For those who worship me with devotion
I carry what they lack and preserve what they have.
—SRI KRISHNA IN THE BHAGAVAD GITA, 9.22
LONDON, 1969
The three devotee couples who had opened the San Francisco temple—Mukunda and Janaki, Yamuna and Gurudas, Shyamsundar and Malati—went to London with big plans, and there wasn’t anything bigger in 1968 than the Beatles. Wouldn’t it be grand, they agreed, if the Fab Four took to Krishna consciousness? And why not? The Beatles had already visited Maharishi’s ashram in India, and George Harrison was experimenting with sitars and yoga. Reaching them with Prabhupada’s message was at least worth a try.
GEORGE HARRISON was born in Liverpool in 1943. He began playing guitar at age twelve, and by the time he was seventeen, he was a Beatle, one of four musicians who permanently changed the landscape of popular music history. By the time he was twenty-five and committed to spiritual pursuits, Harrison was to pop music what Picasso was to art or Thomas Edison to science: an astounding talent, an important example of what an innovative mind could bring to his craft. A generation raised in the turmoil of war and hungering for a more enlightened way to live appreciated not only his music but his thinking. What he did—both as a Beatle and as an independent singer-songwriter after the group’s dissolution—got people excited.
Shyamasundar attended a Christmas reception at Apple Studios dressed in dhoti and tilak, which drew strange looks from the crowd. The Beatles were in an adjoining room holding a press conference about their upcoming Abbey Road album. John peeked out from the press room, scanned the crowd assembled for the reception, and made a quick exit out of the building. Ringo peeked out and did the same, followed by Paul. George peeked out, looked around the room, and spied the shaven-headed Shyamsundar. George had seen a photo of him with the other devotees in a Times of London article titled “Krishna Chant Startles London.” The article reported on the devotees’ arrival in England and their plans for opening a temple. George walked over and said, “Where have you been? I’ve been waiting to meet you.”
And so began a friendship that led to an invitation for Shyamsundar to live with George at his manor home and an invitation for devotees to record the Hare Krishna mantra on the Apple Records label. “I can see it now,” Harrison told them. “The first Sanskrit tune in the top ten.”
In April 1969, the devotees arrived at Abbey Road Studios. Guards escorted them into a large, soundproof room filled with equipment. Paul and Linda McCartney waved from behind a glass control booth. Mukunda, who had been a jazz pianist before joining Krishna consciousness, took his place behind a grand piano, and George worked with him on a melody line. Technicians positioned microphones around the room. One take, two takes—then on the third try the maha-mantra flowed: “Hare Krishna, Hare Krishna . . .” Yamuna’s strong voice led the chorus, commanding and pure, slightly nasal as Indian singing often tended to be. The music swelled, gained momentum, and spiraled for three-and-a-half minutes of pure transcendental sound, until—Bonnng! Malati hit a gong and brought the show to a spontaneous, rousing end. George and Paul went back to finishing work on the Abbey Road album, while the devotees crowded into their tiny van and drove off wondering what would become of the Hare Krishna mantra set to a rock drum beat and electric guitars.
In August 1969, “Hare Krishna Mantra” was released and received favorable reviews in the British papers and constant airplay on U.K. radio. On the first day of its release, the record sold 70,000 copies and entered the charts at number 20. Within two weeks, it rose to the number twelve spot, selling 20,000 copies a week in London alone. England’s most popular television show, Top of the Pops, twice broadcast devotees chanting Hare Krishna surrounded by go-go dancers and swirling clouds of dry-ice mist. George watched the nationally televised show with glee. It was, he later remarked, “one of the greatest thrills in my life.”
THE APPLE STUDIOS RECORDING of the “Hare Krishna Mantra” track climbed the charts in Holland, France, Germany, Czechoslovakia, Sweden, Australia, South Africa, and Japan. Devotees found themselves signing autographs and posing for photos wherever they went. George had his staff book the London devotees at outdoor rock concerts, on television shows, and in nightclubs across Europe. They traveled, sang with Joe Cocker, played with the band Deep Purple in Amsterdam and with The Moody Blues in Sheffield. They headlined at the Midnight Sun Festival in Stockholm and appeared at the Star Club in Hamburg, where the Beatles had begun their career. The phrase “Hare Krishna” earned constant airplay on radio and television. It poured out of speakers in clubs and restaurants and found its way into newspapers, magazines, movies, and comedy routines. Other bands incorporated the mantra into their records and concerts. Sometimes in earnest, sometimes in jest, the chanting of Hare Krishna spread around the world.
When The Beatles sang “All You Need Is Love” on a live satellite broadcast in June 1967, the worldwide transmission reached more than 500 million television viewers. Now, barely two years later, George Harrison was reaching an even larger audience with the Hare Krishna mantra, and in doing so helping to fulfill a prophecy dating from the sixteenth century.
“One day,” Chaitanya Mahaprabhu had predicted, “the chanting of the Holy Names of Krishna will be heard in every town and village of the world.”
And so they were.
THE FIRST TIME I HEARD “Hare Krishna Mantra” was at the American Center for Students and Artists, a two-story building in Paris’s Latin Quarter that catered to visiting jazz musicians and ex-pat lecturers. On Saturday nights, the American Center sponsored a boom—French for “dance party”—and a former New York recording engineer named Wally worked as the DJ. After classes at the Sorbonne, I hung out at the American Center and helped Wally with the Saturday dances. The turntable and controls filled the front row of a balcony that overlooked the dance floor. Stacks of vinyl 45 rpm records sat in boxes. My job was to hand Wally the records so he could position them on the turntable. Every half hour or so, he played one record that started slow, then gradually the beat speeded up, and the song ended with a big bonnng. The lyrics repeated over and over: “Hare Krishna, Hare Krishna, Krishna Krishna, Hare Hare, Hare Rama, Hare Rama, Rama Rama, Hare Hare.”
“Wally,” I asked, “why do you keep playing that pop song?”
“It’s not a pop song,” he said. “It’s a spiritual sound, a mantra.” He pointed to the couples gyrating on the dance floor below. “When they dance to this record, they get spiritual benefit.” I had no idea what that meant.
After the boom, we went out to a café. Wally ordered hot milk and stared at the porcelain cup for a minute or two, like he was having a conversation with it.
“What are you doing?” I asked. Everything about this guy was unusual.
“I’m offering the milk to Krishna,” he said. “Even drinking a cup of milk can be spiritual if you do it right.”
Wally always wore two things: a benign smile and a cap. “What’s with the cap?” I asked.
“My head is shaved,” he said. “The cap is so people won’t be too distracted when they talk with me. When I was initiated as a Krishna devotee, my teacher, Prabhupada, gave me the name Umapati, and I shaved my head so I wouldn’t get trapped in the ego of hair.”
“Oh,” I said, running a hand through my long hair.
“You’re welcome to join me and my roommate for dinner,” he offered.
We went back to the tiny hotel room he shared with another Krishna devotee named Hanuman, a French Canadian with dramatic facial expressions. While Umapati prepared rice on a little bunson burner stove, I picked up a book from a shelf. The title on the jacket was Srimad Bhagwatam. I opened the book and started to read a page at random. “Oh the king . . .” Hanuman reached out and gently closed the cover.
“That is too advanced for you,” he said. “But you are a great soul. Someday you will appreciate this book—and you will go back to Godhead in this one lifetime!” His eyes grew big.
“That’s great,” I said, backing up, clueless as to what he was talking about. Like many secular Jews who had grown up in New York City, anything with the word God in it was suspect. I was there for dinner. Umapati put a portion of rice on a plate and put the plate on a small table in front of a photo of an elderly man with a stern expression.
“Who’s that?” I asked.
“That’s our teacher, Prabhupada. He’s in London just now, staying with John Lennon. Why don’t you go visit?”
A swami staying with a Beatle—and I’ve been invited to join them. I said I’d think about it.
The next day I took the boat-train from Paris and arrived in London. The temple was an elegant five-story building on Bury Place just off Little Oxford Street and a block from the British Museum. Inside the temple entrance and to the left was a hand-carved wooden door with a small circular window, like on cruise ships. Through the window, I could see deities, three-foot-tall marble versions of the same Radha and Krishna I had seen in posters Wally had hanging in his hotel room. Downstairs a dozen or so people sat on the floor sharing lunch. One of them, dressed in robes, waved me over. I sat next to him and dug into a mound of steaming rice.
“My name is Tamal Krishna,” he said. “What’s yours?”
When he learned that I played organ in a college band, he invited me to join them that afternoon for a recording session. We piled into a Volkswagen minivan with trays of steaming vegetables and rice and headed out.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“You’ll see,” Tamal Krishna said. “Welcome to Krishna’s band.”
About fifteen minutes later, we turned onto Savile Row. Up and down the street were tailor shops displaying fashionable men’s clothing in fancy display windows. We parked in front of a building with the number 3 on the door. Something about the address rang a bell, but I couldn’t place it. We walked in, and on the wall across from the receptionist was a huge photograph of a green apple. Then I remembered. Three Savile Row was Beatles headquarters. The receptionist waved us in, and I followed the devotees downstairs to a recording studio. There was George Harrison, thin as a stringbean, hair down to his waist, beads around his neck and buttons of Krishna and Prabhupada decorating his cotton vest. He hugged a few of the devotees and set us up to record. They pointed to me and said something. George walked over and handed me a harmonium.
The session began with Yamuna singing, “Govinda jaya jaya, Gopala jaya jaya, Radharamani Hari, Govinda jaya jaya.” I picked up the melody on the harmonium, thinking, “If I stay with these people, I get to hang out with the Beatles—and I can also realize God. Okay, I’m in.” This was still the Sixties. Monumental decisions didn’t take long.
After the session, we returned to the Bury Place temple. George had signed the lease as guarantor, an act of generosity that prompted Prabhupada to begin calling him “Hari’s son,” Hari being another name of Krishna meaning “one who takes away all miserable conditions.”
“NEVER MIND THAT HE IS not initiated,” Prabhupada told Shyamsundar during his follow-up visit to the London temple in early 1970. “That is a little awkward for him.” Initiation would have obliged George to follow basic rules of devotional life. He lived the life of a rock star and was not prepared for that degree of austerity. There was a saying in Bengal: Every year a snake slides easily out of its old skin, but if you try to cut the skin off, the snake will die. That was an important lesson that took me years to learn: Don’t pretend to be more spiritually advanced than you are. It will just land you in trouble. George picked up on the teachings a lot faster than most people and never tried to hide his rocker habits from those closest to him. Early on he had understood the verse from Bhagavad Gita that explains how material habits fall away naturally as you progress in Krishna consciousness and experience a higher taste.119
“I have told him there is no need to change his name or shave his head,” Prabhupada said, “just carry on serving Krishna. That is the perfection of life.”
Shyamsundar mentioned that he would be seeing George the following day. George and his friend, David Wynne, Britain’s sculptor laureate, had offered to select a slab of marble for the temple’s altar. Prabhupada nodded and contemplated a photocopy of the Krishna Book manuscript sitting on his desk. He handed it to Shyamsundar, who thumbed through the massive work and blanched, intuiting what Prabhupada would say next.
“Kindly ask George to publish this book,” Prabhupada said. “It will cost $19,000 to print 5,000 copies.” The Back to Godhead printing bill was still overdue at Dai Nippon printers, and payment for the Krishna Book would have to be made in full and in advance.
Shyamsundar’s shoulders slumped, and he stared at his hands. Nineteen thousand dollars might not have been a lot of money for someone as wealthy as George, but there was a higher principle involved. “Prabhupada, we must be very careful with George. We never ask him for anything. We just try to give to him, not take anything from him. If he gives, it’s something he offers on his own.”
Prabhupada nodded in appreciation. From the outset of his mission in the West he had followed the same formula: He taught and never asked for payment. But this was a unique opportunity to bring an important scripture to Western readers, and he was offering George a chance to take part.
“You may inform him that it is my personal request. Krishna will help you. You will see.”
THE FOLLOWING NIGHT, rain pounded the roof of David Wynne’s Wimbledon home while George, Shyamsundar, and the Wynne family finished a vegetarian dinner. The renowned designer, his wife, and two teenage children barraged their American guest with questions. Shyamsundar smiled and remained cordial, but George noted an uncharacteristic discomfort in his friend that night. Thunder echoed in the night sky. They would have to leave soon.
“George,” Shyamsundar said abruptly, “do you remember I was telling you about that book Prabhupada wrote, the Krishna Book? He was saying that now everyone is hearing Krishna’s name, but no one knows anything about Krishna’s pastimes or what he looks like. That’s what the Krishna Book is about.”
George tilted his head, wary that his friend might be turning out like so many who wanted something from him.
“Prabhupada asked me to ask you something,” Shyamsundar said. He took a breath and rushed ahead. “He wants you to publish the Krishna Book for $19,000. That will print 5,000 copies with lots of color paintings and—”
Bam! The houselights blazed hot, then exploded like bursts from a strobe. The house shook. Lightning had hit the roof. Everything went black. The darkness continued for several long moments. Then, just as abruptly, power returned. George leaned back in his chair, eyes wide, grinning from ear to ear.
“Well,” he concluded, “there’s no arguing with that, is there?”
“Prabhupada said Krishna would help me,” Shyamsundar said, “but that was a little much.”
The Wynnes and their guests couldn’t stop talking with excitement over the magical display. Finally, George and Shyamsundar said goodnight and set out for their separate homes, dazed by the mini-miracle. George had his staff transfer $19,000 to Prabhupada’s printing fund the following week, and the Krishna Book went to press.
IN EARLY 1970, THE FIRST copies of the Krishna Book arrived from Japan, and they were magnificent. The jacket featured a bright silver border framing an image of Radha and Krishna in brilliant colors.
“Everybody is looking for Krishna,” began George Harrison’s preface. “Some don’t realize that they are, but they are. Krishna is God, the Source of all that exists, the Cause of all that is, was, or ever will be. God is not abstract. He has both impersonal and personal aspects to his personality, which is supreme, eternal blissful, and full of knowledge. As a single drop of water has the same qualities as an ocean of water, so has our consciousness the qualities of God’s consciousness. But through our identification and attachment with material energy (physical body, sense pleasures, material possessions, ego, etc.) our true transcendental consciousness has been polluted, and like a dirty mirror it is unable to reflect a pure image.”
Harrison concluded his preface to the Krishna Book with the maha-mantra:
Hare Krishna, Hare Krishna
Krishna Krishna, Hare Hare
Hare Rāma, Hare Rāma
Rāma Rāma, Hare Hare
He then signed it with a handwritten note: “All you need is love (Krishna). Haribol. George Harrison, March 3, 1970.”
When devotees received the shipment of books, they were stunned by the detailed accounts and lavish illustrations that brought Krishna to life. They also confronted a dilemma. This was not a magazine or brochure that could be easily presented to people on the streets. It stood nearly a foot tall and weighed more than two pounds. Business people hurrying to work, parents rushing home to children and chores, pedestrians in the swarm of traffic—why would anyone stop long enough to consider purchasing such a heavy hardbound book?
In their first attempts, devotees managed to sell no more than a few copies a day—mostly by pointing out George Harrison’s preface—and soon they fell back on selling incense for a donation and giving away magazines. In the evenings, they returned to the Los Angeles temple for a hot prasadam dinner and tallied the results. On good days, they distributed two hundred magazines. The income was hardly enough to pay for groceries. The story was more or less the same in all ISKCON centers. Collections barely covered rent.
When temple leaders in New York or Seattle or San Francisco sat down at the end of a month to send their reports to Prabhupada, they described in glowing terms the community’s success in selling fifty or a hundred magazines. He saw through their spin on a bleak situation, but they needn’t have been concerned. Poverty never bothered him. The active principle of devotional life was gratitude for the honor of serving God, whatever the circumstances.
Besides, he had been trained by Bhaktisiddhanta Saraswati, who operated on the understanding that God was no pauper and could turn things around in a second. When asked where the money would come from for his many ambitious projects, he replied, “I will take one brick from a temple in Vaikuntha [the spiritual world]—and that should more than cover the costs.”
WITH THE KRISHNA BOOK FINALLY PRINTED, Prabhupada returned to completing his translation of the Bhagavatam’s twelve cantos. One by one, every few months, a new volume arrived from Dai Nippon Printing Company, packaged in cardboard boxes stacked onto wooden pallets. Devotees greeted these deliveries the way they might once have greeted a new album by the Beatles: as a life-changing event, something bound to contain surprises and revelations. With each new canto, their way of seeing the world expanded.
In the first canto—an improved edition of the three volumes Prabhupada had printed in India—disciples learned the story of Vyasadev, who compiled the Vedic wisdom in written form at the dawn of Kali Yuga. Vedic cosmology divides the lifespan of the universe into a cycle of four yugas (ages), each cycle lasting 4,320,000 years. The Bhagavatam describes the first age, Satya Yuga—the Age of Truth or Golden Age—as a time of bucolic contentment and prosperity, of long life and wise governance. After 1,728,000 years, Satya Yuga came to an end and Treta Yuga—the Silver Age—began. By the end of Treta Yuga, a quarter of the world’s population had turned away from religious practices. After 1,296,000 years, Treta Yuga ended and the Dvapara Yuga or Bronze Age began. During this age, only half the population remained interested in spiritual pursuits, primarily construction of temples and worship of deities.120 After 864,000 years, Dvapara Yuga ended, and Kali Yuga, the fourth and most degraded yuga, began.
Kali Yuga, the current Iron Age or time of quarrel and confusion, started 5,000 years ago and according to the Bhagavatam will last 432,000 years, after which the cycle of yugas will begin anew. This age is characterized by wars and disease, by deteriorating natural conditions, uncivilized human behavior and a lifespan of, at most, one hundred years. As a spiritual guide for the people of Kali Yuga, Vyasadev transposed the oral Vedic teachings into written texts. First, he divided the original Veda—the shruti or “heard” text, spoken directly by the Supreme Person—into four parts. Then he compiled the smriti, “remembered” texts or commentaries. Most of these writings addressed technical issues of philosophy and ritual, and Vyasadev felt dissatisfied with his work. His spiritual master, Narada Muni, sensed his unrest.
“No wonder you are unhappy,” Narada said. “Philosophy and ritual do not touch people’s hearts. Immerse yourself in devotion, in bhakti yoga, and describe the glories of Sri Krishna.”
The path of bhakti follows two parallel lines: scriptural study (bhagavata-marg) and contemplative practices such as yoga, deity worship and meditation (pancharatrika-marg). Scriptural study undertaken without such practices remains abstract theory. On the other hand, those who attempt to perform yoga or meditation without an understanding of the philosophical grounding risk seeing their spiritual life deteriorate into sentiment or, in the extreme, fanaticism. Vyasadev took his guru’s advice and wrote the Srimad Bhagavatam, which illustrated Vedic philosophy with histories of the avatars and of the enlightened people and animals who brought Vedic philosophy to life.
THE FIRST CANTO tells the story of Pariksit, last of the great Vedic kings, who had been cursed to perish in seven days. “What is the duty of someone preparing to die?” the king asks the renowned teacher, Sukadev, who has come to guide him in his final days. Sukadev advises Pariksit to focus his mind exclusively on the Supreme Being, for thoughts at the moment of death become the chariot that carries the soul to its next destination.
In the second canto, Sukadev teaches Pariksit how to meditate on Vishnu or paramatma, the “supersoul” who dwells in the heart of all beings. The sages who have assembled in the forest to hear their discussion are moved by Sukadev’s description of four-armed paramatma—not as an imaginary “God is in you” sentiment, but an actual incarnation of the Supreme Being, whom advanced yogis perceive in samadhi, or yogic trance. Sukadev explains that this same Vishnu at the dawn of creation brings the elements of material nature into existence. The elements coalesce into universes. Meditation on Krishna as the source of these unlimited material universes, Sukadev concludes, forms the first step toward realization of higher realities.
In the third canto, Sukadev describes scales of time, which vary according to the orbits of planets within the universe’s fourteen planetary systems. In the early days of our universe, the sage says, earth fell from its orbit into the cosmic ocean and had to be retrieved. The Supreme Being appeared as the giant boar avatar Varaha and lifted the earth from its watery grave with his gigantic tusks. Once reinstated in its orbit, earth received many souls. Among them was Devahuti, daughter of Emperor Svayambhuva Manu. Devahuti married the powerful yogi Kardama Muni, and their child was the avatar Kapila. In his youth, Kapila taught his mother esoteric details of yoga practice.
PRABHUPADA EXPLAINED THE MEANING of these histories in “purports” that occasionally included stylized vocabulary he had acquired as a student in British-run schools: words such as “sinful,” which he used to describe behavior contrary to scriptural guidelines, and “demon,” signifying an abusive, selfish individual who defied or denied the existence of a Supreme Being. Despite the occasionally awkward language, his writing was conversational and conveyed insight into complex subjects, as in his fourth canto commentary on Dhruva, a child prince whose stepmother stands between him and the affections of his father. Angered by this injustice, young Dhruva travels deep into a forest to mediate on Vishnu, whom he is convinced will award him a kingdom greater than his father’s.
In the forest, Dhruva’s spiritual master, Narada Muni, challenges the young prince’s resolve. “Go home,” Narada tells Dhruva. “Even advanced yogis are not all capable of following the arduous path of God realization. When you grow up, maybe then you will be ready for such austere practices and obtain the kingdom you seek.” Dhruva refuses to back down and when Narada sees his young disciple’s determination, he relents and teaches him how to meditate on the form of Vishnu in his heart. Dhruva follows his guru’s directions and after many years does have the darshan, or vision, of Vishnu, who blesses Dhruva and awards him the kingdom he covets.
In his purport to the Dhruva story, Prabhupada commented that unenlightened people think childhood should be spent in sports and play, that youth is for exploring sexuality, and that only in old age does it make sense to consider God and spiritual life. “This conclusion is not for devotees who are actually serious,” he wrote. “It is the duty of the spiritual master to test the disciple to see how seriously he desires to execute devotional service.” A qualified spiritual master is able to “observe the psychological movement of [the disciple] and thus train him in a particular occupational duty.” In coming to the West, Prabhupada wrote, his mission was to train disciples in the “particular occupational duty” of the Brahmin order, so that they might “raise human society to the highest standard of spiritual consciousness.”121
WHILE THE FIRST FOUR CANTOS of the Srimad Bhagavatam delivered an unfamiliar and exotic description of earth’s history, the fifth canto stretched devotees’ understanding of reality to an extreme. According to the cosmology of the fifth canto, the earth is contained within a flat, disk-shaped construct called bhu-mandala comprised of a series of dvipas (islands). On the center island stands a cone-shaped mountain, Meru, which forms the axis mundi: the pillar connecting earth to higher realms. This entire galactic structure revolves not around the sun but around the earth. In essence, the fifth canto proposes that the earth is flat and that it is situated at the center of the universe.
The contradiction between the scientific explanation of the universe and that of the fifth canto baffled Prabhupada’s students. As long as Krishna consciousness consisted of chanting and dancing and tasty prasadam all was well, but the fifth canto upended an understanding of reality they had been taught since childhood.
“Is there a difference,” one disciple asked cautiously, “in the quality of service between a person who just accepts Krishna outright and one who wants to scrutinize him more and more?” Said differently, did Prabhupada really expect his students to embrace strange notions such as a flat earth and a geocentric universe? Were they disqualified from devotional life if they did not?
“For neophytes, it is necessary to know about Krishna,” Prabhupada replied, and he reminded them that reality was deeper than what their limited senses could perceive. How often throughout history had scientific calculations, based on imperfect senses and ever-changing evidence, been proved wrong? Look around you, he said. Miracles abound. He recounted the parable of a frog in a well—a frog that could not imagine the expanse of a great ocean. If you wish to love God, Prabhupada counseled, then first study his creation with an open mind.
“Still,” Prabhupada said, reassuringly, “love for Krishna does not depend on knowledge of His greatness. Real love is without any such consideration of what He is or is not. In Bhagavad Gita, Krishna explains himself, ‘I am the light of the sun and moon, and I am the controller of all planets,’ and so on. But those who are advanced devotees do not care whether He is great or small. They simply love Him. The gopis and cowherd boys of Vrindavan are playing with Krishna. The Bhagavad Gita describes that one comes to such an elevated place only after many lives of acquiring knowledge.122 But one does not attain love of Krishna merely through study. One must also receive the grace of Krishna or Krishna’s devotee. Therefore, Chaitanya Mahaprabhu recommended sadhu sanga: the company of devotees.”123
Don’t look at reality with limited material eyes and intellect, he advised. See reality with shastra-chaksus, the “eyes” of scripture. Material eyes see imperfectly. Some day the deeper reality will be revealed to you. Until then, stay in the company of fellow devotees and keep chanting.
PEOPLE WERE ATTRACTED TO BHAKTI life for many reasons. The Bhagavad Gita grouped them under four general headings: arta, those who were distressed and needed shelter; jijnasuh, the inquisitive; artha-arthi, people hungry for material gain who saw opportunities in becoming a devotee; and jnanis, those seeking knowledge of the Absolute.124 Whatever their reason, the majority of initiates report that their initial contact with Krishna consciousness came through Prabhupada’s publications. From a handful of publications sold daily during the early days of his movement, sales grew steadily to hundreds, then thousands, and then overseas in foreign languages. People received a book or magazine from a sankirtan devotee and, made curious by what they read, visited a temple. Others picked up books that had been abandoned in buses or subways. Some people discovered a Bhagavad Gita on a friend’s shelf or found a Back to Godhead packed away in someone’s basement. A woman in Canada had had a near-death experience at age eight. In her forties, she received a copy of Prabhupada’s Bhagavad Gita from her son. She read about the difference between the body and the soul and stepped forward for initiation later that year. The personnel director at a hospital for chronic diseases in New York witnessed the harsh reality of material life every day and could make no sense of it. His assistant came in one day and handed him a small book he had bought from a devotee in a bus terminal, titled Beyond Birth and Death. The personnel director started chanting soon after. Books about Krishna showed up everywhere and some accounts of how people became devotees bordered on the miraculous. A bookkeeper in France described that one day, feeling depressed, he went fishing. From his rowboat on the calm waters of a pond, he cast his line and asked the universe for guidance. He felt a tug and there on the hook, in a waterproof plastic wrapper, was a copy of the French edition of Bhagavad Gita As It Is.125