Hansa To Moti Chuge #1

Somewhere, let me find a flame
in this icy place.
Somewhere, a warmth
in this cold city.
Somewhere, let a melody rise
in this wilderness.
Somewhere, let a shehnai sound
in this ill-omened, crematory age.
Somewhere, let a mango tree flower,
let a cuckoo shatter the silence;
let the wind blow, and blow harder—
let it embrace, bashful.
Noon hums and burns,
the sun grows hot, hotter still...
I am waiting—
still...
for some evening.
May this time pause, just stop—
for some name once taken.
Somewhere, let me find a flame
in this icy place.
Somewhere, a warmth
in this cold city.
Somewhere, let a melody rise
in this wilderness.
Somewhere, let a shehnai sound in this ill-omened, crematory age.

The shehnai has always been playing—listeners are needed. And in this blazing noon there are trees of cool shade—seekers are needed. Even in this furnace of a city there is cool shelter, but you need the capacity to become a refuge in that cool shade. Cool shade is not obtained gratis. The shehnai keeps playing, but until you have a heart to hear, it does not reach your ears.

From Krishna’s lips the flute has never stopped. The flute is just playing on. The flute is eternal. Sometimes someone hears and awakens; when he awakens, he truly lives. Those who do not hear die weeping—never having lived, they die un-lived.

In Shri Lalanath’s life, by a most unique happening, the shehnai sounded. The lives of the saints begin in great mystery—like the Ganga flowing from the hidden Gaumukh in the far Himalayas! Concealed among valleys, mountains, peaks. Thus the Ganga of the saints’ life begins at deeply mysterious sources—sudden, abrupt, all at once, like lighting a lamp in the dark and instantly there is radiance! The saints’ journey does not begin slow and dim—not little by little. Saints leap.

Only those who leap come to know. Those who walk inch by careful inch drown in their carefulness. The destination never comes to them. The destination belongs to the madly in love; the claimants, the deserving ones, are the mad.

‘Lal’ is mad among the mad. The journey of his life, the Ganga of his saintliness, began in a wondrous way. There is no other introduction needed, nor even if there were is there any need to give it—where he was born, in which village, what house and courtyard, which parents... all that is secondary and futile. How did saintliness arise? How did Buddhahood arise? How, in the life of this poor youth born in Rajasthan, did a lamp suddenly light; how did a new moon night become, one day, the full moon—this alone is his introduction, his true introduction. Do not ask a saint’s caste or lineage. Do not ask meaningless questions. Do not ask his address. His address is one—Ram. His abode is one—Ram. His birth is there, his death is there. The whole proclamation of his life is that alone.

But how did the ray of saintliness descend, how did the first ray arrive? After the ray, the sun inevitably comes. The sun follows on the heels of the first ray. But the descent of that first ray is worth understanding—because it is that very first ray you are searching for.

And it could be that the ray comes to you and passes by and you do not catch it; the ray comes, dances past, and the little bells tied to her ankles do not reach your ears; the ray comes and plays the shehnai and you remain deaf; the ray comes while you sit with your eyes shut!

...And the ray always comes abruptly, unbidden. The ray is ever a guest—arriving without giving a date. No message, no prior notice. When will the Divine knock at the door? No one knows. There can be no prophecy about it. In this world, only one thing cannot be foretold—your meeting with the Divine. Everything else is bound in cause and effect and so can be predicted. The Divine alone is grace, beyond cause and effect; therefore no prophecy is possible about Him.

Who would have thought that such a descent of the Divine would happen in Lal’s life! Lal was returning home after the ceremonial bringing of his bride. Companions, bands, color and festivity—the hour of celebration. On the way lay the village Likhmadesar. There lived a unique saint, Kumbhanath—Paramhansa! A carefree one! No concern for religion, sect, tradition. Religious, but bound to no religion. He lavished, with both hands, what the Divine had given. And to the one who pours forth, the Divine gives more and more. This wealth never runs out. If you try to hoard it, it decays; keep giving it, and it grows.

They were returning with the bride; the village lay en route. “Let us have darshan,” they thought. Passing the village of such a saint whose fragrance had begun to spread far and wide. And with that fragrance, surely, were flames. This fragrance is not the fragrance of flowers—it is the fragrance of flames, the scent of a blaze! Alongside saintliness, the fire of revolution also burns. Far and wide Kumbhanath’s fragrance was reaching. Those who could recognize fragrance, received it. Those who could not—bound by tradition, rigid in habit—felt unease. To them, the fire was reaching. “Let us go for darshan,” they thought. And it is proper to take the blessing of such a saint. Life is beginning, marriage is happening, entry into a new world—who would not go to receive a saint’s blessing? Little did they know what blessing would be given.

When you go to a saint, you go with your own accounts—your desires, your wishes. But when a saint blesses, he does not bless according to your wishes; he does not fulfill your desires. A saint gives only what he can give. He does not give trash—he gives diamonds. He does not give pebbles—he gives jewels.

Till then, Lal had no idea of his being ‘Lal’—the ruby. No recognition of the jewel within. No one had startled him, awakened him, called him, challenged him. Life had passed in sleep, and now an even greater arrangement for sleeping was being made. The provisions for stupor, for the commotion of life, were getting ready to seize him completely. He had gone for blessings—naturally; marriage, the start of a new life; what could be more auspicious than to receive a saint’s shade of blessing!

But when they arrived, they found another scene entirely. Kumbhanath was preparing to enter a living Samadhi. The pit had been dug—only the entrance remained. The moment of final farewell... He distributed prasad. He had given prasad to all. Lal too received prasad. And then, before descending into Samadhi, Kumbhanath said something most wondrous. He called out loudly, looked around, and cried out: “Is there yet any taker?”

The prasad had been distributed. Everyone had taken it. Lal too had received prasad. Now this was a prasad of another kind—one that cannot be seen, that does not enter into give-and-take, that cannot be transferred by hand. And yet, it leaps, it descends from one heart into another. Not hand-to-hand, but soul-to-soul. Standing at the edge of that pit into which he would soon sink forever, into that earth with which he would merge—he cried out: “Is there yet any taker?” People looked at each other. All had already received prasad. None was left. Nor was any prasad left. No one was left to take, and no prasad remained. “What prasad is he talking about?”

“He must be unhinged,” people must have thought. How could he not be? Who takes a living Samadhi? Man arranges a thousand ways to keep living! Even rotting, he keeps living. Worms invade the body—still he clings to life. Cancer grips, consumption strikes, blind, maimed, lame, leprous, lying in gutters—still he wants to live, such is the lust to live! This man must be mad. He has dug his own grave and is about to enter it. Surely his mind is gone.

Prasad has been given; all have received it. There is no prasad left, and no one remains to take it. And this man cries: “Is there yet any taker?”

People looked here and there, but Lal stepped forward. He came and sat before him, hands stretched like a beggar’s, streams of tears from his eyes... Something happened! Something like what happened between Buddha and Mahakashyapa, when one morning Buddha came carrying a flower and sat looking at it, looking, looking... People grew tired. They had come to hear a discourse, and Buddha had never done such a thing—sitting with a flower in hand, gazing at it, forgetting the people altogether. Two or four minutes were fine; but minutes turned to an hour. People grew restless, agitated. “How long will this go on? What has happened to Buddha today?”

Then Mahakashyapa laughed—loudly, a peal of laughter. Buddha raised his eyes and said, “Come to me. I have been seeking you. The one I was seeking has arrived. Take this flower. What I can give by words I have given to others; what cannot be given by words, that I give to you.”

As something happened between Mahakashyapa and Buddha... which the onlookers could not see—what did Buddha give, what did Mahakashyapa receive? Centuries have passed—twenty-five hundred years—and lovers of Buddha still ask, still ponder: what was transferred? The flower was given—that was visible. But Buddha said: “What I cannot give by words, I give to you.” What is that? That which is beyond words, beyond scripture, the ineffable, the inexpressible—what is that? What did Buddha give to Mahakashyapa?

But at least Buddha gave a flower. Between Kumbhanath and Lal, not even a flower was given or taken. Nothing at all was exchanged—and yet prasad poured down. The shehnai sounded. The scorching sun vanished; life became cool. Music was born. Lal was transformed—he was transformed in that bowing itself. For the first time, Lal saw the ruby within. For the first time, he experienced the treasure within. As if, in the presence of this true man, in his light, the darkness broke—the recognition of oneself dawned, self-introduction happened! He bowed at the feet. Dying, Kumbhanath lit a lamp, kindled a flame—a torch! Departing, he called out: “Is there yet any taker?” One taker was found. Many were there—hundreds. But one heard the call. One stretched his hands. One spread his begging cloth. One consented to bow. And the one who bowed was filled. One consented to be effaced; and the one who effaced himself was born anew.

Lal’s life changed—or say rather, Lal was born for the first time; he received life. Till then it had been a sleep—what to say sleep, a nightmare! Flowers blossomed. The cuckoo sang. The new moon night dissolved; the full moon came. Nectar showered. Death departed. All that he had thought important till yesterday fell away. And that toward which he had never cared to look—his eyes turned there. He recognized it. He was linked to the immortal. All at once he flared up—became luminous! Thousands witnessed this miracle. When he rose, he was a different man. When he had sat, hands outstretched, he was someone else—an ordinary youth, just returning from his wedding. Companions, bands, the wedding party... When he rose, there was a depth in those eyes that cannot be measured. There was a radiance on that face—not of this world.

His friends were greatly astonished—some were envious; they must have felt hurt. They taunted: “Then why marry at all? If this was what you were going to do, you could have done it two days earlier. If you were to renounce, you could have done so before. If you were to dye yourself in ochre, what harm if you had done it two days earlier? Why marry?”

The reply was: “Behra likhiya na talai, diya ant bulaye.” Lal said: “What the Creator has written cannot be averted. The rounds were written, so the rounds were taken. They were bound, so they were done. What had to happen, happened. This too had to happen—after the rounds, so it happened afterwards.”

But when true revolution happens, its results extend far. The new bride, seeing the transformation in Lal, herself was transformed. Lal drowned in meditation; the newly wedded young woman too drowned in meditation. Both forgot the world. The Master, in departing, gave birth to a rare being.

Lal’s words are plain and simple. The words of saints are always plain and simple. Complexity is the mark of the pundits. And their words are complex because there is nothing of substance in them. To hide the insubstantial, they must cloak it in complexity. The more hollow the matter, the more complex and difficult it must be made—so that no one sees its emptiness. The more vapid the talk, the bigger the words required; in the heavy decoration of words the hollowness gets hidden. The uglier the statement, the more beautiful the garments you must drape on it. The more filth within, the more perfume you must spray. But when there is something within, the speech is straight, clear, naked, unadorned.

Saints speak straight and clear. They say exactly as they have known. Having known, there is no need to tangle. Those who have not known, they tangle plenty—they go round and round, obliquely, so you can never tell what they want to say. And people are such fools that whatever they cannot understand, they think must be very deep, very profound. What is not grasped, they think must be very lofty, exalted.

Truth is plain and clear—as simple as two and two are four. Philosophers write complex treatises. Saints sing straight and clear—their songs are like the songs of birds. Nothing added, nothing adorned, just the heart laid bare. So are Lal’s words. But if you dive, you will find great treasure. If you hear the invitation, a journey will begin. “Is there yet any taker?”—only then will you understand these plain words. These are less for understanding than for taking; less for thinking than for drinking.

The last invitation is today!
To receive the boon,
to be made anew,
for ages the bird has been coming to your nest—
The last invitation is today!
On the two strings of brief breath,
on the base of faith,
the inert world’s conscious laws the swan has been laughingly denying—
The last invitation is today!
Contentment slipped from the eyelids,
flowed until evening;
in the emptiness of silent night this ocean of eyes kept singing—
The last invitation is today!

The saints’ invitation is always the final invitation. When all the invitations of the world are exhausted, when their futility is seen, their hollowness recognized—then the saints’ invitation is understood.

These words are not those of poets. They are not entertainment—they are demolition of mind. They are not to lull the mind; they are to erase it. Courage is needed—daring too. Because this is an upward journey—the call of soaring peaks. Simple and straight, yet filled with great danger!

After all, Kumbhanath also did not say anything complicated to Lal—only this: “Is there yet any taker?” And some string long asleep within the life-energies resonated—like someone plucked the strings of the veena; like someone shook you in your sleep, and the eyes opened, and it was morning! Such are these words. If you can take them, blessed you are.

In Lal’s life, suddenly vairagya—dispassion—arose. But if you care to understand, some sutras may come to hand, useful to you. He was going to drown in raga—attachment; and dispassion arose. He was about to step into the sweetness of attachment—yet dispassion arose. The bird was just about to be trapped, to enter the cage. The door was about to be shut. Then it would have been hard to escape. He paused.

Remember this: many times in life there come moments—if you awaken just a little, you avoid great entanglements. One step more, and it becomes difficult to be free of them. Easier not to enter the tangle than to get out of it once inside. If anger overtakes you, then to come out becomes difficult. If you awaken right at the door of anger, that very anger turns into compassion. If you set off on the run of lust, each step raises more and more complications. Then so many entanglements arise that it becomes difficult to return. Tell one lie, and then you will have to tell ten—because to save one lie ten are needed. Then for ten, a hundred; each lie needs ten more. The spread keeps spreading—no end to it. To return becomes hard, because to turn back you must expose all those lies; the mind trembles, the chest collapses.

Vairagya means: the insight into the futility of attachment. Raga means: the hope that here you will find happiness. Vairagya means: no one has ever found happiness here, nor can it be found here. There is no happiness here. Happiness is not outside; it is within. Happiness is not in relationships; it is in the innermost being. Happiness is not in wealth, position, prestige—it is in meditation. Happiness is not an outer journey; it is an inner pilgrimage.

Vairagya means: the outer run is mere running. You walk a lot, but there is never an arrival; the destination never comes. The path is very long and very complex, but the destination never arrives. The destination does not come—death comes. On the outer run, the illusion of destination is kept alive; and in the name of destination, one day death arrives. On the inner journey, death happens first—because only he who consents to die enters the soul.

On the inner journey, death happens first—that very death is called sannyas. Sannyas is the art of dying—the secret of dying while alive. And for the one who turns within, behind the destination is a stream of the deathless; hidden behind the destination is nectar. Outside, in the name of destination, death deceives.

That day will be when the sorrows of this world will not be;
that day when in this world we shall not be.
This light, this fire, this song—these will remain;
in Your world, but we shall not be.
Those who are bowing at Your threshold—
those will be others; we shall not be.
All life went only to learn
how they will cease and when.
Many of my desires will be fulfilled,
yet my desires will still be few.
Tears have gone forth to confess the sin—
but their sin will not thus be less.

Here—move on, run on... One desire is not fulfilled and it gives birth to ten more. Here a man remains a beggar and dies a beggar. He comes empty-handed, and leaves empty-handed. One more delight—the least he arrives with clenched fist; when he goes, even the fist opens! Even what he did have he leaves behind here. Here the rubies go as stone—when here stones ought to go as rubies.

Drink these words; these words are alchemy!

Dhyani nahin Shiv sarsa, gyani sa Gorakh.
Rarai ramai suun nistiryan, kod athasi rikh.

Lal says: Learn two sutras—meditation and knowing.

Dhyani nahin Shiv sarsa...
There is no meditator like Shiva. If you meditate, be like Shiva. What does it mean? Meditation means: no thought, no desire, no memory, no imagining. Meditation means: only being within. That is why Shiva is called the deity of death, of destruction, of dissolution. For meditation is dissolution—of the mind. The mind is the world; mind is creation; mind is the universe. When mind goes, there is dissolution—pralaya. Do not think some day there will be a great cosmic dissolution. No—whosoever enters meditation, for him dissolution happens. In him, Shiva descends.

Meditation is death—the death of mind, the death of ‘I’, the end of thought. Only pure consciousness remains—empty like a mirror! No reflection forms.

So one journey is of meditation. From meditation, knowing is born. The knowing you collect without meditation is not knowing—it is the illusion of knowing—pseudo-knowledge. From books, doctrines, others, what you collect is not knowing. Knowing is born in meditation. Meditation is pure awareness. In that awareness the meaning of life, the mystery of life begins to be seen. Meditation is the key—it opens the doors of the Infinite.

Dhyani nahin Shiv sarsa, gyani sa Gorakh.
And Lal says: Today no such meditators are seen as would invite Shiva, who have become like Shiva. Yes, Shiva’s images are worshiped—village to village, home to home arrangements are going on for his adoration. No one has as many images as Shiva.

It’s simple too: pick a round stone from anywhere, place it under any bush, and the image of Shiva is made. Bring a Shivalinga from anywhere and seat it under any tree. No need even for a roof.

Shiva is worshiped everywhere, but Shiva is not about worship; Shiva-hood is an attainment. That Shivalinga you see in temples, under trees—have you ever noticed its shape? It is the shape of a flame—like the shape of a lamp’s flame. The Shivalinga is a symbol of the inner flame. When the lamp within you is lit, the flame appears just like that—pure, auspicious! This is its very form. And as the flame grows, grows, gradually around the luminous person a halo forms—its shape too is oval.

The mystics knew this truth centuries ago—but had no scientific proof. Now in Russia, a great experiment is underway—Kirlian photography. The energy field around a human being can now be photographed. Films so sensitive have been made that not only your body is captured but also the electricity around it. And Kirlian is amazed—because the more a person sits in quiet, the more the energy-field around him takes on an oval shape. He knows nothing of the Shivalinga, yet the shape becomes oval. When a person sits in meditation, the energy around him becomes oval. Around the restless, the energy is not oval—it is fragmented, in pieces, out of balance—one part big, one small; ugly.

The Shivalinga is a symbol of meditation—the symbol of the final deep state of meditation.

And only in one who has known meditation does knowing like Gorakh’s arise. In the lineage of saints, Gorakh has great value, because no one has given as many methods to attain meditation as Gorakh. He opened as many doors to meditation as possible. So many doors did he open that the word “Gorakh-dhandha” arose among us—Gorakh’s labyrinth! He opened so many doors that people felt it had become a great confusion. Not one or two—endless doors! He said as many things as no one ever did. Buddha gave one process of meditation—vipassana; sufficient. Mahavira gave one process—shukla dhyana; sufficient. Patanjali gave one—nirvikalpa Samadhi; sufficient. Gorakh gave the keys to all conceivable doors of the temple of the Divine.

People were perplexed, entangled; hence was coined the word “Gorakh-dhandha.” Whenever someone gets entangled he says: “I’m caught in a big Gorakh-dhandha.” You’ve even forgotten where “Gorakh” comes from—from Gorakhnath. Gorakhnath is an extraordinary being—count him among the few: Krishna, Buddha, Mahavira, Patanjali, Gorakh... That few. He is one of those supreme peaks.

Lal says: There has been no knower like Gorakh—because of the way Gorakh effaced himself...

Gorakh says:
Marau he jogi marau, marau maran hai mitha.
Tis marani marau, jis marani mari Gorakh ditha.

He says: O yogis, die—for apart from dying there is no other way. Melt the ego, burn it, reduce it to ashes.

Marau he jogi marau...
For only through death will you find the immortal.

...marau maran hai mitha.

Says Gorakh: There is no sweeter experience in the world. When ego goes, sweetness overflows. Ego is bitter—bitter as neem. Ego is poison—and we live filled with that poison. We call that living. Then naturally, if our life holds nothing but sorrow, pain and thorns, it is no surprise. If our life is the tale of a hell, it is no surprise.

“Marau maran hai mitha”—if only you could die, you would attain the incomparable sweetness of this world! But there is an art of dying—“tis marani marau”—learn that death—“jis marani mari Gorakh ditha.” Gorakh died, and dying he saw! Dying he found! Effacing himself, he attained!

When the drop disappears, it becomes the ocean; when the seed dies, it becomes the tree. Then spring comes. Then flowers bloom; birds sing. Sunbeams dance. The tree converses with the clouds. Much then unfolds. The dance of life begins—the festival. But first the seed must die.

Gorakh died. He plunged into meditation. He first invited Shiva—the god of destruction. To enter meditation is to invite Shiva: “Come and efface me.” And the one who is effaced, in him knowing is born. In him the stream of wisdom rises. When Muhammad was effaced, the Quran was born. The rishis of the Veda effaced themselves—then the Vedas were born. Who sang the Upanishads? Those who had effaced themselves. Thus the Gita, thus the Bible, thus the Dhammapada.

Whatever unique songs have descended into this world have come through those who became hollow reeds of bamboo—who removed themselves from the middle entirely, who said to the Divine: “Sing what You will—we shall not obstruct. If there is any mistake, it will be ours; whatever is right is Yours. All rightness is Yours; all errors ours.”

Those who stepped aside altogether—through them knowing was born. Knowing is not obtained from books, nor from study, nor from reflection or thought. From study, reflection and thought, erudition is obtained. Knowing comes from meditation. In the original sense, meditation is knowing.

Rarai ramai suun nistiryan...
He who dissolves into Ram wholly, so wholly that nothing remains apart—no day, no night—the twenty-four hours remain absorbed in Ram; not a moment of distance, not a grain of gap—that one is the true sadhu.

...kod athasi rikh.

There are crores of so-called sadhus and sannyasins—their worth is nothing, not even two shells. Worthy is he who descends into meditation and brings back the pearls of knowing; who dives into the ocean of meditation and returns with his robes full of pearls. Worthy is he who sinks into Shiva and rises as a Gorakh.

Rarai ramai suun nistiryan...
In whose life only Ram remains—day and night one tune, one song—that one is the sadhu.

...kod athasi rikh.
Then there are millions of sadhus.

“Hansa to moti chugain, bagula gar talai.”
If you are a swan, you will find such a sadhu.

Hansa to moti chugain...
Swans peck only pearls. Therefore only swans gather around the Buddhas. Not everyone gathers around the Buddhas. The mobs flock to the so-called sadhus, the pundits and priests. The crowds are traditionalists, conformists, superstitious. The multitude moves by herd, with the blind—because they themselves are blind; the blind match with the blind. The talk of the blind appeals to them, because it is their language, their experience. The mob follows the herd. It does not come near the Buddhas.

Around the Buddhas, only the courageous gather—those ready to stake life; those who accept the challenge of a call such as, “Is there yet any taker?” Only a few swans exist in this world; cranes are many.

“Hansa to moti chugain, bagula gar talai.”
The crane sits by the mud of dirty ponds anywhere. He looks just like a swan. He even appears very devout.

Have you seen the crane? We have coined a word—“bagula-bhagat,” a crane-devotee. For centuries we have seen the crane stand very piously, like some yogi, on one leg. Yogis too learn to stand on one leg—called bagulasan. With great difficulty they manage it; the crane stands with ease. Yogic! Absolutely still, unmoving. Motionless, steadfast. But what are his intentions? That some fish should get caught. He stands unmoving so that the water does not ripple—if it ripples, the fish flee. He stands so still that his shadow upon the water does not stir—if it does, the fish flee; they sense the devotee nearby.

And look how pure khadi he wears! One hundred percent pure! No synthetic threads mixed. He looks like a swan—but only appears so; he is nothing like a swan.

What is the swan’s distinction? The swan seeks the Manasrovar. You see, we have named that supreme lake of the swans, far in the pure, serene, untainted Himalayan air—“Manasrovar.” Thoughtfully so; because the true swans seek the inner Manasrovar—where mind dissolves and only the ocean of consciousness remains in waves. Where the pollutions of mind, the foul winds, have departed, and the untouched, virgin lake remains—this is Manasrovar. It is within you.

You too must climb the Himalayas within to find that Manasrovar. There, the lake is filled with pearls—pearls only befit the swan. Whoever is satisfied with this world, know him a crane; he is satisfied with mud, he has not recognized the lotus.

“Hansa to moti chugain, bagula gar talai.
Harijan hari suun yun milya, jyuun jal mein ras bhai.”

And as water merges into water, so the “Harijan” is he who has merged with Hari.

Mahatma Gandhi called the shudras “Harijan,” seeking to raise their status—but one thing was forgotten: the word “Harijan” lost its sanctity. Whether the shudras’ status rose is hard to say. What difference does it make whether you say shudra, untouchable, or Harijan—the situation is the same. Earlier they burned shudras; now they burn Harijans. Earlier they opposed shudras; now they oppose Harijans. What difference does a name make? But often we take such superficial re-labelling to be great revolutions—that Gandhi did wonders by calling shudras Harijan!

But “Harijan” is a very precious word. It is used for the Buddhas—those who abide in Hari. Dragged into politics and petty social issues, this priceless word was destroyed. Now if you say Buddha is Harijan, people suspect—“A shudra?” If you say Kabir is Harijan, Krishna is Harijan—people will be angry, will file suits that you have called Krishna Harijan. Because the meaning of the word has been corrupted. A most holy word has been brought down from the sky and thrown into dust; the word of Manasrovar has been cast by a dirty village pond. The Harijans gained nothing; they remain what they were. Call them what you will—names do not change reality.

But names create deceptions. We label wrong things with right names and are deceived. Someone dies and we say—“the great journey.” Does it change anything? Death is death, call it what you like. In Delhi, those who die are also called “swargiya”—heavenly. If even those who die in Delhi are heavenly, then hell lies empty! What shall become of hell? There will be great unemployment there; Satan and his apprentices sitting idle—enjoying heaven because they are at rest, with no work at all. Whoever dies we call “heavenly”—by calling him heavenly we cover over. We are magicians with words.

And whom do we deceive with words? If you call a thorn a rose, will it become a rose? A thorn stays a thorn. By calling it a rose you only deceive yourself—and sooner or later the thorn will prick your own hand. You will writhe then. And if you call it rose, it will surely prick—because you’ll reach to pluck the rose and grasp a thorn. We try to use nice words. But truths remain as they are.

Mahatma Gandhi distorted a sweet word like “Harijan.” Twofold delusions arose. The untouchable felt he is Harijan, not untouchable—yet he is the same. No entry to the temple. He cannot draw water at the well. He cannot marry a Brahmin’s daughter. He cannot sit at the baniya’s shop and smoke his pipe. He is the same; but an arrogance came: “I am Harijan!” Earlier we called those who attained Ram “Harijan,” who reached Ram. Very few we called Harijan.

Gandhi corrupted the word. Harijans were deceived, and Hindus too were deceived: “We gave a good label—what more is needed!” Put a nice tag—what more is required? Now be satisfied with that. The condition remains, the poverty remains, the suffering, the pain remains... Be a little wary of words!

“Harijan hari suun yun milya...”
Harijan is he who has merged with Hari—like water poured into water and both become one; like the river entering the ocean and becoming one. He who has merged with Ram. One with Hari. Only the enlightened can be called Harijan. Not even Brahmins are Harijan—how then the shudras! For the Brahmins are not Brahmins! If they were Brahmins they would be Harijan. If they knew Brahman they would be Harijan. The Brahmins are not Brahmins, nor Harijan—how then the shudras! Rarely, once in a while, someone becomes Harijan.

Hum ko dushnam ki khoo hai, tu magar dekh kahin—
we relish reproach, but see to it that
shahed othon ka tere zahre-halahal na bane—
the honey of your lips does not turn into deadly poison.
Tundi-e-shauq mein toofan se ladhne wale—
in the vehemence of passion, you who fight storms—
maslahatkoshi-e-sahil teri manzil na bane—
let a convenient clinging to the shore not become your goal.
Jis safeene ke muqaddar mein talatum hi nahin—
that ship which has no storm written in its fate—
vo shenasa-e-ramooz-e-lab-e-sahil na bane—
let it not pretend to know the secrets of the shore’s lip.
Chara-e-dard-e-jigar, marham-e-aazar bane—
let the cure of heart-ache become a balm for all affliction—
jo nazar teri khuda-ra samm-e-qatil na bane—
and let your gaze upon God not turn into a killer’s venom.
Hai kya daur—pahloo mein dhadakti hui shai—
what an age!—with a throbbing thing in the side—
sang ya khar bane, dard-bhara dil na bane—
it becomes stone or thorn, the pain-filled heart never becomes.
Apni kismat ko sarahe ya gila karta rahe—
whether he praises his fate or keeps complaining—
jo kabhi tir-e-nazar ka tere ghayal na bane—
who never becomes wounded by the arrow of Your glance.

The one who is wounded by the eye of the Divine, the one who is pierced someday by His arrow—that one is Harijan.

“Jo kabhi tir-e-nazar ka tere ghayal na bane.”
He who opens his heart to the Divine. Difficult it is—no easy talk. You will have to fight storms. And you must give up bargaining with the shore.

“Tundi-e-shauq mein toofan se ladhne wale,
maslahatkoshi-e-sahil teri manzil na bane.”
Let it not happen that today, fired by passion, you set forth to fight the storm; a call has arisen, a challenge accepted—let it not be that soon you too compromise with the shore! The shore offers comforts, safety, ease. Hence most have compromised with shores. Your compromises with religions, temples and mosques, with pundits and priests—these are contrivances to avoid the storm. You have chained your boat to the shore with stout chains.

Surely if you remain tied to the shore your boat will not sink. But that the boat not sink is not a value in itself. The boat is not for not sinking. A boat is for crossing; if you cross, there is meaning. And the one who would cross must learn to clash with storms. Without storms, is any boat truly a boat? Without clashing with storms, does any boat ever grow strong? Do any life-energies grow strong?

“Jis safeene ke muqaddar mein talatum hi nahin,
vo shenasa-e-ramooz-e-lab-e-sahil na bane.”
That boat in whose destiny there is no storm is unfortunate. And those who sit tied to shores are the most unfortunate—for the other shore, which is the Divine, will never be theirs. Water will never meet water. The Harijan will not be born within them.

Jura maran jag alam puni, ai jug dukh ghanai.
Charan sarevaan rajra, rakh lev sharanai.

Lal says to his Master—when the Master called: “Is there yet any taker?”—“Jura maran...” I saw that there is old age, then death, and then return again. This cycle of birth and death—that is all. And this life holds nothing but suffering. He saw it in a single call! Just seeing the Master descend into his grave by his own hands—anyone with sense would see that there is nothing here worth attaining. If the art of dying is attained in this world, all is attained.

“Jura maran jag alam puni...”
What is here? Old age, disease, sorrow, anxieties, torments; then death; then birth—and the same cycle again. Great suffering in this life.

“Charan sarevaan rajra...”
He says to the Master: “Let me touch your feet! Before you depart, let me touch your feet.”

“Charan sarevaan rajra, rakh lev sharanai.”
“Before you go, take me under your shelter. Before you dissolve, let me dissolve. Let your Samadhi become my Samadhi. Let your death become my death. You have awakened one longing—that I touch your feet.”

To touch the true Master’s feet is enough. But in our land, touching the feet has become a formality. Wherever you go, you touch anyone’s feet. Touching feet has become etiquette, and because of this etiquette the secret of touching feet has been lost. Its extraordinary meaning has been lost. Like folding hands and saying namaskar, so too we touch the feet of elders. You touch their feet but the head does not bow. You touch their feet but the ego does not bow.

Therefore Lal says: “I do not trust myself. Only by your grace can I truly touch your feet. I am touching—but bless me that this touching be meaningful. Bless me, that I really touch—not only my hands touch your feet, but my very life.”

“Charan sarevaan rajra, rakh lev sharanai.”
“This is my only prayer—take me into your refuge.”

Buddham sharanam gacchami!
Sangham sharanam gacchami!!
Dhammam sharanam gacchami!!!

Lal says: “Take me into your refuge. You are the Buddha. Let me drink one draught of you—enough. You are my sangha; you are my dharma. You have raised a call within me. You have startled me; you have awakened me. Now do not abandon me!”

Kyun pakdo ho dalian, nahchai pakdo ped.
Gauwan seti nistiro, ke taraili bhed.

He says: “I see people grasping at branches. What will come of holding branches? Why not hold the root? Why not grasp the life-sap of the tree? Now you have met me—the life of the tree; you have met the root—I will not leave you.”

People grasp at doctrines—Hindu, Muslim, Christian. O fools! Grasp some Jesus, some Krishna! What will come of being a Hindu? Of being a Muslim? Grasp some Mohammed. Where the lamp is lit, where the Unstruck Sound resounds—grasp those feet.

And remember—by yourself you will not be able to grasp. You have only done the wrong till now. So also pray—“Bless me that I may hold your feet; let me be enabled to hold. Place my hand in yours and make me hold.”

“Gauwan seti nistiro, ke taraili bhed.”
A most lovely saying!

If you must cross a river, you may grasp a cow’s tail and cross. But if you catch a sheep’s tail, you will drown. You will drown, and the sheep is bound to drown. If you would cross with someone, catch hold of one who can—some Buddha, some Mahavira, some Zarathustra, some Kabir, some Nanak. Why are you holding sheep?

Sheep is the symbol of the crowd—the herd. The pundits and priests are blind like you. They too have no eyes. And you clutch them! Nanak says: “Andha andha theliya—donon koop padant”—the blind lead the blind—both fall into the well! The blind guiding the blind! When will they avoid falling? How long can they avoid? But there are queues. You hold the one in front; the one in front holds the one before him. If I ask why you are Hindu, you say: my father was, my mother was. Ask them—why were they Hindu? They say: our father and mother were.

Thus, traditional, dogmatic, filled with superstition—do you think some day you will attain the Divine, cross to the other shore? Take the support of a burning lamp. Extinguished lamps are no use. In temples and mosques there are extinguished lamps. Hold to a true Master. But to hold a true Master takes courage. The pundits and priests, the so-called sadhus and sannyasins—whom Lal calls “kod athasi rikh,” crores of rishis roaming—are easy to hold. Why? Because they do not ask you to transform your life. If they ask, they ask to change petty things of no value.

One says: give up betel leaf. Another says: don’t smoke. Another: don’t eat at night. Another: strain your water. Are these revolutions? By straining water you’ll get Ram? Merely by straining water? I don’t say drink unstrained water—be mindful; it’s healthy. But what has that to do with Ram? And I don’t say smoke and drink freely. But I will say: if you do not smoke, don’t think heaven will celebrate for you; that at the gate of heaven the Divine will stand with garlands to welcome you because you never smoked.

Think a little: if the Divine asks what you did, will you only say: I never smoked! Ridiculous. Which mouth will say it? And I am not telling you to smoke—don’t misunderstand me. Not smoking is intelligence; smoking is foolishness. But what has that to do with religion? The smoker is naive, not a sinner. Naive, for he draws needless smoke in and out. The air is smoky enough nowadays; no need to smoke. You are already smoking. In New York or Bombay, the air is so full of smoke that just by breathing you are smoking! In New York you cannot live without smoke—every person is smoking unknowingly. There is so much smoke that scientists say: we had not expected human lungs could bear so much—three times more than capacity. Cars, factories, trains, airplanes... all sorts of nuisances. Whether you smoke or not...

But the one who does not—he is intelligent. Intelligence—like walking on your feet. To crawl on all fours would be idiocy. But you cannot say to the Divine: because I walked on two legs and not on all fours, give me heaven. Walking on two legs is not virtue; it is sanity.

And your sadhus make you give up what? Such foolishness is called “anuvrat”—small vows. Give up something; take a vow. Not a big one—take a small one. Great vows are for great souls; you take a tiny one. And the anuvrat people are amusing! One says: one day a week I will not eat salt. As if God is an enemy of salt! I say to you: the Divine is very sweet—and very salty too. Another says: one day I will not eat ghee. What antics you have made!

These things are cheap, easy. Anyone can do them—just a little lack of intelligence is required, a bit of stupidity; with that qualification, anyone can. Those who make you do such things look nice—you are done with cheaply. God is secured. Liberation assured. Now in your heart you hope: I gave up betel leaf, tobacco too; one day a week no salt; I do not eat at night; I strain my water. Now sitting in your heart you think: will Urvashi be mine in heaven or not? What more is needed for saintliness! In your heart you think: ah, there the springs flow with wine!

If you are habituated to wine, then take note. At the gate of heaven when you are asked which heaven you seek, immediately say: the Muslims’ heaven—because there is no prohibition there. It cannot be—since rivers of wine flow there. There, no one drinks water—what talk of earth do you bring to heaven! Water is no drink. Those who drink, drink what is to be drunk. They do not sip from clay cups—they plunge into rivers! Choose with thought.

The Hindus’ heaven has its own charms, the Muslims’ theirs, the Jews’ theirs. And so with hells.

I have heard—an Indian lived all his life in Germany. When he died, at the gate of hell he was asked which hell he chose. There was a dilemma—born in India, lived in Germany; you may choose the Germans’ hell or the Indians’ hell. He was a thoughtful fellow. He asked: what is the difference? They said: None, really. In both, you will be burned in fire, beaten, harassed—it’s the same. He asked: then why ask me to choose? The gatekeeper said: If you take my advice—there are small differences. In the Indian hell, some days there are no matches. Even if there are, the wood won’t burn—wet wood. In the German hell, no such sloppiness. In the Indian hell, the beaters fall asleep, take naps; in the German hell, never. In the Indian hell, almost every other day is a holiday—Ramnavami, Janmashtami, Mahavir Jayanti, Gandhi Jayanti... no end—half the year is holidays. The German hell closes only on Sunday—but on Sundays, the staff practices; they don’t stop. So—your choice.

He said: send me at once to the Indian hell. So when you go—and someday you will—think a little. Each hell and each heaven has its own conveniences. And people make little renunciations and harbor great hopes—that Urvashi will stand with a tray. A few more days of trouble, get through; a few more days of strained water—then only Urvashi! A few more days—no tobacco!

In Vaikuntha, tobacco flourishes. The old scriptures say: tambula-charvan—chewing betel. Betel leaf too is chewed—Lord Vishnu sits and Devi Lakshmi rolls betel for him.

Choose as you will.

And so people calculate. Therefore it is easy to follow the blind—because the blind offer you all sorts of conveniences. If you go with a true Master, it will be difficult—he seeks to transform your real life; not the fake outer behaviors. He transforms your consciousness—not your behavior, not your character merely—he transforms your innermost core.

“Kyun pakdo ho dalian, nahchai pakdo ped.
Gauwan seti nistiro, ke taraili bhed.”

Has anyone ever crossed by clutching sheep? You will drown—and badly. Awake in time! Keep company with a swimmer; with one who has been to the other shore; one who has returned from across to call and to cry—“Is there yet any taker?”

“Sadhan mein adhavesra, jyuun ghasan mein lamp.
Jal bin jaude kyun bado, pagan biloome kaamp.”

Among sadhus there are many ‘half-baked’—from such, beware. Neither here nor there. Neither of home nor of the ghats—donkey of the washerman! Neither of the world nor of God—stuck midair. They are Trishankus.

“Sadhan mein adhavesra, jyuun ghasan mein lamp.”
Among grass, some grasses even cattle will not eat. They look like grass, but are not. Let a buffalo loose in the pasture—you will be astonished: she eats some grass, leaves some. The grass she leaves looks like grass—but isn’t; only an appearance.

So too some sadhus look like sadhus—but are not. Until they have had the vision of the Divine, what kind of saintliness? Until the flame is lit within, what saintliness? They, like you, grope in darkness. You eat twice a day; they once—grant that difference. You go to the cinema, they don’t; but with eyes closed what they see is worse than cinema. Ask the sadhus honestly what they see when they sit with eyes closed. If they are even a little honest, they will confess that they see the same films you watch in theaters—no difference. The same stories.

Ask them their dreams—and their dreams are the same, perhaps more crude. So sadhus fear even sleep—because in the day they somehow hold their dam; but at night, how will they hold? In sleep, the dam breaks, all restraint is uprooted. Brahmacharya in the day; at night, lust surges in dreams. Renunciation in the day; at night, he dreams he is an emperor. The night’s dream is the reverse of the day. I say this because sadhus have told me from close; I have watched and known them closely. Your dreams are not so colorful as the sadhus’—they cannot be.

Why?

Fast for a day and see—at night you will relish food. At night, a royal banquet—the king’s invitation! Now there are no kings, no royal feasts, yet in the dream the king invites you. Your nostrils fill with the fragrance of delicious food. You have read in stories—fifty-six varieties—those will be yours in dreams. Had you eaten dry bread in the day, this dream would not come; there would be no need—the body would be satisfied; but the body is parched, restless, aflame—dream arises.

A dream is the expression of whatever you suppress most. Because your sadhus suppress the most, their dreams are very colorful. Your dreams are like old black-and-white films; the sadhus’ are Technicolor—very vivid—three-dimensional. You’ve read those tales where Indra sends apsaras to disturb sages. There is no Indra, nor apsaras anywhere; and who is bothered to send nymphs to disturb poor sages sitting under their trees—neither harassing nor troubling anyone, only drying up beneath their trees, committing suicide under their trees! Who would bother? Apsaras are not found even if you search; here under a tree, eyes shut, and apsaras arrive! They do not arrive; they are the repressed desires of the sages, so repressed that now they can see dreams with eyes open.

This is a basic truth of psychology: sit alone three weeks and then you can dream with open eyes; no need to shut them. Alone, what will you do? After three weeks you will start talking to yourself. Sometimes you already do in your bathroom. Sometimes you see people on the street talking—gesturing, conversing with someone who is not there. They are not mad—people like you. The mad have only gone a bit further—they speak out freely, they also answer. You cannot see anyone with open eyes, but someone sits by them whom they see. Such is the state of those who repress.

If you repress, slowly you enter hallucinations. No apsaras descend from the sky; no Indra’s throne shakes. No throne, no Indra. But your mind... If you do not understand mind correctly and follow sheep who know nothing of mind—you will suffer needlessly.

“Sadhan mein adhavesra, jyuun ghasan mein lamp.
Jal bin jaude kyun bado, pagan biloome kaamp.”

Be careful. If you enter a mud-filled pond you will be smeared with mud. Whose feet you bow to—discern, recognize. Seek a Manasrovar; otherwise you will land in filth. Make friends with a crane, and you will be in mud. Cranes are many, and practiced; they keep a great facade of character. Without that facade cranes cannot live. Swans need no facade—their character is their spontaneity—their natural, self-sprung form.

“Hulka jheena paatla, jamin suun chhorha.”
Who is the true Master? A paradox.

“Hulka jheena paatla...”
So light that the earth’s gravity cannot draw him. He walks on the ground but his feet do not touch it.

“Hulka jheena paatla...”
So fine, so subtle, that if you measure grossly you will never recognize him. The gross measurer will miss. Like someone who goes to Buddha with gross preconceptions: the Jina must be naked, sky-clad; Buddha is not naked—then he cannot be a Jina. So the Jains do not accept Buddha as awakened—only as a great man, not yet arrived. For they carry the notion that only the sky-clad can be Tirthankara.

With Krishna they have even more trouble. Buddha at least wears clothes—fine, let it pass; the clothes will drop. But Krishna—more troublesome—clad in yellow silk, peacock feather on the head, flute on the lips, anklets tinkling, gopis dancing. One who carries the Jain notion will close his eyes: “Where have I come—what nuisance is this!”

If you have formed gross notions, you will be in difficulty. Likewise the one who has made Krishna his notion—if he comes to Mahavira and finds him naked—“Is he mad? Is he in his senses? Where is the flute? Where the yellow silk? Where the peacock plume? Without these how can anyone attain the Divine?”

Those who have notions—gross notions—will not recognize. True Masters are never alike; thus a very subtle vision is required. Whenever a new Master is born in the world, you will need a new vision. Your old notions will not help.

“Hulka jheena paatla, jamin suun chhorha.”
So light, so fine, so almost nothing that no weight is felt, no sound when he walks—yet wider than the earth itself. Such a paradox! The true Master is always paradoxical, because within him all dualities have ended and the non-dual has been born. Two have become one. He is as delicate as a woman, as hard as a man; as soft as a lotus and as firm as stone—both at once. He is the smallest of the small and the greatest of the great.

“Jogi ooncha aabh suun...”
High as the sky—his height and expanse—
“...rai suun lhora.”
—and small as a mustard seed! Both together. On one side he says: “I am not,” and on the other: “Aham Brahmasmi”—I am Brahman! On one side: “Nothing of me is mine,” and on the other: “Anal Haq”—I am Truth! “I am the Door to the Divine! I am the Way!” On one side: “I am effaced”; Jesus says, “I am not”—and on the other: “No one comes to the Father but through me.”

“Hofaan lyo har-naam ki...”
And if you must pack your chillum, pack it not with hemp—but with the Name of Hari.

“Hofaan lyo har-naam ki, ameen amal ka daur.”
And if you must run a round of drink—let it be of nectar! Why drink this petty wine squeezed from grapes? Come, to my tavern—we shall pour you a wine distilled from the soul.

...“ameen amal ka daur.”
Come, drink the amrita.

The difference? The half-cooked sadhu will be negative: “Don’t smoke, don’t drink.” The true Master is affirmative: he will teach you to enjoy—the Divine. He will say: “Relish the Divine—what are you relishing! Come, I will lead you to a greater empire; I will make you a greater emperor.”

“Hofaan lyo har-naam ki, ameen amal ka daur.
Saafi kar guru-gyan ki...”
The cloth to wrap a chillum is called saafi. “Wrap it in the Master’s knowing.”

“...piyoj aathun phor.”
And do not take a puff or two—drink night and day! Drink with open heart; keep drinking, day and night.

Let me repeat at the end: Those who have known Truth have always said: “Attain the Divine—and the futile drops on its own.” Those who have not known say: “First drop the futile, then you will attain the Divine.” The latter is fundamentally wrong—like saying: “First remove the dark, then the lamp will light.” If you set to removing darkness, darkness will never go—and why would the lamp light! Who can remove darkness?

No—light the lamp; the darkness goes of itself. Strictly speaking, it does not go; that is a fault of language. For darkness never was. It neither comes nor goes. Darkness is only the absence of light. As soon as light is, darkness is not found. No one can remove darkness; no one can erase sin; no one can burn away ignorance.

Light the flame of knowing! Light the lamp of wisdom. And the way to light the lamp of wisdom is meditation. If there is a chamber within you for meditation, the lamp of knowing lights of itself. That lamp will take you to the Divine—it will reveal the Divine instantaneously. That lamp is sufficient—the Veda of Vedas, the Upanishad of Upanishads! All scriptures grow pale when your own scripture is born.

Enough for today.