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Part 1: The Wheelchair in the Alps: A Discourse on Viveka, Discipline, and Meditation The story I am about to tell was spoken to me nearly twenty-seven years ago. It comes from Austria, and as you know, Austria is a beautiful country—the heart of Europe, a jewel upon its crown. Its landscape, mountains, and lakes are stunning. Every land has beauty, but Austria possesses a special radiance of nature. Some people compare Austria and Germany with mixed feelings, yet the country itself and its people are truly very kind. One simply needs to know how to approach the heart of an Austrian. But I am not here to advertise Austrian tourism today. We held a retreat, a seminar, in the Austrian countryside—magnificent mountains, the Alps—and the hotel where we stayed accommodated a group of about 130 or 140 people. There was also an old man, perhaps eighty-five or ninety years old. Someone from the hotel who cared for him would bring him outside in his wheelchair. He would sit in the sun, having his breakfast in the open air. Each day as I came and went, I saw him and said, “Good morning, good morning.” That was all we could communicate. Mostly, we say “Hello,” “Hi.” Then, when we want to speak more, we say, “Oh, it’s good weather, isn’t it?” or “Terrible weather, isn’t it? Have a good day. Thank you.” We have lost person-to-person relationship. We begin with the weather and we stop with the weather. So few neighbors will speak with us and ask, “How are you? How is everything at home? How is this?” and other personal things. Nowadays, if you speak to someone about personal matters — “How are you?” and so on — the person thinks, “My God, what interest do they have in asking me all these questions?” We have lost trust. Well, one day I asked that man, “How are you, sir?” And he replied, “Young man, not good. Now, you cannot just walk away.” At the very least, you should show respect and say, “Yes, what has happened?” So I said, “Do you have pain, or what happened?” He said, “Sit down.” I sat beside him. He was always lonely. People came and went, only saying “Good Scott, good duck, hello, good day” — that was all. As I sat there, you could feel that he was ready to cry. He told me, “You know, I was the director of a big company. Two thousand people worked under me. I had a beautiful official car, my own private car, three houses — one in Vienna and two in different parts of the Austrian countryside. I had so many friends; they would call, ‘Hello, come to the party!’ I hardly had a free evening. And of course, I had money too. But you know, I am old now. I had only one child, my daughter. She is living in Germany. On my birthday or at Christmas, she just telephones or comes once a year and says, ‘Hello, how are you, Father?’ I don’t know what happened to my houses or where my cars have gone. Those friends who used to hug me and behave like my own children or brothers — I ask myself, where are they today? When I didn’t need them, they were all there. Now that I need them, no one is there. I don’t even know who has the rights to my bank account, or if there is any money at all. My daughter put me in an old people’s home, I had to sign something, and that’s all.” So the elderly carry memories, disappointments, love, happiness, and wealth. We humans take off, make noise, and experience some turbulence, but when we reach the height, the altitude, we then fly smoothly. The beginning is something like this, but when you truly come to spirituality, it is divine. Sumiraṇ kar le mere mana. Now repeat your mantra, my mind. Terī bītī umar Hari nām binā — your life has passed without this mantra. The Name is God, God’s name. Without mantra, without spirituality, it is like a bird without wings — pakṣī paṅk binā. Hastī dant binā — an elephant without teeth, unable to eat anymore. Deha nayan binā, raina chandra binā, dhartī megh binā, taruvar phal binā — a body without eyes, a night without the moon, an earth without rain, a tree without fruit. With how many images do we compare? Still, we do not understand. Still, we carry doubt. We can only thank God that we are healthy and still have good eyes. We can clap our hands — perfect, no? Solid. But we do not know what our eyes mean. The blind person knows what it means to have eyes. We do not know what sound is, but the deaf person — the one who cannot hear — knows what it means. What do sweet words mean? When you cannot hear anything, then for you it does not matter what others are saying — “I love you,” or “I hate you,” “You are stupid,” or “You are beautiful.” No. Yes, that is it. So one cannot begin meditation, one cannot begin the sādhanā, one cannot hold that spiritual mantra or enter the spiritual path unless one realizes this. And when you realize it, it is too late. That is how our topic began with that elderly man of ninety-five years. In those ninety-five years, he lived through memories, happiness, love, comfort, and two world wars. To survive in this world, wars were a challenge. The human being is a very beautiful creature, a very perfect being. Humans have everything, yet at the same time human life is a very, very complicated and mysterious life because we know what is bad and what is good. We have viveka — discernment. When one possesses viveka, that viveka will decide. And whoever lacks viveka dwells in the darkness of ignorance, laziness, ego, pride, the refusal to accept anything, and so many other things. First comes viveka. From this planet up to Brahmaloka, the highest world, all that we think is for our enjoyment is merely like dust. Name and fame — Lord Kṛṣṇa says in the Bhagavad Gītā that one who is above name and fame is a vivekī, a true yogī. First there is viveka — satya asatya kā nyārā nyārā — distinguishing what is truth and what is not truth. It is said that there is a swan, a Paramahaṃsa swan, that lives in Lake Mānasarovara. That Paramahaṃsa is very, very rare, and it reveals itself only to a few. But the holy saints can see it. The paramahaṃsa swan has this ability: if you mix milk and water together and serve it, that Paramahaṃsa will take the milk and leave the water behind. Similarly, those who have attained this higher level of consciousness through the practice of mantra and meditation — through this viveka, they leave behind the water of Māyā and drink the milk of spirituality, and soar beyond. Without mantra, meditation is a body without a soul. So it is not easy to realize everything. A woman’s name is Lakṣmī, but she does not even have one pound to buy a piece of bread. “My name is Lakṣmī” — Lakṣmī is the goddess of wealth. A man’s name is Viveka, and he is totally in the darkness of ignorance, sitting with ego, laziness, and no knowledge whatsoever. A person is named Prakāś, which means light, but he also sits in darkness. Another is called Santoṣ, satisfaction, yet still suffering, still dissatisfied — “I don’t like this, I don’t like that; I like this, no, I don’t.” A name is Yogamitra, but the person remains in conflicts. What kind of yogamitra is that? Her name is Dayā Mātā, but I will not tell you further. So it is said: the name you have received, you must realise it. Thus meditation — it is the power of that meditation. Saṅkalpa Śakti, Icchā Śakti. Your Icchā Śakti will become perfect. Icchā Śakti, Saṅkalpa Śakti. Icchā means your desire or your wish; saṅkalpa is your resolution. The resolve you make ought to come true. Yet sometimes you stretch out your hands and receive nothing. The Anāhata Chakra, the heart centre, is the seat of Icchā Śakti, the artist. This morning we spoke about art. The Anāhata Chakra and the Ājñā Chakra — both should be open and purified. So Icchā Śakti, the fulfilment of your wishes, flows from the heart. But before you wish for anything, you must have your viveka very clear. Buddhi, the intellect, can be flexible; intellect is changeable, but viveka is not. If viveka changes, it is not viveka; it is the selfishness of buddhi, the intellect, the mind. Viveka is the highest, the finest quality of the intellect, and it cannot change. Reality is reality. Therefore, when a yogī once begins and truly enters sādhanā, it is said: even the mighty Himalayas may start to shake, but my trust, my belief, will not shake. The moon and sun may alter their course, but I will not alter mine. Such a solid saṅkalpa, such a decision — you work toward it, and it is your meditation that will carry you forward very comfortably. Nothing is impossible; everything is possible if you have discipline, self-discipline. That is what the great sage Patañjali says. Atha yogānuśāsanam — “Now, I tell you the disciplines through which your yoga sādhanā, your practice, your aim, can succeed.” And that means anuśāsan — discipline. It is Patañjali’s word that discipline is the key to success. Self-discipline — for what? So that you perform your sādhanā on time, without neglecting it, without changing. In the beginning it may be a little difficult, but then it becomes your nature, your habit. Habit is the second nature of a person. So, what kind of habit do you have that turns into your nature? If you abuse a drug, that becomes the nature of your body; the body demands it again and again. Similarly, there is a bhajan: I too am intoxicated by a drug, but it is the name of God. My divine intoxication is that divine name of God. Practise for two or three months daily, every day, and automatically the time will come when your inner self will require it. You will say, “Now is my time for meditation.” You sit, you close your eyes, and off you go — you are deep in meditation. Practice, practice, practice. Practice makes perfect. But if there is no discipline, then you say, “Oh, today I am tired.” Prasiṃhaprabhujī, today I am tired. Tomorrow, your friend telephones: “Hey, I invite you for evening dinner.” “Well, he is my friend; practice I can do anytime.” You come home, “Oh, I ate too much, I can’t.” Pāṣaḍravī Mahāprabhujī, Hari Om, Praṇām Mahāprabhujī, and you go to sleep. On the third day, someone invites you to the cinema: “This is the last day this film is showing.” “Yes, I had an interest in seeing that film recently, okay, I will come.” So, you see, that is a kind of temptation for a yogī, a test to see if the yogī will remain strong enough, if there will be discipline. The Āsūrī Śaktis, which we spoke about yesterday, are negative powers constantly sending negative energies. Through which form they come, we do not know; that is the problem. The great saint Kabīr Dās says that Triguṇātīt, liye kardol — the one beyond the three guṇas, holding a staff in hand — is always looking for the chance to catch you, to pull you up, to hang you. Māyā mahā ṭhaginī ham jānī, rājā ke rānī ho kar baiṭhī — “I know Māyā to be a great deceiver: she becomes a queen for a king.” Tīrath meṅ bhai pānī — “At a holy place she becomes the sacred water.” Mandir meṅ mūrat ho kar baiṭhī — “In a temple she becomes a statue.” Yogī ke bhai chelī — “She becomes a disciple of a yogī.” Kabīr Dās gives so many examples: you never know when Māyā may attack you to hang you up, meaning it will kill your spirituality. Therefore, it is said: Is jag meṅ raho to aise raho — “If I live in this world, O Lord, help me to live like this: just as a lotus flower remains in the water.” The lotus flower grows in a kind of dirty, muddy water, yet its blossom rises above the water, beautiful. From that dirt emerges such a beautiful blossom. If water falls on its petals, it slides off. Similarly, we must learn to live in this world like the lotus flower. We are in Māyā. The lotus flower cannot exist without that water. Take the water away, empty the lake, and the next day you will see the flower drooping, hanging. In the same way, when we go out of this māyā, out of this world, we will die — that means death. We have to live here, but above. It should not attach to you. That’s it. So when we meditate, everything becomes clear and protects us from this illusion, these temptations, which seem to be real but are not. Things are given to you temporarily — it does not matter what. Even your parents are given to you temporarily, even your children are given to you temporarily. And your partner nowadays is very temporary, no? Nowadays a plastic toy can last a whole life, but this biological toy… So Māyā — meditation gives us contentment. Thus meditation is the way to the Self, and that Self represents the cosmic Self — So’ham. Now we will have a meditation after a ten‑minute interval. During these ten minutes, if you have any questions, you can write them on a piece of paper, but please write a little clearly so that I can read and understand. The person who will read these answers does not work in a chemistry shop that can decipher every doctor’s handwriting. Thank you. Enjoy your ten‑minute break. A written question was then asked: “When Devpurījī gave three sons to the merchant in exchange for three chapatis, did he overcome that parent’s destiny, change it, or did he reveal the destiny that they didn’t know?” Part 2: The Crow’s Test: A Devotee’s Love and the Master’s Grace Devpurījī always used to say, “God takes upon himself the destiny of the devotee.” In the same way, Gurudev takes upon himself the destiny of devotees. And so, he took that destiny upon himself and freed the devotee. It is like going into a dark room, taking the darkness in your hand, and then stepping into the light. When you open your hand, there is no sign of darkness. Similarly, such great saints can change or delete destiny. A beautiful story comes to my mind, but it will take time if I tell you. Should I tell you? You will then say, “Swāmījī didn’t give us meditation.” But to understand, it is not an easy destiny. There was a man searching for God, wanting to see God. Who doesn’t? We would all like to see God, wouldn’t we? He made contact with some spiritual people—like some of you—and one of them told him, “You will see God, but not here in the city—in the forest.” The man trusted this, went to the forest, and was told, “Don’t sleep in ignorance, because it could happen: God comes and you are sleeping.” So he didn’t eat, he didn’t drink. There was nothing to eat in the forest—mountains, high mountains, a hot climate—and all the time he kept his eyes open. After several days without eating, drinking, or sleeping, he was extremely tired. He lay on a rock with open eyes, waiting for God. “My dear one will come.” Someone said, “Wilt thou come? Wilt thou come? Just once, come to me. The door of my heart is open wide for thee. Night and day, night and day, I look for thee.” Then a big crow came—like in London, in the park, where there are very big crows. The crow looked at this man, who was nearly dying. It waited for one day, but the man did not die. The second day, he still had not died, but he was very weak. Crows will not attack a living creature, so the crow watched. Yet this crow was also hungry, and it saw that the man had no strength even to move his hand, nearly like a dead body. The crow flew down and sat on the man’s ribs. With its very sharp beak, it bit into his stomach to pull out his intestines. Again and again it pecked, managing to get something—maybe from the kidney area, I wasn’t there, so I can’t tell you exactly what it was. The man kept looking into empty space, thinking, “My Lord will come.” The crow asked the man, “Is it painful?” At least the crow had ahiṃsā. Is it painful? And the man answered—he spoke through his eyes. The saint-poet who wrote this poem describes the story of love; this is the story of the love of devotees for their God. The crow asks, “Is it painful?” And the man answers, “Kāgā Crow, O Crow, Kāgā sab tan khāyo.” With his eyes swimming in tears, he says: Kāgā, sab tan khāyo, chun chun khāyo māas, magar do nain mat khāyo, piyā milan kiyā. “Crow, eat my whole body, pick out and eat every piece of flesh. But, my friend, one request: please don’t eat my two eyeballs. I still have a hope to see my beloved with these eyes.” The crow jumped down beside him, in front of him, and said, “Are you crazy, man? Stupid? Who is your lover? You will find someone else.” The man again spoke to the crow: “My friend, if it were a piece of paper, I could read to you what is written on it. But I cannot read to you my destiny. If it were a piece of wood, I could break it. Preet ṭūṭī na jāy—but love I cannot break.” Kāgaj ho to paḍle un, kismat paḍā na jāy. Tinkā ho to toḍe un, preet toḍe un. The crow looked left and right, looked up, and then looked into the man’s eyes. It smiled and changed into God Viṣṇu, with four hands—one holding a lotus flower, then Sudarśana Cakra, Śaṅkha, and Gadā. God said, “My dear, I am that one. That was a hard test for you, but I want to know if you really love me or not.” Viṣṇu gave a blessing, and immediately the man became healthy again, as if nothing was missing—no wound from the crow’s bite, and everything restored. He got up. The Lord embraced him, looked at him, and smiled. In that smiling, the man was full of joy, and tears were falling. He said, “Lord,” and closed his eyes, and the Lord dematerialized. So, do you have time to wait? Mīrā, the great saint, said: Mīrā Dāsī janam janam kī Hari tumāre sāth. “O Lord, over many, many lives I have been with you. Darśan do—now, please come to me.” She sings in front of the temple: Darśana do Ghanśyāma nātha, merī āṅkhyā pyāsī re. “O Lord, show me, give me your darśana. My eyes are thirsty for you.” Mandir mandir mūrat terī, phir bina dekhī sūrat terī. “In every temple there is a statue of you, but still I cannot see your face.” Ghaṭ ghaṭ ke vāsī re. “You dwell in every heart.” Darśana do Ghanśyāma nātha, merī āṅkhyā pyāsī re. It is a beautiful bhajan, beautiful from Mīrā. So, Gurudev takes upon himself the destiny of the devotee—if devotees are like that one, who cared nothing about the body, its feelings, pain, or pleasure.