Anahad Mein Bisram #1

Anand Maitreya!
That a bird makes a nest for rest—there is no obstacle in that. Because the rest taken in a nest is part of the preparation for flying in the sky. The nest is not opposed to the sky; it is a collaborator, a complement. No one can go on flying continually. The body will tire. The body will need rest.

Therefore the nest is auspicious, beautiful, pleasant. Only keep in mind that the nest is not the sky. In the morning one has to fly; it is a night’s shelter. The goal is the sky; the nest is a halt. The destination is the infinite sky—going beyond limits. Because wherever there is a boundary, there is suffering; boundary itself is suffering. To be within a boundary is to be in a prison. The more boundaries there are, the more fetters there are. If all boundaries break, all chains fall.

The name of the method for this liberation from the prison is religion.

The meaning of the world is to cling to the prison; to hold onto it; to mistake chains for ornaments. Far from breaking them, one won’t even let someone else break them. To take dreams to be truth and to stop at a wayside inn thinking it is the destination—that, in short, is the world. The world is neither in shop nor market; neither in family nor in relationships. The world is in this delusion that takes a halt to be the destination; this ignorance that turns a moment’s rest into an eternal residence.

Build a nest; do build it—make it beautiful, delightful. Let it bear the imprint of your creativity. Let it carry your signature. Whether it is a nest, a hut, a house, or a palace, pour your creative energy into it. But let one remembrance never fail; let a lamp of awareness burn within continuously: this is an inn. Today or tomorrow, tomorrow or the day after, this will have to be left; you will have to go. Then why cling to that which must be left? Live in it; use it; but have no insistence, no attachment.

There are two kinds of people. One live in the world and create deep attachment to it. The second run away from the world.

Those whom we have for centuries called sannyasins were merely escapees. We have worshipped them; we lit lamps and incense for them, garlanded them, sprinkled saffron on them, because it seemed they had done something extraordinary, unique, impossible. What we cannot drop, they dropped and left!

But it did not drop for them either. In fact, they ran away for fear that they might get caught. There is a difference between “it dropping of itself” and “leaving.” Letting go is a process of awakening; it is the natural outcome of right awareness.

Two fakirs were traveling in a forest, master and disciple. The master was old, the disciple young. The young disciple was puzzled—something he had never seen in his master was happening that day. Again and again the master would put his hand into his bag and feel around; a little while later, again; and again! His mind seemed hooked on the bag. The disciple wondered what was in the bag today! He had never seen him anxious, never peering into his bag repeatedly. What was the matter today?

By evening the sun was setting. They stopped by a well to wash hands and face, rest a while, and have a little snack. The master began to draw water. He handed his bag to the disciple and said, “Take care of it!”

He had never said even that before. Usually he would just put the bag down. They had stopped by countless ghats and wells. What was it today! Curiosity arose. While the master was drawing water, the disciple peeked into the bag. There was a gold brick in the bag! The secret was out. He took the brick out and tossed it into a pit near the well, and put a stone of the same weight in the bag.

The master quickly washed and ate a little. In between he kept an eye on the bag. Once or twice he warned the disciple, “Mind the bag.” The disciple laughed and said, “I’m keeping full watch; be completely carefree. There is nothing to worry about now!”

As soon as they finished and started on, the master quickly took the bag back. Usually the disciple had to carry the bag. Today the master was unwilling to burden the disciple with it! He hoisted the bag onto his own shoulder in a hurry. He felt it from outside—yes, the weight is right; the brick is inside. He walked on reassured.

Again and again he said, “Night is falling. Not even a flicker of a village lamp is visible. It is a forest. It’s dark. It’s the new moon night. Thieves, ruffians, bandits—anything could happen.” Whenever the master said this, the disciple laughed.

Finally, after two miles, the master asked, “Why are you laughing?”

The disciple said, “I laugh because you can relax completely now. The cause of your worry I left back by the well.”

The master, alarmed, put his hand into the bag. He saw it was a stone! The gold brick was gone! For a moment he was shocked. His heart must have skipped a beat; his breath must have stopped. But then understanding dawned—the realization that for two miles there had been only a stone in the bag, yet because I believed it was a gold brick, attachment persisted. Even for a lifetime, had I gone on believing the brick to be gold, attachment would have remained. The attachment was not in the brick; it was in my delusion. If attachment were in the brick, there would have been no cause for attachment during those two miles; no reason for anxiety. My clinging was within me, not in the brick outside. For a whole life I could have stayed attached, had the delusion remained that the brick was gold. And the very moment the delusion broke, as soon as I knew the brick was a stone, it fell.

He dropped the bag right there and burst into laughter. He sat down then and there. “Now where is there to go? No need to look for a village now. We are tired enough as it is. Tonight we’ll sleep under this tree.”

The disciple said, “It’s dark! New moon! There are thieves, scoundrels, ruffians, bandits!”

The master said, “Let it be. It makes no difference now. Now we have no brick, no gold—what is there for a robber to rob!”

This I call “it dropping of itself.” He did not “give it up”; it dropped. An awakening arose, a deep understanding. It became clear that all the turmoil is within, not outside. Outside there are only excuses, pegs on which we hang our inner commotion: wealth, position, prestige, family, loved ones, friends, the body, the mind—any excuse will do. But if within there is nothing left to hang on those pegs, then let all the excuses be, what difference does it make! Then whether you sit in the marketplace or at the cremation ground—it is the same.

Those who are escapees—for them the world has not dropped; they have “left” it. And between “it dropped” and “I left” lies the distance between earth and sky. Dropping happens through awareness; leaving happens out of fear. What connection has fear with awareness? They are opposites; they never meet. Fear thrives in darkness; awareness dawns in light. Awareness is morning; fear is the night of the new moon. How can they meet?

Those who ran away and hid in mountains and caves are only frightened people. They fear that if they remain in the world, attachment will seize them.

But has the world ever seized anyone? If you were to die today instead of tomorrow, the world wouldn’t hold you back even for a moment—“Don’t go; wait; stay a little. How will I manage without you? In your absence everything will be in disarray, chaotic. Without you, where is life? Stay, wait a little. Let me get my house in order; let me find my complement, then you can go. What’s the rush?”

Die today instead of tomorrow—what difference does it make to the world? It makes no difference at all. How many have come and gone! How many keep coming and going! The world remains as it is. The world does not hold you; you are holding the world.

So where are you running by leaving it? If the habit of grasping is yours, it will go with you. How will you leave it? It is within. So it may be that you leave a palace and cling to a hut. You leave a throne and cling to a loincloth. You leave safes and clutch a begging bowl. You give up a kingdom and it makes no difference; you’ll sit under a tree and take possession of it: “This is my tree! No one else should set up camp here! No one else’s sacred fire should be lit here!” You will cling all the same. Because is clinging given up by merely moving away? Clinging goes only through understanding.

Therefore I tell my sannyasin, don’t run away. Running away is fear. And fear is cowardice. And a coward cannot attain even the world; what dust will he attain of truth! So I have no respect for escapees, however great they may have been, however many people they may have impressed.

People get impressed by those opposite to themselves. If some man stands on his head, a crowd will gather. Standing on the head is no great thing—any fool can do it. The truth is, who but a fool will do it!

If God had wanted you to stand on your head, he would have grown legs on your head. God is not very keen on headstands. If he wanted to make you lie on a bed of thorns, he would have sent the thorn-bed with you; the arrangements would be there. He has sent you with full arrangements for your sojourn. If God were keen on your fasts, he would have taught you the art of being hungry. The one who could give hunger—could he not give hungerlessness? If God wanted you to abandon your loved ones, your friends, your family, people—why would he have had you born among family, loved ones, and friends? You would have simply rained down from the sky like rain!

George Gurdjieff used to say: your mahatmas seem to be enemies of God. Whatever God does, your mahatmas tell you to do the opposite!

But there is a secret. God makes you natural and spontaneous; mahatmas make you unnatural, contrived. Because only by being unnatural do you become a point of attraction. Respect arises for you only when you do something upside-down.

In America there was a thinker, Robert Ripley. He wanted to be famous. Who doesn’t? He wanted the whole world to know him. A big circus had come to town. He thought: the circus is so famous, its manager must know some formulas for fame. He met the manager privately and asked, “Tell me some secret. I want to be famous too.”

The manager, joking—as a circus man, jokes and spectacle were his trade—said, “What’s the big deal! Have half your head shaved, and without saying a word, staring at the ground, keep wandering the streets of New York. Come back in three days.”

Three days later he came back with a pile of newspaper clippings. His pictures had been published; there was talk in every household: Who is this man, half his head shaved! Who wouldn’t become famous?

Ripley thanked the manager and said, “Now tell me the next step! In New York the show went well; the drum has been beaten. Not a child who doesn’t know me. The neighboring towns have heard too.”

The manager said, “Now buy a big mirror. Tie it to your waist. Looking into the mirror, you’ll see the path behind you. And walk only backward, not forward. And do a tour of all America.”

Ripley did exactly that. And by the time the tour ended, he was famous not only in America but around the world—Who is this man!

“And,” he said, “keep completely silent. Don’t speak at all! The more silent you are, the better. If you speak, the whole thing may be exposed! An intelligent man’s speaking is good; a fool’s silence is good. For when a fool keeps quiet, he appears intelligent!”

So Ripley kept absolutely quiet. Thousands asked him questions. He smiled; said nothing. Ah, can secrets be spoken! Transcendent! How to say what is beyond words? Ineffable! It is not obtained by preaching. It is not gotten by talking. It cannot be said. It cannot be transferred. Only one who already knows will know.

The real fun began when Ripley found that some disciples of his had sprung up, walking behind him. They too made small arrangements—whatever kind of mirror they could manage, they brought. He was no longer alone; a line of Ripleys started moving! And they too were all silent. When the guru is silent, the disciples are silent too!

Anything that is not normal—that is abnormal, unnatural—people are impressed by it. To impress people is a deep craving of the ego.

These escapees impressed people. The only reason people were impressed was that they were doing something unnatural. Who will be impressed by a natural man?

A Japanese emperor was seeking a true guru. He searched much but did not find one. Wherever there was a known name or a famous teacher, he went, but was not satisfied. He asked his old prime minister, “I am young; you are old. You must know someone. Surely there must be someone…”

The old man laughed. He said, “There are such men, but you won’t recognize them. A true master will be completely simple and natural. He won’t have any horns by which you can recognize him! You’re looking for someone upside-down. You will find many upside-down people. But those who are themselves upside-down—how will they guide you, however many devices they try? They’ll make you even more disordered. You are already chaotic; they’ll make you more chaotic. I know a man…”

The emperor was eager. He agreed to go. They both went to meet that fakir. The minister fell at the fakir’s feet, but the emperor, seeing the man, did not find him worthy of bowing to. He was utterly ordinary. And what was he doing? Chopping wood.

Now where do true masters chop wood? Would you ever find Mahavira chopping wood? Or Buddha chopping wood? Do true masters chop wood?

The emperor said to his minister, “He is chopping wood! What is his specialness?” The minister said, “That is his specialness. Ask him what his practice is.” They asked the fakir, “What is your practice?”

The fakir was none other than the Zen master Bokuju. He said, “I have no practice. When I’m hungry, I eat. And when I’m sleepy, I sleep. I have no other practice.”

The emperor said, “But is that a practice? Is that any practice? We all do that. When hungry, we eat. When sleepy, we sleep.”

Bokuju said, “No, don’t reach so quickly. Many times you are not hungry and you eat. And many times you are hungry and you don’t eat. And many times you are sleepy and you don’t sleep. And many times you are not sleepy and you try to sleep. More than that, when you eat, you do a thousand other things as well. Mechanically you go on eating, and the mind runs in who knows what worlds. And when you sleep, you don’t only sleep: you dream and dream. Where don’t you go! What don’t you do! The mind’s business continues. When I eat, I only eat—just eat. At that time there is nothing in Bokuju except eating. And when I sleep, I only sleep; at that time there is nothing in Bokuju except sleep. And when sleep comes, I don’t postpone even for a moment; I fall asleep at once.”

Stories are told of Bokuju that sometimes, in the middle of giving a discourse, he would fall asleep! If sleep came, what could Bokuju do? He was such a natural man. And he would not get up at the brahma-muhurta. When someone asked, “A fakir should rise at brahma-muhurta. You don’t get up then?” Bokuju said, “I changed the definition through experience. Whenever a fakir wakes up, that is brahma-muhurta. When sleep opens, the inner Brahman wants to awaken—that is brahma-muhurta.”

And when the inner Brahman wants to sleep, you set an alarm and try to get up by force—splash cold water on your eyes, chant Ram-Ram, run around, do push-ups so that somehow sleep will break. Because you have to go to heaven! Without rising at brahma-muhurta you won’t get there!

Bokuju said, “When sleep opens, that is brahma-muhurta.” So sometimes he slept till noon, and sometimes he stayed awake till midnight. When sleep came, he slept. When hunger came, he ate. Sometimes a day or two went by and he did not eat—that was not fasting. And sometimes he ate twice in a day. So natural!

But who will be impressed by such a man? We are impressed by upside-down people. That is why escapees greatly impressed people: they were opposite to us. And because they were opposite, I tell you, they were not different from us at all. They were just like us. Only, we stand on our feet; they stand on their heads. We are crazy for gold; they are afraid to even touch gold. We run after women; they run with their backs turned to women. But the running continues, and the center of both is woman. One runs toward woman; another runs away from woman. But both eyes are fixed on woman. One says, “In woman is heaven”; the other says, “Woman is the gate of hell.” But for both, woman is important: for one the gate of heaven, for the other the gate of hell—but the gate is woman.

But there is no freedom from woman that way; nor from man; nor from wealth.

To make rest, to come into a pause, birds make nests; humans build huts and palaces. Nothing wrong in it. Only remember: don’t become bound within those limits. Those limits are not your limits. No boundary is your boundary. Live there, but live as a guest; don’t become the host. Be like a visitor; don’t become the householder. Then wherever you are, there you are a sannyasin.

Anand Maitreya, you asked, “For rest the bird that flies in the infinite sky makes a small grass nest…”

That is necessary for flying. Strength must be gathered for flight. To awaken, one must sleep. To run, one must sit. Otherwise the energy will be wasted. That nest is not the enemy of the sky; it is a companion; it is part of the sky—it is the sky.

But no bird clings to the nest. You have seen: the eggs hatch; the young are born. They stay in the nest only until they are able to fly. And the day they fly, they fly; they don’t return. They will make nests again when they have to lay their own eggs.

There is need—use it. Use the world.

The world does not bind. Don’t run from the world; awaken.

You say, “And for rest man first found caves, then built huts and houses. And today you are beginning to speak of rest in the anhad…”

This rest in the anhad is the final rest. It is the last nest. Beyond that you need build no more houses. Once the eternal home is found, why make mud toys? Why make sand castles—made now, gone now! Why waste your time in the transient! “Resting in the anhad” is part of the wonderful utterance of Dariya:

Jaat hamaari Brahm hai, maata-pita hai Ram.
Girah hamaara sunn mein, anhad mein bisraam.

Understand this sutra. This sutra is the essence of sannyas.

“Jaat hamaari Brahm hai.”
Caste means the original source from which we are born. Therefore your caste is neither Hindu, nor Muslim, nor Christian. When a child is born, he doesn’t know he is Hindu, Christian, or Muslim. When a child is born, he speaks neither Sanskrit, nor Arabic, nor Latin, nor Greek.

I have heard: a French couple who could not have children adopted a Swedish child from an orphanage. The day they adopted him, the French couple hired a Swedish tutor and themselves began to learn Swedish. The neighbors asked, “What happened? Why are you learning Swedish? Planning to settle in Sweden? Or going on a long journey there?”

They said, “No, no. We have adopted a Swedish child. Before he grows up and starts speaking Swedish, we should at least learn Swedish. Otherwise how will we understand what he’s saying!”

Children speak neither Swedish nor French nor Hindi nor English. Children have no language; their language is zero; their language is silence. And they have no caste—neither Hindu, Muslim, nor Christian. All castes we impose. And what a calamity! We keep imposing castes upon castes. It isn’t enough to be Hindu; within that Brahmin, Kshatriya, Vaishya, Shudra. Even that is not enough; among Brahmins, then Konkanastha and Deshastha!

Someone asked Vinoba Bhave, “Are you a Konkanastha Brahmin or a Deshastha?” In his own way he answered well, though I don’t find it entirely right. He said, “I am neither Konkanastha nor Deshastha; I am a swasth (healthy) Brahmin.”

The answer is fine, but I would say there is redundancy in it. “Swasth” and “Brahmin” have the same meaning. Swasth means settled in oneself; Brahmin means one who has known the Brahman in oneself. So to say “swasth Brahmin” is to use two words for the same thing. It isn’t proper. Being a Brahmin is enough; being swasth is enough. There is no need to be a “swasth Brahmin.” Why use two words to say one thing?

Still, in a way his point is right—neither Konkanastha nor Deshastha. But the danger is that some “swasth Brahmins” may get created. That is how castes are born. Followers of Vinoba may start saying, “We are swasth Brahmins.” Then another caste is born.

Isn’t being a Brahman enough? Isn’t being Brahman sufficient? Can there be any further embellishment on Brahman? Can Brahman be made more beautiful by tacking more words onto it?

Dariya is right: “Jaat hamaari Brahm hai.”
So we are neither Hindu, nor Muslim, nor Christian; neither Brahmin, nor Shudra, nor Kshatriya, nor Vaishya. We come from Brahman. Brahman means the source of life, the original source of this vast existence. From that Brahman we have come, and into that we must return. And whoever recognizes That in between these two—between coming and going, between arrivals and departures—for him the comings and goings cease. Whoever, between birth and death, recognizes the Brahman within, he has no need to come again.

This life is a school so that we can be alert to the Brahman within, awaken to it, recognize it.

For recognition, keep a little arithmetic in mind. A fish is born in the ocean, but as long as she remains in the ocean she will not know what the ocean is. Pull her out—have a fisherman take her out of the water. Leave her on the bank, on the hot sand, let her writhe a while. Then put her back into the ocean. The fish is the same, the ocean is the same, but everything has changed. Now the fish knows what the ocean is. Earlier she did not. Now realization has happened. Now she knows the ocean is my life, my joy, my celebration. Now she knows the ocean is my music, my dance. To be out of the ocean even for a moment is the beginning of hell, of pain, of misfortune!

We come from the ocean of Brahman; we are fish thrown onto the shore of the world. Deliberately thrown, so that we may learn the lesson. The only way to learn is to be separated for a while. If the union never broke, there would be no awareness.

A very rich man, in the last days of life, decided: I have gotten everything—wealth, position, prestige; heaps of diamonds—yet I have not known happiness, not even for a moment. I suffered in getting wealth; having wealth gives no joy. Wealth is there, but where is happiness? And the final hour approaches; the sun is setting. This very sun will set in the west. Any time now the night will come. Before death arrives, I must know happiness.

So he filled a big bag with precious jewels, mounted his horse, and went to many fakirs. He said to them, “I am willing to give away all this wealth—show me a glimpse of happiness!”

But who will show a glimpse of happiness? How? The fakirs were tempted to take his wealth. And those who were tempted—what glimpse could they show? They themselves hadn’t had even a glimpse yet! They were thinking that perhaps if they got the wealth, they would get the glimpse. Blind though having eyes, this man wandered with his bag, saying, “I am ready to give to anyone—just a glimpse, a single glance at happiness, and I will surrender all.”

Then he heard of a Sufi fakir. People said, “We cannot give the glimpse. Truth is, seeing your wealth has stirred greed in us; it has shaken our years of austerity and practice. Take your wealth away! We were almost there, and you made us miss; you have missed yourself and made us miss. There is one fakir—he is a bit upside-down. Perhaps he will suit you.”

The rich man went. He stopped his horse under the fakir’s tree and told him his whole story. The fakir listened intently. The rich man opened his bag and showed the jewels—a pile worth billions. The fakir said, “Close the bag.”

The rich man closed it. He felt, “This fakir is accomplished.” The others, at the sight of the bag, began to drool; they forgot all about giving him happiness and sank into their own desire for happiness. This fakir said, “Close this trash! Close the bag! Then we can talk about showing happiness.” The rich man closed it. This fakir pleased him. And just as he set the bag aside, the fakir leapt up, grabbed the bag, and took off running!

For a moment the rich man did not understand what was happening. He stood stupefied. When he came to his senses, the fakir had vanished—nine-two-eleven! He knew the place, the forest, the village. The rich man knew nothing. He ran desperately after him, leaving even his horse behind, forgot all about the horse, crying, “I’m robbed! Ruined! The labor of a lifetime is gone! This is no fakir—he’s a scoundrel, a rogue, a thief!” He shouted and ran, “Catch him, catch him!”

The whole village stood watching. They knew the fakir; he had pulled such tricks before. People were familiar with his doings—that he does something upside-down! He must have done something. No one was eager to catch him. The rich man was bewildered and began to abuse the whole village as well: “A village of rascals and rogues! Is this fakir your leader or what! Why don’t you catch him?” People laughed and giggled, but his life was at stake. Panting, he kept chasing the fakir. The fakir ran back to the same bush under which the horse still stood, put the bag exactly where he had taken it from, and hid behind the bush.

In a moment the rich man arrived, panting, drenched in sweat—he had never run like this; never had the occasion. He saw the bag, snatched it up, pressed it to his chest, and cried, “O God! Blessed are you. In what words shall I thank you! A peace is filling my soul, a joy I have never felt!”

The fakir said, “Got it? A little darshan happened? A glimpse?”

The rich man did not know he was hiding behind the bush. The fakir came out and sat in his place. He said, “Look, you asked for a glimpse—I showed it. Now go home. From here on, you will have to work.” The rich man understood, fell at his feet. “I did not recognize you. I called you rogue and scoundrel, abused the whole village. Now I understand why they weren’t catching you—they know you. But what a thing you did!”

The fakir said, “There was no other way. This is the method of God and of all true masters. Until it is taken from you, you don’t come to know. Suddenly you got happiness! That bag had always been with you. You never held it to your chest and thanked God. Why are you thankful today? For a moment the fish was out of the ocean.”

This world is a learning arrangement. Those who tell you to leave the world are like those who tell children to leave school and run away.

This is a school, not to be left. Something is to be learned here. Here we have been separated from God, our original source, our wellspring, the Brahman. This separation is to be lived through so that the possibility of union arises again. And the union after separation has a joy of its own.

“Jaat hamaari Brahm hai, maata-pita hai Ram.”
We have even lost our caste; we have become all sorts of things. On earth there are some three hundred religions, and within them at least three thousand castes and sub-castes and who knows what webs we have spread! And those whom we call good people have the same webs inside.

Even a person like Shankaracharya—whom Indians consider the summit of Vedanta—when a Shudra touched him, he got angry. Shankaracharya! All his Vedanta had water poured over it; he forgot all the chatter of “the world is illusion and Brahman is truth.” Immediately it turned out that the Shudra is truth; Brahman and the rest are not. A Shudra touched him, and he forgot knowledge, forgot his pose, got furious: “Fool! Being a Shudra you don’t even have enough sense not to touch a Brahmin? And I’ve just returned from a dip in the Ganges!”

He was climbing the steps of Dashashwamedh Ghat when the Shudra touched him. Early morning darkness. “Now I must bathe again!”

The Shudra said, “Do bathe again. But before you bathe, answer some questions. If the world is illusion, who has touched whom? If I do not exist, if this body is a delusion, can two delusions touch each other? And if they do, what’s the harm? And your delusion pure and mine impure? Have some shame! Some decency! Remember what you yourself say. Don’t lick your own spit so easily. And tell me: did bathing in the Ganges purify your body or your soul? Water will touch the body or the soul? If the body has been purified, can a body be pure? The body is earth; and you yourself preach that there is nothing in the body.”

These mahatmas all preach—especially about women’s bodies, because all the writers were men. It’s a great mercy that women didn’t write the scriptures; they should. All the writers are men! Women aren’t allowed even to read. Special arrangements for them: Read the Ramayana; read the Satyanarayan story—useless junk! Not the Upanishads—the valuable things. Can a woman’s intellect grasp the valuable! That’s men’s business. Men will read the Upanishads; women will rote-learn Tulsidas’s couplets.

And of the same Tulsidas who said about women, “Drum, rustic, Shudra, animal, woman—all are fit to be beaten!” Women are churning his verses. Women were forbidden to study the Vedas. And men said all sorts of things about women: what is a woman’s body? Flesh, marrow, pus, blood; wind, bile, phlegm—as if a man’s body were full of diamonds and gold ash! Where does a man’s body come from? From a woman’s womb—the same wind, bile, phlegm! But a woman’s body is only excrement and urine, and a man’s body is elixir—drink your fill!

This body is just body—what purity can it have? And the soul is pure already—how will you purify it? That Shudra raised precious questions that great Vedantins could not. If Shankaracharya was ever stunned before someone, it was before a Shudra.

But even Shankaracharya does not take care to consider what it means to call the world Brahman. Then what Brahmin and what Shudra? Castes upon castes have formed. People are busy with great acts of service and piety, but the fundamental delusions remain the same.

Mother Teresa received the Nobel Prize because she did great service to the poor—that is sheer falsehood, mere hypocrisy, superficial talk. Inside, the matter is something else. Orphanages and widows’ homes are opened as devices to make women and orphaned children Christian—and not only Christian, but Catholic Christian.

Recently a Protestant family from America came to Mother Teresa and asked to adopt a child—they had none. They were given a form, the first point of which was that a child can be adopted only if you are Catholic. The Protestant family was astonished: “We are Christians; you are Christians. The only difference is that we are Protestant and you are Catholic. No big difference. We accept the same Bible and the same Jesus—you and we. A few paltry differences. And you are devoted to the service of humankind—what difference does it make to you?”

But no: even a Protestant Christian family was not given the right to adopt.

These are frauds. On the surface the talk is lofty. These orphanages and widow homes and service to the destitute are nothing but propaganda for Catholic Christianity—so that the number of Catholics in the world may increase.

In olden times people argued with each other to decide who was right. Then things got even worse—argument takes years and is not decisive. Who has ever decided? What theist has ever convinced an atheist that God exists? What atheist has ever convinced a theist that God does not? What Jain convinced a Hindu? What Hindu convinced a Jain? To convince is a very long matter.

So the Muslims took a shortcut: the sword. Why get into nonsense? Settle it now, cash on the barrelhead: whose stick, his buffalo. Whosoever wins is truth. Satyameva jayate—they say truth always wins. They tweaked it slightly: whoever wins is truth. Just a slight difference.

But even the days of the sword are gone. Man became a little civilized. It seemed crude to decide life-principles by the sword. So how to decide? Then more clever devices were invented: do service, open hospitals, open orphanages, create widow homes, homes for the elderly, massage lepers’ feet, feed beggars. Thus, by feeding and medicating, convert people’s religion.

Naturally the result can only be one, as in India: no prosperous Indian family becomes Christian. Why would they? One who has his own bread, his own house, his own wealth—why become Christian? Who have become Christians in India? Tribals, the naked, the beggars, the hungry, the destitute, the orphans, the crippled—these all became Christian.

Castes upon castes! Religions upon religions! And their internal splintering.

Dariya says: Remember one thing—apart from God, neither have we any mother nor any father. And apart from Brahman, we have no caste.

If such an understanding happens, there is revolution in life. Only then does the sun of religion rise in your life.

“Girah hamaara sunn mein.”
Then you will know that our true home is in emptiness—in the nirvana Buddha speaks of, which Dariya calls the void. In that supreme void, in the supreme peace where not even a ripple arises—in such a still ocean or still lake where there is no wave of thought, no surge of desire, where there is no disturbance of thinking, where the music of the void plays, where the unstruck sound resounds—there is our home.

“Anhad mein bisraam.”
And one who has attained that void, he alone has found rest; a rest without any limit, without any boundary.

“Anhad mein bisraam”—this is the definition of a sannyasin. “Girah hamaara sunn mein, anhad mein bisraam”—this is the complete definition of a sannyasin. But for this it is necessary that we know: “Jaat hamaari Brahm hai, maata-pita hai Ram.”

I do not consider my sannyasin to be Christian, Hindu, Muslim, Jain, or Buddhist. My sannyasin is only a seeker of the void. He is pulling down all the walls. My sannyasin is in search of the anhad; he is transgressing all boundaries. There is no need to abandon the home; living in the home, know that the home is not your boundary. No need to abandon the family; living in the family, know that the family is not your boundary. Just this understanding—call it meditation, awareness, discrimination, remembrance; whatever word pleases you. But take this as the goal: to reach the void; only then will you find rest.

Otherwise life is a torment, a pain, a separation—the fire of separation. In it we are seared, wearied, broken, scattered, uprooted. Our leaves have withered; as for the blooming of flowers, that is far away—our roots are drying up. And the moment someone sets his roots in the void, instantly greenness spreads; flowers surge; spring arrives; blossom comes; fragrance fills the flowers; bumblebees begin to sing; the bees begin to hum.

In that festive hour alone know that life is fulfilled. Before that, we live in vain. After that, only then is living truly living; only then is dying truly dying. After that, there is joy in living and joy in dying. After that, life itself is a thanksgiving, and death the ultimate height, the supreme peak of that same thanksgiving.

Navalkishore D. D.!
This question contains many questions; we will have to take them one by one. First, you have asked, “By repeating a mantra given by a saint, can we not attain liberation?”
Liberation is not attained. Liberation is not an achievement; it is an unveiling. Liberation is not a destination, not some far-off goal to be reached by walking to it. Liberation is our very nature.
Our caste is Brahman; Ram is our mother and father.
Our home is in the Void; in the Unstruck we rest.
Liberation is our nature. So do not think of liberation in the language of getting! The language of getting is the language of greed. And where there is greed, there is no liberation. Nongreed is the foundation of liberation. The ego thinks in the language of acquisition: let me get wealth, let me get status. When it tires of these, and finds that even after getting them nothing is found, it starts to think: let me get God; let me get heaven; let me get moksha; let me get nirvana; let me get liberation; let me get truth. The objects change—no longer wealth and status; wealth becomes meditation, status becomes God—but you do not change; only the objects do. The lust is the same: to get. What you want to get doesn’t matter. As long as you want to get, you will remain entangled.

Liberation is not found by getting. The very talk of getting is futile. The moment you see this, it comes into experience instantly. Remember the word “instantly.” Not tomorrow, not the day after—now, here.

Buddha tried for six years to get it. Naturally—man lives in a world of greed. So, the way we get wealth and status, he thought he would get liberation as well. For six years he persisted without a break. He did everything that people—those you call saints—told him to do. Someone gave mantras—he repeated them. Someone imposed fasts—he fasted. Someone told him to stand on his head—he stood on his head. Austerity upon austerity! He had a beautiful body; he was a prince; he became skin and bone.

One fool told him, “Slowly reduce your food—reduce it so gradually that in the end only a single grain of rice remains as your meal. When you reach a single grain, then slowly increase—two grains, three grains...” The day he came to a single grain of rice, he had become so weak that when he tried to cross the Niranjana River, he could not cross.

I went to see the Niranjana, just to see what kind of river it was that Buddha could not cross! He crossed the ocean of becoming, but not the Niranjana? I was startled when I saw it. It was no river, just a stream. It was summer, it was almost dry. Anyone could cross; a small child could cross; you didn’t even need to swim. It wasn’t even knee-deep.

Why could Buddha not cross? He had become so weak that he clung to the root of a tree on the bank just to keep himself from being swept away. When a little strength returned, he somehow crawled up to the ghat. Holding that root, this thought arose in him: What have I done! I have lost the body and have not found the soul. And I never even asked myself what logic connects destroying the body with finding the soul! If I cannot cross this little Niranjana, how will I cross the great ocean of life?

That moment proved revolutionary. Right then he dropped the whole six-year race of futility. He had already dropped the race for wealth and status; that evening he dropped the race for liberation too.

Naval Kishore, this event deserves deep reflection. The race ended. That evening, when he slept, it was a full-moon night; and for the first time the mind found the rest of the unstruck. For where there is no race, there is rest. Even if you are not racing with the body, if you are racing with the mind, you will be tired—the mind also gets tired.

Now there was no race; nothing to get. Everything is futile; nothing is to be gotten. Whatever is, as it is—that’s fine. Buddha called this suchness, tathata. Whatever is, as it is, is right.

In that mood of tathata, he fell asleep. Later he said: that was the first night I truly slept. Rest was complete; not a single dream came. When there is no desire, from where will dreams come? Dreams are the shadows of desire falling into sleep. The desire of the day is the dream of the night.

Not a single dream. And in the morning, when the eyes opened, he said later, never had I known such rest. Such peace descended! Every pore was in repose, in rest. Nothing to do; nowhere to go; nothing to get. All infatuations had fallen away—of this world and the next. And just then he saw the last star of night setting. As that star sank, if any faint line of greed still remained anywhere within, it too vanished. With the setting of the last star, Buddha attained mahaparinirvana. He found rest in the unstruck. Our home is in the Void! In shunya he found his home.

The question arises: did Buddha attain Buddhahood because of six years of austerity, or by dropping austerity? For twenty-five centuries Buddhist thinkers have deliberated, reflected, argued about this. In my view, the debate is pointless. Both have their place. Not in the sense of gaining—he attained by dropping austerity—but the austerity helped him drop austerity. Practicing austerity, one thing became clear: this is madness; there is no substance in it. The world had already been dropped; now even moksha was dropped. Even the longing to get liberation was dropped. The last trace of greed disappeared. So austerity did that much. When a thorn gets embedded, we remove it with another thorn. Then we throw both away. We don’t keep the second thorn reverently in the wound, saying, “How grateful we are to you; how shall we thank you!”

With one thorn we remove the other, then throw them both away. In the same way, through austerity the useless idea stuck in the mind—that God will be gotten by getting—was removed. God is already found. The race ended, desire dissolved—and it was realized. It was always here.

You have not lost God for even a single moment, Naval Kishore! So first drop this language of getting. It is the language of greed. It is the language of trade. It is the language of business.

Second, you say, “By repeating a mantra given by a saint...”

First of all, how will you know who is a saint? If you can recognize a saint, you yourself are a saint. Only a saint can recognize a saint. How will you recognize one? Whomever the crowd calls a saint—you will take him as a saint. And what does the crowd know? The crowd is a mob of fools.

One thing is certain: whomever the crowd calls a saint—be a little cautious. Put a question mark there. The crowd will call him a saint who conforms to its expectations.

The Jains—Digambar Jains—will call a naked man a saint. Buddhist monks will not call him a saint. Among Jains, if they are Digambar, they will call the naked one a saint; if they are Shvetambar, they will call the mouth-cloth wearer a saint. The Digambar will laugh at the mouth-cloth wearer: “He’s attached—wearing a strip over his mouth is an acquisition.” And the Shvetambar will laugh at the naked monk: “This is indecorous, uncivil, vulgar.” A Sufi fakir will laugh at a Hindu fakir: “Is this sainthood?” And a Hindu fakir will laugh at a Sufi.

Christians will call a man a saint who serves the poor. In India, saints have never served anyone; mark this. Here, people serve the saints. Ask a Jain who is going for a saint’s darshan, “Where are you going?” He will say, “To serve the saint.”

And a saint will serve? Who would make a saint serve? Why make him commit sin with his own hands? Imagine meeting Mahavira, and he starts pressing your feet! Would you let him? You would jump up and run: “Lord, save me! What are you doing? You—and pressing my feet? Will you consign me to hell forever?” Or imagine Buddha starts massaging you! Even if he offered to do it free, you would say, “No, brother, not at all. We will massage your feet! You massage ours? Lord Buddha and a massage? Never. We will not allow it.”

But the Christian definition of a saint is one who presses your feet, who serves you. According to Christians, Jesus is a saint because he gave his life for the salvation of man. What kind of saint is Mahavira—by Christian standards! What did he do for mankind? Yes, he meditated. That’s selfish—his own bliss! He is a grand egotist. What did Buddha do? He attained his own liberation. But his own liberation is not altruism. Jesus was altruistic; he hung on the cross, gave his life for man’s salvation.

Whether there was any salvation or not is another matter. It hasn’t happened yet. How will anyone’s salvation happen because someone else hung on a cross!

Mahavira used to pluck out his hair—kesha-lochan. Buddhist monks laughed: madness. And there is some sense in their point: often when women go crazy, they pull their hair. You must have seen: when a woman gets very upset, she starts yanking her hair. In a madhouse you’ll find many who pull their hair. Hair-pulling is a symptom of madness.

So the Buddhists felt Mahavira’s mind wasn’t quite right—hair-pulling! But Mahavira’s devotees hold his renunciation to be supreme. He would not use a razor. Why carry a razor anyway! A razor is dangerous—what if anger arises and you cut someone’s throat? Or you get depressed and cut your own!

And another thing: dependence on a razor is dependence on an object. Mahavira was free of objects; he accepted no dependency of any kind. And going to a barber to get a haircut—how would that do? That would mean you’re dependent on a barber. Who knows whether there are barbers in liberation! He plucked out his hair himself—that is self-reliance! It is self-reliance; clearly so.

Whom do you call a saint? What is your definition of saintliness? Where did you get it? The crowd around you hands you a definition: a man who eats once a day is a saint; who sits like this, stands like that is a saint. Whoever fulfills the crowd’s expectations is a saint for that crowd.

Naval Kishore, you ask, “By repeating a mantra given by a saint...”

And a saint will give a mantra? Impossible! Mantra is formed from the same root as mind (manas). What is the work of the mind? Have you ever noticed? The mind advises: do this, don’t do that. That is why we call an advisor a minister (mantri). The mind is a minister—an advisor. Mind and mantra are linked. Think of mantra as a brick; the mind is built of those very bricks.

We have to be free of mind. So no one can become free of mind through mantra. A mantra can only be used by the mind. If you sit and chant Ram-Ram, who will chant? The mind. And if you are practicing the mind, putting the mind through pushups—Ram-Ram, Ram-Ram—you are drilling the mantra. This will only strengthen the mind. Mantra strengthens the mind. And the stronger the mind becomes, the greater the wall it raises between you and your soul.

Therefore a true saint will not give you a mantra. He will snatch your mantra away—and your mind as well. He will show you the way beyond mind. Yes, if you want to increase the powers of the mind—don’t call them spiritual powers—if you want to increase the powers of the mind, then mantra is useful. With mantra, the mind’s powers will grow.

But what will you do by amplifying the mind’s powers? Suppose you learn to walk on water—what’s the use? After years of effort you learn to walk on water and chew glass—do you want to make a breakfast of glass bottles? And to walk on water there are boats. You can easily learn to swim. A small wooden dinghy will do. Why spend years to learn to walk on water! And chewing glass—what for? Do you feel terrible throwing away useless bottles? “Such precious things are being thrown away—if only I were mantra-accomplished, I’d chew them!” What will you do?

Suppose you can read others’ thoughts. You have found nothing by reading your own—what more will you find by reading someone else’s? Your trash is enough; why add someone else’s trash to it? The other is trying to get free of his thoughts, and you’re eager to read them!

Mantra can surely increase the powers of the mind. Why? Because mantra is a scientific process for a specific aim: trance. What in English is called hypnosis—our ancient yogic word is tandra.

One is wakefulness: mantra does not bring that. One is sleep: that comes without mantra. Between the two is a middle state—tandra—sleep induced by mantra. Hypnosis means tandra.

If you repeat one word again and again, tandra arises. It is a direct process. You sit and go on: Ram-Ram, Ram-Ram, Ram-Ram. Two results follow. First, the mind gets bored with the same thing. Boredom brings sleep.

That is why people doze in religious gatherings. The same Ram, the same Sita, the same Ravan, the same story. How many times have you seen it! Again Hanumanji, again carrying a mountain! The same old stuff. Will you watch the Ramleela—or sleep? Better to sleep! What is the point of watching this babble! In the Ramleela people wake up only when something goes wrong.

Once something did go wrong. When the Ramleela began and Sita’s swayamvara was set, the story is that a message comes from Lanka: “O Ravan, your Lanka is on fire.” So Ravan runs. If Lanka is on fire, is this a time to preside over a wedding! The poor fellow runs to save his Lanka.

It’s a trick—a rishi’s sleight of hand—a lie. There was no fire in Lanka. But by the time the poor fellow returned, the affair was over. He had to be removed, because he was a devotee of Shiva, and it was Shiva’s bow; and he had a boon that Shiva would aid him. Who doesn’t help his henchmen? Even small people do; Shiva is a great god! And how much service Ravan had rendered—he offered his heads! What more do you need from a henchman!

He would have snapped the bow. There was fear: in front of him Ramchandra was just a lad. A couple of slaps, he would have broken the bow and taken Sita away. The Ramayana would have ended right there! So he had to be hustled off. By the time he went, Ram had broken the bow. The wedding happened.

Now this repeats every year; people come prepared. Those who go to watch the Ramleela bring mats, rugs—even blankets! They spread their mat, pull up a blanket, put the children to sleep—and then doze themselves.

But that day something went wrong. Even the children woke up. Because when the message came—“Your Lanka is on fire”—Ravan said, “Let it burn.” People were startled: What’s this! King Janak too was perplexed: What now? Ramchandra must have been dumbfounded. Lakshman must have said, “Brother, what do we do?”

Ravan didn’t hesitate. He was angry. The manager hadn’t given him his fair share of sweets—he’d been shorted. He thought, “I’ll show them!” The first chance he got, he showed them. He leapt up and broke the bow! And what bow! Supposedly Shiva’s bow—but it was a bundle of bamboo tied together. He broke it into many pieces and flung them—not one or two. And he said, “Bring out your Sita! Let’s finish this business once and for all. What is this—every year the same play!”

The whole crowd woke up. Children started crying. Women were alarmed. People stood—no one stayed seated. What was happening! Never seen with the eyes, never heard with the ears—this was a new Ramleela! Luckily Janak was old, seasoned, wily—he had staged many Ramleelas. He managed the moment. He said, “Servants! By mistake you brought my children’s toy bow. This is not Shiva’s bow. Bring the real bow of Shiva!”

The curtain fell. They pushed Ravan offstage. They brought another bow and another actor for Ravan. The public was startled: This Ravan looks different! Where’s that old wrestler?

The first one was being held by four men backstage. He was shouting, “Let me go! I will break the bow today. I’ll settle this matter today!” Somehow they pacified him with sweets. “Brother, don’t break the bow. Take as many sweets as you want. We will be careful in the future. Forget the mistake.”

Sometimes such moments occur; otherwise people sleep in the Ramleela. It’s the same repetition.

To put small children to sleep we use just this, Naval Kishore. The mother sits by the side, tucks the child into the bedding—blanket tucked all around, so he can’t run—and sings, “Raja beta, go to sleep! Munna beta, go to sleep!” What else can the raja beta do? If he doesn’t sleep, what can he do? The mother thinks it’s her sweet melody.

It isn’t the melody; it’s the boredom; he’s getting suffocated. If the mother sat by the father and chanted, “Raja beta, go to sleep; Munna beta, go to sleep,” he would also fall asleep. Even if sleep didn’t come, he would at least pretend, start snoring: “All right, sleep has come! Go! Now we will never wake up. We are fast asleep.”

When you chant a mantra, you are only producing tandra. Repetition breeds tandra. This has nothing to do with spiritual life.

And you ask, “Will there not be some greater spiritual development through this?”

Does the spirit develop? The spiritual is already complete within you. You only have to turn the eye within and it is revealed. It is expression, not development. That is why I say only the unintelligent become entangled in mantras. The intelligent seek freedom from mind. Then rest happens in the void; rest happens in the unstruck.

Enough for today.