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Today, I wish to follow his track and, according to my capacity, continue speaking about this Upaniṣad. Generally, the Upaniṣads are related to the ṛṣis. They are not mere records of narrated stories but come directly from the inner experience of the ancient saints and ṛṣis. "Upaniṣad" literally means to sit beside somebody. In ancient times, it was the tradition that a disciple who wanted to study something about his own self was taught by a competent teacher in a very traditional way. There was no writing; there was only the narrating of ślokas from the teacher. The disciple had to first grasp the literal meaning and then contemplate further on it. He had to find out for himself the inner meaning of the knowledge revealed to him by his teacher. A second meaning of "Upaniṣad" is to reveal a secret. Primarily, what we find in the Upaniṣads are sentences. They often seem to be just sentences, one after the other, many times not relating to each other. So the disciple had to apply his mind—indeed, his whole being—to these words. It was not by mere logic that he could grasp it, although it is a very clear message we could call mathematical. But as you know, the further you go on a spiritual path, the less it becomes logical. You have to leave logic behind when you enter the gate of spirituality. Logic has to stay outside because it is related mainly to the mind, and the mind can only work within its own system. What is beyond that, it is not capable of grasping. So it was a secret that was revealed. But how can it be a secret? Actually, there are no secrets, except to those people who do not understand, who cannot apply their mind. For them, it is a kind of secret. The third meaning of the Upaniṣads, which came from Ādi Śaṅkarācārya, is "the bestowing of knowledge." In the Upaniṣads, we have a vast treasure of knowledge given by the teacher to the disciple. According to the capacity of the disciple, he could make something out of that. There are many critics of the Upaniṣads who say they are just a lot of sentences that do not relate to each other. But when you look closer and begin to study them, you realize that every sentence, every śloka itself is unique and has a depth that must be worked out and explored. It is a kind of bunch of precious stones, still rough. We do not yet see how they will look; we do not know if they are diamonds or rubies, but we know they are precious stones. Only through the thought and expertise of a person who can cut them properly will their real beauty be revealed. I remember that picture of Gurujī when he was doing his mālā. Those who have seen Gurujī's mālā know it is a Rudrākṣa mālā, which he received as prasāda from Prabhujī. You know how a Rudrākṣa mālā is—it feels a little rough, edgy. But if you look at Gurujī's mālā, it is completely polished. The beads are of different sizes, and each bead has a different color, shape, and pattern. It is the same with the Upaniṣads. They are like rough Rudrākṣa. Only through practice, through the practical part, can we come to know the real meaning and polish it. Yesterday, Swami Jaswant Purījī began with the Īśā Upaniṣad. "Īśā" means God. So now we are already in a dilemma—it is an Upaniṣad about God. Fine. It sounds very nice. Many, many books have been written about the Upaniṣads, many commentaries by great scholars. A lot of knowledge has been brought forward through this. There is one part of this Upaniṣad that deals with a special purpose: if we want to know something, if we want to explore our inner being, it is not enough to have intellectual knowledge. It is important that we have wisdom. There is a great difference between a person who is wise and a person who has knowledge, who is learned. A wise person is actually one who no longer repeats certain actions because he already knows their outcome. Are we the opposite? We repeat every action how many times until, one time, we realize, "Oh, there is something wrong in it," or we realize what the reaction is. And still, we are then caught in that web of our own habits, our character, our nature. To change that is very difficult because every repeated thought forms a certain habit. The habit forms a character, and the character forms our nature. So, how to change our nature? It is nearly impossible, but possible. It starts again from that point: from the thought. You apply a new thought. If you want to change a habit, you have to cultivate a new thought, which creates a new, positive habit. This habit forms part of your character, and so on. In this Īśā Upaniṣad, there is one mantra we all know very well, which stands over that whole Upaniṣad, covers it, and gives a short glimpse of what it deals with: Pūrṇam adaḥ, pūrṇam idam, pūrṇāt pūrṇam udacyate. Pūrṇasya pūrṇam ādāya pūrṇam evāvaśiṣyate. This is fullness. That is fullness. If you take away from the fullness, or out of the fullness, still the fullness remains. Now, this seems a little paradoxical, illogical. But the fullness does not apply to quantity; it applies to quality. The quality of things in this world, the quality of beings in this world, must not be material. It can also be qualities of humans. If you take something, let us say gold, and we cut it into pieces, still we have the whole gold there, and the pieces still remain gold. It is not the pieces that count, but the quality, the quality in the gold that is still there. The Īśā Upaniṣad is also sometimes described as the golden veil—a curtain. A golden curtain is a piece of cloth with horizontal and vertical threads, and inside there is a beautiful pattern of gold and maybe some precious stones. As we know, behind a curtain there is always something. So in this Upaniṣad, it is said that we are all looking at this curtain and want to remove it in one way or another because we feel in our deep heart that something is behind—something precious to us, very dear to us, what we are or what we are supposed to be. But at the same time, we are completely fascinated by this curtain. It is such a beauty. We look at it, we admire it, we adore it, we even worship it. Let us talk in terms of māyā—how much we are attracted by this curtain because we know its beauty. We see its beauty; we can even touch it. We are attached to it, and actually we are not so much interested in removing it. Māyā is all that we can measure: time, space, science. We can measure it with words, with our senses. And still, in this Upaniṣad, it is said it is real but not real. It is, but it is not. It is so near, but it is so far. Again, this contradiction, this paradox. Often we say, "Oh, God is in our heart." Okay, when He is in our heart, then He must be very near. And then we look for Him. We cannot find Him, so He is so far. Now I would like to ask our Brahmachārīs to recite the first śloka. This first śloka deals with God and the world. How nice. It says that God and the world are not apart from each other, but they belong together. This is a very, very important point to remember because further on, in other ślokas, we will realize how important it is that we do not separate them—that we do not separate God and the world. Our being here has a certain sense in the form of a human to deal with this world, to deal with this environment. So God and the world are not different from each other, but they are not identical. The next śloka, the second one, deals with work and meditation, or let us say work and worship. It again says that you cannot, or you should not, divide work and meditation. If you go only into work, you will not be successful on your spiritual path. If you go only into meditation, you will equally go to hell. Now, what does that mean? It means that both are equally important for the aspirant to proceed on his spiritual path. We work in this world, we live in this world, we have our responsibilities, our duties. And work does not mean only to work for our family, or only work in an ashram, or to do karma yoga. It means more: work as worship. You have to understand why you work, and the motivation of your work, the motivation of your action: why you are doing that, what you are doing, and what is behind that. Coming here to the ashram, what does it mean for you, for every one of you? Ask yourself: what is the main purpose for coming here? You will find it is not so easy to say, "Oh, because of spirituality," or "Because of Swāmījī," or "Because of that good environment," and so on. But if you look a little bit deeper, maybe you find it is just superficial. And if you get an answer, then be sincere to yourself and acknowledge that answer. Also, maybe it is not what you thought it was. So one side is the work, the action. The other side is the meditation. It is also said in the śloka that if you apply your whole life and your whole effort in meditation alone, you will not be successful because first you have to purify yourself. Merely meditating is very, very difficult because you will apply your mind in so many ways, and your mind will trick you in so many ways, and your ego will be strong in so many ways. So first is purification. Then, when you reach a certain level of inner satisfaction through purification, you can apply yourself and get further with meditation. Just take the example of Swamiji here in this ashram. What is he doing? He applies both action and meditation. In his whole teaching, in his whole mission, we can see that he is walking with two, let us say, golden shoes—with his two golden sandals. Can you imagine how heavy a golden sandal is? It is very difficult to walk. But one is his institution. It is heavy, but it is of gold. The other one is his system of Yoga in Daily Life. One is the work; the other applies more to the Ajapā Yoga, to the meditation, to the contemplation, to the different parts of yoga. Yoga is like a bird with two wings. One wing alone cannot fly; it needs two wings to fly properly. The next śloka, asuryā nāma te lokā..., relates to the imminent—that which you can see—and the transcendent—that which you cannot see. Both are here. Both worlds are here at present, but according to our capacity, we are able to see or not to see, and able to hear or not to hear. The next śloka: Tad ejati, tad na ejati, tad dūre tad u antike, tad antarasya sarvasya, tad u sarvasya asya bāhyataḥ. This śloka also relates to the dualism in which we are caught, about sorrow and the way to come out of that. Again, it applies to two wings. Dualism means there are always two opposites which have to be united. The extended form of that is subject and object. If both come together—subject, object, and the knower; the knowledge and that which has to be known—then there is oneness. This oneness is what we have to experience. This is an attainment of that wisdom, of that knowledge that can only be brought through by an experienced teacher, a guru. As it is said, "Guru kṛpā he kevalam." The last judgment is through the guru's grace. We can attain a lot in this life; we can get to know a lot of things, a lot of words to explore, but the last judgment lies with the Gurudev. The next śloka deals with ignorance and knowledge. The ignorance in which we are caught, in the web of our own ignorance, is not to know, not to understand, or to take the things we see here as reality. This ignorance prevents us from seeing further, from looking beyond the veil. It does not motivate us, but it lets us get stuck in desires for money, for pleasure, for relationships, and so on. Real knowledge can only be attained if you look inside. It can only be applied by hard work and effort. But even those people who try to gain knowledge are not completely saved because if we gain knowledge very easily, we think that is the end of the road. We think to ourselves, "Oh, now I know something, I have realized something, and I am something." So again, there is the danger that we get stuck in our own creation, our own mind creation, in our own intellectual projections. Only when we are at the point where our ideas, our idols, our own patterns get dissolved, then we are at the point when we can say, "Yes, something has been done, something I have realized." We are all placed in certain social systems, in certain organized social systems. It gives us a lot of security—we think, at least, it gives us security. And then suddenly one man appears on the stage, and everything crashes. This can only be a man, a person, a being who has realized something that you can feel, something that is very near to you, something that is very dear, something that is you, and that is not different from you and him. That is the oneness in all beings, the oneness, the cutting off of the duality. Guruji always said, "One in all and all in one." Only this person can really break down the boundaries, much more than any ideology or any religion, because this person can open your inner eye and help you get to know who you are. He will first hook you, maybe with that question, "Who are you?" And there is a question mark, you notice? With that question mark, he will hook you, and then he will pull you toward yourself. Slowly, this question mark will straighten. Then, when you are very near to him, it is nearly straightened, and suddenly you realize that you are not anymore near to him, but you are one with him. Then it is completely straight. How do you say this in English? Exclamation mark, yes. So that is what Swamijī actually tries to show us and to do with us in different ways. I do not say that he will hook you with that question because many of us are not hooked with that question—it is very theoretical. But this question includes everything, actually everything. Now, let us come back to the Upaniṣad, the Īśā Upaniṣad. One of the main points is, as Swami Jāsadipurījī said yesterday, that you should enjoy that which you have got, and do not look left and right and envy, or look to some other part and want to have it. What does it mean, actually? You should enjoy that which you have got. It does not mean you should only enjoy that which you have achieved. Of course you should. You should enjoy your family, your money, your property, your well-being, your health, and so on. But it goes much further. You should enjoy that which you have got. You have got a life, and you have got a soul. You are an ātmā. If you realize that, then you really can enjoy because then you know who you are. You are not anymore attached to that which is outside of you. You do not look left and right and want to have this and that because as soon as you know who you are, the other things are not anymore interesting. Then you can enjoy. But it is a long way up to that. And the Upaniṣad also stresses that, as I told you, there are two parts always going together: the way of work and of meditation, or contemplation, or whatever you call it. In the Christian tradition, we have the saying, "Ora et labora"—pray and work. It was a basic mantra for the monks in the Middle Ages, and they put it into action. If you look around Europe, there are so many thousands of monasteries, thousands of different small orders that came up and were developed. They created their own world for their own benefit, for their own spiritual uplifting. They created a protection area, and within this protection area they worked and they prayed, or they had the sādhanā. Now we think many times: how is it possible that the worldly and the spiritual go together? Does not one exclude the other? No, not really. Otherwise, Swāmījī would not have created this āśram. If he thought like that, he would have put up a pure sannyāsī ashram where no other person could come inside, only sannyāsīs or monks. No, this is a very open space. It is an open ashram, a gurukul. You have all types of people here, different professions, different activities. It is a nicely mixed, beautiful and healthy kicharī. Now, there is a story I would like to tell you at the end. It is about the great Ṛṣi Vyāsa, the composer of the Mahābhārata, a great poet, and his son Śukadeva. Śukadeva was a son of nine years and already very learned, very wise. He could recite all the ślokas and mantras. One day, Vyāsa was busy writing the Mahābhārata. Śukadeva came into his cave, sat down, looked around, and felt a little bored. He said, "Father, what are you doing?" "Composing this poem. It just comes from my heart, from my inner being." Śukadeva said, "Oh, but Father... why are you doing that? There is no need. I know so many mantras and these things, and I can also teach you, no?" The ṛṣi looked at his son and smiled, thinking, "Oh, my dear, becoming quite proud." But then he said, "I know that you know many things, and you are a highly developed soul, but you know, there is one king there who is also a great yogī, and I think he is a greater yogī than you." Śukadeva said, "What? Greater than me? But I am a great yogī. How can it be so?" Vyāsa said, "Okay, check it out by yourself." At first, Śukadeva did not want to go because something in him felt maybe, but then he was too curious and wanted to know who that could be who is more knowledgeable than him. So he took his kamandalu in his left hand, his smile in his right, and went off. Before he went, he asked, "Where can I find this man, father?" He said, "You go in this direction north, and there is a kingdom, and there is one king, Janaka. Look for him." He wandered for a few days, slept in the open space, and finally came to the kingdom of King Janaka. He approached the court and saw King Janaka sitting on his throne, surrounded by his court, busy with his daily affairs. Śukadeva thought, "Better I watch first; it is safe." So he watched him for a few days, and the more he observed, the less he could find a difference between himself and King Janaka in action and behavior. Finally, he could not keep himself back, and he approached the king with praṇāms and told him why he came—what made him so great, as his father said, that he is such a great yogī? Because he could not see any difference between himself, Śukadeva, and the king. So the king said, "Okay, my dear son, come back tomorrow morning." Śukadeva was all day and all night restless, and with his nine years, curious about what would happen the next day. The next day, he approached the king. The king did not say anything, but he only showed him on the side and told him, "Look, there is a bowl of milk filled up to the top. I just want you to do one thing. Take this bowl on your head and go all around the city. If you spill one drop, your head will be off." He was a little afraid, but he was a tough boy. So he carefully took the bowl, placed it on his head very, very concentrated, and then he started all around the city. After a few hours, he came back sweating, came to the court, came to the king, placed down the bowl with the milk, and there was not even one drop spilled. So King Janaka looked at him and said, "Well done, my friend, but tell me, when you were walking all around the city, what did you think of?" Śukadeva said, "Oh, I did not think of anything. I could not think of anything, not even that punishment. All my being and all my concentration was just on the bowl on my head." Then King Janaka said, "Yes, that is the answer to your question. As your concentration was on the bowl, not to spill any drop, so my concentration in my daily activities, in my court, in my activities, with my people—all my concentration and my being are with Him. He is in the supreme." So that is the way King Janaka became a great yogī. It was his concentration and his attention always on God that made him so great. His 24 hours were being in God, merged. Outside he is a normal person, but inside he is completely somewhere else. And that makes a yogī, a realized soul, a perfect vessel to transmit the energy. As Gurujī says in his bhajan, the repetition of the mantra of the Guru's name is the stone that makes the iron into gold. The more we repeat, the more we realize, the more we are that. It is called the Sumaraṇ. Swamījī many times mentions that this is the easiest way in this Kali Yuga: to repeat the name of God. If you look around, read in the books, or hear stories about saints, they all tell the same thing: God's name—repeat God's name. Be it Rāma, be your iṣṭadevatā, any other name of God—it will do the job.