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Part 1: Prasād, Guru Vākya, and the Practice of Ahiṃsā The session opens with a strong bhajan, performed with a powerful rhythm. Holi Gurujī teaches that the highest state of consciousness is paramapada. The speaker shares, “This I received simply as the prasād of my Gurudev.” Gurujī says, “The supreme state of consciousness, Paramātmā, I obtained it as prasād from my Guru, but now we have a little more physical prasād.” So, honoring the old tradition from Swāmījī, the children are offered a special prasāda. All children are invited to come forward—the little ones up to perhaps fifteen years of age, as Swāmījī would give special prasāda to small children. With a lighthearted remark about the age limit, the speaker dismisses double prasād and encourages everyone to enjoy. The speaker then recounts a recent Skype interview with Swāmījī, during which a particular bhajan was mentioned. Although the speaker knew many bhajans, this specific one was not among them. Yet, as it was Guru Vākya, the speaker devoted about five hours to learning and translating that bhajan. Because it came as Guru Vākya, it felt essential to master it; thus, the bhajan will be shared in the next morning’s lecture. Turning to the sādhanā groups, the speaker inquires about their progress and satisfaction—with the teachers and with themselves—and asks if any problems need solving. The day’s karma yoga action was successful and joyful. If the weather permits, they will continue on Friday morning, and on that day Sādhvī Pārvatī Jī will also continue her lecture on the Vedas. There is also mention of Muktī, who wants to speak about the Vedic wedding, and she is scheduled for tomorrow. Then Prem Prakāśa comes forward to share an experience. She says, “I wanted to speak about Ahiṃsā.” The speaker confirms her name and invites her to speak. She begins her story: When she was living in Vāpe, with her children still small, they stayed in one of the small houses. There were rats in the pipelines, and she was alarmed because she had read in a novel that rats could be very dangerous—even that they might eat little babies. Worried as a mother, she told a friend about informing the office, but the friend cautioned that the office might come and kill them. Despite her concern, she decided to go to the office. As she walked, Swāmījī was coming with a group and crossed her path. He said nothing, but his gaze was piercing like a blade, strong and direct. In that moment she understood that she should not go to the office and cause the rats to be killed. She turned back toward her house. Just then, she heard noises: a large mother rat was returning to the pipeline, and the little ones inside were squeaking with joy at her return. She remembered Swāmījī’s teaching that even among animals, there is a deep motherly love between mother and child. The direct experience of this teaching struck her powerfully; the shock and the recognition of the truth brought her to tears. For her, it was a profound example of how the Guru conveys teachings in a way that touches us deeply. Even after years of yoga practice and being vegetarian, witnessing ahiṃsā so practically was an overwhelming and deeply moving gift. After her story, the speaker acknowledges, “Mahāprabhujī says there is no higher teaching than ahiṃsā.” Next, Līlā Devī from Budapest introduces herself, noting humorously that it seems to be a Hungarian evening, and that both stories involve animals—so perhaps Hungarians have a special relationship with them. Her story will be about bugs. Some years ago, Swāmījī sent her to Jadan for a few months of karma yoga. She arrived in August and stayed until December, which meant the monsoon season was in full swing. Having grown up in Budapest and not being close to nature, she had a strong dislike for bugs—she found them disgusting. The room she was first given had geckos, ants, and various insects, but she gradually grew accustomed. After a month, she was moved to another room that had been empty for some time, and then later to yet another room that had been vacant for about a month. In that new room, the bathroom floor was black with ants. Hundreds of small black bugs covered the room. Each morning she would sweep them out; once she tried counting and reached four hundred before giving up. Usually, they came at night, so mornings were worst. During the day, it was manageable. But one night after satsaṅg, she returned to find the room absolutely full of bugs—black with them. She tried sweeping them out, but to her shock, they could fly. She hadn’t known that; no one had told her. In desperation, she wielded her sweeper like a tennis racket, trying to bat them away, but they kept returning. She began shouting all the bad words she knew in Hungarian, and somehow it felt like they grew angrier and came back more. She had the strange sense that they were communicating among themselves and were angry. It became a real battle. Then, suddenly, she saw herself from the outside—crying, flailing—and it looked so absurd that she started laughing. Yet the struggle continued, and eventually she stepped back, closed the door, and sat on her bed in tears. She cried for a long time, because she felt she had to fulfill the Guru Vākya of staying in Jadan, but the situation seemed unbearable. In her exhaustion, the thought came: Swāmījī teaches to love all creatures. These bugs weren’t harming her; they were just there. And perhaps from their perspective, the room was theirs, and she was the intruder shooing them away. Seeing no other choice, she began to pray to Swāmījī, saying, “I don’t know how to cope with this; I hand it over to you. Please help me.” Then she fell asleep. The next morning, she woke up cautiously and was astonished to find not a single bug in the room. The experience taught her surrender and the living truth of ahiṃsā. The gathering closes with gratitude for these shared experiences. Part 2: Learning Acceptance and Surrender: A Spiritual Training in Bhajan Singing And then I opened my two eyes, and on this side and that—left side, right side—there was absolutely not even one bug in my room. In the morning, I didn’t want to look; I just carefully looked into one eye because I didn’t believe that there was not a single bug left. So when I first looked at myself in the eye, I didn’t realize at first that I saw no bugs. I woke up, looked everywhere, and I can say that truly not a single bug was there. Since that moment, I still stayed there for two to three months, and of course, in all of Jadan there are bugs—but in a normal way, they were two, three, ten, I don’t know, but not these hundreds of bugs. After that, there was nothing else, of course, because there are bugs in Jadan, but they came in normal quantity, only in my room. So I really experienced what it means to accept, what it means to accept things, and what it means when you hand everything into the hands of Gurū Dev. What does it mean to accept something and pass it on to Gurū Deva? For me, it was a practical experience of how to learn to accept things and how to learn to give them back, Mr. V. So, thank you, Guru Deva. Thank you. Thank you very much. After this strong story, let us have another strong bhajan. Sandeśowālulāgesa. So after this strong story, we will sing another strong bhajan. Śrī Dīp Nārāyaṇ Bhāī Gurū, Āṁ Kī Se, Āj Kī Ānanda Kī Se. So then, let me also contribute one story. Let me tell you a story about how Swāmījī trained me as a bhajan singer. How Swāmījī trained me as a bhajan singer. Many of you, when you first come in touch with Indian culture and Indian music, you love it. Because I’m quite deep-rooted in Western classical music, I could respect it, but not really; I didn’t like it so much. But Swāmījī has his ways. He sent Bhajanandjī—at that time, Swami Bhajanānanda—to me. Swāmījī has his own little tricks. Ivan told me that Swami Bhājanandjī. Swāmījī has his own ways, and at that time he called me Swami Bhajanand. So for two years I was his host, and for two years I was his guest seeker. At that time, he sent me to Swami Bhajanānanda, and I hosted him for two years. So he didn’t say that to me, but he sent Bhajananda to me. And he was busy with bhajans all the time. So after some time, I also started a little bit. Swami Bhajanand lived there for two years, and he constantly sang bhajans, so after a while I also started to like them. But this is real, original Indian singing; I still had a lot of problems. So then I became a Swami, and Swāmījī sent me to India. I still had problems, and then I became a Swami, and Swāmījī sent me to India. So I tried my best, and Swāmījī was very happy. Swāmījī encouraged me and always was praising me, “Yes, very good, go on,” and so on. So I was singing the bhajans for some time. In my way, I was singing the bhajans for some time. And then the training began. From one day to the next, suddenly everything was wrong. Swāmījī was always shouting at me, that I couldn’t sing properly, that I couldn’t pronounce the Hindi properly, that I couldn’t play the harmonium properly, that I couldn’t play the harmony properly. You should learn from the Indians. But still, I didn’t like it so much. You know, we sometimes had a whole night satsaṅg. When the Indians started singing, I was inside. And then there was a satsaṅg that lasted all night, and the Indians sang, and I was among them. We were singing the whole night satsaṅg, and the Indians started singing. So after two or three bhajans, I had enough and went out. But in that moment, Swāmījī came and somehow turned me around and back in again. Swāmījī brought me to the point that I stopped bhajan singing. And I also stopped playing the harmonium. It was monsoon time—no, no, it was summer time—so Swāmījī was not there at that time. So we were allowed at that time only to write to Swāmījī in Hindi. So, in my seven words of Hindi that I knew, I told him in a letter that I don’t sing bhajans anymore. No response from Swāmījī. About two months later, he came, and I didn’t sing. But then after some days, Swāmījī said, “So Gajānanda, now you sing.” My colleague said, “Swāmījī said, ‘Gajānanda, now you sing.’” I go directly against Guru Vakya. Unwillingly, I sang a bhajan. Swami, I was there, so I didn’t want to go against the Guru, so I went there and sang, but without harmonium. Next day, Swāmījī said, “Gajānanda, you sing, but you also play harmonium.” The other day, Swāmījī said, “Gajānanda, sing, but play on the harmonium as well.” And the other day, Swāmījī said, “Gajānanda, now you are going to sing, but also play on the harmonium.” So, unwillingly, I did. So, unwillingly, but still. I think it was maybe one or two years later, when I had now unwillingly started singing again a little bit. And I started singing the bhajan which Holī Gurujī loves so much. But I didn’t come so far. Because before I could finish, Swāmījī interfered and shouted, “Wrong melody.” No, I didn’t sing the whole chorus, because Swāmījī shouted, “Wrong melody.” All wrong. Everything is wrong. And I thought, what’s going on? I sang the bhajan so often, I knew the melody so well. But then something astonishing happened: Swāmījī sang. And he sang like this. And so he started singing, and he sang like this. And I thought, “What’s that? Is this a melody?” And I thought, what’s that? Is this the same song? And I said, “But what is this? The melody is the same.” So now he said, “Now you sing again.” And he said, “Now you sing again.” So now I was in real trouble, because where was the difference? I didn’t know any difference. But Guru Vakya is Guru Vakya, so I tried. And though I didn’t really figure out the difference, I somehow tried to imitate Swāmījī, how he sang. I didn’t really feel the difference, but I tried to imitate Swāmījī as he sang. And even though I didn’t see any difference, I tried to imitate Swāmījī as he sang. So I sang, “Śrī Dīparāyala Adha Jesu Nalidzo.” And now came the really astonishing thing: suddenly he was satisfied. And I was stunned. I don’t know what’s going on now. So then, after the satsaṅg, I somehow sat together with myself and said, “Gajānanda, what was the point now?” Then I sat down after the satsaṅg, and I said to myself, “Gajānanda, what was the most important thing in all of this?” I tried to figure out what was now the difference between my singing and Swāmījī’s singing, which I tried to imitate somehow. I tried to find the difference: what was the difference between how I sang and how Swāmījī sang. I had always tried to make the bhajans nice, to sing them in a beautiful way. And the only difference which I could realize is that Swāmījī sang it quite—I would say—neutral, plain. And then I realized exactly that was the point. Swāmījī just sang the bhajan as it is. I tried to put something in the bhajan—I tried to express something through the bhajan. Through the bhajan, I tried to express something. I tried to express something through the bhajan, but these are, of course, my feelings, what I felt in the meantime. So somehow I realized, yes, I used the bhajans to express something from me. But that exactly is what we should not do. And then I realized, what was the point of this whole training? When Swāmījī said “wrong melody,” it was not about music. Swāmījī is not a music teacher. Swāmījī is not a music teacher. He is a spiritual teacher. He is a spiritual teacher, and everything is just about the ego. When he said “wrong melody,” it would say that was the melody of your ego. Because we don’t need to put anything in the bhajans; they are already perfect. Our bhajan book is not just a song book. That is all Guru Vākya. These are experiences; these are the teachings of saints. Our bhajan book truly has the quality of a holy scripture. When we put something from us in the bhajans, then somehow we misuse the bhajans. And I realized it’s a huge difference when I sang a bhajan and someone comes and says, “Oh, you sang the bhajan so wonderfully,” or someone comes and says, “Oh, you sang such a wonderful bhajan,” or someone comes to me and says, “You sang such a beautiful bhajan.” Do you get the point? It’s a subtle point, but a very, very important point. And this is what I realized in that moment when I tried to understand, and this is what I came to when I sat down and tried to understand the teachings of Swāmījī. We should just be a humble instrument to bring out the beauty which is in the bhajan. Hardly ever, Swāmījī, any more, criticized my singing. So this is a tricky thing with Swāmījī, because he uses whatever he can take to train us. If we cook for Swāmījī, or we sew dresses for Swāmījī, or we make interviews with Swāmījī, or we sing for Swāmījī, he will speak in normal language, say, “You don’t know how to cook, you don’t know how to sew dresses,” and so on. And we think, but this is correct. Swāmījī uses everything to train us, to train our ego. And we have to be alert to find out that point. Swāmījī uses everything to train us, to find out that point. So the training between guru and disciple depends on both. The guru gives the training, but the disciple has to figure out what the point is, what they have to learn. So far, my story. It’s now 9:30. Should we close the satsaṅg, or maybe have one bhajan for the end? Then I would like to sing one which is very dear to me, “Tumābināreyo Nādajī” from Mīrābāījī. I cannot live without you, O my beloved one, please come and give me your darśan. I can’t live without you, my love, come and give me your darśan. Here, now the rhythm group can be a little softer, no? Now the rhythm can be a little softer. Śrī Dharan Bhagavān Kī Jai. Bhakt Śrī Mīrābāījī Kī Jai. Śrī Dīp Nārāyaṇa Bhagavān, Kī Jaya, actually Mīrābāījī, Kī Jaya. Mīrābāījī was whispering something in my ear, that I forgot something. Mīrābāījī was whispering something in my ear, that I forgot something. I wish you all the best. Good night. Good day to you too. And so I wish you all the best, and good night.