Though it would have been easy for him to spend the remainder of his retired life there, immersed in his spiritual practice, it was his own guru’s wish that he share the wisdom of their tradition — centered around Krishna bhakti, or devotion to Krishna — with the Western world.

When the removal of national quotas by America’s 1965 Immigration Act thus paved the way for him to enter the country, it didn’t matter that he was a 70-year-old renunciate with virtually no money to his name. Quickly securing free passage on a cargo steamship, he packed his translations into a steel trunk and boarded the vessel, leaving behind his home to voyage into the unknown.

The journey was arduous, as he suffered intense sea sickness, dizziness, vomiting, and two heart attacks. When he arrived in New York City 37 days later, however, his resolve still had not wavered. Though he had no funds, no friends, no support, and weak health, he had a most powerful spiritual message, one he believed would transform the lives of any if they just gave it a chance.

A young couple in their 20s who were part of a baby boomer generation disillusioned by the materialism of post-World War II America, Shyamasundar and Malati had joined a burgeoning community — officially known as ISKCON (the International Society for Krishna Consciousness) — who were, in fact, giving the Swami and his teachings such a chance.

Having already helped to establish a small temple for him in San Francisco, the couple, indeed experiencing the positive transformative results from implementing his spiritual practices, felt increasingly inclined to learn more of these teachings, and help him share them with others.

Warm and open to visitors no matter what hour of the day it was, the Swami made all who came to see him feel welcomed and accepted in his company, regardless of who they were or where in life they were at. Also incredibly learned, grave, and staunch in his spiritual discipline, however, he seemed to exist on a plane so far removed from those operating on that of the material, Shyamasundar often felt shy to bother him, especially if it wasn’t for a particularly significant reason.

Finding a “Made in India” item during the ‘60s though wasn’t an everyday occurrence. Thus grabbing the figurine, Shyamasundar began making his way to the apartment they had set up for the Swami above the temple on Frederick Street. Even if it turned out to be of no significance, it would still serve as a good excuse to get some personal time with him.

But, as Shyamasundar writes in his book Chasing Rhinos With The Swami: Volume 1, not only was the mysterious object significant, it had extraordinary importance, and way beyond what he would have imagined:

Dropping the doll in his outstretched hand I said, “Swamiji, we found this in a shop. It’s from India. Can you tell us what it is?”

This startled look comes over the Swami’s face. He leaps from his rocker and places the doll on his metal trunk and falls down on the floor before it, beckoning “Down, down!” to Mukunda [another follower of the Swami] and me, who are trying to make sense of this. We bow down beside him. And then he starts praying in Sanskrit, saying, “jagannatha swami nayana patha gami bhave tu me” over and over.

Flushed and beaming, the Swami rises and asks me, “From where have you got this doll?”

“Malati found it.”

“Then tell her to come here immediately.”

The figurine, the Swami told them once Malati arrived and explained where she had found it, was Krishna in his form as Jagannatha. And the figurines in the other two barrels were his brother Baladeva, and their sister Subhadra.

In ancient times, the Swami continued, there was a king named Indradyumna who was anxious to worship Krishna in a form considered especially magnanimous. Krishna, wanting to reciprocate with his devotee, spoke to the king in a divine occurrence, telling him that he should go to a specific part of the beach on the Bay of Bengal, where he would find a huge reddish log from which such a form, along with the forms of his brother and sister, should be carved.

Finding the log, the king had many sculptors attempt to carve the wood, but all of their tools broke as soon as they came in contact with it. Eventually an old man, who was actually Krishna in disguise, put his chisel to the log and, to the jubilance of the king, immediately made a mark.

Agreeing to carve the deities, the man told the king it would take him 21 days to complete the task, and that he would do it on the condition he could carry it out in complete privacy, without disturbance from anyone.

Originally consenting to the stipulation, the king, after 14 days, became overcome by curiosity when he heard no sound coming from the workplace, spurring him to enter prematurely. Inside, he found the man was gone, and what was left were the three forms, unfinished, without arms or legs, exactly as they appear today.

Concluding the story, the Swami looked at the three of them and asked if there was anyone who could carve larger versions of the figurines Malati had found, indicating a height of about 3 feet. Once finished, he would formally install them in the temple there, where they could be regularly worshiped according to scriptural guidelines.

A trained carpenter, Shyamasundar immediately said he could do it. Eager for the opportunity to help fulfill a vision so obviously important to the Swami, he made his way to a wrecking yard not long after leaving the apartment, and with the help of a couple other devotees, managed to find a Douglas fir timber from a dismantled barge — a single large piece of wood, in other words — big enough to carve all three deities out of.

Loading it into their van, they brought it back to Shyamasundar’s apartment, where he cut the slab of wood into three 4-foot sections and began work on the task, immersing himself in the meditation of the service, making sure to appreciate every moment of the process.

A few weeks later they were done, ready for the March 23 date the Swami had set for the installation. Placed on a newly constructed altar in the temple, the deities were offered their first formal worship, making them ISKCON’s first ever officially installed deities.

Addressing the crowd of devotees who had assembled for the occasion, the Swami told them Jagannatha’s manifestation in San Francisco was no coincidence. Known as “Lord of the Universe,” he is a particularly compassionate form of Krishna, who is accepting of all, regardless of where they are on their spiritual path, and thus an especially appropriate deity for ISKCON’s swiftly expanding community of new devotees.

Just as he had appeared on the Indian coast to reciprocate with the devotional aspirations of the king, he had now appeared on the coast of the Pacific to reciprocate with the devotional aspirations of San Francisco’s growing community. And just as his temple in Orissa on the Indian coast is called Jagannatha Puri, the temple in San Francisco would now be called New Jagannatha Puri.

Thus ends part 1 of “How Jagannatha’s discovery in a store led to America’s first ever Ratha Yatra.” Read part 2 here.