Hansa To Moti Chuge #10

This world of palaces, of thrones, of crowns,
this world of societies that are enemies of man,
this world of customs ravenous for wealth—
even if one were to gain this world, what is it!
Every body is wounded, every soul is thirsty;
confusion in the eyes, melancholy in the heart—
is this a world, or a realm of stupefaction?
Even if this world were gained, what would it be!
Here the human being’s very existence is a toy;
this is a township of corpse-worshippers;
here death is cheaper than life—
even if this world were gained, what would it be!
Youth wanders, fallen into debauchery;
young bodies are decked out to become bazaars;
here love turns into a trade—
even if this world were gained, what would it be!
This world where man counts for nothing,
loyalty nothing, friendship nothing—
where love has no value at all—
even if this world were gained, what would it be!
Burn it, blow upon it—reduce this world to ashes;
remove it from before my eyes;
it is yours: you take care of it—
even if this world were gained, what would it be!

The eternal question before man is one: What shall I gain that I may be fulfilled? Wealth is obtained, fulfillment does not arrive. Rank is obtained, fulfillment does not arrive. Fame is obtained, fulfillment does not arrive. Far from fulfillment, as wealth, position, and renown increase, so does unfulfillment increase. As the piles of money grow, inner poverty reveals itself. Outside, heaps of gold; and inside? Inside, the ash shows itself yet more thickly.
As wealth increases, poverty increases in the world. Understand this strange arithmetic well. The richer a person is, the deeper his sense of poverty. The more honored a person is, the more he senses the inner beggary. When the crown is on the head, the soul’s destitution is discovered. The poor man, the hungry—where has he the leisure? He is entangled in hunger and poverty; even to see hunger and poverty, where is the time, where the convenience? But one whose hunger is appeased and poverty has abated—he has time, he has leisure to peep within a little, to turn back and look, to cast a quick glance at life. Where have I arrived? What have I gained? And the days pass away; death draws near. When it will knock on the door—no one knows. And the treasure of life is plundered from the hand. And what has been amassed? Pebbles!
This world of palaces, of thrones, of crowns,
this world of societies that are enemies of man,
this world of customs ravenous for wealth—
even if one were to gain this world, what is it!
But this is known only upon gaining it. Until it is gained, how could one know? Only when diamonds come into the hand does one see that neither thirst is quenched, nor hunger stilled. Only when diamonds are in the hand does one see: these too are pebbles; we have given them endearing names. To deceive ourselves we have woven most beautiful nets.
Every body is wounded, every soul is thirsty;
confusion in the eyes, melancholy in the heart—
is this a world, or a realm of stupefaction?
Even if this world were gained, what would it be!
Here people are asleep, unconscious. They go on walking in their sleep. Why are they going, where are they going, for what—who are they? Nothing is known. And because all are going, they too go. Wherever the crowd goes, there people go—hoping the crowd is going in the right direction; so many are going, it must be right. Parents go; generation after generation has gone on this path; for centuries people have walked it—then surely this king’s road is right. And no one looks to see that this king’s road leads nowhere but to the grave. All these king’s roads go toward the cremation ground.
Ibrahim was a Sufi fakir; once he had been an emperor. One night he lay down; sleep would not come. For an emperor, sleep becomes difficult—so many anxieties, so many entanglements without solutions; so many problems with no answers in sight. How to sleep? And then he heard footsteps above on the roof. A thief? A bandit? A murderer? Those who possess much, their fear becomes great. He called out loudly, Who is up there? The answer that came changed Ibrahim’s life. From above came a high, carefree voice: No one—sleep easy! My camel is lost; I am searching for it.
Camels are not lost on rooftops—on palace roofs! Ibrahim jumped up, sent soldiers to catch the man—for the voice had a certain intoxication, a song, a depth he had never heard. The voice plucked some inner string. It was absurd—an upside-down saying. To seek camels on palace roofs at midnight—either a madman or a paramhansa! Not mad, because the magic of the voice said otherwise. Not mad, the mathematics of the voice said otherwise.
Ibrahim had seen many madmen; he was surrounded by them. The whole court was full of madmen. The whole world is full of madmen. But that man could not be caught. Soldiers ran, but he evaded them. In the morning Ibrahim was sad, troubled: he had not met the man. There was a desire to look into the eyes of the one whose voice was magic, to sit by him for a few moments.
At that moment someone began quarreling with the gatekeeper. The voice was recognizable—yes, the same voice—and what he was saying was again a paradox. He said to the guard: Let me stay in this inn for a few days. The guard said: Are you mad? This is no inn; this is the emperor’s residence. The man said: Take my word—this is an inn. Who is emperor here, and whose residence? This whole world is an inn. Let me stay a few days; I tell you, only a few days. Do not refuse a wayfarer four days in an inn.
The voice was recognized; the words had the same entanglement, the same secret. Ibrahim ran out. The man was extraordinary; he took him within and teased him: Aren’t you ashamed, calling a palace an inn! He only provoked. The man burst out laughing. He said: A palace—your residence? Is it truly yours? Some years ago when I came, another man made the same claim. Ibrahim said: He was my father—departed. The fakir said: Before that I came, and a third man made the same claim. Ibrahim said: He was my father’s father, my grandfather; he too is departed. The fakir said: Then I speak rightly—this is not a residence, but an inn. How long before you also become ‘departed’? I shall come again, and a fourth will claim: this is my residence. People come and go. Believe me, let me stay four days. No palace, no residence.
The words struck. Sometimes a small thing strikes in a single instant—some unprecedented moment—and you are shaken awake, your eyes forced open. Ibrahim stood speechless. The man’s presence, his cheer, his truth, the depth of his voice pierced through and through. Ibrahim said: You sit upon the throne, and remain in this inn as long as you wish. I am going.
Ibrahim went out—left the palace. Why linger in an inn! He lived outside the village, beneath a bush at a crossroads. Travelers would ask: Baba, which way to the settlement? He would say: Go left—remember, go left and you’ll reach the settlement. Don’t by mistake go right, or you’ll come to the cremation ground.
Taking the fakir’s word, people went left—after a few miles they reached the cremation ground. They returned angry: Is this a joke? We are tired travelers, and you said, Go left to the settlement—and we reached the cremation ground!
Ibrahim would say: Then there is a difference in our languages. For the place you call cremation ground—those who dwell there never move again; therefore I call it a settlement. Once settled, settled forever. A settlement should be where people never get uprooted. As for what you call settlement—that is the cremation ground, for there everyone is readying to die. Today one dies, tomorrow another, the day after another.
Here a man’s existence is a toy;
this is a township of corpse-worshippers;
here death is cheaper than life—
even if this world were gained, what would it be!
Yet people run—what frenzy to possess this world! And in all this attaining only one thing happens—you are plundered. Pebbles and shards pile up; the soul is sold. You ruin yourself. Yes, a few things you leave behind—buildings, names carved on stone. He who becomes alert to this alone enters the realm of Dharma. He who becomes aware of this actuality is religious.
Dharma has nothing to do with temples, mosques, churches; nothing to do with Gita, Quran, Bible. Dharma is related to this realization—“Even if this world were gained, what is it!” Let this pierce within like an arrow, and a spring bursts in life. Within your very life-breath, in your very heart, a music wells up—within you a flame begins to burn—perhaps it was always burning, but your eyes were wandering outward in search of the world; you never turned back and looked within, so you did not know—there was no recognition.
The day it is seen that even if this whole world were gained, nothing would be gained—that day a man closes his eyes and looks within. Then his own nature is revealed—Who am I! He who has known Who am I has known all; all that is worth knowing. He who has attained himself has attained all that is worth attaining.
The moment one knows oneself, showers of contentment pour down; clouds of nectar gather. The door to eternal life opens. Outside, everything is transient—bubbles on water, rainbows; like the horizon, all is illusion: appears, yet is not.
Do you not see? A short distance away it appears the sky meets the earth—yet nowhere do they meet. Run and run and run—you will fall running; you will fall into the grave running. From cradle to grave you will keep running—and the horizon will never arrive.
This realization—that even the gaining of this world yields nothing—brings revolution. The eyes turn away from stones and shards, and the search for the soul begins. Wealth becomes valueless; the value of meditation is established. These sutras are of that meditation.
Hansa, then, picks pearls—be a hansa! If you must peck, peck pearls! How long will you gather pebbles? How long be entangled with potsherds? How long will you run, mistaking the futile for the meaningful? When will you awaken from the mirage? When will you remember that you are hansa, that Manasarovar is your native lake, that pearls are your food? Only pecking pearls is contentment, satisfaction, freedom, moksha—only by pecking pearls is nirvana.
In this teeming town we are utterly alone;
we are so ignorant—we ourselves unknown to ourselves.
That is why we say to you:
Friend, ask not our name!
We are ever the wanderers of Ram—
friend, ask not our village!
A mechanism moved by the hands of fate—
thus is our being;
friend, ask not our work!
Here success or failure are merely pretexts—
only this is true: we ourselves are unknown to ourselves.
There is trembling in the feet, a hundred doubts on the brow,
darkness in the eyes, and piercing pains in the heart!
Of these weaknesses of ours we say—we are aware;
therefore we seek that which is eternal, that which is great.
All we saw—perishing;
all we saw—dying.
For life and for creation, only love stands powerful!
Be not offended—we are lovers mad for lifetimes—
therefore we tell you, we are utterly alone.
In this teeming town we are utterly alone;
we are so ignorant—we ourselves unknown to ourselves.

We have no acquaintance with ourselves, and we go to make acquaintance with another. There is no relatedness with oneself, and we hurry to make relationships with others. Thus all our relationships bring sorrow and anguish.
What we call love cannot be true—until it arises from dhyana, how could it be true? He who has not related with himself—how will he relate with another? Husband with wife, brother with sister, friend with friend, mother with son—how will you relate? The primer is not yet learned; you have not stepped on the first rung.
Dhyana is the first rung. Dhyana means: relatedness with oneself. Properly understood, dhyana means: love for oneself. And the one who dives into the love of his own being finds there is no such unit as ‘I’. A wave of the ocean am I. He who dives into the ‘I’ discovers: the ‘I’ is not. Then, in new meanings, in a new dimension, with a new gesture of the heart, love arises—not as relationship, but as your own spontaneous, self-arising state.
Lal’s sutras are on how, from dhyana, love is born.
First let poverty abide in your very limbs; let your nature be forever cool.
In the monsoon of love, water with the water of remembrance.
First let poverty abide…
First understand this: you are not. Be so poor that you are not. As long as the ‘I’ is, you fancy yourself to be something—some claim to richness. The ‘I’ is your greatest possession; all other possessions are extensions of the ‘I’. My house, my shop, my temple, my wealth, my status, my prestige—all this ‘mine’ is the expansion of the ‘I’. And we extend the ‘mine’ to strengthen the ‘I’—to make it dense, solid. ‘Mine’ becomes like water to keep the fish of the ‘I’ alive. But behind the ‘mine’ always hides the ‘I’.
If you go within you will find, first, that the ‘I’ is not. The first step was false, the first step of the journey fell in the wrong direction. Then if you do not reach the goal, why be surprised!
First let poverty abide…
First of all, in your innermost, understand: I am not. Become so poor that the ‘I’ is not. Become so weak that the ‘I’ is not. And he who becomes that poor receives much—strength in weakness! He who becomes so empty within becomes the vessel fit to receive the Full. He who has erased himself becomes a temple; inevitable it is that Paramatma descends into him.
First let poverty abide…
Let this ‘I-sense’ die in every limb—the conceit, I am separate, I am special, I am above others, I am something remarkable. This ‘I-sense’ is subtle, cunning; it finds very fine pathways. With wealth it puffs up; with position it puffs up. Not only that—leaving position, it puffs up: I renounced position! Abandoning wealth, it puffs up: I renounced wealth! In the marketplace it is stiff-necked; in a mountain cave it remains stiff-necked: I kicked millions aside! But the stiffness remains. The rope may be burnt, yet the kink remains.
For this ‘I’ great alertness is needed. Recognize its every device. Peel it layer by layer. Witness it—see it in every mood and posture. It comes by the back door too—watch there as well. Be alert.
First let poverty abide… then your nature becomes cool. For all heat is of ego; all anger, all fever is of ego. The burning you suffer—the fever is of ego. Ego gone, disease gone.
Notice—wherever ego is more, that life must undergo more flames, more heat, more wounds. As ego lessens, wounds lessen. Where there is no ego, how can wounds happen? Where there is no ego, even if someone abuses you, it will fall like a flower. And where ego is, even a flower thrown will strike like a stone.
Because of ego your life is scorched in tongues of fire. You cannot be cool, cannot be calm; you do not taste the supreme bliss of life. By your own hand you are in hell. Heaven can be yours—your birthright—but the condition must be fulfilled.
Do not quarrel with my mistakes; I am ignorant for lifetimes!
Strewing thorns on my path,
I learned to walk upon it.
Filling breaths with sighs,
I learned to live upon it.
Day and night I learned to melt—
becoming the water of my own eyes;
setting fire to my own house,
I learned to burn in it.
Fate has given me a youth full of madness—
quarrel not with my mistakes; I am ignorant for lifetimes!
I drink on and on, my cup fills on and on.
What know I of amrit?
What know I of poison?
The sea’s water is salty, salty;
Ganga’s water sweet, sweet.
So I hear the world’s words—
its bitter and its sweet;
lightning writhes within,
clouds pour and pour.
Who is the pourer here—tell me—
and who the drinker?
I drink on and on, my cup fills on and on.
Your knowledge is straight and simple; my words ramble and reel.
On one hand the heart—
what you all call the ‘heart’;
and I myself am a single wave—
what know I of the shore?
New longings in my mind,
restlessness in my feet;
I have left the last destination,
I do not know the next.
Everyone’s dreams are different; yet the nights are the same.
Your knowledge is straight and simple; my words ramble and reel.

Look at man—his tottering steps. He walks like a drunkard—going, falling, rising, going again; nothing clear—no sense of direction, no order in life. If you shake someone and ask, Where are you going? he stands bewildered, shrugs his shoulders.
That is why people do not ask such questions of each other; it would seem rude. People talk nonsense—about the weather: clouds today, sun today; How are you? How is your health?—nonsense, small talk. No one asks what matters.
Rabindranath wrote in his memoirs: when Gitanjali was published, whose words are like the immortal sayings of the Upanishads, an old neighbor seized him one morning while he was walking, shook both shoulders, and asked: Have you seen God? His eyes were piercing—as if they would penetrate within. The way he asked, and at such an hour—Rabindranath could not say, I have seen. He stood silent. The man burst into laughter; that laughter stabbed like a knife. Thereafter whenever they met—and they often met—he never missed the chance: Have you seen God? Speak honestly—have you seen God?
One day Rabindranath said: Why do you ask me this again and again? He replied: Why did you write Gitanjali? If you have not seen God, why these songs? How these songs? All false!
Rabindranath avoided him; took detours to avoid the neighbor’s house. Then the man came to his house—knocked, sat from early morning, would not go until he met him. And upon meeting—again the same sharp eyes before which falsehood could not be spoken: Have you seen God?
But one morning Rabindranath went to the seashore. He saw the rising sun gleaming upon the sea; dawn spreading redness in the sky and in the sea. It had rained at night; puddles along the path were filled with muddy water. Returning, a strange seeing arose—the beauty that shone in the sun upon the vast sea was shining just the same in the dirty puddles; no difference. For the sun there is no distinction—no good, no bad. The puddle was dirty, the sea clean; but the reflection—neither dirty nor clean. How can dirt touch a reflection? Untouched, a sannyasi, is the reflection—nothing can touch it.
This understanding opened a door. The mind’s distinctions of good men and bad, virtuous and vicious, saint and sinner—fell in one moment. The man met him again. For the first time Rabindranath felt neither fear nor anger; rather, he embraced him. The man laughed: So—the vision has happened! A glimpse has come! Now it is right. Now you are worthy to sing the songs of Gitanjali.
What happened that day? The distinctions vanished—of matter and Paramatma, of world and renunciation. Distinction vanished!
The day ego falls within you, all distinctions vanish—for the maker of all distinctions is the ego. When ego is gone, comparison goes—you no longer weigh who is good, who bad; who high, who low.
First let poverty abide in your limbs; your nature becomes forever cool.
In the monsoon of love, water with the water of remembrance.
Like land in summer, parched, awaiting clouds—sending love-invitations: Come, rain!—so when your within is empty, Paramatma receives the invitation: Come, pour! As dry earth draws the clouds, so the one emptied of ego is the truly poor.
Do not take ‘poor’ to mean one who lacks food, shelter, clothing. If by such poverty Paramatma could be attained, then in this country all would have attained. There is no relation. Even if you abandon wealth and become thus poor, do not think that Paramatma will be attained thereby.
There is another kind of poverty. Jesus used precisely the right phrase—poor in spirit. Become inwardly destitute. Blessed are the poor in spirit—for theirs is the kingdom of God.
As sun-scorched earth knows one thirst, one love—for water—so in the person empty of ego an extraordinary thirst arises—that Paramatma may pour. Then prayer need not be done; prayer happens—sitting, walking, waking, sleeping. That thirst itself is prayer. Where such thirst is born out of egolessness, water certainly pours—without exception. If it does not, know only this: the thirst has not yet been born.
Many wish to attain God—but in this very wishing their ego runs. Then God will not be attained. Many wish to grasp God as they grasp big houses and wealth. Having clenched all else in their fist, they wish to hold God too; to claim, We have attained God.
God is not ‘attained’ in that way; even the language is wrong. God is received; He happens when the attainer is lost.
Wondering, wondering, O friend, Kabir remained—Kabir disappeared.
A drop merged into the ocean—what then remains to be seen?
Wondering, wondering, O friend—Kabir lost, vanished.
The ocean in the drop—where then is the seer, where the seen?
Kabir says: Seeking and seeking, the seeker was lost—then union happened. Strange! We suppose union must be of two. But the union with the Divine is not of two; it is the union of One.
Zen says: a clapping that sounds with one hand. No clapping ever sounds with one hand—yet there is a clap of the ultimate that sounds with one hand. There, two are not. The seer and the seen are one. Krishnamurti is right: the observer is the observed. There the devotee and Bhagwan are not two; the devotee himself is Bhagwan—Bhagwan Himself is the devotee.
Those who keep blame and grudges fill every house;
the fault-finders are everywhere.
Eyes that see faults everyone has; counters of thorns are countless—rare the ones who see flowers. And Paramatma is the supreme flower.
He who is addicted to seeing faults will remain deprived of Paramatma. Fault-finding too is an arm of ego. Why do we see faults? So that the ego may relish: See—I am better than you. You are a thief, I am honest. You are impious, I am pious. We inflate others’ faults to feel pure in our own eyes.
You know the story: Akbar drew a line on the wall and said to his courtiers: Make it shorter without touching it. No one could. Birbal drew a longer line beneath it—without touching—made it smaller. This is our inner arithmetic. We see faults in everyone and everything—why? By drawing big lines of others’ faults, our faults look small. Another’s fault we magnify a thousandfold; another’s virtue, if we must see it at all, we minimize as much as possible. A mustard becomes a mountain for fault; a mountain becomes a mustard for virtue. Our ego sits within this arithmetic: How could anyone be better than me!
Nietzsche wrote: God is not—because while I am, how can there be another God? He spoke a decisive truth.
Atheists do not know that there is no God; rather, while they are, another God cannot be tolerated. The theists are not much different: Rama was God—because he is no longer present. Everyone praises the dead. In your own village the worst man dies and all praise him.
In one village a man died—wicked, a politician, violent, corrupt, a cheat—he had all the qualities requisite for a politician. Not a single person had escaped his harm. There a custom prevailed: before burial two words of praise must be spoken. The whole village gathered—but who would speak? Finally they appealed to the pandit. He stood and said: Brothers, the gentleman who has passed has left behind five brothers; compared with them, he was a god. Then he could be buried.
Comparison is the formula of ego. You keep weighing: Compared to my neighbor, I’m a god. Reading the newspapers daily gives the soul great satisfaction—riots, rape, arson, murders—then I am good. I only take a small bribe—what is that where all this happens? If hell comes, it will be for them; where will I find a place in hell! Think of my status—send me to heaven.
If one day a paper came full only of good news—flowers, no thorns—you would stop buying it. That is why papers live on the basis of the bad man. They are run for and by the bad man. Who listens to a good man’s story? Even if told, who is ready to hear?
Try writing the story of a good man’s life—you cannot. Make a film—you cannot. If from Rama’s life you remove Ravana, Ramleela is finished. Ramleela should be called Ravanleela, for without Ravana there is no play. One village had such a scene: the actor playing Ravana quarreled with the manager over sweets; he decided to take revenge on stage. When the curtain rose at Sita’s swayamvara, messengers came: O Ravana, Lanka is ablaze! He said: Let it burn; I will not leave until I marry Sita! He leapt up, snapped the bow and demanded Sita. The audience erupted—This is Ramleela! The old man playing Janaka cleverly dropped the curtain, changed the actor of Ravana, and saved the play.
The truth: a good man has no story; all stories of good men exist because of the bad. We rejoice in the bad, sorrow over the good—because in this our ego is fed.
Those who keep blame and grudges are everywhere;
fault-finders fill every house.

We have mortgaged our souls for conveniences.
We have thrown the lump of the heart to the jackals and kites—
in the lap of Ganga or in ponds and lakes—
like an unwed mother we gave away our child.
Having paid off debts of lifetimes with interest,
we ask for youth with a little ‘royal status’ thrown in.
They took the fruit of the yajña;
we brought back only the fuel and offerings.
Eyes full of light, but a bandage tied upon the mouth;
aiming our weapons upon our own.
From the forests of peace we have returned—
with only dilemmas.
We mortgaged our souls—
for conveniences.
People have sold their souls for petty comforts. What is sin? To sell the soul for small conveniences. Compromise is the only sin. To sell the soul at any price is sin; and not to sell the soul at any price is virtue.
This is my definition of sannyas: the one who will not sell his soul—no matter what the price; even if people call him sinner, immoral; even if he is renounced, excommunicated; even if stones are hurled and he is crucified—yet who will not sell his soul for conveniences, that one is a virtuous soul.
But only he can have such strength who has seen inner emptiness. Only emptiness can endure so much. Ego has no endurance.
See, think, understand, listen, ponder—and know this;
if you can, recognize yourself.
But let your face remain as it is;
in life’s stream, allow yourself to flow.
You will remain what you are—believe me.
You are conscious, you are enlightened—
you are capable, a doer, exceedingly proud—
strange only that you are so innocent,
solid above, hollow within.
You are a story of becoming and dissolving.
In a moment you weep, in a moment you laugh;
absorbed in yourself you battle yourself.
But of all this that ‘you’ do—I have doubt:
philosophy and logic are idling chatter;
in striving to settle, you are uprooted daily.
In a little suffocation and a little coloration—
a pinch of chili, a handful of sugar—
your life is limited, this is true;
anything more is greed.
Friend, let the years pass in this spectatorship.
Deceit are love and enmity—do not take vows upon them;
whether bitter or sweet, drink the rasa to the full.
There is no end to walking; your sense of direction is unripe.
The path of wandering is straight, is true;
whenever you tire and tangle, then stretch out long!
There are many all around who teach thus:
There is no end to walking; your sense of direction is unripe.
The path of wandering is straight, is true.
Leave the worry of truth; when all are wandering in delusion, wander with them—herd-instinct. Safety is with the crowd. Move aside, and the crowd is angry. The crowd cannot tolerate individuality, for individuality is rebellion. The crowd wants obedience; it wants you to have no soul.
Note: the crowd gives you ego, and steals your soul. The crowd says: Ah, how virtuous! How pure! How knowledgeable! If you obey, it honors your ego. If you disobey, it condemns you—immoral, wicked—and humiliates your ego. This is its device.
Who wants his ego wounded? Even the wicked do not want disgrace. The liar keeps up the appearance of truth; falsehood has no legs, it borrows the legs of truth. The sinner declares himself a saint; the hedonist wraps himself in the robes of a sadhu—even if his desire is to enjoy in heaven, what difference? Desire for enjoyment dresses as renunciation.
The crowd wants one thing only: that you have no inwardness, no soul. It wants you asleep; obeying. The crowd lives in shadow; become its shadow and you are ‘good’.
Have you not seen? A Jesus is crucified by the crowd—not called a mahātma. Socrates is given poison. Stones are flung at Buddha. Iron spikes are driven into Mahavira’s ears. And in Mahavira’s time the priests were the ‘holy ones’. Those who crucified Jesus were honored rabbis.
The crowd respects second-rate people; but the one whose soul has come forth and whose ego has dissolved—it wants to destroy him, for his presence is a danger to the crowd. The greatest danger to the crowd is the soul-full individual.
So be mindful: many will condemn you; no one will honor you. If you are true—if you have set out in the search of truth—you will have to suffer much. The path is arduous.
So whom will you confide your heart to? Lal says: to whom speak your secret? The day you declare your soul, all become your enemies. Who will hear your inner dialogue? A few, very few—countable on fingers—who can risk, who can dare—only they will listen to truth. The rest will sleep beneath the blanket of untruth.
When youth is here, make effort; before the body grows old. Dry wood does not bend—how will the arrow be straightened then?
Hurry—old age comes soon. The body dries like wood; dry wood is hard to bend. The time for transformation is youth. As early as possible, drop ego and hold the soul. Leave the crowd and move behind your own lamp. Appo deepo bhava—be a light unto yourself.
This, as early as possible—for suppleness is lost. Children have the most suppleness; old people the least. But the old whose consciousness remains awake—there is a suppleness like that of children. They keep their consciousness free of past; daily they die to the past; they do not heap its rubbish; in one sense they remain young, the mirror of consciousness free of the dust of time.
Ordinarily, Lal speaks truly:
As old age comes, you become like dry wood—hard, unbending. With age, prowess wanes; resolution weakens; courage, risk-taking becomes difficult.
People ask me: Why do you give sannyas to the young? The young have always been sannyasins—whether twenty-five or seventy-five matters not. The old cannot be sannyasins—whether twenty-five or seventy-five. Age has nothing to do with it. Some become stiff at twenty-five—conclusions fixed, beliefs adopted: Hindu, Muslim, Jain, Christian—already old; the search is finished. Without searching they have believed. Whoever believes is old.
The seeker does not believe until he knows. He strives to know—walks whatever paths, risks whatever risks, pays whatever price.
But here, from birth, people are made Hindu, Muslim, Jain—by parents. Old from birth. No time for inquiry; no facility for exploration. Questions never asked; answers seized from books—Gita, Quran—copied like schoolchildren peeking at the back of the book. They know the question and the answer—but the bridge that joins them is missing. Another’s truth is untruth for you; only your truth is true for you.
When wood has dried—conclusions taken, doctrines gripped, partisanship set—then it is very difficult. The wood will break, not bend.
Keep suppleness alive. The religious person is supple; the irreligious is dogmatic. The irreligious is dry—without the stream of love. Yet such irreligious people are called ‘religious’: the ones who burn temples, who set mosques on fire, who launch jihads and holy wars—they are the most irreligious of all. If you want to see irreligious people, go to temples, mosques, gurudwaras, churches—count them there.
The religious searches; he does not believe. Yes, one day he arrives at shraddha; but his shraddha is not the opposite of doubt—it comes refined through doubt. Doubt is auspicious, a wondrous alchemy. He who knows how to doubt will arrive at faith. The theist does not doubt; the atheist does not doubt—one believes God is, the other believes God is not. Neither has searched. The religious is neither theist nor atheist—he is a seeker, a mumukshu. He says: I have set out to search; I will use doubt fully so that nothing false is caught. Doubt is the touchstone upon which the gold of experience is tested. What even doubt must accept—that is shraddha. Faith that even doubt stands to support—that is shraddha.
Shraddha is life’s ultimate state—but one reaches that temple by the steps of doubt.
A home should have been aflame with inner festival;
we should have bathed in the ocean of peace and virtue—
seated amidst swans, flying with the paramahansas.
So it should have been—but what has happened?
Our house is on fire; within the pot, holi burns.
Where is coolness, where is bliss? Only pain.
And who is responsible? No one but you. Your choice. You compromised; for cheap things you bartered away the precious. You gathered trash and sold your soul.
Master, seeker, guru—I ask one thing:
We come from the abode of bliss—
how has this fire arisen in the middle?
We come from the supreme realm; Paramatma dwells within—how then these flames? Lal raises only the question—he gives no answer. Rightly so; what answer to give? You must see for yourself why your life is on fire.
Through karma we have become blackened; we are burning in a forest-fire.
Make one remembrance arise—smaran—and the rain will pour; the fire will be quenched; the blackness washed. Then profit only profit—real profit. Then satisfaction upon satisfaction.
One remembrance—only a small event—a single spark, and life becomes other than it was. The name of that spark is smaran—remembrance. Mahavira called it vivek; Buddha called it sammā-sati; Kabir and Nanak called it surati; Lal calls it smaran—remember: Who am I?
To Ramana Maharshi came people with diverse questions; his answer was one: Sit silently and ask within—Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Many said: Different questions, one answer? One medicine for all? Ramana said: It is a sovereign remedy—it applies to all diseases.
Do not chant mechanically, Who am I? as is happening now in his ashram. He said: Let the feeling be there—Who am I! Words will only echo in the skull; they will create noise, not peace. Let there be a wordless feeling, dense, one-pointed—Who am I? Let all else recede—world thousands of miles away, then thoughts thousands of miles away—only this feeling remains.
Once, Farid, the Sufi fakir, was asked: How to meet God? Farid said: Come, if I get the chance I will make you meet Him. The man was afraid—he had only philosophical curiosity. Farid took him to the river: Take off your clothes. The man hesitated. Farid said: First bathe and purify yourself. He obeyed. As soon as he dipped, Farid jumped on him and held him under. He struggled like a fish; Farid pressed harder. At death’s edge, the weakest becomes strong; he threw Farid off and emerged, gasping. Farid asked softly: When I held you down, what happened? He said: Life was leaving me. Farid said: Tell in detail. He said: First many thoughts—how to be saved—then thoughts fell away; only one question remained—somehow to get out; then that too fell—only a feeling remained. Farid said: You have understood—this is the answer. The day only the feeling remains—to meet God—words gone, thoughts gone—on that day He will be met. If you forget, come again; my answers are always given at the river. Those who come do not come twice—either they receive the answer, or they drop the search.
Do not repeat, Who am I?—let the feeling remain. In the very midst of that feeling a lamp will be lit—without wick, without oil. That is smaran.
Stand before that lamp—face to face—and then there is only gain; only wealth; only kingdom. Then you are emperor—now you are beggar. Then you are master—now you are slave.
Mangoes were planted—thorny acacia grew;
a dream of gold—become dust.
In the garden, the rose began to tremble;
a black shadow fell upon the jasmine;
the champak’s boughs snapped and dried;
sonajhuri stood withered;
the whole season turned adverse.
Giants clashed with giants;
the whole atmosphere shuddered;
tides of conflict rose untimely—
how cross this ocean now?
The mast vanished from the boat.
Promises were distributed village to village—
what became of them?
Those resolute vows to light every courtyard—
what became of them?
Everyone is absorbed in himself.
It is this ‘self’, this khudi, that obstructs Khuda.
Everyone is absorbed in himself.
The mast has vanished from the boat;
the whole season turned adverse.
Mangoes were planted—acacia grew;
a golden dream—become dust.
This life could be of gold; it is becoming dust. It could be a flower; it is becoming dirt. The boat will sink; the mast is lost. Your smaran—self-remembering—is the mast, the oar, the means to the other shore.
The City of the Unseen remains far, far away—
a perilous valley lies between.
How to go forward? At every step a certificate of worthiness is demanded.
Far remains the City of the Unseen—Paramatma’s realm; between lies a canyon with no bridge; every step asks for eligibility.
Which eligibility? Only one—emptiness, Samadhi, dhyana, smaran.
Let the dagger of love pierce the body; let the spear of knowing, of awareness, enter.
If you are brave, a warrior—fight face to face. Do not flee; do not be a runaway. Struggle with life’s problems. Then this ocean of the world is not hard to cross—it can be crossed. To struggle, awaken smaran. To struggle, courage and risk—the whole life must be staked.
Be not saddened, O longings for liberation;
my patience has not been defeated.
We live—and teach living;
we drink pain—and teach pain how to be drunk.
Will stones obstruct our path
when we ourselves kick stones aside?
He who climbs beyond his own heat—
that adamant resolve is not mercury.
Till today we have lifted the fallen,
made companions of fellow-travelers.
When mountains obstructed the way,
we crushed such rocks to dust.
Why gaze at the swelling of valor?
The ocean is no dwindling stream.
What is a meter that binds no rhythm to song?
What is a relation that brings no unity?
Freedom from birth is everyone’s own—
what prison of bayonets upon the person?
The cuckoo sings freely in the forest—
what prison can hold the waves of song?
In the world, light will keep lighting;
in battle, it will keep conquering darkness.
Wherever mankind’s demand is empty,
there the ideal will keep filling.
The sun has set forth face to face to rise—
this is no star besieged by new moon night.
Become the sun—the sun of smaran, of surati. Become the lamp of awakening.
The sun has set forth face to face to rise—
this is no star besieged by dark.
The cuckoo sings freely in the forest—
no prison for the waves of song.
Why gaze at swelling valor?
The ocean is no dwindling stream.
He who climbs beyond his own heat—
that adamant resolve is not mercury.
Be not saddened, O longings for liberation;
my patience has not been defeated.
Do not be defeated. Abandon not patience. Only unwavering, infinite patience—and the supreme treasure of Paramatma is attained.
Meditate deeply upon Lal’s words. Do not stop at manana—let these words become sadhana, nididhyāsana. As he said:
Let love’s dagger pierce the body;
let knowledge’s spear wound you.
Struggle face to face like a hero—
then the ocean dissolves.
It has dissolved for Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna, Mohammed, Kabir, Lal—and it will dissolve for you. You have the same capacity as any Buddha. The only difference—your capacity has not been invoked; you are asleep, they awakened. No other difference.
Awaken yourself. Enough of these dreams—of wealth, of running in vain. Let them go now.
This world of palaces, of thrones, of crowns,
this world of societies that are enemies of man,
this world of customs ravenous for wealth—
even if one were to gain this world, what is it!
Enough for today.