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Śrī Dīp Nārāyaṇa Bhagavān, Alakhpurījī Mahādeva, Devādhī Deva, Deveśvara Mahādeva, Dīp Nārāyaṇa Bhagavān Kī, Haradyā Bhagavān, Śrī Madhavānandajī Mahārāja Bhagavān Kī, Sanātana Dharma Kī, Mātā Jaya Kī Jaya, All Dear Ones. It is beautiful to be here again and have this satsaṅg. It looks to me like spring, with the burgeoning of different flowers, and so I see the faces of all. Our aim is one: to serve, and second, to attain Ātmajñāna. Service is not easy. Swāmī Śivānandajī said, “Love, serve, and meditate,” and liberation follows. There are many people named Śivānandajī, but I am speaking of the one who was in Ṛṣikeśa. He passed away in the same year that Mahāprabhujī also entered mahāsamādhi. I did not see either Śivānandajī, but many times he appears in my meditations or in my dreams. Our beloved Gurujī Swāmī Madhavānandajī often spoke about Śivānandajī and read many of his books. It is said that as long as your ego does not vanish, you cannot attain mokṣa or liberation. The greatest enemy of the sādhaka—the aspirant, the bhakta, or the sādhu—is this. If they have not renounced those qualities, it is not a fruitful life to call ourselves a bhakta, a yogī, a swāmī, or an aspirant. In 1975, a disciple of Swāmī Śivānandajī came to our āśram in Vienna, Śikāṇedāgāsāī, Mahāprabhujī’s āśram. He too was a swāmī. He stayed two days with me at the āśram, and we held a satsaṅg, inviting people. I asked him for a satsaṅg, and he told many stories of Śivānandajī. One day, a very learned professor, philosopher, and ācārya—well-versed in all the Vedas, Upaniṣads, Bhagavad Gītā, Rāmāyaṇa, Yogavāśiṣṭha, and all the holy books, the Qur’an, the Bible—came. When Śivānandajī heard about him, he went to welcome him. Śivānandajī bowed down and touched his feet. The ācārya said, “No, no, no, Mahārāj, Śivānandajī, you are great; please don’t do this.” Śivānandajī replied, “I bow down to that knowledge. When that knowledge is in you, you are a very valuable suitcase.” They sat in satsaṅg, and the ācārya began to count how many degrees he had—the four Vedas, the Upaniṣads, and so on. In India, when a person speaks while resting one leg on the other knee and constantly massages the sole of the foot, that indicates a proud ego. A wise person will know how foolish this person is. Śivānandajī asked, “Did you learn yoga? All kinds of yoga?” “Yes,” the man replied. “Did you learn the paint pot?” Śivānandajī enquired. The paint pot means: a person is lying in the hospital, and you go to fetch the pot for urine or for the toilet. He said, “I don’t know what a paint pot is. That yoga I did not learn.” Śivānandajī said, “Tomorrow morning. Now you are tired; go and rest. Would you like a glass of milk?” He answered, “Yes, I like to drink milk before going to sleep.” About eighty per cent of all Indians drink a glass of milk before sleep. I too used to do it, but the Europeans changed me, and therefore there are many things I do not wish to tell. At 3:30 in the morning, Śivānandajī woke him: “Let us go to the Gaṅgā.” It was winter, and the cold Gaṅgā water was about five degrees and deep. Śivānandajī chanted, “Oṁ bhūr bhuvaḥ svaḥ tatsavitur vareṇyaṁ bhargo devasya dhīmahi dhiyo yo naḥ pracodayāt,” and offered water to Sūrya Nārāyaṇa. As he continued chanting, the ācārya felt cold and asked, “How long shall we do this, Gurujī?” “Oh, alright, let us go and do yoga,” said Śivānandajī. Śivānandajī was a doctor. Each morning he would visit different huts, caves, sādhus, and poor people who were ill, giving them medicines. You can ask his disciples about this. He then took the ācārya to a place and handed him a pot for the toilet. Śivānandajī himself used to carry out the urine pots. He said, “I thought you were a great saint.” Then he added, “I did not say I am a great saint. I am a servant. But I am teaching you that the yoga you still have not learned is this.” The ācārya responded, “I don’t need that yoga.” Śivānandajī said, “Time will come; you will know.” Śivānandajī taught that ego, hatred, jealousy, anger, pride, and similar qualities will push you down. We sometimes hear the same thing: Jesus said that if someone slaps you on one cheek, you should turn the other. Yet even when someone merely tells us something, our anger or proud ego is so strong that our heart—our own heart, not another’s—breaks into pieces. Therefore, it is not easy. Our great disciple of Mahāprabhujī, Maṅgīlālji, had a similar situation. But after he came to Mahāprabhujī, he learned. When Holī Gurujī was present, Mahāprabhujī said, “Serve everyone. Clean and place those shoes to one side.” And what will we say? “I am a swāmī. I will do these things when those people come next time.” “Swāmījī, you gave me sannyāsa. You must respect my orange dress.” Yes, I respect the orange dress, not your ego. So we must obey for about twenty-five or nearly thirty years. One swāmī came from Hawaii. He had a very large Hindu monastery with perhaps one or two hundred monks, and they were very, very disciplined. You could not enter without permission. Of course, there may be duality or non-duality; it is a good little thing. They do not allow women where the monks are, nor outside people where the women monks are. Maṅgīlālji used to say: the Gurudev’s words and our ego—that is a story, a real story. Long ago, during the time of the Turks in India, the Mughals, they ruled as kings of kings. Yet some of them respected the sādhus and saints—otherwise India would not have the situation it now has. One emperor had a secretary and advisor who went every day to a guru to learn yoga, meditation, prayers, and to do sevā. The saint would teach that this māyā, this saṃsāra, is just like bubbles on water. Children are given soap water and the bubbles appear, but how long do they last? So we are those bubbles. How long will we be the best, the good, and all that? Finally, we must come to that reality. That master had other disciples too. When the time came for the emperor’s advisor—called the Bahādsā—to marry, the emperor declared that his secretary’s wedding must be the grandest. He invited all the kings and many, many people. The procession stretched about fifty kilometres; it was not even the Kumbh Melā. When a great person calls, everyone wants to come. His secretary was seated on an elephant, beautifully decorated. There were many elephants, camels with drums on their backs, and horses. If you marry, then marry in that way. Do not just hold hands and go to the park, sit together, and say, “We will marry now.” Such a marriage will also end in such a way. Not only your friends but even the heavens should know that a human being is marrying. Animal culture is different. This is not just a story; it is a reality. As the procession moved, the secretary came near his gurujī’s garden. He told the mahout, “Stop the elephant. I am going to my gurujī.” The mahout said, “You are going to your gurujī? You are like a king of kings now.” He replied, “Don’t talk.” The elephant sat down, and he got out to make praṇām to his gurujī. At that time, the gurujī had a big heart—a heart of love, kindness, and humility, but also like a warrior. In those days, heroes opened their chests and went into the battlefield, not like today where they sit somewhere and drop bombs from afar. The gurujī saw his disciple approaching. On the disciple’s crown there was a crest—what they call a mor banne? The gurujī said, “I thought you came to attain mokṣa, Brahmaloka. And what have you put on your head? This crown is the way to naraka. I will remember the name in a moment. I am old now; the memory fades.” Then the name came: “His name was Rajab. Rajab, from Turkey.” And he uttered this poem: “Rājab, tūne gajab kiyā, sir pe bāndhā mor, āyā to Hari bhajan ko, jā rahā narak kī or.” You understand? The gurujī said, “Oh my God, what have you done? You came to go to God, and you are going to naraka.” The disciple replied, “Gurudev, your disciple will not go to naraka. I will go to heaven with you. I will not go for a woman.” People came and asked, “Please come, please come.” He said, “No.” Then the emperor himself, the Bāṭsā, came and said, “Rajab, what is this nāṭak, this game? Let us go.” But the rājā stretched his legs towards the emperor like Saravītāsana, which is a great humiliation for a king. The emperor said, “Since when have you learned to stretch your legs towards me?” Rajab answered, “Since the moment I gave up my slavery. I am no longer your slave.” The king left, the people left. I do not know what happened further—whether the poor girl was crying or not. So that chapter finished there, but Rajab’s chapter continued. Who is a disciple? Rajab stayed with his gurujī. But all his life, the gurujī made him wear beautiful clothes, as if he were always about to marry. Other disciples—perhaps like me—grew jealous. All the sannyāsīs sat together and grumbled because he had been the king’s secretary and the gurujī gave him fine clothes every day, while they did not even have a proper langot (loincloth). They were angry all the time. Rajab always sat outside, a little to one side, letting others stay near the gurujī. Everyone claimed, “I am the best disciple of gurujī,” and wondered why gurujī was so innocent that he showed more respect to this disciple just because he was the emperor’s advisor. One day, the gurujī went to another āśram or village for a bandhārā—a feast. About twenty or thirty disciples accompanied him, and Rajab walked behind. On the way, they came to a channel of dirty canal water, about half a metre wide. The gurujī stopped and held his nose. One disciple said, “What happened, gurujī? It is so stinky; I cannot cross it.” Another said, “Gurujī, just take my hand and let us jump.” Someone else said, “Gurujī, you are a yogī; smell or no smell, it doesn’t matter.” Everyone offered the gurujī advice. Then Rajab arrived. The gurujī said, “Rajab, I cannot cross this dirty water channel.” Rajab replied, “That’s all?” and lay down across it. The gurujī walked over him to the other side. After fifty metres, the gurujī turned to the others: “You are all jealous of him. You were afraid your robes would get dirty, though his were like a king’s garments. He did not think for one second that his dress would become soiled; his only sorrow was that his gurudev might not cross the water.” Every disciple looked down. So, to attain our goal, it will not be achieved through rockets, aeroplanes, trains, or cars. It is the inner, and “inner” means the hint the gurudev gives. There are granthas, books. Some are written clearly, and we can change a few words to express them in our own way. But the hint within the poetry—that is what must be understood. Gurujī’s knowledge, the bhajans he wrote: one bhajan says that the lotus of the heart, the Śivalotus, opens if you put ointment in your eyes every day. Who understands? Some will interpret it another way. But the heart-lotus opens when, every day, you apply that ointment. Every man wakes in the morning and makes himself presentable. That ointment is the mantra, the chant—the mantra Dīpanī Reñjanez. So each time we meditate, we should touch our heart, and with that mantra, each petal of the heart opens. Yet if there is something negative—if there is sand in your cream—you will rub your eyes the whole day and gain nothing. Gurujī, in no time, would write a bhajan. We too can write something, but it will not touch the heart of all. Do not think that one cannot achieve this. A man once came to our holy gurujī, Swāmī Madhavānandajī, and said, “Gurujī, I wish to write many bhajans, but all the good words have been taken by Mīrābāī, Tulsīdāsjī, Sūradāsjī, and others. They took all the butter. What remains is buttermilk.” Gurujī replied, “Yes, you are right. But you should know something.” The man asked, “What should I know?” Gurujī said: “Makkhan khāyā to kyā huā, dhenu hamāre pās, charā ḍālo prem kā, duho din rāt.” If they ate the butter, so what? The cow is still with us. Feed it the fodder of love; milk it day and night, and take a little butter. There is no problem. This is the process. Do not merely write something for yourself. When the Anahat Chakra, the Hṛdaya Kamala, opens, that lotus opens to everyone. I will not look to one side or the other. Before the sun rises, it opens its heart to all. So how do we achieve this? In Europe, you make sauerkraut; in India, we do not know how to make sauerkraut, and if we attempt it, our stomachs will pain. Each has its own process, and this process we are engaged in is sādhanā. The best sādhanā is the words, the satsaṅg of the gurudev. And the best song is gurudev’s words: “Satguru satsaṅg kī yārī, o luwābe.” The real bhakta is one who longs to meet all our guru brothers and sisters in the gurudev’s satsaṅg. Tomorrow there will be more, but this subject arose through Mātājī. Nearly two decades she has been here. It was not an easy time. She did not know the language, the tradition, how to cook, how to shop, how to count Indian money. And her family was very far away. People asked me, “Swāmījī, what kind of woman have you brought here?” I said, “Why?” They said, “She doesn’t speak Hindi, and when she sends people to buy something, they don’t understand.” So she had her technique: she would bring one potato and say, “Potato, potato... and potato. Money, one rupee, two and a half rupees, potatoes, this money.” A person would go to buy potatoes. Exactly, he understood and bought seven potatoes because they were measured. She was angry. “Why seven? Go back. Too much money!” The boy said, “No, the money was only one and a half rupees.” She said, “No, no, go and bring two bottles back.” And people said she was a stupid lady. Yet she was exact. She had a hard life. Now they always request, “Please don’t send Mātājī away.” When I went to Kāṭhū last time, they said, “Without Mātājī, there is no good atmosphere.” One of my disciples told me, “I am so sad. Every morning I would go to the Śiva temple and see Mātājī. Now I go, and there is no Mātājī.” So, even without knowing the language, culture, or traditions, one can do everything slowly. Do not say, “This is stupid, we don’t want it.” Take the example of Maria Theresia: she went to India with nothing, and now you know what she is. It was not easy for her, and even when people were angry with her, she remained very calm. Kill your mind. Do not be angry with others. Do not divide others. Yes, divide it within yourself, in your heart. Gurujī told this story, and you can see it in the Līlā Amṛt. Many sannyāsīs came to gurujī as disciples, but they were jealous of him. Gurujī did nothing; he always sat apart, far away. Whatever money gurujī received as donation, he gave it all to Mahāprabhujī. He would come and place his bag there—that was all. Mahāprabhujī would check and ask, “Why did you bring all these things? Someone gave new clothes and this and that.” He would say, “I have no place here. Now you take them for your use.” Gurujī would reply, “No, do not give them to me. They are a burden. You gave me the burden. When I need money, give it to me there, not here.” In Khattu, whatever came, he gave to gurujī, to Mahāprabhujī. Because what belongs to gurujī is not mine. What is my situation? Who gave it to me? Not you, not him, not there. It is the gurujī who gives, and so it is his, not mine. I am only a carrier. Gurujī told me—he wrote in his testament, which I read only later—“Mahesh, I trust you that this ashram will remain an ashram; you will not rent it or sell it. I trust and have hope in you.” You can read my testament. To another person he said, “I know you gave me everything, but maybe…” Sometimes we wonder, “Why does gurujī take everything?” But gurujī said, “I give you a thousand times more than you give me. You take a burden for me.” When Paramahaṁsa Yogānanda went to Japan and America, many jealous disciples blackmailed his own gurus, saying, “That gurujī is in America, enjoying this and that.” So his gurujī wrote a letter: “You are a sannyāsī; you are not for this, not for that. You should come back.” The letter was somewhat hard. Yogānanda replied: “Gurudeva, I will be Thy devotee. Devotees will come and devotees will go, but I will be Thine, O Gurudeva, even though I am far—far from the stars. Still, my Gurudev, I will be Thine. Even if I die, just look into my eyes; my eyes will tell my Gurudev, I will be Thine.” That is the one who understands the Guru, who understands the Guru Vākya. That one achieved it. There were many, many disciples of Gurujī—what was his name? Viśokanand? Yukteśvar. Yes, he had many very good disciples. But he wrote back to Yogānanda: “Dulara”—meaning when father or mother plays with a small child on their lap and hands. “O Yogānanda, you are that loving dulara in my heart.” So, we are trying. Still, I am trying, and I hope I will not fail. That is all. Because gurujī has not died. He is everywhere—in front and behind, to the right and left, above and below. Swāmī Śivānanda said, “Right is home, left is home, above is home, below is home. Front is home, behind is home, everywhere is home.” So, though the masters try to give a great deal of knowledge, sometimes they cannot. Okay, today has been nearly two hours—my God! One and a half plus one. Thank you. I wish you all the best. All of our bhaktas around the world, bless you. This was the satsaṅg, thanks to our Mātājī from Kāṭhū Āśram; she gave me the inspiration.