Mustard oil and nails

Visakha Devi Dasi: Pishima, Prabhupada’s younger sister, who looked startlingly like Prabhupada, often came to our Calcutta asrama. She had lively eyes and was gentle, soft-spoken, and genial. “When we were children...” Prabhupada told us, “...my sister and I used to daily visit the Radha-Govinda temple across the street from our home."

“How diametrically different from what I did as a child!” I thought.

“We were standing for hours together seeing the Krishna Deity..." Prabhupada continued, “...and that is the inspiration of our devotional life.” He explained that his father worshiped a Deity of Krishna in their home and, “When I was five or six years old, I requested my father that, 'Father, give me this Deity. I shall worship.' So father purchased for me little Krishna, Radha, and he gave me, and my sister and I were imitating. Whatever food-stuff we got, we'd offer to Krishna and eat. In this way our lives developed. What I am doing, it was all taught in our childhood by our parents, my family."

Clearly, from their foundational years, Prabhupada and Pishima were imbued with godliness, just as I was imbued with godlessness during my foundational years. I wasn't obliged to accept my old foundation. But was this new world I was dallying in real or mythological? Would I get cheated and hurt in it?

Prabhupada said that whenever he and Pishima encountered obstacles in their play, they would pray for help. “I used to fly kites with Pishima when I was young,” he said. “Her kite always flew higher than mine and that made me angry. One day I flew my kite from the roof. My kite flew higher than hers until she started chanting, 'Govinda, Govinda, help me!' Then her kite flew higher than mine." Envisioning young Pishima’s and Prabhupada’s convivial childhood play, I was delighted.

Pishima loved Prabhupada dearly, not only because he was her brother, but also because he’d given us spiritual shelter. In our tiny asrama kitchen, she expressed her love for Prabhupada and for us—her spiritual nieces and nephews—by cooking. Her dishes were delicious except for the traditional Bengali ones that contained mustard oil. Those had an overpowering mustardy taste that didn’t appeal to me. Prabhupada told Pishima that he liked everything she made but her mustard oil dishes were difficult for him to digest. I laughed when I heard Pishima reply, “You can digest nails if you want to!”

Pishima hid a bottle of Ganges water under a fold in her sari and often produced it to cheerfully splash us with holy water. Because I usually had my camera with me, around Pishima I was always on guard, ready to try to protect it from her divine deluge.