Bhaj Govindam #7

I’ve heard a story. A wasp built her nest by the window of a great building. In winter she slept and rested; in summer she flew, danced, gathered pollen from flowers. She was cheerful, delighted. But this wasp was quite special—a thinker—she thought a lot and looked down on other wasps with great disdain; for, to her, their life was nothing but instinct and desire; they had no glimmer of thought; they knew nothing of contemplation; they had no acquaintance with the scriptures!

She lived outside that building, but would often fly inside as well. She had grown very fond of the place. She felt more kinship with the people who came and went there, because they too were thinkers and contemplatives. The building, in fact, was a large library. Teachers came, litterateurs came, philosophers came, poets came—those were the kinds of people who frequented it. Often people would shoo the wasp away, and yet she would keep returning.

Gradually she began to read and write. She started in the children’s section and soon was reading hefty tomes of philosophy, entering the great canons of science and poetry. Her conceit kept growing. Now she couldn’t even bear to look at other wasps; they all seemed infernal to her. Her ego was becoming deranged. Night and day, thoughts ran on and on. The joys of the old days—dancing in the sun, circling trees, weighing herself against the wind—she forgot them all. Now she mostly sat—thinking, pondering, sunk in deep reflection. Who made the world, and why? Where did existence come from, where is it going? Such singular questions made their home in her heart.

One day, while reading a book on the science of flight, she ran into big trouble. It was written in that aerodynamics text that a wasp’s body is far too heavy for its wings; according to the laws of physics a wasp really should not be able to fly. Its wings are small and weak; the body is big and heavy.

She panicked. Until now, she had never noticed that her body was big and her wings small. Only now did she learn it. And who could deny what was written in the scriptures of science? How could one go against what scientists have said?

She became very dejected. That day she could not fly back to her nest. She walked home. How could she fly in defiance of science! She sank into gloom. She stopped moving about. Though even now she saw other wasps fly, wheel in the air, visit flowers, inwardly she felt pity for them: they were flying out of ignorance. If only they knew; if only they had learned science; then all this flying would stop. How can a wasp fly? Her wings are small, her body big!

Then one day a bird suddenly swooped down—he wanted to make a morning snack of her. In the panic, she forgot the scripture and flew. When she landed far away on a bush and her wits returned, the panic subsided, she thought, What just happened? A wasp can’t fly—and I flew! Then surely there was some obstruction in my mind, some block that was stopping my natural capacity to fly—something that snapped under crisis, out of fear and danger. She had read about mental blocks like this in a psychology book too.

From that day she flew again; from that day she dropped her scholastic knowledge; from that day she became a wasp again—natural. From that day her condemnation of other wasps vanished; she was freed from knowledge. That day she experienced her own nature.

Religion is liberation even from knowledge. And in that very liberation is supreme knowing.

Scriptures are not there to cripple you, but to give you the capacity to fly. And if the scriptures have crippled you, know that you understood them wrongly; somewhere you made a mistake in interpretation. If scriptures have made you sad, understand that you missed; you misunderstood entirely. The scriptures that rob you of your natural capacity to fly, to flow—those are not your friends; you have turned them into enemies. Only if a scripture is liberative is it a scripture. Only if it makes you natural is it a scripture. Only if it frees you from condemnation of others and gives you the experience of the Divine hidden in them too is it a scripture.

These words of Shankara are very important.

“Whoever has read even a little of the Gita…”

Take note of that “a little.”

“Whoever has read even a little of the Gita, and drunk a single drop of Ganga water, and done even a little worship of Murari—what can Yama, the lord of death, do to him?”

You have read a lot of the Gita. This country has been reading the Gita for thousands of years. The Gita is on everyone’s lips. Everyone is filled to the throat with the Gita, yet nowhere is liberation visible—only death is visible.

But Shankara says, whoever has read even a little of the Gita, death is dissolved for him. Whoever has tasted even a drop of the Divine. Whoever has had a single drop of Ganga water pass his throat. You have taken full baths in it! A single drop of Ganga water entering the throat, whoever has done even a little worship…

You have worshiped so much, recited so many scriptures, participated in so many rituals, knocked your head on the thresholds of so many temples! The temple stones have worn down under your head-banging, but no revolution has happened in your life. Somewhere there is a fundamental error, a basic confusion.

A little is enough to liberate—but only if it is understood. Otherwise the whole scripture will become a prison. A single word can set you free. Otherwise words become mountains pressing on your chest. Scriptures don’t liberate; understanding liberates. And you will have to create understanding; a scripture doesn’t give it.

Grasp this a little.

You will have to grow understanding; only then will a scripture be meaningful. If you don’t have understanding, a scripture cannot give it—only concepts. Concepts have no real value; they lie one side while you live quite another way.

One day I asked Mulla Nasruddin, “I haven’t seen your children for a long time.”

He said, “I believe in family planning.”

I was a bit surprised—he has seventeen children! And he says, “I believe in family planning.” I said, “I don’t get it. What do you mean?”

He said, “I trust what the family-planners say: that two or three children are good to have in the home. So I send the rest out into the neighborhood to play and eat. Most of them have started sleeping there too. I don’t keep more than two or three at home.”

Two or three children are good in the home! So he sends the rest to the neighbors. He’s fulfilling the principle. Your understanding derived from scripture is fulfilled just like that. You don’t stop producing children; you saddle the neighbors’ chests with them. Man finds tricks.

It’s easy to dodge a principle; you cannot dodge understanding. You can slip past a principle because a principle is dead and you are alive. The principle cannot chase you; you can sidestep it. What can a principle do? It’s a piece of stone! But where will you go to escape understanding? Understanding is within you; wherever you run, it will be with you.

So keep this emphasis in mind. Don’t stress principles; stress understanding. Principles can be borrowed; understanding has to be born within. Principles you can even steal—from scriptures, from gurus. Understanding comes inch by inch through struggle; you have to pay for it, it isn’t free. Principles come free, and they’re worth nothing. Nor do they need to be worth anything; they are rubbish, trash.

“Whoever has read even a little of the Gita…”

Bhagavad-gita kinchid adhita…

Whoever has read even a little—the work is done. You don’t have to wait to read the whole Gita; understand even a single word. But it’s a question of understanding.

In the Mahabharata there’s a story: Drona thought that among all the Pandavas and Kauravas, Yudhishthira seemed the most intelligent. But after a few days’ experience he began to feel Yudhishthira was downright dull. The other boys were moving ahead, learning new lessons every day, while Yudhishthira stayed stuck on the first lesson. Finally Drona’s patience wore thin. He asked, “Will you ever move on or are you stuck on the first lesson forever?” But Yudhishthira said, “Until I understand the first lesson, what is the point of moving to the second?”

The first lesson was about truth. The other boys memorized it, read it, and went ahead. But Yudhishthira said, “Until I begin to speak truth, how can I go to the next lesson? And please don’t hurry me.” Then Drona understood. Seeing Yudhishthira’s temperament, for the first time it dawned on him that beyond truth, what lesson could there be! He said, “Don’t hurry. If you complete the first lesson, all lessons are complete. Where is the second? If truth-speaking is learned, if truth-being is achieved, no further lesson is needed.” But if lessons are only to be read, that’s one thing; if lessons are to be lived, it’s entirely another.

In the end, the Mahabharata says that when the brothers set off on their ascent to heaven, one by one they fell, melted away on the path; only Yudhishthira and his dog reached the gate. Truth arrived; and the one who had kept deep company with truth arrived. That dog was his. He had always stayed with him. His loyalty was immense. Even the brothers’ loyalty was not so great. The brothers fell along the way; the dog did not. His devotion was single-pointed. He had never doubted. He took Yudhishthira’s gesture as his life. Yudhishthira himself was astonished that even the brothers fell behind; they could not reach the gate of heaven—but a dog could!

The gate opened; Yudhishthira was welcomed, but the gatekeeper said, “Please, only you may enter; the dog cannot. No dog has ever entered heaven. Even men hardly gain entry.”

Yudhishthira said, “Then I cannot enter either. The dog has accompanied me this far, where even my brothers could not be my companions. His devotion is so singular; he has come with me so far. I cannot abandon him. Otherwise I would be worse than a dog. He who kept me company—I will keep him company. You may close the gate.”

Then the whole of heaven burst into laughter; the gods gathered and said, “Please come in.” And when Yudhishthira looked closely, the dog was gone—there stood Vishnu himself! It had been a test. A test in which, had Yudhishthira forgotten the dog and entered, he would have missed heaven. It was a test—of love, of devotion, of single-pointedness.

Yudhishthira learned only one lesson—truth. That was enough; it carried him to heaven. Arjuna took a long time to learn. Krishna recited the entire Gita, and still doubts kept arising. Yudhishthira learned only one small lesson in life—the lesson of truth. Even the guru suspected he was slow-witted, stuck on the first lesson. But then it became clear: beyond the first lesson, where are there any lessons?

Whoever has learned even one lesson has learned all. Don’t get into too big a race to learn; you will be deprived by it. Even a little—kinchid adhita—if even a small awakening to the Divine happens, if even a little of the Divine song is heard, if even one line reaches your ear, one word descends to your heart, that seed will do—it will sprout, become a tree, and you will be filled with infinite fragrance. The whole is hidden in the seed.

Pandits remain empty—memorizing the Gita but never hearing the song; the mind is crammed with words, but the heart is not drenched; they can recite the Gita, but not a single tear rises to the eye; no note vibrates in the life-breath; no dance comes to the feet; like a stone, like a corpse, like a machine they repeat—and inside everything remains untouched; not even a line is drawn, not even a shadow falls.

That’s why Shankara says: “Whoever has read even a little of the Gita…”

This “Gita” has no exclusive reference to the Srimad Bhagavad Gita. Whoever has read even a little of the Koran will arrive; whoever has read even a little of the Bible will arrive. And whoever has read neither Bible, nor Koran, nor Gita—but has read even a little of life—he too will arrive. The emphasis is this: whoever has awakened even a little of his own understanding, whoever has looked with awareness; who did not live asleep; who opened his eyes and recognized life—even a little.

If you can get hold of even a small loose end, then the whole of heaven is in your hands. Catch even a single ray and the whole sun is yours. If you walk with that ray, where can the sun go? You are sitting in a dark house; through a hole in the roof a tiny ray enters. The whole sun is hidden in that ray. If you follow that ray, you will reach the sun. There is no need to bring the entire sun into your house. What would you do with so much? You’d get indigestion.

So be careful—you may end up collecting scripture. Otherwise scripture becomes your prison. It will not free your wings; your life-breath will not dance; you will not be natural.

More people become unnatural because of scripture than for any other reason. If you can understand me, I would say: more people have become irreligious because of scripture than for any other reason. As scriptures have multiplied, man has become more blind; because he thinks all understanding is stored in books—read the book and understanding will be in hand.

If only understanding were so cheap! Then the whole world would be wise. The Gita is in every home; the Bible, the Koran are in every home. What’s lacking? There is no understanding at all. And the more available a scripture becomes, the more you give up your own endeavor. Beware—don’t lose yourself in the jungle of doctrines.

“Whoever has read even a little of the Gita, and drunk a single drop of Ganga water…”

What will you do with the whole Ganga? What’s the need? The whole Ganga is too much; a single drop is enough for you.

Which Ganga is Shankara speaking of?

Not the Ganga you went to on pilgrimage. The Ganga is a symbol. Whoever has drunk a drop of purity; whoever has drunk a drop of innocence; whoever has drunk a drop of simplicity—he has tasted the Ganga. There is no need to go to the river. How many sit on its banks and nothing happens. They have lived by the Ganga, bathed in it, and nothing happens.

No, it is not the outer Ganga; there is another Ganga that flows within. And a single drop is enough. Even a drop is more than you need. For where is our capacity greater than a drop? We ourselves are but a tiny drop in this vast existence. A single small drop of the Ganga will bathe and sanctify us.

But understand rightly: by “Ganga” is meant innocence; by “Ganga” is meant simplicity; by “Ganga” is meant inner virginity; by “Ganga” is meant becoming as guileless as a small child.

If even a drop of your childhood returns, if once again you can see the world as you saw it in childhood—with those fresh eyes, without any thought, without any condemnation, without any judgment. See the world just as you saw it when you first opened your eyes here—only seeing, not a single thought arose inside—no “good,” no “bad”; no “beautiful,” no “ugly”; no “sin,” no “virtue”—just seeing with full eyes; the whole world before you and no thought within. If you can see again like that, if even a drop of that childhood returns, then you have tasted the drop of the Ganga.

“…and whoever has done even a little worship of Murari…”

A lot of worship will not help. A lot of worship only shows that you don’t know how to worship. Many repetitions simply mean you are performing dead routines. Otherwise, if once you took the name of Ram, it should be enough. You sit every day, turning the rosary, Ram-Ram, Ram-Ram, on and on. How many times must you say “Ram” for Ram to descend into your life? Is there some magic number? There are people who keep account that they have recited the mantra ten million times. But if nothing happened when you recited it once, what will happen when you recite it ten million times?

Understand this a little. A mantra is not mathematics. A mantra is qualitative, not quantitative. If it is to happen, it will happen in one call; if it is not to happen, what will a million repetitions do? If the first time you repeated it wrongly, the second time you will repeat it even more wrongly, the third time even more; because the mistake will grow stronger—the more you repeat, the deeper the rut becomes. Recite it one million or ten million times—it will make no difference. The question is of calling rightly.

One sigh of the heart is enough; one genuine call brings revolution. God is not deaf, nor is he hungry for your flattery that he will only listen after many repetitions. He hears even without your saying anything—if it is in your heart. And no matter how much you repeat from your skull, he does not listen; because God has nothing to do with your thinking—he is related to your prayer.

I have heard: in a village there had been no rain for years. The whole village gathered in the temple to pray. A small child too was going to the temple to pray. People on the way mocked him. Even the priest said, “Foolish boy! Why are you carrying an umbrella? It hasn’t rained in years; that’s why we are going to pray.” The child had brought an umbrella. Ten thousand people gathered—no one else brought an umbrella.

The child said, “I brought it because when we pray, it will surely rain. I’ll need the umbrella on the way back.”

People laughed, “He’s gone mad!”

Now tell me—whose prayer could bear fruit? Only this small child’s prayer might have. His trust was deep—he brought an umbrella; he had not a shade of doubt; his prayer was full of deep faith. But even this child’s mind was filled with doubt by the grown-ups. They said, “Go, take the umbrella back home. Since when has rain ever come just like that?”

They go to pray, but have no trust that prayer will bring rain. Then why pray?

Better to be an honest atheist. What value does theism have if it’s dishonest? How many times have you prayed—did you trust it would be fulfilled? Then when it isn’t fulfilled you say, “We knew already nothing would happen.” How many times have you knocked at the temple door—did you ever knock with your whole heart? With your whole being? Or did you go there carrying your doubts? If you went with doubt, better not to go—at least that would be honest. Whom did you deceive by going? You only harmed yourself; because by going, your prayer broke—and nothing else happened. And if prayer keeps breaking again and again, you gradually lose self-trust; you lose self-confidence; you stop trusting yourself. Then prayer is from the lips, not from the life-breath.

“Whoever has done even a little worship of Murari…”

A little is enough. Understand Shankara’s emphasis. It’s not a question of quantity—how much you did; it’s a question of quality—how you did.

I’ve heard of a lawyer who prayed daily. But not too much—he was a lawyer. The first day he prayed; the second day he said, “Ditto!” Then the third day too: “Ditto.” Why repeat the whole prayer—what a lot of nonsense! Legally, it’s neat: say it once, then write below—ditto! Same!

People live by arithmetic. Even in prayer there is arithmetic; there too is cleverness, cunning. Even there you are not simple. If given a chance you would probably pick God’s pocket. Perhaps that’s why God remains hidden—because you would do him harm. He fears to appear before you.

Simplicity is itself prayer.

“Whoever has done even a little worship—what can Yama say of him?”

Whoever has tasted even a little of prayer has gone beyond death. Only those die who are afraid. Fear kills. Only those die who are egoistic. The ego dies. Only those die who have not known life. Whoever has known even a little of life—what death can there be? Then your name is no longer mentioned in Yama’s court; your file is closed. You are off his books. Whoever has understood even a little of God’s song—what death can there be for him? You may not remain as you are now, but your innermost core will remain forever. The intellect with which you thought may not remain; the body with which you enjoyed may not remain; but that innermost with which you had faith—there is no way to destroy it. Faith is eternal, because faith is your ultimate, final, innermost core. Death has never entered there, nor can it ever. There you are eternal, beginningless and endless. There you are yourself the Divine.

Whoever has desired God, called to him, quickly discovers that the one he was calling to is hidden within himself. He is not found in any temple—he is found within oneself; he is not hidden on some mountain or in the moon and stars.

When Russia’s first cosmonaut, Yuri Gagarin, returned—Russia being an atheist country—the first question people asked him was, “Did you find God on the moon?”

He said, “I looked very carefully—didn’t find God anywhere.”

In Leningrad they built a huge museum collecting artifacts related to atheism throughout human history. On one wall they engraved Gagarin’s words in stone: “I went to the moon and looked into space—God is nowhere.”

If God were in outer space, Gagarin would have found him. But Gagarin is wrong—and so are you. Because you too think he is somewhere outside. The theist is wrong, and the atheist is wrong. The theist thinks God sits somewhere in the sky. The atheist thinks, if he sits in the sky we’ll find him—if not today, tomorrow, we’ll traverse all the skies. And when we don’t find him there—then?

Gagarin should have searched within himself—there God sits. The one who was seeing the moon and stars through Gagarin’s eyes—that is God—the one who was seeing. God can never be seen; he is always the seer. You cannot turn him into an object of sight; he is hidden within you, seeing. The one who is seeing is God. He is forever the witness; you can never make him the seen.

Whoever has heard even a little of life’s song—that is what I call the Bhagavad Gita. The song Krishna sang to Arjuna is just one verse of that ultimate song—the song of life. It is only a small fragment. But the song is inscribed in every tree, carved on every rock. Every wave of the ocean carries its message. In the emptiness of the sky is its silence. In the tinkling of brooks is its melody. Through your eyes it is seeing, through your ears it is hearing, in your heart it is throbbing. Other than it, there is nothing. Whoever has understood even a little of God’s song, whoever has recognized even a little of life, and whoever has drunk a single drop of simplicity, whoever has done even a little worship…

Worship means: whoever has bent the knees of ego even a little and bowed down; whoever has lowered his head even a little. Remember, the question is not before whom you bow, only that you bow. Bow in a mosque—fine; bow in a temple—perfectly fine; bow in a gurudwara—perfectly fine. Bow before a rock, bow before a tree, or bow before the empty sky—it does not matter. Bowing is the essence. Whether you “believe in God” or not does not matter. Mahavira bowed without believing—and attained. Buddha never accepted God—and became God. He learned the art of bowing.

The real issue is not “attaining God,” the real issue is dissolving yourself.

Worship means: whoever has dropped himself and said, “I am not.” There is no need to add, “You are.” Whoever has said, “I am not,” in that very moment knows, “Only You are.” There is no need to say it. The moment the “I” falls, God is revealed. The “I” is the only obstacle. Then your name is not mentioned in Yama’s house.

“Therefore, O fool, always worship Govinda.”

“Where one is born again and again, dies again and again, and falls again and again into the mother’s womb—in this perilous world, O Murari, protect me.”

Man is helpless, and nothing can be achieved by his resolve alone. Whatever you do will be smaller than you. God is far greater than you. He is within you, he peers through you, but he is vaster than you. Think of it like this: the ocean is in the drop. Taste the drop and you taste the ocean—the same saltiness. Analyze a drop and you will find the same elements as in the entire ocean. Yet the drop is very small. The ocean has peeped through the drop, as the ocean might peep through a window. He has peeped through you too, but he is much bigger than you. The sky seen through the window; the ocean hidden in the drop; the tree hidden in the seed—such is God, peeping through you. By your own effort you will not attain him; your effort is too small—it is like trying to bind the sky in your fist. You will attain him only by his grace.

That’s why Shankara says, “O Murari, protect me.”

Left to myself I will drown; only if you save me can I be saved. I seem to have no strength in my hands; my power is small. Even if I think, what shall I think? Whatever I think will be mine. You are the unknown, the vast; to find you, your help is needed.

That’s why the devotee continuously longs for his support. The day you begin to ask for his support, that very day you will find it starting to come; because you begin to grow; your contraction begins to break; you begin to expand. The day you ask support from the vast life, that very moment you begin to become vast; that moment your smallness starts dissolving. You have given the invitation—“Come!” The invitation is all that is needed.

Buddha said, I thought I was seeking truth. But when I found it, I realized that truth too was seeking me.

Truth is also seeking you; God is also searching for you, feeling for you. But you don’t invite him. If he ever, by some oversight, takes your hand in his—then you slip your hand away.

Have you watched small children? The father holds the little one’s hand in the market. The father is holding, but the child keeps loosening his grip. He wants to be independent; he wants, “Let go of my hand so I can walk by myself.” The father holds on, but the child keeps letting go. He is somehow troubled: “Please let go of my hand.” He wants to run by himself.

Man’s situation is almost like this. God is holding our hand—otherwise man could not even live. If he did not breathe in us, how would we breathe? If he did not beat in us, how would we live? But our urge is to stand on our own. The ego always strives to be completely independent, standing on its own feet, needing no support. To ask for support feels very humiliating. So as man’s ego has increased, worship has been lost, prayer has been lost.

Have you noticed that when you bow in a temple, there is a slight unease—lest someone sees. You bend your knees, fold your hands, and you look around to see if anyone is watching. Lest someone notice—otherwise people will say, “You? And you’re kneeling? You’re bowing your head?!” The ego is badly hurt.

People are frightened of bowing, afraid. There could be no greater misfortune; because whatever vast there is in life is born from your bowing. Your condition is like being thirsty while standing in the river—but you cannot bend. You want the river to rise to your lips.

The river flows by, but you will have to bend, to cup your hands, to lower your head and arms, to scoop the water—only then can your thirst be quenched. But how can you bend—your spine is stiff, the ego won’t let you.

Most people deny God not because they have discovered there is no God, but because if there is a God, then they will have to bow.

Friedrich Nietzsche wrote: If God exists, then one would have to bow. Therefore I say God does not exist, because how can I bow! If God exists, he becomes above me. Therefore I say God does not exist—how can anyone be above me!

Ego. Terrible ego has seized man. Just as there is cancer in the body, there is ego in the soul. Ego is the soul’s cancer. Until you are free of it, the flowers of worship will not bloom, the incense of prayer will not rise, and the Divine Song cannot be born within you. As long as you are filled with yourself, God cannot descend into you. Make space; get off the throne; invite him.

“Where one is born again and again, dies again and again, and sleeps again and again in the mother’s womb—in this nearly impassable world, O Murari, protect me.”

Whoever has understood the truth of life has recognized one thing: life is repetition; the same things are happening again and again. You have been born many times, died many times; many times you have amassed wealth, fame; many times you have succeeded, failed; and yet you keep going round like a potter’s wheel—the same spoke comes up again, then goes down, then the same spoke is up again.

It is natural to long to be free of this repetition, because repetition is nothing but boring. That’s why we have called the world a wheel, a vicious circle—because we keep circling the same, nothing new happens. You lived yesterday just as you will live today; you lived the day before just as you will live tomorrow. The same evening, the same morning, the same anger, greed, attachment, the same birth and death—endless repetition. Surely there must be a deep stupidity within us; otherwise we would wake up. Why are we repeating the same again and again? Having done it so many times and gained nothing—no matter how many more times we do it, nothing will be gained.

It is necessary to step out of this circle. That is why in the East, especially in India, the great aspiration arose—to be free of the cycle of birth and death. Nowhere else did such an aspiration arise. In the West—Islam, Christianity, Judaism—this aspiration is not their driving force. They want heaven. Heaven means: the sorrows of this life should not be, and all the pleasures should be. Heaven is just the extension of life’s pleasures. But in India a unique aspiration arose—moksha, liberation. The aspiration for moksha is not an aspiration for heaven. It means neither sorrow nor pleasure. We have experienced both, found no essence in either—now we want freedom from both. This aspiration is a unique discovery.

That is why the word “moksha” cannot be translated into any language. Heaven can be translated; hell can be translated; but moksha is unique. In no language is there such a word. Nor can there be, because words come after; first the aspiration and experience, then the word. Moksha is India’s unique discovery. No search can go higher—and none needs to; because only those can wish to be free even of happiness who have fully known happiness and found that it is but another face of sorrow, a pose of sorrow, a deception of sorrow; sorrow’s trick.

“Clad in a robe of rags picked from the street, freed from notions of merit and sin, with mind absorbed in yoga—such a yogi sometimes plays like a child and sometimes like a madman.”

He sits by the road, looking like a beggar, but if you look closely you will find a hidden emperor; whereas in your emperors, if you look closely, you will find a hidden beggar—their begging still continues.

There was a Muslim fakir, Farid. People of his village said to him, “Akbar respects you so much; if you ask him, he will build a madrasa in our village.” Farid had never asked Akbar for anything. A fakir never asks—he gives. But the villagers insisted, so Farid did not refuse; he went. He had never gone to the palace before, but he went. He reached early so he could speak to the emperor in the morning. Inside, he learned the emperor was in his private prayer room, a mosque—praying. Farid said, “All the better—I’ll tell him right after his prayer.” He stood behind.

Akbar did not know. When he finished his prayer, he lifted both hands towards the sky and said, “O God, what you have given me is not enough; I still have much to attain. Be gracious—expand my realm! Widen my empire! Increase my wealth and my fame!”

Farid could not believe it. Akbar—the great emperor—few have had such empire—and still he is asking! The inner beggar hasn’t left! He thought, When he himself is still begging, it is not proper to ask him; a madrasa will cost something, it will make the poor fellow even poorer. And when he himself asks God, why should I become an agent in between? I’ll ask him directly. He turned to go.

Akbar rose and saw Farid descending the steps. He ran and asked, “Why have you come, and why are you leaving?” Akbar deeply respected Farid. Farid had never come before; Akbar always went to see him. “How is it you came, and why are you leaving?”

Farid said, “I came thinking I was going to meet an emperor; I leave seeing there is a beggar here too. I came to ask—my mistake. Seeing you yourself asking, I felt ashamed—what shall I ask you now! You are already poor; should I make you poorer? The villagers insisted, so I came to ask for a madrasa. But now I won’t ask. I will ask God, since you yourself ask him; why should I put you in the middle.”

Akbar pleaded, “Give me a chance. I will build whatever you ask.”

Farid said, “Not now. One asks of an emperor—not of poor beggars.”

In your emperors you will find poor beggars; their asking still continues. But this land has produced emperors who, when you look, may appear beggars, yet if you peer within, there have never been such jewels.

“Clad in rags picked from the street…”

Gathering scraps from the roadside he has stitched his garment, his blanket—but within him moksha has descended; within him freedom has spread its full wings.

“Freed from notions of merit and sin…”

Remember: religions say, do sin and you go to hell; do meritorious deeds and you go to heaven. But if you want moksha, then what must you do? Neither merit nor sin.

The one whose life is free of the idea of merit and sin. Who no longer sees anything as good or bad; whose life has become free of choice. What Krishnamurti calls choiceless awareness. In whose life only awareness remains—without choice, without alternatives. Who does not choose; who neither says “This is right” nor “This is wrong”; who does not choose at all; who says, “All is the same; there is nothing to choose—nothing is beautiful, nothing ugly; nothing is sin, nothing virtue.”

This is very unique. It is linked to moksha. That’s why when the Upanishads were first translated, Western thinkers could not understand what they were saying. In the West, it was believed that a religious scripture must teach you to do virtue—save you from sin and make you do good deeds. But the Upanishads say: the scripture that saves you from both sin and virtue—that is the true scripture. Because as long as you are filled with sin and virtue, you are filled with duality. The true scripture makes you non-dual. As long as you say “sin,” your mind is in condemnation; as long as you say “virtue,” your mind is in praise. If you say “virtue,” you have chosen something; if you say “sin,” you have rejected something. And God is in sin as well, and in virtue too. What you reject—you reject God.

The supremely wise is one in whose life there is neither rejection nor demand; who neither accepts nor denies. Who has become still, whose consciousness no longer trembles.

“Freed from merit and sin, with mind absorbed in yoga…”

Who has become joined, one—he is the yogi; for whom duality is no more. As long as there are two, there will be heaven and hell; pleasure and pain; sin and virtue. When only One remains, heaven-hell, pleasure-pain, darkness-light—all vanish. In that One is supreme rest; in that One, supreme bliss. Whoever has found that One has truly found.

Such a yogi sometimes looks like a child—so simple, as if he were a child. And sometimes he looks like a madman—so intoxicated, so ecstatic, so drenched in divine wine.

In a yogi the child and the madman meet. The child—who has not yet begun to think; and the madman—who has gone beyond thinking. In the yogi, the circle is complete. He is like a child—he simply does not think. And he is like a madman—he has passed beyond thinking.

That’s why a yogi is hard to recognize. You cannot categorize him, cannot decide about him. What he will do the next moment—no one knows; because he does nothing on his own—God does through him. He has given himself into his hands. He is carried along. Wherever God’s river takes him—that is his destination. If it drowns him in midstream—that too is his destination. He has no personal goal left.

Yogi means absolute freedom.

“Therefore, O fool, always worship Govinda.”

“Who am I; who are you; from where have I come; who is my mother; who my father? Reflect thus. Then you will see that the world and its anxieties are trivial and dreamlike, and you will be freed from this sorrow-dream. Therefore, O fool, always worship Govinda.”

“In you, in me, and elsewhere—there is only one Vishnu dwelling. In being intolerant of me, you get angry in vain. Therefore, renounce everywhere the ignorance of division and see yourself in all. Therefore, O fool, always worship Govinda.”

“Do not waste your energy on enemy and friend, son and brother, in war and peace. If you wish to attain the feet of Vishnu quickly, keep equanimity with all, everywhere. And, O fool, always worship Govinda.”

Equanimity is the journey to oneness. Cultivate equanimity and oneness will mature. Equal in pleasure and pain, in victory and defeat, in success and failure—then gradually oneness will be realized.

As long as you see duality, you will remain two; because what you see is what you become. When you no longer see duality, when you no longer see twoness, and only the One begins to appear—in friend and foe; in auspicious and inauspicious; in sin and virtue; in hell and heaven; in good and bad; in curse and blessing—only One begins to appear, then you will become one; because what you see is what you become; your seeing becomes your nature. Therefore, to avoid seeing two is the whole of sadhana.

It will be difficult. How will you see the same One in the one who insults you as in the one who praises and sings of you?

But look closely—praise and abuse are on the surface; within, only One dwells. Look closely—friend and enemy, hate and love are two modes of a single energy. That is why love turns into hate and hate into love; friends become enemies and enemies become friends. If they were entirely separate, such transformation would be impossible. The one who is friend today becomes enemy tomorrow; the enemy of yesterday becomes a friend today. Surely the energy is one. The feet that carry him away from you bring him close to you—the feet are the same. Coming near and going far—two modes of the same force.

Try to discover this. Old habits will obstruct. Old patterns of thinking will hinder. But if effort is steady, gradually darkness thins, light emerges. And as you begin to see the One in opposites, suddenly you will find—a deep peace is descending within; something perfect is entering you; you are no longer who you were yesterday; a new consciousness has begun to dwell in your house. When the two dissolve and the One remains, only then do you become a vessel for God; then you are ready. And God has always been ready. The moment you are ready, the cloud bursts, you are filled; the hour of joy and benediction arrives.

But you must be saved from the two; you must awaken from duality and hold the current of the One.

Cultivate equanimity, oneness will be attained. Keep watching the two—let that be your meditation, your practice. When success comes, look closely—this too is failure; failure must be hidden nearby and on its way. And when failure comes, don’t be too disturbed—look closely—somewhere success is hidden and coming. They are two sides of the same coin. When one has come, the other cannot be far. And when success begins to feel like failure, and failure like success; when the distinction falls and non-difference arises—then your door is open to God.

God is always near; it is you who remain distant because of your divisions. God is always before you, because whatever is before you is God. But your eyes are shut. In division, the eyes go blind; in non-division, they open. Division is like an eyelid fallen across the eye; non-division is like the eyelid lifted.

“Therefore, O fool, worship Govinda.”

Bhaj Govindam, bhaj Govindam, bhaj Govindam, mudha-mate.

Enough for today.