Deepak Bara Naam Ka #1

Chaitanya Kirti!
The full couplet is:
“Paltu, the darkness vanished when the wick was set aright. The lamp is of the Name; the whole palace filled with light.”

A human being is born, but life does not come with birth. Those who mistake birth for life miss life altogether. Birth is only an opportunity to attain life—seed, not flower; possibility, not truth. It is an opening: if you choose, life can be gained; if you don’t, it will be lost—and in fact, it is being lost every moment. Birth is one face of the coin, death the other. Life is beyond both. Whoever has known life has also known that in truth there is neither birth nor death.

Ordinarily people think life is what lies between birth and death. Not so. Life is that within which birth and death have happened many times, and will keep happening, until you recognize life itself. The day you recognize it, the day there is light within, the day the inner lamp is lit, the day you meet yourself—after that there is no returning, no coming, no going. There is merger with the Vast.

Even if a seed lies in the morning sun, it remains in darkness—because a seed is closed. Sunrays do not enter its inside. Yes, flowers are hidden in the seed—innumerable flowers. If only the seed’s flowers would manifest, then the link with sunlight is made. Then flowers dance in sunshine, in winds, in rains; sing with the birds, converse with the stars. The ordinary man is like a seed—closed; hence the darkness within. Open, and light happens. This is a lovely sutra:
“Paltu, the darkness vanished when the wick was set aright. The lamp is of the Name; the whole palace filled with light.”

That palace is you. Do not go searching elsewhere. Whatever is to be found must be found within. Whatever is truly worth knowing or attaining is hidden inside you. It has to be uncovered. It is not an acquisition; it is a discovery. Layers within you have to break, and the stream will gush forth—as if someone had covered a lamp: you are covered like that.

The rishis of the Upanishads pray: “O Lord, uncover this golden vessel!” It is an important prayer. The covering is not of clay; it is of gold. That is the danger. If it were clay you would kick it away. But gold you want to hold on to. If a prisoner is chained in gold, he himself will refuse to have the chains broken—he will think they are ornaments. And if you set diamonds in those chains, what to say then! Whoever tries to break them becomes your enemy.

You crucified Jesus because he went after breaking your chains—those chains encrusted with gold and jewels. He had to be punished—he could not be forgiven. You poisoned Socrates for the same reason: he insisted on waking you up. You stoned the buddhas, set mad elephants upon them. How you have tormented those whose only longing was to shatter your darkness; who were living for you—because their own work was done; who were bound to bodies only for your sake—their flower had already bloomed, they had no need to remain here even for a moment more; who were speaking only for you—for they themselves had descended into silence, had heard the music of the void; words held nothing for them. For you they bore every hardship. And what reward did you give them!

“With fists of dust the friends came after the burial—
they began to offer the recompense for a lifetime of love.”

What reward we give! A lifetime of love—and no one even says at my burial: Do not throw dust upon them; they have only just changed their clothes, they have only just bathed. For the last farewell we come with fists of earth to pour on the grave. A lifetime of love—and such is the recompense! At least when someone dies you give this little “honor,” but you could not even wait for Jesus or Socrates or Mansoor! They would die today or tomorrow anyway, yet you were so impatient you killed them yourselves. Surely they must have committed a heinous crime. And their crime? That you were engrossed in your darkness, you had made darkness itself the synonym for life—and they began to break it; they began to light the lamp within you; they started opening the windows and doors. They said: The sun has risen, wake up. The birds are singing, the flowers have opened, come out! But you are so accustomed, for lifetimes, to living in your inner caverns that you tremble to come out, you panic, you are afraid. Darkness cannot vanish like that.

“Paltu, the darkness vanished.” It can vanish. It vanished for Paltu; it can vanish for you. It vanished for me; it can vanish for you. If it vanishes for one human being, it can vanish for all—because every human being has equal birthright with regard to the divine. There is not the slightest difference. So drop the notion that there are special incarnations, tirthankaras, sons of God, prophets. This too is your trick, your way of escaping. You say: Krishna was an avatar, Buddha was an avatar, Mahavira a tirthankara, Jesus the son of God, Mohammed a prophet—we are ordinary folk. Light may have happened in their lives because they were special—made differently in the house of God; we are ordinary, how can what happened to them happen to us? You don’t say it so bluntly; you say it cleverly: They are incarnations, tirthankaras, prophets, sons of God—and we are ordinary people. We will only worship. But a seed may worship flowers for ages—he will not become a flower. He may wave lamps before flowers, sing “Jai Jagdish Hare”—still he will not become a flower. He will have to pass through the process of flowering. And an extinguished lamp may wave a thousand aratis before lit lamps—it will not ignite. It must come close to a burning lamp—so close that the flame can leap from one to the other. That coming close is what we call satsang. Satsang means: remove the obstacles in-between—doubts, suspicions, grievances—set the mind aside so no wall remains. Mind is a wall; silence becomes a bridge. Satsang means: sit quietly near one whose lamp is lit. And in that quiet, what happens cannot be gotten by memorizing scriptures for lifetimes.

“Paltu, the darkness vanished when the wick was set aright. The lamp is of the Name; the whole palace filled with light.”
The lamp was lit; the darkness disappeared. How did it happen? “The lamp is of the Name.”

Understand this word “Name” well, else great confusion arises. The Sufis gave God a hundred names. But when you read their list you will be surprised—there are only ninety-nine. They say a hundred, yet when you count you always find ninety-nine. Why? Because the hundredth—the real Name—cannot be spoken. It is there, but to read it you have to read between the lines; you have to peer between words; you have to read on a blank page—on a written page it cannot be read. The ninety-nine are makeshift—one must call by some name: Rahim, Rahman. These are God’s qualities—compassion, mercy, love, truth, bliss, consciousness. Whatever name you give, it reveals one facet and hides the infinite others. To reveal the Whole, only the hundredth helps—and that is pure zero, formless, unsaid, unwritten. That is what the saints call the “Name.” They did not give a name; they only said “Name.”

Say “Rama” and you have given a name; “Allah,” a name; “Rahman,” a name. The hundredth is only called the Name—no name is given; only a pointer toward the Zero.

“The lamp is of the Name.” Read it like this: the lamp of Emptiness was lit; the lamp of the Unsayable, the Unscriptural, the Inexpressible, of samadhi. There is nothing to say there, nothing to understand, nothing to hear—only deep, total silence. Not a ripple of bustle, not a hint of noise. The Zen masters call it: the clap of one hand. Clap with two, and there is sound. One hand claps, but there is no sound—the clap of one hand.

Or as our tradition says: there the anahata nada—the unstruck sound—is heard. “Anahata” is the opposite of “ahata.” Ahata means: struck. Like when fingers strike the strings of a sitar, sound is born—that is struck sound. When the hand beats the tabla or mridang—two things collide: hand with drum, fingers with strings. That is dual, a conflict. Anahata means: where there are not two, only one; where there is no possibility of conflict; where duality cannot arise. Where only One remains—what sound, what noise?

You have seen waves on a lake. You may think: the lake has waves. The lake doesn’t; the waves are because of the wind. But because you don’t see the wind, you blame the lake. The wind is striking the lake; hence waves. This is the struck sound. If all winds stopped or disappeared, there would be anahata on the lake—no ripple would arise; not the tiniest. The lake would become a mirror; and in that mirror the whole sky would be reflected as it is. Because of waves the reflection is fractured, broken, distorted.

When zero is born within you, the lamp is lit; light bursts forth. All darkness is born of duality. When you become non-dual, light is born. Then within the palace there is light upon light—of a kind that begins but does not end.

Buddha has said: the world has no beginning, but it has an end; nirvana has a beginning, but no end. Darkness has no beginning, but it has an end; light has a beginning, but no end. Once known, it is yours forever. And in that moment of light you are no longer a dweller of huts. “The palace filled with light”—in that light you become a sovereign. In that light your Buddhahood is revealed. Beyond that there is nothing higher. The proclamation arises: Aham Brahmasmi. Al-Hallaj’s cry bursts forth: Ana’l Haqq. There is no greater wealth, no empire, no power.

How is the lamp lit?
Satsang is the field—the soil in which the seed must be placed. Without soil it will not sprout. But soil alone is not enough—there must be water. The dry seed must be moistened. Satsang is not sufficient; shraddha—trust—is also needed; trust moistens. A logician can sit in satsang, yet only appear to be in satsang—nothing happens—because he lacks heart, moisture, the softness of love. He remains dry.

Reason is a very dry thing—like sand. Try squeezing oil out of sand; the fault is not in the sand—there is no oil there. Reason is like a desert; squeeze all you want—nothing will come. Trust moistens you, makes you supple. The seed that has been dry for lifetimes must be made wet.

Therefore let there be the ground of satsang, the stream of trust. And the seed needs courage too; otherwise it clings to its old shell out of fear. Why do people cling to their old shells? Fear—who knows what the unknown may be! Granted, the known is not very blissful, but at least it is familiar. To set out on an unknown path… And what could be more unknown than for a seed that has never sprouted suddenly to sprout? Sprouting requires a chest—it requires the courage to break. Only if it breaks can it sprout. To break is to dare to die. Hence surrender is needed.

A disciple has to die with the master, into the master. The ancient scriptures say: “The master is death.” It is true. Whoever is not ready to die near the master—to crack, to shatter—who refuses to break his worn-out traditions, beliefs, superstitions; who says, “I will cling to my doctrines—they are ancient, given by my forefathers, they have come down through the ages; I cannot leave them. I will remain Hindu, Muslim, Jain”—then it is very difficult. He is unwilling to break; he grips his shell tight; he lacks the chest, the courage.

Let there be trust; let there be courage—enough courage to die to the past; only then will the future sprout. Whoever clings to the past renounces the future. And the future is the only thing that can happen. The past is gone—flowed away; nothing remains there—only the trail of a snake on sand. The past is gone; footprints remain. Worship them as much as you like—you will get nothing. Go to temples, mosques, gurdwaras—you will find nothing. You must be with a living buddha. Seek a living Nanak—you will not find Nanak in a gurdwara. Sit with a living Muhammad—not in mosques, not even in the Kaaba. Walk with a living Jesus. This intricate web of popes and priests will only make you wander—forests are simpler than the jungle of words. Whoever is lost in this jungle hardly finds his way back.

Only with a living master is there the touchstone for courage. The dead cannot erase you; they are in your hands; do with them what you will. They cannot speak. Stone idols remain—or idols of paper: the scriptures. But all are idols. Only with a living master is there the true test of courage. But this world is of cowards, this earth is full of cowards—so the dead are worshiped and the living are insulted. Those very living ones whom you insult—when they die, you worship them. This strange drama has always been happening.

If Jesus is alive—crucifix! If he is dead—half the earth becomes Christian. A dead Jesus offers no resistance; you can do with him as you like. A living Jesus is a great nuisance. He will not bend to you—and whoever bends to you is not a master. A real master lives in his own freedom and spontaneity; he will shatter your notions and scatter your beliefs. He must do this—mercilessly; that is his compassion. If he consoles you, he is your enemy. He will give you transformation, not consolation. He will give you the strength to pass through fire—and he will push you through it: Don’t be afraid; only the dross will burn, the gold will remain. And what has to be saved is the gold. Let the rubbish burn so you can know your reality, your nature.

Satsang is needed as the ground; trust is needed as moisture; courage is needed so the seed can break. The breaking of the seed means the breaking of ego. You speak noble words, but what you hide is ego. When you say “Hindu dharma, Christian dharma, Buddhist dharma, Jain dharma,” you are not really saying you have anything to do with those dharmas—what concern do you have with Jainism? There is no evidence in your life. Mahavira taught non-possession, and no one possesses as much as the Jains! What a joke. Mahavira remained naked, yet how many cloth shops belong to Jains! Jains often deal in cloth.

I have a dear acquaintance whose shop is called “Digambar Cloth Store.” I told him, have a little sense! Do you know what “Digambar” means? Sky-clad—naked. The naked ones’ cloth shop! For whom is the cloth? Either drop “Digambar,” or change the shop!

But the Jains’ whole business is cloth—and Mahavira was naked! And they possess more than anyone, while Mahavira taught non-possession.

It is the same with everyone else.
Islam means the religion of peace—“Islam” itself means peace. Yet how much unrest has spread in its name! Forever preparing for jihad, sharpening swords, organizing to kill and be killed.

Jesus said: God is love. And how many murders did Christians commit? How many living people were burned—women burned alive. Two thousand years of history are stained with Christian bloodshed. And God is love—and this is the fruit of love?

Look carefully and you’ll see you have little to do with these dharmas.
Hindus say: the world is maya. Yet no one clings to the world as fiercely as Hindus—money, wealth, status. This I see every day: people from nearly all countries are here, and no one clings as tightly as Hindus. What is this? They call the world illusion—yet they grasp it so hard it won’t let go. Nothing lets go.

No one cares for religion; the concern is ego. “Hinduism is supreme”—because behind that screen I am supreme, because I am Hindu. “Jainism is great”—and behind it, I am great. There isn’t even the courage to say it plainly: I am great. Hypocrisy has gone so deep; dishonesty has entered the blood, bone, marrow. Say it straight—but you know people will laugh: how arrogant! So the ego hides behind a veil; it speaks indirectly.

The head of philosophy at the University of Paris once told his class, “There is no one greater than me in this world.” The students were startled. A philosophy professor is in a pitiable state—who goes to study philosophy! Departments stand empty. Either girls go, wanting a degree for a good marriage; or a few crackpots who fancy starving all their lives. Who studies philosophy? Science, medicine, engineering—what will philosophy do? Swat flies! The students protested: “You—saying this! And such a logician making such an error—claiming to be the greatest man! On what basis—what proof?” He said, “Proof?” He took a map of the world, hung it up, took his pointer: “Let me ask you a few questions; the proof will be clear. Which is the greatest country?” Naturally all were French: “France—none greater.” If it were Indians, they would say: India is the sacred land—gods long to be born here. Who knows why such incompetent gods would crave to be born here! People here suffer being born—why should gods long for it? Perhaps the saying is true; otherwise how such crowding! Thirty-three crores of gods belong to Hindus alone—no one else has them. And now it’s beyond that; not only have the gods come, their servants and attendants too. Seventy crores! The gods brought their friends; looks like demons too—the whole crowd! If it were Indians, they wouldn’t say France is greatest. But these were French; ego is the same everywhere. They said: “France, of course.” “Good,” said the professor, “now the world is eliminated; only France remains. In France, the greatest city?” The students hesitated—this was getting tricky. But what to do? All were Parisians, and Parisians think there is no city like Paris. “Paris.” “And in Paris, the most sacred place?” Naturally—the university. “And in the university, the highest subject?” Being philosophy students: “Philosophy.” He said, “Now shall I prove anything more—or is it proved? I am the head of philosophy; therefore I am the greatest man in the world. Any objections?” None possible—the argument had proved it. See how cunningly “I am the greatest” was established.

Say it straight—no one accepts it; then we must grab the ear from behind. “India is great”—because you are Indian. And within India, Maharashtra—ask a Bengali and he says Sonar Bangla, the golden Bengal—this is the blessed land. Ask anyone, and he will put forward his claims. He will not say, “I am great,” but he will walk in curves. My religion great, my nation great, my caste great, my color great. If a man, man is great. Press him and press him, and in the end, today or tomorrow, he will have to say, “All right—truthfully: I am great.”

To prove this greatness of the “I,” this ego, you clutch at this and that. All this must be dropped—only then the seed breaks. Courage is needed to leave the known and enter the unknown. Our deranged mind clings to the past—because mind is nourished by the past. Mind is nothing but the accumulation of the past. It has no way to enter the unknown; it lives only in the known, in the familiar. Therefore mind is the obstacle. It is what does not let your lamp be lit. The moment there is no distance between you and a lit lamp—when this mind no longer stands between—your lamp will be lit instantly. But you, too, must do something: come closer. Trust brings you close; become moist with love. Become zero, become silent. I call that silence meditation. What Paltu calls “Name,” I call “meditation.” Only a difference of word. When you are without thought, mind is gone—and where mind is gone, flame appears. It comes instantly.

But this crazy mind keeps you wandering in the past.

“Hiding her head in my shawl, Autumn whispered,
‘Let us go on tormenting you—the garden has entered spring.’”

“When spring came, my heart set off toward the desert,
leaving the rose-garden behind—my heart turned out quite mad.”

This heart is utterly mad. The difference between madness and what we call a “normal” mind is only of degree, not of kind. You are deranged at ninety-nine degrees; someone else boils at a hundred; at a hundred and one, he is in the asylum. The difference is only of degree; and that, too, can tip in a moment—a wife dies, a son dies, the house burns, bankruptcy—why, even if you win a lottery!

I have heard: a frightened woman rushed to her priest. “I’m in trouble,” she said. “My husband is at the office; he will be home any minute. Do something quickly—he’s won the lottery!” The priest said, “Why panic?” “Seven lakhs!” she said. “My husband has never held even seven hundred in his hand. Seven lakhs! He’ll go mad. I’m afraid he’ll have a heart attack. Such happiness he cannot bear. Please do something; he’ll be home any moment. A letter just arrived.” The priest said, “Come, I’ll manage. When he comes, we’ll open the news slowly—little by little—let’s see how much he can bear.” The husband arrived. The priest said, “Listen, I’ve heard your lottery has come through—fifty thousand rupees.” The man said, “If that’s true, twenty-five thousand I donate to your church.” The priest collapsed on the spot—heart failure. Twenty-five thousand! He had not imagined it. The man at least must have dreamt of winning; buying tickets for years he was somewhat prepared. But the priest was not prepared at all—never dreamed of twenty-five thousand. He fell down dead.

How long does it take for this mind to go mad! It is always on the edge—just a push; it is looking for a pretext.

“Hiding her head in my shawl, Autumn whispered,
‘Let us go on tormenting you—the garden has entered spring.’”
“When spring came, my heart set off toward the desert,
leaving the rose-garden behind—my heart turned out quite mad.”

“When we went to look for him, there was not even a trace—
he remained present in the heart, but invisible to the eyes.”

“One meeting that the heart remembered forever—
what we took for a lifetime was only a moment.”

“Those who used to laugh hearing tales of sorrow—
have wept so much that all the kohl of the eyes washed away.”

“We set out to look for you and remained distraught—
not only the city, even the forest turned out to be no forest.”

“Who is not distressed in the dark, O Ayoob?
We adopted the moon, yet the heart in the breast remained restless.”

This heart is indeed mad. Spring comes every day; the season of blossoms knocks at your door every day; God calls you every day—but you set off toward deserts.

When spring came, you went toward the wasteland,
left the rose-garden—your heart turned out mad.

Man is a strange creature. Where there is spring, he runs away; where the source of renewal is, he flees—and then writhes like a fish thrown from the ocean onto the sand, roasting in the sun. The ocean is within, and we are outside. Within dwells sat-chit-ananda, and we run without. The lamp can be lit this very moment, but we clutch the past so hard that we do not allow the present to happen. We live in what has gone by—only dust remains; the caravan has long passed. We are like a person driving a car who ought to look ahead, but keeps his eyes in the rearview mirror where only the dust of what has passed is seen. What will result but accidents! What but darkness! What but a life turned into a burden!

How will your feet learn to dance? How will light happen in your life? Drop mind; take hold of meditation—meditation means a state beyond mind, beyond thought—then the lamp lights. There is not a moment’s delay. People say: in God’s world there is delay, not darkness. I tell you the saying is wrong; there is neither delay nor darkness—for if there is delay, there is darkness; what could be darker! Put your hand in fire now—it burns now, not in some next life. Meditate now—God is available now. God does not make appointments: “I’ll come tomorrow, the day after.” God is already here. Just open your eyes; the sun has already risen.

But you sit hidden behind curtains, eyes shut, weeping—so much that even the kohl has washed away—blinding yourselves with tears. Just open your eyes! Reconsider. Inspect your life afresh: if it is all sorrow, you have made a fundamental mistake—you are seeking happiness where it is not, and you have turned your back where it is.

Before you set out to travel the world, search within. Yes, if you do not find it inside, then travel the world—search elsewhere. But whoever has looked within has found; he need not go anywhere. If there is any principle in the world that is unexceptionably true, it is this: whoever searched within has always found; whoever searched without has never found. There is not a single example of someone who found bliss and nectar by searching outside, and not a single example of someone who searched within and did not find. There is no more unexceptionable law than this. Esho dhammo sanantano—this is the eternal law. This is the fundamental rule.

Purnananda! On the surface it sounds lovely—but only on the surface. Dig a little deeper and you will find it hollow. On the surface, “I do not want a kingdom for myself, nor heaven, nor liberation,” looks like utter egolessness—“I want nothing for myself.” But one thing is certain: I am still there. I want nothing for myself, yet I am. And where the “I” is, you can say a thousand times, “I want nothing,” but somewhere inside wanting will persist. The “I” cannot exist without desire—impossible. Desire is the very breath of the “I,” the inhalation and exhalation of the ego.

Perhaps the one who framed this prayer was being clever. He must have heard the scriptures endlessly repeat: “Do not ask for anything for yourself. If you ask for yourself, you will miss. Ask for others, because altruism is merit; through it one attains liberation. Do not even ask for liberation for yourself, or you will miss.” So the person is shrewd: “If I want to attain liberation, I must not ask for myself; otherwise I’ll miss.”

People come to me and say, “We meditate, but it doesn’t happen.” I ask, “Why do you meditate?” They say, “So that we gain health, joy, success—fame in this world and the next.” I tell them, “As long as these ambitions are there, meditation cannot happen, because desires are the very obstacles to meditation.” Now listen carefully to what they ask next; listen with full awareness. They say, “All right, if dropping desires will make meditation happen, then we’ll drop desires.” I say, “If desires truly drop, meditation will certainly happen.” A fortnight later they return, “We dropped desires, yet meditation still doesn’t happen—no meditation, no benefit! We dropped desires, yet there’s no benefit.” Who will tell them, “If you have dropped desires, what benefit are you expecting now? If there are no desires, then whether meditation happens or not, both are fine. What obstacle remains?” But they have dropped desires only so that desires might be fulfilled. They dropped them on the surface; inside they began to flow underground—hidden in the womb of the unconscious. Hidden is not the same as gone.

Whoever composed this prayer must have heard: “Do not desire heaven or liberation for yourself. Desire nothing for yourself, otherwise you will get nothing. If attainment requires not desiring, then I will fulfill that condition too.” So he says, “I do not desire for myself kingdom, heaven, or liberation.” But how can he be saved? He cannot survive without desire. He whitewashed it on the outside, but inside the “I” remains, and desire remains. And notice: he denies precisely those things he craves.

Why does a person deny particular things? Think: he says, “I do not want kingdom, nor heaven, nor liberation.” These must be exactly what he wants—obviously; the unconscious has announced it. There are many other things in the world; he didn’t deny them. He did not say, “I do not want a wife, or children, or wealth, or fame.” Those must not be his cravings.

Understand clearly this basic human dilemma—almost everyone stumbles here. Whatever a person is denying, look carefully: somewhere inside, that very thing is being desired. What the conscious says, the unconscious tends to be the opposite of. The conscious makes one statement; the unconscious carries far larger meanings.

“I do not want a kingdom.” Why? Why deny the kingdom if you don’t want it? If there is no desire for it, why bring it up at all? “I do not want heaven.” There must be a desire. Somewhere a hidden stream is flowing. Somewhere in the heart lurks the feeling, “When will I enjoy heaven—sit beneath the wish-fulfilling tree, meet celestial nymphs to be enjoyed?” Desire must be there. “I do not want liberation either.” But if that were truly the case, the statement would be so total that even the “I” would not survive. Where the “I” is not, neither desire survives nor the opposition to desire.

And where the “I” is not, the second half of this prayer—“I only desire that the suffering of beings tormented by sorrow be ended”—becomes transparent in a different way. To one whose “I” has vanished it is obvious that people are miserable because of their “I.” There is no other misery in the world. The “I” is misery. The “I” is the thorn stabbing in the chest. To one who has seen, “My ‘I’ has dropped and instantly bliss arose,” such a person cannot pray, “May the sufferings of people end.” He will make people understand, “You are responsible for your suffering; no one can end it until you drop this ‘I’.” That is why a Buddha will not say, “Pray.” He will say, “Having understood, help others understand. The question is not of prayer but of awakening.” Who will end their misery? Is there someone sitting in the sky who will remove it? If there were, after so many centuries of your praying, sacrificing, performing rituals—what foolishness have you not done—has he not heard yet? Is your God completely deaf? Your rishis and sages exhausted themselves shouting; priests rang temple bells until they died—no news reached his ears; not even a twitch. The world’s suffering has only increased. The more prayer, the more suffering. There is a fundamental mistake in prayer. This is not a question of prayer; it is a question of awareness. And awareness each person must attain for himself.

If you are suffering, you are responsible. No one else is. Hidden in that prayer is the illusion that God is giving suffering to people—therefore we pray, “Brother, now please stop giving suffering. It’s enough! Stop now!” As if God were responsible. You are responsible—then whom are you praying to? “I only desire that the suffering of beings be ended”—as if someone else can end it. Drop this illusion. You are the begetter of your pain, its maker, its creator; only you can end it. No one else can. Your hell is imaginary—self-created. You are rotting, decaying, lying in hell; but that hell is your construction. Hell is not elsewhere; it is not a geographical place—nor is heaven. Hell is the name of a mind filled with ego; heaven is the name of a mind empty of ego. Where there is no ego, there is a shower of bliss. Where there is ego, heaps of sorrow pile up. Who will remove them? Each person has to be his own liberator. Each must free himself, because each has forged his own chains. Even if someone else breaks your chains, you will forge them again until you yourself become aware.

I call that person a sannyasin who accepts, “I am responsible for all my suffering.” And the moment someone accepts this, half the problem is already solved—without doing anything you have reached halfway. As soon as you accept, “I am responsible for my suffering,” the second insight becomes clear: “If I wish, I can drop all this suffering right now. If I wish, the very energy I have invested in suffering I can invest in joy. It is in my hands.”

When a Sufi fakir was dying, his disciples asked—some had been with him for fifty years—“One thing has always puzzled us. We have never seen you miserable, never even sad. Always fresh, blooming like a flower, delighted. What is the secret?” The fakir said, “Now that I am dying, I will tell you. Fifty years ago I was very miserable. You are nothing—my misery knew no end. I simmered in sorrow twenty-four hours a day. My way of seeing was such that only misery could result. Even if I stood near a rose, I counted the thorns; I did not see the flower. And whoever counts thorns will have hands pierced, bloodied. With bleeding hands, eyes fill with tears—how will such a person see flowers? Even if he sees one, he won’t trust it. The question will arise, ‘How can a flower bloom among thousands of thorns? I must be hallucinating.’

“People say every dark cloud has a silver lining—but I had a different notion: wherever there is a silver line, around it there must be a great dark cloud. That was my way of seeing. People say, ‘Between two days there is a night—let it pass.’ I thought, ‘What fool made this world, that between two long nights there is one tiny day that comes and goes—and then again the dark night!’ I sought misery, I chose misery—hence I was miserable.

“Then one morning I rose and asked, ‘How long must I remain miserable? Until when?’ That morning it became clear: it is in my hands. My arithmetic is wrong. My accounting is wrong. I think only in negatives. I choose only hopelessness. Negation is the basis of my thinking, not affirmation. It became clear that if I want to remain miserable, I can; if I want to be happy, I can. So I decided to experiment: today I will remain happy; I will look at life through happiness. That was the last day of my misery. For twenty-four hours I remained happy. I was amazed. Since then, every morning I ask myself, ‘Well, what’s the intent today—happiness or misery?’ And I always decide in favor of happiness. Who wants to be miserable! Fifty years have passed; now misery feels to me as if it never existed—like some dream I once had, long gone. Or a story I read, with nothing to do with me.”

This is what I want to tell you: no one will remove your suffering. Drop this illusion. Because of it you go on rotting in pain. You go to the temple and pray, “O Lord, O Savior, remove my suffering!” Think a bit: this implies he must have given it—only then can he remove it. If he did not create it, how can he remove it? And if you are the creator, he may remove it a thousand times and you will create it again—what difference will it make? People say, “We are sinners, we are miserable; you are great and your compassion is great—have mercy, free us from suffering.” The prayers go on, and so does suffering; prayer bears no result.

This is not a matter of prayer; it is a matter of awakening.

Those who are miserable are responsible themselves. But man has devised a thousand tricks to avoid responsibility. The tricks change; man remains the same, suffering remains the same. Earlier people said, “It is fate’s decree—what can we do? It is written in our destiny.” A convenient trick. You act, and say, “The Creator wrote it on my skull—what can I do?” Nothing is written on your skull—it is utterly blank. I have read thousands of skulls; there is no writing there. But the old trick was, “God’s ordinance; the Creator has written.” Why would the Creator write your misery? Is God mad, deranged, that he would write your suffering—“the will of the Lord”? Is this God then—some crazy tyrant who delights in tormenting you, a source of so much suffering?

When that got old, Karl Marx said, “It is social structure—what can a man do? Economic order! Political order! Society produces misery.” People liked that. People always like explanations that make someone else responsible. They don’t like anyone saying, “You are responsible.” So Buddha did not appeal, Jesus did not appeal, Socrates did not appeal—but Karl Marx did. Half the world became communist, and the rest is on the way—sooner or later. The old ways of fate and past karma wore thin: “We suffer the fruits of past deeds.” Why did you do bad deeds in a past life? “Because before that life...” And why then? “Because before that...” Think a little: when was the first life? Why did you do bad deeds then? Before that there was no life. These are tricks—shifting the burden off your shoulders onto another. It protects suffering; it is armor.

Marx offered a new trick. He thinks he brought a revolution—nothing of the sort; he just changed the labels. No more fate, no more karma—now the economic and political order is responsible. And man remains where he was. Do you think people in Russia are happy? In China? Not at all. Only now they are so miserable they cannot even speak of their misery. Walls have ears. If someone says he is unhappy, he is finished. So however miserable, you must say, “All is bliss.” A husband fears to tell his wife, because she is a member of the women’s communist league; fathers fear to tell their children, because the children belong to the children’s party—they will report you. Everyone is told, “Communism is supreme. If your parents or husband say anything against it, report them.” A spy in every home. The misery is enormous, but no one can speak.

I have heard: there was a dog show in Paris. Russian dogs also came. The French dogs asked, “Tell us some news of Russia—we rarely get to meet Russians!” The Russian dogs said, “Only joy—pure bliss—heaven!” But as the show was ending, the Russian dogs said to the French, “Please tell us some way so we won’t have to go back to Russia.” The French said, “But you said it is heaven—why don’t you want to return?” They replied, “Everything is fine—except there is absolutely no freedom to bark. What are we to do with such happiness if we cannot bark! The greatest joy of a dog is the freedom to bark—freedom of expression! You can feed us tons of butter, but what is the use if we cannot bark? They are killing the soul. We don’t want to go back. Here at least we can bark. There the throat tingles, but you must suppress it—practice restraint; you cannot bark.”

Once people get out of Russia, they don’t wish to return. What kind of happiness is that—if those who leave never want to go back?

Happiness cannot come that way. Keep one fundamental rule in mind for happiness: I am responsible for my suffering; I am the maker; I am the creator. Not some past life, not fate, not God, not society, not any system—me: my ego, my stupidity, my ignorance, my unconsciousness. It hurts to accept this; it is painful. But whoever accepts this pain—his life’s revolution has begun. That is half the journey. Once you see this, it is in your hands: change it. Change your way of living. Turn the boat. Then no one can stop you.

This is how I have known bliss.

Every aspect of your life is in your hands—you are the master. I say this from my own experience. I am not repeating scripture; it is my seeing. So I cannot accept, even a little, when someone says someone else is responsible. I too was miserable, as you are, as everyone is. But the day it became clear that I alone am responsible, revolution happened. That very day the palace lit up. That very day the lamp was lit.

On the surface this prayer sounds good, Purnananda—

na tvahaṁ kāmaye rājyam, na svarga nāpunarbhavam |
kāmaye duḥkhataptānāṁ prāṇinām ārti-nāśanam ||

I do not desire a kingdom, nor heaven, nor liberation; I only desire that the suffering of beings scorched by sorrow be ended. This is the prayer of an ignorant person—whoever said it, he did not know. Otherwise, the question of prayer does not arise.

And remember another point: if you yourself are not yet liberated, if you have not known the heaven within, if you have not found your own inner kingdom, how on earth will you give understanding to anyone else? Only one who has bliss can give the key to bliss. Only one who has light can show you the way to be illumined. Because he knows the secret by which darkness turned to light in his life—he knows that alchemy; he can give you that alchemy. Only the ignorant pray; nothing happens through prayer.

In my vision of life, prayer has a very different meaning. Prayer is possible only for the one who has attained supreme bliss. And what will his prayer be? Gratitude—thankfulness; a profound gratefulness to this entire existence. He will bow down: so much has been given! His bowl is filled with moon and stars; the whole sky is his. Everything is his. Each moment turns to gold. Every hour new doors of mystery open. His prayer will not be asking. Our prayers are asking.

The very word “prayer” has come to mean begging; the one who begs we call a supplicant—and rightly so, because people pray only to ask. This man too says, “I don’t want kingdom, heaven, or liberation,” yet he asks that others be freed from suffering. The asking continues. And in the illusion of asking for others, he thinks his own liberation will be assured. If not liberation, at least heaven; if not heaven, then at least a kingdom—because “altruism is merit.” He is not doing altruism; he is merely advising God to do it! He is giving a little counsel to God, as if God himself lacked understanding; as if it were necessary for this gentleman to awaken God: “Do something! Why are you asleep? People are full of suffering—free them! Deliver them from pain!” And then, naturally, having given such precious advice, “What need to say more—you understand the rest: heaven, kingdom, liberation—whatever you please!” Hidden within is craving. Your prayer can be nothing but craving. Only the prayer of the Buddhas is not craving; it is gratitude. And when prayer is gratitude, then its beauty and its glory are of a different order.

Akhilesh! There is an age when the human mind takes great delight in dreaming. You too are dreaming. Get married! You’ll forget all your capers! Marriage is a marvelous medicine. This medicine has knocked the wind out of many! You’ll forget it all.

A beloved, resting her head on her lover’s chest, said with great affection: Darling, after we marry I will take on all your sorrows.
But I don’t have any sorrows, the lover said.
I’m not talking about now—I mean after the marriage, she replied.
Let the wedding just happen once!

You are unmarried; that’s why such futile notions arise in the mind. And all these notions are futile, fundamentally wrong—wrong down to each statement.

You say: Since childhood, ideals of taking life to the summits of greatness have been churning within me.
This is the language of the ego. This “greatness,” these “ideals,” this climbing to peaks—this is all ego! In youth the “I,” the ego, grabs hold very intensely. And childhood passes in dreams anyway. The very name of childishness is nothing but dreaming. As you grow, those same dreams begin to churn powerfully within. You dress them up in fine words: “ideals”! But why such a craving to reach peaks? What is wrong with the valleys? The valleys have their own beauty.

Why such a craving to be great? You want to prove yourself superior to others. And one who wants to prove himself superior to others is simply afflicted with pride—nothing else. But remember, everything that’s wrong in our life comes clad in very fine garments so it won’t be recognized. It puts on masks. Every youth is afflicted by the ego’s ambition—and then dresses it in fine clothes.

You say: The gleaming image of Swami Vivekananda—arms folded, chest thrust out, wrapped in saffron—remains forever imprinted on my mind, and waves surge in my heart to become like him and to unfurl the flag of religion across the whole world.
Do you know anything of dharma that you will go and unfurl its flag? And do you even know whether Vivekananda knew anything of dharma, or did he only keep unfurling flags? When you don’t know dharma, how will you recognize whether Vivekananda knew or not? Yes, a picture of Vivekananda—chest out, arms spread, standing stiff—you must have seen; that impressed you. If you want to do the same, then do Hindu push-ups, brother! Why bring religion into it? What has religion done to you? Eat eggs, meat, fish…Vivekananda ate meat; and he had faith in push-ups.

And remember too: he died at thirty-three. Too many push-ups—finished early! Wrestlers often die at the wrong time and of nasty diseases. Have you heard of Gama? He died of tuberculosis—rotted horribly. The fate of the world’s wrestlers is miserable. It must be so, because wrestling means forcing the body. What are push-ups? Beating the body into submission. Stretch and strain the arms by force. Do you look at the photos—Punjab-Kesari, Mr. Universe? Do those look like pictures of natural human beings? Do they look like men—or like wild animals? And do you ever count their intelligence? As if someone like Muhammad Ali even has such a thing as intelligence! If there were intelligence, would one waste a life in fistfighting—hitting and getting hit? What’s the essence of that? But Vivekananda’s picture suits you. It suits all India’s youth. Because Vivekananda greatly nourished India’s ego—made big proclamations all over the world that India is great, India’s religion is great. And Vivekananda had no idea of dharma! Ramakrishna did. Ramakrishna stands where Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna, Patanjali stand. Vivekananda has no standing. But you are not impressed by Ramakrishna—this poor fellow doesn’t look like a strongman; simple, rustic—who will be impressed by that! Vivekananda stands there with a staff! Unfurling the flag of religion! He became the symbol of Hindu ego, the supporter of Hindu pride. And in what he said there is nothing of value—nothing from experience. Yes, parroted scriptures, and attempts to give modern rational arguments for scripture—dressing scripture in new logical clothes. But childish—because he had no experience of his own.

Vivekananda never attained the supreme state before death, though he was a good organizer. And he had lined up young men like you. Neither he knew dharma, nor did those youths. That’s why Ramakrishna’s glorious teaching got ruined because of Vivekananda. Ramakrishna got a very wrong man. This has happened many times in the world—so it happened with Jesus. Wrong men gathered; there was no choice, none else were available; he had to speak to those who showed up. And those wrong people gave birth to Christianity—which is utterly opposite to Jesus, which has no real connection with him.

Mahavira too got the wrong people. Mahavira was a Kshatriya—the twenty-four Tirthankaras of the Jains are Kshatriyas. Jainism was originally the Kshatriyas’ revolt against the Brahmins’ arrogance and pride. But Mahavira’s eleven ganadharas—his chief disciples—were all eleven Brahmin scholars. They doused Mahavira’s whole blaze. Mahavira made a revolution; they smothered the ember. The old Brahminism returned. Nothing changed; they buried Mahavira.

Sometimes, by grace, the right people are found. Lao Tzu got a disciple like Chuang Tzu—of the same caliber as Lao Tzu. And Chuang Tzu got Lieh Tzu—of the same caliber as Chuang Tzu. So for three generations the flame burned as it should. Buddha got very lovely disciples—Manjushri, Sariputta, Moggallana, Mahakasyapa—wonderful disciples! Because of that, for some centuries—at least five hundred years—Buddhism remained a living religion. Even after Buddha’s passing, there was always some Buddha alive. But that too is long past—two thousand years have gone by since those five hundred years. Now Buddhism too has fallen into rotten hands. But Ramakrishna got thoroughly wrong people. Vivekananda became his prime man. Vivekananda, essentially, could have been a political figure—he had the capacity for politics. He was a Kayastha.

Kayastha is a very telling word: “situated in the body.” So of course—chest thrust out, fists clenched, wrapped in saffron, staff in hand—that would be a Kayastha’s trait. He was not a spiritually healthy man, he was a Kayastha—embedded in the body. But you get impressed by the body, because you too are situated in the body. Akhilesh, are you a Kayastha?

But remember: “Kayastha” is just another name for “shudra.” Whoever is a shudra is a kayastha; whoever is a kayastha is a shudra. It makes no difference what caste or class he is born into. One who is situated in the body is a shudra. “Shudra” means one who has not yet known the Brahman within.

Vivekananda has no realization. Ramakrishna has. But the irony is that people are not impressed by Ramakrishna. To be impressed by Ramakrishna you would have to be meditative; then you would understand him. To be impressed by Vivekananda there is no need to meditate; your ego just has to flare up and you’ll be impressed. Vivekananda’s words are worth two pennies; Ramakrishna’s are diamonds—weigh them against diamonds and they outweigh diamonds.

A great misfortune in Ramakrishna’s life was that his lineage fell into Vivekananda’s hands; and the truth that had descended once again was lost. That’s why the monks who now follow Ramakrishna have nothing to do with Ramakrishna; they are all influenced by Vivekananda. Vivekananda has no value—he is a logician. Where is Ramakrishna—beyond logic; and where is Vivekananda—a logician! Where is Ramakrishna—experienced all religions!

Ramakrishna did a unique experiment on this earth—he experienced all paths. He practiced as a Hindu, as a Muslim, as a Buddhist. No one had ever done that. Because once one reaches by one path, why go again by others? But Ramakrishna, out of great compassion, even after reaching, again and again returned to the valley and climbed by other paths, so he could tell the world, on the basis of experience, that all paths reach the same peak. A statement Mahatma Gandhi is not qualified to make, because Gandhi has not yet reached the peak by any path. Ramakrishna is qualified to say it. And it wasn’t some mere intellectual synthesis, worked out in an armchair—“All religions are equal.” It sounds nice to say all religions are equal, all contain truth—sounds liberal and tolerant. For Ramakrishna it was personal experience that all religions take one to the same place—reached and verified by experiment. What unique experiments he did!

In Bengal there is the Sakhi sect, whose followers believe, “We are the handmaidens, and God is Krishna.” So at night when they sleep, they put on women’s clothes and keep an image of Krishna by their side, as a wife would sleep clasping her husband to her chest. Ramakrishna practiced that path too. And then an astonishing, unimaginable event occurred. Because a person like Ramakrishna…those Sakhi followers were just role-playing; they would change clothes at night—no one sees and the ritual is done—and sleep holding a Krishna image. But they know very well they are men and this is only an idol; they are only following tradition—forefathers did it, so they do it. But Ramakrishna did whatever he did in totality. He wore women’s clothes in the daytime too. Then what difference is there between day and night? He kept the image of Krishna clasped to his chest in the day as well.

And a unique miracle happened, which physicians studied—even English physicians came and studied, it wasn’t so long ago. Ramakrishna’s breasts enlarged—became like a woman’s. You must have seen some photos of Ramakrishna where the chest is just like a woman’s. Such was the state of feeling that whatever was imagined began to happen. Not only that, Ramakrishna began to menstruate—an unprecedented event! And even his gait changed; he began to walk like a woman. It isn’t easy to walk like a woman—you’d have to practice a lot and even then it’s difficult, because the bodily design is different. A woman’s belly has a special place for the child; because of that her bones and tissues are arranged differently in the abdomen. A man’s are different. So a woman cannot walk like a man, nor a man like a woman. Dress a woman in men’s clothes, but when she walks, she will walk like a woman. Dress a man in women’s clothes, but when he walks, he will walk like a man. The bone structure doesn’t change. Run them both, and you’ll immediately know who’s who—from the run you’ll know who is a woman.

But Ramakrishna began to walk and even run like a woman. It became impossible to tell from his gait. His voice changed too—the masculine tone split; it became like a woman’s—fine, delicate. He practiced for six months, and after six months declared that this path too is true.

Even after he left that path, for six months his breasts remained large; slowly they shrank; slowly his gait changed back; slowly his voice returned; slowly the menstruation stopped.

In Vivekananda’s life there is no experience. Yes, he gave fine speeches. But what’s in giving fine speeches? It has no value. Anyone with a bit of intellect can do that. The real question is experience.

A small glimpse of samadhi did happen to Vivekananda; there is mention of it. But even that he misused immediately.

At Ramakrishna’s ashram, in Dakshineswar, there was a devotee named Kalu. A poor, rustic man. His devotion was such that it took him the entire day—because he had placed in his room images of all the gods he could find. Any image he got—if someone said, “This is a deity’s image,” he would bring it and install it. There was no place left for him to sleep—he slept outside—because the deities had taken over his room. And he worshiped them all, and with feeling. Not that he would snatch up the plate, whirl it about from here to there and be out in two minutes. Otherwise, even if you had to worship thirty-three crore deities, you could finish in five minutes—swing the plate briefly before each—no one can stop you, saying, “Hey, where are you going—complete the worship!” Chant “Ram-Ram” or hum a mantra, wave the plate a little before everyone, offer a whiff of fragrance, put a bit of prasad before each, place a flower on each head—done! But he worshiped each image with great feeling. Sometimes evening would come—his day would pass in worship. And only when the worship was complete would the poor fellow eat. And sometimes, if the days were short, the entire day would pass in worship and at night he wouldn’t eat. Vivekananda found this very laughable—what a fool! He told him many times, “What madness have you fallen into? There is nothing in these stones.” At this Kalu’s eyes would fill with tears; he would say, “It may not happen to you, but I feel great bliss.” Vivekananda would say, “Throw them into the Ganges! If you must keep one, keep one!” But Kalu would say, “I love them all, and all are his forms; whom should I throw, whom should I keep? I cannot decide.”

Ramakrishna had given Vivekananda a meditation method: watch your thoughts in the attitude of a witness. He was practicing it. One day it so happened that a little glimpse of witnessing came—thoughts stopped. For a moment the curtain lifted; as if a lattice opened; a ray came. But see, the moment that ray came, what thought arose in him? He immediately felt: “Right now, if I transmit a thought to Kalu—‘Pick up all your images, tie them in a bundle and throw them into the Ganges’—he will surely throw them, because a thought from one in samadhi becomes very powerful.” So he immediately did it—used samadhi like this! Perhaps no one has ever used meditation more foolishly. What should have happened is: in that moment of seeing the ray, the meaning of Kalu should have become clear to him—Kalu was a bhakta! A supreme devotee! His world was of experience—he was overflowing with bliss! Why interfere? A stream of rasa was flowing in his life! But Vivekananda had a big itch. Ramakrishna had no itch; he never told Kalu anything—rather, he warned Vivekananda many times, “Never tease Kalu. He is simple-hearted; he is intoxicated in his own ecstasy; for him this is the path. Do not argue with him. Don’t harm him!” But the moment Vivekananda got that first experience, a slight opening of samadhi, he immediately transmitted the thought—used it!—“Hey Kalu, tie up all your gods and goddesses and throw them into the Ganges!”

Ramakrishna was sitting outside at Panchavati. He saw it all happening—that a thought had been transmitted from Vivekananda’s room. He ran! Kalu had tied up the bundle and was just going toward the Ganges. Ramakrishna stopped him: “Where are you going?” He said, “It’s all useless, meaningless. Today I understood—I’ll throw them in the Ganges. Vivekananda was right. You never told me.” Ramakrishna said, “Wait! That is not your thought. This is not you speaking. Stop—I’ll show you.”

He went and knocked at Vivekananda’s door; the door opened. Ramakrishna said, “What have you done? Why did you send that thought to Kalu? Why transmit it? This is the use of samadhi? This is misuse! Now your samadhi will not grow any further. I am keeping your key.”

Then Kalu understood that it wasn’t his thought. The poor fellow was worshiping, simple of heart, and the thought got transmitted—entered within. And because it had a little force of samadhi in it, of meditation, he got completely blanketed by it. Ramakrishna told him, “Go, put back your images, arrange them! See—this was Vivekananda’s thought.” And to Vivekananda he said, “Ask Kalu’s forgiveness.” He made him ask forgiveness. And he told Vivekananda, “That’s it—your meditation will remain stuck here. It will go no further.”

And there Vivekananda’s meditation remained stuck.

Three days before he died, he wrote in a letter to a devotee: “I have not been able to experience samadhi. Even now I have not experienced it. The day Ramakrishna kept the key, I never got it back. I don’t know where that key has been lost. But I misused it—so I deserve the punishment!”

You are not influenced by Vivekananda—you want ornaments for your ego; that’s why you are influenced by Vivekananda.

And you say: Waves surge in my heart to become like him and to unfurl the flag of religion across the entire world.
Have mercy—quiet these waves! He unfurled some flags, and then you will unfurl some more! What came of his flag-waving? What will come of yours? These are all political ambitions—the ambitions of becoming a leader. They have nothing to do with dharma—what do you know of dharma? The great joke is that there is the thrill of flag-waving, but no knowledge of dharma. First know dharma! Then the flag will unfurl by itself—if it has to. If it doesn’t have to, it won’t—and what is that to you! Let your dharma be realized.

Know yourself. Don’t get entangled in this useless blather. And it’s good you cannot become a Vivekananda; otherwise you would be fake…even the original wasn’t worth much—what worth would the counterfeit have! He himself was a carbon copy; you would be a carbon copy of a carbon copy. One should be original. Search for yourself—Who am I? Don’t try to become like someone else. And this creates guilt. You say he was a born great man. No one is born a great man in this world. Every person is born with the same capacity. In God’s creation there is no injustice, no inequality. You are born with exactly the capacity of a Buddha, a Mahavira, a Krishna—not a hair’s breadth less. But you have to discover your potential. Meditate—and drop this business of unfurling dharma’s flag! Otherwise you’ll become the sort who shouts, “May our flag fly high!”

Now you say: I have come to you—will my wish be fulfilled?
Never! You have come to the wrong place. Here I do not give any prop to anyone’s ego. Here your ego will be broken; here your flag will be dropped—pole and all. Drop this madness! Drop the insistence on becoming a leader!

The leader began to advise, “Listen, Bulaki Das,
In drought and famine, never be downcast.”
“Never be downcast—be patient in joy and sorrow;
Nothing is impossible in this scientific age.
Get spectacles with green-tinted glass,
Wherever you look, you’ll see greenness en masse.”

If you only want to wave a flag, that’s a different matter—then you’ll become a leader. And what is the plight of leaders, poor fellows! You can see here how many people used to roam around waving flags—they all became leaders, and what consequences the country has to suffer!

One monkey said, placing a hand on his mouth,
“In silence one grows clever, O Aundhu-Bhaundhu Nath.
Aundhu-Bhaundhu Nath—listen, sirs, you grandees,
One silent man can defeat a thousand chatterboxes.
‘Kaka,’ do smuggling with mere gestures,
Become mute and slip the legal fetters.”

The second monkey said—who till now was quiet,
“We too, friend, have changed our tenet:
We’ve changed our tenet—keep your palm to your ear,
Let the disciples gossip—why interfere?
Be opportunists, bend with circumstance duly;
For a minister’s chair—let the party go truly.”

The third monkey said—closing both his eyes,
“Take bribes with love; chant Radhe-Govind’s prize.
Chant Radhe-Govind; the goods are theirs—ours the treasure;
The Vedas and shastras say: Know the world as a measureless pleasure-dream.
Altruism has drowned; self-interest fills the sea;
Seeing the times, even ‘Bapu’s’ monkeys changed, you see.”

That’s all for today.