Jagat Taraiya Bhor Ki #5

Karl Marx’s famous dictum is that religion is an opium-intoxication. Marx must have known nothing of religion, for except religion everything else is opium. The race for money, the race for position — intoxication. Religion is the sole way to awaken from every intoxication.

We all live in dreams — and therefore remain unfamiliar with that which is truth. Without acquaintance with truth, happiness is impossible. Happiness is the fragrance of intimacy with truth. If you live in dreams, only sorrow will be created, for happiness cannot arise from that which is not. That which is not will again and again inflict pain. Try a thousand means — it will not happen. What is not, is not. Only what is, is.

Religion means: the search for what is. Irreligion means: the longing for what is not.

Man asks for a great deal — that which is not. And there is no way for it to become. Even if somehow you do manage to arrange your dreams, you will remain empty within. For whose hunger was ever filled by dream-food? Whose thirst was ever quenched by dream-water? By dreams one can deceive oneself, entangle oneself. Through dreams you can make arrangements to drag life along. You will be busy, but you will never attain anything. The shore will never come. A dream has no shore. Truth has a shore. The difficulty is that one who runs in dreams begins to move opposite to truth. Dream means — the opposite of truth. So the one who runs in dreams is daily deprived of truth. The dream is never fulfilled; that which could have been fulfilled keeps slipping away.

Because of your demands you cannot become what you could have been. You can become only that which at some deep level you already are. The seed will become a flower — but it will become precisely the flower which is already hidden in the seed. It is concealed; it will be revealed.

Paramatma means: that which is hidden within man. Sometimes in a devotee, sometimes in a saint, that which is hidden becomes manifest. But every man is the seed of the same. Yet our energy flows in a thousand directions. Hence the seed receives no energy, no nourishment.

Have you noticed? With how much attachment do you go to the market, and with how much attachment have you ever gone to the temple? With how much love have you counted your rupees, and with that much love have you ever turned the rosary? With what urgency have you asked for position, and with that urgency have you ever asked for Paramatma? Even at the door of Paramatma you go only to ask for the world. Your folly knows no bounds. At the very gate of the Divine you ask for the world; you go only when you need something worldly. From Paramatma you ask for wealth, for fame, for rank and prestige. From Paramatma you ask exactly what you were doing and now can no longer do. For your own dreams you even seek the help of Paramatma.

Your eyes will turn towards Paramatma only when one thing becomes utterly clear: that whatsoever we are asking is futile, rubbish. Even if it is obtained — nothing is obtained. First, it is not going to be given; and even if given, still nothing is gained. Suppose you become emperor of the whole world, the entire earth is yours — even then what will you gain? Within you, you will remain what you are right now — just as miserable, just as anxious, just as restless, just as afflicted, just as troubled. Perhaps your trouble will increase a little more — for the troubles of the whole world will sit on your head. Trouble will not be less.

Religion is not an opium-intoxication; leaving religion, everything else is opium. Religion is the only process by which we come out of intoxicants. Religion is the method of de-addiction.

So first take note: What is dream and what is truth? Where is the touchstone? How shall we know that what we are seeing is a dream? How shall we know and recognize that what we are asking is a dream?

First: Truth is never to be asked for. Whatever you ask, will be a dream. Asking itself belongs to the unreal. Truth already is. For truth, it is enough simply to open your eyes; there is no need to ask.

The great Western painter, Pablo Picasso, used to say a thing again and again. People thought it was a proclamation of ego, of pride. I do not think so. Even if his way of saying was tinged with pride, what he said is very close to truth — very apt. It is an odd statement. Sometimes painters, sculptors, musicians, poets say such things that come very close to religion’s odd truths — very close indeed! Because sometimes the poet gets a glimpse of truth; and sometimes the sculptor and the painter too. When his connection with intellect breaks and there is a deep entry into the heart, certain doors open, certain windows open. What the saint gains boundlessly, the poet sometimes receives in small fragments. What comes to the saint forever — the poet sometimes has its glimpse, a wave comes.

Pablo Picasso would say: ‘I do not seek, I find.’

People commented that this was a statement of great ego — ‘I do not seek, I find.’ But the statement is very lovely. It is very significant. Truth need not be sought — truth has to be found.

Lao Tzu’s famous saying is: In seeking, you lose; because to seek means you begin to search for that which is not. That which is, has already surrounded you from all sides. Inside and outside, only That is. In the seeker also, That is. That which you go out to search for is seated within you. He is looking through your eyes. Will you see Him outside? He is in every pore of you, in every breath. For that which is, what need is there to search? For that which is, you only need to receive.

I too tell you: Paramatma is to be received, not sought. If you seek, you miss. Seeking will mean you are searching for the Hindu God, for the Muslim God, for the Christian God. Seeking will mean, you are looking for the God of human concepts. If Paramatma is to be found, drop all concepts. Drop even seeking. Sit, become empty. In the mind emptied of seeking, Paramatma flashes. For in a mind empty of seeking there are no ripples. Without craving, where can the rush of waves be? When there is nothing to attain, nowhere to go, what tension, what restlessness! In that supreme state of rest, Paramatma surrounds you from all directions. He had surrounded you always; in that rest you come to know.

But we will not leave off even the search for Paramatma. We go to Him to ask for petty things. If you have ever prayed and asked for something, you have sinned. Better not to pray at all; but never make a prayer of asking. Because then you are saying you have no clue of Paramatma. You want even to use Him for your petty passions. Someone wants to win a lawsuit, someone’s business is not running well, someone’s shop is going bankrupt, someone is not getting a wife — do not go to Paramatma to ask for such things.

Yesterday I read a small satirical poem:

A hippie-cut devotee
worshipped God a great deal.
He stood before the idol,
standing on one leg until God was pleased.
God had to repay the debt of his devotion.
Compelled, He came and said:
‘Devotee, I am pleased.
I stand before you.
Be alert in this moment;
ask for one boon of your choice.’
The devotee said: ‘Lord, do not be deceived
by my bell-bottoms and long hair.
The boon is myself;
get me a bride.’

But whenever you have asked for anything — whatever you have asked — it is equally ludicrous, equally laughable. To ask before the Lord is ignorance. It matters not what you ask.

Vivekananda lived with Ramakrishna. Vivekananda’s father died and left the household in a terrible state — much debt, no means to pay. There was not even enough flour in the house for two meals. Seeing Vivekananda sad, troubled, hungry, Ramakrishna said: ‘Fool, you need not be troubled. Why do you not go and ask the Mother! Go inside the temple, ask. Whatever you ask, you will receive.’

When Ramakrishna said so, Vivekananda went, but hesitantly. Since Ramakrishna asked, he could not refuse; he had to go. After about an hour he returned, bathed in bliss. Ramakrishna asked: ‘So, did you ask?’ Vivekananda said: ‘What did I ask!’ Ramakrishna said: ‘O fool, I sent you to ask for relief from your distress.’ Vivekananda said: ‘I forgot, Paramhansadev.’ ‘Then go again,’ said Ramakrishna. Vivekananda said: ‘I will forget again.’ Ramakrishna said: ‘Your memory is not that bad; why would you forget?’ Vivekananda said: ‘Believe me, I will forget. As soon as I go in, tears begin to flow. As soon as I enter, the moment of meditation ripens inside. I begin to sway. In that intoxication I am not hungry. In that intoxication I am not poor, not wretched, not destitute. In that intoxication, who was like me a sovereign! When God begins to shower Himself, to ask for money is too small. And when God is giving Himself, how can I bring in money-talk in between? I cannot.’

Ramakrishna did not agree, so he went again — but again returned empty-handed, supremely blissful. Three times he was sent, and thrice he returned without asking — at least not the asking-kind of prayer. Prayer he did — deeply immersed, overwhelmed — but he did not ask. Ramakrishna embraced Vivekananda in that moment and said: ‘Had you asked today, your connection with me would have been severed forever. Today you have passed; you have stood the touchstone. For asking is to spoil prayer.’

But we keep asking.

You have never prayed without asking. When there is nothing to ask for, you do not pray — you say, ‘What is the need, everything is going well.’ Therefore in happiness God is not remembered; in sorrow He is. I say to you: only when remembered in happiness is He truly remembered. If in sorrow God is remembered, it is not the real God. For in sorrow you begin to ask to remove your sorrow; in happiness there is nothing to ask — there is something to give.

Pour yourself out in prayer — do not ask. Give; do not beg. In the supreme moment of prayer the devotee abandons himself at the feet of Paramatma — offers himself, does not ask.

Seek, and you miss. Here all is to be received; but to receive you need a mind that is not of the beggar.

Prayer-worship, adoration and upasana all go vain because your beggar-mind persists. Asking in prayer means: you have sown the seed and watered it with poison. You have reversed the whole thing. Better not to ask — at least the seed will remain. Do not go to pray — at least the seed will not be poisoned. Pray only on the day when prayer arises from pure awe; when you can pray in gratitude; when you feel that His grace is supreme: ‘So much You have given! Unasked You have given! Without cause You have given! There was no worthiness, still You have given. Even to me unworthy You have given, You have showered even upon the unfit! You have given life, You have given love! You have given the capacity for bliss! You have given sensitivity to behold beauty! So much You have given!’ Go to say thank you for this.

The day your prayer becomes thanksgiving, the same day you will find that in prayer Paramatma begins to descend. As long as prayer is for asking, you stand in the marketplace — whether you go to a temple, a mosque or a gurudwara, it makes no difference; you are standing in the bazaar.

And this bazaar is not outside. Do not think it is outside — that is a bigger illusion. This market is within you. This fair of thoughts is within, this fair of dreams is within. Riding on the horses of dreams, rushing in countless directions — this is within you. The outer market is a shadow of the inner market. The real market is inside. So sometimes it also happens that, tired of the outer market, you run towards the jungle and take sannyas — and again you miss. Again you miss. The outer market was only a projection of the inner market. The real bazaar is within. Abandon this inner bazaar — then even in the outer market you will find it is a temple; then sitting at the shop you will find it is a temple.

Marx had to say religion is an opium because the people he saw were all wrongly religious. And it is not his fault either — out of a thousand, nine hundred ninety-nine are wrongly religious: askers, beggars, sniveling, with no heart rising to thank Paramatma; only complaints and complaints. And then he must have seen that such people go to temples and return with the hope that now it will be given! That very hope of ‘now it will be given’ is the opium. Understand the meaning of opium: opium means, ‘today is not alright; tomorrow all will be alright.’ This is the essence, the extract, the very substance of opium. Condense it and it becomes the tablet of opium. Opium means: ‘today there is sorrow, tomorrow there will be joy. Tomorrow is certain. In this life there is sorrow, in the next life there will be joy. In the body there is sorrow, but when we are free of the body, when the soul is bodiless, then only joy. On earth there is sorrow, but in heaven there will be joy.’

Opium means hope — the promise of tomorrow. In the hope of tomorrow, we lug today along. We say: ‘Alright, it is only today — get through it. A little more time; walk a little further. Granted, you are tired — pull a little more. Tomorrow all will be well.’

And yesterday was also like this; the day before yesterday too — and nothing ever becomes alright. Tomorrow will come, and still nothing will be right. Tomorrow again you will remember the day after tomorrow: now it will be right, now it will be right. Childhood passes this way, thinking youth will be alright; youth passes this way, thinking old age will be alright; old age passes this way, thinking after death all will be alright. But nothing ever becomes alright.

If anything will be alright, it will be now; not tomorrow. Tomorrow is opium. The one who postpones is an opium-eater. What does the opium-eater do? He postpones. The wife is ill, unbearable to witness; he swallows a pellet of opium — forgets wife and all, becomes fine. When the intoxication wears off, he will remember; then he will see. He will swallow another pellet. Loss has happened, harm done — he gets intoxicated, he drinks alcohol. At least for the night he remains blissfully drunk. When morning comes, he will see. For now, it is alright; he will see later. He has postponed. There is sorrow; he puts it off till tomorrow. Opium and alcohol have given him an excuse to forget, to be oblivious.

The unintelligent take gross drugs; those whom you call intelligent take subtle drugs. The pain was much — they went to the temple, prayed to God. They returned full of hope that now all will be fine — they have told Him. As if God did not know and needed your telling! As if had you not said it, He would not have known! As if there is a God-person sitting there listening to you! You are talking to walls.

So if Marx said so, in one sense he said it rightly. For nine hundred ninety-nine people it is true that religion is opium. But those nine hundred ninety-nine people have no idea of religion. Therefore I say: Marx is wrong — still wrong. Only that one person knows religion who emerges once in a thousand — some Buddha, some Meera, some Daya, some Sahajo, some Krishna, some Christ. Only that one knows. Examine only him — what is his religion? His religion is gratitude.

If you have placed things upside down, great obstruction arises. Prayer is pressed below; asking sits on top. In truth you have asked so often that the very meaning of prayer has become asking. The word prayer itself has become a synonym for begging. You have asked so much that even the word prayer is spoiled.

Life must be set in proper order. Put things where they belong. Do not shuffle them, else great trouble ensues.

I was reading a satirical song:

At the back of our town,
on the riverbank a man sits in ashes —

an ascetic of Kaliyuga.
Maker of amulets,
modern maker of destinies.

The evening before last a boy came to him,
weeping he told him:
‘The oil has run out of my brain;
for three years I have been failing B.A.
Give me some amulet,
this year make me pass B.A.’

The fakir said:
‘For quickness of brain drink milk;
live life a little in the right way.’

The boy said:
‘Milk! Milk is homegrown.
We have a cow, but even she
has not given milk for three years.’

The fakir said:
‘My dear,
here, take two amulets;
one to wear on your neck,
and one to hang on the cow’s neck.’

The boy went away.
It so happened by chance
the amulets got exchanged —

the boy’s on the cow’s neck,

the cow’s on the boy’s neck.
This very mistake ruined the boy.
The cow passed B.A.,

the boy is still weeping today,
carrying milk in the sweet-shops of Moradabad.

Put things in their place — otherwise a mistake with amulets creates great trouble and entanglement. Your shop has entered your temple. Your asking has crept into your meditation. Your prayer has become tainted and polluted. Purify prayer. Do not worry about Paramatma — purify prayer. Do not even ask whether Paramatma is or not — purify prayer. The day prayer becomes pure, an eye is given to you. That day you know Paramatma is. Not only that Paramatma is — that day you know only Paramatma is; nothing else. That day, from every direction comes His message. In life He is met; in death too He is beheld. He in joy, He in sorrow. He in loss, He in victory. In the flower too, in the thorn too. And the day Paramatma begins to be seen everywhere, that day life happens for the first time. That day you are born!

Do not take this birth to be birth. This birth from a mother’s womb is only nominal birth, only a preliminary condition fulfilled. The real birth is yet to happen. The day the real birth happens, in India we call such a person dvija — twice-born. He alone is the real Brahmin who is twice-born; who is born again; who has given himself a new life, a new meaning, a new gesture; whose life is dyed in prayer; who remembered the Lord — causelessly! Out of joy! Ecstatically! He did not call: ‘I have some work — come.’ He called because it was the delight of his heart to call. Joy was found in the calling itself — not a joy to be obtained after the call. He prayed, and was overwhelmed in it. If the fruit is found in prayer itself, the prayer is true. If after prayer fruit is obtained, the prayer is false.

These sutras of Daya are sweet today — each worthy of understanding.

‘Dayakunvar says, in this world none has remained permanent.
As is the lodging in a caravanserai, so is this world.’

The world is a dream. ‘As is lodging in a sarai.’ You rest at a dharmshala at night and move on in the morning. Do not mistake the sarai for your home. Do not drive a stake there and sit. Do not form attachments. Do not bind yourself with clinging. Do not be such that in the morning, leaving the sarai, you cry, scream and keep looking back. The sarai is not home. Home is yet to be found. He who has taken the sarai to be home — how will he search for the home! He has taken something else as that. A stone has been taken to be a diamond; the search for the diamond has ceased. Brass has been taken to be gold; the search for gold has ceased. The dream has been taken to be truth; the search for truth has ceased.

You will find millions in the world who have no aspiration for truth at all — what could be the reason? How can this be? How can so many live without aspiration for truth? Understand the secret of their living: they have taken the false to be the true; therefore there remains no reason to search for truth. When you have taken garbage to be gems and are guarding garbage in a safe, alright — why then go to the mines of diamonds! Who will labor? Why be troubled?

So the first thing necessary to awaken is:

‘Dayakunvar says, in this world none has remained permanent.
As is lodging in a sarai, so is this world.’

Keep this in mind daily; test on the touchstone whatever you are doing — is it going to remain? Will it last? You have seen at the jeweler’s shop the black stone on which gold is tested — the touchstone. When gold is bought or sold, the jeweler rubs it on the touchstone. Consider this your touchstone. Whatever you are doing — will it be steady, will it stand, will it remain? Now if you are sitting and writing poems on water, you will weep — you cannot even write; they will be erased. Or if you sit on sand and write poems, perhaps they will remain a little while; they will last as long as you keep writing, then a gust of wind comes and they are gone.

Jesus said to his disciples: Build the house of life upon rock. His dearest disciple he named Peter — Peter means rock. He said: ‘Peter will become the rock of my temple; on this the temple will stand.’ A right name — significant: rock.

Do not write on sand. Do not write on water. Write the story of life upon the rock. Rock means the eternal — that which abides, that which remains. So whatever you are doing, if it is momentary, do not be too troubled. If it happens, fine; if it does not, fine — all is equal. What happens will become non-happening. What is done will become undone. It will not take long.

But we are such madmen about the momentary! We draw lines on water and, mad as we are, wait for them to remain. No one’s lines have remained. Yet we think ours might remain.

What are you doing in life? Seeking position? Whose position has lasted? He who is in office today, tomorrow is unseated. While in office, people sing his glories. Once out, people forget — do not even remember who he is, where he went. The very ones who bowed and saluted pass by as if they never saw you. For such a position you are becoming insane? You are putting your whole life at stake? There is nothing of substance in it — it is a soap bubble.

Very few become mature.

Have you watched children! They blow bubbles from soapy water and are delighted, thrilled. But old men are doing the same. Their soapy water is subtler; they too are raising bubbles. Till death, the same worry remains — that somehow the name survive. And when you yourself will not survive, what meaning is there in your name surviving? If you cannot survive, how will the name survive? Do you know how many have lived on this earth? Scientists say at the place you sit, at least ten corpses are buried beneath. The whole earth is a cremation ground. Drop fearing cremation grounds — wherever you are, that is a cremation ground; everywhere man has been buried. For millions of years man has lived on earth; where there are towns now, once there were cremation grounds; where there are cremation grounds now, once there were towns. There is no patch of land where man has not been buried. Where there are ruins today, once there were capitals.

I held a meditation camp near Indore, at Mandu. A friend stayed with me; he had to build a new house. He came for that very reason — to tell me his plan, to get my blessing. He had nothing to do with the camp. He would meet me there conveniently, he thought; he wanted my blessing, for it was to be a big house. I said I had no objection. Blessings cost nothing. That is why the saints give blessings. Poor fellows have nothing else to give, and blessings cost nothing. If you like, I will write ‘blessings’ on the plan, sign it — no difficulty. But think a little; go outside and see.

He said: ‘What is outside?’ I said: ‘Go and see.’ Mandu was once a great capital. They say nine hundred thousand people lived there; now there are nine hundred. Surely so many must have lived — Mandu spreads far! There are such ruins! Such mosques in which ten thousand could gather for prayer. Inns whose ruins could shelter ten thousand camels at once. A grand capital. The caravans of Asia passed through Mandu. Mandu is the name now; earlier the name was Mandavgad. Mandavgad became Mandu — just as Seth Chandulal becomes Chandu when he goes bankrupt. It is thus with Mandavgad. Now it does not even feel right to call it ‘Mandavgad’ — where is the fort! ‘Mandav’ would be too big a word.

I said: ‘Go to the bus stand; on the board it is written: nine hundred live here — nine hundred and some. Once nine hundred thousand lived here; now nine hundred. Once there were great palaces; the palaces still stand — in ruins. The spread was for miles. Go see; then come and take my blessing. I will bless.’

He went and returned with moist eyes, in tears. He said: ‘Give me the plan; let me tear it up. What is the point!’ I said: ‘This is a better blessing. Build the house, live in it — but do not weave grand fantasies. Those who built those palaces had woven grand fantasies. The builders are gone; the palaces too — all are ruins. Owls rest in the ruins. However much I bless, someday owls will rest there.’

Keep one touchstone in life: whatever we are doing — will it remain? Will wealth remain? Will fame, position, prestige remain? This body, for which we are so mad — will it abide? Today or tomorrow it will go. What is going to go — do not entangle your mind too much with it. Remain in it as a man remains in a sarai. In the morning he rises and moves on; he does not even look back.

‘All these fairs of the world are shows; in a crowded gathering we remain alone.’

There is much crowd — but you are alone. In truth, you are alone. Essentially, you are alone.

‘All these fairs of the world are shows; in a crowded gathering we remained alone.’

Do not get lost in the crowd. These shows and fairs — they have no worth, no lasting value. And that which has no lasting value has no value at all.

But you prepare plans for the future. Not only for the future — you even plan for the past: ‘Had it been so, what would have happened?’

Just think of man’s madness! The past has happened; nothing can be done now. But how many times have you not caught yourself changing the past! That which has happened and can never be undone — someone abused you, and you sit and think: ‘At that time it did not occur to me; I should have replied like this.’

Mark Twain, a great writer of the West, was returning after a lecture. His wife had come to take him. On the way she asked: ‘How was the lecture?’ Mark Twain said: ‘Which lecture? The one I had prepared? Or the one I actually delivered? Or the one I am thinking now that I should have delivered? Which lecture are you asking about? For there are many lectures. The one I prepared — that all went to pieces. When you see the crowd, everything falls apart. One begins to speak something else. One I delivered; and one I am thinking now that had I delivered, it would have been good. Which lecture?’

You will often catch yourself rewriting the past, whitewashing it: ‘I should have said this, I should have done that.’ You missed. You see the madness? The past has gone; nothing can be done. What is done is done; it cannot be undone. There is no way to return to the past. The bird of time has flown from your hand. ‘After the sparrow has eaten the crop, what use is regret?’ Yet man keeps thinking about the past. He thinks about the future too — that is also madness. For what will you do by thinking about that which has not yet come? And what will you do by thinking about that which has gone? Live that which is. This moment — live it. Remain in this moment in such a way — ‘as lodging in a sarai.’

‘This unsuccessful heart keeps pondering — what would have been had it happened thus, what would have been had it happened thus.’

You keep thinking such things: ‘What if it had been thus, what if it had been thus!’ Or ‘Let it become so.’ Sometimes you think such mad things — you did not even stand in the election and you are thinking that if you win... You have not even bought a lottery ticket and you are thinking: ‘If I win...’ Not only thinking, sometimes you even decide: ‘I have won. Now what shall I do with the money? Buy a house? Buy a car? What shall I do?’

You will catch yourself often like this. Catch it — for if this is the state of mind, you will never awaken. In these lies, in this opium, man is buried. He cannot come out of this opium; therefore he cannot awaken.

Buddha says: self-remembering, right remembering. Kabir says: surati. Nanak says: surati — remembrance. Awake; remember — what are you doing? What are you thinking? If you think with a little awareness, ninety-nine of your thoughts will be of madness — cut them off and throw them away. Do not waste time in them. The one that remains may not be useless, but it is not supremely meaningful either. It is only provisional. Use it and step out of the sarai.

‘Perceive the Unseen; do not forget yourself. Search the truth; do not sing lullabies for the dream.’

Do not keep lulling dreams to sleep, do not keep decorating them. Come out of childhood. Do not sit clutching toys to your chest. Drop these toys — the world is made of these toys.

‘As the pearl of dew, so is this world; it vanishes in a single moment — O Daya, hold the Lord in your heart.’

‘As the pearl of dew...’

Do you not see in the morning, how the pearl of dew glistens — how colorful, how iridescent! When a slanting sunray falls, it puts diamonds to shame. But ‘as the pearl of dew’ — now it is, now it is gone. The sun has not even risen and it begins to evaporate; the sun has barely awakened and all the pearls have vanished; the dew is gone, turned to vapor. ‘As the pearl of dew.’ Such is life.

Mahavira also said: life is like a drop of dew poised on a blade of grass. A slight breeze blows, the blade trembles, the drop slips and is lost in the dust. So is man. For a little while you are perched on a blade of grass. The wind will blow, death will come, you will slide, you will be lost. How many before you have vanished! Does the disappearance of these not remind you?

Chuang Tzu always kept a skull by his side — a great knower. His disciples asked: ‘All else is alright, Gurudev, but why do you keep this skull? Seeing it, the mind fills with disgust, with repulsion.’ Chuang Tzu said: ‘Precisely for that! Whenever wrong thoughts begin to run in my skull, I look at this — this is what is going to happen. Do not get involved in skull-talk. Seeing this, I come to my senses. I keep it with me — it is my guru. For today or tomorrow this will be my condition. And before long, this head will be lying on the road being kicked by passers-by.’

‘This skull has saved me often. One day the skull was there; a man arrived in rage, lifted his shoe to hit me. I too was about to get angry when just then my eyes fell on the skull. I softened. I said, I will die tomorrow and if people kick my skull, what will I do? I said to the man: Brother, hit me. Fulfill your desire. He too was startled. He said: ‘What do you mean?’ I said: ‘This skull reminded me that the shoes will land anyway — how long will I save myself? Today or tomorrow this skull will lie in the cremation ground, suffering people’s kicks for centuries, lying in the dust; brother, hit me too. Before the skull falls, satisfy your desire. What will we lose and your mind will be gratified.’

The man flung away his shoe, fell at Chuang Tzu’s feet. He said: ‘What a wondrous skull you keep! It reminds me too — what is there to hit, what to save! I too had come angry; what is the point of anger! Two days’ lodging — with whom to quarrel, at whom to be angry, whom to anger! It will pass.’

If one passes with awareness, life’s soot cannot cling. If one passes with awareness, the sanctity of life remains intact.

‘As the pearl of dew, so is this world.’

The world is a dream seen with open eyes. And in dreams, nothing is ours. Dreams are not ours. To attain oneself you must look beyond dreams — to the witness hidden behind the dreams. In the very crowd of dreams the witness is concealed. You have forgotten who you are.

‘It vanishes in a moment — O Daya, hold the Lord in your heart.’

Daya says: it will be destroyed in one moment. Even if that moment is seventy years long, what difference does it make! It is to be destroyed — that is certain. Then, in such a situation, to hold in the heart those things which are to be destroyed is to defile the heart. And why defile the heart for such passing guests? Better seat only That which remains forever.

‘O Daya, hold the Lord in your heart.’

Therefore, now it is proper to install Paramatma in the heart — He who abides forever.

Hold to that which is eternal; that which is Sanatan — from always, now, and forever. Do not hold to straws. Holding to straws, nothing remains. Do not sail in paper boats. If a boat is to be made, make the boat of the Name of the Lord. If you must hold to something, hold the feet of the Lord. If there is a clinging to be had, cling to that which will never slip from you, which cannot be taken away.

‘O Daya, hold the Lord in your heart.’

And if your current begins to flow towards the Lord — turning away from the world, turning away from the futile and towards the meaningful — you will ascend to the highest peaks.

‘Hold the hem of the flame — even impurity becomes kohl.’

If you grasp the hem of this flame, of this remembrance, of this awakening — that now you will dedicate yourself only to the eternal, not to the fleeting — then the impure becomes like kohl; even the impure becomes pure; the unholy becomes holy. Where now you see only flesh and bone, the hidden inner stream begins to show. A unique beauty is born, and a unique bliss.

Bliss is the shadow of truth. Happiness is the consequence of truth.

‘Father and mother of yours have gone; you too be prepared. Today or tomorrow you will go — O Daya, be alert.’

Mother has gone, father has gone. You too are being readied. What we call life is a queue at the door of death. The queue moves forward daily as people enter. You are coming near. Soon your number too will come. Before death comes to seize you, surrender to Paramatma. Then there will be no death for you — for you will already have offered yourself; nothing remains for death to snatch. Death snatches only the momentary. Death has power only over the ephemeral. Death cannot touch the eternal. That which is eternal within you cannot be touched by death. She will take your body; she will take your wealth, position, fame, prestige. But the stream of consciousness within will go untouched. Yet you have no acquaintance with it; you have turned your back to it. You have forgotten the root.

‘Father and mother of yours have gone; you too be prepared.
Today or tomorrow you will go — O Daya, be alert.’

Understand this word ‘alert’. You call those alert who are cunning. You call those alert who are skillful in worldly affairs — you say, very alert people! A knower does not call them alert; he calls them utterly foolish. What will their cunning bring? A few potsherds! What will their cunning bring? A few bubbles of water! What is the ultimate result of all their cunning? Death will snatch their wealth of cunning. No — that is not alertness. They are not only deceiving others — they are deceiving themselves.

Alert is he who sets out in the direction where the real treasure is. You call alert those who, in the name of property, only augment calamity. You call alert those who have not known the treasure at all — they take calamity itself to be wealth.

‘O Daya, be alert.’

What does Daya say? What does being alert point toward? Only one alertness: become aware of death. One who awakens to death — it will not be long before he awakens to Paramatma. Were there no death in the world, there would be no religion — because people would never awaken; there would be no device to awaken them. Look — even though there is death, people do not awaken; had there been no death, none would awaken. The little possibility of awakening in this world is because of death. Only the supremely foolish can keep themselves in delusion in the face of death. One with a little sense will also see — death is approaching; at any moment it will happen. Whether tomorrow morning will be, is not certain. Whether even the next moment is in our hands, is not certain. Where there is so much uncertainty, what house can be built? Where everything changes with such speed and haste, where one cannot step into the same river twice — what rest can there be, what bliss can there be? There is no means to stay.

So he alone is alert who understands the hint of death and immediately sets out to search for the eternal.

You have seen — for all who have awakened in this world, the fundamental cause of awakening is death. Buddha saw a dead man and asked his charioteer: ‘What has happened to him?’ Until then Buddha had never seen the dead — he was kept hidden in palaces. In childhood, astrologers had told his father: keep this boy away from certain sights, otherwise he will become a sannyasin. ‘Which sights?’ they asked. The astrologers said: ‘Keep him from old age — let no old man come before him; from illness — let no sick man come before him; from death — let no corpse come before him; and from a sannyasin — let no renunciate come before him.’

The father was startled, yet he did as told. The fear was great, for he had only one son; he was born in old age; he was heir to the kingdom. The astrologers had also said: if he remains, he will be a universal emperor; if he leaves, he will be a great sannyasin. Two possibilities; hold him.

So the father arranged all. But how long can such things be hidden! And it is not only Buddha’s father who hides things — you too hide; all fathers and mothers hide. If a bier passes before the door, the mother calls the child inside and shuts the door: ‘Come in — someone has died!’ The child may not see — all parents fear; not only Buddha’s. They all fear the son may see death too soon — then he will become a sannyasin. If he begins to think, sannyas will arrive. Only fools can remain without becoming sannyasins. Those with a little awareness cannot remain.

Sannyas means only this: this so-called life is not life — it is in the hands of death. It is as if we are in the jaws of death — any moment the mouth will close and we will be finished; yet, for a little while, let us enjoy, hum a song, dance a little, forget for a while.

There is an ancient Buddhist parable with many meanings. One is this: a man is running; a lion pursues him. He reaches a place where there is no path ahead — a great chasm! Looking down, he cannot jump. Even if he thinks of jumping — with some hope of being saved, though crippled — there are two lions below, looking up. Behind, a lion roars nearer and nearer. He clutches the roots of a tree and hangs — that is the only way. The lion comes and stands above, roaring. Below, two lions roar. The roots are weak, old, worn; they can break any time. Not only that — when he looks closely, he sees two mice gnawing at the roots: one white and one black — day and night! Time is nibbling them. Not long will pass. His hands are going numb in the cold morning; soon he senses they cannot hold — they will slip. Then he looks up — a beehive hangs, and a drop is about to fall. He stretches his tongue and catches the drop. It falls on his tongue — sweet taste! ‘Ah, sweet taste!’ In that moment he forgets everything — neither the lion above nor the lions below; neither the mice gnawing. For a moment he is delighted. Then he hopes for another drop — and another begins to form.

The Buddhist tale is significant. This is man’s condition. Death here, death there — death on every side. In between, a drop of honey falls from the hive and you are delighted — blissful. Meanwhile the mice of time keep gnawing the roots. There is no way to be saved. None has ever been saved. To be saved is impossible; it is not the law of nature. To die — that will be.

The unintelligent keeps covering death: ‘When it comes, we will see. For now a few more honey-drops!’ The intelligent looks at death carefully and says: ‘It is intoxication to pass time tasting honey-drops. Do something before death arrives. Do something — some way.’ Outside, there is no path; that is true. The man is hanging. If one asks you what to do: where will you flee? Above the lion; below lions; mice gnawing; brittle roots; hands growing cold — what will you do? Where will you run?

Zen masters in Japan use this as a method of meditation. The master tells the disciple: ‘Think this is your condition. Sit in meditation and find the way out. You must find a way.’ The seeker sits with closed eyes, thinking, searching. Daily he comes with answers: this is the way; that is the way. The master denies: these are no ways. What way will you find? ‘There are more roots; when these are cut, I will catch those,’ says the disciple. The master says: ‘That too will not last long. The mice are gnawing at those too. There are not a few mice in the world; they are manifold more than men. Time gnaws everywhere.’

You will bring devices: rub the hands to warm them; hang by the feet like circus acrobats. The master says: ‘This is no circus. There is no net spread to catch you. This is life.’

He brings all kinds of devices; all are futile. The master waits till the real device is found. What is it? The day he says: ‘I will slip within with closed eyes. Outside there is nowhere to go. But within there is a place. Death is approaching; I will close my eyes, enter meditation, enter emptiness, move within. There the lions are not. There the mice of time do not gnaw roots. There the question of cold hands and feet does not arise. There the eternal abides.’

To hold Paramatma is to slip within.

‘Today or tomorrow you will go — O Daya, be alert.’

Alert — that is, dhyan, awareness.

‘Knowledge begets psychosomatic ailments; meditation’s glory is timeless Samadhi.’

In Samadhi there is the door; in Samadhi there is the solution. That is why we have named it Samadhi — where the samadhans, the solutions, are. Where all problems vanish. Through knowledge, the matter will not be solved.

‘Knowledge begets ailments; meditation’s glory is eternal Samadhi.’

Knowledge gives rise to new agitations, new questions, new troubles — new psychosomatic discord. In meditation you will descend — call it prayer, call it the Divine, call it Paramatma — names all. But if you set out on the inner journey, all solutions are found; all problems fall away.

‘Time has a big belly — I will not say it is ever sated. It devours kings, chieftains, emperors — all.’

Understand this too: only India has given the same name to time and death — ‘kal’. Not without reason. Only here do we use one word for Time and for Death: ‘kal’. For the one who lives in time lives in the grip of death. One who goes beyond time goes beyond death.

Have you noticed — the day gone we call ‘kal’ (yesterday), and the day to come we also call ‘kal’ (tomorrow). Only in this language. In other tongues, there are two words. People wonder: with one word for two things, how do you make out what you mean! But we call the day gone ‘kal’ — it has gone into Death’s mouth, has become Death’s morsel; and the day to come, that too is hidden in Death’s mouth — in time’s mouth. So the present moment alone is outside death. Yesterday has gone into Death’s mouth; tomorrow is hidden in Death’s mouth. Past is death; future is death. Only in the present, death is not. This moment — just now — is outside death. If one uses this moment rightly — this key — the door opens and one enters the Eternal.

The present is not a part of time. Commonly you say time is divided into past, present and future. That is wrong. The present is not a part of time; the parts of time are only past and future. The present belongs to the eternal — it is beyond time, time-transcending.

‘Time has a big belly — I will not say it is ever sated.’

This stream of time is transient; it devours countless beings. It is never sated. Whoever is born will die. Whatever is made will be unmade. Whatever has a beginning will have an end. All processes will be lost in the zero of time. Therefore do not take too much interest in time. Do not drink too much of its juice. Move beyond time.

You must have noticed: in Western countries there is great time-consciousness. Why? The more materialistic a country, the greater its time-consciousness. The more spiritual a person, the less his time-consciousness. Spiritual means: we are beginning to slide out of time.

Have you known moments when time disappeared? Those are the moments of Paramatma. Watching the sunrise, you slipped into meditation — a stream of rasa bound you, you forgot time. Or gazing at the moon; or listening to music; or sitting by a beloved, hand in hand — you forgot time. Or alone, without cause, sitting empty — you forgot time; you did not remember how time passed. Those are the moments when you first taste Samadhi.

Even if you slide a little out of time, you slide into the Divine.

Time is the world; Paramatma is eternity.

‘Time has a big belly — it never says enough. Kings and emperors — it devours all.’

And then, do not think time cares for the poor or the rich. Death is the greatest socialist. It does not see who is rich, who is poor; who holds office, who is unseated. It does not see who is moral, who immoral; who is saint, who sinner. Death deals equally with all — therefore death is a great socialist. Whether king or beggar, it takes both away. It takes both away alike.

‘Kings and emperors — it devours all.’

Therefore do not think there can be any device to save you. Alexander had every device — he could not save himself. How many emperors have been on this earth — all had means, great armies, grand fort-walls — still death came and took them.

I have heard: a king built a palace to save himself. The palace had only one door; not even a window — so no enemy could enter, no thief, no assassin. Sealed from all sides; only one door for his own coming and going. A neighboring king came to see this marvelous palace. He too was impressed. At the one door there were five hundred guards — one after the other, rank after rank. It was impossible for anyone to enter. The visiting king, when about to leave, said to the owner: ‘I too like it very much. It is utterly safe. No enemy can come, no rebel, no assassin can enter. I too will think of building such a palace.’

While this talk went on, a beggar sitting by the road burst out laughing. The king asked: ‘Why do you laugh, madman? Speak, else be ready to die. Between kings one should not laugh. Do you not even know this?’ He said: ‘I laugh because of death. Alright, and mine too comes — good.’ The king said: ‘Speak clearly.’ He said: ‘I laughed because this single door is dangerous — through it death will come in. Do one thing: go inside and have this door walled up too. Then even death cannot come in. Now it is not fully safe; there is still a little insecurity. These guards are fine — they can stop men. But death? Their swords cannot stop death. Their guns cannot stop death. Not five hundred — place five lakhs — death will come in. Do this: go inside and have the door sealed from outside. Then you are absolutely safe.’

The king said: ‘You are mad. Then we are already dead. If we go in and seal the door from outside, what is the point of being saved? Then we are dead already — dead now. When death comes, it will come; you are telling us to die now.’ The fakir said: ‘That is why I laughed — you are already ninety-nine percent dead. If there were a hundred doors, you would be a hundred percent alive. This is your arithmetic. You say: if this one door be closed, you are completely dead. So you are mostly dead even now; only one percent alive. Is this any way to be saved from death?’

The fakir said: ‘I too was once a king. Seeing that with wealth death cannot be stopped, I seek meditation. With power it cannot be stopped; therefore I seek the void. I too will go beyond death — but my journey is different from yours.’

The fakir spoke truly. None has any facility to be saved from death. Yet some are saved. From the ordinary death none is saved; but some, even in the moment of dying, were aware — they remained awake. All else died, but consciousness never dies. Because of their awareness they passed through the door of death into the Divine. The door of death becomes the door of a new birth for the unconscious, and for the conscious it becomes the door of liberation — then there is no new birth, no coming and going. ‘O Daya, be alert.’

‘Clouds dissolve in the winds, taking on endless forms in the sky; so too man, under the sway of time — yet peace does not arise.’

Have you seen clouds gather in the sky — and winds changing them every moment! Have you seen that a cloud’s shape does not remain even for a moment? The winds keep stirring them. Just now it seemed like an elephant — a moment later the trunk is gone, the legs are lost; no longer like an elephant. Wait a little — the cloud changes. A cloud is smoke, vapor; the winds sway it. As the waves on the ocean’s surface sway, winds move the sea; so winds scatter and shape the clouds.

‘Clouds dissolve in the winds — countless forms in the sky.
So man appears under the sway of time — yet peace does not arise.’

So too, man, battered by the gusts of death, keeps being made and unmade.

Under the sway of kal — of time, of death — man is pushed about. Once you were an elephant, once a horse; once a bird, once a tree; once a woman, once a man; once beautiful, once ugly. Who knows how many forms your cloud has taken! You are nothing new. This is India’s unique discovery — that man has taken countless births, wandered in eighty-four lakhs of wombs. Death pushed, and the cloud took myriad forms.

Daya has chosen a sweet symbol: ‘Clouds dissolve in the winds.’ As winds keep changing the clouds — ‘countless forms in the sky’ — so too man, knocked by death, becomes this and that. As long as this continues, how can peace be? Until you are not steady, how can there be peace? Until the gusts stop, how can you attain bliss? In countless forms you have known only sorrow — sometimes as horse, sometimes as elephant; sometimes as ant, sometimes as man; sometimes as woman, sometimes as man — sorrow only! All these wombs are wombs of suffering.

The way to be outside death is: ‘O Daya, be alert.’ Cultivate a little awareness. Awareness means: wakefully see — I am not the body. Awareness means: wakefully see — I am not the mind. Awareness means: wakefully see — I am only a witness. As this awareness is cultivated, you will find that death shakes your body, shakes your mind — but it cannot shake your witnessing even a little. Witnessing is beyond death. Where death does not reach, there is the abode of Paramatma; there is the dwelling of truth. Where death does not reach, that very state of consciousness we have called moksha.

Moksha is nowhere in geography. Do not think somewhere in geography liberation exists, that some day scientists will reach there with their crafts and find moksha. Moksha is the name of your inner state — not geography, but the sky of your consciousness.

The day you begin to know, to awaken, that you are not body, not mind — that day you have crossed. Understand the difference: clouds gather in the sky — they form and dissolve, come and go, pour as rain, vanish and gather again; but the sky remains where it is. Clouds form and dissolve; the sky is ever the same. And wind-gusts can change the form of clouds, not the sky. What form will they change of the sky! Winds have no effect on the sky. The wind blows and moves; the sky stands untouched, virginal, unmarked.

As there is sky outside, so is the Atman within. Atman is the name of the inner sky. The outer sky is the name of the Atman spread outside. The day the notion that ‘I am the body’ breaks, inner and outer sky become one. The union of the inner and outer sky — that moment is Samadhi, or Brahman-union, or God-realization, or whatever name pleases you.

One thing to remember: until there is the realization of this sky, you cannot be peaceful. ‘Yet peace does not arise.’ This is why peace does not arise — you have taken yourself to be a cloud. And the cloud changes every moment; you weep. Just when it seemed all is going well, in a moment all is astray.

‘Day and night the mind is deluded by love of Maya. Better to renounce the world — only then will this fire become cool.’

This fire will become cool only when, awake, you see: you are not the world, not the body, not the mind — you are beyond them.

There is only one way to peace: somehow find That which always is and never transforms.

‘Spread wings folded back — essays now become song.’

When the spread wings of craving fold, when you no longer wish to fly in the sky of desire; when the cawing of your thought’s crows becomes silent; when you know this is not me, I am only the seer, only the witness — then suddenly you will find: essays have turned to song. A stream of bliss, song, music, celebration will flow within. Every fiber of your being will be thrilled. And when this bliss arises within, it will not remain only in the soul; it will spread to your mind, it will color the mind; it will spread to your body, color your body; it will overflow beyond your body and begin to color others too. That is why so many were colored near Buddha, near Mahavira. Whoever came near was dyed. Once this is known, it is an incomparable treasure, an infinite source.

‘The measure broke; with cupped hands I will drink the life-waters freely.’

Until now you drink the waters of life in a small measure — the small vessels of body and mind. With this little bowl you try to drink the vast ocean of life. The mind cannot be filled. The day body and mind are dropped — the measure is broken — that day you are in the ocean.

I have heard: the Greek fakir Diogenes left all, even clothes — like Mahavira, he became naked. In the West, only one man stands beside Mahavira: Diogenes. He kept one small bowl for drinking water. One day, thirsty, he was walking to the river, bowl in hand. At the bank, as he cleaned his bowl to drink, a dog came running — thirsty. It leapt, drank quickly, and moved on. Diogenes was still cleaning his bowl. He was amazed: the dog beat me! ‘Why am I entangled with a bowl?’ He flung it away. He said: ‘When the dog manages without a bowl, why am I bound to a bowl! Clean this, that, maintain it; fear of theft too. At night you have to feel a couple of times to see if it is still there. He flung the bowl and prostrated to the dog: ‘You are my guru — one attachment had remained.’

‘The measure broke; with cupped hands I will drink the life-waters freely.’

Now there is no hindrance. Where you are beyond the vessels of mind and body, you enter the ocean of life.

‘On the bow of emptiness place the arrow of time; pierce the perishable — the imperishable is freed.’

Practice the bow of shunya, of emptiness — and set time’s arrow upon the bow of emptiness, and release — so that you are free of time and time is free of you.

‘Pierce the perishable — the imperishable is freed.’

And as your awareness pierces the perishable, that which is imperishable within — the sky — is realized, is seen. He who knows this inner sky alone has known life. He who has not known it has lived in vain.

‘What use is meeting if the hearts do not meet? What joy in the journey if the destination is not found? Better to drown in the expanse of the sea than to come near the shore and not find it.’

Those who live without knowing this inner sky — better they drown. For even near the shore they will not find the shore.

‘What use is meeting if the hearts do not meet? What joy in the journey if the destination is not found?’ You have been walking long; the journey is very old — yet there is not even a glimpse of the destination.

‘What joy in the journey if the destination is not found? Better to drown in the expanse of the sea than to come near the shore and not find it.’

Every day you feel: ‘Now we have come near; now we have come near’ — and as you come near, you discover there is no shore. Like the horizon that recedes as you approach — life is a mirage. Better to drown.

But if you have the courage to drown, the finding happens. Courage to drown means you have embraced death; you say: ‘I am ready to die.’ Sannyas means this. Sannyas means: I myself drop all that will die; I begin to know myself as separate from what will be destroyed. I have severed my ties with the transient. I will live in this world — for where else to go! — but I will take it as a sarai, a caravanserai.

People ask me: What is the meaning of sannyas? I say: to take the world as a sarai. You will live here, yes — where else will you go! But there is a way of living here such that living here you are free of here — like a sarai. Mindfully. ‘O Daya, be alert.’

‘Fame without quest also comes — but first, do some work. Before making a name, rest in solitude. Do not set meetings in every free hour, do not place a flowerpot in every empty corner. There must be an hour in which you speak with your deity. Deities come in silence — when the mind makes noise, they quietly return.’

Be silent. Find a few moments of peace. Descend into thoughtlessness a little. Sometimes, sitting quietly, doing nothing, suddenly you will feel blessedness — prasad will descend. Paramatma will surround you from all sides. This is not something you do — not some great exercise that you do and then it happens. As long as you do, it will not happen — because doing means the ego, ‘I’.

Paramatma is not attained by effort — it is grace. Find hours when you can sit silently with nothing to do — under a tree in the garden, on the riverbank, at night under the open sky among moon and stars. Sit doing nothing, empty. Thoughts will come and go; let them come and go. Do not take much interest — neither for nor against. If they come, fine; if they do not, fine. Like the road, there is noise — let it be. You remain at your distant, detached center. Sit empty. Sometimes it will happen: for a moment thought will stop. In that very moment you will feel a descending ray; someone tore and shook the darkness. In that very moment a drop of nectar will fall — a glimpse beyond death. Then slowly these moments grow. As the taste deepens, the inner journey becomes dense, becomes easy. Then a day comes when whenever and wherever you wish — even without closing your eyes — the Divine surrounds you. Then everything becomes His presence. Until this happens, know that the destination has not been reached. The destination is to attain Paramatma in such a way that there remains no possibility of losing Him.

Know this world as perishing in a moment:

‘It vanishes in a single moment — O Daya, hold the Lord in your heart.’

Know this world as a queue at the door of death:

‘Father and mother of yours have gone; you too be prepared.
Today or tomorrow you will go — O Daya, be alert.’

Enough for today.