The full-length French doors are open, and perfume from fresh-mown lawns mingles with some special agarbatti George has found and wants me to try. For a long time we don’t speak, just gaze out at gentle summer rain falling on layers and layers of green—the yellow green of willows, the blue-green of spruce trees, and every shade of emerald. As dusk falls, I describe the past two years traveling with Prabhupada, how amazing he is, what a special blessing it is to be Prabhupada’s secretary. In the semi-dark George’s eyes gleam with

understanding as he hears the story of Prabhupada’s beauty and love and superhuman prowess. George discloses his heart: “Hmm, you know, I’m ready to go: ‘Any time, Krishna, just take me away!’ I’ll gladly go.” “No more material fantasies, George?” “Well, maybe a few . . . But I gotta lot of work to do, trying to get a message through.” “Prabhupada really wants to see you. When are you going to come into London to see him?” “Maybe you can bring him out here? I’d love to show him all this.”