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Kevaliyā. Kevaliyā means "only one." We just sang a bhajan: Satgurū sacca milā sabhī bharamko dūr hata diyā. "When I met my true master, then all my doubts went away." Another line comes: Kevala rūpa milā ghaṭme, jota me jota milā e diyā. "When the sole form is realized within the ghaṭ, then light merges into light." Ghaṭ means the heart, the pot, the body, the sky, the universe. When we speak of Ākāśa (space), we speak of Ghaṭākāś, Maṭākāś, Cidākāś, Ākāś, and Mahākāś. Here, ghaṭa generally means our heart. When you realize that one form of God in the heart, one flame becomes one with another flame. Light becomes one with light. There is no difference, because it is light. Light into light—that is the light of wisdom, the light of knowledge, the light of truth, the light of the Self, the light of God that we shall attain. There are many, many different ways to get there. There was one master whose disciples came to him for Self-realization. He had a peculiar technique but would let people come for a long time. When they asked, "Master, we want Self-realization. What should we do?" he would say, "Okay, keep coming. You will get it one day." One disciple came for about sixty years. He asked the Master, "Should I practice something?" The Master said, "Yes. Go work in the garden. Clean that room. Clean the windows. Water the trees. Clean the clothes, the road. Go cook, go shopping." The disciple expected that one day the Master would give him a kriyā for Self-realization. He was sure the Master would grant it. Sixty years passed, and the Master always said, "Yes, yes." One day, the Master was sitting near his fireplace in the cold winter. The disciple came and, without saying anything, began to clean the ashram yard. The Master called him, "You want Self-realization, no? Why didn't you tell me before?" The disciple said, "My God, for sixty years I've been telling you." The Master said, "Okay, anyhow, finish your work." After finishing, the disciple came, and the Master gave him a piece of bread—a chapati, a dry, small piece. "Eat this. This is your Self-realization." "Yes, Master." He took the prasāda, ate it, sat in meditation, and attained enlightenment. That was not just a piece of bread; it was a blessing, it was kṛpā, all given to him in those sixty years of practice, contained in that small piece. So we never know how, when, or in what form the Master can bestow that light, that love, or that realization upon us. Our duty is to be there and just work—that is sevā. That is also another kind of practice. You never know when or what comes. There was a Brahmin family, devotees of Śrī Devpurījī. The man always went to Śrī Devpurījī, who also visited their home; the whole family was devoted. This man, not so young anymore, very much wished to have children—specifically, a son, as many do. (Though recently someone wrote to me: "Swāmījī, we had a child, but we were very disappointed because we expected a daughter and it is a son." Such people also exist.) One day, Devpurījī was traveling from one village to another, always on foot or by horse. The family followed him, about two or three kilometers from the village. Devpurījī stopped under a nice tree in the shade, and they came, sat, and offered him water. After a few minutes, Devapurīṣa said to the man, "I think you want to have a son, no?" He put his hand in his cotton bag, took out prasāda—three laddus—and said, "These are your three sons. Eat them." And he got three sons. That man was very devoted; many of our devotees, Eastern and Western, knew him. Unfortunately, he has passed away. So it is the master's words, Vākya, that come true. Try to understand the words. Even if the master is angry with a devotee, it is something good for you. You never know what he gives you through it. Real devotees must understand the words the master may say. One joke may contain some reality. That is why it is said in a bhajan by Mahāprabhujī: "How dear are the words of the master to me? Only I know. What can I explain to you?" Only I know how dear it is. A person who cannot speak eats something beautiful and tasty but cannot explain how tasty it is. So there are many ways to get there. The easier way is Seva. Just do the Seva. And whatever you get, take it. Learn not to deny. Don't say no. You never know what you have lost in that minute when you said no. And don't hesitate to say yes. But don't say yes while trembling in your heart. That is not good. Yes should be through and through yes. There is no "no." Saying no in the heart and yes with the mouth is not good; it creates duality. So many, many ways, Kevalya. We have to come to oneness. To become one with it, there are many ways: prayers, mantras, ceremonies, kriyās, meditations, sevās—many, many, many ways. It will come. Like in this story: There was a man whose master told him, "You will see God with these eyes." From then on, he wanted only to see God, nothing else. He went to the forest, stopped working. He said, "My life is now complete. With these eyes I will see God, definitely before death, because when I die, I cannot see. Why should I work now? Why should I eat? I eat only to live. I work for existence. But now everything is finished. It doesn't matter when or how I die, sooner or later. I must see God." His body grew weaker and weaker. One day, he lay very weak under a tree. A large bird, a big crow, came, sat on his ribs, and began to bite his stomach to take out his liver and kidneys. The man looked at the crow. He had no power to shoo it away. The crow looked at the man, fought with its sharp beak, looked again, and asked him, "Is it painful?" The man did not even close his eyes and did not say yes or no. He seemed to try to tell the crow, "O crow, even you are a dear crow. You should eat my whole body peacefully, each piece of flesh. Enjoy. But please do not eat my two eyeballs, because I still have confidence that I will see God with these eyes. It would be a great pity if I lost my eyes and God came—I couldn't see Him, and the words of my master would be empty. Therefore, please leave my eyeballs. You can eat all other parts." The crow said yes, bit deep into the stomach, pulled out the intestines, and again said to the man, "Is it unpleasant? Are you not a crazy man? Are you normal? For whom are you suffering so much? And He doesn't come to you. Now death will come, and I am that death in the form of a black crow. Give up hope and think of what will happen now. Prepare to die." The man said to the crow, "Dear crow, if there is a book, I can read it for you. If there is a letter, I can read what is written. But I cannot read to you my destiny. If it is a piece of wood, I can break it, but it is love which I cannot break." In that minute, the crow changed into the beautiful form of God, Śrī Kṛṣṇa, with beautiful dress, smiling, a flute in hand, in a golden yellow dress like fire flames. When you see big flames, that is Kṛṣṇa; it is His dress. He smiled, and the man's body became healthy again, perfect, strong, as if nothing had happened. Kṛṣṇa blessed him: "It will come. Be sure it will come. Don't give up till the last second. I would say, even the last second, don't give up. If it goes, it goes. Don't count the hours. Don't count the years and months. Don't count the minutes. Just count your strength. Measure your strength, that you are still strong enough to keep through. It doesn't matter what happens; then it will happen, it will come." So Kevalya, the oneness, the only one God—we are all longing for that. It is He. We never know through which blessing, suddenly, all our karmas will be cleaned. Mahāprabhujī said, "You can go to all pilgrim places, and you can take many, many dips in the holy Gaṅgā. That sin will not be cleaned. Only kṛpā, mercy. And that mercy requires Śiva and a pure heart." Recording location: Czech Republic, Strilky, Summer seminar