Hansa To Moti Chuge #7

What is this life? Merely a riddle;
What is this youth? A revelry of forgetfulness;
This self-knowledge—delusion, delusion, delusion!
Affection stays here, day and night, all alone!
Embrace to your heart’s content today—who can vouch for tomorrow?
An aeon of separation, and union but of a single moment?
What is the world? I fail to know it,
I cannot recognize even myself,
If the world is, then I am; if I am, then this world is,
The world merges into me, and I too dissolve into the world.
One problem—hard to resolve!
The solver, alas, turns mad!
Is madness a sin? No—it's life;
The wise man’s mere knowledge is a futile lament;
Laughing and melting upon love, moment by moment,
For the one who dies, here death itself is the wealth;
Desire is an ache, and satiation a hollowness;
Laughter is death indeed; weeping is life!
The ocean of opulence oppresses drop by drop,
The world of sighs thrills in every particle—
How will this naive world ever understand?
Ah, only in dying-to-oneself is life here!
Learn from the chatak to die thirsting and longing;
Learn from the moth to erase your very existence!
What does the honeybee know of love? Love is restlessness!
The bond of two beings is frenzy-filled;
Taking the bud’s all, destroying it,
In flying away is the bee’s thrill!
To merge into the juice is to drink the juice;
He who could not dissolve knows not how to live!
A taking for a moment, a giving for ages upon ages,
To give oneself is the taking of life;
The marketplace is rising, and far you must go,
So deal and barter as much as your heart desires!
Wash the face’s soot with the heart’s redness,
The head today rests upon the palm—speak, speak!
Filled with intoxication, the heedless one lets mind-talk run on—though the destination is still ahead.
We have to walk; we shall have to go, whether we will or no,
Then why let the heart’s heart linger behind?
I have already plunged my “mine-ness” into the ocean of Time!
Yesterday was a fantasy; today is life!

There is one life—the one we know; it is outright dreamlike. There is another life, known to those who are awake. The very name of that life is God.
God is not a person; it is the name of the felt experience of real life. The world has no being; it is the crowd of dreams of a sleeping man.
Understand it thus: “world” is the name of a sleeping man’s web of imagination, and “God” is the recognition, the witnessing, the direct meeting, of the awakened man.
What is, is. If you are asleep, dreams will spread, dreams will cover. Upon what is, dreams will mount. If you are awake, dreams will fall away. What is will reveal itself as it is.
What is sleep? The ego is sleep. “I am distinct, I am separate, I am apart, I have an existence of my own”—such a sense is slumber. From this sense, all the remaining disturbances arise. From “I” springs possessiveness. From “I” springs Maya. From the spread of “I” there is no end. Whoever is to awaken must cut the “I” from the root.

Learn from the chatak to die thirsting and longing;
Learn from the moth to erase your very existence!
To merge into the juice is to drink the juice;
He who could not dissolve knows not how to live!

The art of dissolving is dharma. The art of utterly annihilating oneself is dharma. Erase yourself the way a drop falls into the ocean and is lost; the way a seed falls into the earth and is destroyed. But see—the royal secret, the wonder! From the dead seed the tree sprouts. From death, the sapling of nectar emerges. In the seed there was nothing, the tree will carry so much. Streams of juice will flow. There will be dance in the winds. There will be loving prattle with the clouds. There will be a conversation with moon and stars. There will be play with the sun. Flowers will bloom. Fruits will set. Birds will make their homes. The weary will find shade.
In the seed there was none of this. The seed was futile. If there was any meaning to the seed, it was only that it should become a tree. Become a tree—meaningful; remain a seed—futile. So too, man becomes Paramatman—meaningful; remain merely a man—futile.
Man is a seed; in him there is the possibility of much. Do not take man as conclusion, as the end. Man is not the end; he is the beginning. Man is not the finish; one has to go beyond man, transcend. The longing to rise above oneself—that is the search for truth—that is sannyas.
Friedrich Nietzsche has said: the most unfortunate day in the history of man will be the day when man forgets the longing to transcend himself; when man becomes contented with himself; when his arrow will not be set on the bowstring, will not begin its journey into the unknown; when man will assume, “What I am is quite enough.” The day man thus becomes contented, Nietzsche has called it the most unfortunate.
And that unfortunate day seems to be drawing near. For many people look sated with themselves: they have earned some wealth, gathered some capital in the bank, built a house. There is wife, child, position, prestige—and with that, life is finished. If life is only this, it is utterly futile. For the capital will remain piled up and your bier will be carried. And wife and children, after four days, will forget you ever were. Not even a trace of you will remain upon the sands of time. Like lines drawn upon water, you will vanish.
No—this is not life. There is another direction to life, another dimension. There is an eternal life. And not far—very near. Just probe, just search.
Today’s words of “Lal” point towards that life. Those who are intelligent, who have a little awareness—they will make from even these simple words a boat to cross over. The swan picks pearls! Even if pebbles and stones lie scattered, the swan still picks pearls. The words are simple. There is none of the intricacy of the Upanishads and Vedas. Not the theoretic flight of Dhammapada or the Tao Te Ching. Simple rustic words. Yet they carry the earthy fragrance of the village—something the refined Upanishads cannot hold; the village freshness—something not even the Buddha’s words can carry. A mirror of the common folk, free of the ostentation of words, free of the net of doctrines. If you can choose, you can choose pearls.

The Master is a great sculptor, who carved this body of clay.
In this cosmos, the human body is the greatest wonder. Wonders abound everywhere. The body of a tree is no lesser wonder. The body of a bird flying in the sky is no lesser wonder. But man is peerless! In his body the maximum flowers that are possible can bloom—no other body can hold so many. The treasures hidden within him—no other body holds as many. The fruits that can ripen on him—no other tree can bear so many. And as high as he can fly—no bird has ever flown, nor will ever fly. As deep as he can dive—no fish has ever gone, nor will ever go.
Man is unprecedented, unique. The lofty peaks of the Himalayas are but knolls before the summits of his consciousness. The light of moon and stars is pale, even dark, compared to the light born within him from dhyan. This vast sun that rises every morning and by which all earthly life moves—it is nothing compared to what those have seen who opened the inner eye: thousands upon thousands of suns rising together. They have seen his radiance. They have seen his light.
You have seen people intoxicated with wine—but that intoxication is here now and gone the next moment, only for an instant. But those who have drunk of him—their ecstasy once risen goes on rising, only rises, only grows! There is no ebb to that tide. In that flood no summer ever comes that the stream might run dry.
The Master is a great sculptor...
Lal says: the Divine is a master craftsman; he makes flowers bloom in stone. He breathes life into stone. As such, man is dust.
In Urdu, Arabic, Hebrew, the word for man is “Adam,” aadmi. Adam means earth—dust. For God fashioned man from dust and then breathed breath into him. In English the word is “human”—from humus, earth. As such, man is dust. And if we do not seek within man, do not search, do not pick pearls, he remains but dust. Dust returns one day to dust. All is swallowed by the grave. Nothing remains. But if we seek, if we take a little trouble, if we climb our own hills and dive into our own Pacifics, then many, many pearls come to the hand. And the greatest pearl among pearls, the greatest miracle, is this: within the earthen is hidden the conscious. In the clay dwells the abode of nectar. The body is clay and within it hides Paramatman. The temple is clay, but the deity of the temple is not clay.
Yet how few come to know the deity! People look into mirrors to know themselves. In the mirror, what you see is a shadow of clay. The mirror can only hold the shadow of clay. Your shadow can never be captured in a mirror. There is no mirror that can reflect your consciousness. Consciousness is not an object that it may be mirrored.
And it is by mirrors that we know ourselves. We have fashioned different kinds of mirrors. The glass mirror is not the only mirror. When you peer into others’ eyes and take from them some cues regarding yourself, that too is a glass mirror. What you know about yourself you have gathered from others—their opinions. Someone said you are dear, someone said you are beautiful—and your chest swelled. Someone said you are ugly, someone said you are dirty—and your life shrank. One garlanded you with flowers; another hurled stones and abuses... In this way you collect opinions from all sides regarding yourself. These opinions are very contradictory. There are opinions of friends, of foes, of the indifferent. Thus you become a confusion. You collected all kinds of opinions; it is difficult to harmonize them. One says this, another says that. Today something, tomorrow something else.
So many contradictory statements about you have collected within you that you have become a delirium. You are a crowd of thoughts in which it is hard to decide anything. You have peered into many mirrors and gathered pictures from them all. Have you ever gone to a funhouse of mirrors where there are many kinds? In one, you look very tall; in another, very short. In one, very fat; in another, very thin. In one, utterly ugly; in another, extremely handsome.
This is your condition. From all sides you are collecting pictures of yourself. You make an album. That album you take to be your self-knowledge. It is not your self-knowledge. Those who do not know themselves—what can they say of you? And even if others want to speak of you, what can they say? They have no entry into your innermost soul. There, only you can go; none other than you can ever enter. Therefore, to go there, you must close your eyes.
With open eyes, the whole world is known; oneself is known with eyes closed. Through thought, the world is understood; through no-thought, oneself is understood. Mind is useful for understanding the world; for understanding oneself, mind has no significance—you must set mind aside.
The mind is extrovert—and you are within, very within! The mind has no inward movement. It only knows how to go out; it does not know how to return. The mind has no reverse gear.
When Ford first made his car, it had no reverse gear. It had not even occurred to him! In that first car, if you had to return home or bring the car back, you had to make big circles. Later it occurred to him that a reverse gear could be. To go back a little by circling a mile or two—that is costly business. Reverse gear came later—but man’s mind still has no reverse gear, and never will.
The mind goes only outward. The more mind you have, the farther you are from yourself.
Hence the wise have said: in the state of no-mind, one encounters oneself—free of mind, empty of mind, void of mind! And then what is seen is such a wonder, such an incredible wonder! Hard to believe. In this body of clay—dwells nectar! In this earthen pot—nectar has been poured! Had it been a golden pot, studded with diamonds and jewels, perhaps we would have thought it might hold nectar within. In this body of clay, made of dust and returning to dust... and the supreme treasure of life poured in!
Perhaps because the body is clay, we do not even remember to look within. Had the body been golden, you might have probed within, thinking: when the body is gold, who knows what more treasures lie inside! Because the body is earth, you do not go within; you keep seeking outside. And outside it will not be found, for what is, is within. Buried deep. So deep a digging is needed within. That digging is called dhyan.
These sutras are born of dhyan—
The Master is a great sculptor...
Yet they are the sutras of a rustic villager. In the village, the one who carves stone is called a “silavat.” God is addressed: you too are a fine carver of stone—
Who carved this body of clay.
From clay and stone you made this human body, and within this body you hid treasure upon treasure, the secret of secrets, the poetry of poetries—from where Gitas burst forth and Qurans are born!
You raised majestic turrets; you gave nine fair doors.
What spires you have lifted within, what summits—Gaurishankar! Temples have turrets; the human temple too has turrets. Turrets are overlaid with gold. Within man too are golden turrets. But only a very few fortunate ones ever even lift their eyes towards the turrets of their own temple. To recognize them, to reach them, is far—most don’t even become aware of who they were before they die. They die amid futile hustle. They gather things and die. They lose the soul and gather things.
Jesus has said: “He who would save himself will lose all; and he who is ready to lose himself will save all.”
All your life you save things, and by saving things you think you are saving yourself. You think the more you have, the safer you will be. Things will be saved; you will not be.
The way to save oneself is strange—so unreasonable, so odd, so upside down! You must learn the art of effacing, not of saving. You must learn the art of surrender, not of struggle.
The path of dharma is not the path of struggle, not of resolve—but of surrender. Of letting oneself be drowned, of bowing down. And whoever bows, sees the turrets. Whoever bows has the vision of the Gaurishankar within—lofty summits, where virgin snows rest that have never melted and never will. Not to become acquainted with those heights—being born is as good as not being born.
Hence, the one who becomes acquainted with those heights, we have called him “dvija”—twice-born. He has had a second birth. We have called him Brahmin, for he has known the Brahman hidden within. Brahmin has nothing to do with birth, and by hanging a sacred thread about the neck, none becomes dvija.
To become dvija is a great alchemical process. Through dhyan one becomes dvija. Through dhyan a new birth happens, because there is a new recognition of oneself, a new image is revealed, a glimpse of one’s own is had.
The Master is a great sculptor, who carved this body of clay.
You raised majestic turrets...
Lal says: You have done the incredible—a small body, and such heights, such turrets, gold-adorned! You have done the incredible—a small body, and such depths!
You gave nine fair doors.
You gave lofty turrets by which the heights of the universe may be touched, and nine doors by which the depths of the world may be touched. There are nine apertures in the body. Through these nine apertures we relate with the world of matter: the nose, the mouth, the ears, the eyes—thus nine openings. Through these nine doors we become acquainted with what is outside us, with what is below us. These are the nine doors by which we know the manifest form of the Divine.
Without eyes you cannot know light. Explain as much as you will to the blind, he will not understand. Bang your head, use all mathematics, all language—you cannot make a blind man understand light. How will you explain? Even if he agrees, just to please you, still he will not know what light is.
Ramakrishna used to say: a blind man went to dine at a friend’s home. In his honor, the friend had kheer prepared. The poor man had never tasted kheer. He ate and liked it greatly. There were almonds and pistachios and saffron in it. He asked his friend: “What is this? It is very pleasing and delicious.” The friend said, “Kheer.” The blind man asked, “Kheer? What does that mean? What am I to understand by kheer?”
The friend was a pundit, a knower of scriptures. The blind man posed such a question—it was a challenge. “I will explain,” he said. “Kheer is white.” The blind man said, “You pile riddle upon riddle! I ask one question; you raise another puzzle. What is this ‘white’ thing? What is ‘white’?”
The friend said, “You don’t know ‘white’? One thing you are not seeing—that I am speaking with a blind man. ‘White’? Like the color of a heron! You must have seen a heron—there are many in the village!”
The blind man said, “You are only increasing my trouble. I don’t know kheer; I don’t know ‘white.’ Now this heron—another tangle. What is a heron like? Say it such that I can grasp.”
Then it occurred to the pundit that he was explaining to a blind man. This won’t do. So he took his own arm to the blind man, bent it and said, “Run your hand over my arm. This is how the heron’s neck is.” The blind man felt his friend’s arm and, delighted, said joyfully, “Now I understand—kheer is like a bent arm!”
Such is the blind man’s understanding! Eyes are needed. Without eyes, one cannot know light—the outer form of the Divine. These moon and stars are jewels set upon His cloak, twinkling diamonds. That blue cloak—the sky... The nine doors are given so we may become acquainted with the manifest form of the Divine, His body. Without ears you cannot hear sound. The veena may be playing and for you nothing plays. Such nine doors are given in this body of earth that we may know the outer world. And there are turrets such that if we close these nine doors and turn within, we may become acquainted with those turrets.
These nine doors serve a double purpose. If you open them, they take you out; if you close them, they take you in. With eyes open—the sight of the outside. With ears open—the sound of the outside. With eyes closed—the inner light. With ears closed—Omkar.
Everything depends upon these nine doors. All the processes of yoga are about how to close these nine doors so that we may become acquainted with the Divine within. When He is so beautiful outside, how infinitely beautiful must He be within!
Rabia sits in her hut—a Sufi fakir woman; of Meera’s stature; of Mahavira and Buddha’s stature! Hasan, a fakir, was staying at her home. Hasan came out. Morning had come, the sun had risen, birds were singing, trees were lush, fragrance in the breezes. Morning freshness, newness.
Hasan called, “Rabia, what do you do sitting inside the hut? Come out! See how beautiful a sun God has raised, how many colored flowers have blossomed! Clouds are floating in the sky. The weather is lovely. God has birthed a beautiful morning, come out Rabia—what do you do inside?”
Rabia laughed aloud and said, “Hasan, you come within! I am sitting inside and seeing the One who made the morning. I am seeing the Master. You are seeing the toys in His hand; I am seeing Him. You come inside. And when the outside is so beautiful, trust that the Master is infinitely more beautiful.”
Hasan had spoken casually. But when you speak to someone like Rabia, even a small word gives birth to words; one thing opens to the next. Rabia revealed the whole secret. Hasan began to weep. Coming in, he fell at Rabia’s feet and said, “I had only said it casually, but you awakened me from sleep.”
Rabia said, “Do not waste time—close your eyes! These feet of mine you clutch are also outside. And these tears falling—they too are outside. Hasan, do not delay, for there is no certainty of tomorrow, not even of the next moment. Close your eyes, go within. If you have to clutch feet, clutch the Master’s!”
Within us is the unmanifest Divine; outside, the manifest Divine. Outside, His revealed form; within, His unrevealed. Outside, His body; within, His soul. In this small clay body—what an arrangement!
The Master is a great sculptor, who carved this body of clay.
You raised majestic turrets; you gave nine fair doors.
“Lalu, why will you remain asleep? Outside, Death has taken her stand.”
Lal says: “Lalu, why keep sleeping? Will you remain thus asleep and get erased? Will you not awaken?
‘Lalu, why keep sleeping...'
And by staying asleep nothing will happen. What will come of it? By sleeping, nothing will be made—only lost.
‘Lalu, why keep sleeping? Outside, Death has taken her stand.'
Just look—outside death stands at the door. When she will knock, none can say. And you go on sleeping, wasting time asleep!
Understand the meaning of ‘sleep.’ Whoever has not known dhyan is asleep. Without dhyan there is no awakening. Do not take your daily morning rising to be awakening—else all would be Buddhas. Buddha means one who has awakened. The waking you do each morning is a semblance of waking. You remain the same. The one that sleeps is the one that wakes. There is no difference. In truth, in waking you are more dishonest; more a thief; more deceitful. In sleep you are more honest, more true.
Hence psychoanalysts do not look for your waking. If there is a disease in your mind, if your consciousness is sick, deranged, heavily burdened—they seek in your dreams. The psychoanalyst does not trust your waking, for you are such a deceiver that you deceive not only others, you deceive yourself! You have become so expert in deception! You have learned the scripture of deceit so thoroughly it has entered every pore. Not only do you cheat others—by and by you begin to cheat yourself.
The psychoanalyst puts no trust in your waking. What you say carries little weight. He says: tell me your dreams. Open your dreams. Lay bare your dreams. For in your dreams you are still more true. You have not yet distorted your dreams. Your dreams are not stamped by civilization. Education has not entered your dreams. Your thinking does not greatly meddle there. Your dreams are still pure, innocent.
From your dreams, the psychologist comes to know your reality.
This is a strange thing: he does not care for waking—he cares for your dreams.
When a new disciple came to Gurdjieff, his first work was to make him drink so much wine... You may be surprised that a true master would give his disciples wine! But Gurdjieff had his own ways. Every master has his ways. He made them drink and drink until they were utterly unconscious, fell down, started babbling. When they began to babble, he would sit and listen to what they were saying. From that he would decide where to begin. For as long as they are in their senses, they will deceive. The matter will be something else; they will say something else. Pressed by lust, they will ask about brahmacharya. Burning for money, they will discuss meditation. Ambitious for position, they will question about sannyas. A hunger for enjoyment, and they will discourse on renunciation. Why? Because these are noble topics; by talking of them, prestige grows.
People do not even state their real problems. They discuss problems which are not theirs, which have nothing to do with them. If you tell the physician a disease that is not yours, how will he treat you?
Gurdjieff did rightly: he poured the wine. And when the man fell and babbled, he listened to each word, for now he was speaking the truth. His wits were gone, his accounting too. Now what he said would show his reality. On that basis Gurdjieff set his sadhana. The disciple never even knew how his sadhana had been set.
Gurdjieff was a great psychologist! Freud takes three years to analyze; Gurdjieff finished in two or three hours—because to bother daily about dreams—and even then man is so dishonest: at night he dreams one thing, in the morning he tells another. Not even deliberately—he makes a few adjustments, a few improvements, adds a little color. All unknowingly—this is our stupor.
You don’t even tell your raw dream. In the dream too you make a little revision, a little editing. Not consciously—it happens unconsciously. All this in a swoon.
Have you seen how long your dreams remain in the morning? A few seconds. Just when you first wake, the very first waking, the eyes not yet open, your dreams still hover a little. Once eyes open—barely a moment; you wash your face, brush your teeth—by then they’ve gone. Your mind removes them quickly, lest some truth be revealed, lest something real emerge.
There is your world of dreams, and your world of waking. But your waking is false. Those truly awakened have one mark: they do not dream. Because the one who is true has hidden nothing, suppressed nothing. Who has not hidden or suppressed, has nothing left to come in dreams. In dreams comes only what we suppress and hide.
Your neighbor’s wife looks very beautiful to you. In the day you press this down. In the day you address her as “sister.” On Raksha Bandhan you even have her tie a rakhi. Perhaps out of fear you do it. Outwardly it looks like you will protect this woman, but by having her tie a rakhi you are protecting yourself! You tell your mind that she is now your sister—now such thoughts are not proper. You touch her feet—now such thoughts are not proper. But at night, in dreams, you run away with her. In the morning you wish to forget it, for it runs counter to your ego—to have run away with your neighbor’s wife at night. Your wife will not tolerate it either; even in dream she won’t tolerate it. And your ego will not tolerate it. Quickly you forget the dream. From the moment of waking, you begin to forget.
The day you fast, that night you will dream—food, food, food. What you suppress will come in dreams. But the one who suppresses nothing, who lives with an un-repressed alertness—his dreams end. And the one whose dreams have ended, he is awakened. He is awake in waking; in sleep also he is awake. Therefore Krishna rightly says to Arjuna, “Yā niśā sarvabhūtānāṁ tasyāṁ jāgarti saṁyamī.” What is dark night to all beings, in that the restrained one is awake. The restrained is awake even there.
You have set your own meaning on “samyam.” By samyam you mean control. The word has been loaded with control. But samyam is a wondrous word.
Samyam means balance, freedom from excess. Samyam means as a sitar-player tunes his strings: too loose—no music; too tight—the strings break. There is a state in which the strings are neither too tight nor too loose. In that middle state, in that median, in that balance, is samyam. From that samyam, music is born.
So too life has a samyam—not leaning too much towards renunciation, nor too much towards enjoyment—standing in the middle of both. Have you seen the acrobat walk the rope? Sometimes he leans left, sometimes right—only to steady himself. But he remains poised in the middle. If he fears he is leaning too much left and will fall, he leans right to balance; leaning too much right, he leans left. But his eye is on one thing: to stay in the middle.
Buddha called his path Majjhima Nikaya—the Middle Way. To stand exactly in the middle. Buddha defined samyam as the one who stands in the middle, who does not choose between opposites, who is choiceless. What Krishnamurti calls choiceless awareness—that is the middle state.
Such a one neither sways by day nor by night—he does not sway at all. His swaying is gone. He is the awakened one. As long as you sway—your mind fidgeting here and there—you are in sleep. Even in waking, you sleep; the Buddhas in waking are awake, in sleep they are awake. Your waking is only a way of sleeping—with eyes open. The Buddhas—even with eyes closed—they are awake.
Ananda served Buddha for forty to fifty years. One thing astonished him: whichever side Buddha lay down on, he remained on that side the whole night. Where the foot was placed, there it remained. Where the hand was placed, there it remained. He did not stir at night. If in the day he was unmoving, so in the night. In the night one changes sides; one tires of one posture. One day Ananda asked, “Many times I have woken at night and seen: you sleep just as you lay!?” Buddha said, “Foolish one, who sleeps? The body sleeps; I remain awake. Within, the lamp of awakening burns as in day. Twenty-four hours, an unbroken stream of awakening flows within.”
It is of this awakening that Lal speaks:
“Lalu, why keep sleeping...?”
Will you sleep? Will work be accomplished this way? Bring the broken to wholeness. There is still a little time. Death stands at the door, but has not yet knocked. In this little while, set something right.
“Outside, Death has taken her stand.”
And do not think Lal speaks only of himself—he speaks of you as well. Death stands at the door; any moment she will clasp your throat. But man’s greatest delusion is that always the other dies; I never die. Today Ram Lal died; tomorrow Krishnalal; the day after, someone else. I never die. You carry all to the cremation ground—thus you sustain the delusion that always the other dies; I do the carrying. I have not died yet; perhaps I am the exception.
You forget that those whom you escorted—they too had escorted many. And just as you think, so did they. None has remained on this earth. Small die, great die, poor die, rich die. Weak and powerful—all die. Death is universal, sovereign. Death admits no exceptions.
“Lalu, why keep sleeping? Outside, Death has taken her stand.
This life is perilous; the hunter has spread his net.”
Be careful: life is full of risk.
In this life there is great risk—moment-to-moment risk—
For death has spread a net from which you will not escape. Escape here, you are caught there; escape there, you are caught here. The net on all sides.
Death arrived the day you were born. With birth, death occurred. The two sides of a coin: one side in hand, the other too is in hand. Now it is a matter of sooner or later—seven years or seventy, it makes little difference. Death is certain. With birth, death spread her net. Truly, by getting entangled in birth we are already entangled in death. There remains nothing left to entangle; our feet are already caught.
In this life there is great risk. Where there is such risk, do one thing at least—wake up! Born asleep, live asleep, die asleep. Between birth and death, there is only one event worthy to happen, to be made to happen—a revolution: awakening.
Who awakens between birth and life, he has attained. He has attained the wealth of wealths, the throne of thrones. Between birth and life, he who awakens—he has experienced eternal life. Thereafter he has no birth, no death.

With unhindered, inexhaustible motion,
I go on, only go on.
This path unknown, austere,
Its ends unseen, unclear—
Stained with uncertainty
Each evening here, each dawn.
In every work, some error;
Each step, fraught with danger;
Each glance, a little timid;
Each breath, a little noise.
I know it all, and yet
Something whispers within me—
A demon-brave courage I hold,
A mighty force in me.
In my heart, an endless burn;
In my blood, an deathless flame.
Unflickering, smokeless—
I burn on, only burn on!
With fevered, unquenched thirst,
I burn on, only burn on!
Intoxicated with fragrance,
Within, the bud sways.
Restless to kiss the honey-flame,
The cuckoo sings in tones.
Mad with fragrance within me,
Music of honey-flame;
Like a wild spring-breeze,
My every longing roams.
Every feeling burns;
Every love is fire.
Something tells me this:
Life itself is ember—
An ember that thrills,
An ember that is liquid.
In smiles, in tears,
I melt on, only melt on!
With tender, gentle compassion,
I melt on, only melt on!
A cloud melts, earth drinks
And thirsty earth smiles;
From the melting snows, stirred,
The purer river sings.
Melting is the law of fate—
I know not what to do;
The boundary of knowledge,
Helpless, strikes the infinite blur!
How much suffocation, how much pain,
How much helplessness I bear—
I weave my dreams that bear
Colors of bright hope!
What shyness? Who here
Has ever found the truth?
Therefore, my very self
I trick, only trick!
The world’s lament with laughter
I trick, only trick!
Some sunshine smiles a little,
Some moonlight softly grins;
The subtle fragrance of flowers
Scatters its playful joy.
With quivering curiosity,
Each day, a new festival;
On strings, a stainless music,
Night sings a lullaby.
But what to do? Who remained
Entangled in his dream?
My feet would like to stop—
The road goes on and on!
Who stopped, died.
Walking alone is life.
Faith plays with delusion—
I go on, only go on.
With unhindered, inexhaustible motion,
I go on, only go on.

We go on—only go on. No sure knowing where we came from! No sure knowing where we go! No sure knowing why we go! No sure knowing who we are! The crowd moves; with the crowd, we move. Bound in file, hypnotized by the crowd.
Awaken! Walking asleep like this will not do.
Lal speaks true:
“Lalu, why keep sleeping? Outside, Death has taken her stand.
This life is perilous; the hunter has spread his net.”
Risk abounds in this life—then take one more risk: the risk of awakening! Where death is the only certainty, take one more risk: the risk of sannyas. Where all is going to be erased, take one more risk: to erase yourself by your own hand—the risk of dhyan, the risk of Samadhi. And the one who takes that risk goes beyond all risks.

“Your lifetime has been auctioned off; what remains is cheap.”
The long life has already gone; it has been bid away in the marketplace.
“Your lifetime has been auctioned off; what remains is cheap.”
Now very little remains. Much has passed; little remains.
“The boat is mid-ocean—by what device will it reach the shore?”
Lal says: It is hard to comprehend. The other bank is nowhere in sight. We are in the middle of the ocean. Most of the lifespan is spent; very little remains.
“By what means will this boat touch the shore?”
Think, reflect, contemplate. People do not think—for thinking brings panic. Thinking arouses fear. Thinking seems to demand that something be done. So people put off thinking. They keep themselves busy—in films, television, radio, friends, cards, hotels, clubs. Off to Lions Club, Rotary Club—anywhere! Some fool of a politician arrived—we rush. Get entangled anywhere. Two men are fighting on the street, hurling abuses—we stand there. Somehow keep yourself entangled, keep yourself busy.
Leave aside people—some make cocks fight, some doves, some partridges. Hundreds gather. Bulls are made to fight. Men are made to fight. Thousands gather. Because two fools fight, people gather to see who mounts whose chest, who shows whom the stars! Millions look on, eager, curious.
A football is being played—people move a ball here and there—and millions sit watching. There will be beating and brawls if their team loses. Riots will break out. Just look at people’s condition! Cricket is on; if they cannot go, they sit glued to the radio.
I knew a gentleman, mad for cricket, a professor at the university where I was also a professor. Such a maniac that wherever cricket was played, he had to go. If he couldn’t, he sat by the radio, ear glued. Once his team lost—he was so angry he picked up the radio and smashed it on the floor! As if the radio were at fault! People keep themselves busy like this.
Someone smokes. You think: what is the issue? Smoking is not the real issue—he is entangling himself, keeping himself occupied. Drawing smoke in and out—it changes nothing. Some devotee rotates a rosary—there is not much difference between that and the cigarette. He keeps himself entangled in beads, counting them. Someone sits muttering: Ram-Ram, Ram-Ram, Ram-Ram... Keep the mind entangled anywhere! Somehow, don’t let the risk of life become visible—that death stands at the door!
“Lalu, why keep sleeping? Outside, Death has taken her stand.
This life is perilous; the hunter has spread his net.
Your lifetime has been auctioned; what remains is cheap.
The boat is mid-ocean—by what device will it reach the shore?”
The boat is in the middle. The ocean is vast. No bank is seen. “Let us play cards!” So long as we are entangled in cards, at least we won’t worry about what will become of the boat, whether we’ll reach the shore! Or spread the chessboard—if the real elephants and horses are not here, let the toy ones move! And on the chessboard swords are drawn, heads are cut.
Man’s madness is astonishing! He fights over matters beyond accounting! Fighting too is a device to avoid oneself. Entanglement, argument, idle prattle—these are means, lest the risk of life become visible. For if it comes into view, then something will have to be done.
An acquaintance was brought to me by his wife. He would not agree to see a doctor. His argument seemed right: “Why should I go? I am perfectly healthy.” His wife said, “He is not well. He cannot sleep at night; he coughs constantly. Sometimes there is blood in the cough. I fear he has TB.” The husband said, “It is nothing. A little blood once or twice—does that make TB? Who does not cough! I have no illness. Why should I go?”
The only reason was fear—fear that there may be illness. I read fear in his eyes—that TB might be found. I said, “What you say is perfectly right.” The wife was astonished. “We brought him to you so you’d persuade him to go to a doctor—he listens to you.”
I said, “You speak nonsense. He is quite right. Since he has no illness, why badger him?” He looked proudly at his wife, “Now you see! Never raise it again.” I said, “Now go to the doctor only out of compassion for this poor woman—since you have no illness, what’s there to fear? Let her mind be at ease. She is dying of worry. Take pity on her.”
Now he was in a fix. “I accept that you say I have no illness. Why would a doctor harm me? But this poor thing is withering—look how she has gone thin. She will get TB if you do not go.” He said, “If you say so, I will go.” But I saw he trembled. Now he had no answer, he had to go—and TB it was. He said, “What can I hide now? I feared TB might be found. Now I will not survive.” I said, “You are mad. You are fortunate. Had you had TB thirty years ago, it was a danger. Now—what danger? Now there is no cure for cold; for TB there is. Cold has no cure; TB does. Who cares for the cold? In three or four days it goes by itself. There is a saying: If you take medicine, a cold goes in one week; if you don’t, in seven days. Which physician worries over it? It gets well on its own. But TB—now it is less than a cold. Do not panic.” He died in a fortnight. Not of TB—of the shock of TB. For years he had been repressing it, hiding from it. He could not bear it. The doctor said, “There was no reason to die.” I said, “No reason—but his mind...”
You keep yourself entangled in thousands of things to hide one thing—“Outside, Death has taken her stand”—death at the door; and life, nothing but risk.
Awaken from this risk. It is a blessed risk, a challenge. If this risk pierces your chest like an arrow, there will be revolution; you will have to do something. And what will you do? You will have to undertake the inner journey. If death stands outside, you must go within. Outside—death; go outward—you meet death. Only one way remains: go within.
In Japan a Zen fakir was invited to a meal by friends. On the seventh floor they were eating when suddenly an earthquake struck. The whole building shook. People ran. Twenty-five, thirty friends. Jam on the stairs. The host too ran, but blocked by the crowd, he remembered the guest—what of him? He looked back: the Zen fakir sat eyes closed, as if nothing were happening! The building shook—now to fall, now to fall. But that fakir’s peaceful posture so drew the host’s mind that he said, “Whatever happens to the fakir will happen to me.” He stopped. He trembled, he feared—but he stopped. Earthquakes come and go; none lasts forever. The fakir opened his eyes and, from where the talk had broken at the earthquake, resumed it.
The host said, “Forgive me; I do not even remember what we were saying. In the middle such a great event happened—everything is disarrayed. Now I have a new question. We all ran—why did you not run?”
The fakir said, “You are mistaken. You ran; I ran. You ran outwards; I ran inwards. We both ran. Your running is visible, for you ran out. My running was not seen. But had you observed my face attentively, you would have understood that I too had run. I was not here; I was within. And I tell you this: I ran rightly; you ran wrongly. Here, there was an earthquake, and where you ran, there too. Run outside—you meet only earthquakes. I ran within, to a place where no earthquake ever reaches. I was at rest there. I sat within myself. Now, what happens outside, let it happen. I sat in my deathless home, where death occurs not. I reached that unshaken state where earthquakes have no standing.”
If the outer risk becomes visible, your inner journey can begin.

“Lalu, O you blind one—darkness ahead.”
Lal says: Look—first, deep darkness; then, you too are blind; and ahead, thorn and thicket.
“Lalu, O you blind one—darkness ahead.
The snakes coil in pits; the body suffers the sting.”
Here and there snakes have made their homes. Here and there they have made their places. From where the snake will strike—you cannot know. And when it strikes, it is so swift you have no time to escape.
“Lalu, O you blind one—darkness ahead.”
Deep darkness; blindness. Then many thickets in life. And everywhere snakes have made their pits. Why keep running outward? You will fall into some bush. You will be bitten by some snake. You will come as you came—and go as you came. You will lose this supreme opportunity of life like this? Picking only pebbles and stones?
The swan picks pearls! And you are a swan—made to pick pearls!

The dreams I step forth with,
Stretching my feet ahead—
What do I know? They come
With a longing of their own.
Tomorrow is a veil—opaque,
Silent, impenetrable—
But we paint its portrait
With our colors of choice.
All being here is in hues,
In colors—day and night.
Why clash, then, with that
Which is invisible, unknown?
These rising, falling breaths,
This waxing, waning thirst—
What breaks is false; what holds
As faith—that is truth.
When was becoming, unbecoming,
Ever in our control?
Yet life that fills the empty—
That, we have with us.
When did I look this shore,
That I entangle in the far?
Wherever I tilt my gaze—
There only midstream!
Now sorrow’s, now joy’s—
Each moment my festival.
In desires, in sighs—
My name is all-in-all.
This world, like a madman,
Is entangled in knowledge—
But the errors I have solved—
Of those I am proud!
When have I asked anyone what joy is and what sorrow is?
When it opens, every secret of the mind turns to smoke!
Do I have such strength that I can ever drop the unwanted?
By the power of what light could I turn back my lost paths?
Yes, the wonder is a fleeting feeling, a frenzy of an instant,
But tell me, how am I to break my own limits?
Whatever stands before me is absorbed within boundaries.
The ego is bound in limits; the limit itself is a boon!

Such a person keeps explaining himself to himself. This is life—of limits and of ego; this scramble, this business, this money, others’ esteem.

Whatever stands before me is absorbed within boundaries.
The ego is bound in limits; the limit itself is a boon!

In this way we console ourselves: this is our destiny.
No, no—death is not your destiny. Your rightful inheritance is the nectar of immortality. And if everywhere you see yourself stuck midstream...

When did I look at this shore, that I tangle myself—where is that far shore hidden?
Wherever I bent my gaze, I saw only the midstream!

...then as yet you do not have the eye that sees. You are seeing with closed eyes. You are still seeing as a blind man sees. You have not yet received the sense of seeing, the art of seeing; otherwise there is no midstream anywhere—everywhere there is shore. Only shores upon shores! To the one who cannot see, there is death everywhere; to the one who can see, there is nectar everywhere. To the blind, God is nowhere—only matter, only dust. To the one who has eyes, there is no “mere dust,” for even in dust He is hidden. In each and every particle He abides.

He who remembered the attributeless, the formless, the unseen, the invisible, the unknown—remembered day and night, offered everything there—he became fulfilled!
...with the manifest he went straight.
He became fulfilled. Within him the music of the Eternal arose. The lotus of the Eternal opened within him—never to wither.
...the trash remained blank...
But those entangled in the futile world remained empty, blank.
...a rare one was pierced.
Perhaps, only rarely, someone—some rare one—is drawn toward Truth. Most remain caught in rubbish. And then they weep—very late. “What is the use of repenting after the bird has eaten the crop?” At the dying moment they weep. Whose eyes do not moisten at the moment of death? But then time is over. And people sit here with the hope: “At the time of death we will take God’s name—Ram, Ram.” What you could not do your whole life—how will you do it while dying? Death will only bring forth what you have done your whole life.

What you have guarded all your life appears at death—the essence, like attar distilled from a lifetime of flowers. Do not think that all your life you will chant “money, position,” and at the last moment suddenly remember Hari. Such a mismatch cannot be.

Life is a coherent chain; every link is connected. If all your life you visited the brothel, do not think that at the moment of death you will reach the temple. The feet, by old habit, will carry you to the brothel; even at death they will carry you. The feet know no other path. Yes, you may die and others may carry you and chant “Ram-naam satya hai” (God’s name is truth). That will happen—but you are gone.

It is a strange business: those for whom “Ram-naam” was never true all their life—others make them do “Ram-naam satya” when they die. They have already died; not even at the moment of dying—already dead! Now they are not there at all—there is nothing there. The empty cage lies there; the swan has flown. Others carry them to the cremation ground and chant “Ram-naam satya hai.” And even these others are not saying it for themselves; they are saying “Ram-naam is true” for the dead “gentleman.” For them many other things are still “true.” You are dead now; there is no risk left. Now there is no harm in declaring “Ram-naam is true.” Do not wait for others to have to say “Ram-naam satya hai.” Make Ram true in your life. In your own life, by your own experience, make God true—then you have lived and used life well.

Spent in bygone talk
that night of reveries,
sleep did not touch these hands called life.
Only a single drop was the tear—
yet somehow,
all of life is drenched.

What days they were—
when the ocean’s waves
patted the moored boats’ backs!
What magic was hidden
in my coaxings,
that the moonlight,
blushing,
came into these arms!

Now
only a few stale flowers remain in the bouquet,
and a coin-counting life is left.

In the mirror of the mind
faces that arise—
in every face
the eyes of a sorrowing doe.

From the courtyard to the border—
on the dew of the footpath
are scattered a few crane feathers.

Now
each day this Gandhari-life
listens in mute silence to fresh disasters.

Who knows what happened—
mists clustered over the river,
the chain went mute,
the wall went deaf.

A watch is posted on blossoms—
of these seasonal winds.
The name is “spring,”
but the noonday is midsummer.

Now
in this wilderness
life, stricken by mirage,
searches for a place to halt!

Do not be forced to say such words at the end. See the mirage today. See this life’s blazing noon today. Now you are taking it to be spring; later you will weep. Now you take it for mid-month bloom, and here there is nothing but death.

Awaken—and see a little!

Have you seen the ruthlessness of autumn, the desolate rose-garden?
Have you seen forests on fire, have you seen a dried-up spring?
One is looted at the crossroads—sometimes in forgetfulness, sometimes while vigilant—
yet everyone claims, “We too have seen the world!”
You say you have drunk, though you have not seen wine for ages;
how will a thirsty man stagger—staggering comes only after the drink.
We have sometimes been scorched, sometimes broken, sometimes swept away in floods;
in every morsel of the wish to live, we have seen the provisions of death.
The travelers reached the destination; we see their joys,
but who has looked at the trampled longings on the breast of the roads?
This lifespan is too little for experience, it is true,
yet do not ask what all we have seen in this short while.

If there is awareness, in a short while everything is seen; and if there is no awareness, seventy, eighty, ninety, a hundred years...yet the same race, the same stupidity, the same “off to Delhi!” the same lust for position, the same thirst!

Have you seen the ruthlessness of autumn, the desolate rose-garden?
Have you seen forests on fire, have you seen a dried-up spring?

Thus one day you will become just this—forests on fire, a dried-up spring... If not today, tomorrow, fall is coming. Do not remain lost in spring.

One is looted at the crossroads—sometimes in forgetfulness, sometimes while vigilant—
yet everyone claims, “We too have seen the world!”

No, not everyone has “seen the world.” Most people gray their hair in the sun and think they have. The one who has truly seen the world cannot help but turn toward God.

The earth has forgotten the Beloved, fallen into the ocean to search.
I laugh my own laughter—yet the world thinks, each day...

Lal says: the earth has forgotten that Beloved.

The earth has forgotten the Beloved, fallen into the ocean to search.

Therefore we have fallen into the ocean—forced to search, to writhe, to cry out. The moment you remember that one Beloved, the ocean dissolves. The moment you remember Him, the shore appears. The Beloved is the shore. His remembrance is the shore.

The earth has forgotten the Beloved, fallen into the ocean to search.
I laugh my own laughter—yet the world thinks, each day...

And Lal says, most delightfully: I have found God and am delighted, absorbed. My life has become laughter—a fountain of laughter. And people think, “The poor fellow has become sad, disinterested, a renunciate, a vow-taker! He left everything—poor man!” I am laughing; they think I am crying.

This point must be understood.

Mahavira left the palace, wealth, position, prestige. The scriptures describe this at length. But no one says that before renouncing he had already found something—therefore he renounced. No one leaves without finding. The wealth of meditation came to Mahavira in the palace itself. When the treasure of meditation was found, other treasures became worthless. We think he was renouncing riches; Mahavira was dropping pebbles.

A man came to Ramakrishna and laid many gold coins at his feet, saying, “You are a renunciate, you are a great renunciate; I wish to offer something.”

Ramakrishna said, “You speak wrongly. You are the renunciate; I am not. I am the enjoyer.”

The man said, “Paramhansa Dev, what are you saying—you, an enjoyer? And I, a worldly man, a renunciate?”

Ramakrishna said, “Try to understand. You have hoarded pebbles; I have diamonds! Tell me, who is the enjoyer—one who hoards pebbles or one who hoards diamonds? Who is the renunciate—one who clings to trash or one who has taken refuge at the feet of Rama? You are entangled in mud; I have become a resident of nectar. Tell me—who enjoys, and who renounces?”

I tell you the same: Mahavira, Buddha, Ramakrishna, Ramana—these are great enjoyers. Do not consider yourself an enjoyer. Do not be in this illusion. You are ill—patients, not enjoyers. You are renunciates—having renounced God, clutching clay pots! Great renunciates! On your doors it should be written: “So-and-so, great renunciate, paramahansa, vow-taker, great vow-taker!” You have abandoned all that is worth attaining and clutched all that is not.

Lal is right: I laugh my own laughter... I am laughing—and people think I am weeping. I am not dismal; I am blissful—and people think I have become indifferent. I have dropped nothing—what was garbage has been seen as garbage, and the diamond I have found.

Abandon both good and bad; know Maya to be dust.
Honor the one to whom the Court’s door stands open.

He says: the one who has become free of both good and bad... There are three kinds of people in the world: the wicked, whom we call “bad”; the respectable, whom we call “good”; and the sage. We commonly take the sage to be an evolved form of the good man; there we err. The sage is neither wicked nor good. He has gone beyond both. The wicked and the good are two sides of one coin. There is not much difference. One clings to the bad—but clings! The other clings to the good—but clings! Both are grasping. One is filled with the habit of evil, the other with the habit of virtue.

A sage has no habits; no grasping; his fist is open.
The sage says, “I am not—who will grasp, and what?”
The sage says, “Let God live through me. Let Him do what He will; or do nothing. I am a bamboo flute—whatever song He wishes to sing, let Him.” I have no insistence.

The wicked has obstinacy; the good has “satyagraha” (insistence on his truth); the sage has “anagraha” (no insistence)—no insistence at all!

Abandon both good and bad; know Maya to be dust.

One who has dropped both good and bad, auspicious and inauspicious, virtue and sin—for him Maya becomes dust. As long as you cling to the bad, there is Maya; if you drop the bad and cling to the good, there is still Maya. Maya lies in the clinging. One who drops both...

If you must give honor, give it to him who is beyond both good and bad. Why?

Honor the one to whom the Court’s door stands open.

Because only in one who has gone beyond good and bad has the doorway to the Divine opened. If you honor him, perhaps through that door a glimpse of God will begin for you too.

...the doorway stands open to him.

Beyond good and bad—beyond auspicious and inauspicious. Beyond the mind, for all notions of good and bad are mind’s play. Where the mind is not, Maya is not. Where one has become empty, where there is no grasping, there the door opens: “the doorway stands open.” There the temple door is open. If only you can bow your head there, a glimpse of God is assured!

And until the glimpse of God is had, do not be content. Do not stop anywhere along the road. There are beautiful halting places here, but no halt is the destination. God alone is the destination.

Remember: God alone is the destination. Do not forget it even for a moment: God alone is the destination. Do not leave without attaining God. Attain God—for in that is life’s fulfillment and meaning. Whoever missed Him, missed all. Whoever found Him—even if all else were lost—found everything.

That is all for today.