I was visiting Baroda, when one night I received a call from Mumbai, “Shila is very sick and is admitted in the hospital.” Pressing engagements held me from visiting her. Three days later another phone call informed me of her death. I buried my head in my hands, grief-stricken.
I darted over to Radhanath Swami’s room. There he was sitting, conversing with another devotee. I prostrated myself at Radhanath Swami’s feet and asked for his blessings to leave. “I am going. Now onwards I will come only on very special occasions,” I said. Radhanath shook his head in approval. Next moment, I was out of the room.
While we savored Bhakti Yoga during our stay at the monastery in Mumbai, we developed a deep longing to share that experience with others. Prodded by fellow feelings, the three of us, all Americans, first wanted to reach out to our countrymen touring Mumbai. We decided to visit a neighborhood tourist trap, Colaba. But first, we sought blessings from Radhanath Swami.
Radhanath Swami’s eyes gleamed with joy seeing us exuberant
