Bahutere Hain Ghat #4

Sahajanand, growing old is very easy. Do nothing and you will grow old anyway. The irreligious grow old, the religious grow old; sinners and saints; virtuous and unvirtuous. Growing old is not an art. Animals grow old, birds grow old, trees grow old, mountains grow old. Vindhyachal is Earth’s oldest mountain—so old its back has bent. From that bent back came the story that when the sage Agastya went south, Vindhya bowed to salute him. Agastya said, “Stay bowed till I return,” and he never did. Ever since, poor Vindhyachal remains bent. The truth is: Vindhya is the oldest, and the Himalayas the youngest.

Mountains grow old, trees grow old, birds and animals grow old, humans grow old. Old age in itself is not a virtue; it carries no intrinsic worth.

So the aphorism says, “A gathering without elders is no assembly.” Taken at face value, it is simply wrong. But it can be read more deeply. I cannot guarantee that this deeper reading was the Mahābhārata’s intent, because the rest of the verse is full of shallow notions. Still, even shallow sayings can be used as indicators, as signposts for you.

I am not concerned with what the Mahābhārata “meant.” I am concerned with what meaning will serve you. I care about you; what have I to do with the Mahābhārata?

So I take “vṛddha” to mean mature, not merely old. One whom life’s experience has ripened—whatever the age. Shankaracharya died at thirty-three—not “old”—yet a maturity there which many old men never touch. Jesus was killed at thirty-three—not old. By the literal sense, Jesus and Shankaracharya would not even qualify to sit in an assembly. From “sabha” (assembly) comes “sabhya”—civilized: one fit to sit in a gathering, who knows how to sit, listen, understand. From “sabha” also comes “civilization”: the style, discipline, and order of those fit to sit together.

This has nothing to do with age, because the oldest devils are found among us, and sometimes the youngest saints too. In truth, if one cannot be a saint while young, what hope is there in old age? When there was energy, courage to meet life’s challenge, capacity to set out toward the unknown—if one did not then take wing toward the summits, if when one could fly and the heart dreamed of touching the stars one hid in the nest—do you imagine he will set out for the Infinite when he is broken, dilapidated, a ruin? Having clung to his little nest a lifetime, will he at the final hour abandon his arrangements and securities and set off for that far shore which may or may not be? Impossible.

So understand me: by “elder” I do not mean age. I mean one tempered and refined in life’s fire—at whatever age. Sometimes small children have attained truth—easily—because their inner page was still blank, their mirror unclouded.

Hence Jesus repeatedly said: Blessed are those who are like little children, for they alone shall enter the kingdom of my God.

If I had to choose between the Mahābhārata and Jesus here, I would choose Jesus. There is more truth, more fierce fire there, a living ember. But we can give “vṛddha” a new facet, a new meaning—as we always should. If diamonds can be cut anew, why not words? Old diamonds can be given fresh luster and sparkle. As far as I can, I give old truths a new gesture, a new expression; where it is impossible, I refuse—without relish, out of necessity.

So I will not take “elder” to mean aged. In the Mahābhārata it likely did mean aged; traditional India divided life into four stages: twenty-five years of study, then twenty-five of householder life, then twenty-five of forest-dwelling, and finally after seventy-five—sannyas. Only the old had the right to renounce; tradition relied on them to preserve it.

The old lack the fire to rebel. Their inner flame has long gone out; not even a spark remains, only ash. You can trust such old men—vested interests do. They will repeat the tradition and the scriptures; not stray an inch; stick to the line. In old age they will not dare to invite trouble, to challenge established values. A yellowing leaf trembles; even a puff of air can unseat it. It will cling harder than ever to the tree, as long as it can. Fear of death suffices to make it accept heaven and hell, God without doubt. Doubt needs a touch of youth. To question heaven and hell, one needs a little distance from death. The yellow leaf trembles—will it deny? Will it fight? With what strength? Whatever little strength remains will be used to clutch the tree longer.

So all old societies—and ours is among the oldest—decreed that elders alone should teach, for they will repeat what centuries have said, never go against tradition. You can rely on them. They are reactionary. They have already died; they only parrot what they have heard.

Vested interests lean on the old. Hence the insistence everywhere on honoring the old, while slighting the child and criticizing the young. In truth you have denied life and honored death. The old stand near death, receding daily from life. Life is dust behind; darkness of death lies ahead.

A society that honors the old is honoring death. Honor should go to the child; even more to the youth; still more to the mature. And if one has lived life in a revolutionary way, then in old age his old age will be ripeness.

Buddha grew old—eighty-two. Yet even at eighty-two the same fire! His last message: “Be a light unto yourself.” No insistence on tradition or scripture or second-hand nonsense.

Socrates was given hemlock at eighty. Even dying, his mind remained youthful. The poison was being prepared outside; his disciples were weeping. He told them, “Cry later. What’s the hurry? It’s near six. They will bring the cup at six. You have a lifetime to weep. Be with me a little longer. Soon I will not be here. Cry later, whenever convenient. Now laugh, now speak. Celebrate—while I am alive! I am still young! I have not yet died! And who knows the next moment—what’s the rush? There are only two possibilities.”

See this: the poison is being ground outside, its harsh rasping audible; the cup nearing readiness as the sun nears the horizon. Yet there is no clinging, no anxiety. And what Socrates said is worth pondering. It is the statement of a man on the verge of death.

He said: There are only two possibilities—why weep? Either the atheist is right: when you die, everything ends; nothing remains. If nothing remains, what is there to fear? Who fears? If I do not remain, what is there to worry about? A bubble bursts—so be it. A story ends—so be it. A dream dissolves—what was there in it anyway?

If the atheist is right—this was Socrates’ way of thinking—then stop crying. The atheist says I am not; therefore I will be extinguished. What is not should cease to be. If the theist is right, that the soul is immortal and only the body falls away, again there is nothing to weep about. I am not the body. If the theist is right, I am the soul; the soul is immortal. In either case, bid me farewell with joy.

This is a youthful yet mature mind. So fresh, like a newly washed mirror. And so ripe that even with death knocking, there is no tremor within.

If a man dies at ease because he “believes” the soul is immortal, it may only be belief, not knowing—an autosuggestion. Likewise a convinced atheist may die unafraid. Belief is belief.

Socrates’ maturity is unique: no belief. Beliefs are for the simple-minded. The intelligent live moment to moment, meeting life’s challenge as it comes. Death is not yet known; there are two options. Socrates says, “How can I tell you about what I have not known? Whether I will remain or not I will know only by dying. If I can, I will tell you as I die.”

And he did. The poisoner delayed; he too loved Socrates. But he had a job: to grind and serve the hemlock to the condemned. Socrates said, “You are late.” He rose, went to the door: “You’re taking too long. One should be efficient. Whatever one does should have order and grace.”

The cup is for himself! An old man would beg, “A little longer. Let me cling to this tree a moment more. I am a yellow leaf.” Socrates was annoyed: “The sun has set, and you are late; this is improper.”

The man’s eyes filled: “I delayed so that such a man might live a little more.”

Socrates said, “I have seen life. Now I want to see death. I have lived fully, drunk deeply. I have taken all life could give. Don’t detain me. Death’s boat is at the quay. Let me board and see what death is.”

He drank and lay down. His disciples dared not wail. As night gathered, their tears fell—Socrates could no longer see. And he kept reporting: “My feet are going numb, yet within I find myself intact. It is silent to the knees; I feel no touch there—Socrates up to the knees is dead. But my consciousness is whole.” Then: “Up to my thighs, I am dead.” Then: “My hands are cold; I do not feel them; yet my awareness is untouched.” Then: “My heartbeat is slowing, but I am not sinking; in fact, I am more radiant. I am not dying; it is like new life—as if the snake sheds its skin; I am freed of a prison.” Then: “My brain too is going blank; this may be my last statement, my tongue is faltering. Remember: though the brain dims and the tongue stumbles, I am steady within—utterly still, such silence as never before. I am blissful. I cannot die. Everything else has died—and in this backdrop of a dead body I experience my immortality. I am amrit.”

That is maturity. Age is irrelevant. Jesus at thirty-three was mature; Socrates at eighty; Mahavira around eighty-two; Buddha around eighty-two. Age has nothing to do with it. Then the sentence becomes true:

na sā sabhā yatra na santi vṛddhāḥ—
A gathering without elders is no assembly—where there are no mature ones, no truly ripened ones; not cowards and escapists who turned their backs on life, not “Ranchooddasjis” who fled the field.

Why should I ask for prayers to die?
Who cares to beg for life?
Whether this world or the next,
Who still longs for any world?
Why should I ask for prayers to die?

The fire you lit in me,
Tears doused it once,
But the fire my tears have kindled now—
Who can cool that blaze?
Why should I ask for prayers to die?

When my boat was whole and sound,
Who wanted any shore?
Now in a shattered boat like this,
Who can desire a shore?
Why should I ask for prayers to die?

The world has left me, heart of mine;
Why shouldn’t I leave the world?
I’ve seen through the world and settled it:
Now who will keep chanting “world, world”?
Why should I ask for prayers to die?

Truly, the mature have neither the craving to live nor the longing to die. That is the touchstone.

There is one religion in the world—Jainism—that allows its monks to die voluntarily, granting permission that when a monk feels there is no meaning in living, he may renounce food and water and slowly waste away. This is suicide—and it reveals the culmination of Jainism’s outlook. Jainism is perhaps the most life-denying religion; hence its final outcome is to accept suicide, not only accept it but honor it.

Just now in Karnataka, lakhs were spent bathing Bahubali’s colossal statue in milk—perhaps the largest statue on Earth, astonishing in artistry. But you will be surprised why it exists: because of santhara/sallekhana—the Jain term for self-willed death. Bahubali undertook sallekhana, fasting to death; thus this huge statue was erected in honor. So great is the honor that neither Mahavira nor Neminath nor even Rishabhadeva, the first Tirthankara, has such a statue.

And you’ll be startled: Jains recognize only twenty-four Tirthankaras; only those twenty-four are called Bhagwan. Bahubali died by his own hand; he is not a Tirthankara; no scripture calls him Bhagwan. Yet by fanfare he has been called “Bhagwan Bahubali”—for the sole reason that he renounced life by his own hand.

Think about it. Only one who is bored with life seeks to discard it. Boredom is not a high state; it is not bliss, not the flowering of life. Boredom only shows you lived wrongly, remained unfamiliar with life; and now, so bored, you pin your hope on death: having found nothing in life, perhaps death will yield something. The hope, the craving, has not died. What you could not fulfill in life you want to fulfill in death? If you could not do it over a long life, how will you do it in a single instant? Death is beautiful only for one whose life has been supremely beautiful; death is life’s crescendo, the final note of the flute. One who has tuned the flute through life, whose rhythm and melody are awakened, alone can sing and dance his way into death. He need not arrange to die—arrangement is craving. When death comes, he embraces it with joy, as he embraced life. No dilemma, no duality.

So the honor given to Bahubali is honor paid to death. But death is never presented plainly; it is camouflaged. We hide behind words. Jain monks go naked, yet are not called naked; they are called “Digambara”—clad in the sky. If someone else is naked, he is naked; if they are naked, the sky is their garment!

How much we hide behind words! We hide suicide behind “renunciation,” “liberation from life.”

But one who is freed of life has no desires left even in death. Socrates is far more alive, more luminous, filled with awareness. Make as large a statue as you wish of such Bahubalis, but those stones conceal something else: your veneration of death.

And that same veneration is hidden in this aphorism: “A gathering without elders is no assembly.”

Then the real assembly would be of corpses. Better still, of ghosts! Where one leg is already in the grave—elder; where both are in—great elder; where they have long been in the grave—beyond praise! And these are celebrated.

Next the verse says: vṛddhāḥ na te ye na vadanti dharmam—
“Those who do not teach dharma are not elders.”

But dharma can neither be taught nor told. Those who teach dharma are pundits, not elders—in my sense. In my sense, only the awakened are elders. And the awakened do not explain dharma; they live it. Sit with the Buddha and dharma becomes infectious. As sickness is contagious, so is health; as sorrow is contagious, so is joy. There is no “telling.”

vṛddhāḥ na te ye na vadanti dharmam—
Taken literally, if those who do not expound dharma are not elders, then Lao Tzu is not an elder, for all his life he denied that anything said about Tao would be wrong. “Ask anything, but not about Tao. If you want to know it, taste it. Sit with me, walk with me, live with me. Perhaps the breeze will touch you.”

Dharma is a breeze, a wave! It may stir you; a string in the heart may sound. In some unforeseen moment—no one can predict when—your heart becomes as the Buddha’s heart for a moment; then attunement happens. The Buddha’s flute and your drum fall into rhythm; once that music sounds within, you can never forget it.

But no one can say when it happens.

Buddha would have announced before entering a village: there are eleven questions none should ask me. Among them fell all the unanswerables—dharma, truth, nirvana—everything you most want answers to. “These eleven are inexpressible. They can be heard only in silence, digested in silence.”

So I must change the meaning. I have taken “elder” to mean mature, awakened. Then I must take “vadanti” to mean: whose very presence speaks dharma; whose air carries it. Not language—silence is its language.

vṛddhāḥ na te ye na vadanti dharmam—
Those whose very presence does not breathe dharma; in whose sitting and rising, in the glance of whose eyes, in the gestures of whose hands there is no dharma; in whose presence you do not feel intoxicated with the wine of dharma, whose nearness does not bring a sway to your steps—know then, dharma is not there.

Prem Shakti has sent a poem as a question; it fits here. She says—

Everyone knows I’m no drunkard;
Still, if someone makes me drink—what can I do?
Only once our eyes met;
If every vow breaks—what can I do?

They think I’m a tavern-haunter
Because, like them, I stagger too.
But my every vein is drunk with love;
If they can’t understand—what can I do?

Seeing my condition, even they are afraid—
Someone has come, hair unbound.
Life and death both are stunned;
If my breath refuses to go—what can I do?

What craving, what habit, what fault?
O Lord, my self is drunk on losing myself.
Life is nothing but a kind of intoxication;
If they don’t know how to drink—what can I do?

Everyone knows I’m no drunkard;
Still, if someone makes me drink—what can I do?
Only once our eyes met—
If every vow breaks—what can I do?

Before an awakened one, all vows do break—because they were imposed by the blind who live in darkness. One glance with a Buddha and your whole life is transformed; then even if you try, you cannot undo it.

Prem Shakti asks: “Every moment I feel you near. Perhaps I’m mad—such a sweet intoxication stays; my way of living has changed.” There is a life of the un-intoxicated—sad, tired, bored, carrying one’s corpse on one’s shoulders, dragged by the crowd because everyone is moving that way. No insight, no direction of one’s own. The crowd bullies you; stopping is dangerous; changing course is difficult. The crowd honors those who behave like sheep, not like men. Crowds are made of sheep; and it is convenient for everyone that people remain sheep—then politicians can herd them, and priests too.

A railway carriage
Of the Toofan Mail.
Inside, bandits—
Guns and knives in hand.
Seventy-five passengers,
Among them one in khadi,
Looked like a fool, but was an MLA.
Since boarding he had been speechifying,
Praising the present government as the best.
Seeing the bandits, the passengers trembled;
The MLA did not fear.
He stood on his seat,
Addressed the terrified:
“Frightened brothers! Afraid sisters!
Don’t fear at the sight of bandits.
Guests have entered your carriage.
Give guests their due honor!
Valmiki was a bandit;
Krishna was a thief of butter,
He broke pots and played his flute.
This is India’s glory, our sacred tradition.
Who knows—among these may be a Valmiki,
Or a Krishna!
I bow to you
And, on behalf of all here,
Welcome you.”
He folded hands to the bandits: “Please loot.”
To the passengers: “Please be looted.”
The bandits began collecting
Gold ornaments,
Wristwatches,
Wads of cash—
All laid at the leader’s feet.
Glory to governance;
Before Dushasan, the Pandavas surrendered.
Passengers wept; some women wailed.
The MLA hushed them, giving assurance:
“Do not cry, dear ones, do not wail, mothers.
The policemen at the last station
Will arrive at the next.
They will write down who lost what.”
Silenced by this assurance,
People sat stunned,
Sighing inwardly,
Afraid to even breathe.
Suddenly the MLA broke the hush
With a smile:
“In the jungle there was a train
And in the train there is a jungle.
How auspicious this calm!
What a stillness!
No cry, no sound—
This is Ramarajya.”
The bandits, loot gathered, alighted;
The MLA moved to get off with them.
The passengers, enraged, grabbed him,
Tore his khadi to shreds.
They pulled his kurta—
From its pocket fell a revolver,
And under the kurta, a knife.
All cried out:
In the guise of an MLA, he too was a bandit.

Leaders want people to remain sheep—only then can they be slaughtered. Pundits also want sheep—only then can sacrifices be made.

Prem Shakti, you ask: Such intoxication has come that my way of living has changed. Family and relatives say: this is not sannyas, it is pretense—a strange madness. They say I have shattered their hopes, their tradition, their honor and reputation. My language no longer matches theirs. Again and again, from somewhere within, an unknown voice rises:

Everyone knows I’m no drunkard;
Still, if someone makes me drink—what can I do?
Only once our eyes met—
If every vow breaks—what can I do?

Families will be troubled. Their hopes are shattered. But what have their hopes ever yielded but disappointment? What did their hopes give their fathers and grandfathers? Rivers of hope always vanish into deserts of despair—yet a blind stubbornness persists. Every parent hands to the child the very diseases in which they rotted and died, yet with the egoistic demand that the child honor their “legacy.”

Honor? What honor? Life has been lived so wrongly that there is nothing but dishonor within. Yes, perhaps some “Bharat Ratna,” a mayor’s chair, certificates, gold medals—but these are deceptions. Inside, you are a pit, empty as you came, and empty you go. The papers will remain here; they have no worth.

Prem Shakti, they will be hurt; their traditions will break. But what has anyone ever gained from traditions—except slavery? Mira too shattered “honor” when she danced. Her family sent poison: “Drink and die, for you are staining our honor.”

Irony: had Mira not been born in that house, no one would remember it today. Who would recall Rana? Many such Ranas have come and gone. It is Mira’s presence that kept their name alive.

Think: had Buddha not been born, would you have heard of his father Shuddhodana? Many Shuddhodanas came and went. He ruled no great empire—hardly more than a sub-divisional officer. How many such officers are there! A small town, Kapilavastu—now only ruins—was his capital. India in Buddha’s time was fractured—two thousand “emperors.” Which names do you remember? Apart from Shuddhodana, what of the other 1,999?

Yet people keep to beaten tracks. They fall where they have always fallen; they don’t even invent new mistakes. So reactionary they cannot even create a new error.

So, Prem Shakti, obstacles will come. Your language will cease to match theirs. Anyone whose language has matched mine has found it no longer matches the world’s.

Thus, Sahajanand, I will call him “elder,” I will call him “Buddha,” in whose presence a glance brings intoxication; a touch brings a new thrill never known before; the heart takes a new rhythm and dance. The one who does not explain dharma, but lives it; near whom dharma becomes alive. That is how I will read it—whether or not it fits the Mahābhārata. I am not here to be endorsed by scriptures; if any scripture agrees with me, that is the scripture’s good fortune.

nāso dharmo yatra na satyam asti—
“That which has no truth is not dharma.”

Is that even worth saying? Truth and dharma are synonyms. Saying “Where there is no truth, there is no dharma” is like saying “An empty bottle contains no wine.” Even the blind can feel it: the bottle is empty—no wine, not even water. Truth is dharma.

But the Mahābhārata is trying to smuggle in the notion that truth lies in scriptures, and what scriptures say is dharma. Elders repeat the scriptures; therefore what they say is truth.

Then we have many truths, for Jain elders say one thing, Buddhist elders another, Hindu elders another, Muslim elders another, Christian elders another. Then there would be many dharmas and many truths. But truth is one; dharma is one. Dharma means the very basis of life—what life rests upon, the foundation-stone, without which there is no life. That is truth. Two words—one reality. To separate them has birthed mischief. Truth is dharma; dharma is truth.

But then a problem arises: whenever anyone proclaims truth, he will contradict the old scriptures, for those words have been overpainted by pundits with many layers; their original face is lost. Whenever truth is spoken, your so-called religions and scriptures will stand opposed.

To hint at this, the verse says, “Where there is no truth, there is no dharma.” I will say: Truth is dharma. But truth is not in scriptures, nor is dharma. Truth lives in the consciousness of one established in meditation. He who has known samadhi has known dharma. And this is always rebellion—a living among the dead; the sunrise of a sudden on a dark new moon night.

na tat satyaṁ yac chalelānuviddham—
“That which is laced with deceit is not truth.”

What triviality! Do we need to say that truth is not mixed with deceit? These are shopkeepers’ tricks, to claim “only our ghee is pure; all others are adulterated.” Jain scriptures say: only Jain scriptures are genuine; others false. Only Jain gurus are true gurus; others are quacks. Only Jain dharma is true; others are false—full of deceit.

The Mahābhārata is angling for the same claim: where there is deceit there is no truth. Yet the Mahābhārata is filled with deceit. Dronacharya is praised to the skies as “great guru,” yet find a more deceitful man if you can. He refused to teach Ekalavya because he was a shudra. Does truth care who is Brahmin and who shudra? If Drona were such a guru, could he not see Ekalavya’s potential? Ekalavya proved the truer seeker: he made Drona’s image in the forest and practiced before it. Even refusal did not shake his dedication. That is surrender—rejected by the guru, he did not reject the guru.

Soon it was reported that Ekalavya’s archery surpassed all the royal pupils; even Arjuna would be eclipsed. This “great guru,” this great Brahmin, this trainer of princes, went to claim “guru-dakshina” from a disciple to whom he had never given initiation! Is there no limit to dishonesty? Asking fees from one you refused to teach!

Had I met Ekalavya, I would have said, “Spit in his face! Fill this spittoon. That is his dakshina. He calls you shudra; he calls himself Brahmin. If even your shadow fell on him he would bathe.”

But the Mahābhārata praises Ekalavya too—for offering dakshina. And what did Drona ask? His right thumb. What greater deceit? Cut the thumb and archery ends; Arjuna’s rival eliminated—saving the rich by killing the poor. Ekalavya, who had nothing, offered everything; without a moment’s thought he cut off his thumb.

Drona is praised for refusing a shudra, and Ekalavya is praised for cutting off his thumb to a hypocrite. The lesson: gurus will always do such things, and disciples should comply—give even your neck if asked—by those who do not even consider you fit to be brushed off with their shoe.

And at the right moment this Drona betrayed Arjuna too—siding with the Kauravas because he thought the Pandavas could not win. Where there is victory, there goes the “wise.” He forgot Arjuna and the Pandavas—beggars now. Yet he is praised.

And Bhishma is praised. While the Kauravas and Pandavas gambled, he knew Shakuni had loaded dice; yet he remained silent. What is deceit if not this? The Pandavas lost everything. Draupadi was wagered; still he remained silent. When Duryodhana tried to strip her naked, Bhishma kept silent. Such weaklings, eunuchs—praised as if they were Buddhas! Krishna even advises the Pandavas to learn dharma from Bhishma as he lies dying—as though he were a sage! What is there to learn? And he fought for the Kauravas.

These books are riddled with trickery; these “scriptures” teem with plots. Why seek truth there? Avoid them, Sahajanand. If anything is worth salvaging in this verse, it is this: take “elder” to mean the mature, the awakened; take “teaching dharma” to mean living it, for that alone is its “teaching”; know that dharma and truth are one; and of course, it hardly needs saying that where there is deceit, there is no truth.

Do not console me—just sit by me;
My time of dying will be put off a while.
Is it not enough that the messiah is here—
Even death may change its mind.

Do not console me—just sit by me;
My time of dying will be put off a while.

The presence of a messiah is enough. There is nothing to say or explain. What can be said is not the great thing; the great slips beyond words—and that happens only in the presence of a living master.

Scriptures are dead—paper and ink. You can force any meaning; they lie in your hands, your slaves. A living master is not your slave; you cannot twist his words. Being with him is like walking a sword’s edge.

Do not console me—just sit by me;
My time of dying will be put off a while.
Is it not enough that the messiah is here—
Even death may change its mind.

Lift the veil from your face, O cupbearer;
The color of the whole gathering will change at once.
Those unconscious will awaken;
He who is about to fall will find his balance.

Saqi—cupbearer—is the Sufi symbol for the master, who pours divine wine, filling your cup from his inexhaustible jar.

Lift the veil from your face, O cupbearer;
The color of the whole gathering will change at once.
Those unconscious will awaken;
He who is about to fall will find his balance.

My plea will make him tremble—
My heart will ache, but still:
Is it not enough that he comes unveiled?
The dying one’s last wish will be fulfilled.

If you must preserve some dignity to your veil,
It is not proper to come and go before me.
This teasing with a wild one is not wise—
What will you do if he surges?

Pluck the flowers, gardener, in such a way
The branch does not shake, no sound is made.
Else spring will not return to the garden—
Every bud’s heart will be startled.

Therefore the master must tread very gently with the disciple.

Pluck the flowers, gardener, in such a way
The branch does not shake, no sound is made.
Else spring will not return to the garden—
Every bud’s heart will be startled.

Do not pull the arrow, heed me now;
Know this: the arrow is lodged in the heart.
If you pull the arrow, the heart will come with it;
If the heart comes out, the breath will go too.

Do not console me—just sit by me;
My time of dying will be put off a while.
Is it not enough that the messiah is here—
Even death may change its mind.

The true master is the elder—whatever his age. And the true master is one who has known the void. Yet he lifts his veil only for one who can endure the void. He reveals himself fully only to a bud ready to break open into a flower. Before becoming a flower, the bud must die as a bud.

Therefore the master is both a cross and a throne—death and the beginning of a new life.

Yet my entreaty to you is this—
Turn your gaze here as well.
In the moonlight of fair nights,
Never come unveiled;
I may manage to control my heart,
But a glance may commit a sin.
Yet my entreaty to you is this—
Turn your gaze here as well.
Is this veiling or a spectacle—
Dwelling within me, veiling yourself from me!
If you mean to ruin me,
Lift the veil and lay me waste!
Yet my entreaty to you is this—
Turn your gaze here as well.

Veena, my gaze is upon you. And what mistake have you fallen into? What illusion are you caught in?
You ask: ‘Lay waste the world of my heart.’
I have already laid it waste. Just look toward me... she looked! And where is any peace left? That I destroyed long ago.
‘Lay waste the world of my heart,
Ravage my peace,
Yet my entreaty to you is this—
Turn your gaze here as well.
My gaze is only on you.’
My gaze is toward all who are ready to be laid waste. Only toward them!
‘In the moonlight of fair nights,
Never come unveiled.’
Now it is already too late.
‘I may manage to control my heart,
But a glance may commit a sin.’
The sin has already happened.
‘Yet my entreaty to you is this—
Turn your gaze here as well.
Is this veiling or a spectacle’...
It is both. It is a game of hide-and-seek. Between disciple and master, this is something to be understood. It too is a divine play: to hide, to reveal, to hide again and reveal again. This is necessary. In this way, slowly, slowly the disciple ripens. Day and night both are needed. In the night a veil descends; in the day the veil lifts. It is necessary that for a while a veil fall upon the eyes. For when the veil falls, the work done so far ripens, becomes strong. And when it has become strong, the veil lifts again; then a new sprout, a new seed breaks open, new branches, new leaves, new buds! But again it is necessary that a veil fall. For whatever grows in life needs both—darkness and the sun.
That is why roots go toward darkness, into the depths of the earth. Without veils, without darkness, they cannot grow. And the branches of the tree rise toward the sky—toward the sun, the moon, the stars. Without light they have no movement. Light is their very life. Yet the flowers that will bloom on the highest branch—their sap too comes from the deepest darkness. It is necessary to understand this paradox of life.
‘Is this veiling or a spectacle’...
There is no question of “or,” Veena. It is both. A true master has to do both. He must give some darkness too, so that your roots become strong; and some light too, so that your flowers may bloom. That is why the work of the true master in this world is profoundly paradoxical.
Kabir has said: the true master is like a potter. When the potter places the clay on the wheel, from within he supports with one hand, and from without he gives blows with the other, gentle slaps. Only then, slowly, slowly... The inner support and the outer blows—these are paradoxical. On one side he strikes; on the other he soothes. And thus, little by little, a beautiful ewer is formed—an ewer that can be filled with wine! In just this way, with so much love he also strikes, with equal love he supports, with equal love he consigns you to the fire as well, for without the fire there will be no maturity.
You ask rightly; it is the sort of question every disciple should ask—
‘Is this veiling or a spectacle—
Dwelling within me, veiling yourself from me!
If you mean to ruin me,
Lift the veil and lay me waste!’
You must be ruined—and the ruining has already begun. But even ruining has its art. It must be done slowly, slowly; gently, gently. Do it all at once, and there is no joy. Why? Because on the one side there is to be ruin, on the other there is to be building. If it were only ruin, it would be a matter of a moment. But if there is also to be construction, creation, then it is a double task. So a little ruin, then a little creation, so that as something breaks it is also made; here it breaks, there it is formed. In this way, slowly, slowly, one day the old bids farewell and the new arrives.

Deendayal Khatri! He has also written a “P.S.”—
P.S.: “I’ve been here for some days; I don’t feel like leaving. I’m just smitten with you. I’m enjoying it. There’s also a lot of restlessness.”

That Parashuram annihilated the Kshatriyas was a great misfortune. No greater calamity has ever befallen the life of this country—because where the Kshatriya dies, the very chest of that country collapses. Where the Kshatriya dies, what remains?

By Kshatriya I don’t mean the caste. By Kshatriya I mean the daring ones.

Now you ask: “Parashuram swung his axe and wiped out the Kshatriyas, and then the Khatris were born. Here your axe and sharp knives are being used on me in such a way that I am being wiped out.”

I want to wipe out the Khatri, so that the Kshatriya can be born again. There is no other way. The mess Parashuram created has to be reordered. Each Khatri has to be undone. What is a Khatri, after all! Deendayal, from here you will be able to leave only as a Kshatriya. And you are already seeing the color of the Kshatriya, and his way too.

But the Khatri is timid. Your heart is liking it, digesting it. But the Khatri keeps saying in between that he has neither the intention nor the preparation to die just yet.

Will anything die according to your intentions and preparations? If I leave it to your intention, you will never die—you will remain a Khatri. The matter is slipping out of your hands now.

You say: “There is no way to escape you. I am being wiped out, dying, drowning, and there isn’t even a straw to cling to.”

I don’t offer even a straw. People are clutching at straws already. Is there any real support in straws? I want to give you a boat. Not a fake one—not paper, not scripture. I want to give you a boat that will take you across. Many are the ghats! I want to give you a landing, a boat.

You will have to be saved from being a Khatri. A Khatri will remain a coward—a Khatri is the corpse of a Kshatriya. If the Khatri’s shell falls away, the Kshatriya can appear at once.

My whole work here is to undo what society has done to you. The garments that have been thrown over you, the imitations that have been hung upon you—I want to strip them away. It will feel like dying, but this very death becomes the dawn of great life.

Now you say: “Now only you can rescue me!”

If you leave it to me, I will first drown you—because first the Khatri must be drowned. When I see the Khatri has completely gone under and only the Kshatriya remains, then I will draw the Kshatriya out. It seems the preparation is happening, because you say: “I’ve been here for some days; I don’t feel like leaving. I’m smitten with you.”

So the arrow has struck. And I never drive the arrow through completely; it stays lodged. You can’t pull it out, because its pain is very sweet. And in the end, one day or another, you have to pray: now finish it—let this arrow pass all the way through!

This arrow, lodged a little, gives pain, and a sweet pain. Slowly the sweetness will begin to be relished, and then courage will grow. And only when you yourself pray, “Let the arrow go all the way through now,” will it go through. That is the way to be saved. That is the way to cross.

And you ask: “What is to happen now?”

Now this is to happen—the arrow must pass through.

You ask: “What are your intentions?”

Not noble. I am not a man of good intentions. My intentions are dangerous, one more dangerous than the other.

Brought down from the sky,
killed while giving life.
Whoever loved—know this—
was slain without a “proper” death.

From my gathering, when he departed,
my heart went along with him.
Today, coming among the drinkers,
the cleric of the shrine was slain without a proper death.

Deceiving me with the promise of a shore,
I was landed at death’s ghat.
He whom even the wave could not kill
was killed by a single glance.

Brought down from the sky,
killed while giving life.
Whoever loved—know this—
was slain without a proper death.

Now you have fallen in love, Deendayal Khatri. And love is the greatest death in this world—but the real death! For from that death life sprouts; from that death life is refined into pure gold.

The lovesick patient—only his tale—
kept telling it till his last breath.
But when the story reached the night of sorrow,
the city’s lamps went out while still burning.

I intended to renounce love, but then,
ensnared by a smile, I returned.
Barely had I recovered from one stumble
than I stumbled again while steadying myself.

I wrote to her: my heart is restless.
Her reply came: do not love.
Who asked you to set your heart on me?
The heart will be consoled, little by little.

But there is a limit to breaking promises—
do the math in your own heart and see.
Doomsday arrived, bit by bit,
as the day of meeting was postponed again and again.

The lovesick patient—only his tale—
kept telling it till his last breath.

Now, deliverance from me is almost impossible, Deendayal. It’s up to you now: if you wish, keep postponing the day of meeting till the Day of Judgment. My invitation, from my side, has been given. Now the matter is in your hands.

But there is a limit to breaking promises—
do the math in your own heart and see.
Doomsday arrived, bit by bit,
as the day of meeting was postponed again and again.

No one will be able to say that I postponed the meeting. I am ready now—this very moment. It is you who tremble within, who are afraid. Naturally so—you are new here. A Khatri, and new at that! Even if you go, I will follow. I never let Khatris go. Once a Khatri comes here, he is in danger.

You say: “I’m smitten with you. I’m enjoying it. There is also a lot of restlessness.”

One has to pay some price for enjoyment. Restlessness comes along with delight.

Sitting in your tavern, let us at least have a cup filled.
Let us speak a little of God and a little of wine.

Voices are rising from every side:
flowers have blossomed in the garden—let us take in the fragrance.

Every day the wealth of love is plundered here—
let us risk our heads and behold God.

Sitting in your tavern, let us at least have a cup filled.
Let us speak a little of God and a little of wine.

Show this much readiness now. This neck you’ve been saving till now, this head you’ve been holding up—which has become burdensome, heavy—be ready to have it cut off. This brain, and the crowd of thoughts swirling in it, will keep you restless. If this head falls, all the energy flows into the heart. And the heart is a temple. And the one enthroned in the temple of the heart is God.

That’s all for today.