[an
excerpt from Back to Godhead Issue 5, 1978]
This story still amazes me. It happened in England in
1969, when we were just opening the London temple (in Bloomsbury, near the
British Museum). Śrīla Prabhupāda had come, and he was talking with the more
experienced devotees and confirming their projects. "Yes," he would
say—"do it very nicely," and "Very good—make it first
class." For instance, Mukunda was to continue his efforts in public
relations and another devotee was to carry on his work in renovating the
building.
So I said, "Śrīla
Prabhupāda, everyone seems to have something to do—can you give me something to
do?"
"No," he said,
gently but firmly. "What would you like to do for Krishna?"
"I don't know, Śrīla
Prabhupāda," I said. "I've never thought about it. But can't you give
me something to do anyway?"
"No," he told me
again. "Just try to understand our Krishna conscious philosophy: you
should decide what you want to do for Krishna."
I felt really thickheaded. All my life I'd been taught not to think
about God at all, or to think about what I wanted Him to do for me. But
somehow, a long while later, I got an idea.
"Śrīla Prabhupāda, I was
thinking that I'd like to make a synthetic version of the clay drums we play
when we're chanting Hare Krishna. We could even mass-produce them."
He smiled at me warmly and
chuckled, "Yes. That is a good idea. But you must make them unbreakable.
Otherwise these Western devotees will simply throw them down like clay
pots."
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