Dharam Sadhana Ke Sutra #7

It can be created. But we will have to raise the essential questions. The most essential question is this: What we call life—has it truly been life? The way we have lived till now—was it worth living? If you were offered another chance—“We grant you a fresh opportunity: you can live again exactly the same life you have lived for fifty years”—would you agree to live it again? I don’t think a single person would agree. If the same story were to be repeated—born again, do exactly what you did for fifty or sixty years, everything running along the same tracks—would you be willing to replay it? A person is not even willing to watch the same film a second time; who would wish to live the same life again?

And yet, if there had been something of substance in life, one should be ready to repeat it a thousand times. But there is nothing. We don’t ask this question. And unless we do, unless our life begins to feel futile, meaningless—like a fistful of ashes—we cannot set out in search of the Divine. Only those go in search who begin to see this life as utterly vain; then they move to discover the worth of a new kind of life.

Even when we speak of God, we want Him only to decorate this very life. Someone wants a house—he prays. Someone wants a job—he prays. Someone wants a child—he prays. Someone is ill—he prays. We want to use God to furnish our worldly life. That is why our prayers go unheard—not because God does not hear, but because our so-called prayers are not prayers at all; they are demands, wishes, cravings. And all for the very life whose very futility must be recognized if one is to rise beyond it.

If your hands are full of pebbles and you want to gather diamonds, you will have to empty your hands. Clutch those pebbles tight, and I can say you will never find diamonds. One who still holds pebbles as if they were jewels will not even recognize a diamond when he sees it. One who imagines diamonds in pebbles—should he see diamonds, it is no surprise if he mistakes them for pebbles.

We remember this life we have lived—indeed, we have lived many such lives before, though we don’t remember those. Even if we look only at what we do remember, a wonder arises: Why are we living? Has this question ever stood before you like a stark question mark—Why am I living? Why am I dragging this very life? Yesterday I found nothing; today I find nothing; what will change tomorrow?

The day this question stands before you in depth, your eyes begin to seek another kind of life. That seeking itself becomes thirst. That is thirst. Thirst can be created.

Look from another side too: What do we desire all our lives? Bliss. Do we get it? Never. Peace. Do we get it? Never. In fact, the more peace we desire, the denser our restlessness grows. The more we hunt for pleasure, the more tension and anxiety accumulate. The whole of life becomes a pile of sorrow—and on that heap we keep adding more heaps. We seek joy and receive suffering. Surely, there is some fundamental error in our search—an extraordinary error, not a small one. We set out towards the sky and arrive in the netherworld; we set out for heaven and land in hell; we seek joy and end in sorrow; we light lamps and darkness burns brighter. The entire enterprise of life appears contradictory: man does not get what he is seeking!

Alexander was coming to India. On the way he encountered a fakir, Diogenes. In those times Diogenes was the most joyous man in Greece; and Alexander, it must be said, the most miserable. Of course. We are all small Alexanders—on journeys of victory: someone to conquer wealth, someone position, someone a capital city. Naturally Alexander was miserable; he had set out to conquer the whole world. One who is not miserable never sets out to conquer others. One who is joyous has already won—whom will he conquer? The joyous one has conquered himself; there remains no need to defeat anyone else. One who has not mastered himself seeks to compensate by overpowering others. Those filled with an inferiority complex try to cover it by dominating others.

It is both amusing and deep: the very wretched go after wealth; the very inferior hunt for high status; the utterly defeated set out to win; those who have nothing ask for everything. Alexander must have been the most miserable man, out to conquer the whole world! Someone told him: “Meet Diogenes—no one is as blissful.” Alexander said, “I too seek bliss; I will meet him. Tell him to come to me.” The messenger replied, “Diogenes will not come. He has nothing left to gain by coming to anyone. If you wish, go to him.”

Alexander went. Diogenes lay on the sand in the morning sun, naked, basking in delight. Alexander stood over him and said, “You look so joyous! How did you find this joy?” Diogenes said, “Since I stopped searching outside.” Alexander said, “I too want to seek.” Diogenes said, “You will not be able to—because whenever you seek, you will seek outside, in the other, elsewhere—somewhere else. You will never look where it is.” Alexander said, “For now I must first conquer the world.” Diogenes said, “When you have conquered the world and have time left, conquer yourself too—otherwise you will die a beggar.”

As Alexander took leave he said, “Your words attract me. Seeing your joy, I am filled with greed. This is what I, too, want! When I have conquered the whole world, I will rest.” Diogenes laughed: “Don’t get trapped in unnecessary exertion. I am resting without conquering the world. Come—there is plenty of space on this riverbank. We can both rest. If rest is your goal, why run so much?” Alexander said, “I understand. But I have already set out; how can I turn back halfway?” Diogenes said, “Remember this: no one has ever returned after completing the journey. One always has to turn back halfway. When death turns you back, how will you protest, ‘Don’t turn me back midway!’”

And the story is strange: Alexander died on the way back, never reached his homeland. A further coincidence: the day Alexander died, Diogenes also died. It is said—perhaps it is only a sweet tale, but true in spirit—that they met again while crossing the Vaitarini, the river of death. Alexander was a little ahead, having died earlier; Diogenes a little behind. Diogenes burst into laughter; Alexander turned to look. Awkward! That day too Diogenes was naked; and Alexander, who had been wrapped in imperial robes, was now naked as well. He was embarrassed. Diogenes said, “Don’t be embarrassed; we always knew that every man is naked under his clothes. There is nothing to be ashamed of. That is why we had already become naked. Before someone else could snatch our garments, we ourselves threw them away. Death had nothing left to take from us; it returned empty-handed. It has robbed you of much. That is why we come laughing, and you come weeping.” Alexander forced a laugh to console himself: “How surprising—we met once before, and meet now again on the Vaitarini! Perhaps here emperors and beggars sometimes meet.” Diogenes laughed again: “You are right, but you mistake who is emperor and who is beggar. The emperor is behind; the beggar is ahead. You return having lost everything; I return having gained all.”

In a life where the questions do not arise—what I call gain, is it gain or loss? What I call attainment, is it attainment or squandering? What I call success, is it success or failure? What I call knowledge, is it knowledge or only a covering over of ignorance?—a life without such questions cannot become religious. What do we do? We make religion another part of this same life. Religion is the other life—an utterly different flower blooming above the ashes of this life’s futility. It blossoms only for those to whom it is clear that until now they have been gathering ashes, picking pebbles on the riverbank like children.

People do not learn from experience—that is why I said what I said. We all have experiences of futility—daily—but no learning arises. Everyone has experience; very few have wisdom. Wisdom begins in the life of one who learns from experience. He who merely repeats experiences never flowers into knowing.

So remember this maxim: Experience is not knowledge. Learning from experience is knowledge. Experience itself is not knowledge; to learn from experience—that is knowledge. Knowledge is the essence distilled from experience—like attar pressed from flowers. Everyone has experience; very few have the essence—because we do not learn from experience.

Let me tell two or three incidents, so you can see how a person learns from experience.

It is told that a Sufi fakir, Hasan, entered a village at midnight. Inns were closed. He was poor, his clothes in tatters—no place to stay. Passing through a dark lane, a thief said, “I have seen you wandering a few times; it seems you cannot find lodging. Come to my house. But since you are a fakir, let me be honest: I am a thief, out to work tonight. I’ll drop you at my house—please stay there.” For a moment Hasan was afraid: Should a saint stay in a thief’s house? Often the saint appears weaker than the thief. The thief has no fear lodging a saint; the saint fears lodging with a thief. Hasan realized this was his weakness—shouldn’t the thief be afraid to host a saint? Yet I am the one afraid! He said, “I’ll come.”

On the way, the thief seemed very honest. Hasan thought, “I’ve never seen such a thief—one who first declares he is a thief. I myself don’t have that much courage. I too have stolen—there are a thousand kinds of thefts; even slipping past someone’s gaze can be a theft.” At the thief’s home, Hasan first touched his feet. The thief asked, “What are you doing?” Hasan said, “I touch your feet because I too have stolen, but I am not yet saintly enough to confess it.”

Hasan learned from the experience. He slept. Near dawn the thief returned. Hasan asked, “Anything?” The thief said, “Not tonight.” But he was cheerful: “I worked hard; nothing came. Tomorrow I will try again.” The next night—same. A month Hasan stayed there. Every night the thief returned empty-handed but laughing, saying, “Tomorrow, we’ll try again.” After a month Hasan left.

On his deathbed someone asked, “From whom did you receive wisdom?” He said, “From many. But if I had not stayed with that thief, perhaps I would never have found God.” “What do you mean?” He said, “When I used to seek the Divine, I would try one day—if I didn’t find, I would weep. Then I would remember that thief: he went to steal and returned empty-handed, laughing. I am out to ‘steal’ God—the greatest theft! If it is not accomplished in one night, why should I weep? I began to laugh. Each day I would return empty-handed from God; the thief’s image would stand before me and say, ‘Tomorrow we’ll try again.’ One day I attained. And I thanked not God first, but the thief—had I not stayed with him…”

Would you have learned anything by staying in a thief’s house? Difficult. First, you would not have stayed. If you had, perhaps you would have become a thief. And if not that, still you would not have learned from him. Experience would not have turned into knowing.

Lao Tzu writes: he was passing beneath a tree. He had often heard that only one who surrenders at the feet of the Divine attains. He tried everything; surrender did not happen. Can surrender happen by effort? It is the reverse—like trying to fall asleep by trying. If at night sleep does not come, and you try to sleep—one thing is certain: as long as trying continues, sleep will not come. Trying and sleep are opposites. Sleep comes when you are spent—when even trying stops. Surrender does not come by effort. One may place one’s head at the Divine’s feet—trying will not bring surrender. When effort itself is seen as futile, when one becomes so helpless that even trying is no longer possible, surrender happens.

Lao Tzu was exhausted in seeking. He rested beneath a tree. It was autumn. Dry leaves were falling, flying in the wind. Lao Tzu rose and ran with the leaves. If the wind blew east, he ran east; if west, he ran west. His disciples said, “Have you gone mad?” He replied, “Until now I was mad. Now I am like a dry leaf. I saw a dry leaf drop from the tree. It had no personal desire for where to fall. If the wind took it east, it went east; if west, it went west. If the wind lifted it, it rose; if it dropped, it fell. I said, ‘Even a dry leaf can surrender—and I cannot!’ My effort was the obstacle. I dropped effort—and surrender happened.”

Whenever someone asked Lao Tzu, he would say, “Go sit under trees in autumn—learn from the dry leaves.” People went, but returned having learned nothing: “What is there to learn from dry leaves!” Lao Tzu’s experience became wisdom; others watched the same leaves fall and went home as they came.

I have heard of a saint in Bengal, Rajababu. He had been a judge of the High Court, retired at around sixty-five. One morning he went out walking with his stick. A woman inside some house, doors shut, was waking someone—perhaps her son or brother—saying, “Rajababu, wake up! Morning has come. How long will you sleep? The whole world is awake!” She was speaking to someone inside; she didn’t know another Rajababu was passing outside. His stick stopped. He halted. The words struck him: Morning has come. How long will you sleep? Time to wake. He turned straight back home, stood at his door and declared loudly, “Rajababu will now wake! Morning has come, the sun has risen—Rajababu will not sleep any longer.” His family said, “Have you gone mad?” He said, “Until now I was.”

He said, “I was passing a doorway—heard a voice from within. That tiny experience became wisdom.” You too can pass such a door, hear the same call—yet it won’t become wisdom. When we learn from experience, a small moment becomes great knowing. When we don’t, even a great event yields not even a small insight. Life is a great experience. Properly understood, life is a repeated opportunity for Divine knowing. But we pass through life like water over a slick pot—not a drop penetrates. We pass by—empty.

Religious thirst awakens by experiencing each experience with awareness—by observing, examining, looking into it with open eyes. The same experiences have come to all who found the Divine—and to us as well. There is no difference in experiences; the difference begins in learning from them. From these very experiences some found the Divine; from these very experiences we arrive only at the cremation ground and go no further. This is life—this crying, these tears, these smiles; these thorns, these flowers; these conflicts, this love; this wealth, these ambitions—it is the same for all. In this very stream, suddenly…

Buddha went out from his home, young, riding a chariot. A festival was in the town. For the first time he saw an old man. He asked his charioteer, “What has happened to him?” The charioteer said, “Please don’t ask. Your father has ordered that the old be kept from your sight. How this old man has come onto the road is the surprise!” Wherever Buddha went, his father had the aged kept away; in his garden flowers were plucked at night before they could wilt—so Buddha would not know there is such a thing as aging.

“How has this old man appeared?” The charioteer, pressed, said, “He has become old.” Buddha asked, “What do you mean? Will I too grow old?” You have not asked this question. We see old people daily, but have we ever asked: Will I grow old? We think, “Poor fellow, he has grown old.” Then the experience remains mere experience, not wisdom. Buddha asked immediately, “Will I too grow old?”—the alchemy for turning experience into knowing. The charioteer said, “How can I answer? But I cannot lie: whoever comes to earth grows old.” Buddha said, “Then I am already old. What does it matter how long it takes? Turn the chariot back.” He had been going to a youth festival; he said, “There is no need to go. If I am to be old, what have I to do at a youth festival? Turn back.”

On the return, a funeral procession appeared. Buddha asked, “What is this?” The charioteer said, “Please don’t press me. How will I face your father? A man has died.” Buddha asked, “Will I too die?” The charioteer suffered: “Please don’t ask such questions. No one asks them.” In truth, this alone is the meaningful question. Buddha had turned another’s death into wisdom. The charioteer said, “One must die. Whoever is born dies. In fact, death begins the day one is born—it only becomes visible seventy years later. Life is gradual death—a long process of dying. The moment a child is born, he is fully capable of dying; nothing is lacking.” Buddha said, “Then the matter is settled. If death must be, then I am as good as dead. Now this life has no meaning. I will seek the life that does not die—the immortal life.”

One who has never made death into a question—how will he set out in search of the deathless? You have escorted many to the cremation ground; yet it never settles in the heart that soon people will be preparing to carry you. The cremation ground always seems meant for the other, never for oneself. Death is always someone else’s—never mine. Then experience does not become wisdom—and if it does not, life does not become religion. If it does, life becomes religion.

Thirst can awaken. Examine each experience from all sides. Transform each completely into knowing. Then your whole life becomes thirst. You will not rest until the Divine door opens. You will keep knocking. Once thirst is awakened, nothing else is essential to attain God. Everything else is nonessential; only thirst is essential. Thirst is not a small thing; nothing is greater. When it awakens, every fiber longs. Then God is not one more activity among many. He remains the one essential thread running through all your activities. Life goes on as before, but inwardly the thread is Divine. You will eat, but the hunger will be for God. The stomach will fill; the Divine hunger will remain. You will drink; the throat will be soothed; the body’s thirst quenched—yet the thirst for God will continue. You will speak with your son outwardly, while inwardly the conversation continues with the Divine. You will sit at your shop, your eyes seeing customers; yet deeper eyes will be seeking God.

Kabir went to the market to sell cloth. People would say, “Now that you are so illumined, stop weaving cloth—it does not suit you.” Kabir answered, “The ignorant weave only cloth; I weave something more that you do not see. I weave Ram into it. He is in my every breath, in my hands, in each heartbeat. This is not ordinary cloth; I have woven the warp and weft of Ram into it.” When Kabir sold cloth and a customer bought it, Kabir would say, “Ram!” and add, “I wove this for you.”

Life will proceed; outwardly it remains the same; inwardly it is utterly changed—the thread becomes God, a single thirst. Without it, any search for God will be inauthentic.

I have heard: In Lanka there was a fakir. For thirty years he spoke to thousands about liberation, nirvana, God. When death drew near he said, “Tomorrow I will die. For thirty years I have spoken to you of liberation. Who is ready to come with me? Stand up!” Hearing of his impending death, crowds gathered. Not one stood. People looked at one another—hoping someone else would go. Finally one man stood timidly: “Let me say first: not tomorrow. I only stand to ask the method, so that when I do want to go, I can use it. But not tomorrow.” We say we want God. But if truly asked, “Do you? Are you ready? Shall we go now?”—you will say, “Not so fast. Wait. Many tasks remain.”

An inauthentic thirst has no meaning. That is why—despite innumerable temples, churches, gurdwaras, mosques, and so many religious people—the earth is not religious. It should have become so; the very air should be fragrant with prayer. So many calls to prayer, so many rituals—yet nothing happens. Because hearts lack thirst, all becomes formal, empty. The priest lays flowers on the altar without laying his heart. He lights lamps and incense, but without the music of his life-breath.

Ramakrishna was appointed a priest at Dakshineshwar. A poor Brahmin—his salary perhaps sixteen rupees. Within days the trustees faced a problem. They had handled a thousand priests; this one was different. In all the temple’s history no priest had caused trouble—until now. They called Ramakrishna: “This won’t do. In seven days you will be dismissed. Is this how worship is done? We hear you smell the flowers before offering them, and you taste the food yourself before offering it to the Goddess! This is outrageous! Are you an atheist?” Ramakrishna replied, “Keep your job. But when my mother fed me, she tasted first. I cannot offer without tasting—how can I know it is fit to eat? And a flower I haven’t smelled—how can I know it is fit for her feet?” A true priest—and the committee was in trouble. False priests had never troubled them.

This earth and its so-called religion—whatever names it takes—and we, who consider ourselves religious, have turned religion into a formality, a social utility. No! Religion is a deep ache of the soul. Society has nothing to do with it. It is an intimate, personal thirst. It cannot be appeased by false fires; it needs a true flame—the thirst born from turning experience into insight.

Let’s try yet another angle. I don’t know from where thirst may arise in your life; hence many angles are needed. In some it may come from suffering—if one understands suffering. In another, from ignorance—if it is understood. In another, from death—if death is understood. In another, from seeing the daily routine—if its futility is understood. Who can say from which corner it will come? So let’s consider a few.

I have heard of a wondrous sage, Chuang Tzu. One night he dreamed. In the morning he was very disturbed and called the village together: “I am in difficulty. I saw a dream.” People said, “Are you mad? We all dream. No need to be troubled.” Chuang Tzu said, “No, this case is special. Help me if you can. Last night I dreamt I became a butterfly, flying among flowers.” They said, “Nothing unusual. We too have flown as birds.” He said, “Listen to the whole thing. The dream itself was no trouble. The trouble is this: If at night a man can dream he is a butterfly, can’t a butterfly sleep by day and dream she is a man? Now I am stuck: Did Chuang Tzu dream he was a butterfly—or is a butterfly dreaming she is Chuang Tzu? Show me a way out.” They said, “Difficult indeed; we never thought like this.”

We all dream—but we never think about dreaming; we never turn that experience into insight. At dawn you dismiss the night’s dream as false—because waking appears different. But have you ever reversed it—noticed that when you are in a dream, the day you called ‘real’ becomes false in exactly the same way? The dream is false by day; by night the day becomes false. Between two falsities, which is true? Have you thought?

One more curious fact: we remember the night’s dream somewhat by day; but the day’s ‘dream’ is not remembered at all in the night. In a dream if you became an emperor, in the morning some taste remains. But the emperor of the day remembers nothing of his empire when he dreams at night. Understand this and perhaps you will see: what we call life is even more dreamlike than dreams. In a dream, you never realize it is a dream; if you do, the dream breaks—because you have awakened. How many times you have dreamed—thousands, millions—and every morning you have discovered that dreams are unreal. Yet tonight, when you dream again, the dream will again feel real. The countless experiences of dreams have yielded no learning! If a dream feels real when you dream it, by what right do you call waking ‘real’? It may be that one day you wake even from this and discover it too is false—a prolonged dream, with continuity.

Those who called life maya or illusion do not mean it does not exist. They mean: when you awaken from this also, you are astonished—“It too was a dream—a longer one.”

If one understands dream, waking becomes dreamlike. But we don’t look. Chuang Tzu was right: “I am in trouble.” I ask you: when will dreams trouble you?

I have heard another story. An emperor’s only son lay dying—after four nights without sleep, the father, sitting by him, dozed near dawn. In his dream he had twelve strong, handsome sons; his dominion covered the whole earth; he was blissful. Outside the dream, his son died. Inside the dream, twelve sons thrived. The wife cried out; his dream broke—along with his twelve sons. Instead of weeping he began to laugh. The wife thought he had gone mad—people go mad from grief or too much joy. She shook him: “Why are you laughing? Don’t you see our son has died?” He kept laughing. “What is it?” she asked. He said, “I am in difficulty—the same as Chuang Tzu’s. Whom shall I mourn first? The twelve I had within, or the one without? When I saw those twelve, I had no idea this boy existed or died. Had I continued dreaming, I would never have known of his death. Now seeing this one, those twelve are false. Which is true? Tell me whom to weep for.” He went from village to village asking sages—“Whom shall I weep for?” People told him: “Only Chuang Tzu can answer.” He went to Chuang Tzu: “Whom shall I mourn?” Chuang Tzu said, “Weep for yourself. There is no need to weep for anyone else.” When a man begins to weep for himself—or to laugh at himself—religion enters his life. But we always weep over others, laugh at others; we always spare ourselves.

One more doorway: How can this thirst be awakened? Perhaps it is not right to say “created”; perhaps it already exists—only needs provoking. Sometimes, unprovoked, you catch a glimpse of it; but you suppress it. Our culture claims to be religious, yet we all suppress religious thirst. If a son becomes a thief, a father is not as troubled as when the son becomes a sannyasin. We say we are religious. If a husband starts drinking, the wife is less worried than if he becomes immersed in prayer. We say we are religious. These are words. Religion frightens—because it transforms. And no one around us wants us utterly transformed. A drunk can still be managed; a sannyasin cannot. A thief son is bad, but manageable. A sannyasin ceases to be a ‘son’ as you knew him. So a thief-son is tolerated; a renunciate-son is trouble.

In every heart there is an urge—like a seed with a hidden sprout. But if you place the seed on stone, the sprout cannot emerge. The seed asks, “How shall I sprout?” We have placed the seed of our life on stone so that it does not sprout. Therefore my last point: look around and recognize the elaborate conspiracy to break your urge, to quell your thirst. Become alert to it; then the thirst may awaken, the sprout break forth. The pressure is constant, technical, deeply organized.

Everyone’s death is certain—not a date, but a certainty. Yet everyone keeps blessing everyone: “May you live for ages!” Mother, father, even the guru blesses, “Live long!” No one can live for ages. A dangerous untruth is uttered; it sinks in and helps us deny death’s certainty. We feel, “It’s fine—I will live long.” No such blessing has ever come true; none will. But it helps to falsify death—and the more we deny death, the more difficult the search for the deathless becomes. The seed lies on stone.

Denial won’t do. Life is insecurity—utterly unsafe. You are here; whether you will reach home is not certain. I am here; whether I will utter the next word is not certain. Everything is uncertain. But the mind insists that all is certain. Everywhere people persuade you that things are secure: bank balances, insurance policies—illusions of certainty erected on all sides, while nothing is certain.

If uncertainty is seen, the seed will be moved off the stone. If you see that where all is uncertain and certainty is only a cheat, the one seeking security in life is fundamentally mistaken—then… I have heard: At midnight, the Muslim king Ibrahim awoke to footsteps on his roof. He called out, “Who is there?” A voice laughed: “Sleep—don’t be disturbed. I lost my camel; I am searching for it.” Ibrahim said, “Fool! Have you ever heard of camels lost on rooftops?” The laughter came again: “You call me a fool; but where you are searching for life—has anyone ever found it there? If one seeks immortality where death reigns, certainty where all is uncertain, truth where all is false—if such people are not mad, why am I mad?” Ibrahim sent soldiers to catch the man who spoke in such meaning. Sometimes, to say something meaningful, you must disturb people’s sleep at midnight. They could not catch him. Next day Ibrahim sat troubled. He sent men to search the capital: “Who is the man who sought his camel on rooftops?” They said, “That man was mad—why are you going mad?” Ibrahim said, “That’s what I told him. But his answer has driven me mad—and cured him.” They searched in vain. Later there was a commotion at the palace gate: a man arguing with the guard, “Let me lodge in this inn.” The guard protested, “This is no inn; it is the king’s palace.” The man insisted, “Don’t lie; I know it is an inn.” The quarrel grew. The guard said, “Are you mad?” The king heard the word again, ran out, brought the man in. “What is it?” The man said, “I want to stay in this inn. Do you object?” The king said, “Are you mad? This is not an inn; it is my residence.” The man said, “I have come here before. A different man sat on this throne then; he said, ‘This is my residence.’ Before that too I came—someone else sat here, saying the same.” The king said, “They were my father—and before him his father.” The fakir asked, “If I return again, is it certain I will find you?” The king said, “That is difficult.” “Then,” said the fakir, “it is an inn. You too are lodging; let me lodge. Many have rested here; let me rest.” Ibrahim rose and said, “I have found the man who searched for his camel on rooftops—you must be he. Now you stay; I go.” “Where?” asked the fakir. The king said, “To search for a home. Until now I mistook this inn for my home.”

What we call life—safe, secure—this whole arrangement we have made, this make-believe, this preparation—it is only deception. It takes no time to break. It will break someday. But when it breaks, there is no time left to act. While it hasn’t yet broken, there is time—something can be done.

So finally: To awaken thirst, look closely wherever you think “all is well”—you will discover nothing is well. Where you feel rock underfoot—there are only holes. Where life appears safe—only death is safe, nothing else. If the true picture of our life appears, we will leave the inn and set out to find a home. We must. That search becomes the search for the Divine—because only the Divine is home. Everything else is an inn. That is home where, having arrived, one does not have to depart; where, having reached, nothing is left to lose; where, having attained, nothing remains unattained.

Search life from many dimensions; perhaps from some corner your thirst will awaken. And if it awakens, then tomorrow I will speak to you about what to do. If it does not, there is nothing to be done. The lake is near—those who are thirsty will find it immediately. Those who are not—though the lake be just behind the house—will never find it.

You have listened to my words with such love and quiet. I am deeply obliged. In the end I bow to the Lord seated within each of you. Please accept my pranam.