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Part 1: Satsaṅg with Gurujī Gurujī is good. He is good because then you can tell many stories about Gurujī. I was fortunate to spend a year with Gurujī in his cellar. I confess, at the time, I did not always feel fortunate. Sometimes I wondered, "Why me?" But those experiences become so golden in retrospect. Even now, when I look back, I begin to appreciate what he was giving me at that time. I will begin with a story from when I first met Gurujī—or rather, from the first day I was in his cellar. It was in Nepal. Gaṇeś Kājī was serving before me and was still present for a sort of handover of duties. He was to explain what I should do, and I was also to learn from the people in Nepal. Gurujī was there, but because so many people were present who could serve him, I received a different kind of training initially. Many of you who have been in a program this far already know this program: it is simply sitting. Sitting and sitting and sitting. So, when you are with Gurujī all the time, you normally have to get up to fetch something for him, bring water for visitors, cook, or bring a book from here or there. In those moments, you get some relief from sitting. Since Gaṇeśjī and others were there, they were doing all those tasks. I was simply sitting next to Gurujī, doing nothing—nowhere to move, no chance to go and do anything. This went on from early morning, perhaps 5:00 or 5:30, until five o'clock in the afternoon. My knees were finished. I could not find any position to sit that was not painful. The greatest relief came only when Gurujī would get up to use the toilet, because then I could stand up. Gurujī got up and went to the bathroom, and I was enjoying it immensely—straightening my knees and stretching. When Gurujī came out, he walked over to me with a big smile on his face, slapped me on the shoulder, and said, "Beto," which means, "Sit down." That was how it began: learning to see. Step one, first class. Just now, you were singing a bhajan that Swāmījī wrote about Gurujī. Last night, Gajananthi and I were talking about the fact that he would translate it today, so I think now is a good time to translate that bhajan. Although there are, surprisingly—or not surprisingly—many bhajans written about Gurujī, I know hardly any that have been written down or published. After Gurujī's Mahāsamādhi, there was a time when bhajan singers from the Nepal area came, offering one bhajan after another that they had written about Gurujī. Perhaps one day we must collect them. The fact that they are not published is a sign of Gurujī's humility. That is also why we see that these bhaktas were never published. It was also the reason it was very difficult to sing this bhajan. When Gurujī was present, he would say, "Oh, sing about Mahāprabhujī." When Swāmījī was present, he would say, "Sing from someone else, not from me." So, essentially, only on Holy Gurujī's birthday could we not refuse. I was wondering how old this bhajan might be. I remember it has been in our bhajan books from the very beginning, so it must be at least 25 years old. I have been Swāmījī's disciple since 1987, and by then Swāmījī had already stopped playing the harmonium and singing himself—very rarely, at least. So, I believe it must be from Swāmījī's early days, when he was active, playing and singing harmoniously as a bhajan singer. Swāmījī addresses Holy Gurujī here as Prabhu. As we always sing for Mahāprabhujī, Prabhu simply means the Lord, God. It expresses a very deep feeling toward his guru, addressing his guru as his God. Ānanda Deja: Please grant me bliss. God is bliss; please generate this bliss within me. We are all your servants, Seva Hind; please accept our service. This is not automatically granted; we pray for this daily in our evening prayer. In the first part of the evening prayer, we always say, "Please accept me, please give me the chance to serve." That is what we sing every day. I am surrendering everything to you: my body, my mind, whatever I have. I desire only one thing, I request only one thing: that I get the chance to serve you. That is all we can do for the Guru. And even that is a grace, because ultimately, the Guru serves us. Anantrakasura: What am I? In the past, I have made so many mistakes, created so much karma. You are the merciful one for the poor. Please bestow your mercy upon me. Samundar means the ocean. You are the ocean, and we are the waves. I recall once in India, during a satsaṅg with Swāmījī and Holy Gurujī, a disciple asked a rather intelligent question directed at Holy Gurujī: "Why has God separated us? First, He creates the separation, and now it is our struggle to reunite with God." Yoga, as Swāmījī always says, is reunion. Holy Gurujī just smiled and said, "Nothing is ever separated." Then he gave this example: Is the wave ever separated from the ocean? We are already one. We simply do not realize it. For that, we need the Guru's mercy to realize this truth. You are the ocean, and we are the waves of the ocean. Now, Swāmījī plays beautifully with his poetry using this word "ocean." The next line, Sāgara, also means ocean. But here he speaks of Kṛpā Sāgara, the ocean of mercy. "Please, let us be part of this ocean of mercy. You are the ocean of mercy; let me dive into it." You are the sun, and we are the rays. I think it is a beautiful image. The origin of light is the sun, but it does not hoard it; it sends it out in every direction to everyone. We are the rays; we are actually the messengers of this light. How beautiful to think that the Guru sends us into the world to spread the message, to spread the light. Again, he plays with the imagery of light, the sun. The next line: Andhera means darkness. He speaks of the darkness of ignorance, the darkness of confusion and doubt. "O Lord, please, with your divine light, remove all darkness, all doubt—what I perceive in myself and in others." The next verse is slightly different from the entire dhyāna. It does not address his master, Mādhavānandjī, but Mahāprabhujī. I wondered why Swāmījī placed this verse here. It says: Śrīpuce Bhagavān Dvī Nārāyaṇa—thus addressing Mahāprabhujī—and continues: Bhakta Uddhāra Avatāra, for the sake of the devotees. Avatāra, you know this? Divine incarnation. Avatāra, phir rījo means, "Please incarnate again as an avatāra in this world." Bhakta uddhāra: for the upliftment, for the liberation of your devotees. I pondered why Swāmījī, in his prayer clearly dedicated to Gurujī, suddenly addresses Mahāprabhujī. I believe the answer is found in Līlā Amṛt. When we consider Swāmījī's birth and who actually requested it, it was Holy Gurujī who requested Mahāprabhujī: "Please send again a great saint into this world to bring light to everyone." Mahāprabhujī's answer was, "Yes, I will. One of the seven saints from Satyaloka will incarnate in this world." He clearly stated that this saint would later be known as Swami Maheśvarānanda. Mahāprabhujī also referred to Śrī Devapurījī, noting that this blessing had already been given to that English officer at Naki Lake. I think Swāmījī is very much aware that Holy Gurujī essentially prompted his incarnation. And now it is Swāmījī's turn, as the successor, to think about the future and how the teaching will continue. That is why he now requests, "Mahāprabhujī, please incarnate in this world once more." Maheśvarānanda Nijamānasepukhara: Here we have the word man, which we usually understand as "mind," but its meaning depends greatly on context. Man can also mean "heart." Here, the meaning is clearly the latter: Maheśvarānanda calls you deeply from the heart. Bhaktakīpūkhara Tathākāla Sunālīju: Please listen immediately to this request of your devotee. Now, we do not know exactly whom he is addressing here. Is it Holy Gurujī or Mahāprabhujī? But as we know, Holy Gurujī was one with Mahāprabhujī. The older he became, I felt he even physically resembled Mahāprabhujī. In the end, it is one. That is why Holy Gurujī did not particularly like being addressed as an individual; for him, Mahāprabhujī was everything. The greatest love you could show Holy Gurujī was to show your love for Mahāprabhujī. And this is precisely what Swāmījī did in this bhajan. I want to tell a story because Govind Purī is not here—and it is perhaps better told when he is absent. Some of you may have heard it, but it is a story that truly illustrates how Gurujī worked, in ways we may never fully understand. We were in Jadan. I was sitting with Gurujī in the Bhakti Sāgar, and Gurujī was doing his mālā. Suddenly, he opened his eyes and said, "Call Govind Purī quickly." I went, found him, and brought him out. Gurujī said, "Govind Purī is hungry. Take him upstairs to my room. Give him three cakras." Cakras are like papadum, but made from wheat flour, halfway between a chapati and a papad—very dry. "Take him up to the room, give him three cakras, and he should sit there in front of Mahāprabhujī's picture and eat them. Let him sit in my room, let him eat and gaze at Mahāprabhujī's picture." Okay, no problem. As we were leaving, Govind Purī said, "But I'm not hungry." I replied, "I don't know, but if Gurujī says you're hungry, you must be hungry." So, we went up, and I got the khākhā from Gurujī's kitchen. He sat down in Gurujī's room opposite that huge picture of Mahāprabhujī. I left him there and returned to Gurujī in the Bhakti Sāgar. Gurujī was doing his mālā. After a few minutes, he opened his eyes and said, "Govind Purī is so hungry. Go and give him two more cakras." I went upstairs, brought him two more cakras, and he exclaimed, "What?" I said, "You're hungry." He said, "Hey brother, I'm not hungry." "Yes, you are." I gave him the two more cakras and went back down to Gurujī, who continued his mālā. After a few more minutes, he opened his eyes again. "Govind Purī is so hungry. Go upstairs and give him four more cakras." I went back upstairs and took the cakras from the kitchen. By this time, I really wish I had a camera to capture Govind's face when I entered the room. He was sitting on the floor and just looked at me and said, "Oh, no." He said, "Since you say I'm so hungry, can you bring me a jug of water?" So, I did. I brought him a jug of water, and he remained sitting there. I went back down to Gurujī. It was nearly time for prayer. Gurujī opened his eyes again. "Govind Purī is so hungry. Go upstairs and give him every single cakra in the kitchen. And tell him he should sit there until he has finished them all." I went up, and there was a pile of cakras like this in the kitchen. I must be honest, I was really starting to enjoy this. I walked in with this pile of cakras. "Oh no, please," he said. I told him he must sit there until he finished eating them. I went back down to Gurujī. Then there was prayer, bhajans, and satsaṅg. Perhaps an hour and a half later, we went up to Gurujī's room. Govind Purī was still sitting there, eating. Gurujī walked in, and as he entered, his belly started to move. Gurujī was just saying, "Sit down and eat a lot, eat plenty, eat a lot. Gurujī, eat plenty." I think for many days after that, he was not hungry. I do not know if he ever understood the meaning of it, but it came out of nowhere and for no apparent reason—yet obviously, it was something that had to be. When you are with Gurujī and he does things to you, how do you understand what he is doing? It simply happens. I remember one time with Gurujī, going perhaps a day and a half without eating. I was unbelievably hungry. It is one thing when you are fasting by choice; you know you are fasting and you know when it will end. But when it is not in your hands—because I was with Gurujī, and we were visiting people's houses—if Gurujī did not eat, then I could not eat. I spent all my time thinking, "Gurujī, please hurry up and be hungry, because I am really starving." I thought about food constantly, and my stomach was growling. Eventually, we stopped somewhere, and Gurujī asked for food. I was so happy. I ate very well, and the food was really good. I was sitting down, and Gurujī was also sitting there eating. When I was completely finished and really full, he ordered four extra chapatis from the host and placed them on my plate. Now, I was already completely full, and it was tipping over to the other side. How was I supposed to eat these chapatis? Gurujī was there watching, and it was prasād, so it had to be consumed. I struggled to finish those chapatis, but I managed. Then we left that house and went to another. Within half an hour, Gurujī had ordered food for me again. I was already in such pain from the first meal and the four extra chapatis. Part 2: The Līlā of the Guru He ordered a full thali, and there I was sitting. He watched me and said, "Oh, enjoy." I was just struggling, really struggling. My stomach hurt from the opposite problem. An hour before, the pain was from having no food; now it was from having too much. And of course, Gurujī was saying, "Bring him one more chapati and sabji, sweet." We finished there and went to another house. Again, within half an hour, he was ordering and eating for the third time—not for him, but for me. I was sitting there; he wasn’t eating anything. So I had gone from eating nothing and thinking, "When am I going to eat? I just have to eat," to having eaten three full meals within an hour and thinking, "I never want to eat again." I was thinking, "Gurujī, I’m so sorry for having those thoughts about eating, but please don’t go to another place now, not a fourth one...." What to do? That was Gurujī’s līlā. Many of you have experiences with Gurujī, sitting with him and feeling that energy he had. There was also that incredible feeling when you were with him, because you knew that he knew what was going on inside your brain. There was one time I was sitting with him in the small room upstairs where he stays. I was sitting next to him while he was doing his mālā very peacefully. I had only one thought that was not very acceptable for that situation. Gurujī opened his eyes and said, "Go sit on the door." He sent me to the main gate of the ashram, just to sit there until he would call me back, which was about three hours. It wasn’t about the thought itself, but rather a way of showing, "Look, I know what’s going on in there." The beauty of it was that it also made me aware of what was going on inside my head, because I didn’t want to disturb Gurujī with it. I can remember many times thinking, "Oh, sorry Gurujī, I’m doing my best, but mind is mind. Gurujī, I am doing the best I can, but mind is mind." When you are aware that someone next to you knows very well what you are thinking, then you become aware of all that rubbish and all that is going on in your head. It’s like those vṛttis are on high volume. You see them completely differently. In one way, it’s really hard, because you know that it must be really disturbing for him. In another way, it’s so beautiful because everything is presented in front of you, and you can really work with it. Yesterday, Ānandājī was telling a story about when she was with Gurujī, and she almost exactly described what I feel Gurujī was constantly doing with me. The main therapy was ego therapy. He was always inflating my ego and then breaking it, up and down, up and down. I used to feel my ego was like a balloon. Gurujī would fill it with air so that it would start to float, and then... when it would start to float too high, he would just take a pin and put a hole in the balloon, and it would come crashing back down to the ground. This game went on and on. The first time, he’d start by saying, "Oh, that was so good what you cooked." And you’d think, "Oh, I just cooked something really good for Gurujī." Then, as soon as you start to get an inflated ego about that, the pin would come out. He’d say something else, and boom—back down. And the next day, he’d say again, "That was so good, what you cooked." You’d think, "You can’t get me with that one again. I know that trick. You’re not going to put the air in my balloon with it." Then, for example, someone else would come, and he’d say to them, "He’s such a good cook." The air was back in the balloon, the balloon was going up, the pin was out, and chung! And the next day, it would again be, "Oh, such good eating," and I’d think, "You can’t get me with that one." I’d want to say, "Ha, Gurujī, you can’t get me with that. Come on. I’m intelligent now." But sure enough, within five minutes again, the balloon was full of air from something else, and it was going up, and the pin was out. This game would just get longer and longer. "No, you can’t get me with that one. No, I know that one, Gurujī, I know that one." And then he’d get me from the other side. I’d feel like he’d given up, and I’d think, "Now I know all the tricks." Of course, that was like air going into the balloon. I thought, "Now I know all the tricks, and he gave up," but of course it was my ego again. It went on and on for a year—that balloon went up, and he hit it with a needle. He had a deep bag of tricks and knew how to do it. We feel like we were in seva, or I felt like I was doing something for Gurujī. But in reality, that whole time, he was just constantly doing therapy on that ego, patiently going through this process again and again and again, just to grind it. When we are doing seva for Svāmījī or for Gurujī, I think that when you look at it realistically, we can never do as much as what we get back. We are just kidding ourselves if we think that we are the ones who are doing something special then. Yes, it is special, but compared to that, what is coming back is just... It brings me back to that same story again, the one with Draupadī and that small piece of cloth which she gave. That small seva, and so much came back from Kṛṣṇa. We had that opportunity with Gurujī to do that seva, and also we have it with Svāmījī. Perhaps, unfortunately for us—and I can say for myself when I was with Gurujī—I had no idea of what he was doing. It took me years and years after finishing that to even appreciate the slightest bit about what he had done. And perhaps one day, before I leave this body, I will really understand what he did. It doesn’t really matter, because he knew what he was doing. From my side, I felt my job was just to remain there, just to survive. As Āśā Rāmjī was saying, just to hang on to the feet and just keep going. And really, that was about all you could do sometimes. There was one story that Govind Purī reminded me of the other day. I must confess, I hadn’t thought about it for years because, in reality, it was probably a day that was so hard that I think I repressed it from my memory until now. There was a time Gurujī was in the hospital in Jaipur, and he was very sick. The doctor had said that he is not allowed to have any water—absolutely, strictly nothing he can drink. We were only allowed to put cotton wool on his lips to keep them moist. I talked to Svāmījī about it, and Svāmījī said, of course, if the doctor says it, then it has to be strictly done. But Gurujī was not impressed. We spent what could have been hours where the conversation went: "Give me water." "No, Gurujī." "Give me water." "No, Gurujī." The conversation was almost an hour long. "Give me water; don’t push me." "Give me water, don’t push me." Again and again. And between that, it was just, "Why are you trying to kill me? Why don’t you give me water? One day, now he hasn’t given me water." Gurujī thought I was torturing him, but it was such a torture for me not to be able to give him that water. The doctor was not compromising. He said there is no chance; it will be very serious if he drinks water. And of course, Gurujī is saying, "Call Svāmījī and ask him," and Svāmījī is telling me, "No, no chance." Svāmījī was in Jhadan at the time, but the next morning he came to Jaipur. This had been going on already for about 36 hours, this constant tension, and Gurujī wasn’t sleeping, telling me all night, "Give me water, give me water." Then Svāmījī came for lunch. You can imagine what the first thing Svāmījī did was: he gave Gurujī a glass of water. Svāmījī can do that. That’s a different thing altogether. And of course, as soon as Gurujī finished drinking the water, then he started on me. For weeks afterwards I was hearing again and again, "This boy, he was just torturing me, he wouldn’t even give me water." Can you imagine? "And Svāmījī comes and immediately gives me a glass of water, and there was no problem." My God, what a līlā! In those situations, you really have to be clear about what you are here for, what you are doing. My job was to serve Gurujī, but I felt it was my job to serve Gurujī’s health, to maintain that body. And of course, if Svāmījī is also saying the same thing, then what do you do? You have to go through with it. But at the same time, that līlā which Svāmījī can play—because he can make things happen with that water—if I had given Gurujī a glass of water, I’m sure the story would have been completely different. Svāmījī at the same time plays the same līlā. He probably came and gave him water. Probably, if I had done that, this whole story would have been completely different. It’s like you’re in a relationship with Svāmījī, and sometimes something seems so logical to you, but then you can’t understand it. You give up thinking because there’s nothing you can think that can help you solve that situation, and then you just end up automatically having to act from your heart and just from what you think, what you feel is right. It’s the same when Gurujī is working, and Svāmījī also is making you so tired, sometimes cutting your sleep completely, because you get tired to a point where you can’t protect yourself with your mind and keep your stereotypes there of what you think you are. You end up somehow open so that they can work, and then you’re just doing things. It’s just somehow flowing because that restriction is not there anymore. I developed a special āsana with Gurujī because you don’t get much sleep. Gurujī didn’t sleep at night, but he did sleep in the daytime. But while he wasn’t sleeping in the nighttime, you shouldn’t sleep. Yet if I slept in the daytime, he’d say, "You think you are a yogī, how can you be sleeping in the daytime? Yogīs don’t sleep in the daytime." So I developed this way of sitting. If you sit about this far away from a wall and you lean back on it, when you fall asleep you don’t go over sideways. I would sit there against the wall, and Gurujī would be sleeping. Of course, as soon as Gurujī would wake up he would say, "What are you doing?" I didn’t count it as lying, because if I’m living in the present moment, when he asked the question, I’m actually doing my mālā. It was the only way I knew how to get by. But there was one beautiful thing: I had this awareness at the time. There was such a connection with Gurujī and an awareness of just what was happening with him. Even if I was sleeping, if the sheets would start to move where he was sleeping, I would hear it. I would always be awake before he would move to sit up. I guess I see that awareness sometimes with mothers with really young kids. When that baby starts to cry, even if it’s in a really loud room, or if they’re talking with people and the baby’s in the other room and it starts to cry, they hear it immediately, whereas others don’t. The same way, sometimes if your mobile phone rings really softly, you hear it first before anybody else hears it. That connection was there with Gurujī, that I would hear even if I was sleeping, and I would really already be awake before he was coming to sit up. He never really complained about me sleeping against that wall. But I always felt if that awareness wasn’t there, if I lost that connection, I would still be sleeping on the wall when he sat up. He’d probably be over there, awakening the sleeping swan again. That kind of awareness we need to have with our own sādhanā, with our own mantra. When Gurujī is there, it’s easier to maintain that type of awareness. But we have to have that with ourselves, and with our awareness of our own spirituality and what is going on inside. Even when we’re doing other things and moving in the world and doing our daily routine, that part of our mind is always there with our mantra, there with Svāmījī, or there with that inner peace which we have. It may not be that our full awareness is on that, but a small part will always be there that can hear if something needs to be heard. And it should just constantly ring in the background. We have from Gurujī so much of a legacy in the bhajans and in his example of how he lived. I think everybody has that image in their mind or can recall that image of Gurujī sitting and doing his mālā, and of the peace which was there when you used to sit near him or sit in the satsaṅg with him, and the peace that he had when he was with Saṅga, that joy he had while he was listening or singing bhajans. That is an example. We should keep that in us, remember it, because that is one of the things that nourishes us and shows us the way. When Gurujī was in Delhi in the hospital, he was in intensive care and was actually in some sort of a coma. I was with him in the room. His mālā was on the table. But imagine, in that unconscious state, his fingers were still going like that. They were still moving his mālā. The nurse was just sort of looking and going... Completely, there was nothing there; he wasn’t conscious of anything at all, but this was still moving. Okay, we won’t come to that level, but the example is there. Śrīman Nārāyaṇa Bhagavān kī, Śrī Dharmasamrāṭ Paramahaṁsa Svāmī Marāvanaṁ Purījī Mahārāj kī, Śrī Viśvaguru Mahāmaṇḍaleśvara Paramahaṁsa Svāmī Maheśvarānandapurījī Satguru Deva kī, jaya ho.