Hansadutta: Secretary for God
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"Thank you for flying with us, sir."

Hansadutta brushed by the flight attendant on his way out of the plane and onto the San Francisco jetway without bothering to acknowledge her. He never paid much attention to women, especially not now. He was preoccupied by the memory of the big send-off Prabhupada had been given in this same airport so many years ago. He was hoping his welcome home from the Mayapur meeting as the newly appointed guru for Southeast Asia, Southern India, Sri Lanka and the Pacific Northwest would be even more fantastic.

He ran his hand along his thigh, straightening an imaginary crease in his dhoti. As he approached the end of the jetway, he checked himself to make sure he had a blank look on his face, a look that Hansadutta thought made him appear serene, yet vital; benevolent, yet strong.

"Oh yes," Hansadutta said to himself as he stepped into the terminal. "This will do."

From every direction, devotees rushed toward their new guru. Airport security guards tried to hold them back, but there were too many. And they were too eager. They pushed past the metal detectors, chanting, singing, crying with joy, and throwing flower petals.

"Hare Krishna!" Hansadutta shouted, raising his sannyasa staff above his head. He felt something poke him in the back. He turned and saw that a businessman had nudged him with his briefcase.

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"Come on, buddy, let's get the hell out of here," the businessman said.

Hansadutta glared at him and turned back to his devotees.

"I said, move it. Get these freaks out of here," the businessman said.

"Please, gentlemen," said a Pan Am ground attendant who had walked up behind them. "I take it these people are here for you, sir?"

"Yes," Hansadutta answered. He paused a moment and then added, "And for Krishna."

"Well, you must do something about them, sir," the attendant said politely. "I'm getting calls from Security."

"They are only showing love," Hansadutta replied.

"They're disturbing the whole international terminal, sir," the attendant said firmly. "They're not supposed to be in here at all. Those jingle-jangle things they're wearing have set off all of our electronic surveillance devices."

"Let the damn weirdos have their love-in somewhere else," the businessman said, his face flushed red. "The flight was three hours late and now I'm late for a meeting I flew fourteen hours to make."

"Surely you can understand how important security is sir?" the airline attendant said soothingly to Hansadutta. "A man in your position? When other celebrities land here, they're very helpful in getting their fans to cooperate."

The attendant pointed up the corridor.

"If we could just get everybody past the metal detectors and into the main terminal, there wouldn't be a problem."

"Yes, of course, as you wish," Hansadutta said, motioning for his devotees—and a half-dozen reporters—to follow.

"We love you, Hansadutta!" a devotee shouted.

"Is it true you plan to set up headquarters in the Berkeley temple?" asked a karmi reporter, poking a microphone at him.

"Krishna's mercy has brought you to us!" another devotee yelled, tears streaming down her face.

"What do you people believe in?" shouted a second reporter, pushing through the crowd.

Hansadutta was annoyed. He wanted to bask in the love of his devotees. But he realized he had to handle the press. He thought of Kirta-nananda: Whenever a reporter or photographer appeared holding a notebook

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or pointing a camera, Kirtanananda was always ready with a clever quote and a satisfied expression.

"Give them what they're looking for," Kirtanananda would say. "It's publicity you can't buy."

Hansadutta raised his hand above his head, calling for quiet. The flashbulbs popped. Prabhupada used to do the same thing. Hansadutta felt a rush of power when the crowd fell silent.

"You ask what we believe in?" he said to the reporters while fuming to the photographers. "We believe in chanting and dancing the holy names of God. We believe in eating and sleeping and living for Krishna."

"Is it true you're a terrific dancer?" another reporter asked.

Hansadutta smiled becomingly. "My name means swanlike, elegant. Judge for yourself."

With that, Hansadutta began to chant and twirl, bouncing and rocking his head to the maha-mantra. The devotees picked up his rhythm. In an instant they had a fiery kirtan going.

Then, just as suddenly, Hansadutta held up his hand again and the devotees stopped.

"I have a question," a short and pudgy reporter asked. "There are strong rumors that several women in the Berkeley temple have been abused. Do you have a comment?"

Hansadutta glared. "We've been the victims of hateful rumors since our spiritual master arrived in this country," he said. "This is yet another slander. Krishna women are as beloved as Radha was beloved by Krishna."

The pudgy reporter didn't miss a beat. "That's not what one of the women who blooped told me."

Hansadutta looked him hard in the eyes. "Blooped? You mean left the movement? Who are you? What newspaper do you work for?"

The two men stared at each other.

"Actually, I don't work for any paper," the pudgy man admitted. "If the papers were doing their job, I wouldn't have to be here. My sister was a devotee in the Berkeley temple. She left because— "

"Because she couldn't live up to our rigorous standards, and now she condemns us to cover her weakness," Hansadutta said, seizing the offensive. "It happens all the time."

He dismissed the pudgy guy with a wave of his hand. "Any other questions?"

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"My sister—"

"Any other questions?" Hansadutta asked, his voice louder this time.

"What does it mean to be a guru?" asked a reporter from the San Francisco Chronicle.

Hansadutta thought for a moment, then smiled—a smile that charmed the devotees.

"To get to see a big man, you first have to see his secretary," he said. "I am kind of a secretary for God."

All morning, Hansadutta had been in his office at the Berkeley temple, a former mansion just off Telegraph Avenue. He paced back and forth across the Oriental rug, head down, deep in thought.

Then he threw himself into a chair. For a long time he hardly moved. Then he reached into his desk and grabbed a bottle of the cough syrup he had brought back from India by the case. He had stopped coughing months ago, but the medicine, which was 70-percent alcohol, helped him think. And he needed to think now. He has to figure out how to handle Jiva.

"Tell Jiva I want to see him," Hansadutta ordered Michael Ralph Pugliese, the devotee who had become his chauffeur and personal servant. "Tell him I want to see him now."

Five minutes later there was a knock at the door. Hansadutta took another hit of cough syrup, closed the desk drawer, and called, "Enter!"

James Patrick Underwood, Jiva, head of the temple's women's san-kirtan team, walked through the door. He looked as humble as any burly, tattooed former inmate of San Quentin with a shaved head could look.

"Hare Krishna," Jiva said and prostrated himself at Hansadutta's feet.

Before Jiva could rise, the secretary for God jumped on Jiva's back, pinned him to the floor, and pressed the barrel of a .38 into his right temple.

"You've got five minutes to clear out," Hansadutta hissed in Jiva's ear.

Jiva was a thug who had gone to prison for a string of armed robberies. His idea of fun was going out to the airport to steal suitcases off

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the baggage carousels. He liked to tell devotees that one of his ambitions in life was to be a pimp. Nothing scared him. Jiva did things for fun that other people thought were crazy.

But now Jiva was scared. This guy Hansadutta was a maniac.

"What's the matter, man? What'd I do? You been here two months and I ain't crossed you once. Not once. I swear I ain't."

The barrel of the .38 pressed harder against Jiva's head.

"Who fucks every woman on the sankirtan team?" Hansadutta barked.

"I do," Jiva admitted, his voice shaking. "But they need it. The more I fuck 'em, the more money they bring in."

"Who beats the shit out of them?"

"I do," Jiva admitted. "But I'll stop. I promise I'll stop."

"Who gives 'em uppers so they'll work eighteen hours a day?"

"Anything, man—anything you say. I'll stop. Just put the gun down so we can talk about it."

Hansadutta was having fun. He waited until Jiva started to whimper. Then he let him get to his feet and shoved him into a chair.

"You'll have to take a vow of sannyasa," Hansadutta said, holding the gun on him.

"I'll do it. No more pussy," Jiva said.

"From now on, I'm in charge of the women," Hansadutta said. "They're mine."

"They're yours, Maharaj," Jiva said.

Hansadutta placed the gun on his desk.

"Why will women no longer work eighteen hours a day?" he asked Jiva.

"Because Krishna doesn't want them to?" Jiva hazarded, slumping in his chair with relief.

Hansadutta looked annoyed. "Yes, yes, of course. But why else?"

Jiva looked confused.

"Because twenty-five women who each bring in three or four hundred dollars a day selling incense and candles and cookies is small-time shit," Hansadutta said. "I've figured out a way that's a lot less work that will bring us a lot more money."

"Hi, there!" the perky blond said to the middle-aged man on his way into the shopping mall. He had just gotten out of his car and was lost in thought, trying to decide on a birthday present for his wife.

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"Oh hello, there!" the blond called again in a sing-song voice. "May I have a second of your time, sir?"

The guy checked his watch. He was about to apologize and move on, when he looked at the girl. She was so fresh and clean and earnest, he had to smile at her.

"Me?" he asked, pointing at his chest.

"Sure," she said. "Could you step over here to the microphone?"

The guy looked past the girl and saw that she was standing in front of a van with a stenciled banner hanging above the rear door. "Radio KSNA," it said. He started to blush. The girl smiled again, pulled him forward, and held out the microphone.

"What's your name?" she asked, trying to put him at ease.

"Roger," he answered stiffly, intimidated by being on the air.

"I'm 'Sandy' from KSNA, Roger. Where are you from?"

"Oakdale."

"Just up the road in Oakdale. That's great, Roger, because today's your lucky day. Tell me, what kind of music do you like?"

"Ah, country and western, mostly," Roger said, loosening up a little.

"C and W! I'd have bet you'd say that, Roger. Let's see what we've got here."

Inside the van, Jiva hurried through a rack holding hundreds of albums. He pulled out three records and handed them to Sandy. She glanced at them and gave them to Roger.

"What do you think of that, Roger? Three brand-new C and W albums. They're yours to keep, Roger."

"Gee, great," he said, picking up her enthusiasm.

"Roger, you don't have to give us a cent for those albums. Take them home and enjoy them. All we ask is that if you're willing, you'll do a little something to help Radio KSNA fight hunger in Africa. Now, I'm sure you know that albums like those would cost you fifteen or twenty dollars in a record store. All we're asking is, out of the goodness of your heart, could you give us a little something to feed a starving child in Africa?"

Roger reached into his wallet and peeled out his only bill—a twenty. He planned to ask for ten dollars change. But when Sandy squealed with delight and gushed into the live microphone about how generous he was, he quickly changed his mind.

"I was going to buy my wife something for her birthday," Roger

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told Sandy. "But these records and helping feed kids in Africa will make her a nicer present than I could ever find in the mall."

Sandy watched Roger walk away, then went into the van and laid the dead microphone on a table. Jiva was down on his hands and knees, sorting records. When he looked up. Sandy gave him a thumbs-up.

"That's over three hundred dollars already this morning," Sandy said. "You know how long I'd have to stand on a comer to make this much?"

"This is the greatest scam ever," Jiva said. "It's Krishna's mercy that Hansadutta found the warehouse down in LA. We get all the cutouts we can truck away for a dime apiece, and those idiot karmis give us five dollars."

"The starving-children bit works best," Sandy said.

Jiva held up an album.

"Look at this: A Thousand Strings Play the Music of Spain. Who listens to this shit?"

"Stiffs," Sandy said. "Karmi stiffs."

Sandy walked over to Jiva and placed her hand on the back of his neck, then ran it up toward his head. When she hit the band of his wig, she pulled it off and kissed his shaved head.

Jiva jumped up. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Come on, baby, relax," Sandy said.

"You stupid bitch!" Jiva shouted, pushing her across the van. "You know Hansadutta ordered me to take sannyasa. You know better than to question the order of a pure devotee."

"I'm sorry," Sandy said. "I really am. I forgot."

"Get back out there," Jiva ordered and went back to sorting albums.

Sandy jumped out of the van. Before her feet touched the ground, she had put a big smile on her face.

"Hi, there!" she shouted to a grandmotherly type walking back to her car with a small child.

The woman returned her smile.

"Could I have a moment of your time?"

He is a pure devotee. Sandy reminded herself silently as Hansadutta pulled off her sari and began biting her right nipple. A pure devotee knows all.