Es Dhammo Sanantano #97

Life is made of opposites. Life is the tension and the balance between them—tension and balance both. If you want light, it cannot be without darkness. If you want life, it cannot be without death. In one sense darkness is the enemy of light, and in another sense it is its ally.

Keep both truths in mind. Enemy, because it is the exact opposite. Ally, because without darkness light cannot be; darkness is also the background of light.

So it is with life and death. Without death there is no possibility of life. On the ground of death the flowers of life bloom—and in death they wither, fall, and scatter. Just as a plant sprouts from the earth, blossoms, grows—supported by the earth—and one day falls back and becomes a grave in that same earth. In the same way life arises out of death and dissolves back into death. In one sense the earth is opposite to the plant—because one day it will be its grave. In another sense it is the mother—because without the earth the plant could not be.

This profound insight has been expressed symbolically in India as nowhere else. You have seen the image of Kali, the Mother. Kali is supremely beautiful, and yet she is dark—like the new-moon night. The Mother—symbol of all motherhood. Mother means: that from which all is born. But “Kal” also means death. So Kali is also the symbol of death, into which all will dissolve. That is why around her neck hangs a garland of human heads; in her hand a freshly severed skull, blood still dripping. A potent symbol. In it we have tried to place life and death side by side.

Woman is the symbol of life—life comes through her, she is the ground; and she is also the symbol of death. No other people in the world ever had the courage to see death in the Mother. Birth everyone has seen in the Mother, but India’s discovery is: where birth happens, there too death must be. Where you came from, there you must return. So the Mother is birth-giver—and also death. She is Kali and she is Kal. Where we began, there in the end we return. A wave rises in the ocean; it falls back into the same ocean and is no more.

To our eyes life and death appear opposite; but if you look with the eye of the Divine, they are allies. As a bird cannot fly without two wings, as you cannot walk without two legs, so life and death are the two legs of existence.

You asked, “You say the truth of life is death. Then what is the truth of death?”

Naturally, the truth of death is life.

Now go deeper into this. If you are filled with a great craving to live, you will be afraid of death—because the truth of life is death. If your lust for life is intense, you will be very shaken by death: you want to live and death is approaching. And the strange thing is, death comes riding on life itself. The more you live, the closer death comes. Live more—and death comes sooner. If you do not live, you might even escape dying—but if you live, how will you escape? Every moment that is lived becomes a rung in death’s ladder.

So the more one is frantic for life, the more one trembles before death. Those you see afraid of death are precisely those desperately clutching at life. The man terrified of dying is saying only one thing: he wants to hold on to life. The harder he clutches at life, the more his hands close on death—and the more he panics. The truth of life is death.

And now I say the second thing: the truth of death is life. One who is ready to die, who welcomes death, who says to death, “Greetings!” who is not the least nervous, not the least afraid, who harbors no ill feeling toward death, who is prepared to enter death as a child ready to fall asleep in its mother’s lap—such a person has a glimpse of the Great Life. Through death, life is experienced. The truth of death is life.

Therefore the buddhas know life. The yogis know life. The sensualists know only death.

From the surface this seems upside down. The sensualist desired life—and gets death. The yogi has left life behind—dropped all craving—and life comes to him. An inverted arithmetic. Walk toward life—and you end up in death. Walk into death—and you arrive in the Great Life.

Hence Jesus’ famous saying: Those who try to save themselves will be destroyed, and the one ready to lose himself is saved.

Say it like this: Whoever wants to be saved will drown; whoever drowns is saved. That is why the yogi welcomes death, honors it. The yogi awaits death moment to moment. The yogi is ready to die. He wants to taste death. He says, I want to see what death is, to recognize it. I want to enter death, to journey through its dark caves. He is eager to undertake the adventure of death.

Such a seeker discovers: as you enter the dark cave of death, you are entering the most radiant world of life. Whoever understands this contrary truth—this polarity—holds the master key to life.

This contrary truth appears in many forms. Clutch wealth—and you remain poor. Let go of wealth—and you become rich. You seek fame—and you meet disgrace; drop all hankering for fame, sit quietly in solitude—and you will find fame seeking you out, even in the distant forest. This too is an expression of the same truth. You desire one thing—and the opposite happens.

So understand desire, otherwise you will remain miserable. What you want, you will not get; you will get the opposite. Naturally there will be suffering. If you want life, consent to death. If you want true wealth—what none can take from you—be happy in poverty. If you truly want honor, have no ambition for respect. If you want victory—want to conquer yourself—drop the very urge to win. Become one who has nothing.

Because of such contrary truths, Eastern statements appear upside down to the Western eye—illogical, even deranged. Is this any logic? Want wealth—renounce wealth! Want life—renounce life! Western thinkers cannot grasp it. They say: mystical babble, the talk of madmen.

Not in the least mad; these are grounded in the ultimate truths of life. What could be more logical? Test it in life and you will see it every day. The more you crave respect, the more insulted you become. Because the more you crave respect, the more swollen your ego becomes; and then the slightest touch hurts, the smallest scratch becomes a wound. Suffering grows. Drop your concern for respect—the ego affair is gone, the wound of ego is healed—who can hurt you now?

Lao Tzu says, No one can defeat me, because I do not want to win. Lao Tzu says, I am already victorious, because I have accepted my defeat. Now who can defeat me?

In this land we saw the Buddhas, we saw Mahavira. Mahavira left everything—even clothes—yet never had there been a man so rich. In that nakedness there was supreme wealth.

Swami Ram went to America. He called himself an emperor. He had nothing—only two loincloths. Someone asked, You have two loincloths; what kind of emperor are you? What wealth? What kingdom? Swami Ram said, There is only a small lack in my kingdom—these two loincloths. If they too fall away, my sovereignty will be complete. Because of them there is a slight limitation to my universality; they are my boundary. I am an emperor not because I possess anything; I am an emperor because I need nothing.

Understand the difference—the very meaning of kingship changes. To need nothing is royalty. Only he needs nothing who has everything. And you will be surprised: often the so-called rich are poorer than beggars—because a beggar’s needs are few, the rich man’s needs are endless. A beggar’s needs can be satisfied with little; the rich man’s needs can never be fulfilled.

The Sufi fakir Farid once went to Akbar. People from Farid’s village had asked him to request the emperor to open a madrasa for them. They said, He respects you; he will not refuse. So Farid went—early in the morning. Akbar was at prayer. They let Farid into the prayer room. Akbar stood with uplifted hands, saying, O Lord, O Sustainer, O Compassionate, O Merciful, have mercy on me; enlarge my kingdom! Farid heard this and turned to leave.

The emperor finished his prayer and, seeing Farid going, ran after him and stopped him: How could you come and leave like this? Farid said, I came with great hope. My people asked me to request you to open a madrasa. But when I saw you begging, I thought: why ask this poor fellow? He himself is asking. If I ask him for one more madrasa, his poverty will only increase. I came to an emperor; seeing you a pauper, I am going back. Akbar said, No, no, opening a madrasa is no difficulty. Not one, I can open ten—do not worry. Farid said, Now the matter is finished: you are asking from the One; we will ask from the same One. Why put a middleman in between? You ask God, we ask you—what sense is there in that? Since you are begging, it would be improper to beg from you; I cannot.

Farid did well. There is deep insight in this. Even an emperor begs. A beggar’s request might be fulfilled—he asks for two loaves, for a garment—he may get it; and even if he doesn’t, his demand is small, so his pain is small—pain is proportional to demand. But what of the emperor! His demand can never be fulfilled. If it is not fulfilled there will be great sorrow—because the demand is great—and even if it is fulfilled there will still be no joy, because it cannot be fulfilled at all. As the kingdom expands, the demand expands.

The stomach has limits—two or four loaves will fill it. The mind has no limit. However much wealth there is, the mind is never full. It never fills; that is exactly what mind is.

Then who is poor?

Life shows this paradox in many places: we have seen naked men who were rich; and we have seen great emperors who were paupers. Those who had everything and yet had nothing; and those who had nothing and yet had everything. This too is part of that basic polarity.

So you ask: I said the truth of life is death; then what is the truth of death?

The truth of death is life.

A second question is related:
Is the whole of Eastern wisdom centered on death-awareness? How can life become a celebration through continual remembrance of death?

It is the basic distinction you are missing. You think: if we remember death, the celebration of life will go dull. You think: if we remember death, how will we laugh? If death stands at the door, how will we dance? How will we sing? The veena will fall silent. The feet will stop; the anklet-bells will not ring. You think: if the sense of death arises, how will there be celebration?

And I say both should be together—intensify the awareness of death and do not let the celebration diminish. That puzzles you.

You say: if we must keep up the celebration, we must assume death doesn’t exist. Assume it never happens. And if it does happen, it happens only to others—at least not to me. And even if it happens to me, it will happen someday, not now. Postpone death: first believe it never happens to me. In a sense, it seems true—you have never seen yourself die, you always see others die. Someone dies, someone dies—you never die. This one you took to the cremation ground, that one you took—never yourself. You always return after seeing others off. So the mind argues: others die; I do not die. This too is a way of postponing.

But you cannot postpone it for long. Inside, the mind whispers: others too thought as I think; just as I carried them, others will carry me. People are ready, waiting. The moment you die, they’ll start building the bier—just as you built it for others, others will build it for you. So the postponement fails.

Then another idea: not today. Why sadden the heart now? When it happens, we’ll see. Today death never happens—it will be tomorrow, the day after, years later, seventy years later—when it happens, it happens! We postpone and think: now we can dance a little, sing a little, love a little, befriend a little—some color and relish! We bolt the doors against death from all sides and dance.

So your question is apt: If the awareness of death enters—if all the doors are opened, and you allow the fact to penetrate: I too will die as others die; every death is news of my own death; every passing bier is preparation for my bier; whenever someone dies, a human being dies, and I too am human; hidden in every death is a sign of my death; open all the doors—know that death can occur any time—today, a moment later; now I am, and the next breath may not come—if you open all the doors to death, you say your limbs will be paralyzed, the feet frozen, the hands rigid—how will you dance then? How will there be celebration?

I say: both will be together; they can only be together. In my view, if you have shut death out, it will go on knocking. You can dance, but you will hear its knock. It will scream and call, because you are living a lie. Your dance is false—you know it. The very feet with which you dance are already filling with death; the throat that sings is preparing to die; the heart that breathes is losing breath moment by moment. By denying death you can only make a pretense of celebration; it cannot be real.

Only those have truly danced who erected no lie in life—who stood with truth, in truth. The real dance is in the company of truth. How can there be dance with a lie? You may cow your mind and force yourself to dance—it will be a makeshift dance, a strain, not spontaneous surge or flow. And since you yourself made the denial, how will you forget it? The lie will linger. Death is, it will be.

Whatever we repress emerges even more strongly. Whatever we hide lies down in our path. No lie can be made stable in this world. No lie can deceive truth. For a little while you may deceive yourself; how long? And how can you deceive yourself—you know you are deceiving.

Every time you see someone die it becomes clear your hour is coming. The queue grows shorter—one more has moved ahead; the line inches forward; your death draws nearer. How will you deny it? Teeth fall, hair turns white, you can no longer run as before, a flight of stairs leaves you panting. How will you deny it? Death announces itself on every side. The old capacity is gone: a little extra food causes trouble, a little extra laughter tires you; tears aside—laughter now exhausts you. Death is drawing near; it sends messages from all sides—Beware! How long will you dance? In your very dance death will appear—standing in the middle of it.

No—there is no dance with untruth. I tell you, awareness of death is needed. Because, as I just said, the truth of death is life. If you come to see death rightly—recognize it, have a direct encounter—which is possible; all the experiments of meditation are experiments in death. That is why I say I teach you death. Once you truly learn death, understand its language—see yourself dying once…

Such an event occurred in the life of Ramana Maharshi—and that very event became the revolution; within it the sage was born. He was seventeen or eighteen, had run away from home in search of truth—hungry and thirsty for days—he took shelter in a temple. Blisters on his feet from walking. Lying there—hungry, thirsty, exhausted—he felt as if death were coming. He lay down: If it is coming, let it come. What does a seeker of truth do? He watches whatever is coming. He recognizes it—fixes his eyes on it, beholds it. He lay down—didn’t run, didn’t shout, didn’t call for help. He began to die. If death is coming, it is coming. What God sends is prasad, his gift. As he gave life, so he gives death. He accepted.

Buddha called this the state of suchness—accepting what is, as it is. No yes-and-no. No imposing your desire that it be like this or like that. As it is, let it be as it is.

Kabir said: Just as it is—accept it as such. Because as long as you reject, you are fighting life—you are contending with God. You are trying to impose your will. You are not a seeker of truth; your ego is still thick. In accepting what is, as it is, the ego dissolves; there remains no place for it. The struggle is gone, the ego is gone.

Ramana lay down. He consented: If death comes, it comes. What is in my hands? “Jih vidhi rākhe Rām, tih vidhi rahiye”—In whatever way Ram keeps you, remain that way. If death has come, it has come. This is how Ram wishes to take me—so be it. He was ready to go. Lao Tzu calls this flowing with the river—no longer fighting its current.

The ego fights the current. The ego says, I will go upstream. The ego journeys toward the source at Gangotri, while the Ganges flows toward the sea at Ganga Sagar. Hence the clash, the struggle with the great river of existence. To flow with the current—that is surrender.

He began to flow with the current. He watched what was happening. The legs went slack, empty, dead; the hands went slack, empty, dead. And Ramana watched within—there was nothing to do—one lamp of awareness burning. He saw: this is happening, this is happening. The whole body became like a corpse. He watched. For a moment even the breath seemed to stop. He watched. And in that very moment the revolution occurred. The body became dead-still, the thoughts slowly grew quiet—because all thoughts are born of struggle. As long as you want to swim upstream, thoughts remain; the more you strive against the flow, the more anxious thoughts become. When you begin to flow with the current, what thoughts? What worry? Worry slipped away. The body lay as if dead, the breath halted, stilled, silent. For a moment it was as if death had happened. And in that same moment life happened too—because the truth of death is life. As all life leads to death, so all death leads to a greater life—provided you are awake.

Ramana was awake; he kept watching. He was amazed: the body has died; I have not died. The mind has died; I have not died. Everything has died, and I am—awareness is—and more intensely than ever. The cobwebs above have been cut; the useless dust cleared; the jewel within shines brighter, more luminous. Clay dies; the earthen dies. How can the conscious die? The body comes and goes; you neither come nor go. Esa dhammo sanantano—this is the eternal law. You are the divine nature.

In that moment it was revealed to Ramana that the Upanishads are right: Aham Brahmasmi—I am Brahman. Until then it was heard and read; that day it was realized. He sat up—the revolution had happened. Nothing more to do. The meeting had occurred, union happened, the nectar was tasted.

Years later, when death came again—Ramana had cancer—and friends and devotees were anxious, he would open his eyes and say, You are worried for nothing. The one you worry about died many years ago. The one for whom you feel reverence, for whom you have devotion—that one has no death. You are worried for nothing. Whoever could die, died long ago; in that dying my true birth happened. And what I am now has no death.

When Ramakrishna was dying and Sarada, his wife, began to weep, Ramakrishna opened his eyes and said, Hush—why are you crying? I have neither gone nor come; I will remain where I am. Sarada asked a practical question: After your body goes, what should I do with my bangles? A widow must break her bangles. Ramakrishna said: I will not die—how will you break them? You are a married woman, and you will remain a married woman.

Only in India is there a widow who did not break her bangles—Sarada. There was no reason. Ramakrishna died for everyone else—not for Sarada. Her devotion was such that his presence became her presence too. She saw the truth: the body goes—but what had the body to do with it? The light within the body remains—how can it go?

The truth of death is life. In meditation, one day, death happens. The day death happens in meditation, that day meditation is samadhi. That is why we use the word samadhi for both—a saint’s tomb is a samadhi; and the highest state of meditation is also samadhi. Why? Because in both, death happens. In the supreme state of meditation you see clearly what is mortal and what is deathless. The perishable and the imperishable separate—like milk and water.

Those who can separate milk and water we call paramhansas—supreme swans—because poets say the swan can drink the milk and leave the water when they are mixed. Body and consciousness are similarly mixed—the marriage of earth and sky. You are made of the meeting of clay and space. The day the paramhansa-mood awakens in you—when meditation becomes keen and incisive—it cuts the two apart: the clay falls to one side, the nectar to the other. Then you will know: the truth of death is life.

Only after knowing death does the real celebration begin. Then dance. What else remains to do? There is no dying. And when death is no more, what sorrow, what gloom, what anxiety? Then the dance is born with a new quality: it is no longer your dance, it is God’s dance. You do not dance; God dances in you.

Therefore I say—there is no opposition between death-awareness and celebration. Only after death-awareness does the great celebration begin.

And where else will you wake up? The world is what there is; it is here you are asleep, here you must awaken. Understand this: you wake up where you fall asleep. You don’t sleep in Poona and wake up in Delhi—life doesn’t work like that. If you sleep in Poona, you will wake up in Poona. Take this as a very precious axiom in the mathematics of life, a supremely valuable principle: you wake up where you fell asleep.

Yes, while asleep you may dream of being anywhere. You may sleep in Poona and, through the night, think about the whole world, dream that you are in Calcutta, or Madras, or Delhi, wherever your mind wanders—even on the moon and the stars. No tickets are needed, no time is spent, no obstacles arise; in dreams you can be anywhere. But when morning comes, you will wake up in Poona. Where you slept, there you will awaken. If you are asleep in the world, you must awaken in the world.

That’s why I say: don’t run away. And if you run, where will you go? It is the world in every direction. Grasp this small thing. Suppose you run away from your house. What then? You will sit in some ashram. But an ashram is just as much a part of the world as your home was. You may leave the shop and the marketplace and sit in a temple. But temples are built by the very people who run the shops. The temple is made by the market. The market can exist without the temple; the temple cannot exist without the market.

Keep this in mind. The temple depends on the market; the market does not depend on the temple. With or without temples, markets go on. After all, there are markets in Russia; temples vanished. There are markets in China; temples vanished. But have you ever seen a temple without a market?

If the temple remains while the market disappears, the temple becomes a ruin. The temple’s life-breath is in the market. The lamp that burns in the temple is fueled by the market. The priest who prays in the temple—his very life comes from the market. In every way the temple is linked to the market. Where will you flee? Wherever you go on this earth, it is the world. Even if you go to the moon and stars, it is still the world. What is, is the world. Therefore, escape in any real sense is not possible.

Moreover, the difficulties are within, not outside. If they were outside, it would be easy—just run away. Here sits Krishna Muhammad. He used to quit his job again and again and run. I asked, “Where do you go?” He would say, “To Panchgani.” “And what will you do in Panchgani? Panchgani is also the world.” He understood: what will change by going to Panchgani? What is wrong with Poona? This is worth understanding.

The obstacles are within, not without. If the difficulty were outside, it would be easy. If the obstacle were the wife, it would be simple—leave the wife and the hassle is over. But the obstacle is inside. The attraction is inside, the relish for woman is within. Leave your wife here, and you will develop a taste for another woman elsewhere.

And the truth is: with one’s wife the taste fades by itself, slowly. That is why becoming free of woman is easier with a wife than it will be with a new woman. A new woman rekindles the relish; you feel young again, desires surge, old dreams turn fresh. With the wife, slowly the dreams have been lost, they have died, the hopes have ebbed away. It is near the wife that dispassion arises most easily—nowhere else so easily.

Hold this fast; tie it into your knot. If there were no wives, there would be no dispassionate men in the world. Dispassion is not produced by saints—it is arranged by the wife. Consider it her grace; touch her feet—she is the one who puts you on the path to the Divine. Because of her you turn toward the temple, begin to seek the company of sages. The wife gives you such a fright! Where are you going by leaving her? Leave her and you will fall into the same stupidity again.

Leave the children—where will your attachment go? It will fasten elsewhere. Attachment will form with someone else. It is attachment that must go. Changing the objects of attachment changes nothing; the craving for attachment must go. And craving is within. Wherever you go, craving will go with you. Craving is you. It is part of your ego, part of your mind. Because of craving there is the world, not that because of the world there is craving. So understand the cause and cut the cause.

That’s why I say: don’t run, wake up! Things are cut through awakening, not through escape. And a runaway is a coward. Have cowards ever reached God? Only the audacious reach the Divine. Mind you, I don’t say merely brave, but audacious! Gamblers reach—those who dare to stake everything. Runaways, cowards—these never arrive. The frightened, legs trembling—such people do not reach the Divine. The journey is long; it is not for the timid. It needs the stout-hearted.

So do not flee the world, do not flee defeated—awaken in the world.

And I tell you: nowhere else is there as much opportunity to awaken as here. The very purpose of the world is that there are so many difficulties, so many obstacles, that you are compelled to wake up. The real miracle is that in spite of so many difficulties you continue to sleep soundly and snore! Nothing disturbs your sleep. Here the bands are blaring and Shiva’s wedding procession is dancing all around, and still you go on sleeping—blissfully asleep.

If you won’t wake up here, will you wake up in the Himalayas? There is great silence there; you will fall into even deeper sleep. Who will wake you there? A challenge is needed to awaken you. Opposition is needed; a jolt is needed. Noise and turmoil are needed to rouse you. There, there is no turmoil.

If you mistake torpor or drowsiness for meditation, that is another matter. You sit in a cave like a sluggard; drowsiness comes as you sit—what else will you do there? That is why in your so-called runaway monks and sadhus you do not see the radiance of life; you do not see light in the eyes. You see lethargy, laziness, a trance-like stupor. You will find the signs of dullness, not the signs of awakening. Rarely will you find a sadhu who has awareness—mostly you will find inertia. How can a runaway have awareness? If awareness were there, why would he run?

This world is given to you by the Divine as a touchstone, an examination. Pass through it, and you will be refined. It is fire; if you pass through it you will become gold, pure refined gold; your dross will be burned away. Consider the wife, the husband, the children, the shop, the market as fire, as the touchstone—these are not to be fled.

Yes, gold can save itself by fleeing from fire; but then it remains full of dross. Passing through fire is painful—I know. But only in pain is refinement. Pain washes, wipes, scours. Has anyone ever grown without pain? Pain is the doorway to growth. If all pain were removed, you would be a corpse that very instant. Use pain. Turn pain into a tool. Therefore I say, do not run from the world.

“You say the sannyasin should not run but wake up. How can this happen while living in the world?”

It can happen only here; nowhere else can it happen. Listen to this small but ancient tale—

Emperor Pushyamitra performed an Ashvamedha sacrifice. The concluding offerings had been made; at night a dance-festival was arranged in honor of the guests. When the Brahma of the sacrifice, the great sage Patanjali, attended, his disciple Chaitra felt a thorn of doubt pricking his heart about the propriety of his master’s conduct.

Patanjali, the author of the Yoga Sutras, who defined yoga itself: “Yoga: chitta-vritti-nirodhah”—when the modifications of the mind are stilled, one attains to yoga. Naturally, his disciple Chaitra fell into great doubt: Where is the Master going? The emperor’s celebration at night will have courtesans dancing. “Yoga: chitta-vritti-nirodhah!” And this Patanjali, who has taught us that yoga is the cessation of the mind’s waves, is going there? The thorn of doubt pierced deep.

From that day his mind could not settle on the Mahabhashya and the Yoga Sutras.

When doubt arises, how can the mind remain? The mind rests only in trust; in doubt, distance appears. From that day the link with the Guru snapped. He still stayed with him, still rose to touch his feet, still showed respect, but inside a snag had set in.

At last, one day, when the great seer was speaking on the means to chitta-vritti-nirodhah, Chaitra asked a seemingly relevant question: “Bhagwan, are dance, music, and revelry also helpful to the cessation of the mind’s waves?” The transparent Patanjali smiled and said, “Chaitra, in truth your question is: Was my joining the emperor’s dance-festival that night not contrary to the vow of self-restraint?”

Years had passed since that night, but Patanjali must have seen the thorn still stuck, stuck, stuck—waiting, watching for an opportunity when the question might be raised; it should not be irrelevant, or else the Guru might think, “He suspects me.”

Perhaps, after years had gone by, when Patanjali was again speaking on chitta-vritti-nirodhah, Chaitra said, “Master, is participating in dance and the like also helpful to the cessation of mental modifications?” He must have thought: years have passed; surely the seer has forgotten. And how would he remember anyway? I never told him that a thorn of doubt had pierced my chest and my trust had wavered. I saw you there—courtesans were dancing and the wine cups were circulating; it was a royal court—what were you doing there? And why sit there till midnight? All this was in his heart; he wanted to say it like that, but never gathered the courage.

The transparent Patanjali smiled and said, “Chaitra, in truth your real question is whether my presence at the emperor’s dance that night was not against the vow of restraint. You have not understood the true meaning of restraint. Listen, gentle one! The nature of the Self is rasa—‘Raso vai sah.’ To keep that rasa pure and unadulterated is restraint. To turn away from rasa for fear of its corruption is like a housewife who, fearing beggars, stops cooking food at home.”

What an extraordinary statement! Beggars come, so don’t cook at all—no bamboo, no flute. But then, for fear of beggars, you yourself will starve. If food is not cooked, you yourself will die.

Patanjali said: rasa is the very nature of life; raso vai sah—it is the nature of the Divine. Celebration is the way of the Divine; rasa is the inner state of the soul. By turning away from rasa, by suppressing it, by distorting it, no one becomes free. And then, out of fear that rasa may be stirred, if you keep fleeing every place where rasa might arise, that too brings no freedom. The exact meaning of restraint is: purify this rasa; keep it unadulterated. Only amid conditions that could corrupt does it become evident whether it is corrupted or not, whether it remains pure or not. Where distortion stands up, if your rasa dances inwardly, pristine, without mixing with distortion—there is the touchstone.

To turn away from rasa for fear of corruption is like a housewife who, fearing beggars, stops cooking; or like a farmer who, fearing sheep and goats, abandons his fields. That is not restraint; it is escape. It is another form of suicide. To try to render the soul devoid of rasa is as deluded as trying to free water from liquidity or fire from heat. Do not fall into this delusion.

This is a most unique incident—and from Patanjali’s mouth, more unique still. If Krishna had said it, it would sit easily; one could understand. But Patanjali says it! Those who have read only Patanjali’s Yoga Sutras will be startled, because from the Sutras one may get the mistaken impression that Patanjali advocates repression.

No wise one has ever stood for repression. If it seems so to you, the error is in your understanding. The knower stands for freedom, not suppression. Whether it is Krishna or Patanjali—the aim is freedom, not repression. If you repress desire, it sits inside smoldering, seething, slowly brewing mischief; one day or another there will be an explosion. When it explodes, you will be deranged. Liberation will be far away; insanity will be your lot.

The wise have said only this: don’t run—awaken to what is within; bring awareness to it; be a witness. See: there is lust in me, anger in me, greed in me. And in this seeing, the world is a great ally.

I have heard: a man went to the Himalayas. He was very angry; his anger created daily trouble. Finally he thought, “The world is the problem”—he never thought, “The problem is my anger.” He ran away to the forest, sat on a mountain. For thirty years he lived there. Naturally, no one insulted him; he quarreled with no one; he didn’t stand in a bus queue for a ticket, nor was he jostled in a crowd outside a cinema. There was no occasion—he became calm.

After thirty long years of practice he felt, “Now anger is gone; the matter is finished.” Just then it so happened that the Kumbha Mela was on. A pilgrim said, “Maharaj, you’ve been in this cave for thirty years; now come along. Give the people a little teaching. You’ve attained knowledge.” News had spread that a saint had lived in a cave for thirty years; people were coming. He too felt, “Now there’s no reason to fear; I have won.” He returned; the Kumbha Mela came.

And the Kumbha Mela is the Kumbha Mela—where else will you find such a crowd of madmen! He plunged into the throng; someone stepped on his foot; there was jostling. Thirty years vanished like a dream. He grabbed the man’s neck and landed a couple of punches. The disciples who had brought him said, “Maharaj, what are you doing? The police will catch you!” Only then did he come to his senses. He was astonished, even laughed: “Thirty years wasted! Yet not a single such incident occurred in thirty years. Thirty years is no small span—half a life! And today it happened suddenly.”

Then he understood: by sitting on the mountain, the circumstances were simply absent; there was no challenge. No one stepped on his toes, no one abused him, no one insulted him—how could anger arise? But that does not mean anger had gone. Fire and ghee kept far apart—neither was detected. When fire and ghee came close, a flame leapt up in an instant; what was hidden within showed itself.

They say he fell at the feet of the very man he had punched and said, “You are my guru. What the Himalayas could not teach me in thirty years, you showed me in a moment. Now I go to the market; now I will live in the marketplace. Thirty years went to waste.”

I do not tell you to run away; I tell you to use all the adverse circumstances of the world. Certainly there are people here who make you angry—but that only means anger is still in you, hence they can stir it. There are people who tempt you to greed—because greed is in you. There are people whose presence awakens lust in you—but lust is within; they are not at fault.

Think of it like this: someone lowers a bucket into a well; when the bucket is drawn up, it is full of water. If the well is empty, you can drop the bucket a thousand times—no water will come up. The well must be full for the bucket to be filled. The bucket cannot produce water; it can only bring out what is already in the well.

When someone insults you, he does not create your anger. His insult is only the bucket, drawing out the anger stored within you. When a beautiful woman passes by, she does not create lust in you. Her presence only becomes the bucket; the lust within you gets pulled to the surface. If you run away from women, the water remains in the well—you have merely fled from buckets. Leave the world and there will be no occasions for anger or greed, but you will not have changed. If transformation were that cheap, every escapist would be a great saint. And among your hundred so-called saints, ninety-nine are escapists. Be a little cautious with them. They themselves have run; they will advise you to run.

I am not in favor of escape in the least, because I see that growth happens only by living in the world. If the daily blows of the world can awaken you, wake up—there is no other way. Surely it is painful, but this is the only way; there is no shortcut. It is arduous, difficult, it hurts; many times great obstacles arise. But if there is understanding, all those difficulties become your allies. All those difficulties become steps.

Ordinarily everyone carries this inferiority complex. Why? Because from childhood each has been told: become something, do something, leave a name in history, leave some achievement behind. Everyone has been told that as you are, you are not enough; as you are, you are not good, not beautiful. Do something—sculpt statues, paint pictures, write poems, run in politics, reach Delhi, earn money—prove yourself by achievement. There is no value in your being. Your being is valueless; only your doing will have value. Only when you do something will it seem that you are; otherwise you will feel you are nothing—empty, empty.

Go to school and it is the same lesson of ambition. Everywhere ambition is being taught. Run—run faster—because others are running; don’t be left behind. The race is heavy, the struggle deep, a cut‑throat competition; even if you have to cut someone else’s throat, cut it—but prove something. This race brings all the turmoil. Ego is ambition. Ego is the device to forget the pain of “I am nothing.”

Psychologists say that the day a person understands, “If I am nothing, fine—absolutely fine. I am nothing; if I am emptiness, I am emptiness,” and becomes reconciled with that emptiness, that very day the ego disappears.

That’s why Buddha insisted so much: within you is a void—be content with that void. Know yourself to be mere emptiness. No one has given a more scientific method to bring down man’s ego than Buddha. And the way Buddha has said it—so logically coherent—no one else has said it. Buddha’s proposal is immensely precious. Many have said, “Drop the ego,” but put like that—“Drop the ego”—it is useless. How will you drop it? A new ego arises. Those who try to drop the ego get filled with a new ego: “We are humble; none is more humble than me.” Humility has its ego. Saintliness has its ego. Even egolessness has its ego. Ego is a very subtle thing.

So Buddha did not say, “Drop the ego.” Buddha said, “Understand the ego.” Ego is born of the attempt to deny the emptiness within you. Accept the inner void; say, “I am a nobody.” This is the reality. Trees have no ego because they accept their nobodiness. Mountains have no ego because they accept their nobodiness. Birds have no ego.

Ego is a human phenomenon. Man has ego. Ego is comparison with the other: “I am ahead; others are behind.” When you are ahead, the ego is pleased. When you are behind, it is unhappy. And always someone is ahead of you and someone behind—that is the great tangle. Everyone stands in a line. The one you think is ahead—someone is ahead of him too. Here there are a thousand entanglements.

Napoleon was a world conqueror, but he was short—five feet five inches. He suffered from it. Whenever he saw a tall man, he felt hurt: “I am nothing; this man is tall.” Lenin’s legs were short, his upper body a little larger; he always feared someone might notice his legs. They were so short that on an ordinary chair his feet would not reach the floor; he would sit hiding them. Maker of Russia’s destiny, yet that hitch remained. Even a naked beggar with healthy legs would make him uneasy. Napoleon too would grow uneasy seeing even a naked beggar if he was strong and tall—that was his thorn.

A thousand troubles! If you have wealth, something else will be missing. If you have something else, wealth will be missing. If you have wealth, you may lack intelligence; if you have intelligence, you may lack wealth. No one has ever existed who had everything. One cannot have everything—it is impossible. And if such a person ever appeared, people would kill him at once; it would be intolerable.

That is how people become intolerable. Whoever has much wealth—people turn against him. Whoever holds office—people turn against him. Whoever has knowledge—against him. Whoever has bliss—against him. Wherever someone has something, it pricks others, because that person becomes a pointer to their lack: “You don’t have what I have.”

Someone stands behind you, someone ahead. Seeing the one behind, you feel happy; seeing the one ahead, you feel sad. Ego gives both pain and pleasure—both together.

Even when you ask, “What is ego? How can we be free of it?” you do not look rightly. Often those who ask how to be rid of ego want to be rid only of that part which brings pain; of the part which brings pleasure they do not want to be free. But unless you drop the part that gives pleasure, you will not be able to drop the part that gives pain. To drop the ego means only this: you have stopped comparing. To drop the ego means only this: you have embraced your sense of nothingness—and in that very nothingness you become unique.

You cannot be compared. Someone exactly like you has never been on earth, nor will ever be. Your thumbprint is only your thumbprint. So many people have been—billions and trillions—yet no one’s thumbprint is the same as yours. And your way of being is yours. You are incomparable. Don’t get into the hassle of weighing and measuring. Do not weigh; do not compare. Accept yourself as you are. Being as you are is sufficient. Thus has God made you—count it a blessing. Be grateful. And be at ease in this emptiness. Then much will happen through you, but not because of ego—because of your spontaneous nature.

As rivers flow toward the ocean, much will flow through you too—perhaps a song will be born, a statue carved—it will happen, because where there is energy, happenings go on occurring. But in those happenings there will be no anxiety, no hustle, no competition, no rivalry.

Right now, in the name of ego you only cover your inner emptiness, cover the wound—as if placing a flower upon it. As the wound grows bigger, bigger flowers are needed—bigger and bigger. Slowly it becomes such that life is spent hiding the wound. The wound is not hidden, and life ends. And that by which you hide the wound becomes your gallows. One person stuffs his ego this way, another that way; in the end life is wasted in the very effort to stuff the ego.

You must have heard an old myth:
A yogi lived in the forest. A mouse would roam near him. When the yogi sat silently, in meditation, the mouse—its courage slowly growing—would even come and sit in his lap, circle around him, sit beside him. The yogi would be in his meditation, seated in posture; the mouse too began to enjoy being near him. Gradually the yogi became attached to the mouse.

One day the mouse was sitting beside him—the yogi was meditating—and a cat attacked. The yogi felt great compassion for the mouse, and some yogic powers had just begun to arise in him, so with his yogic force he said, “mārjaro bhava.” To the mouse he said, “Become a cat.” By that yogic power, instantly the mouse became a cat. The attacking cat panicked and ran. The yogi was very pleased. The mouse too was very pleased.

But this did not last long; one day a dog attacked the cat. So the yogi made him a cheetah. But that too did not last. A lion attacked the cheetah. So he made that poor mouse into a lion. The lion attacked the yogi. Then the yogi was very frightened. He said, “This is the limit—my own mouse, and he has forgotten!” So he said, “punar mūshako bhava—become a mouse again.” The mouse became a mouse again.

In this story the mouse becomes a mouse from a lion very easily; the mouse of ego does not become a mouse again just because you say, “punar mūshako bhava.” First we enlarge it; we go on expanding it. We keep pitting it against others—made him a cat against the cat, a cheetah against the dog, a lion against the cheetah—we keep making it bigger. A day comes when it becomes so big that under its weight we are crushed. It lies on our chest like a stone. Then removing it is not as easy as in the story. You may shout a thousand times, “punar mūshako bhava,” and it will say, “Be quiet. Keep still. Don’t talk nonsense.”

You have seen it—experiment with your mind. You want to sleep and the mind goes on with its babble. You say, “Please, be quiet.” It says, “You be quiet!” Your own mind says to you, “You be quiet!” You say, “I want to sleep.” It says, “Don’t talk foolishness; we are busy with our work.” Your own mind back-talks you.

It is not so easy. You have raised it. You have made it big. You have maintained it. You have fed it energy. On the strength of your energy it struts today. But slowly you were pressed down; slowly you became small and it became big. The emptiness you tried to suppress by erecting it—that emptiness is you. Emptiness is our nature, shunyata our innate quality. To suppress that emptiness you created the ego; now that ego stands there and sits upon you.

At first you were very happy: with its help others would not see your emptiness; you could strut before others; fame was spreading, your name was being made. Then it became very stiff and pressed you hard. Now you panic: how to get free of it? It is gripping your throat. But now it is not so easy. Once you have given it the reins, taking them back takes time. Sometimes it takes a whole life. Sometimes many lives.

The moment you wake up, begin two things at once. First, give it no more power. Second, slowly remember your sense of nothingness. Dwell in the feeling, “I am a nobody.” At first it will hurt very much—“A nobody!” This is exactly what you did not want to admit all your life. The world was saying you are a nobody, and you denied it. The world wanted you to accept it, but you did not. Now accepting it before yourself will be a great hurdle.

Understand this as the sutra of sannyas: “I am a nobody. I am only a void—a hollow bamboo.” If anything happens through me, it is his—the divine’s; what is mine? I am only an instrument. Whatever he wants, let him do; if he does not want, let him not. If he makes me a king or makes me a pawn—his will. His will. His play. I am only a puppet; the strings are in his hands. However he makes me dance, I dance. Where then is my swagger? Let such a feeling deepen within you, and gradually you will find that no new energy is given to the ego, and the old energy slowly dissolves into emptiness. One day the ego falls like a house of cards—as a house made of playing cards collapses. Just a slight gust of awareness, and this house will fall.

Yet you say, “I feel I have nothing to offer at your feet.” This very awareness of having nothing is the real point. Who has anything? No one has anything. You think if someone leaves a hundred-rupee note, he has left something. What is there in a hundred-rupee note? A piece of paper—it will just lie there. I will go, he will go. Neither can I take it nor can he. Then what has been offered? And what of it was ever yours? Even before you came, the note was here—belonged here—you just picked it up and placed it there. What did you really offer?

Why does it pain you that you have nothing? And you say this meekness is unbearable—why? To whom is it unbearable? It is the feeling of ego. The ego wants to offer something. Not only does it want to offer, it wants to outdo others. It says, “You offered a hundred! See, I offer five hundred. That will set you straight—so much for your swagger! You thought you were a big giver!”

Even in offering there is a race, a rivalry. Even there one wants to defeat others and win. This is ego.

Drop this madness. Sitting with me, understand just this much: you have nothing. That’s enough. Then the next thing will also dawn. First see, “I have nothing,” and then you will see, “I am nothing.” The day this inner sky of emptiness appears within, that day you have truly offered. That day you have arrived; surrender has happened.

Where is the meekness in this? It is simply a state. Who really has anything? Why make it unbearable? You may see others bringing offerings—someone brings wealth, someone brings intellect, this one brings one thing, that one another. Now Kirti must be thinking, “What shall I bring? From where? I have nothing.”

Abide in the very feeling that you are nothing—that is enough. You will go beyond those who brought wealth. You will go beyond those who brought anything at all. Because going beyond only means going within—there is no other meaning to “going ahead.”

There is no need to be bothered in the least. Our ego is very subtle. It devises great strategies—very subtle ones. Seen from above, it may look as if Kirti has asked a very fine question—what could be wrong in it?

There is something wrong. There is a deep root of wrongness. This meekness is only offending your ego. Just see: “I have nothing—now what can I do!” The matter is finished. Who has anything! Then where is the need to offer? What is the purpose? But generally, whatever happens, the ego sneaks back in somehow—through the back door.

I have heard a Sufi tale. An emperor had become a world conqueror. News reached him that a childhood friend of his had become a great fakir—a digambar, a naked mendicant. The fame of this fakir reached the emperor. The emperor sent an invitation: “Do come to the capital sometime; we are old friends—we studied together, sat on the same bench. It would be a great blessing if you came.”

The fakir came. He walked on foot, naked; it took months. When he reached just outside the capital, some travelers leaving the city said to him, “Do you know? The emperor wants to show you his arrogance. That’s why he has invited you.” The fakir asked, “What arrogance? What can he show?” They said, “He is displaying his pride: the entire capital is decorated, velvet carpets are spread along the roads, lamps have been lit everywhere, fragrance has been sprayed, the streets are strewn with flowers, the whole city resounds with music. He wants to show you: ‘Look at you—a naked fakir! And look at me—what I am!’” The fakir said, “Then we too will show him!”

The travelers left. By evening the fakir arrived, and the emperor himself came to the gates with his full court to receive him. He had indeed adorned the capital lavishly, though he hadn’t thought it would be taken in that sense. He had thought, “A fakir is coming, my childhood friend; let his welcome be as grand as possible!” Perhaps deep down there was also a hidden desire—to show him—but it was not conscious or clear. Our own depths are unknown even to us. When the fakir arrived, he was naked, and his legs were smeared with mud up to the knees.

The emperor was surprised, for there had been no rains. People were pining for rain. The roads were dry, trees were withering, farmers were anxious. Rains were due and not coming; the time was passing. Where did he find so much mud that his legs are covered to the knees?

But at the gate the emperor thought it improper to say anything. He brought him to the palace. The fakir walked across the priceless carpets—worth lakhs—spattering them with mud. When they had entered the palace and were alone, the emperor asked, “You must have faced great trouble on the way—your feet are so muddy. Where did you face difficulty? What obstacle did you meet?”

The fakir said, “Obstacle? None at all. If you want to display your wealth, we also want to display our fakiri. We are fakirs. We kick your precious carpets.” The emperor laughed and said, “I thought you might have changed—but you are just the same. Come, embrace me. Since we parted after school, nothing has changed. We are alike, you and I.”

The paths of ego are very subtle. Even fakiri wants to show itself off. One needs to be a little cautious. And when ego takes indirect routes, it becomes harder to wake up. The direct routes are easy enough to see. A man builds a grand mansion—it is clear he wants to show the town who he is. A man buys a big car—he wants to show off. But a man renounces his mansion and stands naked on the road—who knows, he too may want to show off! Now the route is very subtle. He himself would have to descend into his own unconscious to perhaps catch what his inner desire is. Does he want to show people: “See, there have been renunciants in the world, but never one like me!”

Jains and Buddhists have written grand tales of Mahavira’s and Buddha’s renunciation—greatly exaggerated. That exaggeration shows that those who wrote the tales valued not Mahavira or Buddha, but wealth. Mahavira’s devotees write: Mahavira had so many thousand elephants, so many thousand horses, such and such riches, so many gems, diamonds, jewels—they keep counting, the numbers keep growing—the deeper you go into the scriptures, the higher the numbers go.

It cannot be so. So many horses and elephants could not even stand in the small state where Mahavira was born. And if that many had stood, there would have been no space left for people. Mahavira’s father ruled a tiny state—a small district, you could say. He was no great emperor. Such wealth could not have been there. Had Mahavira not been born, no one would even know his father’s name.

The same with Buddha. If Buddha had not been born, no one would know his father’s name. They did not possess much either. These were small states. In Buddha’s time there were two thousand kingdoms in India. Even if Buddha’s father had ruled all of India, there still could not have been as many elephants and horses as are listed. All of India did not have that many—and there were two thousand kingdoms! It was a small state.

Why did devotees exaggerate so much? To make the renunciation great, first they had to make the indulgence great: “There was so much, and he left it all—what a stupendous renunciation!” But note, even renunciation is being measured by indulgence. Renunciation is being measured by wealth. The human mind is very sick. That is why, for Jains, all Tirthankaras are sons of kings; Buddha is a king’s son; for Hindus, all avatars are royal sons. Strange, isn’t it? In India never has a poor man’s son, a middle-class son, an ordinary person who was not a prince, been accepted as Tirthankara. What was the reason? What obstacle?

It is obvious. Many have been renunciants like Mahavira, but the public won’t accept their renunciation. “You had nothing—what did you leave?” Many have been renunciants like Buddha, but people won’t accept them. Even if they left everything and stood naked, people will ask, “What did you have? Tell us first—what was your bank balance?” And if you say, “I had none, not even an account,” they will say, “Then you left nothing—how can your renunciation be great?” The size of renunciation, first of all, is decided by the size of the bank balance!

So only princes appear to us as Tirthankaras and avatars. The rest we did not accept. Kabir is there, Dadu is there, Raidas is there—who cares for them? They had nothing; with nothing to leave—what did they renounce?

The routes of ego are subtle. Ego works even here. When Jains see that Buddhists have written of so many horses, they add even more in their scriptures. When Buddhists see the Jains have listed more, they raise their count. Because ego gets attached even here: “How can my master have fewer horses! Impossible—my master!”

I was once in a town. Three sadhus were quarreling. One styled himself as “Shri 108”—meaning one should prefix ‘Shri’ 108 times to his name. Since saying it would be awkward, he wrote “108.” The second began writing “Shri 1008.” Writing has no hindrance! The third was worried; he came to see me. He said, “One writes 108, the other 1008. No one has written ‘100,008’—it doesn’t look scriptural. What should I write?”

I said, “Write ‘Infinite Shri.’ Because if you write one lakh, someone else can write one crore—who can stop it? Write ‘Infinite Shri!’ Like children say, ‘One more than you.’ Whatever you say, one more. The matter ends. Don’t get into numbers, or you’ll be defeated.” He said, “That makes perfect sense.” Since then he became “Infinite Shri.”

Human ego is very subtle—overt forms and covert forms. The overt forms aren’t so difficult—they are visible; the covert ones are harder. Be alert to them.

When you say, “My country is the greatest,” you are really saying it must be so because you were born there. Otherwise how could it be that my country is not great! You are saying “I am great,” but indirectly, not directly. Someone says, “Hinduism is the greatest,” someone, “Jainism is the greatest.” Why? Because only if Jainism is great are you great; only if Hinduism is great are you great. Someone says the Quran is the highest scripture, someone else says the Vedas are the highest—your book must be the highest.

And this madness is everywhere. The Chinese think no country is greater than theirs. The Japanese think the same. The Germans too. There is no nation that does not consider itself great—because there are no people free of ego. But you look for excuses—so subtle they don’t show directly.

When someone says, “India is the greatest country,” no one notices he is proclaiming his ego. When he says, “May our flag fly high,” you don’t feel anything wrong—after all, it’s our flag. A Chinese would object: “Your flag higher!” Then quarrel begins. But the Chinese are far; we don’t stand face to face. Here, our flag is ours, so we chant happily.

In a Jain temple the talk goes on: “Jainism is the greatest.” No objection there. In a Hindu temple: “Hinduism is the greatest.” In the mosque: “There is no faith greater than Islam.” These discussions go on within their own boundaries, and everyone present nods—because they are all Muslims, or all Hindus, or all Jains. But try to see this truth: everyone says the same thing. If donkeys and horses could speak, they too would say the same: “None greater than us.”

I have heard that when Darwin propounded that man evolved from apes, there was an uproar among humans. It didn’t sit well—they were hurt: “We evolved from apes!” They had always thought God created them; suddenly the paternity changed! From God to ape—what a switch! Where God—and where an ape! Humans were angry; none was ready to accept it.

But I have heard, there was a great uproar among the apes too. They were angry: “Who says man is our evolution! He is our degeneration. We live on trees; they fell and call it evolution!” And if you look closely, they have a point. Match yourself with an ape—you’ll see who is more evolved. You cannot leap as they do, swing from one tree to another; no such agility, energy, strength—what evolution! With glasses and false teeth you somehow go along and claim to have evolved! The apes must laugh: “What is this? How did they evolve!”

Wherever there is ego, we devise arrangements to prop it up. So we say, “Man is the highest creature.” There has never been any debate with other species; we never asked the lions.

I have heard—an Aesop’s fable—a lion roamed the forest asking a monkey, “Who is the king of the jungle?” The monkey said, “Majesty, you are—what question is this?” He asked a cheetah, “Who is the king?” The cheetah said, “Is that even a question? Every child knows—you are.” His swagger kept growing. Then he went to an elephant: “Who is the king of the jungle?” The elephant wrapped him in his trunk and flung him twenty-five feet away. He fell, dusted himself off, got up and said, “Brother, if you don’t know the answer, why don’t you just say so! Just admit you don’t know.”

What other answer is there!

We cannot awaken from ego until we become aware of the subtle activities of the unconscious. Meditative processes first make you alert to the conscious, gross ego—of wealth, position. Gradually they begin to show there are subtler egos—of religion, of nation. Then subtler still—of renunciation, of knowledge. One has to peel layer upon layer of ego, like an onion—one layer inside another. And the inner layers are deeper, closer to the center.

In the end, when all layers are peeled and nothing of the onion remains—only emptiness—then know you have reached the place where the soul abides. Where ego is wholly cut, there you are. Where ego is not, there is the Divine.

First of all, I have never told anyone—even by mistake, even in sleep, not even in a dream—to renounce the world; and you are asking me while saying you are ready to renounce! I keep saying every day: don’t drop it, don’t run away—understand.

But dropping seems easy; understanding is difficult. So I understand your question. You’re saying, “Why get into the hassle of understanding? If dropping solves it, I’ll drop it right now.” And usually you become willing to drop only when the world has already dropped you. In old age people readily agree, “All right, let’s give it up.”

A man used to come to Ramakrishna’s place who held great religious festivals—grand feasts. At every festival sheep and goats were slaughtered; he hosted huge banquets. Then suddenly he stopped holding festivals. Ramakrishna asked, “What happened? You were such a religious man, always celebrating. What’s the matter? Are you no longer religious? Has your faith broken?” He said, “No, master, my faith is the same, I’m as religious as ever—but now I have no teeth. Now what’s the point! That day the real fact came out: the teeth have left, so now he says, ‘What’s there in meat-eating? It’s not even good.’”

When the world is on the verge of leaving you—old age comes, the legs begin to totter—the world has started leaving you; then you think, “At least let me enjoy this much—let me have the pleasure of dropping it. I’ll drop it.”

And the very idea of dropping the world arises because you did not find happiness in the world. Now you think, “Maybe I’ll get happiness by leaving the world”—that’s what you are asking me. Not only asking, you want a guarantee. You say, “Are you prepared to assure me...” as if, if it doesn’t happen, you’ll take me to court! “Happiness will definitely, certainly be attained if I renounce the world?” You are still as infatuated with happiness as ever. And the craving for happiness is what I call “the world.” How will you leave the world?

When the craving for happiness drops, the world drops. The day it becomes clear to you that happiness is not outside—cannot be outside—neither by grasping the world nor by dropping the world, because grasping is outside and dropping is outside and the world is outside—the day you know that joy is the art of resting in oneself, that it has nothing to do with holding or relinquishing the world, a revolution happens.

And such assurances cannot be given. There can be no guarantee. It depends on you, not on me. If you understand, happiness can be now; if you do not understand, it will never be. And your lack of understanding looks very solid—well-cemented.

You say, “I am ready to leave the world, but will you assure me that I will surely gain happiness this way?”

Who will give you assurance? Will it come from the outside? You have tried the outside long enough—now be free of the outside. Now seek assurance within; now close your eyes and dive inward. Appo deepo bhava, said Buddha—be a light unto yourself. You are asking me for an assurance—as though happiness were in my hands to give. If it were in my hands, I would give it to you. What is in my hands, I am giving to you—without the slightest stinginess. But neither in Buddha’s hands nor in Mahavira’s hands is there a way to give you happiness. In no one’s hands. Receiving happiness is in your hands. And as long as your vision is wrong, happiness will not be found.

Don’t leave the world; drop your outlook. If the outlook changes, the creation changes. It’s all a play of vision. But you are not ready to change your outlook. You’re ready to leave the world—but with these same eyes, wherever you go you will create the same world.

There is a lovely tale. In Maharashtra lived the saint Ramdas. He used to tell the story of Rama; devotees would come to listen. When someone like Ramdas tells it, a thousand flowers bloom on the tale! The story is the same, but it depends on the teller. News of his storytelling spread so far that, it is said, even Hanuman heard that Ramdas’s discourses were enchanting. So Hanuman, too, began to come, sitting in the middle, wrapped in his blanket, listening—greatly delighted: “I saw these things with my own eyes, but the way Ramdas tells them—it is so delicious!” Yet one snag arose. Ramdas described Hanuman going to the Ashok grove to find Sita, and seeing that white flowers were blooming everywhere—the entire grove covered in pure white blossoms. Hanuman forgot himself—such is Hanuman—stood up and said, “Master, everything else is fine, but change this—the flowers were red, not white.” Ramdas said, “Who are you to interrupt? Sit down! The flowers were white.” That made Hanuman angrier; he threw off his blanket—his tail came out. “Who do you think you are? I am Hanuman himself, and you tell me to sit! And you shout at me that the flowers were white. I went there myself, and you’re telling the story thousands of years later—you didn’t go, you didn’t see!”

Hanuman thought now Ramdas would concede. But Ramdas said, “Whoever you may be—even Hanuman—bring Lord Rama here and I still won’t concede. The flowers were white, and in my telling they will remain white.”

There are such courageous people—so delightful! “Even if you bring Rama, I don’t care. I have said white—white. Whether I was there or not makes no difference. I know the flowers were white.”

The matter got messy. Hanuman created quite a commotion. “We must go to Lord Rama; let him decide.”

So, the tale says, they went to Rama. Hanuman carried Ramdas through the air. They placed the matter before Rama. Rama said to Hanuman, “You should not speak in the middle. Stay quiet. And why did you even go there? If you did, you could have kept your blanket on and listened quietly. Ramdas is right—the flowers were white.” Hanuman protested, “This is too much—this is injustice; I myself went...” Rama said, “I know you went. But you were so full of rage—your eyes were bloodshot—you must have seen red; the flowers were white. Your eyes were filled with anger; you were in a fevered state. This Ramdas sits in peace and tells his story; he is no maniac. He has nothing at stake. You were going mad—Sita was captive, the one you loved, Rama, was in trouble, everything was in turmoil; victory or defeat was uncertain—you were in that storm. How could you tell whether the flowers were white or red? Ramdas is right. Ask his forgiveness.”

It’s a matter of the eye, not the world. If your eyes are colored by lust, you will see lust everywhere. If your eyes are filled with Rama, you will see Rama everywhere. Flowers become as your eye’s color is.

I do not tell you to leave the world; I tell you to see God in the world. And I cannot give you any assurance, because the very demand for assurance contains the mistake. You are still thinking happiness is in someone else’s hands. Happiness is your property. Happiness is your nature. Happiness is your birthright. You are losing it—by your own choice. Turn just a little inward and you will find it. Do not flee the world; awaken within yourself.

Let me tell you three little stories.

First—
Brihaspati, pressed by the persistent questions of his inquisitive son Kacha, said, “My child, renunciation is the means to supreme welfare. Take the support of renunciation.” But even after giving up everything, when Kacha did not experience bliss, he returned to Brihaspati. The guru understood all his confusion, smiled and said, “Dear one, renunciation does not mean abandoning objects; it means dropping the ‘mine-ness’ and ego related to them. As long as life lasts, some dependence on objects is inevitable. Therefore the objects are not to be discarded; what is to be discarded is the craving to enjoy them, the itch to accumulate them. Do not get busy leaving things; let the urge to accumulate them drop. There’s no need to leave wealth; drop the vision that ‘wealth is all.’ And if you want sannyas so that you may get happiness, then you are not taking sannyas at all. Your sannyas is only a continuation of the world.”

Second—
The Puranas tell of a Brahmin named Devasharma and his wife Sudharmi. They were childless. He performed great austerities, much yoga and meditation. The gods were pleased; when a deity appeared, Devasharma asked for a son. A son was born—the boon bore fruit—but the son was blind. The parents were very distressed. In old age they received a son, and he was blind. All their lives they had prayed, worshiped, performed austerities, yoga, pilgrimages—everything they could—and what they got was a blind child! But now there was no remedy.

They raised the blind boy and sent him to the gurukul. After learning a little, the boy returned. When he came home, he asked his father, “Are you still blind?” For how could a blind son be born of a seeing father? Devasharma was astonished. “No, my son, I am not blind, nor is your mother blind; we have eyes. Perhaps some karma bore fruit and we got a blind son.” The boy said, “No—you are blind, and so is my mother.” The father asked, “What do you mean?” The son replied, “I mean this: after a lifetime of arduous austerity, when the deity appeared, what did you ask for? A son! You are blind. After a whole life of austerity, when the divine manifested, you asked for a son—you are blind. Therefore I am blind.”

You ask sannyas for happiness—the same happiness you begged of the world and did not get. From sannyas, ask for peace, not happiness. Peace comes—and as the shadow of peace, happiness follows. Thus far you have asked the world for happiness; as the shadow of happiness, restlessness is what you got.

Remember this paradoxical formula: Ask for happiness, you get unrest. Ask for peace, happiness arrives.

Third—
The emperor Timur was lame; history knows him as Timur the Lame. Once a blind singer appeared in his court. Timur was delighted with his singing and asked his name. “Daulat,” the singer answered. “Daulat—Wealth!” said Timur. “Is wealth also blind?” The emperor taunted him for his blindness. The blind man laughed and replied, “If it were not blind, would it have come to the house of a lame man?”

Has your mind not yet tired of begging from the world? Will you keep begging? Drop this mendicancy now! Sannyas bears fruit only when it blossoms without any craving. Sannyas arises only when you see the futility of the world. No desire can be linked with sannyas. If you say, “I take sannyas in order to...,” you have missed it. That sannyas is blind and lame; it has no value.

You say, “I have tried doing everything in the world, and in all that doing nothing was found—now I will settle into my own being.” You have run and run—now rest. Now repose. In this repose there is no demand—because demand implies running, and you would have to run again. In this repose there is no desire—only freedom from desire. Then suddenly the rain of joy descends—of great joy. We have called that great joy “ananda.” We call it ananda because the opposite of sukha is duhkha; but the opposite of ananda is nothing. Where there is sukha, there is the possibility of duhkha—today sukha, tomorrow duhkha. But where there is ananda, there is eternal ananda. Esa dhammo sanantano—such is the eternal law.

That’s all for today.