by Mukunda Goswami
Eighteen ninety-six Calcutta,
A heart was born softer than butter,
And when Armageddon
Would in later years threaten,
He taught Kṛṣṇa’s names one must utter.
From the start liberated
And always elated;
The mṛdaṅga he beat
Made a sound so sweet.
Then in sixty-seven, when a drum came from heaven,
His playing excitement generated.
Dear Śrīla Prabhupāda:
The parade you’d stage
At an early age;
The rath you towed
Was Kṛṣṇa’s abode;
All these were signs of a budding sage.
In just a short time
Your peers you’d out-climb;
You trotted the globe,
Your home was the road.
Hare Kṛṣṇa! Your life was sublime.
You’re here to stay:
Kali’s at bay
For ten thousand years.
Music to ears.
Oh happy, happy day!
Friendly to guests who came in streams,
You tore to bits their impersonalist dreams.
Against “progress” you railed,
You said science had failed—
It fell apart at the seams.
You wrote in the night,
While disciples slept tight.
You changed the world,
And with texts unfurled
You made many sinful wrongs right.
Your books were your mace
For a dying race.
With logic and reason
Always in season,
’Twas a philosophy many’d embrace.
In public you’d speak—
You were never meek.
With words profound,
Your cherished sound
Was loved by the strong and the weak.
Before you was madness,
A dreary blackness.
You answered questions
And found the connections
That always turned sadness to gladness.
You taught God’s Supreme,
That He plays with a team
And conquers all,
Not as a puff-ball,
Not as an out-of-reach dream.
Your devotees, infallible soldiers
With actions stronger than boulders—
They made people think,
Brought them to the brink.
Some bowed, dipping their shoulders.
The trail you blazed
Left scholars amazed.
You questioned the knowledge
They learned in college.
They left your darśan with consciousness raised.
You’re here to stay:
Kali’s at bay
For ten thousand years.
Music to ears.
Oh happy, happy day!
Your words, sugarcane,
Sweetened stout and lame.
Always the master,
Your wit was faster,
Yet humility named the game.
One saw oceans of cream,
As in a dream—
A miraculous thing.
We wanted to cling
To what seemed a bright sunbeam.
When you’d appear,
’Twas like “Spring is here!”
All would kneel,
And things got real
For the far and the very near.
When Bangladesh preaching
Was unleashing,
Your followers were bolder
Than a British soldier
With a Bengali mom’s heart a’beating.
When you’d reminisce,
Moments not to miss,
Your past you’d remember
With full surrender,
And disciples would roll in bliss
What you had to say
To us every day:
“Serve the Lord
With lotus or sword.”
We’d choose the most practical way.
You’re here to stay:
Kali’s at bay
For ten thousand years.
Music to ears.
Oh happy, happy day!
Your servant,
Mukunda Goswami