By Ajit Krishna Dasa

Those who have altered Śrīla Prabhupāda’s books like to speak of “devotee cooperation” and “proper channels.” What they mean is submission without scrutiny. They have built a system where questioning is punished, reasoning is re-framed as offense, and loyalty is measured by silence.

Whenever a devotee raises a concern, the reply is almost scripted:

“You are offensive.”

“Your tone is wrong.”

“You should write privately to the authorities.”

But if one does write, the tone becomes the issue again. One may receive half an answer, and if one seeks clarification, the discussion is declared over.

This is not humility; it is institutional gaslighting—the attempt to make you doubt your own perception. The problem, they imply, is not that Prabhupāda’s words have been changed, but that you are too disturbed, too proud, or too unsurrendered to accept the “authorized” version. The tactic is psychological: isolate, invalidate, and exhaust the questioner until he abandons the question.

The pattern has names in both philosophy and psychology.
In Nyāya terms it is vitandā, argument without a thesis—attacking the person who speaks instead of addressing what is spoken. It is also jalpa, debate for victory, not for truth. Wrapped in devotional vocabulary, it becomes pseudo-vāda: the appearance of reason used to avoid reason.

The moral sleight of hand is stunning. Those who defend the unchanged words of the ācārya are branded offensive, while those who alter them claim to be preserving his intent. Fidelity is portrayed as rebellion; deviation masquerades as devotion.

And behind it all lies spiritualized authoritarianism—a hierarchy that treats its own authority as revelation. Once that attitude takes root, śāstra and guru become decorations on the wall, no longer the foundation of thought. To question the editor becomes to question God.

Yet our tradition does not fear scrutiny. The Gītā commands inquiry: tad viddhi praṇipātena paripraśnena sevayā. The Bhāgavatam praises those who “cut the knot of doubt by sharp intelligence.” Śrīla Prabhupāda never silenced sincere questioning; he encouraged it, because truth only strengthens under examination.

What now passes for “humility” is actually the etiquette of control. “Don’t question” is not Vaiṣṇava etiquette—it is the death of intelligence. When the institution replaces śāstra-based reasoning with bureaucratic loyalty tests, it stops being a spiritual movement and becomes a brand.

The defenders of Prabhupāda’s original books are not trouble-makers. They are performing the last honest service available to a conscience: refusing to participate in collective self-deception. It is not offensive to defend the words of the guru; it is offensive to alter them and then claim divine sanction for it.

Until ISKCON learns again to practice vāda—truth-seeking discussion grounded in śāstra—it will continue to drift from revelation into revision. No amount of managerial polish can hide that fact. The movement will either return to integrity or be remembered as the generation that edited its ācārya to fit its comfort.

A note about the picture:

The analogy between the book editors and institutional devotees on one side, and Bakāsura on the other, is striking. Bakāsura appeared calm, composed, and saintly—standing motionless like a yogī—but his stillness hid predatory intent. Likewise, the institutional manipulators of Prabhupāda’s teachings present themselves as humble, cooperative, and “properly aligned,” yet behind that façade lies the desire to dominate what should never be dominated: the words of the pure devotee.

When Bakāsura swallowed Krishna, he tried to contain and digest the Supreme Truth within his own limited frame. In the same way, those who alter or reinterpret Prabhupāda’s words attempt to swallow revelation—reshaping divine sound to fit institutional appetite. But just as Krishna burned within Bakāsura’s throat, forcing the demon to spit Him out, the original potency of Prabhupāda’s books cannot be contained. It exposes and destroys the hypocrisy that seeks to dominate it.

Finally, Krishna tore Bakāsura’s beak apart—the very mouth that pretended to speak sanctity while hiding deceit. That act mirrors what truth eventually does to institutional hypocrisy: it splits open the “pious speech” that conceals ambition. The message is timeless—Krishna will not be edited, domesticated, or digested by deceit. Those who try become like Bakāsura, torn apart by the very truth they try to control and suppress.