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Śrī Dīp Nārāyaṇa Bhagavān Kī Jai, Śrī Devśvara Mahādeva Kī Jai, Dharma Samrāṭ Śrī Paramsvāmī Madhavānandajī Kṛṣṇa Bhagavān Kī Jai, Viśvagurū Mahāmaṇḍaleśvara Śrī Paramsvāmī Jīmeśvarānandajī Gurudeva Kī Jai, Satyāsana Tandarma Kī Jai. Hari Om. Good evening, dear brothers and sisters here in this beautiful Strilky Hall, Strilky Ashram, and also to those joining on the internet. A few—or many—of you were here in March when Swāmījī asked me to speak in the morning lecture. I began that talk by saying I hadn’t slept all night because I was in the library, looking at all those different books. Tonight, I slept very well. Progress. But anyway, it’s really not easy to begin. Yesterday Swāmījī had a Skype satsaṅg, and then my big orange brother spoke, and now me. Somehow we will manage. As I was considering what to say this time, Swami Premarañjī yesterday gave a beautiful and deep lecture about the Sadguru, the Ātmā, that Guru who is not visible. Yet somehow, all of us creators are here. In this loka, 99% of us are searching for this—our inner Ātmā, our inner joy, knowledge. It is a reality that everything already exists within us, and whatever unfolds in our outer life is coming out of us, whether we know it or not. When someone steps onto a spiritual path—no matter which one—if we look back, we can see our changes, our progress. Maybe not every day, not in our daily life when we are occupied with outside things. But there are moments, and when we look back we can recognise it. That recognition came to me in my morning meditation today, remembering the first time I met our Gurudeva. I think I can share this publicly—I have never said it before. Perhaps you will be interested. I was a secondary school teacher. Some colleagues told me about a yoga class that might suit me, and somehow, come along. Within two months, I found myself—twenty years ago—very near the Polish border, in a place called Libelice or something like that. Three of us teachers went to Swāmījī’s seminar. I had no idea it was Guru Pūrṇimā; I didn’t even know what that was. We had travelled about eighteen hours by bus, arrived late in the evening. In the morning Swāmījī announced that everyone must attend the evening program. As a teacher, I was following instructions. Everyone was to be at the morning program at six o’clock. I went. That morning meditation was led by one person. He sang “Om,” and then he simply said, “Repeat your mantra, finish. That’s all—one hour, no words.” I sat for ten minutes, fifteen, twenty, twenty‑five. I began to look at my watch. I had no mantra, no idea what this was. I couldn’t lean against anything; I was somewhere in the middle of the hall. The full sixty minutes passed, and in the end I just observed what the others were doing. Where had I come to? What was this? The person sang “Om” three times, recited “Nāhaṁ Karatā,” and the morning sādhanā was over. Then came breakfast, and my two colleagues—who had skipped the program—found me. One said, “You know, whenever I visit another country, I have to find a sweet shop. You two, come with me. I know which bus to take into the city centre.” But at nine o’clock Swāmījī had a lecture. That first meditation had already shaken me; this second plan made me say, “Where are we? What eating? What are you talking about?” She replied, “Don’t worry, I know everything. I’ve checked the times. The bus will come in five or ten minutes.” So I asked, “And when we go back, do you know where we should get off?” I thought, oh my God, some special day this will be. But they were very strong: “Come with us, don’t talk, we’re losing time.” The three of us went somewhere, ate sweets—I didn’t, but someone was happy. Then the second colleague said, “What should I tell my family about where I’ve been? They’ll ask, and here we are in some student block. I must buy something.” I didn’t like this. I had travelled eighteen hours by bus, and now—there was going to be a lecture! I was really a teacher; at this time I should be in class. At nine o’clock Swāmījī would start, and we should be there. They said, “Don’t make trouble. I’ll just buy something to show the family, and then we promise we’ll take the bus.” And it happened: the bus didn’t come in ten minutes but in half an hour. We arrived back around nine o’clock at the place where we slept. But there was another problem. Swāmījī’s lecture was at a football field, a twenty‑ to thirty‑minute walk from the bus stop. I started: “You both said we would come back in time, and now Swāmījī has already begun. We don’t even know how to get there!” Suddenly a group of people came from the direction of the lecture. And for me, it was completely unbelievable. What happened? Swāmījī had announced that the morning lecture was cancelled for some reason. I said, “What? We teachers can’t just say we’re not coming to class. This isn’t possible. The seats don’t just disappear.” Everyone was leaving the football field. I turned and went straight in the opposite direction, saying, “Sorry, I don’t have time.” My two colleagues just stared, sensing something strange. But I was already going. During that twenty‑minute walk, I was talking out loud to myself: “What kind of teacher can this be? He had a nine o’clock lecture, and now he says he can’t come? What is this?” I reached the field, very, very disappointed. A few people were sitting in groups. I could not calm down. So I lay down on the grass. My mind wouldn’t stop. And suddenly someone shouted, “Something orange is coming—it must be Swāmījī!” Very quickly I stood up and looked. This small orange point grew bigger and bigger, and it headed directly towards me. I couldn’t believe it. If that orange man comes straight at me, something will happen. And really, Swāmījī came with such a big smile. I began to sweat. He was very, very kind. He sat down in the exact spot where I had been sitting, while I stepped back three or four metres. Swāmījī started speaking casually—it wasn’t a lecture; just a few people were there. More and more gathered. Then suddenly he asked a question. Inwardly I knew he was asking me, because half an hour earlier I had been ranting about what kind of teachers we are. I suddenly became very small as a disciple. I knew he was asking me, but I said to myself, “Hmm, it’s not for me.” He asked the same question a second time, now pointing with his finger. This time I was smart and looked around to see whom he might be addressing. But when he asked the third time, he used his finger and said, “You there in that row, with that hair—you, you.” Then I said something, whatever it was, but I had to give some answer. And afterwards the lecture continued and everything, yet that moment has remained very, very strong in me ever since. That was my first meeting, on Guru Pūrṇimā, there in that place. I can say it was my birthday. I must have been thirty‑three or so. But really, it was my birthday. I came away from that first seminar with a small flame in my heart. And so, of course, twenty years have passed. This year marks twenty years with Swāmījī, and somehow Czechoslovakia observed forty years last year—no, this year marks forty years of Swāmījī’s work here. I thought it might be interesting to share my beginning, my first visit to Czechoslovakia and that yoga seminar with Swāmījī. In these twenty years many, many things happened. But whatever I can say about them, it is like the story of the birds. A female bird’s time came to lay eggs. She built a nest, and the father bird helped, on the seashore. Then the sea grew larger, and the nest with the eggs inside was swept into the ocean. The parents were not happy. They decided to ask their friends and other birds for help—to dry up the ocean so the eggs would come back and the chicks could hatch. The friends and birds began to help. They were very, very small birds, but each carried one drop from the ocean. Slowly, slowly, they could dry this ocean. I don’t know in which yuga, but anyway. This is like our daily work, our sādhanā. Day by day, some days a slightly bigger drop, some days a smaller one. Still, we are on the way, and we are doing it. According to “Nāhaṁ Karatā,” we are not guilty if something goes wrong. Thanks to God, we have someone who takes his fifty percent. Our Gurudeva has a head, two hands, and two legs to guide us. He shows us what we should do better, what not, how and where. It is not just a platitude to say that we mortal beings are not perfect, not pūrṇa. But if we do our part as best we can—just as we can, and not as we would like to, or worse, as we plan to—then definitely our Gurudeva will do the other part. He will guide us, or He will push us towards Pūrṇā. Not out there—even if I’m pointing there now—but there, inside, to understand, to know. Now maybe I’d like a short break and some bhajans. Śrī Pūjyadīpa, as Mahāprabhujī says in this bhajan, “Million, million times I am greeting you, my Gurudeva, million times I am greeting you, my Gurudeva, and you are the only one who can…” — whatever is negative or whatever, change it into positive, into divine. It is really the one who has already walked the same path. And of course, the one who has already received blessings from his paramparā, our paramparā, can guide, can do this. But definitely, during this daily drop‑by‑drop effort to dry the ocean, we meet many people, many things. Sometimes it really is like a story from the Pañcatantra about a bug and a mosquito. One bug lived in a king’s bed. You know those small, invisible creatures. This bug had spent three‑quarters of its life in the royal bed. The king was happy; every evening he came to bed and slept peacefully. The bug, feeling the warmth, would wake up and start eating—who knows, perhaps breakfast. One day a mosquito arrived. The bug said, “I’ve been here three‑quarters of my life, and the king never sees me. He’s happy, I’m happy. Don’t make trouble. Look.” The mosquito replied, “I promise I’ll follow only your teachings. You are the boss here. I’ll follow your teaching.” “Okay, then you can stay. We’ll become friends. But please, I have one request. You must follow one rule.” The mosquito said, “Of course, just tell me which rule. No problem.” “You never begin to suck blood before the king sleeps. Do not make this mistake, not at all.” The mosquito answered, “Ne, slibuji.” The king hadn’t even closed his eyes before the mosquito began to think about breakfast. The bug grew very angry—the mosquito had promised! But anyway, the mosquito didn’t wait; it bit. The king woke up, called the servants, and the entire bed was changed completely—the sheets, the bedding, everything. In the process, that first bug was killed, but the mosquito survived. The king went back to sleep, and the mosquito stayed there alone. So from time to time, such things also come across our path. We are still, time to time, becoming aware—so we should understand. As Swāmī Premānandjī said yesterday, to be in a bad mood, to suffer, is our choice. But anyway, if we look at our Master, He never gives up. He may be standing at one point, and when things change again, He does exactly the same as before. This is a great lesson for us. So don’t be toward others like someone wrote about two friends. With this, I’ll finish, and we’ll have a prayer. Someone wrote that there were two very close friends. One had some flaw, and the second always thought the first had done something wrong. The second kept saying, “Please, change this. This behaviour of yours is not good. Change, this is not good.” Because they were very close, the first tried very hard, but you know how our behaviours cling. Anyway, it reached the point where the two friends broke their friendship because the first couldn’t change the way the second demanded. Later, the second friend said, “Look, you are such a good person. Don’t worry. Why do you think you must change something? Do not think about this and these changes. Just try to be yourself.” And the ex‑friends became friends again. Because we people cannot change when someone is always telling us, “Do this, don’t do that, you should do it this way, not that way.” But in reality, we are changing in one second. So just be on our path as we are, and suddenly the moment will come when we see that it isn’t necessary to try to change, because we already have somewhere along the path. But anyway, great, great thanks to our Master, who shows us what, sometimes, we should change. And of course, thanks to our brothers and sisters—they are such great gurus, such great teachers. And if somehow we are not happy with some things from time to time, we can still be thankful. Thank you for listening. If something was wrong, don’t think about it. If something touches your heart, take it. Bolo Śrī Dīp Nārāyaṇa Bhagavān Kī Jai. Prārthanā, please. Śrī Devśvara Mahādeva Kī Jai.