Guru Partap Sadh Ki Sangati #10

Veena Patel! Conflict is a good sign. Unfortunate are those who do not experience conflict, because those who never taste conflict will never come to know the beyond-conflict. The very recognition of confusion is the first step toward clarity. A mind filled with dissatisfaction is already seeking resolution.

Only the dull-headed think there is no confusion. Only the insensate are free of conflict. Wherever there is a little capacity to reflect, conflict will be there; confusion will be there. The problems of life will be visible, and the urge to resolve them will grow. Either resolve the problems, or keep anesthetizing yourself to forget them. But forgetting does not erase them; they return again and again, each time stronger, each time striking and attacking afresh. A whole life can be wasted in that futile struggle.

So when you come here, your turmoil increases because your problems become clear; when you are away, you soothe your mind with explanations, you close your eyes to your problems, you turn your back on them and settle into the idea that everything is fine. But that adjustment is false. It has no value; it is deception, self-betrayal. Later you will repent, because the time wasted in such self-deception could have been used to find a real solution.

This is the natural experience of those who come to me. It is not only yours; anyone who comes to me new arrives seeking resolution, but first they must face their problems. It’s like going to a physician: when you go, you don’t really know what the illness is; you only have a vague sense that something is wrong, that the body is not as it should be, that health is lacking. But it’s not clear whether it is TB or cancer or some other trouble brewing within. Many people are frightened of going to a doctor for exactly this reason—he will put a finger on the disease. They prefer to assume at home that it is a minor thing—a cold, a headache—“it will pass, take an aspirin, an anacin.” They keep distracting and consoling themselves. Or they go to those who hand them a charm, some ash, some blessing—anything that promises “all will be well”—without bothering to diagnose what the disease really is. They go to people who offer treatment without diagnosis.

Naturally the sick man trembles to go to the doctor; his legs shake. I understand his difficulty. He is afraid: what if it is something serious? A doctor may provide a cure, but before the cure comes diagnosis—and diagnosis is frightening. The first time someone tells you that you have TB, or you have cancer, the ground slips from under your feet; you see stars in daylight. Everything is thrown into disorder. Your former peace is shattered. All your neat arrangements scatter, and threads that looked straight become tangled.

There is an incident from Eknath’s life. A young man used to visit Eknath. Whenever he came he spoke lofty words of knowledge. Eknath could see that the talk of knowledge was only a veil to hide ignorance. One morning the young man asked, “I have a persistent doubt about you. Your life is so radiant, so stainless, pure like lotus petals—immaculate, virginal. But surely sins must have arisen in your life at some time? Surely darkness must have surrounded you? Surely some stain must have occurred in your life? It cannot be that you are completely unacquainted with sin. That is what I want to ask. Today I have come with this question, and since no one else is around, I ask without hesitation: does sin ever arise in your mind or not? Has it ever arisen, or is it not there at all?”

Eknath said, “I’ll answer that later. First something more urgent, lest I forget it in our conversation. Yesterday, as you were leaving, my eyes fell upon your palm and I was startled: your lifeline ends. You have seven days more to live. On the seventh day, with the setting of the sun, you too will set. Now, ask whatever you were going to ask.”

The young man jumped up. Now what question? What problem? What inquiry, what philosophical debate! He rose and said, “I have nothing to ask. Let me go home.”

Eknath said, “Sit. You just arrived, and you are already leaving—why such haste? There will be satsang, discussion, reflection, our daily talk of Brahman, liberation, kaivalya...”

The young man said, “Please, not today. I have no taste for that today.” The youth suddenly became old. When he climbed the temple steps a few minutes before, there was strength in his legs; returning, he descended leaning on the wall, his legs trembling. He went home and told his family; wailing broke out. Neighbors gathered. The hearth stayed unlit that day—neighbors brought food. He did not eat. “What food now!” He would not speak, he lay with eyes closed on his bed. In seven days his state became like a dying man’s. Time and again he’d ask, “How long before the sun sets?” It was hard even to get his voice out. The house was full of sobbing. Guests arrived from afar for a final farewell.

Just before sunset on the seventh day, Eknath knocked at the door. He entered and went to the youth, who lay with eyes closed. He opened the young man’s eyes with his hand and said, “I’ve come to tell you something: what are you doing, lying like this?”

He said, “What else can I do? How long before the sun sets? These seven days I have suffered such hell as never before. Now I feel if only I could die, the trouble would be over.”

Eknath said, “I’ve come to answer your question. You had asked me whether sin ever arises in my mind. I’ve come to ask you: in these seven days, did any sin arise in your mind?” He replied, “What are you saying? What sin, what virtue? In seven days no thought arose at all—only one thought: death, death, death. One day gone, two gone, three gone, four gone—hours slipping by, moments draining away. The seventh day is not far; with the setting sun, everything will sink. There was only death and nothing else. In these seven days there was darkness like the new moon night and nothing else. Where sin? Where virtue?”

Eknath said, “Then get up—you are not going to die now. Your lifeline is quite long. I only gave you this answer to your question. From the day I saw death, sin has not arisen. One who truly sees death, sin does not arise,” Eknath said.

Only a true master can give such an answer. But such an answer is costly. This is no cheap bargain.

Veena, when you come here, disturbances will naturally arise. When you come, the questions you had suppressed will surface again. The confusions you had convinced yourself were resolved will begin to show themselves once more.

If you seek a solution in life, first comes diagnosis—and diagnosis hurts, it brings pain. To tell a patient that it is TB or cancer... even a doctor hesitates—should he say it or not? How to say it? How to say it gently so the wound is not too deep? But it must be said. And the problems I speak of cannot be hidden.

Your experience is right: “When I come to you my disturbances increase and I panic.” But this is auspicious. It means you have heard me. It means you were not asleep. It means my words reached your heart, entered your very breath. It means I have disturbed you. And those whom I disturb bring good news—the glad tidings. Because just as my words wound, they also awaken.

To wake the sleeping, one must give a jolt. One must shake them. Their dreams must be shattered. Cold water must be splashed on their closed eyes. Naturally they will be annoyed. You too must feel annoyed. Doubts will arise: “Left to myself I feel more adjusted; when I come here, I become more confused.” I am not creating your confusion; I am only bringing your suppressed confusions into the open.

And I know nothing of you personally; I speak of the universal human condition. I don’t even know you; I haven’t seen you. But where is the difference from human to human? The trouble of A is the trouble of B. There will be variations of degree, differences of color and style, but the troubles are the same—the same death, the same life, the same fundamental question: Who am I? What is the meaning of life, its purpose? Why does this existence exist?

You say your mind is obsessed with things that are not acceptable. Until you accept them, your mind will remain possessed. One does not gain victory by rejecting. Whatever we reject within ourselves gets pushed down—and what is pushed down seeks opportunities to surface. When you come to me, it will try to emerge, because I am against repression. If a person has repressed sexual desire and put on the robe of celibacy, then here with me his robe will start to slip. Because I say: do not repress sexual energy; know it. Knowing is victory; in repression there is defeat.

The one who represses sexuality becomes more and more possessed by it; pus of desire spreads into every pore. Celibacy certainly flowers—but not for those who repress desire. Celibacy flowers for those who bring witnessing to desire—who do not repress but bring it fully into awareness; who look at it with eyes wide open. Only those who have looked at their desire utterly see it transform into prayer. The same desire that misled becomes the path; the very steps that went down become the steps going up. The very road that brought you into the world will take you back home. Desire brought you into the world; desire will take you into the divine. The only difference is: when you came into the world your back was to the divine and your face to the world; on the way back your back will be to the world and your face to the divine. But the desire is the same, the energy is the same, the power the same. With the same power you dive under water, and with the same power you rise out.

That which has led you astray hides the resolution within it. In poison, nectar lies hidden—if there is a seeker and a conscious search. So if someone has forced celibacy upon themselves—and there are many like this in this country, the land is full of them—then when they hear me, new shoots of desire will begin to sprout. What you call “unacceptable” will lift its head. They will be frightened. Those who have repressed anger will be frightened. Those who have repressed greed will be frightened. Those who have repressed will feel a certain panic in my presence. This is natural.

But do not conclude from this that you should be afraid to come to me; then you miss the opportunity. “The grace of the master, the company of seekers”—this is no cheap affair; it is a costly journey. It is risk. It is a gamble. So your mind fills with conflict and you wonder whether you will find a solution here or not.

A mind that fills with conflict does so because it has the capacity to become free of conflict. Understand this well. He who can fall ill can also become healthy. The dead do not fall ill—you have never seen a dead man sick. The dead are not sick, and they cannot be well either. The stupid do not fill with conflict, and they do not attain wisdom either. To be full of conflict and anxiety is a sign that within there is discernment, awareness, consciousness, understanding.

But so far it has not been rightly used. When it is used rightly, I teach only this art: to transform thorns into flowers. To transform kaam (desire) into Ram (the divine). Pebbles and stones turn into diamonds and jewels. Then you will feel gratitude toward life’s problems, a sense of grace toward them—because those very problems served as steps leading you to the solution.

But what you call unacceptable must be accepted. Your acceptance or rejection doesn’t change reality; nothing vanishes or appears because of it. If you want transformation, accept life in its totality, because transformation happens through acceptance; rejection creates conflict. Rejection splits you into fragments. If you fight your sexual desire, you are in two pieces—on one side your desire, on the other “you.” And remember, sexual energy is no small thing; it permeates every fiber of you. You are born out of it; you are made of it. Every particle of your body is suffused with it. If you fight it, you fight yourself. In a wrestling match against yourself, you can never win. You will be badly defeated, badly broken, shattered into pieces like mercury scattering, like glass smashed on stone.

Life must be transformed—raised to heights—given wings. For that, there must be no inner conflict, no duality within: there must be nonduality. I teach you the first lesson of nonduality—accept yourself as you are. Judgments of good and bad have thrown you into great trouble. What is good, what is bad—you do not really know. What is auspicious, what inauspicious—you do not know. You have only clung to what others taught you; that very clinging has drained your life.

If you look into the ways of different cultures around the world, you will see this clearly. In China people eat snakes—yes, snakes—and snake meat is considered a delicacy. Children grow up seeing it; no one is disturbed. But if someone placed a boiled snake before you for breakfast, you would be nauseated for days. What you have heard since childhood seems right to you; it sits inside as “truth,” and you never reconsider it, never examine it. You were told anger is bad; but no one told you that within anger lies the seed of compassion. Anger is bad if it remains anger; but if it transforms into compassion, then anger is a blessing.

Have you ever heard of a eunuch attaining buddhahood? Neither in the East nor West has any eunuch attained it. Why? Because without the energy of desire, how can celibacy flower? If celibacy produced enlightenment, then all eunuchs would be Buddhas.

Lack is of no use. If there is no sexual energy, how will the flower of celibacy bloom? Notice: the twenty-four Tirthankaras of the Jains were kshatriyas; Buddha was a kshatriya. And these two traditions—Jain and Buddhist—gave the world the teaching of nonviolence. Kshatriyas taught nonviolence! That should surprise you. The Brahmins ought to have taught it; instead, they gave the world Parashuram, who is said to have emptied the earth of kshatriyas many times—lifting his axe and “cleaning up.” The Brahmins gave Parashuram, and the kshatriyas—Mahavira, Parshva, Neminath, Buddha—gave the world the Tirthankaras of ahimsa. Why? Because only the kshatriyas had such intense, blazing anger that compassion could be born from it. To give birth to compassion, one needs the capacity for blazing anger; the shining edge of the sword becomes compassion.

In Buddha’s life there is the episode of Angulimala: a man angered by the emperor, who vowed to cut off a thousand heads and wear a garland of their fingers; thus he came to be called Angulimala—his real name forgotten. He began killing. He was strong, ferocious. He set up camp on a hill just outside the capital. Whoever passed, he killed, threading their fingers into his garland. The road became deserted. Even the king’s soldiers refused to pass that way. The king himself trembled.

He killed nine hundred ninety-nine people and was searching for the thousandth. Only his mother still visited him—but now even she grew afraid. People asked, “You don’t go to see Angulimala anymore?” She said, “It’s dangerous now; he is short of just one. He may kill anyone—even me. He is utterly blind to everything but completing his vow. The last time I looked in his eyes, I saw pure animality. I dare not go again.”

At that time Buddha arrived in that capital and was about to pass by that road. People tried to stop him: “Don’t go; Angulimala is there. He has sworn to cut off a thousand heads. He has killed nine hundred ninety-nine; only one is left. Even his mother is afraid to go. He will not spare you; he cares not about who is Buddha or not.”

Buddha said, “Had I not known, perhaps I would have taken another road; but now that you have told me he awaits one more person... one must consider him too. How troubled he must be! Even his mother no longer goes; the road is closed—what of his vow? I must go. And this man’s potential is immense. One in whom there is such anger, such blazing fire, such indomitable courage that he has slain nine hundred ninety-nine at the edge of the capital and the emperor is helpless—this is no ordinary man. He has tremendous energy—the possibility of buddhahood.”

That day even Buddha’s disciples were very frightened. Usually they jostled to walk closest to him, left and right; but that day, as the hill came into view, the disciples began to drop back. The distance of yards became the distance of furlongs. They dragged their feet as if life had left them.

Buddha reached alone. Angulimala was delighted to see someone approaching. But as Buddha came nearer, as the master’s aura approached—“the grace of the master, the company of seekers”—as that aura drew close, an astonishing feeling arose in Angulimala: “No, not this man. I cannot kill this man.” He was startled; this had never happened. He looked carefully: a monk in ocher robes, beautiful, unique. Even the way he walked had a grace. “No, not him.” But his animal self rebelled: “If you keep sparing people like this, how will you complete the thousand?” A great conflict broke out. But the closer Buddha came, the more a voice rose from within: “No, no—this man is not to be killed. This man is to be sat with, to be in satsang.”

You can imagine his plight: on one side his vow and lifelong habit; on the other, something utterly new—an unknown ray, a fresh flower blooming where none had bloomed.

As Buddha came nearer he shouted, “Stop! Monk, stop there. You may not know—I am Angulimala. I warn you. I am dangerous. See this garland at my neck? These are the fingers of nine hundred ninety-nine men. See that tree where I have hung nine hundred ninety-nine skulls? Only one is lacking. Even my mother has stopped coming. I will not spare her either if she comes; I am a kshatriya—I must fulfill my vow of a thousand.”

Buddha said, “I too am a kshatriya. If you can kill, I can die. Let us see who wins.”

Angulimala had never seen such a man. He knew only two kinds: those who, seeing him, fled with tails tucked; and those who drew their swords. This was a third kind—he had no sword, and he was not running; he kept coming closer. Angulimala’s heart trembled. “Stop!” he said. “One step more and my axe will cut you in two.”

Buddha said, “Angulimala, I stopped long ago; you stop now.”

Angulimala slapped his head. “You must be mad. You tell me, sitting still, to stop; and you, who are walking, say you have long stopped!”

Buddha said, “The movement of the body is not movement; the movement of the mind is movement. My mind does not move. The mind’s motion is gone. Desire gone. Demand gone. No craving remains. No thought remains. No waves arise within. That is why I say: I stopped long ago—now you stop.”

Something like an arrow pierced Angulimala’s heart. Buddha came close; Angulimala was in deep dilemma—should he kill him or not?

Buddha said, “Do not worry or doubt or waver; I have not come to trouble you. Kill me. Fulfill your vow of a thousand. I must die anyway—if not today, then tomorrow; if not tomorrow, then the day after. Kill me today, your vow will be fulfilled—I will be of some use to you. Otherwise I will die tomorrow; no one’s vow will be fulfilled, and I will be of use to none. If life can be of use, let death be of use too—what could be more auspicious? Lift your axe—but on one condition.”

“What condition?” asked Angulimala.

“First,” Buddha said, “break off a branch from that tree and give it to me.” Angulimala lifted the axe and chopped off a branch. Buddha said, “Good. Half the condition is fulfilled. Now fulfill the other half—join it back.”

“You are surely mad,” said Angulimala. “How can I reattach a broken branch?”

Buddha said, “Even a child can break; the art is in joining. Now you will cut my head—but can you reattach even one that you have cut? You cut nine hundred ninety-nine—could you join even one? What is there in cutting, Angulimala? Any madman can do that. Come with me, I will teach you to join. What is there in death? I will teach you life. What is there in the body? I will teach you the soul. What is the point of small vows and egos? I will show you the completion of the great vow. I will make you a Buddha. I have come for this: either you will kill me, or I will kill you. A decision must happen—either you kill me, or I kill you.”

Veena, I say the same to you. For those who come to me, a decision must happen: either I will finish them, or they will finish me. Nothing less will solve anything. And they cannot finish me—how can you end what is already ended?

Angulimala could not lift his hand against Buddha. His axe fell. He fell at Buddha’s feet: “Initiate me.” He said, “I have seen many men, but never one like you. Initiate me.” Buddha initiated him at once: “From today your vow is compassion.” He said, “You jest—even I, full of anger, compassion?” Buddha said, “No one can be as compassionate as one like you whose anger is so intense.”

The news spread through the town and far beyond: Angulimala has become a monk. The emperor Prasenjit himself, who had not come to see Buddha, came—both to see Buddha and to see Angulimala, the man who had terrified the kingdom. He bowed to Buddha and said, “I have heard, bhante, that that evil Angulimala, the great killer, has become your monk. I cannot believe it. That man—a sannyasin? I cannot believe it.”

Buddha said, “Whether you believe it or not is not the point. This man sitting at my right—do you know who he is? He is Angulimala.” As soon as Buddha said it, Prasenjit drew his sword in panic.

“Put your sword away,” Buddha said. “This is not the Angulimala you know. There is no need for your sword. Do not tremble, do not fear; he will not kill even an ant now. He has taken the vow of compassion.”

When Angulimala went for alms his first day in the town, people—small-minded as they always are—those who had trembled before him closed their doors; no one would give him alms. Not only that, they piled stones on the roofs and pelted him from above until he fell bleeding on the road. Not a single curse escaped his lips.

Buddha arrived and placed his hand on Angulimala’s bleeding brow. Angulimala opened his eyes. Buddha asked, “They threw stones at you; blood flowed from your head; your limbs were injured—what happened to your mind?”

Angulimala said, “Coming to you, the mind did not remain. I watched as a witness—just as you had said: watch everything with witnessing. I watched.”

Buddha embraced him: “Brahmin Angulimala—from now on you are no longer a kshatriya, you are a brahmin. I call such men brahmins. You are now born into the lineage of Brahman. You have known Brahman.”

When you come to me, first problems will arise, dilemmas will arise, anxieties will arise, conflicts will arise. And your question—“Will I find a solution by coming to you?”—is absolutely natural. But this is known only by drinking water: without drinking, how will you know whether your thirst will be quenched? Without lighting the lamp, how will you know whether the darkness will go? There is no other way. Experience is the only way.

Veena, accept yourself. My sannyas is the sannyas of acceptance—there is no renunciation in it, no flight, no escape. It is the embrace of life, because life is the gift of the divine. Nothing in it is to be denied. Yes, much is to be transformed, but nothing is to be cut off—no, not even a leaf. On every leaf is written the name of Ram. On every leaf are his signatures. The whole of life is to be made worthy of his feet. Nowhere to run, nowhere to go—right here, just as you are, I will teach you the art of becoming worthy of the divine.

You will find resolution—certainly. If there is unrest, there will be rest; if there is disease, there can be healing. You must learn witnessing. You must drop repression, rejection, and the taught nonsense.

You say, “My personality has become more stubborn and skeptical.”

Good signs.

“Therefore surrender is difficult now.”

That is not true. To surrender, one needs resolve. Only the truly resolute can surrender. The supremely resolute alone can surrender. Surrender is not for the weak. The greatest deed in this world is surrender. So my words may sound paradoxical: when I say only the supremely resolute can surrender, you may feel it is the opposite—“We thought surrender could happen only by dropping resolve.” But to drop resolve, a greater resolve is needed. One thorn is removed by another thorn. To remove resolve, a super-resolve is needed. And once resolve has been removed by supreme resolve, what remains is surrender.

Surrender is not the opposite of resolve; it is the absence of resolve. So those who come to me first become more resolute; that is what you are calling obstinacy.

And you say, “The mind has become skeptical.”

That too is auspicious. I teach doubt. I do not teach belief; belief should come as a result. One should climb the steps of doubt to reach the temple of trust. If you suppress doubt and adopt belief, it is worth two pennies—of no value. Doubt until trust arises. Doubt so much that there is nothing left to doubt. Doubt so much that doubt applies even to doubt. Doubt so totally that in doubting, doubt collapses and dies. Doubt with such wholeness that the life of doubt flies away—and what remains is open sky: trust and surrender.

One is belief—the kind taught by Hindus, Muslims, Christians, Jains. They are believers; they do not have trust. They have suppressed doubt—locked it away in the dungeon of the unconscious. It lies there very much alive, ready to come out. Just scratch a little and it emerges. Just question someone’s belief and he gets angry. Why? Because he fears the inner doubts may wake up. He has managed to put them to sleep somehow, to hide them; he fears exposure. As you are naked under your clothes, so you are full of doubts under your beliefs; belief is only a garment. Such garments have no value.

I teach another kind of trust that is not the opposite of doubt, but uses doubt. Doubt—doubt to your heart’s content. Ask, raise questions. A moment comes—questioning’s great moment—when all questions fall. And then the great hour of doubt arrives when doubt becomes lifeless.

In the West there was a great thinker, Descartes. He began his inquiry with doubt—the right path. He said, “I will doubt everything until I find something that I cannot doubt. I will try to doubt even that, but cannot—though I may beat my head against it, I cannot doubt it. Until I reach such a point, I will keep doubting. Trust only when doubt becomes impossible.”

That moment came. One day it arrived; it always does. I too, Veena, began my journey with doubt. I began with atheism. That is why I know this path. It is my known path. With those who are willing to come by this path, my relationship becomes profound. I am for the doubters. And this century is of the doubters; therefore my religion is the religion of this century. The future belongs to the doubters; therefore my religion is the religion of the future. The children who are coming cannot be forced to “believe.” Tell them a thousand times “God is,” and they will not accept it. Intellect is becoming sharper, deeper with each generation. Each generation is more aware, more alert, asks more questions. It is no longer easy to convince people with explanations and have them accept. Now it is a world of doubt. Only that religion can live which knows how to use doubt.

In the process of religion I offer you, doubt is not the enemy; it is a friend. Sharpen doubt.

Descartes started with doubt: he doubted God, heaven, hell, the devil—even the world, for who knows if it exists? In dreams we also feel things are outside us; in the morning we wake and find they were not. Perhaps we are dreaming now. You may be dreaming that you are listening to me. Those who listen to me daily sometimes dream that they are listening to me. Who knows—are you dreaming or awake? The likelihood is greater that you are dreaming; the chance of being awake is very small—because one who is awake is a Buddha.

What certainty is there that what is outside really is? What proof? There is none. Descartes doubted even that. He went on doubting and doubting, and one day the great moment came when doubt got stuck—on his own existence. “I am”—this cannot be doubted, because to doubt this, you must exist. If you say, “I am not,” who is saying it? If you say, “I doubt myself,” who doubts? This existence of mine, this self, is beyond doubt; doubt cannot touch it.

Mulla Nasruddin was bragging with friends in a hotel: “There is no donor like me in this town.” A friend said, “Mulla, that doesn’t fit. You tell many lies—we accept your tales of five lions you killed, or seven birds with one arrow—but this we won’t accept. We live in this town and have never seen your generosity. Far from charity, you’ve never even invited us for tea.”

Mulla said, “Come—right now. I invite you all to a feast.” Thirty or thirty-five people—hotel manager and waiter included—went along. He had boasted, but as they neared home and his wife’s face came to mind, he grew worried. “Brothers,” he whispered at the door, “you are husbands like me. We all know each other’s situation. Please wait here. Let me go in and bring my wife around. I’ve been out since morning; actually, I went to buy vegetables. I didn’t bring them, and have brought thirty-five men for dinner. She’s likely been fuming all day. Give me a little time to persuade her.”

They agreed. Mulla went in. Half an hour passed; he didn’t return. An hour. Then an hour and a half. They said, “This is too much. Is he asleep? How long to convince a wife? We hear no sound—no arguing, no shouting, no clattering plates. Only silence.” They knocked.

Mulla said to his wife, “Some fools have come with me. Save me—go tell them Mulla is not at home.” She opened the door. “Mulla? He went out in the morning to buy vegetables and hasn’t returned. He is not at home.” They said, “This is too much! He came with us—we saw him go inside. It’s not one person who can be mistaken—thirty-five of us saw him.” They began arguing that he must be inside.

Mulla was listening from an upstairs window. Finally he could not bear the argument. He opened the window and called, “Listen! It could be that I came with you and left by the back door!”

You cannot say “I am not at home” to yourself. If you say, “I am not,” it proves you are. The self is the one element beyond doubt. Therefore I do not teach you God first; I teach the self. By diving into the self, the divine is experienced. That is an experience—not a belief, but a knowing. The dive into the self is meditation; when the dive is complete, it is samadhi. Practice is meditation; the fulfillment of practice is samadhi. When you dive into the self you know “I am,” and to the one who knows “I am,” it is revealed that this “I” permeates all. This very existence pervades everyone. That is God.

Veena, do not worry. If there is courage, if there is audacity, we will use your doubt; we will use your obstinacy. Bring all your illnesses—we will use them all, we will turn them into steps. The art is this: to use even the roughest stone. And now you cannot escape.

You say, “Even so, I feel a strong urge to come to the ashram.”

Once someone has truly come here—if even once someone has tasted my vibration; if even once someone allowed me to touch their heart; if even for a moment someone glimpsed the freedom I sing of every day—“Leave your cages, even if they are of gold; fly in the open sky”—if someone has once felt the thrill of flapping wings, then no matter how much they try, they can no longer stop. No one can stop them.

Veena, it is not possible for you to stop; do not waste time trying to.

Keep your golden cage;
my path now is the open sky.
You remind me of an age gone by—
your fort once stood so high,
a palace-fort, immense,
and in it that golden cage!
But those were emblems of bondage,
of pomp, pride, temptation.
I had set my sights
on another kind of life!
Restless longings of youth,
the body bound, the mind adrift!
Keep your golden cage;
my path now is the open sky.

Before getting trapped by bonds
I had learned this truth—
the sky is the earth’s shadow,
the earth is the sky’s shadow.
Both hold their arms open:
I may soar free in the sky,
or descend to earth
to love the grass and the dust.
Between the two there is no bondage,
no obstacle, no estrangement.
Keep your golden cage;
my path now is the open sky.

My own delusion, my own folly—
one day I was bound.
I even endured those days,
recognized life’s deceit.
Now I have broken the bonds:
how can I trust you again?
You call me inside,
I call you outside.
Come see—the taste of freedom,
how the free wind feels!
Keep your golden cage;
my path now is the open sky.

Far from the fort of sky-and-earth,
far from palaces and forts,
the cage took me farther still,
harsh, cruel, unfeeling.
Now I have returned to all:
the earth is mine, the sky is mine.
Dust-motes mine, trees and grass mine,
mountains mine, fragrance mine!
All that is mine which is sweet freedom;
yours remains what is bondage.
Keep your golden cage;
my path now is the open sky.

People will try to stop you—loved ones, family, friends. Those who were never friends, never dear, never family will suddenly become all that to stop you. Those who were never there in your sorrow will put up obstacles. Tell them:

Keep your golden cage;
my path now is the open sky.

Your cage may be of gold, studded with pearls and diamonds—keep it safe; mine is the open sky now. And whatever is unacceptable to you—accept it. Accept the earth. Earth and sky are not enemies. The clay-like and the consciousness-like are companions. Body and soul are not separate. God and his vast universe are merged in one music, bound in a single tone.

Both hold their arms open:
I may soar free in the sky,
or descend to earth
to love the grass and the dust.
Between the two there is no bondage,
no obstacle, no estrangement.
Keep your golden cage;
my path now is the open sky.

And bid farewell to all who taught you repression, opposition, condemnation—who taught you enmity toward the body, called matter a fall and a sin. Neither matter is sin nor the body sin. In matter, too, God sleeps; in the body, too, he has taken form.

Now I have returned to all:
the earth is mine, the sky is mine.
Dust-motes mine, trees and grass mine,
mountains mine, fragrance mine.
All that is mine which is sweet freedom;
yours remains what is bondage.
Keep your golden cage;
my path now is the open sky.

I invite you to the open sky, Veena. Only in this open sky will you be saved; only in this open sky will you become a Veena.

Krishna Vedant! The collusion is nothing new—very old, ancient, perennial. From the first moments of human history one thing became clear to the politician: without taking the pandit and the priest along, it is impossible to enslave the human soul. And if man’s soul is free, his body cannot be enslaved either. If you want to enslave the body, first you must enslave the soul.
The politician’s desire is to enslave the body; the pandit-priest’s craft is to enslave the soul. Together they have conspired; together they have arranged to sit upon the human chest.
A truly religious person is influenced neither by pandits and priests nor by politicians. There is nothing there to be influenced by. Pandits and priests are only parrots. They may have beautiful words, fine grammar, language, quotations from scriptures—but they have no experience of the soul. And the politician is the most petty creature on earth, the most unintelligent, the most inferiority-ridden. To hide his inferiority he develops every kind of trick. An intelligent man is not a trickster. You will be surprised: the greater the talent, the cleaner and simpler a person becomes.
Genius needs no cunning. Cunning is needed by the talentless—to make up for the lack of talent. If one has real coins, why carry counterfeits? But if one has no real coins, one will carry fakes. If one has a beautiful face, why wear masks? But with an ugly face, masks are needed. If one has a beautiful body, why worry about ornaments? But with an ugly body, it must be covered in gold and silver.
Have you seen this? How graceless, awkward, clownish women look when they plaster their faces with paint, smear lipstick on their lips—only vulgarity is revealed. It shows only this much: this woman lacks intelligence too. Beauty is absent—and good sense, and grace as well.
You have seen women laden with gold and silver, as if trying to hide their non-shining souls under the glitter. Exactly so with the politician: he has hardly any intelligence. If he had, he would be a scientist; if he had, he would be a poet; if he had, he would be a musician; if he had, he would invent something; if he had, he would create something; if he had, he would be a saint, a mystic. To be a politician requires no qualification of any kind. Politics is the trade of the unqualified. But in one thing the politician is skilled: dishonesty—being a 420, a swindler. That is his art.
A politician’s wife had died. He sent one of his lackeys to the market to buy shroud-cloth. After some time the lackey returned empty-handed. A lackey returning empty-handed—that had never happened! A lackey, wherever you dip him, comes back dripping; that is what a lackey is for. Politicians keep such lackeys because politicians have power—office, money, prestige—and the lackeys siphon off their share.
Seeing the lackey empty-handed, the politician said, “You—and you came back empty-handed! What’s the matter?”
The lackey said, “Master, shroud-cloth is very expensive. The shopkeeper is asking five rupees for one shroud.”
The leader said, “What! Five rupees? What daylight robbery! Five rupees for one shroud? You wait here, I’ll go get it.” After a while he returned, pleased with himself, and in his hands were not one but three shrouds.
The lackey was startled—the leader had outdone him! He asked, “Three shrouds? What happened?”
The leader said, “See—while you said one shroud for five rupees, look here: I brought three shrouds for five rupees. I created such a storm in the shop—such a ruckus, a near gherao—the traffic jammed outside, such a din that the shopkeeper feared looting might break out. A big crowd gathered. To avoid bad publicity he said, ‘All right, since you won’t agree, I’ll give you two shrouds for five rupees.’
“The shopkeeper thought: what will anyone do with two shrouds—only one wife has died. He was clever too: he didn’t say two-and-a-half rupees each; he said, ‘Take two shrouds for five, and end the nuisance.’ He thought, who will take two—two shrouds, one dead wife.
“But,” said the politician, “the shopkeeper was sly, but I’m not a two-faced child either. I said, ‘Give them.’ And after I took the two for five rupees, I told him: ‘It’s a rule of the market that whoever buys more should get one item free. Has anyone ever taken two shrouds from you?’
“He said, ‘Till today, never.’
“I said, ‘Then this is a first. Give me a third shroud free.’ So I brought three.”
The lackey said, “But master, what will you do with three shrouds?”
The leader said, “Don’t worry. One day I too must die—one will be useful then. And our little boy—he too will die someday; one will be useful for him.”
Politicians think very far ahead. A blind man—with a vision of distances in the dark! They keep doing far-off calculations. And in the conspiracy they have woven with the pandits and priests, they have thought very far ahead.
One thing is certain: there is a deep longing for religion within man. The politician cannot satisfy it. And the one who can satisfy it will be the master of man. Politicians are against Buddhas, against Mahaviras, against Jesus, against Mohammed, against Kabir, against Bhikha—against those who truly give the formula for freeing man’s soul, who invite him to the open sky. They give the soul such freedom that politicians are seen as not worth a penny. Will such people listen to the politician? Not in the least. The politician will not be able to exploit them.
Politicians crucify Jesus, kill Mansoor, make Socrates drink poison. And pandits-priests, Shankaracharyas, Popes? They go to touch their feet, wash their feet, drink the foot-wash. Why? Because one thing is certain: these people have great influence over weak souls.
Even today, if you want Hindu votes, first touch the Shankaracharya’s feet. If you want Muslim votes, flatter the Shahi Imam of Jama Masjid. If votes are needed and such a grand yagna is happening, Vedant, and hundreds of thousands will gather, the politician will not miss this opportunity. Before these hundreds of thousands he will stand, tilak on his forehead, yajnopaveet, the sacred thread, across his shoulder. He won’t miss that publicity moment. He will show people, “I am thoroughly religious, I am a Hindu. I have faith in the yagna, faith in the Vedas. Sanatan Dharma must triumph.” All the while seeing that crores of rupees are being wasted, crores are being burned in the fire—knowing that in the name of religion this poor country grows poorer.
But the politician doesn’t care. Those hundreds of thousands who will gather—the simple villagers; and only the simple will gather. Will an intelligent person go to watch a yagna? The simple will gather. The politician cannot miss the chance to work on those simple people. Wherever there is a crowd, the politician will always stand there—no matter for what. And the politician cannot tolerate anyone raising doubts in people’s minds about the beliefs they are fixated on. He cannot tolerate anyone arousing doubt—because if doubt arises toward religion, politics cannot be saved for long. The doubt raised against religion will spread over politics too.
Therefore the politician wants people to remain under the opium of belief. Let pandits and priests feed them opium—yagnas, havans, Satyanarayan katha; let the opium keep flowing. Let people stay drugged, and the politician keep looting. He will not tolerate the man who says, “This is exploitation.”
One leader announced—he got carried away in his speech—“There is one way to end the country’s poverty. Our country has many donkeys—three times the number of people. And if you count some of the people among them, then it’s donkeys all the way. We have so many donkeys,” the leader said, “that if we can export donkey horns, or make beautiful things from donkey horns and send them abroad, we will earn so much foreign exchange that there will be nothing but wealth.”
The audience was beginning to be convinced when a young man stood up and said, “Sir, donkeys don’t have horns.”
His objection was taken seriously. A commission of inquiry was appointed to investigate whether donkeys have horns or not. That’s how politics runs—its stride is astonishing. They could have asked any donkey—or just looked—and it would have sufficed. But a commission was set up. Some retired Chief Justice of the Supreme Court must have been appointed. Not a Shah Commission—a Badshah (emperor) Commission was set up, because the matter was very grave.
A commission was appointed to find out whether donkeys have horns. After three years the commission presented its report: “The question is not whether donkeys have horns or not; the question is that the leader has been elected by the people, and what he says is the voice of the people. Therefore, whoever opposes him is an anti-social element and must be punished.”
So who will oppose? The leader is the voice of the people! And sometimes leaders, when puffed up in their egos, start calling their voice the voice of the soul, even the voice of God—they leave the “people” far behind. Like Vinoba-ji received the “voice of the soul” that the cow must be saved. What an amazing democracy! Here one man can impose his wish on six hundred million people—that is democracy! Tomorrow some other baba will go on a fast: “You must write into the Constitution that donkeys have horns—otherwise I will fast unto death.” Then it will have to be accepted, lest the baba die. These are threats of murder, and this is taken to be democracy.
And what was Vinoba’s real problem? Only one—Jaslok Hospital! Slowly the Lok Sabha is disappearing; it is becoming the Jaslok Sabha. The whole Lok Sabha has turned into the Jaslok Sabha. This became painful to Vinoba. All the leaders are in Jaslok; to Paramdham, Pavanar, no one comes. So he caught hold of Mother Cow’s tail—because Mother Cow ferries one across the ocean of becoming. Off they went, the leaders—moving from Jaslok to Pavanar. Mother Cow greatly protected Vinoba. Whether Vinoba will be able to protect Mother Cow is doubtful—but Mother Cow protected Vinoba well enough.
In this country anything passes, and it will continue as long as you allow it. Politics will keep using its hollow tricks; pandits and priests will keep colluding with politicians. Both benefit. The pandit-priest wants politicians to come—prime ministers, ministers, chief ministers—then the crowd grows. It is a great mutual give-and-take. Pandits want politicians to come so the crowd comes; politicians want to be wherever the crowd gathers. There must be no place where there is a crowd and we are not there. What do your politicians do anyway? Their whole work is to lay foundation stones and cut ribbons. The entire political class is busy with this, as if there were no other work. Inauguration of a bridge, inauguration of a hotel, inauguration of a hospital—anything; wherever four people gather, the politician must be there. Wherever there are photographers and journalists, the politician must be there. Whatever is happening, he must be part of every spectacle.
Go to Delhi and you won’t find a politician at his desk. He is running all over the country. No one has time to work; where is the time—after inaugurations? I would prefer they appoint a dedicated Minister of Inaugurations. Let that be his only job—cut ribbons wherever needed; let the rest do some real work. But they won’t, because without inaugurations their photos don’t appear in the papers. Never mind if it’s the opening of some rotten hotel—what difference does it make! If a big leader inaugurates it, the photo will be in the newspaper.
Nowhere in the world is there such stupidity as in this country. In the world’s newspapers, politicians don’t dominate as they do here, nor do pandits wield such influence as they do here. Together these two are our misfortune. We need freedom from both. Slowly awaken—and awaken others. Free yourself from the pandit; free yourself from the politician.
Each person should be self-souled, live by his own understanding—appo deepo bhava—be a light unto yourself. The temple is within you. If a yagna is to be done, let it be within you; kindle the fire of life.
I am engaged in that very great endeavor. Naturally there will be a thousand obstacles—whatever obstacles they can raise, they do. They will, because here no politician will ever be invited for an inauguration or a foundation stone. They send messages; their lackeys come and say: if you have an inauguration, such-and-such minister wants to come—but he won’t come without an inauguration. If there is a ceremony, such-and-such leader wants to preside. Their people bring such messages. I tell them: Here there is no inauguration, no foundation stone. And if ever there must be an inauguration or a foundation stone, sannyasins will do it. This is the world of sannyasins. What value have two-bit politicians here? What price? We have no need of them.
So naturally they will throw obstacles—this too is understandable. But their obstacles will not work; they never have. Satyameva Jayate—truth alone triumphs. If it is truth, its victory is certain. And if it is not truth, it must be defeated; it should not win. If what I am saying is truth, it will win; if it is not truth, it should not win—there is no question; untruth must lose.
Listen to me, ponder me, immerse a little in this color, and you will recognize that what I am saying is exactly what the Vedas said, what the Upanishads said, what the Koran said, what the Buddhas said, what the Mahaviras said. The language has changed—because I will speak the language of the twentieth century. My expression is different—it has to be. The listeners are different. In twenty-five hundred years this world has moved with great speed—from the bullock cart to the moon. In the same way, the language of religion must also move from the bullock cart to the moon. Religion’s expression will be different, and new doors will have to be opened for religion to reach people.
The opening of those new doors is underway. Obstacles will come, as they always have, but obstacles have never won. Killing Jesus did not kill Jesus; in his very killing he became immortal. The stones thrown at Buddha became the foundation stones of his temples. Socrates was given poison; that proved to be nectar. The same will happen again. Man never learns; he keeps making the same mistakes. The same mistake is being made with me. But from that mistake, no harm will come—only good. Truth is never harmed.

Dinesh! Being a poet is beautiful, even necessary—but not sufficient. One must also be a rishi, a seer. Above the poet is the seer. In language the two words may seem to overlap, but existentially there is a great difference. The poet sees as if in a dream; the seer sees with eyes open, awake. The seer is a witness; the poet is imaginative.

In the poet’s imagination, sometimes reflections of truth appear, as when the full moon is in the sky and its reflection forms in the lake. The poet is like the moon’s reflection in the lake, while the seer has lifted his eyes and seen the moon in the sky. The poet keeps singing of the reflection and gets entangled in it. The reflection has its own beauty, but it is still a reflection—where is the original? The seer lifts his eyes toward the original.

Poets have sung songs, but their singing rests on imagination; the seers too have hummed songs, but their humming is a proclamation of truth. The Upanishads are the songs of seers, not of poets. What the Upanishads say is said after seeing, after experiencing. This Bhikha, whose words we are contemplating, is a seer. He is not singing just to sing. This is no rhyming, no arranging of meters and the mathematics of language. He is no technician. A realization has awakened within; the soul has surged, and he is pouring that soul out. His very encounter with truth is his music, his song. It may be that you do not find great “poetry” in his verses, because poetry is not his aim. If poetry is there, it is unintentional—no effort, no purpose, no attempt to bring it in. In Bhikha’s line, as in the great ones—Kabir, Nanak—all are seers. Their speech is unpolished, even odd to the ear.

If you measure them against poets—Kalidas, Shakespeare, Nirala, Pant, Mahadevi—you will see the difference. The poet’s speech is well-arranged, refined, clear, polished, cultured; the seer’s speech is rough, rustic. The nectar is in the seer’s words, but the vessel that holds it is unhewn. In the poet’s speech there is no nectar, but the vessel is of gold—inside it is empty, yet the vessel is golden. And people look only at the vessel; few look within.

Bhikha’s vessel is of clay, but it is filled with nectar. And one who has nectar—does he worry about the vessel? The one who has no nectar keeps decorating the vessel, because he is caught by the vessel and takes it to be everything.

You say: “I am a poet; isn’t that enough to attain truth?”

It is necessary. To attain truth, each person must be a poet. When I say everyone should be a poet, I do not mean you should all compose songs, write verse, learn meter and rhyme—no. I mean: become sensitive to beauty; relish the joy of the rising sun; listen to the birds’ songs; drink the greenness of the trees; dance near the flowers; learn ecstasy; be intoxicated with joy, become carefree—then you are a poet. Whether or not you compose poems is not the point; your life will be a song. Whether or not you write poetry is not the question; your life will be a poem.

When I say be a poet, that it is necessary to be a poet for attaining truth, I am saying: become heart. Climb down from the skull and move toward the heart. Set aside thought; live in feeling; dive into devotion. This is an indispensable step toward truth, because only a highly sensitive heart can reach truth.

First come down from thought into feeling—you become a poet. And if you go deeper than feeling, if you dive into the very soul, you become a seer.

Thought is farthest from the soul; feeling is nearer, it lies between thought and soul. But feeling too is still a little distant; even the ripples of feeling must be transcended—become waveless, seedless, without alternatives. Then there is the experience of the soul.

One must go beyond the poet and become a seer.

You sing from the throat; I sing from the breath of life.
Two banks has art, two directions has pain;
I walk one path; you are a traveler of the other.
In different worlds flow our streams of feeling and of rasa;
I worship one of them; you are the connoisseur of the other.
This difference is wholesome—there is no malice in it;
It is natural that no bond could tie me to you.
You sing from the throat; I sing from the breath of life.

The poet remains in the throat; the seer descends into the life-breath.

Bloom and flourish—you have received the boon of the throat,
Found the god of love in beauty, allure, and splendor;
I am not ashamed that my heart, upon its own path of love,
Found silence, restraint, practice, long pain, and sacrifice.
The language of the breath is other than the throat’s music;
You may forget it—this I cannot forget.
You sing from the throat; I sing from the breath of life.

Do not stop at the throat; the throat is a wayside halt, the goal is the life-breath.

Those who, charmed by the sound of the throat, nod and shower money—
Such listeners are easy to find at every step on this road of the world;
Hence the carefree swing that sways in your voice,
While my voice of breath is steeped in the gravity of pain.
Only one who truly has breath, in whose breath lives empathy,
Comes this way to hear the music of the breath.
You sing from the throat; I sing from the breath of life.

I too am singing. I too am humming. What I am saying is not prose; it is verse. These are not words; they are notes. Whether or not you see a vina in my hand—there is a vina. Whether or not you see ankle-bells on my feet—there are ankle-bells. The meter is struck, but it belongs to the invisible.

Only one who truly has breath, in whose breath lives empathy,
Comes this way to hear the music of the breath.
You sing from the throat; I sing from the breath of life.

Dinesh, you are a poet—beautiful. To have come as far as the throat is no small thing; many are entangled in the head. Half the journey is done—complete the other half. A little lower, a little deeper, take a deeper plunge.

They want a garden
With numberless colored blossoms;
Give me a tiny jasmine bud,
Pure white, marked by your affection—
In that I find the celestial grove.

They want the Ganga and Yamuna
To cleanse the world;
Give me a little spring,
Ever-flowing, limpid, simple—
In it I find the fathomless sea!

They want ears
That hear the roar of peaks;
Give me ears that can hear
The call from the depths of the valley-floor—
With them I can hear truth.

They want eyes that see
The world’s bewitching splendor;
Give me those eyes in which
The inner form dwells, ever new—
Through them I gain the vision of the Divine.

They want the tinted skill
That makes the false taste sweet;
Give me an orientation to Truth and the Auspicious,
With sadhana as its support—
By that the Beautiful is invoked!

The poet’s demand is for beauty—for the charming, the attractive. The poet is still entangled in form; the formless has not yet called him. He is still caught in qualities; the qualityless has not yet knocked at his door. And the divine is without qualities. The divine is formless, inexpressible. The poet is still entangled in language; silence has not yet grown dense within him. And the divine understands only the language of silence.

Dinesh, it is good that you are a poet. Now one more step. You have shown this much courage—now a little more, a touch more daring. Become a seer. Now dive into sannyas. Sannyas is the doorway to becoming a seer. Sannyas is the doorway to knowing the soul. Sannyas is the doorway to knowing truth. And blessed are those who not only know truth but also help others to know. You are a poet; the day you know truth, a river of truth will flow through your songs. The day you are united with the divine, his love will use your throat; his love will become the note in your flute.

It is beautiful that you are a poet—but do not stop there. Do not be satisfied so soon. Do not halt so early. There are other treasures here. The greatest treasure is your own soul. There are three planes: thought at the top, the most superficial; feeling in the middle—deeper than thought, but still shallow beside the soul; and then the soul itself, the plane of consciousness—the deepest. Only in that depth is the betrothal with God.

That is all for today.