WHEN ABHAY ARRIVED in Mathurā, he sought out Keśava Mahārāja, who was now establishing his maṭha, and presented him with the Deity of Lord Caitanya. At Keśava Mahārāja’s request, Abhay agreed to stay there and edit the Gauḍīya Patrikā. Abhay was given a room, and for the first time (aside from brief visits) he lived in a maṭha with his Godbrothers. As a senior, experienced devotee, Abhay held classes and instructed the brahmacārīs – who were young, uneducated, and even illiterate – in the disciplines of devotional service and the philosophy of Bhagavad-gītā.

He had only recently begun his duties when Bhaktisāraṅga Gosvāmī, another sannyāsī Godbrother, asked Bhaktivedanta Prabhu to assist him in New Delhi at his āśrama, Gaudiya Sangha. Both Keśava Mahārāja and Bhaktisāraṅga Gosvāmī recognized Abhay as an accomplished writer and editor and wanted to work with him. It was accepted amongst Śrīla Bhaktisiddhānta’s disciples that A. C. Bhaktivedanta Prabhu was an expert preacher and writer, whether in English, Hindi, or Bengali. Now Keśava Mahārāja wanted Abhay to stay and work on the Gauḍīya Patrikā, while Bhaktisāraṅga Mahārāja, who had to go to Bengal, was requesting him to come to Delhi to produce The Harmonist (known in Hindi as Sajjana-toṣaṇī). Abhay was agreeable to Bhaktisāraṅga Gosvāmī’s proposition, and Keśava Mahārāja consented, on the condition that Abhay also continue to edit the Gauḍīya Patrikā, at least by mail.

As an editor Abhay was in his element, and he was happy to preach in cooperation with his Godbrothers. Although Abhay didn’t consider himself an accomplished scholar or author, Śrīla Bhaktisiddhānta Sarasvatī had been pleased by his writings and had encouraged him to continue, and now these senior sannyāsīs of Bhaktisiddhānta Sarasvatī were turning to him for help. They were practically competing to see who would get the benefit of his services. Perhaps, Abhay thought, this should be his life’s work: serving humbly under the direction of his Godbrothers.

His ejection from Jhansi had been a kind of setback; at least it had left him temporarily unsure of how Kṛṣṇa wanted to use him. But now his Godbrothers seemed to be answering the question. Living and working in an āśrama with brahmacārīs and sannyāsīs was a way of life Abhay had once considered too austere. And Bhaktisiddhānta Sarasvatī had remarked, “Better he live outside your company.” But now he would either have to struggle alone, with nothing, or stay within the shelter of a friendly portion of the Gaudiya Math. Perhaps he could carry out his desires to preach Kṛṣṇa consciousness within the āśramas of his Godbrothers.

Since he would soon be the editor of Sajjana-toṣaṇī, he began thinking of how to expand it. It was a scholarly Vaiṣṇava journal, but cheaply produced and with a very limited circulation. He envisioned it surpassing India’s slick Illustrated Weekly; it should be more popular than Time or Life magazines of America. And why not? Kṛṣṇa was no poor man. Abhay thought of how he could start an ambitious subscription program by approaching the many prominent and wealthy men of New Delhi. Then, by Kṛṣṇa’s grace, he would soon be able to print color photos and use high-quality paper for Sajjana-toṣaṇī. He would give it his best effort, depending on Kṛṣṇa. And while soliciting subscribers, he could take his book manuscripts and try to get them published. Dr. Allagappa in South India had wanted to publish his Geetopanishad; no doubt there were many men like him. Or perhaps Bhaktisāraṅga Gosvāmī would be willing to publish Abhay’s works with funds from the Gaudiya Sangha.

Abhay soon received a letter from Bhaktisāraṅga Gosvāmī’s assistant, carefully instructing him how to travel to Delhi at the least expense. He was to travel by train third class to Delhi and from there take a ṭāṅgā. Since ṭāṅgās at the station gate charged too much, Abhay should first walk about a hundred meters towards the right-hand side of the station, where he would find a cheaper one. Were he to ride alone, he should pay no more than one rupee and twelve annas, but he should try to share the ṭāṅgā with another passenger – that would be cheaper. “Keeping the crematorium to your left-hand side,” the assistant instructed him, “if you look towards the right, then you will be able to see our red flag and the signboard written in Hindi and English. When you reach here, we will pay for the ṭāṅgā.”

At the Gaudiya Sangha, Abhay found a disconcerting state of affairs. In the absence of their guru, Bhaktisāraṅga Gosvāmī, the brahmacārīs were quarreling and shirking their duties, and as a result the preaching and donation-gathering were being neglected. Cleanliness, Deity worship, cooking, and even peace amongst the devotees were below standard. And like most of the maṭhas of his Godbrothers, the Gaudiya Sangha was poor. Abhay had come thinking he would be editing a magazine, but he found himself contending with a group of quarreling neophyte devotees. He learned that the brahmacārī responsible for giving public lectures had not done any preaching, the devotees who had previously been holding kīrtanas in people’s homes were now negligent, and the errand boy refused to run because he had lost his bicycle. Then a brahmacārī handed Abhay a letter from Bhaktisāraṅga Gosvāmī requesting him to take up the general management of the maṭha.

And Abhay found other obstacles in trying to produce Sajjana-toṣaṇī: no typewriter, and bad relations with the printer.

In a few days, Abhay received another letter from Bhaktisāraṅga Gosvāmī, telling him what articles to print, cautioning him not to change essential elements in the magazine, and reminding him of his special duty:

Abhay saw that he could do no editorial work until the laxity and petty quarreling in the āśrama stopped. But when he tried to help as Bhaktisāraṅga Gosvāmī had directed, some of the devotees rebelled and even wrote to their spiritual master complaining.

Abhay never heard from his Godbrother directly, but received further instructions from Bhaktisāraṅga Gosvāmī’s secretary, Rāmānanda, who pointed out various mistakes in the issue, without mentioning whether Bhaktisāraṅga had been pleased with it. The errors were mostly technical matters of style: Abhay had done the contents page in a different way and had not printed Bhaktisāraṅga Gosvāmī’s name exactly as he had wanted it on all his articles. Regarding Abhay’s request for a typewriter, Rāmānanda wrote that if “the matters are distinctly written there is no necessity of them being given to the printer in typewriting.”

Abhay wrote to Bhaktisāraṅga Gosvāmī requesting him to return to Delhi and establish a peaceful atmosphere in the maṭha. Regarding Sajjana-toṣaṇī, Bhaktisāraṅga Gosvāmī had suggested that the paper for the cover be improved and that the whole magazine be done on nicer paper by an up-to-date press, and Abhay agreed. But improvements depended on money.

Abhay further reported that since it was almost impossible to expect a printer to work speedily from handwritten manuscripts, he had already rented a typewriter. He also mentioned his ideas for increasing the number of subscribers.

Abhay’s son Brindaban came to live with him for a few months at the Gaudiya Sangha. There was no question of Abhay’s returning to his family, and Brindaban simply associated with his father, following the routines of the maṭha and helping Abhay in his duties.

One day a prominent advocate, the president of the Hindu Mahasabha, paid an unexpected visit to the Gaudiya Sangha. The maṭha was mostly deserted, and there was no prasādam on hand, so Abhay and Brindaban received the prominent guest, cooking for him, offering him prasādam, and acquainting him with the activities of the Sangha.

When Abhay wasn’t busy managing the disorganized maṭha and working on Gauḍīya Patrikā and Sajjana-toṣaṇī, he spent his time preparing a Hindi translation of Caitanya-caritāmṛta. Although he was more accustomed to writing in English and Bengali, he reasoned that as long as he was preaching in Hindi-speaking areas, such a book would be important.

But Bhaktisāraṅga replied through a brief postcard that they should print no more than five hundred.

Abhay continued his attempts to improve Sajjana-toṣaṇī. For him it was not a perfunctory duty but absorbing preaching. In a letter to Bhaktisāraṅga Gosvāmī, he expressed anxiety over waiting for him to send articles for the next issue. Funds were scarce – so scarce that Abhay had no decent dhotī – and yet he continued to envision a glorious future for Sajjana-toṣaṇī.

Abhay also requested that Bhaktisāraṅga Gosvāmī help him publish his Hindi Caitanya-caritāmṛta. Some “non-Bengalee gentlemen” were demanding the book and had assured Abhay that they would pay twenty-five rupees per volume. Abhay requested a loan of six hundred rupees, under any arrangement suitable to Bhaktisāraṅga Gosvāmī, for publishing the first part of this work. “If this part is sold out,” Abhay wrote, “the other parts will automatically come out.”

But just as life in the Gaudiya Sangha and work on the Sajjana-toṣaṇī under Bhaktisāraṅga Gosvāmī’s hand produced strain for Abhay, Abhay’s ambitions for increased circulation and his strong editorial opinions also created strain for Bhaktisāraṅga Gosvāmī. In response to Abhay’s letter, Bhaktisāraṅga Gosvāmī’s secretary, Rāmānanda, wrote a letter full of flowery praises of Bhaktivedanta Prabhu, but with the intent of dismissing him from his position with the Gaudiya Sangha.

It was not a fact that Abhay was being called for leadership in Keśava Mahārāja’s parikrama, although it was a good excuse for Rāmānanda’s suggesting that Abhay leave the Gaudiya Sangha. So after living as a dutiful member in the āśramas of Keśava Mahārāja and Bhaktisāraṅga Mahārāja, Abhay was again on his own.

Without income or institutional shelter, Abhay began staying in various homes in Delhi, living from week to week wherever he received an invitation. In terms of food, clothing, and shelter, these were the most difficult times he had ever gone through. Since his childhood, there had always been plenty of food and good clothes and no question of where he would live. He had been the pet child of his father, and he had received special guidance and affection from Śrīla Bhaktisiddhānta Sarasvatī. But now Abhay sometimes felt alone.

Homeless, he moved around Delhi from one temporary residence to another – a Viṣṇu temple, a room at the Kapoor College of Commerce. But he was seeking donors, preaching from Bhagavad-gītā, writing. His goal wasn’t to find a permanent residence but to print his transcendental literature and to establish (or join forces with) a pure, powerful movement for spreading Kṛṣṇa consciousness.

Abhay made a list of several books he wanted to publish.

But to print he needed donors. He called on wealthy men in their offices and homes, presenting his manuscripts and explaining his mission. He had a list of donors, but few responded. And when he did receive a donation, it was usually only five or ten rupees. Occasionally he would receive a letter of appreciation or endorsement.

One appreciation came from Narain Dass Rai Bahadur, a retired executive engineer and secretary of the Birla Mandir Trust, who had attended a public reading Abhay had held in the presence of a popular guru, Mother Anandamoyee. Impressed by Abhay’s reading from his Hindi Caitanya-caritāmṛta, Mother Anandamoyee had donated fifty rupees and suggested that Abhay also visit a well-known sādhu, Sri Hari Baba, who was lying ill in the hospital. Abhay, accompanied by Narain Dass, had then visited Hari Baba, who had claimed that Abhay’s reading put him into ecstasy. Meanwhile, Narain Dass was becoming inclined to help, and in December he wrote a letter suggesting that everyone “extend their helping hand for the successful publication of Shri A. C. Bhaktivedanta’s various writings in Hindi, English, and Bengali. I wish him all success in his noble attempt.”

Abhay would show this and other such letters to prospective supporters. In Delhi it was not difficult to see government ministers, judges, lawyers, business executives, religious heads; there was always someone willing to hear seriously and, occasionally, to offer support. Thus Abhay, with the two dhotīs and kurtās the Gaudiya Sangha had supplied him, with his ability to preach and convince, but with little support and no fixed residence, continued his preaching, undaunted.

Writing and trying to publish was only half his effort; the other half was taking part in efforts for a world movement like the League of Devotees. Through Narain Dass, Abhay inquired whether there might be a way he could do his work under the auspices of the Birla Mandir (one of the largest and richest temples in Delhi). Abhay proposed that he be put in charge of propaganda in the English language, both within India and abroad. Since Narain Dass considered himself a follower of sanātana-dharma, Abhay wrote to him explaining how the teachings of Bhagavad-gītā set forth the real sanātana-dharma. Abhay had many ideas about how sanātana-dharma, as the eternal religion for all living beings, could be expanded and practically applied – if Narain Dass would but help him.

Abhay promised that as soon as he had done some groundwork, he, along with men and equipment, could start for foreign countries to propagate this missionary work. But he admitted also that he was externally in dire straits: “Kindly do arrange for the above immediately and give me a proper place to live. I must remove from this temporary quarter by Monday next latest.”

The directors of the Birla Mandir did not take Abhay up on his offer. But he thought of another way of engaging them: he would hold a public meeting at the Birla Mandir to help generate interest in the League of Devotees. He approached Shri R. N. Agarwal, president of the Delhi Municipal Committee, who, after hearing the names of several respectable people who would be attending, agreed to preside over the meeting. Abhay set the date for December 22 and printed five hundred announcements and two hundred invitation cards.

Striking a cosmopolitan note, he stated in his announcement, “By the grace of the Almighty, Delhi is becoming … the centre of cultural association of the world.” The leaders of both Russia and India had recently pointed to the need for cultural contact between all nations. But the highest culture, Abhay suggested, was scientific spiritual knowledge; therefore, the best cultural resources in the world existed in India. And these resources, Abhay stressed, should not be left to the unorganized sādhus and sannyāsīs, but should be taken up by important members of society in an organized way.

The December 22 Hindustan Times listed the meeting of the League of Devotees in the “Today’s Engagements” column, along with announcements for meetings of the Rotary Club, the Tagore Society, the Indian Council of World Affairs, Bharat Scouts, and the Indian Pharmaceutical Congress.

The League’s meeting began with a kīrtana led by Professor H. Chand, and then A. C. Bhaktivedanta, founder and secretary of the League of Devotees, explained his movement’s objectives. Then Narain Dass spoke and afterwards read a number of proposed resolutions from the founder-secretary attesting that the persons present supported the League of Devotees and that they recommended that the central government of India also support it as a movement for world peace based on Gandhian principles. After adoption of the resolutions, the meeting closed with another kīrtana and prasādam.

Abhay was convinced that if his well-wishers and fellow humanitarians would support him on a grand scale, he could create a movement for world peace, based on the principles of devotional service to Lord Kṛṣṇa. But his role was simply to present Kṛṣṇa consciousness to whomever he could. The results were up to Kṛṣṇa. Abhay was aware that the good intentions of most of the participants in his Birla Mandir meeting would not go past that one meeting. But he wasn’t discouraged. Through all his tireless evangelism, he maintained a philosophic jollity. In one sense he was already fully satisfied; he was happy to be working on behalf of his spiritual master.

He had not published Back to Godhead in four years (since 1952), but he decided to revive it. Back to Godhead was a mission worthy of his full attention, and it took all his efforts – to collect the funds, compose the articles, see to the printing, and then distribute a thousand copies. The money he would raise by obtaining interviews and soliciting donations. One donor and friend was Justice Bipin Chandra Mishra, a Supreme Court judge in New Delhi.

Justice Mishra: He used to come to me once a month. I gave him donations for his paper. It was only a four-page magazine, but it showed his study of the subject and his earnestness and his devotion to Lord Kṛṣṇa. He appeared to be a very simple man and modest, and it was pleasant to talk to him. He had a smiling demeanor. The main thing was his humility. He could talk with affection and confidence, and he knew we were discussing things near to God. So every talk with him would sublimate us.

I was a rather important personality at that time in religious affairs. But he would not be expected to make any contribution to the main religious life of Delhi at that time because of the language difficulty, because his aim was to reach the English-educated persons, not the Hindi ones. And also, because his means and his popularity were not at all established, the magazine did not have a wide appeal among these people. Other religious leaders were all well established. The only thing that impressed one and was worth noticing at that time was the simplicity of his abiding faith in God’s name and His mission.

Writing articles was no problem. By the grace of his spiritual master, he was neither short of ideas nor unable to set them down. Translating and commenting on the Vaiṣṇava scriptures, his pen flowed freely. He was inspired by the miracle of the press, the bṛhad-mṛdaṅga. The work of writing his message down and printing it a thousand times – with the awareness and urgency of speaking directly to everyone, not just people in Delhi or India, but everyone – put Abhay into an ecstatic meditation. He would contemplate how copies of Back to Godhead could reach thoughtful people who might read them gratefully.

Nor was maintenance a problem. In the Śrīmad-Bhāgavatam, Śukadeva Gosvāmī had declared that a devotee’s problem was not food, clothing, or shelter. If one had no bed, he could always lie on the ground and use his arms for a pillow. For clothes he could always find some rejected garments in the street. For food he could live on fruits from the trees. And for lodging he could stay in the mountain caves. Nature supplies all necessities; a transcendentalist should not flatter materialists to maintain himself. Of course, Abhay wasn’t living in the mountains or jungle but in the city of New Delhi, yet he had virtually adopted the renounced mode Śukadeva had suggested – not to punish his body or prove himself pure and uncompromising, but because he had to live in poverty if he wanted to regularly produce Back to Godhead.

For Abhay it was a great labor of love, and purchasing paper for printing became a priority even before eating. Neglecting his personal needs for preaching was a manifestation of his faith in Kṛṣṇa, of which Abhay suffered no scarcity. He had full faith that if he served Kṛṣṇa, he would be provided for. To work alone was not an insurmountable problem; it was pleasant and simple. It was better than having to manage the neophyte inmates of the Gaudiya Sangha. The ecstasy of working hard to serve his spiritual master was not a problem. The problem was the condition of the world.

According to the śāstras, the current age, Kali-yuga, would create continual degradation in society. And Abhay could see this evidenced every day in Delhi. Delhi, formerly known as Hastināpura, had been the ancient capital of King Yudhiṣṭhira, who, five thousand years before, under the patronage of Lord Kṛṣṇa had been the most opulent king in the world and whose citizens had been fully protected and provided for. Now, after a thousand years of foreign subjugation, India was again independent, and New Delhi was the capital.

Yet even in Abhay’s relatively brief sixty years of experience, he had seen Indian culture – which in his childhood had retained much of the original purity of the Vedic age – degrade. Now he saw a society in which his countrymen were victimized by the propaganda that they could be happy in gross materialistic indulgence. The British had introduced tea, tobacco, meat, and factories; and now, even after independence, these were a part of India’s new way of life. Having driven away the British, the Indians were imitating Western ways, and India’s leaders were deliberately ignoring the Vedic principles of God consciousness, the very treasures India was meant to distribute to the whole world. Abhay had seen how India had abandoned her spiritual heritage and gone running after the modernization of the West – but now, where was that material advancement? Were Indians any happier in their independence than they had been in British days? To Abhay, the overpopulated city was a hell of ruffians and fools. Although thousands of poor people were employed in the burgeoning steel mills and tire factories, their living conditions had worsened.

Abhay voiced his concern about these conditions in his Back to Godhead. Could the poor eat the nuts and bolts produced in the factories? Could they be nourished by cinema, television, or sex songs on the radio? The leaders were unable to see that abandoning spiritual principles had led to the very ills they officially abhorred: a decadent, rebellious youth, corruption in every area of civic life, and even economic instability and scarcity. When Abhay had been a youth in Calcutta, there had been no cinema billboards advertising lurid sexual fantasies, but now India had developed the third largest movie industry in the world, and film advertisements were all over Delhi. Beef shops and liquor shops had sprung up. The newspapers regularly ran editorials deploring the degradation of young Indian boys who teased, insulted, and affronted women on the street. Women’s leagues complained about increased juvenile promiscuity and the obscene treatment of women in films and advertisements. But there were no upright brāhmaṇas or saintly administrators to do anything about it.

Abhay saw the need for a respiritualization of society. But society was rushing headlong in the opposite direction. In February, even as Abhay was trying to publish his Back to Godhead, Prime Minister Nehru, while speaking with concern of India’s “crisis of the spirit,” simultaneously launched another Five-Year Plan for rapid industrialization. Everyone from the prime minister down to the common man was concerned about the symptomatic problems, but no one seemed to understand that the real problem was the lack of God consciousness.

Abhay had to deliver the medicine for the ills of Kali-yuga. He knew it was needed on a much larger scale than he could reach on his own, but even to administer one issue of Back to Godhead was almost beyond his means. Writing the articles, typing them, taking them to the printer, and distributing them should not have been the work of one lone, impoverished devotee, but in working with his Godbrothers he had met with their decided lack of organization and their lack of desire for vigorous preaching. Bhaktisāraṅga Gosvāmī had seemed determined to keep Sajjana-toṣaṇī small, and his maṭha, like so many others, had been ineffectual in attracting new members. This was the petty-mindedness that would cripple preaching. Therefore, he was now working alone on a small scale – happy in his spiritual welfare work, yet aware that his four-page newspaper was only a drop of water in the desert.

Kumar Jain: My first impression was that he was a nice person and straightforward. I felt pity also because of the conditions under which he would come. I know he didn’t have even twenty-five paisa. He would come all the way on foot and without any breakfast or anything. He would come in the morning to the press, and when I would ask him, “Swamiji, did you have anything to eat this morning?” he would say, “Oh, no, Mr. Jain. I just came because I had to see the proofs.”

“That’s all right,” I would say, “I will get breakfast for you.” I would call for breakfast, and then he would sit and work.

He would do the proofreading himself. The printing was done by me, and most of the time he would like to be present when that final printing was being done. He would come in the morning around seven and stay until he had seen all the proofs. It was a regular thing that he would come without breakfast, I would arrange for breakfast, and we would sit across the table from one another for hours together. He was always talking on religious subjects only. But when we would be sitting, especially when waiting for the proofs to come, we would discuss many things. I felt that he knew quite a lot, because he was a well-read person. He was more a friend than just a person coming to get things printed. He was a very simple man, straightforward in his habits. But his mission at that time was particularly to further the movement of Back to Godhead.

His financial condition was very, very weak. Sometimes the printing would be difficult because he was not able to arrange for the paper. Many times I told him that if he was feeling difficulty, why was he continuing? But he said, “No, it is my mission, and I will always carry it on as far as possible.” I tried to accommodate him to the maximum possible extent. But he was a real pauper.

I only did the printing, and he had to arrange for the paper. So sometimes it was delayed. Although my job was printing, sometimes I would say, “All right, you are so keen. I will give you the paper.” But usually he would arrange for it himself, since we only did printing. He would bring it in a ricksha.

We were not uncomfortable together, but as business would have it, if the bills were standing for a long time, then I would ask him if he could do something about it. He would say, “Don’t worry, you can be sure that your money is coming.” I never asked him where his funds were coming from, because I felt that it was his personal matter. But it was embarrassing for him when he could not pay, so I never tried to embarrass him. He was concerned that if he didn’t have money, how could he print the paper? And he definitely wanted to run that paper.

He wanted to preach the teachings of the Gītā. He thought of it as a sort of movement, that it was the only way that people in the world could find peace. His conviction was very strong.

After picking up the copies from the printer, Abhay would walk around the city selling them. He would take a seat at a tea stand, and when someone sat beside him Abhay would ask him please to take a copy of Back to Godhead. He also went to the homes and offices of people who had already donated or agreed to see him, and he sought out new contacts, sometimes on recommendation or sometimes by going uninvited wherever he could find a potential reader. When he delivered copies to regular donors, he would discuss the previous issue’s philosophy with them and sometimes write articles on topics they requested: “Our esteemed friend, Sri Bishan Prasad Maheswari, one of the learned advocates of the Supreme Court, has requested us to write something on the principle of fruitive action with special reference to Vice and its potency.” Often donors agreed to see him not so much out of genuine interest or affection as out of a sense of obligation; in their traditional Hindu piety, they felt obliged to see the sādhu, take his paper, and even think well of him – but not necessarily to read his newspaper. Once, when Abhay was approaching a well-to-do house, the owner came onto the second-floor veranda and shouted, “Go away! We don’t want you here!”

Abhay, responding to the resistance (polite and impolite) that he met while selling Back to Godhead, wrote an article, “NO TIME, A Chronic Disease of the Common Man,” for the March 16 edition.

Abhay was an unusual newspaper vendor. He didn’t loudly hawk his paper on the street or sell it from a newsstand; he approached individuals quietly as they sat to drink tea, or he would call on acquaintances in their offices or places of business. Taking a copy from the stack he carried underneath his arm, he would present what appeared to be an ordinary tabloid newspaper with bold black headlines across the front page. But what odd headlines – “The Lowest of the Mankind,” “Philosophical Problems Within Social Awareness,” “Sufferings of Humanity,” “The Pure Consciousness of Nationalism.” Anyone could tell at a glance that this was no ordinary newspaper. Abhay would say something to try to convince them to take it anyway – before they said, “No time.”

On behalf of his spiritual master and the previous Vaiṣṇava authorities, he was playing a role, the newspaper salesman – a smiling demeanor, a gentlemanly invitation. No, it wasn’t an ordinary newspaper, but they would find it interesting, and it cost only six paisa. Thus he was extending the mercy of Lord Caitanya, handing out the truths of the Vedas in the easy-to-take form of a newspaper.

Despite his desperate poverty and the urgency of his message, his writing was never shrill, strident, or fanatical. He wrote expecting to find his reader prepared to hear sound philosophy and always willing to accept the truth, especially when presented logically and relevantly and supported by the authoritative Vedic literature. Although experience on the streets of Delhi had shown him that people were shallow, distracted, and uninterested in self-realization, he knew that most people, at least at some time in their lives, pondered the crucial themes of philosophy: whether God exists, whether He is a person, why there is suffering. So Abhay appealed to their higher sentiments.

Spring of 1956 brought visits from U.S. Secretary of State Dulles and, a few days later, Lord Mountbatten, the former governor-general of India, who was greeted at the airport by thousands. Then came the celebration of the once-sacred day of Holi, when urchins spray all passersby with colored dyes. Prime Minister Nehru toured the Delhi slums expressing disgust at the prevailing conditions. He announced India’s intention to develop atomic energy, stressing its peaceful uses. The weather warmed. A border clash began between India and Pakistan. Delhi railway workers went on strike. Meanwhile, Abhay continued to preach.

In “How to Broadcast the Teachings of Bhagwat Geeta,” he talked about the need for spiritual organization in society. A model community, which he named Gita-nagari (“the village where the Bhagwat Geeta is sung”), would live by the Bhagavad-gītā and preach its message to the world. Praising Mahatma Gandhi for his Vaiṣṇava qualities, Abhay suggested that Gandhi had also esteemed the Gita-nagari concept. It was the only way of relief from the sufferings caused by “demoniac-principled leaders” who were misguiding the present demoralized civilization.

He was calculating how to capture the restless popular imagination. He wanted to present Kṛṣṇa’s teachings in a clear, straightforward way and distribute them widely; he felt that good arguments from authoritative scripture would appeal to sane, impartial, educated people, even though they claimed to be uninterested. He knew that somehow, without abandoning his gravity and his absolute conclusion, he must capture their interest. They were relegating religion to some book of scripture on the shelf that they never read, didn’t understand, or couldn’t believe; he brought it to them as a newspaper – yet it was as good as the scriptures. No, it wasn’t what they expected in a newspaper, but they might read it.

On the home front, Abhay sent copies of his latest issues of Back to Godhead to the president of India, Dr. Rajendra Prasad, along with a letter warning of the perilous fate that awaits a society conducted by asuras – “Please therefore save them from the great fall down.” Abhay’s letter of November 21 was outspoken.

Abhay requested His Excellency at least to glance over the headlines of the enclosed one dozen copies of Back to Godhead and consider granting the editor an interview. There was immense work to be done on behalf of India’s spiritual heritage, and there should be a specific ministry of spiritual affairs for this purpose. “I am crying alone in the wilderness at the present moment,” wrote Abhay. But His Excellency never replied.

Abhay argued that although independent India was now educating her citizens in godless materialism, her economic conditions were not improving. Many Indians did not even have the bare necessities of life. He cited that 120,000 were unemployed in Delhi.

He quoted former United States President Harry S. Truman as saying that national independence means that the citizens should have a comfortable life. So if that were the case, said Abhay, where was India’s independence? His point was that all attempts at happiness and prosperity are unlawful as long as they fail to recognize the proprietorship of the Supreme Lord. An atheistic civilization could never produce peace.

In “Progressive Ambition and Unsatiated Lust,” Abhay wrote:

Those who unlawfully accumulated money would find it snatched away by taxes for wars and other “agents of illusory nature in the shape of medical practitioners, lawyers, tax collectors, societies, constitutions, so-called Sadhus, famines, earthquake and many such calamities.”

A worker in a New Delhi post office, noticing the title of the magazines Abhay was sending abroad, took the opportunity to argue his atheistic opinions with Abhay.

Śrīla Prabhupāda: The postmaster was an Arya Samaji, and he was talking to me about the paper, Back to Godhead. He raised the question, “If we do our duty nicely, then what is the use of worshiping God? If we become honest, if we become moral, if we do not do anything which is harmful to anyone, if we act in this way, then what is the need of this?” Because our paper’s name was Back to Godhead, he was indirectly protesting, “What is the use of propagating this philosophy of Godhead if we act nicely?” That is the Arya Samajist’s view – how to avoid God.

So I replied that if one is not God conscious, he cannot be a moralist, he cannot be truthful, he cannot be honest – this is our point of view. You study the whole world just on these three points – morality, honesty, dutifulness – but if he is not God conscious, he cannot continue such things. To revive all these good qualities in society, you first have to invoke God consciousness.

A Delhi man, noticing Abhay distributing Back to Godhead, remarked, “Where is Godhead? Can you show me God?” Abhay replied to the challenge, but he also pondered a deeper reply as he moved throughout the city during the day. On returning to his room, he began an article, “Where Is Godhead? Is It Possible to See Him?”

One time, while he was walking on a secluded street, pursuing his Back to Godhead duties, a stray cow – the kind commonly seen wandering the streets of any Indian town or city – suddenly charged him, goring his side with her horn, and knocked him down. At first he couldn’t get up, and no one came to help him. As he lay there, he wondered why it had happened.

One day while delivering Back to Godhead to various addresses in the city, Abhay suddenly began reeling, half unconscious, overcome by the heat. At that very moment, an acquaintance of his, a man he had approached during his preaching, happened to be passing by in his car, and he took Abhay to a doctor. The doctor diagnosed him as a victim of heatstroke and ordered him to rest.

And he admitted, “The management of a family is more difficult than that of an empire.”

But trying to avoid family life by living in the jungle without the real spirit of renunciation was “monkey renunciation.” In the jungle there were many monkeys, who lived naked, ate fruits, and kept female companions.

Real renounced life, therefore, was possible without going into the forest. Even if one remained in the dress of a householder, he could be freed from cares and anxieties by engaging himself in devotional service.

Bhaktisiddhānta Sarasvatī had said that if only one soul could be turned into a pure devotee, his mission would be a success. Yet sometimes Abhay became overwhelmed when he thought of how small he was, how much work had to be done on behalf of Kṛṣṇa, and how difficult it was to convince even one conditioned soul.