Guru Partap Sadh Ki Sangati #5

The Atman
like a fruit
has ripened
this body, like some
ancient tree,
has grown weary
who knows
whether the tree will fall first or the fruit?
The moment of falling
belongs to both
all around me
there is the grand maharas
of final ecstasies
and I am becoming
a dense luminosity
unceasingly
I am being touched
by unknown elements
the tree is the tired body
the Atman the ripened fruit
the moment of falling
belongs to both
The sky
has turned more yellow
than needed
and it reflects
the color of the ripened fruit of the soul
and rising up upon that yellowness
something like a rainbow
has been drawn across the mind
the grand maharas of final ecstasies
is like a sudden
torrent of rain
this is the hand-picked hour
of life’s evening
But very few are so fortunate that in the final hour of life they can say:
this is the hand-picked hour
of life’s evening
the grand maharas of final ecstasies
is like a sudden
torrent of rain
Very few are so fortunate that they can say this when death knocks at the door—
all around me
there is the grand maharas
of final ecstasies
and I am becoming
a dense luminosity
unceasingly
I am being touched
by unknown elements
All die, but some die in such a way that by dying they attain the nectar. All live, but some live in such a way that they never come to know life at all; and some live so that in life itself they catch a glimpse of the Great-Life. To live so that the truth of life never comes into your grasp—that is the worldliness; and to live so that the foundation of life comes into your grasp—that is sannyas. Sannyas and samsara are names for styles of living life.
And the worldly man is unfortunate, because he will certainly live but he will gain nothing; he will run a lot, but arrive nowhere; such bustle and in the end nothing in his hands but ashes; much running around, much worry, great struggle—and what is found at last? a grave. The sannyasi is one who lives life awake; who adds awakening into living; who lights the lamp of dhyan in the darkness of life. Then a recognition of the Paramatma begins; day by day this recognition grows dense, this embrace deepens day by day; this meeting becomes the Great-Union. Then that hour is not far when separation will no longer be possible. And then the darkness of your life too will become light, the night day, and death nectar!
all around me
there is the grand maharas
of final ecstasies
and I am becoming
a dense luminosity
unceasingly
I am being touched
by unknown elements
across the mind
something like a rainbow
has been drawn
the grand maharas of final ecstasies
is like a sudden
torrent of rain
this is the hand-picked hour
of life’s evening
But the beauty of the evening will be known only by those who have also known the beauty of the dawn and the joy of the blazing noon. Those who recognized his dance moment to moment, hour by hour, will be able to behold his maharas in the evening. But those who slept through the entire day—their evening too will be wasted.
For most, the journey of life is already futile, and the destination of death becomes futile too. And that is why you are so frightened of death. Your fear is not fear of death; your fear is simply this—that life has not yet been lived, what if death arrives! The fruit has not yet ripened, what if it falls from the branch. The tree has not even flowered, what if it withers. Spring has not come, and autumn has begun to set in, these leaves are drying and falling. Your fear is not of death; your fear is that till today I have been empty, and tomorrow is no longer in my hands. What can death take from you but ‘tomorrow’? But from one who has lived today, what can death take? Death can only take the ‘future’, not the ‘present’. Death can only take what is not, not what is. See the powerlessness of death—she can only take the future; the future, which is not; she cannot take the present; the present, which is.
Therefore, one who learns to live in the present is the sannyasi. And one who lives in the present becomes acquainted with the Paramatma, because the present is the expression of the Paramatma. In infinite forms, the One is manifest—the same in the songs of birds, the same in the silence of night, the same in the music of waterfalls, the same resonance in the veena, the same in the rumbling of clouds.
But who will be acquainted with That? Only one who is aware in the moment of the present. We are asleep. We are so asleep that we dream of the past—chewing what has already gone, ruminating it. We are like buffaloes—sitting and chewing the cud. Or else we fantasize about the future. What is not—that is where our relish lies—the past is not, the future is not. And what is—we sit with our backs turned to it. To find someone as clever as us would be difficult!
What is, is this moment; this moment is the great moment, for from this moment the door to the Eternal opens. One who peers into this moment cannot remain an atheist. The moment you look into it, the image of the Paramatma shatters into so many forms, from so many directions, so many dimensions—it begins to pour, a downpour, a torrential downpour. Then how will you remain empty? How will you remain untouched? How will you remain un-soaked? Not only your eyes will be wet—your very Atman will be drenched. Bliss will permeate every pore of your being.
And remember, the Paramatma is not hiding in temples and mosques. The Paramatma is manifest, naked, present all around. Look and he is present within you. And yet you keep running—to Kaaba and Kashi and Kailash...as you wish! People want cheap bargains—that they will go on pilgrimage, go on the Hajj. The Paramatma is not available so cheaply; if he were, then all Hajjis would attain—Haji Mastan too would attain. The Paramatma is not so cheap, otherwise every pilgrim would attain. And some people have made their permanent camps at the pilgrim places—then they should get him...!
But did you see Kashi? Bhikha went first of all to Kashi, in the hope that perhaps there he would be found—he wandered much, knocked on many doors, in the end returned empty-handed. Returning, he said: there are many who know the scriptures there, but not one who knows the Truth. The people of Kashi must have been offended. Kashi, the holy city, and someone says there is none who knows the Truth! And this Bhikha, this youngster—as if he knows the Truth! The great pundits of Kashi must have felt pricked. But what could Bhikha do—how could he not say what is! He said: I saw much scriptural knowledge—men rich in big words, experts in grammar; pundits of the Vedas, who had the Vedas by heart, the Brahma-sutras by heart, the Gita by heart; whose language was sweet; whose webs of logic were well-woven, well-tested by mathematical measure; with whom disputation was difficult, who could shut anyone’s mouth, master debaters—but who had no Truth, no experience of Truth. I returned from Kashi empty-handed.
And he found the Truth—certainly he found it; one who seeks will receive. For the thirsty, the lake is certain. The thirst was given by the Paramatma; before it, the lake was made. Hunger was given; before it, food. The seeking was given; before it, the destination.
This world is not an anarchy—it is a vast, harmonious, musical, rhythmic, disciplined existence. Here, nothing that happens happens without cause, not accidentally—a chain is there, a system of coherence is there, a hidden hand within holds all. So vast an existence cannot be an accident. Scientists say: it is merely a chance. Saying this, they reveal that science too has become a new superstition. You call this vast existence an accident! Every morning the sun rises, every evening the sun sets; so many moons and stars—everything moving in order.
So much order, so much harmony—cannot be without a cause; behind it there must be a Great Cause. If in the desert you find a watch lying, could you say—this must have arisen by accident, buffeted by the winds for centuries, battered by sand and stones, rain and sun—by all these blows a mechanism came together, a watch formed? You could not say so; not even the greatest scientist could say so; even he would say that some traveler must have passed...
I have heard: in an Indian prison three prisoners were confined. Someone came to tour the prison. He asked the first prisoner: why are you locked up?
He said: because of a watch.
The questioner understood nothing, said: because of a watch! Did you steal a watch?
He said: no, no—you didn’t understand. My watch ran a little slow, so I reached the office late every day, so they put me in jail.
He asked the second: and you—why are you locked up?
He said: I too—because of a watch.
He said: incredible! Did your watch also run slow?
He said: no, mine ran fast; I reached the office early each day; they grew suspicious—why does he come early? he must have some intention—he will steal a file, break into the office!
He asked the third: and you—why are you locked up?
He said: I too—because of a watch.
The man said: amazing! Everyone jailed for watches! What happened to your watch?
He said: my watch kept perfect time; I reached the office exactly on time.
So the man asked: fine—they caught this one for being late; that one for being early. Why did they catch you?
He said: they suspected that the watch was imported, brought in without paying duty. It certainly was not made in India.
If you find a watch in the desert, you cannot at once say: it is accidental. And you call this vast existence accidental? Then science too has begun to speak like superstition. Great scientists do not speak so. The famous scientist Eddington wrote in his memoirs: when I was young I thought the universe was matter—mere matter, no consciousness. But now in old age, after a lifetime’s experience, I can say the universe does not seem like matter; it seems like thought—and thought that is coherent. Behind it some mystery seems hidden. Albert Einstein has said: searching into the sky and the stars, one thing became certain—that the mystics must be right. So much mystery—there must be unseen hands behind it.
One who dives into the present moment will dive into the Mystery—and Mystery is another name for the Paramatma. Even if you do not use the word Paramatma, it will do, because the word has been much soiled, fallen into wrong hands—pundits, priests, clerics, mullahs—they have rubbed it so much, ground it so much; they have played so many games with it, exploited so much; they have spun so many webs around it, spiders’ webs, in which countless people have been trapped; the word has become obscene; even a thoughtful person hesitates to utter it now.
A great Western thinker, Fuller, wrote a prayer—a very awkward prayer, not like a prayer at all. A man as intelligent as Fuller, and he should write such a prayer—astonishing! But the reason is clear: why he wrote so—because our words, all the important words, have fallen into wrong hands and become wrong. Fuller’s prayer begins: O God! but let me clarify what I mean by God. Now this is a prayer—that first I must clarify what I mean by God—I mean three things. In this fashion the prayer proceeds! Grant peace to my soul. Let me first explain what I mean by my soul, and what I mean by peace. Thus the prayer goes! The prayer continues for many pages. In it there seems nothing like prayer; it seems as though a schoolboy is answering his teacher—of geography or history—but nothing of prayer.
But I understand Fuller’s fear: the moment you use the word God, there is a fear that people will think you mean the same God by whose name the pundits and priests have ridden on the chests of men. Speak of the Atman—immediately a fear arises that the same sadhus and sannyasis, who have pressed men’s necks, who have killed the soul in the name of the soul—that you are speaking of the same.
So Fuller has to explain what he means by God, what he means by soul. In explaining, the prayer becomes so long that the spirit of prayer is lost. Prayer should have an innocence, a simplicity, an ecstasy of feeling, a mad intoxication. No intoxication remains; it becomes arithmetic. Fuller is a scientist, so his prayer also became science.
But those who have dived into the present moment have known the Paramatma—whether they call it so or not. Buddha did not use the word, for the sake of escaping the pundits and priests. People think Buddha did not use the word because he was an atheist. They think wrongly. They do not know Buddha. In truth, without becoming a Buddha there is no way to know Buddha. Only the words of Buddhas can be meaningful about Buddhas. But fools say: Buddha does not accept God.
If Buddha does not accept God, who will? Yes, he does not ‘believe’, he ‘knows’. But he did not use the word—he considered, and refrained, because such a web of pundits and priests, such a business, such mischief—sacrifices and rituals, so much violence, that to use the word ‘God’ would be to stand among those very pundits and priests. No—he remained silent. He said: go within and know; do not ask me. What is, is. By saying, it is not proven; by denial, it is not disproven. What is, is. If you believe, it does not come into being; if you disbelieve, it does not vanish. Wake and see; do not ask while asleep. Open your eyes and see—if the sun is, it will be seen; if light is, it will be seen; if the rainbow has arisen, it will be seen; if not—what use is my saying!
A philosopher named Maulunkputta came to Buddha. He asked: is there God?
Buddha said: do you truly want to know, or is it merely an intellectual itch?
Maulunkputta was stung. He said: I truly want to know. What a thing to say! Who travels thousands of miles for an intellectual itch?
Then Buddha said: then be prepared to stake something.
Maulunkputta was pricked again—he was a kshatriya. He said: I will stake everything. Though he had not come prepared for that. He had asked many: is there God?—and had fallen into great argument. But this man is strange; he is not speaking of God at all; he raises other matters: do you have the courage to stake? Maulunkputta said: I will stake all; as you are a kshatriya’s son, so am I; do not challenge me.
Buddha said: to challenge is my work. Then do this—sit silently by me for two years. For two years do not speak at all—no questions, no curiosity. When two years of your silence are complete, I myself will ask you: Maulunkputta, ask what you wish. Then ask, and I will answer. Are you ready for this condition?
Maulunkputta was a little afraid—one can give one’s life easily, but to sit silent for two years! Many times giving life is easier; small things become truly difficult. To give life—is over in a moment: leap from a cliff into the water, or step into the sea in one burst of courage, or swallow a pellet of poison—there are poisons so swift that a man dies in three seconds; place it on the tongue and you are gone—it needs only a moment’s courage. But to sit silent for two years, without curiosity, without question—not to speak at all, not to use a word—that was a long affair. But he had fallen into it; he had said he would stake all; now he could not back out, could not run. He agreed; for two years he sat silently by Buddha.
The moment he agreed, a monk sitting beneath another tree burst out laughing. Maulunkputta asked: why are you laughing?
He said: I laugh because you have been trapped—just as I was trapped. I too had come to ask the same question—is there God? and this gentleman said: two years silent. I remained silent two years; then there remained nothing to ask. So if you want to ask, ask now. I warn you—ask now; after two years you will not ask.
Buddha said: I will keep my promise; if he asks I will answer. I will even ask him myself: speak—do you wish to ask? If you yourself do not ask, if you withdraw your question, to whom shall I answer?
Two years passed. Buddha did not forget. After two years, Buddha said: Maulunkputta, rise—ask.
Maulunkputta laughed. He said: that monk was right. In two years of silence such depth came; in silence such awareness accumulated; in silence such meditation arose; in silence thoughts slowly receded, receded—became like distant sounds; then they were heard no more; the dive happened into the present—and what was known...I only wish to touch your feet in gratitude. The answer is attained; there is nothing to ask.
The supremely wise have given answers thus—the questions were not asked, the answers were attained. Answers do not come from questions—from words they do not come; the answer comes from the Void. And that answer is the Paramatma. Then you see nothing anywhere but the One. Now you ask: where is God? Then you will ask: where is God not!
Have you heard? When Nanak, traveling, reached Mecca, he fell asleep with his feet toward Mecca. Naturally the custodians, the priests, were angered. They heard and rushed over: you appear a holy man—are you not ashamed to sleep with your feet toward the sacred stone of the Kaaba?
Do you know what Nanak said? Nanak said: I too have a difficulty—you have come at a good time; help me a little. Turn my feet in the direction where the Paramatma is not.
Where will you turn those feet? The story goes further, but I say the story is complete here—the essential point is here; the rest is pleasing embellishment. The story says: the priests, in anger, turned Nanak’s feet toward other directions, but wherever they turned his feet, the stone of the Kaaba turned that way.
This is a symbol. I do not take it as historical fact; stones of the Kaaba do not turn so easily. Nor could the stone turn alone; the entire Kaaba would have to turn with it; and the Kaaba is not alone—the whole of Arabia would have to turn; Arabia is not alone—the whole world would have to turn; the world is not alone—moons and stars...too much commotion would ensue. Here, everything is linked. The moving of one would disorder all.
No, Nanak too would not approve of such uproar. That part of the tale is a later addition; yet it is significant—it hints: whichever way you turn the feet, that way is the stone of the Kaaba. There is no need to turn, for every stone is the Kaaba’s stone. If the Kaaba’s stone is sacred, then there is no stone that is not sacred. The foolish go to the Kaaba to kiss a stone. Those who have understanding will kiss the milestone in front of their own house, circumambulate it seven times, and return home—the pilgrimage to the Kaaba is complete.
Whichever stone you kiss—you will find him there. Jesus has said: break any stone and you will find me; lift up a stone and you will find me hidden. Only He is; there is none other.
Jahaan tak samund dariyav jal koop hai,
Lahari aru boond ek paani.
Bhikha says: whether it is the ocean, or a river, or a lake, or a well—the water in all is one.
A wave and a drop—both are water.
Whether it is a wave or a drop, it makes no difference—the essence is one. But we get entangled in forms. The ocean’s form is huge; the small village pond—how to accept that both are one? You are seeing the form—the ocean’s form is big, the pond’s small. Where is the ocean, and where is the well in your courtyard! The ocean so vast, the well so small.
If you look at the form you will be deluded. There is certainly difference in form, but that which abides in both forms is the formless. The water in the well and in the ocean is not different. That which is in the drop, and in the great wave—is one. The Paramatma is not less in the drop, nor more in the ocean.
Understand this arithmetic a little. It is not ordinary arithmetic; it is spiritual arithmetic. In ordinary arithmetic, the drop cannot be equal to the ocean.
A great Western mathematician, P. D. Ouspensky, wrote a marvelous book: Tertium Organum—the Third Canon of Thought. In that astonishing book of mathematics he has given some statements of great importance. One of them is: ordinary mathematics says the drop and the ocean are not one—the drop is small, the ocean big. But there is an extraordinary mathematics, a supramundane arithmetic, which says: the drop and the ocean are equal.
Recall the saying of the Isha Upanishad—take the whole from the Whole, and the Whole remains. This is extraordinary mathematics. This is spiritual mathematics. Otherwise, go to the bank, withdraw all your money, and don’t sit with the hope that all the money will remain behind. Having withdrawn, it has gone. Even if you take the Isha Upanishad and show the manager: brother, see—take the whole from the Whole and the Whole remains...so I withdrew a thousand rupees—what of that? A thousand should still remain!
In the ordinary world that arithmetic will not work. It is not this world’s arithmetic; it is of another world—transcendent, surpassing this world. Take the Whole from the Whole—and the Whole remains!
In that arithmetic, the drop and the ocean are equal. Why? Because the secret of the drop is the same as the secret of the ocean. The scientist says: what is the secret of the drop? H2O—that the drop is formed of oxygen and hydrogen, two gases. Two parts hydrogen, one part oxygen—H2O. This is the secret of the drop, but this is also the secret of the ocean. The key to the drop is the key to the ocean. What is the ocean after all? A crowd of very many drops. As here you are so many people—one society, one congregation is sitting—but what is society? A heap of individuals. If we go searching for ‘society’, nowhere will it be found—whenever we find, we will find the person.
The person is the truth; ‘society’ is only a designation. The drop is the truth; ‘ocean’ is only a name. If you look rightly, Bhikha’s simple words are as deep as the Upanishads.
Jahaan tak samund dariyav jal koop hai,
Lahari aru boond ek paani.
In the simple language of the village he said it—two and two make four—like that. Whether ocean, or lake, or river, or well, or the pot in your house, or a palmful of water—it makes no difference. The biggest wave in which ships would sink, or the tiny tear-drop—still, there is no difference, for the nature of all is one. ‘Paramatma’ is the name for the nature of this existence. ‘Paramatma’ is the name of the mystery of this existence. ‘Paramatma’ is but another name for this very existence.
But neither do we peer into the present, nor do we look within. We have not yet been defeated; we still carry hope; we are not yet disillusioned. Buddha has said: until you are utterly disillusioned, the doors of the temple will not open for you. Disillusioned! Yes—until you are wholly despaired, until all hope from the world is broken, you will remain stuck. A voice in your mind goes on saying: search a little more, a little more—who knows, it may be found! Walk two more steps—who knows, the destination may be near! Just a little—the Delhi is not far. Just a little—now we shall arrive. And there is the shoving of crowds—everyone wants to go. Hope arises: when so many are going, some must be arriving. Those ahead must have reached. So let me journey a little further; and there is life left; I am still young...
Until you are completely disillusioned with the world, until it becomes clear before you that you are running after mirages, running after illusions, that you have tried to catch dreams and your hands will always remain empty—until then you will not turn within, you will not dive into the moment. If tomorrow holds you, how will you enter today?
Meri nakaamiyān jab mere dil ko toḍ deti hain
Meri dil-soz ummīden mujhe jab chhoṛ deti hain
Meri barbādiyān jab aas meri toṛ deti hain
Dile-gamgīn ko kuchh bhūle fasāne yaad aate hain

Bisāte-āsmān par māhe-rosan jab damakta hai
Sitāroñ ka munavvar aks pānī par chamakta hai
Tamannāoñ ka shola mere sīne mein bhaṛakta hai
Dile-gamgīn ko kuchh bhūle fasāne yaad aate hain

Kabhi mahshar bapā karti hain maujeñ ābshāroñ mein
Kabhi mera guzar hotā hai ūñche kohsāroñ mein
Kabhi jab kūkti koyil hai dilkash shākhsāroñ mein
Dile-gamgīn ko kuchh bhūle fasāne yaad aate hain

Sabā ke cheṛne se phool jis dam muskurāte hain
Tayūre-khushnavā jab gulsitān mein gīt gāte hain
Khayālāte-pareshān mujhko aske-khūñ rulāte hain
Dile-gamgīn ko kuchh bhūle fasāne yaad aate hain

Guzishta rāhatoñ kī dāstāneñ mujhse mat pūchho
Merī mubham khalish kī kāvishoñ ko mujhse mat pūchho
Tasavvur kiska hai ‘Akhtar!’ bas isko mujhse mat pūchho
Dile-gamgīn ko kuchh bhūle fasāne yaad aate hain

When you lose, when you lose utterly—then something begins to be remembered: self-remembrance; the memory of the forgotten home begins to be caught. The other name of that forgotten home is the Paramatma. We have left the Paramatma behind. He is our source, our Gangaotri; our Ganga has flowed from him. Now we rush toward the future, neither looking back to our origin, nor looking within to our own being, nor awakening to the present moment that the Paramatma who is present all around may become related to us. We run—in imaginations, in ambitions, in hopes—this running is called the world; to know the futility of this running is called sannyas.
Ek subarn ko bhayo gehna bahut,
Dekhu bichārakai hem khānī.
Bhikha says: go, look into the gold mine—gold is one, yet from the one gold how many ornaments are fashioned, how many forms, how many shapes! But in the mine—peer there—the gold is one. Look into the mine of your own life-breath and you will find the consciousness is one. And consciousness has taken so many forms—some are men, some women; some fair, some dark; some human, some animal; some beast, some bird, some plant; some stone. Peer into the mine within—there is one gold, and many ornaments. One who sees only the ornaments is deprived of the gold; one who sees the gold—his attachment to ornaments drops away.
Prithi ādi ghaṭ rachyo rachnā bahut,
Mritikā ek khud bhūmi jānī.
Go and see the potter—how many vessels he shapes—pitchers and flagons and cups and pots and who knows what else; how many colors he paints, how many modes he gives. In some, Ganga-water will be kept; in some, wine will be poured. But ask the earth—mritika ek khud bhumi jani—the earth knows only clay.
The vessel filled with wine will one day return to clay; the vessel filled with Ganga-water too will return to clay. Neither the Ganga-water nor the wine makes any difference to the clay. Both are made of clay, and both will dissolve into clay.
So is this existence. The Paramatma manifests in many colors. And it is good that he manifests in many colors—by this there is festivity, the world is colorful, there are flowers of a thousand kinds. Imagine a garden where there were only roses. A friend of mine loved roses. He bought a great tract of land, beautiful land, and planted only roses. He took me to show it. I said: it is fine—but this is no longer a garden, it has become rose-farming.
He said: what are you saying—that is what others say too, that I am farming roses. No one accepts it as a garden; they think it is a rose-field.
I said: roses are beautiful, but so many roses! Acres upon acres of roses! Your garden lacks luster. And because there are so many roses, even a single rose cannot reveal its majesty.
I told him a story. In Japan there was an emperor. In Japan, flowers are much honored—a people who love flowers. Someone told the emperor: in the garden of the village’s Zen fakir, narcissus blossoms of such grandeur have bloomed—narcissus upon narcissus—never has such fragrance been seen; pass in the night at half a mile’s distance and the fragrance will ambush you, shower upon you.
The emperor too was a lover of flowers. He sent word to the fakir: tomorrow morning I am coming; I too wish to see your garden. The fakir heard; he told his disciples: except for a single blossom, uproot all the plants. One narcissus flower he left; all the rest he uprooted. By the time the emperor arrived, he was bewildered. He said: I had heard there were thousands of plants of narcissus. The fakir said: there were, but I did not wish to show you farming. What was splendid I preserved; now see its luster. In this entire garden, where there are other flowers and greenery, this single narcissus stands with what majesty! For you to see it, it was necessary that those others be removed. Had they all been here, this extraordinary flower would not have been visible; it would have been lost in the crowd, in the marketplace. It is this flower I wanted to show you—so I removed all the rest.
If you farm only roses—the garden will be lackluster, melancholy. No—there are other flowers too—champa, chameli, and rajnigandha. A thousand thousand flowers, a thousand thousand birds, a thousand thousand songs!...The Paramatma does not repeat—he creates ever anew—and hence the world is so rich, so glorious. Life would grow stale, dull...
Bertrand Russell has written: I am certain that when I die I shall die utterly. He had no trust in the soul, nor in the Paramatma; he did not believe in heaven and hell. He wrote: I am certain that when I die I shall die completely; but if by mistake my belief should not be right and I must survive, then at least I do not wish to go to the moksha of the Indians. Let me go anywhere else. Why?
The reason he gave is one I like. Though I do not agree with his philosophy of life, his reason is beautiful. He said: the Indians’ moksha would be terribly boring—people sitting on their siddha-shilas, naked...because there one will not find clothes, nor can one take a spinning wheel along to pass time spinning khadi. Sitting naked. Nothing to do, because there is no question of action there; one has crossed karma. No discussion either, because people will have attained shunya samadhi—only then will they reach moksha, nirvikalpa samadhi. No newspapers, no rumors, no theatres, no cinema-halls, no hotels, no restaurants—one will be hard pressed even for tea and coffee. One will pine for a cup.
In moksha there is nothing to do. Just imagine moksha—imagine yourself sitting on a siddha-shila. Just sitting—and for eternity! For a day or two one might control oneself; if it were a matter of an hour or two one could somehow swallow it like a draft of poison, saying: it will pass in a little while—and look at the clock and scrape through. But for eternity! Russell’s words seem meaningful.
No—but I wish to say to you, this conception of moksha that people have made is without understanding the Paramatma. Look at his world a little; take some measure from this. If in his so-called unreal world there are so many flowers, so much color, so much Holi and Diwali—if in this unreal world there is such richness—then in the realm of Truth there will be supreme richness.
My conception of moksha is entirely different. I do not agree with the moksha of the Jainas and Hindus. If their moksha exists, then I agree with Bertrand Russell—he is right. Then I too will prefer to go to hell with Russell—at least there will be some festivity.
But my understanding is this: we have conceived moksha in opposition to the world. We are so frightened of the world that whatever is here, we made the moksha the opposite. Here there is color, here are songs, here the drum resounds, here is the flute, here are instruments, here is dance, here is love, joy, exuberance—we cut all that away: whatever exists in the world should not be in moksha. And since everything that ought to be is here—we cut all that away; then our moksha becomes a negation, a void—an unalluring conception.
My moksha is not opposed to the world. In the world the Paramatma is partially manifest; in moksha he is fully manifest. In the world he is present like a drop; in moksha like the ocean. In the world a ray of him descends; in moksha the full sun rises. In the world a single lamp burns; in moksha it is a festival of lamps—lamps upon lamps.
No, we must change the conception of moksha. Our conception is not attractive. One who understands it rightly will pray: O Lord, let me remain in the world. Rabindranath said this as he was dying—he said to the Paramatma: O Lord, send me back to the world again and again; I do not pray to be freed from coming and going. Your world was so lovely; I would like to come here again and again. If your notion of moksha is like this, then a refined person like Rabindranath too wishes to return.
But I assure Rabindranath—do not worry. Our conception of moksha is wrong; moksha is yet more colorful. Here there are only seven colors; there, infinite. Here there are only seven notes; there, infinite. Here love is fleeting; there, eternal. Here spring comes only sometimes; there, spring is ever—evergreen.
Dekhu bichārakai hem khānī.
Prithi ādi ghaṭ rachyo rachnā bahut,
Mritikā ek khud bhūmi jānī.
Bhikha ik ātamā rūp bahutai bhayo,
Bolta Brahma chīnhai so gyānī.
This sutra is truly wondrous—
Bhikha ik ātamā rūp bahutai bhayo,
Bolta Brahma chīnhai so gyānī.
You can worship Krishna, you can worship Rama, Buddha, Mahavira—but when Mahavira was alive you stoned him; when Buddha was alive you tried to kill him! Now you sing the praises of Meera—but when Meera was alive you sent her cups of poison! You are strange people. What arithmetic is this of yours? Now there are more temples dedicated to Jesus than to any other.
Yet when Jesus was alive, how did you behave? Just think! Jesus had to carry his own cross upon his shoulders—as though Jesus were a thief, a murderer. Jesus fell on the way, for the cross was heavy, and the climb was up a hill; then he was flogged: get up and carry your cross! Bleeding, he had to carry it to the top. And when Jesus was hung upon the cross, nails were hammered through his hands...
It was a very crude way. Not the neck, as in hanging—it was not hanging. The Jews had their own way of crucifixion—they did nothing to the throat; they nailed the hands and the feet and then left the man to die, the blood flowing...At least six hours it took to die; at most three days. Better to cut a man’s neck and be done—the matter ends in a moment. But for hours, days the man would hang; kites would tear his flesh; vultures sit upon his head; blood would flow from his hands and feet; dogs would lick the blood, tug at the skin, tear him.
It was a very crude way—and Jesus was crucified thus. And when Jesus grew thirsty—having climbed the hill, borne the cross, under a blazing noon and then hung—he said: I thirst.
Do you know what you did? I say ‘you’ because it is you—whoever they were, they were like you—you are the same. They dipped a rag in foul oil—such oil whose stench would make one’s life tremble, and such oil that if anyone put it to his mouth he would reel—a rag steeped in that oil they raised to Jesus, saying: here—suck this.
This, with a dying, thirsty man! Perhaps this is why afterward you built so many churches, out of guilt. Perhaps that is why Jesus is so much worshiped. Today there are more Christians than followers of any other faith. And the reason?—the wickedness you committed towards Jesus; that guilt still pricks your heart like an arrow. To wipe it, you worship Jesus. But when Jesus was alive—what did you do?
Bolta Brahma chīnhai so gyānī.
Bhikha says: only he is wise who recognizes the living Satguru; the dead are worshiped by the ignorant. But to recognize the living Brahman is very difficult. What is the obstacle? It is easy to worship Krishna—what have you to do with Krishna now?—a mere story—then you can imagine Krishna however you like—no one to stop you, to refute you. Krishna is in your fist. A living Krishna could not be in your fist. To worship a living Krishna would be very difficult. In a living Krishna you would see a thousand faults—and if not in Krishna, in whom?
Krishna had sixteen thousand queens. If not sixteen thousand—if they were only sixteen—that would be enough; but sixteen thousand they were—historically true. There is nothing to be anxious about. Just in the beginning of this very century, the Nizam of Hyderabad had five hundred wives. If five thousand years later a man can have five hundred wives, what difficulty is there in sixteen thousand?—thirty-two times—no great difference.
And what was the Nizam’s status?—a petty king. Krishna’s status was great. In those days a king’s status was measured by how many queens he had. Women were a kind of coin by which a man’s worth was weighed. A poor man was one who could manage only one woman—could not support even one—that poor fellow. Sixteen thousand there must be. Among them many were wives of others whom Krishna...it is not nice to say, but carried off—it must be said. He had pledged, in war, that he would not raise a weapon—and then he did raise one—he broke his pledge. He was very brave, a great warrior, but one of his names you have heard: Ranchhod Das! Once he fled the battlefield—showed his back. Now there are temples of Ranchhod Dasji. Do you understand ‘Ranchhod Das’?—he who ran from the battle.
You would find thousands of faults in Krishna—faults upon faults. Is this any way to behave—playing the flute while women dance? Now you call it rasa-lila, but at the time? You would have filed a report with the police. Today the wives of others are dancing; tomorrow yours will be dancing—who will tolerate such mischief!
You cannot worship Krishna alive; when he is dead there is no obstacle. After his death we whitewash everything. Sixteen thousand queens—they cease to be queens; our smart pundits say: these are the sixteen thousand nadis within man—naris?—no, nadis—clever folk; and that Krishna, seated in the tree holding the garments of women bathing in the Ganga, leaving them naked—this is symbolic; the women are the senses, and Krishna has stripped the senses so that their truth may be directly seen. Now...the symbols are in your hands; Krishna cannot step in and say: brother, listen to me as well. Krishna is gone; now it is in your hands—interpret as you wish.
To worship the dead guru is always easy—because the dead guru is of your imagination. To worship Buddha was difficult—courage was needed. Buddha opposed all hypocrisy, all pedantry, all Brahminism. Buddha opposed sacrifices, oblations, worship ceremonies. And all that was overshadowing the land—two and a half thousand years have passed, and even now it has not vanished. It still overshadows—imagine what it was then. When Buddha opposed all this, who would accept him as Brahman?
He denied—denied in every way. He was opposed in every way. And Mahavira made it even more troublesome—he abandoned clothing, stood naked. He was driven out of village after village. Dogs were set upon him—wild dogs—to not let him stay anywhere. Nails were hammered into his ears—because he would not speak—silence. They tried to make him speak—saying: this is hypocrisy—speaking, not speaking—we will make him speak; they pierced his ears, ruptured them.
And now? Now worship proceeds; now temples are built. This has always been so. What did you do with Mohammed? His whole life he could not stay in one village; wherever he went, he was driven out. And now? How many Muslims are there in the world; how much praise of Mohammed!
Bhikha says rightly: Bolta Brahma chīnhai so gyānī.
The ignorant worship dead masters; the wise seek living masters. The greatest convenience in worshiping a dead guru is that your ego is not hurt. The greatest inconvenience in worshiping a living guru is that your ego is hurt. To bow before a man just like you? Yes—before a stone idol it is easy to bow; but before a living man?—before one just like you—who falls ill, who feels hunger, who sweats, who grows tired, who sleeps at night, who is young and will grow old and will die—just like you; to worship him as God?—impossible! When he dies, then we will weave such stories that worship becomes possible.
The Jainas say: Mahavira did not sweat. Was his body plastic? If sweat does not come, a man dies—do you know? Ask some scientists, some physiologists. And if your heart refuses to accept anyone’s word, do a small experiment yourself. You think it is breath alone that keeps you alive—you are mistaken—every hair of yours breathes.
Do a small experiment—bring tar from the market and smear it over your whole body; seal all hairs; leave only the breath—leave the nose open. Take as much breath as you like through the nose; smear the rest of the body with tar—you will die in three hours. Then do not come and say: you did not warn me first. You cannot live longer than three hours, because every hair breathes.
These hairs are for breathing. These tiny pores are doors for breath. And sweat comes out of these pores for a purpose—its utility is great: to keep the body’s temperature in balance. You think only this of sweat—that it stinks, it wets clothes—but you do not understand its arithmetic: sweat is saving your life; otherwise you would die.
The temperature of the body—you see it—whether cold or hot—remains the same. Let us say ninety-eight—it remains ninety-eight—when cold, and when hot. How does this happen? When it is hot, sweat flows out; it carries heat away, turns to vapor and escapes—cooling the body, keeping it in right proportion. It is the means for maintaining equilibrium of temperature. Therefore when you are cold, your teeth chatter, your limbs shake, you shiver. Do you think you are shivering because of the cold?—they shiver to produce warmth—otherwise you would die.
When cold, the body shivers; teeth chatter; limbs move; this movement generates heat; the temperature remains equal. When hot, sweat comes; it carries heat away as steam, and the body remains at one temperature. Air-conditioning has been discovered only now; but the body has always lived as air-conditioned. Truly, air-conditioning could be discovered only by understanding the body—by understanding its mechanism it occurred that temperature can be kept even.
Now the Jainas say: Mahavira did not sweat. I understand their difficulty—if sweat comes, then he is a man like you; some trick must be played so that he does not appear like you. No sweat; no excretion either, for feces and Mahavira—this does not sit well with the mind. Just visualize: Lord Mahavira seated, evacuating—does not sit well. Imagine it—and it feels as though you are thinking sinful thoughts. Lord Mahavira and defecating!—never, never! The mind fills with shame—can such common acts be done by Mahavira!
But if he eats, he must excrete. Though he ate little, hence the excretion would be small. But not at all?—then the state becomes dangerous.
I was reading a book on record-breaking oddities. In it, one American held the record for constipation—one hundred and twenty-two days. I felt like writing to him: what are you, little fellow, remember Lord Mahavira. Forty years—what is the count of one hundred and twenty-two days! If any record was broken, Mahavira broke it—what will you break!
This man too broke his record by taking very little food—liquid, not solid—so feces could not gather. But in the West such madness prevails—to break records in anything. Now to break the record in constipation—what value has that? But if you break even that, you become famous: he broke the record in constipation. Absurdity has its limits too.
Then we make such stories, and by such stories we make them worthy of worship. We distance them far from ourselves—we de-humanize them. Once they are de-human, then we can worship without difficulty. So long as they are human, our ego is hurt. To bow before a human like oneself?—to surrender before one like oneself?
But one who can do so—that one is wise. Bhikha says rightly. Bhikha’s sutra is of great value: Bolta Brahma chīnhai so gyānī! When the Satguru is speaking, alive, breathing, walking, rising—recognize him then. But then you will abuse, you will condemn in every way, you will criticize—these too are your defenses. By this device you are preventing yourself from going to the Satguru. Abuse, insult, opposition—you will do so much that then how will you go—and what benefit is there in going to such a bad man? You are assuring yourself; you fear that you might be attracted.
People ask me: why are living masters abused so much? The reason is: people fear that if they do not abuse, they will have to go near—because then attraction...
By abusing they protect themselves from attraction—these are security devices, armors. People will abuse—that they have always done in the past; they do today; they will do tomorrow.
But this very device keeps you ignorant. Only if you go near a lit lamp can you be lit. Those lamps whose flames are already quenched—those who are gone, have flown—the cages of words remain—the living breath has flown; you keep worshiping them. And people do keep doing it.
In Lanka, in the temple at Kandy, a tooth of Buddha is kept, and is worshiped. The fun is—it is not Buddha’s tooth. Leave Buddha—the tooth is not even human. Scientists investigated and found it was some animal’s tooth. But this was suppressed, for such a finding is not good—the prestige of Sri Lanka rests upon that tooth at Kandy. From all Buddhist countries hundreds of thousands of pilgrims go to Kandy. Everyone can see the tooth is so big it cannot be Buddha’s; and if it were Buddha’s, his face must have been frightening—the tooth would have stuck out, so big. And if the teeth were so big, Buddha would have looked a demon, not a man. Yet the worship goes on.
In Kashmir there is the Hazratbal masjid—one hair of Mohammed is kept there. Who can ascertain it is Mohammed’s hair? How can it be established? Yet the hair is ‘Hazrat’—Hazratbal—not an ordinary hair. You know, some years ago there was riot and strife because someone stole the Hazratbal; and then the Hazratbal was found! Now it is not sure—how it was stolen, who stole it; and whether that which was found is the same—perhaps to satisfy the Muslims some other hair—hair is hair—was placed there.
But people are strange. They did not let Mohammed live peacefully. A man like Mohammed had to take a sword in his hand! He must have taken it with great pain—for he was a man of peace, a peace-lover. He must have taken it with great dilemma. The proof is that upon the sword Mohammed had written: I lift this sword for peace. ‘Peace is my message’—this was written on the sword. For peace he had to raise the sword! Mohammed had to live among fierce people—without the sword it was impossible. His whole life he ran, wasted time in futile quarrels—had to waste it; people entangled him in useless conflicts.
The time that could have been spent in satsang was spent in battles. The time you could have sat with Mohammed and drunk the Paramatma—that time he had to mount horses, wield swords on the battlefield, run from village to village. The time that could have served to light your unlit lamp from Mohammed’s burning flame—you wasted it. And now? Now you worship a hair! Recognize this foolishness of man, for it is in you too—in every hair, every vein, in every drop of your blood. Because this is our past; from this past we are born; and this is what we are still doing today.
Rākho mohi āpani chhāyā.
And if, by grace, you find a living Brahman, then Bhikha says, make this prayer—keep me in your shadow! Your shadow alone is enough light. Seat me near you; if I sit by you, I have sat by the Paramatma.
Lagaiñ nahiñ rāvari māyā.
If I sit in your shadow, then the world cannot touch me. However much māyā there may be—let it remain; your shadow will protect, your aura will save, your satsang will rescue.
Kṛipā ab kījīe Deva. Karauñ tum charan kī sevā.
And I ask just this much grace—that I may serve your feet. I do not ask anything else—not wealth, not status; not heaven, not moksha; nothing—only that I may serve your feet. This alone is discipleship—to ask only this much: let me serve your feet—enough. At your feet I will find Vaikuntha; at your feet I will find all the pilgrim places; at your feet all taints and troubles will fall away.
Kṛipā ab kījīe Deva. Karauñ tum charan kī sevā.
Āsik tujh khojta hāre. Milahu māśūq ā pyāre.
Bhikha says: the lover has grown weary searching for you; I too have searched much and grown weary; by searching you are not found—now my only prayer is: you yourself come.
Milahu māśūq ā pyāre.
Now you yourself come—only then will things be set right. By my seeking nothing happens, for I am wrong; my search is wrong; I am wrong; my direction wrong; my understanding wrong; my grasp wrong; my conception wrong. Wherever I go, I err. If error resides within a man, whatever he does will also be wrong; from him you cannot expect the right.
But if a disciple can utter even this prayer, the Satguru himself comes—or he pulls the disciple to him. An old Egyptian saying: when the disciple is ready, the master appears.
Āsik tujh khojta hāre. Milahu māśūq ā pyāre.
Kahauñ kā bhāg main apnā. Dehu jab ajap kā japnā.
I await that hour, that great hour—that moment when I will not be able to measure my fortune—my fortune will be immeasurable, infinite—when you will give me the japa which needs no chanting. Nanak called it ‘ajapa-japa’—that which does not need to be chanted.
There are four possibilities. One is to chant aloud: Ram Ram, Om Om—this is the most crude. Second—keep the lips closed—chant within, with the tongue; better than the first, but not much better, for the same thing is going on—now not by the lips but by the tongue. Third—let not even the tongue move—chant only in the throat: Ram Ram, Om Om; this is better, but still not final, for it is still stuck in the throat. Fourth—the feeling alone remains in the heart—Ram Ram—no chanting, no utterance—only feeling, awareness, remembrance, surati. This is called ajapa-japa; only that is the real japa—the rest are preparations.
Alakh tumharo na lakh pāī.
It is beyond me to behold you, to see you. What power do my eyes have, what strength of my hands—that I might touch you!
Dayā kari dehu batlāī.
Only you can show—have compassion; if your grace descends, the incomparable happens.
Vāri-vāri jāvañ Prabhu terī. Khabar kachu lījīe merī.
I go on being offered to you again and again, my Lord. I will squander myself, lay myself at your feet—only take some notice of me once.
Saran meñ āya main gīrā.
I have fallen into your refuge.
Jāno tum sakal parapīrā.
And you know all—you already know the pain of my heart and my thirst. What should I ask? What should I say? I will lie silently at your feet. Silence will be my prayer; emptiness my petition.
Antarjāmī sakal ḍero.
Your abode is within all—so within me too. You know what I should desire, what I should become, what the destiny of my fortune is.
Chhipo nahiñ kachu karam mero.
What is the use of recounting my sins?—they too are not hidden from you. What you made me do, I did. Where you sent me, I went. All is yours—sins yours, merits yours—and nothing is concealed from you. Therefore I will not describe my sins, nor beg forgiveness; I will not speak of my merits, nor ask their fruits. You know all—that is the feeling of surrender.
Ajab sāhab terī ichchhā. Karo kachu prem kī sichchhā.
And you have done such a strange thing!—strange, my Lord, is your will—that you sent me into the world, made me wander in darkness, made me fall into pits. But there must be a secret—if it is your will, the will of the Lord. If even sins were made to be committed, there must be some mystery in it. If you made me wander, there must be some secret in the wandering. Perhaps only by wandering does one arrive—therefore you made me wander. Perhaps only by sinning does the longing for virtue arise. Perhaps you made me far from you so that the longing, the yearning, the thirst to come near might arise.
Ajab sāhab terī ichchhā.
In my understanding it does not come—Bhikha says; what is my understanding? Very strange is your teaching; strange is your will—you make me wander in the world, in darkness. But there must be a secret. Perhaps only after the dark night does the morning come; thus you gave the dark night so that the morning could be. Only after ignorance does knowledge arise—thus you gave ignorance. And it is in the mud that the lotus will bloom—therefore you gave the mud.
Ajab sāhab terī ichchhā. Karo kachu prem kī sichchhā.
But now—enough. Now it is enough. Now give a little teaching of love. Now teach the lessons of love. It has been much—life after life wandering in darkness—now let the dawn come. Love is the dawn. Love is virtue. Love is prayer. Now teach love. Much hatred, much jealousy, much enmity, much anger, much violence—now teach love.
Sakal ghaṭ ek hau āpai.
Teach such love that the One is seen in all.
Dūsar jo kahai mukh kāpai.
Let me be unable to say ‘two’—my mouth tremble, the tongue break, the head fall—let there arise only one proclamation—One, One!
Nirgun tum āp guñdhārī.
I know you yourself are hidden in these qualities. In this duality, your non-dual alone is hidden. In this many, you are the One. Through many flowers, you are like a single thread unseen.
Nirgun tum āp guñdhārī.
I know—all these qualities are yours; this whole lila is yours; this whole play is yours; this drama is yours.
Achar char sakal narnārī.
I also know—you do not move, and yet you move. In all men and women—who moves, if not you? I know—you do not stir, and yet you are the one who has become restless. I know—you are unmoving, yet you are the trembling.
All contradictions are reconciled in the Paramatma. All opposites become one in the Paramatma.
Jāno nahiñ Dev main dūjā.
But I know no other—I know no second; I see none else—only you are found.
Jāno nahiñ Dev main dūjā. Bhikha ik ātamā pūjā.
And I have no other worship, no offering, no platter of worship, no lamp, no incense—only my one Atman—this alone is my worship.
If, somewhere, you find a living Brahman—then surrender yourself thus.
Bolta Brahma chīnhai so gyānī.
And one who joins with the living Brahman—he has arrived; arrived without walking; without lifting even a single step he has arrived. Running and running thus no one arrives; but with the Satguru, without lifting a step, arrival happens.
Enough for today.