Volume 7, Chapter 17

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Diary of a Traveling Preacher

 

Volume 7, Chapter 17

 

September 19 - October 5, 2006

 

By Indradyumna Swami

 

 

"Luck of the Irish"

 

 

When I was young, my mother would often speak of her Britannic forebears.

"Your grandmother was from Wales," she told me on many occasions. But what

she liked best was the Irish part. "Your grandfather was an Irishman from

Cork," she would say proudly.

 

When my father would talk of his German roots, she'd pretend not to hear.

"Look at the faces of these children," she would say. "Irish eyes are

smiling."

 

"Luck of the Irish, boy!" she yelled from the grandstands when I won a

high-school swimming race against all odds. Sometimes she'd say the same

when I got good grades on my exams.

 

No wonder, then, that I was always curious about Ireland. Whenever something

would come up in the news about the country I would take special interest

and read it, and when Saint Patrick's Day came around each year I would wear

something green. And I knew not to mess with the full-blooded Irish boys

with names like Sean, Kerry, Neil, and Ryan in school. They were dirty

fighters. They kicked below the belt and continued punching even after you'd

given up.

 

My curiosity about Ireland faded with time, and when I became a devotee I

learned that we are all eternal spirit souls, part and parcel of Krsna.

Nevertheless, when the Irish devotees contacted me early last September and

asked me to take part in a traveling festival in Ireland, the curiosity of

my youth was revived.

 

"Will there be a festival in Cork?" I asked.

 

"No," said Gaura Hari das. "We'd like to do Dublin and Galway.

Tribhuvanatha's festival programs were always successful in those places."

 

My Godbrother, Tribhuvanatha das, who passed away several years ago, was

Irish. He was a pioneer in introducing Krsna consciousness in Ireland, and

his traveling festival programs made our movement well known there. But the

programs were discontinued after his demise.

 

I thought for a moment. "I'll come," I said. "I have heard that Irish people

are pious. And it would be an honor to revive the festival program that

Tribhuvanatha prabhu began. We'll dedicate the festivals in his memory."

 

And so on September 17, I went to the airport in Warsaw for a flight to

Dublin. As I walked through the airport, I decided to buy a few toiletries,

so I went into a small shop and waited in line. The line was long, so I

picked up a Time magazine and started browsing through it.

 

Suddenly I heard a man's voice behind me: "Old wine in new bottles."

 

I turned around and saw a well-dressed gentleman.

 

"I thought you people didn't read that stuff," he said.

 

I quickly put down the magazine. "Uhi Generally we don't," I said

sheepishly.

 

Then I saw that he had a magazine in his own hand. He smiled and put it down

on top of mine. "I don't want it either," he said laughing. "I just picked

it up so I could get in line behind you."

 

"Really?" I said.

 

"I just got married a few hours ago," he said. "My wife and I are going to

Spain for our honeymoon."

 

"Oh," I said. "Congratulations."

 

"When I saw you walking through the airport, I ran after you," he said.

 

"What?" I said.

 

"Yes," he said. "You see, we want you to bless our marriage."

 

The woman behind the cash register looked up.

 

"I'm a businessman," he said, "and I travel a lot. I often buy books from

you people when I pass through the airports in America. I know what you're

all about.

 

"Today at the wedding the priest gave a very boring speech. He must have

given the same talk hundreds of times. My wife was crying. The whole thing

didn't feel right. We feel if you consecrate our marriage it will be

blessed."

 

I felt a bit embarrassed. I looked around and saw the cashier smiling.

"Isn't that sweet!" she said with a sigh.

 

I thought for a moment and then put up my hands. "May Lord Krishna bless you

and your wife with a prosperous and spiritually rewarding marriage!" I said.

 

"Thanks so much," he said, extending his hand to shake mine.

 

Then as he turned to go, he wheeled back around and put a $100 bill in my

jacket pocket. "That's for the mission," he said with a smile.

 

While on the three-hour flight, I took the 100 dollars out of my pocket and

placed it carefully in my handbag. I made a mental note that I would use the

money for the festival in Ireland.

 

I was apprehensive, to say the least. I knew the festivals wouldn't be

anything like our festivals in Poland, which after 17 years are organized

and efficient. Despite all good intentions, the Irish program would be

piecemeal, thrown together with elements from various places.

 

Devotees who had free time would join us from England, Ukraine, Russia, and

Poland. The festival paraphernalia would come from the remnants of

Tribhuvanatha's old program and from a small festival program in England.

Some householders would also lend us a few items. The only sure thing would

be the stage show, as I had invited a number of talented devotees who

perform at our programs in Poland.

 

I arrived in Dublin the day before the first festival. My apprehensions

seemed justified when I spoke to Tribhuvanesvara das, a Polish devotee who

had come to Dublin early to lead Harinamas and advertise the festival on the

streets.

 

"For a few days we had six or seven devotees going out," he said, "but

yesterday there were just three of us. I played accordion and sang, one

devotee with a bandaged hand played karatals, and a new boy with long hair

wearing Levis handed out invitations."

 

"That's definitely not the impression I like to make on Harinama," I

thought. "Everything should be first class."

 

"Of course," I continued thinking, "the holy names are transcendental and

always have a purifying effect on those who chant or hear them. But if they

are presented in an attractive way, there's more chance the conditioned

souls will take an interest."

 

I recalled a letter Srila Prabhupada once wrote to my Godbrother Upendra:

 

"I shall call you and some other students to assemble there to practice

Sankirtana in a systematic way. Of course, chanting Hare Krishna does not

require any artificial artistic sense, but still, if the procedure is

presented rhythmically, then the people may be attracted more by the

transcendental music."

 

[Letter, June 1, 1968 ]

 

The next day we went on Harinama with 15 devotees. Unfortunately it was

raining, and we had to shift from one shop awning to another for protection.

Some invitations went out, but by the end of the day I was feeling that

attendance at the program would be small.

 

Fortunately, because of the expert management of the local GBC man, Praghosa

das, our movement has an excellent reputation in Dublin. Our two vegetarian

restaurants are well known, and for weeks in advance, customers had been

informed about the upcoming program.

 

The next night, the hall was packed with over 500 people. It was an old,

musty place, used mainly for rock concerts. Hundreds of posters of different

bands who had played there were plastered everywhere. The place looked as if

it hadn't been cleaned in years. I asked the technicians to keep the hall

dark, flooding only the stage with lights.

 

Although we had not rehearsed our show, it went off well because the

performers were experienced and skilled. The crowd loudly applauded the

Bharat Natyam dances, enjoyed the bhajans, roared with approval at the

martial-arts show, sat in awe at the yoga demonstration, and listened

attentively to my lecture at the end. Everyone relished the prasadam, and we

sold many books.

 

As we left the hall that evening I gave a sigh of relief. "But the next

town, Galway, won't be so easy," I thought. "The last time Tribhuvanath and

his festival program visited there was ten years ago."

 

The next morning, in pouring rain, we traveled west in a caravan of vehicles

to Galway. It was an interesting journey through the lush, green Irish

countryside.

 

"It rains more than not," said a devotee.

 

"More than not?" I asked.

 

"About 275 days a year in Galway," he said.

 

As we drove on I noticed row after row of stone fences.

 

"I don't see wooden fences," I said.

 

"The soil is rocky," a devotee said, "so for centuries when farmers tilled

the land they took the rocks and made boundaries with them. It's unique in

this part of the world."

 

After hearing a little Irish history, I couldn't help but ask a question I'd

always had about the country.

 

"Are there really leprechauns?" I said.

 

"No Irishman will deny it," a devotee said with a smile.

 

Then his face became serious. "But you can never borrow money from them," he

said.

 

"Why not?" I asked.

 

"Because they're always a little short," he said with a grin.

 

The devotees burst into laughter, and I lost all hope for the existence of

Ireland's fabled creatures.

 

After five hours we reached Galway, a town of 100,000 people. I was

surprised that my tourist book listed it as one of Ireland's major cities.

As we drove along, the sun appeared briefly from behind the clouds, and I

marveled at the beauty and quaintness of the town.

 

The next day the rain lightened into a drizzle, and after a morning program

at our base, we drove with our caravan of cars into town and parked near the

main street.

 

As we assembled for the kirtan, I picked up a drum and tried it out. It

sounded dead. Then I noticed we only had two pairs of kartalas, and they

were small. But the worst came when I saw devotees putting signboards around

their necks advertising the festival program.

 

"Take them off," I said to the devotees. "We're not the Salvation Army."

 

Soon our little ragtag group began chanting down a pedestrian street about

300 meters long. Despite the fact that a nice devotee couple lived in Galway

and sometimes did kirtan on the same street, it soon became obvious that

most people had never seen devotees before.

 

School had just finished and suddenly the street was full of high-school

kids. As we passed a group of older boys, one took a bottle of beer, shook

it, and sprayed us all over.

 

Suddenly I saw another group of young men walking quickly toward us,

apparently with the intention of crashing through our ranks. As I stepped

forward, a brahmacari caught my arm.

 

"They can be mean," he said.

 

I flashed back to my youth. "Don't mess with the Irish boys," came to my

mind, and I stepped aside. As they reached us we opened our lines and the

boys walked through without incident.

 

"I wonder what kind of program we'll have in this town," I thought.

 

Some people stopped and stared, but most just walked by as we chanted down

the street. We were an unfamiliar sight, and it would take time for people

to get used to us. By the end of the Harinama four hours later, people were

beginning to smile. We had only just broken the ice.

 

"Tomorrow will be better," I said to the devotees as we drove back to our

base that afternoon.

 

The next day I took the devotees out early, before 10:30 AM. Dark, ominous

clouds hung in the sky. In the chilly morning air, people walked quickly

down the street, somber looks on their faces. But this time, no one took

notice as we started our kirtan.

 

I turned to Tribhuvanesvara, our kirtan leader, and asked him to give it his

best. He thought for a moment and changed to an upbeat melody on his

accordion. The devotees began chanting and dancing down the street in great

pleasure.

 

The kirtan got stronger by the hour. Around noon, when bright sunshine

suddenly appeared from behind the clouds, many people looked up and then

smiled at us, as if to attribute the flood of warmth and light to the kirtan

of the holy names.

 

We passed close by a group of shoppers. "What in the world are these people

doing?" A woman asked her friend.

 

"They're worshiping Krsna, stupid!" her friend replied.

 

A devotee who was distributing invitations came up to me. "Guess what," he

said. "I overheard a man speaking to his friend over his cell phone. The man

said, 'The Hare Krishna's are everywhere and they look so happy. I'm

thinking to join them. No, seriously, I am.'"

 

By the time we left at 3:00 PM, exhausted but happy, auspiciousness

prevailed. At the end of the day, I had some hope that our program would be

successful.

 

"O King, when the devotees of Lord Krishna dance, their steps crush the

inauspiciousness of the earth, their glances destroy the inauspiciousness of

the ten directions, and their upraised voices push away the inauspiciousness

in the demigods planets."

 

[Hari Bhakti Suddhodaya 20.68 ]

 

The next day we performed Harinama at a local university. Again we tried our

best, but although the students looked at us curiously, they didn't appear

interested. I noticed a lot of invitations in the trash cans. Afterward, the

Harinama devotees put up posters, but they were quickly covered by other

advertisements. As we drove home that evening, I was again apprehensive

about attendance at our upcoming event.

 

"We need another Harinama like yesterday," I thought as I drifted off to

sleep that night. "One's not enough."

 

But any hopes of another were dashed when I woke up the next morning and

looked out the window. It was pouring rain.

 

We arrived early at the festival hall that afternoon. I was pleased to see

that it was modern, well equipped, and clean. I counted 600 seats.

 

"It's a nice hall, but it will look empty if only a few people come," I

thought.

 

As the afternoon wore on we waited impatiently for a crew of technicians to

arrive and set up the stage, lights, and sound, but no one came. Finally,

just three hours before show time, one technician showed up.

 

"Where is the rest of the crew?" I asked.

 

"A show?" said the young man. "We thought you were just going to pray."

 

Immediately he began preparing the lights on the stage. But he seemed new on

the job and unfamiliar with the equipment. From time to time he would run

back to the sound desk, fiddle with it and then run back to the lights. Time

passed and soon there was only 90 minutes to opening. He became frantic.

 

"Even I set it all up in time," he said, "I won't be able run the lights and

the sound simultaneously."

 

"Well," I said, "I've got several qualified men here who can easily set this

all up and run it all as well. Can you use them?"

 

"I don't know what the boss will say," he replied.

 

"We have no choice," I said strongly.

 

"OK," he said relieved. "Let's get to work."

 

Immediately several of our men, seasoned by years of experience on the

Polish tour, jumped into action. In an hour everything was up and running.

 

Meanwhile the rest of us set up the book table, shops, and prasadam.

 

Then with 15 minutes until opening, we sat back and waited for the guests.

 

A trickle of people began arriving at 6:00 PM. As they took their seats, I

went behind the stage and told Tribhuvanesvara to start the bhajan. Then I

went back to the main entrance and waited. Minutes later a few more people

arrived. At 6:30 there were only 30 people in the hall.

 

"This is what I was afraid would happen," I said as I turned and walked to

the stage.

 

"Guests or no guests, let's start the show," I said to the devotee stage

manager.

 

I went back to the dressing rooms and sat down. An hour passed. The

performers went on one after another.

 

"All of this for so few people," I said out loud.

 

"What do you mean?" said Dina Dayal das, just back from his second martial

arts performance. "The crowd is getting bigger by the minute."

 

I jumped up and rushed out to the front of the stage. I couldn't believe my

eyes. The hall was more than half full, and people were still flowing in.

 

"There are over 400 people out there," said a devotee. "They all came a

little late, probably because of the bad weather."

 

I stood and watched the crowd. They seemed mesmerized by the show.

 

Toward the end, I came on stage and gave a lecture. Through the bright

lights I could see everyone listening attentively, so I took advantage of

the opportunity and spoke for over an hour. No one moved.

 

Then we had a rousing kirtan. Many in the audience jumped up from their

seats and danced with us in front of the stage. Afterwards we distributed

prasadam. Soon the guests left, many with Srila Prabhupada books under their

arms. Fully satisfied, I walked back to the dressing room to gather my

things.

 

"I never imagined so many people would come," I said shaking my head.

 

A devotee passed by. "Great show, Maharaja," he said. "And against all odds.

It was such bad weather, and we had so little time for advertising. How'd we

do it?"

 

I smiled. "Luck of the Irish," I said, "and no doubt, the mercy of the holy

names."

 

Srila Prabhupada writes:

 

"I have tested it definitely that melodious vibration of Sankirtana, if

performed by serious devotees, can attract people from the very spiritual

platform, and it at once makes the spiritual background very smooth, where a

spiritual instruction from the Bhagavad-gita can be implemented very nicely.

So my first concrete program is to organize such a Sankirtana party."

 

[letter to Harikrishnadas Aggarwal, March 3, 1968]

 

Indradyumna.swami (AT) pamho (DOT) net

 

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