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Śrī Dīp Nārāyaṇ Bhagavān Kī Jaya. Śrī Śrī Dev Puruṣa Mahādeva Kī Jaya. Dharm Samrāṭ Paramahaṁsa Śrī Svāmī Madhavānandapurījī Mahārāj Kī Jai. Viśva Guru Mahāmaṇḍaleśvara Paramahaṁsa Śrī Svāmī Maheśvarānandapurījī Satguru Deva Kī Jaya. Lighting an incense stick here feels almost amusing, like adding fragrance to air that is already so beautiful. It reminds me of what Svāmījī said yesterday: sonā me sū gandha nahīṁ—in gold, there is no smell. Yesterday, I watched Fabrice play and later spoke with him about his thoughts while sitting here. He shared about his sādhanā of learning the instrument, practicing up to twenty hours a day at his peak, even begrudging the time spent away to use the toilet. When he first sat here, he wasn't sure what to play. He was trying to feel the atmosphere, the trees, the surroundings, to find the rāga that harmonized with it all. That ability to attune to your environment comes from deep mastery. We, too, on holiday or in any situation, cannot simply impose our will; we must learn to come into harmony with where we are. This is our aim in practice. As our experience in yoga deepens and it becomes a practice for daily life, we learn not to constantly reshape situations to our liking, but to find harmony within the situation that presents itself. If we can manage this, our peace ceases to depend on external circumstances. It depends on how we "play" with the situation, how we act within it. Fabrice, through his mastery, finds the rāga for the forest and, I'm sure, another for the city. We discussed rāgas for different chakras; he imagined sitting in a room of a specific color and playing for twenty hours to see what emerges. We are not all musicians in that way, but our sādhanā is similar. The practice we do this week in Strelka will not suit our daily life next week. Through awareness, we learn what balances us in different situations. When tuning a guitar, if the strings are out of tune, there is dissonance, a disturbing vibration. As you tune them, the waves synchronize, the false notes disappear, and they become one harmony. It often requires just a slight turn of the tuning peg. Similarly, when people are dissatisfied with their living or work situation, before making a major change, a fine-tuning of attitude might transform everything. You can learn to play your sādhanā according to the rāga that suits your situation. With practice across different contexts, you gain the ability to adjust. A sādhanā in India differs from one in Strelka. Summer practice differs from winter practice. The practice during intense karma yoga differs completely from that on a retreat. Moving between these, we can feel lost. But with aware practice, we slowly learn what to do. We discover the method to return to our balance, to our harmony. Walking in the forest here feels peaceful and beautiful, yet it is full of noise—trees, birds, animals, footsteps. The decibel level may not be so different from the village, but it feels completely different because everything is in harmony, working together. We, too, bring ourselves into tune with that. Our practice is to learn this in every situation. In karma yoga, we also learn balance. From my experience in Jadan, I was initially very aware of one aspect of my personality: I strove to learn how to be as lazy as possible. I had no idea of the other extreme—my actual capacity, my limits both physically and mentally. To find the middle, you must know both extremes. My concept of a day's work and needed rest was what I now see as the middle. As you know, one of Svāmījī's teachings is to show you the extreme of how much you can manage. When you think you are tired, a late-night karma yoga action arises, and you discover there was still something left in your reserve tank. We think the tank is empty, but there is a huge reserve we wouldn't typically use. Through karma yoga and Svāmījī's guidance, you come to know this reserve, which completely changes your perspective on where your balance and middle point are. We don't aim to be at that extreme always, but when Svāmījī puts you there and you learn to balance upon return, you know you can go there. For me, it was like losing a fear of overexertion. I used to think that doing too much would make me sick. That had nothing to do with the work; it was my mind creating that reality. After such experience, you know you can go there for a few days and, through your practice, return to balance. Going through this, realizing you can reach that point and then use your daily practice to return to equilibrium, makes the fear and worry disappear. We all have moments in life where we must go beyond our usual limits. Thanks to experience and practice, we gain the awareness that we can restore balance. Consider a guitarist. When starting, if the guitar is out of tune, they cannot play. With experience, they learn to tune it. But a true master, for whom playing is a sādhanā, can be on stage, have a string break, and the audience won't notice because they adjust the chords seamlessly. That is the beauty and essence of a long sādhanā over many years. It is beautiful to see people here who have practiced with Svāmījī for forty years. Their constant practice and vast experience in different situations is a treasure. Regarding balance and breathing in prāṇāyāma: breathing slowly naturally relaxes us. But a misconception exists: if you breathe too deeply while breathing slowly, it can have the opposite effect. Physiologically, the effect of calming prāṇāyāma like Nāḍī Śodhana is a slight increase of carbon dioxide in the blood, which makes the nervous system less sensitive, aiding meditation. If you take a completely full breath, even at two or three breaths per minute, you are bringing more air into the lungs than before. So, in prāṇāyāma, it is important to slow the breath but also not to make the breath volume too large, as that can increase sensitivity. It's a small point to consider in practice. In summary, practice, but try not to always change the situation. Consider how we can be in harmony with it. Be constantly aware that even if you fail on a given day, it is that practice, failure, and learning that makes you the master of your own instrument. As you master it, you can play the appropriate rāga in any situation. I wanted to add to the point about how karma yoga changes us. He mentioned practicing being lazy. My story is different. For about 35 years, I held the concept that I was an intellectual. I was good in school at everything except sports. Every year, the teacher's report said, "He tries, but he cannot. What can we do?" So I believed I could do nothing with my body, and that became my reality. Once, attempting a handstand, I fell and hurt myself, requiring months of special training. When my parents sent me to a sports club to help, I was so scared I cried every time until they gave up. My first real approach to my physical body came through yoga at age 35. I realized it was a mental concept. After a few months, the yoga teacher would say, "If you want to see it done well, look at him." Yoga opened something in me, yet I still avoided physical work, clinging to the intellectual identity. Realizing my stiffness, I continued yoga. After becoming a Svāmī, Svāmījī sent me to India. There, the work was unavoidable: kitchen duties, cleaning rooms, painting, carrying things, planting thousands of trees in the monsoon mud. I remember thinking, "I feel like a pig." I was in charge of the storeroom, moving heavy wooden beds. Something interesting happened. Holding onto the concept "I cannot do that" took immense energy. At least half my energy went into inner resistance against the work. If you stay in such a situation long enough, you reach a point where you internally say, "Let me just do it." I share this not to claim achievement, but because it is a spiritual step. The mind is governed by principles. Two key principles are saṅkalpa and vikalpa. Saṅkalpa is resolve, a concrete aim. Vikalpa is indecision, giving up for something else. We use saṅkalpa positively, like in Yoga Nidrā. Svāmījī says one achievement of mantra practice is stronger saṅkalpa śakti, but without clear discernment (vivekā), it can be dangerous. More important are rāga and dveṣa—likes and dislikes. This is at the core of yoga philosophy. Patañjali, in the second chapter of the Yoga Sūtras, lists the five kleśas (afflictions): avidyā (ignorance), asmitā (ego/I-ness), rāga (attachment), dveṣa (aversion), and abhiniveśa (fear of death, clinging to life). Practically, rāga and dveṣa are where we can work. If we are honest, 99% of our daily decisions are based on likes and dislikes. The problem in life and meditation is that we are slaves to the mind, blindly going for what we like and avoiding what we dislike. My mind had the concept: "I am an intellectual; I like mental work. I am not good for other work; I avoid it." Karma yoga started working on that. I realized how much energy it drains to resist what you dislike and how much smoother life becomes when you just accept and do it. First, inner resistance weakens. Then, you discover it has a good effect; it balances your life. In later years in Jadan, I was mainly in charge of the library—mental work. But I also managed a storeroom with about 100,000 books, requiring heavy physical reorganization. I received heavy parcels for the bookshop. This didn't fit my old concept, but I realized it was good; it balanced me. I developed a feeling that doing one type of work all the time isn't good; I needed different types to balance myself. You start to, as with sādhanā, choose the right work at the right moment to balance yourself, moving beyond choice to being open for what needs to be done. For example, if a group arrives after a sandstorm and rooms are dirty, and others are busy, you think, "It's me, so let me do it." You reach a point where you don't wait to be asked; you see what needs doing and do it. The only one who suffers is the mind, because its concepts of rāga and dveṣa are broken. In this way, you become master of your mind. Considering our lives practically, these principles of rāga and dveṣa are essential. Karma yoga is a beautiful, practical way to work on them. It is real sādhanā, helping not only in life but also in meditation. What disturbs meditation? Once, I told Svāmījī I had great difficulties and was annoyed. His only comment was, "Too many citta vṛttis." That sentence contained everything. What creates these mental fluctuations? Our desires—what we like and dislike. If we work on ourselves, we eventually stop desiring; we just accept what comes. Years ago, studying the Yoga Vāsiṣṭha, one statement stayed with me: A wise person enjoys what comes with a full heart, but if nothing comes to enjoy, he does not even desire it. Accept life as it comes. Accept situations and fit into them. Yesterday, Svāmījī made two statements: children should enjoy ice cream, and everyone should fast until midnight (later modified to Indian midnight). I don't think it's by chance he made these together. He was consciously playing on our jealousy: "If I were a child, I wouldn't need to fast and would get ice cream." This is Svāmījī's way of training us through clear instructions. I recall another time during night karma yoga. We were working until about 3 a.m., everyone tired. Svāmījī said the work was finished. Everyone was happy, preparing to leave. A minute later, he said, "The work is finished for the women; the men should continue." Why? It creates another kind of jealousy, working on the mind. Think of many things Svāmījī says practically; it's all about working on our mind, breaking our mental concepts until we become smooth and our vivekā takes over. What has to be done, let me do it. As shared some days ago, Svāmījī once said he wishes everyone in an ashram would behave as if it were their own home. At home, if you see dirt, you naturally clean it. In an ashram, people sometimes behave as if in a hotel: "That's not my job." That is a mental concept we must break. The result is a mind under our control, a smoother life, and smoother meditation. I want to take up Gajānandjī's point about joy. First, a short story: Two men were traveling Europe. Each evening, they'd discuss the next day's weather. One always said, "I think it will be the weather that I like." The other grew frustrated by this "stupid" answer. The first explained, "I've decided to like all weather. Then I have no tension. So tomorrow will definitely be the weather I like." Regarding joy and non-attachment: As long as you don't appreciate both favorable and unfavorable equally, you cannot experience real joy. When something you like happens, you're always worried about when it will end, so you're not fully present, not enjoying it 100%. A story about Gajānandjī from early days in Jadan: Svāmījī brought a full European breakfast from his suitcase—bread, cheese, etc.—and invited everyone to his veranda. At the end, he asked, "Gajānandjī, are you satisfied?" Gajānandjī replied, "Hmm, sort of, Svāmījī." Svāmījī was surprised. Gajānandjī said, "Yes, it's good, but tomorrow we'll again have Dalia, that I know." That's the point: Do we enjoy the present, or dwell on what will not be later? As you release attachments to likes, dislikes, wants, and don't-wants, you can appreciate the moment as it is. When joy comes, you experience its real essence because you are fully there, unconcerned with its end. In intense karma yoga, when things move very fast, you reach a state where you cannot think about holding onto the present moment; you must deal with the next thing. You are forced to stay with what is now. As Gajānandjī said, having no time to think about the impossibility of it all makes you efficient. The energy usually wasted on tension is redirected into action. I want to share a story of Svāmījī working in the opposite direction. Once, the President of Croatia was to visit Jadan. It was a major official event. The day before the visit, we still had no answer from Svāmījī on the venue or program, which was to start at 9 a.m. the next day. At 9 a.m., Svāmījī said he'd come down and show us. I was waiting, eager to start the frantic preparations. Svāmījī came and we went to decide the location. On the way, he saw a group of schoolchildren on the grass by the Bhakti Sāgara. He then gave them a beautiful, impromptu lecture that lasted two and a half hours. In the corner of the famous photo of this scene, you can see a very frustrated me, thinking, "Come on, Svāmījī, let's go." He would glance over and tell another story. Meanwhile, I had calls from the Rajasthan government protocol department; they were already en route from Jodhpur with a motorcade to do a test run. They arrived, and we had to vaguely direct them. After the lecture, it was lunchtime, then Svāmījī rested. Around 4:30 p.m., he finally told us where to set up. We began running to prepare for the 9 a.m. event. Half an hour later, Yogeśjī, Premānandjī, and I were in a small office for a private planning meeting. I left my phone behind to avoid disturbance. At that moment, Svāmījī tried to call me. When he couldn't reach me, he became very angry. The consequence was a strict order: I was to remain in the office until the function ended—sleeping, eating there, allowed only quick toilet breaks, no showers. So, all my joyful energy for running around and doing was completely stifled. I had to coordinate everything by phone. It was frustrating, like trying to eat with hands tied. By the morning of the function, as the President arrived, I was sitting outside the office door, falling asleep from inactivity. But Svāmījī taught me a crucial lesson. There are times to run and do, and times to manage and coordinate. My role was to coordinate, to be the central point ensuring everyone else ran in the right direction. The best place for me was exactly where he put me. It was about acting in harmony with what the situation required. That day was chaotic. In the evening, the bomb squad arrived. Simultaneously, the contractor digging the talāb (pond) informed me he had stored his explosives in the workshop without a license, and the bomb squad was coming with dogs. We sent the bomb squad to thoroughly check the Swastika building first. Meanwhile, everyone else rushed to the workshop, loaded all the explosives into a car, and drove it out the other gate as the dogs returned. The day continued with such events. They wanted hot water in the President's resting room, but the security had already sealed the door after checking it. So, Śokananjī had to climb onto the roof, scale down the wall, and break in through a window to fix the plumbing. A very interesting day. Such is the beauty of karma yoga. Another time, we received a call that the Governor of Rajasthan was in nearby Sojat and wanted to have Gurujī's darśan, arriving in 20 minutes. The ashram was in summer mode, dusty and mostly empty. We started to prepare. Gurujī said to get things ready quickly. Five minutes later, another call: the Governor had left and wanted to eat at the ashram. The kitchen had little, but we scrambled. Another call: he was 10 minutes away and hoped we could feed his entire entourage—about 120 people, including police, doctors, and ambulance teams. We called everyone from the Om Āśram to help. Another call: the Governor wanted to rest for a few hours. The only air-conditioned room was Gurujī's. They arrived, all 120. A team from his security sat in the middle of the kitchen, calmly placing samples of all his food into plastic bags for poison testing, while people ran around them trying to prepare a meal for 120 in minutes. The Governor ate, then rested in Gurujī's room with Gurujī. We dealt with the hundreds of other visitors. Finally, they all left. I thought, "Thank God, that's over. I'll rest." Five minutes later, a massive, sudden storm hit—black clouds, heavy rain, and fierce wind. As I thought of going to my room, a call came: "Come quickly, the gośālā (cowshed) has fallen down." The wind was so strong I had to lean at an angle, holding my bike to walk. The old tiled roof had collapsed onto the cows. It was terrible. But then began one of the most beautiful experiences in Jadan. Every single worker, whether heading home or living there, came immediately to help rescue the cows. No one cared about personal cuts or injuries. By Mahāprabhujī's grace, not a single cow was killed, though one was badly injured and needed a leg amputated. The same workers assisted with the operation, which went on until 1 a.m. Afterwards, I quietly went to my room to bed, thinking only that it had been a long day. Sometimes you run, sometimes you relax. And sometimes we go for lunch. Thank you.