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Śrī Śrīdīp Nārāyaṇ Bhagavān Kī Jai. Śrī Śrīdīp Puruṣa Mahādeva Kī Jai. Dharma Samrāṭ Paramahaṁsa Śrī Svāmī Madhavānandapurījī Mahārāj Kī Jai. Viśva Guru Mahāmaṇḍaleśvara Paramahaṁsa Śrī Svāmī Maheśvarānandapurījī Satguru Deva Kī Jai. Hari Om. Gajanandjī is giving satsaṅg today. I will just share the news: the clouds are back in Jadan. That is the morning news, and they are dark. Let us hope they release their rain. Every drop is welcome. Do you remember two days ago when we were celebrating Swāmījī’s birthday? How beautifully Sadhvī Hṛdayakamal spoke about her meditation experience. After a prayer for more bhakti, she said her heart was like a sliding door; it opened, and she saw Swāmījī sitting there. I thought that is a modern version of Hanumān. People told him, "You always say that Rāma is in your heart, but we do not believe it." He then tore open his chest, and everyone could see Rāma and Sītā sitting inside. So I guess Swāmījī has to rewrite the chakra book about the Anāhat Chakra. In the Anāhat Chakra, there is a sliding door, and behind it sits the Gurudev. We are always happy to hear about such experiences of bhakti. But for me, the truth is also very important. That is what is required in self-inquiry meditation: to find the truth, the reality about myself. 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 love, sometimes confusion, sometimes disappointment, sometimes maybe even anger. Sometimes we want to run away, yet then we feel "no" and come back. The point is: from where do these mixed feelings actually come? My strongest time was the first two years in Jadan, 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 are what bring us close to the Guru. But fear is what lets us keep a distance, a safety distance. I could very clearly observe this in myself. Sometimes I was at one point in the ashram and had to go somewhere. I would see Swāmījī sitting there having satsaṅg with some people. The straight way would be to pass by Swāmījī. But in reality, how often I avoided that and made a bigger round. I think you understand what I want to say: a safety distance. You do not know what happens when you pass by. Also, some disciples 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 quite long, and then it becomes hard. We are actually waiting for him to go. And as soon as he is gone again, the longing returns: when will he come?" Because when he stays too long, that means he is working too strongly on us. We have to understand what is actually the duty of the Guru. In one book, I found it perfectly expressed. 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 the reality. Not to attack us, but to attack our ego. Svāmī Śivānanda expressed it from his own background, slightly differently. Before he became a yogī, he was a medical doctor. He said that just as a surgeon takes 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. That means a surgery. And that means pain. That is the process through which we go 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 forward. And then the Guru says, "Okay, so now let us start the operation." And it goes on and on and on—without anesthetic. 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 where I lost my job. Because I had worked there so long, I got payment for half a year. Some years earlier, I had already spoken with Swāmījī, and it was said I would become a Svāmī one day. So I went to Austria to ask Swāmījī what to do now. Swāmījī asked me, "What do you think?" I said, "I thought now I have half a year, so I can peacefully search for another job, and I will try to get only half-day work so that I have more time for yoga." Swāmījī said, "That is good." I came home. At that time, Bhajanandjī lived with me. He asked me, "What did Swāmījī say?" I told him. Then Bhajanandjī just said, "Yeah, yeah, Swāmījī is often just a mirror." That one sentence awakened me. I realized I did not really ask Swāmījī; I just told him my feeling, and then he said, "It is okay." Because Swāmījī realized that I was not open to listening to him, and that is 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. Now I should search for a job. I saw the newspaper and thought, "Should I now really search for a job?" After one or two weeks, I made up my mind and telephoned Swāmījī. Then he realized that I was now really asking him. He said, "I think it is better you do not search for a job; just become a Svāmī." You see, that was a test. But without that test, I would not sit here now as a Svāmī. So it is an interaction. The Guru tries to guide us, but it depends on us how much we can take. Seemingly, these small interactions with the Guru can 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. One night, when the disciple was sleeping and the Guru was guarding, a snake came. The Guru asked the snake, "What do you want?" The snake said, "I am going to bite your disciple." The Guru asked, "Why?" The snake said, "Oh, that is a very old karma between both of us." 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?" The snake said, "That is fine." So now the Guru took action. He took a sharp knife, set it on the chest of the disciple who was still sleeping, and started to make a cut so that some blood came. 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 was his Guru, so nothing would be wrong. He closed his eyes and continued sleeping. The Guru could take a little bit of the blood from the disciple, give it to the snake, and in this way finish this karmic cycle, this cycle of always revenge. 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. Swāmījī tells this story to tell us how much bhakti and faith in the Guru we should have. That is 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!" He jumps up, takes the knife as proof, and runs to the next police station: "My own Guru is going to kill me! Here, these are 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 could the Guru say now to justify himself when he is called by the police? "There was a snake, and I spoke with a snake..." They have something to say for such people. Can you see what it means for Swāmījī to help us? He is giving 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. There is so much love which the Guru gives just by accepting his duty. And so easily we misunderstand it. The Guru’s duty is to attack us—not us as a person, but our ego—and make this operation, really taking it out. 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. They said, "Okay, now the Guru has completely taken over. Now you have to work and do not even get paid for that." So, from a worldly point of view, it is correct. You call it karma yoga. Please understand, I hope it is a big blessing when the Guru gives us the chance to purify our karmas. But how easily we get confused about that. I was really confused. These two years, '94-'95, 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 a small article about the karma yoga in Jharaṇāśram. Maybe some of you might remember that. Jadan Ashram, summer 1993. The meditation hall is underwater. The old meditation hall, in monsoon always, it was a pool. In winter, Swāmījī comes, and many disciples come. Indians come and bring lorry load after lorry load of coarse sand and spread it everywhere. Swāmījī observes. When they are ready, Swāmījī has a nice idea. It was at the end of the evening satsaṅg, around nine o'clock. "I think we should have half an hour of karma yoga tonight. We should do some leveling of the ground so that the water will not flow into the hall again." Very good idea. So we all worked half an hour—from ten o'clock in the evening to four o'clock in the morning. We removed all this new sand which had just been spread there, and underneath, dug 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 had an even better idea: "I think the water should flow to the other side." Very good. Sleeping is anyway Tamas. So everything back. And in the end, of course, on top, spreading this coarse sand again everywhere. Swāmījī is satisfied. 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 there is no result. When you stay there a longer time as a karma yogī, you realize Swāmījī is changing all the time: the construction plans, the buildings, who is cooking what for whom, the timetables, the rules, everything. Automatically you ask, "What is the sense of all that?" But Swāmījī 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, the desire to escape from this karma. How much can you learn about yourself? In this way, in one year in Jadan, 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 the buildings also, of course. I wrote: we should try to understand what it means to build an ashram. Every millionaire could build a nice, big building with 108 apartments in the shape of Oṁ. But would it be an ashram? The heart of an ashram is a saint. But saints you cannot buy like stone and cement. That is why a millionaire cannot build an ashram, but only a Guru like Swāmījī. That is 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 does not 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. What a wonderful ashram. But Swāmījī’s aim is still higher: he wants the buildings and the saints. Whatever you bring with you when you come to the Guru, he will take it and use it to work on you. Someone comes and says, "I am a painter." Swāmījī says, "Very good. You should paint a nice picture of Śrī Devapurījī and give instructions." Now the person tries, and then the training starts. "What are you doing? Completely wrong. This must be like this, and this like this." And then Swāmījī says, "Now it is even worse. No, this must be like this, and this like this." Just so that you know, that is the way this nice picture we have of Śrī Devapurījī has been made. And Yogesh knows his role from the architectural point of view. Many of you know from the role of the cooking. So whatever you offer, Swāmījī will take and use it to train you. Let me give an example from my side: how Swāmījī trained me from the musical point of view. Half of my life is music, though I studied a little bit in high school, but more Western classical music. So I did not have such an easy access to the bhajans. Swāmījī had a very simple cure: he sent Vajrānandjī to me. He lived with me for two years, so naturally I started also. Then I slowly became a singer, and Swāmījī always supported me: "Very good, very good, very good." And then I came to India, and suddenly Swāmījī said, "Very bad." Whatever I did was wrong. And of course, that is an important part of the training in public. He would not call me into his room and say, "Gajanan, you must learn the singing better. Not like that." He shouted in public satsaṅg with many people and many Indians: "What do you sing there? This has nothing to do with bhajans. You must go and learn from the Indians properly." But, you know, I came from Western music. How the Indians originally sang, I really did not like it. Vajrānanda’s singing was for me like a compromise on which I could go. But Indians, not really my taste. So then we had typical situations like this. There was a whole night satsaṅg, which we have practically every full moon in Jhara. The normal procedure is that in the beginning, we, the Westerners, start the satsaṅg and sing for some time. And then later, the Indians come and take over. Then most of our people go, and a few who are really enthusiastic about Indian singing stay and listen. I was, of course, among those who went out. So I just left the meditation hall, and then Swāmījī came the opposite way. He asked, "Where are you going?" And he took me by the arm, and I was back in the hall. So somehow he was forcing me there. "Learn from them, listen to them." So it was quite strong for me, together with many other experiences. Always Swāmījī was criticizing; everything I tried was wrong. Now comes the real story. Because of that, I was so annoyed I stopped singing. I also stopped playing harmonium. Swāmījī observed and let it be for some time. Then it was the summer time; Swāmījī was not there. Actually, I wrote him a letter about that. At that time, we had the rule that we were only allowed to write to Swāmījī in Hindi, which we had just started learning—a few words. So in these few words of Hindi I had just learned, I wrote him a letter telling him that I do not sing bhajan anymore. The reply came some weeks later when he came to Jadan. He observed, and then the next satsaṅg, he gave the order: "Gajanan, now you sing." Okay, I did not want to directly go against Guru Bhakti, so unwillingly I started singing one bhajan, but not playing harmonium. Swāmījī accepted that moment. Next day, same story. Now Swāmījī said, "Gajānand, you sing bhajan, but you also play harmonium." Naja, unwillingly I did. I remember very well, I sang a bhajan which is actually a prayer that I sing so often. I had hardly sung three lines, and Swāmījī interrupted. The old story: "What are you doing? Completely wrong, wrong melody." I sang it so often, however. And then, interestingly, Swāmījī sang. And he sang. I thought, but that is the same melody. I could not figure out what was now wrong in the melody. Now came the hard part. He gave it back to me and said, "So now you sing again." How to do it differently if I could not hear any difference? It was definitely the same melody. So I just did what I had heard from Swāmījī. I somehow imitated him. I had a certain way of singing, so I sang then again, and now Swāmījī was satisfied. I was even more confused. There was no difference, and suddenly he is satisfied. So after the satsaṅg, as Swāmījī used to say, I sat together with myself and had a coffee. I tried to figure out what was now really the difference. When I would describe Swāmījī’s singing, I could only say it was not so beautiful. I always try to make it really nice, really expressive. Swāmījī’s singing was, you could say, more plain, more simple. And now I had imitated that. Thinking about that, I suddenly got the point. The point is not about music. The Guru is not really interested in this special field, but always in spirituality. The point was, I tried to make the bhajan really beautiful. That was somehow my bhakti, but that was also my ego. I put, somehow, my own feelings into it. Basically, I expressed myself through the bhajan. Swāmījī did not do that. He just left the bhajan as it is: simple, plain. Then I realized the most important point: we should not sing the bhajans from our own feelings, from our own emotions, from our own ego, because somehow then we are misusing the bhajans to show off. But we should be a humble instrument so that the beauty of the bhajan and the teaching of the saints can show. What a big difference if, after singing a bhajan, someone comes to you and says, "Oh, you sang the bhajan so beautifully," or if he says, "Oh, you sang such a beautiful bhajan." Do you understand the difference? In the first case, you used the bhajan to show the beauty of your singing. In fact, he speaks about you, not about the bhajan. In the second case, you are standing behind, just as a humble instrument, to show the beauty of the bhajan and the beauty of the spiritual teaching. You see, when Swāmījī said "wrong melody," he did not really mean the music. He meant it was the melody of the ego. Let it go away. Sing the right melody, the original melody. That was an example of the teaching I got from Swāmījī, and it is a very subtle point. 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 will not say names—who also love bhajan singing, especially Indian bhajan singing. Swāmījī made the same training with them; they also stopped singing, and they did not start anymore. They went away from Swāmījī, you see? Every training is a chance and a risk. And because of these experiences, we have these mixed feelings. Every training through which we pass successfully lets us spiritually grow and lets our love grow. But always it also brings us to the border, and this is what we do not like so much. In this way, it is quite natural that we have these mixed feelings toward the Guru. Let us take maybe another example, the story I told some days ago about the Sufi master, how he was trained by his Guru. Remember, he was very ill, and the master said, "I will try to help you, but I cannot promise you anything." The condition was, "You have to give me all your money." Then he brought him simply into a cave and left him alone there. The result was excellent. He had a very strong time of self-confrontation, and through this came his healing and his spiritual breakthrough. But this is again the story with the happy end. There could have also been another end: that these doubts would take over. "What is he doing? He is taking first my whole money? Not giving me any treatment, bringing me completely into a remote area where no one will ever find me, no food, nothing—the perfect murder." The story also could have taken that end, that he somehow tries to find the way out, and he finds it. Of course, he would not be healed then. He would not have this spiritual awakening, but a lot of anger about the Guru who tried to cheat him and to kill him and 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 is taking over so many roles for us. And every time he trains us on a certain point, there could also be a failure. There was something unripe in this love, in this bhakti. It was a little bit like a teenager bhakti, and Swāmījī saw that. We were in India, and in one satsaṅg, some Indian men came and gave some quite precious stones to Swāmījī as a dakṣiṇā. Everyone saw it; everyone knew about that. Now, some days later, Swāmījī says in the satsaṅg, "It is gone." It has been lost, and now he gave the duty to this girl to search for it. He said, "You can search everywhere—in the ashram, in my room, everywhere. But you must find it. It is so precious." Wonderful duty for her. Now she really tried and searched everywhere the whole day and could not find it. That is why she is angry. "What? Go on." She searched another day and could not find it, until finally it came up that actually it was never lost. Swāmījī knew very well where it is. Now put yourself in this situation. You love the Guru. The Guru gives you a duty. And suddenly you feel like an idiot. You search for something that was never lost. So what would be your emotion now? The point is, when you have strong emotions, positive, then they turn around into strong emotions, negative. 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 towards Swāmījī. I kept a little bit distant from her. Then, some weeks later again, she came to me and said, "You know, now I am once around with him." "Once around?" I asked, "How do you mean?" She said, "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 these feelings towards the Guru had to be destroyed so that the real bhakti could grow. But, of course, there is again this risk: maybe she would have gone away and never come back to Swāmījī. The Guru is hiding himself. The Guru is hiding his own true nature. And it is so easy that we get confused about that. But through these processes, when we manage to go through, we will have a deeper and deeper understanding. And with the sādhanā which Swāmījī is giving us—especially mantra and kriyā—to 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 take any treatment of the Guru, also the final treatment of the awakening. In the end, only we can realize the true nature of the Guru. That is not an easy task. Remember the last sentence which Holī Gurujī spoke in his life? "Jo guru pahachān letā hai, vah svayaṁ guru ban jātā hai." That means: only that one who really realizes the Guru can become, will in the end become himself a Guru. That means to understand the Guru, to realize 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 somehow the Guru also has his own māyā and all these different roles which the Guru plays with us. This is like a kind of guru māyā; so the Guru is also somehow hiding his true nature. We have one beautiful bhajan from Holī Gurujī about that, which is deeper. With the time, maybe we can at least sing it, and I will just shortly speak about this. There is no time now anymore because it is quite long to translate the whole bhajan. If you are interested, maybe later, maybe in the evening, I do not know. It is a bhajan from Holī Gurujī about the incarnation of Mahāprabhujī: "Viśva Dīpa Hari Jagamayāya"—the divine light appeared in this world. "Lakon Parāṇaṁ Prabhujī"—you know it from the Āśīrvāda. So thousands of salutations to you, O Lord. And the next line is most important: you are the one who is hiding his true nature. The Guru, 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 is in us as well. The first verse, Holī Gurujī says: "Oṁ Brahma Hari Āp Anādi. You are God. You are divine. You are eternal. Amar Aṭalhe Āp Kī Gaḍī. Your throne is immortal and immovable." I will tell you one or two. "Manav to fir khes lak Deela hai, par milta nahi, laa na na... Ātmā udhāram āp anārī, ātmā udhāram lāṭ karnā. Viṣṇu dīp Harī Jagmī, āp Viṣṇu dīp Harī Jagmī, āp lā. Āpne āp kuch panevā, āpne āp kuch panevā. Lakṣmaṇa, Lakṣmaṇa,... Lakṣmaṇa. La la..." I am sorry, I am sorry,... I am sorry.