Hansa To Moti Chuge #2

Yog Chinmay! Love is nothing but a dream—yet a very special dream, one that is very close to awakening. It is the dawn dream! Morning is about to break. Sleep has not entirely gone. To say there is sleep is also difficult. There is a light doze, and a light awakening too. An in-between state. Love is twilight. Neither night nor day. Morning is about to be, but not yet. The sky has turned red. The clouds have begun to take on the hues of the sun’s rays, but the sun has not yet appeared, still hidden below the horizon. Any moment now… now it comes, now it comes.

Love is a dream, but it is the closest to awakening. There are other dreams too. Hatred is also a dream, but farthest from awakening. Hatred is the dream of midnight; love is the dream of dawn. That is why those who wish to awaken must dream the dream of love.

From the dream of hatred awakening is very difficult. From the dream of love it is easy; awakening is not compulsory. Because even if morning has come and you do not wish to wake up, you can remain asleep. The sun may rise and you can still sleep, if you want. You can even be awake and keep your eyes closed.

One morning, at daybreak, Mulla Nasruddin’s wife said to him, “Mulla, last night in your sleep you were abusing me a lot, terribly restless, talking all kinds of nonsense.” Mulla said, “Which fool was asleep?”

It is easy to wake a sleeper; it is very difficult to wake one who is (pretending to be) awake. The one who is “awake” has wrapped a sheet around himself, shut his eyes. He has decided not to wake up. A sleeper can be shaken awake—he does not know he is asleep, so a shake will wake him. But the one who has decided, even if you shake him he will not get up.

So merely because it is morning, nothing happens. Merely because love has happened, nothing happens. Even after love happens, people miss. They come up to the temple doors again and again, then turn back. They climb the steps and then return.

Love happens many times in life, but only a few blessed ones awaken. When they awaken, their love is called prayer. The name of awakened love is prayer. The name of sleeping prayer is love.

So love is a dream—only a dream.

You ask: “How much a dream, how much truth?”

Where do dream and truth meet? Can dream and truth be mixed in any proportion—so many percent dream, so many percent truth? Will you ever be able to mix darkness and light? Either there will be darkness or there will be light. Can life and death be blended? Either you live or you do not; you cannot be in between.

Love is a dream—only a dream—but very delightful, sweet, tasteful, worth taking.

And when I say love is a dream worth experiencing, remember this statement is relative. All statements are relative. I speak comparatively to hatred when I say love is a dream worth living. I do not say it in comparison to prayer. In comparison to prayer, the sooner you awaken even from love, the better. And beyond prayer is the Divine.

So compared to love, prayer is better; but do not get stuck even in prayer. Do not let it remain only worship, ritual, petition and prayer. You must drown in such a way that there remain no two—the supplicant and the One supplicated, the devotee and the Divine.

Prayer too must one day be dropped, for prayer still has a little noise. There is still a faint shadow of thought. The world is gone, but some of its lines remain. The traveler has passed, but his footprints are there. The journey has ended, but the dust gathered on your garments is still clinging—you must wash that off too.

Even in prayer a small “I” remains. Who will pray? And wherever the “I” is, delusion lingers. In love the “I” is cut down—a lot. In prayer even more is cut—only the shadow remains. But even the shadow is enough to lead you astray. If you follow the shadow, you will wander far. The shadow too must go.

There is the world of hatred, where people are living. Since people live in hatred, I speak of love. Those who begin to live in love, I immediately speak to them of prayer. Those who begin to live in prayer, I immediately speak to them of the Divine. Keep dropping, keep breaking through. Transcend, and transcend. Ultimately arrive where no “I” remains, only “That” remains! Tat tvam asi. Only One remains; not two.

As long as there are two, it is still a dream. If you love someone—there are two. If you hate someone—there are two. But hatred is a poisonous connection, and love—a very sweet one! Prayer is full of ambrosia, but still there are two—devotee and God. The ultimate is when duality does not remain; when devotee and God are one; when the devotee is God, when God is the devotee.

Await that supreme moment. Truth is there. Before that, all are only measures of untruth—more or less. And as long as even a tiny measure of untruth remains—even a homeopathic dose—be alert; that much too must be bid farewell.

Who said—that is a flower?
Who said—that is a thorn?
Morning came—everything is a form,
Morning came—everything is a hue,
Daylight is uplift,
Daylight is exuberance.
But the mute, empty new-moon night,
Taking the blackness of its own “non-being,”
Heaving a sigh, cried out—
“Whatever is here is a mistake!”
Then, taking awareness, taking knowledge,
Man climbed here upon the sky,
Sun and moon became his eyes,
He forged the boundless,
But suddenly he stopped,
His head suddenly bowed,
The earth took him in her lap
And said—“You are dust!”

Here, all is dust! Whatever you see, think, cogitate here—only the play of mind. Even your greatest love, your noblest love, is a beautiful dream—adorned, studded with jewels, garlanded with gems, seated on a throne! Still a dream nonetheless.

You must awaken! Fully awaken! And in awakening, the “I” is not found. And where there is no “I,” how can there be a dream? Who will dream? Where there is no “I,” only witnessing consciousness remains. There is no scene—only the seer remains. And the experience of the seer—call it samadhi, nirvana, or kaivalya, as you wish.

In samadhi, in nirvana, in kaivalya there is Truth. Before that there are only varieties of untruth.

There are many untruths in this marketplace. This is a bazaar of untruth. Untruths of every style and color. Many shopkeepers, very skilled salesmen. Be careful! Be alert! Stay awake!

Yog Chinmay, love is a dream and only a dream.

But where is our snag? Our snag is this: If I tell you love is a dream and only a dream, you say, “Then what is there in love?” And the irony is that thinking “what is there in love?” you will not move toward prayer; your life will fill with hatred. This has happened in the lives of thousands upon thousands of renunciates. The whole country is afflicted like this. Everything is a dream, love is a dream. Compassion, tenderness, attachment—dreams. All is a dream. The statement is true, but what is the result? Compassion is a dream, kindness is a dream; but anger has not gone. You produced ascetics like Durvasa. Hatred has not gone. Your so-called sadhus and sannyasins hate this world immensely. An ordinary person hates someone now and then, but your holy men are neck-deep in hatred. They hate everything! They condemn everything. Everything is sin. Love has not come; prayer is far, the Divine very, very far—this is a fall! Everything has turned into hatred.

Consider this: a man loves his wife, then thinking “all love is a dream” he abandons wife and children and runs to the forest—is this running not a dream? He has left his wife and children; is there not deep hatred somewhere, a deep poison? Is this not a dream? It is just as much a dream.

If attachment is a dream, so is detachment. If the world is a dream, so is renunciation. If the world itself is a dream, then renunciation is an even bigger dream—a dream within a dream.

If the world does not exist, what are you renouncing? Can the non-existent be renounced? Only what is can be renounced. Therefore the ego of the renouncer is more despicable, more hellish, than the ego of the indulger. The indulger’s ego is forgivable; the renouncer’s is not, for it has fallen even further. And if you sit near your so-called renouncers, you will find nothing but ego. A colossal ego! They look at the indulgent as if they were insects. They are ready to send indulgers to hell. They “know” all will rot in hell—“You will rot!” This keeps rising within them: “You will rot! Go on enjoying a little now. Have your fun now…”

There is jealousy in this feeling of “You will rot!”—because the implication is: “Enjoy a little now; then we will enjoy for eternity, forever—in heaven, in liberation! And you will rot in hell. Remember, do not forget. Worms will bite you. You will be boiled in cauldrons of fire. All kinds of tortures will be inflicted. Go on, indulge a little now.”

Your “holy men,” sitting, enjoy this fantasy: “Go on, a few days’ story, then darkness! Four days of moonlight, then a dark night! Then we will sit above and watch the show. We will watch the spectacle. You will rot below, melt below. Then you will understand. How much we explained, but you did not understand.”

All this is jealousy.

Whoever condemns the world has not yet understood that the world is a dream. Your scriptures are full of condemnation of the world—and the same scriptures say the world is maya! Then whom are you condemning? And your scriptures sing great praises of renunciation—and at the same time say the world is maya. Do you see the foolishness? Such a little arithmetic you cannot grasp: if the world is maya, what is the glory of renunciation?

The Jain scriptures say: Mahavira renounced so many elephants, so many horses, so many golden chariots. If all this is a dream, whether donkeys or horses or elephants—what difference does it make? When you wake in the morning you do not announce in the neighborhood: “Last night in a dream I saw golden chariots and renounced them—on waking I renounced everything!” People would laugh. Your dream-elephants are as false as dream-donkeys. Your dream-gold is as false as dream-dirt.

There is a sweet story from Maharashtra. There was a sadhu named Ranka. His wife came to be called Banka—on the basis of this tale. She must have been a striking woman. Ranka she outdid. Both were renouncers, yet different. The husband was a renouncer as renouncers usually are—by effort, restraint, persuading himself, controlling, binding himself somehow with vows and fasts. Not from insight, from yoga. He was disciplined, a renouncer.

But the wife was extraordinary. From insight… There was no proclamation of renunciation. She was quiet, natural. She saw it—all is futile—and the matter ended. What is there to drop, what is there to hold?

They would gather firewood and sell it; whatever came fed them. One time it rained unexpectedly for three days. Had they known, they would have stocked wood, but the rain was unseasonal, so for three days they could not cut. Not a coin in hand. They fasted for three days. On the fourth day they went to cut wood. Returning with bundles, the husband in front, wife behind. By the roadside Ranka noticed someone’s dropped pouch, probably a horseman’s. He opened it: full of gold coins. He was a holy man! He said, “Fie, fie! I touched gold! Gold is dirt!” Then he remembered his wife was coming behind.

Husbands never trust their wives—especially regarding renunciation! The scriptures say too: woman is the gate to hell. Now here is the temptation; if she insists, there will be trouble. She may say, “The trouble of our life will be over; just pick it up. It is God-sent; why leave it? We did not steal it! If the owner is found we will return it.” Such thoughts ran in Ranka’s mind—three days’ hunger, thirst, age advancing, old age nearing, cutting wood growing difficult—“What if her mind wavers? The mind is weak after all.”

So before the wife arrived, he dropped the pouch into a hole and covered it with soil. He was just putting on the last handful when she came. She asked, “Ranka, what are you doing?” He had sworn to tell the truth, so he had to.

Remember: truths told because of vows are not truths. Only the natural truths are true. He was compelled; he wanted to lie that day. He wanted to say, “Nothing.” In his mind the idea arose to say, “There was a snake; I buried it so it would not bite a passerby.” But he had sworn to tell the truth. He said, “Forgive me, since you asked I must tell the truth. But let the matter end here, do not carry it further. There was a pouch here, I opened it—full of gold coins. Thinking your mind may waver, I was burying it so you would not see it.”

His wife laughed and said, “So you still see a difference between gold and dust? Then what you kept telling me—that gold is dust—was not true? Then why are you burying dust in dust? Have some shame. Come to your senses. If gold is dust, why bury dust in dust? And if gold is not dust, what will burying do? Gold is gold. Though you ‘left’ it, you have not left it.”

That day his wife got the name Banka—she must have been a wondrous woman, a woman of deep insight. People may leave, but does it leave? They rationalize, “All is maya, all is a dream”—but it is explained into them, not seen. It is not their inner seeing.

Your scriptures are filled with condemnation of the world and simultaneously say the world is maya. Both cannot be true. If the world is maya, condemnation is pointless. If condemnation is meaningful, then the world is not maya.

Your scriptures were written by Rankas, not by Bankas. How much glory has been sung of renunciation, how much condemnation of the world! Both are futile. There is nothing in the world worthy of praise and nothing worthy of blame. Just see it, smile, understand and be steady.

Love is a dream—only a dream. But let me remind you again: I speak in comparison to hatred. All statements here are comparative. No statement can be absolute. Statements are inherently contextual.

When Albert Einstein first discovered the theory of relativity, it was a complex matter to understand. It is said only ten or twelve people on Earth really grasped it. Yet wherever he went people asked, “Explain relativity.” He was in difficulty—it is not easy to explain; the thing is subtle and intricate, though it contains a very deep truth of life. What Mahavira called syadvada in religion, Einstein did in science. After twenty-five centuries Einstein reestablished the same principle that Mahavira had proclaimed—on scientific grounds! Mahavira’s was a philosophical announcement.

Mahavira’s teaching is difficult; hence he did not get many followers. It is complex. And the followers you see are mostly by birth; they have understood nothing. Only a few became disciples. Even today Jains number scarcely three million. If thirty couples had been initiated by Mahavira, in twenty-five hundred years their descendants could grow to three million. Not many would have been initiated. People reproduce like mice—at least in this country they do!

Einstein saw people did not understand, so he devised an example. “The theory is complex,” he would say, “but perhaps this will help. Imagine someone makes you sit on a hot griddle; a clock is in front of you, ticking second by second. The griddle grows hotter, you are seared, you panic, sweat. A few seconds will feel like hours. If you sit for an hour, it will feel like years.”

In suffering time lengthens. The clock keeps its steady pace, but to the one on the hot plate it seems dishonest, running slow: tick-tock sluggish, as if to torment you.

“And now imagine,” Einstein says, “that after years your beloved meets you. The same clock. You hold her hand on a full-moon night, sitting under the sky. The same ticking clock—and hours pass like moments. The night goes by as if it just came and went, like a gust of wind. Your mind will say, ‘Dishonest clock, today you ran too fast!’”

The clock is the same, its motion the same. It knows nothing of your new moons and full moons. It is a mechanism. But your psychological sense of time stretches or shrinks. It depends on your inner experience: in joy time shortens; in pain it lengthens. In great pain it becomes very long; in supreme joy it becomes very short.

Therefore, in the moment of supreme bliss—samadhi—time disappears; it is timeless. And in the moment of supreme suffering—what we call hell—Christians say hell is eternal. In that I agree with Christians more than with Hindus, Jains, Buddhists—though their doctrine does not fit logic.

Bertrand Russell wrote “Why I Am Not a Christian,” giving many arguments. A key one: Christianity is unjust. For petty sins one must suffer hell for eternity! The argument is logical. Russell was among the most logical minds of this century. He says: for the sins I committed in this life, even the harshest judge could not give me more than four years. Even if I confess the sins I did not do but wanted to, I could not get more than eight years. Say not eight, eighty years; not eighty, eight hundred; not eight hundred, eight thousand—but eternity! For trifling sins, eternal roasting in hell! Excessive. The math does not add up.

But Russell missed something. Strange that he did, given he wrote perhaps the best book on Einstein’s relativity: “ABC of Relativity,” praised by Einstein himself. Then I wonder: how did Russell never think that the “eternity” of hell might relate to relativity?

It is exactly that. Hell is not endless—but its pain is so extreme it appears endless. Just as the bliss of samadhi is so profound it becomes beyond time, time dissolves—so in hell there is only time, without end. Morning never comes—night seems endless. In heaven night never comes—day seems endless. These are inner perceptions.

Those who have praised renunciation greatly—surely it is their inner perception that they are still possessed by indulgence, still gripped by wealth. They talk of renouncing wealth because greed still clings. They are still counting elephants and horses—how many they “left.”

A man once came to Ramakrishna with a sack of gold coins—one thousand, he said, and said it loudly so all around would hear. A thousand gold coins was a big thing then. Ramakrishna said, “A thousand or ten thousand—now who will keep this trouble? Do one thing… You have given them to me, haven’t you?” The man said, “At your feet I dedicate them.” “Then listen,” said Ramakrishna, “take them and dump them in the Ganges. Let Mother Ganga see. Who will look after them? If I go to bathe I will have to set a guard to watch them. Or take them with me to the Ganges; then I won’t be able to bathe, watching lest someone take them! You have brought me a nuisance. Cut your nuisance and mine—go immerse them in the Ganges.”

The man was shocked—he had expected praise: “Ah, you are a great devotee! Blessed one! Fruits of births of merit!” None of that—on the contrary Ramakrishna seemed annoyed: “You have given me a problem.” Reluctantly the man picked up the sack and went to the river. He did not dare say no; having offered, who is he to argue? Many times he thought of running away midway—who knows if Ramakrishna is following? But he was scared—people fear saints may curse them; and “they see within,” read thoughts with the third eye! “Not good. Let what has happened be finished.”

He delayed and did not return. Ramakrishna said, “It is taking too long; where is he? Let’s go see.” What was the man doing? He had gathered a crowd at the ghat. He would ring each coin on the stone—cling, cling—count: five hundred seventy-seven, then throw into the river; five hundred seventy-eight—then throw. Slowly, carefully, ringing each one. Ramakrishna stood and said, “O fool! Why are you counting? If you must throw, what is the counting for? Counting is for adding up while taking; what counting while throwing? You should have tossed the whole pouch. And why ring them? Ringing is fine when accepting—lest someone give you fakes. But for the Ganges—she cares not if your coins are fake or real, nine hundred ninety-nine or a thousand. She will keep no account. But you remain a fool!”

Think on this: man counts when gathering and counts when leaving. When he believes money is true, he counts; when he believes it is false, he still counts! In Jain texts there is a long list: how many horses, elephants, chariots, jewels Mahavira left. So too in Buddhist texts: how much Buddha left. A competition—numbers increasing. If you check, the later the text, the larger the numbers. Mahavira left a thousand golden chariots; the Buddhists could not be behind—they made Buddha leave a thousand and one. Then the Jains wrote later and made Mahavira leave a thousand and two. Mahavira and Buddha have nothing to do with it. Neither had such numbers—their kingdoms were small, not more than little districts. In Buddha’s time India had two thousand kingdoms—none very large. The names of Buddha’s forefathers are unknown to history; they are remembered because of Buddha. Same with Mahavira. Not because of elephants and horses. But our minds remain the same.

So I say to you: in comparison to hatred, hold to love. But do not cling to love. Go further. In comparison to prayer, let go of love and hold to prayer. But do not cling to prayer either. Go further. Keep moving until the mover is no more. When the mover is gone, the goer gone, and only movement remains—then know you have come home. There is Truth. Until then, all are dreams. Good dreams, bad dreams, sweet, bitter; of heaven, of hell—but all dreams. Truth is one—the Witness. All else is dream.

Mukesh Bharti! There is no reason for the ego to be, but there are conditions. And you will have to understand the difference between condition and cause.

Causes are real; conditions are man-made. Causes are part of existence; conditions are part of the human mind. Conditions are excuses. There are many excuses. Your ego stands propped up on the crutches of excuses. It has no causes—none at all. If you go in search of causes, the ego dissolves. Whoever has gone searching for the cause has never found the ego. But you never look for the cause! You seek conditions, you hunt for excuses.

For example: if you have ten rupees, you will have a ten-rupee ego. Naturally. How will you get a bigger ego? It cannot be bigger than the note you hold. And if you have a million rupees, you will have a much bigger ego—the ego of a million rupees! The condition you possess is big; the crutch is big! You fly your kite higher into the sky; the string is longer.

People keep searching for conditions—let wealth increase, status increase, knowledge increase, renunciation increase. So the mind has only one pursuit: more, more, more. If you want to understand the definition of mind, this demand for “more” is its definition. And why does the mind ask for more and more? The strange thing is that “more” can be applied to anything—it can be applied to acquiring wealth, it can be applied to abandoning wealth. The one pursuing wealth says, “If I get more wealth, I will be fulfilled.” And the renouncer says, “I will drop more and more. I now eat once a day; I’ll eat once in two days—then… then I’ll attain. I still keep two pieces of clothing; when I become completely naked, then I’ll attain. I’m naked now, I endure sun and wind; but until I make a bed of thorns and lie on it, there will be no attainment.” The race of “more” goes on!

The one running after wealth is after “more,” and the one walking toward renunciation is also after “more”! “More” never ends. “More” is a condition, not a cause.

When a child is born there is no ego in him, no sense of “I.” Psychologists have researched this deeply; especially Piaget worked much on it. When a child is born, he has no sense of “I.” Even when children grow a bit, there is still no sense of “I.” You must have noticed: a small child says, “Baby is hungry!” He doesn’t say, “I am hungry.” He says, “Baby is hungry,” as if the baby were someone else. The sense of “I” has not yet been born.

You will be surprised to know that first the sense of “you” is born, then the sense of “I.” First the child begins to understand that there are people who are different from him. There is the mother; sometimes she is available, sometimes not. Sometimes when he is hungry, the mother is right there and gives her breast; sometimes he is hungry, he cries and screams, and the mother is busy and doesn’t come. He begins to have a wordless sense that the mother is different from me; otherwise she would be available twenty-four hours. Everything is hazy at first. If nothing is available he grabs his own big toe and starts sucking it. He is not even sure that the toe is his, that he is sucking his own toe—what could be sillier!—and that nothing comes of it. Everything is still fuzzy, nothing is clear. Nothing has yet become truly separate.

But slowly the sense of separateness arises. Sometimes the mother is there, sometimes not. Sometimes she is pleased, sometimes displeased. Sometimes she pats him, sometimes she is careless. It becomes clear: the mother is not available to me twenty-four hours, therefore she is different. Remember, no child argues like this; a child cannot argue. But these intimations begin to arise in him, this inner sensing. First the “you” is born. Then he sees the father, brothers, sisters. They sometimes come, sometimes go; watching them come and go, slowly “you” becomes clear—people are different from me. And then, as a consequence, the remembrance arises: I too am different. If people are different from me, then I am different from them.

First “you” is born, then “I” is born. The “I” rests on the crutch of “you.” Then the “I” asks for more and more crutches—my toy, my swing, my bicycle; I won’t let anyone else touch them. Then the expansion of “mine” begins—my room, my mother, my father.

When a new baby is born in the house, little children are filled with great jealousy, fierce jealousy! Do not consider small children as innocent as you suppose. In your little ones all the diseases exist in seed that later appear in you. A new child is born, the elder child is overcome with jealousy; he wants the newcomer to die. “What trouble has arrived!” Because with this child’s arrival, the mother’s attention now turns to the new baby; the elder child becomes neglected. The father comes and fondles the little one. The whole house’s attention goes to him. Even the neighbors come to see the new baby. The elder child stands in a corner watching—neglected, slighted. Until now he was the center; suddenly he has been moved from the center to the periphery. Sometimes little children even want to squeeze the newcomer’s neck. Many times they imagine that some ghost will come and take him away; some baba will come and take him away—how to get rid of him!

This “I” has begun to struggle. First it took the support of “you,” then of “mine.” Now jealousy is born, and the walls grow stronger. Then competition is born: in school I must come first. From school to university I must win the gold medal. Competition, throat-cutting competition… This “I” keeps seeking more and more conditions. Then, after university, one must get a big post, a big job; become the prime minister. This thing does not leave, not till the last breath! It grabs you from the cradle and does not let go till the grave. And there is no cause—only conditions.

Cause means the real; condition means the imagined. The day you close your eyes and look within, you will find there is no ego there. The soul is there, but no ego. The very meaning of soul is egoless existence. Those who looked within said the ego is false. Those who kept running outside concluded that the ego is the only truth. Keep climbing higher and higher thrones; that alone is the meaning of life. And then one day fall into the grave, and dust will merge with dust, and your ego will fall to dust too.

Chuang Tzu was passing by a cemetery. It was evening; darkness was falling. His foot struck a skull lying there. He immediately knelt and folded his hands. His disciples were startled. Chuang Tzu was an enlightened man. What is he doing—has he gone mad? But the disciples stood silently, watching. He offered a long prayer. He said to the skull, Forgive me! You are not an ordinary skull, because I know for certain this is a cemetery of the great. Here only kings, high priests, mahatmas are buried. You must be the skull of some great saint or king. It is sheer coincidence that today you have no skin on the outside and the drum of ego is not beating within; otherwise I would have been in trouble. It is sheer coincidence that I have been spared. Life saved and a fortune made… If the drum of ego were beating within, and there were skin on the outside and hands and feet to move, today we would have been finished. Still, since you are certainly the skull of some great person, let me ask your forgiveness.

He brought the skull back. He kept it near him. His disciples asked, What are you doing? He said, It will keep me reminded, and it will remind you too, that this is the fate of our own skulls. These gentlemen must have been kings or mahatmas. Now look at their condition—kick it, play football! It can do nothing!

Chuang Tzu says, I have benefited greatly from it. I keep it with me. Just yesterday a man came and began to abuse me. While he was abusing, I began to look at the skull. He asked, What are you doing? I said, I am looking at this skull. He said, I don’t understand. I said, You won’t. But if you want to, I am willing to explain. He had come to abuse; he sat down to understand. He said, Explain—why, when I am abusing you, are you looking at a skull?

Chuang Tzu said, Looking at the skull I am thinking that this is going to be our condition too. Tomorrow the skull will be lying there. This same man may kick us, and we won’t even be able to say: Hey you! Why did you kick me? I’ll teach you a lesson! Who do you think I am? We won’t be able to say even that. So if one day later this is going to be the case… today this man is abusing; let him abuse. What is made or marred by it? This skull is going to be mixed with dust. All this will fall into dust.

Whoever looks within finds that everything outside is going to fall—wealth, property, position, prestige, fame, honor. Yes, within there is an existence that will remain. That existence is pure existence—clear as the sky! No dust ever settles on it, and there is no sense of “I” there.

Mukesh, there is no cause for the “I.” You have merely found conditions. And as long as you keep seeking conditions, the ego will remain. Ego is like a bicycle: keep pedaling and it runs. Stop pedaling and perhaps it will go a few steps on old momentum, but then it will fall. Keep pedaling the ego day after day and it goes on. Stop pedaling today, and within two to four days it will fall.

In my vision, stopping the pedaling of the ego—that alone is sannyas. Not seeking new conditions for the ego—this is sannyas. And the day you stop seeking new conditions for the ego, the old conditions won’t work for long. The old conditions will simply fall, by themselves. They have to be renewed daily to remain alive. Life has to be pumped into them every day.

And it is a costly bargain: you lose the soul and clutch the ego. And the ego is utterly false, a mere appearance. The soul is lost; only the shadow remains.

There is a German story: a man did severe austerities for many years. An angel appeared. The angel said, Ask—ask for whatever you wish. The man said, Give me something that has never been given to anyone. Many must have asked before me; I ask for something that has never been and never will be. The angel said, All right, so be it. From tomorrow your shadow will not be cast. You will walk in the sun and still cast no shadow.

The man was overjoyed. He said, Astonishing! I will be renowned the world over. Such a man has never existed in history, nor will ever exist—who walks in sunlight and casts no shadow! He ran down, left the mountains where he had been doing austerities. The austerity itself had been a search for new conditions for the ego. And what greater condition could there be—imagine, you walk in the sun and your shadow is not cast! The whole world will come to touch your feet.

He came to the town and roamed about. But things turned out quite the opposite. People began to evade him. They slipped away. If someone familiar was coming down the road, he would slip into a side shop, or take a side lane. His own became strangers. Friends would not come near. News spread through the village that the man had turned into a ghost, or who knows what! He doesn’t cast a shadow! In stories only ghosts or gods cast no shadow. A god he could not be—no one is ready to accept someone else as a god so easily. He must be a ghost.

When he came home, his people shut the door. His wife said, Forgive me, my lord! Please stay in your cave! After all, we too have to live. There are children; they must be raised. If you’ve gone, you’ve gone—that’s fine; but don’t ruin us further. Seeing you, we are afraid. The children who used to leap onto his neck instantly now hid behind their mother. Daddy has become a ghost! Friends shut their doors. In inns people slammed doors and refused to serve food. The shadow didn’t appear, but hunger did. No one would offer water. And people said, If you don’t leave the village, we’ll have the police seize you.

He was aghast: What boon have I asked for! He had to leave the village, in great humiliation.

This story is very meaningful. That man lost his shadow and look at the state he fell into. And you have lost your soul; only the shadow remains. Think of your condition! That man’s soul remained; he lost only his shadow. You have only the shadow left; you have lost the soul.

The shadow is the ego. And the ego can become as big as the number of conditions you can gather. If the conditions break, it shrinks accordingly. That is why the person who once attains a certain post refuses to leave it.

Look at Delhi—the tale of the chair never ends! The tale of the chair never ends. Everyone clings to his chair! And those who try to pull them down are swarming around like ants—like ants on jaggery! They too are engaged in their tug-of-war. No one cares whether the chair will survive or not. No concern for the chair: even if one leg falls into their hands, that’s enough. Such tugging for the chair! And whoever reaches a chair will not get off it, even if he is pelted with shoes and publicly shamed; he sits stiff, clutching the chair until he dies!

It is difficult to unseat someone. Once he is up, he is up. First strive to climb; once you’ve climbed, strive to hold on. Those who were your friends before you climbed become your enemies after, because they begin the pulling. Enemies are no problem—they remain far from the chair. It is your own people, your friends—the ones on whose shoulders you climbed to the chair—who now say, You’ve sat enough, now let us sit! Let us rest a little too!

But the one who has sat on the chair will not leave it. Because the moment he leaves, his condition deteriorates. The ego enjoys expansion; in contraction it suffers.

The one who has wealth cannot leave wealth. The one who has fame cannot leave fame. For the sake of fame he is ready to do whatever is required. Make him fast and he will fast—otherwise he won’t remain a mahatma. Make him stand on his head and he will stand on his head—otherwise he won’t remain a mahatma.

I once went to a village. People said, There is a mahatma in the village. He has been standing for ten years; he never sits. I said, You people must be not allowing him to sit. They said, No, we don’t do anything. I said, You may not know it, but you don’t let him sit. Come, let me see.

The mahatma’s condition was miserable. His very name had become Khadeshri Baba. He only stands. Standing for ten years is no small matter. So crutches had been placed under both his arms. His hands were tied with chains above, lest by some slip he sit down.

I asked, Who tied these chains? Who fixed these crutches?

And his legs had become elephantine, because all the blood had pooled in them. The man is in great pain. Now even if he wants to sit, he cannot. His legs will not allow it. His knees will not bend—ten years have passed. And all his prestige lies in that standing. People keep coming; day and night there is a crowd. Money pours in, heads bow down, vows are made, bands are played. And the man stands like a corpse. No light in his eyes, no expression on his face.

What has happened to this man? He is a victim of the crowd, as everyone is a victim of the crowd. Someone is a victim by being a prime minister; this man is a victim by standing and becoming a mahatma. Now he is trapped. He cannot sit. If Khadeshri Maharaj were to sit, who would come then? Who would worship him?

Jain monks would sometimes come to me. Two Jain monks came—disciples of Acharya Tulsi. They said, We have taken permission from Tulsi-ji, but he said: Let no one know! Because even coming to me is dangerous—if someone finds out… So go quietly, in secret. They had come to meditate.

I said, Do meditate. But the meditation is such that it cannot be done secretly. In it one has to jump and dance.

They said, We are monks; we haven’t jumped or danced in many years. Not since childhood.

I said, Think about it. There will also have to be some noise.

They said, Then shall we do it with the door closed?

I said, If you want to do it with the door closed, do it with the door closed. As you wish.

No one will find out?

I said, Even if people find out you are meditating, what’s the harm? Is it something bad?

They said, The harm is: what will our lay followers think? They believe we have attained self-realization. And here we are jumping and dancing!

I said, As you wish. If you have attained, then there’s no harm—jump and dance! What can anyone take from you now?

They said, No, we have not attained yet. I said, Then you will have to jump and dance. Otherwise you will not attain.

Both of them jumped and danced. I told Chaitanya Bharati to take their photographs. The photographs exist! Later they came to know. They came asking me to give them the pictures. I said, Let the pictures remain. It will be proof that mahatmas too jump and dance. They were very upset: This was not right, that someone took pictures. We didn’t even know. You had blindfolded us.

I said, The blindfold is put on so photographers have no difficulty. They went away, but their disciples have come several times asking for those photographs.

Why are you worried about the photographs?

They are afraid that someday the pictures may surface—what then of their prestige? Terapanthi monks, blindfolded, dancing and shouting “hoo-hoo”! And great learned monks! One was about sixty or seventy, the other around thirty-five or forty. They are highly renowned. I won’t tell their names—why give them needless trouble! They are much honored. Hundreds revere them. They are very afraid that if anyone finds out, their prestige will fall.

This is the same game of the ego! Where is the difference? Someone clings to a chair, someone clings to his fame. Someone clings to wealth, someone clings to knowledge. These are conditions.

Mukesh, there is no cause for the ego. But there are many conditions. And the conditions are of your own making. So here is the good news: since the conditions are made by your own hands, the day you wish, the very moment you wish, in that very moment you can be free of the ego. This is the good news. You are the master! This is your fabrication. This is your drama. This is your contrivance. God has no hand in it. You can drop it right now. This sandcastle you have built—you can jump on it and dissolve it this very moment.

The soul has a cause; the ego is causeless. Whatever is, has a cause. Whatever is not, is only imagined. Ego is only your imagination. You are not separate from existence. You are not apart from existence.

The meaning of ego is only this: I am separate, isolated, distinct. The meaning of egolessness is: I am one—with the trees, with the moon and stars, with the earth, with the sky. We are not separate. We are waves of the same energy. We are notes of the same music. We are links of the same song. This great song that is being sung, this great Gita of existence that is ongoing—we are its small links, small words, small syllables, commas and full stops. We have no existence apart from this vast great song. The day you choose to know this, revolution will happen. In a single moment transformation will happen.

But courage is needed—to die. For now you have taken the ego to be your very life. The one who can die as the ego is born as the soul. Crucify the ego, and you receive the throne of the soul. Bury the ego, and you receive resurrection, eternal life. Then you will know, Ananda; then you will know, Sat-Chit-Ananda. Then you will know that which is. For now you have assumed certain beliefs and live in your assumptions. And as long as you live in assumptions, your life is sorrow, pain, a long agony.

What is your story, except a tale of lamentation?

Wake up! Wake up and look. Open the inner eye. There is no one there; there is silence! There is the emptiness of existence. There is the fullness of existence. There God is enthroned!

Jaya! Fear will come—great fear! Because the ego we have taken to be our everything, our all-in-all—when it slips from our hands, the legs will tremble and the very life-breath will quake.

When a seed dies in the soil, would it not be afraid? It would. What guarantee is there that it will become a tree? The seed dies in trust. It dies only in faith; there is no assurance.

When the Ganga enters the ocean, what assurance is there that it will be saved? It isn’t saved—yes, it becomes the ocean; but the Ganga is lost. So the Ganga must also be afraid.

Khalil Gibran has written that when a river reaches the shore of the ocean, he has seen it tremble, quiver, hesitate; he has seen it turn back again and again to look behind. Sweet-bitter memories, all those memories of mountains, lofty peaks, valleys, flowers, birds, people, sacred places, boats, the moon and stars, the banks, the trees standing on the banks, shadows and sunlight—who knows how many plays, how many dreams, how many experiences, unique experiences—the river must remember them all! The mind would want to stop, to stay; why take this risk! To enter the ocean means to leave the banks. To leave the banks means to leave one’s definition. To enter the ocean—then Ganga will no longer be Ganga, Brahmaputra will no longer be Brahmaputra, Sindhu will no longer be Sindhu. In the ocean, where is individuality? Where is the I-am-ness? And Ganga must have her I-am-ness—of course she does—so many holy places on her shores, so much merit! A long journey. The whole journey must return to her again and again, tempting her to live those moments once more.

Exactly so, Jaya! When the moment comes for the ego to drop, great fear arises. It feels like death. Perhaps even greater fear than death, because in what we call death only the body dies; the mind remains, the ego remains. But the death you are approaching—the death my sannyasins must approach and are approaching—in that death the body remains just as it is; what dies is deeper: the mind dies, the ego dies. And bodily death is not real death. No sooner does the body die than a new body is obtained. But one whose mind has died does not obtain a body again. The death of the mind is the great death.

A tiny bird,
buoyant with its own buoyancy,
spread its own wings and set out
to measure that azure sky!
Its heart brimmed with joy,
its voice with exultant breath;
each immaculate breath of it
composed the music of life!
Silent stood the mountain ranges,
silent lay the woods and gardens;
it was singing, it was going—
the Beyond lay straight ahead!
Higher and higher it flew,
the earth vanished from sight;
but ahead stretched the measureless—
its wings began to tremble!

In the beginning the journey of sannyas seems easy, simple. In the beginning meditation feels soothing. But a moment comes while flying…

Higher and higher it flew,
the earth vanished from sight;
but ahead stretched the measureless—
its wings began to tremble!

When the earth goes far away and is no longer visible; when the body goes distant and is no longer visible—the body is the earth—and when within, in the inner sky, only blueness remains, only the infinite sky, no shore in sight—then naturally the wings begin to tremble, the mind begins to panic! The mind says: turn back, turn back, still turn back. It is not too late yet. You can still return. The earth may not be visible, but we know for sure it is there—one can go back.

But to turn back from that moment is the greatest misfortune. It is precisely that moment we are seeking—to arrive at the point from which there is no return. How many times we have returned to the earth, how many times to the body! How many bodies we have donned, how many births, how many deaths, how many games we have staged! And every game went in vain. In the end only ash in the hands. After every game we discovered: we ran and labored for nothing; we found neither destination nor path. We walked a lot—like the bull at the oil-press.

Exactly such a moment, Jaya, is drawing near.

You say: “The diamond bowl has become empty…”

That is my teaching: empty out! Become a zero! Because emptiness is the fitness for fullness. Only an empty pot can be filled. If a pot is already full, how will it be filled? Even if you place a full pot under a raining sky, nothing will happen. Mountains remain bare of water because they are already full of themselves; hollows and ravines fill and become lakes because they are empty. Emptiness is a virtue, a great virtue—the greatest religious virtue.

If you ask me, the supreme religious art is a single art—the art of emptying. Empty out, empty out utterly—so that nothing of you remains. Become a completely vacant pot. The day you are wholly emptied, that very day you will find: the Divine has arrived, the dancing Divine has arrived! You will begin to hear the sound of His footsteps. The anklets on His feet will start to ring. The music of His flute will begin to be heard. He has come, He has come! He has merged into your very life-breath!

But you must become empty; make room; vacate the seat for Him. You are sitting on the throne—where is the space for Him to sit? You are standing in the way. There is no obstacle other than you.

Mahavira has said: you yourself are the enemy, you yourself the friend. If you step aside you are the friend; if you remain obstinate you are the enemy.

“The diamond bowl has become empty,” you say.
Good. In truth, only when it is emptied is the bowl of diamond; before that it is mere clay. Before that it is worth two pennies. A filled bowl has no value. With what will you fill it? You will fill it with rubbish! Someone with wealth, someone with position, someone with prestige, someone with renunciation, someone with knowledge—what will you fill it with? With the trash that is ready at hand all around! Because of your filling, even your diamond bowl will become clay.

I once stayed with a friend for some days. His house was so crammed that there was no room even to walk. Forget thieves; even the owner of the house, walking in broad daylight, would bump into things. Stuff, stuff everywhere. Whatever he found, he would stash away. And he never discarded anything. The old furniture stayed, new pieces kept arriving. The old radios were there; new ones had come too. The old television was there; a new one had come as well. And anything lying anywhere—he would add it to the hoard—he was very skilled at adding.

One day I was amazed. We both went out for a walk in the morning. By the roadside lay a bicycle handlebar—someone’s had broken off, perhaps. He hesitated a little on my account, felt a little shy—but then his habit asserted itself. He said, “Forgive me.” I asked, “What is it—what are you asking forgiveness for?”
He said, “Just forgive me. I’m going to pick up this handlebar and take it home.”
I said, “What will you do with this handlebar?”
He said, “Now, what’s the use hiding it from you! I’ve already collected one wheel, and I’ve got a pedal too. Little by little there will be a bicycle as well. You’ll see!”
He had money—he wasn’t poor. It’s just in this way that people become ‘well-off’: a handle here, a wheel there, a pedal from somewhere else; then one day a seat will also turn up. What’s left after that? And by then he’ll have learned the art of assembling as well.
People are collecting junk! I used to ask him, “What will you do with it?”
He would say, “Who knows when something might come in handy!”

I was reading a Bengali story: there’s a gentleman who, even when he travels, takes along everything from his house—radio, gramophone, record player—odds and ends of every sort. Naturally his wife is distressed. So much luggage, third-class travel—and Indian trains! As soon as a journey is mentioned, his wife’s very life starts trembling. The hot season was coming; once again preparations for travel were beginning; the whole house was being tied up for transport. It was all piled into one compartment. By a stroke of luck, the compartment was completely empty. They were astonished; the wife too was astonished. And the husband said, “See! Haven’t I told you the One above takes care of all? The whole train is full; one compartment is completely empty. Consider it reserved for us.” They stuffed all the luggage into the compartment. It was empty because it was reserved for the military. A military officer came and said, “What is this! After the third station you’ll have to get down. Up to three stations, fine—sit. After that our men are boarding.”
He said, “No worries.” He sat quietly, puffing his hookah—he had brought the hookah too. Everything was along. The whole house was with them. They had left nothing for thieves behind. The wife was very frightened. “Now what will happen? To unload so much at a station and then load it again into another carriage? The train is packed.”
He said, “You don’t worry at all. He who gave the beak also gives the grain.”
The third station came. He refused to get down. The train stopped there for only two minutes. The military men got angry; he wouldn’t get down; there was a tug-of-war. The soldiers entered the compartment. The train pulled out. A great ruckus ensued, but he kept puffing his hookah. Finally the captain said, “We’ll throw your luggage out—every last thing.” He said, “Let’s see who throws it!”
The fourth station came—and the soldiers, all together, unloaded his entire luggage onto the platform. He stood there, puffing his hookah. This was the station where he had to get down anyway. He said to his wife, “See! He who gives the beak gives the grain! These fools are even unloading our luggage. We don’t have to do a thing.”

There are such people all around—you’ll find them everywhere—stuffed with rubbish. And they even think it is God’s gift. They think that too is an offering from the Divine!

Be emptied of this rubbish. This is not God’s gift. Yes, the bowl is God’s—and the bowl is indeed diamond. The bowl is divine. You are divine. You are not here to be filled with trash. Only when the Divine descends into you is there beauty, glory, dignity.

That hour has come, Jaya.

You say:
“The diamond bowl has become empty—
what is this sharp-sweet fear!”
Fear will come—both sharp and sweet. Sharp, because one does not know what unknown one must enter! And sweet, because the call and challenge of the unknown! Sharp, because the past will go. And sweet, because the new will arrive. Sharp, because old habits, old comforts, old securities will all be stripped away. And sweet, because the moment of weightlessness has come. The moment of freedom has come. The chance to fly has come. Now the open sky is ours—the whole sky is ours!

You say:
“For you alone was I fashioned;
I have died, O fickle beloved!
You have tied the great betrothal;
I have died, O fickle beloved!”
To die—indeed. Blessed are those who die for the Divine. Everyone dies, but the rest die a dog’s death. Do not die a dog’s death. A dog’s death means you die under compulsion—death comes, so you die. What is the saint’s death? To die voluntarily—to surrender one’s ego of one’s own accord—and to say, “Let Your will be done; whatever Your will!”

The last words of Jesus on the cross were: O Lord, let Your will be done, not mine! This is death—the supreme death! And such a death becomes the door to immortality. In such a death the great betrothal truly happens. In such a death the individual dissolves and becomes one with the Whole.

Yog Shukla! There is no need to ask—there is nothing to ask. Hum a tune, sing! What is there to ask? Dance, celebrate! What is there to ask? Let those ask whose minds itch. Let those ask who are sick with the itch.

If your bowl has been filled, then dance—drop all decorum and dance! Now it can only be said by dancing. Now it can only be said by singing.

There are things that can only be hummed; there is no other way to say them. There are things that can only be told in silence—silence is their language. That’s why it is natural you feel, “What should I say now?” There is no need to say anything. Without your saying, I heard. When I saw your bowl being filled—you didn’t just see it, I saw it too. Your bowl wouldn’t get filled without my coming to know of it! I saw the sparkle in your eyes, your sense of wonder!

How bewitching the form,
only the eyes will tell.
How mad the love,
only dreams will explain.
Every scab is the last trace
of an ocean once there.
How deep the thirst—you’ll know from the lips.
The history of the feet—you’ll learn from the road.

Moment to moment together,
yet a distance each moment.
Pale the golden dawn,
the vermilion dusk—fruitless.
Water touches the body,
yet life is sandy desert.
The shore’s heartache—you’ll learn from the wave.
The history of the feet—you’ll learn from the road.

On evening’s platter
how many lamps had laughed;
the new moon’s black ink
had bitten how many lamps!
By what sacrifice
the sun’s fate was written—
from the rainbow glance of dawn you’ll come to know.
The history of the feet—you’ll learn from the road.

Seeds of talent
ripen in embers.
Flowers of song
blossom on the shore of tears.
The address of sweet union
you’ll find in Separation Town;
the price of honey-wine—you’ll learn from poison.
The history of the feet—you’ll learn from the road.

I too saw your bowl being filled. As you saw, so I saw. I did not fill your bowl. The one who fills is someone else. I only called out; I only said, “Is there any taker?” and you stretched out your bowl. You are the one who takes; the one who fills is someone else. I am only the go-between, the messenger, the postman! In your eyes, for a moment, I saw—a flame, a sparkle, a flower opening, a song arising! But remember, this bowl can be emptied in a moment. A small mistake—and the bowl is empty. This bowl will fill again and again, and be emptied again and again, if slips keep happening. So when the bowl fills, guard it very carefully.

Kabir says:
“I have found the diamond and tied the knot tight—why open it again and again?”

Kabir speaks truly: once you find the diamond, tie the knot quickly, hide it away. Don’t keep opening it to look, because there are pickpockets about. It’s from such repeated looking that a pickpocket gets to know. The clever keep feeling their empty pocket again and again; the foolish keep feeling the full pocket. If you keep feeling a full pocket, it will get cut. The thieves know: the one whose pocket is full keeps checking again and again, “Has someone taken it? Has someone stolen it?” If you are smart, keep feeling the empty pocket; then, if anyone cuts a pocket, it will be the empty one. No one will touch the full pocket.

“Having found the diamond, tie the knot.” Then there is great need to take care. Those who have nothing have nothing to guard. In one sense they are at ease; there is not much hassle for them.

There is an ancient Japanese story. An emperor would go out every night—disguised—to circle the capital and see what was happening. Was the order running well or not? Were the guards awake or not? One thing puzzled him: he always found a fakir awake under a tree. He had nothing with him, and yet he was always awake—alert, aware. Not only that: sitting alone, he kept saying to himself, “Stay awake, stay awake! Don’t fall asleep!” There was no one else there, so he spoke to himself. The emperor’s curiosity grew. And the man looked a bit blissfully mad, intoxicated with the beyond—there was something about him! Perhaps he had jewels hidden? Who knows with fakirs! Maybe a ruby tucked in a rag! “Stay awake, don’t sleep”—to whom was he speaking? To himself!

One day the emperor could not resist. Curiosity kept growing, so he asked, “May I ask something? I have come by in the day and found you awake; I have come by at night and found you awake. And I find you not only awake but saying, ‘Stay awake; don’t fall asleep! Be alert!’ Whom are you warning? Whom are you waking? And why? What do you have that you worry so much? Sleep at ease, stretch your legs and sleep. We don’t have the luxury of sleep; even if we want to, sleep does not come. You could sell your horses and sleep like a king.”

The fakir said, “It’s the other way round. You could sell your horses and sleep; what do you have to lose? I have something to lose. My bowl has been filled. Now I must remain awake, remain awake. I keep warning myself—don’t fall asleep!

“If you fall asleep, what is there for you to lose—trash and trinkets! If it’s lost, so what; if it stays, so what! It has no value either way. I have something to lose.”

Shukla, now you have something to lose. Stay awake; keep your awareness gathered! When the bowl fills, then great vigilance is needed. Otherwise the bowl empties in a moment! It fills with great difficulty; it empties very quickly.

What is of supreme value in life is gained with great difficulty, but lost very quickly. To climb these mountain peaks is very arduous, but to fall is very easy. Don’t fall—walk carefully!

What is happening to you is happening to many sannyasins. Visitors from outside may not see it, because this bowl is not a visible thing, and these diamonds cannot be touched by the hands. What is happening to you is happening to many here. The mad ones gathered here are gathered for just this. The drunkards who have come here are not sitting here for nothing. They are drinking their fill! Because they drink, they can stay here. Otherwise there are a thousand obstacles—of society, of the state, of the system. A thousand obstacles. Coming here is not easy; it is only for the daring. But those who have come and have tasted—there is no way for them to go back.

May your bowl be filled—may everyone’s bowl be filled! Is there any taker?

That’s all for today.