Volume 6, Chapter 4 Diary of a Traveling Preacher by HH Indradhyumna

[Guest guest]

"IDS Diary (of a Traveling Preacher)" <Subject:

Volume 6, Chapter 4

 

 

 

Diary of a Traveling Preacher

 

Volume 6, Chapter 4

 

January 21 - February 10, 2005

 

 

"The Medicine of the Holy Names"

 

 

The day after returning to Colombo from our trip to

Matara we quickly

busied

ourselves for the relief work ahead. We used funds

donated from

overseas to

purchase the basics required for cooking: tons of

rice, dhal, and

vegetables, as well as spices, five huge new pots and

various cooking

utensils. Ten devotees loaded everything on a

government lorry, piled

in a

van and returned to southern Sri Lanka, ready to begin

serving daily

prasadam to five thousand displaced persons.

 

The same day I took three devotees in another van to

the east coast of

Sri

Lanka, scouting for opportunities to distribute

prasadam there. The

thirteen-hour drive would take us through a hilly area

and across a

100km

plain to the ocean.

 

Much of Sri Lanka's east coast is controlled by the

Tamil Tigers. The

rebel

force had fought the Sinhalese government for thirty

years before

agreeing

to a ceasefire three years ago. The ceasefire had

held, but the

government

had recently warned that it could not guarantee the

safety of

humanitarian

workers going into rebel-controlled areas.

 

"If you go to distribute prasadam and have kirtan they

won't bother

you,"

said Mahakarta dasa, the Colombo temple president. "In

fact, they'll

welcome

you. Most of the tsunami world aid given to Sri Lanka

is being

distributed

in the southern region, controlled by the government."

 

The horrors that I had witnessed in the southern coast

seemed far away

as we

drove through the picturesque interior jungle. The

winding road took us

through some of the most beautiful scenery I have ever

seen. The

well-maintained road serviced the many tourists who

flocked to Sri

Lanka

before and just after the war. An astonishing variety

of colorful birds

soared through the humid air, their beautiful colors

clashing

splendidly

with the deep green jungle foliage. A tropical climate

and diversity of

habitats endow Sri Lanka with an abundance of bird

life. "There are

more

than four hundred different species," said our driver

..

 

We passed nearby Kandy, the second biggest city on the

island and the

Sinhalese cultural and spiritual headquarters. In the

center of the

city is

a beautiful lake, and on its northern shores sits Sri

Dalada Maligawa,

the

Temple of the Tooth. This temple enshrines an original

tooth of Lord

Buddha,

reputed to have been snatched from His funeral pyre in

543 BC and

smuggled

into Sri Lanka in the hair of a princess some nine

hundred years later.

 

Driving further, we saw hills carpeted with the

glowing green of large

tea

plantations. Two hours into our journey we passed a

sign advertising an

elephant orphanage.

 

"An elephant orphanage?" I asked in surprise.

 

"There are many wild elephants on the island," our

driver informed us.

"Because of the war, many baby elephants were

orphaned. So the

government

started an orphanage. It's open to the public."

 

"Let's go see it!" one devotee suggested.

 

"That's not what we're here for," I said. "We're not

tourists. We're on

a

mission to help the victims of the tsunami; don't

forget that."

 

Everyone in the van became silent.

 

After several hours I spoke up. "How do we know when

we're in Tamil

Tiger

territory?" I asked the driver.

 

"You'll know," he said with a laugh.

 

Hours later, as twilight was settling in and just as I

had drifted off

to

sleep, I was rudely shaken awake by the jerking motion

of our car

bouncing

up and down on the road.

 

"What's going on?" I asked the driver.

 

"We're now in Tamil Tiger territory," he grinned.

 

Sticking my head outside the widow, I saw potholes in

the road every

few

meters. The asphalt was cracking everywhere and there

were few road

signs

giving proper directions.

 

"It's a different world from here on," our driver

said. "Some parts of

the

area are patrolled by government forces . . . and

others by Tamil

Tigers."

 

Sure enough, within minutes we came to a government

army checkpoint

barricaded in barbed wire. Soldiers came over to our

van and shined

their

flashlights in. Not knowing exactly what to do, I

simply smiled. To my

surprise they all smiled back.

 

"They know you're here for relief work," said the

driver. "Few tourists

come

this way anymore."

 

"I can understand why," I replied.

 

The soldiers let us pass. As we bounced along the road

I strained my

eyes to

see the jungle outside. Suddenly, our driver slammed

the brakes to

avoid

hitting a huge form laboring on the road before us.

 

"Hare Krsna! It's an elephant!" one devotee exclaimed.

 

Speeding up again, our driver calmly drove around the

beast.

 

Some time later we descended out of the hill country

and onto the

plains

that stretched towards the sea.

 

"How many more hours to go?" I asked. It seemed like

we'd been driving

for

days.

 

"Five," he answered.

 

"Five! Okay, then pull over; I have to answer nature's

call." As the

driver

pulled over I stepped out and started walking towards

a field.

 

Just as I stepped on the grass a devotee screamed out,

"Maharaja! Stop!

It's

a minefield!"

 

Immediately I stopped and carefully backtracked, only

then noticing

several

red signs nearby painted with skulls and crossbones,

reading, "Danger!

Landmines!"

 

"Come back," said the driver. "We'll find someplace

else."

 

As we drove on he explained that many areas in the

region were mined

during

the war by both government and Tamil Tiger forces.

"Hundreds of

thousands of

land mines and tons of explosives are buried in this

part of the

country,"

he said. "Be careful where you walk. Stick to the main

roads. And watch

out

for snakes too. Sri Lanka has five venomous types."

 

Reaching beneath his seat, he pulled out a vial

containing some dirt.

"You'll be protected if you carry this," he offered.

 

"What is it?" I asked curiously.

 

"It's from the town of Madhu, up north," he replied.

"That's where the

statue of Our Lady of Madhu is located. She protects

us from

snakebites,

just as earth taken from around her shrine protects

us. Would you like

some?"

 

"No, that's okay," I declined, waving my hand. "I'll

just stay on the

beaten

path."

 

Darkness fell as we drove on through the plains. I

noticed there wasn't

a

single person on the streets in the small villages

through which we

passed.

 

"Where is everyone?" I asked.

 

"Most of the fighting during the war took place at

night," the driver

replied, "so these people are accustomed to going

inside just after

nightfall."

 

"But there's a ceasefire in effect now," I said.

 

"Ceasefire doesn't mean the war is over," he said.

"There are still

skirmishes from time to time. Recently a top Tamil

Tiger politician was

assassinated nearby."

 

Again silence prevailed inside the van, and I dozed

off. I awoke in a

village and saw a building with a sign that read,

"Tamil Tiger Regional

Headquarters."

 

Surprised, I turned to the driver who in a serious

voice said, "They're

in

control here."

 

Just after midnight we arrived at our final

destination: a small

village

near Batticaloa on the far-eastern shore of Sri Lanka.

 

After being in the stuffy van all day, I wanted some

fresh air. I was

about

to ask the driver if he could take me the short

distance to the beach

so I

could take a walk. Then I remembered that it would be

a terrible scene

of

devastation, like most other places along the coast.

 

We soon met a local Hindu priest with whom we had a

prearranged

meeting. He

took us to a wedding hall across from a Ganesh temple

where we were to

rest

that night. Inside there was a small light shining,

and I was surprised

to

see many men sleeping on the floor.

 

"They're fisherman who lost their homes and families

in the tsunami,"

the

priest said.

 

As I set up my mosquito net huge clashes of thunder

pounded outside.

Soon

rain started pouring down. I quickly fell asleep,

exhausted by the

day's

long journey.

 

I woke up late. The fishermen were already up and

cooking their

breakfast in

a corner of the hall. When everyone was up we bathed

at the well

outside.

After chanting most of our rounds we went with the

local priest, our

translator, to check the camps for displaced persons.

 

As we approached the first camp, I asked the priest if

the people were

getting enough food.

 

"Food is not the problem here," he told us. "Although

the government

has

done little to help us, our people from the interior,

unaffected by the

tsunami, have been giving sufficient rice and dhal.

The Indian

government

has also sent several shiploads of the same.

 

"The real problem here is that most of the victims of

the tsunami are

suffering from trauma. People are still in shock. At

least twice a week

rumors circulate that another tsunami is coming, and

people panic. They

grab

their children and belongings and run out of the camps

screaming.

 

"Are you trained in dealing with trauma?" he asked me.

 

"No," I replied, "but we have a special medicine for

such things."

 

"A special medicine?"

 

"Yes, wait and see."

 

As we walked into the first camp I noticed a distinct

difference from

those

on the south coast. Some seven hundred people milled

about. Things

appeared

much less orderly. There were no Red Cross

representatives or army

personnel. People seemed disoriented. A number had

bandaged injuries.

One

woman's face was just beginning to heal from a bad

burn. Sadness seemed

to

hover over the camp like a dark monsoon cloud.

 

Walking straight into the middle of the camp, I asked

for a chair and

sat

down. The people, curious, started to gather around

us. The devotees

sat

around me, and taking our mrdanga in my hands I

started to chant Hare

Krsna.

Within moments the whole camp was listening carefully.

As the tempo

built up

I indicated that the people should clap along, which

they began to do

enthusiastically. After ten minutes I stopped. Turning

to the priest I

said,

"They're clapping, but they're not chanting."

 

He leaned over and whispered, "They don't know Krsna

here. But they

know

Ramacandra. After all, this is Lanka, where Ravana

lived."

 

Smiling, I began kirtan again, singing "Raghupati

Raghava Raja Ram,

Patita

Pavana Sita Ram." Immediately the people responded by

smiling and

chanting

along. As the kirtan got faster some people started

dancing. After

twenty

minutes I brought the kirtan to a close. The

atmosphere was like

Vaikuntha.

 

Astonished, the priest said, "They all look so happy!"

 

Turning to him with a smile, I said, "It's the

medicine of the holy

names."

 

After the crowd settled down I began telling stories

from the Ramayana.

It

was obvious by the way they nodded their heads that

they knew the

pastimes,

but they drank the nectar of Rama-katha as if it was

their first taste.

After forty-five minutes I called all the children

forward and asked a

few

simple questions: Who is Lord Rama's wife? What color

is Lord Rama? Who

is

His most faithful servant? When a child answered

correctly, I would

give him

or her a little card with a picture of Radha and Krsna

and a calendar

on the

back. From the enthusiasm of the children, it seemed

that those

colorful

cards were as good as gold.

 

Then I taught them the Hare Krsna mantra, and the

blissful atmosphere

expanded as they chanted along.

 

As we got up to leave, many of the women came rushing

forward to put

their

babies in my arms. I wasn't exactly sure what to do,

so I just chanted

Hare

Krsna in each infant's ear. There were many babies and

it took quite

some

time.

 

As we walked toward the gate, the entire camp followed

us. They

appeared

very grateful: everyone waved and some even cried as

we got into our

van to

go to the next camp. It was more evidence for me that

kirtan and

Hari-katha

are the panacea for all problems in Kali-yuga.

 

aho ahobhir na kaler viduyate

sudha su dhara madhuram pade pade

dine dine candana candra sitalaà

yaso yasoda tanayasya giyate

 

"One who daily sings the glories of Yasoda's son,

Krsna, which are

cooling

as sandalwood and camphor, is not troubled by the days

of Kali-yuga.

For him

every step is a torrential flood of the sweetest

nectar."

 

[srila Rupa Goswami - Padyavali, Text 41]

 

As we drove to the next camp I got a call from Tara

das, who was

directing

the prasadam distribution in the Matara district to

the south.

 

"It's going well, Maharaja," Tara said. "Yesterday we

distributed four

thousand plates. It's just the beginning. Many people

in the camp enjoy

helping us gather wood for cooking, and they also help

us cutting up

vegetables. The major has arranged trucks for us to go

out and

distribute

prasadam to several camps in the area each day.

 

"More devotees will be arriving from Russia soon," he

continued, "and

we'll

begin distributing prasadam in other parts of the

country as well."

 

As we continued driving to the next camp the priest

turned to me and

said,

"The most traumatized are the people still on the

beach. Although their

homes were destroyed, some won't leave. Do you think

you could visit

there

before we go any farther? They really need help."

 

"Okay," I said. "Let's go."

 

Within a few minutes we were at the beach. As we got

out of the car I

felt

as if my eyes were tricking me. Everything was

devastated as far as one

could see. It seemed even more extensive than the

southern part of the

country. The tsunami had flattened practically every

house. Cars,

bicycles,

chairs, sofas, toys, and clothes--a seemingly

unlimited assortment of

paraphernalia--were strewn everywhere. And there was

the awful stench

of

death. I covered my mouth with a cloth.

 

"Mostly dead animals," the priest said, "but we are

still finding human

bodies. They're under the rubble of the houses and

also wash up

periodically

on the shore."

 

On my drive along the southern coast I had seen the

destruction only

from a

distance. Now I was walking through it. We had to step

carefully

through the

decimated area, over shards of broken glass, chunks of

concrete, and

jagged

pieces of wood and wire--and bones, already bleached

white by the

tropical

sun. Nearby I saw volunteers from a humanitarian

organization spraying

everything in sight with disinfectant.

 

"By God's grace there has been no epidemic yet," said

the priest.

 

Walking through one neighborhood completely destroyed

by the tsunami,

we

came across two distraught men sitting in the rubble

of what used to be

a

house.

 

As we approached, one of them looked up and sobbing

uncontrollably,

said, "I

was on top of the house, and I saw my mother swept

away before my

eyes."

 

"I lost both my children," said the other man,

standing. "They were

torn

from my arms as I sat right here."

 

Grabbing my kurta, he screamed, "Why has God allowed

this? I am not a

bad

man!"

 

For the moment there was nothing to say; no words

could offer reason to

one

in such distress. I simply put my arm around him.

After two minutes, as

our

group turned to go, I said to him softly, "Hare

Krsna." Nodding his

head, he

looked to the sky, silently accepting his destiny and

the will of

providence.

 

A few minutes later we approached a severely damaged

temple that was

completely deserted. "Where is the priest?" I

inquired.

 

"He died in the tsunami," said our priest. "Hardly

anyone survived in

this

area. We burned his body and spread the ashes over

there near the sea."

 

Just then I saw a young man wandering aimlessly

through the rubble

nearby. I

asked the priest to call him over.

 

"What are you doing here?" I asked him. "School

started a few days

ago."

 

"I'm looking for the bodies of my mother, father,

three brothers, and

four

sisters," he said with a dazed expression. "The

terrible ocean took

them

away."

 

I sat him down and put my hand on his shoulder.

 

"The body is temporary," I said, "but the soul is

eternal and never

dies."

 

Those few words calmed him, so I continued. "Your

mother, father,

brothers,

and sisters are elsewhere now. You won't see them

again in this life."

 

I asked where he was living.

 

"With my auntie," he replied.

 

"Don't come back here," I said. "Your mother would

have wanted you in

school

now. Am I right?"

 

"Yes," he agreed, and as he turned to go he said,

"Thank you."

 

Just as he left, a distressed woman came running up to

me and grabbed

my

arm. She was speaking in Tamil, so I couldn't

understand her.

 

"She said she lost her husband and eight-year-old

daughter in the

tsunami,"

the priest said. "And her three-year-old boy is in the

hospital. She

has no

money to feed him. She's asking if you can give her

some."

 

I reached into my pocket, and taking out two thousand

rupees put it in

her

hand. Still crying, she went to sit in the ruins of

her home.

 

We spent several hours among the devastation near the

beach, talking to

people and trying to comfort them as much as we could.

Sometimes I

would

offer transcendental knowledge, but more often it was

a simple embrace

that

gave a person the solace they needed.

 

On the way back to our van we stopped at the local

school, which was

not

much more than a steel frame left standing after the

tsunami. Going

inside,

I watched as the teachers gave thirty or forty kids a

lesson in

mathematics.

 

When the children noticed me they all ran up close,

staring. I spent

several

minutes shaking their hands, asking them their names

and pulling on the

girls' pigtails. One boy was wearing a hat, and I took

it off and put

it on

my own head, making all the kids laugh. Suddenly I saw

the reason he

was

wearing the hat: he had a horrible skin infection on

his head. As I

took the

hat off I thought, "I'll probably pay a high price for

that trick."

 

I taught the children to chant Hare Krsna and after a

short kirtan we

departed.

 

As we left, the teacher said, "Thank you. They'll

never forget your

visit."

 

Walking back to our van, I said to the priest,

"There's years of work

to be

done, just in this one village."

 

"Can you stay a little longer?" he asked.

 

"I'm afraid I have to move on," I replied, "but I'll

be sending a group

of

devotees here in a few days to distribute prasadam and

chant with the

people. And I'll spread the word. Perhaps there are

devotees overseas

who

can spare a little time and come here as well."

 

Stopping, the priest took both my hands and said,

"Tell them we would

be

most appreciative. Even if they came for just a few

days."

 

We visited several more camps and the next day started

the long drive

back

to Colombo.

 

As we neared our base in Colombo late that afternoon,

our driver

reminded me

of a promise I had made to visit an orphanage just

outside the city,

run by

the local ISKCON temple. Seeing that I was tired and

so a little

hesitant,

he said, "They're wonderful little devotees."

 

"Devotees?" I asked.

 

"Yes. It's more than just an orphanage. Shall we go?"

 

"All right," I agreed.

 

When we arrived at the orphanage, I met Nandarani

dasi, Mahakarta's

wife,

who started the project seven years ago.

 

"We have seventy-nine children at the moment," she

said, "most of them

orphans from the war. But recently the government has

asked us to take

seventy-five more children orphaned by the tsunami.

We've just begun

construction on a new dormitory for that purpose."

 

As she took me on a tour of the property, I was amazed

at the clean and

well-organized facility.

 

"We also run a school for the children," she said with

a smile.

 

"It must be difficult raising orphans who've

experienced the horrors of

war," I suggested.

 

"Many saw their parents killed," she said soberly. "It

was a technique

used

by soldiers on both sides. But through the years,

these children have

come

to terms with all they saw in the war."

 

"How is that?"

 

"Through Krsna consciousness," she replied. "Come,

I'll show you."

 

She took me to the temple room, where all the children

were anxiously

waiting to meet me. When I walked in, they all paid

obeisances and then

eagerly gathered around me.

 

"They want to hear stories about Krsna," she said,

"and then have

kirtan.

It's their life and soul."

 

I immediately began telling them Krsna conscious

stories, and after an

hour

I picked up a drum and started kirtan. Once again, I

witnessed the

all-merciful nature of the holy names as the children

danced wildly

with

abandon, their big smiles radiating with youthful

enthusiasm. I took

the

kirtan outside, and we chanted and danced all over the

property. They

were

beside themselves with happiness. After an hour and a

half I was

exhausted

and brought the kirtan party back into the temple

room. But they wanted

more, so I kept going, praying for the strength to

fulfill their taste

for

the holy names. When we finally finished, I sat on the

floor with all

the

children around me, blissful smiles still decorating

their innocent

faces.

 

"Am I in a war-torn country, recently ravaged by a

tsunami--or am I in

Vaikuntha, the spiritual world?" I wondered to myself

in amazement.

Looking

again at the blissful children, I knew: "For the

moment, I'm in

Vaikuntha."

 

As our group continued back to Colombo, I said to the

devotees in the

van,

"This is something new in our movement: a Krsna

conscious orphanage!"

 

That night I began making the final touches on the

infrastructure I had

set

up for our relief work on the island. I would be

leaving in a few days,

but

devotees who had come with me from overseas would

continue the work for

at

least another two months.

 

Before taking rest, I remembered my promise to the

priest on the east

coast.

I wrote emails to several godbrothers, asking if they

could spare some

time

to come and help the villagers deal with the tragedy

of the tsunami.

 

I got an instant reply.

 

"I don't know how much help I could be," one

godbrother wrote. "I don't

have

money, I'm not a doctor, and I don't have experience

in counseling."

 

I wrote back, "Just come with the holy names. They're

what's needed

most

here now."

 

"May Krsna's holy name, which is a reservoir of all

transcendental

happiness, the destruction of Kali-yuga's sins, the

most purifying of

all

purifying things, the saintly person's food as he

traverses the path to

the

spiritual world, the pleasure-garden where the voices

of the greatest

saints, philosophers, and poets play, the life of the

righteous, and

the

seed of the tree of religion, bring transcendental

auspiciousness to

you

all."

 

[srila Rupa Goswami, Padayavali - Text 19]

 

indradyumna.swami (AT) pamho (DOT) net

 

www.traveling-preacher.com

 

 

 

 

_________

ALL-NEW Messenger - all new features - even more fun!

http://uk.messenger.