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Part 1: The First Miracle of Sri Devpuriji and the Art of Simple Practice Hari Om. We have prepared a little story for you from Līlā Amṛt, and we hope you enjoy it. This is the story of Devpurījī’s first miracle. Devpurījī usually did not display his special abilities publicly, but once he was compelled to do so. At Mount Abu, a British military post was stationed there. The chief officer despised Hindus intensely. One evening, while strolling by Lake Naki exactly at the time of prayer, he passed the Hindu temple. From within the temple, he could hear spiritual songs, drums, and bells. British officers truly hated Hindu ceremonies, and that was why he came to the temple and began shouting at the priest. “Stop immediately making such unbearable noise!” Then he started making jokes about the priest. “Your God must be either deaf or asleep that you have to make such a terrible noise. Don’t you mind disturbing the peace of the entire area? Remember, this spectacle will come to an end at once. If I see anyone playing the drums without my personal approval, that one shall be arrested, even if it were your God Himself.” To prove that he meant what he said, he took a few of the sādhus into custody. The frightened people did not know what to do. It was the end of all tradition. The British people have weapons. How could we face them? The sādhus started to fast and pray for those who had been arrested. When the British officer learned of this, he decided to poison the prisoners. Śrī Devpurījī was living in the dense forest at Mount Abu, looking after the cows. Only rarely did someone realize he was present there. But the all-embracing awareness of this saint came to know of the British officer’s terrible intention. So he resolved to show his true form — the Śiva principle. He inhaled deeply and intoned the mantra Oṁ. At that moment, four white tigers came to him, walked around him to show their respect, and then waited with their heads bowed to hear his command. “You will look after the cows instead of me,” Śrī Devpurījī said, and set off on the journey to the British officer’s house. He waited in front of the door and then shouted loudly, “Come out, Englishman!” “Who is so cheeky and dares to do this?” The Englishman stormed out of the house angrily. “I came to drink the poison. Where is it?” laughed Śrī Devpurījī. The officer was stunned. He had told no one at all about his intention to poison the arrested men. How could this sādhu know? “What are you waiting for? So you won’t offer me anything?” Śrī Devpurījī continued laughing. The officer ordered his servant to bring a bottle of poison. “This orange fellow must be the leader of this rebellious group. Just you wait — you will stop being cheeky in a minute.” Śrī Devpurījī emptied the bottle of poison. Without being sick, he said, “Next, please.” The shocked officer had another bottle brought. And another. The saint drank one bottle after another. Then, biting into one of them, he chewed the glass and swallowed it. The officer just stood there speechless and could not believe his eyes. When all seven bottles were finished, the saint lay down and withdrew his breath to the Brahma-randhra, so that his pulse became imperceptible. “He is dead,” the officer said. “I was starting to believe that these Indian sādhus could actually work miracles, but they can’t do anything at all. It’s just nonsense. He’s dead.” And he called his servant to carry away the dead body. “I am not dead,” Śrī Devpurījī said. “I am completely alive. I just want to have a little rest.” Then he took the form of Lord Śiva himself, and took the officer to Lake Naki. He walked over the lake as if walking on dry ground. In the middle of the lake, he asked, “Don’t you want to ask God to fulfill a wish for you? See, there is Lord Śiva standing before you. And if you acknowledge this divine form worshipped by Hindus, you may express your request.” In the middle of the lake, the officer found the right mantra: “Rescue me, Mahādev, rescue me, Mahādev… rescue me, Mahādev.” He repeated the mantra five times, and Śrī Devpurījī corrected him. “God put the right words onto your tongue, and the right mantra saved you. Not only will you emerge from the depths of this lake, but also from the depths of pain and suffering.” He repeated the mantra five times, and then Śrī Devpurījī said, “God himself gave you the right words, and the right mantra saved you. You will rise not only from this lake, but also from the ocean of suffering.” Through Devpurījī’s mercy, the British officer saw the truth. All the luxury of the Western world now felt like emptiness to him — the technology, weapons, plentiful food, money, and luxury, but where was inner peace? Where was inner contentment? Where was harmony among people? “If you can fulfill a wish for me, please give me peace in the soul.” Merciful Śiva always fulfills the wishes of bhaktas. Tathāstu. The officer immediately released the imprisoned sādhus. He apologized and gave them all generous gifts. He even came for the joyful celebration at the banks of Lake Naki. Kumbhule Śrī Dīp Nārāyaṇ Bhagavān Kī Jai, Śrī Śrī Devpurīṣī Mahādeva Kī Jai, Dharma Samrāṭ Paramahaṃśrī Svāmī Madhavānandapurījī Mahārāj Kī Jai, Viśvaguru Mahāmaṇḍaleśvara Paramahaṃśrī Svāmī Maheśvarānandapurījī Satguru Deva Kī Jai. How good was that? For the children — some have gone now — that was fantastic. Very, very good. Maybe you’ll remember one song that appeared on the ashram videos some time ago. This one is still going around. It went: “Chanda Nahesh Deshki Mati, Tapo Bhumi Hari Gramahe, Hari Bala Devi Ki Pratima, Bachcha Bachcha Ramahe, Bachcha Bachcha Ramahe.” That is them. Every girl is a form of the Devī, and every boy is a form of Rāma. And how much we learn from them! How much we receive from them! So to all the children here this week, from all of us — thank you. For always being smiling, always being happy, always running. And to the one who always rings the bell. It is truly wonderful to have them around and to have their energy here. How fortunate they are to be here, and how fortunate we are to have them here. Earlier this year in Jādaṇ, our children had a competition — an art competition. Part of that competition was making what is called Rangoli, patterns on the floor where they create pictures with colors and shapes. They first draw it on the floor and then fill in the spaces with different materials. But I remember one thing really struck me when they were making it at that time. They did it in the truly traditional way — not going to the shop to buy different colored powders, as is usually done nowadays. In the tradition, they simply used whatever was around the house. Some children brought in a little bit of dāl of different colors. They used broken bricks from the construction site — the broken bricks and broken pieces of cement, because one was red and one was white. There were leaves, there were seeds from the trees. Anything they could find around was all used to make these different colors and patterns. And I remember being so struck by the fact that they were beautiful, but even more beautiful was just how simple it all was. The whole concept of making something beautiful just out of what you have, rather than thinking you have to acquire something else to make it. Some of the rangolis were huge — they were making great big signs on the floor saying “Hari Om” and “Welcome” and everything. And you can imagine, children were running everywhere collecting things, and it was great fun. This is a very special time of year when you get to practice intensely. But it is not over when you go home. And it doesn’t require creating some specially extraordinary place, or thinking, “I can’t meditate unless I have that agarbattī,” or “I can’t meditate because the candle is no longer there.” It can be done anywhere, anytime. In our practice, we just take what is there around us, what is right in front of us, and make something of that — make that Rangoli. There is really no excuse not to practice. Because if you have the right awareness, anything you are doing is a practice. These last days, as many will know — or some will be lucky enough not to know, because they had no connection with the world — the Olympics have been on, as Ṭhākur Purījī was mentioning yesterday, speaking of his student who won a gold medal. I really look to those people and find great inspiration in what they are doing. The intensity with which they pursue their goal — if we could put just a little bit of that into our practice, imagine what would happen. Granted, the goal is different. But those athletes’ focus — their entire focus for four years, or eight years, or however long they have prepared for this moment — is all about that preparation. You see, if we are seriously Swāmījī’s disciples, if we are really practicing, we eat what is good for our practice; we watch what is good for our practice; we go out to what is good for our practice. If we really want to progress, it must change from being that our practice balances all the disturbing things that happen during the day, to this: our day becomes a preparation for our practice. I have heard some people say that all year they prepare for this time when they can come here and do the Anuṣṭhāna. They look forward to this time; how fantastic. I remember once an old disciple telling me in Jādaṇ that before they come to the Anuṣṭhān, two months before, they stop eating sugar, simply because it makes it easier for them to sit. Know that these are not things that require turning one’s life over completely. It is just a little shift in how you look at things. That is the essence of what was in the Upaniṣad — Śreyas or Priyas. Try, if you can, always to consider: is this something that will help me with my practice? We sing bhajan after bhajan about the fact that this human life is an opportunity to realize something. Part 2: The Practice of Mantra, the Gift of Mauna, and the Overflowing Grace of the Guru To take the mantra and then put it into practice is not just something you can do in the morning, in the afternoon, or in the evening. One has to start to prepare oneself so that the whole day nurtures that practice. It sounds big and intimidating sometimes, but I don’t think it is; it’s just small, small attitude changes. Really, when you look at those athletes, everything they eat, everything they do, everything they train, from the time they wake up until they go to sleep, is focused on that one practice, which is their training. It’s an incredible tapasyā, in a way. And you can sometimes look and think, “My God, that’s just too much.” But to take some of that intensity and to put it into our lives, that would be something really special. Because we have the blessing from our paramparā. All of those seeds are there, ready to sprout and blossom. But as in that story yesterday from Mahāprabhujī, you have to put the water on that garden—practicing and practicing. Śrī Dīp Nārāyaṇa Bhagavān Kī Jaya, Satguru Dev Kī Jaya. Can you sing “Bhāī Tummā Jaga Rīt”? In April, Swāmījī was in Bangalore for a conference. It was quite a big event—an expo for Ayurveda, naturopathy, and yoga. An international event, it was really huge. On one day, I think, 40,000 to 50,000 people came into the temple. They were talking about health and yoga and how yoga can improve health. There’s something unique about Bangalore—well, it’s not unique; it happens in quite a few cities around India. The traffic is terrible, absolutely terrible. I remember when we were there, someone saying, “Oh yeah.” I asked, “How long will it take for us to get to the expo today?” The distance was about two or three kilometers. This fellow said, “Ah, today is really good because it’s Sunday; it will only take you forty-five minutes.” I thought, from where I come from, if you tell someone that it will take forty-five minutes to go two kilometers, they’ll think you’re completely crazy. For him, it was good, because on Monday, I think it takes about two hours. There’s a certain time in Bangalore where, between ten and one o’clock, you actually just don’t bother. No taxi driver wants to take you because the traffic jam is such that they don’t earn any money; they just sit there, and you don’t go anywhere, so there’s no fear. But it started me thinking. We were sitting there on the stage, and lots of things were going on. I was thinking, yeah, you can get stuck in that same thing of saying it’s really good because it’s Sunday. You know, we can look at somebody around us and think, “Oh, I’m doing really good because I’m more happy than that person, or I’m more stable than that person, or I’m more healthy than that person.” Just because it was Sunday and it only took forty-five minutes, I still wouldn’t call that good traffic. It’s the same: just because you compare yourself to someone doesn’t necessarily mean that you’ve reached your potential or that it’s good. I’d say for all of us, there’s room to improve—in our health, in our vitality, in our sādhanā. It reminded me just to keep practicing, keep practicing, keep trying to go to the next step. There’s so far to go. In the last days here, we’ve been talking often with people about Gurujī and their experiences with Gurujī. One impression is very much in my mind: that Gurujī was just somehow sitting there waiting to give, and it was a question if anybody could take it. I somehow have this image of Swāmījī sitting there and waiting for someone to give so that he can pour something into their glass—his knowledge and his love. And somehow we come with a glass or something in the hand like this. I can imagine he must be thinking, “So small.” He’s got a tanker out the back full of this stuff, and he comes with a little glass. Swāmījī is just there waiting to give. It’s up to us how much we practice and how much we prepare ourselves to be able to take from them. And as the bhajan says, that chance comes after how many lives, and will come again after how many lives. This chance came after God knows how many lives, and who knows when it will come again. Gurujī says, “Wake up, wake up, take the chance.” Śrī Dīp Nārāyaṇa Bhagavān Kī Jaya. That was just what Gurujī said. I can say maybe a little bit more concretely. I remember a situation very well—it was maybe 1992, around that. I remember one situation. Okay, ninety-two. It was a situation in, I think, a Kriyānuṣṭhāna seminar with Swāmījī. And it was a really touching situation; that’s why I remember it so vividly now. Swāmījī said exactly that personally, what was just now said. As I remember, Swāmījī said, “I am so full. I am overflowing—full of the mercy of Holy Gurujī, of the wisdom of Mahāprabhujī. I am like a pot, overflowing and full, and I want to give. But where is the disciple? Who wants? I have the seeds in my hand, and I am throwing them. But where is the field in which they can grow?” It was in an attitude like Swāmījī was begging us, “Please take something.” It was so strong. And it was exactly that which was just said. That definitely didn’t change in the last twenty years—it just depends on us how much we can take. The other point about which I wanted to speak a little bit is this Mauna experiment which we had. We had it now in two weeks, a little bit different form and a different result. In the first week, I didn’t want to speak in the end about that, because there was nothing to speak. It was just a flop. But now, this week, I had a different impression. I had the feeling that quite a lot of us really tried and were quite serious with it. I observed, especially that side where the kitchen is, behind the kitchen, not only on those Mauna tables, but basically in the whole area, it was more or less all the time Mauna. And the funny thing was, these signs which I had made with the word “Mauna,” they were, through the rain, completely faded out. It was like the signs also go into Mauna—they don’t talk anymore. But still, everyone understood the message. There was a situation a few days ago: I was searching for a person and asked a few disciples whom I met, “Where can I find her?” A little bit later, that person came to me and somehow complained, “Because of you, now three people have broken their Mauna because you asked for me.” I felt so bad. But I was happy, because it shows that really there are many who take it seriously. So I just wanted to encourage maybe a few of you to say a little bit about how it was this week with the Mauna, what it meant for you—if it was good or bad, and if you have suggestions for next time to do it better. We are still in the experimental phase. I had, for example, the feeling that this Mauna in the night after satsaṅg didn’t really work so much, because then everyone is so full from the satsaṅg and would like to talk a little bit about that. So maybe a few minutes, if some of you would like to say how it was for you and if you have suggestions to change something. Yerga Jananji shared, “I have had a thought in my mind all day that I would like to thank you. It’s been many years since I’ve been trying to keep Mauna. It’s really not easy, because always somebody comes to ask something. I remember that once Swāmījī left the seminar because we didn’t keep Mauna and fasting. I was so sorry for that, because it’s not so difficult. It’s beautiful when one can be with him or herself, and it meets also with the Master—Mauna. Can you tell a story about Mauna? A Jadān story.” So here is a Jadān story. There was a long, long time ago, when I was first in Jadān, my job was in the kitchen to make chapatis. And there were a lot of chapatis, because there were about, I think, forty or fifty people, and everyone was eating a lot. This was a crash course. There was one other karma yogī who was helping, and he was quite new there in Jadān. I was also new, but he had somehow, on his way through India, fallen into the ashram. He had an amazing capacity to ask questions—infinite. We were sitting there together making chapatis day after day, and question after question after question. Eventually, after some days, the topic came up of Mauna. A hundred questions about Mauna: what is it? What’s it like? What do you do? You just close your mouth. And I must say, out of some slight desperation, I said, “Why don’t we try it?” I saw this window of opportunity. He said, “No way! You must be joking.” I said, “Yeah, yeah, just for five minutes.” I really said that—just for five minutes. I was thinking that would be a lot. It’s all relevant, like Bangalore traffic. After some thought, he said, “OK, we’ll try.” We started with the five minutes. I swear, by the fourth minute he was going like this. But just as it was about to come to five minutes, I said, “Let’s try five minutes more.” And he really made it to ten minutes. After ten minutes—explosion. I swear, he then talked the next hour about the experience of those ten minutes, about how wonderful it was to keep Mauna. A few hours later, he talked about what an experience it was and how amazing it was to hold a Mauna. Day after day, it was getting longer and longer. As I remember, by the end, we actually managed to go through the whole chapati-making session in Mauna. So practice makes perfect. Śrī Dīp Nārāyaṇa Bhagavān Kī Jaya.