Chapter 38 – The Dark Ages Begin

In the wake of Śrīla Prabhupāda’s departure, Mahārāja did not know what to expect. Indeed, amongst all of Prabhupāda’s disciples, there was a prevailing mood of grief and uncertainty.  The movement was entering into completely uncharted territory. For years, everything had revolved around Prabhupāda – his presence, his instructions, his decisions. Now, suddenly, his disciples had to carry on without him. There was still much to be done and many unanswered questions, but no one was quite sure how things would unfold.

In the meantime, Mahārāja remained in Minneapolis–Saint Paul for the Christmas saṅkīrtana marathon. His plan was to travel back and forth between the United States and India, but he was missing one essential ingredient.

Narasiṅgha Mahārāja: The key thing you had to have in the United States as a sannyāsī, was a van. Usually, you could get one with the help of somebody or a temple – they would give you a van, or they would sell you a van on payments. I arranged to get a van from Tripurārī Swami, because of all the service that I had done for the Rādhā-Dāmodara Party during the Christmas Marathon in Minneapolis–Saint Paul. He also gave me two brahmacārīs whose names were Śāśvata and Raghunātha.

By the time January rolled around, Mahārāja had left Minneapolis–Saint Paul with his new van and brahmacārīs, and was on his way to the ISKCON temple in Philadelphia. The president, Ravindra Svarūpa Dāsa, had heard of Mahārāja’s experience in dealing with the Indian community and asked him to assist with their collection program among the local Hindus. In between visiting Hindus and making life-members, Mahārāja kept himself busy reviving the temple’s failing candle business and renovating the lobby. Mahārāja was extremely popular in the temple, especially with the brahmacārīs who were always eager to get his association and hear him talk.

While in Philadelphia, Mahārāja also introduced the devotees to the Śrīla Prabhupāda Stotram, composed by Ananta-rāma Śāstrī, which was regularly chanted for Prabhupāda in Māyāpura. (See Ch. 26)

At the end of February, Mahārāja renewed his visa and flew to India to attend the annual Gaura Pūrṇimā festival in Māyāpura. For Prabhupāda’s disciples, this was to be the first Gaura Pūrṇimā there without the presence of their guru. This alone cast a strange shadow over the entire festival.

However, another incident was about to unfold – one that would cast a much darker shadow, not only over the Māyāpura festival, but over the entire movement.

In July 1977, before his departure, Śrīla Prabhupāda had named eleven disciples to act as ṛtviks, or representatives, to initiate new disciples on his behalf:

Tamāla-Kṛṣṇa Gosvāmī
Hṛdayānanda Dāsa Gosvāmī
Satsvarūpa Dāsa Gosvāmī
Bhavānanda Gosvāmī
Kīrtanānanda Swami
Jayapatāka Swami
Haṁsadūta Swami
Harikeśa Swami
Rāmeśvara Swami
Jayatīrtha Dāsa Adhikārī
Bhagavān Dāsa Adhikārī

Since Prabhupāda was by then too ill to travel and could no longer personally oversee the growing number of initiations taking place around the world, he delegated this responsibility to these eleven senior disciples. Until then, prospective disciples had generally been recommended to Prabhupāda for his personal approval, after which the local temple president or another senior devotee would perform the initiation ceremony on his behalf. The new arrangement placed the responsibility for accepting candidates with the eleven representatives, who were assigned different geographical areas and would initiate on Prabhupāda’s behalf.

At the time, there was no clear indication in the instructions that these eleven were being appointed as Prabhupāda’s successors or as new ācāryas. They were simply representatives acting on his behalf.

After Prabhupāda’s departure, however, the meaning of this arrangement would become a matter of intense controversy. At the Māyāpura festival in 1978, the GBC announced that the eleven ṛtviks would now act as initiating gurus in their own right. For many devotees, this came as a profound shock, and what followed would have repercussions throughout ISKCON for decades to come.

Narasiṅgha Mahārāja: Out of the blue, we were all told that suddenly, these eleven devotees were all paramahaṁsas, and they had been chosen directly by Śrīla Prabhupāda. That’s what they became known as – the Chosen Eleven. If they’d just picked one more, it would have sounded more Biblical! I knew a couple of these guys pretty well, and it was clear to me that they were not paramahaṁsas! 

I was never ‘in’ with the big-shots. I wasn’t part of Tamāla’s group, or Haṁsadūta’s, or Guru-kṛpā’s boys. I spent most of my time with the ordinary devotees – means the general devotees. I wasn’t privy to what was going on behind the scenes, so when all this came out, I was just as surprised as everyone else. Some devotees think that as a sannyāsī, you were aware of everything that was going on behind the scenes, but that wasn’t the case. Most of us were just trying to do our service and had no idea about all the shenanigans going on.

Many devotees simply accepted the appointment of the eleven gurus, trusting that the GBC knew what they were doing. Others, however, were less certain. Prabhupāda had been gone barely four months, and now eleven of their godbrothers were instantly being promoted as paramahaṁsas. In fact, even before the GBC meetings in Māyāpura, Kīrtanānanda and Haṁsadūta had already started initiating disciples! Beneath the surface, questions were already beginning to arise – questions that would become increasingly difficult to ignore in the months and years ahead.

As with many of the devotees, Mahārāja felt uncomfortable and suspicious, but decided to wait and see what would happen. After Māyāpura, most of the devotees went to Vṛndāvana for the annual festival and Mahārāja joined them.

Mahārāja and a large group of devotees took a train from Krishnagar to Calcutta, from where they would continue on to Vṛndāvana. As he sat quietly in the train compartment, memories of Śrīla Prabhupāda came flooding back. The Gaura Pūrṇimā festival had brought with it many happy memories of Prabhupāda in Māyāpura, making his absence now all the more poignant.

Narasiṅgha Mahārāja: I was feeling a little shell-shocked and I can remember clearly that I wasn’t my jovial, boisterous, aggressive self. I was more timid, shy, upset, and unsure of my footing. I was sitting in the same compartment as this brahmacārī called Dhīra-Kṛṣṇa from LA. Later, he became Bhakti Sudhīra Gosvāmī. He was on the sannyāsa list for that year, so he was already on fire. He was opposite me, reading a book or something.

Then suddenly, an Indian sitting nearby asks me some question – I can’t remember what it was, but I didn’t answer the question to Dhīra Kṛṣṇa’s satisfaction. He just jumps in there and hard-balls the answer. Then, after he’s finished answering the guy, he turns on me and goes, “That’s what sannyāsa means! Sannyāsa means preaching!!” He scolded me for not being up to his standard. Totally acidic! I just shrugged my shoulders – like, “Whatever!”

On arriving in Vṛndāvana, Mahārāja met his old friend, Dr. Sharma, who immediately asked him for the latest news from Māyāpura. When Mahārāja told him about the sweeping changes in the movement, Sharma sighed.
After a pause, he asked, “What does this mean for Vṛndāvana?”
“Well Sharma-jī, Akṣayānanda Swami isn’t the temple president anymore,” Mahārāja replied. “He’s been made the senior manager, and Guru-kṛpā Swami has taken over as temple president. He’s also been made the GBC for Vṛndāvana.”
Sharma nodded quietly then asked, “And who will be the guru for Vṛndāvana?”
Mahārāja thought for a moment. It was strange to hear such a phrase – “who would be the guru for Vṛndāvana?” Prabhupāda had always been the guru – not just for Vṛndāvana, but for everywhere in ISKCON. The very notion that someone would replace him was unthinkable.
Kṛṣṇa-Balarāma Temple had more of Prabhupāda’s disciples than any other temple in India, and with Guru-kṛpā now serving as both temple president and GBC, he felt it would be difficult for any of the new gurus to establish much of a foothold there. Guru-kṛpā was fiercely protective of Prabhupāda’s temple and had a strong, independent personality; he was unlikely to simply step aside and allow his godbrothers to establish their own spheres of influence in Vṛndāvana.
When Mahārāja told this to Dr. Sharma, the wise gurukula principal looked down at the ground and gave a wane smile – a smile of someone who had seen enough of the world to know how these things usually played out.
“We’ll see,” he replied.

******

The end of April saw Narasiṅgha Mahārāja returning to the United States, and to the Philadelphia temple, where his two brahmacārīs were waiting for him. While he had been in India, they had been collecting for the temple, but now that Mahārāja was back, his plan was to take them out on travelling saṅkīrtana in his van.

This news did not please the temple president.

As far as Ravindra Svarūpa was concerned, the two brahmacārīs had spent the last couple of months collecting for Philadelphia and were, for all practical purposes, now part of his saṅkīrtana team. He had no intention of watching two dedicated book distributors drive off into the sunset with an itinerant sannyāsī.

Mahārāja had foreseen that this might become a problem, and in an attempt to pacify Ravindra, he had some expensive new crowns made for the Philadelphia Deities while he was in Vṛndāvana. Unfortunately, the gesture did little to assuage the temple president’s ire.

And it was not only Ravindra Svarūpa who was annoyed with Mahārāja and his brahmacārīs. One evening, while Raghunātha was chanting japa near the pūjārī room, Ravindra’s wife came off the altar carrying Lord Jagannātha’s mahā-prasāda garland, smacked him in the face with it, and stormed off. When Raghunātha recounted the incident to Mahārāja, he laughed and said, “Well, I guess you got Jagannātha’s mercy this evening!”

Things between Ravindra and Mahārāja became increasingly tense. One day, Mahārāja was walking down the temple corridor when he noticed a bunch of kid’s toys lying in his path, left by Ravindra’s baby son. Amongst them was a large beach ball. Alone and frustrated by his ongoing dispute with Ravindra, he gave it a mighty kick down the corridor. At that very moment, Ravindra stepped out of a side door. The beach ball flew straight into his face, knocking him to the floor. Mahārāja immediately ducked into a nearby broom closet and escaped detection. Fortunately, Ravindra Svarūpa was none the wiser.

Finally, despite all of Ravindra’s protests, Mahārāja took his men and drove to New Jersey. Throughout May and June, they continued distributing books until Mahārāja was struck by another bout of recurring malaria. Seeing how badly he was affected, Śaśvata and Raghunātha decided it would be best to return to the Philadelphia temple and let Mahārāja recuperate there. However, it wasn’t long before Mahārāja was back on his feet, and he continued collecting for rest of the Summer season.

When Mahārāja was in the Philadelphia temple, Ravindra Svarūpa would sometimes visit him in his room and make some light conversation. Mahārāja noticed that during their talks, Ravindra would constantly glance at a very large, ornate brass acamana cup and spoon which sat on Mahārāja’s desk.

Narasiṅgha Mahārāja: I’d picked it up at an emporium in Delhi. It was like a centerpiece. You’d come in my room and you couldn’t help but notice it and ask, “Wow! Where did you get that, Mahārāja?”
I was planning to go back to India, and on my last day in the temple, I was upstairs packing my things during the Bhāgavatam class which Ravindra was giving. I looked at the acamana cup and thought, “Oh, I’ll just give this to Ravindra.”
As I came downstairs, the class had just ended. Ravindra was coming out of the temple room into the lobby with all the devotees. I just walked right up to him in front of everybody and gave him this big brass acamana cup and spoon. He looked at me like I was a ghost and spluttered out a “T-t-t-thank you, Mahārāja.”
Then I went to put my bags in the van to go to the airport, and all the brahmacārīs were following me and laughing. One of them said, “That was classic, Mahārāja!”
I was like, “What was?”
He looks at another brahmacārī and says, “Go on – tell him!”
Then the brahmacārīs tell me that for forty-five minutes, Ravindra’s whole class was about how a sannyāsī should not be attached even to his water-pot. They said, “Everybody knew that he was talking about you and your fancy water pot upstairs – and then you came down and just gave it to him! That just blew everybody’s mind!”

Before arriving at JFK Airport to fly to Delhi, Mahārāja changed into civilian clothes. He had been told that the Indian government was keeping a close watch on foreign missionaries, and he had been advised to travel as an ordinary tourist rather than presenting himself conspicuously as an ISKCON sannyāsī. He checked in, handed over his luggage, and settled into his seat for the long flight to India.

Sitting by the window, Mahārāja slipped on his sunglasses, folded his arms, and, as the plane climbed into the sky, gradually began to doze off.

Suddenly, he heard a sound – a familiar voice. High-pitched, authoritarian, nasal, unmistakably American – it came from the seat directly in front of him, cutting through the ether like a buzz saw. There was no mistaking it. Mahārāja knew exactly who it belonged to.

It was Tamāla-Kṛṣṇa Gosvāmī.