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Part 1: Jñānaputra: A School That Changes Lives Oṁ bole Śrī Dīp Nārāyaṇa Bhagavāne Kī Jaya, Śrī Devapurīṣī Mahādeva Kī Jaya. Śrī Śrī Satya Guru Deva Kī Jaya, Parama Svāmī Maheśvarānanda Jī, Guru Deva Kī Jaya. Oṁ Śrī Holī Dīp Nārāyaṇa Bhagavāne Kī Jaya. Oṁ Śrī Śrī Satguru Deva Kī Jaya. Śrī Dīp Nārāyaṇa Bhagavāne Kī Jaya, Satguru Deva Kī Jaya. Dharma Samrāṭ Paramahaṁta Śrī Svāmī Mādhavānanda Purījī Mahārāja Kī Jaya. Lakṣmaṇa is here. Yesterday we were talking about Jñānaputra, so I wanted to say something about the school. Many people have been supporting the Jñānaputra scheme over the years, and it continues; Lakṣmaṇa is still organizing it. As many know, the school began in 2001, I think. It was one of Swāmījī’s typical projects: on the 26th of June I received a call. “Did you organize to start the school?” I said, “What school, perhaps?” He said, “Yeah, yeah, the school should start. Yes, yes, the school has to start. When? This year.” The school year starts on the 1st of July, and that was the 26th of June. “Babsi, you mean this year, now in four days?” Of course. The next four days were a little crazy. We interviewed teachers, went around the village in the evenings to tell people a school was opening, found furniture, worked out where it would be in the ashram—blackboards, uniforms, books. It was chaos. Yet somehow on the 1st of July it really did open, and that first year 120 students came. I remember the days just before: it was like a road show. We would announce a gathering in the village and also show an episode from the Rāmāyaṇa. Then in each village we would find an open area and a pen and say, “This is classrooms, this is hall,” sketching the plan of the building. The final plan is so practical and simple that every local who sees it just says, “Excellent.” Of course, when we started building, we planned a school for about 400 children: a single-story floor with an atrium in the middle. After the foundations were dug for the atrium, Swāmījī came and extended it, as is normal. Then, when all the classrooms were finished, Swāmījī came and said, “One story more.” I remember thinking, “What are we going to do with all these classrooms?” But before the classrooms were even complete, there were already children to fill them. Even before the top floor was finished, the school was completely full, overflowing. Eventually we needed four more classrooms—exactly four—so that from first class through twelfth class the children could go through the school together. Those who have visited have seen the students’ discipline and how they study. Their genuine enthusiasm is something special; they really want to be there and to learn. I heard a small story, not about our school, but for me it captures what we should be doing. There was a man from the U.N., visiting a village where some ten-year-old boys were. He was arranging for a school to be built there—the kind called Rajiv Gandhi Pachala, which goes up to fifth class in villages with no school. The education in such schools is quite ordinary. The U.N. official, feeling proud, told the boys, “We’re going to build a school in your village.” Those ten-year-olds replied, “We don’t want your school; we want your school.” He asked, “What do you mean?” They explained, “We don’t need this formality type of school you are putting here. We want a school of the standard you studied at, so we can become officers or be educated like you.” Such a concept from a ten-year-old child! It is clear to them that education opens doors—not just any education, but something good that can really take them somewhere. That is what I hope, and what I feel, we offer in our school. It is beautiful now to see children who came in first or second class now passing through twelfth class. Seeing some excel in exams, the world opens for them. One girl from a very poor family in Bhagavās is studying medicine. Several got directly into engineering, which is difficult in our area. In the beginning their attitude was, “Yes, we will study, but we will never succeed.” Because students from their village, unless from rich families, went into agriculture or labor. They can’t afford city coaching for medicine or engineering. But now a few have done it, and they’ve seen it happen. You can feel this energy in all the other students: we can do this too. They’ve seen it’s possible. That completely changes the mentality; they are no longer just trying to pass exams, but studying in a way that will give them a future, so they can go somewhere and become something. Across India there are villages where many have become administrators, doctors, or government officers. In those places, it’s almost a formality: everyone thinks, “Yeah, we’ll also do it,” and they study accordingly, and it happens. I really hope that same attitude will unfold even more in our students—that they feel confident the education is good enough and that they can do whatever they want if they apply themselves. For those supporting the project, this is what you are supporting. We started years ago sponsoring students in government schools. One of the main reasons for starting our own school is that the sponsorship became pretty much a waste of time. It’s hard to describe how bad government education is in Indian villages. As an example I know actually happened: a teacher brings in their daal—chistila dal. So many things like that. You just think, “My God, how can a teacher do that?” But in the government system, the culture has become so rotten that new teachers also get dragged into it. Whatever your society, that is how your color becomes. Yet teachers employed in state schools are often intelligent and sharp. Charitable private schools like ours offer the only real alternative, unless you have lots of money for a good professional private school. So you can imagine: in the beginning, when we had Jñāna Putra and were sponsoring children to go to government schools, I don’t think anyone would be happy sponsoring a child to go and sort dal. For that reason, the school runs, and we do our best to try and change things. One of my highlights of the school year—apart from the children and functions—is always teacher interviews. Sometimes it’s so funny. Another remarkable part of Indian education is college education; how some people pass is unbelievable. My favorite is one fellow who came to be a botany teacher with a master’s degree in botany. Now, if you have a master’s in botany, you should probably know something about plants and trees, at least a little bit. He was sitting there, and the interview was going on. We have a panel: the principal, myself, two bhaktas of Swāmījī who are both school headmasters, and the headmistress from our primary school—five of us. He described how inside a tree there are small metal vessels connected with a piece of string, and they slowly, slowly go up the tree carrying water. And that’s how water gets to the top of the tree. Our principal, sitting next to me, managed to keep a straight face, which was fantastic. I’ll never forget what he said: “Are you sure?” “Yes, yes, of course.” “Okay, thank you, Hari Om. Don’t call us, we’ll call you.” Master’s degree, magisteri. Another was a master’s degree in English. I get to ask the English questions. I asked him which part of his master’s was his favorite, because they study different parts of literature. He said, “My favorite was the American poets from the 19th century.” I don’t know 19th-century American poets so well myself, but sometimes it’s pretty clear that someone else was studying for the exams. Shakespeare—I don’t know when he became an American, nor when he was in the 19th century. He didn’t get the job. It can be so much fun. It’s a long day: we start at 8 in the morning and end about 7 in the evening. We arrange for food to be brought so we can eat while interviewing, because there isn’t enough time. We normally see 70 or 80 candidates in one day. Sometimes we run two panels: one section here and another interviewing over there. If someone is good, we send them to the other side for more questions. Finding good teachers is one of the hardest things in India—probably a worldwide problem—especially good teachers willing to come and work in a village. Slowly, over the first years, we managed to find one or two worth keeping for the next year, then two or three more, and so on. Now we have a fairly settled staff. But it can be very frustrating because there is no culture of staying in one place. People will just leave overnight. You can have a really good teacher, and the next day he simply doesn’t show up and doesn’t tell you anything. Four or five days later you finally get him on the phone: “Oh, yeah, yeah, I’m in another school, I’ve been there since last Friday.” But we work with what we have, and that’s it. The school started small, only up to the 5th class. This year in June was the first time our students graduated from college with a Bachelor of Arts diploma. So slowly it moves towards a complete education, from kindergarten through the end of college. I suppose the time will soon come when we start educating people for master’s degrees about how water goes up a tree! You may have seen this year that one girl won a significant prize for science. She has now gone to the All India level, sometimes in September in Delhi. What she made was so clever. The competition requires building a model and explaining it according to scientific principles, with judges asking questions. Her idea was to stop two trains from crashing. She made a system with magnets: both north poles on the front of the trains. When they come together, the poles push them apart so they don’t actually hit. She bought a toy train set from Pali, fitted the little motors, and set the magnets so the trains approach each other and are repelled. So simple, yet really quite clever. She won at our local Pali level, then in Rajasthan, and now goes to the All India competition. It’s a small thing, but it puts the name of the school, the ashram, and Swāmījī everywhere around India. And for that girl’s future, it’s one of those special items on a resume. She already received several scholarships because of it, and she’ll study engineering now. She finished school this year. It’s just really nice to see, one by one, these small cases of lives being changed. I don’t know if any of you have read the school’s blog: on the left side there’s a story about two girls who came in third class. In that story, which is a bit out of date, they knew nothing; they were wild like the wildlife around Jadan. The blog tells how they passed eighth class. This year they passed 12th class, and now they’re going to college. They came in third or fourth class, I can’t remember. They couldn’t write any letters, couldn’t write their own names—nothing at all. The students in our area are so intelligent; they just never had a chance, never had anyone to give them an education. As soon as they get the chance, they blossom. Śrī Dīp Nārāyaṇa Bhagavān Kī Jaya. So, if you get the chance, or if you have been supporting the project, your continued support is most welcome. And I’d also like to thank Lakṣmaṇa, who has been organizing the Jñāna Putra project here in Croatia for many, many years. Part 2: The Simplicity of Practice and the Power of Belief I must confess, I don’t know in how many countries he organizes this. But I know it is not an easy job. It would be really helpful if people would chase him, rather than him having to chase them. And it would be nice for people to catch him, instead of him catching them. So, Lakṣmaṇjī, thank you very much. Thank you very much. Thank you, Lakṣmaṇjī. Sat Gurudeva Kī Jai. The other day, I was talking with Vivek Purījī and Ānandājī. We were discussing fires, and they were telling me how many fires you have here on the islands—and the fact that there are no trees afterwards, because the small trees and bushes are burned down. Actually, the problem is not a lack of trees; it is that they cannot come through because there are too many bushes. This reminded me of something that happened to me, perhaps in February. An Australian yoga magazine was publishing an interview with me, and they wanted me to see the issue and what was written inside. I received a copy, read through it, and found many interesting things. But afterwards, I felt seasick. I felt disturbed in my stomach—not seriously ill, but unsettled—because there were so many different ways to practice inside, all of them described very well. And in the same way, when we were discussing the bushes, I felt that if you have too many small, small practices going on, how can the trees grow? I say this because on the board there are all these different activities: rebirthing, this and that, and whatever else—I do not know. I think it is very important for everyone to remember that our practice is actually simple. In reality, as we practice longer, we practice fewer things, but we practice them better. So if we practice for a long time, we do fewer practices, but we do them better. We are not constantly looking for new things. Rather, we are looking for new things within the old practice. The other day I spoke about that flute player, Hari Prasad Chaurasia, how even at eighty years old he is still discovering things about how he plays. That should also be present with every āsana we practice. In the beginning, it is about just physically doing the āsana. As you get better, you hold it for longer. When you are still better, the focus shifts more to breathing. And as you improve further, it comes down to your mental state while practicing. But just because you can now practice it physically does not mean you have perfected it. There is a story from my childhood that is a little related to this. I used to love this story when I was four or five years old. Looking back on it when I was twenty, I thought, “What a funny story to tell a child.” You will see why when I tell it. It was a children’s book, and I read it again and again. There was an old couple living in a village. Let us say they lived in Iž—good enough. These houses look a little like the pictures in the book. The story was definitely from Europe. They discussed the matter and agreed, and then the husband went out to find a cat. They thought they would find a stray cat they could also help. He walked and walked along the path, and under one tree he found a tiny little kitten, very skinny and obviously not having eaten for several days. After a few steps, he saw under another tree two little kittens, even more beautiful than the first. He thought, “Oh, how can I leave them behind?” And suddenly he had three. Going a little further, he saw two more, even more beautiful. What could he do? So he ended up with five, and then he saw five more, then eight more, then ten more, each one more beautiful than the last. He returned home with more than a thousand kittens. When he reached the door and his wife looked out, of course, when she opened the door, there was no other food on the floor—only cat food. She yelled at him, “You are crazy! You should have brought one. What are we going to do with a thousand of them?” She was practical, and the first thing she said was, “What are we going to feed them?” She had a bowl of milk and a small piece of bread, and all the kittens were crying because they were hungry. So the husband went out among them, put the bowl down, and ran. So really, practice something over time and develop some perfection in it, and then see if you want to move to something else. For me personally, I think I will be practicing the same practice my whole life and still not perfect it—not just physically, but also mentally. Yes, I can assume that pose. To be one with that posture, just try it. It is really beautiful. So many times I have thought, because I have quite an inflexible body, “That posture is not for me.” Then, of course, it is not for me. If I think that, it will not be. If you accept yourself, that you can try it, that you can do it, and you can fall into it, relax into it, the position completely opens. And there is another aspect to that, which is perhaps more difficult for people to practice, but we really should practice: We deserve to do that āsana properly. We are worthy of doing it. I feel that something that blocks us very much is that we do not think we can be that yogī. Swāmījī said in a satsaṅg—I think in April, no, maybe February or January this year, in Hindi—the only thing stopping you all on this spiritual path is yourself. That is the problem. Really, we all deserve it. Everyone is worthy of it, because everyone has it inside them. But we have to relax and actually accept that—that we are special enough not just to practice yoga, but to truly be part of that pose, to become one with that pose, or to become one with that prāṇāyāma. The thing that holds us back so much from moving forward is just our own doubt and our own feeling that we are not worthy. If we can come even to a small amount of acceptance of that specialness within ourselves, so much of the door opens. I would like to tell a story. I have told it many times, but it shows how much this can affect us. It goes back to my first year in Jādan. I was there for three months, and I had had enough. Actually, it was only my plan to stay three months. I had many reasons why I should then return to Australia. So I went to Swāmījī—not with a proposal, but to inform him that I was going back to Australia. Of course, he asked, “How long is your visa?” I had not even considered the possibility of staying longer. He said, “How long is your visa?” I said my visa was for six months. And he said, “Good, then after six months you can go to Nepal, get an extension, and stay longer.” Ever since I was young, whenever I traveled, I would get very, very homesick after a few months. At this point, it was that homesickness driving me to want to go back. I had come to Europe as a tourist and returned early because of homesickness. I had gone to Asia as a tourist and returned before I planned because of homesickness. Now I had this plan to go back because I was, in reality, homesick. And Swāmījī suddenly turned that all on its head, and I was shattered, finished. I was so upset, and when you are really upset, everything becomes negative. Gajānandjī might say that the food was anyway terrible, but I really thought it was terrible. The weather was bad. There was too much dirt. I did not like what I was doing—karma yoga. I did not like the programs. You know when you get to the point that if satsaṅg was there, I did not like it; if there was no satsaṅg, then why was there no satsaṅg? Everything was negative. This went on for maybe a week or more, and I was just constantly in this negative frame of mind. I thought, “I cannot do this.” At that time, we were digging holes to plant olive trees—where the mountain in Jādan now stands. It was Govind Purījī and I digging the holes. It was towards the end of the day, and the sun was setting. If you know that orange ball, the Indian sunset… I was there with my negative mind, digging this stupid hole for this stupid olive tree. Govind Purījī stopped digging, looked at the sunset, and said, “Oh, man, it is so beautiful.” I can tell you exactly what I thought at that moment: “You idiot. How can you think that is beautiful? That stupid sunset with this stupid power, and this stupid hole, and this stupid olive tree.” And then a few seconds later, I looked again, and I thought, “Oh my God, he is right. It really is beautiful.” The sunset there is so beautiful—such a big ball, going down so quickly. And in that moment, something within me completely dissolved. It was that whole attachment of homesickness. It just vanished in that second and never came back. Now, it was exactly the same with my body. When I would bend forward, my hands reached only the top of my shins. It was not for lack of trying, nor for lack of relaxation or anything else, but there was simply no change. The next morning, after that incident with the sunset, I went to do the same āsanas I practiced every day at that time. When I bent forward, I put my hands flat on the floor—without any effort, completely natural. As a physiotherapist, my brain was saying, “Impossible.” Stretching happens slowly, over time, systematically. You have to practice, relax, and stretch simultaneously, and so on. But there was a dramatic difference overnight. It was pretty clear that it was related to what had happened the afternoon before. All that tension held in my body was connected to that issue in my mind. That was a wonderful example of how Swāmījī works: by making the seemingly impossible possible. That situation completely changed my life. I never had to deal with such a situation again. If you think about what happened to me, and then imagine that you are restricting yourself by not thinking you are worthy to do the āsana, or that prāṇāyāma, or that practice—imagine what can open up when you let go of that fixed idea you have about yourself and your capabilities. It is not about imagining you can do something extraordinary. It is not about forcing yourself to think something that is not there. It is simply about letting go of the restrictions you place on yourself. Then, when you are practicing, take it as a luxury, an indulgence, that you are there with yourself, just enjoying letting yourself go. Let go, let yourself be one with whichever part of the practice you are doing. Oṁ Bhole Śrī Dīp Nārāyaṇ Bhagavān Kī Jai, Śrī Śrī Devpurīṣī Mahādeva Kī Jai, Dharm Samrāṭ Paramahaṁsī Svāmī Maravanandapurījī Mahārāj Kī Jai, Kī Jai, Viśvaguru, Mahāmaṇḍaleśvara, Paramahaṁsa, Śrī Svāmī Maheśvarānanda Purījī, Satguru Devakī Jai. A little end to that sunset story: of course, the next morning, the food tasted good. It was no longer so dirty. The satsaṅg was better, the work was better—everything. It goes without saying. So much of this affects what we think about what is around us. So much of what we think we hold as unchangeable is just our perspective. For those who have seen the movie The Matrix—certain people’s heads go up when I say that—there is one line in there. When I was speaking before about thinking you are worthy to do the practice, remember the part where Neo is fighting the agents, and the others are in the control room watching on the screen. Neo starts doing things that are not normal, and one of them asks Morpheus what is happening. He says, “He’s starting to believe.” That is it: we just have to believe in what we can do in yoga—not just believe that it is possible, but believe that it is possible for us. And then things can start to happen. Such a simple line, but so powerful: “He’s starting to believe.” Śrī Dīp Nārāyaṇa Bhagavān, Kījī Jī. Can you tell us now that he saw the Matrix on the other side of the earth? Actually, I saw it in Jādan. After the last words of Jasrat Purījī, I would like to share a true story from Hamburg. Yes, he is right about what he said: when we believe, it can happen. In one yoga family, there was a mother and two daughters. One of the daughters became very seriously ill. The disease affected her muscles, and she became weaker and weaker over the months. It was somehow eating up her body and her whole energy. She could no longer practice āsanas; she was sitting in a wheelchair. The prognosis was not good. It was gradually destroying her entire life. The whole family was affected, and they did not really know what to do. Then one evening, they sat together, thinking, looking at the altar, and praying. As I understood from her, it was that evening when she really opened up to the possibility that it could happen. They had prayed every day, but that evening it was a real prayer, and then it really happened. The next morning, everything had changed. She simply got up from the wheelchair. She had an appointment with the doctor, and she went on foot, not in a wheelchair. The doctor could not believe his eyes. He officially declared it a miracle, officially confirmed it, because in medical terms there was no explanation. She always had a picture of Swāmījī beside her bed, so this suddenly gained great importance. It was truly a spontaneous healing, and it could have happened any day. I think this is a very good example of what Jasruch Purījī explained about kuṭkṛpā, the blessing of Mahāprabhujī, the blessing of Swāmījī. It was there all the time. Prabhujī, yā bilī su tāmu prasutnī celo vriyeme. But she could not really open herself, and that evening she did. Immediately it worked, and she is still in our yoga group in Hamburg. Just as I wanted to share with you, Hariya. Da San Jeliu Podelit S’Vamo, Hariya. I am a little concerned by Śrī Rājānandajī’s story, because he said it is a true story. But does that mean that The Matrix is not a true story, Gajānand? My concepts are shattered now. Maybe I have to see it again. One more bhajan. Sorry, this is not in the bhajan book, so maybe it counts as a concert bhajan, but jalegā. It is special to me, so I would like to sing it, and perhaps tomorrow, if we have time, we will translate it.