Śrī Vṛndāvana Dhāma, November 27th, 1976
Hari Śauri: Today is exactly a year since I joined Prabhupāda's party, and today, I made my greatest blunder.
In the morning, as usual, Prabhupāda went upstairs right after his breakfast to take his nap in the sunshine.
I escorted him through his rooftop room onto the back portion of the roof and left him lying comfortably on a mattress.
On previous visits to Vṛndāvana I have always remained on the roof with him, ready to serve whenever he awoke.
This summer, however, the devotees fitted a new bell system for Prabhupāda to summon his servants even when he is on the roof.
By pressing a button attached to his desk inside the upper room, Prabhupāda can sound a bell both upstairs and downstairs.
So, thinking there was little point to staying upstairs while Prabhupāda was sleeping, I decided to go back down.
If Prabhupāda needed me he could simply ring the bell; I would hear it and respond immediately.
Off I went, back through the room, down the stairs, and eventually out onto the front entrance veranda where I ended up chitchatting with Ugraśravā and Citthārī.
After some time, I started to think that Prabhupāda seemed to be resting a little longer than usual.
I was waiting for his call, but the bell hadn't rung.
Looking at my watch, I was starting to think that maybe I should go up and see what was happening, but I was so engrossed in my prajalpa that I ignored my inner prompt and kept on talking.
Just as I was starting to feel some unease, Mahārathī dāsa, a visiting devotee from Germany who is staying in the guesthouse, suddenly ran from around the corner of the guesthouse stairs, angst written all over his face.
"Hari-śauri! Hari-śauri! Prabhupāda is trapped on the roof!"
I went into instant shock, and I knew immediately what had happened.
I raced through the house and up the back stairs full of anxiety and trepidation.
As I entered the room from the front door, I saw Śrīla Prabhupāda standing, glowering through the fly screen on the back door, waiting for me to open it.
It was sickenly clear what I had done.
Part of my early training with Śrīla Prabhupāda was to always shut doors and turn off lights and fans when leaving a room.
Thus, when I left him to sleep on the back section of the roof, I had returned through the room, shut the screen door behind me and in a stupor of automation slid the bolt, locking it from the inside.
Prabhupāda hadn't rung the bell on his desk, because he couldn't.
There was no time to offer obeisances.
I quickly slide the bolt back to free him from his imprisonment.
As I did so, Prabhupāda, glaring at me through the screen, shook his head and said simply, "You rascal! I've been waiting here for almost and hour!"
I opened the door, and he strode past without another word.
I was mortified. Prabhupāda's anger was beyond words.
There was no need for him to say anything, because the offense was so obvious and foolish.
He had woken up, and when he couldn't get into the room he had to wait on the roof for nearly an hour before Mahārathī happened to look over from his guesthouse room.
Signaling his attention, Prabhupāda shouted to him.
"Find Hari-śauri. He has kept me prisoner here!"
Downstairs, Prabhupāda sat behind his desk. He was calm but serious.
He was quite disgusted and told me, "Your brain is dull from too much voracious eating and sleeping."
I felt terrible. There was nothing to say in excuse; I simply apologized.
Prabhupāda nodded, said no more about it and, because it was already 11:30, repaired to the back garden for his massage.
So far as he was concerned, it was over.
He changed into his gamcha and sat on the straw mat in the sunshine.
Relaxed and at peace, with his eyes closed, basking in the gentle winter sunshine, he allowed me to rub and knead his head and body with sandalwood and mustard oils.
Even as I did this I felt burdened, as if a heavy cloud were hanging over me, and somehow less connected.
At the end of Prabhupāda's lunch I was still feeling the weight of my offense, despite my apology and his letting the matter rest.
I resolved in my mind what to do.
I followed him back up onto the roof, where he sat for a while in his rocking chair, relaxing after his meal, hand in bead bag, chanting the holy names.
I offered myself before him and stretched out flat on the ground in full-length obeisance.
Rising, I again apologized, this time as sincerely, penitently, and honestly as I could, and promised that such a thing would never happen again.
Prabhupāda smiled; and with that smile the oppressive shroud upon my heart instantly lifted.
He had accepted my genuine regret, and I felt immediately relieved of my offense.
My mind became clear again, and the invisible barrier formed by my misdeed dissipated.
"All right," Prabhupāda said kindly, "but you should be careful in the future to be attentive. Otherwise it will cause inconvenience to me."
Prabhupāda manifests his anger in different stages according to the degree of offense.
For lighter things quickly adjusted he may speak sternly or sarcastically, or sometimes even raise his voice.
It may be in some sense a routine part of spiritual guidance; as he said the other morning, it is the duty of the guru to chastize the disciple.
When Prabhupāda has to break through a thicker covering of false ego and ignorance, he may manifest a stage further, sitting bolt upright, stiff and straight, face flushed, top lip quivering on the left side.
Stern and uncompromising, he may shout at the top of his voice and will not accept any argument or discussion until his intent gets through.
This is a daunting experience to go through, and thoroughly cleansing; it requires full surrender by the recipient to accommodate.
But the process is visible and open, and it is Śrīla Prabhupāda's own effort that makes it clear what he wants and what you have to do.
I saw this with his chastisement of Tamal Krishna Goswāmī in March, when Prabhupāda ordered him to go to China.
Finally, there is the unspeakable offense, one so bad—an exhibition of such foolishness or waywardness—that out of deep disgust Prabhupāda doesn't say a word.
There is no shouting to crash through the dullness of your consciousness and shake you from your stupor, no pushing, no insistence, no display of dissatisfaction to crack your ego into line.
You are simply left to stew in the consequences of your own idiocy.
This I saw when Puṣṭa Kṛṣṇa Swāmī crashed Prabhupāda's Mercedes on the way to Delhi in April.
It requires some deep soul searching and humility, and the abdication of any sense of defense or self-justification on the part of the offender to right the wrong and regain the mercy of the guru.
I have already experienced the benefit of the first two stages, and now I have had the third.
I hope never to commit such an offense again.
My lesson in humility complete, Prabhupāda and I sat for a few minutes, he in his chair, me at his feet.
—Hari Śauri
[22. Biographies and Glorification of Śrīla Prabhupāda / A Transcendental Diary Volume 5 - Hari Śauri dāsa / Volume Five]
Comments
Lol! Nothing funny here, folks. Devotional service is personal, one takes responsibility anytime one associates with a great or powerful person. Then the standards are just standard; what the person likes or wants is what is important mostly. It would scare the total heck out of me if Srila Prabhupada said something chastising, i would be a wreck.