Swamiji looks out over the Pacific expanse.
“Because it is great, it is tranquil,” he says.
"The image of eternity,” I say.
“Nothing is eternal but Krishna,” he says. Silence. Then: “In Bengali, there is one nice verse. I remember. ‘O, what is that voice across the sea, calling, calling, Come here... come here…?"
For a long time, Swamiji sits on a boardwalk bench, looking out across the ocean and singing Bengali songs to Gopinatha, Lord Krishna, Master of the gopis. From time to time, he stops to translate a verse for us. “O Gopinatha, please sit within the core of my heart and subdue this mind, and thus take me to You. Only then will the terrible dangers of this world disappear.”
Then he sings another verse, looking out on the ocean as if it were his audience. It is a rare, peaceful moment, beyond everything material, and I wish it could go on forever. But after a while, Swamiji stands up, sighs deeply, as if beckoned by duty, and says, “Back to the temple.”
(The Hare Krishna Explosion, Chapter 7)