Ajhun Chet Ganwar #13

The Vedas say: Truth is one; its expressions are many. The Lord is one; but the images crafted to reveal him are many.

There is much meaning in this statement. Truth is one; doctrines are many. Truth is one; scriptures are many. Truth is one; sects are many. Why so? How does this happen?

Those who have known, have known the One alone. But the moment they speak, differences appear. For in knowing, the mind falls utterly silent; to speak, the mind must be brought back. In knowing, not a ripple stirs in the mind—so there is no possibility of division. There are no waves at all. The mind is void and at peace. It is as if the mind isn’t there.

Knowing happens in samadhi; but the moment one tries to speak, to tell, the mind must be recalled. Thought-waves return. Because of those waves, utterances differ. And in each person’s mind, the waves rise in different patterns.

Our soul is one; but our minds are not one. As the soul is one, our bodies are not. I have a body, you have a body, each with its own make. Bodies create distinctions; minds create distinctions. When Meera beholds the Beloved it will differ; when Buddha beholds, it will differ. Buddha has his own individuality; as truth enters that individuality, it takes on its structure, its hue and form. Pour water into a pot and it takes the pot’s shape; pour it on a plate and it becomes the plate; into a glass, the glass; spill it on the floor and it spreads as the floor.

Truth is just like that—supremely fluid. It has no shape of its own, no form, no color. Whichever vessel it falls into, it takes on that vessel’s appearance. A moment before it falls, it is one; as it falls, it becomes many. Rain falls from the sky—falling into a river it becomes river and flows; falling into a pond it becomes pond and stands still; into the ocean it becomes ocean—wherever it falls it becomes that. If it falls into muddy filth, it becomes foul; if into a pure vessel, it remains pure.

Truth is one, yet distinctions arise according to the vessels. Hence the Vedas are right: Those who know have known the One; but the very moment this recognition dawns—“I have known”—as soon as “I” returns, difference begins. And when it is spoken, the differences proliferate.

Suppose we all go to the seashore at dawn, watch the sunrise, savor the beauty of the sea, then return and each is asked to state what we saw—our statements will differ greatly. A painter may paint, spreading colors across a canvas: “I saw this.” A poet may hum a song: “This is what I saw.” There will be a difference. A dancer may dance: “The waves roared thus, there was such a tandava in the sea.” And all have seen the same morning and the same sea. Yet their expressions will diverge.

Expression depends on the person. Truth itself is unexpressed. Truth is vast. But when it descends into the small vessel of a person, it becomes a shadow, a reflection—and then it differs. When one sets out to speak, it differs further. And the sects that have formed are built on what was said. That is why there are many sects. There are some three hundred “religions” in the world. These should not be called religions; they are sects—belief-systems dependent on expressions of truth.

Religion is one. It can have no name, no adjective. You cannot call religion Hindu, nor Muslim, nor Christian, nor Jain. How will you qualify religion? Religion is adjective-less. But a sect has qualifiers. Hindus have their expression. They placed images in their temples; that too is an expression. Those who knew the Divine and set out to manifest, fashioned images. They tried in every way to let something of the Divine be contained in them. And Hindus made very lovely images. The image of Krishna—playing the flute, peacock feather crowning his head, draped in golden-yellow silk—this says something. It doesn’t mean God “looks like this.” These are symbols. Don’t get shackled by symbols. Saying “the flute is on the Lord’s lips” means: the very being of the Divine is music. The flute in Krishna’s hands is there to say something. Don’t clutch the flute; don’t turn the symbol into a dead idol. Understand the pointing. It says the Divine is filled with supreme music; the Divine is sound—anahata nada. There, a flute plays continuously. The unstruck music! It never stops; it keeps on and on.

This existence is woven of music, of sound, of Om. The flute was placed to say this.

Then, Krishna is crowned with a peacock plume…to say: this whole world is God’s peacock crown. When the peacock dances, it is the Divine dancing. When the cuckoo coos, it is the Divine that coos. All these colors are his. All this beauty is his.

Therefore do not deny the world. Deny the world, and you deny him. Do not run away from the world; for what you flee from harbors the Divine. Look deeply into the world, let your eyes deepen—you will find the Divine right there.

Krishna is clothed in beautiful yellow silk. Anklets ring at his feet. Ornaments make him radiant. These are statements—and deep ones. The Divine is beautiful! Truth and beauty are not separate.

Tagore used to say: Beauty is Truth. That is the poet’s expression.

Then the Muslims did not place any image in their mosque. That too is an expression. Muslims said: if we fix him into any form, we confine him. He is vast. However beautiful the image, it will be limited. He is limitless. All ways of binding him are wrong; he does not bind, he does not fit into definitions. So make no image. Let the formless remain formless.

Thus, when a Muslim goes to the mosque, he bows. Before whom? Before the formless—no shape, no color, no quality—the inexpressible. This too is an expression, and it is right. Not even a little mistake.

The mistake begins when a Hindu says: because there is an image in the temple, there should be one in the mosque too—only then is a mosque a temple. Or when a Muslim says: because there is no image in the mosque, there should be none in the temple either—only then is it a true temple. When Muslims begin breaking images or Hindus begin placing images in mosques—then error enters. You have clutched the symbols beyond measure. Both symbols are lovely—for different kinds of people.

Everyone has the freedom—the freedom to worship the Divine in one’s own way, to make the Divine consonant with one’s own heart, to call him in one’s own language. The language of beauty calls him; the language of the formless also calls him. One who loves beauty will place him in form; for without form, beauty cannot be apprehended. Shape is needed, color is needed, only then can beauty be held. In the formless there is neither beauty nor ugliness; the formless feels empty. The mosque feels bare; the temple, full. But emptiness too has its beauty. In the end, one must be empty. Beware lest the images you’ve installed in the temple likewise fill the temple of your heart! If images come to dwell in your inner shrine, when will you be empty? When will you befriend the formless? When will you be bound to the formless?

Yet both ways are right.

Then there are Jains and Buddhists; they hold no concept of God at all. They go even further than Muslims. Muslims say: God is formless. But the moment you say “is,” you introduce a limit. Saying “is” brings a boundary. So the Jains and Buddhists do not even say “God is”; they do not raise the issue. They say: if we say “is,” a boundary will arise. They remain silent. This is an even more formless expression. Do not speak at all.

Buddha made no statement regarding God, for any statement whatsoever…even saying “no statement can be made about him” is itself a statement! You’ve said that much! If someone says, “Nothing can be said about God,” he has contradicted his own claim by saying something about God! If it is truly the case that nothing can be said, then remain silent. Do not even say “God is.” Even that much imposes a limit, a form.

So the Buddhists and Jains keep no notion of God, because notions are inherently limited. This too is a color, a way, a means of moving toward the Vast. These are different expressions.

All expressions are beautiful in themselves; there is no conflict among them. No expression is inherently opposed to another.

Truth is one and sects are many. In fact, as many sects exist in the world as there are people. Not even two Hindus are exactly alike! There are great differences even between two Hindus. One is a devotee of Kali, another of Rama. And even two devotees of Rama are not identical—differences persist. If you look closely you will find: every person has his own sect. Each has his own way of seeing the Divine. It must be so. You have your eyes, I have mine. I cannot lend you my eyes, nor can I borrow yours. The God that arises in my eyes will arise because of my eyes; yours will arise because of yours.

So there are as many sects as there are consciousnesses. When this is understood, equanimity dawns. Then the petty psychology of religious dispute dissolves. The small skirmishes and bitter attitudes vanish. Until this happens, you are not religious. If the religious person cannot see one and the same in mosque, temple, and gurdwara, understand: he is not yet religious. He is bound to a sect in the name of religion and entangled in some deep politics in the name of sect. Hindu, Muslim, Christian—these are political labels, filled with great deceit. Behind them is a net. Behind them is no real essence—no devotion, feeling, love, meditation.

Today’s sutras are important.

Paltu says:
Just as the river is one; the bathing steps are many.

The river is one, but ghats multiply along its course. Wherever the river passes a village, a ghat arises. Near big cities, there are many ghats in one place. In Kashi there are nothing but ghats! The Ganges flows from Gangotri to Ganga Sagar—a journey of thousands of miles—how many ghats it creates along the way! This symbol is worth understanding.

Just as the river is one, the bathing steps are many.

In the same way, religion is one; the ghats are many. The Sanskrit word for “ghat” is “tirtha.” That is why Hindus call sacred places tirthas—fords, crossings. And so the Jains called their incarnate masters “Tirthankaras”—makers of fords. A tirthankara is one who builds a crossing. Where there was river but no steps, where descent was difficult, where a boat could not land because a ghat was needed, where there were no stairs for people to reach the river, board a boat, and cross—those who built the ghats to help people cross the river were called Tirthankaras. It’s a lovely word—the makers of crossings. Whenever someone attains truth in this world, a tirtha arises around him. Whether you acknowledge it or not, a crossing will form. For the ghat from which that person descended—the same ghat will be used by others; slowly steps are built, stones laid, and a landing is constructed. There is nothing wrong with a ghat; only do not mistake the ghat for the river. A ghat is not the river. Where is the river and where the ghat! The ghat is made of stones. The river is a flowing current of water. The ghat stands still—dead. The river flows; it is alive. Though ghats are built on a river, a ghat is not the river and the river is not the ghat. Keep this in mind and use the ghat, use it joyfully. Descend by whichever steps you find. But remember, do not become too attached to the ghat, for if you are to go to the other shore, you must leave it.

Think on this. Those who would be religious will have to leave Jainism. Those who would be religious will have to leave Hinduism. For Hindu, Jain, Buddhist, Christian, Sikh—these are ghats.

Have you ever thought—if you cling tightly to the landing, how will you cross? To go across you have to let go of the ghat. You must unmoor the boat tied to the landing. When it is time to sail, remove the chains, take up the oars, and move away. The farther you go from this shore, the nearer you come to the other.

One who seeks the Divine must move away from sects—day by day, moment by moment. And the farther you move, the more blessed you are. The purpose of the ghat was precisely this: to be used to descend, to lead you to the river. But don’t let the ghat become your home. Don’t sit there. Don’t hammer in pegs and pitch your tent. A ghat is not a place to stay. The journey is across.

Do not clutch the ghat. Do not cultivate attachment to it. Nor am I saying to make enmity with it. What fault has the poor ghat? There is no reason for hostility. The ghat is a friend. It helps you descend. It accompanies you to the boat. So neither bind yourself to the ghat nor become its enemy.

Remember another thing. Some are bound to ghats, and some, if they become free of ghats, turn into enemies of ghats. Whether friend or foe, in both cases you remain bound. One must be free of the ghat. Friendship and enmity both bind.

There was a gentleman who used to come to me—he had been coming for years. A great devotee of Kali. After listening to me for a long time he felt all this was useless. He used to spend three hours every morning in worship: “Jai Kali! Jai Kali!” One day he got worked up. After hearing me, he went home, bundled up Kali, and threw her into the well. He couldn’t sleep all night. He panicked—What have I done? What if Kali is displeased? Such is the mind. Anxiety gripped him. Early in the morning he ran to me and said, “What do you say? I’m in a fix. Little by little I understood there’s nothing in this worship—what is there in stone! So last night I threw Kali into the well. Now I’m in trouble. If I pull her out the neighborhood will find out I threw her in. And I fear Kali might be angry. I’ve been a devotee for years. Console me.”

I said, “When did I tell you to throw Kali into the well? She was fine where she was. You could have dropped your attachment—that was enough. You have gone a little too far—from one extreme to another. You used to bang your head on a stone for three hours; I asked you to stop banging your head, not to throw Kali into a well.”

But such is man: either you carry the Gita on your head, or the day you understand a little, you set it on fire. Both are foolishness. When will you be free of stupidity? The Gita is fine, beautiful; the Quran too is fine. There is no need to lug them on your head. Use them.

Ghats are good. They are friends. Cross over with their help. Thank them. When you have crossed, bow to them: Your grace is great.

At Mahavira’s death there was such an incident. His chief disciple, Gautam, had gone to a neighboring village to preach, and Mahavira left his body. As Gautam was returning, travelers told him, “Gautam, how unfortunate you are! Today of all days you went away, and the Lord left his body!” He began to weep. All his life he had followed like a shadow, and in the final hour he was not there. He cried for another reason too: he beat his chest, “What will become of me? Even while he was alive I did not attain freedom. My defilements are not washed, my darkness is not illumined. My chains still hold. If it didn’t happen between us then, what will become of me now? Without him, what will I do?”

Then he wiped his tears and asked, “Did he leave any message for me?” They said, “Yes, the last message was left for you. At the end he opened his eyes and said, ‘Tell this to Gautam; I speak it for him. Today Gautam is not here; I leave these words for him.’”

“What did he say?” Gautam asked.

They said, “We didn’t quite understand. We repeat the words, but we don’t know their meaning. He said only this: ‘Gautam, you have dropped everything; now why are you holding on to me? These are wondrous words—You have dropped everything; now why cling to me? Drop me too—and be free.’”

And they say, in that very instant, hearing those words, enlightenment happened to Gautam. He saw where his entanglement remained. He had let go of all, but held on to Mahavira. He had left the world, but clutched the ghat; held on to the Tirthankara.

A true Master is one who first makes you drop the whole world—and then makes you drop himself as well. Mahavira was certainly a true Master; such words cannot come from an ordinary teacher. The ordinary teacher worries: don’t go anywhere else, don’t leave me. He binds in every way, afraid the disciple might leave.

A true Master strives to make you drop all; and ultimately, drop me too. Like a lamp—you have seen? First its flame consumes the oil; when the oil is spent, it consumes the wick; then, the flame goes out—it consumes itself. First it burns the oil, then the wick, then itself—and becomes the great void. Such is the Master. First he frees you from the world; to free you, he gives fresh insights, meditations, reflections. When the world is dropped, he begins taking away the insights and thoughts; then he takes away the methods. When the methods too have gone—oil spent, wick burned—the final message is Mahavira’s: Now drop me too. Then the flame consumes itself and dissolves into the Great Emptiness.

The ghats must be left. But this does not mean ghats are bad. You may wonder: if they must be left, are they flawed? There is no flaw in the ghat; the flaw is in your clinging.

Buddha used to say: Some fools crossed a river. Call them fools or pundits—both mean the same. Buddha said, “They were foolish scholars, hair-splitters, adept at debate.” After all five had crossed, they thought, “This boat did us a great favor. Had we remained on that far bank without this boat, wild animals would have devoured us. We cannot abandon this boat.”

So they hoisted the boat onto their heads and entered the marketplace. People saw men bearing a boat on their heads and a crowd gathered. “What’s going on? We’ve seen people in boats, but a boat sitting on people—this is new! What is this?”

News spread, the whole town assembled. Bernard Shaw defined news this way: If a dog bites a man, that’s not news; if a man bites a dog, that’s news.

They had seen people in boats many times; for the first time, a boat on people—news indeed! People asked, and the five foolish pundits replied, “What do you mean, what’s going on! This boat has been immensely kind to us. In gratitude we shall forever carry it on our heads. There were wild beasts on the far bank; without this boat we would have perished. Our lives were saved by it. Now we shall devote our lives to its service.”

This sounds lofty—but it is foolish. Buddha told his disciples: Consider me a boat. Cross using me. But there is no need to carry me on your head.

A ghat is that which connects us to the river. Usually there is a gap between us and the river. There may be cliffs, steep embankments—descent is difficult, reaching the river is hard—the ghat creates the convenience. A paved landing, orderly steps, leading you to the river. But a ghat is not the river.

Sects bring you to religion; but sects are not religion. One who wishes to journey in the river—enter religion—slowly becomes free of sect. And don’t think he becomes an enemy. Gratitude remains. The landing that let you descend—its grace remains; without it you could not have met the river. But gratitude does not mean carrying the boat on your head; nor does it mean clutching the ghat to your chest and stopping there. The goal is across.

Don’t forget the goal. Don’t forget the end. Don’t make the means into the end. Religion is the end; a sect is a small path to reach that end. A sect means a path, a foot-trail that links you with the Divine. But the very thing that connects can also disconnect—if you cling to it too hard.

A guru leads you; a guru can also stall you—if you cling too tightly to him. It’s like a staircase: if you climb, you reach higher; but if you sit on a step and say, “How can I leave this step?” how will you reach the top? Climb or not—it becomes the same. Sit on the landing and your arrival at the landing is meaningless. Its only sense is when you leave it, leave the boat, and set out for the far shore.

Just as the river is one; the bathing steps are many.

This contains several points. First: the ghats may be many; the river is one. Second: the ghats are dead. They stay where they are. The river flows. The river moves toward the ocean, toward the Vast—every moment immersing into the Vast. The river is dynamic. The ghats are stone—lifeless; they have no movement.

Religion is a flow—an eternal current. Sects are inert. They stop. They remain where they were. The tirtha Mahavira left is still there—hasn’t shifted an inch. And lest anyone shift it even a little here or there, the Jains have arranged that there can be no twenty-fifth Tirthankara—so no one can build a new ghat. Attachment to the ghat is such that the twenty-fifth must be blocked—if he comes, what of our ghat!

Sikhs stopped at the ten gurus—afraid of an eleventh: if an eleventh comes and tweaks the landing…?

Christians say Jesus alone is the son of God—so no one else can be a son—so that no revision can happen, no amendment, no change. No one should alter the ghat, add or remove stairs, enlarge it, move it to a better site: “There the water is shallow, descent is easier; here you need a boat, there you can wade in knee-deep; even those who can’t swim can enter”—no one should change the ghat!

Often the river changes course while the ghats remain where they were. The ghat cannot move; rivers often change course. Once the river flowed where the ghat stands; now it does not. Yet the devotees of the ghat keep sitting there. They don’t even see that the river has long since gone. When Mahavira built the Jain landing, the river flowed there; now it doesn’t. In twenty-five hundred years the river has shifted. Where Krishna built his landing, the river no longer flows. It flows where I speak to you now. Twenty-five hundred years hence it won’t flow here either. What certainty is there with a river! It keeps transforming.

This world is transformation. Nothing is permanent here except change. Only change does not change; everything else does. If there is one eternal element, it is change—ceaseless change. Nothing remains stationary. Where Jesus left the river—she is no longer there.

Even if Jesus returned now and said, “Let me build a new landing,” Christians would not agree. “How can we accept that? We will worship the ghat that was made.” People get so absorbed in worshiping the ghat they do not look back to see if the river still flows there. The snake moves on; its cast-off skin remains, and people go on worshiping the skin.

Islam says: The last book has come—the Quran; after this, no book will come. Why? Fear. If you leave room for another book, a claimant may bring one and trouble will begin. The new book may oppose the Quran—or at least differ. Of course it will differ—fourteen hundred years have changed the world, the air, people’s minds, their ways; life has taken new forms. But Muslims are stuck where the Quran stopped. Hindus are stuck where the Vedas stopped. Buddhists are stuck where Buddha stopped. Meanwhile, the world keeps changing.

Attachment to ghats is dangerous. The river is for the ghat, not the ghat for the river. Remember again: the ghat is inert. It cannot run after the river wherever she goes. The river is alive—she can go anywhere. The ghat is like a stake; a cow is tied to it, but the cow is alive—she can slip away.

I have heard: A drunk, late at night, bought some sweets from a confectioner. He was hungry. He gave a rupee, took eight annas worth of sweets, and ate. The shopkeeper said, “I don’t have change; take it tomorrow morning.” The drunk thought, “This is a problem. What if he—or I—forget which shop? I must devise something he cannot change.” He looked around, saw a bull sitting in front of the shop. “Perfect! The shop in front of which a bull sits—that’s where I have eight annas to collect.” He repeated it several times like a mantra, so he wouldn’t forget. He studied the bull well—patched black and white, noticed its features.

Next morning he arrived—the bull was now in front of a barber’s shop. He grabbed the barber by the neck. “Shameless! For eight annas you changed your business! Changed your shop! Changed your profession! Changed your caste! Have some shame—return my eight annas!”

The barber couldn’t fathom what was happening. Only with great difficulty did the matter become clear.

There is no guarantee with a bull! It isn’t a stone Nandi fixed before Shiva, that will sit there even if Shiva leaves. It’s alive!

Understand the difference between river and ghat. The river is a living flow—the stream of existence. Every day it takes new forms, new waves rise, new ways unfold. The ghat is inert.

Sometimes ghats are useful; sometimes useless. Sometimes meaningful; sometimes harmful.

Just as the river is one; the bathing steps are many.

The ghats are many, and there are many kinds of devotees too. One worships this way, another that. Paltu says: Someone sees God as husband—as Meera saw Krishna: “My beloved husband—come, my bed is laid with flowers, my couch is empty.” Someone else sees God as son, as a little child, with tender parental love—like Surdas. He sees Krishna with anklets jingling as he dances—this too is right.

The Sufis reverse it. They regard themselves as the husband and see the Divine as the Beloved. That is why Urdu produced a poetry of love that no other language did; once the Divine is seen as the Beloved, poetry finds great ease—ornamentation flows in naturally. The Sufis call the Divine the Beloved; they see themselves as lovers. This too is right. The point is only how love is tuned. The essential thing is love—by which landing you descend, as husband, as wife…

Then there is Ramakrishna, who sees God as Mother. For Surdas, he himself is in the place of mother or father; Krishna is the little one with anklets dancing. Surdas’s Krishna never grows up; he remains small—that took Surdas into samadhi. For Ramakrishna the Divine appeared as Mother—that took him into samadhi.

Sufi fakirs saw the Divine as the Beloved. The tale of Majnun and Laila is a Sufi tale. It is a symbol. Majnun is the seeker of God; Laila is the hidden Divine—hard to find; search upon search, an endless journey is needed, only then does one find. He is found with great difficulty—through a long pilgrimage of longing and tears of separation.

The ghats are many; the differences among devotees are many.

As is the company you keep, so are the hands you surrender yourself into.

A lovely line. It depends on whom you fall in with. If you meet Mahavira, Mahavira’s ghat will appeal; if you meet Buddha, Buddha’s ghat will appeal. If you meet Krishna, Krishna’s ghat will appeal. When you meet someone who has found, his very presence becomes proof of truth in whatever he says.

As is the company you keep, so are the hands you surrender yourself into.

This is what “disciple” means: to give yourself into someone’s hands; to say, “Take my hand now. I have done much on my own, and always erred. Wherever I went by myself, I reached the wrong place. By myself, nothing resolves. Now, hold my hand. I place my intellect at your feet; I will walk by your intelligence.”

A disciple means: I become the Master’s shadow; I let the Master enter my innermost heart.

And the wonder is, if you were with Buddha, Buddha’s words would ring true; with Krishna, Krishna’s words would ring true—because both speak truth. The proof lies in the light behind the words, not in the words themselves.

If you fall into Sufi company, the Divine appears as the Beloved; if you are among bhaktas, you become the beloved and the Divine becomes the husband. These are differences of language, differences among devotees; in all differences, one unity is hidden.

As is the company you keep, so are the hands you surrender yourself into.

However you may worship, it is all of the One Name.

Worship however you will, it is of that One. Therefore the question is not how you do it. The method is not the point. Your heart must be in it, that’s all. Call the Divine as husband—or as wife—it makes no difference. What matters is whether you truly call, or merely call from the surface while inwardly evading. Does the call arise, heartfelt? Is the heartbeat in it? Is your call a thirst? Is it curiosity—or is it burning longing? Are you ready to risk everything? If God says, “I am ready to meet, but on one condition—that you are ready to lose yourself,” will you be prepared? Or will you make excuses? “Fair enough, I’ll come tomorrow—let me think it over, ask my wife and children, finish these twenty-five errands…”

Someone asked Jesus, “You speak constantly of the Kingdom of God. What is it like?”

Jesus said: “It is like this: A wealthy man, on the occasion of his daughter’s wedding, gave a banquet. He invited all the notable people of the town. He prepared sumptuous food. She was his only child, and he truly wished to make the feast a grand celebration—memorable in the town. But when the messenger returned and he asked, ‘Why haven’t the guests come?’ the messenger said, ‘I am sorry. The town’s richest man said he cannot come; guests have arrived at his house today and he is occupied serving them. The second invitee said, “Forgive me—tomorrow I have a court case; I am preparing for it. It is serious; my life depends on victory or loss. I cannot celebrate now; even if I came, my mind would not be there.” The third said, “I am caught up in the fields; it’s harvest time. If I delay even one day the crop will rot. I cannot come; work goes on day and night. If I leave for two hours, the laborers stop; the work halts. Sleep and feasting can come later—now is not the time!” And so on—each gave a reason.’”

“The wealthy man was sad. ‘What shall we do? The feast is ready, plates are laid. Should I celebrate without guests? Then go into the roads; bring whomever you find. Do not worry about their status—strangers, travelers, beggars—bring anyone.’”

Jesus said: “They brought whomever they found, and the feast was held. Such is the Kingdom of God. God sends you invitations; you make excuses. Today this trouble, tomorrow that. Those invited often don’t come, and those not invited arrive—this happens often.”

“So don’t miss it this time. I have come again with the same invitation from God—the feast is ready, the celebration awaits. I invite you—make no excuses. The feast will be held; someone will attend. Your absence will not halt it—remember—but if you make excuses you will be deprived.”

However you may worship, it is all of the One Name.

The differences are only of name. One calls “Ram,” another calls “Allah.” But the One we call through Ram and Allah is the same. That is why devotees speak of “name-remembrance.”

Have you ever noticed? “Name-remembrance!” They do not say “Ram-remembrance,” nor “Allah-remembrance.” They say “remembrance of the Name,” because in “Name” all names are gathered.

In the Vishnu Sahasranama the Hindus list a thousand names. Muslims have hundreds of names of God. Christians, Jews—the world has called him by countless names. Devotees say “name-remembrance”—a beautiful insight. If they said “Ram-remembrance,” they would have chosen one name and excluded others. “Name-remembrance” includes them all. Call him by any name, in any manner—let the call be true. They say Valmiki forgot and instead of chanting “Ram, Ram,” he chanted “Mara, Mara”—and by chanting “Mara, Mara” attained the supreme state. What you chant does not matter; how you chant does. Does your remembrance rise from the innermost being? Is it a plastic flower pasted on, or a real rose drawing sap from the earth? When remembrance draws juice from the heart, it is real; it blooms in you, not borrowed. Don’t merely drape the shawl of “Ram’s name.” Until Ram rises from your soul…

However you may worship…

It doesn’t matter—find your own way. There is no standard, official method of devotion: “Only this way and your devotion is complete.” As you please. That is why someone can sit by a roadside stone and worship. It may be just a stone for others; but for one who offers two flowers with devotion, it becomes God.

Hindus are adept at this. They’ll smear vermilion on an unshaped stone and—he becomes Hanumanji. Westerners are astonished: “A moment ago it was a stone; they painted it red, offered two flowers—now it’s God? With no eyes, ears, or hands?” But understand the Hindu point. They say: God is not in eyes, ears, hands. A great sculptor will make the stone into an image—so that it becomes God? No—God is made by feeling. The sculptor will make a statue; he cannot infuse feeling. If he has no devotion…

I once stayed in a village where they were building a temple. As often happens, marble craftsmen are often Muslims; they were building the temple. Even the image was being carved by Muslim artisans. I was a guest of the man funding the temple. He took me to see it. I asked, “Do you grasp something? The men making this image have no devotion for it. They are Muslims; if they had the chance they might come and break it. They have no feeling for it. Have you asked them? They will carve the statue, yes; but where will you get the feeling?”

He was startled. “You are right. We never thought of this. We have spent lakhs on this temple. The entire temple has been built by Muslims. Stone by stone, they have set it. This is a big oversight. You spoke too late!”

The Hindu way is simpler: by feeling, a stone becomes God; and without feeling, God becomes stone again. However you worship—in your rite there is no intrinsic value. Whatever you can fill with the deepest rasa—that is devotion.

Moses is passing through a forest and sees a man praying—a poor shepherd, in tattered clothes, praying. He hasn’t bathed in months; he reeks—the scent of sheep. Living among sheep one can’t stay clean; one must befriend the stink. The shepherd’s herd bleats around him—and he is praying. What he says is astonishing. Moses stands and listens. He is amazed; never has he heard such prayer. The shepherd says, “O God, call me once to you! I will serve you so well you will be pleased. There is none like me at pressing feet; I’ll press yours so that even your heart blossoms! I’ll scrub you clean; if there are lice in your hair, I’ll pick them out.”

If lice are in his own hair, naturally he imagines God likewise!

“If you have lice, I’ll pick them. Fleas climb the body—who knows if anyone looks after you…” Moses could bear no more: “Silence! You devil! What are you saying? To whom are you speaking? To God?”

Tears rolled from the shepherd’s eyes. He was frightened. “Forgive me. Did I say something wrong?”

“Wrong! What greater wrong—God has lice and fleas! No one to press his feet! No one to cook for him! You will cook? You will scrub him? What do you take God for—a shepherd?”

The shepherd began to cry. He grasped Moses’ feet. “Forgive me! I am an illiterate rustic. I know no scripture, never learned letters; I’ve lived on these hills with sheep. I am a herdsman—forgive me! I won’t make this mistake again. But teach me the right way to pray.”

So Moses taught him the “proper” prayer. The man said, “This is very hard. I’ll forget it. I can’t remember all this. Please repeat.” Moses repeated—and felt pleased he’d set a lost man on the right path. The man asked again; Moses repeated again. Then Moses started back through the forest, content—when a thunderous voice sounded from the sky: “Moses! I sent you to connect me to people—you have begun to sever!”

Now it was Moses who trembled—hands and feet shaking. “What are you saying? I severed? I taught him the right prayer!”

“What does ‘right prayer’ mean? Right words? Right pronunciation? Right language? The right prayer means—a heartfelt one. Now that man will never be able to pray right. You have severed him forever. I delighted in his prayer. He was true. He spoke from his heart—daily. I waited for his prayer every day. There are many like you who pray—I do not wait for their prayers. They are rote, beaten words—repetitions. This man spoke from the heart—as a lover speaks. And being a shepherd, he spoke the shepherd’s tongue. Go back. Ask forgiveness. Touch his feet. Persuade him to pray as he used to. Take back your prayer.”

This Jewish tale is lovely. Your words do not matter; what you are matters. Your tears must mingle with your words. When your words are wet with tears, a thousand flowers bloom within them.

However you may worship, it is all of the One Name.

As one understands, so one finds his path.

Each sees in his own way.

Love is not mortal, nor is beauty mortal,
Every moment of theirs is timeless.
Mock not the revelers so quickly—
Look how glorious the season is!

Love is not fleeting, nor is beauty. Every moment of love and beauty is eternal, deathless. It is a way of seeing. One way sees beauty as transient; another sees it as eternal. One way sees love as attachment; another sees prayer hidden in love—the Divine hidden there. It is all a matter of vision—different understandings.

Mock not the revelers—
Do not condemn the drunkards, for there are many kinds of wine. Some drink the Divine and become drunk. Some drown in prayer as in wine.

Mock not the revelers—
Do not oppose them, do not deride them.

Look how glorious the season is!
Look within him. See what spring has entered his heart! It is a way of seeing. Remember always—Moses stopped that shepherd because he could not step into the shepherd’s shoes, could not enter his heart. He used his own understanding; he did not look from behind the other man’s eyes, did not peer into him.

Do not condemn another; do not refute another. Who knows…if Moses can err, what of ordinary folk? Do not even deride a drunk reeling down the road; who knows if he drinks wine from grapes or the wine flowing from the soul! Sufis walk with the same rapture as drunkards. If someone stops, stunned by a woman’s beauty, don’t assume he is a sinner. Some have seen the Divine’s beauty in all beauty, his form in every form, his smile in every smile. Do not judge another.

As is one’s understanding, so is the path one finds. What difference can it make? At most this:

Some took a detour; some reached in a hurry.

Some arrive quickly; some take the long way around—that’s all. Listen to this lovely line. Paltu says: What difference will it make? At most—someone will reach a little sooner; someone a little later.

I have a friend who never flies. He is very wealthy, but he won’t fly. He won’t even take the mail or express trains. He looks for the slowest passenger train, one that crawls like a bullock cart. Once he traveled with me to Delhi—it took three days. He said, “Once, try my way!”

I came to understand his point. He said, “In a plane, you leave Nagpur and land in Delhi—you miss the joy of the journey. How many trees, how many rivers, hills, how many people and stations—you miss it all.”

“Even an express doesn’t suit me. Why the rush? We are not poor,” he said to me. I liked that. “We are not poor—why this poverty of time that we must arrive in a day? We’ll travel at ease. Come, once, my way.”

I went with him. The journey was unique. He knew someone at every station because he always travels by that passenger train. From one stall he’d buy fritters, elsewhere milk; he knew where the milk was best, where the fritters, where the bananas…he knew it all. It was like his home. The train would stand for hours; he’d chat and sip tea. I felt there was truth in his way—another way of being.

Some are eager for the destination; some relish the journey too. They say there is joy in meeting, but also in waiting.

Paltu says: At most, someone will go a little sooner. Don’t meddle with others. Don’t refute anyone. Don’t drag anyone by force to your landing. Maybe the river is wider at his ghat; the boat will take longer. But if that is his joy, let it be. Time is eternal; there is no hurry, no haste.

Some took a detour; some reached in a hurry.
Some arrived early; some a bit late. They arrived. Arrival is what matters.

In the end the road was reached; ten days more or less were spoiled.

At most, Paltu says, one stayed in the world ten days longer; another arrived ten days earlier. Someone wandered ten days more; someone ten days less.

Therefore, Paltu says: don’t insist on your sect; don’t be dogmatic. Paltu refuses any single insistence. Don’t be sectarian. As many guises, so many paths. As many people, as many garbs—so many ghats. Just as the river is one; the bathing steps are many.

Take the hut, neighbor—every morning a new quarrel rises.

First he said: don’t be sectarian; don’t force the world to go your way—that is ego. And ego breeds trouble. When ego drops, many troubles drop.

Now another sutra: Leave the troubles too. Drop sect-identity, drop ego—and drop the quarrels.

Take the hut, neighbor—every morning a new squabble rises.

This saying is explained by Jesus’ words. Jesus says: If someone takes your coat, give him your shirt too. And if someone asks you to carry his load one mile, go two. If someone slaps your left cheek, offer him the right. Don’t create conflict. If he enjoys slapping, he has done one cheek; offer the other too. He took the coat; perhaps out of shame he didn’t ask for the shirt—give that too. But don’t start a fight.

Take the hut, neighbor…
Paltu says: If neighbors create trouble, tell them—“Take this hut of mine too.”

Take the hut, neighbor—every morning a new quarrel rises.
Why stay in such a house where every morning a fight erupts? You handle it. Give the hut to the neighbors.

Why bother with daily brawls? We will not compete.

Why should we vie? Why compare? Why struggle? Everything will be taken away anyway—why such insistence on holding? When the urge to hold dissolves, all quarrels vanish.

What is a quarrel? Wealth, woman, land. The quarrel is in possession—in “mine.” Where “mine” is, the world is.

Paltu says: There is no substance in this; everything here will be taken. Death will come today or tomorrow and take it all.

Why make rivals? Drop such company; take another country.

Drop such company; seek another country—another way of life, another dimension. That “other country” is sannyas. One worldly way is to fight, struggle, compete. The sannyasin’s way is no fighting, no struggling, no competition. One who steps out of conflict, who says “I have no duality”—becomes nondual—that is the other country.

O men of generosity, I am no beggar:
I stand on the road just so.
What complaint of bricks and stones,
Now that I have come to your lane?

“O men of grace, I am not a beggar.” People mistake the sannyasin for a beggar—think he has nothing. It’s the reverse. The worldly man is the beggar; he has nothing—and what he has will be taken. His ownership is momentary. It belongs to someone else who will take it back; you strut in vain.

The sannyasin is no beggar. This line is good:
“O men of generosity, I am no beggar!
I stand on the road just so—don’t waste your pity on me.

“What complaint can I have of bricks and stones,
Now that I have come to your lane?”
And the sannyasin says: Now whom should I ask, what complaint should I make—when I stand in the Divine’s lane? The petty begs are irrelevant. Who complains of brick and stone now! His sky above, his earth below—wherever I stand, it is his lane.

Drop such company; take another country.
Do not think “country” means flee to another land. That won’t change anything.

I have heard: A crow was hurrying away. A cuckoo asked, “Uncle, where are you going?” The crow said, “To another country—nobody likes my song here.” The cuckoo said, “It will be the same there. Your song is such, no one will like it anywhere. Change your song; changing countries won’t help.”

So Paltu is not saying “change countries”; he says, “Enter another inner province; change the country within; change the inner sky.” Drop this small worldly shack within. Break the inner worldly attachment. Let the open sky enter.

Life lasts four days—why so much anger?
This life is four days long—why so much feuding, lawsuits, head-bashing, such rage, such wrath! Life is four days—that is how days pass: two in longing, two in waiting. Two in asking, two in expectation. Only four days—and for them how much anger!

Drop all entanglements; trust the Name.
Drop entanglements, quarrels, competition. Trust the one Name. Our trust rests on a thousand things—a house, a shop, money, status. Because our trust is scattered, our soul is fragmented. If trust rests on One, the soul becomes whole. The more things you trust, the more your being is in pieces; you scatter.

Drop all entanglements; trust the Name.
Ordinarily, man is a crowd. Where is a single soul within you!

I burn without purpose,
A lamp in an empty house.
With no destination or road,
Yet embroiled in the turmoil of travel.

“I burn without purpose!” Your life has no why, no aim, no direction, no justification. “I burn without purpose—a lamp in an empty house.” The ordinary person is a lamp in an empty house—burning for nothing, burning away—soon to be snuffed.

Life burns away into death. What is the result? What do you gain?

“I burn without purpose,
A lamp in an empty house.
With no destination or road,
Yet embroiled in the turmoil of travel.”
No goal, no clear path—yet entangled in the hassles of the road. No destination, no idea where the road leads—yet such quarrels on the way, such troubles, a thousand anxieties! This is the ordinary, deranged condition.

Change this country. Create another within.

Beg if you must, but this wrangling life brings no joy.

Paltu says: Beg and eat—that is better; this wrangling and entanglement bring no savor.

Beg if you must, but…
Even begging is better than these world-wars—empty.

…this wrangling brings no joy.
Even if barrels of jaggery are piled, you’d still flee at dusk from there.

Even if the world offers you much sweetness, once you see it is deception—mere entanglement—you will flee by evening. You’ll leave even if sacks of sugar are piled up—honeyed lures to trap flies. You’ll say, “I’m gone.” You won’t wait for morning; you’ll not say, “It’s night—let me leave at dawn.” You won’t even tarry so long.

There is much jaggery in this world—the traps to ensnare you, the many promises. Only a fool gets caught. The wise becomes alert. For again and again he finds there is nothing—only sorrow. Wealth gives sorrow; status gives sorrow; thorns multiply. Hope hangs on tomorrow—that tomorrow all will be well; it never is. One day death comes and all collapses—your whole construction like a house of cards. Before death comes—escape! Before it comes, make no excuses.

Seeing thus, Paltu says, I threw the load off my head.

I too was entangled, he says; but understanding, I dropped the burden from my head.

Seeing thus, I threw the load off my head.
Take the hut, neighbor—every morning a new quarrel rises.

With those I quarreled, I said, “Brother, you handle this—I’m off. Take this quarrel—since you enjoy it. Keep this knot of trouble—I’m going. I’m ready to leave this burden.”

It does not mean you must flee and become a monk. It means: wake from entanglement. Stay where you are—change the inner country. Change the inner tone. There is nothing here worth quarreling over. Nothing so valuable that you must rage, seethe, and spill blood. Do not fight for pebbles. Don’t throw away the priceless diamond of the soul for shells.

Jesus said: If you win the whole world and lose your self—what have you gained? And if you find your self and lose the whole world—you have truly gained. Only the one who finds himself, finds.

Leave water and stone; worship the God within.

First he said: drop the entanglements of the world. But some who drop worldly entanglements fall into religious entanglements. The taste for entanglement is so deep that freed from one shop, from ledgers, they get caught in another net waiting for them—called religion.

Leave water and stone; worship the God within.
If you must worship, worship the soul. Don’t get lost in small things, in rituals. One goes on pilgrimage to the Ganga…“leave water and stone”—someone says, “We will bathe in the Ganges and be purified.” Are you mad? Is purity so cheap? The Ganga will cleanse your body—true; any river can. Will the water touch your soul? Water never touches the soul. Bathing in water won’t purify you. Bathe in consciousness. Worship the inner deity. Worshiping stone is not real worship. Real worship is of consciousness. Where so much consciousness throbs, why go to worship the inert? Everywhere God stands. From every side he calls. You say, “I am going to the temple.” Are you crazy? This whole world is his temple. Where are you running? The time you spend going to install a temple—let that time become worship. These trees are his; the songs of birds are his; the rays of the sun are his. This whole world is his temple.

As you walk the road, a man passes by—consciousness dwells in him. Do you bow to him? No—you run to a stone in a temple. Have your eyes turned stony?

Leave water and stone; worship the God within.
Worship the one who eats and speaks, brother.

How lovely! Worship that which eats, drinks, speaks—where there is consciousness, where there is life!

Worship the God within, who eats and speaks, brother.
With chest bared and feet sore you carve stone images.

How much labor you expend—how your chest heaves—as you carve stone statues, chisel in hand, suffer toil! And here living images are walking—who eat and speak, brother! All forms here are the Divine’s—whichever feet you place your offering at will reach his feet. Pour it into the void—it will reach his feet. There are no other feet here. All forms are his. Where are you running?

With chest heaving you carve stone images.
You bathe them, pamper them, prepare foods, and offer them.

You wash and bathe the stone, make delicacies, and offer them! Do you have any sense what you are doing? He who eats—you don’t give to him! He who cannot eat—you offer a feast. Are you mad? Be a little mindful!

The living God goes hungry from your door.

You bathe them, feed them, offer delicacies;
You carve stone images.
The living God goes hungry from your door.

This is religion’s deception—a strategy to avoid the real. It is hypocrisy.

“Come, let us attend a feast of martyrdom;
Let us watch the execution from our window.
Who will go midstream—better to sit on the shore
And from afar watch the drowning men.”

People are so dishonest—who will go midstream and drown? Let’s sit on the bank and watch others drown.

Religion requires diving in—throwing life into the fire. Who wants such trouble? Buy a stone statue, install it, perform rituals, feel satisfied—trouble averted.

“Come, let us attend a feast of martyrdom,
Watch from the window the place of slaughter.
Who will go midstream—better to sit on the shore
And from afar watch the drowning men.”

These are the tendencies to sit on the bank and watch. But until you dive in, nothing will happen. You have been spectators for lifetimes. When will you dive? When will you dissolve? Worshiping stone involves no risk; nothing is made or unmade. You move the stone aside—you remain as you were. But if you worship consciousness, your life will be transformed. Then you will not be able to exploit so easily; not lie so easily; not remain so hard. Compassion will arise. Love will flow. If prayer belongs to consciousness, how will you remain the same? You will change—you must. To escape this change we have devised many tricks—and call them religion.

Why don the garb of renunciation for nothing?
Only the rare know the secret of feeling and devotion.

Even people take sannyas, leave the world; but it is mostly a matter of outer garb, not heart.

Why don the garb of renunciation for nothing?
These too are false masks—mere surfaces.

Why don the garb of renunciation for nothing?
Only the rare know the secret of feeling and devotion.

Only a rare one knows the essence of feeling and devotion—who? One ready to dive, ready to die; who like a moth burns in the flame; who can be a martyr—one who offers himself. A brave one, says Paltu.

Without dissolving yourself, the Divine is not found—that price must be paid. And it is no “great price.” Giving ourselves, we receive the Kohinoor for a few coppers—what value are we? We are worth nothing.

Paltu says, fold both hands and serve the true Master and saints.
Leave water and stone; worship the God within.

Do not entangle yourself in falsehoods, and do not contrive ways to avoid the real. Do not get busy with the fake to escape the true.

“Call it God or pilot—bestow honor as you like;
In truth, our boat survived by accident.”

It often happens thus. You win a lawsuit because you went after worshiping a stone; you say, “Ah, the deity saved me!” The shop prospers and you say, “It happens because I recite Hanuman Chalisa.” As if shops do not prosper where no one recites the Chalisa! In America they prosper without it; in Russia too—and no Chalisa there.

“Call it God or pilot—bestow honor as you like;
In truth, our boat survived by accident.”

These are ordinary happenings of life; no image saved you, no mantra. You can attribute it as you wish—and entangle yourself further. Thus hypocrisy expands.

Paltu says, fold both hands and serve the true Master and saints.
If you must serve, serve a saint, a true guru—there, with both hands joined, wholeheartedly…

This joining of hands in the Indian namaskar is symbolic: heart and mind joined; body and mind joined; the active and the receptive joined; the feminine within and the masculine within joined. Joining both hands means: the dual has become one, the two have become nondual. The Indian greeting is full of meaning: you have become one, not two. Thus, with a single-heartedness, a single trust and reverence—serve a guru, serve a saint.

Leave water and stone; worship the God within.
If you must worship, worship the living, the conscious—for the Divine is of the nature of consciousness.

Meditate on these sutras. Turn them into feeling. The words are simple—there is no pedantry in them. But the ring of truth resounds—and that is what matters.

Enough for today.