Jeevan Hi Hain Prabhu #1

My beloved Atman!
Life’s mathematics has most wondrous aphorisms. The first, utterly mysterious thing is this: what is near does not appear; what is nearer still is not even noticed. And what I myself am—of that there is not even a remembrance. What is far away is visible. What is farther away is even clearer. What is very far calls us, invites, beckons.
The moon calls man, the stars are calling. The horizons of the world call, Everest’s summits call, the depths of the Pacific call. But from within man—no call is heard.
I have heard: fish in the ocean ask one another, Where is the ocean? In the ocean they are born, in the ocean they live, in the ocean they dissolve. Yet those fish ask, Where is the ocean? They even argue about where the ocean might be. They have legends that some of their ancestors once saw the ocean. Among the fish there have been such sages whose memories remain—those who experienced the ocean. And the remaining fish live in the ocean, remain in the ocean, die in the ocean—and they remember those ancestors who had the vision of the ocean.
I have heard: rays of the sun ask one another—Tell me, have you actually seen light? We hear there is something called light, and we hear there is a sun! But where is it? No clue at all. And among the rays are also legends of their ancestors who saw the sun and experienced light. Blessed were those rays who knew light; unfortunate are the rays who go on thinking and are sad and troubled and tormented.
We can understand the fish are quite mad; we can understand the rays are quite mad. But man cannot understand about man—that we too are quite mad. We live in Ishwar, we are born in Ishwar, breath by breath is Ishwar, death is in Ishwar, rising again is in Ishwar, dissolving is in Ishwar—and we search and we ask, Where is Ishwar? We remember our ancestors who had the vision of God. We make statues of those who knew God and install them in temples. Then it is not right to laugh at fish; not right to be sarcastic about them. The fish too are right to ask, Where is the ocean?
It is natural that fish do not discover the ocean. For that with which we never separate is precisely that which eludes us. If a man were healthy from birth to death, he would never know health. Tragically, to recognize health, illness is necessary. Only when we fall out of health do we come to know health.
And I have heard—and God forbid it be true of you—that many people, only when they are dying, come to know they had been living. For until one dies, how can one know life? The first secret formula of life’s mathematics is this: here, what is most near is not seen. What is ever-present is not noticed. The search runs after what is far. For what we have not attained we pant, we run, we chase. And what is already attained we forget—because no occasion presents itself to remember it.
The meaning of Paramatma, the meaning of Prabhu—Prabhu means that from which we come and into which we go. No atheist can deny such a Prabhu, for surely we come from somewhere and go somewhere. A wave rises upon the ocean and again dissolves back into the ocean. That from which the wave rises and into which it disappears must be—when the wave was not, It was; when the wave was, It was; when the wave will be no more, It will still be. Only thus can the wave arise from It and lose itself in It. Even the atheist can say: we come from somewhere and are lost somewhere. And note well—where we come from, into that we are lost. Where else could we be lost? If the wave arises from the ocean, it can only merge into the ocean. Storms and winds arise in air and will scatter in air. Trees grow from soil, flowers bloom—where will they scatter, where disappear? Back into the soil they will fall and sleep.
The second formula—of the mathematics of life—I want to tell you: where we come from, there we return. What name shall we give to that from which we come and to which we return? For the sake of speaking, a name is needed. I will call that the Prabhu—the Original Source, the primal ground. From somewhere we must indeed be coming, and into somewhere we disappear. And where there is the coming from, there is the disappearing into—for only into that from which we arise can we scatter. We cannot scatter elsewhere. In truth, what we received as life we must return to the Giver.
I will call That Prabhu. It is good to make this clear in these coming days, else who knows what you may imagine Prabhu to be. I will call Prabhu the primal ground, the original source—from which all arises and into which all is lost. Such a Prabhu cannot be sitting somewhere in the sky. Such a Prabhu can have no boundary. Such a Prabhu can have no personality, no figure, no form, no shape. Because that from which all forms arise cannot itself have a form. If It too had a form, how could other forms arise from It?
Man is born of man because man has a form. A mango seed gives birth to a mango sapling because the seed has a form. Birds give birth to birds. Everything gives birth according to its form. But from Ishwar everything is born—therefore Ishwar cannot have a form. He cannot be of human shape.
It is man’s excess, his injustice, that he has made God’s idols in his own image. It is man’s ego that he has fashioned God after himself. It is man’s vanity that he thinks—if there is a God, he must be like man. And since there are many kinds of men, there are many kinds of gods. The Chinese god will have prominent cheekbones and a flat nose; the Chinese cannot conceive a god without a flat nose. The Negro god will have broad lips, curly hair and a dark face; a Negro cannot conceive a fair god. Fair and God? Fair can be the devil—how could fair be God?
There are many kinds of people; therefore gods have been created in many kinds of faces.
Of man-made gods I will say nothing. I will speak of That God which no one has made, the uncreated—from whom all are made and into whom all go to ruin, while He never is made nor ever unmade. Man fashions God in his own image. If trees were to think about God they would surely not imagine Him in human form. Man must seem a devil to them—who knows when he comes and lops off branches, plucks the fruit before it ripens. If trees think, they imagine the devil in human shape. Man has stripped the earth of its forests. Trees could never imagine God in man’s form. And if men have seated their human-shaped gods beneath trees, the trees must be quite offended that devils have hung up their own likeness here. No, for the tree it is not possible to conceive God in human shape.
The quarrel about God exists because we have cast Him in our own shapes. As man’s face changes, we must keep changing God’s face too—daily making alterations.
If you look at a god of five thousand years ago, his face is different, his ways and customs are different. He is made in the image of man five thousand years ago. That god says: if someone puts out one eye, we shall put out two. That god says: if someone makes a small mistake, we shall fry him in the fires of hell. In those days no one doubted, How can God utter such crude things? For man himself spoke such things then; he made a god in his own image.
Later, man’s understanding grew, and men arose who said—as Jesus said—if someone slaps your cheek, turn to him the other cheek. When such became the proof of a good man, the ideal of goodness—then God had to be changed. For if a good man is so good as to offer the other cheek after a slap, what shall we think of that God who says: if one eye is put out, put out two; answer a brick with a stone; roast him in the fires of hell. That God will seem very hard—worse than man. No fragrance of forgiveness is there. The God who invented hell—no forgiveness appears in him.
So we had to change God’s face. Every age changes God’s face. The old faces go out of date; they grow stale. New faces must be made.
Even gods have had many fashions on this earth. But some are always trapped in old fashions—hence so many religions. They are fashions of different ages, still binding people.
But I will not speak of these gods, for these are no gods at all. I will speak of that Prabhu who is the primal source of life. I will speak of that Prabhu who is life itself. And to think of Paramatma apart from life is a great mistake.
We think in symbols—and symbols create error. Ancient scriptures say: as the potter makes a pot, so God makes the world. When this was said, perhaps the potter was the greatest craftsman. If someone had compared God with a potter when there were greater craftsmen, there would have been quarrels. Ten thousand years ago, the potter—who fashioned clay into a vessel—was the highest artisan, the greatest scientist. So we matched God with the potter: God must be like a potter who shapes the world on a wheel.
Indeed the very word samsara means the wheel—the potter’s wheel. On which God keeps molding clay pots. The pots perish, return to clay, and He makes others. But this symbol did harm. For the potter is separate, the pot is separate. It seemed the world is separate from Paramatma. The symbol proved dangerous.
No—I will take another symbol, for that one is not suitable. A man paints a picture. When the painter paints, the painter is separate, the picture separate. The picture forms; the painter stands apart. When the painting is finished, the painter is entirely separate and the painting begins its own life. The painter may die, the painting will not. The painter may fall ill, the painting will not. The painter may go mad, the painting is unaffected. The painting attains its own existence. The ancients imagined just such a relation between God and the world: He created it and stood apart. The world has its existence, and He sits elsewhere. We must go search where He is seated.
No—I want another symbol, so that my meaning can be felt. Think of a dancer, not a painter—a dancing one, a Nartaka, and he is dancing. When the dancer dances, the dancer and the dance are not two. If the dancer stops, the dance stops. If the dancer dies, the dance dies. You cannot leave the dancer outside and bring the dance home. The dancer and the dance are one. The painter and the painting are not one; the potter and the pot are not one. The dancer and the dance are one. Understand a little: when the dancer is dancing, there is the dance; when he is not dancing, there is no dance. The dance cannot be separated.
For me Prabhu, for me Paramatma, is a dancer—not a painter, not a potter. All of life is His dance. He is not separate from it. Not even for a moment can He be apart—if He were, the dance would cease.
Therefore, because we separated God on the basis of the old symbol, our whole direction of search changed—and disastrous results followed. First, He was not separate, and we took Him to be separate and went seeking a separate God—He can never be found that way. If someone, seeing a dancer dancing, says: This is the dance, but where is the dancer? I will go search for the dancer—he will never find the dancer, because the dancer is present in the dance. He is present in the rhythm of the dance, in its movement. It may be that we hear only the bells on his feet, see only the gestures of hands and feet, and do not see the dancer because the dance is so swift. But if we say this is only the dance—where is the dancer?—and set out to search, we will never find him, for he was there, in the dance itself.
Man chose the symbol that God is separate and the world separate—and everything went awry. Seekers did not find, for how could they seek? Those who went to find turned their backs upon the world. They said: the world is separate from God; we want God. So they closed their eyes to flowers, closed their ears to the songs of birds; they stopped looking at trees; they dropped friendship with the winds; they cut their relationship with the earth; they turned their backs on human beings—closed themselves from every side. They said: this is the world; we go to find God. They did not go anywhere; they simply shut their eyes and began to die inside. They began to rot. He was here—present in all—but we were mistaken in our thinking.
Thus one error: those who sought did not find. Then a second error: when the human mind seeks and cannot find—cannot find—finally it has one method: when utterly defeated, it imagines—and attains in imagination. If you are hungry all day and cannot find food, at night you will eat in dreams. If a person loves someone and cannot attain them, he will go mad—and then in madness he will attain. He will talk to her, live with her, and the world will cease to matter—he has found his beloved, but only in imagination. The human mind has given man this convenience: what we cannot find, we can still live in dreams.
Those who went to seek Ishwar in this fashion and did not find—did not find—they erected a god of their own fantasy. Then they began to talk with him, to play with him, to dance with him—these are the talks of a deranged mind, the ailments of mind, the stuff of dreams. They have no connection with Paramatma.
A second ill result: those who researched and did not find concluded—there is no Ishwar. We set out on a false trail; we wasted our labor. There is no God anywhere; we searched yoga, prayer, meditation, sadhana, tapas, fasting—He is nowhere. They began to say—God is not.
Thus in this world there have been two kinds of religious people: those who imagined God, and those who denied Him. Both positions grew costly and dangerous—while Ishwar was present here all along. The dancer is present in the dance; he must be found in the dance. And there is only one way to find him in the dance: do not flee the dance. Awaken to the dance; recognize it. The more deeply we recognize it and enter it, the more the dancer begins to be available. Slowly, slowly, the dance will fade; the dancer will remain.
Slowly we will know—the dancer alone is the truth; the dance was the play, the Leela. But it is within the dance that He is hidden—and the dance is vast. And note one more thing—the dance is such that we are not outside it; we are part of it.
So I want to say something more: it is not a matter that someone other than the dancer has gone to search for him. It is rather that the dancer’s own hand has grown curious to know—where is the dancer? If we were separate from the dance, it would be easy. We too are parts of the dance—like the hand of the dancing one asking, Where is the dancer? like his eyes asking, Where has the dancer gone? The dance is visible—where is the dancer?
We are his very hands and his very eyes. Even if we wish, we cannot be separate from Him. In truth, that from which we cannot be separate—even if we try—that alone is Paramatma.
People ask me: Where should we search for God? I ask them first, Tell me—when and where did you lose Him? For only that which is lost can be searched for. Paramatma we cannot lose. There is no way to lose Him. How could we lose Him? At the most we can forget—not lose. There is a great difference between forgetting and losing. We can forget—even ourselves. We have indeed forgotten.
In the last great war a man was in the field; he was shot and fainted. When he awoke, he had forgotten himself. His name he did not recall. For soldiers names do not matter so much—their numbers suffice. But in battle his number had fallen away too. When he was brought on a stretcher, the number was gone. When he woke, they asked, What is your name? He said: That is what I want to ask you—what is my name? Whose son am I? Whose husband? Whose father? Who am I? What is my number? Which regiment?
At first they thought he was joking—but it was no joke. His brain was injured; he had forgotten. Then there was great difficulty—how to know who he was? Who knows how many had died, how many were lost? Who is this man? How to find out? Someone suggested taking him from village to village—perhaps he would recognize his own village. They took him everywhere. He would stand on the platform and look at people—but nothing became familiar. Those escorting him grew tired. But in one town, as soon as he stepped off the train, he cried, This is my village! He began to run—would not even wait for his escorts. They shouted, Wait! But he ran down the steps, and they ran after him. He ran on, crying, My village! my lane! my house! my mother! He fell at his mother’s feet. His companions arrived, panting. They asked, You were completely lost—how did you find? He said: I was not lost. If I had been lost, finding would have been difficult. I had only forgotten—and the memory returned.
God is not to be searched for—only remembered. But even in the name of remembrance great deceptions are afoot. People call it Prabhu-smaran. Someone chants Ram-Ram-Ram and says, We are remembering. Someone else does something else and calls it remembrance. The word smaran is very precious. Parrot-like repetition of a name is no remembrance. Smaran means remembering. Smaran means—memory returns. But how will merely repeating Ram bring memory? And if it has returned, why go on repeating?
If saying Ram could bring remembrance, once would suffice. If once did not suffice, how will the second time do it? Or the third? Yet people chant by the lakh and the crore, keeping count—one crore times shouted, still the memory has not come; next year we will chant another crore.
I went to a village where a well-meaning gentleman had made a library—and there is no shortage of well-meaning gentlemen in our land—their life’s work is to set countless people to writing Ram-Ram. Notebooks upon notebooks are filled; thousands, millions of copies filled. Devotees across India write Ram-Ram and send them; the library keeps growing. He says: so many billions of names, so many trillions. He took me there. I said: however many trillions of names, has remembrance come?
How will writing the name bring memory? The truth is, of that which we have no remembrance at all—how do we even possess the name? Who told you His name is Ram? What certificate have you? Who says His name is Allah? Or Khuda? How recognized? If remembrance dawned, perhaps the name would arise too—but remembrance has not dawned, and through the name we try to force it.
No—the meaning of Prabhu-smaran is entirely other. It is not the rote of a name. Prabhu-smaran means becoming aware of this dance that is happening, this vast Leela of life that is flowing; that it begin to be seen, felt, realized—that it is. When a flower blooms, let it not just bloom—let it be known blooming. When clouds move in the sky, let them not pass unrecognized—let us see and know them. When someone passes us by, let them not pass as a shadow—may we feel a subtle touch of that which is within them. All around, He is present. His remembrance means the awareness that That from which we have come is present on every side.
If we understand this, there is no difficulty in this awareness. We have not lost Him. However much we lose Him, He does not lose us. In truth, whatever is vital in life—Paramatma did not leave it to us to remember it. Breath goes on whether you remember or not. If breath depended on your remembering, many times a day you would die. No need to remember—breath goes on, goes on, goes on. You forget, still it goes on. In truth, there is no relation between your memory and your breath. You eat and you digest—and you never know how you digest. Great work is going on in the belly. Scientists say such a vast factory runs in a man’s abdomen that if we had to set it up outside to turn bread into blood, many miles of plant would be needed—and the noise would be unimaginable. Yet within us it goes on silently.
This world is so wondrous that immense stars are born and dissolve silently, without commotion or trace. Whatever is important in life goes on quietly without your knowing. But if remembrance arises of that which silently flows all around; if the footfall of That which passes by begins to be heard—then there will be Prabhu-smaran. Then we will not sit chanting a name, we will not sit counting beads—for these are stupidities, sheer unintelligence. Doing them, one can become only more unintelligent—nothing else.
Therefore, any people who take to such doings gradually lose their intelligence and talent—they rust. Prabhu-smaran will startle you, awaken you. You will become more alive. Color and flavor will change in everything. Everything will be other. Life will be filled with a great dance of meaning and music. For the first time life will feel as if it has burst forth from within—like a seed cracking into a sprout, like a bud breaking into a flower, like fingers striking a veena and the silence ending as resonance spreads on every side. Just so—when Prabhu-smaran comes, the strings of your veena will resound; your bud will break into a flower; your extinguished lamp will suddenly flame up. You will find you are a totally different man. Then you will not sit muttering Ram-Ram; you will see—to whom to chant? He is present. Whom to call? He is present. Who should call whom? For I too am That.
Then life takes on a new meaning, a new movement. That life is the life of a religious man—filled with bliss, with nectar, with peace, with love. Then every cell is ananda. Then there is no sorrow—for sorrow too is bliss. Then there are no thorns—for the thorns are flowers. Then there is no death—for death is entry into a larger life.
Of this Prabhu I wish to speak these four days. And why only speak? For what will mere talk do? We have talked much, listened much. Many times it happens that even listening becomes a disease—we go on listening and listening, and then listening itself becomes a taste. But how will your veena be tuned by listening?
You do not listen to talk about food—you eat. About God you only listen. To sleep you go to bed—you do not read books about sleep. Yes, some do—those unfortunate ones who have lost even the simple capacity to sleep; they read books. They seek through books how to sleep. We laugh, for we simply sleep when we lie down. We need do nothing. But ask one who cannot sleep—is sleep so easy? He suspects the whole world is deceiving him when people say, We put our head on the pillow and fall asleep. I have put my head many times—there is no sign of sleep. A thousand devices—and still no sleep. Tossing and turning, remembering God, turning the beads, washing hands and feet, doing this and that, drinking warm milk, bathing in warm water—nothing works. He does everything—and no sleep. Yet people say, We just lay our heads on the pillow and sleep. Perhaps the whole world is cheating—pretending with closed eyes?
The one who cannot sleep suspects. He does not know—sleep cannot be brought by books. Reading only hinders sleep. Nor can any device bring sleep—for any device is effort, and effort hinders sleep. Turning beads will not bring sleep, for bead-turning is an act of wakefulness, which obstructs sleep. Chanting Ram will not bring sleep—for chanting will break sleep. No device can bring sleep. Yet he will say, Still I want to sleep.
So about God we read books, we devise methods. But if you wish to live in God, something else will be needed. Mere talk is not enough. Talk can bring a hint, can awaken a thirst, can perhaps startle you if you are dozing—but then you must walk. You must journey; you must do something. And how wondrous—something will be needed to attain That which we never lost.
But I said—this is the formula of life’s mathematics: what is near is forgotten. And Paramatma is nearest of all; thus He is utterly forgotten. This is natural, logical. If I ask you—close your eyes and recall the face of your mother—you always thought, I know my mother’s face well. But when you attempt it, the lines scatter; it becomes difficult to form her face. Your mother, whom you saw from the first day, whose face was most near—will blur and vanish. An actress’s image may come clear—but the mother’s will scatter. We remained so near that we never felt the need to look. We were such a part of her, we never observed her closely. Have you ever looked closely at your mother? No. What is near we never look at closely. And Paramatma is nearest. Even the word “nearest” is not right—we are That. With Him we are one; therefore “nearest” is inadequate. We are That—so we are utterly forgetful. Of Him we have no sense at all.
Where shall we go to find Him—Himalayas? Kashi, Mecca, Medina—where? If Paramatma is not available here in Junagadh, how will He be found on the Himalayas? I myself—the seeker—will go from Junagadh to the Himalayas. I who am here will be there. The place changes: trees change, winds change, sunlight is more or less, there is cold, there is heat; waterfalls perhaps—but I am the same. If remembrance does not arise here, how will it arise there?
Rabindranath wrote a most wondrous song and, with a touch of irony, puts these words in the mouth of Buddha’s wife, Yashodhara. Buddha has returned home after twelve years of seeking. He comes home. In the song, Yashodhara says: I will ask nothing else—I ask only this one thing: That which you found in the forest, was it not present here? Tell me only this; I ask nothing else. That which you found searching for twelve years in the woods—was it not present in this very house? And Buddha was silent. Even for Buddha, it was difficult to answer. For the truth is—what he found was here too. And in the manner he found it there, it could have been found here. Therefore the question is of the way of seeking and the seeker—not of the place.
But for thousands of years we have thought we must go elsewhere to seek. Why? Because we have always believed He is far from life, other than life. Not only that—some unwise ones even taught that He will be found in enmity to life. Until you become an enemy of life—meaning, if people walk on their feet, you must walk on your head in shirshasana—you will not find. Make your hostility perfect, go utterly opposite to the ways of life, only then will He be found.
Strange! If He is so hostile to life, what is the meaning of life? If He is so angry with life, why is there life at all? And if life is so bad, why does He go on increasing it? Why do these breaths come and go? Why these births? Why do flowers bloom? Why do seeds form? If life is so bad—as the mahatmas say—then Paramatma is very unintelligent. Either the mahatma is right, or Paramatma is right. The time has come to choose. If the mahatma is right, then God is utterly wrong—because He continues to birth life. He doesn’t stop. Long ago He could have stopped the work. He could have locked out the factory, shut the gates, gone on strike—anything. He could have ended it: enough of life—close it down.
But He goes on dancing. His discontent has no end—He is never satisfied. He says: we made Buddhas—good; now let us make better men. We made Rama—good; now let us make a finer man. Krishna came—very good; now we shall birth one who plays the flute even better. He is never satisfied. He says: every day, a new model. He keeps making man anew. His creativity has no end. Therefore He does not repeat the old; He does not make Rama again—He does not make that mistake. He never makes Krishna again.
Only those who lack originality repeat. One man writes one song; then he keeps repeating the same song, weaving it into new stanzas. One man paints one picture; then he goes on painting the same picture with little changes—his whole life repeating the same. One man writes one story; then with a changed title and a few altered incidents, he writes it again and again.
But Ishwar is wondrous. Billions upon billions have been born—and each man is unique, incomparable—never repeated. There is no repetition there. Even now, among three and a half billion people, you will not find two exactly alike. Not only men—even two identical leaves cannot be found. Pluck a mango leaf and go searching—you will not find another exactly the same.
His creativity is original; He gives birth to the new every day. But man? Man says—be like Rama, be like Buddha, be like Mahavira. Man is unoriginal, bound by tradition. He says: Rama happened—now become like Rama. What need for the new?
But Paramatma seeks the new incessantly, while the mahatmas cling to the old. They say: our book—the older it is, the better. And Paramatma creates the new every day. He bids farewell to the old and brings forth the child. He says: now you step back—you are old enough; go behind the scenes. In one sense He seems unintelligent. Unintelligent, because the old man is so experienced—why remove him and put an inexperienced child in his place? The old gathered knowledge a whole lifetime—why bid him farewell, and place there an unknown child who may be good or bad—who knows? A child without any assurance—thief or saint—who can tell? An innocent child takes the place of a wise elder.
But God loves the new. He says: whatever is old, withdraw. In the new there is life; in the old there is death. Old means dying, near death. New means about to live, to be born, to grow, to spread, to fruit, to flower—further and further.
The mahatmas say religion is in opposition to life. They say: only if you renounce life can you be religious. And I hold that, because of this teaching, the earth has not become religious—because renouncing life is impossible. Those who run away do not renounce; they return by new doors, in new forms. They leave the home—and immediately make an ashram. What difference is there between ashram and home except the board outside? Here they left sons and daughters, husband and wife—there they gather disciples, male and female.
These are only conversions of names—no difference. A father worries about his sons; a guru worries more about his disciples. A father fears his sons going astray; gurus fear more about their disciples going astray. Close one door of life, the spring breaks open from another side. Life finds new forms. No one can escape life. For escaping life is impossible. Wherever we go, life is there. We can only change its forms, its faces, its doors—but we cannot escape. We can choose not to wear these clothes, and dye them ochre. But ochre is as much a part of life as any color—and ochre robes can be as joyous for life as any other color. What difference does it make what garment someone wears? What house someone stays in? What difference?
Only this difference arises: hypocrisy—a naked hypocrisy. Therefore, if we accept life directly, we need not invent hypocrisy and dishonesty.
Recently a sannyasin came to see me, bringing another man along. I said: come tomorrow morning—I have no time now; I have given time to others. Come tomorrow morning. He said: very difficult—because I do not keep money on me. This brother keeps the money. He accompanies me. He pays the taxi. If he is free in the morning, only then I can come. I said: one bondage was money—I understand—but now there is a double bondage. This man has become a new nuisance! If he has no time, you cannot come—because he carries your money and will pay.
This is hypocrisy. If you must sit in a taxi, money must be paid—whether in your pocket or another’s—what difference? Ah yes, one difference—the money-holder thinks the one with money will go to hell, and we will go to heaven. How amusing! The money is yours—in someone else’s pocket—and he will go to hell? And you are the holy sannyasin sending him to hell! He, poor fellow, serves you, pays your taxi.
Running away from life has produced hypocrisy—naked and crude. For how will we flee life? Life is everywhere. We will have to live it. If we don’t earn, we must beg. And what does begging mean? That someone else must earn for us. Yet we consider earning a sin, while taking from the earner is not a sin—only a legal device! Will this solve anything? These are legal tricks.
When Gandhi went to London to study, his community said: we will not let him go—he will be outcast. They ruled that whoever helps him with money will also be outcast. His cousin accompanied him to Bombay with the money. The cousin said: if I give you money, I will be outcast—I cannot give. Great difficulty—time to depart had come, and the cousin refused. Then a legal device was found. Gandhi took money from someone outside the caste. The cousin reimbursed that outsider. So his community could not prosecute him—he had given Gandhi nothing; and a non-member of the community had helped Gandhi—what could they do to him? He was already outside.
These are legal devices. Those who flee life will discover such tricks. All sannyas is living by legal devices. For it is impossible to live having renounced life. One must find devices for living.
No one can run from life. Nor is it right to run—where will you go? You too are life. I too am life. I may run from everyone—how will I run from myself?
I have heard: a fakir had four young men come to him to practice for finding God. The fakir said: do a small task first. He gave each a pigeon and said: kill it somewhere in the dark where no one sees you. One went outside, saw the road empty—it was noon, people were sleeping at home—he quickly twisted the neck. He returned: Here—there was no one. The second was troubled—it was day—he said: I might kill it and someone may come out, open a window, open a door—there could be a mistake. I must wait for night. When darkness fell, he went, broke the neck, and brought it to the master: Here—no one was there; pitch dark. Even if someone had been, he could not have seen. The third thought: It is night and dark—that is fine—but there is starlight, and someone may step out, peep from a door—I will go to a cellar. He locked the door, killed the pigeon, and brought it. He said: I killed it in a locked cellar—no way anyone could come in—question of seeing does not arise.
The fourth was very troubled. Fifteen days passed—a month began to pass. The master asked, Where is the fourth? Has he still not found a place? They sent men to find him. He had gone nearly mad—wandering village to village with the pigeon, asking people: tell me a place where no one is. They brought him to the master, saying, Have you gone mad? Your three friends killed their pigeons the same day—by night they had all returned. What are you doing? He said: I am in great difficulty. I too went into a dark cellar—but as I was about to twist the neck, I saw the pigeon looking at me. So I tied a band over the pigeon’s eyes and went into an even darker cave. But as I was about to break the neck, I realized—I am seeing. So I bound my own eyes, and then bound more bands on top—because the human eye is untrustworthy—no matter how many bands, it may peep. Especially if it is forbidden, it will peep. I bound and bound—covered both eyes and the pigeon’s eyes. I was just about to press the neck, when a thought came—if Paramatma is anywhere, He will be seeing. And it is He I have set out to find. Since then I am going mad—I cannot find a place where God is not. Take your pigeon. This work cannot be done. The master said: the other three can depart at once—we have no need of them. This fourth’s journey can begin. He has had a slight awakening—that there is a Presence on every side. He tried to search deeper and deeper. He has a little sense that Someone is everywhere.
How to awaken the remembrance of this Presence—the experience of this all-around Prabhu? We have forgotten Him—not lost Him. How to remember again?
In these four days I do not want only to talk; truly I speak only out of compulsion. Talking gives me little joy. I talk only so that I might persuade you to do something more. Perhaps through words you may agree—and then something can be done that has nothing to do with words. In the evening I will speak; and those who feel to journey further—for them, in the morning, not talk but meditation—experiments to enter the door from where the scent of that Prabhu—who is life—begins to be felt. He can be known. It is not difficult—because He is very near. Not difficult—because He is not far. Not difficult—because we have not truly lost Him. Not difficult—because no matter how much we forget Him, He never forgets us.
Children grow up and forget the mother—it is natural. Life asks—shall the child keep remembering the mother, or shall he move into life? Children forget their mother—naturally. But the mother—however much the children forget—she does not forget.
I was once stranded at a small station—the train had been missed. I sat on the platform. From a nearby village they brought an old woman on a stretcher; bandages on her head—someone had wounded her, likely with an axe. Women were weeping. She still breathed; relatives were there—sad. I asked, What happened? The woman on the stretcher—half unconscious—sometimes a little aware. They were taking her to a big city, to a hospital. The other women said to me, Don’t ask—she has only one son—and such a son as should better have died at birth. For that son has given her these axe blows.
But that woman suddenly startled—hearing them say this. She, a dying woman—who perhaps would not live an hour or two, much blood lost, the train late—who knows if she would reach the hospital. She opened her eyes and said: Don’t say that. Today he is my son—so he struck me. If I had no son, I would have longed even to be struck by someone. Because he is my son, he struck. But do not say such a son should die at birth. If I had no son, I would have longed even for someone to strike me.
A dying mother—struck with an axe by her own son, and with no mercy—still she cannot forget. She cannot forget.
Ishwar—I mean that ocean of consciousness—from which we come and to which we go. When a mother does not forget—and from her we receive only the body, and even that through a small arrangement—remember, not much comes from the mother. Yet she does not forget us, because our body came from her. But That from which our everything has come—our entire being—how could That forget? But remember—this does not mean He sits remembering you. We remember only what we forget. Of That which we do not forget, the question of remembering does not arise. You are already in His remembrance. And the day a person nears God, he is astonished—how he tried to remember, how long he waited—He was sitting at the very door. How many times He knocked—Open, open!—but we were busy in our own affairs. It can be that we were busy with worship—ringing our bell, waving our lamp before our man-made god—and we thought, Who is disturbing at the door? The winds beating at the door are His hands—and we are worshipping before our own idol. He who keeps knocking, the one from life’s door, does not tire. How shall we remember Him?
In the morning meditation we shall experiment to enter His remembrance. Therefore in the morning let only those come who are eager not to listen, but to know; not to hear, but to be; not to discuss, but to reach; to search; to do something. For one hour each morning we shall go into deep meditation. Each evening I shall say something regarding it. The only point of the evening talk is that you may come in the morning. Whatever questions you have, write them and give them; each evening I will speak to them. But remember—ask only in relation to what I am saying. And those who meditate in the morning—write any questions regarding meditation—we will speak of them at night. I do not intend to talk here—never did. Talking is only a compulsion. There is no other way to take you where many flowers have blossomed. No other way to take you to His temple. Perhaps you will hear the call—and begin to walk that way.
So tomorrow morning at 8:30, those who wish to enter His temple, come. Keep three things in mind—no one should come without bathing; come wearing fresh clothes; and walk from home in silence. Do not talk on the way. And here, sit utterly silent—no conversation. Whoever comes, sit quietly; close your eyes and sit. Do nothing. I will come exactly at 8:30; be here before 8:30—no one after. Because once the experiment begins, it will be difficult for you to understand what is happening. So be here before 8:30—bathed—and come from home in silence. Keep your eyes lowered; do not look around much. With lowered eyes, with speech closed, come and sit in silence. Exactly at 8:30 the experiment will begin and will continue till 9:30.
You listened to my words with such peace and love—I am deeply obliged. And in the end, I bow to the Paramatma residing within all. Please accept my pranam.