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Part 1: The Mother’s Wisdom and the Muni’s Ego Om Śrī Lakpūr Jī Mahādeva Kī Jai, Devādau Deva Devaśvara Mahādeva Kī Jai, Śrīdīp Nārāyaṇa Bhagavān Kī Jai, Hindu Dharma Samrāṭ Paramahaṁsa Svāmī Śrī Madhavānanda and Pūjya Sadgurudeva Bhagavān Kī Jai, Viśva Guru Mahāmaṇḍaleśvara Paramahaṁsa Svāmī Śrī Māheśvara Ānandapurajī Gurudeva Kī Jaya. Salutations to the Cosmic Self. Salutations to Śrī Lakpūr Jī Sadgurudeva Paramparā. I offer my praṇām to our beloved Gurudev, His Holiness, Viśvaguru Mahāmaṇḍaleśvara Paramahaṁsa Svāmī Māheśvarānanda Purījī. Good morning to all of you present here and watching through Swamiji TV. We were discussing the four stages of life and how it is hard for a mother to let go of her caring, loving, affectionate, motherly love for her child—to let her children go and follow the path of sannyāsa dharma. There was a king named Gopīchand. He lived his life fully in pleasure and had three wives. Nowadays, it is hard for people to manage even one; imagine having three. One would say, "Eat and drink water," and another would say, "No, no, you are not so." But he had three wives; it was normal for kings to have as many as they wished. Gopīchand had everything in life, all the worldly pleasures he could ever desire. His father had passed away, so his mother lived with him, and he loved her dearly. One day, he was in a pool with his three wives, enjoying himself. His mother watched from the castle balcony. She looked down, saw her son engaged in these activities with his wives, and felt very sad. She began to cry. A tear fell from her eye onto her son’s back as he sat in the pool. Tears are warm when they come out, and feeling that warm drop, Gopīchand immediately looked up and grew angry. "Oh, mother, who made you upset? Who made you cry? Tell me now. I will go and punish him; I will kill him." Seeing his heated reaction, the mother wiped her tears and said, "Nothing, nothing, it’s okay." In the evening, Gopīchand calmed down and asked her again at dinner, "Mother, please tell me, who upset you? Who made you cry?" Gopīchand’s mother said, "You, my dear." He was shocked and astonished. "Why me? What did I do?" She said, "Seeing you always indulged in these materialistic activities, always enjoying your life, makes me sad." These are saṁskāras one gets from parents. It depends on how you bring up your children; there is always good or bad. When we are kids, our parents or guru tell us what is not good and what is good, what we should not do and what we should do. Our parents were taught the same by their parents, and their parents by theirs, so certain rules and regulations form in a family over generations. If a child goes to his or her mother and says, "Mother, I would like to become a sannyāsī. I want to go, find the truth, and become one with the supreme self," the mother will likely say, "No, I need a child. I need a grandchild. The generation must go on." That is what they heard from their parents: "You should not become a sannyāsī; you need to live a normal gṛhastha life." Gopīchand’s mother said, "Your father was the same, always indulged in this māyā, and you will not try to devote yourself a little more to spirituality." Gopīchand asked, "Mother, what would you like from me?" The mother replied, "I would like you to go and discover yourself. I would like you to go and search for who you are. I would like you to embark on a spiritual journey." He immediately offered praṇāms to his mother and said, "Whatever you wish will happen." He bid farewell to his three wives and a dozen children, left his palace, and went to the forest. There, he went to an āśram. He had left his house dressed as he was, wearing many necklaces, earrings, rings, and beautiful silk clothes. He offered praṇām to the master, the guru there, and said, "Gurudev, I have come here to renounce everything and become a sannyāsī." The guru said, "In these clothes? I think you look a bit too fancy and stylish to become a sannyāsī. Take off all this." He gave him orange clothes and said, "Wear this." The first instruction the guru gave him was: "Go for bhikṣā. Go beg for food." But guess where his guru sent him? To his own kingdom, where everyone knew him as king. He felt very ashamed and was reluctant to beg in the same place he once ruled—not long ago, just yesterday. In life, it is the same. We never know; today we live a beautiful life, and tomorrow we might end up God knows where. We must learn to adapt to all atmospheres and every place we are in. Like our dear Swami Arjun Purī: one day he was living a normal life, and Swāmījī said, "Tomorrow you take sannyāsa." We should learn to adapt to everything in life. He said, "Yogyā Gurudev, whatever you say, I will do." As a freshly ordained monk, Gurujī sent a senior monk, like Swāmī Umapurījī, to observe and accompany him. He went for bhikṣā around the kingdom. Everyone knew him as king, so they were very generous and gave him whatever they had in their houses. That is the advantage of being famous, no? Like Arjun Purī, being very famous, he received bhikṣā from the people. He then proceeded to his own palace. Outside the palace, he said, "Bhavati, mam bhikṣā," meaning, "Mother, please give food." For a sannyāsī, everyone he sees should be as a mother, a sister, a daughter, a Devī. All three of his wives—sorry, ex-wives—came out. They did not say anything; they began crying, seeing him without any jewelry, without fancy clothes, with nothing but two pieces of cloth. Instead of food, they decided to take off all their jewelry, gold, and everything and give it to Gopīchand, thinking he would buy something nice with it. He gave all that gold to the senior sādhu with him and said, "Please go and offer all this gold to Gurujī. Nothing is ours. We do not possess anything in this life. We received this life, but everything is His. Nothing is ours, not even our body." Then he asked his mother, "Please, can you now give me some bhikṣā?" The mother said, "This is your own house. I am sorry, I cannot give you any bhikṣā." In the Indian tradition, once you become a monk, you are supposed to go to your birthplace after twelve years. After twelve years, you go, and once your mother gives you bhikṣā, you are done, then you return to the āśram. She said, "I am sorry, this is your own pūrva āśram, your previous house. But I would like to give you three pieces of advice." She said, "First, I would like you to always live in a very beautiful and protected palace." He is a monk. The second thing she said was, "I would like you to sleep in a very comfortable bed." You know, when we lie down, we always want nice, comfy beds to sleep on. The third point the mother said was, "I would like you to eat good, nice, nutritious, beautiful food." Gopīchand was very confused. He said, "Mother, yesterday you told me to become a monk. Do you remember that part? Today you want me to have a nice, protected palace, sleep on a soft bed, and eat nice, royal food. Please explain to me how that is going to work." The mother explained: "The ashram where you are, that is your palace. Being protected means the guru whose ashram you are living in. He is protecting the palace, protecting the ashram, and he is your protector. So, a protected palace means living in the ashram under the protection of your Śrī Gurudev." For us, Śrīlī, Jādān, all the ashrams are beautifully protected palaces. "The second point was a comfy bed. By a comfortable bed, I mean that you should do so much sādhanā, so much japa, so much anuṣṭhāna, so many good things while sitting, that after days and days of your sādhanā, you feel so tired that when you sleep on the floor, that floor feels like a comfortable bed." When I was studying in 2014 in the Gurukul in South India, I also slept on what is called a kuśāsan, made of dry grass. Not only the āsan, but the whole bedding was kuśāsan; we slept on the floor with grass matting. Even in daily life, when you go to work or go about your day, you have an office, come back in the evening, perhaps have an argument, sort it out, have dinner, and then maybe fall asleep on the couch, bed, or floor. You still fall asleep because you are tired from the whole day; it does not matter where you sleep. So she told Gopījī, "That is your comfortable bed." "The third point, about eating royal food: from bhikṣā, no matter what you get, offer it to your guru. Then accept that prasāda from him, whatever remains, and that is the beautiful royal food for you. These are the three pieces of advice from me to you." Gopīchand offered praṇām and went to live his life. Gopīchand later became known as one of the founder members of the Nāth Sampradāya. The Nāth paramparā is a very old and known paramparā in India. They are the ones who wear earrings not here, but inside the hole here, usually made of different metals; they also have white ones—I do not know what they are made of. It does not really matter in what life stage you are when you have the blessings of Gurudeva and you are here in the beautiful palace. We do our sādhanās in the ashram, in the seminars, and we should be fortunate enough that we have a roof over our head and a beautiful carpeted floor under our feet. Being satisfied and content with whatever we have—if we keep that mindset, then we will not have any stress or tension. We will just be okay with it and be happy. Yesterday I mentioned we would have a beautiful story about how negative ego can destroy anyone’s sādhanā. There is a difference between sannyāsīs, munis, and ṛṣis. In olden times, munis and ṛṣis also got married and were called gurus for the kings. They could decide to become monks if they wished. One muni was always doing rigorous tapasyā. He did not eat or drink anything because he wanted to make his tapasyā as hard as possible. He used to go to a tree and, not with his hands but directly with his mouth, grab the dry bark falling off the tree and eat it like French fries—crunchy, crunchy. That was his food, only once a day, and then he would go sit in tapasyā again. It did not matter what people offered him; he wanted nothing. Due to his rigorous tapasyā and the power he gained, even before he went to bite the tree, the tree would release its bark beforehand so he would not need to bite it off. He then started thinking, "Oh, I have become such a great tapasvī that now the trees are scared of me. The trees are leaving their barks for me so I do not need to work with my mouth to bite it off." His ego began to rise. You may have heard of Kāmadeva. Kāmadeva wanted to test him. Kāmadeva stood outside the gate of his ashram—the muni did tapasyā in the ashram and then went to a certain tree outside to eat the bark. On the doorway of the ashram, Kāmadeva stood with his bow and arrow, the arrow made of flowers, and blocked the path. When the muni came out, he was stopped by Kāmadeva. The muni asked, "Who are you? How dare you stop me? Do you not know who I am?" We should realize who we are. You do not need to ask Kāmadeva who you are; you should try to realize who you are from inside. Kāmadeva said, "I am the Lord of Kāma, and I am here to bring you down. My job, if I wish, is to bring even great munis to ride as a horse, to put reins in their mouths, and dance on their backs." Ego plus anger emerged. The muni began shouting, "You do not know who I am? I am the greatest muni. Even the trees are scared of me. Hundreds of devatās, gandharvas, yakṣas, and Kāmadevas, or hundreds of people, come here to disrupt my sādhanā. No one can. Who are you? Go, get out." Kāmadeva said, "Time will tell you who I am, and we will see who wins: your sādhanā or me." The muni said, "Yes, yes, we will see. Go then." Guess what happened? His ego boosted even more. He said, "Oh, before only the trees were scared of me; now even Kāmadeva is scared of me. He ran away. I am so great. I, I, I." This "I" is the one that kills us. You should be very careful of this "I." Slowly, slowly, he continued his sādhanā every day. One day, he went to that tree where he always ate the bark. When he chewed the bark this time, it was different: very soft, very juicy, very warm, very sweet. His ego rose further: "This is the result. Now even the trees are giving beautiful, tasty bark for me." He began to enjoy it. Every day the same thing happened: at that specific time, he received beautiful, sweet, warm bark. One day when he went, he saw a beautiful sixteen-year-old girl wrapping something around that tree. As soon as she saw him, she ran away. He then noticed, "Oh, okay, it is not the tree; it is someone putting something." But the jīvā, the tongue, controls everything. He could not resist it. The person who has control over his jīvā, over his tongue, can control everything. Part 2: The Muni and the Bowl: A Tale of Ego and Temptation But the person who cannot control his tongue will fall. So, the muni got excited and could not stop himself. He went and ate that beautiful offering. Afterwards, he thought, "But I feel a little bit bad. I want to know who this girl is. Why is she coming here, and why is she doing so much seva for me?" Now, his tapasyā was no longer the most important thing. The next morning, he stopped his sādhanā a little earlier and went to the place sooner to see who the girl was. Again, as soon as she saw him—she still could not finish covering herself with the bark—she dropped the pot and ran away. He felt bad that he could not just eat for free; he needed to know why she was doing so much. His tongue overpowered him again, and he could not stop himself from eating everything from the bowl. He truly wanted to know her reason. So the next day, he went even earlier, before she arrived, and hid behind a tree. He waited for her. As soon as she came, he emerged. She got scared and started running. He said, "Wait, wait, wait! I am not harming you. I just want to ask you something." But she was very shy. She stood with the pot, her head bowed. The muni asked, "Who are you? What is your name? From where did you come? Are you the daughter of a devatā, a muni, a yakṣa, or a gandharva? Who are you? I want to know." Out of respect for the tapasvī, she did not answer and stepped further back. But the tongue is very powerful. The muni was afraid she would get too scared and run away with the bowl without leaving the food. He said, "Don’t worry, don’t worry. I am not harming you. Come closer, put the bowl here. I just want to talk, nothing else." Shyly, she took a few steps forward, placed the bowl next to him, went back, and ran away. He started eating. Before, he had no hands and bit food directly from the tree. Now he was eating from a beautiful golden bowl. Then he thought, "This is gold. If I leave it here, someone might steal it." First came ego, and now came greed. So, he took the bowl with him to his āśram, thinking, "Tomorrow, before she comes, I will come and give it back to her." The next day, his sādhanā grew even shorter because he needed to return the bowl. Early in the morning, he came with the bowl and sat near the tree, waiting for her. When she arrived, he asked again, "Who are you? From where did you come? Do you live somewhere around here?" Then she said, very shamefully and with her head down, "I am a princess. My father was defeated in a battle and died. My mother and I escaped and came to this forest. We live in one of the munis’ āśrams, and that muni and his wife take care of us." He said, "Okay, okay. Come, bring the food. Sit, sit. Because I do not want to keep the bowls, wait until I finish, and then you can take them." She put the bowls next to him and stood a little farther away. While eating, he said, "I would like to ask you something, but please do not feel bad." In a very low tone, with her head still down, she said, "If you know that something you are going to say might be upsetting or might hurt, then do not say it. That is why we should always try to be aware of what comes out of our mouth." In our head, many things run around—many thoughts. We might be angry at someone else or something else, but because we cannot express it to that certain person at that time, we take out that anger on our friends or on some random animal. So now we are a little diverted, because I remember one story about harming animals. Bhagavān Śrī Rāma was known as Maryādā Puruṣottama. Maryādā Puruṣottama means someone who always does justice for everyone. Every evening, Bhagavān Śrī Rāma held his court with his ministers. Everyone from his kingdom used to come to express their problems, and he would give proper justice. At the end of one session, he asked his brother Lakṣmaṇa, "Go outside and check if there are any more people who want to see me." Lakṣmaṇa went out, checked, and said, "No, Lord, no one else. Now we can go and have our dinner and rest." Bhagavān Rāma, being Rāma, knew everything. He said, "No, no, there is someone. Check again, go outside." Lakṣmaṇa went outside again and saw a dog sitting peacefully, but its expressions were very sad, and it was bleeding from its head. Even dogs or any animals have expressions. If you observe properly, you will see how they are feeling—if they are happy or sad. He asked the dog, "Did you come to see Rāma?" The dog said, "Yes, I have a problem." Lakṣmaṇa said, "Please come, Bhagavān Śrī Rāma is waiting for you." The dog went in, bowed its head, and said, "Lord Rāma, I am suffering, and I would like your justice." Rāmajī said, "What happened?" The dog said, "I was sitting, minding my own business, and a beggar came and started throwing stones at me. So now I want justice." Rāmajī called the guards and said, "Summon that beggar who threw stones at this poor dog." They called that person, and Rāmajī asked, "Why did you do this?" He said, "Oh, I was angry at something else, and I could not do anything, so I threw rocks at him." So, whenever we are angry, we should always observe our words and think about what will come out and how those words or actions will affect the other person or creature. Maybe the person you are speaking to has nothing to do with what you are angry about. But our bad words or bad actions may ruin or destroy our relationship with that person. Whenever anything is coming out of our mouth, before that, take a pause. Think: Is that good? What is coming out—is that right or wrong? Sometimes when you are angry, it is better just to be quiet. Do your mantra, say Rām Rām... or your Guru Mantra, whatever. Back off, and that is it. Instead of swearing, if you start saying your Guru Mantra or any God’s name, then instead of bad karmas, we will get good karmas. It is anyhow going to be beneficial for us, so why not? Then the beggar said, "Rāma, you are the mūrti, the person of justice, so I am ready to accept whatever punishment you want to give me." Lord Rāma asked his law minister, "What punishment should we give?" The minister said, "Lord, we have rules and regulations for humans, but this is a slightly interesting case. On one hand, we have a dog, and on the other hand, we have a human being. Sorry, we do not have any rules, but you are the king. You are the Maryādā Puruṣottam, so you decide what you want to do." Then Rāma asked the dog, "It happened to you, so you tell me what punishment you want to give him." The dog said, "There is one very ancient Kālīmātā Mandir in the city. I want the beggar to be the main priest of that temple." The beggar was happy because if you become the main priest of a temple, everyone comes and makes praṇām to you. The donations in the donation box are for the temple. The donations in the tally are for the paṇḍita, so he would not need to beg anymore. He would get good food, nice clothes, people would treat him with respect, and there was a tradition: whoever was the main priest, whenever he was coming from his house to the temple, he used to sit on an elephant. So, what happened? Ego. He thought, "Oh, what a great punishment I got. Now I can go on an elephant, I get money, I get food. What else do I need? My life is good." Seeing this, the ministers and everyone started asking Lord Rāma, "We thought you were Maryādā Puruṣottama. Why did you give such a punishment? It is not a punishment; it is a boon." Lord Rāma said, "I do not know, ask the dog." They asked the dog, "Why did you give this punishment to him?" The dog said, "Because in my previous life, I was also the main priest of this temple. Because of my ego and my bad karmas, I am now a dog. So, either he uses his sāddhā buddhi and the kṛpā of the masters and the kṛpā of the Devī, fulfills his ultimate truth by becoming the priest and doing the sevā of the temple, and reaches enlightenment, or he ends up like me." So, coming back now to the previous story, the muni said, "I have a question to ask you, but I hope you do not mind it or do not feel bad with my words." She said, "If you know that those words will hurt me, better not say them." But he said, "What came into my mouth, I do not want to swallow it back. I have to now say it." Then she asked, "If you anyhow wanted to say it, then why did you even ask me if it would feel bad or not?" And his question was, "Are you married, or are you single?" The girl again hung her head down and felt ashamed. She did not say anything much and tried to run away. But then she politely said, "I am just sixteen. I am not married yet. I am still single." Then she said, "You are a tapasvī, you are a muni. You should focus on that, no? Then why do you want to get married to me?" The muni said, "Yes, but I was a tapasvī. I am a muni. I did my tapas here, and now I have feelings for you. I like you. Is there any sin in that? No, no. So, will you marry me?" She said, "I cannot make that decision; my mother will make that decision. But looking at you, I do not think anyone is going to accept you. You have long jaṭā." Jaṭā are dreadlocks. He had a beard, all messy, dirty clothes, and was slightly stinking. He said, "This is the fruit of doing so many years of tapasyā." She replied, "Then continue doing that. Why do you want to get married?" He said, "No, that time has passed. Now I want to live a normal life. So tell me, will you marry me?" She said, "I cannot say that. My mother will say that." He said, "Okay, go and ask your mother then." She said, "This is not how it works. I cannot just ask my mother. My mother has to tell me who I will get married to." He said, "Okay, then tell me where do you live? I will come and ask your mother." She said, "Okay, okay, okay. When the right time comes, then I will ask her." He insisted, "No, no, no, not when the right time comes. I want yes or no tomorrow morning." Then she left. The whole evening and the next morning, there was no sādhanā, no tapasyā. In his head was only, "I am waiting for the answer of the girl. What is going to be the answer?" Tapasyā, God—all of them were sitting, wondering, "Where is my bhakta gone? I did not see him today." But the bhakta was in a different loka now, in his own new world. He was waiting. The next morning, he quickly had a shower and went to sit next to the tree where she used to bring food. That day, she wore a beautiful white skirt. With her head down, slowly walking towards him, with a gentle smile on her face, she came to him. First, the food—the tongue was more important—so he said, "Give me the food." He started eating, and while eating he asked, "So, yes or no? What did your mother say?" Gently, politely, in a low voice, she said, "Yes, but there is a condition." The condition is: in India, when you get married, usually the woman comes and lives at the husband’s house. So my mother’s condition is that instead of me going, you will come and live with me. And instead of me doing your seva, you have to do my seva and do everything that I say. The muni’s brain was anyhow not functioning. He said, "Yes, yes... sure, no problem, I am coming. So, why should we delay in this good, auspicious time?" He checked the kundalī. "Yes, now is the right, good time to get married." She said, "No, no, slowly, slowly. In my family, there is one more tradition: you need to become a horse. Your soon-to-be wife sits on the groom with a whip and reins in the mouth and makes him jump, and she dances." His brain was gone already. So the muni said, "Yes, sure. When? Now? But one question: will it be in front of everyone, or is it in a closed room? I feel a little bit ashamed." He did not feel ashamed that he was leaving all his sādhanā tapasyā for a girl, but he felt ashamed for dancing in front of people. Because his buddhi and viveka had all gone on vacation, he said, "Okay, we go." She was walking, and he was following her. You see how the time changes: when he left his worldly house to do tapasyā, the Devī and Devatās were walking in front of him, and he was walking behind to do the tapasyā. And now the time changes: a woman is going in front, and he is following her out of the āśram. While going, it was in the āśram with Devī and Devatās; outside the āśram, with a girl. He went to her house. Oh, I missed one point. In the tradition, the bride and groom both rub coal on a stone, and that black paste they put on the groom’s face. So they both rubbed the coal and put that paste on his face. He became a horse. She sat on him, and he was jumping. Then suddenly she pulled the rein strongly, and he turned. He saw that there was no more beautiful girl; there was Kāmadeva sitting on her back. "Who are you?" "I am the same Kāmadeva whom you kicked out. I told you, if you have any type of this kāma, krodha, mada, lobha, ahaṅkāra in your sādhanā, I make those munis horses and dance on their backs. So, if you do that sādhanā with true Guru Bhakti, with true devotion towards your Guru or the Devatā or the Devī, then you will become one with Brahman. But if you have ego, envy, or jealousy towards anything or anyone, then you get stuck in this māyā, and I dance on your back." This is how ego can destroy someone’s tapasyā and all the good doings from their whole spiritual path. He made praṇām to Kāmadeva and went back to his āśram. But all the tapasyā he had done was gone. He had to start from ground zero. This is the same thing. It does not matter if you say nice, good words and mantras the whole day. One bad deed or one bad word can destroy everything. So it is better to stick to the good path, follow Guru Vākya, follow his path, and focus.