Ajhun Chet Ganwar #3

There is suffering in life. With suffering, there are two approaches: one is to forget it, the other is to awaken through it. The collective name for all methods of forgetting is “the world.” The single method of awakening—there is only one—is meditation, devotion, yoga.

There is suffering; you can forget it in alcohol, in sex, in music, and so on… But forgetting doesn’t erase the fact; the fact remains where it is. Forgetting erases you, not the fact. Forgetting doesn’t end the pain—you fade. Forgetting slowly puts you into a stupor; in your consciousness, light gives way to darkness. The more you forget, the more deluded you become, because the darkness grows. Forgetting itself means darkness—the loss of awareness. You drink, and there were thousands of sorrows, anxieties, anguish, crises, burdens standing before you—questions with no answers, problems demanding solutions and no solutions in sight. You drank—and no sorrows, no questions remained; you forgot. But how did you forget? At what price? You paid with your awareness; you amputated your own soul. You became a corpse. You became inert.

Such a person, in trying to forget his suffering, slowly shatters and erases himself. If you forget in wealth, that too is a wine. There is intoxication in wealth—wealth-intoxication. When the pocket is warm, there’s a buzz. If you forget in status, that too is wine—status-intoxication. Look at the swagger of the man who holds office; and look at the state of the one who falls from it!

Status is a drug too. And the odd thing is, politicians around the world want to ban alcohol as soon as they reach power—while they themselves are drinking the strongest brew of all. The greatest wine is power. The wine that drips from grapes is ordinary, it wears off in an hour or two. The intoxication born of power is deep and goes far. Those drowned in their own drunkenness don’t want others to be drunk.

Human beings have been seeking remedies for centuries. Scriptures said, “Don’t drink.” Saints said, “Don’t drink.” But understand the person’s trouble first—why does he drink? There is suffering in his life. The suffering is such that either he must forget or he must awaken. And these two processes are diametrically opposed. Forgetting is cheap. Forgetting can be bought in the marketplace; it’s sold over a counter; it comes in a cup. Awakening is arduous. Awakening takes great discipline. So either liquor—or practice.

That is why religions have opposed wine—not because of the liquid itself. Wine competes with meditation. Grasp this distinction. When a politician opposes liquor, he hardly knows what he is saying; he’s likely just politicking. But when religion speaks against wine, the reasons are utterly different, subtle, unique. Religion opposes wine because wine is a counterfeit religion, a fake coin. If you must forget, the true way to forget is one: awaken. Because the moment you awaken, suffering dissolves; there’s no need to forget. Suffering ends. The room is dark. You drink, and you forget that it’s dark. But the darkness remains. Religion says: light a lamp, and then there is no darkness. Darkness is finished.

“There is rose-red wine, there is music for pleasure, there is the cup-bearer—
but to cross the tumult of reality is the hard thing.”

Wine as lovely as flowers, the music of delight, the beautiful cup-bearer serving—but to pass through the turmoil of truth without being wounded by reality’s sting is difficult, impossible. Not merely difficult—impossible. You will forget today, and tomorrow the sorrow will stand again where it stood. So either drink wine—or drink the Divine.

And wine has many kinds—of status, of pride, of wealth, of fame, of name, of prestige. All are merely different styles of the same intoxication. Different shops sell them, that’s all. If there is a true choice, it is only between two.

Hence there are only two kinds of people in the world—worldly and renunciate. Worldly means: engaged in the effort to forget—“I’ll find some way to make the matter slip from mind; a little more money, a bigger house, a beautiful woman; a child will be born, the boy will get a job, the girl will be married, there will be grandchildren—somehow I’ll forget, and this tangle will end.”

In trying to forget the tangle, the worldly man creates more tangles. That’s why the wise have called the world a grand contrivance. You set out to erase—and you make more. You try to untie—and the knot snarls further. The more you try to resolve, the tighter the knot becomes; more troubles keep arising. You seek one solution, and from that one solution ten new problems rise. And the one you had set out to solve remains, while ten new ones spring up. The expansion goes on. By the time he dies, a man is trapped in his own web. He himself spun it. He himself dug these pits. He forged these chains in great hope—never imagining they would end up on his own wrists.

I have heard of a famous blacksmith in Rome. His fame spread across the world; whatever he made was unparalleled. The swords from his forge had no equal. Goods made in his shop were honored everywhere; they sold in faraway markets; his name itself sold. Then Rome was invaded. The most eminent men of Rome were seized. Rome fell, and the blacksmith was captured too. He was well known, with big workshops, wealth, great repute. The enemy shackled thirty of Rome’s most powerful men and threw them into the mountains to die. The twenty-nine were weeping, but the blacksmith was calm. Finally they asked him, “You are calm while we’re being thrown to wild beasts?” He said, “Don’t worry, I’m here, I’m a blacksmith. All my life I’ve made shackles and handcuffs—I know how to open them too. Don’t panic. Once they throw us and leave, I’ll free myself and then set you all free. Don’t be afraid.”

Their courage returned; their hope rose. It was true—no craftsman was more skilled. A lifetime spent with iron—how could he not open chains? Surely he would. After the enemies had gone, they dragged themselves to the blacksmith. But he was weeping. “What’s the matter?” they asked. “Why are you crying? We depended on you. We lived on the hope you gave. What has happened? You were cheerful until now.”

He said, “I weep because when I looked closely at my chains, I found my own signature on them. They were made by me. The chains I make cannot be broken. If they were someone else’s, I would have opened them. But such is my skill—my chains cannot be broken. Impossible. It cannot be. We will die.”

When I read the blacksmith’s story, I remembered: this is every worldly man’s story. In the end you will find you died caught in your own chains. You forged them with great skill. Your signature is on them. You will recognize them well as the trap made by your own hands. The name of this entire principle is karma. You are the maker. You cast the bars. You build the cages. Then, without knowing how, you end up locked inside; the door falls, the locks click—and you do not understand. The locks are yours too. Perhaps you installed the door for some other reason—security. But now it does not open. Perhaps you wore chains on your hands as ornaments. Now that you recognize them, they won’t come off, because they weren’t ornaments—they were shackles.

Those you took for friends have proved enemies. And those things you crafted to pave your path through life have paved the road to hell.

There is a saying: the road to hell is paved with good intentions. It’s with the best intentions that a man travels to hell. The road to hell is lined with your dreams. The stones of your plans are set into that road; by those very stones it was built.

One person is worldly: he keeps trying to forget suffering. The other is a renunciate: he does not try to forget suffering—he tries to awaken himself. The difference is revolutionary. The issue becomes one of revolution. When it starts to dawn on you that the real question is not “suffering is outside,” but “I am blind, I am asleep, I am unconscious, I am insensible”—then everything turns. The real question is not “Why is happiness not coming from outside?” The real question is “Why has the music of bliss not begun within?”

Happiness never comes from outside. When music sounds within, waves rise outside too. When waves arise within, their resonance reaches the outer shores as well. But from outside, happiness never arrives. Bliss happens only within. And until you awaken to the inner, you will only harvest suffering—fresh suffering, and still more. Man keeps swapping one sorrow for another.

A Western thinker, Oscar Wilde, on the last day of his life wrote in his diary: the distilled essence of my lifetime is this—I kept exchanging one suffering for another. Once I was tired of one pain, I grabbed another, hoping there might be pleasure there. I found suffering again. I tired of that and took a third. But the whole extract of my life is: from one nuisance I went to another nuisance. No sooner had I escaped one hassle than I created the next.

The day you understand that outside is disturbance and inside is celebration; the day you understand that “outside” means suffering, and in your inner language “outside” equals suffering and “inside” equals bliss—that day revolution happens. That day you turn about. Transformation occurs. You start the journey home. Earlier you ran farther and farther out, thinking heaven lay somewhere else. Then you turn back. And the one who turns back finds heaven within.

Renunciation means the inner journey.

Today’s sutras can become precious milestones in turning your life from the world to renunciation. Understand each sutra with care.

“Light the lamp of the Name, and the palace is illumined.”

The palace is illumined; the radiance of the Name glows.

First: a lamp must be lit within. What you call it doesn’t matter. Buddha calls it the lamp of emptiness. Shankara calls it the lamp of Brahman. The medieval saints—Nanak, Kabir, Dadu, Paltu, Dariya—call it the lamp of the Name.

Understand “Name.”

Name means remembrance of the Divine. Name means: recollection, remembrance, mindfulness of That. God dwells within; we have lost remembrance of him. We have not lost God. Don’t ever think—even by mistake—that you have lost God. If you could lose God, you couldn’t even breathe. It is he who breathes. Don’t imagine that God can be lost; whatever can be lost is not God. God is your nature. He throbs in every pore. He lives in every particle. You are that. “Tat tvam asi, Shvetaketu!”

Uddalaka tells his son: You are That, Shvetaketu!

But we do not remember. There has been forgetfulness. We have forgotten.

A king’s son went astray—fell into bad company. The father became angry. He threatened him—only to scare him—“I will throw you out; either mend your ways or leave my palace.” He never thought the boy would actually leave. He was still small. But the boy left. The son was his father’s after all, a king’s son—stubborn. The father searched for him long, but there was no trace. Years passed. The father grew old; weeping dimmed his eyes. He had only one son—the heir to the kingdom. He repented, “What dark day, what unlucky moment made me say I’d throw him out!”

Some twenty years went by. One day he saw a beggar standing before the palace. The father recognized him at once. It was as if light came back into his eyes—that was his son. But twenty years! The son had completely forgotten he was a prince. Two decades of begging would make anyone forget. Twenty years of going door to door asking for scraps. Layer upon layer, begging had piled on; the memory of having been a prince was gone. Who would remember? He had to forget—otherwise begging would have been unbearable. To beg while a prince—too hard. To be chased away from doors, treated like a dog; told at every threshold, “Move on!” If the inner prince remained vivid, he would draw the sword. So the inner prince had to be dimmed, forgotten. It was only practical. How else to live?

And how to remember anyway? When you are reminded twenty-four hours a day from all sides that you are a beggar, a bum, a vagabond, a thief, a cheat—no one lets you linger at a door, no one lets you sit under a tree, no one lets you stay—“Here, take the bread, now move on”—you scarcely get a scrap to eat. A cracked bowl. Torn clothes. For twenty years he couldn’t buy new clothes. His body stank. The days of fragrance, the palace, splendor, comfort, honor—forgotten. So much dust had gathered on the mirror that no reflection formed.

The son knew nothing; he begged in that town as in every other. Another village like the last. But the father saw from the window—his son. The features were recognizable. However much dust had settled, a father’s eyes are not deceived. A son may forget; a father cannot. The source does not forget. The origin does not forget. He called his minister: “What shall I do?” The minister said, “Proceed carefully. If you tell him straightaway, the truth will be too big; he won’t believe. He has forgotten—otherwise he would never come to this door. He is begging here. Take steps slowly, gradually.”

The father asked, “What should we do?” The minister said, “Call him in.” They tried to bring him into the palace; he ran away. Servants pursued him. He protested, “No, let me go. I’m a poor man. I made a mistake coming to the king’s gate. I’m a beggar. I have no business inside.” He was afraid—of punishment, of prison, of unknown trouble. But the servants explained that the master wished to give him a job; he had pity. He came—but he wouldn’t step inside. So they gave him work sweeping the grounds outside the palace. Gradually, sweeping, he became a little familiar with the palace. He was promoted a little, then a little more. He started coming inside. His clothes were changed. He was bathed. Slowly he agreed to more. Over the years he was raised to the post of minister. When he became a minister, the king called him one day and said, “You are my son.” This time he accepted it. He believed. He had to climb these steps. It could have been said on the first day.

I tell you: you are the Divine. You don’t believe me. You say, “It may be a doctrine—but I and God?” I tell you daily—and you don’t believe. So I say: meditate, devote yourself. Start with sweeping. It could happen this very instant; no time need be lost; no gradual development is necessary. A single leap would do. But you don’t trust. So I say, sweep. Then promotion will come. Slowly, slowly, keep going. And one day, when the last hour approaches—when you have arrived at the minister’s seat, when a little glimmer of samadhi comes, when the spark of meditation starts—you will accept this truth in an instant. Trust will arise.

Name means remembrance. Remembrance implies: once we remembered; later we forgot. Every child carries God’s remembrance—but even to say “remembrance” is not quite right, because forgetfulness has not yet happened, so remembrance cannot be defined. Understand this subtlety.

Children are tranquil. Your little one—son or daughter—is quiet. But their quiet is unconscious still. Because they have not known unrest. Without knowing darkness, you cannot define light. Without knowing night, what proof is there you know day? When darkness is known, the definition of light dawns. It’s a puzzling paradox—but one of life’s inevitabilities. If you understand it, it will serve you well.

No one reaches God without having wandered. We are in God, yet we reach by wandering. Like a fish born in the ocean lives in the ocean—but has no idea where the ocean is. How could it? Never having been apart, how can it know? To know, there must be a little distance. There must be a separation, a pang. If a fisherman snatches it, then memory arises. As soon as it is out of the water, it remembers water. It writhes on the bank, longs to plunge back. If it reaches the ocean again, it attains supreme bliss. It is the same ocean it was in a moment before. Yet it had never tasted bliss.

Children are where saints arrive. But children do not know bliss; saints do. Saints are those fish who have thrashed on the sand, and then plunged again.

Name means: the memory of what was forgotten. Name means: re-entry into the lost ocean. Name means: the return of remembrance.

“Light the lamp of the Name, and the palace is illumined.”

And the instant remembrance awakens—“Who am I?”—light floods in. And with that light, what looked like a hut yesterday appears a palace. Saints live in palaces—even when they live in huts. Naked, they are robed more splendidly than emperors. Hungry, none is as satisfied as they. Burned by fire, nothing within them burns; everything remains cool. Thorns rain upon them, yet the lotus within stays in bloom.

“Light the lamp of the Name, and the palace is illumined.”

Understand. Paltu had no palace. But he says, “The palace filled with light!” When light happens, the hut becomes a palace. In a single moment, poverty and inferiority vanish. In a single moment, wretchedness disappears. In a single instant, a man becomes an emperor. You were an emperor already; it was only a matter of remembering. The forgotten memory returns.

“Light the lamp of the Name…”

How to light this lamp of the Name? How to kindle it? How should this light manifest? You are lost in a thousand things. Your life-energy is being spent in them. If that same energy were not scattered, it would blaze as light. A little mind in money, a little in position, a little in prestige, a little in the shop, in the market, in the household—thus the mind is divided into a thousand fragments.

Have you seen? Sunrays fall and there is no fire. But if you gather those same rays through a piece of glass and focus them on paper… When they fall scattered, no fire arises. Gather them through a lens, focus them on paper—and fire is born.

You have the means to generate light. You have the capacity. But your light is dissipated in many directions. A piece here, a piece there—you are in a thousand pieces. If those fragments come together—if they gather into one-pointedness—the race that rushes out in countless directions stops, and a single current moves inward. The moment all life-energy runs in one direction, the lamp lights.

The Name of the Divine is just a pretext. That is why Patanjali says in the Yoga Sutras: this is one device. It’s a peg on which you can hang all your fragments and become whole. Whether God “is” or not, don’t bother about that. Hang them on any excuse. Mahavira hung his being without believing in God—and it happened. Buddha hung it without believing in a soul—and it happened. Belief is not the issue; find a peg—hang yourself on it. If there’s a nail, hang on the nail; if not, hang on the door’s corner. The point is to hang. The instant you gather—by any pretext, any occasion—your fragments become whole, and the lamp lights.

“Light the lamp of the Name, and the palace is illumined.
The palace is illumined; the radiance of the Name reveals itself.”

The radiance you see in saints is not theirs—it is the Divine’s. It is not theirs. It is there because they are gone. They made room. They are nowhere to be found.

“Saint” means: the person is absent. Ego is gone. Only a hollow bamboo remains. Nothing inside—emptiness. From that emptiness the tones of the Divine arise.

“The palace is illumined; the radiance of the Name reveals itself.”

Therefore no true saint will say, “This is my radiance.” It is the radiance of the Divine remembrance. And if ever someone says, “My radiance,” know that through that “my” the Divine speaks—the saint is not speaking. If Krishna says, “Take refuge in me alone,” the “I” he speaks is not Krishna’s personal I—it is the Divine I. When Jesus says, “I am the way, I am the door, I am the truth,” this is not Jesus’ ego. No ego could dare say such a thing. The ego is weak, false; how could it have such courage? It is the Divine speaking.

This is why we say the Vedic utterances descended from the Divine; the rishis were only passages. The words are not of man. The Gita came through Krishna; it was the Divine who spoke. The incomparable words of the Bible came through Jesus. The flutes are many, but the one who sings through them is the same. Because the flutes differ, the notes differ. Their styles, languages, cadences differ. But if you peer through the flute’s emptiness and look for the lips—the breath that pours as music—you will find the One.

“The palace is illumined; the radiance of the Name reveals itself.”

Paltu says: I am no longer. As long as I was, this hut remained a hut—because of me. As long as I was, there was poverty, sorrow, destitution—because of me. The moment I was gone, the hut became a palace. And now this radiance that shines—pardon me—it is not mine. It is the radiance of his remembrance.

And such radiance can dwell in you too, for you are joined to That just as much. These flowers can bloom in you too, because you are rooted in the Divine earth just as Paltu’s tree is, or Buddha’s, or Nanak’s, or Kabir’s, or Mohammad’s. You have merely forgotten your roots—that’s all. Paltu has remembered his.

“The Word spoke—light broke forth; on the Lake of Mind, lotus spread.”

Listen to this rare utterance.

“The Word spoke—light broke forth…”

He spoke—and light happened. But he speaks only when you stop speaking. There is just one condition to fulfill: you must not speak—then the Beloved speaks. Both cannot speak together. Between man and God, there is never a dialogue. When man speaks, God remains silent. Rightly so: while man speaks, God listens. When man is silent, God speaks.

So, in your prayers, don’t say much. If you speak, you will never hear God. And what will you say anyway? You’ll only repeat your inner junk. You’ll go on playing with your same old darkness.

“The Word spoke—light broke forth…”

When he speaks—when his tone resounds—light dawns. Now understand: all saints have emphasized the Word, and all saints have emphasized the wordless. Thinkers get confused: what is it—word, or wordless? The Word is God’s; the wordless is yours. Keep this in mind and there will be no confusion. Two different planes are being discussed. You fall silent. You become wordless. Don’t speak. Let silence descend within you—be a muni, a silent one. If even for a few moments in the day you descend into silence, you will find it happens from there: “The Word spoke—light broke forth!” His tone, his melody begins to flow. It is a subtle sound. If the marketplace noise inside you continues, you will not hear it. The sound is exceedingly fine. If your gross chatter goes on, it gets lost.

“The Word spoke—light broke forth; on the Lake of Mind, lotus spread.”

And just as lotus blossoms on Mansarovar, so when within you there is a lake of silence—tranquility, emptiness—when no ripple stirs on your inner lake, then his Word descends and turns into lotus. That is why I say this is a lovely utterance.

“The Word spoke—light broke forth; on the Lake of Mind, lotus spread.”

My Mansarovar—on it his lotuses bloom. I only fell silent; I became rippleless, still—his lotuses bloomed. The lotuses are his, the fragrance is his. I merely made space, I only cleared the way. I did not stand blocking the door. The waterfall is his—I did not become a rock—and the stream began to flow.

Become a Mansarovar.

All processes of meditation do nothing else—they make you a Mansarovar; they make you rippless. Slowly, the waves of words and thoughts fall quiet. You arrive at a place where no speaker remains within; the tongue falls silent; there is hush—bottomless hush. From one end to the other, nowhere does a ripple arise. In that very moment, upon your chest, upon your lake, incomparable lotuses bloom—never seen before. And it is these lotuses we seek: that fragrance, that bliss…

“The Word spoke—light broke forth; on the Lake of Mind, lotus spread.
All ten directions grew pure; the intellect became pristine and true.”

Paltu says: I tried so hard to purify myself—but it didn’t happen. I tried to erase my vices—stealing, greed, pride, jealousy. I tried to become virtuous, saintly; to bring nonviolence, compassion, to banish sin and invite merit. I tried and tried—and yet I could not become pure. The “I” is never pure. The very existence of “I” is impurity. “I” feeds on impurity. Impurity is its nourishment. Therefore the “I” can never be pure.

As long as you labor to purify yourself, you will not become pure—because you remain, and your very being is impurity. Your stench fills all ten directions. Purity comes by the presence of the Divine. Purity happens at his mere arrival—just as when light comes, darkness vanishes.

“All ten directions grew pure…”

With the blooming of these lotuses, suddenly the ten directions were pure. A miracle happened. All saints have known this miracle. That’s why, when you ask them, “How did you become so pure?” they have no answer. They did not become pure by their own effort. Those who tell you how they managed it—know they haven’t arrived yet. No one becomes pure by his own effort. To try to lift yourself by your bootstraps is like trying to purify yourself by effort. Your effort is ultimately your own. If you are impure, how can your effort lead to purity? Impossible.

Then how do people become pure? They do—pure ones have walked this earth. A few, but they have. Because of them, mankind has dignity. Because of them, there is some salt in life. Because of them, there is poetry, music, fragrance, beauty. But whoever became pure did so by stepping out of the way—by falling. As you fall, the Divine rises within.

“All ten directions grew pure; the intellect became pristine and true.”

I tried and tried and nothing happened—and today it happened all at once, uncaused, as grace. The intellect became not only clear but true—no more dirt, and it speaks only what is. It says it as it is—just so. Nothing crooked remains.

“The knot of wrong-mindedness opened; right-mindedness arose and danced.”

Until now the knot tied by wrong-mindedness could not be untied; the more I tried, the tighter it pulled, the more complex it grew.

“The knot of wrong-mindedness opened; right-mindedness arose and danced!”

Right-mindedness blossomed and began to dance—celebration broke out.

Know this: the energy in wrong-mindedness and right-mindedness is one and the same—mind. Mind means awareness. In wrong-mindedness, that awareness was tied to the false, to the “I,” so it knotted. In right-mindedness, it connected to the Divine—the knot opened, and dance began.

Break your connection with yourself and join it to the Beloved. Don’t keep so much faith in yourself: “By my doing, something will happen.” If it were to happen by your doing, it would have happened by now. How many lifetimes have you been trying! When will you understand that your doing won’t do? It is your doing that has tangled everything. Join with the Divine. Take his hand.

“Thirty-six modes of melody arise; the stain of the three gunas falls away.”

Paltu says: Strange! I knew nothing of ragas and such. He was a merchant—what would he know of melody? If he knew any song, it was the clink of coins. And today—what has happened? The sky is breaking open. The ineffable!

“Thirty-six modes of melody arise; the stain of the three gunas falls away.
Complete fortune dawns; the pot of karma shatters.”

Understand this a little. If you try, from tamas you can reach rajas; and with effort, from rajas you can reach sattva; but then you will be stuck—you cannot go beyond. A bad man can become good. A thief can become a philanthropist. That is not hard. But the same thing that drove the thief will remain behind the giver: only the direction changes. The thief pulled from others’ pockets into his own; the donor transfers from his pocket to others’. His business method has changed. Before, from theirs to mine; now, from mine to theirs. But the eye is still on money; the accounting still runs between pockets.

You get very angry at thieves. But the thief and the donor do the same work—one takes from one pocket to another. The donor does, too. Why do you praise the donor? Because he transfers into your pocket. He spares you the trouble of stealing; he gives you the benefit of theft without calling you a thief. You wanted to take from his pocket—he gives it himself. You say, “Blessed man! Great gentleman! No trouble to us.”

But thief and donor are two faces of the same coin. Both value wealth. The thief rejoices when he steals much; the donor rejoices when he gives much. But what is this “much”? Which measure? Only money. In every case, it is wealth that matters.

So, by effort, a wicked person may become good—but your foundation has not changed. The base remains the same. On the foundation where a brothel once stood, you build a temple—but the foundation remains. Hence donors are often very arrogant—sometimes more than thieves. A thief carries some fear: “I am a thief.” The donor—what has he to fear? He’ll stand arrogant even before God.

I have heard: a man died and reached heaven. He strode in with great swagger. God asked, “Why this swagger? What have you done?” Only doers come like this. God knows—he has watched forever. Even thieves enter with bowed heads, some humility. “This man must have been a donor,” God thought. “What did you do?”

The man said, “I gave three coins to a poor woman.” You might think—so much arrogance over three coins! But whatever you give, before God it will amount to no more than three coins. Even if you give thirty million, before the Absolute that’s not three coppers.

God was a little perplexed—he did give three coins. He checked the ledger—yes, he gave them. So he asked his counselor, “What shall we do?” The counselor said, “Return his three coins—and send him to hell. What else? He’s going to hell anyway.”

It is arrogance that leads to hell.

A thief might, perhaps, someday reach God’s door; the donor cannot. And by your own strength, you can at most become a good man; try further and you can rise from good to pious. Sattva means piety.

Understand these three: the wicked, who do evil and don’t think of good; the good, who do good but still think evil; and the pious, who have cut off even the thinking of evil; who do not think evil at all; who do good, think good, and keep themselves engaged in goodness. But even the pious are afraid. For what they have cut off has not actually been cut. You cannot amputate your mind. If you repress lust, you have only pressed it down; it remains. A slight trigger, a spark—and it erupts—even after years. If you repress anger, it remains in a dark chamber within your house. You don’t go there, so you don’t notice—but it waits. Any chance—and it appears. Even after centuries, it does not die.

The pious man cuts off many of his limbs. He becomes crippled. Look at our “pious” ones: they become maimed. One sits locked in a temple; he fears to come out—because outside is the world, and the world means challenges, temptations, desires swirling in the air. He is terrified to come down from a Himalayan cave. In every way, your pious man is frightened. What kind of piety is this—with so much fear?

Mahavira said: without fearlessness, no one can know truth. But your pious man is terribly afraid. Jain monks are not allowed to walk alone—lest alone a man do mischief! So they keep watch—five walk together; four keep an eye on the fifth. What is this? Are these thieves being escorted, or saints? Even thieves don’t go with four police! Yet the rule is a Jain monk must not remain solitary. Solitude is dangerous—alone one might “do something.” No one’s watching! So they move in groups.

But this surveillance—what kind of piety is that? It is merely management. It’s like seating a child still with a whip—out of greed or fear. But inside, the fire blazes—roaring. And when fire blazes, it will find a way. Somewhere, the smoke will show.

By his own power, a man can become good; with greater effort, from good he may become pious—but never a saint. A saint does not happen by human deeds. Sainthood is beyond man’s doing; it comes as grace.

“Thirty-six modes of melody arise; the stain of the three gunas falls away.”

How wondrous: the stain of the three qualities dropped. In these three—tamas, rajas, sattva—all are included. Wickedness went, goodness went, piety went—the stain fell away. As long as you are pious, some trace of impiety remains, otherwise why be pious, and for what?

“Saint” means: nothing remains inside. The trident of the three that pierced the soul is withdrawn. This happens only by the Lord’s grace.

“Thirty-six modes of melody arise; the stain of the three gunas falls away.
Complete fortune dawns; the pot of karma shatters.”

How hard we tried, says Paltu, to change our karma—but the pot was long, old, heavy—lifetimes old. If you try to undo karmas one by one, when will you succeed? Think: how many actions have you done? How many sins, how many merits, thefts, lies—across countless births—countless sins! If you must pay for each one and do some good to counter each, when will you be free? Eternities will pass and you will not be free. And during those eternities you’ll still be doing something—you won’t just sit! What you do will become nets for the future. It becomes a vicious circle. How to get out? Not for a single moment can you live without doing. Even breathing is karma. Speaking is karma. When you breathe, multitudes of tiny beings die.

Scientists say: in a single kiss, a hundred thousand germs die. You utter a word, your lips open and close—so many germs die. You walk—the microbes die. Eating, you commit violence. Wearing clothes, violence. Naked—you still commit violence. Not a single moment can life be lived without doing. Life is a stream of action. From beginningless time it has flowed—it demands all ledgers be settled. How will they be? Then there is no liberation; abandon hope for nirvana. But no—there is hope, because liberation is not by your doing. Your deeds only breed more world. The day you stop doing—surrender—you say, “Now, Thy will. I shall do nothing from myself. What Thou make me do, I’ll do. If Thou make me steal, I’ll steal. If Thou make me sing, I’ll sing. I won’t insert myself between. Thy will—if Thou make me bad, I’ll be bad; if Thou make me good, I’ll be good. I will not preen over goodness, nor feel guilt for badness…”

Understand this: I will not fabricate a doer for any deed. Thou art the doer. I shall simply follow Thy command. This is the devotee’s state.

“Complete fortune dawns…”

In such surrender, the full moon of destiny rises. Through effort, one may barely coax a sliver to appear; even the second night’s crescent is a lot—never the full moon. Your effort is teaspoon-sized; with that you would ladle the sea?

“Complete fortune dawns; the pot of karma shatters.”

When destiny is fully revealed—when the Divine pours in—the natural outcome is this: the old pot you carried on your head, brimming with karmas of lifetimes—breaks.

“Paltu, the darkness vanished; the wick was lit.”

All darkness is gone; the lamp has been kindled; the light has appeared.

“Light the lamp of the Name, and the palace is illumined.”

“With folded hands they come to meet me, the wealthy bringing gifts.”

Paltu says: I am a poor man—a grocer of Rama, God’s shopkeeper. I did nothing else, only knew how to balance a scale. I sold goods in the little village market—Nanga Jalalpur. It must have been a poor village—hence the name. Yet great men, rich and renowned, come with offerings to meet me! I am amazed. I have no such merit.

This is the devotee’s state. I had no such virtue at all. What is happening? Who is appearing within me whom all salute?

There are two kinds of people. The man in office thinks when people salute him they salute him. Who salutes him! Does anyone salute V. V. Giri? He goes around campaigning that he’s still fit and can serve the country—yet none is eager to take his service. Even those eager to serve are not eagerly received!

One deluded by position thinks people bow to him. Step down—and the illusion bursts. People bow to the chair. Look at the garlands on the politician in power—crowds like it’s a divine descent. Then the man is out—no one looks at him. You’ll see the same gentleman carrying his own luggage on a station platform. He looks for his own carriage. No one comes to receive him. People sidestep—“Avoid him; now his rivals rule; even greeting him is risky. We used to flatter him, now let’s avert our eyes.”

So there are those who think people bow to them for their post. This is the politician’s delusion. The religious man sees: “How strange! I am nothing—nil, worthless. What has happened? Have people gone mad?”

“With folded hands they come to meet me, the wealthy bringing gifts.”

What’s happened to these simpletons! To me, a poor man, with no skill, no mark, no talent.

“Bringing gifts, the wealthy come—the radiance of the Name has dawned.”

Paltu says: This is surely his doing—his radiance is manifest. They are saluting him, not me. They bow to the Divine; I am only an instrument—they do not bow to me.

“Bringing gifts, the wealthy come—the radiance of the Name has dawned.
All rub their noses on the ground; subjects and kings alike.”

“I am not handsome; my features are plain.”

Paltu says: I have no beauty—no handsome face. I’m ordinary.

“I am not handsome; low is also my caste.”

Nor is my caste high—I am no Brahmin that people should touch my feet.

“They wash my feet and drink, those of the six rites, of all four castes.”

What is happening that scholars of six rituals and all four castes come, wash my feet, and drink the water! Surely this is not me. It is the radiance of the Name. They are not touching my feet, nor washing them; they are seeing something. They see what I see within.

This is the mark of the religious man.

“Without army, without troops, my renown resounds across the land.”

I have no army, no force—yet my fame drums across the country!

“The glory is of the True Name; my own self has grown sweet.”

The glory is of your Name, O Truth! All I did was remember you—and look what happened! I simply recalled you; I had forgotten; I remembered!

“The glory is of the True Name; my own self has grown sweet.
For the sake of the True Name, Paltu has become deep.
With folded hands they come, the wealthy bringing gifts.”

Understand “deep.” Not “serious” in today’s sense of gloomy or stern. Deep means profound. Paltu says: I became very deep. Your presence came—and I became deep! An unprecedented depth appeared in me. I was shallow, superficial—skating on the surface.

“For the sake of the True Name, Paltu has become deep.
With folded hands they come, the wealthy bringing gifts.”

“Saints endure discipline, as cotton endures the loom.”

“As cotton endures, wound upon the wheel.”

Understand this.

“Saints endure discipline…”

Saints endure hardship.

“…as cotton endures.”

Cotton goes through many pains. The word “sasana” means hardship, but its root meaning is governance, discipline, practice.

There are two kinds of suffering in the world. One you do not want, yet you must bear it. That breaks life. The other you consciously embrace—that builds life. This is crucial. If you remember it, you can transform the very nature of suffering. Those pains that would destroy you—you can make creative. Accept them; use them. When sorrow comes, make it your practice; make it a means to awaken. In suffering, one awakens easily. In pleasure, people sleep; in pain, they awaken. If you have even a little intelligence, how can you sleep through suffering? You cannot pull the blanket over your head. Use the opportunity.

“Saints endure discipline, as cotton endures.”

Cotton must pass through many hardships; but those very hardships prepare it to become the garment of emperors, to touch royal limbs, to become the finest muslin. Similarly, if a person uses hardships rightly, he becomes worthy to touch the limbs of the Divine.

“Saints endure discipline, as cotton endures.
Wound upon the wheel; in the carder’s hands, torn by both hands;
fiber by fiber pulled apart, the carder drums;
the sliver passes through the nail and is spun;
the weaver weaves;
the washerman places it on the furnace;
the fuller beats it with clubs;
the tailor cuts it in pieces and stitches a garment.”

Such is the life of a saint. He makes use of every situation in life. He uses suffering too. He turns sorrow into discipline, into self-governance.

“My being annihilated in love—
that is my pride in the garden of fidelity.
We call immortal only those
who know how to die in love.”

Only those attain immortality…

“We call immortal only those
who know how to die in love.”

Those who can die into love, dissolve in love, become emptiness in love—they alone arrive at immortality. The devotee effaces himself, as cotton effaces itself from all sides.

All the processes of effacement are the processes of becoming. Don’t take effacement as mere loss. If you do, you’ll cling to yourself. If you think in terms of pain, you’ll seek to forget—through wine, beauty, music. If you do not take suffering as suffering, but as the Beloved carding you, separating fiber from fiber; as the Beloved washing you; as the fuller’s beating that cleanses you; as the turning on the wheel that brings out your hidden secret; so that the light concealed within you may manifest; so your lotus may rise and bloom; so your fragrance may spread…

The one who receives suffering in this way turns it into discipline. Revolution in his life becomes certain. Then he does not run from suffering, does not evade it, does not drug it—he uses the chance it brings; he turns sorrow into challenge.

“For the welfare of others, Paltu endures pain.
Saints endure discipline, as cotton endures.”

There are two kinds of suffering in a saint’s life. First—before sainthood flowers—he bears many sorrows. Suffering belongs to all—not only to saints; it belongs to you as well. But you avoid it; the saint receives it—willingly, gratefully. “This too is God’s will; this too is his gift.”

If only you could take suffering as a gift of God, discipline would arise. No more grievance, anger, complaint. Instead, prayer would rise.

A seed is placed in the earth. If the seed had awareness—how would it know it is to become a tree, that flowers will bloom, branches spread to the sky, lush leaves, spring winds dancing, birds nesting, conversing with the sun’s rays, with the moon and stars? It knows none of this. When you bury it, the seed must thrash—“What torment is this? Why bury me in soil? I am alive—why dig my grave?” It must feel it is a grave. It does not know that from this grave its life will sprout—that this very death is the beginning of new life.

Such are the pains of our life. The worldly man avoids them; the renunciate embraces them—joyfully, gratefully—as offerings.

Try it for a few days. When sorrow comes—any sorrow, of body or mind—accept it as an offering and see the miracle. Its whole quality changes. It is transformed. That sorrow becomes something else.

Experiment—because this is something to be tried. Whatever sorrow comes, accept: if God sent it, surely he is refining me, cleansing me.

Remember Paltu’s words:

“Saints endure discipline, as cotton endures.
Wound upon the wheel;
torn by both hands;
fiber by fiber pulled apart, the carder drums;
the sliver passes through the nail and is spun;
the weaver weaves;
the washerman places it on the furnace;
the fuller beats with clubs;
the tailor cuts and stitches the garment.”

Bear in mind: such preparation is required.

When the goldsmith throws gold in the fire, the gold must writhe—“What pain!” But only in fire does gold become pure—base metal burns away. Without sorrow, no one shines.

People sometimes ask me: If God exists, why so much suffering? Their question seems sensible—on the plane of logic, quite so. In fact they imply: if there is this much suffering, then God cannot be; or if God is, then this suffering is meaningless and should not be. People say God is compassionate, merciful, gracious. If God is so merciful, why so much pain? A logical question. They are saying: if suffering exists, either God is not compassionate—he is Satan—or else God simply does not exist. The world is a mere accident, a coincidence, without a driver, a caretaker. If there were a caring God, why such suffering? Or, if God exists, then explain the cause of pain. A father does not want his children to suffer; a mother does not wish pain for her son. And God is our Father—so why pain?

On the plane of logic, their point holds—but on the plane of life and existence, it is filled with misunderstanding. It is precisely because God is that suffering is. People are startled when I answer so. I say: It is precisely because God is that suffering is. Mothers give their children a lot of “pain,” and fathers too. Who told you they don’t? Yes—mothers do it out of compassion. The child often sulks; the mother even hits him. He wants to go somewhere—she doesn’t let him. He wants to put his hand in fire—she pulls him back. Children are children. The truth is—who among us can forgive our parents? The sting remains—“They troubled me when I was small.”

Because God is, there is pain. This pain is for your refinement. It is medicinal. Bitter, granted—but medicines are bitter. Not sweets. You fight poison with poison. You pull out a thorn with a thorn.

There is great darkness in your life. It must be beaten out. There is great ego. Its shell is hard. You must be buried, pounded—so the shell breaks and the sprout within can emerge.

So a saint endures suffering. Your attitude is filled with anger; you resist, struggle, fight. A saint endures with acceptance, surrender, gratitude.

You endure like a tall tree in a storm—stiff, stubborn, resisting; and when you fall, you cannot rise again. A saint endures like grass. The storm comes—if it pushes east, the grass falls east; if west, it falls west. Wherever pushed, it rests. The grass does not resist; it does not retaliate, it does not oppose. There is no quarrelsomeness in it; it simply bends. This bending is surrender. And there is great joy in bending. It falls under the storm—but as soon as the wind passes, the great trees lie shattered, never to rise; the grass stands up again—more lush, more fresh than before. The storm has dusted it clean, carried away the debris clinging to life; fresh and green, the blade stands again. The storm could not break it—because no one can break the one who knows how to bend.

Only the arrogant break; the humble do not. How will you break the egoless? He knows how to bend.

All Eastern scriptures and religions teach the art of bending. Be like grass. Don’t stand like an arrogant deodar. This pride is costly. If you fall, you won’t rise.

So the worldly man, out of ego, fights; the renunciate bows.

That is one kind of suffering. Then, when sainthood arrives, another kind begins: society’s suffering. The worldly know nothing of this. The suffering given by God belongs to both worldly and renunciate alike; the difference lies in the inner posture: the renunciate embraces, the worldly resists. From here the second suffering starts—only for the saint: society’s.

“For the welfare of others, Paltu endures pain.
Saints endure discipline, as cotton endures.”

The very moment the radiance of the Divine appears in someone, a remarkable rebellion flowers in that life. His every word becomes flame. Society cannot tolerate those flames; it cannot bear such words. The world always becomes the enemy of saints. It gives Socrates hemlock. It crucifies Jesus. It hacks Mansoor limb from limb. Saints endure this too—joyfully.

“For the welfare of others…”

First, they endured to be refined; now that they are refined, the unrefined grow angry. Naturally, jealousy grabs them: someone woke before us, while we sleep. Someone found God, but we have not. We will destroy him. We will erase the evidence. We will not leave the proof standing.

When the Jews crucified Jesus, what did they do? They tried to erase God’s proof. “No one must have him.” When they poisoned Socrates—why? They could not bear his words. Your life is rooted in lies. When someone stands and speaks truth, he troubles you. If he is right, then you all are wrong—and your ego cannot accept you are wrong. It’s easier to say he alone is wrong—remove him. His shining life makes your dark houses unbearable. His glow pulls you out. You start persecuting him.

“For the welfare of others, Paltu endures pain.”

Paltu says: First, I endured the pain sent by God—as offering. Second, another pain must be borne, because when joy comes, along with it comes the message: share it. When truth comes, with it comes the imperative: carry it to those who stand in falsehood. Hence—“for the sake of others’ welfare…” Those lost in the dark must be told. I have received; let them receive. Granted, they will break my head. Granted, they will be angry. Granted, they will offer no thanks.

When have we thanked saints! We are always angry. And if we do thank them, it is after they’re dead. After death, it is convenient. Buddha is gone—now you can worship; no harm. The live coal is gone; only ashes remain—you can worship the ashes.

People worship ashes, fear the ember. Naturally. Ember burns; ash does not.

Jesus was crucified—and now how many churches in his name! Socrates was poisoned—and for twenty-five centuries people have praised him. I tell you: if Socrates returns, you will kill him again. Your lies will again be troubled.

“The age turned my enemy—
my frank truthfulness became my crime.
All my sorrows melted into my verses—
the sentence became my reward.”

“The age turned my enemy;
my frank truthfulness became my crime.”

To say truth as it is—no one forgives that. People cannot forgive the truth. They become furious. No one wants his nakedness exposed; no one wants his lies laid bare; no one wants his wounds pointed out, nor his stupidity and ignorance explained. No one.

If Paltu meets you and says, “Wake up now, o fool!” you will be angry: “Are you calling me a fool! Are you in your senses?”

Paltu says, “Wake now—enough of foolishness.”

Elsewhere he says, “Don’t miss the opportunity, simpleton!”

You will be offended: “Simpleton? Me? I am educated, respected—you call me simpleton!”

But he is right. He is saying: you learned to read—but learned nothing. You earned wealth—but inside you are poor. You got position—but when will you seek the real rank? “Don’t miss the opportunity, simpleton!” Don’t be a fool! Nothing outward will help. Only the one who gains the inner is wise; the rest are fools.

Yet a saint must speak what he has known. When the flower is full of fragrance, fragrance spreads—whether the winds accept it or not. When clouds are filled with water, they rain—whether the earth is thirsty or not. When a lamp is lit, it radiates—whether the darkness is pleased or offended.

“The age turned my enemy;
my frank truthfulness became my crime.”

That unforgivable offense—speaking truth. But it must be spoken—that is the saint’s compulsion.

Buddha said: with wisdom, compassion necessarily comes; they arrive together, two sides of one coin. On this side awakening—on that compassion. Compassion means: for the welfare of others. Those roaming blind in darkness must be brought toward light, even though they resist. They won’t listen to what is for their good. They won’t forgive the one who tries. All this is true.

“All my sorrows melted into my verses—
the sentence became my reward.”

But the saint transforms even this punishment into celebration—sees it as reward. He says, “God took such work from me!”

When Mansoor was executed—when they cut his hands, then his feet—before they cut his head, he lifted his face to the sky and laughed aloud. A hundred thousand had gathered to witness his hanging. He looked up, and everyone looked up—“What is he seeing? Why laugh when hands and feet are being severed?” One man in the crowd asked, “Mansoor, what is it? You are being killed—why do you laugh, and why look upward?”

Mansoor said, “So that—even if only because of my death—you might also lift your faces upward for a moment. I raised my face, hoping that by this excuse you would, if only for a moment, look to the sky! That is enough for me—my work is done. And I laughed because, O God, your ways of waking people are wonderful! A hundred thousand would never have come to see me otherwise—I am a poor man—who would come? You have amazing devices to awaken people! Now, to see Mansoor, you gathered a hundred thousand. Let my feet and hands be cut, my life taken—but I will remain as a memory in you. That is why I laughed—your tricks are marvelous!”

They say: in many of those hundred thousand, a seed of Mansoor fell. Those who saw that laughter—how could they forget? Who laughs like that at death? With hands and feet cut—who laughs like that? The image could not be erased. However they tried to banish it, it returned—in dreams, morning and evening. Sitting alone, it came. In the mosque, it came. Opening the Koran, it came. Those laughing eyes, that smiling face—laughing before death! This can only happen when one has tasted nectar.

“All my sorrows melted into my verses.”

The saint turns all his sorrows into song. The pains sent by God—he already turned them into gratitude. Those inflicted by society—he turns them into poetry, prayer.

“All my sorrows melted into my verses—
the sentence became my reward.”

Punishments become prizes. If you know the art, even penalty becomes reward, and dark nights become the mother of dawn; from sorrows, supreme bliss is born.

These seem like sorrows only because your ego stands in the way. If there is no ego, there is no sorrow.

Have you noticed—when you have a sore on your foot, that day your foot gets hurt all day. You pass by a chair—its leg hits your sore. You brush the curtain—it snags your wound. A child climbs and stands on your foot. You are exasperated: “What is this? Every day I pass this door—the curtain never catches—today it does. The chair leg never hit me—today it did. This child comes every day—and today he stands on my foot!” Why today? Because today there is pain there.

The truth: the child climbed your foot every day—you never noticed—there was no pain. The curtain snagged many times—you did not notice. The chair leg came in the way many times—the file fell on your foot many times—but you don’t remember, because there was no pain to register it.

I want to say: you feel sorrow because there is a wound of ego within. The day ego goes, pain is not felt. Whether from God, from society, from near or far—no matter where it comes from—you don’t feel it. Without a wound within, there can be no hurt.

“Your tyranny has no end;
my patience has reached its end.”

This is how it seems to you.

“Your tyranny has no end;
my patience has reached its end.”

“And my endurance is spent, and your oppression never ends.” So it seems.

“I could not give up my ego—
yes, often that has been my sin.”

There is only one real sin, one real mistake.

“I could not give up my ego—
yes, often that has been my sin.”

And that one sin is the greatest—mother of all sins. If the ego goes, even sorrow is fortune. If the ego remains, even pleasure is not fortune. If the ego goes, thorns are flowers; if ego remains, flowers turn to thorns.

Enough for today.