Es Dhammo Sanantano #87

No, dear, you have nothing. Forget “everything”—you have nothing at all. Because if everything were there, peace would be there. If everything were there, joy would be there. A tree is known by its fruit. If there is no fruit, will you still call it a tree? If the fruit of joy does not appear, the tree is false—assumed, imagined. If peace is not born, what kind of wealth is it? Then you are calling misfortune “fortune.” Wealth means that from which joy flowers. The fruit is the touchstone.

A goldsmith tests gold on a touchstone. If the stone shows no mark and a man insists, “I have gold, but it leaves no trace on the touchstone,” what will you call him? Mad.

Peace is the mark. Joy is the mark on the touchstone. If you truly had wealth, these marks would surely appear. Even if you did not try to make them appear, they would arise—spontaneously, on their own. So somewhere there is a mistake. You have taken the worthless to be worthwhile. You have gathered scrap and are calling it wealth. Calling something “wealth” does not make it wealth. Only if it is, it is. You can try a million times to squeeze oil from sand—you won’t get it. If there were oil in the sand, it would come; but there isn’t.

You say, “I have everything, except peace.”
Then you have nothing. Drop this delusion. This illusion of “having everything” will keep you stuck. When this illusion breaks, the journey toward peace can begin. The first step on the path of peace is to see: all the steps I have taken so far were in the wrong direction—now I will not take another step that way.

You say, “I have capital.”
Do you know the definition of capital? Capital means that which cannot be lost; once gained, forever yours. Do you call that “capital” which can be snatched away? That which thieves can steal—is that “capital”? That which has value today and is valueless tomorrow—is that capital? True capital is that which holds eternal value. Capital is inner, not outer. It is such that even death cannot take it away. Fire cannot burn it; weapons cannot pierce it. Flames may consume your body, but your capital remains untouched. Money is not capital; meditation is capital.

You say, “I have position.”
The knowers have called only the Divine a position—the supreme position. All other positions are deceptions. You sit on a bigger chair and say, “I have a position.” Childish talk. Little children climb onto a stool near their father, onto a chair, and say, “I’m bigger than you!” Does one become big by sitting on chairs? And does one become small when a chair is taken away? Any bigness or smallness that depends on chairs is not bigness; it is self-deception. You are dreaming. There is only one capital—the soul. And one true position—the Divine.

And “prestige”? If you abide in that capital and that position, then there is prestige. The word pratishtha is very significant: to be established, rooted there—so that nothing can shake you, no device can dislodge you, no circumstance can uproot you. That is prestige.

I have heard a small story.
Two thousand years ago, enemies captured a Greek city and ordered its inhabitants to evacuate. They were, however, much impressed by the citizens’ bravery, and so they granted them the concession: “Carry with you whatever and however much you can.” The whole city began to move toward another town, each with his load on his back—and weeping for what could not be carried. Backs were bent under the weight, feet staggered, throats were parched with thirst, and yet everyone was carrying more than he could bear.

Naturally: if enemies attacked your town and then said, “Take only what you can carry on your back,” could you find even one person who would carry only what is fitting? Each would carry more than his capacity.

Those who had never borne a load in their lives were trudging under heavy bundles: gold, silver, coins, ornaments, diamonds and jewels, a thousand precious objects. And still they wept, for so much had to be left behind. One cannot carry one’s entire house. They wept for what was left; and they were crushed by what they carried. Death in both: sorrow for what was abandoned, suffering from what was borne.

In the entire caravan there was only one man who had nothing to carry. Empty-handed, head held high, chest straight, he walked in great serenity. Not only that—amidst the weeping crowd he alone was humming a song. This was the philosopher Bias.

A woman said compassionately, “Oh! Poor fellow, how destitute he is—he has not even anything to take with him!”

Even beggars were carrying bundles. No beggar is so beggarly that he has nothing to carry; it may be little, but something there will be. They too had dug up their hoarded scraps and were bearing them. Bias alone had nothing—empty-handed, free of mind, not even glancing back. What was there behind to look at? And he bore no load.

The woman said in pity, “Ah, poor man! Nothing to take?” The mystic Bias replied, “I am carrying all my capital with me. Do not pity me—pity yourself.”

Startled, she said, “I see no capital. What capital? What are you talking about? Are you in your senses? Are you not only poor but mad?” Bias burst into laughter. “My meditation is my capital; my conduct is my capital; the purity of my soul is my capital. Enemies cannot snatch it. No one can separate me from it. I have earned only that which cannot be taken away. You have earned what can be taken from you at any moment. And whatever can be separated from you will lie here at the hour of death. From that which can be separated, neither peace nor joy comes. From that which cannot be separated, an invisible peace descends, joy arrives. This invisible capital is the only capital that has no weight. The body’s capital burdens; the soul’s capital does not.”

So you say, “I have everything, except peace.”
It is precisely this “everything” that breeds restlessness. Peace is far away—this so-called capital, position, prestige is the very cause of your suffering. Joy is far away; leave joy aside—these have produced only sorrow: thorns upon thorns, torment and anxieties.

One night an emperor was touring his city when, under a tree in the full moonlight, he saw a beggar beating rhythm on his begging bowl and singing in delight. The emperor was astonished. The man had nothing—what was he singing for? The emperor had everything, yet no song reached his lips—long since forgotten. No dance rose in his feet—long since withered. His heart had dried; no current of nectar flowed. What did this man have that made him hum?

The emperor reined in his horse. There was some magic in that song—some sweetness not of this earth, as if wafting from far away. There was a kind of intoxication, a wave around him. The emperor stopped, for a moment forgot he was a king, forgot his worries and troubles.

When the song ended, he started as if from a trance and asked the beggar, “What do you have that makes you sing? What do you have that you are free of worry? What do you have that makes you so blissful in this moonlit night? What do you have that has filled me with jealousy? Even great emperors do not evoke jealousy in me, because whatever they have, I too have—more or less, it makes no difference. But what do you have that halted me? I could not move on.”

The beggar laughed. “I have nothing I can show,” he said. “But I have much I can sing. Nothing to display; much to hum. Look at me—don’t ask questions. I cannot answer with words—look into my eyes.” The emperor was so moved that he brought him to the palace, gave him a bed, and said, “We will talk in the morning.”

In the morning, out of courtesy, the emperor asked, “How was your night?” The beggar replied, “Some like yours—and some better than yours.” The emperor was puzzled. “What do you mean?” “When we fell into deep sleep,” the beggar said, “we were alike—no difference. While awake, I remained in remembrance of the Lord; you, no doubt, were drowning in anxieties. Some like yours; some better. In deep sleep, we were the same; while awake, I was immersed in remembrance, you were immersed in worry—counting worthless shards. That is why I say: some like yours, some better.”

If you truly seek capital, position, and prestige, then seek meditation and love. Only the coins of love will enrich your life; only the coins of meditation will fragrance it. Then peace comes by itself. As when a lamp is lit, light happens and darkness departs; so when meditation is lit, the darkness of restlessness disappears on its own.

What you have done so far—you have done wrongly. Even now it is not too late. Something can be done. Revolution can happen in a single moment. But first: stop calling these things “capital.” If you go on calling them capital, you will remain possessed by them because of the very naming. Therefore I insist: don’t call this “position,” don’t call it “prestige,” don’t call it “capital.” If nothing has come from it, at least stop giving it such beautiful words.

Words have consequences. The names we give create currents in our lives. If you call it capital, you will cling. If you begin to say, “This is insubstantial—rubbish,” your fist will start to open. Words have immense power. Small shifts in words bring great shifts in being.

So I ask you: do not call this capital, position, prestige. Your life’s own experience has proved that it is none of these. From it you have received only sorrow, anxiety, restlessness—derangement. Do not give such beautiful names to that. Call the Divine your capital; call the Divine your position; seek your prestige—your establishedness—in the Divine.

But this is possible only if you stop seeking here. You alone are the seeker—if you keep seeking in the world, the world has no end. One desire breeds another; one desire produces a chain of desires. It is an endless series. You will find nothing in it. The farther you run, the deeper you will enter the desert. And the deeper you go into it, the harder the return—remember. You go with enthusiasm; you return with great melancholy. So stop where you are. I am not telling you to flee the world—I am saying, wake up.

There is no capital in this “capital.” Give a little time to the real capital. Give twenty-three hours to the futile if you must; give one hour to the meaningful. Live one hour in the oasis. Wander twenty-three hours in the desert, but live one hour in the oasis—take a plunge within for one hour.

Even that much, and soon you will find the one hour has won and the twenty-three have lost. That one hour is so powerful—notes will burst forth, rays of light will become available—that you will suddenly see: small rays have begun to change your life; you have set out on a journey toward the sun; wings have grown; you have begun to fly on another pilgrimage.

You ask, “What should I do?”
I say: meditate, love. Remember two words—inside, meditation; outside, love—and everything will follow. When alone, dive into meditation; be so alone that the world is forgotten. Let the eyes close, let thoughts be—if they move, let them move—but be separate from them. Drop identification. Let them pass as a crowd passes along a road. Noise may go on—let it—but do not join yourself to it. Gradually stand apart, far away. Live in your witnessing.

And when someone is near, let love flow. When alone, dive into meditation; when with another, pour out love.

If you hold these two, you will gain capital—surely. You will gain position and prestige too—because you will attain the Divine.

Certainly—without a shred of doubt. Buddha’s grasp is profoundly scientific. If you want to understand what scientificness means, see it like this—
You do call Marx scientific, don’t you! Communists call Marx the greatest scientist in the world—especially in relation to society, the subtlest analyst, with the deepest penetration into it. And you do call Freud a scientist, don’t you! The whole world says no one ever had such reach and such grip concerning the mind. But you will be surprised to know that both of them have used Buddha’s Four Noble Truths. Let me restate Buddha’s Four Noble Truths; then their link with these two will be easy to see.

Buddha said, first it is necessary to know that there is suffering. Many people don’t even know this—that there is suffering. They sit convinced that this is just how life is. If this is simply life, why call it suffering?

Think of a man who was born, and from the very moment of birth he has had a headache—thirty years have passed, and the headache has been there since day one, twenty-four hours a day. He will not even know he has a headache. And when he does not know he has a headache, why would he seek treatment? Why would he look for a physician? Why would he search for medicine?

So the first thing for freedom from any suffering is a very deep feeling that suffering is. There must be a very clear awareness of it.

Marx said there is so much suffering in the world—so much pain, poverty, exploitation—but people don’t know it. The poor man assumes, “Being poor is my fate.” He is not aware, “I am suffering, and this is not my fate; there can be a remedy.”

So Marx applied Buddha’s first Noble Truth—“there is suffering”—on the social plane. He said the poor, the downtrodden, the proletariat must become aware: “I am suffering.” The day the poor clearly feel, “I am suffering, and suffering cannot be fate; health is natural, suffering is a distortion, an accident—then surely something is going wrong, which can be set right,” then the first thing has happened: a clear awareness that there is suffering.

Exactly this is what Freud said concerning psychology. Many people are in a disturbed state, yet they don’t go to a psychologist because it never occurs to them that they are suffering. Many are unhappy, but they never seek; they have simply accepted, “This is life—what else can life be! The same daily scramble, the same getting up, sitting down, going to sleep, the same quarrels, the same love—this is life.” The dream that life could be otherwise never arises in them; no comparison is born.

So Freud too says that psychotherapy is possible only when it becomes clear to a person: “The state of my mind is not as it should be; something is distorted, something has gone wrong.” Only then is treatment sought.

Both used Buddha’s first Noble Truth, whether they knew it or not.

The second Noble Truth is: suffering has a cause. That suffering is—what use is that by itself? If suffering were without cause, nothing could be done; we would be crippled, helpless. If something were causeless, nothing could be done—what would you do? But if there is a cause, the cause can be changed.

Suppose you have a headache because you have been eating something that produces headaches—then you can stop eating it. Suppose you have a headache because at night you sleep without a pillow—if that is found out, you can sleep with a pillow, the headache can go. If there is a headache, the cause must be sought. If there is no cause, the headache cannot be removed; then there is no remedy. This is Buddha’s great scientific discovery: suffering has a cause.

And this is exactly what Marx says. Marx says people are poor because there is a cause for poverty: exploitation is at work. This is exactly what Freud says: people are unhappy, disturbed, going mad, sick, not mentally healthy—there is a cause. The cause is repression of the mind’s natural tendencies. If the cause is grasped, we are on the right road. This is Buddha’s second Noble Truth, and its scientificness is very clear.

When you go to a doctor, this is what he asks: “What is the trouble?” First he asks, “What is the suffering?” Then when the suffering is identified, he examines you and makes a diagnosis. Diagnosis means: the cause—what is the cause? If the cause is precisely grasped, the cure is almost achieved—fifty percent is done. To get the right diagnosis is to complete nearly half the treatment.

That’s why when you go to a doctor who will neither prescribe nor treat himself, but only diagnose, his fee is the highest. The one who gives the medicine hardly takes a fee—the compounder gives it, the chemist gives it; they have no fee as such. Once the diagnosis is made—here is the illness, here are the causes—then it’s simple. No big hurdle remains. The most important thing is diagnosis.

So when Buddha says there is suffering and there is a cause, he is talking of diagnosis. He is saying: first diagnose. Marx diagnosed that centuries of poverty, misery, pain in society persist because there is exploitation. If this diagnosis is wrong, the cure will not work. Others had also offered diagnoses—but they were wrong.

Religious people kept telling man: man is poor because he committed sins in his past lives. This is a false diagnosis; it is not true. Because of this diagnosis the poor remained poor, and those who believe this diagnosis will remain poor, because the diagnosis itself is false. It has no connection with the reality of life.

Man is poor because there is a whole conspiracy to keep him poor. Man is poor because before he can earn, it is taken from him. Before he can produce, his pocket is picked. And the arrangements for picking pockets are so subtle he doesn’t even notice. And it has been going on for so many centuries that he has no awareness it is going on. And those who hold wealth and power will naturally explain, “What can we do? You are suffering because of your past-life sins.”

Now see the trick: if past-life sin is the cause, then nothing can be done now—you must simply suffer. Past lives are already over—what is done is done, they cannot be changed. The only thing possible is: take care of the future life. Mind your next birth. So now don’t make mistakes that will make you poor in your next life.

You don’t know anything about past lives, nor about future lives. And those who have wealth naturally say, “We are enjoying the fruits of our past virtues.” In fact the situation is reversed: those with wealth are reaping the fruits of sins in this very life, and those without wealth may well be living out the fruits of their virtues in this very life. Good people get sucked dry; bad people climb onto your chest. To sit on another’s chest, you have to be bad—otherwise you couldn’t sit there at all.

Kings, emperors, magnates—they spread a vast net of exploitation. And the most useful person in that net was the priest, the pundit, the ritualist—because he poisoned people. He told them, “What will you do? You are poor because you sinned in your past life. Now don’t sin. Be quiet now, be good, be pure in conduct; and whatever is happening, endure it. It is fate—nothing can be done. Accept it as punishment.”

This has been the diagnosis so far. It is false—like telling a man whose mind is deranged that a ghost has possessed him: “Go worship some tree, go massage some exorcist’s feet.” His mind is deranged, but you call it a ghost—such a diagnosis is false. In exactly the same way, the doctrine of karma was a false diagnosis as used. It greatly aided exploitation.

Marx grasped the diagnosis accurately. He said the cause is not that; the cause is a web of exploitation. And in this whole process, the second part of Buddha’s Four Noble Truths is being used.

Freud too said: suffering has a cause. The cause is that your natural desires have been suppressed, not allowed to be expressed—therefore man becomes deranged.

Ninety-nine out of a hundred mad people are mad because sexual desire has been forcibly suppressed. When sexual desire is forcibly repressed, it is as if you are holding down the lid of a kettle while there is fire underneath. The water inside is boiling and turning to steam, and you are holding the lid down—if there isn’t an explosion, what else will happen? There will be an explosion.

Sexual desire is fire; it is not to be suppressed, it is to be understood. It is to be used. If suppressed, there will be an explosion and derangement. If not suppressed, but rightly used—engaged in the right direction, employed creatively—then the very capacity for sex becomes samadhi.

So either sexual desire distorts you and drives you mad, or, if you ride the horse of sexual energy rightly, it takes you to the very door of the divine. Properly understood, sexual desire becomes brahmacharya; not understood and forcibly repressed, it becomes debauchery—mental debauchery; it becomes perversion.

So Marx said: society suffers because there is exploitation. Freud said: man becomes disturbed and mad because his naturalness has been suppressed and blocked; his natural flow has not been given a simple, proper chance to move. Both are Buddha’s Noble Truths.

Then Buddha’s third Noble Truth: there is a way to be free of the cause, there is a remedy. Marx says: the remedy is revolution; the remedy is the rule of the proletariat—the power in the hands of the workers. The remedy is to break the machinery of exploitation and establish a classless society. And Freud says: the remedy is psychoanalysis—insight into your repressed drives.

Therefore the psychoanalyst does nothing but bring your suppressed desires to light—he makes you yourself speak them. Slowly, slowly he draws them up from the unconscious into consciousness, catches them out of darkness and brings them into the light, sets them before you.

The day you gain insight into why you are going crazy, the day you see all the inner turbulence to which you’ve been forcibly subjected—that very day you find the medicine. “No more repression”—that is the medicine. Bring what is suppressed back to a simple, natural state, and don’t repress further. This is the third Noble Truth: the remedy, the way.

And the fourth Noble Truth is: when diagnosis is made, the remedy applied, the causes removed, there remains the fourth state—the state of happiness. On the social plane Marx says: communism—when there will be equality. And Freud says: mental health—when the mind is balanced, healthy, full of energy.

These are nothing but uses of Buddha’s Four Noble Truths. Buddha used them in a vast way; Marx and Freud in a very narrow way. Buddha applied them to existence; Marx to society and economy; and Freud to the mind and its functioning.

What Buddha proclaimed is for the whole of existence: there is suffering; man is unhappy—what greater truth is there? Where do you find a happy man? Those you meet smiling—are they really happy? Often the unhappy are plastering smiles onto their faces; it’s a way of hiding their misery.

These smiles are false. Behind every smile are hidden tears. Human joys are hollow; inside there is a heap of sorrow. Human joys are flimsy—masks, faces thrown over the outside; the real face within is quite different.

But we all succeed in deceiving each other. Others see your face; they cannot see you. Therefore a hindrance arises in everyone: it seems everyone else is happy; only I am miserable. He sees: this person is smiling, that person is smiling—look how that husband and wife are walking along so cheerfully!

Have you ever had a darshan of them at home? Right now they have tidied up and come out looking delighted. Have you seen their state at home, before dressing up? You know the state of your own home. But you also know that when you go out you dress up too; and then you also present yourself as though there is nothing but happiness. You too show what is not—only found in stories—that everything is delightful. They too are showing the same.

There is a Sufi story: a man was very, very unhappy, and he prayed to God every day, “O Lord, what wrong have I done to you? You have given me so much suffering! The whole world seems happy, except me. If someone unhappy is found at all, he’s not as unhappy as I am. After all, what is my fault with you?”

One night he had a dream. He saw the heavens open and God said, “Get up—today we’ll arrange an exchange. You say everyone is happier than you and you alone are the most miserable?” He said, “Yes, Lord—that’s what I’ve been saying all my life. At last you’ve heard!” God said, “Come along—get up!” The whole town was going toward a great hall, each person carrying a bundle on his shoulder, because all had been told, “Tie up your sorrows and your joys in your bundle and bring them.” He quickly tied up his joys and sorrows and reached—today was the chance to exchange.

At the temple everyone stood with their bundles. A command came: “Hang your bundles on the pegs.” The bundles were hung. Then another command: “Now whoever wants, pick whichever bundle you choose.”

There was a great scramble; this man also rushed—yet you will be astonished to hear that each one picked his own bundle back—this man too—and there was great laughter in the sky. God said, “Well?” He said, “When I saw the bundles, the others’ were so huge; mine looked small! Besides, at least my sorrows are familiar—why take on someone else’s unfamiliar sorrows at this old age! Mine I know—my own sorrows are known companions. I had never seen the others’ sorrows, but seeing the loads in these bundles I realized they’re heavy. Those with smiles on their faces were also carrying big bundles. So mine is fine. Good or bad, at least it’s mine; I’ve lived with it all my life; I have experience—I’ll manage. Why take on new sorrows in old age! Who knows what complications might come, and with no practice dealing with them, it could be hard.”

And he was amazed to see that it wasn’t just he who chose his own—everyone snatched up their own bundle. No one chose another’s.

We see others’ smiles and we see our own sorrows, and from this a great illusion arises: it seems the whole world is having fun—except us.

Buddha said: there is suffering; the whole world is suffering. Not just you—the whole of existence is afflicted with suffering. To be in the world is suffering. Those who are not suffering are not in the world at all. The moment suffering ceases, their journey in the world is over. That is their last station; they will not return again. The happy do not return. Once someone attains the supreme bliss—gone is gone.

Buddha said: such a one goes as when you blow out a lamp and its flame disappears—just so he disappears. The one who has found bliss—gone is gone, he does not return. He attains nirvana. Nirvana means: like a lamp being extinguished, he vanishes; you will not find him anywhere. His ego, his identity, the fundamental causes of his birth—all are ended. He does not return again. So those who return here are the suffering ones. They are suffering—that’s why they come back. That they return is proof enough that they suffer—whatever their faces may say, don’t bother with that! Only the suffering return here.

So Buddha said: there is suffering—existence is afflicted by suffering. Society and mind are small matters—narrow applications. Buddha addressed the whole of existence: there is suffering. Then: there are causes of this suffering. Buddha said the cause is craving, desire—the race for more: more and more, let me get more. Because of this, people suffer. The greater the race for more, the greater the suffering. Craving is the cause.

And the remedy: freedom from craving. Dropping craving. Understanding craving and dissolving it. Seeing desire, and then being free of desire. That is, meditation. Let tendencies arise—let desire arise, let thoughts arise—and you remain unmoved within, not shaken in the least. Say to them, “Let the gusts blow, let the tempests rise—you cannot dislodge me from my center.” Slowly, slowly, these gusts and tempests cease to arise. Then nothing calls you outward; you come to rest within yourself—you become established—self-established; you attain health.

And the fourth state—nirvana—where there is the great bliss. You will not remain; only bliss will remain. As long as you remain, a little suffering will remain. The very sense of “I” is the knot of suffering—like a cancerous knot. You do not remain; the ocean of bliss remains. That ocean of bliss is the fourth state.

You ask, “Are Buddha’s Four Noble Truths scientific?”

I have seen nothing more scientific. In relation to man’s innermost core, Buddha has done exactly what a physician does with illness. What Marx did for society, what Freud did for the mind—Buddha did for all of life, for the whole of existence.

A farmer once complained to Lord Buddha: “I labor in the fields, I plough, I sow—and only then do I get to eat. Wouldn’t it be better if you too sowed, ploughed, and then ate?” A very unusual question. Buddha said, “O Brahmin, I also plough, I sow, I reap—and only then do I eat!” The farmer was astonished: “If you are a farmer, where are your tools? Where are your oxen? Where is your seed? Where is your plough?” Buddha said, “Faith is my seed, which I sow. Devotion is the rain that germinates it. Humility is my harrow. The mind is the rope with which the bulls are tied, and mindfulness is my plough and my goad. Truth is the means of yoking; gentleness the means of unyoking. Strength are my bulls. In this way, by ploughing I uproot the weeds of delusion. And the crop I harvest is nirvana. In this way suffering is destroyed and nirvana manifests. O Brahmin, you do the same.”

Buddha has given humanity a profoundly scientific vision. Understand it, and you can be free of suffering.

I have never heard of anyone truly benefitted. But it depends on what you mean by benefit. What benefit?

If you want truth, you will not get it from scripture; you get it from yourself. If you want doctrines, certainly you can get them from scripture—you will never get them from yourself. If you want to be a pundit, it is only through scripture that you can become one. If that is the benefit, then of course there is benefit in scriptures.

But is being a pundit any benefit? Is gathering borrowed, stale thoughts any gain? Others realized, and you only collected by hearing—does that count as benefit? That is deception.

Buddha used to say: A man sat every morning in front of his house and counted the cows and buffaloes as they went out of the village. And every evening, when they returned, he would count them again. Slowly, counting day after day, he began to feel as if they were his cows. Five hundred cows went out, five hundred came back.
His wife said to him, Have you gone mad? You sit counting other people’s cows—so many went, so many came—you keep big accounts. He would sit with paper keeping tally: one cow has not yet returned, ten have not returned, what happened today? His wife said, Even one cow of your own would be enough—what are five hundred of someone else’s to you? Whether they go or come, why waste your time sitting there?

Buddha would say: Exactly so is the man who keeps accounts of others’ words—what is written in the Vedas, what is written in the Quran. He does not bother to have even one cow of his own, whose milk he can drink, that can nourish him.

Buddha spoke very fine words—but of what use will they be? Let even a single ray of Buddhahood arise within you—let there be even one cow of your own. Mohammed spoke wondrous words—but what will you do with them? You will memorize them, learn them by heart, and start repeating them like parrots. These days even parrots have gone astray.

Yesterday I was reading a story.
A man had hung a cage, and in it were three parrots. One sat on a high perch; two sat beside him. A neighbor asked, What’s this? Three parrots! He said, Two are secretaries. They tell him what to say. The one sitting above—consider him the prime minister or the president. These two parrots memorize, and when it is time to speak they prompt him; then he speaks.

Borrowed parroting to begin with—and even then, with secretaries! First the borrowed words of Buddha, and then in between a long queue of pundits. They tell you what the Vedas mean—those who themselves do not know what the Vedas mean. And there isn’t just one or two of them; there is an entire chain, a whole jungle, and you get lost in it. Borrowed knowledge does not work; only what is your own works.

Now you ask: What benefit?
As I see it, only this much benefit is possible—if you want to be blind, then scriptures; if you want to be deaf, then scriptures; if you want to be lame and crippled, then scriptures. These are the kinds of benefits.

Kahlil Gibran has a little story—
I had heard that there is a city somewhere whose inhabitants live their lives on the basis of holy books. I reached that city. I was astonished to see that all its people had only one hand, one eye, and one leg. Great misery. Who had done this?
Filled with wonder I asked them, How did this happen to you? None of your limbs are whole. What happened to your eyes? Where did your second eye go? What happened to your hands? Who cut off your legs?
They too were astonished to see me with two eyes, just as I was astonished to see them. Even so, they signaled me to come with them. Many among them had even had their tongues cut out; they could not speak.
I went with them into a temple. In the courtyard of that temple there was a huge pile of hands, feet, eyes, and tongues. I was pained and asked, Which cruel person, which murderer has done this to you? At this they muttered among themselves, and an old man stepped forward and said, This is our own doing; this is our practice; this is the command of our scripture. We have conquered our vices. Saying this, he led me to a platform.
There was an inscription on which was written—If your right eye causes you to stumble, pluck it out and throw it away. For it is better that one of your members be destroyed than that your whole body fall into hell. And if your right hand incites you to evil, cut it off and throw it away, so that only one member be lost and not your whole body fall into hell. And if your speech utters the inauspicious, cut off the tongue, so that the tongue alone suffers and you do not suffer.
Reading this inscription, the whole story became clear to me. I asked, Is there no one among you who has two hands and two eyes? Whose tongue is intact? Whose legs are not cut off?
They all answered—No, none, except for those small children who, being of tender age, are not yet able to read the inscription.
When we came out of the temple, I immediately fled that holy city, because I was not of tender age and could well read that inscription.

Kahlil Gibran’s story is meaningful. Your scriptures have only crippled you. They have cut off your tongues. Even if your physical tongues have not been cut, they have made you impotent in speaking. You have become incapable of speaking truth. Even if you see that something is true, you cannot say it, because scripture stands in the way. Your eyes have been clouded; spectacles have been put upon you; dust has been thrown into them. You do not see what is; you see what your scriptures say. You have lost your own awareness. Like the blind you are walking by clutching the stick of scripture. And the scriptures themselves are dead; they cannot guide you. The scriptures are in the hands of other dead men, whom you call pundits. Such corpses are pushing corpses, and the blind are leading the blind.

You ask about benefit. It depends on you. What do you mean by benefit? If you want to be blind, scriptures are very useful; they provide great benefit. If you want to be crippled, certainly they are useful. But if you want to be healthy, scriptures do not help.

Am I saying that scripture has no use at all? No. Scripture has one use—but that is only after you yourself have known the truth. I want to tell you a strange thing—do read the scriptures, but read them when you have attained a little meditation. Then scriptures will not harm you. Then scriptures will accompany you; they will become your witnesses.

Right now, if you read the Gita, how will you read it? You will extract your own meanings from it, and all those meanings will be wrong. First listen to the song within you; let the Lord’s song be born within you first; let Krishna speak within you—then read the Gita. Then you will know that it is truly said, rightly said, exactly what you have heard within. But first listen; then the Gita will become your witness.

And then a unique thing happens—not only the Gita will bear witness, the Quran too will bear witness to you, and the Bible as well. For one who has understood the truth of life through meditation, all scriptures become witnesses together; then there is no contradiction among them. Then there is no difference of Hindu and Muslim, Christian and the rest.

But if you have not heard the inner truth, have not seen it, have not read your inner book—the real book, whose pages lie yet unturned—and you read the Gita, you will become a Hindu, not religious; read the Quran, and you will become a Muslim, not religious. And to be religious is a far greater thing than to be a Muslim. We need freedom from Muslims, from Hindus, from Jains and Buddhists. If there were no Christians and Parsis in the world, the world would be better. The world needs the religious man.

The religious man is something altogether different. His mind is not narrow, not sectarian. One who has known truth—even if he wanted to, how could he be sectarian? Truth is so vast that everything is contained in it. Truth is so great that even opposites dissolve there and become a confluence. Then there remains no conflict between the Quran and the Gita; only differences of language remain, differences of expression.

Krishna has his way of speaking, his style; Mohammed has his way, his style—and both styles are lovely and unique. It is only a difference of style, of language. Krishna spoke in Sanskrit; Mohammed spoke in Arabic—that is all the difference. Naturally, Krishna speaks of Ishwar and Mohammed of Allah; but that of which they speak is one and the same.

Now, whether you call a mango “aam” or “mango,” what difference does it make? A mango is a mango. But one who has never tasted a mango may feel there is a difference. One who has never seen a mango may feel a difference. He will say, One man wants an “aam,” another wants a “mango”—there is great opposition between them; a quarrel may ensue. But one who has tasted a mango will say, They are both asking for the same thing, pointing to the same thing; only their words are different.

When I raise a finger toward the moon, my finger is different. When you raise yours, your finger is different. Perhaps my finger is dark and yours fair; perhaps mine is ugly and yours beautiful; perhaps mine is bare and yours adorned with jewels; but the moon to which we point is one. One who has not seen the moon will get busy counting fingers.

This is the danger in reading scriptures: you will start tabulating fingers. First, see the moon. Then you will find all scriptures singing of that same one, humming of that same one. But first hear your own song. First open the inner book. Let the outer book become a complement to the inner book.

Therefore I keep repeating that the essence is not in the scriptures. Do not let it happen that you sit with the outer book open and imagine that you have opened the inner book. This is the danger. Let only this much be remembered, and keep your gaze on the inner book; then there is no danger. Keep reading the inner pages; to the extent you read those inner pages, read the pages of the Gita, the Quran, the Bible. If you feel like reading, read; if you do not feel like reading, don’t—it makes no difference; even without reading it will do. Once you have read the inner book, what purpose remains?

But if you want to read, read—then too it is fine. You will be delighted to see that what you have known is exactly what Krishna knew, what Christ knew, what Zarathustra knew. They will all become your witnesses.

Then drop the itch to ask. It’s just an itch. What is there to ask! It’s clear now that what you want to ask doesn’t take shape. It won’t. It never has. You cannot be the exception. The question worth asking has never been asked. In fact, it cannot be asked, because it is so vast you cannot contain it in words. You will have to convey it with silent eyes. You will have to give it expression from your emptiness.

Yes, perhaps it may show itself in tears, or in your dance, or in your silence—but you won’t be able to say it in words.
Whatever you can ask, you will always find—once you have asked it—that, “Ah, I asked something else; what I really wanted to ask slipped away.” It squeezes into words only in a futile way, never in a meaningful way.

But don’t be troubled; this is my difficulty too. What you want to ask cannot be asked; and what I want to say cannot be said—the answer I have cannot be spoken either. Neither can the real question be asked, nor can the real answer be given. So don’t think you alone are in a bind. I am in the same bind; it has always been so. What cannot be asked, by its very nature cannot be answered. In emptiness you will have to understand it. In emptiness you will have to offer it. And in emptiness you will have to drink the answer. The happening will unfold in silence, quietly, quietly. Words become barriers.

You say, “I have always wanted to ask a question, but no question takes shape.”
It won’t. The more consciously you try to think it into form, the harder it becomes. And whatever does form, you will find, “This wasn’t worth asking anyway; it will do even if I don’t ask.” Trivial questions form quickly, easily.

“And the ones that do, don’t seem worth asking.”
Good—this is exactly right. It’s an auspicious moment. Drop the itch. Let the whole thing go. One thing is becoming clear within you, in silence, about what is truly worth asking. You are trying to bind it in words and keep failing. It won’t be bound. Send me a blank page. Don’t write—write nothing.

I have heard of a Zen master, Hua, Hui Chih. Feng Lin said to him, “I want to ask you something; I have some questions—may I ask?” The master said a strange thing: “Why do you want to wound yourself?” Why do you want to wound yourself? It doesn’t sound like an answer—yet it is a very significant one. Every question is like an itch. Scratch more, and it becomes a wound. The scratching feels sweet at first, then brings pain.

Questions are wounds. Ask, and then answers are needed. And answers don’t resolve anything; each answer gives birth to ten new questions—ten new wounds. Ask again, you’ll get ten answers and a hundred wounds will appear. Every answer raises ten more questions—what happens? The wound goes deeper. No answer heals the wound of a question. Life’s wounds are not so cheap that they would close up by asking or by being told.

If you want the answer, you need a questionless state. The question has no answer; but if you become questionless, there is an answer. If you want an answer to the question, then slowly drop the questions—let them fall away, remove them. And who else can give you your answer! Another’s answer will always be another’s. Where your question is arising from, in that very depth you must seek the answer.

So instead of shaping a question, descend into the depth of your question. Dive into it. Go into your inner being, where the question arises. Ultimately you will find that within the question the answer is hidden. If we enter the question rightly, we reach the answer. The question is a shell; within that shell the answer is hidden—just as the tree is hidden within the husk of the seed, the answer is hidden within the husk of the question.

You are fortunate that such a question is arising in you and refuses to be formed. It clearly means the hour to go within has arrived. You have asked a lot of questions outside and gotten many answers outside—now don’t create more wounds. Inquiry is good, as against mere curiosity—remember—but it is nothing compared to mumuksha.

Understand these three words well. Curiosity asks anything and everything; it is like small children. A child is walking and he asks, “Why is this bush big? Why the dog’s tail? Why the sun in the sky?” He keeps on asking anything. If you don’t answer, it’s no big deal to him—he keeps asking anyway. He isn’t even much concerned whether you answered or not. Even while you are answering, he has another question ready. He doesn’t even hear your answer. You answer and you find he has no taste for it; his joy is in asking. He asks just for the fun of asking.

If such curiosity were only in children, all right—but it persists in the old too. They keep asking for the sake of asking. They don’t see any need to stake their life. They ask; perhaps an answer will come; if it doesn’t, that’s fine too. There is no crisis in their life.

Inquiry is better than curiosity. Inquiry means something is at stake—something! Without asking, restlessness remains. If you don’t ask, the question keeps brooding over the mind; you won’t sleep well at night; something keeps pricking like a thorn—that’s inquiry. Inquiry is better than curiosity. But it is nothing compared to mumuksha.

The third is mumuksha. Mumuksha means everything is at stake; a question has arisen such that if its answer isn’t found, life is vain. The answer is needed—must be. Such a question carries the whole burden of life. But the answer to such a question never comes from the outside. Its answer comes only from within.

The answer to mumuksha is in moksha. Moksha is hidden within mumuksha. That’s why it is called mumuksha—within which moksha is hidden. Mumuksha is like the husk; moksha is hidden inside it. When mumuksha breaks open, moksha is revealed.

You are fortunate that a question is arising in you that you want to ask and ask and ask—but it will not take shape. And what does take shape, you see as soon as it does: “This has turned into something else; it’s no longer what I wanted to ask.”

So surely a dim remembrance of mumuksha is surfacing in you. Mumukshutva is being born within you. You are blessed. There is no need to ask this question. Become questionless; become silent; the answer will come. The answer will well up from within you, from your own innermost core. Let your circumference be a little quiet, let the clamor subside a little, and the guru seated within you will give you the answer.

There is no point answering the merely curious. Those with inquiry should be given answers, so that slowly inquiry can lead them to mumuksha. But the one with mumuksha cannot be given an answer.

Understand: you may ask, then why do I give so many answers? A hundred questions come; I answer ten, not ninety—the ninety are curiosity; I do not answer them. The ten I do answer belong to inquiry. Sometimes among those ten there appears a question like yours—that too cannot be answered, because it belongs to mumuksha.

Answering the curious is a waste of time—he isn’t even concerned; he hasn’t really asked; it’s just idle talk. Such people are there; sometimes you meet very old ones like that.

For years I traveled the country. I would be running to catch a train, it’s just about to leave, and someone would grab my hand: “Just a moment, is there a God? Please tell me in a second.” He has no awareness of what he is asking! There is a context, a time, a conducive situation! And God is not such a thing that I can say yes or no and be done with it—as though my yes or no would solve his question! They are old, but their childhood hasn’t gone.

Bayazid went to his master and, it is said, sat silently for twelve years. Twelve years is a long time. Then the master looked at Bayazid and said, “Now, my brother, ask.” Bayazid bowed at his feet and said, “Now there is no need to ask. When I needed to ask, I didn’t—because the time had not yet come. Now the time has come, and with it the answer has arisen within me. There is no need to ask; I thank you. Just by sitting near you, it happened.”

Bayazid’s master said, “But remember, I did not do it. I was only a pretext, a device, so that near me you could sit quietly for twelve years. Perhaps you could not have sat alone; it’s hard to sit quietly alone for twelve years. You sat in hope, ‘I am sitting by the master, in satsang—something will happen, something will happen...’ It happened.”
The master said, “I did not give it—remember. It happened to you. I was only a pretext—what alchemists call a catalytic agent. Merely by its presence. The master did nothing.”

Listen to this little story, an incident from China.
There was a great Zen master, Liang Ch’i-ai. On his master Yun-yen’s nirvana day, he was preparing food in the monastery to distribute. A monk asked Liang Ch’i-ai, “What teaching did you receive from your master Yun-yen?” Liang Ch’i-ai said, “None at all. I lived near him, but he never gave me any teaching.” The monk was surprised. He asked, “Then why are you giving this feast in memory of Yun-yen? Such a feast is given only in a master’s memory. If he gave you no teaching, how was he your master?” And Liang Ch’i-ai said, “Precisely for that! Precisely for that!” He laughed heartily.

He said, “I do not honor Yun-yen for his virtues, his teachings, or his personality; my entire reverence is for his refusing my requests to disclose the truth. He always refused to tell me the truth. Whenever I asked, he pointed to silence. And whenever I said something, he swiftly put his finger to his lips and said, ‘Be quiet!’ Thus years passed; he never gave me any teaching—and then one day, it happened.

“Now I remember him. I remember him for this very reason: he gave me no teaching. If he had taught me, perhaps what happened within me would not have happened. He gave me nothing from the outside. He kept the inside free. He kept making me be silent—‘Silence!’ Whenever I asked... then it hurt me a lot; I felt very bad. He answered other people’s questions—any passerby would get an answer. And I had been sitting at his feet for years in service—and whenever I asked, he said, ‘Enough—silence!’ He would not even pay attention to me. It was very painful; it hurt my ego. But today I know—his grace was boundless. That is why I am giving this feast—because he was my master, a true master. He did not give me answers; he always threw me back onto myself. He kept pushing me within—‘Go there.’ Being pushed back again and again, one day I arrived. One day a flame rose from within; everything was illumined. It happened because of his grace. He gave me no teaching, but he is my master.”

Now remember, one does not become a master by giving teachings. One is a master by bringing you near the truth. And how will you come near the truth? If the master entangles you in himself, you will not reach.

Therefore, the true master always strives that you not get entangled in him. He keeps pushing you; he keeps throwing you back upon yourself.

It is good that you want to ask a question and it will not take shape. Auspicious indeed.

“And the ones that do don’t seem worth asking. What should I do now?”
Now drop this itch. Now be silent. Whenever you remember to ask a question, remember that I have said—be silent; do not ask. It will happen—one day it will happen. On that day you will certainly thank me. You will remember that it was good I did not give you an answer. You will understand that it was good you did not ask. Because if you ask, mumuksha becomes inquiry—it falls down a step.

There are things which, if spoken, fall down. Their height is such that only unspoken do they remain at that height—speak, and you miss.

My relationship with Rampal is of long standing, over many years. And perhaps this is the very first question he has asked in years. It is certainly happening; Rampal, you may not know it yet—I do. In fact, before it comes to your notice, I already know. It is happening; be assured. And do not hurry. There are things that happen only slowly. These are not seasonal flowers that you plant now and they blossom right away. These are great trees that rise into the sky, touch the moon and stars; they have very deep roots. And when a tree aspires to touch the sky, its roots must reach the very depths of the earth. It happens gradually. The experience of the divine unfolds very slowly. And that it happens slowly is good. If it happens too fast, too suddenly, one can go deranged.
I know. You ask, ‘What can be hidden from you!’
Nothing is hidden. Much is hidden from you which is not hidden from me. To you only the surface is slowly becoming apparent; I am aware of what is happening deep in the innermost core of your being. I am watching, silently watching, and I am very happy. You need not ask, nor need I say anything. Remain delighted. It is sheer blessedness.
‘It doesn’t make sense.’
There is no need for it to make sense. It is not something that can be grasped by understanding. It is not so small a thing that the mind can understand. It is vast; it is greater than understanding. Understanding is a very small thing. The world can be understood—when has God ever been understood! A shop you can make sense of; a temple—when has that ever been grasped! Ordinary conversations make sense; proclamations of truth—when do they ever make sense! Understanding is very small. The bird of truth is never caged in the bars of understanding; it needs the open sky.
So it will not come into understanding. And do not try to understand. In the effort to understand you will shrink. In that effort you will create distortions. The very effort becomes a hindrance. Do not try to understand. That is why all true masters have said: in that supreme moment there is no support other than trust. Now keep faith; cleverness will not work. Now cleverness will be foolishness. Experience is coming—flow with the experience, flow with courage; wherever it takes you, let it. Now your understanding will not be of use; drop it.
A very significant event is happening; do not distort it through understanding. To understand means: it should come within the grasp of my intellect. To understand would mean the ocean be poured into a spoon. To understand would mean taking a lamp to show light to the sun. No, that will not be possible. Blow out the lamp; extinguish understanding. Now there is no need for it. Understanding is like a stick in the hands of a blind man. The blind man feels his way with the stick. When his eyes are healed, he no longer gropes with the stick—he throws it away. Although because of old habit he may not be able to throw it away immediately.
It happened so. Jesus touched the eyes of a blind man and he was healed. He thanked him profusely and started to walk away, carrying his walking stick. Jesus said, Brother, leave the stick here—where are you taking it! The blind man said, No—how will I walk without it? This is my support. The eyes are fine! But the old habit! Perhaps for forty, fifty years he had leaned on the stick; even if the eyes are healed today, how can a habit of fifty years drop in an instant?
So, Rampal, drop the stick of understanding; the time has come for the eyes to be cured. Now there is no need for understanding. Understanding is needed in the world, not with the divine. With the divine you need love. And love is another name for unreason. Love is madness. Now this auspicious hour of madness is approaching—let it descend.
And I assure you, do not be afraid. This panic comes; the legs tremble. Standing at that door one feels great fear, because it feels like dissolving, like dying. In the supreme moment of meditation, death happens—the death of the ego. You will be gone; this drop will disappear—then the ocean will be. But how is the drop to trust? How is the drop to know that I will dissolve and not be utterly lost? How can the drop trust that by sinking into the ocean I will be saved and become the ocean? How can the seed have faith that when I crack and dissolve into the soil, a tree will arise? How to trust that it will? For as long as the seed is, the tree is not; and when the tree is, the seed is no more—the two never meet. Therefore, faith. Hence it is useful to place your hand in the hand of the true master. For he will say, Do not worry. I have been the tree—look at me; once I was a seed and the seed dissolved and the tree came to be—so too you are now a seed. Look at me; remember, let this seed dissolve.
I assure you: it is going well. Enter into it singing, in a state of ecstasy.
And then you ask, ‘If it is right...’
Such worry arises: Is what is happening right or not? All our measuring rods fall short. Our scales do not work. Old accounts, old categories are of no use; no old classification serves. One does not know whether it is right or wrong, where I am going—might I stray onto an unknown path, get lost in some dark alley? Who knows what is happening!
So you ask, ‘If it is right...’
No “if”—it is right, perfectly right. But I understand your difficulty. How can you know today! Understand it like this: as a small child is born from the mother’s womb. For nine months he remained in the mother’s womb—there was only comfort. Nothing but comfort: no worries, no responsibilities—no job, no office, no factory, nothing. Food came silently; the mother breathed, the mother ate, the mother did everything; he knew nothing. There will never be a more carefree time than that. Psychologists say that because of the bliss the human being knew for those nine months in the mother’s womb, he experiences sorrow in life—for the comparison sits within: that ultimate moment of bliss! Psychologists even say that the search for liberation is in fact a search for the womb again. And there is truth in this.
This child who has been in the mother’s belly for nine months—today the pains of birth arise, and the mother’s womb starts pushing the child: get out! Naturally, the child will panic: what is happening? The well-settled settlement is being uprooted. Everything was going fine; what is this trouble coming! And the passage out of the mother’s body is very narrow; it brings great restlessness. He has to pass through this narrow lane—everything feels blocked, one is suffocated, as if dying. But how can he know what lies ahead? Of the ahead he can have no idea. He perceives only this pain and the comfort behind—the pain of the present and the bliss of the past. He does not know the future—that life awaits: the sun, the moon and stars; trees and flowers and birds and light and winds and the vision of the vast; he knows nothing of rainbows, of waves rising in the ocean; he has no idea what is outside! He had taken this closed chamber to be happiness—and he was happy.
So just as the child panics and wants to hold on to the womb so as not to come out, the seeker feels the same panic when his steps come close to samadhi. So you ask, ‘If it is right, then how long will this hide-and-seek go on?’ It is right—perfectly right. And this hide-and-seek will continue as long as there is even a little hesitation within you. It is because of a little hesitation—that is why the hide-and-seek. It is due to your hesitation. You are a bit stuck. And I am not saying your hesitation is entirely unnatural. It is natural; everyone hesitates—I too hesitated. Everyone hesitates. It feels as though everything is slipping out of one’s hands—“Let me stop myself, hold myself together; who knows whether I will be able to return or not!” And is what is happening not madness? Because we have known sorrow in life, when the first ray of joy comes we cannot trust that such a thing is possible. When the first gust of bliss arrives, we think: haven’t I imagined it? Am I not falling into some hypnosis?
A friend wrote to me just yesterday that whenever he comes to listen to me, a fear arises—am I not falling into some kind of hypnosis? It feels good, and yet there is panic, there is fear. Then for two or four months he does not come. Then he starts remembering—let me go for a day—and he comes again. And again the same anxiety arises. And my wife also tells me the same: don’t get hypnotized. Many people go there and get hypnotized. Then I hold back for a month or two. I cannot stay away, yet I cannot come!
Restlessness is natural. Anxiety will seize you: what is happening? My control is breaking, my boundaries are breaking; there was an order to my life—it’s being upset. And you will get no support for this anywhere. Your wife will say, “You are going mad!” Your sons will say, “Daddy, what has happened to you?” Your father will say, “Don’t do this; get a grip—nothing has gone wrong yet.” Your friends, your loved ones, your office colleagues will say, “Don’t go any further—many have gone mad on this path. Turn back now; our worldly life is good.” And your own mind will say the same: stop, stay put—nothing has gone wrong yet; you can still stop. Beware, one more step and you may slip—and then who knows what will become of you!
That is why there is this hide-and-seek; it is taking time—because you are hesitating. Drop the hesitation; move ahead with assurance!

I will tell a small story.
In the valleys of the Himalayas a bird keeps repeating—Juho! Juho! Juho! If you have been to the Himalayas you must have heard this bird. Every traveler there knows that aching call. In the dense forests, by mountain streams, in deep ravines you hear again and again—Juho! Juho! Juho!—and a seeping sorrow lingers behind it. There is a poignant folk tale about this bird.

Once there was a very beautiful mountain girl who, like Wordsworth’s Lucy, had grown up on the music of streams, the murmur of trees, and the echoes of valleys. But her father was poor, and in his helplessness he married her off in the plains—the plains where the sun blazes like fire, where there is no trace of forests or waterfalls. Sheltered by her beloved’s love, she somehow got through the rains and the winter, but when the scorching summer returned the girl became restless for the mountains. She begged to go to her mother’s home. Fire rained down—she could neither sleep nor rise nor sit. Such heat she had never known. She had been raised beside mountain springs, in the coolness of the hills; the Himalayas lived in every pore of her being. But the mother-in-law refused.

She began to wither like a rose scorched by the sun. Ornaments were set aside, dress and adornment were forgotten; even food and drink were abandoned. At last the mother-in-law said, “All right, we will send you tomorrow.” Morning came; with urgency she asked, “Juho? Shall I go?” In the mountain tongue juho means, “Shall I go?” Morning came and she asked, “Juho? Shall I go?” The mother-in-law said, “Bhol jala—tomorrow morning.” She wilted even more. Somehow one more day passed. The next day she asked again, “Juho?” The mother-in-law said, “Bhol jala—tomorrow morning.” Every day she would pack her things, every day she would take leave of her beloved, every day she would rise at dawn and ask, “Juho?” and every day she would hear, “Bhol jala—tomorrow morning.”

One day the midsummer heat struck with full fury. The earth cracked in the sun; birds fell from the trees, felled by the hot wind. For the last time, with a parched throat, she asked, “Juho?” The mother-in-law said, “Bhol jala—tomorrow morning.” She said nothing more. That evening, beneath a tree, she was found lifeless, dead—blackened by the heat. On a branch above sat a bird, who cocked its head and said, “Juho?” and without waiting for an answer spread its tiny wings and flew toward the snow-clad peaks.

From that day till today this bird keeps asking, “Juho? Juho?” And a harsh-voiced bird replies, “Bhol jala—tomorrow morning.” And then that bird falls silent.

Such a call is in all our hearts. Who knows from what serene, green valleys we have come! Who knows what other world we belong to! This world is not our home. Here we are strangers; here we are foreigners. And within, an unceasing thirst longs to return home, to touch the snow-laden summits. Until we return to the Divine, this thirst continues; our very life goes on asking, “Juho? Juho?”

I have told this story; meditate on it. It is within everyone—whether you know it or not. Understand with awareness, and it will become clear; without awareness it will remain hazy and keep slipping about within. But this earth is not our home. Here we are strangers. Our home is elsewhere—beyond time, beyond space. Our home is not outside; our home is within. And within is peace, within is bliss, within is samadhi. It is a thirst for that.
That is all for today.