Deepak Bara Naam Ka #3

Sahajanand! With the aphorisms of religion, always remember one primary thing: they are maps for the inner journey, not for the outer. Forget this, and every commentary goes astray. This sutra is the very life of religion—but not of politics. In religion, truth indeed wins and untruth loses; in politics, things are very different. There, whoever wins is called true, whoever loses is called untrue. The verdict is by victory and defeat, not by truth and untruth. Had Rama been defeated by Ravana, you would be burning Rama’s effigy at Dussehra, not Ravana’s. If Ravana had won, your Tulsidasas would have composed hymns in his praise.

Politics is the world of the outer journey. There, dishonesty wins, untruth wins, hypocrisy wins, trickery wins, cunning wins. And then, whatever wins looks like truth. Simplicity loses there. Truth is defeated there. Integrity has no place there. To be straightforward and clean is reason enough to lose. Cheats have the run of the place.

This sutra pertains to the inner journey. But politicians also exploit it. India even made it its national motto: Satyam eva jayate—Truth alone triumphs. Yet anyone with eyes can see. Do you think Stalin represented truth, therefore he won against Hitler? Each was more untrue than the other. Hitler did not lose because he was untrue, and Churchill, Roosevelt, and Stalin did not win because they were true. They won because many untruths gathered together against a single untruth. One untruth became weak before a coalition of untruths. Untruth triumphed.

Had Adolf Hitler won, history would have been written very differently. The historians who condemn him today would be writing in his praise.

Your history is sheer falsehood. It is not related to facts; it is related to who writes it—and writers flatter the victor. Who listens to the defeated? Who bows to a setting sun? People bow to rising suns. The British wrote one kind of history; when Indians began to write history, they wrote it in another way; Muslims will write a third way.

A great Western historian, Edmund Burke, was writing a history of mankind—of the entire human race. He devoted some twenty years to this great endeavor. His book was nearing completion; he was writing the last chapter. One day a murder happened just behind his house. Two men quarreled; one shot the other dead. It was broad daylight; a crowd stood by; the whole neighborhood had gathered—hundreds were present when it happened. Hearing the gunshot, Burke rushed out. The crowd was there; the victim was bleeding, dying; the killer was still there. Burke asked people what had happened—and as many mouths, so many versions. The murder had taken place right behind his house; the victim was not yet dead; the killer had not yet fled; eyewitnesses were present—not one, many—yet each gave a different account. Partisans of the victim said one thing; supporters of the killer said another; the “neutral” said something else. Burke tried hard to discover the fact; he could not. He returned home and burned his twenty years of labor. He said, “When I cannot determine the truth of a fresh event that just occurred behind my house, and I set out to write the history of mankind—to say what happened five thousand years ago? These twenty years I wasted! I was drawing lines upon water.”

Who writes history—and at whose behest? And once something gets written for centuries, we go on repeating it.

Politics is the outer journey. It means: to conquer the other. Where the project is to conquer the other, what place has truth? Truth cannot be used as an instrument to conquer another. The very desire to conquer the other is wrong. What connection can there be between truth and conquering others? But in the realm of the inner journey this sutra is certainly true. There, only truth wins. Only truth can win. There untruth is fated to lose; it must lose. In the inner world, untruth is that which is not. How can that which is not, win? And the very victory is of a different kind—it is self-victory. Victory over oneself. In victory over oneself, whom would you deceive? What would be the point of deception? Even if you tried to deceive, how would you? You would know you are deceiving.

Keep this distinction in mind. This sutra has often been interpreted, because it is a beloved sutra, but this basic distinction has rarely been made clear: it does not apply to the outer world. There, all kinds of manipulations, tricks, hypocrisies, masks are useful. There, truth will defeat you. Where can truth work in politics? In politics it is Chanakya’s scripture that works, not the Mundaka Upanishad. In politics it is Machiavelli who works; Buddha and Mahavira have no place there. Chanakya or Machiavelli—their foundation is the same: the skill of deception. Indeed, in the outer world you cannot make truth triumph, but to make untruth triumph you must present it as truth. To make untruth work you must paint it in the colors of truth. At the very least, you must manufacture the appearance of truth. Because people are impressed by truth—never mind whether it is true or not; the semblance suffices. Even falsehood must be dressed so it looks true—or at least seems so. Like in a field we set up a scarecrow to frighten birds: put a pot on a stick for a head, tie another stick for an arm, put on a kurta and a Gandhi cap—and Morarji Desai is ready! What more is needed? At least it will scare the animals and birds. For anything else—well, they are good for nothing!

Khalil Gibran tells a famous story: I used to pass a field and saw there a scarecrow. Rain or sun or cold, the poor fellow stood guard incessantly—never tired, never bored, never sat, never rested, never lay down. Tireless his vigil; a great yogi! I asked, “Don’t you ever get tired? Brother, don’t you rest? Tell me, don’t you get bored? Same place, same work—morning and evening, day and night—surely boredom must arise?” The scarecrow laughed and said, “There is such a joy in frightening others, in scaring animals and birds, that where is the question of boredom?”

There is a peculiar joy in frightening others. Politics is that joy. The joy of dominating others. That’s why the politician always looks cheerful—fresh amidst a thousand troubles. Politicians live long—not for any special reason, but because of the relish of threatening others, of intimidating them. They don’t want to die; they want to go on living—they can’t let go of that pleasure. The moment a politician steps down, his life-energy begins to wane. While he is in office, his energy is exuberant. They are all scarecrows in the field. And to scare birds you don’t need a real man; you need the impression of a man. A Gandhi cap, a khadi kurta, a sherwani, shining shoes—that’s sufficient.

In politics, truth does not win—never has, never will. The day truth begins to win in politics, politics will no longer be politics; it will become niti—pure ethical order. On that day the world will bid farewell to politics. On that day there will be only dharma. But then the very meaning and quality of politics will be different—divinity will infuse it. To hope for that is almost to hope against hope; it is unlikely.

But in the inner world this sutra is absolutely, one hundred percent true—
Satyam eva jayate nānṛtam:
Truth wins, not untruth.

Understand “untruth.” That which is not—like darkness. Light a lamp: can darkness triumph? However ancient it may be, centuries old, it cannot say to the young flame, “Hey upstart! You were lit just a moment ago and already you strut so much! We have been here for ages—will we just vanish? Our tradition is so old; this house has been our haunt for so long and you have just arrived like a guest—preen as you may, we will snuff you out!” No. Darkness cannot snuff even a small lamp—because darkness is not; it is untrue.

Untruth means: that which is not, which has no existence, which only appears; which is absence, a lack. Darkness is the name of the absence of light. Untruth is the name of the absence of truth. The moment light arrives, how can the absence remain? Until I came, this chair was empty. Now that I sit, how can it be empty? Both cannot be at once. The emptiness was only absence. So it is with darkness; so with untruth. To say “darkness is destroyed when the lamp is lit” is not quite right—because “is destroyed” suggests it had been there. Language compels us to speak thus, but it is not philosophically exact. That which is, can be destroyed; darkness never was—how can it be destroyed? To say “darkness goes away” is also not right: that which never was, where would it go? Does it have feet? Stand at the door when a lamp is lit inside—do you think you will see darkness fleeing through the doorway? Shut all doors and windows, seal every crack—when you light the lamp, where will darkness escape? There is not even a slit to pass.

Darkness neither goes nor is destroyed. It never was—how could it? What happens then? Where there was an absence of light, light arrives; the absence disappears. Presence erases absence.

So is the relation of truth and untruth: untruth is that which is not. Let truth arrive, and untruth vanishes instantly.

The vital question, then, is: how to bring truth? How to light the lamp?

This sutra easily leads to a common mistake—which has often been made. People think truth can be learned from scriptures. That is like drawing a picture of a lamp and taking it into a dark room, placing it there. Will the picture dispel the darkness? Scriptures contain only pictures of the lamp. No darkness is removed by pictures. Or someone may extol the lamp, sing its praises—still, the darkness remains. You must bring the lamp. You must kindle the flame.

Another error arises: “Since untruth does not win, therefore throw out untruth. Renounce it.” That is like resolving to renounce darkness. How will you renounce darkness? Will you push it out? Fight it? The word “victory” is dangerous; it suggests combat—fisticuffs, wrestling, swords and spears, battle cries: “Bole so nihal! Sat Sri Akal!”—or “Ya Ali!”—or “Jai Bajrangbali!”—as if you must gird your loins and charge into battle, do push-ups and squats to strengthen your arms, for you have to fight darkness, fight untruth!

All nonsense.

Yet such ideas are very attractive. People are busy fighting untruth, misconduct, immorality, vice. They will only break themselves in the fighting; nothing else will happen. They will commit slow suicide, waste their energy. This is not a matter of fighting. You can do nothing with darkness—not cut it with a sword, not drive it out with armies. With that which is not, nothing can be done. If anything is to be done, it must be indirect: work with light. If you want darkness to recede, light the lamp. If you want darkness to remain, extinguish the light. Do something with what is. Only what is can be worked upon.

Therefore my emphasis is not on conduct; my emphasis is on meditation. Meditation is the process of lighting the lamp within. Meditation is the process of inviting truth into yourself. If you become eager about “truth,” you will get entangled in scriptures. Be eager about meditation. Otherwise you will remain with pictures. And pictures don’t help; the lamp itself is needed.

Satyam eva jayate nānṛtam.
Certainly truth wins, not untruth. But where will you bring truth from? Apart from meditation, truth has never come, nor can it. It does not come from scriptures, nor from doctrines. It descends only into one’s own inner silence, utter emptiness. In the state beyond thought, truth is realized. But people, strangely enough, set about thinking what truth is—and so they wander into philosophy.

Here religion and philosophy diverge. Philosophy starts thinking: What is truth? How may we attain it? What is its form, definition? Does it even exist? Religion sets out on the journey of meditation—into no-thought. And philosophy has reached no conclusion—nowhere.

No experiment on earth has failed more than philosophy. And how many brilliant minds have been spent upon it! How many extraordinary people have been lost to it! Even in the presence of meditators, people drift into philosophy. Socrates is a meditator, but his disciple Plato strayed. He sat with Socrates, listened—and began thinking, philosophizing. If Plato could go astray sitting with Socrates, then Plato’s disciple Aristotle strayed even further! If Socrates and Aristotle were to meet, neither would understand the other; the difference is earth and sky.

This has happened in every land and every tradition.

No sooner did Buddha die than thirty-two philosophical schools arose within his sangha. People launched into realms of thought. And thinking breeds contention. Thought never yields conclusion, only great commotion. The blind began to think about the elephant.

You have heard the Panchatantra tale of the five blind men who went to “see” an elephant. One touched an ear and said the elephant is like a winnowing basket; one touched a leg and declared it is like a pillar. All five gave different statements—and a great dispute arose. The blind are often philosophers; philosophers are often blind. There is not much difference. Only the blind philosophize about light. One who has eyes, sees—why would he think?

Remember, there is a vast difference between a philosopher and a seer. This sutra is for seers, not for philosophers. Do not sit down to think what truth is. Become thought-free. Be free of thinking—that is the preparation. When you are perfectly empty, you become a temple, a pilgrimage place. Truth descends of itself—because when you are empty, all your doors and windows are open; existence can enter you.

Satyam eva jayate nānṛtam.
Truth wins, not untruth.

Satyena panthā vitato devayānaḥ.
And this path of truth is the path of the gods—the divine way. Not a way of thought or scripture, but of divinity.

Satyena panthā vitato devayānaḥ.
Truth is the path. That is Devayāna.

Understand the two “yānas,” the two ferries. One is called Pitṛyāna, the “way of the fathers,” and the other Devayāna, the “way of the gods.” Yāna means vehicle or ferry. Pitṛyāna means tradition: we do what our elders, our ancestors did. We trudge the ruts made by centuries. Devayāna means revolution: freedom from tradition; the search for one’s own divinity; not following others; proclamation, rebellion, revolt.

I give you Devayāna. Sannyas means Devayāna. You are not Hindu, not Muslim, not Christian, not Jain, not Buddhist—you are simply religious.

I want my sannyasin to be free of all labels—for those are Pitṛyāna. You are a Hindu because your father was a Hindu; what other reason is there? Had you been raised from childhood in a Muslim home, you would be Muslim. Even if you were born in a Hindu household, had Muslim parents raised you, you would go to a mosque, not a temple; read the Quran, not the Gita; if needed, you would set fire to a temple and give your life to save a mosque.

That is not you; it is the rotting past speaking from within you.

One who calls himself Hindu or Muslim or Christian or Jain negates his personhood, denies his soul. He is saying: I have no worth; graves have worth, the dead have worth.

Devayāna means the realization and proclamation of one’s own divinity; freedom from tradition; freedom from the past; the art of living in the present. “Satyena panthā vitato devayānaḥ”—this path of truth is Devayāna; it is the road of rebellion; it is revolt. It is not Pitṛyāna. You cannot say, “My father believed, therefore I believe.” No—you must know. Knowing comes first. And one who has known has no need to believe. For the believer, the blessing of knowing never arises. The believer dies. The day he believes, he dies—because the search ends, inquiry ceases. Belief means: What’s left to do? I have believed. And this is what you have been taught: believe, have faith. Thus the whole earth is filled with hollow “religious” people—believers, not truly religious.

Belief is always hollow. What is not your own experience, how can it be truth for you? I may say it is my experience; you repeat it, and for you it becomes untruth. The day you know in your own intimacy, it will be truth for you. Only one’s own truth liberates. Another’s truth becomes bondage, becomes chains.

Therefore none of my sannyasins is my follower. They are my companions, my fellow travelers—but not followers. I am not giving you a doctrine. Even if you wish to follow me, you will not be able to. I only give you pointers—pointers to the inner journey. I am not giving you tenets to hold and believe; I am taking them away. That is the process of Devayāna.

Satyena panthā vitato devayānaḥ.
Yenākramanti ṛṣayo hyāptakāmā—
Those who travel this path of truth are āptakāma—desire-fulfilled. One who has known truth, desire dies for him. Desire is the outward rush to get something. Desire is politics. Desire means: wealth, position, prestige, fame. Desire means: I should dominate others, sit on their heads. Āptakāma means: one who has seen the foolishness of this race; who is free of it; whose delusion has broken; who has understood: I am not master of myself—how shall I be master of another? Impossible. To be master of oneself is enough—more than enough. For when one becomes master of oneself, the inner treasure-house opens. Those who walk this path of truth are āptakāma. They are the rishis, the seers.

“Rishi” is a lovely word—no other language has its exact equivalent. Literally it also means “poet,” but there is a qualitative difference between a kavi (poet) and a rishi. All languages have a word for poet; none has for rishi.

There is a reason.

For five thousand years this country has pursued the inner search continuously. As the West stands today on the peak of science, so we have sustained a pilgrimage to the peak of religion. Not all in the West are scientists—there are a few: an Edison, an Einstein, a Rutherford. But science has one feature: if one person discovers electricity and invents the light bulb—as Edison did—then once the bulb is invented, the discovery becomes everyone’s. Light shines in every house; not only in Edison’s.

From this, a natural misunderstanding arises in science: scientists are few, but whatever one discovers becomes everyone’s. Edison made a thousand inventions; all became common property.

In religion there is a difficulty. Religion too has been realized by a few—Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna, Patanjali, Gorakh, Nanak, Kabir, Meera—only a few. But religion has this obstacle: the one who realizes, lights the lamp only within himself. It cannot be lit in every house. If Buddha knows, Buddha is liberated. If Meera finds, Meera dances in ecstasy—Pad ghunghroo bandh Meera nachi re!—but how will you tie anklets to your feet? How will you dance? You have not found. If you dance, it will be imitation. You will become a carbon copy. And there is no greater sin than to become a carbon copy—forgetting your originality is a heinous crime, a kind of suicide.

A few touched the summit of religion—but they left their imprint on our language. They adorned our speech with new meaning, new expression—like the word rishi.

A poet is one with eyes for the outer—the sensitivity to feel outer beauty: sunrise, sunset; birdsong; the hues of flowers; the starry night; the beauty in someone’s eyes or face. But his gaze is outward. He sings of that beauty. Yet that beauty is nothing compared to the beauty within. When the inner eye opens—symbolically we call it the third eye. Think about it: we have two eyes that look out; the inner eye is one.

Why?

Because the outer mode of seeing is dualistic; it splits everything into two. The inner mode unifies; it makes one of two. Outside is analysis; inside is synthesis.

Science is analysis—it is the outer eye. Religion is synthesis—it is the inner eye. There the two eyes become one; only single vision remains; no duality. Hence we call it the third eye—the inner eye. One who sees inner beauty is a rishi.

But inner beauty appears only when the inner lamp is lit. Outer beauty is visible because there is light outside. In the night’s darkness, flower-colors are not seen; in daylight they are. The rainbow appears only in the sun. However many masterpieces by Picasso, Dalí, Van Gogh hang in your room—at night you cannot see them. You need light. When morning comes and sunbeams enter through the windows, you will be astonished at the artistic marvels present. There may be a statue of Buddha—an extraordinary sculptor’s creation; perhaps Michelangelo’s Jesus. But in the dark, how will you see?

There is darkness within; hence you do not know the inner beauty. Flowers bloom within too. We say the thousand-petaled lotus blooms within. What is there in outer flowers? They are momentary—here now, gone now; hardly do they arrive when they begin to depart; there isn’t much difference between a cradle and a bier. The flower born at dawn dies by dusk; in the morning it was in a swing, by evening it is on a bier—Ram nam satya ho jata hai. With what pride it arose! And by evening the petals are scattered—what despair! Fallen into dust! In the morning it could not have imagined this end, to be reduced to ash!

Outer beauty is ephemeral, like bubbles on water. The poet sings of that beauty. The rishi sings of the beauty that is eternal—once known, known forever. Only that beauty can truly fulfill. The poet sings; but his song is a shadow of the transient. The rishi sings; his song echoes the eternal—anahata nada, the unstruck sound.

A Sufi fakir, a woman, Rabia—her guest was Hasan. Morning came; Hasan went out. The sun was rising; birds were singing; a cuckoo called from the mango grove; a lovely morning; dew drops sparkled like pearls on the grass; the fragrance of flowers filled the air. He called out to Rabia: “What are you doing inside the hut? Come out; God has birthed a beautiful morning—don’t miss it. Come quickly!” Rabia burst into laughter and said, “Hasan, how long will you remain entangled in outer beauty? I tell you, come inside! You are looking at the picture; I am looking at the painter. Listen to me—come in!”

Hasan had not imagined such a turn. But in a rishi’s hands even pebbles become diamonds. He had casually said, “Come out,” never dreaming that Rabia would give a spiritual message. But people like Rabia, filled with realization—whatever you say, they will find some hint of the eternal in it.

Yesterday Krishnatirth asked me: When you answer a question, is the questioner important or the question?

Krishnatirth, neither the question nor the questioner is important; what matters is the one who answers—the answerer. More than the answer, the answerer. What did Hasan ask? Nothing of the sort; it was an ordinary remark. See how Rabia turned it! Changed the situation! Startled Hasan! Had someone said the same to you, you could not have given Rabia’s answer; and if after hearing Rabia you repeated it, it would be false. And where there is falsity, there is no power—your words would be limp, stammering, lifeless. But the way Rabia spoke drew Hasan inside. The morning remained outside; the flowers and the cuckoo’s call, the sun and the sparkling dew—all remained.

Hasan entered and said, “Rabia, what have you said!” Rabia replied, “What was right to say. How long will you be entangled outside, Hasan? You have been with me so long, still outside. Granted the world is beautiful, but see the Maker; see the source from which all this beauty springs. Compared to that, this beauty is nothing—not even a drop. When the ocean is within, why cling to drops?”

That event became a revolution in Hasan’s life. From that day, his eyes turned inward. Till then Hasan was a poet; from then, the journey of the rishi began.

A rishi is one who recognizes the foolishness of conquering the outer, and sets out for inner victory. He has seen the inner beauty and sung it. He too is a poet—but one with eyes; not blind. He is a poet with the inner eye. He is a poet whose lamp within is lit; hence every word of his is luminous, fiery—agneyā. Those with the slightest capacity to awaken will awaken by hearing him.

Yenākramanti ṛṣayo hyāptakāmā—
Yatra tatra satyasya paramaṁ nidhānam.
Where truth is, there is the supreme gate. Once you know your truth, God is not far—nearer than the near. Know your truth, and at its very center you will find God seated. Truth is the door to the divine. One who has known the divine is truly victorious. We have called such a one Jina. Jains are a dime a dozen; the Jina is rare. We called Mahavira a Jina. Mahavira is not a “Jain”—remember; do not mistakenly claim Mahavira as a Jain. Mahavira is a Jina.

Jina means one who has conquered, one who has known. And who is a “Jain”? One who parrot-like repeats the words of the conquerors; who mechanically echoes them, but whose signature is not upon those words, whose life-breath has left no imprint upon them. Those words are borrowed, stale, false—soiled by a thousand lips.

Sahajanand, the sutra is lovely. But keep all these points in mind—only then will you taste the nectar hidden in it. Do not fall into thinking and reasoning. Wake up! Light the inner lamp! A little flame of meditation is enough.

Narayandas Tiwari! You can be a student, not a disciple. And the difference between a student and a disciple is as great as the difference between a poet and a seer—no less.

A student means: someone who will walk away with bits of information, who will gather a little trash of knowledge, whose memory will be a little more stuffed, who will learn to repeat a few fine sayings. But you cannot be a disciple without becoming a sannyasin. For the first prerequisite of a disciple is: to drop curiosity. And not only curiosity—to drop inquisitiveness as well, and to take up mumuksha.

What is mumuksha?
Curiosity is a childish thing; small children have it—they go on asking and asking. “Why this? Why that?” They drive you crazy. Whomever they latch onto, they make his life difficult. Because before one question is finished, they have already posed another. They don’t even particularly care to hear the answer; their joy is in asking. They just go on asking. What you answered is of no concern. Whether you answered or not is of no concern. While you are answering, they are preparing the next question. Who has the leisure to listen to your answer? Curiosity is a childish thing.

Inquisitiveness makes one a student. A student means: “I am not willing to change myself, but yes—if I can get hold of some pieces of knowledge, I will certainly collect them, store them in my casket. They might be useful someday. And if they don’t help me, no harm—they will at least serve to advise others.” Thus a pundit is born—the pundit is the ultimate conclusion of the student.

Mumuksha means: What will I do with information? I want life! I want experience! I don’t want to know about the Divine; I want to drink the Divine itself. Without drinking, it won’t happen. And to drink—if a river is flowing and you stand thirsty on the bank, your thirst still won’t be quenched. You can stand on the shore and keep thinking, “How is water made? What is its chemical formula—H2O?”—even then your thirst won’t be quenched. You must step into the river. Even stepping in won’t quench your thirst; you must bind your two hands together, make a bowl of your palms. Even then your thirst won’t be quenched—you must bend, so that you can fill that bowl with the river’s water. Without bending you won’t be able to fill your hands. If you bend, you can drink. And if you drink, there is fulfillment.

Sannyas means nothing else: bowing down! Surrender! Cupping the hands! The readiness to drink in love!

Who will ever grasp the garden’s secret
till the hem is caught and torn by thorns?
Who will ever grasp the garden’s secret?

Resolved to build a little nest—
should I take lightning as friend or foe?
Who will ever grasp the garden’s secret
till the hem is caught and torn by thorns?
Who will ever grasp the garden’s secret?

Beauty is so distraught, so distraught—
as if some highwayman had plundered it.
Who will ever grasp the garden’s secret
till the hem is caught and torn by thorns?
Who will ever grasp the garden’s secret?

Those sudden comings and goings, face to face—
lest somewhere the heartbeat stop…
Who will ever grasp the garden’s secret
till the hem is caught and torn by thorns?
Who will ever grasp the garden’s secret?

Not only the roses, even the thorns have been picked—
yet the flower-picker’s hem is empty.
Who will ever grasp the garden’s secret
till the hem is caught and torn by thorns?
Who will ever grasp the garden’s secret?

O Fana—by effacing yourself in love,
you have made Beauty’s name shine.
Who will ever grasp the garden’s secret
till the hem is caught and torn by thorns?
Who will ever grasp the garden’s secret?

This secret will not be understood otherwise. You want to be safe, Narayandas Tiwari—lest some thorn prick your hem. Lest any thorn pierce your garment. But without the prick of thorns, nothing will be understood. That much courage is essential. Sannyas is the readiness to be effaced.

O Fana—by dissolving yourself in love,
you have made Beauty’s name radiant.

Sannyas is the death of the ego. And where the ego dies, there begins a new birth, the dawn of a new life. Sannyas is the process of becoming dvija—the twice-born.