"What is the difference between Goloka and Vrindavana?"

It was in India that I first began to doubt whether being Srila Prabhupada's secretary-servant was my permanent service to His Divine Grace. From time to time I had felt restless. All services have their difficulties, or austerities, and so did the service of being servant. For example, I usually stayed in a room next to Srila Prabhupada, and so I had to chant my japa silently. Almost always on call, I could not attend aratis in the temple or associate much with my Godbrothers. How flimsy these objections sound when one considers that as a servant I had the unique privilege of always being in the company of the greatest of all pure devotees. My restlessness really was not only due to remaining silent in the room next door or to not attending the temple programs. It especially occurred when I would see Srila Prabhupada speaking to his leading disciples and encouraging them in their bold, productive preaching efforts. I felt a yearning, for example, when Srila Prabhupada wrote to Pancadravida Swami from Hawaii encouraging him to go on traveling through South India like a real sannyasi on behalf of his spiritual master; or when Ramesvara and the G.B.C. devotees had flown in to see Srila Prabhupada, received his orders, and flown off to manage important affairs on his behalf. I had typed the letter to Pancadravida Swami, and I had cooked and served prasadam to Ramesvara and the others, but sometimes I couldn't help feeling a little bit like a backroom Cinderella. So far I had tried to avoid thinking the grass was greener in another field. The travel eastward had been very active, and there had been occasion for nectarean, private association with Srila Prabhupada. I was always busy, still attempting to learn the functions of secretary and servant?and I was thrilled and strengthened to be able to see first-hand how Srila Prabhupada handled controversies and defended his ISKCON. But on arriving in India, the feeling of restlessness increased. We flew into New Delhi at two in the morning. Tejas dasa, the temple president, met us along with a few other devotees, each holding orange marigold garlands. I had been to India for one month in 1973, living with Srila Prabhupada as a visiting G.B.C. secretary and performing many of the same services that I was doing now. I had found India exciting?less violent and without the heavy agitation of the West?but I had been somewhat bewildered by the heat, the primitive conditions, and the language barrier. I was glad to be experiencing India, therefore, in the protection of Prabhupada's personal association. The Delhi ISKCON center was in a small rented house. Srila Prabhupada's room was located on the roof, and the Radha-Krishna Deities, whom he had named Radha-Partha-sarathi, were also situated in a room on the roof. The February predawn air was freezing cold, but I attended the mangala-arati (rare for me), standing outdoors under the open sky and looking into the Deity room. The black, elegant form of Krishna and the white form of Radharani, both dressed in well-tailored nightclothes received the devotees' worship. When the sun was up and Srila Prabhupada had taken breakfast, we started out for Vrindavana. Tamala Krishna Goswami, Prabhupada's G.B.C. secretary for all of India, indicated I should sit in the back seat next to Prabhupada. I never took it for granted that I automatically had the privilege of riding with Srila Prabhupada, but Tamala Krishna said, "Of course. You are Prabhupada's servant. You should always ride with him." That was practical: I was carrying Srila Prabhupada's luggage, and if there was anything he needed, it was I who would be expected to get it. It was for Prabhupada's convenience that there existed such devotee-occupations as servant and personal secretary, but it was also the good fortune of a particular disciple to be able to ride like that with Srila Prabhupada. When taking that special seat beside His Divine Grace, I never ceased to count my blessings and to think about how to serve him during the car ride. We were well on the way to Vrindavana, passing through the villages, farms, and undeveloped land, when our car came up behind a typical old Indian bus and our driver began honking his horn for room to pass. The bus was battered and poured thick black smoke from its exhaust pipe. Prabhupada looked my way and said, "Do you have buses like this in America?" He knew very well from his years in America that this bus was a special specimen of Indian technological backwardness. "Even if you had a bus like this in America," he added, "they wouldn't allow it on the road." Everyone shared a laugh with Srila Prabhupada, but I also took his remark in a personal way. I felt he was trying to reduce whatever culture shock he thought I might be experiencing. In case I was lamenting over the primitive Indian conditions, or wishing myself back in the land of velvet-like roads and Greyhound buses, Prabhupada was making a humorous comparison so that I could see the terrible Indian bus in a softer, more kindly light. At least Prabhupada's words had that effect on me, and when he asked me if it was my first time in Vrindavana (which it was), I knew he was watching over me like a father. Srila Prabhupada did not dote or baby his disciples, but those few kind words were enough to bring my jet-lagged mind and body into sharp focus for appreciation of Prabhupada and our entrance into the holy dhama. I did not expect Prabhupada to talk about Krishna's vraja-lila just because we were entering Vrindavana. Thoughts of such spiritual pastimes were always alive within him wherever he was in the world, but he was also a very grave personality. He was silent during most of the trip, making a few comments about the progress of the ISKCON temple construction in Vrindavana. He had already fully described Vrindavana and Lord Krishna in his Krishna book, and as our little Ambassador car came nearer to Mathura and Vrindavana I thought of the descriptions of lush vegetation, surabhi cows with milk-dripping udders, ecstatic cowherd men and women?and I saw that the present Vrindavana was suffering by comparison. Yet even I could feel an inkling of the Vrindavana atmosphere, and I recalled Prabhupada's writing that one cannot enter Vrindavana just by the external act of purchasing a ticket or driving there in a car. But if I could ever expect to understand Vrindavana at all, there was certainly no better opportunity than to go there as a servant of Krishna's pure devotee. The place at Ramana-reti was just a building site. Metal rods were sticking up, a foundation was laid, but the only building was the first story of Prabhupada's red brick residential house. His room wasn't quite ready. The floor was dirt and bricks covered by a rug, the walls were damp, and the room itself was very cold. It was a large room that could serve as gathering place, and Prabhupada's study fitted into one corner. Prabhupada was very pleased. He sat at his desk smiling, thanking the devotees for working so hard. Surabhi, the disciple in charge of construction, admitted to Srila Prabhupada that they had worked up until the last minute before his arrival, and yet they still weren't finished. The devotees and hired workers had toiled at a marathon pace day and night for weeks. Surabhi said that they had just cemented the walls in Srila Prabhupada's room and had tried to dry them with special heating lamps. But that had brought out bugs and flies. So his room was in a rather crude state, but Prabhupada wasn't at all critical; he was happy that they had done it. Yet he emphasized that everyone should continue to work hard and finish the entire Krishna-Balaram temple by Janmashtami, seven or eight months ahead. It was asking a lot, but Prabhupada was serious. He was simultaneously very pleased with the crude state of his freezing cold room in Vrindavana, and at the same time he put before his devotees the difficult task of completing the work. I set up my desk in a room next to Prabhupada's. Anyone coming to see Prabhupada would have to pass by me, so that I could screen them. I knew from my previous month with Srila Prabhupada in India in 1973 that many Indians would be coming to see him, and if I let them all in, Prabhupada would have no time for anything else. Within minutes, people started coming by, but I told them that Srila Prabhupada wouldn't be seeing guests until the evening. These were brijbasis, residents of Vrindavana, some of them old sadhus in saffron cloth with gray beards, or men with their wives, or poor, simple villagers. No one seemed satisfied to be denied entrance by an upstart young Westerner such as me, but to protect Prabhupada I took the risk and denied all except those whom I knew were important to Prabhupada, or those recommended by the temple president. Sitting in my room, I began typing letters dictated by Prabhupada. Cooking duties were no longer required of me since Yamuna dasi, the wife of the temple president, Guru dasa, was a favorite cook of Prabhupada's and expert at working under Vrindavana conditions. There was also a girl with a typewriter who was eager to type up Prabhupada's Caitanya-caritamrta tapes, so I also relinquished that duty, with Prabhupada's permission. While on an errand for Prabhupada, I left his door unattended for a minute, and immediately a brijbasi man?one I had previously denied?slipped into Prabhupada's room. I remanned my post, angry at the fellow for barging in. It seemed to me that very few of these visitors were serious about surrendering to Prabhupada. But after a few minutes Prabhupada rang his bell. I entered and sat before Srila Prabhupada. The room was dark, even with the lights on, and the floors and walls were cold. But Prabhupada's eyes had a special, beautiful glow. He was obviously more at home here in Vrindavana than at the Hong Kong Hilton. "This man says that you wouldn't let him in," said Srila Prabhupada. I darted a look at the man, who was a middle-aged Indian, but I had to restrain my anger. I told him that you would have evening visiting hours," I said. "No, you should not have kept him out," said Prabhupada in a mild but reprimanding tone. "Who told you to keep him out?" I said that I was sorry. The man, however, repeated that I had rudely kept him out. "They do not know," said Prabhupada sympathizing with his guest. "They have no proper training." "Yes," the man agreed, looking me over. "No training" I suspected that Prabhupada had reprimanded me to pacify the visitor, and I was sorry that Prabhupada's time was now being taken up by a man who went on talking about himself. The incident made me lose my confidence, and I proceeded to let a few more casual visitors enter Prabhupada's room, out of fear that they also might tell on me and get Srila Prabhupada to chastise me. But when Tamala Krishna and Guru dasa saw me letting people in, they didn't like it. "You're supposed to protect Prabhupada from so many visitors," said Tamala Krishna, "Don't be so easygoing. ? Guru dasa also looked at me worriedly, as if I wasn't fit to guard Prabhupada's door, and I began to feel helpless. When the last barge-in guests left Srila Prabhupada just a few minutes before his scheduled visiting hours, I went in and impulsively began to reveal my mind. "Prabhupada, I didn't want you to be disturbed, but I see that sometimes you want to see guests and I shouldn't check them. But my Godbrothers are telling me that I was not doing my duty properly. So what am I supposed to do?" I was in anxiety, almost babbling, when Srila Prabhupada said calmly, "Everything is all right." At his words, spoken as a father speaks to reassure a crying, frightened child, I realized that Srila Prabhupada was truly dhira, undisturbed. Whether too many guests came or no guests, he was with Krishna, and everything was all right. Tamala Krishna and Guru dasa arrived a moment later, and Prabhupada confided in us all that he was, in fact, disturbed by the number of guests. Hearing this, I regained my resolve to keep out unscheduled visitors, despite the risk. At 7 P.M. Prabhupada allowed everyone to enter, and the large room filled up with about a hundred people, including about thirty of his disciples. A small light was on Prabhupada's desk, and several naked light bulbs were fixed on the wall. The total lighting effect, although dim, was exciting. We all took part in an enthusiastic kirtana, singing and dancing before Srila Prabhupada, who played his shining karatalas and sang along with the chorus, completely absorbed in chanting with the devotees. Someone had given him a woolen hat which fit under his chin, and he wore his heaviest sweater as well as a cadar. After the kirtana he spoke about the Six Gosvamis of Vrindavana and how they practiced tapasya. "The tapasvis in Vrindavana," said Prabhupada, "go naked, even in the cold. They are determined not to come back again to material life. Of course, nowadays we cannot execute such severe austerities. But even if we try to live in comfort, we will suffer. And if we think, ?All right, it is miserable, but let me enjoy' still we have to die. So our penance is to voluntarily take pains for Krishna. He comes to save the fallen souls. He comes Himself, He sends His devotees, He leaves His books. If we help a little, He will be pleased. That is our penance" After his lecture, an American devotee visiting Vrindavana asked Prabhupada, "What is the difference between Goloka and Vrindavana?" "None," replied Prabhupada. "But your mind is in America. Fix your mind at the lotus feet of Krishna and you are always in Vrindavana. Krishna is everywhere"