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It is December of 1936. Abhaya Caraṇāravinda Dāsa, a forty-year-old pharmaceutical distributor then in Bombay on business, feels a sudden impulse to write a letter to his spiritual master, Śrīla Bhaktisiddhānta Sarasvatī Ṭhākura.

Śrīla Bhaktisiddhānta Sarasvatī Ṭhākura

It is December 9, 1968, thirty-two years later. The same disciple—now a renunciant and spiritual master himself—finds himself in the city of Los Angeles where he relates to a gathering of his own disciples the story of his 1936 letter. He is observing with them the “Disappearance Day” of his spiritual master.

How did this happen? Two weeks in Montgomery, Texas, alleged “birthplace of the Texas flag!”

In June! How did I end up here!

Yet not untypical, somehow, of the crowd of unexpected events that render the adventure of spiritual life so endlessly fascinating . . . .

For me, it was dejavu all over again. One more episode in the Fashion Wars.

The Florida town of Rivera Beach, reported Monday's New York Times, faced a legal challenge over its ordinance banning the "young men's 'sagging pants' look, with trousers slung low enough to reveal a generous swath of boxer shorts."

The defense put on the stand its star witness: Chelsea Rousso "a former New York fashion designer who is now a fashion instructor at the Art Institute of Fort Lauderdale." Ms. Rousso, described by The Times as "looking uptown chic on the witness stand in a three-quarter-length embroidered jacket and a knit black dress by Ellen Tracy," displayed pictures of the soccer star David Beckham, Prince Harry, and others, all sporting drooping trousers.

Writing to Krishna. Running to You with my eyes closed. Praying to You with the mahamantra. Not knowing what to do for You. The best thing is to give people Krishna consciousness. That is better than food or medicine or weapons or “education.” Give them direct Krishna consciousness. There are tactics for that.

They used to do it largely by dressing as civilians and approaching people to sell them Prabhupada’s books. Dressing as devotees and going in the streets to sing the Hare Krishna mantra. Lectures in the colleges. Giving out prasadam to materially needy people. Festivals on Sunday at the temple or ratha yatras in the streets and parks.

Setting the example by running a “self-sufficient” farm, growing crops and protecting cows (never really done self-sufficiently). Bringing people to the holy dhamas of India. Teaching astanga yoga. Holding lectures, kirtanas and feasts in your home and inviting neighbors and friends.Publishing books and Back to Godhead magazine. Selling CDs, videos on the Internet; running a webpage on the Internet. Building temples. And many more tactics performed by enthusiastic preachers.

read more – part 8  >>

SDGonline online diary by Satsvarupa dasa Goswami

Five hundred and twenty three years ago, on this full moon night in the month of Govinda, Sri Caitanya Mahaprabhu appeared in the world, the avatara descended to deliver Krishna prema to the extremely fallen people of this Kali-yuga.

Caitanya is Krishna Himself. In order to most completely offer His divine mercy, He does not come as the Lord. Covering His Godhood, He appears in the form of His own devotee (bhakta-rupa). The mercy of the Lord has ever been most fully delivered through His devotees. Not to be outdone, the Lord Himself takes on the emotions and actions of His own devotee. He is thus both the supreme master and the supreme servant.

When He descends as Caitanya, He brings with Him His divine expansions and energies, the closest of whom also act with him as devotees. The Lord and His four immediate associates constitute a set called the Panca-tattva.

This article was originally published in Back to Godhead magazine in 1984.

by Ravindra Svarupa das

This article originally appeared in Back to Godhead magazine in 1985.

By the time I encountered the Krishna consciousness movement. I was so eager to transcend material existence that I was willing to renounce practically everything for the sake of liberation. So convinced was I that pain and suffering were of the essence of this life that I did not desire to reserve any attachment, even to the highest and best part of it.

And to me, that highest and best was exemplified in art and literature—in those timeless artifacts, those "monuments," as the poet Yeats beautifully called them, "of unaging intellect." And I myself had since adolescence sought transcendence in the role of the artist. I had become captivated by a certain image of the artist, an image presented with consummate lyricism by James Joyce in Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man: a "fabulous artificer . . . forging anew in his workshop out of the sluggish matter of the earth a new soaring impalpable imperishable being."