Oh, please forgive me, Prabhupada, if sometimes I sailed into your room unbowed or jokingly said your tilak’s a mess or laughed when you tried to be serious. If sometimes my deep-seated veneration was overshadowed by a burst of impulsive candor when you asked, “What do you think, Shyamasundar?” I always tried to remember that familiarity breeds contempt and that I am nothing compared to your magnificence, but you loved laughter and adventure, same as me, and you had a mission, you loved to risk, and we fell into step, side by side.