. Even the reactions to our actions are expressions of His mercy.

But God does even more. He repeatedly descends as avatāras, reveals scripture, sends His devotees, and manifests His holy name. It is therefore difficult to argue that any soul is ever without His mercy. The real issue is not whether mercy is available, but whether the soul recognizes it and accepts it.

Therefore, if we feel we are not receiving God’s mercy, the problem is not that mercy is absent. Rather, either out of ignorance or even humility, we are failing to recognize the mercy that is already present.

A famous poet sums it up nicely:

The quality of mercy is not strained;
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath… It is twice blest;
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes. …
It is an attribute to God himself.

(Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice, 4.1)

I like this definition of culture: those qualities of a society that make a favorable impression on the mind to enable people to relate, communicate, and learn effectively. A person who embodies these qualities is cultured.

I think of Śrīla Prabhupāda as a cultured person. One story comes to mind:

In 1979, ISKCON Vrindavan asked me to visit Śrīla Nārāyaṇa Mahārāja and invite him to Śrīla Prabhupāda’s disappearance festival. Somehow the conversation turned to what he should focus on in his talk. Since Śrīla Prabhupāda had lived in his temple for a time and knew him closely, I suggested he look back and describe what he had seen in Śrīla Prabhupāda at that time that hinted at what he would become. He mentioned several things, but one that he said stood out:

“His ability to relate with others. When an elderly person entered the room, Śrīla Prabhupāda became very respectful. With friends he was collegial, and with a child he was affectionate.”

Anyone who knew Śrīla Prabhupāda and observed his dealings can attest that he knew perfectly how to relate with everyone according regardless of their station in life. It was truly astounding how effectively he communicated with a younger generation from a completely foreign culture when he came to the West at age seventy — at a time when even the elders of their own country couldn’t bridge that gap. And if you go back to time from when he met his guru, he was the perfect student, the perfect disciple.

In other words, he knew how to relate, communicate, and learn — perfectly.

A proper culture creates an environment for us to grow. To grow in bhakti, we need to know how to relate to others, communicate with them, and learn from them.

Mahatma Gandhi was once asked what he thought of Western civilization. His answer was cute. “It would be nice if they had one.” Of course, proper culture is universal, found in the traditions of most societies. India is no longer the world’s exemplar in this regard, but in pockets of India — and certainly in its past — a highly developed culture existed. That is beautifully exemplified in the Śrī Caitanya-caritāmṛta.

Many years ago, while studying that great work, it dawned on me that the life and teachings of Śrī Caitanya offer a comprehensive outline of the most important aspect of culture: the etiquette and behavior of devotees of God. I started writing those lessons down but never seriously compiled them into a book — until now. I hope to finish it within a few months. We, as Vaiṣṇavas, need to know how to relate, communicate, and learn. We need to be cultured. I think a book like this could be a useful tool for all of us.

Let’s end this post with the chapter I finished this week. It’s a work in progress, so I welcome your feedback. Here it is.

A Guide to Vaiṣṇava Etiquette and Behavior

Lessons from the Śrī Caitanya-caritāmṛta — Antya-līlā, Chapter 1

1. Vaiṣṇavas overcome the obstacles to their devotional service by acknowledging personal shortcomings and praying for the mercy of saintly devotees.

Near the end of his life, Śrīla Kṛṣṇadāsa Kavirāja acknowledges his frailty. Before entering the confidential subject of Śrī Caitanya Mahāprabhu’s Antya-līlā, he begs the saintly devotees for the mercy to finish the arduous task of completing the Caitanya-caritāmṛta.

“My path is very difficult. I am blind, and my feet are slipping again and again. Therefore, may the saints help me by granting me the stick of their mercy as my support.” — Antya-līlā 1.2

“I pray to the lotus feet of the six Gosvāmīs — Śrī Rūpa, Sanātana, Bhaṭṭa Raghunātha, Śrī Jīva, Gopāla Bhaṭṭa, and Dāsa Raghunātha — so that all impediments to my writing this literature will be annihilated and my real desire will be fulfilled.” — Antya-līlā 1.3–4

The obstacles in life often look insurmountable. Kṛṣṇadāsa Kavirāja shows us the proper response: turn to the Vaiṣṇavas and pray for their mercy.

2. Especially as Vaiṣṇavas grows older, they should feel urgency to complete their legacy.

Having finished the Ādi-līlā, Kṛṣṇadāsa Kavirāja feared he might not live to complete the Caitanya-caritāmṛta. So he first summarized the remaining pastimes in the opening chapter of the Madhya-līlā, then elaborated on them until the Madhya-līlā was complete. Before beginning to elaborate on the Antya-līlā, the same doubt returned.

“I am now almost an invalid because of old age, and I know that at any moment I may die. Therefore I have already described some portions of the Antya-līlā.” — Antya-līlā 1.11

“In accordance with the synopsis previously written, I shall describe in detail whatever I have not mentioned.” — Antya-līlā 1.12

Few of us will leave a legacy like Kṛṣṇadāsa Kavirāja’s, but we can embrace his urgency: finish what devotional service requires of us before death makes the choice for us.

3. Vaiṣṇavas are large-hearted, giving shelter freely to others.

Śivānanda Sena managed every detail of the Bengali Vaiṣṇavas’ long journey to Puri to join Śrī Caitanya Mahāprabhu. He even gave shelter to a stray dog that joined the group.

“While going to Jagannātha Purī, Śivānanda Sena allowed a dog to go with him. He supplied it with food to eat and maintained it.” — Antya-līlā 1.17

4. Vaiṣṇavas take full responsibility for whatever mistakes fall under their authority.

When his assistant forgets to feed the dog, and the dog went missing and couldn’t be found, he fasted in response.

“When the men returned without success, Śivānanda Sena became very unhappy and fasted for the night.” — Antya-līlā 1.23

Everyone, at some point, is responsible for others. Authority can be delegated; responsibility cannot.

5. Vaiṣṇavas are careful not to offend any living being and feel genuine remorse when they do.

When the missing dog was found, Śivānanda Sena’s response revealed his humility.

“When he saw the dog sitting in that way and chanting the name of Kṛṣṇa, Śivānanda, because of his natural humility, immediately offered his obeisances to the dog just to counteract his offenses to it.” — Antya-līlā 1.31

6. Vaiṣṇavas should give priority to seeking the association of, and serving, advanced devotees.

The fruit of Śivānanda Sena’s kindness to the stray dog became clear the following day.

“The next day, no one saw that dog, for it had obtained its spiritual body and departed for Vaikuṇṭha, the spiritual kingdom.” — Antya-līlā 1.32

“This is the result of sādhu-saṅga — consequent association with Śrī Caitanya Mahāprabhu and promotion back home, back to Godhead. This result is possible even for a dog, by the mercy of the Vaiṣṇava. Therefore, everyone in the human form of life should be induced to associate with devotees. By rendering a little service, even by eating prasādam, what to speak of chanting and dancing, everyone can be promoted to Vaikuṇṭhaloka.” — Antya-līlā 1.32, purport

7. When Vaiṣṇavas meet, especially after a long separation, they sit together and discuss topics of Krishna.

On arriving in Jagannātha Purī, Śrī Caitanya Mahāprabhu meets Haridāsa and Rūpa Gosvāmī at Haridāsa’s hut.

“Śrī Caitanya Mahāprabhu then sat down with Haridāsa and Rūpa Gosvāmī. They inquired from one another about auspicious news [kuśala-praśna] and continued to talk together [iṣṭa-goṣṭhī] for some time.” — Antya-līlā 1.49

Left to our own habits, reunions with those close to us tend to slide into idle talk.

Vaiṣṇavas set the standard higher.

8. Vaiṣṇavas honor the Lord’s prasādam with great respect.

When Śrī Rūpa Gosvāmī and Haridāsa Ṭhākura received the Lord’s prasādam, they were more than grateful.

“When they [Śrī Rūpa and Haridāsa Ṭhākura] received the remnants of Śrī Caitanya Mahāprabhu’s prasādam through Govinda, they respected it, and then they both began to dance in ecstasy.” — Antya-līlā 1.64

Honoring prasādam with fellow devotees can be a relaxed, casual form of association — but that ease can also cost us the full experience of honoring the Lord’s remnants. As far as possible, either hear kṛṣṇa-kathā while taking prasādam or take it in silence, to keep the mood meditative.

9. The spiritual master sometimes tests the disciples to strengthen their resolve.

On the way to visit Śrīla Rūpa Gosvāmī, Śrī Caitanya Mahāprabhu praised him extravagantly in front of his most confidential devotees to observe how they would react.

“Just to examine Sārvabhauma Bhaṭṭācārya and Rāmānanda Rāya, the Lord began to praise the transcendental qualities of Śrī Rūpa Gosvāmī before them.” — Antya-līlā 1.106

10. The Lord is liberal with His devotees, and devotees should follow His example.

Śrīla Kṛṣṇadāsa Kavirāja describes the Lord’s gentle, forgiving nature toward His servants.

“The Supreme Personality of Godhead, who is known as Puruṣottama, the greatest of all persons, has a pure mind. He is so gentle that even if His servant is implicated in a great offense, He does not take it very seriously. Indeed, if His servant renders some small service, the Lord accepts it as being very great. Even if an envious person blasphemes the Lord, the Lord never manifests anger against him. Such are His great qualities.” — Antya-līlā 1.108

It is pure hypocrisy to demand strict justice for others while begging mercy for oneself. We should deliberately cultivate the same liberal mood toward fellow devotees that the Lord shows us.

11. Vaiṣṇavas are reluctant to sit at the same level as their seniors unless expressly asked to.

When Rūpa Gosvāmī and Haridāsa Ṭhākura were invited to sit level with Śrī Caitanya Mahāprabhu and His associates, they declined.

“Rūpa Gosvāmī and Haridāsa Ṭhākura sat at the foot of the elevated place where Śrī Caitanya Mahāprabhu was sitting. Although everyone asked them to sit on the same level as the Lord and His associates, they did not do so.” — Antya-līlā 1.111

12. Vaiṣṇavas shrink from personal praise.

Deeply moved by Śrīla Rūpa Gosvāmī’s poetry, Śrī Caitanya Mahāprabhu asked him to read it aloud to the assembled devotees. His response reveals how a genuine devotee meets praise.

“When Śrī Caitanya Mahāprabhu ordered Rūpa Gosvāmī to read the verse they had previously heard, Rūpa Gosvāmī, because of great shyness, did not read it but instead remained silent.” — Antya-līlā 1.112

The material impulse is to place ourselves at the center, to enjoy and control — hence our hunger for praise and validation, which inflate our standing. Devotion runs the opposite direction: we place God at the center and serve Him.

13. Vaiṣṇavas are patient and work steadily towards their goals.

The Six Gosvāmīs left behind an immense literary legacy — even their works of philosophy took the form of verse. None of it came quickly. Śrīla Bhaktisiddhānta Sarasvatī Ṭhākura notes just how long Śrīla Rūpa Gosvāmī’s dramas took to complete.

“Śrīla Bhaktisiddhānta Sarasvatī Ṭhākura informs us in this connection that Śrīla Rūpa Gosvāmī finished the drama known as Vidagdha-mādhava in the year Śakābda 1454 (A.D. 1532) and the Lalitā-mādhava in Śakābda 1459 (A.D. 1537). The discussion between Rāmānanda Rāya and Śrīla Rūpa Gosvāmī at Jagannātha Purī took place in Śakābda 1437 (A.D. 1515).” — Antya-līlā 1.126, Purport

That discussion concerned the introductory verse of the Vidagdha-mādhava. If the verse already existed in 1515, and the finished work appeared only in 1532, the drama took at least seventeen painstaking years to complete. Our own devotional tasks often feel overwhelming. The lesson is the same: work at them patiently, but without stopping.

Today’s question:

If one’s essential nature is fixed, isn’t it unfair that some souls — those whose intrinsic nature resembles the gopīs of Vrindavan — are destined for a higher, more pleasurable eternal existence than others? If so, doesn’t that make God partial, or incapable (or unwilling) of giving everyone unsurpassed fulfillment in their own eternal relationship with Śrī Krishna?

The Bṛhad-bhāgavatāmṛta provides an answer. It is found when Nārada enlightens Gopa-kumāra about Vaikuṇṭha and explains that every rasa with Krishna is unique, with each soul “experiencing uninterrupted, unceasing bliss, newer and newer at every moment.” (Bṛhad-bhāgavatāmṛta 2.4.148)

In other words, each soul, in whatever relationship the soul has with Krishna, can attain infinite bliss. Therefore, to say that one relationship with Krishna involves more bliss than another would be making the untenable claim that something that is infinite is greater than another thing that is infinite. In that sense, all relationships with Krishna are equal

Yet Gauḍīya texts deem the love of the gopīs supreme, even greater than what the goddess Lakṣmī can attain. That’s true, for how can Krishna be truly deemed the Supreme Enjoyer unless He is the embodiment of all flavors of devotion with their different levels of intimacy?

But then how to reconcile this hierarchy of tastes, which appears to be limiting the extension of Krishna’s mercy to all souls?

I think Śrī Nārada’s statement at the beginning of this post already helped reconcile these two apparently opposing conceptions. He adds more in later texts. He explains not only do all perfect devotees feel ever-expanding bliss in their rasa with Krishna, but that their respective experiences of bliss are so overwhelming that they each believe their bliss is greater than that of others. He then comes to a beautiful resolution, “This creates a hierarchy of tastes, but within it a simultaneous equality.” (Bṛhad-bhāgavatāmṛta 2.4.154)

In other words, whatever relationship a pure soul has with Krishna, that soul feels no itch for what might be “missed” — the soul’s fulfillment is measured only within each soul’s relational category, not on some shared external scale ranking the rasas.

Let me finish this Philosopher’s Corner by shedding light on the inquiry into how a hierarchy can manifest while simultaneously containing equality, by the pramāṇa (evidence) of upamāna (analogy). I will give two analogies:

Analogy one

An outsider might rank groups of people with assorted passions across different fields — those healing the sick, composing great music, crafting fine furniture, or raising a beautiful family. But each, regardless of status, nonetheless experiences complete fulfillment doing exactly what feels most deeply natural. They are all simply manifesting what they “are.”

Similarly, although a hierarchy of rasas may exist externally, in each relationship with Krishna the soul experiences that same complete fulfillment — doing exactly what it most deeply is.

Analogy two

A mother’s love for her child isn’t an inferior, smaller version of a lover’s love — it’s a different completeness, total on its own terms. So too every rasa with Krishna is complete and perfect on its own terms, each an unlimited expression of His hlādinī-śakti.

So is it unfair that certain souls are destined for a higher, more pleasurable eternal existence? The Philosopher’s Corner will end with one final, concise statement from Śrī Nārada on the destination of these different relationships with Krishna. His answer: yes, it is unfair. “For each attained the perfection of their faith.” (Bṛhad-bhāgavatāmṛta 2.4.150)

Sometimes we see very senior Vaiṣṇavas — devotees who go back to the roots of ISKCON, with decades of steady service, and sādhana — still struggling in various ways in their twilight years of Krishna consciousness. They sometimes even question their taste for the holy name, or struggle, and temporarily fall. The doubt then naturally arises: “If even such long-standing practitioners have these problems, does the process of bhakti-yoga even work?” This post is dedicated to answering that question.

First, I think it’s worth putting Śrīla Prabhupāda’s līlā in a cosmic perspective.

Sri Caitanya appears once in a day of Lord Brahma, which lasts 8.64 billion years. In terms of Brahma’s time that would be 11:29 AM. Śrīla Prabhupāda then appears less than a second later. And mystically, in that same miniscule cosmic sliver—a few milliseconds later, also within 11:29 AM — a few souls appear to assist Śrīla Prabhupāda

The universe is filled with unlimited conditioned souls, many of them spiritually evolved. So, who were these souls, chosen for Śrīla Prabhupāda’s intimate sanga and service? Was their destiny not uniquely fortunate? Was there not some goodness in them that drew this special honor?

Their destiny was indeed unique. They also serve Śrīla Prabhupāda’s līlā as being the savior of the most fallen — and with their “hippie saṁskāras,” they were certainly eligible to be objects of his mercy.

Whatever drew them, these devotees did something remarkable. They gave themselves to Śrīla Prabhupāda’s mission and served him with their life and soul. They gave their youth, their bodies, their minds, and often sacrificed their very natures to serve at the pleasure of Śrīla Prabhupāda. As a result, now, in old age, for many of them practically little remains but Śrīla Prabhupāda. Weakened by age and carrying saṁskāras from time immemorial, is it any wonder that traces of their “Lower East Side karma” still surfaced?

I know some who cannot sit or walk comfortably to chant, others who can only rise from bed for a few hours a day, and even some whose minds have lost memory or function due to the life they gave so fully in service. Some may swim in rāga-mārga; many struggle just to chant. But what they all share is something special in their hearts: through their sacrifice and service, they earned Śrīla Prabhupāda’s trust. His mercy will never leave them.

I sometimes think of Brahmananda. Śrīla Prabhupāda was hospitalized, and the staff intended a radical treatment he didn’t want. Seeing his critical condition and hearing his pleas to leave, Brahmananda and Gargamuni wheeled him out of the hospital, past the nurses, and brought him to a seaside house in Long Branch, New Jersey, to recover. Śrīla Prabhupāda promised him, “Because you saved me from the hospital, you won’t have to die that way.”

And sure enough — when an ambulance arrived to rush Brahmananda to a modern hospital in Delhi, his body suddenly went limp, and he died. Despite being perhaps a struggling sādhaka, he received the end-of-life dream of the great souls: to leave this world in the holy dhama.

His brother, Gargamuni, reflected on the beautiful spiritual twist to the event: “He saved Śrīla Prabhupāda from the hospital, and Śrīla Prabhupāda saved him.”

Back to our question: “If even such long-standing practitioners have these problems, does the process of bhakti-yoga even work?” Yes. A soul’s biography is, in many ways, shaped by the guru. Śrīla Prabhupāda’s trusted servants are thus being directly guided by him, even when some may be plagued by the old saṁskāras that keep them from being what a classical textbook sādhakas looks like after a life of devotion. Thus, whatever obstacles have come their way have only increased their longing for Krishna and filled their heart with devotion.

In many ways our love for Guru in this world is our love for Krishna. So, like Brahmananda — by giving their youth to Śrīla Prabhupāda, and by keeping him deeply in their hearts, isn’t their destination already secured?