Bhaj Govindam #5

There is an ancient tale. In a dense forest an ascetic was absorbed in practice—eyes closed, ceaselessly immersed in remembrance of the Divine. He longed for heaven; neither hunger nor thirst concerned him. A poor, destitute young woman would come to the woods to gather firewood. Out of compassion she would pluck some fruits, fold leaf-cups, fetch water from the lake, and leave it all by the ascetic. On that alone the ascetic lived. Gradually his austerity grew even more intense—the fruits lay untouched; the water stagnated in the leaf-cups—he remembered neither hunger nor thirst. The wood-gathering girl grew sad and distressed, yet had no remedy.

Indra’s throne trembled; Indra became anxious: his tapas must be broken; this man is crossing the limits—does he intend to seize the throne of heaven?

But the difficulty wasn’t great, for Indra knows the human mind. From heaven, as if a breath descended—dry, poor, dark and scrawny, that girl was suddenly filled with incomparable beauty; as if a ray fell from the heavens and her ordinary body turned to gold. She was filling water at the lake for the ascetic when she caught her own reflection and could not believe it—no longer a mere woman, she had become an apsara; she was enchanted by her own image! She continued her service to the ascetic.

One day the ascetic opened his eyes. The time had come to leave this woodland hermitage—he must deepen his austerities, journey to mountain peaks. He told the girl, I will go now; my work here is complete. I must choose even harsher paths; I will conquer heaven itself.

The girl began to weep. Tears fell from her eyes. She said, What sin have I committed, that you deprive me of serving you? I have never asked for anything else!

The ascetic pondered and looked at the girl’s face. Never had he seen such beauty. Not even in dreams had he seen such beauty. She seemed both familiar and unfamiliar. The features were the same, yet a certain radiance had descended. The limbs were the same, yet some golden aura had encircled them. Like a forgotten line of a song, which a musician suddenly pours into the flute and brings alive.

The ascetic sat down. He closed his eyes again. He stayed.

That night the girl could not sleep—there was the ecstasy of victory and the remorse of having pulled down a holy man. She rejoiced that she had won, and grieved that she had corrupted someone, stood as an obstacle in someone’s path, spoiled the journey of one who had set out to ascend. She did not sleep—she both wept and laughed. At dawn she decided, came and bowed at the ascetic’s feet and said, I must go; my family is moving to another village.

The ascetic blessed her, Go, wherever you live, be happy; my blessing is with you.

The girl left. Years passed; the austerity was completed. Indra descended, bowed at the ascetic’s feet and said, The gates of heaven are open to welcome you.

The ascetic opened his eyes and said, Heaven—I have no need of it now!

Indra could hardly believe that any human would ever say, I have no use for heaven. So he thought, then perhaps the desire for liberation has arisen in this ascetic. He asked, Do you want moksha?

The ascetic said, No—what would I do with moksha, either?

Indra was about to place his head at the ascetic’s feet, for this was the ultimate—this is the final step of austerity, where even the desire for liberation disappears. But before bowing he asked, Beyond moksha there is nothing left—so what do you want?

The ascetic said, Nothing at all—where is that wood-gathering girl? I want her.

Don’t laugh; such is man’s weakness. Think—don’t laugh; the earth’s pull is that strong. Don’t pass the story off as a story; it is the whole anguish of the human heart. And don’t imagine that such a choice lay only before that ascetic—between a girl and heaven. The same choice is before you; it is before everyone—either choose pleasures that are momentary, or that which is eternal; either throw away the eternal for the fleeting, or dedicate the fleeting to the eternal.

And the majority will choose exactly what the ascetic chose. Don’t imagine you would do otherwise. Whether Indra appears before you or not; whether anyone explicitly sets heaven and earth before you as alternatives or not—the alternatives are there. And whoever chooses one inevitably loses the other. When the eyes are intoxicated with the earth, the awakening of heaven is missed. And whose hands are full of earth’s dust—even if heaven’s gold rains down, where will it fall? Hands must be empty for heaven to descend; the soul must be empty for the Divine to dwell.

If some attachment is already enthroned in your soul, if the throne is already occupied, do not say that God has been unjust to you; this is your own choice. If you do not find the Divine, do not blame the Divine; you have not chosen Him yet. For whenever, wherever, whoever has chosen Him—at that very instant He has been found—there is not even a moment’s delay. But if you do not want Him, He does not force Himself upon you; truth does not mount you by force. You have the freedom to deny truth for lifetimes upon lifetimes.

This is man’s dignity, and this is his misfortune. Dignity, because there is freedom—an incomparable freedom to choose; misfortune, because we choose wrongly.

But the possibility of choosing wrongly is inbuilt in freedom. There can be no such freedom in which you are free only to choose the right and not free to choose the wrong. That would not be freedom, it would be bondage. Freedom means the license to wander. Freedom means the license to sin. Freedom means the license to say no to God.

Buddha was born. On the fifth day, by custom, the finest astrologers assembled. They named him Siddharth. Siddharth means: the fulfillment of desire; the fulfillment of hope; the attainment of meaning; the arrival at the goal. In the house of old Shuddhodana a son was born. He had waited a lifetime, hoped, dreamed; had been disappointed many times; and now in old age a son was born—surely he was Siddharth. The scholars had named him rightly. There were eight great astrologers. The emperor asked, Will you also tell the future of this newborn? Seven raised their hands and indicated with two fingers. The emperor did not understand. He said, I don’t get it. Don’t speak in gestures—say it clearly. The seven said, there are two possibilities—either he will be a universal emperor, or he will renounce all, become dispassionate, a sannyasin; either a universal monarch or a completely detached renunciate.

Only one astrologer remained silent—the youngest. His name was Kondanna. But he was the most gifted. The emperor asked, You are quiet—you did not raise two fingers!

Kondanna said, Two fingers can be raised at anyone’s birth, because those two possibilities stand before everyone: the race of the world, or renunciation. Sannyas or samsara—these two alternatives face everyone. These astrologers have said nothing special if they raised two fingers for Buddha; I raise one finger: he will be a sannyasin.

But man’s unfortunate mind—Shuddhodana began to weep. This Kondanna is a renowned seer; he is young, but radiant; and his words never fail. With the other astrologers there was some consolation: he could become a universal emperor. Kondanna has broken the alternative. He says it is certain—he will be Buddha. With the seven the emperor did not weep; he was pleased—my son will be a universal ruler. The second possibility he gave no value at all—for when there is the option of being a universal emperor, who wants to be a sannyasin! But Kondanna has cut off that path; he has raised only one finger. Still, the emperor consoled himself: Kondanna is alone; seven astrologers differ. This is how we soothe our minds: the seven must be right, the one must be wrong. But the one proved right. And it is good he proved right.

At your birth too—whether astrologers were called or not—Nature raises two fingers. The whole of Nature lays two options before you—either be lost in stupor, or wake in awareness; either collect outside wealth and run to be a world-conqueror, or collect inner wealth and be established in the Self. Remember Kondanna’s one finger! No Kondanna will come to raise it for you; you will have to raise it yourself.

These aphorisms of Shankara are the subtlest gestures toward renunciation and dispassion.

“He whose forehead bears matted locks, who has shaved his head, who has plucked out his hair, who wears ochre garments, or assumes various costumes—if foolish, he remains blind though having eyes. Only to fill his belly has he donned many forms.”

Beware: the human mind is dangerous—it finds the world even in renunciation. It discovers hypocrisy even in the temple. It seeks indulgence even in practice. Whatever the outer covering, within, the mind keeps weaving its old web.

So Shankara says: if someone has matted locks, don’t be deceived. Nothing happens just from sporting jatas. If someone has shaved his head—don’t be deceived; and if others are deceived, let them be, but you don’t be deceived—whether someone shaves the head, grows the hair, or plucks it out… Jain digambara monks tear their hair out—don’t be deceived. If someone wears ochre, donning the saffron robe—don’t be deceived. And even if others are, don’t worry about them; you don’t be deceived. Because to wear ochre is easy, to pluck hair is easy—it’s a matter of a little practice. What difficulty is there in shaving the head? What obstacle in growing matted locks? A little practice, that’s all. But keep watch within—why is all this being done? Isn’t the world still running inside? Isn’t a business being conducted inside? Haven’t all these forms been adopted only to fill the belly?

Ninety-nine out of a hundred sannyasins are only feeding the belly. And if the belly had to be fed, the world was better—there was at least honesty there; a shop was better, for it was at least straightforward. If you were to run a shop, then a shop was appropriate—at least you wouldn’t corrupt the temple; ordinary dress was fine—no need to profane the ochre robe. If you wanted a haircut, the barber would do—no need to insist on plucking, that would be right. For if the mind’s commerce continues inside, outer disguises make no difference. The final arbiter is the inner mind—why are you doing what you are doing?

I heard a few months ago: two Jain digambara monks—naked, who have renounced all, who possess nothing—had gone outside a village at dawn to relieve themselves. They quarreled. They were guru and disciple. They attacked each other. In the fight the truth spilled out: both had hidden money inside the hollow handles of their pichchis—the peacock-feather whisks. They had bored out the sticks and stashed notes inside. The quarrel was over how to divide it.

Both were hauled to the police station. Their village devotees were distressed, pained—for it was not only the monks’ prestige at stake, but that of the devotees who loved them. They paid money to hush the police so the story wouldn’t spread.

A naked man too is doing exactly what a shopkeeper does. Better to sit in the shop, then. At least do not defile nakedness. No one is saying, Renounce the world. Renounce only if you truly are renouncing. If you leave it outwardly and hoard it inwardly, nothing will come of the deception.

“He whose forehead bears matted locks, who has shaved his head, who has plucked his hair, who wears ochre, or assumes various disguises—if foolish, he remains blind though having eyes.”

Why does Shankara say, he remains blind though having eyes?

Because whom is he deceiving! This is not about deceiving others; others have no part in this. He is deceiving only himself. In the final reckoning, what you are inside determines everything; what you are outside determines nothing. Life is determined by what you are within, not by what you are without. Inside, you are counting money; outside you are chanting Rama’s name. That Rama-chant is futile. It is the counting that counts. That will decide. Because there is no one else to decide, no other judge. What you are doing inside—that is deciding moment by moment. If there were a judge, we could coax him, fold hands, prostrate, ask forgiveness. But there is no judge. Nowhere is God sitting for you to persuade. What you have done—your doing is your destiny. The fruit is hidden in the deed itself. Your thinking is the whole basis of your being. As you have thought…

There is a beautiful story in Mahavira’s life: Mahavira stood in a clearing of the forest, absorbed in meditation. A childhood friend of his, a king, was coming to see him. On the way he saw another king who had become Mahavira’s disciple, standing in austerity by a rock. The three had been childhood companions. The visiting king felt deep remorse—how far behind I have fallen! Emperor Prasenachandra stands there—how silent, how still, how absorbed in unearthly bliss! And I am still counting coins. And Mahavira has attained the supreme state! I am unfortunate. A great urge to renounce arose in him.

When he reached Mahavira he said, I want to ask a question. I saw Emperor Prasenachandra on the way, performing austerity; he has become your disciple. Seeing him, great feelings of renunciation arose in me. My question is: if, while I stood before Prasenachandra, he had died at that very moment—where would he be reborn?

Mahavira said, If he had died at that exact moment, he would be born in the seventh hell.

The king was stunned! He stood so calm, so silent, so meditative—and if he had died then, he would have gone to the seventh hell?

Mahavira said, Do not worry. But now—just a short while has passed between the two moments—if he were to die now, he would enter the seventh heaven.

The king said, This is a puzzle; please explain.

Mahavira said, Your soldiers had passed by Prasenachandra before you. They said, Look at this fool! He’s standing here with eyes closed, and the ministers to whom he entrusted his kingdom—his sons are still minors—those ministers are looting and plundering, and he stands here like an idiot! The soldiers, ordinary men, chatted and moved on. Prasenachandra heard that the ministers were looting! Those in whom I placed trust are deceiving me! For a moment he forgot he was a renunciate. He forgot; unconsciousness spread; a thought arose—Am I not still alive, you fools! I’ll sever their heads from their bodies! And his hand went to his sword. There was no sword now, but old habit—he drew the blade from its sheath, in his mind. And as was always his habit when anger seized him—as some scratch their heads or rub their chins—he would adjust his crown. He went to adjust his crown—but his head was shaved; there was nothing there! He came to—it dawned on him, What am I doing? There is no sword, and I am no longer Emperor Prasenachandra! I have renounced all! How did a thought of murder arise in me?

Mahavira said, When you stood before him, inside he had drawn his sword; had he died then, he would have gone to the seventh hell. Now awareness has returned, he is laughing, he has recognized his folly—were he to die now, he would be born in the seventh heaven.

Each act is decisive. And the decision of an act lies in your interior, not outside you. Outwardly you can stand silent while storms rage within. Outwardly you can appear calm while inside a forest fire burns. Outwardly you can be quiet while within a volcano readies to erupt. Your outward is not what is valuable; your inner is your very being. And each act shapes, decides the contour of your soul. Each act fashions you. There is no judge—you are the judge.

Hence Shankara says: he remains blind though having eyes. He who thinks he is deceiving others. Deception—every deception—is given only to oneself. Every fraud is a fraud upon oneself. You will lose only yourself; you cannot make someone else lose anything. Perhaps you snatch a few coins from another’s pocket. But for those few coins your entire soul will spill out of your own pocket. You will lose much and gain nothing. Even if you deceive another, what will you deceive him of? A few coins. The coins are going to be left behind in any case. Neither he who had them will take them, nor will you. Whose pocket they sit in matters little. But you snatched, you desired, you were deformed, you sullied your mind, you gave space to sin within, you sowed the seed of sin—then do not hope that from that seed a sweet fruit will grow, or fragrant flowers will bloom.

“He remains blind though having eyes. Only to fill his belly has he donned many forms. Therefore, O fool, sing Govind always.”

“Limbs have withered, hair has turned white, not a tooth remains in the mouth; such an old man walks with a staff—yet he is bound to the bundle of hopes.”

Hope does not leave even at the final moment of death. You die; hope does not. Even dying, hope stays alert—alive, young. A dying man still thinks: tomorrow everything will be fine. Even as he dies he keeps dreaming of tomorrow. People die dreaming.

Understand hope. What is hope?

The delusion that what is not will be gotten. The dream that what is not will someday be—this is hope.

And what is awakening from hope?

Awareness of what is. When you awaken to what is, hope shatters. So long as you demand what is not, hope continues. The poor live in hope; the rich live in hope.

Alexander came to India and went to meet a fakir named Diogenes, for he had heard much of him. Often emperors become envious of fakirs. That Diogenes was such a fakir—like Mahavira, he lived naked. A unique mendicant, he kept not even a begging bowl. In the beginning he did keep a bowl. But one day he saw a dog drinking at a river. He said, I’m the fool, carrying this bowl for nothing. The dog drinks without a bowl! The dog is wiser than we. If he manages without a vessel, can we, being men, not manage? He flung the bowl away.

News of him reached Alexander—that he was supremely blissful. Alexander went to meet him. When he came upon him, Diogenes asked, Where are you going?

Alexander said, To conquer Asia Minor.

Diogenes asked, Then what will you do? He was lying on the sand by the river. It must have been a chilly morning like this; he was sunning himself. He didn’t even sit up. Then what?

Alexander said, Then to conquer India.

Diogenes said, Then?

Alexander said, Then whatever little of the world remains, I’ll conquer that too.

Diogenes said, And then?

Alexander said, Then what—then I’ll rest.

Diogenes laughed and said, Rest—we are resting now. You will rest then? If rest is the point—if in the end you are going to rest—why all this running about? Look—we are resting now. There’s plenty of space on this riverbank. There’s no shortage of room. You can rest too; there’s no need to go anywhere.

Alexander was deeply affected. He felt embarrassed for a moment. The point was true. In the end, rest; and he was making all this arrangement for that end. And Diogenes was certainly at rest. You couldn’t say he was lying—he was resting indeed. And he was more radiant than Alexander; his lotus was more open. Alexander had everything outside and nothing inside. Diogenes had nothing outside and everything inside.

Alexander said to him, You fill me with envy. If I am given a next birth, I will tell God—don’t make me an Alexander, make me a Diogenes.

Diogenes said, Again you are deceiving yourself. Why bring God into it? If you want to be Diogenes, what’s the obstacle to becoming one right now? If I wanted to be an Alexander, there might be obstacles: could I conquer the world or not; could I amass such a massive army or not. But what stops you from becoming Diogenes? Throw away your clothes; repose.

Alexander said, The point makes sense—but hope does not relent. I will come; I will surely return. But now I must go; my journey is still unfinished. Your point is a hundred percent right.

That’s the rub. Even when the point rings true, hope keeps pulling!

Not long ago I was sharing a few lines by the great Japanese poet Issa. His wife died—great sorrow; then his daughter died—great sorrow; and by the age of thirty-three, all five of his children had died; he was alone. He was in deep pain; and he was a poet—he trembled. Why is there so much suffering, he asked. He could not sleep; day and night he asked only that. What have I done that is so bad? Someone said, Go to the temple; there is a fakir there; perhaps he will resolve your dilemma. He went. The fakir said, Why is there suffering? The very question is futile. Life is like a drop of dew—here now, gone now. You too will go. Five children went, your wife went—don’t waste your time. Life is like dew hanging on a blade of grass—now gone, now gone. Issa returned home. The point made sense. Life is like that. He wrote a haiku:

Life is a dew drop
Yes, I am convinced perfectly—life is a dew drop
And yet, and yet…

Surely life is a drop of dew.
I fully agree—life is a drop of dew.
And yet, and yet…

The “and yet” is hope. Even when understanding dawns, hope won’t let the understanding settle; the intellect may grasp, but the heart does not connect; a glimpse may flash in thought, but not in feeling—and hope keeps weaving its net.

“Limbs have withered, hair has turned white, not a tooth remains in the mouth; such an old man walks with a staff—yet he is bound to the bundle of hopes.”

Hope is the thread by which we live. A very fine thread, it could snap any time—and yet it doesn’t. It has become the strongest of chains. If it breaks from one side, we tie it on the other. If it breaks with respect to the world, we begin to hope for liberation, hope for heaven. Hope continues. Hope is larger than the world. Even when the world is dropped, when its sorrow becomes clear, man begins to hope for heaven. Hope keeps going. You grow weary, you fall, hope drags you along.

You too must have wondered sometimes—by the roadside a beggar has neither hands nor feet nor eyes, the body is rotting—why does he go on living? What is left to live for? But don’t think he alone is making this mistake; if such a condition were yours, what would you do? You too would live on. You would hope for some miracle—who knows, tomorrow everything might be fine! Man endures any amount of pain, yet goes on living.

Let me tell you something unusual: in suffering, man never lets go of hope, no matter how great the suffering. Logically, it seems suffering should break hope. It does not. The more a man suffers, the greater are his hopes. Suffering awakens hope; it does not break it. Yes, sometimes in happiness hope breaks—but not in suffering. That is why princes—Mahavira, Buddha—their hope broke; a beggar’s does not. The Jains’ twenty-four tirthankaras are princes; the Buddhists’ twenty-four buddhas are princes; the Hindus’ incarnations are princes. Why? In happiness, hope breaks; in suffering, it does not.

It’s a paradox. It seems it should break in pain. When one is so tormented, why not drop hope? But the greater the suffering, the more the mind manufactures hope. In suffering, hope sprouts; in happiness, it withers.

Hence the happier a society, the more religious it becomes. The more miserable a society, it can turn communist, but not religious. In America there is a possibility that religion will arise; in India, not so. Once religion arose in India—those were days of great prosperity; the land was contented; people were fulfilled—hope broke.

When you have everything, you see: all is futile. And it is right—how else will the futility of what you do not have become visible to you? He who has wealth can see wealth is empty. He who has no wealth—how will he see its futility? Before futility can be seen, there must be possession. He who has knowledge can see knowledge is empty. He who has none—how will he see its futility? If the Kohinoor is in your hand, you can realize—you can neither eat it nor drink it; what will you do with it?—it’s futile. But if it isn’t in your hand, it remains only a dream. A dream cannot be tested for futility.

In suffering, hope lives and thickens; in happiness, it breaks.

Therefore the man in misery may rot at the roadside in a hell of a life, yet he keeps hoping. If you ever find yourself in hell, you’ll find there the greatest hopers in the world. They will be roasting in hell, yet hoping that today or tomorrow they will be freed.

I heard that a new prisoner arrived at a jail. The cell he was taken to already had one inmate. The old inmate asked, How long is your sentence? The newcomer said, Ten years. The old one said, Then you sit by the door; we have thirty. We will stay by the wall; you sit by the door—you are to be released sooner. Ten years—sit by the door!

Even in prison there is hope—who will be freed when. People live for the day of release.

Understand this in life: whatever happiness you have received—look at it closely; from it alone lies the way to liberation. If you have a beautiful wife, then enter beauty deeply; if you have wealth, taste wealth rightly; if you have status, circumambulate it, inspect it thoroughly. Whatever you have—look at it deeply; only then will hope break. But if your attention stays on what you don’t have, hope can never break. And without the breaking of hope, religion does not enter one’s life.

Hope is the door of irreligion; the breaking of hope is the entry of religion.

And understand something more: the breaking of hope is not despair. Beware. Despair is hope defeated, not dissolved. In despair, hope remains alive. Today you are despondent; tomorrow you will be filled with hope again. Despair is only the losing face of hope—the same hope, tired and beaten. It has fallen, but it hasn’t vanished. When hope vanishes, despair vanishes of itself.

Because of this, the West worried a great deal. In the West, Mahavira and Buddha seem pessimists—because they say, Give up hope. It is a mistake. Mahavira and Buddha are not pessimists; they are not optimists either. They say, when hope is gone, despair goes on its own; despair is but the shadow of hope. When you are walking, your shadow appears; if you don’t walk in the sun, whose shadow will form? When there is no hope, despair dissolves of itself.

Therefore the more you hope, the more you despair; because with hope comes defeat, grief, heartburn. Then from despair arises new hope. And this game goes on like day and night.

When hope breaks, there is no hope and no despair. Only then do you become silent. In the storm of hope and despair, the flame of your awareness keeps flickering. When there is neither hope nor despair—the gusts of wind stop—steadiness arrives; consciousness becomes still. In that stillness lies supreme good fortune. In that stillness lies supreme blessedness. That stillness is samadhi.

“Shivering with cold at dawn he warms himself by a fire or turns his back to the sun; at night he sleeps huddled among animals; he begs on his palm; he lives under a tree—yet he does not let go of the bond of hope. Therefore, O fool, ever sing of Govind.”

“Whether he travels to the Ganga or the sea, whether he observes many fasts and vows, or gives in charity; if there is no knowledge, the consensus is that even in a hundred births there will be no liberation.”

Whether he journeys to the Ganga or the sea, whether he observes many vows, or gives in charity—if there is no knowledge, there will be no liberation even in a hundred births.

Understand this. Because it looks easy—to take vows, to give alms, to practice fasting; to make one’s life disciplined, restrained; to do a little austerity—this is easy. Doing is always easy; you don’t change and the doing gets done.

Knowledge is hard, because knowledge means—transformation. Knowledge means—you change, the very mode of your consciousness changes. Knowledge means—the movement and direction of your awareness changes. Knowledge means—your consciousness becomes still; it does not wobble; becomes unshakable. This is difficult.

Doing is easy. Whether you overeat and trouble the body, or you fast and trouble the body—it is body-torture either way; there isn’t much difference. First you tormented it by overeating; then you tormented it by fasting. You clutch wealth; you can also let it go—because by clutching it you will discover that there is nothing in it. Is giving away what is empty any great revolution?

Katha Upanishad tells a story, for which it is named the Katha-Upanishad: Nachiketa’s father performed a great sacrifice. After it, he distributed gifts. Little Nachiketa sat nearby, a child. He asked again and again, Are you giving away everything?

The father said, Everything must be given. Whatever is mine must be given.

But Nachiketa saw his father was gifting cows whose milk had long dried up, who gave nothing. People give away things that are useless. He was giving what could be of no use; and he was doing it with great zeal, and taking great delight in giving. Nachiketa’s fresh intelligence, the father’s stale intelligence; what the father could not see, the son could. He began to say, What will come of giving these? These cows no longer give milk. The Brahmins to whom you are gifting them will have to gather grass and fodder for them; it will be a useless burden. No merit can come of this.

The father said, Be quiet!

But Nachiketa began to ask—as little children do—All right, since you are giving away everything, to whom will you give me? I am also yours! You say you will give away all that is yours—so to whom will you give me? He kept pestering his father: To whom will you give me?

In anger the father blurted, I will give you to Death.

Man gives away what has become useless. You too distribute things when they no longer serve you. I notice some objects simply circulate from one person to another. They are of no use to anyone. People keep gifting them along. To whomsoever you give it, he passes it on. If it’s only the thrill of giving you want, fine.

Mulla Nasruddin received a bottle of wine from a friend. Later the friend asked, So, how was it? Mulla said, I should say, almost right. The friend said, I don’t understand—almost right? Either say right or wrong. Nasruddin said, No—almost right. If it had been a shade better than right, you would not have given it to me; and if it had been a shade worse than right, I would have given it to someone else. It was almost right, so I drank it.

People give away the almost-right things—things of no value.

In charity nothing of you spills; you scatter what is useless. In fasting, too, you lose nothing—you only harry the body a little. Austerities can be done because they can also feed the ego. Thus there is only one revolution—the revolution of self-knowledge. Apart from that revolution, no one has ever been liberated, nor can be.

Knowledge alone is liberation. Knowledge is moksha.

But do not mistake knowledge for book-knowledge; that is the easiest of all—easier than fasting, easier than alms. What difficulty is there in reading scriptures? What difficulty in stuffing your intellect with texts? The Gita can be memorized while there is not a trace of song in your life. And if there is no song in life, how can there be the song of the Lord? You can have the Gita by heart, and no song at all. What is needed is song. And when song becomes so dense that you dissolve completely into it, the song becomes Bhagavad-Gita. Then neither Krishna remains in mind nor Arjuna; not even what is said in the Gita remains in memory. But what is said—you become that. You yourself become it. Then there is no need to remember that pile of words.

Scriptures are valuable to those who enjoy hoarding trash. For those who themselves become scripture, scriptures have no value. And until you yourself become scripture, there is no knowledge. Knowledge is when every gesture points to truth; when in the blink of your eye a hint of truth appears; when you speak—truth shows in the pointing; when you do not speak—truth appears in your silence.

Even if you travel to the Ganga…

What fault is it of poor Ganga’s? Why harass her?

Someone asked Ramakrishna, I’m going to the Ganga. Do you think a dip in the Ganga washes away sins or not?

Ramakrishna was a very simple man. He said, Of course they are washed; when you bathe, when you dip, the sins loosen and come off. But will you not come out of the water?

I will, he said.

Ramakrishna said, The trees standing on the bank are there precisely so the sins can perch on them. You come out; they spring back onto you. Ganga caused them to slip off, but because of you, not because of her, they never truly left. If you remain immersed forever in the Ganga, then you will be free. Don’t come out.

The man said, But I must come out!

Then you are laboring in vain.

It is the Ganga’s quality to release. But you committed the acts—how will Ganga release you? And if Ganga keeps washing off everyone’s sins, in the end she will be the greatest sinner—because if anyone can do sin and Ganga can remove it, finally all sins will be charged to Ganga. What fault of hers?

But man seeks devices. He sins, then seeks some excuse so the burden of sin doesn’t remain. He dips in the Ganga, then rests easy. Then he returns ready to sin again. Now he will sin again; then he will bathe again. The Ganga has not freed you of sin; she has made you more efficient at sinning—because you found a trick: whenever you sin, bathe in the Ganga. It’s cheap; the ticket is not costly. And often pilgrims go without a ticket anyway. When Ganga is absolving so many sins, what’s the need for tickets? That, too, will be absolved.

“Whether he travels to the Ganga, whether he observes many vows, or gives in charity—without knowledge, the consensus is that even in a hundred births there will be no liberation. Therefore, O fool, ever sing of Govind.”

“Whether he dwells in a temple of the gods or under a tree; whether the earth itself is his bed and a deerskin his garment, whether he has abandoned all possessions and pleasures—what renunciation is there that does not make one blissful?”

This is an important saying; Shankara raises a profound question. He says, If you are truly a renunciate, joy will be the proof of the truth of your renunciation. If a renunciate appears unhappy, the renunciation is false. You say a lamp is lit in your house but all around there is darkness—then your lamp is false. If the lamp is lit, there must be light in the house.

Shankara says, you live in a temple or under a tree—and you are miserable! You are sad! Then you have not recognized the deity; you have not yet found the temple.

“The earth is your bed.”

Whose freedom is such that the sky is their blanket and the earth their bed! Hence Mahavira is called digambara—sky-clad; the sky is his mantle, the earth his couch.

“If the earth is the bed, a deerskin the garment, if all possessions and pleasures are dropped—what renunciation would not make one joyful?”

Joy is the touchstone. If the light of joy arises in you, that alone is proof that you are dispassionate. No other proof matters. You left home, left wealth, went naked, shaved your head, grew matted locks, put on ochre, fled to the Himalayas, sat by the Ganga—but if you did not come to abide in joy, it is all deception. You will not stand the test. You may look like gold; you are not gold, you are brass. As gold is tested on a stone, so renunciation is tested on a stone—your joy is that stone. A renunciate not joyful, and a sensualist not unhappy—this is impossible. Wherever you find someone unhappy, know him as a pleasure-seeker; wherever you find someone rejoicing, know him as a renunciate.

Therefore Shankara says: “Whether he is absorbed in pleasure or in yoga; whether he is with others or alone—if his mind revels in Brahman, he is blissful, he is blissful, he is blissful.”

Then whether you are at home or outside, seated on a throne or on a rock in the mountains.

“Whether absorbed in yoga or in enjoyment”
yogarato va bhogarato va

“Whether among people or alone”
sang rato va sanga-vihinah

Whether in family, in society, or in solitude; whether you find him in a palace or a hut—no difference.

“If his mind revels in Brahman, then he is blissful, he is blissful, he is blissful. Therefore, O fool, ever sing of Govind.”

Reveling in Brahman. We have defined Brahman as sat-chit-anand—reveling in truth, in consciousness, in bliss. One who is authentic; who is as he is; who does not present himself otherwise; who is the same inside and outside—sat. Conscious—unmuddled, wakeful—chit. And blissful—so that in every pore the fragrance of the Divine wafts; in every breath there is music; in his very movements the anklets of the Unknown tinkle; when you come near, his coolness enfolds you; in your own heart his bliss begins to dance; his presence reminds you of the Divine; your sorrows dissolve when your eyes rest upon him; if his blessing is received, there is a sense that all has been gained; a deep contentment settles—only then is there proof.

And here a strange thing happens. Look at Mahavira’s image—supremely blissful. Look at the bodies of modern Jain monks—you will find them sad and miserable. Joy does not seem to radiate but gloom; as if they have shriveled instead of blossomed; the bud has not become a flower, it has contracted further. Yet you call this contraction renunciation! You may smell the stench of sweat if you sit near him, for he does not bathe; and if you talk with him, there may be foul breath, because he does not brush his teeth. He has taken these for renunciation. But you will not feel like dancing in his presence. It will not happen that a song encircles you, that some flute you have never heard begins to play. You will return a little uneasy. Perhaps his presence will fill you with condemnation of yourself; perhaps in his presence you will feel, I am a sinner. But his presence will not fill you with awareness of the God within you.

And that is the difference: in the presence of a true sannyasin you will not return condemned; you will return rejoicing. In the presence of a true sannyasin, you will return filled with wonder. A true sannyasin will not point to your darkness; he will point to the light within you. However sinful you may be, the true sannyasin’s gesture is not toward your sin—what is there to talk about? That is a two-penny thing. Your inner glory is the real matter. You are a sinner only because you have not yet known your glory. If you are made more conscious of your sin, your glory will be suppressed further. No—sin is as if it were not; like a night’s dream—no real value. The Divine within—that remembrance should awaken in you.

And only one who is reveling in That can awaken it in you. In his presence, something in you will begin to stir awake. In his presence—as clouds gather in the sky and peacocks begin to dance—so within you…

Buddha said: when the clouds of the Beyond gather within someone, the peacocks within many begin to dance.

In his presence you will simply begin to dance. Wherever you feel joy arising, know that there the Divine dwells; know that is the temple.

“Whether he is absorbed in pleasure or in yoga; whether with others or alone—if his mind revels in Brahman, he is blissful, he is blissful, he is blissful.”

That is the target, the goal; from every side, move in that direction.

“Therefore, O fool, ever sing of Govind.”
Bhaj Govindam, bhaj Govindam, bhaj Govindam, O foolish mind.

Enough for today.