By Patita Pavana das
Vrindavana, 1974-5: It might have been the always-blissful English brahmachary Gunarnava or maybe the philosophical Scottish devotee Smara Hari who approached me with the news. “Hey, Patit,” he called, “A sadhu just asked Shrila Prabhupada for initiation.” “Wow, good luck to that Maharaja,” I chuckled pessimistically. After all, we had both been Prabhupada’s disciples for a number of years, and had been in India long enough to know that most sadhus preferred to keep their distance from us “phoren bhaktas”. Sure, most of the yogis and renunciates appreciated the fact that we were doing our level best, but they were reticent about mingling; maybe rightfully so. There were the wild rumors that we were foreign spies, or that we had strange parties into the night, but I doubt any intelligent person took those seriously. “Hey, Patit,” he called, “A sadhu just asked Shrila Prabhupada for initiation.” “Wow, good luck to that Maharaja,” I chuckled pessimistically. After all, we had both been Prabhupada’s disciples for a number of years, and had been in India long enough to know that most sadhus preferred to keep their distance from us “phoren bhaktas”