Jeevan Sangeet #4

There was an extraordinary man, his name was Chuang Tzu. At night he slept and saw a dream. He dreamt he had become a butterfly, flying from flower to flower. In the morning he rose very dejected. His friends asked: We have never seen you sad — why are you so sad today? When others were sad they would ask the way, and from Chuang Tzu they would find a path. But no one had ever seen him sad.
Chuang Tzu said: What to tell you — what is the use? I have fallen into a great confusion. At night I dreamt that I had become a butterfly.
His friends said: Have you gone mad? What is there in that to worry about?
Chuang Tzu said: The dream itself is not the worry. But upon waking a strange thought seized me — that at night a man can dream he has become a butterfly; then is it not possible that now a butterfly has fallen asleep and is dreaming it has become a man? If a man can be a butterfly in a dream, then a butterfly too can be a man in a dream! So I am in great difficulty: am I truly a man who dreamt of being a butterfly, or am I a butterfly now dreaming I have become a man? And how am I to decide what is true?
How shall we decide whether what we see at night is a dream, or what we see by day is a dream? How shall we decide whether what we perceive is true or only a dream? And until we decide whether what we are living is dream or truth, no meaning can be distilled from our life.
On the search for truth — to know the dream as a dream, the untrue as untrue, the unsubstantial as unsubstantial — this is essential. Whoever wants to know the truth must awaken from the dream.
But at night, when we sleep, we forget the day; we forget everything that was. We even forget who we were on waking — rich or poor, honored or dishonored, young or old — all is forgotten. Whatever we were while awake is all forgotten in the dream.
When we rise from the dream, then on waking we forget whatever was seen in the dream. On waking we say, the dream was false. Why? Because wakefulness has caused us to forget it. Then in sleep we should also say: what was seen in wakefulness is false.
Indeed, there is a great curiosity here. On waking, we still retain some memory that a dream was seen; but in the dream we retain not even so much as the faintest memory that waking ever happened at all, or that we ever were awake. In waking, a small memory of the dream remains; in the dream not even this much memory of waking remains. Even that much is forgotten. In every way it is lost.
Then, upon dying, all that we have seen in life will again be lost. So whatever we have seen in life — after death, in the moment of death — does it remain a dream or is it truth? It is necessary to understand a little in this regard, for only by understanding it can we move in the direction of truth.
If it becomes clear that the farther we go from ourselves, the more we move into dreams — then the more we return from the dreams, the more we come back into ourselves. To come into oneself, one has to return, leaving all manner of dreams behind.
But to call life untrue — that is difficult. We even take untruths for truth.
I have heard — and we all know it. We go to see pictures, to see films. Someone is sorrowful on the screen — on that screen there is no one at all, it is only a play of light and shadow, only a mingling of brightness and darkness; there is nothing on the bare screen except that a few rays are dancing — and yet someone suffers there and we become sad; someone is beautiful and we are enchanted; someone is tormented and our tears begin to flow; and in another’s joy we too become joyful. For three hours we sit in a movie and forget that what was there was only a screen and dancing rays — nothing else. And in those dancing rays, in those falsely fabricated images, we wept, we laughed, we became absorbed — and for this we even paid money; for this we gave our time. Often people come out with wet handkerchiefs — so many tears have been shed. For pictures!
It seems there is a great possibility of our falling into the net of delusion. We have become so habituated to taking dreams as truth. We are so accustomed to believing any dream to be true.
There was a great thinker in Bengal, Vidyasagar. One day he went to see a play. There was a character who was hounding a woman in a very wicked way, harassing her. On a dark night, in solitude, that character — that actor — seized the woman. Vidyasagar lost his wits. He forgot that this was a play on the stage. He took off his shoe, leapt onto the stage, and began beating the actor!
People were astonished — What is happening! In a moment he too became aware: What am I doing? But the actor displayed even more intelligence than Vidyasagar. He took the shoe from Vidyasagar’s hand, touched it to his head, and said to the audience: I have never before received a greater award for acting! I had never imagined that even a wise man like Vidyasagar would take a tale of the stage to be so true! I am blessed. I will keep this shoe safe — as proof that I once performed a role which became so real! Vidyasagar must have been greatly embarrassed.
We can take a drama to be real. Why? Have you ever reflected why this happens?
Its cause is very deep and psychological — that we do not know truth at all; we have been habituated to taking dreams to be the truth. We take any dream to be true. Our habit is to accept dreams as facts. Therefore at night we take the dreams on the eyelids’ screen to be true. Even to the extent that — someone is sitting on your chest in a dream — now you have awakened, you know the dream is broken — but the chest continues to throb. You say, It was all a dream — yet the hands and feet continue trembling. The impact that happened in the dream, its aftereffect continues.
By day also, in life also, we take dreams to be true. And whatever we hold to be true is, almost wholly, a dream.
A man goes on hoarding wealth. Each day he counts, locks the safe, keeps the ledger — it has grown, it has grown, it has grown. He is dreaming — dreaming a dream of money — adding to it, storing it up.
I have heard of a wealthy man who had amassed a great deal. He never ate properly, never drank properly, never wore proper clothes. Clothes and food are enjoyed by poor people; the rich only hoard money. They sell their life and gather rupees. He had piled up a lot. His wife fell ill. The neighbors said: Have her treated.
The man said: If it is her destiny to be saved, no one can lift her away. If it is God’s will, who can take her? He spoke great wisdom! And if it is not God’s will, then however much medicine you spend, the money will be wasted — she will go. We believe in that.
Many are deceitful — they hide their weaknesses behind principles. Often the dishonest hide their weakness behind doctrines. He said such a thing that what could people say!
At last the wife died. When she died, people said: You will have to spend something for the bier and funeral.
He said: Now that she is gone, spending on her is absolutely futile. The dead — what concern have we with them? The municipal ox-cart will carry her. To carry the dead, to make a noise and spend money — what worth is there? When the living could not be saved, what can we do now for the corpse?
Then his own death approached. People said: Now you are growing old, coming near death, becoming weak; illnesses will come—get treatment.
He said: I cannot waste money. Diseases come by fate, by past karmas. What will money do?
People said: This has gone too far. You won’t even spend on yourself? When you die, all this money will be wasted by others. You have no son, no one at all.
He said: I am not going to leave even a paisa behind.
People said: That has never been heard of!
Everyone imagines that they will not leave anything. Because if it becomes clear that we must leave everything, then the grip would loosen this very moment. The grip is strong only so long as the thought persists: We shall not have to leave it. Otherwise would a man fight and shed blood for an inch of land? Reduce his life to a penny for one rupee? The grip is such that it seems we will never let go. He too said nothing wrong — We will not leave anything. People said: It has never been heard — everyone has to leave all behind!
He said: But I have made such arrangements that I shall not leave anything.
On the night of his dying, suspicion arose. He tied all his gold coins into a bundle, took them on his shoulder, went to the riverbank. He roused a sleeping boatman and said: Take me into the middle of the Ganges; I wish to dissolve my life in its waters. If one must die, one should die at a tirtha. He thought: If I die, what will happen to the money? So take the money with me and jump into the Ganges.
That is why the moneyed go to die at the tirthas. Whatever is with them, they try to find a way to take it along from there. They build temples, dharmashalas. These are devices to carry money along. The assurance is given: If you spend like this, if you invest in religion, you will receive it there — invest one here, get a million there. The miserly, the greedy, invest because there they will get millions!
He tied the bundle. The boatman said: I’ll take one gold coin — it’s midnight, I was asleep, don’t trouble me.
The man said: One gold coin! Have you no shame! You have not a drop of pity for a dying man. One gold coin — shameless! All my life I have never given to anyone! Even seeing a dying man, you feel no compassion — how hard and wicked you are!
The boatman said: Then hire someone else.
He said: I cannot create much fuss, otherwise people would learn that I have jumped with all the coins — then I die and others snatch the coins. He said: All right, come. But wait a bit — let me find the smallest coin.
Now the man is going to die — to leap into the Ganges — but his mind! He surely lived in a dream — all his life in a dream or in a madness! He was deranged!
Whenever you see a man clutching money, know he is mad. Though there are so many mad ones in the world — there aren’t enough asylums for them! Truthfully, if we were to separate the mad from the sane, we would build tiny houses for the sane. For the rest are mad — they would have to be kept outside.
A man dying for money! He is dreaming. He knows not what he does. No connection to life is visible. Yes, if a man earns money and lives through it, that still can be understood.
Others dream different dreams. Someone dreams of positions — from a small post to a higher post, from higher to highest. He must journey through ranks. In his mind there is some dream that he wants to fulfill — I will do it!
Alexander or Napoleon or anyone — all are engaged in the same race. They are dreaming. Alexander dreams: I will conquer the whole world! But what meaning is there if you conquer the world? Suppose you do conquer — you have conquered — then what? What will happen then? Still nothing will happen. But there is a mad race. The man rushes.
I have heard, when Alexander was coming to India, he met a fakir on the way — Diogenes. A naked fakir. He would lie on the edge of a village. Someone informed Alexander on the way: There is an extraordinary fakir, Diogenes — meet him.
Alexander went to meet him. The fakir lay naked under the cold morning sky, sunning himself. Alexander stood; his shadow began to fall on Diogenes. Alexander said: Perhaps you do not know me — I am Alexander the Great! I have come to meet you.
The fakir laughed loudly and called to his dog inside the den: Come here! Listen — a man has come who calls himself great with his own mouth! Even dogs cannot make such a mistake!
Alexander was startled. Who speaks thus to Alexander — a naked man who doesn’t even have a garment? Drive a dagger and there isn’t even clothing to come between to offer cover. Alexander’s hand went to his sword.
Diogenes said: Let the sword remain where it is — don’t waste your effort. Swords are for those who fear death. We have gone beyond that place where death can happen. We have dropped the dreams from which death is born. We have died to those dreams. Now we are where death is not. Keep the sword within. Don’t waste yourself.
Who would speak thus to Alexander? And Alexander so brave — his sword slipped back into its sheath! Before such a man, a sword is meaningless. Before such a man, those who hold swords are no more than children playing with toys.
Alexander said: Still, what can I do for you?
Diogenes said: What can you do? What can you possibly do? At most, you can do this — stand a little to the side. The sun was falling on me; you have become an obstruction. And remember — never stand in anyone’s sunlight.
Alexander said: I go — but I depart having met a man before whom I feel small, as if a camel had come for the first time before a mountain. Until now I had seen many people, men of great pomp; I had bowed down many — but before this man... If God grants me life again, this time I will ask to be made a Diogenes.
Diogenes said: And listen also — if God were to join his hands before me, place his head at my feet, and say, Become an Alexander — I would say, Better not. Am I mad to become an Alexander?
Before you go, I ask — all this running, this tumult, this army — where are you going?
Alexander’s eyes shone, his face lit up — he said: You ask? I go to conquer Asia Minor.
Diogenes asked: And then, then what will you do?
Then I will conquer India.
And then?
Then I will conquer China.
And then?
Then I will conquer the whole world.
Diogenes asked: One last question — after that, what is your intention?
Alexander said: I have not thought so far, but since you ask I think — then I will rest.
Diogenes called out: O dog, come back! See what a madman — we are resting without conquering the world, and he says he will conquer the world and then rest! Our dog is resting; we are resting. Your mind is unhinged! You want to rest in the end?
Alexander said: In the end I wish to rest.
Diogenes said: Then how is the world disturbing your rest? Come — my hut has space enough. Two can fit. The hut of a poor man is always larger than a rich man’s palace. In a rich palace even one hardly fits — he needs a bigger palace, then bigger still! Even one cannot be contained. In the poor man’s hut many can be accommodated. My hut is vast. Two will be easily contained. Come — why be troubled?
Alexander said: Your invitation is enticing. Your courage, your majesty — your words pierce the heart. But I have already set out half way; how to return now? I shall come back quickly.
Diogenes said: As you wish. But I have seen many set out upon journeys — none return.
And from wrong journeys, does anyone ever return? If even after coming to awareness you cannot turn back, then it means awareness has not come. A man is heading toward a well by a wrong road — he does not know. Someone says: Do not go — a well lies ahead. He answers: But I have come half-way — how can I stop now! He will turn back instantly. A man approaches a snake, and someone warns: Do not go — a snake sits in the dark. He says: But I have already walked ten steps — how can I return!
And then Diogenes said: Alexander, dreams are large; a man’s life is small. Life is exhausted, the dreams remain unfulfilled. As you wish. In any case, come whenever — my house will remain open. There is no door. If I should be asleep, you come and rest. And if you do not find me — who knows of tomorrow; the sun has risen today, tomorrow it may not — I may not be. There is no proprietorship over the hut. You come and stay — the hut will remain.
Alexander had never felt like that. Those who dream — if they happen to come to one who sees the true — it creates great unease, for the languages are different. Alexander must have grown restless. While returning from India he died on the way — he could not return.
In fact, blind journeys are never completed — the man is completed. And truly, from uncountable births we have been on blind journeys. We get completed again and again — and then again we begin the same unfinished dreams. If a man comes to know just once what he did in his previous life, this very life of his would become still — because he did the same things before. The same foolishness, the same enmities, the same friendships, the same wealth, the same fame, the same positions, the same running! Who knows how many times each one has done the same! Therefore existence has arranged that the past life is forgotten so you can again enter the same wheel you have entered many times. If it became known that this is a wheel that has turned many times, that I have done all this many times, then all would become futile.
Alexander died. By coincidence, that same day Diogenes also died. A strange tale arose in Greece after their deaths. There had been one tale earlier — that a fakir had spoken thus to Alexander. Then both died on one day. Some clever man started another story: on Vaitarani they met again. Alexander was ahead, Diogenes behind. Alexander died an hour earlier, Diogenes an hour later. Alexander heard a noisy splashing behind, and a loud laugh. His soul trembled — that laughter he recognized — it was that same man’s laughter, Diogenes’!
No one else could laugh like Diogenes. Indeed, the way we laugh is never laughter, because those who are addicted to weeping — their laughter is also false. On the surface laughter, inside weeping. Even in laughter there are tears. Laughter is always false. Only one can truly laugh whose very life-breath has become laughter. He whose breath is weeping within and who laughs on the surface — all that is a mind’s diversion, merely an effort to forget the weeping.
The laughter is Diogenes’! Alexander trembled. He saw: a great difficulty today. The previous time they met, Alexander wore a king’s robes and Diogenes was naked. Today a big trouble — Alexander too was naked. And Diogenes was naked anyway — for him there was no shame. Alexander turned back, to bolster courage, to gather confidence — he too laughed. But Diogenes said: Stop that laughter — false laughter! All your life you did false acts; after dying you still laugh falsely. Stop it!
Alexander was frightened. He said: Great joy to meet you again — how wondrous. Perhaps never before has a naked fakir and an emperor met on Vaitarani. This must be the first time.
Diogenes said: You speak right. But you make a small mistake in understanding who is the emperor and who the fakir. The emperor is behind; the fakir is ahead — for you return having lost everything. Whatever you sought to gain was the gain of a dream. And I return having gained all — for I broke the dreams, and what remained I attained.
All our running is the running of dreams. What will come of it if a man attains great fame or high office? What will be? What will come of it if all people worship and honor you? Nothing at all can come of it. And what could happen through the inner search — that will not happen because the mad race leaves no time for it.
People meet me and say: What you say is right — but where is the leisure? When to meditate? When to seek God? Where is the time? The dream takes all the time. Man says: Where is time for the truth?
Strange indeed! The dreams grip the mind so tightly they say: Do not leave even an inch of time. Why do dreams do so? Certainly because if even a single ray of truth enters, then not one dream — the entire mind of dreams is dissolved. So do not give even the smallest chance. Keep him running, keep him running! Let one desire be finished, immediately give the next. Before one desire is complete, the sprouting of another begins. Do not allow any quest to end before a fresh quest begins. Before one dream breaks, arouse new dreams. For if even a single opportunity opens between two dreams for a ray of truth to enter, all will be upset. All will be overturned.
However deep a dream may be, even a small touch of awakening cannot spare it.
So today, in this third meeting, I want to say: If you wish to go toward yourself, toward truth, first you must recognize what is dream. You must search whether you are watering your dreams, whether you are nourishing their roots, whether you are living only for dreams within dreams. This inquiry must be made. If the search goes rightly, the mind itself will know — consciousness will know — this is a dream. And the moment it is known to be a dream, the hands loosen their grip.
To hold a dream, this delusion must persist — that it is true. The dream is so weak that without the disguise of truth it cannot dominate you. If falsehood must walk in the marketplace, it must wear the garments of truth. If dishonesty must travel, it must hang the sign: Honesty is our principle. If adulterated ghee must sell, it must open its shop under the name of pure ghee.
Dreams, untruth, the unsubstantial — so weak, so impotent — they must always borrow legs from truth.
I have heard — the world first formed, and things descended from the sky. A story. God created the goddess of beauty and also the goddess of ugliness. Both descended. They were goddesses of the heavens — the dust of the road, the journey from sky to earth, and then the earth’s dust and world — their garments and bodies were filled with dust and sweat.
They kept their clothes by a lake and went to bathe. The goddess of beauty swam far out. The goddess of ugliness came back to the shore, put on beauty’s garments and went away.
Beauty returned and saw — great difficulty — it was near dawn, the villagers were waking. She hurried out — naked — what to do? Ugliness had taken her clothes. Only ugliness’s clothes remained. Helpless, she donned them and ran, thinking: somewhere on the way I will meet ugliness and exchange.
Since then, it is said, the goddess of beauty moves about wearing ugliness’s garments, and the goddess of ugliness wears the garments of beauty. They cannot meet — because the goddess of ugliness never stops anywhere; she is always running. And now many days have passed; Beauty has even given up hope.
Just so does untruth move, and dreams too — to travel they need the feet of truth, its garments. Dreams can continue only so long as the thought persists that they are truth. If it becomes visible they are dreams — they break instantly.
Have you ever noticed — at night, while the dream runs, you never know it is a dream. If you do know, understand that the dream is broken. If within the dream you know this is a dream, you will immediately find that wakefulness has happened, the dream has ended. You are awake — that is why you are aware it is a dream.
The seeker who sets out for the Supreme Truth must investigate dreams: What is dream? Which things are of the dream? The more alertly this contemplation, this analysis proceeds — This was a dream — that dream will itself dissolve. As understanding grows, becomes clear, dreams stop coagulating — and consciousness, resting in itself, begins to return to where truth is. Returning from dreams, consciousness arrives at truth.
And our whole consciousness is running toward dreams! From childhood to death, the entire society urges us toward dreaming. A small child goes to school — the parents say, Come first in class! The birth of dream begins. The teacher says: Number one. Blessed is he who stands first; the rest who lag behind are unfortunate.
The race begins. In the small child’s mind poison is poured. Now he will strive all life long — Number one, number one! Wherever he goes — number one. I must stand first! The race has begun.
But someone should ask: Why stand first? One can understand this — wherever you stand, be blissful there. But what is taught is: Only if you stand first will you be blissful. Although, it is strange — we have never seen a number-one man blissful. Yet we are such blind ones!
When has a number-one man ever been blissful? And truly, who has ever been number one? Wherever you go, someone is ahead; someone is behind. As if humanity runs in a circle. However fast you run, there is someone ahead, someone behind. And you want to go ahead — to be number one!
Jesus said: Blessed are those who can stand last. He must be wrong — for all our teachers, our civilization, our society say: Number one! In wealth, in position, in knowledge, even in moksha — anywhere — number one!
Even the sannyasi strives to become a world-teacher, to sit on some Shankaracharya’s seat — and having sat, he becomes as stiff as any minister. His stiffness is his own — he begins to look as if all others are worms and insects, and he is the Jagatguru. And the wonder — without asking the world, people become world-teachers! No one asks the world, yet they become its gurus!
Behind it is vanity, behind it dreams — the cravings to be the emperor of the world; even the wish to be a guru. The same thing — climbing on everyone’s chest. But what will be gained? This race is ambition — ambition is dream.
We are all ambitious. The more ambitious, the farther he goes from himself, from truth. Truth meets those who are not ambitious — a non-ambitious mind. A mind without any ambition — which wants to be nothing, to go nowhere, to attain nothing, to sit above no one, to be the master of no one, to be the guru of no one. Who wants to be nothing — to know what is, to live in it, to stand in it — to be only that which is. Whose becoming holds no race ahead, separate from himself. But all are running.
Look — a sannyasi runs and if you ask, Where are you going? he says: Until I reach moksha there is no rest! Where is moksha? He says: The faster I run, the sooner I’ll reach. Ask him: Where will you run, where will you go — where is moksha? He says: Don’t waste my time — let me run faster. He does not know where! Where are you running? Is moksha somewhere outside that you can run and reach?
A man says: I want to be wealthy — and he runs. But does he ever ask if wealth is outside? Yes, there is a wealth of rupees. But has anyone, however much he collected, become inwardly rich? The inner poverty remains. Outside wealth is heaped, inner poverty remains within.
Akbar had a friend, Farid. One day the people of Farid’s village said: Go — Akbar honors you so — ask him to open a madrasa, a school in the village.
Farid had never gone anywhere. He said: I have never gone anywhere; I have never asked anything of anyone. But you have put me in difficulty. If I don’t go you will think I wouldn’t do so small a thing for the village; if I go — who knows what Akbar will think, because Akbar himself comes to me to ask, and I shall go to him to ask? Still, you say so — I will go.
Farid went. He reached early morning, to meet before court assembled. They said: Akbar? He is in the mosque offering namaz. The fakir entered. Akbar had finished namaz, and with folded hands was saying to God: O Lord, increase my wealth! Increase my riches! Enlarge my empire!
Farid turned back. When Akbar rose he saw Farid descending the steps. He called: How did you come, why are you going? Is there some mistake?
Farid said: No mistake with you — the mistake is mine.
Akbar said: What mistake? You — mistake!
Farid said: I have come to the wrong place. The villagers said Akbar is an emperor, and here I see Akbar too is a beggar — he is also asking! I will not lessen your store — forgive me — I came to the wrong door. And since the One from whom you ask is there, if we must ask, we shall ask from Him. I will not diminish your supply. Building a madrasa will cause you great loss.
Akbar could not understand. He said: What madrasa? What is this?
Farid said: No, now there is no matter at all. We shall not build a madrasa — it would be a great loss. You already have a deficiency — you must ask of God. We will not disturb you. We came to a beggar without knowing.
Even Akbar is not rich. In truth the rich can never be rich. Wealth piles outside, the inner poor one sits within. He asks — Bring more! — but nothing happens. Our poverty is not cured by this.
There is another wealth — perhaps not in outer coins. There is position — no matter how high you climb, nothing changes. It is a children’s game. Small children stand on a chair and say to their father: See, I am taller than you. The father laughs — Certainly, you have become big. He lifts the child on his shoulder — Now you are even bigger. The child is delighted, struts — See, I am big now.
If a child becomes big standing on a chair, then someone who becomes big standing on an office chair — know it to be childish. Nothing more. Because you sat on a chair, how did you become big?
There was an English magistrate in Madras who was very particular that a man should have a chair worthy of his rank. We too keep such fancies, but not so madly. He was consistently mad — systematically insane.
We too share the fancy. A servant comes home — however old, no one says, Sit. The old man stands, the young sits. He is ordered about — Go do this, do that. No one says to the old man, Sit. He is not even seen — he too is someone’s father. But is the poor man’s father anyone’s father? Then a fellow with money comes — a two-bit fellow — but with wealth. You stand up and fawn — Please sit, please sit. Our mind is the same.
So was his — but he was very systematic. He had seven numbered chairs. On seeing a man he would instruct the peon to bring number one or number two or three or seven. There were seven chairs.
Chair number seven was for the smallest of men — and for number eight there was no chair, he had to stand. And what was the seventh chair — a small stool.
One morning an old man entered, with a stick, worn clothes. The magistrate thought the matter could be managed standing — let him remain standing. But the old man raised his hand to check his watch. The watch looked costly. The magistrate instantly ordered his peon: Bring number three. The peon was bringing number three when the old man said: Perhaps you do not recognize me — I am the zamindar of such-and-such village, Rai Bahadur so-and-so. Ah — Rai Bahadur! The peon was carrying number three. The magistrate said: Put it back, bring number two. While the peon went for number two, the Rai Bahadur said: No, you may not know — in the last Great War I gave ten lakh rupees to the government. The peon was bringing number two when the magistrate said: Put it back, bring number one.
The old man said: I am tired of standing — call the last number, because I have come with the thought of giving ten lakhs more.
Thus men are measured. If this man had no money, would he be another man? If he had no fine watch, would his soul be different? If he had not given ten lakhs — then he was nothing; he was of no use; no meaning.
This is our valuation. Are we weighing dreams, or are we weighing truth? Truth is the man — his inner Atman — that which he is. These are dreams — what watch he has, what house, what rank. These are dreams woven around him. But we recognize only dreams, because we ourselves live in dreams, cherish them, wish to become them.
The world of dreams is a world of garments. It is the world of outward eyes. Within, there is no dream — all dreams are without. But he who breaks these, who awakens from them, returns toward the inner.
So we must see — with others there is no concern. Each must know: Am I too a dreamer? A maker of dreams? Am I not constructing dreams?
We are all making them — how many dreams we have! What all do we wish to become! What things to attain! Sometimes we become them — who is there who has not suddenly become president while walking on the road? Many a time one feels — Will not the neighbors think of me? In parliament will someone not say: Make this man? The thought does arise. Who does not become something inwardly? What does one not become in the mind? Who does not win a lottery while walking, that a lakh has just arrived?
I had a friend, a doctor. Day and night he filled out crossword puzzles. Day and night. And never below lakhs. His clinic would not run — how could such a man’s clinic run? Whenever a patient came he would be filling his puzzle. He would say to the patient: Wait — there is the matter of lakhs here. Who will get entangled for two rupees’ fee!
I too would visit sometimes. Every month he would win lakhs. He never received a penny. Then the deadline would pass; and again the same — he would fill out the next. One day he said to me: This time it is utterly certain — this one lakh is assured.
I said: If one lakh comes, do one thing — the village library needs some donation; will you give something?
He pondered — How much? With difficulty he said: I will give five thousand. One lakh was coming — five thousand! He looked pained.
I said: No — five thousand will be too much. Your heart is very heavy.
You are right — I am a poor man — five thousand is very difficult. Two and a half thousand fixed. I will certainly give two and a half.
I said: Give it in writing — you will change.
While writing he said: Two and a half thousand! And what have others given? How much are the big seths of the village giving?
I said: They are giving only two hundred and one rupees.
He said: To a poor doctor you ask two and a half thousand! If they give two hundred and one, then take two hundred and one from me too.
Still the prize had not come; still a lakh was about to come; the matter was certain.
I said: Write as you wish.
He said: What is there to write — we have spoken — I will give.
I returned home laughing — thinking, What kind of creature man is! What a mind!
At night around eleven — I was sleeping on the terrace; it was summer — he called from below: Listen!
I said: What is it?
He said: See, let it be this time — the next time I surely will give.
He had thought till eleven, then came again — half a mile between our houses.
I said: You could have said in the morning.
He said: Sleep would not come — trust me for the next time.
It never came — so there was no question of next time.
But see how a man lives! And we all live like that. Do not laugh at him — he is not special; he is exactly like us. We all live just so.
Can a mind like this know truth? Who is there who has not erected dreams — far and wide? Who has not launched dream-boats into oceans?
A paper boat is weak — but a dream-boat is weaker still. A paper boat drowns; a dream-boat never sails — yet everyone sails them. When the boats sink we are miserable; then we hurriedly make new boats. One sinks — we make another.
At each moment one must be alert and examine within — where is the dream? The moment it is seen — This is a dream — the dream falls. Only know: This was my dream — I moved into a dream — and the dream drops immediately. You sit on a chair and the mind begins to dream — daydreams begin to run.
This state of mind is the greatest obstacle in meditation. The dreaming mind is the greatest hindrance.
Meditation is for him who breaks the dreams.
But we lack recognition. In another it is easy to recognize — Yes, this man is dreaming. But when we examine within, we do not see that we are dreaming.
Watch anyone as he steps out of his house — how he grooms himself before the mirror. He is in the notion that the whole town will look at him. But who has the leisure to look? So much preparation! When I see such preparation I feel sad — the townspeople are hard-hearted; none will bother to look. This poor fellow labors so much. He will pass — and the townspeople, where have they time? They themselves have prepared too. They want others to look at them. Now the difficulty — who will look at whom?
A father said to his son: God made you so that you might serve others. In the old days the son would accept; now sons are quite intelligent. The son said: I understand — God made me to serve others. I ask — for what did God make those others? This too should be known — for what were they made? If they too were made to serve others, then a great tangle is created — that we serve them and they serve us. Better that we each serve ourselves.
Everyone steps out that others may see him — everyone. The other too has stepped out that others may see him. Better to carry your own mirror and look when your heart desires. Some clever women have started doing so. Men are not as clever — or not as bold.
Who will look at whom? Who has the leisure? But what a useless dream we dream. Even if ten people glance at you on the road — what is the meaning? What will come of it? Yet there is a dream that the whole world should look at me. But why? What is needed? What is the purpose? What is the profit? What will happen? We are unaware that even as we tie our shoelace, as we tighten our tie, we are living in some imaginary world — that someone will see me.
We do not wear clothes to cover the body. Clothes mean something else. To cover the body, any cloth would serve. But that is not the point. The truth is very few wear clothes to cover the body; clothes are worn to reveal the body. The more the cloth shows the body, the better the cloth is considered.
Hence clothes grow tighter and tighter. The life is squeezed out inside, and clothes draw tighter. Because through tight clothes the body is visible; otherwise it will not show. See the condition — as the cloth tightens, life within leaks away. Yet one holds discipline — exercises a great austerity! In a hot country a man tightens a tie! Why not hang himself? In a hot country a man wears shoes and socks! Do you live in the truth? Where do you live? At every moment some other value is at work.
Bahadur Shah Zafar once invited Ghalib to the court. Ghalib was poor — a poet. A poet has not yet become rich — there is time before that happens. Poets do not become rich; only thieves become rich. A poet can be rich only if he is a thief — that is, he steals others’ poems.
Ghalib was poor — wearing old clothes. The emperor had invited him — he set out. Friends said: You are mad — going dressed like this? The guard will not even let you enter the gate.
Ghalib said: Did he invite me — or my clothes? He did not agree to borrow clothes. The clever do not agree — he remained a simpleton. Clever means cunning — he was not that. They said: No one will recognize you dressed like that. The emperor has heard your poetry, but the guard does not know.
Ghalib did not agree. He went. At the gate he said: Allow me in — I am the emperor’s friend. He has invited me for dinner.
The guard gave no reply — he gave a shove. All day, he said, this problem — any beggar from the village claims to be the emperor’s friend. Everyone wants to enter the palace! Get lost!
Ghalib could not understand. He thought: my friends were right. He returned. They said: You were right — fetch some clothes on loan.
Garments were borrowed from here and there — a fine shirt, coat, turban, shoes — all borrowed. Ghalib set out, now greatly impressive. Borrowed men always look very impressive! People peered on the same street — Who is this? The guard bowed deeply: Please come in. Who are you? Ghalib said: These! The guard did not understand — out of fear that he was a great man he let him pass. Ghalib said: These! The guard still did not understand — said, Please enter. Such a great one — a golden chain hangs from him. Who needs to inquire whose chain it is? Whoever wears it — it is his.
He went in. The emperor had waited long — was worried. Time had passed. He said: You are late.
Ghalib said: No, not late — I fell into a little trouble — a little confusion — I failed to heed the wise. This delayed me.
The emperor did not understand. He said: Sit — we are late. The food was placed. Ghalib took the food and said to the turban: Eat, turban. To the coat he said: Eat, coat. The emperor said: What are you doing? Your eating customs are strange! What is this?
Ghalib said: I had come long ago and went back. Now the clothes have come. The clothes will eat. Forgive me — it is not a matter of habit. I am not here — I had already left. This time the clothes have arrived. Let the clothes eat. Meet the clothes, converse with them, embrace them.
He spoke the truth. Clothes — and in those clothes we all live! All false garments. The inner truth is suppressed under many garments — of rank, prestige, honor, knowledge, scholarship — even of renunciation.
Watch a man who has practiced a little renunciation — how he struts. What are you so proud of — that you fasted seven days? Your fate is bad — starve if you wish. But why strut? If you fast seven days, what fault is it of anyone else? Why ruin the exams of village children with band and procession? Why this pride? It is your whim — whether you eat seven times a day or do not eat for seven days.
No — he informs the whole world: I have fasted seven days. I have become someone special. He lives in strong dreams. Will starving make you special?
So many things — countless things — that bear no relation to reaching the truth of life, but bear a great relation to falsifying and denying it — we are bound to them. If we are bound, our journey cannot move toward meditation.
Therefore, secondly — when we sit now for meditation — I want to say to you: Wake a little to what dreams you have woven, and forgive them — let them go.
The mind will feel hurt — when dreams are uprooted, deep blows are felt. Because dreams have been all — our property, our very life, our very self. When dreams are uprooted, it feels like life is leaving. They were everything. If they are uprooted, nothing will remain — naked — nothing. Nothing will be left with us. What do we have besides garments? What do we have besides ideas? What do we have besides the talk tied on all sides? That was our wealth, our breath — it had become our very soul. And you say: Drop it. Then we will be lost.
But he who is willing to lose becomes worthy to gain. He who is willing to efface himself becomes entitled to be himself.
And what is this effacing? Only that which can be effaced will be effaced. Only the dream can be destroyed. That which is — cannot be destroyed. Truth cannot be erased.
So uproot and throw out from within wherever you feel — here I dreamt, here I built a house of imagination — throw it down there, erase it there. Clean everything.
As children gather on the river sand and build houses of sand — they fight too, Keep away from my house. Keep your leg away — do not step near — my house may fall. First they build a house of sand, then they tell others to keep away. If another child’s foot touches the house, a fight begins, blows are exchanged, clothes torn, blood drawn, heads broken.
Ask: What are you doing? Breaking heads for sand houses! Tearing clothes and fighting!
Then evening comes, the sun begins to set, and the mother calls from the house: Come back — it is time to eat. And the children themselves kick down their own houses and run. All remains lying on the sand. For which they fought — all left there.
What is true for children is true for the old as well. On the sand of life we build many houses of dreams — then we quarrel with neighbors, this one and that. There are courts and lawsuits and networks of all kinds. And what are these for? I built some sand houses; you built some — encroachment has happened! My house has come over yours; your house a little into mine. Your eaves enter my yard a little — encroachment. One dream has entered another’s dream. Life is being squeezed out. Courts stand there. See — how strange the farce. Fools fight, and in the courts other fools with peacock crowns sit delivering judgments.
And the wonder — about what are you fighting? Why are you fighting? If a little awareness awakens — no one else can awaken it for you — you yourself must examine inch by inch: For what do I live? For what do I fight? What do I build? What do I seek? What do I wish to become? If this inquiry continues, suddenly a peace will begin to descend within. It will become clear: This was a dream — it is gone.
When dreams fall, truth appears. Truth always is. It is only suppressed under dreams, as I said yesterday. And can truth be suppressed by dreams? It is suppressed as the moon is entangled in a well. The true cannot be suppressed — how can the true be suppressed by a dream? Yes — in the well of a dream the reflection can be caught, and the moon above runs free.
That which we truly are within is forever free — but around us a net of dreams is woven; in that net a shadow forms. The shadow is caught. And we are troubled.
Meditation means: Break this shadow — move away from shadow; know that of which it is the shadow.
Now we shall sit for the night’s experiment. Understand for two minutes what we will do.
In truth, there is nothing to do. In a state of non-doing, everything is to be left. For ten minutes we will sit, leaving all.
Leave the body relaxed, close the eyes. And make one effort — to see that everything is outside me. And whatever is outside me is a dream. I who am within — the solitary I — this consciousness, this witness, this Atman — that alone is truth. Slowly, slowly, become steady in that witnessing. Steadiness happens on its own once the insight grows clear. It will come into view. Then for ten minutes I will be silent. You remain only as the witness.
Sit with a little space between you, so no one touches another. No encroachment at all. No one should move into another’s space or touch another. Spread out a little. Do not converse. Even if someone must go, sit these ten minutes so that others are not disturbed. If you cannot do it, sit quietly outside — but do not be anxious to leave, for others will be hindered. As long as you move about, disturbance continues. Sit with concern for others. Even if someone must go soon, sit silently outside for ten minutes. Spread out wherever you wish and sit.