I savored the perfect somnambulant summer afternoons when Prabhupada sat on his saffron shawl on the vast lawn in front of the Manor, chanting japa as Srutakirti softly read to him from Caitanya-caritamrita. Sometimes I sat with them, quiet, listening to the ancient words, humming bees, faint quack and rustle of ducks on the lake, rattle of grass being mowed beyond the hedges. Men worked bare-shouldered in gardens around us, and across the lawns you could see splashes of bright saris as girls giggled and picked roses for garlands. Prabhupada has named this place New Gokula.