Once in a while I peek over to see the wedge-shaped top of his head, large in back and tapering forward like the prow of this 747 knifing through space—his short gray sikha in a little curl—looking to see if he might need anything, and my heart goes weak with affection. I’m not exactly his pal, but a close companion in a way, and about as unlikely a match as can be conceived of…I was often smiling, laughing, or trying to suppress a laugh while Prabhupada spoke in a most somber way, as if I could see the humor in truth being forced by a father down the throats of recalcitrant children. I’m happy beyond description.