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There was once a great saint, Bhagavān Dattātreya, whom I guess many of you will have heard of. I wish I remembered the story better, but he had many gurus—twenty-four or twenty-six. He was learning from so many things in nature, like the bee and the birds. From each, he received one lesson for his path in a very strange way. When you have gurus and you have a Satā Guru, you may have a guru who gives you just one lesson. In a very strange way, one of my gurus was a mosquito. That is why I was noticing tonight that some mosquitoes are here, and I am somewhat amused. There was one time in Jaipur, which is a little notorious for its mosquitoes. It doesn't really matter about the time of year; there are mosquitoes. I was sitting to meditate and forgot to put on spray against them, which is okay as long as the fan is running. But once the electricity goes off, then it is—as we say in Hindi—bandharā, a feast for all. As soon as the fan went off, there was silence. Then, after a few seconds, what Gurujī would call the "mosquito military" arrived for lunch. I didn't want to stop meditating somehow, as it was my one chance in the day to do so. There was one mosquito in particular. I had most of my body covered, luckily, but this one kept biting and biting. I thought, "What am I going to do about this?" Then I decided to concentrate on him and see what was going on. I couldn't concentrate on anything else because he kept biting me. I really started to concentrate on the place where he was biting. As I did, it seemed he decided to stop using the needle for humans and use the one they use for cows. It felt like he started to go deeper. I kept concentrating on it. Though uncomfortable, it started to become quite interesting. Afterwards, I became so focused that I had the most wonderful meditation. At the end, I wasn't sure whether to do praṇāms to the mosquito, but I decided to do them to Swāmījī instead. Who knows where you will learn something from? But I did learn that trying to ignore it was much more disturbing than focusing on it and accepting that it was there. Anyhow, now on with the story. Today it is from the Līlā Amṛt. I took this story from the Hindi Līlā Amṛt. I believe Pārvatī Jī has translated it into Czech and was telling it in the satsaṅg sometime. But anyhow, I'll tell it again in English and also add a few stories of my own. I feel a very great connection to this story because I can remember Gurujī telling it to me a few times. Of course, when he used to tell it, after the first time I used to feel nervous, because it usually meant you were about to experience what happened in the story. So, let's see. I'll read it out. Gurujī is talking about his time with Mahāprabhujī in Kathu. "Every day at eating time, Mahāprabhujī would call me and say, 'Mādhav, come, it's time for eating.' I would place his thālī on his bed, which he would have just outside the āśram, outside the door. Then I would also take my food and sit on the ground opposite him. Mahāprabhujī would say, 'Hey, Mādhav, take according to your hunger. Take only as much as you need. You should not remain hungry, and you shouldn't take too much. If you don't have knowledge about your stomach, then how can you hope to have any other knowledge?' I would always think that if I take a little less and it is good, I can always take more. But if I take too much and it's not good, then the food would go to waste. But even after thinking that, I would always take a little too much. However, sitting opposite Mahāprabhujī, he would always ask, 'Mādhav, what more would you take?' As I sat opposite him, he would say, 'Mādhavu, how much more would you take?' Mahāprabhujī would say, 'This is the house of truth, and here you should not remain hungry. Don't keep any type of hunger in your mind; you should be free of all types of hunger.' Then I would say, 'Mahāprabhujī, I have eaten.' This is a play on words here. He would say 'Kālī', which means he has eaten. There's a very small difference between 'Kālī' and 'Khālī', which means empty. And Mahāprabhujī would say, 'If you're empty, then you should make yourself full. Why should you remain empty? Here, take more.' He would repeatedly say it. From that time, I stopped using the phrase 'Kālī' and would say 'Sab Ānandhe.' All is Ānand. Then Mahāprabhujī would laugh and say 'Ānade,' which is again a little bit different, but it means 'Let it come'—so let more food come. And then he would get more food to come. Then Mahāprabhujī would ask, 'What will you take?' And I finally replied, 'Mahāprabhujī, now I will only take your name, because in that is everything.' And then Mahāprabhujī was satisfied." And Gurujī says: "In this way, when I remember those golden days, I get tears of joy in my eyes. At the time, we didn't understand anything. But now, when we remember those moments, we thirst and long to have them again. Even spending millions of rupees, one couldn't buy that happiness. At night time, I would sit beside Mahāprabhujī's bed and request the chance to do the service of his holy feet. When he would consent, I would massage his feet. When I would get tired, even though he was wide awake, Mahāprabhujī would act tired. I was tired, and Mahāprabhujī played that he was also tired. When it seemed that he had gone to sleep, I would also go to sleep on the ground beside his bed. When I would start to sleep, he would call me and say, 'Mādhavā, go and make a fire and bring the coals in the stove.' They have one small stove in India called a sigṛī; it's metal, and you put the coals on top. Often in the winter, Swāmījī would use it. First you have to burn the wood, then put the hot coals on that sigṛī. As Mahāprabhujī had said, I burnt the wood and brought the hot coals, putting them near him. Then he would tell me to go to sleep. Upon sleeping, as soon as sleep came, Mahāprabhujī called, 'Mādhavānanda, get up. Go out and make a round of the ashram and see why the dogs are barking.' Then I would go out, as Mahāprabhujī said, make a round, and come back. And then he'd say, 'You must be so tired, now go to sleep.' But then the same thing: as sleep came, 'Mādhav, get up. Bring a pen and paper and write down this bhajan.' When I brought the pen and paper and was ready to write, he would say, 'OK, leave it for now, go to sleep.' So I would again go to sleep. As soon as sleep would come to my eyes, 'Wake up, Mādhav, go outside and see what time it is.' Because at that time there was no clock in Kathu Ashram. So, to tell the time, you had to go outside and calculate from the stars' position. So then Gurujī says, 'I would go out and with the help of the stars calculate the time and go and tell it to Mahāprabhujī.' Then Mahāprabhujī would lovingly say—for many it may sound familiar—'Now go to sleep.' The sweet sleep of the early hours of the morning would touch my eyelids, but as soon as sleep came, 'Mādhav, get up, the fire has gone out. Go and make more fire, and then bring the coals.' And then, once that was finished, 'Now go to sleep.' And as I would sleep, Mahāprabhujī would say, 'Wake up, my feet and my back are hurting. Please, can you give them a massage?' I'm sure he didn't say please, but that's my English upbringing. No, I'm sorry. As soon as I would sleep, Mahāprabhujī would say, 'Mādhavo, my legs are hurting, my back is hurting,' and he is massaging me. Jāstrajī would say 'please,' but that's his English; Mahāprabhujī would probably not say 'please.' Like that, it would go on until five in the morning, at which point Mahāprabhujī would say, 'Now go and bring wood from the jungle.' Like that, the whole night would pass without sleep, but Mahāprabhujī also wouldn't sleep because of it. And I can remember so vividly when Gurujī would tell this story a few times. He would say, 'Because of not sleeping all night, my eyes were burning with pain. I thought, what has happened to my life? Will I ever rest and sleep again?' But at that time, I didn't know that those days were the greatest blessing. I didn't know that all of the impurities of my life were being burned and the foundations were being laid for endless joy and peace. Those were the golden days. During the day, I would sit with Mahāprabhujī and he would dictate answers to letters. After writing a few, he would tell me to take them to the post office, which is about two kilometers away. Those who've been to Kathu, if you think of the distance from the Duna to Kathu village, that is where the post office is. I would take the letters and start to Kathu. Mahāprabhujī would call me back, saying he had to check something. This also sounds so familiar. Has anybody ever tried to send a fax for Swāmījī? It takes a long time. When I would come back to him, he would say, 'Good, good, go.' Then after going a little way, he would call me back. Again and again it would happen until I was completely confused—so confused that I couldn't speak. In the end, Mahāprabhujī would say, 'OK, go tomorrow. Anyhow, it's getting dark.' When I remember that divine play now, tears of love fill my eyes. He didn't even want me to go from his side for a minute. And, you know, that is Līlā Amṛt. Gurujī, when he would tell that story, or when I heard him tell it, there was such a love coming as he was telling it. Yes, of course, it's tapasyā, but it's also something else, really a divine blessing. Also, looking back and thinking on time spent with Gurujī, it's so wonderful to read this story because you remember that he was also doing very similar things—and with new editions, somehow. When first I was staying with Gurujī in Jhadan, in his Seva, I'd love to be able to do this again now, but there's one very small room just off Gurujī's room. I don't know exactly, but I guess it would be about seven feet long, and it's not as wide as it is long. Gurujī would sleep there in the winter because it was easy to keep warm, and he wanted me to stay in the room with him. But the only place to sleep was at the end of his bed. You can do a calculation: if the bed is six and a half feet long and the room is seven feet long, there's not much space. You could only lie sideways, with no possibility to turn. Luckily, Gurujī got up a lot during the night, and of course, every time he got up, you also had to get up. But in one way, every half an hour or one hour, you were getting up and then getting back down, which was at least a chance to turn over and sleep on the other side for half an hour. Then after some time, it got a little warmer and we moved into Gurujī's room. This I really loved: he decided that I needed a helper. It took me a long time to think about the help that was coming from that. It ended up with three of us sleeping in Gurujī's room: myself and two helpers. But the helpers were allowed to go to sleep whenever they liked. They didn't have to get up during the night, and I was up all night as Gurujī was going to do this and do that and so on. In the morning, Gurujī would get up at 4, but the helpers needed their rest, so they should stay sleeping until five. So I would be up with Gurujī at 4, and then they would wake up at five, quite refreshed. Then Gurujī would actually do āsanas at that time. He was doing some āsanas quite fast—somewhere between āsana and exercise that Swāmījī had suggested he should do. He'd do twenty of this one and twenty of that one. And of course, it was my duty to count, and I was so tired. By the time he'd get to ten, I'd... you should leave the guy. And then, as soon as I would start to lose track of the count, he'd go, 'How many have I done?' And I'd go... because I knew Gurujī knew. He knew exactly how many he'd done. And then, of course, it was the time for the helpers. He'd ask, 'He doesn't know how many I have done,' to the other who was sitting there. And they'd go, 'Fifteen.' And then Gurujī would start: 'You useless boy, you can't even count to fifteen. They can. Totally useless. You don't even know how many we counted; there were fifteen of them.' So that was their helping. You know, and then afterwards Gurujī would sit and do mālā. And of course, by that stage, I'd be doing the—in Australia we call it the dunking bird. Do you know this bird that used to go down into the water and then come back up? Well, when I was really tired, I'd be doing impersonations of that. But of course, the helpers weren't. They were sitting there properly. And when Gurujī would open his eyes, I'd be nodding off and they'd be sitting straight. Then it would come again: 'What are you doing? You're supposed to be in my Seva.' How to describe how tired you can get? And then Swāmījī would come and turn it on the other side of the head. There was one time in Gurujī's room on his veranda, and Swāmījī came to meet Gurujī. They were both sitting and talking, and I was sitting there just trying to stay awake, but I couldn't. I can remember that the conversation was so interesting; they were talking about something really, really profound that I would love to hear again, but I just couldn't do it. I was almost falling over sideways, and then Swāmījī gave me the other tapasyā. He told me to go downstairs and sleep for thirty-six hours. For thirty-six hours, you're not allowed to come out of that bed. It was terrible; it's so hard to stay in a bed for thirty-six hours. And of course, as soon as I came back upstairs, after ten minutes I felt as tired as before. But you know, you all have experienced that. How many times have you been here in Jhadan, and then somehow at 10:30 at night, Swāmījī will say, 'Is anybody tired?' And you don't actually know what the answer to that question is. Because if someone says yes, then you know there's going to be a late-night karma yoga. And if someone says no, there's going to be a late-night karma yoga. You just know that after that question comes, late-night karma yoga. Why to do it? Why to do it? Gajananjī, when he was talking about the Upanishads, was saying how at times it can be so puzzling what is written inside, that it's just there to stop your intellect from trying to function so you can actually be open to the teaching. And it's the same when you get tired. Also, if you can hear in these stories where Mahāprabhujī is telling Gurujī to come and go, and go to the post office and come back, you end up with such a complicated number of things to do that you just can't think about it anymore. And then you can start to teach. As you know, also in the anuṣṭhān, it's difficult, it's tough, sometimes it's very demanding. But often, those times when it's the most demanding are when things start to happen, when you start to open, because the intellect also gets tired. And then Gurujī can start to do his work. I remember with Gurujī developing a new āsana. I told this last year, but... from my experience, there's a certain point where you just try and survive somehow in his seva. For me, it was to find any way to get a small amount of sleep. I used to sit just near the wall and lean back against it like this. I'd have my mālā in my hand, and there's a certain point, if you lean back enough, that there's so much friction from the wall that you don't fall over when you fall asleep. Because in the daytime, there was no chance of lying down, so at least this way I'd be sitting. And Gurujī, if he was sleeping or something, I could... By some blessing, I usually had enough awareness. I could hear, even when I was sleeping, the sheets moving—Gurujī's sheets when he would move to sit up. And every time, if I'd hear the sheets moving, I'd go, 'What to do?' And there was always with Gurujī play on eating, as also he has written in the Līlā Amṛt. But my favorite experience was one time when he gave me a lesson about thinking too much about eating. We went for a day and a half where Gurujī, for some reason I cannot remember at all why, didn't eat, and so I also didn't eat. And I was so hungry. It's one thing to fast, but when you don't know when it's going to end and you don't have any control over when it's going to end, it really turns in your brain. And then, when I'm only thinking about eating and nothing but eating, Gurujī had me eat three times in one hour—three full meals, but really full—and turned everything upside down so I never wanted to eat again, for a short time. But you know, that is the play somehow, the way to make you aware of also what is going on inside your mind. And what's beautiful to see in these stories is how this is the tradition; this is somehow also part of the paramparā. Remember it when Swāmījī starts to work with you. You know, when Swāmījī announces suddenly that there will be a night action down in the lake here, cleaning or something, the first thing that will come in many people's minds will be, 'How do I get out of this?' It's going to be dark and cold and wet. But these are really the most golden of the golden moments here. Those times when Swāmījī is taking that action or making that karma yoga out of nothing, and he's going to take everybody to some extreme, making it also harder in the morning to then get up and go to the anuṣṭhāna. Of course, it will be terrible in the morning. Swāmījī will keep people up till 2 o'clock and then say you should be there in the program at 5:30. But then something will happen, or may happen. It gives a chance for things to happen in a different way because the protection which you have around your ego is down. Such a golden, such a golden chance.