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Before departing for Dvārakā, Lord Kṛṣṇa approached Kuntī, the mother of the Pāṇḍavas. He offered to fulfill any wish she might have. Kuntī, engaged in her mantra practice with a mālā in hand, made a surprising request. She said, "Kṛṣṇa, my lord, if you wish to grant me a boon, then give troubles to your devotees. Let those who are your bhaktas, the believers in God, face difficulties. And let those who do not believe have a good, happy, and comfortable life." Kṛṣṇa responded, "Kuntī, I think you are a little nervous. Your words seem confused." Kuntī replied, "No, Kṛṣṇa, I know very well what I say. Troubles for the devotees, and a life of money and comfort for the non-bhaktas." Though Kṛṣṇa knew everything, he asked her to explain. She answered with a verse: "I throw a big rock upon that comfortable life which lets Your name disappear from the heart." She elaborated that when one is very happy—with a good partner, wealth, and a fine home—one tends to forget God. Religious practice becomes merely occasional and social. "I adore and surrender to those problems," she said, "which remind me every second, 'Thy name, my Lord.'" When you have troubles, you constantly call, "Kṛṣṇa, Kṛṣṇa, my Kṛṣṇa." But when you have money, God is relegated to the altar at home. True happiness is found where God's name resides. When wealth comes, spirituality often disappears. Today, every nation focuses on raising its economy; few work to improve their spirituality. Spreading the name of God is a sacred act. Each time you repeat your mantra, you deposit wealth into your spiritual account. Those who have tasted the nectar of God's name find the tests of worldly life to be without substance. One Mahātma said, "Now I am divine, happy while drinking the juice of God's name, Rāma, the nectar. All the tests of worldly life for me are testless." Yet sometimes, the temptation of māyā is very strong. I recall a beautiful story often told in satsaṅg. It is not my own; I am only distributing the prasād of that knowledge, which comes from the divine look of Mahāprabhujī. Mahāprabhujī says, "Merī nazar daulat hai"—my glance is prosperity. "Kiyāk jholo mehar ko lakho bhare salām." If even a little merciful glance (kṛpā dṛṣṭi) falls, millions will greet you with respect. We are spiritually rich because our ancestors were rich. We have everything: mokṣa (liberation), knowledge, bhajans, joy, energy, love. What more could you want? Yet temptation pushes us down. But when there is Guru kṛpā, nothing is missing. The feeling that you are poor, lonely, and unloved is your own stupidity. And if you believe someone loves you, the day will come when they may not, and that pain will be greater. You might lose your appetite and your peace. There was a man who lost 38 kilos in 20 days after his girlfriend of 15 years left him. I told him, "You should be thankful to her; she saved your life." This illustrates a test: where is the border of someone's love? Tulsīdāsajī says in the Rāmāyaṇa that dhīraj means the ability to wait, to be patient. Impatience can destroy things. Therefore, Mahāprabhujī spoke of Dheeraj Dharma—your discipline, your principle, your obligation. How far do you follow your Dharma? When you marry, you take an oath before the sacred fire, in happiness and sorrow. But do you remember that Dharma? What is the Dharma of a human being? Dharma, Dhīraja, Mitra (your best friend). Who is your true friend? Not the one who is with you only in happy times. In your most critical hour, when all others leave, your real friend remains. And Nārī, your wife or partner, should love you deeply. But when a critical time comes and you need understanding, tolerance, kindness, and support—physically, emotionally, socially, intellectually, financially—that is the partner you need. Otherwise, they are not a true partner. A partner is a part of you. Marriage is said to make one complete. If you already feel complete, do not marry, or you will be disrupted. Think deeply about every step you take in life. Dharam, Dhiraj, Mitra, Arunari, Apatakal, Parakhayun, Chari—you can only know them in a critical situation. There was a sādhu, a yogī, living in an ashram a few kilometers from a village. In the village lived a businessman with an only son, whom the parents loved dearly. The boy would often visit the Gurujī, sometimes staying for days or even a month. His parents feared he would become a sādhu and end their family line. They tried tempting him with money for cinema and holidays. He took the money but donated it all to his master. The parents, desperate, consulted a psychologist who advised, "Marry him." They found a beautiful girl and arranged the marriage, but it did not change him. He still spent 90% of his time in the ashram, learning samādhi. He could enter savikalpa samādhi, where one is aware but appears dead, and nirvikalpa samādhi, a deep, coma-like state. The parents went to the psychologist again, who said only their daughter-in-law could save the situation. She was unhappy, feeling neglected. The psychologist told her, "Tria Charitram"—play the woman's theater. He advised her to tell her husband she was afraid at night and could not live without him. She did so, pleading for him to be home in the evenings. He agreed but was absent for ten more days. Finally, he returned one day at 4 a.m. and left by 10 a.m. The psychologist then told her to say, "If you don't come, I may die. You are everything for me." When she told him this, he was moved. He said, "My dear one, I will not go anywhere else; I will come straight home." And he stayed home for three years, never visiting his master. Everyone asked the master, "Where is your Aśoka Ānanda?" (Aśoka means 'without sorrow'). They said Aśoka Ānanda had become Śoka Ānanda (śoka means 'sorrow'). The master replied, "He will come. I know he loves me. He is wise and gave his word." After three years, the disciple finally returned to the ashram. The master asked why he had stayed away. The disciple said, "Master, I came only to tell you I must hurry home. You don't know how much my wife loves me. She may die if I am not there. Master, it is so beautiful. You always spoke of māyā, but this is not māyā. It is so nice, such happiness and warmth. They are mine." The master said, "You are intoxicated by māyā. Let us make a test to see if they are truly yours, or if I am yours." The disciple agreed. The master instructed him: "Tomorrow morning, after breakfast, fall down near the sandstone pillar on your veranda, cross your legs around it, and enter samādhi. Do not come out of samādhi until I arrive. I will come at ten o'clock." The next morning, the wife prepared ālū parāṭhā for breakfast. The disciple pretended to have a stomach ache, went near the pillar, cried out in pain, and then assumed the samādhi posture, locking his limbs around the pillar. His wife screamed, thinking he had died. His parents came crying. The father lamented, "Oh, my son, why did you go before me?" The mother said, "I should have died first." The wife wailed, "My golden son, without you there is darkness." Neighbors gathered. They needed to take the body for cremation but could not free his legs from the pillar. Someone suggested cutting the pillar, but the father refused, fearing the house would collapse. Another suggested cutting the disciple's legs. The wife agreed, "That's a good idea." The disciple, hearing everything from within his samādhi, prayed desperately for his master to arrive. At ten o'clock, the master appeared. "Why are you crying?" he asked. They told him his disciple had died. The master observed, "His body is stiff. You must cut the legs. In fact, cut the hands too." The disciple inwardly pleaded, "Please, master, don't do this." The master then said, "I have a solution. I can give a mantra and blessing to bring him back to life." The parents rejoiced, "You are a god, master!" The master asked for milk, honey, almond paste, saffron, and ghee to be mixed. He chanted mantras over the mixture. Then he said, "His soul is waiting to enter his body, but someone must drink this milk. Whoever drinks it will die, and this young man will live." He first offered it to the father, who had said it was his term to die. The father refused, saying he wanted to see the world a few more years. The master then offered it to the mother, praising a mother's great love. She also refused. He then offered it to the wife, who had declared she would die for her husband. She refused as well, saying, "I love my parents. I cannot die for him. I am happy he died; I will find a good husband again." The young man heard every word. The master said, "I cannot leave this milk. I have one last suggestion. I will drink it. He will wake up, and I will die." Everyone exclaimed, "Gurudev kī je ho! Oh, divine master! Please, do it quickly!" The master drank the milk, said "Om Namah Śivāya," and then told the disciple, "Get up." The disciple opened his eyes. The master said, "I am going." The disciple replied, "Please take me with you. I now know this world is one of attachment, ignorance, and selfishness." And he left with his master.