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Today, we truly celebrate the return of the hostel boys, as there are more than sixty of them here now. It has been two months since they were last here. I’ll share a little about Bharat, one of the boys. He comes from a family associated with a major pilgrimage site in Rajasthan called Rāmdevrā, located about 200 kilometers beyond Jodhpur. His family helps manage the temple there. Five boys from that area are now staying in our hostel. Rāmdevrā is a pilgrimage center, and the main pilgrimage occurs next month, after Guru Pūrṇimā, during the rainy season. At that time, the roads in the region become streams of people walking from all over India. Some even walk from Calcutta—a very long journey. A beautiful aspect of this pilgrimage is that approximately every five kilometers, groups have set up restaurants serving free food. Many businessmen and residents of Jodhpur who are able to do so set up tents along the route, offering food, medical care, and even foot massages in the evening for those sore from walking. It is an absolutely amazing sight. When driving from Pali to Jodhpur during the peak time, only one side of the road is usable for vehicles because the other side is entirely filled with walking pilgrims. They say about five to six hundred thousand people arrive per day for darśan, and afterward, they all return home by bus. There are many pilgrimage places across India, but witnessing one in full action during its season is truly special. Swāmījī is unwell and will not join the satsaṅg this evening, but he sends his blessings to everyone here and to all watching via the webcast worldwide. The intensity of caring for Matajī over the past weeks has led to exhaustion, which is now manifesting in his health. He has a cold and fever and is resting. Throughout the day today, as yesterday, a constant stream of visitors came to offer condolences. Several prominent politicians visited, and the chief minister also called to express his sympathies. We are speaking about mantra and bhakti. Today is Maṅgalvār, Tuesday, Hanumānjī’s day, and we sang the Hanumān Cālīsā. What better example of mantra and bhakti is there than the story of Hanumānjī? When someone asked why Rāma loved him so dearly compared to others, the answer was, “I simply cannot help it; he is constantly calling my name.” As an illustration, Rāma plucked a hair from Hanumānjī and held it to the person’s ear—it was vibrating with “Rām, Rām, Rām.” That is mantra. That is the repetition of mantra. For me, the repetition of mantra is a sacred gift from one’s guru. It also helps create the inner space for meditation. When beginning a spiritual path, one often feels the need for a physical space to practice—a room in a house or ashram, or a peaceful spot in nature, like a beach or jungle. But gradually, with practice, the physical space becomes less important. What matters more is your inner space. Without faith and devotion toward your mantra, it cannot work deeply within you. You miss the opportunity to develop that profound relationship where the mantra comes to you when you lose balance, or when you are engaged in the world amidst various activities. Recently, I came across a newspaper article with a headline mentioning both a “yogī” and a “boxing trainer.” I was curious and read it. It was about a boxer fighting for a world championship whose trainer was also a yoga practitioner. One line particularly struck me, not for its boxing context, but for its relevance to our spiritual practice. The trainer explained that during the minute-long breaks between rounds, while others try to make the boxer angrier or more passionate, he approaches his boxer very calmly. When asked why, he said, “Boxing involves everything flying everywhere—energy, feet, hands—he should be moving intensely. But if there isn’t a peaceful center amidst all that movement, he cannot perform properly. I do not want to disturb that center; it must remain.” This resonated deeply. We all move in the world; we cannot shut it out. We have jobs, relationships, troubles, and obligations. All these things may swirl around us, but if we can maintain a silence, a peace, at our center, then everything else functions better. That inner peace is the foundation for all our actions. When it is present, our reactions become purer, carried out with greater integrity, love, and balance. This comes from mantra. Regardless of what you are doing or how disturbed you may feel by external events, your spiritual practice and the repetition of mantra over time make it easier to return to your center whenever needed—and to return more quickly. This is the beauty of practice, the beauty of repetition. The Bhagavad Gītā describes the qualities of a bhakta: to not be at odds with anyone, to not fight or have conflict with people, to be friendly and compassionate toward all—including yourself. One cannot be a bhakta without extending these qualities to everyone around you and to yourself. We are going to celebrate this evening because it is going to rain; the monsoon is coming. This also serves as a good metaphor for mantra. Here, as in many places, we practice rainwater harvesting. At Jadan Ashram, our building roofs are sloped toward pipes that channel rainwater into storage tanks. They are implementing this in the school as well, using tiles for easy cleaning so that pure water can be stored for later drinking. What does this have to do with mantra? Rain will fall; we cannot catch it all in our mouths, but we can direct it toward those pipes and utilize it later. Similarly, we all have ṛttis, thoughts that arise in the mind. We cannot stop them, but we can direct them. We can accept their presence and gently steer them toward what we want—toward a chosen point, toward the way we wish to live and be. We are not trying to repress or stop thoughts, but to direct them. We do this with our mantra and spiritual practice. We accept that the mind will wander, but we always try to bring it back to where we want to be, toward our spiritual goal. It is the same with young children in school. You cannot simply make children think analytically or learn quietly all at once. But you can direct their attention toward engaging activities and slowly guide them onto that path. You cannot just tell a child, “You should remember,” but you can provide them with enjoyable things they will want to remember, gradually introducing what you wish them to learn, training their memory and how to learn. You cannot merely say, “You should have discipline,” but you can offer activities they enjoy that inherently involve discipline—like sports, yogāsanas, singing, or physical training exercises. They enjoy the movement, but slowly they learn to control their bodies, to move as they intend, rather than moving aimlessly without direction. The same applies to our spiritual practice: bringing the mind toward God, toward peace, toward that inner calm. We accept that in the beginning, you cannot simply decide, “I want to be in samādhi,” and have it happen. But through bhakti, bhajans, mantra, karma yoga, āsanas, and prāṇāyāma, we gradually learn to bring ourselves there. We practice steadiness in āsana—not just stretching, but holding inner balance and calm while doing it. Everything leads toward that meditative state. Everything slowly brings you to a point where you can work while remaining aware of your mantra. Like the boxer’s hands in motion, everything may be active externally, but inside, there is stillness. Your spirituality and mantra constantly revolve, turn, and vibrate within you. In the bhajan “Nibhanare,” it is said that Gurujī gives the mantra, gives you that Aum, but you must cultivate it. Those words are full of power, śakti, and blessing. Yet without your sādhanā and tapasyā to cultivate it—to water it, open the fields, plant it, tend it, and finally harvest it—it cannot bear fruit. Swāmījī is always giving that blessing, always showering us with it. What we do with it, how much we utilize it, is another matter. It may rain today. For a month, everyone in this area has been preparing the fields. In the preceding months, they add fertilizer. Then, in the weeks before the monsoon, they use a cultivator—a machine with teeth—to break the earth. Why? Because after a year since the last rains, with wind and intense heat, the ground becomes packed hard like rock. When it rains, water cannot penetrate. By breaking it open, the soil becomes receptive, as if saying in Hindi, “Come, come inside.” It welcomes the water, allowing much more to be absorbed. That is our tapasyā, our sādhanā. The Satguru came to this earth and showered upon us the rain of knowledge. It rains everywhere; it rains on everybody when he comes. Who receives what depends on us and how open our hearts are, and how we prepare ourselves. Which field in the area absorbs the most water? That depends on how it was prepared—whether the ground is open or closed, whether our hearts are open or closed. From that, we can receive the rain of knowledge, the nectar of knowledge. It is up to us: whether we stand with hands together to receive, or whether we place something in between, determines how much we collect. In this life, we have this human birth. We have the chance to be in a family that has directed us toward spirituality in some way. We are here now; we have a spiritual family, a guru, a mantra, and the opportunity to act. What we do with it is our choice, but we must apply ourselves. We must create the amṛt harvesting project. The storage must be inside us. We should not let it leak. There is a saying: if there is a hole in the maṭkā (water pot), no matter how much water you pour in, it will always leak out from the bottom. Our anger and other avaguṇ, negative qualities, if they persist, will cause some of that blessing to drain away. We may not be able to stop it completely, but we can try to limit it. Whenever we become aware that we are straying from our desired path, we can always try to turn back with the mantra, patiently redirecting ourselves toward where we want to be. With maitrī, karuṇā eva ca—with friendliness and compassion toward ourselves. Another mistake does not matter; let us try again. Constantly, constantly trying to return to that point of peace. The tools are there; it is up to us how we use them. Already here in Jadan, a cool wind is blowing—I would not say cold. We can smell that it is raining somewhere. Let us hope that the prasāda from the heavens, from the clouds this evening, will be beneficial. Our rainwater harvesting here will help fill the Talab more than it is now. For this coming rain, we are quite well prepared. I urge everyone: every time Swāmījī comes, every time you sit for meditation, every time you engage in your practice, prepare yourself to absorb as much as you can. Every meditation, every sādhanā is a chance to receive everything. It is simply a matter of our application, our love, our dedication, our trust, and our bhakti.