Books and Temples

On the occasion of Srila Prabhupad's Disappearance Day

October 25, 2025

Dear Srila Prabhupad,

One fateful afternoon, long ago on the banks of sacred Radha Kunda, your spiritual master confided in you his grim prediction of the fate of his headquarters in Calcutta: “Agun jvalbe - there will be fire.” His disciples were fighting, even in their spiritual master's presence, over who would get to use which room. He said to you emphatically, “It would be better to take the marble from the walls and secure money. If I could do this and print books, that would be better.”

Then he turned to face you to deliver a direct instruction: “If you ever get money, print books.”

Print books you did. Many years later, you were writing your commentary on the Srimad Bhagavatam in Vrindavan and then commuting to Delhi to print these sacred volumes. You chipped away at raising funds, found places to stay, negotiated print run prices, personally oversaw the manual binding of the pages, and poured every ounce of your soul into these books.

You brought two hundred sets of the Srimad Bhagavatam with you to America - you told customs that no, these books were for distribution, not for sale. However, you did sell those books - but only to maintain your livelihood during that first lonely, difficult year of living in New York. You also put aside every penny you could from those sales, and by 1966 you had $200 in savings. Then, you dared to take one apartment and storefront - the storefront for $125 and the apartment for $75, so a total monthly rent of $200. Exactly what you had saved. And although you had some help to secure the first month or so of rent from wellwishers, rent is relentless. You eventually needed to take the money generated from selling books… into securing a “temple.”

That storefront temple was 26 Second Avenue, the place where the International Society for Krishna Consciousness was formed, where the tides truly began to turn towards sweeping you into sharing Krishna with the entire world. One little storefront, where it all began, and the value you put into such a place could be seen in those $200 of hard-earned savings from selling the sacred Srimad Bhagavatam. Always keeping in mind the dangers and warnings that your spiritual master had expressed on the banks of Radha Kunda so long ago, you also knew that a physical place would be where a society could take shape. You wanted people to come together to hear and discuss about Krishna as revealed within the scriptures, to see the Lord, to chant his holy name, to sing, dance, eat the most delicious prasad, to serve, and more.

We are all gathered here today, sitting or standing on these marble floors of a temple, in the presence of the Lord on the altar. Every single one of us has been moved and transformed enough to gather together under this roof for a single-minded purpose today - to remember and glorify Krishna’s devotee. Without this temple, we could not come together to uplift our minds and hearts. I can reflect upon, literally, thousands of experiences within these walls or just right outside under the verandah or the stars, that have awakened my soul, even if for only a glimpse. And everyone here could say the same, even if it was only once, even if for only a moment. As Krishna says in the Bhagavad-gita, “pratyakṣāvagamaṁ dharmyaṁ” this knowledge gives direct perception of the self by realization and is thus the perfection of religion.

That is what you wanted, Srila Prabhupad. That was what you knew, when you gave those $200 - a temple is meant to be a place for transformation, to awaken the soul towards our beautiful Lord Krishna.

Books are the basis, you would say, and they were literally the basis of the very first temple of the Hare Krishna movement. They are not meant to only be read within the walls of the temple, but read regularly within the walls of the temple of our minds. Engaging with the scriptures is what keeps the temple of our hearts clean, which then manifests in keeping the physical temple clean and open and pure. Otherwise a temple is just made of stones and bricks and marble, prone to being filled with quarrels and politics, as your spiritual master warned. Books are the basis for purity.

On this day of your disappearance, I am reflective, meditating upon your legacy and how you have shaped and impacted me through your books and through your temples. I am grateful to you for those many long, early morning hours of writing your divine commentaries on the Srimad Bhagavatam, wherever you were in the world. How you offered your commentary until your dying days, speaking into a dictaphone on your deathbed because you knew that every word had the power to transform for eternity. Every single time I open up the Bhagavatam, I am filled with a divine presence and am uplifted - a kind of “Bhagavatam therapy”, as my friends and I like to say. I am also grateful to you for the leap of faith you took back in 1966 to give all of the money earned from selling Srimad Bhagavatam for only one month’s rent so you could establish a temple and then a society. You have given me a place to come home to, and a place where my son now eagerly asks to come to on a daily basis. Even a two-year-old boy can see and hear and know Krishna, and transform his little heart to be peaceful and joyful and filled with wonder. What’s more, he gets to know you - by coming to your murti and touching your feet, he gets to solemnly whisper, “Padupad” and offer you a flower to smell.

You are here with us, giving meaning and purpose to every breath we take, whether by absorbing our minds in the words of the scriptures - “The Blessed Lord said:” - or by standing upon the marble of these temple floors to receive darshan of the Lord. Thank you, Srila Prabhupad. I pray that I may always take shelter of your books to purify my heart and lift my soul to Krishna, and may I bring a humble heart to take shelter of the Lord in the temple and the devotees.

Your aspiring servant,

Bhakti lata dasi

From Fever to Peace

 "Where should I put this dish?" my friend Shyamala asked. She held a wet bowl in her hand. 

I groaned. "Over there on the drying mat. Here, let me make some room." I stacked dishes and toddler cups and bowls in my arms and dashed around putting things away while my friends washed plates from our gathering that day. "You know what?" I said. "I've given up on this kitchen. I've given up on this place," 

"How come?" my friend Padma asked. 

"Just look! Nowhere to put dishes. All this mold and mildew around the sink. Everything crammed into the cabinets. I can't cook without getting stressed. I just want to move into my own home," I declared. "But the housing market is so outrageous, and we just can't afford to move on. I feel like my whole life is on pause,"

Both my friends nodded with kind eyes. But I couldn't help feel that my explanations were excuses, hiding my embarrassment at such a cluttered and unkempt kitchen. In fact, if you were to open any of the closet doors or drawers in my apartment, you would probably raise your eyebrows at the chaos. 

A few days later, I went on a japa meditation walk in the evening on my own, the breeze blowing, the sun setting beyond the trees, the stars just beginning to emerge. I looked over at the two-story house where my husband and I rented the ground floor, and a wave of warmth washed over me. I remembered the conversation with my friends, how I had declared that I had given up on this place, but really, I loved living here. Sure, the place needed some upgrades, but if I could, I would live here forever (on both floors). The legalities of ever owning it, however, were beyond complicated. And at the end of the day, we had just outgrown the space of our ground floor a long time ago. We needed a whole house. 

Didn't we? 

I turned my gaze to the sky and found my first star. I had been suffering from this escalating case of  house fever for the past year, and had religiously wished on my first star to move into our dream home soon. More like, ASAP. 

Tonight, though, I found myself walking a new prayer path: Please break this house fever and allow me to be at peace, even if that means staying where we are. 

We soon officially found a real estate agent and I asked hard-hitting questions about all kind of possibilities. I kept getting slammed by the reality of the cost of owning a home in our current situation. I had spoken to many people over the years who were "house poor" - owning a beautiful home but drowning in the upkeep. I began to realize that this was my experience growing up - even as a kid and teenager, I experienced quite clearly the stress over the mortgage, the worry about the utility bills, the anxiety about repair costs. 

One night after my son and husband had gone to bed and all the lights were out, I turned to the glowing screen of my phone and asked Google a nervous, desperate question: How much of my monthly income should I spend on a mortgage? 

I'll never forget the answer that came back to me, so black and white: The 28% Rule. Do not spend more than 28% of your total income on rent/mortgage. 

My house fever broke. 

This is it. This lovely, seemingly cramped place is it, where we can live within our means and be happy and peaceful financially, so that we can focus on loving relationships and on God. 

The next morning, I moved my desk into my room and immediately felt a click that yes - this place could work because I could work. I then targeted the infamous kitchen, the room I had never fully accepted or enjoyed since moving in five years ago. While the house fever went down, the physical chaos went up. Furniture and kitchen utensils and shoes and clothing and toys and paintbrushes... all flushed out into the light of day and analyzed - keep? sell? give away? recycle? 

The weeks wore on, and organization exhaustion began to filter in. I wondered if we would ever reach the end, if we would ever reach peace.  

One day, I was cooking lunch when I realized I could place a dish to dry with ease. In fact, my kitchen had been so thoroughly reorganized and redecorated that I found myself relishing being in the humble little space where I could feed my family with joy. (What's more, new countertops were to be installed soon!)

I then realized that I felt at ease in my entire home. We now had plenty of space because we had made space.  

I had begun to realize that I would find frustrating shortcomings no matter where I lived, even if we found some million dollar home on Zillow.

So while I still long for a house home, the longing has become a quiet murmur, like a cat's purr.  

I often remember that seemingly long-ago evening where I wished upon my first star, and I experience a swelling of gratitude that Krishna answered my prayer. He has granted me peace - right here, right now.

Now my main longing has turned to welcoming deities of Radha and Krishna into our family. Since we have cleansed and organized the temple of our home, maybe Krishna will come join us. He makes every home perfect.