Es Dhammo Sanantano #55

First thing, what is past is past. What has happened can neither be made un-happen, nor is there any need to waste time trying to undo it. Do not weep for the past; pray for the future.

Do not repent the past, because the time lost in repentance too never returns. That time is gone. Nothing can be done. What is gone is gone. Now don’t repent; the time lost in repenting will also be wasted. First time goes in futile acts, then time goes in repenting those futile acts. The principal is gone, and now you are also squandering useless interest.

So first remember: repenting the past is unintelligent. The very meaning of “past” is that it has slipped out of our hands—the arrow has left the bow. You cannot return it to the quiver. But there is no cause for worry. This worry too is the same mind’s web that squandered the past; now that very mind, becoming anxious, will waste the present. Then one day in the future, when the future becomes the present, you will repent for your repenting. It is such a vicious circle—an evil circle—in which one keeps getting more and more entangled.

Understand this well, all of you; it is not for one person alone. Questions may differ, but on this point everyone’s question is the same. Everyone repents the past. Someone squandered it in lust, so he repents. Someone squandered it in anger, so he repents. Someone in greed, so he repents. Everyone repents the past. And there is no greater stupidity. Nothing can be done. If you could not be awake yesterday, you slept; let that worry go. You can no longer awaken in the yesterday that has passed. Awaken today. Today is the only beginning.

However late it is, it is never so late that life cannot be transformed. If even this much understanding remains—that “I wasted my past”—that is enough understanding. If even a single ray remains, the sun can be sought. If one seed remains, an entire garden can be created.

And no one ever loses so much that he loses everything. In fact he cannot. Because the treasure is our intrinsic nature. However much we waste, we only create difficulty in returning to ourselves; the self itself is not destroyed. However much time we waste, the self is not wasted. You can return even today. You can set out on the inner journey even today. There will be a little hindrance.

What I said yesterday was not to depress you, but to make you alert. This is the human entanglement: even what is said to untangle ends up creating a new tangle. What I said yesterday was not to make you sad. Not so that you repent the past. I said it because already much delay has occurred—now don’t delay further. Whenever you awaken, it is morning.

If childhood had been spent in brahmacharya—celibacy—then the inner journey would have been smooth; no pebbles on the path, flowers would be spread. The path is still there even now. The flowers are not. It will be a bit thorny now, a few stones, some rough patches—that’s all the difference. Where the travel could have been easy, it will be a little arduous. Where you could have reached in a moment, it will take a little longer. There will be a bit of tapas—discipline, heat—a few difficulties. You will pant a little, sweat a little. You went far down; now you must climb. Had there been brahmacharya, you would not have descended—you would have remained on the peak. Then it would have been walking on a plain. You have descended into ditches and ravines; now you must climb. That’s all. Do not repent. Put that energy into austerity, into the climb.

And do not climb in sorrow and gloom. Consider it a good fortune that you have awakened even now. Many are there who still have not awakened. You descended only into a shallow pit and awakened; many have gone into deep chasms and keep descending.

Always see the affirmative aspect of life, so that you do not become dejected. Because the dejected one has stones tied to his feet. The despairing one sits down exhausted. And I know many who sat down just in front of the goal. If they only stood up, the goal was right there.

Often this happens. People cross long journeys, and then when the goal comes near, they sit down tired. Two more steps seem difficult. The long journey they complete in hope; when the goal appears in front, then they feel their fatigue and sit down. They say, “Now it is near, now we will reach anyway. We can even nap sitting down!” But the goal is such—it is dynamic—you sit, the goal will not sit. The goal runs. When you open your eyes later, you may find the goal no longer in front. In some moment it was. In one state of feeling it was near; in another state it will not be.

The goal is not a fixed thing, not an object; it is a blossoming of feeling. In moments of love, of prayer, it is near. When love is lost, prayer is lost, it goes far. Nearness and distance depend on the states of your mind. When the mind is not at all, you are within the goal itself—you are within the house, within the temple.

What is gone is gone. There is no cause for concern. Everyone has wasted time; you are not alone. Everyone has wandered; you are not alone. Perhaps wandering too was necessary. Perhaps that very wandering has brought you to me. This is what I mean by seeing life in an affirmative way.

Some days ago a drunkard came. He said, “I am ruined drinking. Now I cannot even leave it. It has become such a deep habit—not only of the mind, but of the body. If I stop, I feel restlessness in the body. Even my doctor says it won’t be easy to quit—it has become a bodily need. I wasted my life!” He began to weep and beat his head.

I said, “Look at it another way too. Many are not drunkards and have not come to me. Perhaps your wine brought you to me. Thank the wine as well. See life toward the auspicious. Sometimes the path to the temple passes through the tavern. Sometimes one living next to the temple misses it, and the one coming from the tavern reaches. Like falling is sometimes necessary to rise, losing is necessary to gain—otherwise one never knows what it is to gain.”

That is why we lose childhood. When we reclaim childhood again—consciously, we search for it, we recreate it—then we understand that good fortune. Everyone has been a child. But who has known that good fortune? We squandered it. Jesus says, “Those who are like children are the heirs to my Father’s kingdom.” And we all were children. But when we were children, we had no idea that we were heirs to the kingdom! We were inside the kingdom—how could we know?

A fish comes to know the lake when the fisherman hauls her up in a net and throws her on the sand. Then she flutters. She cries and wails. Then she says, “Alas! I never knew till now that I was in the lake!” To know the lake, it is necessary to writhe on the sand. That’s the arithmetic of life.

So do not panic. What happened, happened. Enough writhing on the sand. If you still have enough life left that you can feel the throbbing, the lake is not far. It is somewhere close by. How far can sand be from the water? The sand is right next to the water. The sand is at the very edge of the water.

If you are throbbing, let that throb become your leap. Jump. Many times it happens that a fish, leaping suddenly on the sand, reaches back into the water. She does not even know the way. Where to go? The throbbing is so intense that the eyes go blind, the intellect becomes hazy—but the throbbing itself takes her. It has always taken her. Ask the devotees! They say, “The one who throbbed, he found. The one who cried, received.” Weep to your heart’s content; tears will wash you. But see life in an affirmative way.

It walks on, but whether it will reach the goal is uncertain.
Even acting, if this traveler remains deprived of the fruit,
the world will laugh at him—how much he forgot, how much he strayed—
but let him sing these two lines and he will gather patience:
Why this chant of “wasted life, wasted life”?
Two eyes stand waiting for me.

This is shraddha—trust—that the Divine is waiting for you. However far you have gone, truth waits for you. You are not the only one searching; God too searches for you in the dark. Jesus said: In the evening, as the sun sets, the shepherd gathers and tends his flock. Suddenly he finds one has gone astray. He leaves all the rest there and goes in search of the one. In that dark night he leaves them helpless and departs in search of the one who has wandered. And when he finds her, he places her on his shoulders and returns.

Well said, knowingly said—Jesus knows what he’s saying.

But let him sing these two lines and he will gather patience:
Why this chant of “wasted life, wasted life”?
Two eyes stand waiting for me.

What is gone is gone. If it was futile, so be it. But someone awaits you. You are not the only one seeking—God too seeks. If only you were seeking and he were not, meeting could never happen. Has meeting ever been one-sided? A clap happens with two hands. If you alone were clapping and God’s hand was not eager, there would be no clap. The clap has sounded many times. His hand too is eager, just as much as yours.

The path of life challenges at every step.
Nowhere does the final goal become visible.
Laden with dust, drenched in sweat, the body has grown heavy—
what faith is this that keeps pulling me onward?
What of the path, what of the path’s fatigue, what of the beads of sweat?
Two eyes stand waiting for me.

Do not look at the dust that has piled on the road. Do not count the thorns you found. Lift your gaze—
Two eyes stand waiting for me.

Speak the language of the devotee, and God is waiting for you. Speak the language of the knower, and truth is eager to unveil itself—like a bride eager for the groom to arrive and lift her veil. Truth is eager. Do not panic. Do not keep accounts of mistakes and slips. God is not stingy, not miserly. However much the pundits and priests have told you he keeps account of your sins, I tell you, he cannot keep such accounts. If God sits counting sins, it becomes a kind of shopkeeping. However much you stray and err, go into darkness, his hand keeps seeking you. Therefore hold to the affirmative vision.

First thing, what happened happened. Understand it as having seen a nightmare of sorrow. Your life is nothing more than that. Brahmacharya too is a sweet dream. Even celibacy is a sweet dream! Of course, if the night is filled with sweet dreams, in the morning you rise smiling a bit more. That’s all the difference. If the night is full of nightmares—demons riding your chest, thrown from cliffs, battered against rocks, someone placing the Himalayas on your chest—you wake up in the morning a little disturbed.

But how long does the disturbance last? After all, it too is a dream. A nightmare, yes, but a dream nonetheless. And the freshness, the fragrance from sweet dreams—how long does that last? In a while both are gone. Awaken. Celibacy and debauchery both happen in sleep. It may be that, since you were to dream anyway, it would have been good to have sweet dreams; but if you could not, let it be. Dreams are dreams.

Now see the mind’s entanglement: when I say dreams are dreams, then those who want to indulge will say, “Ah! Even now it isn’t too late; if both are just dreams, then let’s choose debauchery. What is the point of the panchayat of brahmacharya?” Yesterday I told you, if there is celibacy, coming close to truth becomes easy. So you thought: “We have committed big sins, indulged greatly; now we are exhausted, dejected, dusty, pained and have come.” Yesterday I said, if children can be raised in celibacy, their experience of the world will be profound; in the background of celibacy, the lines of life will stand out clearly.

I did not say it to make you sad. You cannot become a child now—in this life, no. In the next, if you do not awaken, you will have to. Keep that in mind! Though in the next life you might forget, because the possibility that you will die with awareness is very small. Then your children will be there; at least keep them in mind.

But you did not think of that; you concluded that the matter is finished—“Then how will prajna, wisdom, be born now?” I never said wisdom cannot be born. It would have been easier. Now it will be a little harder. But ultimately the difference is only that between a nightmare and a sweet dream. If the night passes sweetly, you rise in the morning in a fresher way, with a certain grace. You are refreshed, clear-minded. Your body feels cleansed, bathed. The echo of that sweet dream, its shehnai, keeps playing within. There are little bells on your feet, a little music. It will be a support for the day.

If you rise from a nightmare, you wake up angry, annoyed, troubled. You rise somehow. You will haul the day like a burden. But all this is because you are unconscious. If you awaken in awareness, then both sweet dreams and nightmares are equal. You will say, “Ah, it was all dreams!” You will shake both off. You will be free of both. What is gone is gone.

“You say: ‘I earned wealth, but the beginning itself went wrong. I was six or seven when sexual desire became active. And I was born after only seven months in my mother’s womb.’”

You’ll be surprised: for children who leave the womb before nine months, scientists do not yet have a precise answer—but yogis who have entered the depths of birth and death do. Keep their answer in mind; it may help you ahead. Behind it is no longer of use—you have already arrived, whether after seven months or nine—but it may help in the future.

A person who does not want to die while dying—who fights death, struggles to save himself—comes out of the mother’s womb early. That very urge to escape death, that clutching at life, brings him out of the womb early. If at death one is calm, accepting, embracing death—embracing it fully—then one is born at the right time. No hurry. His death is calm and timely, and his birth is calm and timely.

Those who die struggling, they also take birth by struggling. And thus another event must also have occurred. To be filled with sexual desire at six or seven means that in the previous life, even up to the moment of death, lust pursued you. Many old men, even in the last hour, remain inflamed by lust. Even then they are surrounded by it. Others say “Ram-naam satya hai”—“the name of Rama is truth”—when they have died; they themselves cannot say it. For them it is kama—lust—that is truth. That tune keeps humming within. “If only I had two more days to live, I would enjoy more; I would commit a few more sins.”

A man was dying. A religious teacher was called. He said, “Now repent! This is your last-breath moment.” The man said, “I am repenting—what else am I doing?” The teacher said, “You? Repenting?” Because he was notorious—had never gone to a temple, never touched scripture, never sat in satsang. “You are repenting?” “Yes, I am,” he said. “But don’t misunderstand—I am repenting the sins I could not commit. I should have done them! Now I repent—the last hour has come, time is gone. And because of fools like you I could not commit many sins. I kept dithering—should I, shouldn’t I? Now death has come. Who will answer for this?”

People die repenting that they could not do more—earn more wealth, love another woman, attain another position. Such nonsense crowds the mind. The name of Ram does not arise; kama encircles.

So if lust clutched the mind at death, then in the next birth its seeds will sprout early. We shape our lives with our own hands. What we ask for, we get. This is the mischief here. Ask carefully. What you ask for, you will get. Because you yourself plant the seeds and then you yourself reap the harvest.

If lust remains at the moment of death, in the next life its seeds will ripen early. If at death the remembrance of Ram remained and there was no movement of lust, then in the next birth brahmacharya will be easy. The one who dies immersed in the feeling of Ram has found a great device to burn the seeds of lust. He will be able to live in celibacy for a long time.

On this basis, when someone dies, we say around the bier, “Ram-naam satya hai.” On this basis we pour Ganges water into his mouth. He could not do it himself—he drank alcohol, not the Ganges—he could not take the Name; for the dying person we recite the Gayatri at his ear, chant mantras, intone Namo-kar. For the dying one! What they had to do in life, others now do. It has become a formality.

But once it was not merely formal—and in some lives even now it is not. Then there is a coherence in it.

A man who himself, throughout life, was immersed in mantra, who experienced the music of mantras, now is dying. His own tongue has grown slack, his own lips cannot articulate; he says to another, “You chant—I wish to die in my own season. Let the last sound that falls upon my ears be my own music, my remembrance of the Beloved.”

One who kept company with the Ganga—meaning purity, chastity, virginity of life—throughout life, at death says, “Now I go. My hands have grown slack. But as I go, let the last taste on my lips be of the Ganga. For the last taste becomes the first. Let me drown in the Ganga’s memory. So that when I open my eyes again, when a new birth happens, when the bud of life opens into a flower, I come filled with the Ganga.”

Try a small experiment. Be mindful of your last thought before you sleep at night. You’ll find that upon waking in the morning, that is your first thought. Exactly that. If you fall asleep thinking of money, you will wake thinking of money. If you fall asleep weighed down by worry, you will wake in that very worry. Through the night that worry will hover around you; its breeze will blow; its atmosphere will remain. Your room will be tenanted by worry. You will sleep; worry will wrap you like a casing. It will wait: “Wake up, and I am at your service! You are unconscious now—no matter, I’ll wait.” The attachment is so strong—how can it go? Upon rising, you will find it standing at the door.

Consider this, explore it, experiment. Exactly the same applies to the vastness of life. The last thought at death becomes the first thought at birth. That is why every child is not born the same—because everyone does not die the same. Not only lives here are different; deaths too are different. Personality is so significant here. You leave your signature on death as well. You leave it on life, yes—but death too, as subtle as it is, carries your signature. Every person dies in a unique way.

A Zen fakir was dying. He asked his disciples, “Tell me, have you ever seen anyone die standing?” One said, “Haven’t seen, but heard that once a fakir died standing. Why?” He said, “I was thinking—how shall I die? The time to die has come; I should die in my own way. Everyone dies lying on a cot—is that any way? There should be my signature!”

He said, “Have you ever heard of anyone dying in a headstand?” They had neither heard nor imagined it. “In a headstand?” One cannot even sleep in a headstand, how to die? In shirshasana, blood rushes to the brain. That’s why we use a pillow at night—so less blood rises to the head and sleep comes. Without a pillow sleep won’t come, because the head would be lower than the body and blood will rush more. If you need a pillow to sleep, how will you sleep in a headstand?

But he said, “Leave that! When death comes she does not check whether I am in headstand. Sleep may not come, but death waits for no one—standing or sitting, she takes you. Come, let us try our chance—if death doesn’t come this way, man has found a trick to escape. When death comes, just go up into a headstand!”

He went into a headstand. The disciples were frightened. They say he stood, and it seemed he died. But how to bring him down from a headstand! It became quite scary. If a man dies on a cot, tie him to the bier. But he’s in a headstand—how to tie him on a bier?

They said, “Wait—doing anything would be improper. Who knows? No one has ever died this way; there is no ritual for it.” His sister lived nearby in another ashram; they called her. She was sixty. She came and said, “Listen! You created trouble all your life—now stop even after dying! Die like people die.” She gave him a shove. They say the fakir smiled, fell, and died.

If you watch carefully, you will find uniqueness even in death. Some die weeping and screaming; some die serene and silent; some hum a song. Near some you will feel there is a dance going on, a music sounding, an Om vibrating. Some faces become ugly in death, while on others you will find a beauty that was never there before. Whatever we do bears that same uniqueness, like the prints of our thumbs—each is distinct. Everything is suffused with personality.

So if at death there was absolutely no willingness to die, life was snatched from you, you wanted to hold on—you will be born early from the mother’s womb. If at death lust seized the mind, and even wanting to utter Ram’s name you could not—and note, lust seizes ninety-nine out of a hundred at death. There is a reason for this too. Consider it.

Death and sex are opposites. Birth happens through sex, and death is the end of that birth. Birth is sex. The energy sex releases in birth, in death that same energy contracts and dissolves. Naturally, sex sees death as its enemy.

That is why the lustful man does not want to grow old; he wants to remain forever young. Lustful women start shaving off years when they tell their age.

Just yesterday I read a little story. A young woman said to her mother—on her mother’s birthday—because she saw that her mother’s age did not increase; it decreased. If last year she celebrated her thirty-fifth birthday, this year she was celebrating her thirty-fourth. The daughter said, “Mother, everything else is fine, but please keep at least a nine-month difference between you and me. Otherwise it will be a great mess—what will people say?”

Women’s ages stop somewhere; then in two or three years they increase a year—very hesitantly. With great difficulty. It is the fear of old age. In the West, women do not nurse children, because nursing ages the breasts. In the West, women are not eager to become mothers: to give birth is to call death closer. Every child takes a portion of your life. At any cost, youth must remain!

Sex is frightened of old age, because when old age lifts its foot, death isn’t far. If you have to be saved, first save yourself from old age—then perhaps you can be saved from death.

In human tales you find figures who never die. They are symbols of our lust. Some Ashwatthamas never die, some Alhas and Udals do not die. Everywhere in the world there are such tales—someone who goes on living.

You too are impressed if someone says, “Such-and-such a sannyasi has come to the village—two hundred years old!” You rush and fall at his feet—amazed! What is the miracle? The miracle is that a man lived two hundred years—who knows, he may give you some herb, some amulet, some blessing, and you too may go on living. It is your fear of death that is amazed. To amaze this fear, sadhus exaggerate their ages.

Think a little: women report their ages as less; sadhus report theirs as more; but the purpose is one. Women say less, meaning “death is far away.” Sadhus say more, “We have crossed—defeated death.” Both are saying, “In some way we are far from death; death cannot touch us.” But this is the lustful one’s desire.

The previous life, the previous death, influences this birth of yours. But all that is done. I do not say this to depress you. I say it so that you do not repeat such mistakes ahead.

Arnold Toynbee wrote in a letter that studying history is necessary so people do not repeat the same mistakes.

This makes sense. People say history does not repeat, but that is possible only if history is understood rightly; only then will it not repeat. Otherwise it will, it will.

What I am saying to you is not to depress you, but to fill you with hope for the future—that now the thread is in your hands. Do not die again in that way. Do not die filled with lust. I tell you: at death lust clutches hard. You have seen: when a lamp is about to go out, it flares one last time—so bright as never before. Before death lust flares too. Death has come—what was always hidden, suppressed, hoarded, now everything is slipping from the hands, so it blazes up. In one rush it surrounds you from all sides.

The dying man, ninety-nine out of a hundred times, dies surrounded by lust. You may shout mantras, read the Gita—it will not reach him. For within he is wrapped in the quilt of lust. At the moment of dying, to save yourself from lust is very difficult! It is possible only if throughout life you have cultivated awareness toward lust, and you have understood it so well that when that last flare rises, you can laugh and say, “So—the lamp goes out now!” and remain a witness. You do not become identified.

“You say, ‘My temperament has been restless since yesterday. If I could not preserve semen, how can wisdom arise?’”

If you have survived, then your semen has also survived. About semen understand a few things. First: semen is not a fixed, finite asset. It is created daily. This is a great misunderstanding—that semen is a fixed treasure. It is not a fixed bank account—one hundred deposited, one spent, ninety-nine left; another spent, ninety-eight left. Semen is creative; it is produced daily—from your food, breath, work, rest. So there is no need to be frightened.

Do not mistake brahmacharya for miserliness—as has often happened. Misers become “brahmacharis.” That too is a kind of stinginess—neither can they spend money, nor semen. I am not telling you to become a miser. Nor are Buddha or Patanjali.

They say: before you spend, be sure you have enough—so that spending has depth. First collect; let energy become deep and dense. The denser and deeper the energy, the deeper lovemaking can go. Sometimes even one act of love can liberate. If one act is seen rightly, the matter is finished; after that it is repetition.

And note: if semen is abundant, the first lovemaking will be the deepest; the second less; the third even less. Because the first carries the wealth of twenty, twenty-five, twenty-eight years—the accumulated treasure. After that, what you will have is whatever collects day by day. Today you spent; within twenty-four hours it will be produced again. But that is the daily production—you won’t get that depth which a brahmachari gains.

So don’t think, “Semen is finished—what now?” Semen is being produced even today—daily; semen is your very life. If even now you take a few steps toward brahmacharya, your reservoir will begin to fill again. Life gives without end. Life is not stingy. Life does not say, “Enough, you erred—now you will get nothing.” Life gives you a thousand times. You err a thousand times; it gives one thousand and one. You cannot defeat life.

Don’t be afraid. The time that went is gone; let it go. Let the feeling of brahmacharya awaken in your life today. You say thirty-five years have passed—let them pass. Become a child again. You did not understand then—what could you do? There was no one to explain—what could you do? And those who do explain are upside down. Because of them celibacy does not arise; because of them it breaks sooner. The explainers are so unknowing that they create more attraction.

It is strange. There are two sorts in society. One wants to exploit everyone’s sexual desire—films, stories, novels, songs, music, the market. They exploit your lust. They are arousing it even in the smallest child. The marketplace everywhere… a sword at your neck. Knowing how deep lust is, they sell everything through it. If you want to sell a car, it won’t sell alone—a naked woman must stand by it.

I have heard: in distant America a man living in the hills received a catalogue. In America the catalogue is the Gita—people read catalogues. It is a special kind of study—what things are on sale, advertising, all that. The poor man had never seen one. He was amazed. He saw a very beautiful woman—and the price very low. He was astonished. Only three dollars! “So cheap?” He immediately placed an order.

He waited eagerly. It said, “In three weeks inquire at the post office.” He went—the parcel had arrived. He was even more surprised: it was very small. “So large a woman in such a small parcel! Wonders upon wonders! And for twenty-five rupees!”

He said to the postmaster, “I doubt that the thing I ordered is inside. This is a fraud. My twenty-five rupees will be wasted. I want to know.” The postmaster asked, “What did you order?” The man felt shy. “What’s the use hiding—I ordered a woman.”

“A woman? Where did you read that a woman comes for twenty-five rupees? And there’s no arrangement yet to send a woman by VPP! Through other ways, perhaps, even for twenty-five—but by VPP? You are quite the discoverer.” The man took out the catalogue: “See this.”

It was an advertisement for a handbag. A woman was standing with the handbag. The poor guy rightly understood that the woman must be for sale. “Why is the woman standing for a handbag? It makes sense that a handbag would come with a woman; but why would a woman come with a handbag?” The handbag had arrived.

To sell anything, place a woman next to it. It seems everything else is a pretext; it’s the woman who’s being sold. What sells is sex. On the one hand is this great bazaar arousing your lust early so more things can be sold.

On the other hand are the priests of temple, mosque, church—against it. They are so vehemently against that their opposition creates attraction. They pour one single medicine down everyone’s throat—brahmacharya, brahmacharya, brahmacharya! They talk to children about celibacy who don’t even know what lust is. Wait! And caught between these two, life is suffocated.

So I know: it is not much your fault—no crime, no sin. On one side the market; on the other the priests; and they seem in collusion—both pushing you the same way.

See:
Pleasure’s neck is severed by the world’s sword—see that sword,
and see the edge of the very blade you are kissing.
Here, every thing has a price; here, every breath is on sale—
O careless trader, before you bargain, look at this bazaar!

But what to say to children! What is their fault! They are naïve, guileless. Their slates are blank; whatever you write remains. When they are robbed, then they realize the sword they kissed has cut them. When they are robbed, they realize this market is a robber’s den, not a shopkeeper’s. But then it seems late.

I say to you: it is not late. Whenever you awaken, it is morning. Drop the worry. Do not be restless. Semen is not a fixed quantity—it is produced daily. You can gather it again. It would have been good not to have squandered before, but even now nothing is ruined. Do not be afraid. If you are aware enough to ask, “How will wisdom arise?”—then wisdom has already taken its first step. What is the first step?

You say, “That is why I am foolish and claim to know without knowing.”
If this is seen, wisdom has taken the first step.

“Even after taking sannyas I’m only escaping.”
If this is seen, how long can the feet keep running?

“I am badly afflicted with anger and ego.”
If this is seen, you have begun to separate from the diseases.

“Only skin and flesh have grown.”
Whoever understands this—the moment for wisdom to grow has come.

And it is right to feel: “My nature has tried and is exhausted, Lord! Now you do something.” Let this feeling become prayer. Let this sense of helplessness become worship. Understand the difference. Here too there can be a mistake. The feeling risen from helplessness can free you; the same feeling, arising from despair, can ruin you. Do not say, “Now you do it,” out of despair. Say it out of helplessness.

What is the difference? When you say it out of despair, you already think, “It cannot happen—but let’s try this too. Perhaps leaving it to the guru will do something; perhaps leaving it to God will do something. Though I know it cannot happen—if it didn’t happen by my efforts, how will it happen by theirs? But I am compelled—let me test this too.” If this feeling rises from despair, nothing will happen—because there is no life in it to begin with.

Helplessness is very different. Helplessness does not mean “it cannot happen.” It only means: “It cannot happen through my ego; it will happen through egolessness.” Through egolessness it will happen. It did not happen through the ego; through egolessness it certainly will. The journey of ego has been tried—now let me set the ego aside. But there is no despair. The ego has lost—but there is no final defeat.

The gems of the body are looted,
the dreams of the mind are looted,
but if I find you, life will again
line its eyes with kohl.

There is no despair. The eyes are ready; the wish to adorn them is ready. But now—not in the way I adorned them till now. That made the eyes blind, not beautiful.

The gems of the body are looted,
the dreams of the mind are looted—
understand this: all is looted, but hope is not looted.

The gems of the body are looted,
the dreams of the mind are looted—
if I find you, life will again
line its eyes with kohl.
Without you, what will I do with
the entire estate of heaven?
And now even if, without you, I am given
all the overlordship of heaven, I will not take it.
That is what I tried for all this time.

Without you, what will I do with
the entire estate of heaven?
Without you, what will I do
guarding these breaths day and night?
I am only the string; the resonance in it is yours.
Without you, what will I do with this handful
of virginal dust?
Do not bolt the door now—
open the latch, come near.
Let it not happen in this life too
that the bridal palanquin returns empty.
If I find you, life will again
line its eyes with kohl.

A prayer arisen from helplessness carries no despair. An “assistance” grabbed out of despair has no life.

Very often you come to me out of despair and say, “Now you take charge.” Meaning: “I have tried—I know nothing will happen through you either; nothing will happen through anyone. But let’s try this too—what won’t a dying man try? So this also.” In this way nothing can happen, because it has to happen within you. You have shut your door. Your despair has struck like lightning upon your inner possibilities, cut them down.

You are defeated—not by possibilities, only by ego. There has been a defeat because you wanted to make “me” win. The game is not over. Only you were walking the wrong way, therefore you lost. The defeat is not ultimate. Return. You were fighting the river—therefore you are tired. Now flow with the river. The one who flows with the river does not know fatigue. He has not recognized it. Fatigue is unknown to him. He becomes fresh; the river gives him its energy. He becomes the river’s medium.

If truly you are finished—if the ego is defeated in every way—then I am ready. But let this voice not arise from despair. Let it arise from deep hope.

What is the point of expressing pain? Whether the pain is false or true, what difference does it make! Why this urge to display it? What need is there to go around showing your wounds? Why open your wounds in the marketplace? All right, true. But what is the use of distinguishing between true and false? The purpose is the same.

I did not say to you: don’t show false wounds; if they’re real, then show them—I did not say that. Why this craving to display wounds? And if you must display wounds, are you seeking real ones merely in order to display them? Then just show false ones—why take the trouble of real wounds?

But the relish in showing is only this: through the wound you are asking for sympathy. Wanting someone to join you in your suffering is a morbid desire. Share your joy instead. Even if someone does join you in your sorrow, how long will they stay?

Just think of it this way: when someone comes to you and tells the story of their suffering—even if it is true—do you feel great delight in keeping them company? Boredom arises: when will we be rid of them, when will this gentleman leave? Is your own pain so little that you have time to listen to theirs? Who takes delight in another’s sorrow? You listen out of courtesy—that’s one thing. Or you too want to cry about your own sorrow, so you listen—that’s another: you cry first, then I’ll cry; then we’ll be even.