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Oṁ Pūrṇamadam, Pūrṇamidam, Pūrṇāt, Pūrṇamudachyate, Pūrṇasya, Pūrṇamādāya, Pūrṇamevāvaśiṣyate. Oṁ Śāntiḥ, Śāntiḥ, Śāntiḥ. We know this is a mantra for being Pūrṇa, complete. That is Pūrṇa, and this is Pūrṇa. From Pūrṇa, Pūrṇa arises. Taking Pūrṇa from Pūrṇa, Pūrṇa alone remains. This mantra reminds me of Mahāmaṇḍaleśvar Gurudev, who is no longer physically here. Once, at a World Peace Council, we were in an ākhāṛā with him. He was asked to give a speech, and instead, he sang this mantra. He then gave back the microphone. Everyone was looking, wondering, "What is this now?" He said, "This is the essence. What more do you want?" I will not do that, but I would like to share with you an experience with my Holī Gurujī from decades ago. When I was going to India for the first time, we newcomers received six typed pages of instructions on what not to do in India. I tried to learn it all. Being a secondary school teacher, what kind of example would I set if I couldn't learn six pages? At least three of those pages were about Holī Gurujī—what not to do when you see him in Jādana Āśrama. Of course, it was impossible not to see him. I didn't know anyone; I was alone among 500 people. When I saw an orange form in the distance that didn't look like a typical point or a Swāmījī, I frantically searched my memory for all the prohibitions. As this orange point came nearer and nearer—it was, of course, Kālī Gurujī—I decided on my solution: I turned around and went the other way. I simply didn't know what to do. The next day, the same situation arose. I had no more room to escape, so I had to at least go and greet him. He was smiling, said "okay," and I was dismissed. Day by day, this continued. After two months, very near the end of my first trip to India, I was working in the kitchen. Suddenly, one of his bhaktas—a Slovenian devotee—was there with him and asked if I would prepare and clean some vegetables for Holī Gurujī. Of course, I did. Then, in my final days, this same devotee came to me and said, "Tomorrow, Holī Gurujī said you should come to Bhakti Sāgar and help me serve him his meal." I became nervous, but I went. He simply asked me to give him water and sit down. When I looked up—this was the old Bhakti Sāgar with a grass roof—the sun shone through the grass. He was sitting in darkness, but everything around him was light. That image, that expression, I have never forgotten. Ever since, whenever I returned to India and had the possibility, I never escaped again. Wherever he was sitting, he would just call me, "Sit down." Another time, after our sannyās dīkṣā, Swāmījī said we should go to take blessings from him. There were three of us special ladies. We stood before his hut, deciding who would go first. The one in the middle said, "No, no, you should go." The wisest one, at the back, said, "No, one of you two should go. I will be the last." This deliberation went on for about ten minutes. Finally, it came to me. I said, "Okay, I will go first." I went inside, made praṇām, and before I knew it, I was already back outside. I looked back; the others weren't coming out. They were sitting inside. The next morning, I couldn't sleep. We had taken sannyās dīkṣā during the night, around two o'clock or so. Around four-thirty, I decided to get up. I planned to do Parikramā, then morning prayer, and return to my room. I went up the stairs and looked toward the Shiva temple. Suddenly, on the left side, Holī Gurujī was on his bed. At 4:30 AM. Again, I didn't know what to do. But I decided: do what you came to do, and then we will see. I did my Parikramā. On the way back, Mahālī Gurujī called me. "Come, sit down." Of course, we didn't understand each other's language, but he said, "Sit down. It's okay. Don't touch here." So I sat there, and it was nice. He gave me a kurta and some other things. Suddenly, he said, "Okay, finish." I left with a heart full of openness. I came downstairs, and suddenly Śivjī was there, his hairs standing on end. "What are you doing there? I should go there!" I didn't know what to tell him. He wouldn't listen to the whole story; he might not even believe it. But at that time, our Gurudev told me just one sentence: "You are so happy now, but you don't even know if you will remain a sannyāsī." I wasn't in a position to say anything aloud, but I thought to myself, "I am happy now. Don't take this away from me. I am not giving you my happiness now." That is what I needed to do. I closed myself in my room for six days to think it over. When people ask me about it—and there was quite a storm in Croatia and Slovenia over this—I just wanted to clarify for myself what kind of answers I should give to others. Listen, there will be little possibility to change my words. Who knows what might have happened without that sentence? So, thank you. Śānti.