The Birth of Krishna Consciousness in America 1966 - 1969 by Hayagriva Das
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The Birth of Krishna Consciousness in America 1966 - 1969 By Hayagriva das tad viddhi pranipatena pariprashnena sevaya upadekshyanti te jnanam jnaninas tattva-darshinah Just try to learn the truth by approaching a spiritual master. Inquire from him submissively and render service unto him. The self-realized soul can impart knowledge unto you because he has seen the truth. ( Bhagavad-gita ) Note The first draft of The Hare Krishna Explosion was written in July, 1969, just after Srila Prabhupada's first visit to New Vrindaban. At that time, I realized that the details of the beginnings of the Krishna Consciousness Movement had best be recorded while events were still fresh. Working from notebooks, diaries and memory, I compiled the first draft within a month. Then the manuscript remained packed away, until Srila Prabhupada left this mortal world in November, 1977. During those interim years, both the manuscript and my mind had accumulated some dust, but convinced of the value of anything dealing with Srila Prabhupada, I began again, and completed the second draft in 1979. For the next five years, as the Hare Krishna Movement continued to expand, I kept polishing and expanding the manuscript. Clearly, the Hare Krishna explosion was not about to fizzle. "Just as Krishna is always expanding," Srila Prabhupada had said, "anything related to Krishna is also expanding." In 1966, unknown to us, Prabhupada had truly launched a dynamic world religion. Now, on the eve of the Twentieth Anniversary of Prabhupada's International Society for Krishna Consciousness, and the Five Hundredth Anniversary of the appearance of Sri Krishna Chaitanya Mahaprabhu, The Hare Krishna Explosion —by the grace of Sri Sri Guru and Gauranga—is finally ready. In this endeavor, the Palace Press staff at New Vrindaban has been of inestimable help: Sriman Sundarakara dasa, production manager; Srimati Ragamathani dasi, composing; and Srimati Tulasi-devi dasi, layout. Without their selfless assistance, the dust would still be accumulating. Hayagriva Dasa Shila Ropananam Ceremony Radha Vrinadban Chandra's Great Temple of Understanding New Vrindaban May 31, 1985 Preface Although at first we called him "Swamiji," we eventually changed to the more respectful "Prabhupada," a Sanskrit word meaning "one who takes shelter at the lotus feet of Krishna." "This is the proper form of addressing the spiritual master," he humbly suggested one day. Somehow the strange word rang true, and from then on it was always "Prabhupada," a word that conjured for us the omnipotent Lord Sri Krishna Himself. "Guru and Krishna are like two rails of the same track," he said, "always side by side. By the grace of Krishna, you get guru . And by the grace of guru , you get Krishna." Who was this great master called Srila Prabhupada, and what was he like? To answer this is to answer the question Arjuna asked Lord Krishna millenia ago: sthita-prajnasya ka bhasa samadhi-sthasya kesava sthita-dhih kim prabhaseta kim asita vrajeta kim "What are the symptoms of one whose consciousness is merged in Transcendence? How does he speak, and what is his language? How does he sit, and how does he walk?" Prabhupada's real identity defied analysis. I was surprised to learn that he had once been a pharmacist with a wife and children. Because worldy motives and passion never touched him, it was difficult to imagine him as a householder, as anything but the saffron-clad spiritual master, the paramhansa floating over the world like a swan over water. "If you are drowning in the middle of the ocean," he said, "and someone throws you a rope, you do not stop to enquire, 'Oh dear sir, why are you throwing me this rope? What is your name? What country are you from? Why are you here?' No. The drowning man grabs the rope for dear life." Since we were all drowning, few of us asked those questions. We grabbed the rope any way we could, assured of some ultimate victory in Vikuntha, a faraway spiritual universe. In the closing words of Bhagavad-gita : yatra yogeshvarah krishno yatra partho dhanur-dharah tatra srir vijayo bhutir dhruva nitir matir mama "And wherever there is Krishna, the master of all mystics, and whever there is Arjuna, the supreme archer, there will also certainly be opulence, victory, extraordinary power and morality." And wherever there is Srila Prabhupada, there will certainly be Lord Krishna. CONTENTS Note Preface Part I: New York, 1966 • Visitor from Calcutta • Transcendental Invitations • Who Is Crazy? • Second Avenue Fire Sacrifice • The Hare Krishna Explosion • Back to Godhead Part II: San Francisco, 1967 • Swami in Hippieland • Flowers for Lord Jagannatha • Mad After Krishna • Soul Struck • San Francisco Rathayatra • Passage to India Part III: New Vrindaban, 1968-1969 • Enter, Srila Prabhupada • New Vrindaban, West Virginia • Seven Temples on Seven Hills • Krishna, The Flower-bearing Spring • The Guru and The Poet • Paramhansa in the Hills Chapter 1 Visitor From Calcutta I first see him just after crossing the Bowery at Houston Street. As he passes before the iron-mesh fence of a playground, I distinctly glimpse the aura of saintliness. I watch him through the rushing traffic and stumbling derelicts. He strolls almost jauntily down the sidewalk. He is an old man whom age has never touched. Aloof from the people and bustle about him, he walks proudly, independently, his hand in a cloth beadbag. He wears the saffron robes of a sannyasi, and on his feet are quaint, pointed white shoes. Only seven months ago, I had seen many saffron-robed monks and holymen walking the dirt roads of Hardwar and Rishikesh, and stopping beside the Ganges to bathe. For me, that had been a futile journey to the mystic East in search of the all-knowing guru . But now—what's this? I look again at the pointed white shoes. Did this man follow me all the way from North India? Or did he just suddenly descend from the clouds onto Manhattan sidewalks? I decide I must speak to him. As I start across the steet, trucks rumbling toward Holland Tunnel block him from my view. I look again to make sure that he's still there. Yes, he even appears to be aware of me. He has all the bearing of a great actor in a famous movie. I can't think of what to say, but I approach him anyway. We both stop at once. His sudden smile is moonlight in the gray July smog. "Are you from India?" I ask stupidly. "Oh yes," he says, his eyes bright and expressive. Crosstown buses roar past, billowing exhaust like clouds of incense. I sense that his tranquility is fixed in something far beyond the traffic roar. "And you?" he asks. "I'm American," I say, "but I just got back from Calcutta." "Accha! Calcutta!" Another smile. "I am coming from Calcutta. And you were liking India?" "Yes, well, it's… very different." "And Vrindaban? You have been to Vrindaban?" "No," I say. "Where's that?" "Near Mathura," he says. "I'm afraid not," I say, not knowing either place. "I got sick and had to leave." A poor excuse, but I can think of nothing else. His large brown eyes sparkle. How old is he? His head is shaved, save for a few white hairs in back, and his complexion, golden Bengali, seems radiant against saffron robes. His presence evokes quiet ashrams nestled near the Himalayas, cows, bells, temples, and holy rivers. "But I like India," I add. "I'm interested in Hindu philosophy. Someday I'll go back." "You are living near here?" he asks. "Two blocks down." I point across Bowery. "Over on Mott Street." "Then we are neighbors," he says. "I want to give some classes on Bhagavad-gita . I have this one place. I wonder if it is suitable. Maybe you can come and see?" "Of course," I say, and we turn and walk the half block to Second Avenue. We stop before a small storefront between First and Second Streets, next door to a Mobil filling station, and across the street from the Red Star Bar and Gonzalez Funeral Home. Occupying half the ground floor of a four-story apartment building, the storefront had evidently served as a curio shop, for the words "Matchless Gifts" were painted over the front door. Matchless Gifts. I notice an announcement in the window: "Lectures on Bhagavad-gita . Monday, Wednesday, Friday 7-9 p.m. A.C. Bhaktivedanta Swami." So, he's a swami ! "This is a good area?" he asks. "Oh yes," I say. "It surely is." Suddenly I feel sorry for the grandfatherly gentleman so far from home, so helpless in such an alien metropolis. "I would like to hear your lectures," I say. "Then you must come," he says. Another moonlight smile. "I have friends, too," I add, "who might be interested." "Yes. Very good. You must bring them." "I will," I promise. "Monday evening." When I return to my dark, cockroach-ridden apartment on Mott Street, I tell everyone about the new swami . We are all in our twenties—Keith, Wally, George, Wayne, Patricia, Harvey, and I. Keith and Wally are the most interested. Keith Ham, a friend from undergraduate days, is working at Columbia University on his doctorate in American religious history. Wally Sheffey, a recording engineer from Chicago, is a student of Buddhism. In the course of a Mott Street evening, a conversation might revolve around ego-loss, death, Buddha, peyote, LSD, St. John, reincarnation, Bach, astral travel, Plato, and Lao Tzu. So the arrival of a new swami sparks immediate interest. "Where's he from?" "Calcutta." "Maybe he followed us back," Keith suggests.