Jharat Dashahun Dis Moti #11

Scattered moments of color-revelry!
Moments for weaving rangoli!!
Shattered vows of color-revelry!
A bee-swarm bereft of fragrance,
even the gulal of sound is impatient;
we dreamt of adorning—yet now
abeer lies dust-stained and ashen;
the water-jet is tears,
life is weighted with dull, drained hues;
burnt and burnt to cinders
the springtime forests of fragrance!
Shattered vows of color-revelry!
Moments for weaving rangoli!!

Slander won the day,
we sowed knots of counter-argument;
so much still was left to write—yet
all meaningful dialogue was lost;
with failed constructions in our hands,
everyone departs with thirst in hand;
unquenched lips upon lips,
blades of grass carrying a drop of dew!
Shattered vows of color-revelry!
Moments for weaving rangoli!!

Helpless, the melody fell mute,
the ink became a lightning-scratch;
it was a full-moon hour—yet
night sank under veils of dark;
with visionless eyes in sockets,
with wings clipped, we flutter;
lids burdened with pain,
only a remainder of wakefulness in the eyes!
Scattered moments of color-revelry!
Moments for weaving rangoli!!
Shattered vows of color-revelry!!

The way we live, failure is assured; sorrow is the final outcome. No exception is possible. Without exception, our life does not attain fragrance, it attains stench. We merely die; we know nothing of the Great Life. We remain entangled in two-penny trivialities and the current of time slips past us. We keep our back turned to time.

A delusion in which every person lives is this: as if I will not die; as if only others die. And in one sense it seems right. For whenever death occurs, it happens to someone else. Whenever you see death, you see it happening to another. You have seen many die—no one sees oneself dying, nor will you—and so a logic takes root deep within that death applies to others, not to me. I will live. I will live forever and ever. Even as the breath is breaking, man keeps trusting that death will not happen; somehow a way will be found; some excuse will appear; some medicine will save; a miracle will occur—am I an ordinary person! Ordinary people die. I am extraordinary. And this delusion belongs to all.

Among the Sufis there is a story: God is given to jokes, and whenever He fashions someone and sends him into the world, at the final moment of farewell He calls him near and whispers in his ear. In every ear He whispers the same thing: Everyone else is ordinary; you are extraordinary.

Each person lives under this delusion. Whether you say it or not, show it or not, deep within you know—you are exceptional, you are special. Drop this illusion! Before death no one is distinguished. And if before death no one is distinguished, how will anyone be distinguished in life? This illusion of specialness is only the ego—a falsified inner mood. How can fragrance arise from a lie? From a lie only stench will arise. How will the fruits of success ripen within a lie? Success means exactly that: the fruit setting, the flower setting. We run all life long, but where do we arrive? The path is all path, the destination never arrives. Still it never occurs to you that a way where no destination is ever reached—should that even be called a way? The oil-press bull too must think he is on a road—he walks the whole day, keeps on walking. It seems, walking so much, I will surely reach somewhere! Such is our life. We walk a lot; like the oil-press bull our movement is circular—we go round and round and reach nowhere. The same anger, the same greed, the same lust, the same attachment, the same pride, the same envy. Is there anything new in life? Like a wheel turns—the same rim; one spoke rises, another goes down; then that second rises, the first descends.

Anger, lust, greed, attachment—these are the spokes on your life’s wheel. And the wheel keeps spinning. And from the spinning the delusion persists that something is happening, something is taking place, we are arriving somewhere! Yes, you certainly arrive somewhere—at the grave. Nowhere else. But even upon reaching the grave, the lifelong deception we do not want to break. Go to a cemetery sometime; read the stones upon the graves—you will be astonished.

Mulla Nasruddin was passing by a graveyard. He saw a marble stone, inscribed: “Here Sheikh Abdullah sleeps.” Even now dead, yet not dead—sleeping! Dead yet unwilling to abandon the illusion. Mulla shook the stone and said, Brother, Sheikh Abdullah, whom are you deceiving? You have died, and still you think you are asleep?

Even after death we have imagined that we will live—we will live in heaven, in the other world. I am not saying there is no other world, but your imaginations have nothing to do with the other world. Your imaginings are only the extension of this same delusion: that you will live. You have not known whether there is any other world. This world you have not known yet!

People come to me; they ask, Is there life after death? I ask them, first ask whether there is life before death. Then ask the second question. Are you alive now? Ask this: have you long since died? Or were you never born? The truth is—you have not yet been born. Until one knows Brahman, what birth has there been! Therefore we call the knower of Brahman dvija, twice-born; we call him Brahmin. No one is born a Brahmin in a Brahmin’s house; all are born Shudras. Yes, the one who comes to know Brahman becomes a Brahmin. Dvija is earned, not got for free—one needs worthiness. But only if you drop a few delusions—otherwise time is running, time is robbing you. And you are happily being robbed. You are robbed in the belief that who can rob you? You are robbing the world; so the illusion arises that no one can rob you. But time is invisible. Even the sound of its feet is not heard, and one day it brings Death to your door. And when it brings her, then it is too late! The bird has eaten the field—now what use repentance?

People die in regret.

In my observation, the one who can die laughing—know that he knew life. The one who can die in celebration—know that he recognized life; he lived; he was born; he is dvija. The one who dies weeping, who even in his last breaths keeps trying to live a moment more, who keeps clutching at life as dying happens; the boat has slipped, the bonds to the shore have snapped, yet still he wants to hang on—by some excuse, a little while more! You stayed all life long—what did you do? If you stay a little longer now, what will you do?

It is said, when Alexander the Great was dying, he told his physicians, Keep me alive for twenty-four hours—just twenty-four—because what I have not done in life, thinking there was plenty of time, I would now do. The physicians said: That is beyond our hands, but we can say one thing: when you squandered life, you will squander twenty-four hours too. What worth are twenty-four hours!

In the Upanishads there is the tale of Yayati. He reached a hundred years; death came. Yayati panicked. He was an emperor; he said to Death, Have pity; I remained lost, what was worth attaining I did not attain; life passed and I took no heed; I remained tangled in futility. Give me a hundred years more. Have such mercy! Death said, I can give you a hundred years, but then I must take another in your place. You have a hundred sons—many queens, a hundred sons—ask them; if anyone agrees to go, I will take him in your stead.

See the blindness of the old Yayati? He asks his sons; he pleads before them: I gave you birth—can you not do this much for me? He feels no shame, no hesitation. For he has lived a hundred; some son is seventy, some sixty, some fifty, some forty—not even a hundred yet. They too have the thirst for life. They too want to live.

The elder sons began looking here and there—grown old, they had grown clever, artful. As a rule, old age brings only cunning, not wisdom. It makes people sly, smart, not wise.

Most heads turn grey only in the sun. You will rarely find someone whose hair did not whiten merely in the sun.

To whiten in the sun simply means time passed in vain—you remained unsoaked; life came and went, you did not dive; the pearls did not rain; that moment never came in your life when, like Gulal says, you could say: Pearls shower in all ten directions. Pebbles and stones—those only you kept collecting. The heap has grown, and Death stands at the door!

The elders looked askance; the elders thought inwardly—See this old man: he reached a hundred, enjoyed all; a hundred sons, hundreds of queens, a kingdom—what is there left to live for? Truth is, they were thinking: when will this old man depart so we may sit upon the throne; he is preparing to send us instead! But the youngest son stood up—he was only around twenty-five. He said, I am ready. Even Death felt compassion. Death whispered in the boy’s ear: Fool, do you not see your hundred-year-old father is unwilling to go; your elder brothers, seventy, sixty, fifty, none agree to go; you are the youngest, you have not even seen life—you have just returned from the gurukul; you have not even partaken in life, you were a child, now you are youth; I feel pity for you. The youth laughed and said, Do not pity me, do not waste your pity. When my father, with a hundred years, could learn nothing, what will I learn! When my ninety-nine brothers, living so long, could grasp nothing, what will I grasp! The experience of my ninety-nine brothers and my father is enough—take me. No need for pity. The matter is finished—this life is in vain; in it there is nothing worth attaining.

Though the son was not old, he was mature. This we call maturity. Let his hair not be white—but inwardly, mentally, his age is more than his father’s. His father is childish; inwardly his age is no more than twelve or thirteen.

You should know: the average mental age of man is twelve. The physical age may be anything; mentally people remain stuck around twelve-thirteen. Look into their fantasies and dreams—only toys and games. Toys grow larger as age grows; but large toys do not make life large. Little children build little houses; you build big houses. Little children fold paper boats; you build big ships—but all are paper boats; all will sink, all will rot. Little children swagger—and so do you. If little children had mustaches, they too would twirl them—without mustaches too they twist imaginary ones; you twirl real ones—what difference? Little children paste on a false mustache for a few pennies and sit stiff. Your mustache is not all that real either—it is also false. Though grown from your own body, still false; hair are dead; that’s why cutting them does not hurt; they have no life. These are dead parts your body is discarding, expelling; already dead limbs. Hence no pain in cutting nails and hair—they are dead. Whether you buy false from the market or twirl what you take to be real—all mustaches are false. Yet people live in vanity, in illusions. Children can be forgiven—how will you forgive the grown-ups!

Yayati’s son went with Death. Death had to accept him; his words were true. Yayati’s son was not to be pitied—he was wise. The wise need not beg mercy from Death.

A hundred years passed again; Death returned—and the same story. Yayati said, A hundred years have passed and I am where I was! Show mercy once more! So the tale goes—and each time a son is taken. Thus Yayati lives a thousand years.

This Yayati-tale is very significant. It is your tale. It is everyone’s tale. If you got the chance you would do the same. Though you swear you would die for your son—if you got the chance to take your son’s years for yourself, you would accept.

Yayati lived a thousand years, and in the thousandth year, when Death came again, he was just as empty, just as blank, just as void—and the same whining, the same childish age of thirteen. Death said: Enough now. No more. Yayati said: Not more years—I am not asking for more. Though I am still empty, one thing I have understood: however much I ask, I will remain empty. Until my foolishness breaks, what will age do, what will time do?

Well said by Alexander’s physicians: even if you had twenty-four hours more, what would you do? As we are, we can do nothing; even if we could live a little longer, what would we do? Life has passed by—twenty-four hours would pass by as well. You are just in the illusion that if twenty-four hours were given, you would do something.

Think yourself: if granted twenty-four hours, what would you do? Perhaps you would see one more film; or play one more game of chess; or one more Rotary Club meeting. What else? Some quarrel left pending—you would have one more with your wife. Dying, if some mischief remains, you will do that too—you will arrange to trouble the neighborhood one last time.

I have heard: a man was dying—his whole life he had tormented people. When death came, he called his sons near and said, Only one request: when I die—you will bury the body anyway—before that, make some use of it. The sons thought, compassion has dawned on father! Perhaps he will say, donate my eyes to the hospital, or my organs, kidneys etc. But that was not father’s style! The sons knew their father well. What happened to him? Has he started raving in old age? No, the father was not delirious. He said, Do this: I’ll be dead anyway—cut off my hands and feet and throw them into the neighbors’ houses, and file a police report. Let all the rascals be taken away in chains! My soul will be at peace! If I can see them being led away bound, I will be fulfilled! Consider your debt to your father repaid. This is what they call soul-peace!

Even at death a man will do what he did all his life. However much you try to change suddenly, nothing changes. Such cheap change does not happen. Our priceless life passes thus—in which what could not happen? Everything was possible—in which even God was possible, where the blossom of God could have bloomed.

The gaze is drowsy, the ear asleep,
tear-muddied eyes are lost;
where is the mind, what has happened?
You look somehow broken,
glued to stones of delusion;
whom are you meditating on,
why so sunk within yourself;
you look time-fettered,
defeated by yourself;
Alas, what helplessness is this?
What evil planet has touched you?

Why this much agitation,
trampled by obstacles of the path;
think a little, just a little—
breath is unhindered—how many!
Is there any step
not swallowed by Time?
Everywhere the legacy of dark,
fog, and bitter smoke!

You are a body tugged by threads;
merely a puppet you are;
in this world’s theater—
a fleeting, fragile role you are;
therefore in every role,
fill color in earth’s play;
if you can become unattached—then
what blessing, what curse can touch you?
Where is the mind, what has happened?

If there is a single art worth learning in this life, it is this: the art of witnessing.

You are a body tugged by threads,
merely a puppet you are;
in this world’s theater—
a fleeting, fragile role you are;
therefore in every role,
fill color in earth’s play;
if you can become unattached—then
what blessing, what curse can touch you?
Where is the mind, what has happened?

Simply become unattached; see the body as other than yourself; see the mind as other than yourself. Awake within and recognize: I am only consciousness, pure chaitanya, mere awareness. Then revolution has happened in your life. Death will not be able to harm you, will not be able to snatch anything from you. And for the first time the advent of God will happen in your life. Your new birth will be. You will rise beyond time. There will be a meeting with the Timeless.

If this meeting does not happen, know you are squandering life. And the sooner you awaken, the better—for who can trust tomorrow?

Behind the curtain of dusk comes the anklet-sound of night.
From every particle a most plaintive song reaches my hearing.
In this dark who showed a tender lunar crescent?
Why do my eyes fill so with water in this hour between?

Someone keeps kissing my veils again and again,
yet I cannot see—darkness everywhere!

Why have all these treasures of becoming become a hell to me?
It seems I have been looted of my every wealth and glory!

Bird-flocks fly nest-ward, chirruping.
With vacant eye I watch the great wedding of evening.

The horizon blocks my path—beyond lies my resting-place.
What a circle of Maya cast over my life!

Awaken! Think a little—think afresh!

The horizon blocks my path—beyond lies my resting-place.
What a circle of Maya has been cast over my life!

There is a great ring of Maya over your life. By Maya I do not wish to weave some heavy metaphysical net of terms; by Maya I mean simply this: if you follow the mind, it is Maya. If you awaken from the mind and then live, Maya ends. There is no need for a profound critique of Advaita—what is Maya, what is Brahman, what is true, what is false? From that kind of sterile disputation nothing of essence emerges. Even if you come to know that Brahman is truth, the world is false—still, nothing will happen. You may declare it—there are so many Vedantins. Often when teeth begin to fall, people become Vedantins. Vedanta—those without teeth. Now nothing remains to do. No teeth—then what remains! People have forged great doctrines, but all are defenses. My direct meaning of Maya is: to live by the mind’s dictate. Whatever the mind makes you do—that is Maya. To awaken from the mind, become separate, and then live—that is Brahman.

Make the matter practical. Make dharma cash, not credit. Dharma is not a metaphysical system; it is a process of life-transformation. Dharma is an alchemy. It is not about sects and opinions; it is a way to give life a new mode, a new style. If you can do even this, pearls will begin to rain in your life now.

The surging river laughs—plays softly along the shore;
above, that blue sky is filling a platter with jewels!
Sweetness, joyous, descends from the sky to the earth today.
From the nectar-urn of the moon a heady stream is pouring upon the land.
The starry sky says, Dance today like a fairy;
we shall return to your feet—night is drunk with ecstasy.
The cool, soft Malaya breeze wanders free in the groves—
why does the life-vine tremble at its very touch?

Let the nectar begin to rain now, let the clouds gather, let Ashadha arrive now, let the peacocks dance—let there be not even a moment’s delay—only become the witness.

Today’s sutras:

Pearls shower in all ten directions! Yet directions are eleven, and Gulal spoke only of ten. You too will be startled because you also think, believe, that directions are ten. Books write ten; geography marks ten. Ordinarily we know four; then between each two, one more—so eight; then one up, one down—so ten. But one direction is inward. The ten are outward; the eleventh is the inner journey. Why then did Gulal speak only of ten? Because in the eleventh direction it is you who will see—you will be the Drashta, the seer. In all ten directions the pearls will shower; you will be the witness. All around they will rain—from above, below, from every quarter—but you? You will only be the Seer. A drizzle of pearls will fall upon you, the nectar-urn will tilt, the cup of your being will be filled with the elixir of life—but you will remain the Seer. That eleventh direction is the direction of the witness. The other ten are the seen; the eleventh is the Seer. To be established in the eleventh is called Samadhi.

Din-anath anath yeh, kachhu paar na paavai.
Baranon kavani yukti se, kachhu ukti na aavai.

Gulal says: I am unlettered, a common man—not a pandit, not a knower, not a shastri. How can I say what is happening! These pearls that are raining from all ten directions; this shower of nectar; this Nada, the Anahat Nada rising; this veena that is playing; this Omkara resounding through all ten directions—how shall I speak it! In what words reveal this bliss? In what doctrines bind this nectar—how bind it?

Kabir says: It is like the sugar of a mute—he tastes the sweetness, how can he tell?

Din-anath anath yeh...
He says: I am utterly poor and helpless. Thou art Dinanath; I am orphaned.

...kachhu paar na paavai.
I strive countless ways—You are Infinite. I cannot see your shore; your endless stream flows—I cannot see where You begin, where end. You have no bank and no shore.

Baranon kavani yukti se...
No device comes to me by which I could describe You. And yet, without speaking, I cannot endure.

This extraordinary thing befalls every realized one. What is seen is beyond words. What comes in experience cannot be described. What is realized cannot be expounded. And yet, knowing no exposition is possible, no definition, no binding in words, no singing in songs—still within arises a storm to express, to shout it from the rooftops, to shake people awake. Both things happen together. Therefore every mystic saint falls into a great difficulty. One obstacle: what is in experience cannot be said. The other: without saying, one cannot remain. It must be said—inevitably. Silence does not hold. What swells within seeks to burst, to radiate.

If a lamp burns, rays will spread. If a flower blooms, fragrance will fly. If the sun rises, birds will sing, and the earth will awaken, and trees asleep all night will stretch. Just as that is natural, so is this. The thirsty meets water, drinks, is fulfilled—but how to tell the fulfillment? And this water is not ordinary water. Through births you had sought and not found. It was so near—nearer than near—no need even to stretch a hand; only the need to be a witness.

And speaking becomes inevitable also because people are groping—groping for precisely this; millions around, running, chasing—seeking what lies within them. The diamond they seek need not be sought—it is hidden in the seeker himself. To search for it is already to miss—to go far. If you wish to attain it, drop all searching and sit within. Seeing such restlessness, such hurry-scurry, how can one remain silent! Compassion wells up.

Buddha has said: The inescapable outcome of Samadhi is Karuna. Samadhi happens within; compassion flows without. Compassion’s first act is to tell people: God is. Then another difficulty arises: first, it is hard to say; then, upon saying, none believe. Say it and people laugh. They say you have gone mad. Speak sense! What God, what God? You’ve lost your wits! Prove it by logic! That which cannot be said—how to prove? That which cannot be told—what evidence can there be? Yes, you can dance; you can sing; you can hum with a single-stringed ektara. Your means are small. Yet you must use them—knowing they are small, they must be used.

And it is right that they must. Millions will hear; perhaps one or two will be willing to understand. But is even that little too little?

Upon this earth, whenever even one person draws near to God, the consciousness of the whole earth draws near. Whether you know it or not, whenever one person becomes enlightened, human consciousness climbs one step. You do not even notice. You have never thanked Mahavira, Buddha, Krishna, Christ, Mohammed—you never offered thanks. Yet whatever you are today is by their grace. If we removed these ten or fifteen names from history, you would still be sitting on trees! Darwin would not need to find a theory that man evolved from the ape—man would still be ape. Many of your forefathers are still on trees. These few names whom you refuse, whom you poisoned, hanged, whose limbs you cut, whom you killed—because of these few men you are human—remember this.

Baranon kavani yukti se, kachhu ukti na aavai.
Gulal says: No words come—how can I say? And yet without saying I cannot remain.

Yah man chanchal chor hai...
I can at least say this much:

This mind is a restless thief—day and night it runs.

I say this to people—this is all I can say—beware of this fickle mind! For so long as I was entangled in it, I did not know God. Though pearls rained, I did not see them. I remained blind with eyes; deaf with ears. With a heart intact, I knew neither love nor devotion. The reason was only one: this mind is a restless thief.

...nisubasar dhaavai.
It is a thief—dishonest and deceitful. It assaults twenty-four hours a day—nisubasar. It enfolds you from every side. Its nets are such you do not at once discern them. It is supremely logical; it supplies arguments for all its needs.

One day Mulla Nasruddin’s wife burst into his office without warning. Right before her she saw Mulla’s beautiful stenographer sitting in his lap. The wife flared with rage. Mulla saw she was about to explode. He shoved the stenographer off and said, Listen, there is a shortage of stools and chairs in the office—agreed—but that does not mean you sit in my lap! Stand and take notes!

The mind will devise tricks—instantly. In any state, it will devise tricks. Watch how your mind devises them! What excuses you find!

I have heard: Mulla slipped into a garden to steal. Passing by, he saw the gate open, no guard; ripe fruit made his mouth water. He tried to stop himself: This is not right. A voice spoke within: What not right! The fruits belong to God—sabai bhumi Gopal ki—the land is God’s; the fruits everyone’s. Whose father do they belong to? They are for all. God’s land, God’s sky, His air, His light—why fear! What theft is this? The real thief is the one who claims “mine.” Mulla said, Exactly right—one must trust the inner voice! He went in unafraid. He was going to the market to buy vegetables; he filled his bag with whatever he found—tomatoes, melons, watermelons—and just then the owner arrived and caught him red-handed. What are you doing? Mulla said, Strange thing happened. I was walking by—the wind came. Such a storm! It blew me inside. And such a wind! I was going to buy vegetables. The man said, Let us grant even this—that a storm came, though never seen here before. But how did these tomatoes get into your bag? Mulla said, Because of the wind. The bag was in my hand; the storm created such an uproar, a few tomatoes fell into my bag. The owner said, Let us grant even that. But the watermelons and melons? Mulla said, That is what I too am thinking—tomatoes are understandable. How these watermelons and melons got inside—that I do not understand! You asked rightly—this I too cannot figure out!

Man keeps searching—whatever life you want to live, you will find arguments to suit it. If you are a thief, the mind will argue for theft. If you are dishonest, the mind will say the whole world is dishonest; if you remain honest, you will be looted—here the dishonest enjoy. If you want to pick someone’s pocket, the mind will say, Carefree—pick it! How often has your pocket been picked! Tit for tat—that is the rule.

I have heard: Emperor Akbar, in anger, slapped Birbal in open court. Birbal fumed, raised his hand—then wisdom came: to slap the emperor could be costly. But lowering the raised hand would also be awkward. So he slapped the man standing next to him. That man cried, Wonderful! The emperor slapped you—why do you slap me? Birbal said, You slap the man next to you—the matter will resolve! Let it move on! Someday it will reach the emperor.

We find devices. Your boss tortures you; you cannot say anything; you say, Yes sir, yes sir. At home, you pounce upon your wife. You never see you are repeating Birbal’s tale. But you will find a rationale. The bread is burnt today—the same bread daily, the same wife; the vegetable lacks salt—thousand faults you will find today—the same as always, yet never before did you notice them. Today you want to trap her and sit upon her chest. What you could not do with the boss, you want to do with her. But you will not be able to say plainly that your mind is weaving a net. And the wife, being Indian, will say nothing—how can anything be said to the lord-husband! In the West matters have changed—there it isn’t so easy for the lord-husband to crash upon the wife; for self-defense they do what is needed. The wife attacks; in the West wives throw pillows, toss things. Here too a few wives—“progressive,” as they say—

I asked Mulla Nasruddin, How goes it? He said, Very well—both of us are happy, my wife and I. I said, That is hard—are you telling the truth? He said, Absolutely. How can both be happy? He said, Let me explain: sometimes she throws a plate at me, sometimes a pan. If it hits, she is happy; if it misses, I am happy. Thus, both of us are happy. Sometimes it hits, sometimes it doesn’t—fifty-fifty; both are content. It goes well.

The wife cannot hit the husband—so she hits the child. She waits: let him come from school. These are unconscious processes. And what will the child do to his mother? He goes and breaks the leg of his doll. Where the boss’s leg was to be broken, the doll’s leg is broken! The doll had no fault. But somewhere the line must end. The full-stop falls upon the doll.

If you begin to watch your mind, you will grow alert to all these arguments. You will be amazed—the mind is a great thief, a cheat, clever, a master politician.

Yah man chanchal chor hai, nisubasar dhaavai.
It attacks twenty-four hours, it finds devices everywhere.

Seeing the ticket-checker, a man quickly hid under the berth. The checker saw him, dragged him out—it was Chandulal. Ticket? Chandulal begged, Sir, my daughter’s wedding—so much expense—no money left for the ticket. The checker took pity and let him go. Then he saw on the opposite berth another gentleman hiding under the seat. He pulled him out—Dhabbujee. The checker said, Is your daughter also getting married? Dhabbujee said, Sir, I am this old man’s son-in-law.

A way has to be found!

And the mind is skilled—supremely—in finding ways. Until you understand the politics of the mind—and the politics of the mind is the great politics. Those outer politicians are nothing. The one inside is astonishing. For births he has deceived you, given assurances; for births he has dropped you into the same pits—and is so skillful that each time he finds new grounds for you to fall into the same pit. He gives new excuses for falling into the same hole, shows new prospects, builds fresh hopes, offers fresh assurances. The same pit, into which you fell many times and decided, No more—I am done—yet again the same pit appears and the mind finds a new trick and says, Try once more! Last time you missed; there was no fun; perhaps this time! This pit isn’t the same—look carefully, it is different!

Do you ever make new mistakes? Only the old ones. You swore oaths many times, yet you go on. The mind must be very skillful. The mind is a clever salesman; it sells anything it wants to. It palms you counterfeit coins; and as soon as you discover they are counterfeit, it hands you another set—just as false. All the mind’s coins are false. The true coins belong to the Self.

Kaam krodh mein mili rahyo, ihain man bhaavai.
Your mind blends with everything—lust, anger, pride, envy; it takes cover behind each. It plays always from behind others’ shoulders—that is its politics.

Mulla Nasruddin went hunting. He invited me too. I said, Brother, I do not hunt. Mulla said, But see my hunting! I went along. He fired at a line of flying geese—no goose was hit. Mulla looked at me: See the miracle—dead goose is flying! Before I could say, The bullet didn’t hit, he said, See the wonder—this is hunting: the goose is dead and still flying!

The mind will find excuses for everything. Whoever wants revolution in life must recognize every excuse—clearly—so that the same excuse cannot be used again. If the mind will choose anger, it will say, Necessary; if we do not get angry, we will be looted. If the mind will be dishonest, it will say, Necessary—and this is no great dishonesty; in the world great dishonesties are going on; this is nothing—just daily conduct. If the mind will lie, it will say, Necessary—only etiquette, formality.

Kaam krodh mein mili rahyo, ihain man bhaavai.
Behind everything the mind is hidden—and it relishes this. It is a game of hiding. Because you cannot grasp it directly. You grab from one side and swear, I will never rage; it slides behind lust. Have you noticed—whoever swears to suppress lust becomes full of anger; he turns wrathful, a Durvasa; he burns within with fire. The libido, driven underground, that energy behind which the mind used to play, now denied, the mind throws itself wholly behind anger.

Whoever drops anger becomes greedy. The energy that became anger turns into greed.

It is not surprising that the Jain community became greedy—that is the outcome of nonviolence. Mahavira declared: no violence whatsoever. The mind, which hid behind violence, found another trick—money. Mahavira said, Do not farm either—there too is violence; uprooting plants, harvesting crops—life is there! So do not farm. You cannot be Kshatriya—swords must be drawn. Who wants to be Shudra—who will carry filth? The Brahmins will not let you in—to become Brahmin is difficult. Only by birth one can. They have occupied the summit; if everyone is let in, all will become Brahmins; then no other varna will remain—everyone will declare, I am Brahmin. People do it.

I know a man who was first Sinha, then became Saxena; one day I met him—now he was Sharma. I asked, What is this? He said, Whatever pleases oneself! Has anyone taken a contract? Saxena, Sinha, Sharma—our own name! We made it Sharma. I said, Do you know what Sharma means? He said, Brahmin. I said, True—indeed, Maha-Brahmin. He asked, What does Maha-Brahmin mean? I said, You will have to research. In Vedic times Sharma was the Brahmin who performed the animal sacrifices in the Vedas. Sharman means to cut—cut the neck. Sharma—the neck-cutter. I said, Brother, you were fine as Saxena; Sinha too was okay; why become Sharma? He said, Then we will change—now he is Verma!

They could not become Brahmin—it was not so easy—so what should Mahavira’s followers do? Violence gone—anger gone. To be angry brings violence. All energy gathered upon greed. Therefore, if the Jains became wealthy, it is not surprising—it is natural. But wealth too is a form of violence. Until you suck others dry, how will wealth accumulate? You filter your water; blood you drink unfiltered. Who filters blood? Money is blood. If you observe life around, you will recognize the mind’s tricks. Shut one door, it comes in by another.

Karunamay kirpa karahu...
Hence Gulal says: Pray to that God—O Compassionate One, show mercy!

...charanan chit laavai.
Only one revolution is possible: let my ego fall at Thy feet; let my mind drop at Thy feet. But even this cannot happen without Thy grace. Therefore I pray. Without Thy compassion, the mind—so cunning—has deceived me through births; it will go on deceiving.

Satsangati sukh paikai, nisubasar gaavai.
Grant me at least satsang—the company of those who have gone beyond the mind; or at least those striving to go beyond. The company of those who have become witness to the mind, or are engaged in becoming so.

Satsangati sukh paikai, nisubasar gaavai.
Then I will sing Thy songs—day and night. As of now I remain tangled in the mind’s net—when is there leisure to sing? This mind makes me hurl abuses; it does not let songs arise. It sows only thorns; it does not let flowers grow.

Ab ki bar yah andh par, kachhu daya keejai.
How many births have passed? Have mercy on this blind one now!

Jan Gulal binti karai, apno kar leejai.
This much I can pray—and what else can I do!—Make me Thine; dissolve me in Thee. As a river is lost in the ocean, let me be lost in Thee.

Tumhari, more sahib, kya laau seva.
And I have nothing—let me tell You—that I can bring to Your service.

Asthir kaho na dekhun, sab phirat baheva.
In this world I see nothing steady, nothing stable; all are drifting away. There is a blind rush in which all run.

Sur nar muni dukhiya dekhoon...
Leave aside humans—gods too are unhappy, the sages too unhappy—everyone unhappy. He spoke with courage!

Sur nar muni dukhiya dekhoon,
Thy gods too are not happy—nor can they be. Your Puranas tell: Indra is always anxious—his throne wobbles. If someone begins penance, Indra’s seat shakes! He is fearful someone may seize his throne. There is fear and sorrow—what kind of throne is this! And how many tricks and politics in the realms of gods! Each is cutting another’s leaf; each aspires to be Indra, the king of gods. Where there is a race for position, craving—there will be all kinds of mischief, all kinds of dishonesty. And Indra has done all kinds. The tales say: when rishis sit to meditate, Indra sends apsaras to distract them. Is this conduct of a good man? A poor rishi sits to meditate—of those ancient times, not today’s! Today’s rishis are another matter.

A mother was instructing her son, Rise in the Brahma-muhurta—rishis rise in Brahma-muhurta. The son said, You are completely wrong, mother—you know nothing! Rishi-Muni do not rise in Brahma-muhurta. Rishi Kapoor does not wake before eight; Dada Muni Ashok Kumar does not rise before ten. What are you even saying! Which rishis are you talking about?

Now the rishis are gone—now there is Rishi Kapoor and Dada Muni.

Some rishi rises at dawn, bathes in the cold, does yoga; Indra is threatened, sends the heavenly courtesans. Apsaras—heaven’s prostitutes. Is this befitting a god? Should a god help meditation or place obstacles? Then what will demons do? If gods do this—what remains for demons! Perhaps the demons must help the rishis—warn them beforehand: Brother, beware; today do not go for a dawn-bath; do not sit to meditate.

Among the Sufis there is a tale.

One morning a fakir dozed off. His daily practice was to rise and pray, but that day he slept. Someone shook him awake. He asked, Who are you? You have shown me great kindness! He said, I am Iblis—Satan. The fakir was astonished: Iblis! Your work is to hinder prayer—and I had fallen asleep; you woke me and prepared me for prayer—since when have your ways changed? Iblis said: Last time you slept and I rejoiced. But upon waking you repented so much, so much, that more than by a thousand prayers you became dear to God by your repentance. So I said, Better wake him! Let him pray! Otherwise he will repent and become even dearer to God.

But in our land’s Puranas the gods are restless, anxious, competing; fear that these sages will become gods and seize the throne. And perhaps these sages too aspire to take Indra’s seat. Tricks are at play. This is not religion; this is Delhi’s madhouse. This is not Indra—it is Morarji Desai; and Charan Singh has practiced austerity and toppled him with one shove—and now Charan Singh too has fallen flat—both have fallen!

Sur nar muni dukhiya dekhoon, sukhiyan nahi keva.
I see none happy here—everyone appears unhappy.

Dank maari Yam lutat hai, luti karat kaleva.
And every man’s meal is devoured by Death’s sting. Death eats all.

Apne-apne khayaal mein sukhiyan sab koi.
Yet in their own notions all think themselves happy. But it is only a notion, a fantasy, not reality. You too think yourself happy—otherwise your ego would collapse. The ego must be maintained: even if not very happy, I am happier than others. So people relish slander—its juice is this. It shows others more corrupt, degraded, hellish, more miserable—at least I am better. With slander the darkness around others deepens; in that darkness your small lamp appears to shine. In daylight the stars hide; hence create a dark night around you—slander everyone, show all as unhappy; then in their moonless night, even your little lamp, even a firefly, will twinkle.

Apne-apne khayaal mein sukhiyan sab koi.
But it is not truth—only a web of imagination.

Mool mantra nahin jaanahin, dukhiya main royi.
Gulal says: Seeing all these so-called happy people, I weep—for they do not know the root-mantra; they do not know witnessing—from where the ocean of bliss surges. They wander in delusions.

Ab ki bar Prabhu beenti suniye de kaana.
O Lord, this time, hear my plea!

Jan Gulal bad dukhiya, deejai bhakti-daana.
I do not say I am happy—here everyone claims that. I declare plainly, nakedly, I am unhappy. Grant me the gift of bhakti! I ask no other wealth—for there is none other in this world. Bhakti is the greatest wealth. One who receives bhakti receives God. Bhakti is the doorway to God. Bhakti is the temple of God.

I ask only this: give me love—unconditional love for You, for Your existence; may I be utterly effaced; dissolved; become nothing; become shunya—shower such compassion upon me!

This prayer of Gulal was heard. One day it was fulfilled. The day it was fulfilled, that day Gulal could say: Pearls are raining in all ten directions! You too sink into this prayer—and yours will be fulfilled. It is each person’s birthright to attain God.

Enough for today.