विवेचन सारांश

The Ashvattha Tree of Material Existence and the Path to Liberation: Bhagavān Śrī Krishna’s Revelation of Cutting the Roots of Saṁsāra and Attaining His Supreme Abode

Bhagavān opens Chapter 15 with a single, unforgettable image: the aśvattha—an eternal fig—whose root is above and whose branches reach downward. Its leaves are the Vedas; whoever truly knows that tree is a knower of the Vedas. This is not a botanical lesson but a profound allegory about the world and its Origin. The cosmos is depicted as an inverted tree, its true root lodged in the higher realm. The ordinary leaves and branches below are the manifold phenomena of saṁsāra; those who perceive the root understand the inward meaning of the śāstras.

This opening shloka itself points to an essential truth about the Gītā: it is a guiding text—succinct, sutra-like, and dense with meaning. One cannot simply read the lines on a page and claim full comprehension. In seven hundred verses, Bhagavān has condensed the wisdom of the Upaniṣads and the vāstavat of the Vedas. To unfold these sutras properly, one needs the insight of mahāpuruṣas and ācāryas who have contemplated them deeply. A casual, literal reading will leave most shlokas obscure; only a guided study reveals their light.

The metaphor of “ūrdhva” and “adhah” deserves careful attention. In ordinary speech, ‘ūrdhva’ and ‘adhah’ may point to up and down, but here ‘ūrdhva’ primarily denotes a higher state or order—not merely a spatial direction. To illustrate: when a child advances from second grade to third grade, one would not say the child has gone “up” a floor of a building—grades are measured by rank or quality, not by the physical floor of a school. Similarly, the tree’s “root above” indicates a superior ontological plane; the downward branches indicate the manifold, emergent world.

To make the image concrete, a simple human analogy is offered: consider the human body. If an arm or a leg is severed, the person can still live; but if the head—the vital seat—is severed, life departs. In that sense, the root of the living system is “above,” the vital principle that sustains all the branches below. Thus Bhagavān’s inverted aśvattha teaches where the living world draws its being from, and how the world’s apparent order is founded on a higher source.

To underscore the necessity of depth, the example of one of India’s great teachers, Swami Rāmteerth (often spoken of as Rām before renunciation) is given. Before taking sannyāsa, he was a mathematician of extraordinary distinction at Lahore University. In his matriculation mathematics paper, he reportedly solved every question and obtained what was then regarded as an unprecedented perfect score; his papers were even sent to London for verification. Whether told as fact or as legend, the anecdote highlights his rare command of precision and truth.

A telling episode from his life illustrates the difference between an answer that will “pass an exam” and the fuller answer that embodies true understanding. While embarking on a lecture tour to America (a voyage that took fourteen days by ship in those times), a public announcement on board—“so-and-so, the king, also travels”—led Rāmteerth to refuse to travel with a sovereign. He told his disciples to cancel his ticket; when they could not manage that in time, they eventually secured a ticket for the next ship. The baggage and certain papers were mislaid; the journey was difficult and, it is said, he subsisted on very little during the crossing.

On arrival, the ship’s captain, moved by curiosity and respect, invited him home and treated him as an honoured guest. The captain’s young son happened to be preparing for a mathematics exam and asked Rāmteerth for help. The question seemed simple—“What is a straight line?”—but Rāmteerth paused and offered the boy two choices: the answer that would merely secure a pass in the examination, or the full, philosophically sound answer. This distinction baffled the captain, who asked for clarification.

Rāmteerth then turned the classroom into a living demonstration. He asked where the two points that make a straight line lay on a table? On the floor? If that line were extended indefinitely and seen from a distance, would it remain straight or become curved? The captain realized the subtlety: what looks straight locally may, when extended across the globe, follow the curvature of the earth. The “straight line” written in an exam paper may be correct within the exam’s assumptions, yet incomplete when observed from a larger, truer perspective. The captain was sufficiently impressed—and unsettled—that he phoned a friend at New York University to report that a visitor from India had suggested their teaching, as commonly presented, was partial.

Having challenged conventional academic definitions, Rāmteerth soon found himself the subject of much curiosity. A professor from New York University, upon hearing that “a man from India claims our teachings are incomplete,” rushed to meet him. What began as curiosity grew into debate, and Rāmteerth’s arguments shook the very foundations of their established thought. The following day, professors from across the state gathered, eager to witness this unusual encounter.

In that assembly, Rāmteerth went beyond mere definitions and established a profound truth—that apart from śūnya (the void), nothing else truly exists. Everything, in its essence, resolves back into śūnya. Over the next seven days, lectures on śūnya were organized across different parts of America. Such was the force of his exposition that within twelve days of his arrival—without money, possessions, or even a ticket, not knowing where to go or whom to meet—Rāmteerth was invited to dine with the President of the United States, Roosevelt himself. This was the glory of jñāna, the power of inner realization, the majesty of truth.

Why was this story recalled in this context? To reveal the meaning of “ūrdhva-mūlam adhah-śākham” (15.1). One should not get entangled in the literal sense of “above” and “below” as directions. Directions are relevant only within the confines of the terrestrial environment. Beyond the Earth’s atmosphere, in the expanse of space, directions lose their meaning. In the vastness of Bhagavān’s universe, the concept of direction itself dissolves. Therefore, ūrdhva here refers not to “up” in a spatial sense, but to the superior, the higher reality. As Ādi Śaṅkarācārya has clarified, ūrdhva means śreṣṭhatva—the highest, the supreme.

Bhagavān then uses the metaphor of the aśvattha. The very term holds layers of meaning. “Aśvattha” derives from “a-śva”—that which is not the same tomorrow, that which never remains constant. The world is in perpetual flux. What existed a moment ago is no longer the same; what exists now will not exist in the next moment. Each second, the world shifts and slips away. This constant flow, this unceasing change, is what is meant by saṁsāra.

On another level, aśvattha is also the name of the peepal tree. Why did Bhagavān choose this tree as His metaphor? Because the peepal has a unique quality. Its leaves are so restless that even in a still atmosphere, without the slightest breeze, they quiver faintly. Unlike other trees whose leaves move only when stirred by wind, the pipal leaf moves of its own subtle vibration. This chanchalatā (restlessness) beautifully mirrors the nature of the world—ever-changing, never at rest.

Yet, while the world is restless, Bhagavān also describes it as avyaya—indestructible. One may object, saying, “But millions perished in natural calamities, in wars, in pandemics like corona. Populations rise and fall. Does this not show destruction?” And yet, despite the ebb and flow of lives, the earth’s weight does not increase or decrease even by a gram. Matter is never annihilated; it only transforms.

A simple demonstration makes this clear. Take a piece of paper. Can it be destroyed? One may say, “Tear it.” But tearing merely reduces it to pieces—it has not ceased to exist. One may say, “Soak it in water.” It becomes pulp, but still it exists. One may insist, “Burn it.” It turns to carbon, smoke, and ash. Still, it exists in another form. It can change its form, but it cannot be destroyed. Paper once came from leaves, and later may turn into carbon, but its essence is never lost. Similarly, nothing in this universe is ever annihilated. All undergoes transformation, but the totality remains avyaya.

This truth applies equally to the human body. At death, it is said, “He has returned to dust.” In reality, the pañca-tattva—the five elements—reintegrate into their original sources. Water returns to water, fire to fire, air to air, earth to earth. Nothing is lost. There is only pariṇāma (transformation), never nāśa (destruction).

Bhagavān further declares: chandāṁsi yasya parṇāni—the leaves of this eternal tree are the Vedas themselves. A tree bears countless leaves; who can count them? Likewise, the expanse of knowledge is infinite. Can anyone claim to have exhausted it fully? Even a lifetime of learning cannot encompass the infinite. One who realizes this—that knowledge is without end, that no one can say “I have known everything”—such a person is truly vedavit, a knower of the Vedas.

But here lies a subtle distinction: knowing also has levels. Swamiji visited Chennai, some thirty or forty years ago. There, he saw a little boy of barely five years, deeply absorbed in reading an English newspaper. Astonished, he asked the child, “Can you read?” The boy confidently replied, “Yes.” “You can read the newspaper?”—“Yes.” “Then read it aloud.”

The boy began spelling out, “T-H-E T-I-M-E-S O-F I-N-D-I-A.” Swamiji smiled. The child could indeed recognize and read letters, but he could not form words. He knew the alphabet but not the language. So, was he reading? In one sense, yes. But in the true sense of comprehension, no.

This is how knowledge works at different levels. One who knows only the alphabet believes he knows everything; one who can form words feels the same; one who can read sentences thinks he has mastered it; but the scholar, the thinker, the one who perceives deeper meanings, he sees that what is written carries truths beyond the literal. Each level of knowing is relative. To understand that one’s own knowing is partial is to begin true knowing. And the one who realizes this—that all knowing is endless, layered, ever-expanding—such a person, Bhagavān declares, is truly vedavit.

Bhagavān now elaborates on the branches of this eternal aśvattha tree. Its branches, nourished by the three guṇas—sattva, rajas, and tamas—spread both upwards and downwards, bearing tender sprouts in the form of worldly objects of enjoyment (viṣaya-pravālāḥ). Its secondary roots, extending below into the human realm, bind the jīva through karma, weaving fetters of ahaṁtā (ego), mamatā (possessiveness), and vāsanā (desire).

 The imagery is striking. From the root that is the Parabrahma Paramātmā, the trunk arises as Brahmā, who, through the three guṇas, expands the entire creation. The tree’s branches are the countless species—devas, humans, animals, birds, insects, and organisms too minute to be seen. No two beings are identical. Just as every human being has distinct fingerprints and retinal patterns, likewise, each has unique tendencies, colors, forms, and voices. Even within one species, diversity is endless. The scriptures describe chourāsī lākh yoni—8.4 million life-forms. Within the category of fish alone, there are billions of distinct varieties, each forming separate lineages.

To grasp this vastness, one may reflect on the countless microbes inhabiting even the human body. On the eyelid alone dwell more living organisms than the entire human population of the earth. If the world’s population is today 8.2 billion, then the number of tiny creatures living on a single eyelid equals or surpasses that figure. This gives a glimpse of the immensity of life in all its forms.

The Vedas and Purāṇas further speak of the caturdaśa-loka, the fourteen realms of existence. These are: Satyaloka, Tapoloka, Janaloka, Maharloka, Bhuvarloka, and Bhūloka above; and Atala, Vitala, Sutala, Talātala, Mahātala, Rasātala, and Pātāla below. Seven lie above the earthly realm, and seven beneath it, with Mānushya-loka (the human world) situated in the middle.

The beings inhabiting these realms are broadly of three categories: tiryak-yoni (lower species such as animals, birds, insects, microbes, and vegetation), mānushya-yoni (humans), and deva-yoni (celestial beings dwelling in higher planes such as Pitṛloka and Gandharvaloka). Thus, in this tree of existence, the lower branches represent tiryak-yonis, the middle embodies humanity, and the higher branches reflect the celestial beings.

Bhagavān points to the deeper cause of bondage: ahaṁtā, mamatā, and vāsanā. Fueled by the three guṇas, the jīva becomes entrapped in the five sense-objects—śabda (sound), sparśa (touch), rūpa (form), rasa (taste), and gandha (smell). Under the sway of these desires, the jīva moves restlessly through endless cycles of birth—sometimes rising as a deva, sometimes descending into lower species, and at times experiencing the rare gift of human birth. But whether high or low, the wandering continues across crores of yonis, propelled by attachment and karma.

The great allegory of the aśvattha reveals the endless play of guṇas, the vast multiplicity of life, and the ceaseless wandering of the jīva. Yet, at its root stands the Parabrahma Paramātmā, the source of all. Whether one calls that Reality Bhagavān, Īśvarī-śakti, Supreme Power, Rāma, Kṛṣṇa, or Śiva, the essence is one. Just as the trunk arises from the root, so too all creation springs from the Supreme, branching infinitely through guṇas and karma. To perceive this is to begin to understand the mystery of the eternal tree.

It is said that the form of this cosmic tree of saṃsāra is not truly perceived here. It has no beginning, no end, and no fixed foundation. It is deeply rooted, and only through the firm weapon of asaṅgaśastra—the sword of detachment—can it be cut.

A common image is given of an inverted aśvattha tree, but the teaching warns not to hold on to that imagination as an absolute. Why? Because the picture one understands has a starting point, an ending point, and a definite shape. Yet Bhagavān’s creation has no beginning, no end, and no fixed form that the human mind can grasp. The analogy of the upside-down peepal tree is used only as a tool for understanding. If taken literally, it would limit the vision of Brahmāṇḍa, which in truth is infinite, ananta. The infinite cannot be imagined through the finite.

This very tree of worldly existence has roots of ahaṃtā (ego), mamatā (mine-ness), and vāsanā (desires). With the weapon of detachment, asaṅgaśastra, one must cut it away.

Life is described much like a game of chess that Bhagavān has spread out: all beings become pawns entangled in its play. There is even a song that resonates with this truth: “ūparvālā pāse pheṅke, nīche chalate dāv, kabhī dhūp kī kabhī chhāṅv.” Fate unfolds with changing throws; sometimes it is sunlight, sometimes shadow.

Bhagavān created the world, granting humanity independent intelligence. Among 84 lakh yonis, only the manuṣya yoni is karma yoni. In all other yonis—whether lower or higher—the beings simply move through bhoga yoni. They cannot perform karma, neither puṇya nor pāpa. Animals do not incur sin; even devas do not earn puṇya. This privilege and burden belong solely to humans. Hence it is said:

“baṛe bhāg mānuṣ tan pāvā, sur durlabh sab granth nigāvā.”

Human birth is rare, even for devas, for only here can karma be performed. This is why the cycle continues: birth after birth, body after body. As Ādi Śaṅkarācārya notes:

“punarapijananaṃ punarapi maraṇaṃ punarapijanani jaṭhare śayanam.”

Again and again beings are born, again and again they die, again and again they suffer the confinement of the womb.

Why? It is the attachment to ahaṃtā, mamatā, and vāsanā. Ahaṃtā is the false identification—“I am this body, I am this intellect.” Yet the body ceaselessly changes—from infant to child, youth to age. Cells renew every few years. The self identifies with that which is constantly changing, and hence the ego arises. Mamatā attaches to the relationships around—“my son, my mother, my brother.” Then come desires, vāsanā, the cravings that declare one cannot live without certain comforts—whether tea in the morning, or luxuries without which peace seems impossible. These three—ego, mine-ness, and craving—bind the jīva to endless rebirths.

To overcome them, Bhagavān prescribes the cutting of the roots with asaṅgaśastra.

A narrative beautifully illustrates this teaching. Sukhadeva, son of Vedavyāsa, renowned as a great ascetic, once carried a subtle ego about his renunciation. Vyāsadeva instructed him to go to King Janaka for clarification. Though reluctant—how could a lifelong ascetic receive wisdom from a king engaged in worldly duties?—Obedience led him to Mithilā.

At the palace, Sukhadeva was made to wait. His name and lofty titles were announced, but Janaka asked him to stand outside for hours, then days. Despite his tapas, he felt insulted: how could a king slight an ascetic? For seven days, he stood, hungry and thirsty, as his introduction grew shorter each time. Finally, realization dawned—his mistake was introducing himself with grandeur. The true seeker must bow as a disciple. On the seventh day, with humility, he sent the word that he was but a śiṣya longing for knowledge. Immediately, Janaka himself rushed forward, welcomed him with reverence, and honored him with full hospitality.

Then came the lesson. On that day, Mithilā celebrated its annual festival, and Janaka requested Sukhadeva to play a role: to carry a vessel of oil, brimful, weighing nearly fifteen kilos, around the city in a ceremonial procession. The condition was strict—not a single drop should spill.

Despite the city adorned with music, dancers, fountains, and processions on the route, Sukhadeva saw nothing. His entire awareness rested on the vessel of oil. After hours, exhausted, he returned, having not spilled a drop.

Janaka asked: “How did you find Mithilā? Did you see the festivity, the fountains, the music?” Sukhadeva admitted he had seen nothing—his focus was only on the oil.

Janaka smiled: “There lies your answer. This was your question—how to live in the world, yet keep the mind on Bhagavān. Just as the oil consumed your awareness, the mind fixed on Bhagavān leaves no room for the world to enter, even while living amidst it.

Live like the lotus—born in water, dwelling in water, yet untouched by the water, not even letting a drop cling to its petals.

For seven days, Janaka imparted seven such teachings to Sukhadeva. The essence of the first was this: remain detached, wield asaṅgaśastra, and cut the roots of ahaṃtā, mamatā, and vāsanā. In that severance lies liberation from the endless cycle of saṃsāra.

Once the sharp sword of detachment, asaṅga-śastra, has severed the deeply entrenched roots of ahaṃtā, mamatā, and vāsanā, the journey of the soul does not end with mere cutting away. After liberation from bondage, one must strive to seek the supreme abode, tataḥ padaṃ tat parimārgitavyam—that ultimate state from which no one ever returns to the cycle of saṃsāra.

It is toward that eternal shelter, the ādi-puruṣa, the primordial being, that the seeker surrenders in firm resolve: tameva cādyaṃ puruṣaṃ prapadye. From Him alone the entire stream of creation once flowed, the ancient current of the cosmic tree that sustains the worlds.

Yet, even after one bondage is cut, another appears. Just as a rope is loosened only to find oneself entangled in another, so too in life one resolves: “I will give up this indulgence—perhaps sweets, perhaps a particular pleasure.” But the mind binds itself elsewhere. To renounce one craving is not enough; another arises in its place. Thus, for countless births, beings remain caught in the endless cycle—punarapi jananam, punarapi maraṇam, punarapi jananī jaṭhare śayanam.

What then of the one who has truly cut these roots? For such a soul, Bhagavān describes four shining qualities.

The realized soul becomes nirmāna-mohā—free from the delusion of “I am” and “this is mine.” He no longer identifies with the temporary roles of life as ultimate reality. Just as an actor plays Rāvaṇa in one scene, Hanumān in another, or Rāma in yet another—fully performing each part yet knowing in truth, “I am none of these characters”—so too, the yogī lives as father, son, husband, employer, or servant, fulfilling each role with sincerity but knowing inwardly: “I am none of these. These are but roles assigned for this birth. The true ‘I’ belongs to Paramātmā.”

He becomes jita-saṅga-doṣaḥ—victorious over the defect of attachment. It is not the object itself that binds, but the lingering impression it leaves behind. A simple sweet like a jalebī is harmless when eaten once, but when the mind keeps recalling it—“What a delightful jalebī that was! From such-and-such shop. Tomorrow I will bring more. Five years later, I still remember its taste.”—that memory and craving entangles. The jalebī does not bind; the vāsanā that follows binds.

Such a one also becomes adhyātma-nityaḥ—ever established in the Self, constantly aware of the eternal reality beyond roles and cravings. He is vinivṛtta-kāmaḥ—freed from desires, not merely from indulgence but from the subtle dependency on objects, comforts, and habits. For ordinary beings, life feels impossible without certain things: a morning tea of a specific brand, served in a particular cup at just the right temperature; the presence of a television, an air-conditioner, a mobile phone, or constant access to social media. These countless subtle vāsanās hold the jīvātmā tightly bound. The realized soul alone is freed from them.

Lastly, he is dvandvair vimuktaḥ sukha-duḥkha-sañjñaiḥ—beyond the pull of dualities, unmoved by alternating waves of pleasure and pain, gain and loss, honor and dishonor.

Such beings, Bhagavān proclaims, are no longer bewildered—amūḍhāḥ. They alone attain padam avyayam tat—the imperishable abode. This is none other than the eternal dwelling of Bhagavān Himself.

The supreme abode, tad dhāma parāma, is beyond all illumination of the senses. It is neither lit by the sun (sūrya) nor the moon (śaśāṅka) nor the fire (pāvakaḥ). It shines by its own eternal radiance, self-luminous and independent. Those who reach this state never return to the cycles of worldly existence—yadgatvā na nivartante. It is the imperishable, the eternal dwelling of Bhagavān, the radiant source of all light and consciousness.

Herein lies the truth of renunciation and surrender: once the seeker has severed the deep-rooted attachments of ahaṃtā, mamatā, and vāsanā, the path is clear toward this supreme refuge. One’s identification with body, mind, or possessions dissolves, and all that remains is the recognition that nothing truly belongs to oneself—I am not, nothing is mine; all that exists has been given.

Life itself—the body, relationships, roles, and duties—is a gift, impermanent and transient. Every connection, every possession, is granted temporarily, and no one can claim certainty over its duration. The world, with all its joys and sorrows, is a shared creation. True wisdom lies in serving it while maintaining the heart’s attachment to the eternal. The yogi lives fully in the world, performing roles as they arise, yet remains unattached, as a lotus floating on water remains untouched by its flow.
 Main nahīn, merā nahīn, yeh tan kisī kā hai diyā
Jo bhī apne pās hai, vah dhan kisī kā hai diyā
Jo bhī prāpt hai, vah sab kisī kā hai diyā
Main nahīn, merā nahīn, yeh sab kisī kā diyā

This eternal principle is beautifully expressed in devotional reflection: “I am not, nothing is mine; this body belongs to none. Whatever I have is but given. Whatever arrives may not stay; the mysteries of life are not mine to command. Every moment, every joy, every possession is a gift—given, taken, and passed. Understanding this, one may live in harmony, walking the path of sādhanā, devotedly and freely.”

Thus, even as one engages in worldly service—performing duties, nurturing relationships, and caring for life’s manifold responsibilities—attachment is transcended. What is important is not clinging to outcomes, roles, or objects, but maintaining the mind’s constant awareness of Bhagavān.

The discourse concludes with devotional recitation, reinforcing the surrender of ego and the cultivation of divine remembrance. The repeated invocation—Hari Śaraṇam, Hari Śaraṇam…—echoes the surrender to Bhagavān.

Yogeśvara Śrī Kṛṣṇa Chandra Bhagavān ki Jai.

Suman Ji:
Q: I have two questions in one. First, what is the way to become guṇātīta (beyond the three guṇas)? Second, how can one detach from vṛttis (mental tendencies), whether they are good or bad?
A: No one can instantly become guṇātīta. Detachment from vṛttis follows a gradual process. One must first move from tāmasik tendencies to rājasik, and from rājasik to sāttvik. Once sāttvik vṛttis are established, they naturally lead to a state of niṣkāma—action without desire for fruits. One cannot start directly with niṣkāma karma. It is a state that arises naturally: when there is no attachment or expectation of results, sāttvik karma occurs spontaneously.
Highly realized souls or mahātmas perform sāttvik karma effortlessly. Everything they do—from their food, lifestyle, and conduct to their thoughts—is naturally sāttvik. Through this consistent practice, the state of guṇātīta gradually manifests. It is not something that can be forced; it arises from steady advancement through sāttvik qualities.

Arvind Ji:
Q: My wife has been connected with the Gita family for the last two years. She has completed all four levels and has become a core trainer of two levels. Yet, as you said, one can truly learn the Gita only when Bhagavān decides it. For two years, I watched her practice the Gītā at home, but I could not achieve anything myself. Then, during the Gita Maitri Milan in Dubai, I felt an inner calling to connect. I had no prior knowledge, yet I spent the entire day there. After joining Level One and listening to the shlokas by Kaki Ji  on the YouTube channel, I became so absorbed that whenever time permits, I want to keep reading. Thank you for this guidance.
I have a small question: what is the difference between a shloka and a mantra?
A: Not all shlokas are mantras. All mantras are shlokas, but not all shlokas are mantras. A shloka is a metrical composition that anyone can create with knowledge of Sanskrit, similar to poetry in English. A mantra, however, is a shloka that has been perfected and energized by a sage (ṛṣi), such that its recitation brings results.
For example:

These mantras, when perfected, carry inherent power. The 700 shlokas of the Bhagavad Gita are mantras because they emanate from Bhagavān’s own lips; thus, they are mantramaya (full of mantra power). The effect one experiences in recitation comes from these mantras, not merely the shlokas.

Damodar Ji:
Q: We request guidance. In worldly life, we are surrounded by lies, truth, envy, anger, greed, attachment, and are entangled in material affairs. After attending twelve months of effort, listening to your 40-minute classes, and yet being immersed in the same world, can our spiritual welfare truly be possible?
A: Absolutely. The moment you connect with the Bhagavad Gita, your spiritual progress is assured. A person who studies the Gita is certain to attain Bhagavat-prāpti. Let me give an example:
Param Shraddheya Brahmlīn Swami Ram Sukh Das Ji Maharaj once said in Rishikesh, “All of you present here are certain to attain Bhagavat-prāpti.” Two thousand people were present, and the assembly was stunned. Such assurance comes from a realized soul; nothing can go wrong. Your attainment is guaranteed, though the pace may vary—some may achieve it in this life, others in the next, or over multiple lifetimes.
The speed of progress depends on your effort. Like traveling from Mumbai to Delhi, some walk, some ride a bicycle, some take a vehicle—the destination is reached regardless, the pace differs. Similarly, if you continue 40-minute daily classes and weekend discourses, in three months, you will witness a profound transformation in your life. This is the power of the Bhagavad Gita. Over time, your understanding, behavior, and inclinations will change automatically.
You are now on the path; your Bhagavat-prāpti is assured. The saints before and after Swami Ji, as well as in the land of Bharat, are countless. Respect the teachings of Swami Ji while understanding that the land itself is blessed with many realized souls. Your spiritual welfare is ensured when you remain connected and diligent.

The session concluded with a heartfelt prayer followed by the chanting of the Hanumān Chālīsā.