Jharat Dashahun Dis Moti #16

Vedant Bharati! In human life, ordinarily everything begins unconsciously. In fact, there is no other way for it to begin, because man is not yet conscious. For now, whatever happens in your life happens by coincidence. Love happens—by coincidence; friendship happens—by coincidence. Later you may even have to risk your life for friendship, you may have to lose everything for love—but the beginning is accidental.

A great Jewish thinker, Elie Wiesel, has written something about his father—said humorously, yet profoundly true. He wrote that if a few chance events had not occurred, he would never have been born. For example: his father was traveling by train; it was late. It should have arrived at 8 p.m., but reached at 1 a.m. The station was deserted; the hotel owner, a woman, was just closing up. It was a cold night. Wiesel’s father went up to her and said, “Before you close, at least give me a cup of coffee. I’m freezing.” She took pity and gave him coffee. There was no one else—just the proprietress—the staff had left; she was fastening the door. They sat and chatted of little things. Wiesel’s father asked, “Will I get a taxi to some hotel?” The woman said, “Now it’s difficult. Taxis are gone. And how will you hunt for hotels at this hour? The city’s full—there’s a convention in town. Why don’t you come with me? Spend the night at my place; in the morning, find a hotel.”

It was a simple, decent invitation. His father accepted. Things proceeded. They became friends, fell in love, married—and Elie Wiesel was born. He writes: if that train hadn’t been late, there was no chance I’d have been born. Even if it had been late but by another ten or fifteen minutes, I still wouldn’t be here—the woman would have locked up and gone. Even if the train were late and the shop still open, but she’d been brusque and said, “No, I can’t make coffee now, I’m freezing too, I have to get home,” or she hadn’t invited him to ride with her and stay. None of it was necessary or inevitable.

Jokingly, Wiesel says something exactly right.

Your life is full of such coincidences. Because human life is unconscious. In this unconscious life you cannot take steps with awareness.

Vedant, you came here and fell in love with me! From your side it was accidental—not from mine. I have chosen you. So I won’t let you run away. Run to any corner of the world—I will keep pulling you. But you chose me accidentally. You chose playfully. You came here, saw so many people in ochre—dancing, blissful—you wanted to dance too, to be intoxicated too. You thought perhaps the ochre robes are essential. How without sannyas will this happen? Somewhere in your mind: Let me take sannyas here—who’s going to check on me back home? We’ll see later whether I wear ochre at home or not. Now that I’m here, let me join in! That’s how you joined.

But this play is no play. It is the final play. Once this play begins, all other games go pale by themselves. All other chessboards become futile. And though it began playfully, you have now left other things and come here. You left a big job, a big position—staked everything. Your question is natural. You say, the game began unknowingly, in laughter. From your side—yes; not from mine. From my side even laughter is very serious. From your side even seriousness is nothing but playfulness. From your side things begin as games; from my side this is the end of games.

Sannyas means: to stand outside all games. To be free of games. You have played enough—what did you gain? What is the attainment? You have run for lifetimes—where have you reached? What’s in your hands? So many journeys—and the destination hasn’t come an inch closer. And still people stay entangled. If they didn’t stay entangled—what would they do! By staying busy, at least the burden of anxiety is lighter. By staying tangled, one is spared the torment that life is being wasted, slipping through the fingers. People stay busy with a thousand tasks. They have created a thousand games: building a big house, amassing wealth, attaining high status and prestige—as if they were to live here forever. But all the grandeur will be left behind when the wandering gypsy moves on! And when he will move on—who can say? Today, tomorrow. While you labor so hard, where you should pitch tents, you build stone palaces. The wise man pitches only tents—even if he lives in a palace, he knows it is but a tent. Because one never knows when one must go. One thing is certain: one must go. Today or tomorrow—what difference does it make? Whether you leave much wealth or little—it is all a game.

A Jew died—Jews are the Marwaris of the West. All the relatives gathered. He was a great miser; never spent a penny on anyone. People thought he must have hoarded a lot—now comes the division. They were eager to read the will—before the bier was raised, the will was read. It was short—on a postcard-sized paper: “I was a man of sound mind, therefore whatever I earned, I spent on myself, and I leave nothing behind.”

Leave nothing—or leave a lot—the game ends. Spend on yourself or on others—in every case, the game ends. Not even a memory remains. Our lives are lines drawn on sand—or more rightly, lines drawn on water: they hardly form before they vanish. It’s all a play here, Vedant! All theatre. Don’t take the play too seriously.

But people take the play very seriously—overly seriously. Ready to kill or be killed, to fight and quarrel over trivialities that have no value. Tomorrow they will have no value even for you. Twenty years ago what seemed so crucial that you would have died for it—what value does it have today? You scarcely remember. And what seems so valuable today—will it have any value twenty years hence? It too will prove futile. And at the death hour, the entire essence of life will appear futile. How many lives have been wasted!

Do not take life as more than a play. That very understanding is sannyas. But people go so far they take even a play as life. To recognize life as a play is far away; they take the play itself as life.

You’ll see people crying in a cinema hall. There’s nothing on the screen—it’s a play of light and shadow—even if in color. You know the screen is blank, you know behind it there’s just film—there’s nothing to cry or laugh about—yet you laugh, you cry, pass through so many emotions. All nine rasas stir within in three hours. You are enraged, you are filled with love. Even a drama is taken that seriously.

A man played Abraham Lincoln for a year during the centenary. He resembled Lincoln; they searched America and found him. They made him wear Lincoln’s clothes, the cane; Lincoln limped a bit—so he limped; Lincoln stuttered a little—so he stuttered. The play ran a year, from town to town. By then he was so practiced that at home he limped and stuttered. His family said, “Act in the play—fine; but why here at home?” He said, “Habit! I can’t speak without stuttering.”

After a year of nonstop acting, trouble began. The centenary ended, the play was over, but the man, dressed as Lincoln, looked absurd in that outdated costume—as if someone dressed as Krishna stood in the marketplace—he’d be beaten up. Though he’s doing nothing wrong, wearing the peacock plume, playing the flute—even with a cow beside him—police would grab him: “You’re obstructing traffic, come to the station!” He might insist “I am Krishna,” people would say, “Shut up, stop this nonsense.” Now what Krishna? What peacock crown? People mocked him, but he smiled. His family said, “Drop this costume.” He said, “Costume? I am Abraham Lincoln!” That year’s practice had hardened into conviction—he wouldn’t drop it. Psychologists treated him; nothing worked.

At last one psychologist said, “Only one way is left. This identification seems deep. We will have to test how deep.” In American courts they use a device to detect lies—a polygraph. The accused doesn’t know; he stands hooked up—like a cardiogram records the heartbeats, so the polygraph records the rhythm. While you tell the truth, the trace remains steady; as soon as you lie, there’s a jerk. The heart jolts when lying. So they ask questions where you can’t lie: “What time is it?” You look and answer truthfully. “Count how many are in the court.” You count. “Is this person male or female? Is the door to the east or west? Day or night?” Ten or fifteen such questions—your heart trace settles in a truthful rhythm. Then, “Did you steal?” A jolt registers. Outwardly you say “No,” but inwardly the heart knows “Yes.” The inner conflict trembles the instrument—instantly you are caught.

They put this man on the device. He too was exhausted from being told he wasn’t Lincoln. They asked, “Are you Abraham Lincoln?” He said, “No, absolutely not.” But the instrument showed he was lying. The identification had sunk so deep that even as he said, “I am not Lincoln,” inside he knew, “I am. What difference does my saying make? I am what I am.”

People identify even with a play. Sannyas means: to break identification even with life. Stupidity is: taking a play for life. Wisdom is: taking life as play. This is the last play—and it must be played consciously; only then is it final. The moment you play it awake, games end. Games can continue only in sleep; they are dreams.

Vedant, you say, “This game began unknowingly, in laughter.”

I know. It begins unknowingly, in laughter. The first time you came to me you didn’t think you would become a sannyasin. But I looked into you and found a potential sannyasin present. Then I coaxed you and put the mala around your neck. You were startled, you hesitated; you remembered what your wife would say. You said, “I have a wife, children.” I said, “Don’t worry—bring them too!” And now you’ve brought them—and I have colored them playfully as well. At first it has to be play—because you understand only play; no other language reaches you. That’s why I have made sannyas so simple: even if you are colored playfully, the color won’t be easy to wash off. If playfully you awaken, sleep will be hard to return to. If playfully you understand, there is no way back from understanding.

Understand this: it too is a game—but the last. For through this game, all other games end.

You say, “I had no idea it would drown me.”

Had you known, you would have fled! Had you known, you would never have come to me. One must not let that news leak. This is the secret of the trade. We must say: You will gain moksha, you will attain nirvana, sat-chit-ananda—always speak of gaining, gaining—while the reality is: it is loss, loss. But that is later—when there is no way to turn back. When all bridges behind are gone, when even if you wish to return, you cannot—then you may beat your head. Yes, what was said of sat-chit-ananda does come—but only when you dissolve. Dissolving is the condition. Become empty, and the whole will descend into you—now. But without your emptiness, the whole cannot descend. There is no space in you. You want God to come, but as long as you are, He cannot.

Kabir says:
Seeking, seeking, O friend, Kabir got lost.
We set out to find, to attain the Divine—but something else happened:
Seeking, seeking, O friend, Kabir got lost.

Kabir himself got lost! To attain God was far off—he himself disappeared. Forget the interest—the principal was gone. And lost like a drop lost in the ocean:
The drop merges into the ocean—how can it be found?
And also:
The ocean merges into the drop—how can it be found?

The drop merged in the sea; the sea merged in the drop—now there is no way to separate. But since Kabir vanished, since Kabir is no more, from then God begins. Your end is God’s beginning.

So Kabir also says that since I disappeared, a unique happening goes on:
God trails behind me saying, “Kabir, Kabir!”
“God keeps following behind,” asking, “Kabir, where are you going, what are you doing?” And now there is no Kabir to answer! When Kabir was, God was not; now God is, Kabir is not.

Love’s lane is very narrow—two cannot pass.
Either you, or God.

So, Vedant, you will have to drown! Though at first I cannot tell you that—otherwise you’d run away. Who wants to disappear? Everyone wants to get; no one wants to be lost.

Therefore the master’s whole device is this: he speaks to you of attaining, while beneath he pulls the ground from under your feet. You remain entangled in the talk—“Now sat-chit-ananda is near; not long now—pearls will shower from ten directions!” You keep gazing upward for pearls; meanwhile the ground is pulled away. The pearls do not fall—you fall flat on your back! But then pearls do fall—when you lie prone, with no way to get up. At first you are shocked: what happened? You were peering at the sky for the descent of God—for the Pushpak Vimana to arrive bearing Rama the archer, Sita, Lakshman, Hanuman—“Not long now”—you hung there, and knew not that below your roots were being cut.

It is necessary to hook you above; otherwise you won’t allow your roots to be cut.

Kabir said: when a potter makes a pot, with one hand he supports from within and with the other he strikes from without—only then the pot is formed. It is a dual process: one hand cares, one hand strikes. If he only supports, no pot will take shape; if he only strikes, the pot will collapse. So I must both support you and strike you. I must save you, and I must destroy you. A master is engaged in a great paradox: on one side he effaces you, on the other he brings you forth.

As you are now, you cannot be saved. You are wrong through and through. Even when you do “right,” it turns wrong—because within there is not yet true awareness, right understanding. Whatever you do goes astray. You set out to do good—it turns bad. You intend virtue—and vice results.

That is what is happening. Every person wants to do good—even the worst longs to do good—but where does goodness happen? The fundamental reason is not that people have evil intentions. Intentions are often fine; but the consciousness from which actions are born is dormant, asleep. In sleep what good can happen? If people, even to defend, swing swords in sleep, they will kill their own, cut themselves. Awareness is the first need.

As you are now, you cannot be saved. This I must say plainly today: as you are, you will be effaced, you will drown. But then the form you ought to be will be revealed—that is your natural form, your right form, your real birth.

You say, “Ahead is darkness, behind a chasm.”

True. Look ahead and there is darkness—because the future is not yet. It has not happened; hence it is dark. Look behind and there is a pit—because the past is no more. What is left there now but holes? But Vedant—when will you look in the middle? You spoke of ahead and behind—you left out the middle. You say, ahead darkness, behind abyss. I say: look in the middle! You have long looked ahead—in desires, ambitions, hopes—driving your horses of plans. Those who look ahead are all Sheikh Chillis.

You recall Sheikh Chilli’s story. He slipped into a field to steal fruit, filling his sack. As the sack filled, the mind began to leap. When the bag fills, this happens to all—mind starts jumping. Even before it fills, it starts. You buy a lottery ticket and start thinking what you’ll do when you win. Which car, which house, which woman to marry? “Then I won’t live here—then I’ll move to Bombay! I’ll marry a film actress—why waste time on ordinary women! Life is short—eat, drink, be merry!” The lottery hasn’t come—only the ticket bought! But millions of plans arise.

So don’t laugh at Sheikh Chilli—he is your portrait, your symbol.

His sack had filled, so he thought, “Now, wonderful! I’ll sell this fruit, buy a hen. The hen will lay eggs—selling them, soon I’ll buy a cow. Milk, calves—more sales! Then a buffalo. Money keeps coming; one day I’ll buy a field like this, plant fruit trees. Then I’ll guard it so no one steals as I did. I am experienced; I won’t let theft happen. I’ll sit in the middle of the field and shout, ‘Beware!’” And he actually shouted, “Beware!” The owner came with a stick: “What are you doing? Put everything down! How did this sack fill? Who are you warning?” Sheikh Chilli slapped his head: “All ruined—darkness ahead!”

Ahead is darkness indeed. You light the darkness of future with the lamps of imagination. But imagination is imagination; there is no truth in it. When you come to me, gradually your imaginings begin to wither, and the future starts to look dark. There is nothing in the future. The future means: that which is not.

And the past? Some are lost in it. They keep tallying the gone days; their golden age was behind. In old age they sing the songs of childhood: those were heavenly days. Yet when they were children, they longed to grow up quickly. Ask any child—he wants to become big quickly. He sees the power adults have; children have none. Anyone can push them into a corner, pull their ears, make them do sit-ups; “Do your homework!” Everyone’s whim; they have no power; children suffer.

You think children live in heaven—you are mistaken. At home they are harassed, at school by the teacher; and between home and school are the older boys—the bullies. They harass, snatch money and books, “Steal from home; buy us ice cream; we need a cinema ticket; or you’ll be thrashed!” You think children are in heaven? Ask them—their life is trouble! Day or night—fear. And you imagine childhood is paradise.

In one home I stayed, a ten-year-old boy would not cross the courtyard to the toilet alone. His mother had to take a lantern. She said, “Please explain to him! He’s ten and so timid!” I asked the boy, “Why so scared? If you fear the dark, take the lantern yourself—why trouble your mother? Close the door, keep the lantern inside.” He said, “No, I’d rather go in the dark! I fear darkness, yes, but in the dark I can at least fool the ghosts; with the lantern they will see me clearly. And never close the door! If something grabs me, I can at least run! If the door’s shut, the latch sticks, and a ghost stands against it—I’m finished!”

Days of fear, nights of fear—and you call it heaven! No one thinks so in childhood; only in old age do people look back and say, “Ah, how beautiful those days were!” It is a way to console the mind.

The same happens to societies on a large scale. They say the golden age is gone—Satya Yuga was in the past; now is Kali Yuga. “Rama-rajya was before!” Was there Rama-rajya even in Rama’s time? What kind? Rama’s own life was full of suffering—let others be. His father deceived him—and at whose behest? An old man married to a young woman—the usual plight of old husbands. They are the most accommodating—obey their youthful wives like slaves. Dasharatha, a slave to his bird-like queen! He exiled a son like Rama for fourteen years—no backbone. And what joy in Rama’s life? Fourteen years wandering; then war with Ravana; he lost his wife; fine Rama-rajya! He brought her back, then a washerman raised a doubt—so he abandoned his wife—pregnant—in the forest. What Rama-rajya is this! Even when Sita returned from Lanka, he made her pass through fire. He himself should have passed too—he was alone all those years; what did he do? But men are always thus. Men write the scriptures, and write that women are the gates of hell. And men? The gates of heaven?

In Rama’s time slaves were sold in markets—women and men. Is this Rama-rajya? People were poor and oppressed—otherwise who would sell their daughters and sons like animals, auctioned? At least in Kali Yuga we don’t have that. This “golden age” is only our fancy. We beautify the past to console ourselves: if today is painful, never mind—yesterday was bliss. We draw a big line of happiness so today’s line looks small.

And we imagine a golden future: God will descend again, Dharma will be established: “Whenever righteousness declines, I come.” Thus between hope for the future and fantasy of the past, man lives—for only one purpose: to avoid the present—he doesn’t know how to change it; he doesn’t know the art of living it.

So you say, Vedant: “Ahead darkness, behind a chasm.”

What of the middle? Only the middle is true—the present moment—here, now. There is no other truth. To be in it is meditation; to be completely dissolved in it is samadhi.

The science of living in the present is what I call sannyas. Drop the past, drop the future. Do not go backward, do not rush forward—go inward; touch the depths of the present. The present is bottomless. It is the doorway to the divine—because it alone is real. Only the real can lead to God, not webs of imagination.

You say, “Nothing can be seen ahead, and going back seems impossible.”

Who told you to look ahead, Vedant? Look here, look now. Look within. You look ahead and behind—and I shout daily: look within! But that doesn’t enter your question. You hear me, but your question remains yours. I may say a thousand times “Look within,” it doesn’t become your question. Even now you say, “Nothing is visible ahead.” There is nothing ahead—what will you see? “Going back seems impossible.” Has anyone ever gone back? How could you?

A father was tutoring his son from a history book: “Napoleon said nothing is impossible.” The boy said, “Wait—one thing is impossible.” Father: “What?” The boy ran to the bathroom and brought a tube of toothpaste. He squeezed out the paste and said, “Now put it back in. Then I’ll believe nothing is impossible. I’ve tried many times—it never goes back.” The father too scratched his head.

No one can go back. It is against the law of nature. What is gone is gone. The old cannot become young; the young cannot become children. There is no road back. Yet we keep imagining—maybe we can return. The old think they might be young again. They do all sorts of things—if not in truth, at least in appearance: false teeth, wigs. Inside they know these won’t bring youth, but they can fool others. They become only more ridiculous, showing they don’t even know the gracious art of growing old. Quacks suck them dry—Hakeem Beerumal and company—offering secret recipes “in private.” Beware Hakeem Beerumal! He claims: “I will turn the old young, and the young into children.” People sneak to him so no one sees; if known, their reputation is ruined.

This happens at the social level too. What was Mahatma Gandhi’s attempt? To turn back. Abandon machines, spin the wheel—everything will be solved. Madness. Give up trains, telephones, post offices—the basics. If his plan were followed, this 700-million country would starve to death now. Two crores could survive on that economy, the other sixty-eight would have to die. You cannot clothe 700 million with spinning wheels—and if you tried, you would do nothing else; there would be no food, no medicine, no housing. He had remedies for all: “Why medicine? Tie a mud-pack on the belly—every illness will go.” If only it were so easy! And when Gandhi fell ill, in the end he had to take the very medicine he opposed. When Vinoba had fever, he too had to take medicine—first a fuss, then the Prime Minister had to plead, then he took it! They avoid medicine and then stand against it.

Gandhi opposed trains—and traveled in them all his life. If that isn’t hypocrisy, what is? Against the post office—and perhaps no one wrote more letters than he did, even dictating replies from the toilet because there was no time.

Many have tried to drag society backward—from Rousseau to Gandhi. “Back to nature. To the cave man. Live in the mountains.” Try spending a day and night in a cave—you won’t sleep. Snakes and scorpions—and if a tiger roars?

You cannot go back—neither society nor the individual. There is no way. And you cannot leap ahead either. Live the present in its totality—for the future is born of the present; it ripens in its womb. The past is a corpse; the future is a fetus; the present is between them. There the essence of life is hidden.

You say, “Nothing is visible ahead; going back seems impossible. The day passes—why does the dark night come?”

The world is dual; its mode is dialectical—of opposites. If there is light, it cannot be without darkness. And what is so bad about darkness? Vedant, understand the beauty of darkness too. For centuries you have been told “God is light.” Do not take it to mean that God is only light. That statement arose from our fear—we fear the dark. That fear is ancient—from cave-man times. Night was dangerous. Day passed somehow—you could take cover in light; climb a tree; hide in a cave; block the entrance with a stone. But at night, before fire was discovered, nothing could be seen—snakes could be on your chest; a lion before you—and sleep itself was perilous: in sleep you cannot defend yourself.

Hence fire became the first form of deity. Fire received more worship than any other god because its discovery freed man from night’s fear. He could light fires around and sleep. And even now your holy men do the same. They don’t live in caves now; there is no danger from wild animals—man has wiped them out; if there’s danger, it’s to the animals from man, not to man from animals—yet your saints still sit by sacred fires. The time for fires is gone—why burn wood now for nothing?

A fear of dark has seeped into our unconscious. But darkness has great beauty. Let this fear go. Light is beautiful—and so is darkness. Light has its glory; darkness has its own. Both are the divine’s two faces of one coin. Darkness is His, and light is His—His expressions.

See darkness’s virtues: its depth, its hush, its stillness, its music. Darkness leaves you completely alone—taste that aloneness. In light you can’t be alone; someone is always there, visible. In darkness you can be utterly alone—even in a marketplace, even in your room; wife and children may be there, yet you can be alone.

Start savoring darkness. Learn to read it. You will find it brings deep peace, bliss, solitude—samadhi. Then it will no longer feel like darkness; a soft light will begin to glow within it. For in truth, darkness only means: less light; and light means: less darkness. They are not separate things—just as heat and cold are not, woman and man are not, life and death are not. Until you can love darkness, you will never be able to love death; and without loving death, life remains incomplete, fragmented. You will not know the indivisible divine. Embrace Him in all forms. Then tathata—suchness—arises. In thorns as well as flowers. It is easy to see Him in flowers—anyone can; but when He is seen in thorns; when in life His wave is felt—fine; but when in death His presence is experienced; not only in light but in darkness too He surrounds you.

Feel the velvety touch of darkness. Drop fear, and you will be stirred; you will be intoxicated in darkness and in light. Light has its delight; darkness has its delight. Waking has its joy; sleep has its joy.

In everything in this world the divine is immanent—imbibe this truth. Do not oppose anything. This is my basic teaching: deny nothing—not darkness, not death. Embrace and assimilate the whole. Only then will you know what God is. He who has not known God has known nothing; he who has known God has known all—even if he knows nothing else.

Vedant! Pray thus: that He be seen in darkness too, in death too, in thorns too, in failures too, in separation too. In union He is seen—no special knack is needed. When He begins to be seen in separation, know that insight has dawned.

On the fertile courtyard of the world,
Pour down, O luminous life!
Rain upon each tiny blade and tree,
O Eternal, ever-new!
Fall as honey into flowers,
As immortal love-clouds into our breath,
As smiles and dreams upon lips and lashes,
As joy and youth into heart and limb!
Touch, touch the world’s dead dust-grains,
Awaken grass and trees to sentience,
Bind the world’s mortal clay
With the embrace of living breath!
Rain as beauty, rain as bliss,
O clouds of the world’s life!
In every direction, in every moment,
Rain, O monsoon of existence!

God is ready to rain—only call Him! Send the invitation; the Guest awaits your invite.

When life dries up,
Come as a stream of compassion.
When all sweetness hides away,
Come as a shower of love’s nectar.
When actions, stormlike, roar on every side,
O Lord of Life, come to the heart’s frontier with silent feet.
When my big self shrivels small,
A poor, helpless mind cowers in a corner—
O generous Lord, open the doors
And come like a royal procession.
When desire’s dust-storm blinds and befuddles,
O Pure One, O Wakeful One,
Come with the flash of lightning.

Call! He is eager to come—ready every moment. But He will not come uninvited. When your very being brims with thirst for Him, not a moment will be delayed.

You cannot go back, you cannot go ahead—but you can go into God, and God can come into you.

Swaroopananda! Then have it your way! In any case, one should not tease the female species—and a sleeping woman, never disturb at all! Now Lady Kundalini is asleep; why are you after her? Don’t you have any other work? And even if you wake her, what will you do? Wake yourself up, or wake kundalini?
These are all strategies to avoid awakening yourself.
Someone says, “I have to awaken the chakras.” Go ahead—then you’ll turn into a crackpot! One wants to awaken kundalini, another wants to gain siddhis and occult powers. And what will you do with them? If you start producing ash from your hand, will anything change in the world? Don’t fall into showmanship and conjuring tricks!
Awaken yourself—awaken consciousness, awaken awareness—this makes sense. But “I have to awaken kundalini”! You don’t know what kundalini is, you don’t know what it’s for; and because you know nothing about it, all kinds of foolish stories keep circulating.
I read recently that my old disciple, now the Revered Mother, Mrs. Nirmala Devi—she awakens people’s kundalini. She awakened Chandulal Kaka’s—he was finished. Whether kundalini awakened or not, who knows; he himself went to sleep! And now she has floated a theory—a very charming one—that little Krishna, hiding in trees or sitting on rooftops, used to fling pebbles at the pots of the gopis when they carried water or milk. Those weren’t ordinary pebbles, she says; Krishna would infuse kundalini-energy into them. Otherwise, when has a pot ever burst from a pebble? It sounds plausible: stout pitchers from the Golden Age—no flimsy modern ones—so strong that once bought, they lasted a lifetime. A mere pebble breaks them? So, like atomic energy hidden in a tiny atom, Krishna packed kundalini-energy into a tiny pebble and flung it. And why only at the women’s pots? Did he have some enmity with men—never aimed at them? Didn’t I tell you kundalini is feminine? A pebble’s touch breaks the pots, and the milk or water inside, now pervaded by kundalini-energy, flows—then kundalini-energy must have flowed down the gopis’ spines; would that wake a sleeping kundalini, or put it back to sleep? Liquids flow from top to bottom; if kundalini “awoke,” it would go downwards. That part I can’t grasp. But Mrs. Nirmala Devi has coined this theory! And people delight in such nonsense—what to say!
Kundalini is nothing but your sex-energy. The natural center of sex-energy is the generative organs. Leave it there. There is no need to haul it “upwards.” Try to push it up and you’ll go deranged; your brain will split. People come to me and say, “My head is bursting.” Someone says, “It’s like a band plays in my ears, twenty-four hours,” or “I hear thunderclouds.” “Do something!” I tell them, “Brother, go back to the one who ‘awakened’ your kundalini and ask him for the trick to put it back to sleep.”
Every center’s energy should remain at its own center. There is no need to move it elsewhere, because whenever an energy is shifted from one center to another, your life’s natural order is disturbed. Existence has placed everything where it should be.
You wake up! Become conscious! Buddha never awakened any kundalini—and became a supreme Buddha. So, Swaroopananda, why do you need to awaken kundalini? You too can become a supreme Buddha. But under the banner of “kundalini awakening,” thousands of games are played. Of course they are—naturally. People are made to do upside-down practices. “Stand on your head; kundalini will awaken.” The theory is that when you stand on your head, sex-energy will, by the earth’s gravity, flow toward your head. But among those who do headstands, have you ever seen any genius? Any brilliance? Any sharpness of mind, any sparkle?
Pandit Gopinath is today the biggest pundit on kundalini. He says that when kundalini awakens, a sudden efflorescence of genius occurs. He says his has awakened. Yet no genius is visible—not even in him. As proof he says, “Look, marvels of talent—I’ve written many poems.” Those are his proof. Read them and you’ll be astonished—they are sheer trash. Gopinath was a clerk all his life, retired as a head clerk; so in his poems you’ll find a clerk’s language and a head clerk’s accounting—and nothing else. He writes in clerkly language; head-clerkly language. Whatever little poetry there might have been—its lifeblood is drained out. When have clerks ever written poetry? And the clerical tone—if anywhere a trace of poetry peeks through, that too is strangled. He boasts he writes two hundred poems in a single night; “Behold the miracle of genius!” I’ve seen trashy poems in my time—but Gopinath has surpassed them all. Can’t even be called doggerel—poetry is far, far away.
Likewise, in the West there is an Indian gentleman, Shri Chinmoy. He too writes a thousand poems in a week. But not one has any worth. To showcase the “miracle,” he had a photograph taken—his books stacked in a pile taller than himself, and he standing beside them—just to display his talent. Fit for the scrap-dealer. And even the scrap-dealer might refuse them. I say this after reading them. Reading his poems is like undergoing punishment for one’s sins—as if the bad karma of previous lives must now be suffered. Since I read them, one conviction has settled in me: in hell, even if nothing else happens, everyone will certainly be forced to read Pandit Gopinath’s and Shri Chinmoy’s poems.
Do something else! Invent something new! Give a gift to science! Offer a vision that could help erase this country’s poverty and wretchedness! But nothing of the sort comes from their “awakened” kundalini. And what is the proof that theirs has awakened? Only that they say so. No fragrance of spirituality is felt, no peace in life, no joy or ecstasy, no dance, no flute playing, no hint of celebration anywhere. The same head clerk of head clerks.
And you too, Swaroopananda—what will you do after “awakening” it? And under the name of this awakening, what disturbances are going on—too many to count. People are taught wrong postures: twist the body, contort it! And the poor fellows do all kinds of drills, in the hope kundalini will awaken. And for those who claim it has, just look at them. What happened after it “awoke”? Has anger left their lives? Delusion? Lust? Attachment? Ambition? Ego? Nothing has gone. On the contrary, it has increased. “Kundalini” having awakened, the ego now flies from a higher, more resplendent mast.
Awaken yourself! Don’t get into these disturbances! Don’t get entangled in this empty prattle. I am not saying there is no energy—there is—but there’s no need to haul it to the head. The head has its own energy; that is quite enough; it already troubles you plenty. If you take more energy into the head, you will be in a fix. There is already enough “gas” in your head. Add more gas and you’ll be in trouble. As it is, your head runs—and how! From birth until death it keeps churning. If it ever stops, it is only when someone puts you on a stage and asks you to speak—then for a moment you go into shock and the head shuts down. Simply won’t start!
When I was a university student, I entered a debate competition. A student from a Sanskrit college also participated. Such a student carries a little inferiority complex—he doesn’t know English, and what value does Sanskrit have nowadays? So he had memorized a few lines in English. This is the art of Sanskrit students: memorization. Intelligence may not grow, but the throat grows strong: by reciting and reciting, great vigor comes into the throat. To impress people he had crammed some quotes from Bertrand Russell. But memorized material can land you in trouble. As soon as he stood up: “Brothers and sisters, Bertrand Russell has said…”—and there he stuck. I was sitting next to him. I said, “Start again—when the engine stalls, try restarting; maybe it will catch the line.” He too had nothing further in his mind, so he obeyed me. Again: “Brothers and sisters, Bertrand Russell has said…”—and again he froze at the same spot. I said, “Brother, once more!” He was game—and what else could he do? There was nowhere further to go. Once more: “Brothers and sisters, Bertrand Russell has said…” Now the audience burst into laughter. He would begin, “Brothers and sisters,” and stall at the first sentence: “Bertrand Russell has said…” and after that, nothing. I said to him, “Brother, just sit down now. To hell with Bertrand Russell. Let him say whatever he wants—do you sit. Your train isn’t going anywhere. This is the terminus; the track ends here.”
From birth to death the head runs merrily along. Occasionally it stalls—like when someone makes you speak before a crowd. Otherwise, there is power enough in the head. You don’t need more. And even if you bring sex-energy into the brain, you’ll remain just as asleep. In the brain, sex-energy will weave all sorts of fantasies. The tales of your yogis and saints are full of such fabrications. Whatever you imagine, that is what you will start seeing. The specialty of sex-energy is that it makes every imagination seem real. Sex-energy is the energy of dreaming, the art of seeing dreams. If you want to see Lord Rama, he will appear. If you want to see Lord Krishna, he will appear. If you want to see Christ, he will appear. Because sex-energy’s work is to generate dreams with such depth that they feel real. In the same way men see beauty in women and women in men. Where there is nothing, everything begins to appear. Ask lovers. If someone falls in love with a woman, he sees in her what no one else sees. Even her sweat smells like flowers. Ordinary eyes become doe-eyes. Her words fall like pearls—pearls showering from all ten directions. Everything about her seems lovely, wondrous—her walking, sitting, rising; all poetry becomes embodied in her.
Though it is only a matter of a few days. Once you are married—seven rounds around the fire—you become a dizzy head, and then nothing appears. Those pearls turn into pebbles. Your only prayer becomes: “O God, keep her quiet somehow!” But she will chatter the whole day. No lotus blooms in those eyes now; you see only the policeman, interrogating you twenty-four hours: Where did you go? Where are you coming from? Why so late? She blocks everything. The poetry is gone, the verse is lost; now you bang your head. And women fare the same. When they fall in love with a man, what all they see! Napoleon, Alexander—everything. Though if a dog barks, he scurries into the house! Yet he appears as the bravest of the brave, a world conqueror.
I’ve heard: a young woman and a young man were sitting at Juhu beach. Full-moon night, waves rising in the sea. The young man cried, “Rise, O waves, rise! Open your heart and rise!” And the waves kept rising. The girl suddenly embraced him and said, “Ah! Even the ocean obeys you. You say, ‘Rise, waves, rise,’ and the waves rise. What power you have! What a miracle!”
But these are matters of a few days. It is the nature of sex-energy that when it clouds the eyes, you begin to see what you want to see. Why did people want to carry sex-energy into the brain? Because then you can see whatever you want. Then see Krishna—standing before you, smiling! Speak to him; he’ll reply! You are both asking and answering; poor Krishna has nothing to do with it. But your sex-energy has reached the brain; now whatever you imagine will appear real.
This is wandering in spiritual delusions.
Swaroopananda, like this you will not know the Truth. To know Truth, all imaginings must drop. Thoughts, concepts must dissolve; the mind must become utterly blank—then you can know That-Which-Is.
And you ask, “Why do you sometimes give very harsh answers?”
As the question, so the answer. If you ask foolish questions, the answer must be harsh. Otherwise it will never dawn on you that the question was foolish.
One day Dhabbu-ji said to Chandulal, “Do you know, friend, my grandfather’s stable was so big it had no end. He had so many horses that every minute a mare would give birth.”
Chandulal replied, “Big brother, that’s nothing. My grandfather had such a long bamboo that whenever he wished, he’d poke holes in the clouds and make it rain on his fields.” Dhabbu-ji said, “Man, aren’t you ashamed to lie like that? Where would he keep such a long bamboo?” Chandulal said, “Where would he keep it? In your grandfather’s stable, of course.”
Ask worthless questions and you’ll get answers of the same kind.
A train was crowded; many people stood in line. Mulla Nasruddin was in that line. Right in front of him, a very beautiful young woman stood. Nasruddin watched her for a while, then couldn’t help himself—he grabbed her braid and yanked it. She was furious. “Sir, what is this behavior? Why did you pull my braid?” Nasruddin, smiling, said, “Look—right there it’s written: ‘In case of danger, pull the chain.’ So I committed this impertinence.” Hearing this, the young woman landed a resounding slap on Nasruddin’s cheek. He blurted, “Hey, hey! What are you doing?” She said, “The fine for pulling the chain without cause.”
You are right, Swaroopananda—sometimes I answer harshly so that I can end your question outright. Your question does not want an answer; it needs to be cut with a sword. If the question is futile, the only compassion is to cut it down. Let it fall—and you are free of it.
If you understand rightly, I am not here to answer your questions, but to free you from questions. Answers only give birth to more questions. Has anyone ever found the Answer through answers? New questions keep arising. My work is that your questions drop so that new ones don’t arise; slowly, you become questionless. That’s why sometimes my words may seem harsh, sometimes irrelevant, sometimes as if I haven’t answered your question at all but said something else. Yet the purpose is one, assuredly one: to take away both your answers and your questions. You are crammed with both. Empty of both, your mind becomes a mirror. And when it is a mirror, it reflects That-Which-Is. That-Which-Is is another name for God.
That’s all for today.