Hansa To Moti Chuge #3

Narendra bodhisattva! Music, truth, beauty—all are infinite. There is no way to go beyond them. They are unfathomable. Whoever dives dissolves; no one returns to report the depth.

Ramakrishna used to say: the search for truth is like a doll of salt diving into the ocean to measure its depth. A doll of salt plunging into the sea—how can it survive? The deeper it goes, the more it melts. As depth increases, it disappears. In the ultimate depth nothing remains; there is no one left to return and bring news.

Life, in all its dimensions, is infinite. Only the things made by man have limits. Nothing made by God can be limited. Whatever bears his imprint is infinite, boundless—without beginning and without end.

And nada—sound—is the deepest dimension.

Physicists say existence is made of electrical energy. Mystics say: existence is made of sound, of nada. These statements seem different, yet they are not. The latest findings also say that electrical energy can be converted into sound, and sound into electrical energy. They are two expressions of the same fundamental force.

You have heard the old tales—perhaps they are only tales, yet a large truth is concealed in them—that once upon a time there were musicians who could play Raga Deepak, whose notes could light extinguished lamps. Whether it actually happened or not is secondary; it could happen. Science now bears witness. If electricity can become sound and sound can become electricity, then at a particular pitch of nada extinguished lamps could be lit and lit lamps could be put out. These are two expressions of one energy. Those who sought from the outside—the scientists, the physicists—found electrical energy, which seems to be the body of existence. Those who went inward to the innermost found nada, Omkar—the breath of existence.

In this land there are three religions—Hindu, Jain, Buddhist—and in almost everything they differ. Later, Sikhism arose and there too are great differences. But on one point they all agree: the nada of Omkar. The Jains say there is no God—could anything be more opposed to the Hindu view? Hindu thought dances around God; without the flute of God, Hindu thought has no meaning. God is the center; Hindu thought is the circumference. Yet the Jains denied God and created a religion that is astonishing—an atheistic religion—two and a half thousand years ago.

In the West this is still being debated: can there be an atheistic religion? Here we not only debated it; we created one. We opened the door for the non-believer as well: a non-theist can be religious. We did not make theism a compulsory condition. For the atheist too, the path was made just as accessible as for the theist. This was a great revolution. Then Buddha took one step further—even beyond Mahavira. At least Mahavira accepts the soul; Buddha said: there is no soul. There is neither God nor soul—only shunyata, emptiness. Even an atheist does not dare so much; Buddha is the great atheist. The atheist may deny the eternal soul, but he will still say, “I am here now.” Buddha says: even now there is no “I.” The soul is not—even momentarily, let alone eternally. No God, no soul—and still there can be religion! There was religion, and following Buddha countless people tasted the ultimate flavor of life.

In these three religions everything is debated—sacrifice, rituals, caste and ashram, codes and ceremonies—there is no agreement. But on one point all three concur: in the innermost—what Mahavira calls the soul, what the Hindu calls God, what Buddha calls emptiness—a sound arises, an incomparable nada arises. A vina plays there. There is no vina—and yet it plays. There is no musician—and yet music arises. On this they all agree. If we understand carefully, it means that even more than God, even more than the soul, the primary insight is the nada, the inner music. There is no crossing beyond it.

Alauddin is right when he says, “I could not cross beyond the nada and the sur.” And among those in this century who went to the depths of nada and sur, there is no one to match Baba Alauddin. He could enter the nada from anywhere. He needed no vina, no sitar; give him two pieces of iron and he would strike them and give birth to astounding music. Let him tap a spoon on a plate and he would spellbind you. Once you have tasted it, once you are awake to it, you can call it forth from anywhere. But the deeper he went, the clearer it became that there is no crossing beyond. “I will disappear,” he felt, “but there will be no other shore.”

Kabir sings: “Searching, searching, O friend, Kabir was lost in wonder. When a drop merges into the ocean—how can you search for it? Searching, searching, O friend, Kabir was lost in wonder. When the ocean merges into the drop—how can you search for it?”

Such an extraordinary experience must have happened to him. Because of that he said: “All has turned to dust!” All effort, exertion, practice—turned to dust. He strove all his life, and it all became dust. Man’s striving does become dust. What of consequence has ever happened—or will happen—by man’s doing? Things do happen by our doing, but we swagger needlessly, we stuff the ego in between for no reason.

Two people are sitting by a riverbank—a young man and a young woman. Evening falls. The river is in flood; great waves rise. It is a full-moon night; the river has turned to silver. They are in love, newly in love; love’s deep blindness is upon them—everything looks green and fresh—and such a night! In the distance the papIha calls, and there is the hush of the riverbank. The young man says, “Come, waves, come; dance, waves, dance.” And the waves begin to come! They were coming anyway. And the waves begin to dance! They were dancing anyway. The young woman moves closer, puts her arms around him and says, “Even the river’s waves obey your command tonight. Blessed are you! Having you, I too am blessed.”

Flowers are blooming anyway; the moon and stars move anyway. This vast existence is not happening because of you. It was moving before you were, and it will move when you are no more. But for two moments in between you puff up—needlessly! And you make great efforts—straining to prove yourself, to leave your signature, to leave some mark on the sands of time. Those who know will say exactly this: “All has turned to dust!” All that was done and achieved—dust. And when one truly realizes that all I have done is dust, then a rain of gold descends. But that is grace—only grace. Not effort, not striving. Grace descends only when you are utterly effortless, unstriving—empty, eager, open, consenting, with your door ajar. Then the guest comes—surely he comes. He does not come because you call. Sunlight does not enter your room because you call it, nor do gusts of wind, nor raindrops. Do only this much: keep the door open—when the sun rises, it can enter; when the wind blows, it can enter; when it rains, the drops can come. Do only this much: keep the door open. Beyond this there is nothing more for man to do.

Alauddin is right: “All has turned to dust, as for me—I am nothing.”

I am nothing—lost, dissolved. All striving turned to dust. And when striving turns to dust there remains no place for the ego to stand, no support, no prop. When all your efforts turn to dust, when you see that all your efforts are futile, how will you still say “I am”? How will you build the “I”? To build the “I” you need the bricks of effort; then the mansion of “I” rises—grand, though it is only a house of cards. A small gust of wind and it collapses. Death comes—and it takes no time—the cards scatter, the palaces sink into the earth. Not only palaces of cards, even palaces of stone collapse. Here, everything turns to dust.

Alauddin’s utterance is significant. Through music he came to know God; through music he had a glimpse of the divine. In music he found the true master.

“All has turned to dust, as for me—I am nothing, and I could not cross beyond the nada and the sur.”

He was a simple, straightforward man. He strove greatly—his whole life. He surrendered everything to nada and sur. And he did not find the far shore. That is his blessedness. If he had “crossed beyond,” it would mean he never knew the nada at all—that he merely learned toys in the name of nada and sur, got entangled in man-made instruments, but never knew the sacred sound.

Whatever has a shore is man-made. What has no shore—know that it is joined to the divine, that you have come near the divine. Seek only the shoreless, the infinite. And for the search you have no deed to perform—you have to dissolve, to be nothing. Become empty, and the Whole is ready to descend.

Ramnath Sharma! Meditation has no justification. The language of right and wrong is left far behind. Meditation is a transcendence of right and wrong. Right and wrong are thoughts of the mind; meditation is a state of no-mind. Right and wrong belong to the marketplace; meditation is an inner journey. Right and wrong are about conduct; meditation is an inner state.

But I understand your question. You are asking, “There is no cause-and-effect in God-realization.” Certainly, there is no cause in God-realization. There is nothing you can do by which God can be attained. If you could do something, there would be a cause; if God came because of your doing, there would be a cause. No cause works in attaining God. That is why God is not a part of science, why science cannot accept God. Because the fundamental basis of science is the principle of cause and effect. Whatever falls within cause and effect, science will accept.

Heat water to one hundred degrees; it becomes steam. And whether you heat it to one hundred degrees in a mosque, a temple, a gurdwara, or a church, it makes no difference. It’s not that in a temple it will turn to steam at ninety-nine degrees, and in a mosque it will take a little longer because it’s a place of meat-eaters. It will become steam at one hundred degrees—temple or mosque makes no difference. Whether in India, Pakistan, China, or Japan, it will become steam at one hundred degrees. One hundred degrees of heat is the cause; as soon as the cause is complete, water has to become steam. But that means water is a slave. If you produce one hundred degrees of heat, the water is no longer free to say, “Today I don’t feel like it—today I won’t become steam; I have no urge to fly in the sky today; perhaps some other time—my mood is low.” Water can say nothing. Water has no freedom.

The principle of cause and effect is the end of freedom—it is a kind of murder. Wherever cause and effect applies, there is fate, there is determinism. It is water’s destiny to become steam at one hundred degrees—an unavoidable, inescapable destiny.

The Divine is not within cause and effect; otherwise the Divine would be a slave. …As if someone fasted a hundred days and God would have to come. Then God would be smaller than man, just as water is smaller than man. God would be in our fist; we would make him dance as we wished, seat him where we liked. Then God would belong in a laboratory. We would discover new techniques. In olden times people burned wood to heat water; with difficulty the wood would catch fire, then water would heat—hours would pass. Now we know electricity can do it in an instant. And electricity does it in an instant; with an atomic furnace even an instant would be too long. As a drop of water on a hot griddle goes “psst” and flies into the air, so oceans could rise in a moment with atomic energy!

If the principle of cause and effect applied to God, then if Mahavira attained in twelve years, in twenty-five hundred years we would have discovered ways to do it—would it still take twelve years? We’d do it in twelve minutes… or quicker still, by inventing new devices and methods. If God could be attained by fasting, what does fasting do? It reduces your body by a pound a day, renders your alimentary system inactive, empties your intestines. But all this can be done by science in hours—why would months be needed? There is no real obstacle. If by this God were attained, Mahavira’s twelve years of fasting could be reduced to two or four days. Such purification of the body could be achieved just like that.

But God is beyond the limits of science; he cannot be grasped, cannot be brought into any experiment. Cause and effect have no relation to the Divine. So Ramnath’s question is apt: then what is the justification for meditation?

The question arises because in Ramnath’s mind meditation is the cause and God the effect. Meditation is not a cause. Meditation is only an opportunity, not a cause. Meditation is negative; a cause is affirmative. Understand this distinction.

As I just said: the sun has risen. It cannot rise by your wish—“whenever I want, let it come up.” But there is one thing you can do: the sun may be up, and you can sit with your eyes closed. The sun may batter its head against your door; for you it hasn’t risen. The sun does not rise by your wish; but by your wish you can refuse to see it. You can keep your eyes closed for lifetimes. You can keep the doors and windows shut. You can hang thick curtains so that your room remains dark, dark even at noon. This you can do.

Meditation has this same negative function. Meditation says: open the curtains. Opening the curtains has nothing to do with producing the sun. Meditation says: open the windows, open the doors. Opening doors will not create the morning; but if the doors are open, when the morning comes, light will pour into your life. Morning will come when it comes—morning has its own laws, its own route, its own rhythm.

God will come when he comes; you cannot drag him in. But you can do this much: when God comes, be present. You can hang festoons at the door, light lamps; you can play a flute at the threshold; you can strew flowers in welcome, lay out, as it were, your very eyelids as a carpet. He will come when he comes. It is not a matter of cause and effect—“we have completed the hundred degrees, now he must come”—there is no such inevitability. He will come when he comes; grace will shower when it showers. But you can do this much: when grace showers, you are not left deprived. You can empty out all your rubbish, so that when the Guest arrives he finds you fit to dwell in. You can become a temple.

Meditation does not bring God; it makes you a temple. Meditation does not bring God; it opens your eyes. Meditation does not bring God; it readies you for his welcome. Meditation is a celebration, an opening.

Do not seek justification in meditation. But our mind is such that it thinks of everything in terms of means and ends. Our mind is that of a shopkeeper: what will be the profit?

People come to me and ask, “If we meditate, what will we gain?” Just think—profit-language and meditation! “What will we get?” That is the first question. Meditation is a celebration, a joy unto itself. With the door open, the birds’ songs begin to enter your home; the fragrance of trees fills your nostrils. The sun, the moon, the stars begin to be seen. Existence begins to be experienced. God is not somewhere else—he is here, this, now. In every particle! But you are dull, inert. Meditation will not bring God; it will break your inertia.

Do not tie meditation to God. That is why Buddha could teach meditation—because it has nothing to do with God. Mahavira too could teach meditation, because it has nothing to do with God.

You will be surprised to know that Patanjali considered even God just a support for meditation. This will surprise you—the usual equation is reversed. People generally think meditation is the cause, God the effect; meditation the means, God the goal. Patanjali says God is merely an alamban, a prop, for meditation. There are people who cannot meditate without God; all right then, accept God—and at least meditate. If you must, meditate with the idea that through meditation you will find God. Although meditation has no causal link to finding God. When you meditate, you will open, you will be revealed. Your bud, tightly closed, will unfold; it will become a lotus. And the taste of that lotus is what we call godliness. God is not a person—the expression of an opened lotus. The bliss that comes when a flower blossoms—when the lotus of your consciousness opens, the name of that bliss is godliness.

There is no relation of cause and effect. There is no question of justification. Meditation is a kind of divine madness. Here the arithmetic of profit and loss, all that cleverness, will not do. If you first make sure what you will get and only then meditate, you will never be able to meditate.

Let there be at least something in life that is beyond justification! Let there be something that is not a means, not a cause. Let there be something that is its own end. The joy of dancing is in the dancing itself. Is dancing not enough in itself? Yes, for those who cannot dance—utterly crippled, paralyzed—if they need, let them create the idea of God: first set up an image of Krishna, then dance. If you can dance, even Krishna’s image is unnecessary. No support is needed; the dance is enough. It is not about dancing around Krishna; wherever you dance, Krishna will be around. If you dance, Krishna has to be there. The very posture and mood of dance is godliness.

When you sit down as a zero, who else can there be but the Divine? When you disappear, what remains is what we call God.

Jagdish Bharti! To become silent, to fall utterly quiet, is the way to say the deepest of things. Words touch only the surface; silence touches the bottomless depths. Truth abides in those fathomless depths, while words live on the surface. That is why no word can express truth. Nor can any word express love. Nor can any word express beauty. Truth is utterly helpless before speech—it cannot speak, it is speechless. And words too are helpless, impotent; they are fine for the workaday world, for give-and-take. But the deeper you go, the more useless words become.

Homage can only be silent. Homage is surrender; it is to bow down. Why have people bowed in prayer for centuries? Do you think putting your head on the earth makes you religious? Putting your head on the earth does not make you religious. But what is one to do? Words fail—and yet gratitude must be offered. One cannot do without thanking, for when so much grace is showering, a shyness arises, a hesitation, a longing to say thank you; if you do not, it feels like a sin. So what can one do? Helpless, powerless—one bows! That bowing is only the helplessness of man, the helplessness of words, of speech. One lays one’s head on the earth: What more can I do?

I offer my feeling—please accept it! You have given my mind the struggle of movement, to dreams the hypnotic web of images, you have created a whole creation of tears in these eyes, and to the lips the tingling thrill of pure sweetness! Exultation and sigh are your very limbs, you fashioned mirage and thirst, turning my very being into a curse, you gave me, step by step, the blessing of dissolving. I laughed at your smile-like hints, I broke down at the play of your arched frown, by your divine sport, O One who astonishes and astounds! I offer my feeling—please accept it!

I offer my action—please accept it! What is sin and what is virtue? That you know. Here we only know this much: one must act. The sky is yours, and the earth is yours, in you even these breaths strike their beat. In you are the weakness and the strength of these hands; I walked on, for the feet’s virtue is simply to walk. These scenes were made; the very vision you gave me, how am I to know what is truth and what is deception? To create and to uncreate—this is your very nature; in you lies the frustration of these limits. O you who impel even my failure and my success! I offer my action—please accept it!

I offer my very existence—please accept it! Composing the grace of colors, spring burns itself away, scattering fragrance, the flower turns to dust, melting, the cloud goes to quench the earth’s thirst, striking the rocks, the stream bursts into song! It is you who have given the music of madness, you taught me to melt into compassion, you gave me here, from the very dust, the tenderness of mother-love, to burn in colors—I learned that from you alone! In that knowledge and that delusion, it is you who are conscious, by which I helplessly keep rising and falling. Within my broken fragments—O Infinite, O Undivided One— I offer my very existence—please accept it!

Bow! Bow down to the earth! Bow down into the dust! There is no need to seek out temples. Wherever you bow, there is a temple. Wherever you stiffen, the pilgrimage is lost—there it becomes the world. Wherever you bow, a place of pilgrimage is born.

Words will not be able to say it, Jagdish! Voice will not be able to say it. But the art of silently bowing says everything—even what cannot be said, the unexpounded, the ineffable. What the wise cannot say, the devotee manages to say.

Kamala! Dance! The husband disappeared right on time—one entanglement spared, one big hassle avoided. Later there would have been much regret. But the human mind is such that what is absent attracts us, and what is present repels us. The poor think, “If only I were rich.” The ignorant think, “If only I were wise.” The indulgent think, “If only I were renunciate.” The unmarried think, “If only I were married.” The married think, “If only I could die—how to die, when to die!” The chase is always after what is not. You are saved! God’s hand must have been there. Husbands don’t usually disappear so helpfully. It’s good fortune.

Now you say, “Give me consolation.” To console would mean first I accept that what you call sorrow is indeed sorrow. I cannot call it sorrow. Because where is the joy among those who did get married? Just lift your eyes and look around—look at the married.

An astrologer, telling a young man’s future, said, “At twenty-five you’ll get married.” The young man panicked: “But you just told me I would live at least fifty years!” The day a man marries, that very day he dies. What’s left after that!

Dhabbhu-ji asked Chandulal, “Chandulal, if a man makes a mistake and confesses it, what would you call him?” “Truthful,” said Chandulal. “And one who hasn’t made a mistake, but still admits it—what would you call him, Chandulal?” “Married,” said Chandulal.

Kamala! You have been spared; you are fortunate.

“Listen! Your best friend is going to get married. And the girl he’s marrying is absolutely third-rate.” The husband kept silently reading his newspaper. “You’re amazing—you’ll let his life be ruined and sit there silent?” the wife pressed. Still he kept silent. She flared up: “Isn’t it your duty to go counsel him and stop him from doing this?” “I’m not going,” said the husband. “Who came to counsel me?”

Your would-be husband must have been very wise—he ran away. And now you are trying to track him down? Or did you come here thinking that often... many runaways are here... maybe the runaway husband will be found here. Hard to recognize though—he’ll have grown a beard and put on ochre robes.

Choubey-ji, sitting beside his heavyset wife, asked, “Tell me, is it better for a man to die at once or to die by inches?” “In today’s stress-ridden life, I think one should die at once,” Mrs. Choubey opined. “All right, then put your other leg on me too,” said Choubey-ji, and stretched out on the sofa.

To whom have you come seeking consolation! You should have gone to some priest or pundit—he would have checked your horoscope and chart, reassured you, “Don’t worry; the husband has gone east, he’ll be back. He hasn’t gone far, he’s only in Bombay—he’ll try being a film actor for a bit; as soon as his pocket money runs out, he’ll return. Don’t panic.” He’d prescribe rituals: perform a yajna-havan, do a Satyanarayan katha. But you—why come to me!

All I can say is: don’t live where the husband knows you live, otherwise by some oversight he might actually come back. Change your address, so even if he does return, he won’t find you. And if by chance you ever do meet, then just as he went missing, you go missing too. One racket avoided, one useless upheaval averted. If you enter into upheavals, you still have to get out of them—and getting out keeps getting harder, because the net keeps tangling. Husbands don’t come alone, troubles don’t come alone. Then come children. That’s why the wise have said, “Troubles never come alone.” Husband comes, then children…! Then come the husband’s relatives, the mother-in-law, the father-in-law, and who knows what all…! And then getting out of that jungle becomes difficult. Your husband saved you. Take it as grace—offer thanks. Yours and his will be a bond for births to come! This time he showed great kindness.

Consolation for what? You haven’t lost anything; you’ve gained something! And look—this excuse brought you here. Is that a small thing? Who knows, by this very excuse a revolution may happen in your life!

You say, “I am very unhappy.” Do you think those who are married are happy? Open your eyes and look around. If people have wealth, they suffer; if they don’t, they suffer. If they have position, they suffer; if they don’t, they suffer. If they’re married, they suffer; if they’re unmarried, they suffer. Sorrow has no link with the outside, with external circumstance. Don’t put the responsibility for sorrow outside.

People come to me. One is unhappy because they have many children; another because they have none. I say, “You two talk to each other—keep holy company. Swap homes for a couple of days. You who have kids, go live at their place; and let them live at yours.” Then you’ll get a little sense: those children you’re pining for—what a racket they bring! And the one tormented by children—give him two or three days of solitude; he too will panic. Because he has no capacity to be alone either. Loneliness bites.

Sweep your gaze around. A wise person learns by watching others. A foolish one doesn’t understand even after going through things himself again and again. Life is vast. If you must understand only by experiencing every single thing, then many, many lives will pass and still you may not grasp it. The intelligent learn by seeing others. He opens his eyes around him and asks: What have those who have “it” actually got? Then if I don’t have “it,” how can that be the cause of my sorrow? The cause of sorrow must be elsewhere. Neither does a husband’s presence cause sorrow, nor his disappearance. Sorrow is our self-ignorance.

Don’t seek false pretexts. Sorrow exists only because the lamp within hasn’t been lit—the lamp of meditation hasn’t been kindled, the flame of awareness hasn’t arisen. The light of meditation is happiness; the taste of self-knowledge is happiness. Those who have known themselves—that alone is the happiness they know. All others know only sorrow; they live in sorrow, they die in sorrow. The causes of sorrow may differ—one falls into this pit, another into that. What difference does it make? One burns in this furnace, another in that—what difference does it make?

A man died—a politician, a big Delhi leader! He was shocked when he was taken to hell. He said, “Hell! I’m a VVIP! Hell for me? There must be some mistake.” Even the Devil was a bit nervous—VVIP! The man was powerful: Gandhi cap, achkan, churidar pajama—a proper leader, no detail missing. And even in hell, the Devil fears leaders—they might organize a strike, lay a siege! These arts weren’t developed in the old scriptures—so there’s no mention there. But nowadays even the Devil is getting gheraoed. So leaders must be handled carefully now. The Devil said, “Don’t worry. You’re a distinguished person; we’ll make special arrangements for you. Come—hell has many sections. You choose whichever you like.”

The leader was pleased. “Now that’s more like it! Even if it’s hell, what’s the harm—if I get a special choice. I’m no ordinary man!”

He was taken to the first section. People were being burned, boiled in cauldrons. The leader said, “No, this won’t do. We’ve seen plenty of this in Delhi. Somehow we escaped Delhi, and now boiling again? No.”

He was taken to the second section—worms and maggots everywhere, crawling in and out of people—holes upon holes. The leader said, “This is just Delhi repeated. Show me something new.”

Many sections were shown; nothing struck his fancy. Then the last section—there wasn’t any beyond it anyway—and this one appealed. There was a small hitch, but someone who’s seen Delhi—what’s a little hitch! The hitch was that people were standing knee-deep in urine and feces. The leader said, “That doesn’t scare us—we already used to drink our own urine. This can’t harm us. This is fine… We are already promoters of life-water. This place will suit me. It seems made for me. One step further than before: there’s urine, and there’s feces too—one step further. A higher step—made for the accomplished.” It appealed!

And people were sipping coffee from cups, standing knee-deep in it. The leader said, “This is good; a small inconvenience—standing knee-deep in filth. But otherwise there’s all kinds of fun—people drinking coffee, Coca-Cola; in Delhi even Coke had become unavailable. Everyone enjoying as they wish—Fanta here, something else there. Only one hitch: knee-deep.” He said, “That’s no hitch at all. That’s practically bliss. This is heaven for us.”

But soon it became clear. As soon as the leader took a Coke bottle in hand and managed two or three gulps, a loud siren sounded and the order came: “Now everyone do headstand.” Then he realized—wherever you go in hell, it’s hell. For a short while you may get Coke here and there, but knee-deep was okay—headstand?

Here people have chosen different hells—that’s the only difference. Their pictures of hell differ, the colors differ; but underneath it is hell all the way down, sorrow all the way down. If you want joy, there is only one way—only one, the one and only—and that is to know yourself. If you don’t know yourself, you will suffer—if married, you’ll suffer from marriage; if unmarried, you’ll suffer from being unmarried. If poor, from poverty; if rich, from wealth. Sorrow is in your fate because there is no ray of joy within. Joy is an inner event; it doesn’t come from outside. It has no outward route. You cannot acquire joy. Joy has nothing to do with what you have; it has everything to do with what you are. And then even if you are sent to hell, you will remain happy. And as you are now—even if you are taken by some miracle and seated in heaven—you will still be miserable. Think for a moment: if just as you are now you were transported to heaven, what would you do? Do you think anything would change? No—not a whit.

A Christian priest died and reached heaven. Being a priest, of course he reached heaven. Saint Peter opened the gate and for the priest’s tour and use gave him a shabby old Ford Model T. Even so, the priest was pleased—at least he got a gift. He didn’t yet know what all goes on here. He was even happier when he saw, passing by, an ayatollah—a Muslim cleric—riding on a bicycle. He said, “Ah! See the difference between being Muslim and being Christian! We’re going in a Ford—even if it’s a Model T from Adam’s time, the very car in which God seated Adam and Eve to drive them out of heaven—still, a car is a car! Connoisseurs don’t call it shabby; they call it ‘antique.’ The knowledgeable prize it highly.”

Just then he saw a rabbi zoom past in a Rolls-Royce. He said, “These Jews—pulling rank even here! They had their fun in life, hoarded all the world’s money, and now this too. The rabbi lives it up—marries, has kids, a house, wealth. A rabbi isn’t some renunciate who’s given up enjoyment. This is too much—great injustice. And we followers of Jesus…” He became resentful; envy arose.

You see? What you are here, you will be there too. Seeing the man on a bicycle, a great pride had arisen—ah! the heart felt good. And seeing the rabbi in a Rolls, and he even waved—an old acquaintance, they had lived in the same town—the priest’s chest caught fire. Now he could see this wasn’t “antique”—it was a clunker. He went back to Saint Peter, “This is injustice. These Jews had fun in the world too; they hoarded all the money. And this particular rabbi—I know him well; he never prayed, never worshiped; he never had the time—hotel, club, golf, and who knows what else. There’s no sin he didn’t commit. He lived right by me—I know him thoroughly. We worshiped ourselves to death, and we get a Ford Model T… and that rascal gets a Rolls!”

Saint Peter said, “Speak softly, gently. He’s a close relative of God. And remember, Jesus was a Jew—he’s his close relative too. We came much later; the rest came much later.”

The priest beat his chest. “So you mean nepotism runs here too—favoring kith and kin!”

No—if you were plucked up as you are and set in heaven, you would still be you: the same jealousies, enmities, malice, rivalries would surround you there as well. You wouldn’t find joy. And if you become established in your inner core, become meditative, heaven will descend here. Heaven isn’t somewhere else, hell isn’t somewhere else. They’re not geographical locations. Heaven is a state of consciousness; hell is a state of consciousness. Heaven is self-knowledge; hell is self-ignorance.

You say, “I am very unhappy.” Kamala, you are needlessly unhappy. You escaped the muck; your very name is Kamala—be a lotus. The husband ran away—give thanks, accept it as grace forever. If you ever meet him, touch his feet. Say, “Gurudev! O true master! Your boundless grace! You ran away at just the right time. A moment later and you’d have mounted the horse, the band would have struck up—then escape would have been hard.”

For women it is even harder to escape, because men have kept them so dependent. For centuries they were denied education—because if educated, they become independent. For centuries they were kept from working in the world, from earning—because if they could earn, where would the husband’s proprietorship stand? When the wife earns her own livelihood, she is no longer so dependent. Then she won’t say, “I am your maidservant at your feet.” Why should she? And if she earns more than you, then you’ll have to write it—“your servant at your feet”!

No husband likes to marry a woman more educated than himself. No man likes it. Because he feels inferior. No man likes the wife to earn more than him—his ego gets wounded.

Your would-be husband ran away—good. Don’t seek consolation, seek truth. Use this occasion. Turn it into a challenge for an inner journey. The marriage to a husband fell through—why not marry the Divine now? Why not have the great betrothal! Kamala, become a lotus!

In mud the lotus is hidden. No one would think a lotus is hidden in muck! What is mud, what is a lotus! Yet from mud the lotus is born. Likewise lotuses are hidden in all of us. We can remain mud and die as mud—or we can become lotuses. But these are lotuses of consciousness. They can bloom only in the energy of meditation—only when the sun of meditation rises within you.

And what is meditation? A state of consciousness without thought—silent, still—where there is no stir, no bustle, no ripples. If you can enter that, the great betrothal happens. The moment has come. Why be some small bride now—be the Bride of Rama! Now make your alliance with the Divine.

I will not give consolation. I never give consolation. Whoever gives consolation is your enemy—he applies balm and bandage. My trust is in surgery, not in salve.

All the love of this world is perishable—worth two pennies. You will not be able to love. If you are mortal, whence will you bring immortality into your feelings? You will not be able to love.

This path of love is stony, O tenderest of women and men; Some die early on, Some sit down after a few steps; Beloved, do not set your feet on this path—you’ll tire as you walk.

Today I have come upon the path of love, Bringing to my heart the dreams of joy, But nothing here is certain— Tomorrow who will please your mind? Who knows, in this one life, to how many you will belong?

The human mind is fickle, It even deceives itself; Two splashes are enough to douse it, The frenzy of separation flares mad; You too, like straw, will be swept away In the eddies of the mind.

I call you “beloved,” I call you more than you are—less I say; But the bond of love, To tell the truth, I call a delusion; How long will you snare your heart In fair deceits of happiness?

You will not be able to love. If you are mortal, whence will you bring immortality into your feelings? You will not be able to love.

Love is a dream—a dream of the eternal! A dream of living as the wise live, as the meditative live. A dream of attaining the most beautiful—but how will you find the most beautiful in bubbles of water? Yes, sometimes, for a moment, in a sunbeam a water bubble flashes like a rainbow—that’s another matter. But now it bursts, now it bursts. How will you build houses in this world of sand? Yes, children build them—but no one can really live in those houses; they collapse before they’re even built. You’re setting out to sail in paper boats! Paper boats are boats only in name; they’re not boats. And perhaps you’ll float a little—but how far will you get? In this unfathomable ocean, paper boats won’t do. What you call love is a paper boat. Take hold of the boat of prayer.

But you’ve been hurt. Your ego has been hurt. It’s natural—I understand. You must have waited long. The shehnai would have been playing, guests gathering at the door, your friends dressing you up—and then the groom didn’t come, the hoofbeats never sounded. Then came the news in place of the groom: he has fled, disappeared. Snakes must have coiled over your heart; your dreams turned to dust. You felt pain… but it is pain that wakes you. Pain becomes the challenge. See it as a challenge—as an opportunity, for a new journey, a new crossing.

These wildernesses must have been made for me; If I don’t add to their splendor, where shall I go? Under suns that glint in icy nights, If I do not sing, I will die.

I must journey again and again; Even if you strew the road with fire, I will still cross; The path where you have made your destination, I will never, in my whole life, come upon that road—not even by mistake.

To lose my life to the salute of a few breaths— Such a bargain I will not make with my breaths. No one is mine, save the shadows of the night; I cannot give light to the black sun.

Those golden rays you snatched from me— Into their ink I will descend very deep; I will never return to that village again; I will not mourn your going anymore.

Swear that the matter is settled—one game is over. Freedom came in time.

To lose my life to the salute of a few breaths— Such a bargain I will not make with my breaths.

And what would the profit have been anyway? What would really happen? We set up frauds for ourselves. People are kept alive on the crutch of hope. We tell little children, “When you grow up, then you’ll find happiness.” Then they grow up; we say, “When you get married, then you’ll be happy.” Then they marry; we say, “How can you be happy without children?” Then children come; we say, “Now get your children married, then you’ll be happy.” And so death comes—and happiness doesn’t. This is how we postpone it. We say, “Tomorrow.” And we pile up grand dreams of tomorrow. And today? Today we live in hell.

I tell you: heaven is today, heaven is now! Don’t postpone to tomorrow. And to be in heaven, no external instrument is required. Wherever you are, as you are—dive within. Then deserts turn into gardens. Dark nights fill with the sun’s radiance. Thorns transform into flowers.

These wildernesses must have been made for me; If I don’t add to their splendor, where shall I go? Under suns that glint in icy nights, If I do not sing, I will die.

Then songs begin to rise—from deserts, oases of song; from thorns, flowers; from dark nights, golden dawns.

Accept the challenge. Don’t seek consolation. Leave consolation to the weak and the cowardly. Those who have a little soul turn every situation in life into a challenge. Every challenge becomes a step toward the Lord’s temple.

Mahendra! There is only one recipe: you should not have intelligence. Or if you do, it should be the absolute minimum. If you have intelligence, you will not be able to succeed in politics. That is the arena of fools. Because, apart from fools, no one with any real interest in life is drawn to politics. Success is another matter; those who have some intelligence, some refinement of consciousness, will compose songs, play the veena, move into dance, sink into meditation, pray. They have so much to do. Life is vast, with rare, nectar-like dimensions. Why would they step into the muck of politics? Politics is for those who have nothing else.

Those who cannot sculpt, who cannot paint, who cannot sing, who cannot do anything at all—for all such incompetents there is politics. After all, there must be something even for the unfit. Those who have no other capacity have a capacity for politics.

Politics does not require intelligence. Because an intelligent person cannot be so dishonest; he will think at least a little. An intelligent person cannot deceive so much; he will ponder at least a little. An intelligent person cannot tell so many lies; his own soul will prick him. And politics is nothing but false promises—lie upon lie. To succeed in politics, what is required is a deeply sleeping consciousness.

After reading the news of many deaths in the city from encephalitis—brain fever—a worried wife said to her politician husband: Did you read it? The disease has spread here too! The politician said: So what? So what! said the wife. I am so afraid that you might...? Don’t panic! said the politician. This disease is contagious only if there is a brain. After all, you can only get brain fever if you have a brain.

I’ve heard that a man was undergoing brain surgery. A major operation—the entire brain had been taken out of the skull. The doctors were cleaning it up. The patient lay on the bed. Just then someone burst into the room and said, Netaji, what are you doing here? You’ve been chosen as the prime minister of the country! The man immediately stood up. The doctors were astonished! He even started walking. The doctors said: Hey, your brain is right here. He said: What use is a brain now? Keep it here. Keep cleaning it. What do I need a brain for? I have become the prime minister of the nation. Now a brain would only be an obstacle.

You ask: What is the recipe for success in politics? An absence of intelligence, dishonesty, lies. Only one single-pointed vision: to reach the seat of power somehow—whether the path is right or wrong, whether the means are right or wrong, no concern—no thought of the auspicious or inauspicious; no thought of morality or immorality. A heart hard enough that you can make steps out of people’s heads. And the skill to change faces. Enough masks that you can put on whichever one is needed at the moment.

In a hotel a wrestler, having drunk liquor, was challenging the people sitting to his right and left. Pointing to the right he said: You donkeys...! Pointing to the left he said: You horses...! Is anyone among you brave enough to come and wrestle me? Immediately a famous politician, who was seated on the right, stood up and started moving to the left. The wrestler puffed out his chest, glared, and said: Hey, you politician’s brat, you’re going to fight me? The politician said: Oh no, sir! How could I dare fight you? I had mistakenly sat on the wrong side with the donkeys, so I’m going over to the horses.

You need the courage to change masks. The courage to lick people’s boots. The skill to lie. The knack for dreaming foolish dreams.

Dhabbuji was telling Chandulal: You know, Chandulal, I save two hundred and fifty rupees every day! At this rate I’ll become a millionaire any day now. Chandulal asked: How so? Dhabbuji said: These days I travel by train every day. And in the train there’s an emergency chain. Anyone who misuses that chain has to pay a fine of two hundred and fifty rupees. Chandulal said: So what? Arre, said Dhabbu: You didn’t get it. Till today, I’ve never pulled that chain. So I save two hundred and fifty rupees every day. I’m going to become a millionaire. You just watch—keep watching.

You need the capacity for this kind of foolish arithmetic. Politics is a den of the dull and the deadened. The more inert someone is, the greater his chances of success there. The intelligent will step out of that race early, because the race is so filthy.

Mahendra, why did you ask this question at all? Are you intending to enter politics? Is there nothing else left to do in life? Does nothing else seem worth doing? But the desire to enter politics does arise—because politicians are given so much prestige. It is a misfortune that politicians are given so much prestige. This will not last long. The future does not belong to politics. The prestige of politicians is going to sink, slowly but surely.

Just as kings disappeared, so too will politicians disappear—I tell you this. Sooner or later you will see that only new kinds of people will be honored and revered. Creative people will be honored and revered. But for now the hollow people are worshiped. So the longing arises in your mind too. But look closely—really look at these hollow people! Their souls have long since abandoned them. They have sold their souls and purchased positions. It is hard to find people poorer, more beggarly, than these. But seeing their names in the newspapers and their photos every day, a feeling rises in you too: May I also become something someday!

A court case was underway. In a hotel someone had called a politician an “owl’s whelp” (an idiot). Naturally, the politician got angry. He filed a defamation case. Mulla Nasruddin was his witness. The magistrate said that the man who used the term says there were at least two hundred and fifty people in the hotel. He didn’t name anyone. Yes, he used the words “owl’s whelp.” But he didn’t say the politician was an owl’s whelp. Two hundred and fifty people were there; he could have meant anyone. He could even have meant himself. He didn’t name anyone. Therefore the politician has gotten angry for no reason. The magistrate asked Mulla Nasruddin, You are the politician’s witness—what proof do you have that this man called the politician an owl’s whelp? Mulla Nasruddin said: Hand on my chest, by God I swear he called the politician an owl’s whelp. But the magistrate asked: Two hundred and fifty people were there; he didn’t name anyone. How can you assert it so forcefully? Mulla Nasruddin said: If you won’t accept it, then I’ll tell you the plain truth. There were two hundred and fifty people there, but there was only one owl’s whelp among them. He called the politician an owl’s whelp.

Mahendra, do you want to be an owl’s whelp? There is so much else to do in life. Do something else with your life. Leave this trash alone. Leave this to the fourth class of society—the shudras. I call politics the occupation of shudras. Politics means shudrata. We should change our definitions now; the times have changed. Today when we say shudra, we mean the man sweeping the street. Why? He’s creating cleanliness—he should be called a Brahmin. He is doing the work of purification. And the politician is spreading every kind of filth, and you consider him a leader—shudra!

There is no need to be a shudra. Become a Brahmin! Know Brahman. And not only know—also manifest it, express it. Let it glimmer in your songs; let it descend into your dances. Take up some creative dimension. Politics is destruction.

Krishnatirth! You have no idea how many diamonds lie within you! You don’t know what a vast empire is inside you—that you are an emperor! Your own kingdom is not visible to you; it is visible to me. Your own gold mine is not visible to you; it is visible to me. In your own eyes you have no value because you have never looked at yourself, never recognized yourself. Had you recognized, known, become a little acquainted, you would find that you are an emperor, born as an emperor!

In this existence, where everyone arrives from the very source of the Divine, how could anyone be less than an emperor!

These feet of mine that tremble at every step, this head of mine whose curse is knowledge, these hands of mine that are spread, cupped in offering, this heart of mine whose law is rise and fall! In these lies the undoing of my very being— how can one ever rise beyond one’s own limits? Before me spreads an unknown expanse— whose power fills it, whose ego claims it? Crooked, countless paths of countless people, yet darkness swallows every path! I know—you will say, “This is a dream!” But I am a wayfarer; my path too is my own! To blossom is the quality of buds; to wither, the flowers’; to break and break and prick again and again—the thorns’; qualities belong to whatever is “something”; the qualityless is without existence; the gathered qualities of my life are of mistakes! My faith is slack, my voice is low; darkness is undefeated; knowledge is a limit! In my dreams, new dawns fall laughing; in my struggles, a faint night is inherent; at your feet the seven seas surge; over my head hover seven skies! I must collide with the ramparts of earth— is it only the warp and weft of joy and sorrow that lies ahead? In the moon there is coolness; in the sun unbearable heat; in the bee a humming buzz, in the cuckoo a lament! On my lips is snow; in my heart are embers; in my breaths I carry the measure of ages! Where is the source of breath? Even the ages are unknown— I say, “When have I ever known myself?”

That is the only mistake—not having known oneself. Otherwise the whole sky is yours, and all the moons and stars are within you. You have not known yourself; otherwise you are eternal—there is for you neither birth nor death. You are not the body; you are not even the mind. You are the Divine itself. Know, awaken, and you will be astonished—spellbound with wonder! You will dance—out of grace, out of joy, out of celebration!

Krishnatirth, you don’t know who you are. You are not clay; you are diamonds buried in the clay! You are not earth; you are the nectar hidden in the earth! The lamp may be of clay, but the flame is of consciousness—and that flame is you.

Therefore whoever comes to me is accepted. I do not ask of sin or virtue; I do not ask of worthiness or unworthiness; I do not ask caste or religion; I do not ask anything. Whoever comes to me is accepted, because the Divine abides in everyone—whom should one reject!

People ask me, “Do you give sannyas to everyone?” To everyone! What else can I do? God has given life to everyone. And when he did not ask, who am I to ask? And if he has trusted, who am I to doubt? Whoever comes is accepted, embraced. For I see your potential.

Gurdjieff used to say to his disciples: What you can be I love, but what you are I hate—and I hate it for seven generations. I say to you: What you can be I love, and what you are I also love—and I love it for seven generations! Because what you can be is hidden within what you are. Your future lies in your very being. If you are a seed, the flowers are not visible today—should I then deny the seed? And if I deny the seed, how will the flowers be born? The seed has to be accepted, embraced. One must caress the seed with love, care for it, give it soil, manure, sun, water—then one day spring will come and flowers will bloom from the seed.

I am creating a garden. In this garden all are accepted, because I would like all kinds of flowers to be here. Let there be variety! The greater the diversity, the greater the depth. The greater the diversity, the greater the richness.

Krishnadev! Certainly there is an inevitability to sharing it; you cannot escape it. It will have to be shared. There is no way to hold it back. When clouds are filled with water they will rain; when a flower blooms its fragrance will spread; when a lamp is lit it will radiate light.

You will have to share—but do not impose conditions on your sharing. Why worry about who is deaf and who is blind? After all, it is the blind who need eyes, and the deaf who need ears! If you go about choosing—“I will give to one who can see”—the one who can see has no need; he is already seeing. And if you give only to one who can hear—the one who can hear has already heard; will he sit waiting for you? The one whose eyes are open has already seen; the one who has ears to hear has already heard the inner sound. He will not be waiting for your arrival to hear it. His flute has begun to play; his light is already lit.

It is the blind and the deaf who are in need. So do not think, “People are blind and deaf; how can I give to them?” It is a joy to give to them. It is an art to give to them. In trying to give to them you will have to discover new devices—new language, new gestures and expressions. And in giving to them you will also grow; for what you have received has no end. The more you share, the more will come. The more you pour out, the more you will receive.

Drop worry; drop conditions. Jesus said to his disciples: Climb up onto the rooftops and shout. People are deaf; you will have to shout. Shake them; wake them. People are asleep.

And when you shake sleeping people, they will be annoyed; they will even abuse you. Who wants to wake from a pleasant sleep! And how can the one who sleeps know the joy of waking! How could he? He is forgivable if he is angry. And if the deaf refuses to accept the existence of the inner sound, do not be enraged. If he were to accept, his acceptance would be false. No revolution comes of false agreement. Collide with his refusal. Cut through his denial—break it inch by inch. Take up the chisel and carve that stone. No one is born deaf, and no one is born blind.

I am speaking of spiritual blindness and spiritual deafness. Everyone is born with spiritual eyes and spiritual ears, because we are born with soul. Society has closed the ears, choked them—stuffed them with the cotton of scriptures, words, doctrines. It has tied blinders over the eyes, as blinders are tied on oxen at the mill or on horses pulling a carriage. Such blinders have been tied. No one is blind; no one is deaf. With loving effort, the blinders can be removed. You will have to coax and entice. With a little work, the cotton can be taken out of their ears. But they will not agree to accept your word all at once.

What is the hurry? In God’s work there is no need of haste. If it is his will, he will put you to work. If it is his will, through you some will be awakened, some eyes will be opened. And if it is not his will, why worry? That your eyes have opened—is that not enough!

Keep flowing on, flowing on, flowing on, brother! Keep your head held high and bear the cold and heat, brother! Here everyone is telling, weeping, the tales of their sorrows; You, smiling, keep speaking of everyone’s joy, brother!

Here the sun, moon, and stars drift dazed in their courses, Ice is melting, the wind is blowing, embers are burning here; Coming and going is the truth; all else here is false, brother— When have those who bow ever been able to stop on life’s road, poor things?

What is it that makes you happy, and tell me—what makes you angry? Those golden dreams of yesterday—today they have proved false! This is a thorny path; helplessly everyone must keep walking; The one who becomes progress itself—his dreams are unique, incomparable!

You who hurl a challenge to humanity all eight watches of the day, You who take palaces and treasures as your hereditary right— Tomorrow you will become dust-motes, kicked under people’s feet. Who here is there that has tasted the nectar of immortality?

These rainbow dawns are borne on nights black with sorrow; In summer’s scorching flames there are showers of sweetness! This making and unmaking is the tread of deathless Time’s feet; These talk of joys and sorrows are like pictures of shadows here.

To stop is not the law of motion—keep on walking, brother; To be extinguished is not the law of life—keep on burning, brother! Like a block of snow—pure, cool, bright—be the heir of glory; It is not the law for tears to freeze—keep on melting, brother!

Keep flowing on, flowing on, flowing on, brother! Keep your head held high and bear the cold and heat, brother! Here everyone is telling, weeping, the tales of their sorrows; You, smiling, keep speaking of everyone’s joy, brother!

Do not worry. Speak out what has happened within you—go on speaking—whether someone listens or not; whether someone sees or not. Keep sharing. If out of a hundred even one sees, if out of a hundred even one hears, you are blessed. That is enough. Your effort has borne fruit.

Krishnadev, sharing is inevitable. Drop all conditions. Do not consider “worthy” and “unworthy.” This very weighing of worthiness becomes the obstacle. People think, “We will give to the worthy.” Then the worthy are never found. What worthy, what unworthy? The one you give to will become worthy by your giving. Just go on giving, brother!

Keep flowing on, flowing on, flowing on, brother! Keep your head held high and bear the cold and heat, brother! Here everyone is telling, weeping, the tales of their sorrows; You, smiling, keep speaking of everyone’s joy, brother!

Let people cry—you sing. Let people sit with eyes closed—you light the lamp. Let people lie with ears closed—you pluck the strings of the veena. If not today, then tomorrow; if not tomorrow, then the day after—someone will hear, someone will awaken, someone will see. And if even one sees—if from your lit lamp even a single lamp is lit—you are fulfilled. And lamps will be lit; surely they will be lit. They have always been lit! This is the way it has always been. Call a hundred—ten will come. Of those ten, one awakens. This is the proportion.

Enough for today.