Ajhun Chet Ganwar #11

To fall in love is easy, beloved—
to stay true to it till the end is hard.
It is easy to reject someone;
it is hard to forget someone.
Between the breath’s winds and the lamp of life,
to keep the wick of remembrance lit—that is hard.
To fall in love is easy, beloved—
to stay true to it till the end is hard.

To become a dream for a moment
in some dreamer’s moonlit eyes,
to turn into a god in Meera’s rapt temple of meditation—
that is not difficult. But
to carry the whole burden of worship—that is hard.
To fall in love is easy, beloved—
to stay true to it till the end is hard.

We trumpet our love to the whole world
and cross every wild, rugged path;
but on the poison-drenched way of thorns,
to smile at every sting—that is hard.
To fall in love is easy, beloved—
to stay true to it till the end is hard.

Leave your boat to the mercy of the wind—
anyone can drift and reach the shore;
but rowing against the current,
to make each wave your bank—that is hard.
To fall in love is easy, beloved—
to stay true to it till the end is hard.

Who does not want to love? Who does not long to drown in love? Yet people do not drown. And it’s not that the river of love does not flow by your very house. It flows right before your eyes. Still, for some reason your feet remain nailed to the bank; you do not step into the stream.

We want love, and yet love does not happen. Something pulls us back. Love is an immense challenge. Love calls from every side. But we stay enclosed in ourselves, sunk in our own prison, in our own darkness. It’s not that we don’t hear the call. It’s not that the voice from love’s peaks does not reach our ears. There is, however, a difficulty. It is essential to understand that difficulty.

We hesitate at the threshold of love because entering love means entering death. To go into love is to be effaced. We want to love, but we want to love while saving ourselves. That is exactly where the obstacle arises. Whoever tries to love and still save himself will never know love.

Love does not bloom in the presence of the ego. Where ego is, love is not. Yet, for lifetimes we have been trying to accomplish this impossible thing. We keep hoping to make two and two add up to five. We strive—and every time our striving fails. Still, our hope does not fail. We think: we lost today; we’ll succeed tomorrow. We want to love while protecting the “me.”

Either save yourself, or love. The two do not go together. Only when you dissolve yourself does love happen. The flower of love blooms on your very grave. That is the hindrance. That is the difficulty.

So even when we long deeply, love does not happen. We writhe without love—though love is present on every side, because the divine is present on every side. We cry for light, we raise a clamor; but we keep our eyes shut. For, the moment our eyes open, we will have to disappear. Love demands the readiness to die. Without dying, love does not happen. Meera has said: “The beloved’s bed lies atop the gallows.” The bed is there, the beloved too—but upon the scaffold. There is a throne, but you cannot sit upon it without passing through the cross. The divine can be found—on the very day you are ready to lose yourself. That is the price. A lesser price won’t do. You get ready to leave many things: “I’ll leave home, wife and children, business, wealth, status, I’ll go to the mountains.” You are ready to leave everything—but not yourself. And the one who has not left himself has left nothing at all; he who has left himself—even if he has left nothing else—has left everything. There is only one renunciation: the renunciation of “I.” Tie this knot tight.

Often your mind thinks: let me leave the world. What will that do?

People come to me and say, “Why don’t you tell your sannyasins to leave the world?” I say, what will that accomplish? I tell my sannyasins to leave the sense of “I.” That is the real world. People readily get ready to leave the world; they are not ready to leave the “I.” That is the touchstone, the challenge, the test.

The world prepares people by itself to be left. Which husband hasn’t wanted to run away from his wife? The wonder is that you stayed. Who doesn’t want to escape the hassle of children? Somehow you are enduring it—that is the wonder. Who hasn’t grown weary of the marketplace? Who isn’t harassed by the twenty-four-hour uproar, who isn’t going mad? Everyone wants to be free of this. If anyone comes and shows you a way, you will eagerly leave. And there is a fun in leaving: you leave the world, and nothing changes within. Not only that—your ego puts on new finery. You become an ascetic. You were a sensualist; now you are a renunciate. Earlier your ego was a bit battered; now it stands with a flag on its head. Now the sensual will touch your feet. The very world that thought you weren’t worth a dime will come to praise you.

This is not a bargain for attaining the divine. You have lost even more. You were bored with indulgence; you will not be bored with renunciation—because renunciation gives great satisfaction—to the ego.

Remember: when iron chains bind your hands, you want to be free. But if the chains are golden, who wants to be free? And if those golden chains are studded with diamonds and rubies, who will want to be free? And if people no longer call them chains but “ornaments,” and say, “How fortunate you are! When will we receive such ornaments?”—who will want to be free? When you begin to mistake the prison for a palace, who wants freedom?

The chains of indulgence are iron—heavy, ugly, rusted. You are exhausted from dragging them. The chains of renunciation are light, beautiful, lovely, jeweled. You will guard those chains like ornaments.

A man can free himself from indulgence; he does not free himself from renunciation. And until one is free of both indulgence and renunciation, one is not free. But you cannot be free by merely leaving indulgence and renunciation. Leave indulgence, and you become an ascetic. Leave renunciation, and you become a sensualist. Keep in mind this duality: if you leave one, the other comes on its own. When will both drop? When you are not. As long as you are, one will remain. When you dissolve, when the “I-sense” is no more—then there is neither sensualist nor ascetic; then the lover is born. That lover is a supra-mundane happening. The devotee is born—neither sensualist nor renunciate. The devotee renounces even in enjoyment and enjoys even in renunciation. The devotee is a unique event.

The Upanishads say: tena tyaktena bhunjithah! An astounding statement: Only those who renounce truly enjoy. Tena tyaktena bhunjithah—those who have let go are the very ones who have tasted. It sounds upside down. About whom is this said?

You will find the sensualist, you will find the renunciate. In the sensualist you won’t see the savor of renunciation; in the renunciate you won’t see the savor of enjoyment. Both are half, incomplete, fragmented. The devotee is whole. The devotee worries neither about indulgence nor about renunciation. If enjoyment comes, he enjoys; if renunciation comes, he renounces. He embraces what the divine gives. For he says: “I am not—who is there to refuse? Who is there to choose?” The devotee abides in choicelessness. He says: “Whatever You give is right. There isn’t even enough ‘me’ left to decide what is right, to ask, to choose, to complain, to pray. There isn’t even that much left. There is nobody here. The house is empty. Our knot is tied in the void—our home is in emptiness.”

In emptiness! As long as you are, emptiness cannot be—because you have stuffed your emptiness full with yourself. Once you go, emptiness appears. And where emptiness is, love is. Love wells up in emptiness. Love blossoms when the ego has been dissolved; only then does love enter you.

Therefore—
To fall in love is easy, beloved;
to stay true to it till the end is hard.

The great difficulty is that people cannot sustain love. They cannot carry it through—because they are busy sustaining the “I.” Either sustain the “I,” or sustain love. Ride both boats and you will be in trouble—and reach nowhere. These two boats are heading in opposite directions—one east, one west. Stand with a foot on each, and you’ll be torn apart. Tension, anxiety will arise.

Life offers only two choices: live from the “I-sense,” or live from love. There are only two ways to live. Either live on the basis of “me,” and spread the arithmetic of “me”—or gather up that arithmetic and close the shop. Either expand the shop of “I,” or shut it.

When the shop of “I” expands, the divine is not seen. When the shop of “I” closes, the divine is seen.

The world and God are not two. Let me repeat it—because for centuries you’ve been told they are two. The Creator and the creation are one; yet they appear as two to you. If you spread the bazaar of “I,” the world appears, and God does not. Then God seems like mere imagination, a doctrine, a bit of talk, blind belief. If you shrink the shop of “I,” shrink it utterly, let the “I-sense” go completely, then the divine appears—and the world disappears. The world seems like maya. Do you understand what the wise mean when they call the world maya?

They mean: when the divine is seen, the world is not seen. It vanishes at once—because only the divine is all around. These trees, these birds, these animals, these men and women, these stones and mountains, moon and stars—right now they seem to you like the world because your “I-sense” stands between. This is the divine seen through the lens of “I.” Seen through the “I,” the divine appears as the world. It is your appearance. But it is the divine. The day you change your glasses, put aside the lens of “I,” you will be shocked: there are no trees, no mountains, no stones, no animals, no birds, no men or women—only One dancing in infinite forms. This is the raas—the cosmic dance. One tone. One existence. One song.

But the “I” must go. The transformation is instantaneous. A new vision becomes available. The vision changes and the creation changes.

On the sitar of empty breaths,
on the moist strings of tears,
life is listening to one song,
life is singing one song.

The sun mounts there as the moon sets here;
night falls away here as dawn blossoms there.
One breath is living, one breath is dying;
one lamp is going out, one lamp is being lit.

Therefore, on the morning of union-and-separation,
life is lighting one lamp and extinguishing another.

Every day the flower adorns itself for the dust,
and daily the dust flings embers upon the flower.
Wave after wave longs for the bank,
but the bank strikes back drop by drop.

Thus, love stung by hatred,
life makes you laugh one moment, weep the next.

For a single lamp, countless moths are perishing;
for a single friend, countless friends fall away.
For a single drop, a thousand clouds melt into embrace;
for a single tear, a hundred dreams curl up adorned.

Thus, at the meeting-point of creation and destruction,
life is building one house and demolishing another.

The sky is asleep, and the night stands weeping.
Spring burns, the bud lies frozen in sleep.
The body bears the fever of youth and longing,
while this chain of breath breaks and scatters.

Thus, in the sun-and-shade of anxiety,
life puts us to sleep for a moment, and wakes us the next.

Life has two legs, two wings. There are two ways to look at it. Seen from one side, it is dying; from the other, it is being born. The seed dies and the tree is born. If the seed insists, “I will remain, why should I die? What’s the point of dying? I will protect myself”—if the seed protects itself, it will rot. But if it dies, it saves itself—understand this paradox. The seed dies and is saved; the tree appears. On that tree will hang millions of seeds. One seed becomes infinite. If the seed clings to itself, it lies like a pebble and rots.

Jesus said: Those who try to save themselves will be lost; those ready to lose themselves—none can destroy them.

The whole tale of religion is determined by this one small sutra: The one who dies shall be saved; the one who saves himself shall perish.

This “I” wants to save itself. As long as it does, love cannot happen. The day the “I” understands: “In my being is pain; in my being is bondage; in my being is hell”—and willingly agrees to die… That is why I call sannyas a voluntary death—one becomes ready to die by one’s own will. As the seed dies, as the ego dies, the light of God begins to descend.

Today’s sutras are of this very revolution.

Make the mind fine, subtle—when the Beloved takes your hand.

If you want to attain the Beloved, refine the mind, refine it—make it so subtle that mind dissolves.

Make the mind fine…

Make the mind subtler and subtler. The thinner the “I-sense” becomes, the nearer the Beloved appears. This curtain of “I,” this veil of mind—let it grow from velvet into sheer muslin; the finer it gets, the more the divine glimmer becomes visible.

Make the mind fine, subtle—when the Beloved takes your hand.

If you would find the divine, you will find Him in the same measure as the mind becomes subtle—tending toward non-being. Subtle means: the journey into nothingness, into extinguishing. And the day the mind becomes absolute zero, that day you are the divine. Then there remains no difference between lover and Beloved; no difference between devotee and God. The only difference was a thin veil. Ordinarily, however, we keep a very thick veil—an iron curtain. We are imprisoned in it, and we cry: Where is God?

People ask: Where is God? What proof is there of God? And they won’t open their eyes. Yet the proof of God is everywhere. Only the proof of That is everywhere. If anything at all has evidence here, it is the evidence of God—and nothing else has any.

A young man asked me, “What proof is there of God?” I said: Rather than seeking proof of God, worry about the proof of your own being. Search: Are you? The day you find that you are not, that day God is. As long as you feel “I am,” God is not. The two do not exist together. If the devotee remains, God does not. When the devotee dissolves, God is. When the devotee is full of himself, where is the room inside for the Great Guest? When the devotee is empty within, there is space for the Great Guest to arrive.

Make room! All sadhana is a way to make room. Empty space within. Throw out the junk—furniture, refuse. Mind is furniture—thoughts, desires, tendencies, conditioning, memories, fantasies, plans. What a crowd within! This is the marketplace.

You think the marketplace is outside? It is here—inside you. This clamor within is the market’s clamor. Silence this uproar. Let it go. As it quiets, you will find the mind growing fine.

Paltu says:
Make the mind fine, subtle—when the Beloved takes your hand.

If you want the Supreme Beloved, gradually become so subtle that you disappear.

Think of a lump of ice—hard, like stone. Hence we call ice “stone-water.” It melts—becomes water. Melt further—becomes vapor. Finer still. As ice, it would break a head; as water, it cannot. As vapor, it cannot even be seen—vanishing, dissolving into the Vast, melting into the void.

Subtle means: the journey into zero. Whoever is on the journey into zero is the true pilgrim. Going to Kashi will do nothing, nor to Girnar. Mecca, Medina, Jerusalem won’t help. The real pilgrimage is into emptiness, into subtlety, into the supremely subtle.

We are gross. Our grossness has three layers. The body is like ice—very gross. The mind is like water—fluid, flowing; you cannot grasp it, it slips the fist. And our essence is like vapor—unseen. Whichever of the three you identify with, such you become. If you say “I am the body,” you become very gross. Your belief shapes your personality. “I am the body”—and you are the body. You have pinned yourself to stone. Your life becomes coarse. Fear of death grips you, for daily you see bodies die. In fear you cling to money, hoard bank balances, hoping for safety. In fear you live. Even your worship will be out of fear. And can worship flower out of fear’s poison? In fear you will go to the temple: “Death is coming—let God save me.” You’ll fear hell and give alms from fear. But can alms be given from fear? Alms arise from love, from joy. The filth of fear cannot birth charity. The Ganges of giving does not flow from fear’s dirty drains; it needs Gangotri—pure, simple joy. Prayer too arises only when love trembles the heart. With fear you tremble; then even your God is false. A God dictated by fear is but fear extended.

Such a man can never celebrate. How to celebrate with death encircling you? Dying today or tomorrow—what festival? Without celebration, what gratitude? Even if he tries to thank God—for what? He has known no color, no fragrance, no music, no dance. No bells ever bound to his feet. He never tasted life with a free heart. Gratitude for what? No flavor—thanks for what? Afraid, he shrinks, rots in fear. The body ages toward death. From birth day one, it began dying. The infant of day one has already died one day. What you call a birth-day should be called a death-day, not birth. Fifty years—“my fiftieth birthday has come.” Death has come fifty years closer. If you die at seventy, twenty years remain. And you celebrate the day that brings death closer?

Time’s current carries death toward you. That is why in this land we called both time and death by one name—kal. Time is death.

The fear arises because you are identified with the body.

Grossness pushes the divine far away, and you see only Yama’s messengers around you. A little subtler is the one who identifies not with body but mind. In his life, poetry replaces money; music, not security, becomes his taste. Bank balance matters less. Friendship, song, poetry—his interests refine. He is somewhat aristocratic. He savors what the body-bound cannot. The body-bound says: “Nonsense. What’s in poetry? Better have a drink. Better eat. What’s in music? What is this you call music?” For him only one music is real—the clink of ready coins.

I heard of two men walking through a crowded bazaar—noise, traffic, bargaining. Suddenly temple bells began to ring nearby. Who hears temple bells in such a clamor? One of the two said, “Listen, how sweet the bells!” The other said, “Speak up, what?” He repeated, “Listen, the temple bells are so sweet.” The second said, “Amazing—you hear bells in this uproar? How?” The first took a silver coin from his pocket and struck it hard on a stone. Clink! Some twenty men—shopkeepers, buyers, sellers—came running: “Whose coin fell?” He said, “See! No one hears the temple bells. But the sound of money—!”

We hear what we desire. We don’t hear everything. We walk the same street yet see different things. We perceive only what we seek. One whose obsession is money hears the coin even in sleep.

Years ago I was in Sagar. There’s a sweetmaker there—no one in the country makes gujiyas like his. Legendary. People have tried, none succeeded. It’s said that if you want a gujiya at two in the morning, don’t knock. Just ring a coin on his door; no matter how deep his sleep, he’ll open at once: “What do you need?” Knock and he won’t hear; shout and he won’t. But the sound of money reaches him even in dreamless sleep.

We hear what we are seeking. One seeking the divine will see the divine. That is how existence is: it shows you what you seek. The one who finds music in coins will not relish Ravi Shankar’s sitar. He’ll say: “What a waste!” Take him to classical music—“What is this aaaa…aaa…?”

Mulla Nasruddin once went. The vocalist held a long aaaa… Mulla’s eyes filled with tears. A neighbor said, “Nasruddin, I never thought you enjoyed classical music so much.” He said, “Classical? I’m crying because my goat sounded like this when it died. This man will die. Call a doctor! My goat went aaa…aaa…for an hour—then died.”

Each has his tether, his scale.

One tied to the body becomes gross. He sees no poetry in life. In the wind through trees he hears no music; in the birds’ throats, no divine note.

Better, though, is the one who lives with the mind. He lifts his gaze a little; he is more fluid. Most reach only as far as mind. Those who live in body know no culture, no civility, no refinement—no music, no song, no dance, no glimpse of philosophy. Their life begins and ends in eating and drinking.

But even mind is not the place to stop. There is a subtler still. The one who joins to the soul—his poetry becomes a hymn; his dance, not a dancer’s dance but Meera’s dance. The difference is vast. A dancer dances—if bound to body, her dance is erotic, arousing lust, striking the gross within. That is why in the West many modern dances do nothing but inflame desire—cabarets and such. People make naked women dance to revive their failing lust.

If the dancer is tied to mind, she evokes music, poetry, liberates you for a while from bodily grossness to soar in the sky of mind. And if the dancer is Meera or Chaitanya, then for a little while you pass into the great sky—samadhi showers.

In Meera’s dance the connection is with the soul. Watching, your own connection may awaken.

We are moved by satsang. Choose your friends with great care—your friends decide your life. If you must watch a dance, seek Meera. If you must hear a song, listen to Paltu, Dariya, Kabir. If the Ganges is available, why drink the filthy drain?

Paltu says:
Make the mind fine, subtle—when the Beloved takes your hand.

Grow subtler and subtler. Drop body, drop mind—even the soul one day! Then you join the divine. Whoever crosses these three steps and enters the fourth—free of body, free of mind, free even of soul. Free of soul means the “I-sense” has ended completely. The very word atma means “I,” “I-ness.”

Hence Buddha says: the supreme state is anatta—no-self. There the atma does not remain; the feeling “I am” does not remain. The “atta” is gone. The “I-sense” is gone. Emptiness remains. In that emptiness arises the divine sense, the theistic being.

When the Beloved takes your hand, live lower than all.
Abandon sides and disputes; do not speak from on high.

And when the longing to truly take the Beloved’s hand arises, live lower than all—be the last, be the least. Do not run ahead. The ambition to be ahead is the womb of the world.

That is why Jesus said: “The last shall be first in my kingdom, and the first shall be last.” The race to be first is politics. “I must stand at the head of the line!”

To be first is ego’s desire. “How can I be behind? I must be the first.” This disease gives birth to politics.

We fill even small children with this poison. A child of five or six, a bag on his shoulder, going to school—we start dosing him: “Come first! Beat the other thirty, go ahead! Only then you have worth.” Then lifelong the child tries to be ahead—in wealth, in position, by any means. “At any cost, I must be ahead—methods be damned!” Worth lies only in how many you leave behind.

Remember, each person you push behind coarsens you. Two people behind—more coarse. Three—still more stone.

The ambitious becomes stone—very gross. No one is more anti-religious than the politician. Even prostitutes can be religious; sinners can be religious. But a politician’s being religious is very difficult. Why? His race runs opposite to religion. Jesus says: those who are first here become last in my realm, and the last become first. Here, the politicians are first. The race to be first is ego’s trumpet. Ego separates from the divine.

When the Beloved takes your hand, live lower than all.
Abandon taking sides; do not speak from on high.

Become the valley, not the mountain peak. See: when it rains, it rains on the mountain too; but nothing stays there, all flows into the hollows. The lakes fill—the hollows that were empty fill; while the mountains—full—remain empty.

Here, what is full will be emptied; what is empty will be filled. Understand this, and nothing remains to understand.

When the Beloved takes your hand, live lower than all.
Abandon taking sides; do not speak from on high.

Drop pro and con, debate and dispute—because these are ego’s games. The Hindu says, “My religion is right.” He is not saying his religion is right—he is saying “I am right.” Listen closely: what has he to do with religion? How can religion be Hindu or Muslim? Light a fire in India or in Arabia—it burns. Water boils at a hundred degrees in India, Tibet, China—no exceptions. Tuberculosis in a Hindu, Muslim, Jain—one treatment works. The Jain cannot say, “I am Jain, this TB is Jain; the treatment that works for Muslims will not work on me.” Science is one—universal. Science is the religion of the gross; religion is the science of the subtle. How then can there be two religions?

So, “abandon taking sides”—don’t say, “I am Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Buddhist, Sikh.” These are sects, not religion. A religious person has no side, no doctrine, no scripture. He has no mind—where then doctrine, where scripture? He has no thought. Thoughtlessness is religion. The Quran, Bible, Gita—at best they reach the mind. They cannot go beyond mind. Religion begins where mind ends. Where no-mind begins—what Kabir called the unmani state—mindless being.

It must be understood utterly: the one still tangled in Quran and Gita has not yet reached religion. The one who has reached religion is free of Quran and Gita. Ironically, only the one who has reached can truly understand what is in Quran and Gita. The one who hasn’t, no matter how much he bangs his head on them, will understand nothing. Understanding comes from inner height, inner experience, inner depth, inner realization.

Paltu is right:
Abandon taking sides; do not speak from on high.

Drop pro and con, debate, scriptural wrangling. All debate at its root is trying to prove the ego. You have nothing to do with truth—you don’t even know truth. When you say, “What I say is right,” you are not saying what you say is right; you are saying, “Because I say it, how can it be wrong?”

Watch closely: why do you get so perturbed when someone says you are wrong? Is it because you love the matter so much? The matter is secondary. You are perturbed because your ego is bruised.

Leave even useless insistences. We cling even to trivialities. If someone points out your mistake, you are angry. Though he points out a mistake, your ego hurts—because you cannot admit you can be wrong. And if you concede the mistake, you still won’t forgive the one who pointed it out. You will someday look for his mistake, to even the score.

All our claims—my scripture, my country, my caste, my religion, my temple—behind them the “I” is playing.

Abandon taking sides…

There is another reason: only by dropping pro and con can you go beyond mind. Mind means options. As long as mind is, there is either-or: Is there God, is there no God? Atheist or theist? If you say “I am a theist,” you are still in mind. The one beyond mind will say, “How can I call Him yes or no? The divine is beyond yes and no.” Hence Buddha remained silent. Asked, “Does God exist?” he remained silent. “If I speak, I will be wrong. Language is dual. If I say ‘God is light,’ what of darkness? That too is He. If I say ‘God is darkness,’ what of light? That too is He. If I say ‘both,’ nothing is said. Life is that, death is that. You want a decision. No decision can be given; the question remains.” Lao Tzu too said the same: “The moment truth is said, it is falsified.” Speak here—it is wrong there. Best is to be silent. In supreme silence alone can anything be said of truth.

Nothing has ever been said of truth itself. Whatever has been said is about how to reach truth—how to become subtle, and subtler, and subtler, and vanish. Then what remains—who can say anything of it? Speech falls silent. Words become mute. The mind itself goes. The talker is no more. Something so vast has happened it cannot fit in words.

Abandon taking sides; do not speak from on high.

Do not even say, “I am right.” Do not say, “You are wrong.” The same game. “I right, you wrong.” Don’t say it.

Mahavira said: “I give updesh (sharing), not aadesh (command).” When asked the difference, he said: “I do not say to anyone: Do this. Who am I to say? I only say: I did this and found this. Listen. Your wish. If it seems right, do it; if not, don’t. If you do, it is your decision; if not, your decision. Do or don’t—I am pleased. I do not command, I only share.”

That is the difference. Updesh means: I simply say what is so for me. No insistence that you accept it. If you only listen—my gratitude. It ends there. If tomorrow you don’t follow it, I won’t be angry; if you do, I won’t be flattered.

Command means: “I know; you don’t. Do as I say. I am the knower; you are ignorant.” That is speaking from on high.

Paltu says: Neither take sides nor speak from on high.

Lose status and pride; meet Him while alive.
If someone abuses you, forgive and keep quiet.

Lose status and pride; meet Him while alive.

Drop all prestige and ambition. You’ve decorated the “I” enough and suffered enough. Stop adorning it. Snatch away its ornaments. Stop feeding it. Let it die.

Lose status and pride; meet Him while alive.

Let death happen while living—then union with the divine is possible. Let the body live, not the “I.” Usually, when the body dies, the “I” still lives; it leaps from one body into another. Barely a moment passes—here you die, there you take a womb. The “I” continues; bodies change.

This is ordinary death. In it, the body dies; the “I” does not. In what we call the great death—samadhi—the “I” dies; the body remains. If the “I” dies while the body lives, there is no rebirth. For who would be born? The “I” was the traveler, wanting to continue in more forms: “So much remains to be enjoyed.” After every life something remains.

The Upanishads tell the tale of Yayati. At a hundred, death came. The emperor protested: “This is no way! I have not enjoyed anything yet. Give me a little more time—so much remains incomplete.” Death laughed: “It will never complete.” Yayati said, “Give me one chance; I’ll finish quickly. Give me a hundred more years.” Death said, “I must take someone. You have a hundred sons—persuade one to go in your place.” Yayati called them. Some were eighty, seventy-five, seventy—old themselves. They sat silent, looking at each other. The youngest, about twenty, stood up. Death said, “Foolish boy, your elder brothers won’t go—why do you?” He said, “Ask them.” The elders said, “Why should we? If Father’s thirst isn’t quenched in a hundred years, how could ours be, with only seventy? He’s lived twenty or thirty years more than we have—why should we sacrifice? We too want to enjoy fully.” The youngest said, “Seeing that Father hasn’t managed in a hundred years, I think—what’s the point in being here at all? Why be dragged for eighty more? Take me—end it.” Death took the boy. A hundred years later she returned; by then Yayati had forgotten. When death came, he trembled again, tears flowing. “Now come,” she said. “But nothing is complete!” And so it happened ten times—each time he wept. After a thousand years, death said: “Understand now. What you seek to fulfill is intrinsically unfulfillable. When will you learn? You are old yet childish. The desires you try to complete never complete; to remain incomplete is their nature.”

Have you completed anything in life? Everything remains incomplete, stuck. Amass wealth—however much, the craving remains: a little more. Something is always lacking; it doesn’t fill. This vessel cannot be filled.

One who sees life’s truth and agrees to die before death comes—rarely does anyone do this. Usually, even when death arrives, people behave like Yayati—unwilling to die. Death has learned much since then; that story belongs to a time when death was naive. Now, however much you plead, she does not relent. But man has learned nothing. We are where we were.

Yesterday I was reading a statement by Stephen Jung. Significant. He says: It seems human consciousness does not evolve. Look at bad men—no development. What development is there between Genghis Khan and Adolf Hitler? Two thousand years make no difference. Look at good men—no difference between Buddha and Ramakrishna, Mahavira and Ramana. It’s not as if Ramana went beyond Mahavira because of the time gap. The bad are as bad; the good as good.

He says: It seems there is no development in life. The notion of progress is wrong. Things have changed: ten thousand years ago, to kill someone you picked up a stone and smashed his head. Now you can drop a bomb from half a mile up. But the killer, the killed—no difference. Whether you drop a bomb or a stone, thrust a knife or fire a bullet, it makes no difference. Develop a death ray to kill from thousands of miles—but the killing mind is the same. Neither the bad became worse, nor the good better. No development.

Death has learned; man has not. Proof that man has learned comes when he sees the pattern and dies before death comes—dies without troubling death to come drag him.

This dying of the “I”—death will still come for the body; but it won’t need to come for you. You will have flown already: the swan flies alone. Death does not have to take him; he goes by himself. Why wait to be dragged? Who, with a little understanding, would prefer that? Death pulls, and you cling to the shore like Yayati, “Not yet! Give me a little more time! Just one day! Many tasks remain—my daughter’s wedding, her child to be born, customers due tomorrow, a land payment, money to collect…” But man always dies in the middle. Always in the middle. Have you ever heard of someone who settled all accounts, then sat and said, “Now it’s fine—nothing remains; come”? No such story has ever even been imagined.

Lose status and pride; meet Him while alive.
If someone abuses you, forgive and keep quiet.

One who accepts death—nothing can hurt him. If someone abuses him, what is injured? Abuse hits only the ego. The pain is not in the words; it is in your expectation. You were expecting garlands; instead you got abuse. You expected at least a namaste—not a slap. The ego sat inside waiting for respect—and got insulted. You wanted the mountaintop; you fell into a ditch. The ditch hurts because you wanted the peak. Without that wish, even the ditch would not pinch. “Fine—this man needed to abuse, he did. That man needed to garland, he did. I was not sitting to be garlanded nor to be abused. It is their choice.”

The abuser gives you nothing—he merely reveals his inner madness. You remain untouched—if the “I” is gone. If not, difficulty. The bigger the “I,” the deeper the wound of insult. The greater your hunger for honor, the more insult hurts. The day the hunger for honor vanishes, insult loses meaning.

Once, some people showered Buddha with abuse. He stood listening. When they finished, he said, “May I go now? I must reach the next village; people await me. If you are done, I will go.” They said, “Done? These are abuses. Do you understand abuses?” He said, “I do, but you are late. If you had wanted a reply, you should have come ten years ago. Then my ego was alive. Now you abuse a dead man. Abuse a corpse and expect an answer?” He added, “Now I feel compassion for you.” Someone asked, “Compassion?” He said, “Yes. In the last village, people brought trays of sweets. I said, my stomach is full; I cannot carry these—please take them back. They took them back. Tell me, what did they do?” A man answered, “Distributed them in the village.” Buddha said, “That is why I feel compassion. What will you do now? You brought a tray of abuses; I say, I don’t take them. Will you distribute them? Take them home? What will you do? You are in trouble. Do as you wish. You give, true—but I do not take. Until I take, how can abuse touch me? Abuse is not one-sided; it needs a taker too.”

Watch yourself. How eagerly you take abuses—hands and sack open: “Come, sir, we were waiting!” Why such haste? Sometimes no one abuses you, and you imagine he did. Two people laugh about something else—you think they laugh at you. Two whisper on the roadside—you think: “About me, surely against me! Otherwise why whisper?” The abuse wasn’t given; you take it. There are those who won’t take even given abuse; and those who take abuse that wasn’t given. It is your game.

If someone abuses you, forgive, and keep quiet.

And this is crucial: forgive, but don’t parade your forgiveness—“See, I forgave him. He abused me, I didn’t take it.” Don’t say it, else you spoil it. Forgiveness is not for display, or the ego sneaks back through the rear door: “Look at me! People abuse me, I forgive.” Keep quiet. It is finished. Nothing to do with you. Someone gave, someone took; you neither took nor gave. Remain silent.

Praise everyone; know yourself small.
Raise your hands first in greeting; bow your head to all.

The one who would find God sees God everywhere—in the thief, in the sinner. Of course, in the sinner the divine is a bit upside down; but even when a cart slips off the road, you still call it a cart. You can return it to the road. Sin is only forgetfulness of God; he will remember. We can forget God; we cannot lose Him.

Praise everyone; know yourself small.
Raise your hands first in greeting; bow your head to all.

Bow to all—for the same One sits in all.

Paltu says: she alone is truly wedded whose brow shines with the diamond.
Make the mind fine, subtle—when the Beloved takes your hand.

Remember this—it is a jewel. Paltu says: only she is suhaagini—the truly wedded—the one in whom the Beloved has been found. Women place a bindi on the forehead, a symbol—the spot of the third eye. But that is applied from outside—what will it do?

Paltu says: the one who refines the mind into subtlety and then into zero—“Paltu soyi suhaagini, heera jhalakai maath”—on her third eye the diamond begins to shine of its own. No need to place a bindi from outside. The third eye radiates. The third eye glitters like a diamond. For those with eyes to see, the third eye of that person becomes visible.

Do not think that by external tilak and marks you have gained suhaag. That true suhaag is only when the divine is found—the true Beloved. Then outer marks are not needed—the inner tilak appears, like a diamond.

Paltu says: she alone is truly wedded whose brow shines with the diamond.
Make the mind fine, subtle—when the Beloved takes your hand.

And the Beloved is not far. If He were far, you would be excused.

Giving water to the traveler who died of thirst—what use now? You see how people pour Ganga water into the mouths of the dying? They pour water though the tongue lolls and the water runs out. If you wanted to bring the Ganga, bring it while he was alive. They whisper God’s name in a dead ear—“Hari bol, Hari bol, Rama-naam satya hai.” What a limit! Saying to a corpse: “Ram’s name is Truth.” And you, alive, do not hear it. Those carrying the corpse chant “Rama-naam satya hai”—they too do not hear what they are saying. To know that Rama’s name is Truth is to know it while alive—that everything else is futile and only God’s name is essence.

The traveler died of thirst though the rope and the bucket lay beside him.
He sat on the well’s curb—who will draw without making the least effort?

Understand it. The rope was near, the bucket too, water brimming in the well. He had only to tie the rope to the bucket, lower it, draw water, and drink. The slightest effort—and he died of thirst at the well’s rim.

Food lies served in the platter, and he cries, “Hungry! Hungry!” Who will put it into your mouth?

And remember: someone can put food in your mouth, but no one can put God in your mouth. God cannot be borrowed. You have to seek yourself. It requires a little effort—nothing much. The remembrance of God—what big thing is that? The mind runs twenty-four hours anyway. Let a little remembrance flow within that stream. Your hands and feet move anyway—align them a little.

The lamp, the wick, the oil are all there—but you won’t light the flame.

I have heard: a Sufi sent a bundle to a king who had asked, “How do I find God?” The bundle contained flour, ghee, salt, and a little water. The king was puzzled: “Is he mad?” The Sufi said, “I sent the message: everything is with you—like flour, ghee, salt, water. Move your hands a bit—mix, knead, add salt and ghee—bake the bread.”

God is present. As if a veena lies in your house—you never touch the strings. Practice a little, caress the strings, learn a little sargam—great music will arise.

You cry, “Hungry! Hungry!”—who will put it into your mouth?
Food lies served; you do not eat.
The lamp, wick, oil are there; you will not light it.
The Lord is lost nearby, and you set out to seek Him far away.

And that Beloved is lost nearby—and you go seeking Him afar: some to the Himalayas, some to Mecca and Medina, some to Kailash. The Lord is lost near; He sits at your side. Just turn your gaze slightly. His hand is in yours—bring life into your hand.

You do not need to seek God; you need to lose yourself—and God is found. But we do the opposite—we go out seeking God.

Paltu says: the path is plain, yet you keep stumbling and falling.

I am amazed. The road is so simple, so clear—yet you keep tripping.

The Lord is lost nearby—yet you go to seek Him afar.
You die of thirst though the rope and bucket are beside you.

You cry “water, water,” you cry of hunger—while the platter sits before you. You go far to seek God while He dwells in your inmost. Yet you cannot see Him. We hear, “The Lord is near; the Lord is near”—but where? We look and do not see. So Paltu gives a key:

Leaving the feet of the living saint, you worship ghosts and goblins.

If you want to know that God is near, seek the feet of a living saint. You won’t find Him in the worship of ghosts—of the dead. Not in the worship of corpses, not in the worship of the past. In the presence of a living saint.

God seems far to you—perhaps even doubtful. Find someone in whom even a single ray of the sun is visible. Forget the sun—at least a ray. Catch hold of that one ray.

A saint means one who has known, who has lived, who has eaten of that food, who has lit his lamp, who has found the Lord. Sit near him, stay in his presence—how will you escape contagion? Sit with a thief—you become a thief. Sit with the sick—you catch it. Sit with the drunk—you become drunk. Sit with the one who has drunk the Beloved—little by little, a sweet madness will descend. Sit in satsang, become satsangi.

That is the meaning of a saint’s company: befriend one who has drunk. Through that friendship, the path becomes clear.

Leaving the feet of the saint, you worship ghosts and goblins.
And you worship ghosts: some worship the dead, some the tombs, some stone idols.

Worship ghosts and you will become a ghost, says Paltu. For you become what you worship. If idol-worshipers’ hearts have turned stony, no wonder. Worship stone, become stone. Be careful whom you worship. If you must worship, worship someone such that, becoming like him, you will not regret. Choose with care. Don’t choose dead saints—call them ghosts. They are no longer alive. If you worship the past, you’ll become lifeless. Life is already burdened with sorrow—then you found such a “saint”: lean and like an extra monsoon added to your troubles.

Find some living, awake, dancing glimpse of God—then don’t miss. Don’t look for excuses and logic to escape. For you have nothing to protect—nothing to lose. What is there to lose?

Often it amazes me: people are so afraid, as if they had something to lose. There is nothing to lose—that is our misery. If there were, life would be joy, peace, gratitude. There is nothing.

Last night Preeti was speaking with me—afraid. Afraid even to come here. She is my sannyasin and still afraid. I asked: What do you have to lose? Why fear? We have nothing to lose—understand this. We already stand looted—what more can be looted? Even bandits would pity you. What do you have?

I’ve heard: a thief entered Mulla Nasruddin’s house. The Mulla quickly lit a lantern, stood by, and said, “I’ll help.” The thief was startled—never saw this before. “What do you mean?” “For thirty years I’ve lived here and found nothing. Perhaps with your help something may be found—we’ll split it.”

On another occasion a thief entered, brought some goods he had stolen next door, and left the bundle. He searched Mulla’s house and found nothing. As he picked up his bundle to leave, Mulla grabbed his blanket and followed. After a few steps the thief asked, “Sir, why are you coming with me?” Mulla said, “Where else can I go? You are taking the stuff; I was thinking of moving anyway. Only my blanket and I were left—so we’re coming too.” The thief said, “Have some shame! This stuff is from someone else’s house. How can you claim it? In fact, take it, forgive me, and go home. Who else will take you?”

You really have nothing—yet you fear losing. Those who have, do not fear—for they know what is, cannot be lost. That wealth only grows by sharing. When it is, it increases by giving; when it isn’t, you fear losing. Such an upside-down situation.

Leaving the feet of the saint, you worship ghosts and goblins.
Worship ghosts and you’ll become a ghost.

You become what you stay with. Where you abide, you will end up.

Gods and ancestors—all this is mind’s illusion.
Deceived by this, you go on living and dying.

These rituals—ancestor worship, auspicious months, fasts and festivals—are of no essence.

Gods and ancestors—all this is mind’s delusion.
Deceived by this, you keep on living and dying.

Giving gifts to deities—who has ever gained the supreme state?
Bhairav, Durga, Shiva—worshipping them as images—has sent people to hell.

It is a bold word, a revolutionary word. He says: Who has ever attained the supreme state by worshiping deities? Your Bhairavs, Durgas, Shivas—worshiped as dead images—lead you astray. Why? Trust in the divine arises only from a living presence—not from temples and statues. Not from the dead; from where the divine still breathes.

But our strange condition is this: while Buddha is alive, we avoid him. When he has gone—when spring has passed, the flowers have fallen, and only dry leaves remain—we begin worship. Those leaves once were green; the winds once danced in them; sunrays wove songs; birds rejoiced. But now they are dry. You must find where spring now is.

The enlightened ones are always present—like spring that returns. Stop worshiping the fall. What has gone has gone. Shiva is no longer present, nor Buddha, nor Mohammed—in form. What appeared in them is present somewhere now. Don’t cling to forms. Don’t clutch the lamp; care for the flame.

Otherwise, what happens? The lamp of Buddha once gave many people light. Then the flame flew; a dead lamp remained—and now you worship it. You say: “From this lamp many gained knowledge—how can we leave it?” You speak truth—and yet, look: the flame has gone. Now the flame has descended on someone else—on a Mohammed, a Jesus, a Krishnamurti, a Ramana, a Ramakrishna. Care for the flame. It was the flame that gave knowledge—not the lamp. Cling to Buddha’s words—what will happen? The “emptiness” that spoke through Buddha is no longer in those words. Only scripture remains.

Always seek the living master.

Paltu says: In the end, Time will drag you by the hair.
Leaving the saint’s feet, you worship ghosts and goblins.

Before that, make right use of life. Hold the feet of a saint. You may not know God—but if someone even a little like God appears to you, do not hesitate to befriend him. Once a slight taste of experience comes, God is not far—He is very near. Let not time pass wasted.

Paltu says: Spring is passing, yet the Beloved has not entered your house.

If you cannot yet relate directly to the divine, at least hold the hand of one who is related. That hand becomes a bridge between you and the unknown. A true master’s one hand holds God’s, the other holds yours—he is both human and beyond, lamp and flame.

Hold the master’s feet, and it won’t take long to realize: the divine is near—nearer than near. “Near” is not even right; He abides within. You are the divine.

That is all for today.