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Om Bhole Śrī Dīp Nārāyaṇ Bhagavān Kī Jai, Śrī Śrī Dev Puruṣa Mahādeva Kī Jai, Dharma Samrāṭ Paramahaṁsī Svāmī Madhavānandapurījī Mahārāj Kī Jai, Viśva Guru Mahāmaṇḍaleśvara Paramahaṁsī Svāmī Maheśvarānandapurījī Satguru Dev Kī Jai, Hari Om, Gurujī Praṇām. I have had a story in my mind for the last two days, and I wish to share it first. There was once a sādhu walking on a country road—a rough dirt path. It was dusk, and darkness had already fallen. He was a traveling ascetic, carrying very little: a blanket, a shawl, and a battery-operated torch. In the villages, when such sādhus ask for food, it is considered the most auspicious event for a household, a true blessing and a chance to give. We often see these wandering saints at the Kumbh Melā, other large festivals, or here in Jadan during functions like Guru Pūrṇimā. For Gurujī’s Mahāsamādhi, many saints take vows to travel like this for twelve or fourteen years. The entire purpose of such a journey is to advance their own spiritual path. They move like bees visiting flowers to collect pollen, gradually transforming that nectar—as we discussed last night—into the nectar of knowledge, which they can then offer to others. After traveling and finding answers to their inner quest, they may settle down to share that wisdom. In the Indian tradition, this is one way of gaining knowledge. Another is through seva—settling in an āśram and devoting oneself to selfless service, or by staying in one place to perform sādhanā. But when the purpose is pure, that saint ultimately wishes to give back, to offer that light to others. So, this sādhu was walking along the dark road when he heard a motorcycle approaching rapidly from behind. Given the road's condition, it was coming very fast. He could hear the engine but saw no light, even though it was too dark to travel without one. Wanting to help—as is the nature of such saints—he immediately took his torch from his pocket, switched it on, stepped onto the road, and began shouting to the approaching rider, "Take my battery! Take my battery! You need light or you will crash!" The motorcycle kept coming at the same speed. The saint shouted louder and louder, "Stop! Stop... take my battery, it's dangerous!" The rider passed by at the same pace and, as he went past, yelled back to the sādhu, "What use is your battery? I have no brakes either!" And he continued off into the darkness, with no control, just going. This story, told here in satsaṅg, represents two things. First, the saints are there to give us light, to illuminate our path. The Guru provides light so we can proceed more safely on our journey. But simultaneously, if we do not apply the brakes of self-discipline and practice what he gives, then that light is of little use. It may help us see, we might get through, but we might also just clearly see what we are about to crash into. We must bring these two together—the light and the brakes—to make our path safe and our journey shorter. So many scriptures speak of this light given by the guru, by the saint, which reveals the path and shows the way one should go. They spend their lives in sādhanā to attain that knowledge so they may pass it on. In the beautiful tradition of the paramparā, when one great saint finds and realizes that light, he or she gives it as a blessing to the next generation, and so it continues. That is the light that has passed down through the ages in India's paramparās, guiding people on their path. For instance, consider the Patañjali Yoga Sūtras or the Haṭha Yoga Pradīpikā. These texts are dense with facts. But the light is shed on those concise sūtras by the master, by the self-realized saint. Those saints unfold the meaning from within. This is what makes the tradition so vibrant, vital, and relevant today. Although the knowledge is ancient, the Master unfolds it according to the disciples before him, making it relevant to the current time. He transforms the essence of those ancient teachings into a modern language. You can see this in our paramparā, our tradition, with Mahāprabhujī and Gurujī, and of course, Svāmījī. Consider the bhajans and their language. The incredible descriptions in Mahāprabhujī’s bhajans were profoundly relevant to the people he addressed. I would almost call it organic; they arose from the ground, from the village, from his immediate situation. Gurujī describes the same things and imparts the same teachings, the same essence, but in a different way, with different words and language. Then Svāmījī does so again, in a language we and his international disciples can understand. The essence is always the same, but the teaching remains vibrant because it evolves. For this to happen, you need saints who have realized the truth. The way Svāmījī gives us his teachings, and Gurujī gave us his, comes from a complete inner knowledge and realization of that teaching, not from a book. That is the light that shines from a paramparā, from the tradition. Look at the paramparās with long histories throughout India. Here is a perhaps imperfect comparison: Once, I started a blog for the school about four years ago. I began by posting a few pictures and, occasionally, more news and updates. Now, when I look, it spans pages and pages, with perhaps 200 different pieces of news, pictures, and information about the āśram. That is very basic, local knowledge. In a similar way, the paramparā continues from one master to another. Each gives his understanding to the next, who also has his own realization. The result is a priceless volume of knowledge—an incredible wealth of ways to explain how to awaken that knowledge within ourselves. Looking through our own paramparā: Svāmījī’s system of yoga, his lectures, his kriyā and prāṇāyāma; Gurujī’s bhajans, his teaching stories (so numerous in the books), his satsaṅg, and the light that simply shone from him when he sat in a room; Mahāprabhujī’s bhajans, his books, the profound Śrī Vidyān Gītā—it is such a deep, high knowledge. It is an infinite source, a lineage of treasures, with more and more treasures accumulating. We are the fortunate ones who get to be part of this and receive some of that prasāda. It is an infinite line of treasures, and we are so happy. That is the light which shines when you have a living Paramparā, a living guru whom you can be with, before whom you can place your problems. Who can assess you, see what you need, and provide it. Who can stoke and increase that light within us. When Kṛṣṇa speaks to Arjuna in the Bhagavad Gītā, he says, "Sarvasya cāhaṁ hṛdi sanniviṣṭa"—I am seated in the hearts of all. Inside each of us is that light in our heart, in our Anāhata cakra. The saints have that light shining from them. Their entire existence is to let us see that light within ourselves. This may not always seem clear to us. Due to their level of experience, they may act in ways we cannot fully comprehend. But just as those who have been with Svāmījī in the kitchen know he does not waste even the smallest piece of vegetable before it goes into the pot, so too a living master does not miss a single chance or moment to act for their disciples' growth, to use everything for their benefit. Of course, while we are entangled in our own selfish desires, we cannot fully comprehend this. It is beyond that level of understanding. Yet, within the Indian and other Eastern traditions, that light has been shining for generations. It is known that the light of the saints, the light of the teaching, is infinite. It has been here since the beginning of time. This is the light we share with our Master, with Svāmījī Mahāprabhujī. Someone sing "Jyotiṣ," say "Jyotījī, Āve." God bless you.