“One afternoon I rushed to a garden where Srila Prabhupada was scheduled to speak, but I was late. I found myself amid grazing cows. Leafy trees swarmed with sweetly singing birds and a crowd of native Vrajabasis gathered under the warming winter sun. Srila Prabhupada was just departing and hundreds of people lining the path bowed to him as a gesture of respect. I was among them. As I lifted my head from the sandy earth, I found his feet, covered by simple canvas slippers, planted just inches from my face. On my knees, looking up, I was face to face with him. His demeanor was grave.

“How long have you lived in Vrindavan?” he asked.

My mind squirmed, fearing he too would chastise me for living here. I replied, “About six months, Srila Prabhupada.”

His large dark eyes gazed down into mine. It was as if nothing else existed but that gaze. I felt that he knew everything about me—my strengths and weaknesses, virtues and faults, all I longed to achieve and all I prayed to be rid of. I was speechless. Perhaps a minute passed in this way. Then, before my eyes, his face blossomed into a munificent smile. “Very good,” he said, rubbing my head affectionately. “Vrindavan is such a wonderful place.”

In his glance and in this briefest of exchanges I experienced the love of an eternal friend, a benevolent parent, and of God. Turning slowly, he walked away down the path, his wooden cane tapping the ground with each step. I closed my eyes and pondered.

He is such a busy man, with tens of thousands of people the world over waiting for a moment of his time. Why did he stop for me? I have nothing to offer, I am just a penniless nobody who sleeps under a tree.

That small gesture had a profound impact on me, more than many of the miracles I had witnessed. It was an impact I could neither understand nor explain. Perhaps, I thought, the miracle of being an instrument of kindness is the most powerful of all.”