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Part 1: The Power of Collective Resolve and the Grace of the Guru On Thursday we had a beautiful Skype satsaṅg with Swāmījī, focusing on the meaning of the bhajan “Therajana Mamarana.” Let us sing it together. Śrī Dīp Nārāyaṇa Bhagavān Kī Jaya, Śrī Svāmī Brahmānandajī Mahārāj Kī Jaya. Ambūlī Śrī Dīp Nārāyaṃ Bhagavān Kī Jai, Śrī Brahmānandajī Mahārāj Kī Jai. I think the sound is fine now; this part won’t be long. Otherwise we’ll keep adjusting the microphone. Hari Om, everybody. I would like to remind everyone of one duty Swāmījī gave us on Guru Pūrṇimā: He suggested that everyone make a saṅkalpa to plant at least eleven trees. When Svāmī Jasrāj Purījī arrived, he spoke briefly about it at the very beginning—how in some cities activities have already started, especially through contacts with government institutions where it’s practical to do so. Swāmījī essentially left the implementation entirely to us. You could plant trees in your own garden, but I think it would be most effective to do something collectively—country-wise or city-wise, not just individually. When it becomes a collective action, it can attract public awareness and grow like a snowball, with others saying, “That’s a good idea, let me join in.” That was the point of the story Svāmī Jasrāj told about how one tree eventually multiplied into half a billion. I mentioned this back in early July during our Guru Pūrṇimā week when we learned about the Śaṅkarīpā. I later spoke with a boy from Prague who belongs to an environmental organization. He said he would bring the idea to their meeting in two weeks and ask for suggestions. I gave him my email, but unfortunately he never got back to me. So I want to ask now, before everyone leaves—does anyone have connections to an organization, or ideas, or a context that could take this forward and suggest where and how to fulfil this saṅkalpa? There is one immediate possibility: if we plant many trees here in the park, a few people might be able to have their own tree right in this space. Another possibility emerged from email communications we’ve been sending throughout the country. Some beautiful ideas came back, but they aren’t polished yet, so I won’t mention them now. I think in this phase we should simply consider them, gather our thoughts, and then begin to act. Thank you. I know of one plan. I intend to make it happen at my school. We already plant one or two trees each year on Peace Day, the 21st of September, which is also the first gathering of parents and students. I usually organize it, and this year I was thinking of broadening the idea. We have 495 students. Because I’m always in contact with local television and newspapers, I’ll put it in the media for the town near Maribor in Slovenia. Most of the instructors of Yoga in Daily Life in our area are teachers—at least fifteen—so we could spread this to other schools where we teach. As for where to plant: our large school has empty spaces around it, so we can place trees near the classrooms. The rest can go by the river, in gardens, at grandparents’ homes—anywhere. Maybe it could even become a competition: the kids could draw their trees, report on how many they planted, and so on. And you don’t have to be a teacher; as a parent you can suggest the idea to a class teacher or headmistress. In our area an agricultural engineer is involved. We’ll meet with his colleagues and find a site where the trees will be protected from being cut down. There are tourist paths crossing the location, and we’ve found a cliff where we can place a tablet announcing that this is Paramahaṁsa Maheśvarānanda’s project. As Svāmī Maheśvarānanda said, it’s important that many people know about this, so we’ve already started organizing media coverage. Before I came to Strilky, I announced it on a long radio program back home, and now all the ashram people in Hungary are watching this webcast. Hari Om from everyone here to everyone in Hungary. Now, I’m waiting to hear more stories from Yogeśjī about Gurujī. Let’s wait a bit more. If I may add something, Swāmījī—with this tree idea, when he said at least eleven trees should be planted by everybody, wherever they wish, it was like he threw a snowball downhill. It’s wonderful to see how the idea is developing. I’d like to add a small thought to this rolling ball. Where will you plant these trees? Slovenia is over sixty percent forest. But in Jadan we have no forest. I heard that Swāmījī took a saṅkalpa to plant one thousand and eight trees—himself, yes. Maybe this is just an idea, but perhaps you can help us plant more trees in Jadan or nearby. Only a hundred years ago, the area around Jadan had huge forests. People cut them for agriculture. No forest means no rain and no underground water. If things continue as they are, in a few years people will have to pack their belongings. In the ashram at Jadan we divided the land into small fields so water can penetrate, so the tree roots can survive until the next rain. It will rain—of course it will rain. So far this year Jadan hasn’t had rain, but last year it rained in September, so we still hope. If not this year, then next. We also have Kailash and other ashrams where we can plant. But for now, enough from my side on this topic. Now, where were we? Gajānjī, do you remember where we last were with Holy Gurujī? In the Himalayas. I found my shoes. So, we were in the Himālaya with Gurujī, and after that beautiful story with the mango tree, many more things happened. In that ashram, the mahantjī—the head, a very nice swāmī—was organizing a conference on education and women. One day Gurujī said, “Yogesh, go and speak at that conference.” My knowledge was… but it is the devotion of the disciple to the master that makes everything possible. So of course I went. The subject was Western culture and the education of women. I stood on the podium, speaking, and I could not believe what I was hearing come out of my own mouth. I finished and returned to Gurujī, and he said, “How is it when Mahāprabhujī is talking?” It was great. We went further. One day Gurujī said, “Let us go to Badrīnātha.” As I mentioned yesterday, Gurujī loved cars and enjoyed playing with them. Along the way he said, “Stop the car.” I stopped, and he said, “This is the Valley of the Gods. Here are Alakhpurījī and Devpurījī.” He offered a short prayer, then we went on to Badrīnātha. I believe he had the darśan of all the great saints he wished to see. I slept peacefully through the night. The next day he sent me for darśan in the temple, and then we started back. But when I started the car, the brakes were completely gone; the pedal fell flat. I hesitated—should I tell Gurujī? I decided not to and drove slowly in first gear. Gurujī asked me several times, “Why are you driving so slow?” It was terrifying on that narrow road, with a rock wall on one side and a river far, far below. We reached a village with a mechanic. I asked him to check the brakes, and he repaired them. But I also noticed diesel was leaking where the pipe connected to the fuel pump. I asked the mechanic to simply tighten the screw a little. One must be very careful with mechanics in India and watch what they’re doing, so I stood like an eagle. At that moment someone started talking to me, and when I looked back, the mechanic had already opened the screw and inserted a new gasket—but he put it back at an angle, destroying the thread. I shouted, “Stop, stop!” but half the thread was already ruined, and it leaked more than before. He said, “No problem, you can go.” Driving on, leaking fuel, we came to another village where there was an āśrama of Svāmī Śivānanda. Gurujī said, “Yogesh, I’ll sleep in the ashram; you go repair the car.” The only repair was to apply a special sealing kit around the entire screw and wait twenty-four hours for it to dry. I did that. But soon people in a bus were shouting, “Your diesel is leaking!” I stopped and saw a huge trail behind us. The kit had failed. Opening the bonnet, I saw the screw threads were almost completely gone—maybe five of twenty left. I told Gurujī the only option was to tighten it a bit more, reapply the kit, and wait another day. He said, “Okay, I will walk toward Gaṅgotrī, or stop a bus. You come tomorrow.” So I repaired it and waited in the car, doing mālā. Half an hour later, a boy came running back. “Gurujī is calling you—come quickly with the car!” My God. If I started the car, the pump would immediately leak; it was impossible to drive. But Gurujī Vākya is Gurujī Vākya. So I started the car and went. In such trouble one truly remembers God. I prayed, “O Mahāprabhujī, please let this car drive only as far as the mechanic.” It wasn’t for me but for Gurujī. We were three hundred kilometres from the nearest proper workshop. And the car went. We caught up with Gurujī, and he said, “Chalo, we go to Gaṅgotrī.” The next morning we reached Gaṅgotrī. That screw was skipping. Along the way we lost the silencer, a fire broke out in the car, the steering failed—I was struggling to keep it going—but somehow the car continued. We finally reached Haridwār, and Gurujī said, “I have a disciple; let us go to his hotel.” After half an hour: “Oh, here is not good. Let us go to another āśrama.” We moved to a second, then half an hour later: “Here is not good. Let us go to a third āśrama.” At the third he said, “Here is good. Now go to the mechanic and repair the car.” I drove fifty metres before that screw burst and the car stopped working completely. We pushed it to the workshop. Gurujī had changed places three times in one day in Haridwār—and that leads to the next story. Before I came to Gurujī in Jadan that year, I was in Nepal. I had asked how long to stay; he said, “Two months, three months—as long as you get a visa. Enjoy the holidays.” I applied for a visa and immediately went trekking toward the Mount Everest base camp. For three weeks I walked up and down, up and down. Suddenly a powerful urge came: I had to go back to Kathmandu, I had to return. It was so strong that I started running, covering in one week what had taken three. Back in Kathmandu, at the cheap hotel where I used to stay—only five Nepali rupees for a room—there was a note on the door: “I am here; I just came. Please reach me at this address,” with a name. I decided to go meet him, but at that moment I fell violently ill with dysentery and could barely move. Somehow I made it. The man turned out to be a specialist in equatorial diseases and treated me immediately. We spent a few days together. He asked how long I’d have to wait—at least three more weeks for the visa. I had had enough of Nepal and prayed intensely, “O Mahāprabhujī, O Gurujī, I so want to come to Jadan.” Right then a person appeared and said, “If anyone has any request or need, come with me.” I followed him to his office—he was the first secretary of the embassy. I explained I wanted to go to India but had received no answer. He said, “I can’t give you a one-year visa, but I can give you six months.” I took it with both hands, and by afternoon I was on the train. That same boy I had met in Kathmandu was also applying for a visa. It took him over a month to come to India. He got a new passport but eventually only a transit visa—three weeks. In Haridwār, he forgot his passport, air ticket, money—everything—in the booth where he had been boarding. By the time he realised and returned, it was too late. Meanwhile Gurujī kept changing locations, so he couldn’t find us. He decided to go to Gaṅgotrī, where we had been. Just as he arrived, the rains began, and an entire mountainside collapsed, blocking the river and road. He had only about five hundred rupees; prices shot up tenfold. The army rescued and fed him, finally pulling him out of the valley by helicopter. I share this because karma follows us. If we practise yoga, if we follow this divine path and adhere to basic principles like honesty and Mahāprabhujī’s grace… And so it was with Gurujī—there were countless such things. I don’t remember them all. Swāmījī teaches differently, yet the result is the same. Gurujī was very direct with his disciples, directly showing them their capacities and divine powers. Swāmījī is much more careful in all ways. Yesterday I also mentioned how sometimes teaching feels like a factory belt, where a subject is announced and everyone must experience it. Once I was half asleep—though I can’t sleep while driving. As soon as I passed the ashram gate, I would start to sleep; it was so hard to drive. Once Swāmījī sent me to Nepal only to show Bikaramjī the ashram. He said, “Bikaramjī would like to see the progress in Nepal. Go, bring him back.” It was about eight in the evening. Part 2: Building the Jadan Ashram: A Disciple’s Journey in Karma Yoga It means a three‑hour drive to Nepal, three hours back—six hours of driving. From that entire drive, I remember only one curve, where I nearly crashed out of it. For the rest, I was simply sleeping. We were on our way back, and somehow in the morning, around six o’clock, I had already woken up. There stood a blue cow—it is called a blue cow, a wild animal, something between a cow and a horse. I started to brake, and when I had nearly stopped, the cow jumped and crashed into the windscreen, breaking it. So I cleaned away what remained and drove on to the ashram. Swāmījī asked, “Oh, what happened?” I told him, and he said, “Has something happened to you?” No, I was not hurt, and he was so happy. He immediately sent me to Sojata in that broken car to bring some people to the bus. When I came to Sojata, there was one road in the town, and a curve. Because I had no windscreen, I heard very well. I heard a bus coming towards me, so I stopped the car and wanted to reverse because the bus was approaching. Swāmījī was waiting in front of the Bhakti Sāgar. He asked, “Are you okay? Are you okay?” So he was very happy. Swāmījī works in very different ways, but he possesses divine powers. When I met Swāmījī for the first time, it was twenty‑two years ago. I had just come to classes, and after one month I heard that there was a seminar like this one. I said, “Yes, why not? I will go and see.” It was somewhere in Yugoslavia, in Croatia. I arrived and was standing on the terrace of the hotel. People began to say, “Swāmījī is going for a walk, Swāmījī is going for a walk.” I did not know who Swāmījī was; I had not seen him. So I thought, okay, they are going for a walk—and then what? I was standing with another boy there on the terrace, and then Swāmījī passed by with many, many people behind him. Please do not tell Swāmījī any further what I am talking about now. I saw Swāmījī: young, black hair, not too thin, and I thought, “Is this a yogī?” To my mind a yogī should be old and lean, with silver hair and a long white beard. And all these ships behind him—those were my thoughts. Swāmījī looked at us and said nothing. But within fifteen minutes, I was walking between those very ships. I was thinking, how is this possible? Just a moment ago I was referring to them as ships, and now I am one of them. Yet I was walking, and I was quite happy. Then we came to a playground for children. We sat down there on the ground, and suddenly I found myself sitting far away from Swāmījī. Mantra—I was simply running there. Very soon we came to India, and that very winter I was in India. We arrived at Jadan. Swāmījī said, “Here I will build the ashram.” It was as if someone had shot you with a sweet arrow; as if someone were striking you with a sweet thorn in the heart. A wish arose: I would like to help build this ashram. Dangerous wish. I started twenty years ago in Jadan because of that. So we came back. Later, at a seminar somewhere in Slovakia, I saw Swāmījī looking at plans with some architects. Om Prakāś from Brno was there, and I think Pavel Sklenář made the model of the Omāśram. I was looking on. I was not jealous, but I thought, “They are working, and I know nothing about this.” That very day, during the walk, I went to Swāmījī and said, “Swāmījī, please, I would like to go to Jadan.” He said, “Very good, very good, just go.” I asked, “When should I go?” He replied, “After one year. One year, one and a half years.” I returned from that seminar, and I received a letter: “You are an architect, and we wish that you design a hotel for us, a five‑star hotel, something like this, in Slovenia.” I contacted the person and they wanted that. I had a small studio, and we turned it into a large hotel for them. Oh, Mahāprabhujī, thank you, thank you. This is Guru Kṛpā. In the same period, a few days later, the ambassador of Yugoslavia in Russia also wanted us—me—to design a house for him. That was my biggest job until then. Yes, who is there? Swāmījī speaking. You see, if you wish, you can go to India immediately, but only if you truly want. The whole edifice of the car starts to shake. All these ideas. And what happened? The war in Yugoslavia began. The company, which was from Switzerland, withdrew. The ambassador lost his position, so everything was just a castle in the air anyway. Whatever we do, we will always be tested. Swāmījī is always doing two things: one is teaching, and then the examination follows. As Swāmī Jasarāśpurījī nicely put it, when Āśramjī Bāpū, the great son of India, told Jasarjī, “Keep hold of the feet of Swāmījī; he will try to kick you away—do not let go.” All true teaching works like that: first the masters reveal their divine nature, and when they see that you understand a little, they will do everything to push you away, to kick you away, so that you run off. Gurujī was very direct. I saw Indian disciples who, when they glimpsed Gurujī, performed praṇām right there on the road, did their praṇām, and fled down a side street. Gurujī would press and press; as long as you manage, you manage, and then the next life will continue. Then we are the kings. Then Swāmījī will do everything for us, because we have passed all the exams. Bhakti Yoga and Karma Yoga. Not one book but ten books could be written on how we built the Jadan Ashram. Jasarjī just yesterday reminded me about the White House. I think it was rebuilt, or rebuilt—I do not know how to say it—built, and on that, built, and built, and built again. I think seven or eight times, something like that. Swāmījī once said, “Yogeś, there is a hut—one small room for the generator near the well, where the White House now stands.” He said, “We need some rooms for the workers in the ashram. Can you make them?” Of course, Swāmījī. “But you should use only the material that remains from the Gurujī building, the building where the boys are sleeping.” OK. Good. Four rooms. Swāmījī went to Europe, then wrote a letter: “Can you please make four rooms on the other side of the well as well?” I somehow managed to get to a telephone in Pali, because years ago there were no mobile phones and no email. I asked Swāmījī whether these four rooms on one side and the four on the other should be on the same level or separate, as there was a difference in ground height. He said, “No, no, just make them separate, as the land lies; follow the earth.” When we reached roof level, Swāmījī decided, “Yogeś, make everything one level.” So we had to rebuild the foundation, raise the windows and doors, and go higher. Swāmījī was happy, and then… Swāmījī was happy. It is already too long? And he said, “Yogeś, so much material you have wasted around; it is lying everywhere. What do you think about making one room between these four and those four rooms? Like a hall for storage—so much material is scattered about.” So we were building stairs, and then he made a hole. Then one day a lady came from Serbia. She was an electrical engineer. We called her Lilja Struja—Struja means electricity. When she arrived, Indian electricians were installing the wiring, and it was like a spider’s web, with wires everywhere. Green wire was joined to yellow, then to red, then came a brown wire—and nothing worked. When she saw it, she said, “My God, my God, what is this? I have never seen anything like it.” Very soon Swāmījī decided to add one more floor. So we ended up with a very terrible Russian‑style building: narrow and high, with a disaster fundament—fundament means foundation. The foundation was far too small for a single‑floor building. I nearly cry when I remember this; I nearly cry even now. When I think about it, I feel like I am going to be sick. It was a disaster, a calamity. Like the school: when we built it, Swāmījī said, “Yogeś, make a school.” We designed a round shape, a square shape, beautiful Western type, and Swāmījī disliked everything. He wanted a very simple Indian‑style school. So we built it in a simple Indian way. When it was done, it was horrible, that back part. I pretended not to see it. But one architect from Europe came and asked, “Who made this?” So that White House was something like this: a disaster. Then one day a film crew came from Bombay, from Bollywood, to shoot a movie in the village. They were sleeping in the big hall downstairs. Somehow they managed to start a fire. It seems somebody was smoking and threw a cigarette into the foam mattresses we had brought from Europe, on which we slept. It was four o’clock in the morning. I was drying the truck. But when I came near, I saw the building was already burning. Luckily, Swami Gajānandjī wakes up very early and has a very strong voice; he was shouting, “Alarm, alarm, fire, fire!” All the people got out. We tried to reach Swāmījī, but it was impossible. Swāmījī was in one room, and Gurujī was in another. So we mounted a rescue operation, using buckets to bring water. Some of us ran upstairs because the fire was rising, and upstairs there were gas cylinders. We were afraid they would explode. Then there was a puff, a puff. We did not know what it meant. She said, “I will just jump in through the window; I’ll break the window and jump in.” I told him, first look what is inside. He looked, and there was nothing—because the entire floor had fallen down. That floor actually extinguished the fire. Well, the operation was successfully finished. The fire brigade from Pali arrived three hours after the fire was out. Swāmījī said, “Oh, it is good that it broke down. Anyway, it was useless because the quality was very bad.” He said, “It was for nothing; it was not well built. We will make a new one.” But this time… Emilka Mejslíková is waiting for her granny over there at the door. Is there a granny for Emilie? Emilie Mejslíková is searching for her parents. So Swāmījī said, “Okay, but now we will also make an underground basement.” We started work and called the contractor. He began digging the foundation, and then the rains started. The contractor disappeared. At that time we ourselves, the karma yogīs, removed a large part of the building—the central section—and began building verandas behind as well. We supported that veranda, which was hanging in the air, with some pillars. Everything was quite weak, because the soil there is very hard when dry but becomes very soft when wet. The rain started, the contractor disappeared, and the soil collapsed into the hole prepared for the basement. Swāmījī said, “Yogeś, do something.” So we all worked—I think Jasarjī and you were there—all of us quickly, quickly doing the necessary work and building up. Swāmījī sat on a cot next to the building, talking to the Indians about the weather, agriculture, everything—pretending he did not care what we were doing. Those slabs were hanging in the air, six metres long, nearly three metres wide, without any support—just like that. They were supported by some wood; we had planks and simply propped them up. Of course, later we added one more floor, then another, then a dome, and now we have quite a nice building. In this way, everything is built in Jadan. The Shiva Temple was the first office. It was just a round, terrible round building. You cannot imagine how ugly it looked. I could not resist making some drawings and going to Gurujī to say, “Gurujī, let us add a round veranda and a small dome on top; it will make a nicer office.” Gurujī said, “Yes, very good.” When Swāmījī returned from Europe, he said, “What have you done? I did not tell you to do that. I did not want this. Okay, make it a Shiva temple. We will turn it into a Shiva temple.” Everything is built like that, and I thought, okay, okay. With these small buildings it is all right, but with the Omāśram Swāmījī will not play around like that. A big mistake of a naïve disciple. Swāmījī said, “Yes, Yogeś, we will put gobar on the walls of the Omāśram everywhere.” Gobar is cow dung. Kravdang is a good thing, why not? It is very good, healthy, nice. But what will happen when Swāmījī says, “Yogeś, take it down and put plaster on”? Because on Kravdang, whatever you apply will fall off. So, to finish slowly, because I have spoken far too long: Jadan, Strilky, any ashram in the world, any yoga centre, any yoga society—it is a fantastic playground. To be anywhere in Swāmījī’s shelter is great, great, great. But it is hard. Because Swāmījī will mix people who do not get along. To one he will say, “Do this,” and to another he will say the exact opposite. Then he watches how they manage. And he is doing this, you know—more or less all of you organizers are involved in some kind of sevā, you know how it works. I said, “In this crazy ashram I will not stay,” but I am still there. Once I packed my things and left for the Himalayas. I said, “Now I go. I go; I will not come back. I will not inform Swāmījī. Just go.” A small line, you know, but there is a big lion, Swāmījī. Nevertheless, my heart did not allow me to leave without saying goodbye. So from Delhi I phoned Swāmījī and said, “Swāmījī, I am going.” He said, “OK. Anyway, you know, you have nowhere to run. But if you wish, go to Haridwar; there is an āśram. Stay there for some time, and then go if you want.” I thought, oh my God, why did I find him? Now I have Guru Vākya—I must follow it. I went to that āśram. There I saw six sannyāsīs fighting among themselves—jealousy, anger. They were the same as in Jadan. The Gurujī there, as soon as I arrived, gave me the task of building a road. I looked at that and thought, “Here it is just like Jadan—so better to go back.” That was my final attempt to run away. I opened my luggage and put it on the shelves. So, those who manage to come through all this sevā, similar to what we are doing now, then they no longer react negatively to Swāmījī’s līlās. They pass into the next class, and this is Karma Yoga. We have already accomplished fifty per cent of the yogas. Bhakti brings kṛpā. Guru bhakti brings Guru Kṛpā. Then the doors are open for sādhanā, for Rāja Yoga. In satsaṅg we begin to understand what is jñāna—true jñāna. Come in. Suddenly the horizon opens, and you see more and more, understand more and more, and become aware, more and more, of everything around you. So, as Swāmījī so nicely said the day before yesterday, we have a fantastic system. And all of you are highly qualified yoga teachers and instructors; we have satsaṅg, we have Gurudeva, and we have Ātmā in our system—Ātmā, Gurudeva—and we are all so blessed. That we, even we, cannot imagine how much we will understand. One day we will understand. So with this I will finish, and thank you very much for listening to me for so long. And I would like to thank: Ādami Śrī Dīp Nārāyaṇ, Bhagavān, Kī Jai, Śrī Siddha Purīṣaṇa, and Deva. I would like to thank Swāmī Yogeś Purī for visiting the Strilky Āśram. I had the feeling that all of Jadan came here, now that Yogeś Purījī is here. Swāmījī has sent us the most beautiful people of Jadan. For us, the most valuable thing is the practical experiences they share with us. They are showing the real values Swāmījī brings to us, and they are actually the living proof of this teaching. They are the living glory of Swāmījī. Don’t worry, I will not give a speech now—just a very short add‑on to the story of Swāmī Yogeś about the fire in the White House. It is not merely a technical matter that the house was built and broken down. That was our home. We were living there, and I was a sannyāsī. I had renounced, but in that moment I realized what it means. It was a situation where the fire was blazing and it was clear—the fire police said that most probably the whole building would collapse and everything would burn. So now I stood in my room and faced the choice: what should I take with me when I run out? Should I grab a pile of clothes? I thought, that is stupid, and pictured myself standing outside watching the building burn, holding a pile of books. I said, “I leave everything behind. I took nothing.” It was, in a way, another sannyās dīkṣā for me. In that context, something else happened that I would call a kind of miracle, somewhat comparable to a story from Līlā Amṛt. You may recall when Śrī Devpurījī, I think, ordered a large pile of books to be burned, and all of them were consumed—except one book that remained. Something similar happened in that fire. Because what Yogeś said, that the whole floor collapsed, is not true. It was the floor of the second floor—the floor of the hall on the second floor. At that time it was actually a storeroom. On one side—no, it was our study hall—and on one side there was a library. In those days it was just a single metal cupboard. And the whole floor fell down, except the side where the library stood. But that is not enough, for the flames were very strong, leaping metres high. By good fortune, this cupboard was closed in time, and though it was surrounded by fire, it did not burn. I had always very carefully made sure that we collected only spiritual books. Not a single book burned. Only those touching the outside, the metal—the covers were slightly scorched. The covers were destroyed, but not a single book was damaged. So it was a little like a fire test of the lacquer.