Volume 5, Chapter 17

[Guest guest]

Diary of a Traveling Preacher

 

Volume 5, Chapter 17

 

May 2 - June 1, 2004

 

 

"The Pampered Prince"

 

 

As my flight circled over Warsaw waiting for permission to land, I looked

out the window at the city below. Even from the sky, Warsaw wasn't

attractive. Once one of the more beautiful cities in Europe, it was leveled

by relentless bombing by the German air force in World War 2. The rebuilding

of the city was done by people who had little appreciation for architecture

or design. Nevertheless, I looked forward to my arrival. Poland has been my

prabhudata desh, my assigned preaching field, for 15 years. In effect, I was

returning home.

 

I'd been away for nine months, traveling, preaching, and fundraising for my

festival tour in Poland. I'd worked hard and had grown noticeably older. In

fact, at 55 I was feeling the rigors of traveling more than ever. In South

Africa, a devotee asked me about it. "Aren't you getting a bit old for those

daily Harinams and festivals you have in Poland?" he asked. "You have

trouble just walking up the stairs these days."

 

"Older, yes," I replied, "but not as old as all that."

 

On the flight out of Johannesburg that day, I smiled when I saw the

headlines of a newspaper quoting Nelson Mandela at a large function the day

before. "I am enjoying myself so much," said Mr. Mandela, "that although 85,

I feel like a young man of 55."

 

After arriving in Warsaw, I immediately caught a local flight to Katowice,

in the south. I arrived exhausted, having traveled 21 hours from South

Africa. The devotees picked me up and drove me to Bielsko Biala, where we

were holding the first festival of our spring tour. I walked into the hall

and onto the stage, where I delivered a short lecture and led a one-hour

kirtan. I couldn't have wished for a better homecoming.

 

This spring we have organized our festival tour differently than in previous

years. We have arranged for small halls that accommodate two to three

hundred people in towns where we have large congregations. The idea is to

allow our congregations to associate more with the devotees and to let

people who become interested in Krsna consciousness as a result of the

festivals to associate with the congregation. In the summer we will return

to the format of outdoor venues with larger crowds.

 

After the festival in Bielsko Biala, I was driven to an apartment where I

fell asleep and woke up 10 hours later. After doing my puja and chanting my

rounds that morning, I jumped into a sankirtan van going out to publicize

the festival in Katowice that evening. But although I was eager for the

kirtan, I found myself unprepared for the situation on the street.

 

Katowice is an industrial town of 200,000 people. Unfortunately, 30 percent

of the population are unemployed, and on an average, those that have work,

make less than $100 a month. Such conditions are a breeding ground for

poverty and crime, all of which became apparent as we stepped out of the

van.

 

It was a chilly morning, with a light rain falling. The pungent smell of

burning coal, used to heat the buildings along the street, immediately

filled my nostrils. Ugly gray concrete buildings, symptomatic of the

reconstruction of postwar Poland, crowded the scene, and from manholes came

the stench of an outdated sewer system. Old cobblestone streets, remnants of

a bygone age that had survived the last war, added to the dismal nature of

the scene with their blackish-gray color.

 

People gave us strange looks as we assembled on the street for Harinam. They

were unfamiliar with devotees, and some laughed while others heckled our

Vaisnava clothes. We drew silent, cold stares from a group of skinheads,

ever our arch-rivals, assembled on the corner across the street.

Instinctively, I felt my kurta pocket to make sure my canister of tear gas

was there.

 

It wasn't. I had left it in my closet in Warsaw at the end of last year's

tour. I cursed myself. Though rarely if ever used, the tear gas gives a

sense of security when devotees perform Harinam on the unpredictable streets

of Kali-yuga cities.

 

We started Harinam, but few people took notice. As brilliant as the devotees

were in their colorful dhotis and saris, the modes of passion and ignorance

prevailed on the street. People moved along staring straight ahead,

preoccupied with work (or the absence of it), school, and numerous other

anxieties.

 

And we weren't the only ones vying for their attention. There seemed an

unusual number of drunkards panhandling for money to buy cheap drinks

available in the seedy bars. If anyone attracted attention it was the street

youths, boys and girls heavily tattooed, decorated with dull jewelry

protruding from pierced ears, eyebrows, and lips, and dressed in baggy pants

and shirts. With nothing to do but hang out, they seemed almost natural in

the bizarre spectacle before my eyes.

 

As I was adjusting the strap on my mrdanga, I came too close to the

pedestrian traffic, and a man passing by knocked my shoulder and sent me

reeling back a meter or two. He didn't even look back to say he was sorry.

 

I felt overwhelmed by the atmosphere. I was wet, uncomfortable, and feeling

out of place. I began to wonder whether the devotee in South Africa might

not have been right. Was this the proper place for an aging devotee? As the

Harinama began building up momentum, I tried to come back to my normal self.

After all, I'd been doing street Harinam for years. What had gone wrong?

 

On the plea of getting something from the van, I went back and sat there

awhile. After 15 minutes I figured out my problem. For months I'd been

traveling and preaching in different parts of the world, and while doing so

I had the received the honor and respect naturally given to one in the

renounced order of life: receptions, garlands, words of praise, and soft

bedding with silk pillows. Fine food awaited me in every house, and luxury

cars drove me to programs where I met the rich, the famous, and even heads

of state. It was all in the name of service, but I sensed it had left me

somewhat of a pampered prince.

 

Now mixing again with the miserable downtrodden masses, I felt out of place.

The opulence and respect I had received had contributed to a loss of the

compassion so necessary for a preacher on the street. "From now on," I

vowed, "I will be more cautious in dealing with opulence and fame."

 

A verse entered my thoughts:

 

"My dear brother mind, the despicable desire for material honor and

distinction is compared to a shameless and low-born prostitute who eats dog

meat, yet she is flagrantly dancing in my heart. How then, can the pristine

love of pure devotion to Sri Krsna ever find a place in my heart? You will

simply have to serve the unalloyed devotees of the Lord, who are His

intimate associates and stalwart supporters. They alone can drive out this

prostitute and enthrone pure love of Godhead within my heart."

 

[srila Ragunatha das Goswami, Manah Siksa, Verse 7]

 

Looking again towards the street, I closed my eyes and prayed for mercy,

reflecting on a poem I often recite when I find myself in difficult

situations during preaching:

 

O Master! If you are merciful to us once again,

then even though we are trapped here

on the shores of the ocean of death,

we will finally behold a change for the better.

 

Then once again we can blissfully remember

the holy name of Krsna,

and again have firm faith

in your "Vaikuntha message."

 

Once again you will make us dance

to the pure holy name of Krsna.

And you will personally dispel

any confusion caused by Maya.

 

O Srila Prabhupada! You personally suffer

to see the suffering of the fallen conditioned souls.

On this day of your separation

I am utterly despondent.

 

[Viraha Astaka: "Eight Prayers in Separation From My Spiritual Master" by

His Divine Grace A.C. Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada, Octet 5, verses 5 - 8,

December 1958].

 

I jumped out of the van and headed down the street. This time the familiar

smell of burning coal came as a relief, reminding me of many previous

blissful days preaching on the streets. When I caught up with the Harinam

party, I chanted my favorite sankirtan verse, shrugging off any last

hesitancy to preach:

 

kabe jibe doya, hoibe udoya,

nija sukha bhuli sudina hrdoya

bhakativinoda, koriya binoya,

sri ajna tahala koribe pracar

 

"When will there be an awakening of compassion for all fallen souls, and

when will this Bhaktivinoda, forgetting his own happiness, with a meek heart

set out to propagate by humble entreaty the sacred order of Sri Caitanya

Mahaprabhu?"

 

[bhaktivinoda Thakura, Saranagati, "Kabe Ha'be Bolo," Verse 8]

 

Despite my renewed enthusiasm, I didn't find a significant change in the

people's lack of interest in our Harinam party as we wound our way through

the streets. I even wondered if we'd get a decent crowd that night. It was

important for us to have a good crowd, as the festival was an experiment in

breaking from our tradition of large outdoor public events. Although we

wanted to concentrate on smaller audiences, it would be in vain if no one

came.

 

Though I had effectively dealt with my own doubts earlier in the day, I now

became apprehensive about whether our new preaching strategy would work. On

the way back I expressed my feelings to Sri Prahlad. He replied that even if

a few people came it would be a success. He told me the story of a family in

Warsaw who had come in contact with us:

 

Vara-nayaka prabhu had contacted a reputable lawyer for advice in a legal

matter. At their first meeting, Vara-nayaka asked the lawyer whether he knew

anything about our Hare Krsna movement. The lawyer smiled and sat back in

his chair.

 

"Well as a matter of fact," he said, "I do."

 

"As you know,' he continued, "it is a tradition in our country that twice a

year the local priest visits the houses of the congregation. Just last week

our priest visited us to bless our home and ask about our welfare. While we

were all sitting together in the living room, he asked my eight-year-old

daughter if she liked going to church.

 

" 'Oh yes, Father,' she replied.

 

" 'That's nice,' the priest said. 'Do you have a favorite song you like to

sing about our Lord in Heaven?'

 

" 'Oh yes I do, father,' she said.

 

" 'Please sing it for us,' said the priest, 'and let us be blessed.'

 

"To the surprise of everyone, my daughter stood up on the sofa, put both

arms in the air and rocking back and forth with a big smile on her face

began singing 'Hare Krsna Hare Krsna Krsna Krsna Hare Hare, Hare Rama Hare

Rama Rama Rama Hare Hare.'

 

"My wife and I were dumbfounded, and the priest was in a state of shock. He

was uncomfortable and didn't know what to do, so he stood up, excused

himself, and left.

 

"I then turned to my wife. 'Where in the world did she learn that?' I asked.

 

" 'You remember the Festival of India?' she said. 'We went there last summer

up on the coast.'

 

" 'O yes," I said. 'Of course. The Festival of India.' "

 

I laughed at the story. "If only the Lord would send such an angel tonight,"

I said.

 

When we arrived at the hall that evening, once again I was unprepared for

what I found. But this time, unlike the display of maya on the street, it

was the display of Lord Caitanya's mercy. I arrived 30 minutes before the

program, and I was stunned to see all 350 seats taken and the aisles filled

up with people as well.

 

Most surprising was that many of the guests were the same people I had seen

on the street. There were businessmen, housewives, children, and students. A

number of the tattooed youths were sitting on the floor, quiet and well

behaved, waiting for the program to begin. Even a few drunks had managed to

get in. Feigning soberness and good behavior, they had somehow taken front

row seats. Then as I scanned the audience more carefully, I saw to my

amazement three skinheads in the corner, looking somewhat uncomfortable in

that prestigious hall.

 

I made my way with difficulty through the crowd, and when I reached the

front I turned around to look at the audience. The atmosphere was electric

with excitement, and many were talking about the program to come. I heard

the word "Krsna" again and again. As so many times before, I marveled at the

great mercy of Lord Caitanya.

 

lokan samastan kali durga varidher

namna samuttarya svatah samarpitam

sri gaura candrair hari vaisnavanam

namnas ca tattvam kathitam jane jane

 

"Out of spontaneous compassion He restored all the people back to

consciousness, and through the means of His holy name enabled them to pass

beyond the impassable ocean of the age of quarrel. Thus by the golden moons

of Lord Hari and the Vaisnavas the news of the Names of Krsna was told from

person to person."

 

[srila Sarvabhauma Battacarya, Susloka - Satakam, Text 46]

 

Our small group of 15 devotees put on a simple but attractive stage

presentation of bhajan, dance, theater, and a lecture. The people loved it.

It seemed it was over before it began, and I soon found myself at the book

table, signing books.

 

Suddenly I heard a voice: "Hare Krsna, Srila Gurudeva." Because of the noisy

crowd I couldn't tell where the voice was coming from. Then a little hand

with a bouquet of flowers came up in front of my face. "This is for you."

 

I looked down and saw a little girl dressed in a sari with a big smile on

her face.

 

I smiled back. "Well thank you," I said. "What's your name?"

 

"My name is Kamila, and I'm nine years old," the little girl said. "Don't

you remember me?"

 

"Well not exactly," I said. "I meet many children in my travels. But thank

you for the flowers."

 

As she was just a child, I wanted to finish the encounter quickly and find a

serious adult to preach to.

 

"We met two years ago," she continued, "at another of your festivals in this

city. I saw you chanting in the rain that day. When my neighbors told me

they were going to your festival, I wanted to go too."

 

"You saw us chanting in the rain?" I said. I thought about my hesitancy to

join the kirtan in the bad weather that morning.

 

"Yes," she said, "and that night at the festival, when you saw I was

interested, you talked to me and told me stories about Krsna."

 

Suddenly I remembered the little girl.

 

"And I never forgot you," she said. "I pray to you every morning when I wake

up and every night before I go to sleep."

 

My eyes suddenly stopped searching the crowd for an older guest, and I

looked down at her. "You do? I asked.

 

"Oh yes," she said. "I am so thankful to you."

 

"You are?" I asked.

 

"Yes," she said. "And as I promised you, I have been chanting three rounds

on the japa beads you gave me every day. Srila Gurudeva, this time I would

like to ask you for a spiritual name."

 

"Are your parents devotees?" I asked.

 

"No," she said, "and they're divorced. I live with my mother."

 

"Oh I see," I said. "Well what will she think if I give you a spiritual

name?"

 

"Why don't you ask her?" the girl said. "I brought her to the program

tonight. She's just over there. I'll go get her."

 

She ran off and within moments came back with her mother.

 

"I'm pleased to meet you," I said as I shook the mother's hand.

 

"I am more than pleased to meet you," the mother said. "You have done so

much for my daughter. She loves you very much. The walls of her room are

covered with your photos. I must admit that when she came home from your

festival two years ago, I was quite upset. She had gone without my

permission."

 

"But my irritation soon changed into astonishment," she continued. "She used

to be such a naughty child, so difficult to handle. But after her one

meeting with you she changed so much. So how could I complain when she

prayed to you every day and chanted on the beads you gave her?

 

"She was even reading your movement's books. As an eight year old, she

couldn't understand much, but what she did understand, she shared with her

friends at school. One day in religion class, when the priest was speaking

unfavorably about other religions, my daughter stood up and challenged him.

'All religions are good,' she said, 'and people have the right to choose the

one they want to follow.' When she told him she was a follower of Hare

Krsna, he went speechless.

 

"She was asked to leave the class for good. And recently I was called before

the school administration. They told me that if she continues preaching

about Krsna to her schoolmates, she'll have to leave the school permanently.

 

"They know she doesn't eat the meat served in the cafeteria but brings it

home and gives it to the family dog. What would they say if they knew she

doesn't even do that anymore? She makes little balls of sweets, offers them

to your picture, and then gives them to the dog. I have the fattest dog in

the neighborhood.

 

"But believe me, I'm not upset. I realize that I have a special daughter.

She's taught me so much. Because of her I am now reading the Bhagavad Gita."

 

The little girl was standing before us, softly chanting on her beads.

 

"She's been so anxious to meet you again she can't sleep at night," the

mother added.

 

Kamila smiled and looked up at me again. "Srila Gurudeva," she said, "I'd

really like to have a spiritual name, but someone told me I have to chant 16

rounds and be your follower."

 

"Children can get spiritual names," I said, "and I can't imagine a better

follower than you."

 

I thought for a moment. "We'll give you the name Syama-lila dasi," I said.

 

She immediately bowed down. When she stood up, she had tears in her eyes.

"I'm so grateful," she said.

 

I looked at her mother. "And we're both grateful to you," I said.

 

Syama-lila hugged me and said goodbye.

 

I closed my eyes and thanked the Lord for fulfilling the wish I had shared

with Sri Prahlad that day. The Lord had sent a little angel.

 

I looked to the sky and vowed I would never again hesitate to go out and

preach the glories of the Lord - even in the rain.

 

dasyam te krpaya Natha

dehi dehi mahaprabho

patitanam prema data

syato yace punah punah

 

"O Mahaprabhu! I beg you again and again. Please be merciful and give me

Your service, for You are the bestower of love of Krsna to those fallen into

the jaws of the serpent of samsara."

 

[srila Sarvabhauma Bhattacarya, Susloka-Satakam, Text 10]

 

Indradyumna.swami (AT) pamho (DOT) net

 

www.traveling-preacher.com

Official website for Diary of a Traveling Preacher