Anahad Mein Bisram #4

Sahajanand!
The mind is either past or future. In the present the mind has no being. And the mind is the world; therefore in the present the world has no being. And the mind is time; therefore in the present time has no being.

In truth the past does not exist—there are only memories. Like footprints left on sand. The snake has gone; on the dust a line remains. So too, in the psyche the imprint of what has gone—the spent—remains. Most people live in that imprint.

If you live in what is not, how will you find joy? Your thirst is real, and you drink from memories—will thirst be quenched? The sun is real, and you raise an umbrella made of imagination—will it keep off the heat?

The past has no existence. It is gone, erased. Yet we live in it. Hence our lives are futile, meaningless, hollow. We exist, but we do not live. We drag ourselves; there is no dance, no music, no celebration.

And the past grows bigger every day. Twenty‑four hours go by—again the past has swollen. As the past enlarges, the burden on our head increases. That innocence in the eyes of little children, that saintliness—later it becomes hard to find in the eyes of the old. A thousand kinds of untruth pile up. The whole past is a lie.

Jesus halted by a lake one early morning. The sun had not yet risen—just about to. A fisherman had cast his net. Jesus placed his hand on the fisherman’s shoulder. The man turned. The sun’s first rays broke from the east onto Jesus’ face. The fisherman’s eyes met Jesus’ eyes—and it happened. Without words, the word happened. Eye met eye. For a moment there was silence. Jesus said, “Leave this net. You’ve caught enough fish. What will you do catching fish? Is life only for fish? Are you not yet tired of this stench? Drop the net. Come, follow me. I’ll give you the key to the supreme treasure. I’ll teach you to cast such a net that God himself is caught in it. Why catch anything less?”

The fisherman must have been courageous. Had he been a pundit, a clever man, a worldly wise Brahmin, he would have raised a thousand objections—“How can I come now? There are hindrances. First I must seek my mother’s permission, then ask my father, what will my wife say, what about the children?”

But the magic of Jesus’ eyes! As if he forgot everything. He dropped the net into the water itself—didn’t even pull it out—and went after Jesus.

As they were leaving the village, a man ran up and shouted to the fisherman, “Madman! Where are you going? And with this mad fellow? Your father has died! I went to the lake to find you and learned that a lunatic—seen around the nearby villages—put his hand on your shoulder and you ran after him. Come back! Will you not perform your father’s last rites?”

The young man said to Jesus, “Forgive me. I’ll go and perform the rites. I’ll return in three days.”

Jesus said a few things worth pondering. First: “You have no certainty of a single moment—how can you promise three days? Will you be able to come? Was your father certain he would die today? If you had been certain, you would not have gone fishing. Will you be alive tomorrow? Will you come after three days? Even if you live, will the courage that has awakened in you today still be there—the ray that has dawned today? And even if you come in three days and this feeling remains—will I be here? And if I am, will we meet again? In endless time we have met for the first time—what assurance is there of a second meeting?”

The youth said, “You are right. I have no answer. But my father’s last rites—”

Jesus said, “Let that worry go. There are many dead in the village; they will bury the dead. Is there any shortage of corpses there? The very man who has come is himself a corpse; he will bury him. Let the dead bury the dead. As for one who is already gone—whether you bury or not, whether you inter him or burn him, what difference does it make? The bird has flown; the cage lies here. Come with me. Don’t miss this moment. Do not look back—that is man’s fundamental mistake.”

And we all look back. We live from the back. We keep accounting: this happened, that happened. “If only it had been so! If only it had been otherwise!”

From this disturbance of the past arises the disturbance of the future. Disturbances are not celibate; they don’t practice family planning. They are prolific. One trouble begets ten or fifteen.

I heard of a census officer who knocked at a door. He was startled, a bit shocked—couldn’t trust his eyes. He looked again closely. But it was true, whether or not he could believe it: the woman who opened the door was completely nude. Startled, he asked, “Why are you naked?”

She said, “Don’t be shocked. I’m a nudist. I believe in sky‑clad living.”

The man was sensible. “What is it to me?” he thought. “Let me do what I came for and be on my way.” He took the necessary details. One question was, “How many children do you have?” She said, “Twenty‑two.”

Now he was shocked again. “Madam, are you truly a nudist—or do you just never get time to put your clothes on?”

These disturbances have big families. There’s a saying: trouble never comes alone; it brings a crowd. Trouble is like the Kumbh fair—if one arrives, more are on their way. They say: if a single flower blooms, spring has come. Whether or not that’s true for flowers, for trouble it is. When one trouble comes, know that soon there will be a web of troubles.

The greatest trouble the past brings is the future. The future is only the shadow of your past. Out of what you have lived, you trim and tailor a future. You prune what was unpleasant, you magnify what was pleasant. What is the future? You don’t know. If you knew, it would not be the future. The future is the unknown. But the past is known, so from the known we infer about the unknown. We select from the known—choose the agreeable, drop the disagreeable—and weave colorful dreams of tomorrow. You remove thorns and keep the roses.

But this is our delusion: thorns and roses come together. It is impossible to discard only the wrong and keep only the right. Right and wrong were one, entwined. If they come, they come together; if they go, they go together—two sides of one coin. You cannot preserve one side.

So on one side the burden of the past—its rocks placed on our chest. On the other, the burden of the future. You cry over the past—“why didn’t it happen this way?”—and soon you’ll cry over the future, because that too won’t happen your way. Between these two millstones man is ground. And neither has any existence.

Past is that which has gone—no more. Future is that which has not come—not yet. Between them is a tiny point of existence—like a drop. Without awareness you will miss it.

This maxim is sweet. It is the very definition of sannyas.

“Bhaviṣyaṁ nānusaṃdhatté.”
Do not investigate the future. Do not chase what is not.

Leave aside ordinary people—those you call extraordinary, those you worship, they too chase the unreal. Even Rama runs after golden deer! Let others be—he loses Sita who was in his hands. Ravana is not so much at fault; he’s blamed in vain. Look closely at the story; Ravana’s fault is negligible. If there’s fault, it’s Rama’s—chasing a golden deer.

Even the dullest man knows there are no golden deer. The simplest villager says the world is mirage. See the irony! The common man says “the world is a mirage,” and Rama runs after a golden deer. What greater mirage could there be? He loses Sita.

Whenever I see a picture of Rama, Lakshmana, and Sita, I feel it is a picture of future, present, and past. Rama in front, Lakshmana behind, Sita in the middle. Rama is the past—the worshiper of what is gone. Hence he obeys Dasharatha without question. No thought, no inquiry, no asking, no doubt.

Dasharatha’s demand was not worthy of obedience; it called for rebellion. Had Rama rebelled, India’s story would be different—its life’s meaning, its history different. Had Rama rebelled, India would not have lived so long in slavery and suffering. But Rama accepted something fundamentally unjust. Fourteen years of exile—without cause. Dasharatha was old; in old age he married again, a fourth wife, young. Often old husbands get entangled with young wives—what to say of the old when even the young get entangled! In that dotage he yielded to the young wife’s whim—utter unconsciousness. Rama is a worshiper of tradition. “The rule of the Raghu line has always been this.” He props up rite and custom—even if injustice is involved, no revolt. In a land where those who worship injustice are worshiped, misfortune is assured. Rama is the symbol of the past.

Lakshmana is feverish for the future. Remember Sita’s swayamvara—Lakshmana keeps springing up, eager to break the bow. He has to be restrained again and again. He pays no heed to the elder brother’s presence. Rishis restrain him: “Stop.” That’s the job rishis have always done—what harm if the poor fellow had broken it? But they stop him: “Not you.” He is rushing headlong, future‑oriented. Rama faces the past; Sita, tender, is in the middle—the present.

In this verse for the present the phrase is “vartamāna nimeṣam”—a mere twinkling.

Understand the word nimeṣa. It indicates that slice of time which cannot be weighed or measured. Not seconds, not minutes. Nimeṣa means beyond comparison—so small our measures become gross, our scales coarse. As physicists say, when we explode the atom and catch electrons, they have no weight; they cannot be weighed. That which cannot be weighed should hardly be called matter. In English the word for material is “matter.” It is an important word, more telling than “substance.” Matter comes from meter—what can be measured. Matter means that which is measurable. But the electron can’t be weighed, can’t be measured—by scales or inches; there is no way. It is so subtle our tools become crude. It slips beyond comparison.

So the final indivisible segment of time is called nimeṣa—beyond measurement, without magnitude—no sooner here than gone; in truth, neither coming nor going.

Two new hunters went out. They were ready, guns cocked. A rabbit leapt from one bush to another. Both were primed—yet they missed. One asked the other, “What happened? I was ready, you were ready; fingers on the triggers—what went wrong?”

The second said, “What can I say? When the rabbit had already gone, then I saw it! It moved so fast that while it was passing, I missed; when it was gone, it occurred to me—ah!—but then it was too late. No point firing.”

Such is nimeṣa. By the time you notice it, it is gone. The moment you recall, “This present!”—it’s gone; it has become past. It can only be lived, not known. Or say: living is the only way of knowing it. If you try to know first, it becomes past. Hurry, and it remains future. Delay even a little, and it becomes past. And you will delay, for the mind has not such speed. You’ve heard the mind is very swift, but the instant called the present moves faster still. Before it the mind is nothing—left far behind.

This sutra is the foundation of sannyas: “Bhaviṣyaṁ nānusaṁdhatté”—do not chase the future. It is a golden deer.

But we all run after it. Different golden deer—some after wealth, some position, some liberation, some God—but running. No one is here; everyone’s eyes are there. What has to happen is here, and the eyes are there. Hence you and your eyes fall out of step. Your feet move one way, your eyes another.

A famous Greek tale: a great astrologer, studying the stars at night, fell into a well—no steps or parapet. His eyes were glued to the distant stars; he tumbled in. Only then did he come to his senses and cry out. Dark night, deserted path, the village far behind. In a hut in a field an old woman, a watch‑keeper, was sleeping. Hearing the shout she came, threw down a rope, and with difficulty pulled him out.

The astrologer thanked her profusely. “Listen, you may not know—I am Greece’s greatest astrologer. My pronouncements about the future, through the stars, never go wrong. Emperors come from afar to ask their fate. My fee is in the thousands. But I will tell your future for free, because you saved my life.”

The old woman laughed. “Son, don’t trouble yourself. I won’t burden you.”

He said, “No, no—no burden. Come tomorrow. Here’s my address. Ask anyone in Athens—every child knows my house.”

The old woman said, “I won’t come, son. Why should I ask my future from you? You could not see the well a step ahead—what will you tell me? You didn’t know your own future—that today you would fall into a well; that you should walk carefully today, or better, not walk at all. What can you tell me?”

The story is remarkable. It hit him so hard, and the point was so clear, that he gave up astrology. The truth was plain.

Something similar happened in Jaipur. People brought an astrologer to me. His fee was one thousand and one rupees—he wouldn’t even look at a hand for less. He said, “Do you know my fee?” I said, “Whatever it is...”

He said, “No, let me tell you—one thousand and one.”

I said, “Don’t worry; I’ll give you one thousand and two. You’ve come all the way; you shouldn’t go empty‑handed. Read my hand at leisure.”

He said some odds and ends—set phrases astrologers say to everyone, which prove right for all. You have to tweak them a bit, and speak them in a way that allows room to maneuver—vague and roundabout. When it was time to go, he waited for his fee.

I said, “Now you may go. I have other work.”

He said, “I’ll go—but the fee!”

I said, “You should have thought of that before. You should have looked at your own hand before leaving home.”

He said, “What do you mean?”

I said, “I mean I’m not going to pay you. You should have known from reading my hand that this man won’t pay. In truth, you have wasted my time—pay me my fee. You are downright foolish: you don’t even know whose hand you’re going to read today, and whether you’ll get paid!”

But this astrologer was not as intelligent as the Greek one. I hear he still practices. The Greek gave it up. The point was clear: his eyes were fixed on the stars; he couldn’t see a step ahead; he fell in a well—what could he know of the future?

The future, by its very nature, cannot be known. The past is what is known. All your bustle about the future is based on the past. You build the stair out of the past. Between the two runs that tiny, twinkling instant—so swift that if you stay entangled in past and future you will go on missing it. And that alone is truth.

“Bhaviṣyaṁ nānusaṁdhatté nātītaṁ cintayaty asau.”
Nor brood over the past. What is gone is gone. Why unravel it now? You cannot make it otherwise. Do what you will, not a grain can be changed. What cannot be changed—why worry? And what has not yet come—nothing can be done about it now. Yet we are trapped in both. Their name together is the world.

The world is not a market, not a shop, not family. The world is the spread of past and future—past as memory, future as imagination. Between them you are dying. This is your world.

I too tell my sannyasin: leave the world. But not the world old renunciates fled. They were escapees, escapists, cowards. They showed their backs to life and missed the opportunity. I say: leave this world—mind is the world; past‑future is the world. Drop it and live in the present—now, here.

Contemplate the beauty, the incomparable grace, of being here and now. No past, no future. In that stillness, that steadiness, is meditation, is sannyas. In that steadiness there is purity, innocence. There is awe, wonder, mystery. There is the vision of God, freedom, nirvana.

And this Yogavasistha verse is all the more significant because it makes clear it could only define my sannyas, not the old. For the old renunciate not only thinks of the future—more than the worldly man he frets over a grander future: What after death? What in heaven? How many heavens? Will I get moksha or not? By which merits can I enter heaven? When will God be realized?

The race after money at least ends here—in death. But the chase after liberation, God, Brahman—there is no end. That future is boundless. He is, in my view, even more worldly—his mind is bigger. You worry about this life; he worries about past lives too—the sins and karmas of previous births to settle and account for.

Your past and future are limited—past from birth to now, future from now to death. Not too much. If you live seventy years, then roughly half past, half future—if you are in midlife. But think of your so‑called holy man: “I have passed through 8.4 million wombs.” What mischiefs must he have done there! All to be accounted for, balanced to the last grain. His past is vast. There is no chance of ever untangling it. And it’s not only human—he was all manner of creatures. He was a fish, a worm. What riots must he have caused!

I heard one worm say to another, “Ah! So this is love at first sight. I’ve fallen for you.”

The other said, “You fool, I am your other half—don’t talk nonsense!” Worms have two mouths; it was his own second end. “Don’t babble.”

You will have been worms too. Who knows what “love at first sight” you’ve had—at times with yourself! Wild beasts too. What have you not been? From stone to man, a long journey. All this to be tabulated!

No wonder your sadhu is so gloomy, so anxious, so tormented. No peace by day or night. Where can he rest? And I speak of resting in the soundless. Where can he rest—he has only worry. His future does not end with death; it stretches on.

Between these two endless journeys, his present—this mere twinkling—will be crushed like a jasmine blossom between two rocks. He will never even come to know it.

No—the verse speaks of my sannyas. Drop the past; drop the future. And the second half applies only to my sannyasin: “Vartamāna nimeṣaṁ tu hasann evānuvartate”—follow the present instant laughingly.

Laugh. Rejoice. Be festive. Live absorbed in delight.

This cannot apply to the old renunciate. “Live laughingly in the present”—he would say even the Yogavasistha has become corrupt. I am corrupt, of course.

People read the Yogavasistha and many scriptures without grasping their meaning. If they understood, they would be startled, amazed—for their beliefs would clash with the scriptures’ original intent. As it must be, because scriptures are born of those who have known.

Only one who knows can say this. One who lives in the present moment, intoxicated, carefree, jubilant; whose every pore is dissolved in dance, whose every particle sings—that one is a sannyasin.

But look at your so‑called renunciates—their faces ring with perpetual midnight; always funereal. As if they have forgotten how to laugh for centuries. And how can they laugh? The burden of 8.4 million births! So many accounts to settle. Karma upon karma piled up, and more each day. Mistake upon mistake daily. A long journey still ahead; dust already thick and more to gather. See their plight, their tragic breath. Where can they laugh? Only one who has no past, no future, can truly laugh; for whom the present is all. What worry, what burden, what grief, what mourning? For him life is celebration.

Certainly, Sahajanand, this verse of the Yogavasistha points exactly to what I say—and very clearly. Whoever said it must have been a knower, an awakened one.

Remember one thing about scriptures: ancient texts are not written by one person but by many. They are compilations. Things were added over time—sometimes by the ignorant too. Alongside the wise, the words of the unwise got mixed in.

Therefore in my talks you will often find apparent contradictions. I will support this verse of the Yogavasistha and oppose another, and you will be puzzled: if one verse is right, should not all be right? They cannot be, because they did not all spring from the same energy.

I may support one Vedic verse and oppose another with equal force. If you see contradiction, it is your mistake. There is none. These are anthologies.

So many texts are under Buddha’s name that it is impossible one man spoke or wrote them all. So many under Vyasa’s that it is impossible one man composed them all. Vyasa became an accepted brand; the name had prestige. Anyone who wanted his book to go would write Vyasa’s name. There was no printing, no copyright, no government control. You too could write a book, sign it “composed by Vyasa”—no one could object. Another Vyasa book would be launched. The brand helped. Under your own name, who would read, who would listen, who would believe? But if it was Vyasa’s, then it had to be accepted—even if wrong.

How many Ramayanas there are! From Valmiki to Tulsidas many wrote Ramayanas—with great differences. But it is Rama’s tale; the brand is strong—anyone writes Rama’s story and it spreads. People carry it on their heads. No one cares what is inside.

So when I support a verse, understand: I support that verse, not the entire philosophy of the Yogavasistha. There are many verses I oppose as strongly as I support this one. Because I have my own touchstone. I owe nothing to any scripture. What proves true on my touchstone is true; what doesn’t, isn’t. Gold I will call gold; clay I will call clay—even if the clay lies in the Yogavasistha. And if gold lies amid garbage, I will still call it gold.

So if you find contradictions in my words, don’t hurry—reflect. There will be reasons.

For this verse I put no conditions; I accept it unreservedly. It is my own statement. It is what I tell you every day: learn to live in the instant, in the moment. If you want the flowers of joy to bloom in your life, the fragrance of festival to arise, and God to surround you and dance with you in abandon, this is enough. This is the whole process of meditation. Free yourself from the past. The past has not held you—you have held the past; so you can drop it whenever you wish. The present is here; there is no need to go searching. And the future is not—what obstacle is there in dropping it?

But people are strange—what is not, even that is hard to drop. The fist is empty, yet you fear to open it lest it be revealed as empty. Keep it clenched, and at least you preserve the hope “there must be something, otherwise why would I hold it?” People fear opening even their own fist lest it appear empty. But it is your fist—you already know it is empty. Open it or not.

The future is not; there is nothing to drop. The past is gone; there is nothing to drop—it has dropped. What is, you cannot drop even if you try. Yet see the mischief: entangled with what is not, missing what is. And what is—that is just another name for God.

Anand!
Satyam vai chakshuh. Truth is not a thing; truth is a way of seeing—a pure way, an innocent way. An eye with no veil over it, no smoke over it; an eye that is without thought.

If someone is a Hindu, then his eye cannot be true. If someone is a Muslim, his eye cannot be true. If someone is a Christian, his eye cannot be true. If the eye is to be made true, then being Christian, Hindu, Muslim has to be set aside. The eye must be clear, impartial, free of prejudices.

But people are full of beliefs, and they try to see through those beliefs. And when you try to see through your belief, everything becomes untrue. Then you see what you want to see; not what is. And what must be seen is what is. The greatest difficulty of life—the greatest calamity—is that from birth we are enlisted into a process of distortion. Layer upon layer of curtains are laid over our eyes.

Now if a Jain goes into Krishna’s temple, the question of bowing down doesn’t even arise. He sees no glory at all in Krishna. His own notions are so strong that Krishna appears to him as nothing but a sensualist.

Krishna stands there playing the flute, wearing a peacock-feather crown, dressed in yellow silk, adorned with ornaments. There is also the image of Rukmini or Radha beside him. Just seeing this, a Jain’s mind immediately asks, “What kind of God is this? God must be veetrag—beyond attachment.” That is his notion: veetrag. He should be beyond raga, beyond passion. This is the very form of a ragi! This flute, this peacock crown, these beautiful garments, a woman standing beside him—these are all marks of passion!

Yes, when he looks at Mahavira, he melts with devotion. Standing naked. No woman near him; no clothing either. Peacock crown and flute are far away—there isn’t even a begging bowl. Mahavira was karapatri—he took his food in his hands. Cupping his palms, whatever fit there was his meal, and those palms were his bowl. Such a dispassionate one—he spontaneously bows.

But someone else—a Hindu—on seeing Mahavira is a bit startled: “What kind of God is this? What kind of Ishvara? The very meaning of the word Ishvara is aisvaryavan—the possessor of grandeur. The word Ishvara comes from aisvarya—sovereignty, opulence. He to whom all glory belongs is Ishvara! And this one stands stark naked—how is he God? He possesses nothing.” And the nakedness seems indecorous to him. He doesn’t see dispassion; he sees something else entirely: “At least keep some public decorum! Women and children also come here. Standing there stark naked! Wear at least a loincloth. What would be lost by wearing a loincloth?”

A Digambara Jain monk sits in such a way… Have you seen pictures of Digambara monks? Even the images of Mahavira in Jain homes are made this way.

I was a guest in a Jain home. There was a very beautiful painting of Mahavira. I said to them, “The painting is beautiful—but full of trickery!”

They said, “What trickery? Whoever sees this painting calls it beautiful. You are the first to call it beautiful and also full of trickery!”

I said, “Trickery because you have made Mahavira beautiful, but you have placed him behind a bush. And the branch of the bush passes just in front of him so that his nakedness is not visible. Then why not simply tie on a loincloth? Why carry such a big bush around! If you always have to stand behind a bush, that too is a bother. And what if you don’t find a bush? Or before you find a bush, someone else finds you! And if you have to carry such a bush with you, then you’ll need a truck with a tableau—like festival floats—with Lord Mahavira standing behind a bush! So much fuss!”

They said, “We never noticed that. It’s true—the bush has been painted in such a way that just his nakedness is hidden!”

They seat a Jain monk for a photograph cross-legged, and place a scripture in his lap—as if he is reading. As though these people do anything else for twenty-four hours! Whether they bathe or not—who knows—but whenever you see a picture, they’re reading a scripture! The scripture has to be put there. And not a small one either—a large scripture—to cover everything.

If it is only a matter of covering that much, what is wrong with a loincloth?

When a Digambara monk walks on the road, his devotees surround him on all sides. In the British era, in some cities there was a prohibition against their walking without prior permission from the police. And even then Jains had to form a ring around them so that their nakedness would not be visible to others. And the Jain monk himself carries a pichchhi—a broomlike whisk—and holds it in such a way…

What is the point? What is the purpose? For such a small matter, such a big pichchhi! What a tiny strip of cloth could do—why the pichchhi? But the same intelligence is at work in him and in those around him. Everyone’s gaze gets stuck right there: “Ah, a naked man is walking around!” No one feels, “He is beyond attachment—honor him, fall at his feet!”

Your notion overlays your eye; it covers it.

A wife was saying to Chandulal, “You men are so helpless! If we women weren’t there, who would sew your buttons?”

Chandulal replied, “Then there would be no need to sew buttons in the first place! Madam, it’s because of you that these buttons have to be sewn—otherwise we’d go about without any buttons at all!”

A man, ignoring the line of cars and the traffic policeman’s raised hand, calmly started crossing an intersection. Brakes screeched. The traffic cop, full of anger, came up to him and said, “Didn’t you see my raised hand?”

“Don’t I know what a raised hand means?” the man shouted. “I’ve been teaching children for over fifty years. If you need to go pee, go!”

Each one has his own way of seeing! The poor fellow has been teaching in school for fifty years: when children raise a hand, it means “I need to go for a short call.” Now the policeman has his hand raised. “You want to pee? Go ahead! What do I have to do with that?”

He was right in his own terms: “After fifty years of teaching I wouldn’t know what a raised hand means? If you need a short call, go! Am I stopping you?”

Once a certain way of seeing settles, that is all you see.

A girl’s father was showing his future son-in-law the family album. After fifty pictures of the clan, a photo of a robust old man appeared. With great pride the father said, “This is our ancestor, the founder of our lineage.”

“What was he?”

“I told you—he founded our family!”

The son-in-law asked, “Yes, I got that. I mean, what did he do during the day? He must have been founding the lineage at night, but during the day? Did he do any business or anything, or only found the lineage?”

People’s questions arise out of their way of seeing.

Dhabbhuji was going to Delhi for the first time. His friend Chandulal told him, “Friend, be careful—Delhi people are very crafty. Shopkeepers there are masters at throwing dust in customers’ eyes. They quote double the price of everything. So before buying anything, don’t forget to bargain.”

Dhabbhuji went to buy an umbrella. He asked the price. The shopkeeper said, “Twenty rupees, sir.”

Dhabbhuji immediately remembered Chandulal’s advice. He said, “At most I can give you ten rupees for this umbrella—not a paisa more.”

The shopkeeper said, “All right, do this—give me fifteen.”

Dhabbhuji said, “Now I’ll give only seven and a half.”

The shopkeeper said, “Look, you just said ten. Fine—give me ten.”

Dhabbhuji felt the shopkeeper was very crafty. He said, “Now I’ll buy it for five rupees only—not a penny more.”

Exasperated, the shopkeeper said, “All right—take it for free!”

Dhabbhuji said, “If you’re giving it free, then I’ll take two, not one! What do you take me for? You’re trying to throw dust in my eyes—palming off one free umbrella on me! I’ll take two—no less.”

This is the Shatapatha Brahmana’s sutra: “Satyam vai chakshuh.”

Truth or untruth lies in your way of seeing. Everything depends on your way of looking. If the eyes are filled with bias, then what you see will be untrue.

Let me remind you again: truth or untruth is not decided outside; the decision happens within you. Outside, things are as they are. But you will know truth if the eye is clear. And if the eye is tainted—like a jaundiced patient to whom everything appears yellow—if your eye has already decided something… And the eye that has already decided is blind.

I call that man blind whose eye is full of prejudice; and I call that man truly seeing whose eye is free of prejudice.

“Satyam vai chakshuh.”
The eye is truth. The essential thing is the eye, the seeing—not the seen world. The world is as it is. But different seers look in different ways. And as long as you have any particular way of looking, whatever you see cannot be truth; your way will be superimposed.

Meditation means freeing the eye from all ways; making the eye thought-free, choice-less, seedless. The eye should have no agenda of its own, not even a hidden yearning. Then what you see is truth.

“And truth is Prajapati.”
Truth is the divine. From truth the whole cosmos arises, in truth it lives, and into truth it dissolves—arises, lives, dissolves.

And you can see this truth right now. If you join the sutra of the Yoga Vasistha to this sutra of the Shatapatha Brahmana, your complete scripture of meditation will be formed.

“Satyam vai chakshuh.”
Truth is in the eye. The eye itself is truth. You must have the eye.

“Satyam hi Prajapatih.”
And the one who has known truth has known God.

And how will the eye become clear?

“Bhavishyam nanusandhatte.”
Do not pursue the future.

“Naatitam cintayatyasau.”
Do not worry about the past.

“Vartamana nimesham tu.”
In this blink of the present moment, just stop—be unmoving.

“Hasanneva anuvartate.”
Be delighted, be rejoicing. Dance! Sing! Turn this present moment into a tavern. Let this present instant become your wine. Drink—unhesitatingly, without any conditions. Then you will experience a new form of life—the way the seers knew it; the way the Buddhas recognized it; the way the Jinas lived it. Christ and Zarathustra and Buddha and Lao Tzu and Mahavira and Krishna will all become right for you at once. Yoga Vasistha and Shatapatha Brahmana and Ishavasya and the Dhammapada and the Quran and the Bible and the Zend Avesta will all become harmonized within you. Then you will not see them as separate; for you there will be no “religions,” only religiosity will remain.

Truth is one, therefore religiosity too can only be one.

Through this experiment of sannyas I want to fulfill precisely these two things: that your eye become clear, and that you settle in the present. Understand them as two sides of the same coin. Only if the eye is clear will you settle in the present; only if you settle in the present will the eye become clear. They depend on each other; they are mutually dependent.

Until this happens, as long as there is sorrow in life, life is hell. The moment it happens, life is heaven—liberation. Then God is not somewhere outside—he is in your every breath, in the beating of your heart.

Chandrakanta Bharti!
Once this happening begins, it does not end. Once this seed begins to sprout, it does not stop. The real difficulty is the breaking of the seed. Once the seed is broken, there will be a vast tree.

It is this very happening the Sutra of the Shatapatha Brahmana speaks of, that verse of the Yogavasishtha hints at—this dance.

“I feel no shame before the world;
today I danced with such abandon
that my anklet-bells broke.”

The bells are bound to break, because this dance knows no limits, knows no obstacles. This is not the dance of a miser. This is not about dancing carefully, step by step. It does not look to see whether the courtyard is crooked or slanted; it does not look for technique; it keeps no account of dance treatises—whether Bharatanatyam or Kathakali. Here all scriptures shatter. Here all rules collapse.

“I feel no shame before the world;
today I danced with such abandon
that my anklet-bells broke.”

The bells should indeed break. Whoever dances trying to save the anklets—what kind of dance will that be! He will only be busy saving the bells. Whoever keeps account of the world’s opinion—what dance will he dance! Ego will remain in his dancing. And what is dance? No petty event—it is a flood. When it comes, it carries everything away.

“I feel no shame before the world;
today I danced with such abandon
that my anklet-bells broke.
There is a new youthfulness in me...”

So it should be. When the eyes are new, everything becomes new.

“There is a new youthfulness in me,
and a little of love’s madness too...”

So it must be. Love without madness—impossible! Yes, madness can be there without love—that happens. But love without madness—no, that does not happen. Many are mad whose lives have no love. But there has never been a lover whose life lacked madness.

“There is a new youthfulness in me,
and a little of love’s madness too.
When I took your name,
my foot swayed in such a way
that the anklet-bells broke.”

They should break. Chandrakanta, it is happening perfectly. You have come onto the path. People will say you’ve gone astray, that your foot slipped; but I will say, what slipping of the foot—wings have grown.

“Every languid stretch of my body says,
I have stolen my Beloved’s sleep.
I have been given the body of moths,
I have been given wings to my longings.
I had gone in as a thief,
but my anklet was fragile...”

This very work is thievery! That is why we gave one of God’s names as Hari. We have given God many names. No country has given as many names to the divine as this land has. There is an entire scripture, the Vishnu Sahasranama—only a list of names. A thousand names—and a thousand is merely a symbol, a symbol of the infinite. That is why we say that when samadhi happens, the sahasradal lotus, the thousand-petaled lotus, blossoms. A thousand is the symbol of the endless. All those names are dear.

One name is most wondrous: Om sannyasakrite namah—salutations to the One who created sannyas. What a marvellous name! You have heard he created the world—but he also created sannyas.

Even more wondrous is the name Hari. Hari means the thief, the one who steals. God is a thief—not only a butter-thief; how silently he steals the heart—you don’t even know when it happens!

A few days ago a beautiful German girl took sannyas. I gave her the name Haridasi. I was explaining the name to her—she was very innocent—and when I told her that Hari means: God quietly steals the heart, she exclaimed, “Oh!” and put her hand on her heart. I said, “Now you’re placing it there in vain—gone! It’s no longer there.”

I asked her, “How many days will you stay now?”
She said, “What shall I say! Now I myself don’t know. The question now is: how will I go? If the heart is gone, everything is gone.”

You have come rightly, Chandrakanta. This is the way to come.

“I had gone in as a thief,
but my anklet was fragile—
and the anklet-bells broke.”

One has to go as a thief. God has to enter you as a thief, and you have to enter God as a thief. But however carefully you go, the anklet-bells start to sound; not only do they sound, they break! There is a commotion; the matter becomes public. However softly you go, however silently you go, however much you try to hide it—this thing cannot be hidden.

Chandrakanta! It is going well. The foot swayed, the anklet-bells broke, wings have sprouted on your longings—you have set out on the path. Your eyes will grow ever more pure. The past will be lost, the future will be lost; only this incomparable moment of the present will remain. And in that very moment—where there is no past, no future—you too will be gone. For now the anklet-bells have broken; soon you too will break. This “I”-sense will break. And where the “I” is gone, there God is.

As long as the “I” is, God is not; and when the “I” is not, God is.

Enough for today.