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Part 1: Spiritual Surgery: The Guru’s Duty to Attack the Ego Śrī Dīp Nārāyaṇa Bhagavān, Kī Jāya, Śrī Dīp Nārāyaṇa Bhagavān, Kī Jāya, Śrī Śrī Devpurīṣī, Mahādeva, Kī Jāya, Dharmasamrāṭ Paramahaṁt, Śrī Svāmī Mādhavānanda Purī Jī, Mahārāj, Kī Jāya, Viśvaguru, Mahāmaṇḍaleśvara, Paramahaṁt, Śrī Svāmī Maheśvarānanda Purī Jī, Satguru Deva, Kī Jāya, Hari Om. Gajanandjī is going to give satsaṅg today. Maga Jananījī taught satsaṅg. I just give the news. The clouds are back in Jadan. That’s the morning news. And they’re dark, sir. They are dark. Let’s hope that they fall down. Every drop is welcome. Śrī Dīp Nārāyaṇ Bhagavān Kī Jaya. Looking there, and she has a mic, and I’m thinking, but her voice is very different. I looked at her and I saw that she has a mic, but I noticed that her voice is a bit strange. Śāntiḥ, Nāmakaraṇe. Good morning, everybody. Do you remember two days ago when we were celebrating Swāmījī’s birthday? How beautifully, especially, Sadhvī Hṛdayakamal spoke about her meditation experience. After a prayer for more bhakti, she said, in her heart was like a sliding door. And it opened, and then she saw Swāmījī sitting there. I thought that is a modern version of Hanumān, you know? People said, “You always say that Rāma is in your heart, but we don’t believe that.” And he just tore open his chest, and everyone could see, sitting here, Rāma and Siddha inside. So, I guess Swamījī has to rewrite the chakra book about Anāhat Chakra, huh? In the Anāhat Chakra, there is a sliding door, and behind that sits the Gurū Dev. We are always happy when we hear about such experiences and the experiences of bhakti. But you know, for me, the truth is very important. That’s also what is required in self-inquiry meditation. To find out the truth, the reality about myself. But now, let us ask ourselves seriously: do we really have this bhakti? Always? All the time? How are our feelings towards the Guru in reality? I guess in reality they are quite mixed and changing. Sometimes there is this love. Sometimes it’s confusion. Sometimes disappointment, sometimes maybe even anger. And sometimes we want to run away, yet then we feel no, and we come back. The point is, from where do these mixed feelings actually come? My strongest time was the first two years in Jhara, 1994-95. In this time, especially, I experienced these mixed feelings very strongly. To bring it to the point, I would say two emotions, mainly. One is love, and one is fear. Love and bhakti, this is what brings us close to the Guru. But fear, that is actually what lets us keep a distance, a safety distance. And I can say, when I observed myself in this Jadan time, I could very clearly observe it in myself. Sometimes, I was at one point in the āśram, I had to go there, and I saw there was sitting Swāmījī, having some satsaṅg with some people. So the straight way would be just passing by Swāmījī. But in reality, how often I avoided that and made some bigger round. I think you understand what I want to say. Some safety distance. You don’t know what happens when you pass by. I also know some disciples who told me in private. You know, when Swāmījī is not here, we have so much longing that he might come. And then he comes, and he stays. And he stays quite long, and then it becomes hard. And then we are actually waiting for him to go. And as soon as he is gone again, this is longing. When will he come? Because when he stays too long, that means he is working too strongly on us. The point is we have to understand what is actually the duty of the Guru. In one book, I found it perfectly broad on a point. It was said the guru is your spiritual friend. And the next sentence: the duty of your spiritual friend is to attack you. Sounds strange, no? But that is reality. Not to attack us, but to attack our ego. Swami Sivananda expressed it from his own background, slightly different. Before he became a yogī, he was a medical doctor. And he said, like a surgeon is actually taking out an ill organ to heal the patient. In the same way, the duty of a guru is to remove the ego from the disciple. And that means surgery, and that means pain and hurt. That is the process through which we are going, as soon as we come close to the Guru. So on one hand, we feel attracted to the Guru because we know he is the one who can really bring us to our aim. And then the Guru says, “Okay, so now let’s start the operation.” And it goes on and on and on, without anesthetic. Without anesthetic, so… Érzéstelenítés nélkül. Our spiritual life is actually that. And the guru has to check a little bit how much we can already take. Because there is a certain risk for the disciple, but also for the guru. There was a situation in my life; I lost my job. But because I worked there for so long, for half a year I got payment. Some years earlier, I had already spoken with Swamiji, and it was said I would become a Swamiji one day. So I went then to Austria to ask Swamījī what to do now. And Swamiji asked me, “What do you think?” And I thought, now I have half a year’s payment, so I can peacefully search for another job, and I will try to get half a day only, so that I have more time for yoga. And Swamiji said, “That’s good.” And I came home. At that time, Bhajanandjī lived with me. And he asked me, “What did Swamijī say?” And I told him that. And then Bhajanandjī just said, “Yeah, yeah, Swāmījī is often just a mirror.” And so, that one sentence awakened me. Because I realized I did not really ask Swamiji. I just told him my feeling, and then he said it’s okay. Because Swamiji realized that I was not open to listening to him. And that’s why he just said, “Okay.” So then I felt quite stupid. I had traveled all the way to Austria just to come back with my own opinion. So now I should search for a job. And I saw the newspaper, and I said, “Should I now really search for a job?” So then, after one or two weeks, I made up my mind and telephoned Swamiji. And then he realized that I now really ask him. And then he said, “I think it is better you don’t search for a job, just become a Swami.” You see, that was a test. But without that test, I wouldn’t sit here now as a Swami. So, it’s an interaction. The Guru tries to guide us, but it depends on us how much we can take. And seemingly small interactions with the Guru can really be decisive for the rest of life. We have one story from Swāmījī in which this interaction is very clear, and also the risk which is there for the disciple and the guru. The guru and disciple were walking together on tour. And for the night, they had always an agreement that one of them would sleep and the other one would be the guard. So one night, when the disciple was sleeping and the guru was guarding, a snake came. Guru asked the snake, “What do you want?” And the snake said, “I’m going to bite your disciple.” The guru asked, “Why?” And the snake said, “Oh, that’s a very old karma between both of us.” You know, an old karma of revenge. Always in one life, I am the snake killing him, and in the next life, he is the snake killing me. I need the blood of your disciple. I must take revenge. So the guru said, “So you need the blood? Yes.” So what if I give you the blood? Of course, through this, the disciple awoke. Such a surgery, in the real sense, you cannot just sleep through. But as the story goes, the disciple just awoke, saw the guru, and said, “Ah, this is you.” He saw it’s his guru, so nothing will be wrong. He closed his eyes and continued sleeping. And the guru could take a little bit of the blood from the disciple and give it to the snake. And in this way, the karmic cycle of revenge was finished. Because now the snake had not bitten him, but the guru had just taken some blood. So the action of the guru was completely in the interest of the disciple. It was out of his compassion. And Swamījī tells this story to tell us how much bhakti and faith in the Guru we should have. So that’s the version with the happy ending. But now let us think about the alternative. The disciple awakes, sees someone sitting on his chest with a knife in hand, and blood is already flowing. I am being killed. My own guru is going to kill me. Jumping up, taking the knife as proof, and running to the next police station. My own guru is going to kill me here. This is his fingerprints on this knife, and this is my blood. And the guru has problems. You see what I mean with the interaction between guru and disciple? What would the guru say now to justify himself when he is called by the police? There was a snake, and I spoke with a snake and said, “Okay, okay, we have something to say for such people.” Can you see what it means for Swāmījī to help us? He is giving himself completely. He gives himself completely. With the full risk that we will not be able to take it. That is the seva of the Guru. We must be aware of that. Somehow, so much love which the Guru gives just by accepting his duty. And this starts very simply by giving us karma yoga. Working out our karmas means purifying our karmas. When I went to India, my own parents reacted in a very common way. Okay, now the guru has completely taken over. Now you have to make work and don’t even get paid for that. So from a worldly point of view, it’s correct. You call it karma yoga. Please understand, I hope it’s a big blessing when the Guru gives us the chance to purify our karmas. But how easily we get confused about that. And I mean, I was really confused. These two years, 1994-1995, were quite a strong time for me. And in the middle of the confusion, sometimes there is a glimpse of wisdom. Because this confusion is actually the process of purification. It was in 1994, I guess, when I wrote here a small article. About the Karma Yoga in Jadān Āśram, and maybe some of you might remember that. Jadān Āśram, summer 1993: the meditation hall is underwater. The old meditation hall in monsoon always was a pool. In winter, Swāmījī comes and many disciples. And then Indians come and bring lorry load after lorry load of gross sand and spread it everywhere. Swamiji observes. When they are ready, Swamiji has a nice idea. It was at the end of the evening satsaṅg, so something like 9 o’clock. I think we should have half an hour of karma yoga tonight. We should level the ground so that the water will not flow into the hall again. Very good idea. So we all work from half past ten in the evening until four o’clock in the morning. We move all this new sand which has just been spread there. And underneath, dig up the hard ground. So that the water should flow to one side. Some other half hours followed during the next days. And then Swāmījī has an even better idea. I think the water should flow to the other side. Very good. Sleeping is anyway, Tamás. So, everything is back. And, of course, on top, spreading this gross sand again everywhere. Swamiji is satisfied. Swamiji is satisfied. Next summer. Next summer. The meditation hall is again underwater. Because it was actually leveled like before. You see, such experiences, and you get confused. So many people are doing hard work and seemingly getting no result. And now, when you stay there for a longer time as a karma yogī, you realize Swamījī is changing all the time. You guys know the construction plans and the buildings. Who is cooking, what for whom? The timetables, the rules, everything. Automatically, you are saying, “What’s the sense of all that?” But Swamijī himself gave a clear hint. Because in this action, he said, leveling the ground means leveling the ego. You see, maybe in the end the ground was not changed at all. But we were changed. How many emotions come up during such karma yoga? Anger, disappointment, doubts, and so on. How many processes are going on in the group, also to escape, of course, from this karma? How much can you learn about yourself? In this way, in one year in Jadān, you may change more than in ten years at home. You see, that is the way of a guru. But in the end, he wants also the buildings, of course. I wrote here, we should try to understand what it means to build an ashram. Every millionaire could build a nice, big building. We are living with 108 apartments in the shape of Oṃ, but would it be an āśram? The heart of an ashram is a saint. But saints you cannot buy like stone and cement. That’s why a millionaire cannot build an ashram, but only a guru like Swāmījī. That’s why the way of building the ashram is quite different from the normal way of putting up a building. To build an ashram for him doesn’t mean to build houses, but to build personalities. His main intention is not to move stones, but to move hearts. Imagine in the end there would be just one big tent, and inside, 108 saints. Part 2: The Guru’s Training: From Ego to Instrument of Bhakti What a wonderful ashram. Yet Swāmījī’s aim is even higher. He wants the buildings and the saints. Whatever you bring when you come to the Guru, he will take it and use it to work on you. Someone comes and says, “I’m a painter.” And Swāmījī says, “Very good. You should paint a nice picture of Śrī Devpurījī,” and gives instructions. The person tries, and the training begins: “What are you doing? Completely wrong. This must be like this, and this like this,” always changing. Then Swāmījī looks at it and says, “Now it’s even worse—this should be even worse, and this is even worse.” This is really the way our beautiful painting of Śrī Devpurījī is made. Yogesh now knows his role from the architectural point of view; many of you know the role of cooking. So, whatever you offer, Swāmījī will take and use it to train you. Let me give an example from my own life: how Swāmījī trained me from the musical point of view. Half of my life is music. I studied a little in high school, but more Western classical music, so I didn’t have easy access to the bhajans. Swāmījī had a very simple cure: he sent Bhajanānjī to me. He lived with me for two years, and naturally I started singing. Gradually I became a singer, and Swāmījī always supported me, saying, “Very good, very good, very good.” But when I came to India, suddenly Swāmījī said, “Very bad.” Whatever I did was wrong. And of course, that training often took place in public. He wouldn’t call me into his room and say, “Gajānand, you must learn to sing better.” Not like that. Shouting in a public satsaṅg with many people, including many Indians: “What are you singing there? This has nothing to do with bhajans. Vajrānand’s singing was something I could use as a compromise, but Indians—not really my taste.” Then we had typical situations like this: there was a whole-night satsaṅg, which we have practically every full moon in Jadan. The normal procedure is that in the beginning, we Westerners start the satsaṅg and sing for some time; later the Indians come and take over. Most of our people then leave, and only a few who really love Indian singing stay and listen. I was among those who went out. I had just left the meditation hall when Swāmījī came the opposite way and asked, “Where are you going?” He took me by the arm and brought me back into the hall, forcing me to stay there—learn from them, listen to them. This was quite intense for me, combined with many other experiences. Swāmījī was always criticizing; everything I tried was wrong. Now comes the real story. Because of that, I became so annoyed that I stopped singing. I also stopped playing the harmonium. Swāmījī observed and let it be for some time. Then summer came, and Swāmījī was away. Actually, it was not when he was there—it was earlier—but I wrote him a letter. At that time we had a rule: we were only allowed to write to Swāmījī in Hindi. We had just started learning a few words. So in those few Hindi words I had just acquired, I wrote him a letter telling him that I no longer sing bhajans. The reply came some weeks later when he returned to Jadan. He observed, and then at the next satsaṅg he gave an order: “Gajānand, now you sing.” I didn’t want to go directly against Guru Bakya, so unwillingly I started singing a bhajan. Then Swāmījī said, “Gajānand, you sing bhajan, but you also play harmonium.” Unwillingly, I did. I remember it very well—I sang a bhajan that is actually a prayer, one I sing very often. I had hardly sung three lines when Swāmījī interrupted, and the old story began: “What are you doing? Completely wrong, wrong melody.” Now, I had sung it so often. But then, interestingly, Swāmījī sang. And he sang, “Śrī Dīp Dayālā Ārācha Sunnalījā.” I said, “But that’s the same melody.” I couldn’t figure out what was wrong with the melody. Now came the hard part: he handed it back to me and said, “So now you sing again.” How to do it differently if I couldn’t hear any difference? It was definitely the same melody. So I simply did what I had heard Swāmījī do; I imitated him, because Swāmījī had a certain way of singing. I sang again, and now Swāmījī was satisfied. I was even more confused—there was no difference, yet suddenly he was satisfied. After the satsaṅg, Swāmījī used to sit with himself and have a coffee, and I tried to figure out what the real difference was. If I had to describe Swāmījī’s singing, I could only say it was not so beautiful. To learn his singing, I would have to admit it wasn’t too beautiful. I always tried to make it really nice, really expressive. Swāmījī’s singing was, you could say, plainer, more simple. And now I had imitated that. Reflecting on this, I suddenly got the point. The point is not about music. The Guru is not really interested in a particular field like music—he is always interested only in spirituality. What had happened was that I tried to make the bhajan really beautiful. That was somehow my bhakti, but it was also my ego. I put my own feelings into it and basically expressed myself through the bhajan. Swāmījī didn’t do that. He just let the bhajan be as it is—simple, plain. Then I realized the most important point: we shouldn’t sing bhajans from our own feelings, our own emotions, our own ego. Because then we misuse the bhajans to show off. Instead, we should be a humble instrument so that the beauty of the bhajan and the teaching of the saints can shine. What a big difference it makes if, after singing a bhajan, someone comes to you. The person might say, “Oh, you sang the bhajan so beautifully,” or, “Oh, you sang such a beautiful bhajan.” In the first case, you used the bhajan to show the beauty of your singing, and the person speaks about you, not the bhajan. In the second case, you stand behind as a humble instrument, simply showing the beauty of the bhajan. That was the teaching I received from Swāmījī. Once I figured it out and tried to put it into practice, Swāmījī hardly ever criticized me anymore. But again, it depends on two: the Guru and the disciple. I know other disciples—I won’t name them—who also loved bhajan singing, especially Indian bhajan singing. Swāmījī gave them the same training; they also stopped singing, and they never started again. They went away from Swāmījī. You see, every training is a chance and a risk. And because of these experiences, we have mixed feelings. Every training we pass through successfully lets us grow spiritually and lets our love grow. But it also brings us to the edge, and that is what we don’t like so much. In this way, it is quite natural that we have mixed feelings toward the Guru. Let me take another example, a story I told some days ago. You know, the result was excellent: the person went through a very strong period of self-confrontation, and through that came healing and a spiritual breakthrough. But this is again a story with a happy ending. There could have been another ending—that doubts might have taken over. What is he doing? He first takes all my money, doesn’t give me any treatment, brings me to a completely remote area where no one will ever find me—no food, nothing—just the perfect murder. The story could have taken that turn: he tries to find a way out and succeeds, but of course he wouldn’t be healed then. He wouldn’t have this spiritual awakening, only a lot of anger—a Guru who tried to cheat him, to kill him, and then left him alone. You see, every time the Guru tries to help us, it is a chance and a risk for us, and also a chance and a risk for the Guru. The Guru takes on so many roles for us, and every time he trains us on a certain point, there could be a failure. There was something unripe in this love, in this bhakti. It was a kind of teenager bhakti, and Swāmījī saw it. We were in India, and in one satsaṅg, some Indian men, I think, came and gave a precious stone to Swāmījī as a dakṣiṇā. Everyone saw it, everyone knew about it. But Swāmījī told her, “You must find it. It’s so precious.” A wonderful duty for her. Now she really tried. She searched everywhere the whole day and couldn’t find it. She searched another day, and still couldn’t find it. What would your emotion be now? The point is, when you have strong positive emotions, they can turn into strong negative emotions. That was the case now. The next day, it was quite hard to be close to her; she was so aggressive, so cynical, so sarcastic toward Swāmījī. I kept a little distance from her. Then, some weeks later, she came to me and said, “You know, now I’m once around with him. Once?” She meant “around,” and I asked, “How do you mean?” “You know, I was so close, and Swāmījī pushed me so far away, but now I have found my way to Swāmījī again.” So she had to purify her bhakti. That which was unripe in her feelings toward the Guru had to be destroyed so that real bhakti could grow. But of course, again there is this risk. She might have gone away and never come back to Swāmījī. This is how the Guru hides himself. The Guru hides his own true nature, and it is so easy for us to become confused. But through these processes, when we manage to go through them, we gain a deeper and deeper understanding. And with the sādhanā Swāmījī gives us—especially mantra and kriyā—we purify all these doubts and confusions so that, in the end, from this dualism of love and fear, the fear can be removed. Only bhakti, only love remains, without any condition, without any expectation. Then you are open to accept any treatment from the Guru. In the end, only then can we realize the true nature of the Guru. That is not an easy task. Remember the last sentence Holy Gurujī spoke in his life? It means that only one who really realizes the Guru will, in the end, become himself a Guru. Understanding the Guru, realizing the nature of the Guru, is not just something intellectual. It is not just some belief—yes, I believe the Guru is great and divine. No, we have to realize it. That is the real realization of the nature of the Guru, because in a way the Guru also has his own māyā. All these different roles the Guru plays with us—this is like a kind of Guru Māyā. The Guru, too, is somehow hiding his true nature. We have one beautiful bhajan from Holy Gurujī about this: “Viśva Dīpa Harī Jagame Āye.” I don’t have much time now; translating the whole bhajan would be quite long. We will sing it, and I will just speak briefly about it. If you are interested, perhaps later, maybe in the evening. It is a bhajan from Holy Gurujī about the incarnation of Mahāprabhujī. “Viśvadīp Hari Jagame Āye”—the Divine Light appeared in this world. You know it from another bhajan. Thousands of salutations to you, O Lord. And the next line is most important: “Āpane āpako chupāne vāle.” You are the one who is hiding your own true nature. To recognize the true nature of the Guru is not so easy. In the end, when we recognize the true nature of the Guru, automatically we recognize our own true nature, because the Guru is not a person. The Guru is a principle, Guru Tattva, and that principle is within us as well. In the first verse, Holy Gurujī says, “Oṁ Brahma Hari Āp Anārī”—You are God, eternal and infinite. “Amar Atalhe Apkī Gāḍī”—your throne is immortal and immovable. Śrī Śrīdeva Puruṣa Mahādeva Kī Jaya, Śrī Mādhava Kṛṣṇa Bhagavān Kī Jaya, Viśvaguru Mahāmaṇḍaleśvarānanda, Śrī Svāmī Maheśvarānanda Purī Jī, Satguru Deva Kī Jaya.