By Manjari Gopika (I am an unworthy disciple of His Holiness Radhanatha Swami Maharaj. My husband, daughter, and I moved to Dallas in May 2020 so that our daughter could attend the gurukul, TKG Academy. Living in the association of HH Tamal Krishna Goswami’s disciples over the past almost five years has had a deep impact on me. I wrote this offering to HH Tamal Krishna on the occasion of his 23rd Disappearance Day, on February 28, 2025.)
With each festival at Radha Kalachandji-your appearance day, your disappearance day-my longing to have known you deepens. Tamal Krishna Goswami, the Mount Everest of Srila Prabhupada’s disciples.
Perhaps your disciples, immersed in your presence even now, do not see what an outsider like me does: You never truly left.
You live through them-through their service, their steadiness, the way they carry themselves in the world.
The grief of your sudden departure is not always spoken, not always seen. Yet, it lingers.
It hides in the pauses between words, in the way voices waver when speaking of you.
It is a presence, not a memory.
I gather stories of you from your disciples and weave them into a nest for myself-for what purpose, I do not know.
Somewhere to rest my bead bag? Somewhere to feel your shelter? Yogamaya tells of your sweetness, your 5 a. m. walks on Gurley, your presence so strong that you still visit her in dreams. Misty-eyed Nandini clutches her chest in gratitude. Arjuna K? ishna smiles-a smile full of remembrance, full of you. Mother Chandravali inspects Radha-Kalachandji-not with her own eyes, but with yours.
Mother Kunti shows me the place where you chanted japa, where your saffron robes once brushed past.
She speaks of your mercy, your lessons. But her eyes never meet mine. Instead, they drift-to a place where you are still walking toward her. Mother Sucharya tells me how the children adored you- how, even weakened from surgery, with tubes hanging from you, you walked through Temple Park as they ran to you, wrapped their little arms around you.
Nrisimha Rupa Prabhu remembers how you let the kids watch the Cowboys game in your quarters, how you let them wear shorts to the temple in summer.
You are here.
In the steadiness of Rupanuga, Mathuranath, and Gopal. In the warmth and wisdom of Jayanti and Manjuali.
In the eloquence of Nityananda. In the humility of Kunti, Arjuna, and Shalagram. In the determination of Padma and Duryashaya. In the compassion of Nandini and Kartikeya.
In the bliss of Yogamaya. They are because of you. And I am because they are.
When I first moved here, lost in a pandemic, unsure of where to go or what to do, I took my four-year-old to Temple Park on warm summer days. I sat at your samadhi and spoke to you, asking you to help us stay, to find our place, to thrive. And you have.
Now, each morning at the temple, I offer flower petals to Srila Prabhupada, then to you, and I pray:
“Please make me and my family Vaisnavas in this lifetime.
Make us Vaisnavas like you”