Hansa To Moti Chuge #4

Nowhere is there any shade to be found!
Nowhere do the feet come to rest!
The road is unknown, the people unknown,
all the conjunctions unknown;
from the Unknown alone came to me
an unknown hunger, unknown indulgences!
A delusion, bitter-sweet,
a trick of havens and hideouts—
what I would take to be my destination,
nowhere is that village seen.
Nowhere is there any shade to be found,
nowhere do the feet come to rest!
To whom shall I say, you are my friend?
To whom shall I say, you are my victory?
Each day the dreams keep breaking,
each day one’s own keep parting—
with a burning lodged in my life-breath
I have come only to be scorched!
Present or future—
helplessly it becomes the past;
and in the Void are dissolved
all these songs of joy and sorrow!
To whom shall I say, you are my friend?
To whom shall I say, you are my victory!
One breath is a smile-tinged longing,
one breath is a sighing groan!
So forceful is the river of movement.
I am path-lost, I am path-defeated.
Whoever I saw was helpless too—
who has whose support?
Storing multi-colored dreams,
my heart’s darkness is bottomless—
the more the distance keeps shrinking,
the more the road keeps lengthening!
One breath is a smile-tinged longing,
one breath is a sighing groan!
Whose thirst has ever been quenched?
And when has Truth been a pastime?
Here there is no fixed abode.
Happiness unknown, sorrow unknown—
at every step is being woven
the warp and weft of Time and Fate!
Before me is a mirage.
Within me is a faith
that is ever-victorious over death—
that life is with me!
My life is only thirst.
This thirst itself is the jest and revelry!
Nowhere is there any shade to be found!
Nowhere do the feet come to rest!
The road unknown, the people unknown,
all the conjunctions unknown;
from the Unknown alone there came to me
an unknown hunger, unknown indulgences!
A delusion, bitter-sweet,
a trick of havens and hideouts—
whom shall I take to be my destination?
Nowhere is that village seen.
Nowhere is there any shade to be found!
Nowhere do the feet come to rest!

This is every human being’s experience—for centuries upon centuries, always. It was the same before, it is the same today, it will be the same tomorrow. Because where we are searching for the destination, there the destination is not. That there is a destination is certain; the direction of our search is astray. It is not that there is no destination; it is not that there is no shade; it is not that there is no village—there is a village, there is shade, and we do have the feet to carry us there. But if you walk with your back turned toward the village, you may walk a great deal, but you will not arrive. And if the stream of your life runs contrary to shade, then you will sear, you will burn, but you will not find rest.
The destination is within, and we search for the path without. That which is lost is within; we search without.
Rabia—Sufi fakir, an amazing Sufi woman. One evening she was searching at her door for something. The neighbors asked: What are you searching for? She said: I have lost my needle. They too began to search. She was an old woman, a good woman; it was getting toward evening, the sun about to set. Then one of the searchers asked: Tell us exactly, at what place did your needle fall? The road is long, evening draws near, the sun is on the verge of setting. If we knew the exact spot where the needle fell, perhaps we could find it. Such a tiny thing, such a big road!
Rabia began to laugh—burst out laughing, laughing like a madwoman. She said: Better not ask that; the needle fell inside the house. Then they said: Madwoman! Then why search outside? We always suspected you were mad. This ecstasy of yours can only belong to the mad. In this world the sensible look miserable. The intelligent are weeping. And you, always blissful! We suspected it earlier; today it is confirmed. The needle fell inside, why are you searching outside?
Rabia said: I am honoring the rule of the world. The needle fell inside, but inside it is dark. And I am poor; I have not even the means to light a lamp. So I thought, one should search where there is light—how will I find it in the dark! That is why I search outside; outside there is still a little light. And my people of the village, you call me mad! Think once about yourselves: that which you are searching for, where have you lost it? You are searching for bliss; first ask, where was it lost? You are searching for Atman, for Paramatma, for immortality, for the eternal, for heaven, for Moksha—first ask, raise the fundamental question: that which you search for, where have you lost it? And I tell you, it is lost within and you are searching without. Do whatever you will, union will not occur.
Nowhere is there any shade to be found!
Nowhere do the feet come to rest!
How can they rest! There is no shade to be found, no village to be found—how are the feet to rest! Nor will it be found. Search the whole earth, search the moon and stars, keep on searching. That which you seek is hiding in the seeker himself. The one who is searching is none other than that which you have set out to find. Your inner consciousness itself is the final destination of your life. You yourself are your destination. You yourself are that village where your feet are to arrive.
And once this is understood, the very talk of walking ends. Must one walk to reach oneself? Walking is required to go away from oneself; to come to oneself, where is the question of walking! You are already there; you have always been there. You have walked so much, yet you are still there. For your nature is with you. Even if you would, you cannot leave it; even if you would, you cannot lose it.
People ask me: We must seek God; where should we seek? I ask them: Where did you lose him? First settle that. And if he has not been lost at all, then the search is futile. Then the search will lead into wandering—immense wandering. And then life will be nothing but torment and melancholy, because you will search and each time find that you have not found. You will search and each time be defeated. You will search and each time only failure will be in your hands. Then life will be filled with tears. So it is: life has filled with tears.
Nowhere is there any shade to be found!
Nowhere do the feet come to rest!
The road unknown, the people unknown,
all the conjunctions unknown;
from the Unknown there came to me
an unknown hunger, unknown indulgences!
A delusion, bitter-sweet,
a trick of havens and hideouts—
what I would take to be my destination,
nowhere is that village seen.
Nowhere is there any shade to be found!
Nowhere do the feet come to rest!
And when you are unfamiliar with yourself, whom will you become familiar with? He who has not known himself will not be able to know anyone else. The very art of knowing has not arisen in him. The lamp that knows has never been lit within.
The road unknown, the people unknown—
why? Because you are unknown to yourself.
All the conjunctions unknown—
why? Because you are unknown to yourself.
From the Unknown there came to me
an unknown hunger, unknown indulgences—
why? Because you are unknown to yourself.
All knowledge is worth two coppers if there is no self-knowledge. All acquaintance is futile if there is no acquaintance with oneself. Of oneself there is no recognition, and we keep gathering who knows how much rubbish in the name of knowledge! We do not gain entry into our own home, and we strain to enter the moon and stars. What will you do on the moon and stars? Having reached the moon and stars, you will still be you! Even if you reach heaven, what will you do?
I have heard: a man worked as a porter at Bori Bunder. He was carefree. He earned enough. At night he drank heartily. Eating and drinking, sometimes going to a brothel, friends and companions—what more did he need! He died. He was a straightforward sort, with no webs and entanglements in life. Understand this well.
Sometimes gamblers, drunkards, and brothel-goers are simple-hearted. Sadhus, sannyasins, mahatmas are very complex, very entangled. Among so-called criminals you may find simple hearts, but among mahatmas to find a simple heart is a difficult matter. Being a mahatma is itself a trade of complexity.
That man died; he was taken straight to heaven. But his heart would not settle. Where Bori Bunder… and where heaven! His heart would not settle. No clatter of trains, no whistle and rumble; no clamor of passengers. Not even freight trains going and coming. And all his life he had lived at Bori Bunder. That was his life, that was his flavor. He knew one music—trains arriving and departing, the hubbub rising, the cries of hawkers, the voices of people, carrying loads; then in the evening drinking, making friends drink; sometimes sitting down to gamble; sometimes cards late into the night! Life was very carefree. Reaching heaven, he was in great trouble. He asked: What is there to do here? Where are the trains? Where are the engines? Where is Bori Bunder?
The gods said: What Bori Bunder here! What trains here! No trains run here. No one has to go anywhere here. Whoever is where he is is blissful.
Freight trains? they said—there is no question of freight here! Here only the wealth of the Self is the sole wealth.
So what must one do? he asked. The gods said: Here nothing is to be done. Chant the name of Ram—Jai Ram, Jai Ram, Jai Ram…! Choose your cloud, sit cross-legged upon it, chant Ram-Ram.
Where Bori Bunder, and where sitting upon a cloud! Great compulsion. Sit he did. He chanted Ram-Ram too—and in between he said: To hell with it! Eventually Ram got the news: what kind of mantra is being chanted here! Then he began to say: Ram-Ram, Ram-Ram, Jai Ram, Jai Ram— to hell with it! Let it go to blazes! To hell!
He was summoned. Ram said: Do you not know how to chant a mantra? This in between— to hell with it! let it go to blazes!—has it ever been seen in any mantra?
He said: What is there to hide from you? I want Bori Bunder! Without the train I cannot even sleep. Unless there is noise, clamor, passengers arriving, hawkers’ cries rising, it feels utterly empty. Here I am sitting on a cloud—am I a human or some kind of cloud? And I am astonished that these others are sitting on their clouds day and night chanting Jai Ram, Jai Ram. After all, how long is this to be done?
It is said Ram said: Brother, do not torment him; send him back to Bori Bunder. He was all right there. Sometimes there he even remembered me; here he is cursing me.
Even if you go to heaven, what will you do? Wherever you go, what will you do? You will remain you. Therefore the question is not of going somewhere—it is of transformation; to awaken where you are.
How much knowledge man has accumulated! Scriptures upon scriptures have been collected. In the British Museum library there are now so many books that if the shelves were placed one after another around the earth, they would circle the whole earth three times. Each day books increase. Each day man’s information increases. And each day man’s anguish also increases. Each day the mountain of sorrow upon the human chest grows higher.
No—somewhere there is a slip. Somewhere a fundamental mistake is being made. Somewhere the root itself is going wrong. One has not known oneself and has set out to know everything. He who has not known himself—his knowledge becomes ignorance. And he who has known himself—even his not-knowing is luminous. His not knowing is extraordinary.
Buddha did not know as much as you know. Nor did Mahavira know as much as you know. Today schoolchildren know more than Muhammad knew. Ask Buddha where Timbuktu lies—he would be at a loss. Meditation, Samadhi, and such are all right, but Timbuktu! Small children will answer. If you keep account of outer knowledge, Buddha’s information is not very great; and yet there is a lamp burning within. Buddha is radiant. That radiance is eternal. The question is not of knowing; the knower has awakened—the question is of the knower.
And remember, there is an inevitable process in the human mind: to place the blame upon another. If you are unhappy, you immediately begin to say there is no happiness in the world! If you are not blissful, you immediately seek some way to conclude that bliss cannot be here—the world is Maya! Here there is only sorrow! This is an ocean of sorrow—Bhavsagar! It must be crossed!
You shifted the matter onto the world; you did not take the responsibility upon your own shoulders. You did not say, I am ignorant; self-ignorant—therefore there is sorrow. You said, the world is Maya. Understand the distinction. By calling the world Maya you saved yourself; you hid behind it. This very logic has persisted for centuries, and that is why man is in darkness—and will remain in darkness until this logic breaks, until it is shattered. This logic has many, many forms.
Formerly people said: As God has made it, so it is. Everything is in his hands, in the Master’s hands. What can we do? What is in our power? What will be, will be, as Ram has written! Then his will. If he gives sorrow, we will endure sorrow. What can we do?
Thus they shifted it onto Ram. They became bhaktas by shifting it onto Ram. They have no knowledge of Ram; without knowing oneself, what dust of Ram will they know! But they found an excuse. A peg to hang everything upon. But sorrow does not end by hanging it on pegs. This is not the way to cut it.
Then came such people who said: No, there is no God, no ruler; this is the result of human karma. Because of the actions you did in previous births you are suffering sorrow. This too is the same thing. No difference. Only the words have changed. Formerly because of God— as he created—we were suffering; now because of past births we are suffering. This birth is unknown, this life is unknown, and you talk of past births!
And why were you suffering in those past births?—because of still earlier births! And then?—because of still earlier births! Then on the day of your primal birth, why did you suffer? No—no one wants to carry the question that far. And if someone does, we are annoyed. We say, do not make a mountain out of it—because you are taking away our excuses!
But that too went stale. Then there were people like Karl Marx who said: No, it is not a question of God, nor of karma; it is a question of social structure, of economic order; because of these man is unhappy. And there is no way to be free of them. When classes are abolished, then happiness will be. Until from the whole world class and class-exploitation are abolished, until a classless society is formed, there will not be happiness.
And a classless society will never be formed. It cannot be. Not in Russia, not in China, and nowhere. This too is an excuse to postpone—no bamboo, no flute! And man, to live in sorrow, will keep seeking pretexts, consolations.
Sigmund Freud said: No, it is not a question of social order; it is a question of the inner drives of man, of the unconscious instincts; because of them man is unhappy. And there is no way to be rid of them. Freud has said: Man can never be happy. At the most psychology can do this much—that it will not let a man be too unhappy; it will allow him to be at least less unhappy, that’s all. At best man will remain ordinarily unhappy; that is the best state. He will not be extraordinarily unhappy, he will be ordinarily unhappy. The task of psychology is only this: whoever begins to be extraordinarily unhappy, drag him back, by persuading him, into ordinary unhappiness.
Is this any goal? But this is the thinking of the human race so far. One fundamental error is being made. A few did not make that error—and they attained supreme bliss. Some Buddha, some Kabir, some Krishna, some Christ, some Mansoor attained supreme bliss! They did not make this mistake; they did not weave this net of logic. They said: If I am unhappy, I am responsible. If I am unhappy, I must look within. If I am unhappy, the lamp within me is extinguished; therefore there is darkness. By finding ever-new causes and pinning my sorrow on them there is no essence.
Your vision is counterfeit,
the coin is mint-true!
This coin was minted by Nature
from the earth’s clay.
This coin was fashioned by Man
according to his own tradition.
On this coin the stamps are imprinted
by Destiny’s own hands;
this coin has been in circulation
through the valley of birth and death!
Strike it and it sings
songs of joy and of mourning;
seeing fault in this coin
is merely idle fancy!
The coin is mint-true!
Your goods are adulterated,
this customer is very true;
this customer melts like sugar
at sweet words!
To get a little mothering
he lays down his all!
The deceits you see are all yours—
this customer’s bond with Truth
is from birth to birth!
Bring your inner compassion out
and put it to the test;
this customer’s hand is open,
this customer’s heart is full!
This customer is very true!
You are newly come;
this marketplace is ancient!
Gold and silver, diamond and pearl—
how many here were duped;
those who gathered their whole life long
went away empty-handed!
This strange bazaar of joy and sorrow—
here fame and disgrace are sold;
those who receive are always old-time,
those who give are ever new!
You are entangled in yourself;
open your eyes and see—
he who can give of himself
is only that much wise!
This marketplace is ancient!
Be as cunning as you like,
the world is simple-hearted—
weeping in a moment, laughing in a moment,
this world is spontaneous and guileless.
Eagerness is the very nature here,
life is a wonder!
Truth is dream, dream is truth—
what is the difference between these two?
Upon a few beliefs counted upon fingers
rests the bustle of this world!
Whatever comes, you will have to take—
willingly or unwillingly!
Ah, this futile haggling,
these futile insults—
the world is simple-hearted!
Your vision is counterfeit,
the coin is mint-true!
Vision must change. That which is within you is the supreme treasure. Not a trace of error is there. This existence is as it should be; not a jot of discord is in it. This existence is a rare festival. You are blind, you are lame, you are crippled. If you do not know how to dance, do not call the courtyard crooked!
Your vision is counterfeit,
the coin is mint-true!
This coin was minted by Nature
from the earth’s clay.
This coin was fashioned by Man
according to his own tradition.
On this coin the stamps are imprinted
by Destiny’s own hands;
this coin has been in circulation
through the valley of birth and death!
Strike it and it sings
songs of joy and of mourning;
seeing fault in this coin
is merely idle fancy!
The coin is mint-true!
Your vision is counterfeit.
Vision… it is a matter of changing the way of seeing. Let this be treasured in your heart in a most fundamental way. Do not blame. No one else is responsible, except you. It hurts to accept this—that I alone am responsible. The mind wants that someone else be responsible. However much it hurts, without accepting the truth there is no revolution in life. It feels good to believe that someone else is giving you pain. It seems absurd that I myself am giving pain to myself. Then no excuse remains. Then anyone will say: if you yourself give pain to yourself, that is your whim—give it if you must, and if you must not, then do not. If another is giving it, at least this much support remains—that we can save ourselves a little. We can at least say: What can we do, even if we wish to do something—what can we do! There is helplessness, we are powerless. There is at least the facility to weep, some means to shed tears.
But whoever has sought this facility, into his life religion does not enter. And he who makes outer causes the excuse for his sorrow will never attain to Paramatma.
Lal’s sutras today point in the direction of this inner search:
If I do, they do not share; they put obstacles in others’ way.
Such men will fall into hell, into the ravine of the eighty-four.
Life belongs to those who know how to share. Life belongs to those who know how to squander. Life belongs to those who pour out with both hands. It does not belong to misers.
But why this miserliness? Miserliness because we have no sense of the wealth within. That is why. Therefore we grip everything hard, lest it slip from the hand—what has come should not be lost! It has come with great difficulty—after how much journeying, how much running, how much scrambling it has come! Let it not slip from the hand!
We do not know of the inner empire—hence we sit clutching coppers. We clutch our safes, and fill them with coppers. For whatever death will snatch away has no value. But you have such an All, such a wealth, that even death cannot snatch it; such that even the flames of the pyre cannot burn it.
He who comes to know of that wealth comes to know one more thing—that wealth is boundless. However much you share it, it does not finish. It is not that it runs out. That which runs out—is that any wealth? That which has a limit—is that any wealth? Do not take that crippled, limping thing as wealth. If it is infinite—then it is wealth. If it is endless—then it is wealth.
You think we have named God—Ishwar. The word Ishwar arises from Aishwarya. Aishwarya means splendor, opulence, wealth. Such Aishwarya is within you! If only you would turn back a little and turn the eye within, then you would begin to lavish. You would begin to share. Because you would see a new experience—that the more you share, the more new springs begin to burst within you. You are not a tank; you are a well. The tank is afraid someone might draw water, because the more water goes, the emptier the tank becomes. The well calls. The well sends invitations; writes letters of love—come, draw! Because the well knows that if no one draws, I will stagnate. The well knows that if no one draws, I will die. The well knows that if someone keeps drawing, new springs will keep bursting, a fresh stream will keep coming. I will remain ever-new. I will remain young. I will remain fresh. I will remain pure. I will remain alive!
You are not a tank; you are a well. And if you look within, you will know the well is connected to the ocean! Drink, drinkers, as much as you wish to drink!
Lavish with both hands as much as you wish to lavish. You have such Amrit that you cannot exhaust it.
If I do, they do not share…
People do not share by their own hand.
…and if another shares, they put obstacles in his way.
They not only refrain themselves, they also put obstacles in the path of the one who shares—because if another shares it hurts their ego. That is why Jesus was crucified. They themselves would not share, but this man was sharing—this man was sharing God. Socrates was made to drink poison. They themselves would not share, but this man was proclaiming Truth. Mansoor’s throat was cut. They themselves would not share, yet this man proclaimed: Anal Haq! Aham Brahmasmi! I am Brahman! He kept sharing.
We have misbehaved with those who share. We misers are pained to see one who shares! The sharer wounds the ego of misers.
If I do, they do not share; they put obstacles in others’ way.
Such men will fall into hell, into the ravine of the eighty-four.
Such persons will fall into hell; they have fallen—those who neither share nor let others share. And they will wander in the eighty-four lakhs of wombs, again and again falling into the pit of the womb, and never will they have the vision of the Eternal.
A sigh that has not gone out upon the lips as one final moan—
no such desire exists in life!
My feet have reached the limits of weariness,
my head the naive heaviness of gravity!
A smoke keeps gathering in the heart,
often water gathers in the eyes!
Of an unknown world the order is unknown,
all knowledge and delusion are unknown;
of an unknown direction I am the unknown traveler—
only failure is known and familiar!
A path that has not suddenly been lost in darkness—
no such path exists in life!
The lips that are freckled by waves of ecstasy—
they carry the piercing burn of thirst;
The ocean of lack that surged into tears—
in that, too, are waves of beauty and grace!
Behind me the laments of endless ruins,
before me only a misty emptiness—
this melody and hue, this bustle, all of it is there,
yet within myself how solitary I am!
A depth that could give me support even for a moment—
no such depth exists in life!
Whoever I saw was lost in his own selfhood,
whomever I gained was senseless in the burn here—
like a madman I awakened the Unnameable at every door,
The one you are asking is himself the confused one.
In every silence there is a stifled fear,
in every sound a trembling doubt;
how many sighs have weighed the earth down,
how many deep breaths have drowned in the sky.
No sigh exists in life
that could disturb the order of destiny.
What in this life is worth saving?

No desire remains in life
that did not fade before becoming a sigh upon the lips!
No path remains in life
that did not suddenly get lost in darkness!
No depth remains in life
that could give me even a moment’s support!
No sigh exists in life
that could unsettle the sequence of fate.

What is there in this life? Open your eyes and look carefully: your hands are empty. However full they seem, they are empty. Even Alexander’s hands are empty.

However richly people may be adorned with wealth in this world, until the inner master awakens, until one recognizes the lord within, all is deception. One day you will weep, one day you will repent. When death stands at the door and snatches away all that you earned, all that you held with such craving, such impatience—when all is taken, you will writhe.

As I see it, people are not afraid of death; they fear what death will take away. How could you fear death itself? You have no acquaintance with it. Why fear the unknown? Who knows—death may be good, even sweet! Who knows—death may be the doorway to a new life! There is no familiarity with death, so why fear death? What is the real fear then? Even in your ignorance you do know this much: your money, your status, your prestige—death will take them. That much is certain. What death might give, you don’t know; what it will take, you know, clearly. All that you have identified with will be stripped away. That is what makes you panic. The panic is not of death; it is of your grasping, your possessiveness, your miserliness. If only you would open your own fist, the fear of death would vanish in that very moment. Do not clutch—live! Pass through life, but do not clutch.

In the city of Pompeii a volcano erupted thousands of years ago. The entire town fled. It was midnight; the eruption—blazing flames, fire raining on the town! People tried to save whatever they could: someone lugging his strongbox; each with whatever they had—poor people too, carrying beds, cots… One man alone walked along carefree with only his walking stick. Whoever saw him was astonished. He was the town’s philosopher—a fakir. All who saw him looked at him with pity: “Alas, he could save nothing!”

The fakir laughed: “I have saved myself—what else is there to save?” Whoever met him said, “You stride along with such style! Is this the time to walk with swagger?” Perhaps a Nawabi gait, stick in hand, humming a tune. “Is this the time to go strolling with a stick?”

The fakir said, “This is my daily hour. What do volcanoes matter? From the day one knows oneself, death makes no difference. From the day one knows oneself, death becomes false.”

And on the path of knowing oneself, sharing is both the means and the goal. Share, and you will know; know, and you will share.

If you earn and will not share, hoarding for heirs,
you’ll wander on through the eighty-four lakh births.

In the body is Kailash; bathe at Hari’s own ghat within.
There the Yamuna flows full; the Ganga pours daily nearby.

Lal says: “Kailash is in your body—where are you going? Where are you headed? One runs to Kashi, to Kaaba, to Kailash, to Girnar, to Jerusalem. Where are you going?

In the body is Kailash; bathe at Hari’s own ghat within.
Right there, bathe! And Hari’s steps are there within, yet you go to Haridwar! The gate of Hari is within you, but you’ve bought a ticket and set out for Haridwar. You say you’ll bathe at Hari’s steps. What folly! You go outward seeking a pilgrimage, while the pilgrimage of pilgrimages is within you!

In the body is Kailash; bathe at Hari’s own ghat within.
Lal says: It’s astonishing—you go again and again to bathe in rivers! Take the plunge within!

There you will find the Yamuna brimming. Outside, the Yamuna sometimes floods, sometimes dries up, withers in the summer heat. The outer river changes. The inner Yamuna is forever full—ever the same, one taste!

Full flows the Yamuna within; the Ganga pours daily nearby.
And right there within you the Ganga flows every day—where are you going? Off to become a Hajji? To do the Hajj? Turning into a pilgrim? You’re being foolish.

A man came to Ramakrishna. He said, “I am going to the Ganga, to Kashi, to bathe. Paramhansadev, give me your blessing.”

Ramakrishna was simple, guileless. Even when he spoke, he spoke sweetly. He was not like Kabir—who would pick up a cudgel and crack it on your head! Kabir has his own splendor, his own style:

Kabir stands in the marketplace, torch in hand:
Let him who can burn down his house come with me.

He says, “I stand with a flaming brand—is there anyone brave enough to set his own house on fire? Let him burn it down, then he may come with me. That’s the condition.”

Ramakrishna was of another kind. Even among buddhas there are many kinds. Ramakrishna said, “Good, go if you like, but let me tell you one thing…” A sweet blow—and sometimes a sweet blow pierces deeper than a hard one. A snake-charmer’s art—no cudgel needed.

The man said, “Please tell me, Paramhansadev, what is it?”

Ramakrishna said, “Come close, I’ll whisper in your ear. You are going—fine. But have you seen the big trees standing along the Ganga’s banks?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know why they stand there?”

“I have no idea. No scripture mentions why trees stand by rivers. Rivers have trees; that’s all.”

Ramakrishna said, “Then you don’t know. When you take a dip in the Ganga, its purity washes away your sins. But sins are not so easily given up; they perch on the trees. When you come out and start back home, they hop down and climb onto you again. So if you dip—don’t come out. Drown for good. Otherwise it is all in vain. Your bath will be like an elephant’s: he bathes thoroughly, scrubs himself clean, and coming out he flings dust over himself—spoiling it all. So if you dip, if you heed me, then drown once and for all—don’t come out.”

He said, “Paramhansadev, what are you saying? Commit suicide? Take a dip and not come out?”

“Then going is useless. You will go and come, and that’s that. The sins will sit on the trees watching the road: ‘Come along, my boy…’ and mount you again. You will gain nothing.”

Ramakrishna is simple, he doesn’t swing a club—but the dagger goes in, invisible. The man never went to Kashi again. What use now? First go and cut down all the trees on Kashi’s ghats—and who knows, if you cut them down, will the sins just remain standing on the ground? They’re sins; if they can perch on trees, they can stand on the ground. They may sit on rooftops. And sins are subtle; they may hover in the air, fluttering above—wait till you pass, then mount you again.

There is another Ganga flowing within you. Its name is meditation.

Chant with joy—Hari’s gate will open;
let awareness pour as the sahasradhara.
In the mind is Mahesh;
at the utter ending of disturbance, the fountain bursts.

When, through meditation and remembrance of the Lord, the mind dissolves, the meeting with Mahesh happens—the god of gods is found. Then a rain of bliss showers within—streams of nectar falling. In the absolute cessation of mind, Shiva is witnessed, and beneath the cataract of supreme bliss, Brahman plays. You need go nowhere; the entire existence is within you. The cosmos is in the body.

It is very hard to walk
on high, low, narrow,
rocky paths!
Walking is hard—the shins swell,
the chest turns into a bellows.
Outside the sun is bright, the moon and stars shine;
within we are defeated by our own darkness.
How heavy the mind,
how moist the eyes,
how many thorns of delusion
prick the very breath!
Yet we must walk, and keep on walking.
But this much is true—
one must become and then be gone.
A flower’s blooming
is its withering.
Days vanish, nights vanish.
Spring burns away; the rains melt and are gone.
Breath moves, time moves on—
and the tales of pleasure and pain keep moving too!
But we endure,
the world endures through us,
on a handful of shifting desires.
Walking is hard—
yet we walk
on high, low, narrow,
rocky paths!

We too feel a little astray,
our faith slackened, our voice low;
else at every step that meets us
it is only the edge of our own dream.
Direction-confusion belongs
to the one who claims to know directions.
Fear of falling belongs
to the one whose flight is high.
Every particle of an unknown world is unknown,
every moment of life a tangled tale;
in this finite cosmos, whose existence is separate?
To lose oneself is to find oneself.
We keep rising
on fresh-blooming surges,
we keep falling
on stifled sighs.
Walking is hard—
yet we walk
on high, low, narrow,
rocky paths!
On high, low, narrow,
rocky paths!
Walking is hard—the shins swell,
the chest turns into a bellows.
Outside the sun is bright, the moon and stars shine;
within we are defeated by our own darkness.
How heavy the mind,
how moist the eyes,
how many thorns of delusion
prick the very breath!
Yet we must walk, and keep on walking.

There is another way, on which one does not walk. Another path, on which one sits, stops. No highs and lows, no thorny track—just quiet, silence, no noise. No sequence, no method. Sitting in that un-patterned, methodless stillness is called meditation.

Mind is movement; meditation is release from movement. The mind goes on moving; its movement is its life. The moment mind does not move within you, that moment is meditation. How will that extraordinary moment arrive when the mind does not move? The key is witnessing. Sit. Sit and go on watching. Let the mind move; do not stop it, do not quarrel, do not condemn, do not join company. Impartial, detached—as if you have nothing to do with it—uninvolved, far away, as if the mind is someone else, like people walking on a road. Establish such distance from your mind and sit. Slowly, one day you find: sometimes the mind stops. For a moment gaps appear. In those very gaps the Ganga bursts forth. In those very gaps the gate of Hari opens. In those very gaps there are glimpses of Kailash. The intervals grow larger. Gradually the final, supreme moment arrives when the mind takes leave forever.

Chant with joy—Hari’s gate will open; awareness pours as the sahasradhara.
In the mind is Mahesh; at the utter ending of disturbance, the fountain bursts.

Let your cap be dharma and compassion; your robe, dyed deep in virtue.
Let restraint be the yogi’s loincloth; let the ash you wear be devotion.

Lal is a simple villager; he speaks village speech. He says: If there is anything worthy to wear upon the head, it is religion, compassion, love. If there is any dye worthy of your robe, it is the deep dye of virtue—of character. Character means: when meditation awakens within, its rays that shine outside are called character. When a lamp is lit in the house, light is seen at the windows and doors. Even a passerby knows: the lamp within is lit. If the inner lamp is extinguished, darkness peers out through windows and doors.

The aura of meditation is character. When you are quiet within, the coolness of character surrounds you. Whoever comes near will be delighted by your coolness. He came heated, he will be moistened and soothed.

Let your cap be dharma and compassion; your robe, dyed deep in virtue.
Let restraint be the yogi’s loincloth—inner yoga, inner union.
Let the ash you wear be devotion.

Wear the sandals of forgiveness;
let your staff and water-pot be conduct born of meditation.
If there is any way worth living, any conduct worth adopting, let it be this: let truth resound in your speech, let the song of truth arise.
Do this much, and you will cross this vast cosmos; you will go beyond it. Do only this: take the little boat of meditation and the oar of character—enough. You will cross this ocean of becoming.

Play then in the nine regions—play in the infinite! The number nine is the sign of the infinite, for at nine the count ends; beyond nine, repetition begins—ten, eleven, twelve—returning again. Nine is the symbol of the endless; beyond nine, countlessness.

Play in the nine regions, kindle the sacred fire of meditation.
But remember one thing: kindle the fire of meditation—only then will you be cooked done; only then will this world become a play. Supreme renunciation is to take this world as lila, as a divine play. Begin with meditation, end in lila.

Dry up every craving; sit upon the saltless rock of yoga.
If you can but light the fire of meditation… People sit by burning wood and think they are tending a sacred fire! If you must light a fire, light the fire of meditation. If you want flames, let them be the flames of meditation; only there will your ego burn, only there will sense-pleasure be consumed.

In that fire all your taste for colors and flavors, your hunger for pleasures, your lust for enjoyment, will be burned to ash. But if you sit tending a fire of sticks, nothing will happen. Whom are you deceiving? Others perhaps—but you are deceiving yourself too. Every moment of life passes; it is precious and will not return. Sit upon the siddha-rock of yoga. Let the fire be meditation’s.

Let me drink, let me drink, O!
the cup of youth’s wine!
Do not remind me of tomorrow;
tomorrow comes tomorrow.
Today is the age of surging moods—
your intoxicating tavern!
Let me drink my fill, O beauty,
the nectar of your pollen!
With unsated thirst
I have come, a madman.
I have not learned, here,
to tire or be sated.
This thirst is not to be quenched:
let me drink to my heart’s fancy—
only do not say, O beauty, “enough now,”
for “enough” is to die.

We have taken life to be only indulgence and pleasure—and think that if indulgence ends, life ends. The truth is exactly the opposite. Where indulgence ends, real life begins. And the ending of indulgence does not mean you run off to a forest, abandon wife and children, shop and market. The true end of indulgence means: meditation awakens, and the rest of life, in all its dimensions, becomes only a play, a mere performance. Then play with all your heart!

You play Rama in the Ramleela; Sita is abducted—you weep, you ask the trees, “O trees, where is my Sita?” But inside, you know—what Sita, what is there to do with it! Yet tears fall outside. The war happens; there is a fierce battle with Ravana; life itself seems at stake. Still inside you know—who is the enemy, who the friend? The curtain falls… Sometimes go backstage and look when the Ramleela’s curtain drops: Rama, Ravana, Hanuman all sit together sipping tea, chatting. Mother Sita pours the tea—serves Rama and serves Ravana. Hanuman has set his tail aside.

Within, let there be a constant knowing that all is a play. Then there is no anxiety. Live in the world—and where will you go to live anyway? Everywhere is the world.

The end of indulgence is not the end of life. But waking from indulgence—leaving indulgence outside while within awakening happens, you become a witness and indulgence turns into a play. You will still eat, you will still sleep; you will sleep and yet not sleep, you will eat and yet not eat.

There is a beloved Jain story: Neminath arrived—Krishna’s cousin, and a Tirthankara of the Jains. Neminath stayed across the Yamuna. Krishna said to Rukmini, “Go, prepare delicious food and attend on Neminath.” She said, “But the river is in flood; it is not possible to cross on foot. The flood is such that even the boatmen will not risk it. What shall we do? How can we cross?”

Krishna said something wonderful: “Tell the river, ‘If Neminath has fasted from birth, O river, give way.’” Rukmini could scarcely believe it. But if Krishna says it—well, try and see. A modern wife would say, “Go to blazes! Whom are you trying to fool?” But it is an old story; Rukmini could not speak thus. If he says it, there must be some sense in it. Without trying, nothing can be said.
I cooked the food and set out. Inside there is doubt—a great doubt: will the river even give us a path? With a suspicious mind, I still asked, “If Neminath is a lifelong faster…” Lifelong faster! Even that I can’t believe. How can anyone be a lifelong faster? At least in childhood he must have drunk his mother’s milk. And if he really is a lifelong faster, why does he need food today? All this sounds senseless, but if Krishna says so, then it must be right.
And when the river did give way, Rukmini could not believe her own eyes. Rukmini and her companions crossed the river and fed Neminath. They were amazed. They had prepared so much food—enough for not one but fifty people. It was a royal welcome. But Neminath polished off everything by himself. Then the doubt grew even stronger: how could he be a lifelong faster? And then they remembered the real fix: in their hurry they had not asked Krishna what to do on the return! Going was fine—Krishna had said Neminath is a lifelong faster. But returning? They were returning after feeding him—now with what face could they ask the Ganga or the Yamuna to give them a path? What to do now? Bewildered, they stood on the riverbank.

Neminath began to laugh. He asked, “What’s the obstacle?” They said, “The obstacle is this: we had asked. Krishna’s answer worked for going, but how will it work for coming back?”

Neminath said, “Stop worrying. Just say again: If Neminath is a lifelong faster, let the river give way.” They protested, “Master, we had trouble believing Krishna’s words—how can we possibly believe yours now?”

Neminath said, “It is not a matter of belief or disbelief. Do as I say. The river knows full well that Neminath is fasting.”

Rukmini had no other way, so she had to say it. Hesitantly she addressed the river: “O river, give us a path, if Neminath is a lifelong faster.” And the river gave way.

It’s a very charming story. It is symbolic; it cannot be historical. Human beings do not perceive themselves truly—what would rivers perceive! But the point is the symbol, the value it conveys.

The meaning of Neminath’s “lifelong fasting” is simply this: everything is a play, and within, the witness is present. Whether he ate or stayed hungry, in both situations the inner witness remained. The witness is never absent, not even for a moment. He has become settled in the eternal, continuous witnessing. This is the sacred fire of meditation. Then, play!

“Roam the nine continents in play; keep the fire of meditation burning.
Savor every flavor; yet the touchstone of yoga is beyond all taste.”

Then there is the wondrous slab of attainment—eternal, where there is neither time nor change. Take your seat upon that slab of realization. That alone is a throne worth attaining. Be enthroned upon the supreme seat of samadhi.

“Give the world a share, yet set aside a tenth for the divine.
Soon life will lose its wager; later your knees will have to bend.”

Death comes quickly, says Lal. You will have to bow your knees. If you have bowed in meditation before death arrives, death then no longer comes to you. If you bow before death, nothing will help you—no strategy will work. So bow now! Disappear now! Let death not be the one who effaces you; efface yourself before it, and then none will ever efface you. If you bow before death bows you, your victory is eternal.

“Give the world a share, yet set aside a tenth for the divine.”
What a lovely saying. He says: at the very least, give one-tenth of your life to the divine. Out of twenty-four hours, give at least two hours. If you kindle the fire of meditation even that much—two to two and a half hours a day, a tenth share—then if not today, tomorrow that unparalleled moment of revolution will arrive, that utterly new instant will come. And if even that seems too much, then at least give a twentieth share—an hour to an hour and a quarter. Even that much will bring transformation. But with less than that, transformation does not happen. Lal is speaking to the point.

Those who enter the process of meditation begin to discover slowly: it takes about forty minutes just to bid the mind goodbye. Forty minutes at the very least. For about forty minutes the mind holds you. This is why in schools, colleges, universities, we keep a forty-minute period. There’s a reason—psychological. The mind grasps something for about forty minutes. If a class is longer, the mind begins to run away. Around the world the forty-minute period was adopted for a reason; it is no accident, it reflects a law of mind. Up to forty minutes the mind can stay engaged. After that it says, “Enough!” Forty minutes is its capacity.

So if you meditate less than forty minutes, you will not get outside the mind. The real work starts only after forty. Between forty and sixty minutes, glimpses begin to come. Between sixty and seventy-five minutes, a stability arrives. That is why an hour and a quarter is an apt duration. Lal is exactly right.

And if you can do this twice a day—an hour and a quarter each time—so much the better. If you can sit for two and a half hours at a stretch, the plunge will be very deep, and it will come very swiftly. If such a plunge happens, then even when death comes, you will not have to kneel; death will kneel before you.

“From behind, Yama will encircle; Time cries out: beware!”
Keep it in mind: there is no delay—death is always coming. The messengers of Yama walk behind you like a shadow. Any day they will cast their net. Any day the noose will tighten.

“From behind, Yama will encircle; Time cries out: beware!”
And remember, death is always calling—“Beware! Beware!” Whether you listen or not, every day death alerts you.

“Who will enjoy the ghee…
and who will sit to eat the feast?”
When death arrives, who will enjoy all that you now think about—your schemes, your plans, your fantasies about the future?

“…who will eat the feast?”
All the time you are wasting in these plans and fantasies—no one will be left to eat that whole spread. Death will come and carry you off— in a single instant.

Before that, learn meditation. Whoever has not mastered meditation before that moment is a fool. In this world only those are truly wise who master meditation before death.

“Let honor and dishonor be dear to others—
as for me, I am watching life!”
I see the demonic audacity of ruthless deeds.
I see barbarity’s naked dance upon the earth’s breast.
I see the sighs of creation rising toward the sky.
I see how weak, how impermanent this humanity is!
Crowds of those who weep,
crowds of those who sing—
all came to give,
but it is a crowd of those who only want to receive.
Some become robbers and plunder,
some become beggars and plunder;
this is a crowd that hoards,
a crowd that itself will be gone.
I, who would give joy to the world,
watch the world’s lament.
Let honor and dishonor be dear to you—
as for me, I am watching life!

Become a witness. Leave honor and dishonor, success and failure, fame and infamy—to the unknowing, to the children. They are toys. You, look at life; be the seer. Dive into witnessing.

Witnessing is Haridwar. Witnessing is the Ganga. Witnessing is Kailash. And it is so close—so close that you need not even take a step to arrive; you need not even open your eyes to see. Close your eyes and see—it is that near. Without moving an inch, see—it is that near. To call it “near” is not right; it is your very nature. You are the witness. You are a spark of the divine. You are the divine.

And until this god-consciousness dawns within you, know that life is fruitless. Know that whatever you have gained is worthless. Until then, do at least what Lal says. If possible, give one-tenth of your time to the divine. If not possible—though truly there is no real difficulty, people only manufacture them—then at least try.

People come to me and say, “The mind is disturbed; we want peace.” If I say, “Meditate,” they reply, “Where is the time?” They have time to be disturbed—twenty-four hours for that—but no time to be peaceful! I ask them, “Do you ever go to a movie?” “Yes, sometimes, the children insist, the wife, friends…” “Do you go to Rotary Club?” “One has to; I’m a member.” For Rotary Club there is time, for films there is time, for cricket there is time, radio, television, newspapers—trash newspapers! Nothing but trash, repeating the same trash daily. For all that there is time, and when meditation is mentioned, suddenly there is no time. And these are the same people you’ll find playing cards—and if you ask, “What are you doing?” they say, “Time won’t pass; we’re passing time.” On one side time won’t pass, so they shuffle the king and queen of clubs; time won’t pass, so they lay out the chessboard and run wooden elephants and horses. Say “Meditate,” and there is no time!

When they say, “There is no time,” don’t think they are knowingly deceiving you. They genuinely believe it. Their eyes look sincere. They’re not trying to trick you; they truly feel there is no time. There is time for sleep, for every other activity, for fighting and gossip—only for meditation there is no time.

If you won’t give even an hour to the divine, you will miss—and miss badly—you will repent terribly. And then of what use is repentance when the birds have eaten the crop? If death knocks at the door, you will regret it deeply. For in that moment, only the time you gave to meditation remains as your true wealth; all the rest is gone—down the drain. What was invested in meditation alone remains. Before the divine, only the hours you sat in meditation are entered in the ledger; nothing else is recorded. Everything else is worth two pennies—it has no value.

Standing before the divine, you will not be able to say, “I played tennis daily, I watched so many films, I never missed one.”

There’s a gentleman I know in my small town. There is only one cinema hall. One film runs for four or five days; he watches the same film all four or five days. I asked him, “It takes a lot of stamina to watch the same film four or five times! A person can barely watch once or twice—Hindi films at that, mostly plagiarized and repetitive. You watch the same film five times?” He said, “Who watches? But if I don’t go, what should I do? If I don’t go, where should I go? The time passes. Sometimes I nap there; sometimes I watch a bit. And I already know what’s going to happen after seeing it twice. But still, if I don’t go, where will I go?”

See how empty life feels, how hollow. And don’t laugh at him, for you are doing the same in other ways. What you did yesterday, you will do today; what you did the day before, you will do tomorrow. Repetition—that is your life. You keep repeating. From morning to evening you go round and round like a bullock tied to the oil press. The same quarrels, the same love, the same pacifying, the same sulking; the same loss, the same victory, the same swagger; the same anger, the same relationships. What’s different?

If you look closely at your life, you will find it is repetition. But you don’t look, because if you did, great boredom would arise, great panic. So you avoid looking, you keep running—hoping you are not a bullock at the press but are arriving somewhere—now, any moment you will arrive.

In the final hour of life you will cry—not because of death, but because of the life that was squandered. There is still time. Begin giving a few moments to the divine now. Sit for just one hour in silence. Many obstacles will come. If you are reading the newspaper, your wife and children say, “Quiet! Daddy is reading.” If you are meditating, the children will poke their fingers in your ears, and your wife will say, “All right, waste your time!”

Wives fear meditation more than anything, because after meditation the next step is sannyas. Husbands too fear it. If the wife begins to meditate, the husband gets uneasy. I see this daily. If the husband meditates, the wife arrives to say, “Why do you want to destroy our household?” As if it is inevitable that meditation destroys family life! Yes, earlier it often did, I know. That sannyas was wrong, misleading.

I do not advocate that sannyas. No one has kept the accounts of what happened to the households abandoned by those who followed Buddha and Mahavira. Did their wives beg? Did their children die of disease? Did some women end up in prostitution? Did the elderly crawl on the streets for alms, denied even a shroud in death? No one has tallied this. But the day it is tallied, there will be shock. On the one hand Mahavira walked watching each step lest an ant be crushed; on the other, in the wake of that sannyas people were crushed, homes were ruined, families broken.

For thousands of years, sannyas has been sick—life-denying. So the fear is understandable. If a wife pleads, “Save my home,” I understand; she is forgivable. In her mind still lives the old image of sannyas.

I am offering a new vision of sannyas—a new meaning, a new gesture. Meditate, and see life as a play. There is nowhere to run, nothing to renounce. The wife is the wife, the children are the children. Today you think, “They are mine”; soon you will understand, “Who is mine?” I too am a role; life is a performance to be fulfilled—fulfilled well. And when it is a play, why be stingy? Perform it well. When it is a play, do it artfully. There is no worry, no burden.

You will become weightless, unburdened—as soon as the sense of play dawns. Then play every color; celebrate Holi; celebrate Diwali. But don’t miss one thing—give at least an hour to the divine. Sit silently for an hour as a witness, watching all the activities of the mind. In three to nine months of such watching, the flavor of witnessing begins to well up. And the day, even for a moment, you taste the meaning of the word “witness” within you, you will dance, you will hum. For the first time the veena will sound. For the first time the flute will be heard. For the first time you will experience the inner resonance. For the first time you will taste—real life, eternal life. Another name for that life is the divine.

Enough for today.