Es Dhammo Sanantano #21

The world is big, vast. Its journey is long. But the world is not big because of the world; it appears big because you have no news of yourself. The world is big because you are unconscious. The expansion of the world exists only in your unconsciousness. The world’s immensity is only in your drunkenness. The moment you awaken, the world becomes small. Here you awaken, there the world begins to fade. The day someone awakens utterly, the world becomes void.

Therefore the wise have called the world Maya. Maya means: it seems to be, and yet it is not. Its being depends only on your sleep. Maya means: that which exists only while you sleep, whose death is in your awakening.

Maya means dream. Sleep at night and the dream stretches vast. Sleep at night and the dream has truth. Sleep at night and the dream feels real. The eye opens, all truth evaporates, all reality dissolves. Not even the ash of the dream remains by morning. At dawn, when the eyes open, the entire realm of dreams becomes a void.

Such is the world. It is, only so long as you are asleep, only so long as the inner flame has not been lit; it is in your not-being. You are, and it is gone.

So do not abuse the world. Do not condemn it either. Nothing will come of it. Do not run away by renouncing the world; that too will not help. If anything at all is to be done, awaken. If you truly wish to do something, bring awareness, break the stupor. Here awareness arises, there the world departs. You don’t even have to drop it, it drops of itself. Even to say ‘it drops’ is perhaps not accurate: it simply is not found.

What is not found upon awakening, that is the world. And what is found upon awakening, that is truth.

You drink wine — your feet begin to reel, yet it seems as if the whole world is reeling. You drink wine — what is not, begins to appear; what is, turns invisible. You drink wine — a curtain descends upon the eye. A trance descends upon the sky within. Clouds of unconsciousness gather. The sun of awareness is veiled. Within there is darkness, and without everything becomes transformed.

Akbar was passing along a road. A drunk, having climbed onto a roof, showered him with abuse. Akbar was enraged. He had the drunkard seized and confined for the night. In the morning he was brought to court. The drunk bowed again and again to touch Akbar’s feet. He said, Forgive me. Those abuses were not mine.

Akbar said, I myself was present. I myself was passing on that road. I myself heard the abuse. I need no other witness.

The drunk said, I do not deny that you heard. You surely heard, but I did not utter them. I had drunk wine. I was not in my senses. You will not hold me guilty for that unconsciousness, will you! They came out of the wine, not out of me. Since awareness has returned, I have been repenting.

Whatever you have done, you have done in unconsciousness. When awareness comes, you will repent. Whatever you have constructed, you have constructed in unconsciousness. When awareness comes you will find, palaces raised upon sand. You hoped to live with rainbows. You stretched bridges of desire, thinking perhaps they might carry you to truth. Only in your trance does the entire expanse of your world exist.

Buddha’s first aphorism is:

‘For the one who is awake, the night is long. For the weary, the journey is long — the yojana, the kos is long. In the same way, for fools who do not know Saddharma, the world is vast.’

In this century Albert Einstein gave science the theory of relativity. The enlightened gave that very principle to the inner world centuries ago.

People asked Einstein, What is this theory of relativity after all? There is so much talk, a Nobel Prize, the word is heard everywhere, but what does it mean? Einstein would say, It is difficult to explain it to you.

They say there were scarcely twelve people on earth who truly understood the theory. The theory is a little complex. And even if it were only complex, it would not be so difficult; it is a little trans-rational. It goes beyond the boundaries of intellect, where grasp fails, where the fist cannot close, where the thread slips from the hand; where thought comes up short.

Yet Einstein slowly found an example. To explain to ordinary folk he would say: if your enemy comes and sits in your house, even if he sits for an hour it seems as if years have passed. And if your beloved comes home, hours go by and it seems not even a moment has passed.

The measure of time lies somewhere in your mind. The measure of time is relative, dependent upon your mind. When you are happy, time passes quickly. When you are unhappy, time creeps, crawls, limps. Time itself is the same; the clock’s pace does not change with your joy and sorrow. But your inner mood transforms your sense of time. A life of joy passes quickly. A life of sorrow appears very long; it seems never to end.

If a loved one lies dying at home and you must keep vigil through the night, it will feel endless, like a night of doom — as if it will never finish. A doubt arises whether morning will come at all: perhaps the sun will never rise again! When death is near, time grows very long. You too have experienced that the sense of time depends on your mind.

Whether a journey is long or short, whether the distance of a kos feels long or short, depends on your mind. The outer kos is fixed. Two milestones stand set; the space between them is the same. But if you go to meet your beloved, there is a humming in your feet. Anklets ring within. The kos passes and you scarcely notice. If you go to receive sorrowful news, to face a painful event, the kos grows very long.

There is the outer kos, and there is the inner measure of kos. The outer is not the essential thing; the essential is the inner kos. The essential is the inner time.

Hence, in this very world, those who know how to live in bliss have a different journey altogether. And those who have formed the habit of living in sorrow, their life-journey becomes a pitch-dark night.

It depends on you. What you experience around you depends on you. In truth, you are its creator. The life you have obtained is the very life you invited — knowingly or unknowingly. What you asked for is what has come to be. If a dark night has enclosed you, your way of living is such that darkness becomes large. If light has surrounded you — radiance, if there is dance and song in your life — it depends on your way of living.

On this same earth, enlightened ones walk and the kos disappears, time becomes zero. On this same earth, enlightened ones walk and the world does not even come in the way.

On this same earth, you walk — even if you reach a temple, you arrive only at a market. It is not the temple that is decisive, it is you. Ultimately, you are the decision. Your life grows out of you. As leaves grow from a tree, so your life grows from you.

This aphorism is precious.

‘Dīghā jāgarato ratti.’

‘For the one who keeps awake, the night becomes long.’

‘Dīghaṃ santassa yojanaṃ.’

‘And the kos grows long for the weary and worn-out.’

I have heard: a great American thinker, in old age, came once again to see Paris with his wife. They had come thirty years earlier to celebrate their honeymoon. After retirement, when he was free from work, the urge persisted; he came again to see Paris.

He saw Paris, but something did not appeal. The Paris he had seen thirty years ago, the aura that surrounded Paris then, seemed lost. Dust seemed to have settled. That cleanliness was not there, that beauty, that thrill. Paris looked sad. Paris seemed a little in tears. The eyes of Paris were wet.

He was puzzled. He said to his wife, What has happened to Paris? It is not what it was when we saw it thirty years ago. Where are those colors! Where is that beauty! There is no bustle. People look tired and worn. Everything is, in one sense, the same, but a dust seems to have settled.

The wife said, Forgive me, we have grown old. Paris is the same. Then we were young; there was a thrill in us; we came dancing, we came to celebrate our honeymoon — and our honeymoon spread over all of Paris. Now, weary of life, tired and ready to die — our death has spread over Paris. Paris is the same.

Look at those couples who have come to celebrate their honeymoon. In their footsteps you will hear the echoes of our own memories. Look through the eyes of those who have come to celebrate their honeymoon; for them Paris is still multicolored. Paris is still filled with a unique light and aura. Do not look through your present eyes; return thirty years. Awaken the memory of thirty years ago.

Rightly said. Paris is always the same; people change. The world is the same. Your change — and the world changes. The world depends on you. The world is your viewpoint.

Why does Buddha say this aphorism? What is the purpose? The purpose is to tell you: do not think the world has bound you. Do not think the world has made you unhappy. Do not think the world is too big — how will you cross it?

People say, It is a bhavasagar — an ocean of becoming — how shall we cross?

Buddha says, Do not think so. If the world is big, it is because of you. If the world becomes small, it is because of you. It becomes an ocean of becoming if you are asleep. It shrivels to a poor, thin line of summer water if you are awake. Asleep, it is a vast ocean, hard to cross.

It is your thirst that drowns you, not the world.

It is the storms of your craving that drown you, not the world.

Desires gone, awareness arrived — the world contracts. It becomes a trickle, like the dried line of a river in summer. Then you simply walk across — no boat is needed. You cross on foot, only your ankle scarcely gets wet. And if you search a little rightly, if you are filled with even more awareness, the stream dries up completely. Only the sand of the river remains.

The world’s being a world is hidden in your craving. The world is your projection. Therefore, do not blame the world; do not load responsibility upon it. Remember this:

‘For the one who keeps awake, the night is long.’

The night is the same, but when you were asleep the night was short. You did not even know when it passed. So the length or shortness of night depends upon your inner state.

‘For the weary, the kos is long.’

Your fatigue makes distances grow. Despair stretches the kos. Let hope arise again, and the kos shortens; let a new sprout of hope break forth, and the journey becomes short.

‘Likewise, for fools who do not know Saddharma, the world is vast.’

What is Saddharma? What is it to know it?

We must understand Buddha’s definition of Dharma. He does not call Hinduism ‘Buddha’s dharma’; nor Judaism, nor any religion. Religions he does not call ‘Buddha-dharma’. Buddha’s Dharma has nothing to do with creed.

By Dharma Buddha means: the eternal law of life, the timeless rule of existence. It has nothing to do with Hindu, Muslim, Christian. It has nothing to do with sectarian quarrels. It is the law that functions at the very foundation of life. ‘Esa dhammo sanantano’ — this is the eternal law. Buddha speaks only of that.

And when Buddha says: Go to the refuge of Dharma, he does not say, Go to the refuge of any religion. Buddha says: Seek the Dharma — what is the eternal law of life? Take refuge in that law. Do not go against it, otherwise you will suffer. It is not that some God sits somewhere, and whenever you err He inflicts pain; whenever you sin He punishes you. There is no such God. For Buddha, existence is law. When you go against it, you suffer by going against it.

There is gravity in the earth. You drink wine and stagger, fall, your knee splits, your bone breaks — it is not that God punished you for drinking wine. For Buddha, these notions are childish. Buddha says, Where is God sitting to punish a drunkard? The drunkard himself reeled. The wine itself became the punishment.

The law of gravity — if you stagger and fall, bones will break. Walk with care. The law of gravity is functioning; do not go against it. Go with it. Put your hand in its hand, and your bones will not break. You will not fall. The law itself will support you.

Understand it thus: those who walk with the law are supported by the law. Those who go against it, fall by their own hand.

Which law of life is eternal? Which is the deepest? That consciousness within you — everything is relative to that consciousness. Everything depends on that consciousness. All is a play of your vision. This is the deepest law.

You are walking on the road; a pebble lies there. In the morning sun it glitters as though it were a diamond. You run and pick it up. The pebble did not make you run; a diamond could not make you run either. Your craving stretched out. Your craving was deceived. Your craving got stuck on a colored stone. A stir arose within you; sprigs of craving budded, dreams arose: a diamond! Accounts of lakhs and crores were settled in a moment. You ran. You didn’t even know when you began to run.

The diamond did not make you run. There is no diamond there at all — how would it pull you! You came near, took it in hand, the mesh of sunlight broke. It was a pebble; you threw it away. Limp, you resumed your way. You became sad, defeated, your expectation collapsed.

Did the pebble give you sorrow? Poor pebble — what sorrow can it give! It didn’t even know why you ran, why you approached, why you appeared so delighted, why suddenly you became sad. The pebble knew nothing. The entire play was yours. You ran, full of craving; you faltered, bent, grew sad, then went on your way.

Bhartrihari left home. He saw everything — saw it thoroughly and then left. Few have renounced so ripened as Bhartrihari. He must have been a rare man. He enjoyed to the full. He fulfilled the Upanishadic mantra: tena tyaktena bhunjīthā — enjoy through renunciation. He squeezed every drop of the world. Then he found, there is nothing — only one’s own dreams, wandering in emptiness.

In the days of enjoyment he wrote an incomparable scripture on love — Śṛṅgāra-śataka. None can match it. Many have written of love, but none has tasted love like Bhartrihari. From the experience of enjoyment, the scripture of love was born. It was not the babble of a dry thinker, but the tested word of an experiencer. Śṛṅgāra-śataka is precious; the essence of the world is in it.

But at the end he found that too futile. He went to the forest. Then he wrote Vairāgya-śataka — the scripture of renunciation. That too has no match. He knew indulgence and spoke it fully; he knew renunciation and spoke it fully.

One day in the forest he sat. Suddenly a sound arose. Two horsemen were rushing from opposite directions. He sat upon a rock, a narrow path below. The clatter of hooves opened his eyes. He had been sitting with eyes closed. When he opened them, he saw in the sunlight a precious diamond lying right before him. He had seen many diamonds, possessed many, but never such a one. In a single instant, a leap happened. In a single instant, desire flared in the mind. In a single instant, the mind forgot renunciation. In a single instant it forgot all the bitter experiences of indulgence — that acridity, that sting left behind by enjoyment. All was forgotten. In a single instant, desire surged. In the very next instant a thought arose: O fool! You left all this, knowing its futility; and yet something remains? Even now the hand wants to pick it up?

He sat down. No one knew. Not a whisper escaped. This was an inner happening. Even if someone had been watching, he would not have noticed. For the desire arose within and subsided within. The world rose and fell. A revolution happened. An inner upheaval.

Just then the two horsemen arrived and stopped. Both drew their swords over the diamond. Each said, My eye fell upon it first. No decision was possible. Swords flashed. In a moment two bodies lay writhing — bloodied. The diamond lay where it was. Sunrays still shone. The diamond likely did not even know what had happened!

Everything happened there. In one man the world rose and sank into renunciation. In one man the world rose and ended in death. Two were alive just now; breath flowed — gone. They lost their lives for a stone. And one man sitting there passed through all of life’s experiences — of indulgence and renunciation — and went beyond them all; witnessing arose.

Bhartrihari closed his eyes and plunged again into meditation.

What is the deepest truth of life? Your consciousness. The entire play is there. The roots of all play are there. The strings of the whole world are there.

Thus Buddha says, ‘For those fools who have not known Saddharma, the world is very big. The ocean of becoming is shoreless; crossing is impossible.’

Buddha says, Do not seek boats. There is no need for boats. Awaken! Awaken in Saddharma. The ocean shrinks. You step across.

If you come to know yourself, you are so vast that the world becomes utterly small. The world’s largeness or smallness is only in comparison to you. You have become small; because of your smallness the world appears large. Awaken, and you will find you are the vastness. You are immense. You are infinite and boundless. The world becomes small.

One who has known the inner, all without shrivels. One who wanders only without, the inner keeps shrinking. And the one who lives outwardly not only wastes life, even at the last moment of death he does not awaken. Death cannot wake him; death cannot make him alert. And what more do you want? It is understandable that in life you sleep; but does even the thought of death not jolt you? Even when death stands at the door, man remains busy running without, thinking.

Kābā kī taraf dūr se sajda kar lūñ

yā dahr kā ākhirī naẓāra kar lūñ

Even at the time of dying, on the deathbed, this is the kind of question that arises in the mind —

Kābā kī taraf dūr se sajda kar lūñ

yā dahr kā ākhirī naẓāra kar lūñ

Shall I bow from afar toward the Kaaba, or shall I catch the last glimpse of the world?

Yā dahr kā ākhirī naẓāra kar lūñ

kuchh der kī mehmān hai jātī duniyā

ek aur gunāh kar lūñ ki taubā kar lūñ

The world is departing.

Kuchh der kī mehmān hai jātī duniyā

There is a little time in hand.

ek aur gunāh kar lūñ ki taubā kar lūñ

Shall I waste this time in repentance, or commit one more sin?

This is your story. The story of your mind. This is your tale and your woe as well. Even to the last breath man fears to look within. He thinks, a little more time! Let me taste a little more. Let me run a little more.

Even after so much running you still do not understand that you have reached nowhere. Even after so much wandering it does not occur to you that outside, apart from wandering, there is no destination.

To those in whom this insight arises, they do not wait even till death. The very moment that insight arises, for them death has already happened. And that day a new life is born — a rebirth. That rebirth is Saddharma. From that day the inner journey begins. From that day begins the expansion of consciousness.

‘If, while wandering, one finds no companion better than oneself or equal to oneself, then with firm resolve let one wander alone. The company of fools is not good.’

‘While wandering...’

For those who have grasped the key of Saddharma, who have set out on the inner journey, some things must be remembered. First:

‘If, while wandering, one finds no companion better than oneself or equal to oneself, then with firm resolve wander alone. The company of fools is not good.’

Why? Those who would go within must not take as companions those who still go without. Because through them conflict, restlessness, and obstruction will arise in your life. Do not take as companion one who is still unwilling to repent, who is still planning sin.

ek aur gunāh kar lūñ ki taubā kar lūñ

One who still thinks —

Kābā kī taraf dūr se sajda kar lūñ

yā dahr kā ākhirī naẓāra kar lūñ

— being with such a one is not without danger. For there is only one way to be together: either he goes within with you, or you go without with him. And those who go without are obstinate. They are stubborn like rocks. And you are newly on the path within. You are a tender sprout; the one going without is a hard rock.

This fellowship is not right. It is dangerous. The fear is that your sprout will break; the rock will not. The fear is you will not be able to draw him inward; he will draw you outward.

So Buddha says: if you must keep company, keep satsang. If you wish to travel the Dharma, be with those who are at least as inward-bound as you. If one more advanced is found, blessed! But do not keep the company of those more foolish than you. Foolishness has weight; it will sink you. Do not imagine you will rescue them. You will only be able to rescue when you have reached your own center; when your journey has succeeded; when no doubt remains within.

In the beginning there are great doubts — it is natural. Whoever begins to go within is seized by a thousand doubts. For the whole world goes without. You step alone upon a footpath. You leave the highway. A thousand fears encircle you. A dark track! No mile markers. No map in hand. Will you arrive, or will you be lost?

On the highway, whether you arrive or not, the map is clear. Mile-stones stand. There is accounting at every mile. It reaches nowhere, but it is tidy, free of thorns. And then there is a crowd of thousands upon thousands. In that crowd there is assurance. So many go — surely they go rightly. So many cannot be mistaken!

These are your arguments — the argument of the crowd: so many cannot be wrong; so many cannot be foolish; are you alone the wise one? Millions upon millions are walking the highway and have always walked; the crowd never dwindles — one falls and another joins, the crowd only grows; surely they are going somewhere — otherwise who could keep so many in delusion?

When a solitary man begins to walk, his steps tremble. Storms of doubt and suspicion arise. Gales surround the lonely one. The solace, the shelter, the comfort, the shade of the crowd is gone. You are alone. Alone, all that you had repressed rises up. Leaves rustle and fear arises. The wind stirs and fear arises. In the crowd there was confidence. So many were with you — what fear!

Have you noticed? When the road is deserted, fear arises. Where there is a crowd, fear does not. Although all the robbers dwell in the crowd; in the deserted place there is not even a robber. In light there is no fear; in darkness fear comes. Why? Because in darkness you become utterly alone. Even if another is there, you cannot see him. You are utterly alone.

I was a guest in a house. There was a small child, very frightened of ghosts. The family brought him to me. They said, Please explain something to him. We don’t know how this fear has caught him. The toilet was across the courtyard. If he had to go at night, someone had to go with him. Only if someone stood outside would he stay inside; otherwise he would run out.

I asked him, If you fear the dark, then in the day you do not fear? He said, Not at all in the day. I said, Then take a lantern with you.

He said, Forgive me! In the dark I somehow escape those ghosts. In lantern light they will surely see me.

I liked his argument. In the dark he manages by deception, slipping out from here and there. In the lantern there will be more trouble. Consider: in light, there may be more fear, because the other also sees you. In the dark, what fear? You do not see the other, nor he you.

The frightened child’s logic is significant. Yet in darkness fear comes. Its root is not that someone will harm you. The basic reason is that you have become alone. Wherever you are alone, panic begins to grip you. All your sleeping fears rise up — those that remain suppressed in the presence of others. In the presence of others one maintains firmness. In solitude, all fears surface.

Thus it is hard to walk apart from the crowd. The mind will wish to catch someone’s hand. Buddha says: if you must take a hand, take that of one superior to you — one ahead of you, more inward than you — so that riding the wave of his being you may find ease in the inner journey. If this is not possible — if no Sadguru is found, no one ahead — then at least take the company of one who is at least as far as you have gone. If not one to lead you ahead, at least not one to pull you back. And if even this is not possible — for even that is difficult — then wander alone. The company of fools is not good.

And remember another thing: you came alone, you will go alone. All companionship is only to console the mind. Therefore, the art of being alone must be learned.

Also note: the more inward a person is, the more you will find both his companionship and your own aloneness. Crowds are formed by the outward-going. Crowds are not born of the inward. It is a great paradox.

If ten inward people sit in a room, it is not that ten are sitting; one by one, single beings are sitting. The inward dwell within; they do not build bridges without. If ten outward people sit, there are not ten; there is a crowd of ten thousand. For each person is linking with the other nine, and a thousand ties arise. Inward people, even when together, leave each other alone.

Only that companionship is worthy in which, being together, you remain alone. With whom your aloneness is not disturbed; with whom there is no betrayal of your solitude; with whom your virginity remains; your loneliness, your privacy remains pure; who does not invade your solitude; who respects your boundaries; who does not needlessly violate and spoil your aloneness; who is not aggressive; who comes near only when you call, and only as near as you call; who, when you go within, leaves you alone...

Buddha raised a great sangha of monks. The definition of Buddha’s sangha is this: a fellowship of those who, even when together, are not together — whose aloneness remains intact. For the inward-going do not make relations with others.

Ten thousand monks walked with Buddha — a great multitude, a whole village. Yet such silence spread as if Buddha were walking alone. Ten thousand walked — each alone. They did not walk as a crowd. Each went within his own being. In his own ecstasy. They did not build bridges to others. The relation with the other was nominal — that both travel the same inner journey. But the inner path is not a highway; it is a network of footpaths. Each must find his own footpath within.

Yeh hujūm-e-gham hai mahdūd-e-hudūd-e-zindagī

ādmī āyā hai tanhā aur tanhā jāegā

Life is a crowd of sorrows; a mass of griefs. The more you bind yourself in groups, the more you bind yourself to this crowd of sorrows. And one thing is forgotten: you came alone and you will go alone.

If only you could keep aloneness sacred even here, you are a sannyasin. A sannyasin is not one who goes to the forest. A sannyasin is one who has found his solitude amidst the crowd. Who, being together, is not together. Who, being near, remains far. He is in himself; you are in yourself.

So seek such friends as will not pull you outward.

Hence Buddha says: ‘The company of fools is not good.’

Fool means one who goes outward. Non-fool means one who goes inward. Fool means one who goes toward objects. Non-fool means one who goes toward consciousness. Foolishness means stupor. Non-foolishness means non-stupor — awakening, awareness.

‘My sons are mine, my wealth is mine — thus the fool broods. But when even the man himself is not his own, how will sons and wealth be his?’

‘Attā hi attano natthi.’

‘Even we ourselves are not our own.’

‘Kuto putto kuto dhanaṃ.’

‘Then how will wealth and sons be ours?’

We are not even our own. We are alien to ourselves. Understand this a little.

Fool means one who says, My sons are mine, my wealth is mine — a consciousness craving toward objects and relationships. He who inflates his sense of being by accumulating objects: so much is mine, such a large kingdom is mine, so much money I possess, so many sons, so many relations, so many friends — thus he expands himself.

This very expansion is the world. The larger this arrangement of expansion becomes, the more he struts that he is great — seeking to be great by the support of objects. He thinks by climbing steps he will be high. Ah, if only it were so easy!

You have seen small children. If the father is sitting, they place a stool by the chair and stand upon it: See, I am taller than you.

He who thinks that by climbing steps he becomes high — by steps the body reaches up, but your height within remains the same. You remain what you were. What difference is there?

Take man to the moon — he remains man. The same sicknesses, the same mischief. Settle man on the moon — he will wage the same wars, the same violence, the same bloodshed and turmoil. No difference. From the height of the moon man does not gain height.

Man rises by only one height — the height of consciousness; the ascension of awareness. Not by climbing outer stairs, but by climbing inner steps of the soul.

There is a Gaurishankar without — climb it. Tenzing climbed, Hillary climbed, others climbed. Does that bring the height of humanity? There is a Gaurishankar within — the peak of Samadhi. We have called it Kailash. On that peak Shiva abides. On that peak the Buddhas dwell.

We should say: in your awakening, in your day-by-day becoming aware, a moment comes when not a single particle within remains asleep. All has awakened. All is luminous. Not a single corner of your inner sky remains filled with darkness or pressed down. Within there is only light. You are bathed — in the inner sunlight. You are established upon your pinnacle. You have attained Kailash.

Yogis call it Sahasrar — the thousand-petaled crown. Your ultimate height of consciousness. Call it Paramatman, Samadhi, Sambodhi, Nirvana, Moksha — words do not matter. But some inner steps have to be climbed.

The fool is one who climbs outer steps; who trusts outer steps; who thinks by climbing stairs, I will rise. He gathers wealth outside and thinks thereby inner poverty will vanish. Outer poverty disappears, surely; but inner poverty must be met with an inner wealth. If poverty is within, only inner wealth can cure it. How will outer wealth remove inner poverty? Your empire may grow, yet you remain as you are. There is a fear you may shrink even more. For to expand empire you will have to pay with pieces of your soul. To enlarge empire you must pay the price with slices of your being — tearing and breaking yourself apart.

‘My sons are mine, my wealth is mine — thus the fool broods.’

The fool’s entire worry is this. Enter his skull and you will find nothing beyond wealth, status, sons. You will find such rubbish that the fool’s skull is like a municipal dump — not cleaned for lifetimes. It is good that God did not place windows in the skull. Otherwise, if someone peeped into your head, all the secrets would be out!

So outwardly we walk about smiling. We beautify ourselves on the surface, hide behind smiles, adorn ourselves with flowers.

Isse kyā fāyda rangīn libādoñ ke tale

rūh jaltī rahe, ghultī rahe, pazmurdā rahe

Oñṭh hanste hoñ dikhāve ke tabassum ke liye

dil ghame-jīst se bojhil rahe, āzurdā rahe

What use these colorful robes

if the soul within keeps burning, melting, withering?

If the lips smile only for show,

while the heart lies heavy with the sorrow of life?

What use these colorful robes!

We hide ourselves in bright garments. Perhaps others are deceived by these rainbow robes, these velvets. Perhaps others are fooled — but no, they too are doing the same. They know your arithmetic; their arithmetic is the same.

Isse kyā fāyda rangīn libādoñ ke tale

rūh jaltī rahe...

Whom are you deceiving? Wealth piles up and inner poverty stings and burns. Have you peeked into the lives of the rich? Seen their burning souls? You will find beggars hiding within — worse than beggars. For a beggar’s begging ends when his bowl is full; he drops worry and sleeps under a tree. The rich man’s begging continues through the night. In his dreams too it persists; in his dreams the race for wealth continues; the begging bowl remains in hand. The beggar’s bowl has a limit; he has no concern for tomorrow. Today he gets bread — enough. The rich man’s begging bowl never fills.

Isse kyā fāyda rangīn libādoñ ke tale

rūh jaltī rahe, ghultī rahe, pazmurdā rahe

With a withered soul, even if you deck yourself with flowers — what use?

Oñṭh hanste hoñ dikhāve ke tabassum ke liye

And if the lips smile only to maintain appearances,

Dil ghame-jīst se bojhil rahe, āzurdā rahe

and the heart is burdened with grief — what use!

When there is hell within, and outwardly you spread false tales about yourself — no, nothing is gained.

‘My sons are mine, my wealth is mine — thus the fool broods.’

He keeps thinking only of these robes. The soul burns, the being rots within. Ulcers form inside. Tears gather within. And outwardly he practices false smiles. Whom are you deceiving? You are playing a great game with your own life! This is not deception of another; this is self-murder.

‘But when even the man himself is not his own, how will sons and wealth be his?’

Even your own self! Think a little — you are not your master. Death will come — what will you do? Death will take you — what will you do? We are not even masters of ourselves.

Lāī hayāt, āe; qazā le chalī chale

Life was brought; death comes and carries us away. Birth happened — fine. Death comes — fine. We are not even our own masters. In such a state, in the madness of being master of whom are you entangled? Husband thinks he is the master of the wife. Husband means ‘master’. You are not master of yourself — in whose madness are you a husband?

Yesterday a friend took sannyas and asked why I call sannyasins ‘Swami’ — master.

To remind you: until you are master of yourself, do not indulge the madness of being master of anything else.

There are only two kinds of people. Those who are masters of themselves — sannyasins. Or those at least seeking their own mastery — sannyasins. Those who have understood at least this: no other mastery is of any use. All other masteries are deceptions. Shout as you may, My house is mine — the house remains; you go.

Sab ṭhāṭh paṛā rah jāegā

jab lād chalegā banjārā

All the pomp will be left behind when the caravan moves on. What is not yours will not go with you. Only that will accompany you which is truly yours. Seek that which is yours indeed — of which you are truly the master. This Buddha calls Saddharma: the supreme experience of life that is yours and only yours, forever yours.

‘When even the man himself is not his own...’

‘Attā hi attano natthi.’

We are not even our own. Now of what else shall we claim ownership?

The fool lays claims upon others. One who would break foolishness must seek only one claim — upon himself.

Har nafas hai nishāt se labrez

tark jis din se ikhtiyār meñ hai

Every breath is brimful of bliss

since the day renunciation became my choice.

Mujhe to yād nahīñ hai koī ḳhushī aisī

shareek jis meñ kisī tarah kā malāl na thā

As for the happiness the world gives you — if you look closely, you will not find a single joy in which some sorrow is not mixed.

Mujhe to yād nahīñ hai koī ḳhushī aisī

shareek jis meñ kisī tarah kā malāl na thā

And what kind of joy is that in which sorrow is mixed! What kind of nectar is that in which poison is mixed! What kind of life is that in which death is mixed!

But there is a joy known to the enlightened in which every breath is filled with a supreme bliss, a subtle bliss. But only when the meaning of renunciation is understood.

The sensualist is busy accumulating. The renunciate is one who has understood: one must become one’s own; one must seek one’s own mastery. The search for mastery over others is indulgence; the search for mastery over oneself is renunciation.

‘My sons are mine, my wealth is mine — thus the fool broods. But when even the man himself is not his own, how will sons and wealth be his?’

Do not keep the company of one who is a fool; avoid him. Foolishness is contagious. Run from the fool. Better to be alone. Buddha says, better to be alone. Walk alone. Do not seek the fellowship of the foolish; otherwise foolishness hangs upon your neck like a rock. Your own foolishness is enough to drown you — do not add another’s.

The opposite happens when you find a companion who is not a fool. His company becomes a boat. With his support you can cross far.

‘The fool who understands his foolishness is, for that very reason, a wise man.’

Buddha gives a very simple definition of the wise —

‘The fool who understands his foolishness is, for that very reason, a wise man.’

He who has known, I am a fool — his wisdom has begun. He who has known, I am ignorant — the first ray of knowledge has dawned. He who has understood, I am in darkness — his movement toward light has started. He who has known, I am ill — he will surely seek the medicine.

Once thirst is recognized, how will you avoid searching for the lake? The danger is only when you do not recognize thirst as thirst; then there is no question of a lake. Even if the lake is before your eyes, you will miss it.

The special trait of fools is that they consider themselves wise. I have had the opportunity to look into thousands of lives. I have not seen people more foolish than scholars. Sometimes a scholar finds his way to me — though I have made arrangements to keep them away — still they slip in. When a scholar comes, I wonder what to do, for no help can be given.

Two days ago a scholar arrived. He said, I have come to you because your way of speaking pleases me greatly. I said, Speak of what I say. What is the use of the way! Even falsehood can be said well. If you must speak untruth, you must speak it well. The manner of speaking does not make a thing true. Forget the style. Tell me what I say. He said, What you say, I too say. The difference is only in the manner.

Now such a man cannot be helped. He needs help, but he believes he knows.

He began, I myself explain Self-knowledge to people. I give talks. Not only in India; abroad as well.

Then I asked, Why have you come here?

He said, I have come to learn meditation from you.

These are a scholar’s troubles.

What will you do with meditation? If you are already explaining Self-knowledge to others, then surely you have it. What is meditation for now?

He became a little uneasy.

What will you do with meditation? If you have Self-knowledge, the matter is finished. Why seek medicine when the illness is gone? You yourself show others the way out of illness!

Then worry appeared on his face. He wants to understand meditation, because Self-knowledge has not happened. He wants the water but is not ready to admit he is thirsty — his ego would be hurt.

So I said, Come when you accept that there is thirst. For this water is for the thirsty. Come only when it becomes clear that you do not yet understand. Otherwise, what is the use of coming to me?

It is hard to support a scholar. He is secured behind defenses.

‘The fool who understands his foolishness is, for that very reason, a wise man. And the fool who considers himself wise, he is truly the fool.’

Those who know have not considered themselves knowers. The more they know, the more they find how little they know. The more the eye opens, the more they see truth is so vast we cannot exhaust it by knowing. One’s thirst is quenched — that is one matter; but that does not mean one has drunk the whole ocean. One’s thirst is quenched by a handful of water; that handful is not the lake.

Truth is like a lake without shore. Our thirst is quenched by a little. How great is our thirst? It is not greater than ourselves. The quenching of thirst does not mean we have known truth. A glimpse of truth quenches thirst. The nearness of truth quenches thirst. But that does not mean we have known truth!

Socrates said, When I came to know, I found I know nothing. As long as I thought I knew, I knew nothing.

In Greece there is the temple at Delphi. The goddess there used to pronounce oracles on certain days. People asked questions; replies came. Someone in the crowd asked: Who is, at this time, the wisest man in Greece? The goddess said: Socrates.

People went and told Socrates. Socrates said, There must be a mistake. If you had brought such news years ago, I might have accepted. Not now. Now I have begun to know a little. I tell you, there is no greater ignoramus than I. Go back and ask the goddess to correct the statement.

They returned and told the goddess that a mistake has been made. Socrates himself denies it. Whom shall we believe — you or him? He says, I am not wise; I am ignorant. None more ignorant than I.

The goddess said, That is why I called him wise. There is no contradiction between my statement and his. Precisely because he has come to know his ignorance, there is none wiser than he.

The recognition of ignorance is the end of ego. Ego seeks props — of wealth, status, renunciation, knowledge. Knowledge is the last prop. When all props fall away, even the support of knowledge — then ego dissolves. In that very instant you are no more; the drop becomes the ocean.

Buddha is right: ‘The fool who understands his foolishness is, for that very reason, a wise man. And the fool who considers himself wise, he is truly the fool.’

As you awaken, you will find: I know nothing. You will become like a small child.

Jesus said: Those who are like little children, only they shall enter the kingdom of God.

Like little children — meaning, they carry no stiffness of knowledge, no conceit of knowing; they are innocent even in their not-knowing.

Main beqarār, manzil-e-maqṣūd benishān

raste kī intihā na ṭhikānā maqām kā

When you awaken you find: I am restless, eager to find That — and yet the goal is without sign. The end of the road is unknown. Whether there will be any wayside shelter is unknown.

Main beqarār, manzil-e-maqṣūd benishān

raste kī intihā na ṭhikānā maqām kā

In such a moment you will stand still. In such a moment you become pure longing. In such a moment only thirst burns like a lamp. Nowhere to go — for where? Nothing to know — for what? In that stunned stillness, the first ray of knowledge descends.

Hurry — to accept your ignorance. Hurry — to be free of knowledge. And when I say this, I am not saying: impose an outer pose, saying, I am ignorant, while inside thinking, This is the very mark of the wise.

It is the mark of the wise — but the wise do not know it. Let your entire being, within and without, every pore, innocently accept: I know nothing — whence I come, whither I go, who I am, what I am — nothing.

In such a condition of ‘no clue’, what will you do? You will stand still. Consciousness will become unmoving. You will become like a small child again — a second childhood.

In this second childhood the seer is born. In this second childhood the first dawning of wisdom happens.

Knowledge is not the hoarding of information; knowledge is a ray descending into acknowledged ignorance. In the emptiness of accepted not-knowing, the full descends.

Empty your pot. You are too full — full of the unnecessary. Your vessel of consciousness has no space left. Turn it upside down. Become empty.

Relate this aphorism to meditation. Meditation means to pour out; to be emptied. Meditation will pour out of you the rubbish you call knowledge. Meditation will empty your pot of the so-called knowledge. Meditation will awaken you to your ignorance. This is the first event.

And the day the pot is empty, that very day you will find something otherworldly beginning to descend into it. A call from afar begins to come. Clouds begin to shower. In that very instant, the sky meets the earth; in that instant, Paramatman meets the soul. That is the moment of Sambodhi.

Thus meditation does two things. Here it empties you of the so-called knowledge; there it prepares you for real knowing.

Enough for today.