Guru Partap Sadh Ki Sangati #8

The Sufi mystic Rabia was once passing by a mosque. At the gate a fakir named Salik stood with hands spread in prayer, beseeching God. Salik was saying: O Lord! Now open the door. How long must I call? Hear me—it's been so long; now open the door. I am beating my head and crying out, Open the door...
Rabia stopped, went up to Salik, shook his shoulder and said: What nonsense are you talking, Salik? The doors are open. When were they ever closed? Open your eyes.

But man has a fundamental delusion—he will not take the fault upon himself; he shifts it to others. The life of one who shifts the blame to others will never see the dawn. The one who takes the fault upon himself—dawn has begun in his life; the first ray has already broken.

And this trick of the mind is so ancient, so deep, so subtle that it does not get caught at once. The mind says: It is night—what can I do? The mind is not ready to admit that it is night because we have kept our eyes closed. The mind says: It is fate—what can I do? The mind is not ready to accept that our choices are wrong, our decisions confused, our awareness asleep—that is why there is suffering in life, not because of fate.

If there is suffering in life, you are the cause; if there is joy in life, you are the cause—whatever happens in life, you are the cause. Satyanand, let this pierce your heart like an arrow: I am the cause. And the moment a person begins to remember that I am the cause, religion begins in his life. To say there are other causes—that is politics. To say I am the cause—that is religion. Shifting the responsibility onto others—whether onto God, fate, nature, society, the state—is politics. And the mind is a very skillful politician. The mind is a Chanakya. The mind is a Machiavelli. The mind plays such subtle tricks that not only will others fail to recognize them—you yourself will not recognize them.

Do not ask when morning will come. Ask how to open my eyes—then you have asked the right question. When you ask when morning will come, you have postponed the matter; what will you do now? When it comes, it will come. Yet Buddha saw the dawn twenty-five hundred years ago, and it has not dawned for you yet! Nanak saw it five hundred years ago, and it has not dawned for you yet! Muhammad saw it fourteen hundred years ago, and it has not dawned for you yet! When Buddha saw the dawn, millions were around him and it did not dawn for them.

Surely the issue is not morning—it is the eye. Among countless millions, those who keep their eyes closed remain in night; Buddha opened his eyes and it was morning. When you open your eyes, it is morning.

I have heard a story. In a village there was an atheist—very logical, very intellectual. The believers of the village had been defeated by him. The village’s mahatmas, scholars, priests—all had given up. At last a wandering sannyasin came to the village. The atheist argued with him as well. The sannyasin said: Don’t argue with me, don’t waste your time on me; I myself do not know—I am searching. I cannot say that God is, so how can I say you are wrong? I myself do not yet know the truth. But there is a man who knows. Go to him. Don’t waste time here—yours or others’. From that man you will get your answer. If an answer can be had, it can be had from him. And I have traveled the whole country; there is only that one man who can satisfy you—if he cannot, then understand that satisfaction is not in your destiny.

Who is that man? the atheist asked.
The sannyasin gave the name of a fakir. The atheist set off in search of him. The fakir was staying at a temple. Morning had long since come; it was already nine. The whole world was awake; even the laziest had risen—and the fakir was still fast asleep. Not only that—his feet were resting on the Shiva lingam.

The atheist’s heart quailed. He said: This must be a great atheist. I do argue, indeed, that there is no God and offer arguments to that effect, but even I would not dare to lie with my feet on the Shiva lingam. Who knows—God may exist, and then there will be trouble. Argument and debate are all right, but such an act—such an atheistic act—even I cannot commit. Where has this man sent me! This is a grandmaster, far ahead of me. And is this any time for a renunciate to sleep? The whole world is awake; even the laziest have awakened. He who stayed up until midnight has also risen—and this great man is still asleep! And the scriptures say a seeker should rise in brahma-muhurta, before dawn. And I was told of him that he is not a seeker but a siddha—a realized one.

He shook the fakir awake. The fakir opened his eyes. The atheist said: I have many questions to ask, but first two that have just arisen—still fresh. First: ascetics should rise in brahma-muhurta; why are you still sleeping?

The fakir laughed. He said: I have understood one secret—whenever one opens one’s eyes, that is brahma-muhurta. There is no other brahma-muhurta. As long as the eyes are closed, it is night. We do not rise in brahma-muhurta; whenever we rise, that is brahma-muhurta.

This is very deep. On the surface it may seem the fakir is joking, speaking lightly. But he has given the essence of all the scriptures. The quintessence of all true masters is only this: open your eyes and it is morning; keep them closed and it is night.

The atheist said: You have shut my mouth. No one has ever been able to silence me. But what can I say to you now! You are right. And the second question—why are your feet on the Shiva lingam?

The fakir said: Where else should I put them? Wherever I place them, they fall upon his head. This earth too is his body. This little lingam is a small form; that is a bigger form. And there are greater forms yet, vast bodies—the sun, the great suns. Where should I set my feet? In the end I must place them somewhere. If feet have been given, I must put them somewhere! And who are you to ask? When I meet him face to face, then we will talk: Why did you give me feet? If you gave me feet, I have to place them somewhere! And if Shiva is in the stone, is he not in my living body? Since I awakened, it is the same outside and inside—only that One.

Do not ask, Satyanand, when morning will come. Ask how to open the eyes! Do not postpone. You are the cause. I understand your question, and I understand your pain too—because such questions arise out of pain, not out of curiosity.

There are tears in such questions. There is pain, a prayer. There is the sense that the darkness is dense. How long, how long still? How long shall we live in the dark, keep colliding and keep falling? How long must we grope? When will there be experience? When will there be realization? When will those moments arrive when we too will find our balance? All this is hidden in your question.

But don’t be afraid; the darker the night gets, the nearer the dawn comes. Go to a true master, and at first your night will begin to grow darker—for the deepening of night is what brings the morning close. It is in the womb of night that dawn ripens.

If you go to pundits and priests, you will get consolation. If you go to a true master, even the little consolation you had will be taken away; the small satisfaction you had will be looted. We have even called God by the name Hari. Hari means thief—one who takes away, one who plunders. True masters are his representatives; they too plunder well—your consolations, your satisfactions, your beliefs, your faiths, your entire bundle of falsehoods you had taken to be life, the accumulation you had thought was your wealth—everything will be taken. Only if you are ready to be plundered can there be satsang with a true master. And when all that is false is looted, then the truth will manifest within you.

First you will discover that what you believed, all of it was wrong. While you believed, there was at least a little ground under your feet. When it is seen that it was all wrong—what you had heard was wrong; what you had read was wrong; parroting the scriptures was mechanical rote—when you find this at a true master’s feet, your ground begins to shift; the earth is pulled out from under you; you start falling into the abyss. The darkness will seem to grow even denser—but do not panic. Before true consolation can be yours, false consolation must fall away. Before you can find truth, false trusts and beliefs must drop. Before the flower of living faith (shraddha) can bloom, the stones of belief must be cleared. Belief is borrowed; faith is one’s own. Belief is given by others; faith arises from your own experience.

Before you can awaken, much will be taken from you. And as your old house collapses you will be alarmed—for you had come to decorate the house, to enlarge it, to make it more secure. The master will pull out one brick after another. But the old house has to be demolished; only then can a new house be built. As long as the old is not dropped, there is no possibility for the new.

There was a church, very old—dilapidated, on the verge of collapse. A gust of wind would make it shudder. No one was willing to go in to worship—who knew when it would fall! People don’t go to church to take risks; they go seeking safety. The church council had to convene a meeting: something had to be done. But old things tug at the heart; the older, the stronger the attachment. They longed to save it, yet saw no way. Worshippers had stopped coming. Even the priest was afraid to enter; if he did, he quickly slipped back out. When clouds thundered in the sky, people stepped outside to see whether the church was still standing or had fallen.

The council met—yet not inside the church; they gathered under a tree, at a safe distance. There was much opposition: “The ancient church, our forefathers’ heritage, centuries of experience and love—how can we pull it down?” But if no worshippers come, what is a church for? It must be done. So they passed some resolutions. First: with great sorrow, out of compulsion, O Lord forgive us—we resolve to demolish the old church. But instantly, struck by guilt, they passed a second: we will build a new church exactly like the old one, a perfect replica. Still the guilt hurt, so a third: we will build the new church using the old church’s bricks, doors, windows, glass—nothing new will be used. But the guilt was very deep; they passed a fourth: until the new is built, the old will not be pulled down.

Our attachment to words, doctrines, scriptures, temples and mosques is just as thick. When you go to pundits and priests, they strengthen your attachment; they water your satisfactions, prop up your old temples with supports so they won’t fall. With me, the old will fall—and we cannot wait to let the old stand until the new is ready. Demolishing the old is the first step to building the new. And the new will be built with new bricks, not the old. The new will be wholly new—beyond anything you can imagine.

When true consolation arises within you, you will be astonished to see that what you had taken for consolation wasn’t consolation at all—you had merely persuaded your mind, covered your ignorance, placed a rose upon a wound. But laying a rose upon a wound neither heals it nor drains the pus. On the contrary, because the wound is hidden from sight, the infection deepens. Never, even by mistake, lay flowers upon your wounds.

If you come to me, the night will grow darker—day by day. As I take from you—your notions, your beliefs, your convictions—you will feel you are wandering deeper into the dark; even the little borrowed light you seemed to have will slip from your hand. But another’s light is not light; losing it is auspicious. And the day no borrowed light remains in your hand, that day, out of your very anguish, you will have to open your eyes.

Waking someone from sleep causes pain; later they may thank you, but in the moment it hurts—for they were seeing sweet dreams. Who knows, in the dream he is an emperor, with beautiful queens, golden palaces; perhaps he has reached heaven, sitting beneath wish-fulfilling trees. Dreams can be charming, sleep can be sweet—and the sleep before dawn sweetest of all. One wants to turn over for just one more wink. Wake someone at daybreak and they will be annoyed—even if last evening they asked you to wake them.

There was Germany’s famous philosopher, Immanuel Kant. He was a man of strict regimen, moving like the hands of a clock. People would set their watches by watching him walk to the university, where he taught—thirty years without once being late. He never moved from town to town. Once, on the way to the university, his shoe got stuck in the mud; he did not stop to pull it out—he would be late by half a minute. He left it there and reached the university wearing only one shoe.
Someone asked, “What happened to the other shoe?”
He said, “It got stuck in the mud. If it’s still there when I return and no one has taken it, I will try to retrieve it—but right now I would be late, perhaps by half a minute.”

He was a true stickler. He slept at ten—if guests were sitting there, he wouldn’t even tell them, “Pardon me, now I must sleep.” He didn’t have time even for that. The guests stayed; he would quietly hop into bed and pull up the blanket. People knew his habits; the servant would come and say, “Please go now; the master has gone to sleep.”

He rose at four in the morning. In Germany, that is no small feat. Yet he told his servant: whether I curse or beat you, still wake me at four. Servants wouldn’t last—except one robust man on whom he came to depend completely. For who else would endure it? The servant had to rise by three or three-thirty to wake him, and then struggle with a man who had himself warned: “Wake me, and know that I’ll shout and I may hit you. If you must hit me to wake me, do it—but don’t leave me asleep.”

People may not be such sticklers in large measures, but in small ways we all are. Even remembering God can become a habit. Asking questions about truth can be a habit. Reading scripture can be a habit. Worship, prayer, meditation can become habits.

And no one reaches truth through habit. Habit is mechanical. One person craves liquor, one craves cigarettes, another craves devotional singing—but craving is craving; good and bad make little difference. If you sing bhajans every morning and one day you don’t, the whole day will feel empty. Don’t imagine that emptiness means devotion has borne fruit—that emptiness happens to anyone. Pick up any obsession—say, every morning you move the chair seven times left-to-right and right-to-left. Do it daily, and if one day you don’t, you will miss it all day: “I didn’t lift and place the chair seven times today.” Whether you turn a mala or chant a mantra—no difference.

The question is not what you do; the question is how much awareness you bring. Therefore, how will morning come, how will the eyes open? The first step is that all your habits be taken away. All the props you lean on must be removed. Your crutches must be snatched. Certainly, when the crutches are taken you will fall. But that fall is good—it is the first beginning of standing on your own feet. The night will be dark. Come to a true master and first it will become the night of no-moon. But if you keep your courage, make your chest broad enough to accept even the new-moon night, the full moon will not be long in coming. Before the full moon, the new moon is necessary.

Night has sunk; the moon is drowning in the western lap,
Stuck to the throat in the sheer blue marsh.
Day has not fully risen; a fear spreads;
Four birds, chirping, are filling their wings.
The old sheet of darkness is tearing;
Blue servitude has died, like blood in the grass.
This hour is so strange we are defeated by weariness;
The locks are ringing; the circle’s chain is loosening.
The moon has set, yet a pale brightness strolls;
Will this stifling tedium pass or not?
Break the old bonds in a rain of colors.
Look—an uproar stirs in these silent eyes.
Do not lament the one sunk in sorrow’s mud;
The sun’s face will float up through the dark.

Today there is mud—do not be afraid; it is sorrow’s mud, sorrow’s darkness—
Do not lament the one sunk in sorrow’s mud;
The sun’s face will float up through the dark.

Do not be afraid; as the darkness grows denser, the sun must be arriving; he is about to knock at the door.
Do not lament the one sunk in sorrow’s mud;
The sun’s face will float up through the dark.

Soon you will have the sun’s darshan. But when I say “soon,” don’t misunderstand me; it is easy to misunderstand. Don’t get into haste, don’t get feverish, anxious, impatient. The sun rises soon—this is the condition—only for those who keep patience. The more impatience, the more delay. Patience is a seeker’s indispensable, foundational quality.

Do not hurry. Meditate. Awaken your awareness. Free yourself of useless litter and junk. Morning will come, it will come soon—but do not hurry, or it will be delayed. You know this: whenever you hurry, you get late. You are rushing to catch a train—your coat buttons wrong, top to bottom; you must unbutton and redo—more delay. In such haste you stuff the suitcase with the wrong things; then reopen, take out what shouldn’t be in, what should have gone stays out. In such hurry you run downstairs and leave something at home; at the station you discover you forgot the ticket. The more haste…the less speed.

The more patience you keep, the more calm you are, the sooner it will be. And the more you rush, the less the chance of “soon.” Life is infinite—what hurry? Whether today you awaken or tomorrow, what difference does it make? The day you awaken it will not feel as if Buddha awakened twenty-five centuries earlier and you twenty-five centuries later. In this endless journey of time, what are twenty-five hundred years? Scientists say the earth formed about four billion years ago. In four billion years, what are twenty-five hundred years? And the earth is a very new planet. The sun, they say, has existed some hundred billion years; and our sun is not even very old; there are suns older than it—so old their age can scarcely be calculated. In such infinite expanse, what are twenty-five hundred years? They pass like the blink of an eye. When you awaken, it will feel as though Buddha awakened and I awakened—with perhaps a blink in between.

You’ve seen in films—just to show the speed of time—the calendar pages flip, months fly, the clock hand spins fast. If we consider the infinite, then twenty-five hundred years pass like a moment. Thousands of years don’t count.

In this vast universe, your haste is simply lack of understanding. In your rushing you will spoil everything; something else will result.

Mulla Nasruddin once shouted from the bathroom to his wife, “Run, come quickly—the very thing I feared has happened!” She came to find Mulla bent double, his back locked. With great effort she got him to bed. “What happened?”
Mulla said, “The doctor had warned me—some day paralysis would strike. It has struck.”
They phoned the doctor; he rushed in. Pulse—fine; blood pressure—fine; everything seemed okay. He looked carefully, then began to laugh. “Old friend, it’s nothing like that. You’ve buttoned your coat to your trouser button—that’s why you can’t straighten up. Don’t be afraid.”

Mulla’s tale is a joke, but there is a real note about the great English man of letters, Dr. Samuel Johnson. At a banquet in his honor, everyone was dining when Johnson said, “Forgive me—call a doctor. The very thing I feared has happened. The doctors warned me that paralysis might come; my left leg is completely numb. I’m pinching it and feel nothing.”
The lady beside him said, “Pardon me—you are pinching my leg. How would you feel it?”

Perhaps Johnson had drunk a little too much. When one has, who can tell whose leg is whose? But the memory remained: the doctors had warned that paralysis might come in old age.

Don’t hurry; there is no hurry—walk gently, slowly, gradually.

Lives live long;
they drink deeply the pain of the dying of songs.
Lives live long.
From chains of songs,
one string of the starry cascade has snapped;
From the moon, from silver,
some inner earth-bond seems to have broken.
The wheel of breath spins; there is heat, there is rain;
yet even in these strains and dead smiles,
song endures, life endures.
From garlands of victories
a stream of defeats has snapped one string;
Like a fawn of a doe,
like a child’s beloved toy,
it slipped from the hands and suddenly shattered.
What use are memories then? What use crumbling foundations?
Even so, along the roads, in disciplines, in desires,
giving goes on, and life goes on.
From chains of thirst
one string of the lips’ fountain has snapped;
Within the waves,
some green shadows seem to have been looted.
Of do and don’t, of right, of fullness,
a frost seems to have struck;
By his own strength
someone seems to have lost.
Yet this is the East—taking a new breath;
yet this is the sun—giving great fire.
Why then grow bored? Why drown in sighs?
What have you seen? A long, long line—
so very lovely, maiden-like as hope;
it bends at many turns and reaches life.
In its motions and feelings, in its unfoldings,
there are towns upon towns—
and in the wilds too, in the barren, the empty,
life still endures.
Lives live long;
they drink deeply the pain of the dying of songs—
lives live long.

There is no hurry at all. Even if this body goes, you are not going. Many bodies have come and gone; you have worn many forms. Here each person is a quick-change artist. You have donned and discarded countless costumes. You have been born and died innumerable times—an endless chain. One who remembers this—their restlessness, tension, and anxiety all melt away.

Have you noticed—people in the West are more restless than those in the East? It should be the other way round. The East is poorer, more deprived; the West is prosperous, full of conveniences; science has opened new doors of wealth. The West should be more peaceful and joyful. The East is beggarly, sick, suffering—and yet strangely, people in the East seem a bit more at ease. Fewer go mad in the East; more go mad in the West. Fewer commit suicide in the East; more in the West.

What is the reason? In the East there is the notion of infinite life—life after life. The East lives in the shadow of eternity. So why hurry? If not today then tomorrow; if not this birth, then the next—there is abundant time. In the West time is very short; those religions—Judaism, Christianity, and Islam—hold there is only one life.

Life becomes very brief. Say seventy years. The first twenty-five go in study. Twenty to twenty-five will go in sleep; a third of life is spent sleeping. Another twenty to twenty-five go in earning a living. What remains? What is left in your hand? Life seems very short. One part to sleep, one to livelihood, a big part to schooling. What little remains goes catching trains from Pune to Bombay and back. A little more remains to quarrel with your wife or gossip with the neighbors. What is left goes to cards and chess. What remains?

So panic arises. Life is slipping away from the hand; nothing has happened yet—no vision of God, no dawn, no opening of the gates of bliss. You don’t even know where the temple is, which steps to climb, which sanctum to enter.

Hence such anguish in the West. Even with all the means of comfort, people lack the patience to be happy—they keep running. Speed has become a value in itself. But speed has value only if it takes you somewhere. If you go nowhere and run like an ox around the mill, what is the value of speed?

I have heard that a pilot announced to his passengers, “Forgive us—the navigation instrument has failed; we are off course and have no idea where we are or where we are going. That is the bad news. The good news is that wherever we are going, we are going at full speed.”

If you don’t know where you are headed, what does it matter how fast you go? Yet in the West, speed has become precious; time is saved. And when time is saved, what then? First save time—so cars get faster, trains faster, planes faster. Save time—and then what to do with it? Then kill time, because it won’t pass. First you save time, taking on great trouble; then, once you have it, you scratch your head: now what? Then drink, gamble, go to the cinema, watch television, play cards, set up the chessboard—what else to do, now that you’ve saved time?

This race to save time and this impatience are the fruits of the belief that there is only one life. The East holds a vast sense of time—and that view is more in tune with existence. What value can a single life have? A single life would be an accidental event—come and gone.

No—the human seed of consciousness is no small thing; God is hidden in this seed. It is not a seasonal flower; the great trees that touch the sky take time to grow. And the tree of consciousness is the greatest—beyond the clouds, beyond the skies; it crosses the seven heavens and touches the feet of God. Therefore, no hurry.

Do not ask when morning will come. Morning will come. In my reckoning, it already is morning. If in your reckoning it is not yet, I will teach you how to open your eyes. That is precisely what I am doing—how to open the eyes. The concern is not with morning.

Two things are most important in opening the eyes. First: if there is a crowd of thoughts, the eyes remain closed; when thoughts disperse, the eyes begin to open. Patanjali says: “Become thoughtless, and the eyes are open.” Second: deeper than thought lies the state of feeling; even if thoughts go, if waves of emotion persist, the eyes will remain half open—just a sliver. You will glimpse a little morning, but if emotional waves continue, you will not be able to behold the full sun. Trust will arise that morning is there, yet along with trust, doubt will stand—for as much as the eye is open, there is trust in light; as much as it is not, there is trust in darkness. You will remain in dilemma, in duality. For the eyes to open fully, one must become free of duality.

So the second formula: become without feeling. Let neither thought remain nor emotion. Let only pure consciousness remain, like a mirror—mere witnessing. Then the eyes open; the morning has happened.

Taru! Life does come again and again, but the Supreme Life does not come again and again. This life has come many times, and will come many times; but there is another life—call it God-life, call it the supreme life, call it the divine life—that one does not recur.

At Dwarka I spoke to you of that life. It is attained only once. Why only once? Because once you have it, you have it—then it never leaves. This life comes and goes, therefore it comes again and again. It is momentary, like a bubble—formed and burst. Here you are born, there you die; how long does it take! In between there is a little huffing and puffing, a bit of running about—but there isn’t much distance between the cradle and the grave. The one in the cradle today will soon be in the grave; and the one you just put in the grave, before you even return home he may already be back in the cradle. Whoever comes into the cradle has come only to die.

Here birth is the beginning of death, and death is the door to birth. Birth and death are two sides of the same coin.

So this life has been given many times and taken away many times; given and broken, again and again. In that giving and taking lies a secret: slowly, slowly the longing awakens for that Supreme Life which, once attained, is never snatched away—once found, it is found; once you dwell there, you dwell there. The real dwelling, where you will never again be uprooted; the true home, from which no one can evict you.

In this world we are travelers. This world is an inn—halt for the night; move on in the morning. You are not allowed to tarry here for long. This is not a place to settle—it is a wayside stop, not the destination. Sleep a little by the milestone, but then you must walk again, move on.

I spoke to you of that Supreme Life. It does not come again and again; it is attained once. The name of that Supreme Life is moksha. Why do we call it moksha—liberation? Because one is freed from the bondage of birth and death; one need not descend into a body. To descend into a body is painful. Why painful? Because the soul is vast, and the body is very small. For that vastness to be confined within this smallness is painful. The sky of the soul has to fit into the little courtyard of the body. The ocean of the soul is poured into the tiny pitcher of the body. That hurts.

Birth is suffering—and death is suffering. So Buddha said: “Birth is suffering; death is suffering. Here there is suffering upon suffering.” He says this because here we must be bound by limits; and to be bound by limits is pain. Our nature is the limitless. In being limitless lies our joy, and the limitless is the very nature of the Divine. But until we taste the flavor of the limitless, until we leap into it, we go on thinking that this body is our only truth.

I spoke to you of that life which is infinite, beyond the body, beyond time, beyond space—across all limitations, transcending every boundary. I certainly told you: Life is not given again and again. I will give you moksha. Do as I say. Liberation cannot be given. What I said is a practical way of expressing a transcendental truth. Liberation cannot be given, because liberation is your very nature. You can only be awakened to your own nature; moksha is your inner treasure. You can only be shaken awake so that you remember. You can only be reminded.

“I will give you moksha” means only this: I will remind you of who you are. But certainly that remembrance becomes possible only if you do as I say.

There is an ancient dictum: Do as the guru says; do not do as the guru does. It sounds odd, because we are usually told to imitate the guru’s conduct. But the ancient dictum says: Do as he says, not as he does—because the guru’s action issues from his state of consciousness, while whatever he says, he says keeping your state in view. Do not imitate the doctor’s habits; follow his prescription. The doctor may be happily eating sweets while telling you to stop, because you have diabetes. If you say, “We shall do as you do,” there will be trouble.

The guru lives out of his awareness, and he speaks with the disciple’s condition in mind. That is why there is always apparent contradiction in a guru’s words: he will tell one disciple one thing, another disciple something different. It must be so—the illnesses differ; the diagnosis differs; therefore the treatment must differ. One prescription cannot be given to all.

Hence I said to you: Do as I say. And you have done your utmost. I am happy. Your effort has begun to bear fruit. The moment is not far when the Supreme Life will also be experienced; day by day that hour is drawing near. It is possible that this very life proves to be the last. I say “possible” so that if I say “certain,” you do not relax and go to sleep—“If it’s certain, why worry?” Therefore I say: very possible. Keep your awareness alive, deepen it; hold fast to watchfulness.

You ask: “Lord! Far from liberation, I am still making rounds between Bombay and Poona.”
Those very rounds the scriptures call transmigration. As long as breath remains, there will be some coming and going. Breath means coming and going. Do not worry. Commute with witnessing—from Poona to Bombay, Bombay to Poona—but let witness-consciousness remain. The witness is the same in Poona and in Bombay; the market and the Himalayas. Witnessing is not confined to any place. Objects change, but the seer does not. Carry a mirror: stand in the marketplace—market reflections; stand by the river—river reflections; turn it to the moon and stars—moon and star reflections. But the mirror does not change. Whether it reflects market or river or the stars, a mirror is a mirror.

The mirror is not transformed by reflections. That is my teaching: be a mirror, be a witness; wherever you are, keep aware. Let only this be remembered: I am the watcher, the seer. That is enough—let this remembrance become dense. And Taru, it is becoming dense.

That is why you say: “This day-and-night remembrance goes on; it is not in my control.”
Indeed a moment comes—practicing, practicing—suddenly it happens. And when it happens, no practice is needed. Then remembrance becomes natural; witnessing remains on its own. There is no longer any special arrangement to be made for it.

At first, when a seed is sown, you must care for it—water it, and when the sprout appears you build a fence, or animals will graze it down or the neighbor’s boys uproot it. When the tree is big, the fence is removed; you need not water it; the tree takes care of itself. Its roots have sunk so deep that it finds its own sap. It is strong enough now to protect itself.

So it is with the witness in the seeker. Little by little the roots strengthen; the branches rise into the sky; flowers come, fruits come. Then there is no need of protection. Then you do not have to try to remember at every moment. And when effortless, uncontrived witnessing abides, know that witnessing has happened. Before that, there was only preparation—only practice. Before that we were searching for our nature, groping in the dark. Now the door has opened.

It is going well, Taru! And truly, life is not more than a joke and laughter—knowing this is moksha. When birth and death lose their value, when they carry no meaning; when pleasure and pain become equal, balanced—that is liberation. And the day this hour arrives, that day a person becomes a year-end cloud.

Have you seen the year-end clouds? They have poured, given themselves, rained themselves out—emptied and hollow, vacant and light, slowly melting into the void. They will thicken again before the rains. But as soon as one is emptied, one dissolves into the emptiness. Have you ever wondered where all those clouds of the monsoon go? Later there is no trace in the sky. Spent, they are weightless.

To be a witness is to live in this world weightlessly—like the year-end cloud.

The year-end clouds are going,
parting for a year from the blue ocean,
from the moist, kohl-dark undulations of night,
from those wave-strings tinged with the melodies of love-songs,
from the sky’s ornamented apsaras.
The year-end clouds are going—
to which great forest do they depart?
Now they do not stop, these sky-wanderers;
sleep in their eyes, slackness in their motion.
In which cave will they be absorbed,
with wings heavy, wearied like the evening birds?
Along with them goes the burning ache
of countless lovers and beloveds in separation.
With unblinking eyes the green earth
gives them farewell.
In what far, secluded hut
did some worshiped memory call them again,
filling their empty ears—
in which lotus-grove the sleepless autumn’s
plaintive, restless sobbing?
They go, along the path of light, with gentle pace.
Rivers, streams, lakes, ponds are water-laden,
mountain springs, overwhelmed, fall as cataracts.
With bodies full of heart they bid farewell,
bowing to the flower-like rays of light,
leaving behind the sprouted, new, blossoming fields,
leaving the love in the eager eyes of kinsmen,
leaving the countless tender plants,
the ailing fields of grain.
Where is that kohl-dark cave,
that deep, vast store, enchanted rest,
into which, like tired forest-beasts,
they go with thirst upon their lips—thirst
for whose meeting?
Filling the world with new life,
surrounded by the memory of which Beloved
do they go, the year-end clouds,
filled with a new longing?
The year-end clouds are going!

When one makes one’s life weightless of all thoughts, all feelings, all actions—and let me remind you, the art of becoming weightless is nothing but witnessing—then a new journey begins. The Ganges begins to flow toward Gangotri—homeward, to its source. That original source is moksha. We must return to where we came from. We must become what we were in the first place. We must discover our original face—not the face of the body, but of the soul—the one that was ours before birth, and will be ours after death. To experience our essence is to experience sat-chit-ananda.

Bholeram! Stay naïve then. From politicians you still expect more? And you trust their assurances? But you’re not the only simpleton; the whole public is simple. In this country it’s Bholerams all around. That’s why the ayarams-gayarams—the turncoats—keep cheating you. You trust anyone’s promises.

This country is guileless. People are straightforward. Politicians are cunning. They keep people tangled up. Big assurances, big slogans—and people get hypnotized by slogans and words. This country must learn a little, must become a little alert to political tricks. Otherwise this nation’s good fortune will not dawn.

It’s been over thirty years since independence; we are circling like an ox around a mill. The country’s troubles have only kept increasing day by day; they haven’t decreased. And politicians are not worried about the country’s troubles; they have their own troubles. Should he worry about you or himself? Until he’s not in office, his worry is how to get there. So whatever you say, he gives you assurances. He won’t contradict you; whatever you say he nods yes. He needs your vote. Until he reaches power his only concern is how to reach it. And once he reaches power, another and greater concern arises: how to remain there. Because people are pulling at his legs from all sides; someone is tugging at his arm, someone has run away with one leg of the chair. How to cling to the chair tight? Because he’s not alone; many others are jostling for it. There is so much shoving and scuffling for chairs that it’s a wonder they manage to remain seated even for a few days.

A politician knows only one trick to stay on the chair: keep those who want to snatch it from him fighting among themselves. As long as they fight each other, he stays seated. If they stop fighting, he is in trouble. Before he’s in office, how to reach office? It’s no easy thing; it’s a tough struggle, fierce competition. And on the way up, whatever you say, he says yes; he can’t say no—why alienate you? In his language there is no “no” until he’s in power. And once in power, his troubles begin—how to remain there? Remind him of his promises and he’ll say he never even heard them. He only nodded yes; he never cared what you said.

Remind him of the promises and he won’t remember a thing—not even your face. What does he have to do with you? What he needed—your vote—he has taken. The matter is finished. For five years he sits in power and you are nothing. Five years later he’ll come to your door again, and he knows you’re a Bholeram. He’ll revive the same assurances and slogans. He’ll make lofty speeches. He’ll show you dreams of the future. He’ll promise to bring Rama-rajya. And the fun is, you’ll be deceived again. For centuries people have been deceived like this.

Psychologists say human memory is very weak. In five years people forget. And even if they remember a lot, in every country it settles into two parties. They are all cousins—no real difference among them. All chips off the same block. Yet two parties emerge. Two parties are a device, an art of ruling the public. In five years the reputation of whoever is in power declines; promises aren’t fulfilled, people’s troubles grow, and their prestige falls. But in those five years, the other party not in power increases its prestige; because what it did five years earlier the public has already forgotten. After five years the public replaces one with the other.

If you think these parties are enemies, you are mistaken. They are friends, not foes. They rule by supporting each other. One rules while the other builds prestige with the people. Then the other rules, while the first builds prestige. There is not the slightest real difference. They are partners in the same deal, the same trade.

I’ve heard: In a village, a man came at night and smeared coal tar on windows and doors while people slept. In the morning everyone was shocked: What fool played this prank? This isn’t even the time for Holi or revelry. Who did this? But someone had done it. Coal tar is hard to clean. The very next morning a man arrived with a bag over his shoulder, calling out, “Anyone need coal tar cleaned? I remove coal tar!” People said, “You’ve arrived at just the right moment! We’ve never seen you before. What a fortunate coincidence. We were worried—some scoundrel smeared tar on our windows.” He cleaned tar for a month or two and made good money. Meanwhile his partner went to other villages smearing tar. They were in the same business together: one smeared, the other cleaned. The situation remained the same; nothing really changed.

Bholeram, and you ask: “Where are this country’s politicians taking the nation?” Nowhere. They’re just circling you around here. And where do they have the leisure to take the country anywhere!

Answer at last—how long will you
renege on your own words
while once again shouting
hosannas to the restoration of democracy?
Who is it wearing inverted glasses
that cannot see your ruin,
yet sees “reconstruction”
amidst the blight spread on all four sides?
From open platforms, only speeches,
and a commerce in slogans!
Why is it that even the lobes of the ears
are not touched
by the cries of the afflicted?
As echoes, over and over,
only petitions return.
All you offer public life is attraction,
and a reception with promises.
Will the chair never fall silent—
this vile struggle for post and power?
Will a shadow keep growing,
dwarfing human beings?
Over the country’s pain
will you keep raising
false alarms in the newspapers?

Bholeram, now tell your leaders: how long this drivel? When someone comes to your door for your vote, don’t say yes so easily. Enough is enough. Ask: how long will this go on?

The public mind needs a little alertness, a little awareness. And don’t imagine that if you’re tired of one, you’ll switch to the other and things will be solved. Nothing will be solved.

By Rama’s oath,
by the government’s name,
the feet are big, the shoes are small.
Gold is steady, grain is down,
and oilseeds are running wild.
The head burst in a procession,
the eyes burst under an eclipse.
We too—
what an inauspicious hour we were born in,
all the planets ill-starred.
From the griddle
into the hearth—
if this is “good fortune,”
whom shall we call
the grit in the eye,
whom shall we call a well-wisher?
Thirty-six sixty-three, sixty-three thirty-six—
all are bottomless pots,
rolling whichever way.

Whether thirty-six sixty-three or sixty-three thirty-six—it makes no difference. All are bottomless pots. And the trouble is: the feet are big, the shoes small. The country’s problems are large—very large! But those you make leaders have very small intellects. Big feet, small shoes.

The world is now nearly beyond the hands of politicians. The world needs specialists, not politicians; the problems are so large that only specialists can solve them—not politicians. It’s beyond a politician’s understanding; he has no relevant competence. And if he has any “qualifications,” they are of no value. Someone’s qualification is that he went to jail six times. Six times? Even if you went six thousand times, would that give you the ability to solve the nation’s problems? Would that make you an educationist or an economist? If you’ve gone to jail six times, you’ve mastered the art of going to jail—fine. Then go live there; make it your home. Why did you come out? You should insist, “I’ve been here six times; why do you send me out?” Assert your right and stay in jail.

But no—one who’s been to jail six times claims the right to be prime minister. And what has jail to do with being prime minister? Someone says he spins the charkha three hours a day. Not three, spin thirty! But spinning does not qualify you to be the education minister. Nor does it qualify you to be the health minister. Spinning will only make you skilled at spinning—plain and simple. Then why only three hours? Become a spinner by profession; spin twenty-four hours a day. At least some cloth will be made, some weaving done, some benefit gained.

But these are strange people with strange “qualifications.” And we accept these as credentials. We say, “Look, he lives simply.” Let him live simply, by all means—but how does that solve the country’s problems? If simplicity solved problems, matters would be easy. Simplicity will solve nothing. Whether he travels third class, walks on foot, owns only two sets of clothes—it will change nothing. It won’t increase his intelligence, his brilliance, his talent, or his sharpness.

And to solve today’s problems, talent is needed—and great talent. All problems can be solved; there is none today that cannot be. If land is scarce, we can build homes underground; it isn’t necessary to live only on the surface. Why cling to old habits? Scientists say entire cities can be built underground, fully air-conditioned; agriculture can cover the entire surface. We can grow more than ever before.

But one gentleman lives simply, another has been to jail, a third practices yoga postures, a fourth drinks “life-water.” These are the “qualifications.”

If your car breaks down, you won’t take it to a man who lives simply; you’ll go to a garage. You’ll look for a technician. Suppose someone stops you on the road: “Wait! Where are you going? I wear khadi, I spin the charkha, I’ve been to jail—I’ll fix your car! And I live simply, too. I’ve never sat in a car, never touched one; I’ve managed with bullock carts. I’ll fix it. Why go past a straightforward, saintly man like me?” Will you listen? You’ll say, “Brother, don’t make it worse. Repair bullock carts; stay away from cars.”

But in politics, you give such people status. You seat them on your head. If the country gets a little intelligent, it will elect specialists—those who actually have the capacity to solve the nation’s problems. You won’t ask petty questions like: “Do you smoke? Do you drink?” Do or don’t—what does it matter? These trivialities—on the basis of such nonsense, we hand out votes.

This country is in a strange condition: a man who drinks won’t get votes, or he must drink in secret. And a man who doesn’t drink—even if he’s a complete fool—gets votes!

All the great talents in the West—almost all drink. And they’ve solved many problems of life. Drinking doesn’t prevent solving problems; it may even help a bit—after a day of worry, restlessness and thought, a drink at night and he returns fresh in the morning. But your saintly voter doesn’t drink. So what?

Our assumptions must change. We must pay attention to specialists. Power should go to those who know something of life’s problems and can actually solve them.

Look at the fun: a man like Chaudhary Charan Singh, who doesn’t know the ABC of economics, becomes the country’s economist. He’ll ruin things. He turned the whole economy toward the village, while the world is moving from village to city—and must; the future belongs to cities, not villages.

But you make someone like Raj Narain the health minister. By what reckoning? Because he does push-ups and sit-ups? Because he knows massage? Raj Narain says he knows massage—then do massage. There’s a need for many masseurs at Chowpatty. But a health minister? Find a great physician who understands this country’s difficulties and the principles of health.

This country can be healthy, prosperous, abundant. It has everything, and its people have great talent. But our assumptions are wrong. Then you weep and worry and ask: where are politicians taking the country? Ask yourself: whom did you choose? From that, you’ll know where they’ll take you.

Politics should be in the hands of the young—fresh minds who still have the courage to experiment, the capacity to try, even the guts to make mistakes. But whom do you send into politics? Seventy-five-year-olds, eighty-year-olds, eighty-four-year-olds.

Everywhere else retirement rules apply—at fifty-five, fifty-eight, or sixty. Why? Because after sixty, people generally go senile—everywhere else. But in politics? After sixty, suddenly they’re deemed wise. What a joke. Until you’re senile, you’re nobody; who will even recognize you? First question: have you gone senile? If yes, you’re fit to be a leader.

Morarji Desai left the university sixty years ago. Whatever he learned then has all changed; the world is entirely different. In these sixty years, science and knowledge have advanced in ways he has no connection with, no acquaintance, nor is there any demand that he know—because people don’t care. They care about spinning, so they keep spinning, wearing khadi, fasting, fixing marbles on the board.

In these sixty years, science capable of making heaven on earth has been born. What acquaintance does Morarji have with it? What relationship? He has no idea where the world has reached. Even if he tries to run this country, his knowledge is sixty years old—obsolete. Knowledge is made new every day; new knowledge opens new doors.

Gradually bid farewell to politics. Bring in the expert. Politics’ day is done. Politics is now a corpse; you’re carrying it. Carry it as long as you like, but soon the whole world will have to decide: we need specialists. Specialists can solve problems. In this country, no one is willing to listen to the specialist. The specialist is forced to leave; he gets respect in other lands. Here, no one asks the specialist; here, only politicians are asked. Here the specialist has no honor.

On one side is politics, sucking the life out of the country; on the other is the bureaucracy, sitting on the politicians’ scale—taking the rest of the life that remains. Between these two millstones, India is dying. We need to be free of both. Bureaucracy has spread so wide that small tasks take years. Files keep sliding; no work ever gets done. The smartest officer is the one who does nothing and just moves files.

I’ve heard: in an office, one man’s desk never had a pile of files. Every evening it was empty. The whole office was amazed. Everyone else had heaps—files upon files—no resolution, such tangles; and this man never had files on his desk. It may have happened in Maharashtra, in the secretariat. Someone asked, “What’s your secret? How do you dispose of everything? Files never pile up for you.” He said, “I have a trick. Whatever file comes to me, I write on top: Send it to Mr. Patil. Why? Because there’s bound to be a Patil—there are many Patils. The secretariat is full of them. The file will go to some Patil; what do I care where—send it to Mr. Patil!” The questioner said, “This is the limit—I am Mr. Patil! No wonder they keep piling on my table. Every file says, ‘Send it to Mr. Patil!’”

Here, the “smart” man defers and deflects. He sends it from one to another…then it returns, then it goes, then it comes—files keep moving.

Politicians keep quarreling, bureaucrats are wrapped in red tape, and the country is dying. We need swift action. What could be done in moments takes years. It’s as if no one wants to do anything. In the offices, people swat flies while the country dies. For centuries India has dropped the habit of taking responsibility—postpone, defer, leave it for tomorrow, load it onto someone else’s shoulders.

There’s no sense of responsibility. No one feels, “I have a responsibility too; I must do something.” Meanwhile politicians never have time to stop fighting; they’re always plotting their maneuvers.

In the party meeting,
after brawling thoroughly
with their own colleagues,
they came to the grand ceremony
of International Children’s Year,
forced a smile,
showered children with love,
and gave this message:
“Always live and die
for unity.
Even by mistake,
never fight among yourselves!”

Only one sermon—preaching to others is plentiful—and then their lives are nothing but fighting, abuse, and brawling. Perhaps nowhere else do parliaments exist where shoes fly, chairs fly, slippers fly; sleeves are rolled up and wrestling erupts. Such wrestlers—India has them! A real mallayuddha here.

Did you see what happened in Goa’s assembly? Not only were people beaten—fine, that happens—even Mahatma Gandhi was beaten! His statue stood in the middle; someone knocked it down, and there he lay flat on the ground. And throwing shoes and the like—that’s normal.

A politician’s son asked him: “Father, what’s the difference between shastra and astra?” The politician said, “Son, a shastra is what you throw to hit; an astra is what you hold to hit.” The son asked, “One more question. What is a slipper—astra or shastra? Because some hit while holding it, and some by throwing it.”

Bholeram, beware of these weapon-wielding politicians. Free your mind a little from politics. Withdraw your respect from politicians. Ignore them. Don’t go, don’t crowd around, don’t hold welcome ceremonies. Stop all this. Let politicians taste neglect. I tell you: don’t even go to wave black flags—seeing those, too, they feel pleased: “At least they came!” Don’t go even to wave black flags; leave aside other flags. Just don’t go. Ignore the politicians. They’re worth two pennies. The more you ignore them, the more they’ll get the message; the frantic political race will slow; fewer people will remain eager. And gradually turn your attention to specialists. A politician doesn’t care about you or the country; he cares about himself—his children, his kith and kin.

A politician was pestering a chemist to hurry up with medicine. Being a politician, he expected first service. The chemist snapped, “Have patience, Netaji! What if in haste I hand you poison tablets?” “No problem,” said Netaji, “the medicine isn’t for me—it’s for my neighbor.”

Who cares about the neighbor! Hurry up—even if it’s poison.

And be a little careful around politicians; the whole art of politics is this…

Someone once asked Winston Churchill—a great politician’s politician: “Is it possible for a man to spend his whole life with his hands in his pockets, humming songs, living at ease?” Churchill said, “Yes, it’s possible—just mind one thing: let the hands be your own and the pockets someone else’s. Then what’s the problem? Sing away!” Putting your hands in your own pockets won’t do.

A shopkeeper went inside to fetch something. Netaji, seeing a sack of coconuts by the door, quietly slipped one into his bag and called out from outside, “Hey, Sethji, what’s the price of chilies these days?” From inside the shopkeeper replied, “Coconuts are one rupee each; I’ll tell you the price of chilies when I come out.”

Be a bit cautious. Be mindful—if a politician is nearby, hold your pocket. If you see Netaji around—beware! At such times, practice right remembrance. Netaji means a subtle pickpocket—one who lifts your wallet so deftly you don’t notice.

And you ask, what happened to socialism?

Netaji,
these crumbling foundation stones,
this dry river,
this half-built bridge,
this wealth flying like the red buses—
only dust,
this flood,
this famine,
this plague—
forgive me,
can you tell me
when socialism will arrive in this country?
He said, “That, this broken foundation stone will tell you—
the bricks of whose building
the cooperative people have eaten.
You’ve come to the river and the bridge—
the problem is big:
the river belongs to the people,
the bridge to the government.
Still, the Information Department has announced—
on government files, twelve bridges
are fully built; work on eight is ongoing.
Those too will be completed in a year or two.
Netaji says there’s no need to worry:
now that the bridge is built,
we’ll bring the river as well.
You object
that people are sick to death
of famine, flood, plague—
man, you go too far.
How can we make you understand?
They may be someone’s brothers and nephews,
but our voters are the ones who have died.”

A leader’s sorrow is different. If there’s a plague, he doesn’t fret that people are dying; he frets about how many of his voters have died. If the other party’s voters die, his heart is glad. He thanks God—well done, exactly as needed.

Who cares about socialism? Socialism is a slogan, a hollow one—under whose shade you keep dreaming, sleeping.

The country must become alert—so alert that politicians can no longer deceive it. I have nothing to do with politics, but I would say this much to every person in this land: be alert, wake up a little—otherwise this exploitation will continue without end.

These revolutions politicians stage—nothing will come of them. Two-penny revolutions. This “total revolution” Jayaprakash Narayan just accomplished—there’s neither anything “total” nor anything “revolution” in it. Seating corpses in power—and behold, total revolution! The same people—the same Morarji Desai who was in one party is now in another; the same Jagjivan Ram moved from that party to this—and total revolution! Same people, same business, same routine—and total revolution.

Nothing will come of such revolutions. They are opium for the masses, and these big words about socialism are only devices to keep people asleep. Like when a small child cries, we put a pacifier in his mouth. The poor child sucks rubber, not understanding that it isn’t his mother’s breast. Only when he grows a little will he throw it away and say, “Whom are you fooling?” Socialism and such are pacifiers. Beware. Look closely—nothing comes out of them; you’re sucking rubber.

Socialism won’t come like this, nor will this country’s dawn come this way. It can come—if people are a little more aware, a little more conscious, if people think and reflect—and if they relegate politics to the background. Give prestige to knowledge, not politics. To science, not politics. To religion, not politics. Politics is the lowest rung of the ladder; above it are knowledge, science, philosophy, religion. But politics has crowned itself king. Put it back in its place. Knowledge is more valuable, spirituality more valuable.

Your values must be transformed. A transformation of values is necessary. Bholeram, mere naiveté won’t do. Drop the naiveté. By that I don’t mean become sly or cunning—else you’ll be a politician yourself. Drop the naiveté—meaning, gather awareness; think a little; look where you’re going; open your eyes and don’t be deceived. Don’t make it so easy to be fooled that anyone can come and cheat you.

For centuries this country has been deceived. Now is the time to wake up, to break this sleep, to end this dream. Let this country regain its dignity, reclaim its glory.

Enough for today.