Prabhupad!

On the train back to Bombay that night, I have a chance to weigh all that has happened: We had traveled together to twenty different cities in the past six months, on four continents, camped beneath a couple dozen different roofs. Keep me talking, he said, and I had tried to keep him talking–not just the boring stuff, but always something exciting, new and unexpected topics, like, “What is virtue, Srila Prabhupad, what is salvation? What is it like on the moon?” I’ve recorded hundreds of hours of Prabhupad talking, for posterity. His little bell tinkling, even in sleep, has become my wake-up call to happiness, transcending all other previous meanings of happiness. I cannot see enough of Prabhupad: the physical beauty of his face—especially his face—captures my eyes from morning till night, and I feast on his endless allure. He trusts me, he depends on me—how can I possibly deserve such mercy? He is in my care, I thought, forcing me to rise beyond all other considerations. I’m his audience, his Ed MacMahon, he seems to be energized by my laugh; he tries things out, floats ideas, I’m a sounding-board, his straight man, “What do you think, Shyamasundar?” He catches my glance from across the stage, raises an eyebrow, like, “How am I doing?” His smile, his laugh—especially his laugh—are all that I live for…