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Śrīdhita Nārāyaṇa Bhagavān Kī Jai. Śrī Śrī Deva Puruṣa Mahādeva Kī Jai. Dharma Samrāṭ Paramahaṃsa, Śrī Svāmī Mahāpurājī Mahārāj Kī Jai. Viśva Guru Mahāmaṇḍaleśvara Paramahaṃsa, Śrī Svāmī Maheśvarānandapurājī Satguru Deva Kī Jai. Yes, you wish to speak? Gajarānjī, would you like to begin? It is Wednesday, the day of Gaṇeśa. Very well. Sādhu Narendra from Goa, namaste. I wish to say something regarding our Kriyā Anuṣṭhāna program, our sādhanā here. First, as a reminder: this Kriyā Anuṣṭhāna program is the very essence of everything we have in this seminar. It originated in Austria, and initially, it consisted solely of this Kriyā Anuṣṭhāna group. When others arrived, more by chance, a disciple began guiding a small additional group for them. Now we have many groups, with more than half the participants in the 'A' group. Yet there is a significant distinction. The practices of the 'A' group can be done at any time. The Kriyā Anuṣṭhāna program, however, is permitted only here, under strict conditions. Who may participate? I would urge everyone to make a sincere Saṅkalpa: "I wish to be able to attend this Kriyā Anuṣṭhāna program next year." From the perspective of sādhanā, this is the essence of Swāmījī's teaching. This is a crucial point. Swāmījī allows us to practice it only here. He does not permit us to make notes about it or speak of it. When you finally participate, you realize the techniques are actually quite simple. This leads me to the points I wish to discuss, which may seem contradictory. Why is entry into the program so difficult if the techniques are not? If they are so easy, why can I not practice them at home? I will begin with two stories of two masters, guru and disciple: Milarepa and his guru Marpa, Tibetan yogīs from Tibetan Buddhism. I apologize to those who have heard this before, but it feels pertinent now. Marpa lived in Tibet centuries ago when Buddhism flourished primarily in India. He wished to learn these spiritual teachings and had to journey to India—no simple airplane ticket, but a long, arduous, and dangerous trek. Knowing he must meet the guru, he also knew he must bring dakṣiṇā. To afford the journey and offer proper dakṣiṇā, he worked to gather resources. His first travel brought him to Nepal, where he stayed a year to acclimatize. He then continued to India, mostly on foot, inquiring until he found his guru, Tilopa. He surrendered, received some teachings, and was sent to other masters, necessitating further arduous journeys and offering dakṣiṇā to all. After some years, his guru permitted him to return to Tibet, where he began teaching, married, and had a family. Over the years, through his teachings, he again accumulated wealth, which he converted to gold. Realizing he had learned only a little, he embarked on a second journey, facing dangers from climate, nature, animals, and robbers demanding bribes. He remained firm, a true spiritual seeker. Several years later, he reached his master again. Seeing his disciple's dedication, the master imparted more profound teachings and again sent him to other masters, so Marpa learned nearly all techniques known in Buddhism. He thought, "Now I can return; it is done." But his master said, "It is not done. You must return once more." This was Guru Vākya. He returned from another journey lasting surely over a year. By now, he was celebrated as a great guru, rich in experience and techniques, and known as Marpa the translator for rendering Sanskrit texts into Tibetan. He was no longer young, and everyone, especially his family, worried when he spoke of traveling again. Yet he insisted, with firm faith in his guru's word. In his old age, he began his third journey. This time, the guru played a kind of līlā with him, making himself difficult to find, like a game of hide and seek. It took nearly a year in India to finally make contact. Full of devotion, Marpa again presented his substantial dakṣiṇā in gold. Then came a great teaching, addressing the question in everyone's mind about the gold. The guru placed his staff on the ground, and suddenly the entire earth before Marpa turned to gold. In an instant, Marpa realized: "The guru does not need my gold." It is precisely like Śrīdhar Pūḍī, who lived like a beggar yet constantly gave money to those in need, pulling it from under his blanket. When others looked, they found only snakes. Why all this? The answer is simple. Without it, he would not have valued the Master's teaching. It is always the same. When we believe we are giving something to the Guru, in the end, the Guru does not need it—it is for us. When you give dakṣiṇā, when you give your love to the guru, you are ultimately giving your karmas. It is so we understand correctly the value of the guru and his teaching. In ancient times, you could not simply approach a guru and say, "I wish to be your disciple; please give me a mantra." You had to pay in another currency: seva. Serve, serve, serve for years without receiving any teaching. Recall the story of the Sufi master I shared a day or two ago. Upon finding his master, the first demand was: "You must give me everything you possess, down to the last coin." The same principle. Why did the master ask this? To elicit a clear, firm decision from the seeker. When sent into the cave, the disciple had to know: "This is my one single chance." Otherwise, he might have easily left to search for an exit. Whatever we must give to the guru, we appreciate it more. That was the first teaching Marpa received. The master showed him clearly: "I possess the gold siddhi; I do not need your gold." Then came the reason for the third journey: Marpa was the chosen successor. He had to return to receive the special techniques reserved only for the successor—teachings not for their time, to be spread only in the tenth generation. He received the final teachings, which were so simple. He was both happy and confused, asking the guru, "You made it so difficult for me to obtain such simple techniques. Three times I traveled from Tibet to India and back, enduring so much hardship, only for this super effective yet simple technique. Why?" The guru replied, "Because if I had given it to you straight away, you would not have appreciated it. And without appreciation, it simply would not work." This is precisely the point of our Kriyā Anuṣṭhāna program. If we do not understand the value of these simple techniques, they simply will not work. The same applies to personal Kriyā initiation. Sometimes Swāmījī creates elaborate conditions, saying, "You must know by heart all the bīja mantras of the chakras, all fifty mantras," or presents a long list that seems impossible. This is to bring awareness to how precious the technique is. This is the whole point. In our time, it is somewhat difficult for Swāmījī because we cannot wait any longer. The traditional way involved years of seva. If that were required, who among us would be here? In Kali Yuga, a guru has Kali Yuga disciples. That is the challenge. We receive initiation relatively quickly, but we do not truly understand its value. As a result, progress is quite slow. The process of purification, which ideally would occur beforehand, we must now undertake while practicing. Now for the second story. Marpa's chief disciple and successor was Milarepa. Many know his biography. In short, early in his life, due to family circumstances, he accumulated heavy negative karma. He learned and misused black magic, creating severe karma. Upon realizing this, he resolved to change his life. He sought and found his guru but received no teachings—this was the traditional way. The guru had many disciples whom he taught, but he accepted Milarepa only for seva. He said, "First, you must build a house for my son," specifying the exact location and method with the strict condition that he do all the work alone, without help. This meant intense physical labor, carrying heavy stones until his body bled. Yet he knew he must perform the seva, so he did. When the house was half-complete, the guru inspected it and said, "It is very nice." Through seva, our karmas are purified, but we are tested again and again. This continued for some time. Reading this story sometimes reminds me of our Swāmī Yogeś, who built the Jāḍnā Āśram. He could tell you many similar tales. Perhaps he is a reincarnation of Milarepa. The guru gave his disciple a hard time. Throughout this period, Milarepa received no teachings—no meditation techniques, no mantras. The only teaching was work. The guru's wife, her heart softer, felt compassion for the disciple and thought it unfair given his dedication and hard work. Unbeknownst to Marpa, she arranged for Milarepa to receive initiation from another disciple of Marpa who was qualified to give it. She provided signs and dakṣiṇā to this other guru, who, believing it was an order from his master, initiated Milarepa with all the holy, secret, and most effective techniques. After this purification, it should have worked. Milarepa was overjoyed. He sat in a cave with strict discipline, practicing with full enthusiasm. Yet nothing happened. He practiced and practiced, but there were no experiences. The initiating guru would check periodically and grew suspicious after about half a year. If it were truly the Vākya of Marpa, it should work. With the right technique and serious practice, it is impossible for it not to work. The only explanation was the absence of the guru's blessing. The guru discovered the deception—he had been tricked, and Marpa's blessing was not present, which was why it failed. Eventually, there was a confrontation involving Marpa, the other guru, Marpa's wife, and Milarepa. The truth emerged: his wife had, in a way, betrayed him. After reflection, the guru explained—a precious lesson for us. He said, "When Milarepa came, I saw his heavy karma. Such karma is very hard to cleanse and was a serious obstacle; sādhanā could never be effective. Therefore, as guru, I had to give him much karma yoga for purification and test his relationship with the Guru. My plan was to bring him nine times to the point of leaving me, and upon his return, he would get another chance. I succeeded eight times. Only one time remained. Had I managed that, and he left and returned, there would have been no need for sādhanā; I could have given him mokṣa directly. But with your soft heart, you destroyed my plan. Consequently, it no longer works; some heavy karma remains. Now he must perform sādhanā." The guru then truly initiated him, giving his blessing. Milarepa went to a cave, practiced for some time, and ultimately became a great enlightened yogī, even developing the siddhi to fly like a bird. His biography is truly inspiring. The main point for us here is understanding the importance of the guru's blessing. The decisive moment was when he received the unauthorized initiation. Let us return to what we discussed last night. Swāmījī said, "Be aware, I might be among you suddenly." This means we should open inwardly to Swāmījī—not merely for his physical presence, however joyful that would be, but so his blessing can take effect. The guru wishes to give his blessing, but it also depends on whether the disciple is ready to receive it. The importance of the interaction between guru and disciple was illustrated in the other story I shared last night. Consider that disciple who moved away and began to steal. The only instruction from his guru was: "Be ready. I may visit you, but you must recognize me in whatever form I come." It worked, but only because he was a good disciple towards his guru. I believe this is the point where we must engage in self-inquiry, as an inspiration for your sādhanā. Hari Om. Gajanandjī and I sometimes say we are playing a game of tennis, with the microphone as the ball. But the question is how to return that service. While Gajanandjī spoke of having to wait for teachings, a memory came to me. It is not to that extreme, but I recall a young man at the Kumbh Melā in 2001. He was in the seva of one of the Mahāmaṇḍaleśvaras in the Akhāṛā, constantly by his Gurujī's side, doing everything. A beautiful person, perhaps five or eight years younger than me. I first saw him there in 2001. I saw him again in Ujjain three years later, and at other Kumbhs in Ilāhābād and Haridwār—always the main person with his Gurujī, organizing everything, his Gurujī's heart and soul, running the āśram. We visited that Mahāmaṇḍaleśvara's ashram for a bhandārā. He served everyone; all called him Brahmachārījī. He was beloved by all. That night, during the bhandārā, everyone was excited, especially the younger sādhus. I had known him since 2001, and this was around 2009 or 2010. The excitement was because his Gurujī had finally decided to give him mantra. All that time, and who knows how many years before 2001, he had been his main śiṣya. He was so excited, saying, "Gurujī has finally decided to give me mantra." So, even in Kali Yuga, that testing sometimes remains. As Gajanandjī said, you could see the light in his face as he told everyone; he truly appreciated what he was receiving. There is another brief story from the Kumbh, about the responsibility Swāmījī undertakes when he accepts a disciple. We were sitting in the akhāṛā before the third bath, with several Mahāmaṇḍaleśvaras present. In the akhāṛā, there is a chāṛā-e-jī, the head. There are actually two; one for the smaller Akhāṛā has a very long white beard and is always smiling—Sukhdev Anandya. He is a wonderful personality, the guru of the King of Thailand, with incredibly deep knowledge of the Śāstras and Purāṇas. Casually, he said, "Do you know that every time you make a disciple and they go off the path, the Guru incurs the sin of forty villages?" It is as if the pāpa, the wrongdoings of everyone in forty villages, falls upon the guru. He said it is written in the śāstras. It was quite funny to see everyone laugh a few seconds later, as all the Mahāmaṇḍaleśvaras present thought, "Oh, so many disciples..." The calculation is heavy. People wondered, "What are we going to do?" Then he said, "Yes, but there is an escape clause. If just one succeeds, the amount of puṇya, the good karma that comes to that guru, is endless—it is Ananta." So, when Swāmījī gives us a mantra, it may seem given easily. But from his side, there is immense responsibility. Perhaps the only comparable responsibility is having your own children. And he does not take it for just one, but for all of us. Forty villages multiplied by hundreds of thousands is a vast number. Yet he does it with love, and I suppose for Swāmījī, there is no other way. When you are a master like Swāmījī and see someone who may be helped, you simply must do it, regardless of the risk. One other small point. This morning, during the Kriyā Vidyā, something was said before it began. I cannot recall the exact words, but Swāmījī mentioned in Vṛndāvan, "Who wants to have Brahma Jñāna?" or something similar. It lit a small candle in my mind. I once had an experience with Gurujī where, for some reason, he became extremely loving in a different way than usual. He asked, "What do you want?" It was not a question like "Tea or coffee?" but "What do you want?" I will not share my answer, but I offer this point for you to contemplate. What do you want? Consider it, and revisit the question every month or two. If Swāmījī were to ask you, what would your answer be? What do you truly, deeply want from your spiritual path? It is not to be taken lightly, with a casual "I want Mokṣa." What do you really, really, really want? How do you want it? As Vidyājī said jokingly, but truthfully, people think like that: "First, I want to eat some marzipan, and then..." Truly, what are you ready for? What do you want? Are you ready to take it? Are you ready to have it? When you ponder that question and arrive at a genuine answer, your practice becomes oriented toward preparing for that moment. It places a different focus on your practice. Swāmījī said he could come through the door at any time. Imagine he does, approaches you, and asks, "What do you want?"—ready to give it, not merely asking. Think about it. We are here. Sometimes one can become stuck simply doing practices out of routine, losing sight of the purpose. If you practice to feel physically better, that is fine—practice with that intention. If you seek peace in your family, or to improve a relationship, or whatever it may be, there is so much more to it. If you truly contemplate your aim, your target, and begin to prepare yourself accordingly, then one day, as Milarepa's Gurujī finally did, the blessing can be given, granting that which you so deeply desire.