Hari Jayanti, Bhagwan Swaminarayan's birthday, was being celebrated in Bhavnagar with great fanfare. Swamishri was observing a nirjala fast. Nevertheless, padhramanis had occupied the day from the very beginning. Outside, it was as if it were raining fire. When Swamishri returned to Kuberbhai's house at two in the afternoon, his eyes had turned a bloodshot red. And still, not a drop of water had entered his mouth.

Swamishri went straight to the small bathroom. With a tumbler, he began pouring cold water over himself. "You keep pouring a bucket of cold water..." he instructed the attendant sadhu.

Fifteen or so buckets later, Swamishri seemed somewhat relieved, yet still so weak that he just about managed to put on his dhotiyu.

After a brief rest, the sadhus and devotees urged Swamishri to take something to eat; anything. But would Swamishri give in? No one could make Swamishri flinch even an inch from his nirjala fast.

With himself, Swamishri has always been as tough as steel; and with us, Swamishri has always been as tender as a rose.