Ajhun Chet Ganwar #20

A man’s ego will not be ready to accept it. It goes against the ego. Man wants to believe that the source of all strength is within him. Every day he experiences his weakness, every moment he experiences it; yet he goes on believing, “The source of strength is in me; I am powerful.”

This is the sorrowful tale of a lifetime: you think you are strong and it keeps getting proved that you are weak — and yet you do not learn. You lose, and lose again; yet the longing for victory keeps circling in the mind. This longing for victory will not let you accept that “the strength of the weak is Ram.” It is not a mere saying; it is a living realization.

For now, leave Ram aside. You have nothing to do with Ram yet. First understand just one thing: you are weak. Where has your strength ever been proven? The mightiest of the mighty we finally see lying in dust. Even Alexander comes to this world empty-handed and leaves empty-handed. Thrones here — if not today, tomorrow — turn into gallows. Those who strutted and swaggered yesterday, where are they now? So many have walked this earth puffed up — millions! All their corpses have mingled with dust. Those heads that rose to the skies and made great claims — where are those claimants now? Today there isn’t even a trace of them.

Leave Ram aside for now, because until you feel your weakness totally — until every fiber in you tells you, “I am weak” — you will not be able to know Ram’s strength, you will not be able to know Ram.

A great secret is hidden in this aphorism. It is not mere poetry. There is a spark within it that can transform your whole life. The alchemy of all spiritual transformation hides within it. It is a revolutionary sutra. But begin with your weakness. The mind refuses to accept. The mind says, “I — and weak? Perhaps Alexander and others were weak, perhaps those millions who lost were weak — but I will not lose! I will prove I am the exception.” Every mind says, “I am the exception. Rules do not apply to me; I will find a way around them.”

If these rules were man-made, perhaps you could devise a trick. But these rules are eternal. They are not made by man; on the contrary, it is by these very rules that man is made. Therefore you cannot slip past them. Here no exceptions exist. This law is universal.

What does it mean that man is weak? Do not let this bring a sense of wretchedness into your mind; otherwise you miss again. On the one hand is the ego that refuses to accept: “I — and weak? Never!” Then, when life proves it — and it will — because you set out with a false premise that two and two make five, today or tomorrow, life will tell you in many ways, “Two and two make four.” How long can you pull this lie along? Lies cannot walk. Even if you lend them crutches of truth, they may hobble a little, but they cannot walk; they have no legs of their own, no life of their own. So this lie will stagger daily; it will fall again and again — on roads, at crossings, at every halt it will give you trouble. Sooner or later you will see: “No, I am weak.” But then there is danger that you may swing to the other extreme and begin to think, “I am lowly, I am a nobody.” Then the ego has returned — in a new guise. You won’t recognize it; it has come back in clever dress. Earlier it claimed to be an emperor; now it returns with the posture of a beggar.

Weak does not mean beggar. Weak only means: I am not the source of strength. There is no cause for wretchedness in this. A rose is not a lotus — what is there to be wretched about? A lotus is not a rose — why be wretched about that? Eyes do not hear — why feel inferior? Ears do not see — why feel inferior? It is simply so.

A sense of wretchedness arises only when we wanted something else, and it is not happening. Then wretchedness appears. So even in wretchedness the ego hides — a defeated ego, a fallen ego. As they say: the rope got burnt, yet its twists remain. The ego is defeated, but even in defeat it remains in a new form. Now you think, “I am poor and lowly, I am nothing.” Yet somewhere your old tune still echoes in the background. You are still weighing yourself against the same yardstick; it is on that basis you feel lowly. You wanted to be an emperor; you could not. Now you feel you are a beggar. You are neither emperor nor beggar.

Weak means: you are not the source of strength. The source of strength is the Divine. Why? Because existence is one whole. Its strength has a single source, not many. The moment the individual takes himself to be separate, delusion begins, maya begins. The ego is born. The very moment you understood, “I am separate from this vastness,” trouble began.

You are not separate.

Look at these trees. They stand with roots sunk in the earth; without the earth they cannot live. Every moment the earth gives them sap; and they breathe through their leaves, drawing in the air. Without air, they could not live either. Air gives them life. And they dance in the sun’s rays; the sun gives them warmth and heat. Without it, life could not be.

This whole existence is connected to even a small tree, and a small tree spreads across the whole existence. So are we — walking trees. If breath does not come, you cannot live. Every moment the Divine is breathing into you.

In the Bible there is a story: God fashioned man from clay, then placed His lips on the nostrils and blew breath into him. The story is charming. Perhaps He did it one day, not historically — but this is what is happening every moment. Who is blowing breath into your nostrils? One thing is certain: you are not taking breath yourself. If you were, you would never die.

Mulla Nasruddin grew very old — a hundred years. Someone asked him, “Nasruddin, you have turned a hundred; what is the secret of your long life?” He said, “There’s no secret at all — just keep on breathing.”

But if the breath stops, what will you do then? How will you take it? If breath does not come, how will you take it? It is an illusion that you take breath. Breath moves, true; but no one takes it. So long as it moves, it moves; when it does not, it does not. The Biblical story is truer, more scientific — if not historical, it is closer to the truth: God blew breath upon the clay body of man and he lived. Even now He is blowing. His lips are upon your nostrils whether you see it or not. And the day He does not blow, breath will not come.

We are connected.

A fish in the ocean too would rarely think, “I cannot live without the ocean.” How would it occur to her? She swims left, right, dives deep, rises to the surface; she must feel, “I am separate.” Throw her on the shore and then she will know. She will writhe and cry, “Give me back my ocean; I cannot live without it.” Then she will know, “I am a wave of the ocean — made a bit solid perhaps — but a wave of the ocean, and only in the ocean can I be.”

So we live in the ocean of the Divine. We forget that we live in the Divine; the Divine is our life. We have no separate life, just as the fish has no separate life. In the ocean is birth, in the ocean is life, in the ocean is death. From the ocean we arise; into the ocean one day we lie down. A little play, and then rest. So it is with us. The day you know “I am weak,” only this is proven: that your proclamation of ego was false. You are not your own center. At your center too sits the Divine, the Vast. He sits at the center of all.

All existence has only one center. It must be so. If existence had as many centers as there are egos, it would have fallen apart long ago. What would hold it together? This whole existence is joined — how densely interwoven it is! Everything is connected with everything else. We are all threads in the same tapestry. Night and day, waking or sleeping, whether you know it or not, conscious or unconscious, exchange is going on at every moment. As breath goes in and out, so on a thousand other planes an exchange continues.

When these trees breathe in, they drink carbon dioxide; when they breathe out, they release oxygen. You drink oxygen and breathe out carbon dioxide. Without these trees you could not be; without you, these trees could not be. That is why, as we have denuded the earth of trees, human life has grown feeble. And we have cut trees for useless things.

Yesterday I was reading a book on the history of publishing. The New York Times prints so many copies every day that it needs as many trees as grow on one hundred and fifty acres — every single day — to make its paper. One hundred and fifty acres of trees are swallowed by the New York Times in one day. One newspaper! And no one’s life is going to come from this newspaper. And those thousands of trees that spread over those acres — gone. And how many lives will be weakened because of that!

Man has done great foolishness — born of the delusion that “I am separate.” “What would be cut from me if a tree is cut?” But understand: when you cut a tree, you cut your own leg. Cut the trees, and the rains will fail, clouds will not come; it will become desert. Cut the trees, and birds will not come. Cut the trees, and the winds will no longer flow as they used to. Cut the trees, and who will give oxygen to your life? Who will digest the carbon dioxide you throw out? You are constantly throwing poison into the air — who will drink it? These trees are Neelkanth — they drink the poison you exhale and turn it into something useful.

Everything here is joined. I am only giving examples. Everything is interconnected. Without water we cannot be. Without air we cannot be. Without space we cannot be. Without moon and stars, without the sun, we cannot be. Then what is the reason to take our being as separate? Let even one person prove that he can be separate. Break all your connections and live even for a moment... Go without food two or three days and trouble begins, doesn’t it? Which means you depended on the fruit that grew on trees, on the ears of wheat in the fields. So the fields and their wheat were not separate from you.

Go without water for a day and see the anguish that arises! And even that one day you manage only because your body has stored some water; otherwise you could not live even one day. From the storage inside, you manage one day, two, three; then it becomes difficult, the reserve runs out. “Water! Water!” You begin to writhe.

A fakir once said to Alexander, “Imagine, Alexander, you are lost in the desert, thirsty, and someone stands before you with a glass of water and asks, ‘What price will you pay?’ How much will you give?” Alexander said, “If I am thirsty in the desert, I will give half my kingdom.”

The fakir said, “I am that man — and I am not selling that cheap. What more will you give?”

Alexander said, “If the situation is extreme, I will give my entire kingdom.”

The fakir said, “What a joke! For something that will pass through you in a single glass, you spent your whole life to gain this kingdom! And when time comes you won’t be able to pay even the price of a glass of water...”

At some moment Alexander’s entire empire is not worth a glass of water. Why? Because when water is not available, life itself is in danger. Water comes from the Divine. What value have kingdoms? Without life, what will you do with a kingdom?

So what does it mean when we say, “Nirbal ke bal Ram”? Not what you imagine. You think you will go to the temple and say, “O God, I am very weak, now give me strength — run my business well, make my shop prosper, increase my prestige in the market. All right, I admit I am weak; now show your miracles.” That is not the meaning. People have foolishly taken it so: that if we cry and weep, plead, “We are fallen, you are the purifier of the fallen; we are nothing, you are everything; we are the dust of your feet, you are the king; now save us” — then He will come running. These are childish expectations. It means you have co-opted Him into your service. Clever! Your flattery worked.

Your prayers are flatteries. That is why prayer is called stuti — praise, eulogy. Your prayers are fawning. Your prayers try to cajole Him. Whom are you trying to deceive?

“Nirbal ke bal Ram” does not mean you grovel or fall on your knees. It means the realization of a truth: I am not separate. My center is not within me; my center is in You. I live with You. I am your limb; You are the Whole. I am your fraction; You are the entirety. You are the ocean; I am your small wave. The direct taste of this — that is what these sweet words point to: “Nirbal ke bal Ram.”

Then it cannot mean, “Run my shop well” — because that still means your shop is separate! It cannot mean, “Cure my illness” — that still means your illness is separate! The day you see “Nirbal ke bal Ram,” you know: I am weak.

And let me repeat: to know you are weak does not mean to know you are wretched. Wretchedness vanishes with the ego. It was the ego’s shadow. Only the ego feels wretched. When the ego is gone, how can there be wretchedness? Who will feel it? Only the ego knows wretchedness. The ego loses and loses daily, so the feeling of wretchedness arises daily. The more wretched it feels, the more it tries to win — “Let me prove at least once that I am something.” The more it loses, the more it runs to win; and the more it runs to win, the more it loses. The ego’s longing is to prove “I am something,” and what is always proved is “I am nothing.” Hence the wretchedness.

Wretchedness is the shadow of ego. When the ego goes, naturally the shadow goes. Therefore a religious person is neither egoistic nor modest. Remember this well. A religious person is not egoistic at all, but he is not humble either. Humble — what for? Why would he be? On what ground? In a religious man there is no ego, so its shadow cannot remain. A religious man does not say, “I am everything,” and he does not say, “I am nothing,” either. When there is no “I,” what claim remains?

“I am nothing” is also a claim — the opposite claim. The egoist says, “I am on the throne,” and the one you call humble says, “I am the dust of your feet — but I am!” And the dust of the feet can sit on the crown any day; it doesn’t take long. How long does it take for the dust at the feet to climb to the crown? Beginning from the feet is just a strategy to reach the crown. If you want to press someone’s neck, begin by pressing his feet. First become a public servant, massage feet, and then you will reach Delhi — then you will press necks.

If you want to throttle necks, start with the feet. Press the feet, and the man will become carefree: “Good fellow — a servant of the people, a Sarvodayi. Let him press, he is only pressing feet!” By the time you doze off, that foot-masser, step by step, will quietly begin to press your neck. When he has your neck, then you will realize the “servant of the people” has joined the party in power; no longer a Sarvodayi. But by then it is too late. Getting the hand off your neck is difficult. It is very late then. Escaping is not so easy.

One who claims to be the dust at the feet can ascend the crown any moment. That is exactly why he claims it. He bows down so that by bowing a way may open.

A religious person has neither ego nor “non-ego-ness.” He says, “I am not at all — so what ego, what non-ego?” The Divine is. Only He is. Being itself is His. And naturally, His being is filled with supreme strength. All energy is His. In this sense the sutra says: the strength of the weak is Ram.

The moment you vanish — become utterly empty — the moment you make room, new winds begin to blow within you; doors and windows open. These new winds are the Divine’s. When you snuff out your little flickering lamp — that sooty little glow — then moonlight descends within; that moonlight is the Divine’s.

Rabindranath wrote: One night I sat long on a barge reading a book on aesthetics. A tiny candle burned; its quivering light barely let me read. But the book was engaging, so I kept at it. At midnight I closed the book, tired, and blew out the candle. The moment I blew it out, I was wonderstruck. In that small hut on the boat… as soon as the dim, flickering light was gone, the full moon outside poured in! Through door and windows, through every chink, the moon’s rays entered. Silver began to dance.

Rabindranath had an insight. He wrote in his diary: Today I realized — this tiny flickering light did not let the moon enter! This tiny flicker held the whole moon at the threshold, would not let it in! As soon as it went out, as soon as the petty vanished, the vast came in. Unparalleled beauty flooded in! And how blind of me — I was seeking aesthetics in a book!

He stepped outside. A full moon in the sky! The solitary barge moored on the river! Silence all around! Birds asleep! No sign of people. Villages asleep. In that astounding quiet, in that soft, gentle night — beauty was showering down. First the moon’s rays entered within as soon as the candle was snuffed, through every pore! Then, when the moon enters within, it leads you outward. When it enters, by the grace of its rays, you come out. It calls you out. The invitation has come; you cannot stay in.

Rabindranath had to step out. He was tired, ready for sleep, that is why he had blown out the candle; but now the moon had come with its invitation, its magic filled the room. He came out.

That night he wrote in his diary: As long as the candle of ego burns within, the Divine cannot enter; He remains stuck outside. And by the candle of ego we grope through so many scriptures! While Truth surrounds us everywhere — Truth alone is — we set out to search for it, as if it were elsewhere, as if we had to go somewhere else.

“Nirbal ke bal Ram” means: you understand “I am not.” The claim of “I” falls away. It is only a claim; there is no reality in it. It is a thought — but thoughts acquire a kind of reality if you cling to them long enough. Still, it is only a thought.

If someone tells you, “Do not go by that road; there is a cremation ground,” even if there isn’t one…

A friend of mine was staying with me — a psychology professor at Banaras Hindu University. We were chatting — he is a psychologist. When I said to him that if a thought sits in the mind long enough it becomes reality, he said, “That does not appeal to me. How can a thought become reality? Reality is reality; thought is thought.”

I said nothing more then. At night, when he was going to sleep, I said, “Sleep in this room with a little awareness.” He asked, “Why?” I said, “There is something I should tell you. Once there was a grave here. The builder removed it, but the one who lived in it did not leave. Sometimes at night he still comes.”

He said, “What are you talking about! Someone like you — and you speak like this!”

I said, “I shouldn’t be saying it, I didn’t want to. I don’t believe it either — but after repeated experiences, now I am compelled. And if I don’t tell you, in the morning you may say I did not warn you. You have come for the first time; others who come here know. I won’t tell you again. And you needn’t believe me. Sleep easy. But sometimes he pulls the sheet, sometimes uncovers your face, sometimes stands right in front of you.” He said, “I never expected you to believe in ghosts!”

I said, “What can I do? I don’t believe either.”

Then I went to sleep. At two in the night he screamed. I went to his room — he had fainted. We had to sprinkle water, fan him; with difficulty he revived. I asked, “What happened?” He said, “It’s unbelievable. I don’t believe, but there is something. I saw him standing in that corner. When I saw him, I panicked.”

I said, “There is no one. I answered your question. When an idea sits within, it becomes real.”

He was very upset. “Is this any way to answer? My whole night is ruined. I got so frightened I felt I might have a heart attack. I felt I could not even scream; how the scream came out I don’t know. I was terrified: if no one came, what would happen? What would he do?” he said.

I said, “This is exactly how it is answered. There is no one here. Now sleep peacefully.”

He said, “No, I am coming to your room. Believe what you want — I am not sleeping here.”

I said, “No one is here.” He replied, “Whether there is or not, I have to sleep. Don’t spoil my night. This is not a matter for debate. I am too shaken.”

Once you accept something, it becomes so because of your acceptance. A hypnosis happens.

There are many “realities” in your life that exist only because you accepted them. The day you refuse, they stop existing.

The ego is one of the greatest collective hypnotisms. The biggest hypnosis. We have believed in it and nursed it for lifetimes; hence it has grown very strong. In itself it is nothing — mere air, a rumor — but it has sunk deep. You are not; your being is a rumor. But you trusted the rumor. Not only trusted it, you tried every way to prove it true. And it feels true. And those among whom you live also believe the same rumor. So we keep strengthening each other’s mutual hypnosis.

Then, twenty-four hours a day, our language forces us to use the word I. Each time you use I, the ego grows stronger, and stronger. Layer upon layer settles daily.

The realities of life are not visible because of this falsehood. The reality is the Divine. The unreality is you. This is what the saints mean when they say the world is maya. By world they do not mean these trees — they mean these notions. Not the mountains — the ego. Not the sun, moon, stars — but the beliefs, the rumors, the fantasies condensed within you. The dissolution of these condensed notions is called meditation, devotion. Then suddenly it is seen that everywhere only Ram’s strength is — in you, in others, everywhere the strength of the One.

And naturally, when you are no more, where is wretchedness? “Nirbal ke bal Ram!” Then whatever happens is auspicious, because it happens from the Divine. Whatever happens is beautiful; out of His hands, how can the unbeautiful arise? Then even death comes as a boon. As of now, even life is a curse — because of this ego. Then only boons happen; blessings rain — nothing else, because nothing else can.

Today my own belongingness seems to be slipping away from me;
Like a traveler lost from the path, my life wanders, anxious.
With a stretch of limbs, pain awakens, the sleeping sob has stirred;
Faith begins to sink the moment the mind’s bonds start to break.
How will the bride of breath proceed utterly alone on the roads,
When at every step the cheat of sorrow has reared venomous snakes?
Today upon the lips hesitantly has risen again a trembling tale of grief;
From my voice the half-born song of my life demands its right.
See that the gathered garland of feelings does not scatter today;
That the meter does not break, that the language of the heart does not remain unsaid.
The ritual flame is out, the tired priestess, the temple doors closed —
Which bride has lit a lamp upon the golden urn?

The ritual flame is out, the tired priestess, the temple doors closed —
Which bride has lit a lamp upon the golden urn?

That lamp burns only then, and burns truly then — when your ego utterly loses, is completely finished; when the ego falls in total defeat, without even a trace.

The ritual flame is out, the tired priestess, the temple doors closed —
Where it seems that final defeat has come, that you have lost in every way, become utterly dispossessed — in that very moment…

Which bride has lit a lamp upon the golden urn!

…in that very moment a lamp from the Unknown descends within you; a light from the Unknown enters you.

“Nirbal ke bal Ram!”

In “Nirbal ke bal Ram” there is no attempt to use Ram in any way. There is no scheme to exploit Ram’s power. It is only a declaration of fact.

That is why ego builds a wall, and tears open a door. Ego becomes a wall; tears become a doorway. Because tears mean: defeated, surrendered.

The ritual flame is out, the tired priestess, the temple doors closed —
Now there is no trust left in oneself. No hope that anything can be done by oneself. All hope has become hopelessness; all plans have collapsed in despair. No future remains. Only eyes damp with tears. Only sorrow, only anguish…

The ritual flame is out, the tired priestess, the temple doors closed —
As if a man has committed his own self-annihilation: “I am not.” And the very moment this self-annihilation happens — “I am not” — in that very moment the lamp of samadhi is lit. This incredible, mysterious event occurs. The day you are not, that day the Divine begins to dance within you. Learn the art of tears.

This heart longs to do something —
to write a nazm, to sing a song;
and if not even that, then remembering Him,
to sit in some bower and weep tears of sorrow.

The mind wants to do. “This heart longs to do something!” But what will you do? No one is joined to the Divine through doing, because doing again and again strengthens the ego. Therefore you are not religious because of what you do; you are religious because of what you are. Someone says, “I gave charity.” Someone says, “I built a temple.” Another says, “I opened a cow-shelter.” Someone says, “I feed so many brahmins.” Another says, “See, I run an orphanage, a widows’ home…” The list of doers is long. But are they religious?

They are not religious. They still harbor the idea of doing. They say, “I built a dharmashala, I built a temple!” Then the idol they installed is an idol of their own I — whether you call it Ram, Krishna, Mahavira, or Buddha makes no difference. If you dig a little beneath the idol, you will find their own name inscribed. The idol is theirs. Under the pretext of Buddha they have installed their own statue. They are trying to leave their signature, to carve their name upon stone — that something may remain, that there be some remembrance, a little note on the pages of history.

When Bodhidharma reached China, Emperor Wu said to him, “I have built thousands of monasteries, installed hundreds of thousands of Buddha statues, I feed hundreds of monks, I have had hundreds of scriptures translated. I have expended my whole treasury in the service of religion. What merit will I gain? What will be my reward?”

The monks who had come from India before had all praised him immensely: “Emperor Wu, you are a chakravarti! A dharma-king like you has never been! Among kings you are the great king! Your fame will endure. Your merit is enormous. Golden palaces are being built in heaven for you. You are awaited there. You will go to the seventh heaven.” Such things they said. Wu was delighted. He built more monasteries, fed more monks, translated more scriptures, converted more subjects to Buddhism. He made China Buddhist.

But then came Bodhidharma — a different kind of man, an authentic man. In the presence of such authentic ones, even your life trembles.

When Wu asked him the same question he asked everyone and which always delighted him to hear — “What merit will I gain?” — Bodhidharma looked at him with such anger, with such terrible intensity, like a lion ready to devour. He said, “Merit? What merit? If you don’t fall into hell, that will be much!”

“If you don’t fall into hell — that will be much.” Wu said, “Master, what are you saying?” It was as if he woke from a long sleep. No one had ever said such a thing. “You say that after all my religious deeds, if I don’t go to hell that will be enough?”

Bodhidharma said, “Yes. There is no merit in it, no religion. In doing, what religion? Doing brings the doer. Doing brings the ego. This is only the decoration of ego.”

Wu felt offended. He changed the subject, because others were standing around and this man seemed strange! One does not speak to emperors like this. But he did not know that Bodhidharma’s state of mind was that of a Buddha; he stood exactly where the Buddha stands. He would not speak formalities.

Emperor Wu changed the topic to avoid disgrace. He said, “Then speak a little about the holiness of religion.” Bodhidharma laughed: “What has religion to do with holiness? Religion is emptiness. Holiness? Again ego. Holy–unholy, sin–merit — you change the names but keep the same thing. Ethics–non-ethics, good–bad… Religion has nothing to do with good or bad. Religion relates to the state of emptiness — neither good nor bad, neither holy nor unholy. The absence of I — religion.”

Then Wu became irritated. He said, “Then who are you? If religion is emptiness, who are you standing before me speaking like this?”

Bodhidharma laughed: “I don’t know.” A most wondrous answer. “I don’t know. If I knew, I would become. I know nothing. You look and see who stands before you! Peek in and see who stands before you! I am open; my doors are open. But who I am — I do not know. No one knows.”

Wu asked in anger, “Who are you, sir, that you keep giving such harsh answers? Who are you?”

And Bodhidharma says, “I don’t know. Who I am — you look.” If only Wu had the courage to look through those doors, he would have found the Great Emptiness, and in that Great Emptiness the radiant Divine. But he could not see; he turned away. “This man is rude and knows nothing of courtly manners,” he thought. The opportunity was lost.

Religion has nothing to do with doing — it has to do with emptiness, with the supreme void. Therefore no one becomes religious by what he does. You are not religious because of what you do, but because of what you are. If you are empty, you are religious. This is the meaning of the saying, “Nirbal ke bal Ram.” Weak means: become empty, and the Full will descend. Where there is emptiness, the Full invariably enters. Emptiness is you — fullness is the Divine.

No harm. There is no harm in being a shopkeeper. In the world, everyone is a shopkeeper. The shops may differ, but in the world everyone is a shopkeeper. The very way of being in the world is shopkeeping. And there is no other way to be in the world. One runs a shop of knowledge, another of other goods; but all are shopkeepers. So don’t worry.
And shopkeepers also arrive. Look at Paltu—the nirgun baniya! Paltu, Ram’s grocer. Paltu arrived; you too will arrive. There is nothing to worry about.
“Shopkeeper” means simply that you keep accounts. Everyone does. The ego is an accountant. A shopkeeper means: buy something for two and sell it for four so some profit remains. The shopkeeper’s maxim is: give less and take more, so some surplus remains. That’s what everyone is doing. And it is good you have admitted it, because the one who admits can go beyond. Let it be clear: my mind is that of a shopkeeper, calculating, always counting so that nothing extra goes out; may more always come in, less go out—more come in. That is everyone’s condition. The day it reverses, that day a devotee is born. A devotee means: more goes out, I give more, I share more. I take only what I truly need—and give away all I have. If two loaves suffice for me, I take two—and offer up the rest, pour out the whole treasure! Whatever song has arisen in my inmost being, I share it. I pour out all love.
The lover is a reverse shopkeeper. His relish is in sharing, in giving. A shopkeeper can become a lover any moment; it is just a change of direction. Until now you took more and gave less; just invert it—take little, give much—and you become a lover, a devotee. That is how Paltu, the nirgun baniya, attained the supreme.
I am not asking you to run away from your shop. I am only saying: where arithmetic sits in you, let love sit.
You ask: “The questioner is a shopkeeper. He knows well that a beautiful thing comes at a high price.”
He knows rightly, he knows justly that the more beautiful a thing, the higher the price. And for the one who sets out to seek the Divine, the price is his entire self; nothing less will do. If you hope God will come in exchange for money, it won’t happen. You must give yourself. You must pour your whole being. There the hitch arises. The mind says: if only I needn’t give myself! If anything else will do, I’ll give it—land, house, wife and children, wealth and property—but myself? If I give myself, who will be left to enjoy what is received? And the Divine is such that He is found only when you give yourself. As when a drop falls into the ocean: it loses itself—but by losing becomes the ocean. When a seed breaks in the earth, it loses itself—and by losing becomes a tree. And then the tree bears millions of seeds, and each one brings forth millions more.
Botanists say a single seed could green the whole earth. Not just one plot, all lands could be green—because one seed sprouts into millions, then again each into millions—it keeps spreading, infinite expanse. In a tiny seed lies the vastness of Brahman. But the seed must die. There the hitch appears. And it doesn’t come only to you; it comes to everyone. So don’t worry. Shopkeeper or not, everyone faces the same hitch: how to erase oneself!
The ego says: save yourself and get God too. This cannot be. Because the ego itself is the barrier. It’s like someone wanting to keep the darkness in the room and also light the lamp. If the lamp is lit, darkness goes. If you want to preserve darkness, you can’t light the lamp. The two cannot exist together. Don’t attempt the impossible. And it is my sense that a shopkeeper can understand this. Shopkeepers have a certain shrewdness. They have enough arithmetic, enough logic, to understand a little of what is beyond logic. Even to peer into the trans-logical, a little logic is needed. To glimpse what is beyond the intellect, the intellect is needed—and the shopkeeper lives by intellect.
So don’t take this as a hindrance. Use it. Make every stone on the path into a step. Wherever you are now—if you are a shopkeeper, a businessman—make business itself your staircase.
Mostly we do the opposite: we turn every step into a stone, instead of turning stones into steps. Our vision is very negative.
“The questioner is a shopkeeper. He knows well that a beautiful thing comes at a high price.”
Right. Now know one more thing: this Divine has not a high price; its price is paid with your whole being. And the delightful joke is—what is our price anyway, what is our value! We are only a rumor. We are a lie.
I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin was traveling by train. In the first-class compartment were Mulla and two genteel ladies. One said to the other, “Believe it or not, but I am allergic to gold and silver.” Allergic to gold and silver! Hearing this, the other lady was a bit startled. The first continued, “Only yesterday my husband brought me a gold necklace. I put it on, had an allergic reaction, and fainted. Believe it or not...” The second said, “I can believe that, because I too have an allergy—not to gold and silver, but to diamonds and jewels. Day before yesterday my husband returned from Delhi with a nine-lakh necklace. I wore it and immediately fainted.”
While they were talking, Mulla suddenly fell flat on the floor, unconscious. The two ladies panicked, pulled the chain; the guard came; people gathered from nearby compartments. With difficulty they sprinkled water, fanned him, somehow brought him to. They asked, “What happened?” Mulla said, “I was done for—good thing you came. I’m allergic to lies. That’s why I don’t keep the company of ladies. By chance, my life was about to go. I can tolerate lies up to a point; beyond that I have an allergy—I instantly pass out.”
This ego is a lie, an absolute lie. You are unconscious, sunk in this lie. You have an allergy to truth. You are fine with the lie; the truth bothers you. To lessen the allergy to truth, there is satsang. Listen to truth, ponder it, contemplate it, meditate on it—so that little by little your allergy to truth diminishes, and your allergy to falsehood grows. Then one day you will find that when you offer the ego at the feet of the Divine, you have paid no price—you have only dropped a disease. God comes free—at the price of an illness. God comes free—at the price of a lie. He is obtained by letting go of what you never actually had.
Let me repeat: God is attained by letting go of what you do not have. What is—He—is gained by dropping what is not. What cheaper bargain could there be! If you are a real shopkeeper, you will understand me. What cheaper bargain—by giving up what is not, you get That which is!
“The trouble is, he is also a miserly Marwari.”
To be a Marwari is quite enough. “Miserly Marwari” isn’t needed. Why two of the same? Why the repetition? To be a Marwari suffices. But who is not a Marwari! Where there is greed, there is Marwar. You heard yesterday: where there is virtue there is Avadh, and where there is affection there is Janakpuri. Likewise, where there is greed, there is Marwar. All are greedy, so all are Marwaris. As long as there is greed, how will you get outside Marwar? Whoever is ambitious is a Marwari. Whoever is covetous is a Marwari. It is a symbol. And whoever is greedy will certainly be a miser.
What does “miser” mean? Greedy means: what I don’t have should be obtained. Covetous means: what is not in my hand should come into my hand. Miser means: what has come into my hand must not slip out. That’s all. The two hang together—they are different spreadings of the same logic. What I don’t have should be mine—that is greed. And when it becomes mine, it must not leave my hand, because others are ready to snatch. You are not alone here. There is fierce competition. The whole earth is full of Marwaris. Where will you run, where will you escape! Others are snatching too. As you snatched from someone, others are ready to snatch from you. The moment it comes into your hand, the trouble begins.
Ramakrishna used to say: One day he was sitting outside the temple at Dakshineswar. He saw a kite flying with a mouse in its beak. Behind it were many vultures and other kites, swooping at it. Ramakrishna watched, and his disciples too. Seeing him so absorbed, they felt something important must be there; though nothing special seemed to be happening: a kite carrying a mouse, vultures attacking, kites making passes. Then the kite let go of the mouse. The moment it dropped the mouse, all the vultures and kites that were attacking left it and went after the mouse. What did they have to do with that kite now! The kite perched on a tree.
Ramakrishna said to his disciples, “See! As long as you hold onto a mouse, vultures will attack you. Now look—how at ease it sits! Our knot is in the Void, our rest in the soundless! Now there’s no one around—silence. Now no kite attacks, no vulture attacks. Now that kite must be realizing: they were not attacking me at all—their attack was upon the mouse. I too was holding the mouse; they were my competitors for the mouse. The mouse slipped away—or was let go—the matter ended.”
Greed means: what is in another’s hand should be in mine. Misery means: what is in my hand should remain in mine, not pass to another. Misery is the shadow of greed. And the irony is: the greedy is always unhappy, the miser always afraid. The greedy is always unhappy, because no matter how much you get, much more always remains to be gotten. What you don’t have keeps hurting. It pricks like a knife in the chest. You build a house—what of it; there are a thousand houses in the town; and this isn’t the only town—there are thousands. How far will you go? Whatever you do will always be small compared to what remains to be done. Life is short. In seventy-eighty years, how much will you collect? You will always find what you hold to be paltry. What was to be, has not happened. So the greedy is always unhappy. He can never be happy. And the miser is always afraid—lest what is in his hand be snatched away! Everyone is ready to pounce. Enemies surround on all sides.
You see, the poor have no enemies! Enemies belong to the rich. If you have nothing, who would be your enemy! You saw—your local politician roamed the neighborhood; he had no enemies. As soon as he becomes a minister, the trouble begins. Then he cannot just go out. Then there is danger—he will be surrounded, there will be agitations, protest marches, stones thrown, shoes hurled.
No one used to throw shoes at Morarji Bhai; now people have begun to throw them. They will throw shoes. Just here in Poona they were thrown. No one was throwing shoes; no one had any occasion. As long as you don’t have a mouse in your hand, no one bothers. The moment the mouse is in your hand, everyone is interested—because they too want that mouse. As soon as you have position, prestige, wealth, you are entangled; then you must defend it. Then on all sides you make arrangements so no one snatches it.
Those who have nothing can sleep in peace; but the one who has something—how will he sleep! So the miser cannot sleep. Caught between greed and miserliness, between these two millstones, a person is ground down. This is no great cleverness.
If you are truly clever, listen to Paltu, understand, awaken. Step outside Marwar. This hell of fear has no substance. Between fear and greed what has anyone got? What will you get?
Then you say: “Even knowing that the world and liberation cannot be together, he has a taste for both.”
Understand. First thing: there is only one rasa. There are not two rasas in existence. Raso vai sah—That One is rasa. In the world too you are seeking only That. The world is the wrong direction for seeking That. As if the river lies to the west and you are going east—in search of the river. You are searching for the river. There is no mistake in your thirst; your direction is wrong. Your longing is absolutely right—but you will not find the river because it isn’t there. In the world also man seeks only That. This is my constant reminder to you: man seeks nothing else—man seeks only God. He cannot seek anything else. There is nothing else worth seeking. It is that very thirst—call it by any name, choose any direction—you and I are all seeking bliss, sat-chit-ananda. Call it Bhagwan, Ishwar, Brahman; or, if you don’t wish to use a name, call it moksha, nirvana. If no name at all, call it joy. Joy is a good word. But every person is seeking joy.
Then there are two kinds of people. Those who search in the wrong direction and will never find. They will search and search, grow weary, break, decay—and never find. And those who search in the right direction. And the marvel is: the moment you turn in the right direction, the meeting happens.
Imagine a man running with his back to the sun—seeking the sun with his back turned. Not finding it, he runs even faster. He thinks: perhaps I will find it by increasing speed. This is our logic. When something doesn’t come, we run faster, we increase speed. He runs with all his might, puts on wings—and flies. But with his back to the sun, he will not find it. The day he understands, that day he turns around—and the sun is right there. Turn, and the sun stands before you.
That is the meaning of “Paltu”—to turn back. His guru called him Paltu Das for that very reason. He was a merchant, steeped in the world. Hearing the guru’s awakening, he understood and turned—hence “Paltu Das.” He turned in an instant. He must have been brave. He was a shopkeeper, but being a shopkeeper had not entered his soul. His soul was still that of a gambler, courageous, a kshatriya, a warrior. He heard, he understood, he turned. In a single moment, he turned.
The Jain texts tell this story: a young man returned home after hearing Mahavira. In those old days—now it hardly happens—his wife was anointing him for a bath, massaging him with ubtan in the bathhouse. He sat naked, bathing. She chatted: “You went to hear Mahavira; my brother also listens to him. He delights in satsang. Not only that—he has decided that someday he will take initiation into sannyas.”
The young man laughed while bathing. His wife said, “Why did you laugh? Why suddenly?”
He said, “I laughed because if Mahavira’s words have struck home, how can it be ‘someday’? What is the question of someday? Why not now? The talk of someday means: your brother is not a kshatriya. I thought you came from a kshatriya house—you are a kshatriyani. Is your brother not a kshatriya?”
What began as a joke went too far; sometimes a jest stretches long. The wife said, “What are you saying? And what—do you think you are a kshatriya?”
He stood up, opened the door, and began to walk out. She said, “Where are you going, naked—where are you going?”
He said, “The matter is finished.”
She had teased a kshatriya. He walked straight out. “I have renounced. It’s done. I am naked already; now I will go like this to Mahavira.”
Mahavira himself was naked. The wife screamed. The household gathered, neighbors came. They said, “Don’t stretch a joke so far.” He said, “The matter is finished. One does not joke with a kshatriya. The point has struck me—after all, Mahavira’s words struck me too. My wife reminded me—I am grateful to her. When a thing has struck, then it is to be done; stake everything.”
He did renounce; he became a digambara muni. I love this tale—courage, boldness, audacity—how a small spark can blaze. A playful remark can become profound—if there is courage. Otherwise the true guru can go on striking your head with his stick, and you will keep dozing and sleeping.
“Even knowing that the world and liberation cannot be together, he has a taste for both.”
There aren’t two, so how can there be two tastes? Drop that illusion. My entire teaching is that there is only One. Yes, there is a right way to gain Him, and there is also a sure way to lose Him. The way to lose the Divine—the world. The way to gain the Divine—sannyas. If you want to miss God, keep entangled in petty things, a thousand trifles—let your mind be caught up, run from here to there, from this greed to that, this position to that ambition, obey the ego.
If you wish to avoid the Divine, the ego is a guaranteed device. You will never be deceived by it. If you wish to avoid God, follow the ego. But if there is even a little relish for God, then understand: where in the world has anyone ever found true relish? Who has found it, when? Not a single report in centuries upon centuries. Through this long history there isn’t even one witness who can say: I found the rasa in the world. All desired it—who got it! You will desire too; you will lose—you won’t gain. If it is only about desiring, it’s your choice. But if it is about attaining, if your urgency is to attain, then there is only one rasa—the Divine.
When you drown in your wife, or in your husband, even then you wish to sip only the Divine. You have only chosen a long road: first the body, then within the body the mind, and within the mind the soul—and within the soul the Divine is hidden. If you get stuck at the wife’s body, it is as if you started to peel an onion and only lifted the first skin. Reach your wife’s mind—the second skin will open. Reach your wife’s soul—the third will open. And within your wife you will behold the Divine; the wife will become a temple. Until wife and husband become temples, know that it was not love at all, it was lust.
Wherever you wish to seek, seek the Divine there. When a customer comes to your shop, look into his eyes and seek Ram. You will be amazed: the moment the remembrance of Ram arises, your relationship with the customer changes. You no longer want to fleece him. You only want to serve him. If Ram has come to your doorway, how will you rob Him! You only want to serve. Even if you take two annas of profit, you say to him, “I am taking two annas only so I can remain here to serve you tomorrow; no other reason. So that when you come tomorrow, I am still here. So I take two annas. This item is ten rupees; in it are two annas profit.”
Your relationship with the customer changes. He is no longer a “customer”—he is “Ram-ji.”
It was just like this with Kabir when he went to sell cloth. He sold till the very end. His devotees said, “Please don’t sell now; it doesn’t look right. We are your servants—what do you lack? You weave cloth in this old age and go to market—we feel ashamed. People ask us, ‘Your guru sells cloth!’”
But Kabir would say, “You think of me—think also of the Ram-jis! Those who have always relished wearing my cloth—what about them! They wait for me. Who will weave with as much love as I weave for them!”
Even addressing his customer, Kabir would call him “Ram-ji.” He would say, “Ram-ji, keep it with care—this sheet is woven with great effort. Fine, fine, I have woven this sheet! With great care I have woven this sheet! It isn’t an ordinary sheet—into it I have filled Ram-Ram by constant japa. I have poured meditation into it. It will accompany you all your life. I have filled it with deep feeling. I made it for you. I am blessed that you are taking it. Ram has chosen it—I am graced!”
Such was Kabir’s feeling.
Sitting in your shop, a temple can happen. In the marketplace, the Himalayas can descend. It is a matter of vision. But take one understanding: there is only one rasa. Remember only that. Seek that one rasa everywhere. Then you will find: in some places it is found, in some it is not. Wherever it isn’t found, that place will naturally begin to drop away for you.
Psychologists experiment with rats; they build mazes—many compartments inside a box. Suppose there are twenty small rooms. The rat can go anywhere. Food is kept in only one room. At first the rat runs into all the rooms—this one, that one. Once it finds the food even once, then when you lift the lid it darts straight to that room. You cannot trick it again. It no longer wanders here and there. It may make a mistake once or twice, but gradually, it comes out and goes directly to where its food is.
So it is here. This world is a maze. You are searching everywhere—but you are searching for the Divine. Wherever it is not found, be wise enough not to go there again and again. I am not saying don’t go even once—go once, otherwise how will you know? Certainly go. One must err; or how will the error be corrected? But make a mistake only once—don’t repeat it. Where it is found, go more in that direction. Little by little you will stop going everywhere. You will begin to drown in that one rasa.
But remember: the rasa is one. The world and the Divine are not two. The same One pervades the world. If you search deeply, with your very life, you will find Him. He is present outside too. But before finding Him outside, you must find Him within. Otherwise, finding Him outside is very difficult—because outside is far. If finding within, who is nearest, is proving difficult, then outside will be even farther: a journey will be needed. First a glimpse within. First a meeting within—and then you begin to meet Him in all.
And don’t postpone it till tomorrow. Be a kshatriya. Paltu says: be a Rajput. Don’t postpone till tomorrow. What faith is there in tomorrow? Tomorrow you may be, you may not. Tomorrow one to wake you may be, may not. Tomorrow this satsang may continue, or not. Don’t put it off. Do what is to be done today—do it now.
What you would do tomorrow, do today; what you would do today—do now.
In a moment the deluge may come—when will you do it again?
But man is perverse. He even takes this in reverse.
I have heard: There was trouble in Mulla Nasruddin’s shop and office. He asked a psychologist what to do—no one did any work! The psychologist said, “Hang this board in your office:
What you would do tomorrow, do today; what you would do today—do now.
In a moment the deluge may come—when will you do it again?
Hang this board. It will bring some awareness.”
Five-seven days later the psychologist came, looking for his fee. He found Mulla sitting with a bandage on his head, plaster on his limbs, very dejected. The shop was in shambles. He asked, “Nasruddin, what happened? Didn’t the board have an effect?”
Nasruddin said, “It had an effect. This is the effect you’re seeing! The cashier ran away with everything—‘What you would do tomorrow, do today!’ My manager eloped with my typist. And my doorkeeper smashed my head. On inquiry I learned the doorkeeper had always thought, ‘When will I crack his skull!’ When he saw the board, he became aware. He thought, ‘This is right—if tomorrow the deluge comes, when will I do it! So do it now.’ That is the result. Your advice had a stunning effect. The shop is ruined. You have come for your fee—perhaps I should come to your home, because there is no more fee.”
Man is like this. He does the wrong immediately; the right he puts off till tomorrow. If he must steal—now. If he must be angry—now. When someone abuses you, you don’t say, “I will be angry tomorrow; I will think it over, consult my wife and children, and be angry tomorrow.” When you need to be angry, you are angry now. When you must kill someone, you do it now. But when a good urge rises in your life—to take sannyas, to meditate, to enter prayer—you think, “I will think about it.” To think means to postpone. To postpone means you lack courage.
So do what is to be done. If you have a relish for the Divine, seek. And I tell you this much: at least those who sit with me in satsang should not even by mistake create this division between world and God. Do not raise the talk of two. I say there is only One. This world is His too. He is hidden in the world. If you make a little effort, you will find Him there as well. But to find Him there by effort will be hard; within you will find Him with ease. First have the inner vision—then it will happen outside.
And do not put it off till tomorrow.
Today drink your fill of the moon—
who knows if this night will ever return.
Dreams are giving light in these dew-wet eyes,
as if floating on a stream of Diwali.
On the lips lie strands of some song,
like laughter at dawn upon autumn’s leaves—
but this season will not linger long;
every moment my summons is arriving.
Nothing to wonder if by tomorrow here
the world may not even find my dust.
Today drink your fill of the moon—
who knows if this night will ever return.

Who can say at what moment the caravan
will lift its feet and leave this village?
Who knows when, to erase its weariness,
the morning will beg light from the evening?
Upon the non-dual lips of Time
rests this flute of flesh we call life—
who knows if tomorrow the master of breath
will like this instrument, this voice or not.
Today drink your fill of the moon—
who knows if this night will ever return.

This sapphire city studded with stars
is only a spectacle of the morning sun.
This huge smiling moon
is a single grain in Time’s winnowing-tray.
No one here is free;
on every foot a fetter lies—
alien from birth, and yet
who knows when the breath will sing or fall silent.
Today drink your fill of the moon—
who knows if this night will ever return.

Of this maiden Sleep with dream-bright eyes—
who knows if there will be a dawn tomorrow.
In the lap of this lamp, this flame—
who knows if it will find such a dwelling again.
The earth is moving beneath our feet,
and above, the sky keeps turning.
Dust is the renunciant of creation—
who knows if tomorrow it will veil my hut or not.
Today drink your fill of the moon—
who knows if this night will ever return.

In the bazaar, the body’s wares are spread—
and the mind’s jewel lies there too:
who knows when, at what price, it will be sold.
Whose star will cast its glance on whom—
in this known world who knows this truth?
Uncertain is every day, every single moment—
only the uncertainty is certain here.
Therefore it is very possible, O life,
that tomorrow the moon may come—
and may or may not bring moonlight.
Today drink your fill of the moon—
who knows if this night will ever return.

Each moment is precious; do not squander it on the petty. Each moment is precious; do not spend it gathering shells and pebbles and worthless trinkets.
Each moment can become an experience of the Divine.
Each moment can become samadhi.
And remember, it is only That you are seeking. Even in the world you seek only That. Wherever anyone is seeking, he is seeking That alone. Knowingly or unknowingly, awake or asleep—the search is for the One. There is only one rasa: raso vai sah—the rasa of the Divine!
As you grow more and more aware of this, you will find: the marketplace remains, but it is no longer a marketplace; the shop remains, but it is no longer a shop; the family remains, but it is no longer a family. Nothing is as before. Everything has changed. You have changed, and everything changes. Vision changes—and creation changes.
It is all a play of your eye. The world is an eye’s way; sannyas is an eye’s way. One mode of seeing—world; another mode—sannyas. The one who moves thinking there is any rasa other than the Divine is a worldly man. The one who moves knowing the Divine alone is the only rasa—that one is a sannyasin.
Enough for today.