In Vrindaban, Srila Prabhupada is more relaxed and intimate than I have ever seen him: greeting and preaching (maybe bragging a bit) to old friends in his quarters or on the street, during meals and massages — yak, yak, yak in the pleasant winter sun. He is so elegant, graceful, friendly, carefree, wise, practical, and self-confident during this exhibition to his extended family in Vrindaban. What a contrast to Delhi, where he was the politician-king. Here, he is the old friend, the favorite uncle, the patriarch, the worshipable village elder. We have never seen this side of him, but we quickly understand it: Vrindaban dwellers are grounded in magic, they are accustomed to the miraculous, and they see Prabhupada and his disciples as the recurrence of an ancient sacred pastime…We chant and dance down Vrindaban’s ancient streets, barely wide enough for a bicycle rickshaw — ching ching! — as we step aside to avoid open sewers. Krishna’s name is echoed by the time-darkened walls. Haribol! shout the shopkeepers and pilgrims we meet. We see majestic temples packed between brick-and-stucco homes, walled compounds, arcades and verandas, pavilions and alcoves. Iron bars or carved stone screens protect windows from marauding, pink-faced macaque monkeys. A maze of plumbing runs down the sides of buildings and tangles of wire top every utility pole, where electricity pirates grab their volts. (One power company worker tells us that only about 60 percent of electricity in Vrindaban is actually paid for.) Everything seems run-down, deteriorated. Parts of town look almost abandoned. But from this day forward, Srila Prabhupada and his pack of angels begin to breathe new life into the holy precincts of Vrindaban.