‘Let us know if there’s any more work’, I tell him. ‘I can take it back to Mott Street and type there’. ‘More? Yes’, he says, ‘There is lots more’. He opens a closet door and pulls out two large bundles in saffron cloth. Within, he shows me thousands of pages of single spaced, marginless manuscripts of literatures unknown in the western world. I stand before them astounded. ‘It’s a lifetime of typing!’, I protest. ‘Oh, yes!’, he smiles happily. ‘Many lifetimes’.
[Hayagriva Das, The Hare Krishna Explosion, p.24]

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