Between the temple and the dairy barn, a small, green house sits along Palace Road. It would be at home in a suburban subdivision. Walking up with his guitar for an afternoon of planned group fellowship and music, Chris says it’s unlikely that all the people who said they would attend will materialize. And, if they do, he doubts they’ll arrive on time. He shrugs his shoulders and walks through the snow, the cold wind whipping over the stubble on his head.

Inside, Chris is the only follower to join Devananda, a tall, lanky Canadian man who lives in the house. Shoes stand at attention around the wood-burning stove, chairs and couches arranged around it. Before coming to New Vrindaban, Devananda worked as a butcher and on a cargo ship that plied the waters between Montreal and Newfoundland. It was a rough life, he says, tuning his guitar and sipping ginger tea, and not one he wants to return to.

“Want to play something?” Devananda asks Chris. They sing the maha mantra and pop music that sprung from the Hare Krishna movement. “Really want to show you, Lord,” the pair sings, drowsily strumming their guitars to George Harrison’s reverent tribute to the maha mantra. “That it won’t take long, my lord. My sweet Lord.”