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Śrī Dīp Nārāyaṇa Bhagavān, I promise to tell a story for the children. We need all the children to come to the front. Gajānandjī, can you sing one more bhajan? Are you ready to hear a story? But it is only for you to hear, not for everybody else, okay? Once upon a time, there was a bird, a sparrow. She was about to have babies. She made a beautiful nest, spending lots of time on it, but she built it right near the ocean. Then the eggs hatched, and there were four baby birds. The four baby birds were sitting in the nest when a big wave came from the ocean. The water caught the babies and carried them out into the sea. The mother was very sad and wanted her babies back. All the other sparrows heard her crying and came to help. First one came, then ten, then a hundred, and then thousands of birds gathered. They all started trying to retrieve the babies. They would fly out into the ocean, take water in their mouths, and bring it back to the shore, placing it there instead of in the ocean. They thought that if they could remove all the water, they would get the babies back. Later, they began taking a little sand in their mouths and dropping it into the ocean, trying to fill it up. They worked and worked, all together, united in their effort. Then, walking by came Nārada Muni — you may have heard of him. He is always walking around, checking what is going on. When he saw the birds working so hard to rescue the babies, he went to heaven to see Indra. Indra is one of the gods, and he always has with him a great big bird called Garuḍa. Garuḍa is probably bigger than this whole āśram. Nārada spoke to Indra, but he made sure to speak loudly enough for Garuḍa to hear. Indra asked, “What is the news in the world? What is happening?” Nārada replied, “Oh, things are good. On earth, all the people are happy.” Then he said very loudly, “But the birds are not happy.” Garuḍa, who was half asleep, woke up and asked, “Why aren’t the birds happy?” Nārada said, “A mother sparrow’s four babies were taken by the ocean, and now all the birds are trying to get them back.” Garuḍa exclaimed, “How can this be? My friends, my brothers and sisters, are in trouble!” The great bird flew down from heaven to the ocean. The god of the ocean saw the birds’ relentless work and thought, “If this continues, I will be filled with sand and have no water left.” He came out and said, “Garuḍa, Garuḍa, what are you doing? This must stop!” Garuḍa demanded, “Give back the babies, or we shall fill the whole ocean with sand.” The ocean god quickly replied, “Yes, yes, I will bring them.” And he brought back all four babies. The mother and all the birds were happy again, and she no longer cried. This teaches us that we should always help our brothers, sisters, friends, mother, and father. The goddess of the ocean brought back one of the babies already. That is the end of the story. I am receiving some good gifts tonight. That is the ocean. Śrī Dīp Nārāyaṇa Bhagavān Kī Jaya. How many birds were there? I actually thought of this story because of a part of the Upaniṣad we were discussing. There is a śloka in the Kaṭha Upaniṣad that speaks of trying to control our vṛttis. You just get them to sit down, and they come back up again. It says that by your own effort you can reach a certain point, and then — though it does not specify what — the Divine or the energy will come and carry you the rest of the way. Somehow that reminded me of this story, because those little birds had no chance on their own. The thousands of birds, working together, are like all the small, small things we do in our life. If they are all united toward that one goal on our spiritual path, if we can gather them and get them to work together instead of running here and there on different things, then we can go on that way and reach that point. I remember reading Swami Satyananda’s description of focused energy. When a red light goes in all directions, it is basically nothing. But when focused on one point, it becomes a laser. Lasers can burn and cut through things. The same energy, the same light, but focused. That is what we must try to do: pull ourselves together, draw in all our vṛttis that are scattered everywhere, and focus them on that one goal. And how many birds were there? And do you know why there were four birds? No reason at all — I do not know. Can you sing a bhajan? Śrī Dīp Nārāyaṇa Bhagavān Kī Jaya, Śrī Śrī Devapuruṣa Mahādeva Kī Jaya, Satguru Deva Kī Jaya. One śloka from the Kaṭhopaniṣad. I tried to find a simpler English translation. I did not think about it until I started reading it out, but it was quite complicated. There was once one karma yogī in Jādān named Kṛpā. He would drive the JCV. He was learning English from a book written in 1922, a little like that translation last night. He knew no English and was trying so hard to learn, but that book… If you wanted to ask, “Where is the train station?” the book would have something like, “Excuse me, sir, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, could I just for one minute disturb you? Could you oblige me by telling me where the train station is?” I shall never forget it. Every day he would come and ask for help with that phrase, and I think nobody could help him — it was so complicated, making something much more difficult than it ever was. Kṛpā had one most beautiful event in Jādān. I was remembering it when I was in Novo Mesto. He was learning two things: English and guitar. He had never played guitar before. I cannot even remember the bhajan, but I was in his room; he practised that bhajan every day for hours and hours. For much of the three months he practised, it was not clear which bhajan it was. But if you want an example of trying again and again, this was it. He practised and practised. The day came — his last day in Jādān — and he said he was not going to sing the bhajan. We had a long discussion to convince him that he had practised so long, he must sing it in the Bhakti Sāgara. He refused, but at the last minute we finally convinced him, and he came into the Bhakti Sāgara with his guitar. He started a little slow and nervous, but as he went further, you could feel him beginning to realize he was going to make it. The bhakti with which he sang was beautiful and truly touching. For all of us, it was the fruition of three months of tapasyā, so we were enjoying it. When he finished, I think everyone had small tears in their eyes — it was so inspiring that he had accomplished what he set out to do. There was silence, and we waited for him to say, “Śrī Dīp Nārāyaṇa Bhagavān Kī Jai…” But he was silent for a moment, and then he just went, “Yeah!” It was fantastic. Śrī Dīp Nārāyaṇa Bhagavān Kī Jaya. So back to the śloka. I will just read it: “The Ātmā, subtler than the subtle, greater than the great, is seated in the heart of each living being. He who is free from desire, with his mind and senses composed, beholds the majesty of the self, and becomes free from sorrow.” That is a translation of that śloka from Swami Śivānandajī. So many times we talk about the fact that our Mahāprabhujī is dwelling here, seated in the heart, in the Anāhat Chakra. The same theme appears in that śloka: the need to quieten the vṛttis, quieten the mind, and control the senses. We all must come to that. You all know the story of Prahlāda — Bhakta Prahlāda and his father, who wanted to kill him because he would not worship him instead of God. There is a part of the story before that. Hiraṇyakaśipu is extremely upset with Viṣṇu because Viṣṇu killed his brother. He performs tapasyā and receives a boon from Brahmā because he wants to kill Viṣṇu, to get revenge. Viṣṇu hides; He goes inside Hiraṇyakaśipu because He knows He will never be looked for there. Hiraṇyakaśipu is one who only looks at outer things, at the material world. The last place he would ever look is inside. So Viṣṇu sits safely there within him, and Hiraṇyakaśipu searches so much that he finally decides Viṣṇu must already be dead — he has searched the whole world, checked everywhere, and not found Him, so He cannot exist. In the bhajan I often sing, “Tis Duniyā Kī,” similarly, this śloka of the Upaniṣad tells us that what we are searching for is seated within every one of us. Our tapas, our discipline, our practice, our sādhanā — it is all aimed at bringing ourselves back, allowing our minds and senses to become silent so that we can hear the voice that is already there. "Binā guṇa bāje tāra, tati baha bithara dhāmi rahā, tate jyuti bharantī." This means that Kabīr heard inside himself the sound of a vīṇā that had no strings. The body is somehow that instrument; the vīṇā has a round bottom and a straight neck, looking a bit like a body. But without strings, what sound can it make? Kabīr said that when he heard that sound, he found it was inside and outside, everywhere. By hearing it, all his doubts were gone. If one has that realization, doubts are gone. But Kabīr also says that the sound is there, that vīṇā is playing within us, but the sound is so subtle that we must turn down our own volume, or tune our radio to that station, in order to hear it. One of the other parts of the Kaṭhopaniṣad says that the sound is Oṁ. That very sound we are searching for inside, Oṁ, is what Kabīr is indicating. That is the same sound Kabīr refers to. Śrī Dīp Nārāyaṇ Bhagavān Kī Jai, Śrī Śrī Devpurīṣī Mahādev Kī Jai! Yeah! In the bhajan as well, Gurujī says that when you do the mantra, the eye to the lotus of the heart will be opened. In the bhajan "Guru Devakāra Darśana," it says, "Hṛdaya paṭa ko ḍholakāra dekho" — open the curtain and see into the heart, and there you will see the swans playing. So many ways of expressing the same thing: that which we are searching for is within us. Even the meaning of the word Anāhat, Anāhat Chakra: it means the sound that is made when two things are not hit together. Śrī Dīp Nārāyaṇ, Bhagavān, Kī Jai. One more bhajan and then...