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Śrī Dīp Nārāyaṇ Bhagavān Kī Jai, Śrī Śrī Deveśvar Mahādev Kī Jai, Dharma Samrācak Guru Svāmī Madhavānandajī Bhagavān Kī Jai, Satya Sanātana Dharma Kī Jai. Ōṃ Brahmānandam Param Sukhadam Kevalam Jñānam Ūrtyam Vandatītam Gaganasadṛśam Tasmāsyādilakṣyam Ekam Nityam Vimalāchalam Sarvādhiṣakṣibhūtam Bhāvātītam Mātṛiguṇarahitam Satgurutam Anāmamyam, Om Śānti, Śānti, Śānti. Maharishi Patañjali’s Yoga Sūtra begins with Samādhi Pāda, the chapter on samādhi. The only lakṣya, the aim of yoga practice or any spiritual path, is the upliftment of consciousness. Everything plays out within consciousness—that is the miracle of consciousness. Patañjali explains samādhi: literally, it means the higher consciousness which, at the end of this life, merges into the cosmic consciousness. Where duality disappears, the reality of non-duality appears or is realized. Knowledge, knower, and object—three become one. That is the highest level of consciousness. Knowledge is our self, what we would like to know, and the object about which we would like to know. When these three merge into oneness, that is samādhi. But along the way, Patañjali warns us and makes us alert to the obstacles that can suddenly appear on our journey to samādhi. Unless we purify or remove those obstacles, we cannot achieve it. For that, we need a healthy body, a healthy mind, and a healthy intellect. We need healthy belief, not fanaticism. Without dualities and discriminations, we need the guidance of the master. Among all obstacles, there is one that is very, very difficult to overcome—moha. Some translate moha as ignorance, but moha means attachment, dependence. It is being so deeply attached that we do not want to realize, or even to hear about, separation from that object. In this way, attachment is ignorance. It is ignorance to say, “It belongs to me,” whether referring to the body, thoughts, feelings, properties, relatives, parents, or partners. Anything you think is yours is only temporary; sooner or later it will disappear, be taken away, or be separated by death. There is a difference between attachment and relation. Relation can exist without suffering, with love and understanding, but our attachment comes with suffering. Holy Gurujī, our dear Gurudev, Hindu Dharm Samrāṭ Śrī Svāmī Madhavānandajī Mahārāj, told a story about this in 1968. At that time, we stayed together in an ashram in Jaipur. The Jaipur ashram did not yet exist; we were at Amrapur Ashram, a beautiful place where many sādhus and saints reside under very strict rules. When the bell rings, everyone must come for tea, milk, juice, breakfast, lunch, or dinner, and that time lasts only 45 minutes. If you come late, you have to wait for the next bell. The ashram has two satsaṅgs daily, morning and evening, and no one can stay more than three days without permission. If you need to go somewhere during those three days, you must inform the bhaktas; otherwise, you will find your room locked and your belongings outside upon your return. Such discipline resonates with Patañjali’s very first sūtra: Atha yogānuśāsanam. Yoga begins with discipline; the success of yoga lies in discipline. Without discipline, life is not successful. Where there is discipline, there are no arguments. Quality and discipline do not compromise. After two days, it was Gurujī’s turn to give satsaṅg. The ashram informed him, and on the blackboard was written that Śrī Svāmī Madhavānandajī would speak on the subject of moha—attachment, dependence. Gurujī, an ocean of wisdom, could speak beautifully at any moment, even creating new bhajans in his speech. He began the lecture with delight, saying that moha means suffering. Where there is moha, there will be disappointment, pain, anger, hate, jealousy, ego, offense, and feelings of humiliation. Where moha is, darkness is, and you can be sure you will not be successful. He urged everyone to become nirmohī—free from attachment. Then Gurujī told a story. Long ago, there lived a king known as Nirmohī Rājā, a king without attachment—nearly impossible. He had one son, a young prince who loved riding horses in the forest, not for hunting, just to wander. One day, the prince went with his friends, and they lost contact. He came near a cave with a spring and a waterfall. Thirsty, he dismounted, drank, washed, and refreshed his horse. As he rested, a yogī emerged from the cave. The prince bowed and said, “I am the son of Nirmohī Rājā.” The yogī was surprised: “A king with no moha? Being a king?” The prince confirmed, “Yes, my father is Nirmohī, and he taught us all to be so. My wife, my mother—we are all Nirmohī.” The yogī decided to test the king and asked the prince for his shirt. Tearing and dyeing it with dark red spots like blood, he went to the palace. The king, seeing the guest, welcomed him barefoot, a true tapasyā. “Welcome to my palace,” he said, “though it is not mine; I merely reside here. It is your place. What a blessed day! If you had sent a message, I would have come running for your darśan. Why did you take the trouble?” The yogī, playing a theatre to gauge the depth of love, sighed with feigned sorrow. The king asked what could sadden him. With tears, the yogī showed the bloodstained shirt. The king recognized it and said, “Your Holiness knows well that every life has counted breaths. Destiny determines the span; not a second can be added. Why did you interrupt your meditation for this?” Unsettled, the yogī asked to meet the queen. He told her the same story, adding that the king seemed to have gone into shock. But the queen only said, “Thank you for the news. I am happy he is not suffering anymore. But why disturb your meditation? A hungry tiger found its food, and you took it away. When you are hungry and someone snatches your plate, how would you feel? Whoever comes into this world must go. Please return the body to the tiger.” The yogī then went to the prince’s wife. She too received him with reverence and heard the news calmly. “Every jīva comes with their karma,” she said, “and one day everyone must go. He is no longer separate; his ātmā has merged into mine. Please do not take trouble—just go and pray.” At this point, the king addressed his daughter‑in‑law, asking her to come to the queen, and then to him. She agreed, and the three were brought together before the yogī. The yogī then revealed the truth: “Now I trust you are a Nirmohī king. Your son is safe; he met me in the forest and told me he is the son of Nirmohī Rājā. I said that in this mortal world, a human cannot be free of moha, but now I find you truly are.” The king replied, “It is your blessing and your līlā.” The prince returned home happily. Gurujī’s beautiful story illustrates the ideal of nirmohī. And there is a bhajan in which Meera Bai says to Krishna, “Nirmohī”—so much I pray, yet you do not care at all; you have no moha. It is easy to say, but very, very hard to realize. When salt goes under the skin, then you feel it burn. That is how far you must come to attain samādhi and become one with the Cosmic Consciousness. Once, Mahāprabhujī was asked if a certain disciple had realized samādhi. He replied, “Yes, he is in the greatest samādhi every day—if you give him delicious, spicy food, let him walk, and then he returns tired and sleeps, that is his samādhi.” And that is often our samādhi too: a little sitting, some prāṇāyāma, and then drowsiness. Therefore, we must awaken ourselves, Chetan. This is easy to speak, beautiful to hear, very interesting to read—but where is the reality? That reality is what the great saint Patañjali wishes for his devotees, which is why the first chapter is called Samādhi Pāda. Everyone would like samādhi, so much so that there is even a commercial “Samādhi tank” filled with salty water, closed like a solar box, where people lie in darkness hoping for a brown skin. But in samādhi there is no darkness. We must seek the inner color of the Ātmā, the divine color. “O Krishna, color me. Color my soul not black or white, green, yellow, or red, but in the color of Your divine consciousness.” A washed man may wash many lives with machines day and night, but that color will not fade. Color me with that color. There is also a bhajan by Kabīr Dās Jī Mahārāj: “Chadariyā Jīnī Re Jīnī.” Chadar means cloth, the soul; the body is that chādar which the soul covers itself with, just as we cover the body with cloth. He sang: Aṣṭa Kamala Kā Cakra Banāyā, Aṣṭ Kamal Kā Carkhā Banāyā Pāñca Tatva Kī Punnī. Eight lotuses mean the eight chakras; he made a spinning wheel with those eight turning. The cotton being spun is the pañca tattva, the five elements—ākāśa, agni, vāyu, jal, and pṛthvī (space, fire, wind, water, earth). This body is made of the five elements. It took nine or ten months to fashion this body, but the foolish one soiled the soul through karma—through negative karmas and negative thinking, again and again. Nārāyaṇa, Nārāyaṇa. Chab merī chādar banā gharāī, Ranga reja ko dīnī. When the cloth was prepared and brought home (that is, you were born), it was given to the dyer—the one who colors the fabric. The place where we sit now, this beautiful island Paśman and its harmonious centre called Harmony, influences us in the same way. May you all be blessed. Dear brothers and sisters, bhaktas, devotees, yoga practitioners, and spiritual seekers, we shall see when and where God blesses us to be together again and continue Patañjali’s teachings. Until then, God bless you with good health, a happy and harmonious life, and spiritual development. The next broadcast will be announced in time. Bless you in the name of Śrī Alakh Purījī, Siddha Pīṭh Paramparā, Viśokānandajī, Śrī Madhvānanda Purījī, Śrī Madhvānanda Purījī, Śrī Madhvānanda Purījī.