Ami Jharat Bigsat Kanwal #2

Mohan Bharti! To be startled is auspicious, but being startled is not enough. You can be startled and then fall asleep again. You can be startled and merely turn over! Then once more deep sleep, once more the long dream-journey through darkness can begin.

Startlement is indeed auspicious—if awakening follows it. But don’t be satisfied with being startled; don’t imagine that being startled is everything. Whoever thinks, “I’ve been startled—now it’s done, what remains to do?”—his sleep is guaranteed.

And remember, if you keep getting startled and then go back to sleep, little by little even startlement becomes useless. It turns into a habit. Startled—sleep. Startled—sleep.

You are not new; no one is. Who knows how many Buddhas, how many Jinas you have passed by! And who knows how many times you must have said: “Namo Namo! Again and again, to the forgetful, to the one caught in the cycle—you have startled me!” And then you fell asleep and the same thing began again… the same dream, the same bustle, the same deranged commerce of the mind.

Use the startlement. Startlement is only the beginning, not the end. Yes, it is a blessing—because there are many who don’t even startle. They are so inert, so deaf, the sound does not reach their ears. And even if it does, they are very skilled at interpreting it according to their minds. Even if God knocks at their door, they convince themselves: it must have been a gust of wind; some wayfarer lost his way; some stranger knocking to ask the road. The mind has a thousand interpretations to lull itself. And whoever interprets, does not hear.

Listen—and do not interpret. Listen—and do not digest the blow. Use the blow. The blow is creative. It is good that such a perception has occurred. But how long will it last? Perceptions come like gusts of wind and go, and you remain as before—dust-covered, lying in the same pits, in the same mire. When will you become a lotus? Mere startlement of the mud does not make a lotus. The mud must pass through a transformation; then the lotus is born. Startled mud is still mud. Better than those on whom not even an ant crawls across the ear, yes; but not much different.

This happens to many friends. Hearing some word, a resonance arises. Turning some saying over, a string on the veena of the mind is plucked. A song awakens. A breeze comes, a breeze goes. A ray descends and then is lost. The fist will not close; nothing is held in the hand. And if this keeps happening, then even startlement will be futile; it too will become your habit.

So first, Mohan Bharti, be glad; welcome it. Thank yourself that you did not obstruct.

After a year, once again, everywhere the monsoon clouds have gathered! In the forest, the peacock dances, enrapt, unfurling his rainbow plumes. The cuckoo coos on every side, sweet notes stirring honeyed nectar. Receiving the message of life’s beauty, the shy young earth blushes. The monsoon clouds have gathered!

Peeping from the veils of leaves, buds sway like eyelashes in their cradles. In the gusts a tender longing, seeking to lose itself in the dark tresses of cloud. From the sky’s lattice-windows, someone’s silent eyes have smiled! The monsoon clouds have gathered!

With loosened tresses like black serpents, the clouds today are scattered wide. The bright streaks of lightning, a diamond crown upon the dark-mass face. The soft chakor-birds of feeling take flight— after a year the clouds have come! The monsoon clouds have gathered!

But let the clouds not pass by; let the wind not carry them away. Let them pour! The coming of clouds alone does not make it the rains. Without clouds, too, there are no rains—but clouds alone are not enough. Let them pour! Let them pour to your heart’s content! Be bathed. Let all the dust of your mind’s mirror be washed away.

Words about vivek, about smriti, surati, atma-smaran, jagriti are pleasing. But what will words do? They remain words, however sweet. No, they will not fill your belly; they will not become flesh and marrow. Beautiful words will make you knowledgeable, not meditative. And whoever is not a meditator, his knowledge is worth two pennies. His knowledge is stale, borrowed.

The scriptures overflow with knowledge; read it, collect it, as much as you like. Commit the Vedas to memory. Still you will remain you. The Veda will remain stuck in your throat; its stream will not reach your heart. Only meditation reaches the heart; knowledge does not. Knowledge remains a burden in the head. Knowledge gives birth to erudition, not to wisdom. And wisdom is what brings liberation.

Do not make this mistake even listening to me. If my words delight you, you will hoard them; you will store them, preserve them in the treasure box of the mind. They are precious—you will lock them up. Nothing will happen from that. A new kind of pedantry will arise. You will remain as you were. The clouds came, but the rains did not. The clouds came and the winds blew them away; you were dry and remained dry.

Amrit must rain down. And amrit rains only upon those whose hearts have become vessels fit for meditation.

Do not be satisfied with words. The word “God” is not God, nor is the word “meditation” meditation, nor the word “love” love. But words create great delusion. We live in words.

Humanity’s greatest discovery is the word, is language. And because humanity’s greatest discovery is language, human beings live in language. Talking of love and talking, we forget that love has not yet happened. Keep repeating it, and a self-hypnosis sets in.

But love is something else. Its taste is other. You will know only when you drink. Love is wine. Only in that divine inebriation will you know. And meditation is the other face of love. It is the same coin—on one side meditation, on the other love. There are only two kinds of seekers in this world. Either truth is known through awareness—then awaken. Then these words you have heard and liked—vivek, smriti, surati, atma-smaran, jagriti—each says one thing: Wake up! Whatever you do, do it with awareness. Stand, sit, walk—but do not lose remembrance, do not lose consciousness. Do not walk, stand, sit mechanically.

Mahavira has said: walk with discernment, rise with discernment, sit with discernment.

Let each act be filled with the juice of wakefulness. Then slowly the words will fall away, but the experience hidden within the words will become yours. That is one path. The other is: drown in love, in ecstasy, in prayer, in worship, in adoration.

They appear opposite. One insists on waking, the other on drowning. But both bring you to the same place, because the same fundamental event happens in both.

As soon as you are fully awake, the ego is nowhere to be found. In awakened consciousness, you cannot find even the shadow of ego, not even a footprint. The ego lives in darkness; when there is light it disappears. Ego is an aspect of darkness; darkness is ego. The moment you light the lamp of awakening, the flame springs up—and you find within that there is no ego. You are, but there is no I-sense. There is being, but no selfhood.

And if you drown in love, drown in devotion, in feeling, in prayer—the ego is gone then too. It is gone by drowning. Whoever offers himself at the feet of the Divine—by offering, he is no more.

Though meditation and love seem opposed, in the history of humankind there has been no attempt to unite them. Buddha speaks of meditation; Meera speaks of love. Mahavira speaks of meditation; Chaitanya speaks of love. No harmony could be established, no bridge built between the two. A bridge should be built, for there is no contradiction; their result is one. The paths may be different, the destination is one. One loses himself by drowning, another loses himself by awakening. In both cases the ego is lost. And when the ego is lost, only God remains.

Though the language of meditators and lovers will differ. Naturally, one who has known truth through meditation will not speak of God; he will speak of the Self. He will say: appa so paramappa—the self is the Supreme Self. He will say: the soul itself is God. That is why Mahavira and Buddha do not accept “God.” Not because they do not know, but because for them what is found on the path of meditation is named “self,” “one’s own nature.” And those who have known through devotion—Meera or Chaitanya, who have known through love—the experience is the same egolessness, but the word that expresses it differs. They will speak of God.

Great controversy has arisen from these words. I want my sannyasins not to enter such controversy. All controversy is irreligious. Do not waste your energy in disputes. Choose what resonates with you—if meditation, then meditation; if devotion, then devotion. I accept both. And some will find both at once appealing; let them not be troubled. Many questions come to me: we like prayer and we like meditation—what should we choose?

If both delight you, what more to say! Gold with fragrance! Then a nectar will pour upon you that does not pour upon the meditator alone nor upon the devotee alone. In you both flowers will bloom together. In you both lamps will be lit together. Your experience will be the supreme experience. My effort is that love and meditation be united, and gradually the maximum number of people spread both wings and fly in the sky. When people, with one wing, have reached the sun, then what to say of the one who has both!

But not talk, Mohan Bharti! Do not pat yourself on the back that my words have struck you. Let the blow not be lost; let it keep striking, and go deeper. Keep bearing the wounds. Hit after hit, the arrow will one day strike home. Attempt after attempt, it will happen. You will miss many times—naturally; do not repent. For births upon births you have missed; missing has become part of your habit.

Do not be afraid; those who have arrived also missed and missed before arriving. No Mahavira missed less than you. No Dariya missed less than you. For infinite time they missed. And then one day, arrival happened. You too have been missing since beginningless time—one day arrival can happen. Those who missed and still arrived—so can you. But life changes through experience, through realization.

My brother, have you meditated? How will you tell whether others are meditating mechanically or with awareness? You have not truly chanted the Gayatri—and if you have, you must have done it mechanically; otherwise why would you come here? If the flower of the Gayatri had blossomed within you, why would you come here? The matter would be finished! The cure would be done; then there is no search for a physician. Since you have come here, if you have chanted the Gayatri, you must have chanted it mechanically. And here you are, watching others meditate!

Watching others will do nothing. How will you know? If two lovers are embracing, how will you tell from outside whether they are acting or whether truly the heart has surged, love has awakened, a song has begun to flow? How will you know from the outside? It may be mere performance, a ritual; it may also be that true bliss has arisen within. But from the outside there is no way to know.

You too dance a little, sing, hum. Having come so far, don’t turn back asking such hollow questions. You could have asked those back there. Now that you are here, drink a little of the wine here—taste it. And then, what difference does it make if others are doing it mechanically? You have not taken a contract for anyone’s liberation. Take care of your own liberation; that is enough. If meditation awakens within you, even if the whole world meditates mechanically, let them—don’t worry. If it awakens in you, you will attain. That alone is your responsibility. That much is what the Divine expects of you: that you blossom, that your fragrance scatter on the winds, that you do not die closed, like a seed that never opens.

You must have seen people dancing, meditating, and thought: this too is all mechanical. How will you recognize? A Buddha walks just the way any other person walks. He lifts his feet the same way, moves his hands the same way, stands the same, sits the same. But within there is a difference. And the difference is so fine, so delicate, that only one who experiences it knows it. You rise, and a Buddha rises; yet there is a difference. What is it? The Buddha rises with awareness; you get up like a machine. The Buddha sleeps with awareness; even in sleep a current of consciousness keeps flowing.

Krishna has said: what is deep night for all beings, in that the yogi is awake. Ya nisha sarvabhutanam tasyaṁ jagarti saṁyami!

But if you see a yogi asleep, you won’t be able to distinguish the yogi from the pleasure-seeker, will you? Both will appear the same: both are asleep. The difference is within, very deep within. It is so internal and private that no one else can be invited there. Into that innermost, only by diving within yourself will you be able to descend. Ananda asked Buddha: I watch you while you sleep... For years Ananda lived with the Buddha, and slowly he began to sense that there is a difference. He lived forty years with Buddha, serving him from morning till night. He would not go to bed until the Buddha had fallen asleep. He slept in the very room where Buddha slept—who knows, the need might arise in the night! Sometimes sleep wouldn’t come; sometimes it came late. So he kept watching the Buddha asleep. Years later the thought arose—hazy, indistinct—that there is some subtle difference. He asked the Buddha: Is there also some difference between my sleep and your sleep? Well, in waking there is a difference between us: if someone abuses me, I feel hurt and anger; if someone abuses you, there is no anger, no hurt. Once a man came and spat on you, and I flared up in rage. He spat on you, but I exploded. My old Kshatriya woke up. Had there been a sword in my hand, I would have cut off his head. The thought of beheading flashed through me like a sword. Somehow I looked toward you and kept quiet; how I managed to restrain myself, even today it’s hard to say. For a moment I too forgot myself; then it occurred to me—hesitantly—that I should first take your permission and then respond to him. But you simply wiped the spit with your shawl and said to the man, “Brother, is there anything more you want to say?”

I was deeply startled. There I saw the difference. I was scorched by fire. I forgot sannyas. I forgot meditation. I forgot all knowledge. In one instant, years and years were wiped clean—I was the same as ever. And I asked you, “Shall I punish this man? He deserves it. He must be given a penalty.”

You laughed and said, “I am not as disturbed by his spitting as I am by your being hurt and upset. He is ignorant; he is to be forgiven. But you—how many days you’ve been striving in meditation! Has your meditation not ripened even this much? This man wants to say something. You’re only seeing the spitting. He wants to say something that cannot be conveyed in words.”

Often in deep love or deep hate it happens—feelings so intense they cannot be carried by language. When you love someone, you embrace. Why? Because saying it in words won’t do; language is too small. By embracing you are declaring the impotence of language. In just this way, this man was burning with anger. My presence pained him. My words wounded him. My statement shattered his beliefs. He is inflamed—so inflamed that no abuse would suffice. So the poor fellow had to spit. Have compassion on him. That is why I asked him, “Brother, anything more to say?” This I have understood; now is there more you want to say, or is this all you have to say? This is his statement. Don’t look at the spit; look at the statement.

So Ananda said: I saw that day. I have seen many such days. In waking there is a difference, but I never thought there would be a difference in sleep too. Yet last night sleep did not come for a long time; sitting, I kept watching you. The full moon was in the sky, you lay sleeping under a tree. In that moonlight you looked wondrously beautiful. Suddenly, like a lightning flash, it struck me: after so many years of watching you sleep, how is it I never noticed this before—that the posture in which you lie down is the posture you remain in the whole night; you do not move! Where your feet are placed when you fall asleep, there they remain all night. Where your hands are placed, there they remain all night. You don’t even turn over. In the morning you rise in the same posture. So is it sleep, or are you holding yourself the whole night? Because if a man sleeps, he will turn.

Buddha said: The body sleeps; I am awake. I am already awake.

But how will you know this awakening? Ananda heard it, and because there was reverence he accepted it—but how to know? Who knows, perhaps Buddha is lying! Perhaps he has merely trained himself to sleep in one posture! After all, what can’t be learned in a circus? You too could train yourself to sleep in one position. Quite easily.

I said the same to a friend. He asked, “How could one train oneself to sleep in a single posture?” I told him, “Tie a stone to your back and sleep. Whenever you turn, it will hurt. To avoid the pain, the training will happen by itself.” He was stubborn; he practiced. Some forty days later he came to me and said, “You were right. Now I sleep on one side only; the stone tied to my back hurts whenever I turn, and the pain breaks the sleep. Now, even in sleep, the presence of that stone must be casting a shadow into the unconscious.” So who knows—perhaps Buddha only practiced it! From the outside, how will you know?

Come down—taste a little meditation.

Whatever is happening here is not mechanical, not dead. If you want the mechanical, there are plenty of places in the world for that; you need not come here. Those who are bored with mechanical processes, who are troubled, who have done and done and done and gained nothing but desolation—only they have come here. Otherwise, who would take the bad name of being associated with me! Who would endure the nuisance of being with me! Only the one pays that price who has knocked on many doors and has still not found his own temple. But don’t stand at a distance, watching. Otherwise you will go away with the idea: “Somewhere the Gayatri is being chanted, here meditation is happening—but all of it is mechanical.”

How did you decide it is mechanical? Look into people’s eyes. Glimpse their joy. Learn to recognize their ecstasy a little.

But even that recognition will come only when inside you, too, new breezes begin to blow, new rays of the sun descend, the peacock of your mind begins to dance—then.

Mohan Bharti! You are startled—good. The clouds have gathered—good. Sing songs of auspiciousness. But let the clouds rain! It’s grown late as it is; let them not depart without raining. Let this nectar descend. Soak in it. And as you begin to be soaked you will find: there is no end. The more drenched you become, the more you will see: even more remains to be drenched. As the monsoon comes, it will seem: still more monsoon is yet to come.

Does spring arrive because a single flower has bloomed? Not at all. One flower only carries the news: spring is coming, spring is coming. Thousands upon thousands will bloom, hundreds of thousands will bloom. Within each person there is such capacity that all the Vedas, the Qurans, the Gitas, the Dhammapada—each and all—can bloom inside a single human being.

Chaitanya Prem! First thing: life itself is glorious. Life is the unique gift of the divine. Life is benediction. You did not earn it. You may be squandering it, but you did not earn it. It has descended; it has rained upon you from some unknown realm. No one asked you whether you wanted to be or not—how could anyone ask? When you were not, how could you be asked?

Life in itself is glorious. From life, all doors open—the doors of meditation, of love, of liberation, of nirvana. Life is an opportunity, a great opportunity! You can make it, or you can destroy it. You can sing a song, or you can break the flute. Life is a vast opportunity.

So first, life is in itself incomparable. And then human life is even more incomparable. Trees are alive, yes, but in a very narrow sense. Birds are alive—somewhat more than trees—but still, there are limits. Animals are alive—perhaps a little more than birds—but still, great limits. Man is born on this earth carrying the greatest possibilities. In this world man is born carrying the seeds of the greatest blossoms. That is why the glory of human life has been sung.

Human life is a crossroads. From there the paths can be chosen: the path to hell, and the path to heaven. And the paths are very close to each other.

The emperor of Japan once went to see a Zen monk. Emperor—imperial stiffness! Even when he bowed, he did not really bow; it was formal. He said to the monk: I have come to meet you. I want to ask only one question—that one question harasses me. I have asked many; I haven’t found an answer that satisfies. I have heard much about you—that the lamp within you is lit. I have come with hope, certain that you will fulfill me.

The monk said: Drop idle talk. Put your question straight. Leave courtly formalities—speak plain, cash!

The emperor was taken aback. No one had ever spoken to him like that. He felt a little insulted too. But it was true. The monk was right—why wander in long windings? Why hold the ear by such a twist? Say it straight: what is your question?

The emperor said: My question is—what is heaven and what is hell? I am growing old, and this question hovers over me: what will happen after death—heaven or hell?

The monk’s disciples were sitting there. The monk said to them: Listen to this fool’s words!

Fool—to an emperor! And to the emperor he said: Have you ever seen your face in a mirror? With that face you ask such questions? And you think yourself an emperor? You are not even fit to be a beggar!

Was that any way to answer! The emperor flared up. He drew his sword from the scabbard. Naked sword—one moment more and the monk’s head would have been severed.

The monk began to laugh and said: This is the open gate of hell!

A deep stroke—an existential answer: This is the open gate of hell! The emperor understood. Instantly the sword went back into the scabbard. He placed his head at the monk’s feet. Many had given answers—scriptural answers—but an existential answer, an answer that pierces the very life like an arrow, that clarifies so completely that nothing remains to be asked—This is the open gate of hell! He bowed at the monk’s feet. Now there was no formality in the bowing, no courtliness. It was heartfelt.

The monk said: And this is the open gate of heaven! Do you have anything more to ask? And remember: heaven and hell are not after death; heaven and hell are ways of living, styles. One may live in heaven here, one may live in hell here. One may be in heaven in the morning and in hell by evening; one may be in heaven one moment and in hell the next.

And this is exactly what happens in your life every day.

This is the glory of human life. What was the beauty in this emperor? Understanding. This could not have been explained to an animal or a bird. And those among humans to whom it cannot be explained—know that they are human only in name; they will be animals or birds. This emperor was certainly a human being.

Look at the word “manushya” (human). It is born of “manan”—reflection. The one who has the capacity to reflect. The English word “man,” too, is born of manan. The Urdu word aadmi is very ordinary; it is derived from “Adam.” Adam means earth—clay, a figure of clay. That is not the essence of man. In the word aadmi, the essence of man is not there; only the shell is. A clay figurine—yes, that is true. But who is hidden within the clay figurine? In the earthen, the conscious is hidden! The lamp may be of clay; granted. But the flame that burns is not clay. The word aadmi speaks of the outer shell; the word manushya speaks of the pulp hidden within that shell, of the soul. Man is the one who can reflect, in whose presence choices stand, and who can choose reflectively—not mechanically, but reflectively—attentively, with awareness. The one who walks step by wakeful step is the human; for the rest we should say aadmi—“man” in the outer sense— but not manushya. All are aadmi; very few are manushya.

The glory of human life is that there is the capacity for reflection. Man possesses a seeing—a vision that can see not only the seen but also the unseen. That is his glory. Animals see too, but only the seen; they have no sense of the unseen. Human ears hear sound, and they also hear the void. Human hands grasp the material, and they also hold the immaterial.

Man is extraordinary, unique. Do not turn this into a proclamation of your ego. This is not a declaration of your ego. To tell the truth, this definition of man that I am giving will become your lived experience only when the ego drops. Do not think, “Ah, I am a human, so how great I am!” I am not praising your personal greatness—I am singing the glory of humanness. I am singing the glory of the possibility hidden within you—what you can be, what you ought to be, what you will surely become if there is a little awareness in you, a little understanding; what is inevitable if you have even a little thoughtfulness.

You ask: Why have the saints sung such glory of human life?

First, life is glorious; then, life as a human is more so. And only saints can sing this glory, because only they have seen man in his fulfillment.

A scientist does not see man in his fulfillment; for him man ends at flesh, marrow, bone. For him man is no more than the body. He finds no soul in man. Man is a very complex machine—no more. Because the scientist observes by dissection, and nowhere does the soul fall into his hands. And what cannot be caught, science denies. Therefore science cannot sing much of man’s glory. If the influence of science goes on increasing, man’s glory will go on diminishing—it has diminished.

In ancient times, the knowers said: man is just below the gods. Ask the scientist and he will say: man is just above the monkey. A great difference—once just below the gods, now just above the monkeys! Perhaps even this the scientist is saying without asking the monkeys. Otherwise the monkeys would say: Man, just above us? We dwell in trees—look at you, on the ground! Lower than us!

This is Darwin’s man—who says man has evolved from monkeys. The monkeys say something else. They believe: man is the fall of the monkey. It is a fall. Go contend with a monkey and you will know. You have neither that strength, nor can you leap like that, nor fly from one tree to another, nor dwell upon trees. What have you gained? You have become very weak compared to the monkeys. Ask the monkeys; they will say something else. They will laugh, they will titter.

I have heard a story. A hat-seller was returning from the fair after selling hats. The election season was near and Gandhi caps were selling briskly. He had made a good profit. All day Gandhi caps had sold. He was tired. On the way he stopped under a banyan tree to rest a while. He was so tired; the cool breeze, the tree’s shade—he dozed off. When he woke, the basket in which a few caps were left lay open, and the caps were all gone. Alarmed, he looked around. He looked up—the monkeys were sitting in the tree. Some hundred, hundred and fifty monkeys. All wearing Gandhi caps! They had taken them from the basket. They looked splendid—like members of the Indian Parliament. The seller panicked: how to get the caps back from these fellows? Then he remembered a thing he had once heard—that monkeys are imitators. He had one cap left on his own head. He took it off and flung it down. As soon as he flung his cap, all the monkeys took off their caps and flung them down. Gathering his caps, very pleased, the seller went home. He told his son: Look, remember—if ever you face such a situation, take off your own cap and throw it.

Time passed. The situation returned. The seller had grown very old; the son had taken his place selling Gandhi caps. One day he was returning. The same tree, tired, he lay down to rest and dozed off. And what had to happen happened. He woke; the basket lay empty. He remembered, looked up. The monkeys were sitting in great merriment wearing the caps. He remembered his father’s advice, took off his own cap, and threw it. But what happened he had not imagined. There was one monkey who hadn’t got a cap. He came down, took that cap too, and went back up.

After all, the monkeys too must have instructed their sons—“Don’t be fooled again. Once we were tricked; now you be careful. The seller’s son will someday rest under this tree and throw his cap—then quickly grab that cap as well. Don’t repeat the mistake we made.”

Ask the scientist; at the most he will say: man has developed a little beyond the monkey. The one who used to be a little below the gods has ended up a little above the monkeys. Man’s dignity and glory have been badly fractured. What is the scientist to do? His very method prevents any contact with the soul; he can form no relationship with the life hidden within man. Without life, without soul, man remains only a machine—a skillful machine, but a machine. And then, cutting down men raises no inner qualm.

Joseph Stalin murdered millions in Russia, without the slightest inner hindrance. There was no reason for hesitation. Because communism holds that man has no soul. If there is no soul, what is the harm in killing? If someone smashes his chair, is that a sin? If someone breaks his electric fan, is that a sin? If someone destroys a most valuable machine, a delicate watch—throws it upon a rock—you cannot say he has sinned.

Stalin could very simply kill millions. Why? Because of the communist doctrine: man has no soul. If there is no soul, the matter is finished. What obstacle is there in toppling clay puppets? Cut them down. Whoever does not agree with us—eliminate him.

And if there is no soul in man, what need is there of freedom? Freedom for whom? If there is no “self,” whose freedom is it? If men are machines, give them food, give them clothes, give them a roof, and take work from them. They need nothing more; there is no reason to care about anything more.

Jesus said: Man cannot live by bread alone.

But communism says: Besides bread, what else does man need? The rest is bourgeois nonsense. Give bread, shelter, clothing—case closed. Democracy, freedom…all chatter, empty talk.

No; only the saints can sing the glory of man—the scientist cannot. Because the saint alone experiences the divinity hidden within, the treasures hidden within—the kingdom of God! And one who has seen that supreme light shimmering within—how can he not sing the glory of man? Because he knows the same light is shimmering within you too. Even if your back is turned and you do not see—no matter; the light is shining.

One who has heard the inner music, the anahata nada—the unstruck sound—the Omkar—how can he not sing the glory of man? One who has found, within, not mud but a lotus; who has found a unique fragrance wafting—how can he not sing the glory of man? One who has found, within, not death but nectar—immortality—how can he not sing the glory of man?

You ask, Chaitanya Prem: “Why have the saints sung such glory of human life?”

Not to decorate your ego. Not to make your ego stronger and more robust. The truth is: within man an immense sky is hidden. Whoever descends within stands at the threshold of the mystery of mysteries. For him the doors of the temple open. One who begins to descend the inner steps begins to descend the steps of life’s temple. The deeper one goes within, the more the incomparable, unique form of the divine—beauty, fragrance, music—pours down.

How priceless life is! A smile like silver rays, a song like fragrance-laden buds, like the flame-tip of honeyed memories it sways each day, waxing and waning. Faith of unuttered sighs, breath of tinged feelings— like an unblinking dewdrop it opens in the eyes where grief and joy flow past. The slack wind’s murmurous song, the nectar-love of flower and bee, as a gentle smile it soothes, blending fragrance with the Malayan breeze each day. The commerce of tender longings, the moment-by-moment weight of wishes, making every pore tremble it measures, in delusion, the confluence of tones. How priceless life is!

Look a little into your life. It came free; therefore do not think it is trivial. It has no price; therefore do not think it has no value. Price and value are very different words. In a dictionary they may mean the same—price and value. But in the lexicon of life they do not. Price belongs to things sold in the marketplace, that can be bought and sold. But there are things that are not sold in the marketplace; they are called valuable. Valuable are those things that are not obtained by price. Even if you pay any price, you cannot obtain them.

An emperor went to Mahavira and said: I have conquered all. The greatest gems are in my treasury. There is nothing in this world I have not obtained. Lately people have been telling me that the true value is meditation.

The Jains have a word—“samayik”—for meditation. It is the right word, a lovely word. It has its own strengths. To become “sam”—equal, even; to attain equanimity, evenness, rightness.

The emperor said: What is this samayik? Many come and speak of it; I cannot answer them. What gem is this? Where shall I buy it? Where is it to be found?

Mahavira must have laughed. Can samayik be bought anywhere? Can meditation be purchased in a market? Seeing Mahavira laugh, the emperor said: Don’t laugh. I am ready to pay any price. I am a stubborn man. I am ready to give the whole kingdom. But what is the matter? What is this thing? I will buy it. It troubles me greatly that there is one thing I do not possess—this samayik.

Mahavira said: Do this—since I have renounced everything, I have no interest in your kingdom. I had a kingdom and I have left it. Your jewels are pebbles to me. My own burdens were too heavy; I have distributed them. In your capital there lives a poor man. I will give you his name and address. He is very poor—he can hardly get one meal a day. Samayik has come to him. If he will sell, perhaps he will sell.

It was a jest. And when one like Mahavira jokes, it carries great significance. The emperor instantly turned his chariot. He stopped before the hut of that poor man. The people of that neighborhood could not believe their eyes. A slum, broken huts. The poor man at once came and bowed at the emperor’s feet: Command me, Majesty! What need was there for you to come here? You could have sent word; I would have come to the palace.

The emperor said: I have come to buy samayik. Mahavira says samayik has come to you. Sell it! I am ready to pay whatever price you name.

Just as Mahavira had laughed, the poor man laughed. He said: Mahavira has played a fine jest with you. Some things are obtained by price; some have nothing to do with price. Samayik is not an object that I can give you. It is an experience. How can one give love? It is the innermost experience; it cannot be brought out. If you want my neck, take it. If you want to buy me, buy me—I will go with you, your servant; I will press your feet. But meditation cannot be sold. Not that I do not want to sell it—but by its very nature meditation cannot be transferred.

Valuable are those things that cannot be sold. Love, meditation, prayer, devotion, trust—these are not things to be sold or bought. They are not things at all. They are experiences. And only man is capable of attaining these priceless experiences.

The saints have sung the glory of man to remind you how vast a treasure you can own—and have not yet owned. How much longer will you delay?

Whose is this silent invitation? Within the long-drawn pains of breath a kingdom lies hidden; the bird of mute yearning for mute union flies daily in the sky; pour temptation today into the ache— Whose is this silent invitation? The tale of that past has become the nest of memories; the meaningless chatter of childhood has become the ache of my heart; place reins upon memory and dream— Whose is this silent invitation? The ruthless mirror of the eyes, shattered by the blows of ancient separations, asks the road to the village of love of every row of stars; offer even your tender life— Whose is this silent invitation?

The saints have invited you by singing the glory of man!

The ruthless mirror of the eyes, shattered by the blows of ancient separations, asks the road to the village of love of every row of stars; offer even your tender life— Whose is this silent invitation?

Across the centuries, the saints have sung songs of man’s dignity and grandeur—so that you may be warned of what you can be; so that the possibilities hidden within you may be called forth; so that you may be shaken awake. As if a seed had forgotten that it is to become a flower—that is your condition. As if a river had forgotten it must reach the ocean—that is your condition. As if a river were stuck at some ghat and no longer remembered to flow to the sea—that is your condition. You are to become the ocean. Becoming the ocean is your essential right. You are to become the divine. Do not be content with less than the divine.

Therefore the saints have sung your glory—not to adorn your ego.

Life is a blank canvas; how you lay your colors upon it, what you bring forth with your brush, depends on you. You are the master. Life is not some ready‑made thing handed to you at birth. Birth is not life; birth is merely an opportunity. Now you must make your life.

Life is a creation. Life is neither true nor false.

Buddha created a life—Kabir did, Nanak did, Mohammed did, Dariya did. A life was created by Tamerlane too—by Nadir Shah, by Hitler. There is one kind of life where there is only dust and dust; and there is a life where there are only flowers. There is a life of nothing but abuses; and there is a life of nothing but songs. And it is the same life. It all depends on you. From the same alphabet you can compose abuse, and from the same alphabet the Bhagavad Gita can be born; it is a matter of how words are arranged. The very same words can turn filthy, the very same words can carry the fragrance of virtue. It depends on you.

People often ask such questions as if life were a fixed thing in itself! You ask: “Is life true or false?” If you keep running after money and position, life will be proven false. When death arrives it will be proven false, because death will snatch away everything you accumulated. But if you awaken even a little to meditation, if you arouse a little devotion, then death will come and wave the arati before you, because you will have made life true.

So I cannot give you a straight statement about what life is. I can only say this much: life becomes whatever you choose to make it. You are the creator. This is your glory. No animal has such glory. A dog is born a dog and will die a dog. Yet we say of many human beings that they die like dogs. They were born as human beings, but they die like dogs.

That is a strange thing indeed! The dog is forgivable; he was born a dog and died a dog. There is a saying—“a dog’s death.” It does not apply to the dog, because what is the dog’s fault? He was a dog and died a dog. The saying applies to man—a dog’s death! A dog is born complete. In a dog’s life there is no opportunity—he can be neither a Buddha nor a Genghis Khan; neither heaven nor hell. A dog is wholly born as a dog. So you cannot say to a dog, “You are a little less of a dog,” can you?

Yes, you can say to a man, “You seem a little less than a man.” You can ask someone, “When will you become a man? Do you intend to become a man or not?” Of a human being this is a meaningful statement: you are a little less than human, incomplete—become a man. But in relation to animals these words cannot be true. A lion is a lion, a dog is a dog. A peepal is a peepal, a banyan is a banyan. Each is what it is. There is no way of transformation there, no possibility of revolution.

Man is the possibility of revolution. Man is not born a full man—he is born like a blank sheet of paper; what you write upon it becomes your story. If you walk each step with awareness, life becomes true. If you continue to be jostled along in unconsciousness, if you walk as a drunk walks along the road, life becomes false.

A drunk is walking down the road. One foot he has on the roadway and one on the curb. He is in great difficulty; walking is very hard. He is drunk; one foot higher, one foot lower—great trouble. Someone asks, “Brother, you seem to be in distress.” He says, “How else should I seem? Has there been an earthquake or what? How has this road become half high and half low?” The road is the same, but awareness is absent.

Another drunk goes from the left side to the right, from the right back to the left. Reaching home is out of the question now. From one edge of the road to the other he goes. Someone asks, “What are you up to?” He says, “I have to go to that side. I go to that side and ask people, ‘I have to go to that side,’ and they send me to this side. I come to this side and ask, ‘I have to go to that side,’ and they send me to the other. But I never reach that side. Wherever I reach is always this side. And I have to go to that side.”

Another drunk reaches home at dusk. He tries to put the key into the lock, but his hands are trembling; the key just won’t go in. A policeman on the road is watching. He takes pity. Pity—in a policeman! It doesn’t usually happen. Perhaps an exception. He comes over and says, “Brother, let me open your lock for you; you won’t manage it.” The drunk says, “No, I’ll open the lock. You just hold my house steady so it doesn’t move.”

If in the race for wealth and position you remain in a stupor; if you waste your life amassing the useless; if you live like a blind man and die like a blind man—and without meditation, know that you are blind, blind though you have eyes—if you go on picking up rubbish and refuse, then when death comes you will find that life was false.

But this was not inevitable. You chose it. The responsibility is yours.

Turn a little inward. Take out an hour or two for yourself. For an hour or two, forget the world. For an hour or two, close your eyes; dive within. In those few moments the nectar you will taste, the flavor you will experience, will make your life true.

With meditation, life is true. Without meditation, life is false.

If there is nothing of truth in life, how could I even call it a dream? In a moment there is victory here, in a moment there is defeat here! Gifts of failure and success keep arriving here! How could I call life’s pleadings the trickery of fate? If there is nothing of truth in life, how could I even call it a dream?

At times life’s bondage is a weight, at times from bondage love is born! It forms and it also falls apart— that little world of hopes! What is “mine” today is not mine; whom, then, shall I call my own? If there is nothing of truth in life, how could I even call it a dream?

Neither can life be called truth, nor can it be called a dream. It all depends on you. The wise have said: the world is false, life is false. They said it because of you. The crowd is you; ninety‑nine percent of it is you. The crowd is blind; one with eyes appears only once in a while. The statement of the one with eyes is an exception—and an exception only proves the rule.

If Buddhas have said that life is false, remember: they said it looking at you. It is a statement about your life. A Buddha’s life is not false. If a Buddha’s life is false, what then could be truth? A Buddha’s life is the supreme truth. But when a Buddha says it, remember: it is a statement about your life. Your life is false because it is spent in futile pursuit. You chase mirages. You try to grasp rainbows. From afar they seem so beautiful… drums sound sweet from a distance. When you clutch a rainbow in your fist, you get nothing—perhaps a few drops of water may remain in your hand. There will be no color, no beauty. If you run after rainbows, one day you will fall badly. In that falling you will discover that the awakened ones were right: life is false.

But let me remind you: it is only because of you that life has become false. The lives of the Buddhas are not false. Yet what should Buddhas say about their own lives? Even if they spoke, who would understand? If they spoke, it might create a mistake—others might misunderstand!

The greatest concern of Buddhas is that whatever they say can be misunderstood, because the listener stands somewhere else. Buddhas live on peaks, on Gaurishankar—snow‑clad, where the sun rains gold! And you live in dark valleys, in cellars. From their golden summits whatever they speak, by the time it travels to your dark alleys its meaning has changed. They say one thing; you hear another. Therefore Buddhas must speak with great care. Each word must be weighed. They know well that life is true! But their life is true. How many are like them? And those who are like them have no need to be told; they already know.

If Buddha were to tell Mahavira that life is true, Mahavira would understand. But Mahavira already knows; what need is there to say anything? You know they both lived at the same time, wandering in the same region—Bihar. The very region is called Bihar because of their wanderings. Bihar means: roaming, sojourning. Since two awakened ones—Mahavira and Gautama the Buddha—wandered there continually, the land came to be called Bihar because of their vihara. At times they stayed in the same village, but they did not meet. Once they even stayed in the same dharmashala, and still there was no conversation. Why? For centuries people have asked: why?

Ask the Jains and they will say: if there was to be a meeting, Buddha should have come to Mahavira, because Mahavira is Bhagwan; Buddha is only a mahātma, not fully perfected yet. Ask the Buddhists and they will say: Mahavira should have come. Buddha is Bhagwan; Mahavira is a saintly man, but not yet complete.

I am neither Buddhist nor Jain, neither Hindu nor Muslim nor Christian. So I can look a little impartially. Both are fully perfected ones. The reason they did not meet is not ego. Where would ego be there? The reason is plain. But the blind do not see it, whether blind Jains or blind Buddhists. The reason is simple: what would they do on meeting? What would they say? Their state of consciousness is the same, their sky of awareness is the same. They sit on the same summit. We see two because there are two bodies. But in their experience they are in one state. Bodies may be two, but the soul is no longer two. Who should meet whom? Why meet?

There are three possibilities in the world. Between two ignorant people, discussion is abundant—solid, twenty‑four hours a day. Between two enlightened ones, there is never any discussion—never has been, never will be. There is nothing left to say. It is a delightful paradox: the enlightened have nothing to say to one another. Two awakened ones will not even meet. And if they ever do meet—as Kabir and Farid met—they sit in silence. They stayed together two days and sat silent. Silence reigned. What to say! To whom to speak! How can two zeros hold a dialogue? And between two ignorant ones there is much talk, because two distracted minds—no one listens to anyone, yet the talk goes on. Each says his own. The third possibility: between a knower and an unknower—satsang. There, one who knows, one who is awake, awakens the one who sleeps.

Between two enlightened ones, discussion cannot happen. Between two ignorant ones it happens aplenty, but it is of no use. Between the enlightened and the unenlightened it is very difficult—very—but only from that does any growth, any birth, occur.

Life is neither a dream nor the truth. It will remain a dream if you chase dreams; it will become truth if you seek the truth. And truth is within you; dreams are outside you.

You are the echo of a torn, gasping breath; I am the song of life’s unwavering trust! It is not that, in struggle, you alone suffered while I swung on colored swings! A share of pain we have all received! But as poison it has spread over your consciousness, whereas I, having borne it, found in my life‑breath a new surge, a radiance of life! Therefore, you are the echo of a torn breath; I am the song of life’s unwavering trust!

In life there is anger, hatred, hostility, jealousy; these are poisons. If you go on drinking these poisons, your life will become poisonous, toxic. But these poisons can also be transformed. Poisons can become nectar. The art that turns your inner poison into nectar is called religion. Touch earth and it becomes gold—that very alchemy is religion. Anger can be made into compassion. Kāma can be made into Rāma. Sex can be made into samadhi.

Don’t you see? You bring fertilizer home from the market; the whole house fills with stench! If you heap that manure in your sitting room, only one thing will happen: no guest will come to your house—that is the only benefit. And the neighborhood will grow silent; gradually the neighbors will leave for other streets. Perhaps your wife will leave for her parents’ home. And the children will say, “Goodbye, Father! Now you and your manure live together!” There will be nothing but stench. But in the hands of a skillful gardener the same manure becomes great fragrance. He does not keep it in the house; he scatters it in the garden, upon the earth. That very stuff smiles as roses, shines as jasmine. How many colors, how many fragrances arise from that stench!

Stench can become fragrance. This alchemy is religion.

So I say to you: the whole matter is in your hands. If you choose dreams, life is a dream; if you choose truth, these very dreams can be squeezed out—distilled—and truth can be made from them. Only, beware of direction. Dreams are always extraverted; truth is always introverted. Dreams are always there; truth is always here. Dreams take you on far journeys, and truth is present within you. Sit—and you will find. Run—and you will lose; be still—and you will gain.

Into the garden of my life this autumn you yourself have sent— welcome! What more shall I ask of you! From the branches of the trees the worn, yellowed leaves that keep falling, falling— these scentless thorns entangled in the vines— I offer them to you; accept them. What more shall I ask of you!

When you will send spring into the garden of life, the wind will carry a heady weight of new fragrance; the tender, perfumed pollen; the soft humming of the bees; the sweet melody of birds’ song— all this too, O Lord, I will offer to you. What more shall I ask of you!

Offer all your poisons at the feet of the divine—and you will be astonished to see those poisons turn into nectar. Offer everything unconditionally, surrender it all. Become empty. In surrender you will become empty. Into that emptiness the divine descends. In that emptiness his flute begins to play. Upon the mridang the beat resounds. For the first time you experience the supernatural. That experience of the supernatural is truth. Life is an opportunity; you can go on idly dreaming, or you can awaken truth and live it. If you wish, you can hang upon the cross of futility; if you wish, the throne of truth is yours.

Manju! If inner meditation arrives, then everything arrives—everything is attained. And looking into your eyes it seems the morning is not far, the dawn is near, the East has begun to blush, the sky is preparing for the sun’s rising, birds in their nests flutter their wings, trees are waiting, buds are eager to open—now the morning, any moment, now!

The remembrance of inner meditation is coming to you—auspicious, a blessing! In this world only they are truly fortunate to whom the memory of inner-going begins to return, who, again and again through the twenty-four hours, remember one thing: go within. And who, whenever a moment comes, simply slip inside.

Some friends once invited a Zen monk to a meal. A seven-story house. This is a story from Japan. Suddenly an earthquake came—Japan has many earthquakes. People ran, the host ran. Who would remain on the seventh floor when an earthquake strikes? The stairway was jammed. Many guests had gathered, some twenty-five of them. The host was stuck at the door. Suddenly he remembered, “What about the chief guest? What happened to that Zen monk?”

He went back and saw: the monk had settled cross-legged in his chair! Eyes closed—like a statue of Buddha, a statue in marble—so calm, so unmoving! His form, his peace, his bliss—bewitched the host. He was drawn like iron to a magnet, came and sat near the monk.

The earthquake came and went. The monk opened his eyes, and from the very point where the quake had interrupted the talk, he resumed.

The host said, “I remember nothing now of what we were speaking. In between there has been such a great earthquake! The whole city is in an uproar, such tumult everywhere, such a jolt—we were saying what, where? Don’t begin that talk again. Now I want to ask something else: we all ran—why didn’t you run?”

The monk said, “I ran too. I ran inward; you ran outward. Each runs where he believes his destination is, where he thinks safety lies. And I tell you, your running is futile—because the earthquake is here, on the sixth floor too, on the fifth, on the fourth—on every floor. Where are you running? Those on the fifth floor are also running, those on the third are also running. The quake is in the streets as well; those on the streets are running toward the houses. Everyone is running. But you are running from earthquake to earthquake. I also ran; I ran inward. I know a place within myself, a space where no earthquake can ever reach—where no tremor at all can reach, let alone an earthquake. Where no outer impact ever enters. I ran toward that untouched, virgin realm. I also ran—I won’t say I didn’t. You didn’t recognize it, because you know only one kind of running. I did not run with hands and feet, I did not use the body—one uses the body when running outward. I left the body slack, at rest—and I slipped within. There is great safety there, because there is nectar—there is no death. I had only one concern: that I might die before reaching within! Once I arrived within, all worry ended. Now what death? Whose death? The only wish was this: that I might die in meditation. An earthquake had come. Death must come someday, it does come. The only thought was: let me die in meditation.”

Live in meditation! Die in meditation!

Manju! The remembrance has begun—deepen it, water it, guard it.

Unknowingly, quietly, through a half-open window like a drift of moonlight, the memory-spell of your image has today scattered and then gathered within my mind. The ocean of the heart has brimmed over with some unknown tide— under what intoxicating weight of dreams, under what touch-kisses of rays, in a single instant, so suddenly. What pain from the heart of what beauty-queen, love-lorn, has silently glided into my being too, so unknowingly? The inner life has resounded with what foaming, rosy raga? By the honeyed pollen of which flowers has the restless sweet-breeze become thrilled? In this grove of the heart the mustard has bloomed too; every corner of this forest is filled to the brim with an ineffable overflow, with every particle of my life.

A window is opening, a curtain is drawing aside. Cooperate! Be with it! Very soon much is about to happen.

Who has lit a lamp in the chambers of my thought? Who has stirred the water of a still pond? The barges of loneliness have come to the shore— someone has made us believe so. What jest is this—that in the name of spring, after erasing the whole garden, a new blossom was made to bloom? Ages had passed with us thus silently still; since yesterday we are all intoxicated—what has someone made us drink?

Manju! Drink! This is the tavern. I am not teaching you any doctrine—I am pouring pure wine. Not squeezed from grapes, squeezed from the soul. Drink! Drink to your fill! Dance! Sing! Hum! And whenever any moments are available, whenever they come, set out toward the within.

Do not wait for earthquakes—for in earthquakes only one will reach within who has been going within and within, who has been coming and going daily. That Zen monk could reach within because the path was familiar; he had traveled it many times. Do not think that when death comes you will suddenly meditate. It won’t happen. Death will come suddenly. If you worried about wealth all your life, in the moment of death the worry for wealth will ride you still. If you longed for status, at the time of death you will still be climbing the ladder in imagination.

At the moment of death your entire life gathers and stands before you. You have heard that when a man drowns in a river, in a single instant his whole life flashes before him—this is true for everyone, not only for those who drown. In the dying hour your whole life contracts, and as from thousands of flowers one drop of perfume is distilled, so from all your life’s experiences a single drop is distilled. But if your whole life was stench, that drop will be stench. If your whole life was only dream, that drop too will be dream. And if in life you earned something of truth, gained some meditation, kindled some love, gave something, squandered something, and not only grabbed—if there was some compassion—then in your final moment the entire life will distill into a single drop of fragrance. Riding that very drop of fragrance, you will set out on the journey toward the Divine.

Manju! Something auspicious has happened. Now do not let this hour—this blessed hour—slip away. Hold it tight. Now you have something worth holding. And remember: those who have nothing have nothing to lose; those who have something also have something to lose. If a naked man bathes, what is there to wring out? Those we call ordinary, worldly people—what worry should they have? They have nothing to lose.

We have a word—yog-bhrashta. There is no word to balance it—bhog-bhrashta. Have you ever heard such a word—fallen-from-indulgence? One does not fall from indulgence. If you walk on level ground, where will you fall? But if you climb mountain heights, you can fall. From yoga one can fall.

Manju! An hour is approaching, sliding closer, that will be very precious. The remembrance of inner meditation has begun; soon meditation itself will happen—then do not miss. For the outer cravings of lifetimes will pull, the habits of lifetimes will pull. A thousand obstacles will arise. The mind will make a last effort to save itself, because meditation is the death of the mind. And who wants to die? The mind too does not want to die.

But, alert—very alert—just two or four steps more, and I tell you: the morning is near! The last stars are sinking. The sun has risen—now risen, about to rise! A little waiting, a little patience—and that momentous happening can occur for which all people, knowingly or unknowingly, wander in search. Call it the search for bliss, the search for truth, the search for God, the search for liberation—or whatever name you like.

That is all for today.