Bin Ghan Parat Phuhar #5

Let’s begin with a little story—a Hasidic tale.

An emperor had an only son—addicted to drink, gambling, and prostitutes. The emperor was distraught. He tried everything to set the boy straight; nothing worked. In desperation, as a last resort—maybe shock would awaken him—he banished the prince from the kingdom.

He thought: he will ask forgiveness, repent, and return; he will come to his senses. Nothing of the sort happened. The boy left and did not come back. He loitered around the borders of the realm and eventually found his way into a den of drunkards.

He was the emperor’s son; leadership came naturally. Soon he was no longer just another member of the den—he became its leader. Gambling, prostitutes, liquor—he lived in them twenty-four hours a day.

The old father waited for years. The son never returned. As death drew near, the emperor was seized with anxiety and deep anguish. He sent one of his ministers: Go persuade my son and bring him back. Whatever he is, better that than nothing. After I die he is the heir. A drunk is a drunk, granted. Perhaps the shock of my death will sober him. Maybe possession of the empire will bring him to his senses.

The minister went in full courtly regalia, riding a golden chariot—as befit the emperor’s envoy. But the son paid him no attention. The minister tried all sorts of strategies, yet could not even draw the boy’s eyes to him.

He returned—defeated.

The emperor sent a second minister.

This one thought: The first went wrong in his approach. He went keeping a great distance—on a golden chariot—to persuade a beggar. The gap was too wide; no dialogue could form.

So he himself disguised as a beggar and joined the den—became like the prince. He drank, he gambled. He made friends—but things turned upside down. He sank so deeply into intoxication, liquor, and prostitutes that he forgot why he had come. He became one of them.

The prince didn’t return; instead, he pulled the minister down with him.

Months passed. The emperor said: This is worse. At least the first minister came back, even if the son did not. But the second minister has simply vanished.

News arrived that he had blended in completely, no longer remembering he was a minister, drunk around the clock.

This happens often. Standing on the bank, there is no way to save a drowning person. If you mean to stay on the shore, to keep your clothes clean, not to get wet, not to risk anything—then there is no way to save the one who’s drowning. You may be very clever, but you cannot rescue from the bank. Courage is needed to enter the river. But that brings danger, because the one who is drowning can pull you under too.

The first minister stayed on the bank; the second stepped into the river. The first returned safely—having saved himself. The second drowned.

The emperor said to his chief minister: Now only you remain. He was old; that’s why the emperor had not sent him before. Now you go—you are my last hope. After this, I can think of no other way.

The minister went. He went as the second had gone—as a beggar. He feigned drinking, but did not drink. He showed interest in the prostitutes’ dances, but did not taste them. He gambled, threw the dice—but kept awareness alive within. Untouched—like a lotus in water. In it, yet not of it. He entered midstream and remained on the shore as well. He went to save the drowning one, yet never let go of the bank.

One day he brought the prince back to the palace.

Hasidic mystics say: this is the mark of the true Master.

If the true Master stands too far from you, he cannot save you—even if he saves himself. If he comes close to where you drown, there is risk; you might pull him under.

Only that Master can save you who is both near and far—who draws as close as close can be, and yet, inwardly, never comes near. Who stands on the shore and also steps into the swift current. One hand saves you, the other never lets go of the bank. In one sense he is exactly like you; in another, not like you at all. He is human—and divine. Outwardly your neighbor; inwardly established where you will one day be. Within, he never leaves the center; outwardly, he can appear to be on the circumference.

Therefore, recognizing a true Master is very difficult.

Those who remain on the shore you will recognize—but they will not be able to save you. You will recognize them as Masters; but the distance between you and them is too great—how will a bridge be built? How will relationship form? They may be holy, enthroned on golden seats, breathing the air of heaven, drinking the fragrance of unearthly flowers—but they are far away. At most, they have saved themselves.

But I tell you: if one has truly saved himself and yet cannot save you, even that self-salvation is questionable. One who is afraid to leave the shore—is he truly on the shore? One who has reached the bank will not fear leaving it—he can find it again. One who has attained does not fear losing; only the one who has not attained is afraid—what if I lose it and never find it again?

He who has saved himself can take the risk of loss. But don’t assume that taking risks alone will save you—fools also take risks; often they are the first to jump.

Once I saw it with my own eyes—

I was sitting by a river. A gentleman sat nearby; we were strangers. Someone began to drown. I ran; he ran. He jumped in before me. Seeing him jump, I stopped. I watched—he himself began to drown. He’d forgotten that he didn’t know how to swim.

When someone is drowning it all happens so fast—and the urge to save flares so strongly—you might forget you even know how to swim!

He left me with a double trouble; I had to bring both out of the river. I told him, Sir, better you hadn’t jumped! He said, I simply forgot. A good man, noble-hearted, a deep urge to save—but the urge alone doesn’t save; the art of saving is needed.

If the urge grips you so hard that you forget the art—that you never learned to swim—then instead of saving, you’ll become the cause of drowning. And the one you went to save will drown you.

Fools also take risks—often quicker than the wise. The intelligent take risks after reflection; the fool just leaps. Where the wise hesitate, fools rush in. But risk itself doesn’t save. Risk is necessary for saving, but risk does not save.

And for the one who knows how to save, there is no risk—only you think there is. The one who knows doesn’t even feel it’s risky. If he has found the bank of awareness, even midstream he never leaves that inner bank.

The third minister brought the prince back. He gambled—outwardly. He became a gambler—but it was acting, a play; within he stayed awake. He showed that he was drinking, but he did not drink. And who in a den of drunkards has the clarity to check whether you drank or not? Keep the bottle before you and sip water—no drunkard will notice. If someone does, he’s no drunkard! The prostitutes danced; his eyes looked at them—his mind was elsewhere.

One who stands on the shore of an untouched, unentangled life—that one rescues the drowning.

Sahajo met such a Master: Charandas. He was a very simple man—so utterly simple that ordinary people could not even tell what the difference was between him and themselves. Completely ordinary. And remember: only when the extraordinary glimmers within the ordinary can you be saved—only then you know there is one who is at once near and far. Sometimes so close that you start doubting: What is the difference between him and me? Maybe he too is drowning along with us!

One who comes to save must come close—right where you are drowning midstream. To a drowning person, it may look as if he too is drowning. A drowning man thrashes arms and legs; a swimmer also moves arms and legs. There’s no visible difference in the flailing. What is swimming, after all? Just moving the limbs in the right way. The drowning thrashes; the swimmer also thrashes. The drowning one feels: he’s flailing too.

But the difference is vast!

The drowning thrashes from fear; the savior moves from love. Both throw their arms—one in panic, one in awareness. Awareness saves.

Charandas was a simple man. He saved Sahajo. That is why she sings his songs. She says: If I must renounce Hari, I will renounce even Hari—but I will not renounce the Guru. For Hari threw me into midstream and let me sink; the Guru saved me from midstream and brought me ashore. So, even if I abandon Hari, I will not forget the Guru!

No one would have known of Charandas; news of him reached people through Sahajo’s songs. He had two disciples—Sahajo and Daya: like two eyes, like two wings on a bird. These two sang Charandas’s songs, and people came to hear of him.

Soon we will speak of Daya as well. And the two voices sound so alike—of course they do; the same Guru saved both, the same shadow fell on both, the same heart beat within both. The songs of both flow from the same source. That is why I have titled this series of talks on Sahajo’s verses “Showers Without Clouds.” These words are Daya’s. And when I speak on Daya, the series title I’ve chosen uses Sahajo’s words: “The world, the boat of dawn!” Like the morning star sinking—now gone, now gone—such is the world: the world, the boat of dawn!

The two are like two pulses of the same life-breath. So I have used Daya’s phrase for Sahajo, and will use Sahajo’s for Daya.

This event of being saved—Sahajo, who was rescued—from the middle, from the drowning river—means she knows drowning and saving; she knows midstream and the bank; she knows the panic of drowning and the bliss of rescue. That is why she is very close to your heart; half of what she says you can understand—because you are the ones drowning, the panic of drowning is yours. And if half is understood, your eyes will open to the other half as well—then you too will come to taste the joy of being saved.

Try to understand these verses—

Beyond duality, without enmity, says Sahajo—desireless.
Content, a pure state—no expectation of the “other.”

Three words: beyond dualities, without enmity, without desire. As long as there are two in the world, you will drown. The awareness of “the other” is the cause of drowning. The day you realize there are not two, only one, that very day you will be saved. The greatest delusion is seeing the other as other; the greatest revolution is recognizing yourself in the other.

The one sitting beside you is not your neighbor—he is you. The form will differ, the manner will differ, but deep down there is the one heartbeat. And deep down, the same state of awareness. What is the real difference between you and another human being? There are a thousand differences. If you keep accounts of differences, you will miss that which is the same. The differences are many, and within the differences the non-difference is hidden. If you see only difference, you see the world, not the Divine. If you see the non-difference, the world fades and the Divine appears.

To see the One within the many is to arrive at the temple of God.

Trees stand, rocks and mountains lie there—the differences seem even greater. Yet one thing is the same: the rock is, and you are—being is the same. Flowers bloom; sometimes you too bloom. Flowers wither; sometimes you too wither. A stream dances and sings its way to the ocean; sometimes you too dance and sing. Sometimes the stream grows desolate, seems to go nowhere, falters and stalls; so too sometimes you are desolate, going nowhere, as if life is lost in a desert.

Wherever you see life, try to look for the non-difference. Then slowly you will find: differences are many, but they are on the surface; within, the non-difference is. In difference, man drowns; in non-difference, he is saved. The non-difference is the shore; difference is midstream. Even in your enemy, you will find at least one certainty: that in some way you are one; if only in enmity, if only in opposition, at least in one relationship you are alike. And as this kinship dawns, the enemy will remain an enemy on the surface—but inwardly a friendship will be born. You cannot do without your enemy either; he too adds something to your life. Without him you would be incomplete. When the enemy dies, something in you dies too. You will not remain who you were. Though you may have thought a thousand times: I’ll kill him—when he dies you will find: a corner of my heart has become empty! He occupied a place; he had a place in your life.

Seek the bridge even where there is opposition. Seek the one where there are two. Seek the current within even when there are many. Rivers are many; the ocean is one. Forms are many; within forms, the formless one hides. As long as you keep seeing the many, know that you are in the world. The day the many suddenly fall away and the One appears, in that instant you will find you have come into God.

Sometimes such a happening comes uninvited. Understand it a little.

Perhaps sometime, suddenly, while walking on a path, or sitting alone in a quiet place, you felt the world become dreamlike, insubstantial; as if for a moment a curtain drew back, or clouds parted and the sun appeared. Perhaps someone died, and sitting at the cremation ground, suddenly a haze cleared from your eyes and you felt: all is without substance, all is vain—maya, a dream. Quickly you return to your world, because such a state is frightening. Quickly you start talking, chatting—ironically, talking about this very state; and with that very talk, the state is lost.

Psychologists say it happens when the constant stream of language within you suddenly breaks. When the child is born, he has no language. Language is learned slowly. Children are born in silence. In silence, distinctions cannot be made.

When a child opens his eyes for the first time, he can’t see as you do: tree, stone, house, woman, man. How could he? He doesn’t know what a house is, what a tree is. He cannot see “green tree,” “red flower.” He knows neither “red” nor “green.” Imagine for a moment: how does the newborn see when he first opens his eyes? You cannot even imagine it.

To the child, everything appears together. Even to say “together” is our imposition. He has no notion of multiplicity. No notion of unity. He simply sees. Everything is joined. Neither is red “red,” nor green “green.” No boundaries. Everything is fused, interwoven.

Then language arises. Language makes distinctions. Dog apart, cat apart, house apart, tree apart—differences begin. The more the child learns, understands, thinks, uses language, the more distinctions are created.

You call a man a great thinker who can slice distinctions into the fineness of split hairs. But existence is undivided. Language erects divisions. Therefore all religions honor silence. Why? Because silence allows you to see without language—pull aside the layers of words and glance within. Instantly the divisions fall; the One reveals itself.

Silence is a deep alchemy. One who has not known silence has known nothing. Call it silence, call it meditation, call it love—it is the same. In love, silence descends; words vanish. When words vanish, meditation happens. Fill with meditation, and love begins to flow. Meditation and love are two faces of one coin. Meditation means: you fell silent. In silence you found the One; the other disappeared. Having found that there is only One, love begins to flow. You were withholding love because there was “another.” When you discover: I alone am, I beat in every heart, I bloom as the trees, I shine in moon and stars—then what non-love? What hatred? What enmity?

So Sahajo says: Beyond duality, without enmity! The first thing: become beyond dualities—let two be no more. When two are no more, freedom from enmity arises on its own; love flowers—no enemy remains. None is left to be an enemy; an enemy needs at least an “other.”

Beyond duality, without enmity! In this way, the subtle thread Sahajo offers is rare: First go beyond duality—no twoness, no conflict, no dualism—then freedom from enmity flows of itself. Beyond duality gives birth to non-enmity.

And from non-enmity arises desirelessness. This is a precious thread. When two are no more, conflict and hostility fall away—you become free of enmity. And when two are no more, what remains to be gained? Where can desire stick? Acquisition is in competition with the other—what if the other gains more, what if I lag behind—hence ambition arises. Hence even if I must cut other people’s throats—so be it; I must reach my positions. Later I will be compassionate to others. But how will I reach if I am compassionate now? I must build steps out of others’ heads, use them, and run like a madman, intoxicated.

Hitler’s success lay here. There were more intelligent people in the struggle—yet they lost. No one imagined Hitler would dominate Germany’s chest like this. Many brilliant politicians opposed him; he bested them all. The reason? None of them was as mad as he was; they were somewhat intelligent. That became their failure.

Hitler was utterly mad. If you race with a madman, remember—you will not win. If the madman doesn’t run, that’s different. If he runs, your defeat is certain. However much strength you employ, you cannot muster a madman’s strength.

You may have noticed: in rage you can shove even a great rock; without rage, it won’t budge. In anger you are deranged, insane. Madmen have snapped chains that powerful wrestlers in their senses could not break—madmen broke them because for the mad there are no limits, no sense.

In the Second World War, Hitler almost succeeded in ruling the whole world. Why? A strange reason. Military historians say never before had humanity seen such a phenomenon. Generals of England, America, Russia, France were baffled. Why? It was a war against a madman. If the other side also has a general who understands military science, the arithmetic is clear.

For example, all of Hitler’s opponents would say: the attack will come here—our weakest link. Hitler would not attack there. They prepared there, because attacks usually come at the weakest link. Hitler attacked where they thought they were strongest, hence neglected defense. His generals would say: What are you doing? This will bring defeat. Hitler said: Quiet. I receive orders from God. Those “divine orders” won him five years.

Gradually, a great mess arose for the Allies. His moves became impossible to anticipate—like playing chess with a madman who follows no mathematics and makes bizarre moves. He will confound the cleverest player!

For five years Hitler kept them entangled. It took five years for the opposing generals to grasp the pattern of his mind; only then did their victories begin. Five years of study. He rendered humanity’s military science useless. He was indeed mad. He would do what no one could even think, what no one could ever imagine would bring success.

He kept astrologers. He had them chart the course of war—east or west? His generals said: Has any war ever been fought by astrology? Ask us! But he kept astrologers.

When England learned he was following astrology, Churchill—who had no belief in astrology—had to hire an astrologer too. What else could he do? To fight this enemy, we must keep an astrologer—so he can tell us what Hitler’s astrologer is telling him. A general cannot fight this war.

Beyond duality, without enmity—says Sahajo—and desireless.

Madmen get ahead of others. But to be ahead, you need an “other.” If there is no other, ahead of whom? What desire then? What ambition?

So the root is beyond duality. From that comes non-enmity. From non-enmity comes desirelessness—there is no one to struggle against.

And as soon as you realize there are not two, the very language of struggle becomes meaningless. There is only One; then the language of surrender makes sense—who to fight, but to bow; who to wrestle, but to dissolve; whom to defeat? Then defeat is victory. Then with the Vast—which is my own form—there is no reason to fight, but to flow—with surrender.

Then you do not swim fighting the river; you drift with the river. Then the river carries you. Ramakrishna used to say: there are two ways to cross a river. One, take boat and oar; then you must fight the current, struggle with the winds. The other: wait for the right moment, when the wind blows the right way and the river is in a playful mood; then unfurl your sail—the winds and the river themselves become your oar.

The man full of desire rows and fights. The desireless one leaves it to God’s will. He hoists his sail: Wherever You wish. Wherever You set me—that is my destination.

Beyond duality, without enmity, says Sahajo—and desireless.

These three: be beyond dualities, be without enmity, be filled with desirelessness.

Content, a pure state…
What flowers from these three is a pure state of contentment.

Content, a pure state—no expectation of the “other.”
No “other” remains—so how expectations? Content, a pure state! There are two kinds of contentment; therefore Sahajo adds “pure.” Saints have to weigh every word—they’re speaking to you. There is also impure contentment. You’ll ask: what is impure contentment? When you force yourself into contentment. Like when you are defeated. To console yourself you say: All right, everything is fine. What was written in fate, happened. Perhaps God’s intention in this is good. Perhaps a blessing hides in the curse.

This is not contentment; it’s consolation. You trick yourself, because life is hard enough—if you remain in constant discontent, you will burn; poison will seep into every cell; wounds of pain will fester. So you persuade yourself: perhaps some good is hidden here; whatever happened is right; whatever God does is right. But you know it was not right—otherwise why say “whatever God does is right”? The thorn of “wrong” has pricked you; you’re applying a salve called “right.” You say there must be a blessing hidden in the curse—because you see the curse. Now you are trying to impose a blessing on it.

Note: if contentment is pure, the curse is never seen—only blessing is. If contentment is impure, first you see the curse, and to endure it you tie the hope of blessing to it; because the curse is so big, how will you bear it? You need a support.

The old web of past karma—it must be suffered; but you know you are suffering, so you devise supports. The house is collapsing; you prop it with sticks. But this is no healthy house. It’s the same with “the grapes are sour.” You can’t reach the grapes; you declare them sour—not ripe yet. Whom are you deceiving?

You’ll find many such “contented” people in this country—condemning the whole world. They say: the whole world is irreligious. Learn contentment from us; India is very contented.

I have hardly seen truly contented people. Yours is false contentment. It is a eunuch’s contentment. By that I mean: you are incapable of running, you lack the courage to struggle, so you drape yourself in the robe of contentment. You want to run; you wish someone else would run for you. You too want the thrones; but you want God to lift you onto them so you don’t have to do anything—because in doing there is the fear of losing. If you run, there is fear—you might fall behind; your ego might be hurt.

There are two kinds of egoists in the world. One runs like a madman. The other stands like a “contented” man. The runner shoves and pushes. The still one may deceive you—he looks so content, standing on the shore! But look into his depths and you will find: he stands still so that he won’t lose if he runs. He may be more egoistic than the mad runner. He refuses to enter the competition—because entering means one thing is clear: victory is not guaranteed; there could be defeat.

People come to me and say: We want to love, but we can’t step toward anyone—for fear of rejection. We cannot declare our love. That is ego. Certainly, if you confess love there is the risk of refusal. The other is free. Your desire to love does not oblige them to reciprocate. You extend a hand in friendship—that does not compel the other to take it. You may not appeal to them! Often it happens: the one you love, you do not appeal to. Behind this too is a deep ego: no one believes himself worthy of love; when someone loves us we think: Anyone willing to love me must be worthless. We have been taught self-denigration for centuries. You despise yourself within. You think: Am I someone to be loved? Anyone who loves me must be cheap.

There is a comic actor in America, Groucho Marx. A prestigious Hollywood club—membership reserved for the elite actors, directors, the top echelon of society—invited Groucho: We’d be delighted to have you as a member. Groucho replied: Any club willing to accept me as a member, I cannot accept as a club. It’s beneath me; otherwise why would it accept me? I want to belong to a club that is not willing to accept me. Ego!

Bernard Shaw was awarded the Nobel Prize; he refused. He said: It’s beneath me now. It’s not worthy of me. Give it to the new, young apprentices. I’m an old man; that time is past—had you given it twenty years ago, perhaps I would have accepted.

Jayaprakash was urged many times to become President. He said: The office is a bit small for me.

The ego has strange refinements. People think: What a renunciate—he rejected the presidency! But feel the inner tone: he says it is not worthy of me. It’s not a question of renunciation—it’s not up to my mark.

Often those you call renunciates are greater egoists than you. And often those who stand by the roadside spreading the fragrance of contentment are more discontent than you.

So external appearances mean nothing. The inner must be transformed.

Sahajo says: Content, a pure state! The purest contentment is when even you do not know you are content. As long as you know, discontent remains. If you feel “I am content,” know that you are discontent. When even the knowing disappears—when there is no sense of being content—then know: Content, a pure state—no expectation of the other!

Here the knots are subtle. An egoist too may not expect from others—but that is because his ego won’t let him stretch his hand to anyone. The contented one also does not expect. Outwardly they look alike, but the difference is vast—as between heaven and hell. The contented one does not expect because the “other” is not. No expectation of the “other”—for there is no other.

Beyond duality, without enmity—says Sahajo—and desireless.
Content, a pure state—no expectation of the other.

No “other” remains; therefore no question of hoping from another. The egoist also doesn’t hope from others, because he says: How could I? How can I bend? I do not know how to bow. The contented one also does not bend—he says: Where should I bow? There is no other. What’s the point of touching my own feet? The egoist does not bow because he says: How can I bow? And the egoless does not bow because he says: There is no one to bow to. To worship my own reflection would prove madness. What sense in greeting my own face in the mirror?

The egoist does not bow; the egoless does not bow. But their reasons differ utterly. The egoist refuses for the wrong reasons; the egoless has no reason left—there is simply no cause to bow.

Content, a pure state—no expectation of the other.

You will find this thread useful in all aspects of life. The religious man no longer knows he is religious; the irreligious man knows. The healthy person does not know he’s healthy; only the sick do. The wise do not know they are wise; only the ignorant do.

As long as you “know,” know that the opposite is lurking within—like a thorn embedded inside. You may have covered it with flowers—still, there is a wound. You have bandaged it; pus is inside. When the wound has completely healed, you don’t even know there was a wound—or that it healed. It is gone. The story has ended.

And next comes a sutra of Sahajo—search the Upanishads and you won’t find it; comb the Vedas and you won’t find it—

When I sleep, it is into the Void; when I wake, it is with the Name of Hari.
When I speak, it is God’s story; I worship without desire.

This is a rare thread, a great mantra.

When I sleep, it is into the Void…

Sahajo says: Now my sleep is of emptiness—no dreams. When I sleep, I dissolve into shunya.

…when I wake, it is with the Name of Hari.
And when I awaken, I awaken in remembrance of God. I sleep in the Void; I wake in the Full. Two poles—shunya and purna.

Buddha called nirvana shunya—emptiness. Shankara called nirvana purna—fullness. Sahajo joins the two; she becomes a bridge. Buddha’s insistence is that the nature of the ultimate is emptiness. Sahajo would say: Buddha saw the Divine with the eye of rest—with the eye of deep repose—hence the formless, the void was experienced. Shankara did not see with the eye of rest, not from sleep, not from deep dreamless slumber; he saw with eyes open, awake, in full vigor—and found fullness.

When I wake, it is with the Name of Hari. The one who in sleep becomes empty—on waking, that very one is fullness. The same One. Our two states are sleep and wakefulness. One who sees from sleep finds the ultimate as supreme peace; one who sees from wakefulness finds it as supreme bliss. In sleep, bliss becomes peace; in waking, peace becomes bliss.

So Buddha sits silently beneath the Bodhi tree—he found the ultimate as emptiness. Chaitanya dances in the Name—Hari bol, Hari bol… Chaitanya dances; he saw the ultimate waking.

Both behold the same, but through two windows. Close your eyes, and you will find the Divine as emptiness. Open your eyes and see this vast play of His; you will find Him as fullness.

Shankara argues against Buddha. In Shankara a philosopher survives—though knowledge has dawned, the line of philosophizing remains; the rope burns, yet the knot remains. His essential nature was a thinker. Buddha’s nature too had a philosopher’s cast. Attainment came—but thought can grasp only an aspect, because without taking an aspect there can be no thought. So Buddha found the ultimate to be emptiness; Shankara found it fullness. Sahajo unites them. Fittingly, a woman reconciles two quarrelling men.

Sahajo’s word is wondrous.

When I sleep, it is into the Void; when I wake, it is with the Name of Hari.
So she says: Buddha is right, Shankara is right. We have seen God both ways—and found He is not two; He is one. Our states are two. With eyes closed, within is shunya; with eyes open, without is purna—everywhere He is pouring.

When I sleep, it is into the Void; when I wake, it is with the Name of Hari.

You can understand this as practice too. In waking, keep remembrance of the Divine; in sleep, dissolve into emptiness. If you keep humming God’s Name even in sleep, you won’t get rest. Let God rest too; you rest as well.

I’ve heard: A priest died—erudite pundit. At his very door lived a prostitute—she died as well. When the messengers of Death came, the pundit protested: What is this mess? You’re taking me to hell and that prostitute to heaven? A mistake! Go back and check the records. He was obstinate—he insisted: First verify. The messengers said: There is no mistake. The pundit said: You take me to hell—me, who chanted God’s Name day and night! And that prostitute who never uttered His Name…

The messengers said: We’ll take you to God—argue with Him.

He went and said: What injustice! The prostitute to heaven—so heaven has become like the world: who is honored there is honored here. We are left with nothing. All my life I chanted Your Name; not for a moment did I forget.

God said: That’s exactly why you’re sent to hell. Neither you slept, nor did you let Me sleep! The prostitute may not have taken My Name, but she gave Me no trouble. You bored Me to death—chattering in My head!

Don’t cling to any one thing twenty-four hours a day.

Life’s river has two banks: effort and rest; waking and sleep. That is why the eyelids blink and close. That is why breath goes in and out. That is why birth comes—and death. That is why there are women and men. Life has two shores. Only he attains the Divine who keeps both in balance.

Do not clutch one side. If you cling to one, you have chosen—held half, dropped half; but that half is God too.

People come to me. A gentleman was brought some years ago. A good man. Bad men get into bad troubles; good men into good troubles—but they do not escape trouble. Often the good get into deeper ones; their goodness becomes a knot of ego. His wife and father brought him. I asked: What happened? He was in bad shape. They said: Reading Swami Sivananda’s books—first he slept eight hours, then five, then three. His mind has become deranged. We explain, he says: One must renounce sleep; the knower does not sleep. He keeps books by his side. He first left sleep; then, sleepy all day, he asked a guru. The guru said: If you want to reduce sleep, reduce food. If you eat, sleep comes—tamasic. So he reduced food; now he lives on milk. His body has shrunk, he’s weak. He doesn’t sleep at night. He’s terrified of sleep because dreams come—and dreams are sin—one must renounce them. He is becoming psychologically unhinged. He listens to no one—because he’s “knowing”; he can out-argue us all. His wife wept: Our home is ruined. Somehow free him from Sivananda!

I said: Sir, where is your book? He had it in his bag. I said: Look at Sivananda’s picture! You won’t find a fatter man in India—four vine-tendrils together would still be lighter than him. And you call yourself “tamasic”? You are skin and bones, you can hardly walk! Sivananda walked placing his hands on two men’s shoulders—he could not move by himself. Look at his photo printed in the book you read!

Good men catch good diseases—sometimes more dangerous than bad ones.

Life needs balance. By “discipline” I mean balance. Not renunciation—balance between indulgence and renunciation. To give life a natural, easy form. The body needs rest, and food, and work. Sleep at night; be awake by day.

Then what should a religious person do?

When I sleep, it is into the Void; when I wake, it is with the Name of Hari.
In waking, see only God; in sleep, fall into emptiness. Let this be your practice: In waking, do not forget God; in sleep, let no memory remain—not even of God—because if God’s remembrance remains, emptiness will not become total.

And when you begin to move between emptiness and fullness, a certain intoxication seizes you—not the stupor of unawareness, but the drunkenness of awareness. Sahajo says: “My feet fall who knows where!” The feet step here and there—but Hari takes care. No need to manage anymore; when balance has come, God manages. When I sleep, it is into the Void; when I wake, it is with the Name of Hari!

When I speak, let it be God’s story…
Let whatever you say be as if you are telling God’s tale. Speak only for that. If it is God’s tale, speak; otherwise, do not. You can do without speaking—but if you speak, let it be of God.

In India there was an old custom—its meaning is forgotten now—meeting even a stranger on the road with “Ram-Ram.” Through greeting, remembering the Divine. You say “Ram-Ram” even out of habit now. In a village, someone who neither knows you nor has any business with you will still say, “Jai Ram Ji.” You feel: What nonsense! No connection, and pointless “Jai Ram Ji”!

But the villager follows the old way. He is not exactly greeting you; he is using you as a pretext to remember God.

When I speak, let it be God’s story! You appeared—a pretext presented itself. He used the opportunity to remember God. That’s why Hindus devised a greeting no one else has: “Jai Ram Ji.” “Good morning” is fine—serviceable—but it is not much. Why talk about morning if we can speak of God? Morning is included in God, but God is not necessarily included in morning. Morning is not always good; evening is not always good. God is always good. If you must remember, remember Him.

When I speak, let it be God’s story; let my devotion be without desire.
And if you worship, let it be desireless. That is the test of love. Where you ask, love becomes lust—it falls downward. Where you don’t ask, love becomes devotion—it rises upward. Ask, and stones hang around love’s neck. Don’t ask, and love grows wings and begins to fly. Let devotion be without desire.

Always steeped in love, brimming with my own Self.
Seeing with even vision, says Sahajo—we know neither beggar nor king.

This is our state. A pure contentment surrounds—outer and inner. Even contentment is not felt. No expectation remains. No other—so expectation of whom? Nothing remains to gain—we are all, all are we. No journey to make—no future; the present moment is complete. We sleep in emptiness; we wake in remembrance; if we speak, it is His tale. If we do not speak, it is His worship—wordless, without demand. If there is nothing to ask, what is there to say?

So when we speak it is His Name, His remembrance, His praise. When we do not speak, it is devotion; we remain soaked in His love. Always steeped in love! Now twenty-four hours dyed in love. Brimming with my own Self! The heart is full, no lack remains—full of my very own, for He is no other now. He is my own true form. Brimming with my own Self!

Seeing with even vision, says Sahajo. Where there is contentment—there vision is even. Where there is balance between emptiness and fullness—there vision is even.

Seeing with even vision, says Sahajo—we know neither beggar nor king.
No poor, no rich; no beautiful, no ugly; no woman, no man; no world, no liberation. Seeing with even vision—we see neither beggar nor king.

The seeker forsakes the company of entanglement and keeps the company of the Self.
In the bliss of awakened awareness, he drinks the wine of the natural.

The seeker forsakes entangling company! Seek aloneness; learn to be alone—only in your aloneness will you find Him. As long as you seek another, you will find many—but not Him. To seek the other is to flee from yourself.

All seeking of the other is an escape from oneself.

You grow restless in solitude. You say: What to do, where to go, whom to meet? You hunt friends, visit clubs, sit in hotels, watch cinema, go to temples—but your search is for another. Let someone appear and give you relief from yourself. Otherwise, you grow anxious with yourself; you can’t bear yourself. You become a nuisance to yourself. You seek a wife, a husband, beget children—add a crowd and get entangled in it.

People come to me. Alone—they are miserable: We are alone. With family—they are miserable: We have family. Alone—the aloneness bites. To escape it, they gather a crowd; the crowd torments them. Then they say: We are smothered, dying for nothing, beasts of burden, oxen at the oil-press. There is wife, children—now must feed them, educate them, marry them—we are trapped! When they were not trapped, they wondered: What to do with myself? A restlessness of being alone. Something to do was needed.

The seeker forsakes entangling company! A seeker is one who cultivates aloneness, who says: I will be joyous in my own solitude. He goes deeper into his own nature—digs a well within and dives into it. A moment comes when someone reaches his own center; then he needs no companion.

This does not mean you run off to the forest. The one who first fled into crowd to escape himself, that very one runs into forest to escape the crowd. In the jungle, he is alone again—and will flee again.

Not long ago, a young man and woman came from the West. Married. Two years earlier they came unmarried; they sought my blessing to wed. I advised: Don’t hurry. Live together a bit, get to know each other; then marry. But they were in haste. Love is usually a kind of madness. “We will always be together. Why delay? Tomorrow is too late!” They married. Two years later they returned—now they wanted to be rid of each other.

I said: You didn’t listen then; don’t hurry now either. What’s the rush to split? Live apart for a few months. I sent the husband to Goa. In two weeks he was back: I can’t live alone without my wife. A few days together again—and they reported: We can’t live together either!

You can’t be with yourself, and you can’t be with another! You tire of yourself and grasp another; you grasp another, and tire of them. If you are bored with yourself, how will you not be bored with another? Think a little: when your own company doesn’t please you, how will someone else’s ever satisfy you? If you cannot love yourself enough to be with yourself, whom will you love enough to be with?

The seeker forsakes entangling company! The true seeker is one who so deeply delights in his own being, naturally, that he needs no company.

He keeps the company of the Self! He becomes his own companion. And the wonder, the riddle is: one who is companion to himself—if his company comes to you, your joy will be immeasurable. One who is with himself does not seek your company; if you come, he does not run away either. He has no use for you—not to hold, not to leave. He lives in his own ecstasy. If you are receptive, you can partake in his intoxication—he will share. Like a lit lamp—bring a quenched lamp near, and the flaming lamp does not fear: If I share, I will diminish! Light a thousand wicks from one, the flame remains as it is—nothing is lost, and a thousand flames blaze.

One who has learned to be with himself—his light is kindled. He is not looking for anyone. Alone—he is in delight. In the marketplace—he is in delight. The Himalayas are as beautiful as the bazaar. But if you come near him, you may receive a gift of flame. From flame to flame! His light is undiminished. He rejoices, for another is lit—and he does not go out. Light increases in the world. And light is one—though lamps be many.

The seeker forsakes entangling company, keeps the company of the Self.
In the bliss of awakened awareness, he drinks the wine of the natural.

There is only one bliss in this world—the bliss of awareness. The bliss of consciousness, of untrance, of awakening. He is with himself and remains awake within. He arouses himself—pulls himself out of sleep, lifts the hidden flame out of oil and wick—brings it forth, shakes the ash off the ember.

In the bliss of awakened awareness! Then his awareness awakens. The eye opens. He lives in supreme bliss. In the bliss of awakened awareness, he drinks the wine of the natural! He drinks of himself. Until you drink of yourself, your thirst will not end.

No well in this world can quench your thirst. No cup of this world can satisfy your lips—until you drink yourself. Whoever drinks that one wine is freed from thirst, from the race.

Jesus stopped at a well. He asked for water. A woman was drawing it. She said: I am of low caste. The high-born do not drink water touched by us. Your robe says you are high-born. Jesus said: Foolish woman! If you let me drink from your well, I give you my word I will give you water from mine. And I tell you: after drinking yours, you will be thirsty again; after drinking mine, you will never thirst again.

One who drinks the water within—their own thirst is quenched; and they become capable of quenching the thirst of others too. They infect you with the same madness—to drink of yourself.

Religion is contagious. It arises in one; come near him, enter his atmosphere, and you are caught—someone begins to awaken within you too.

In the bliss of awakened awareness, he drinks the wine of the natural.
And that drinking, that coloring, that immersion—it is utterly natural, effortless. Nothing needs to be done. It showers without doing. Showers without clouds! No cloud in sight—whence do these sprays come? The sky is clear, yet rain falls—showers without clouds! Within, nothing needs to be done, no cause to be found. Sahaj means: causeless. The word “sahaj” is precious—it means: that which happens without doing. Just arrive within—and the showers begin: without clouds, the sprinkle comes! No cause—reach inside and the thirst begins to be quenched. At your throat, nectar begins to rain—drink the natural wine!

The dead are unhappy, the living are unhappy—hunger makes the hungry unhappy, food the sated unhappy.
Only the seeker is happy, says Sahajo—for he’s found the perpetual repose.

Sahajo says: The dead are unhappy! The living are unhappy! The hungry are unhappy; those with full bellies are unhappy. The poor are unhappy; the rich are unhappy. The successful are unhappy; the failures are unhappy. Whether you win or lose, live or die—unhappiness seems to be the way of the world. The dead are unhappy, the living are unhappy—hunger makes the hungry unhappy, food the sated unhappy!

Only the seeker is happy, says Sahajo—because he has found the inner samadhi that never breaks.

Only he is happy who has found something causeless. Understand this.

If your happiness has a cause, you will soon be unhappy—because it depends on something. A friend came after years—you were very happy. Why? Because had he come yesterday, you wouldn’t be so happy. The cause is: a vacancy had been there for years; today it was filled—hence delight. But after three or four days—will you still be happy? The vacancy is gone now. You were happy because after five years he came; after five days you’ll be asking when he will leave.

People welcome guests—and even more they welcome their departure. How to be rid of them now? There was a cause; when it ended, so did the joy. Hungry—you relish food. When you are full, the relish is gone. Relish was caused by hunger. With hunger gone, relish disappears. Lust arose—you were drawn to a woman or man. Lust is satisfied—then? Then there is no relish. That is why husbands and wives are bored with each other. When they first met they said: Without you, all is vain. You are heaven, you are dream, you are everything. Now they flee each other; together there is nothing but anxiety and quarrel. Why? Simple: there was hunger—satisfied. Just as a full stomach doesn’t look at food, a satiated lust finds no charm in spouse. When you are empty again, charm returns.

Where there is a cause, there will be happiness—but momentary. Soon sorrow comes. And wherever there is a cause, you do not own your happiness. The owner is the holder of the cause.

If a husband is happy because his wife satisfies his lust, then a sorrow also lurks: the wife is the owner. When she wants to make him unhappy, she will withhold. The same one who gives flowers today can throw shoes tomorrow. When someone garlands you, be careful—you are giving them a key. If you glow when garlanded, they hold a key to make you miserable any day. If they don’t garland, you’ll be sad; if they want to make you really sad, they’ll bring a garland of shoes.

Where there is cause, there is dependence. Where dependence is, freedom is lost; your liberation is lost.

Only the seeker is happy, says Sahajo. Only one is happy whose cause is within—who does not depend on anything outside himself, who does not go begging happiness at another’s door—one who has found within the well where the spring flows naturally. Your bliss is hidden within you. So long as you seek outside, you will taste both joy and sorrow; and when you total it up, you’ll find: joy—little; sorrow—much. Many thorns, few flowers. Looking back, you’ll feel: Not worth it—so many thorns for so few flowers. The journey was wasted. The hopes of flowers—only hopes; when you touched, you touched thorns. When you thought, there was hope; when you reached, there was pain.

The dead are unhappy; the living are unhappy. Many say: Better to die.

An old story:

A woodcutter returns from the forest. He is tired. He is old—tired of life. Always hauling wood. He often wishes: I should die. That day, the desire was intense: What remains? Nothing is gained; haul wood every day, reach home at dusk, eat, sleep, morning again… My limbs are old, trembling; walking is hard; eyes dim; ears dull. What is the point? I never gained anything when young; what now? A sigh rose: O Death! You come to everyone—perhaps you’ve come to those born after me; you’ve taken away the young. Why do you spare me? Take me now. Come!

Death doesn’t come when called—but that day something happened—she was near perhaps—she came. He had flung down his bundle in anger and pain, sat down: Come now! Death appeared. Even his near-blind eyes grew bright. Who are you? Death said: You called. I am Death, I have come. He trembled. I didn’t really mean it… He stood up: Yes, I called you—because I am old and no one to lift my bundle. Kindly put it on my head—thanks!

The bundle he had thrown, seeing Death, he had her hoist it back on his head. Living, you are unhappy; sometimes you wish to die. When Death comes, you flail: Don’t let me die!

The dead are unhappy; the living are unhappy—hunger makes the hungry unhappy, food the sated unhappy.
The poor are unhappy—that we can understand. The rich are unhappy too. The hungry are unhappy; those whose bellies are too full are unhappy. The poor man’s sorrow we can understand. The rich man’s sorrow seems absurd: Why is he unhappy? He has everything.

We have not understood the nature of sorrow. The poor are unhappy because their hopes remain unfulfilled. The rich are unhappy because their hopes are fulfilled—and nothing is fulfilled. The rich man’s sorrow is deeper than the poor man’s. He deserves more compassion. The poor at least have hope; the rich man’s hope dies. The poor think: If not today, tomorrow—we’ll build a little house; then all will be well. That hope pulls their feet along. The world hangs on hope. The rich builds a palace and discovers: The palace stands—now what? None of the hopes he had tied to it are fulfilled. To build it he expended his life—no day, no night, no rest. Those days are gone—irretrievable—and no hope has materialized.

The rich deserve great compassion. Do not be surprised that princes like Buddha and Mahavira renounced everything. How can the poor renounce? He still hopes. The rich can—his hope is shattered. He sees nothing; all proves vain. And note: I do not call you rich until your hope is shattered; till then you are poor. If hope still lingers, you are poor. My definition: the poor is one whose hope remains—who says: If I get that, all will be well. The rich is one who says: I got everything—nothing is well. A heavy anguish seizes him: What now, as life slips away? What once seemed meaningful, now turns out vain. Suddenly he stands where the road ends—before a dreadful chasm. No path ahead. The poor still has road left—his chasm is far—he feels he is headed to the goal.

In my view whenever a society becomes wealthy, it becomes religious. A poor society cannot be religious—because religion is born when life’s hopes collapse—when life looks like ash. Then the eyes lift to the sky—and the search for God begins.

India was once religious—in her golden days. In the time of Buddha and Mahavira—even princes wandered as mendicants. Today India’s beggars dream of becoming princes. Therefore India is no longer religious. If religion is possible now, it is in countries like America. The Indian mind is pained to hear this: We are no longer religious. But what to do with your pain?

The truth is: the East bid farewell to religion—with prosperity it left. In America there is a restlessness—everything is attained—now what? Where to go?

Note: A poor man can be religious—but he will need great intelligence. A rich man, even if foolish, can be religious—for he at least sees: I gathered it all—and gathered no essence. The poor man, to be religious, must have such insight that he sees ahead: even if I gain what I lack, nothing will come of it. He needs this vision. I do not say the poor cannot be religious; only that he needs a great, sharp talent. The rich, even if stupid, should become religious. The poor needs a luminous faculty, far-sightedness—to see the end where the road ends and the chasm begins—even from afar. It is hard.

The dead are unhappy; the living are unhappy—hunger makes the hungry unhappy, food the sated unhappy.
Then who is happy? No one in the world. Only the seeker is happy, says Sahajo. “Seeker” means: one who is in the world, yet not of it. One who stands on the shore and in the current—at once. One foot in the world, one foot in God.

Only the seeker is happy, says Sahajo! A seeker is an astonishing event. Do not mistake those sitting in temples and mosques for seekers. A seeker is a vast revolution—the most mysterious element in this world. He has known the world to be vain. If he runs away, it means the world still held something—at least enough to “renounce.” Where will a seeker run? There is nowhere to run—if the whole world is vain—here and there alike. So the seeker goes within. There is nowhere to go outside—no “market to temple” shift—because the temple too is part of the market. The unseeking run from shop to temple and back. The seeker sees that going out is pointless—he turns inward. Whether in the temple or the shop—he goes within. His journey becomes inward.

Only the seeker is happy, says Sahajo—he has found the inner liberation, the repose, the samadhi. He has found that well which, once drunk, quenches all thirst. He has tasted the self-bliss that quiets all hunger.

Let me recite the whole passage:

Beyond duality, without enmity, says Sahajo—desireless.
Content, a pure state—no expectation of the other.

When I sleep, it is into the Void; when I wake, it is with the Name of Hari.
When I speak, it is God’s story; I worship without desire.

Always steeped in love, brimming with my own Self.
Seeing with even vision, says Sahajo—we know neither beggar nor king.

The seeker forsakes entangling company; he keeps the company of the Self.
In the bliss of awakened awareness, he drinks the wine of the natural.

The dead are unhappy, the living are unhappy—hunger makes the hungry unhappy, food the sated unhappy.
Only the seeker is happy, says Sahajo—for he’s found the perpetual repose.

That is all for today.