Jharat Dashahun Dis Moti #14

Satya Vedant! Such an hour is auspicious. A moment of such devotional awe is auspicious. It makes no difference toward whom the awe rises. That toward which it rises is only a pretext. The revolution happens through the awe itself. Whether it arises toward me, toward the rising sun, the star-studded night, the loftiness of the Himalayas, or the deep silence of a dense forest—any event can serve as a catalyst. If your life-breath is soaked in awe, that very awe becomes the cause of transformation. Then whether it happens in a temple, a mosque, a church, or a gurudwara makes no difference. It can happen anywhere—while humming the Quran, while listening to the song of birds. There is only one condition: your heart must be open.

This is not happening because of me. If it were because of me, it would happen to everyone. Anyone who came here would have it happen. Thousands come; it happens to a few—one or two in a hundred, countable on the fingers. Therefore it does not happen because of me. It happens to those who can listen with an open heart.

This is not a matter of understanding me; it is a matter of plunging into the mystery. Understanding belongs to the intellect—superficial, hollow. A deeper experience is needed, deeper than understanding. An experience that may not even be understood; that cannot be bound in words, cannot be expressed in doctrines; indescribable, inexpressible. Devotional awe is the beginning of such experience.

In my vision, awe is the very essence of prayer. Bow in awe and prayer happens. Then there is no need to repeat some set prayer—of Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jain; no need to chant the Gayatri mantra or the Namokar. Bow in awe and Gayatri blooms; Namokar begins to rise; namaz is complete. It hasn’t even begun, yet it is already complete. You didn’t even speak, and the message reached! And by speaking it hardly ever reaches. The Divine does not understand your language.

There are some three thousand languages on earth. And scientists say there are at least fifty thousand earth-like planets where life exists. If on each planet there are so many languages, and fifty thousand planets besides, the Divine would go mad—would have gone mad long ago. The Divine does not understand language; the Divine understands feeling. And feeling is wordless, silent.

You are passing through an auspicious hour! In this hour, dive in without hesitation, without conditions. Let this awe, this namaskar, be your prayer. But remember: I am only a pretext, not the cause. This is not happening because of me; if it is happening, it is because of your own courage—because you were ready to open your heart.

The readiness to open the heart is called trust. And when the heart opens in trust, the fragrance of awe begins to rise. As soon as that fragrance rises within you, a gratitude is felt: I am blessed—not for any reason; I am, therefore I am blessed. I am a participant in this vast existence; that is fortune enough. In this mysterious realm I too am a ray; I too am a life! In this vast ocean of consciousness I too am a wave! I have my own dance, my own song! The Divine has chosen me too. Chosen by That, thus I am! If such a sense arises, your life will enter the new dimension I call sannyas.

You are right:

‘The city grows deserted…’

Vedant speaks of the inner city. Inside, there is a crowd. How many people are living within you! Have you ever counted? Ever taken an inventory of the inside? The marketplaces are full. Crowds upon crowds. People come and go without end. You are not one; you are many. And your multiplicity is your distraction. Become one, and you are free. To be many is to be distracted; to be one is to be liberated. Become one, and you will know the One. Remain many, and you will keep seeing multiplicity in the world; you can only see what you are—you cannot see otherwise. One who has negation within will see atheism everywhere; one who has acceptance within will experience theism everywhere. One who has eyes will see light—and flowers of many colors and rainbows blossoming in the sky! But the blind will doubt all these; within him nothing arises but doubt. In blindness, only doubt can arise.

Within you is a city, a crowd.

Consider the words this land has chosen; they are worth pondering. No other language in the world has such words, because no other language has been so influenced by buddhas as the languages of this land. Naturally so. There is a lineage of buddhas here, like a garland of lamps without end—lamp lit from lamp; light kindling light! Whether or not we have heard consciously, knowingly or unknowingly their imprint has fallen upon our language, our life, our every gesture. Gifted or not, something has fallen into our lap from them. A light drizzle has touched everyone. Each limb of this land bears somewhere the imprint of buddhas.

We use a word: purush—man. Consider it. Pur means city. Purush means: the one hidden in the midst of the city. Which city? Even if you sit in a forest, you are a purush. This city is within.

A youth came to a Sufi fakir, bowed at his feet and said, “I have come to be initiated; accept me.” The fakir said, “Accept you? First leave the crowd and come!” The youth looked around—no one was there; the mosque was empty. He asked, “Which crowd?” The fakir said, “Don’t look here and there—look within! I am not talking about the outer crowd.” The youth closed his eyes and looked within—indeed, there was a crowd! Wife, children, family, friends; the faces of those who had accompanied him to the outskirts of the village were still alive within. Outwardly the event had become past, but within it was still present. The fakir said, “Do you see the crowd? Leave it and come. Those you left behind were the outer crowd; whether you leave them or not makes little difference. One who knows the art of being alone is alone even in a crowd; one who does not know, even if he sits in a Himalayan cave, remains in a crowd.”

Have you ever seen? If you sit alone with closed eyes, are you able to be alone? Perhaps you are more alone when people surround you. When no one surrounds you, the sleeping voices within begin to buzz; the dormant people within rise and clamor; each craving, each desire, each fantasy, each memory cries, “Look at me, look toward me! What are you looking at there?” A tug-of-war begins within you.

That inner city is what Vedant speaks of—

‘The city grows deserted…’

So it should. That is my effort here: to free you from the inner city. Therefore I do not ask you to leave the outer city, because that has little to do with it. Live in the house, in family, in the marketplace, at the shop—it makes no difference; but remain inwardly solitary. There is no need to go to a Himalayan cave; the cave of the Himalayas has to be made within. Make the cave of the Himalayas in the cave of your heart.

‘The city grows deserted
as awareness turns back upon itself…’

As soon as awareness turns back upon itself, the deserting begins. The crowd is there because we never look within to see how much rubbish has been piling up. We clean the house, but we do not clean within. We bathe the body, but we do not cleanse the inside. The inner crowd is not of a day or two; it is of lifetimes, of centuries.

Those who have gone into the depths of mind have found that memories of past lives can be awakened again, because they are all present; they have not been destroyed; they still lie there. A little teasing brings them up. Among the Jains there is a special method—jati-smaran, remembrance of past births. Through a particular meditation your old memories are stirred, and you can descend into your previous lives. Which means you carry all your past lives within you. The memories are suppressed—overlaid by memories of this life—but if you dig and probe, you can find them. But there is no need to enter methods like jati-smaran; that is still the mind’s realm—layer after layer of mind.

You are not the mind. You have to become the witness of mind. This is what I call awareness returning to itself, to the Self. The Self is the witness—the seer within you who sees everything: pleasure and pain, success and failure, youth and old age, life and death, full moon and new moon—all is seen. That which sees within you is the one element that never changes; everything else changes. Scenes change; the seer is still. That stillness is to be known. In knowing it, you begin to be freed from the crowd; the inner becomes solitary.

‘The city grows deserted
as awareness turns back upon itself,
the highway becomes a footpath…’

Vedant, you have spoken sweetly. It would be hard to say it if somewhere you had not experienced it.

‘The highway becomes a footpath…’

When the crowd disperses and you are alone, the royal road disappears of itself; in its place a footpath remains. For one alone, a footpath is enough. No great ships are needed; a little canoe is enough.

‘The highway becomes a footpath,
the flame trembles, then steadies;
unknown, and yet some
humming seems familiar.’

So it will be—part unknown, part known; as if once heard, and yet never heard. Such is the mystery of life: it both makes sense and does not—both together. It feels as if understanding is coming; as soon as you catch the thread it slips. It seems the secret is in your grasp, then it springs loose; you cannot close your fist on it. Keep your hands open and life will dance upon your palms. Try to clench your fist, and—like quicksilver—the thing scatters. Do not clench the fist!

Our instinct is to clench. When a diamond comes, first thought is to close the fist—before anyone sees. When the diamond of a strange, unfamiliar experience comes to hand, the mind’s first urge is to close the fist. But the moment you close the fist, certain things are lost. You asserted ownership, and they vanished.

There can be no ownership of mystery. With mystery the opposite is true: let it become your master. Drop the anxiety to understand—dive! Even if you understand, what will you do with it? A thirsty man—what difference does it make if he perfectly understands that water is H2O? Hand him a paper saying H2O—two parts hydrogen, one part oxygen—and tell him this is your mantra, now stop this talk of thirst! He may understand the formula, but thirst is not quenched by formulas. Water is needed! And even without understanding water, thirst is quenched. For ages people did not know H2O, yet water quenched thirst all the same.

Knowing makes no difference; getting drenched does. Soak in the mystery. Sometimes knowing becomes an obstacle. Take a botanist to a garden and he will not let you enjoy it. You wish to be intoxicated by the rose; he will immediately begin to explain its lineage. The original rose came from Iran; hence we have no native Indian word for it—gulab is Persian: gul, flower; ab, luminous water-like luster—the supreme sheen of a flower. Roses later came from the West too, though they first went there from Iran; in the West they lost their fragrance. Fragrance needs warmth; without warmth, fragrance does not release—another symbol: unless the fire of practice burns within, the fragrance of life does not manifest. If inside all is cold, you will be a Western rose—roselike to look at, but without fragrance. Let the fire arise—the flame of meditation, of practice.

That is why for sannyas we have chosen the ochre color for centuries—the color of fire, of the flame, of dawn, of flowers in full bloom, the color of life—blood’s crimson, the flow of life.

Bring a botanist and he will not let you relish the rose. He will deliver a discourse about roses so that the rose dancing in the breeze and sunlight will be forgotten—so much knowledge will be piled between you and the rose that a Great Wall will stand in the way.

Mahatma Bhagwandin, an Indian sadhu, was dear—and full of information, especially about plants. When I was a child, he was a frequent guest in our home. My job was to accompany him morning and evening on walks; he would eat my head with questions: “What tree is this? What species?” I told him, “Let me be clear: forget species. If you ask me the difference between neem and mango, I won’t know. I don’t care. I am intoxicated by their greenness! What has information to do with it?” Yet his stock of facts was huge—punditry deep; but not wisdom. He would forget and I’d remind him that I had no taste for it. “Which bird is this? From which land? Why does it come in this season?” I said, “You and the bird know! When it comes and sings, I am delighted; when it leaves, that too is its choice. Another bird comes; I rejoice again. And if none comes, I rejoice alone. Keep your information to yourself!” He would forget, and finally I said, “If you won’t drop this habit, I will stop taking you on walks.”

So much jubilation is in nature—why be entangled in rubbish?

People are impressed by information. Because they hold facts about every little thing. But information is information.

Vedant, when the mystery begins to dawn in your life, do not—by mistake—try to understand it. Countless people have missed by getting entangled in understanding. Drop understanding; love is enough. Fall in love with the wonder of this world. Embrace the mystery. Information belongs to the head; love belongs to the heart. And only in the heart do lotuses bloom; in the head only garbage accumulates. However valuable you think that garbage is, it is not. There are no diamond mines there.

So you are right:

‘The flame trembles, then steadies;
unknown, and yet some
humming seems familiar.’

In the beginning it will be so. For a moment the flame will be still; then it trembles. But watch: whenever you try to know, the flame trembles; when you drop the urge to know, the flame becomes steady. The stillness of the flame is meditation; the trembling is a fall from meditation. As soon as you try to know, you slip: you step down from the witness. You forget you are only a mirror. You cease to be a pure mirror and turn into a photographic plate. The plate grabs and fixes what it sees—forever. The mirror? It sees everything, holds nothing. Scenes arise and depart; the mirror remains empty.

So whenever you find the flame trembling, understand: the mind has returned by the back door and says, “Know it, recognize it well.” Why? Because we were taught in schools and universities that knowledge is power. Thus we all run after knowledge—more and more. In the outer world, Bacon’s dictum “Knowledge is power” is true. In the inner world it is not. Within, it is the innocent, immaculate, wonder-struck heart that is power. Different laws operate outside and inside.

‘The flame trembles, then steadies;
unknown, and yet some
humming seems familiar.’

Both happen together. What is coming to you has always been yours—you never lost it even for a moment; it was the very life of your life. Its sound has kept echoing; you may have ignored it, yet the heart’s string has gone on vibrating. You were too noisy to catch its notes; you could not rejoice with its song; but in moments of rest, of peace—by a mountain stream, holding the hand of a long-lost friend, listening deeply to music—so absorbed in outer music that inner music surfaced for a moment—in love, in nature, in song, in dance—at some time a thread must have touched you, a certain touch happened.

Wherever inner truth touches, it turns the clay to gold; it is the philosopher’s stone. Hence it will feel somewhat familiar—like a voice from afar. Somewhat known, somewhat unknown. And this state remains to the very end; it never finishes. Even those who know Brahman say it remains partly known, partly unknown, because Brahman can never be wholly known; if wholly known, it would be limited, not infinite; if measured, not bottomless. Brahman is bottomless, infinite. Yes, you will know some—and much will always remain to be known. The more you know, the more you know how much remains.

‘Words, thoughts, fall like leaves;
the net of logic—
once the mind’s magnificence—
is fraying, shredded, moment by moment.’

That is why there is satsang. Thoughts grow on your mind like leaves on trees. But tree-leaves shed in autumn and new ones sprout. Your mind is strange: old leaves cling and new keep coming. You won’t let the old fall; if they fall, you gather and bundle them—like bundles of currency notes, you make bundles of old leaves and hoard them within.

Satsang means: in that field, words begin to slip from your hands; thoughts are no longer stored but dissolved. Your nets of logic with which you are entangled—as all are, more or less. Those you call religious are entangled too; their God is a conclusion of logic. Ask: “Is there God?” They are ready to answer. Ask: “Why?” They are ready with arguments. It is because of such fools that atheism has grown. When you argue to prove God, others argue to disprove. And remember: logic is more skillful at negating than at affirming, because its very foundation is denial. Logic does not know how to say yes—only no.

However much you argue, your arguments cannot yield true theism; and if they do, it will be hollow and false. For example: you say everything has a maker; therefore the world must have a maker. Religious people have been saying this for centuries: as a potter makes a pot, so the pot proves the potter—even if you don’t meet the potter, you infer him. And there are devices more intricate than pots.

The great Western atheist Diderot said, “If in a desert you find a watch—leave the pot aside—can you imagine it formed itself? Impossible. Just as a pot cannot, nor a watch. Then how could this vast existence form itself?” Thus the religious argue there must be a creator.

But the atheist asks: if existence needs a God to create it, who created God? He pulls the ground from under your feet. If a pot needs a potter, then a potter—more complex than a pot—must need a maker too. So who made God? There the theist falters; even great theists stumble.

Gargi asked just this of Yajnavalkya—one of this land’s great theistic thinkers. King Janaka had convened a court, inviting all the great pundits to debate Brahman; he declared, “Whoever wins shall receive a thousand cows.” Their horns were gold-plated, studded with jewels; the cows stood outside the palace. The pundits wrangled—who would let go of such a prize! Yajnavalkya arrived late. His disciples urged him to hurry; he said, “Let them wear themselves out. We’ll settle it later.” At noon he came. First thing he did startled Janaka: he told his disciples, “Sons, the cows are tired in the sun; take them to the ashram. I’ll settle the debate.” Even Janaka hesitated to object. Yajnavalkya was so certain of his skill that he said, “Don’t worry; victory is assured.” His disciples drove the cows away. The assembly was stunned. Yajnavalkya defeated all; then Gargi rose.

Blessed were those days when women were as free and honored as men, could join debates and sit with male scholars. Gargi asked, “You say God created the world. Who created God?”

Even a thinker like Yajnavalkya flared up—because the question pulls the ground away; he would have to return the cows; embarrassing. He burst into anger: “Gargi, that is an ati-prashna—an over-question!” Who decides which question should not be asked? He grew so furious he said, “If you ask such questions, your head will fall off your shoulders!”

Wisdom forgotten; talk of decapitation now! The Upanishads don’t say more; she must have been gracious and fell silent. It had become ignoble.

Gargi’s question was not an over-question; it was apt. If the earth needs a supporter, why not ask who supports the supporter? Yajnavalkya’s trouble is understandable: where will it end? You’ll say A made it; she’ll ask who made A; you’ll say B; she’ll ask who made B; finally you will tire and have to admit: this one was unmade. There you lose—because if one thing can be unmade, why not the whole world? If God can be unmade, then why not the pot? Why not the watch? If such a mysterious One can be unmade…

In my view, those who offered arguments for God merely opened the doors for atheists. The truly theistic—those who have known the Divine—give no arguments; they cannot. That is beyond logic—neither knowable through logic nor provable by it. It is experiential. These are tales for children: telling them God made the world. Your Puranas are almost fit only for children’s curricula now.

Who supports the earth? Great knowers asked: a turtle supports it. Then how big must the turtle be! Why earthquakes? The turtle gets tired and turns over a little. It’s a turtle after all! Surprising there aren’t more quakes—should be daily. If one day the turtle quarrels with the tortoise-wife and flings the earth aside—“Come here first!”—that would be the end! And on what does the turtle stand? “Over-question!” Heads will roll! I’ve asked many times and seen none roll.

If the earth needs a turtle to stand, what about the turtle? Do you see the absurdity? If the turtle can stand without support, why burden the poor creature? Let the earth stand unsupported; that is what science says: the earth stands by itself, needs no other prop.

Children won’t like such talk; they like the turtle-story. “How big is it? How many feet? What color?” They’ll get so occupied with the turtle they’ll forget to ask what supports it. If they press further, a clever man will say it stands on an elephant, and the elephant on a camel—and keep stacking props; there are so many things to stack in the world! But children soon tire; they won’t keep asking about the turtle. There is so much to ask!

A writer tells of his three-year-old who developed a bad habit—saying “Shut up!” to everyone. The father warned him, “When the urge comes, say it to yourself: ‘Shut up!’” The boy loved the trick; later he sat giggling. “Why?” “Because whenever the urge comes I tell myself ‘Shut up!’ and no one scolds me!”

Children’s curiosities!

Your questions about God are childlike curiosities. The arguments you gather to prove them are childish too. God is an experience—like love is an experience. There is no proof, no logic. Your nets of logic are to be torn—this is the utility of satsang.

You are right, Vedant:

‘Words, thoughts, fall like leaves;
the net of logic—
once the mind’s magnificence—
is fraying, shredded, moment by moment.
Honey fills
the hour, the day, the nights, the months;
childhood hides and reappears;
the earth is cooled by the cascade
of the inner stream.’

And honey will indeed fill you. When logic is cut, honey flows. Empty of logic, full of honey. Pearls rain from every direction. Break the logic, and truth descends. Logic alone blocks it—chains at your feet; you cannot dance. Some are bound by Hindu logic, some by Muslim, some by communist—logic everywhere!

I call that person religious who breaks all logic. When logic breaks, the honey-rain begins.

‘Adorned with hundred-thousand
sun-rays
upon the lofty peak of consciousness,
O resplendent
white radiance!’

But what you say of me is just as true of you—remember it, do not forget. Not only for you, for all—remember it always.

Buddha told a story from a past life: long before he became a Buddha, he was a prince and had gone to see Dipankara Buddha. Mesmerized by Dipankara’s radiance and grace, the prince bowed at his feet. As he rose, Dipankara bowed at his feet. Startled, he protested, “What are you doing? I am ordinary; you are awakened. It is right that I touch your feet, but why do you touch mine?”

Dipankara said, “I am what you are too—only yours is not yet manifest. You do not yet know; I do. I can see through you. The day one sees through oneself, one sees through all.”

Later, when this prince became the Buddha, he said, “The moment I awakened, the first memory that arose was of Dipankara. I had heard him then but had not understood. I could not imagine that my feet were worthy to be touched. Within I found only mean feelings, base passions; darkness upon darkness—no lamp. And this sun-like being bowed at my feet! Was it a joke, a taunt? Was the man mad? Now I know.”

He also said, “The day I awakened, the whole existence became a Buddha for me.”

There are only two kinds of people: those who know who they are, and those who do not. But all are diamonds—whether they know it or not.

‘O white radiance!
O Great Life-Breath,
source of energy for hundreds upon hundreds of lotuses!
Accept at your feet
all my righted and inverted beats and notes;
O ocean that pours
heaps upon heaps of gems!
I bow my head,
O divine gateway of the whole cosmos,
salutations, Lord, salutations!’

What you say to me, I would wish that one day you can say to yourself too; because the same abides within you, not a whit less. The same white summit is yours too; but you have not lifted your eyes. The same depth is yours too; but you peer timidly, full of nameless fears.

Once in my life,
Behold your incomparable form;
Let me be reflected in you,
Be in me, O peerless one!

When the full moon decks the night
With its garland of rays,
Or when from bodies of flowers
Fragrance weds its beloved,
When on the lucid wave
Tiny bubbles swell with delight,
When in spring the vine
Finds the tree too narrow for its embrace—
At that moment if you smile,
The form of worlds pours down into each particle.
Let me be reflected in you,
Be in me, O peerless one!

The bond between guru and disciple is like two mirrors facing each other—reflecting and re-reflecting endlessly. Place two mirrors face to face—what happens? That is what should happen between disciple and master; only then know the relationship has come to be.

And Vedant, I am witness that the first thread of such a relationship has begun for you.

The laughter of your anklets,
Let me find it closed in little notes,
And dwell at your feet.
In your silent movement
I am filling raga;
I speak to tell you
I am near you.

The gentle feeling
Of your foot’s vibration in my heart—
I am practicing your voice within me.
I am the small message
Foretelling your coming;
When motion stops I am silence,
In motion I am all delight.

Let me remain at your feet,
With notes and with playful grace;
Let your movement become
My unshakable trust.

It has begun. Trust has awakened. Buds are sprouting on the branch of trust. Spring is not far. But as spring draws near, a danger also approaches—and it hovers around you. You must be warned. When this great revolution is near, the urge to run arises. When such great trust is about to be born, fear comes: “What if I drown completely? I should save myself! I should run—go far away!” If such a feeling arises, watch it from the witness; do not go with it. It will arise and it will pass. What has begun as a tiny ray can soon become a great sun. It can. All depends on you.

Jagdish! Brother, what harm has the kundalini ever done to you? It’s asleep—let the poor thing sleep! Why are you after it? Don’t you have anything else to do? Why do you want to wake the kundalini? And then when it does wake up, you’ll come back saying, “Now put it back to sleep! This kundalini has awakened and now it won’t let me rest.”

You’ve heard the word. And once you’ve heard a word, a craving gets attached to it. No Jain ever comes and asks why his kundalini isn’t awakening, because that word isn’t in his scriptures. No Buddhist asks, no Muslim asks, no Christian asks, no Parsi asks, no Jew asks—people of all these are here—only Hindus have got caught by this word: kundalini! “We will awaken the kundalini!” And if it’s not awakening, you start suspecting you must be making some mistake.

Jagdish, you making a mistake! Just look at your name—“Jagdish,” lord of the world! You can’t make a mistake, brother! If you start making mistakes, what will happen to the world?

Mulla Nasruddin used to claim he had never made a mistake. People were bored to death hearing it. Whenever, wherever, if he got even a chance, he wouldn’t miss telling you, “I have never made a mistake; I have never erred in my life.” But one day when he said that once he had indeed made a mistake, his listeners were startled. His friends couldn’t believe their ears: Nasruddin saying he made a mistake!

A friend said, “Nasruddin, what are you saying? You, make a mistake? Never! How could that be? Think what you’re saying—did you speak without thinking?”

Nasruddin said, “Yes, once it happened. Once I thought I was wrong, but later I found out I was right.”

Nothing like a mistake is happening. There is no need to awaken the kundalini either. There is a whole science of awakening kundalini, but it isn’t necessary to pass through it. Jesus arrived without going through it; Buddha arrived without it; Mahavira arrived. It isn’t necessary to go by that road. And that road is dangerous, because to tamper with the body’s dormant powers is not without risk. It’s better to pass by without disturbing them. The greatest danger in stirring them is that you may no longer be able to control them. A blast so big may happen inside you that it is beyond your understanding. And it will be beyond your understanding. If you can’t control it, you will go deranged.

One of this century’s great masters was George Gurdjieff. He was very much against kundalini. Because of his opposition he even gave kundalini a new name—“Kundabuffer.” You’ve seen buffers, haven’t you—the ones between two train coaches, so they don’t ride up over each other if there’s a jolt. Those buffers absorb the shock. Similarly, cars have springs—those too are buffers; thanks to them, cars can drive even on Indian roads! Otherwise you wouldn’t even get from Poona to Bombay, let alone farther. The springs absorb the bumps; otherwise you would have to absorb them—by the time you reached Bombay you’d be a multi-fracture case. When you got out, your family wouldn’t even recognize you as you.

A tailor was selling Mulla Nasruddin an achkan and a churidar pajama. After much tugging and pulling he somehow got the churidar on him—it took two hours. Nasruddin said, “This is very hard work. You’ve somehow got it on, but now I’m afraid I won’t be able to get it off. And standing in front of the mirror I look exactly like that ‘Monkey-Brand black tooth powder’! Brother, what have you done to me! Let Delhi’s politicians look like this if they want, but do you intend to sell me some black tooth powder? Hand me a drum too! What kind of outfit have you put me in? Take it off!”

But the tailor was a tailor. He said, “You don’t understand. You have no sense of modern civilization. This is the national dress! And you look so handsome! Just step outside once! You look so young your friends won’t recognize you.”

The tailor wouldn’t take no, so Mulla went out to stroll on the street. Walking itself was difficult—any moment he might fall, just like our netas, always on the verge of a tumble! Until they fall, it’s a miracle; once they do, getting up is almost impossible. After five or seven minutes he came back. As soon as he entered, the tailor stood up and said, “Welcome, sir, how may I serve you? Where have you come from? You seem a stranger to this neighborhood. And what beautiful clothes you wear! I simply couldn’t recognize you!”

That’s how it will be—your own family won’t recognize you. A wife won’t recognize her husband, although she swore to recognize him for lifetimes.

That… Gurdjieff called it Kundabuffer.

There’s an energy of the body that works as a buffer between body and soul. Otherwise it would be difficult, impossible, for the soul to remain in the body. A layer of that energy surrounds your soul. Between your body and your soul there is a layer of that energy. So the body’s injuries don’t reach the soul. So whether the body is young or old, lives or dies—none of it reaches the soul.

Gurdjieff chose the word well—Kundabuffer. There’s no need to awaken it. It’s doing its job perfectly. One could reach oneself even by awakening it, but that’s needlessly taking on a mess. It’s like trying to grab your ear by reaching around the back of your head! No point. But many yogic processes got turned upside down. They got reversed, and so they became difficult. Difficulty delights the ego. Standing on your head looks very impressive, as if you are doing something great! You only look foolish, but since you’re on your head, it seems you’re doing a great deed—headstand. Twisting the body this way and that. Contorting it in ways no one else can. And because others can’t do it—since it takes practice—you become a mahatma, a great yogi. Because no one else can instantly do what you can.

In the same way the ego took on the nuisance of kundalini. Some siddhis can be attained by awakening it—and the ego is delighted by siddhis. For example, if you awaken the kundalini, you can read others’ thoughts. But aren’t your own thoughts enough to read? Now you’ll read the garbage in someone else’s skull—what’s that going to give you? There’s plenty in your own head. You can’t cope with that, and now you’ll read others’ thoughts! Yes, you might show a few miracles to people. Someone comes and, before he even asks the time, you tell him, “It’s half past nine.” He’ll be startled, because he had come to ask. But what’s the essence of it? You could have let him ask—what would have been lost? For this you awakened the kundalini! And awakening kundalini will take years, while answering him would have taken a moment.

A man whose kundalini had awakened came to Ramakrishna. He said, “I can walk on water.” When the kundalini awakens, walking on water is possible, because kundalini can cut you off from the earth’s gravity. But there are dangers too, because once you’re cut off from gravity, many processes in the body get disordered—processes that are orderly only because they are tied to gravity.

That man could walk on water. He challenged Ramakrishna the moment he arrived: “People call you a great Paramhansa, a mahatma! If you are, come, let’s walk on the Ganga! I can walk on water!”

Ramakrishna said, “Excellent! How long did it take to learn to walk on water?” He said, “Eighteen years.” Ramakrishna said, “This is too much! Whenever I need to go across, I cross for two paise. You’ve done in eighteen years what costs two paise! And I don’t have to go often—maybe once in four to six months. So figure four paise a year. In eighteen years, about a rupee. You’ve wasted eighteen years for a rupee. Brother, are you in your senses? And after walking on water, what will you do? You’ll just go around and come back here again.”

Ramakrishna was right. But that man was full of swagger, full of ego.

There was a Sufi woman saint, Rabi‘a. There’s a similar story in her life. The fakir Hasan came to her. It seems Hasan’s kundalini had awakened, and he said, “Rabi‘a”—she was reciting the Quran early in the morning—“why are you reading the Quran here! Come, we’ll stroll on the water and read the Quran.” He wanted to show Rabi‘a. She was renowned—an extraordinary woman, of the same order as Ramakrishna or Ramana.

Rabi‘a said, “Hasan, on the water! To read the Quran! If you feel a surge in your heart, do you see that white cloud floating in the sky? Why not sit on it and read! Come, we’ll sit on the cloud and read there.”

This was Rabi‘a’s joke.

Hasan said, “On a cloud! I don’t know how to sit on a cloud… my kundalini hasn’t awakened that much…” Rabi‘a said, “Then awaken it more! Because when my kundalini surges, I go straight to sit on a cloud! When you learn to sit on a cloud, then come. What’s there in walking on water! Anyone can do that—small fry manage it.”

Hasan came to his senses—Rabi‘a was right: what’s the essence? But the swagger!

The ego greatly enjoys doing something that others cannot do.

Now Jagdish, what are you worrying about?

You say, “I want to awaken the kundalini.”

If you get into such things, you’ll fall into the hands of some troublesome type. You’ll end up in the orbit of some Baba Chuktanand of Gobarpuri. He has turned many people’s jaggery into dung; he’ll turn yours too. Some people’s business is exactly this. Then don’t come to me saying, “Now turn this dung back into jaggery!” That’s very hard. Spoiling is easy; mending is difficult.

Kundalini may give you siddhi—that’s only a possibility; the greater likelihood is it will give you derangement. That’s why you see many sadhus and renunciates go mad. What causes the madness? They broke life’s natural order. The energy made for one function they drove into the brain.

Awakening the kundalini means the energy sleeping at your sex center is raised up into the brain. That’s a dangerous business, because the skull already has plenty of uproar. That’s where your madhouse is. And you want to take the sex-energy there too! You can go deranged. Many kundalini awakeners end up in derangement. The brain splits open, figuratively, because the energy cannot be handled. And the energy brings you to such a state that you can no longer tell what is apt and what is not; you babble nonsense.

But our country is extraordinary! If someone babbles nonsense, we say, “The mahatma is speaking the language of sadhukkadi.” If a mahatma hurls abuses and chases people with a stick, we think he’s giving prasada. If he abuses, we take it as a blessing. Our mahatmas are astonishing—and we are even more so! We extract something out of anything. People go mad—I know many who have gone deranged, who are not in their senses—but their devotees think they are absorbed in mahasamadhi. And if they cannot understand what he is saying, the reason is he’s speaking very deep things. He’s not saying anything! Like someone who’s very drunk and rants, or someone in delirium babbles! If you wish, you can fall at his feet and say, “He’s speaking the words of great knowledge.”

I’ve been introduced to many such people who are simply deranged, who need psychiatric treatment. And their fundamental mistake is exactly the one you want to make, Jagdish. Once the energy in the brain goes beyond your capacity, what will you do? It will be beyond your control.

There is no need to awaken the kundalini. Here too we do a Kundalini meditation, but the purpose is not to awaken kundalini; the purpose is something else. The purpose is to give that kundalini energy within you a dance. The purpose is very different. The energy within you is now asleep; you could wake it by giving it jolts, shaking it. My own experience is that there is no need to awaken it—just give it a dance. Give it music. Turn it into a celebration.

So there’s no need to shove it.

There was a great Western dancer, Nijinsky—he lived in this very century. When he danced, sometimes an event would occur: he would leap so high it was against the law of gravity. Scientists were amazed—this can’t be; one simply can’t leap that high; gravity won’t allow it. And another wondrous thing: when he came down from such a leap, he returned so gently, like a bird’s feather drifting, swaying, floating down through the air. That too is exactly the opposite of gravity. Gravity pulls things down abruptly, like a stone falling, not like a feather.

Whenever asked how he did it, Nijinsky would say, “I wonder about it myself! But it’s not right to say I do it; it happens. Whenever I’ve tried to do it, it hasn’t happened. I’ve tried many times—because it has an effect like a miracle; suddenly there’s a hush, the audience is spellbound, people’s breaths stop; they don’t understand what happened! And I too feel great joy, an incomparable joy! A sudden inner peace, as if I have bathed within, as if the soul has bathed. But whenever I try to do it, it doesn’t happen. It happens only now and then when I’m not trying at all—when I’m so absorbed in the dance that my ego utterly dissolves—then it occurs. So now I’ve given up trying,” Nijinsky would say. “Now if it happens, it happens; if it doesn’t, it doesn’t. I’ve understood one key: it cannot be done; it can only happen. And for it to happen, my ego must dissolve—then, in some mysterious way, it occurs.”

Unknowingly, Nijinsky was entering the very state I want to take you to through Kundalini meditation. The purpose of Kundalini meditation here is not what it has been for centuries. As I see it, I am changing the purpose of everything. Here, Kundalini meditation means: you dance, be ecstatic, be immersed! Go so deep that your ego is no longer separate—then something will happen within, you will suddenly be outside gravity; you will find a silence descending inside, a virgin silence you’ve never known! You will be overwhelmed. When you return, you will be a different person.

This is not the old process of awakening kundalini. This is the process of giving kundalini a dance. It’s a different matter altogether. So if you want to awaken kundalini, then brother, somewhere else! If you want to give kundalini a dance, here this happening can occur.

And there is a vast difference.

If kundalini finds a dance, if the inner energy begins to dance, there is no danger—you will never go mad. You will become healthier. If you have some derangement, it will dissolve. And your ego will never be fed—to show that you can walk on water, or sit on a cloud in the sky, or fly in the air. Because only when the ego dissolves can this dance happen. And whenever the ego returns, you won’t be able to do it. It is not something under the ego’s control.

The processes that awaken kundalini can inflate your ego. This process erases and wipes it away.

It’s been five thousand years since Patanjali wrote his sutras. In five thousand years, humans have learned much. If Patanjali himself were to return today, he would agree with me, because he would have to take into account what humanity has experienced in five thousand years. On that basis the Yoga Sutras would have to be written anew.

It’s been twenty-five hundred years since Buddha, twenty-five hundred since Mahavira—a long time! The world has gone from bullock cart to jet plane. Man is not what he was. And in the meantime, the experiences we’ve had have taught us much.

The meditation methods I give are contemporary. Even when I use old methods, I have cut out everything that could be dangerous for you and added everything that these two-and-a-half to five millennia of experience require. It is a fresh, innovative experiment. Even if I use old words—because words are all old; one has to use some word—I am giving them my meanings. I’m grafting my meanings onto the old word-trees. Therefore don’t take my words in their old senses. Otherwise you won’t understand me. You’ll misunderstand and be deprived of the unique experiment that is happening here.

Dayanand! Tobacco has great virtues!

A tobacco seller in the market was hawking at the top of his voice. He was saying that in the homes of those who eat tobacco, thieves never break in. Those who eat tobacco are never bitten by dogs. In fact, forget biting—dogs don’t even dare come near them. And the third, greatest benefit is that such people never grow old.

When Brahmachari Matkanath heard this, he was astonished: “Ah, so tobacco has so many benefits! Brother, tell me in detail—how is it that thieves never enter the homes of those who chew tobacco, how do dogs not bite them, and how is the greatest benefit that a man never grows old? I have neither read such things in any scripture nor heard them from any wise man. This secret of tobacco I’m hearing for the first time from you!”

The merchant said, “Swami-ji, you’re one of our own, so I’ll tell you—otherwise these are matters for adepts. Adepts say them and adepts understand them. The secret runs deep. Listen. A tobacco-chewer gets such a cough—such a cough that his night’s sleep is ruined. And if you won’t sleep all night, only cough, which thief would dare enter your house? As for the dog-bite—well, when you eat or smoke tobacco, the coughing brings such weakness that you’ll at least keep a stick in your hand, won’t you! You’ll walk only by leaning on a stick! And at the sight of a stick even enemies flee—so what chance do dogs have!”

Brahmachari-ji asked, “And how is it that a man never grows old?”

The merchant said, “Ah, Swami-ji, he can’t grow old—because before he grows old, he dies.”

Dayanand, don’t quit! Smoke to your heart’s content! Chew to your heart’s content! Such are its virtues! Don’t fall for anyone’s talk that tobacco is a sin. Why does this question even arise—‘I am troubled by the habit of chewing tobacco; what should I do?’ Even if you drop one habit, you’ll pick up another. The real issue is not tobacco; the real issue is the habit.

I know people who, to give up one habit, grab another; then to drop the second, they must take up a third. You need some complement, don’t you! Otherwise you feel empty. Why do you sit and chew tobacco? If you don’t chew tobacco, you’ll chew people’s heads. That is a heavier disease. Others will be troubled. Here at least you’re sitting and chewing your own stuff—so keep chewing. You’re not eating someone else’s head. Sitting there moving your mouth—so move it. If you don’t eat tobacco, you’ll babble.

There has been scientific research on this. People who chew tobacco—or, in America, sit chewing gum—talk less. They have one virtue. How can they talk? A man with two paans stuffed, one on each side—if he speaks, a spray will go off! So should he mind his spray or talk? Such men are very nice; they sit quietly and keep doing their work. Their fun goes on inside.

Those who don’t eat tobacco, don’t chew paan, don’t chew gum, will still move the mouth. That’s why women move the mouth more. Because you don’t let them eat tobacco, don’t let them smoke cigarettes, don’t let them smoke bidis, don’t let them smoke a chillum—you don’t let them do anything, so at least they move the mouth!

When Chandulal’s father died, friends asked, “Did Father say anything at the time of death?” Chandulal smacked his head: “The poor man wanted to say a lot, but what could he do—Mother stayed right till the end! And as long as Mother spoke, Father had to listen. And Mother went on and on. Father died. It seemed he wanted to say something—tried two or four times—but who can get a word in before Mother!”

Women chatter a lot.

I’ve heard that once in China there was a competition: who could tell the biggest lie? And whoever did would get first prize. Great liars came. One said, “My father took such a dive in water that he came out three years later.” Another said, “That’s nothing—my father stayed under for seven years.” Someone said, “That’s nothing. When my father emerged after twelve years, he came out carrying a lantern he found under the water—from Napoleon’s time—and its wick was still burning.” Such tall tales! But the first prize went to the man who said, “I went into a garden and saw two women sitting on a bench; they didn’t speak for half an hour!” He got the first prize. Can that ever be! It simply cannot be. That Napoleon’s lantern had not gone out—that can pass; miracles happen. But two women sitting on a bench in a garden, not speaking to each other, and half an hour goes by—that’s impossible!

Women chatter more. The time saved from not moving the mouth on those other things… they will move the mouth.

There’s a famous tale of Khalil Gibran: a preacher-dog had thrown all the dogs’ lives into trouble, because whichever dog he found barking, he would catch him and say: “Our great race of dogs has been ruined by this barking! All the energy goes out in barking; no kundalini remains. Barking and barking, you squander all your kundalini power. Then you’re left empty, hollow.”

The dogs also found the point appealing. They’d fall a bit silent in front of him. But dogs are dogs—how can they stay without barking? That addiction is not of one or two days; it is ancient. And dogs also bark with calculation; they don’t bark indiscriminately. There are certain things they oppose; things against their principles. For instance, if they meet a policeman, or a renunciate, or a postman… They’re against uniforms—absolute enemies of uniforms. The moment they see a uniform, they bark. They cannot tolerate uniforms. They are lovers of freedom. So how can they drop such birth-long habits! Yet the religious teacher had a point. That preacher-dog’s point was also right: in barking all the energy is spent; that’s why the dog race has fallen behind. Humans, who are nothing, have become the chiefs; we have to wag our tails before those who would wag their tails before us—and the reason is barking.

He had seized on one point: because of barking…! All religious teachers have this habit: they latch onto one thing and go on expounding only that.

Ask Mahatma Gandhi, “What is the cause of our misery?”… People don’t spin the charkha. If they don’t spin the wheel, that’s it—finished. Nowhere else in the world is anyone spinning, and people aren’t being ruined; yet here we are ruined for not spinning! So spin, and everything will be fine. And this country has been spinning for thousands of years, and nothing at all has become fine. But the so-called Mahatmas keep the same arithmetic.

Ask Morarji Desai… “People don’t drink ‘life-water,’ that’s why everything has gone wrong.” In ‘life-water’ the kundalini all just flows away. If you quickly draw out your ‘life-water’ and drink it yourself, then there’s no way left for the kundalini to escape.

I’ve heard that when Morarji Desai went to America, he was puzzled that wherever he was invited to a party or anything, the women would stand at the other end—right at the other end—of the tables. He asked, “What is the matter? Wherever I go… even if I walk near them, the women quickly move to the other corner. Why don’t women come near me?” People hesitated at first; then they said, “Since you keep asking… the women are afraid that suppose you get thirsty in between! So they keep their distance. Who can trust thirst—when it might strike!”

His doctrine is just this one: if everyone drinks ‘life-water,’ all problems are solved.

People latch onto one doctrine. It’s a convenient thing. So that dog had clung to this: until dogs stop barking, there can be no salvation for the dog race. And salvation is necessary. The dog race is in danger; its very existence is in danger. He preached so much that one day the dogs decided: at least once, let’s try obeying him! One night—new moon night—they said, “Tonight, whatever happens—no matter how much excitement arises, how much scratchiness in the throat, how strongly the old habit presses—we will lie absolutely controlled! We’ll toss and turn, bang our heads, but we will not bark.”

So all the dogs… and they all decided to keep far—because if we stay near, it will be very difficult! One barks, and the chain begins, and the next can’t bear it. So they scattered, lay far in lanes and alleys, heads bowed to the ground… Great restlessness, writhing like fish out of water—but once resolved, then resolved: “We won’t bark. We won’t bark.” Midnight struck. The preacher-dog was very troubled—whom to preach to! The truth was, he himself had no need to bark—his barking was spent in preaching all day. From morning till night he had to bark—preaching was barking too—he had neither time nor strength left to bark. Exhausted, he would lie down at night; by morning he was again engaged in public service. The dogs didn’t obey him, nor did his public service cease.

“What’s happened to the dogs today? Have the rascals actually obeyed? Absolute silence! New moon night and such an opportunity!” An itch rose up in him… He went to many dogs, but they lay with heads bowed; they wouldn’t even open their eyes. When it went beyond his endurance, he went off to a solitary place and began to bark—the preacher-dog began to bark! And when one barked, then what barking there was in that village—such as had never been! Because when the other dogs saw that one had betrayed, “Now why should we keep lying restrained!” So what had been somehow held till midnight—all that energy exploded at once. Earth and sky were shaken. Back came the preacher-dog and began explaining again: “Look, this is how our ruin happens. Until the dog race stops this barking, the ruin will continue.”

You chew tobacco, you eat tobacco—there isn’t that much fault in tobacco; what fault is there! It’s entirely vegetarian. Yes, there’s a little nicotine, but so little that if, over twenty years, all the tobacco you chew is collected and the nicotine extracted, then you might die. But that is never going to happen. You eat tobacco and the body throws it out each day. So don’t be frightened that the poison of twenty years will accumulate and kill you. The body keeps expelling useless things each day; nothing accumulates.

And if a year or two of life is shaved off, what on earth is spoiled! What will you do anyway? Whether you remain two or four years more, or two or four years less—what difference does it make? The same crying and complaining, the same whining! Better to whine two or four years less, cry less, be troubled less. A quicker release—liberation.

The issue is not tobacco; the issue is deeper. There’s babble running in your head. One way to stop that babble is this: keep the mouth moving inside. In that way you remain somewhat composed. That’s why people have invented all kinds of things.

A child cries—he starts sucking his thumb. You wonder, why is he sucking his thumb? The child hasn’t become corrupt. No one has come along yet to corrupt him; he’s still in his cradle. Krishna Kanhaiya is still rocking in his cradle! “Jhula jhule Jawaharlal!”—that comes later! He hasn’t met the corrupt world yet. But he’s sucking his thumb—even grabs his toe and sucks it. Heat has begun to rise in his skull; lying in the cradle he’s becoming restless. To release the restlessness he finds a way; he sucks his thumb. Later he doesn’t suck his thumb—because sucking the thumb wouldn’t look appropriate—so he smokes a cigarette; that’s the complement of thumb-sucking. He sticks a cigar in his mouth.

Here, whenever people ask me, “How do we quit smoking?” I tell them, “Start sucking your thumb.” They say, “What are you saying? If someone sees, what will they say?” I say, “What is there to see? You smoke—everyone sees—and nobody says anything. What can anyone do? Hey, it’s your thumb! Is it your father’s? If you can’t suck your own thumb, what kind of democracy is this, what kind of freedom!”

And some people have tried it—in private, alone; they don’t have the courage to do it in front of everyone—but smoking drops. If not, you try it. Whenever the craving for a cigarette rises, quickly suck your thumb. The thumb will do the same job as the cigarette.

The cigarette has one more little virtue: warm smoke goes inside; it serves as a substitute for the mother’s breast. The child suckles the mother’s breast; when it is not available, he sucks his thumb. The thumb is not as good a substitute—because milk also goes inside, a warm stream, a heated stream. And pure milk! No milkman can dilute it. In the cigarette the same charm is there: the warm smoke reminds one of the warm milk. All those who are smoking are children. Their fill of the mother’s breast did not happen, so they smoke. There’s restlessness in the skull; they chew tobacco; they chew paan.

And by dropping these surface habits nothing will happen. You’ll learn some new trick; then you’ll begin doing that. Cut the real root. Engage in meditation—Dayanand! Leave the talk of tobacco! Nothing is made or marred by it. And if you don’t trust me, read the scriptures: even Lord Vishnu in heaven chews tobacco. So what of you—you are just Dayanand! Suppose you’re Maharshi Dayanand—fine—but when even Vishnu chews tobacco, what is your stature! He too keeps a pouch. Don’t worry.

But inside you—in your skull—many restlessnesses are churning; they are the root. Meditate! Become a witness to the web of thoughts in the mind. There, the net of thought will thin, and one day you’ll be startled that even if you want to put tobacco in your mouth, you won’t be able to. Because there is nothing at all tasty in tobacco. A cough will come… and those same three virtues!

That’s all for today.