Es Dhammo Sanantano #64

Surrender is indispensable—whether the path is devotion or meditation. The only difference is this: on the path of devotion surrender comes first, at the very first step; on the path of meditation surrender comes at the very end.

Bhakti says: leave the ego outside before you enter the temple. If it has to be dropped anyway, why carry it along even a little farther? Drop it now. Devotion throws the ego down in the very first instant. Devotion has this convenience because it has the concept of God.

The meditator does not have that convenience. He walks without any concept. So the ego lingers. At whose feet should he place the ego? Only after experience—after plunging into deep experience—in the final hour, when nothing else remains and only a subtle ego remains, a thin veil, so thin and transparent that many will feel there is no veil at all—like pure glass. Until you come very close you feel nothing lies in between; everything looks clear. But when you come close, you collide. In that moment the ego has to be dropped—the final moment.

So the path of meditation too, ultimately, must arrange for how you will drop the ego. It has to. This is Buddha’s arrangement: he gave the Three Refuges. Buddha calls them the Three Jewels. They truly are jewels. Nothing is more precious, for by losing them we lost all, and by finding them we gain all. They are the three jewels—Buddham Sharanam Gacchami, Sangham Sharanam Gacchami, Dhammam Sharanam Gacchami. And there is a sequence of reasoning behind them. Understand it.

First, to the Buddha. “Buddha” does not mean Gautama the Buddha. Do not fall into that misunderstanding. Buddha means Buddhahood.

Once someone asked Buddha: “You say there is no need to go into anyone’s refuge, and yet people come and say before you, ‘Buddham Sharanam Gacchami.’ You remain silent. Your silence is a consent—it is silent approval. You should refuse them.”

Gautama Buddha said: “If they were going into my refuge, I could refuse. But how would they go into my refuge? For I am not there. They go to the refuge of Buddhahood. Those who were Buddhas in the past, those who are Buddhas today, and those who will ever be Buddhas—the essence common to them all is called Buddhahood. Whoever has awakened, whoever will awaken, whoever is awakening—their awakening is what I call Buddhahood.”

The man asked: “Then why do they say it at your feet? Why not say it anywhere?” Buddha said: “Ask them—that is their problem. They do not yet see it everywhere; they see it in me. Let the beginning be made from somewhere! One must learn to bow somewhere. Today they see it in me; tomorrow they will see it in others; the day after, in still others. Their vision will keep expanding. Once you recognize a diamond, you will begin to see it in many places. And once you have learned to appraise a diamond accurately, then not only in the jeweler’s showcase—where polished, flawless diamonds are displayed—but even in the mines, where diamonds are still rough and unshaped, you will recognize the diamond. You will have the eye.

The only difference between a Buddha and an ordinary person is this: the ordinary person is a diamond still lying in the mine, while a Buddha is a diamond that has been cleaned, cut, and now shines. Buddha has done what needed to be done with his diamond; you have not yet done with yours. But one who recognizes a diamond will see the diamond in you too.

So Buddha said: “If they glimpse Buddhahood in me, fine! Today they see it here; tomorrow they will see it elsewhere; then in more and more places; eventually they will see it everywhere.”

Thus the first step is surrender to One—because from that window you saw the sun. Remember: when you stand at a window and salute the sun, you are not saluting the window. Though at first you may feel grateful to it—“through this window I could see the sun; without it I would have remained in darkness”—even if you thank the window, through the window you are really thanking the sun. The window has done nothing but not become a barrier. “Buddha” means just this: in whom all barriers have fallen; you can see right through.

So the first feeling of surrender is: Buddham Sharanam Gacchami.

The second is: Sangham Sharanam Gacchami. Sangha means all who are awake; all who are awakening; all who are close to awakening; all who are turning over in their sleep; all in whose dreaming the first ray of awakening has fallen, whose sleep has been disturbed. The gross symbol of “Sangha” is: all those who have taken initiation from Buddha—“I go to the refuge of all those monks.” But the root meaning is: those who have entered the stream, who have attained stream-entry; those who have taken sannyas.

Sannyas is an aspiration, a declaration: “I now change the course of my life. Wealth will no longer be of value to me; meditation will be of value. I will not seek the gross; I set out toward the subtle. I will not spoil my eyes on what death wipes away; I set out in search of the immortal. From darkness to light, from death to deathlessness, from the unreal to the real—this prayer is sannyas. Asato ma sadgamaya.”

Sangha means all who have entered the stream; all who have decided to search for truth; all who have set out on the quest. I go to their refuge. The vision has widened a little—now the Buddha alone is not enough. Of course he is seen, but now you begin to see those who sit with him.

And so it should be. If you live near a Buddha, his fragrance will catch you. You stroll through a garden, and even when you return home to your old stink, you will find a faint fragrance of flowers has come along in your clothes. If you sit by a Buddha, you will catch his taste, his drops will shower on you, his touch will come to you. The breeze that touches him touches you too. Sit near him—his color stains you, his manner seeps into you. Buddhahood is contagious. Remember, not only disease is contagious; health is contagious too. Live with the insane, you will go insane; live with the free, you will become free—you will begin to.

So the vision widens. Now you see not only the Buddha but all those around him, all those oriented toward him. Their goal is still far off, but they have set out. Buddha has reached the Ganga-Sagar—the Ganga has merged into the ocean—but the other waves of the Ganga rushing toward the ocean will also arrive—if not today then tomorrow; it is only a matter of time. First you saluted the tree; now salute the seed as well, for the seed too will become a tree. Will you hold back your salute merely because of a delay in time?

And once you get the taste of bowing—once placing your head at the Buddha’s feet gives you such joy—you will feel like placing your head wherever you can. If such joy arises with one, oh, if only your head could roll at everyone’s feet, a stream of bliss would burst forth. Therefore: Sangham Sharanam Gacchami.

And one step further. Taking refuge in the Sangha means: I take refuge in those who are seeking truth. Taking refuge in the Buddha means: I take refuge in one who has found the truth. And Dhammam Sharanam Gacchami means: you went to Buddha because he realized truth, and to the Sangha because they are seeking truth—so in either case it is truth whose refuge you seek, whether through Buddha or through Sangha. Therefore: Dhammam Sharanam Gacchami.

Dhamma means truth—the ultimate truth. That ultimate principle is dharma. Therefore, in the final sense, the last refuge is: I go to the refuge of dharma—the ultimate law that runs the cosmos; I go to the refuge of rita, of Tao, that holds existence together. Dharma means “that which upholds” the world. I dissolve in That upon which all this play runs.

Buddhists do not call it “God,” because that is the language of the devotee; they call it “dhamma.” That is the language of the knower, of the meditator. They say: the Law, the ultimate law, the eternal law. The devotee calls the same the “Divine.” The difference is only of words. The devotee gives form to dharma—that is “God.” He makes an image—that is “God.” The knower does not make an image; he leaves the law as pure law—formless, without depiction.

So the third jewel is: Dhammam Sharanam Gacchami. Entering the third refuge, you have entered the refuge of the Whole—the universal. First you went to the refuge of the Buddha, the one; then to the refuge of the Sangha, the many; then to the refuge of dharma, the All—the universal. The surrender is complete. Beyond this there is nothing left to surrender. You are one with That which is.

Such are the Three Jewels. A few more points should be understood. First: going to the refuge of the Buddha is the easiest. It happens here every day. Someone comes and says, “We have surrendered to you—why should we obey Lakshmi?” I tell them: surrendering to me is easy. If you surrender to Lakshmi, there will be more juice, a deeper flavor. To surrender to me is very simple, because you are so much in love with me; you are soaked in my rasa.

Someone works in the kitchen; he does not get along with Deeksha. I tell him: go and surrender to Deeksha. He says: “To Deeksha! We have come to your refuge, not to Deeksha’s.” I tell him: but I am the one telling you. You have come to my refuge—now you are out of your own hands. I say: go to Deeksha’s refuge—will you obey or not? He says: “I will obey, but Deeksha’s refuge! Deeksha is just like us!” It becomes difficult to go to Deeksha’s refuge. But I say: go.

It is very simple to come to my refuge, because you are attached to me, in love with me—you go crazy and you bow. You have no such attachment to Deeksha—no such madness. Deeksha looks just like you. But understand the meaning: until you can go to the refuge of those who are like you, you have not yet understood yourself. Because if one like you does not seem worthy of reverence to you, what does that mean? It means that in your own eyes you yourself are not yet worthy of reverence. When you say, “Should we go to the refuge of someone like us?” you have not thought what you are saying. You are saying: I am despicable, sinful, guilty—and should I take refuge in someone like me! You carry great self-loathing, great self-contempt, self-insult.

And how will one who carries self-insult become self-possessed? One who has not yet learned to respect himself—how will he enter within? One who cannot even love himself—whom will he love? The man thinks he is disrespecting Deeksha by saying “she is like me—why go to her refuge?” but he is disrespecting himself. He is announcing: I am worth two pennies, and Deeksha is like me—how can I go to her refuge?

The day you start going to the refuge of those who are like you, on that day self-dignity will arise in your life. This will look paradoxical: the day a person bows at the feet of all, he attains self-respect. He says, “I bow even at the feet of the lowest; I bow at the feet of a stone—because existence is glorious; how can anyone here be low!” That day he senses the dignity within.

So going to the refuge of Buddha is very simple. Begin with the simple—but do not remain stuck in the simple. Therefore: Sangham Sharanam Gacchami. Sangha means: go to the refuge of Deeksha, of Lakshmi, of Maitreya. Sometimes go to your own refuge; sometimes touch your own feet. For the Divine dwells within you as well. It will look crazy: first it looks crazy to touch another’s feet; then certainly it will look crazy to touch your own. But I tell you: sometimes touch even your own feet. The Divine abides in you too—as much as in me, as much as in Buddha, as much as in Mahavira.

Once it happened: someone took a photograph of Ramakrishna. When it was brought, Ramakrishna bowed and touched the feet of that photograph—his own picture! The disciples became a little uneasy. They said: people already think him mad; now they will think him utterly mad—this is too much. Someone nudged him: “Paramahamsa Deva, what are you doing? If people hear, they will say it has gone to the limit—now he has started touching the feet of his own picture.” He said: “My picture! How can it be my picture? I am not the body. But this photograph is of a great samadhi. Whoever’s it is, that person must have been in deep samadhi. I bow to samadhi. What difference does it make whether it was I in samadhi or someone else? In samadhi where is ‘I’ and where is ‘you’? Samadhi is samadhi.”

Sometimes touch your own feet, and you will experience an incomparable thrill. Sometimes touch the feet of those like you. Touching the feet of those you consider greater than yourself does not drop the ego—how would it? Bowing to one you consider superior—how will that drop the ego? The ego drops when you bow to those you consider like you, or even smaller than you.

Naturally, the journey must begin where it is easy. Therefore: Buddham Sharanam Gacchami. First, touch the feet of the Vast. Then: Sangham Sharanam Gacchami. In the Sangha there will be all kinds—some like you, some better, some worse. Going to the refuge of the Sangha means: I no longer keep accounts of who is big and who is small, who is above and who is below; whoever is seeking truth—I go to the refuge of all.

And third: Dhammam Sharanam. But even the refuge of the Sangha has a boundary. If, as followers of Buddha, you go to the refuge of Buddhist monks, you will not go to the refuge of Jain monks, or Hindu sannyasins, or Muslim fakirs, or Christian monks. There is a limit. And wherever there is a limit, we are still far from the Divine. Therefore the last step is taken, the limit is broken—Dhammam Sharanam Gacchami. Now who is Hindu, who is Muslim, who is Christian, who is Sikh, who is Jain—no distinctions remain. Leave aside Hindu, Muslim, Christian—plants, animals, birds, stones, mountains, the moon and stars: the one Truth that abides in all—we go to its refuge.

Such are the Three Jewels. They are immensely precious. If you understand their meaning, through them you can find the key.

First thing: the philosopher’s stone turns iron into gold—have you ever set a lump of clay beside the philosopher’s stone to see? Bang your head a hundred thousand times, a clod of earth will not become gold. It has to be iron, right!

And what “virtues” or “faults” does iron have—tell me! Iron is iron. Have you heard Narsi Mehta’s bhajan? “One kind of iron is kept in worship, one is kept in the butcher’s house.” So Narsi Mehta thinks the iron lying in the butcher’s house, with which he cuts animals’ throats, is bad; and the iron kept in worship is good—because it is in worship.

That doesn’t sit right. If there is evil, it will be in the butcher, not in the iron. Iron is just iron. Even if you commit murder with iron, remember, the iron is not committing the murder. So evil cannot belong to the iron. The vice is not the iron’s—it belongs to the one in whose hand the iron happened to fall. The very same sword can cut someone’s neck—or it can stop a neck from being cut. Some thugs attack a woman to rape her, and a sword happens to be in your hand—you can stop them. Will the sword become virtuous because of that? And if you murder someone with a sword, will the sword become wicked for that? The sword is simply a sword. What has the sword to do with it!

So whether it is iron kept in a shrine or iron kept in a killer’s house, nothing changes in the iron. Therefore, bring both kinds of iron to the philosopher’s stone—both become gold. But bring a murderer and a worshipper to a saint—and there will be a difference. Between the two irons there was no difference: both were iron. You falsely projected qualities onto the iron. You projected the killer’s trait onto the iron. That belonged to the killer.

So first understand correctly: the philosopher’s stone can turn iron into gold, not a lump of clay. And if you are not becoming gold, consider a little—are you iron? If you are iron, you are a fit vessel; you will become gold. If you are not iron, then it’s a big problem.

Your mind wants to shift responsibility onto someone else. Your mind will say, “I haven’t become gold yet—clearly, the one I took to be a philosopher’s stone is not a philosopher’s stone.” This is how the human mind evades responsibility. You don’t want to do anything; now you wait—if it happens, fine; if it doesn’t, it’s the philosopher’s stone’s fault.

This is what I call being a lump of clay. Being a lump of clay means: nothing to do—just lying there like a clod—cow-dung Ganesha! You look like Lord Ganesha, exactly like Ganesha, but you’re made of dung. A lump of clay means you haven’t learned to take your life into your own hands. You live tossed by the waves. Let someone else do it; you just sit. You are a beggar. If someone gives, fine; if no one gives—abuse them. But you are not ready to get up and do anything. You are a lump of clay. Even a philosopher’s stone will not be able to do anything for you.

Get up a little. Do a little. A little effort to change your life—a little meditation, a little prayer, a little worship.

Buddha said yesterday: break the habit that is seen to be wrong; deepen the practice that is seen to be right; and refine the mind day by day so it sees more and more clearly what is wrong and what is right.

People often think this is somehow my responsibility. If you go astray, you won’t be able to say before God, “What could we do? We never found a philosopher’s stone.” You won’t be able to say that. If you understand rightly, the philosopher’s stone is within you—seek it. You won’t find it without seeking. It is not placed somewhere outside. The philosopher’s stone is within you. Its name is meditation, surati (attentiveness). Or whatever name you like—samadhi, sambodhi. These words have been used for that philosopher’s stone. Seek that; it lies in your consciousness. As your consciousness gets polished, as it rises to its peak, the philosopher’s stone is formed. And once the philosopher’s stone of consciousness is formed, the iron of life becomes gold in an instant.

On my basis you cannot become gold; on my basis you can find your own philosopher’s stone. The guru cannot be the philosopher’s stone for you; but if the guru has found his own philosopher’s stone, he knows how it is found—he can show you how you can find yours.

And it is good that the guru does not become the philosopher’s stone for you; otherwise you would remain neutered—neutered through and through. What would be your worth? The philosopher’s stone turns you into gold; then if somewhere you meet an anti–philosopher’s-stone, it will turn you back into iron. You will remain the same as ever. You would say, “What can we do? Nothing is in our hands. We met a philosopher’s stone and became gold; we met an anti–philosopher’s-stone…” And remember, both things exist in the world. The scriptures don’t speak of an anti–philosopher’s-stone because many things in the scriptures have been written out of your greed—because you wrote them, or people like you wrote them, or had them written. So there is no mention of an anti–philosopher’s-stone. But in this world, everything has its opposite.

If it is so that iron becomes gold by a philosopher’s stone, then surely there will be some alchemy by which gold becomes iron. Then you would be utterly emasculated—nothing left in your hands.

No—don’t become gold in that way either! Even if I say I am ready to make you so, say, “Wait. Let me find it myself.” Because if I become by my own effort, no one will be able to erase it; if I become through someone else, I can be erased. Then such becoming has no value. That would be a cheap becoming. And truth is not so cheap.

Worthiness (pātrata) means only this much: get up, open your eyes, walk. My hand is ready to support you; I am willing to take you far—but get up, walk. You are sleeping with the sheet pulled over you and you say, “The goal is not coming!” You don’t even want to move from here. You want someone to put you on a stretcher and deliver you to the destination. Then it won’t be a temple; it will be a hospital. If you want to go to a hospital—your wish! Someone will put you on a stretcher, call an ambulance, and take you away. You are a corpse. You want to go as a bier—four men carry you on their shoulders, you become a bier and off you go!

A Sufi fakir was dying. Just before dying he stood up from his bed and said, “Where are my shoes?” His disciples said, “What are you doing? The physician says you will not survive now.” He said, “I know that too—what has the physician’s statement to do with it! My hour is near; the sun is about to set; with it I will also set—bring my shoes quickly!” They said, “What will you do with shoes now? Please rest.” He said, “What will I do resting now? Death is coming. And I do not want to go to the cremation ground riding on someone’s shoulders. Bring the shoes—I will walk to the graveyard. I will dig my own grave. I lived my life by myself; I will die my death by myself—not on loan.”

He must have been a strange man! He went. People stared in astonishment—such a thing had never happened: someone going to the graveyard by himself. People always go riding on others’ shoulders. That is the ancient habit. They live riding on others’ shoulders; they die riding on others’ shoulders too.

He went, took a pickaxe in his hands, and dug his own grave. People said, “We will help.” He said, “Stop—don’t interfere in my work. I would not like God to be able to say that I took any kind of ride on anyone’s shoulders. I have lived life in my own way; I will die in my own way.” He dug his grave, lay down in it, said, “Goodbye, friends,” closed his eyes, and died. If it had been in his power, he would have thrown the earth over the grave himself.

Only such a person is truly alive. Live in your own way, and die in your own way. Then a great fragrance will come into your life. What is this—“Let the philosopher’s stone touch me and I become gold!” Then you are a lump of clay again. Then even the philosopher’s stone will be of no use.

Buddha has said: the enlightened ones only show the path; walking is up to you. Reaching is up to you. Understand their indications—and set out.

You ask, “I still remain unsatisfied.”
Perhaps this is the reason—you are doing nothing. Perhaps this is the reason you have assumed, “Now that I have arrived in the presence of God, the matter is finished. What more is there to do!” Now you want me to do. “We will watch what you do. We will obstruct in every way—we won’t let you do—go on, you do! We won’t cooperate; we will even non-cooperate; then let’s see what you can do!” With such a mood the journey will not happen; dissatisfaction will remain.

If you want fulfillment—arise, awake, walk.

Secondly, Swami Dayanand was a great scholar, a mahapandit—also a mahatma—but not an Enlightened one. That he was a great scholar is beyond a shred of doubt. Very few have had such clarity of intellect, such logic, such profound capacity for scriptural analysis. In that sense Dayanand is extraordinary—but a great scholar. And I place no value on being a great scholar.

A great scholar is a matter of intellect; it does not transform the heart. He lives only in argument upon argument. There is no deep experience in his life. He had powerful logic, great capacity for refutation and polemics—but no experience. Had there been experience, he would have spoken differently. He would not have said the Qur’an is opposed to the Vedas, or that Mahavira and Buddha are opposed to the Vedas. Had he known, he would have seen clearly: Mahavira’s language is different; Buddha’s language is different; Mohammed’s language is different; Jesus’ language is different; but what is being said is the same as what the Vedas declare. How could it be otherwise?

So his whole life went into refutation. The Bible is wrong, the Qur’an is wrong, the Dhammapada is wrong—everything is wrong; only the Vedas are right. This is Hindu politics; it has nothing to do with religion.

Paramhansa Ramakrishna is just the opposite sort of man. Not a scholar at all, but religious, saintly. He knew nothing in the academic sense—barely studied to the second grade. So I speak on Ramakrishna, but I leave Dayanand aside. I leave him aside only so as not to make anyone unhappy needlessly. Those who believe in Dayanand would be hurt unnecessarily—why give them that pain? That is why I leave him, because if I were to take him up, I would have to deal with him precisely. So I simply sidestep.

But since you are Arya Samaji and also thinking of taking sannyas, it is necessary to make things clear. Let it not happen that you remain Arya Samaji and become a sannyasin—then sannyas will bear no fruit. Arya Samaj is a social movement like other social movements. It is not a drowning in love for the Divine. That is why the Arya Samaj produces empty talk—producers of babble. A great web of arguments, but not the slightest fragrance of life in their breath.

That Dayanand was a mahatma—this too is beyond doubt. But “mahatma” is a contrived affair—by discipline, by effort. He had a beautiful character, but it was superimposed, fabricated. By plan and hammering he erected his character. You can see the same in his face: not simplicity, but great hardness; not a childlike expression. He is a mahatma—but I don’t give much value to mahatmas either. The truth is, whoever truly wants to be possessed by the Divine must drop two things: being a great scholar and being a mahatma. The one who drops these two and becomes simple-hearted, like an innocent child—only he becomes capable of attaining the Divine.

So think it over. Let it not be that you take sannyas and then a split arises within you. There is no hurry; think it through. When a Christian comes for sannyas, I never say, “You will have to drop Jesus to have me.” No. I say to him, “If you have loved Jesus, you have loved me.” If a Sikh comes for sannyas, I do not say, “You will have to drop Nanak.” I say, “If you desire me, in that very desire you will find Nanak.” If a Muslim comes for sannyas, I never try to persuade him to break ties with Mohammed or the Qur’an. The truth is, by relating with me he will relate with the living Qur’an.

But with an Arya Samaji it is different. This is not religion at all. It is as if a communist comes to me and says, “So far I have followed Karl Marx, and I want to take sannyas. What do you say?” I would tell him, “Come after thinking it over.” Because Karl Marx was a great thinker—but not religious. He started a vast social movement and, in a certain sense, benefited humanity; yet that benefit is not religious, it is worldly.

Dayanand too rendered great service—to Hindu society. But to Hindu society. That too is politics. He raised Hindu society up, organized it, gave it new strength, gave it a new ego: “You are the sons of the Vedas—amritasya putrah—you are the descendants of rishis and seers.” He gave a new ego. But no ego whatsoever can make a man religious. People respect such figures because naturally people feel their swagger return, a revival comes. They say, “Right—we had lost our pride; now it is restored.”

So Dayanand did a great service to Hindu society. But service to Hindu society is not service to religion. More often than not, service to Hindu society, Jain society, Christian society will be anti-religious—because service to religion is service to man as such. There is no distinction there of Hindu-Muslim-Christian.

You ask, “Did Swamiji do nothing for the welfare of humanity?” For human welfare—nothing. For Hindu welfare—very much. But Hindu welfare is not human welfare; and often Hindu welfare will go contrary to human welfare. It must, because the very notion that someone is a Hindu leads you away from humanity. It fragments you; it does not unite.

So in my view the Arya Samaj has no place as a religion. I count it among movements like socialism, communism, the Brahmo Samaj. Significant movements, but of zero value from the religious standpoint. Their value in the social and political sphere is another matter—but I have nothing to do with those values.

Therefore, Haridev, I would say: think it over well. To be initiated here means that you are no longer an Arya Samaji. If you wish to remain Arya Samaji, drop the idea of sannyas. This is plain and blunt. If this is not clear, then wait; when it is clear, then take sannyas.

I do not want to create any dilemma in your life—half your mind remaining Arya Samaji and half becoming sannyasin—leaving you in a bind. I do not want to bring obstacles into your life; I want to remove them. I want rest to descend into your life—peace, bliss. I do not wish to put you in confusion. I have no greed to increase the number of sannyasins.

So think this through properly. Reflect, and when it is clear in your heart that you have the courage to drop the babble of social and political movements and truly drown in the ocean of the Absolute—where there is no Arya and no Anarya, no Veda and no Qur’an—then come. My doors are open. Then you are welcome.

It depends on you. If there is a great longing to win, you will have to live in defeat. Drop the very desire to win—and you win right now. Then what defeat is there!

Defeat only means that there is an indomitable craving to win. Because of that craving, the experience of defeat arises. Have you noticed? A little child wrestles with his father. The father pretends a bit, flails an arm or two, then quickly lies down. The child climbs on his chest, shouts, dances with joy, “I threw him! I knocked father flat on his back!” And the father lies underneath, happy—happy in being pinned. What is this? Because the father has accepted defeat. So even in defeat there is no defeat.

But if some other man climbs onto your chest, your heart is pricked; it feels like loss. You feel defeated because you want to win. If you accept defeat, how will it feel like defeat? Insult feels like insult only because you want honor. If you don’t crave honor, what insult can there be?

Understand this a little. Poverty stings and irritates you because you are intoxicated with the madness for wealth. If that madness isn’t there, why would poverty vex you? Whatever rubs you the wrong way, look closely: within you there is a desire for its opposite. And it will go on rubbing you the wrong way—no matter how much you accumulate.

America’s great tycoon Andrew Carnegie died leaving ten billion rupees, yet at the time of death he was restless and disturbed. Two days before he died, the writer of his autobiography asked, “You must be dying happy, because you are the richest man in the world—no one has so much cash as you!” Andrew Carnegie said, “What are you talking about? I am a failure. I am dying in tears, because I had planned to gather one hundred billion rupees and I could manage only ten. Is this a victory? It is a loss of ninety billion.”

Now think: if the plan is for a hundred, ten billion naturally looks like nothing—only a loss of ninety. And if you had desired nothing at all, even ten small coins would feel like much: “Ten coins came—without my even wanting them.”

Therefore a fakir rejoices in little things; a sannyasin rejoices in little things. He feels, “I had no merit, and yet so much has been given! There was no reason to receive, and yet it came.” It feels like the divine’s compassion, like prasad.

The worldly man, on the other hand—no matter how much he gets—goes on fretting and whining. He keeps beating his head. Some lack always rankles: “More is needed, more is needed.” Desire has no end. However much you gain, desire keeps leaping ahead—and the crying continues.

You ask, “Will I have to live my whole life only in defeat?”
I say to you, it depends on you. If you want to live victorious, drop the very talk of victory. Live—drop the talk of victory. This is what is called the life of surrender. Accept defeat. What meaning can victory have here? Is there anyone “other” to be conquered here? Is there any enemy here? Here there is only the One, the divine—whom are you going to defeat? Lay your head at his feet, and you have won. Hence it is said that in love, the one who loses has won. The “defeat” of love is victory.

You want victories for the ego—you will lose, and go on losing. Every victory of the ego produces a new defeat. And every “loss” in love opens a new doorway to victory. Understand this paradox: it is the supreme law of life, because here there is no other. These trees, these moon and stars, these people, these animals and birds—these are yours; they are you; this is your own expanse. You belong to them and they belong to you. Who is separate here? How can there be separateness? Whom are you defeating?

Imagine two waves of the ocean struggling, wrestling with each other to win—while neither realizes they are waves of the same sea. Whom to defeat?

Or imagine my left and right hands begin to wrestle—you can even make them wrestle if you wish. What’s the difficulty? Set them to fight! Then the problem arises: who will win and who will lose? As you like—make the left win or the right. In both cases the whole thing is futile. Both hands are yours—what defeat, what victory? There is no second here.

The very name of this experience is surrender: that there is no other here—only us. Then there is neither defeat nor victory.

It depends on you. The one who surrenders—wins. The one who loses—wins.

In this way the pain cannot lessen.
In this way the time cannot pass.
Do not wipe your tears on your sleeves;
Think of some other remedy.
This loneliness, this darkness, this gloom, this suffocation—
The doors are shut; how will a ray peep in?
Open the closed doors just a little;
Laugh with the light, speak with it.
Silence will shed like a yellowing leaf,
Then the wound of the heart will heal by itself.
There is a stair in the heart as well, not only in the house;
All messengers of creation come by that way.
Break these chains of ego,
And tie some bond with the street.
When the street’s clamor enters within,
Then loneliness will die of itself.
Come, let us live a few days of clamorous life,
Drink a palmful of the nectar of others’ pain.
Come, let us hear chattering gossip and rumors,
Then weave new dreams of the unborn future.
This ashen fog will clear away,
Then the heart’s pain will lessen of itself.

You have taken yourself to be alone, to be separate; because of this you suffer.

“Come, let us live a few days of clamorous life”—what does it mean? It means: for a little while, connect yourself with the Vast—link with the birds’ chirping, with the flowers of the trees, with the beams of the moon and stars.

Open the closed doors just a little;
Laugh with the light, speak with it.

Connect a little. Don’t live as an isolated little island; become a continent. Join yourself a little. You cannot live even for a moment apart—then what sense is there in being apart?

Breath is needed every moment from outside; food is needed daily from outside; water is needed daily from outside. What is outside becomes inside; what was inside becomes outside. Outside–inside, outside–inside—the exchange goes on all the time. How can you live even for a single moment cut off from the outside? In truth, there is neither inside nor outside.

There is a stair in the heart as well, not only in the house;
All messengers of creation come by that way.

Look within a little. There is a stair by which we are joined to the divine, to the Vast.

This loneliness, this darkness, this gloom, this suffocation—
The doors are shut; how will a ray peep in?

No!

In this way the pain cannot lessen.
In this way the time cannot pass.
Do not wipe your tears on your sleeves;
Think of some other remedy.

What remedy, so that life does not remain defeat after defeat? Lose—and then there is no defeat. That is the remedy. Disappear—and then no one will be able to make you disappear, not even death. Let the ego go. Then no one has the power to erase you; no one has the power to defeat you.

It is the ego that gets you insulted; the ego that brings failure; the ego that defeats; the ego that makes you drink a thousand draughts of poison—and you go on drinking, mistaking it for nectar. Then you will lose; you will weep; your whole life will become a long chain of tears.

That chain can turn into flowers. Change your direction a little. Open the doors a little. Join, meet. See that all is one. The very name of this proclamation is Vedanta. The very name of this proclamation is religion. The very name of this proclamation is Buddhahood.

Both are true. And they can be true only together. Coming here you will have to lose something—only then will you gain. The more you lose, the more you will gain, in the same proportion. Those who lose nothing will gain nothing. They will come empty-handed and go empty-handed. Then don’t be angry with me. Don’t later say, “We went, we came—so much coming and going—and nothing happened.” Only if you are willing to lose will you gain. Only if you stake yourself will you gain.

There is no contradiction between the two. You lost—therefore you found. Whatever little you have still kept back, Geeta, bring that out too; lose that as well. Surely you must have saved a bit; otherwise this question would not arise. Had you lost totally, the question wouldn’t arise—you yourself would see that this losing has become finding.

Let it be lost, grain by grain, ounce by ounce—don’t save anything, and then everything will be gained. For this very process is one of finding by losing oneself. And you will not repent what you let go—I can tell you this much; you will certainly repent what you keep. Don’t tell me later I didn’t warn you. The opportunity is today; tomorrow it may not be. Then you will regret not having let it go.

That butterfly was paper
which once pierced the blossom of my mind.
That faith was a mirage
that gleamed like a pearl in the mirror of my eyes.
That belief, said to be steadfast as the Himalayas,
was only a piece of wood floating on water.
That Truth–Godliness–Beauty, seemingly born of the soul,
was mere show.
Whatever there was, or is, in my life
turned out to be false.
Friends, to others you may well say,
I turned out a fool.

If you do not let go, one day you will discover you have acted in great folly. What you preserved was a piece of wood drifting on water. What you preserved, that which shone like a pearl in the mirror of the eyes, was a faith that was a mirage.

That butterfly was paper
which once pierced the blossom of my mind.
It was mere show.
Whatever there was, or is, in my life
turned out to be false.
Friends, to others you may well say,
I turned out a fool.

Let it go, and you will not have this regret. And what is it you will be losing? What you have is only a piece of wood—even if you fancy it gold. You have no real wealth to lose.

That is why I say again and again: let go of what you do not have. Where is it, anyway? And then what you truly have will be revealed. Hence I also say: allow me to snatch away from you that which you do not have—so that I may give you what you do have. But people are frightened. People are such that when their dreams break, they weep over them.

Haven’t you seen little children? Sometimes a child wakes in the morning and begins to cry, because in his dream he was playing with a big doll—a very beautiful doll—and he keeps saying, “Where is my doll?” He gropes around the bed. The mother says, “It was a dream,” but he won’t listen. He has not yet learned to distinguish between dream and reality.

People weep even over dreams. Very few ever truly mature psychologically. Most people go on crying over dreams. Someone’s love was there and it broke.

The day before yesterday a young man came—he has fallen in love. He said, “If I don’t get this woman, I will die.” As you wish! But no one ever actually dies. A man once said to a woman, “If you don’t choose me, if you don’t marry me, I will die. Please, keep my honor—I will certainly die.” And indeed he died—sixty years later.

“I will die”? Yesterday this woman wasn’t even in sight, and you were living just fine without her. Today, because she appeared, you think, “If I don’t get her, I’ll die.” Tomorrow you will forget her. These are dreams—arising, passing, bursting like bubbles. Tomorrow you will forget; tomorrow you’ll become infatuated with another woman and repeat the same thing: “If I don’t get her, I’ll die.”

Mulla Nasruddin was telling a woman, “If I don’t get you, I’ll die.” The woman asked, “Mulla, do you speak the truth?” He said, “This is my old habit—I’ve told this to many women. It’s nothing new; I’ve long practice in it.”

You are ready to stake your very life on a dream. Someone says, “If I don’t get the position, I’ll die.” Someone says, “If I don’t get the money, I’ll die.” And if they don’t get these things, they weep bitterly.

Let it go—why weep over the corpses of dreams?
Look—the guest of the sunbeam stands at your door,
yet you are absorbed in welcoming the dark.
Life’s auspicious song has sent its invitation,
yet you recite elegies and sink into grief.
The pupils of your eyes are tying a new cradle,
yet you still carry a corpse upon your eyelids.
Let it go—why weep over the corpses of dreams?
If a few pearls are missing, string new ones,
but do not leave the garland of life unfinished.
Wipe your tears, forget your sorrow, and smile.
Listen—the morning song is singing; light is on the path.
It is only a dream that has broken, not the heart—
then why despair of life?
Let it go—why weep over the corpses of dreams?

And people weep. They weep profusely, endlessly. In life the weeping never stops until it is clearly understood that dreams are dreams. Then a man stops weeping—no longer this dream breaking, that dream breaking. And dreams will break; dreams are born to break. Guard them as carefully as you like—they will still break. They are delicate; they are vessels of glass. They will break—and again you will weep.

To Geeta I would say: what was there in what you left? What was there in what went? And I know Geeta well—I have known her for many years—I never saw anything in her possession. But there must have been dreams, dreams planted in the mind. She is a woman; there must have been dreams—she will marry, she will marry a rich man, build a big bungalow, a Cadillac will stand in the driveway—this, that; such dreams women weave.

Women’s dreams, men’s dreams—they differ a little, but dreams are dreams. Children will come—such dreams she must have cherished. Those dreams have gone; there was nothing else to go. There was no house, no Cadillac, no thing. And even had there been—what of it? And still, the unknowing remains. I know she married once before, and she was miserable—very miserable. She once came to me with her husband, years ago. Somehow I got her released from that entanglement. I had her freed—“Let it go; if it doesn’t work, what point is there?”

What was there that could be lost? There is nothing in the hand, yet man keeps his fist tight, thinking there is something inside.

Two madmen were talking. One clenched his fist and said, “All right, I’ll bet you—tell me what’s in my fist and you get this ten-rupee note.” The other thought a bit and said, “Brother, at least give a hint or two. The world is so big! Who knows what could be in your fist? A few hints—at least three.” The first madman said, “If you want hints, then you won’t get the ten rupees. The ten rupees are only if you tell me without hints.” So the other thought, and said, “It must be an elephant in your hand.”

The first madman slowly opened his fist, looked, and said, “Seems you’ve managed to peek somehow.”

Elephants don’t fit in fists. They cannot. But if the fist is closed, anything is possible—the web of imagination is wide open. Have you ever opened your fist to see what you have?

People come to me and say, “We place everything at your feet.” I say, “Wait—what is this ‘everything’?” They say, “No, we are leaving all.” I say, “Let’s tally the accounts—what is there?” Worry, restlessness, anxiety, anger, greed, maya, attachment—what are you leaving? And after leaving these, don’t come tomorrow and say, “Look how much we deposited at your feet.” You are leaving snakes and scorpions. There is nothing else to leave. And then you will strut about saying, “We donated everything, left it all at his feet.” What is there to place? What are you leaving?

If you understand with a little awareness, if you open your fist, you will bow and say, “I have nothing to place at your feet; I am bowing down empty.” But rarely does anyone say, “I bow empty.” He goes on taking his dreams as his wealth.

So, Geeta, what was there that you think you have lost? There was nothing. To cover up the state of having nothing, you had decorated a few dreams, assumed “this and that is so.” Those dreams broke—as they should have. Hence it seems that “sometimes it feels that by coming here I have squandered my life.”

Certainly—you have squandered a certain kind of life: the life of madness. You have squandered the kind of life your father lived, and his father lived. But do you know what your father gained? Even at the last breath he could not gather the courage for sannyas. The last time he came to see me, I told him, “Don’t delay any longer.” He understood, and said, “Yes, the body is growing weak; I do want to take sannyas, but let me wait a little.” He had no obstacle to taking sannyas then. “Let me wait a little!” He waited—and within a week he was gone. When will such an opportunity return to him? It’s hard to say.

If you ask me, Geeta—your father lost; you have lost nothing. And the mistake your father made, he will repent for births upon births. He was a seeker, he wished, but he could not gather courage. He wanted to jump in, but kept wavering. You took courage—and you dived. Nothing has been lost. Or what has been lost was only a nothingness. And what you have received—you cannot yet properly appraise what it is. Because as yet the very capacity to recognize it has not fully ripened. Slowly, slowly, it will become clear what has been given.

It is as if a fakir were suddenly handed an empire—at first he would not even understand what he had received. Seat him on the throne and he will be restless: “What is this? What is this court, this palace, this wealth? What is all this?” He won’t grasp it at once. It will take time to do the accounting, to recognize, to sink into this new situation.

Your hands have loosened a little from the world of maya; and your life’s journey has moved a little toward the world of truth. Now don’t keep looking back. Let what is gone be gone. It went because it was nothing. What is truly ours never goes away—take this as the touchstone. What is truly ours cannot be lost; it is our very nature. And what is lost was never ours. The sooner it goes, the better—the less time wasted; it is the grace of the Divine.

With this trust, let what wants to fall away, fall away—and be ready to welcome what is new.

Without concepts there is no need to know. Because without concepts you have come to be; wherever you are, that is the path. What you are is the seer.

Yesterday I was reading about Mirza Ghalib. Ghalib was a drunkard, a lover of wine. A man came—a pundit-type, religious sort—and began lecturing against alcohol, speaking at great length. Ghalib listened for a long time, then said, Brother, tell me just one thing: if a person keeps on drinking, what is the greatest harm, the biggest loss? The man said, The greatest harm is that a drunkard never prays to God—he cannot. Ghalib clapped loudly and said, You fool! What would a drunkard pray for? He already has what he needs. You people can do the praying. A drunk has nothing left to pray for!

You ask, “If one has lost all concepts, how will he know what the path is?”

There is no need to know. If concepts are gone, it means the mind is gone—because the mind is a collection of concepts. One whose mind is gone is on the path. That is what Buddha called the right path, the exact way. Where the mind is not, there is no possibility of going wrong.

I understand your difficulty. Imagine a man used to wearing glasses, and someone says, Your eyes will be cured—drop the glasses! He says, If I drop the glasses, how will I see? We tell him, Your eyes will be healed—drop the glasses! He says, All right, the eyes may be healed, but then how will I see? He has always seen through spectacles; he cannot conceive how seeing will happen without them.

We have always known through the mind what is right and what is wrong—although we never actually knew; we merely assumed: this is right, that is wrong. We never had a clear vision of what is truly right and wrong. And then the mind says, This is right—but do we do it? We end up doing exactly what the mind says is not right. We do one thing, we say another—this is the mind’s whole contradiction, its irony. When the mind is gone, what should happen, happens. Explanations disappear; truth is seen. Interpretation drops. There is a vast difference between interpretation and truth.

A rose blooms and you say, If we drop the concept of beautiful and ugly, how will we enjoy its beauty? In fact, you have never enjoyed it yet. The moment you say, It is beautiful, the joy is lost. There is a joy in which neither the word beautiful nor the word ugly arises. The flower is, you are, and between the two an immense exchange happens—no word arises, neither beautiful nor ugly. Then you have the real experience of its beauty. You don’t say it is beautiful—there is no need to say it; you savor it. When you say beautiful, you are only mouthing a cliché. Nothing is being experienced; you have heard from your forefathers, from the people of the village: a rose is beautiful—so you repeat, It is beautiful.

Have you noticed the new fashion in the world—cactus? People have started planting cacti in their homes. The rose is out! Who cares for the rose now? The rose has become a matter of old tradition. In big bungalows the rose has been removed. The rose is now old-fashioned. People have praised it for so long—discard it! The cactus has arrived—nagphani!—which nobody ever brought into the house. It used to be planted outside the village, around fields, so animals wouldn’t stray in. Who would bring a cactus into the home?

Now the cactus sits enthroned, reigning in drawing rooms! And people come and exclaim, Ah, what a lovely cactus! And these are the very people who never before said, Lovely cactus! The wind has changed. The rose has lost its prestige; the cactus has gained it. People live by words, by propaganda. Whatever is advertised, they begin to call beautiful or ugly. There is hardly any experience of beauty or non-beauty.

There is also an experience where words simply do not form. The life-breath remains wordless. The experience is so dense that who has the leisure to make words? One is stunned, speechless. Then that which is real is seen.

I have heard of a scientist—a great scientist, especially skilled with electrical instruments. He was very worried about his daughter, because a boy was after her. If he had been an old-fashioned father, he would have driven the boy out with a stick. He was not old-fashioned; he was a modern man. But modernity is only on the surface; inside, the old goes on. So inwardly he was troubled. He called the boy that monkey. Has that monkey come again? He couldn’t stand him at all. The two would sit for hours in the drawing room, chatting; many a night they sat till midnight. Finally it was beyond his endurance; he grew very restless wondering what on earth they did sitting there.

Being a modern father, he couldn’t just go and stand between them—the old days of doing that were gone. It would have spoiled his modern image; people would say, What is this? A girl will of course fall in love! And a monkey? We are all monkeys—Darwin has proved it—what of it! And if the girl likes him, who are you to object?

So he devised a trick—being a great scientist. In the ceiling of the room where the boy and girl would sit and make love talk, he installed a small device, and in his own room he set up a radar screen. That device would translate things into colors on his screen. If the boy took the girl’s hand—naturally, young boy and girl in love, there would be quite a bit of heat when hands met—the heat-sensing instrument would quickly detect it, and a red color would appear on the radar screen. Then he would know: All right, that monkey of a boy has held her hand! If they kissed, a green color would appear—the monkey is kissing my girl! And if they embraced, a blue would show. He had arranged such colors.

One day there was a conference of scientists and he had to go. He went very restlessly, because as he was going out, that monkey was coming in. So he said to his younger son, Listen, go and sit in my room; there’s a screen—keep watching it, and take this paper and note down which color appears, and in what sequence. The boy had no idea what the colors meant; he just thought father had given him a task. He sat diligently and began writing: which color came first, which later, when what appeared. The father hurried to the conference and somehow finished it; all the while he was anxious: What colors must be appearing there? But before he could reach home, the son came running to the conference hall. The father asked, What happened? Why are you running like this? He said, Father, something amazing has happened! The father: What happened? Speak quickly! The boy said, A rainbow has appeared! He had no idea—all the colors were coming at once!

The child had no interpretation, but what was, he was seeing. The father’s mind was full of interpretations—he beat his head. The boy couldn’t understand: Why are you banging your head? Such an amazing rainbow has appeared—one could go on watching! I ran so you wouldn’t miss it—come! The boy’s delight.

When all concepts drop—no notion of good and bad, beautiful and ugly, moral and immoral—then what is in life manifests as it is, in an unprecedented way; there is no interpretation. You are, and the truth of life is—just as it is. So do not be afraid of this. All concepts create boundaries, and all interpretations are petty. That which is beyond interpretation is the vast.

One wing, the sun
One wing, the moon
On the wind flies
the craft of time
Come, let us clip its wings
arrest its speed
let this weary, tired life
find rest
In the mirror is form, not fragrance
Love lives upon the sky
There is no contract
Mirrors and contracts
break under time’s blows
Fragrance and sky ever expand
and go on expanding

Break the boundaries! Break the contracts, the conditions—that God will only be God if he is such-and-such; truth will only be truth if it is such-and-such; love will only be love if it looks like this. Break such contracts. Know what is. Know it as it is.

In the mirror there is form, no fragrance
Love lives upon the sky
There is no contract
The forms that appear in the mirror of such concepts have no fragrance; they are lifeless, dead.

Love lives upon the sky
There is no contract
Love is not a condition; it is the open, free sky. Meditation too is unconditional. And these are the only two precious things in this world: if love becomes unconditional, you are a devotee; if meditation becomes unconditional, you are a knower.

Mirrors and contracts
break under time’s blows
Concepts keep cracking and breaking—they are of your own making; how long can they last?

Fragrance and sky ever expand
and go on expanding
Do something that makes you go on expanding—ever expanding. Let the infinite become your home. Let the aimless be your aim. Dive into the invisible. Lose yourself in the unfathomable—lost forever. For that, concepts must be dropped—must be dropped. The mind must be broken—must be broken. All that man has thought out will have to be removed so that God—as he is—can be seen by us without the obstruction of our thinking.

A devotee calls it love; a sage calls it meditation. Whichever appeals to you, go from that side. But the mind will have to go. As long as the mind is, the Lord is not. When the Lord comes, the mind is not.

If you want to invite him, bid farewell to the mind. From this door the mind departs; from that door the Lord enters.
Enough for today.