Es Dhammo Sanantano #59

There isn’t much to say about names. What you call me is irrelevant. What matters is: in my nearness, what do you come to understand about yourself?

Give me fine names and it will help nothing. Recognize yourself—that alone will do something. Not by praising me, but by self-remembering will anything happen. Don’t waste time in eulogies. At how many doors have you already sung praises! In how many temples and mosques have you prayed, performed namaz, bowed down! What did you gain? Your hands are still empty. Now bend within. Awaken what sleeps inside. Enter the real temple. Why be anxious about what to call me? Call me anything—or dispense with names altogether.

Seek yourself. Don’t bother about who I am—bother about who you are. Only if you know yourself will you be able to know me. In that self-knowing, a bridge between you and me is made.

But man’s gaze habitually goes outward—to the other. You have loved others, you pray to another. When will you return to yourself? All these sayings of Buddha that we are discussing are attempts to turn you back to yourself. Otherwise it often happens that the seeker first goes astray because of himself, and then, clinging to props, goes astray because of them. Any prop you clutch, you will stray. For to cling to another’s support means you want to avoid waking up. You want to shift it onto someone else. The treasure of life is not such that another can hand it to you.

That’s why Buddha says again and again: no one else can awaken you; you have to awaken yourself. You have learned to get work done by others. But there is one work that cannot be outsourced: self-awakening, the direct seeing of truth. Otherwise you will keep changing doors. At one door you won’t find it and will think, “There’s nothing here.”

People come to me. An elderly gentleman came: “I was in Sivananda’s ashram—found nothing. Then in Aurobindo’s—found nothing. Then in Sri Raman’s—found nothing. Now I have come to your feet.” I said, “Go quickly—before you again find nothing. Hurry before you have to report elsewhere, ‘I went there too—found nothing.’ You speak as if Sivananda were to blame that you found nothing; as if Aurobindo were at fault that you found nothing. What were you hoping for—that someone would simply hand you Truth? Is Truth an object? Something outside to be given? ‘I went to Raman’s ashram—found nothing.’ What are you really saying? You are implying all these places are futile, mere pretension. Look to yourself. You went to so many places, wandered along so many ghats, and remained thirsty. Look to yourself. Perhaps you never learned how to drink.”

Reaching a lake doesn’t quench thirst by itself. There’s a proverb: you can take the horse to the river, but you cannot make it drink. You can show it the river; if there is thirst, it will drink. If not, it will turn back. So those who tend horses have a saying: “Go and show the horse the water.” No one says, “Go and make it drink.” Who can make it drink? Show it. If it is thirsty, it will drink. You have seen water in so many places and you didn’t drink. Your thirst itself seems suspect. Or else your search was misguided—you thought it was someone else’s responsibility.

Make it clear with me: I have no responsibility. You must attain. You can take the benefit of my presence, but there is no need to sing my praises. Praise will not help—only waste your time. The Divine is hidden within. What use is it to you what you call me? Call me Prabhu, Vibhu, Shambhu—call me what you will; or don’t call me at all. The Lord is hidden within. Look at my pointers. Don’t concern yourself with me. See what I am saying, what I am pointing toward. By following behind me you won’t become my follower; by descending within yourself, you are my follower. And then the very word “follower” loses meaning. All these gestures are toward you. Lest the day come when you have to weep and say—

Our stride was keen, the goal was close,
yet we could not win release from the guide.

Your legs had strength. You had the capacity to walk. Your stride was keen, the goal was near—and the goal stood right before you. But the trouble became this: we could not get free of the guide. Let not the guru become a wall instead of a door. You are not to stop at me. What madness is this—“For three times I will keep bowing to you alone”? You’ll put me in a fix too. Three times—think a little! Will you keep me stuck too? If you bow for three times, I’d have to stand there as well. This is how you made gods of stone. For a living god will not stand there for all three times for your calisthenics. So you carved stone idols. They have nothing to do with God. You just enjoy the act of prostrating and rising. So keep rising, keep bowing.

Why bring up “the three times” at all? It seems you cannot bow in this very moment. Then even three times will not be enough. For bowing has nothing to do with the length of time; it has to do with depth of awareness. Not the length but the depth of the moment. It can happen in a single instant, in a flash—between two moments, in that tiny interval. Bowing is a feeling.

Three times! You think you are saying something lofty. You are really saying: it is not happening now; nor am I sure it will happen in the next moment—today it isn’t happening, tomorrow is not certain; give me the span of three times and maybe then!

If bowing is to happen, bow now. And bowing is not a bodily action. Bowing is an inner state. Nor is bowing toward someone. Bowing “toward someone” is not real bowing. Bowing is understanding. If it is toward someone, there will be a reason. Bow for a reason and you have not truly bowed.

Try to understand. Someone has great wealth—you bow. That only shows your craving for wealth: what you could not achieve, this man has; you bow for the chance to fulfill your own desire. Someone sits on a high seat—you bow. It’s your own disease within. You too wanted to sit on the throne and could not; this person did, so he seems worthy of bowing. You see someone with great knowledge—you bow; with great renunciation—you bow. But whenever you bowed, you bowed for a reason.

One who bows for a reason has not bowed. For if you were to obtain the same wealth, you would no longer bow before that man. If you were to get the same rank—or a higher one—you would no longer bow: “Now there is no reason.” If you were to have that knowledge, that renunciation, you would no longer bow: “Now there is no purpose.”

So I say to you: even then you had not bowed. The ego had not fallen. Even in that bowing, ego protected itself. It fashioned ornaments out of bowing. Bow without reason. Then it’s not a question of bowing to me. Bow to a stranger on the road, to trees, to stones—even to those who have nothing to give, nothing to be. No wealth, no rank, no prestige, no knowledge, no renunciation, no Buddhahood—nothing at all. Yet you bow—because you have come to relish bowing itself. Now you are not bowing out of cause, you are bowing out of flavor. Bowing itself has become the end, not a means. Then no moment will come when you will be found unbowed. You have learned the inner art of bowing; the outer causes have fallen away.

Therefore do not make bowing “toward someone.” If bowing is to be, that is enough. Otherwise you will bow before a temple and stiffen before a mosque. Is that bowing? You will bow before me and puff up before someone else—you will take your revenge somewhere.

That is why the one who bows before the temple stiffens before the mosque. He is saying, “Enough of bowing and bowing—now here at least let me swagger.” The one who bows in the mosque stiffens before the temple. Do you take revenge on the temple for the mosque? If you were truly bowed, what temple? what mosque? what gurdwara? You would simply be bowed.

Arsh has famous lines:
“Now, for prayer, my hands no longer rise;
the heart seems lost in surrender and consent.”

So absorbed in worship that one forgets even to raise the hands. You don’t remember to bow—you are bowed. So immersed in devotion!

“Now, for prayer, my hands no longer rise;
the heart seems lost in surrender and consent.”

The temperament is so drowned in worship, in prayer: who remembers when to raise hands, when to offer flowers, when to mark the forehead? Bowed is bowed.

Bowing is not an outer affair. It is inner—an inward mood. You ask to bow for three times. You will be in trouble, and you’ll put me in trouble too. If you must bow, bow—just spare me!

“Because I may bow at your feet continuously.”
What is the fear? Why make it “continuous”? Is this moment not enough? Settle this moment within itself. The next moment will care for itself. Why keep accounts of tomorrow? Surely your today is poor. Talk of tomorrow arises only when today is not joyous.

Look into this. When one is happy, filled with bliss, one does not bring up tomorrow. Nor the yesterday. Both drop from view. Today is so full, so many lotuses have bloomed within, such dance has arisen—who worries whether there was a yesterday, whether there will be a tomorrow! Today’s being is so deep, so complete, so satisfying—who cares!

In sorrow we recall yesterday and tomorrow: yesterday—because it seems there were joys that are gone; tomorrow—because you console yourself, “No matter, if not today then tomorrow.” These are the thought-patterns of misery.

Look within: in moments of joy, time disappears; in moments of sorrow, time grows dense.

“Continuously!” Why do you ask this? Is this moment not sufficient? Is today’s meeting not enough? Is your heart not filled by simply being with me now? Then you are missing me somewhere—for I am wholly, fully available—here. There is no stinginess on my side. You are holding back your vessel. I am showering; your bowl is turned upside down. And you say, “Keep showering continuously.” Even if it were continuous, what would it change? What does not happen in this moment—how will it happen in the next? What does not happen today—how will it happen tomorrow? As you missed today, so you will miss tomorrow. Missing has become your habit.

You missed Buddhas, you missed Mahavira, you missed Krishna. You have kept missing. You are not new. Don’t think you’re listening to me for the first time. You sat before Buddha like this too—dozing. Your bowl upside down. You whiled away time with Mahavira in the same way. For lifetimes you have been journeying thus. And still you say “continuously.” Is the heart still not filled? After so much wandering, do you still wish to wander? Let this very moment be complete. Speak of this moment. Step not outside the moment. Step outside, and entanglement begins. Settle this moment. From this settling, further openings will arise.

“Now at least hear my prayer!”
Prayer is not to be told to someone. If you set out to tell someone, it becomes false. It will be hard for you to hear this: prayer is not for someone else’s ears. It is something to hum in the utter privacy of your own being.

That is why Buddha even took away God—otherwise you would keep on telling your prayer to someone or other. And when you set out to tell, exaggeration creeps in. When you set out to report, you include what is not; you embroider. That’s human nature. A shred becomes a serpent.

Just watch yourself: when you start recounting to others, how much do you swell things, how much do you add, how much chili-masala do you sprinkle? It keeps growing and growing. People keep broadcasting to one another. But in the obsession to tell another, it turns false.

Prayer must be true; it is not to be performed for someone. It should be like the birds’ songs—hummed out of their own joy. No display. No request that someone listen. If someone hears, good for them. The birds have no purpose.

Look at these flowers blooming on the trees. For whom do they bloom? For themselves. They are not watching the path, hoping that someone will pass by and be stirred by their fragrance. If someone passes, fine; if not, fine. The trees don’t even notice. Whether someone comes or not—fine either way. In the wilderness too, where no one passes, the trees bloom just the same.

Let your prayer be like that—not to be told to anyone. Prayer should be the expression of your joy. And put no demand into prayer, otherwise prayer dies. In prayer the beggar stands; remove the petitioner, otherwise you will choke prayer. Prayer can be of two kinds: of wonder and thanksgiving; or of asking. Asking makes it dirty. Whatever you ask, your asking cannot be bigger than you. Even if you ask for God, the “God” you get will be your own notion.

If you want the Infinite, do not ask. Remove asking—because asking draws limits. However grandly you imagine, it will be a limit. However big you ask, it will still be small. You cannot ask the Great. The moment you ask, things become small.

“We have received the habit of fidelity,
a heart acquainted with pain—
what remains now to ask of God?”

We have received the knack of keeping love’s faith.
We have received a heart intimate with pain.
What remains that we should ask God for?

Love’s capacity—we have it. The capacity to suffer—we have it. What more is there to ask? Pain will refine you, cut away the false, burn the useless. Love will bring forth the essential, awaken it. Then the work is done.

Pain means: the futile will be cut away. Love means: the meaningful will remain and blossom—blossom and bloom, appearing in a thousand colors and forms. Love received, pain received—what remains to ask of God?

Those who have truly prayed have found: Ah! To one as unworthy as me, so much has been given—without cause! They go to temple and mosque to give thanks, not to ask.

Just look a little: what am I giving you! Wake yourself up and consider again. What has been poured into your vessel? Take note. I am giving you nectar. Not what you ask for. It may be that your very asking prevents you from receiving. Your asking dirties the vessel, and even the nectar in it turns to poison—that can happen. Scrub your bowl. To remove asking is to cleanse the vessel. Don’t ask. It is already given.

Beware lest your prayers be nothing but your desires disguised. Beware lest under beautiful words you have draped your ugly cravings and hidden them.

Man is very devious; man is a great self-deceiver. Uncover your prayers again. Lift the lids and look underneath: what is filled there? Whether you say it aloud or not, if it is within, it is there—and it will spoil the prayer. Prayer should be pure, spontaneous—rising from your simple innocence. A feeling of gratitude toward existence: How much has been given to one so unworthy as me! For what reason has it been given! In prayer there will be wonder.

Do you ever feel wonder in your prayer? In your prayer you ask—wealth, rank, prestige. If, somehow, you manage to escape being caught in that, then you begin to ask for liberation, samadhi, kaivalya. But asking goes on. Wherever there is asking, there is the world. Where your asking drops, there is nirvana; there is liberation.

Buddha removed God—no reed, no flute. If there is no one to ask from, these wasteful prayers will cease. He freed religion from God so that religion may be freed from asking. So that you find yourself alone with yourself.

“Often it proves to be a deceit of desire—
what I had taken for a taste for worship.”

Look into the hearts of those going to temples: they are going to ask. In the marketplace they were defeated by asking and asking; not getting, they now go to the temple—to ask God. But they go to ask. They are not yet free of asking. And until you drop asking, you will not find the way to the temple. Wherever you go, you will carry your bazaar with you. Your bazaar is in your asking. And if you drop asking even in the bazaar, suddenly you will find—the temple has appeared right there where you are.

Then we shall learn. If you already knew, that would be the difficulty. If you don’t know and you know that you don’t know, then we shall learn. If you truly did know, there would be no need to come to me. But if you merely entertain the notion that you know when in fact you don’t, that will make teaching difficult.

Whoever has recognized his ignorance has invited wisdom. Whoever says, “I don’t know,” presents no obstacle. With such a one, my companionship becomes possible. Who knows how to die! We don’t even know how to live—dying is a far-off matter. You are living without knowing how to live; how then will you know how to die? Only those know how to die who have learned to live—who have lived life to its pinnacle, in its ultimate depth. They know how to die, because dying is life’s final height. Beyond it there is no further peak. It is the Gaurishankar, the Everest of life.

Ordinarily you think death is the end of life. Not so. You think that because you haven’t learned to live. Understand. The one who has not learned to live is afraid of death—and he will be. He is to be pitied. Because one who has not yet lived sees death approaching and thinks, “But I haven’t lived yet!” We kept thinking: where shall we build a nest—here or there?—and spring was over. Panic arises. Fear comes. The feet had not yet found ground; the cup had not yet been drunk to the full when the time to drop it arrived. It had barely touched the lips and someone snatched it away. Death looks like an enemy.

Why? Because death snatches away time. And time was needed in order to live. You did not live today; you live tomorrow. Death ends the tomorrows. Death says, “Enough. Finished. Only today. Now there is no tomorrow—no more tomorrows.” Death snatches away the future. It snatches nothing else.

Think a little: death does not snatch away life. The life already lived—what can death take of it? It has become the past. Death cannot touch the past. And how could it snatch the present? It has already arrived; it is here. There is no way for it not to be. Death can only snatch the future—what was to come need not come.

Alexander was dying. He said, “I will give my entire empire if you can prolong my life a little—save me for twenty-four hours. I must see my mother. I am near my capital, but still twenty-four hours away.” The physicians said, “Impossible.” He said, “Take half my kingdom, take it all.” The physicians replied, “Now no matter what you give, it is impossible. Twenty-four hours is too much; we cannot add even a single breath. Over the future, we have no power.”

Alexander began to weep and said, “If only I had known earlier, I would not have squandered my breaths. If one breath cannot be bought by my entire empire, and for this very empire I squandered all my breaths—if only I had known!”

But Alexander is wrong. It is not that one does not know. All the scriptures repeat only this—again and again in a single tone. All the sages repeat only this—with one voice. It is not that Alexander had not heard. He was fond of satsang; even in India he met sannyasins. In Greece he was Aristotle’s pupil—the pupil of Socrates’ pupil. He sat at the feet of the wise. It is not that he had not heard; he must have been deaf to it. He must have heard and ignored it—just as you are doing.

Death snatches the future. And for the one who has not lived, the whole of life lies in the future. He thinks, “We will live tomorrow.” Today passed—no harm; there were a thousand worries to settle; we will live tomorrow. After finishing everything, we will live tomorrow. Today we will build the house; tomorrow we will live. Today we will bring home a wife; tomorrow we will live. Today we will make money; tomorrow we will live. Such a person keeps postponing life to tomorrow. Today he prepares; he postpones living to tomorrow. One day death arrives—preparations are never finished; they cannot be. The human mind is such that however good a house you make, it can be made better; however beautiful a woman you marry, however handsome a husband you find, a more beautiful one can be imagined.

The greatest pain of man is that he has imagination. Because of imagination he always dreams of the better. Even if the most beautiful woman—Cleopatra—were to become yours, you would think her eyes could be a little darker; a little more fish-like; her face a shade fairer—or perhaps a little duskier; everything else is fine, but her hair is not like thunderclouds; everything else is fine, but the nose is a little long—or a little short. Man has imagination. Because of imagination he can always conceive of something superior. You can even go to the Taj Mahal and look for flaws. People often do just that—go to the Taj and search: where is the shortcoming? Where...?

It is difficult to find a person without imagination. And imagination torments. It says, “Just a little more improvement, then enjoy; just a little more, then enjoy.” “There are ten thousand—let it be a million, then enjoy. Ten thousand will be finished quickly; make it a million.” By the time it becomes a million, imagination has moved four paces ahead; it begins to speak of crores. Imagination never stays with you; it always flies ahead. Therefore it never allows you to reach the condition where you can say, “Now I am ready to enjoy.” Before imagination tires, death arrives. Imagination never tires. It is as if there is a race between death and imagination. Death has not yet been able to exhaust imagination.

The one whose imagination has been exhausted by death—that one becomes a Buddha. The one who has seen that imagination can never be fulfilled; it will keep growing, growing—an immortal vine. Without roots it keeps spreading, sucking the sap of trees, giving nothing of its own—draining life completely. An immortal vine.

A sweet name has been given to a very dangerous creeper—amar-bel, the immortal vine. Well named indeed, because it does not die. Trees die; the vine does not. When one tree dies it shifts to another. It travels from tree to tree and never dies. It has no reason to die, because it has no roots. What has roots can die; the roots may dry and it dies. The vine has no root; it moves in the air and lives by parasitism. If not this tree to exploit, there will be another. It bears neither leaves nor flowers nor fruit. It is barren. Have you seen anything more barren than imagination? Nothing grows, but it goes on giving you dreams of fruit.

The day you see that it is an immortal vine, that very day you will awaken. That day you will drop preparing and you will live. That day you will say, “Let us live today, with whatever preparation there is.” Granted the courtyard is crooked, but some dancing can be done. Let us not say, “The courtyard is crooked; how can we dance?” We will dance a little carefully—even if crooked. But let us dance. When will the courtyard be straight? Then we will dance too—but for now, let us dance.

We are hungry today; there is only dry coarse bread. Let us accept it with joy, eat it with gratitude. Let it become our blood. Later, when platters are laid, we will receive them too. Lest, in rejecting the coarse bread, your very hunger die. It happens. Lest, saying “The courtyard is crooked; how can I dance?”—by the time the courtyard is level you have forgotten how to dance, your legs have weakened. And one who has not danced throughout life—how will he dance then!

I know people who say, “Let me earn just once.”

A friend of mine said, “All right. When I am fifty-five—till then I will earn—then I will live in peace.” “As you wish,” I said. He did turn fifty-five, and left business too—but he became very disturbed. He came to me and said, “It has gone all wrong. I thought I would live peacefully.”

I said, “There is the practice of fifty-five years of restlessness—how will you be rid of it? Hustle-bustle, running, money, shop, market—he ran a big hotel. And what a nuisance a hotel is! Guests coming and going day and night; seated in the very marketplace.

“Suddenly at fifty-five, in accordance with his decision, he quit—he is a man of courage. But a year later he had to return to the hotel. He said, ‘I can’t sit at home; the hotel pulls me. And at home too there is no peace; I have become more restless. There were no quarrels with my wife; now there are. Before, the quarrel was left at the hotel; I returned home finished with it. Now I sit at home, fresh, and the old turbulence spins my head; I cannot be quiet.’ The wife said to me, ‘Now he behaves with us as he did with servants. That’s his habit. The way he treated the hotel servants all his life—that he does at home.’ Earlier the wife had not noticed; he used to come home tired. Now he sits at home, fresh. The old habit of upheaval works; he cannot remain still. The wife said, ‘Please tell him to go back to the hotel. Sitting with him frightens me; whatever one says, he picks a quarrel.’ He went back.

You will prepare all your life—and in preparing, you lose your life. Let preparation go on. I do not say stop preparing. I say, do not stop living for the sake of preparation. Let them go together. So that if preparation ever is complete, you can enjoy; and if it is not complete and death comes, you do not stand before it with folded hands ashamed, but can say, ‘I have lived; I did not delay for preparation. I am ready. Take me.’

Learning to live is the first thing. Whoever has learned that art does not fear death. And whoever has lived rightly discovers that whenever the peak of beauty, truth, bliss, peace comes in life—a kind of death happens. Every deep experience is an experience of death.

If you have loved—loved deeply—at love’s furthest depth you will find a kind of death. The one you were—dies. The new arises. A new birth occurs. Every love is a new birth. If you have meditated and reached to its depths—every meditation is a new birth. After meditation you will find that the one who went in has not returned. Someone else is coming—unfamiliar; no recognition. A stranger—yet utterly fresh and virgin. The dust has gone; the old turbulence is gone; the past’s web, the junk—everything has been washed away. Even if you painted and were lost in painting, this will happen.

Thus poets, painters, sculptors become new day after day; traders grow stale. Whoever is engaged in any creative act, whose life energy becomes creation, becomes new day by day—because each day they die. Creation means dying moment to moment, so that life remains ever new—never old, never stale.

If you have lived rightly you will often find death happening amidst life. Then death is no stranger—why fear? And whenever death happens it bequeaths such a unique, unprecedented, incomparable freshness of life! Why fear death then? You even begin to wait for it: “When will the great death come—mahāmṛtyu—and carry off all the refuse? When will all the scum be swept away and the river run clear? When will it sever us from the past by the root?” Whoever has lived learns the art of dying in the very living.

You say, “We don’t know how to die before dying.”

You will. Just have a little courage—stay near me, and you will. But the key is: learn to live.

When the final death arrives, many who have learned—even a little—the art of dying consciously, who died a bit awake, they regret deeply.

Death gave shelter—but when?
Only after the days of trouble were spent.

Then they realize, “Ah! If only we had invited this death earlier; offered it a little hospitality.”

Death gave shelter—but when?
Only after the days of trouble were spent.

Had we called it when we were young, youth would have been refined. Had we welcomed it when we were in love, love would have deepened. Had you invoked this death in the peak of sexual union, sex would have become samadhi.

Death gives you rebirth. It makes you a small child again and again. Hence the wise have said: die each moment. Don’t postpone. Don’t defer death to be collected at seventy years—use it daily. Death is available; you are avoiding it. Because of fleeing death, many things have become impossible. A man cannot sleep rightly—sleep too is a small death.

Observe: in the East people sleep more deeply than in the West. Because in the East people believe in many births; again and again one is born. But in the West the belief is: only one life. My understanding is that until the idea of rebirth spreads in the West, people will not be able to sleep rightly—because sleep is a death.

I knew a man suffering a long illness. Eventually he became afraid of sleeping. I went to see him. I asked, “What is this?” His family complained he feared sleep. He said, “What if I die in my sleep? I want to remain awake.”

You may have seen: when someone is bitten by a snake, physicians don’t let him sleep. They keep him awake, walking—because if he sleeps, he may not wake again; poison and sleep may combine and death happen. Keep him awake, moving; if he stays awake twenty-four hours, the poison will leave. If poison remains and sleep comes, sleep becomes death.

In countries that believe there is only one life, sleep is fading.

Think about these things sometimes; meditate on them. In countries that hold there is only one life, love has disappeared—because love too entails a death. Hence in the West love has ended, marriage is ruined, the home is destroyed. Love requires the courage to die in it. Those who have only one life cannot gather such courage; they panic.

Meditation too has been lost in the West, the keys of samadhi forgotten. Why? Fear of death has grown vast. If life is only once, death becomes extremely precious—die once and you are dead forever, for infinity. In the East such panic is absent. People say, “No harm—die now, be born again. We have been being born; we will be born again. It is a wheel turning.” This view does not fill you with tension. In the East people sleep deeply, dive into love, and sometimes climb the peaks of samadhi.

The delight that was in self-forgetfulness—where is it?
We came to our senses, and we saw.

Recall your childhood a little—you have forgotten entirely. What bliss was in not knowing! When you did not even know yourself; when the ego had not arisen; when you did not know what life is, what death is; when there was no difference between diamonds and pebbles; when you ran after butterflies; when you brought home colorful stones; when pearls appeared in dewdrops; when everything astonished and filled you with wonder—recall it.

If you learn the art of dying, each morning you will find you are a child again. Butterflies call again; the dew speaks again; pearls are scattered all around once more; moon and stars turn mysterious. What does childhood mean? Innocence—no self-consciousness yet. Whoever learns to die every day wins the taste and doorway to childhood day after day.

The delight that was in self-forgetfulness—where is it?
We came to our senses, and we saw.

You ask, “Before death we cannot die.”

If you die only when you are killed—what art is that! Everyone dies when they are killed—dogs and cats, men and women. If you die only when death slays you, what will be your mastery? What will be your worth?

That mighty Bhima, of whom it is told
There dwelt the strength of sixty thousand elephants—
He could not lift a single piece of wood off his chest
When, upon the pyre, his strength was put to test.

The final examination will come there. When you are laid on the pyre and lowered into the fire—what will you do then? You will not be able to escape. Then you must die against your will. Great compulsion! It is that very compulsion that makes death look terrifying. And when death is terrifying, everything becomes terrifying—life too, for from life death ultimately comes. How will life not look terrible when it leads to death?

A man came to me saying, “I feel great fear—especially in the dark. At night, when there is that whoo-whoo emptiness, I am so afraid.” I said, “Whoo-whoo? I have heard soughing ‘saay-saay’.” Then I thought... He insisted, “I hear whoo-whoo—‘bhaay-bhaay’.” I said, “Ah, then fear—bhay—and saay-saay (the sough) have mixed, and it becomes bhaay!”

If in the night’s silence you can taste the savor, you will hear ‘saay-saay’—a musical soughing. That sough is formed of silence; it is not outside. It is within you when all inner clamor ceases. Those who have known it have called it Om—the unstruck sound. It is the music of the void, the sound of silence. But those who panic hear ‘bhaay-bhaay.’ What could have been Om becomes whoo-whoo.

Everything depends on your vision. If you fear death, you will fear life too—because life brings death. Life’s stairway leads to death’s door. How will you love life? How will you embrace it? How will you dance with it—when it brings death? You will remain aloof, holding back. Thus you will waste life, and of course you will waste death. Forced to die unwillingly, you even waste death. Lived unwillingly, died unwillingly—the whole opportunity is squandered.

I say to you: live wholeheartedly. And if you must die—you must—then die wholeheartedly. Make dying also a sadhana. Don’t accept it as compulsion. Taste it day by day, so that when it arrives it finds you adept; when it comes, it finds you skilled—you rise to meet it.

I have heard of a Zen fakir: when he was about to die he said, “Bring my shoes.” What will you do with shoes? The doctors said, “Before morning you will be gone.” He too said, “Before sunrise I will die.” He said, “That is what I am preparing for. I am going to the cremation ground. I will not ride on someone’s shoulder—bring the shoes. I will walk to meet death.” This had been the vow of his life. He rose, put on his shoes, and, old man that he was, walked with a staff to the burning ground.

Thousands followed; people had never seen a man go on his own feet. People always ride on others’ shoulders; others carry them. Who goes of his own accord! But this fakir went. He said, “Dig the grave.” He even lent a hand digging. He lay down in it and, they say, he died. He closed his eyes and said, “Now I go. Farewell! You may throw the earth.” He closed his eyes—and died.

Now that is something! A way of dying! A style—with beauty! This man defeated death. Even death must have wrung her hands—she did not slay him; he went of his own free will.

Understand the difference between being dragged and going freely.

When you are dragged, you grip the bed’s edge while death pulls. That is why you have conjured images of messengers of death riding buffalos—whoo-whoo! Whereas those who know say: the Divine opens His arms; there is union. And you say: they come riding buffalos! Could you find no other mount! Coming on a buffalo—it sounds so archaic; where have machines reached now! Worse than a bullock cart, this buffalo-mount! No—your fear has conjured the buffalo; it has painted the messengers black.

You have read the Kathopanishad. Nachiketa went of his own accord and returned even with the sutras of immortality from Death. The story is symbolic. If you go dragged, you learn only this much: “We did not even live properly” and that even from life you derived only death. But Nachiketa brought nectar from death. Death offered him life by many pretexts—“Take wealth, take kingdom, take empire; take elephants and horses; take beautiful women.” He said, “What will they do? One day you will come and snatch them away. So don’t speak of what will be snatched. Give me that which is never snatched.”

Death tried many devices, explained in every way—if you hear the temptations, you too might feel, “Had we been there, we would have taken them! So much was offered!”—but Nachiketa took nothing. He said, “Answer me one thing: all that you offer—if I take it, will you never come to take it away?” Death said, “Ask as long a life as you wish; live a thousand years, ten thousand years.” He said, “Don’t speak of length. Will you not come at last—after a hundred, a thousand, ten thousand years? You will. Then the matter is finished. Tell me something in which you never come.”

Nachiketa found nectar within death. But the one key is this: he went by his own will. Not once did he argue or protest. His father grew angry. The father had performed a sacrifice and was giving gifts—as givers do—things of no use. They give what they no longer need, and feel virtuous. You do the same. He was donating cows that gave no milk, all bones and hide. Nachiketa sat beside him and asked, “Father! These cows you are giving—will such gifts earn merit? They give no milk.” The father grew angry.

Often fathers grow angry, because experience often resents virginal, innocent insight. For as soon as that innocent insight points its finger, experience feels exposed—dishonest.

The boy was saying, “Father is being dishonest—calling it a sacrifice, showering gifts, receiving praise, but these cows are unfit to give.” He must have seen them standing useless at home—cared for at cost. Father now offers them to the Brahmins. How will virtue accrue?

The father snapped, “Be quiet!” But the son could not stay quiet; he saw. He said, “You are giving everything—will you give all that is yours?” The father said, “Yes, all that is mine—I will give. I shall be a giver of all.” He said, “I too am yours—will you give me?” Now the father’s anger rose. “I will give you—to Death!” But Nachiketa did not say, “Don’t give me to Death.” It is said he rose and went to Death’s house. “If he has given me, the matter is finished.”

Usually death comes to your house; Nachiketa went to hers. That is a great symbol. And when death comes to your house, she always finds you. No matter where you build a house, she will come there. Have you ever seen that death came and you were not at home? If you were in the market, she came to the market; in the temple, she came to the temple. You cannot say, “Let there be an alibi; we were not home.” Whenever death comes, she always finds you at home—your true home.

Nachiketa went to Death’s dwelling—Death was not there. She had no idea; it was not his appointed time. He was still a child—innocent, newly born into life’s doorway. His name was not yet in the register, his number not yet in the queue. He had arrived before time. Death was not at home.

The meaning is: if you sit and wait to be killed, death will find you; if you die of your own accord, you will not find death at all. If you die voluntarily, there is no meeting with death.

But Nachiketa was stubborn. He waited three days. “She will come sometime; when she comes, I will meet her. Having been given, I cannot go back without meeting.” And whoever has met death and returned becomes immortal. That is why the Kathopanishad is so precious—the Upanishad of the art of dying.

I know—it hurts even to think of learning to die. But if you learn, you will not regret it. If you don’t, you will regret much—just as Alexander wept that life was squandered. “From such a vast empire, not a single breath can be bought—what was the meaning of it?”

Life is the title of a tale—
O heart, you must ache yourself and make the Beloved ache as well.

You crave to live; that is why you go far from the Divine. The harder you cling to living, the more you separate yourself. Learn to die. The moment you learn to die, waves arise in the heart of the Divine for you.

Life is the title of a tale—
O heart, you must ache yourself and make the Beloved ache as well.

The rational cannot bear the burden of ecstasy—
O people of the assembly, is there among you any mad lover?

Those who are very clever will not manage such madness. They will say, “What are you talking about—dying? We must escape death, not learn it!”

The rational cannot bear the burden of ecstasy—
O people of the assembly, is there among you any mad lover?

But if there are any mad ones among you who learn to die, in the end they alone prove truly wise.

I understand your difficulty. You have not yet learned to live—and I am to teach you death? But living is the first lesson of dying. If you truly wish to learn death, only then will you learn to live. For whoever refuses the second lesson avoids the first too.

A little boy was advising his younger brother: “Look, your time has come to go to school. Avoid one thing—that’s where we got trapped. Don’t get trapped. When the teacher begins to teach ‘C-A-T: cat’—stop right there. Don’t learn it—‘C-A-T: cat.’” The younger asked, “Why?” He said, “Because once you learn that, the words keep getting bigger and longer. Then you keep learning and learning—look at me! Stop there; don’t learn the first lesson. If you don’t want to go to second grade, stay in the first; stop at ‘cat.’ That’s the art. No one told me; I learned ‘C-A-T: cat’ and then words kept getting longer—now there’s no end.”

This is what happens. If you want to avoid death, you avoid learning life. Life is the first lesson in death. Live! Live with urgency, with intensity—as much as you can. That is the first lesson. And the second is even more lovely. If there is so much flavor in being, think how much there will be in non-being! Being is limited; non-being is limitless. Being is small; non-being is vast.

Therefore Buddha called the supreme art nirvana—the going out of the lamp, the art of dying. He did not even use the word “moksha,” for it suggests you will keep on being—body will drop, you will remain. Buddha said: nothing will remain; only then is the vast. As a drop falls into the ocean and is no more—here it is no more; there, it is the ocean.

Go to the Sufis, and you will begin to become Sufi-like. Their very air will seize you. You will find yourself humming their songs. The heartbeat of their hearts will catch you. Stay near Sufis, and you will start becoming a Sufi. You become like those you keep company with. That is why satsang is so valuable.

Satsang means: stay close to the kind of people you wish to become. Not only disease is contagious; health is contagious too. If you want to be healthy, seek the company of the healthy. If you want to be beautiful, seek the company of the beautiful. If you want to be true, seek the company of the truthful. If you want joy like flowers, sit by the flowers; walk through gardens. Even the clothes of the one who passes through a garden catch the fragrance of blossoms.

If you pass by the Sufis—even unknowingly—you will not escape untouched. Even if you happen to pass by, you won’t leave uncolored. Where colors and powders are being thrown, even if you merely walk through, some of that color will land on you; you will be tinged. And “Sufi” means exactly this: he himself is no longer there as a somebody, and the air around him invites you too to disappear. And whatever is truly important in life is born out of this disappearing.

Poetry is born when you are not. The poetry that is born while you remain is only rhyme; it has no real worth. True poetry has arisen around the Sufis. The rest is fine, but…

In ancient India we chose different words; we set two categories for poets. One we called rishi (seer), and the other kavi (poet). A rishi sang without being there; a kavi kept singing while remaining someone. The poet has limits; the seer has none. A Sufi is a rishi—one who has vanished. Only drunkenness remains. Bliss remains. Rapturous ecstasy remains. Dance remains. Go to a Sufi, and his dance will surround you. His dance will start making you dance.

So this can happen—it has happened often—that you felt you had nothing, and then you came near someone in whom something had manifested, a descent had occurred; suddenly some sleeping capacity within you awoke. It was there, lying dormant; in his presence it woke up.

They say: if a fine musician plays the veena, and there is an idle veena lying in the room, that empty veena too slowly begins to quiver in its strings; tones start resonating from it—without anyone touching it. When the whole room is filled with resonance, how can a veena remain silent? It must be so; it has to be so. The resonance will set that veena vibrating too, though no one touches it.

To be with Sufis—to be with those who have known, who have lived; who are intoxicated, drowned, dissolved—is to enter another dimension of existence. Near them you will also melt a little. Your rigidity will lessen. You too will feel weightless. Perhaps, in their company, you will gather the courage to fly. That is all it means. Then the capacities hidden in you will begin to manifest. If you were born to be a sculptor, satsang will make you a sculptor.

Satsang is creative—that is what I want to tell you, to place in your heart. Any satsang that is not creative is dead. If, going to a saint, you too become dead, I do not call that satsang. He is drowned, and he drowns you as well.

No—true satsang makes you creative. The notes that lay asleep within you should find a voice. If you could have been a poet, songs should begin to appear. If dance lay buried in you, your feet should start to move. If you could have been a sculptor, become one. If a veena lay asleep within you, let it begin to play.

Real satsang will give your energy a creative movement, a direction, a dimension. You will return from there dissolved, yet larger. There you will disappear—and there, too, you will be reborn.

Sufis have sung very lovely songs—and in whomsoever there was a possibility of song, they have awakened those songs too. The Sufi dances, and in whomever a little dance was suppressed, he has brought it forth. Sufism is a deeply creative process.

In this country, many non-creative modes have become prevalent. Jain monks are utterly non-creative. Their pride and prestige lie in their non-creativity. If you ask why a certain Jain monk is so renowned, people will tell you: because he fasts six months of the year. What a negative praise! “Six months he does not eat”—not “he dances for six months.” Someone is praised for standing in the scorching sun. What a praise of deadness! Standing in the sun is no quality; nothing is attained by it. One can shrink from it, not expand. One can die from it; life’s exuberance cannot arise from it. No one says: they write songs; no one says: they sculpt; no one says: they dance. Life needs an affirmative, creative direction.

Because of this negativity, religion too has been badly ruined. You will often find that those who can do nothing become sadhus. For to be a sadhu, the glory is in not doing. Couldn’t run a shop; couldn’t sit in the marketplace; couldn’t work in an office; were lazy and sluggish; couldn’t hold a job; couldn’t even sweep a courtyard—so they became Jain monks. Now prestige lies in not doing. No one asks: What is your talent? What expression is your life-energy finding? No one asks.

It is enough that they “left the world,” that they sit empty in a temple, that they fast, that they sleep five hours. Is that anything! Whether you sleep five hours, or six, or seven, or four—what is gained? Whether you eat once, twice, or five times—what is gained? What does the world receive from this? You will not leave the world more beautiful than you found it—and what kind of renunciation, what kind of sainthood is it that leaves the world as it was, or a little uglier?

Adorn it a little before you go. Leave in such a way that behind you people keep humming a few songs. Leave in such a way that flowers of smiles keep blooming behind you. Let religion be creative—truly creative. Let your praise be praise for what you have done. Let your praise be praise for what you have become. Let your life be a gift. Give. There is much darkness in life—light a few lamps. People are very sad—raise a few songs. People are tired, weary, sluggish, fallen—give their feet movement again, give them dance. Dust has gathered on people’s eyes—dust them clean. Give them eyes again that can see flowers, that can see the moon and the stars. Let life come into dance again.

Understood—this is what I have understood; known—this is what I have known:
Every wilderness is a settlement; every settlement a wilderness.
It depends on the way of seeing.
Every wilderness is a settlement; every settlement a wilderness.
It depends on the way of seeing. If you look negatively, every settlement is a wilderness. If you look affirmatively, every wilderness is a settlement.

It is necessary to accept life and look at it with ahobhava—with that grateful “ah,” with wonder. Then you will blossom; otherwise you will wither. And only in blossoming is your fulfillment.

Lately, I see sadhus come to me—sadhus of the old mold. They say, “We became sadhus, but we attained nothing.” What has being a sadhu to do with attaining? I say: attain something, and from that, saintliness should arise. Attain something, and from that, saintliness should arise. You say, “We became sadhus and attained nothing.” Who told you that by becoming a sadhu you would get something? What has attainment to do with becoming a sadhu? Had you found something, saintliness would have flowed from it. Had you sought, practiced, refined yourself, chiseling your stone a little, making a statue—saintliness would have arisen from that. You wanted cheap sainthood. You wanted a very cheap sainthood.
It has been asked—
“Whenever we saluted the Sufis…”
“Each time, poetry’s inspiration descended upon us.
In these times, whenever we sat to write,
it felt as though our religion had now become Islam.”

Possible. Because the Sufi’s language is the language of Islam. The Sufi’s way is Islam’s way. The Sufi is the very essence of Islam. So if you’ve been close to Sufis, a fragrance of Islam will naturally waft through your poetry—you can’t escape it.

If you stay around me long enough, my language will soak into you. My way of speaking will soak into you. My expressions and gestures will soak into you. Unknowingly you’ll begin to speak that way; unknowingly you’ll start using those words. You won’t even notice when your hand began to shape the same gestures as mine. It happens silently.

Sufis have their own way—very unique. When they speak of the Divine, they speak of wine. No one else in the world does quite that. If you have been with Sufis, then you won’t be able to manage without speaking of wine—because one has to speak of ecstasy. In this world, no better symbol than wine is found. One has to speak of bliss, of divine madness; and none here appears more mad than the drunkard. Though that wine is of another kind—such that the one who drinks it comes to his senses. Yet it is wine. The drinker begins to live in another world; he no longer belongs here; his feet no longer touch the ground.

“Har chand ho mushāhida-e-Haqq ki guftagu,
bantī nahin hai bāda-o-sāgar kahe baghair.”

A Sufi has said: Whenever I speak of the Truth, it simply won’t do without wine—what can one do!

“Har chand ho mushāhida-e-Haqq ki guftagu…”
Whenever you speak of the perfect Truth, start the discourse!
“Bantī nahin hai bāda-o-sāgar kahe baghair…”
Then you have to bring in the cup, the goblet, the tavern, and the wine-maiden—all of them.
“Bantī nahin hai bāda-o-sāgar kahe baghair…”

That is the Sufi way. So if you live among them, their way will also rub off on you.

Sufis have been hard to understand. Fitzgerald translated Omar Khayyam—and misunderstood him. He thought “wine” meant wine; “sāqī” meant the cupbearer. He took the words literally. Omar Khayyam was a Sufi fakir, a realized one. When he speaks of the sāqī, he is speaking of the Divine. When he speaks of wine, he is speaking of meditation. When he speaks of the tavern, he is speaking of the temple.

But Fitzgerald had no idea. Christians had no such language. So he took wine as wine, the tavern as the tavern. Today there are liquor shops named “Omar Khayyam.” A liquor shop bearing Omar Khayyam’s name! And gradually it seemed Omar Khayyam must have been just a drunkard. He was a drunkard, yes—but drunk on God. It has nothing to do with the wine you know. He drank another kind of wine—once drunk, you are drunk forever. The intoxication never wears off; once it rises, it does not descend. If you fall, you fall—there is no getting back up.

There are styles in the world. Sufis have theirs; Zen masters have theirs. If the language of Zen is unfamiliar to you, you will be in trouble. You go to a Zen master and ask, “How is the soul attained?” He may pick up a staff and strike you. That is his language. One who understands it will bow and touch his feet: “Great compassion—you have answered.” You will be offended; you’ll run to the police station: “What kind of man is this? We asked how truth is realized, how the soul is attained—and he hit us with a club!”

You did not understand. He is saying the soul is not attained; you already are that. With a sharp blow he is trying to bring you to awareness: Wake up. With a jolt he says: Wake up! He is bringing you to your senses: What sleepy talk is this? Asleep? Attain the soul? The soul is already attained! You won’t understand; it will be difficult.

In Japan, over fifteen hundred years, slowly this language took root and became understood. Religion too has languages, just as other languages do. If you understand Arabic, you understand; if you don’t, you don’t. So it is with the languages of religion.

Sufism is Islam’s profound language. Even Muslims did not understand. They put Mansur on the gallows because he said, “Anal Haqq”—Aham Brahmasmi—“I am Brahman.” Muslims crucified him. He was speaking Islam’s deepest truth: There is no distance left between me and You. Now whether I say, “You are me,” or “I am You,” it is the same. Separation is gone; we are one. Now the drop has fallen into the ocean. Whether you say the drop fell into the ocean or the ocean fell into the drop—what difference does it make! They are no longer separate. Mansur spoke Islam’s deepest truth; Muslims put him on the gallows. Even Muslims did not understand Islam’s deepest truth.

The same happened with Buddha. Buddha spoke the deepest essence of the Upanishads. The Hindus did not understand; they uprooted him; they did not let him remain in India. The very essence of the Upanishads and the Vedas—that is what Buddha expressed. The Upanishads have never appeared more essential than through Buddha. But the Hindus did not understand.

It happens like this: within one language there are many levels. Take Hindi: a rustic speaks Hindi—village Hindi; that too is a language. Then a townsman speaks Hindi; another language. Then an educated townsman speaks Hindi; still another. All are speaking Hindi. Then there are the universities; the professors speak Hindi too—but theirs is another language altogether. Even within language there is aristocracy, there is richness.

So too with the language of religion. The language Mohammed spoke was such that even the last person could understand. The language Mansur spoke is Islam’s language, but only one who has climbed to the summit, a perfected one, can understand it. Yes, what Mansur spoke, Mohammed could have understood. But the Muslims did not. Because what Mohammed spoke was for the common person to grasp; the common person had grasped it and was unwilling to let it go. When Mansur spoke, it seemed so aristocratic, so far-off, that it did not appeal. “He is ruining Islam!”

Sufism is a very deep language. If you are with them, it would be no surprise if an Islamic hue begins to appear in your speech. There is no harm—let it happen. Islam is very lovely. One who loves religion will behold the One in Islam, in Hinduism, in Buddhism, in Jainism, in Christianity, in Judaism, in Zoroastrianism—in all. The forms are many, but the One to whom they belong is one. The languages are many, but what is revealed is the one human heart. The songs are many, but the hum that sings them is one.

No harm—let Islam prevail. Speak the Sufi tongue; sing the Sufi song. If that is what feels dear to you, then do that.

As I see it, religion is not, and should not be, decided by birth. Where you find harmony—that is yours. If the Qur’an resonates with you, then the Qur’an is your Veda. If the Veda resonates, then the Veda is your Qur’an. You were born in a Hindu home—don’t be troubled by that. What has birth to do with religion! Religion is what you must discover. Where your being finds companionship; where your note falls into rhythm; where an instrument awakens you and you begin to dance and sing—there. Whichever language you understand, speak to the Divine in that language. Leave the other languages—don’t worry. All languages are His, because He has no language at all. Silence is His language.

All paths gradually bring you to the place where the paths fall away and only you remain. You—not the “you” that you were till yesterday. The “you” too falls away; only your purity remains. Call that purity moksha, call it nirvana, call it the soul, call it the Supreme—whatever delights you.

Enough for today.