Prabhupada looks so good! You can’t take your eyes off him—he’s shirtless and glistening from his morning massage, fresh clay tilak daubed on his arms, chest, and belly, leaning back, his head resting on a pillow and his feet thrust out, ankles crossed, toes pink and scrubbed. Gone was the tension, the overquick response to stimuli. His once-darting eyes are half-closed now, still, content, the rested guru. A buzz of pleasure crawls over my neck and shoulders.