Es Dhammo Sanantano #23

Today, let us speak a little of Satsang. In these sutras, Satsang is the very foundation. There is nothing more important than Satsang. As if a blind man were to be given eyes, as if a mute were to be given a tongue; as if the dead suddenly awoke and became alive again: that is Satsang. Satsang means: you do not know; but if you come into the company of one who knows, it is as if you yourself have come to know; as if, in the dark, a torch has come into your hand.
Satsang means: you are in darkness and suddenly lightning flashes. A light spreads in all directions. Later the darkness may gather again, but you will never be the same. You can no longer be in the old darkness. Now you know there is a path. Now you know there is a goal. In Satsang you learn not only of the path, you learn of the goal. You also taste the flavor of one who has reached. You receive a glimpse of your own future. A dream awakens of what you can be. A pain arises for what you have not been able to become.
Satsang is supreme bliss, and it is supreme pain.
Pain — that much has been lost. Pain — that until now you have wandered in vain. Pain — that you have walked a lot, but your feet did not fall upon the path. Pain — that through births upon births you have traveled so much, and the inch of distance from the goal has not decreased.
And joy, a vast joy — that even if we have not arrived, someone like us has arrived. Even if we have not arrived, arrival is possible. Even if we have not arrived, the trust that man can arrive.
The pain is great, but the joy of Satsang is even greater. Among those very thorns of pain, the rose of Satsang blooms. You weep for yourself, and yet now — seeing in another a glimpse of your own future — you dance for yourself as well.
Satsang is something the East has known, and the West has not. That dimension remained unfamiliar to the West. And the modern man — whether in East or in West — is almost Western. Hence the secret of Satsang escapes the modern mind as well. In the East we learned a unique truth, that there are certain secrets which, if you simply sit near one who knows, transform you.
The Sadguru is catalytic. He does nothing — and something happens within you. His very presence is enough. His presence does. All that is needed from you is a little courage to open your doors for him. A little courage not to sit with your eyes squeezed shut. Open your eyes a little. A little courage to welcome him: come within me, enter.
Offer that much invitation from your side — and a light you never knew begins to descend within you. More rightly said, it does not descend, it awakens within you. It was asleep inside. The like is stirred by the like. The like is drawn to the like. The like has a pull upon the like.
So when in someone a sea of light is present, the sleeping sea within you too begins to turn over. Another’s desire awakens your desires. Another’s longing sows seeds in your longings. Another’s desireless life opens a new dimension within you. Another’s heart brimming with compassion lifts you, even if for a moment, to heights where you have not yet been. As a small child, seated upon his father’s shoulders, becomes higher even than the father; he begins to see up to places the father himself cannot — upon the father’s shoulders.
Satsang means: to bow so deeply at someone’s feet, to be so surrendered toward someone, that you become worthy of being seated upon those shoulders. The Guru lifts you upon his shoulders. But before the lifting, it is necessary that you bend like a small child. Become innocent like a small child.
Satsang is great alchemy, a transmutation. It has its own complete science. One standing outside may keep watching and never know that anything is happening. This is not a loud conversation. It is a whisper between two hearts. It is a confidenceshared between two hearts. No one hears of it from ear to ear. Nothing is said — and it reaches. Nothing is done — and revolution happens. Only this much is needed: that you are willing to open your eyes and see.
Sadguru means Satsang.
The Sadguru has no other use. In one sense, the Sadguru is utterly useless. If you go into the world looking for his usefulness, you will find none. Take him to market to sell and you will get no price. In the bazaar he has no value. For the Sadguru is not a commodity to be sold in shops. In the world of utility he has no value at all.
The Sadguru’s value lies in the realm of non-utility — or in that realm where we rise even beyond utility. The transcendence is into the world of flowers, the world of fragrances. Where being itself is joy. Where we do not live for another moment. Where life is not a means, but the supreme end. Where each moment is Moksha, liberation.
To be with the Sadguru is the use of the Sadguru.
Satsang means: being near.
The word Upanishad has the same meaning. Upanishad means: to sit near the Guru. The rain of the Upanishads fell upon those who came near the Guru. Flowers rained upon them. New moons and stars appeared in their lives.
How will you come near? Learn the art of surrender — and Satsang becomes available. From the seed of surrender, the flower of Satsang blooms.
These sutras of Buddha are sutras of Satsang. The first:
'Even if a fool lives all his life in the company of a learned man, he will not know dharma, just as a ladle does not know the taste of the broth.'
All life it remains together. The ladle lies in the lentils themselves. But the taste of the broth it never knows.
na so dhammam vijanati, dabbi suparasam yatha.
Such is the fool — he alone is a fool who, having the opportunity of Satsang, remains deprived. Such a rare opportunity is found — and yet, like the ladle lying in the lentils, he never tastes.
Foolishness has but one meaning: one who does not open oneself; remains closed.
Such a fool thinks within himself that he is very clever. This is the mark of the fool: he considers himself clever. He dies of his cleverness. Cleverness itself drowns him.
This I have seen. I have seen simple ones crossing, and the clever drowning. Simplicity even becomes a boat. Cleverness only drowns, only drowns. For ego is a heavy rock. Tie it to your neck — you will not cross the river. Alone, you might even cross; even without a boat you might cross. The river does not drown; the river has never drowned anyone. The rock tied to the neck drowns. And you, in your skill, in your cleverness, insist on carrying the heaviest rocks.
Your effort is this — to enter God while remaining 'you'. It is this 'you' that is the rock tied to the throat. This ego will drown you.
A fool is one who, in his cleverness, keeps saving himself.
Understand a little, for a little or much foolishness is in everyone. More or less, the quantity may differ, but it is there. Try to understand. Foolishness means: you think you are protecting great treasures.
Yesterday a young woman told me she is rebellious, a rebel. So whatever is told to her, she does the opposite.
This is the mark of foolishness. But she is stiff. She holds the notion she has a unique individuality. A rebel, a revolutionary.
Ego devises great strategies. It seeks the ornaments of rebellion. It hides in the cloaks of revolt. It writes fine slogans all around itself. It becomes safe among them. But this too is foolishness — that whatever is said, to say yes to it feels difficult.
By all means be prepared to say no. There is much in life to which one must say no. If you do not know how to say no, your yes has no meaning, no value. Your yes is garbage. From your no comes strength, comes power. Do be ready to say no — but the meaning of readiness to say no is only this: that it becomes an ally in the readiness to say yes. Negation is not valuable in itself. Do cut the weeds, but sow the seeds of flowers too. Do burn the futile, but also preserve the meaningful. Throw away pebbles and stones — they must surely be thrown — but do not throw away the diamonds. Say no, but will you say no to everything? Then it becomes suicide. Your refusal was not rebellion; it was self-destruction.
Say no, but let your no arise out of your utmost discernment — not out of revolt. Not out of the pleasure of saying no. Not because 'no must be said', not 'for the sake of no'. In the search for a great yes, many no’s will have to be spoken. In the search for diamonds, many stones will have to be left behind. But keep your eyes on the search. Keep attention on the affirmative; use negation as a tool.
The Upanishads say: Neti-neti is the method to realize Brahman. Saying no... no is the method: not this, not that. But remember — keep searching. The no is only a device, so that the futile is negated, the essential remains, and you plunge into the essential. But if no becomes the habit of life, the very style of living — so that you become unable to say yes, crippled, so that a yes cannot arise from you, so that you throttle yes at its neck within — then you have committed suicide. Then 'no' has killed you. Then 'no' has become your grave. Then you could not use 'no'; 'no' has used you.
Do not call this rebellion. Do not call it revolution. Rebellion is a great thing. 'Revolt' is a precious word — do not use it for such pettiness. This is nothing but ego. And ego is foolishness. I teach you to say no so that one day you can say yes. I wish your no to become so deep that when you say yes, your yes knows no boundary. Do say no, so that your yes becomes sharp — but do not keep sharpening only the no. Otherwise you will cut your own throat. None other will be cut; only you will be cut.
But the young woman who told me this thinks herself intelligent. Well educated. But has anyone become intelligent merely by being well educated? Otherwise, there would be such a multitude of the intelligent in the world that it would defy calculation. The well educated are many. The literate are many. But literacy and degree certificates have no essential relation with wisdom. One can be wise while illiterate, and unwise while literate.
Often it happens that the literate man loses wisdom in his literacy. He concludes that all knowledge has come with the university degrees. Hence Buddhas have become fewer and fewer in the world. Because, in the name of knowledge, foolishness has made its home. In the name of knowledge, foolishness has made such arrangements, collected so many university degrees around itself, that the possibility of the birth of Buddhahood has dwindled.
The first sutra for the birth of Buddhahood is: to understand one’s ignorance.
The fool is he who thinks he is wise. The unfoolish is he who has understood: I am ignorant. The unfoolish will become available to Satsang. The fool — even if he lies in the lentils like a ladle all his life — will taste nothing.
I know people with whom my association is of years — yet they remained connected with me like a ladle. They tasted nothing. One feels compassion for them. Tears fall for them — but there is no means. A ladle is a ladle. Until it consents to change, nothing can be done.
'Even if a fool remains with a learned man for a lifetime, he does not know dharma, just as a ladle does not know the taste of the broth.'
The ladle is very hard, rigid. Because of that hardness it is without sensitivity.
Do not remain like a ladle. Do not be hard. Become a little sensitive. Do not erect a casing all around yourself. Because of that casing you can neither weep, nor can you laugh. Because of that casing, all you do becomes false, inauthentic. The sun rises, but you do not see. Flowers bloom, but your life-energies form no connection with them. Winds come, but pass by without touching you.
God knocks at your door in a thousand ways. In a thousand ways you explain it away — it must be something else, a passer-by, or a beggar has come, or a gust of wind. His footfalls come very close to you many times. Closer than your heartbeat are his footfalls. Truth is nearer than you are to yourself, for Truth is your very nature. Eso dhammo sanantano — this is the eternal law. But you are so entangled in your own confusions that even what is most near, most intimate, is not heard.
Become sensitive. The first sutra of Satsang is: become sensitive. If you are not open to the winds of God, if the rays of God’s sun fall upon you and you remain untouched, then you are not open to God either. And when God stands among you in a Sadguru, you will make a thousand interpretations. Your interpretations themselves will become walls between you and the Sadguru. Your words, your cleverness will lay a curtain upon your eyes. And you will understand only what you can understand. There Satsang is missed. Understand what the Sadguru is — not what you are able to understand.
Put your understanding aside a little. Lay it down for a while. Sometimes even leave it at home. Where you take off your shoes, take it off there too. Sometimes live without the mind. See only with the heart, sometimes only with love; not with thought.
Sometimes sink into such sensitivity that you forget who you are — man or woman, poor or rich, dark or fair, child or old, beautiful or ugly, intelligent or dull. Sometimes dive into love so deeply that all these categories are forgotten. Let only you remain, with no category around you. No label, no adjective. Not Hindu, not Muslim, not Christian, not Jain — just you, empty, untainted, like a blank page.
In that instant the Vedas begin to descend upon you. You have become available. You have opened. The rain of the Upanishads begins.
To understand what the Sadguru wants to say — or what the existence of the Sadguru is saying — you will have to set yourself aside from yourself a little. For he brings news from another world. He brings songs from another realm. He brings treasures of the unknown, the unknowable. Put your judgments and understandings to the side.
In Egypt there was a wondrous fakir, Dhun-Nun. A youth came to him and asked, I too am a seeker of Satsang. Give me a place at your feet. Dhun-Nun looked — he must have seen a ladle. He said, Do one thing. He took a stone from his pocket and said, Go to the market, to the vegetable bazaar, and ask the shopkeepers what price it might fetch.
He ran off. He asked those who sold vegetables. Many said, We have no need for it — what question of price? Price is according to need. Take your stone away. Someone said, All right, it could serve to weigh vegetables. Take two paisa, four paisa — the stone is colored.
But Dhun-Nun had said, Do not sell; only learn the price and come back. What is the highest price one might get? He asked everywhere and returned — none was ready to give more than four paisa.
He said, No one is ready to give more than four paisa. Many were not ready to take it at all. Many scolded, Go away, morning time! Should we talk to customers, or have you come here with a stone? Come in the evening. One showed some curiosity because, at least, it could weigh vegetables. One man said, It isn’t of much use, but children will play with it. Now that you have brought it, take four paisa — out of pity. Shall I sell it?
The Master said, Now do one thing — go to the gold and silver market and ask there. Do not sell; only find out the price. He went. He returned astonished. The gold and silver merchants were ready to give a thousand rupees. He could not believe it. From four paisa to a thousand rupees! A great difference. He felt like selling — who knows whether the man would give tomorrow or change his mind. But the Master had forbidden it. He returned. He said, Now forbidding is not right — one man is ready to give a thousand rupees. None asked less than five hundred.
The Master said, Now do not sell. Take it where diamonds and jewels are traded, to jewelers and connoisseurs; but do not sell — however much one offers and however much you feel the urge, do not sell.
There he went — and was stunned. Men were ready to give a million for that stone. He nearly went mad. From two paisa to a million! Many times he felt he should sell and take the money — and what if that man later did not give? But the Master had forbidden it.
He came back. The Master took the stone. He said, It is not to be sold. I gave you the stone only to show you that to be a seeker of Truth is not enough; are you a connoisseur? If not, we will give you Truth and you will quote two paisa for it. You will not even recognize two paisa worth. Become a connoisseur, and then come. Truth is — and we are ready to give. But merely saying you are a seeker does not make it sufficient. For I see, your stiffness is great. You even touched my feet — the body bent, you did not. You touched ceremonially, because one should. Because others do. You do not know how to bow — and the jewels we speak of here can only be known by bowing. First learn to bow.
There is another world to Satsang. From outside, when you go and see someone sitting in Satsang near a Sadguru, nothing may make sense to you. For this language is other. This is not the affair of stones and pebbles. You live in the vegetable market; or at most you run a gold and silver shop. But these are matters of other realms. For these, you must bow so deeply as to almost disappear.
Therefore Jesus said: Those who lose themselves will be saved. Those who try to save themselves will be lost.
Saving oneself is foolishness. Then you become a ladle.
The world in which you live — you have taken it for your home. The Sadguru says, it is an inn.
Yeh duniya ek sara hai — this world is an inn; in the end it must be left.
If you stopped here for two or four days, what sort of stopping is that?
But your entire worldview, your manner of seeing, takes this world to be all. All your everything is between birth and death. The Sadguru’s everything is before birth and after death. Your everything is between birth and death. These little inns where you tarry for two days — what is this tarrying? — there lies your everything. The language of the inn is your only language. You have no feel for the Eternal.
And the Sadguru speaks of your being before you were born — and of you when death will have happened and yet you will be — of the Sanatan, the Eternal dharma, the nectar. You stand soaked in death. Death is your only identity. You do not know life — then how will you know the Sadguru, who is Great Life? You will remain like a ladle.
'If a fool remains all his life with the Sadguru, he still does not know dharma, just as a ladle does not know the taste of the broth.'
In the Sadguru there is death and there is nectar. Death, because there is a body like yours. And nectar, because the Atman — of which you have no knowledge — is there manifest in its thousand colors. The rainbow of that Atman touches the shores of the infinite. The Sadguru is like you — and other than you too.
'In a single cup are mingled drunkenness and wakefulness; to the head it is confusion, to the heart it is awakening.'
If you try to understand only with the head, you will return from the Sadguru even more stupefied.
To the head it is confusion; to the heart it is awakening.
For the heart, it is awareness, it is a coming to. If you go to the Sadguru with your head, carry only the head, allow only the head to come and go — keep the head open and keep the heart closed — you will return filled with even more confusion; even more unconscious. You will return even more a pundit. You were already quite knowing; your knowledge will be increased a little. You were already quite clever; you will become more so. Going to the Sadguru you will collect a few more informations. You will collect data. Your scriptural knowledge will increase somewhat. You will become more efficient. Your skull will grow a little heavier. A few more stones will gather in your boat. Another rock will hang from your neck. Drowning will become easier; crossing more difficult. Has anyone ever crossed with the scriptures on his head? Have you heard of a pundit attaining Moksha?
By pundit I mean one whose head is heavy. Not the pundit in Buddha’s sense. In Buddha’s time 'pundit' was not corrupted. It meant: wise, awakened. The same meaning as Buddha.
Now 'pundit' means one who has gathered borrowed leftovers. He has collected garbage from here and there. He has piled up a heap of rubbish-wealth and sits upon it. Has anyone crossed with the borrowed? Cash is needed — experience.
If you are a pundit, you are like a glazed pot. The rains fall — but they do not touch you. Everything flows off.
'In a single cup are mingled drunkenness and wakefulness; to the head it is confusion, to the heart it is awakening.'
From where do you receive — this is decisive. You listen to me — from where do you listen? Do you listen from the head, from the brain, through thoughts? Or without thought — in meditation, with love? Do you open the door of trust for me, or the door of thought?
Look within. Both windows are possible. And the taste of both is different. If you listen from the head, little by little you will become informed. If you listen from the heart, little by little you will be filled more and more with the sense of your ignorance. You will become humble. You will know — I know nothing. You will fall silent, become quiet. You will be left dumbfounded. You will pause. And in that very pause, understanding is born. Not in cleverness — in the awareness of not-knowing, understanding is born.
In recent years many kinds of people have come near me. Slowly I learned that if I have to satisfy those who relate with the head, then those who have come to me by the heart will wither. If I pour for those who have staked their heart, those who came by the head will move away. Not only move away — they will be annoyed. It is impossible to satisfy both together. I tried much to hold both. Perhaps the one who is full of head today may bend tomorrow. But it seemed impossible. The ladle — however long it remains in the broth — will not taste. Then I had to drop caring about them. Even today there is compassion in me for them. But if they have no compassion for themselves, what can my compassion do?
Kitne kaanton ki bad-dua li hai
chand kalion ki zindagi ke liye
How many thorns’ curses I have taken — for the sake of the life of a few buds.
They are annoyed, in opposition. A thousand kinds of criticism and condemnation arise in their minds. I can understand their annoyance. But it felt like a bargain.
Kitne kaanton ki bad-dua li hai
chand kalion ki zindagi ke liye
It felt worth doing. If even one bud blossoms and a thousand thorns keep abusing, what difference does it make? No harm. One thing is certain — thorns would never have blossomed. Yes, giving them more attention, perhaps this bud would not have blossomed.
Now my relationship is only with those who dare to stake their heart — gamblers. I have no relationship with shopkeepers. Therefore I have made such arrangements that those kinds of people find no convenience to come. Because if they come, time is unnecessarily wasted; energy and time are wasted in vain. And nothing will happen to them — unless they come to learn.
I have no eagerness now for students, only for disciples. The difference is this: the student comes to take knowledge, the disciple to take life. The student is satisfied if his information increases somewhat, if his wealth of understanding grows a little. The disciple comes to efface himself. He comes for a new birth. He comes prepared to die and be reborn. He accepts the challenge of the Sadguru. The disciple comes for Satsang; the student comes to be educated.
People come to me and say, If we do not take sannyas, will we not receive your prasad? I tell them: as for my giving, my prasad will be there — but you will not be able to receive it. The question is not of my giving, but of your receiving.
Sannyas is only a gesture, a signal that you are ready — ready to go mad with me, ready to walk with me even if the whole world goes against me. Sannyas is the declaration of your love. It is the news that, against the whole world, you choose me.
I am ready to give even to those who are not sannyasins. But they are not ready to receive. They want to take, but with one condition — they want to remain as they are and yet they want to take. Then the connection will be with the head, not the heart.
'If the discerning man stays even a moment with the learned, he immediately knows dharma, just as the tongue knows the taste of the broth.'
Buddha’s words are simple — the ladle and the tongue. The discerning man, if even for a muhurt — for a moment — he sits in Satsang, near the Sadguru, he immediately knows dharma — immediately! Instantly! Just as the tongue knows the taste of the broth.
khippam dhammam vijanati, jihva suparasam yatha.
What is the special quality of the tongue? The disciple has something of the same quality. First, the difference between tongue and ladle. The ladle is dead; the tongue is alive. The intellect is dead; the heart is alive. Therefore, the intellect will soon become a machine — it is a machine. Hence computers are built. And soon, no more will we take work from the human brain. No need. Better machines will be there, with fewer errors.
I have heard that with one great computer — the largest now on Earth — one morning the scientists were astonished at the conclusion it spewed out. They were dumbfounded. One of the scientists said: To make this sort of mistake, two thousand scientists would have to work for five thousand years — only then could such a mistake happen! Such a mistake!
Little by little, the intellect is arriving at the computer. Man errs; the computer will not. And if it does, it will err in such a way that man would hardly manage in thousands of years — almost impossible; otherwise it will not err.
Soon there will be pocket computers you can carry, so you need not carry such a load in your head. You can ask the computer: in such-and-such Upanishad, on such-and-such page, what is there? It will answer immediately. What need to memorize? Even now this is what you do. Whom you call a pundit is a computer. He has memorized. He has crammed. Cramming a machine can do.
The brain is dead, because it relates entirely to the past. What has gone, what has been known — that is all stored in the brain. What is not known, what has not yet happened — of that there is no imprint in the brain. The heart beats for the future. The brain beats for the past. The brain looks backward; the heart looks forward — to what is to be. The heart is open to the future. The brain looks back, like the rear-view mirror in a car. The road that has passed, through which you have gone, the dust that is settling — those scenes keep appearing.
The brain is an aggregate of the past — hence dead. The past is the dead — what is no more; gone, finished. The past is a graveyard. The brain too is a graveyard. Corpses upon corpses of facts lie there — once they were alive and throbbing; now they are not.
So you can relate to the Sadguru in two ways. Either like a ladle — dead. Once it too was alive in a tree. When rains came, there was a vibration within it. When birds sang, their melody resonated in it. When sunlight came, rays awakened it from sleep. Once it lived in a tree. Now it does not. It is broken off from the tree.
When you were a small child, your brain too was alive. It moved like a shadow with your heart. It was a limb of your larger being. Slowly it separated. Slowly it was taught to be separate. You were told not to let love and hate interfere with thinking. Not to let sensitivity, not to let feeling intrude. They tried to make you a pure thinker. The brain was cut off. Slowly the brain began to move within itself. It ceased to relate to your totality. It became a broken fragment.
Think — what relation does your brain have with you? It goes on by itself. You want to sleep; it goes on. You say, Brother, be quiet. It does not listen. It keeps moving. Is this your brain?
Think a little: you want to sit, but your legs keep walking. Will you call them your legs? You will say: I want to sit, but the legs do not listen and keep walking — how will you call these legs yours?
You want to stop, and the tongue goes on talking. You shout: I want to stop — and the tongue does not. Will you call this tongue yours? Yours is that over which you have ownership.
What ownership have you over the brain? None at all. At night, tired and tangled from the day, you want rest — and the brain keeps its rhythm, weaves its web. It hums its tune. Whether you sleep or not, it keeps accounts. You fall asleep, still it spins dreams. It moves utterly apart from you. You have no control left.
If ownership were there, the brain would remain alive. Then it would be a limb of your wholeness. It would move with you, sit with you, rise with you. Now it is separate — fragmented. You are one side; the brain is another.
Meditation means only this: the brain again begins to move with the flow of your blood, to throb with the rhythm of your heart. It becomes one with your sensitivities, with your feelings, with your love; not separate, not isolated. It becomes a living limb of your totality. Then you become the master.
The disciple is like the tongue — a living limb. The ladle is dead. How can the dead experience? Buddha chose the metaphor well.
'If the discerning stays even a moment with the learned, he immediately knows dharma, just as the tongue knows the taste of the broth.'
A moment, a single instant! For these experiences we speak of here are not of time. They are timeless. They do not take time. They take understanding — not time. They need awareness; time is not the question. It is not that if you stay with the enlightened for a thousand years, you will learn more. The one who can learn will learn in a moment. The one who cannot will miss for a thousand years. The real question is not time; it is awareness.
Have you noticed — some things are understood by awareness. The house catches fire — you leap and run out. Not even a moment you wait. You do not say, Let me understand — who set it? How did it start? Has it really caught or is it just maya, a dream? Even if it has, there are a thousand urgent tasks — let me finish them first.
No — all tasks stop. Nor do you say, Let me go and ask a Master how to get out. You do not consult scriptures to see whether there is a prescribed method for what to do when the house is on fire. You do not worry about clothes. You do not stand before the mirror to adorn yourself. All etiquette, all civilities drop. If you were naked in the bath, you run naked. You forget you are naked. The intensity, the awareness of fire, is enough.
When you go to the enlightened — if ever you get the opportunity — go with urgency, with intensity, with awareness. In a single instant the happening can happen. It is not a question of sitting with the saint for life after life — that only then awareness will come. The fear is: if urgency is not within you, if intensity is not there, it may never come. Thousands of years may pass; dust will go on gathering upon you. Your mirror will grow ever dull.
'For the discerning, within a moment...'
If there is even a little awareness, a little understanding, a slight taste from life — revolution happens in a single instant.
'...he immediately knows dharma, just as the tongue knows the taste of the broth.'
Yesterday I was reading a song. The poet wrote it for the beloved. He does not know of that greater love. But the words are important; they can serve the seeker of God as well.
'Last night, in my heart your lost memory returned —
like quietly in a wasteland spring should come;
like softly in the desert a dawn-breeze should move;
like, to the sick man, for no reason, solace should arrive.'
It happens in a single moment — your lost memory returned. Near the enlightened, no one else’s memory returns — your own lost memory does. Standing before the enlightened is to stand before a mirror. If you had never seen a mirror, you would have no news of your face. Standing before the master as before a mirror — suddenly your face is recognized. Never known before — and instantly remembered. And this remembering —
like quietly in a wasteland spring should come —
without even a footfall
quietly into the desert spring should come;
like softly in the desert a dawn-breeze should move;
where in the desert, what question of a cool morning breeze — suddenly... suddenly, causelessly, a cool gust arrives.
What you call life today is a desert. What you call life is a wasteland. What you call life — in it you have known only autumn, not spring. You have known the burning blaze of noon, not the cool breeze of dawn.
Like quietly in a wasteland spring should come,
like softly in the desert a dawn-breeze should move,
like, to the sick man, for no reason, solace should arrive.
Like a man ill in bed, and without cause he sits up suddenly. Suddenly a wave of health arrives — for no reason solace comes.
What happens in Satsang is causeless. It has no reason. Because you were not at all prepared. You had never dreamed that in your desert suddenly, silently, cool winds would arrive. You had never imagined that into your autumn, spring would descend without sound, without footfall. You never thought it.
You had almost become reconciled. You had almost accepted that this is life — this only is life. You had accepted life’s dryness — flowerless, fruitless. You had accepted that this crawl is life. You had accepted that this futile running and bustle is life.
But near a Sadguru, suddenly you remember: what you called life was not even the beginning of life. It was not even the preface. Not even the ABC of life. What you took as life was the hidden form of death. Mistake happened. You lived in delusion.
This happens in a single instant. As if someone shakes you awake from sleep — eyes open. That is Satsang. But only if you are sensitive. If you are sensitive like the tongue, it can happen.
Why have people become so hard? Why have they become ladles? They harbor a false belief — that in hardness is security. People think: if I am not hard I will be unsafe. Everyone will suppress me. Everyone will sit on my chest. So people became hard to become secure. The reality is just the opposite.
Have you ever noticed? Teeth are hard — slowly they fall. The tongue is not hard — it never falls. It remains till the end. So soft is the tongue — and it dwells among thirty-two hard teeth. Teeth come and go; the tongue is safe.
In sensitivity is security — because in sensitivity is life. Do not be afraid of being sensitive. Do not harden yourself; do not stiffen — for in that very stiffness lies insecurity. You begin to die. In death there is no security. In being more alive there is security.
To come to the Sadguru is an uprising, a revolution.
Like, to the sick man, for no reason, solace should arrive —
suddenly what you had taken to be right until now is wrong. Suddenly, what you had taken as the way becomes a misguiding. Suddenly, what you had taken as life — your grip on it loosens altogether.
Dil bhi ghulaam, dil ki tamannaayein bhi ghulaam —
yoon zindagi hui bhi to kya zindagi hui.
A heart enslaved, and the heart’s longings enslaved —
thus even if life happened, what life was it?
Seeing a Sadguru, for the first time this thought arises. Seeing a master, for the first time you realize you lived in slavery.
Diogenes was once captured by bandits and taken to market to be sold. In those days there were slaves and slaves were sold. Diogenes was made to stand on a platform for auction. A magnificent man — naked — his grandeur a sight! Great rich men had come to buy slaves. But on none of their faces was such grandeur, such dignity. They looked ashamed standing before this slave.
And as the auctioneer was about to begin, Diogenes looked around. He stood on that platform as if he were an emperor. He said, Stop! Who is that man standing there? The auctioneer said, He is the richest man of this city. Diogenes said, This slave needs that master. Sell me into his hands. This slave needs me as his master.
Dil bhi ghulaam, dil ki tamannaayein bhi ghulaam —
yoon zindagi hui bhi to kya zindagi hui.
For the first time, all your past shatters with a ring — as if a mirror has fallen to the ground and has been smashed into fragments.
Meeting the Sadguru is a fortunate accident. After it you can never be the same. Gather as you may those broken pieces of glass — your old picture will not assemble again. Now you will have to become new. But this happens only to the sensitive. They alone become available to discipleship.
'Foolish dull-minded people, becoming their own enemies, wander doing sinful acts whose fruits are bitter.'
charanti bala dummedha, amitteneva attana.
Those dull-minded fools — who come to the Sadguru and pass as if nothing has happened, who come to the wise and are deprived of even a glimpse of wisdom, who have made themselves so hard that they are nearly dead — such dull-minded fools are their own enemies. No one else is harming them. Their own stupidity has become the noose around their necks.
'Becoming their own enemies they wander doing sinful acts, whose fruits are bitter.'
Buddha has said again and again: doing sin is not merely foolishness — it is self-murder. Not a mere mistake — destruction. When you sin, other masters have told you sin is bad because it hurts others. Buddha said sin is bad because in sin you place the noose upon your own throat. It has nothing to do with the other. Whether the other is hurt or not is secondary. Sinning, you cast yourself into the fire. You carry yourself to the funeral pyre.
'Foolish dull minds are their own enemies.'
Buddha said, You are your own friend — if you live sensitively, with understanding. You are your own enemy — if you live dull, foolish, hard. If you live in unawareness, there is no greater enemy of you than you. If you live in awareness, there is no greater friend of you than you.
Whoever commits sin — no one gives him punishment for sinning. He goes far from the eternal law of life. That very distance brings suffering. The farther he moves from the eternal law, the more warmth is lost, life grows hot, flames seize him. Whoever turns away from the eternal law is sowing thorns with his own hands upon his own path. No other punishment-giver exists. There is no other controller.
That supreme law of life — which Buddha calls Dhamma — to be near it is happiness, to be far from it is misery. To become one with it is great bliss. To be very far from it is great suffering. Hell means distance from the supreme law; heaven means nearness.
Boo-e-gul, naala-e-dil, dūde-chirāg-e-mehfil —
jo teri bazm se nikla so pareshaan nikla.
The poet speaks of the beloved: whoever leaves your assembly, by going far from you, becomes troubled. Leave men aside — even the fragrance of the flower, if it leaves your assembly, becomes distressed. The heart’s sigh, if it leaves your assembly, becomes distressed. Leave all else — even the smoke of your assembly’s lamp, when it goes out, appears wavering and distressed.
Boo-e-gul, naala-e-dil, dūde-chirāg-e-mehfil —
jo teri bazm se nikla so pareshaan nikla.
This is the truth of the arrangement of dharma. Whoever goes far from there, whoever goes out from there, becomes troubled. Those who leave that law suffer. No one gives them pain; by their leaving they suffer.
If there is pain in your life, do not cast blame upon anyone; do not complain. Know only this much: somewhere you are going far from life’s law; you are going far from God’s assembly. Return!
Pain is a signal, and pain is a friend, a helper. It tells you — you are going far. Pain is the thermometer. It brings news: you are moving away; come back near. Whenever there is sorrow, examine your life again and again. Whenever there is sorrow, diagnose your life again and again; analyze again and again. Surely somewhere your feet have stepped wrong. You have gone far from the temple.
Poets sometimes say things very sweetly. They do not say them in awareness much — for if they did, they would become seers. They say them in unawareness. But poets sometimes, even in unawareness, get glimpses of the supreme truth. This is the difference between poet and seer. The seer speaks in awareness; the poet speaks in unawareness. The seer speaks from having arrived; the poet gets a distant glimpse in dreams. The poet is a dream-seer; the seer is a truth-seer.
Ye masa’il-e-tasawwuf, ye tera bayan, Ghalib —
tujhe hum wali samajhte jo na baadakhwar hota.
These matters of mysticism —
this wondrous way you speak, that the Vedas might grow jealous —
this Sufi talk, this intoxication —
and your manner of saying it, Ghalib, that the Upanishads would blush —
we would have taken you for a saint, had you not been a wine-drinker.
If only he had not drunk, people would have taken him for a siddha. The words were right, the words precious — just the smell of wine — that was all.
When a poet comes into awareness, he becomes a seer. Yet the poets’ utterances can help you. The seer is very far from you. The poet stands between you and the seer. As unconscious as you — but not as without dreams as you. Not as full of awareness as the seers — yet what the seers saw with open eyes, he sees in dreams with closed eyes. The poet is a link.
Ye masa’il-e-tasawwuf, ye tera bayan, Ghalib —
tujhe hum wali samajhte jo na baadakhwar hota.
Therefore sometimes, to understand the seers, climbing the steps of poets is useful. But do not stop there. It is not a place to halt. Pass over, climb, use it.
'Dull fools live as their own enemies. Wandering, they do sinful acts whose fruit is bitter.'
Sin is bitter at the beginning, in the middle, and at the end. Merit is sweet at the beginning, in the middle, and at the end. If you truly wish to taste the meaning of life, the sap of life — merit is the only way. Merit is the key to the gate of heaven. Sin is the key to the gate of hell.
If you find hell in your life, do not blame fate. Do not say society is at fault. Do not say, The world’s circumstances are like this, other people oppress. If you say such things, you will never hold the key to heaven in your hands. Your analysis has gone wrong. Say only this much: somewhere I am moving away from life’s law.
Jo teri bazm se nikla so pareshaan nikla —
then search where you are straying from life’s law. If through anger there is suffering in your life, become aware of anger, so that the energy of anger turns into compassion. If through greed there is suffering, become aware of greed so that the energy invested in greed becomes charity. If through hatred there is suffering, become aware of hatred so that the energy bound in hatred is released and becomes love.
What we have called sin are nothing but roads that take you far from life. What we call merit — they are the means to find your way back home.
Whenever a bitter taste fills your mouth, whenever bitterness spreads — know that the time has come to do something in life. Something must change. Do not delay. For delay has a danger. Slowly the bitterness will seem less. If you go on lying day after day, the bitterness you felt the first day will not be there the second day. The third day, less still. Slowly you become habituated. The bitterness vanishes. It may even be that you begin to feel sweetness. Then your misfortune is sealed. The seal has been set. Now it will be difficult to open it.
So whenever, in doing any act, the first bitterness arises — instantly know sin is happening. Bitterness is the indicator. The thorn of bitterness is telling you, moment to moment, what is happening and where. Whenever sweetness arises, know that some merit has happened. Repeat merit, so that merit becomes your habit. Do not repeat sin, so that sin never becomes your habit.
Then slowly you will find you have discovered within yourself that friend of well-being who will take you toward supreme bliss. Otherwise you remain in the hands of your own enemy.
Enough for today.