It was Hard to Keep Up with Prabhupada

Prabhupada’s health was good that summer and fall, or so it seemed.  He worked long and hard, and except for four hours of rest at night, he was always active.  He would speak intensively on and on, never tiring, and his voice was strong.  His smiles were strong and charming; his singing voice loud and melodious.  During kirtana he would thump Bengali mrdanga rhythms on his bongo drum, sometimes for an hour.  He ate heartily of rice, dal, capātīs and vegetables with ghee.  His face was full and his belly protuberant.  Sometimes, in a light mood, he would drum with two fingers on his belly and say that the resonance affirmed his good health.  His golden color had the radiance of youth and well-being preserved by seventy years of healthy, non-destructive habits.  When he smiled, virility and vitality came on so strong as to embarrass a faded, dissolute New Yorker.  In many ways, he was not at all like an old man.  And his new followers completely accepted his active youthfulness as a part of the wonder of Swamiji, just as they had come to accept the wonder of the chanting and the wonder of Krishna.  Swamiji wasn’t an ordinary man.  He was spiritual.  He could do anything.  None of his followers dared advise him to slow down, nor did it ever really occur to them that he needed such protection—they were busy just trying to keep up with him.