Bhaj Govindam #3

Before we enter the sutra, it’s necessary to understand a very crucial knot in the human mind. Because of this knot, many people miss the mark even after understanding. Because of this knot, they avoid the abyss only to fall into a pit; they escape one extreme, and in the very process of escaping, they swing to the opposite extreme.

Someone overeats, is a connoisseur of food; all his taste is wrapped up in eating. Today or tomorrow—without anyone telling him—he will understand that he is torturing his own body. There will be pain, there will be illness; it’s not hard to see that excess food is not healthy. But then there is a danger: he may start fasting; from the excess of eating he may swing to the other extreme—renouncing food altogether.

There is attachment in the world. There is infatuation with wealth. Slipping to the opposite extreme is easy. One leaves the world and runs away. Where there was attachment, dispassion appears; and where there was infatuation, opposition and hostility toward that very infatuation arise. Those whom you counted as your own, you begin to treat as enemies. Then you have avoided the abyss only to fall into a pit; not much has changed.

Shankar’s sutras are not to teach renunciation; they are only to show the futility of attachment. If attachment falls away, that is enough. If attachment drops, that is enough. If, when attachment drops, you grab hold of “renunciation,” you have missed. The falling of attachment is itself renunciation; renunciation is not something added to the fall of attachment.

But the reverse happens. Countless people, after reading these sutras, have not dropped attachment; they have seized renunciation! Attachment remains—only in the form of renunciation. First they walked on their feet; then they stood on their head in a headstand—but nothing changed. Does anything change by doing a headstand? Whether the head is up or down, what difference does it make? When attachment stands on its head, it becomes renunciation—the common man’s renunciation, the so-called sannyasin’s renunciation. But when attachment truly drops, then the renunciation of Mahavira, Buddha, and Shankar is born.

Mulla Nasruddin had a mental quirk: whenever his phone rang, he would panic, frightened—what if the landlord is calling for the rent? What if the boss is calling to fire him? A thousand worries would grab him; he found it hard to pick up the phone. So I told him to see a psychiatrist.

He took treatment for two or three months. One day I went to his house; he was on the phone. I noticed he wasn’t trembling, not afraid at all! After he hung up I said, Looks like the therapy worked! No fear now?

Nasruddin said, That’s the problem; therapy helped more than necessary.

I asked, What do you mean “more than necessary”? Enough benefit is fine—but what use is more than enough?

He said, Now I’m so bold that even when the phone doesn’t ring, I make calls. Earlier I was afraid when it rang; just now, the bell didn’t even ring and I called the landlord and gave him a tongue-lashing. He’s so scared he doesn’t even speak on his end. Silence! You can’t even hear him breathe.

Moving from one extreme to another is very easy. And this is the great irony of human life. There’s a saying: “Once burned by milk, a person blows even on buttermilk before drinking.” That’s the other extreme. Just as one burned by milk blows on even buttermilk, so a person burned by the world becomes deeply afraid even of God. The one burned by the world begins to sip God with the same fearful blows.

The world should be dropped—but not out of fear. Whatever you leave out of fear will not really be left; whatever you fear will pursue you; whatever you run from will chase you. Because fear is inside—where will you run? From whom will you run? If the world were outside, you could run. Wherever you go, you’ll find the world. Even in the caves of the Himalayas, you will be there—the same as you are here.

So the real question is not of changing place; nor is it of changing appearances and styles. The real question is the transformation of the inner state of consciousness. As you are now, your mind is tilted to one extreme. Don’t tilt it to the opposite extreme—because it’s the very extremity that is the disease. The one who becomes balanced in the middle is free. That’s why Buddha called his way the Majjhim Nikaya—the middle path.

Whoever comes to the middle arrives; one who leans neither this way nor that. As long as you lean to one side, vibrations will remain in your life; stillness won’t come. You won’t be healthy; you will remain unsteady. Only in the exact middle does the flame of the lamp stand steady, not moved by any gust of wind. Likewise, when the flame of consciousness becomes perfectly steady in the middle—neither desire shakes it nor so-called renunciation shakes it; neither east nor west; neither this side nor that—nothing trembles. Krishna called this state sthitaprajna. Whether you stand or sit—within, nothing stands or sits; whether you eat or fast—within, no one eats and no one fasts; whether you live in the world or in sannyas—within, there is neither sannyas nor world. This supreme middle-state is renunciation.

If renunciation is the opposite of attachment, it is wrong. If renunciation is freedom from attachment, it is right. And this is a very subtle distinction. If renunciation is the opposite of attachment, understand that a mistake has occurred—because whatever is opposite to attachment is tied to it.

All opposites are connected. If you love someone, you remember them; if you hate someone, their memory won’t leave you either. Love and hate are opposites, but they’re linked. A friend may be forgotten; an enemy is not. The thorn keeps pricking. There is relationship with a friend, and there is relationship with an enemy.

Don’t think that an enemy is someone with whom all relationship has been severed. No—if every relationship is cut, how could he be an enemy? An enemy is one with whom the ties of friendship are gone and the ties of enmity are formed; ties aren’t broken. If ties are truly broken—then neither friend remains friend, nor enemy remains enemy. Relationships change and a friend becomes an enemy; enemies become friends.

How long does it take to make a friend into an enemy? It can happen in a moment. How long does it take to make an enemy a friend?

Why doesn’t it take long? Because both are relationships. A slight shift of stance—you were going east, you begin going west; you were going west, now you go east. Both are movements; only the face needs to turn a little.

I’ve heard of a great thinker in England, Edmund Burke. He was invited to give a sermon in a small village near London; he was to speak in a church. He was a forgetful man. He often missed time or date—arriving a day late. This time he took special care, because the hosts had earnestly urged him, Please come on the exact day, at the exact time; everything depends on you. It was the church’s anniversary.

He had to be there at seven in the evening, so he left home at two. It was barely an hour’s ride. He mounted his horse. He reached at three. The church was empty; the event was at seven. He stood by the door. What to do? He took out a cigarette, put it to his lips, struck a match—but the wind was against him. So he turned the horse around to block the wind so he could light the cigarette. The cigarette lit—and the horse set off. He had reached the church at three; by four he was standing in front of his own house. He looked carefully—what happened to the church? Then he remembered he had turned the horse to light the cigarette. He got engrossed in smoking and the horse walked homeward.

That’s how small the difference is in changing direction. A tiny incident—the act of lighting a cigarette—can become the cause of changing your direction. A friend becomes an enemy, an enemy becomes a friend. You turn from east to west, from west to east. A small event—bankruptcy, the death of a wife, the death of a child—and a man leaves home and becomes an ascetic. These events are not of more value than lighting a cigarette. They can change your direction. But such renunciation is false. In that renunciation there will be hatred, not understanding; failure, not insight; sorrow, not freedom.

There is another kind of renunciation in which we do not change direction; we look at the world attentively; we do not turn our back on it. But in that attentive seeing the world dissolves. In that awareness, in that state of meditation, we see that all our connections with the world are futile. We don’t create a new relationship with the world—that until now we were bound by attraction, now we will bind ourselves by repulsion; until now we ran toward the world, now we will run opposite to it. No—if that happens, renunciation has gone wrong. It’s a new disease. And then you will have to be freed from this disease too. It doesn’t make you healthy.

Imagine someone was ill. The illness goes—but he clings to the medicine. Now he roams around with bottles of medicine in hand. He cannot let them go.

Buddha used to say: Imagine five fools crossed a river. Then they hoisted the boat onto their heads. People asked, What are you doing? They said, This boat has done us a great favor; without it, we couldn’t have crossed. How can we abandon it? We’re not so ungrateful. They carried the boat on their heads into the marketplace. People said, This boat that was for crossing has become a burden. Now you’ll carry it your whole life! You won’t be able to do anything else.

Those you know as sannyasins—your so-called saints—if you look closely, you’ll find a boat on their heads. Attachment is gone; renunciation has climbed aboard! Because they have nourished the opposite of attachment.

What Shankar is saying is something else. He is only saying: look at attachment carefully, attentively, with discrimination. In the light of your awareness, the clouds of attachment will scatter. It’s not that renunciation will come in their place.

Renunciation is the absence of attachment, not enmity toward it. It’s not that attachment will leave your heart and renunciation will come sit there. No—attachment will go, and no one will come sit in its place; attachment will move away, and no one will take its seat. This alone is supreme renunciation.

So don’t make a mistake in understanding these sutras—because this mistake is very easy.

“Who is your beloved? Who is your son? This world is utterly strange. Whose are you? Who are you? From where have you come? Reflect on these essential questions in your mind.”

Shankar is asking you to reflect, to contemplate, to awaken, to look with awareness. Don’t rush to drape yourself in renunciation; otherwise, a draped renunciation will be of no use. Thoughtfully! Let there be light of understanding in your heart—then attachment will drop, be cut. Don’t start chasing out the darkness; simply light a lamp, that’s enough.

So Shankar says: “Who is your beloved?”

Who is your wife? Who is your son? Strangers met on the road. The one you call your son—before he was born, did you have any acquaintance? Did you call this very son to be born? You didn’t even know—how could you call him? You didn’t know the address; you couldn’t recognize his face. An unknown meeting, a meeting of unacquainted people.

But the human mind spins delusions. “My son, my wife, my brother, my sister”—how do you forge these relationships? It’s a strange phenomenon. Like two people walking on the road who fall into step together. A moment ago they were strangers; now for a short while they walk together. The companionship is brief, and then they will part, each to their own path. But in that short while, you weave many ties and relationships. There must be some deeper reason. The ties aren’t true; we are all strangers—and even after years together we don’t truly become acquainted.

Are you acquainted with your wife? You’ve lived together thirty or forty years. Can you honestly say you have fully known her? Can you say you can predict what she will do tomorrow?

Even after living together forty years, you cannot predict what your wife will do a moment later. Just now she was smiling, cheerful; now she’s angry! Which season will arrive in her mind, who can say? Which inner state will seize her, who can say?

Does your wife know you? It’s a superficial acquaintance. Who can enter into another’s inner world? It’s so difficult to enter your own—how will entering another’s be easy? Still, there must be a deep reason why we make these ties.

Man is alone; that’s why. In aloneness fear arises; worry and anxiety seize us. There is great pain in being alone. We are alone. The earth is full, yet each person is alone. Even amidst a crowd, you are alone. This aloneness bites. We want somehow to escape it. We form relationships; relationships are paths by which you forget yourself and forget your aloneness. For a little while it seems you are not alone.

Have you noticed? When you walk through a dark lane, aloneness frightens you, so you start humming a song. If people asked you to sing, you’d be embarrassed and wouldn’t sing. But a lonely lane, silence, night, darkness—you start humming! Why? You whistle! Why? By humming and hearing your own voice it feels—You are not alone, someone is with you. In your own song, for a moment you are deceived; fear seems to recede. The song gives courage, gives zest.

In aloneness a person starts talking to himself. Psychologists say if someone is kept in complete isolation, after three weeks he begins talking to himself. You do it too—you don’t do it loudly. If you sit idle, you are not empty—you talk to yourself inside. If someone watches closely, they can see your lips tremble; because even when you talk within, your lips tremble. But if you are kept in solitude for three weeks, the isolation is so terrifying—in this vast universe, utterly alone! In this great void—alone! Panic arises; every hair of your being begins to tremble. You start talking to yourself.

You’ve seen madmen talking to themselves. They are only a little further along than you. The difference is of degree, not of kind. You do it quietly; they are a bit braver—they talk out loud. The madman too talks to himself because he is greatly frightened. Talking to himself, for a while he forgets.

These are all methods of forgetting, methods of self-oblivion.

I was reading a memoir by a German writer. He was imprisoned in Hitler’s jail. He wrote: I was amazed—lizards had always frightened me, I never liked them; just seeing one made me feel disgust. But in my cell there was only one lizard and me. Even so, I felt pleased to have the lizard there—at least there was someone; I was not alone. In that dark, damp cell there was a companion. And gradually I began talking to the lizard. I would laugh at myself—What madness is this! But eventually I even began to suspect that the lizard answered. Then I would speak both for myself and on behalf of the lizard.

Man is alone—very alone. And for this aloneness there are only two ways: either you build the world, or you build sannyas.

Building the world means: build relationships, so that you forget aloneness. Building sannyas means: accept this aloneness, because it is your nature. Don’t run from it, don’t avoid it; consent to it, embrace it—it is your nature. By running from it you will reach nowhere. For lifetimes you have tried and only failed.

Sannyas means: one who has consented to his aloneness. Now he neither whistles, nor sings, nor forms relationships—he is completely fulfilled in himself.

And here’s the delightful thing: the more you run from yourself, the more you will have to run; the more solitude will frighten you. The more you agree with yourself, the more you will discover that what you had called loneliness is not loneliness, it is solitude.

There is a difference between loneliness and solitude. Loneliness means you miss the other; solitude means your own being is enough. In loneliness there is pain; in solitude there is joy.

When Shankar is alone, it is solitude; when you say you are in solitude, it is still loneliness.

Loneliness means the absence of the other hurts. Solitude means there is great relish in your own being. Solitude means you have fallen in love with yourself.

Meditation means: falling in love with yourself.

Meditation means: forming such a relationship with yourself that there is no longer any need to form relationships with others.

Meditation means: becoming complete in yourself.

Your entire world is within you; there is no lack. You are whole, complete, divine; there is nowhere else to go. Such a state is called sannyas.

We build the world—loneliness hurts. We try many methods to fill it—with money, with friends, with family; with religion, caste, nation—we try countless ways to fill the inner hole; we feel it as a wound that hurts. But it is not a wound; this is the misunderstanding. It is not a wound.

Just last night a sannyasin came to me. She said, Since I started meditating, it feels as if my heart has died; there is no desire to form relationships; love has no flavor; even friendship seems futile.

She was very sad. She has come from the West. In the West, if love begins to die, people think life is gone; if emotions slip away and relationships break, they think: what substance remains?

In the East we have searched deeper. We have discovered that when a person settles fully in himself, all relationships drop of their own accord. And this is a supremely fortunate event; there is no reason to be sad. When one is steady within, lust dissolves; the restlessness to form relationships leaves. Such blessedness is felt inside that with whom and what relationship is to be made now? He no longer stretches out his hands like a beggar before others—begging for your relationship, saying, Without you I cannot live. Now he can live alone. And only one who can live alone can truly live; all other living is deception, maya. One who cannot live alone—how will he live with anyone?

So I told that young woman sannyasin—Do not be afraid, do not be sad; your interpretation is wrong; the Western interpretation is wrong. Rejoice—this is your blessed fortune that the appetite for relationships has dropped.

Relationships bring nothing but pain; nothing but sorrow. And rightly so: when two unhappy people meet, how will they bring joy to each other? Do a little math. When two unhappy people meet, the unhappiness does not merely double—it multiplies.

You are not happy; that’s why you seek the other. You are not delighted in your own aloneness; that’s why you seek the other. The other seeks you for the same reason—he too is not delighted in himself. Two unhappy people meet—in the hope that together they will find happiness. Happiness never happens. It cannot—because both stand before each other with begging bowls. Neither is a giver; both are beggars. Each waits for the other to give.

Whoever you have loved, you have hoped—let the other give; let the other give.

People come to me and say, I love a lot—but the other doesn’t love me.

How will you love? Love flows only from the peak of joy; that Ganga flows only from the height of bliss. You are not joyful. You go to ask; the other comes to ask. You go to snatch; the other comes to snatch. Neither has anything; both wait for alms. The wait grows long and despair sets in.

Unless a person becomes joyful within, no one can make him joyful.

There is an ancient tale: God created man. Man was alone; loneliness began to bite; he was frightened. He prayed to God for a companion. But God had used up all his materials—nothing was left. He had made forests, mountains, birds, animals; man was the last creation. There was no material left.

But man wept, cried, screamed, so God said, Wait. He tried to make woman. There was no material, so he asked here and there—from birds and animals, from flowers and plants. He asked the moon for some of its light; the peacock for some of its pride; the pigeons for some of their cooing; the parrots for some of their speech; the rivers for some of their playfulness and flow; the soft flowers for some softness. In this way he borrowed from the whole world and made woman.

Seven days later the man returned: What trouble have you created! I thought I’d get companionship; this woman is a nuisance. She chatters twenty-four hours.

Her speech was borrowed from parrots. She is soft—when she loves, very gentle. But she has great pride too—that was borrowed from peacocks. She is very compassionate, but also very hard. The materials were gathered from here and there.

Very contradictory. I am scared, said the man; better alone—by a hundred thousand times! Take her back.

God took her back. But seven days later the man stood at the door again: Granted she made trouble, but I miss her terribly; I cannot live without her. These seven days I could neither sleep nor eat properly; whatever I do, her memory echoes in my mind. Give her back.

Seven days later he was at the door again: This is great trouble; I can’t live with her, I can’t live without her.

It is said God turned his back: How long will I listen to this nonsense? Now go—settle it yourself. Every seven days you’ll come: can’t live with her, can’t live without her. You settle it!

Since then man has been trying to settle it—and hasn’t. He never will. Because when you are alone, your loneliness frightens you; when you are with someone, his presence begins to prick. When together, you want to be alone; when alone, you want to be together. With someone, you see their faults, they start to irritate; alone, you see the emptiness, the void encircles you. The void feels like death. In companionship there is misery; in solitude also there is trouble—for you.

Therefore man makes a thousand kinds of relationships. He brings a wife home so he won’t be alone. Then to escape the wife he sits in hotels. He becomes a member of clubs—so he can escape the wife. He commits one mistake, then to escape that mistake he commits another; to escape that, a third. A chain of mistakes forms. You call that life!

“Who is your beloved? Who is your son? This world is utterly strange.”

Here you are absolute strangers; there is no real acquaintance with one another. You are not acquainted even with yourself—how will you be acquainted with another? One who knows himself will know the other. One who does not know himself will not know anyone. Without knowing, you have formed relationships. All relationships are coincidental. Your whole life, your entire world, stands on coincidence.

You fall in love with a girl. And when you fall in love you say, God made us for each other. And the whole matter is only that you lived in the same building—nothing special. Or you went to the same school—just a coincidence. It was a coincidence you met—no great principle behind it. No one is made for anyone. But man looks for principles, for destiny, for fate—even in coincidence!

Mulla Nasruddin went to Africa to hunt. When he returned, his friends gathered to hear his stories. He told many exaggerated tales. He said there is an animal there that when the male wants to call his female, he roars loudly; wherever the female is, however far in the jungle, she comes running. A friend requested, Show us how it sounds. He gave a mighty roar. Just then, the side door opened and his wife said, Yes dear, what is it? He said, See? Understood the principle?

It was coincidence, not principle.

But if a man realizes his love is coincidence, poetry dies. Coincidence? Tell Majnu that his meeting with Laila is coincidence—and poetry dies, romance dies. No, Majnu will say, Impossible. Laila was made for me; I was made for Laila. Even if the whole world becomes an obstacle, we will unite.

Had Majnu lived in another village, there would have been another Laila. It’s certain that Majnu would have found some Laila, but not this very one.

What you have taken as the structure of life is not structure, merely coincidence; events, all coincidental. The son born in your house—don’t fall into the illusion that you created him. Coincidence. You were in intercourse and a soul eager for rebirth was near; you were available, and that soul entered the womb. You had dug a pit; it rained; water flowed in and filled the pit. The water nearby filled it; what was far went to other pits. Coincidence.

To be someone’s son is coincidence; to be a mother is coincidence; to be a father is coincidence; friendship is coincidence; enmity is coincidence. If you can see this clearly, the deep ties you have created will immediately grow light; their intensity will fade.

“Who is your beloved? Who is your son? This world is utterly strange. Whose are you? Who are you? From where have you come? Consider these essential matters in your mind. And, O fool, ever sing the name of Govind.”

Because thinking alone won’t do. Thought by itself is lame. Think, yes—but thinking alone won’t take you across. Thinking will cut the obstacles, but not make the journey; the journey happens through devotion, through feeling, not through mere cogitation.

“Ever sing the name of Govind.”

“From satsang arises detachment; from detachment freedom from delusion; from freedom from delusion the mind becomes still; and from a still mind, jivanmukti—liberation while living—is attained.”

Understand this; it is a very precious sutra.

“From satsang arises detachment.”

Take this as the definition of satsang: wherever detachment arises, that is satsang. Where relationships are created, where attachment builds—that is not satsang, that is unsatsang. Satsang means you begin to see the true; satsang means your dream breaks, your eyes open.

The search for the master is only for this: that someone wakes you from your dream. And the relationships you have formed—someone should shake you awake and show you they are all illusions. Don’t squander your life in these dreams; don’t drown your soul in these ties. They are makeshift; don’t give them excessive value. Don’t value them so much that you are ready to annihilate yourself. Remember—formalities. They may be necessary in the marketplace of the world, but in the inner world they are not necessary at all. There you can take neither your father nor your son nor your brother nor friend nor wife. There you will go alone. So, even while living in relationships, know that your pure nature is to be alone. Don’t forget that; don’t let the sun of solitude be smothered under the clouds of relationships.

“From satsang arises detachment; from detachment, absence of delusion.”

And when you discover you are alone, what infatuation can there be?

“From absence of delusion the mind becomes still.”

And when there is no delusion, the mind is not agitated.

I have heard: a house caught fire. Its owner beat his chest and wept. But someone in the crowd said, Don’t cry; you’re crying in vain. Perhaps you don’t know—your son sold this house yesterday.

The tears stopped; the weeping ceased. The house is still burning; the flames still rise, but he no longer cries—because the house is not his.

Just then the son came running: The deal was only in talk, we haven’t sold it yet.

The tears began again; the man beat his chest—We are ruined! The house is the same. He is not weeping because of the fire—but because of the relationship to the house. Even if a house burns, what difference does it make—if it’s not yours?

If someone else’s son dies, what difference does it make? It’s because it is “my” son that the tears fall. The son’s death doesn’t bring tears; “my” dying brings tears.

If you come to know that no one is “mine,” the sorrow goes. With the end of attachment, sorrow goes. If it becomes clear that no one is mine, that I am utterly alone, the mind becomes still; there is no restlessness in the mind; you become steady. That steadiness is the supreme realization. In that stillness you know who you are. The ultimate question of life—Who am I?—is resolved. When the flame is steady, the answer comes, the resolution happens. We call that stillness samadhi—because all problems are solved.

“And from a still mind, liberation in life is attained. O fool, ever sing the name of Govind.”

“What is lust when old age arrives? Where is the pond when the water dries up? And where is family when wealth is destroyed? Likewise, where is ‘world’ when essential wisdom dawns? Therefore, O fool, ever sing the name of Govind.”

“Where is the world when essential wisdom dawns?”

Understand this. Whenever Shankar, Buddha, or Mahavira speak of the “world,” you assume they mean this expanse you see around you—and you go wrong. They have no quarrel with this expanse. When they say “world,” they mean: that which your infatuation has known; that which your ignorance has created; that which arose from your stupor—your world. These trees will remain; these mountains and stones, moon and stars will remain. Even when you awaken, they remain; they do not vanish.

So people ask: When someone attains the supreme knowledge and the world disappears, what happens to the trees, mountains, stones, the moon, the sun?

They do not disappear. In fact, for the first time they manifest in their purity. That purity is God. Then you don’t see the moon; you see God’s light shining through the moon. Then you don’t see trees; you see God’s greenness in trees. Then you don’t see flowers; you see God blooming. The vastness becomes divine.

Right now you don’t see God; you see the world. And the world is not one—there are as many worlds as there are minds here; for each person has his own world. If your wife dies, you will weep; another won’t. On the contrary, others will come to console you—The soul is immortal, why cry? They won’t miss the chance to display their wisdom; such opportunities are rare. Seeing you in such a state, they will certainly give a little sermon: Who belongs to whom? Why weep? Tomorrow their wife will die; then you will get your chance to go and tell them: Who belongs to whom? The world is all maya!

Each person has his own world. The infatuations of your mind, your stupor, your ignorance, your attachment and passions—that is your world. What you have seen through the medium of attachment, passion, delusion—that is false; it is not the truth. As if veils lie over your eyes, clouds of smoke surround them.

Shankar says: “When essential wisdom dawns, where is the world?”

Truth remains; but whatever you had added to it disappears.

“Ever sing the name of Govind.”

“Do not be proud of wealth, people, and youth, for time snatches them in the blink of an eye. Abandon this entire illusory display and know the state of Brahman and enter it.”

I was reading a song this very morning; a few lines touched me:

What strength had we, that we could stop the gardener’s tyranny? Our nest kept being ruined—we stood helpless, only watching.

There is no force, no power, no strength. The garden will keep being laid waste, and you will have to stand and watch, unable to do anything. The house will be ruined, and you, helpless, will only watch, unable to do anything.

What strength had we, that we could stop the gardener’s tyranny? Our nest kept being ruined—we stood helpless, only watching.

This is the story of life. Daily the garden will wither. Spring will not remain forever. Youth will not remain forever. This vigor, this strength will not remain forever. Each day, strength will diminish. The house will fall into ruin. Slowly, death will approach. Life is a brief dream. Death draws near every moment. The day you were born, you began to die. You cannot postpone it, you cannot run away; death comes near.

“Do not be proud of wealth, people, and youth.”

Such ego is hollow. All egos are hollow. Hollowness is the very nature of ego. It calls what is not yours “mine”; it calls what will not last “permanent”; it believes what is flowing away to be still—its eyes closed.

You don’t lie only to others; you lie to yourself as well.

One day Mulla Nasruddin came home. He knocked at the door; silence inside, no answer. He knocked again; no reply. Then he shouted, It’s me, Nasruddin—not the landlord asking for rent; not the milkman, not the vegetable seller. Open up! Still silence. He said, Listen, I am the real Nasruddin!

He had instructed his family never to answer the door because he had spread a thousand debts. Now at his own door, knocking, even for himself the door would not open. So he had to announce: I am the real Nasruddin. But how can that be certain? Saying so doesn’t make it so.

We are not just deceiving others; we are building a whole world of deception. We are lying all around ourselves. And we get trapped in that lie. An inauthenticity seizes us. Then whatever we do becomes false.

One who wants to awaken should stop lying to himself; and the beliefs he has invested in his inner lies should be bid farewell. Know this body will not last. It is not lasting; it is flowing away; every moment it is dying; death will not come tomorrow—it is happening now. We are dying. Death is not an event that happens seventy years later; seventy years later nothing is left to happen—slowly everything has been spent. There is nothing left after seventy years—that you call death.

Drop by drop, life empties; it becomes hollow. Don’t call this life, otherwise it will be a lie. Call it the slow-coming death. Don’t celebrate birthdays; every day is a death-day. And the day you see death in your birthday, and hear the footsteps of death in life, that day you know truth. That truth is liberating. Knowing that truth, you begin another search. Wealth appears futile; the body appears futile; relationships based on wealth and body appear futile; the world founded on wealth and body appears futile. And before you can know truth, you must first know the false as false.

“Day and night, evening and morning, winter and spring—come and go again and again. Thus the play of time goes on, and unknowingly life ends. Yet the wind of hope does not leave you.”

Hope is poison. On the strength of this poison, you mistake dying for living. Today there is sorrow; the mind says, Tomorrow everything will be fine. Today there is no joy; the mind says, Wait a little—tomorrow comes, everything will be fine. And thus the mind has carried you thus far—on the crutch of hope. The day you drop hope, that day you will awaken. Hope is dream.

Have you ever noticed what hope does in life?

Hope says: Forget about today! Whatever happened today, happened—but tomorrow the heavens are assured. Hope has even convinced you that if this life is lost, no worry—there is heaven after death. That too is only an extension of hope.

Hope says—tomorrow! Hope says—future!

And if revolution is to happen in life, it must happen now and here. Don’t rely on tomorrow. Tomorrow never comes. Tomorrow is false. And the very hope of tomorrow is the thread of dreams; the tapestry of dreams is woven from it. Whatever is to be done, do it today; whatever is to be, be today. Don’t hope for more than today.

At first it will be a shock, because when hope breaks you will feel utterly hopeless. You’ll say, This is great despair! But if you consent to live with despair, you will soon find—where hope has left, despair cannot remain long; despair is the other side of hope, it leaves with hope. Where hope departs, despair also goes. Then there is neither hope nor despair. That is stillness. There the flame stands steady. No vibration. That is the unmoving state of consciousness.

“Day and night, evening and morning come and go. Thus the game of time goes on. Life ends unknowingly. Yet the wind of hope does not leave you. Therefore, O fool, ever sing the name of Govind.”

“O madman, why are you caught in worry about wife and wealth? Do you not know that even a moment’s company with the noble is the only boat to cross this ocean of the world?”

Who is noble? One in whose presence your sleep breaks. One in whose presence your sleep deepens is ignoble; whoever helps increase your illusions and attachments is ignoble.

But the situation is reversed. The one who wakes you doesn’t feel like a friend; the one who lulls you to sleep feels like a friend. The one who pours you wine feels like a friend; the one who tries to bring you to awareness seems like an enemy. That’s why the taverns are crowded and the temples empty. There are queues at the tavern; the god of the temple waits—no one comes. The priest comes, but he is a hired hand; he receives a salary, so he performs the worship. His worship is not heartfelt; it is professional. He is no lover. Why is this?

Wherever there is intoxication, there you will see crowds! Outside cinemas there are crowds. For three hours a trance descends; you lose yourself in images. You forget your pains and sorrows, your troubles and anxieties; for three hours you get rid of yourself. But it is no real deliverance. After three hours the lights come on, the screen goes dark, and you stand again where you were—the same worries, the same sorrow.

Wine helps you forget for a few hours; then awareness returns—the same misery, the same suffering. Even when you go to temples, your intention is to get wine.

Here is the difference. You can do “devotion” in two ways: like wine—lost in singing and chanting, worries fade, pain recedes; for an hour or two you forget that you must go home, that you have a wife and children, that the wife is sick, that the children must be admitted to school and there’s no money—all worries vanish; for two hours you are immersed in devotion. If you float away in devotion, it too is wine. Devotion is devotion only if it awakens you. So even in the name of temples, taverns are open; and in the name of religion people seek unconsciousness, not awareness.

Remember, where awareness is given, where you are awakened—and certainly where you are awakened there will be discomfort. Because sleep has its charms; beautiful dreams are running. Waking is harsh. And a relationship with truth is a challenge. Difficulties will arise. You will have to struggle. You will have to pass through sadhana, through tapas. With reality, you cannot work with closed eyes; you must travel with open eyes. And the path is thorny. The path can mislead. Those who never walk have no fear of going astray. Those who lie in their beds meet no accidents. But whoever walks—the possibility of accident is there, of going astray is there. It is difficult, laborious; because the journey is uphill—toward the mountain peak.

To go toward God is to go toward the summit. Every moment the difficulty increases. And only one willing to go beyond difficulty attains the bliss of the peak.

Bliss is not free; it must be earned; one must labor. Though it is not obtained by labor alone—after labor, it comes as grace. But grace rains on the one who has prepared himself.

“The wind of hope does not leave you.”

You even tie hope to God.

People come to me; I say, Meditate without hope. They say, If we drop hope, why would we meditate? We have come to meditate in hope—that meditation will bring peace, God, samadhi.

This is the complication. Hope will be the obstacle. Because as long as you are hoping, you will not meditate—you will hope; the two cannot happen together. You will meditate a little, but inside someone will keep peeking: Still no peace? Nothing yet! Three days have passed—still nothing! No experience of bliss yet!

Understand it like this: I say, Come to the river; swimming is great joy. You say, Certainly, there is joy in swimming? I’m coming. But you swim less and keep an inner hope: When will joy arrive? Not yet! I’ve crossed half the river—not yet! The other bank is near—not yet!

It will not come. Bliss has a nature: when you do not seek it, it finds you. As long as you seek it, it won’t come—because as long as you seek, you are not in the present; your mind is somewhere else—in the future—Now I’ll get it, now I’ll get it. And bliss is found now. When you do not seek, when you are purely in this moment—no hope, no expectation, no ambition—only then it pours on you from all sides. It was always pouring; you were not present. You were absent; wandering in the future on the crutch of hope, while bliss was being distributed here—you were elsewhere. No meeting was possible.

The day you are in the present—and there is only one way to be in the present: all hope and all ambition drop.

So I tell them—Meditate, don’t hope; don’t make meditation a means, make it the end; find joy in the doing, don’t demand joy as a result; do not crave the fruit. If you can do any act without craving its fruit, that act will become meditation.

This is all Krishna told Arjuna in the Gita—repeated again and again in many ways: Do not desire the fruit. The desire for fruit is the world. Renounce the desire for fruit—that is liberation. There is no need to escape the world; let the desire for fruit drop; then you will remain here and the world will vanish.

“O madman, why are you tangled in worry about wife and wealth? Do you not know that a moment’s company with the noble is the only boat to cross the ocean of the world?”

Yet up to the moment of death people remain entangled in useless worries. All worries are useless. The meaningful is contemplated; it does not produce worry.

I have heard of a Marwari merchant who was dying, on his deathbed. He asked his wife, Where is the eldest son?

He is right here, said the wife. Don’t worry.

And the middle son?

He is here too, she said.

And the youngest?

He is standing by your feet—don’t you worry; rest in peace.

The Marwari sat up: Rest in peace—what do you mean? Then who is minding the shop? Everyone is here!

The father was dying; all the sons had come, closing the shop. But even in dying, he had no question of death—Who is minding the shop? He wasn’t asking out of love—Where is the eldest, the middle, the youngest? He was asking—What about the shop! Everyone is here? The shop is unattended?

Until the final moment of death your mind keeps running the shop. It will—because whatever has run lifelong will run in death too; you will not suddenly change at death.

Don’t fall for those false tales that say a man was dying and his son’s name was Narayan, and he called out, Narayan, and the Narayan above was fooled. Don’t fall for this deception. These stories were concocted by priests to comfort sinners. On the basis of these stories, priests extract a little money from sinners. Nothing else happens.

If the Narayan above can be fooled, then he is no Narayan. And this man attains heaven because at death he uttered “Narayan.” If Narayan can be had so cheaply, he is not worth having. Such a two-penny moksha is false. This story cannot be true.

Death is the distillation of a lifetime. What you have counted all your life, you will count at death. If you have counted rupees, the numbers will keep running; because death is the essence of your life. If you have been restless all your life, you will die restless; if you have been peaceful all your life, your death will be supreme peace.

Each person dies in a different way; remember—because each lives in a different way. Neither is your life the same, nor will your death be the same.

When a Buddha dies, the glory of that death is different. His death is more majestic than your so-called life. Your life is not equal to his death; his death is a million times greater than your life. Because in that moment of death, the whole life condenses, the music of the whole life becomes dense—like all the flowers of life distilled into perfume. In the moment of death, the fragrance that arises from Buddha is the essence of a lifetime of flowers; the stench that rises from you will be the essence of your lifetime’s garbage.

You will not suddenly change at death. So don’t listen to the priests who tell you—Do religion at the end. If you are to do religion, do it now and here; don’t postpone to the end. Because only if you begin today will you be able to manage; if you begin to awaken today, by and by you will awaken; if from today you hum the name of Govind, perhaps at the moment of death the name of Govind will be on your lips. Only then can the Govind above hear.

Don’t think that a priest will whisper a mantra in your ear on loan, that they’ll pour Ganges water into your mouth, and read you the Gita as you die. He will repeat the Gita, but it will not be heard within. Only one who has learned the art of listening all his life can hear the Gita at the final moment; one who has sung Govind all his life won’t have to call in a hired professional to sing for him as he dies; your very life-breaths, your every breath, your every heartbeat will sing Govind.

In that moment of death you will go toward the divine overfilled with blessedness, dancing. Your death will become the doorway to great life; you will transform death. Right now death kills you; then you will kill death. And religion is the art of killing death; it is the science of becoming immortal.

“Therefore, O fool, ever sing the name of Govind.”

Bhaj Govindam, Bhaj Govindam, Bhaj Govindam, O foolish mind.

Enough for today.