Diya Tale Andhera #13

All through life man keeps doing just one thing: selling himself—and what he gets in return is utterly worthless. By selling himself again and again, his strongbox fills up; the man himself becomes empty and leaves behind a full safe. His own hands are empty, his life is empty, while heaps of objects pile up all around. What is their value, what is their meaning?

At the moment of death it becomes clear that whatever was truly precious, we never earned; whatever was worth earning, we lost. We gained nothing new; even what we came with, we are losing. But then it is too late. At the moment of death nothing can be done; death will not wait for you. And even if death were to wait, be certain you would do exactly what you have done all your life—you would repeat it.

This Sufi parable is very precious; it has many layers of meaning. Let us try to understand them one by one. Before we enter the story, keep a few preliminary points in mind.

First point: If knowledge comes to the ignorant, it yields nothing essential. Even if knowledge comes to the ignorant, he will do with that knowledge what he was doing with his ignorance. Hence knowledge obtained from outside has no meaning. Inside you remain ignorant; that knowledge is borrowed. And it is the ignorant one within who will use it. That is why the Quran, the Gita, the Bible—all become futile before you. Knowledge you may have received, but how will you use it? Whatever you do with it, you would have done without it too.

You may feel that knowledge is giving you great benefit, but no benefit will happen; death will shatter all your illusions of profit. Your Gita, your Quran, your Bible will be worth two pennies when death comes. Neither Mahavira, nor Buddha, nor Krishna will accompany you. Only if the inner lamp has been lit—if the darkness beneath the lamp within has been dispelled—will you be able to face death.

First point: borrowed knowledge will not work. If you insist, you can get it; if you are adamant, you will accumulate much knowledge. But knowledge is meaningful only when you have sought it yourself. Received knowledge has no value; discovered knowledge does. Knowledge is not a destination; it is a journey. Even if someone were to drop you at the goal, it would be useless. You must pass through the journey, because only in passing through it does your life ripen.

Children doing mathematics flip to the back of the book and look at the answers. The answer is found—but what will you do with it? Until you have gone through the method, the answer is worthless. Children often try to cheat: because they know the answer, they adjust the method accordingly—but they will always be caught, for their method will contain confusions and mistakes. It cannot be sound; it will have no organic relation to the answer—only a forced connection.

The real question is not the answer; it is the way to reach the answer. It is not that you obtain the doctrine of truth; it is how you arrive at it—because in the very arriving lies your transformation. The journey is precious, not the destination; the destination is only the outcome, the completion.

But one who has not journeyed—how will he reach the goal? This is the very deception everyone attempts. So you memorize doctrines, learn scriptures by heart. But nothing will come of it. Your delusion may persist until death shakes you. In life you go on dreaming; death will shatter all your dreams. In life you float paper boats; death will drown them. In life you build palaces of imagination; death will level them.

Like children build houses of cards; a small puff of wind blows them down. Your houses are not stronger than those; they have no foundation. A slight gust of death will topple them. But then it will be too late—that is the difficulty. When they fall, you will see you were tied to the futile. By then life will have slipped away, the opportunity lost.

And you have lost such opportunities many times; you are not new to this earth. You are very ancient—eternal. You have been coming forever, and repeating the same mistake forever. You have repeated it so often that now no effort is needed; it repeats itself.

First point: borrowed knowledge is worse than ignorance. Better to be ignorant—for at least there is some truth in it, some authenticity: “I do not know.” At least the ignorance is yours—not stale leftovers, not someone else’s. At least you can say, “This ignorance is mine, personal.”

And if your ignorance is your own—if you have not covered it with someone else’s knowledge—then sooner or later you will have to break it, because ignorance is a great pain. In this world there is no pain greater than ignorance; you will not endure it long—it pricks like a thorn.

You cover this ignorance with borrowed scriptures. Then the pricking goes; then there arises a reverse arrogance. The pain of ignorance disappears, and the conceit of knowledge comes in. It feels good to think “I know.” Without knowing, it feels good to think “I know.” You are drinking poison with your own hands. You have used all scriptures like poison; they have not given you life—they have taken it away. Opportunities have been missed.

So the first point: borrowed knowledge is useless, more fatal than ignorance.

Second point: Suppose borrowed knowledge comes to you—what will you do with it? The doer stands in darkness. The lamp may shed light around, but the doer himself stands in the darkness beneath the lamp. Whatever use you make of knowledge will be harmful.

This is precisely the crisis of science today; the whole earth is troubled by it. The scientist has discovered much—discoveries made by force, by obstinacy; he has compelled nature, torn open her secrets. Many truths are in hand, yet all seem dangerous. Atomic power is in hand, and we had Hiroshima and Nagasaki; any day the whole earth can be drowned in death.

Through science, life has not come into our hands; death has. Science has not created; it has destroyed. In the end the discoveries of science are not becoming nectar; they are becoming death, proving poisonous. Nature has been devastated; the earth has become a ruin.

And whatever man has come to know—that very knowing is his trouble. Once you know, you cannot remain without doing; you will do something. Science has given external knowledge; man remains in darkness within. We know more about the moon and stars; about ourselves we know nothing. We know more about the tiniest atom; our connection with the vastest God is severed. We have known the trivial so much that in that knowing the vast has been lost.

We have no address for God anymore—because only when you have your own address can you sense His. One who has forgotten himself will forget God. Try as you might to know God; until you have known yourself, the first step will not be taken.

Science has given great knowledge—no doubt. But has man become more blissful? Has the labor of millions of scientists resulted in man being more full of dance, more fragrant? Has more humanity flowered? Has he become more mature, conscious, deep, more in love? Has his prayer begun to knock at the doors of the Infinite? Have his hands knocked at God’s door?

No. Science gave knowledge and man became more depressed. Never was man so miserable. Never have so many committed suicide. Never have so many been so restless, anxious, tormented. There was poverty; people were hungry; yet there was a certain fullness of soul, a dignity. The body was poor and wretched, but the inner light shone outward. Today the body is full, but the inner lamp seems lost.

You have become earthen lamps; no glimmer of flame is seen. Earthen lamps surround you on all sides. Every day science gives new information, and every day man gets lost in deeper darkness. What kind of information is this? Some fundamental mistake is being made.

That mistake is: nothing will come of understanding the language of nature until you understand the language of your own life. This is the second meaning of the story.

Knowing the language of animals will not help. Man must know the language of God. And to know that, one must descend within. The language of animals, the language of nature, can be learned anywhere. And this is what we are doing: learning the language of nature—what are we doing with it? Accumulating more wealth, eradicating diseases, pushing death away, reducing discomforts. All that may happen; still you will die. However far you push death away, it will come; there is no escape. And when death comes, you will ask: What is the essence of all I have done? What is the meaning?

Third point: the more you get lost in objects, outside, in the languages of others, the more you begin to forget that you also are. The more objects surround you, the less your attention returns to yourself.

This is why the sannyasin, the seeker of truth, withdrew far away—where nothing divides his attention; where there is nothing to know except himself, where attention can turn inward. With this knowledge that manufactures objects, piles up wealth, grants positions, you will have much material, great possessions—but you? You will not remain. The master is lost; the servants remain.

It happened: after a day of battle, an American fighter-bomber landed on a warship. Pleased, he disembarked and shouted on deck, “Listen, today a miracle happened! I downed seven Japanese planes, set a Japanese warship ablaze. My fuel ran out so I had to land; otherwise I’d have wiped out two or three more.” A voice came from inside the cabin: “All that is fine—only one mistake.” When the officer came out, he realized he had landed on a Japanese warship.

All your life you may do everything right; in the end you will discover one mistake: you saved everything else, but forgot to save yourself. You secured everything outside—built protective walls, made arrangements—but danger comes from within.

Death does not come from outside; it comes from within. It is born with you; you bring it with your birth. It grows within you daily. Death is not an accident that comes from outside.

But we have consoled ourselves by believing that death is an external accident. “If we protect ourselves, we can be saved.” Not so. You will not be saved—because death is an inner growth. It grows as you grow. You were a child; your death was a child. You became young; it became young. You became old; it became old. It grows with you; it is within. You cannot be saved—until you find the nectar within. Without that, no knowledge can help.

Now let us understand the story.

Once there was a man who had many animals and birds. He heard that the Prophet Moses understood their language. He went to him and, after much insisting, learned that art.

Moses is among those few who have attained knowledge. Whoever attains it comes to know the language of nature—animals and birds, pure nature, where human education and conditioning have not created distortions. Moses knew that language but kept it hidden; he never taught it. This man insisted greatly.

Remember: whatever you know through obstinacy will not benefit you. Obstinacy means force, violence. He must have sat at Moses’ door banging his head: “I won’t leave without knowing.” He must have fasted there: “I will do satyagraha; I will know.” He must have troubled and importuned a lot.

And remember: there is nothing like “satyagraha” in the realm of truth—because insistence is the death of truth. Insistence means you are not yet eager to know truth. Only the non-insistent comes to know truth—who says, “Whatever God’s will is, He will give.” One who waits for truth as grace; who does not demand.

This is the difference between religion and science. Science insists: “We will know.” It is violent, aggressive. Religion is non-insistent: “When His will is, He will reveal; when I am worthy, He will open the door. Until I am ready, insisting is dangerous—whatever I demand will be wrong. Better I do not demand, have no desire, and leave it to Him.”

Religion seeks truth too, but not through insistence or force. Hence I do not call Hatha Yoga religious; it is a scientific approach, an attempt to snatch truth from nature, from God, by force. There is no prayer in it, only effort; no waiting, only impatience—and we have rightly named it “hatha,” obstinacy. Hatha Yoga makes a man very egoistic; he uses his body to force nature.

You even go to attack God; you desire victory there too. You are aggressors. Science is aggressive; it snatches truths from nature—but in the very snatching the joy is lost. Remember: what is obtained by force is not worth having.

It is as if you assaulted a woman and raped her—do you think what you obtain is a woman’s love? Do you think you gain her beauty, her grace? Do you think her mystery has been revealed to you, that the veils of her heart have opened?

No. We have called nature “woman” for this very reason: lift her veil, but not as an aggressor—like a lover. A lover can wait. When with love you lift the veil of woman, the mystery of nature, the joy is different, the beauty different. The whole quality changes. One may snatch from you; another may receive from you with love, waiting, accepting as grace—there is a vast difference. On the material surface there may be none.

This is the difference between religion and science: religion is love; science is rape. Therefore the scientist is leading the world into a raped condition—where even if there is information, there is no beauty in it; where even if truths are available, they are almost aborted. It is as if a child is pulled prematurely from the mother’s womb, not given nine months; such truths are half-cooked, almost lifeless, bloodless.

The story says the man insisted greatly. Why insist before Moses?

Recently a young man came to me and said, “I want to remember my past life.” I asked, “Even if you remember, what will you do? This life you remember—what have you done? If the past also returns, what will you do?” He said, “I am curious.”

I said, “This very life has thrown you into anxiety; if the past also returns, anxiety will increase, not diminish. You may find your mother in this life was your wife in the last—what will you do? Or that your present wife was a prostitute—what will you do? Don’t come to me then saying your anxieties have multiplied. To remember is easy; to forget is not. Once you open that door of memory—who knows what will happen? Not one life, but infinite lives will open; you will go mad.”

But he was stubborn: “Whatever happens—even if I go insane—I want to know.” People like this—because of their obstinacy—whatever they obtain will harm them. I said, “Wait one year, then come.” He said, “I won’t wait; I’ll learn from someone else.”

This man will fall into danger. Nature withholds past-life memory for your good. As soon as a man dies, a curtain falls; a new birth, a new journey begins. Otherwise the burden of the past is so heavy you cannot carry it; you will collapse.

This man went to Moses and insisted; Moses taught him. From then he began to overhear his animals. One day the cock said to the dog, “The horse will soon die.” Hearing this, the man sold the horse to avoid loss.

Suppose you learn the language of nature—what will you do? At most you will avoid losses, accumulate a little more money. You will deceive others—you will sell a dying horse. That is theft. If you sold unknowingly, one thing; to sell knowingly is dishonesty. With knowledge of nature you will become more cunning and dishonest.

This strange thing happens every day. You will not find the uneducated as dishonest as the educated. If an educated man is not dishonest, understand something is lacking in his education. The educated will become dishonest—for what will he use his education for? To save himself from losses, to put others into loss—what else? Cunning, cheating. The educated becomes more skillful at arithmetic—can calculate, see ahead and behind; the uneducated cannot. The uneducated mostly lives in the moment; it is hard for him to compute yesterday—he has not so many numbers. At most he counts to ten, on his fingers.

In Africa there is a tribe on the banks of the Congo whose number-system has only three numbers: one, two, and many. That’s all. When first studied, people were amazed: “How have you managed with just three?” Yet the tribe has always lived—and with certain traits: there has never been theft, because theft needs bigger arithmetic. They are not thieves, not dishonest, not deceitful; no need for courts. A very peaceful tribe. The arithmetic is not big enough to cheat. To cheat big you need big numbers; calculations from all sides.

Chess players know: in chess the one who can keep account of at least five moves ahead will win. If I make this move, what will the other do; and then what will I do; then what will he do… If you cannot see that far, you won’t be skillful.

And this whole life is a chessboard; everywhere cheating is going on. In this cheating the educated can keep accounts; the uneducated cannot. The uneducated is not logic-oriented; he is life-oriented. He prefers to live. The logic-oriented postpones living to tomorrow: “Let me arrange life first; I will live tomorrow. Let the means be gathered; then I will live.”

The villager lives; you arrange for living. Whoever arranges will cheat, exploit. He will save himself from loss and cast others into loss. Remember: all your profits are someone’s losses. As long as you think in the language of profit, you will inevitably think in the language of causing others loss—because your victory cannot be without someone’s defeat. Your safe will not fill from the sky; someone’s pocket will be emptied. In the world’s arithmetic, everything is exploitation.

Therefore one who thinks in the language of profit cannot think in the language of friendship; he thinks in enmity. However much you deceive each other by saying “We are friends,” you cannot be—because there is competition. Friendship is the upper show, a mask—necessary, like oil to keep an engine running so the parts don’t grind. Your smiles and friendships are the oil of life, reducing friction so the collisions are not unbearable.

Collisions are nonetheless happening, at every moment. Where competition is the rule, there will be struggle. Everyone has his hands around another’s throat. Your life rests on another’s death. Your profit is another’s loss.

What should a religious person do? There are things in life you can increase without harming anyone—only those are to be sought by religion.

Keep this formula in mind: that which you consider profit—if it harms someone, that profit is false; at death you will be in trouble. Seek those things with which no one is harmed—and you have found the key of religion. You will be amazed: that profit with which no one is harmed benefits others as well.

If your treasure of money grows, someone will be impoverished. If your treasure of love grows, no one will be impoverished. As your love grows, you will become skillful in increasing love in others too. The wealth of your love will not make anyone poor in love. If your prayer deepens, others’ prayers will not be snatched; on the contrary, your prayer will make others more prayerful. If your meditation deepens, it does not obstruct others’ meditation; your deepening lends momentum to theirs. Whenever even one person moves toward the peak, waves arise around him supporting all. In spiritual life, whatever you gain will not be yours alone; it will be shared by all. Buddha amassed greatly; Moses amassed greatly—but the whole world became a shareholder. You too are amassing, but only for yourself.

I have heard: a fakir was a guest at Baal Shem’s house. He had great renown; people far and wide considered him a great saint. When he became a guest, Baal Shem said to his wife, “This man is a thief.” She said, “What are you saying? He is a great saint, not a thief.” Baal Shem said, “I tell you, he is a thief—because he wants heaven only for himself. He has never shared his prayer. He keeps prayer as people keep wealth in a safe. He thinks of meditation as his property—he is a thief.”

To save his disciples from this theft, Buddha said: whenever you pray—even if you occasionally miss the prayer, that will do—but do not miss distributing it. Pray, and then invariably say: may the fruit of this prayer be available to the whole earth, to all living beings; do not intend to save it for yourself. If even unconsciously the idea to save it for yourself remains, the prayer is destroyed—for prayer is not a kind of possession. It is not a safe; it is the open sky.

Buddha said: you may not pray; that will do. But do not forget to share prayer—for by sharing, prayer grows. This is not worldly profit. It does not harm others; it benefits them. And the more your wealth of prayer and meditation is shared, the more you will see it growing within. Spirituality increases by sharing; the worldly decreases by sharing.

A beggar stood at a door. His face suggested he had once been prosperous; his clothes were torn but expensive. The mistress of the house asked, “How did you come to this state? You look as though you were once well off.” She brought food and clothes. The beggar was silent; as he left he said, “Let me tell you how this happened—exactly as you are doing. Soon it will happen to you. I kept giving; whoever came, I shared—clothes, food—and this became my state. Yours will be the same. I walked this path and got caught. I didn’t tell you before because I needed the food and clothing; I always tell this afterwards.”

In this world, if you share, you will be looted; in that world, if you share, you will grow. Here your loss is another’s profit; here your profit is another’s loss. In that world the laws are different: there your profit is another’s profit; another’s profit is your profit. There another’s loss is your loss; your loss is another’s loss. There you and the other are not separate; distances have vanished. There we are all joined: what happens to me happens to the other; what happens to the other happens to me.

This defines the difference between the spiritual and the worldly. Call that “worldly” whose earning results in another’s loss—and do not give it much importance; it is not of value. Set yourself to earn that which others too obtain alongside your earning. And always share awareness. Do not be a thief. Always distribute your prayer—and you will not be in loss; that is the point.

Buddha’s bhikkhus gained from meditation more than any monks on earth. Mahavira’s monks could not gain as much—because although Mahavira’s monk meditates, he is a thief: he does it for himself; he has not learned to share. Sharing itself is a revolution.

I have heard: a Buddhist monk stayed as a guest in a house. After the meal the family gathered and asked for a message. He said, “Meditate every day, and share it so it reaches all.” The man said, “All? Just one question—my neighbor: except him, I can manage for the rest. It is impossible to think of giving anything to him.” The monk said, “Then drop the whole world—just this one will do.”

Because the real question is breaking the ego. How will it dissolve? The world increases the ego: there your profit is your profit, the other’s loss. Do not think only those in prison are thieves; you are too. The way of being in this world is theft. Some are inside, some are not—that makes little difference. The clever are outside; the less clever are inside. But the worldly way is theft. Proudhon said, “Wealth is theft.” He spoke true. The world is theft.

The man learned the language of animals. How did he use it? The cock said the horse would soon die; he sold the horse to avoid loss. The buyer’s horse died. His profit became another’s loss.

A few days later he heard the same cock tell the dog: the mule will soon die. He immediately sold the mule. Then the cock said: the slave is going to die—and the master sold the slave as well. He rejoiced greatly: see how much gain this knowledge brings.

Any knowledge by which you profit and others are harmed is not knowledge—for knowledge is where the distance between you and the other dissolves. There descends benediction; that is real profit, real wealth.

But look carefully at this man—because he is you. Stand before a mirror and look; you will find his reflection in yourself. It did not occur to him: from this cock whose words reveal that the mule will die, the horse will die, the slave will die—why don’t I ask whether I will die? He saw it happen: the horse died after he sold it; the mule died; the slave died—still it did not occur to ask about his own death.

The ignorant does not think of this; only the wise asks about his own death. The ignorant hides it—others will die; what question of my dying? He lives with the feeling: I am the exception. Others will die; I will not. He lives as if he will remain here forever. The wise lives here as in a wayside inn; you stay the night, leave in the morning. The ignorant lives as if this world is home; the wise is looking for the home. This is not home—at best it is a caravanserai, a halt; not the destination.

Such a simple thing did not occur to him: to ask the cock when he would die. He had no leisure from collecting profits.

Have you ever had leisure to ask anyone when you will die? Yes, sometimes you go to an astrologer—but to ask how long you will not die, not when you will die. Your emphasis is on living. You ask for your life-line, not your death-line. You ask, “Will I be successful?” You do not ask, “Will I fail?” You ask, “When will I be happy?” not “When will I be miserable?”

Remember: as long as you go seeking happiness, you will find misery; as long as you seek profit, loss will happen. As long as you seek life, you will go on dying. The day you seek death, the door of the Supreme Life opens. The day you search for suffering, the key to bliss falls into your hand.

So simple. Yet even highly logical people make unique blunders where the self is concerned. They are like the child—

I was a guest in a house. I saw the little boy going out, nicely dressed. An hour later he returned dejected. “What happened?” I asked. “I was going across the road to a children’s birthday party,” he said. “So why didn’t you go?” “Mother said: don’t cross until the cars pass. I sat and watched. Not a single car passed! And until they pass, how can I cross?”

We can laugh at children. But the child in you has not died; that childishness is still within. Nothing goes out of hand in life; everything accumulates—on top of the child sits the youth; on top of the youth, the old man—all within.

This man did not consider the simplest point. Sometimes the simple is missed.

Once a truck got stuck beneath a railway bridge; its load too high. It could neither go forward nor back; all traffic jammed. Police came—no solution. An engineer came—couldn’t figure it out. Great commotion. A poor man at the side with his staff said, “Why not let the air out of the tires?” No one listened—where great engineers are present, who listens? In the end, they had to let the air out; the truck passed.

In Russia, when Petersburg was being built, the Czar wanted his palace at a particular site but there was a huge boulder. Great engineers said it was impossible—huge expense to cut and remove. A carter came and said, “All futile talk; no need to remove it. I’ll tell a simple way: dig a trench all around, dig below, and sink it. Why remove it?” Everyone’s thinking was stuck in one groove—“It must be removed; how will we remove it?” The carter changed the question: “You need a clear space—sink it.” That is what they did; the palace stands upon that boulder. The man was poor; he asked no fee.

In the West there is much thought now about fixed grooves of thinking: truth is often not on that groove; it is a little off.

Why didn’t this man think? He had no leisure; he remained concerned with extracting more profit from the animals’ language. He forgot that soon he too would die and all his profits would lie there.

You too have forgotten—and until death is clearly remembered, religion will not dawn in your life. If only this man had asked the cock, “Forget the horse, mule, slave—let them die; tell me when I will die.”

If you came to know when you will die, could you remain the same? But what need is there to know the date? That you will die is certain. What difference does the day make? What does the date have to do with it? In this life only one thing is certain: death. Except death, all is uncertain. Center your life around that certainty; build your life keeping that certainty in view.

You are building on the uncertain; the certain is not your foundation. Buddha placed this certainty at the center: I will die—now, what should I do? If you too think rightly—“I will die; now let me decide what to do”—your steps will not go wrong.

But you deny this fact and then decide what to do; whatever you do will go wrong. What this man did went wrong. And the certain fact came—one day he again heard the cock say to the dog, “This man himself will die.” Now he began to tremble with fear. He ran to Moses.

Until death becomes explicit to you, you will not go to a Moses or to me. And even if you come, you will come only on the surface. Unless death makes you tremble, brings a storm, there is no way to revolutionize your life. Until then you are assured all is going well: “What hurry? Death is far off.” Meanwhile, so many other things are to be done.

People think that thinking of death is a morbid symptom: “Why think such negative things?” Death is not negative; it is the greatest truth—and behind that truth lies the key to the nectar of life.

So he trembled and ran to Moses: “Now what should I do?” Moses said, “Go and sell yourself too.”

Now nothing is left to do; there is no time.

Moses’ words may seem harsh, but what else can Moses do? You come when everything is already lost. You think of celibacy when your sexual energy is spent. You think of the soul when the body is rotten. You want to search for life’s truth when death has knocked. Death waits for no one. Moses’ words seem hard; but only that can be done now: go and sell yourself too. Whatever few coins you can get—save that much profit.

And this is what man is doing—selling himself for whatever he earns. Nothing on this earth is free; you are cutting and selling your soul. You may build a grand palace; in the end you will find your very bones became its bricks. You may accumulate wealth; you will find the notes are soaked in your blood. One thing is certain: whatever you have gathered, you have gathered by losing yourself. Something else could have been done. Had you not been entangled in profit and loss, perhaps you could have saved yourself, known yourself. But man fears the taxman more than death.

I have heard: Death came to a man’s door and knocked. The man asked from inside, “Who is it?” “I am the messenger of Yama—your death.” The man said, “Thank God! I thought the income-tax people had come.”

Let death come—that will do; only let not the taxmen come.

On the road a man was caught by bandits. They said, “Clear choice: the gun is on your chest—give us the key to your treasure or we will shoot.” The man said, “Give me a moment to think.” “What is there to think?” they said. “Then shoot,” he said. “I saved my money for old age; I cannot give it. Dying is fine.”

Think: whatever you have, you will try to save even at the cost of death. Then you are in that man’s condition. Moses is right: “Go and sell yourself too; don’t delay. Whatever few coins you can, save them—on dying you won’t get even that. Animals, even dead, can be sold—their bone, flesh, marrow have value; man is utterly worthless.”

Emperor Akbar used to bow, head bent, to any fakir who came. The viziers disliked it. “Any stray beggar—and you bow? It does not befit an emperor.” Finally the chief vizier said, “It is unseemly; beneath your prestige.”

Akbar said, “Do one thing: tomorrow a man is to be executed—his head will be cut off. Take that head to the market and see whether there is any buyer, and how much he’ll pay.”

He went in disguise—openly as a vizier, flatterers might buy it for lakhs. He carried the severed head from shop to shop. Everyone said, “Get out of here! Are you crazy? What will we do with it?” In the evening he returned: “Forgive me—no buyers; instead people were angry: ‘Go away; don’t bring it here.’”

Akbar said, “This will be the state of my head—no buyer, not even for four coins. And you are annoyed when I bow this head before someone whose head has no price!”

Moses was right: “You are mad for profit; money has a grip on you. Go, quickly sell yourself; at least something will be saved—on dying even that won’t; no buyer will come.”

Moses’ irony is deep. Keep this in your heart: for the body for which you run day and night, for the wealth for which you waste your precious time and lose your opportunity—when death is at the door, your profit will not be profit; your wealth will not be wealth. Your bank balance will have no value. Suddenly the illusions of your whole life will break. You will find you ran in vain—collecting toys, floating paper boats; dreams broken; rainbows fallen. You will find yourself destitute; even the greatest emperors find themselves thus.

Before that, be alert. Wake up. There is only one thing in the world that awakens: to be filled with the certainty that whatever you are now is not immortal; it is mortal. Your present ego and personality will be lost—a bubble on water, bursting anyway. Whether seven years or seventy—what will you do? The bubble will burst. So many bubbles have burst; you too will disappear.

Before this bubble breaks, seek that which never perishes. You are within the mortal, but at your center the sound of the immortal is resounding. Leave the periphery a little; take care of the center a little. Close your eyes a little; look less outside; look within. Listen within—the unstruck sound is resounding there.

Sell the horse, the mule, the slave—then, by the logic you have lived, you can do nothing but sell yourself too. That is what Moses said: according to your logic, do what you have been doing. Do not come to me now. While there is time, something can be done.

I know a woman—an old woman—who came to see me the day before she died; it was obvious she would die. I said, “Drop these pointless matters—take sannyas now.” She smiled, “I’ll think about it. I have another question—my daughter-in-law and I do not get along.” “Drop that—there isn’t much time.” But she took it as theory: “I’ll think. I’ll come tomorrow.” She did not come; her son came running: “Mother is gone.” He cried, “You had asked her to take sannyas; she wished to, but kept postponing. You said it only yesterday—please come and give her sannyas.” He didn’t say, “Give me sannyas.” That is the fun. I said, “Come—but what about you?” He said, “I’ll think. Someday I will have to come on this path anyway—but right now there are many entanglements.”

Even when facts stand before you, you are blind. His mother died; I had told her yesterday: life is short—sink into God now, do not wander. He heard—and yet he came to ask sannyas for her after death! After dying you all will want to be sannyasins—but it is of no use. What meaning have garlands or saffron robes on a corpse? Whatever is to be done must be done while alive. You use life to collect trash—and then want to attain God after dying.

Try to understand this story. You have saved the horse, the mule, the slave; it will not be long now. Whenever you hear a cock crowing, ask it, “When will I die?”

And every cock is saying the same: you will die—and you do understand the language. All around, one message resounds: here nothing happens but death. With birth, death is tied. In one sense you are already half dead: you became half dead the day you were born; the other half can be completed any day. The body you sit in is dying each moment. What are you waiting for? To make a little more profit, inflict a little more harm, accumulate a little more—then you will change? You will never change. And if you come to me then, I too will say, “Go and sell yourself.”

There is still time. You have sold the horse, mule, slave—there is still a little time, though not much. That too is slipping each moment; the sand slides from under your feet. The queue moves forward; people ahead are removed, dying. You stand in that queue; soon your turn will come. Death is not far. One who becomes alert—who accepts death as a real fact of life which will happen—his life’s revolution begins.

Remember death; let it become your meditation. You will find your life changing. Anger will become difficult—at whom to be angry? Exploitation will become difficult—whom to exploit, for what? Profit and loss will become children’s games.

You will live here; but if death remains remembered, you will find all around a great dream—long-running, yet a dream. Within you the witness will begin to awaken. One who remembers death becomes a witness; one who forgets becomes a doer. One who remembers death turns to real profit; one who forgets remains entangled in the false. And behind death is hidden the gate to nectar. When you remember death, nectar is not far; it is the other side of the same coin.

Enough for today.