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Oṃ Sahanā Vavatu, Sahanau Bhunaktu, Saha Vīryaṃ Karavāvahai, Tejasvināvadhītamastu, Mā Vidviṣāvahai. Oṃ Sarve Bhavantu Sukhinaḥ, Sarve Santu Nirāmayāḥ. Śrī Dīp Nārāyaṇ Bhagavān Kī Jaya, Śrī Devīśvara Mahādeva Kī Jaya, Satguru Svāmī Madhavānandajī Bhagavān Kī Jaya. Yesterday, I was very happy to slowly ease into retirement. Our dear friend who played the baṃsurī did beautifully. I hope he progresses faster than once every twelve years; as he said, it took him twelve years to begin. That’s beautiful. Anyway, as most of you know well, this instrument—and indeed every instrument—is somewhat like a living being: it speaks its own message. The musician only supplies the prāṇa, the life force, so the instrument can deliver what it needs to. Of course, the musician must remember certain rules of the rāga, yet at the same time there is freedom to truly express whatever message that being wants to convey. Just as Swāmī Avatārpūrījī has been saying every day since his arrival: be an instrument of the divine, and as much as possible, forget our personal… I recalled a rāga that somehow describes this process—the dance between remembering the principle or the rules of the rāga, and at the same time allowing that inner being to play through the body of the instrument. Our human life is no different. It has certain rules; if we don’t follow them, it ceases to be a human life. Then we need saintly beings like our beloved Guru Dev to remind us again and again that we are human. We tend to forget every now and then. This rāga is called Rāga Kiravāṇī. Though traditionally from South India, it has also spread to North Indian music. It carries a certain Middle Eastern feeling, and whenever I hear or play it, I think of the Sufi tradition and Islam. If I may ask, do we truly have such discipline and eagerness in our prayers and remembrance? I have a little humorous story. Last year, while returning from Europe via Australia, I went into a prayer room in Melbourne. I sat there doing my mālā. Perhaps you from faraway places can’t relate so much; in New Zealand, we are only ten bhaktas. I spend most of my time alone in the ashram, so whenever another bhakta comes and we have āratī or satsaṅg together—even just one—we both rejoice in each other’s company. So when this man began his prayers, I was overjoyed. I could truly feel the presence; irrespective of religion, the presence of a bhakta was there. Just as when Swāmī Avatārpūrījī arrived, we felt the presence of a great love for God among us. When my practice ended, I left the room still holding that beautiful feeling in my heart. A young lady approached me, looked at me, and said, “I know who you are.” I replied, “Please tell me, for I’ve been trying to discover that for twenty-five years. Why didn’t you come earlier?” We began talking and discovered that she too was Viśvagurujī’s disciple. I had some cherries in my bag, knowing you cannot bring fresh fruit into New Zealand, so I offered her some. As we ate, I told her about the Muslim devotee whose discipline I admired. Then I asked, “By chance, do you have a handkerchief or tissue?” “Yes, yes,” she said. She had a bag about double the size of this. She unzipped and opened it; I didn’t mean to pry, but I glanced inside. The whole bag was full of cosmetics for the eyes and makeup. I thought, where is the boundary? You see, when it comes to our body, we are willing to do so much. When a child goes to kusaṅga—to parties, pubs, cinemas—that’s all good. But the moment we start meditation, devotion, and prayer, suddenly it’s considered weird. Anyway, in the Sufi tradition, these rāgas are held like this. They have a special dance. The dancers begin to spin, and once established in the spinning, they open their arms—one hand pointing upward, one downward—as if it’s a dance between the divine and earthly life. I often think about this in our own spiritual endeavors. Sometimes we can become a little hurried—“I must attain, I must!”—and we forget that we are still on earth, still human beings. Not only that we are human, but that we have a duty to serve, protect, give, and love everyone. In fact, Holī Gurujī and Viśvagurujī have said that sevā is more than mokṣa. When Mahāprabhujī appeared to Viśvagurujī and gave him his duty, He said: “Go and serve all living beings, for service to all is service to Me.” If you sometimes struggle in your Anuṣṭhāna, you may use this insight. Try to sit there for others. Practice so that you become a better instrument of divine love to serve all beings. May your heart grow larger, purer, kinder. Now let us return to music. We will taste a little rāga. Usually we practice lying down, but today is a bit cold, so we’ll remain seated—unless you feel strongly drawn to it; you are welcome. Just relax, find a comfortable position, gently close your eyes. Let your face and muscles relax. While we chant Aum together three times, allow your inner peace and feelings of compassion and love for the whole world to emerge. Take a deep inhalation. Āp śānti. Śrī Dīp Nārāyaṇ Bhagavān kī jai. Hari Om.