"I Never Cry"

[Vijaya Baladeva das]

Diary of a Traveling Monk

Volume 11, Chapter 10

October 11, 2010

By Indradyumna Swami


"I Never Cry"


Life on the festival tour in Poland this summer was austere - the
cramped
living facilities, the long hours, and the hotter-than-normal weather
- but
our three hundred devotees kept their spirits up all the way through.
Many
said that it had been our best tour, as proved by the largest crowds
ever.

But mostly it was the appreciation that the guests showed, saying it
in many
loving ways, that set this year's tour apart from all the others. It
was
never more obvious than at Rewal, our last festival.

As we had only one harinama to advertise the event, I gave the
devotees a
little pep talk before we started.

"It's a beautiful day," I told them, "and everyone is on the beach. At
this
moment not a soul in town knows we are having a program tonight. Over
to the
right you can see the setup crew starting to put up the tents on the
field.
There's a German word, 'blitzkrieg,' that refers to an army invading a
town
with lightning speed. So we're going to blitzkrieg Reval this morning
and
let everyone know about the festival tonight."

The devotees cheered and quickly set about readying all the sankirtana
equipment: the accordions, mrdangas, djembe drums, karatalas, flags,
banners, and festoons. Within minutes, a hundred and sixty devotees
descended onto the beach joyfully chanting and dancing.

As we wove our way through whatever little space was left on the
beach,
people grabbed invitations right out of our hands. After half an hour
we
stopped, and Tribhuvanesvara dasa gave a short talk to invite everyone
to
the festival. Afterwards people raised their hands and asked
questions.
People who had never seen us before stood dumbfounded by the keen
interest
others showed.

"Do you have a new theater this year?" asked a man.

"Is the Sankhya dance group from Mumbai performing again?" said
another.

"Will there be a dance contest for the children to win a sari?" a
woman
called out.

The kirtana party continued down the beach, and I walked a little
behind to
be with some of the devotee children.

"Guru Maharaja," a boy said, "we have a question. We want to ask if
you ever
cry."

I stopped. "What?" I said.

"We want to know if sometimes you cry," he said. "We always hear how
devotees are supposed to cry for Krsna. You know, like the gopis cry
for
Krsna or how tears should come to our eyes when we chant Hare Krsna."

I laughed. "I'm not on that level," I said.

"So you never cry?" a girl said.

"Never," I said.

As we continued down the beach, a middle-aged woman jumped up from her
sunbathing and ran over to me. She wore a respectable swimsuit, and
her
jewelery and watch looked expensive.

"Excuse me, sir," she said. "May I speak to you for a moment?"

"Sure," I said, glancing at the children who gathered around us to
hear what
she had to say.

"I wanted to thank you for helping me so much," she said. "I feel very
much
indebted to you."

I tried to remember where I might have met her.

"I attended your lecture at the festival in Kolobrzeg the other
night," she
continued. "My psychiatrist recommended that I go hear you. He had
heard you
speak earlier this summer and told me that listening to you would
solve the
problems I was having."

I could feel my face blush. "Oh, thank you," I said.

"After listening to your talk," she said, "I feel I can cope now with
the
problems I am dealing with in life. In particular you inspired me when
you
spoke so convincingly about the spiritual world. I truly believe now
that it
exists."

She took my hands. "I just cannot thank you enough," she said. "I'm so
grateful."

As she returned to her spot on the beach, I was overwhelmed by her
appreciation, and I felt so grateful to my spiritual master that my
eyes
become moist and one or two tears rolled down my cheek.

I quickly brushed the tears aside and turned to continue following the
kirtana party, but the children had seen me. "You do cry Guru
Maharaja!" a
boy shouted. "Just see! You're crying! Look!"

That evening over five thousand people came to the festival. As they
poured
in and wandered through the tents, a young couple approached me
panting for
breath with their little daughter in tow.

"We made it!" the husband said. "We finally made it!"

I chuckled. "It's only fifty meters from the beach to the festival," I
said.

"No," said the husband. "Let me explain. Last year we came to your
festival
here. Our daughter was four years old, and she had the time of her
life.
Since then all she talks about is your festival. She talks about it
constantly."

"It's true," said his wife. "She talks about the Indian dancers, the
puppet
shows, the singing, the magic show, the food, and the saris,
especially the
saris. Each night before she goes to bed she insists on practicing her
dancing so she can win a sari at the next festival."

"That's right," said the husband, "And every morning when she wakes
up, her
first question is, 'How many more days until the Festival of India?'"

The wife laughed. "So you can just imagine how relieved we are to
finally be
here," she said.

As the stage show began I made my way around the festival site
watching
people enjoy themselves in the tents and at the outdoor attractions. I
was
soon joined again by the same group of devotee children. As we
strolled
around, a young girl ran up to us.

"Hare Krsna!" she said excitedly. "I'm Ania. I'm happy you're all
back."

"Hare Krsna, Ania," I said. "So you've been to our festival before?"

"Yes," she said with a big smile. "The first time I came I was only
two
weeks old. I'm nine now, and I have come here every year since."

"Huh?" I said. "You were two weeks old the first time you came to our
festival?"

"Yes," she said. "My house is just across the street. The first time
you
came here I had just been born. My mother saw your festival from the
window
and brought me along. I got my first gopi dots at that festival when I
was a
tiny baby."

"And you even know the right name for the face painting," I said.

Just then another girl came running up.

"This is Dorota," Ania said. "She's my best friend, and she lives next
door
to me. She's been coming to the festival since she was two."

"And I win a sari every year," Dorota said proudly. "I've won seven of
them,
but I gave four to my grandma because she likes to wear them around
the
house."

"That's interesting," I said. "And what do you like best about our
festival,
Dorota? The dancing? The puppet show? The food?"

"No" she said. "The best part of the festival is your lecture at the
end.
That's my favorite part. Grandma likes it too. She hardly ever goes
outside
now because she's too old, but when it's time for you to speak at the
festival she has my mommy bring her. She said you're her favorite
priest in
the whole world because you know how to make religion fun."

I was about to continue my stroll when another girl ran up.

"This is Ewa, my other best friend," said Ania. "She's been coming to
the
festival since she was three years old."

"I see you every day on Facebook," said Ewa, shaking my hand.

"You do?" I said. "Your mother lets you go on Facebook? You're so
young."

Ewa laughed. "Yes," she said. "She lets me use Facebook because I only
have
one Facebook friend: that's you. You gave me your garland when I was
four,
and it's still hanging on the wall of my room. When I was six I broke
my arm
and you signed my cast, and that's also hanging on my wall. I love my
mommy,
daddy, uncle and aunt, my grandpa, and even my music teacher, but
you're my
favorite person in the whole world because you've shown me the most
love,
even though I only get to see you once a year."

"Oh really," I said, my voice quivering slightly and my face flushing.
The
devotee children looked at each other.

"See?" a girl said smiling at another. "He's going to cry again."

I scratched my head and cleared my throat. "What do you like most
about the
festival, Ewa?" I said.

She thought for a moment. "Krsna," she said.

"Amazing," I said. "And you, Ania?"

"Radharani, Krsna's girlfriend," she replied.

I started to say, "How do you know about Radharani?" but I stopped.

"Why don't we all walk over to the restaurant and have something to
eat?" I
said.

"Yeah!" Ania shouted. "Some burfi!"

"And samosas!" shouted Ewa.

After our little party at the restaurant I finished my tour of the
festival
grounds and went backstage to see how the performers were doing. I
thought I
could use a little nap, so I lay down. Forty-five minutes later a
devotee
was shaking me. "Haribol, Maharaja," he said, "You're on. Time for the
lecture."

I jumped up, threw some water on my face, and walked onto the stage
just as
the master of ceremonies, Tribhuvanesvara, was introducing me. The
audience
of five hundred looked at me in expectation.

Though I'd just woken up I had no difficulty speaking. I'd given the
introductory lecture a thousand times before, but each time it felt as
fresh
as the first. It was the highlight of the evening for me: everything
about
the festival culminated in this opportunity to speak the sublime
philosophy
of Krsna consciousness to our guests.

After the talk, we had a rousing forty-five minute kirtana and gave
away
saris to the best dancers (Dorota won her eighth). The show ended, and
as I
walked slowly down the stairs I saw a woman waiting for me with a
Bhagavad-gita in her hand.

The devotee children were waiting for me as well, and they surrounded
me as
the woman stepped forward to hand me her Bhagavad-gita. "You said in
your
lecture if we bought a Bhagavad-gita you would sign it," she said.

"Yes," I said, "and I will."

"And could you also write down your email address?" she said. "I have
many
questions I'd like to ask you."

"Yes, of course," I replied. "Everything I know I've learned from this
book
and my spiritual master."

I started to sign the inside cover, then looked up. "May I ask what
your
profession is?" I said.

"I'm a judge in one of Poland's high courts," she said.

I slowly and carefully signed the book and wrote my email address.

The children were walking with me towards my van when a young couple
stopped
me and asked me to sign their newly purchased Bhagavad-gita.

"I have been waiting seventeen years to buy this book," the man said.

"Seventeen years?" I said.

He chuckled. "Yes," he said. "Your festival came to our town fifty
kilometers from here in 1993. I was seven years old at the time. I was
running around your event with the other kids, having a good time, but
when
you came onstage and spoke I remember how the whole atmosphere
changed. Even
all the kids stopped to listen.

"I didn't understand a thing you said, but I remember that it was a
special
moment. I remember seeing so many people buying the book afterwards,
and I
thought someday I'd like to get one too.

"My future wife was at the festival as well, but we were just children
and
didn't know each other. Years later, when we married, we were talking
one
day and discovered that we had both been at your festival and that we
both
remembered the special moment when you came on stage with that book.
Just
yesterday we heard your festival was being held here in Rewal, so we
came to
see it again and buy the book after all these years."

I wrote a long dedication in their Bhagavad-gita.

"Amazing," I thought. "Something wonderful happens at just about every
step
on this tour."

But the wonderful things were not yet finished.

As the children were helping me into the van, a young man in his early
twenties ran up. "Excuse me," he said. "I know you're busy and you
must be
tired, but I wanted to share something with you before you leave."

"No problem," I said and stepped out of the van. "My time is yours."

"Last year I came to your festival with my younger sister," he said.
"She
was sixteen. It was our first time at your event. My sister was
especially
attracted by the singing of Hare Krsna at end of the program. She
memorized
the song and would often sing it around the house.

"Six months ago we found out she had cancer. It was at a very advanced
stage
and nothing could be done. She had already started dwindling away. I
was at
my university when she called me one evening. She could no longer talk
properly, what to speak of singing, so she asked if I could sing Hare
Krsna
to her each night as she fell asleep.

"Every evening I would call and sing the Hare Krsna song to her from
six
o'clock until nine. It went on like that for two months. One night she
passed away as I was singing. I didn't even know until I heard my
mother on
the other end of the phone saying that she had died. I cried for days.
My
sister was my best friend, and now my whole world has become gray.

"My sister loved that song, and it was the last thing she heard. I
have a
feeling deep in my heart that it took her to a very special place, a
place
far beyond this world of suffering and pain, a place where people are
happy
all the time like all of you are. Do you think it could be true?"

I tried to answer, but my voice choked up, so I nodded to assure the
man it
was true. I closed my tearful eyes and embraced him.

Then I remembered the children and waited for them to tease me again.
But
they did not say anything. When I opened my eyes I saw they were
crying too.

Sri Prabodhananda Saraswati writes:

prema namadbhutarthah sravanapathagatah kasya namnam mahimnah
ko vetta kasya vrndavanavipina mahamadhurisu pravesah
ko va janati radham paramrasacamatkarmadhuryasimam
ekascaitanyacandrah paramkarunayah sarvvamaviscakara

"Had anyone even heard of something known as prema, as the ultimate
goal of
life? Did anyone know of the divine power of the holy names? Had
anyone
entered the sweet charming forest of Vrndavana? Did anyone know Sri
Radha,
the embodiment of the highest ecstasy? Only because of the
unfathomable
compassion of Sri Caitanya Mahaprabhu were these rarest gems
discovered,
found shimmering in the darkness of Kali Yuga, lit by the moonlight of
His
benevolence."

[Caitanya-candramrta, verse 130]

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