As they were leaving, the father softly asked me, “We heard this might be the last year for your festivals. Is it true?”
I hesitated. “No. It’s not 100% certain.”
“Alright,” he said. “We’ll keep an eye on your website.”
As I continued on, another gentleman stopped me. “I can see you’re in a hurry,” he said.
“No problem,” I replied.
“I just want to share something,” he began. “Yesterday, I was at a New Age festival in southern Poland. I met a girl there who said if I really wanted to understand spiritual life, I should come here—to your event. She said it might be the last one.”
“She said that?” I asked.
“Yes. So I drove 2,000 kilometers—through the night and day—to be here. And I must say, I’m very happy I came!”
“You are most welcome,” I said with a smile.
He paused. “But is it really the last one?”
“Well,” I replied, “we have the whole summer ahead of us.”
“No,” he pressed gently, “I mean the last year?”
This time, I paused and said honestly, “Hmm… I’m not sure yet.”
I finally reached the stage and sat down, pondering deeply. “Is Krishna trying to tell me something?” I wondered.
Later that evening, it was my turn to speak from the stage. I strode forward as I’ve done countless times before, the Bhagavad-gita tucked under my right arm. Halfway through my talk, I noticed a woman passing by on the street nearby. She suddenly stopped, turned, and stared with visible astonishment. She walked slowly toward the seated crowd and joined them—her eyes fixed on me throughout my talk.
When I came down from the stage, she was waiting.
“Indradyumna Swami,” she said, “I can’t believe I’m meeting you again. I had no idea you were here. I was returning from a walk and suddenly heard your voice. Eleven years ago, I lived in Kostrzyn, where Woodstock was held. I wasn’t attending the festival, but I lived near the school you’d rented. A friend told me you were cooking for 200,000 people. I felt inspired and came by to help. I wasn’t religious, but I loved being around your team.”
Then she said something that left me speechless.
“One night, I dreamt of you. In my dream, I cried out: ‘Indradyumna Swami, you are my spiritual master!’ I woke up shocked, wondering what it meant. But I stayed in touch with your devotees, and the more I learned, the more I understood that what I felt was real. You are my spiritual guide. And though we’ve never spoken until now, I’ve accepted you as such.”
She looked at me earnestly. “Can I keep in touch now?”
“Of course,” I said, “I’d be most happy to keep in touch with you.” Then we exchanged contact details.
As I turned, a woman approached me with her two young daughters and a freshly purchased Bhagavad-gita in hand.
“I’m ashamed to admit it’s taken me this long to buy the book you always speak from,” she said. “But I’ve been coming to your festivals since I was six years old. And now, I bring my daughters.”
I smiled, touched by the generational continuity.
She leaned closer. “Someone said this is your last year. Is it true?”
Again, I hesitated. “It’s all under review,” I said.
Then came another woman—an older lady clutching a Bhagavad-gita and two other books.
“I couldn’t help overhearing,” she said. “I’ve been coming to this same town every summer from the south of Poland for many years to attend your festivals. But I don’t use social media or have a phone or computer, so I never know which weekend you’ll be here.”
I asked, “Then how do you always manage to come at the right time?”
She smiled sweetly. “Oh, I go to church and pray to Jesus… then pick a weekend. It works every year.”
Again, I was speechless.
Later that evening, just before I was to lead the final kirtan, Daivi Radhika dasi brought over a woman with her husband.
“Gurudeva,” she said, “this is Emilka. She was a little girl at your very first festival in Trzebiatów in 1991. She came every year. You asked us to stay in touch with her. Over the years, I’ve watched her grow up, get married, and start a family. Now she has two daughters of her own. She hasn’t been to our festivals in a while—but she’s overjoyed to be back.”
