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We now come to satya. Truthfulness or honesty is simply not to lie. At first glance, it seems as straightforward as ahiṃsā: non-harming means not to kill, and truthfulness means not to lie. To achieve this in our life is already a significant step. Every lie creates unnecessary complications, leading to a chain of follow-up lies that generate increasing entanglement. From a spiritual point of view, lying creates obstacles because we are always trying to escape or circumvent reality. In this way, we cannot truly develop our buddhi (clear understanding), our intuition, or our vivekā (discernment). However, when we say one should not lie, we must think more deeply. Life presents complex situations. Imagine someone suddenly asks, "What do you think about me?" Adhering to satya, you might say, "I think you are a quite ugly person and always disturbing, and you never understand." One can imagine the reaction. Or consider an argument between partners where, in the heat of the moment, one says, "I must tell you the truth," and then utters something truly hurtful. This shows a person may have controlled themselves and practiced ahiṃsā, but upon switching to satya, they cause harm. You see the connection? So satya is not so simple. We must be clear: when we say something and claim it is the truth, it should not be merely an opinion. Yet, in common understanding, satya is often taken as saying what we think or feel, and that becomes "our truth," which the other person must then deal with. Understood this way—simply voicing my opinion or feeling—I can hurt a lot. Truth can even be used as a knife, a weapon. This raises a fundamental question: do we really want to know the truth? Consider an example. You have a digestive problem you are unaware of, causing persistent bad breath. Everyone knows except you. Do you want to know this truth? Your friends, knowing it would hurt you, may not dare to tell you, so you remain ignorant. In this way, not speaking the truth can also be a kind of lying. Now, imagine one friend takes you aside and says calmly, "I must tell you one thing. Maybe you are not aware of this, but you have a really bad smell from your mouth." They say it in such a way that you understand they do not wish to hurt you but to help you. Upon reflection, you would likely be grateful they told you, thanking them for their courage while others remained silent. This shows that speaking the truth depends greatly on how we say it, when we say it, and with which attitude we say it. First, we must always examine our motivation. Is it selfish? Do I want to show off or hurt someone, or do I genuinely want to help? The situation can also reverse. None of your friends dare to tell you, but someone who dislikes you knows. During a heated argument, wanting to hurt you, they shout publicly, "You know, you are also stinking so much from the mouth. It is unbearable." No one can directly contradict this statement because it is factually true. But the intention is to harm. There is no merit in saying he spoke the truth, because truth can only be truth if it does not conflict with Ahiṃsā. Yet, he stated a fact. Here, we are in a situation to practice Ahiṃsā properly. A non-yogic reaction would be to retaliate by pointing out a weak point of the other person. That is common but not the yogic way. Every life situation offers a chance to learn. The point with Satya is: do we want to know the truth? You might go home, reflect on what was said, test it, find it true, and decide to see a doctor to solve the problem. After solving it, you might conclude that this person, though they hurt you deeply, actually helped you. The friend tried to help from good motivation; the "enemy" tried to hurt from bad motivation. But if you have the attitude of satya, you can learn from both. The attitudes of Ahiṃsā and Satya go hand in hand here. When we want to help someone, we must first truly contemplate our motivation. We must observe and control ourselves very precisely regarding when, where, and how we speak. It also depends on the person and the situation. Sometimes the right way to speak the truth is to say nothing and wait for an opportune moment. I will give an example from my life in the ashram in India. There was a person who caused a lot of trouble for me and many others. I wished to help this person but knew there was no chance. I simply observed and did nothing. Perhaps twice a year, this person would open up due to accumulating troubles and start thinking. Sometimes they would then come to me and ask about a situation. Even then, it might be wise to say only a little and observe the reaction, to test if they truly want to know. If they then ask, "What do you mean? Can you explain?" then you know today they are ready. They would be happy and thankful for what you tell them. I could have told them all along, but my Vivekā told me, "No chance. That's not the constellation for it." So, understand, to speak the truth is not easy. It requires much consideration: when, where, how, and what. Now we come to an important distinction. When we speak about sat or satya, the truth, what do we really mean? Truths can take many forms. I give an example from my first years in Hamburg. Even among young disciples of Swāmījī, there was limited understanding of him and his teachings, leading to controversial discussions. Someone held one opinion about Swāmījī and his teaching, another held a different one. A person would attend a seminar with Swāmījī, return with their view confirmed, and deliver a strong speech in the next satsaṅg: "Swāmījī said this and this," like a dogma hammer. Two months later, another person attends a different seminar where Swāmījī speaks on the same topic but says something different. This person returns with another message, and the next dogma hammer falls. I would say, "Now you can beat each other with the dogma hammers." But that is reality. Swāmījī indeed sometimes answers the same question differently. In a private consultation, he gives me a certain answer. The next week in a satsaṅg, someone asks the same question, and Swāmījī gives another answer. A month later, someone else asks, and Swāmījī gets angry and says, "Stupid question, look in my books; everything is clearly written." Have you observed this? Is Swāmījī following the Satya principle? We must think deeply. What does he do? Why is it like this? As disciples, we need guidance, and this need differs. When I ask Swāmījī a question, he knows my stage of development and answers accordingly. When the same question is asked in a satsaṅg, it depends on who is present. Today, with webcasts, there is even more to consider. Therefore, Swāmījī might give different answers to the same question because different people need different guidance. For example, if you ask, "What is the most important thing on the yoga path?" you could get a hundred different answers. He will answer what is, for you just now, the most important. Ask the same question ten years later, and you might get another answer. Someone else will get yet another answer. And all answers are true. Here we find that many different, even conflicting, things can all be true. This is also a challenge with books, which are essentially written satsaṅgs. Reading different answers to the same question can be confusing. This highlights why we need a living master and the application of Viveka to extract the essence. We must consider: who gives the answer, to whom, and with which intention? These are the same questions we had regarding the example of bad breath. It is a guru giving an answer to a disciple with the intention to help and guide. The truth is what helps. The truth is what this disciple, in this moment, needs and can digest. For another disciple in another situation, something else might be the truth. On this concrete, relative level, we can say there is no single absolute truth. There are many truths in the plural, and all can be true. But there is another level. When we go from Satya to Sat, what does Sat mean? True and real. We have it in Sat Chit Ānanda. This Sat is not one of the many relative truths. Here applies what Swāmījī says: the truth is only one. No one can change that. It does not depend on your belief or faith. The truth is the truth; reality is reality. It is unchanging, eternal. This is another level, and this is where we actually want to go. Satchitānanda is another word for our ātmā, our soul, our aim. Or remember, "Brahma satya, jagad mithyā." What does this mean? Brahman, God, is truth or reality, and Jagad (the world) is Mithyā—not ultimately real or true. Why? Because it is changing. Truth is what is not changing, what is eternal. The world changes constantly, even our bodies. Every second, new cells are born and others die. What is changing is not the truth. Here we are on the level of the reality of the divine. Sat is actually a name for God. The Sikhs, for example, greet each other with Sat Nām, meaning "the name of the truth, the name of God." This truth, this real truth, is our aim. All the relative truths we deal with in daily life are what we navigate with the Satya principle. We should apply the Satya principle with the purpose of coming to Sat, the real truth. I think we can now deeply understand Swāmījī’s way of teaching. A true teaching is one that leads a disciple in the direction of Sat. This sometimes has little to do with mere intellectual understanding of what is true. It requires deep sensitivity, knowledge, and intuition to know how to behave in this world, how to speak the truth, and how not to speak the truth. Here we are, essentially at the same point we were with the Ahiṃsā principle. It is so subtle that simple logical thinking cannot grasp it. But the more we connect to this real truth within, the more we will be able to live satya in daily life. Again, we cannot separate satya as a practice from spiritual practice, especially meditation. To speak the truth, we must first get in touch with the truth inside. It also requires truthfulness to our own emotions and our own deep motivations, which is always blocked by our ego. The ego will always find a good excuse, but we must overcome that. Let us look again at the sūtra describing the outcome of steadfastness in satya (Yoga Sūtra 2.36). When someone becomes established in truthfulness, whatever they say comes true. Practically, this means we no longer need to follow the truth; the truth follows us. How can we understand this? Because our motivation becomes pure, our radiance pure. And if, by mistake, we say something untrue, God will take care. There is a story Swāmījī has told. A Brahmin couple wanted a child but could not conceive. Ṛṣi Nārada passed by, and they asked him to inquire with God on their behalf, as he was on his way. Nārada asked God, who replied, "It is not in their karma, not in their destiny. No chance. Even I, if I wanted, cannot change that." Nārada relayed this disappointing news. Some time later, a sādhu (saint) came begging. He had a peculiar way: "One chapātī, one child; two chapātī, two children." The woman heard this and wanted to give him chapātī. The husband said, "Give him three." She gave him three warm chapātī. Sometime later, she became pregnant and bore three sons. Years later, Nārada passed by again, saw the three boys, and was upset. "God does not lie," he said. "He told me it was not possible." The couple explained about the sādhu and his blessing. Nārada went to God and asked how this was possible. God said, "Look in the Yoga Sūtras." This is exactly the proof of that principle. What God cannot do, the saint can do. This underlies the statement that the guru is greater than God, as in the bhajan line: "Guru Īśvara se adhik hai" (The Guru is greater than Īśvara, greater than God). God gives the rules, the law of karma. But the saint, through his love and innocence, can change these laws through his blessing. A guru's or saint's blessing is a real blessing. That is why we need the guru, not just devotion to God. This story beautifully demonstrates the principle in the Yoga Sūtras: when you are truly established in Satya, whatever you speak becomes true. Even here, we must look deeper. How is it with the training through Swāmījī? It can sometimes be quite hard. The guru's job is not easy. If he always speaks to us very friendly, we may not react or learn. Swāmījī says sometimes you need something hard to remove a thorn from your skin; you cannot do it with a feather. It may hurt for a moment, but then the thorn is out. This explains why the guru might sometimes seem to break the principle of ahiṃsā. As written in my bhajan: "O Swāmījī, you live within me. Sometimes it seems hard to follow Thee, but that which is hard is my heart, it is not Thee." Sometimes it seems not easy to follow the Guru, but we need this; otherwise, there would be no effect. The leading question is again about motivation. The Guru does not act to make us suffer or to harm us. The Guru acts to awaken us. It is like seeing someone asleep in a burning house; you may need to act rudely to save them before they burn. I hope this evening has given you a deeper understanding of Ahiṃsā and Satya, and especially how they are closely connected. These two principles really give direction for the rest. And with Satya, we already have the aim, because Satya is the truth, the reality—it is God.