Jharat Dashahun Dis Moti #1

Ananda asked Buddha: Bhagwan! Many questions arise in my mind, but I keep them quietly to myself. Today or tomorrow, when you answer someone else, I find my answers there. But there is one question no one else will ever ask. That one I must ask you.
Buddha said: What is the question that no one else will ever ask? Ananda said: No, no one will ever ask it—of that I’m certain. Because no one else even knows about it—except me. I sleep in your room; I am the only one who sees you while you sleep. No one else ever does; so no one else could raise this question. Many times I’ve woken up in the middle of the night and looked at you, and I find you exactly as you were—throughout the whole night. The leg that was crossed over remains just so; the hand lies exactly where it was. You don’t even turn over. You’ve taken this to the limit! Do you sleep, or don’t you? Because only if there is absolutely no movement at all is it possible—if you’re lying there utterly awake and composed! Do you sleep or not?

Buddha said: The body sleeps; I do not sleep. I remain awake. I need no rest. Awareness needs no rest—awareness is always at rest. The body tires—it is earth, it tires quickly. The heavier the load on the body, the faster it tires. A fat man will tire quickly; a thin man, a little later. The older the body, the sooner it will tire; the younger, the less. A small child, even less.

They did an experiment in an American university. They set a big wrestler to shadow a small child, and told him: Whatever the child does, you do. If the child hops, you hop. If he jumps, you jump. If he runs, you run. If he rolls on the ground, you roll. Whatever the child does, you must do. And whatever you ask for in payment, we’ll give. He thought, What’s the big deal? Still, he asked for a lot: One thousand dollars—for a single day. The scientist agreed. By midday the wrestler was flat on his back. He said, I don’t want the money, I’m going home! To hell with the money—this child will kill me! The child took it as a game and said, This is great fun—he does whatever I do! So he grimaced, leapt, ran, vaulted, rolled. By noon he had finished off the wrestler. And when the wrestler was leaving, the child said, Hey, going already? Is that all? So soon? The day’s still so long!

If you imitate a child you’ll find how much he does! He can’t sit still for a second. Youth and children are full of energy; in old age, energy wanes. Getting up and sitting down become painful. Breathing becomes painful. Living itself becomes burdensome. By the time one grows old, one begins to think, God, take me now! That’s enough. I can’t go on. Even being is too heavy now.

But awareness knows no birth, no childhood, no youth, no old age.

So Buddha said: Inside, I remain awake. The body lies there. The body rests; I stay awake. And why keep turning again and again? Once you turn and settle rightly, sleep goes on. Then the body is left in that very posture.

A seeker doesn’t meditate only while awake; even in sleep he abides in meditation.

Didn’t Krishna say: “What is night for all beings is wakefulness for the self-restrained” (ya nisha sarvabhutanam tasyaam jagrati samyami). Do not take it to mean the seeker stands on his feet all night. Don’t become seekers like that—otherwise your wife and children will come here complaining that you stand like a ghost in the house and no one else can sleep for fear. But some fools have taken it exactly that way.

I went to a village where they said, You’ll be pleased to know that our village has a Khadeshri Baba. Khadeshri Baba! What kind of name is that? They said, We don’t know his real name, but since he has been standing for thirteen years, we call him Khadeshri Baba (the standing saint).

I passed that way and saw him. His condition was pitiable. Imagine a man standing for thirteen years! His legs had become like an elephant’s feet—because all the blood had pooled in them. The body had withered; the legs had swollen, heavy, distended. And if you stand twenty-four hours a day for thirteen years, you can’t do it unaided. He had crutches; chains hung from the ceiling and his hands were bound to them—lest he fall and “break” his thirteen-year austerity. Is this liberation? Chains on the hands; the feet are rotting; the body has shriveled. There was no radiance in the eyes, no intelligence, no flame of meditation. He had not bathed in thirteen years—the stench was awful. Others had to help him defecate and urinate and clean it away; others fed him, because he could not unchain his hands—lest in a weak moment he sit down! And sitting was forbidden.

I asked: Why is he doing this? What madness has seized him? They said: “Ya nisha sarvabhutanam tasyaam jagrati samyami.” When all sleep, the self-restrained remains awake. He is that self-restrained one! This is not restraint—this is derangement. This is insanity. He needs treatment, a mental hospital. But people were worshipping him; money was being offered.

Yes, he stands—but his attention is fixed on how much money is coming in! Standing there he keeps a mental tally. He signals to the man collecting the donations—Pick that up, keep it safe! At night he asks for the accounts: How much came in? Deposit it in the bank. Thousands have gone into the bank. Of the inner treasure he has nothing; he stands there around the clock, but it bears no relation to inner wakefulness—he’s stuck on the outside.

I am not against outer wealth. But is this any way? If you want to make money, there are many paths—why this pretense of standing? Why torture the body like this? Such meanness, such violence?

And I asked them: Did you ever think—Krishna said this in the Gita, but did Krishna do this? There is no mention that Krishna became a Khadeshri Baba! Arjuna heard the Gita and did not understand it; yet you have! He didn’t do this. Shankaracharya wrote a commentary on the Gita, but this never occurred to him—the thing that “occurred” to your Khadeshri Baba! There are a thousand commentaries on the Gita; of those thousand commentators, not one did this. One of them should at least have had the sense! It has come to this gentleman alone!

To be awake at night does not mean you stand in a corner keeping vigil. It means: let the body rest, but let inner awareness not be lost; let a steady stream of knowing continue. Let some part of you remain a witness, simply knowing. First, be awake in wakefulness; slowly, wakefulness enters even sleep.

“All eight watches the mother keeps watch upon her child.” As a mother watches her child day and night, so keep watch within.
“You are entangled in wealth and children and Lakshmi; greed has seized you; from the very root of the womb you are losing everything.”
What a beautiful saying! Gulal says: You are tangled in money, in children, in Lakshmi, in greed. We call this a religious country. Yet it is the only country in the world where Lakshmi is worshipped. Diwali is our biggest festival; and what is its center? Lakshmi-pujan! People even set down their cash and worship it. The worship of money—and a religious land! A holy land—and all saints are from here!

I was staying in a house when Diwali came. They said, We’re doing Lakshmi-pujan. Will you come? I said, Come on, I’ll watch the spectacle. Clink-clink—the coins were being worshipped! Now coins are rare, so people keep old coins just for the ritual. How do you make paper notes clink? And worshipping paper notes doesn’t quite look right! The old habit sticks—if there are silver or gold coins, then worship feels proper.

I said to them: You yourselves tell me this is a most holy, religious land—and is this what you do? Don’t you feel ashamed worshipping rupees? Don’t you feel disgust? They said, Yes, it is a religious land, a holy land; all avatars came here, all tirthankaras, Buddha—all here. What more do you need? That proves this is a religious land. I said, It proves only that this land is irreligious. They said, What do you mean? I said, Suppose in your neighborhood all the doctors, hakims, and healers keep visiting one house—will you say the people in that house are very healthy? They said, No, that we wouldn’t say—those people must be very sick, that’s why all the healers come! I said, All your avatars and tirthankaras came here—does it give you any sense? You have troubled God so much that he has to keep sending someone: Brother, go once more! Go again! And you are so deaf you don’t listen—so he must come again and again. Otherwise, why the need? Has God only your salvation to attend to—no one else’s? Is someone obsessed with saving just you? And your salvation hasn’t happened either. What salvation! They all came and went—and you are just the same! You might even boast you defeated them all, put them on the road! They came and they went, and no one could so much as touch a hair of our head! Let someone try to disturb a single hair! The avatars couldn’t; the tirthankaras couldn’t; Buddha couldn’t. Who can? And you think that is religiosity!

To be religious means: do not squander your life on the futile.

“…From the very root of the womb you have lost everything.”
Gulal says: You are born carrying an immense treasure—and you squander it. You trade diamonds for pebbles; you sell awareness and heap up earth and stones. Then death comes, and everything lies there. Then you realize: I didn’t earn what was worth earning. I wasted my time on what was not worth earning.

“You’ve made such efforts in costume and disguise…”
How many guises you don! People are quick-change artists—what faces, what masks! One thing inside, a different show outside. Ram on the lips, a dagger under the arm.

“You’ve labored to make many disguises; without the Lord’s remembrance you got only indoran.”
Indoran is a pretty fruit—but bitter and poisonous to eat. So is this world’s running about: beautiful to look at, but bitter as poison in the mouth. Such are the world’s deceptions. They allure from afar; go near and there is nothing to take. Like a rainbow—lovely from a distance; up close, nothing in your hand. Like a mirage.

“Hindu and Turk alike are swept away…”
All are swept along—Hindu or Muslim, it makes no difference.
“…Entangled in the eighty-four.”
All are caught in the same affliction—How to get more! the lament never ends. How to add just a little more! Till the last breath the lament goes on.

I’ve heard: When Mulla Nasruddin was near death, his four sons gathered, and other family members too. The eldest said, Father is leaving; we should mark the occasion properly and send him off in style. I’ll hire an Impala; we’ll carry his bier to the cremation ground in that. The second said, If he’s dying and dead, what Impala and what Ambassador! An Ambassador will do—why waste money on an Impala? The man is dead anyway… Nasruddin hadn’t died yet—he was lying there listening. The third said, Why an Ambassador? Great men go on a bamboo bier—what’s the point of show? Waste of money. I say, take him on a bier. The fourth said, Today bamboo, wood—everything is expensive. We’re strong fellows; tie him in a bundle and we’ll carry him! Once he’s dead, dust is dust—what’s the point! At this Nasruddin suddenly sat up on his hands and said, Bring me my shoes. They said, What will you do with shoes? He said, Son, I still have enough life to walk by myself. I’ll go on my own—die right there by the grave. Then you won’t have all this bother.

Till the last breath the grip is the same. If you could take money with you after death, you wouldn’t leave anything behind. You’d tie it in a bundle and take it along. But you can’t; thus, helplessly, you go empty-handed—and in sorrow.

In my experience, people are not as troubled by death itself as by the thought that all they earned will remain behind.

Somerset Maugham, the great Western writer, was walking with his nephew in his garden—his own garden. He had built a splendid garden, a grand house; the furniture was exquisite; he had much wealth, earned much. His nephew praised him—Your house is beautiful, your garden lovely, your furniture marvelous. But Maugham grew very sad. He said, Don’t say these things—don’t! It hurts my heart. The nephew said, It hurts you? You should be happy. Maugham said, Happy—what! I’ll die, and this will all lie here. Just thinking that pains me—don’t raise it. I’ll die, and all this will remain; I won’t be able to take any of it. That thought saddens me. I worked all my life—and it will all lie here. And some Tom, Dick, and Harry will enjoy it. It hurts to think—who knows which Tom, Dick, or Harry will enjoy it?

You built the house, and some Tom, Dick, and Harry lives there. Your soul will wander here as a ghost, troubling such people; you won’t be able to go anywhere. Even after the cremation you’ll hover here. People say that after death one becomes a snake and sits on his buried wealth—this only means that. There’s no need to become a literal snake—some become scorpions, some become other things. The snake has no monopoly! The point is: they stake their claim and sit there.

A man was dying. He called his three friends and said, I’ve heard that after death a man cannot take anything—but I want to break that rule; I will take it. You three are my closest friends. Do me this favor. I have sixty lakhs of rupees. I’ll divide twenty lakhs each among you three—I trust you; we’ve been together all our lives. The first friend was Bengali. He said, Fine. What should I do with the twenty lakhs? The dying man said, Nothing—when I’m buried, when my body is laid in the grave, quietly slide the twenty lakhs into the grave. Make sure no one knows, or they’ll dig it up and take it. I want to take it with me. The Bengali said, Done. The second was Punjabi. He said, Don’t you worry; not a soul will know. I’ll bury the twenty lakhs. The third was a Marwari. He said, Don’t you worry at all! I could have handled all sixty by myself, but if you want to split it three ways—fine, I’ll do it. The friend died, rituals were done. Later the three met. The Punjabi said, Well, what about the money? I buried my twenty lakhs. The Bengali said, You think only you buried it? I buried mine too! After all, a lifetime of friendship! But both were suspicious about the Marwari. They asked, And you—what did you do? He said, What do you take me for? I dug up the forty lakhs you buried and I left a cheque for sixty lakhs. Why lug sixty lakhs—so much weight! A straight personal cheque—Take it along, brother!

Till the last breath a man tries to carry it along. Where will you take it? How will you take it? And that which can be carried—you do not earn; you squander it. Only one thing can be taken: meditation. That is why meditation is the true wealth.

Gulal says, Blessed is the Satguru; now our caste and lineage have fallen away.
By the grace of the true Master, even caste and creed have dropped; our grip on outer status and wealth has loosened; the cycle of eighty-four has been settled. The Satguru has joined us to the real treasure.

We searched the city for the thief.
And who is stealing the wealth of your life? You search the whole city—Who is the thief, the cheat, who is ruining my life? Remember, it’s our common assumption that someone else is ruining our life. We always shift responsibility to another. The husband thinks, Because of this wife my life is ruined—the wretch has made it hell! And the wife thinks the same: What ill-fated moment did I meet this lout! But for him I’d be a queen by now; here we don’t even have clay pots at home.

Each person blames another. It’s our way of protecting the ego—dump the blame on someone else. But the fault is not someone else’s. Gulal is right: We searched the whole city for the thief. Why are we being robbed? Who is draining the wealth of our life? Who sucks us dry? Who makes it hell? We searched the entire town.

Night and day we ran in all directions, yet were robbed at every ghat.
Everywhere we went, we got robbed. What’s going on? As if in this life there is nothing but to be robbed! And we tried so hard to save ourselves—ran here, ran there. How many arrangements do you not make—let life be saved, let there be meaning, dignity, taste, joy—how you strive! But everything gets looted.

We asked qazis, mullahs, pirs and auliyas,
gods, men, sages of every kind—
We went to everyone, and found all in the same plight. All were robbed; no one is unrobbed here.

We asked yogis, celibates, ascetics, sannyasins—
they too were beaten in many ways.
They all said: We don’t know how—but we’re ruined, looted!

The world does its rituals and forgets; drunk on pride, illusion, intoxication.
And some, to forget they’ve been looted, have invented formal religion. They go to the temple and offer two flowers; they go to the mosque and say namaz; they read the Quran, the Bible, the Gita; they sponsor a Satyanarayan katha—and think this way they’re saving the real wealth.

The world, busy with rule and ritual, forgets—and then vanity arises: I am religious, I am pure, I am saintly.
Going to the temples, they squander time—
none of it will go with you.
Neither temples nor their idols will go with you. Neither the Gita nor the Quran nor the Vedas will go. They will all remain here—outside. Until your inner Veda awakens, until the Upanishad is born within you, until the hum of the Quran rises inside, nothing will help—everything will lie here. Until you become the temple, no temple can save you. And as long as your religion is mere formality, a social custom you do because people say you should—marking your forehead, wearing a sacred thread—to fit into the crowd: then be a sheep and you can live with the herd.

Having attained a human birth, you waste it; and then you wander in the eighty-four.
Human life is such a rare opportunity—yet you waste it. Then you will wander through the 8.4 million wombs. Miss this doorway once, and who knows when you will find it again.

Servant Gulal says, Catch the thief and strike him—then there’s no need to go to Mathura or Kashi.
You need not go anywhere. The thief is within you—your mind. The mind is ruining you; the mind manufactures your hell. No one else is robbing you; your mind has you robbed. It drives you after wealth and status. And wealth and status carry their own pains. Nothing comes for free. If you want position, there is struggle—conflict with many people, a massive tug-of-war; you’ll be beaten and you’ll beat others. It’s unlikely you’ll reach—and even if you do, the beating continues. Even if you sit on some chair, nothing changes—others also want that same chair. Everyone wants to sit on the same seat! Seventy crores in this country—and all want to be prime minister, all want to be president. How can seventy crores be prime minister? If I had my way, I would declare everyone prime minister. Where is the problem? Write “Prime Minister” after your name, “President” before it—the job is done both ways. Why the commotion? I would give everyone a government certificate—You are President.

I went to a village. People told me a Jagatguru (Teacher of the World) was also staying there and wanted to meet me. I said, A Jagatguru—and why would he want to meet me? By the way, how many Jagatgurus are there? The world is one—how many teachers of the world! Anyway, if he wants to meet, bring him. He came. I asked, How many disciples do you have? To be a Jagatguru there should be at least a few disciples. And in which countries of the world are your disciples? He said, I have only one disciple—he was the very man who came to tell me the Jagatguru wanted to meet me. This is my disciple. He looked a little embarrassed. I said, No need to be embarrassed. Name this disciple “Jagat” (the World)—and the matter is closed. You are his guru—Jagatguru! Simple technique—why get so troubled? Then no one can raise a legal objection; even the Supreme Court will have to declare you Jagatguru—your disciple is Jagat.

There’s a race for position, for wealth—everyone’s in it. Then there’s fierce pushing and pulling. And even when you arrive, there’s nothing there. The fun of this world is: you climb step after step, rung after rung—and at the top there is nothing. You reach there and become a fool. But then you cannot say anything: having skinned yourself to get there, whom will you tell? Climb and climb, and when you reach the last rung you discover there is nowhere further—the ladder ends. It goes nowhere. Does Delhi go anywhere? But if you shout down to those still climbing—Brother, there is nothing here!—they’ll call you a fool: Then why did you climb for so long? Why the hardships? So even after seeing there is nothing up there, a man stiffens his back and says, Ah! What bliss is here!

I’ve heard: A man’s wife got so angry she picked up a knife and cut off his nose. The man was clever; the villagers regarded him as a leader—he was a neta. He thought, Now what? My nose is gone. He went off to another village—and began to act ecstatic. How will you be ecstatic? But he displayed it. Whoever came by, he swayed like Bulleh Shah himself. People asked, What’s the matter? Why so intoxicated? He said, The cause of my ecstasy is—my nose being cut off. What has a cut nose to do with ecstasy? He said, My nose was the screen between God and me. Once it was cut, the screen fell; the door flew open! Now it’s delight upon delight—pearls shower from all ten directions! What can I say—only bliss rains now!

The man was clever; he said, You understand the meaning of “nose,” don’t you? Nose is the symbol of ego. People said, That’s true! We say, “So-and-so lost his nose”—even if the nose isn’t cut, if a man’s honor falls we say his nose is cut. We say, Take care of your nose! Ego is symbolized by the nose. And ego is the obstacle—so the scriptures say. This man found a terrific path! The scriptures say ego is the obstacle; the nose symbolizes ego; he cut the nose, so ego is finished. The logic is perfect.

Slowly a few other fools with some nerve joined him. They said, Brother, cut ours too. He had brought the knife; he began cutting noses. He would take them to the forest and slice off the nose. The fellow, now noseless, looked and found no God, no pearls raining. He said, I don’t see anything. The leader said, Do we see anything? But as we saved our face after our nose was cut, you must save yours too. If you go back and say, My nose was cut and I saw nothing—people will call you a fool. What’s the use of being branded a fool? We’ll make you a Buddha instead! Go back dancing—clapping your cymbals—utterly intoxicated! A man thinks, There’s no point saying anything else now. Gradually many noseless men gathered—made a sect. Whenever they met, their ecstasy was a sight to behold. The story reached the king. The king was a seeker. He thought, I’ve searched all my life and found nothing. If cutting the nose yields it, what is the body anyway—today or tomorrow it will die. Let us cut the nose! The vizier said, Wait—don’t be hasty. Let me find out first. The vizier was sharp; he took the leader alone into the forest, gave him a good thrashing and said, Tell the truth! The fellow said, You’re beating me too much—so I’ll speak straight. My wife cut my nose. To save my face—who doesn’t make arrangements? It’s cut—but one must find some way. So I saved my face. And these people had me cut theirs—now they’re saving their faces. And I tell you plainly: if the king’s nose is cut, he’ll save his face too. The only delay is till it’s cut; after that, the experience of nirvana is assured!

Your religion is hollow. Your life is hollow. Your running is hollow. Ask those who have gained wealth or position—What did you get? They’ll say, We got a lot; it’s great bliss! But nothing is ever gotten. It cannot be gotten. There is nothing to get on the outside. What is worth attaining is within. The real treasure is within; the real rank is within.

“Ram is my capital, my wealth; O mind, stay absorbed day and night.”
Turn there. Abide, twenty-four hours, in the inward descent, diving within. The day you stand at your center—the center of awareness—on that day you will know. No temple, no mosque; no Kaaba, no Kashi; no formalities. Neither Hindu nor Muslim; neither Brahmin nor Shudra. Standing at that center, you belong to God—belong to godliness.

What happened to Bulleh Shah, and by sitting with Bulleh Shah happened to Gulal, can happen in your life too—it should happen!

Having attained a human birth, don’t waste it—otherwise you will wander for who knows how many lifetimes.
Life has one meaning, one quest, one goal: to know who I am. Whoever knows “Who am I?” has known what God is—because I and God are not two. Aham Brahmasmi! Tat tvam asi!

That’s all for today.