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In that bhajan, Brahmanandjī is essentially talking to himself. Whether I sing it or not, it is a dialogue that can be outward or inward. It is a conversation with one's own mind, asking, "Why are you wandering around lost, and not joining together with the guru and with your inner self?" Brahmanandjī describes wandering in darkness, lost without understanding. He laments, "What to do, what to do? You just don’t understand." You fail to hear the sound of the flute or the voice guiding you. For me, the most powerful image in the bhajan is when he says to yourself, "Don’t you know that you’re sitting in your own māyā?" In so many bhajans, like "kyū̃ rakte parada hamsī," there is a curtain covering us from ourselves—our own ignorance. This ignorance stops us from understanding Swāmījī, from understanding ourselves, and from finding our true self. He continues, "Don’t you know you’re sitting in your own māyā and put a crown of truth upon yourself?" Then you will see the inner reality. You should be able to see what is truly inside you. In Śrīkṛṣṇa, I was telling a story. We might highlight the Kaṭha Upaniṣad. This is not from the Upaniṣad, but it is an old story many of you know about Prahlāda. As Swāmījī has told many times, and as is in several of our bhajans, Prahlāda was a boy of immense bhakti. His father was a king and also a rākṣasa, obsessed with being worshipped as God—the epitome of the outward-going senses, completely absorbed in māyā. But before that part of the story, there is a part I find most interesting. His father, Hiraṇyakaśipu, was very angry with Viṣṇu because Viṣṇu, in a previous incarnation, had killed his brother, also a rākṣasa. Hiraṇyakaśipu wanted revenge. He performed intense tapasyā until the gods had to intervene to stop him, lest the world be endangered. Brahmā came and offered him a boon if he would cease his tapasyā. As the story goes, Hiraṇyakaśipu received the blessing of invincibility: he could not be killed by man or animal, by day or night, or by weapons. Thus, he became all-powerful and set off to find Viṣṇu for revenge. He searched all lokas for Viṣṇu. But the moment Viṣṇu realized Hiraṇyakaśipu had obtained this boon, he knew trouble was coming and hid himself. Where did he hide? He hid in Hiraṇyakaśipu's own heart, knowing it was the one place this epitome of outward-going senses and māyā would never look. Hiraṇyakaśipu searched every possible place, concluded Viṣṇu must be dead, and declared himself the all-powerful ruler of the universe. Of course, Viṣṇu was not dead; he was resting right there, touring the universe from within. This is exactly how it is for us humans, and what I think Brahmanandjī expresses in that bhajan. We wander, searching everywhere for something to satisfy us, searching for what is actually hiding within us. This is the same theme we discussed the last two weeks from the Kaṭha Upaniṣad, expressed many times there. Several ślokas say almost the same thing: the true Self, the inner Self, is hidden in the cave of the heart. It is the size of the thumb's tip, very subtle and hard to find. In a different way, it expresses that what we all search for is within us. The place where we search for our guru is also there, within us. The point where we truly connect with Swāmījī is in our heart. All our senses, everything that draws us into the outside world, blinds us to the fact that what we truly want and seek is right there. The philosophy of Sāṅkhya, very much present in the Upaniṣads, describes a process where everything starts as one and then slowly emanates outward through the senses toward the material world. The process in yoga is to reverse this, to withdraw from external things and come back toward the true Self. In our practice of āsana and prāṇāyāma, we are slowly drawn inward. Initially, it is easier to relate to the physical because our communication and relation to the world are so physical. From the physical āsana, we move to the more subtle prāṇāyāma. Then, like rolling things back up, we come inward toward our mantra and meditation, going further and further inside until we reach that inner point. There is also the image in the Upaniṣad of the rat. Gajarāṇjī gave a beautiful lecture in Sri Lanka about the bhajan "Sadobai, Ajaburrata Amara," on controlling the senses like wild horses, bringing them under control to direct them on the path we wish to follow. Near the beginning of the Upaniṣad, there is a choice we make constantly, essentially every time we do something. Yama, the god of death who imparts the knowledge in the Upaniṣad, says two things approach a person at all times: the good (śreyas) and the pleasurable (preyas). We choose between them. The wise, spiritually aware person chooses what is good. The one not practicing that awareness chooses what is pleasurable. This choice confronts us constantly in life—in our actions, in what we choose to eat. Last night we talked about how we came to get something from Swāmījī and received something much bigger: the opportunity to find something vastly greater. Yet, it is also perhaps a task much larger than we initially imagined. As Swāmījī has written in the name of his system, it is for twenty-four hours. You cannot practice yoga part-time. You can do yoga part-time, but to truly practice, it must be in daily life, in everything you do. Consider athletes whose whole life, every moment, is dedicated to their aim, their competition. Imagine having that same intensity or focus on your spiritual practice. It doesn't mean running or meditating for eight hours a day, but it means everything we do is part of our practice. Eating well improves our practice. We have a choice: to eat what is nutritious and good for us, or what is merely pleasurable to the tongue. This choice significantly affects your practice. Changing your diet—reducing sugar, oil, or quantity—makes an incredible difference to your meditation. The same choice applies to the diet for our eyes and ears: what we read, what we watch. Some things are spiritually nutritious; others are merely time-pass. Consider how many lives it took to reach this point, this chance to be with Swāmījī. It is such a small window of opportunity. That part of the Upaniṣad advises: take care not to waste a moment. Be aware: is what you are doing good for your practice, or not? Is it eating away at our precious time? Think of millions of years, and then our 70, 80, or 100 years—it is not very long. In this moment we have, when everything has come together—with Swāmījī we have received mantra and chances to practice—we must use it wisely. When life changes—a job change, leaving a job, finding new work—do you ask first where you will get the most money, or what is best for your spiritual practice? Sometimes both align perfectly. But sometimes opportunities are more nourishing spiritually—better people, a better environment, more time for practice. Which do you choose? It is a personal decision, but Yama in the Upaniṣad advises trying to choose what is good over what is merely pleasurable or profitable. This does not mean not to earn, but it is about prioritizing your spiritual life. At the start of that Upaniṣad, a young boy's father was performing a yajña, a fire ceremony, giving gifts to the priests. He was giving away cows. The boy objected, saying, "But these are the old ones that don’t give milk anymore. Why don’t you give the best of what you have?" It is the same with our spiritual life. Look at yourself: do you give the best parts of your day for your sādhanā, or do they go for something else? Too often, we complete all daily obligations first, and what is left over—like the old cows—is when we practice, perhaps late at night or rushed. But your spiritual practice, even if not long, should be given the best quality moments of your day. Try to arrange the day around that special time you spend with yourself. At some life stages, this might not mean doing mālā. With young children under five or seven, they deserve the best quality parts of your day. At that time, your main sādhanā may be to give them real, quality attention—not just when ads are on TV, but genuine engagement. There is a philosophy from Apple, the company making phones. In a book about Steve Jobs, they discussed how their design philosophy differs. In typical tech companies, the hardware is assembled first, and then a box is designed to fit it. At Apple, they first design the box—the shape of the laptop or phone—and then give it to the hardware engineers, challenging them to fit everything inside. It is a completely opposite approach. Reading this, I thought how good it would be to apply this to our daily lives. For 95% of us, our day is designed with work and obligations as the primary "hardware," and around that we fit in our spiritual practice, family, and friends. But as a practitioner of yoga in daily life, it should be the opposite. First, look at what we want to practice and which times are best for it. Let that be the frame, and then try to fit all other life pieces around it. Compromises may be necessary, just as Apple engineers sometimes compromise on design. It is amazing how much you can fit in and make it work. Our spiritual life is the treasure we have every day. It deserves the most special place—the time when we are most aware, awake, alive, and peaceful. If you come home rushing from work and then try to meditate, that meditation is just about calming down. But if you start from a place of peace, meditation becomes a completely different journey. It may be hard to change; some things may not be possible. But please, while you are here, take a few moments to think about what you could adjust in your life. Consider how you can give the best quality moments to your sādhanā and to your time with Swāmījī and your mantra. We are here now; it is a chance to step back, look at the past year, and see how to improve for the next. Go back refreshed and put it into practice. Phone companies release a new model every year. We too can remodel our lives once a year. They do not change everything, just remodel small bits to work better. This is also our chance for a yearly new release. Śrī Dīp Nārāyaṇa Bhagavān Kī Jai, Śrī Dev Puruṣa Mahādeva Kī Jai, Dharma Samrāṭ Paramahaṁsa Śrī Svāmī Madhavānandapurījī Mahārāj Kī Jai, Viśvaguru Mahāmaṇḍaleśvara Paramahaṁsa Śrī Svāmī Maheśvarānandapurījī Satguru Deva Kī Jai. Can I sing? I think there is a problem with this double case. When you put this thing, that one that makes the double case? That’s the problem, yeah. Bhole Śrī Dīp Nārāyaṇa Bhagavān Kī Jai, Śrī Śrī Dev Puruṣa Mahādeva Kī Jai, Dharma Samrāṭ Paramahaṁsī Svāmī Madhavānandapurījī Mahārāj Kīche, Viśvaguru Mahāmaṇḍaleśvara Paramahaṁsī Svāmī Maheśvarānandapurījī Satguru Devakī Je. Chet Chet Abhijīv Gyānī, Avasar Jāve Re Guru Samajāve Re. Chet Chet Abh Jīvā Gyānī Avasar Jāve Re, Guru Samajāve Re. Tannā Dholatā Aur Melk Jānā Sab Yehi Re Jāve Re. Tannā Dholatā Aur Melk Jānā Sab Yehi Re. At the end of the day, you should understand that you should not come alone. The Guru should explain, and you should understand, that you should not come together. You should understand that you should not go alone. You should understand that you should not go alone. You should understand that you should not go alone. Samajhavī, Samajhavī, Śaraṅgayābhi, Koṁbhavaparalakave, Śaraṅgayābhi, Koṁbhavaparalakota, Samajhavī, Samajhavī, Chetjavajhavī, Chetjavajhavī, God bless you. Manan Purwaji Maharaj, Iśvaguru Mahāmaṇḍaleśvara, Paramahaṁśrī Svāmī Maheśvarānand Purwaji, Satgurudeva Kī Jai. Mahādāna dēte viṣālo, Mahādāna dēte viṣālo. Sab kucha deve dātā, Dīpa dāyālo. Sab kucha deve dātā, Dīpa dāyālo. Gyāna Dhyāna deve Yogaru, Jhukati Dhyāno Jhialo Deve. Sab kuchh deve dātāṁ dayā sab kuchh deve dātāṁ da siddhi navā nidhi hari Jeevarachanjalo kathesam, Jeevarachanjalo sabkuchade medhata. God bless you. Thank you. Thank you for watching. Sanchi, Ranchi, Madana, Gopāla, Sab kuch deva dādā, dayā Deva dādā, dīpa dayā Takariye sa, koī nahī̃ jag mẽ Parahī takariye sa, koī nahī̃ jag mẽ Svārtha binā, karde nihā. God bless you. This morning, walking past the house where Gurujī stayed when he was here in Vép, I felt the wish to sing that bhajan because he always asked for it then. Many of you were here at that time. Gurujī was not here long and became quite sick. I remember it as an extremely difficult time. Gurujī had such a fever at night that there was no sleeping at all. It was good that by daytime he was better. I had the night shift, and by morning, when everyone arrived, Gurujī would be sitting up, quite okay. People would ask, "Why are you acting so tired?" I thought, you should have seen last night. Gurujī could not sleep a moment due to the fever. There was one very beautiful thing some may remember. Everyone took a turn trying to cook kadhi for Gurujī, as he was not eating anything. No matter who cooked it, he would always say, "It’s not cooked, kacchā," meaning the grains were not properly cooked. "No, it’s kacchā. Who brought it?" he said. Then Swāmījī came. There was a small kitchen in his room, as I remember, and Swāmījī started to cook the kadhi. When kadhi boils for 20-30 minutes, it is well cooked. But as I remember, Swāmījī was there for about three hours, stirring that pot. Swāmījī sat in the kitchen the whole time with a spoon, stirring, while we all ran in and out for darśan. It was cooked three or four times over. Finally, after all that time, we took it to Gurujī. He said, "It’s not cooked. What to do?" When your stomach is upset, nothing tastes proper or sits right. But that love, that dedication in Swāmījī's seva—the kadhi may not have been cooked, but I know I was cooked by that. It was truly beautiful and special.